Route 66 and Random Road Trip Ramblings

"Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. But no matter the road is life."-- Jack Kerouac

Finally, Mrs. Claus is back where she belongs, here in the North Pole. I made a road trip in the sleigh yesterday to go pick her up and bring her back home. The missionary elves who live with us, Nathan Watts and Matthew Knowles are really glad to have her back as well, because now they will no longer have to suffer through my lack of culinary prowess.

Anyway, yesterday morning I started out about 4:30 a.m. I had the sleigh packed with snacks and bottled water. The CD player was loaded with suitable travel music. And, I had taken a No-Doz so I could stay awake. My plan was to be in Mesquite, Nevada by 10:30 a.m. to meet Mrs. Claus at the Virgin River Casino where she was being brought by her sister, Sharon, and niece Suzie. (Mesquite is pretty much the half-way point between Los Angeles and Lindon, UT where Missus was visiting.)

Heading east on the 210, thoroughly enjoying the music, my head was filled with pleasant thoughts of seeing my wife again after three and a half weeks of her being away. Before I knew it, I was heading north on I-15. I snuggled in behind a huge double cab pick-up loaded with kayaks. Since this particular vehicle was doing 95, it was definitely my kind of pace car.

Clipping right along, things slowed down to a crawl just north of Victorville, CA where the highway patrol was directing all traffic off the freeway. I had to backtrack to Victorville where I was rerouted to "D" Street. "D" Street, come to find out is actually Route 66. I must say it was picturesque. The sights included farms, various homespun agrarian business ventures, and an abandoned house with a collapsed roof. At one point on my right, I spied a very pretty farm house with a sign which read, "Molly Brown's Country Cooking". My stomach began to growl, but my snacks were not within grabbing distance and I didn't want to lose any time by stopping and digging them out.

The only thing about having been rerouted to Route 66 that wasn't exactly fun for me, was the speed limit. At 45 MPH, I may as well have pitched a tent, it felt so slow. Especially after averaging 85 and 90 beforehand. Eventually, I made my way back to I-15. It was pretty open at this point. Really enjoying the freedom of movement on the road now, I was listening to "Defying Gravity" from the "Wicked" soundtrack, when I glanced down at the speedometer and saw that I was doing 100 plus. Who says the sleigh can't fly? When I looked back up, I saw a sign that simply read, "Jesus" in big bold letters. I did hope at that moment that Jesus doesn't mind too much that I was basically ignoring the 70-mile-per-hour speed limit. My rather accelerated speed continued most of the way into Baker, CA. I'm reminded of when Mrs. Santa and I were caught by a six year old boy as we tried to make a surreptitious get-away from his family's Christmas party where we'd just passed out presents and candy. Disgusted and in a loud voice he yelled, "Wait a minute! You're not the real Santa. The real Santa has a sleigh and reindeer. You drive a Navigator, and I'll bet it doesn't even fly!" Mrs. Santa patted the boy on the arm and then blithely replied, "Oh, honey, you've never seen Santa drive!" I've never been much of a stop-and-smell-the-flowers kind of guy. I like to get where I'm going as quickly as possible.

In Baker, I stopped for gas and to relieve myself of excess water. The restroom at the ARCO station was typical of the ones you see on road trips; no one in their right mind would ever describe it as clean and it smelled overwhelmingly of urine that never made its way into the porcelain receptacle provided for that purpose. The walls inside of the stall were replete with gang graffiti and badly drawn stick figures with over-sized genitalia. Also, someone had written, "L. A. Lakers, one." I think the writer meant to actually say, "won", but who knows? And I've never understood the logic of someone taking the trouble of carving their gang affiliation logo into commode seats unless it's to send the message that if you join a gang your life will end up in the toilet.

Once again on the road, the next land mark in the vast wasteland known as the California/Nevada desert, is Primm, Nevada which is about forty miles outside of Las Vegas. I guess Primm exists for all those gamblers who can't quite wait to get all the way to Vegas to lose the rent money. Giant neon signs announced prime rib for nine ninety-nine, low-cost hotel rooms, and entertainment by almost famous-celebrities. One of the large hotel/casino operations there is Buffalo Bill's. The place is absolutely huge. Outside is one of the biggest roller coasters I've ever seen in my life. I suppose the thinking is if you go on a gargantuan thrill ride that will most likely scare you to death, you forget, at least for a few moments about just having blown your life savings at the craps table. I suppose their nod to an amusement park is an act of compassion when you get down to it. They really ought to be sainted.

