I lived in a teeny, tiny town called North Pole, Minnesota. It was right next to International Falls, Minnesota, which was the coldest place in the country, if you didn’t count Alaska.
Our claim to fame was being one of those towns that had Christmas cheer all year round.
We had a Christmas store that was open three-hundred and sixty-four days a year. Only closed for Christmas, of course. And a petting farm for retired reindeer. And a town clock shaped like a nutcracker that played part of the Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy song at noon and midnight every day.
It was aperfectplace to live… almost.
I waved to my neighbor as I headed to the mailbox. Then I saw my friend Jan coming down the street.
She’d recently taken over the mail route in our town, and I’d gotten into the habit of chatting with her when I got home fromwork every day. Not that you can have alongchat at the mailbox, but we got a few words in.
As she pulled up in her mail truck, I noticed a giant bag next to her.
“What’s all that?”
Jan was beaming. “You’ll never guess what I talked my supervisor into letting me do. These are all the letters to Santa that get delivered here every year. Evidently, theyneverclear them out. They just put them in the basement of the post office in the undeliverable section. Today… I’m delivering them!”
“What do you mean delivering them? Didn’t you say they’re letters to Santa?”
“Yeah.Oh, I’ve got a special one for you. You’ll have to tell me what it says after you open it.”
She rustled around in a small box on the floorboard, then pulled out a wrinkled envelope. “Each one of these is like a mystery. Who sent it? And why? And did they ever imagine someone would actually read their Christmas wish?”
I took the envelope and studied it. It was addressed to Santa, all right. And it came from someone called Levi Blackthorne, printed with a heavy, solid hand.
But his name and address were juxtaposed against a backdrop of childish stars and hearts drawn all over the envelope. The print said man. But the drawings said little girl.
Looking back up at Jan, I asked her, “Why this one?”
My friend shrugged. “It had all those cute hearts on it. Maybe he’s looking for love.”
Jan had been trying to play matchmaker for me for years. It hadn’t panned out well.
“Are you sure you’re allowed to hand these out? I thought there were postal regulations about messing with the mail.”
Jan laughed. We’d known each other since kindergarten. So she knew me well. “Robin, that’s what’s wrong with you. You need a little adventure in your life.”
Mrs. Jenkins came out with her toy poodle. Then she stood there waiting at her mailbox three houses down.
That was Jan’s cue to focus on work. “Gotta go. Tell me what’s in the letter tomorrow!”
I watched her leave with a smile on my lips. Jan was always doing quirky little things that I would never have thought of. I was pretty sure mail tampering was a felony, but Jan seemed to live outside the world of consequences. Everyone loved her.
I wish I could be more like her.
No, that wasn’t true. I just wished I had some of the things she had.
Jan had had a whirlwind romance, gotten married after knowing the man for aweek, and settled instantly into what appeared to be perfect wedded bliss.
Me, on the other hand, my dating life had been… tepid.
I’d had pleasant dates with a lot of men. Sometimes even a second or third date.
But they always ended the same.
Whoever it was would tell me that I was a lovely woman, and that I’d find the right match for me. Then they’d offer to be friends.
I was evidently really good atbefriendingmen.
