In His Footsteps

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.

Winter Warmth

Ready to tour.

The Milk River 4H Beef Club was the brain-child of my Dad.
He lived in an agricultural area where most of the families earned their living either farming or ranching.
The training up of the next generation seemed like a good idea.
He approached the powers-that-be - convinced the powers-that-be.
And the club was formed.
With eleven new members.
Calves were purchased.
Things were underway.
A few months later, the man (power-that-be) who had given permission decided to make a visit to his newest club.
A tour was organized for his benefit.
But on a school day so the parents were delegated to show the official around.
Accompanied by my dad and Dad's two assistants.
It was a cold day in December.
They had visited several farms and were about to get into their vehicles after seeing one more.
The farmer, seeing that they were a bit chilled, reached behind the seat of his truck and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. "This'll warm you a bit!"
He handed the bottle, first, to Dad.
"Thanks, but I don't drink," Dad said, passing the bottle on to the next fellow.
Who happened to be the official.
"Well, we government officials aren't allowed to drink," the man said. "But since Mark doesn't drink, I'll drink his drink."
He took a swig.
Then handed the bottle to the next man.
Finally, the bottle made its way around the little group and back to the official.
"Oh. Does Mark take two?" the man asked, taking another sip. "Well, he is a glutton, isn't he?"
4-H.
Memorable, educational, satisfying,
And warming.
On so many levels.

Women's Night

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'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 soon 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!"

Mom Shopping

Terrifying.

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

And it was the most exciting time ever . . .

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.

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 three-year-old’s hand and walking down the crowded mall.

Suddenly, I felt a tug on my coat.

My five-year old had grabbed my pocket.

I smiled as the memories flooded in.

I know she felt instantly safer.

And so did I.

Treasure(d) Chest

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 creativesounds.

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 37^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.

A Sledding Day

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 minus ten (14F) to plus twenty (68F), 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 eight-year-old 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 baby, Anita.

She wasn't coming.

Because.

Jerry sat our youngest brother, two-year-old Blair, on the toboggan, then turned and started pulling the sled toward 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 slid down.

The older kids choosing the steeper 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 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, amazing 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.

A little addendum:

I still go sledding. And there is still hot chocolate and doughnuts in the program.

But, as when I was eight, I choose the gentle-er slopes.

Full circle.

Kringle Envy

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 three stories about Kris which have been published as novels (see the sidebar to this column if you haven’t noticed them before.  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 Claus 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.  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.

Puppy Presents

Don't you just want one?!

For over thirty years, our family raised Old English Sheepdogs.

Smart, dependable, protective, gentle and very hairy.

In our opinion, the best breed in the world.

In that time, we placed little balls of fur into many, many homes.

Some stories . . . . stick out in our memories . . .

Our very good friends, a wonderful family of four, were fellow OES aficionados.

They, in particular the father of the family, had unselfishly come to our aid on many occasions.

And we wanted to do something nice for him/them.

Knowing his/their love for ‘sheepies’, I consulted with his sweet wife about the possibility of surprising him with one of our puppies as a Christmas present.   

She was totally on board.

Christmas approached.

The puppies grew.

Finally, they reached the golden age of eight weeks.

It was time.

We loaded our family – and puppy – into the van and headed into the city.

Now, the actual formula . . .

We would present ourselves as a group to the front door of the home and proceed to ‘carol’ them.

Someone in back would hide the puppy until the climactic moment.

You know how, in movies, puppies are given and things turn out perfectly?

Well, sometimes it happens in real life.

We assembled.

Rang the doorbell.

And, when it opened, launched into our specially-adapted version of We Wish You a Merry Christmas:

We wish you a merry Christmas!

We wish you a merry Christmas!

We wish you a merry Christmaaaaas!

And here’s your sheepdog!

The puppy was produced on cue.

Smiles and tears.

Lots of hugs.

And our family faded into the soft, Christmas night.

It was a beautiful, perfect experience.

Sometimes, you have those . . .

The puppy, Alonzo, served and loved his family for a great many years.

But there is one more thing to add.

I’ve been asking my children about their favourite Christmas memories.

And this one tops the list.

Christmas and children and puppies.

They just go together.

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.

10 Tricks to Surviving the Family

Grandma’s House Rules

by Grandpa

The holiday season is fast approaching. A time of family get-togethers and, hopefully, fun family times.

Hopefully.

We'll start with a . . . 

Disclaimer

Parents are responsible for their own children while at Grandma’s house. Grandpa and Grandma used to be responsible – but they’re not anymore.

