Taking the Guided Tour

Nathan Hackman · Taking The Guided Tour

The other boys splashed, swam, or paddled around in the river, but the current was too strong for Isaac. He’d grab onto a rock, and say, “Ok, Daddy. Let go.” I would, and he would hang on for a few seconds, until his hands slipped, or the rock worked loose from the clay, and he’d go floating downstream until I caught him. We worked out a system, where he’d lay belly-down in the water, wedged up against my legs. That would hold him in position, so he could dip his head under the water, goggles on, and watch the fish swim past. There were fish, dozens, hundreds of them, ranging from a few inches to a foot or more, swimming, darting out from under your shadow as you moved, hovering just beyond finger’s reach. Isaac must have been treated to an amazing show, of which, as his anchor, I received only a glimpse; but the water was shallow and clear. I saw just enough standing above him to be impressed – just enough of the fish, but so much more.

The river was perfectly flat, like a table, a table that was alive and moving. The current was fast, but the water didn’t betray so much as a ripple, except for where the boys played, then it curled up, bubbling, gurgling, and complaining around their disturbance. The trees bent far out from the shore, dangling over the water, full and green; but not with the bold lushness of spring. The leaves bore the deep dark green tiredness of late summer. The brown of the river, and dark of the trees popped against the bright blue sky, which was littered with clouds; not the white clouds of your dreams, but just white at the edges, fading to heavier grays of moisture toward their centers. The wind partnered the clouds to tell the tale of a coming storm. The wind carried a coolness on it, a coolness unthinkable just a few weeks before. But there it was. The orange glow of an August afternoon, the tired trees, the cool wind: summer was ending. I stood and took it all in, glued to the rocky bottom, an anchor in the river, deprived of the fish-show below, and I didn’t mind at all.

C. S. Lewis once wrote, “Where ancient man felt himself guided through an immense cathedral, modern man feels adrift on a shoreless sea.” My children happily remind me that I am old, but I don’t think they’ve ventured so far as “ancient.” Still, I’ve always carried a suspicion that I may have been happier in another age, when things maybe weren’t simpler, just different.

Our summer was full. I don’t say busy. Life is always busy. Summer was full. It is not an overstatement to say I was either packing, traveling, or unpacking. Many times, there was no unpacking, only laundry and leaving once again. I wasn’t happy about our summer schedule. It was too much, I thought. It left little time for contemplating, less for reading, and none for writing. All the systems and practices which keep me sane were set aside. All my cherished projects were abandoned. I had to live and operate differently than I preferred for several months. I was not happy; but I was also wrong. In hindsight, my summer experience can best be described with Lewis’ words, “guided through an immense cathedral.” Each trip, each excursion, was like blinking my eyes to reveal another spectacle of creation. I did not study. I did not meditate. I did not need to. God was showing off, and whispering in my ear through it all.

In Jamaica, the water glows at night, “Just dip your hand in and wiggle it around for your own personal light show; but pull your hand out and for a few seconds your skin will sparkle like the stars. Now, go ahead, just jump in. It’s mine, anyway. Tell them I said it’s okay.”

Driving to Wisconsin, “Let’s make a bet, I can make a road longer than you can stay awake. And after you lose that bet, I’ll have another road, and another, and another; and when you’ve gone ‘round them all, you’ll only come ‘round to the beginning. This is just one of the places I’ve made.”

Watching the sun set across the Chesapeake Bay, “You liked that? Come back tomorrow, and the next night. You know what? I’m going to give you six of these, right in a row. The same thing every night, but always different, always breathtaking.”

On the Youghiogeny River where the mountains and trees pinch the sky into a narrow band, and the rapids can suck you into and underwater cave, and never let you go, “Yes, this one is strong enough to hold you until you die. I can hold you until it all comes alive.”

Cresting the last breaker in a kayak off the shore of North Carolina, just in time to catch a dolphin surfacing a few dozen feet away, “Scared you for a second, didn’t I? You wouldn’t believe what else I’ve got down there.”

And finally, standing in a river bed a mile from my home, lamenting missing the fish show, “You’re sad you missed that? Look around you, here’s another show. In fact, it’s all a show, all the time. You just haven’t been watching. Now you know.”

And that was my summer. Touring the cathedral with God whispering brags in my ear. Each snapshot, and a thousand others I can never share, melded into one image of the God who made us, loves us, and holds us all together. . .

 

but I’m still not doing that crazy schedule ever again.

Why Weezer Still Matters

 

On a steamy-hot Mid-Atlantic July morning, a cluster of eleven-year-olds crowded onto a picnic table, cramming together to avoid spilling out of the shade of the tarp spread overhead. The sound of music wafted through the woods, growing louder, until a handful of camp counselors burst into the clearing, yelling and cheering to the background of Weezer’s My Name is Jonas. It was Weezer Wednesday. The counselors, all in their late-teens or early-twenties, executed roll call on the picnic table, asking the younger kids not only their name, but also their favorite Weezer song and album. The kids had no answer, but when the counselors turned to a group of adults at the edge of the clearing, asking the same question, nearly every one had an opinion. A few minutes later, as the counselors were herding the kids out of the clearing and toward the pool, I grabbed a counselor and asked, “Hey, Weezer Wednesday?”

“Every week,” he answered. “Weezer is awesome!”

 

A few weeks later, Caleb and I were driving in the car. I quietly hummed along as Undone played on the radio. “Weezer is so weird,” Caleb commented, “and everyone likes them.”

“Really?” I asked. “Everyone?”

“Well, you like them and you’re pretty old; but my camp counselor loves them and he’s young.”

“Yeah,” I reflected, “I guess Weezer is pretty good.”

“But they aren’t,” Caleb retorted. “This song is just about some guy’s sweater falling apart. It’s dumb.”

“Maybe,” I said, “but maybe it’s about more than a sweater.”

“It says he’s naked.”

“How does the song start? Where are they?” I asked.

“At a party with lots of people,” Caleb responded.

“Right,” I said, “and if you’re going to a party, maybe you’re going to dress up, wear a nice sweater or something like that.”

“I guess,” Caleb answered.

“But what happens to his sweater?”

“Somebody pulls a string and it all falls apart,” Caleb answered, “and then he’s naked. It’s silly.”

“It is a silly idea,” I agreed, “but listen to the music. Does the music sound silly?”

Caleb listened for a few seconds, “No, it sounds serious.”

“For Weezer,” I said, “the thought of their sweater falling apart at a party is serious business.”

“But could that even happen?” Caleb asked.

