The Last Frontier

When I was up in the Boundary Waters on the old logging roads on a motorcycle following the grey sandy roads through fallen trees and second growth forests I had the feeling that I was on the edge of the last frontier. It was summer and I had been away from the "Lower forty eight" for three weeks and one definitely felt there was this life and there was the modern life below.

You do not have to look for the reason people went West. They went West to find themselves. The frontier was declared closed in 1880 by Frederick Jackson Turner and this left people with the notion the Great Adventure was over. It was not. The million acres Teddy Roosevelt set aside on the top of the country that became the Boundary Waters was and is largely untouched.

When I was researching Jack Pine I was amazed to learn all the trees had been logged out and that all I was seeing was the Jack Pine. One can only imagine what the country looked like with the towering white pines all well over three hundred years. I haven't been back to The Boundary Waters since those years of research. But I will go back one day...if for nothing else than to see the Last Frontier one more time.

Jack Pine

www.williamhazelgrove.com
 

Fastest Christmas Yet

Hard to say what made it so fast. Maybe losing a week after Thanksgiving. Maybe it is just everything is getting faster in a cyber world. But it was fast. Boom. Here and there and over. Not even enough time to see Macys windows and the lights in Lincoln Park or Its A Wonderful Life at the Music Box Theatre. Like a lot of people we have been backfilling after Christmas but of course it is not the same.

The Xmas blues comes a few days later when you face the winter. Could it be we are really in the countdown toward spring? And what does it say when we are continually looking from one date to the next. Ok Easter. Ok Fourth of July. Ok Thanksgiving. Ok Christmas. Ok New Years. That's right we do still have New Years.

But New Years didn't even live up to its reputation when I was still in the city and doing all the twenty something things. People were just sort of spent and the bad parties were legendary. But what the heck. We still have a few days to play Xmas tunes and stare at the tree. And you know what. NEXT YEAR we will get it all in.

After all there are only 361 days until next Christmas. Not so many.

Real Santa...how far would you go for your kids?
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


 

Real Santa Chapter 46 MERRY CHRISTMAS!

MEGAN STARED AT the fireplace. Bits of black creosote fell

down onto the hearth like black snow. Megan kept her video camera

on the fireplace, barely breathing, scarcely able to believe she was

going to see Santa Claus emerge from the chimney with his gifts. This

moment contained the biggest question for her: How did Santa mange

to fit down the chimney with all his gifts? How did he actually climb

back up the chimney? Was he able to simply recreate the chimney

the way they did in The Santa Clause movie?

More pieces of creosote rained down into the fireplace and littered

the hearth. Then larger black pieces fell with heavy thuds. Some exploded

like small black bombs. This had never happened in any movie

Megan could remember. Now she became aware of other sounds.

Santa Claus was breathing heavy, grunting, thudding. Megan lowered

her camera and walked closer to the fireplace. The creosote was falling

like sand, as if someone was kicking the sides of the chimney. A cloud

of coal dust rolled into the living room, and somewhere far above

her she heard Santa again. His voice was deep and hollow, but that

might be because he was in a chimney. Megan stepped back into the

shadows and positioned herself. The sounds were getting louder, and

the size and amount of creosote had increased to a black avalanche.

Megan felt her heart and raised the camera again. Santa was

breathing very heavy and seemed to be grunting. A large black rock

of creosote hit the hearth and exploded like a small meteorite. The

sound stopped and Megan kept her eye on the camera, waiting for

Santa Claus to emerge in her living room. She bit her lip to make sure

she wasn’t dreaming. Here was the undisputable proof that not only

did Santa exist, but he had come down her chimney after landing on

her roof, and this proof would stream out into the world! She just had

to keep her camera aimed at the opening of their fireplace

A minute went by. Then another. Then another. Megan hit the

stop button and looked over her camera. She tiptoed up the fireplace

and bent her head, listening closely. There was no sound, then she

heard a single grunt, an expulsion of breath, then some dull cursing

followed by Santa’s voice echoing far up the chimney.

“I’m stuck!”

Real Santa Still On Holiday Sale   

Chapter 45 Real Santa (Christmas Eve)

MRS. WORTHINGTON’S LIFE had gone along like a train on

a track that had few bends. But why was she crying over a silly movie?

Why did she care if George Bailey was happy? Was she crying

because her husband had left and gone over to watch that maniac

Kronenfeldt play Santa Claus? Why would anyone want to watch

a grown man endanger himself and others by landing a sled with

reindeer on his roof?

