Grandpas Christmas story

 He stopped at the foot of the hill as heavy snow fell. He put on his boots and began the long walk up to the old house, now a shadow of its former self. With every step came a memory—summer vacations, holidays —but Christmas stood out, when the house came alive with warmth, laughter, and a secret.

As the old house got closer, I pictured my Grama and Grandpa standing on the front porch, greeting the rest of my family and me as we jumped into their arms—a welcome only grandparents can give. Inside was what every child remembers: a beautifully decorated tree, the warmth of the fireplace, the crackle of the logs, and the smells of the holidays.

The table overflowed with cookies and homemade fudge, the same recipe handed down for years. At its centre stood a forbidden gingerbread house that Grama would keep a close eye on, and when it was time for us to leave, she would cut each of us a tinfoil-covered piece of the gingerbread house to take home. Funny thing, none of it ever made it home.

The house had many stories, and I remembered them clearly, sitting on Grandpa's knee as he told how Santa once got stuck in the chimney and needed his help before his suit caught fire. Did you help him, Grandpa? I asked. "See that broom?" he said, pointing. "That was the broom I used to poke Santa, sending him flying out of the chimney and on his way."

I made it to the house, half frozen but determined to accomplish what I had come for. It was empty except for a few old newspapers scattered about and an old plate I recognised as one of grandma's platters, the one she used to stack cookies on. I walked through the house, and I spotted it standing against a wall, the very same broom from Grandma's story.

Back home on Christmas Eve, I gathered my children for a story, but not from a book. It was a story they'd heard before, but this time with proof that Santa existed. I got the broom and told them to look very closely and tell me what they saw. The eldest said he saw burnt pieces of straw, probably from getting it too close to the fireplace, as grandma swept away the ashes. My middle child said he saw tiny pieces of red cloth that were probably pieces of a stocking that got pulled down by the cat and my youngest said she didnt need any proof that santa was real because she woke up that night to the sounds of grandpa huffing and puffin so she crept down the stairs just in time to see what she thought was grandpa poking Santa who with a echoing Ho Ho Ho santa flew up the chimney. Explain that away, she said, as for me, I'll always believe because it was grandpa who told her so.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO ALL WHO BELIEVE!

Mike 2025