The Christmas when I was 10 was the year my sister, Nan, and I heard Santa arrive at our house on his appointed rounds delivering gifts and devouring cookies and milk.
In those days our family lived in a World War I era two-flat. It was the kind of neighborhood landmark that housed the corner store downstairs with the local dentist above. The old couple who owned the store lived below us — behind the shop. Our flat was in the less desirable location upstairs behind the dentist, but that gave us the advantage of a roomy two-story apartment.
Those were the days when flats were as big as some houses. We had an eat-in kitchen plus a living room, dining room and a huge screened porch where we rode our tricycles.
As kids we didn't know any of that. We only knew our bedroom was under the eaves at the very pinnacle of the house. At one end of the room was the door that led directly into the mystery of the attic. At the other end was a double window that looked over all the rooftops of our neighborhood. An ordinary 10-year-old might have been at the age to question the existence of Santa Claus. Not me. My father was born on Christmas Eve and my second sister had arrived only a few years before on Christmas Day itself. Christmas was our family's special holiday.
So Nan and I never doubted for a minute when we heard the unmistakable jingle of bells followed by a commotion on the roof above our heads. I turned to my sister in her bed — her eyes as big as saucers — and we knowingly smiled at each other. Then we snuggled deeper under the covers, aware that Santa would be flying down the chimney on the other side of the attic door at any moment.
It was the night before Christmas and we knew our duty. Not a creature was supposed to be stirring so we immediately fell asleep. When we awoke in the morning, there were our presents under the tree.
And ever since that night — no matter where I've lived — I've always been aware of the distant jingle of bells on Dec. 24.
This photo was taken when I was almost six (and found a nurse's uniform under the tree) and my sister, Nancy (in her cowboy boots) was four. It was the year our sister Meg was born — on Christmas Day itself.
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