“You will bask in the sunlight one moment, be shattered on the rocks the next. What makes you a man is what you do when that storm comes.”

Edmond Dantes

The Count Of Monte Cristo

For whatever reason, this one bothers me more than most. Maybe it’s his age, the way he died, all the unknowns still unknown. “Tragic” does not seem to be a strong enough word.

Following is a story I wrote a week ago recapping the life – and murder – of a 17-year-old. It first appeared in The Newnan Times-Herald.

(Editor’s note: Times-Herald staff writer John Winters has been following the Blake Chappell case since it broke before Christmas.) 

Blake Chappell loved skateboarding; he was a master at Guitar Hero.

On Facebook, there is a photo of him sitting, guitar in hand, playing that video game.

“When he played, he would turn around and talk to me… and not miss a single note on that game. He amazed me with it,” a friend posted below the photo.

That photo pops up on other Facebook pages.

“He didn’t just play it, he owned it and every other song any of the Guitar Hero’s had to offer,” another wrote.

One of his favorite songs to play was “Carry On My Wayward Son,” a Top 40 hit by the band Kansas.

On Dec. 29, 2011, Chappell’s friends and family gathered to hear that song again.

It was at his funeral service.

* * *

Chappell’s body was pulled from a creek running through the upscale Newnan SummerGrove neighborhood Dec. 19, 2011. The last time friends and family had contact with him was two months prior — Oct. 16.

The decomposed body was in the water for at least several days. He was clad in nothing but underwear and an undershirt. An autopsy showed he was shot.

Citing the ongoing investigation, Newnan Police Department officials will not release the location of the gunshot or if there was more than one.

It was the first and only homicide in Newnan in 2011.

The city is offering a $20,000 reward, its largest ever, for information leading to the arrest and conviction of those involved.

* * *

“He was my best friend, my whole world pretty much,” Kaitlyn Haas said. “And my world shattered when I found out. He was such a friendly person. I don’t know why anyone would do this to him.”

Haas has a photo of Chappell running across the top of her Facebook page. She’s planning on getting a tattoo in his memory. She’s still working on the design, but knows she one thing that will be on it.

It’s the date 2-17-09, “which is when we started being best friends (our friendship-aversary).”

Haas said she last spoke to Chappell about a week before he went missing.

“He was so fun loving and full of life. He always made sure everyone was happy before he was,” she said.

“He lived by the motto, “Live for today. Tomorrow is never promised.”

* * *

As of now, police do not have any suspects, said Newnan Police Deputy Chief Rodney Riggs.

The department received about 20 or so calls after the $20,000 reward offer was publicized.

Riggs called them “decent leads” and police continue to follow them up.

“These were people who were genuinely concerned about Blake and what happened,” Riggs said. “There are no eyewitnesses, but someone heard something we should check out or thought we ought to talk to someone.”

Police interviewed a few people who might have had some “confrontation” with Chappell in the past, but all were cleared.

“We continue to interview friends and follow up,” Riggs said. “We are waiting for the crime lab to give us some information that may help us in what direction we need to proceed.”

Riggs declined to comment on what that information is they await.

* * *

Melissa Chappell Becker, Blake’s mother, also has a Facebook page.

On Dec. 27, 2011, she posted a notice about the times and dates for visitation and funeral services for her son.

Her next post came Jan. 1.

“Newnan Police Department is offering a $20,000 reward for information leading to the arrest of the person or persons who took my son’s life. Please, if you have any information call the police department.”

She’s also posted that same photo of her son playing Guitar Hero. There’s another one taken at the funeral; others show him hanging out with friends.

And then there’s one of what anyone would simply call a cute couple. It’s a smiling Chappell with his arm around his girlfriend. He’s in all black with a blue and pink striped tie.

“The day before he was murdered, Homecoming dance,” his mother wrote in the caption.

* * *

Police are still unsure when Chappell was killed or where.

“We have not determined the exact location of the shooting,” Riggs said, adding they believe the body was placed in the creek that runs alongside the driving range at SummerGrove’s golf course.

