Experience the Magic of Christmas All Year Round
🎄He said he was scouting rooftops. What he really found was a new motivational tool for the elf break room… There’s a certain kind of zappy energy that creeps into the air this time of year—not the peppermint-sparkle kind, but the “we-have-fourteen-lists-and-three-hours” kind. And while
A blog by Mrs. Claus – Life With Santa Oh my darlings, my dears… I must begin today with a heartfelt confession. I made a promise—one I truly meant—to sit down every day in November and write to you. But here we are, December 2nd,
Some North Pole stories are quick to tell, and others… well, they need a little time and a bit of distance (and perhaps a fresh set of linens!) before you can truly appreciate their comic genius. If you wondered why my last note sounded like it was written from beneath a stack of woolen blankets, without my usual spark—let’s just say, there are days here so outlandish, even I have to catch my breath before putting pen to paper.
The truth is, the North Pole is a place of constant delight—but every now and then, it takes a few days (and a very good bath 🛁) before you can see the funny side of things. Sometimes you don’t just need to dust yourself off… you need to sweep the whole cottage!
But, as promised, I’m ready to tell you everything. And it all began—as these things so often do around here—with a very enthusiastic elf, a perfectly innocent kitchen, and a goat with a knack for mischief.
Here’s something you might not know, dear ones: not every tradition associated with the North Pole is as jolly as ribbon candy and mistletoe. Back in the early 1920s—1922, to be precise—a certain assistant supervisor in the IT Team, a fellow named Roger, had what he considered a stroke of genius.
Roger, who has a heart as big as the day is long but a stubborn streak even longer, raised a houseful of children (and, as he’ll proudly tell you, survived the “teener” years more than once). He believed, and still does, that a little coal in the stocking is good for a child’s moral compass. If not every year, then at least often enough to remind the “teeners” that Christmas is more about heart than attitude.
Santa, you will not be surprised, was never convinced.
But every ten years, as predictably as the Northern Lights 🌌, Roger dusts off his “Great Coal Initiative.” He dresses the coal up—sometimes in tissue, sometimes in tinsel, always with the hope that this year, maybe, he’ll get Santa on board. It’s harmless, mostly. Or so we thought.
Now, about the barnyard. If you stroll through our little North Pole village, you’ll notice something that’s all but disappeared in the outside world: every cottage still has its own small barn, nestled in the snow like a sleeping animal. It reminds me of the old villages from a century ago, where each family kept a milk cow, a few hens, perhaps a goat or two, and a carriage horse behind the house. Of course, once the automobile and the corner store took over, most barns in the real world faded away, their doors left to creak in the wind.
But here, our barns are as lively as ever. We have no automobiles, only sleighs and the occasional sled pulled by Jingles and Bell (who, truth be told, have strong opinions about goats that I’ll save for another day 🐐).
Our own barn is nearest the cottage, trimmed each winter with pine garland—sometimes more for my own delight than for any practical purpose. I know perfectly well the goats will eat it before the snow has time to settle, but it’s a tradition I can’t let go.
Which brings me to Octavia. Roger’s long-suffering, quick-witted wife, who keeps her home with the sort of pride you rarely see anymore. Her kitchen floor would shine like a skating pond after a fresh coat of wax. She does it the old-fashioned way: mop, let it dry, then wax, wait again—just as her mother did. None of these modern “one-and-done” products for Octavia; she wants her reflection smiling back from her linoleum.
So, on this particular morning, with the light glinting off her newly polished floor, Octavia noticed two beautifully wrapped confetti poppers left on the kitchen table. Roger often brings home prototypes from the IT Team, sometimes for her opinion, sometimes simply because he forgot to take them out of the pocket of his work apron before leaving work.
These poppers were different—North Pole paper, gold ribbons, bows as neat as any Christmas parcel. One had the usual pull-string, about six inches long. The other… well, the string was so long it could have doubled as a jump rope for a sleigh of reindeer. She wondered if Roger had finished it, or if perhaps he wanted her opinion about the extra long string. She picked up the finished one, just to admire his handiwork.
Let it be known: Octavia is proud of her husband. She’ll defend him to anyone, especially when the village gossips toss around words like “curmudgeon.” But pride, as every wife knows, has its limits.
She gave the string a gentle tug—just enough to see how well the popper was sealed.
That was her mistake.
