He did it! He finally came through. After all these years, the fat guy in the red suit granted my wish. Miracles do happen.

My particular miracle revolves around a Christmas wish I’ve has since I was a small boy. I’ve had my wish ever since I got my first set of small, green, plastic army men. One of the men amongst the platoon of troops stood erect, and carried a double-cylindrical pack on his back and a nozzle on the end of a hose in his hands. He was one bad dude. Since that day, I have wanted what he had. That first Christmas, I wrote to Santa Claus with but one wish. I wanted a flamethrower.

Santa ignored my initial request. Instead, he gave me socks and underwear. I was disappointed, but never gave up on my dream. I continued to ask Santa for a new flamethrower.

I can understand why Santa wouldn’t want a young boy of eight years to own such as destructive device. Young boys are still developing moral standards. A flamethrower in the hands of such a youth could have dire consequences. A sibling’s dolls could become scorched. A neighbor’s prized rose bush could be singed. Ants could get vaporized.

I continued to write to Santa asking for a flamethrower. Even during my teens, when I had pretty much stopped believing in him, I wrote, just in case I was wrong about the whole North Pole thing. Santa continued to disappoint me. I figured that he would not want such a weapon in the hands of a wayward adolescent. Teenaged boys back then tended to watch too many war shows on TV, such as Combat, Rat Patrol or Twelve O’clock High. The destruction meted out could be immense. The closest I came to having a flamethrower was of my own design. I taped a Bic cigarette lighter to a can of hairspray. A push of a button and a flick of the Bic produced a four-foot flame would make Vic Morrow smile.

I gave up writing letters to Santa as adulthood consumed me. Wives, kids, and jobs became my primary areas of responsibility. Even though a flamethrower would have been quite handy when my daughter’s suitors came around, I forgot about my dream. For close to forty years, I received other, more suitable gifts for Christmas, such as ties, coffee mugs, and more socks and underwear.

Now I’m retired. I still have a wife, but the kids are grown up and out of the house and my job is a recent memory. I have times on my hands. On a shopping trip to buy gifts for my grandson, I saw a gift from the past. I was a bag of small, green, plastic army men. Memories of my youth took over my thoughts. Later that day, I was in a hardware store. I found an item at the front counter that made me smile. I was a mini-flamethrower, the type used to start campfires, light candles, or ignite gas stoves. They had triggers for ignition, and a handle for an easy grip. All it needed was a large container of flammable mixture to become a bona fide flamethrower. I told my wife that I would like to have one of the ignitors for Christmas. When I arrived home, I sat down and wrote a letter to Santa. Once more, I asked for a flamethrower. I convinced him (lied) that I’d been good all year. I posted the letter the next day. I then quickly forgot about my foolishness.

Christmas Day arrived. After breakfast, my wife and I moved to the living room and opened presents by the tree. The last one I opened was from Santa. He got me the ignitor. Later that day, I retrieved a can of hairspray that I purchased earlier. I also got a roll of duct tape. Within minutes, I had my first and only flamethrower. I thanked Santa from the bottom of my heart, went outside, and tested my new toy. In a matter of seconds, I scorched the side of our house, singed a cactus, vaporized a spider, and badly burnt three fingers on my right hand. My wife took my flamethrower away from me and dismantled it. My dream is over.

I have a feeling I’m going to be getting socks and underwear next year for Christmas.