Saint Simons Santa

I followed him into the Saint Simons Island post office. From my vantage-point, he was short and round and dressed in red velvet with black leather boots and a white tunic. I knew that the lines to the counter would be long and, for a moment, I considered quickening my pace to beat him to the queue. But something in the back of my mind whispered, "he'll know if you're naughty or nice..."

The line was 15 persons deep, nothing to do but wait my turn, so I moved to the side in order to get a closer glimpse at this character in front of me. Long, straight white hair and a full white beard. His mustache was playfully waxed with upturned ends giving the appearance of a perpetual smile. He wore thin spectacles low on his nose and his outfit was complete with a broad black belt with a silver buckle. He was a perfect likeness to Santa Clause... or was he actually Saint Nicholas?

"Excuse me..." I mumbled over the back of his right shoulder. He turned to face me and his eyes sparkled and his mouth turned into a grin. His face was round and his cheeks were rosy. For a moment I was speechless, tongue-tied, just like I was when I was 6 years old sitting on his lap at Santa's Village in Conway, New Hampshire.

"I just wanted to say thank you for that bicycle you gave me in 1958 in upstate Vermont..." I fumbled.

He closed one eye and peered at me closely. "Oh yes... the red Schwinn. Did you like it?" It was a red Schwinn! "Oh, yes! It was my favorite bike." I blurted. "The only issue was that, with all the snow, I wasn't able to ride it outside until May. All winter long, I rode it around and around in the basement and when I got outside, I couldn't ride in a straight line!" He leaned his head back and laughed a hearty "Ho-Ho-Ho" and I felt like I was 6 years old again.

His turn came at the counter and he turned away to do his business with the US Postal Service. "Ask them for a discount," I called after him. "You've earned it." Again his laughter filled the room. As he was leaving, he walked over to me, took me by the elbow, put his finger to the side of his nose and, with a grin, whispered "Merry Christmas!"

Merry Christmas to you, too, Santa... I do believe...

It's a Circular Flow

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w-TWgZ7dym0&feature=player_profilepage

speaking of days that stick in your memory...

December 8, 1999, the day that we learned that Eric died in New Zealand. 12 years... and the memory is still just as vivid and as profound. For 364 days each year we choose not to focus upon it, but on this day, regardless of where we are or what we are doing, it floods back.

We have taken on the priviledge of speaking with other parents who have suffered the loss of a child. Our work with Hospice has prepared us for this difficult role. Just this month, we have been emailed by two people, friends who have friends who are in the fire, one in Kansas, one in Georgia. Since the Oprah Show, there have been hundreds with questions like; What can we do? What do we say? We feel so helpless watching them suffer so profoundly.

So here is our very simple counsel; be present, pay attention, don't be afraid to speak the name of the loved one who died, be patient, take walks, hug, hold hands, nod your head when the parent rages or despairs, smile, come back the next day or the next week and do it again.

You can not fix it. Things will never be "normal" for these people again. But there will be healing. The huge holes in their hearts will never go away, but the grace is that our hearts grow to surround our loss.

Miss you, son. Love never dies.

February 20, 1962

Some days just stick in your head. Those profound moments usually have to do with the occasion of some significant event and the resulting emotions that is triggered. It may be an historic event like the end of WWII or the assassination of a president. We remember September 11, where we were, how we felt, the horror of terrorism on our homeland. Or it may be a purely personal event such as a marriage, the birth of a child or the loss of a loved one. Memory is a funny thing. 

One of my earliest, date specific memories was February 20, 1962, during the dead of winter in the mountaintop town of Sutton, Vermont, population 476. Our family was living in the valley in the station manager's house at the Portland Pipeline pump station. In those days, before computers and remote operation capabilities, each of the eight pump stations on the 236-mile-long oil pipeline from the deep-water tanker terminal in Portland, Maine to the refineries in Montreal, Canada, were staffed. Our dad was the station boss and part of the job was to live at the station. 

Mom hated the isolation, ten miles to the nearest groceries in Barton, a mile to our closest neighbor, but for me, it was an exciting and early introduction to living in the North Woods. My sisters played with each other. I had 20 square miles of densely forested mountains and valleys, river, streams and swamps, as my companion. Cabins and tree houses, rafts and snow tunnels. Frogs, snakes, deer, rabbit, critters of all sorts. Spears, tomahawks, slingshots, bows and arrows Every day was an amazing outdoor adventure. I loved it. 

The 1st through 8th grade, four room schoolhouse was located in the small farming community on top of a mountain, elevation 1,400 ft. There were 8 to 10 kids per grade and two grades per room. I remember feeling fortunate that we had an equal number of boys and girls in my class for inside square dancing during the long, brutally cold winter months. God forbid I'd have to dance with another boy. Every school day, Kermit Weed's mother would stop her rusted, green, 4 wheel drive Suburban in front of our house on Route 5 and pick my sister and me up for the 10 mile drive up the steep dirt road to school. On the way, we would stop for Colin Sheehan and his sister and my best friend, Peter Friend and his brothers.

The community was dirt poor. At the pinnacle of the economic ladder were the handful of large dairy farmers, followed by the small subsistence farmers and then the hired help. The Wood family belonged to the latter and held the distinction of being one of the few black families in Caledonia County. I don't remember having ever previously met a black person. John Wood was in my class, and we became fast friends. His brother was in my sister's class and I remember her crying because she discovered he didn't have underwear. She took a paper bag of my skivvies to school one day and left it under his desk. Gailie has always had the biggest heart. Such a good girl.

At the crossroads in town was a small building that housed the post office, the general store, the barber shop and the grain and feed depot, all in one room. It was definitely off limits to the school kids. We were strictly forbidden from it. I don't remember why John and I decided to sneak down the hill to the store that cold February 20th. We escaped, seemingly unobserved, from the back of the hay field that we called a playground, trudged through snow to our waists, and dashed across the street in front of the grange hall. We peeked inside the store and scurried back up the hill in order to catch our rides home. We knew we had broken a major rule and we felt wildly exhilarated, a couple dangerous outlaws living on the edge. 

I walked back into the deserted classroom to gather my Rocky and Bullwinkle lunch box and to my horror, there on the front blackboards, in huge letters. were the names JOHN and GLENN. We had been found out! The breath caught in my throat and my brain burned with fear. I grabbed my things and ran to the Suburban avoiding our teacher, Mr. Fox. I was entirely frozen by fear. My mother and father would certainly be called to school for this major offense. I would have a record! Maybe, at 10 years of age, I would be sent to reform school where the bad boys went. I don't think I slept a wink that night dreading the punishment and humiliation that was to come.

I rode to school in silence barely able to breath and stumbled stiff legged to my desk, crumbled into the chair and cast my eyes to the floor. John and I cast furtive glances across the room. The jig was up. We were toast. Finally, Mr. Fox began the class. "Who can tell me what happened yesterday?" he said melodramatically. My ears were ringing with dread. Was I going to be forced to confess my crime before the entire class. Would I be able to speak? Would I be able to stand? Would I wet my pants? 

"It has to do with what is on the front blackboard." he hinted. My classmates were staring at my flushed face. John had his head on the desk, hands covering his eyes. Then Mr. Fox laughed, "No, it's not about your classmates, John and Glen. It's about John Glenn, America's first astronaut, who orbited the earth three times yesterday in a spaceship!" I don't remember much else except for the warm wash of relief that flowed through my body. I was giddy. We had slipped the bullet. Our lives had been spared and I vowed to be a good boy from now on. We had learned first-hand that crime doesn't pay. I never forgot. 

Memory is a funny thing.