Guebert is a columnist based in Illinois.
Of the many memories I have of Christmas on the farm, I don’t have a single memory of ever telling Santa what I wanted for Christmas.
I do remember being told innumerable times that I had better be good or Santa wouldn’t bring me what I wanted. How could he, was my sassy reply, when I hadn’t told him what I wanted.
I do have a clear memory of Santa bringing me a battery-powered, toy electric razor one year. The proof is another photo that has me holding the razor while sporting a smile brighter than the tinsel-draped cedar tree behind me.
Read Also
Crop insurance’s ability to help producers has its limitations
Farmers enrolled in crop insurance can do just as well financially when they have a horrible crop or no crop at all, compared to when they have a below average crop
That razor was way cool, but I didn’t ask Santa for it.
A couple of Christmases later my two older brothers received BB guns, the pinnacle of every boy’s Christmas gift pyramid. Had they asked Santa for ’em? They must have, because I had not asked Santa for one and, well, I didn’t get one.
At that point, anyone with a thinner skull might have picked up on that ask-Santa thing. Anyone, maybe; me, no. I needed confirmation.
Finally, in 1964 or so, I learned the full truth at Grandma’s house. I remember the moment of complete clarity completely.
That Christmas Eve was like every Christmas Eve; we were at Grandma’s eying the beautifully wrapped gifts under her tree while the adults were in the kitchen eating pickled herring and raw oysters, Grandpa’s Christmas gift to them. (Some gift.)
As I bored through the tottering pile, I uncovered an enormous box that was ticketed for my brother, David.
Wow, David had hit the Grandma jackpot. The Mother Lode.
David, I said in hushed awe, look.
He glanced at the huge package. “Yeah, I saw that.”
No, dummy, I insisted, this is the Big One, the…
Before he could slug me into silence the adults appeared and the great gift giveaway began. I snatched David’s package and handed it to him with a command to open it.
Before he had it half unwrapped I saw what it was.
Oh. My. Goodness. An electric slot car race track set.
I fell to my knees, a puddle of quaking disbelief. Looking into that box was like looking into the sun. It was blindingly spectacular, completely incomprehensible.
I can’t believe it, I stammered.
“Believe it,” David replied coolly; “I knew I was getting it.”
You liar.
“No, I asked for it.”
What? You asked Santa?
“No, stupid; Grandma. She asked me what I wanted Santa to bring and I told her.”
Wait. You told her you wanted Santa to bring you a slot car race track?
“That’s the way it works, idiot.”
I looked at the slot car set, then at David, the owner of it and a BB gun, then at Grandma.
I had been an idiot. Santa was real and his pipeline was a gray-haired lady named Grandma. I became a believer right then and there.
And I still believe.
This year, for example, I asked for a wee bottle of lovely – and purely medicinal – elixir from Scotland’s Isle of Skye and new golf driver from some guy named Callaway. Santa’s helper filled the order last Saturday.
All I have to do now is wrap ’em and wait.
