Mark R. Hunter's Blog, page 103
January 27, 2014
Dad 1; Cancer 0
Let’s interrupt this despairing parade of horrible weather to bring some good news:
My Dad has been declared cancer free! Yay!!!!
They’re going to continue to check him every couple of months, which is normal, but for right now it’s nice to catch a break. I don’t know what the recurrence rate is for this particular cancer, and I’ve decided I don’t want to know; for now it’s great that he’s beaten it.
My Dad has been declared cancer free! Yay!!!!
They’re going to continue to check him every couple of months, which is normal, but for right now it’s nice to catch a break. I don’t know what the recurrence rate is for this particular cancer, and I’ve decided I don’t want to know; for now it’s great that he’s beaten it.
January 24, 2014
Murphy Proves Winter Prediction
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
Well, it didn’t work this time. My system didn’t work, and as a result, the Blizzard of ’14 was all my fault.
I know what you’re thinking: “Mark, can you be so egotistical as to brag that you affected the weather?”
People, it’s not bragging when it’s a bad thing. It would be like somebody bragging that they take drugs and commit crimes. Maybe that was a bad example, considering it’s not unheard of for people in Hollywood to commit Charlie Sheenisms.
If I claim to have brought on spring singlehandedly with my mind, then you can stage an intervention. Meanwhile, the fact remains that the Blizzard of ’14 was directly caused by Hunter’s Law of Inverse Lousy Predictions Squared.
As far as I know it wasn’t technically a blizzard where I live, by the way, although it was declared that one county to the west. “Blizzard” just sounds cooler than “snowstorm”, in the same way “tornado” sounds cooler than “straight line winds”. There’s something oddly human about insisting you have the worst weather, which I guess is kind of bragging about bad things.
“You may have a few drifts, but our blizzard buried semis! By the way, my gallstone was way bigger than your gallstone and my boss is way meaner than yours. And our snow is colder.”
Anyway, for the last ten years or so I’ve been predicting a bad winter. Not for this year – for all those years, every year. “It’s gonna be a bad one this year,” I’d say. “I feel it in my gut.”
And every year, that feeling in my gut turned out to be from gorging myself every December on Lions Club citrus.
We kept having mild winters, instead. (“Mild” sometimes meant ice instead of snow. It’s all relative.) This is because of Hunter’s Law of Predictions, which states, “Mark Hunter isn’t very good at making predictions.” It’s a simple rule.
And I was happy with that, because, as all 14 of my regular readers know, I hate winter. I hate winter so much that I’m only going to live around here in the summertime after I’m rich, which should happen any second now. So every year I said “This is the year they’re going to name “The Godzilla of Winters”, and every year I was wrong. (The Godzilla of Winters breathes sub-zero snow, instead of fire. Also, he slides over Tokyo with giant ice skates.)
But I forgot the flipside, Hunter’s Law of Inverse Lousy Predictions, which reads:
“Whenever Mark Hunter is right about a prediction, it’s something bad.”
For instance, I correctly predicted the most recent economic recession. I correctly predicted that China was going to start flexing its military muscles and mess with its neighbors. I correctly predicted that my lawnmower would either not start in the spring or break in early summer … every year since 1988.
To make matters worse, there’s also Hunter’s Law of Inverse Lousy Predictions Squared. HLILPS, which is pronounced “Hlilips”, clearly states: “If Mark Hunter makes a prediction because he wants to be wrong, sooner or later he will be right”.
It gets complicated. The weather example is that I predict weather from the tenth level of Hell (which is where they keep the deep freezes, ice cream supplies, and politicians with frozen hearts). The original law – Lousy Predictions – kicks in, and so we have (relatively) nice weather.
But then, sooner or later, someone or something figures out I’m messing with them. Karma, Murphy, Mother Nature, Al Gore, whatever. Then the Law’s inversely square part kicks in, and I’m left holding the bag. By which I mean, I’m left holding the snow shovel.
It’s a given, at that point, that I’ll be suffering from my chronic back pain, sinus infection, and tendonitis just when the driveway is yelling “shovel me!” I’ll remember that my boots aren’t insulated, my gloves are too thin, and that even at 5 degrees I can sweat under my long underwear, a situation that ironically can lead to hypothermia.
I’ll also be reminded that there are a lot of great people out there, personified by whoever used a snow blower on my sidewalk after our first storm, and whoever else has been running a snow plow through my driveway after every snowfall so far this season.
Much as I still hate winter, that kind of thing makes me feel a lot better.
And who could have predicted that?
Well, it didn’t work this time. My system didn’t work, and as a result, the Blizzard of ’14 was all my fault.
I know what you’re thinking: “Mark, can you be so egotistical as to brag that you affected the weather?”