I hit Las Vegas next; "Sin City". There certainly are a plethora of beautiful hotels that look awfully inviting. The thing is, I've no interest in gambling at all. Though, I did blow two dollars on nickel slots at the Mint once in Las Vegas when we stayed there on choir tour in college. Lady Luck has never been a close friend of mine, so I try not to push my luck . The other thing I dislike about Las Vegas is when you do stay at one of the hotels, you have to walk through the casino to get to your room. The smoke in those places could choke a horse. I always feel the need to have a chest x-ray after a stroll through a casino lobby!

Once the glitz and glamor of Sin City were in my rear-view mirror, the next point of interest was the Moapa Indian Reservation; population 206. There was also a warning sign telling me my speed would be monitored by radar. I was doing 90 and 95, and people were passing me up, so I wasn't too worried. One car that passed me was a blue Corvette convertible with Illinois license plates. The female passenger had her feet up on the dashboard. Her toenails were painted bright blue. For some reason, I found that somewhat random. I was then reminded of a Bishop's Storehouse food delivery my helper Brandon and I made a couple of weeks ago. When we pulled up to the lady's house she was sitting on the porch in a big floppy straw hat playing a bright blue ukulele. We both stared a second, and then Brandon shook his head and said, "That's just so random!" Meanwhile, back on I-15, I see signs also for the town of Glendale. I think every state must have a Glendale. I know Utah has one, as does California and Arizona; I've seen it listed as a town in other states as well. Here's where my cell phone rang. It was my wife informing me they were just leaving St. George, Utah. So, we were both closing in on Mesquite.

A short time later, I pulled into the parking lot of the Virgin River Casino, and parked in front in a Handicapped space. I have bum knees, so I get to have disabled parking. It pays to be a gimp when you're looking for parking! Though I would trade a little walking to have good knees again! It seems the moment I pulled in and parked, my sister-in-law did as well. It couldn't have been timed anymore perfectly! I got out of the car, and turned around and there she was, the love of my life, Mr. Santa Claus (aka Andrea Steele-Leavitt). I had done it! I made it to Mequite in good order and just before 10:30 a.m.; now I was reunited with Missus once again! Lady Luck aside, I am a very fortunate man!

Anyhow, that's how Santa sees it!

Roll Out the Bellows

Accordion-- An instrument in harmony with the sentiments of an assassin. Ambrose Bierce

The accordion is a much maligned instrument, right up there with bagpipes and the kazoo. I'm reminded of the Gary Larson cartoon where the top half people arriving in Heaven were given harps and the bottom half, those consigned to Hell were given an accordion.

We accordionists are certainly our own breed. A good friend of mine was once asked to play his accordion in church of all things. He ended up playing The Beer Barrel Polka as it was only one of two songs he knew. I will always love him for that. I think he made God chuckle a little that day. (By the way, he wasn't asked to play in church again!) My odyssey with accordion began when I was just eight. A mere Santa in Training as it were. I belonged to a church group for kids called Primary. In the summer we met during the week in the morning. My Primary class went on a field trip one summer morning in which we ended up at the Dairy Queen for treats. We were all given Dilly Bars. If you ever got one which said FREE in big red letters, you got a second Dilly Bar at no charge. Well I got the "Free" stick that day. To make it doubly exciting, our teacher threw in eight free accordion lessons as well. That would start me on a life-long relationship with the "Squeeze Box". When I got home and shared the news with my mother, she was less than enthused, and if she had had a handgun at the time, I believe she would have aimed and fired at my baby picture.

In the late 90's, my ability to play the accordion along with my red hair, won me a spot on the 1998 Coca-Cola Super Bowl commercial. They shot my segment of the commercial out in the Ahmanson Ranch west of Los Angeles. It was a freezing cold torrential rainy December day. My fingers were so numb, I could barely play, and my teeth were on the edge of chattering. I didn't mind though, 'cause I was going to be on the Super Bowl in a Coke ad! Dollar signs were dancing all through my head. Well, I made a little money off of it, but it ended up being the lowest rated ad in Super Bowl history, and only played that day. Sigh!

My first union (Actors Equity) stage show in my acting career was an adaptation of Charles Dickens', A Christmas Carol. I portrayed the Ghost of Christmas Present. Now, being that I'm 6'6", I have always considered myself at least somewhat larger than life. But, they really wanted me larger than life in this production. So, I had to traipse about the stage with my feet attached to 18 in. railroad ties, which made me 8 ft. tall! You'd think that would be challenge enough; but like the Ginsu Knives, there was more. I had to learn to play the distant cousin of the accordion, the concertina, and play it whilst I strode about the stage on those railroad ties! (My great-grandmother played the concertina in a band. Must be in the blood!) By the way while I was learning to play said concertina, the director told me I sounded like a caroler from Hell!

