1945 was not a good Christmas for me.
Pat Pitchfork, a precocious seven year from across the street, informed me that there was no Santa. I stoutly responded that there must be a Santa because when he came to our house he always ate the cookie and drank the milk that we left out for him.
Pat scornfully informed me that it was my dad that was playing a trick on me. It was HE who ate the cookie and drank the milk not Santa.
Later that day my older sister, Anne, confirmed the dread story that Father Christmas was a hoax.
I guess at the tender age of five I was learning how to distinguish between the believable and the verifiable.
So, Father Christmas had his beard pulled off by Pat Pitchfork (an apt name for her), but nearly 70 years later the Christmas story of the birth of Christ only grows richer, stronger and more beautiful to my heart and that, my friends, is the story that matters.
Jubilate.
Ian
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