The holidays are always an eventful time, but it is also a time that leads many to reflections of Christmas past.

Like the year I thought I had figured out the truth about Santa. I suppose everyone had that time, but I was a little more sly than your average kid. I never told anyone about my Santa suspicions until I was left with no choice by circumstances beyond my control.

It all happened while I was looking for something in a seldom-used back room closet. There, high in the top of the closet, I saw the record player I had asked for from “Santa.”

Hmmm, I thought. Santa probably isn’t making deliveries early this year, so I bet this whole thing is a sham. Of course, we have our suspicions from the very beginning.

A man in a musty red suit blares “HO, HO, HO” at the church Christmas party, wearing brown work boots with cow manure pasted onto the sides. Hey, those aren’t the neatly-polished, heeled black numbers that Santa wears in the pictures, a kid might think.

And why do some Santas look more like they are suffering anorexia than toting around bellies full of jelly? Perhaps the pillow tied around the waste of that skinny wanna-be might fool some of the kids, but I wasn’t falling for it. It didn’t jiggle at all.

And somehow Santa seemed to have the same accent I had, even though he was was supposed to be from the North. Of course, that was another reason not to trust him.

And then I really got confused one day when we went on a trip to the city and I saw a black Santa. In our little area, the only minority was the handful of ‘rich’ people, and they didn’t have much more than the rest of us. Everyone was pretty much poor and white. My parents tried to explain to me after about 10,000 questions that Santa can’t be everywhere at once like God, so he has to hire helpers to go out and gather the toy lists for him to deliver on Christmas eve.

But what about the Santa who rings the bell at the big store in the city and doesn’t talk to the kids at all, I asked.

I’m sure the reply was something like, “Don’t you want some candy or something?”

And while the new Santa story sounded about as likely as finding a diamond cleaning out the pig lot, I didn’t want to take any chances. Just to be safe, I would hold on to my Santa dreams and always be careful to only list one really important present per year, I decided. However, the year of the closet discovery had been different. I had asked for the record player and a game.

“Santa can only bring one present for you this year,” I was told. But I had Santa’s number. “That’s fine, but I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want the record player now. I just want the game.” My, how tricky can the adolescent mind can be. Of course, I had already seen the record player in the closet and it was only two days before Christmas.

I showed it to my parents in the Sears and Roebuck catalogue and knew they couldn’t possibly send it back in time.

So, barring any unforeseen circumstance, I figured they would have to either fess up to there being no Santa or buy me the game.

That year, maybe ‘Santa’ could afford to get me both presents, I thought, proud of my scheme.

But it didn’t last long. On Christmas Eve, I was found out, caught in the act of snooping through the closet again in search of more presents. In fact, I was looking to see if the game had appeared there as well.

Besides, I figured I might be able to find out what my sisters were getting and make them pay for the information.

That’s when we had the whole talk about Santa.

“So now you know,” came to the voice behind me. “It truly is impossible for Santa Claus to make it all the way around the world in one night with a sleigh full of toys.

“But there’s always going to be something you don’t know, but even more things that you will know and wish you didn’t.”

I thought about it, suddenly feeling older and a little too smart for my own good. Maybe I also felt a little mean, too. I shouldn’t have been prowling around looking for gifts. Like the time I broke the screen door on the canning house and propped it back up and jammed it inside the frame so that it would fall when the next person was forced to jerk it open. My mother always thought she broke it, and I never had the nerve to tell her the truth. I suppose there is sort of a smug satisfaction in knowing that you know something no one else knows.

I was the one who was surprised the following day when the record player wasn’t among the gifts I opened. Instead I found a new shirt, a pair of socks and some sturdy boots, all from my parents. The really neat gifts always had said, “From Santa.”

Upon a careful search, I found a note near the tree: “Dear sir, since you do not believe in me any more, I do not feel obliged to leave you any more gifts. When you change your mind, please let me know.” It was signed, ‘Love, Santa.’ Below that was another note, “P.S. I left your record player in the closet two days before Christmas. I hope your parents explained that I couldn’t possibly deliver to every kid in the world on Christmas Eve.”

So with a little note I was sent back into a tailspin for at least another year, when I would need to hatch out new and more devious schemes to reveal the true depth of the worldwide Santa conspiracy. I’m still not sure that I have it all figured out, but I can tell you one thing. I still haven’t received my game.

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