Marshall Ramsey

Franklin Scrooge sat in his corner office. The New York skyline came alive as night fell. Twinkling lights set against the canvas of dark buildings painted on an orange sunset. It was Christmas Eve evening, and he was working overtime.

His personal assistant, Margaret Smith, sat out in the reception area of his office.  “May I go home now, sir? It’s Christmas Eve.”  Scrooge, channelling the spirit of his Great Great Great Great Uncle, almost said “Christmas, Bah Humbug.”  But he didn’t. That would have been too obvious.  “Go home, Margaret. Enjoy your family.”

Margaret stood up, semi-stunned and hustled out of the room with her purse before her grumpy boss changed his fickle mind.

Scrooge sat drinking a Scotch in his empty office in a nearly empty building.  He had discovered over the past couple of years that the emptier the building, the fatter his checking account.  In fact, he actually got a bonus for laying people off.  No, no, scratch that. Not people. FTEs. Full-time equivalents.  Scrooge smiled. It wasn’t personal; it was just business.

Scrooge looked over at the bookshelf. There sat his first-edition, signed copy of  “A Christmas Carol.” Charles Dickens had been friends with his Great Great Great Great Uncle Ebenezer and had written his life story.  Franklin’s take on the story: Ebenezer was a wuss.  And Bob Cratchit should have been fired for his insubordination.  He did have to give Dickens credit, though — the Ghosts were a nice touch.

He flipped on the 80-inch flat screen and watched the anchor go on about the War on Christmas.  The anchor said that “Happy Holidays” was the biggest thief of Christmas. Scrooge laughed. Laying off 40,000 people was a hell of a lot bigger threat to Christmas than a few words, but this was entertaining.

The Scotch began to work its magic and he felt himself starting to fade off to sleep.  He laughed to himself, “I wonder if the three ghosts will haunt me now?”  The features of the room melted and slid down the wall like a Salvador Dali painting.

He awoke with a start and looked at the clock.  It was midnight.  Franklin Scrooge walked out of his office and down to the bank of elevators.  He headed down to the employee break room three floor down to get some coffee out of the machine.  On his way, he went through a room full of abandoned cubicles.  Crumpled papers, dust and old computer monitors covered the tops of the empty desks.  “In this field, my bonus grows,” Scrooge chuckled.  But there, in one of the cubicles, was an eerie glow.  He walked over to it, mesmerized by the blue-light.  Sitting in the office chair was a translucent middle-aged man wrapped in chains.  He wore glasses and a badge.  And according to that badge, his name was “Al.”    He was wrapped in chains.

Scrooge jumped back.  “Are you the first of three ghosts?” He asked timidly.

Al the ghost looked up at him and said, “No.  I’m the only ghost. If you don’t see the damage you’ve done from my story, you are truly lost.”

“Whatever I did to you, it wasn’t personal.  It was…”

Al finished his sentence. “Business. I know, that’s what my supervisor said after he laid me off after a twenty-year career.  I should have believed him. But I took it personally and after a few months I lost my insurance, my home, my wife, my family and then my life. I just couldn’t take the pain anymore.  Suicide was my final mistake. And it was a big one.”

Franklin Scrooge looked at the man with contempt.  “You made the choice.”

“Yes, I did. And it was a poor one.  And you made choices, too. Which I might add, were equally as poor. Instead of growing the company, looking for new markets, you took the easy route. You cut for the sake of cutting. I’m just to here to remind you that there are consequences of our decisions. There was for me. There is for you, too.  The FTEs you laid off are people. Those people were your company’s greatest assets.  Your company is weaker because of your lack of leadership.  I really miss my wife and daughter.”

Behind Al the ghost, three more spirits appeared.  They were the classic ghosts from Ebenezer’s story.  The Ghost of Christmas Future handed him old copy of “A Christmas Carol.”  The Ghost of Christmas Past looked him in the eye and said, “Read it.” The Ghost of Christmas Present said, “You’ll learn something.”

Al nodded in agreement. “I made a stupid decision.  I can’t correct it.  You have a chance now to help others from suffering my fate.”

Franklin Scrooge woke up with the first rays of dawn creeping into his office. It was Christmas morning and the city seemed unusually quiet.  He looked at the empty Scotch glass and threw the rest of the bottle in the trash.  There would be no goose-buying or Christmas lunches with the Cratchits.  But there was a fundamental change in how he ran the company that day.  He began to believe in the people who worked for him. And within a year, profits were at an all-time high.

On RR 19 in rural Ohio, a woman walked to her mailbox. In it she found an anonymous letter.  It read:

“Your husband Al was the wisest man I knew. Enclosed is a check to cover your daughter’s medical care and her tuition.  God bless and Merry Christmas, A friend.