“Maybe. . . when I was a kid, I had this baseball hat that I got at the Louisville Zoo. It was my favorite hat. I loved it. One day we were hanging out with a whole bunch of people, and my dad noticed a string hanging off my hat. He pulled it and it went all the way around my hat and the whole bill fell right off.”

Caleb laughed a little, “Really?”

“Yeah. Imagine how I felt.”

“You were probably pretty sad because you lost your hat.”

“I was,” I admitted, “but even more than that, we were with a group of friends, some of them were grown-ups. I was really embarrassed too.”

“Okay, I can see that.”

“So, I was in a big group of people and felt sad and embarrassed. My hat just fell apart. Even though I wasn’t, maybe I felt a little naked. It was a silly thing that happened, but for me it was pretty serious.”

“I sort of get that,” Caleb was still skeptical, “but a whole sweater isn’t going to fall apart at a party.”

“You’re right,” I continued. “A whole sweater probably isn’t going to unravel at a party, but it isn’t really about a sweater.”

“Then what is it about?”

“If you’re going to a party, you’re going to wear something nice, because you want to look good for all your friends, right?”

“I don’t really go to those kind of parties,” Caleb replied.

“Gotcha, but stay with me. You’re going to a party and want to look good to all your friends. You don’t just dress up, you act up. You pretend to be cool, or smart, or whatever.”

“Okay,” Caleb started to follow, “this is more about going to a wedding or something.”

“Sure, anywhere there are people you want to impress. For Weezer, those people are other young people at a big party.”

“Okay.”

“But just like a nice sweater is special - you don’t actually dress that way all the time - the way you act isn’t necessarily how you really are all the time. You’re faking it a little bit.”

“You’re pretending to be cooler than you are,” Caleb said.

“Exactly! And if you’re pretending, then your whole act, your whole show, is weak. It’s got a flaw. It’s got a string dangling down.”

“And. . . somebody can just pull a string and make you stop thinking you’re cool?”

“Think about it this way, if you’re a teenager and going to a party, who’s going to be there?”

“Probably all the kids from school?” Caleb answered.

“Sure,” I replied, “If it’s a big party, maybe kids from a bunch of schools. You show up and you want to look cool, but all it takes is one person who remembers that time you peed your pants in 3^rd grade, or knows that your mom still keeps your collection of Beanie Babies, or-“

“What are Beanie Babies?” Caleb interrupted.

“Never mind,” I said, “It’s just one of those things big kids want to make sure other kids never find out about. All it takes is one person at that party to pull on that string, and what happens?”

“You whole sweater falls apart.”

“Right, your whole show is undone, unraveled on the floor, and you’re naked.”

“Right. . .” Caleb pondered.

“For Weezer, is a big group of people a safe place?”

“No,” Caleb answered.

“Now, listen to this song.” At a stop light, I pulled up Spotify on my phone and began to play In the Garage. “What kind of stuff does he say he owns.”

“Oh!” Caleb exclaimed, “A dungeon master’s guide. . . a twelve-sided die. . . It’s Dungeon’s and Dragon’s stuff!”

“Right, and who plays Dungeons and Dragons?”

“Well,” Caleb hesitated, “kids who are a little. . .”

“Nerds!” I yelled.

“Yeah, okay” Caleb agreed.

“So,” I explained, “all these songs come off of Weezer’s blue album that came out in the beginning of the 1990s. Think about some of the 80s movies we’ve seen, like Rocky. What happens in Rocky?”

“Rocky just beats up some big Russian guy, or maybe some other guy.”

“Big muscle guys just fighting.”

“Yeah.”

“What about Top Gun?”

“Maverick shoots down a bunch of jets.”

“Super cool guy on a motorcycle breaks all the rules, gets the girl, and wins the war.”

“Yeah.”

“Karate Kid?”

“Weak kid gets learns karate and beats up the mean kid.”

“So, imagine,” I went on, “you’re a kid who isn’t big and strong with rippling muscles. You don’t play sports, you play Dungeons and Dragons. You like to make up songs about sweaters. What happens to you.”

“Oh,” Caleb said, “You get picked on a lot.”

“Maybe that’s the string in your sweater.”

“Yeah,” he agreed.

“Listen to the chorus, ‘In the garage, I feel safe. No one cares about my ways. In the garage where I belong, no one hears me sing this song.’ So, for Weezer a party isn’t a safe place, but the garage is, because that’s where they can be themselves without worrying about someone destroying their sweater.”

“But we don’t hang out in our garage,” Caleb objected.

“No, but where do you hang out?” I asked.

“The basement.”

“Just like the sweater, the garage doesn’t have to be a garage. It could be anywhere you feel like you can be yourself. Like when all your buddies come over and you play Heroscape.”

“Okay.”

“So imagine you’re a kid in my generation who grew up on all those 80s movies and stuff, which are great, but that just isn’t you. You’re hanging out in your garage, or basement, or wherever; singing songs, or writing stories, or playing fantasy games. Then the 90s come along and Weezer puts out this blue album. Suddenly, you don’t feel alone anymore. You realize that there are a lot of other kids out there just like you, hiding in their garage doing the things you do. . . and some of them are in a band, and that band is cool.”

“Wow, yeah.” Caleb said, “That was probably pretty cool.”

“But it wasn’t cool,” I responded. “It is cool. Tell me about your camp counselor.”

“Oh, he was super funny,” Caleb said with a smile. “He’d make up all of these crazy stories about why we needed to learn a specific skill. Like, we had to learn to make fire so we could create distractions for the police while we robbed the bank; or if we didn’t use the buddy system we’d get lost in the woods and kidnapped by bears with AK-47s.”

“So. . . does his sweater have a string?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Caleb thought, “I guess it does.”

“Everyone’s does,” I said. “I don’t know if you noticed, but your counselor also had a speech defect.”

“Oh. . . I thought he talked funny on purpose.”

“No.” I let him think for a minute. “So, you’re a kid who loves going out in the woods and doing nature stuff. You love making up crazy elaborate stories about it. And you talk funny. Where do you feel safe?”

“Probably in my garage,” Caleb admitted.

“Probably,” I agreed, “but one day you’re out in the garage and you find this blue album in your parents’ old CD collection, and it’s a bunch of kids who feel just like you; and maybe you realize that your parents bought that CD. . . and kept it. Suddenly you aren’t alone, maybe you realize you’re pretty normal, and you decide to be a camp counselor and share what you found with younger kids.”

“Weezer Wednesday!” Caleb exclaimed.

“Because Weezer is awesome.”