Toys

1.  All toy trucks with sirens are forbidden – alarmed neighbours keep running out to see if Grandpa has run over their cat.

2.  All musical toys are also forbidden. The national anthem of the Tolley house is not “Turkey in the Straw.”

3.  “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” is not on the list either.

Food

4.  All treats for grandchildren are under Grandpa’s control. He’ll share with you as soon as the release him from the psyche ward, which will be when he stops humming “Turkey in the Straw.”

5.  Food prepared at Grandma’s house is made with TLC. Despite what Grandpa puts in it.

6.  At Grandma’s house the “best before” date on her food expires in two hours. Food ingested but not swallowed before this time will not be recycled.

Diapers

7.  Soiled diapers cause leprosy. All carriers shall be banished immediately to the leper colony at the end of the hallway.

8.  All soiled diapers shall immediately be wrapped securely in a plastic bag and placed on the front porch for eventual transport to the garbage can. Most grandchildren should be removed from the diaper first.

9.  Reusable cloth diapers soiled for longer than one day before washing shall be sold as fuel to the nearest nuclear power plant or placed in a rocket and shot into the sun.

10.  No pooping under the dining room table, even if you are wearing a diaper. This means you, too, Grandpa.

You can thank us after the holidays.

Half-Baked Christmas

Husby and me

The very early days of marriage, of most marriages in fact, are days of exploration and discovery.

Of the combination of ideas and ideals. 

Of the solidifying of the ties binding the couple together.
So it was in our house. The happiness that goes with simply being together. 

Peace. 

Love.

 Joy. 

One imagines that it will last forever. And it does. 

Until . . . The First Conflict.

I use this term lightly, because it really wasn’t a conflict, but more of a steady pull in two different directions. 

He wanted us to spend Christmas with his family. I wanted to spend it with mine.
I won.
Mostly, I admit because he's nicer than me and I painted a rosier picture than he did. I snared him with magical words like . . . food, fresh baking, treats, candy, chocolate, sugar, sugar, sugar. 

Okay, I exaggerated. 

But my family really did have fun on Christmas Eve. I wasn’t ready, yet, to miss it.
And my Mom was a really good cook.
He gave in. And so, Christmas Eve found us nestled snugly in the bosom of my family, preparing to enjoy. 

Unfortunately, the preparing part went on a little too long.
My eldest sister was home for the holiday and she and Mom, demon bakers both, were lost in their own fragrant world. 

Admittedly a pleasant place to be, albeit rather ‘calorific’. 

The rest of us floated by periodically, sniffing, staring hungrily at the stacks . . . and stacks . . . of pies, cookies, cakes, butterhorns, brownies, fudge, cookies, lemon squares, butter tarts, cookies.
There really were a lot of cookies.
Dinner was forgotten as more and more goodies emerged from the cavernous depths of the great ovens. 

Cries from hungry tummies grew more and more insistent. 

Also, the younger set was getting impatient. It was time for that games of games, anticipated for a whole year. 

The annual Stringam bloodbath. 

The Christmas game of Rummoli.
With real poker chips.
Okay, so it wasn’t a bloodbath. Not even particularly violent. But it was as close to gambling as the Stringam gang ever got. 

And we really did anticipate it feverishly. 

Well . . . some of us looked forward to it with excitement. 

Okay, I really liked it. 

Geeze.
By 10:30 pm, many had given up the thought of getting ‘Christmas Eve’ started. 

Baking was still being pulled from the ovens, dinner still hadn’t materialized and even the faint hope of a Rummoli game had long since vanished. 

Husby looked at me. 

He was too kind to put it into words, but I was getting fairly good at reading him, and his expression said, “For this, we gave up an eight-course meal with my family?” I shrugged my shoulders and tried to laugh.
It was a weak attempt.
He decided to take matters into his own hands. 

He got up and wandered nonchalantly past the stack of baking which completely covered the counter and nearly filled the space between the upper and lower cupboards.
Seriously, we’re talking an area eight feet long and somewhere between 18 and 24 inches deep. Covered. With. Fresh. Baking.
His hand snaked out, nabbing a butter tart. 

Quicker than the eye can blink, it was in his mouth. All of it. 

The heavenly combination of flavours poured through his soul like celestial honey. His knees grew weak. He brought his teeth together to begin chewing this small slice of perfection. 

Mom straightened from pulling yet another pan out of the oven, her face flushed with heat and effort.
He was caught. 

