It’s been a long time since I sent off a letter to the North Pole. I can’t be sure, but I suspect the last one was about this time of year 1964. I was eight that Christmas. Practically a grown man and teetering on the edge of reality. Uncertain of how Christmas “really” worked.

So, you can understand how awkward it is for me, 60 years later, to contemplate this letter. It’s a little embarrassing. I’m only letting you know because I feel safe confiding in you. I mean, a man with snow on the roof should be way past the age of participating in such a juvenile activity.

Like yesterday. I volunteered to pick up my granddaughter at school. She stays late on Thursdays for some kind of science team practice. She’s only 9 and has enough energy to power up the entire southeastern electrical grid.

I pulled up in the que line in front of the school with all the other moms. Matthews Elementary is an older school building. Red brick. Low roof line. A covered walkway where the buses pick up their cargo.

A gaggle of elf-sized kids came around the corner of the building. When Zelda saw my truck, she came leaping and bounding toward me. The quiet inside the cab of my truck exploded.

“Hey Grandpa. I’m excited. Can you tell I’m excited? I’ve been excited all day. Mom told me you were gonna pick me up and I got so excited. I like it when you come to pick me up. I get all bouncy. I could hardly sit still all day long. You know why I couldn’t sit still? I was excited.”

This is almost a verbatim recounting of the first seven seconds.

I had a secret. She didn’t know that I was picking her up to take her Christmas shopping and then out to supper. Just the two of us. So, when I drove past the turn to her house, she says to me:

“You just drove past the turn, Grandpa.”

“I know. I’m not taking you home. I’m taking you Christmas shopping.”

The back seat erupted. It was like New Orleans at Mardi Gras. Like the Fourth of July on the Potomac. If it wasn’t for the seat belt, I’m not sure the roof could have contained her.

When we got out of the truck among the sea of vehicles in the parking lot she asked if we could play a game. I am not accustomed to playing games in the parking lot, but “sure”, I said. She took me by the hand, and we started walking toward the store entrance.

“Don’t step on any lines,” she says. “That’s the game.”

“What happens if I step on a line?” I need to know.

“You die. But not really. You’ve got three lives and every time you step on a line you lose a life. Three times and you’re dead.”

At least the rules are easy. The game doesn’t require me to think much. All I have to do is watch where I step.

This is how, at 68, I was seen hopping and skipping through the parking lot at Walmart. I outweighed my opponent considerably and used that to my advantage. When we got to the painted crosswalk in front of the store where there were lots of lines on the pavement, I tugged on her arm to throw her off balance.

I know. It was like cheating. But she didn’t see it that way. I’d tug. She’d giggle. I’d shove. She’d scream. And every time she demonstrated that a nine-year-old is limber enough and has cat-like-balance enough to dance between the lines almost effortlessly.

I heard a man’s voice from across the way. The buggy guy had been following us toward the store. He shouted at us.

“Hey, that looks like child abuse. We don’t allow that around here.”

I turned and innocently shrugged my shoulders with hands up like, “who me?”

“Besides,” he says, “we don’t take returns on kids until after Christmas.”

Every store. Every parking lot. We dodged the lines inside and out. I died 187 times in one evening.

This is why I want to write a letter to Santa. Somewhere, deep down, the kid in me still hopes for a perfect Christmas. I haven’t been that kid for a long time. But for a brief moment, I found him last night skipping through the parking lots of Columbus.

So, here goes.

Dear Santa:

I’m not sure if you remember me or not. It’s been a while since I last wrote. If it helps, I’m the kid from Route 1, Locust Grove, Georgia where you dropped off the Boppa Bear and the Tonka Truck on Christmas Eve 1962.

I should have written to say thanks a long time ago, but since I’m writing now, “Thanks.” That was a great Christmas.

As you might guess, I’m all grown up now. I’m not anywhere near as old as you (He-He) but I’ve got a few miles on me. I’ve been awfully busy the last 60 years, which is why you haven’t heard from me.

The truth is, I stopped believing in you a long time ago. I figured it out. At least, I was pretty sure I had. There were times when I was putting “Santa’s” gifts together well after midnight that I thought Christmas was a real chore. For a time, I got on the Christmas-is-just-a-ploy-to-get-your-money train. Spend, spend, spend.

Then there was the philosophical period. Sometimes, Christmas hurts. Just a little bit of sadness gets to be a whole lotta sadness during the holidays. People lose their jobs and loved ones die and children go hungry. No amount of Christmas cheer from some toy shop near a candy-cane-striped pole at some undisclosed location above the artic circle is going to make the hurt go away. So, take that and stuff it in your stocking.

It has taken me until now to realize that maybe I’ve had it all wrong. You see, I played yesterday. I jumped around. Mind you, not gracefully, but I jumped. I giggled, just a little bit. I held the hand of a child. I even saw one of your workers ringing the bell for the Salvation Army and I managed to put in a dollar. I’m ashamed that I’ve walked right past them for so long.

Santa, I know you have a near impossible job to do. Bringing cheer to a world that seems to be set on edge can’t be easy. So, I’m writing to tell you not to give up. I also know that your Boss doesn’t want you to give up either.

You don’t have to bring me any gifts this year. What I want is for you to keep the hope and the good and the giving and the joy coming our way. Keep showing up in every home around the globe. Keep up the belly laugh. Keep helping kids fall asleep with visions dancing in their heads. Keep the Christmas spirit alive for us.

Maybe someday we’ll all grow up to believe in you again.

Your pal Roy Rogers.

I always wanted to be him.