Single Mom's Christmas

By request, My Women's Night Before Christmas. 

With apologies to Clement Clarke Moore . . .

On the night before Christmas, long hours ahead
The toddler awake, I’d just got her to bed.
The stockings were hung in a haphazard row,
While Mama assembled new toys just below.

The kids were asleep. Well, except for the last,
Just waiting for morning to get downstairs fast.
I toiled on alone, ‘cause there wasn’t a dad.
I had broken a nail and my language was bad.

Then out on the lawn rose a terrible noise,

A talent that only my oldest employs.
I flew to the window, and thought as I ran,

‘What's he doing out there, my nine-year-old man?!’

It was bright (as can only the moon on snow be),
And I narrowed my eyes to be able to see.
And what did I glimpse, coming over the way?
But some deer, all in harness, and a stout little sleigh.

With someone in a coat that looked comfy and soft,
And clearly some magic to keep them aloft.
They flew like a Michael Schumacher on course,
While the driver attempted some will to enforce.

"Now Baby! Now, Jazzi! Now, Frolic and Jolly!
On, Cherub! On, Angel! On, Kitten and Folly!
I need you to get to the rooftop this time!
And a fine, gentle landing would be so sublime!"

To say that they flew like some leaves past the attic,
Would be perfectly true, it was quite that erratic.
I was holding my breath as they shot toward the sky,
And prayed that my windows and roof would survive.

Then finally, thankfully, up on the top
I heard stomping and - oh, dear - at least one small ‘plop’!
Then some noise in the chimney I’d not heard before,
And someone emerged, on their knees, on the floor.

The figure was dressed in a warm, sooty coat,
With some Uggs on their feet and scarf round their throat.
With toys, books and clothes in a gi-normous sack,
Which they dropped to the floor with the words, “Oh, my back!”.

And then sparkling eyes were directed at me!

From under a hat that was worn with esprit.
I surprisingly saw, not a man, but a miss,
With no  beard (though a tweezer would not go amiss).

In white teeth, she had clutched a short pencil end,
And a notebook, she held in one mittened hand.
Her round, wrinkled face shone with laughter and fun,
And I don’t think her happy laugh could be outdone!

She was joyful and glad, and just a bit plump,
Her smile made me smile, and her laugh made me jump!
She gave me a grin and then winked an eye,
All my fears passed away and I waved them goodbye.

She didn’t say much, simply nodded my way,
And I watched as she worked – like a pudgy ballet.
She finished her job, made a note in her book,
Then nodded and smiled and her exit she took!

I heard her footsteps as she ran to her sleigh,
Heard her call to her team as they all flew away.
Then this sweet woman shouted, as she flew o’er the town,
"Happy Christmas to all, don’t let life get you down!"

Merry Christmas, my friends! And a very Happy New Year!

Christmas Tears

Christmas came a little early to my house this year.
First, a little background:
My DIL, Jess, is a fantastic artist.
A world class artist.
In my opinion, she could earn a living as an illustrator.
She, however, prefers small jobs and drawing for personal satisfaction.
In this instance, I am totally in agreement.
Because last night, she gave me my Christmas present.
And blew me away.
I had asked her to do a picture of Husby and me some time ago and she just smiled her little smile and said nothing.
This is why . . .

Look carefully. It's Husby, me and all the grandkids. By families. Perfect.

Just looking at it brings tears of joy.

And that is what Christmas is all about.

Questioning Christmas

                                          Photo Credit: Kimberley Laakso Photography

I have some questions . . .

Does Claustrophobic label those afraid of Santa Claus?

Is it low elf esteem in Santa’s elf? Depressed by what he was?

Is Christmas like your job? You work. The fat guy gets the credit.

And do you call an Elf who sings a wrapper? There, I said it.

Did Rudeolph get his famous name because he was obnoxious?

Are they really saying deck the Halls? A law suit makes me cautious.

Is the Christmas script unlike the rest because it has noel?

A disbelieving kid a Rebel Without a Claus? Do tell.

Why is Santa’s Christmas wrap exactly like my Mom’s?

Is Santa Claus North Polish? Please, this question’s irked me some.

Is subordinate claus what Santa calls his clever little minions?

This Christmas time, because I’m broke, can I gift you my opinion?

These are things that scorn me when awake at half-past two.

Those trivial things that I can’t answer. Tell me, now, can you?

