Photo by Ryan Koble on Unsplash.

Writing inspired by the following Secret Santa Story Share 2023 prompt:

Write about leaving footprints in the snow.

Footprints in the Snow

by Janice Cutting

‘Twas a night in December, and heavy with snow
The aurora ballerinas, wove their magical glow,
Every house was preparing, with baubles and garlands
Covering their cakes with sugar and almonds

But one little house made entirely of wood
Was refusing to enter the holiday mood
Mick Mitchell was grumpy and fed up of it all
The songs, and the jumpers, the whole rigmarole
So he hunkered down and refused to go out
Except for more wood and a bottle of stout

Why would he care about a man dressed in red,
When he could ride it all out, tucked up in his bed
This whole Christmas thing is a joke in the end
Just a marketing ploy for making you spend
He’s definitely not real, Mick knew that for a fact
The flying, the reindeer, it’s all just an act
Jumping down chimneys, all through the night
Giving poor children a terrible fright
A giant fat man, carrying a bag full of loot
Appearing by the fire, all covered in soot
No completely sane person would think that was alright
Besides he’s too large and the chimney’s too tight

So he took to his socials and posted the news
Santa’s not real, don’t leave carrots or booze
He told them the stories that everyone should know
In the vein hope of ending this crazy freak-show
But no one believed him, they laughed at his posts
What few friends he had, left him like ghosts

With two days to go, ‘til the so-called ‘big’ night
He took to his bed and turned out the light
When Christmas Day dawned, it had snowed overnight
Six or eight feet, such a beautiful sight
The villagers gathered, and grew very worried
Mick’s wooden cottage was completely buried
He’s stuck in that house, the snow’s blocked his way
One child of a neighbour started to say
So they went to the pub to decide what to do
The man was a pain, but they’d have to dig through
They picked up some shovel’s and cleared all the snow
‘Til the windows and doors all started to show
They collected one gift from everyone’s tree
And placed them in stockings with the utmost of glee
Then hung them with ribbons on the knob of his door
As Mick Mitchell awakened, with a mighty huge roar
They bolted and ran through the woods to the inn
No one should suffer that terrible din

When Mick saw the stockings, he was kicking himself
Was this actually the work of that jolly old elf?
No, he could see all their footsteps leading away
He followed them closely, he’d soon make them pay
But as he got closer, he could hear lots of singing
And it made him remember how it once was for him
He opened the door of the old village pub
They welcomed him in, and offered him grub

I can’t possibly accept your very kind offer
I have been a real scrooge and a bit of a tosser
I realise now that the point of the season
Is not based on rhyme or indeed any reason
It’s based on the love and compassion of strangers
Who look out for those people they know are in danger
I’ll take down my posts and delete all my memes
If you’ll forgive me my comments and forget all those scenes
I promise that next year I’ll be in full cheer
Looking out for Santa and his eight tiny rein-deer

They welcomed him in, with a shrimp dipped in batter
The thud of his boots made an almighty clatter
They gave him a beer and he raised up his glass
Forgive and forget, they all said, with much class
He danced and he laughed and he ate and he drank
And then with a toast, his neighbours he thanked
Your actions today have made me awaken
Your friendship and kindness has left me quite shaken
And now may I wish all your dreams will come true.
To my friends and my neighbours, a Merry Christmas to you!

Footsteps in the Snow

by Mary Anglberger

“But where does he live?” we asked my grandfather yet again. We were 4,5, and 8 and too scared to ask him ourselves. In fact, we were too scared to face him. Several times a year, he’d appear at my grandparent’s farm, where we also lived at the time. A small, remote farm on a hill in an Upper Austrian village with a few cows, a few pigs, chickens and rabbits – a peaceful setting surrounded by woods and vast fields, looking down over yet more fields and other villages.
Usually, he’d come out of the woods, unannounced and unexpected. One of us would spot him from the small kitchen window on the first floor in my parent’s house, adjacent to the farm. Or we’d see him approach from the wooden door of the threshing floor connecting the farmhouse and the barn, where we loved to play. “Hhh! He’s coming! The brushwood man is coming!” We’d see him in the distance – at first, he looked like a big basket on legs, coming towards us. On his back he was carrying baskets of various sizes. He had artfully made them out of brushwood, the biggest ones used to carry hay and straw at farms all over the area. He was well known and his work much appreciated. I don’t think my grandparents ever bought much off him, but he still stopped by to try his luck.
He’d approach with heavy, yet swift footsteps and we’d wait in hiding until one of the adults would heed his call. “Körbe! Körbe gibt’s!” – “Baskets! There’s baskets!” and come out to talk to him. We were intrigued as much as we were repelled by his looks – his hair unkept, his grey-brownish beard messy, his wide blue workman’s trousers and patched shirt in desperate need of a wash. A man in his fifties. People called him by his name, Otto, or the brushwood man, or the gypsy.
To us children, he was the brushwood man. Otto seemed too common for someone this unusual and we did not know what to make of the term gypsy. We only knew it was somehow derogatory and even though we were scared of him, we found him heroic – the way he appeared out of nowhere, strong, with his big load on his back. Plus, he got to be outside all day, he never had to wash or get his hair yanked by a brush.
His demeanor was as rough as his looks and even if we left our hiding place to get a closer look, he’d never acknowledge us. He’d just grumble along in his deep voice and if my grandfather was home, he’d get one of the chairs from the small, low kitchen in the farmhouse and ask the visitor to have a rest with him.
He’d get him a piece of bread and some cold meat from the pantry behind the kitchen and a glass of cider from the barrel under the stairway that led to the bedrooms. Grandfather would sit on his dark green, wooden bench by the well, its paint faded from the many hours he’d sat there. We‘d be lurking around the corner of the nearby barn entrance and listen in disbelief as they exchanged news of farmers and villages that seemed very far away to us. He walked all the way there?!
We found his unannounced appearances as exciting as his departures. They’d leave us wondering and guessing, bothering my grandfather with endless questions. “Who might want to buy his big baskets?” “How far can he carry them?” And most importantly: “Where does he sleep?”
“Er wird schon wo schlafen” – “He’ll sleep somewhere, that’s for sure,” was his answer. So, to us he was sleeping in the nearby woods and often, when we were playing in the fields near the edge of the woods, we’d worry that he’d appear, with no adults nearby.
One day in December, just before Christmas, playing behind the farm in the deep, untouched snow, we discovered footsteps coming from the woods. “Hhh, the brushwood man has come!” We looked around and quickly ran to the house, straight into the kitchen. Grandfather was sitting peacefully by the table, the wood crackling in the oven as he was listening to the little red radio that he always kept next to him on the lowest shelf of the unvarnished kitchen cupboard.
“Grandfather, has the brushwood man come?!”
“Otto? No, he doesn’t come in winter.”
“Why not? Has he gone home? Where is his home? Where does he sleep?” Our questions poured out.
“He’s sleeping somewhere, that’s for sure,” was the usual answer.
We were convinced that the footsteps that had come out of the forest belonged to our always unannounced visitor with the big basket. We thought he’d probably come to sleep in our stable and for several days we did not accompany grandfather to feed the cows for fear we’d bump into him.
Only when we were older, we came to comprehend, that in fact, Otto was a rural version of a travelling salesman, his craft well-known, bought all over the region. A homeless Roma who actually did sleep in the forest when the weather was warm and in the barns of certain farmers during the winter. So maybe the footsteps in the snow really were his and he got to spend a few warm nights in the barn with my grandparent’s gentle cows.