Rolled Up

I know you will be surprised.

I know I was.

But our family made it through the entire holiday without a single disaster.

No bruises the colour of kohl. (Google it.)

Nothing!

It may have something to do with all of us being totally spellbound by our new little sister, Ivy Jean Gunn, born on December 16, 2022. She is the cutest baby ever. Ask anyone.

Okay, well ask anyone living in our house.

And Peter.

Back to the holiday…

We spent a few dollars. Partied quietly on Christmas Eve. Opened gifts and feasted on Christmas day. Lazed about on Boxing Day. Generally accomplished little other than puzzles and consuming less-than-healthy snacks for the next 6 days. Quietly celebrated New Year’s Eve. Slept in on New Year’s Day.

Just a really, really normal time.

Living in Sally’s house, you know that makes me nervous.

Then…today…

Mom loves Christmas. And Christmas trees.

We had the big one downstairs in front of the great windows.

And another—less big—up in Mom and Dad’s room.

Both are real.

Both were supposed to be fresh.

Both shed like Labradors.

Sally got the great idea of—after the big tree was un-decorated—toppling it onto the large rug that normally graces the hall and pulling it out the front door.

Theoretically, all that would need to be cleaned would be said rug.

We thought it a good idea.

Yeah, I was surprised, too.

We denuded the tree. Tipped it over onto the carpet.

Rolled it up.

And slid it outdoors quick as quick.

Brilliant. Maybe the first time in our history an idea of Sally’s worked well.

The smaller tree would be even easier, I thought!

Silly me.

Rather than try to haul the large carpet upstairs into Mom and Dad’s room—and besides it was already outside, thick with dead needles—we decided to use the runner in the upper hall.

We slid it into their room.

Collapsed the tree onto it.

And rolled it up.

Okay, yes, it took a bit more rolling than the big one downstairs, but now we had a neat package that would be a cinch to kick to the curb.

So to speak.

Sally and Mort slid the encapsulated tree to the top of the stairs.

And that’s where everything fell apart.

We secretly knew it would, am I right?

Just as they started down the stairs, someone banged loudly the door.

Peter, standing just inside said door awaiting Sally and Mort and their tree, swung it wide and two police officers stepped into the open greatroom.

Mort turned to look…

Now those of you who know Mort, know also that when he was made, God added things like ‘grace’ and ‘agility’ with a teaspoon and someone jiggled His sacred elbow.

Mort slipped.

The tree he and Sally were carrying between them slid out of their hands and started to roll.

Why do these things always happen to us?

It rolled down the stairs, gaining steam as it went, finally plowing into the two officers staring up at it dumfounded-ly.

They went down like ten-pins.

The one, Officer Smith merely fell back onto his…erm…backside.

The second, Officer Jones, went forward. Over the tree and onto the rather sturdy marble tiles that form the entire lower floor of the house.

Breaking his nose and one of his very handsome front teeth.

Rats. WHO MOVED THE STUPID CARPET…oh.

I probably don’t have to tell you that their reason for coming was forgotten in the chaos that followed.

Once Officer Jones’ wounds had been blotted and the damage assessed, both men were surprisingly cavalier about the whole thing.

I mean, they (and let’s face it, the entire city police force) know Sally.

Simply dropping by her house is always an adventure.

Am I right?

Happy New Year. 

Today’s post is a writing challenge. Participating bloggers picked 4 – 6 words or short phrases for someone else to craft into a post with the understanding that all words be used at least once. All the posts will be unique as each writer has received their own set of words. That’s the challenge, here’s a fun twist; no one who’s participating knows who got their words and in what direction the writer will take them. Until now.

 

Today, I’m using: gain ~ dollars ~ bruise ~ kohl ~ rug

They were submitted by: Karen of Baking in a Tornado 

Now check out my fellow bloggers! 

BakingIn A Tornado 

Climaxed 

TheDiary of an Alzheimer’s Caregiver   

 

Little Prayers

I think the Person who receives evening prayers must look forward to those being offered by the children.

You want to talk entertainment?!

Last night, following a day that included church attendance, swimming at West Edmonton Mall, the eating of assorted junk and the wind-down of puzzlemaking with family, five-year-old (hereinafter known as 5YO) disappeared into the bathroom to ‘take care of some business’.

