Santa Claus: Is He Real?

I remember my first Christmas party with Grandma. I was just
a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her
on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: “There is no Santa
Claus,” she jeered. “Even dummies know that!”

My grandma is not the gushy kind, never was. I fled to her that
day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew
Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always
went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her
world-famous cinnamon buns.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between
bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me.

“No Santa Claus!” she snorted. “Ridiculous! Don’t believe it.
That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me
mad, just plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let’s go.”

“Go? Go where, Grandma?” I asked. I hadn’t even finished my
second cinnamon bun.

“Where” turned out to be Kerby’s General Store, the one store
in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we
walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars.
That was a bundle in those days. ‘Take this money,” she said,
“and buy something for someone who needs it. I’ll wait for you
in the car.” Then she turned and walked out of Kerby’s.

I was only eight years old. I’d often gone shopping with my
mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself.

The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to
finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just
stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering
what to buy, and who on
Earth to buy it for.

I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my
neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my
church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought
of Bobbie Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy
hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock’s grade-two
class.

Bobbie Decker didn’t have a coat. I knew that because he never
went out for recess during the winter. His mother always wrote
a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids
knew that Bobbie Decker didn’t have a cough, and he didn’t
have a coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing
excitement. I would buy Bobbie Decker a coat.

I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked
real warm, and he would like that.

“Is this a Christmas present for someone?” the lady behind the
counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down.

“Yes,” I replied shyly. “It’s … for Bobbie.”

The nice lady smiled at me. I didn’t get any change, but she put
the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas
paper and ribbons, and write, “To Bobbie, From Santa Claus”
on it– Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy.
Then she drove me over to Bobbie Decker’s house, explaining
as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa’s
helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobbie’s house, and she
and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk
Then Grandma gave me a nudge. “All right, Santa Claus,” she
whispered, “get going.”

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the
present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back
to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited
breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally
it did, and there stood Bobbie.

Forty years haven’t dimmed the thrill of those moments spent
shivering, beside my grandma, in Bobbie Decker’s bushes.
That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus
were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was
alive and well, and we were on his team.