Thirty Dolls

The storm raged through the night, but morning brought a fragile stillness. The fields lay cloaked in a blanket of heavy snow, stretching over the hills, past the creek, and into the woods. I stood knee-deep, straining to hear the faint tap of hammers from a workshop a few miles away. It was their busy season, but nothing was stirring, not even a mouse.

Something was amiss. I jumped onto the snowmobile and hit the starter. The engine sputtered to life, its low groan rolling out across the frozen landscape. I kept the throttle wide open, barreling through the snow until I hit a small hill and went airborne, landing hard a few feet from the compound. The front gate stood partway open, unable to close against the deep drifts.

Snow covered the workshop’s roof. Inside, tools lay scattered across the tables, toys half-finished, a pot of coffee burnt down to a black crust. At one station stood a box wrapped in bright paper. Inside were twelve dolls, and beside them a note: If at all possible, could I get thirty dolls? Thirty. It seemed excessive—what little girl could need so many?

From the main house came a voice singing a holiday song in a slow, mournful tone. As I drew closer, the words came into focus. “Dashing through the snow...” The voice was slurred, heavy with pain.

I knocked, but no one answered. The singing carried on, seeping through the cracks in the door—an open wound, a cry for help.

Pushing, the door yielded, and I made my way to the kitchen. The scene became seared into my mind. My friend was in trouble.

The kitchen sink overflowed with dirty dishes, half-eaten cookies scattered across the counter, and eggnog cartons littered the floor. I picked one up, 40 proof. Slouching on a chair was the Jolly One himself, red jacket open, crumbs in his white beard, tee shirt not quite covering his belly. He lifted a hand in an over-eager wave, but the smile never reached his eyes, and his arm fell back onto the table with a thud.

There were rumors that the Big Guy was struggling, unable to deal with an increasingly caustic world. I hadn’t believed them. But now I knew it to be true. This was a man I admired. A man who had shaped my youth, who spread joy and goodwill across the globe. Now he teetered on the edge. Everything he stood for was being eroded. He was close to giving up; I could not let that happen.

Grabbing an empty glass, he poured me some eggnog—sloshing half of it over the rim and onto the table. “You’re a good friend.” He burped and thumped his chest. “Soocuss me... have a drink.”

Our eyes locked. For a long moment, we sat there, staring. His eyes were glassy. I wiped the corner of mine. Our friendship stretched across decades. It had been tested and forged, the impurities hammered away, leaving only what was true. A bond in which you could sit in silence, and say more than a river of words ever could.

“Come on,” he said, forcing a smile. “Drink up.”

I hesitated.

His fist slammed the table. “Too good to drink with me? Don’t want to be seen drinking with a has-been?” He lowered his head. “To hell with you.”

He tried to get out of his chair but fell back, tried again, the third time he made it to his feet, putting a heavy hand on the table to steady himself. I grabbed the other side to keep it from tipping over.

Stumbling toward the counter, he grabbed another carton of eggnog and a half-eaten platter of cookies. He tossed the cookies onto the table, a few sliding off the edge, and motioned for me to help myself. Then, with a trembling hand, he poured another drink and collapsed into the chair.

A grin formed, and his eyes twinkled. “Hey... remember back in the sixties?” He took a sip of his nog. “You were dating that hippie. Had that little candle shop on the lake.”

I chuckled and nodded.

“You made those rhubarb-scented candles. Man, they stank—like sour feet in a wet sack. And you wanted me to give them out as stocking stuffers.” He laughed, and his belly rolled. “Those were some good times. I mean, there were rough spots. Some downright awful things happened. But people never turned vicious. They didn’t insult each other for the sport of it.”

I shifted in my chair as his smile faded.

“The difference is, we didn’t lose hope.” I took a cookie. The room grew quiet. “Stopped by the shop. A lot of unfinished toys.”

“Yeah, well, what does it matter now?” He grabbed a cookie and dunked it in his eggnog. “Did you see the dolls?”

“Thirty dolls seems like a lot for one little girl.”

His eyes flared up. “A lot? What do you know?” He tossed the cookie onto the table. “The day after the holiday, she goes to a homeless shelter. Makes sure every little girl gets a doll.” He took a slug of eggnog. “Sometimes a little girl needs thirty dolls. Sometimes she needs a lot more.”

I bit my lip. It was foolish to question him. He wasn’t just a gift-giver—he was a teacher. He led by example. One quiet act of kindness from him, and thousands would follow. He reminded us what it meant to care, to be decent, to respect others.

And now, as we wade through a toxic age—where so-called leaders are bloated with ego, mock the vulnerable, lie without shame, and wear cruelty like a badge—we need him more than ever. God help us if we lose him.

“If you need help, I could—”

“No. It’s over,” he said. “I can’t run a workshop like this. The tariffs are killing me—twenty percent one day, fifty the next. And forget about my sub-contracts in Vietnam. There won’t be any toy soldiers this year.”

“Still... if we fire up the workshop, we can—”

He snapped. “Do you have any idea how hard it is to staff a workshop? Do you?”

I fumbled for words and looked away. He’d done his job for longer than any of us had a right to expect. Maybe it was our turn? Maybe the rest of us needed to carry the load? But could anyone really replace him?

“They come here,” he said, voice quieter now. “They work hard. Just trying to make a better life for their families.”

He picked up his eggnog, stared at it, then set it down untouched.

“I don’t need to see a birth certificate to know a good soul when I meet one.”

He tried to stand again, but slumped back into his chair.

“One little guy told me he couldn’t come this year. Said he was afraid. Had his papers, but sometimes, if you look different... they don’t bother to check.” He gave a sad laugh. “I offered to send a sled. Told him he could ride in style. But I could tell he was scared.”

A long pause.

“That’s when I shut the whole place down.”

He laid his head on the table and began to sing again. The same slow, sorrowful tune.

It drifted out the window and across the frozen tundra—the only sound for miles.

Mrs. C entered, glanced around the kitchen, and shook her head. She put on a pot of coffee and turned to me.

“Thank you for checking on him. I’ll take it from here.”

“Is he alright?”

She hesitated, then said, “No. But he will be. Not today, certainly not tomorrow. But soon.”

On my way out, I stopped by the workshop and began working on the 30 dolls. Before long, a little helper showed up and set about building a train set. Then another, and another, and another... Finally, one took the hammer out of my hand and said, “Don’t worry, no matter what, we won’t let the Big Guy down.”

I stepped into the snow and trudged forward, the only sound, crunching beneath my boots. It was going to be a long, hard winter. But eventually, a small bud would dare to poke through, stretch out its leaves, and reclaim the sun.