When I was a mere lad of six or seven years old living in Michigan, my belief in the magic of Santa Claus was carved in stone on Christmas morning. After all of the colorful wrapping paper had been ripped from the packages, tossed aside onto the floor, then picked-up and thrown away by my neat-nick mother, and all of the freshly acquired toys (and clothes?!) were dutifully opened and examined for future plans of fun filled (excluding the underwear and socks) days of youth, it occurred to me. WE DIDN'T HAVE A FIREPLACE! How in the heck could some gigantic, jolly old elf, carrying a sack full of all these goodies spread around beside me, get into my house? I began to question the entire situation. My father took me outside and showed my bewildered eyes, up high on the roof of our two-story house, sleigh tracks, a bunch of small hoof prints, and a single track of human footprints where SOMEONE walked across the roof to the downspout for the gutters. The footprints appeared again at the bottom of the downspout, around to the side of our house where they ended at our milk chute (an opening through the exterior of the house where the milkman would put our milk and butter). Dad explained that Santa must've come through the chute. After-all, there was all of that physical proof! Who could argue with that?