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SANTA AND THE DOGS OF DECEMBER
It was a tough winter and holiday that season. I was a ten year old and struggling with all the grade school debates and controversies of the time. You remember some of them too, I’m sure: Who would win in a fight, Superman or Spiderman? Which is better, supply side economics vs. fiat money system? Who should start at QB for the Steelers (Terry Bradshaw was still young) and the most vicious and debated contention of all was, “Is there a Santa Claus?” It was only a few days before Christmas and I couldn’t take the pressure. I pleaded with my Dad to “tell me the truth” and all he’d give me was some rubbish that for those that remained faithful; all of the Saints, including Saint Nick, were absolutely real. I was contemplating these important questions and lack of answers as I walked deep into the woods one very cold, winter day, hunting…kind of. I was too young to carry a rifle that could actually hurt a deer but I was participating with my BB gun nonetheless. While I could tag along on a few excursions, real hunting was for grownups but pretending was almost as fun.
As I walked, the weather continued to get colder and the winds began to pick up. I enjoyed the snow. As a kid who at that time had lived a good part of my life near or south of the Mason Dixon line, I suppose I was too new to the planet and the far North to recognize a bad winter storm had been moving in. As it began to get dark, I started considering turning back for home. The distant baying of wild dogs helped make my decision. I knew about them... The steady closing of the noise convinced me to pick up my pace.
In that area, wild dogs were not common enough to worry about but they were around. If you were a little kid alone at night with a BB gun, you had a little more to worry about than adults. I began pushing harder but couldn’t cover as much ground as I was used to. At first I wasn’t overly worried; often the dogs bayed but didn’t show because they were, basically, afraid of people. However, this time, they kept closing and I began to realize that the dogs may have known that they were tracking a single, small human and it had been a cold, hungry, winter for them.
Finally, I realized I was not going to make it out of the forest and that the dogs were going to catch me. As I glimpsed shadows through the brush around me, I used my last seconds to find a sturdy tree and climb it. I dropped my sling-less and useless gun scrambling up through the icy branches of an oak. As I got set up on a solid limb, the dogs surrounded the base of the tree and began taunting me with their baying and barking, I think they were telling me something I already knew, that I was in a Catch 22. Stay in the tree, I freeze to death. Go back to the ground and I would have to take my chances with the hungry pack. I chose the tree and with nothing else to do but wait and bide my time. I realized that I was probably going to miss a lot of things, not least among them was Christmas by only a day or two; that was a bummer. I had asked Santa for a .22 caliber rifle and felt silly now for not asking for it the previous year.
Then I got an idea. Even though I was quaking on the edge with the quickly dwindling camp of the last 5th graders who were believers in the magic of Christmas; I was still a believer. So, I began to pray to Saint Nicholas for help. He knew when I was sleeping, bad or good. How about in deep trouble? Maybe he could swing down in his sleigh and pick me up. I passed some long seconds imagining myself in his sleigh on the way home maybe even with a cup of hot chocolate…then I felt guilty for asking too much. As I began to feel my body stop shaking and begin to stiffen, my mind began to slow. I positioned myself so that I would stay locked in the tree after I lost consciousness and continued my little boy prayer to Santa Claus.
As my awareness began to shrink and darken, I thought I heard jingles then a yell and a shot. The dogs yelped and took off. Looking down on the ground, I saw a large man with a big white beard, red coat and bag reaching up and pulling me out of the tree. He got me warm almost instantly and as I came to I said, “Thank you, Santa”. He looked at me funny but I continued, “Thanks for hearing my prayers; I thought I was a goner.” The big man laughed a hearty laugh then told me, “Boy, you’re hypothermic, it’s Mr. Rommel. I was just checking my traps. All I heard was the dogs and wanted to see what they cornered. You’re lucky I was running late today.” Then it made sense to me. Mr. Rommel was an old local woodsman known to trap the nearby creek carrying a big red sack to hold his traps and game in. Once I was able to walk again, he helped me to the edge of the woods where it would be safe for me to continue home. Before we parted ways, he chastised me again about staying out late and told me to go right home so my parents wouldn’t worry. Then he said, “Be good, good night and Merry Christmas.” I felt a little silly about calling him Santa, even though he didn’t seem to mind too much. So, I turned to apologize for it. (Mostly from the fear that he’d mention it somewhere and it would get around to the guys), but when I turned around he was gone but I heard that jingle… I pictured his traps swaying in his pack.
A Merry Christmas came and went and I didn’t see Mr. Rommel until early spring. It was while I was back in the woods walking along the creek fishing; he was in his “yard”. Mr. Rommel was friendly as usual; he never minded teaching kids stuff. As we talked, I waited for him to bring up the dogs of December but he didn’t. So, as I began to leave I thanked him for saving me. At that Mr. Rommel’s demeanor changed some and he got a serious look on his face as he asked, “What do you mean?” I said, “You know, when you saved me from the dogs.” He crossed his arms, pulled his beard and asked with a big furry raised eyebrow, “What are you talking about?” I began to protest for a second but then stopped short and studied him… then smiled and just said, “Never mind, my mistake.” At that he just grinned and said, “Ok, now run along. I’ve got work to do.”
