San Pancho Vida

Waiting for Patricia: Hurricane Watch

On Tuesday morning, Oct. 21, the existence of a weather disturbance in our general vicinity came to my attention. Being a weather geek, and being nosy, I opened the National Hurricane Center website, which bookmark on my Mac is well thumbed.

I took a look at the forecast graphics.

Hmm. Worth keeping an eye on, I thought.

By 10 pm on Tuesday, the depression had become a tropical storm named Patricia.

By the time I woke on Wednesday morning, hurricane and tropical storm watches had been posted for a portion of the coastline adjacent to the storm's projected path. At 1 pm, the NHC website said "...NOAA PLANE ENROUTE TO INVESTIGATE PATRICIA..." The results of the investigation were published at 4 pm:

I've lived the better part of the past eight years in this part of the world. I'd seen tropical storm watches and warnings, maybe even a hurricane watch (a watch being a caution, a warning a warning) up to Cabo Corrientes, which is the protective mountainous point on the southern edge of Puerto Vallarta's big bay. But I hadn't seen a hurricane warning that far north. We started packing art and house decor into boxes and moving them inside.

The final public advisory posted at 10:00 Wednesday night said:

...PATRICIA EXPECTED TO BECOME A HURRICANE BY
THURSDAY MORNING...

At 7:00 Thursday morning, I awoke to this news:

...PATRICIA INTENSIFYING QUICKLY...
...PREPARATIONS IN THE HURRICANE WARNING AREA 
SHOULD BE COMPLETED TODAY...

With Waldo's help for an hour, we completed some prudent preparations. Just in case.

But it was at 4 pm that the punch came. In the "Changes With This Advisory" section, the hurricane warning area had been expanded northward to encompass Vallarta and the coastline north all the way to San Blas. 

Sometime on Thursday afternoon, I saw this photo by astronaut Scott Kelly from the International Space Station.

Except for photos and screen shots added later, the following diary was written as the next two days unfolded.

__________________________________________________________

11:16 pm, Thursday, Oct. 22:

It's perfectly still here except for the softest movement at the tips of the finest palm fronds. I know she's out there. I've seen her picture in full color on the several weather sites I've monitored obsessively for the past two days. She has grown from a so-so tropical storm into the most powerful of hurricanes in 30 hours. Currently a Category 5, Patricia is spinning toward us.

I study the potential paths obsessively, but they all say the same thing. Puerto Vallarta and San Pancho are buried beneath a clot of pink lines, directly beneath the white line which is the consensus of experts and computers as to Patricia's most likely track.

The internet is generous with information and I absorb all I can find, looking for some ray of hope. The satellite photos of the hurricane don't offer much at all. Patricia is moving north.

I'll try to get some sleep tonight. I'll bet tomorrow will be a doozy.

11:36 am, Friday, Oct. 23: Still calm. Light drizzle off and on, cool air for a change, skies white-gray. We worked all morning making preparations to camp out in the basement studio for the night: big cushions, blankets, water, flashlights and candles, table and chairs. The ice chest stands ready to fill beside the kitchen refrigerator. House doors and windows are closed and bolted. The terrace is stripped of photos and mirrors and decorations, anything that can blow in the wind, and we've covered the big stained glass window with pillows and plywood. It's the one I'd least like to lose.

The wind projections are not improving.

See that little open jaw under the orange bands above? That is the bay of Puerto Vallarta. We are located immediately above the upper lip.

According to the National Hurricane Center, there is a 100% chance that we will experience tropical storm force winds: 39 to 74 miles per hour.

12:01 pm, Friday: I'm sitting on the terrace waiting for the 1:00 update on the National Hurricane Center website, waiting (and hoping) for Patricia to make her predicted turn to the east. I just looked at the NOAA satellite imagery and it seems to me she's turning a bit already. If the storm makes landfall between Manzanillo and our neighbor Puerto Vallarta, it will enter the country in a much less-populated area. It will also hit the mountains almost immediately which most experts say will knock her down a few pegs right away. Not that there won't be damage wherever it lands. This storm is a monster, now the biggest ever recorded in the National Hurricane Center reporting zones.

Craig went down to the village this morning to pick up a few last minute supplies. He talked with a Mexican friend there who told him a policemen was going door to door in the low lying streets near the beach (including the street where our gallery sits) telling people to move their cars to high ground and get out. That's because of the possible huge storm surge that will accompany the hurricane's landfall, and is a good precaution although I believe the storm will hit landfall south of Vallarta.

