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Thank you for all your generosity to millions of people across the United States, not only to the children but the adults who find the magic in Christmas, and for those who also give anonymously in your name to people they will never know.
In 1948, I lived in the mountains of Colorado, five miles from Golden. The snow was deep, and the creek was almost frozen over. My dad had been sick and was unemployed.
The full moon shone upon the fresh fallen snow, as my mother sat by the unlit Christmas tree, she was pondering what to tell my sister and me when we got up in the morning, for there were no presents under the tree and nothing to fix for dinner. Suddenly there was the tingling of bells. Opening the front door to investigate, she saw a big box had been placed on the porch. It contained everything my sister and I had wanted and the fixings for a big Christmas dinner.
It has taken me all these years to figure out how to say “Thank you, Santa” for the gifts. I have always known it was you for our dogs did not bark, and there were no tire tracks left in the fallen snow. No one could have known what I wanted but you.
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