Like the warm glow of the holiday fireplace, simulated or all-natural, there’s just something comforting about sharing stories during the yuletide season.
The holidays are all about gathering, after all, and whenever friends and loved ones get together for a little festive cheer, the tall tales are never far behind.
It’s why Pique has shared the stories of local writers at Christmastime for many moons now. In a town where family is often miles away and the locals are more attuned to the distinct needs of visitors than their own, it’s important to hold on to the traditions that make this time of year so special.
So, however you celebrate the holidays, we hope you enjoy the following tales from four talented local scribes, and, more importantly, we hope you get to spend some quality time with your own uniquely Whistler family—whatever that looks like.
Bob Cratchit’s Dream
By Katherine Fawcett
Ebenezer Scrooge wobbled up the sidewalk trying to watch his feet while holding the roasting pan. It tipped a little. The bird slid around inside, and some of the meat juice sloshed onto his brown corduroy pants. “Oh, smack,” he grumbled. “That’ll never come out.”
“We have some OxiClean,”
“Eh? What?” Ebenezer looked up. It was Tiny Tim.
“Stain remover. We can spray that. No problem.”
“Sure,” said the old man. “And I’ll sit through Christmas dinner in my briefs.”
The young Cratchit tried not to picture his father’s former boss from the car dealership at the dining room table without pants on. Skinny pink legs, wrinkled and hairless, sagging at the knees, like the plucked skin of the turkey itself before the man cooked it in his own oven and brought it over Christmas afternoon like he’d done for the past 20-odd years.
“I’m sure father has some extra pants you could—”
“Never mind. I’ll live. Happy Christmas, and all that.” Ebenezer frowned and looked the young man up and down. “What are you doing here anyhow? I thought you’d left town.”
“I’m just back for the holidays. Classes start up again January third.”
Ebenezer frowned. It seemed like only yesterday the boy was recovering from spinal surgery to correct whatever it was that made him so small. That would have been back when the family was living in the old townhouse by the recycling depot; the one with asbestos in the ceiling, mice in the walls, and holes in the floorboards. They’d still be there if it weren’t for him, thought the old man, giving himself a mental pat on the back. The kid would still be a runt. And the family certainly couldn’t afford to send him away to some fancy school.
“Engineering? Medicine? Economics? Remind me.”
“Music,” said Tiny Tim.
“Oh. Good grief.”
“I’m a choral major.”
Ebenezer chose to redirect the conversation before getting worked up about careers in the arts and other poor life choices. “Tell me: when the dickens are you going to stop growing?”
“My basketball coach says hopefully never!” He made a floppy slam-dunk wrist over his head and said, “Swish!” Ebenezer said nothing. He had no use for sport, either.
Tiny Tim shuffled his feet. “Happy Christmas to you as well.”
In the house, Ebenezer set the roasting pan down on the Cratchits’ kitchen island, plunked himself on the stool, used one of their Rudolf napkins to wipe the sweat from his brow, and asked Bob Cratchit what a guy had to do to get a beer around there.
Drinks were poured. Appies were laid out. And the Cratchits thanked Ebenezer for not forgetting his promise from so long ago: to bring them a Christmas turkey every year, even though they were perfectly capable of supplying all the fixings for the holiday themselves by now.
“It smells delicious,” said Emily Cratchit, mixing the gravy with one hand and nursing a cinnamon-spiced martini in the other. “So, Ebenezer. Are you still keeping that dream journal?”
“Bah, no. Stopped that years ago.” There had been a time that Ebenezer believed in dreams. Visions. What-have-you. He’d paid attention to the night-messages from spirits. That was the year he gave most of his money to people on the street and so-called friends, shut down his business and found work in an animal shelter. Talk about a mid-life crisis. But that was all behind him now. He was lucky to have his pension.
Ebenezer looked up from his beer. The pair were staring at him.
“What?” said the old man. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I had a dream,” said Bob.
Emily nodded like a maniac. “He did. He woke me up to tell me about it. Quarter past three in the morning.”
“It was so realistic. And you were in it, Ebenezer.”
Ebenezer raised a thick eyebrow. “Go on,” he mumbled through a mouthful of Ritz and salami.