Mrs. Worthington stared at the fake Christmas tree. Walter always

liked a fresh tree, but the mess and the needles were simply too

much. Ten years ago she had bought the Christmas tree that could be

set up in ten minutes. No lugging the tree in the house. Just take the

tree out of the box and set it up. Mrs. Worthington felt that she had

scored one against Christmas. She resented the silliness the holiday

generated in her classroom and in her home. The only real way to

deflate the myth of Christmas was to deflate the biggest myth and

that was Santa Claus!

Mrs. Worthington stared at her father on the mantel with his

fierce dark German eyes. He had taken Santa away from her early,

and she resented the other children who believed in the ridiculous

fat man with a beard. She had told them it was their parents. She had

told them Christmas was ridiculous and a waste of a good working

man’s day. That was what her father had said. And she found herself

an outsider among her friends. The teacher admonished her to keep

her beliefs about Santa Claus to herself. She was a spritely thing who

had them sing Christmas carols all month long while she played the

piano.

Mrs. Worthington picked up the picture and stared at the man

on the front steps of their home. She was there between his legs, a

young girl of ten. Her father taught her how to milk a cow and stack

hay bales and even to slaughter a chicken. He treated her like a son,

and she took his revelation about Christmas as evidence that he

viewed her as an equal. But she envied the excitement of the other

children when talking about the arrival of Santa Claus. Who wouldn’t

be excited about a man who comes down your chimney and leaves

gifts around your Christmas tree and then vanishes? Why, he was a

bit like God when you thought about it.

God promised human salvation. He promised the greatest gift of

all—the gift of life. So the advertisers who had created Santa Claus

had tapped into a very powerful emotion—the human yearning for

someone to come in and save us all. And for children, Jesus and

Santa Claus were all mixed up together. Mrs. Worthington had read

a recent poll that Santa Claus was what children associated with

Christmas, not the baby Jesus. That alone was justification for her

war against Santa.

And her war consisted of one simple human emotion—doubt.

She put doubt into the children’s head over the existence of Santa

Claus. Some might think it was an evil thing to do, but they didn’t

have to deal with twenty-five screaming children for the twenty days

before Christmas. The holiday party was her concession to the children

and their parents. But she would not lie to the children. She

would not perpetuate this myth of gifts for nothing. Children should

understand the relationship between work and getting things they

wanted. Santa Claus told them that if they were good children, then

they were rewarded. That was ridiculous. Children should be good

and not expect a reward.

Mrs. Worthington set the picture of her father down and paused.

And now this moron was going to potentially undo all her work. He

would give his daughter an opportunity to prove to the children that

there was a Santa Claus. She did not want a celebrity in her classroom

for the remaining six months of school. She did not want her class to

be home to the girl famous for proving the existence of Santa Claus.

And now Kronenfeldt had lured her husband away on Christmas

Eve. That made Mrs. Worthington so mad she picked up the phone

and dialed. She would make Kronenfeldt pay.

“Yes, I would like to report a man with reindeer on his roof …

Yes … he is creating quite a disturbance, and I cannot get any sleep,”

she said to the policeman, meeting her father’s disapproving glare.
Real Santa   

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


"

Dickens Great Financial Failure

Charles Dickens book A Christmas Carol sold six thousand copies it's first week. A smashing success. But Dickens had put up his own money for production costs and they included color ingravings and an ornate cover. By the end of the accounting he barely made costs and had to turn to public speaking to make ends meet.

But it gets worse. We are now used to hearing how books are pirated and downloaded for free. Many see the end of traditional publishing in this now. But of course we think back on Dickens time as the golden age where people paid good money for books with no recourse to he internet. Well, there was the condensation. People took Dickens book and basically reprinted it with very minor changes. This was as standard practice. And within weeks of publication there were many of these condensations.

And to make matters even worse. Theatrical productions sparing up all over London. Pirated versions of a Christmas Carol where Dickens received nothing. He even went to see a few of them. Charles Dickens made money for the rest of his life primarily through reading A Christmas Carol to paying audiences. So the more things change the more they stay the same.

 Of course Dickens great financial failure became our great gain.

Real Santa



www.williamhazelgrove.com

Real Santa Chapter 41 (8 days to Xmas YIKES)

THE BICYCLE WAS by the tree when she came down. The blue

Schwinn stood out like a diamond. The red ribbon on the handlebars

beckoned her, and Mary and her father went outside. It had been

snowing all week, and the streets still had a thick layer of slushy white.

Her father walked with her on the new bike, holding it up, letting her

glide through the quiet snow.

