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The
Grumpy Side of 60
Santa’s
Helper No. 31278664
By
Bob Robinson
Some
of you may remember the conversations I’ve had with Santa over the
years. He never gets my name right. It’s Joe, or Jake, or Ronald…
Don’t think he’s ever called me by my given name. Makes me wonder how
he ever gets the presents right. I forgot. He has something called
Lightspeed Sonar. It not only allows him to zip around from town to
town at lightning speed, it keeps track of all the kids in each town,
including whether they have been naughty or nice.
Last year he still couldn’t remember my name, but remembered he hasn’t
delivered a lump of coal to a naughty child in two years! That’s quite
an accomplishment on the part of the little ones.
By the way, the Lightspeed Sonar was a secret he shared with Mrs.
Buscher’s class at Woodland Heights. So don’t say anything, please.
I’ve had to help Santa out a bunch of times… so many in fact that he
made me an official Santa’s Helper: No. 32178664. I think it would be
easier to forget the number and just remember my name.
I was helping Santa out once last year, keeping the kids quiet while they were in line.
“That isn’t Santa,” one little boy said.
“Of course he is… who do you think he is?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. But he can’t be Santa.”
“Why not?”
“I saw the real Santa last week.” He pointed at this Santa. “He isn’t fat enough.”
“Do you know how he carries all those toys around with him on Christmas Eve?”
“Huh? Well, no.”
“Do you know how his reindeer fly?”
“No.”
I turned to the little girl listening in on this conversation. “Sweety, is Santa fat enough for you?”
She smiled, nodding her head.
I turned back to the boy. “Santa’s magic, Big Guy. That’s how he does
what he does every year… that’s how his reindeer fly… and that’s how he
still manages to look a little different for every little boy and girl
he sees.”
The boy frowned. Then grinned. And it was time for him to scramble onto Santa’s lap.
Sometimes I feel guilty sparring mentally with a 7-year-old. Actually,
I think scared is a better term… some day one is going to get the best
of me. That would be embarrassing.
A good friend of mine used to call me every year about this time. It
was a tradition we started eight years ago when I drove her and her son
around to look at the Christmas lights.
“Billy hasn’t had a chance to talk to Santa yet,” she said. She was
working full time in Piqua and wasn’t able to get the time off to take
him. It was the holiday season; her dad was watching Billy while she
worked but he didn’t get out much.
“Do you think he can talk to Santa on the phone?” she asked me.
“Sure,” I said, grinning. I gave her a time frame the following evening. Sure enough… my cell phone rang at the appointed hour.
“Santa?” my friend asked.
“Ho ho ho, young lady. And why did you want to speak to Santa?”
“Not me. Billy. Hold on.”
“Santa…”
“Ho ho ho, Billy. Have you been a good boy this year?” He giggled, said yes, and then started in on his list.
I got that phone call about the same time every year for three more years, even when we hadn’t seen each other for a long time.
It was a sad day when I realized one year the call didn’t come and
probably never would again. Billy grew up… such a shame to lose the
magic.
Published courtesy of The Early Bird
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