Gabe

Greetings from the North Pole, Part I

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Blogger’s Note: Back in 2003, our children mailed their letters to Santa Claus very late and were quite concerned that he might not realize we would be traveling on Christmas. Prior to that winter, Santa had always left a short handwritten letter near the cookie plate, but with more kids and more questions, he found himself in need of assistance. (After all, he is a busy man this time of year.) Several days before Christmas, we found a card on our mantle, and Christmas morning, a letter marked with a script S, but not for Santa! I’ve transcribed them to share, in hopes of spreading holiday cheer and bolstering belief.

* * * * *

16 December 2003

My dear Thorp children,

Of course we can deliver your presents on Christmas Eve Day — why, your mother used to receive her presents every year on Christmas Eve! We try to accommodate all Holiday travel plans (within reason), for there is nothing more important than Family at Christmas!

So rest easy these next few nights! Know that your letter was very well received — Santa loves to hear from his children, and especially appreciates your Honesty about those times you’ve been less than perfect. We will compare your Wish List against what we’ve prepared for you, but remember! Santa knows best what you need, and often has his own ideas. You may not get everything you’ve asked for, but I am certain you will be Very Happy on the morning of December 24!

Merry Christmas Brendan, Gabriel and Emma!

Siberius Quill
Elf Correspondent

* * * * *

23 December 2003
The Eve of Christmas Eve

Dearest Children!

Happy Christmas to you all! How fortunate that I should be assigned to your family, for I am the Very Elf who wrote you just a week ago to tell you your Santa Letter was not in vain. (Of course, no such letter ever is!) Ah! I am reminded that you are all so Very Young — I must think more slowly and write more simply. And as you are a New Family, and this is your first letter from a Correspondent, I should introduce myself…

So I shall! I am Siberius Quill III, a Correspondent in Santa’s Letter Corps and fifth-generation Elfin Scribe. I am to be your Personal Contact and Pen-Pal here at the North Pole for as long as you will have me. You see, when human children reach the age at which they begin writing letters, lists and questions for Santa — when he can no longer hand-write a note to you over cookies and milk — we Correspondents take over. Like your Father, my talent lies in language. Let the other Elves make toys; I’ve no knack for tools!

Unlike your Father, however, I am descended from a long and proud line of Writers. My great-grandfather, Siberius the Old, personally penned Mr. Kringle’s first List of Names. (That was long centuries ago, however — several Great Uncles, Uncles and Cousins now compile the names, but The Old Man still has a nose for telling naughty from nice!) My grandfather, Siberius II, is Santa’s Chief Calligrapher, and my father, Scribner Quill, teaches Foreign Penmanship — Japanese, Arabic and the like. My mother’s kin are Writers, too — her father, Brevity Parchment, heads the Tags and Greetings division.

We Correspondents are good for more than just lists and letters, Children — as you get older and wiser, you will likely have fewer questions about What Santa does, and more and more questions about Why and How he does it. Consider me your Primary Resource regarding All Things Christmas — I will do my level best to tell you everything I can! Of course, not even the Elves know everything Pere Noel is about — but what I know I will share, because sharing is one of the simplest Good Deeds you can do. Remember that!

Now then — you’ve asked me no questions, boys, but you did ask your Father one, didn’t you, Master Brendan? Let me see — I believe you wanted to know what happens should children like Yourselves awaken when Santa is about! Your Father told you what he thought, and it’s exactly so — old Santa smiles at them, his eyes a-twinkle; places his pointing finger to his lips, and shhh! Out they go, like an Advent Candle, to sleep deeply and dream pleasant dreams — remembering nothing, or almost nothing, of what they think they’ve seen. Ah, but your Dad remembers — buried in his head are the unconscious thoughts and waking dreams of the Little Boy he used to be. He remembers!

Master Gabriel, I must mention that Santa was most Impressed and Flattered that you wanted a red fur suit for Christmas, to match your Christmas hat, no doubt. Though you’d make quite a strapping elf, you are not quite tall enough for the robes of St. Nicholas, nor round enough to fill Santa’s trousers. Keep growing, young Master, and you’ll make a fine Father Christmas yet.

All our Love to Emma and your Mother and — Can this be? — a new Baby on the way? Bless my soul, but you’ll keep me busy. A fine, Big Family indeed! Happy Christmas, Young Ones — may God bless you and your family as He blessed us all those many years ago, in a Bethlehem stable, in the hay. And a Happy New Year, too!

Your Most Sincerely,

Siberius Quill

P.S. If you like, you may call me Quill!

* * * * *

As Christmas draws nearer, perhaps I’ll transcribe the others we’ve received over the years.

The Sticky Revenge of One-Eyed Jack, Part IV

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments


The is the final installment, part four of four. To read them in order, start with part one in the Blog Archive at the right.

* * * * *

The sound of footsteps reached them from the open front door. No time, said the apparition, gliding toward the house.

Just then Sam’s mother stepped to the porch in her long coat and slippers, latching the door behind her. She entered the garage and flipped on the light. The ghost hissed his dismay—he had no desire to haunt a garage.

