In the winter of 1964, when I was 7 1/2 years old, my parents and I lived in Colorado Springs, Colorado. Every Christmas we spent there was glorious, but 1964 was my favorite. You see, that was the year I first started having doubts about the existence of Santa Claus . . . and my parents conspired to reinvigorate my belief in that Jolly Old Elf . . . and it worked.
One of our family's Christmas traditions was to drive around town after dark on Christmas Eve, looking at everyone's lights and outdoor displays. In 1964, just as we climbed into the car, my dad ran back into the house to get his wallet (or so he said). He was gone for no more than one or two minutes, I swear. (Remember, being a Type A baby, I have always had a very accurate sense of time passing.) After he came back, he drove us throughout town, and finally up into the mountains to look over the entire city. It had snowed quite a bit that year, and it was beautiful, ethereal even.
Lo and behold! When we got back home, all the presents were under the tree!
I confess to being dumbfounded. My belief in Santa was solidified, for at least another year.
I found out only years later that my mom and dad had prepared all the presents and hidden them very close to the tree (which mystifies me to this day, as there wasn't really any place in the house we lived in to do that), and Dad had just moved them under the tree in one swoop whilst allegedly getting his wallet.
It was a magical Christmas, and to this day, remains my personal favorite.
I wish you all equally wondrous holidays!
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