The Night Santa Came to Visit

      My son Eli was only four years old back in 1976. He was surrounded by simplicity, being raised by two young hippies in their twenties with not much to their name. We were living high on a hilltop in Huntington, Vermont,on a meadow in a tiny stone house that we built ourselves. Our home was only accessible by walking because once it snowed, our steep and precarious long driveway was not made for an old front-wheel drive car with crappy tires.

      The house was unfinished, and we lived on the ground floor with a masonry tub for water that we heated on a gas stove, a wood furnace in the basement for heat, and not much else. We did not have a telephone, a television or a computer. What we did have were hopes and dreams and unwavering youthful expectations and the pleasure, contentment and peace we felt living surrounded by a hardwood forest in a home we built with our own hands. 

      Our life was rudimentary, but it held great promise if not much else. We lived during a period in our history when my generation fought against an unjust war, cared about human rights and wanted to heal our planet. We were dreamers and optimists, and we believed we could change the world.

      We rocked our son to sleep to the tunes of Paul Butterfield, Joni Mitchell and Ravi Shankar. We threw our I-Ching coins, consulted Tarot and studied the Power of Zen. We knew all our astrology aspects and consulted daily to understand the placement of the planets in relation to our specific signs. Eli learned about the power of nature to heal, and why he should eat tofu and rice and vegetables instead of animals. Living in Vermont during this time was electric because so many visionaries and progressive thinkers were homesteading here.  

      In December 1976, we were feeling Christmas holiday vibes. The house was toasty and surrounded by fresh piles of Vermont snow. We strung popcorn and cranberries on the Christmas tree we brought out of the forest and decorated it with handmade ornaments and chocolate chip cookies. The beauty of this Vermont winter allowed us to embrace this special holiday with great joy and anticipation.  

      Having a precocious, curious and highly spirited four-year-old child made Christmas even more magical. We read Eli “The Littlest Angel,” “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,” “The Night Before Christmas,”” The Grinch Who Stole Christmas” and “The Birds Christmas Carol.” Since we did not have a television, books were our source of entertainment and learning.

      Santa Claus was often used as our go-to for keeping Eli in line. “Now, be a good fella because Santa Claus is coming soon and you don’t want him to leave you a lump of coal in your stocking, do you?” It was the same old tired threat that we learned from our parents, but it worked.

      The night before Christmas, we gave Eli his winter pajamas with feet. They had moose on them, were flannel, snuggly and warm. We settled down on the pull-out sofa bed, which was where we slept, and began reading our collection of Christmas books. There was a nor’easter storm blowing outside, and you could see and hear the sparkles of ice flakes hitting the windowpanes. It was a symphony. The wind was ferocious as she howled and hummed and rattled.

      That Christmas, Eli asked for a puppy, a baby sister and skis, and he expected Santa to deliver them all on his sleigh pulled by nine reindeer. His enthusiasm was ebullient, like any four-year-old waiting for Santa to arrive. After we put out a dish of homemade chocolate chip cookies and a glass of Farmer Orvis’s milk for St. Nick, we tucked our little boy into bed and lay down next to him until he fell asleep.

      It was not long after we settled in that we heard a commotion on the roof. There were footsteps clomping, bells ringing, stomping and shuffling, and lots of banging. Eli jumped out of bed, ran to the window and exclaimed, “Santa is here, Santa is here.”

      We smiled and lifted him back into bed and told him it was just the storm.

      A few minutes later, there was a knock at the door—a heavy knock, knock, knock. Eli ran to the door, and when we opened it, to everyone’s surprise, there was the jolly old St. Nick himself bellowing, “Ho Ho Ho.” “I am here to see Master Eli”

      With that, he stepped out of the storm and into the house, threw down his bag of gifts, dusted off his suit, wiped the mist from his round glasses and took Eli’s hand and guided him over to the sofa where they could sit down together.

      Eli could not take his eyes off this magical being. His big brown eyes were as wide as the underside of a Hershey Kiss. Eli was enamored. Santa asked our little fella what he wanted for Christmas, and he responded with his three requests: “a puppy, a baby sister and a pair of skis.”      

       Santa asked Eli if he had been a good boy all year, and Eli responded, “Well, sort of.” He shared with Santa that he did take a paint brush out of the bucket and paint some of the rocks on the house, which made his Daddy mad, and he did not like tofu, and sometimes he would give chase when it was time for bed. 

      Santa assured his little charge that those were minor infractions. Eli asked where the reindeer were, and Santa replied that they were still on the roof. When Eli asked to see them, Santa let him know that they were much too shy and could become invisible. Then Santa read Eli’s Christmas books and shared with him what life was like on the North Pole. They both ate cookies and drank Farmer Orvis’ milk. 

      Soon it was getting late, and the storm was picking up. Santa explained to Eli that he had many more little boys and girls to visit that night and would have to bid him farewell. Eli threw his arms around Santa’s neck and they hugged. Santa tucked our little boy into bed and reminded him to always be kind and loving. 

      With that, the Jolly Old Man grabbed a handful of chocolate chip cookies, put them in his pocket, and after another glass of Farmer Orvis’ milk, he waddled to the door. With a wink and a nod, he stepped out into the huge nor’easter snowstorm and walked off through the heavy snow squalls until we could no longer see him. When we went back inside, Eli was at the window watching Santa as he disappeared into the night. 

      Christmas morning came soon enough. The storm was still raging, and it was as white a Christmas as we had ever seen. Our little fella was opening his gifts when there was a knock at the door. Upon opening it, we greeted our neighbor Daulton, who stopped in to visit with Eli, wish him a Merry Christmas, and give him a gift. 

      They chatted for a while, and Eli was ever so excited to tell him all about Santa’s visit. Showing Daulton his new skis, he talked about skiing at Mad River, where his dad was an instructor. When it came time for Daulton to leave, he picked Eli up in his arms to hug him. Eli stared at Daulton’s face—he turned his head this way and that way—and after a few moments of inspection, he blurted out “Hey, Daulton, Santa Claus has glasses just like yours. Look, look, he has a little safety pin stuck right in there in that little hole……JUST LIKE YOU.” 

      It has been 50 years since that magical night. Eli is now 54 years old and Daulton is approaching 80. They remain close friends, and from time to time they reminisce about the visit from Santa Claus and with a twinkle in both their eyes they share an endearing chuckle.

      A few years ago, Daulton transformed into St. Nick for the last time. He arrived bellowing, “Ho Ho Ho” at our door on Christmas Eve to the delight of my four young grandchildren. If ever there was a more gentle, kind and magical soul than Santa Claus, it is our beloved friend, Daulton.

      Oh, and a year later, Eli did get a little sister named Mariah and a little puppy named Mae.