Listen, said Jack. Sam won’t scare easily—he’s an imaginative one; I’m sure he’s daydreamed worse than you.

The ghost hissed again, swooping close to Jack’s one eye. Jack stared, unflinching.

You saw who did this, he continued. That one deserves a good haunting, don’t you think? Do you know which house is his?

The ghost grinned hideously.

Gather my remains and take me there, and I will get you into his very bedroom, Jack said.

Swear it! said the ghost.

By my Mother Vine and the black earth, you’ll be his waking nightmare before dawn, swore Jack. Here’s the plan …

* * * * *

Moments later the ghost swooped low over Jack’s shattered remains, this time spreading like a deep shadow on the driveway until nothing could be seen. When it flew skyward, no trace of Jack remained. Sam’s mother emerged from the garage with a wide push-broom and battered snow shovel and stared at the driveway.

She was so surprised to find the pumpkin and glass shards gone that she barely registered the chill as the ghost passed quickly through her and into the garage. When at last she re-entered the garage, shaking her head, she didn’t notice the missing stapler.

* * * * *

Four houses down, soft snoring emanated from a tangle of blankets, candy wrappers, and dirty tube socks. A pale and skinny boy lay sprawled and sleeping, his blue eyes half hidden under half-closed lids. The clock on the nightstand flashed 11:53. Just then, there came a tap at the window.

The boy groaned, sat halfway up, then collapsed back on the bed.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The boy rubbed his eyes and sat up. Who’s there?

Tap-tap.

He looked to see a dark, ill-defined shape in the window, and the lights of town shining beyond. In fact, the lights seemed to shine through the object, through a three-sided hole that was strangely familiar.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

He untangled himself from his bedding and walked to the window, still half-asleep. What’s tapping on the window? he thought. A cat? A rat? A bird?

It was none of those things. He opened the window to see what it was.

* * * * *

The boy’s mother woke to a cold draft in the morning and assumed her son had been sneaking out of the house—on a school night, no less. “Anthony?” she called as she walked down the hall. “Are you there?” She knocked on his door. No answer. She gave an exasperated sigh and slowly opened the door. Then she screamed

The bed was empty; the window was open; and her son was gone. The bed sheets, the floor, and the window sill were smeared in sticky orange goo. Trembling uncontrollably, she stuck her head out the window and saw a trail of pumpkin remains, broken glass, and melted candle wax leading from the back to the front of the house. She rushed to the front door and threw it open. “Anthony!” she shrieked.

* * * * *

Sam’s mom broke the news about Jack to him as soon as he woke the next morning. He took it better than expected. He asked if she saw who did it, though he felt sure he knew.

Sam left for the bus stop to see blue and red lights flashing further up the street. Bryce came at a run from the same direction.

“Did you hear about Anthony?” he asked Sam breathlessly.

Sam shook his head and thought of Jack.

“They found him this morning,” said Bryce, “in his front yard.”

“Found him?” asked Sam. “What, dead?!”

Bryce shook his head. “Way better than that!” he said. “Someone stapled his pajamas to a tree with him still in them!”

Sam stopped cold. “His mom found him and screamed,” said Bryce. “There must’ve been a thousand staples! He frostbit his feet—couldn’t call for help because they stuffed a stump of candle in his mouth. He was shivering and crying and going on and on about a giant eye peering in his window. Can you imagine?”

Sam could imagine. Jack! he thought, and smiled.

* * * * *

For Bren, Gabe, Rose and Trevvy, who bring out the best (and worst!) in me.

Photo: Another of the old man’s jack-o-lanterns, 2007

The Sticky Revenge of One-Eyed Jack, Part II

/ J. Thorp / Leave a comment


(Editor’s Note: Continued from yesterday’s post, which, of course, you should read first!)

* * * * *

Jack hoped to be one of the Chosen that fall. Of course he was called Jack—even the smallest pie pumpkins, or the foulest rotters in the field, are Jacks in name and in spirit. This Jack was a plump, round pumpkin, bigger than a basketball, somewhat wider than he was tall, with a thick stem that corkscrewed slightly from his crown.

He was perfect, except for a four-inch crease across his face where his Mother Vine pressed against him as he was growing. Jack had always believed he was destined for carving, but seedward, he wondered if that one flaw might change his Fate. One by one, the pumpkins around him were claimed by excitable children with their parents in tow. Three times he had been picked up and turned round and round, and three times, found lacking. The tall, skinny Jack from the next vine was gone, as was Yellow Jack, who had never fully ripened, and Lazy Jack, who couldn’t even stand up! He was beginning to fear he would be left to rot after all—and with such late start, he might linger in the field well into spring.

Then one grey and windy evening, a dark-eyed, dark-haired boy in a green raincoat approached. Jack felt his footsteps in the soft wet earth. The boy looked at Jack with a curious intensity. He didn’t pick Jack up, but Jack could feel the boy circling him, first to the right, then to the left. He crouched next to Jack and peered at the crease, then traced it with his thumb. He smiled.

