My Wonderful
Grandma
Following is the original
story as written by Carol Laycock. This story is protected by copyright.
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MY WONDERFUL GRANDMA
December 1, 1999
Grandma is ninety-eight this Christmas.
In spite declining health, she forges on with characteristic determination,
hope, and wit. We thought we might lose her last October - how many more heart
attacks can her frail body take? -- but, true to form, Grandma rallied again. "I
couldn't miss a Christmas party, now could I!" she quipped on the way home
from the hospital.
"No, Grandma," I laughed
"It wouldn't be a party without you."
I remember my first Christmas party with
Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit
her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa
Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"
My grandma is not the gushy kind, never
was. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I
knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down
a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns.
Grandma was home, and the buns were still
warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me.
"No Santa Claus!" she snorted.
"Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumour has
been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your
coat, and let's go."
"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I
asked. I hadn't even finished my second cinnamon bun.
"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a
little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma
handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. 'Take this money,"
she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you
in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.
I was only eight years old. I'd often
gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by
myself.
The store seemed big and crowded, full of
people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just
stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy,
and who on earth to buy it for.
I thought of everybody I knew: my family,
my friends, my neighbours, the kids at school, the
people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly
thought of Bobbie Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he
sat right behind me in Mrs. Pollock's grade-two class.
Bobbie Decker didn't have a coat. I knew
that because he never went out for recess during the winter. His mother always
wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew
that Bobbie Decker didn't have a cough, and he didn't have a coat. I fingered
the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobbie Decker a coat.
I settled on a red corduroy one that had
a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that.
"Is this a Christmas present for someone?"
the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down.
"Yes," I replied shyly.
"It's ... for Bobbie."
The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get
any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.
That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the
coat in Christmas paper and ribbons, and write, "To Bobbie, From Santa
Claus" on it-- Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then
she drove me over to Bobbie Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was
now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers.
Grandma parked down the street from
Bobbie's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his
front walk Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus,"
she whispered, "get going."
I took a deep breath, dashed for his
front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew
back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly
in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood
Bobbie.
Forty years haven't dimmed the thrill of
those moments spent shivering, beside my grandma, in Bobbie Decker's bushes.
That night, I realized that those awful rumours about
Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive
and well, and we were on his team.
--- Copyright © 1999 Carol Laycock --- Alberta, Canada