Carol Knarr - Storyteller and Drama Specialist

 

“You believe in Santa?” asked a unison voice of hyper-vigilant 10-year-olds who wanted nothing more than to squelch the inner child in me. Every student had an argument as to why Santa could not exist and each was more convincing than the last, but I held to my beliefs that on Christmas Eve the miracle of Santa occurred. I was committed to prove them wrong.

 

I needed a plan. My family stayed up late playing games in the basement whereas I was sent to bed unsupervised. That was a perfect time to stake out my hiding place behind the recliner.

 

I waited patiently as the cuckoo clock struck four o’clock. There were movements and the sound of a struggle and footsteps. I had Santa! I waited as the door began to creak open; my neck craned to see the jolly ol’ soul.  But all I saw was my father carrying two large suitcases as he shouted, “Carol Jean, what are you doing awake? Get upstairs this instant!”

 

Mom was upstairs in the hall laughing as if something was really funny, but I was not amused. I was experiencing a moment of conflict. Either my father was Santa which wasn’t possible since my dad was really skinny or Dad was Santa’s helper. Now, that was possible since Dad was not an extremely tall man. 

 

When I returned to school to face the heckles of my ruthless classmates, I did not have proof Santa existed. Although extremely difficult, I did manage to keep the secret that my dad was a really tall elf.