I have here a letter from 9-year-old Tasha, in Dallas, Texas. The letter is written in a childish hand. Purple ink. Curly print. The penmanship is excellent.

“Dear Sean,” the letter begins, “Is Santa really real? My dad says he is but my brother and his friends says he isn’t.”

Dear Tasha, first off, thank you for your letter. Let me start by saying that, (a) Santa is real, and (b) your brother is a dork for not believing.

I do not mean this statement about your brother in a derogatory way. Lots of people are dorks. They cannot help it.

Take me. I am a dork. Neither am I an authority on this particular subject of Santa Claus. In fact, when I was a kid, I once took an IQ test in school, and do you know what I got on the test? Drool.

Even so, this world-class dork knows one thing for certain: Santa is real.

I can absolutely guarantee this. And I would bet the farm on it.

Although I CAN see how some

people would doubt the existence of such a figure. It would be easy for a citizen of our present universe to disbelieve in the timeless traits of Saint Nick.

His attributes like kindness and selfless generosity are concepts that have gone out the window in our popular culture.

In the world we live in, crime and hatred are running rampant.

The War in Ukraine, for example, has created the world’s largest human displacement crisis.

And as of yesterday, 19,000 Palestinians and Israelis have died in the Israel-Hamas War.

In South Sudan, they are still recovering from a Civil War. This year, more South Sudanese than ever before—7.8 million—will face crisis levels of food insecurity in 2023.

In Afghanistan, an entire population is pushed into poverty due to a nation’s economic collapse.

How can Santa live in a world like this?

Well, the problem…

“You can open ONE present tonight,” my mother said. “But ONLY one. Since it’s Christmas Eve.”

My feet only touched the ground twice.

I ran to the Christmas tree like a squirrel on illegal stimulants. Our tree was pitiful. Charlie Brown had nothing on us.

Beneath the tree was one, skinny, oblong box with my name on it. I selected this box. I tore the paper.

It was a telescope.

“It’s not much,” Mama said.

I looked at the box. “It’s a telescope.”

Mama smiled. “So you really can read.”

It was a 40mm refractor called a Halleyscope. It must have cost my mother all she had. My mother cleaned condos and threw newspapers for a living.

This was her the coupe de grace of her Christmas bounty. The rest of my gifts would be cans of smoked oysters, jars of mayonnaise, or Haynes underpants.

“I know you like looking at stars,” she said.

It was true. I loved the stars. Every week I watched “Star Gazers” on PBS, hosted by Jack Horkheimer, the Star Hustler. The

world’s only weekly television series on naked eye astronomy. Still on the air today. I rarely missed an episode.

I took the telescope into the yard. I set up the tripod. I knew exactly what I would point the scope at that night. I aimed the lens at the moon.

Namely, because it was Christmas Eve. And the moon was full that year. For the first time on a holiday weekend since 1977, the moon was full. The next time the moon would be full would be 2015. After that, 2034. This was a big deal in the Metonic Cycle. A big, big deal.

I aimed my Halleyscope at the sky. There were 5,185 craters on the moon looking back at me. Crisp and clear.

I nearly cried. But then, of course fatherless boys don’t actually cry. Children of suicide don’t cry. Especially…

My neighborhood bar is small. Off the beaten path. Cozy. Funky smelling. The right amount of grime.

The place was decorated for Christmas. Garland and white lights. Country music played overhead. Not faux-country sung by those who grew up with iPhones and have never heard the name FDR. But music championed by Waylon, Willie, and the boys.

‘Twas the night before Christmas Eve. I was waiting for my wife. We were going to dinner. The bartender asked if I wanted a specially brewed Christmas beer.

“What kind of beer is it?” I asked.

“A seasonal hefeweizen dunkelweizen.”

“Do what?”

She gave me a sample. It was okay. But truth be told, I prefer normal, American beer. The kind that goes down easy and costs less than a gallon of gasoline.

There was a guy at the bar. He wasn’t a regular. He was older. Mid-to-late 70s. Although 70 gets younger every year. His sweater was crumpled. His hair was disheveled. The man was staring at me.

