Got this in an email. Don't know who wrote it.

Adventure With Grandma


I remember my  first Christmas adventure with
Grandma. I was just a kid.
I remember tearing  across town on my bike
to visit her on the day my big sister dropped 
the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered.
"Even dummies know  that!"

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had
been. I fled to her  that day because I knew she
would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always
told the truth, and I knew that the truth always
went down a whole lot easier when swallowed
with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns. I
knew they  were world-famous, because
Grandma said so. It had to be  true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still
warm. Between bites, I  told her everything.
She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus!" she 
snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it.
That rumor has been going around for years,
and it makes me mad, plain mad.
Now, put on your coat, and  let's go."

"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked.
I hadn't even finished my  second
world-famous, cinnamon bun.
"Where" turned out to be Kerby's  General
Store, the one store in town that had a little
bit of just  about everything. As we walked
through its doors, Grandma handed me ten
dollars. That was a bundle in those days.
"Take this money," she said, "and buy something
for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the 
car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.

I was only eight years  old. I'd often gone
shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped 
for anything all by myself. The store seemed big
and crowded, full of  people scrambling to
finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments 
I just stood there, confused, clutching
that ten- dollar bill,  wondering what to buy,
and who on earth to buy it for.

I thought  of everybody I knew: my family,
my friends, my neighbors, the kids at  school,
the people who went to my church. I was just
about thought out,  when I suddenly thought
of Bobby Decker. He  was a kid
with bad breath and messy hair,
and he sat right behind me in  Mrs.
Pollock's  grade-two class. Bobby Decker
didn't have  a coat. I knew that because he
never went out for recess during the
winter. His mother always wrote a note,
telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all
we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have
a cough,  and he didn't have a coat.
I fingered the ten-dollar bill with 
growing excitement. I would
buy Bobby Decker a coat!

I  settled on a red corduroy one
that had a hood to it. It looked  real
warm, and he would like that.
"Is this a Christmas present for
someone?" the lady behind the counter
asked kindly, as I laid my ten
dollars down. "Yes," I replied shyly.
"It's .... for Bobby." The nice lady  smiled
at me. I didn't get any change, but she
put the coat in a bag and wished me
a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me
wrap the  coat in Christmas paper and
ribbons (a little tag fell out of the coat, 
and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) and wrote,
"To Bobby, From Santa  Claus" on it -- Grandma
said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. 
Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's 
house, explaining as we went that I was
now and forever officially one  of Santa's helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from
Bobby's house, and she and  I crept
noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his
front walk. Then Grandma  gave
me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus,"
she whispered, "get  going."

I took a deep breath, dashed for
his front door, threw the  present
down on his step, pounded his doorbell
and flew back to the  safety of the
bushes and Grandma. Together we waited
breathlessly in the  darkness for
the front door to open. Finally it did,
and there stood  Bobby.

Fifty years  haven't dimmed the thrill
of those moments spent shivering,
beside my  Grandma, in Bobby Decker's
bushes. That night,  I realized that those
awful rumors about Santa Claus were
just what  Grandma said they were:  ridiculous.
Santa was alive and well, and we 
were on his team.

I still have the Bible,
with the tag tucked inside:  $19.95.