Many years ago when I was a reporter, I received a letter from a man that contained his account of a very strange Christmas Eve experience. He wished to remain anonymous and hoped, if his letter was published, the inside addressee would get to read it. It went like this:
“Dear Santa: I’m sorry I haven’t written to you in 60 years. You might remember in my last letter I asked for a pony and you brought me a hobby horse instead. I forgave you for that many years ago.
I’m writing now about the very big favor you did for me when we met last Christmas Eve. That evening I’d attended a quiet get-together with friends in a local inn. Apparently the coffee was too strong and it affected my ability to concentrate. I was also having some difficulty standing up straight.
Exiting the inn, I couldn’t remember where my car was parked or whether or not I owned one. In any case, my indisposition ruled out driving so I walked off in what I hoped was the general direction of my home.
While trudging down a dark back road, I almost tripped over a reclining stranger. I first thought it was a little boy until I noticed his beard. He was wearing rather odd clothes that ended in pompoms and points. ‘Excuse me,’ I said. ‘Can I help you?’
‘Brixnitzl!’ he replied, pointing to the huge sack he must have been trying to drag. It was obviously much too heavy for him. So I helped him get it down the road and into a grove of holly trees.
That’s when I met you, Santa! I was sure from your very first ‘Ho, Ho, Ho’. Your red suit, the reindeer and the elves clinched it. I was having a Saint Nicholas encounter!
You thanked me for helping Johann with the sack of toys that had fallen off your sled and you asked what I was doing out in the woods on Christmas Eve. I explained my predicament and you winked and said, ‘We’ll be glad to give you a lift, won’t we boys?’ They all shouted, ‘Brixnitzl!’ which is apparently a friendly affirmative. I did notice Prancer was eyeing my bulk and wincing.
Santa, that was the most thrilling airborne, deer-powered ride I’ve ever had, flying over my home town in the hushed silence of a Christmas Eve, broken only by an occasional Ho, Ho, Ho and the huffing and puffing of the reindeer. I hope Prancer’s strain has healed by now.
I’m writing, not only to thank you, but because you’re the only one who’ll believe my story. I was assured Mr. Newman would publish this in his newspaper in hopes you’ll get to read it. I don’t know if he believes in you or in my tale, but he’s been known to have an unbridled imagination. For instance, he’s a New York Mets fan.
Santa, I wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. Please tell Johann and the boys, ‘Brixnitzl’ for me.
P.S. I know it’s a silly question, but I’d really like to know, Santa. Who got that pony fifty years ago?”
Imagine That 