When the Gingerbread man makes up his bed, does he use a cookie sheet?

Does Santa have three gardens for his, “Hoe. Hoe. Hoe.”? Please Tweet.

And when you do, remember, that it’s not the gifts and tree,

But who is there beside you as you’re sipping on Chablis.

The family and those friends with whom you live throughout the year.

And without whom life would be sad here in this biosphere.

Gifts in the Attic

Diane. AKA: Snoopy.

In yesterday’s post, I described missing a couple of important steps in the whole chocolate-making-deliciousness process. (See here.)

I have to tell you now that missing things at Christmastime wasn’t my forte.

Nope.

Ol’ Diane was unusually keen at this time of year. I could spot presents coming into the house no matter how they were disguised.

Even in my sleep.

Well, okay, maybe that is an exaggeration.

But during any and all waking hours.

And if I somehow missed them coming in through the front door, my snooping would uncover them in their varied—and sometimes genius—hiding places.

My Mom knew to wrap everything immediately and get it under the tree.

Diane could then squeeze and shake, but, ironically, would not open.

Something about the whole don’t-get-caught scenario.

I know. Weird.

Dad, on the other hand, usually did his shopping on Christmas Eve. Less chance of snoopage/findage when the gifts don’t even come into the house until after Diane is in la-la land. But if he, for some strange reason, brought something into the house before the fateful night, he had never developed Mom’s adeptness at  hidage/coverage.

Heh. Heh. Heh.

Trustingly, he would slip said ‘something’ under the neatly-folded clothes in the top of his closet, secure in the knowledge that his middle daughter would never—ever—stoop to snoopage/findage. (See above.)

Dads. Pfff . . .

He had barely left the room before Diane had scaled the hanging clothes, scampered along the shelves and disclosed the undisclosable.

Ooooh!

Then, careful to cover my tracks, I would arrange things as I had found them, but with the little, golden nugget of knowledge tucked away into my avaricetic (Is that a word?) brain.

Usually, my snooping went undiscovered.

Until that Christmas.

When all was revealed. Because something wasn’t revealed.

Ahem . . .

The frenzy of unwrapping, exclaiming and gloating had finished.

And, as the euphoria evaporated, I realized one thing had not appeared.

That package neatly hidden among Dad’s shirts in the bowels of Dad’s closet.

Cleverly and stealthily, I tried to extract the information from my father. “Dad! What about that package in the top of your closet? Who was that for?”

Yeah. I’m up for a clever prevarication award. I think I have a good shot.

He looked at me. “Oh. I completely forgot!” The package was produced and bestowed.

Oddly, I can’t even remember if it came to me.

But I do remember that from that time forward, Daddy became much clever-er in the whole shopping/hiding-from-his-snoopy-daughter situation.

Rats.

Have you heard the term ‘Me and my big mouth’?

Yeah. That would apply here.

The Chocolate Conundrum

Okay, I admit it; I missed the prologue and all the chapters.

Coming in only at the yummy epilogue.

That doesn't seem to be sufficient.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Every year, at Christmastime, Mom made chocolates.

Chocolates.

They were just as yummy as they sound.

Sweet little balls of deliciousness dipped in more deliciousness.

Could life get any better?

Mom would heat melting chocolate on the stove. Assemble long strips of waxed paper on all sides of the table. Seat several willing children at said table and beside described paper.

Arm those children with a toothpick a piece.

Bring out the great sheets of frozen little balls of fondant.

And let the adventure begin.

But here is where I admit I must have missed a few steps.

How did those little balls of sweet amazingness end up on the cookie sheets in the freezer?

I mean, I know Mom was magic, but did that apply here?

What did she do between the shopping (which I was often somewhat present for)?

And the dipping (which I never missed)?

There must have been some sort of assemblage which looked enough like work that Diane had disappeared.

The dipping I had down. Five dipped, one eaten. Or was it four dipped, one eaten? Three? Two?

Let’s just say: I was especially good/efficient at this step.

But the whole construction process?

Yep. I’ve got nothing.

The reason I am telling you this?

I’ve got my gallon of melted chocolate.

A cart load of waxed paper.

And a tree’s worth of toothpicks.

But, as hard as I look, sheets of little, round balls of fondant simply aren’t appearing in my freezer.

I’ve looked.

Several times.

