Dear Santa,
Considering that you were an old man with a white beard and a roseaceaist nose when I was a kid, which was quite a while ago, I know you must believe in second, and maybe third, childhoods and will read my letter with an open mind.
First, let’s get this behavior business out of the way. Have I been a good boy?
All things are relative. Some think I have been good, so far as boys who are four score and more go. Others swear I have made a pact with Satan and shouldn’t be allowed to run loose. Probably the truth lies somewhere in between pretty good and a clear and present danger.
Now, about next week’s holiday. What do I want for Christmas?
I want to make a deal.
Don’t want a thing under the tree. Sail right on by. (We’ve covered the chimney to keep the swallows out, so you couldn’t get in anyway.)
It’s Dec. 26 and most of 2012 that’s on the table.
Have a trip to Paris in mind. Would very much like to schedule Dasher! Dancer! and on down to Blitzen! and charter the sleigh for June. Would save me a bundle, which I promise to spend on worthwhile things like rest homes for elves. The sleigh would be much faster, too. Only reindeer whose names ending with exclamation marks can make it around the world in 24 hours, with 7 billion stops along the way, and that has Air France beat 40
ways from Sunday.
THAT’S MY SELFISH request.
The rest of the year, I’d like to have the eight tiny (but mighty!) reindeer living in the back yard at 821 S. Buckeye. Advantage to you: no hay bill. No need to buy supplements, either, and we’ll cover Doc Knewtson’s visits when they get puny. Think of the freedom that will give you and Mrs. Claus for 11 whole months. No feed bins to fill; no water to haul.
We do have an angle. We’d like to carefully gather the deer droppings (after they dry a bit), crumble ’em and scatter them over the gardens. You, see, we are so taken by Dasher! et al, that we truly believe Santa Reindeer Chips would be powerful magic.
Our basil would grow six feet tall; our rosemary, dill, cardamom, beet root, black cohash, and all of those other goodies would taste extra special. The annuals would turn perennial and the perennials last forever.
And while Dancer! and Prancer! were dancing and prancing, their tiny little hoofs would aerate our three acres — and boy does it need it.