He suspended all chewing movements and tried to look innocent, but Mom could spot sneaky at 1000 paces. 

Certainly she could recognize it standing across the counter.
That counter filled with mouth-watering . . . but I digress.
She set the hot pan on the cupboard, placed both hands on her hips and levelled a glare at him. “Don’t eat that!” she said. “It’s for Christmas!”
He stared at her. 

Then at the mounds of baking that couldn’t possibly be eaten in the next 24 hours. 

In the next 24 days. 

He put up one hand to cover his mouth. And the precious contraband that now had a home there. No way was he removing it from his mouth. All sorts of places in his body would have rebelled if he had tried. “Sorry,” he mumbled, slowly backing away, his hands spread apologetically.

We never did get our Rummoli game.
Or supper.
After that, my husband and I saved Christmas Eve for his family. And Christmas morning for mine. 

It was easier on our relationship.
Oh, and the statement, “Don’t eat that, it’s for Christmas!”
Quoted every time someone pops something into their mouth. 

Year round.

Just FYI.

Mystery Meat Blessings

Mmmmmm . . .

Every family has traditions at Christmas.
Some are fun.
Some funny.
Some weird.
Our family has several that fit into this last category.
One is Christmas stockings.
Okay, yes, I know that many, many families enjoy the custom of stuffing a stocking for each family member.
It's what goes into said stockings that sets our family apart.
Maybe I should explain . . .
On Christmas, after the kids have been shuttled off to bed, Mom and Dad (Spoiler Alert: Alias Santa) bring out the loot.
Erm . . . gifts.
Each stocking is laid out and stuffed full.
I look after the common, everyday, run-of-the-mill gifts:
1.Toothbrushes.
2. Socks.
3. Underwear.
4. The orange in the toe.
My Husby looks after the strange and bizarre:
1. Various styles of catapults.
2. Magnets.
3. Quirky -- ie. strange – books, puzzles and games.
4. Expanding T-shirts. Just add water.
5. And little tins of meat.
I know what you're thinking.
Why on earth would someone give his kids catapults?
You weren't?
My mistake.
Sooo . . . tinned meats.
Every year, each of our children finds a tin of . . . something . . . stuffed into the inner reaches of his or her stocking.
And I'm not talking tuna fish here.
These are tins of something fancifully called: Vienna sausage.
In various flavours.
All neatly and brightly and attractively packaged.
And yes, I realize that there may be people around the world who love Vienna sausage.
My kids were raised on the prairie.
And served beef three meals a day.
With the occasional foray into the world of chicken or pork.
If the animal didn't originally bellow, oink or cluck, they regarded it with deep suspicion.
Or outright revulsion.
Okay, the ingredients listed on the Vienna sausage tins said: beef and/or chicken and/or pork and/or meat.
But it was mechanically de-boned and mixed with . . . other stuff.
So in the words of my kids, mystery meat.
Need I say that my Husby's gifts weren't received with gladness?
Probably not.
Oh, they tried it.
The very first year.
It . . . wasn't popular.
No tin was every willingly opened again.
And when the detritus had been cleared from the front room after the all-important opening of the gifts, the only things remaining were several tins of meat.
Left where they had been dropped upon being discovered.
Husby immediately scooped them up and stowed them carefully away.
Only to bring them out and drop them into another stocking the next year.
One particular tin of sausage re-appeared six years in a row. The last a few years ago. In Argentina (where our youngest son was living at the time).
His roommate ate it.
Something we didn't think was possible.
One of our kids asked their father why he kept putting those little tins of -to them- inedible meat in the stockings.
His answer surprised all of us. “Because I want you to appreciate that we live in a place where we have plenty. That tiny tins of mystery meat can be laughed over and disregarded. We are very blessed.”
We truly are.

Decidedly Different Decorating

Wraith - His usual location

We are a theatrical family.

And by that, I mean that we are deeply involved in theatre.

Not that we are prone to theatrics in the home.

That would just be silly . . .

The Tolleys are known for things like – bursting into song spontaneously.

And everyone knowing the words.

Launching into long quotes at the mention of a single phrase.

Dressing up.

Our family was, quite literally, raised on the stage.

To anyone not so inclined, we're weird.

We do weird things.

We direct/perform in/produce plays.

We host Medieval feasts for no reason.

We dress up on a theme and invite the neighbourhood to come in and eat pie to celebrate . . . whatever.

To our neighbours, we are that family who doesn't do anything normally.

