SANTA TOSSED HIS HAT OVER HIS ANTLER COAT RACK and sat in his reindeer-skin recliner. He was holding a heavy mail bag. This was his first Dear Santa delivery of 2014, and he always liked to be alone when he opened it.

He was ever curious to find who the first child would be. Whose letter would be read first by Santa? Later in the evening, when all letters had been read and recorded, Santa would be equally curious as to who the last child would be. To keep himself entertained, Santa had a personal tradition to always leave a little something extra at these two homes. He used to give out extravagant gifts centuries ago, but now his gifts had subtlety and nuance.

Last year Santa left one little boy a pennywhistle. When the boy blew the whistle, the sound made him feel happier than he was before. He hung it on a nail in his room.

Santa left a little girl an ebony and ivory hairbrush, with a tarnished handle, as it was old, originally the property of Santa’s grandmother, who was the most relaxed and contented woman Santa had ever known. When the girl brushed her hair with grandma’s brush, it made all her pillows feel softer. Wherever she was when she needed to sleep, be it in her own bed, on a train, or inside a noisy car, a few strokes of the hairbrush arranged her hair just so, and it acted as an extra cushion to help the girl fall fast asleep.

Santa leaned back, put his big feet up and wiggled his mistletoes. He adjusted his spectacles. He took a wee sip of hot tea that his wife — Jessica, Carol, Mary, Mother Christmas Kringle Claus — had just brought in from the detached kitchen. Eyes closed, he reached into the pouch and pulled out the first letter. He was in no hurry. He had all evening.

The first letter was from Bobby Watson. It read as follows:

“Dear Santa, thank you for reading my letter first. I am 14 and a big fan. I’m glad it’s finally my turn. This year when you deliver your special present, could you please make it a water glass that never runs dry? It’s rather parched where we live, and the groundwater is polluted.

“If you’re wondering how I knew you’d read my letter first, I have something else to tell before that. Last year you gave my cousin DeeDee a wonderful hairbrush, and my nephew out in Colorado, Tim, truly loves his pennywhistle. The year before, you gave my Uncle Bert’s adopted son Chester a pair of hiking shoes that never stumble, and my cousin Lucy got earrings that lowered her blood pressure.

“The year before that …” and so the letter continued for seven pages detailing every special gift Santa had ever given to his bookend letter writers for the last 200 years, and this Watson person was right on every detail. Every gift went to the same family for centuries. No explanation was given for this outrageous coincidence. To add to Santa’s confusion, the letter ended like this:

“That’s as far as my records go, but I know you’ve done more. We Watsons sure are grateful. We’ve been extra special good this year, and my grandpa out in California, also named Bobby, wishes to thank you in advance for reading his letter last. I know what he wants, but I don’t want to spoil the surprise.

“Sincerely, Bobby Watson.”

Santa dropped the letter into his lap and gazed at a painting on his wall of a two-headed dolphin out of the water up to his tail, spinning between opposing mirrors. The painting continued in the next room. It was a gift from one child’s parents. Santa accepts gifts, but they are a rare occurrence.

Santa had free will but he was also a creature of habit so he decided to give Bobby Watson the water glass. Time to move on to the rest of the pile. He stuffed the Bobby Watson letter in his seat cushion and summoned Spunky and Jake, his elfin bookkeepers.

Together they worked through the night, making a list, double-checking it. When they got down to the last dozen letters, Santa instructed his elves, “Shake the bag hard, boys. Last shall be last.”

With head turned aside to block his sight, Spunky handed Santa the last dozen letters, one at a time. When Santa took that last letter, he looked with some eagerness at the return address. It read as follows: “Bobby Watson, Benicia, CA.”

“Oh, great,” thought Santa. “No street address. Who is teaching these kids how to write a business letter? I wonder how many Bobby Watsons there are in Benicia?” He opened the letter with gusto. He didn’t even excuse his elves. The letter began like this:

“Dear Santa, I’m a long-time admirer, first-time writer. Thanks for letting me be last. You don’t know how hard I wished for this. In addition, I would like a million monkeys and a million typewriters.

“Also, my great, great, great grandpappy, Bobby Watson, who is sitting here beside me in a Speedo, poking me, wants me to tell you many happy regards, and ‘Thanks for the magic lantern with three wishes back in 1812.’ He wished for long life, modern clothing, and for everyone in his family to get such nice gifts.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Santa, smacking himself in the forehead.

Steve Gibbs teaches at Benicia High School and has written a column for The Herald since 1985.