Santa had brought her what she asked for in the letter her mother

mailed. Dear Santa, I want a blue Schwinn Stringray Banana bike with

five gears. Her parents told her Santa might not be able to deliver such

a bike. But there it was when she came down the slippery wooden

stairs. Sylvia and Shirley and Daffney were wrong. They had walked

home one day, and she had been the lone holdout: Santa was real.

Riding out in the bracing air, she was a happy ten-year-old as her

father huffed by her. And then it happened. The handlebars shifted,

and when she turned straight the handlebars pointed to the left.

Her father frowned and looked at the bike, pulling out an adjustable

wrench from his coat. “I thought I had tightened that bolt down

enough,” he murmured. Mary stared at him as he tightened the steering

wheel, turning the wheel between his legs. Had he really said he

had tightened the handlebars?

“I thought Santa put the bike together, Daddy.”

And years later she realized how tired her father had been. He

had come home from his sales job, and then stayed up half the night

assembling toys. His eyes were red rimmed with heavy bags under

them. He was bent over the bike with a stubble, cranking the bolt in

the center of the handlebars. He wasn’t thinking, and that’s why he

said what he said.

“You’re looking at Santa,” he muttered.

And Mary had stared at him. He kept torquing the bolt with his

bare hands chapped and slightly red from the cold. He finished and

handed her the bike. “There you go.” Mary held the bike and put one

leg over and then paused. She looked at her father, whose eyes had

started watering from the cold, his long overcoat tailing out in the

wind.

“You’re Santa Claus, Dad?”

“Yeah, but don’t tell your brothers. They still believe.”

And Mary felt her breath leave. She felt the cheery white world

go away. She brushed away the tears and pushed off, but the bike

slid in the snow, and she felt the rutted ice on her cheek. Her father

picked her up.

“Hey, kiddo, maybe we should try this when it’s not so cold.”

And she had nodded, keeping her head down, brushing away the

tears she blamed on the wind. Her father never knew he had delivered

the hammer blow to her belief in Santa Claus. Even then she knew that

would crush her mother, who went to elaborate means to keep her

belief alive. But she had lost it, and there was simply no turning back.

And that day is what she thought about when she heard the

reindeer trampling overhead like thunder. It’s what got her staring

out the window at Dean floating in space in the green beret with the

snow and fog enveloping the roof. And as she stood at the window,

she felt like that little girl again who had cried on that cold, snowy

Christmas day. And she realized then what George had said was true.

She would have paid a million dollars to have her belief in Santa back.

“I am practical, dammit,” she muttered, hearing nine reindeer

scuff about on her roof.

But there was something about a man who would lead a sled of

reindeer onto a roof for his daughter. And now that man was about

to go down a chimney. Mary considered for the first time that her

husband just might kill himself.

Real Santa

Real Santa$25 Dollar Giveaway!  

Chapter 41 Real Santa Nine Days to Xmas

GEORGE STARED AT the snow-covered ramp and felt the same

as before he gashed a hole in the two hundred and fifty thousand

dollar boat. The circumstances were not so different. A large amount

of money had been invested in the gleaming white sailboat George

was to bring down from Waukegan to Chicago. It had become a

ritual and Matt Demler had always called on him with the promise

that if he would bring down his boat, then he could have access to

it all season long.

George was a self-taught sailor and approached it like engineering.

He was proficient and methodical, but he was not a natural sailor.

He did not have the instinct some men possessed that allowed them

to find the edge of the wind. George was an expert sailor, but like the

expert he had to stick to the rule book. The day that he was to take

The Sally Jane down to Monroe Harbor was windy. He jumped on

the boat with the two men who had come to help and took his place

behind the wheel. The owner knelt down on the dock. Matt owned

several boats but The Sally Jane was his pride and joy.

“George, when you back up the wind is going to try and take

you. Just goose the shit out of the motor, and you’ll clear the dock.”

George had saluted in his yellow foul-weather gear with his fur

hat and glasses. He ordered his assistants to guard against the dock

wheels, which were small tires to keep the boat moving along the

wooden rim. George cast off and felt as he did holding the reins in his

Santa suit. It was a feeling of freedom combined with the suspicion

he had no idea what he was doing.

The Sally Jane was immediately taken by the wind, and they started

going straight out toward another moored sailboat. Matt cupped

his hands, and George became confused. Did he say goose it or did

he say go for it? He wasn’t sure, and while trying to hear exactly what

Matt said, he froze. The Sally Jane was about to crash into The Norma

Jean, and that’s when Matt Demler screamed again.

