Christmas Stories #1

A Christmas Fairy Tale

"Christmas Eve so still I know

But something’s in the wind

There’s a sense of magic about

It’s now we need our friends.”

Last Christmas Eve began no different from any other before it. I rose at 7.30 as I always

do, and, yawning, opened the blinds to see what the day ahead offered. It was a cool dark

morning so typical of midwinter. A thin wisp of frost covered the ground, my car and a few

scattered toys the children had absentmindedly left out. Simply looking out onto the frosty

wonderland sent shivers down my spine, so taking hold of my dressing gown, embracing

its wonderful warmth, I pulled it tightly around me. “That’s better,” I said quietly, not

wanting to awaken anyone.

Still yawning, I walked down the hallway and into the kitchen where I plugged in the kettle

for the most important part of the day – my first mug of coffee. For someone who has

never imbibed of this aromatic concoction it is impossible to understand the importance of

it. Why, even the simple act of spooning the granules sent my pulse racing. “Coffee’s

coming!” my receptive brain tells my eagerly awaiting body. And when I pour the hot,

boiling water releasing the full aroma of the coffee beans my taste buds go into sensory

overload. Last but not least I pour in a few drops of milk – just to colour it. It’s now ready.

Raising the mug to my, eagerly awaiting lips, I take a big gulp – it’s wonderful. I can now

begin to contemplate another day.

Pulling a high-stool up to the café bar I place myself upon it. Then, almost without thinking,

I grab the TV remote control and press the green button. It’s an old television that has

slowed down over the years (like us all), so it takes its time to awaken each morning.

When the picture finally does materialise my mind is immediately drawn away from the

‘coffee ceremony’ to the scene being played out upon it. I stop slouching. I stare, shifting

my position, edging closer to the cathode ray tube unable to fully take in the spectacle I

see. “It’s him!” I cry. “This can’t be right. Where are the programme presenters?” I ask,

quizzingly. Placing my now half empty mug upon the worktop I rub both eyes in

incredulation. “It’s him, it’s really him,” I repeat, still unwilling to believe what I can actually

see. I check the television station and, yes, it is the usual one I watch for the early morning

news. But all I can see is the full, round face of Father Christmas staring out from it. I flick

across to another channel, but there he is again. I try each and every one of the myriad

channels available, but all I can see on every one of them is Father Christmas.

“What’s going on here? I ask, drumming the counter in puzzlement. Then the penny drops

- “Sure it’s the 24th of December,” I proclaim. “It’s Christmas Eve, and everyone knows

that Santa comes at Christmas time. That’s the reason why he’s on the TV; it must be

some sort of seasonal, charity special!” I say, trying to convince myself.

More relaxed now, believing that I had sorted that out, I reach for my mug and take

another swig of coffee; It’s almost cold. “Why is it that cold coffee tastes so awful?” I moan.

There’s nothing else for it another one is called for, so pulling myself away from the TV I

switch on the kettle and reach for the coffee jar. It’s then I notice something odd,

something very odd indeed. The TV… It not even plugged in!

Scratching my head in bewilderment, and then double-checking, to convince myself that

I’m not going mad, I follow the lead back from the socket to the appliance, and it’s most

certainly out. I scratch my head again, trying to make some sense, if any, of the situation.

“Hmm,” I whisper, adding, “I’ll sort this out.” And with that I reach for the remote control,

and with no hesitation press the red button. “Hah, that will sort you out, ” I laugh.

And for a while it did; the picture on the screen obediently faded away leaving a rectangle

of greyness it its wake. “Hah, I knew that would fix it,” I laughed, proud to have erased

Santa from my sight.

Just then the kettle, having boiled, switched itself off. I spooned in another measure of

coffee and poured the hot water over it. “Another few drops of milk and all will be well in

the world,” I said, putting the bizarre experience well and truly behind me.

“Why did you do that?”

I froze. “Who said that?” I asked, too scared to raise my eyes from the worktop.

“I did.” The voice, said again.