12:08 pm, Friday: Thanks to a heads-up from Carol Lee who had been reading the San Pancho facebook page, I learned that they will be cutting the power into town, probably at 2 pm. That means no internet, no U.S. phone, no fans. Damn. But I'm sure it's wise to separate water and potentially downed electrical lines.

A few more spits of rain and a mild breeze.

12:46 pm, Friday: Just read a newly posted article by Dr. Jeff Masters, the great Wunderground storm expert. My earlier observation that Patricia had started turning toward the east is confirmed. She is beginning to accelerate toward the coast of the Mexican state of Colima. 

Unfortunately, the storm may be making landfall just north of Manzanillo, a big and busy harbor city where my high school friend Candy and her husband Dan live. We just saw them last Sunday when they came for a visit while in Vallarta for a few days. The storm surge I mentioned will be on the left (east) side of the hurricane's landfall, which, according to Dr. Masters, is Manzanillo.

2:12 pm, Friday: Suddenly I don't like the look of the satellite photo. Patricia seems to be dithering and may be moving north again. I examine the animated visuals of her current path over and over. What is she doing? Her new trajectory takes her directly toward the tip or (horrifyingly) past the tip of Cabo Corrientes, the mountainous peninsula that protects Puerto Vallarta ...and us. 

I don't want to tell Craig yet. I'll watch a bit longer. Damn you, Patricia. Turn!

I'm receiving panicked emails from my sister and friends in the States telling us to "get out now, the hurricane is turning north!" I reply that there is no getting out, as all the roads from San Pancho lead directly into the hurricane's projected path. Here, we have a safe basement where we can hunker down with our water and food and mattresses and candles. We have our friends and neighbors: our community. Out there, we have panicky people on wet curvy roads racing to some imagined haven. No, we'll stay put, I tell them.

Checked our supplies one more time. It'll take us two minutes to grab the last box and the ice chest and get to the basement.

3:15 pm, Friday: Well, we're ready if it comes. It looks to me like the storm is heading slightly east again, but my eyes are crossed from studying moving satellite images on the computer screen. We decide to take advantage of the electricity that we still have and go inside and watch an episode of True Detectives, Season 2. We want distraction. 

4:18 pm, Friday: Oh, my. A possible reprieve. Except for True Detectives, the past two hours have been hellish, waiting for the four o'clock National Hurricane Center update. And now I've read it and looked at all the new images and I think we shall indeed be spared the brunt of the storm.

The hurricane is nearly at the coast, less than a hundred miles south of Puerto Vallarta. It will hit land now unless it does a u-turn which is highly unlikely.

4:55 pm, Friday: Patricia touched the shoreline a few minutes ago. I watched it happen on the satellite. I think it came in somewhere near the villages of Melaque, Barra de Navidad, La Manzanilla. Sweet villages, all of them. They must be getting hammered. I suppose we'll know by tomorrow exactly where the hurricane entered Mexico. I read earlier that around the eye of the storm circulates a scant 15 miles of the highest wind speeds ever reliably recorded in a tropical cyclone anywhere on earth. One of the writers I read likened it to a 15-mile wide F4 or F5 tornado. Sitting here right now, I can't even imagine what that must have been like, what damage it must have incurred, what the people must be suffering. 

Here, the rain is falling more steadily, but the sky is still white-gray and the palms are barely moving in the breeze.

Given how near to us the storm made landfall, I expect some strong winds overnight tonight, maybe up to 60 miles an hour, but right now one would never know anything like that was out there.

Patricia is invisible to us.

5:20 pm, Friday: We still have power. I think the local deciders decided that there's no reason to turn it off yet. It is still perfectly calm here. I am pleased at their reasonableness and flexibility and relieved that we can continue to communicate with friends and family...and monitor the storm.

7:05 pm, Friday: The latest advisory released still has not removed the hurricane warning from our area.

Friday, 8:15 pm: We've been sitting at our customary table on the terrace having a few beers and watching the world from our perch. It's raining steadily, and the heat index is a lovely 30 degrees cooler than it was last night at this time, so we're comfortable. It is so uncharacteristically quiet, no one out and about and no traffic sounds from the highway which is still closed to traffic. In a few minutes I'll go make super nachos for dinner and we'll probably watch another episode. We have popcorn and Magnum Mini ice cream bars too.

Friday, 9 pm: I know the storm is creeping in right behind us. I'm looking at its photos and it sure looks like we should be getting some wind from its outer bands, but we're not. We've decided to sleep in the house. If it gets windy, I'll wake up and we can move downstairs if we feel the need.

