Walt Trizna's Blog, page 46

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You remember neighbors gathering in their backyards, at night, looking for, then seeing, sputnik flying overhead.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

Yoc remember Guy Lombardo and the Royal Canadians as the entertainment on TV on New Year’s Eve and Ben Grauer announcing the dropping of the ball on Times Square.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You remember getting up and going to the TV to change the channel.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You remember using a crystal radio set to listen to the radio.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

You remember vacuum tubes.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE CREATING MEMORIES WHEN . . .

You find this Christmas as being a special Christmas.

YOU KNOW YOU’R GETTING OLD WHEN …

When you can remember Christmas clubs. Accounts established by banks, which I think, did not offer any interest. But was a plan providing discipline to save for Christmas presents. Maybe saving as little as a dollar a week, but remember, this was sixty to seventy years ago.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE GETTING OLD WHEN . . .

When you can remember, for Christmas presents, buying cartons of cigarettes displaying a picture of Santa.

A CHRISTMAS TREE STORY

                                          A CHRISTMAS TREE STORY

For many years my family practiced a Christmas tradition involved in obtaining a Christmas tree. This experience holds a special place in our hearts. Those of you buying a live tree this Christmas season, a tree with an enormous price, may shed a tear after reading this story.

Many years ago, a friend at work told me about a unique tree farm where trees cost seven dollars. I can assure you that the prices of trees on Christmas tree lots, at that time, were much more. I obtained directions to the farm, and one Sunday afternoon, piled the family into our car and off we went. After a few wrong turns I found the farm. And for years we went there for our Christmas tree and experienced the true meaning of Christmas.

The tree farm was south of Phenixville Pennsylvania. I learned from the owner that the property was once the site of a small airport having a hanger in which he could store his powder blue tail-dragger single engine high wing plane. After many years the hanger was falling apart, and much to his amazement, he was able to fire up the engine and taxi the plane out. But I doubt that the plane will ever fly again.

Now back to the trees.

The tree farm was made up of groves of jack-pine trees, and he spent the off season trimming the trees for sale for Christmas. He was in his late seventies or early eighties, and you could tell, for now, it was his life’s work.

Now a jack-pine is an evergreen with branches, far apart, along its trunk. They were scraggly looking trees, but you could load ornaments along the full length of the branches. As opposed to the usual ‘full’ Christmas trees where only the tips of the branches could be decorated. Once decorated, these jack-pine trees were beautiful.

For tree selection my two daughters brought along multiple scarves to drape on trees which showed promise. Once the ‘perfect tree’ was chosen I cut it down and carried it to the small trailer he kept on the property. He wrapped the tree with twine then went inside with my wife and daughters to sip hot chocolate. While I was left to tie the tree to the car roof coming close to suffering frostbite.

On the wall of the trailer were mounted news articles. Clippings about the farm and his generosity. He donated trees to churches and organizations. I’m he would give trees to those suffering hardship.

Once home, we decorated our scrawny ‘Charlie Brown tree’ and turned it into a thing of beauty.

After a few years of getting our trees at the farm the owner told me he thought he was charging too much so he lowered the price to five dollars. I began bringing him a loaf of homemade cinnamon raisin bread and he told me I could have a tree for free. I assured him that five dollars was what I would pay.

The man through all the years had a collie running free on the property. But the dog wandered somewhere causing someone to complain. A township official arrived and warned the man about his dog. The next time we went to buy a tree he told me that that’s it and he was selling the property. I hope he got a good price and I’m sure some developer filled the land with McMansions sitting cheek to jowl. Houses with no character, only volume.

I will never return to that property for it would spoil my memories of a wonderful Christmas tradition. That fellow was the epitome of the Christmas spirit with the kindness and generosity of the holiday season.     

DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR? A CHRISTMAS HORROR STORY

A writer’s group I once belonged to would celebrate Christmas at an Italian restaurant. The place had a unique room called the Pope’s room. It was a large circular room with a domed ceiling and had a large circular table and the walls were covered with pictures of past popes. In the center of the table was a bust of Pope John II. We needed a large room for there were often ten or more of us in attendance. The domed ceiling made for a unique feature. What was said on one side of the room, in a soft voice, could easily be heard on the opposite side. That phenomena gave birth to this story.

DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR? was accepted for publication by Bewildering Stories in October 2007.

                                      DO YOU HEAR WHAT I HEAR?

W___ was known for his stories of murder and mayhem.  Tales of ghosts and monsters were his claim to meager fame.  As member of a writers’ group, he enjoyed sharing his twisted stories with the group and the support they provided.  But how could they know, imagine, that the stories, born in his twisted mind, would someday become reality.  W___ would carry demons within his mind.  Even his wife did not know the visions, the “truths” that journeyed through his muddled brain.

It was during November’s writers’ meeting that the group leader, S___, announced, “In place of our December meeting, I suggest we meet for a holiday dinner.  It will be a chance to relax and prepare for the year’s writing ahead.”  The approval of the group was unanimous.

Reservations were made and the day of the dinner arrived.  It was a rainy evening whenW___ set out for the restaurant, the back-and-forth motion of the windshield wipers gave him a slight headache.  He was one of the last to arrive, greeting his fellow writers; he took his seat next to S___.  The room was a large room with a single circular table at its center.  A curious aspect was the room’s ceiling.  It was domed with a most unsettling feature.  From one side of the room conversations, even in the softest whisper, were conveyed to the opposite side of this domed affair.

As the meal was served, W___ looked across the table to C___ and G___, deep in conversation discussing light matters.  Suddenly, the conversation changed.  To his disbelief, W___ heard them plotting his murder. A conversation manufactured in his brain.  He clearly heard their voices discussing every detail.  W___ sat in disbelief while those about him laughed and shared stories.  His friends asked if there was anything wrong, for he was visibly shaken.  “I’m fine,” he replied and left the restaurant to make plans of his own.

January arrived and it was time for another meeting.  S___ was the last to arrive.  “I have terrible news.  C___ and G___ have met with horrible accidents.  They are both dead.”

The group sat there in shock.  Disbelief was soon followed by sounds of sorrow and grief.

The year swiftly went by.  It was a good year with many of the members being published.  Once again, at the November meeting, S___ announced the plans for a Christmas dinner.  The site would be the same as last year.

W___ once again made his way to the restaurant, this time during a light and peaceful snow.  He greeted his friends and took his place.  Once again, he could hear the whispered conversations from across the room.  And once again he heard his murder being plotted, this time it was T___ and B___ who made the fiendish plot.  Once again two members of the group were visited with horrible and fatal accidents.

January found the group deep in sorrow once more.  That was five years ago.  And for each of those years, a Christmas dinner was held and shortly after, two more members met their demise.

Christmas neared once again, but there would be no Christmas dinner, for the only members remaining were W___ and S___.  A creature of tradition, W___ reserved the domed room for his private dinner.  There he sat, alone with no whispering conversations to fill his head.  He gazed around at the empty seats when his ears perked.  There were voices plotting his murder.  Looking out at the overflowing restaurant, he saw a young family that he was sure was plotting his end.  A fiendish smile crossed his lips.  His work was not yet done.

                                                     THE END