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CHRISTMAS AT THE AIRPORT
'Twas the night
before Christmas, and out on the ramp, |
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Not an airplane
was stirring, not even a Champ. |
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The aircraft were
fastened to tie downs with care, |
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In hopes that come
morning, they all would be there. |
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The fuel trucks were nestled, all
snug in their spots, |
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With gusts from two-forty, at 39
knots. |
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I slumped at the fuel desk, now
finally caught up, |
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And settled down comfortably,
resting my butt. |
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When the radio lit up with noise and
with chatter, |
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I turned up the scanner to see what
was the matter. |
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He called his position, no room for
denial, |
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"St. Nicholas One, turnin' left onto
final."
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And what to my wondering eyes should
appear, |
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But a Rutan-built sleigh, with eight
Rotax Reindeer! |
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A voice clearly heard over static
and snow, |
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Called for clearance to land at the
airport below. |
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He barked his transmission so lively
and quick, |
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I ran to the panel to turn up the
lights, |
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I'd have sworn that the call sign he
used was "St. Nick". |
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The better to welcome this magical
flight. |
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With vectors to
final, down the glideslope he came, |
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he passed all fixes, he called them by name: |
| "Now
Ringo! Now Tolga! Now Trini and Bacin! |
| On
Comet! On Cupid!" What pills was he takin'? |
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While the controller was sittin', and scratchin' his head, |
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phoned to my office, and I heard it with dread, |
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message he left was both urgent and dour: |
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"When Santa pulls in, have him please call the tower." |
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landed like silk, with the sled runners sparking, |
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I heard "Left at Charlie," and "Taxi to parking. |
| " He
slowed to a taxi, turned off of three-oh |
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stopped on the ramp with a "Ho, ho-ho-ho..." |
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| He
stepped out of the sleigh, but before he could talk, |
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ran out to meet him with my best set of chocks. |
| His
red helmet and goggles were covered with frost |
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his beard was all blackened from Reindeer exhaust. |
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| His
breath smelled like peppermint, gone slightly stale, |
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he puffed on a pipe, but he didn't inhale. |
| His
cheeks were all rosy and jiggled like jelly, |
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boots were as black as a crop duster's belly. |
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| He
was chubby and plump, in his suit of bright red, |
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he asked me to "fill it, with hundred low-lead. |
| " He
came dashing in from the snow-covered pump, |
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knew he was anxious for drainin' the sump. |
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spoke not a word, but went straight to my work, |
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I filled up the sleigh, but I spilled like a jerk. |
| He
came out of the restroom, and sighed in relief, |
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he picked up a phone for a Flight Service brief. |
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I thought as he silently scribed in his log, |
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These reindeer could land in an eighth-mile fog. |
| He
completed his pre-flight, from the front to the rear, |
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he put on his headset, and I heard him yell, "Clear!" |
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laying a finger on his push-to-talk, |
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called up the tower for clearance and squawk. |
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"Take taxiway Charlie, the southbound direction, |
| Turn
right three-two-zero at pilot's discretion" |
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| He
sped down the runway, the best of the best, |
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"Your traffic's a Grumman, inbound from the west." |
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I heard him proclaim, as he climbed thru the night, |
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"Merry Christmas to all!..... I have traffic in sight." |
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THIS
WAS WRITTEN BY THE WIFE OF A RETIRED |
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EASTERN AIRLINES PILOT |
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