Chapter 44 Real Santa (2 Days To Xmas)

George stared at the dark chimney before him like an ominous

monolith.

“What now, Dad?”

He turned back to the sled and looked at his son.

“Alright, let’s get the presents out of the sled,” he said to Jeremy.

“And act like an elf. Megan is watching from the window.”

“No problem.”

And then George had a glimpse of Megan by the window. Her

video light peered out like a star through the glass. George wondered

if she would get anything through the window with the reflection.

“Alright, Santa. How about a HO HO HO, mate?”

“You gotta be kidding,” George groused, trying to keep his footing

on the slippery roof.

“This is yer director speaking. Give us a big Santa HO HO HO

and hold on to yer sides!”

“HO HO …,” George bellowed, feeling his throat constrict. He had

inhaled some of the chemical snow, and he thought he might barf.

“Yuck,” he muttered, still gagging.

“Alright, mate, forget about the HO HO HO. Let’s concentrate

on getting up that chimney, shall we?”

George looked up and saw the nose of the camera peering down

at him. A man on the roof with a handheld camera followed his every

move. Jeremy had the red bag of presents over his shoulder.

“Ready, Santa?”

George glanced at his son up on the slushy roof in the middle of

the night with nine reindeer and men floating around with cameras.

He was smiling.

“I better take those for effect,” he said, taking the bag of presents.

“Alright, let’s move toward the chimney. And remember, Megan is

watching us,” he cautioned under his breath.

“Got ya, Dad.”

George moved toward the chimney like a man underwater, stepping

carefully through the sticky slush and oily residue from the

smoke machines. The chimney had rungs that Joe installed for him

like metal horseshoes going up water towers. But the first one was

very high, and George could not bring his boot up high enough.

“Alright, mate, ready to climb?” Dean sparked in his ear.

“The step is too damn high.”

“Careful there, Santa, we don’t want a foul-mouth Santy. She can

hear you know, mate.”

George looked up and saw Sven and Yergen crouched down

against the sides of the chimney with their rappelling ropes. They

motioned him up, and George tried to bring his boot up again. The

coat and pants wouldn’t allow him to get his foot up high enough.

“It’s no use. I can’t do it.”

“Dad, let me give you a boost,” Jeremy said, taking the bag of

presents that George had hooked onto a harness over his shoulders.

He had brought up the fact he couldn’t carry the presents and climb

the chimney with one hand. The harness had a hook, and the presents

would dangle free, allowing him to use both hands. His son was bent

down, with his fingers locked.

“Alright, ready?”

“Ready,” Jeremy replied, nodding.

George put his boot in his hands and pushed up against the

chimney. He hugged the bricks, leaning against the brick tower like

a small bridge.

“Get yer foot on the first rung, mate,” Dean directed from above.

George saw the first rung, but it required him to free his death grip.

“I’m going to fall,” he muttered.

“George … yer got to go up that chimney, mate! The little tyke

is watching!”

George saw Sven and Yergen motioning to him to get his hands

over to the steel horseshoes. George looked down and saw people

staring up at him. Dean had trained several lights on the chimney. He

just had to get his hands over to the first rung, and he would be fine.

“Alright, here goes,” he muttered, lunging for the rung.

For a moment Santa swung free, his feet dangling in space, an

acrobat doing a high-wire chimney stunt, hanging on with his hands

for life. George kicked around, finding the bottom rung with his fat

boot and steadying himself, pushing up, his heart beating like a fast

drummer. He hugged the chimney like his mother.

“Jesus Christ,” he cried out, kissing the frozen brick.