“Give it the gas, George!”

And like a man woken from a dream, he pushed the throttle all

the way up and The Sally Jane churned through the water toward the

dock. George jerked the wheel hard to starboard but the big boat

scraped the dock with all her tonnage against the bumper wheels,

crushing the wheel and exposing the bracket that tore a foot long gash

in her fiberglass hull. Matt cried out in agony, and George turned a

bright-sunset red.

“You stupid bastard!”

That’s what Matt Demler called him. Then he banished him from

sailing any of his boats, and George never did sail again. He eventually

let his membership in the Columbia Yacht Club lapse as well. George

knew he had failed some critical test, and he wondered as he waited

for Dean to signal him, with McGruff standing by with an electric

cattle prod, if he was about to do it again.

The clock touched five to midnight, and Dean was up on his

camera crane. “Alright, mate. You are going to go up onto the roof

and through the snow and the smoke machine, and then you have to

stop those bastards and dismount. You ready? I’m going to ring the

bell now for the little tyke.”

”Roger. Ready to roll.” George looked at Jeremy. “Ready, son? I

really wish your sister were here to see this.”

Jeremy shrugged. “She’ll probably come along eventually, Dad.”

“Alright, quiet on the set,” Dean announced through a bullhorn.

George saw him on his camera boom.

“Alright, then—hit your snow and smoke!”

A long roll of vaporous fog enveloped the roof, then the air filled

with thick white snow like detergent blown out of a pipe. It was

amazing. The

“Hit your projectors!”

George looked down at the monitor as the bell began to ring.

“Alright, mate, she’s up!”

Megan was sitting up in bed and staring at the window.

“Alright … she’s got her camera, and she’s moving toward the

window. Looks like she’s filming now … keep those projectors rolling,”

Dean continued into everyone’s ear on the set.

McGruff appeared by George. “Snap them reins!”

George snapped the reins, and the reindeer remained where they

were. McGruff’s men began pulling on the reindeer.

“C’mon, George, get those shitting bastards moving up the ramp!”

Dean screamed.

George snapped the reins again. The reindeer continued breathing

smoke and farting like popcorn. McGruff’s men had taken to

punching the reindeer. Jeremy leaned over.

“Dad, I think you have to yell at them you know—Away, Donner,

Prancer, Vixen—”

George shouted, “Away, Donner! Away, Prancer! Away, Vixen,

Cupid, and Blitzen!”

“George she’s at the bloody window,” Dean said into his ear. “You

got to get up on that bloody roof! I can only cover with the snow so

long!”

“The bastards won’t move,” George yelled into the wireless mike.”

He stared at McGruff and felt The Sally Jane starting to drift into

another boat. “Do something, McGruff!”

“Hang on to yer ass,” McGruff shouted.

He then leaned over and goosed the three lead reindeer with

his cattle prod. The reindeer bolted like they just heard the starting

bell. George and his son were thrown back against the sled as the

animals charged the long wooden ramp. George grappled the reins

watching the backs of the nine reindeer rolling up and down as they

hit the angled ramp. It sounded like a hundred horses clopping across

a bridge as the wood groaned and snapped under the weight load.

George felt the sled swing back and forth as they gained momentum

and bumped onto the ramp.

“ALRIGHT!” Jeremy screamed.

George watched the world fall away with the snow and the wind

and the reindeer pounding up the wooden ramp. Then he realized

he was behind the nine seven-hundred-pound animals, who had

dumped him before. The reindeer had decided that going anywhere

was better than getting shocked. They bolted for the roof in the deafening

thunder of hooves. The question was then: Would they turn

and would they stop?

“Fantastic, mate!” Dean blared in his ear.

George hung on tightly to the reins and heard Dean’s shout again

as he doubled up the reins and entered a void of oily smoke and

chemical snow. Dim train lights strafed the smoky, snowy gloom as

the digital projectors shot an image into the sky. But now George

saw nothing. He was lost in the smoke and the snow with the digital

projector blinding him like the light of a train. His son was holding on

to the sled like someone on a rollercoaster, and George pulled back

on the reins as he felt the sled turning. McGruff had men on the roof

who were to assist in guiding the reindeer on the turn.

“YOU ARE ON THE ROOF, MATE!”

“I can’t see a damn thing with all this smoke and snow,” George

shouted into the microphone.

“She is still at the window, and you are not in front of her. You

got to stop them, mate, when I tell you, or you’re going to go right

back down the other ramp!”

