Barb and Ken Marich
‘Twas the night before Christmas in SaddleBrooke’s glow, where retirees lounged peacefully—golf carts parked just so. The stockings were hung by the patio with care, while scorpions skittered around without care.
Residents were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of tee times danced in their heads. And Mama in her visor and I in mine, too, had just settled down after pickleball (set two).
When out in the driveway there arose such a clatter, I sprang from my recliner to see what was the matter. I hurried to the window—okay, more of a shuffle—tripped over the yoga mat, causing a mild kerfuffle.
The moon over the Catalinas gave off a great shine, lighting our desertscape like a runway design. When what to my bifocaled eyes should appear, a miniature sleigh pulled by eight seasoned mule deer.
With a sun-wrinkled driver, still spry and still quick, I knew in a moment it must be Saint Nick. More rapid than coyotes—those mule deer they came, and he whistled and shouted and called them by name.
Now Saguaro, now Mesquite, now Cholla and Prickly! On Sonora, on Ocotillo! On Roadrunner and Hickly. Dash past the wash, in the desert moonlight, now hurry and scurry, and don’t cause a fright!
He landed ker-plunk on the patio roof—I heard the prancing and pawing of each little hoof. Sunburned and thirsty from the desert heat, he wore shorts and sandals, his outfit complete!
He slipped through the slider—no chimney to fuss, placing gifts under the tree for all of us. Sugar-free cookies and vitamin B, golf tees and pickleballs, and Kaopectate for me.
He paused for a moment, surveyed the whole scene, smiling at SaddleBrooke all quiet and serene. He waved to the neighbors, gave a wink full of cheer, and whispered “Merry Christmas, see you all next year.”
Then back to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, and away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him mumble as he drove out of sight, “The desert is beautiful with the stars so bright.”