The Christmas I remember best did not come in a single awe-inspiring package to be opened on one occasion and reopened through memory as ensuing years passed. There was no "match girl" episode, no sudden release from pain or poverty, no miraculous healing of any kind to hallow my holiday revery.
Nevertheless, some common kinds of events, occurring over and over in thousands of homes besides my own, have forged together in m mind creating a gold gift of refection that becomes for me "a Christmas to remember."
Each year, no matter how time belies the possibility, I become again a child. I am 8 years old, the first of five children. For weeks I have been search the house for evidence that Santa Claus does or does not exist. Reason tells me that he is "impossible," but in my heart, I want him to "be."
Already I have found a life-sized baby doll behind the headboard of my parents' bed, as well as a curly pink plush poodle, the Fifi I admired at Skaggs Drug and Variety just the week before. But nowhere is the live puppy I have wanted so badly sice my little poke-eared terrier "Tippy disappeared.
My hopeful mind tells me that perhaps the parents are only responsible for some, not all of the gifts--Santa just has room in his sleigh for the most important things.
But my friend Linda's mom has already told her for sure that St. Nicholas is "just pretend." When I question my own mother, she says that Santa Claus is real for those who believe. I smile with relief. She knows I understand, but she has given me the option that I seek. I need to believe. I want to believe.
Christmas Eve I go to bed very early. I know Santa must have plenty of time to complete his mission beneath our Christmas tree.
I am awake long before dawn. Maybe I haven't even slept at all. But since the house is very quiet, I reason that he must have already come and gone. Perhaps when I blinked.
Unable to contain myself, I creep into the living room There is the baby doll. There is the pink poodle. There is my stocking bulging with hardtack and candy canes. But nowhere is the puppy I want so badly.
Hugging the plush poodle, I tiptoe into Mom and Daddy's room. I know what they will ask, but my answer is tentative. Begrudging.
"Marti got a doll, and I got this poodle."
"Did Santa leave you anything else?"
"I guess not."
Halfheartedly I wander back for one more look, not daring too much hope. And there she is, sitting in the old frieze rocking chair the much chewed en of a red ribbon dangling from her neck. My puppy. For the rest of my life, Santa Claus is very real to me.
Years later, my own 8-year-old daughter asks, "Is Santa Claus for reals?"
I answer truthfully "As long as you believe, Santa is for reals!"
She smiles with relief. I know she understands.
The Christmas I remember best did not come in a single awe-inspiring package to be opened on one occasion and reopened through memory as ensuing years passed. There was no "match girl" episode, no sudden release from pain or poverty, no miraculous healing of any kind to hallow my holiday revery.
Nevertheless, some common kinds of events, occurring over and over in thousands of homes besides my own, have forged together in m mind creating a gold gift of refection that becomes for me "a Christmas to remember."
Each year, no matter how time belies the possibility, I become again a child. I am 8 years old, the first of five children. For weeks I have been search the house for evidence that Santa Claus does or does not exist. Reason tells me that he is "impossible," but in my heart, I want him to "be."
Already I have found a life-sized baby doll behind the headboard of my parents' bed, as well as a curly pink plush poodle, the Fifi I admired at Skaggs Drug and Variety just the week before. But nowhere is the live puppy I have wanted so badly sice my little poke-eared terrier "Tippy disappeared.
My hopeful mind tells me that perhaps the parents are only responsible for some, not all of the gifts--Santa just has room in his sleigh for the most important things.
But my friend Linda's mom has already told her for sure that St. Nicholas is "just pretend." When I question my own mother, she says that Santa Claus is real for those who believe. I smile with relief. She knows I understand, but she has given me the option that I seek. I need to believe. I want to believe.
Christmas Eve I go to bed very early. I know Santa must have plenty of time to complete his mission beneath our Christmas tree.
I am awake long before dawn. Maybe I haven't even slept at all. But since the house is very quiet, I reason that he must have already come and gone. Perhaps when I blinked.
Unable to contain myself, I creep into the living room There is the baby doll. There is the pink poodle. There is my stocking bulging with hardtack and candy canes. But nowhere is the puppy I want so badly.
Hugging the plush poodle, I tiptoe into Mom and Daddy's room. I know what they will ask, but my answer is tentative. Begrudging.
"Marti got a doll, and I got this poodle."
"Did Santa leave you anything else?"
"I guess not."
Halfheartedly I wander back for one more look, not daring too much hope. And there she is, sitting in the old frieze rocking chair the much chewed en of a red ribbon dangling from her neck. My puppy. For the rest of my life, Santa Claus is very real to me.
Years later, my own 8-year-old daughter asks, "Is Santa Claus for reals?"
I answer truthfully "As long as you believe, Santa is for reals!"
She smiles with relief. I know she understands.
