I've been writing for the local paper these past six months. When I do that I write shorter pieces to keep within their word limit and tend not to put them on my blog. I'll start the year off their team and hope to communicate with you more through regular postings. Hope you like this one. Merry Christmas.
Life changes in subtle ways. After swimming laps at the old
YMCA, I would spend time in the park the city created in the “flats” near the
end of the Fox River. At the new Y, I
loop down to the Illinois River on my way home. The Illinois River is bigger. I see barges sometimes, heading south toward
Alton. Some go all the way to the Gulf
of Mexico, and the cargo they carry goes all over the world.
Last week I was on the riverbank between the 23 bridge and
the railroad trestle when I heard a familiar voice.
“So, McClure, you decided to come back after all.”
My wife and I recently returned from Bolivia where we
visited my son. I turned around to find
Santa Claus walking towards me out of uniform, sporting not a bit of red. Bib overalls, a thick grey sweater, and a
black stocking hat.
“You left and didn’t come back once before, right?”
“That was fifty years ago, Santa, in Europe. I was twenty-three. The Vietnam War had just ended. Watergate forced Nixon from office. Tumultuous times.”
“But you thought about staying away this time too, right?”
“Yeah. We spent most
of our time in Cochabamba, a city at 8,500 feet in an Andes mountain valley just
17 degrees south of the equator.
Beautiful weather, technically the start of their summer though the
weather changes little. We relaxed and stopped reading American news. We shopped at outdoor markets and cooked
fresh food. It’s a small country of around
12 million. Calm and peaceful.”
“Why didn't you stay?”
“I’m not 23 anymore. I
feel like I belong here. My family, my
church, June, the shack, these rivers.
It’s where I live, good or bad.”
“But you’re not happy with where your country is headed? Or do I have that wrong?’
“No, you’re right.
I’m fed up with division, violence, hatred, and greed. I fear for our future.”
“But here you are.
Now 73.”
“Yeah.”
Awkward silence.
“How about you Santa?”
“Well, unlike you I’m still working. Been doing Christmas one way or another since
the 4th century. That century
began in 300 A.D. you know. Can’t forget
those first years before they add to a hundred.
But we’re on different paths. My future is unlimited, while yours, you
know…”
He paused, looked
away, then went on.
“Life changes hardly at all for me, but your life changes quickly. Mortals speed through their lives and disappear. It’s hard for me to comprehend because I have
such a long view of the world, but I it happens all the time. I think of you McClure, living within your
thin slice of history, and I want you to end it well.”
“That’s big of you, Santa.
Tell me, what do you think after pondering my brief life almost over?”
“You spend too much time worrying. You know your life is finite, right? Worry is taking you away from the thing you
do best and satisfies you the most.”
“And what’s that, Santa?”
“Writing.”
“But I’m writing right now.”
“You’re not telling people the whole story. Finish it.
Polish it up. Put it out
there. Let the people you love know the
real you. Contribute to their future. You won’t regret it. Consider that you were made to do just
that. I’m doing what I’m supposed to
do. How about you do the same? Stop worrying, keep your fingers on that
keyboard in the Shack, and get to work, for Christ’s sake.”
“Christ? Have you
been talking to him about me?”
“Jesus? NO. I mean, we chat occasionally. Everybody needs to check in with peers from
time to time, but we don’t talk about individuals. If he wants to say something to you he
will. I’m just handing out friendly Santa
advice. Consider it your Christmas
present.”
“Well, thanks. I wish
I could give you something in return.”
“You can. Remember what
I told you and write a story about me.”
“Consider it done. Thanks, Santa.
Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you, McClure. Hope I see you again next year.”
