It was December, 1960 and I was five years old. I don’t know if my mother let us come into the store that day because it was cold out or because she knew something we didn’t, but into the store we tromped in our hand-me-down winter coats and boots. Mom started shopping and as we came around the end of the aisle, there was Santa Claus! Wow, Santa Claus himself, right there in our grocery store!
He bent down and put his arms around me and asked, “What do you want for Christmas this year, little girl?” Times were lean then, and we usually received one and only one gift from Santa on Christmas Day. So I needed to ask for the one thing I wanted most. “I want guns,” I said, “you know, two pistols in holsters, like Little Joe wears.” Santa looked dismayed. “You’re a little girl,” he said, “you want a doll, don’t you?” “No,” I insisted. “I want guns.” Then he repeated, laughing as he said it, “No, you want a doll.” Clearly, he didn’t understand, and I walked away very disappointed in the man in the red suit who didn’t seem to know that he was supposed to bring me what I asked for, not what he thought I should want.
When Christmas morning dawned, I rushed to the Christmas tree to survey what was lying beneath it. There were five gifts and Santa apparently couldn’t afford wrapping paper because each gift simply had a name taped to the box. And sure enough, there it was -- the stupid doll that Santa thought I should have. As I scanned the other gifts, I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was a box with a cellophane top, and in the box were two shiny silver pistols with “ivory” grips in a double leather holster.
Now, there was cruelty at its finest. Not only did Santa stick me with a useless doll, but he had the nerve to bring my brother David the very thing I had asked him for. Just as I was sinking into the depths of despair, I realized that MY name was on the box of pistols and the doll was for my little sister. That’s all it took to restore my faith in the man in the red suit.
