It was very difficult to sleep on Christmas Eve. But the lack of sleep never stopped us from getting up Christmas morning way before sunrise. I would open my eyes to solid blackness and listen to hear my Dad downstairs in the kitchen starting a fire in the wood stove. I’d pull the blankets and flannel sheets up tight to my chilled nose.
“Can we get up now?”
“Not yet.”
I knew the rule: You can’t get up until Dad starts the fire and warms the house up a bit. I’d listen for the scrapes of the lid of the stove opening and the bang of the lid sliding into place.
“Now, can we get up?”
“Not yet,” Wayne repeated.
Santa ALWAYS brought me the #1 choice in my “Dear Santa” letter which was written within days of receiving the Eaton’s and Simpson Sears’ Christmas catalogues.
“Now?”
“No!”
And thank goodness the toilet was on the way to the stairs. My slippers were waiting at the side of my bed. Once the A-OK was given, it wouldn’t take me long.
“Daddy, can we get up now?”
“OK. Come on down.”
My feet could not get down the bunk bed ladder fast enough to beat Wayne, who only had to jump out of bed to get to the bathroom before me. Down the stairs straight into the living room/dining room (now referred to as “open concept”), where the lit Christmas Tree sparkled, and the wrapped gifts ballooned out from under it.
Dad would be standing in front of the wood stove in the kitchen, shoving more pieces of wood into the top. I can still see the flames jumping up, trying to escape. The round stove top bangs as Dad drops it into place with its handle.
Our handmade Christmas stockings had been set up the night before in various close proximities to the tree.
The Christmas tree stood in that spot where the dining room became the living room. It looked beautiful and the smell of the spruce needles filled the room. Two to three weeks prior, we went to the Back Bush with Dad, trudging through snow that came up to my hips, to find the perfect Christmas Tree and dragged it back. Mom thought it looked very thin, but once we lathered every decoration from the Christmas boxes, there was hardly an empty spot. The tinsel glittered magically.
My eyes quickly found my handmade Christmas stocking. Aunt Edna had made one for each of us kids. The stockings themselves were made from red felt cut with pinking shears. Then she hand-sewed the pieces together with colourful embroidery floss and glued felt Christmas shapes down the front. My sock had a Santa’s face and a sparkly Christmas Tree. Wayne’s had a candy cane, an aeroplane and a gold star. Down each sock at an angle were the felt letters that spelled out our names.
There were two socks on the couch with DONNA and CAROL on them, stuffed to the brim. Wayne’s was bursting at the seams beside the china cabinet and mine sat right in front of the Christmas tree with the most beautiful fluffy stuffed dog bulging out of the top.
That sock seemed bottomless. Under the toy, were items that only came into the house at Christmas: a bottle of my all-time favourite bottle of pop – pink cream soda, the reddest rosiest Delicious apple and a Clementine orange. Also, wrapped chocolate covered marshmallow Santa faces on sticks, a brand new pencil case with pencils and an eraser, little wrapped chocolate balls and little bottles of bubble bath from AVON. Besides Easter, this was the only time we could drink pop and eat chocolate before breakfast.
It took only seconds to empty the stockings and move on to the grand event – the BIG Santa present – the new Chatty Cathy doll I’d asked for. I knew it well from seeing it in Kresge’s. It stood up to my waist and had a string on the back of her neck. Each time the string was pulled, Chatty Cathy said something different, like “Do you love me?”, “I love you,” and “I’m hungry!” She came in her own case with drawers and a spot to hang her clothes.
“What are you looking for?” Mom said kneeling down beside me.
“I asked Santa for Chatty Cathy, but I don’t see her. Maybe he didn’t get my letter?” I felt frantic.
Mom looked concerned. “Hmmm, well who do you think this is for then?” she said as she pulled over a huge doll house.
“But that’s not what I asked for, Ma. Did he make a mistake and leave me someone else’s doll house?”
“Look,” she said in a hushed voice. She pointed to an envelope taped to the roof of the doll house. “It says ‘To Wendy’ on it.” Her eyes opened wide with amazement. “Santa left you a note.”
I ripped the envelope open, pulled out the note and began to read.
Dear Wendy
I ran out of Chatty Cathy’s and I’m very sorry. I’m hoping you will have lots of fun with this doll house. I promise to bring you a Chatty Cathy next Christmas if you still want one.
Love
Santa
I was stunned. I couldn’t believe it. I felt all shaky inside.
I was holding a note written by Santa Claus, that magical man who never showed himself to anyone except in story books. The man who would never come back if you saw him, Mom had said.
“This paper was from a note pad from our kitchen,” I whispered. “He actually sat in THIS dining room on one of THESE chairs and wrote a note… to me?” I squealed, touching a dining room chair in amazement. If there was any doubt before that there was really a Santa Claus, it was gone.
This was proof positive that Santa was real.
“He HAD to have gotten my letter and read it. He knew that all I wanted was a Chatty Cathy and he cared enough to be sorry and brought me beautiful doll house,” I reasoned to myself. I thought about how busy he was, with thousands and thousands of children to worry about and yet he took the time to sit down and write ME a note!
No one in the family had ever gotten a note from Santa Claus before. I wasn’t sad or disappointed for not getting a Chatty Cathy. The doll house and the note were the best Christmas presents ever.
(revised November 2022)