Bob told Ebenezer all about his dream. About getting a phone call from Hollywood. About Bob and Emily and Ebenezer and Tiny Tim flying to L.A. (first class!) to talk to Reese Witherspoon about a screen adaptation of Ebenezer’s life. About premier screenings. About film festivals. About royalties and red carpets. About telling the world the story of Ebenezer’s arc: from miser to benefactor.
“My dream was telling me: it’s not everyone who gets visited by a ghost of Christmas past, Christmas present and Christmas future and wakes up a changed man. It’s a Christmas miracle!”
Emily chimed in. “I was like: ‘Bob, that’s brilliant!’ and he was like, ‘But it was just a dream,’ and I was like, ‘Let’s make that dream come true!’ and then he fell back to sleep. Well, the very next day I contacted a few of my friends from film school—did you know I went to film school?” (Ebenezer did not, but he was not surprised.) “—and they were all like, ‘this totally has legs!’ so we started brainstorming. Long story short, Hallmark wants to see a proposal ASAP. But of course, Bob was like, ‘we’ve got to run this by Ebenezer. We can’t just sell the rights to the story of our friend’s life,’ and I was like, ‘you have a point.’”
“I had a point,” said Bob.
Emily finally took a breath. “So? What do you think? Want to share the story of your life?”
The dry meat and cracker sat in Ebenezer’s mouth as he tried to process what the Cratchits were saying.
“If you’re worried about privacy, we can fictionalize some parts,” said Bob. “Make it set in England. Make it turn-of-the-century. Make you an investment banker, not a used-car-salesman. Make all the characters ducks, for heaven’s sake. Whatever you want. Doesn’t matter! It’s Hollywood! They can green-screen anything.”
Ebenezer rubbed his hands along the front of his stained trousers, then yelled for Tiny Tim. “Hey, kiddo! It’s sinking in. I need that Oxi stuff!”
“Right away!” said the boy from downstairs.
Bob kept right on talking. “Think of it, Ebenezer. A movie of your life. A theatrical masterpiece that will inspire goodness and peace throughout the world.”
Finally, Tiny Tim came into the kitchen. He set the bottle of stain remover on the counter and started singing a song about love and hope and generosity that no one had heard before. It was catchy and beautiful. Bob and Emily listened, then started singing along. Even Ebenezer joined in with his deep, gravelly voice, and although he was way off key, he managed to get some of the words right.
When they finished, everyone clapped, hugged and high-fived. It was a festive scene and Ebenezer felt like he was truly part of the family.
“That’s a lovely song, Tiny Tim,” said Bob. “Where’d you learn it?”
Tiny Tim beamed. “I composed it today. I call it ‘A Christmas Carol.’”
Emily winced. “’A Christmas Carol?’ Really? Great melody, but isn’t that name a bit, you know, generic? For a literal Christmas carol?”
“What else would it be, Mom?” said Tiny Tim. “A play? A novel? A movie?”
While the family discussed this and sang a little more, Ebenezer quietly took off his trousers, sprayed them with the OxiClean, laid them over a chair in front of the fire to dry, and sat on the couch in his briefs. “’A Christmas Carol,’” he muttered as he gazed at the flames, “‘Starring Harrison Ford as Ebenezer Scrooge.’ Maybe it does have legs.”
Katherine Fawcett is a Squamish-based author, playwright, teacher, musician and host of the Tap In Creativity Retreat for Writers. Her most recent books are The Swan Suit and The Little Washer of Sorrows.
Operation: Christmas
By David Song
"Partridge, this is Golden Ring. Come in, Partridge.”
“This is Partridge, I read you loud and clear.”
“Illusion projectors are up and running in all six relevant continents. We’ve had some minor glitches with frequency jammers on the Eastern Seaboard and are expecting a one-hour delay at this time. How copy?”
“Partridge acknowledges. Keep us posted, over.”
Blitzen paced around the gargantuan hangar he and his fellow reindeer called home, listening to radio chatter with interest. It was that time of year once again, and each hair on his broad back stood on end.
“Calling Bird, this is Partridge.”
“Go for Calling Bird.”
“Be advised, Golden Ring reports a one-hour delay with countermeasures on the United States East Coast. Recommend you hold your advance teams for the time being, over.”
“Calling Bird copies. Advance teams will hold until further notice. Over and out.”
Heck yeah, Blitzen thought to himself. Can’t wait to go to work.
“Yo, give it a rest!” Donner implored. “You haven’t sat down in, like, an hour.”
