There are times in one’s life when big changes occur: some are fast, some are slow, and others simply fade away parts of our childhood we held dear, only to reveal reality. Such an event happened to me on Christmas morning the year I turned ten years old. The event changed everything, but then again, it changed nothing. After you finish unwrapping your presents, just keep reading. I’ll wait right here until you get back. Soon you’ll understand why this was the last Santa trap my three brothers, The Sister, and me ever set.
I watched in stunned silence as the real Santa moved between the stove, refrigerator, and cabinets continuing to cook our breakfast. Slowly, some layers of my childhood started to peel away. Grasping in vain, they slipped through my fingers, fell to the kitchen floor and soon disappeared. Sadly, they were being replaced by something else. Something that I knew had recently arrived in my life, but I didn’t really want to admit.
Reality. I was growing up.
If I’m being truthful, turning ten marked the edge of my believing or not believing in Santa. There was only one real way of knowing for sure…a picture. Luckily for us, we’d gotten a camera for our birthday. On Christmas Eve that year, Twin Brother Mark and I were still awake in our bedroom as the grandfather clock down the hallway chimed the midnight hour. When the chiming ended, surprisingly the sound of sleigh bells coming from outside started.
We exchanged hopeful looks and, with camera in hand, slipped out of bed, slid open the sliding glass door, and stepped out onto the deck. The cold air wrapped its icy hand around us as we tilted our heads towards the roof. We listened to the snow falling and then once again heard sleigh bells, and something else. A hearty “Ho, Ho, Ho” along with the unmistakable sound of reindeer pawing on our roof!
As I scampered to the far end of the deck, my bare feet left deep footprints in the newly fallen snow. Immediately, I regretted my shoeless decision but knew if we were to get a picture of Santa, every second counted. Another “Ho, Ho, Ho” and more reindeer pawing came from not the garage roof right in front of us, but the main roof above our heads. A death-defying decision had to be made. Someone had to climb over the porch railing, somehow scale up the snow-covered garage roof, peek over the edge of the main roof, and then snap a picture of Santa and his reindeer!
The Santa picture.
Quickly we decided that the best climber should take the picture – that was me. Mark kneeled in the snow. I climbed on top of him, over the railing, and started up the gradual slope of the garage. Once at the peak, I was able to stand and hold the camera over my head barely reaching the edge of the main roof. I couldn’t see what I was taking a picture of but hoped Santa and his sleigh would be in the frame. When I pressed the shutter button, two things happened.
First – the click of the flash instantly flooded the night sky with a bright light that bounced off the falling snow. Second – Santa screamed! The next sound I heard was him, along with sleigh bells, tumbling off the roof and landing somewhere in our backyard. Also losing my footing, I slid down the garage roof, and, if it hadn’t been for Twin Brother Mark reaching out to stop me at the last moment, I would’ve plunged off the roof and landed in the front yard.
Wet and freezing.
Mark helped me back inside. We changed from our snow-covered PJ’s, got extra blankets from the closet, then climbed into bed to try going back to sleep. It wasn’t the thought that we might have put an end to Santa’s gift-giving run that kept us awake that night. It was the sound of an ambulance siren coming up Flamingo and down our driveway.
Mark and I knew what we had done – we’d ended Christmas forever. We finally gained enough courage to peer around our bedroom curtains. Any other time we would’ve been excited by the red and white emergency lights bouncing off the snow giving life to the snow-covered forms in the shadows. But not this time. Someone was being loaded into the back of the ambulance.
Santa was going to the hospital.
Other than the sound of the grandfather clock at the end of the hallway chiming the two o’clock hour, I don’t really remember much more about that dreadful night. The next morning Mark and I awoke and ran downstairs to find my brothers and The Sister already separating presents into piles.
I was the one who found the note.
Unlike all the rest of the notes we’d received through the years, this one was different. Written by a shaky hand was a message that sent a cold chill down my spine: It’s not nice to take a picture of Santa. And that’s when I heard the hearty “Ho, Ho, Ho.” But this time the sound wasn’t coming from our roof.
Santa was in our kitchen!
For the next half an hour, as smells of bacon frying, pancakes and hot maple syrup filled the air, I did what I had always wanted to do: I talked to Santa. We laughed as he described the last five years of traps we had set and how he’d waited until we were asleep to avoid them all. The tone in his voice took on a loving note as he cracked open the oven door to check on the biscuits.
“Santa will always be with you as long as you never stop believing. He’s more than just a jolly person with a white beard, a red coat, and a big bag of toys. The true meaning of Santa is a belief in giving and being a good person all year long.”
After checking on the grits, he tossed me a couple of potholders and continued, “Biscuits are ready to come out. Howsabout giving me a hand? Ankle really hurts.” He called the rest of the family to join us for our annual Christmas morning breakfast. I watched him struggle, using his new crutches to hobble over to the table.
That was the last time we’d ever set a Santa trap, but not the last time I’ve told folks that I still believe. And if your little ones really want to set traps for Santa, let them. It was one of my best memories from childhood, but if they hear stomping on the roof on Christmas Eve, tell them not to take any pictures. Santa falling off our roof and breaking his ankle wasn’t one of my best childhood memories.
And what of the now infamous Santa picture I snapped? Dad kept the picture and had it framed. And to this day, it has been the best picture I’ve ever taken.
Of my thumb.