She came out a few minutes later with a strange look on her face.

“What’s the matter?” her mother asked.

“It looked really strange,” 5YO said.

“Strange, how?”

There followed a short conversation of strange-appearances-from-the-past.

I’m editing because—yuck.

“But this was different,” 5YO said.

“Well next time you see something different, please tell me before you flush.”

“Okay.”

5YO happily went back to puzzlemaking.

And the subject was, thankfully, dropped.

The evening wound down.

Bedtime approached.

Routines were adhered to, even though the day had been anything but normal.

Teeth brushed, hair braided, hands and face washed, pj’s donned, journal updated, story read, song—sung.

5YO was on her knees to say her evening prayer.

Now you have to know that this is often the highlight of the day for whoever is putting her to bed.

Usually momma.

The prayer rambled around for a while. Thank you for my mommy and daddy. Grampa and Gramma. Thank you for cousins and pets and toys.

Then the unexpected. “Please don’t let any more yellow stuff come out of me. Amen.”

Ummm . . .

All I’m saying is: I wouldn’t mind being on duty when those prayers start to arrive.

I’ve got my notebook.

Dis-Buttoned

Okay, it looks kind of neat on movies or TV.

In reality?

A little more dangerous.

Perhaps you remember the story (stories) of Superman in which mild mannered Clark Kent tears his shirt off and becomes the wondrous Man of Steel?

It always looked so—effortless. And tidy.

Well, I am a witness to shirt ripping and it is anything but. 

Maybe I should explain . . .

Husby had a favourite shirt that was getting rather threadbare.

And needing to be retired.

Now, in the home of my parents, the retiring of a shirt was almost a ceremony.

Buttons snipped off and neatly stored.

Collar stays fished out; ditto.

Anything operational cannibalized for possible future use.

Then the remaining scraps relegated to the rag bag.

All while soft music was being played and/or a choir hummed quietly in the background.

Okay, I made up the part about the music, but the rest is true.

Now, fast forward to my house. And Husby’s threadbare shirt.

“That shirt needs to be thrown out,” I said.

“I love this shirt!”

“I can see right through it.”

Now many of you may think that is a good thing.

And it would be. Except that the places I could see through were things like: underarms. Front button plackets.

I’m sorry, but there is little that is sexy about underarms. Or front button plackets. 

True story.

Husby sighed.

Thinking the conversation was over and agreed to, I started to leave the room, heading for my snips and the button box. Maybe the stereo.

And that is when Husby hunched forward, tearing the shirt up the back, then grabbed the front and shredded it apart.

Buttons shot everywhere at the speed of sound, a few of them narrowly missing me.

For a moment, the two of us looked at each other as the sound of bouncing buttons died away.

“Or we could do it like that,” I said.

Now I don’t know about you, but whenever I saw Superman do the same thing, no one mentioned flying, potentially lethal buttons.

No one.

The button companies have kept this a dark secret.

I think our hyper vigilant protective agencies should be informed.

Insurance rates are gonna rise.

Where It Started...

For Christmas this year, I received Lego.

Yep. Lego.

As I have done every year for almost 60 years.

It sparked a memory . . .

Maybe he should have wrapped up some teeth . . .

In the Stringam family, birthdays were always exciting.

Family. Good food. Cake.

And presents.

My fourth had been truly memorable, with a little barn fire thrown in for . . . umm . . . excitement.

But my eighth was memorable for two other reasons.

Let me explain . . .

It began ordinarily enough, with Mom's wonderful breakfast and good wishes all around.

Dad had gone into the city, on ranch business, and wasn't expected back until later--when us kids got home from school.

But that was okay, because I knew that my real birthday, complete with birthday food and cake and the all important presents wouldn't happen until supper time.

I went through the day with high anticipation.

I'm sure my teachers tried mightily to teach me something that day, but who can compete with birthday supper and cake?

And presents.

By supper time, I had worked myself into a rare mood.

Mom made my favourite.

Spaghetti.

With meat balls.

Mmmm.

Then the cake. Again my favorite - Angel food. With fluffy seven-minute frosting.

I should point out that the name of the frosting had to do with how long it took to make it.

Because it certainly didn't describe how long it took to eat it.

But I digress . . .

And then that moment.

The time I had been anticipating for an entire year.

