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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," 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
through, 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 second grade 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.
Author Unknown
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