Bells and Boughs

My town has a Santa Clause. Not literally, obviously. Some might call him an angel or something.

I like to think of him as Santa, though, and so does my town. After all, he's just a man, but he does a massive amount of good, and that's the original story of Santa. Someone who gave to those in need.

It helps that he does a lot of his giving in December.

Not many people know who he is, though there's been a lot of suspects. The Johnson's daughter made a lot of money building an app in high school, but she moved at 18 to go to college in the city. Besides, he was around when she was a kid. Then there's old mister McGovern. He's sure rich enough, but he's pretty grumpy, so most just dismiss him as Scrooge rather than Santa. Then there's Patrick Mason. He's who most people assume it is. He is pretty well off and down to earth. At least, that's what people seem to think. I don't know the guy that well, to be honest.

Some are positive it has to be several people. Others argue no group of people would be able to keep their identities secret to play Santa for years and years. It is a small town. Secrets and privacy are a foreign concept in this place. All the same, good things happen to people who need it in our town. Foster kids always get presents. Some people's water debt will be mysteriously paid off. One year, one student missed lunch because their mom was out of work and couldn't prepay for their lunch. Two weeks later, all the lunches for the entire school were paid up for the whole entire year!

So here's where I come in. I was always a super curious kid. I graduated summa cum laude with a journalism degree. I've always loved investigating things, and despite graduating with honors, I didn't do well at a major paper. More accurately, I didn't do well in a big city. I tried New York and then Boston, two places that had always been my 'dream' places to live. Being there on my own, out of school, was an entirely different experience, though. I couldn't seem to relax, and I got homesick. Interning may have been part of it too. Finally, giving in, I came back and got a job at our tiny paper. I know I'll "move up" to a bigger one eventually. After all, I live an hour outside of Portland. I can find something when I'm feeling more confident in myself. Anyway, despite not thriving in a big city, I really missed investigative Journalism when December rolled around. People started talking about "Santa" again. I remembered people doing the same when I was younger, but after I stopped believing, I just kind of chalked it up to parents pandering to the little ones. When my mom mentioned something at breakfast, and my dad chuckled, I could no longer ignore it, though.

"Why do you guys act like Santa is real even though I'm past grown out of that phase?"

They kind of looked at each other in shock.

"You don't remember someone helping out with Ms. Gertie's water bill when you were little? Or Spot turning up tied to the porch?"

Ms. Gertie was our elderly neighbor when I was a kid. One day her estranged daughter just came and picked her up. I guess I never really questioned that as a kid. I kicked myself mentally—some investigative journalist.

Then there was Spot. He was my dog who ran away. One day I woke up to my mom calling for me only to find him tied to the porch with a "Love Santa," note attached to his collar. I kind of figured my parents were behind the letter. Apparently not.

After that, I started researching. Pretty much the whole town's land is rented and owned by a variety of subsidiaries. Could 'Santa' own the town? Was that how he knew what was going on with everyone's bills? If he was a do-gooder who owned the property, though, wouldn't he just lower or eliminate rent? Every time I tried to track down an actual owner, the trail would eventually go cold. Finally, I tried talking to people benefitting from Santa. Who knew they were in trouble? There were no commonalities. It was frustrating as h-e-double hockey sticks.

There had to be something that tied them together. Then I found it. FaceSpace, everyone that I could find had one. That had to be the link, right? Well, the only problem was a lot of the things people were helped with were very private.

I got into the rideshare car I ordered to take me back home from the library. Sighing, I looked out the window.

"Hey. You ok?" The driver was eyeing me in the rearview mirror.

"Oh! Me? Yeah...." I said and sighed again.

"Just working on something that's stumping me."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I'm an investigative journalist. Or I'm supposed to be. You know the town's Santa Clause?"

She paused. "You mean the guy at the outlet mall?"

I laughed. "No." I looked at her.

"Well, if you haven't been in town for longer than a few years, you might not know. There's this... guy... or woman... or maybe people? Anyway, they do wonderful things, and I don't know I've been feeling lost, so I figured I might find them and help or something."

"Hmmm... how would you help?" Her shrewd eyes met mine again, and I looked away.

I sighed. "I don't know. Maybe give them recognition or offset the costs. Like, help them set up a fund so that people can donate or something."

"I mean, the problems they help out are obviously rooted in capitalism, and that sucks, but they're also the issues of people within the town. I think a lot of people would donate or fundraise if they knew who to donate to, and I also want to thank them."

"Thank them?" Yeah, I laughed and sat back.

"Santa brought back my dog when I was a kid after she slipped out of the fence."

We arrived at my house, so I got out, thanked the driver, and on my way inside, I gave her my customary 20% tip. She waved before driving away.

Two weeks later, I received a letter in the mail. All it said was

"Don't tell anyone."

At the bottom of the page was a link to a website called

www.thelittleblackbook.com

I typed the link into my browser, praying it wasn't some kind of phishing scam. Up popped a website with a funding goal at the top. Below was a blog.

"Many of you know of me. Few of you know who I am. I want to keep it that way. I love doing nice things for other souls, but expectations and judgments would be placed upon me if people knew who I was. I was very fortunate to come into more money than I knew what to do with, and that's all I'll say on it. So I decided to practice my own charity. Unfortunately, with all the years I've been doing this, the coffers are getting low, which is part of the reason I've started this website. I recently met someone that thinks some of you would like to help the cause and keep the magic going. I ask that you please not try to find out who I am. Within this web page, there's a request link to nominate people for help. If you can, donate to help more people as the requests and nominations begin to roll in.

For those of you wondering about this site, everyone who's name I help is logged into a little black book. It's my list.

Here's to keeping the Christmas spirit all year round,

The Small Town Santa Claus"

I stared at the screen and laughed. I had met Santa. Santa was a woman, or at least one of them was, if it was a group. It was so obvious now. Even I fell for her 'trap.' People often think nothing of talking to and in front of strangers and service workers. It's like spilling your life story to the bar back. This just gave her a wider selection pool. There have been literal studies on the phenomenon.

Not wanting to be naive, I sent in a few nominations under assumed names from three different IP addresses. One was a foster kid from one of my mom's high school classes. He received new shoes. Another was a local feral cat colony that was getting out of hand. The adults were trapped, neutered, and released. The younger ones and ones that were friendly enough were adopted to homes. The third was the local community art program, which got an influx of much-needed supplies. After all three were successfully fulfilled, I began a monthly donation.

I ended up doing a puff piece on the site instead of the exposé I'd planned. My curiosity had been assuaged, and I saw no reason to go against her or their wishes. Putting a face in my mind was just satisfying enough to not need the whole mystery backstory. So, dear Diary, you're the only one who knows the entire story, and that's the way I'll keep it. Maybe someday I'll read this to my kids when they get old enough to stop believing.

Just to remind them Santa is real. It's an idea that lives inside us, pushing us to give and think of others. Some people just have more of the spirit than others.