Does Santa Claus exist? Bah Humbug!
Here’s a little holiday gift for you, from my upcoming book: My Journey to Distinguished Toastmaster, a collection of 10 stories.
A traditional family favorite of many American families, the poem ’Twas The Night Before Christmas’ was written by Clement Clarke Moore in 1822, and begins with the line:
“Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.”
That may have been true in all the other households in America when I was just 4 years old, but that wasn’t the case in our small, little, ghetto fabulous house in Calypso, NC.
Yes, we had ‘hung our stockings with care, in hopes that St. Nick would be there’, but I wasn’t buying it. Bah humbug!
My four-year-old mind just knew that Santa Claus did not exist.
Earlier that day, I had engaged in a shouting match with my brother, slightly older than me, on the subject of Ole St. Nick.
I boldly exclaimed to him that there was no such thing as Santa Claus. He replied that Santa was real and he did exist.
‘He does not!’ I screamed. ‘He does too!’ my brother screamed equally as loud.
‘Does not’! Does too! We went back and forth, screaming louder and louder until we heard our Mother shout down the stairs ‘What are you too arguing about? Don’t you know Santa is coming tonight? Are you being naughty or nice?’
This was only ammunition for my brother as he whispered, ‘See, I told you so. He does to exist! I’m going to prove it to you tonight.
I’m going to stay awake until Santa comes, then wake you up so that you can see him for yourself.
Later that night, after leaving cookies and a letter reminding Santa to make sure he left me a shiny red bike, I was off to bed.
I may not have believed in Santa, but I was covering all bases…just in case.
After what seemed like only minutes in a deep sleep, I felt my brother’s sense of urgency as he nudged me to wake up.
“Come on, get up,” he said. “I hear Santa downstairs. You’ve got to be super quiet.
Our staircase butted up against our living room, which housed our exquisitely lighted Christmas tree and the beautiful baby Jesus in a manger that we were forbidden to touch.
There was a tiny peephole in the wall of our staircase that allowed us to see into the living room.
My brother pressed his eye against the peephole. “See…look now,” he said. “I told you Santa was real.”
As I wiped the sleep from my eyes, I stepped to the peephole and received the surprise of my life.
In my jaded peephole vision, there was Santa Claus. He had even brought Mrs. Claus with him.
I guess Santa’s sleigh must have been outside the door. We did not have a fireplace, and Santa and Mrs. Claus were going back and forth through the door, bringing in gifts.
I was getting so excited and beside myself with giddiness.
As Mrs. Claus wiped her brow, I heard her say, “This is hard work. I need a cigarette.”
What? I gasped. Did she really say that? I’m going to tell my Mother.
She had better not light that cigarette in our living room!
Before I could decipher it all, Santa Claus responded to her by saying, “Yes, it is, and I need a gin and tonic.” Oh, goodness, I thought. Santa drinks the same thing that Daddy does.
My little mind quickly forgot their comments as my eyes peered through the peephole, surveying all the goodies in the room.
There were presents everywhere, but I began to get a little sad as I saw everything except the shiny red bike I so desperately wanted.
Maybe Santa did not bring it because he knew I did not believe he existed…that I doubted there really is a Santa Claus. I could feel the tears starting to form in the corner of my eye.
Mrs. Claus was closing the door when Santa said, “Almost forgot….one more thing.”
He slowly rolled in that shiny red bike that I had circled in the JCPenney catalog at least a dozen times.
Perhaps in my fit of excitement, I forgot we were spying on Santa and Mrs. Claus, for I let out a yelp.
My brother punched me in the arm. Santa and Mrs. Claus froze in their tracks. Oh no, I thought, did they hear me?
Then Mrs. Claus said, “Hmnnnn….maybe we should not leave this beautiful red bicycle. Has little Sherry been naughty lately?” Now upset, I was thinking, why did Santa even bother bringing her?
“Well” said Santa, “Let’s make sure the “children are nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums dance in their heads”.
“Oh, no, I whispered to my brother. “They are coming to check on us.” We scurried like little mice back up the stairs.
I jumped under the covers as quickly as I could and squeezed my little eyes as tight as I could.
I heard myself whispering over and over…‘I believe. I believe. I believe.
Sleep took over, and before I knew it, my brother was nudging me awake yet again.
“Merry Xmas, Little Sherry. Let’s wake up Mother and Daddy so we can open our gifts. I’ll race you downstairs.”
Before I could even respond, he stopped in his tracks, turned around, and said to me, “Remember, Little Sherry. All things are possible if you only believe.”
