'Cloth'ing the Emperor

This is both a very old tale and a new one.

Because sometimes the lessons learned have to be learned again.

And again.

And again.

You get the picture . . .

Many years ago, in the Empire of Odd, there lived a ruler who was—how can I put this judiciously—self-absorbed. The center of his own universe, he was only happy when all eyes were on him.

And, let’s face it, because he was Emperor, most eyes were just naturally drawn to him.

Moving on . . .

As time went by, in an effort to remain in the ‘public eye’, his antics grew larger. More outrageous.

And a section of the population cheered.

The larger the antics, the louder the cheers and adulation.

Now, one day, this Emperor was walking down the street (occasionally, emperors do normal, ‘regular person’ things like that) and noticed a very well-dressed man walking along on the opposite side.

This Emperor thought, “He is very well dressed” or something similar and decided right then and there that, not only must he be the most visible person in his empire, but also the most ‘visible’ person as well, if you catch my meaning.

He sent out a command to all of his people that anyone with a modicum of sewing ability was to come to his court and dress him.

And they came.

Dragging along patterns and materials that could only be worn (or afforded) by the very tip-top of society.

And the Emperor was happy.

Soon, however, he had exhausted his own tailors, so he sent to other countries, demanding their very best as well.

And they came.

They dressed him in silks and satins of every conceivable colour.

And with each new outfit, the Emperor’s vanity grew.

He took to parading along the main streets in each new outfit, fully expecting his populace to stand in awe at his resplendence (Oooh! Good word!).

And they did.

Then one day a couple of ‘tailors’ appeared at the gates of the palace with pleasant smiles. And a lot of moxy.

The two claimed that they could weave the most amazing, most stupendous (their word) cloth ever seen.

Of course they were whisked immediately to the Emperor.

And of course put immediately to work.

For days, they sat up in their rooms, living off the contents of the minibar and the bounty of the empire while they ‘wove’ their stupendous (see above) cloth.

And the word went round the empire (because the two tailors had confided to the major domo) that this amazing new cloth was unlike anything anyone had ever seen. Mainly because one had to be of unusual intelligence to be able to see it.

Finally, they announced that they were ready.

Gathering the Emperor and a room full of his courtiers, they brought out a large chest.

“Now,” they said in their most stentorian tones, “There is something you must remember about this cloth (and by association, this suit of clothes) before we reveal it.”

The room was satisfactorily silent.

“Only those who are of utmost intelligence will be able to see either.”

There were nods of knowing in the audience.

Including one or two from the Emperor, himself.

Certainly that word had reached far and wide.

The lid of the chest was flung back to further oohs and aahs and the two men reached in and pulled out their masterpiece.

Now just to be clear, these two men were charlatans and wouldn’t have known a needle from a pork belly. The chest, which appeared to all the people gathered to be empty, was, well and truly, empty.

But the genius of the scheme was that no one could admit it.

Because doing so would be admitting they were . . . erm . . . less than intelligent.

And, let’s face it—no one’s pride wants that.

Especially a self-absorbed, egotistical, rather narcissistic Emperor.

So the oohs and aahs increased in volume as the ‘cloth’ (and by association) ‘suit of clothes’ were revealed.

The charlatans pointed out various selling . . . points and the Emperor was duly dressed.

Of course he was standing there starkers.

And of course no one could (or would) tell him.

The parade that day to show off this amazing new suit of clothes would be remembered for all time, not for what the people saw. But for the fact that they saw too much.

I mean, some things just naturally should be kept under wraps.

Am I right?

So there pranced the Emperor, niggly bits and all.

Finally and completely exposed to the general populace.

And no one dared to mention it.

Until at last, one small, innocent, child pointed and, in his penetratingly shrill child’s voice, said, “Mama? How come the Emperor is naked?”

Of course everyone, including said prancing Emperor, heard.

Of course everyone, including said prancing Emperor, realized that they had been duped.

The Emperor was well and duly exposed. (*snort*)

And the people realized that their Emperor was so self-absorbed that he would fall for anything just to be noticed.

And they had allowed it.

There was immediate and unmistakable twittering and guffawing among the people.

Oh, some kind person covered said niggly bits and helped the crimson-faced Emperor to leave quietly.

But the lesson remained.