Friday, 10:15 pm: I've read the 10:00 NHC update. The hurricane is weakening but it's only 50 miles south of us. Fifty miles! And nothing is happening here.

I send my last email of the day to family and friends telling them about our evening and our plan for tonight. Wonderful that we never lost power. Craig has gone to bed. We are exhausted, completely wrung out. I will follow shortly.

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Saturday afternoon, Oct. 24: I was awakened just after 1:00 this morning by the deepest roll of thunder I've ever heard, like echoing bass drums. My eyes opened immediately. I heard another, then the curtains over the open window beside the bed blew out to horizontal. I got up and closed the window. 

On and off through the night, each of us woke and heard the rain coming down. It sounded heavy, but it's amounted to less than 2" so far. This morning was beautiful and cool and calm.

The sun came out around 9:30, peeking through clouds at first, then steady and bright. Craig and I decided to go out to breakfast at Maria's. The town looks shiny and polished with all the surfaces still clean and wet. We saw half the people of San Pancho at Maria's or strolling past. Everyone is zombie-eyed this morning after that stressful day yesterday. Short chats, sharing stories of how it was for each of us, boggled amazement at having received nothing negative at all from Patricia, words of gratitude on everyone's lips.

We walked down to the beach after. Townfolk stood there, looking out at the ocean, shaking their heads and looking at each other in wonderment. "We're still here!" we heard, in both English and Spanish.

Sunday morning, Oct. 25: Last night we went to sunset to be with friends. We talked about how astonished we were that there had been no casualties from this monster storm. There is cleanup to do, some rebuilding in the towns nearest landfall, but Patricia was kind enough not to enter Mexico through a highly populated area and the Mexican government did a phenomenal job of protecting its citizens.

Thanks so much to all of you who called and emailed and sent messages for your care and love and support. 

We released a globo last night, a paper hot air balloon on which all who were there at the beach wrote a message. A Gratitude Globo, we called it. It rose perfectly and straight up nearly to the clouds before it flickered out.

A few minutes after that, we watched the International Space Station pass by right over us. I waved to Scott and thanked him for the pictures.

San Pancho is safe.

 

Detour: San Miguel de Allende

We returned home to Sauna Pancho on the nineteenth of September. That was way too early, but we knew that going in. We spent a week stunned by a 117° heat index doing whatever organizing for home and gallery we could fit in between long air-conditioned siestas, then packed the RAV and hit the road to high country.

We stopped in Ajijic for a visit and to watch the total lunar eclipse from Travis's roof.

Our further destination was central Mexico, the launch site of the Mexican Revolution, that dramatic high plateau of desert and forest and cropland so different from our jungle beach pueblito. It just so happened that during the two weeks we had decided to flee the heat before preparing to open the gallery, San Miguel de Allende was celebrating their biggest party of the year, their saint's name day. I knew Craig would flip out. I'd been there before, and so have you if you've been reading for a few years, but he'd not yet seen colonial Mexico nor the joyful insanity of La Fiesta de San Miguel.

From the house we rented, it was three long blocks downhill to Correo, then two sloped blocks further to the Jardin Principal, the main plaza. I couldn't wait to show Craig La Parroquia de San Miguel Arcángel, which I find to be one of the most beautiful buildings in the world. So we took our first walk of many on the night we arrived.

I love the story of this building, which is only a parish church, not a cathedral at all. It was built in the 1600's and was quite plain in its first incarnation, with the classic simple Mexican facade. Then, in the 1880's, an indigenous stonemason and bricklayer who had taught himself architecture took on the job of remodeling it. It is said that Zeferino Gutierrez used postcards and prints of European Gothic churches as his inspiration, but his design and execution were totally his own. 

It looks as if it were made with icing piped from a cake decorator's cone.

It is fluted and columned, arched and turreted, lofty and elegant and kitschy and convoluted beyond belief. Its colors change with the rising sun, with the setting sun, in the daylight and in the dark. 

I know, I can't help it. And these are only a few of the photos I took of this delicious and whimsical confection.

Okay, just one more...from a distance.

When we were not sitting at the Italian restaurant at the corner of the plaza gazing at the church and watching the festivities, we were wandering through the streets, cameras in hand. How can one not gape at the beauty of the architecture, the intricacies of the scenery, even the doorways and the simple daily sights of this little city?