People, it’s not bragging when it’s a bad thing. It would be like somebody bragging that they take drugs and commit crimes. Maybe that was a bad example, considering it’s not unheard of for people in Hollywood to commit Charlie Sheenisms.
If I claim to have brought on spring singlehandedly with my mind, then you can stage an intervention. Meanwhile, the fact remains that the Blizzard of ’14 was directly caused by Hunter’s Law of Inverse Lousy Predictions Squared.
As far as I know it wasn’t technically a blizzard where I live, by the way, although it was declared that one county to the west. “Blizzard” just sounds cooler than “snowstorm”, in the same way “tornado” sounds cooler than “straight line winds”. There’s something oddly human about insisting you have the worst weather, which I guess is kind of bragging about bad things.
“You may have a few drifts, but our blizzard buried semis! By the way, my gallstone was way bigger than your gallstone and my boss is way meaner than yours. And our snow is colder.”
Anyway, for the last ten years or so I’ve been predicting a bad winter. Not for this year – for all those years, every year. “It’s gonna be a bad one this year,” I’d say. “I feel it in my gut.”
And every year, that feeling in my gut turned out to be from gorging myself every December on Lions Club citrus.
We kept having mild winters, instead. (“Mild” sometimes meant ice instead of snow. It’s all relative.) This is because of Hunter’s Law of Predictions, which states, “Mark Hunter isn’t very good at making predictions.” It’s a simple rule.
And I was happy with that, because, as all 14 of my regular readers know, I hate winter. I hate winter so much that I’m only going to live around here in the summertime after I’m rich, which should happen any second now. So every year I said “This is the year they’re going to name “The Godzilla of Winters”, and every year I was wrong. (The Godzilla of Winters breathes sub-zero snow, instead of fire. Also, he slides over Tokyo with giant ice skates.)
But I forgot the flipside, Hunter’s Law of Inverse Lousy Predictions, which reads:
“Whenever Mark Hunter is right about a prediction, it’s something bad.”
For instance, I correctly predicted the most recent economic recession. I correctly predicted that China was going to start flexing its military muscles and mess with its neighbors. I correctly predicted that my lawnmower would either not start in the spring or break in early summer … every year since 1988.
To make matters worse, there’s also Hunter’s Law of Inverse Lousy Predictions Squared. HLILPS, which is pronounced “Hlilips”, clearly states: “If Mark Hunter makes a prediction because he wants to be wrong, sooner or later he will be right”.
It gets complicated. The weather example is that I predict weather from the tenth level of Hell (which is where they keep the deep freezes, ice cream supplies, and politicians with frozen hearts). The original law – Lousy Predictions – kicks in, and so we have (relatively) nice weather.
But then, sooner or later, someone or something figures out I’m messing with them. Karma, Murphy, Mother Nature, Al Gore, whatever. Then the Law’s inversely square part kicks in, and I’m left holding the bag. By which I mean, I’m left holding the snow shovel.
It’s a given, at that point, that I’ll be suffering from my chronic back pain, sinus infection, and tendonitis just when the driveway is yelling “shovel me!” I’ll remember that my boots aren’t insulated, my gloves are too thin, and that even at 5 degrees I can sweat under my long underwear, a situation that ironically can lead to hypothermia.
I’ll also be reminded that there are a lot of great people out there, personified by whoever used a snow blower on my sidewalk after our first storm, and whoever else has been running a snow plow through my driveway after every snowfall so far this season.
Much as I still hate winter, that kind of thing makes me feel a lot better.
And who could have predicted that?
January 22, 2014
Release date set for The Notorious Ian Grant
Whiskey Creek Press has set the release of The Notorious Ian Grant for October, 2014. Holy cow, that’s just nine months! I finished filling out the Title Information Form and Art Information Form yesterday, so the next step is well underway.
I'm writing some short stories in the lead-up to the book’s release, showing how the title character came to the odd position he’s in at the opening of the story. Those will be posted for free, and I’m toying with the idea of having Ian encounter some characters from TV shows along the way—a shout-out to my history as a fanfiction writer. Hopefully they’ll be as fun as the book itself.
I'm writing some short stories in the lead-up to the book’s release, showing how the title character came to the odd position he’s in at the opening of the story. Those will be posted for free, and I’m toying with the idea of having Ian encounter some characters from TV shows along the way—a shout-out to my history as a fanfiction writer. Hopefully they’ll be as fun as the book itself.
January 16, 2014
A Night At The Opera House
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
Years ago I shopped at a place called Excel Home Furnishings on the north side of the Noble County Courthouse square. I liked wandering around the second floor, because they’d installed enclosed bridges that allowed the furniture to be displayed not only in the original building, but in two other neighboring ones.
