It started so simply,
on a walk in the woods.
My husband, Bob, stood
in front of a massive stone boulder, stirred by its stark
splendor.
“Wouldn’t you love
something like this in our yard?” he asked. “It’s so magnificent!”
And when I saw the deepness of his wonderment, I swore to myself,
somehow . . . I am going to make this
happen.
I had no idea where to
start. Who would? I called monument companies and gardening centers.
Then I called a company I saw in the Cape Cod yellow pages, named
Final Touch Landscaping.
Stephen, the owner,
didn’t act like I was too much of a lunatic when I told him I wanted
the largest boulder he could find, delivered on Christmas Eve.
Actually, he jumped right in. “How about we have Santa deliver it in
a sleigh on a flat bed?” I loved the idea. “Where are your septic
tanks?” he asked.
Bob turned pale when I
asked him that same question several days later. “Your gift is too
heavy to go over them,” I hinted. Later, I saw him rummaging through
cabinets looking for Kava, or some other new anti-anxiety herb on
which we always spend a fortune.
Three days before
Christmas, I called the Cape Cod Times photo department and told
somebody named Ron about the rock. “Why?” he
wondered.
“It’s what Bob wants,”
I said.
Then I called local TV.
These were not easy calls. Can you imagine explaining that Santa
will deliver an 18,000 pound boulder on Christmas Eve? (You got it.
Nine colossal tons.) I
invited all our neighbors to greet Santa, but I wouldn’t say what he
was bringing.
On December 24 at two
p.m., 12 pizzas arrived. I had bedecked our new shed with wreathes,
lights, cookies and soda.
At three, I said to
Bob, “It’s time.” We stood at the end of the driveway, alone. Oh
God, I thought. Nobody’s coming to meet Santa. And I was so hoping
we’d have a party in the shed. And then, like an image from a
Dickens tale, children with their dogs emerged from the woods.
Parents came out of their houses. The TV station van pulled up and
the Times photographer arrived. I was trembling with excitement.
Then came the air horn,
blasting away, as a caravan of trucks filled with families in
Christmas costumes came rumbling down the street. Police closed the
road to traffic. Over loud speakers, we heard “Merry Christmas Bob!”
as Santa rang sleigh bells from the front of a giant flatbed which
carried wooden reindeer, kids dressed as elves and a bright red
sleigh with the rock.
Bob’s expression was
priceless. He didn’t speak for minutes. Finally, he whispered, “You
bought me a rock?”
“Why not?” We hugged.
“It’s what you wanted.”
And so, we had our
party. Everyone rollicked around the boulder with overflowing plates of pizza
and Oreos. Carols filtered through the air. Our story was told on
that night’s local news. Our picture was in the paper with the
words, “Tons of Love” underneath.
It was a Christmas only
dreams are made of.
Late that night, we
climbed the rock and sat on the top sharing cookies. I thought of
all the people that helped make this fairy tale happen and I
pictured my community gathered in awe. We had all re-discovered
holiday magic that day, when Santa Claus rocked Marstons
Mills.