Blitzen grinned at his twin brother. “You know me. This stuff gets me hyped. I mean, we’re about to bring joy and happiness to billions of children around the world! What could possibly be better?”
“Yeah, but… you start buzzing like this every year,” said Donner. “After a couple centuries, one would think you might calm down just a tad.”
Comet looked up from her bowl of lichen. “But you never stop, do ya?”
“Can’t stop, won’t stop, baby!” Blitzen exclaimed. “What we do is a frickin’ privilege, and I ain’t never gonna lose sight of that!”
Once upon a time, Santa Claus had been an unheralded bringer of hope to humble agrarian families trying to survive the winter. That changed in the 19th century, when Americans decided they wanted Christmas to be a family holiday. Consumerism took off from there, forcing Santa and his crew to adjust accordingly.
The practice of all nine reindeer dragging one sleigh around the world to deliver gifts had become obsolete long ago. There were too many kids to reach, even for supernatural beings capable of manipulating physics. Nowadays, each reindeer pulled his or her own sleigh and led companies of elves who gave out presents over a defined geographical area.
Christmas as people knew it wouldn’t be possible without elves, who boasted all kinds of magic. For example, Golden Ring’s unit was responsible for establishing global countermeasures so that others wouldn’t be detected on their mission. Meanwhile, Calling Bird’s forerunners deployed 24 hours before the sleighs to gather intelligence.
Turtle Dove, French Hen, Drummer Boy, Leaping Lord… each elf commanded a different group with a different job. Managing it all from the Pear Tree—their control tower at the North Pole—was Partridge, a.k.a. Mrs. Claus.
The reindeer had specialties, too.
Dasher, Comet and Prancer were speedsters even by supernatural terms. Cupid, Vixen and Dancer could manifest wormholes—an exhausting technique, but one that allowed them to play catch-up in the event they or others fell behind schedule.
Blitzen and Donner stood three metres tall at the shoulder, with muscular bodies and antlers over four metres wide. Although slower than their siblings, they were also much more powerful.
They all deferred to Rudolph, who had been Santa Claus’ personal steed for years. Rudolph’s famous nose could outshine Midtown Manhattan if he cranked it up, and his navigation abilities were the stuff of legend. He got everyone where they needed to go, come storm or solar flare.
Blitzen hated that one Christmas carol, which dared to insinuate Rudolph had ever been bullied by the other reindeer. He was their leader, and they’d follow him to the ends of the Earth without a second thought.
—
The next day, Blitzen found himself hooked up to his familiar sleigh, Good King Wenceslas, as elves rushed about conducting final pre-flight checks. Of course, the term “sleigh” had become a colloquialism for the massive floating barges they now used. Good King Wenceslas and Donner’s sleigh, Merry Gentleman, were the largest ships in the fleet: red and green behemoths loaded with 3D-printed gifts.
Blitzen looked beside him, where Donner and Comet also prepared themselves for the task at hoof. “You guys ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Donner said.
Comet winked. “I’ll be back before 2 a.m. No way Dasher’s beating me again!”
“Keep dreaming, little sister!” Dasher replied from somewhere down the line.
“I’ll show him,” Comet muttered, screwing up her face.
Two figures entered the hangar from a side door: a heavy-set, white-bearded man dressed in unmistakable red garb, and a crimson-nosed reindeer dragging the Herald—an innocent-looking wooden sled.
Everyone quieted long before Santa Claus spoke, filling the space with his warm-yet-booming voice. “Well, good evening, everyone! How are we doing?”
Drummer Boy, the bespectacled elf responsible for overseeing cargo, responded. “We’re on schedule, sir! Sleighs are fully loaded and gift distribution crews are on board. Just waiting on the all clear!”
“Good, good.” Santa nodded, locking eyes with each of his reindeer in turn. “And how about you, my old friends? Ready to head once more into the fray?”
“Oo-rah!” Blitzen yelled amidst the cheers of his siblings.
Rudolph stepped forth. “Listen up, team. North America is not going to be an easy trip this year. We’ve got bomb cyclones pummelling both coasts and the human media’s calling them once-in-a-century storms. Blitzen, you take the Eastern Seaboard instead of Comet, and Donner, you’ll switch with Dasher to cover the West Coast.”