Putting on a good show doesn’t make for a good show.

And . . .

Deceit and pride can be overcome by innocence and truth.

Join the Army--Get an Education (The Conclusion)

 

A guest post by Sergeant Erik Tolley

There are also some other trades that you could join, like the Military Police, Intelligence (I still can't get any answers as to why they call it that . . .), Logistics (nobody will tell me what they do, either . . .), Medics, Marching Band, Cook, etc.
Unfortunately, I've never seen anybody from these trades, so I can't elaborate on what they do.
Not that anyone in the Combat Arms does much, either.
After selecting your preferred trade, you will be given several pounds of forms to fill out, a medical examination (thank goodness the doctor didn't need a rubber glove), and an aptitude test.
This all finds out if you are in good health, or if you need to come back when you look less like an overstuffed sofa.
Now, when that's all over and done with, you will be told whether you qualify for your preferred trade or not.
If you do, you will be given another annoying pamphlet with an attractive picture and a catchy slogan, which will describe in detail what you will learn to do in Basic Training.
Here is a list of some of the things that it will tell you:
Marksmanship
Fieldcraft
Discipline
Nuclear, Biological, and Chemical Defence
Rifle Drill
Navigation
First Aid
Rank Structure
Battlecraft
Communications
Everything Else

Strangely, this annoying pamphlet doesn't list any of the other things that you will learn while on your Basic Training course.
These other things are just as important to military life as the things listed above.
To correct this, I have added a few of my own ideas of what should be placed on future annoying pamphlets:
Swearing
Dirty Jokes
More Swearing
Female Anatomy
Male Anatomy
Alcohol Abuse
Vomiting
Washing Vomit Out of Your Clothing
Dragging Drunken Comrades Back to Base
Standing At Attention When Your Blood Alcohol Content is 0.25
Scaring Civilians
Who says the Army isn't educational?

Join the Army--Get an Education (Part Two)

 A guest Post by Sergeant Erik Tolley. Part Two

Infantry
In the infantry, you will be subject to many different forms of violent death, such as getting shot, stabbed, burned, shredded and eating field rations more than twice a day.
The sad thing is, these will all be inflicted by your own troops.
I won't even mention what the enemy will do to you.
Basically, you will be a moving target, which is a lot more fun than a paper target, but a lot harder to patch up afterwards.
You will also get to freeze, starve, sweat, stink, roast, and stay up long enough that you will begin to hallucinate about giant pink bunnies running circles around you singing songs from 'Lion King'.

Engineers
In the Engineers, you will get to do almost all the same things as in the Infantry, but you will also get to play with explosives.
EXPLOSIVES.
Powerful explosives.
At least your targets are made out of something stronger than paper.
Unfortunately, the pink bunnies now hum the tune to 'Star Wars'.

Armoured
In the Armoured trade, you will be able to drive and service large, cool-looking vehicles, often fitted with big guns that make loud noises and wake up the Infantry and the Engineers, if they happen to be asleep, which seems unlikely.
You will also be able to go places that no other vehicle can go, and get stuck in places that no other vehicle could even reach.
Then you send for the Infantry and the Engineers, who are conveniently awake, to come and dig you out, while you sit and play cards.

Artillery
In the Artillery, you will get to shoot big guns.
If anyone in the Artillery is reading this, please call me and let me know what else you guys do, because there are a lot of people who really want to know.

These are the trades known as the Combat Arms trades. I don't know why they are called this, because practically everyone's arms can be used as weapons.
Oh, well.
I guess that's why I'm in the Army.
If I knew, I'd probably be smart enough to still be a civilian.

To Be Concluded...

Join the Army--Get an Education

SupErik to the rescue
Drawn by Erik in Grade Nine
During Math class.
Don't ask.

