There are things you keep quiet when you’re a kid. My parents and family members will tell you I talked too much when I was young. In fact, they will tell you that I never quite got over that problem.

I clearly remember that Christmas Eve when I was probably around 7. There had already been discussion in the back of Mrs. Bishop’s second grade classroom about Santa sightings, and some of the more knowledgeable students in my class had seen him and even talked to him. One told about actually sitting up with Santa for a while and talking with him. I was in awe.

In my house, you had to be sound asleep before Santa would even think about circling the house in his sleigh. Even then, there must have been some way he could check on my breathing patterns or something. I never heard a peep and was as surprised as anyone to find the living room full of presents on Christmas morning.

After this conversation in the back of the room, I was determined to share some of the mystery and intrigue of my more fortunate classmates.

Why in the world could they have had all these opportunities with Santa?  I remember asking one of the them, “You mean he actually saw you?” The answer was yes. And, this classmate STILL received presents that year. Surely, even if I caught a glimpse, Santa would still leave presents for me. After all, he was a good guy. A forgiving soul.

We had just returned from a little get-together at the home of my beloved neighbors/pseudo-grandparents across the yard. I hastily put on my pajamas.  There was probably some negotiation, but I remember I was allowed to stay up for awhile and watch some Christmas television shows.

I distinctly remember that commercial where Santa comes over the hill on that Norelco razor. I crawled up on the couch in my footy pajamas and looked out the window. Was it a full moon? In my memory, it was.  For a brief second, I would swear I saw something zip across the sky. I caught my breath. I think I said something to my parents and they just smiled. Maybe I kept quiet about it; I mean, talking too much could spoil the magic.

If he was indeed circling the house, I needed to at least appear to be sleeping.

Christmas shows were no longer important. I needed to get into “playing possum” mode. That’s a term only southern folks will understand.

Still pretty drowsy, I must have slipped off to sleep for a while, but I remember rolling over and suddenly remembered I had planned to stay awake to actually see this guy.

Trying my best to appear sound asleep, I carefully rolled over again and opened my eyes only enough to see shadowy shapes. And there he was. Standing there, at the foot of my bed, was the man himself. He had his arms folded. I saw his beard, even though, as I said, the image was only shadowy.

My heart jumped into my throat. I froze. I was sure he could tell my eyes were open even a little.

From then on, I didn’t dare open my eyes again. The emotion I felt at that moment was not what I expected: terror. I’d never come this close to an actual Santa sighting, and I didn’t like it. I heard movement and then I realized my bedroom door was closed. It would be crazy to get up and try to crack the door enough to see anything. I could hear my parents’ voices too, so they must have been up.

No wonder Santa got so much accomplished! I had no idea my parents could help.

I suppose I dropped off to sleep. There was a pretty good haul the next morning. I’m thinking that was the year I got a new bike. It was a thing of beauty.

But I breathed not a word of that Santa sighting. When my mother reads this column, it will be the first time she’s heard the story, I’m sure.

I guess the fear of not getting presents has never left me!