When the wrapped boxes came out and were given the place of honour.

Right in front of me.

The first one was rather . . . book sized.

I tore into the colourful paper eagerly.

I should explain, here, that I had fallen in love with reading in the first grade, at the age of six.

Dr. Seuss had introduced me to world of books and I hadn't looked back.

By the time I was eight, I had graduated to the next step.

Chapter books.

And here, on my birthday, I was suddenly holding the greatest treasure I had ever seen.

Nancy Drew. The Secret in the Old Attic.

A chapter book.

All my own.

My world had just gotten bigger.

Then there was more.

A large, rectangular package.

Intriguing.

Reluctantly and reverently, I set down my precious new book.

And ripped into my other present.

The wrapping came off easily.

Revealing . . . Lego.

Lego?

What on earth was that?

I stared at the package.

Everyone stared at the package.

My father was well known for finding the new and the wondrous.

He didn't fail here.

I opened the box and poured out a stream of little red, white and clear blocks.

Of varying sizes and shapes.

I unfolded the brightly-coloured instruction sheet.

And my world got bigger, still.

I needn't tell you that my Nancy Drew collection expanded to include every volume ever written.

Or that Lego became a large part of the Stringam world that day.

And that a major part of playtime, for three generations now, consists of amazing feats of construction with myriad colourful blocks.

Or reading.

I only need to tell you that everything began on my eighth birthday.

This year’s. And yes, I’m spoiled...

Happily Stuffed

From my daughter's experience.

I put it to verse...

Was pregnant and anticipating her first baby’s birth,

Went shopping in a fun attempt to clothe her changing girth,

But nothing seemed to draw and as she walked out of the store,

Saw a bin of stuffy dogs she hadn’t seen before,

For some unknowing reason she just had to purchase one,

Then stuffed it in her bag and soon forgot what she had done.

A day or two went by. One day she caught a case of flu,

To lay in bed in misery was all that she could do,

A worried Husby picked her up and took her to emerg,

Hopeful they could help his sweetie beat this awful scourge,

They pumped in fluids, calmed her down, she got some needed rest,

Happy she responded well, they told her to get dressed,

A child’s cry caught her attention—someone sounded scared,

A little boy whose parents were awaiting treatment there,

And suddenly, she knew just who she’d bought the doggie for,

She gave it to his nurse as she was headed to the door,

The last she saw, the tears forgot as his dog played peek-a-boo

Going up and down it went there in the vacuum tube.

Sometimes at the start, it’s very hard to see the end…

(And sometimes little Stuffies can be so much more than friends!)

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 might come at quite a cost...

We poets all are Getting Lost!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

Stuffed animals (January 9) Today!

Get lost (January 16)

Clocks (January 23)

Time (January 30)

Frozen Yogurt (February 6)

Random Acts of Kindness (February 13)

Be Humble (February 20)

Pineapple (February 27)

Cookies (March 6)

Butterflies (March 13)

Buzzards (March 20)

Celebrating Earth Day(March 27)

Shaved Off

Surprise!

Changes. Some are good . . .

This was a bit more than a little girl’s mind could take in.

Let me tell you about it . . .

Every Christmas season, Husby and I spend our time among families and other assorted celebrants at their festivities, dressed as Santa and his Mrs.

It is a happy, joyous occupation as we have often stated (and restated).

But it necessitates the growing of a beard.

His. Not mine.

And the keeping of said beard year round.

This year, Santa-in-the-off-season decided he would shave.

To the skin.

Yeah, I was surprised, too.

He did so. And presented a bare face many of us have not seen for years.

Oh, we knew it was in there behind the tangle of whiskers. We just hadn’t seen it.

The day after the significant wielding of the razor, we met our family for food, fun and games in the cultural hall of our chapel.

Santa-in-the-off-season, or Grampa, as he is known was running and playing British Bulldog with numerous grandchildren.

He stopped.

And realized that one small person was standing beside him, looking up.

He looked down.

Into some serious—and rather confused—dark brown eyes. 

“What’s that matter, Leah?” he asked.

I should probably reiterate here: that beard has been on Grampa’s face for longer than that little girl has been around.

Four-year-old Leah blinked. “What happened to your face, Grampa?”

“I shaved off my beard, Leah.”

