Sentimental Santa Story

Behind the article about Aunt Kat, on page two of the Eagle Democrat of Warren, Arkansas, is "The Oldtimer's Notebook," by Robert L. Newton. In this December 20 edition, it contained this sentimental story:

Believe in Santa Claus?

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid, and a I tore across town on my bike to visit her on the day Martha Landers dropped the bomb: There is no Santa Claus. "Even dummies know that!"

My Grandma was not the gushy kind. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. She always told the truth and I knew the truth went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world-famous cinamon buns.

Grandma was home, 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, go out on your coat, and let's go."
"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I hadn't even finished my second world-famous cinamon bun. Where turned out to be J.T. Ederington 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 somebody who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of the store.

I was 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 Chrsitmas shopping. I just stood there, conflused, 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. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs. Jolley's grade-two class.

Bobby 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 didn't have a good coat. I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement.

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'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 foor to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.

Seventy years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering beside my Grandma in Bobby'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.


It's not quite "Yes, Virginia..." but it makes me smile.