Yes, Virginia, There Is a Sanity Clause

It has been many moons - one of them blue, even - since my last entry, and as I have had requests (two = plural) to provide an update, I feel I would be remiss in not obliging such faithful readers. Additionally, there is shockingly good news to share for once, and no it does not involve a stork.

Our lawsuit has been settled.

This unexpected resolution reminds me of one of my all time favorite childhood stories, which in my usual storytelling style will be too long but will have a point, I promise.

The Christmas Miracle of 1977

When I was about 6 or 7 years old, we were not a family of means (to say the least). We were living in a trailer park next to a cornfield and my parents struggled to make ends meet. As is typical of children who are keenly aware of their lot in life, I kept my wish list to Santa short and pretty attainable (besides my annual pony request): I asked simply for a sled. Specifically, the Flexible Flyer. You know, the wooden kind with the shiny red metal runners that you could steer - and knew it would be perfect on the hill nearby. I could already feel the wind on my face as I raced by the other kids on their broken plastic discs.

That Christmas, I got a horrible flu virus that had me in and out of consciousness for much of my holiday from school. As a result, my parents kept me mostly on the couch, where they could monitor me. And so it came to pass that sometime after midnight on Christmas Eve, I woke up to find my parents putting presents under the tree and learned that Santa wasn't really real. Although disappointed in the death of a little bit of life's magic, I can't say I was all that shocked by this discovery. But when my mother heard me stir and started to turn her head, I quickly shut my eyes and pretended I was asleep. It's funny to think about, but I didn't want to disappoint them or take away the fun they were having by telling them the jig was up.

Anyway, the next morning we opened the presents, which were largely clothes and a few games, but no sled. Then, there was a knock on the door and a delivery truck in the street. Two gentlemen were there to make a special delivery for Little Miss Me. They opened the truck doors and pulled out a ramp and rolled out a beautiful brand new piano with a big red bow on it that read Merry Christmas on the trailing ribbon. And attached to the music stand of the piano was a shiny gold plate indicating how this piano had been made just for me with my name in beautiful cursive engraving.

A piano of my own! A golden name plate!! What an incredible luxury! My parents stood smiling and said that every child should have music in their lives. For one of the few times in my chatterbox life, I was stunned into silent gratitude and awe, understanding fully the sacrifice they had made, and filled with love for their intense desire to make sure I had opportunities they had not had.

Yet in my little selfish only-child heart, I was also disappointed to find no sled under the tree or behind the doors of that truck. It was a fleeting thought, the inevitable disappointment of a six year old who wanted only a simple toy. I scolded my inner ingrate and went and ran my fingers over the keys of my new piano.

Late that afternoon - right at twilight - I went out on the front porch on my way over to play with new Christmas toys at my friend's house across the street. And that's when I saw it: the sled of my desire. There was no bow on it, no nametag, no nothing. Just a brand new, shiny red metal and wooden Flexible Flyer, leaning against the wall where nothing had been that morning. I looked around but nobody was there - there was not even a trace of footprints in the little scattering of snow on the porch. I ran inside and hugged my parents and bubbled over with my gratitude for the sled AND the piano. My parents, however, looked at each other quizzically. My mother told my father he shouldn't have and he said that he didn't. This went around for a few times, and then there was some concern that perhaps the sled was meant for someone else. But then my mother said that Santa must have left it, and so it must have been, for no one ever confessed to its delivery and my parents insist to this day that it was neither of them (and they're bad liars, so I would know.) In my rational mind, I know it was probably a neighbor who knew both what I wanted and what my parents were getting me - perhaps it was the woman across the street from whom I ended up taking piano lessons, who had no children of her own. But I like to think that it was Santa, who fulfilled my secret wish even after I'd written him off and no longer believed in him.


Pulling that signed agreement from the mailbox was just like finding that sled on the porch, after all hope was gone and I was ready to face the cold truth that no, Virginia, there is no Santy Claus. Here is the thing I wanted desperately but didn't believe was possible to get, miraculously sitting in my hands after I'd long since given up: peace, justice, closure. I think of settlements as a sort of legal peace offering like the one we all give each other at the end of mass - a wish for peace and goodwill, closure and a new start all in a handshake, but I am obviously overly emotional and nostalgic. Still, this is a surprisingly sane and kind ending for this tale of madness (this chapter of the tale, anyway). I feel more at peace as a result of this and honestly hope our former contractor does, too.

So here's a belated but heartfelt toast to 2010 and a new decade... and peace be with you!