I have more. Lots more. I haven't even taken you to the festival yet. We'll do that next, shall we?

In the meantime, I leave you with one more photo of La Parroquia de San Miguel Arcángel, just because.

Our Ten-Thousand Mile Summer

I did the numbers.

From the time we landed in St. Louis from Puerto Vallarta until our return home for the season a few days ago, we drove ten thousand miles this summer. I'm not counting flights, only our time in cars, on highways and back roads, exclaiming and pointing out to each other unceasing amazing sights. Usually Craig drove and I navigated, though I took the wheel when I most wanted to. With my paper maps crackling and fluttering, I'm a hell of a navigator, and when I'm not, we're totally into U-turns.

I love maps, always have. I've mentioned before in these columns that I have intentionally avoided GPS, and I'm often asked why in this day and age I don't make use of it. It's because I believe GPS would separate me from what I most love about travel: the exploration and the human contact.

My travel partner is as willing as I to take a risk now and then, to stop and ask when the route turns strange. Those moments, stumbling across an unexpected town or sign or covered bridge or forest, talking with the locals in order to discover where we've found ourselves, connecting with humans immersed in lives so different from mine, give me as much joy as anything about traveling. 

So it appears I left you last in Virginia. I was sorely tempted to do some detours in my writing, too, but decided for the sake of clarity to finish our east coast explorations. Virginia is so worth another story or two. After this, we'll zigzag around the North American continent at whatever whim arises.

On our way to Monticello, we stopped at the nearby Michie Tavern.

1784, did you see that? We will revisit that particular decade when we return to Mexico. One of the best things about traveling is getting a real feel for what was happening in different places at the same time in history.

In the brand new United States of America, Michie Tavern was one of those happening places. It was a tavern in the great old sense of the word: a place to rest, eat, water the horses, and sleep soundly for a night. Originally called an "Ordinary", the Michie also had an assembly room upstairs which served as the social center of the area, a place for performances, church services, and the political discussions that helped shape the young country.

We took the tour. How could we not? The hosts were gracious and welcoming and not one bit insistent, so of course we responded with eagerness and curiousity. Inside, the Michie has kept much of its old style.

Imagine arriving after a day's travel on horseback or by stagecoach, handing the horses over for food and grooming in the stable, and entering this room. The fire is blazing and there's food on the hob. Fancy a game with your fellow travelers? How about this one?

I'm going to make one of those. Simple, simple, but a challenge, as we found out when we tried it a couple of times. Roll the dice. What comes up? A seven. Now you have a choice: flip down 2 and 5? 3 and 4? 6 and 1? The object is to flip down all the wood markers without being stymied. Reminded me of craps, my favorite casino game: a knowledge of the odds is crucial, which comes from an understanding of the elegance of numbers.

I could almost hear the laughter, the clink of heavy coins being bet on the game, pipes lit, mugs filled with ale and hard cider as those early adventurers met in a warm and comfortable inn for the night.

I wonder what they ate? My guess is, pretty much what we ate.

We stood in line in the little old kitchen as they filled our pewter plates with old-timey food. Southern fried chicken, homemade mashed potatoes and gravy, stewed tomatoes and black eyed peas, biscuits and cornbread. In the common room where we sat to eat, friendly women passed every few minutes with platters piled high with seconds. "More?" Oh, sure. Country fried chicken? Gimme a break. And peach cobbler for dessert.

Yum.

Equally delicious were our drives on the Blue Ridge Parkway.

We drove to Lexington where we stopped for a while at the Stonewall Jackson Memorial Cemetery. 

We read the gravestones as we wandered back toward Jackson's tomb.

Jackson, who had been shot twice in the left arm by friendly fire, died a week later from pneumonia after having had the arm amputated. His arm was buried in another location altogether.

Stonewall Jackson's fellow Confederate general, Robert E. Lee, is buried nearby beneath the chapel of the Washington and Lee University. 

I found it fascinating to be traveling through the former Confederate states during the controversy over the Confederate flag. I mentioned in my last post that this part of Virginia struck me as being intelligent and educated. Local newspapers still thrive, a measure in my mind of independent thought, this one in Lexington itself.

As we drove each day from our somewhat secluded cabin in foothills, we passed through tiny communities. I noticed both the Confederate flag and the Stars and Stripes flying in front of homes and businesses, and was interested to see that the U.S. flag outnumbered the Confederate by a goodly margin. Yet the battle of the flags continued wherever we went in the south.