“You look like someone I once knew,” he said.

“Thanks,” I

said. “But I’m in a relationship.”

The man asked the bartender for another of whatever he was having. The bartender brought the drink. But before she gave it, she asked for his keys.

He was outraged. He said, “I’m not God, I swear to drunk!”

Eventually, the bartender won. The house always wins.

He gave her the keys. She called an Uber. And the man went on with his story. “The guy I knew owned his own company. Used to cut lawns, did pretty good. Had six guys who worked for him. Three trucks. I was proud of him. But I never told him. He was my son.”

The man pinched the bridge of his nose. He was crying.

“...When he was a little boy, we realized he couldn’t hear. So we took him to the doctor. Said he was completely deaf in…

My wife and I arrived in Charleston on a chilly December afternoon to celebrate our honeymoon, years ago. The city was decorated for Christmas. Garland hung from each balcony, lamppost, stray dog, and politician. We rolled into town listening to “Danny’s Song” on my truck radio.

The song goes:

“Even though we ain’t got money,
“I’m so in love with you honey…”

Nobody can hear this song and not sing along. Not even hardened war criminals can restrain themselves from humming with Kenny Loggins when he breaks into the chorus.

Anyway, Charleston is an immaculate place. And charming. To small-town folks, the city can almost seem intimidating. This is especially true if you are like me and the most cultured city you’re familiar with is, for instance, Dothan.

People kept telling us that Charleston is the second most historic city in the world (Rome, Italy, is the first). They said this wherever we went. Even at the Waffle House where our waitress was a tired woman with the personality of a boiled ham.

She said, “Did

you know we’re the second most historic city in the world?”

“No, I didn’t know that.”

“You will when you see how much things cost.”

So you can imagine how exhilarating it was to learn all the history that has happened within the city. We were constantly pointing and shouting, “Hey! George Washington slept in THAT building!”

Or, “Hey! Garth Brooks walked his Shih Tzu on THAT grassy lawn!”

Or, “Hey! Thomas Jefferson used to buy his lottery tickets and cigarettes at THAT convenience store!”

The city has a very uppity feel. Average residents of Charleston dress to the nines, even when they check the mail. Wherever we were, it seemed like everyone was wearing pearls, chenille, and high heels. And that was just the men.

Downtown we saw the Gullah women weaving sweetgrass baskets. Most of these women were sitting beside large…

They said we’d never make it. “You can’t live on love.” They actually said those exact words. Out loud.

People thought we would be divorced before Christmas. The preacher refused to marry us.

After months of marriage counseling, sitting in the reverend’s cramped little office, which smelled like dirty underpants, the Venerable Reverend looked at us with hard eyes, and he said, “I won’t marry you. You can’t live on love.”

Just like that. Point blank. Matter of fact.

He used his Holier-Than-Thou tone of voice. The one he used for baptisms and fundraisers.

We were crushed, of course. And ticked off. Especially after I’d paid $19.99 apiece for those stupid marriage workbooks from Lifeway.

Books which contained verbatim statements such as: “Make frequent investments into your spouse’s emotional bank account by unexpectedly kissing your spouse’s cheek and saying, ‘Let’s pray together!’”

Gag me with a backhoe.

Your mother wrote a nasty letter to the preacher. Your father threatened to put sugar in the preacher’s gas tank.

But we rented a church anyway. We hired a minister. And we did

it. We really did it.

We got married.

We went to Charleston for our honeymoon. It was all we could afford. It was the world’s most basic honeymoon. No frills. Cheap motel. Crappy part of town.

We wandered through the Holy City, arm in arm. I was 10-foot tall and bulletproof. I was still a child, but all grown up.

You improved me. Before you, I was a victim of suicide. A poor kid. I was a middle-school dropout, a construction worker. But I was married now, and marriage washes away a host of inadequacies.

