Merry old Santa Clause by Thomas Nast, 1881
Every year when the “War on Christmas” comes around, I try to remind people of the roots of the traditions they practice on or around the 25th.
My favorite is the magical elf and tiny reindeer who became jolly old Santa Claus. In the original telling, St Nick is small and his reindeer “tiny” as they made their deliveries. Early depictions also show him as a jolly gnome with a pipe. He appeared full size during the Civil War era and was later given his trademark red suit with white lining in the 1930′s thanks to advertising by the Coca-Cola Company.
The point being that things were different back then, don’t make assumptions about what this season “means” and focus on how it makes you “feel.”
But, let’s put that all aside for now while I tell you the tale of the Firehouse on the Night Before Christmas. Loosely based on the story by Clement Clarke Moore in 1822. And by loosely I mean I changed the words.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, and at work I am stuck,
Not a unit is resting, except for the truck;
We had put out the fire in the chimney with care,
And hoped or reliefs soon would be there;
The truckmen were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of working fires danced in their heads;
My driver in her parka, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a short winter’s nap,
When out of the radio there arose such a clatter,
I slumped from the bed to hear what was the matter.
Away to the pole hole I sleepily wandered,
This was the 4th after midnight, we did feel so tortured.
The lights from the ambulance lit up the night,
As we put it in gear and turned on the map light,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a man with a walker who is standing so near,
He put down his suitcase and waved to and fro,
I knew in a moment “an emergency?” “No.”
What troubles you Sir, what is the bother?,
I have medical conditions, more specifically rather,
“My diabetes is bad and I can’t hardly breathe!
And my kidneys, my liver oh please, Medics Please!
I’m dizzy, I have chest pain and I’m about to fall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
I blinked and I turned to my partner so fried,
And the gentlemen went up to the back door and tried,
To open the door and climb in to ride,
To the hospital where he clearly wished to reside.
And then, in a twinkling, he started to snore,
So tired he was and I’m clearly a bore.
As I wrote my report, and was turning around,
He handed me a piece of paper he had found.
It said he was sick, from his head to his foot,
And his lungs were diseased with ashes and soot;
The writing upon it made scant little sense,
And he clearly didn’t expect to pay the expense.
His eyes — they were tired! his brow tough and furrowed!
His rough hands safely into his parka burrowed!
His droll little mouth was drawn down like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;
The bottom of the form held a sudden surprise,
And the smile on my face met his tired, tired eyes;
You were a fireman once it says on this chart,
Back when what we did was less science, more art.
He was chubby and plump, a right angry old man,
And I suddenly wanted to do all I can;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his pocket,
And pulled out a badge, a letter and a locket;
My wife and my family talk to me no more,
I mentioned my own and his eyes told the score;
After years of sacrifice serving another,
He had lost his wife and his children’s mother,
He said as I placed him in the hospital room,
“Happy Christmas, son, love them, it all passes too soon.”
Merry Christmas.
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