When Christmas Came to Nashville: Part 1

The fantasical story that ignited the true spirit of Christmas

Dec 03, 2024

When Christmas Came to Nashville is a four-part holiday story based on actual events which took place in and around Nashville, TN between 1883 and 1888. Some creative liberties have been taken in bringing this wonderful lost & found story back to life, however, every effort has been made to honor the heart, soul and sentiments of the original story throughout the process.

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Release Date: December 3, 2024

Six decades after Clement Moore published his epic Christmas poem, A Visit from St. Nicholas, another story found its way to Nashville, TN, and the result was nothing short of magical.

It all began on December 8, 1883.

Tucked between the Sporting Notes and Prime’s Crop Report on page three of The Nashville Banner, there appeared a one-column story intriguingly titled, “Interview with the Great Friend of the Juveniles”.

Bearing no by-line nor any indication as to the writer, the piece went something like this:

It was late last night, as the city lay blanketed in a serene hush, when I—a humble reporter for the Banner —crossed the great suspension bridge spanning the river. The icy air bit at my cheeks, yet it was the sight of a peculiar light drifting along the water that stopped me in my tracks. At first, it seemed but a glimmer, scarcely brighter than a star. Yet, as I watched, it grew—brighter, larger, and impossibly alive—like a will-o’-the-wisp beckoning me closer.

The light advanced steadily, its golden glow shimmering over the rippling currents. When it reached the point opposite the Methodist Publishing House, it hesitated, as though deliberating. Then, with a sudden and graceful turn, it began gliding toward the shore.

Curiosity, ever the driving force of my trade, propelled me down the steep bluff. Scrambling over roots and rocks, I reached the riverbank, now near enough to discern a peculiar vessel illuminated by the ethereal light. It was a boat like none I’d seen before—its form sleek and elegant, as though it had been crafted by hands guided by dreams.

“Boat ahoy!” I called, cupping my hands to project my voice across the water.

“Aye, aye!” boomed a voice—deep, resonant, and startling—emanating from somewhere within the craft.

“What vessel is this?” I inquired.

“And who’s asking?” the voice replied with an edge of amusement.

“The Banner Man,” I answered, my chest swelling slightly with professional pride.

“Well then, come aboard,” said the voice, and almost instantly, a slender plank extended from the boat to the shore.

I hesitated, then stepped aboard, the wooden deck creaking faintly beneath my weight. Near the bow stood a figure so singular in appearance I had to blink to assure myself it was not a trick of the light.

He was an old man, though his face was ageless in its mirth. His eyes sparkled like freshly polished silver, and his cheeks—round and rosy—shone as though perpetually warmed by laughter. White curls tumbled to his shoulders, framing a countenance so radiant it could have been carved from moonlight. He was stout yet sprightly, exuding a presence that was both commanding and whimsical.

“Whither bound?” I ventured, finding my voice.

“Nashville,” he said with a chuckle. “I caught sight of the city around three o’clock and laid by until dark. Thought it best to make my entrance by moonlight.”

“And the name of this fine craft?”

“Fairy Wave,” he said with pride.

I scanned the boat, noting its lack of boilers or engines. “How is it propelled?”

“Ah,” he said, gesturing toward the water. “Look there.”

Peering over the edge, I saw them—sixteen magnificent white swans, their feathers shimmering like frosted velvet, gracefully towing the boat along.

“Incredible,” I murmured. “But who are you?”

The old man leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Santa Claus,” he said with a wink.

I gaped. “You don’t mean to say—”

“Yes, indeed,” he said with a grin. “You weren’t expecting me so early, were you?”

“Hardly! But where are your reindeer?”

“Left them at home this time,” he said with a shrug. “They’re magnificent, but my stars, the racket they make on cobblestone streets! Thought I’d try something quieter this year, and I must say, the swans are a delight.”

His laughter was infectious, and soon I was grinning as he led me below deck. There, a veritable treasure trove awaited—stacked high with toys, sweets, and wonders enough to dazzle even the most stoic soul.

“These are the newest marvels,” he said, holding up a doll that trilled a melody as if by magic. “And here—a boy’s delight—an electric train with track included! Look at this—a whistle so cunning it can mimic the songs of birds.”

He continued, his enthusiasm boundless, pointing out boxes of writing desks, sparkling watches, tumbling acrobats, and bags brimming with candies, fruits, and nuts. The very air seemed sweetened by the promise of joy.

“And what of that great book?” I asked, pointing to a tome resting atop a gilded stand.

“Ah,” he said reverently, “this holds the names of all the good children in Nashville who shall find their stockings filled this Christmas.”

I dared a glance and saw pages inked with countless names, each one a testament to hope and anticipation.

At last, the old man straightened, lantern in hand. “Daylight’s not far,” he said, his tone suddenly brisk. “I must anchor upstream before the sun rises. Farewell, my friend!”

Before I could reply, Santa ushered me off the boat. From the shore, I watched as he spoke a word to his swans, and the Fairy Wave slipped silently into the night, leaving only the soft glow of its light upon the water.

