When, as a child, I first encountered the idea that Santa Claus might not be real, I balked. Usually, I looked up to older, wiser kids, but they seemed naïve to suggest that my parents were actually stuffing my stocking. Why, on December 24th, would the weatherman bother using his radar to track a hefty gentleman flying around the world in a sleigh if he weren’t a genuine, jolly old elf called Saint Nick? On this one, I sided with the younger kids, still enchanted with visiting Santa in the shopping mall and rattling off mile-long wish lists–it appeased my young mind. Once infected with their doubts, however, they didn’t escape me, and I began to wonder how one soul could possibly stop off at every single house and deliver toys; besides, my house didn’t even have a chimney. With chagrin, I slowly resigned myself to the fact that there was no Santa Claus.