What happened next could only be described as biblical in scale, if the Bible had ever mentioned coal dust. The popper burst open, and an ocean of the finest, most diabolically airborne soot you can imagine exploded into her kitchen.
Her freshly-waxed floor, the cabinets, the clock, the cat’s dish, every last surface (including Octavia herself) turned instantly, utterly black. She stood there, frozen, until the dust settled. And then, all at once, it came back to her: this was the year. It has somehow managed to slip past her. Roger was at it again with his “initiative.”
When she could finally move, Octavia scooped up the second popper (now sporting its own layer of soot), opening the door from her soot covered kitchen to her polished entry porche, pulled on her coat—how she found the presence of mind, I’ll never know—and marched straight out the door. No tears, not a sound, just a look in her eyes that said Roger might be safer taking up residence in the reindeer barn for the rest of winter.
Meanwhile, I’d been having the sort of peaceful morning that should have been a warning in itself. After getting a cauliflower rice casserole ready for dinner, I’d left Jingles and Bell snoring by the cookstove and stepped out to wrap the paddock fence with fresh pine garland. The snow was sparkling, the goats were watching me with their usual blend of curiosity and mischief, and for a brief moment, all felt well in the world.
I was just fastening the last bit of garland to the barnyard fence, when I saw something… odd.
A shape—black from head to boots, trailing a cloud of soot, a clean coat worn like an accusation—came marching up the path.
There are moments in life when you know, instantly, what has happened without anyone saying a word. This was one of those moments.
“Merrybelle!” Octavia called out, her voice muffled but unmistakable.
I turned, and when I saw her face close up—oh, darlings, I admit, I nearly laughed on the spot, but I held it together for her sake.
She thrust the surviving popper at me, her hands blackened, her spirit battered.
“He’s at it again,” she said, and there was no need for further explanation.
I gathered her in, careful not to touch the offending object, and led her to the porch. “Come inside, we’ll have a cup of tea. You can tell me everything, and we’ll get Santa to nip this in the bud before the whole village is dusted.”
Entering the porch, Octavia hesitated, staring at my clean kitchen through the window. I reassured her—no mess is too great for my table, and besides, she was in need of comfort more than cleanliness.
I was just letting go of the porch door dehind me, as Santa opened the kitchen door to the porch to greet us—he was astonished at the sight of Octavia, to say the least—when the real mischief occurred.
Unbeknownst to any of us, that extra-long string on the second popper had looped around the pine garland outside. And if there’s one thing you can count on at the North Pole, it’s that a goat cannot resist a string.
Vinnie, the undisputed king of the barnyard (and eater of all things festive), took it upon himself to test the limits of Roger’s invention. He tugged, as only a goat can.
There was a sound, a puff, from Octavia’s hand and suddenly the world was black again.
Coal dust—inside, outside, on every surface, every pie plate, every Saint Bernard, and especially on me, on Santa, and again, on poor Octavia.
Now, let me set the record straight: Santa was not amused. Not at first.
It took quite some time for him to collect himself, and for a good half-hour, I truly wondered if Roger was about to be reassigned as the first official South Pole Elf. After all, it’s not every day you find your cottage, your Saint Bernards, and even your own whiskers dusted in a fine layer of North Pole’s best coal soot.
But once he’d finished helping me scrub every surface in sight—and wrangled the Saints into the wash tub (an experience they will not soon forget, nor will I)—Santa finally allowed himself a moment to vent. He paced, he muttered, he very nearly composed an official edict banning all future poppers from the pole.
Then, at last, standing amid the sparkling clean chaos, Santa picked up from the garbage can, the infamous popper shells and just stared at it.
A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“I have to say, Merrybelle,” he marveled, shaking his head, “how Roger managed to get that much coal dust into such a tiny contraption is… well, it’s almost impressive.”
Impressive was not the word I’d have chosen. Not for the kitchen, not for my dogs, and certainly not for poor Octavia—who still looked as if she’d survived a volcanic eruption. But at the North Pole, you learn to laugh, eventually… even if you do it while scrubbing soot out of the butter dish.
If you wondered why my last letter the other night was short on cheer, now you know, my dears.
There are days in this life when all you can do is laugh (once you’ve finally stopped coughing).
As the old saying goes, “If a man has not trouble, let him get a goat.”
With coal soot in every corner (and a faint scent of pine in the air),
—Mrs. Claus