A Christmas story

My youngest son, fiveyear old Nash, told me this morning over a cereal bowl that he'd like to put out a plate of cookies and milk for Santa Claus, tonight.

I'm stunned, of course. It's almost 80 degrees at 8 a.m. and summer is a cumin' in, as some anonymous medieval lyricist put it, a guy who probably never heard of St. Nick.

Across the table, fresh in from feeding the geese and ducks and chickens and dogs and cats, but not the horse or donkey, 11-year-old D.P. assumed the veteran expression of a skeptic who knows. "Nash," he said, frowning slightly…well, you know what he was going to say. I figured the con was up. The Truth was about to rear its uncompromising head yet once again in the delicately constructed and frequently beautiful world of a child's understanding.

But suddenly D.P. paused and looked at me - he has, sometimes, that quick genius only a few children can show for understanding others - and I looked at him. And in the space of that millisecond, each of us looked at Nash's question a different way.

Why the hell shouldn't Santa Clause show up, maybe on a scouting expedition, say on Monday night, June 4, 2007, sometime after dark? Maybe Santa practices long-range reconnaissance, and if he does, he sure as hell isn't going to tell us, right? And just because Alva, Florida is 4,000 miles South of the North Pole…well, you know what I'm saying.

Right, we agreed silently, each of us turning our heads back to Nash.

No reason Santa shouldn't appear at all, we both told the little boy. I went first in telling him, because I'm the supposed authority in these matters and all others: I'm Big Dad, the adult, the guy who has to perpetuate the myths and tell the big fat…well, you know. D.P. listened carefully, then added his own confirmation, while his brother stared at him with solemn eyes and whole-hearted devotion.

So why not a Summer Santa?

Certainly not because customs and stories anchored so firmly to a religious date would hold him back. After all, everything else about the story has changed a thousand times, depending not only on culture, custom, historic moment, but even on the household. Christmas in one house is never Christmas in another house.

And I'm here to tell you, Christmas in our house is about to get radically different tonight.

"Dad, is Santa looking at me right now? Does he know what I'm doing?" Nash asked, just as all these thoughts were gathering roughly in my mind to form a notion about as solid and clear as the Picayune Strand in September.

"Yes," I said, "he does."

And that confirmed it. We're putting out cookies and milk tonight, and we'll see what happens. I want to point out that never once during the course of that conversation, or at any time during this June day when the light has seemed to stretch out like a long filament of gold beat to an airy thinness, has Nash asked about presents - about what he might get if Santa arrives tonight. He's simply never thought of it. He wants to put out cookies for the guy. Sure, he might get to eat a couple - what are you, Reader, a cynic?

Now, there's no telling why my little boy popped this question. Nothing has been said about Christmas lately. No references in books we've read - well, I take that back. About a week ago we found "Cajun Night Before Christmas," by somebody called "Trosclair," and read it. But it couldn't be that, could it? The thing is just too weird for a whitebread from the West, like me, or for Nash - at least I think it is. It has lines like this, for God's sake: "Den Mama in de fireplace Done roas up de ham Stir up de Gumbo And make bake de yam" And later, when St. Nick had managed to work his way down the chimney, it goes on: "His eyes how dey shine His dimple how merry! Maybe he been drink De wine from blackberry. His cheek was like rose His nose like a cherry On second t'ought maybe He lap up de sherry."

Well, I figure if that old dude can lap up the sherry, I can have Christmas in - not July, which we've heard about - but June. And maybe I'll lap up some sherry too, and figure out what to do with this hand I've been dealt. Maybe a whole new thing: the recon Santa shows up to check out the terrain, of the heart and soul, of course, and he finds cookies, and…and…I know, he leaves a note. And the note says something like this:

DEAR NASH, I AM VERY GRATEFUL FOR THE COOKIES - I HOPE YOU HAD SOME, TOO. I AM LOOKING TO SEE HOW THE CHILDREN IN FLORIDA ARE BEHAVING, AND WHAT PRESENTS I MIGHT BRING THEM WHEN CHRISTMAS COMES NEXT WINTER. ONE WAY I CAN TELL IS BY WATCHING TO SEE IF THEY DO THREE THINGS:

This is the tough part, because I have no idea what those three things should be.

But somehow, I have the feeling that when I start the tradition tonight, there won't be any taking it back for a few generations in my family. So what should Santa ask of a kid in June?

In this regard, at least, I ought to avoid hypocrisy or myth-making or undue demands: Never ask someone else to do what you won't do first, right?

So what's it going to be, from Santa to Nash? It'll have "I love you," on the end, I can tell you that for sure. Before I decide, I think I'll go kiss my wife. Then call my mother in Colorado and tell her I love her and I want her down here right quick. And then maybe figure out a way to hook up my two youngest boys with my oldest, downtown.

Yep, I'll figure out the rest, later. Christmas in June, man.