Guest Post by Sergeant Erik Tolley

Upon first sight, the army looks real cool.
The recruiting posters depict big, brawny, attractive soldiers (and strong, beautiful women soldiers, too) all dressed up in their warpaint and carrying automatic weapons and squelching about in the mud as if they're doing something constructive and enjoying it, too.
The posters usually include some sort of catchphrase like "Join the Army  - See the World" and "Be a Part of the Armed Forces, and You Could Look Like One of These Attractive Young Soldiers, Instead of the Lumpy, Greasy, Smelly, Disgusting Couch Potato You Are", which usually makes you want to improve your lifestyle by joining the army and squelching about in the mud, wearing warpaint and carrying an automatic weapon.
Unfortunately, the thought that mud, grease, and gunpowder don't necessarily improve your lifestyle all that much usually doesn't occur to people until after they're actually in the army.
This is why most civilians think that soldiers are idiots.
They are.
I can speak from experience on this one.
I'm an idiot and I'm in the army.
Enough said.
I first decided to join when I saw an ad in the newspaper. If I hadn't seen it, I might have gone on to lead a normal productive life. I might even have been a manager at an A & W restaurant by now. (A management position at McDonald's being too ambitious for me).
But such was not my destiny.
Oh, well.
When you first go into the recruiting center, they ask you what trade you were thinking of.
At this point, you blurt out whatever first comes into your head, because the only part of the army that you've ever heard of is the Infantry, and you don't want to stand there looking like an indecisive idiot while the paperwork-person stares at you.
So, you say Infantry.
Fortunately, the paperwork-person has seen dozens of morons like you every day since he or she joined the army, and he or she will give you a cute little pamphlet with another attractive picture and catchy slogan on the front, which outlines the basics of all the different trades in the army.
This will help you to decide better what you want to be, otherwise, the army would be made up of thousands of Infantry soldiers.
And one clerk named Homer.
Strangely, this little pamphlet doesn't point out the actual tasks that you would be forced to carry out in an actual war zone, such as getting shot and tortured.
For clarity, I have provided you with a little more information that will be invaluable in determining which trade to choose, or rather, which trades to avoid.
To be Continued . . .

Spa'ghot'ti

Their relationship was lengthy; sadly, the ‘illicit’ kind,

The results not unexpected when a ‘he’ and ‘she’ combine,

A baby was forthcoming, and no way to stop it now,

The mom would not have stood for interference anyhow,

Afraid of having to confess, he planned a stratagem,

To cover his misdeed. Ensure his wife could not condemn,

To Italy, he’d send his lover, ending their affair,

But promised when the baby came, he'd happ'ly provide care,

What she had to do, when baby came, was send a card,

With ‘spaghetti’ written on the back. (That's all. It wasn't hard.)

And he’d begin to pay for care and school for eighteen years,

And ensure that her finances never would be in arrears,

And so she left. The months went by—their little one was due,

Indeed, that fateful day arrived, t’was time for babe’s debut,

The father—home from work—his wife was standing at the door,

Read the card she handed him, then passed out on the floor,

Confused, his wife picked up the card and read it once or twice,

Then shook her head. Some knowledge (just a little) would suffice,

She turned it o’er, it said “Spaghetti” three times, scrawled across,

Then, “Two with meatballs, one without, please plan to send more sauce.”

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week begin

With gentle thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

So Karen, Charlotte, Mimi, me

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week, we promise we won't bore

We'll talk of our LEAST favourite chore!

Gratitude Attitude

Admit it, you'd love for someone
to make this for you !

I'm weird.

I do weird things.

I've accepted it.

Moving on . . .

I had taken my three-year-old granddaughter to The Mall.

The big mall. The one that covers many city blocks and holds many, many stores and attractions.

And several thousand people.

It is bright. Entertaining. Noisy.

And, at times, crowded.

Kids love it there.

Parents tolerate it.

Older people ignore the enticement of 'modern shopping gone mad' and use it as an indoor track during the interminable Edmonton winter.

'People-dodging' has become an accepted, even sought for work-out.

With all these people and attractions vying (real word) for our attention, it is only understandable that some . . . gentility might get lost.

Let me explain . . .

My granddaughter and I were waiting for my son to finish an interview.

We were hungry.

The choices were, truly, endless.

She chose McDonald's.

Because.

We ordered from a smiling young man. Chicken pieces for her.

Salad for me.

We found a booth and started eating.

Now, I should point out here that, for the most part, I like McDonald's food.

Not gourmet, but tasty and satisfying.

Even with those expectations, my salad was a very pleasant surprise.

It was good.

Really good.

In fact, probably one of the best salads I had ever eaten.

Crisp where it should be crisp. Cheesy where it should be cheesy. Olive-y where it should . . . you get the picture.

