“Hello?”
I’d called my sister from work before Christmas to coordinate something, but she didn’t answer. Instead, my nephew at the grand, old age of two-and-a-half picked up the phone and showed how grown up he was.
I love everything about the Christmas season. The decorations, the hustle and bustle, even the minor angst about what to get whom, are part and parcel of this time of year. Most of all, I love the faith that children have in the magic of Christmas. Their belief is so pure, I do everything I can to buoy it up, stretch it out, and make it last as many years as I can. Hopefully, for a lifetime.
I knew what I had to do. Without hesitation, I pitched my voice as low as I could. “Eric, this is Santa.”
He giggled.
Hot dern, this was working! “Are you being good?”
My nephew giggled again. “Yes.”
I kept my voice low. “If you’re good, I’ll know about it and you’ll get lots of presents for Christmas. You like presents, don’t you?”
He didn’t giggle this time. Even at that young age, he knew the value of gifts that come overnight near the winter solstice, journeying straight from their manufacture at the North Pole.
I prodded him for the answer I knew would come. “I already know what presents you want.” I didn’t, of course, but Santa did and Eric had to know that fact. “So, are you being really good?”
“Yes.”
“OK, Eric, let me talk to your mom, now. Bye-bye.”
My nephew didn’t bid me farewell. He must have handed the phone directly to his mother, but I could hear his words to her as clearly as if he’d spoken them into my ear.
“Silly Uncle Bill, Santa Claus.”
At least I tried.
William R. Bartlett lives in Belton with his family.