Christmas Magic Defined Yes Robyn, There Is A Santa Claus

My favorite Christmas story from my own history dates from around 1980, when my youngest daughter was in first grade.

Christmas Eve that year was a rainy, wet, nasty day. It threatened to be a rainy, nasty night as well. I had finished wrapping gifts for the family and stashed them under the tree until Christmas Day. Tomorrow morning they would all be transported to Baltimore, MD, and passed out to the family there. Tonight however, Christmas Eve itself, another tradition would be honored In Wilmington, DE. This involved a trip of about twenty miles in my raggedy, old Plymouth Duster.

My friend had invited us to his family's home for their Christmas Eve celebration. With his grandparents brought in from Pennsylvania, and six siblings and their families from the Wilmington area in attendance, the feast would be spread, fun would be had and gifts would be exchanged at his parent's home.

Towards evening the weather changed as the temperature fell in the direction of freeing. As we began the journey, a light coating of ice glimmered on the roads. The trip, from our house to theirs, should have taken about 20 minutes at the most. At a slow speed, we were still enroute some 40 minutes into the night. It was about this time I broached the idea of turning back home. Of course I was immediately outvoted.

I- 95 was nearly deserted. The sound of the ice hitting the windshield chorused with the cadence of the wipers. Inside, the stillness was broken by the sound of the Christmas music on the radio and the small voice that eminated from the back seat.

"Mom," it said, "Jason in school says there is no Santa Claus. I told him he is wrong. That's right, isn't it mom? There is a Santa Claus, right? Mom? Right? He said his father told him there is no Santa and his father does not lie!" The little voice was in a near panic.

Oh the joys of motherhood! How come I get all the hard questions?

My mind raced back in time. I was in first grade at the local parochial school. One Sunday before Christmas, the parish priest made the fateful announcement from the pulpit at the children's Mass. He doomed any belief in Santa Claus held by any unsuspecting child in attendance that day.

I returned home in tears with the 'say it ain't so Mom' look. When my mother confirmed what I had been told, I felt betrayed, dishonored. I vowed never to be the bearer of THAT particular piece of bad news!

Here we were, on the intersate, Christmas Eve, in the rain. The moment was here. The question had been asked, the gauntlet flung down. How on earth was I going to get out of this one. How could I ruin the child's holiday and become the bad guy forever?

By this time the rain had ceased, the clouds were beginning to break apart, and the moon peering out shyly. I pulled my thoughts together and began to addres my daughter's inquiry. Before the words came stuttering from my lips, we spotted another car on the expressway. Like ours, it was moving slower than usual in response to the inclement conditions.

As we passed the vehicle, an ancient black Buick Skylark, I glanced over at the driver. Then I did a double take. The driver was none other than the man in the red suit! How perfect for Christmas Eve! How perfect for this particular moment!

I told my daughter to look at the vehicle beside us. When she did, Santa rolled the window down and gave us a hearty HO! HO! HO! with a wave. My ecstatic child waved and shouted back that Jason's father was wrong and she could prove it!

The clouds rolled away. The full moon broke out in a grand smile. I was a hero once more. She didn't even ask how come Santa was in a Buick and not a sleigh with reindeer.

Many Christmas Eves have passed since that slick, rainy night on I-95. As all things do, many have changed. Children have grown up, married and had children of their own and moved away. They are now the the guardians of the secrets, the ones who get to answer the hard questions. I have retired from that employment. I do not envy them.

When it comes time to tell the stories from Christmas Past, this one pops up as my favorite. There is something magic about Christmas Eve. Something you can't quite put your finger on nor explain.

Faith is the belief in things unseen. Perhaps on that night in 1980 the veil parted just enough to renew that childlike faith.

Survival

Now, for sure there was no antibacterial soap when we were kids. Lysol came in a brown bottle with a skull and crossbones on it. Antibiotic cream was either merchurochrome or iodine, again with the requisite skull and crossbones.

Purell did not exist. If it had, anyone using it would have been called Sissy or worse.

I need an ever larger purse to carry all the NOW necessities of life. These are the ones just to keep me alive and thriving against all manner of airborne and otherwise transmitted illnesses and microbes.

I have had to make room next to the requisite Kleenex for toothbrush and toothpaste,deodorant ( for long days) hand sanitizer, toilet seat covers, and wipesas well as
Febreeze air freshener in travel size. I have not yet started carrying Depends however!

Though, at my mother's insistance, for years I carried clean underwear in case I was in an accident. The doctors at the hospital would not see the old ones. I never did understand exactly WHEN during the accident I was supposed to change into the clean, new ones. Mom never told me that part.

Given that hindsight is 20 20, makes you kid of wonder how it is we are still all alive!