Let’s face it. It’s hard—no it’s impossible—to say ‘no’ to Santa. That week we pulled out the old lights and decorated the barn to look just like Santa’s workshop. There was a big door and a roof topped by a star. Trees lined the entryway and candy canes covered the yard. We found a sign that read “Santa’s Workshop” and hung it up outside.
Immediately the elves moved in.
Santa was right. They didn’t take up any room at all. We couldn’t see them. The barn and the old office space remained empty.
But the noise!
There were bangs and knocks and thumps. Saws sawing. Hammers hammering. Wrappings wrapping. Giggling. Laughing. The pitter patter of little elf feet.
There was also Christmas music. Lots of Christmas music. It never stopped. All day and all night Christmas carols rang through the barn and filtered into the house. We heard old carols, new carols, instrumentals, hymns, organ music and chorals. There were traditional arrangements, blues arrangements— country, jazz—in English, Spanish, Swedish, Russian, Polish—every language I had ever heard and many that I was sure I hadn’t.
And all of it—the knocks, the giggles, the music—never, ever stopped. Judging from the sounds, Santa’s workshop was a very busy place.
It was impossible to escape from the sounds of Santa’s workshop. At night we stuffed our ears with cotton and still our dreams were filled with ‘silent nights’ and ‘sleigh rides’ and ‘halls decked with boughs of holly’.
Even the cat was looking bleary eyed.
Finally, one day I caught sight of a distinctive red hat disappearing through the door.
“Santa,” I said, hurrying after him.
He was heading for the chimney.
“Santa, stop!”
He glanced back, eyes merry, just laying his finger to the side of his nose. I made a mad dash for the chimney. He straightened.
“We need to talk,” I gasped.
“Yes,” he said nodding agreeably. “We need to make arrangements for the reindeer.”
“I don’t understand…” I was momentarily distracted. Reindeer?
“Yes, you need to get some horse manure.”
“But—”
“Sympathetic magic,” he said. “Like drawn to like. Just like the elves. Throw up something that looks like Santa’s workshop and ‘poof’ there are elves. Put out some manure and a little grain by a barn and the reindeer will be here in no time.”
“But Santa,” I said desperately. “I’m not sure I want them here.”
He looked at me in surprise. I gulped. I tried again.
“I mean the elves are very noisy with all the banging and building and the music never stops and if there are reindeer, too—”
Santa slowly placed his hands on each side of the buckle of his big black belt. His eyes grew somber. I trailed off. I think I mentioned earlier that it is impossible to say ‘no’ to Santa.
I sighed. “Right. Horse manure. Some grain.”
Santa leaned back and smiled. The twinkle was back.
“Ho, ho, ho,” he laughed. “Don’t you worry about the reindeer. They won’t take up any space at all. They’re much quieter than the elves. You’ll hardly know they’re here.”
Then he stepped nimbly around me and disappeared up the chimney.
******
A Southern Maine Christmas Carol: Part I
Santa Rents Some Empty Office Space
Part III Disaster Strikes: Christmas Imperiled
Part IV The Search for Santa’s Sleigh Suit