Even our Christmas decorating is a bit . . . I'm going to go with the PC term and call it . . . different.

We don't do lights.

We did, but we've gotten lazy.

Now our Christmas decorating consists of our Halloween decorating, plus a small addition.

I know. Weird.

Wraith at Christmas
And, yes, that's a Humbug hat.
Don't ask . . .

Years ago, for her graduating project, our youngest daughter sculpted a wraith.

You heard correctly.

A wraith.

Nine feet tall and rather spooky looking.

We love it.

It comes out of our back yard every Halloween and is prominently displayed next to the front door.
Where it can scare the cookies out of the little 'trick-or-treaters'.

And where it usually freezes so solidly to the grass that it must remain through Christmas and into the spring thaw.

Sigh.
How do you hide a nine-foot-tall behemoth?
In plain sight.

You can see what I mean.

Yep. Christmas at the Tolleys.

Everyone welcome!

Santa for Sale

It's starting . . .
Today is our first 'Santa' party!

The best time of the year!

Maybe we'll see you at our next party!

With love,

Santa and Mrs.

Weekend Friends

It really only looked scary.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Husby played basketball.

Actually, Husby played basketball well. As did his teammates.

Because of that, they were invited to many different tournaments.

But that has nothing to do with this story.

Okay. He was away. He found a great store that sold neat things.

He bought something.

I guess it has a little bit to do with the story . . .

The something he bought was a snake.

A large snake.

Rubber.

Convincing.

He thought it was cool.

When packing up from their tournament, he stuffed said snake into his backpack and headed for the bus.

The next morning, in a hurry, he dumped the gear from his ‘weekend’ backpack onto his bed to make way for his ‘going-to-school’ backpack.

Something stuck.

His new friend.

He pulled it out and gave it a toss among the other paraphernalia.

Then left.

Some hours later, another day of school behind him, he entered the front door of his family’s home.

And there was his mother.

Now it wasn’t unusual for his mother to greet her sons at the door when they came home.

Usually it was a cheerful exchange of ‘how-was-your-day?’ or ‘anything-exciting-happen?’ followed immediately by ‘I’ve-been-baking-food’s-in-the-kitchen’.

Today was different.

She was sitting in the armchair.

In the semi-darkened living room.

Actually, ‘huddled’ would be a more accurate term.

She was huddled in the armchair.

Husby walked in. “Hi, Mom!”

She turned to look at him. For some seconds, she said nothing.

“Mom?”

“What is that thing on your bed?”

Just FYI. When you bring a friend home from your weekend . . .

Tell your mom.

Spider Sense

Gerry has an intense unnatural horrendous unhealthy paralyzing fear of spiders and all things spider-y.

And members of the same family working in the same place can be a blessing.

These two statements go together . . .

Logan and his mother, Gerry, both worked at the Raymond Mercantile.

She, upstairs: administration.

He, main floor: sales and everything else.

It was a sweet setup.

Most days he would climb the broad, wooden stairway in the center of the store and lunch with his mom in the upper reaches of the store, which, as it so happened, were completely open to the lower reaches, allowing the upper echelons to actually look down upon the lower echelons.

On this particular day, as Logan approached the stairs, he noticed a large bin had been placed as an endcap to the row of shelves nearest the stairway.

Anyone ascending – or especially descending – would get a full view of . . . whatever that bin held.

And that bin held rubber animals.

That would have been okay, except that many of those rubber animals were spidery in shape. And large in size.

He called the manager over. The conversation went something like this . . .

Logan: “Ummm . . . you have to move that bin.”

Manager: “Why?”

Logan: “Because my mom is up those stairs.” Points. “And she won’t be able to make it home because she won’t be able to come down those stairs.” Points again.

Manager (frowning): “What?”

Logan (patiently): “My mom has a paralyzing (see above) fear of spiders. If she sees this bin with the . . . erm . .  . spiders, she won’t be able to walk past it to leave the store.”

Manager: “What? No. Your mom is the most together person I’ve ever met.”

A little aside here. Yes. Gerry is the most together person you will ever meet. She also has a paralyzing fear of spiders. Back to my story . . .

Logan: Picks up a spider. Holds it for Manager to see. Then tosses it backwards over his shoulder into the upper reaches of the store.

Pause here for someone to take a large breath . . .

Gerry: SSSCCCRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCHHHHH!!!!!

Sounds of frantic scrambling and furniture flying.

Logan: “See?”

Yeah. He had her back.