Nicolas' Gifts

“You guys don’t still believe in Santa, do you?” Wilson threw the ball to me with a smirk on his face.

“I guess. I dunno.” I tossed the ball, and the topic, to Carter.

Like most days after school, we were playing in the field that lay at the heart of our neighborhood. Basically, a large triangle of grass lying at the junction of three different housing developments, it served as a sort of intersection and no-man’s land between different communities. On one side was Wilson’s development, massive homes with tiny yards. Carter and I lived on the opposite side in a community of aging split-levels, divided between retired couples and young families. The third end was a hodge-podge of townhomes and apartments for those at the very beginning, or end, of adulthood. The field was a magnet for us who lived on the edges of these developments. It drew us into it, away from those who lived the same way we did, forming a misfit neighborhood united by an oddly-shaped patch of grass.

“If we aren’t supposed to believe in Santa, where do all the presents come from?” Carter sent the hot potato back to Wilson.

“I never got any presents from him,” Wilson passed it to me again.

As I caught the ball, I felt tension building in my chest. Wilson always did this, always picked an argument to make himself look better than us. I tried to put the pressure on him, “Yeah, well maybe you’re just not good enough to get presents.”

“That’s what I mean,” Wilson wasn’t fazed. “It doesn’t matter if I’m good. I get whatever I want.”

Of all the tales Wilson Greene had woven in the field, this one was verifiably true. Wilson made no effort to be good, and he got everything he wanted.

“Remember last week,” Wilson rolled on. “I threw Amanda’s phone down the stairs and broke it? Mom got her a new one. So, I said it wasn’t fair that Amanda has a new phone and I still have my old one. Guess what I’m getting for Christmas? I get whatever I want. I get more stuff than you guys who are good all the time.”

My mind flashed back to last Christmas, Wilson tearing around the field on a shiny red mini-bike. I locked eyes with Carter. Wilson had us again.

Before we turned to name-calling, two tan streaks of fur, named Sahara and Sonora, raced between us, barking and yelping. No two things in all creation were more perfectly designed for one another than the Yellow Labrador and the ten-year-old boy. Because of my brother’s health, I never had a pet. In the back of my mind, held down forcefully and never expressed, was the desire to have one of these brown bundles of energy as my very own, but in this particular instance that natural affinity was tempered by an unfortunate reality. Like happy harbingers of doom, wherever Sahara and Sonora appeared, Mrs. Cavanaugh was not far behind.

On any day, Mrs. Cavanaugh was little more than a massive poof of white hair perched atop a twig-thin body, but in cold weather she wore a headband around her ears. Above that strip of fabric, the curly white mass exploded out and over in every direction. She looked top-heavy, and as she tottered about, I was always felt she was just one misjudged step from toppling over. She paused as she made her way toward us and bent in a low, teetering crouch; an ancient toadstool using a plastic shopping bag to clean up what her dogs had left behind. She finished, and rose with excruciating slowness. I imagined I could hear joints creaking and muscles screaming, as her tiny body summoned all its energy to defy the grave one more time. Erect, she gave us a detached, almost bored stare from behind the large purple frames of her glasses. Her mouth was pinched down into a tiny, rumpled frown.

“Hello boys, no homework again today?”

Carter stammered, “Yes, Ma’am. . . I mean, no. . . Ma’am. . . My parents let me do it after dinner.”

“I suppose play before work is the way to parent these days, but what would an old mother of six know about it?” Disapproval was Mrs. Cavanaugh’s lifeblood, and she expressed it to Carter with her telltale sign: an almost imperceptible shake of the head. “And you, Mr. Werner, how is your father?”

Information is power, and I had learned to offer Mrs. Cavanaugh as little of it as possible, “Just fine, Ma’am.”

“Perhaps he’s feeling fine enough to finish siding your house. An uncovered house is no place to be when it snows. The weather is going to turn with the Holidays.”

“Oh, he’ll get it done Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

“I’m sure he will. The way a man cares for his home is the way he cares for his family.” She noticed Sahara taking care of business a few yards away and teetered off to repeat the world’s most difficult squat.

“It’s cold out here. I’m going home,” Wilson turned toward his side of the field. “See you suckers tomorrow.”

“Yeah, see ya.” Carter and I turned toward our houses and started to walk home in the fading light. “I can’t stand her,” Carter offered.

“Me either,” I kicked at the frosty grass with each step.

We walked together for a few quiet moments.

“But, she’s right, you know. Your dad’s been working on that siding for a long time, like months. It’s kind of getting embarrassing.”

It was embarrassing. “He’s been really busy, but we’re gonna finish it this weekend. I’m helping. We’ve got it all planned out. We’re waking up super early Saturday and we’re just gonna work until it’s done. I get to use the tools and everything.”

“Sounds fun.”

“You can come and help if you want.”

“Sure, maybe. I’ll see you at the bus stop tomorrow?” Carter angled off towards his house.

“Yup.”

I followed Woodland Rd. as it turned and went down a little hill. My house appeared around the corner. It stood out from all the other split-levels with its unique design: no Christmas lights, just the half-siding, half-plastic wrap look. The tools and scraps laying about the yard topped it off perfectly. Grandma was standing on the front steps.

“Perfect timing, Nicolas! You parents called from the hospital. They should be home in a few minutes. I’ve got dinner-“

A horn tooted and I joined her on the steps while our old minivan drove down the street and made the sweeping turn into the driveway. Even before it came to a stop, we could hear James screaming inside. Grandma let out a heavy sigh.

Dad killed the engine, hopped out, and opened the sliding door. Inside sat Mom beside James strapped in his car seat, wailing like they’d dipped his hand in boiling water. Dad unstrapped him and cradled my four-year-old brother like a baby, “Nicolas, get the house door, please.”

Grandma mustered an optimistic voice, “So, how did it go?”

“The procedure went fine,” Mom answered. “He just had a hard time with the anesthesia and woke up cranky. Let’s get him out of this cold and onto the couch.”

Inside, Grandma and Mom took to blanketing and pampering James in the living room, while Dad supervised dinner on the stove. I pulled myself onto a bar stool and watched him work. For a long time we didn’t say anything, just listened to James’ cries fade to whimpers in the next room. I noticed the bags under Dad’s eyes, wrinkles at the corners, the gray flecks in his hair and beard.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Yeah, Nicolas?”

“What happens if we don’t get the siding up before the snowstorm?”

Dad stopped stirring dinner and flopped back against the countertop behind him. He rubbed his palms hard against his eye sockets, his shoulders sagged slightly.

