So here we are on Christmas Eve, and I thought I'd share with you folks a short story I wrote earlier this year for a contest on another forum. Wherever you are, and whatever you're doing, I hope you have a wonderful Christmas.
Merry Christmas, friends.
-- Pat
A Letter to Santa
“Cookies and milk,” the derision, the insult, “Sorry Bobby. It looks like Santa forgot the BB Gun again this year. Thanks for being a good boy, though.” Santa deposited a medium sized bow-wrapped box which sounded decidedly like, more, lego as it slid under the tree.
“Another chimney, another house, another plate of cookies and milk. How old do these people think I am?” Santa wiggled his nose and stared intensely at the big-screen TV hanging over the chimney, it blinked on with an audible *POP* and a familiar scene consumed the screen, “When 900 years old you reach, look as good, you will not!” Yoda chastised a young Luke Skywalker *POP* and the TV winked off again. “Yoda, you were so wise, notwithstanding your youth.” Santa lovingly placed a handful of gifts under the tree, and loaded up the smallest stockings with the most gifts.
Two continents, and about 37 million houses later, Santa reigned in Rudolph above a modest home tucked into the trees on a low mountain in Pennsylvania. “Take the crew off into the bush to forage for a bit, Rudolph. But hey! Remember! None of those damn reindeer games. You know what happened last time!” Rudolph snorted and stamped the ground, his nose glowing brightly. Dasher looked sheepishly back at Dancer and his shoulders fell slightly. Blitzen snickered.
Santa clapped his hands together in a shower of snowflakes and smoke and flew down the chimney, reincorporating on a rag rug in front of a fieldstone hearth. “Now this is my kind of place,” he said as he took in the living room. “Mind you, Rudolph wouldn’t approve of the décor,” Santa noted as he saw the big twelve point rack hanging over a leather chair. Next to the leather chair was a small, round, table with a single, lit, kerosene lamp resting on it. In the glow of the lamp was a clean ashtray with pipe rest and cork knocker, a small straight billiard pipe loaded with tobacco and an empty rock glass sitting next to a bottle of whiskey. There was, also, a note.
“Dear Santa. This is my first Christmas without my father. This was his favourite pipe, a simple basket billiard from our local tobacconist’s shop. He had it for years. I’ve loaded it with my favourite tobacco, a blend of Virginia and Perique tobaccos. Every year at Christmas my dad would come downstairs on Christmas Eve, put the cookies we’d left out for you back in the jar and give the milk to our cat, and after filling our stockings and putting out presents he’d smoke a pipe, with a whiskey, by the fire. Since he can’t do this, this year, I’m hoping you’ll do the honour in his stead. I’d step into his shoes, but I’m working midnights this week. Merry Christmas, Rick.”
Santa’s rosy cheeks were damp, and he had to clear his eyes to read the signature line of the note.
As the eastern horizon began to lighten, and Rick kicked the snow off his boots onto the front step, he was greeted at the door with a kiss from his wife. “I don’t know how you did it! But you are wonderful!”
Rick, befuddled, and more than a little tired tumbled into the foyer and took off his boots and coat. The kerosene lamp had been doused, the ashtray filled with a fine white ash, and the cork was back in the whiskey bottle, the pipe was empty and warm. The stockings hanging from the mantle were overflowing, as was the mound of presents under the simple tree.
“Erin is thrilled,” said Rick’s wife, “and you’re going to have to tell me how you got hoof prints all over the roof!”
“Merry Christmas,” said Rick, “dad.”
Merry Christmas, friends.
-- Pat
A Letter to Santa
“Cookies and milk,” the derision, the insult, “Sorry Bobby. It looks like Santa forgot the BB Gun again this year. Thanks for being a good boy, though.” Santa deposited a medium sized bow-wrapped box which sounded decidedly like, more, lego as it slid under the tree.
“Another chimney, another house, another plate of cookies and milk. How old do these people think I am?” Santa wiggled his nose and stared intensely at the big-screen TV hanging over the chimney, it blinked on with an audible *POP* and a familiar scene consumed the screen, “When 900 years old you reach, look as good, you will not!” Yoda chastised a young Luke Skywalker *POP* and the TV winked off again. “Yoda, you were so wise, notwithstanding your youth.” Santa lovingly placed a handful of gifts under the tree, and loaded up the smallest stockings with the most gifts.
Two continents, and about 37 million houses later, Santa reigned in Rudolph above a modest home tucked into the trees on a low mountain in Pennsylvania. “Take the crew off into the bush to forage for a bit, Rudolph. But hey! Remember! None of those damn reindeer games. You know what happened last time!” Rudolph snorted and stamped the ground, his nose glowing brightly. Dasher looked sheepishly back at Dancer and his shoulders fell slightly. Blitzen snickered.
Santa clapped his hands together in a shower of snowflakes and smoke and flew down the chimney, reincorporating on a rag rug in front of a fieldstone hearth. “Now this is my kind of place,” he said as he took in the living room. “Mind you, Rudolph wouldn’t approve of the décor,” Santa noted as he saw the big twelve point rack hanging over a leather chair. Next to the leather chair was a small, round, table with a single, lit, kerosene lamp resting on it. In the glow of the lamp was a clean ashtray with pipe rest and cork knocker, a small straight billiard pipe loaded with tobacco and an empty rock glass sitting next to a bottle of whiskey. There was, also, a note.
“Dear Santa. This is my first Christmas without my father. This was his favourite pipe, a simple basket billiard from our local tobacconist’s shop. He had it for years. I’ve loaded it with my favourite tobacco, a blend of Virginia and Perique tobaccos. Every year at Christmas my dad would come downstairs on Christmas Eve, put the cookies we’d left out for you back in the jar and give the milk to our cat, and after filling our stockings and putting out presents he’d smoke a pipe, with a whiskey, by the fire. Since he can’t do this, this year, I’m hoping you’ll do the honour in his stead. I’d step into his shoes, but I’m working midnights this week. Merry Christmas, Rick.”
Santa’s rosy cheeks were damp, and he had to clear his eyes to read the signature line of the note.
As the eastern horizon began to lighten, and Rick kicked the snow off his boots onto the front step, he was greeted at the door with a kiss from his wife. “I don’t know how you did it! But you are wonderful!”
Rick, befuddled, and more than a little tired tumbled into the foyer and took off his boots and coat. The kerosene lamp had been doused, the ashtray filled with a fine white ash, and the cork was back in the whiskey bottle, the pipe was empty and warm. The stockings hanging from the mantle were overflowing, as was the mound of presents under the simple tree.
“Erin is thrilled,” said Rick’s wife, “and you’re going to have to tell me how you got hoof prints all over the roof!”
“Merry Christmas,” said Rick, “dad.”
