He had a home but lived with us by order of the court. His name was Ryan Redfeather, or Little Red, for short.
A bright young boy was Little Red, and barely nine years old. He knew that he’d be safe with us, not left out in the cold.
He’d never had a Christmas, and he thought that kinda stunk. His parents took the Christmas cash, got either stoned or drunk.
Soon there’d be another Christmas, but he said he didn’t care. “I know there ain’t no Santa. Reindeer can’t fly in the air.”
I tried to tell our Little Red that Santa would appear, but his eyes were filled with doubt, ‘cuz he’d been let down every year.
Then one morning, just ‘fore breakfast, Red scribbled out a note. “Santa if you’re really real, I’d like a warm, new coat.”
He asked me for a stamp and wrote “To Santa Claus, North Pole. He said, “It’s kinda personal. Don’t tell a single soul.”
Well, our family stayed at Grandmas on that snowy Christmas Eve. And Grandma’s eyes were twinkling when she said, “I still believe.”
She tucked us children in, and last of all was Little Red. I wondered what was going on inside his little head.
At six a.m. I heard excited voices down below and saw a grinning Little Red. His eyes were all aglow.
In a box that had his name on it, he found a brand-new coat, a pair of boots and woolen mitts. “From Santa,” someone wrote.
He dug a little deeper in the box. That wasn’t all. The last thing at the bottom was a New York Jets football.
He had to try that football out, so, bundled up and warm, we played and laughed till Grandma made us come in from the storm.
Though Santa Claus could not make all his problems go away, one hurting little Paiute boy felt love that Christmas Day.