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| It's the middle of July, and Santa decides to go on a little vacation with Mrs. Claus. Where will they go? How will they get there? What happens while they are there? I extend creative license. It should be a lot of fun!!! This should be a short story only. Fyndorian, the CEC (Chief Elf in Charge) of Santa’s Emporium of Goodness huffed and puffed as she entered Santa’s den pushing a six-foot wide roulette wheel. Each of the millions of tiny slots was Someplace Special. “Tis time,” she announced. “Tis time for what? It’s only half past July. It isn’t time to check the lists for the first or second time, nor is it time to wrap presents nor time to take the reindeer out for preflight. Ah, perhaps it is nap time? Yes?” asked Santa. Fyn rolled her eyes at the hope in Santa’s voice. “Time for you and the Mrs. to pick the place where you will vacation this year!” “Oh, heck. Already?. I hope it is better than where we went last year,” said Mr. Clause. “Remember Clara? We didn’t see a single child, naughty, nice or otherwise the entire trip and well, it was the worst vacation ever! All those penguins! It took me almost til September to get the slime out of my beard! “ “Santa? Last year when you got back, you both said it was the best vacation ever!” “We did? Hmm, well, let’s hope this year is, ah, different then.” “Mrs. C? Would you like to do the honors?” She walked over to the wheel and gave it a spin. Three pairs of eyes watched intently as it spun round and round. It slowed passing by Paris and San Francisco, slowed further as it bypassed Cyprus and Ecuador, was creeping as it clicked by Denmark and Madagascar and finally squeaked to a stop. “What does it say? Where are we going?” asked Santa. “I can’t read that tiny print without my spectacles. Oh I do hope it is someplace warm,” Clara finished expectantly. Digging into first one, then another of her green and white striped pockets, Fyn rooted around until with a triumphant, “HAH!” she pulled forth a shimmering red magnifying glass. Fyn peered at the minuscule lettering. “Um, it says you are vacationing in Hell.” “No, not really?” guffawed Santa. “It’s right there, in green and white. Hell, Michigan.” Fyn held up her left hand and pointed to a spot about halfway between her wrist and the valley formed between her thumb and fore finger. “ “I know where it is, Fyn. There are some exceptionally well behaved children there.” “I bet there are a few who behave like little devils, too!” “I had to say I wanted to go somewhere warm,” smiled Mrs. Clause. “Well, I’d best get packing. Fyn, please get the hand basket ready, we’ll use that for our transportation. Wrong time and place for the sleigh,” she giggled. ”Besides, how else would one get to get to Hell?” “You sure it is vacation time, Fyn?" Santa busied himself lighting his pipe. "I’d intended to spend the next week organizing the workshop and I had every intention of finally writing the book I started last March,” “Well, you know what they say about good intentions … the road to hell is paved with them.” “Go.” Santa pointed towards the barn. “Now! Get that hand basket ready.” As Fyn left, Santa sat in his chair and laughed. Two days later, the Clauses, incognito, as two pleasingly plump tourists wandered about in Hell, the magically shrunken basket over Mrs. C’s arm. They were staying at the Dam_ Site Inn and were going in to an ice cream shop for a cone. Inside, Mrs. Clause saw a Christmas tree covered in ornaments. “We leave it up all year long,” said the proprietor, “I love Christmas and it is a good reminder that we should treat every day and each other as if every day is Christmas” Mr. Clause nodded in agreement. “That is a fine idea, sir!” “I’m sure you’ve heard this before, but you sure look like every child’s vision of a Santa Clause. We are getting ready to celebrate Christmas in July. It’s a celebration we have every year. Any chance I could get you to play Santa? Our regular guy never showed up today. I’m pretty sure the suit would fit,” he finished hopefully. “Why not?” laughed Santa. “I can get an early start! Perhaps you could play Mrs. Clause, dear,” he continued, smiling at his wife. “Do you think I could do it well?” she asked. “I think you’d be absolutely perfect. I’m John,” said the owner. “What do I call you?” “Just call us Nick and Clara.” John grinned. “Of course! What else?” For the next two days, Mr. and Mrs. Clause pretended to be Santa and Mrs. Clause. They listened to children’s Christmas wishes, cautioned little ones to behave and watched as the spirit of Christmas descended on the store. He showed them how to listen for the sound of bells jingling softly. “That was a heck of a lot of fun,” said Santa when they were finished. They wandered through a small gift shop called Good Intentions and purchased postcards to mail back home from the Hell, Mi. post office. The postmistress lightly burned the edges of them! They ran into John on their way outside. “If you come to visit Michigan again,” he suggested, “Go to the Upper Peninsula, the UP, we call it. There’s a great little town up there called Christmas! I bet you’d love visiting there.” Santa smiled. “We just might have to do that,” he said. “One can never have too much Christmas!” 905 words *Note: There really IS a Hell, Mi. It is 4 miles SE of my town of Pinckney, Mi. The Dam Site Inn and the Ice Cream store (Screamers) really exist. John, the owner, really does keep the tree up year round. The other store, is actually called 'In a Hand Basket' and there IS a post office there where they burn the edges of the mail. There is also a Christmas in the UP of Michigan. |
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