Yep.

Definitely missing something here.

A Grandma's House Christmas

My Grandma and Grandpa Berg
Who loved me.

Christmas excitement at the Stringam house was always two-fold.

There was the anticipation and joy over the gift-giving.

And getting.

And then there was the Christmas trip to Grandma and Grandpa Berg's house (hereinafter known as 'Grandma's House').

My Mom's parents.

I'm still not sure which was more exciting.

After the frenzy of unwrapping had dwindled and the euphoria and excitement of yet another Christmas morning had waned, it was time to pack the car for Grandma's house.

Yes!

We were allowed one suitcase.

So I had to carefully choose what gifts to bring along.

Much wrinkle-browed thought was put into what would accompany me.

One had to keep in mind that it would be many days before one could play with all of the other new toys, so the decision could not be made lightly.

What clothing and necessities went into the suitcase, however, were hap-hazard at best.

And most of the time . . . no less than sketchy.

It wasn't unusual to find that I had forgotten such necessities as . . . underwear. Pajamas. Shirts. Pants. Socks. Toothbrush.

In fact, as my Mom pointed out on at least one occasion, "Diane, what did you pack? Because there certainly aren't any clothes in here!"

I would look up at her.

Oops.

She would sigh and go to ask Aunt Eva or Aunt Louise if their kids had any clothes I could borrow.

It didn't matter. I was happily playing with my numerous cousins.

None of whom cared what I was wearing.

Or not wearing . . .

And that was just the start of the fun at Grandma's.

My older sister and I got to sleep in my Mom's old room at the top of the grand stairway.

In a bed with a delicious feather tick.

Perfect for a little, warm sleeping nest.

There was also a little, hidden cupboard. Deeply secret.

No one knew it was there, except Chris and I.

And of course whoever hung the old clothes and other stuff stored inside, but why quibble over details?

Just outside our room, against one wall in the hall, was a ladder.

Leading to the incredible, top secret attic.

My brothers spent hours up there, reading old comics and stuff left by my mother's brothers.

I was never allowed to go.

'Cause I was a girl.

And they were keeping me safe from the spook who lived up there.

At least that's what they said.

The large bedroom across the hall from mine was where my brothers slept. It was full of treasures. Books and games from my Mom's childhood.

Or at least from her brothers'.

I imagine they happened about the same time . . .

At the bottom of the staircase in the warmly shiny, plank floor was a square vent.

Just wide enough for Sharon, Julie, Susan and I to sit on.

Or lay on.

Or play . . . you get the picture.

All during Christmas, it blew warm air.

Just for us.

Hour after hour, we cousins and siblings would crouch together on the slatted steel. Warm and toasty.

Paradise.

There was plenty to eat at Grandma's house. Food that left her large, sunny kitchen in great, delicious quantities.

And just as quickly disappeared.

And the all-important cookie tins.

Grandma always baked many, many different kinds of cookies.

All delicious.

Then put a selection into several tins and placed them throughout the house.

It was like a treasure hunt.

Except that, invariably, the Smaarbucklesa (spelled phonetically because it's Swedish and none of us kids knew what she was saying . . .) disappeared immediately.

From every, single tin.

Rats!

Even the furniture at Grandma's house was an adventure just waiting to happen.

When Grampa Berg wasn't sitting on it, there was always his chair, sitting innocently beside the great living room window.

The chair that vibrated, if one turned the dials.

Like the rest of Grandma's house, it was magic.

And there was always the carved, wooden feet under the dining table to sit on.

And hide.

Although, looking back, I really don't know how effective my hiding was.

Especially when someone would ask for Diane and someone else would say, "Probably under the table."

Sigh. 

Secret agent material, I wasn't.

But the most exciting part about being at Grandma's house was the little sun room on the side of the house.

A sunny little place.

That had a tenant.

Hanging silently on one wall.

Just waiting for the most daring cousin to dart in and . . . touch it.

And run away screaming.

Okay, okay, so I was always the one who was scared to go in and screamed on the way out.

Sheesh.

But you have to admit that a stuffed moose head is really scary.

Okay, you don't.

But it was.

When I was four.

At Grandma Berg's house.

The best place on earth.

Christmas Fragrances

From my favourite Christmas Stories:

Yeah. Don't let him fool you.
He only looks like a college student. Studying.

Dad was a veterinarian student in Guelph, Ontario.

