Four more days and Christmas will be here.

Tuesday, December 21, 1999

Four more days and Christmas will be here. For many of us, Christmas is the time to celebrate the birth of the Christ child, a story reenacted in churches across America.

As for myself, not having been introduced to church until I was almost 6 years old, I knew little before then of the meaning of Christmas. There wasn’t television to remind us. Christmas wasn’t mentioned on the "Lone Ranger" or "The Shadow" radio shows. Then, radio show advertising was, "Got a cough, smoke Kools" and "Call for Phillip Morris Raleighs" or something like that.

It was Lamont Cranston, from "The Shadow", who reminded listeners that: "The weeds of crime bear bitter fruit." I guess in some ways The Shadow was like the Almighty – catching criminals in the act then invisibly speaking to let them know he was there. Sort of like Santa knowing about our behavior.

Fall brought the Sears catalog came in the mail. It wasn’t the big boring catalog that our parents ordered from. No, this one was mostly toys. A nice reference for writing our letters to Santa and reminding him how good we’ve been – hoping there was no one like the Shadow to inform Santa about our real behavior. Maybe this is why Santa doesn’t invite parents to join him with the little ones on his lap.

Even before I could write letters to Santa, I wanted to see Santa live – in person.

When I was very young we went to my aunt and uncle’s in Blooming Prairie on Christmas Eve. They were on mother’s side of the family. On the return ride to Austin, to visit my dad’s side, I’d snuggle up against my mother in the front seat of our ’49 Plymouth. It was then my brother or sister would suddenly shout from the back seat, "There he is. There’s Santa," pointing up to sky through the frosted rear window.

Hardly were the words out of their mouths and I was making my way to the back seat looking myself out the window in the direction they were looking. "Oh, you just missed him, he just went behind those clouds" or "behind those trees" or behind something. I would keep looking the rest of the way to Austin, scraping off the frost, to know avail.

I finally saw him. I was still a little tyke. He was at the Bohemian Hall. Maybe I was 3 or 4 but this wasn’t the Santa I was looking for. The Santa I wanted to see was fat and jolly. This Santa was tall and thin. I started crying, not so much in disappointment – I was scared. When he came up to me I was still crying. Everyone around me was trying to calm me down. Then he spoke – in a slow deliberate voice, the way my Great Uncle Ed spoke when he used to stop by the house on Sunday afternoon. This was not Santa. This was Uncle Ed.

Another time I left a note for Santa on the dining room table along with some milk and a couple of fresh homemade chocolate chip cookies.

In the morning there was an "authentic" note from Santa in return thanking me for the milk and cookies. The note was attached to the play service station he had left. He apologized for not having time to put the gas station together but he had too much to do that night. This convinced me there was a Santa in spite of what my cousin said.

Back then I did wonder how Santa made it to all those houses like he did and I wondered how he knew which houses didn’t have kids living there. Some of that was a real mystery.

Then, in the winter of third grade, I was sitting in the back row, near the window at Shaw School listening to our teacher, when she said, "By now, you all know there isn’t a . . ."

I can’t say the words for the sake of our young readers. I slumped in my chair. My cousin was right. I maintained my composure as best I could – no tears, hiding my inner feeling inside.

As soon as school was over I made a beeline for home, rushing in through the back door – my mother was coming up the basement stairs. By the time I got to her the tears were flowing.

She did her best to help me understand. Mothers are good at that.

So to all you believers – hang in there and let’s not forget the real reason for Christmas.

To all of you, Merry Christmas or as they say in Hawaii "Mele Kelekemaka."

Bob Vilt’s column appears Tuesdays