It was that one Christmas in my life that I can recall so vividly. A roller
coaster of emotions were experienced that morning and for days afterwards. As
well, questions like, “Why me” swirled through my brain, even haunting me at
night. Not for the usual reasons one might suspect though: it happened on a
Christmas morning, so early that no one else in the house was awake.
It still wasn’t daylight as I crept down the stairs towards the livingroom.
The ambient light seeping in from the street-light turned thunder-storm dark
when the gift I had wished so earnestly for wasn’t under the tree. I still
recall what that sledge-hammer slammed into the pit of my stomach felt like.
Remorsefully I returned to my bed, never wanting to leave it again!
I was either nine or ten at the time of this harrowing Christmas. Whatever
the age it was, I believed in Santa Claus more than I believed in almost anyone
in the whole wide world even if it was a small world for me back then which was
only made up of Canada and one other country, the United States.
There had been whispers of negativity that fall. One boy in a higher grade
had claimed that, “Santa had drowned in the Arctic Ocean during the summer.”
Coming from him, it was not so believable. He was a troublemaker and was a bully
towards boys smaller than himself, sticking his foot out to trip them up or
punch them in the shoulder. Boy that smarted! We figured a policeman would put
him in jail one of these days, the sooner the better.
It didn’t interfere with my plans. I had written Santa as soon as CHOV
announced that they would forward all letters and send them to Santa at
the North Pole. I put much thought into that letter before writing it and
mailing to the radio station in Pembroke. It had a single request, just for the
one and only gift I desperately wanted – a tabletop hockey game.
I figured that everything a Canadian boy would ever need to make it
through life would be provided by this hockey game. It would enhance our
national pastime with hockey in general. It would permit plenty of
socialization with friends and family and the two teams with its players
controlled by moveable rods would be a motive for competition, hopefully learning
to lose with grace.
I knew it would be left under the Christmas tree, the very tree that
my Dad and I scouted out on my uncle’s property, chopped down and brought home
to be set up and shortly decorated by my mother.
I was becoming more excited as each day passed. I hardly thought about Santa
drowning as no else had mentioned it. Then worry ramped up a little when my
mother casually mentioned, “Sometimes Santa can get overloaded and some popular
toys don’t get made on time, but they always get delivered as soon as
possible.” I felt remorse for any kid that might be disappointed.
I was one of those kids. My mother read me the letter written by Santa
mailed to me direct from the North Pole. He felt so bad. There had been too
many requests for hockey games but those disappointed boys and girls would
receive their hockey game by express mail. Two days later I was at the post
office before it opened with heightened anticipation. Nothing had arrived for
me! After another two days of no parcels I thought maybe my grandmother could
intervene and speed the delivery up. She happened to run the post office out of
her home. She explained however, there was the same system for everyone. I
would just have to be patient. Even the bully got what he asked for, now
confessing that Santa was alive and well.
It seemed like forever, but the parcel finally arrived. It was so big that I
had to go and get my sled in order to pull it home. It was everything I imagined
it would be.
As I got older, I gradually leaned that giving something to someone special
was more important to me than receiving. And better still, there were no more ‘dark’
Christmases.
