{"id":6014,"date":"2026-03-19T18:12:09","date_gmt":"2026-03-19T23:12:09","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/petersipe.com\/?page_id=6014"},"modified":"2026-03-19T18:13:16","modified_gmt":"2026-03-19T23:13:16","slug":"the-ballad-of-father-christmas","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/petersipe.com\/?page_id=6014","title":{"rendered":"The Ballad of Father Christmas"},"content":{"rendered":"

(Blood + Honey<\/em>, March 2026<\/a>)<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Before the service, Bill\u2019s buddies had been passing around a newspaper. His obituary had a whopper of a misprint, and this produced equal measures of mirth and scorn. There were a lot of jokes about Bill doing a disappearing act. I even chuckled, thinking of him flinging open the lid and shouting \u201cTa-da!\u201d But when the guys marched down the aisle with their horns, I got teary-eyed along with everyone else.<\/p>\n

I joined them at the VFW afterward. Someone offered round sardines, and we each dangled one into our mouths. Bill used to eat whole tins in front of seasick Marines for laughs. Most of the stories were old, but the one about Kennedy’s funeral was entirely news to me.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

I knew they’d met; Bill kept a framed photo in his den. On the flight deck, the president shook hands with each musician. Although Kennedy’s back was to the camera, you could tell Bill had him laughing. He was leaning forward with a hand on Bill’s shoulder, as if for support.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

But I\u2019d never heard a word from Bill about the funeral. According to his buddies, the Navy even flew Bill off the carrier straight to Arlington, but no one had much else to say. There was a long spell where the guys were looking at their bottles and shaking their heads.<\/p>\n

They became animated again at mention of the bugler ultimately selected to perform. There was much unfavorable comparison of his chops to Bill’s, which was silenced when Bill Jr., in his dress whites, leaped up and motioned for quiet.<\/p>\n

\u201cGentlemen!” he announced, sweeping his arms as if to enthrall an audience. “My old man would never have flubbed that note. He was a talented magician<\/i>!\u201d That cracked us all up. Then Bill Jr. said he\u2019d carry on the family tradition by demonstrating a trick to make beer vanish, and the toasts got going again.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

Bill and I had gone to high school together, then he enlisted and I went to college. After earning my degree I did the Peace Corps, staying on afterward, hoping my deferments would outlast the war. I wound up at the embassy library in Guinea, keeping the periodicals current and showing whatever films arrived in the weekly bag.<\/p>\n

There were only a handful of visitors any day \u2013 gendarmes were posted right across the road \u2013 so it was a surprise when the Ambassador walked through the doors one morning and let drop a folder on my desk. I\u2019d met him when I was hired, but only ever saw him at the monthly staff meeting.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cExplain this,\u201d he said. \u201cAnd sit down.\u201d Protocol was to stand whenever he entered a room.<\/p>\n

I opened the folder. It was receipts, for subscriptions and the like. Nothing, as best I could see, was out of line. I looked up for guidance.<\/p>\n

He folded his arms. \u201cFix it. Or you’ll lose your job.\u201d<\/p>\n

He began to laugh. \u201cRelax, son! You’re not spending enough!\u201d The library, he said, hadn’t spent even half its allocation, and the fiscal year was about to close.<\/p>\n

I asked what I should buy. \u201cYou’re the librarian,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

At the door he turned around. \u201cSpeaking of purchasing. Sergeant tells me you\u2019re buying whiskey off his Marines. That true?\u201d I nodded quickly, not meeting his gaze. \u201cWell. I’m disappointed in you.”<\/p>\n

He walked back over to my desk and folded his arms again. “I don’t know your upbringing, young man, but I was reared to be mannerly. Make sure others are served first. Freshen their drinks when they get low.” He started chuckling. “Son, I’m going to have you fix that, too!\u201d<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

With that, I saw a lot more of him. In the evenings the headlights of his Cadillac would lead the way down to my bungalow, sat on a bumpy elbow of the capital’s peninsula. \u201cPlay me a record,\u201d he’d say, \u201cand make sure this\u201d \u2013 he wiggled his glass \u2013 \u201cstays full. Captain’s orders.\u201d Our tastes differed considerably: he was a big band man, I had modern affections. \u201cMy jazz is a gin and tonic,” he said once. “Yours? I’d say it’s more of a quinine enema.”<\/p>\n

Some evenings he’d talk about his wartime service \u2013 the boredom and oppressive climate were the same as here, he said \u2013 and sometimes we’d talk literature. He’d walk around my living room and pick out a book from the shelves. \u201cTell me what I need to know about this one, professor,\u201d he’d say. He was a well educated man, and I suspect much of what I told him wasn’t news, but he’d nod thoughtfully as I spoke, and never interrupted.<\/p>\n

I interrupted him once. It was to good-naturedly mock a term he used, \u201cthe Pacific War.\u201d He got sharp with me. \u201cAny jackass can find the foolishness,\u201d he said. I awaited the balance of this maxim, but he returned to his story.<\/p>\n

The Ambassador’s visits were about the only social life I had, especially since fraternization was forbidden. He had a daughter, who was very pretty, at an East Coast school, and I kept perking up whenever he mentioned she wanted to visit. When I said I’d be happy to show her around, he gave me a look and said, \u201cOh, I bet you would.\u201d<\/p>\n

In his wallet’s laminate insert there was also a snapshot of a handsome young man in a flight suit. I\u2019d asked if that was his son.<\/p>\n

\u201cYes,\u201d he replied. I asked if he was a pilot.<\/p>\n

\u201cNaval aviator,\u201d he said tightly.<\/p>\n

So I switched the subject back to his daughter. She was, apparently, now dating a student who had burned his draft card. \u201cI’m all right with a man not wearing his country’s uniform,” he said, speaking like each word, despite rehearsal, required restraint. “But a man has got to serve his country.” He gestured outward, as if to indicate our general situation.<\/p>\n

