Heroes

The school massacre in Newtown Connecticut was one week ago today.

The stories are everywhere.

Horrific tales of terror, panic and death.

And the agony that followed.

But out of those stories have risen tales of heroism and bravery unequalled anywhere in history.

The principal and school psychologist who lost their lives as they rushed toward danger when the first shots were heard.

The teachers who hid children in closets and cupboards and bathrooms and then kept them absolutely quiet and safe as terror stalked past.

And those who used their last shield, themselves, in a desperate and futile bid to save the lives of the little children in their care.

They are true heroes.

In every sense of the word.

And I weep for them and their sacrifice.

It has gotten me thinking of the heroes in my life.

The men and women who have appeared, sometimes fleetingly, and had a profound and lasting influence.

My Mom, who taught me responsibility, caring for others and to always, always be kind.

My Dad, who taught me the value of integrity, hard work and a sense of humour.

My eldest brother who taught me generosity.

My next older brother, who taught me the joy of friendship.

My oldest sister, who showed me true patience.

My youngest sister, who is a constant example of focused energy and unfettered joy.

My youngest brother, who showed me that one must never quit. That by keeping on, great things are accomplished.

There were others.

Teachers who spent their entire lives . . . teaching.

Store owners who cared.

Neighbours who watched out for.

People who appeared only briefly and taught me wonderful, important things.

None of them have had to make the ultimate sacrifice in my behalf.

None of them will ever appear in a newspaper or on TV as a description of their heroism is proclaimed aloud.

But still they are heroes.

And they need recognition.

So to those whose actions are so justifiably blazoned across news headlines and TV spots.

And those whose contribution is not as noticeable or dramatic.

I am offering a prayer of gratitude today.

Thank you.

All of you.

All I Want for Christmas . . .

My first 'real' Christmas. Age 14 months.

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

I know I received some.

Many, in fact.

Stuffed toys and dolls. And the snuggling that ensued.

Lego. Always popular.

Books. Nancy Drew in particular.

Puzzles. Nearly always completed with my Dad.

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

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

A delicate membrane.

One could put a finger right through it.

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

I clearly remember the year we all got skis.

And the adventures that followed.

And the time my brother gave me a camshaft.

A real camshaft.

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

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

Moving on . . .

There were things I needed.

Clothes.

Quilts.

And things I didn't.

Tinned Vienna sausage.

And a mounted and stuffed Jack-a-lope head.

Things I really, really wanted.

A Palm Pilot. (Google it.)

Video Camera.

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

And things that were just . . . sweet.

Several pairs of slippers.

And at least one bath robe.

I've truly loved them all.

Truly.

They were given with love.

And accepted with the same.

But I have been around for fifty seven Christmases, including this one.

Fifty seven.

Why can't I remember fifty seven gifts?

I know there was at least one per year.

Many times, more.

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

And that's how it should be.

Bear Memories

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.

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

Our little foster daughter has grown and gone.

The single mom, 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 . . .

Best Holiday . . . Ever!

Me - and my Disneyland Holiday hat

It was the trip to end all trips.

Disneyland.

That magical place that only existed in my dreams.

My Dad had come up with the plan, mostly because we had been everywhere else on the western half of the continent.

We kids were . . . ummm . . . a bit enthusiastic.

And we were going over Christmas, so none of that pesky waiting for Christmas morning. Instead, we took care of all of that days earlier.

We handed over the reins of ranch management to a young couple, packed up the truck and camper (nothing but first class here!) and headed out.

At first, singing and then talking about the wonderful and exciting experiences that were before us, sufficed to keep us entertained. Then book reading, desultory (real word) conversation and looking out the window.

By the way, looking out the window was my Mom's favorite pastime on our car trips. Mom was decidedly predictable.

Sort of like my car sickness. But that is another story . . .

Christmas day was . . . different.

We couldn't find a Denny's.

And no other restaurants were open.

Anywhere.

Dad finally found what could only be deemed a 'Greasy Spoon' or 'Dive' and we ate surprisingly good burgers and fries.

For Christmas dinner.

Memorable.

Then we were again on the road.

