The Ghosts In The Shop

On this Christmas Eve, I wish to post an ode to one of the greatest writers of the 20th century, and one of his greatest writings. G. K. Chesterton published “The Shop of Ghosts” in and around 1906. Ever since, it has been a staple of Christmas lore— passed down from generation to generation. As a nod to Mr. Chesterton and his work, I’ve written “The Ghosts in the Shop.” I am by no means stating that I am his equal… I am simply using my passion for writing to bring recognition and reverence to a man who has helped shape my life, and the lives of so many others. I pray you find joy in reading my prose, and that it helps you travel back in time to an era that was less chaotic and far superior to what we have today. Blessings to you all, and Merry Christmas.

The Ghosts In The Shop

There are very few experiences that culminate in a wealth of joy, excitement, and nostalgia like Christmas shopping. Precious memories come flooding in thanks to the sights, sounds, and smells of the season that permeate small towns and villages across the land. The twinkling lights that wrap city lamp posts, the ornaments that accessorize every tree on Main Street, and the tinsel— ahhh, the tinsel– tinsel as far as the eye can see. Sparkling like stars in the midnight sky.

The quaint little shops with their festive decorations brilliantly presented for all the world to see. Their window displays welcome and give warm reception to all who walk by and peek inside with hopes of finding that one special gift that will bring a smile to the face of someone special. This is where I find myself. Gazing through the window of the local toy store located in the center of Georgetown. Tucked neatly amongst the art gallery, pizza parlour, and the women’s fashion store. It is a small vintage toy store located on the South side of the picturesque town square.

There is very little traffic on this Christmas Eve, as most people finished their shopping days ago. I myself purchased the last gift on my list over two weeks prior, yet I find myself on a stroll– pipe in hand— watching the shops turn in for the night… not to open again until after Christmas has passed.

The Courthouse Square has become shuttered and still. The last of the shoppers are loading packages into their cars and beginning their trek back home. There they will probably partake in cups of hot cocoa, sweet pastries, and delectable cookies and tarts before they lay down for a peaceful rest ahead of tomorrow’s festivities. The night has grown silent.

Suddenly, it is just me and the little toy store. I seem to find myself here every year. As I peer through the window of the little toy shop, the thoughts of Christmases past flood my mind. The little store, and its timeless toys, seems to exist outside of ordinary time. I take one last draw of my pipe. The leaves in its bowl, now spent. As I contemplate loading more tobacco into my briar, I find that I’m lost in memories that have been initiated by the various toys and gadgets that lay before me. There, beyond the model airplanes, is a particular toy train that reminds me of the HO gauge train set that my father and I used to put together each year at Christmas to encircle the floor around the base of our grand Christmas tree. That memory prompts a series of recollections of my father, mother, sister, and I setting out on a plethora of holiday excursions to roadside tree lots to procure the various Fraser Firs that adorned our humble home throughout the many Christmases of my childhood.

My glance turns to a set of toy holstered six-guns strategically hanging from one of the three load-bearing columns in the center of the store. I cannot tell you how many outlaws I gunned down or how many damsels in distress I rescued wearing a similar rig. I would channel my inner John Wayne as I swaggered throughout my neighborhood. Very few boys back then had a set of pistols as beautiful as mine, and none of them were as quick on the draw as I was.

As I stand studying the layout of the little store through the massive display window, my attention is drawn to the candy aisle— that exquisite exhibit of confectionery treats that sits behind the counter just beyond the cash register. It stands as if at attention… poised and ready to reward the sweet-toothed fancy of child and adult alike.

Just then, I notice the portly, white-haired gentleman sitting on a stool behind the counter. He too is smoking a pipe— a churchwarden. He strokes a long white beard as he looks lost in thought, as if he is contemplating the weight of life itself… and perhaps he is. His long-sleeved red shirt is dirty, torn, and a bit tattered. The suspenders he is wearing are just as worn and stained— with what I can only imagine is coffee… or Irish whiskey… or possibly chewing tobacco. Watching him contemplate life, I’m quite startled because his eyes have made contact with my own. The simple smile he’s given me lets me know I’ve been invited in for the pleasantry of conversation, a bowl of tobacco, or perhaps a dram. The dram isn’t a too far-fetched assumption, after all, what self-respecting shop owner wouldn’t have a wee bit of the Cratur about?

“Welcome, young man.”