“I don’t even want to think about it, Buddy.” He paused, then suddenly stood up straight, dropped his arms to his side and looked at me, “But that’s not going to happen, is it? No sir, because, you and me, first thing Saturday morning, are going to finish that job. Right?”

I smiled, “Right!”

Dad went back to stirring. I went back to watching.

“Dad? Wilson Greene says Santa isn’t real.”

“Wilson Greene says a lot of things.”

“He says he never got a present from Santa.”

“If he did, would he notice?”

“Yeah. . . but there’s more than that. There’s a lot of stuff about Santa that doesn’t really make sense.”

“Oh, Really?”

“Yeah, like how old is he? The oldest guy in the Bible is like 900, and Santa would have to be older than that. And, even if they can fly, reindeer aren’t fast. Toys for all the kids in the world? That’s gotta be a huge sled!”

Dad stopped stirring again and looked straight at me. His eyes narrowed a little bit and he quietly asked, “What are you saying?”

“I don’t know. I mean, there’s just a lot of things about Santa that seems. . . made up.”

Dad came around the counter and sat facing me on the other stool. He put his hands on my knees and asked, “What did you just say?”

I uncertainly answered, “I said that Santa was made up?”

Dad leaned in very close to me, “Listen. You cannot talk to anyone about this, no one, until your mother and I speak with you. Am I being clear?”

“Yes, Dad.”

My father walked back around to the stove, and I sat wondering what had just happened.

James had been put to bed early. Mom, Dad, Grandma, and I sat and enjoyed a stir-fry that tasted as if it had been created by an exhausted father interrupted by a hundred questions from a ten-year-old. We were never a boisterous family, but even by those standards this dinner was a quiet one.

                Grandma attempted to kindle conversation, “Is everyone ready for Christmas?”.

                “Oh, yes. We were ready weeks ago.” Mom was proud to be ahead of the game for once.

                “Well, Nicolas does have one more thing to do,” Dad interjected. “In fact, Grandma, I was wondering if you’d be willing to stick around for another hour so we can take care of it.”

                My mother was having none of it, “Honey, you know that we planned well in advance for the Holidays this year because of-“

                Dad leaned in close and whispered in her ear. Mom’s eyebrows arched. She looked at me for a second, then looked back at Dad, “You’re sure?”

                “Pretty.”

                “And it has to be tonight?”

                “The longer we wait the more chance for complications.”

                “Alright. It’s getting late. Do you have a place in mind?”

                “I think I know a spot. Mom?”

                Grandma answered, “I suppose I could stick around a bit longer.”

 

                We drove to a strip-mall in town where the lights of a Chinese buffet spilled from its windows, casting long shadows of light across the dark, empty parking lot. Mom and I settled into a booth. Dad soon arrived with three glasses of water and three egg rolls on a tray.

                Mom looked at me, “Is it true?”

                “Is what true?” I asked.

                “Just tell her what you told me,” Dad coached.

                “About Santa?”

                “About Santa.”

                “Well,” I began nervously, “It’s a lot of stuff; things that don’t make any sense about Santa. Like, how old he is, where he lives.”

                “Where he lives?” Mom asked.

                “We watched a movie about the Arctic in school and they showed the North Pole. There’s nothing there. Nothing. It’s just one big frozen ocean. Polar bears don’t even like to go there.”

                “Maybe Santa has some sort of invisibility magic.”

                I looked at her and raised my eyebrows.

                “Ok, what else?”

                “Well, I told Dad that I don’t know how old Santa is. He’s got to be, like, a thousand years old, but not even the old guys in the Bible lived that long.”

                “Ok.”

                “And then there’s the speed.”

                “Speed?” Mom looked curious.

                “I got a book about airplanes out of the library and it said that fighter jets have to be super smooth, with wings shaped just right to break the speed of sound. Santa’s sled isn’t shaped right. Even if it were, the fastest airplane ever built, the Blackbird, would take ten hours to fly all the way around the world. That’s a whole night, with no stops, and it couldn’t do it anyway because it couldn’t carry enough fuel. Santa just has reindeer.”

                “And you’re not buying magic.”

                “I just don’t know how he does it. And Wilson Greene said he’s never gotten a present from Santa.”

                “Well, Wilson Greene says a lot.”

                “Never, Mom. Wilson can be a jerk, but to never get a present from Santa? Wilson isn’t that bad.”

                Mom gave me that same in-the-eye look that Dad had in the kitchen, and asked the same question: “So, what are you saying?”

                “I don’t know. It all just seems made up.”

                Mom blinked, and a little tear came out of the corner of her eye. I looked down at the table and saw that she and Dad were holding hands. When I looked back up, Mom turned to look at Dad and, almost in a whisper, said, “Ok.”

                Dad gave Mom’s hand a squeeze and then clasped both of his together in front of him on the table. He leaned forward toward me and began, “Nicolas, we are very proud of you. There is a lot with James that you never asked for, and it isn’t fair, but you are a great big brother. The fact that you are asking these questions means very soon you won’t be a kid anymore. You’ll be a young man. . . I need you to know that what I’m about to tell you is important. It is also the biggest secret in the entire world.”

                “I thought Jesus was the biggest secret in the world.”

                Dad’s serious demeanor briefly melted and he laughed, “What? No! Any church worth its salt will tell you all about Jesus whenever you walk in the door. Jesus is not the biggest secret in the world, although he does come into it now and again. The biggest secret in the world is Santa Claus.”

                “Santa?”

                “Let me ask you this: What is Santa’s name - his real name?”

                “Easy, Nicolas.”

                “Right, Santa’s known by lots of names, but his real name, his first name, is Nicolas.”

                “So, Santa’s real?”

                “Absolutely.”

                “But we should call him Nicolas?”

“No. . . I mean, if you want to. . . It doesn’t really matter. Just listen. Nicolas lived a long time ago in what’s Turkey today. He was a bishop, a church leader. Back then life wasn’t as easy as it is now. People worked much harder than we do and got much less from it. Many people struggled to find enough food for their families. Nicolas always seemed to know when someone needed help in his town. There are many stories about things Nicolas did to help people, but there is one that is very important for understanding who Santa is.”

                “Ok.”

“Where Nicolas lived wasn’t cold like it is here. It was warm, and people liked to sleep with their windows open. Sometimes, Nicolas would fill little bags with money and then walk through town at night and throw the bags into the windows of families in need. A family would wake up in the morning and there would be a surprise present in their house. Do you see how that’s like Santa?”

                “I guess, but you said he lived a long time ago.”

