The Christmas of 1967 goes down in history as the very best and very worst Christmas of my entire life. I was eight and in the third grade. It remains the year I received the Very Best Christmas Gift in the World. It was also the Christmas when my childhood dreams were shattered.

I grew up in a small community in the Midwest, a rural area about 30 miles from the closest town. We lived in a white clapboard house, surrounded by open fields and cherry orchards. My Dad commuted to work each day, and we would "go to town" every Saturday to do errands, buy groceries, and shop. One of the highlights of our weekly jaunt was going to the Montgomery Ward Catalog Showroom, where my parents would have boring, adult conversations with middle-aged salesmen. My Dad would discuss the best riding lawnmowers and the merits of Goodyear tires while my Mother dreamed of owning the very latest in Major Appliances. I was free to wander the aisles, my Mother's stern admonition "Look but don't touch" ringing in my ears.

I'll never forget the first moment I saw it. It was better than any gift coveted from the Big Sears Wish Book. No Cinderella outfits for me! Not even the Barbie Dream House could compare! No! As soon as I saw it, I was in love. Capitol L-O-V-E. My Bike. THE bike. The Bike of All Bikes! It beckoned me from across the showroom floor. Purple, a white wicker basket covered with daisies, purple and white streamers hanging from the handlebars, a white banana seat, and a tall sissy bar. Ah. It was perfect! I gingerly lowered myself onto the seat, tightened my fingers around the handlebars, and was immediately swept away into fantasies of Riding the Open Road. The bike whispered of adventure, of freedom, of speed. I was in love. I would conquer the world!

"What are you doing? Get off that bike right now! You'll scratch it up!"

My Mother's exclamation ripped me back into the reality of florescent lighting.

"But Mom! This is my bike! Look at it! Can I ask Santa to bring me this bike for Christmas?"

The salesman hurried over. "Ma'am, I think it's okay if she sits on the bike. She's being very careful. Why don't we go look at this new washing machine?"

And my Mother, reluctantly led to the Major Appliances, left me to my daydreams.

So began my weekly trysts with the gleaming purple bike. I lived for Saturday mornings, when we would drive into town on our shopping trips, when I could enter the magic world of the Montgomery Ward Catalog Showroom and "ride" my bike. Each week the bike would whisper of faraway places; each week my parents would bribe me away from my Dream.

Autumn turned to cold, wintry days. I carefully wrote my letter to Santa, describing, very specifically, the exact bike I wanted. I even told him where he could find it. It was the only thing on my Wish List.

One Saturday, the bike was gone. I ran into the store. Red bikes, blue bikes, sporty, black, banana bikes -- but no purple bike. I burst into tears. Crushed. Someone had stolen my bike! I ran to the counter and asked the salesman where my bike was. Someone had bought it. The salesman tried to soothe me; my parents tried to comfort me. Perhaps Santa would find me another bike. No one seemed to understand that I had told Santa to bring me the purple bike. My bike was gone. Forever.

A few days before Christmas, on a cold windy day, a group of us girls stood on the school playground and discussed what we wanted for Christmas. We huddled in a circle: my best friend Carol, our friend Pam, the two tiny, prissy girls in our class - Debbie G. and Marilyn Fugitt - who we called "the gruesome twosome," and me.

Explaining my quandary to them, asking if they thought Santa would be able to find another purple, banana bike for me, I was hurt when Marilyn suddenly sneered, "Don't you know anything? There is no Santa Claus! Santa Claus is your Mom and Dad!"

The girls were suddenly silent, exchanging glances, looking at me.

"There is too a Santa Claus! I know there is!" But there was a stammer in my voice as I said this, because suddenly, my heart felt like it was in my stomach. The look on my friend's faces told me that Marilyn might not be lying. I looked at Carol for support. Carol would never lie to me. "She's lying, isn't she, Carol?"

For a moment, Carol said nothing, then slowly replied, "I'm not sure. My sister told me Santa isn't real, but my Mom says he is."

Marilyn laughed. "I am too telling the truth! You just wait! I bet your parents bought you that bike! If you get it for Christmas, ask them if they bought it for you! Just ask your Mom! I can't believe you're such a baby, believing in Santa!"

Rage filled me. It wasn't enough that Marilyn was tiny, and blonde, and looked like a Christmas Angel, while I was tall and a redheaded Amazon-in-training. She was also mean! Just as I started making a fist, the recess bell rang. It was time to head back into class. I fought back tears, desperate to run home and have my Mother tell me that it was all a big lie.

Christmas Eve arrived. I dutifully helped my little brother prepare milk and cookies for Santa, but my heart wasn't in it. Every belief I had about Christmas was in doubt. The Santa Discussion with my Mother hadn't gone as planned. When I asked her for the truth, she said, "Some people believe in Santa Claus, and some people don't. What do you believe?"

I told her I wasn't sure, but somehow I knew that if that beautiful, purple bike was sitting in front of our Christmas tree come Christmas morning, all the awful things that Marilyn Fugitt had told me were true.

John and I went upstairs to bed, following our usual Christmas Eve routine -- too excited to sleep, loud whispers to each other across the hall, listening to every stray sound downstairs and finally waking to the glowing clock face, reading 3:30. I ran and got John, and we tiptoed down the stairs. Our red, net stockings hung from the banister, bulging with fruit and nuts, a bottle of Coke, and filled with tiny wrapped gifts. Santa had come! Turning the corner into the living room, our eyes fell upon the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree. Elaborately wrapped presents circled the tree, and standing sentry, a gleaming purple bike.

I think that was the very first time I realized that it was possible to feel happy and sad at the same time. I had been given my Heart's Desire, and yet, a childhood certainty had been snatched away from me. My brother was excited about Santa's visit, but as we opened gifts, more and more puzzle pieces fell into place. It was true. Marilyn was right.

By the time Christmas holiday ended, I had learned to wobble around on my bike. I'd also started to come to terms with the truth of Marilyn's revelations. But I never was a friend with her after that Christmas, and I was glad when, a few years later, she moved away.

My bike was everything I'd dreamt it would be. It brought me my first taste of freedom and adventure. Scraped knees and wipeouts led me to new horizons and independence. Thirty-two years later, that purple bike remains my very best Christmas gift ever.  

 

Maddie Petrie is an Editor for The Rose & Thorn Literary E-zine. To learn more about Maddie, check out her online bio.