I looked at the brightly illustrated billboard to recall what I had ordered.

Ah. Mediterranean salad.

Huh.

I finished.

And licked the bowl.

Okay, not quite, but I have to admit that I was certainly tempted.

My granddaughter finished her meal.

"Come with me, Sweetie." I took her hand and walked back to the counter.

A young woman was standing there, smiling brightly.

I went up to her. "Hello. May I please speak to the manager?"

Her smile . . . dimmed somewhat.

"Umm . . . yes?" She started to slide down the counter away from me.

I followed. Finally, "Are you the manager?"

She nodded hesitantly, by now, her smile all but gone.

"Oh, good. Well I have to tell you that I just ordered your Mediterranean salad," I pointed, "and it is probably the best salad I've tasted in my life. Thank you."

She stared at me. Finally, my words must have sunk in, because, suddenly, her face lit up.

Really. With the biggest smile I had ever seen.

"Oh, thank you!" she said, rather breathlessly.

The boy who had served us our meal suddenly appeared from the 'food' part of the establishment, where it would seem he had been hiding, and presented me with an equally large smile.

"Thank you!" he said.

I smiled at them and left.

I have to tell you that this isn't an unusual thing for me to do.

It started when I saw the movie, "Heaven Can Wait", with Warren Beatty. In one scene, he gets up from the very formal meal, served by his army of servants, and pushing open the kitchen door, hollers, "Thanks for dinner!" or something like that.

Now I had been raised to always compliment and thank my mother, or whoever had prepared my food in ours or someone else's home. I had just never taken it to the next level.

Thanking and complimenting someone you haven't even met. 

Or seen.

After that movie, I decided to try it.

With amazing results.

I've now been doing it for years.

Almost without fail, I receive surprised, but enthusiastic smiles.

And gratitude.

It's a simple thing.

A smile, a compliment, and a thank you.

It might put some much-needed sunshine into someone's day.

I know it did that day, in that crowded mall.

Into mine.

Farewell 2020

 

If I’d known in March that it would be my last time ‘eating out’,

I’d definitely have got dessert, ignored the Brussels sprouts,

Cause Season One of ‘20 hurt us more than just a bit,

Season Two was predetermined not to be a hit!

I never thought “I wouldn’t touch them with a six-foot pole”

Would someday be a way of life. And a global goal.

The dumbest thing I ever purchased, (bought at its premier)?

A planner to help schedule my 2020 year.

I can’t believe survival instincts kicked in on this wise:

To purchase toilet paper. (To keep you and yours alive?)

They said a mask and gloves were all I needed when I shopped,

They lied. The others all wore clothes. (And then they called the cops!)

“Please stand upon the big black X,” they told me right out flat,

But the Road Runner and Coyote taught me not to fall for that!

What and how much food you eat won’t matter one small bit,

Just know for sure your fav’rite earrings still will always fit…

We’re told that social distancing will make this virus pause,

The buttons on my shirts and jeans have taken up the cause!

I’m staying up on New Year’s. Not a party will I throw,

Cause I’m just staying up to make sure 2020 goes.

Here's to a MUCH BETTER New Year, everyone!

Driving Miss Daisy

A guest post by my Husby, Grant.

Meet Daisy.

On the farm in the early 1960s, one of the daily chores – actually twice daily, morning and evening – was milking the cow. 

For a few years we had a super-gentle, highly-milk-productive Jersey cow named Daisy. 

In rotation with some of my brothers, our twice daily job was to go out into the north pasture, bring Daisy into the barn, and tease from her the twice-daily bounty of rich, creamy milk.

Milking Daisy wasn’t a terribly hard task.  She always stood very quietly while one of us milk-boys would sit on the three-legged stool beside her and extract her bounteous supply. 

Her only quirk – and I am convinced she knew exactly what she was doing – was that she quite enjoyed swishing her tail around to her human-occupied side, pretending to swat at flies but hitting us square in the side of the head with a rather hard and hairy-raspy appendage. I think it was her way of saying “hurry up, I haven’t got all day here!”  Daisy loved her rich pasture much better than the annoying milking barn.

Daisy’s pasture was directly north of the barn, and she seemed to always migrate to the far side, at least a half mile away.  When it was time for milking, we could always bet that she would be right in the far corner.  Bringing Daisy in was the hardest part of the milking routine, because we always had to walk out to bring her in – about a mile or more, twice a day.