                “Yes, Nicolas lived around the year 300.”

                I stared blankly at Dad

                “One thousand seven hundred years ago.”

                None of this was helping me, “So, Santa is named Nicolas and he’s over a thousand years old?”

                “No,” Mom jumped in, “Nicolas never told anyone about his presents, but people figured it out. After he died, some of his friends decided to keep giving gifts in Nicolas’ name.”

                “Ok, but then Santa is dead. There isn’t a Santa.”

                “There isn’t a Santa, Honey,” Mom was speaking quietly and gently. “There are millions of Santa’s, maybe billions. Let your father finish.”

                Dad took over again, “That town remembered Nicolas by giving secret gifts to people who were having trouble. The tradition kept going, until everyone who knew Nicolas had died, but the town still gave gifts. As the tradition spread over the years, it spread over the land too. First it was just one town, then towns, then countries, then empires and continents. Whole cultures set specific days named after St. Nicolas, when people would secretly give gifts to show how much they loved each other. When the first Europeans crossed the Atlantic and came to this continent, they brought the secret of Nicolas’ gifts with them. Today, we celebrate the tradition on Christmas, the day Jesus was born. It seems to fit, because Jesus inspired Nicolas to love his neighbors so much that he gave them gifts, and because Jesus is a special gift to all of us.”

                “So, Santa Claus is really just people giving presents to people they love, but it’s a secret?”

                “Yes,” Mom nodded her head.

                “When I get a present from Santa, it is actually from. . .”

                “Very often your father and me.”

                “You and Dad are Santa Claus?”

                “We are Santa Clauses,” Mom added, “yes, but the gifts are given in secret. So, sometimes you get gifts from Santa that aren’t from us. Sometimes we don’t know who they’re from. Anyone can be a Santa.”

                “Can I be a Santa?”

                “Sure,” Mom and Dad spoke simultaneously.

                “I can give James a secret present, and then I’m Santa?”

                “Not exactly,” said Mom. “Giving gifts to people you love is a big part of being Santa, but it isn’t what makes you a Santa. You have to earn that.”

                “Huh?”

                “Remember what Dad said about Nicolas giving gifts to people who really needed it and taking no credit for himself?”

                “Yeah.”

                “That’s how you become a Santa, and how you stay a Santa. Your first gift each year, beginning with this year, must be to someone who really needs it. The best gifts go to someone who would never expect it.”

                “But Nicolas knew people who were starving. I don’t know anyone like that.”

                “And thank God for it,” said Mom, “but we all know someone in need. We just need to think about it a little bit.”

                “Who did you and Dad give your Santa gifts to this year?”

                “No, Nicolas,” Mom gently scolded, “that’s a secret, remember? You only tell others if you need their help with the present.”

                “Right.”

                Dad took over again. “Nicolas, this is the year you stop believing in Santa and start being Santa. Do you understand how important this is? Do you promise to keep the secret?”

                “Yes.” Honestly, I was still very confused.

                “Ok,” Dad was smiling, “let me ask you some questions.”

                “Ok.”

                “Where does Santa live?”

                “Well, any where I guess. You never know.”

                “So, he may as well live at . . .”

                It started to dawn on me, “. . . The North Pole.”

                “And how does he get to every house in one night?”

                “Well. . . he’s already there.”

                “Right,” Dad was wearing a giant grin, “so he may as well travel by?”

                Now I was smiling too, “Flying reindeer!”

                “And those reindeer are fueled by?”

                “All the love in the world,” Mom added with her own smile.

                Dad took a wolfish bite of his egg roll and leaned back into his seat, chomping on it. He and Mom sat there smiling at me for a few minutes.

                “But,” I said.

                “But, what?” answered Mom.

                “Well, I can’t talk to anyone about this?”

                “Correct. The only time you tell someone the secret is when you think they are ready to become a Santa.”

                “So, what do I say the next time Wilson makes fun of me for believing in Santa?”

                “Sometimes the hardest thing about knowing the truth is the people who call you a fool because of it.”

 

 

The next night I sat in bed, waiting for my parents to tuck me in. I could hear them wrestling with James down the hall.

                “Ow! No, Mommy!”

                “Just lay still, Honey. It will be over in a minute.”

                “No! It hurt me, Mommy!”

                “Grab his legs. . . just hold him!”

                “It hurt, Mommy! It hurt!”

                “Keep him still!”

                Then James’ yelling turned into a long, piercing sequence of screams. After a few minutes, they faded into a whimpering moan, interspersed with mumbles, “You hurt me, Mommy.”

                Dad appeared at my bedroom door, looking sweaty and pale, “James got his medicine.” He came and sat on the edge of my bed, wrapping one arm around me, “How was your day?”

                “Ok. . . Dad?”

                “Yes?”

                “I’ve been thinking about what you and Mom said about being a Santa.”

                “Yeah?” Dad’s face looked a little less pale, and he smiled.

                “Well, Santa’s give gifts because they want people to know they’re loved, right?”

                “Yeah.”

                “I’ve been thinking about Wilson. He’s never gotten a gift from Santa. . . There’s no Santa in Wilson’s house.”

                Dad’s smile faded, “Yeah.”

                Mom appeared at my door, her hair was tussled and unkempt, and I just then noticed that James had fallen quiet. “Your brother is asleep,” she said. “What are you two talking about?”

                “Well,” Dad began, “Nicolas has been thinking about becoming a Santa. It sounds like he might want to give something to Wilson Greene.”

                “Wilson, huh?” Mom came and sat on my bed, so that I was sandwiched between my parents. “What kind of gift might Wilson need?”

                “Well, that’s the problem. He already gets everything he wants. I don’t know what I could give him.”

                Mom furrowed her brow, “If he already has everything he wants, what makes you think you should be his Santa?”

                “It’s kind of weird. Wilson’s always talks about how great everything he has is, and how stupid everyone else is, but I don’t believe him. He always acts proud, or even angry, but I really think he’s. . . just sad.”

                “And you thought giving him a Santa gift might make him happy?”

                “For a little bit, but then I thought that if none of his other presents make him happy, one more from me won’t help.”

                Mom reached over and stroked my ankle, “Nick, sometimes the best present we can give a person is to just be his friend.”

                “Yeah, I guess.”

                “Sometimes that’s the hardest gift to give.”

                “But,” Dad interjected, “that’s not how you become a Santa.”

                “I thought you’d say that,” I responded. “So. . . I’ve been thinking about Mrs. Cavanaugh a lot.”

                “Who?” Dad asked.