Real Santa

MOVIE RIGHTS SOLD!      
  Vicki Rocco of Modern Family optioned the movie rights of William Hazelgrove's Real Santa for her production company Small But Mighty Productions with an eye to a feature or a made for television movie. Ms. Rocco has to her credits, Modern Family, Arrested Development, Stand and Deliver, U23D, Empire Dreams, Heather, Britany Spears Live, and sees Real Santa as a classic that will pull in people hungry for a new take on the Christmas movie. "No one has done this. No one has taken on the physics of being Santa Claus. It is funny and heartwarming and has all the things we look for in any great Christmas movie."
                                           
STARRED REVIEW BOOKLIST

"If somebody doesn't make a movie out of this book, there's something wrong with the world.                                                                               
                                                                                                 David Pitts Booklist


"The author marries the everyday dramas found in the novels of Tom Perrotta and Nick Hornby to the high camp of Carl Hiaasen or Dave Barry. Adults looking for a funny holiday-themed tale that doesn't lose its sense of wonder in the face of realism will find a treat here. A lovingly crafted comedy about the madness that fatherhood inspires."
                                                                                              Kirkus Reviews


Best-selling author Hazelgrove (e.g., Ripples; Tobacco Sticks) captures the human need to believe in something good.  This book will satisfy readers looking for a happy Christmas story.-- Library Journal


"

Chapter 43 Real Sant (6 Days to Xmas)

THE BELL STARTED ringing, and Megan opened her eyes.

“He’s here! He’s here!” she exclaimed, jumping up.

Megan threw off the covers and stepped into her slippers. She

grabbed the video camera and ran over to the window. She moved

the curtain aside and pressed the on button. She saw fog and thick

white snow in the viewing screen. There was a whirring sound.

“Oh, my gosh,” she gushed.

The world had become quite still. There was only a thick fog and

a light like a distant train coming toward her. Then she saw Santa

and his reindeer in the sky.

“It’s Santa,” she whispered excitedly.

Megan kept the camera on as Santa and his sleigh floated down

through the sky. Then the house shook and the crystal horse on her

dresser crashed as pictures fell off the wall and the bedside lamp fell

to the floor. The house groaned and shook, and Megan thought it

might just come apart. Then she heard a man scream out a swear

word. Megan kept the camera glued to the image floating against

the fog and snow.

“I can’t believe it, I can’t believe it,” she whispered, feeling her

legs shaking and a strange warmth all over her body. “Santa is real

… he is real!”

The pounding hooves became louder and louder as the

the whole house shook again, and she felt something under her feet.

Megan knew then Santa had landed because she heard the creak of

the roof and the heavy drumbeat of hooves. Reindeer hooves! Her

softball trophies and bowling trophies and her bulletin board fell

from the wall. The windowpanes shook. The lights flickered. Megan

kept her eye to the camera, feeling her hand shaking. This was the

moment! Now was when Santa would pull up outside her window. The

snow was thick and the fog was like a grey veil. The house sounded

like it was splitting apart as Megan saw reindeer crash through the

white, filmy snow and smoke like phantoms.

The reindeer seemed to be trying to stop and the windowpanes

were shaking again, and she heard snorting and a man’s voice. It

sounded oddly like her father, but of course all men sounded like

her father.

“I can’t believe reindeer are on my roof!” Megan screamed, squealing,

talking to the camera. And then the nine reindeer streamed past

her, shaking snow, snorting, smoking, slushing, lunging, eyes wild, fur

wet, and antlers high. Then a sled broke into view with a large man

in a brilliant white beard, standing up and pulling back on the reins

with all his might, screaming: “STOP! STOP! STOP, YOU DUMB

BASTARDS!”

And the reindeer locked their legs, and the terrific shaking

stopped. Megan couldn’t speak. She just couldn’t speak. She had

Santa’s voice on tape as the sled slid to a halt with the reindeer snorting

and shaking their heads. They stood in front of Megan with their

fur slicked and steaming, puffing smoke from their nostrils like locomotives.

“The reindeer are pooping,” Megan whispered, moving her camera

down the length of the nine large reindeer stepping on the poop, then

centering on Santa and what looked like one of his elves. “Santa has

an elf with him,” Megan whispered, staring at Santa as he wiped his

brow, shaking his head, looking like an astronaut getting out of the

command module, taking a step onto the roof with a loud thump.