He has obviously lost his glasses– for I have not seen the right side of fifty in quite some time. In addition, the shade of gray in my beard and mustache is quickly approaching that of his.

“Why, thank you, fine sir,” I reply, as I enter his humble little shop.

Entering the store, it is obvious that it appears darker inside than it did when I was standing outside spectating. Maybe he was in the midst of turning out the lights when he stopped to fire up a bowl. Nevertheless, making my way to the counter, I extend my hand and begin to introduce myself, when suddenly (and rather dramatically), the old man grasps my hand mid-air and exclaims, “Welcome inside, Mitch. It’s a blessing to have the pleasure of your company tonight.”

I am slightly confused at how he knows my name, and I feel like I should be on guard, but I am not. My confusion quickly subsides as my opposition to his firm and aggressive handshake causes my eyes to meet his. There, in the depths of his cherubim-like smile, I find not only solace, but a feeling like I’ve been re-introduced to an old friend. Confidently, and without hesitation, I simply ask, “Father Christmas?”

“Why, of course, my boy,” he responds.

“But… what are you doing here? I believed you dead.”

“Not dead yet,” he responded. “But my time is quickly coming to an end, my child.”

I find myself amazed and confused all at the same moment, as his smile slightly turns itself into a small pout. There is a touch of sadness to his retort. Suddenly, the door’s bell clangs rather loudly as a slightly older and much slender man enters. The brim of his fedora is pulled low, and his long coat is damp to some degree due to the now steady rain that has crept into the town square over the past few minutes.

“Good evening, Christmas! So you’re not dead. I am so glad,” the slender man gently remarked with a nod to the old man, followed by a firm handshake.

“Good evening to you, Mr. President. No… not dead yet,” answered our host as he welcomed the man and returned his handshake.

As the man removed his hat, he revealed his narrow, yet genial eyes. A friendly smile and a nod in my direction, and then he disappeared into the darkness that consumed the rear of the little shop.

I know that face. If ever a boy had a political hero, mine was him.

“Father Christmas, was that Calvin Coolidge?”

“Why, indeed it was my son.”

I must be in heaven. I must have come to some grand demise while out shopping on the square. For I’m in the presence of Kris Kringle as well as one of the greatest leaders of the American populace. This is indeed the greatest toy store!

As these thoughts run rampant through my mind, the tiny shop’s entry bell rings once more. In the doorway stands a mighty man. Hair grayed, but well manicured. His skin, like leather, and a stern face that emitted that same hardness. His uniform: American Navy. The medals over his heart were outnumbered by the gold rings around the cuff of his coat. Gracefully walking among the toys, candy, and children’s books, one can’t help but notice a lifetime of military in his step. This man I know well, as we are fellow Texans. I’ve read volumes on the topic of his exploits in the Pacific during World War II. I find myself in the presence of another of my heroes.

A polite grin in my direction, followed by an even larger grin as his eyes find the old man in the store.

“Good evening, Father Christmas,” said the soldier. “I was told you were dead. I’m so glad my informant was mistaken.”

“Ahhh, Admiral! It has been too long. Good to see you, old friend… and no, not dead yet.”

As he takes off his peaked hat, he is scanning the store as if looking for a lost watch. In a moment, his eyes have locked onto the shop’s phone.

“Mind if I make a quick call, dear sir?” he asks the old shopkeeper.

“Not at all. Feel free.”

I never noticed until this very second the old candlestick phone sitting on the counter next to the register. I’ve only seen that style in vintage movies. Admiral Nimitz picks up the receiver and places it next to his ear, then starts talking into the mouthpiece.

“Yes, operator? Connect me to 22 Sutton Place. Yes, I’ll wait.”

“Who might you be calling at this hour of the night, Chester,” inquired Father Christmas.

Before the words have barely left his mouth, the intended party answers.

“Nick! Hey, it’s Chet. I’m here at the shop. No… not at all. He’s still alive.”

Evidently, I am not the only one in this strange universe of dreams that thought Santa Claus was no more. Whoever is on the other side of the line finds himself in the party of those of us who have been made aware, and happily so, that Kris Kringle is still among the living.

“That’s great, Nick. I’ll see the two of you in a few. Bye now.”

I doth believe we have more company coming to the little store.

As I stand pondering with anticipation who might be entering the door of this little shop next, the Admiral pats our ancient host on the back and walks toward the back of the room, disappearing into the shadows.