“Who?” I asked, timidly.

“Look up, Jeremiah. Look up, to the face of Christmas,” the mysterious voice commanded.

Trying to gather as much courage as I could hope for (considering the circumstances),

and with trembling hands and shaking mug, I lifted my gaze towards the voice. Father

Christmas was once again beaming out from the TV screen, smiling at me nonchalantly. In

shock I fell off the stool, knocking over the newly filled mug in the process“What’s wrong,

Jeremiah?” the old man asked, chuckling.

Pulling myself up to the counter, while righting the overturned mug, I stared at the screen,

asking,

“Is that really you, Santa?”

“It most certainly is, Jeremiah.”

“But why?” I asked, unable to think of anything more profound to say.

“It’s Christmas,” he replied, “what better reason is there?”

He was right. What better time for Father Christmas to appear than the festive season?

“Can everyone see you?” I asked him, enquiringly.

“You mean am I on every TV in the land? he replied, eying me with his large round eyes.

“Yes, can everyone else see you?” I asked again.

Before replying the old man laughed, a real jovial Santa Laugh, “No, I’m afraid not. I am

only on this television – for your eyes only.” At that his mood changed dramatically, he

became quite, most unlike the Father Christmas we have all learned to expect and to love.

He remained silent, and did so for what seemed like an eternity, this old man on the TV,

with head lowered and eyes cast down - the only thing audible being his heavy, steady

breathing.

As I waited for him to say something – anything, my mind couldn’t help but wander. I found

my thoughts drifting back, back to my childhood days many years ago. Once again I was

young, I was carefree, without a worry or a care in the world – it was fantastic. I found

myself asking, “How could I have forgotten the magic of Christmas, a time when anything is

possible, if you believe it to be so?”

With these thoughts set firmly, my mind came back to the present realising just what I had

lost. Somewhere along the way I had lost something, something very special. I lost – we

have all lost the magic of youth. I could see how, as we grow older, we lose this frame of

mind, a mindset that is open to anything, and where everything is possible. I shouted, at

the top of my voice, “I must do something to rectify this situation.” And it was then I noticed

Father Christmas, Santa and all the other names that he is called throughout the world,

looking down at me, smiling.

“You now see, don’t you?” he asked kind-heartedly.

Shaking with excitement, I replied, “I do, I most certainly do, and it’s fantastic! How can we

have lost this – this enchantment? How can we have been so blind? There are children,

everywhere, all around us, children now living the dream, but my mind, all adults minds are

closed to the world they see. How? What, must I do to change this?” I implored him.

At this point, what must have been the strangest thing in the whole episode occurred. For

a second or two I felt giddy, a little feint – it lasted no more three seconds at tops, but

when this light-headedness had lifted, lo-and-behold, standing right there in front of me,

and as large as life, was Father Christmas visible for all the world to see. I almost fell of

the stool again.

“Phew! I thought I might never get here,” the old man said, brushing down his bright red

suit with a dark, gloved hand.

“You’re here,” I blurted out, unable to say anything more meaningful.

Looking at himself, making sure that everything was where it was supposed to be, Santa

replied,

"Yes, it seems so.” Then he added, “Though I do think it’s about time I got a new outfit,

this one is getting a bit thin at the seams, and the red does show up all that soot.”

“A new outfit?”

“Yes, something more practical, a dark grey maybe. What do you think?”

Even though I was still in a state of shock at meeting the real Father Christmas I almost

choked at the thought of him sporting a dark grey Santa Suit. “You must be mad,” I

retorted forcefully.

He looked at me questioningly, and then pushing his round, rimless glasses up his wrinkly

nose, he said, “Perhaps you’re right. I could be mistaken for a burglar, and Ho, ho ho’s

mightn’t get me out from that.”

I said nothing, nor did the old man; Silence once again took hold of our meeting – it

reigned. Apart from him taking out a large linen handkerchief, and blowing into it, clearing

his nose, not a sound could be heard. I wondered how my wife and two children (a boy

and a girl) had been able to sleep though all the shouting I had been doing (not to

mention the TV blaring out). Oh well, there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,

than are dreamt of in your philosophy...

