As we enter the season of advent, I wanted to share a Christmas story inspired by a childhood memory. This account is loosely based on actual events. We did live in Van Hornesville, New York the Christmas before I turned five. We did live in a white, two-story house with blue carpet. There are three sisters in my family spaced three years apart in age. And my father did cover his boots in ashes. Otherwise, the characters and plot are the product of my imagination. The original motivation for composing the story was a college, creative writing assignment. Tackling the subject of a child discovering the true identity of Santa was the result of my observations of the lengths parents were willing to go to convince their children that Santa was real. I prefer to think a child’s relationship with their parents can be so secure that learning their parents are really Santa results from a natural, gradual awareness rather than a sudden, disappointing revelation. There are intangible things we cannot see like faith, peace, hope, and love. In my opinion, these are worth believing in for a lifetime.
SANTA’S BOOTS
For Dad, and all those who know the truth, but are entrusted with keeping the spirit alive.
Christmas Eve, the year’s magical night of wonder, found the tiny village of Van Hornesville, New York deep in slumber. Children lay dreaming of treasures the morning would bring while snow fell outside, spreading a layer of shimmering whiteness over the quiet. Every surface was covered with nature’s wintry wrapping until the village itself looked like a Christmas package waiting to be opened.
Cradled in darkness, the village houses settled with deep sighs, stretching wearily on their snowy mattress. Their eyes drawn tightly shut against the bitter wind did not a light reveal. The heart of every home lay in silence. In every home that is, except for the white, two-story farmhouse with the pine green shutters. Within its slumbering walls, a lone figure could be seen, slightly stooped and intent upon his work at the fireplace.
Roused by the muffled sounds of someone moving about below, Helen turned to awaken George. Finding only the familiar impression left by her husband’s body, Helen realized the mysterious visitor downstairs might not be such a mystery after all. Suddenly, shaking herself from sleep, she recalled what eve this was that found her alone in the hours that are neither morning nor night.
Hurrying into her bathrobe and slippers, Helen shuffled out of the bedroom, pulling herself together on the way. She hesitated momentarily to check on the girls. Completely unaware of her presence or the goings-on downstairs, their small bodies rose and fell rhythmically with the peaceful sleep of children secure in love’s embrace.
Captivated by the scene before her, Helen stood gazing at the three tousled heads resting on loosely clasped hands. Their ivory pink cheeks were framed by graceful wisps of auburn curls. Elegant lashes fluttered airily with each breath that escaped the slight part between satiny, rose-colored lips. Helen struggled with the temptation to rush forward and clutch these three of her life’s greatest treasures to her chest, but the scuffling below brought her back to the night’s task. With the ease of a parent’s practiced hand, she pulled the door together without a sound.
Descending the stairs in a flanneled rush, she reached the tree-lit living room where the walls, ceiling, and floor were alive with flickering reflections of colored lights. Peeking around the doorway, Helen’s eyes fell upon an unexpected sight. There was George, still in his long johns, standing bent at the waist in the fireplace, his feet clad in heavy snow boots sunk deep into the remnants of yesterday’s fire. Unable to contain her amusement, Helen flopped onto the couch, laughing into her robe-filled hands.
Surprised by her entrance, George’s expression was that of a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Realizing how utterly ridiculous he must look, George broke into a muted chuckle, sending the still empty stockings billowing out before him. At last, her laughter under control, Helen asked, “What in the world are you doing?”
“Don’t you recognize Santa Claus when you see him, young lady?” George responded in the most Santa-like voice he could muster.
“Oh George, whatever put such an idea in your head?” she sighed. Helen’s face was warm with delight. Her heart reached out to this man who never failed to make Christmas memorable, however many or few gifts under the tree.
Eyes sparkling, George carefully shoveled ashes over his boots. “Mary was getting suspicious. She’s been asking lots of questions about Santa. Eating the cookies just didn’t seem like enough this year,” he explained. Helen nodded in agreement, shaking her head affectionately at George’s antics.
