Santa Comes to the Shack

I was editing stories last week.  Stories that have become chapters in a book.  I like writing from scratch much better than editing, but you can’t have everything.

I was startled by a loud knock on the shack door.  I write with my back to that door.  Before I could turn around, someone barged in. 

The shack is pretty small.  As the door closed, I spun around and there he was, standing in front of me with his hands on his hips.  He was all tricked out in his Santa uniform.  Red velvet trimmed with white fur, knee high black boots, a ridiculously wide black belt, the long stocking hat with a white ball on the end, the whole deal.

Santa strikes an imposing pose.  I mean, a legendary myth who has existed for seventeen centuries suddenly appears to an old human in a 12x12 shack?  If I hadn’t known him for so long, I’d have been mad.

“Jesus, Santa, you scared me half to death.  Have a seat, old fella. Take a load off.” 

I pointed to the futon beside the desk.  After two solid years of constant clutter, it’s actually clean.  I purged a lot of books, clippings, papers, and things that made me wonder why I kept them in the first place.  You can actually stretch out and take a nap on that futon again.

Santa plopped down, loosened his belt a notch, and took off his boots. 

“McClure, it’s been a long day.  I’m counting on you for a drink.  Do you happen to have something brown with a considerable proof count for an old friend?”

“You’re in luck, pal.  I restocked for the holidays.”

I reached under the little table by the stove and pulled out a bottle of bourbon in a small burlap sack. 

“Grab me two of those tin cups over there by the chainsaw, would you Santa?”

Santa took two steps in his stockinged feet and got the cups while I uncorked the bottle.  Within seconds we were clanking our cups together to toast Christmas 2025.

Santa looked out the big shack window down to the bottom of the ravine. 

“Is that a creek down there?”

“Yeah.”

“Does it ever dry up?”

“Never all the way.  When it rains, it flows fine.  When it’s dry, it ponds up.  Ices over in the winter.  But the water is always there.  Sometimes you have to look hard to find it.”

Seemed curious he would bring that up. 

“So, Santa, besides being very thirsty, how have you been?  It’s been a whole year, you know.  You said you were going to come see me in the summer, but you didn’t make it.”

“I know, and I’m sorry.  I get busy.  And I’m aware I live in a place that’s hard to travel to. But I’ve been thinking about you.  

“Really?  What have you decided?”

“I’ve decided it’s time you consider what you can do to help the world before you leave it.”

“Well, joy to the world and glad tidings to you too, Santa.  What makes you think I’m checking out?  And how do you know I haven’t been thinking about just that?

“Well, I hate to say it, but you’ve been known to lose track of time.”

“Well, you’ll be glad to know my wife and I talked to our financial person, who thought we should talk to an attorney, who updated our wills, and fixed things up so they’ll be smooth for the kids.  And now we’re starting to throw unwanted junk away.  What do you think of that?”

“I’m impressed. Your kids will appreciate that.”

”Thanks. I’m amazed myself.  Never thought I’d get there.  But you know, my wife’s a big help.”

”McClure, everyone who knows you is aware that your wife keeps you on track.  I mean, you’re not the most organized human on the planet.”

“I know. I owe her a lot.”

Santa, as much as I love him, has developed that curse (or is it a blessing?) that haunts people who have a lot to say, limited time to say it, and little regard for how others might react.  You’d think someone who has been around so long, with no end in sight ,  wouldn’t feel rushed.  But come to think of it, he might be gauging how much longer I’ll be around to listen.  Whatever the case, he’s blunt.

Your country is not doing well.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“And you feel powerless to change it.”

“I wouldn’t say powerless.  Small though.  And tired.  We’ve come all this way in the U.S. during my lifetime, and now the things I value most: equality, empathy, and justice, no longer seem to count.  Greed and power are what our American leaders are after now.  Rampant capitalism.  And if it requires cruelty?  So what?”

“Listen to yourself, McClure.  Does that sound hopeful?”

“No. But you have to admit, hope is hard to find these days.  But you didn’t come all this way to talk about politics.  Have another drink and lighten up, Santa.  It’s Christmas, remember?”

