I’m up early, propped in my bed, with my doors open to the empty pool, dappled in morning light. Our host is methodically cleaning every corner of the pool. This is his pool. I watch him peek into the pipe where a tree frog lives as part of his routine. He seemed satisfied with today’s chemical reading, which he records in a book I’m sure is devoted to his seasonal findings. The kids will live to enjoy another day in the pool.
I then hear the door open at the trailer next door, and out of the corner of my eye notice Santa headed for the bathrooms. This morning he is wearing Birkenstocks. Yesterday, you may recall, I had Santa cast as main contender for toughest Outlaw in the park. Today his feet are in Birkenstocks.
I try to return to my task-at-hand (I think I was daydreaming) but couldn’t shake the feeling that something was just a bit off. The Outlaws would have a member who wore Birkenstocks on his day off? For real?
As the question floats through my mind, he returns, makes eye contact with me and with a lovely smile says NICE RIG YOU HAVE THERE in the same dad accent he used with his daughters in the pool yesterday. I smile and thank him.
A few minutes later, I hear a Harley start up, and the park received notice that Santa was on his way. I peek around a bush. There are no signs of the other Harleys. They were gone. Even the grinch was gone. What the heck. How did I not hear them leave?
As Santa pulls out, I see that his jacket, which I’d only caught just a glimpse of yesterday, reads The OutKasts, not THE OUTLAWS. The design looks a little campy to my eyes this morning.
As he drives off, I hear “BYE DADDY HAVE A GOOD DAY” coming from the small window in the trailer. An OutKast. Sign me up.
Now I’m humming Hey Ya and marvelling at the magic of Christmas in July for reasons I could not have possibly predicted.
This Wholehearted Life 