Christmas 1950. Underneath the tree there was an electric train for me from Santa. I was just a couple of months shy of four years old. The train was all set up on its railroad tracks, in a circle. Engine, Coal car, flat car, tanker car, freight car, and caboose.
Yes, I still have that train, and just enough pieces of track that I can set the entire length of the train up on a book shelf.
That was my very first memory of Christmas. Later in the morning, Dad helped me to take the tracks apart and separate the cars from each other. Then he went to the hall closet and, reaching up to the shelf near the top, he brought down the BOX that it came in!
“How did you know the box was up there?” I asked.
“I figured it was the best place for it and Santa would know that,” was my Father’s response.
I WANTED to accept that, but it didn't sound right. Santa going into our closets. Something was wrong about this Santa story. When I was about to question my Father further, I suddenly decided to keep my mouth shut. What four-year-old wants to take a chance that Santa wouldn't stop by any more?