                “The older woman who’s always out walking her dogs,” Mom replied.

                “Oh, old busybo-“

                “Close enough, Darling,” Mom held a finger up to Dad’s mouth.

                “No, I know,” I said. “She’s real mean and I don’t think anybody likes her. You said that the best presents go to people who would never expect it. So, I thought Mrs. Cavanaugh would be really surprised.”

                “What do you think she would need?” Dad asked.

                “I don’t know if you’ve ever watched her walk her dogs. Their names are Sahara and Sonora. She’s real careful to clean up after them. She brings along plastic bags to put the poop in and everything, but every time she bends over to clean it up, I think she’s going to die. I just looks like it hurts. They make those things. . .”

                “A pooper scooper?” Dad asked.

                I laughed, hard, at that.

                “Son, that’s what they’re called. It’s a real thing.”

                “Really?”

                “Oh, yes,” answered Mom. “Any pet store would have one.”

                “So, we could get her one?”

                “I don’t see why not.”

                “There are some issues,” Dad pointed out. “You want to do this before Christmas?”

                “I think so,” I said.

                “Well, tomorrow’s Friday. You have school. We need all day Saturday to finish the siding, because they’re saying this snow will be here by Sunday, and after that. . . it’s Christmas.”

                “Couldn’t I run him out on Saturday?” Mom asked.

                “I could really use his help on the siding. It has to get done.”

                “That is true.”

                Dad looked at me, “I can take you tomorrow night after work. You need to be ready. Get all of your homework and chores done as soon as you get home.”

                “Ok,” I said.

                “It’s official,” said Mom. “Tomorrow night Nicolas becomes a Santa!”

                With that, they tucked me in and both gave me a kiss on the cheek. Dad left to do whatever parents do after their kids go to bed. Mom sat stroking my hair for a few minutes.

                “You are such a great little man,” She said quietly. “You wear your name so well.”

                The next day, every task at school or home was completed as quickly as possible, and then followed by a miserable waiting. I did not go out to the field, and left my best friend’s greeting hanging, abandoned in the cold air by the bus stop. Even after my father arrived home and drove me to the pet store, the choosing of the gift was a hurried, “That one!” Finally, my family sat on the couch and watched as I, slowly, revealed what initially looked like a silver metal post from the brown store wrapping paper. The top end of the post curved into a handle with a plastic grip on it, kind of like an old person’s cane or walking stick. The other end was fastened to the back of a silver metal box, maybe just a little smaller than a shoebox. The front of the box, opposite from where the pole was attached, was open. Along the length of the pole running from the box to the handle were two brackets which held a small rake against the front of the pole.

                “That,” I proudly declared to my family, “is a pooper scooper.”

                James laughed, “Ha ha! Poop!”

                “This is how it works.” I held the pooper scooper by the handle, placing the box portion of it down on the floor with the open end facing a small toy truck I had been playing with before school. I then pulled the rake from its brackets, and used it to push the truck into the box. I popped the rake back into place, lifted up the box by the handle, and walked across the room, proudly exclaiming, “Poop scooped!”

                “Poop scoop!” laughed James.

                “Yup, Hands clean and ready for the trash!” I declared.

                “Truck no trash!” Yelled James.

                “He’s just kidding, Buddy.” Dad reached out, retrieved the truck, and handed it to James.

                James giggled, “Truck no trash.”

                A timer beeped from the kitchen. Mom pulled herself to her feet, “That would be dinner. Come and eat. Nicolas, maybe you can get that wrapped when James goes to bed.”

                Dinner was a drawn out, laborious affair, in which I was forced to methodically chew several bites of chicken and a cold, soggy, unidentifiable vegetable, before being required to sit and watch the others painstakingly nibble their meals bit by bit. Finally, I was allowed to help clear the dishes and then rushed to the living room to sit by the gleaming pooper scooper and await the arrival of my mother with the wrapping paper.

                To the tune of James screaming as my parents wrestled him towards his nightly injection, I created a masterpiece of gift-wrapping. I carefully cut angles to fit around the odd curves and intersections of the gift. I applied tape generously, recklessly, to ensure no corner came loose, giving a hint of what lay beneath. In the final touch, on a flat piece of wrapping stretched across the handle, I wrote:

To: Mrs. Kavenaw

From: Santa

                The rest of the evening progressed slowly. Mom and Dad insisted we play board games until it was sufficiently late to deliver the gift without being noticed. I don’t remember which games we played, but I couldn’t have offered any significant competition. My mind was occupied with Mrs. Cavanaugh and her gift. I imagined I could see her face when she opened it. I wondered what she would think, how she would feel, as she realized someone had thought of her.

                Finally, Dad pushed back his chair and said, “It’s getting late Nicolas, and we’ve got a lot of work to do in the morning. Get your shoes and jacket. Let’s deliver this gift.”

                Mom gave me a kiss on the forehead as we walked out the door, and stood silhouetted by the house lights as Dad and I walked up the hill and around the corner. I carried the scooper with both hands, careful not to damage the wrapping. At first, our way was illuminated by the glow of the neighborhood Christmas lights, but then we stepped off of the sidewalk to cut the corner across the dark field toward the townhomes and Mrs. Cavanaugh’s.

                Our feet crunched on the frozen grass as Dad asked, “Hey, you know which place is hers, right?”

                “Oh, yeah. We try to stay away from there.”

                “. . . Ok.”

                We arrived at the back of the building that bordered the field and walked around its narrow end. I nodded at the row of townhomes across the street, “It’s the last one, down there at the other end.” We kept walking past doors trimmed with boughs, lights, and wreaths. There was a glowing, inflatable Santa on the small concrete stoop beside one door, and then Mrs. Cavanaugh’s. It had no decorations and the only light to be seen was an intermittent bluish flashing coming from the upstairs window. Maybe she had fallen asleep with the TV on. Dad elbowed me and held a finger up to his lips as we approached the front door. I leaned the scooper against the wall just to the right of her screen door’s handle, so it would be the first thing she saw when she opened the door in the morning. She could pick it up without even having to step outside.

                And then, I was a Santa.

                Dad and I walked home in silence. I did not feel as if I had just joined an ancient society protecting the world’s grandest secret, but as we walked home, I began to realize that I did feel differently about Mrs. Cavanaugh. I didn’t hate her anymore. I didn’t even dislike her. Maybe it was the warm feelings of an exciting day winding to a close, but for those few moments, I thought of cranky old Mrs. Cavanaugh as a friend.

