The man sat at the computer typing, and wondering. Could it really be this easy? Could it really all come together so quickly, simply because the goddess of Whimsy appears? A sort of fanciful Deux ex machina? Wasn’t that cheating? Just a little? Wasn’t it almost as unsatisfying as “and then they woke up and it was all a dream?”
But how else was it all going to end? Unless something came along and put a stop to the story, the problems would just keep growing, and multiplying with each new plastic figure the boy pulled out of the silly cardboard boxes. But today was a sleigh. The last toy. Today everything needed to be wound up. Fixed. Right? But could the whole mess really be fixed with one fell swoop? Maybe that’s how things worked sometimes.
And there was no doubt that the goddess of whimsy was really home. His Cindi had appeared on the doorstep last night, in the rain, bringing the light with her, as she did wherever she went. And he was bound and determined that he would protect and cherish that light this time – not drip all over it like she said he had done in the past.
But no, it wasn’t all fixed in one fell swoop. Not just like that. Everything wasn’t automatically perfect, peachy-keen, and hunky-dory. No, there wasn’t going to be anything easy about it. Not for him, and not for the mythical creatures. The problems were still here. He still didn’t have a job, and she still wanted to do goofy stuff all the time. She had no appreciation for resting.
And in the mythical world, the presents still needed to be delivered, Santa and Manchester still needed to see eye to eye, and the wiener dogs and Martin the pig still needed to get back to their big house by the edge of the woods near the bridge.
But at least she was home.
* * *
“But you look like a girl!” Grandma Weaver lamented. George and Brittany’s family sat around the fancy dining room table eating Christmas Eve turkey from the good china dishes with the good plate silver. Four pink and purple candles were burning in the advent wreath, but the center Christmas candle, the white one, wouldn’t be lit until tomorrow.
“I know a good barber who could fix that right up.” Grandpa Weaver offered.
Mr. Weaver sighed and shook his head. “Mom, leave the boy alone. He’s a good boy. He’s polite. He gets good grades.”
Grandpa Weaver grinned, “Kind to animals. Helps little old ladies across the street.”
Grandma Weaver reached across the table, and tried to push some of George’s bangs out of his face. “But he still looks like a girl.”
To her surprise, Brittany found herself trying to defend her big brother, “No he doesn’t. Look. He’s got a little bit of fuzz growing on his upper lip. It’s very masculine.”
Grandma Weaver kept going. “Obama is going to pass a law that all boys have to have short hair.”
That was too much. More than George could stand. “MayIpleasebeexcused? I’mfullnow.” George mumbled, and he pushed his plate away, pushed his chair back, and was out of the room before anyone could respond. He didn’t even know how to react to that kind of stuff, and it made him so mad, and he didn’t look like a girl, and why did they care if he did? His hair wasn’t even that long. It was only in his eyes a little. Grandma was being completely unfair! He was back here in this world with his family. One hundred percent back – not moping, ready to work again in school, and he was going to try to really learn things, not just get good grades, because he was tired of being an idiot, and he wanted to be smart when he found Una again, and he was even being nice to his sister, and now everybody was mad because of his hair, and why couldn’t he ever do anything right? He couldn’t sit there at the table with them, because if he did, he was going to lose his temper and yell, or hit somebody, and it was all too bad because the Christmas Eve turkey was really good, and the mashed potatoes with gravy, but he couldn’t go back there, because he didn’t know if she was serious or not about the Obama thing, but he remembered that once she had tried to tell his mom that women would all have to wear the Muslim robes, because of Obama. The worst thing was, he was still hungry.
“What’s wrong?” Grandma asked back at the table. “I thought it was funny.”
* * *
The Meren family was home from Midnight mass. Joey, as the youngest child, was allowed to choose and open one Christmas present. Grandma and Grandpa were eagerly perched on the edge of the couch, leaning forward, watching him. They were very excited about the particular present that he had picked. It had been sitting on a high shelf in the hall closed wrapped for two months. Exactly the remote control car he had asked for.
Joey ripped the paper off, saw the gift, and set it aside. “Thank you very much,” he said, and he got up, kissed them each mechanically, and went down the hall toward bed. His Dad got up and followed him, to make sure he changed out of his white shirt and necktie from church before going to sleep.
Pete couldn’t believe what an idiot his brother was.
“Well, I did expect a little more enthusiasm.” Grandpa admitted.
“I’m sorry.” Mrs. Meren said. “It’s late. He doesn’t always think. I’m sure he really likes it.”
“But it’s just what he asked for.” Grandma said. “Isn’t it what he wanted?”