“Oh.” She turned that over in her mind. Then, “Can you shave it back on?”

Change. It’s all about us.

Sometimes good.

But most times unwanted. 

Puffed and Perfect

How do you spell 'delicious'?

There was a bright spot to every school day.

And no, it wasn’t that magical moment each morning when we first stepped into the hallowed halls of learning and knowledge.

Ick.

No, it was that moment, when the whole thing was safely in the past.

The long bus ride to school.

The sweat and toil.

The long bus ride home.

Ta-da!

That moment.

When Mom would usher us into the house and the smell of warm deliciousness would sweep over us like a welcome blanket.

Snack time.

The wonderful reward for having made it through yet another school day.

And mom made it special. Homemade snacks like pudding, cake or pie.

Hot chocolate.

Sometimes the extra-special spudnuts.

Fresh, warm bread with melty butter.

It made all of the pain and drudgery worth every drop of effort.

Then, as we grew older, Mom stepped back a bit and let us create our own snacks.

In the process, something was lost. But something else was definitely gained.

Our snacking of preference grew and changed as our skills did.

At first, my brother, George, would simply spread cheese on crackers and create a giant stack.

Which was then happily consumed, layer by layer.

I would toast bread – just barely – and spread it with peanut butter.

Peanut butter is better all soft and melted.

Just FYI.

Then Mom got a new invention, a Teflon frying pan and I discovered the magical world of omelets.

With lots of melty cheese.

Then George was introduced to tapioca pudding.

Made from scratch and eaten while still warm.

And sometimes shared with his sister.

Until she was shown the amazing chocolate wonderfulness of puffed-wheat squares.

I should explain here that the puffed-wheat is simply a medium to get the chocolate syrup to your mouth.

And it does it well.

Did you know that a hungry teenager can eat an entire pan of puffed wheat squares and still have room for supper?

It’s true. And I proved it on many an occasion.

Moving forward many, many years.

Yesterday, I dug out my tattered old recipe for puffed-wheat squares.

It was stained.

And worn.

But still readable.

I mixed and cooked.

Added, pressed down and cooled.

Then, with my daughter and granddaughter, sliced and consumed.

And, just for an instant, relived the best part of growing up.

Not Quite Right

 Way past excited, that was me,

I’d made a great discovery,

‘Twas there, just waiting to be ‘took’,

And all I had to do was look…

 

Our family was at the fair,

Mom bought me cotton candy there,

Delicious? Well this stuff just might,

Be our Miss Diane’s Kryptonite.

 

The only problem there for me,

Was waiting a whole year to see,

That treasured booth with sugared treat,

Expressly for Diane to eat.

 

But one day, I was crawling round

Beneath my bed. And there, I found,

Some cotton candy! Yes, I swear,

And better yet, just lying there!

 

I grabbed it up, you know I did,

And in my dresser drawer, I hid,

Just waiting for my playmates to

Find some other things to do.

 

They could not have my treasure, no,

‘Twas far to special. (Yes, it’s so!)

But once my playmates went elsewhere,

Then I wouldn’t have to share!

 

When they had gone, with eager haste,

I dug it out and took a taste,

But something simply wasn’t right,

A gritty, awful, dreadful bite!

 

I took it to my mom. Complained,

She turned all red, looked rather pained,

And got the vacuum, thrashed about,

Sucked all my cotton candy out.

 

Well, you can guess just what it was,

That gave my tastebuds dreadful pause,

Dust bunnies simply are not great,

Better if for the fair you wait.

 

Though desired and delish,

That cotton candy that you wish,

Your tastebuds will wish they were dead…

So never seek it ‘neath your bed!

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?

Those stuffies we all think are sweet?

We will talk of them next week!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

Treasure (January 2) Today!

Stuffed animals (January 9)

Get lost (January 16)

Clocks (January 23)

Time (January 30)

 

Royal ME

I wonder, some, how it would be

Had I been born to Royalty,

Have all greet me on bended knee,

And toast with glasses of Chablis,

Or shout and cheer and all agree,

From sea to ever-shining sea,

A princess, true, yes that is me,

Who always dresses with esprit,

Whose manner could be called ‘lordly’,

And for whose goodwill they would plea…

 

But then again, I must confess,

 I’d much prefer my life of rest,

And absent, members of the press,

Or any more who might aggress,

Sooo…no one that I must outguess,

And ditto, minimal distress,

With nothing that I must repress,

A quiet life, well, more or less…

 

And then I look around and see

My friends and all my family,

All quietly supporting me,

In all my goals and plans carefree,

Encouraging with grand esprit,

Making me feel like Royalty!

