The Town Where Reindeer Really Fly
Merrimac, Massachusetts is the kind of town you’d expect to see in a Hallmark Christmas movie. Nestled along the north shore of the Merrimack River, it was originally slated to be part of New Hampshire, with the river serving as the state boundary, but in the end, the boundary was set a few miles farther north. One elderly citizen jokes, “I’m glad they didn’t make that river the state boundary after all, because I never could have stood those cold New Hampshire winters!”
The town’s narrow streets are lined with colonial houses, and the local families have deep roots. While I now live 3000 miles away, my family still lives in the house I grew up in, just ten minutes’ drive from the site where my ancestress, Sarah Wilde, lived in 1692.
It’s no surprise, then, that Merrimac is a town of many traditions. The most beloved tradition of all is Santa’s Christmas Eve ride. Every Christmas Eve, Santa climbs into his open sleigh atop a flatbed trailer at the Fire Station, and from there, rides through every street in town. The route takes over four hours. Only once in its nearly seventy year history has the ride been canceled, on a night in the late fifties when road conditions were deemed too treacherous even for Santa.
The sleigh itself is still the original, with only two modifications — the addition of Rudolph to complete the set of nine reindeer in 1969, and a clear windshield added in the mid-seventies to give Santa some slight protection from the elements.
The position of town Santa is not taken up lightly, nor lightly laid down. Each man who has served has continued the tradition for as long as he was physically able, only then choosing a worthy successor to replace him. Through most of my years there, the suit was worn by Roy Keiser. One of the Christmas images imprinted most indelibly on my mind — and my heart— is the image of him as he passed our house every Christmas Eve, leaning out of the sleigh with his arms flung wide as if to embrace us all, his ruddy face aglow with the light from the sleigh, and his booming voice calling, “Meeeeery Christmas, Shaw family!”
My family lives halfway up the hill on Middle Road in Merrimacport, the oldest section of the town. From this vantage point, a fortunate few are privileged to witness a Christmas miracle. As it reaches the bottom of the hill, Santa’s sleigh disappears around a corner. For a few seconds everyone holds their breath, waiting. And then it happens. First the reindeer and then the sleigh appear through the treetops, climbing steadily as the reindeer take flight into the darkened sky.
It’s an accident of geography. At the bottom of Middle Road, Santa’s route takes a sharp right turn, and a few moments later, begins the slow, steep climb up High Street. High Street itself is shielded from view by a dense stand of trees but the lights of the sleigh shine brightly through the branches as it climbs the hill, so that the sleigh appears to rise into the sky. At least, that’s what the locals will tell you if you ask. New Englanders, you see, are very protective of their secrets.