To this day I don’t know if old Mr. Rommel was playing with me, giving me a little hope in the magic, or if I had a case of mistaken identity but it doesn’t really matter who was in the suit, it was a miracle. After that, I knew that I had been in the right camp all along and I would never leave it. For those who remain faithful, there is Christmas magic and the Saints do answer prayers.
See you along the stream.
THE ORDINARY MIRACLE
The night was cold. Wind coursed over the ice below, blowing up the mountain to the ridge where the Shepherd stood alone. Like most of his fellow tradesmen, he was usually alone in the field; picking a high spot to be concealed while watching for signs of trouble for miles. He has stood up there many times over the years now. To be in that spot, at this time on the eve of the Christmas holidays, had become a sort of tradition for him. It gave him time to reflect. The Shepherd glanced over the woods and to the lake and river below, lying under the snow, quiet as the grave and only lit by the stars and the moon. The views and the feel were full of the Spirit of the Season.
He smiled as he thought of the crowds that have come and will come again with the warmth. They will tell him most anything they happen to see or not see on their visit. Sometimes they will ask him what he is doing, “all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere” and he wonders where he is supposed to be. But he appreciates that there are still places where each visitor can feel like they are the first and only ones there. He then thinks of the predators who have taken from his watch, those he found, those he scared off but mostly of those he missed…The Shepherd then shudders against the cold, “Well, next year,” he thinks.
It is almost time to go home to be with his family. Other families are home; warm by a hearth and visiting, he should do the same. But the job of a Shepherd is to be out when life is most vulnerable; watching. He’ll get his time. It is a job one has to enjoy and bear. Shepherds must enjoy being alone in the woods and most must endure it with people, the bitter of a cold shoulder is twice as biting as the cold blowing off the ice. By many definitions, to become a Shepherd is to become an outcast.
Another gust, a cloud goes over the moon, the stars flicker. He looks up at the winter sky. Two Thousand years ago, near this night, other Shepherd’s saw lights and angels and got great news of the first gift. A gift brought by the shunned and witnessed by animals. Tonight, this Shepherd gets peace from seeing only a twinkle in the sky and hearing the rustle of content, hoofed footsteps in the leaves, that’s all he asks for…Then, he spots what he has been waiting for, one light, a large “star” out on the horizon. It flickers and glows. The distant glow reflects and casts a prism off the new fallen snow. It is time for this Shepherd to follow that glow. This light may not be here to give but to steal from his watch, to take from the wilds and waters of our lands. The bearers of the powerful lamp will not see him as a Shepherd or a Magi; ironically, they call him a “coyote”, but those resting at home know him as a “Warden”. He returns to his vehicle and heads down the mountain.
Once the warden is at the spot where the light was last seen, he darkens his headlamps and moves slowly. Finally, he sees it again but it is not near the road, it is back in the woods. Maybe it is too late to save “his” animal but not too late to catch the thief. He parks and follows the light on foot, through the moonlit woods. While walking, he notes that it is a strange light, unusually still, hovering well off the ground, over one spot.
As he nears, the Shepherd realizes he will get there before anyone can escape. Finally he clears the brush and steps up on an old tram trail. When he sees what he has followed, his mouth drops and he shakes his head in dismay. A new camp has installed an outdoor light. As he turns to leave, he notes the movement of something small and odd. Walking down over the tram trail, he finds a turtle, clearly out of place for the time of year, struggling next to a frozen vernal pond. “Poor guy,” he thinks, “there is only one way to help you.” The warden takes his baton, raises it high over his head and swings down as hard as he can, striking the ice. Then he slightly warms the stiff reptile and slips him into the hole, allowing the turtle to get back to where he belongs for the winter. Now, feeling better that this wasn’t a wasted trip, the lone man, begins the long walk back to his vehicle.
If he hurries, he can share some time with family. As he walks away he casts a look over his shoulder, the light is gone…
“We see miracles at every hand the miracle of life is the seed and egg. Nothing of the marvelous can astonish us-a beast could speak and the sun stands still. The virgin birth seems scarcely more miraculous than is the birth of every child that comes into the world, and the miracle of the loaves and the fishes excites no greater wonder than the harvest that springs from a single ear of corn. We still have to face the ultimate miracle-the origin and principal of life. In the presence of this mystery all peoples must take an attitude to behold with awe the Divine in all creation.” Charles Alexander Eastman (Ohiyesa) excerpted from The Miracle of the Ordinary. Merry Christmas, every day.
See you along the stream
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