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
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.

Merry Christmas

knowledge is power - growing old is mandatory - growing wise is optional    
"Many more men die with prostate cancer than of it. Growing old is
invariably fatal. Prostate cancer is only sometimes so."
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