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I remember my
first Christmas adventure 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 was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day
because 1 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. I knew they
were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true. 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 rumour has been going around for
years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's
go." "Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second
world-famous 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
it's 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 neighbours, the kids at school, the people who went to my
church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby
Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right
behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class.
Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew
that because he never went out to recess during the winter. His mother
always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we
kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough; he had no coat. I
fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby
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, ma'am,"
I replied shyly. "It's for Bobby!" 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: Bobby, From:
Santa Claus" on it. (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma
tucked it in her Bible) Grandma said that Santa always insisted on
secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby 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 Bobby'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 on his door 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 Bobby.
Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of
those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in the bushes at Bobby
Decker's house.
That night, I realized that those awful
rumours about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were:
ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.
I still have
the Bible, with the tag tucked inside: $19.95.
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