by Tom Towns

GUEST COLUMNIST

Every Christmas Eve, my grandfather, Omer, hunted Santa Claus.

As a child I remember that almost every Christmas, our family drove for six hours from St. Louis, Mo., to Newtown, Ind., to be with my grandparents. Usually we left our home around 7 a.m., so that we could get to Newtown early enough to help cook Christmas Eve dinner.

By early evening, when it was time to eat, all of us aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, cousins and grandparents would sit around an enormous dining room table. And as everyone would become quiet eating homemade Christmas pie, Omer would say in a loud voice, "This year I'll get Santa for sure."

All of us grandchildren would suddenly quit eating our pie and blankly stare at one another in shock. My eyebrows would shoot up, and my jaw would drop in disbelief. I never noticed the broad grins spreading across my parent's faces as they winked knowingly at one another. It was the beginning of the annual hunt for Santa and "The Children's Christmas Eve Worry-Fest."

Once dinner was over, we were forced to watch "The Lawrence Welk Show" before we all had to go to bed. After we marched up the stairs to go to our rooms, we would hop into bed and pray with heartfelt earnest that Omer would miss hitting his target again this year. Our childlike minds simply couldn't imagine what it would mean for the world if grandfather actually succeeded. It was too ugly of a thought. Such a thought was far too horrible to fathom: A Christmas-less world without presents, lots of candy and great food. For us kids, it would have taken away one of the truest reasons for living.

After our prayers for Santa's safety, we would lay in bed with our eyes wide open. How could any child sleep knowing that grandfather had a loaded rifle in the closet just waiting for "The Big Man" to fly his sled over the house? Sleep was the furthest thing from our minds. We were all cheering for Santa. And then it would become deathly quiet, and our hearts would go pitter-patter.

It became a silent night filled with apprehension. We could sense that something big was about to happen very soon. In the quiet darkness, we panted furtively and listened intently for the assault to begin. And then it happened.

As we held our breaths, the sound of sleigh bells could be heard jingling outside in the front yard. "It's Santa," we all exclaimed. I sat up in bed. My heart pounding.

This was it! Under my breath I whispered, "Santa fly away. Omer has his rifle. I don't need a present this year."

Then I heard my grandfather in the foyer yell, "I hear sleigh bells! Aha! There you are!" We heard the hallway closet door open, and knew that Omer was getting his coat and his loaded .22 single-shot rifle. Then we heard the front door open and close with a slam.

Shortly after that, we heard the report of a rifle shot. With total foreboding we waited to hear the outcome. I could hear Omer's voice as he yelled, "Darn! I missed!" Luckily, it wasn't all over, yet. We all took a sigh of relief.

Soon we heard the sound of sleigh bells traveling to the side yard. Santa was still up and running, and I remember saying one year, "Yeah! Santa! You can do it!" With my knees weakened from fear, I would shamble over to the window. I would pull back the curtains and throw open the sash, just like in Clement Moore's famous poem, "The Night Before Christmas." With my wide open eyes, I had to see what was going on out in the night and maybe somehow, some way, I could help Santa escape my grandfather's attack. But wait.

The sound of the sleigh bells moved once again. They were now in the backyard. The sound moved so quickly that I knew it had to be my magical Santa flying around the farmhouse at the speed of light to dodge my grandfather's bullets. Yes. I knew that I was hearing those sleigh bells in the backyard now.

Suddenly, I heard a second rifle report. And the sleigh bells became silent. "Oh, no!" I thought. The night became silent again. Had it happened this time? Was Santa no more? A hot tear squeezed out of my right eye. I felt tremendous sorrow welling up inside me. Sobs choked me.

While I began creating morose mental images of no-more-Christmas -- no more boxes filled with toys, no more candy canes hanging on the tree, no more turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, and country style green beans -- I thought I could hear sleigh bells again. Yes! I hear them! I rallied. The bells are getting louder and louder. Santa came through again. Hope flooded me.

We all heard Omer yell out, "I can't believe I missed him again!" The front door then opened and slammed closed. The closet door opened and closed. In the foyer Omer was grumbling, "Darn! Darn! Darn! He got away!" But each and every one of us beamed, and, under our breath we whispered, "Hurray!"

Then the sleigh bells would grow more and more distant. Silent night had returned. It was telling us that Santa had survived another year.

Having failed again, Omer would slowly climb the stairs, go into his bedroom, and shut the door. We could hear his muffled words, "I'll get him for sure next year." Then sighs of relief would escape us. It was over again for another Christmas.

And one year, as I drifted off to dreamland with the sound of fading sleigh bells, I clearly remember hearing Santa cry out, "Better luck next year, you old grump!"