I poured Santa another couple fingers of the brown stuff. 

“Thank you.  I get a lot of milk and cookies, but rarely a cup of good cheer like this.”

He glanced at my computer screen. 

“Is that the farm book you keep working on?”

“You know it is.”

“Refresh my memory.  Does the story begin in 1951 and end in 1969?”

“Yes.  My first 18 years.  All spent on that little dairy farm.”

“That was 70 years ago.”

“I know.  I want to show people how America was, how it could be still.”

“Hasn’t it really been done for a long time.  The book, I mean?”

“Yeah.  I’m trying to improve it.  Polish it up before publishing.”

“Don’t you think you should put the past away after it's published and write about what’s happening now?”

“I do.  And I try writing about today’s events too.  But what’s happening now…it’s awful to put down in print.  I could cry.  The racism, the violence, the brutality, the hate.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t written about Gaza.”

“How do you know I haven’t.  Wait a minute.  Have you been reading my stuff?”

“Every bit of it.  But it’s possible I missed it.  Did you write a post about the genocide?  How it decimated Palestinian families, destroyed their homes, ruined their land?”

“No.  I have lots of drafts and can’t finish any of them.  And now, we seem to have blown past it.  I don’t think anyone cares.”

“Well, you’re wrong about that.  I care.  And I know you care. For 35 years, you worked every day to help children and their families succeed.”

“Sometimes I wish I were still on the job.”

“Well, I don’t expect you’ll go back to work, but you’ll never turn that off.  Have you stopped thinking good writing can change people’s minds?  Have you given up helping your readers find the kindness in their hearts?”

“It’s so complicated, Santa.  Critics of Israel’s actions in Gaza are labeled antisemitic.  That’s the furthest thing from my mind.  It’s the current right-wing Israeli government I oppose, and our country’s blind support of them, not the Jewish faith.  For Christ’s sake Santa, how do we even allow that narrative to continue?”

“Settle down.  You’ve written nuanced views before, McClure.  Keep trying, you’ll find the words.  And don’t give up.  If you aren’t careful, you’ll stop writing altogether.”

“Don’t worry about me, Santa.  That won’t happen.  I’m just letting off steam.  Let’s talk about you. Like, what are you doing here besides drinking my whiskey and cheering me up?”

“I’m on a road trip.  Things at the North Pole get hellishly busy this time of year.  The elves keep running to me with their problems.  Mrs. Claus is upset with me and anxious.  It felt like the walls were closing in on me.  So, I hitched up the reindeer and took off.  You know what that’s like, don’t you?”

“I know the concept, minus the reindeer.  Congratulations on getting away.  It’s good for your mental health.  So, what have you done with this stolen time?”

“I went back to the basics.  When I begin to doubt why I exist, I have conversations with children.  It narrows my focus.  Calms me down.”

“Explain that, will you?  I need that.  I think everybody needs that.”

Santa tipped up his tin cup.  His nose disappeared. He lowered his cup, stared into it, and frowned.

“You want another one, Santa?  Are you going to be all right to drive?”

“I told you I’m with my reindeer. They know the way home.”

I poured Santa another drink.  He looked out the window with a smile.  I had a feeling he was about to tell me a story.

“Have I told you about my reindeer?”

“No.” I replied.

“My sleigh is powered by an eight reindeer hitch.  That’s four pairs.  A poet named Clement Clarke Moore named them in 1822.  Starting from the front are Dasher and Dancer, the lead team.  Behind them are two swing teams, Prancer and Vixen, with Comet and Cupid behind them. 

Then closest to the sleigh, connected directly to it, are my wheelers, Donder and Blitzen.  They’re my go-to reindeer.  Not only are they the biggest and strongest, they're also the smartest and most reliable.   I count on them for steering, braking, and overall control.  I love my whole team, but Donder and Blitzen are special.”

“What about Rudolf?”

Santa inhaled deeply and blew out his cheeks as he exhaled.

