Waiting out Santa

December 24, 2013.Reading time 5 minutes.

“I’m going to bed, Ma. I promise,” Virgil called down the hall after his fifth warning.

Only he didn’t. He stayed outside his door until things quieted down and he was sure the den was empty. His mother banged away on empty dishes and pans in the kitchen while Virgil snuck back into the den among the Christmas decorations and wrapped presents. The smallish room was so cramped with furniture and pine branches that one could hardly navigate its few open spaces. But the boy had long scoped out its nuances to formulate his plan. This was the year he was going to catch Santa in the act! To do it, he had to stay out of sight and more importantly, stay awake until the first reindeer hoof hit the roof.

Virgil slid carefully past the couch and end table, dropped to his belly, and slithered between presents. His head grazed branches while he deftly avoided low hanging ornaments until he reached the corner of the room where he sat up, wedged between tree and wall with a good view of the hearth. Perfect! He congratulated himself on the effort and steeled his nerves for his stakeout. Then the boy waited….and waited…and waited some more.

After fifteen minutes he was sure he’d been there for two hours and after thirty, he looked to the window thinking the sun must be ready to rise and Santa had passed them by. Never a patient soul, Virgil nearly gave up in just under an hour until he heard music coming from next door where their daffy neighbor, Ms. Jerlene must have switched on her porch radio. Virgil grumbled to himself at the misfortune that distracted him. He tried to shut out the slow-paced lull of the orchestra and focus all his mental might on the fireplace, but it gradually sucked him in.

Virgil shook his head violently and pushed the cellos and violas away for a few seconds. He slapped himself (a little harder than he would have liked) to regain his concentration. He had to do this! His eight older brothers ridiculed him for his belief in Santa, but he didn’t care. Virgil didn’t care one bit. When Santa emerged from the chimney and went for the cookies, Virgil planned on knocking the tree down to seal off his escape! The commotion alone would rouse the family and prove the fat man was real.

“I’ll show them!” he said quietly with determination.

Another five minutes of boredom and the gentle sway of Percy McIntyre and his Band of Renown softened the sleepy boy’s resolve. His heavy eyelids closed and his head slouched against the wall. The next thing Virgil saw was ten sets of eyes looking down on him with gestures of dismay and surprise.

“You gotta bow on your head,” laughed Lomas, the eldest brother.

Soft light from the window told Virgil morning had come and his hope of catching Santa had gone. He found himself snuggling a long present with his back against the wall. He reached up and snatched the bow from his head to the delight of all his brothers. Webster handed him a piece of paper that he took and read:

Virgil,

You’ve walked a fine line between the nice and naughty list all year, and this stunt nearly finished you off. I think I know what you were up to, my friend. You need to mind your mama better this year if you want me to come back.

Merry Christmas,
Santa

“He left this for you, too,” said his mother as she handed him his very own ball glove with another red bow, which he quickly ripped off.

He looked around at the disbelievers, wondering how they could possibly doubt the man who left him this wonderful hunk of rawhide leather. But their focus rested on Virgil no longer. They had moved on to their own things. Oh how he wished he could have just stayed awake to prove it to them.

“Oh well,” he thought as he pounded his glove. “There’s always next year.”

Merry Christmas from Virgil and the rest of us in Portsong!

Snow and the Southern Boy

December 16, 2013.Reading time 4 minutes.

When winter comes to the south, there are few things more glorious for a boy than waking up to dusting of snow, no matter how deep. Its infrequency makes it uniquely wonderful. If there is enough to scrape up one snowball, it is a joyous affair and a school cancellation – well, that upgrades it to heaven on earth. Typically, we southerners get short bursts of freezing temperature with nothing to show for it but a little sleet and ice. But, on occasion…it snows!

It snowed last night in Portsong. When the townspeople awoke, they found a thin blanket of white rarely seen in this part of the country. In fact, there hasn’t been a flake here since the blizzard of 1909 – far too long ago for Virgil and Henry to remember. They had both read about the arctic and Polar Regions, but nothing compared to the oddity of snow covering their own bushes, lawns, and bicycles. With the little town shut down, they woke to a carnival-like atmosphere among the youngsters. Virgil grabbed an old shovel from the cellar while Henry nearly escaped out of the house with his mother’s best baking pan, but had to settle for a scrap of tin under her watchful eye. They met up on Chestnut Street and joined a seemingly endless line of boys headed toward the highest point in town: Curaban Point. It’s a long walk up, but a thrilling ride down! No brakes, just speed. Bumps, bruises, and frozen blood outweighed by giggles, shrieks, and ear to ear smiles.

Having seen his share of cold weather, Colonel Birdwhistle covered his head and ventured out with Oscar on leash as he did every other day. He got a hearty laugh at the typically adventurous dog who gingerly and slowly placed one paw in front of the other, testing and retesting the strange new ground covering before moving. Even the dogs of the south have no way to be prepared for the stuff.

By ten o’clock, little Sally Lee had the beginnings of her first snowman rolled up. With a some help from her daddy, she got its middle up onto the base and began work on his head. Up and down every street in town, the scene was the same: children played, fathers looked skyward wondering if the weather would break, and mothers busied themselves over the stove preparing for their frozen children to come inside. Clothing, cars, and hairstyles change, but from generation to generation, we Southerners still react the same way to the white stuff.

For those of you living in colder regions, I hope your winter is mild and your hearth is warm. But for us in the South, I pray we get a taste of snow this season. You Yanks can laugh all you want when large cities down here come to a grinding halt with a mere six inches. We southern boys will take your ridicule in exchange for a few inches of snow.