Karen asks, "Write for me, please?"

We write because she's the Bee's Knees!

And we love her, you know that’s true,

So this is what we writers do . . .

We craft a poem based on a theme,

With pencils, sharp, and eyes agleam,

Each month we write and have such fun

We can't wait for another one,

Sooo...this month, how well did I do?

Please go and see the others, too:

BakingIn A Tornado
Messymimi’sMeanderings           

This month’s theme: Royalty

Snowy Boots

1. The Member of the Legislative Assembly of Alberta for the electoral district of Cardston needed to make sure he received his mail. Daily.

2. My Uncle Bryce, Dad’s next older brother like to play tricks on Dad.

and 

3. My Dad couldn’t get his boots off.

These three statements go together. 

I know; it doesn’t appear to make sense to me either.

Let’s start at the beginning . . .

Brothers.

For three terms, my grandfather, George L. Stringam served as the MLA for the District of Cardston, living, at the time, in the village of Glenwood – a small, sleepy little town about 34 Km (21 Mi) away from the town of Cardston. In the year 1930, Glenwood was a fairly progressive place, with many modern conveniences. One of which was the daily delivery of the mail.

As the MLA, Grandpa needed that mail.

His son, Bryce was assigned the task of retrieval.

Now a bit of background: Although motor vehicles were quite common in Glenwood in 1930, the heavy winter snows usually curtailed their use except under certain circumstances. The retrieval of the mail was important. Let’s just say it wasn’t important enough to drag out the car.

Thus the seven or eight blocks to the Post Office had to be covered either on foot, or by some horse-drawn conveyance.

Eschewing the former in favour of the latter, Bryce hitched up a single horse to the small stone boat and prepared to drive across town. Then he invited his youngest brother to join him on the adventure. Seven-year-old Mark happily climbed aboard.

Now, remember where I said that Bryce like to play tricks on his small brother? That would come into play here . . .

Bryce instructed Dad to sit at the very rear of the sled, facing backwards, to avoid getting a faceful of snow. Dad did as he was told and discovered, as Bryce got the rig underway, that it was true. The snow blew past him without any of it getting into unwanted places. Bryce appeared to have his little brother’s comfort in mind.

Appearances can be misleading.

After they had proceeded a few blocks, Bryce steered the horse off the packed main part of the street and into the drifts at the side.

The resulting cloud of snow came over the sides of the boat and straight down onto the small boy happily swinging his rubber-booted feet at the back.

Filling those boots instantly with snow.

Now it wasn’t a very cold day, and the trip was short, so Dad really wasn’t that uncomfortable.

Until they got home.

It was then he discovered that, not only were his boots as full of snow as they could possibly get, but said snow was jammed so hard that the small boy was quite unable to remove them without larger, stronger help.

Dad shuffled into the house and sat there on the floor while a rather shame-faced Bryce quite literally pried the boots off his little brother’s feet.

The good news?

Bryce was right. Dad didn’t get snow in his face.

LandLADY

During the two years my Husby lived in Paris, France, he and his companions stayed in many and varied dwellings.

Some nice.
Some . . .
But the best of the best was the time they lived in a guest house on an estate in the Paris suburbs.
A real, four bedroom deluxe guest house.
On a real French estate.
Wow.
The estate, itself, covered ten acres and included said guest house, as well as the main mansion and assorted outbuildings, all owned by an aristocratic octogenarian. A woman whose actions belied her age.
And athletic ability.
Let me explain . . .
Husby and his companions had been living in this (to-eight-young-men-in-their-early-twenties-who-had-lived-in-some-rather-unpleasant-places) remarkable abode, for about four months.
In all that time, owing to the fact that their rental had been handled by the husband and wife team who directed them, none of them had met, or even laid eyes on, their landlord.
One afternoon, several of them were out in the beautiful grounds, enjoying an unexpected few hours of relaxation. Suddenly a slender, erect person carrying a cane appeared and moved slowly toward them across the yard, chattering in French as she came.
As the figure drew closer, they could see that it was a very well and expensively-dressed woman. She stopped next to them, and they deduced that they were, for the first time, addressing their landlord landlady. They also noted that she had the bearing of someone who was accustomed to being in charge.
For a few moments, they discussed the beautiful weather, and the day in particular.
Suddenly, the woman noticed a sizable bug, crawling up the trunk of the large, mature tree standing next to her.
“Ah!” she shrieked, making the young men jump. She turned and, wielding her cane with intent and purpose, preceded to pound the hapless bug until even the memory of it had disappeared. “C’est mauvais, ca! (That’s bad, that!)” she said.
Then she smiled and nodded at the speechless boys and, turning, continued across the yard.
I will add one more thing . . .
Their rent was always paid on time.

