Back when I was just a baby, my folks started a Christmas tradition that might sound familiar to many of you out there. On Christmas Eve, they'd leave a plate of cookies by the fireplace for Santa, and a small pile of hay for his reindeer. "Santa's going to be hungry after such a long journey," Mom used to say to my older brother. Of course, at that time I was too young to remember her doing this. But my brother told me later on that, when he'd wake up on Christmas morning, there'd be nothing left on that plate but crumbs. So that was sure-fire proof that Santa had indeed visited our home that night.
When I got to be around five years old, my family moved into a new home just south of Nashville, Tennessee. Well, it wasn't really "new" - it was an historic Victorian house that had fallen into disrepair. I remember it being kind of spooky looking, with bordered up widows, creaky floors, yellowing wallpaper peeling off the walls and a strong musty smell - as if they hadn't let fresh air in the place in years. It was what you would generously call a "fixer upper" - and it was the perfect project for my industrious Father.
What my Dad liked best about the place was its large, rolling front yard. Now, you know how in every neighborhood there seems to be one family that goes hog wild with Christmas lights during the holidays? Well, that was my family. My Dad strung hundreds of twinkling lights around the yard, brought in a huge plastic snowmen, elves, candy canes and a manger scene. He even rigged a giant, lifelike Santa's sleigh on our roof, flashing brightly for the whole world to see. And every December night, a long line of cars would drive by our home, some folks coming from miles away just to see our display.
Now for some neighbours, such a holiday tourist attraction would quickly become a nuisance. But our neighbours seemed quite happy about our festive spirit. They told us that a strange old woman who lived in the house before us never seemed to celebrate Christmas, or any other holiday. She had lived in the house for years - long before our neighborhood was built around her. She was rarely seen, and her house stood dark and silent, with its curtains tightly drawn. The neighbourhood kids believed she was a witch, and they whispered ghastly tales about her at Halloween. And when she suddenly passed away, the house remained a gloomy and empty ghost on the street
So our festive Christmas tradition was a welcome sight to our neighbours. But about a year after we moved into the house, I began to notice that one of our traditions had become conspicuously absent. My parents weren't leaving the plate of refreshments out for Santa and his reindeer. And when I asked why not, my Mom quickly told me that since we had moved, we were now one of the first homes on Santa's route. So now he wasn't hungry when he came to our home. In fact, if we let him fill himself up with cookies, he'd be too full to bring toys to other children around the world.
Well, let me tell you, that excuse didn't fly with me. So the next Christmas, I asked Mom the same question - and she gave me the same answer. But by then I had begun to notice that I wasn't getting a lot of the gifts I really wanted. He never brought me the horse, or the rocket ship, or the baby sister I had specifically asked for. Was Santa getting mad because we weren't leaving him cookies anymore?
One night I eavesdropped on a whispered conversation in my parents' bedroom. I had gotten really upset at Mom that day for refusing to leave cookies out, and now I could hear her talking to my Dad about it. They talked about how when we first moved into the old house, someone or something had eaten the cookies we had left by the fireplace.