As we drove further and further south, the weather grew noticeably warmer. Slowly, layers of clothing were shed. By the time we reached Los Angeles, we were down to just one layer. (Unless you count our underwear, but we all know how I felt about that . . .)

Ahem.

We stopped at Marineland.

And Knotts Berry Farm

And Hurst Castle. Which I loved and where I would gladly have taken up residence.

Except that the guards found me.

Guards definitely don't have a sense of humor.

Or paternal instincts.

Then, finally, Disneyland.

Dad managed to find a parking spot at the outer rim of the lot, quite near Canada, actually and we trudged with purpose towards . . . the Great Gates.

The doorway to magic land.

The entrance to dream world.

Access to . . .

You get the picture.

At that point in time, one did not buy a 'pass'. That would have been . . . convenient.

Instead, we all got coupon books.

There was a section of 'first run' attractions. A section with 'lesser', but almost as popular. And several sections after that.

The 'Haunted Mansion' had just opened.

Does that date me a bit?

The only problem was that this was the first sunny day in Los Angeles for several weeks.

And the entire population of the planet had suddenly decided that Disneyland was the place to be.

We had to share our magical world with 70,000 other people.

Sigh.

The line-ups were so long that choosing which ride to go on was not a matter of which was the most exciting, but which was the most available.

My brother and I stood for 3 hours to see the Haunted Mansion. The entire afternoon.

Oh, it was definitely worth it, even though George refused to go in the same car with me and I had to be frightened out of my wits all by myself.

For some reason, he had a problem with me wrapping my arms around his neck and screaming into his ear.

Brothers are weird.

After that, things are rather a blur.

I remember seeing Lincoln giving an address.

The real Lincoln. Somehow, Disney had convinced him to come out of retirement (ie: death) and perform for us.

We went on a few 'ride' rides that didn't have enormous lineups.

And, at sundown, went for a romantic ride on the Mark Twain riverboat.

Yes, I'm sure the sign said 'romantic'.

I was, again, with George.

Who told me to stay on my side of the boat.

Okay, so, what did he think I was going to do? Cuddle up to him and coo in his ear like all of the other people were doing?

Ewwww!

I remember eating a lot.

But then, I always remember the food.

And I remember thinking it was the best day of my life.

We only had one day there, but there were no complaints because Dad then took us to San Francisco and we got to ride the trolley car and tramp around Alcatraz Island.

And I got a shirt that said 'Property of Alcatraz - Unlisted Number' which I thought was hilarious.

And then, home. Which was an adventure all by itself.

We hit high winds near Pocatello, Idaho that nearly tipped us over, so Dad and the rest of the family parked in a campground with the truck's nose facing into the wind to keep it from performing gymnastics.

And he put George and I on the bus home.

Apparently, the couple looking after the ranch had to leave.

Who listened?

All I knew was that I got to ride on a Greyhound.

Okay, it was with my brother, but why haggle over details?

It was the perfect end to a perfect trip.

There is an addendum . . .

This summer, we were camping with our good friends and the topic of Disneyland came up.

They've been several times.

I described my own experience.

They stared at me in disbelief. "You mean you only got to go to one major attraction?!"

I described the circumstances again.

More incredulity (another real word). "You drove all that way and hardly got to do anything?!"

And for the first time, I thought about that.

Huh. We had only gone on one main ride. We had wandered round the place and seen a lot of other people going on other rides. We had eaten treats and watched exciting things.

And it had been a very long drive.

Nope, it was still worth it.

The best holiday, ever!

An Unexpected Angel

An Unexpected Angel

Ella Davies hates Christmas and everything about it.

But she didn't always.

There was a time when Ella loved Christmas.

Until one horrifying night that would change a young girl's life forever.

Work and solitude offer her comfort now.

Work and solitude and a simple system of never caring too much.

But an encounter with a young grocery clerk on Christmas eve starts Ella on a journey that will take her into the vastly different lives of several very special people.

And give her the opportunity to be the angel that these people so desperately need.

And one of those needy people just might be her.

I loved this story.

It is a tale of discovery, courage, compassion and love.

Beautifully, tenderly told, it touches the heart just the way a Christmas story should.

And clearly illustrates that the best way to find our own heart is to give it to someone else.

Bring tissues!