“Shit!”

Megan exclaimed to the world in tearful joy, “Santa Claus has

just landed on my roof!”

Just then Santa Claus paused, and she wondered if she had been

too loud. He looked directly at her window, and she stepped to the

side. “He might have just seen me,” she whispered, feeling like the

TV character iCarly, explaining to her viewers what was happening.

She peered around and saw Santa moving again with his elf. “His elf

has a beard and is smaller,” Megan continued in a low voice. “Santa

is just like you think he would be … maybe a little fatter … a little

older, kind of dumpy looking.”

“HO HO …” He coughed and began spitting.

“Santa has a cough,” Megan whispered.

“Uhhh,” Santa groaned.

Megan followed him as he picked up an enormous sack of toys

form the sled.

“He has the presents!” she whispered feverishly.

Santa approached the chimney with the elf and stopped at the

base and looked up. Megan thought Santa shook his head and the elf

said something. Santa shook his head again, and the elf held out his

hands for his boot. Santa pushed up then grabbed on to the sides of

the chimney like a man hugging a tree. Megan zoomed in and couldn’t

be sure, but Santa did not look happy on the side of the chimney.

“He’s starting to climb the chimney,” Megan whispered, keeping

the camera pointed out her window.

Santa slowly started to climb the chimney with the presents over

his shoulder, almost like there were steps. Megan followed Santa to

the top of the chimney, where he paused and wiped his brow. He

seemed to be waiting for something.

“I better get down to the living room. He’s going to be coming

down the chimney, and I want to see him come out,” she whispered,

turning off the camera. Megan then left the window to run down

stairs and wait for Santa Claus.

Real Santa     

Chapter 13 Real Santa 49 Days To XMAS

 

 

“THIS BROAD DOESN’T know where she’s going!”

“It’s a computer, Dad, hooked into Global Positioning Satellites.”

“I don’t give a damn if it’s hooked into a donkey’s ass, it still

doesn’t know where the hell it’s going! Only a moron would follow

this English lady into the middle of nowhere.” He gestured to the

GPS box on the dashboard. “She has no goddamn idea where she is

going, and she won’t admit it!”

George looked at his father in his floppy hat. The last comment

belonged to when his mother would be driving and his dad would

turn to him. She has no goddamn idea where’s she going, and she

won’t admit it.

“Dad, it is Global Positioning Satellite technology. The woman

has nothing to do with it.”

“Then why are you listening to her?”

“Because she—”

Turn Right on McGruff Road.

George looked at the little blue car on the screen mounted on

his dashboard as McGruff Road swung into view.

 

YOUR DESTINATION IS ON THE RIGHT.

“There, you see, Dad. We aren’t lost.”

“Ah, she lucked out,” he muttered.

George started to slow down and saw a driveway peeking out of

frosted pines. He turned into the trees and entered Santa’s village.

Reindeer antlers poked out from tree trunks with flashing Christmas

trees and large red and green ornaments shining on Austrian firs.

George continued on to a house that looked like a place Santa Claus

might reside—a Swiss chalet made from logs with snow piled up on

the porch. A big F-150 truck was parked in the drive with RENDEER

plates.

“This must be the place,” George murmured.

His father frowned. “What is he, some kind of Mountain Man?”

MAKE A U-TURN.

“See, she still doesn’t know what in hell she is talking about!”

George silenced his GPS.

“Well, I better go see about some reindeer.”

His father slouched down in the car.

“Leave the engine on.”

“You aren’t coming?”

“I’m going to get a little nap in,” his father murmured. “You handle

the reindeer.”

George emerged into the winter quiet of a Midwestern snowstorm.

“Reindeer should be coming around the side of the cabin any

minute,” he said to himself.

