"Santa Claus, The True Story"

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 was not the gushy kind, never had been. 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, 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 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.