One Christmas, long ago, when I was at that cusp of an age when a kid is pretty sure his folks were responsible for the toys under the tree….but still not quite ready to give up on the idea of Santa, I got a holiday reprieve.
My father woke me up in the middle of the night. He put his finger to his lips to make sure I stayed quiet and led me out of the room and down the hall. (Sounds like the beginning of a horror movie, right?)
My mother was already at the archway outside the living room. She gave me the “zip it” sign as well. They were taking no chances. They parted so I could see into the room where our Christmas Tree twinkled.
There he was. Santa. Putting the packages under the tree with his legendary care. At first, I was stunned. Proof positive. Oh, wait.
My Uncle Bud lived with us. He was my Dad’s brother, going through a divorce and staying with us until the dust settled. It settled about six years later.
“Oh…that’s Uncle Bud!” I said to myself, solving the mystery with Columbo-like cunning. I had to give kudos to my parents for staging this elaborate holiday hoax just to keep their youngest young for another year.
“Hey guys. What’s going on?” My Uncle Bud suddenly asked from the kitchen doorway.
Wait. If you’re there…and Dad’s here, and I’m watching….oh my gosh and golly…IT’S REALLY SANTA!!!!!
They got another year or two out of that one. I was a teenager when they told me that it was my oldest brother, Ricky, on leave from the Navy, just wanting to “screw with my head.”
Family, right?
Merry Christmas everybody!!!!
May all your worries be fake, and all your Santas real.