A woman approached. “Did you find one, Sam? It’s beginning to rain,” she said.

“This one,” said Sam.

“Are you sure?” she asked. “It’s got a dent in it, see?”

“It’s a scar, Mom,” he said matter-of-factly. “This is the one—I know just what to do!”

* * * * *

Sam sat in the back seat of his mother’s car with Jack on his lap, tracing that crease with his fingers over and over. Jack thrilled at the touch. This Sam knows pumpkins— I can see that with my eyes closed, thought Jack. And soon—maybe as soon we stop—my eyes will be opened!

When they arrived at home, Sam carried him to the kitchen. His mother spread newspaper on the table and placed a large silver bowl next to Jack. She then left for moment and returned with a long, gleaming knife. Her eyes went suddenly wide and twitchy, and Jack heard her speak to the boy in a loud and raspy voice: “Shall we … begin … Master?”

Sam laughed and said yes. Jack braced himself for the blade and the piercing pain that must surely follow.

The tip of the blade sank about a quarter-inch into Jack’s rind with little more feeling than a sharp pinch. Sam’s mother then pushed the blade through, which sent a strange tingle to Jack’s very core. As she slid the blade up and down, up and down, in a circle around his stem, the tingling sensation was replaced by sudden warmth as the air of the kitchen seeped in to fill him.

Sam’s mother grabbed Jack’s stem and twisted his crown free, dragging with it long, slimy tendrils of orange goo and pale white seeds. Jack felt as if the table had dropped from under him, and he was spinning down, down. He heard a voice say, “Now it’s time to get your hands dirty,” and it sounded half a world away.

Sam plunged both bare hands through the hole in Jack’s top, tearing loose fistfuls of goo and seeds. He called to his mother, held up his hands, and squeezed until pulp squirted from between his fingers. Then Sam used the edge of a steel spoon to scrape Jack’s insides clean. From inside his shell, the noise was deafening, and the falling sensation was replaced by a pulsing ache and waves of nausea.

When Sam finished scraping, he turned Jack upside down, and the pumpkin’s pale orange insides spilled into the garbage can. Instantly Jack felt better, and when Sam set him upright and replaced his crown, he was empty of seeds, pulp, and fear. The worst was surely over, and no other Fate would have him now. He was to be a jack-o-lantern—his eyes would now be opened.

Sam’s mom brought a short-bladed paring knife to the table. “Remember,” said Sam, “you said I could do it this year. You said I could use the knife if I’m careful.”

Jack heard a motherly sigh: “Alright, Sam—but be very careful!”

Sam slowly, painstakingly, carved Jack’s face into his orange shell. Jack could feel it taking shape, exactly as he’d imagined when he was green: first a wide, toothy grin with no less than a dozen sharp teeth; next, a nose like an upside-down kite …

Jack knew his eyes were next. Already the air flowed freely through him—he could smell the odors of the kitchen and his own insides in the garbage nearby; he could taste the metallic tang of the blade and bitterness of the wet oak outside. He couldn’t wait to see everything!

Sam pushed the blade home, and carefully slid it back and forth, back and forth, on a diagonal toward Jack’s nose. The tiny ribbon of daylight Jack saw was irresistible, and he felt he wanted to be filled with light, to shine like the harvest moon. Sam cut another diagonal, starting from the same point, this time moving away from Jack’s new nose.

A triangle! thought Jack. I knew it—wide triangle eyes!

Sam cut across the bottom of the triangle, and the piece fell inside. Light flooded Jack from everywhere—too bright, blinding, like waking to a camera flash. He felt his crown removed and felt Sam fish out the triangular piece and toss it into the garbage. He felt Sam’s finger retrace his scar, then begin cutting just below it.

By the time Sam had completed the cut below the scar, Jack had regained his senses, and was looking with wonder at the world around him. The cherry wood of the kitchen was bathed from above in a clean white glow. He saw Sam’s mother, and could imagine the vine that linked the two of them, from her dark hair and eyes to his. He could see Sam, carefully beginning a second cut below the scar, just the tip of his tongue sticking out, brow furrowed in concentration. From the inside, the boy seemed to have made a mistake: The second cut was nearly parallel to the first, and not at all like the cuts he had used to open Jack’s first eye.

“What on earth are you doing?” asked Sam’s mother.

“He has a scar over this eye so he can’t open it—see?” said Sam. “I call him One-Eyed Jack.”

Just one eye? thought Jack. All because of my scar? Barely any light seeped through the narrow slit where his second eye should be.

“Are you sure, honey?” said Sam’s mother.

“Sure, I’m sure,” the boy said. “He’ll be the scariest jack-o-lantern in the neighborhood.”

“You may be right!” said his mother. “Tell you what: let’s not set him out tonight, so nothing happens to him. We’ll put him in the garage, where it’s cool, overnight—then we’ll move him to the porch tomorrow for Halloween.”

* * * * *

To be continued …

Photo: Gabe’s and Dad’s jack-o-lantern, 2007