                Back at home I quickly got into my pajamas, and jumped under the covers of my bed, letting my chilly body warm under their layers. Mom and Dad came to tuck me in.

                “I’m so proud of you, Nicolas,” Mom said. “My little Santa.”

                “Now, go to sleep,” added Dad. “Tomorrow you’re my Santa.”

                They left my door cracked open a little bit as usual, but turned off the hall light. They were going to bed too.

 

 

                I woke suddenly. The hall light was shining into my face through the cracked door, and there was a thumping, crashing noise down the hallway. It took me a few moments to wake up. I heard Mom and Dad yelling.

                “Get him out of the bed. . . on the floor so he can’t hit anything!”

                “I need a pillow! Get a pillow under his head!”

                “Roll him on his side!”

                I climbed out of bed and stumbled into the hallway, squinting in the light. The noises were coming from James’ room. I walked to the doorway and looked in. Mom and Dad were kneeling in the middle of the floor with James stretched out on his side between them. His whole body was jerking and shaking. His head was resting on a pillow. His eyes were open, but all white. A pinkish drool was coming from the corner of his mouth. His lips were blue and his face gray. Mom and Dad were both holding him where he was, and I could see Dad’s muscles flexing under the thin white sleeves of his t-shirt.

                “How long has it been?” Mom asked.

                “I don’t know. Maybe two or three minutes?”

                “I can’t tell if he’s breathing.”

                “I’m calling.” Dad stood up and ran past me toward his room. A few seconds later he was back in the hall with his phone to his ear, “. . . We need an ambulance.” Dad looked at me, maybe just seeing me for the first time. He turned around and went back to his room, closing the door behind him. I just caught a few trailing words, “. . . a four-year-old boy. He had surgery earlier. . .”

                I looked back into James’ room. He was now stiff like a board. Mom had scooped up his rigid, gray body and was holding him close against her chest. I could hear her whispered words breaking out between sobs; she was praying. I watched until I felt a hand on my shoulder. Dad was there again, with the phone still to his ear. He spoke into it, “. . . one second,” and then looked at me. “Nicolas, people are coming to help your brother. I need you to let them in.” Then he was back to the phone and walking into James’ room, “. . . I don’t know . . . he’s shaking so much we can’t tell.”

                I went downstairs, opened the front door, letting the freezing air in, and stood looking out onto the street. Soon I could hear a siren coming closer and closer. A police car rounded the corner, very fast, lights flashing and siren wailing. It slowed in front of our house, the trunk popped open and a policewoman jumped from the driver’s door almost before the car came to a stop. She ran to the trunk and pulled out a thin red rectangular box by its handle. Then sprinted past me into the house.

I looked back at the street. Everything seemed normal, just like any other night, except for the police car sitting cockeyed in the middle of Woodland Rd. with its driver’s door and trunk hanging open, lights flashing and siren wailing to no one. Then there was an ambulance, two men and a stretcher filled with bags. Then another ambulance, and another police car. As the minutes passed, pajama-clad neighbors began to appear and cluster in sporadic groups on the sidewalk. I saw Carter’s dad sneak across the street and stoop into the first police car. A few seconds later the siren stopped its howling, and he slunk back to his little group. The street was silent as James came down the stairs on the stretcher, he lay limp, a clear plastic mask over his mouth. Everyone moved with a quiet purpose. Not necessarily fast, but somehow still quickly. No one seemed to even notice I was there. James was already through the yard and halfway into the back of an ambulance when Dad appeared beside me.

                “Nicolas, Mom and I need to go to the hospital with James. One of the policemen will stay with you until Grandma gets here.”

                “But. . . “

And he was gone.

                The ambulance drove away with Mom and James inside and its lights and siren on. Dad followed behind in the minivan. I went upstairs to James’ room. Furniture had been pushed out of place and one of the ambulance people was picking up all kinds of plastic and paper wrappers lying around the floor. He told me to go back downstairs. I went outside, and sat down on the front steps. The whole neighborhood was illuminated in blue and red flashes. There were still groups of neighbors standing around looking at our house, our hodge-podge, half-sided monstrosity. The police woman came from somewhere, put a blanket over my shoulders, and sat down beside me.

I sat and stared. Eventually my eyes picked up something across the street. There in the grass, just at the edge of the light, I saw something move. It was small and quick, like an animal. I stared at that spot, and saw it again. There were two of them; two animals running back and forth in the dark, two dogs. As I stared, I began to make out a third form in the dark: a cloud of hair popping out over a knit headband, a frail, bent form leaning on the handle of what looked like a cane, but ended in a small, shiny box pressed down against the ground.

 

The next day, Grandma drove me to the hospital. I sat for hours, slumped in a chair in the corner of the room, pretending to read a book, but really staring over the top of the pages at James lying in bed. He had wires and tubes coming from under his shirt, out of his nose, and beneath tape on his arms. He lay with his head tilted towards the window. Mostly he slept. Sometimes he just stared blankly at the gray clouds outside. Mom and Dad moved about the room, acting like they had important things to do. At some point in the afternoon, James’ doctor came in. Mom and Dad cornered him by the door, speaking in hushed voices.

                “Do you know why it happened?” Dad asked.

                “Not exactly. It isn’t unusual for his condition. We’ve talked about that, but I’m worried that we haven’t seen it until now, so close after the surgery. Sometimes they’re caused by infection or fever, but at this point I think we’ve ruled that out. I’ve reached out to some colleagues to get their thoughts on the dosing of his medication, and we’ve got an EEG scheduled for later today. At this point we don’t have a lot of answers. I’ll be honest, sometimes we never know why.”

                “So, what now?”

                “Well, we’ve covered the big question: why this happened. We also want to know, especially after the second one last night, how to prevent it from happening again. There are anti-seizure medications, but I don’t want to start one until we know how his current medication contributed to this. We also don’t know how long he wasn’t breathing. It may have been minutes. Was there any damage? We will need to do some more tests to check that. Until we get some answers, I’d like to keep him here.”

                “For how long?” asked Mom.

                “At this point, at least a few days.”

                “No. I want him home for Christmas.”

                “I’d like to get him home for Christmas too, but we just can’t take the risk until we got more answers.”

                “You don’t understand,” she was trying to use her mom voice, but it was cracked and weak, “James is coming home for Christmas.”

                “I do understand,” there was some sympathy in the doctor’s voice, “I’ve got children myself and I would want them home too, but you’ve got a little boy with a relatively serious genetic condition, who’s now having sporadic seizures for no apparent reason, prolonged seizures which obstruct his breathing. We have a major winter storm rolling into the area as early as this evening, and all of that over a holiday weekend. I can’t send James home into a blizzard. How will we bring him back if there’s a problem? He needs to stay here.”