A week later, another uncredited story appeared in The Banner, and it went something like this:

A slight fog hung like a veil over the river as I sought out Santa Claus once again. Driven by a mixture of curiosity and conviction, I paddled my canoe upstream, the rhythmic splash of my oars breaking the stillness of the night. The city’s lights and clamor fell away, replaced by the serene, moonlit silence of the countryside.

After a quiet whistle and a brief exchange of signals, I was welcomed back to Santa’s hidden camp. The space, nestled beneath towering trees, was humble yet inviting, its warmth magnified by the soft glow of a lantern. Santa greeted me with his usual hearty cheer, though there was a solemnity in his manner this time that I hadn’t noticed before.

“You’ve returned,” he said, nodding as though he had expected me all along. “Good. We’ve got much to discuss.”

The conversation began with his musings on the city—the joy of seeing its children thrive, the wonder of how the population had grown. But his tone shifted when he spoke of those less fortunate.

“I’ve seen them,” he said, his voice quieter now. “The ones with empty hands and bare feet, peering through frosted windows at things they believe they’ll never have. They believe in me, you know. More than anything. Their faith… it humbles me.”

He paused, his gaze fixed on the flickering lantern. “But belief alone can’t mend a broken heart or warm a child on a freezing night. What they need, truly need, goes beyond what I carry in my sack.”

I listened, the weight of his words settling heavily on my chest. “How can we help?” I asked, my voice betraying my urgency.

Santa turned to me, his face aglow with an energy that felt almost electric. “Ah, but you see,” he said, his eyes alight with something deeper than sadness, “this is the part where you—and everyone else—come in. My magic, as wondrous as it is, works best when it’s shared. Christmas is not just in the gifts I deliver. It’s in the kindness of one person to another, in the joy of giving itself.”

I leaned forward, drawn into his vision. “What are you asking for?”

“Spread the word,” he replied. “Tell the people of your city that their generosity and acts of kindness are part of the magic. A hot meal, a warm smile, a token of appreciation —these are the true gifts of Christmas, because they come from the heart. Let them help me bring not just gifts, but the feeling of being seen, of being cared for, to every child who believes. That’s the magic that changes lives.”

I nodded, feeling the truth of his words settle within me. This wasn’t a plea for generosity because Santa was lacking — it was an invitation. He wanted the people to be part of something greater, to experience the transformative joy of giving.

“I’ll make sure they know,” I promised. “And together, we’ll bring Christmas to every child.”

Santa smiled then, a grin that could light up even the darkest night. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “If we all give a little, this Christmas can be the merriest yet.”

As I prepared to leave, he handed me a small notebook, his voice ringing with purpose.

“Take down names,” he said. “If there’s a child who might be forgotten, I must know. Let their families send word to you, and I’ll make sure no one is left behind.”

I paddled back toward the city, my heart full and my mission clear. Behind me, Santa’s booming voice carried across the river: “The Fairy Wave will ride the river yet, and this Christmas, every child will know they are loved!”

In the days and weeks after the appearance of those first anonymously penned stories of Santa and his mission to bring joy to children everywhere, the most remarkable things began to happen.

The Banner’s 22 North Cherry Street office was “besieged with little ones asking about “Old Kris” and the “poor fund”. Depositing their dimes and quarters, handing in names, etc.”

Blanche had saved up a quarter to give her brother or some of the folks a present, but being brought to think of the poor children, she concluded to give it to Old Kris’ poor fund.

Frank Keesee, a little fellow about four years old, came in and said his name was in the paper twice and he wanted to give fifty cents.

Little Edgar having become very much interested in the accounts published in the Banner, concluded he would spend his nickel for a poor child he knew. He bought her a toy and took it over. Looking first at the pretty toy he said: “I don’t like to give it to you, but I must.” Being told by the older ones of his family that he needn’t do it if he didn’t want to, he said: “Yes, I will; I am obliged to do it; I can’t help it; I must give it to her.” And leaving it in her hand, he ran out to avoid the temptation of keeping it.

Douglas and Olive Martin, twins, five and a half years old, collected $1.80 which they left at the Banner office.

Mary Thomas, Francis Gauthur, Gertie Gregory, Annie Lou Thomas and Mary Hargrove formed a club and collected 80 cents, which was handed in today.

By the morning of December 22, the children of Nashville had donated $46.72 to Old Kris’ Poor Fund. That’s over $3,000 in 2024 dollars. Put into perspective, a yard of “beautiful wool fabric suitable for school dresses and winter wear” cost 12 ½ cents a yard, a set of 12 glass goblets were 25 cents, and the weekly wage of a teamster was $1.55.

The true spirit of Christmas had been ignited.

When Christmas Came to Nashville: Part 1

The fantasical story that ignited the true spirit of Christmas

Release Date: December 3, 2024

Copyright 2024 Lori Olson White

When Christmas Came to Nashville continues next week with Part 2.

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