Violins and Santa Claus

Here we are, barreling toward Christmas during this darkest of months.  There is the tree, which is finally up and decorated.  There is the food, which is always full of butter or cheese or cream (or all three).  There are the parties, the cards (coming and eventually going out), the gifts (given and received), The Story of the Birth of Christ and – to anyone with small children – the story and work of good St. Nicholas.  What follows is a story of almost failing to help Santa when he asked.

Once upon a time, about two and a half years ago, a little girl wrote a letter to Santa Claus – St. Nicholas, Father Christmas, St. Nick – and asked for one simple gift.  “Dear Santa,” she wrote, “I have been a very good girl and would lik [sic] a violn [sic] for Christmas.”  The parents smiled, mailed the note and all was forgotten.  Christmas came along.  St. Nick called one night:

“Hello,” I said.

“Hello – father of the little girl who wants the violin?”

“Yes, this is he.”

“We have a problem,” Santa said, followed by a jolly old laugh.

It seemed Santa’s usual North Pole elfin factory for musical instruments had recently switched to just-in-time, lean, performance-based manufacturing and, contrary to all predictions, could not meet quota.  Santa needed me to source a place to build violins.  There were three days until Christmas.  “Can you help me find a place to get great violins for good boys and girls – including yours?”

This father did what any dad would in the situation:  put it off.  A day went by, another night.  The morning of the last day before Christmas Eve the father’s wife spoke.  “Don’t you think you should help Santa with the violin?” she asked gently.  I googled.

After some poking and searching I found a website for a company which sells violins to dealers.  The company, Metropolitan Music, had a Stowe, Vermont address.  Our home town. There was a phone number.  I called.

Okay, it was a day before Christmas Eve:  I called and got a recording and thought ‘what the heck, it’s a long shot, but Father Christmas asked me to do this,’ so I left a message, explaining the problem.  I left my cell number.  I have no hope I can fill Santa's request, let alone our daughter's.  I texted Santa and said he should stock up on other toys and books for our sweet little girl because I did not think I'd found him a violinmaker.  I told my wife I had failed.

Early in the morning on that Christmas Eve, and again, like any good Dad in our little mountain town on the day before the Birth of Christ, I went skiing.  I put in a long, hard day on Mt. Mansfield.

It snowed all day that Christmas Eve. A light, fresh coat covered the slopes, shrouding the mountain in quiet.  Even skis under foot were silent.  With each turn down the hill the only sound was creaking boots, light wind.  The shouts of other skiers and boarders were muffled.  The snow covering the narrow and spindly front gave way like water.  The silence on these ribbons was broken only by a muffled rumble as the chairs rolled past the towers on their rope.

I remember the next call came late in the day:  I had forgotten all about my commitment to help Santa, the skiing was that good.  When the phone rang at first I leapt with excitement!  But in an instant I was filled with dread.  It was Santa.

“Santa,” I muttered.  “I’ve got nothing.”

Silence from Santa is a biting rebuke; the heavy pause of disappointment.  I sat, with the phone in my ear, waiting for a word.  “Oh well,” Santa finally said.  “You tried.”

I hung my head in shame – tried?  Not very hard.  I had put it off, made one call, left a message, gone skiing.  I was a lousy elf.

But the skiing was good!  Back out I went.  My spirits rose with each turn down the well-formed bump lines and long undulating groomers.  By the end of the day I was tired, worn out, almost at peace.  I raced to change.

Our Little Church was holding the Children’s Christmas Pageant.  I needed to hurry to make it to see the wee ones act out the discovery of the Savior.  The shepherds tending their flock, the Angels on high singing the praise of the birth of the Lord Christ, the wise men discovering the baby Jesus, asleep in a Manger.  
The phone rang again.  I answered, expecting another chastisement.

“Hello, David.  This is Metropolitan Music.”

“Hallelujah!”

Not only did this company, in Stowe since 1977, build, import, and distribute fine violins worldwide, they had a violin for Santa to give to my little girl.

“Where are you,” I asked, hoping to help Santa out.

“The Mountain Road.”

“Where on the Mountain Road?  I’m just coming down Harlow Hill!"  I could barely contain my excitement.  I was just leaving the ski area.  If they were nearby I could maybe see them before church.

“Turn right just past the Matterhorn.”  (The Matterhorn is a bar, not a mountain.)

I was driving past the Matterhorn as we spoke!  I hit the brakes, spun the wheel, kicked up gravel and slid to a stop at the bright red shed housing the company.  Inside I saw men hard at work building instruments and tools.  Along the shelves were bodies for violins, strings, shoulder rests, finished instruments, tools for musicians and instrument builders.  Two Ducati’s sat, waiting patiently for spring, on the clean factory floor.  Santa would be pleased, I thought.  
I dialed NORTHPOLE001.  When I told Santa what I’d found the belly laugh was so loud I had to hold the phone away from my ear.

I raced the rest of the way to the church.  I arrived just as the shepherds began their walk toward the manger.  I swear I heard, above the din of the ohhing and ahhing of parents, the slight jingle of sleigh bells.  Santa was, I thought, heading up toward the Matterhorn to make a pick-up.  
All was right with the world.  I felt nothing but wishes for Peace on Earth and good will toward all.  
Merry Christmas.

David Rocchio lives, works and writes in Stowe, Vermont. (c) 2010 David Rocchio