Santa Closet
The following is a paper/I recently wrote for my fifth grade English class. Mrs. Hilburn gave me an A,/undoubtedly for my excellent use of the language.
Three long years ago,/when I was seven,/I had a lot on my mind. My family had moved into a new house/right before Christmas. A house with no chimney.
No chimney,/no Santa Claus.
I asked my parents concerning the problem.
“Don’t worry, Johnny,” they said,/“Santa will find a way/to deliver your presents.”
I was shocked by their attitude. This was a critical issue. I demanded an answer.
They laughed/and told me I was cute.
But I didn’t want to be cute. I wanted my presents.
I found myself/in a constant state of panic.
My five-year-old brother, Billy,/lived in his own little world. He was too young/to understand the situation.
I began to count down the days until Christmas. Ten more days. Nine more days. Three more days. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve! It was going to be the worst Christmas ever. And there was nothing I could do about it.
On Christmas Eve/our house was filled with happiness. My dad read “The Night Before Christmas.” Mom led us in singing Christmas carols.
I played along/—just to make my parents happy. Billy laughed and sang his heart out/—he didn’t understand/there would be no Santa that year.
When it was time for bed,/my parents gave their usual Christmas Eve speech:/“You boys try to fall asleep fast,/because Santa won’t come until you’re asleep.”
How could they be so naive? Did they really think/Santa could somehow get into a house without a chimney? What was he supposed to do/—come in through the plumbing? Pop his head out of the toilet,/and exclaim,/“Merry Christmas”?
So, for once in my life,/I had very little trouble/going to sleep on Christmas Eve. I had to tell Billy to shut up/a couple of times. But after that,/we were both out cold.
There would be no gifts in the morning/—except the shirts my mom bought for me at the mall. She had wrapped them up beautifully. And I would try to look thrilled/when I opened the packages. But shirts are not in the same league as bicycles.
At 2:13 a.m.,/Billy punched me in the back/and whispered, “Listen.”
“I don’t hear anything,” I said. “Go back to sleep and leave me alone.” Then I felt Billy get out of the bed.
“Come back here and get in bed,” I said. It was my responsibility/to keep the little guy in our room. My parents did not appreciate night visitors to their bedroom. So, you’d better have a very good reason/for waking them up.
He ignored me,/turning the doorknob very slowly. He opened the door just a crack/and peeked out. Then he began to wave wildly for me/to join him. I jumped out of bed/and rushed over. I stuck my head out the door/and my heart began to race.
There he was. All dressed up in red and white,/just as you’d expect. He had a long, white beard/and wore a red cap. I never dreamed/I would ever see him in person.
He was standing in the closet/at the end of the hallway,/loading his arms with bright-colored packages. Then I saw the bicycle. The one I had asked Santa to bring me.
My parents were right! Santa had found a way.
I decided/there must be a hidden door/at the back of the closet! A door that only Santa could open. That’s how he got into the house.
I felt a chill run down my spine. Billy and I had already seen too much. I closed the door,/and we held our breath/as we slipped back into bed. I prayed we hadn’t ruined everything. I pictured our Christmas hopes/plummeting into some black hole/reserved for the lost dreams of naughty children.
But my fears were for naught. Christmas morning turned out to be the best ever. I realized/my parents were wiser than I had imagined.
Billy and I loved our presents/—especially the ones from Santa. But it wasn’t just about the gifts. It was about the magic.
And now I know the truth. You don’t need a chimney. Santa will find a way.
As you might imagine,/I’ve searched for that hidden door/at the back of the closet. But I’ve never found it. I figure/it’s just part of the magic of Christmas. That closet is like any other closet/—until Christmas,/when it becomes .../
The Santa Closet.
The following is a paper/I recently wrote for my fifth grade English class. Mrs. Hilburn gave me an A,/undoubtedly for my excellent use of the language.
Three long years ago,/when I was seven,/I had a lot on my mind. My family had moved into a new house/right before Christmas. A house with no chimney.
No chimney,/no Santa Claus.
I asked my parents concerning the problem.
“Don’t worry, Johnny,” they said,/“Santa will find a way/to deliver your presents.”
I was shocked by their attitude. This was a critical issue. I demanded an answer.
They laughed/and told me I was cute.
But I didn’t want to be cute. I wanted my presents.
I found myself/in a constant state of panic.
My five-year-old brother, Billy,/lived in his own little world. He was too young/to understand the situation.
I began to count down the days until Christmas. Ten more days. Nine more days. Three more days. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve! It was going to be the worst Christmas ever. And there was nothing I could do about it.
On Christmas Eve/our house was filled with happiness. My dad read “The Night Before Christmas.” Mom led us in singing Christmas carols.
I played along/—just to make my parents happy. Billy laughed and sang his heart out/—he didn’t understand/there would be no Santa that year.
When it was time for bed,/my parents gave their usual Christmas Eve speech:/“You boys try to fall asleep fast,/because Santa won’t come until you’re asleep.”
How could they be so naive? Did they really think/Santa could somehow get into a house without a chimney? What was he supposed to do/—come in through the plumbing? Pop his head out of the toilet,/and exclaim,/“Merry Christmas”?
So, for once in my life,/I had very little trouble/going to sleep on Christmas Eve. I had to tell Billy to shut up/a couple of times. But after that,/we were both out cold.
There would be no gifts in the morning/—except the shirts my mom bought for me at the mall. She had wrapped them up beautifully. And I would try to look thrilled/when I opened the packages. But shirts are not in the same league as bicycles.
At 2:13 a.m.,/Billy punched me in the back/and whispered, “Listen.”
“I don’t hear anything,” I said. “Go back to sleep and leave me alone.” Then I felt Billy get out of the bed.
“Come back here and get in bed,” I said. It was my responsibility/to keep the little guy in our room. My parents did not appreciate night visitors to their bedroom. So, you’d better have a very good reason/for waking them up.
He ignored me,/turning the doorknob very slowly. He opened the door just a crack/and peeked out. Then he began to wave wildly for me/to join him. I jumped out of bed/and rushed over. I stuck my head out the door/and my heart began to race.
There he was. All dressed up in red and white,/just as you’d expect. He had a long, white beard/and wore a red cap. I never dreamed/I would ever see him in person.
He was standing in the closet/at the end of the hallway,/loading his arms with bright-colored packages. Then I saw the bicycle. The one I had asked Santa to bring me.
My parents were right! Santa had found a way.
I decided/there must be a hidden door/at the back of the closet! A door that only Santa could open. That’s how he got into the house.
I felt a chill run down my spine. Billy and I had already seen too much. I closed the door,/and we held our breath/as we slipped back into bed. I prayed we hadn’t ruined everything. I pictured our Christmas hopes/plummeting into some black hole/reserved for the lost dreams of naughty children.
But my fears were for naught. Christmas morning turned out to be the best ever. I realized/my parents were wiser than I had imagined.
Billy and I loved our presents/—especially the ones from Santa. But it wasn’t just about the gifts. It was about the magic.
And now I know the truth. You don’t need a chimney. Santa will find a way.
As you might imagine,/I’ve searched for that hidden door/at the back of the closet. But I’ve never found it. I figure/it’s just part of the magic of Christmas. That closet is like any other closet/—until Christmas,/when it becomes .../
The Santa Closet.