It was Christmas of 1926, and I, at the age of 12 years, was the oldest of eight children. That was the year I came to the conclusion that there was no Santa Claus and I excitedly told my family about my newfound knowledge.
To my utter bafflement and confusion no one seemed to be very impressed by my revelation, especially my parents.
We lived in West Texas at the end of a 7-mile dirt lane, and two days before Christmas a blizzard blew in. By Christmas Eve, 3-foot snow drifts had piled up and to say the least our Model T wasn't going anywhere that night. Christmas arrived, and low and behold Santa had not arrived.
My parents said that it was my fault for Santa's absence because it seems he had heard of my lack of faith and his feelings had been hurt.
Not only did I not receive any gifts, but neither did my brothers and sisters, so they blamed me for the horrible debacle.
1926 truly was a rough year for all of us, but Christmas of 1927 was a great one because no matter what I believed I was not under any circumstance going to share my knowledge with anyone. (The weather was mild that winter).
Even today after all of these years, the three sisters who are still living remind me of what my big mouth robbed them of in 1926. I have believed in the spirit of Santa Claus ever since. Happy holidays, everyone.
Faye Chesley has lived in Carson City eight years, coming here from Reno. She is retired and used to love to travel, dance, bowl and golf.