Despite what television crime shows can do in an hour, determining time of death is not always an exact science. The water temperature and the decaying body have made it difficult for the Georgia Bureau of Investigation’s crime lab to give police a time of death, or even how long the body was in the water.

Authorities believe Chappell’s body was put in the creek somewhere between Lower Fayetteville Road and the bridge at SummerGrove Parkway.

Chappell’s body was found face down about 20-25 yards past the south end of the bridge. Soon after the discovery, friends placed flowers, balloons and other memorabilia on the bridge.

Investigators have walked the banks and raked the creek, but have not found any other clothing, Riggs said.

* * *

As of this week, 204 people have signed up to a Facebook “events” page to remember Chappell.

“Take a moment of silence to remember all the good memories you had with Blake and to pay your respects to him,” it says.

The event is set for Feb. 7, Chappell’s birthday.

There is a link to a video tribute there. And there’s also a lot of comments, although those have died down and the last post was Jan. 3.

There is also another plea from his mother.

“Thank you all for your support during this time. I am asking that if you have ANY information about who was involved in his murder to please, please contact the Newnan Police Department. You may remain anonymous, please help us provide justice for Blake.”

Here’s the link: https://www.facebook.com/events/267022253355403/

Another site, R.I.P. Blake Chappell, has dozens of photos. But it too has gone quiet. It’s at: https://www.facebook.com/pages/RIP-Blake-Chapelle/153332924770036

* * *

On Oct. 15 of last year, Chappell and his girlfriend attended the homecoming dance at East Coweta High School.

Afterward, he went to a friend’s house on Highwoods Parkway. He left there about 2 a.m. and went to his girlfriend’s house over on Avondale Circle in the nearby Olmstead neighborhood.

He left around 5 a.m. after his girlfriend’s parents caught him. He then sent a series of texts to various friends, as well as his girlfriend and her mother, for about 30 minutes.

According to Riggs, his last text — this to his girlfriend — was made around 5:30 a.m.

Later that morning his girlfriend called the friend’s house on Highwoods Parkway, where Chappell said he was headed, Riggs said. The friend said Chappell never showed up.

Friends, the girlfriend and her parents began looking for Chappell. One of them flagged down a police vehicle patrolling in the SummerGrove area. The officer put out a bulletin and advised them to call Chappell’s mother to make a missing person’s report, Riggs said.

Chappell’s mother called the police later that morning after being notified about her son’s disappearance.

* * *

Some comments made on various Facebook pages as they were written:

“I miss you so so much”

“it will never be the same without you here. i miss you man”

“Blake. I ride in my car everyday. Ive never looked in the back seat & started crying bc all I could see was you sittin there smilen lookin at me in the front seat. I remember shay sayin yall just kiss already. & we kissed finally! Lol.”

“blake you will never be forgotten you touched my heart in so many ways and i will miss you every sec of my life i love u sweetheart”

“R.I.P Blake. Known for your red hair, jumpy attitude, but caring personality”

“Blake, I remember all the things we did it was stupid and crazy, but God only knows how much I miss you !! I miss talking on the phone most of the night with you. I actually miss sneaking out with you!”

“Blake you were one of my first ever boyfriends. i remember sitting in class getting in trouble everyday for holding hands.”

“blake . everyone loved you so much. you meant so much to everyone that knew you . you made everyone smile, you touched everyones heart . you will be greatly missed & always remembered.

* * *

Police did not suspect foul play at the time of Chappell’s disappearance.

“The officer interviewed the friends and there was some thought he (Chappell) might have run away because of issues going on in his life at the time,” Riggs said.

His case was treated as other missing persons incidents, with officers given photos to check while on routine patrol. There were no known medical problems that could cause Chappell to be incapacitated and he did not have any known enemies who had threatened him, Riggs said.

Authorities obtained the text records of Chappell’s phone, and have talked with everyone he communicated with during those last hours.

