Christmas Eve, 1987.

The Muppet Newsman wrapped the brown-and-tan scarf his Aunt Ethel had knitted for him some years back around his neck, appreciative of its heavy warmth. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his overcoat, wishing he'd thought to bring gloves; the weather report tonight certainly looked accurate. Snow was coming down by the bucketful, and the fierce wind blew it sideways, piling it up rapidly. Already, in the parking lot, several cars shivered under heavy wet drifts. The Newsman was glad, for once, he didn't own a car; those people might have to dig their vehicles out days from now. He squinted up and down the empty street, his glasses fogging over so as to be largely useless. Annoyed, he pulled them off, cleaned them with the soft tassels of the scarf, and reset them on his prominent nose. Someone else left the station behind him, wrapped in a parka like an Eskimo, and Newsie wished he had a coat like that. His ears and now his nose were freezing. For the twentieth time tonight, he muttered imprecations against the weatherman who'd called in sick at the last possible minute, forcing Newsie to stay later than usual to deliver the weather report as well as his usual news work. Christmas Eve! Bad enough he'd argued with his mother upon leaving the apartment about going to work at all; now she would be doubly irritable since he was late…and he still had one errand yet to manage, somehow, in this blizzard.

His head still hurt, too. Who knew barometers had such sharp edges? Huddling his head into his broad shoulders as much as he was able, eyes almost shut against the merciless wind which battered him with thick snowflakes at each step, he trudged along the sidewalk toward Seventh Avenue, hoping to reach Macy's before the store closed. He'd had his eye on a delicate china teapot with peonies embossed, enameled and gilded all over for his mother's gift for weeks, and now with his Christmas bonus in his pocket he could actually afford to get it. Leave it to their station manager to withhold the bonuses until Christmas Eve…again.

What was normally just a little over a fifteen-minute walk became a horrible struggle of almost half an hour as he fought the wind constantly. Maybe he should've taken the subway back at Times Square…but the lowlifes hanging around the station entrance just to keep warm had looked somewhat intimidating. The last thing he wanted was to be mugged with a hundred dollars cash in his pocket, and show up empty-handed… He hoped to pick up a few edible treats as well, for dinner tonight or breakfast tomorrow, besides the elaborate teapot. Mother was so hard to buy for, but she loved peonies, and she loved chamomile tea, so Newsie was fairly sure he'd made a good choice this year…unlike the previous year, when his attempt at impressing her with a diamond brooch which had cost all his bonus plus two weeks' salary had been the start of a screeching fit. He flushed, recalling some of what Mother had said then about her only son not having the brains to spend wisely. He'd been unable to return it, and wound up selling it for less than half what he'd paid to a pawnshop.

He paused in the partial shelter of a swaying overhang to glance up and around, getting his bearings. He could see the distinctive lights around the top of the Empire State building; almost there… On another night, he might have gazed at the lights as he walked along, especially this time of year when it seemed like every high-rise and landmark lit up the sky with festive décor. He liked light displays, very much; but the whistling sheets of cold whiteness slamming into him all down the avenue prevented his enjoying much of anything. He was definitely taking the subway home. Assuming, of course, the storm didn't cause havoc with power outages. At that thought, he made a mental note to pick up more candles and other supplies in case the electricity went out for any length of time. For someone who complained about vision problems (and pretty much every other possible health complaint), his mother had a distinct aversion to the dark. Normally, Newsie didn't care for dark rooms either; he was sure they tended to attract monsters. He'd pick up some tea candles, in case his teddy bear night-light went out. Of course, it was hard to think of scary things on what was supposed to be a peaceful night.

Macy's was about to close, but he slipped into the door, calling over his shoulder at the doorman's objections that he'd only be a minute. Hurrying downstairs, he was elated to find the teapot still there. He paid for it and an armful of candles and a gift basket of breakfast things (coffee, waffle mix, syrups, jams, bacon and cheeses, and it even came with a dishtowel embroidered with a peony!) and hastened back to the cold street. Again, his glasses fogged over. Muttering to himself about the endless nuisance of being near-sighted, he took them off once more to polish them, and didn't see the man hurrying by at the top of the subway steps. The Macy's bag with the boxed teapot on the bottom went flying as Newsie was bowled over by the rude stranger.

