White Christmas

I dreaming of a white Christmas.

It’s a fevered dream that is the result of some bad eggnog, but it is still my dream.

Just once before I die, I would like to wake up on Christmas morning, fling open my window to find my front yard covered in snow. Or at least, not wake up to 80-degree weather.

I’ve gotten used to the disappointment over the years and learned to just live with the heat. But now I have to sit in it wearing three layers of fur and velvet.

Since my beautiful wife decided to start a Christmas tree farm a few years ago, dealing with the annual holiday heatwave has become a real challenge.

Now, during the four weekends before Christmas, I throw off my regular winter uniform of shorts and a paint-splattered t-shirt in exchange for wearing a ten pound outfit made of thick red velvet. And to make it even a little more comfortable, the person who created the suit thought it would be a good idea to attach a heavy layer of Polar Bear fur around the neck and wrists.

If I were actually wearing the suit at the North Pole, it would be quite cozy. But I live in South Georgia where the only time the word ‘polar’ is used is when we stop off at the corner convenience store and fill up our 96-ounce Polar Pop styrofoam cup with Mt. Dew.

Hey, all sizes are 99 cents so who can resist?

This past weekend, our area experienced an unusual wave heat and humidity. Well, I guess it can’t be categorized as unusual when it is always like this.

Maybe the correct word is dreaded.

Our busy days at the tree farm are Saturdays so I play Father Christmas for pretty much the entire day. The suit goes on and I park my velvet-swathed butt in a rocking chair that is also covered with velvet for at least eight hours.

Velvet in velvet. Ugghh!

Add to that the fact that I am basically sitting in a greenhouse and it’s the perfect storm for self conflagration.

The first couple of hours aren’t too bad. The sun is still behind the trees and, if there is a breeze coming in through the doors, it is pretty tolerable.

Kinda’ like sitting wrapped in a big fluffy towel, awaiting the masseuse to show up and give you a good rub down at the spa.

But then the sun rises above the trees and begins shining right in your face through those windows. That’s when things start to get fun.

At first, I can fan myself with an old funeral home fan I keep hidden in the folds of my red suit. It’s a nice one with a picture of Jesus on one side and the logo of the funeral home on the other with their slogan, “You stab ‘em and we’ll slab ‘em!”

I made that slogan up but it would catch the attention of potential customers, don’t you think?

There is only so much air a funeral home fan can move and after a couple of hours, I just give up and sit and stew in my own juices.

And that is not an attempt at paradoxical language. I am literally stewing in my own juices.

I start feeling the sweat rolling down my back. My mascara starts to run. It’s a mess.

But the heat doesn’t keep me from being jolly when a child bounds through the door expecting to sit in Santa’s lap and rattle off their wish list.

Despite the heat, I am committed to my craft and never break character.

Well, I came close yesterday.

I had been in the ‘hotbox’ for about three hours. Every time I shifted my velvet-wrapped derrière in my chair, I could feel the sweat puddling in a new orifice.

It’s times like this when I gaze through the windows towards the heavens and plead with God.

“Lord, please let there be a blizzard. I promise that if you will do it just this one time, I’ll shave my head, sell all of my possessions and become a missionary to Uzbekistan.”

But no matter how long I wait, the Lord never answers so I just sit there and melt.

Maybe the Lord is teaching me a lesson about climate change.

“I told you that if you kept using hair spray in the 70s, this would happen. But you wouldn’t listen and just kept on spraying that Aqua-Net with disregard for the planet. Now look at you!”

Of course, God would sound like a very angry Morgan Freeman.

But, back to the story.

I was sitting in the hotbox, feverishly working that funeral home fan (you stab ‘em and we’ll slab ‘em) when a little boy of about four wandered through the door.

There was dried snot under his nose and he was sucking on a big red candy cane.

The little boy ran across the floor and bounded up into my lap.

For a few minutes, he just stared at me and continued to lick that candy cane.

On closer inspection, I noticed the candy was coated with all types of debris.

Little bits of leaves, some dirt and plenty of hair.

I pushed down my gag reflex as me and kid stared me down for a few seconds.

Maybe he didn’t speak English. Or had eaten so much candy that he was in the throes of a mild diabetic coma. The kid just stared and licked.

Finally, I asked him his name and what he wanted for Christmas. And he just kept of staring and sucking on that hairy candy cane.

I was hot. I was irritated. I was wrapped up in several layers of velvet, sitting in a pool of own sweat. And now, I had a little snot-nosed toddler sitting in my lap, sucking loudly on a gooey stick of sugar and grabbing at my beard with his grubby little fingers.

I had never just given up on a child before. I had always managed to work up a smile and pry some language skills out of most obstinate child.

But as I looked at this little critter sitting on my knee, I felt my fatherly instinct start to fade.

 

I was at the end of my soggy rope and was just about ready to push the little boy off my lap and tell him to come back when he learned to talk when the toddler suddenly stopped licking his candy cane.

And he spoke.

“Are you the real Santa?”

“Of course,” I said.

He studied me for a little longer, paying close attention to my beard. All those counterfeit Santa’s have a fake beard. I have been growing mine since September. It’s real.

I noticed a small tear on the little boy’s cheek. And then he whispered.

“My grandpa died,” he said.

For a second, I didn’t know what to say. Most kids tell me what they want for Christmas. They don’t talk about death.

They don’t teach a response to that question in Santa School.

And I have never gone to Santa School.

So, I did the best I could.

“Do you miss him?” I asked.

The little boy nodded. A couple more tiny tears ran down his cheeks.

He looked at me. I wondered if he thought since Santa has magical reindeer and can fly around the entire world in a single night that St. Nick had the power to bring his grandpa back.

I don’t.

So I did the only thing I could. I pulled the little boy closer to me and hugged him. I no longer cared if that candy cane with all the dirt and hair got on me.

This was more important.

We stayed that way for a moment and then the little boy squirmed out of my arms and ran back out of the door and disappeared into the trees.

As he faded away, I was wondered if the little boy was real. I’ve seen enough Hallmark movies to know that at Christmas time, all kind of weird stuff happens.

People come back from the dead. Little children ghosts wander out of the trees.

Maybe he was an angel sent by God to show me that there are more important things than snow on Christmas.

I looked back up into the bright sky and told God that I was sorry for being so selfish.

Then I shifted a little in my chair and felt the puddle underneath me.

Only this time, it wasn’t sweat. It was melted snow.

Just in time for Christmas.