“How about giving me a hand, Mrs. Santa?” he suggested as he slowly emerged from the fireplace. “Pass me the gifts and I’ll put them under the tree.”
Eager to help, Helen carried the various sized and shaped packages to her husband. Planning each step, he placed his foot firmly on the woolly, blue carpet, making sure the print could be seen. In this way they distributed the presents around the base of the tree. Voices lowered to gleeful whispers, they giggled like a couple of school-aged pranksters.
With all the gifts under the tree, George walked slowly to the coffee table where a plate of cookies, a mug of lukewarm cocoa, and a note had been carefully placed. He picked up the message, meticulously written by his eldest’s newly trained hand, and tucked it in his sleeve. Taking a cookie for himself, he offered one to Helen and then made his way back to the hearth. There he removed one dusty gray boot at a time. After setting his boots in the corner, George joined Helen in filling the stockings.
Finished with their elfin work, they retired to the couch. Sharing the remaining cookies and taking turns with the cocoa, they settled back with thoughts of the swiftly approaching morning that would bring their daughters racing downstairs to discover what had been delivered during the night.
Shortly before dawn, Helen and George heard the anticipated commotion upstairs. “Are you awake?” “It’s Christmas!” “We can get up now. Hurry! Hurry!” Delighted squeals floated down to announce the arrival of their three, stair-step daughters. Leading the trio was Mary, whose eighth Christmas this would be. Right on her heels came Beth, a head or so shorter and three years Mary’s junior. Bringing up the rear, trying desperately to keep pace with the others, was Emily, nearly three years old and everyone’s baby.
“Mommy! Daddy!” they cried in unison as they piled onto the couch to exchange hugs, kisses, and Christmas greetings. Wiggling out from the jumble, Emily tiptoed toward the tree. At the end of the coffee table she stopped, squatting down for a better look. Then, pointing excitedly at the footprints she had discovered, she exclaimed, “Look! Santa comed! Santa comed! See!”
Immediately she was joined by the two older girls, the thrill in those early morning eyes equaled in their parents’ faces. Following the path in a train formation, the girls came to a halt before the fireplace where the tracks began and ended. Satisfied that Santa had indeed visited their home, they reached for stockings, now bulging with goodies. Scarcely able to jump up and tease her own stocking from its nail-secured spot, Beth lifted her little sister to the mantle so Emily could claim her treasures.
The three scurried to the tree where Mary passed out the gifts, dutifully sounding out both the “to” and “from” names. There were the presents from grandparents, the special treats from Mommy, Daddy, and each other, and then there were the Santa gifts. These the girls savored for the very last. Squeaks and squeals of, “Look what I got!” “Oh, it’s just what I wanted!” “See what Santa bringed me!” chimed out from a sea of rumpled wrapping paper and empty boxes.
While the two youngest girls were still tearing anxiously at ribbons and wrappings, Mary slipped over to where her parents were watching from the couch. Leaning over the back onto arms folded under her chest, her feet left the floor as she kissed Helen’s cheek. Without a word she walked around to George, scrambled up onto his lap and nestled in his arms. Gently, she pulled his head close to hers. “Thank you, Santa,” she whispered.
Surprised, George’s body tensed as he searched for a way to deny having any part in Santa’s midnight schemes. He looked into his eldest’s knowing face. Before he could utter a sound, his eyes followed hers as they drifted to the corner of the room. There, where only Mary had noticed them, were the boots – resting in the midst of a telltale layer of fine, ashen gray dust.
Smiling sleepily, Mary nestled against George’s chest. “I’m glad it’s you, Daddy,” she sighed. George sat speechless, eyes glistening. The colors of the tree lights blurred as Mary’s words melted into his heart. Seconds later, the sun’s rays filtered into the room through narrow spaces between windowsill and shade. And so, morning found the white, two-story farmhouse with the pine green shutters filled with the spirit of Christmas.