Strolling through the quaint shop, I begin to examine the simple, yet beautiful toys. Over there, trains. In that corner, wooden soldiers. On the wall opposite the check-out counter, shelves full of dolls. And scattered throughout the store, one finds some of the greatest children’s literature ever written. It is a child’s paradise.

As an avid train lover, I find myself eyeing a wooden train set, complete with Engine, Caboose, and two passenger cars in between. Just looking at it takes me back in time. To when I was a young man and I held the world in the palm of my hand. Home.

Picking it up, I walk over to the old man and ask, “How much?”

“No charge, my boy.”

“Surely you can’t just give this exquisite locomotive away. Please, let me pay you.”

“Not at all, lad. Everything in this store is free of charge. Always has been, always will be.”

How completely strange. How on Earth can the man make a profit? After all, the world turns on profit, does it not? At that very moment… the door’s bell.

Looking toward the door, I see the most regal couple. A man and his wife. I have never met them before, but the way they interact… the way they hold themselves… the way they are dressed… how truly carefree they seem. There can only be two people who fit this description and have such a unique presence.

“Well, hello Nick and Nora! We are so blessed to have you join us this evening,” said the elder host.

“See love, he’s not dead. Why, the grand old man looks as jolly as he did a century ago.”

Running toward him, the young lady threw her arms around the elder greybeard’s neck and exclaimed, “I’ve missed you Papa Noel!”

At hearing this, he gave her a gentle wink, as if the term of endearment had a special story that only the two of them were privy.

Do my eyes deceive me? Can it truly be Nick and Nora Charles standing before me? But, they are mere characters in a book. They are not real, by any stretch of the imagination. Are they? My mind is in a frenzy. Confusion sets in. Then, noticing me across the shop, the pair laughingly cross to the spot where I stand dumbfounded. Pulling a flask from his jacket pocket, the great detective offers me a drink.

“You, sir, need a drink. This will help you, old boy. I promise,” he says with a grin that confesses he’s already had a few swigs from the flask.

“Oh Nicky! Don’t corrupt the poor boy. Perhaps he’s a milk drinker,” says the beautiful bride by his side.

Giving each other an endearing look of affection, then granting me a nod, they walk toward the back of the little shop, never taking their eyes off of each other, and then they too fade into the shadows like the two guests before them.

Suddenly, the smell of pipe tobacco fills the air. As I look at Father Christmas, he is puffing passionately from his churchwarden that now appears to be as ancient as he. With a smile and a wink, he motions his head toward the back of the building. What was once a cave of shadows, is now a brightly lit corner where the guests have congregated around a table. Telling stories of laughter, adventure, and conquests.

There sits the detective and his wife, the Admiral, and the President. Father Christmas has joined them. But there is a new face… another guest. One who must have been here all along. One who was waiting as our host welcomed me and the others. He too is partaking in a bowl of tobacco from a thick-bowled billiard pipe. He looks up from the conversation at hand just long enough to greet me with a smile.

I’d know that hair… that pipe… that traditional British country attire… that round face anywhere. Chesterton. One of the greatest authors of the 20th century.

He’s motioning to the chair next to him. “Come, my boy. Have a seat next to me. Let us talk for a while… before we all have to go.”

“Thank you, Mr. Chesterton,” I reply.

“Please, lad… call me Gil.”

Sitting, I am in awe. G.K. Chesterton. A man who has filled my mind with stories, wit, and debate for decades. His penmanship is what encouraged me to write. He is truly a legend… if only in my mind.

I sit and talk to him for what seems like hours. I have various conversations with the others, but mostly with him. We talk about religion, politics, and the humor that life affords.

Looking around, I can’t believe that I am in the company of the people (real and fictitious) who have had a great impact on my life. They have each helped shape me into the man I am today. I am completely in awe. I know at some point I will have to wake up, but for now, I am the happiest man alive.

“Merry Christmas, my boy,” says Father Christmas from across the table. His cheeks, now rosier than they were before. His eyes, now happier than they were before. His entire demeanor, now more joyful than it was before.

And then, an epiphany— a man will be haunted… or helped… by the things he loves.

“Thank you, Father Christmas. You sir, are definitely not dead. You sir, will never die,” I replied.

Suddenly, a glorious and respectful, “Here! Here!” is voiced by every guest. Each raising a glass, flask, or pipe toward the old man in honor of his righteousness, tradition, and compassion. Each one of us, blessed to simply be in his presence.

Merry Christmas!