He Was A Hero To Me

Sometime after my parents moved to from downtown to their own home, our extended family began to celebrate Christmas at our house. It was always so exciting, with my mom and dad both cooking and cleaning and getting ready for the family. One moment, the house would be all decorated and shiny with unbelievable aromas coming from the kitchen and almost instantly, the house would fill up with people and laughter.

At some point in the night, my mom would take my sister and me to our bedrooms and tuck us in. We’d listen to the sky, straining to hear the sleigh bells over the voices downstairs and eventually we’d wake up to our mother’s voice telling us that Santa had just left.

We’d open our packages as all the relatives looked on. There were always baby dolls and as soon as she could, Aunt Jenny would scoop up the dolls to play with. I think she enjoyed them more than we did.

One Christmas, though, was different. Mom came upstairs to wake us and whispered that if we were very quiet we could sneak downstairs and get a glimpse of Santa. I don’t think I ever woke up so fast! SANTA! I was going to see him in my own living room! It was just too wonderful to imagine!

We crept down the stairs and there he was! He was huge — all dressed in his red suit with a fluffy white beard. And there was Aunt Jenny, tugging at his suit, touching the furry white trim. Monette and I giggled then hoped he hadn’t heard us. We watched him walk out the front door, never questioning why he didn’t swoop up the chimney like he was supposed to do.

Of course, we went to school after Christmas vacation and assured all of our cynical friends that, indeed, Santa was real. We had see him ourselves, right in our own house, on Christmas Eve.

It was years later that my mom explained to us how Santa came to be there that year. Our cousin, Butch, had been drafted; He would be going to Viet Nam. He wanted to do something special for Christmas, maybe so that we’d remember him if the worst happened. I do remember when Butch was overseas; we’d send “care packages,” as my mom called them, every few weeks. We’d load them up with trinkets and snacks. I really didn’t understand where Butch was or what the war was all about. I just knew that he missed all of us and we wanted him to come home safely. He did come home but we lost Butch in 2004 to cancer.

Sometimes my childhood seems like a different lifetime. Memories become hazy or distorted. My memory of that one Christmas — when I got to see Santa in our home — is as vivid today as it was then. That memory will live forever. Thanks, Butch. You’ll always be our hero.

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