Here I am at the coast this week, writing, working on some school matters, doing some odd jobs for my son who owns this house, and enjoying the ocean. Sounds great—don’t get me wrong, it is—but the Christmas spirit is a little hard to come by here. (If you don’t know what the Christmas spirit is, I can only quote Louis Armstrong, who when asked what jazz was, replied, “If you have to ask what jazz is, you’ll never know.”) About a block away, one good soul has decked out a home with blinking lights, but otherwise darkened houses and deserted streets mark the season here on Topsail Island.
Today I was missing those emblems of this season—the lights and decorations, trees and ornaments, the rush and bustle of shoppers, cards arriving in the mail. While working on one project, I turned on the television for the first time since my arrival here and listened to the movie “White Christmas,” but that was just for background noise. I wasn’t exactly low, but something was missing.
And then it happened. A Christmas miracle.
About four in the afternoon I stepped to the porch to take a break and enjoy the ocean. And there he was.
Santa Claus.
Unbelievable, right? And yet it was Santa, big as life, shambling along the deserted beach, a tall heavy man with a white beard, snow goggles, and the requisite red shirt. He had tried to disguise himself by wearing a baseball cap and walking a dog, but I knew right away Saint Nick had arrived on Topsail Island.
And I nearly let him get away.
I debated about what to do. I didn’t want to blow his cover by approaching him, but on the other hand no one else was on the beach, so who would know? Usually, too, I am shy about approaching strangers, but this was Santa Claus. Heck, he’d held me in his lap when I was a toddler. Besides, I’d written a column only a week earlier about Saint Nicholas and how he still lives today.
So I hurried to get my tablet, grabbed a light jacket, and hurried down the beach.
Fortunately, Santa was keeping a leisurely pace. He stopped from time to time to take pictures of the sweet dog with him, who danced at the edge of the waves, doubtless planning to send the pictures to Mrs. Claus and the elves.
When I caught up with him, I was very direct in my approach. There is no point in beating around the bush or being wishy-washy with Santa Claus. After all, this is the guy who “sees you when you’re sleeping,” who knows “if you’ve been bad or good.”
“Hello there,” I said. “I know this sounds crazy, but I’d love to get your picture and tell people, especially my grandchildren, that I saw Santa Claus at the beach.”
Santa laughed. Just so everyone knows, Santa doesn’t bellow “Ho, Ho, Ho.” It was more a chuckle.
We introduced ourselves. (Santa was using the pseudonym Tony. This time of year, when he is out and about, I am sure a low profile is important). His companion’s name was Boo. (Surely a pseudonym as well. I mean, the guy has reindeer with names like Blitzen and Donner. Why would Santa name a dog Boo? It made me think of Halloween and To Kill A Mockingbird). He claimed to be dog-sitting, and I let that one pass too. I figured he was just catching some rest and some time alone before the big night.
“Should I take off the ball cap for the picture?” he asked.
“Sure.” After he took off the cap, I expected him to pull out his red hat with its tassel and white ball, but he apparently left that at home.
After some fiddling around with the tablet, I finally got a picture. I thanked him and turned away. Then Santa called after me, “Merry Christmas.” It gladdened my heart Santa had not yet gone politically correct on the holiday greeting.
Back in the house, I resumed working on my project. Then a thought hit me like an iron hammer. I had found Santa Claus and had him all to myself, and like an idiot I hadn’t told him what I wanted for Christmas. So of course I threw on my jacket again and hit the beach.
By then, of course, he had vanished.
And then it happened. A Christmas miracle.
About four in the afternoon I stepped to the porch to take a break and enjoy the ocean. And there he was.
Santa Claus.
Unbelievable, right? And yet it was Santa, big as life, shambling along the deserted beach, a tall heavy man with a white beard, snow goggles, and the requisite red shirt. He had tried to disguise himself by wearing a baseball cap and walking a dog, but I knew right away Saint Nick had arrived on Topsail Island.
And I nearly let him get away.
I debated about what to do. I didn’t want to blow his cover by approaching him, but on the other hand no one else was on the beach, so who would know? Usually, too, I am shy about approaching strangers, but this was Santa Claus. Heck, he’d held me in his lap when I was a toddler. Besides, I’d written a column only a week earlier about Saint Nicholas and how he still lives today.
So I hurried to get my tablet, grabbed a light jacket, and hurried down the beach.
Fortunately, Santa was keeping a leisurely pace. He stopped from time to time to take pictures of the sweet dog with him, who danced at the edge of the waves, doubtless planning to send the pictures to Mrs. Claus and the elves.
When I caught up with him, I was very direct in my approach. There is no point in beating around the bush or being wishy-washy with Santa Claus. After all, this is the guy who “sees you when you’re sleeping,” who knows “if you’ve been bad or good.”
“Hello there,” I said. “I know this sounds crazy, but I’d love to get your picture and tell people, especially my grandchildren, that I saw Santa Claus at the beach.”
Santa laughed. Just so everyone knows, Santa doesn’t bellow “Ho, Ho, Ho.” It was more a chuckle.
We introduced ourselves. (Santa was using the pseudonym Tony. This time of year, when he is out and about, I am sure a low profile is important). His companion’s name was Boo. (Surely a pseudonym as well. I mean, the guy has reindeer with names like Blitzen and Donner. Why would Santa name a dog Boo? It made me think of Halloween and To Kill A Mockingbird). He claimed to be dog-sitting, and I let that one pass too. I figured he was just catching some rest and some time alone before the big night.
“Should I take off the ball cap for the picture?” he asked.
“Sure.” After he took off the cap, I expected him to pull out his red hat with its tassel and white ball, but he apparently left that at home.
After some fiddling around with the tablet, I finally got a picture. I thanked him and turned away. Then Santa called after me, “Merry Christmas.” It gladdened my heart Santa had not yet gone politically correct on the holiday greeting.
Back in the house, I resumed working on my project. Then a thought hit me like an iron hammer. I had found Santa Claus and had him all to myself, and like an idiot I hadn’t told him what I wanted for Christmas. So of course I threw on my jacket again and hit the beach.
By then, of course, he had vanished.