“And when Santa squeezes his fat white ass down that chimney tonight, he's gonna find the jolliest bunch of assholes this side of the nuthouse.” – Chevy Chase
Several years ago, a version of this story was circulating the internet;
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 way, my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus
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. 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 you 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 2nd 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 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 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 at recess during the cold weather.
His mother always wrote a note telling the teacher that he had a bad cough but all us kids knew Bobby Decker didn't have a cough, he didn't have a good 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, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it.
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 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 Bobby 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.
I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.
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. 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 you 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 2nd 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 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
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 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 at recess during the cold weather.
His mother always wrote a note telling the teacher that he had a bad cough but all us kids knew Bobby Decker didn't have a cough, he didn't have a good 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
"Yes ma'am," I replied shyly. "It's for Bobby." The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it.
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 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 Bobby 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.
I still have the Bible, with the coat tag tucked inside: $19.95.
Now being the guy that likes that kind of sentimental crap, that story has always struck a nerve with me. So much so, that my wife and I had played “Santa” on a couple of occasions when we knew of friends that were struggling. And I had always vowed to use that when it came time for my own children to question the existence of the jolly fat guy in a red flame-retardant suit. So imagine my surprise, when almost a year ago my son came downstairs, long after bedtime, with a strange look on his face. It was past 10 at night, and Diane and I were baking cookies.
 |
| (I think I went a little overboard on the lights) |
ME-Hey bud, what’s up?
CJ-I have to ask you something. (Long pause, followed by an 8-year old pointing finger) Is Santa real? Tell me the truth.
Now, Diane and I have always tried to be completely honest with our children, but being hit with this at 10 at night was a slap in the face.
ME-Who told you that?
CJ-Laurie at school said that Santa wasn’t real. Is he? Tell the truth!
At this point, my wife and I took him over to the couch and sat down, both of us trying hard to not cry. And all of my planning to have him help us deliver gifts to someone less fortunate flew out the window.
ME-You know that Santa is just a fat guy that delivers presents right? (His finger pointed to me, and I nodded, although I have lost a bunch of weight. He sat in our collective laps processing this information.)
CJ-What about the reindeer that eat the carrots?
ME-Have you met my reindeer? (I pointed to Diane, and he giggled, through tears) And now that you know, you get to be one of Santa’s elves, and help put presents out for your sister.
CJ-Can I eat the cookies? (I nodded. Then his brain took off as it did some quick reasoning, all within 30 seconds) So wait. Is the toothfairy real? (again I pointed to Diane) What about the Easter Bunny? (I pointed to both of us.)
He seemed satisfied with that answer, and went back to bed, while Diane and I mourned the loss of innocence. He helped with presents (and cookies) that Christmas, and I thought that was the end of it. But lately, he has made several comments, like “I wish I hadn’t found out about Santa” and “I’m sad that Santa isn’t real.” I keep telling him that Santa is real and trying to explain that his spirit lives in each of us, but it doesn’t seem to sink in. So if anyone knows of a needy family that we can deliver packages to this year in secret, to see the joy on their faces, I am all ears.
Merry Christmas to all of you. I hope that your Christmas is all that you hope.
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