Moment of truth

Long ago, a young me was on the brink of not believing in the Jolly Old Elf I’d grown to love. I was starting to question his existence, most likely because I had heard other kids say things like, “He’s not real! Those guys in red suits and white beards are just pretend. You’re a baby if you believe in Santa Claus!” I fought the idea, but there it was, niggling around in my five-year-old brain. Maybe four-year-old – it’s been awhile.

But it was time to put this doubt to rest. My mother took my brother and me to visit the “real” Santa at Santa Central in the Terminal Tower in downtown Cleveland. Mother told us in advance that all those others were his “helpers”; it was difficult for Santa to be everywhere at this time of year. Keep in mind, I was very young and my world was very small, so the one we were about to see, to me, was the real deal.

The awesomeness of the Terminal Tower was overwhelming to my brother and me. We clutched Mother’s hands as we found our way to the line of bundled-up-for-winter children and their parents, for the most part waiting patiently for their turn to make one final plea for what they wanted for Christmas. Train arrival and departure announcements filled the air along with Christmas music. People bustled all about us, and Mother pulled us closer to her – a mother duck with her little ducklings in tow.

Finally, there he was. It was my turn to climb up the steps to perch on the red velvet-covered knee and put my mind at ease. “Yes,” I assured him when he asked if I had been a good girl. When he asked me what I wanted for Christmas, I whispered in his ear so no one else could hear. This was the big test. It was now or never. I had not mentioned it to any other person. I’d not written it on my wish list. I had not circled it in the Sears catalog. This was between him and me. He asked if I wanted anything else. I said, “No, just the dollhouse, please.”

There, I’d done it. I’d confided in the Big Guy himself. Now I’d wait – me and my secret. Would Christmas ever come? I could hardly contain myself. I helped make the cookies we would leave for Santa on his big, busy night. Certainly he’d need a nice cup of cocoa to see him on his way after setting up my dollhouse, of course. Sleep on Christmas Eve was elusive. Like every other kid my age, excitement got the better of me. My imagination ran wild on this longest night of my young life. I listened with everything I had, hoping to hear jingle bells or the prancing and pawing I’d heard so much about with every reading of “’Twas the Night Before Christmas.” I had no concept of time. I just knew, because I’d been told, Santa wouldn’t come until I was asleep. Oh, the pressure.

Finally, daylight. I could smell coffee. Was my long night finally over? Did he come? I picture little me tripping over my own feet as I raced to the living room. Oh, the packages under the tree. It was a sight to behold. He’d come. I knew it. He was real. There was my dollhouse, the very one I’d asked for – a metal, two-story house of my dreams, complete with plastic furnishings in every room. Detailed painting included rugs on the floors and a clock on the wall. The exterior was painted brick and white siding, with shrubbery and flowers. It was everything I had dreamed of. No one was going to tell me there was no Santa Claus.

That was my very best Christmas, right up until I found my first two-wheeler aqua-and-cream Roadmaster bicycle a few years later. But that’s another story.

This memory all came back to me when I visited Castle Noel in Medina and saw my dollhouse on display along with a collection of other toys and games kids have dreamed of through the years. It brought tears to my eyes.

Merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.