At the north end of the Blue Ridge Parkway, we strolled through Staunton, another smart and well-preserved town where our eyes popped at the windows of an antique store.

It was our kind of place for sure.

The only thing that kept us from going crazy here and in several other shops we visited was the knowledge of our several forthcoming flights and their baggage restrictions.

Eventually we bid farewell to what quickly became one of our favorite areas in the USA, and drove off east toward St. Louis to spend a bit more time with family before our flight to the Pacific Northwest. But we both know that something about Virginia captivated us, and we will return soon to drive the Parkway while the leaves are turning their autumn colors. We have this vision of a farm with a little house on it, and a great big weathered barn to remodel into a live-in studio.

See you later, Virginia. 

And yes, Virginia....

...there is a Virginia.

We spent a divine week in that gorgeous state, though we didn't see it all, preferring to hang out near the home of Thom Jefferson in the shadow of the Appalachians. To say we are enamored would be an understatement.

We ended up in Virginia in rather an odd way. We had no idea even while we were at Carol and Doug's in Ohio that we'd end up that far south. Our plans had been to take the northern route back to St. Louis, stopping at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland then on to Chicago for a few days.

Instead, while chatting one night with that delightful pair, we took out the good old paper map of the eastern half of the USA and decided to see what was within a 250 mile radius of their house, which we thought seemed like an easy day's cruise. I made an old-fashioned compass from two pencils and a string, Carol and I discovering the proper length of the string by measuring the map's mileage key. The resulting circle amazed me and Craig by just how much it (wait for it...) encompassed.

The states out there are real tiny compared to the west coast where I've spent much of my life, and the midwest where he's spent most of his. I mean, look at this:

See? You can cram half a dozen of those states into one ordinary west coast state, which explains my astonishment when we saw "Welcome to Whatever" every hour or two.

Anyway, we were right up there near where the Ohio border merges with the Pennsylvania border, and our pencil circle scooped up Virginia as nice as you please. Hmm, we thought, we've never been to Virginia, let's go there.

Carol, a former travel agent and now a travel planner and advisor extraordinaire, opened a drawer and started pulling out brochures: the Skyline Trail, Monticello, the Blue Ridge mountains. We were instantly convinced. I hit the internet and found a cabin to rent that looked just right, in the middle of all the brochure territory. Two days later, we headed south.

Virginia knocked our socks off. Oh, the history! And oh, how beautifully they preserve and cherish that history, not only in the more famous places but also in tiny towns along winding country roads. The houses made me swoon, the architecture of the town streets made me chatter unintelligibly even more than usual.

Staunton, Lexington, Charlottesville: those were the three towns in our daily driving tours. They are smart towns, each carefully and lovingly preserved, each with an institute of higher learning or two. The colleges and universities date from the beginning of American independence. These were the colleges of my youthful daydreams, dreams of intellectual privacy and escape and boundless learning; I wanted to start over every time we passed one.

In Charlotesville is Thomas Jefferson's University of Virginia. From his home in Monticello, he could watch the famous tower being built. I have no doubt he also put in some hands-on time.

I love Thomas Jefferson and the guidance he gave to that new nation. Some years back, I remember tearing up at the Jefferson Memorial in Washington, D.C., reading his words etched into the walls then looking up and remembering who was currently occupying the White House. But I diverge.

I love him most (I think) for what he said about education, and how he acted upon his philosophy. That is well told in these paragraphs from a National Park Service learning page:

Keeping with Jefferson's views that religious instruction be kept separate from university studies, he included neither church nor chapel in his design. Instead, the library stood, physically and symbolically, at the center of the plan, housed in the Rotunda. Jefferson also developed a list of 7,000 books to be acquired to fill the library building he had created. This in itself was revolutionary because libraries were not important features of other institutions where learning was based on students' recitation of facts memorized from professors' lectures.

In contrast, Jefferson believed that students should draw their own conclusions from hearing lectures, reading books, observing nature, and conducting scientific experiments. For this reason, he instituted an innovative elective system at the University of Virginia, rather than a fixed curriculum. There were no required courses; the students were free to choose from the available offerings. Jefferson explained, "This institution of my native state, the hobby of my old age, will be based on the illimitable freedom of the human mind to explore and to expose every subject susceptible of its contemplation."

Aahhhhh...

Of course, we made it a point to visit Monticello. In fact, Jefferson's home was one of the prime movers in our decision to travel to Virginia. You've seen images of his house many times, I'm sure, even if you haven't been there.