In another show, I had to play my accordion as accompaniment to another actor's singing whose ability to stay on pitch was somewhat suspect. Coupled with my 100-plus year-old accordion which itself is somewhat out of tune; let's just say, some nights it was more a cacophony than music. The director often came to our dressing room and sarcastically quipped, "Nice Schoenberg tonight, boys!" (Schoenberg was a classical composer who was famous for his butt-ugly atonal pieces).

Once years ago, my neighbors, who were a very lovely couple, came and asked me to play my accordion at their wedding. I asked, "This is a joke right?" They assured me that it wasn't. So, a few weeks later I found myself perched on a rock by a babbling brook, just outside of Santa Barbara, playing Lady of Spain on my old out of tune accordion while the couple approached the rock and were married by some new age type minister from Our Lady of Cosmic Awareness, or something like that. He started the ceremony by saying, "No man can marry you. No woman can marry you. Only you can marry yourselves." My first thought was, "You've got to be kidding me!" But after considering for a moment, I said to myself, "Actually, you and your accordion fit right in!"

Unfortunately, I've grown quite rusty on the old squeeze box. But, last week, I was asked to haul it out again to play for some wee elves at an elementary school. (So, I had to put in quite a bit of practice time just to get simple melodies right). Their teachers wanted to give the kids a taste of what life was like for pioneers crossing the Prairie in the mid-nineteenth century, and what they did for entertainment on the trail. So while I squeaked and squawked a couple of old time tunes out for them and explained the workings of the instrument, I merely elucidated a big fat yawn from the poor kids who were bored beyond belief!

So, while I have had a somewhat rocky relationship with bellows-driven musical instruments, whenever I do pick up my accordion now and then, it's like getting reacquainted with an old friend. Plus it's a lot of fun. And, I do enjoy playing Jolly Old St. Nicholas and Silent Night for Mrs. Claus during the Christmas Season.

Anyhow, that's how Santa sees it!

Exemplary Driving!

"I have ever deemed it more honorable and more profitable, too, to set a good example than to follow a bad one."--Thomas Jefferson


When you take on the job as Santa, it is expected in that capacity you will at least try to set a good example. Sometimes my aspirations to be a good role model, especially around the elves, don't quite come to fruition. One of my youngest elves is Brandon Derbidge. No one works harder or is more willing to help. He's one of those rare kids, that has indeed learned wisdom in his youth. Despite his being a young pup, Brandon is definitely not afraid to share his opinion, particularly when he is around me!

Yesterday Brandon generously helped me fill food orders at a church run food bank called the Bishop's Storehouse. When we were out delivering those food orders, another driver cut me off, and made it through the traffic light while I had to stop because the light had then turned red.

I know Santa Claus is always supposed to be jolly and take things in stride. In this particular instance, I didn't. Instead, at the top of my voice, I spewed out a couple of cursings at the other driver which called his parentage into question. After I had gotten those invectives out of my system, I quickly apologized to Brandon for letting fly in such a manner with him in the vehicle.

All this time, we had been listening to an inspirational recording, as that's what Brandon enjoys most as music whenever he's one of my passengers. He accepted my apology, knowingly smiled, and said, "Isn't it interesting when you were yelling at that other driver, the song, I'm Trying to be Like Jesus was playing on the CD?"
I then invited the little wretch to keep his trap shut! He's just a tad too observant,that boy! Well, it is true that my outburst was unwarranted; and it's also true that the Jolly Old Elf should work harder at setting a better example.

Anyhow, that's how Santa sees it!

Going Bananas

“If thou tastest a crust of bread, thou tastest all the stars and all the heavens.” --Robert Browning--Yeah well, you never ate my bread, Robert!
I was determined that when Mrs. Santa left town this time, there would be no culinary disasters on my end. Dare to dream! Since I had four bananas that were way beyond their expiration date, I decided to try my hand at banana bread. With no help from the elves, mind you, I followed the recipe to the letter; adding the ingredients exactly when I supposed to while mixing with the hand beater. Voila! The batter looked great, so I poured it in the bread pans, and put them in the pre -heated oven at exactly the specified temperature. Oh so proud of myself, I called Missus to brag while it was baking. She asked, "Did you find the flour in the cupboard alright, dear?"

I answered, "Nah, I just used the flour in the big glass canister on the counter."

"That's pancake mix," she said, and then began to chuckle.

"Ah crap! another one bites the dust! Did I ruin it?"

"Why don't you call me back after you've given it a taste. I'm sure it will be fine." I knew at that point she was lying through her teeth to keep from hurting my feelings.

You may be wondering now, how it turned out. Well, let's just say, you could definitely tell there was baking powder in the mix! And, I ended up with the fluffiest d#@n banana bread I ever ate.

Haute cuisine just doesn't seem to be in my blood! I'm definitely not related to Paula Deen!