He trudged to the porch and stared at the antlers mounted to the

railing. A barrel of Jack Daniels had a Christmas wreath around the

top. George looked for a doorbell but settled for the knocker in the

shape of a German beer mug. Heavy footsteps pounded toward him

as the door pulled back to a roaring fire and a man with a large bear

on his head. That’s what his furry black hat looked like to George.

His beard mixed with the buffalo robe, that spread out like a king.

“You George?”

“Ah yes, you must be Big Bill McGruff.”

He spat off the porch and nodded.

“That I am. You be wanting to see the reindeer.”

“Yes.”

He charged out of the cabin and plunged into the snow in kneehigh

boots with woolly mammoth fur. George followed the large man

through the heavy snow around to the back of the cabin. A clump of

brown reindeer turned and stared at the two men approaching the

slatted fence. 

“Well, here they are! You’ll find Bill McGruff’s reindeer are top of

the line and will fit any need yer have. My reindeer have been used

all over the country for movies and such. They are a fine breed of

reindeer ilk, and I put them against anyone anywhere.”

George felt his face numb from the wind squalling through the

pines. “Are there nine there?”

McGruff poked a large finger to the reindeer that seemed larger

than the ones George had seen in the movies and television. One of

the reindeer relieved himself with a sizzling steam and another one

defecated cannonballs. This was something that had not occurred

to him. What if the reindeer crap all over the roof? But wouldn’t that

make it more realistic? Didn’t Santa have to deal with the same thing?

"Yep. Nine on the button,” McGruff said, nodding.

“Good. I’ll take them all.”

McGruff motioned to the cabin. “Let’s go parley around the fire.”

They tramped back through the heavy snow and onto the porch.

McGruff walked into the cabin with snow falling off his leggings in

a trail of slushy ice. George stomped his own hiking boots on the

porch then walked in. The fireplace staged the room with antlers

on either side like totem poles. A large reindeer head was mounted

over the mantel.

“Pull up a chair and warm yer bones there, pilgrim.”

George pulled an old recliner up to the fire and sat down. The

cabin was plain and simple, except for a plasma television mounted

to the stacked logs that reminded George of Lincoln Logs from his

childhood. He looked around the room and felt the coziness of the

shelter against the flurrying storm.

“This is quite a place you have here.”

McGruff picked up his pipe and regarded him with cold grey

eyes. He flamed a small jet engine and puffed smoke. George noticed

a laptop on the kitchen table and an iPhone.

“It fits me needs.” He leaned back, motioning with the pipe. “Now,

what do yer want nine reindeer for?”

“I am going to be Santa for my daughter on Christmas, and I

obviously need reindeer if I’m going to be Santa.”

McGruff puffed away, watching him closely.

“Yer going to put the reindeer in yer backyard?” 

“Well,” George sat back in his recliner, “not exactly. Actually, I’m

going to put the reindeer on the roof of my house.”

McGruff’s furry eyebrows drew together. He took the pipe from

his mouth. “No yer aren’t. Not my reindeer!”

George took out the folded diagram from his pocket.

“I would say the same thing, but I can assure you my father and

I are engineers and we know what we are doing. Dad is asleep in

the car or I would have him explain it to you.” He handed McGruff

the diagram. “As you can see, we are going to have two large ramps

going up to the roof. One for the reindeer to go up and one for them

to go down. In between these two points they will be harnessed to

a sled with me as Santa. They will pull the sled a short distance and

stop. They will wait for me while I go up the chimney and down and

deliver the presents. Then I will come back and take them down the

ramp on the other side.”

McGruff puffed and studied the diagram with the fire crackling.

His phone rang, and he didn’t move. He finally looked up and gestured

with the pipe. “Why?”

“I have a nine-year-old daughter who is questioning Santa. She

has friends and teachers telling her that Santa isn’t real, and I want

her to still believe in the magic of Christmas. So I am going to be the

Real Santa for her.”

