Christmas morning, long ago. —John Messeder photo
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Oh! The weather outside is frightening — ly cold! In at least two of the past five years we have not even dragged the snowthrower out from under the pile of gardening equipment stored in the barn. But it’s Christmas Eve and there is a bluebird and a Carolina wren outside my window and Bowie the dog who thinks he’s human lies on the recliner behind me.
When I was young, one of the purposes of snow was to insulate the ground so it didn’t freeze so deeply and the thaw would not be a long, drawn out dream of spring planting season.
I mentioned one evening that I hoped there would be some snow on Christmas Eve.
“Why?” my friend asked.
“So that Santa’s sleigh doesn’t tear up the solar panels on our roof,” I replied.
When I was a mite younger, we lived in the Maine Woods, where there was snow for Thanksgiving sufficient for the men-folks to go deer-hunting while the women put the crowning touches on dinner.
As the calendar slunk up on Christmas, Dad took my brother and me tree-hunting. Trudging for what seemed like miles through waist-high snow, Rich and I would find, and Dad would decline, numerous fine-looking trees which he would note looked “a little lopsided from” the other side, or had a hole where branches had not quite filled in the preferred shape.
But finally, we would agree upon a perfect specimen and triumphantly drag it home, where Dad would proclaim his progeny had made the selection, probably hoping to shield himself from the real boss of the household discovering some problem he had not noticed — such as the two feet of tree we would have to cut off to get it in the house.
On Christmas eve, the family went to Midnight Mass. Afterward, while we kids were counting sugar plums, Santa came, set up and decorate the tree and surrounded it with gaily wrapped gifts. Then, just as the rustling in the living room broke through Mom and Dad’s slumber, he mounted his sleigh and departed on his remaining rounds.
We kids were awakened by Dad outside our bedroom window hollering at the Big Guy to stop and a disappearing voice echoing a belly-deep Ho-Ho-Ho across the frozen lake. We never did catch that guy but we did notice, just before digging into the Christmas unwrappings, that the Toll House cookies were gone from the dish next to the empty glass that, when we went to bed, had been full of milk.
Later, in a U.S. Navy patrol plane looking for places where supply ships could break through to deliver food and clothing to places in Greenland, with names such as Thule and Sondrestrom, I flew over the North Pole and actually talked to Santa by radio. He was, indeed, a jolly sounding fellow but the conversation was short as he also was very busy.
Later, when I was home on Christmas Leave, there was a phone call from Cousin Wendy Sue. Her brother, from his lofty teenage seniority, had been attempting to convince Little Sister Wendy that Santa was not real. He had seen Mommy kissing Santa, he said.
Fortunately for the red-clad elf, my credibility was better than Stephen’s. Wendy was glad to hear proof of what she thought she knew —the real Santa would be stopping at her house Christmas Eve.
Wendy Sue grew up and got married, and though it’s been a minute since last we talked, I bet her kids still pass that belief to theirs.
But for all of us who still believe in the spirit that is Christmas, come the big night, there will be some who will not be home. They will be the police, fire and emergency medical people out taking care of their neighbors. And, since at least a few of the neighbors will require special care, there will be doctors and nurses standing watch at the hospital.
I spent several Christmases of my Navy career, in places where winter was only imagined, drawn on windows with colored markers, hand-sketched scenes of remembered mountains, bright colored lights and sleds bearing huge sacks stuffed with goodies.
Outside was a part of the world where there was no snow, where history was “now” and fraught with warring factions and children whose happiness often was, and is, marked simply by being still alive.
Many of our sons, daughters, husbands, wives, brothers and sisters are there still, in an effort to keep Santa’s landing fields back home bound only by snow. They are in places on the globe marked with names including Syria and Gaza, but also Spain, Italy and Japan. They are deployed on land and on ships, in places where the sun rarely shines and places where it rarely sets.
To all of them, and to Wendy Sue’s grandkids’ kids, Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukkah. Joyous Ramadan. And similar wishes for any other holiday marking the approach to the promise of Hope and Celebration.
Text and Images ©2024 John Messeder. John is an award-winning environmental storyteller, nemophilist and social anthropologist living in Gettysburg, PA. He may be contacted at john@johnmesseder.com