George could hear the hissing and the hum of the smoke and

snow machines and tasted the oily chemical snow. He wondered what

his daughter was seeing right now. Like a man in a fogged-in ship,

he looked for any kind of landmarks. He was a jet on final approach,

waiting for a signal from the tower and praying he could stop.

“Alright, assistants, get the hell back before you get seen. The sled

is lined up, and those reindeer have got to stop! Get ready, George!

Okay, you are in front of the window! STOP!”

George felt the sled slow, but the reindeer were still trotting forward.

He jerked back with all of his might and still they didn’t stop.

“Mate, you got to stop those bloody reindeer so the assistants

can grab them!”

And just then, George saw The Sally Jane. She was heading for

the dock again, and he was about to tear a foot-long gash in the side.

George stood up in the sled and pulled on the reins as hard as he

could, screaming out: “STOP! STOP, YOU BASTARDS!”

The reindeer stopped. George looked at Jeremy in his elf hat,

coated in the same white paste that had painted him like a cream-colored

minstrel. They looked like two men who had just flown in from

the North Pole. His son shook his head, eyes beaming like a twelveyear-

old.

“That was awesome, Dad!”

Real Santa

Chapter 40 Real Santa 10 Days to Christmas

THE ROOKIE SIGNED up to catch crooks and crouch behind

cars like the cops on television. He saw himself like on NYPD Blue

or any of the other cop shows where he could run behind a car and

draw out his nine-millimeter and blow away a few bad guys. But here

he sat in the parking lot of Caputo’s with the radio telling him to go

investigate the appearance of Santa. He should be at home with his

wife and his baby, not driving to arrest some nut in his backyard

dressed up like Santa.

But that was how the call came in. “Man dressed as Santa Claus

in a sled with reindeer.” He had asked dispatch to repeat the report.

“MAN-DRESSED-AS-SANTA-WITH-REINDEER IN BACKYARD.

PLEASE INVESTIGATE. POSSIBLE MOVIE SET.” That was Ruth,

and he could just see her rolling her eyes. A movie set? He wondered

if there had been any permits given to production companies in the

area. Usually they notified the police.

As the rookie drove through the snow, he wondered if he might

make a contact. He had written a screenplay that he had sent around

and received no response. If it wasn’t a movie, then he would have to

figure out if a man in a Santa suit with reindeer was disturbing the

peace. He would think a homeowner would be allowed to sit in his

backyard in a sled. The reindeer might be a problem. It might be some

dad trying to convince his kids that there really was a Santa Claus.

He turned his squad car and could see lights shining down the

street. Cars and trucks were parked on the sides of the street, and he

saw people walking toward a lit-up house. Definitely a movie shoot.

The rookie felt excitement down in his stomach as he flipped on the

squad’s cherries and drove toward the lights.

George watched the cop crunch across the snow talking into

his shoulder. The radio hissed back as he stared straight ahead like

someone pulled over for drunk driving.

“Mr. Kronenfeldt?”

He turned to a cop with smooth skin and perfect hair.

“Mr. Kronenfeldt?”

“Yes,” he said, with Jeremy next to him dressed like an elf.

“Sir, is this your sled and …” He paused, looking at the chewing

reindeer. “And your reindeer, sir?”

“Yes, officer, they are.” George nodded. “What can I do for you?”

Dean crossed the snow in a frenzy and held out his hand.

“Dean Sanders, officer. I’m the director of this production, officer,”

he announced, shaking the rookie’s hand.

The cop stared at the camera crane and nodded slowly. “So …

this is a movie?”

“Oh yes, sir, officer,” Dean answered, nodding. “Real Santa is the

name. We were just about to shoot our scene when you pulled up.”

The rookie smoothed back his hair.

“Okay, now did you get a permit to shoot this film, because we

have had some complaints from the neighbors.”

Dean frowned. “You know we filed for our permit, but we never

heard back, and you know it’s just one scene, and then we are all

finished.”

The cop’s eyes darkened.

“I’m afraid that without a permit, I’m going to have to shut you

down. There are some traffic issues, and you have a lot of lights that

are bothering people—”

Dean held up his hand like a man requesting divine intervention.

“Look, officer, we have invested thousands of dollars for this one

shoot—if you could look the other way, I could make it worth your

while,” he said in a low voice.

“Are you trying to bribe me, sir?”

Dean held out his hands.

“Oh, not a bribe, officer—a favor.”

George could see this was going off the rails very quickly.

“Officer …” He handed the reins to his son and turned in the sled.

