In the snowy winter of 1944, with all the men still at war, my mother, who was saddled with a blizzard of bills, finally gave up the old house.

She packed up my baby sister and me and rented an apartment far away, uptown. My sister was inconsolable, terrified that Santa Claus would think we were dead and not find us. My mother said she'd leave a note. She did. Pinned to the front door, it read, "Santa, Dawn and Jerry have moved to 311 Shenandoah Street."

Somehow, Santa found us. It wasn't the grandest Christmas of our short lives, but he found us.

I think, this morning, of the thousands upon thousands of home foreclosures in America. Some people are well off; most aren't. These are the working poor who have moved to smaller apartments and trailers far away, uptown from where they were last Christmas. There are seniors at the end of their sidewalks. There are young people who were just starting out. There are children in those trailers and apartments, probably terrified that Santa won't find them.

I think of the displaced poor of New Orleans who were shuffled from sports domes to trailers and who are now lost again in the flood waters of the economic tsunami, the young parents who have lost their jobs and their homes. There are children in those stories, children who may fear Santa may never find them again.

Think of the storm in the children's minds as they drive away from their beginnings, hoping Santa will find them.

There are the tiniest of children of America's warriors who move from base to base, growing up with a suitcase sitting by the front door.

They must feel like my baby sister. How will Santa find them?

There must be, across all of this great country, hundreds of thousands of notes fluttering in the cold wind, attached to closed doors behind which lighted trees once stood, where the smell of food filled the rooms, and children sat at tables, scrawling letters to Santa.

Somehow the man in red always seems to find us -- not all of us, but many.

My baby sister and I have been separated by time and distance and have not seen each other in many years. She is a successful sales representative, traveling the country and blessed with children and grandchildren. She has made sure that Santa knows exactly where they are.

While she has no memory of the morning we left the old house, and denies remembering her words, they are scrawled in crayon in my writer's heart.

I find it interesting that, while the rest of our family is spread out across America, she still lives only 15 minutes away from the old house -- still fearful I suspect, that Santa won't find her.

She and I, separated in age by five years, now live in the winter of our lives.

I will make an agreement with her, that if I should fall ill and forget who I am, or who I was in 1944, that she will go back and leave a note on the door of the old house: "Dear Santa, my brother Jerry has moved to Waterville, Maine."

J.P. Devine is a freelance writer living in Waterville.