Book Trailer For Madam President

Wednesday, October 22, 2014

Chapter Six of Real Santa (A chapter a day until Christmas)

 
                                Santa’s Relativity Cloud
GEORGE CLIMBED THE stairs to his daughter’s room and stood

outside, listening to her hum Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer. He felt

the day lift from his shoulders again. Just the sound of Megan’s voice

had the power to cure ills, aches, and pains.

“Hi, Daddy!”

“Hey there, pumpkin.”

She was in her bed behind a fortress of stuffed animals. He walked

over and hugged her, breathing in the faint scent of soap and feeling

her wet hair. “How was your day, Daddy?”

“Oh, fair to middling,” he replied, sitting on the bed and looking

around her room. There was a Hannah Montana poster along with

several posters of Cinderella, one of puppies, and an old Gone with

the Wind poster he had rescued from a video store. There was also

a bulletin board of softball pictures, Girl Scouts pictures, drawings

from school, and a pair of tickets from Wrigley Field when they saw

the Cubs last summer.

“I heard you lost your job,” she whispered, setting down her DSi.

George stared at his daughter, with her spreading blond hair.

Megan had Janis Joplin hair. Where did such a thicket come from?

No one on his side had the wild curly hair of his daughter and her

saucer-size brown eyes.

“Really? How did you know?”

“I heard Mom on the phone. Don’t worry, you’ll get another one,

Dad. You always do.”

“I’m not worried, pumpkin.”

“I’m not either, Daddy,” she continued, putting down her DSi and

picking up a book.

“What are you reading?”
“Ramona Feeds Her Puppy.”

“Hmm, is it good?”

“I just started.”

George nodded, staring outside at the snow piled up on her windows.

Farther on he could see the large double chimney of the old

house. The fireplace hearth was so large, a man could climb into it.

“So I heard you were playing with Jackie today.”

“Uh huh.”

George stroked his beard and shifted on the bed.

“I heard you gave your mother a letter.”

Megan put down her book and stared at her father.

“She wasn’t supposed to show you that.”

“Why not?”
“Because it was private.

“Oh.” George shrugged. “I think questioning the existence of Santa

Claus is something you need two parents involved in.”

Megan put down her book and sat up next to a large stuffed

giraffe. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I just don’t see the data to support Santa

Claus.”

“Just because Jackie says there isn’t a Santa Claus doesn’t mean

it is so, Megan.”

She shook her head. “It’s not Jackie. I frankly don’t see how parents

could afford all those presents.”

“Exactly!”

Her brow furrowed. “But I have done research on the Web, and I

know all about the history of Santa Claus. How he started as a Dutch

legend of Sinterklaas, which was brought by settlers to New York in

the seventeenth century.”

“Okay.”

“And how he started to appear in the American press as St. Claus,

but it was really the popular author Washington Irving who gave

Americans information about the Dutch version of St. Nicholas and
 
then the more Americanized version appeared around 1823 in the
poem ’Twas the Night Before Christmas by writer Clement Moore,

which included details about elves and the names of his reindeer and

the method of going down the chimney and all that.”

George stared at his daughter. “You really did your research.”

“And, it was the American illustrator Thomas Nast who gave
us a fat Santa Claus when he drew his picture in Harper’s and the

whole thing of good children and bad children came about and the

workshop at the North Pole, which as Mrs. Worthington points out

is a very hostile environment.”

“Let’s hear it for Mrs. Worthington,”George murmured.

“But it was really the Coca-Cola Company in the 1930s that gave

us the red-suited Santa we know today.”

“That is quite a history.”

Megan frowned and scrunched up her brow. “Yes, but really,

Daddy, I just don’t see the proof. I have gone all over the Internet

looking for actual footage of Santa landing on the roof with his sled,

climbing up to the chimney.” Megan gestured out to the darkness.

“Going down the chimney and delivering the gifts, then going back

up the chimney, getting into his sled, and then flying off into the sky.”

George squinted at his daughter.

“There is no YouTube video of that, huh?” he asked.
“No. Just some guy in his backyard going HO HO HO. It was really

pathetic.” Megan formed a small fist. “I want empirical evidence, Dad.

And to be honest, I really just don’t see how the physics makes sense.”

“You don’t, huh?”

“No. Reindeer, Daddy, cannot fly.”

George nodded slowly. “Hmm … well I see how you arrived at

your hypothesis, but I must point out there are three hundred thousand

species of living organisms we have yet to discover, and we can’t

rule out the existence of flying reindeer.”

Megan scrunched up her mouth, her eyes narrowing. “Then how

can he get to all the children of the world?”