I wish I could show you his study and library and where he slept, but they didn't let me take pictures. The house tour was super, though, as was our subsequent wander through grounds and gardens.

It was Jefferson's idea to commission the Lewis and Clark Expedition in 1803. During their exploration, the pair sent seeds back to Monticello for the President's experimental gardens, which he'd had growing for years before that.

I suppose it was no accident that we followed or crossed the route of the Lewis and Clark Trail dozens of times in our travels, during which (on the eastern portion of the trip) we drove 8,000 miles, which is a little over twice the length of the Trail itself. The Trail begins, of course, in St. Louis, and seemed to meander wherever we drove. In the Pacific Northwest, we followed it along the Columbia when we left the Long Beach peninsula headed to Mount Rainier. 

We submerged ourselves in history as we experienced our own daily exploration. Next post, we'll go to Michie Tavern and the Blue Ridge Parkway and have a look at some other sides of Virginia.

Yes, Virginia, There Is a Santa Claus

Indiana, that is.

Now come on, who could resist a sign like that? We couldn't. Twice.

The first time, on our way from St. Louis, Missouri to Boondocks, Ohio, we went in search of a moment from Craig's childhood. When he was eight or nine, his parents took him and his younger brother Carl to the tiny town in Indiana named for that superhero of more innocent times. Craig's dad was a good guide and explorer on their family vacations, seeking out places he knew his family would enjoy. Craig and I have already retraced some of the steps they took, and he was eager to have an adult look at this childhood memory.

The trouble is, it wasn't there.

Instead of the sweet village he remembered, all we found was a humongous roller coaster theme park called Holiday World, with parking lots the size of the Great Lakes packed full of cars, trams crammed with families being delivered from myriad motels and cabins surrounding the park, and a horizon looped with coasters of every size and shape.

We stopped at the main sign and drove up and down a couple of side roads, but to no avail.

We couldn't find it. We commiserated over time's erasure of precious places and continued on our way.

Later, when Craig posted the experience on facebook, several readers said, yes, it is still there, that quaint homage to Christmas past. So on our westward tour back to Missouri, we pulled off the highway once more to search more closely.

And sure enough, it is there, tucked safely away behind the carparks and coasters, quietly continuing its traditions for those believers who care to come.

The twenty-two foot statue of Santa Claus, dedicated on Christmas day 1935, sits up on a rise, keeping watch over the three little buildings below. St. Paul's Santa Claus Church (don't ask me, I don't get it either) was built in 1880.

We loved the place, but then, we're both still eight year olds at heart.

Glass cases inside the museum are filled with toys from decades long gone.

Still intact is the set at which many thousands of children were photographed with Santa.

For four decades, Santa was Raymond James "Jim" Yellig, a man born and raised in the nearby village of Mariah Hill. Jim's story is a fairy tale in itself. He had his first taste of Being Santa while in the Navy during World War I, when he and his shipmates, docked in Brooklyn, decided to throw a Christmas party for the underprivileged children in the area. As he was from near Santa Claus, Indiana, the crew chose him to be Santa. Touched deeply by the experience, he promised that if he made it through the war safely, he would "forever be Santa Claus".

As lives do, Jim's moved on after the Navy, with marriage and work taking time and priority. He and his wife lived in Chicago for a while, then, in 1930, moved back to his Indiana hometown to open a restaurant. A few years later, Jim's good friend, the postmaster in Santa Claus, enlisted his help in answering the letters that children addressed to Santa, which the postal service delivered by the satchel to the town post office.

Jim rediscovered his passion. Shortly afterward, he began dressing as Santa for the children who came to visit Santa Claus Land, becoming so famous as his alter-ego that he even appeared on "What's My Line". Jim Yellig spent over half his life doing his particular service to the world, dying in 1984 at the age of 90. He was inducted into the International Santa Claus Hall of Fame in 2010.

On the wall are the most recent of the children's letters to Santa, some received in the mail, some written right here.

 These two are from the Santa Claus Land website:

 

I read another from a little boy suggesting that, since they didn't have a fireplace any more, Santa come in through the dryer vent; and one from a little girl listing her and her sister's clothing and shoe sizes. There are many poignant letters in the collection, too, asking for a home or a job for mom. 

Here in Santa Claus Land, the requests keep on coming in.

I wasn't sure why I decided to post this now instead of in a few months, but now I think I know. Maybe, with nearly a four month lead time 'til December 25th, we can think about this:

Because Santa is alive to the children, and I'll bet we can all figure out a way to help him out.