This is a reprint from a post I did a few Christmas' ago. I thought I would share it for anyone who may have missed it.
When I was six years old, I still believed in Santa Clause. To insure that I continued to believe, my mother went to great lengths. That year, in our humble little second floor apartment, she somehow managed to put footprints in the snow on the roof outside the bedroom window I shared with my younger sister. There were even little hoof prints and what looked like sleigh tracks. My sister and I ran into the living room to tell her what we had seen, totally oblivious to the cast on her leg and the neighbors sitting there with her. To this day, I appreciate what she did. It was one of those magical moments that still lingers with me at this time of year.

We weren’t big on ‘traditions’ at Christmas. We would go to a mid-night service on Christmas Eve, we opened our presents on Christmas morning, (Unlike the barbaric practice that some participate in, where one to all gifts are opened on Christmas Eve. Pagans!) and on New Years, my mother would burn a Bayberry candle all day for good luck and prosperity in the coming year.

I don’t know exactly when I stopped ‘believing’ in Santa. I like to think it was around eight or nine. I don’t know. I have a ten year old step-son, now. He insists he believes in Santa. My wife struggles to keep it going. For the three years we have been married, it’s been a priority. One of the ways this is accomplished is by marking all but one or two gifts ‘From : Santa’. He spends half the day with her, then goes to his step-dad’s and finds even more gifts ‘From : Santa’. His parents discuss what they are getting him so they don’t screw up and get the same thing, because, as you well know, this would shatter the charade and the boy would know.



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