ON SANTA'S TEAM

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," 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," 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 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 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 rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma
said they were: Ridiculous!

Santa
was alive and well ... AND WE WERE ON HIS TEAM!

~Author
Unknown