McGruff closed one eye. “Mister, it is no business of mine, but

yer liable to kill yourself on that roof.”

“I can assure you every safety precaution will be taken for animals

and humans.”

“It’s going to cost you a pretty penny. I don’t even know if I can

get anyone to handle the reindeer on Christmas Eve.”

“I am willing to pay.”

“They have to be transported to the site. I need at least three

handlers for all these animals, then clean up, working on a holiday.

Aye, this will be an expensive venture for you.”

George crossed his arms. “How much?”

“I can’t charge you an hourly rate. There is too many of them.

Most people rent two or three at most, and they aren’t putting them

up on a roof. I’d say four thousand dollars at the minimum for the

night, and if you need them longer—” 

“Fine.”

McGruff teethed his pipe then shook his head.

“I don’t know. The whole thing sounds crazy. I don’t know if I can

risk me reindeer. What if they fall off the roof, then what?”

“I would pay you for them.”

He breathed heavily. “Aye, you say that now but I will be the one

with dead reindeer. Hmm. I am sorry, mister, but I think the risk is

too great.”

George stared down at the hearth. “Five thousand.”

“I would have to handle them myself and that is me Christmas,”

McGruff mused, puffing away.

“Six thousand.”

McGruff shook his head again.

“Hmm, I am sorry. The risk is too much.”

George breathed heavy. If he had no reindeer, then there really

could be no Real Santa. He stared at the large man.

“I know it sounds crazy, and I understand your concern, but I

want to keep my daughter’s belief in magic. I want her to believe there

is something good in this world as long as I can.”

McGruff puffed on his pipe and didn’t move.

George waited then stood up. “Well, thank you for your time.”

He began to walk toward the door of the cabin.

“What is your daughter’s name?”

George stopped and turned around. “I’m sorry.”

“Her name. I said, what is your daughter’s name?”

“Megan,” he answered.

McGruff stared at the fire, his woolly boots steaming from the

heat. “I had a daughter once.”

George paused. “Oh … what was her name?”

“Julie … She died of cancer.”

George stood with his hands in his coat.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“Aye,” he said tiredly.

The fire crackled in the silence. George didn’t know if he should

stay or go. McGruff didn’t move, but sat with the pipe in his mouth,

his eyes on the fire.

“Well, thank you for your time again.” George turned to the door. 

“I’ll do it for five.”

He turned and saw McGruff still hadn’t moved. George rolled

his shoulders.

“I’ll pay six if that will make it any easier.”

McGruff turned and pinned him with his good eye.

“I’m not doing it for the money, pilgrim.”

Real Santa   

Chapter 11 Real Santa ( A chapter a day until xmas)

SNOW SWIRLED DOWN on State Street and landed on coats

and scarves and hats as people moved along Macy’s windows. “Look

how real she looks, Mom,” Megan exclaimed, staring at the small girl

asleep in the Victorian room.

“I am so glad they picked this theme,” her mother replied, looking

at George.

The next window had a man sitting at a desk. It was an old-time

newspaper room, and the detail was amazing. George felt his heart

open as Megan jumped up and down in her white muff and hat. The

people, the traffic, the L going overhead, all added up to Christmas in

Chicago. They would finish with the windows then go to the Walnut

Room and have dinner, buy some Frango mints, then head for the

Christmas tree in front of the State of Illinois building. It had worked

out perfectly after the dinner with his father.

George’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he walked away from

the windows.

“Mate! Mate, it’s Dean!”

“Dean, thanks for calling me back.”

“Oh, no problem, mate! Mary said you had a little project going

that maybe I could help you on. She was pretty mum, so I really don’t

know what you are looking for, but I’ll be glad to help.”

George lowered his voice. “Yes, do you think we could meet? I

have some pretty technical questions.”

“Oh, no problem, mate! How about tomorrow morning? I’m fairly

wide open holidays and all.”

“Sure how about nine”

“Yeah sure, mate. At my studio.”