Ella Davies hates Christmas. Every year she spends the holidays working, trying to forget the pain of a childhood tragedy that left her all alone. But this season, Ella’s about to learn something only an angel could teach her. This modern twist on a Christmas classic will remind you that the best gifts of all are the loved ones you learn to treasure!

Meet the Author:

Janet Halling discovered her love of writing at the age of six when her story of a lonely duck won a first grade writing contest. She has a BA in Marketing Communications and lives with her husband and four children in northern Utah. She is currently working on her next novel.

Dressing for the Season

Still away . . . having a great time!!!

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

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

When it happened, we were eager.

When it happened at Christmas, we were beyond excited.

Ecstatic.

Exuberant.

Exhilarated.

Elated.

Euphoric.

Electrified.

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

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

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

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

Back to my story . . .

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

It was the 50's.

Families did things like that back then.

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

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

Go figure.

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

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

Smart man.

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

And entered the store.

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

There were neat piles of everything wearable.

And the wood plank floors creaked delightfully.

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

The curling of the ribbons was especially fascinating.

Where was I  . . .?

Oh, yes.

New coat.

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

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

I reached out a hand and brushed the soft fur.

Oooooh!

"This one, Daddy! This one!"

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

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

Perfect!

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

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

Dad paid and we trooped back out to the car.

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

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

We had fun finding the tree.

I think.

We did end up with one.

I really don't remember much about it.

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

And watching through the windshield.

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

What if it got soiled?

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

Dad later said something about 'waste of time and money'.

But who listened?

Our First Christmas

A repost as I head off on a book-signing tour.
Wish me luck!

Grant and Diane

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 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. And 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, Chris 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. 

My husband 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.

Defensive Decorating

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

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

Over six hours away.

Apparently, the extended family was getting together.

It would be . . . fun.

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

Why put up the Christmas decorations?

Decorating took time and effort.

And no one would be around to enjoy them.

And the biggest reason to rejoice?

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

It just made sense.

To them.

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

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

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

But they didn't.

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

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

Nestled among it's lighted, decorated neighbours.

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

Then he grinned.

Something I've learned to treat with respect.

“We'll decorate for them!”

Uh-oh.

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

Very special.

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

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

To say it was dead would be a vast understatement.

No hint of green remained among the dry, brown needles.

He untied it and stood it up.

“What'd'ya think?”

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

He grinned. “It's perfect!”

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

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

I shook my head. “Your terrible,” I said.

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

He carried the tree to our friends' house.

And stood it up in their front stoop.

It fit perfectly.

Brushing needles from his hands, he returned home.

Mission accomplished.

A couple of weeks later, our friends returned.

Happy and content from two weeks in the warmth of kith and kin.

They pulled into the drive.

And stopped.

And stared.

They got out of the car.

And stared some more.

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

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

Huh.

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

And left something.

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

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

But I digress . . .

And, most importantly of all?

They had to clean up the needles.

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

Just a sweep and done.

But to someone who had planned to avoid it altogether?

Maddening.

Oh, they remained our friends.

Because they were extraordinary people.

But after that, they decorated.

Always.

It was just . . . safer.

Stopping for Directions . . .

What could be simpler???!

I have no excuse.

I'll let you judge . . .

A woman in our church group, whom I had never met, had just given birth to a tiny, sweet preemie girl.

She had two other children.

And a husband.

I offered to surprise them with dinner.

An easy and painless way to help out.

I made a pot of soup.

Fresh rolls.

And a salad.

Packing everything into a box, I got into the truck and headed out.

Now, I should mention here that I live in a small town.

I've lived in this same small town for nearly a quarter of a century.

Yes, it has grown.

A lot.

But it is still my home town.

And it takes three minutes to drive from one end to the other.

On a busy day.

Twenty minutes later, I was still driving around, looking for this sister's address.

Finally, almost tearful with frustration, I broke down and called her, begging for directions.

“I'm right across the street from Beau Meadow School,” she said. “You can't miss the house. It's brightly lit and there is a 'For Sale' sign in the front yard.”

Now, in our town, that particular school is on what we call the 'ring road'.

It makes a circuit of the entire town.

Meandering through all four quadrants.

