Florida Santa

“Welcome to Peacock Perch.” The sales lady said to Santa and Mrs. Claus. “Here are the keys to your new home.”

When the sales lady left, Santa and Mrs. Claus looked around their new home and each other. 

“This is gonna be an adjustment,” Santa said, uncertain. 

Clad in a red collared Hawaiian shirt with snowflakes on it and red shorts with boots, Santa glanced at his wife and grinned, shrugging his shoulders. 

“Now what?”

Mrs. Claus peeled off her red and white fur trimmed dress to reveal a red bathing suit underneath. She put on a large brimmed straw hat and sunglasses and grabbed her bag, gazing sympathetically at his pitifully confused look. 

“Now we have fun in the sun. I don’t ever wanna be cold again.”

Santa looked down at his bowl full of jelly belly and laughed. 

“I don’t think anyone wants to see this in a speedo.”

Mrs. Claus chuckled and shook her head. 

“I think you’ll find more people look like you than not here. Don’t be self-conscious.”

But Santa lowered and shook his head no. 

Mrs. Claus smiled and kissed him on the cheek. 

“OK, you figure out what to do with your time then. If you want me, I’ll be by the pool.”

Days went by. At first, Santa lumbered around the house not knowing what to do. He tried watching TV, but that didn’t fit.

He walked around the neighborhood waving Hi to people as they went by, but nobody recognized him. He missed the adulation. At this active-adult community, he was just another old guy.

Each day Santa waved a quick goodbye as Mrs. Claus scurried out the door to join one activity or another. 

Cards, mah-jongg, water aerobics-she did them all. Each day she asked him to join her, but he refused. And each night she came back and regaled him with stories of people she met and the fun she encountered. 

But when she told him her tales, he always looked solemn and sad. She was beginning to worry that he couldn’t transition from the immortal Santa to retirement.

“Why don’t you at least go up to the town center and walk around? You’ll never know what may strike your fancy.”

He finally agreed. For the next few days, he wandered around the town center peeking in here and there. He saw some gentlemen playing ping-pong, but that didn’t suit him.

He looked in on the billiards room, but shook his head no. He even popped into the poker room to see what was going on. But still nothing excited him.

A few days later when he had all but given up, he noticed a couple gentlemen with tool belts walking in the promenade area, one carrying wood. 

His eyes perked up and his cheeks started to glow. 

Where were they going? He wondered.

He followed them all the way to a door that said, “The Workshop.”

Santa smiled and tickled his now a little more manicured white beard, to handle the Florida heat. 

He slowly opened the door and peaked in to find several industrious men and a few women sawing, drilling, planing and lathing wood. 

His eyes sparkled and danced with enthusiasm when a man approached him. 

“Come on in. You’re welcome to join us. I’m Jim.”

Santa shook the man’s hand as he toured him around the shop. 

He was elated. Just like home in the North Pole, he could be a toymaker once again. Or he could build other things. He was an accomplished craftsman and carpenter with hundreds of years experience.

That night, he was a chatterbox at dinner, telling Mrs. Claus about everyone and everything in the workshop. 

She was delighted and relieved to hear his passion reignited. 

“Sounds like you found your place here, dear.”

Months later, Santa was a fixture in the woodshop. He became a monitor and mentor to many, but still had time for making little toy, cars, trains, and trucks and teaching others how to.

He was finally content and occupied with something he loved. 

“Retirement is not all that bad after all,” he said. “Who knows maybe I’ll even go out to that pool and get a tan.”