“Look, my brother’s an idiot. You can’t pay attention to him.” Pete tried to explain. But it didn’t do any good. Now his mother looked like she was going to get mad at him, so he supplied the real reason.
“It’s just that he has the same car at home.”
“He does?” Grandma and Grandpa were surprised.
“Actually,” his mom explained quietly, “you got him the same car last year.”
Their faces dropped. Pete could tell that they didn’t remember, and that this had been the big gift – the one Joey was supposed to be excited about. Pete hated the way they looked all disappointed. The wrinkles that didn’t show much at all when they were smiling suddenly seemed very deep.
“But it’s good that he has two. This way, he and his friends can race. You’ll see. He’ll really like it.”
“Pete’s right you know” his mom smiled at him gratefully. “What good is one remote control car?”
Grandpa patted Grandma’s hand. “We’d better go to bed.” And they walked down the hall, arm in arm.
December 24
Once upon a time, there was an elderly gentleman who lived at the North Pole in a building that was part homestead, part workshop, and part dormitory for elves. He was a kindly old man who exuded a deep wisdom, an inner calm, a joviality, and an almost supernatural understanding of events past and present. His name was Santa Claus, and yes, he had a long white beard, and wore a red coat.
On this particular once upon a time, he sat in his den -- a cozy room decorated with music boxes from around the world. He sat in his den with Manchester, the head of his elf-guild, and with a wise, snowy owl, who had been heard hooting in these parts on or about December 12. The owl wasn’t in the story then. The hooting was merely foreshadowing.
Thanks to the fortunate, shimmering, albeit almost too late arrival of the Goddess of Whimsy, all has reverted to right in the Christmastide dimension. The elves are returned, Santa is cured, and the snowy owl is now able to come in out of the cold, perch on Santa’s roll-top desk, and perform his time-honored job as mediator. The dispute he is currently mediating is between Santa: the boss, and Manchester: the head of the elf-guild. The snowy owl is in the story now.
The wiener dogs and the pig from another dimension have been dispersed with orders to remove the Christmastide animals from the observation warren of the rabbits before those good animals awaken, and the warren itself fades away into the dimension in which it belongs, while the fox from the office at the crossroads of the worlds continues to herd together animals who have inadvertently wandered through the small but growing holes in the fabric of the Christmastide universe.
But, everything is not perfection, because Christmas is still way behind schedule. Oh, there are enough presents to go around, maybe a little lighter than usual, but that will be OK because Christmas had been getting a little overboard with materialism anyway. People had been forgetting about the spirit of giving. No, the issue isn’t the presents; the issue will be the delivery. The spell on the reindeer will wear off, but not for another six months. The other issue is the growing list of grievances filed by Manchester, the head of the elf guild.
And so, the wise snowy owl sat down with Santa Claus and Manchester the elf in Santa’s cozy den, decorated with music boxes from around the world.
“It is very important that we resolve these issues before Christmas is cancelled altogether.” The snowy owl explained. “It is now, as you know, late evening on December 24. The sled must be loaded within the hour, if any presents at all are to reach the children of the world. He frowned over the list of complaints.
v Micro-circuitry in the modern electronic toys becoming too much of a strain on the elves' vision.
v Inhumanly increased volume of toys expected, due to over promising by shortsighted, indulgent parents unable to cope with an increasingly materialistic world.
v Hostile work environment, due to lack of leadership ability to prevent overworked, overstressed elves from being mean to one another.
v Incomprehensibly overcomplicated paychecks – suspected unfairness, and favoritism.
v Elves are tired of red and green uniforms, but unable to agree on whether to replace them with yellow and green, or orange and black.
The owl sighed, and shook his head, rotating it 180º. “This sounds very bad indeed.”
Santa merely shook his own head, which he was not able to rotate 180º. “I’m afraid that, while I do seem to have an almost supernatural understanding of events past and present, these problems are beyond my ability to solve.”
“Yes,” intoned the snowy owl, “I do believe they are.”
“Well then, there is no point in further negotiations,” Manchester the elf rose from his seat, and prepared to storm petulantly out of the room. “We can no longer work under these conditions.”
“Sit down elf.” The snowy owl commanded.
The elf sat down.
The owl continued. “I said that there is nothing that Santa Claus, by himself, can do. This is a weighty matter, and all parties must effect an organizational transformation from deep within our hearts and souls.”
Santa and Manchester looked at the Snowy owl blankly.
The snowy owl continued. “We must endure the Total Truth Process.”
To be continued . . .
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