Just a Gal from Glidden: Yes, Katie, there is a Santa Claus!

I posted the photo of six-year-old me as my Facebook cover this week, hoping to add a little Christmas joy to what has quickly become a year to forget for most people.

My sister, Carrie was quick to reply, “Back when you were still cute ;)”

Sadly, I can’t disagree with her.

Christmases at the farm when I was a little girl were magical. I think they were extra special for me being the youngest of the Drummond clan. We had certain traditions, as most families do. Mom and Dad would get up early so Mom could put the gigantic turkey in the oven and start making Grandma Maclennan’s famous Christmas pudding sauce. Mom and Dad slept upstairs, and all of us kids were in the basement. I vaguely remember sharing the biggest bedroom with my sisters Valarie, Kristine and Carrie. Pam was the oldest, so she had her room, and Garth was the only boy and had his bedroom.

We weren’t allowed to come upstairs until we got the okay from Dad, who would send a cheery, “Ho, Ho Ho” over our Radio Shack intercom system. It isn’t like any of us were still sleeping. Christmas Eve night always seemed to be the longest night. The anticipation of what Santa may have left in our stockings was always too much for me to get a good night’s rest.

We would all clammer up the stairs and wish Mom and Dad a Merry Christmas before seeing what was in our sock.

I don’t remember when I figured out when there was no Santa Claus, but I do remember when I still believed. My favourite gift from Santa was a wind-up bathtub toy. It was a blue and white dolphin. Its little nose would spin round, allowing it to move in the water. I’m not entirely sure which of my siblings wound it up and stuck it in my hair, making a small bald spot.

We would gather around the tree, and one by one, from youngest to oldest, we would open up gifts. Dad would sit on the ottoman beside the tree and hand them out, while Mom would have her coffee and a notepad, making sure she knew who received what from whom. We always were expected to write thank you notes for gifts received from aunties, uncles and Grandma Drummond.

After the gifts were opened and the wrapping paper gathered up and put away, we would enjoy homemade egg-McMuffins. We were then allowed to graze on whatever we wanted during the day until turkey supper was ready. Grandma and Grandpa Maclennan and my Uncle Doug would drive to our farm from Elrose to celebrate with us. A table, which I believe was our ping-pong table on sawhorses, filled up the dining room. We used Mom’s good china and silverware. We opened Christmas crackers that had a small gift and a riddle inside. Everyone was expected to wear the tissue crowns, however goofy you may have looked! The adults had wine, while the younger ones would have non-alcoholic eggnog that my sister Valarie would be in charge of making.

We all took turns doing our share of dishes, except for Mom, who would put her feet up and finish the bottle of wine (sorry, Mom) after a long day in the kitchen.

Our evening would conclude with a rousing game of Hearts or another game. Those so inclined would head to the living room in hopes that Emmet Otter’s Jugband Christmas was on.

I came across a post on Facebook the other day that inspired this week’s musing. I wanted to share it all with you.

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I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit Grandma on the day my brother dropped the bomb: “There is no Santa Claus,” he 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. 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 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 world-famous cinnamon bun. “Where” turned out to be Kirby’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 Kirby’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 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 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.

May you always have love to share, health to spare and friends that care ... and may you always believe in the magic of Santa Claus!