This is a true story. It happened a couple of decades ago when I was about 13 years old and my brother about 10, both well past the age of believing in Santa Claus. Or so I thought.

It was Christmas Eve. The clouds had been gathering for a week over our small Connecticut town and on the morning of Christmas Eve, the snow began to fall. It came slowly at first, with lazy flakes floating gently from the sky. But soon the weather turned cold, the wind gusted in thick swirls and the snow began falling in earnest, leaving the roads covered in deep white drifts.

As usual, my parents, my little brother and I had been invited to the house of family friends for a Christmas Eve party. Although the weather was daunting for cars, our friends lived only a few blocks away. A Christmasy stomp through the snow seemed festive and cheery, so we bundled up in our warmest winter coats, boots, hats, scarves and mittens, and plunged into the white world.

We sang Christmas carols as we trudged through the snow and arrived at our destination pink-cheeked and excited. We unwound ourselves from our outerwear and warmed ourselves by the elegant fireplace with hot cocoa quickly provided by our thoughtful host. After a jovial evening with friends, it was time for us to go to bed. My parents were still enjoying the party, so my dad agreed to walk us children home and then return to pick up my mom. We once again donned our parkas and mittens, said goodbye and Merry Christmas and stepped into the deepening snow. Outside the world was silent. We trudged home in tired silence. The snow was still falling.

All of a sudden, a flash of red caught my eye. I stopped dead and peered through the snow down the street we were crossing. Striding down the middle of the street was a large man dressed in red and white fur with big black boots and a large, bulging sack flung over one shoulder. I called to my brother �Look!� My dad and brother followed my pointing finger. Santa Claus! We knew that he must have been a costumed heading to some other party who, like us, had trouble driving through the snow. But still, seeing Santa Claus on a snowy Christmas Eve seemed fortuitous. We stopped to watch until he disappeared into the swirling snow. As we continued on our way home, I stopped to glance at the street sign so that I might remember the Santa sighting. The road we were crossing was St. Nicholas Lane. My brother and I gasped softly. Some part of us was shaken with the possibilities, however remote, of a little bit of magic.

The next morning we came down to find, as usual, that the cookies and milk we�d left out for Santa and the carrots for his reindeer were gone, leaving only a few telltale crumbs and a thank you note in handwriting that looked suspiciously like my mother�s. But for a moment we looked at each other and remember the magical night before, forgot about reason, and enjoyed the peculiar pleasure of ignorance granted to children at Christmas for just one more year.
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I heard AJ shout as he woke up this morning, �It�s Christmas Eve! It�s Christmas Eve! His feet hit the floor with extra energy this morning, for he knows what lies ahead. He is convinced that Santa will come through with his request for a toy car (never mind that he probably has 50 or so already, several of which are sailing past my feet at the moment).

For those who are celebrating the holiday, a Merry Christmas. May you find a little holiday magic of your own. For those who are not, may you have a warm and cozy weekend.

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