Three

Baby B is back. This is part one of the story. To find out what happens wake up Christmas morning. If you find stockings in place and gifts under the tree than she was successful. If not? Well, I, for one, do not want to consider that. To find out a little about the real logistics of Santa, check this out: Santa Ops

December 23, 2007
The letter lay, crumpled, in an otherwise empty trashcan. Santa sat glowering at his desk. He heard the door open and when he saw it was his wife, he turned his back and lowered his head.
“Well, what did it say?” She knew Santa was awaiting the letter from the FAA. He pretended not to care, but he had shown an unusual attentiveness to the coming of the mail in the previous week.
“They revoked my license. I’m too fat.” Santa looked up, rage and shame clouded his usually merry blue eyes. He rested his folded hands on the ample belly that threatened to overcome the lowest buttons on his shirt.
“You can’t be surprised. The doctor told you that you were over the limit. If you had spent less time on ebay and more time on your skis you wouldn’t have this problem.”
“But Christmas! The gifts! How will I get them out? Without my pilot’s license I’ll never get them all out in time.”
“Mrs. Claus put her hands on her hips, “Look, you aren’t flying and that’s it. I think that its time you called you brother.” She left the room and Santa looked gloomily at the phone. Call his brother? Had it really come to this?
It is a well-kept secret that Santa has brother. Both Santa and his brother agreed it would be best for the whole Santa myth if the sordid truth of the Claus family was not public knowledge. It had all started when Santa’s father, Santa the xviii (In case you were wondering, Santa is not eternal. The position of gift distributor to the world is a hereditary one. The current Santa is the 19th Santa.) was on a trip to the former Yugoslavia to work with a custom sleigh builder. One evening while Santa was in town enjoying a cold beverage he had met a young woman. They had gotten to talking and after a few pints of sneaky strong pilsner, Santa had heard the young woman’s entire life story.
She was part elf. Santa had suspected this from the start. Having spent his life among elves, he could see them coming a mile away. Her father had worked for Santa’s father, but had left the Pole after rumors of out-sourcing tarnished his reputation. Leaving the North Pole in shame, the young elf had come to Eastern Europe. He traveled from town to town repairing small machinery and doing odd jobs. He had, at least according to the young woman, fell in love with a human at some point and fathered a child.
She was the child. Human-Elf relationships are rarely successful and the Elf soon found the steady family life he was now living to be pedestrian and far too limiting for an Elf of his talents so he left. One night, in the midst of a lighting storm (Elves have, in general, a flare for dramatic entries and exits.), after finishing dinner, he got up without a word and walked, coatless, into the storm never to be seen again.
The young woman had no memory of her father, only a few snapshots and the stories her mother had told her. The one enduring theme of these stories was that of the unjust treatment of the Elf. He was framed, the victim of a conspiracy. His push to modernize production and distribution at the Pole had rubbed to old guard the wrong way. This, not his own malfeasance, had led to his departure.
Santa look blearily at the young woman. “What, may I ask, is your point?” Stories like this were nothing new to Santa, when you run an organization the size of Santa’s you are bound to rub a few people the wrong way from time to time.
“Redemption!” The young woman declared, “I seek nothing less than redemption!”
“Redemption? From me? How? The things you are talking about happened long before I was in charge. What can I do?”
The young woman stood up and walked behind the bar. She lifted the phone and said something in a language Santa could not understand. By the time she had returned to her seat at the bar, a young boy had walked in the front door of the bar and was standing in front of Santa.
“Take him.” She gestured to the boy. “You could raise him as your son. Teach him the secrets of your trade. Show him the world.” The boy stared plaintively at Santa xviii.
For some reason that he never could fathom, Santa xviii wordlessly extended his hand to the boy who reached up and grabbed it. They walked out of the bar and returned to the North Pole. The young boy, named Peat, grew up among the industry and splendor of the North Pole.
Peat was the same age as Santa’s son. Santa xiv or Niner, as he was known to friends and family, did not take well to the new addition. Santa made it clear that Niner would be the next Claus and that Peat would only work behind the scenes. Despite this assurance, Niner was suspicious of Peat and rarely talked to him. The two boys grew intensely competitive and sought to outdo one another in all things.
If Niner fed and watered the reindeer in an hour, Peat would do it in 45 minutes. When Niner made a solo circumnavigation of the globe in an open sleigh and a team of four reindeer he returned to North Pole to find all of the staff talking about how Peat had left on the same journey a day after Niner and returned hours before. What ever Niner achieved, Peat bested him. Santa xviii pretended not to notice, but as time passed it became clear that he favored Peat and soon began looking for a way to make him the next Claus.
