One
“The rumors are true. He does look a little like Santa Claus,” I said to Allison as we watched the bearded man working inside the cargo box on the back of the short freight truck.
“He’s a sweetheart. I really like him. I’m glad he’ll be here this year. I can only imagine what this week’s going to be like,” Allison said.
“Crazy?”
“But in the best way possible.”
Allison—my fraternal twin sister—and I stood next to each other in the Bailey’s Farmers’ Market parking lot, right outside the building that housed Allison’s manager’s office. The temperature was cool but not cold, just about right for our pocket of South Carolina in late December. Even though Bailey’s wasn’t currently stocked with harvest-season fresh-from-the-farm fruits and produce, holiday shopping at the market had been brisk all month. Christmas was now a week and a day away, and comfortable temperatures, along with the white-bearded man’s freshly grown and recently harvested trees, probably meant we’d all be even busier than we had already been.
“Having a Christmas tree farmer here is a perfect fit,” I said.
“I agree. I can’t believe we haven’t done it before. When I heard that Denny”—she nodded toward the man with the beard—“was donating all the trees for the parade, the idea of asking if he wanted to sell at Bailey’s seemed so obvious. I was so glad he wanted to join us that I gave him an exclusive contract with no space rental fees.”
The parade was Monson’s annual Christmas Tree Parade, held on our short but quaint downtown Main Street. For two evenings every December, the town came together to celebrate the season by consuming holiday goodies and walking up and down the street to admire and bid on decorated trees. Before this year, those who wanted to donate a tree to the parade purchased their own trees and ornaments, placed their creations on display, and then hoped for big, lively bids on their masterpieces. All money made from the auction was donated to a local charity, and the winners got to take home their trees, decorations and all. I’d never once decorated a tree for the parade; I was a bidder, not a tree artist. And though I’d never bid high enough to win, all of the town’s residents found a way to donate a little something to the cause. I loved everything about the parade, even the part I’d been volunteered for this year—baking a few hundred jam-filled cookies.
“I guess he looks like Santa would look if Santa were a little thinner and wore jeans.” I amended my earlier appraisal.
“Yes, that’s true.”
Denny Ridgeway hefted a huge, perfect green tree from inside the truck and handed it down to a woman waiting below. She was tall and thin underneath her plaid flannel shirt and khakis, but she handled the tree expertly. She turned and transferred it to a shorter, wider, beardless version of Denny, who carried it into a roped-off area next to the truck. By the time the shorter man came back to the truck, Denny had passed another tree to the woman, and their relay continued. Their movements were seamless, but they’d probably done such a maneuver more than a few times before.
Denny’s white, bushy hair, beard, and eyebrows did not disappoint. He was as close to a natural Santa as anyone I’d ever seen. I’d heard about him and his farm for years; they were both legendary. He was the best pine tree farmer in the state; the trees were the best trees in the entire world, at least according to some. He didn’t emphasize the fact that he looked a lot like Santa by wearing red suits and a big black belt, but I’d heard that he never shaved the beard. His paunch wasn’t as paunchy as it should be, either—about twenty more pounds would be needed to accomplish the look perfectly.
Today, he wore jeans, a long-sleeved black T-shirt, and tennis shoes. He also wore a woven cord choker necklace, which reminded me of my hippie father. Something about the entire three-person troupe reminded me of my parents, actually.
“You have to get Dad and Mom down here to meet him. I bet they’d get along,” I said.
“Probably,” Allison said. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
I followed Allison around parked cars to the side of the parking lot.
“Ms. Reynolds, always nice to see you,” Denny said as he jumped off the back of the truck and wiped his hands on the front of his jeans. The woman and man with him seemed relieved to have a momentary break in the action. They looked at each other and smiled. The woman stepped back a little and the man pulled an arm across his chest as if to stretch his shoulder.
“Allison, please,” she said as she shook Denny’s hand. “And this is my sister, Becca Robins. She has a jam and preserve stall in the market.”