The author, at age 1 1/2, plays with a Jack-in-the-Box, one of many classic mid-1950s toys Santa brought him that Christmas. More than 60 years later, reminiscenses are many for the Nashua native of the baby boomer generation.

I’m not. How could I be? I’m only 6 years old!

Plus, we’re about to start an almost two-week vacation from school, and even if we weren’t, those first-grade spelling and vocabulary tests never worried me a bit.

Now junior high and high school tests, that’s a different story. But those are still years away, because I’m only 6.

And this is a great time of year to be 6, better, even, than the middle of summer, when life is all about jumping into giant ocean waves and digging “to China” in the sand and scarfing hot dogs right off the charcoal grill until the mustard runs out.

The author and his little sister often became models for their father's creative Christmas cards, such as this early 1960s version.

What, may I ask, could be more heavenly for a 6-year-old than bidding our teachers goodbye for close to two weeks (remember how we thought we were so clever when we said on the way out the door “bye, teacher – see you next year!”), knowing that it won’t be long before we go to bed on that special evening and wake up on that even more special morning to a sight we’d been dreaming about since Mom opened the first “window” on the Advent calendar.

Evidence of an overnight intruder was everywhere: The fireplace logs were askew. Pop’s recliner had been moved a few feet. Large, brightly-wrapped boxes not there at bedtime had appeared. A sparkly, never-before-seen ornament had joined the eclectic array of keepsakes placed with care upon each branch of the most enthusiastically trimmed Christmas tree on the block.

But if all that evidence indicating the presence of an intruder still fell short of the “clear and convincing” standard of probable cause (sorry, I really do spend too much time in court), the investigator could always count on the empty glass and plate of crumbs on the fireplace hearth.

To this 6-year-old, the glass and plate provided irrefutable proof that an intruder – the only kind of intruder you wish for – had been in my living room sometime between 9 p.m. and dawn. After all, who else could have drank the tall, refreshing glass of milk we dutifully poured and placed on the hearth than our intended recipient, Santa himself?

Surely nobody would have gotten into the plate of assorted cookies meant to give Santa a late-night energy boost and provide a nice midnight snack for his reindeer.

The author, preparing for Santa's arrival on Christmas Eve some six decades ago.

Ah, it’s great to be 6 at Christmastime, even if it meant humoring Pop and his obsession with making sure at least the highlights of Christmas morning were safely captured for posterity not only in pictures, but on home video as well.

There I am, the star of the show ­ well, co-star, if you count little sister ­ in my bright red, one-piece (with feet!) pajamas and plaid flannel bathrobe, alternately sitting and kneeling on the living room floor depending on the size of the gift I was ripping into at that particular moment.

When you’re 6, the bigger the gift the better, and a big gift wrapped brightly but not quite as neatly as mom would have wrapped it was the best. That meant it was from Santa, who, we learned early on, didn’t write all that neatly either.

How come? Well, mom and Pop reminded us, Santa is incredibly busy on Christmas Eve, and has to write out gift tags really fast, what with all those stops to make around the world before the good little boys and girls emerge from their slumber.

Oh yeah, that’s right. Guess that makes sense, my 6-year-old mind reasoned.

It makes sense because when I was 6, you don’t question what your parents or other adult authority figures tell you. When you’re 6, the adults know things you don’t; indeed, they seem to know everything.

When you’re 6, you believe in Santa, because you really want to. But what you actually believe in is the magic of Christmas, a special magic that, when you’re 6, is represented by a chubby, jolly ol’ elf who ­ quite magically ­ brings gifts to all the good boys and girls no matter where in the world they live.

So, dear readers, I want to wish everyone a very Merry Christmas, and a holiday season filled with the same magic that keeps a chubby, gift-bearing elf climbing down chimneys all around the world year after year.

Dean Shalhoup’s column appears Sundays in The Telegraph. He can be reached at 594-1256, dshalhoup@nashuatelegraph.com or@Telegraph_DeanS.