This would never happen. Tradition mandated that the Claus be passed from blood father to son. The only way that the position could leave the bloodlines would be in the case that an heir did not exist. The title of Claus and the accompanying secrets passed from Father to Son when the Father returned from his 40th Christmas journey.
On the eve of Santa xviii ‘s ultimate trip, he asked Peat to come to his office. “Peat, I need you to do something for me.” Peat nodded his head slowly. He had some idea of what would come next. “Tomorrow everything will change. Your brother will take the role of Claus. There will no longer be a place for you at the Pole, Niner will make sure of that. It will be best for you to leave tonight.”
Peat turned and left the office. He had wondered when this day would come. His options were few. There was not much call for a master sled pilot in the real world. His elf management skills counted for little in a world that did not even acknowledge the existence of elves. The one thing that was clear was that he could not remain at the Pole.
Contrary to the myth, the majority of the shipping that emanated from the Pole was not carried in sleighs but went by packing container aboard large container ships. The Reindeer and sleigh were for show more than anything else. The port at the Pole was jammed with these ships and it was not problem for Peat to slip aboard one of them. Climbing the gangplank he looked back at the glowing lights of the North Pole and wondered if he would ever see them again. A few hours later the ship pulled into the port in Tacoma and Peat walked off into the fog and into a new life.
Peat had sent letters back to the Pole keeping Santa up to date on his life. He wanted Niner (now going by his official name of Santa Claus) to always remember that there was another who deserved the job of Claus.
Over the years Peat entered college, started a software company (he wrote the software that UPS uses to manage package distribution) and got married. Peat settled into a successful life as a software millionaire. Peat lived in Seattle with his wife and his daughter.
It was about 9:00 pm Seattle time when Peat got the call.
“Hello?”
“Peat?”
“Niner?”
“Yeah,” Santa took a deep breath, “Look, I need your help.”
Niner resisted the urge to say something sarcastic. He had thought about this day many times. He did not feel the anger he anticipated. Instead he felt sadness and nostalgia pooling around him.
“I lost my license.”
“Your what?”
“My license. The FAA won’t clear me to fly. Too fat.”
“You pilot’s license?”
“Yeah, I’m grounded.”
“What can I do?”
Santa groaned, he had not wanted to ask. He had hoped he could do all this with hints. “I need you to fly for me.”
“Let me get this straight. You need me to fly the sleigh. You need me to make Christmas happen?” Peat smiled to himself.
“Yes Peat. I need YOU to fly the sleigh. I need YOU to make Christmas happen. Can you do it? Do you still have your license?”
“Umm, well – there might be a slight problem with that.”
“Problem? Like what?”
“You’re not the only on who got fat.”
“You Peat. You got fat? You were always skinny as a beanstalk.”
“I know, but urban life, you know, I spend more time in front of computer than outside. It’s not like I have reindeer to water and feed.”
“Tell me about it. Things have changed up here. When we started Santa Claus product placement and image licensing my job changed entirely. Most of my time is spent on phone. If it weren’t for my Blackberry these gifts wouldn’t get out until February. So tell me Peat, what can we do?”
“I have an idea but you won’t like it.”
“Try me.”
“Really, I don’t think you’ll like it.”
“Please, give me a chance.”
“OK. I have a daughter. She is, well, different. I think some of the elf blood in her got amplified or something. She could do it.”
“How could she do it? She’s only a kid.”
“Actually she’s only a toddler. About one year old.”
“What?! A one-year old 1/8 elf is supposed to get the gifts out? Peat, you really are loosing it.”
“I told you wouldn’t like the plan.”
“Come on, it’s not a matter of like. It’s a matter of possibility. How can a one year old legally make the flight. She certainly isn’t licensed.”
“She can do it the old way.” This met with silence. The old way had been lost to the Claus clan for over 8 generations. The last Claus to use the old way was Santa Claus xi. He had not deemed his successor worthy of the secret and the old way had been lost to history.
“But how?”
“Like I told you, she has a little elf in her and she can do it.”
The old way was magic. It was mystery. It was beyond Niner and Peat to really even understand what was involved. All they knew was that if you had the secret of the old way all it took was a finger pressed to side of the nose and entry and egress of a multitude of home was possible. They had not even began to puzzle out the temporal conundrum involved in the simultaneous delivery of gifts to homes around the world. They only knew it as legend.
What Peat knew was that his daughter could, in ways he was unable to explain, leave their house and return at will. She could accomplish complicated logistical feats with mystifying ease and travel great distances with incomprehensible efficiency. This amazing little creature known as Baby Beanstalk, was quite capable, (as this chronicler will readily testify) of amazing feats, but saving Christmas? Could it really happen?
Santa took a deep breath, “Look Peat, things between us have not always been great. Are you sure? If this backfires, it all lands on me. No one else. Just me. Can I take this chance?”
“You can. You have too. She can do it – I don’t know how, but she can. You just need to believe.”
“OK Peat, I believe. How soon can you two be here?”
“We’ll be there tonight.”

