Cheap But Expensive

Skier Extraordinaire!

We have snow here in Edmonton, Alberta.

A significant amount.

The skiers are ecstatic.

And that reminds me of a story . . .

My siblings and I loved to ski.

Our Dad had introduced us to it the winter I turned eight and it had become a . . . habit.

Well, actually more of a fixation, but we'll go with habit.

We went every chance we could get.

And scoured the catalogs for new and wonderful accessories for our grand passion.

I had just made my first official 'ski' purchase.

New ski pants.

They were expensive.

But gorgeous.

Dark brown.

Perfect fit.

I was going to wow everyone on that hill!

I couldn't do it with my skiing.

This was the next best thing.

I should explain, here, that ski pants in the 60s weren't the stretchable remarkable cloth that we have now.

In fact, they were distinctly . . . un-stretchable.

Something which will figure largely in my story later.

But they had little side zippers at the ankles.

And they had little elastics that slid under your foot.

They were nifty (real word).

Happily, I donned them and my brother and I were off.

Now, I should explain, here, that Big Mountain in Whitefish Montana was a wonderful place to ski.

There were numerous slopes.

Each with its own particular brand of ski tow.

I always chose the expert slope.

Not that I could actually ski the expert slope.

For two other reasons.

1. It had a ski trail that wound around behind and through the wonderful forest, and
2. The trail came out at the top of the Intermediate slope, allowing the skier to then ski to the bottom.
3. Comparatively unharmed.

It was the best of all worlds.

I made my first run to the top of the expert slope.

Disembarked.

Well, slid off the chairlift into a heap.

But to one side, away from the traffic.

An important point.

I got my limbs more-or-less together and headed for the mouth of the trail.

It was stunningly beautiful.

The sun was shining.

There had just been a fresh fall of snow.

Over a foot of sparkling, fluffy whiteness blanketed the landscape.

I took a deep, satisfying breath of the spicy air and slid onto the trail.

For the next 20 minutes, I was in heaven.

Finally, the trail ended.

I slid quickly out onto the slope.

Only to discover that it hadn't yet been touched by . . . anything.

It was still in it's pristine, just-been-snowed-on condition.

It took me a few moments to discover that this could present a problem.

The trail I had been on had been fairly packed.

My skis were still on that level.

They hadn't yet adjusted to the extra foot of fluffy snow.

I was sliding along with everything below my knees hidden in the fresh stuff.

For a second, it was fun.

Then I hit something.

I never discovered what it was.

A rock.

A lump of ice.

Whatever.

It stopped me.

Instantly.

I wasn't prepared.

My body, already bent forward in my best 'snowplow' position, bent further.

In fact, I whacked my forehead on my knees.

Something I wish I could do today.

But I digress . . .

My glasses popped off into the deep snow.

Oh, rats.

I rubbed my head and scrabbled around in the snow, finally, triumphantly extracting my glasses.

Then I straightened.

And felt a draft.

Oh-oh.

Remember what I had said about my ski pants being - not stretchy?

This would be where that fact comes into play.

When my body had done its 'fold-in-half' trick, it proved to be something my new pants had been completely unprepared for.

They split from waistband to waistband, right along the crotch.

I was now effectively wearing two pant legs.

Held up with a narrow strip of cloth at the top.

I definitely needed a longer coat.

Or a loincloth.

And this was the first run of the day.

Sigh.

I made the run down the slope as carefully and unobtrusively as possible, then sneaked to the car and my suitcase.

The change from my new, albeit flimsy, ski pants to my usual jeans was accomplished in a minimum of time and a maximum of scrambling. In the wide rear seat.

I mean the wide rear seat.

Not the wide rear seat.

Never mind . . .

And I was back on the slope.

For the first few runs, I carefully peered at people to see if anyone recognized me as the almost-pantless girl who had been on the slope a short time earlier.

But, as no one seemed to be paying much attention to me, I finally relaxed.

I learned something that day.

Expensive can sometimes mean cheap.

It just costs more.

Walking With Daddy

My Hero

December. My four-year-old mind was a haze

I’d been locked in the house as it snowed for three days.

Then quite suddenly, magically, sunlight appeared,

And my Daddy was pulling on snow boots. And gear.

I just couldn’t stand the house one minute more.

I had to get out. I’d help Dad with the chores!

So I zippered and buttoned and pulled on and tied,

Then stood by my Daddy with little-girl pride.

“I’m ready,” I shouted. “Let’s go milk the cows!”

I was set for adventure, quite done with the house.

He smiled and then, turning, stepped into the snow.

And I walked alongside. It seemed quite apropos.

At first the bright sparkles and crisp winter air

Made our walking, adventure, and senses aware.

But then I discovered as most children do,

That snow, though quite pretty, was hard to get through.

I struggled and grunted, broke into a sweat,

Then looked for the barn that we hadn’t reached yet.