“I’m going to bring my dad if that’s alright. He’s helping me on

this project.”

“Well, you got my curiosity up, I will have to say, mate. But yeah,

bring your pap along, and I’ll see you at nine AM sharp.’

“Great.”

George saw his wife and daughter were already three windows up.

He had been coming down to see the Christmas windows ever since

he was a kid, when Marshall Field’s still ruled State Street. Macy’s

had taken over, and George felt the windows were just not as good.

Still, it was as much a part of Christmas as seeing Santa.

“Sorry, that was Dean,” he murmured as Mary read another window

for Megan.

George’s phone buzzed again. He stepped away.

“This is George.”

“Yeah, this is Joe Gionelli. You called about some work on your

chimney.”

“Right. Right.” George watched Megan and his wife walk to the

next window. “Yes, I have a very old chimney, over a hundred years

old, and it is actually a double chimney with a small wall separating

the two. And what I’m looking to do is knock out the adjoining wall

between them and make one big chimney.”

The phone was quiet.

“You want to knock out the wall separating the two chimneys?”

“Yes.”

“Ain’t none of my business, but why would you want to do that?”

“Well, I have my reasons.”

“I see.”

“Can you come out tomorrow, say in the afternoon? I have a

morning appointment.”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

George paused. “Is this something you think you can do?”

“Well, I tell you. In these times I don’t say there’s nothing I can’t

do. But I gotta see what I’m dealing with.” 

“Fine. Say noon?”

“See you then.”

George pocketed his phone and felt it buzz in his hand again.

“Hello.”

“Yes this is Big Bill McGruff of Reindeers.com. You the man who

e-mailed me about nine reindeer?”

“Yes, yes, thanks for calling,” George replied, watching his wife

lean toward the windows again.

“Well, I don’t normally get no requests for nine reindeer!”

“Well, that’s what I’m looking for,” George replied, turning, watching

his family go down to the next window. “Do you have them?”

“Well, I have them. I might have to bring some over from another

farm. When did you want them?”

“I need them for Christmas Eve. Probably all day and night.”

“Well, that might be a little tricky. There are handlers that go

with them, and I don’t know who is willing to work on Christmas

Eve … how late?”

“I will need them probably all night.”

The phone aired silence.

“Hmm … now that might be a little difficult to pull off. I wouldn’t

even know what to charge for special circumstances like this and—”

“I’m willing to pay. I need nine reindeer and whoever comes

with them.”

“Hmm … alright. Well, we should probably meet. I have an opening

tomorrow afternoon. Say about three?”

“Yep. That should work. And, oh.” George turned, picking out his

daughter by the last window. “Do you know where I can get a sled?”

“What kind of sled?”

“A Santa’s sled.”

“I might have an idea.”

“Great.”

George closed the phone and joined his family by the last window.

Megan took his hand while they stared at the Victorian Christmas in

a turn of the century living room. A little girl was opening her gifts

under the tree while a mother and father looked on.

Real Santa....Starred Review Booklist
STARRED REVIEW BOOKLIST

"If somebody doesn't make a movie out of this book, there's something wrong with the world. This could have been played as an out-and-out slapstick comedy, but instead the author approaches the story like a character study: a portrait of a man with the best intentions in the world watching those intentions collide with reality. It's a steamroller of a story, starting small, with George's idea, and getting bigger and bigger as George tries to put the elements together, as his obsession takes him further and further away from reality. Beautifully done."                                                                                                 
                                                                                                 David Pitts Booklist


"The author marries the everyday dramas found in the novels of Tom Perrotta and Nick Hornby to the high camp of Carl Hiaasen or Dave Barry. Adults looking for a funny holiday-themed tale that doesn't lose its sense of wonder in the face of realism will find a treat here. A lovingly crafted comedy about the madness that fatherhood inspires."
                                                                                              Kirkus Reviews


