forges on with characteristic determination, hope, and wit. We thought
we might lose her last October - how many more heart attacks can her
frail body take? -- but, true to form, Grandma rallied again. "I
couldn't miss a Christmas party, now could I!" she quipped on the way
home from the hospital.
"No, Grandma," I laughed "It wouldn't be a party without you."
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 is not the gushy kind, never was. 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
rumour 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 neighbours,
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 rumours about Santa Claus were just what
Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we
were on his team.