My Daddy smiled down at my efforts inept,

“It’d be easier if you tried to step where I step.”

So I did. And my progress was much better then,

Soon we two reached the barn, and the cozy cow pens.

I sat perched on a stool and watched Daddy do chores,

Then followed him home, just like I’d done before.

I learned something that day, as we walked through the yard,

If I stayed in his footsteps, then things weren’t as hard.

His skill and experience, and his guidance, too,

Would make everything easier my whole life through.

Now, to my own kids, when there’s woe to be had

I give bits of advice that I learned from my Dad.

When Life dishes out dollops of good or of ill,

I find that I’m walking in Dad’s footsteps still.

Night Before Christmas - Female Version

On the night before Christmas, long hours ahead
The toddler still up, 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 can he be up to, 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 Sprinter! Now, Jazz! Now, Frolic and Jolly!
On, Cherub! On, Angel! On, Kitten and Wally!
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 then 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 my new Goddess shouted, as she flew o’er the town,
"Happy Christmas to all, don’t let life get you down!"

Delores of Under the Porch Light has done it again. 

This week's challenge: Sparkling, pudgy, goddess, surprising, wrinkled, talent
What else could it be but another poem?!

Thank you, dear friend! This is so much fun!

Pocket Shopping

I was four.

Going Christmas shopping with my Mom in the great city of Lethbridge.

And it was the most exciting time ever.

Almost . . .

First, there was the anticipation.

Heightened by each of the long seventy miles from the ranch.

And by older brothers and sister who were talking about all of the exciting stores we would visit and the amazing/stupendous/astounding things they would buy.

Then, there was the first spotting of the crèche, a sure sign Lethbridge was just around the corner.

And, finally, the Christmas lights.

I think the car window was permanently marked by my nose pressed against the glass.

True story.

Mom carefully navigated the crowded streets and found a parking space.

And everyone piled happily from the car.

All right so far.

My older siblings immediately separated and disappeared into the seething masses that churned up the snow on the sidewalks.

I stood, frozen beside my Mom, and stared.

In the anticipation of ‘Christmas Shopping’, I hadn't anticipated this part.

The sheer number of people.

Let’s face it. I lived on a ranch waaay out in the country.

Population less-than-twenty.

For a big-eyed five-year-old, this was like being on the set of a Cecil B. DeMille movie.

With no Cecil B. DeMille.

Mom picked up my baby brother, then turned back to me.

“Okay, Diane,” she said. “Now you hang onto my pocket.”

I immediately (and gratefully) reached for the large pocket of her thick, wool car coat.

And did what I was told.

In point of fact, I don’t think anything could have loosened my grip from that warm, comforting strip of fabric.

There may be crowds around. Big, scary, unknown people intent on their own errands, but I had hold of my Mom’s pocket. And by transference, my Mom.

Nothing could harm me.

Moving ahead several years . . .

I was Christmas shopping with my kids. The older three had disappeared on their own missions.

The younger three were with me.

I was holding my four-year-old’s hand and walking down the crowded mall.

Suddenly, I felt a tug on my coat.

My six-year old had grabbed my pocket.

I smiled as the memories flooded in.

I know she felt instantly safer.

And so did I.

Getting Benched

First of many.

Husby likes to build things.

And he’s good at it.

Tables, birdcages, pirate ships, houses.

He’s done them all.

And more.

I didn't realize, when I married him, that I was getting this added bonus.

But I’m very grateful for it.

Let me tell you about his first project . . .

He had bought me a vacuum.

A nice, new vacuum.

Which, because I’m a neat freak, I kept in its cardboard box.

Don’t ask.

Said box soon became . . . tattered.

Husby decided he would do something about it.

And take care of that year’s Christmas present at the same time.

He’s efficient like that.

Moving on . . .

We were spending the holiday with my parents.

Husby squirreled himself away in my father’s shop for several evenings working on my ‘top secret’ gift.

I knew only that a couple of sheets of ¾ inch mahogany plywood had gone into the shop with him.

And a  paper bag or two of stuff.

There was much sawing and pounding and assorted other creative sounds.

Then . . . Christmas morning.

The living room of my parent’s home had been transformed.

I took our (then) two sons into the room, sat down, put the baby on the floor and exclaimed with my two-year-old about the amazing sight of tree, lights and presents.

Gifts began to be distributed.

I helped both boys with the glorious task of unwrapping.

We were bent over, admiring the tractor Oldest Son had just received.

When I realized that I was sitting on something I had never seen before.

A beautiful, leather-topped bench. Carefully crafted and meticulously decorated.

“Oh,” I said. Okay, clever/original/observant, I’m not. I got to my feet and looked down at the piece of furniture I had been perched happily on for the past fifteen minutes. “Oh!” I said again.

I looked over at Husby, who was grinning widely. “Umm, Merry Christmas!” he said.

“Oh!” I said a third time.

Yeah. I’m pretty much hopeless.

But in my defense . . . okay, I have no defense.