No! Newsie flung himself beneath the bag just as it came down on the icy subway stairs. He caught it, but his relief was shortlived as he then skidded down the entire flight of stairs on his back...headfirst. He was fairly sure his head bumped every last step on the way down. When at last he lay winded on a landing, he barely had time to blink and try to reorient before several people came bustling down the steps, not looking at their feet; Newsie scrambled out of their path, trying to juggle his precious bag while grabbing the stair railing to avoid falling again. He caught his breath only after they'd passed, and checked the contents of the bag. Nothing had fallen out. Relieved, he cautiously walked the rest of the way down into the subway station and queued up with the crowd of last-minute shoppers hoping to catch the B-train uptown. The tight crowd of people discomfited him, especially as he seemed to be the only Muppet present.

Well, that was hardly surprising; he knew almost everyone else had accepted Fozzie's invitation to go upstate to the Bear family farm. The Newsman had been touched, and not a little surprised, when the bear had handed him the red construction paper invite, spattered with green glitter in a vaguely star-shaped pattern. He would loved to have accepted, but knew Mother would be angry and spend the rest of the year making him feel guilty if he left her home by herself on Christmas. Actually, she'd probably come up with enough guilt trips to keep the fire going right through his birthday in mid-January.

The Newsman didn't get a seat, forced to cling nervously to a pole in the center of the car, both arms through the handles of his bag of treasures, his eyes constantly searching the car for any sign of muggers the further they went uptown. He checked his watch; he was already late for his usual dinnertime, but the lack of food didn't bother him too much. He was accustomed to going without, quite often. At least it had allowed him to maintain a decent shape while his station manager seemed to have ballooned, always going out wining and dining with local ad execs. Despite the fact that this train ran along Central Park West, some of the most tony addresses in the city (at least, west of the park), no one riding it looked like they made much more than he himself did. And tonight, it seemed, all his fellow passengers shared a similar wish: to get home to their families. He noticed several of them bore packages or bags, gifts wrapped in colorful papers with trailing ribbons. One man carried a small tricycle. Newsie smiled at that, then felt a pang of wistfulness. It had been a few years since he'd left milk and cookies out for Santa. He used to sneak up to the roof, too, and lay a bunch of carrots or apples out for the reindeer. He hoped some other resident of Mother's apartment building had taken over that happy task. Newsie hadn't wanted to stop doing so; every year, the food vanished, so he knew his continued belief in Santa Claus wasn't misplaced, although some of his colleagues claimed the whole thing was a childish myth. However, about six years ago, his mother had wandered out to the kitchen in the middle of the night for a glass of water and found the plate of molasses cookies, glass of milk, and note for Santa which Newsie always left (just to make sure the jolly old elf knew it really was meant for him specifically). What a horrible Christmas Eve that was…not only had she berated him for clinging to childish things ("always hanging around those darned Muppets, that's what they're encouraging, this sort of ridiculous behavior!"), she'd told all her friends from the beauty parlor and her crocheting circle and her sister Ethel what a dupe her son was.

Humiliated afresh at the memory, the Newsman kept his eyes down for the remainder of the ride. He disembarked at 96th street, not even pausing as he usually did to admire the Art Deco buildings fronting onto the vast park, too cold and now depressed as well. The wind hit him afresh as he emerged from the relative shelter of the subway, and once again he had to walk counter to it, heading south two blocks and over another to reach the nondescript apartment bloc where he still roomed with his mother. He spent as little time actually there as he could get away with; having work almost daily at the TV station and at the Muppet Theatre meant he could claim to be busier than he actually was. The guilt he sometimes felt at the mild subterfuge was offset by every argument, every cold shoulder, and every outright screaming fit his mother threw regularly. At the same time, he couldn't just move out; who would look after her? Newsie hefted his bag, fighting his way along the sidewalk in a wind which seemed even stronger up here along the darker streets, away from the pizzazz of midtown. I really hope she likes the teapot. I am not going back out in this!