“I know this looks ridiculous, but I think I can explain.” He gestured

to his house and the room with the movie light shining into the

snow. “You see that yellow window with the snow? My daughter is

up in that bedroom. She is nine years old and has started to doubt

the existence of Santa Claus.”

The rookie crossed his arms. “Go on.”

“And so I thought that I could give her faith back to her if I became

the Real Santa Claus—if she was able to see a real Santa fly onto the

roof and deliver her gifts and then fly away in a sled.”

The cop looked at the sled and frowned. “You’re going to fly in

this thing?”

“If I may interject, officer,” Dean said, gesturing to the roof. “He

will not actually fly, but we will create the illusion of him flying. See

those smoke machines up there and those digital projectors?”

“Yes.”

Dean took him by the arm and pointed to the far side of the roof.

“We will project the image of Santa flying against the smoke, and

then George here will run the reindeer up on the roof and come to a

stop in front of his daughter’s window, creating the illusion of flying.

Then when it’s time for him to leave, he will do the same thing and

go down the ramp on the other side.”

The cop shook his head. “That’s pretty neat. What about the

chimney? How are you going to do that?”

George motioned to the two mountaineers hanging off the chimney

like acrobats.

“I’m going to rappel down the chimney with the gifts, then I’m

going to be hoisted back up.”

“Holy shit,” the rookie muttered, staring at the chimney lit by

three movie lights. “And you hired all these people here—this isn’t

really a movie shoot?”

George shook his head. “Dean is a film director who I hired to

help me and has decided he wants to film it, which I’m fine with, but

no, this is really all about keeping a little girl’s belief in Santa.”

The cop stared at Jeremy.

“Who is the elf?”

“My oldest son.”

Jeremy held up a hand. “Hello.”

George turned around and saw his father behind him.

“And this is my dad.”

“Glad to know you, officer,” Kronenfeldt Sr. said, shaking his hand.

“My son is crazy, but it’s a good kind of crazy, officer,” he added.

The rookie rubbed his jaw and puckered his mouth.

“So you see, mate, all we really need is about thirty minutes, and

then we are all done here, and we can restore the faith of a little girl!”

The rookie stared at the ramp and the reindeer and the people

on the roof and the lights set up in the corners of the yard. He shook

his head slowly and looked at George.

“You did all this to convince your daughter that there is a Santa

Claus?”

He nodded solemnly. “Yes.”

“I got a baby at home, but I don’t know if I would do all this if she

didn’t believe in Santa Claus.”

“Wait. You’ll do whatever it takes to keep her happy.”

“What did this cost you?”

“About eighty grand.”

The cop looked at him then at the reindeer and the ramp.

“Alright, I’ll give you a half-hour. But if the neighbors call in again,

I’m going to have shut you down.”

Dean motioned the crane operator and his assistants.

“Alright, folks,” he announced. “IT’S SHOWTIME!”

Real Santa...Holiday Sale

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

 

Real Santa Chapter 39 (12 Days Until Xmas)

Mrs. Worthington look at the television again. George was looking

for Mary at the library. She is better off without him. Imagine

running through town like that! Men. Mrs. Worthington turned back

to her novel and heard her husband chortle. She looked up.

“What are you reading, dear?”

Walter, a big man in his slippers, held up the green and red book.

“’Twas the Night Before Christmas.”

Mr. Worthington looked over her glasses.

“Why on earth are you reading that?”

“I read it every year on Christmas Eve.”

The teacher dropped her book and stared at her husband.

“You do not!”

“I do. But if you don’t want to believe me, that’s fine.”

“I don’t see why you would read a children’s poem even once,”

she grumbled.

“I enjoy it.”

“It is for children, Walter!”

He looked at his wife.

“On Christmas Eve we are all children, Barbara.”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous.”

Walter shrugged again. “Suit yourself. Some of us still believe.”

That one cut her. Mrs. Worthington carefully marked the page

of her novel and saw that George was now in his old house looking

for his wife and children. She could have told him that it was all in

vain. The man had thrown away a perfectly good life with both hands.

Ms. Worthington gripped her armchair.

“What do you mean by that, Walter?”

He looked over his glasses.

“I mean, I still believe in the magic of Christmas.”

“I suppose next you will tell me you still believe in Santa Claus.”

“I might.”

Mrs. Worthington jumped up.

“I have had it with all this foolishness. You are as crazy as that

Kronenfeldt man who is going to prove there is a Santa Claus by

flying a sled onto his roof!”

Walter put down his book and frowned. “I heard about him. I

heard he had hired a whole movie crew to pull it off, and he was going

to do it tonight. I wonder if he really is going to fly a sled onto his roof.”