“I don’t usually tell people this, but Rudolf is a pain in the butt.  I mean, he wouldn’t even be here if Montgomery Ward hadn‘t paid Gene Autry to record that hokey Christmas song in 1949.  Now, he’s the only reindeer most people know.”

“I thought he was good in the fog with that blinking red nose.”

“Fog, schmog.  What do airplanes do when they find themselves in thick clouds?”

“I think they adjust their altitude up or down until they’re out of it.”

“Of course.  And that’s exactly what I do.  That line in Autry’s song ‘Rudolf with your nose so bright, won’t you guide my sleigh tonight’ was never spoken by me, I tell ya.  Donder and Blitzen guide the sleigh.  Rudolf just farts around up front, blinking his nose and acting like a hotshot.”

I decided I should change the subject. And also, cut Santa off from the bourbon.

“You were about to tell me about the kids you’ve been seeing, weren’t you?”

Santa’s eyes twinkled.  As he smiled, his dimples showed. 

“You don’t know what it’s like, McClure, being with those kids.  Among all the humans on the earth, children represent the very best in you.  But then, I don’t have to tell you.  No doubt you’ve learned that all over again, being so close to June these past four years.”

Now my eyes started to twinkle.  Or were they welling up with tears?

“Think of it from a child’s perspective, McClure.  Meeting me is a leap of faith.  First, adults bring their children to see a stranger dressed up in an outrageous costume. And then they tell them to sit on my lap.

“Go ahead,” the adults say. “Tell him what you want for Christmas.”

“And damned if they don’t.  You know why?  Because they believe in me.  You can see it in their eyes.  They trust me.  For no good reason at all.  Yeah, they may talk about some toy on the market, but I think what they’re really after is for someone to just see them, listen, and respond.”

“A personal conversation then.”

“Yeah.  Is there a better kind?  You remember. Seeing, hearing and speaking in real time in the same physical space.  Not characters in a text, not a face on a screen, not a voice through mics and earbuds.  Actual sound waves vibrating through the air.  Retinas soaking up the light off each other’s faces.  Real life, real time, real connection.”

“Where were you?”

“I was at a local preschool with three, four, and five year olds.  Talked to them in groups of ten or so, then had a discussion with each one individually. l was like a starving man at a buffet.  I may have brought joy to them, but they gave me so much in return.”

“What do you say to them?”

“As much as possible, I let them ask questions and drive the conversation.  When that doesn’t work, I thank them for the cookies they leave me, suggest the reindeer need food too, and urge them to be sure to be asleep when I arrive at their house.”

“And I always try to counteract gift getting with gift giving.  I suggest they get a gift for their Mom or Dad and then watch them closely when they unwrap it.  I tell them to look into their parents’ eyes and see the joy there.  I want them to understand that giving of themselves to those they love is just as good, if not better than receiving.”

“How does that go over?”

“They get it.  Kids understand so much more than we give them credit for.  Recognizing and treasuring joy comes natural to them.  What do you suppose happens to those beautiful children when they grow up?  How can they go from being kind, empathetic children to spiteful, unforgiving adults?  How do adults become so distant, so uncaring, so disuntrustful of one another?”

“Now who sounds like they’re losing hope?  I don’t have the answer for you, Santa, but you know as well as I that humans can change.  But we can’t create change if we stop talking, if we give up on each other.  Isn’t Christmas all about discovering the child that lives within us that becomes the light of the world?”

Santa just looked at me.

“McClure, if you keep it up, you’re going to start sounding downright profound.  I’m glad I stopped by.  How about one more for the ditch?”

He held out his cup.

“I think you’re good to go, Santa.  You have a big night coming up.  If you have another bourbon, your nose is going to be as red as that lead reindeer of yours.”

“You think so?  Is that a variation on “friends don’t let friends drive drunk? 

Santa pulled on his boots and tightened his belt.

“Hope I see you again next year, McClure.”

“Me too.”   

I opened the door for Santa, and he stepped out onto the shack porch.

“You can’t leave without saying it, Santa.”

He smiled.  “You’re kind of a little kid at heart too, aren’t you?  OK, here goes.”

 

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night.”