That fact, alone shouldn't strike terror into anyone's heart . . .

Christmas 1946 was a special time.

The veterinarian students (hereinafter known as the Vets) had pooled their resources and bought some decorations and a small tree.

These, they had used to decorate their balcony.

It looked quite festive and they were rather pleased with themselves.

Something that happened often.

But I digress . . .

Other students also noticed their efforts.

Students who were either too broke or too lazy to decorate their own area.

Not a good situation.

The Vets came back from class a couple of days before Christmas to discover that their tree was . . . missing.

Investigation was indicated.

After a short, very short search, they discovered that the thief or thieves had left a trail of decorations down the hall.

Obviously the work of amateurs.

The Vets followed the telltale trail into their neighbour's corridor and, further, into one of the dorm rooms there. (Oh, if only NCIS could have it this easy!)

They knocked.

Politely.

Actually, they probably hammered violently, but my way sounds better.

Several young men answered the door, then vehemently (good word) protested their innocence.

And as strongly denied that they had access to the closet to which the trail subsequently led.

Undaunted, the Vets demanded that they open the door or it would be pulled from its hinges.

Gently. 

At that point a key was quickly produced, the door opened, and the disclosed tree retrieved.

The Vets wasted no time in restoring it to its rightful place of honour on their balcony.

All was well.

Or almost well.

Remember. These were young men.

In college.

Payback was indicated.

Two of these young men had recently uncovered a den of skunks.

As part of their training, and because they were bored, they de-scented those skunks.

But saved the glands.

Weird.

One of them suddenly came up with a brilliant plan.

They would chop up the glands, add a little water, then carefully fill a syringe with the resulting goo.

No sooner imagined than accomplished.

Now, I should point out here that, in the late 40s, each door in the dorms at Guelph, and indeed, everywhere, opened with a large, old-fashioned key.

The keyhole was big enough to peek through.

And certainly large enough to accommodate a syringe needle.

While everyone else was at class, the two vet students took their syringe and squirted a little of their prized 'essence' through the keyhole of every door in that corridor.

The smell was immediate . . . and indescribable.

Hmm. Maybe they had been a little precipitate? (another good word!)

But the damage was done.

For the last day before vacation, everyone who had anything to do with that building, did it in as brief a time as possible.

Sleeping was out of the question.

Most of the young men simply left town as soon as their last class was over.

Perhaps distance would lessen the smell.

Dad didn't give the prank much thought during his Christmas vacation back in Alberta.

Some things are best forgotten.

And, astonishingly enough, by the time they got back to the campus, the smell was all but gone.

Good thing carpets hadn't been invented yet.

But everyone learned something from the experience.

            1. Leave skunks alone.

            2. Never, ever play tricks on veterinarian students.

Guelph - 24 years later - the smell is almost gone . . .

All I Got For Christmas...

My first 'real' Christmas. Age 14 months.
That's me. With Mom.

I've been trying to remember gifts I have received for Christmas.

I know I received some.

Many, in fact.

Stuffed toys. And the snuggling that ensued.

Lego. Always popular.

Books. Nancy Drew in particular.

Puzzles. Nearly always completed with my Dad.

There was the one year that my parents gave me a small musical instrument. I think they called it a musette.

It had a tiny black membrane that fit into one end and made the whole thing work.

A delicate membrane.

One could put a finger right through it.

Don't ask me how I know this . . .

I clearly remember the year we all got skis.

And the adventures that followed.

And the time my brother gave me a camshaft.

A real camshaft.

As it turned out, though, it wasn't my real present.

He had wrapped it up to confuse me just in case I had caught a glimpse of what he had actually purchased for me.

Moving on . . .

There were things I needed.

Clothes.

Quilts.

And things I didn't.

Tinned Vienna sausage.

And a mounted and stuffed Jack-a-lope head (Google it).

Things I really, really wanted.

A Palm Pilot. (You can Google that, too.)

Video Camera.

And a PT Cruiser. (I got three – all three inches long.)

And things that were just . . . sweet.

Several pairs of slippers.

And at least one bath robe.

I've truly loved them all.

Truly.

They were given with love.

And accepted with the same.

But I have been around for sixty-one Christmases, including this one.

Sixty-one.

Why can't I remember sixty-one gifts?

I know there was at least one per year.

Many times, more.