It is the quickest way to anywhere.

This woman was on it.

I live just off it.

Our houses were, quite literally, one minute apart.

I finally pulled up to the described house, shut off my truck and carried my now-tepid-meal to the front door.

And realized something.

Not only was this house almost within spitting distance of mine.

But it was a house my son and his family had recently outgrown and sold.

After having lived there for over three years.

I had been in and out of it for that entire time.

I knew it almost as well as I knew my own.

I knew where it was.

And how to get there.

And where to park.

I could have told anyone how to find it.

Only one thing was missing.

I had never noted the address.

See?

No excuse.

Christmas Chain

Oh sure. He's looks innocent here . . .

Christmas morning, the exciting, present-opening part, was inevitably on hold until the kids could get their father out of his bed.

It wasn't as easy as it sounds.

What began as a mainly physical feat when they were younger, soon progressed into a different sort of challenge as they grew older.

Their Dad got sneaky.

Case in point . . .

I was heading out to do the milking.

I turned to my Husby, who was still in bed and said, “Don't start till I get back.”

He grinned.

Something I have learned to treat with respect over the years.

“Oh, I imagine I'll still be here when you get back!” Then he reached under the bed and pulled out the end of a long, heavy chain. “Could you please hand me the other end?”

Puzzled, I reached under my side of the bed.

Sure enough, there was the rest.

This man plans ahead . . .

I handed it to him and he lapped the two ends and snapped a large combination lock shut through them.

He was right.

He would probably still be there when I got back.

Shaking my head, I left.

Milking was quickly accomplished and I was soon back at the house,

Pails brimming.

Just as I opened the door, I heard a cheer go up.

'Wow, everyone's sure happy that I'm home!' I thought.

It wasn't me.

They had just finished finding the final number for their father's combination lock.

And had succeeded in freeing him from his chains.

Quite literally.

I set the milk in the milk room and came upstairs.

Just as everyone poured, happily, from our bedroom.

“Mom! We got Dad out of his chains and we're ready to open presents!”

Now there's something you don't hear every day.

“Wow! You kids are good!” Thoughts of future bank robbers and safe-crackers suddenly came to mind.

“Naw! He gave us the first two numbers. Then all we had to do was figure out the last one.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. We did it by the process of elimination.”

“Oh. Well . . . good.”

“It was fun!”

You have to know that these kids have been exposed to many different challenges over the years.

Duct tape.

Zippers.

Bandages.

Mustard. (Don't ask.)

Air horns.

And Speedos. (Told here.)

If you want to read it, we'll wait . . .

I guess a small matter of freeing their father from some pesky heavy chains is child's play.

Well, at least for our children.

Christmas Has Arrived! Almost . . .

Last night, we invited a bunch of the grandkids over to help Gramma and Grampa bring in Christmas.
It was . . . fun.
Though many of said grandkids suffer from an extremely short attention span.
We did manage to get the tree up, largely due to the efforts of one daughter-in-law.
And decorated.
Ditto.
Gramma was over digging through the boxes.
Alternately exclaiming and wiping tears.
As always, getting out the decorations is a trip down memory lane.
Old and fragile works of art made by little fingers from as long as thirty-five years ago.
Many no longer able to be safely hung on the tree, but enjoyed only from their places of refuge.
For example, popcorn on a string doesn't last.
Just FYI.
I love Christmas!
This is what we finally managed to accomplish . . .

Gramma's Village

You can't see them all, but there are 22 stockings there. And more on the way . . .

What's Christmas without a mantel . . .

. . . or Santa's laundry?

Christmas Buddies                        

And just because we're Tolleys (Yeah, I don't get it either . . .)

And the main event!

And then I got to sleep with Santa!

Don't you just love Christmas?!

Are We Losing Our Gentility?

A rant

My Husby and I like to swim.

It keeps us healthy and young.

Or at least healthy.

After a bit of rigorous paddling, we like to sit in the hot tub and visit.

Our local pool facility inevitably has music playing.

Yesterday, shortly after we got in, a catchy tune started.

Catchy.

I started to listen.

The chorus came on.

The background music quit, just as the last line was sung.

A last line that consisted of the words, “What the ****!”