When Father Christmas began to speak again, it was with a purpose. This man, this good,

old man had a definite, planned strategy in mind. He said, “Listen, Jeremiah I have much

to tell you, and so little time in which to say it, heed my words…”

He talked. I listened. Sometimes I had to interrupt him asking a question, or for clarification

on an item, but for the most part it was he who spoke. And what he said to me on that cold

December morning, I had, in essence, somehow always known. He told me that our life

here on Earth is short, that we are here for a purpose, an opportunity that must not be

wasted. He said, “Grab the moment, be it Christmas or any time of the year. Live life to the

full – that is how we can change the mindset of mankind for the better. The old man

finished with… “That is all I can tell you, Jeremiah. I hope that you now fully understand

the importance of saving the Spirit of Christmastime, not just for a few short weeks each

year, but for always.”

“I do, “I replied with a conviction that I had never, ever in my fifty-two years of life,

experienced before.”

“Then I will leave it up to you,” he said, “I have a busy night ahead, I must be away...” And

with that he was gone – disappeared, into thin air…

While gathering my racing thoughts, trying to get my mind around the strange encounter

that I had just experienced, I heard the first awakenings of my wife and children. Then,

looking outside through the steamed up window, I discovered that it was beginning to

snow. “That’s nice,” I remarked.

“I thought you hated snow,” my wife, Breda, said, standing in the open doorway.

“I used to, but not any more – It’s Christmas! Let’s go out and make snowmen.” I said. She looked at me suspiciously.

The mere mention of snow was enough for Eric and Victoria who dashed out from their

bedrooms; Victoria pulling a heavy sweater over her head, trying to get it over her pigtails,

and Eric, well he was being Eric shoving one arm into his duffle coat while at the same

time trying to tuck his shirt into his pants with the other, and with little or no success at

either. “Snow!!!” the shouted in unison, displaying all too plainly the magic of youth we can

so easily miss.

“Last one out’s a rotten egg,” I shouted, as they scrambled past, determined not to be that egg.

“It’s only just begun snowing, Breda complained, “and what about your dressing gown?”

We never heard her words… we were out in a wonderland dancing, singing and playing in

the falling snowflakes.

“Look,” I called, to Eric and Victoria. “Look at this snowflake, see how it’s formed.” My two

children, with wide-open eyes and even more open minds, watched as I pointed to a

particularly large one that had landed on the arm of my dressing gown. “Look, look closely

at it. See its beauty.” I explained. “And did you know that there were never two snowflakes

the same, ever! Isn’t that amazing.”

Eric and Victoria’s faces edged ever closer to the most wondrous snowflake discovered.

Then suddenly, because of their warm breath, it began to melt. “It’s melting,” they

shouted, distraught at its impending demise.

“Don’t worry, let’s find another, even more wondrous one that that was.” I urged them.

“Hurray, it’s Christmas,” they cheered. “Hurray for daddy, even though he’s a bit weird.”

When we were finally worn out from playing in the snow (we had even managed to build a

small snowman), Eric and Victoria returned indoors with me. Breda gave me a cross look

(though not too cross) and told us that breakfast was ready. We had piping hot chocolate,

and pancakes dripping with butter and honey – a perfect start to a perfect Christmas.

Later, after Eric and Victoria were long gone to bed, Breda, snuggling up close to me on

the couch, said, “What came over you, today?”

“What do you mean?” I replied.

“You’re different. It’s like you’ve rediscovered your childhood,” she said. “There’s a magic

about you – is this making any sense?” she asked me intriguingly.

“More sense than you can ever imagine,” I replied, smiling. “And a Happy Christmas to you.”

If you thought I was going to tell Breda that I actually saw Father Christmas, you are in for

a surprise – I didn’t. Though, perhaps, just perhaps, I might have told Eric and Victoria...

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© Gerrard T Wilson 2008