Grandaddy Christmas

Did anyone ever try to tell you there was no Santa Claus? It happened to me in the second grade, the year my sister was born and my life--as I knew it--was over. I was eight.

 

Early in December, I sat at my desk in our small Alabama classroom practicing my hand-writing. To me, writing in script was like drawing, and I was drawing "Merry Christmas" when I overheard Kathryn in the desk behind me whisper across to Robin, "Victor says Santa Claus isn't real."

Robin gasped. "Carol said it too."

The teacher cleared her throat and glanced down her nose at Robin who then got quiet and presumably went back to her script.

A few minutes later, Robin whispered. "Do you think they're lying?"

"Victor says it's Mama and Daddy."

"Did you ask your mama?

"No, she might stop. Does Carol still get presents? Victor does."

"Excuse me," said the teacher as she approached. She passed me, saying, "Girls, is there something you want to tell the class?" She turned their papers on their desks examining their work.

"No, ma'am," said Kathryn.

Robin echoed, shaking her head. "I'm finished," she added, offering up her paper. The teacher took it back to her desk and promptly came up with another assignment.

That night, I asked my mom and her answer was: "Of course he's real. You don't believe there's a Santa Claus?"

The way she said it shamed me into saying, "Sure, I do, but Kathryn said..."

"Well, you have to think for yourself, so what do you think?"

"Well, I think we don't have a chimney, so how does he get in?"

She nodded once, shrugged, and turned to the stove. She dropped the conversation, and not wanting to push my luck, I didn't mention what they said about the parents. My method would be a test and I had already formed a plan.

A couple of weeks later, my mom said, "Lizzie, you haven't said what you want for Christmas this year."

"I know," I said, "but Santa always knows, doesn't he?" I refused to tell anyone that I wanted a bride doll. My mother and I had been entering doll shows and winning thanks to the hand-made costumes she sewed for them, really stylish and glitzy, but I wanted a bride doll with the original store-bought gown and veil. If Santa was real, I believed, the perfect doll would appear under the tree.

Christmas morning started early as usual. At four a.m., I phoned my grandparents to squeal that Santa had come and did it with the usual gusto although the doll under the tree was a Cindy Rene in a tailored suit.

"We'll get there as soon as we can," they said. Having the only grocery store in town, my grandparents always worked late on Christmas Eve making last minute deliveries.

I waited, undressing Cindy Rene, contemplating changing her name and pretending to be happy, while kitchen aromas of sausage, eggs and biscuits filled the air and a Bing Crosby record played low. At five a.m., my grandparents burst in bearing armloads of wrapped gifts.

After breakfast, everyone took turns oggling over the baby, who had a name by the way, Joanne. Ma Ma insisted on feeding her and I just wanted to climb under the tree and go to sleep because nobody would miss me anyway.  Then, after all the family gifts were open, my Grandaddy who seemed to have noticed when I tossed my doll aside asked me, "So how about that new doll with the moving elbows?"

All my disappointment about how life wasn't at all what it was built up to be welled up in me and I burst into tears. Grandaddy grabbed me then and made me sit on his lap and tell him what was wrong. He even looked like Santa Clause, but I couldn't put it all into words, so I just said, "I wanted a bride doll," and continued to wail. He cajoled me and finally got me to laugh by saying something silly and tickling me at the same time. He was the one who made us all laugh and got games started and enjoyed life the most. He even ate the most and Mama was now cooking again, another giant meal for mid-afternoon after the eggnog.

A while later, Grandaddy put on his hat and coat and said to no one in particular, "I'll be back directly." I noticed and I didn't like it. Where was he going on Christmas. He didn't have to deliver groceries, did he?

Everyone seemed to be in a waiting mode, then, and we waited for him to return all day and I even headed to the kitchen to help when I overheard my mom fussing at my dad saying, "They always spoil her and I don't like it. She'll grow up thinking everything she wants will just appear."

She went ahead with the eggnog and everyone was getting sleepy but Mama said we would just have to wait, hungry or not. The table was set and the family was set too, still as buttons all around the living room.

Then, just as the sun was going down, Grandaddy came in rushing at me with yet another wrapped box. "Santa left this at our house," he said, almost breathless. "It's got your name on it, Lizzie."

"What?" I looked and sure enough, it did. "Why did he do that?" I asked, skeptical but equally hopeful. I ripped into it and there she was, the bride doll in the wedding regalia, and she was mine. "Santa gets mixed up sometimes, doesn't he?" I said. "So let's eat."

After dinner, as I sat at the tall table, no longer the smallest one there, I said, "Grandaddy, next year, don't leave on Christmas. Nobody knows how to have Christmas when you aren't here, and I don't want any more dolls. I just want you."


Diana Renfro December 2012

for doll lovers, here is a Cindy Rene doll by Horsman, 1958