None of those interviewed are suspects, Riggs said, adding the texts involved friends, Chappell’s girlfriend and her parents.

* * *

“He was a one-of-a-kind person. He would always stand by you. If you were ever in trouble, he’d be there. Blake helped so many people and he changed so many lives.”

I remember writing down those words.

They were spoken by Brent Beaman, who lived on the same street as Chappell. Beaman made and posted the video tribute to Chappell.

“I know his one wish would be for us to cherish every minute of our lives, to live every day as if it’s our last, as he did. There wasn’t a happier man.”

I remember writing down those words.

They were spoken by Michael Ripley, Chappell’s half-brother.

I remember writing down those words as I sat next to Deputy Chief Riggs on a pew in the chapel.

And I remember, after they spoke, the song “Carry On My Wayward Son” played.

And I remember it was Dec. 29, 2011 — my 50th birthday.

And I remember that Blake Tyler was only 17.

The Little Black Dress was adamant she would be watching said show. The SONS of Thunder were pretty adamant they would not. The Dress pointed out if the SONS would like to earn some “points,” it might be wise for them to join her for a while. And let’s face it, the fact the SONS need lots of “points” right now was fairly well implied.

So with a few “ughs” and “do we have to” comments, the SONS settled down. As least settled down as much as the SONS can when they are forced to do something they really don’t want to – which basically means they didn’t.

Anyway … so the young ladies start parading and it is obvious a little competition is starting among the SONS. They are all pushing for their “birth” state. Youngest with Georgia, Middle has Nebraska and Eldest takes Alaska. The Dress is pushing Miss Oklahoma all the way.

The reason for that is she competed in Miss Oklahoma for several years. The only blemish to that incredibly fine organization is that The Dress never won the state title. Everyone makes mistakes.

The SONS are quite happy with Miss Oklahoma as well. They lived there for about two years, yours truly and The Dress grew up there, plenty of friends and family are still there. And, well, you know, mom was in that competition.

Well, Top 10 come out and all three of the SONS’ home states are out. Which means they are basically “out” as in continuing to watch.

Yeah, and then comes the bathing suit competition.

“Um, we can hang around for a little longer if you really, really want us to mom.”

“You all know she won that don’t you,” I point out to the SONS.

“Won, won what” they all ask.

“Um, the swimsuit competition.”

Total silence.

They look up at the television, look over at The Dress, look at the television … back and forth.

And I’m cracking up watching that interaction. Because you know at one level they are looking at these 18 to 20 year-olds and trying to equate that age with The Dress’s age, which we all know is 29. So it’s not a hard leap, but still …

And I also see a little bit of pride and a few winks and high-fives among the SONS.

So the swimsuit competition ends and then there’s the whole talent thing and the SONS are like, so gone after that. And The Dress gives her blessing so they are like, seriously and physically gone.

For some reason, I am a master at these competitions. I always get at least two out of the Top 5 and almost always pick the winner. I got three out of the Top 5 this year. But I admit, I did pick The Dress, or rather, she allowed me to pick her, so I do have some good practice.

Anyway, so with it down to the Top 5 The Dress and I are pulling all out for Miss Oklahoma. And The Dress is going crazy with all her “Go Betty,” “Go Betty”- like it’s some big football game or some huge national competition for young women with a title like Miss America or something on the line.

Miss Oklahoma misses by one – she’s runner-up. And yet The Dress is quite proud of Miss Betty Thompson.

The Dress will see Miss Betty soon.

The Miss Oklahoma pageant will be gearing up this summer. The Dress will be there, as will all the contestants. The young ladies are competing for the crown – the Miss Oklahoma title.

The Dress will be there, helping and showing them another Crown.

You see, The Dress was named this year as chaplain for the Miss Oklahoma pageant. Her role is to mentor and guide and also to help them “win” the true Crown. Only one wears the Miss Oklahoma crown; each of those young ladies can win the Crown – the Crown of Life.

I can’t think of a better title – and position – for the Little Black Dress. And while I know the LBD really wanted the state crown, I also know she’s really, really pumped about this title.