The apartment was dark, but a lone lamp in the inner hallway guided him the familiar route through the rooms from the front door. "Mother? Uh…Merry Christmas, Mother!" he called out, then paused, worried, when not a sound came in reply. Had she fallen? Was she hurt? He set the bag down and quickly searched the apartment, panicking when he found no sign of the elderly lady. What if she'd gone out in this weather? He'd been buffeted mercilessly by that terrible wind, and she didn't have even half his strength! She knew he was going to be late coming home…but the past months, he'd noticed worrying signs she might be forgetting things, like where she'd laid her crochet needles, or what days he had off (neither of which had changed in years). Could she have gone out looking for him, or off to find her own dinner because he hadn't been there to prepare it for her?

Newsie searched once more, and this time noticed Mother's closet door stood open, and several hangers were bare. What? Where on earth would she have gone? Perhaps she'd headed over to Jersey, to her sister's, for the holiday? She hadn't mentioned any such plans to him… Newsie picked up the phone, relieved to hear a dial tone, and was about to call Aunt Ethel when he saw the note tacked with a big smiley-face magnet to the refrigerator door. The spindly, uneven handwriting was definitely Mother's. Amazed, he held it close to his nose to read it carefully.

"Son: Ethel and Joe won a cruise for four to the Virgin Islands. The boat leaves at eight." Newsie checked his watch: seven-twenty! Maybe, if he hurried, he could make it…but reading on quickly, he had to stop, adjust his glasses in consternation, and reread to make sure he hadn't misunderstood. "I invited Harriet to go with me. Should be a blast! Be back on the 3rd of Jan. at the Trendycruiseline docks. Don't be late picking me up! I've no wish to stand around in the cold for hours while you're off gallivanting around with those seedy friends of yours! Love, Mother."

Newsie stood there, stunned, the information sinking in. She'd…she'd been invited along on a cruise by his Aunt Ethel and Uncle Joe, and hadn't told him, and had…had invited her gossipy friend Harriet along instead of him as the fourth guest? Feeling a bit hurt, he realized there was a postscript at the very bottom of the note. He looked at it. "P.S. Merry Christmas. Your gift is on your bed."

Slowly, still holding the note, the Newsman walked into his bedroom and stared at the plain white box on his neatly-made bed. He sat down, picked it up, and gently opened it. Another tie. Another brown tie with diagonal tan-and-brown stripes, just like the one he usually wore. Rayon, even. Newsie set it aside, feeling the emptiness of the whole place sinking down around him like the snow outside.

"Merry Christmas, Mother," he said quietly, and sat there a long time, looking at nothing at all.

Christmas Day, 1957.

The eleven-year-old (almost twelve, in a few weeks) pushed his chunky hornrims farther up his nose, blinking awake slowly. There it was! On the end of his bed, there was the stocking he'd hung up on the shelf over the radiator in the living room (the closest he could find to an actual mantel, as they didn't have a fireplace) after Mother had gone to bed. She'd griped at him they couldn't afford extra treats, and he should be grateful for the one present he'd be getting, but Aloysius knew better: Santa was responsible for filling stockings! Why, the poem even said so! And here was undeniable proof: his red-and-green knit stocking, full almost to bursting with goodies! Excitedly, he emptied it all out on his quilt, poring over the root beer barrels, the peppermints, the flavored taffies; he almost exclaimed aloud at the Hershey bar, then shushed himself, not wanting to wake Mother. A whole chocolate bar, all to himself! Well…maybe he'd share some of it with Herbert, his only friend. Herbert kept a pigeon coop on the roof of the apartment building, and sometimes would let Aloysius feed the pigeons with him, although at school, the other boy pretended not to recognize Aloysius. He knew Herbert only did that so he wouldn't get pounded by Mean Franklin, the terror of the fifth grade. No one knew Mean Franklin's first name, but everyone knew he was old enough to be in eighth grade and kept getting held back; Aloysius was just grateful he was in sixth this year, on schedule and with good grades, and so only had to endure Mean Franklin's tender attentions on the playground.