But on the streets of Charleston, I kept wondering what the future would bring. I wondered, would we have kids? Would they have red hair like me? Or brown hair like you? Would I ever find a job that made my you proud? Or would…

The manger was made of cardboard. It was stuffed with fresh hay. Genuine hay from the hardware store. The Christchild was a naked Cabbage Patch doll from Brianna Smith’s personal collection. Orange yarn for hair. Jesus was a redhead.

Joseph was a tall kid with a long neck. You could see his blue jeans poking beneath the hem of his brown robe.

The shepherds were perpetually giggling about something. Nobody knew what about. But then, it was best just to let them go. It was fruitless for Miss Rhonda to tell them not to laugh. Whenever you tell kids not to laugh, they laugh so hard they pee themselves.

There were fruits and vegetables present at the birth of Christ that year, too. The vegetable costumes were leftovers from VBS. The cucumbers and tomatoes and summer squashes all knelt to offer their genuflection.

The angels were few. Dressed in white robes. Wings made of coat hangers and muslin. Three of them were brothers, and they were anything but haloed children. The eldest

had gotten into a fight on the playground over a GI Joe and knocked out a kid’s front teeth.

The wisemen were dressed in gold lame and purple velvet. They wore paper crowns on their heads, courtesy of the local Burger King. They came bearing gifts.

One of the magi carried an antique box from his mother’s house. Another of the magi carried a porcelain vase that belonged to his grandmother. The third wiseman carried a cornflower blue Corningware dish because his mother misunderstood the instructions.

Thus, that particular year, Jesus received gold, frankincense, and casserole.

We in the choir were dressed in white robes. Although we weren’t angels. Miss Rhonda made this clear whenever she addressed us. We were Heavenly Hosts. Whatever that was. Our job was, however, very important. We were to sing “Gloria! An exchange is dou-ble!”

But the star of the show that year…

“In prison,” said Charlie, “all you want is to know someone loves you.”

Charlie had been inside for 22 years. Nobody ever came to visit at Christmas. Never. Not even once. Sometimes he wondered if anyone remembered him.

Usually, Charlie’s Christmas consisted of going to the chow hall—it was the only time of year when the kitchen actually made an effort to give you decent food.

A lot of the guys just hung out in the TV rooms, watching the NBA. Others drank prison hooch. Some just stayed in their cells and stared at the walls.

Christmas morning in prison is quiet. Uneventful. For most, it is a reminder of how crappy your life is. How forgotten you are. Another calendar day.

Families rarely visit inmates on Christmas. What would you rather do on Christmas? Stay home and eat ham? Or get dressed and go to the clink for visiting hours?

Most guys inside don’t see any family members unless they’re locked up with them.

But this Christmas morning was different. They woke Charlie and told him he had

visitors.

“Visitors?” said Charlie.

“Get dressed,” said the guard. “They’re already here, waiting for you.”

“Who is?”

“You’ll see.”

Who could be visiting? Charlie had gone inside when he was in his 30s. He was in his 50s now. His frame was gaunt. His hair was white. The other inmates called him “Pops.”

The guard led him to the visiting area. They called the visiting area the “dance floor.” You only went to the dance floor, if you were lucky. Most guys never got to go.

If you were, however, taken to the dance floor, you lived like royalty. You ate from vending machines. You could play around with your kids—if you had any. And you felt like a human being for a little while.

Charlie followed the guard to the dance floor with a lump of clay in his throat.…

The story came to me early in my writing career. I visited a nursing home, looking for a Christmas story for a small magazine I was writing for. The magazine had a circulation of 1.6 people. At the nursing home, I met a woman named Shirley.

“There were three of us,” Shirley began.

Three young women, in their twenties. Three department store clerks. All three mothers. The year was 1942. The place was South Carolina.

America was in rough shape. The Depression had only been over a few years. The world was at war. Everyone’s husband was shipping off to fight Hitler. There were going to be a lot of widows in this country.

The three clerks lived on tight budgets. Enlisted-man pay was garbage. Their kids would not be getting much for Christmas this year, because money was short. The three women barely earned enough at their jobs to afford much more than their children’s supper and clothing. A lot of beans and weenies were consumed in their households.