“How should I know? He has been warned by the principal and

many parents not to try anything that would disappoint the children.”

Walter looked at his wife.

“I don’t see why it’s the principal’s business what he does for his

daughter.”

“Of course it is the principal’s business and mine! If he disappoints

hundreds of children after promising Santa Claus will come and his

daughter promised to put it on the Internet, then it most certainly

is my business!”

“Bah humbug, huh, Barbara?”

Mrs. Worthington put her hand on the mantel and saw that

George had stumbled back to the bridge.

“What do you mean by that?”

Her husband looked up at her.

“I mean that for forty years you have been knocking the stuffing

out of Santa Claus because that strict old German bastard knocked

the magic out of his daughter.”

“My father was a very logical man who didn’t believe in fairytales.

I appreciate that he told me early on how the world was.”

Walter sighed. “He told you his view of the world, Barbara, not

the way the world is. He didn’t know what it was like. All he knew

was how to work from sunup to sundown in his fields and sell eggs

off his back porch.”

“I resent that Walter—”

Her husband sat up, his eyes flashing uncharacteristically.

“And I resent that you have imposed your beliefs on hundreds of

children who do believe in Santa Claus. What the hell is the harm in

believing there is something better than this life?”

Mrs. Worthington was sure the world had gone crazy. Her husband

never talked to her like this. He never crossed her; he usually

acquiesced to her demands with the same placid demeanor he had

when they married.

She raised her eyebrows.

“You are angry, Walter.”

He paused then nodded. “Yeah, I guess I am. You try and stop

a father from giving his daughter the gift of childhood. I guess that

does piss me off.”

Piss him off. Mrs. Worthington felt like he had sworn at her.

“I will not tolerate this kind of talk!”

“What … are you going to give me a time-out? I’m not one of

your students, Barbara.”

“You deserve a time-out with that kind of talk,” she declared

Walter shrugged and stood up, walking into the front hall. He

took out his coat and slipped into his boots.

“Where are you going?”

Walter popped on the hat with the large earflaps she hated because

it made him look like a farmer.

“I think I’d like to see Santa Claus. I think I’m going to go see if

that guy can give his daughter something to believe in.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! You stay right here! Going out in the cold

on Christmas Eve. You are as crazy as this man George,” she declared,

gesturing to the television.

Walter opened the door and turned back to his wife.

“I’m eighty-five years old, Barbara. Maybe I need to believe in

something again.” He looked at the television where George was

running through Bedford Falls. “Go, George, go!”

And with that he walked out the door. Mrs. Worthington stared

at the door then turned to the television where George had been

reunited with his family. Zuzu was telling her father that every time

a bell rings an angel gets his wings. Mrs. Worthington collapsed in

her chair, staring at the happy family in disbelief.

Real Santa Holiday Special
 
 
 

Real Santa Chapter 36 (18 days until XMAS)

SNOW WAS FALLING hard now and blanketed the countryside

like the white wool of a Christmas tree skirt. George stared at the

chimney of white frost. Sven and Yergen waved to him with their

rappelling ropes, hanging off both sides of the chimney like they were

standing on the ground. That he was going to go down a chimney

seemed unbelievable to George, and he blamed it squarely on Francis

Pharcellus Church.

Church was the correspondent who had written back to Virginia

O’Hanlon in 1897 and said there really was a Santa Claus. The

editorial he wrote was on Megan’s wall, and they read it together

every year. George had read it alone this year and wondered what

made a man write such a letter. He had researched Francis Pharcellus

Church and found out he was a Civil War correspondent who had

seen humans at their absolute worse. He had taken that damaged

faith in man and given another view of the world. He had pointed

out that the joy of the world is mostly unseen. His was an extremely

religious age which would soon give away to the modernism of the

twentieth century. But this war-weary man gave a spiritual platform

to the Dutch legend of Sinterklaas brought over in the seventeenth

century and Americanized by Clement Moore’s poem ’Twas the

Night Before Christmas, where reindeer were added and the method

of entry became the chimney.

George could feel Church’s pain as he wrote, “Yes, Virginia, there

is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and devotion exist, and

you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and

joy.” He could see the man in his study by gaslight, with his fountain

pen, giving meaning to a world gone mad. “Virginia, your little friends

are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical

age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing

can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds,

Virginia, whether they be men or children, are little.”

And there was the rub. This is what gave George courage to go

the distance and put his marriage and his financial health on the

line. This man who had seen the absolute worst of human beings had

been able to summon up a belief there was something better in the

universe. And George knew his pain. He had felt the pain when he

lost his son and daughter to the carnage of his first marriage.

