At the age of 4 or 5, I knew there was no Santa Claus. And I had absolutely no problem with it. I was a happy-go-lucky child, showered with love, and I even kept the “secret” from other kids who might still need the impractical, highly implausible, white-bearded, red-suited, overstuffed fellow.
At that point, I’m sure I was destined for a highly paid–but most likely level and boring–job in engineering or science. The perfect future for a practical child.
On Dec. 6, 1964, all of that would change. My mother–who did not believe in the then-popular plastic furniture covers, or Tupperware parties, or weekly mahjong get-togethers–had a devious, diabolical, life-altering plan. She was about to put magic in my life!
On Dec. 5–the eve of St. Nicholas’ Feast Day–we were hanging our stockings above our fireplace when my mother surprised me with the suggestion that I write St. Nick a letter. I thought it was quite silly but obediently obliged. I had a little trouble trying to figure out what to write to a saint. I thought Mom was being quite odd when she had me put together cookies and milk for him, too, but she said that she just had a feeling we should do it. So we did, and I thought no more of it. I went to sleep, expecting that I would find a gift in my stocking.
That wasn’t what I awoke to! Oh, there was a gift in my stocking, but the fireplace screen had been knocked over, there were muddy boot prints by the hearth and on the carpet, the cookie was half-eaten and cookie crumbs had been spilled all over. A pipe with ashes falling out of it was left by the cookie platter and my letter had been answered! It wasn’t any handwriting I had ever seen. I have no idea how my mother knew exactly which of my suspicious natures to address, but she had. And then again, I guess I do know. Her children were–and are–her world. And she knew, even though I hadn’t felt empty in any way, that her daughter needed magic. She gave it to me that day. I kept that magic–and the letter.