I guess it's because the memory of family and being together stands out more clearly.

You know, I think that's how it should be.

Christmas with the Sputterlings

Those spunky Sputterlings: Norma and me.

I stopped in the living room doorway and just—stared.

A long streak of sunlight bathed the area in a bright glow, which was remarkable in itself following weeks of grey and gloom. But what really caught my attention was that there, in the center of said glow, huddled a smelly old bird. In a cage.

Reginald had come home.

For a moment, the two of us eyed each other.

Okay I admit it, even though we have, at times, shared accommodations—the most recent being at Cousin Edith’s house—we have never really been friends.

He ruffled up his feathers and croaked something that sounded like ‘smelly old broad’.

I narrowed my eyes, then tried to infuse some enthusiasm into, “Hello, Reggie, old boy. You’re home!” I don't think I nailed it because he immediately turned his back, shook his feathers and shot out a great, white glob which, with impressive accuracy, completely missed the pristine paper in the bottom of his cage and landed on the shining clean floorboards at my feet.

“Did you see?” Norma bustled into the room behind me. “Reggie has come home!” She noticed the great gob on the otherwise spotless floor.  “Oh! Reggie you little rascal!” She turned back toward the kitchen. “I’ll just get—”

What she was going to get was left to Reggie’s and my imagination. He had slicked his feathers and was looking toward the empty doorway--hope for possible treats in his round, dark eyes. I, on the other hand, was pretty sure her abrupt departure had something to do with bird poop.

He and I never have existed on the same plane.

I took a chair on the other side of the room, as far from the upcoming action as I could get, and picked up a magazine.

Norma scurried back into the room and I smirked at Reggie. I was right. She was carrying the anticipated bucket of warm, soapy water and a sponge. And, inexplicably, the star for our Christmas tree.

She dropped the star into my lap, then carefully lowered herself to the floor and attacked Reggie’s welcome home gift.

I picked up the star and stared at it. Then looked at her. Well, at her broad backside, which was all I could see. “Ummm—Norma?”

“It’s for—the tree—dear.” Her words were slightly muffled and punctuated by her cleaning efforts.

“Yeah?”

“I’m getting—the tree and—stuff out.” She sat back on her heels and wiped her forehead with the wrist of the hand holding the sponge. “It is December.”

“Yeah,” I said again. “But why did you bring it in here?”

She looked at me and frowned. “I don’t know.” She shuffled a bit on her knees, the held up a hand. “Could you please—?”

I sighed, got to my feet and helped Norma to hers, then followed her into the kitchen where she deposited her bucket. From there I trailed her to the sitting room where our tree sat in lonely glory in one corner, flanked by numerous boxes.

“See?” she pointed.

I set the star on a table and moved to sit in the one big armchair.

“Nooo!” she shrieked. “That’s for her!”

I paused halfway to sitting and blinked. “Her?”

Norma nodded. “Her.”

“Ummm—Norma?”

She smiled. “Well I’ve spoken to Frosty at the department store, written to Santa, even begged Krampus and the Grinch, who obviously must know her—”

I straightened and looked at her. “Okay?”

“Well, it's fairly certain by now we're never going to get her to leave. So I’ve decided that the only way we are going to have our beautiful white Christmas is to invite her.” Her smile widened. “Christmas is for sharing. That’s why I brought Reggie home. Oh, and Edith is coming, too.”

I turned toward the door.
“Where are you going? I need your help!”

I shook my head. “You’ve spoken to all of your imaginary friends. I’m going to call Batman.”

One of us needs to keep a foot in the real world.

Enjoyed today's adventure? For more with the Sputterling Sisters, go here. Here. Here. And here.

How did I do?

Every month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado submits words to her followers. 

From her other followers. 

They then submit their words back to Karen. 

And everyone else.

Make sense?

That's okay. It's fun!

My words this month were: white Christmas ~ Frosty ~ Santa ~ Krampus ~ Grinch ~ Batman
And submitted to me by: Sarah of Not That Sarah Michelle 

Go and see what the others have done with their challenge!

Link List:
Baking In A Tornado
Southern Belle Charm
Not That Sarah Michelle
Spatulas on Parade
The Bergham Chronicles
The Diary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver
Dinosaur Superhero Mommy
Simply Shannon
Confessions of a part time working mom
Climaxed

Bear Memories

It was Christmas.

