By Marjorie H. Gore (Margie)
♡ ❦ ♡
One of my very earliest Christmas memories is of a wonderful Santa Claus who stood in our living room.
He wasn’t the real Santa, of course, but to me he was every bit as magical.
Daddy had somehow found a life-size Coca-Cola Santa Claus. He stood beside our Christmas tree, smiling with rosy cheeks, dressed in his bright red suit. I was just a little girl, and I thought he was absolutely magnificent.
As long as he stood there, I knew Santa had been to our house.
That wonderful Santa stayed with us year after year. He became part of our Christmas, just as much as the tree, the lights, and the excitement of Christmas morning. Even after I was old enough to know he was only a cardboard figure, I still loved seeing him. He reminded me that Christmas wasn’t just about presents. It was about wonder.
Those were not easy years. The country was at war, and many things were difficult to find.
That Christmas I wanted only one thing—a blue bicycle with big balloon tires.
The stores had bicycles with narrow tires, but to my young mind, they simply wouldn’t do. Daddy could have bought one of those, but he knew how much I longed for the other kind.
Somehow—and to this day I don’t know how he managed it—he found a used blue bicycle with the big tires I wanted. It looked brand new to me. When I saw it on Christmas morning, I was certain Santa Claus himself had brought it.
Of course, now that I look back, I know who my Santa really was.
It was Daddy.
He quietly searched until he found exactly what his little girl had dreamed about. He never asked for recognition. He simply wanted to make Christmas magical.
That life-size Coca-Cola Santa watched over our Christmases, but the real spirit of Santa lived in the love of my parents.
When I remember that smiling Santa standing beside our tree, I don’t just remember Christmas.
I remember love.