It was/is a beautiful gift.

The first of many.

This is its 35^th Christmas.

It’s battered and well-used.

Has gone from storing my vacuum to storing assorted children's toys.

Presently, it is the repository for all foam pirate swords.

Ahem . . .

And is still very much appreciated.

Christmas on the Stage

I’m sure it was a normal, every-year, run-of-the-mill Christmas.

Everywhere but at the Tolley home.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Husby and I have six children.

Six.

Originally, we were going for a baseball team, but we ran out of steam somewhere around short stop.

Sooo . . . six kids. Ages five to seventeen.

It was Christmas time and we had to do something with them.

What if we put them all on the stage? Had our own theatre company?

Well, it made sense to us.

Moving on . . .

For that one magical Christmas, we had just that.

The Tolley Troubadours. Specializing in Dinner Theatre Who-done-its.

Our most famous play? The Demise of Santa Claus?

Okay, Broadway, we weren’t. But we sure had fun.

The players:

The Grinch. Our Seventeen-year-old. Self-proclaimed hater of Santa Claus and everything he stood for. And possessor of many and varied instruments of death and destruction whose sole purpose was the final end of the aforementioned and hapless Claus.

Scrooge. Our sixteen-year-old. Hater of everyone equally. And not above threatening anyone who interfered with him (i.e. tried to engage him in conversation. Or smiled/looked at him.)

Alfie the Elf. Our thirteen-year-old. Mobile-mouthed purveyor of all things ‘cookie’. Not averse to a little bribery when the mood took him.

Mrs. Claus. Our eleven-year-old. Heavily made up, padded and hunched over model of sweetness and light. Until someone questioned her honesty. Then watch the rolling pin come out.

Angel Sweetface. Our eight-year-old. Wealthy, angelic example of life lived well. A little too well. Heaven forbid that anything should interfere with her rather skewed view of the world.

Elfie the Elf. Our five-year-old. Son of Alfie. And mute. Until moments of stress/surprise/revelation when he became remarkably conversant and effusive. Strange.

Inspector Clueso. My Husby. Bumbling, inept investigator of all things mysterious. Namely every person on the playbill.

Bambi. Me. Feather-brained mistress of ceremonies. Woefully type-cast.

And there it is. The line up.

Before, during and after a good dinner, based on the clues gleaned from presented scenes, the guests had to figure out who ‘done it’.

Most guessed a Tolley.

Surprisingly, they were right.

Just not right enough.

It was hard to figure out who had the most fun.

The guests.

Or the players.

Yep. The best of Christmases.

P.S. Looking for some unique entertainment for your Christmas celebrations?

Not too particular about quality and/or expertise?

I have someone I can recommend . . .

Christmas Bear

It was Christmas.
The time of magic.
Wonderment.
And gift-giving.
For a single mom with two little girls, 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 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.
Four-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.
Minus both ears, it 'bears' the scars of its trauma.
Our little foster daughter has grown and gone.
The single mom is married with two more girls - most, themselves married with children of their own.
One, lone bear hangs every year with the other decorations on our tree.
But it isn't just a bear.
It's memories . . .

The Best of Days

Enjoy it now. It'll be gone tomorrow!

In southern Alberta, where I was raised, snow seldom stayed very long.

Even though it was winter.

Oh, it snowed.

Sometimes a lot.

But then the famous Chinook would blow through, drastically raising temperatures.

And melting said snow.

Let’s face it. When the temperature goes from ten degrees below freezing to twenty degrees above, snow disappears fast.

In a few hours, any accumulation would be limited to the ditches and snowbanks.

So when it snowed, and if one wanted to enjoy it, one had to move quickly.

Just FYI.

On with my story . . .

Someone was out in the yard.

Hollering.

I looked out the window onto a scene of glistening white.

And my oldest brother, Jerry, holding the family toboggan.

Squealing (and I do mean squealing) with delight, I donned snow pants, parka, boots, mittens, scarf and toque (it's a Canadian thing).

Remember what I said about the snow lasting a short time?

I donned them quickly.

In no time I was out with my brother.

All of our siblings joined us.

Well, all but tiny, month-old, elfin baby, Anita.

She wasn't coming.

Because.

Jerry sat our youngest brother, Blair, on the toboggan, then turned and started pulling the sled towards the river.

The Stringam ranch proper had been built in a bend of the south fork of the Milk River. Any sled-able hills were on the opposite bank.

We trudged along behind Jerry and his sled across the frozen river to the hills opposite.

Then, for the next couple of hours, we towed up and dashed down.

The older kids choosing the steep slopes.

The younger crew sticking with the gentle-er.

Our shouts and screams of sheer happiness echoing across the wide, open prairie.

Finally, it was time to head home.

Dusk comes quickly, even in Southern Alberta and, trust me, you really don't want to try to walk home in the dark.

We crossed the river once more and climbed the hill to the house.

