I almost didn’t write this because I swore I’d never tell anyone what I’m about to tell you. But I have to.

A few weeks ago I received a letter postmarked from Nunavut, Canada. An invitation said that I had been selected along with a few other writers for an exclusive, one-on-one interview with a very important person who wears a red suit and owns a lot of reindeer and is not Oprah Winfrey.

The next day, I was on a plane from Hartsfield-Jackson Airport, flying to Milwaukee Mitchell International Airport. Our plane landed in a bunch of Midwestern gray snow. And I mean a bunch of snow.

Milwaukee was as cold as a witch’s underwire. I don’t know why anyone would choose to live in Milwaukee in the winter. Which brings up a joke my mother’s friend Judy, from Milwaukee always tells:

“What do you call a good looking man on the streets of Milwaukee?” “Frozen to death.”

So the layover wasn’t too bad. Neither were my other connecting flights to Tacoma,

British Columbia, and Fairbanks International Airport.

When I reached Alaska, things were touch-and-go. I caught a commuter flight to Deadhorse Airport, near Prudhoe Bay—which is basically the edge of the world where the temperature drops to forty below zero sometimes.

The next commuter plane was piloted by a Norwegian guy named Arvid who, while we were flying through a heavy blizzard, remarked, “I have never flown in an actual blizzard before.”

So things were going great. When we finally touched down, Arvid made the Sign of the Cross, and I changed my trousers.

We were on the remote Fosheim Peninsula at a research facility on Ellesmere Island. This facility has been continuously manned since 1947 and was covered in about ten feet of snowdrift. But the men who run the place are very friendly. Which is remarkable considering they are isolated from modern civilization and most of…

Afternoon. First Baptist Church in Pensacola, Florida. America’s oldest continuously occupied city. Look it up.

Taylor has a lot of work to do today. It’s the Christmas season, and this is the biggest day, annually, of Taylor’s career.

Taylor is an officer with the Pensacola Police Department, a detective of sorts. Electronics-detection. Taylor’s day job is catching bad guys who abuse kids. In fact, you could say that Taylor’s life is all about protecting children.

Taylor is 4 years old. He is an English Labrador.

Before he came to the PPD, he was a failed service dog for the elderly. His trainers flunked him because he kept trying to play with the tennis balls on people’s walkers.

“Friendly animal,” his former trainers noted, “but lacks focus, and talks too much in class.”

So he was trained as a police dog. He was an instant success.

“And he’s great with kids,” says one officer. “He’s one of our most valuable guys on the force. We don’t mind that he drinks from the toilet.”

Today, however, Taylor is serving as police liaison to a

bunch of kids.

1:44 p.m., Officer Taylor arrives at First Baptist with Officer Ike Isenberg, his partner. Taylor’s tail is wagging so hard his butt almost falls off.

The church parking lot is chock-full of busted Hondas, dilapidated Chevys and outmoded Nissans. There are cop cars galore.

Taylor excitedly bounds out of the vehicle and prances toward the church.

Showtime.

December has been a busy month for the department. All month, officers have been buying gifts for underprivileged kids in town.

These are kids whom officers run into on the job. Maybe the child’s family member was arrested. Maybe someone in the home has been murdered.

No matter what the issue, when an officer identifies a kid who is going to have a hard candy Christmas, the kid’s name goes on The List.

Come December, the whole department…

I’m proud of you. That’s the entire point of this entire column/essay/article/Facebook post/English travesty/verbiage trainwreck/whatever you call it. So if you’re pressed for time, you can quit reading here.

Just know that I’m proud.

I’m nobody. So my proudness means nothing, really. But nonetheless, I am very proud of you. I hope you’re proud, too. You’re pretty great.

Over the next few days, you’re going to be getting together with family members. It’s the Christmas season. You will be with out-of-towners. Sons and daughters. Mothers and fathers. Brothers and sisters. Or—God have mercy—in-laws.

Or perhaps YOU are the out-of-towner. Maybe you’re the outsider at the table

Either way, you’re going to be hanging out with people seated across from the holiday supper who silently judge you.

People who smile at you in that fake, nasty-nice way. These Cherished Family members will be polite to your face, but will make you feel like turd soup.

You’ll feel under scrutiny. What does your house look like? Is it a mess? How about your life? Is it a wreck? How about your job? Is it

a good one? What about your kids? Are they screwed-up? Or are they successful human beings with eight-digit incomes?

What about your current health? Are you sick? Are you in tip-top shape? Do you do cardio? How about yoga? Are you overweight? How about your financial portfolio? Stock options? How’s your guest bathroom? Is it clean? Or do you have a pink-carpet toilet seat cover that screams “Hints from Heloise” circa 1959?

Are you kick-butt successful? Are you a wealthy person with a current-model Land Rover Autograph, who has a financial advisor with Roman numerals after his name?

Or do you drive a 1992 F-150 with 197,623 miles, crumbling upholstery, rusted fenders, a busted stereo, dog-nose-slobber on the windows, and three pistons that misfire?