Best-selling author Hazelgrove (e.g., Ripples; Tobacco Sticks) captures the human need to believe in something good.  This book will satisfy readers looking for a happy Christmas story.-- Library Journal


"Hazelgrove's lively improbable narrative will appeal to the readers in the mood for holiday fiction."
                                                                                              Publishers Weekly



   

Chapter 8 Real Santa (A chapter a Day Until XMAS)

GEORGE DROVE HIS daughter to school through the snow-covered

quiet countryside. It was the benefit of moving into the middle

of nowhere. You got to see a lot of nature, and it was very pretty with

the heavy snow in the pines and the homes looking like something out

of Currier & Ives. Jingle Bells was on his satellite radio, and George

drove with his coffee cooling in the console and his daughter humming

along with the Christmas music.

“Well, I don’t get to do this every day.”

“Why don’t you never go back to work, Daddy, then you can

drive me every day?”

Megan smiled at him with her two large front teeth.

“I might just do that,” he murmured.

“I like it when you take me. Mom always goes over my homework

in the car but you just play music.”

“That’s why dads are more fun.”

He pulled into Ridgeland Elementary’s parking lot. George looked

over at his daughter and had a momentary pang of sadness. She had

been turning to him, and her hair fanned over one eye. She looked

like a young woman. It pained him to think that next month she

would break into the double digits.

“Dad, you are supposed to drop me off in front of the school.”

He turned off the car. “I just wanted to speak to Mrs. Worthington

about your Christmas party and see if she needs any more helpers.”

Megan hoisted her backpack with the small duck clipped to the

zipper. The duck gave him heart. She was still a little girl. There was

still time.

“That’s all set I think, Dad. I think they have enough moms.”

“Well, maybe they can squeeze in a dad,” he said gingerly. “Come

on, you can show me your classroom.”

George and Megan squished through the snow and walked into

the heated lobby of her school. The smell of institutional food took

him back to when he was a boy. Where did that smell come from anyway?

It seemed every school in the world was sprayed with cologne of

warm caramels. He followed his daughter down through the hallway

crammed with teachers, mothers, students and the occasional dad.

George and his daughter walked into her classroom, where kids

were dismantling their cold-weather gear. Boots, coats, hats, scarves,

melted snow, and gloves were all over the place. The American flag

hung on one wall with the ABCs running over the board. Posters

about being a good writer, a good citizen, and a good speller broke

up the cinder block walls. Children squealed with excitement. George

remembered his own moment of bliss in sixth grade when he had

walked home from school with a small rubber basketball. It had been

a gift from the Christmas party, and he bounced it the whole way,

knowing that only good things were ahead.

“Dad, there’s Mrs. Worthington, if you want to ask her about the

party,” Megan whispered.

His daughter had already hung her coat, scarf, and gloves in her

cubbyhole. She was very efficient, and George marveled at how different

she was from his other children. Everything seemed a struggle

with his prior family, whereas Megan seemed preprogrammed. So

far, she had been a parent’s dream.

“Alright, I’ll go ask her,” he said, approaching the woman with

the silver globe of hair.

George cleared his throat. “Ah, Mrs. Worthington?”

Cold grey eyes turned on him. He smiled at the dowager in the

print dress with the cold, thin lips.

“Yes. May I help you?”

“I am Megan’s father, George Kronenfeldt.”

Mrs. Worthington put down her pencil and clasped her hands. 

“Children take your seats!” Her eyes returned. “What can I do for

you, Mr. Kronenfeldt?”

“Ah, well, Megan came home and told us about the conversation

you had about …” George leaned down and whispered, “about Santa

at the North Pole and how it’s too cold for him there.”

Mrs. Worthington’s eyes frosted over. “And?”

George smiled again, tweaking his beard. “Well, I was thinking.”

He leaned in closer. “If you could just go easy on the whole Santa

couldn’t survive up in the North Pole stuff, I would appreciate it.

