Nonfiction by Deborah Shouse
“What if the moon is watching over us, to see if we’re good? Then the moon reports to Santa,” my seven-year-old grandson speculates. We are luxuriating in a early morning walk under a lush full moon. Robert has spent the night, and I’ll be driving him to his tenth day of second grade in an hour. Meanwhile, he is walking barefoot, tiptoeing around the sticks and acorns splayed against our suburban sidewalks, still wearing his orange and silver space ship pajamas.
“That’s an interesting idea,” I say.
“Well, Santa couldn’t really visit your house to find out. I mean, he eats too many cookies.”
Robert has a point. The whole all-knowing “naughty or nice” mythology is truly hard to rationalize. If the North Pole is the source of all longed-for presents, then they should be in high production mode by now. And Santa really needs to be there to guide and inspire his team. So how could he be observing all the children of the world while he’s running a Fortune 500 industry?
As Robert and I gaze at the moon, I imagine Santa popping down Robert’s chimney to take a look-see and double check the lad’s behavior. If Mr. Claus doesn’t watch his step, he might slip on a stray Lego or marker. Or, depending on his mastery of time zones, the Jolly One might arrive at dinner time. My daughter would mask her surprise and graciously invite the intruder in to join them for the meal, after checking his ID, of course.
As Robert and I walk, we count the number of dogs and relish the early morning birdsong. Then, in a parting of trees, the moon again beams over us, now surrounded by a coterie of peach tinted clouds, illuminated by the emerging sun.
“Maybe the clouds watch us,” Robert says. “Then they tell the sun, and the sun tells the moon, and the moon tells Santa.”
Even Orwell, with his famous views on Big Brother cataloging our every move, hadn’t thought to harness the kings and queens of the sky to do the spy work. I feel a swell of pride at my grandson’s problem solving abilities. He’s faced with information he cannot quite accept and yet he loves Santa and the holidays. He wants to believe but he is practical enough to require some foundation for this leap of faith.
“Maybe the clouds and the sun have the day shift and the moon works at night,” I say.
“Maybe,” Robert says.
Our walk is almost complete; we are nearing our house. Inside, we become efficient, achieving breakfast, packing Robert’s lunch, gathering his backpack, brushing hair and teeth.
Once in the car, we search the sky for the moon. But it’s already melted away, leaving only the frivolous clouds and the saucy sun as sentinels. Still, I hope they’re watching and appreciating Robert’s imagination and analytical thinking skills. I hope they give the moon, and Santa, a good report. On both of us.
Deborah Shouse is the author of Letters from the Ungrateful Dead. She has an MBA but uses it only in emergencies. She has written a myriad of essays and many books, including a novel, An Old Woman Walks Into a Bar. Read more at deborahshousewrites.com.