To be greeted by the warm, aromatic smell of . . . baking.

In the entryway, we peeled off layer after layer, laughing excitedly and telling Mom about our adventure.

She just smiled and nodded.

Then surprised us with warm spudnuts (doughnuts made with mashed potatoes in the batter. Yum…) fresh from the oven, and gallons of hot chocolate.

Sigh.

The very best of days.

Delores of Under the Porch Light issues a challenge once a week. USE THESE SIX WORDS IN SOMETHING. OR DIE. 

Okay I made up that 'die' part. But the rest is true.

This week's words were:  surprise, aromatic, elfin, toboggan, steep and dashing

How did I do?

Wiping in Canada, Eh?

A repost of my favourite Christmas shopping story.
Because I'm still sick.
Sigh . . .

Red Mittens - not just for hands any more!

We were shopping.
I will admit, here, that shopping is not my favourite activity.
I need a really good excuse.
It was Christmas.
Okay, Christmas is a really good excuse . . .
My youngest two children and I were out to find a gift for Grant.
Their Dad, my Sweetheart.
The hardest person to shop for.
After much wrinkle-browed thought, we had decided that whatever we were seeking would best be found at Lee Valley Tools.
My husband's favourite place on earth.
Really.
It is a long-standing family joke that he must go once a month to LVT to pay homage to Thor, the Tool God.
But I digress . . .
We set out.
It was December.
Winter.
In Edmonton, Alberta, Canada, winter equals snow.
Ask anyone.
But avoid those with chattering teeth.
Th-th-they c-c-c-can n-n-n-never be t-t-t-trusted.
Or understood.
Where was I?
Oh, yes. Winter. Shopping. Setting out.
At first, things went well.
A heavy, wet snow was falling thickly, but the window wipers were managing to keep the windshield clear – sort of.
We made it into the city.
And immediately slowed to a snail's pace.
Let me describe the scene for those of you not familiar with travel accompanied by snow: All roads are now white. And slippery. All surfaces have become heavily coated in ice. Nothing is recognizable. Little is even visible.
The windshield wipers are your best, and only, friends.
But even they, too, get clogged with snow and need the occasional boost.
This is accomplished by stopping. Getting out of the vehicle. And slapping said wiper against the window hard enough to remove any accumulated snow.
Or, if you are my husband, by opening the driver's window and catching the wiper when it is in its furthest upright position and giving it a quick snap while it is still in motion.
It's all about timing.
And coordination.
Neither of which I have.
And both of which were to be needed shortly.
Several times, I pulled out of the crawling traffic and performed the necessary operation to clear the windshield.
Then waited for a break in the traffic and pulled back in.
Total time wasted? Hours.
Okay, well, it seemed like hours.
There must be a better way.
I would try Grant's method!
Genius!
When the traffic had stopped for yet another light, or stalled vehicle, I quickly rolled down the window. Then I reached out.
I waited for just the right moment, when the wipers were at their apex (neat word, right?)
Closer. Closer.
There!
I reached out and caught the top of the wiper.
Snap!
Okay, that didn't sound good.
As the wipers began their downward stroke, I realized what I had done.
The blade was still in my hand.
I had snapped the entire thing off it's arm.
Umm . . . oops?
The window quickly became covered in a blanket of white.
Well, half of it at any rate.
Unfortunately, it was the driver's half.
Rather necessary if you want to see where you are going.
And usually, the driver does.
Something needed to be done.
And there was no one but me to do it.
Rats!
Quickly, I climbed out and switched my only remaining wiper blade to the driver's side.
Okay. Now I could see.
That's important.
But now, the other side of the windshield was suffering from the lack of wiper-age.
Hmm.
I looked around.
Our options were . . . limited.
“What about this?” My daughter's voice from the back seat.
She was holding up her red mitten.
I stared at it.
Huh. Might work.
I took it and, climbing out into the storm once more, proceeded to tie it to the other wiper arm.
There.
Perfect.
We switched on the wipers.
Wipe.
Wipe.
It worked!
Now we had a wiper and a . . . mitten.
I don't have to tell you how it looked.
In point of fact, we giggled every time that mitten came into sight.
We finished our trip.
Shopping done. Purchases made.
Van safely parked back on the driveway.
And Grant replaced the wiper that had so inconveniently decided to come off.
Stupid thing.
The wiper, not Grant.
I learned several things from this:
1. Don't shop.
2. Don't drive.
3. Don't live in Canada
4. Don't go anywhere without your red mittens.
Okay, you're right. I didn't learn anything because:
1. I still shop.
2. I still drive.
3. I still live in Canada.
Pack your mittens!