Thousands of ex-employees received similar letters that Christmas.  Franklin Scrooge had quietly set up a foundation to help those in need.   It was a beautiful second verse to an old book that sat on his desk.  A book called “A Christmas Carol.”

The airport was crowded with Christmas Eve travelers. Each was desperately trying to beat Santa (and the weather) to destinations all across the country.  The mother unbuckled her four-year-old little girl from her carseat and carried her across the airport’s crowded parking lot.  Giant jets took off and landed like metal pterodactyls coming to a prehistoric nest.  High pitched whines of jet engines and low-grumbles of diesel engines made an exotic sonic symphony to the girl’s little ears.  A light snow fell, unusual for the South. It threatened to halt airport operations.  The closest snowplow was 400 miles away.

The little girl noticed all the different people walking past them when they got closer to the front entrance. A man with a whistle and a gun stopped traffic so they could cross a street choked with taxis and vans.  He winked at the little girl and blew her a kiss. She blew him one back.  The cold snow stung her cheeks, making them nearly as red as the bows in her hair. People drug, rolled and carried their luggage toward the front doors.  She panicked as her mom walked quickly and directly at the closed doors.  But to her relief, they opened automatically, allowing them inside. The warmth of the heated building gave them a proper Southern welcome.

Her mother put her down and held her hand as they walked toward a bank of giant television screens. On them were a bunch of letters and numbers — but no Dora the Explorer.  Her mom sighed, picked up her daughter and headed toward a crowded restaurant where other families were waiting.  The little girl pressed her nose against the cold glass and watched the giant white and grey birds doing their nimble ballet on the tarmac.  Each one of those planes held people trying to get home to loved ones.  Her mom bought her a cookie and they had tea at the window table as they waited.

In a few minutes, her mom once again went to check the TVs. Still no Dora, but her mom’s mood darkened.  The little girl did not know what “Delayed” meant, but it seemed to be serious. The weather had started  to get worse and there was talk that the airport might close.  It was one of the few times her mother had ever seemed worried.  “I hope Rudolph works for the airline,” her mom said as they watched the board.

The little girl had never felt so short in her life. Soon there were dozens of other families crowded around the boards, all looking to see if their loved ones’ flights had made it.  An announcement came on about the airport closing in 15 minutes.  The crowd grumbled and scrambled to make other travel arrangements.  Flights had been cancelled or at least rescheduled all across the country because of this storm.  Now it was their turn. The mother rubbed her temples, feeling a migraine coming on and trying to think what she would do next.  Christmas was about to be cancelled.

Just then, a man in an U.S. Army uniform swung her around and kissed her.  The mother, surprised, started to struggle. And then awareness kicked in and she kissed him passionately back.  The man then let go of woman and crouched down. “DADDY!” the little girl yelled as she ran to him. She jumped into his outspread, loving arms.

Christmas had arrived on time on Delta Flight 1225 from Germany.  And no snowstorm in the world could have ever stopped it.

The two of them had entered the woods that cold Fall morning.  Only one came out. While the Sheriff said it was an accident, Jack was having no part of it.  Jack McArthur’s son Joey had died that day.  And in Jack’s mind, no one was to blame but himself.

Jack sat in the back of the church, unshaven and reeking of alcohol.  It was the first Christmas since the hunting accident that had taken the life of his precious boy.  He had hit rock bottom.  Hard.  The choir practiced their songs for the Christmas Eve extravaganza.  But Jack didn’t hear a single word.  The sound of a single gunshot repeated over and over in his tortured head.

The accident had torn his family apart. First, his wife and daughter had moved back to Atlanta.  Then the bank took their home.  Finally, his boss finally had to fire him — his drinking had gotten out of control.  He had made a bad decision when he pulled that trigger. And he had been making worse ones ever since.  Now he lived under the Main Street overpass and showered at the YMCA.  He worked odd jobs when he was sober enough to function.  But normally he chose not to be sober. Alcohol was the only way he could extinguish the fires of guilt.

One pull of the trigger. One bullet. One family destroyed.

Jack McArthur sat slumped on the back pew, silently, but he was screaming in pain.  Only God could hear his cries.

God. Where was God when he pulled the trigger? When Joey had run through the brush like a deer?  God had lost His only son. Didn’t He realize the pain he felt? “My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?” Jack cried.

He began to sob loudly in the back of the church. The choir kept on singing.

A stranger walked up and sat next to Jack. He took the broken man in his arms and held him like a father would a son. Jack began to cry even louder; he cried so hard he busted blood vessels in his forehead. The man just rubbed his back and held him tighter.  “It will be OK.  Joey is safe now.  It will be OK.  You are forgiven. And you must forgive yourself.  It’s the only way you can go on living again.  Your remaining child needs her father. Your wife needs her husband.  And your community needs you to get help.  You must go on living, Jack. You can’t waste the precious gift you’ve been given.”