Hmm, that was a good point. He shouldn't take any of this wonderful hoard to school. Mean Franklin could smell candy like a bloodhound after a fugitive. Aloysius looked through the rest of the goodies, pleased to find a small plastic telescope. He tried it out, looking through his window at the roofs of the buildings across the street. This would come in handy when he was looking for news! Oh! And there, almost hidden by the taffies at the bottom of the small pile, there was the one thing he'd asked Santa for: the Official 'Daily Planet' Press Badge, just like Jimmy Olsen had! Thrilled, he immediately clipped the brass-and-tin toy badge, with its big letters spelling out PRESS, to his pajama shirt. Someday, he thought, I'll wear a real suit, just like the grown-up reporters do, and I'll clip my very own real press badge to my breast pocket! Proud of this giant step toward actual journalism, he quickly swept the treats into his nightstand drawer, remembered to hide the badge as well, and went into the living room to see what Mother had wrapped for him under the tree.

Mother's gift proved to be a new jacket, brown plaid like his last one which was now looking a little scraped at the hems. He'd grown a whole inch this year, so a new jacket wasn't a bad thing. Besides, he could clip his PRESS badge to it…at least, while he was outside playing. He doubted Mother would think the badge was as nifty-keen as he did. He put the jacket on, thanked her, then handed her the gift he'd laboriously wrapped into a perfect paragon of tight corners and sharp ribbon edges. "This is for you, Mother," he said tentatively, "Merry Christmas."

His mother sniffed at it. "I hope it's not another ashtray! I still don't understand why you gave me such a thing when you know I can't abide cigarettes!"

Embarrassed, Aloysius clasped his hands together, head down. "Um, no, Mother." He knew it would be pointless to remind her the object he'd made in shop class last year had actually been a spoon rest. He'd worked very hard to get the glazing on it the exact shade of brown that she liked, only to have her insist it was a filthy ashtray and chuck it into the garbage. This time, he'd planned ahead, saving his allowance for months to get her something professionally made. Something nice.

She unwrapped the gift, opened the box, and held up the pretty stained-glass butterfly. She stared at it silently a long minute while Aloysius fidgeted, unable to read her expression. "Um…do you like it?" he asked finally.

She looked hard at him. "What is it for?"

"It's…it's called a suncatcher. It's glass…"

"I can see that. What does it do?" Mother demanded.

At a loss, the boy shifted uncomfortably. "Uh…um…it…it turns the light colors. You hang it in a window, and it looks pretty." When she kept staring at him, he pointed to the living room window, the only one which actually let in any decent amount of sunlight. "I…I thought maybe you could hang it up there."

"And then what, let it collect dust? Who's going to hang it? You? You know I can't go up ladders, I have the gout in my right knee!"

"I'll hang it," he tried desperately. "Don't…don't you like the colors?"

"How much did you spend on this?"

"Uh…"

"Don't you 'uhh' me, young man. How much?"

"T-two dollars..."

"Two whole dollars?" Mother shrieked. Aloysius cringed.

"It was my allowance! I didn't use any of the grocery money!"

"You wasted two whole dollars on…on a silly piece of glass that doesn't do anything useful?" she yelled, still holding the butterfly up. Aloysius wanted to take it from her, to protect it, but didn't dare move. She seemed to have forgotten she was holding it, preoccupied with haranguing him. "Do you know what two dollars could have bought us? That could be bread and milk and oatmeal for a week! That could be a new pair of gloves for me!"

"M-mother, please…"

"All these years, trying to hammer into you what it means to be grown-up and practical, and you turn around and spend good money on a ridiculous trinket?" she yelled, realized she still held the glass bauble, and threw it aside in contempt. Aloysius dove, catching it before it hit the linoleum kitchen floor. "Did I just see you sliding on the floor in your new jacket?" she shrieked, her voice rising in pitch.

Oh, no…

Locked in his bedroom without breakfast, the boy clung to the glass butterfly, tears running down his face, sniffling. He wrapped the suncatcher in his Christmas stocking and hid it in a shoebox in the back of his closet. At least she hadn't smashed it. Returning to his bed, he opened the nightstand drawer and took out one of the taffies – a vanilla – and unwrapped it silently. Sucking on it, he cleaned off his glasses and wiped off his cheeks, and reflected that he'd just received further proof that Herbert and the rest of his classmates were completely wrong when they said Santa didn't really exist. He had received the one thing he'd asked for, and some treats besides…

And he knew for a fact his mother wasn't responsible for them.

Christmas Eve, 1987.

