Randy had just celebrated his eighth birthday. As the second grandchild in our extended family, he was awarded special attention from everybody.
Born on December 1, 1966, his birthday party and presents always made selecting a Christmas gift difficult.
For this birthday, he received a G. I. Joe doll, hot wheels, a Play-Doh modeling set, little golden books, coloring books and a 64-count of Crayola. In addition, Wilma had removed several packages before he opened them. She knew they would be neglected, and Christmas was only twenty-four days away.
What could Santa possibly bring this child who already owned just about everything an eight-year-old could desire?
When Randy’s mother, Wilma, picked him up at school on Monday, he quickly said, “Mom, Jeff’s getting a bicycle for Christmas. Do you think Santa will bring me one?”
“I don’t’ know, son. We’ll ask Dad when he gets home.”
***
“Randy wants a bicycle for Christmas. What do you think?”
“Is he big enough to ride a bike?” I asked.
“I looked at the Western Auto catalog that came on Sunday. They have a 20 inch bike, with training wheels. Clara said that’s what she’s getting for Jeff.”
“Well, God forbid that Jeff has something that Randy doesn’t. You take Randy to the Mall Saturday and let him tell Santa what he wants. I’ll go to Western Auto and get a bike while you’re at the mall.
***
“I took the bike over to Tom and Mary’s next door,” I whispered to Wilma when she and Randy returned from the mall. “Randy, what did Santa say about the bike?”
“He said he’d have to see what he has at the North Pole,” Randy said. “I bet he’ll find one for me. Don’t you think so, Dad?
“Maybe,” I nodded. “You’ve been a splendid boy lately.”
***
On Christmas Eve, we returned home from both sets of grandparents with a car full of gifts for Randy.
As we placed Randy’s gifts beneath the tree, he reminded us, “Be sure and leave enough room for my bike when Santa comes.”
“You’d better get in bed,” Wilma said. “Santa will be here soon.” As soon as I thought he was asleep, I donned my raincoat and slipped out the back door. I raced to the gate and tried to open it. “Dang, it’s locked.”
Tom told me the bike would be on the back porch, but he didn’t tell me he was going to lock the gate. It’s raining a downpour and I’m getting soaked. How can I get in to fetch the bike?
As a thirty-three-year-old pack-a-day smoker, my athletic ability had waned, but I had to climb over the four-foot chain-link fence. It’s raining harder, and I’m thoroughly soaked.
With both hands firmly on the wet fence post, I put my left foot on the fence and hoisted myself astraddle the fence. Gingerly, I raised my left leg over the bar and felt a wire atop the fence penetrate the crotch of my pants. The rain was now a torrent.
What shoot, it’s too late to worry now. I yanked the pants loose and split the crotch open, but I landed on the other side.
As I sped to the porch, my split crotch flopped in the wind and my underwear was soaked.
Grabbing the bike, I ran back to the fence and placed it on the other side. Now, I just had to get myself back over.
Not worrying about my clothes anymore, I climbed over to our side of the fence and entered our back door.
Wilma met me and complained as I dripped all over the carpet.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I got the bike!”
We both laughed out loud, and Randy was a cheerful kid the next morning.
I thought, “A father’s love is a love without end.”