My Letter to Santa

Rick Kughen

 

It was a blustery night.

And in a fitful sleep, I heard in the distance – sleigh bells!

Shaking the dreams of sparkly, dancing crappie jigs from my head, I ran to the window, threw up the sash and gazed into the starry sky. The wind wiggled up my robe and tussled my cap – yes, I wear those…what of it? – and I thought I heard in the distance, the merry ho-ho-ho of good ol’ Saint Nick.
I stood with my head poking from the window, scanning the sky in search of Santa and his reindeer-powered chariot for several minutes before deciding that it was probably just gas. Burritos at bedtime tend to elicit odd dreams.dear santa

Back in my warm bed, I struggled for sleep that did not come. In the quiet pauses between stomach rumblings, I pondered the last year and decided that yes, I had been a good boy (at least insofar as horseshoes and hand grenades are concerned). And perhaps this year, Santa would skid to a stop on my snow-covered rooftop, plop down my chimney and work his way around our humble abode, leaving cool toys and stopping to enjoy the beer and kielbasas with hot mustard that I leave for him every year.

With a shot, I leaped from bed and ran to my keyboard and began typing my letter to Santa. It went something like this:

—

Dear Santa,

Having been an extraordinarily good boy this year, I am submitting the following requisition from your jolly Santaship:

  • First, I would like more fish. Not on my plate, but on the end of my line. For a variety of reasons, things have been slow in the ol’ fish acquisitions department and I’d like for that to change, please.
  • Seriously, I’ve purchased enough rods, reels, tackle, boats and attire to outfit a small village. Certainly, it can’t be too much of an imposition to ask for a few more fish in my live well.
  • Next, I would like to respectfully request a new spine. I realize that you probably can’t leave this one under the tree for fear of frightening the kids, but if we could work out some way for me to get a few vertebrae that work properly, I think that would be right fine. UPS, FedEx, whatever you like. Heck, I’d settle for a gently used model if you have one lying around somewhere in the back. Get it, back? Ha-ha-ha-ha…er, ahem..
  • A hasenpfeffer. Seriously, I’ve been shouting, “bring me my hasenpfeffer!” for years. I’d really like it if someone would oblige me.
  • GPS coordinates for the final resting place (or places) of Jimmy Hoffa. I poke around every time I go out wade fishing and I keep thinking that I’m bound to snag him at some point, but…
  • A tiny can of Binaca breath spray specially formulated for dogs. Seriously, our beagle’s breath could bring down a team of oxen, who incidentally have chronic halitosis issues if their own.
  • One-quarter of one ounce of the energy my little boy burns on an average Tuesday morning. I haven’t had that much giddy-up in my get-up-and-go in about 30 years.
  • My very own island that I can appropriately name the Isle of Misfit Good People. Anyone can come live there with me so long as they are willing to admit that they don’t know what’s right for everyone and that a one-size-fits-all approach to government, religion, tolerance and so on has had its day. Your religion, race, sexual preference and gender and any of the other thousand or so things that subdivide us are irrelevant. I expect that I will have relatively few neighbors. [Author’s note: Santa delivered on this one. See this post.
  • Please bring peace to those who are suffering right now. You know who they are and what they need.
  • And last, but not least, I’d REALLY like to have another G.I. Joe with Kung-Fu Grip. The neighborhood bully stole mine about 35 years ago. He and I never got to finish our zip line rescue of Princess Leia who was being held hostage under the dining room table by Sam Cobra.

—

I ended my letter, slapped it into an envelope and trotted out into the cold, my nightshirt a’fluttering to place it in the mailbox at the end of our driveway. As I crawled into bed, warm with holiday cheer, I thought I heard the mighty ho-ho-ho of the red-suited fat guy as he sailed into the sky driving a team of highly irregular reindeer.
Gonna have to give up those midnight burritos.

 

 

About Rick Kughen

Rick Kughen is a writer, editor, and fishing bum who lives in Kokomo, Indiana with his lovely wife Charlotte, children Alexa and Eric, a flatulent beagle, two devious cats, his imaginary friend, Ned, and Ned's imaginary dog, Steve. He is a former Executive Editor for Pearson Education in Indianapolis, IN, where he worked for 19 years. He's now a full-time freelance writer and editor; he and Charlotte own and operate The Wordsmithery, a freelance editorial company. In a previous life, he was a newspaper reporter and columnist covering police and criminal courts news. He is a fine graduate of Ball State University where he moonlighted as a student. Kughen is an avid fisherman, writer, fly tyer, bait manufacturer, and baseball card collector. He is a devoted fan of both the Green Bay Packers and Cincinnati Reds, and of course, he is an incurable audiophile. He is the superhero known as Adjective Man (action figures sold separately). Kughen also answers to "Editor Boy," but only because he appears to have no choice.

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