The Ambassador set down his glass and closed his eyes. He was breathing slowly and appeared to be nodding off, which he did sometimes. Then he told me if I touched his glass he would throw me in the brig.<\/p>\n

For all the time he spent over at my place, we actually didn’t talk much. During rainy season, we’d sit indoors; otherwise, we’d sit on the veranda and watch lightning over the bay. We were on the Atlantic\u2019s edge, but it felt like the planet’s balcony when bolts lit up the horizon. Whatever the weather, we’d sip whiskey until the bottle was half empty, or finally empty. Then he’d say, \u201cWell, professor, keep the receipt for that one,\u201d and steer the Cadillac back to his residence, where he lived alone.<\/p>\n

***<\/p>\n

One empty morning the desk phone rang. The Ambassador told me to go home and put on my suit. He was going to the palace and needed a note taker. As I got my tie right in the mirror, it occurred to me to fetch one of the unopened LPs from a recent shipment, The Real Ambassadors<\/i>.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat’s that?\u201d he asked when I opened the passenger door. I told him it was my mannered upbringing, adding that I’d wrapped it myself.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

He looked like I’d proposed an outrage. “Leave it.”<\/p>\n

When I got back in the car, however, he instructed me to go get the gift. \u201cIt might not be a bad idea. But I do the talking. That means, you keep quiet. Understand?\u201d<\/p>\n

We sat in the reception hall for close to an hour. On the way upstairs, the Ambassador explained that the waits tended to be commensurate with the President’s displeasure. Our chairs were spaced too far apart for casual conversation, so I sat back and took in the glass and gilt. After a few minutes I leaned across and asked the Ambassador whether the guards took drink orders.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe North Koreans train them to stand like that,\u201d he said. \u201cSay, I reckon it’s like Buckingham Palace. Go up and kiss one. I’ll snap a photo for the folks back home.\u201d<\/p>\n

Finally the doors opened. The presidential office was a compressed version of the reception hall, but with a view of the harbor. We stood in the entryway until the President finished stamping and signing documents. He pushed back his chair and regarded us both. Most famous people are smaller, but not him.<\/p>\n

He stood up and walked to the window. There were no wrinkles in his robe. I wondered if he worked in his shorts and threw on the robe before visitors showed up.<\/p>\n

\u201cL’Am\u00e9rique<\/i>!\u201d the President said, facing the bay. \u201cQue faites-vous<\/i>?\u201d<\/p>\n

The Ambassador neither moved nor spoke.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The President tapped the pane. \u201cThe Soviet Union sends that ship to train our navy.\u201d He tapped again. \u201cThe Soviet Union sends that aircraft carrier to train our pilots. The Soviet Union understands\u201d \u2013 he tapped his head with a wise index finger \u2013 \u201cour struggle. America!” the President repeated, “what do you do?\u201d He spoke the kind of French I liked, each word distinct.<\/p>\n

Now he turned around, but did not leave the window. His glare, while certainly conveying contempt, also expressed aggrievement.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is the librarian?\u201d The Ambassador nodded.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The President looked at me like he intended to administer punishment. \u201cMy citizens tell me about the films you show.”<\/p>\n

And with that he really laid it on, the whole better-freedom-in-poverty-than-riches-in-chains routine. It lasted a while, during which I had the sense it would be unwise to open my notebook. When he was done speaking, he began to make a kind of clucking sound. It had a matronly chagrin to it, like my grandmother watching the six o’clock news.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

\u201cMr. Librarian,\u201d he said. \u201cIf you please, tell me. Is it your birthday or are you Father Christmas?\u201d<\/p>\n

I told him I was honored to offer this gift on behalf of the people of the United States.<\/p>\n

He came forward \u2013 he was pretty agile \u2013 and seized it. He asked if he could open it now, or if he had to be a good boy and wait. I replied that such matters were decided at the presidential level. He laughed like he’d heard a bawdy joke, and pointed that finger at the Ambassador. \u201cWhere do you find these fellows?\u201d<\/p>\n

He ripped off the paper and examined the album. Holding it with both hands, he walked back to the window. He was silent for several minutes. All I could hear was the exasperation of the air conditioners. I glanced at the Ambassador, and decided not to look that way again.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis,\u201d he announced, raising the album prophetically, \u201cis why our nations will be friends.\u201d<\/p>\n

He said that jazz was true American music because it was also true African music, and spoke of seeing Louis Armstrong in Paris (\u201cle grand Sash-mo!<\/i>\u201d), and swore that as long as America respected jazz music, America would respect Africa, and that it would be on this basis of mutual respect that friendship would develop. He smiled like he was waiting for applause to quiet.<\/p>\n

\u201cDo you know the Voice of the Revolution?\u201d he asked, in the manner of a host pleasantly changing the subject.<\/p>\n

I saw the Ambassador lower his eyes and narrow his mouth, as if trying to formulate an answer. I replied that our library was proud to hold all the Voice of the Revolution’s albums.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The President gave the Ambassador that same laugh and finger wag. Then he became solemn again. \u201cAmerica, your independence day is arriving. As you know, ours arrives thereafter. I propose this to you. We will send to you the Voice of the Revolution to celebrate, together, your liberation from the shackles of colonialism. I will leave America to respond as suits America.\u201d<\/p>\n

He pointed to the door. \u201cAnd now, my friends, I must return to affairs of state. I thank you for your visit! Et merci, mon P\u00e8re No\u00ebl<\/i>!\u201d He had a shop steward’s grip. I’ll say this, too, he smelled terrific.<\/p>\n