Anyhow, that's how Santa sees it!

the Fetching Missus

One of my favorite scenes from old movies is when Gary Cooper, as Lou Gehrig, steps to microphone on the baseball field and tells everyone he is the luckiest man alive. Well, I feel exactly the same way when I think about how fortunate I am to be married to Mrs. Claus (aka Andrea Steele). The absolute happiest day of my life was 7 November 1992. That's the day we said, "I do."Missus works tirelessly to make our house a home and to make life more comfortable for me here at the North Pole. And, trust me, she's not someone you mess with, either. She doesn't take any crap from anybody, not even me! I love that about her. She is courageous, hard-working, talented, patient (you'd have to be to put with me), and righteous through and through. I don't know what I ever did to deserve her, but I thank God everyday that she is mine.
The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints has an Article of Faith which says in part, "We believe in being honest, true, chaste, benevolent, virtuous, and in doing good to all men; ...If there is anything virtuous, lovely, or of good report or praiseworthy, we seek after these things." The preceding describes my Andrea much more eloquently than I ever could. She definitely comes from good stock!
I wish that I could say that I was deserving of her, but that is not the case. I definitely married up. My gratitude for her acceptance of me is unending. I only pray at the end of my life I can stand before The Deity and report that I am half as remarkable as she is.
On top of all of this Mrs. Claus is one fabulous cook. Myself and elves, Nathan and Matthew have missed that of late, since she is out of town visiting her sister. Let's just say that my culinary skills leave more than a little something to be desired. I frequently ask her, "Is there anything to eat?" She will generally answer, "Let me see," as she surveys the pantry in need of a trip to the grocers. I am convinced she make a meal out of nothing. I bet if I gave her a load of grass clippings she would turn it into something very edible.


And, one of the best things is, we literally do get to make beautiful music together. She has a rich, wonderful contralto voice and plays a mean guitar. Both of us have been professional singers most of our adult lives, so our getting together was a perfect musical melding. She has refrained from smashing me over the head with her guitar on those times when I get the notes wrong. I do so appreciate that.!

There's little more I can say here except to reiterate that she's the best of the best and I am pretty d#!%ed lucky!
Anyhow, that's how Santa sees it!

The Battle of the Bulge

Losing weight seems to be a never ending battle for me. I have a very symbiotic relationship with carbohydrates. I also have a sweet tooth that makes its presence known almost constantly. On top of that, I love, love, love to eat. Strike three, you're out! Loving to eat seems to have been with me almost since the beginning of my life. The first word most children learn is, "mama" or "dada", mine was, "ea, ea", my childish articulation of "eat, eat". Was the die cast or what?

My metabolism seems to have taken a Sabbatical, and isn't likely to return any time soon. I've heard that most of us think about sex frequently throughout day. If someone were to take the silver threads of my thoughts and transfer them to a pensieve like Dumbledore's in Harry Potter, they would likely find few if any erotic images. Instead there would be pictures of M&M's, Snickers, Rice Krispy Treats, Hagen Daz ice cream, prime rib, baby back ribs, chocolate covered gummy bears, boysenberry pie, Belgian waffles, Nutter Butters, stuffed Rock Cornish game hens, and the like swirling about.

Why does food have to taste so dad-gummed good? And why, when you want to drop some serious poundage, do you have to say, "Sayounara," to the things you love in favor of stuff that tastes like, well, crap? My mother did Weight Watchers when I was in my teens. She tried to convince me that cottage cheese spread on a piece of toast, sprinkled with sugar substitute constituted a Danish. I told her, "That's not a Danish, that's crap!" She came back with, "The starving children in China would love to eat this!" I then invited her to wrap it up and send it to them. I got smacked in the chops for mouthing off.

To accomplish the goal of becoming more svelte, there's nothing for it, I guess but to bite the bullet; diet and exercise. There's no easy way or cutting corners. You could always have by-pass surgery, or the Lap Band, but having either of those procedures is no Sunday School picnic, and there are no guarantees. The reedy little waifs with the sunken eyes in Calvin Klein adds, made me feel that starvation was my answer, so I thought I'd try anorexia. It worked really well till I got hungry. I was also a failure at bulimia because I always forgot to vomit after I ate. I used to eat a lot of raw hamburger (steak tartare, if you want to be pretentious), in the hopes that I'd get a tape worm. It all came back to diet and exercise! Da#*-it!

I know people will say, "You're Santa, you're supposed to fat!" Fat, yes maybe, but perhaps not a Rose Parade float with a butt the size of a small continent. So I guess the Jolly Old Elf is just going to have to put down the Chips Ahoy, and bite the 'ol bullet. Someone pass me the Splenda and some cottage cheese!

Anyhow, that's how Santa sees it!