The time of magic.

Wonderment.

And gift-giving.

For a single mom with two little girls and an income sufficient for the necessities and little else, it was a time to get creative.

And Pinterest hadn't been invented yet.

She desperately wanted to give something to the family who cared for her two girls, but what could she afford?

She saw some little salt-clay ornaments in a magazine.

Perfect!

She and her girls would make a set of those.

They spent several evenings mixing.

Rolling.

Assembling.

Baking.

Painting.

And detailing.

Six little Christmas bears emerged.

Perfect and beautiful.

They were wrapped and presented.

And very, very much appreciated.

Move forward a few years . . .

Those same Christmas bears were the Tolley family favourite.

A reminder of the precious years when we welcomed two little girls and their lonely single mother into our family.

They were the first things out of the box when we decorated our Christmas tree.

And always handled with care.

Until that Christmas.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Our family had welcomed in two little special needs foster children.

A brother and sister.

Both had come from . . . difficult circumstances. Christmas was something that had been observed only from a distance.

They were enthralled with everything.

The gifts.

The lights.

The baking.

The tree.

Especially the tree.

Three-year-old Little Girl spent hours looking at that tree. And when looking wasn't sufficient, she would pull the decorations off.

Systematically tasting each one.

Most were inedible.

But the little salt-clay Christmas bears, that so closely resembled cookies, could, with just a little effort, be eaten.

She did so.

I caught her at it.

“No! Those aren't for eating!”

I took them away and tried to instruct and advise.

Then moved them up, out of reach.

But when I was downstairs doing laundry, she got into them again.

By climbing the tree.

And knocking it over.

A few minutes later, I sadly rescued what was rescue-able.

It wasn't much. Only scattered, semi-chewed pieces remained.

One precious bear remained intact enough to still hang on the tree.

It hangs there today.

Still 'bear-ing' the scars of its trauma.

But it isn't just a bear.

It's memories . . .

Giving, Wrapped

Little Wrapper Girl.

T’was giving that she liked to do,

Some things old. And some things new.

When neatly wrapped they all would be

A special gift for you. Or me.

She’d wrap most anything she found,

Items square. And items round.

That spoon there in your chocolate cup,

Then the cup too, to follow up.

Old toys and games. Knick-knacks, dishware,

That coat you’d flung across the chair.

Shoes and boots and mitts and hats,

Birdcage, bird and spitting cat.

All were grist to her wrapping mill,

All were wrapped, and would be, still,

Except the part I now speak of,

The giving them to those she loved.

‘Cause wrapping merely was the start,

Of giving. From a child’s warm heart.

Of watching as she did bestow,

And waiting for that happy glow.

She’s older now, and I am too.

We’ve kids and grandkids. Much ado.

But memories I just can’t escape,

Of a little girl, with wrap and tape.

Once a month, Karen of Baking in a Tornado gives each of our little writing group a challenge to produce a poem based on a theme.
December's? Giving. How apt for the season!

Hop on over and see what the others have done:

Karen of Baking In A Tornado. The Essence of Giving

Dawn of Spatulas On Parade. Tis’ the Season for Giving

Lydia of Cluttered Genius. Giving...and more giving

Seasonal Dressing

Clockwise from right: Aly (Hired man's son),
Anita, Blair, and Me - in my little gold beauty.

It wasn't often that we kids were able to go on a field trip with my Dad.

When it happened, we were eager.

When it happened at Christmas, we were beyond excited.

Ecstatic!

Exuberant!

Exhilarated!

Elated!

Euphoric!

Electrified!

That's all of the 'E' words I can think of.

Except that 'energetic' should be stuck in there somewhere.

And, for me, usually immediately followed by, "Empty all tanks!"

When I think about it, I guess it's not surprising that we didn't go on field trips with my Dad very often.

Back to my story . . .

Dad was taking us four oldest kids to the Sweetgrass Hills to cut down our family's Christmas tree.

It was the 60's.

Families did things like that back then.

But we had to make a quick stop in Milk River at the Robinson's store to get me a winter coat.

I had outgrown my old one and Dad wasn't excited about trailing me through the forest wrapped in my blanket.

Go figure.

So the excitement level for this trip had just been dialed way up.

In fact, I was so elated, that Dad didn't even wait for the 'announcement' (see above), but sat me in the car with a bucket already in my lap.

