I remember my first real Christmas adventure with Grandpa, the kind that settles deep into your bones and stays there for a lifetime. I must’ve been about eight when my older brother delivered the sort of news older brothers specialize in: “There’s no Santa Claus,” he announced, arms crossed like a judge handing down a sentence. “Seriously. Even little kids should know that.”
I rode my old bike straight across the 509 in Snow Road, tires spraying slush from the early December melt, and tore up the driveway to Grandpa’s cabin by Millers Lake. Grandpa was a lot of things, tough as ironwood and quiet as Stump Lake at dawn, but he never lied. Not once. If anyone could settle the Santa business, it was him. He was in the kitchen when I arrived, standing over a frying pan, poking at something that smelled suspiciously like the beginnings of one of his “world-famous sticky buns.” He called them world-famous because he claimed a fishing guide from Ompah once ate one and said it changed his life. If Grandpa said it, I believed it.
He slid a plate toward me without turning around. “You look troubled, kiddo. Eat.” Between sticky bites and sniffles, I told him what my brother had said. Grandpa didn’t even blink. “No Santa Claus?” he barked, slapping the spatula onto the counter. “Well, that’s the biggest load of moose droppings I’ve heard in years. And I’ve heard plenty.” He retrieved his coat and his worn felt hat, the one with the brim chewed by the dog, and handed me my own. “Let’s go,” he said. I followed him out the door, still chewing. “Go where, Grandpa?” “You’ll see.”
We drove the short stretch to Mary’s General Store, the hub of Snow Road, a place where you could buy bread and bait, sit for a coffee, and hear the local gossip in the same five minutes. The bell on the door jingled as we stepped inside, and the air smelled like pine cleaner and fresh coffee. Grandpa reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a crisp ten-dollar bill, and handed it to me. Ten bucks in Snow Road in the late ’70s was real money, the kind of money that helped a child stand a little straighter. “Take this,” he said. “Find something for someone who needs it. I’ll be in the truck.” And just like that, he walked back out.
I stood there, clutching the bill so tight it got warm in my hands. I’d shopped with Mom a hundred times, but never alone, never with purpose. The aisles seemed enormous: boots, mitts, canned beans, toys, tools. People bustled around finishing Christmas errands. I felt small and big at the same time. Then I thought of Jamie McIntyre. Jamie sat behind me in Miss Adair’s grade-two class at Clarendon School, unruly blond hair like the wind had fought with it, and he didn’t talk much. Once the snow fell, he never came out at recess. His mom always sent notes about coughs and colds, but we all knew. Jamie didn’t have a proper winter coat.
A North Frontenac winter doesn’t forgive that. I searched until I found it: a thick navy-blue coat with a sturdy zipper and a hood lined with something soft. It wasn’t fancy, but it looked warm. The cashier, Mrs. Gemmill herself, rang it up with a smile. “Is this for someone special?” she asked. “Yes,” I said. “It’s for Jamie. He… he doesn’t have a coat.” Her eyes softened. She tucked it into a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas. I didn’t get any change back, but somehow that felt right.
That night, Grandpa and I wrapped the coat by the woodstove. A little tag slipped out, $19.95, and without a word Grandpa tucked it into his old leather Bible. “Tradition,” he said. Santa liked records. Then we drove to the edge of Ardoch Road, parking far enough from the McIntyre place that the headlights wouldn’t give us away. The snow crunched loudly under our boots as we crept through the ditch and behind the cedar hedge that bordered their walkway.
Grandpa gave me a nudge. “All right, Santa,” he whispered, “you’re up.” My heart hammered like a woodpecker on a hydro pole. I dashed up the walkway, dropped the package on the stoop, banged the door with three swift knocks, and sprinted back to Grandpa, practically diving into the snow beside him. We crouched there, breath steaming in the cold night air. Moments later, the door opened. Jamie stepped out, thin arms wrapped around himself against the cold. He spotted the package, looked left and right into the darkness, then carried it inside. Grandpa and I stayed there a little longer, just listening to the muffled sounds from that house: the rustle of wrapping paper, a boy’s surprised gasp, and a mother’s soft, grateful voice.
It’s been fifty years since that night in Snow Road, hiding with my grandpa behind those frost-covered pines. I’ve lived a full life since then, jobs, moves, my family, but I still have Grandpa’s Bible with that price tag tucked between the pages. And I still know, just as surely as I knew that night: all the stories about Santa not being real are absolute nonsense. Santa is alive and well in North Frontenac. He always has been. Some of us just get lucky enough to be recruited to the team early.
