When I was little, my sister Bonnie, who was much older, assured me she’d heard Santa on the roof, I believed her utterly. My parents never left cookies and milk for Old St Nick, they left a ham sandwich and a Rye and Ginger and I found this not the least bit curious. One year, I came down at 2:30 am, moments after my parents went to bed. Discovering me, my father said I could take one toy upstairs. I chose a battery operated machine gun on a tripod which made an almighty clatter. This was not as successful as you might think. But the best Christmas story comes not from Clan Oliver, but from the New York Times on this day in 1900.
© 2024 John Oliver
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