Envying Kris Kringle

A guest post by Grant Tolley

 For all of our married life, my Beloved’s and my favourite Christmas story (other than the one in the Book of Luke) has been the movie Miracle on 34^th Street (the original – we haven’t quite brought ourselves to see the recent version).  A perfect story, perfectly written and superbly presented on-screen by perfectly-cast actors and actresses.  I think we have worn out three or four different copies of the movie. I know that the story and character of Kris Kringle inspired Diane to write her two stories about Kris which have been published as novels (see the sidebar to this column if you haven’t noticed them before.  The third story in the trilogy is in pre-publication.  Read them.  I promise you won’t be sorry).

I myself have always identified with the Kris Kringle character, for some reason.  I have always been in awe of the perfect love that Kris held for everyone he met, but in particular for the kids.

All of this led me several years ago to ask my Beloved Diane – superb seamstress that she is – if she would make me a ‘really nice’ Santa Clause suit and herself a Mrs. Santa dress, so that we could be Santa and Mrs. Santa at Christmas.  I think I envied Kris Kringle.  I wanted to experience what Kris experienced in the movie when he so joyously put those children, totally unknown to him (but then again maybe not), on his knee in Macy’s Department Store and talked and sang with them, and hugged and loved them.

So, my Beloved complied and created the outfits you see above.  (She didn’t sew Little Bug, one of our 8 precious grand-daughters, but we both had an indirect hand in putting her together too.)  I told you she was talented, no? And some years ago, we began going out and about, visiting families and church halls and office parties and hotel ballrooms, as Santa and Mrs. Santa.

I thought I would share with you some special experiences that I feel we have stolen from Kris Kringle. I could write a book.  Literally.  But I will resist, in favour of reporting a few things that happened last weekend as Mrs. Santa and I went out in our 1979 Buick sleigh, into the delightful Christmas world.

I am in the habit of lifting the kids and putting them on whichever of my knees is aching the least that particular day.  I ask their names, their ages, about their school-work, their home, families, whether they fight with their siblings, and inquire about their love for their parents.  Eventually I get to: “What would you like for Christmas?”

Now you can probably imagine the wide range of answers that Santa gets to that particular question.  Answers have ranged all the way from “I don’t know yet, Santa”, to “a candy-red Lamborghini”, to “a billion dollars”.  Last weekend, a young mother put a precious 5-year-old boy on my knee, Bobby.  Next to Mom was Husband-Dad, on crutches and sporting a large cast on his right leg. “What would you like for Christmas, Bobby?”  “I want my Dad’s leg to get better.” Some inquiries indicated that Dad had been badly injured in a work accident.  While I was trying to swallow the lump in my throat, Bobby continued.  “So he can wrestle with me some more.”  Two lumps later, Santa did his best to grant Bobby’s wish with guarantees of good doctors and nurses and medicine to help Dad’s leg to heal, and abundant best wishes for good health and many future wrestling matches – which (just whispered between Bobby and me) I guaranteed Bobby would win. I wish I had a picture of Bobby’s smile.

A little later came Ava, a precious 8-year-old.  As I propped her on my knee and inquired about her life in Grade Three, I noticed that she was not very exuberant about much of anything.  “What would you like for Christmas, Ava?”  “I’d like for my Daddy to get better.”  “Is your Daddy not feeling well?” I inquired.  “No,” said Ava, dropping her eyes and her heart. “He’s got cancer.”

Now I know that I paused for a very long time there; I lost count of the number of lumps I swallowed, to try to carry on.  Ava was very forgiving of the long silence, and snuggled into my furry red coat.  I know that I eventually said a few words of encouragement to her, but I don’t really remember what they were.  But what has stuck with me ever since, and will for the rest of my life, is the pure love that emanated from little Ava as she snuggled into my red coat.  In a time and a season where commercialism and self-interest and greed try to overtake us, Ava had thoughts only for someone else.  I learned much in those few moments.  From an 8-year-old.

My Beloved will tell you that I have always been a pushover when it comes to 3-year-old princesses. (Diane was a little older than that when she first pushed me over, but that’s another story).  As I sat in my Santa chair on the weekend, a 3-year-old whose name I have forgotten saw Santa at the other end of the hall.  She literally peeled her coat off and threw it over her shoulder in the general direction of a mother, yelled “Santa!!!” and then sprinted across the room and threw herself into my arms.  I got one of the firmest, warmest, longest, loving-est hugs from a very small someone I did not know, but who knew me.  And loved me. 

I do not envy Kris Kringle any longer.  But I fully intend to keep encroaching on his turf.  He’s got a really good thing going.

Merry Christmas, everyone.  Peace on earth, good will, and love to you all.

From Santa Claus.

And a 3-year-old princess. 

