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Life changes in subtle ways.
After swimming laps at the old YMCA, I would often spend time in the park the city created in the “flats” near the end of the Fox River. At the new Y, I loop down to the Illinois River on my way home. The Illinois River is bigger. I see barges sometimes, heading south toward Alton. Some go all the way to the Gulf of Mexico, and the cargo they carry goes all over the world.
Last week I was on the riverbank between the 23 bridge and the railroad trestle when I heard a familiar voice.
“So, McClure, you decided to come back after all.”
My wife and I recently returned from Bolivia where we visited my son. I turned around to find Santa Claus walking towards me out of uniform, sporting not a bit of red. Bib overalls, a thick grey sweater and a black stocking hat.
“You left and didn’t come back once before, right?”
“That was 50 years ago, Santa, in Europe. I was 23.The Vietnam War had just ended. Watergate forced Nixon from office. Tumultuous times.”
“But you thought about staying away this time too, right?”
“Yeah. We spent most of our time in Cochabamba, a city at 8,500 feet in a valley in the Andes mountains just 17 degrees south of the equator. Beautiful weather, technically the start of their summer though their weather changes little. We relaxed and, stopped reading American news. We shopped at outdoor markets and cooked fresh food. It’s a small country of around 12 million. Calm and peaceful.”
“What made you come back?”
“I’m not 23 anymore. I feel like I belong here. My family, my church, June, the shack, these rivers. It’s where I live, good or bad.”
“But you’re not happy with where your country is headed? Or do I have that wrong?’
“No you’re right. I’m fed up with division, violence, hatred and greed. I fear for our future.”
“But here you are. Now 73.”
“Yeah.”
Awkward silence.
“How about you Santa?”
“Well, unlike you I’m still working. Been doing Christmas one way or another since the fourth century. That century began in 300 A.D. you know. Can’t forget those first years before they add to 100. But we’re on different paths. My future is unlimited, while yours, you know …”
He paused, looked away, then went on.
“Life changes hardly at all for me, but your life changes quickly. Mortals speed through their lives and disappear. It’s hard for me to explain because I have such a long view of the world, but I it happens all the time. I think of you McClure, living within your thin slice of history, and I want you to end it well.”
“That’s big of you, Santa. Tell me, what do you think after pondering my brief life almost over?”
“You spend too much time worrying. You know your life is finite, right? Worry is taking you away from the thing you do best and satisfies you the most.”
“And what’s that, Santa?”
“Writing.”
“But I’m writing right now.”
“You’re not telling people the whole story. Finish it. Polish it up. Put it out there. Let the people you love know the real you. Contribute to their future. You won’t regret it. Consider that you were made to do just that. I’m doing what I’m supposed to do. How about you do the same? Stop worrying, keep your fingers on that keyboard in the shack, and get to work, for Christ’s sake.”
“Christ? Have you been talking to him about me?”
“Jesus? NO. I mean, we chat occasionally. Everybody needs to check in with peers from time to time, but we don’t talk about individuals. If he wants to say something to you he will. I’m just handing out friendly Santa advice. Consider it your Christmas present.”
“Well, thanks. I wish I could give you something in return.”
“You can. Remember what I told you and write a story about me.”
“Consider it done. Thanks Santa. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas to you, McClure. Hope I see you again next year.”
Dave McClure lives in Ottawa. He is a long-retired director of a local private agency. He is also a blogger. You can read more of Dave at Daveintheshack.blogger.com