The words were painfully clear.

I looked around at the small children playing near us.

Children to whom the words were just as clear.

“Did you hear that?” I asked my Husby.

He didn't.

The chorus came on a second time.

“What the ****!”

“I can't believe what I'm hearing!” I crawled out of the pool and marched, dripping wet, into the front office.

The song wasn't as loud here, but still discernible.

“Can you guys hear that song?” I demanded.

The two women at the front counter frowned. “I wasn't listening,” one said.

“It's foul!” I said. “And there are little children out there listening to it!”

“Oh, my! We'll change it!” she said.

And she hurriedly did so.

They hadn't chosen the song. They had merely turned on one of the satellite radio stations, thinking that it would have a modicum of decency.

They were obviously wrong.

The experience reminded me of the time, a few months ago, when my Husby and I were eating breakfast at a local 'family' fast-food restaurant.

A young woman a few tables over was talking loudly on her cell phone to her boyfriend.

Or I'm assuming it was her boyfriend.

Some of the one-sided conversation would suggest it . . .

“You're the worst ****ing boyfriend I've ever had!” she said. “What are you ****ing talking about? I can't believe you would ****ing say that to me! How could you ****ing do that to me? Well **** to you too!”

And so the conversation went.

For nearly twenty minutes.

There were families there.

Trying to eat.

Most hurried their children through their meal and packed up and left.

And still, the girl shouted obscenities into her phone.

It turned my stomach.

Finally, we packed up what was left of our breakfast and escaped.

Finding somewhere better to finish.

Thinking of that girl and that song, I can't help but wonder . . .

Have we lost our gentility?

My Dad taught me when I was growing up, that what came out of a person's mouth was a direct reflection of what was going on in that person's brain.

That a person who resorted to obscenities in their conversation simply didn't have the intelligence to converse on a higher plain.

I think of a speech given by a woman named Margaret D. Nadauld:

“The world has enough women who are tough; we need women who are tender. There are enough women who are coarse; we need women who are kind. There are enough women who are rude; we need women who are refined.”

We can easily substitute the word 'people' for the word 'woman'.

Have we been concentrating so hard on being tough and independent that we have lost our ability to talk on an intelligent level?

Is this really how we want to be heard expressing ourselves today?
Is that how we want our music, our movies, our conversations, our lives to sound?

And, for goodness sake, can't we think of another word?!

What are your thoughts?

A Hole in the Ice

Mom was in a panic.

She had looked away for an instant.

An instant.

And her toddler had disappeared.

Christine, dressed in her warm, little woollen snowsuit had been playing happily in the front yard.

Mom had zipped into the house to check on her new baby.

Happily, rosily asleep in his cradle.

And now, seconds later, her eldest child was gone.

Frantically, Mom called and cast about for her little daughter's footprints in the snow.

There!

Leading . . . toward the river.

Mom was off at a run.

A few seconds later, she was standing on the bank.

The little tracks meandered out onto the snow-covered ice.

To a large hole.

Mom stared at the patch of dark, swiftly-moving water.

Her entire life crashing about her ears.

She stepped out . . .

Then she realized that the little footprints didn't end there.

No.

The trail turned and continued back to the bank.

Her heart beginning to beat again, Mom scrambled back up the bank.

And there was her little daughter, heading toward the barnyard.

Mom scooped up her baby and carried her back to the house.

Then spent the rest of the day alternately crying and hugging Christine.

Infinitely grateful for the divine intervention that had protected her daughter.

Mom raised all of her six children to adulthood on that ranch.

Rescuing them from such things as:

Altercations with the local livestock.

Wrangles with barbed-wire.

Numerous falls.

Differences of opinion with power tools.

An infinite number of scrapes and bruises.

And, yes, plucking them from the muddy jaws of death in a capricious river.

But she never forgot that moment of stark and frozen terror.

Standing on the bank of the river, looking at the trail of little tracks that ended at the great hole in the ice.

And how differently it could have ended.

Her very worst . . . and very best of moments.

Driving in Canada, Eh?

Red Mittens - not just for hands any more!
Photo credit: polarbearstale.blogspot.com

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!

It was 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 for 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, proceed 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.

But it worked.

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!