Megan is starting to doubt the existence of Santa, and we’d like to

keep that illusion in place as long as we can.”

Mrs. Worthington’s eyes dulled, her mouth turned down.

“It is my job to teach these children, Mr. Kronenfeldt, not perpetuate

 

myths.”

George stared at the woman, who had crossed her arms. He

suddenly remembered Mrs. Gary in first grade who hit him with a

pencil because he couldn’t make his eights properly. Mrs. Gary hit

him on the skull. No, no, no, no. How stupid are you? You make them

like this! Then he made another snowman. NO, NO, NO. LIKE THIS!

Whack, whack, whack! Mrs. Gary had broken several pencils before

he drew an eight.

“Well, I am just requesting you stay away from Santa discussions

then. These children don’t really need to hear that the climate in the

North Pole is too harsh for Santa and his elves,” he continued gingerly.

Mrs. Worthington raised her pencil like a jousting pole.

“Mr. Kronenfeldt, nobody tells me how to teach. I will teach as I

see fit, and if you have a problem with that, then I suggest you take it

up with the principal. I knew I would get one of you parents coming

in here whining about Santa Claus.”

George felt his face turning red, watching the pencil in her hand.

“Whining about Santa Claus?”

“That’s right. Every year it’s the same thing. I get some bleeding

heart parent who thinks I have damaged their child.” Mrs. Worthington

beat the pencil in her hand. “Life is hard, Mr. Kronenfeldt, and it

is getting harder. The last thing these children need are more myths.”

George laughed lightly.

“Ah … well with all due respect, Mrs. Worthington, that is not 

for you to decide.”

Mrs. Worthington stood up in her floral dress with the pencil in

her right hand. She batted the pencil toward George like a piston.

“This conversation is over. Please leave my classroom.”

George stared at her.

You going to hit me with that pencil?”

 

“What?”

“Weren’t you ever a little girl, Mrs. Worthington?”

 

“Goodbye, Mr. Kronenfeldt.”

George stared at her.

“You were never a little girl who believed in Santa?”

Mrs. Worthington shook her head.

“We did not have myths in the home I grew up in!”

George frowned.

“What … were you raised in a Conestoga wagon by nuns?”

“Goodbye, Mr. Kronenfeldt!”

“Look, just leave Santa Claus out of the classroom. Okay? And

there will be no problem.”

Mrs. Worthington’s eyes narrowed, the pencil probing toward

his face.

“Are you threatening me, Mr. Kronenfeldt?”

George grabbed the pencil from her hand and snapped it, throwing

the two pieces on her desk. He leaned in close to the old teacher

staring at him like a rapist.

“Don’t friggin’ mess with Santa.”

Real Santa...Sometimes you have to go for it.
STARRED REVIEW BOOKLIST

"If somebody doesn't make a movie out of this book, there's something wrong with the world. This could have been played as an out-and-out slapstick comedy, but instead the author approaches the story like a character study: a portrait of a man with the best intentions in the world watching those intentions collide with reality. It's a steamroller of a story, starting small, with George's idea, and getting bigger and bigger as George tries to put the elements together, as his obsession takes him further and further away from reality. Beautifully done."                                                                                                 
                                                                                                 David Pitts Booklist


"The author marries the everyday dramas found in the novels of Tom Perrotta and Nick Hornby to the high camp of Carl Hiaasen or Dave Barry. Adults looking for a funny holiday-themed tale that doesn't lose its sense of wonder in the face of realism will find a treat here. A lovingly crafted comedy about the madness that fatherhood inspires."
                                                                                              Kirkus Reviews


Best-selling author Hazelgrove (e.g., Ripples; Tobacco Sticks) captures the human need to believe in something good.  This book will satisfy readers looking for a happy Christmas story.-- Library Journal


"Hazelgrove's lively improbable narrative will appeal to the readers in the mood for holiday fiction."
                                                                                              Publishers Weekly