Blitzen and Donner nodded confidently. Storms, they could handle.
“As usual,” Rudolph continued, “Saint Nick and I are deploying immediately to be your pathfinders. Any questions?”
They all shook their heads.
Santa smiled so widely you could drive a sleigh through his mouth. “It is always my privilege to spread joy and goodwill with you. Stay safe, stay responsible, and let us make this another merry Christmas for all!”
The hangar doors slid open with a speed and soundlessness not befitting their size, as caution lights pulsed in rhythm with Rudolph’s nose. That revealed a foreboding landscape: seemingly endless ice sheets beneath a placid sky dotted with vast clouds that looked like ships from another planet.
Arctic air invaded the giant hangar, but the cold was of no concern to Blitzen and his family.
The next voice they heard came from the Pear Tree. “Saint Nick, this is Partridge. All departments are reporting green light. Waiting on you, love.”
Santa climbed onto the Herald, which—despite its humble appearance—was one of the most powerful objects in the North Pole. “Saint Nick copies. Wish us luck, my darling.”
He took the reins, and Rudolph tensed as he felt his yoke tighten. The Herald hummed, buzzing with invisible magic. Then it rocketed forth into the silent night at velocities that would have shamed any human aircraft.
The reindeer and elves looked up, watching Santa and Rudolph disappear into the ether. It wouldn’t be long until they broke free of the stratosphere and began relaying navigational data from on high. Then the other sleighs would launch in time-honoured fashion: Dasher first, then Dancer, then Prancer, and so on.
Blitzen’s mouth curled into an ecstatic grin. It was go time.
David Song is the sports and interim arts reporter for Pique Newsmagazine. When not at work, you can find him watching sports, playing video games, writing his own fiction, and volunteering at Whistler Community Church.
Escape the Beast
By Kate Heskett
Lauren picked at a glob of mashed potato glued to the top of her boot. It wasn’t how she’d imagined spending Xmas Eve, scrubbing wasted food from the plates of wasted people, but it was good money, and her colleague had been grateful for the night off. The free turkey dinner had definitely sweetened the deal, but if she was being honest, everybody Lauren loved was on the other side of the Pacific Ocean. The only plans she had involved sitting on the couch eating too many Walker’s shortbreads and watching About a Boy. All of which she could easily do when she got home. There’s no curfew on Xmas alone.
By the time dinner was done, and the kitchen was clean, Lauren’s feet ached and spatters of grease and gravy clung to her hair and clothes. She wondered briefly if she’d be troubled by any hungry wildlife on her way out. The raccoons in particular had been getting more brazen. No longer content to forage through the bins after closing, last week a family of three had rushed her from behind, knocking the compost bag out of her hands and dragging it into the forest. One turned and snarled at her, baring its teeth, before following the trail of scraps into the trees. When she’d complained about it to her boss the next day, he’d just laughed at her and rolled his eyes. “Nice try,” he’d said, “but you’re not getting out of garbage duty that easy.”
Lauren shivered, and zipped her ski jacket all the way up to her chin. The night was cold and crisp. Frozen water particles hung in the air, catching the light and burning her throat. Children climbed atop a mound of snow leftover from clearing the stroll, shrieking as they slid back down. Lovers stopped to take selfies in front of the frozen stream, festive lights covered every tree, and the whole thing was very pretty, like she’d walked onto the set of a Hallmark holiday movie. Lauren longed for a hot shower. “I bet I smell delicious,” she thought, as she turned off the stroll, checking over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t being followed by any furry masked bandits in search of their next meal. She didn’t see the tips of the forgotten skis that had slid out across the darkened path.
---
Lauren lands heavily on her belly, legs sprawling out behind her, left forearm protecting her face from the snow. Pain spasms grip her chest as she tries to gulp air.
“Damn, are you okay?”
Lauren groans as she pushes herself up to sitting. Just what she needs, a ski injury that didn’t even happen on the hill.
“Stupid place to leave your skis. Probably won’t even be able to find ‘em in the morning ‘ey? Then they’ll be all angry and shitposting and, ‘Where did all the good humans go?’ and, ‘Who steals skis at Xmas?’ Right?”
Lauren looks up and sees two small, black eyes peering out of a big, woolly head. She blinks a couple of times and tries to stand. Did she hit her head too?
“Sorry, shit, sorry. Let me help you.”
