Looking for Mrs. Santa Claus

            Somewhere, on a tropical paradise south of the North Pole . . .

            Shadows of coconut palm trees cast against a white sand beach, deserted except for a giant beach umbrella.

            Waves splash.  Seagulls honk, noisily.

            Bing Crosby, sounding a little tinny and crackling thin, croons “White Christmas” out of a beach boom box.  Then Bing disappears into the butter melting voice of Pippa McKenzie, announcing the Personals on the radio show  “Lovin’, Lookin’ or Leavin’ “--

            “Sizzling Sugar Cookie in Sweetwater, Mississippi is looking

for love.  Must have own hair. No cats. Cute ears. Naughty sugar and spice, in NYC is looking for a Teddy Bear to tickle her pink.”

            Suddenly, the wind plays tricks.  The beach umbrella tilts, rolls and somersaults up and over the most fantastic sandcastle imaginable. With towers and turrets. draw-bridge and moat.  Decorated with seashells of every kind -- Angel wings and kitten paws, shark tooth and turkey wings. Kneeling down beside the castle is a diminutive figure in a broad brimmed straw bonnet. She grasps hold of the umbrella, and rises, spinning magically, sprinkling the castle with pearls of spilt sand. Higher and higher, she twirls. Her bare toes, painted rather curiously polka dot red and green, tickle the warm wind. She throws back her head, laughing. Then, she whistles.

            It is the kind of whistle that only old dogs can hear. For it comes, not from human lips, but from the depth of the human soul.

            And then, from out of the sea comes a flash of fur, shaking ferociously. Pounding wet sand, flying. An old, old greyhound, looking more like a chocolate chip cookie, rises slowly, majestically, racing the waves. Challenging the wind. Her great paws swim through the air, her wings (which are invisible) beat at an incredible speed. Up she flies, higher and higher, until she wrestles the umbrella out of the grip of the naughty wind, catches it in her teeth and gracefully drops it at the bare toes of the sand sculptor.

            The sand artist scratches the dog between her ears. Grateful, the old greyhound flops over on her belly, tongue hanging sideways and shakes.

            “Thank you.”

            Settling into a beach chair, the sand sulptor leans down, gathers wet sand, shaping it into a sleigh, then eight tiny reindeer and then, a greyhound which she places at the very lead. As Pippa continues with the Personals, (“Forty. Fat and Fabulous in Tucson, Arizona, seeks soul-mate to dance Hot Salsa and eat.  Chocolate kisses an extra treat!”) the old dog and sand sculptor gaze out over a seascape of Christmas sand sculptures--Candy Canes, a Bell and an Elf.

            Pippa, sounding ever so perky, purrs-- “Lucky in love. Lucky in life. Well, that’s it for our Personals on this balmy Christmas day eve. And for “Lovin’, Lookin’ or Leavin’, I’m Pippa wishing you the love of your life and a very Merry Christmas.’      

            The boom box sizzles into static and then silence The small sand sculptor opens a large carpet bag, takes out a lap-top and promptly types--

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