And honestly, I like the title better.

Abbe Faria: “It doesn’t matter, He believes in you.”

From the 2002 movie, The Count of Monte Cristo

Her birth month – The Dress does not believe in a single special day – is October. Didn’t happen, the doll house completion I mean.

So we decided it would be a nice Thanksgiving treat. Or maybe not. So let’s shoot for a big Christmas present. Getting there, but still no cigar.

What a great way to start off the New Year. Oh, that was soooooo close.

I’m writing this in mid-January. Minus some molding around the outside under the siding, The Dress has her doll house. I’m pretty sure the two of us could never build a house together if it was anything like this little endeavor.

I did not build said doll house – a contractor friend got that task. Did I just say contractor? For a doll house? And If I had a nickel for every time I asked “why aren’t we done yet?” Well …

Oh yes. Because you see, there are doll houses and then there are doll houses. I refer to it as the doll house simply because that’s what the SONS of Thunder call it. As in, “where’s mom?” “She’s out in her doll house.”

Personally, I think the term “shed” is adequate.

But as anyone knows, one does not use the word “shed” and “The Dress” in the same sentence.

To The Dress, it is her refuge. Her design area. Her creative space. Or simply, The Cottage.

And already she is moving all her “creative treasures” out of the garage and into her cottage or creative space or whatever. And I may soon be able to actually walk through said garage. That makes me happy. Happy that she will have her very own place for her stuff treasures. For those who wonder about the differences between the two of us regarding stuff treasures, please see this blog.

After nearly four months, The Dress is beginning to smile. The Cottage or doll house or whatever is slowly taking shape. We are able to move somewhat in our garage and the rest of the house is slowly emptying of stuff treasures.

Which means of course the doll house is beginning to fill up.

Which means of course that in-between the “I love it,” and “Thank you” and “you are the most awesome man of all time” comments, there is an occasional “maybe we should have made it a little bigger.”

For the record, the shed Cottage is roughly 300 square feet – 20 feet long and 16 feet wide. It might be bigger than our bedroom.

Once The Dress is satisfied – satisfied that all creative treasures are in their proper place and the landscaping is done and the final molding and the shrubs planted and walkways built and …

We’ll give you one of those video tours.

But for now, The Cottage stands – waiting for the creatively to flow.

The LBD's Cottage

He was 17. I didn’t even know his name until about 10 days ago.

That might give you pause; one could say that is not how one envisions celebrating such a milestone as a 50th birthday. It’s a big number. There are certain rules to follow on hitting the big 5-0 – gatherings of friends and family, gifts of adult diapers and wheelchairs.

I attended the funeral for two reasons. One, to show respect to a young man who is now taking up a large part of my life. Second, to go back to the office afterward and write about that service. It was my own small way of trying to contribute something to a tragedy one can only call senseless.

There is a photo of Blake Tyler Chappell, wearing all black with a bit of color – a blue and pink striped tie. He has his arm around his girlfriend. They are off to a dance at one of our high schools. It is Oct. 15.

Early on the morning of Oct. 16, he left a friend’s house and went by his girlfriend’s. He stayed there a while and headed back toward the first friend’s house. He never arrived. His mother filed a missing person report later that day.

On Dec. 19, police found a body in a creek running through one of the more upscale subdivisions in our town. The creek runs alongside the driving range at the golf club there. The body was clad in only underpants and an undershirt. It had been in the water for some time, the body had obvious signs of decay. An autopsy a few days later determined the victim died from a gunshot.

That autopsy also identified the victim as Blake. Those dates are correct – he was missing for more than two months. Exactly where he was killed and when are still unknown.

And I have covered this story since the body was found. And every day I learn a little bit more about Blake and what happened, or at least what we think happened. But there are still no firm answers.

Birthdays, especially those big ones with zeros at the end, always seem to bring about a time of reflection. We review the past – the successes; yet also the failures. I’ve had plenty of both.

