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Bud Grossmann’s
Words of the Week
for the Week of
December 20, 2020
Published as a Gramma Letter
dated December 24, 1996.
© 1996, 2020 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
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Girl in a Big, Bright Cap (1995)
© 1995 by Bud Grossmann
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YES, VIRGINIA
Tuesday, December 24, 1996
Dear Gramma,
As Elizabeth and I were clearing the supper dishes a few evenings ago, she asked, “Dad, is Santa Claus really a for-real person?” My daughter is nine years old, but a youngish nine, and so the question caught me by surprise. It had to come sometime, but I was not ready for it. Years ago, when her brother asked about Santa, I don’t think he ever put the matter to me in quite so blunt a way.
Is Santa real? Such a question. Should I say Yes? Should I say No? That very day, I had mailed out to a friend named Virginia a Christmas card featuring the most famous response to this metaphysical inquiry. For a moment, I considered answering Elizabeth by paraphrasing the other man’s wise exposition. Somehow, though, I felt obliged to fashion my own reply.
I tried to buy some time. “What do you think, sweetie?”
“Just tell me, Dad. Is Santa Claus really a for-real person?”
“I believe he is, Liz. And I’ll tell you why: I really saw him one time when I was a little boy.”
Her eyes grew wide. “You did?!”
“I did. I believe I did. Come. Let’s go into the living room, and I’ll tell you what I remember.”
We sat side-by-side on the sofa, staring into the twinkling lights of our tree as I described the occasion on which I saw Santa in the flesh. I was younger than Elizabeth is now—only half her age, perhaps. My family was on a snowy New Jersey highway, in a gray ’53 Ford, on a gray day in late December. We were traveling to spend Christmas with relatives. Bundled in blankets, my siblings were sleeping. Traffic was heavy. As we passed through a nameless town, our Ford rolled along just about as fast as a person might march. “Oh, look, Buddy!” my mother called out. “There’s Santa!”
Through the wet window glass I saw him. In a suit red as a fire truck, the bountifully bearded old gent was standing beside the roadway, shaking a strap with bells on it and waving at passersby with his other mittened hand. My mother lowered her window, and snowflakes swirled inside the car. Along with the snow came Santa’s cheery greeting: “Merrrrry Christmas! Ho, ho, ho!”
“Merry Christmas, Santa,” I whispered, amazed. And then we had passed him. My mother closed her window again, and the bells faded to silence.
The man hadn’t even called me by name, but I knew it was him and not some look-alike helper in a make-believe suit and boots. I don’t know how I knew it, but I knew it. I was certain, that day, I had seen Santa, and I have never for a moment doubted it since.
I gave my daughter a hug and waited to see if my story had satisfied her. “Did you ever see the Baby Jesus?” she asked.
“Oh! Nope. No, I don’t think I ever did, Elizzie. Just pictures and statues. But He’s real, too, honey. The Baby Jesus is even more real than Santa Claus,” I said.
She stared into the glowing colors of our tree, and neither of us spoke for a time. Then Elizabeth announced quietly, “Santa Claus is fat.”
I said nothing.
“That’s because,” Eliz explained, “he eats everybody’s cookies in the whole wide world.”
♦
One more time, Gramma, I wish you a
MERRY, MERRY CHRISTMAS.
And a very HAPPY NEW YEAR!
Love,
Buddy
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Thanks! BUD GROSSMANN
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This page was updated Sat, Dec 19, 2020, 1:19PM CST.
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© 2020 by Bud Grossmann
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