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Santa Isn’t Real — Or IS He?
“Santa isn’t real, is he?” I was ten. I felt very grown-up, very in-the-know, now.
“Are you sure?” asked my parents.
“Yes,” I said. “I’m sure.” I was worldly wise and unafraid. I understood that the jolly fat man and his eight tiny reindeer were an idea, and ideas are solid things. Other Christmas traditions would not vanish like the steam rising from my hot chocolate.
Christmas Eve came. We baked and decorated cookies “for Santa” and put out milk, and carrots for his reindeer. I felt no guilt, though, in stealing a cookie or three, while they were still fresh and warm from the oven. I played along and went to bed early, so that my parents could put up a live tree and decorate it to greet me, bright and merry, before sunrise on Christmas morning. One tradition that would not change is rising in the dark, at an obscenely early hour, to tear open the wrapping on long-anticipated presents. My grandparents would have driven twenty miles, sometimes in the snow, to wait at the foot of the driveway for the porch light to come on — a signal from my mom and dad that the little mouse was stirring, and it was time to run in and join the festivities.
Of course I didn’t get to sleep right away. Even though I was now too old to believe in Santa Claus, I was not too old to wonder what wondrous things I’d find in all the boxes I knew…