“Speed of sound,” he replied, shrugging. “There are probably two

billion children, and that gives him thirty-one hours.” George pulled

out his BlackBerry. “So maybe … mmm, 822.6 visits per second,

maybe a total trip of 75,500,00 miles around the world, 650 miles
per second, speed of light. It’s doable.”

“What about payload? How can he carry all those toys?”

George punched the calculator on his phone.

“Well, let’s give it two pounds for each kid, two billion kids, then

the sled is carrying three hundred tons of cargo, not including Santa.

Yes, it’s doable.”

“Daddy!”

“What?”

“We are talking here about a man in a sled!”

George put away his phone.
“Megan, Santa is magic, and he does exist. You just have to believe

it.”

“Then how does he know what I’m thinking?”

“Elaborate underground antenna collects electromagnetic waves

from the thought waves of children.”

“Uh huh … what about the elves? What proof is there of that?”

George leaned over. “You know those tiny screws in your DS

there?”

“Yes.”

“You know that tiny Phillips head screwdriver we have to use to

get them out?”

“Yes”

“Well, that’s an elf screwdriver.”

Megan squinted at him. “I think you are fibbing.”

George crossed his chest. “It’s true.”

“How can he make it to every house, and why don’t I ever see

him?”

“Relativity cloud. That allows him to control space, time, and

distance. The relativity cloud moves so fast, you can’t see him—a lot

like the way a bee buzzes by.”

Megan pointed out the window. “And the chimney?”

“Same relativity cloud. He can shrink and expand the cloud.”

“What about finding his way?”

“GPS,” he answered.

Megan sat back and stared at her father, one eyebrow raised.

“Really? I need hard evidence, Daddy,” she stated flatly. “That is why

I am going to stay up with a video camera if you guys let me use ours,
 
per second, speed of light. It’s doable.”

“What about payload? How can he carry all those toys?”

George punched the calculator on his phone.

“Well, let’s give it two pounds for each kid, two billion kids, then

the sled is carrying three hundred tons of cargo, not including Santa.

Yes, it’s doable.”

“Daddy!”

“What?”

“We are talking here about a man in a sled!”

George put away his phone.
“Megan, Santa is magic, and he does exist. You just have to believe

it.”

“Then how does he know what I’m thinking?”

“Elaborate underground antenna collects electromagnetic waves

from the thought waves of children.”

“Uh huh … what about the elves? What proof is there of that?”

George leaned over. “You know those tiny screws in your DS

there?”

“Yes.”

“You know that tiny Phillips head screwdriver we have to use to

get them out?”

“Yes”

“Well, that’s an elf screwdriver.”

Megan squinted at him. “I think you are fibbing.”

George crossed his chest. “It’s true.”

“How can he make it to every house, and why don’t I ever see

him?”

“Relativity cloud. That allows him to control space, time, and

distance. The relativity cloud moves so fast, you can’t see him—a lot

like the way a bee buzzes by.”

Megan pointed out the window. “And the chimney?”

“Same relativity cloud. He can shrink and expand the cloud.”

“What about finding his way?”

“GPS,” he answered.

Megan sat back and stared at her father, one eyebrow raised.

“Really? I need hard evidence, Daddy,” she stated flatly. “That is why

I am going to stay up with a video camera if you guys let me use ours,
ney. “How many reindeer are there?’’

“Daddy, there’s nine including Rudolf—Dasher, Dancer, Prancer,

Vixen, Comet, Cupid, Donner, and Blitzen.”

“Nine,” he muttered staring at the roof. “And do you know how

much a reindeer weighs?”

“Between two hundred and six hundred pounds.”

“Hmmmm.”

George picked at his beard as he took out his phone and did

some quick calculations.

“What are you doing, Daddy?”

“Hmm … nothing.”

He turned around and smiled. “I think you have a good plan.”

Megan’s eyebrows went up. “You do?”

“Yes. And you can use our video camera.”

Megan threw her hands up.

“Thank you, Daddy!”

He walked over and gave her a kiss.

“Now, let’s get some sleep, little girl.”

“Alright.”

George turned out her light and walked toward the door.

“Daddy?”

“Yes, pumpkin.”

She had snuggled down among her animals, her hair fanning

out over the pillow.

“I hope I’m wrong. I hope Santa Claus comes.”

“Trust me. You are wrong. And Santa Claus will come. Now get

some sleep, precious.”

“Good night, Daddy.”

George slowly walked down the stairs, grappling his beard. He

paused at the bottom then went to get his laptop.

Real Santa

 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Books by William Hazelgrove