Christmas 1960

I lay in my bed, pretending to be asleep as my grandparents came into my bedroom late Christmas Eve. I had been wondering if there was a Santa for some months. Word around the school grounds had not been favorable. I wanted him to be real, so I hadn’t delved into this debate. I was ten and a half.

We’d been shopping Christmas Eve, and my grandmother had sent me to a far end of the store, out of her way, she’d said. Later, I saw my grandfather carrying some parcels to the car. Dover was a very small town, 500 people. We had a general store, a post office, and a dairy bar, and there was Cleary’s store, where you could buy quite an assortment of things.

My grandparents were not well, so the usual trip to the city wasn’t possible this year. My father had not sent anything. I heard my grandparents discussing what they would “do” about Christmas. I knew they referred to me.

As I lay in my bed, I heard my grandparents whispering; they were bickering about the effort and money involved and how this was not their job. I cringed with shame.

When I woke up, I saw three parcels waiting for me, wrapped in brown paper. I opened them. There was a white plastic toy handbag, two comic books, and a Christmas stocking. I was very sad because I’d wanted a set of watercolors.

My grandparents were having breakfast when I went into the kitchen. I tried to appear excited and grateful, telling them Santa had been and what he had brought.