The significance of wonder . . .
The Lowe Down
“Well, if it isn’t the Fleming girls,” Santa’s deep voice boomed to my sister, Robin and I. The year was about 1967 and two little girls stood amazed before this man clad in red and white in a shopping mall. It was like standing before the powerful and all-knowing Oz. He continued, “I happen to know that after you two go to bed each night you giggle and tell each other stories until your parents have to come to your bedroom door and tell you to go to sleep.” We nodded in silence. What else could we do? It was Santa. And he had just disclosed our nightly routine that only we knew. There we were standing before him and he knew our names! The stories about him delivering presents one night a year to every household to good girls and boys made him mysterious to us. We were believers.
Like many children in our era, we poured through the Sears Christmas Wish Book every year, taking notes and wishing until the pages were dogeared. We wrote Santa letters based on our lists and spent more than one Christmas Eve hoping to stay awake to catch him visiting our house. He was a sly one; we never could.
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