Mrs. Santa's Panties

A Guest Post by: Grant Tolley

In recent months I have taken to walking during my lunch hour.
Walking is my favourite form of just plain old exercise. A holdover, I guess, from my Boy Scout days when I always enjoyed hiking in the mountains and following a long trail through the forests and the trees.
But I digress already.
My noon-hour constitutionals take me most days to a shopping plaza that is about 2 ½ kilometres away from my office.
When I get to the plaza, I often visit the bank there.
I usually have to put some money in so that they can keep operating.
Ahem!
When I am not paying penance to the bankers, I sometimes wander through one or more of the commercial establishments.
Now I should say that I am not much of a shopper-for-the-sake-of-shopping. But in recent years – since the marriages of my children and the arrival of an increasing gaggle of grand-kids – I have taken to just wandering through stores, casually watching for a bargain on something that one or the other of them would like or could put to good use.
So I buy it, and salt it away in my joint-occupancy-with-my-Beloved closet, which holds most everything except what a closet is normally supposed to hold.
So the other day, I had found a small item or two, which I had cradled in my arms (having being either too short-sighted or just plain stupid enough not to have picked up a shopping basket) – and I headed to the cash register.
Now you must understand that this was the first really cold day of our winter, so I had on my bulky winter jacket, accompanied by dis-en-handed gloves which I held in one hand, holding the several items I needed to pay for, and then trying to fish my wallet out of a pants pocket that just happened to be underneath all of the above, and encumbered further by a set of keys and a blackberry, all not-so-neatly crammed into the same pocket.
I don’t have a clue who the idiot was who put all that stuff in there.
Needless to say, standing at the cash register, I was delayed somewhat on my wallet-fishing expedition, which held up the line of people behind me.
One of my own pet peeves! People who wait in line for 20 minutes to pay for their purchases, then wait until the cashier says “Twenty-eight dollars and two cents, please”, before they even start looking for their wallet or opening their purse.
And then inevitably not finding it.
Especially in a purse – in my Beloved’s purse, her cheque-book usually ends up hiding right underneath the kitchen sink.
But I digress again . . . .
I am sometimes annoyed by those persons – and now I find that I are one!
Begorrah!
A woman behind me starts talking.
To me.
I keep fishing, more hurriedly, figuring that she is like me, and I am annoying her by delaying the line. I drop my gloves.
I stoop to pick them up – and drop one of my purchases out of my arms.
The woman laughs.
Laughs!
At me!
And keeps talking.
I’m not hearing much of what she says, because my eyes are on the floor – not literally, but almost -- and my ears can’t seem to work at the same time that my eyes do under duress.
I toss my gloves onto the counter, stoop to pick up the dropped item – oops, make that now “items” -- which I quickly scoop up and throw onto the counter.
Whereupon one skids to the other side of the counter and falls, again, at the feet of the cashier.
“I’m sorry,” I say generally, hoping to include both the cashier and chattering Mom-like lady behind me.
And then I notice: Chattering Mom-Lady is smiling -- and still laughing!
And then, with my eyes back in their sockets, I stop to listen.
Amidst chuckles, Mom-Lady is saying to me, “Don’t you just hate it when that happens! Every time I get into a rush, that happens! Why it happened to me just the other day, and I bent over to pick up the new underwear . . . . “
My mind starts racing . . . . Is this going to be one of those way-too-much-information-from-a-total-stranger type of stories?
“. . . and when I finally bent my back upright again – that floor is a looong ways down there, these days . . . ." – she points to her rumpled grey hair doing its best to escape from underneath a too-small-for-so-much-hair, Canadian-flag touque -- “I turned to the guy behind me and tried to give him the panties that I had just picked up off the floor, and I told him, 'You dropped your boxers, Sonny!' And he just about fell over laughing!”
I smile, as a jolly guffaw that reminds me of one of Santa Claus’ rolling belly-laughs rises up through Mom-Lady and shines out through her face.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I mutter in an attempt at an apology.
“Oh my heavens!” says Mom-Lady, to me and the world in general. “I'm not in any hurry, Son! You just take your time.”
Fifty-nine years old, and she calls me “son”.
“Thanks,” I mutter again. “You’re very patient.”
By this time I have successfully completed my fishing expedition, the cashier has completed the transaction, and I am attempting to put on my gloves and retrieve all my shopping bags. There is one left on the cashier’s counter that I don’t quite know how I'm going to retrieve.
“Can I help you there?” Mom-Lady queries.
Having only two fingers left on which a shopping bag could be hung, I turn to Mom-Lady and, pointing with my last two fingers at the last bag on the counter, say to her, “Would you mind handing me my panties there?”
Mom-Lady guffaws, long and loud. I'm afraid we might have to call 9-1-1.
The cashier is laughing. As are two or three people in the line-up behind us.
Between rumbles of laughter, Mom-Lady hooks the last bag on my last two fingers, and says: “You have a great Christmas, son.”
Son. She called me “son”, and she couldn’t have been more than 5 years older than me. My hair was just as grey as hers. And even more rumpled.
“And you too, Mom” I reply through my smile.
As I think about Mom-Lady on my walk back to my office – arms loaded with shopping bags, for 2 ½ kilometres – I think, what a genuine human being! What a wonderful person!
Where so many others might have been consumed by Queue Rage – or Road Rage – or Airplane Rage, or so many other of the non-existent syndromes that we have invented as an excuse to be rude and impolite and impatient and unkind – how very nice it is to encounter whom and what I regard as a genuine, true, Gentle-Woman.
Might Santa Claus bring us many more – this year and every year.