I think too often we dwell on those failures. In a way that’s alright, but only if we learn from those failures. Simply dwelling on a failure and not learning from it defeats the purpose. We need to remember the past if only to learn how to do whatever better the next time. The past is done. It cannot be changed.

During Blake’s memorial service, the minister had the incredibly difficult task of trying to make sense of it all. You really can’t, but he did it as well as anyone could under the circumstances.

At one point he asked the question – that in light of everything that happened, is God still in control?

“I can assure you He is,” the minister said.

And I think that’s what I took away more than anything. God is still in control. We may not think He is, but that doesn’t change the fact that God is God. And, to be blunt, I think often times we don’t want God in control; we want to run our own path. That doesn’t change anything. God is still God. He is still in control.

The question is will we let Him be?

It was a surreal day. I remember the Little Black Dress looking at me as I headed off to work. And I sort of joked about this being a birthday I would never forget – going to cover a funeral on my 50th.

And she gave me a kiss and a big hug and a bigger smile. And that pretty well prepped me for the upcoming day.

It was a surreal day, but despite what you’ve read, it was not morbid.

Family called from across the country; more friends than I knew I had posted Happy Birthday wishes on that social media giant I can’t stand.

AARP was kind enough to send me a membership card. Its cheaper if you go with the five-year plan in case you were wondering. And yes, I too wonder how in the heck they found me.

And The Dress and the SONS of Thunder joined me at one of those Japanese steak houses where they cook in front of you. And you spend the entire night trying to convince the SONS that the grill really is hot and please don’t touch it and …

And we had a great chef, who would throw pieces of cooked egg up in the air and let the SONS try to catch them in their mouths. And they thought that was really cool and why don’t we do that at home and …

Once home, the clan had a few presents for me. One was a paella pan. An authentic one. That’s something I’ve always wanted to learn to make. So I have a new goal.

There is a scene in one of the Indiana Jones movies, the one about them trying to find the Holy Grail. For some reason it has flashed throughout my mind all day – including at the memorial service for Blake.

It’s the scene where Indiana Jones has to pick the right cup. If he doesn’t, well, let’s just say it’s one scene the middle SON absolutely refuses to watch. It involves flesh-eating. The old crusader, who has guarded it the Grail for centuries, looks at Indiana and says, “choose wisely.”

This is my life. This is your life. It is what you make it. Remember what is really important – family, friends, God.

Choose wisely.

I believe in it, because it is impossible.

From the book, Salmon Fishing In The Yemen

By that I mean if you’re going to fulfill that dream of sailing solo around the world, you might want to make sure you can get across a small lake in a Sunfish first. And that you are okay with the whole concept of having conversations with yourself, and by that I mean answering yourself, for weeks at a time.

Think about that.

Anyway, recently yours truly and two other dads decided to hike Pine Mountain in Georgia, along with an assortment of SONS. Those SONS including all three SONS of Thunder, one SON of Lightening and one SON of Scoutmaster. A 23-mile hike and we were going to spread it out over three days/two nights.

And yes, I know hikers on the Appalachian Trail can do a 23-miler in a day. Again, baby steps. We have the SONS to think about. And I’m getting old.

The plan was six miles the first day, 12 the second and wrap it up with the remaining six or so on the third day.

You know that expression about one’s eyes being bigger than their stomach? Keep that in mind.

So prior to this little jaunt we hit the Backpacking and Camping Store of Nirvana. Loaded up Middle SON with a new one-man tent for his birthday, got Youngest SON a new backpack and somehow Oldest SON, who has everything possible relating to backpacking, somehow found a few things he absolutely, positively, had to have.

I of course needed nothing.

I just shot coffee out my nose writing that.

Anyway, we get back and pack all necessary stuff in said backpacks. For the record, I am not one of those “ultra minimalist” backpackers. I don’t cut the corners off the maps and saw the toothbrush in half to save 0.34 ounces. On the other hand, I don’t pack the kitchen sink either. I use a lightweight backpacking stove

I’m more toward the “light” backpacker. But, there are some things I will not go without. Like a sleeping bag and pad, especially when it’s 30 degrees outside. I can pack pretty light and I actually understand the whole backpack weight to body weight ratio and all that.