End of Part 1

Snowden was exasperated! How was she, a mere baby, supposed the get Thanksgiving dinner cooked? Why she was so small that even with her fabulous pull-up skills she could only reach the lowest tier of kitchen drawers. There was no way that she could get access to the counters where a bounty of vegetables sat waiting for preparation. Why had she ever agreed to cook Thanksgiving dinner?

The day before, Snowden’s mom had checked the weather and saw that Thanksgiving was going to be a clear and cold day. Based on this promising forecast Snowden’s parents decided to go for a hike. It sounded like a wonderful plan. An early morning spent hiking a frozen mountain trail, the pink glow of sunrise shimmering on frost-feathers sprouting from alpine evergreens, and then returning to a warm house smelling of roasted turkey and freshly baked pies. What a great way to spend the day! There was only one problem. Who would cook dinner?

Snowden’s mom mused out loud regarding this dilemma. “Who, Snowden? Who would be able to cook such a feast?” Snowden looked up. “Could you prepare it Snowcat?”
Snowden nodded her head vigorously.
Laughing, Snowden’s mom responded, “Really? You could cook the dinner?”
Again Snowden nodded her head. This time a very serious look crossed her face.
“But how? The turkey weighs more than you do!”
Snowden continued her enthusiastic insistence that she was capable of preparing the meal. After some discussion Snowden and her mom arrived at a compromise.

Snowden’s parents would put the Turkey in the oven and then leave for their hike. Snowden would take care of all the other fixings. She would mash the potatoes, roast the yams, stew the cranberries and toss the salad. By the time that she finished, Mom and Dad would have returned from the mountains to take out the Turkey and set the table.

This had seemed like a wonderful idea to Snowden.
Finally she would have some time alone in the kitchen to prove her substantial talents were not imagined. She would also have some blessed relief from the constant input of her parents. They meant well, but a baby could only take so much learning. Did she really have to read books, play music, admire crafts and witness kitchen magic every waking hour? When was it her turn to have some peace and quiet?

Reality was not as wonderful as the plan. The first small seeping trickle of doubt entered her mind when she heard the door click shut behind her parents. She crawled into the kitchen and realized the gravity of the situation. She was only ten months old. She had no hope of reaching the counters where all the ingredients sat ready for preparation. Even if she could have scaled the cabinets and reached the counters, Snowden was not strong enough the mash a potato or put a pan of cranberries on the stove. What could she do? She desperately wanted to show here parents that she was capable of taking care of herself. She wanted to show that she could be trusted to be left on her own. What could she do?

Snowden crawled from the kitchen and grabbed Dog. She held Dog before her face looking quizzically at him.
“Snowden – Sinun taytyy soittaa baby beanstalk!”
Snowden shook Dog and squeaked in surprise. Dog had never spoken before. Again Dog said, “Sinun taytyy soitaa baby beanstalk!”

When did Dog learn to talk? And why did he speak pidgin Finnish? Snowden had no time to puzzle out these conundrums – there was a dinner to cook. Snowden put down Dog and picked up her cell phone and called Beanstalk. (Snowden also failed to consider how she could understand Dog’s advice. She did not speak English yet, let alone Finnish!)

“Hello? Who is this? Hello”
“Doh!!”
“Well, hello Snowden, long-time no-hear! What can I do for you?”
“Mah, muh, muh, DoH!”
“Really? You need help with dinner? You are all alone?”
“Craw!! Doh!!”
“There is crow? You are with Dog? Snowden,” Baby B. exclaimed in an exasperated voice, “you have to be more clear with me. I am but a small child and I CAN NOT READ YOUR MIND!”
Snowden had never heard Baby B. yell before and this shocked her a bit. She turned from the window and looked back into the kitchen,” “Muh, uh, Mahmahamahmah goglogogo!”
“ OK, now I understand. I will be over in about 30 seconds.”

Before Snowden could put her phone back in the big silver bowl where she stored it Beanstalk came sauntering in from the bedroom. Beanstalk was about the same age and size as Snowden, but, as you know from previous stories, a preternaturally capable infant. While Snowden could crawl and pull up on furniture, Baby B. could walk; hop skip, cartwheel and even climb. Beanstalk was careful never to do these things in the presence of adults because of the incredulity of their response and their insistence that she, “do it again!”