The creature extends a paw and yanks Lauren up into a broad-chested hug, smooshing her nose into matted fur that smells of earth, and damp, and something putrid that makes her nose crinkle.
“Shit, sorry, again,” it says, putting her back on her feet. “You’re not as heavy as you look.”
“Thanks? I think?”
“Sorry, I mean…”
Stepping back, the creature takes a deep breath.
“Hi, I’m Sam.”
“Sam?”
“Sasquatch Sam. Sasky for short. Some people think I’m from Saskatoon or something. Not enough fur for that. This here’s B.C. water resilient. Doesn’t have the downy underlay you need for the prairies. Do you know how cold it gets out there at night? Enough to freeze your—”
“Body parts, yes.” Lauren looks around. Is she the only one seeing this? A couple have stopped to take a selfie on the stroll. She waves, and they smile and wave back. They don’t seem alarmed?
“So Sam,” she says, deciding a no-nonsense approach is probably best, “What are you doing—”
“Rescuing clumsy damsels from themselves?”
She was going to say in the village.
“Sure.”
“Oh I like to help out where I can. The other magical folk are so busy, you know? With the toy-making, and the list-keeping and the around-the-world-in-one-night…ing.”
“Okay…”
“Like their job descriptions are real specific. And then here I am, like, lurking around, not like stalking or anything, just you know, adding a little mystery. Hiding behind trees, giving that feeling there might be something out there, watching you from the shadows.”
“Sounds creepy.”
“I know right? Like hey, let’s give away magical powers, and the reindeer get to fly, and the elves are like hella efficient, and Santa gets to literally bend time and space, and what do I get? Big but not that big, weird and a bit scary, but also furry and maybe cuddly? If you get to know me? But I only ever get one task. Don’t be seen. That’s it, just stay hidden. If they just got to know me…”
Lauren slowly brushes some snow from her jacket, noticing for the first time that her elbow is throbbing. She’ll have to wait until she gets home to really have a look at it. At least her jacket isn’t torn, though it wouldn’t be the first time. Duct tape might not cut it on an elbow.
“Excuse me? Hello?” Sam waves a paw in front of her face, “Are you even listening?”
It’s a good question. Summoning the last of her will power, Lauren turns her attention to the shaggy smelly animal-man standing between her and her bus home.
“You know what mate? You’re right. I’m not listening.”
Sam’s thin black lips curl up into a smile. “I was saying—”
“And I’m not going to.” Lauren claps her mitts together. “I’m out.”
She flips up her hood, steps over the wayward skis and walks away. Behind her the creature huffs and puffs, blowing steam out its nostrils, but she doesn’t look back. Just because it’s Xmas doesn’t mean she has to work service all day.
At home, freshly showered, with her pjs on and her feet up, a cup of tea and a fresh pack of shortbreads on her lap, Lauren inspects her elbow. It’s bruised, but it will heal. Maybe she will go snowboarding tomorrow.
A Christmas Story
By Valerie Megeney
Take her down, Rudolph!” Santa pressed the transmitting button on his walkie-talkie and altered his course toward a small island in the Pacific Ocean; his “Welcome to Mexico” T-shirt was flapping in the wind.
“Go for it!” he hollered cheerfully, anticipating the excitement. It would not be an easy manoeuvre, but Rudolph and his team had done it many times.
Once close to shore and in a hovering position, Santa and Rudolph took charge. Holding the reins as firmly as possible, Santa focused on the approaching wave and then, before it reached its optimum height, he positioned the sled runners on top of it.
“NOW!” he yelled. Seamlessly, 48 hooves lowered, caught the wave, and the reindeers surfed toward the beach, the sled following easily behind. For the benefit of the crowd gathered at the shore, Santa executed several elegant turns before the reindeer galloped across the white sand and came to a stop. The hooting and hollering drowned out the breaking of the surf. Santa, including the reindeers, took a bow.
“It’s great to be back,” he bellowed, and slapped Jose on his back while wiping his mouth to catch some of the butter drippings that were sliding down his beard and onto his T-shirt. “How long has it been since I first arrived?”
“Oh, I don’t know; seems like you’ve been visiting us forever. I was just a little boy digging for crabs when I heard you shouting, ‘Make Way! I am coming in for a landing!’” Jose grinned from ear to ear. “My father didn’t seem surprised to see you, but I was. First time I ever saw a red sled, never mind one falling out of the sky.”