And at that moment, Jack heard the choir was singing the second chorus of O Holy Night!:

He knows our need, to our weakness is no stranger,

Behold your King! Before Him lowly bend!

Behold your King, Before Him lowly bend!

The stranger smiled and said to Jack, “Merry Christmas my tortured friend. Forgiveness is my present to you. Now turn around and give it to yourself.”

At the moment in the back of a small Mississippi church, Jack McArthur began to forgive himself and the difficult job of rebuilding his life. But before he did, he and the stranger sang with the choir to the top of their lungs.

Somewhere north of Kosciusko, Mississippi along the Natchez Trace Parkway, two deer grazed in a frosty, moonlit field.  The smaller of the two bucks lifted his head and said, “Bubba John, you ever wanted to be something more than you are now?”

Bubba John just kept munching his grass without an answer.

“Seriously, have you ever wanted to be more than just a deer?”

Bubba John stopped and looked at the smaller buck, “Winston, we are deer. We’re born. We grow. We eat. We mate. We end up as a hat rack and sausage.”

Winston sighed. He knew he was supposed to be more than just a deer — He had the gift of self awareness. Of course, most days it seemed more like a curse.  Tonight was one of them.

“You know Winston, you probably ought to stop all this crazy babble.  The other deer are making fun of you.  I’m your brother. I don’t want to see you hurt.”

“You’re just embarrassed.” Winston told his brother.

“Well — and that, too.”

And just then, a meteor screamed above the field and flew into the nearby trees.  CRASH!!!

Both deer scrambled and then paused. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it completely intrigued the deer.  Bubba John and Winston ran over toward the glowing woods.  What they saw would change Christmas forever.

There, in a wrecked heap were eight unconscious reindeer, a crumpled sleigh and a moaning man lying on his back in a pile of pine straw.

“Son of a doe!” Bubba John shouted. He and Winston walked over to the man and Winston nudged him with his nose.  His cold, wet nose woke the fat man up.

“Stop it Rudolph. Stop it.” Santa began to groggily squirm. “Rudolph. Er…. You’re not Rudolph. He’s back home. What happened?!?”

The two deer looked at the fat man as he tried to sit up. “MY SLEIGH! MY TEAM!”  Santa saw the the reindeer casualties and yelled. Bubba John, spooked by the man, ran into the nearby brush.  But not Winston. He just stood there looking Santa.

“Why hello there my friend,” Santa said. “And what’s your name?”

Winston just stared at him.

“I can understand you.  I’m magic, remember?”

“My name is Winston.  I live here.”

Santa brushed his pants off and walked over to the reindeer. Pancer, Dancer and Vixen began to stir.  Soon all the reindeer were on their feet — All except Cupid.  Santa turned his attention to the crumpled sleigh.  “Can you help me?” he said to Winston.

Winston lowered his head and walked over to the sleigh.  Santa tied a rope around his neck, patted him on the hind quarters and said.  “Pull my little friend. I’ll push.”

Three tugs and the sleigh was righted.

Santa gathered up the scattered toys and carefully loaded them back in the giant brown sack.  “What happened?” Winston inquired.

“Comet became airsick.  He threw up over New Orleans. Actually,  he threw up ALL over New Orleans. I suspect he ate some bad reindeer food.  He got weaker as we headed north.  By the time we hit Jackson, we started losing altitude.  Where are we anyway?”

“Kosciusko,” Winston said.  He had heard the two cyclists mention the name a couple of days ago as they peddled up the Trace.

“Ah. Guess I’m going to have to figure out how we can get out of this mess. I can’t fly with seven reindeer,” Santa said with concern in his voice. Comet threw up again and just moaned.

“Comet rhymes with Vomit!” Donner and Vixen laughed.

Comet was mad at his friends’  joke but was too weak to protest.

Santa got an idea.  He paused, rubbed his chin and then smiled. “Winston, how are you at flying?”

Winston’s eyes lit up.  But then immediately the light went out and his head dropped.  “Never done it, sir.”

“Have you ever thought you can be more than you are right now?” Santa said.

Winston’s eyes lit back up. “Yes sir.”

“You put in the effort, I’ll provide the magic.

Santa hooked back up the team and slipped a harness around Winston’s neck.  Santa walked over to the brush and said, “Bubba John, take care of Comet. I’ll be back to get him as soon as he’s well. Make sure he doesn’t end up as a hat rack and sausage.  Take care of yourself, little buddy.” Santa patted Comet on his aching head.

Comet vomited one more time.

Santa hopped in the sleigh, put on his goggles and picked up the reins. He took out a small bag and sprinkled magical golden dust on Winston.  Seven reindeer and one whitetail deer then pulled Santa’s sleigh up into the cold Mississippi night.

They took two laps around the field and then headed north. And on that Christmas Eve, Winston the Mississippi deer became more than just a deer. He became a legend.