A Yuletide Memory by Maniac Mike

When I was a very littl kid, maybe four or five, I didn't have a lot of toys and stuff but one thing I did have that was my favorite thing of all was one of those crazy sock monkeys. I named him Mitch and carried him everywhere with me. I had no pets and no brothers or sisters, so Mitch was my constant companion. I think I'd gotten Mitch when I was between one and two years old. After a couple of years of constantly lugging Mitch around, he was starting to show signs of wear. Actually, he looked pretty rough. He had holes all over him, was frayed and his nylon stocking stuffing was coming out and yet, I still loved him and carried him everywhere. At night, I would sleeo with him in my arms.

One Christmas, it must have been around 1962 when I was four, my mom and dad told me on Christmas Eve, to leave Mitch by the fireplace under my stocking and Santa Claus would come and fix Mitch up like new. I did not want to leave Mitch all by himself all night but it was with a child's trust that I did it and went to bed without mitch for the first time i could remember.

In the motning, on Christmas Day, I sprang out of the bed and charged into the living room and lo and behold, there was Mitch right whereIi had left him but he was good as new! No holes with stuffing coming out, no frays-it was like he was brand new! As I joyously took him in my arms, it was with a child's sense of wonderand amazement that I knew it was a Christmas Miracle. Santa had come down the chimney and healed Mitch and I believed this for a long time. Even when I was five and moved into a new neighborhood and older kids would tell me there was no Santa, and even though I had put Mitch away in a closet by then because I had outgrown him. In the back of my mind, I still remembered that miracle.

Then one day, I was looking in my mom's cedar chest for something and I found the old, beat up Mitch with all the holes. Then I had realized there had been no miracle, that my parent's had simply swapped old Mitch for a new one that my grandmother had made for me. I did not really feel betrayed, though, I just felt that I had solved a mystery and I never did say anything to mom and dad about it. Those days were more innocent times and it was not unusual for a ten year old kid to still believe in Santa Claus. I was not one of those kids who would try to dispel other kids' beliefs. I figured what was the harm in believing, in keeping that little bit of innocence if you could. After all, no wars were fought and no one ever died becasue they believed in Santa Claus.

I will always look back at that Yule of 1962 as a time when I was still innocent and I wholeheartedly accepted the idea that a supernatural being could come into my house and heal my stuffed toy, and it is a good memory--one of the few good memories that I have from childhood.