My Most Memorable Christmas

I love Christmas, so it makes sense that one of my earliest childhood memories centers around this holiday season. Christmas Eve, 1977 holds a special place in my heart.

I was six years old, and the big item on my Christmas wish list was a bicycle. I dreamed of pedaling around the neighborhood on a wide handled, large wheeled, red-framed, black and white banana seat bike. I had graduated from the tiny bike with training wheels, to the big kids' cruiser. Just shortly after supper on Christmas Eve, my grandparents knocked on the door, wanting to load up my siblings and I and go look at Christmas lights.

For the next couple of hours, we drove through our town hunting down houses donned with twinkling lights and decorations. Christmas carols played softly on the radio as my siblings and I stared wide-eyed at beautiful Nativities on snow covered lawns and an occasional animatronic Santa on an icy rooftop. At one point, Gramps reminded us to keep our eyes on the night sky as we might catch a glimpse of Old St. Nick. I thought I saw Santa and his reindeer flash across the center of the full moon, but by the time my younger brother looked, he was gone. I wondered aloud if Santa had stopped at our house. Gramps and Gran shared a smiling glance and believed it was possible.

After our Christmas light tour, we pulled back up in front of my modest home, eyes heavy with sleep. My grandpa carried my little sister; my brother and I trudged up the steps into the house ready to climb under the homemade patchwork quilts on our bunk bed. But, after walking in the front door, the thought of sleep vanished. Santa had definitely visited our house while we were away. Stacks of gift wrapped gifts rested under our Christmas tree and tucked in behind was the bicycle of my dreams. I straddled the seat, grabbed on to the handlebars and imagined myself racing up and down our street. I remember only the tips of my toes reaching the floor as I pretended to ride a Harley Chopper. This was definitely a big boy bike.

After a few minutes with my legs dangling on either side of my pride and joy, I proudly announced I saw Santa flying over town, and wasn't surprised that he'd made a stop. My parents missed seeing him, but I'm certain that's because Santa slipped in to the house with some type of Christmas magic or an invisibility cloak. I loved that bike for years to come.

As I think back on that special Christmas Eve, several indelible memories remain. I loved spending time with my grandparents. We enjoyed the lights, the time scanning the skies for Santa Claus, and singing along to Christmas carols on the radio. I can still envision walking back into the house and seeing the bike. As a child, I grew up in a household where finances were tight. In my latter childhood and early teen years, I realized that gift forced "Santa" to make some significant sacrifices to make my little dream come true.

Over the years, the bike slowly rusted away. I slapped on a few layers of paint as it weathered the dings and dents of boyhood adventures. And though the bike no longer exists physically, the memory of that special Christmas Eve gift lives on almost 45 years later.

Merry Christmas!