Bow City Spectacle (A Short Story) Conclusion

I'm getting into Christmas.

And what better way than a repost of one of my Christmas Short Stories?!

If you missed Part One, you can go here. 

Part Two is here.

And Part Three here.

Don't worry. You won't miss anything . . .

Conclusion.

For the next several weeks, the town was abuzz with talk from both Jenna Grace's camp and from F. Roddy's.
Floats were being assembled in nearly every available garage.
Both town bands, the high school marching and the veteran's brass were rehearsing nightly.
Not one, but two Town Sweetheart contests were held. (The town's one hair dresser worked straight out for two days solid, finally collapsing into her own wash chair after completing Mrs. Jasper's elaborate upsweep.)
And, strangely, two Santa's had been engaged. Sleighs, reindeer and all.
Colorful posters from F. Roddy's group began to appear, proclaiming the date and route of the much-anticipated parade.But before anyone could read them, they were quietly replaced by posters from Jenna Grace's camp.Which were subsequently torn down and replaced themselves.
This went on until the very day of the parade.
But, as the date and time were consistent in both, the general populace didn't really take much notice of the details, other than that the route would, at some time or other, follow main street.Thus it was with great anticipation, that the entire town, or at least those few who were not actually in the parade, lined the single main street on the chosen date.
The day was perfect.
Snow had fallen, but only enough to provide a white backdrop to the festivities.
The air was crisp, not too cold, but just enough to put a snap into the air and tint cheeks and noses pink.
The hot chocolate vendor in front of the city hall was doing a brisk business, as was the hot cider man across the street in front of the pool hall.
The smell of freshly-roasted nuts and popcorn filled the air and made smiling mouths water.
There was much talk and laughter and jostling for position.
Finally, the sound of drums.
Everyone stilled and necks craned as people tried to catch the first glimpse of the marching bands which would lead the way.
"They're coming from that way!" Mayor Mayor shouted, pointing to the north.
"No, I think I can hear them coming from this way," Kevin Rhymes said, pointing in the opposite direction.People strained first one direction, then the other.
Surely the music was coming from both directions?
Sudden movement.Ah. There, led by F. Roddy Digby enthusiastically swinging a long, gold Marshal's pole, were the town veterans, their brass instruments gleaming in the noon sun, as they blared out their own version of 'Jingle Bells'.Behind them, colorful floats and decorated bicycles.
Wait. There was more music.
Different music.Peoples' heads spun back as the High School marching band came into sight.
From the opposite direction.
Led by a smiling Jenna Grace Chappell, waving her own shining symbol of authority, and stepping smartly to the strains of 'Here Comes Santa Claus', they quickly closed the gap that separated the two bands.
Two bands?
Two parades!
The people clapped and cheered.
This was the best parade ever!
For a moment, anyway.
When the two groups were no more than twenty feet apart, Jenna Grace and F. Roddy suddenly came to a stop.Facing each other.
In the very center of main street.
Each parade came to a halt behind them, stepping smartly in place as the bands continued their respective musical selections.
Narrow-eyed, Jenna Grace and F. Roddy glared at each other, still continuing to beat to the music with their Marshall's poles.
Then F. Roddy raised his eyebrows. "What are you going to do now, Chappell?" he shouted, grinning.
Jenna Grace's eyes flared and, without warning, she swung her Marshal's pole like a baseball bat.
F. Roddy let his pole slide through his fingers and turned to meet the blow.
A hollow 'clang' rang out over the combined music of both orchestras.
It acted like a signal.
Still marching in place, the bands immediately increased their volume, attempting to drown out their opposition.
The two Marshals in the center were doing a lively dance, swinging and ducking as they alternately tried to hit their opponent and avoid the other's pole.The cacophony of sound increased.Brasses versus brasses, drums against drums, and over it all, the hollow 'crash' and 'clang' of the two Marshal's poles.
The respective songs ended.
One of the tuba players collapsed against his fellows as he blasted out one final note.
There was a moment of comparative silence as each group drew breath to begin again.Only the rat-tat-tat of the snare drums continued, along with the occasional sound of Marshal's pole meeting Marshal's pole and the grunt of the two protagonists.
Suddenly, Jenna Grace's pole found its way through F. Roddy's defense and hit him squarely in the solar plexus.
F. Roddy went down like a sack of potatoes.
But as he went, he lost his grip on his pole and it fell with evil precision, hitting the top of Jenna Grace's head, who summarily joined him on the pavement.At that moment, a lone trumpeter began to play 'Let There be Peace on Earth'.
The rest of his orchestra took up the tune.
Then the players from the opposite group joined in.For the first time, real music drifted from the assembled musicians.
Then the trumpets in the front row of the Veteran's band glanced towards the side street open before all of them and looked back at their fellows in the other orchestra.The front row trumpets of the High School band nodded and both groups turned, as one, and started down this new path.Soon the rest of the two parades were following (adroitly avoiding their two erstwhile leaders now sitting up dazedly on the hard pavement), and weaving together to form one giant procession.
The assembled townspeople followed, clapping and laughing and also pointedly stepping around the two on the ground.Finally, Jenna Grace Chappell and F. Rodney Digby were alone in an empty street.They stared at each other.
Finally, F. Roddy reached for his much abused Marshall's pole. He stared at it for a moment, then sighed softly and struggled to his feet. "May I assist you?" he said."Yes. Please," Jenna Grace replied, reaching for her own battered pole.
F. Roddy reached out a hand and helped her up.
The two of them walked shakily over to the curb and sat down.
For several seconds they remianed there, listening to the fading music.
"So, where did we go wrong?" F. Roddy said.
"I don't know," Jenna Grace replied. "But we did go wrong. Somewhere."
Again, they were silent.
"Care for a cup of hot chocolate?" F. Roddy asked.