Now Youngest SON is also the Smallest SON, and for some reason that whole formula is going out the window. Because there’s no way I can get his backpack weight down despite taking pretty much everything out of it. The thing still seems to weigh about what he does.

And it’s slightly unstable. I know this because every time he leans slightly one way, he just keeps tipping until he’s on the ground.

But we finally get everything figured out and the big day arrives. Off we go.

And to my amazement, we actually get more than a mile down the trail without a “are we there yet?” As is almost always the case, we started the day slightly behind schedule. And with it being winter and the whole loss of daylight hours, we kind of need to “hoof” it to get to our campsite before darkness descends.

And because we have to “hoof” it, the SONS start dragging. And the more we dads “encourage” said “hoofing,” the more the SONS “drag.”

You’d think we were on the Bataan Death March or something. I mean, the whole shuffling feet, head down, gasping for air,  ”I can’t go another step” blah, blah, routine.

Yet somehow we make it to camp and set up right as darkness falls.

And suddenly our little Death March survivors have turned into High-Fiving Chipmunks, cause they are up and down, climbing and jumping and just basically acting like, well, chipmunks in the woods. Where did all that energy come from?

As we finally get ready to bed down for the night, I start doing a few calculations. Going at a somewhat normal pace, we can do about two miles an hour. Tomorrow is a 12-mile hike, meaning about six hours of hiking.

But then we need to factor in the “rests.” Said “rests” will include several snack breaks, followed by even more water breaks and every “we’re at the bottom of the hill so we need to rest so we can make it up,” followed by “we made it to the top so now we need to rest to restore our energy,” to the proverbial “I can’t go another step” rest.

I’m beginning to think this whole trip is not going to turn out as planned.

So in the morning we have a quick dad conference and agree we’ll do the first six miles and just take it from there. One dad left his car at that six-mile point, so if needed, we can call it quits. So we explain our plan to all the SONS. If anyone wants to, they can go back home at that point, while whoever wants to can continue.

The reactions are interesting. Our plan totally ticks off Youngest Thunder SON, who is adamant we are going to do the whole 12-mile stretch, camp and spend the night and  then do the finally six miles the next day. And for the first mile all he does is sulk about not the possibility – possibility mind you – we aren’t going to do the whole thing.

Middle SON quite adamantly says he is absolutely, positively going to be stopping at that six-mile marker.  And that goal becomes his Holy Grail.

And Oldest SON, the hard-core backpacker, offers to go home with Middle SON. He says it might be nice for Youngest SON and I to just have some “guy-time” and continue on our own. Oldest SON is blowing smoke. Because if he’s ready to pull out, you know we’ve hit the “eyes bigger than your stomach.”

Factoring in all the “rests” and “breaks,” it pretty well takes us most of the day just to get to that six-mile point.

And all the dads come to the same conclusion. We’ve had fun, but if we push the SONS anymore, they will hate it and will never want to do it again.  Even the Youngest SON, who was adamant we push forward a few hours ago, has hit the “I can’t take another step” phase.

And so we call it quits. Not “quits” really, but rather “enough.”

Basically, we cut our plan in half. We spent one night instead of two, hiked half the distance of the trail rather than the entire thing. But all the SONS are willing to go out another time, and that’s the key.

Baby steps.

There is no rule saying second chances are a given. They are, however, just what they imply — an opportunity for a do-over. Cherish them.

I bring this up because I blew my chance — the one involving a sit-down with The Man a week or so ago.

My only excuse is, by a rough calculation, about 3,875 kids and 1,139 adults also wanted said sit-down, and they were in front of me. And none of them gave a hoot that I really, really needed a sit-down because my editor really, really wanted an interview with The Man for the newspaper. And she saved me a spot on the front page and the whole printing press was waiting for my interview and …

Wait your turn.