“Yep, that was before you taught us how to surf!” Santa put the last piece of crab meat in his mouth. “And, I have been stopping here, at my favourite crab shack, ever since.”
“Well, I better get going, my friends. Two more countries before heading north to Alaska and then home to the North Pole. The weather forecast is not favourable. La Niña is not behaving as she should. A low-pressure system is pushing into the Canadian Western Seaboard; usually that means bad weather. I’m glad most of our work is done. He shook the sand off his red coat and put it back on. “Gonna be cold up there.” He led the reindeer back to the sled, harnessed them carefully, and with a, “see you later, Alligator,” he lifted off.
His deliveries done, he set the course to Alaska. And not soon enough—a huge storm was gathering below him, and it took all his concentration to keep the reindeer in line. “I am beginning to wonder if Rudolph’s light will be bright enough to get me through this mess,” Santa thought to himself. He checked his GPS and realized he was near the Vancouver Airport.
What’s going on? Usually, the airport and the runways are lit up like a Christmas tree! He switched on his walkie-talkie and connected to the airport traffic control tower.
“Hey guys, what’s the problem?”
“Hey Santa. A massive city-wide electric power failure has put Vancouver and its surrounding areas into total darkness; that’s the problem. We have zero visibility. On top of that, we are having difficulties with our back-up generators. So far, ground crews are struggling to keep up with the falling snow. We have been able to keep one runway open, but I don’t know for how long. I still have one airplane up there.
“The pilot is requesting to land… I am confident he can do it with the automatic pilot, but there is no way, once he must change to manual flight, he can find the runway. There are no lights! Wait a minute, I put you on hold.”
“Air Canada 2156 to traffic control. Can you hear me?”
“Go ahead, Steffen.” Santa pressed the walkie-talkie to his ear.
“Not only are we stuck up here, but we are low on fuel. The situation is getting dire. The plane is filled with passengers trying to make it home for Christmas. How are the conditions at the airport? Do you have a runway for me?”
“Even though we have one runway open, the lights are not working. We are still dealing with the back-up generators; hopefully it gets solved soon. Give me a few more minutes. I suggest you inform your cabin crew and prepare your passengers for a rough landing. We have your position on our radar, and I will let you know when you can proceed.”
“Affirmative! Over and out.”
That was all Santa had to hear—he knew he had to act fast.
“Rudolph! Do you copy me?” he yelled into his walk-in-talkie. “We are changing our route; these are the new coordinates. We are heading to the ‘Man in the Moon’ to pick up some extra lighting. Put your nose on bright and lead the way!”
Watching the clouds rolling in, Santa switched his transmitter to another channel.
“Hey Buddy! It’s Santa! Roll up the carpet! I’m coming up!” He felt better after the bulky tarp was stored in the back of his sled.
“OK, Rudolph, how is your team holding up? Ready to head down to the airport? We have a plane to bring down.” Snow and wind were twirling around him, as he struggled to see ahead.
“We are waiting for permission to land. Please follow the instructions of the cabin crew as they prepare the cabin. Due to the high winds, we are expecting a turbulent landing. Please make sure you are well-secured and follow the crew’s instructions as they arise.”
The flight captain had advised his crew of the impending decision, and for now he and his co-pilot were sitting tight.
When a light on the control panel started to flash, Steffen and Robert looked at each other, full of encouragement; it was from the flight control tower.
“Hold your position for the moment. We have a small, moving object on our radar. It is directly in your flight path. Wait, I see it now,” the voice halted. “Well, who would believe this!? It’s Santa’s sled! Rudolph’s team is guiding it above the open landing strip, while the old man himself is unfurling a star-spangled tarp. He is dropping it down!”
Harry swallowed for a second time. “Hey, it’s the Milky Way!”
“I have a visual,” confirmed Steffen from the cockpit to the tower. “We are on our descent, and we should be on the ground in a few minutes.
“Come on down! You should have an easy landing,” was the response.
Santa and the reindeer heard the thundering applause through the intercom. He disengaged his walkie-talkie and set course for the North Pole.
To this day, boys and girls onboard flight Air Canada 2156 swear they saw Santa and his reindeer on their descent to the airport.
Ho, ho, ho, and a Merry Christmas to you all!