It was December. The

department store was packed. They were working overtime. Customers were Christmas shopping.

One of the three young women noticed a boy wandering the store. He was maybe 12. He was behaving conspicuously. The kid had something hidden beneath his jacket. Something bulky.

The boy was shoplifting.

“Should we call the store detective?” said Shirley.

“No,” said Eleanor. “Look at his shoes, they're full of holes. We can’t get that poor boy arrested.”

“What should we do?” said Ethel.

They didn’t know what to do. So they followed him. Well, technically only Shirley followed him. She tailed him through town. She followed him home. She discovered that he’d stolen a dictionary. And also, a cookbook. Betty Crocker. Along with a couple of baby dolls.

Shirley watched the boy enter a rundown shotgun house. She watched him climb dry rotted stairs into the squalid dwelling, as his little…

Merry Christmas, Layla Grace. I got your name from the church Christmas tree. It’s kind of like Angel Tree, where you buy gifts for kids whose names are on the tree.

Your card was hanging on the branch when I was walking through the lobby. I was talking to people, shaking hands, and that’s when I noticed your photograph hanging there.

You are so pretty. Your hair is the same color as mine. Red. God help you.

When I saw your picture, I thought to myself, she looks like she’d make someone a very good friend. So I lifted your card from the tree and inspected it. And I fell in love with you.

For starters, I really like the name Layla. It’s a good name. I had an aunt named Layla. She smelled like old-lady perfume and her couch was covered in plastic. But she was very nice. And sometimes she babysat me. My mother was always reminding me to behave for Aunt Layla, and not to stress her out because she had IBS.

Your second name, Grace, is also a wonderful name, for obvious reasons. Also, I don’t know if you know this, but the letters in Layla Grace can be rearranged to spell “Lycra Algae.”

So this has to be a sign.

The card said your mother is in prison, your dad died from an overdose. You have not met either of them. You live in foster care. A group home. An orphanage, basically. You’re 7 years old. Your favorite food is ice cream.

The card also says that you’re sweet, and you like playing with dolls. You pretend that you’re their mother. You carry them around, and your foster mom overhears you tell your dolls, “I’ll never leave you, baby.”

So anyway, your Christmas wish list was simple. It was written in your own hand. And may I say, you have superb handwriting.

You wanted kinetic…

A Christmas party. There was a piano in the lobby. I was playing carols while people ate cookies and tossed back drinks. People wore reindeer hats and festive wear. There was a lady in a Grinch mask.

Tonight, sitting beside me on the piano bench was an 11-year-old music critic named Becca.

She was dressed in her nicest Christmas clothes. Red satin pants. Puffy black blouse. Ribbon in her hair. She was squeezed as close to me as she could get. Becca is blind.

“I wish I knew what you looked like,” she said, while I played “Winter Wonderland.” I was playing the part about naming the snowman Parson Brown.

“You aren’t missing much,” I said. “I’m not much to look at.”

“Seriously?”

“Seriously. I’m redheaded. I’m gangly. I have a big nose.”

“And you smell like dogs.”

“So they say.”

Becca and I are close friends. I met her a little over a year ago. I cannot explain how we became so close. Or why. But there you are.

I do not have any other 11-year-old friends. And I can honestly say,

I did not expect to have an 11-year-old pal. But sometimes these things just happen.

Becca started spending weekends at our house. She began going on the road with me, sometimes performing with me at shows. Then we became her legal godparents. It all happened so fast. And now I can’t remember what my life was like before her.

I played “Let it Snow.”

“You’re my best friend,” she said, mid-song.

“You’re mine, too.”

“Seriously?” she said.

“Seriously.”

She leaned into me. “Seriously-seriously?”

Yes. In fact, I wish I could tell this girl how much she means to me. I wish I could tell her that this year, before my wife and I left the country, we had a will drawn up—just in case the Delta airline pilots had a crappy day. We have no heirs, and…