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FATHER CHRISTMAS
They often asked him for a story. But telling stories had never quite worked for him. No, he was a farmer: a tree farmer, to be exact. And farming, especially winter farming, was solitary work.
Although his chapped lips rarely moved in speech, warmth radiated from his deep brown eyes when he smiled, something he did freely and often. His face glowed with the light of youth, despite his having worked in evergreen fields through countless Indiana winters.
The children would come, as they did each year, eager smiles spread beneath eyes that twinkled with some unforgotten yet unremembered magic. Their parents and grandparents trotted and moseyed along behind, letting that magic permeate and transform the frozen hills, which despite their efforts to thwart the perfect ranks and files of evergreens that stood at attention in the soft white snow, were ultimately marshaled into a certain order themselves, as if they served the spruces and firs that adorned them.
"Hello, sir!" a child would say.
“Hello,” he’d reply, smiling.
“What kind of tree is this?” a man or woman might ask.
“Douglas fir,” he’d reply, still smiling.
“Will it last the whole season?” someone else might inquire.
“Frazier fir is better,” he’d reply, smiling still.
Sometimes an inquisitive father, rocking on his heels, asked about his farm, his life, or his business. But there was no time for questions like these. With a smile that expressed no protest, he would vanish into the fields, in search of other needy customers.
When they'd made their selection, he would appear again—never too early or too late—his polished woodsman's saw in hand. Its clean, silver teeth tore swiftly through the soft wood, coating the snow with sappy, fragrant fragments of Christmases come and gone. Then, with the help of mothers, fathers, grandparents, and tall, strong girls and boys, he expertly strapped newly harvested trees to the tops of blue cars and silver minivans, and with a wave and a "Merry Christmas," sent them on their way. Beyond that, he spoke little. He smiled a lot.
Nobody knew his name. Maybe no one cared to know it. At some point—perhaps because the freshly and impeccably painted sign that welcomed guests to his farm bore the image—someone started to call him Father Christmas (although never to his face), and the name stuck. And when they thought about it—if they thought about it—the name made good sense, because he embodied the same spirit that made itself known in windburnt faces and the clomp, clomp, clomp of boots in search of the just right something that would give their Christmas life. In other words, Father Christmas meant more to them than some “Mike” or “Nick” ever could.
Late in life, as the sun set in his mind and over his evergreen fields, he took to climbing trees, because telling stories had never quite worked out for him. And from the trees, he could see the whole swaying array of pointed shrubs. There, he heard (or thought he heard) the echoes of pine cones crunching and twigs snapping in the still air, and as he grasped (or thought he grasped) at the pungent, overlapping foliage that kept him from tumbling hard to the cold ground, he saw (or thought he saw) the whole terrain of his life and the lives of all those he had ever known there in those trees, which had long decorated homes kept warm by blazing fires, as snow fell from silent skies.
Eventually, he too would be carried away from the field, or buried beneath the persistent Indiana snows. Yet he stood tall, the memory of Christmases past and the hope of future Christmases pulsing in his long, outstretched limbs. And still they came—as they always had come—in search of that half-remembered magic. And still they found him—even after long years had fogged and frozen their aged minds—in the mystery he bore to them, in the hope of life evergreen.
His was the scent of pine and nutmeg, the ancient words of stories told anew, the sound of angelic voices echoing in dark streets as they had once fallen from iridescent desert skies. His was every heart that beats 'still, still, still,' while endless ages run and run and run. His were the memory and the hope that soldier on: still, and still, and still, while endless ages run!
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Although his chapped lips rarely moved in speech, warmth radiated from his deep brown eyes when he smiled, something he did freely and often. His face glowed with the light of youth, despite his having worked in evergreen fields through countless Indiana winters.
Years passed, quickly and slowly.
The children would come, as they did each year, eager smiles spread beneath eyes that twinkled with some unforgotten yet unremembered magic. Their parents and grandparents trotted and moseyed along behind, letting that magic permeate and transform the frozen hills, which despite their efforts to thwart the perfect ranks and files of evergreens that stood at attention in the soft white snow, were ultimately marshaled into a certain order themselves, as if they served the spruces and firs that adorned them.
"Hello, sir!" a child would say.
“Hello,” he’d reply, smiling.
“What kind of tree is this?” a man or woman might ask.
“Douglas fir,” he’d reply, still smiling.
“Will it last the whole season?” someone else might inquire.
“Frazier fir is better,” he’d reply, smiling still.
Sometimes an inquisitive father, rocking on his heels, asked about his farm, his life, or his business. But there was no time for questions like these. With a smile that expressed no protest, he would vanish into the fields, in search of other needy customers.
When they'd made their selection, he would appear again—never too early or too late—his polished woodsman's saw in hand. Its clean, silver teeth tore swiftly through the soft wood, coating the snow with sappy, fragrant fragments of Christmases come and gone. Then, with the help of mothers, fathers, grandparents, and tall, strong girls and boys, he expertly strapped newly harvested trees to the tops of blue cars and silver minivans, and with a wave and a "Merry Christmas," sent them on their way. Beyond that, he spoke little. He smiled a lot.
Nobody knew his name. Maybe no one cared to know it. At some point—perhaps because the freshly and impeccably painted sign that welcomed guests to his farm bore the image—someone started to call him Father Christmas (although never to his face), and the name stuck. And when they thought about it—if they thought about it—the name made good sense, because he embodied the same spirit that made itself known in windburnt faces and the clomp, clomp, clomp of boots in search of the just right something that would give their Christmas life. In other words, Father Christmas meant more to them than some “Mike” or “Nick” ever could.
Years passed, slowly and quickly.
Late in life, as the sun set in his mind and over his evergreen fields, he took to climbing trees, because telling stories had never quite worked out for him. And from the trees, he could see the whole swaying array of pointed shrubs. There, he heard (or thought he heard) the echoes of pine cones crunching and twigs snapping in the still air, and as he grasped (or thought he grasped) at the pungent, overlapping foliage that kept him from tumbling hard to the cold ground, he saw (or thought he saw) the whole terrain of his life and the lives of all those he had ever known there in those trees, which had long decorated homes kept warm by blazing fires, as snow fell from silent skies.
Years passed, quickly and slowly.
Eventually, he too would be carried away from the field, or buried beneath the persistent Indiana snows. Yet he stood tall, the memory of Christmases past and the hope of future Christmases pulsing in his long, outstretched limbs. And still they came—as they always had come—in search of that half-remembered magic. And still they found him—even after long years had fogged and frozen their aged minds—in the mystery he bore to them, in the hope of life evergreen.
His was the scent of pine and nutmeg, the ancient words of stories told anew, the sound of angelic voices echoing in dark streets as they had once fallen from iridescent desert skies. His was every heart that beats 'still, still, still,' while endless ages run and run and run. His were the memory and the hope that soldier on: still, and still, and still, while endless ages run!
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