Bryce Angell is a cowboy poet. Angell was raised on a farm/ranch in the St. Anthony, Idaho area with approximately 75 head of horses. Horses remain an important part of Angell’s life.
Angell shares his poetry with Cache Valley Daily every Friday.
Grandma said, “Now hurry home ‘cuz Santa’s on his way. Make sure you brush
your teeth, and then you better hit the hay.”
We sped on home from Grandma’s house, late night on Christmas Eve. My head
was filled with Christmas tales. How could I not believe?
I never doubted Grandma. She had taught us in our youth. If she said there was a
Santa, it for dang sure was the truth.
I loved those Santa stories and believed them as a boy. It’s called stage one of
Santa Claus and usually filled with joy.
The second stage of Santa Claus is when you don’t believe. I’d grown a few years
older and a little less naïve.
I’d done the calculations and they didn’t add up right. And I’d peeked and seen
my mother steal old Santa’s treats that night.
I’d watched her wrap my sister’s gifts and write “From the North Pole.” Did
Grandma know about old Claus? I didn’t tell a soul.
I tell my friends, “If you believe, you have to be a fool.” Still, I gladly will accept
the gift of one week out of school.
As years went by, I realized what Christmas is about. My children were believers
and I hoped they’d not find out.
I heard excited voices when they talked about St. Nick. Now, I’d reached stage
three of Santa Claus. It darn sure is a kick!
Well, now I have some grandkids. They believe in Santa too. Their bright eyes
shine with innocence. That’s Christmas through and through.
The final stage of Santa is the best, I’d say, because… My hair is white. My beard
is long. Now I’m the Santa Claus.