Then, as a young lad, I discovered the concept of laziness.

I realized that Daisy was a gentle enough soul that I could actually hop up on her back and she would let me ride!  This cut down the twice-daily walking by half!! 

I thought I was pretty smart.

Except that Daisy liked her pasture. 

Oh, she would move alright when I was on her back, but she would head to yet another far corner of the pasture rather than towards the barn.

I decided that what Daisy needed was a steering wheel.  So one day, going out to get Daisy, I took an old corn broom with me, hopped up on Daisy’s back, and used the broom to “steer” her, so to speak.  She would start walking in a random direction, but if I wanted to steer her meanderings toward the left, I would cover her right eye with the broom – magic!  She would move left.  And of course the opposite happened when I needed to go to the right.  Within days I had the system perfected, and Daisy had been trained to take me right to the milking stall in the barn, complete with my laziness and broom steering mechanism.

Daisy was with us for many years.  I am sure my bones are still made out of her wonderful, fresh milk.  When Diane and I married, we bought two more lovely Jersey milk cows, Kitty and Bunny (that’s another story, click here) largely because of the good memories we had of Driving Miss Daisy.  

Stuffed and Happy

A guest post by my eldest daughter, Caitlin.

In better health...

Back in October 2006, I was pregnant with my oldest daughter. 

Aside from the morning sickness that would hit any time it liked, it was a good pregnancy. 

During this time, I would sometimes hop the bus to the mall and peruse for some clothing that would fit my altering figure.

And occasionally find something for my hubby or the babby-to-come. 

One time, I went into a maternity store, but the only thing that caught my eye was a little stuffed dog toy. I bought it, thinking the new baby would (eventually) like to play with it. I paid for it, popped it in my bag and forgot about it.

I would remember it later . . .

Around that time, I was working women's clothing retail. It was my job to get the deliveries unwrapped and properly hung for display. I loved it, because it meant I didn't have to interact with people as much as the other ladies.

Ahem . . .

Also around that time, a rather nasty bug was making its merry way through everybody who worked there. It was a short-lived stomach flu, but it was still nasty.

Now, at the best of times, I dislike being sick. But I was about 5 months pregnant then, so I didn't have just me to worry about! The other ladies were very conscientious about my condition, but the bug wasn't.

I knew I had caught the flu when my hubby and I went to bed, and I couldn't control my nausea. Normally, I'd get a swift bout and I'd either run to the bathroom, or it would settle on its own. This night, after I ran to the bathroom for the third time, my sweetie got me a bucket to keep by the bed. By 3 am, I hadn't slept a wink, and I was starting to bring up food I hadn't even eaten yet.

Panic ensued.

Hubby bundled me into a jacket, and, bucket to hand, got me onto the next bus heading to the hospital.

We made it to the emergency, and when they found out I was pregnant and bringing up last week's meals, they tried very hard to get me in quickly.

Now, this was a hospital emergency ward. There were several other just-as-imperative cases there, including at least one car accident which I found out about after I'd been ushered into a cubicle and hooked up to an IV to combat my dehydration. They'd given me some Gravol to help with the nausea, and both hubby and I had managed to snooze a bit. 

Around 5 am, they took me in for an ultrasound to make sure the baby was okay. (It was) and when they wheeled me back, I noticed a little boy in tears in the emergency cubicle across from ours. 

His was the family that had been in the car accident. He was fine, but both his parents were immobilized, pending further tests to ensure no damages to . . . well, anything. 

All that little boy knew was that he couldn't sit with Mommy or Daddy, and he didn't know anybody there. The nurses tried to keep him occupied, but judging by the tears, they weren't succeeding.

That's when I remembered the little stuffed dog in my bag.

I pulled it out and told hubby to give it to the nurse to give to the little boy. 

Since the crying stopped soon after that, I think my tactic worked.

I was judged well enough to leave around 6 am, and we packed up our few things to get ready to go. I happened to glance into the main area where the nurse's desk was, and saw the little boy laughing with one of the nurses. She was stuffing the little dog into a vaccuum tube and sending it zipping up and down the vaccuum chute in the emergency ward. Every time it popped back down, the little boy would giggle so cutely I couldn't help but smile. We left to the sound of giggles, and that's when I knew why that little dog had caught my eye.

