As I've thought of the memories that picture invokes many times over, I'll pass along a little story here. I remember being really excited about possibly catching Santa Claus in the act of delivering his toys and sundries, having arranged a very elaborate scheme.

I had run a long length of kite string, you know the kind, cotton on a roll, around the living room and the den, paying particular attention to the doors going out from the rooms, as well as in front of the fireplace. Our fireplace didn't work as the flue was broken, and my folks had installed some gas logs there instead. But that didn't deter me one bit.

I told my mother and father about my scheme and of course, they were excited too. Even Jack, my brother, was aware of my plan and encouraged me in my actions. Anyway, having run this string all over the place, I had another length run into the bedroom Jack and I shared. The string ran across the floor, best I remember, and was attached to my finger so that when old Saint Nick tripped on the string in the other rooms, my finger would be pulled, waking me up, and I could skedaddle out and catch him! It was a glorious plan for a little four- or five-year-old boy.

Jack and I went to bed around 10 p.m., I suppose. As excited as I was, I still fell asleep rather quickly. These were the days before children sat in bed reading a lot, say along about 1951. I heard nothing other than the television or the radio going for a while; yeah, I guess it was the radio, as televisions were not common at that time.

In what seemed like no time at all, I was feeling something tugging on my finger. I got him! I thought. But you know what? As excited as I was about trapping the old codger, I feared going out there and confronting him. As much as I wanted to get up and run, something in my head told me to wait, just wait a little bit, let it get a little lighter, then go sneaking out the bedroom. So I waited for what seemed like an eternity, and eventually went back to sleep. I blew my carefully-laid-out plan all by myself. I wimped out on the possible confrontation.

In a little while, I guess, my mother came in and woke me up, asking if I had seen Santa Claus. I fibbed around, saying the string had fallen off my finger, so no, I missed him. But she told me there was a lot of stuff out in the den beneath the tree someone had left, and I'd better hop out there quick and claim it, lest the old man return and take it with him!

I never tried that game again, and as fate would have it, I soon learned the trickery involved to get children to settle down the night before Christmas. But I've never completely forgotten that magic moment of childhood, when the mind is very much a sponge-like thing, trusting in notions that can be believed throughout a lifetime.

I still believe in Santa Claus. Do you?

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Kent Fletcher, native Mississippian and retired military, now lives in Texas.
Contact Kent at this e-mail address.


Read more of Kent’s “meanderings”:

Speaking of Tunica
Hotrods and high school
Raisin’ Delta cain
Roguing beans and a ‘39 Plymouth
A Sea Story
Age of Convenience


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