The Cane Refrain

Once they came in only white,

But sweet and tasty, pulled just right,

Perhaps to calm some choirboy crew,

With hooks to calm the church board, too,

Or just conveniently designed

To hang on trees with treats in kind,

Whate’er the reason they ‘became’

They’ve now become a household name,

With billions turned out annually,

They make their way to you. And me.

And so, enjoy! Please don’t disdain

The humble, tasty Candy Cane!

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 will be a total pleasure,

Cause we will be discussing treasure!

Thinking of joining us for Poetry Monday?

We'd love to welcome you!
Topics for the next few weeks (with a huge thank-you to Mimi, who comes up with so many of them!)...

Candy Canes (December 26) Today!

Treasure (January 2)

Stuffed animals (January 9)

Get lost (January 16)

Clocks (January 23)

Time (January 30)

Morning After

 

The Morning After

HE GETS IT DONE, YOU KNOW HE DOES, CAUSE HE’S. . .WELL HE’S THE CLAUS. BUT SOMETIMES . . .

It’s happened once or twice in ev’ry hundred years or so

When, for whatever reason, Santa simply cannot go,

And cause there’s no one willing, (and there are not any planes!)

Then Mrs. Santa steps right up and takes those Christmas reins.

The reindeer seem to know that something different’s in the air,

And get excited when they hear her step upon the stair.

And does she dress in red and white? In fur and velvet? No!

She’s dressed in leather for her chase o’er lands of heat or snow.

In a worn ol’ buckskin jacket and some goggles—Santa’s spares,

A pair of leather ‘racing’ gloves, a helmet o’er her hair,

Some ‘biker’ chaps and Uggs for boots, a scarf that’s warm and soft,

One that covers mouth and nose when she’s up there. Aloft.

She steps into the loaded sleigh, the reindeer snort and stamp,

She smiles and says, “My children, it is time that we decamp!”

“And be more careful this year as we streak ‘cross swamp and heath,

I’d like to try this time to keep the bugs out of my teeth!”

And with a cry of “Wagons, ho!”, she, sleigh and deer are gone,

Leaving Santa and the elves at home to carry on,

And as they clean. And plan for all the next year’s girls and boys,

Mrs. Santa does the work:  delivering the toys.

You have to know she sets speed records everywhere she goes,

They’re still unsure just what flew through in Rome 10 years ago,

Those Salt Flats guys have not recovered—likely never will,

From the blur that passed them both like they were standing still.

And she and all the reindeer have a huge sleighload of fun.

Deliveries in record time. This woman gets ‘er done!

And as she very nimbly hops out of the sleigh. And in,

She’s never lost for laughs. Or found without her happy grin.

And with the rising of the sun, she’s back. She parks the sleigh,

Then checks it to be sure it’s safe to drive another day.

She gives each deer a great big hug and praises all of them,

And tells them, each and everyone, they are her brightest gems.

Then hurries in to Santa and the breakfast he’s prepared,

Expresses hope that what was troubling him has been repaired,

Then with a sparkle in her eye, she tells him of her night,

And all the records she has broken during this year’s flight!

Then Santa simply shakes his head and serves her scones and cream,

And teases her that her new name will be Madam Jet Stream,

And when she’s full. And drowsy from her chase up through the clouds,

He tucks her in and kisses her and tells her he is proud.

So on this Christmas Eve as you anticipate the morn,
Waiting for sleighbells to tell you someone is airborne,
It may not be old Santa who is pulling on the reins...
It might be Mrs. Santa, setting records once again!