And as he sat facing a ramp to a roof behind nine reindeer being

slowly covered with snow, he thought about what Church had wrote:

“There would be not childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to

make tolerable this existence.” That is what he failed to give Jeremy and

Jamie—the childlike faith and poetry every parent should give their

children. He had snatched away their childhood under the guise of

making a buck, and he would not commit this carnage twice. Megan

would have a childhood, and if he fell off the chimney or the roof,

then it was worth the risk.

What had Church said in the end of his editorial, a man who had

seen the hell of our bloodiest war. ”You may tear apart the baby’s rattle

and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the

unseen world which not the strongest man that ever lived could tear

apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that

veil and view and picture that supernal beauty and glory beyond …”

George looked at the monitor showing his sleeping daughter. It

was fifteen minutes to midnight, and he was about to push that veil

aside for her. He only wished Jeremy and Jamie were here. He would

love to push that veil aside for them too.
MOVIE RIGHTS SOLD TO MODERN FAMILY
REAL SANTA HOLIDAY SALE

Chapter 35 Real Santa (20 Days Until Christmas)

MEGAN STARED AT the clock. The hour hand would not move,

and the minute hand was taking its time. By her estimation it would

be seven hours until she would run downstairs and see the presents

under the tree Santa Claus had left behind. Every year she watched

the clock and suffered through the night. She wanted to sleep but she

just couldn’t fake her body into it. She had counted sheep. She had

counted backward from one hundred. She had recited the Gettysburg

Address that she had memorized for her class project. Nothing

worked.

But of course she only wanted to sleep an hour. Her father had

rigged an ingenious device with a string tripwire connected to a bell

by her bed. He had stretched the string across the roof and explained

that any person, reindeer, or sled would trip the string. Megan stared

at the brass bell on a pivot wheel. She had tested the string several

times going out the tiny crack in the window. When she pulled on

the string, the bell rang out. She had shut her eyes and done it to see

if she would wake up. She did.

Like a fisherman, she kept one eye on the bell and the string. She

had heard some funny noises outside. It sounded like people were

walking on the roof, but every time she went to look all she saw was

fat, juicy snowflakes. And the funny thing is the snow didn’t even

look real. The flakes looked like soggy cotton balls and fell in large

clumps on her sill. Beyond the snow she could see nothing. So

was left with the bell and the string, and so far the string had not

budged and the bell had not rung. She turned over several times with

her stuffed animals, hugging her Tweety Bird close. Her room was

lit by the electric candle on the sill, and she considered turning it off

to get more sleep. But the candles gave her comfort and told her it

really was Christmas and it really was the 24th of December—finally,

Christmas Eve.

Megan reached over and picked up the video camera. Her father

had plugged it in and made sure it was charged up. He had explained

that all she had to do when she heard Santa was press the red button

and point it out the window. He had even put a piece of masking

tape by the button. Megan had practiced several times jumping out

of bed and running to the window with the camera and pressing the

red button. She really didn’t press it, but she wanted to make sure

everything would go smoothly when the big man arrived.

Megan had great fantasies about the fame that would find her

when she proved to the world there was a Santa Claus. She saw herself

as a guest on popular TV shows, giving interviews and describing

how she caught Santa Claus on video. She and her father had also

gone over the procedure for posting the video to YouTube, though

she already knew how to do this after posting a video of Whiskers,

her cat, hanging off the side of the maple tree in front of the house

then falling ten feet to the ground below.

Megan heard another thump on the roof and turned over. The

string was not moving, and the bell didn’t move. The glowing diode

in the video camera announced all was ready. She wondered what

would happen if Santa saw her string and stepped over it or flew over

it with his sled. Megan imagined girls and boys had probably tried to

catch him before and had failed. He was probably very clever about

avoiding detection. She stared at the string and followed it to the

crack in the window. She turned back over.

Megan had asked her father what time he thought Santa would

come. He had stroked his beard a moment then replied without

hesitation, “Everyone knows Santa comes at midnight.” So she had

a half-hour to go. Megan snuggled back in under her covers and

yawned. That was a first. She had not yawned or felt her eyes become

heavy. None of her usual sleep rituals had kicked in, but now she fe

her eyes actually drooping. She fought against it, feeling that with one

hour this was no time to sleep. But she felt it coming now.

Megan promised herself a ten-minute nap and promptly fell fast

asleep.

Real Santa...Holiday Sale