Late Christmas night, Charlotte Purvis, the oldest of my three sisters, had me laughing out of control at Mama’s house in Augusta, Ga. I have reminded Charlotte far more times than she probably cares to count, of how she came to be the sister that stole Christmas.

Briefly, when we were kids, Charlotte told Mama that she didn’t believe in Santa Claus. Although Charlotte is four years younger, I cringed the moment she uttered those fatal words. Mama said that if she didn’t believe in Santa, he wouldn’t have to bring her any more toys. I quickly informed Mama that I still believed in the Fat Guy because I didn’t want my annual toy supply cut short. When were alone, I told Charlotte that as smart as she was –she had skipped the first grade – that was not a smart move.

We’ve had running conversations about that incident over the years, but Charlotte decided to pay me back this year. I was sitting at the kitchen table when she entered the room with her red Santa bag and jumping on one foot, yelling “Ho, ho, ho, Merry Christmas.” Seeing Sister No. 1, as she likes to call herself, hopping on one foot and pretending to be Santa Claus had me laughing uncontrollably. And because of our history, her skit needed no explanation. When I finally stopped laughing, I was exhausted.

It had been that kind of evening – we’re always cracking jokes, imitating relatives and recounting fond memories when we get together during holidays – and we had migrated to the living room when the phone rang at 10 minutes to midnight. Mama answered it “Merry Christmas” and discovered that Sara, an ex-wife of my youngest uncle, Jesse Harris, was on the other end. When Mama mentioned that I was visiting, she asked to speak to me. When I picked up the phone, she greeted me and got directly to the point: “Your Uncle Jesse died this morning in Birmingham.” I don’t remember what else she said because I ran from the room, sobbing, “No, no, no.” Everyone knew from my reaction that Uncle Padna, as we called him, had died. That side of the family had gone without a death in the inner circle for more than three decades. Now, this was the third one in three years: Aunt Kat, Uncle Percy and now Uncle Padna.

We made a few key late night calls and followed those up with others the next morning. My youngest sister, Susan Gandy and her family, had left earlier in the day to return to Tuskegee, Ala. We tried to reach her and my other sister, Chris, on the West Coast. Charlotte and I made a mental list of people to call and divided the responsibilities.

With the calls made and my preparing to return home mid-day Monday, Mama said she had received another call informing her that the landlord where Padna had been living was mistaken and he was not dead. He was at the local VA hospital in serious condition, but he was alive. This was bizarre. But I told Mama that given the choice between believing someone was dead and their ending up alive or believing someone was alive when, in fact, they were dead, I’d take our predicament. Charlotte and I embarked on a second round of calls, telling the family that our uncle was still alive. I began my return trip home and several hours later, Charlotte did likewise.

Having driven Neyah, my 3-year-old granddaughter, from Silver Spring, Md. to see her great grandmother in Augusta, I finally arrived back in Maryland after midnight. Neyah, eager to see her parents after five days with Papa. Neyah believes in Santa, so St. Nick was very good to her.

I settled into bed around 2 a.m. for what I thought would be at least 10 hours of sleep. However, Monique Harris Clitandre, one of Padna’s daughters, called from Atlanta at 8:35 a.m. to say that Padna had died for certain this time. She and another daughter, Renee Hedgemon Blango in Buffalo, had spoken with the doctor on a three-way call.

So, the roller coaster ride of calling some of the same people for a third time, learning when and where the funeral would be held, and gathering information that could be used in an obituary was put in motion again.

Although I was tired from my Christmas trip to Augusta, I agreed to drive my Uncle Willie James Harris (Uncle Buddy) and his wife, Martha, to the funeral in Birmingham from Jonesborough, Tenn., near Johnson City. After I took them back home, I spent time with my oldest aunt, Julia Mae Cousin, in Johnson City. Aunt Julia Mae is 87 and Uncle Buddy will turn 74 in February. Uncle Frank, like Aunt Kat who died three years ago, has Alzheimer’s and is 84 years old.

My cousin Lynn Stuart and I have always lamented this day. We have no other uncles and aunts left on my mother’s side. I have only one aunt, Mary Jo Bradford of Reform, Ala., left on my father’s side. It’s hard to see them grow old and even harder to see them depart all too quickly.