Santa Came Through the Kitchen Door

We grew up on a family farm back in Indiana. We never wanted for much, but our parents were tight and focused with the funds. Money was not something to be thrown around, and we learned pretty early that you didn't spend it frivolously.

We didn't make big deals out of most holidays, and we sure didn't go on shopping sprees. Daily life had its own schedule, and most of it involved farm chores, schoolwork, and whatever else needed to be done around the place.

Christmas Was Different

Christmas, though, was different at our house. Christmas was magical. My parents worked hard to build the anxieties, dreams, and expectations of what might be. They understood that Christmas could motivate a child better than almost anything else. Looking back, I can see now that they were not just buying presents; they were building memories. Our parents and Santa went all out. Family, food, and presents were always very plentiful.

The year was 1969, or somewhere close to it. The old farmhouse was a little drafty, especially when the winter wind was moving across the fields. Snow was falling outside, and it looked as if we were going to get our white Christmas, something we hoped for every year.

Inside, the fire was crackling in the fireplace, and we warmed ourselves close to it. The Christmas tree stood nearby with lights twinkling in the room, and, of course, our stockings were all hung in a row. It was the kind of Christmas Eve scene that can lodge itself in a child's memory and stay there.

My sister and I were filled with the normal energies and anxieties of grade schoolers at that time of year. We had been good, and we had worked hard not to be on Santa's naughty list. That was hard work because my parents used it as a motivator for us to keep busy with chores, homework, and keeping things tidy around the house.

Of course, there was also the pressure to be kind to each other, even to do good deeds to keep oneself off the list. Treating anyone in a disrespectful manner would surely get one placed near the very top of the naughty list. This was a lengthy and carefully thought-out process — that is, avoiding being placed on it. I was always operating under the threat of "making the list."

Christmas Eve had finally arrived, and my sister, Gracia Taylor, and I were busy wondering and imagining what we might get from Santa this year. Our bellies were being filled with nuts and hard candies. We were enjoying the moment.

Santa at the Kitchen Door

Then suddenly, who should appear?

Santa came right through our kitchen door with bells jingling, a big voice, and a hearty "Ho, Ho, Ho!" He was wearing the suit, carrying a large bag filled with stuff, and looking every bit like the real thing.

Our eyes were fixed in place. We gasped. We looked at each other as the realization settled over us: Santa was real, and he was standing in our kitchen, which was almost too much to take in.

He looked at us and asked, "What are you doing up?"

That was enough to shake us. He even knew our names.

Naturally, we had to test him. My sister and I began an exchange designed to ferret out any imposter. We quizzed him about the North Pole, the reindeer, and where he had parked his sleigh.

He told us, "It's parked down the road at Miller's house so the reindeer can rest for a moment."

We asked why he didn't come down the chimney.

He said, "That's difficult with a blazing fire. So I came through the door. It's just easier sometimes. Plus, there's no slipping off the roof."

We continued to interrogate him briefly. He had an answer for everything.

The Leftovers from Santa

He told us he was on a tight schedule and had to hurry along. Then came the blow.

He said he might not be able to leave us anything for Christmas.

We were stunned. Our mouths fell open, and our hearts sank. This was not like the Whos down in Whoville, who could somehow keep singing even after everything was taken away. We were not singing. We were panicked.

After all that effort, after all those chores, after trying so hard to stay off the naughty list, we were apparently cleared — and still might not be getting anything for Christmas.

Then Santa softened the blow just a little and gave us a bit of hope.

"Well," he said, "if there is anything left over after my route tonight, I'll try to drop it off on my way home. You must be asleep, though, for me to stop back."

Then he left.

He had placed great emphasis on the word if.

My sister and I ran up those old farm stairs, probably missing half of them on the way up. We must have knocked ourselves in the head somewhere along the way, because we were asleep almost as soon as our heads hit the pillows.

Christmas Morning

The next morning, we got up in traditional Christmas style at about 6 a.m., or maybe earlier. There was no sleeping in on Christmas morning. We came down the stairs to find that Santa had, in fact, stopped back by the farmhouse.

We were basking in the generosity of our parents and, of course, Santa Claus. There were presents to open, things to examine, and new treasures to spread across the floor. My sister and I were fully occupied with the bounty before us.

At some point that morning, my sister remarked about how much there was and how fun and exciting it all was. There was so much stuff!

My dad was close enough to hear every word. He may have even been close enough to reach out and touch us.

That is when I made one of the more astute and yet thoughtless observations of my young life.

"Yeah," I said, "and just imagine what we might have had if we didn't just get the leftovers from Santa!"

I am older now and have thankfully lived to this day. As a father of five and a grandfather, I am uncertain how my father kept from knocking my block off after that comment. I admire that he didn't even mutter a word to either of us.

Looking back, I suppose that was part of the magic too. My parents gave us more than presents that year. They gave us the feeling that, for one night anyway, the ordinary world could open up and let in something wonderful — along with wonder, suspense, a story we would never forget, and a pretty good lesson in just how powerful Christmas could be in the mind of a child.

Merry Christmas, everyone. Go enjoy the season, and may it be merry and bright.

Author's note: I grew up on a family farm in Indiana. The old two-story farmhouse where this story took place was built in 1865 by the White family. We lived in it, and we loved it. One of our great babysitters, Gracie White, was a descendant of the family who originally built the house. There are a lot of good memories from those years of living on the farm.

This story first appeared in The Box Order Magazine several years ago and has been refreshed for publication at paul-fowler.com.

Enjoy Paul's writing? Explore his books and the Jumanji Farmhouse on YouTube.