Bow City Spectacle (A Short Story) Part Three

I'm getting into Christmas.

And what better way than a repost of one of my Christmas Short Stories?!

If you missed part one, you can go here. 

Part Two is here.
Go ahead. We'll still be here when you get back . . .

Part Three.

Over tiny chicken sandwiches, the Ladies Aid discussed the certain disaster that was to befall their tiny town on December 3.
Mrs. Jasper got so animated that she spilled her tea.
Right into Mrs. Wayan's lap.
A portent of things to come . . .

The first meeting of the Christmas parade committee was held on October 13.
Chairs had been set up in a non-committal and unbiased circle in the center of the high school gym.
Jenna Grace and F. Roddy were among the first to arrive.
Pointedly ignoring each other, they took seats at polar opposite sides of the circle.
Then they spent the remaining few minutes alternately ignoring or glaring at the other.
Reba wheeled in a coffee/tea cart and parked it beside a waiting table. She pulled out several pans of bars and divided her time between slicing and setting out and hovered anxiously over a fat tea kettle.
The room began to fill with chatting, happy people.
They drifted over to the refreshments and filled plates and cups. Then they found seats in the circle.
The two already seated said nothing.
Slowly, the chatter died out and people uncomfortably concentrated on eating and drinking.
Jenna Grace cleared her throat. "Well, now that we have finished with the 'party' part of the meeting, maybe we can get down to business."
"Exactly what I was going to say," F. Roddy said. "If you hadn't ignored decorum and jumped in."
"Decorum?" Jenna Grace's eyebrows went up. "I just thought someone with a brain should take charge."
"And you just assumed that could be you?" F. Roddy looked at his fingernails.
Jenna Grace puffed up like a toad. "What are you saying, Froddy?" she said. "That you should be in charge?"
"Well you got something right," F. Roddy said, ignoring her mocking use of his name.
The crowd had gone completely silent by this time and were watching the two carefully, their heads swiveling back and forth from one to the other.
Jenna Grace calmed herself with obvious effort. "I think we should put the person in charge who has already proved their leadership skills," she said, smoothing one hand over her immaculate hair.
Jenna Grace always wore her grey-streaked hair scraped tightly into a bun at the back of her head. The thought of even one lock escaping was unthinkable.
"And just what have you organized?" F. Roddy demanded. "I know they were looking for someone to run the cock-fighting out at Cowells. Is it your fine hand we see in that?"
Jenna Grace puffed up again. "How dare you!" she hissed.
"Oh. Sorry. Was there something else?"
"You know dam - darn well, Froddy, that I've organized and directed the Ice Cream Festival for the past eight years!" she shouted.
"Maybe one day there'll be actual ice cream there," F. Roddy said.
Jenna Grace surged to her feet. "I refuse to sit here and be insulted!" she said, and turning smartly, marched towards the door.
"Good. Now you can go somewhere else to be insulted," F. Roddy said.
A sharp "Harrumph" was his only response.
The door banged shut.
"Well, now maybe we can get down to business," F. Roddy said.
An uncomfortable silence met him.
"People?"
"I'm sorry, F. Roddy," Dennis said, getting to his feet. "I agreed to work with Jenna Grace and I'd better honor that."
F. Roddy nodded. "Anyone else?"
Several other people stood up and followed Dennis out the door.
"Well, that's that," F. Roddy said. "Now shall we get down to work?"
Surprisingly, they managed to plan the basic framework for the entire celebration.
"See what you can accomplish when you have the right people?" F. Roddy asked.
Meanwhile, Jenna Grace had circled her wagons on the far side of town.
"Well," she said, tapping several sheets of paper together. "I think that's enough for our first evening. You have all been remarkably efficient and cooperative. Our basic plan is complete. Now all that's left is to flesh it out."