It didn’t happen. The sit-down I mean.

So the other day I’m pulling various and sundry things out of my pocket and this note falls to the ground.

“Sorry we couldn’t have that sit-down last week,” it read. “Why don’t you meet me at the parking lot of the old Newnan Hospital about 2:30 p.m., right before the parade starts?”

It was signed with a big swirly “S.”

Somehow a note from The Man magically appears in my pocket. And he knows what I want — or need. But when you think about it, The Man is all about magic.

I’ve been a journalist for more than 25 years. I’ve interviewed countless U.S. congressmen and senators, governors and Fortune 100 CEOs. I researched long and hard, did the interviews, wrote them up — piece of cake.

But I realized I was totally clueless on this one. Maybe missing that last sit-down was a good thing after all — a second chance to do it right.

I mean, if you got to interview The Man, what would you ask?

I think all the typical questions — how’s Mrs. Claus, what do reindeer eat, how do they fly, does Rudolph’s nose use batteries and if so, how often do they need to be replaced, how tall are the elves, what do they eat, how do you fit inside those chimneys, what if a house doesn’t have a chimney, how big is your sled, how do you fit all those presents in it, do you ever take a day off, how do you and Mrs. Claus unwind, how old are you, what’s up with the Abominable Snowman, how’s Frosty … etc., etc., etc. — have been asked and answered ad nauseam.

So I hit the Internet and started researching.

I also asked my sons and their friends and their friends’ friends and all those cousins about anything I should/could ask The Man.

Big mistake.

Because I got really, really tired of saying “no, I’m not going to give him your list.”

And their proposed questions? Um, something like: “How’s Mrs. Claus, what do reindeer eat, how do they fly, does Rudolph’s nose use batteries and if so, how often do they need to be replaced, how tall are the elves, what do they eat, how do you fit inside those chimneys, what if a house doesn’t have a chimney, how big is your sled, how do you fit all those presents in it, do you ever take a day off, how do you and Mrs. Claus unwind, how old are you, what’s up with the Abominable Snowman, how’s Frosty” … etc., etc., etc.

It’s now Sunday. I’ve prepped, I’ve researched, I’ve rehearsed, I’ve found the Holy Grail of secret Santa questions. I’ve got questions no one has ever thought to ask.

I am so ready for this.

Nervous? Ha!! I am a professional. I’ve been at this for decades. I’ve been threatened with life and limb and other various parts. I’ve gone head-to-toe with some of the meanest/biggest/toughest people. I’m …

Scared to death. I mean, this is The Man.

I approach the fire truck where he’s sitting. He gives me a big smile; and I swear I saw a twinkle in his eye. And just like that, I’m no longer nervous.

And I climb up and sit next to him. I pull out my notebook filled with all my big important investigative reporter questions. It’s time.

“Um, how’s Mrs. Claus?”

Crash

And

Burn.

Ugh.

But he just laughed — the kind that comes from deep inside. Not a mean laugh at your expense, but rather the kind that puts you at ease. And you realize you’re with The Man and all he cares about is you.

“Why don’t you ask me what the kids want this year,” he suggested.

“Um, what do the kids want this year?” I asked.

“iPads. Those iPad 2s… along with cell phones,” he responded.

And then he told me there’s a new phenomenon going on — children are starting to whip out their smartphones, which have their Christmas wish lists on them, and they read from that. And then they offer to email said list to him, you know, just to be sure. The days of paper are slowly disappearing.

We talked a while longer, me scribbling as fast as I could. It became a blur, but I remember asking him if he really was the one and true Santa Claus.

And he just smiled and looked at me and said, “There’s a Santa Claus inside everyone.”

And then he patted me on the leg and said he had a parade to start.

As I climbed down, he smiled and said “Merry Christmas.”

It was the way he said it that gave me pause. That emphasis on the first syllable of the second word.

“Everyone always asks me what’s the true meaning of Christmas,” he said, emphasizing that first syllable again.