                The doctor left and Mom and Dad slowly meandered around the room. I buried my face deep in the book.

                “He’s going to be here for days?” Mom flopped onto the foot of James’ bed. I didn’t have to look to know she was crying.

                Dad stared out the window at the clouds for a moment, then took a deep breath and turned back into the room, “We can do this.” He looked at Mom, “Honey, look at me.” Mom met his eyes. “We can do this. . . The important thing is that James gets what he needs and we are all together for Christmas. That’s it. It doesn’t matter where we have Christmas, as long as we are together.”

                Mom sighed, “I guess. We’ll have to stay here through the storm. I don’t know how that will work with visiting hours.”

                “They’re keeping our boy in the hospital for Christmas; they’ll make it work.”

                “We’ll need some things from home, and we’ll need to get them before the storm hits. Clothes, for all of us. . . and toiletries. . . just stuff to keep the boys occupied. . .  maybe some of James’ stuffed animals. . . and . . . the presents. We’ll need to bring all the presents.”

                Dad turned and looked out the window again, “We’re getting flurries already.”

I pulled my head up from behind my improvised fort and saw a few errant flakes floating about on the other side of the glass.

“If we are going to do this, we need to get moving. Nicolas and I will go back to the house, and. . .” Dad stopped talking, walked across the room, dropped his body into a chair, and his head into his hands. “The house. . . I didn’t finish the house.”

Mom got up, walked around the bed, dropped to her knees in front of Dad, and pulled his head up to look at her, “It will be ok.”

“They’re saying forty-mile winds, feet of snow, freezing rain. It will not be ok.”

 

                Dad drove home slowly, not saying a word. The sky was starting to darken with the beginnings of evening, and the snow and wind had picked up. There was a white mist blowing here and there over the surface of the road. We turned onto Woodland Rd. and passed the field on the left. Carter was standing along the edge of the snow-coated grass, looking up at the sky. We waved. The van made the turn and started down the hill. Dad didn’t stop.

                I yelled, “Dad! You missed the driveway.”

                He stopped the van, “Sorry, Bud. I wasn’t paying attention,” and backed up the street.

                We pulled even with the driveway. Dad stopped the van again, but didn’t pull in. We sat there for a minute and then he opened his door and got out. He walked around to the passenger side and just stared at the house. I looked out of my window. There it was. It was our house in the same place it had always been, but there was no half-plastic, half-siding décor, no tools and siding scraps laying in the yard. There stood our house, fully sided, the lawn clear, with a multi-colored string of Christmas lights running along the rain gutter. I unbuckled and got out to stand beside Dad. He slowly walked into the yard and up to the front of the house. There was a Christmas card taped dead center on the front door. Dad pulled it down, read it, and handed it to me. In a thin, shaky script, it said:

To: The Werner Family

Love: Santa

                Dad walked back out to the middle of the front yard, and turning to look at the house, collapsed into the snow-dusted grass. Dad started crying. I went and sat with him, wrapped my arms around his big torso and together we cried out tears of joy, and fear, and mourning, and disbelief.

 

                Four days later, I was laying in the waist-deep field of snow that made up the heart of our neighborhood. Carter, Wilson, and I were digging an ambitious series of bunkers and tunnels, stretching further and further, to the point of collapse, where we’d find a fresh patch of snow and begin again. We had just dug out a large room and were left sweaty and breathless. As we lay there, resting, I looked over at Wilson.

                “So, how was it?”

                “How was what?”

                “How was your Christmas?”

                “Oh, good. The usual: a bunch of toys and games and stuff. It wasn’t crazy like yours.”

                “Yeah,” I climbed up the tunnel leading out of the room and into the open air. The others followed me.

“So, what was it like, having Christmas at the hospital?” Carter asked.

                “It was ok, I guess. The food was pretty good. They had lots of movies to watch, and all the nurses felt bad for me and kept giving me all sorts of snacks and stickers. But, after awhile it was just boring.”

                “Did Santa find you in the hospital?” Wilson was developing that little smirk.

                “Yup, he sure did.” As we talked, I looked across the field and saw a puff of hair bobbing up and down in the trench through the snow that marked the street. I couldn’t see the sandy streaks of fur because of the snow banks, but I was sure they were there.

                “I still say you’re crazy for thinking Santa’s some old guy who lives at the North Pole.”

                “I don’t think that. I think Santa. . .” I was watching that bobbing poof of hair, “. . . is Mrs. Cavanaugh.”

                I pulled myself to my feet and started wading through the snow.

                “Huh?” yelled Wilson after me.

                I half-turned back to them, “Hey, we’re having a coming home party for James on Friday. You guys should come.”

                “Sure!” said Carter.

                “Umm, both of us?” asked Wilson.

                “Yeah!”

                “To your house?”

“You’ve never been to my house. You should come over. It’s the. . .white one!”

                I turned back and pushed through the snow, breaking out onto the street and running up behind the old tottering skeleton using a pooper scooper as a cane. “Hi, Mrs. Cavanaugh!”

                She turned slowly and looked at me.

                “How was your Christmas?” I asked.

                “There have been so many. I’d say this one was on the better end” She looked at me through her thick, purple-framed glasses. “How was yours, Mr. Werner?”

                “It was different. . . but good.”

                “I’m glad to hear it. How is your brother?”

                “Better. He’s coming home on Thursday.”

                “I’m glad to hear that as well.”

                “We’re having a welcome home party on Friday. If you are out with Sahara and Sonora, you should come.”

                “Hmm,” Mrs. Cavanaugh seemed a bit taken aback, “You think there’d be room for an old woman like me?”

                “Mom says when you’re thankful, there’s room for all your neighbors.”

                “Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Werner. We’ll take it a day at a time.”

                Sahara and Sonora had been running circles around me for the last few minutes. I summoned the courage to pat one of them on the back. I was rewarded with warm licks to the face. Mrs. Cavanaugh stopped walking and watched. After a few minutes, I looked at up at her.

                “Mrs. Cavanaugh, Wilson Greene says Santa isn’t real.”

                She gave that familiar shake of the head, and said, “Oh Nicolas, I think we both know that isn’t true.”

                “Yeah, I guess. Have a good day, Mrs. Cavanaugh!”

                “The same to you.”

                I looked at her, and somehow her mouth didn’t see so pinched and crumpled anymore. Then I turned and ran home to see what Grandma had made for dinner.