Smart man.

We made the 20 miles to Milk River without incident. (see above . . . again.)

And entered the store.

I should explain here that the Robinson's Store was the only shop in Milk River that featured clothing.

There were neat piles of everything wearable.

And the wood plank floors creaked delightfully.

And if you were really lucky, you got to watch Theo Barrows gift wrap packages at her counter in the middle of the store.

The curling of the ribbons was especially fascinating.

Where was I  . . .?

Oh, yes.

New coat.

Dad asked the manager where we could find coats in my size and was conducted, with me tagging eagerly behind, to a rack at one side of the store.

My eyes were immediately drawn to a gold, furry, wonderful garment.

I reached out a hand and brushed the soft fur.

Oooooh!

"This one, Daddy! This one!"

"Okay, we'll try this one," Dad said.

I dropped my blanket and slipped my arms into the sleeves.

Perfect!

"I guess we'll take it," Dad said.

Good thing, too, because there was no way they were ever going to pry me out of that coat.

Dad paid and we trooped back out to the car.

The other kids excited now to get to the real reason for this trip.

Me brushing and brushing the soft fur on my arms and chest.

We had fun finding the tree.

I think.

We did end up with one.

I really don't remember much about it.

Me and my coat were happy, sitting in the car together.

And watching through the windshield.

Because, after all - one couldn't wear one's new coat out into nature!

What if it got soiled?

Dad later said something about 'waste of time and money'.
But who listened?

Later:
Blair (in my now-outgrown coat which he hated), and Anita
The original recycling program

Decorating as Home Defence

Our good friends weren't planning on being home for Christmas.

Instead, they were taking their family to spend the holiday with his parents.

Over six hours away.

Apparently, the extended family was getting together.

It would be . . . fun.

And because they weren't going to be at home, they had also made a practical decision.

Why put up the Christmas decorations?

Decorating took time and effort.

And no one would be around to enjoy them.

And the biggest reason to rejoice?

They would miss, entirely, the all-important (and dreaded) clean-up involved in bringing in their family's usual live Christmas tree.

It just made sense.

To them.

To my Husby, Christmas decorating fiend, it was a travesty.

He reasoned that they would be home for over half of December.

Surely they needed to decorate for those days, at least.

But they didn't.

A week before the big day, we waved them off from their front drive.

My Husby turned to look at the bare, forlorn little home they left behind.

Nestled among it's lighted, decorated neighbours.

He shook his head. “It's just not right,” he said.

Then he grinned.

Something I've learned to treat with respect.

“We'll decorate for them!”

Uh-oh.

That night, he returned from work with a special tree tied to the roof of the car.

Very special.

It had been thrown into the ditch from a passing vehicle somewhere along his commute.

And had been laying there, forlorn and forgotten for most of the past year.

To say it was dead would be a vast understatement. No hint of green remained among the dry, brown needles.

He untied it and stood it up.

“What'd'ya think?”

“Ummm . . . Oh, Christmas tree, Oh, Christmas tree! How dead and dry your branches!” I said.

He grinned. “It's perfect!”

I thought of our friends, happily enjoying the holiday in the bosom of their family.

Blissfully unaware of the clean up that would greet them the instant they arrived home.

I shook my head. “Your terrible.” 

“I know!” he responded. “Isn't it great?!”

He carried the tree to our friends' house and stood it up in their front stoop.

It fit perfectly.

Brushing needles from his hands, he returned home.

Mission accomplished.

A couple of weeks later, our friends returned. Happy and content from two weeks in the warmth of kith and kin.

They pulled into the drive.

And stopped.

And stared.

They got out of the car.

And stared some more.

A tree, mostly bare, was standing in the stoop outside their front door.

The wind had playfully sculpted the piles of dead needles around it into imaginative drifts and eddies.

Huh.

Somehow, during their absence, someone had sneaked onto their property . . .

And left something.

You know, I could just picture how it would look on a police report.

'Trespassers on property. Nothing stolen. Something . . . left.'

And, most importantly of all?

They had to clean up the needles.

Admittedly, the clean up was quick and easy and relatively painless.

Just a sweep and done.

But to someone who had planned to avoid it altogether?

Maddening.

Oh, they remained our friends.

Because they were extraordinary people.

But after that, they decorated.

Always.

It was just . . . safer.