’Twas A Typo About Christmas

It's been awhile! There's a lot to catch up on, but for now I gift you this brain dump. There's a catch, though. If you don't know the story of how the NORAD Santa Tracker came about, please read this and watch this.

Okay, now that you've done your homework, please read this disclaimer: the following post contains many liberties by me and a few facts as you read in your homework. Having made more than a few typos in my day, I've often wondered about the person who put in the wrong phone number and what the experience was like for them. So without further ado, I bring you (the likely poorly punctuated original poem I wrote instead of making Christmas cookies):

'Twas A Typo About Christmas

Twas the night before deadline, when all through the shop,

production crews were frantic; there was no time to stop.

The text had to be set, the layout complete;

the ad for the client’s store must be tidy and neat.

The copy editor, graphic designer and more,

had to make sure to include the ad for the store;

The store that invited people to call,

and included a phone number for one and for all.

But in the rush of production, a mistake was made.

No fact checker or proofreader read the entire page.

So, a number was published in ink and on paper;

and once that is done, there’s no fixing it later.

For the presses were running,

and paperboys humming,

Christmas tunes that filled their head,

So early out of bed.

They filled their sacks,

and grabbed a few snacks,

before they started their route,

to get the news out.

On door steps they landed,

the papers rubber banded;

The printed news of the town;

the paperboys never let you down.

After the thud of the bundle hitting the door,

parents would venture out, to see what was in store;

After reading the columns of events and news,

a young child saw the tabloid, while her father took a snooze.

Grabbing the paper, perhaps searching for the comics,

the little girl stopped at an ad; the black ink dark as onyx.

On the ad was a picture - a caricature of Santa,

and an invitation to call him directly, oh Mylanta!

The girl went to the phone and dialed the number;

her hands were shaking; her mind full of wonder.

Would he answer the call? Would he know who she was?

Would he tell her if she was on the nice list? The line started to buzz.

“Who is this?” said a man, not happy at all.

“Why is there a child making this call?”

This phone number was secret, no one should know;

for this number was set up should war be a go.

“How did you get this number?” the man grumbled.

And then came a response, that rendered him humbled.

“Is this Santa?” the little girl asked.

Her little voice quivered, her breath made a gasp.

“Santa?” the man questioned with irritation.

This man wasn’t Santa, he was a colonel defending our nation.

Was this a prank? Was our country’s safety compromised?

The man was annoyed, one could see irritation in his eyes.

“Is this one of Santa’s elves then?” the child continued to ask.

The angry colonel softened and understood his next task.

Piecing together the clues of the night,

the colonel realized there was only one way to make this right.

A nearby airman was assigned with the duty,

to answer the children’s questions about the North Pole and Rudy.

Word of the direct line to Santa quickly spread,

and call after call were made before bed.

But across town, a different mood was set.

One of fear and dread of the consequences to be met.

For in the rush of the season with deadlines looming,

a slip of the finger had someone’s boss’s voice booming.

“Do you know what you’ve done? What your mistake has caused?

Children are calling the defense department looking for Santa Claus.”

“How could you get this wrong?” the boss question boldly.

“You could lose your job,” the boss said coldly.

The employee was sorry, they didn’t know what to say;

many sets of eyes reviewed the ad before the team called it a day.

When the ad was sent to the paper for inclusion,

no one thought twice about its created delusion.

But perhaps that’s where the beauty of this story lies;

Not in the typo but in the Christmas spirit disguise.

What are the odds of that one number off,

slipping past reviewers and editors without so much as a scoff.

That one number wrong, a typo carelessly made,

sending calls to military men who knew how to bade

the directions of their leader who had a choice;

disappoint the children or be Santa’s voice.

The colonel who first answered the phone,

was a father himself, with children of his own.

And that night, his team put the playbook on the shelf.

They understood the importance of stepping into the role of the jolly old elf.

So, a tradition was born out of actions not intended.

A mistake was made but was soon mended.

A typo of magnificent proportions was printed,

and from it, the dreams of children were minted.

For out of this blunder,

they secured the children’s wonder;

and they have carried on a tradition,

as part of a much bigger mission.

It would have been easy to make heads role;

the stress of the mistake could certainly take its toll.

We are all human, and we have all made a mistake,

but how we choose to handle those errors, that is what can make us great.

The colonel’s response to the typo is one we should embrace;

to put the error in perspective and to show some grace.

Now, I’m not saying typos are good.

I have made many (including here, I’m sure) but let it be understood,

that we are all flawed and doing our best.

And for many, each day is truly a test.

We know the roles we play are crucial to a process,

that business is business, and there’s no time for nonsense.

But don’t forget that child inside;

the one you’ve convinced needs to run and hide.

While you’re being and adult - serious and mature -

please don’t forget what is in your true nature.

Teach where you can and be a guide;

provide second chances and kindness far and wide.

Be the good people see;

a role model they want to be.

And as far as trying new phone numbers, here’s mine

867-5309.

Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Here’s to doing our best to try to get it right!

Sincerely,

Jenny (just kidding. I'm a Jen or a Jennifer not a Jenny. But for the sake of art...)