privilege of going to an outlying station near Forest Park to welcome her. Grandma came every December for several weeks until her death after Christmas in 1958. Each visit in the later years was memorable. We spent the evenings playing games, especially Rummy Royale around the kitchen table.
The Christmas I was six in 1954, however, holds a different memory, for it was the year I learned the truth about Santa Claus. Before Grandma came, we had decorated the balsam fir Dad had placed in the corner of the living room, the large, colored bulbs of that era reflecting in the tinsel that dangled precariously on the branches. It was especially beautiful through young, squinting eyes that blurred the tree into a shimmering mass.
Mysterious boxes were appearing daily beneath the tree, and the countdown was on until the morning when all would be revealed. I had been asked what I wanted Santa to bring me that year, and a âbride dollâ was always my quick response. I had great confidence that despite not having a fireplace and chimney, St. Nick would find a way to enter our home with the desired gift.
My older brother and I shared a room across the hall from our parents in the small, two-bedroom house on the corner of Big Bend Boulevard and Exeter in Shrewsbury, Missouri. Across the shaded side street began the lovely community of Webster Groves. We moved into a large, three-story house in Webster before I entered the second grade, outgrowing our Big Bend house when my younger brother, Peter, outgrew his crib. Many dear childhood memories remain of that suburban home where my parents and their oldest son and new daughter came to live after leaving Wichita, Kansas, three months after I was born. Christmas 1954 is one of those memories.
December 24 finally arrived that year, and our father continued the tradition of taking his children to downtown St. Louis to see the beautiful and enchanting department-store windows decorated for the holidays. Before malls started crawling across the landscape of suburbia, shoppers made their way to nearby cities to find the home furnishings and clothes needed for casual and formal living. This became one of the highlights of every year, an anticipated joy that allowed Mother the peace and quiet to finish baking and preparing for Christmas.
I saw many Santas that day: on street corners ringing bells for charity, near the toy sections in each department store we visited, outside the car window as we drove past even more displays. I was puzzled by all the Santas and determined that night Iâd ask my older brother why there were so many. Since he knew everything anyway, he would undoubtedly have an answer.
Our beds on opposite walls, Kenny and I often talked at night before falling asleep, his extra six years of experience a helpful perspective on life. In the darkened room, lit only by the street lights outside our front-room window, I asked him about Santa Claus. He answered me with typical, twelve-year-old directness, âThereâs only one Santa that matters; the others are helpers dressed up to look like him. Our parents even help him.â
Well, that made some sense. He challenged me to sneak downstairs to see what everyone was doing, perhaps to prove his point. And so I did.
The stairs ended at a landing, with several more steps into either the kitchen or the living room. I quietly made my way until I stopped at the last step before reaching the divide where I knew Iâd be visible.
The kitchen light was on, a radio was softly playing Christmas carols, and my mother and grandmother were busy with a project that caught my attention. Absorbed as they were, they never saw me peek into the room. Mom was attentively ironing an ivory satin gown, a bridal gown to fit a doll, while Grandma was working on a veil. A lovely doll with blonde, gently curled hair that framed her porcelain face lay nearby on the table. My young heart knew at once this was to be the âbride
The Christmas I was six in 1954, however, holds a different memory, for it was the year I learned the truth about Santa Claus. Before Grandma came, we had decorated the balsam fir Dad had placed in the corner of the living room, the large, colored bulbs of that era reflecting in the tinsel that dangled precariously on the branches. It was especially beautiful through young, squinting eyes that blurred the tree into a shimmering mass.
Mysterious boxes were appearing daily beneath the tree, and the countdown was on until the morning when all would be revealed. I had been asked what I wanted Santa to bring me that year, and a âbride dollâ was always my quick response. I had great confidence that despite not having a fireplace and chimney, St. Nick would find a way to enter our home with the desired gift.
My older brother and I shared a room across the hall from our parents in the small, two-bedroom house on the corner of Big Bend Boulevard and Exeter in Shrewsbury, Missouri. Across the shaded side street began the lovely community of Webster Groves. We moved into a large, three-story house in Webster before I entered the second grade, outgrowing our Big Bend house when my younger brother, Peter, outgrew his crib. Many dear childhood memories remain of that suburban home where my parents and their oldest son and new daughter came to live after leaving Wichita, Kansas, three months after I was born. Christmas 1954 is one of those memories.
December 24 finally arrived that year, and our father continued the tradition of taking his children to downtown St. Louis to see the beautiful and enchanting department-store windows decorated for the holidays. Before malls started crawling across the landscape of suburbia, shoppers made their way to nearby cities to find the home furnishings and clothes needed for casual and formal living. This became one of the highlights of every year, an anticipated joy that allowed Mother the peace and quiet to finish baking and preparing for Christmas.
I saw many Santas that day: on street corners ringing bells for charity, near the toy sections in each department store we visited, outside the car window as we drove past even more displays. I was puzzled by all the Santas and determined that night Iâd ask my older brother why there were so many. Since he knew everything anyway, he would undoubtedly have an answer.
Our beds on opposite walls, Kenny and I often talked at night before falling asleep, his extra six years of experience a helpful perspective on life. In the darkened room, lit only by the street lights outside our front-room window, I asked him about Santa Claus. He answered me with typical, twelve-year-old directness, âThereâs only one Santa that matters; the others are helpers dressed up to look like him. Our parents even help him.â
Well, that made some sense. He challenged me to sneak downstairs to see what everyone was doing, perhaps to prove his point. And so I did.
The stairs ended at a landing, with several more steps into either the kitchen or the living room. I quietly made my way until I stopped at the last step before reaching the divide where I knew Iâd be visible.
The kitchen light was on, a radio was softly playing Christmas carols, and my mother and grandmother were busy with a project that caught my attention. Absorbed as they were, they never saw me peek into the room. Mom was attentively ironing an ivory satin gown, a bridal gown to fit a doll, while Grandma was working on a veil. A lovely doll with blonde, gently curled hair that framed her porcelain face lay nearby on the table. My young heart knew at once this was to be the âbride
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