The facts were as such (Newsie ticked them off on his fingers as he paced the living room):

One. Mother knew perfectly well he had to work this evening, but that he'd be home only a little late, and bringing Christmas things.

Two. She had to have received the cruise invitation ahead of time; he doubted this was a last-minute arrangement, especially if the perennially-procrastinating Harriet was involved.

Three. She had purposely not asked him to come along.

Four. It was Christmas Eve, and he was all alone.

Five…wait. Where was that invitation?

Newsie sprang to his feet, hurrying into his room. He'd saved Fozzie's invite even though he thought he couldn't attend, just because it was so remarkable to have been invited to something. Besides, it was obvious Fozzie had made the invite himself, and, well…Newsie couldn't bring himself to toss out anything like that. Not when he'd seen more than a few of his own craft-table efforts get pitched into the garbage. He remembered being astounded at the one slumber party he'd gone to as a boy (only because the kid throwing the party had the sort of parents who insisted he invite all the other boys in his class) when he saw upon the family's 'fridge numerous fingerpainted doggies and houses on sturdy construction paper. He'd never known anyone kept their child's artwork. Pulling out the small red paper, some glitter dusted his sleeve. He almost brushed it away, then decided what the heck, it's Christmas.

"Christmas Family Get-together at my Ma's Farm!" the invitation read, in large letters scrawled with a magic marker. "All Muppets invited! Just come out to the Farm! You don't have to bring anything but your Pajamas and slippers, but it's Okay if you want to bring food or anything else too. Follow this Map to get to Bear Farm!"

The map was a crudely drawn sketch. Newsie squinted at it, removed his glasses to hold it right next to his eyes, and replaced them, peering again, but it made little sense either way. Best he could tell, the farm was somewhere up the Hudson valley, possibly around the Saratoga Battlefield or Stillwater. He knew there were a number of lovely farming communities up that way, having traversed it once in order to report on the bicentennial of the battles of Saratoga ten years previously. No doubt, everyone else had already headed up; possibly they were already there. Newsie frowned, considering it. How would he even get there, in this storm? He didn't have enough money for a taxi, at that great a distance (and he wasn't entirely sure exactly what the distance was), didn't own a car, couldn't drive even if someone loaned him their car…a train? Would Spamtrak even be running in that rough a storm? What about a bus?

Newsie sat and thought about it a long while, studying the innocent red paper with its green glitter. He looked from it to his mother's note. With a deep scowl, he crushed the note, threw it into his wastebasket, and yanked open his nightstand drawer.

Beneath a spare pair of glasses in their soft case, beneath a pile of clean white handkerchiefs, he found the faded red-and-green stocking. Unwrapping it carefully, he held up the glass butterfly. Perhaps, after all these years, he could find it a good home with someone who'd actually appreciate it. Maybe Fozzie's mother would like it? Nodding firmly, swallowing back a twinge of guilt, he rewrapped the bauble and placed it inside a small box. Then he dug out the overnight satchel which he'd bought in college, in anticipation of overseas assignments for major network news which had never materialized. He'd never used the tough, all-weather bag, but this seemed like a good excuse to break it in. Rapidly he packed a change of clothes, his favorite flannel PJs and bunny slippers, his spare glasses (one never knew) and the small box, then hunted for his winter gloves. He spotted them finally at the bottom of a dresser drawer. Pulling them out, something clinked oddly inside the drawer.

Newsie reached beneath other old mittens and socks until something poked his fingers; he jerked them out, sucking on the injury a moment before curiosity again made him reach into the drawer. He pulled a tarnished brass-and-tin badge from its long-forgotten hiding place, staring at it in wonder.

He wasn't the type to believe in signs and portents. Not him, the eminently rational Newsman! But…then again…

He polished it a little with the end of his scarf, and then clipped it to his breast-pocket. The tall letters spelling out PRESS looked very smart against his plaid sports jacket, he thought.

Smiling, he pulled on the gloves, bundled up his coat and scarf once more, gripped the handle to the satchel firmly in his left hand, and tucked Fozzie's invitation into his right coat pocket. He didn't need a cruise. He was going to go find the Muppets, and spend this Christmas, for once, with friendly faces.