It's been fourteen years, and I would love to know what happened to that little boy and his parents.

Sometimes, we're moved upon to do things that we wouldn't ordinarily do.

Like me buying stuff.

*snerk*

 Not even I can say that with a straight face . . .

Resolved

 

Bob’s party was a hit. And Jack had gladly overdone,

Sampling every drink and having an excess of fun,

But when the party ended, knowing he'd had too much stout,

Jack handed Bob his car keys and on foot, he started out.

He’d stumbled for a block or two, when a cop came from the dark,

And stopped him as Jack contemplated crossing Central Park.

“'Tis half-past four, and time you were at home and safely bedded.

Where have you been, my lad?” he asked. “And tell me where you’re headed.”

Well, Jack just looked at him and tried to straighten up his sight,

But everything stayed blurry, though he tried with all his might.

So finally, he shrugged and gave the cop a painful smile,

“I’m headed to a lecture, sir. And it will take a while.”

“A lecture at this time of night? Well, surely you are kidding!

Not that fun at all, in fact, it does sound quite forbidding!”

Well, Jack, he shrugged and then he frowned a tiny, little frown,

“It’s true, sir,” he defended. “And I'm going there right now!

I'm trying hard to save you from an incorrect conjecture,

I’m really on my way to sit and listen to a lecture!

And I'm thinking from this moment, I'll resolve to never revel,

'Cause that lecture's being given by none other than the devil!"

The cop frowned, “'Devil Lectures' in the wee hours of night?”

“Sir, I can get them any time, the devil is my wife!"

Cause Mondays do get knocked a lot,

With poetry, we all besought

To try to make the week begin

With gentle thoughts,

Perhaps a grin?

So Jenny, Charlotte, Mimi, me

Have crafted poems for you to see.

And now you’ve read what we have wrought…

Did we help?

Or did we not?

Next week, our talents we'll apply

SPAGHETTI is the theme we'll try!

PJ Game 2020

We have a tradition in our home.

Well, several, actually.
But I'm only going to talk about this one . . .
Pajamas. On Christmas eve.
And spaghetti, but that is another story.
So . . . pajamas.
Every year, Mom hunts up the most distinctive pattern she can find and everyone is forced excited to wear it.
So, in honour of this very special time, here are a few examples from the past.
Enjoy!

 Christmas, 2002.  And no, that isn't a cow print couch . . .

Christmas 2003. And yes, we do look like escaped prisoners.

2007.  Little jump, here.

2008 and our numbers are increasing.
You can't see the striped socks, but they're there!

2009. Things are changing radically . . .

2010. What a mob!

2011. Well, a small, but important sample.

2012. The year of the polka dot.

2013 The year of the Googly

2014 - also glowed in the dark.

2015. What can I say? Gingham.

2016 Gramma and Grampa and a choice selection of Grands.
And PJ's. What do you think?

About this time, my DIL made for me from a selection of past pajamas . . .

Fifteen years of Tolley PJs

2019...most of us...

Also 2019...a selection of the grands. With their 'Grampa Names'!

And now 2020!

Eldest Son and Family

Second Son, ditto

Eldest Daughter and Family

Youngest Daughter and Family

Youngest Son and Family

How was your Christmas?

Warm?
Colourful and bright?

I do hope it was MERRY!

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays, everyone!

A Mrs. Christmas

My annual Christmas Eve poem.

Again with apologies to Clement Clarke Moore . . .

On the night before Christmas, long hours ahead
My babe still 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 that 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.

From out on the lawn came a very loud sound,

It brought me to my feet, had me looking around.
I flew to the window, and thought as I ran,

‘Are my neighbour’s cats rifling through my garbage can?!’

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 roof,
The unmistakable sound of thirty-two hoofs.
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 lad, but a lass,
Was I scared? Well at first, but soon it would pass.

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,
Her laugh was contagious, could not be outdone!

She was joyful and glad, and just a bit round,
Her smile made me smile, 'twas so friendly and sound!
She gave me a grin and then winked an eye,
And I knew I was right to bid my fears 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 cried, 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, very Happy New Year! 2021 will be great!