exclaimed, in reply.
Examining himself, making sure that everything was where it should be, he answered, “Yes, it’s me alright. I tend to get a bit frayed at the edges, though, when I to that, TV thingy stuff.” His round, rimless spectacles halfway down his fat, wrinkly nose the old man scrutinized his red and white suit, and then he said, “I think it’s about time I got a new outfit, this one is getting a bit thin at the seams. Moreover, the bright colours get so dirty going up and down all those chimneys.”
Shocked that he had said such a revolutionary thing, I gawped, “A new outfit?”
“Yes, something more practical, such as grey – or a nice shade of green,” he suggested, his voice trailing off uncertainly. “What are your thoughts on the subject?” he asked.
Although I was gobsmacked at how he had managed to get out from the TV and into my kitchen, I was even more gobsmacked by him suggesting he swop his red and white suit for a grey one. “You must be mad, considering such a queer thing!” I cried out in alarm.
Father Christmas looked at me questioningly for a few seconds, and then he pushed his glasses higher on his nose and said, “Perhaps you are right. I could be mistaken for a burglar, wearing a dour colour such as grey. And no amount of ho, ho, hoeing would help me to explain that.”
After that, I said nothing, nor did Father Christmas. Silence once again took hold of our meeting; it reigned supreme. Although it was then so quite, a few moments earlier, when I and the old man had been engaged in full, unfettered discourse, silence had been a scarce commodity in our kitchen. I wondered if my wife two children (a boy and a girl) were still sleeping soundly in their beds, and if not, I wondered if they had heard what I and the old man had been talking about. Then I said it, quietly and singularly, to myself, “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”I have no idea why I said that, perhaps someday I will...
Finally, Father Christmas resumed speaking. This time, however, it was with a clear purpose. He said, “Listen, Jeremiah, I have much to tell you, just why I am here, but there is so little time in which I might do it. Heed my words well…”
Santa talked. I listened. He talked some more. I listened some more. Sometimes I had to interrupt him, to ask a question, or to ask him to clarify something he had said, but most of this time I remained silent, listening intently to what he was telling me, to the wondrous, magical knowledge he was imparting to me.
On that cold December morning, Father Christmas told me something that I already knew, that time had hidden a long way, deep down inside of me. He told me that life, here on Earth, is short, that we are here for a purpose; an opportunity that must not be wasted. He said, “Seize the moment, be it Christmas or any time of the year. By living you life to the full,” he went on, “you can change the mindset of mankind, for the better.” The old man finished, by saying, “That is all I can tell you, Jeremiah. I hope you now understand the true Spirit of Christmas and the importance of embracing it – and spreading it – throughout the entire year.” “I do, I most certainly do – and I will!” I said to him, with a conviction of thought I had never, ever before felt in my life.”
“Then my work here is finished,” he then said to me. “I have a busy night ahead of me. I must be away...” Having said that, he was gone; disappeared into thin air.
As I stared at the television, wondering, hoping he might reappear on its screen, I tried to gather my thoughts and get my mind round what I had seen and experienced that morning. Hearing movements upstairs, I realised my family were awake. Running into the kitchen my children, Eric and Victoria, said, “Who were you talking to, daddy?”
“I was talking to the Spirit of Christmas, dears,” I answered obliquely. Pulling back one of the curtains, I glanced at the wintry scene outside. It was beginning to snow. “That’s nice,” I said contentedly, happily, to myself, “I thought you hated the snow,” Breda, my wife, said as she appeared in the kitchen doorway.
“I used to, but not anymore,” I answered. Turning to Eric and Victoria, I said, “It’s Christmas Eve; let’s go outside and make snowmen.” The mere mention of snow was enough for Eric and Victoria, and they dashed, cheering and laughing excitedly, for the door leading out from the kitchen and into the garden. “Not until you are dressed properly,” Breda warned.
“Do we have to?” Eric groaned.
“Must we?” Victoria grated uneasily. Nodding, their mother said it was so.
Yanking her sweater over her head, while stepping into her jeans, Victoria tried to don them as fast as was humanly possible. Eric, though, being – well, Eric, shoved an arm into his duffle coat while trying to tuck his shirt into his pants even though they were not yet on. Helping him out, his mother said, “You are such an excited ankle biter. I don’t know who you inherited your personality from, me or your father.”
Ignoring her remonstrations, Eric pulled up his trousers and settled his shirt into them. Then he opened the door and yelled, “SNOW!”
Having no intention of being outdone by her sibling, Victoria hollered, “SNOW SNOW SNOW!”
“Last one out’s a rotten egg!” I said excitedly to them as we scrambled through the open doorway, each one of us determined not to be that rotten egg.
Gazing disapprovingly at us from inside the doorway, Breda said, “It’s just started to snow. There is hardly any of it on the ground yet.”
Outside, oblivious to her words, enjoying the wondrous white stuff, we were in a winter wonderland, dancing, singing and playing in the softly, silently falling snow.
“Look!” I called out to Eric and Victoria. “Look at this snowflake that has landed on my sleeve. See how it’s formed – so perfectly!” My children gazed inquisitively at it, with eyes wide open and with minds even more so.
“Look, look closely at it,” I said, pointing to the snowflake. “See its beauty, its exquisite beauty.” They studied it closely. “And did you,” I asked them, “that no two snowflakes are ever the same? Not ever! Isn’t that amazing?”
Eric and Victoria edged closer and closer to the most wondrous snowflake ever discovered. Then, because of their warm breath bearing down upon it, the snowflake began to melt.
“It’s melting,” they cried out, distraught at its impending demise.
“Don’t worry,” I answered, consoling them, “we’ll find another, even more wondrous snowflake to inspect.” “Hurray!” they cheered. “It will soon be Christmas – and it’s snowing! Hurray for daddy, even though he’s awfully weird.”
Then we played in the snow, searching for ever more incredulous snowflakes to examine and enjoy. We even managed to build a small snowman.
Later, tired but incredibly happy, we made our way indoors. Breda looked disapprovingly at us (we were wet with melted snow), then she told us that breakfast was ready; piping hot chocolate with pancakes smothered in hot butter and honey. It was the perfect start to a perfect Christmas.
Much later, after Eric and Victoria were asleep in their beds, Breda snuggled up close to me on the couch. “Whatever came over you, today?” she asked.
“What do you mean?” I innocently answered.
“You were – are different. Playing with the kids, as you did, it’s like you were a child again. Does this make any sense to you?” she asked, snuggling in closer to me.
“More sense than you can ever imagine,” I replied, smiling lovingly at her. “Merry Christmas – and God bless us, everyone.”
A Note: If anyone reading this story thinks I told Breda about Father Christmas and the TV set, you are in for a surprise, because I didn’t. Though, perhaps, just perhaps, I might have told Eric and Victoria about it.
THE END.
That’s it for now.
Best wishes from the Crazymad Writer – ARRRGH.
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A Christmas Fairytale Page 2