Snowden looked at Beanstalk and nodded her head and with small grunt turned and headed for the kitchen. What happened next would be utterly unbelievable to any reasonable person and I hesitate to report it, save for the fact that I have talked two very reliable eyewitnesses. (And no, one is not Dog, who if asked, I am sure, would recount these events in terse Finnish that would be incomprehensible to all!)
I am referring, of course, to Snowden’s parents. They did not leave to go to the mountains and hike. As tempting as that scenario sounded, they were good and responsible folk who were not about to leave a ten month old, overly ambitious baby in a kitchen full of knives and pots and pans.

After putting the Turkey in that morning they had made a big show of leaving. They packed their back-packs, laced their boots. They had even gone so far as to print out a map and itinerary of their hike that they taped to the refrigerator door. What they had not done was actually leave. Instead of walking out the door, they had quietly slipped into the back bedroom and waited quietly to see what Snowden would do.

They had seen Beanstalk walk into living room and accompany Snowden into the kitchen. Slowly and silently Snowden’s parents (having removed their heavy hiking boots to ensure their stealth) crept into living room and peeked into the kitchen. They could not believe their eyes.

Beanstalk had managed to get Snowden up onto the counter. Snowden had two peeled potatoes in her hands and was bashing them enthusiastically against a steel bowl, slowly mashing them. Beanstalk had the foresight and dexterity to use Snowden’s purple rope to tie her off and Snowden was effectively secured to towel rack above the counter. As Snowden continued her deconstruction of the potatoes Beanstalk was a flurry of activity. She left from counter to counter slicing and dicing, boiling and simmering with such vigor that even the most hardened of classical chefs could not help but be impressed with her culinary skills.

Snowden’s parents were not sure how long the sat, transfixed by the sight of Beanstalk’s gastronomical acrobatics. Finally, Snowden’s Dad checked his watch and whispered, “I think we should be getting home now.” Snowden’s parents crept back down the hallway and noisily opened the door. “Snowden, we’re home!” they called.

Beanstalk carefully lowered Snowden to ground (most likely using a muenter hitch) and then hustled back into the bedroom. Snowden sat in the middle of a kitchen filled with baking, bubbling food and the wonderful aroma of Thanksgiving. When Snowden’s parents saw Snowden proudly beaming in the kitchen, filled with tasty food they clapped for her saying, “Yeah Snowden!!!” Snowden nodded her head and clapped with them.

The table was quickly set and the family of three tucked in for a tasty meal. The Turkey was uncommonly moist and flavorful, the potatoes had a creamy texture that neither of Snowden’s parents could remember experiencing with any other mashed potatoes and the cranberries were exquisite. After the meal was finished and everyone was lolling about the couch in a post-prandial stupor, Snowden’s mom remarked, “Snowden, you did a great job. Did you have any help?”
Snowden looked at Dog, who sat on the floor in front of her. For a second, she thought she saw one of Dog’s eyes close in sly wink. Looking up at her Mom, Snowden shook her head in a firm and final, “No.”

The small mobile gourd was ringing away

and Snowden did eagerly answer it.

She picked up the gourd and heard beanstalk say,

Snowden you need to get the red gourd lit.”

“Take the reddish gourd you found on the farm

and carve it carefully to let light show.

Place a candle in (unlit so not to harm)

and on the eve of hallows let the flame glow”

Snowden honored the request of the Beanstalk

and placed the glowing gourd in the window

to shine out on all the revelers on the block.

Now Snowden had no clue how Halloween

was saved. Nor did she see if the night was

scary or spooky. Snowden, oh-so-keen,

wanted a call, to hear of the nights buzz.

But sadly no ringing gourd could be heard.

For days and days Snowden waited.

Then yesterday at three o’clock, absurd

as it may sound, a gourd rang out belated.

“Sorry to be so long in calling, my gourd

account was cancelled! (Costs I can’t afford!)

But you should know Snowden Willa Kyt B.

your halloweenish orange glowing gourd

made Samhain the spookiest night for me!”

“In the dark ravine the ghouls howled long

and ravens, well crows, cawed a in scary song.

This would not have happened if you had not

put the glowing gourd in the perfect spot.

The glow it cast called Halloweenie

things from corners near and far, but no meany

came with them on the night before all Saints
whilst I enjoy a night with the friendly haints.

A disclaimer: Any attempt to fit this into some known form of meter will result in dire frustration.