Yeah, except me. I sorta spaced and forgot to ask Question 101.

“It’s about the birth of our Savior,” he added.

And I just nodded. And he just nodded. And I said a quiet thanks to him for helping me to remember what it’s all about amongst the clamor for iPads and cellphones and cars and trucks and bicycles and Nerf guns and Lego this and thats and stuff and stuff and …

Because The Man knew it wasn’t really about him. It was about The Child. And he made sure you knew that.

I turned and started to walk away. Then I remembered. I still had my note from last time.

I sheepishly handled it to him and he took a glance. He smiled, but he also shook his head.

“You’ll put your eye out kid,” he said. “How about an iPad 2?”

Okay, so it appears I won’t be getting the Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle.

But iPads aren’t too bad.

And so I watched him drive off in the fire truck toward the Court Square. I got my interview. I got to give him my note.

I got, or was reminded, what it is really all about.

Merry Christmas Newnan.

Thinking back, it’s been years since my last sit-down with The Man. Decades really.

I was looking forward to this interview. A chance to reminisce and maybe, just maybe, the opportunity would arise to slip him that note in my pocket.

So Friday night I left the newspaper building and rounded the corner toward the downtown square.

Whoa.

The only way to describe the scene would be to say a couple of elementary schools decided to have an open house at the old Coweta County Courthouse. And parents and grandparents and the second cousin twice removed were all invited.

And they all showed up, including that cousin.

The line stretched half-way around the courthouse. It was obvious some had done this before — lawn chairs were out, pizza boxes were plentiful.

And I realized I wasn’t the only one wanting a sit-down with The Man.

And I also realized my chances of getting that sit-down were approaching slim and none.

That’s because there are certain rules regarding sit-downs, the primary one being one does not jump in line, regardless of who you think you are.

Crossing a 5-year-old when it comes to The Man is done at one’s peril. I can assure you they don’t care what your editor said about getting that interview. And we don’t even need to mention the parents.

Right at 6 p.m., the siren sounded. An old fire truck made its way around the square, stopping in front of a huge Christmas tree.

And out stepped The Man.

Four-year-old Mila Krumins violated protocol — she ran across the street and gave The Man a big hug. Being somewhat shorter than The Man, Mila’s hug landed somewhere about mid-thigh.

She whispered something about an Ariel movie.

And everyone began pointing at The Man as the cameras and video recorders and smartphones started going off. And everyone said the same thing …

“Santa.”

And The Man, complete with his red outfit and long white beard, sat in his sleigh. And the sit-downs began.

First up was 3-year-old Michael Howard, who along with his mom, Whitney, and grandmother, Candy Bishop, had camped out since 3:30 p.m.

Some people take these sit-downs seriously.

“We just wanted to be in the newspaper,” Bishop joked.

Done.

Michael was interested in various toys from the movie “Cars” — Lightning McQueen and Tow Mater were mentioned more than once; you know, just to make sure Santa got it all down correctly.

And then there was Martha West, a spry 78. And no, that’s not a typo.

Which just goes to show you there are two ages — the one on your birth certificate and the one you have during a sit-down with Santa.

Martha had it figured out.

There are basically two types when it comes to Santa. First are the ones who are all smiles and very polite as they hand Santa their list, and are perfect angels when it comes time for mom and dad to take that darling picture that’s going to be the annual Christmas card.

And then there’s the second group. The ones that, to use a completely unscientific term, freak out.

There were a couple of that latter group. And I recalled it probably took me a couple of tries to get out of the whole freak-out thing when I was a child.

I looked back over my notes and started to put my notebook in my pocket. It jammed and I reached in and pulled out that piece of paper.

I didn’t get that sit-down that night. I didn’t get the interview. And I still had my note.

And I thought about seeing if one of the kids in line might help me out, you know, just pass it along. I wasn’t really sure what the going bribe rate was, factoring in inflation and all that.

But I decided against it. I put my note back in my pocket.

There’s always the Post Office.

(In Part Two, I finally get that sit-down.)