It doesn’t matter what your situation is, what I’m getting at is that you…

Winter. The year is 1949. The war has been over for a while, but it’s still fresh on everyone’s minds. Which is why people are having babies like crazy. War does that to people.

This new generation of babies will be known as the Baby Boomers, and each day they are being born by the truckload. These children will grow up one day and change the world by inventing revolutionary things such as DNA fingerprinting, the World Wide Web, the portable dialysis machine, and Donny Osmond.

But not all babies are lucky enough to be born into good lives. By which I mean that some babies have fathers who don’t want them. One woman—I will call her Macy—was pregnant with a baby like that.

So Macy’s mother did what lots of small-town mothers did in those days, she sent Macy away. Macy was supposed to go live with her aunt in Illinois, but it didn’t work out. So Macy tried Kansas City. That didn’t work either. And this brings us to the

beginning of our story.

Macy was alone. And penniless. Without a friend in the world. If we were to describe her situation with the blunt terms that my grandfather might have used: “Macy didn’t have a pot to [ugly word] in, or a [ugly word] window to throw it out of.”

She used her last few bucks to buy a bus ticket to Omaha, because she believed that this was a place where she could make a better life. Maybe nobody would ask questions about illegitimate babies in Omaha. Maybe nobody would bat an eye if she told them she was a widow.

So her bus was purring along when some very crummy weather hit. The weather went from snowstorm to deathstorm in only a few hours. History would later remember this weather system as one of the century’s worst blizzards to hit the Plains.

The bus rolled…

Dear Santa, I know you’re super busy. Heaven knows, you have approximately 1.9 billion children in the world to worry about. But I wanted to bring a few kids to your attention. If you have time.

First off, please help Sophie (13), who is losing her hearing. Right now, her mother is taking her to UF Health Shands Hospital, in Gainesville, Florida. And everyone is worried.

Sophie’s mother is Deaf, and uses Cochlear implants. The deafness is a genetic issue, and now Sophie is going through hearing problems. Sophie’s mother writes:

“Would you please pray that doctors can stop Sophie’s hearing loss and even restore what’s been lost?”

If anyone can help her, you can, Santa. And when you’re finished helping her, please help Jayden (15).

Jayden’s lungs are giving him problems. The doctors aren’t giving him a good prognosis. In fact, they’re giving him bad news.

“I just want to be a normal kid,” he writes to me. “I just want to breathe normal again.”

Visit Jayden, will you Santa? Give him special attention. And if you have time

after that, please help Kirsten (12). Kirsten’s mother has never married, Santa, because her mother has been taking care of Kirsten’s ailing grandmother for many years.

“After my grandma’s stroke, my mom and me moved into the house, and my mom dropped out of college, and all she does is take care of Grandma.”

Kirsten’s mother has accompanied her grandmother for every bathroom break, administered every shower, and tucked her mother into bed every night.

As a result, Kirsten’s mom has never lived a life of her own.

“Please pray for my mom to have a good Christmas, she deserves it.”

So if you’re reading this, Santa, help her. And when you’re through helping Kirsten’s mom, please send some love to my friend Mason.

Mason is 24, living in Hoboken, New Jersey. He might not be a kid, Santa, but…

Avondale Park. Birmingham, Alabama. The town is decorated for Christmas. Garland everywhere. Wreaths aplenty. Visions of reindeer tinkling in the snow.

There is an old man in the park, talking to a giant bronze elephant statue. His adult children are nearby, snapping photos. A small crowd is gathered around him because he is in love with this inanimate object.

I ask the man why he is passionately stroking a statue.

“Ain’t a statue,” the old man explains. “This is Miss Fancy. She’s an old friend of mine.”

Then he tells a story.

The real Miss Fancy was born in 1871, in the wilds of India. She was a puny elephant, purchased by the Hagenbeck-Wallace Circus for a pittance.

In circus world, Hagenbeck-Wallace was big potatoes. Second largest circus in America. Founder, Carl Hagenbeck, was a pioneer who believed in reward-based animal training instead of fear-based training, so he never hurt animals like other circuses. As a result Miss Fancy was cheerful and good-natured.

Miss Fancy was likely trained to ride bikes, play musical instruments,

play baseball, sing Schubert, and of course, wear wedding dresses.

In the late 1800s, Miss Fancy toured the United States, and entertained audiences from California to Maine. She was seen on posters and handbills from coast to coast.

But in 1913, her career ended. The circus made headlines when a Hagenbeck-Wallace train wrecked. It was a disaster. Hundreds of animals were badly maimed or wounded. Fancy was among the injured.

So the circus sold her. Fancy was 41 years old when she was sold to Avondale Park, in Birmingham.

“She was sent here to retire,” said the old man, affectionately stroking the statue. “She became the lifeblood of our town.”

Avondale Park was a glorified zoo. A rest home for animals. There wasn’t much going on in Avondale. People paid a few pennies to see Miss Fancy eat hay and make poop.

Things were pretty loose…