On Santa's Team
By
Carol Laycock
My grandma taught me everything
about Christmas. 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," jeered my sister. "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 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. I didn't see a price tag, but ten dollars ought to buy anything. I put
the coat and my ten-dollar bill on the counter and pushed them toward the lady
behind it.
She looked at the coat, the
money, and me. "Is this a Christmas present for someone?" she asked
kindly. "Yes," I replied shyly. "It's ... for Bobbie. He's in my
class, and he doesn't have a coat." 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.
Suddenly, 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 twice
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. He looked down, looked around, picked up his present, took
it inside and closed the door.
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!