(I have no explanation for why I love exploring sprawling areas like that. It’s why I keep getting lost at the State Park … and the mall.)
In one of those buildings most of the upstairs was open, and there was a big raised area, like a stage. For someone who lived in a utility apartment at the time, I thought it was really cool.
It turned out to be even more cool when one of the employees showed me a normally closed off area, where we could see the outer walls and roof. There they were, plain as day: Charred wood and smoke stains. At one time in the distant past, he explained, the building had burned.
That was my introduction to the Albion Opera House.
Now the building is for sale, and there’s a push on to save it. Save it from what, you say? Well, my first guess would be parking lots. There’s not enough parking in downtown Albion, but if all the old brick buildings were knocked down and turned into pavement, there wouldn’t be much reason to park there anyway.
I think it should be saved, so my rich readers should contact Phyllis Herendeen at the Unique Boutique in Albion, or by e-mail at pjhere@ligtel.com.
What do you mean, I don’t have any rich readers?
I know what you’re thinking: “But Mark, you hate opera.”
True. But I like orchestras, which performed there, and I love movies, which were screened there. Other people like sports: Basketball games were once played in the Opera House. Suppers, musicals, dances … it was an armory during World War 2, and for a short time in the 1880’s it housed the Noble County Government. Maybe they even had operas there. Just ask Linda Shultz, who wrote a book about Albion’s history long before I did. (What, you thought I was original?)
But the reason I want to see the building saved dates not back to its construction before the 1880’s, but for something that happened to it in 1931 – something that should have ensured its destruction.
Considering the story I started with, I suppose no one is in suspense.
Consider not only the fire, but the times: It was January 16, 1931, when someone noticed the flames at about 11 p.m.
Only a year earlier the Albion Fire Department got their first motorized fire truck, a 1929 engine. When fire broke out in the large two story brick Opera House, and threatened to spread to other nearby structures, that was the first apparatus out of the firehouse two blocks away.
Second came a Ford pickup truck, on which had been mounted the chemical engine that was originally horse-drawn. The Ford also towed a 1910 era two wheeled cart, which had mounted on it 350 feet of hose. A second, rarely used reserve hose cart held 200 feet of hose, and was probably hauled to the scene by hand at this moment of crisis.
That was it.
Soon the chemical engine ran out of chemicals to pressurize water. Chief John F. Gatwood, his two Assistant Chiefs and eighteen volunteers were left with one fire engine, which could in a best case scenario supply two fire hoses. Did they call for help from other towns? Sure. But how long did it take other volunteers to go ten or more miles on 1931 roads, at nighttime in the middle of January?
In case you haven’t read Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights, I’m not going to spoil you on whether they managed to save the Albion Opera House. But I do think that the building is worth saving today.
Well, shoot.
Okay, forget the spoiler thing. The Noble County Democrat newspaper office on the first floor was saved, and by the first week of February contractors named Moore and Thomas started work on remodeling. Twenty-seven local businessmen each donated $100 to rebuild the second floor, putting in a brand new arched roof and a bigger stage. The place was open for business in two months.
So yeah, I think it’s worth saving: not only for the historical aspect, but because we already saved the thing once, doggone it. And while it’s going to take more than a hundred bucks apiece, I can’t help thinking an effort by local citizens to restore the place would be worth it.
Personally, I’d like to own the building myself. It would be cool to have a big open air apartment upstairs and maybe downstairs a little museum in front and my writing office in back. But I also think it would be cool to keep the bills I already have paid, so we’ll have to go to Plan B.
Does anyone have a Plan B?
Years ago I shopped at a place called Excel Home Furnishings on the north side of the Noble County Courthouse square. I liked wandering around the second floor, because they’d installed enclosed bridges that allowed the furniture to be displayed not only in the original building, but in two other neighboring ones.
(I have no explanation for why I love exploring sprawling areas like that. It’s why I keep getting lost at the State Park … and the mall.)
In one of those buildings most of the upstairs was open, and there was a big raised area, like a stage. For someone who lived in a utility apartment at the time, I thought it was really cool.
It turned out to be even more cool when one of the employees showed me a normally closed off area, where we could see the outer walls and roof. There they were, plain as day: Charred wood and smoke stains. At one time in the distant past, he explained, the building had burned.
That was my introduction to the Albion Opera House.
Now the building is for sale, and there’s a push on to save it. Save it from what, you say? Well, my first guess would be parking lots. There’s not enough parking in downtown Albion, but if all the old brick buildings were knocked down and turned into pavement, there wouldn’t be much reason to park there anyway.
I think it should be saved, so my rich readers should contact Phyllis Herendeen at the Unique Boutique in Albion, or by e-mail at pjhere@ligtel.com.
What do you mean, I don’t have any rich readers?
I know what you’re thinking: “But Mark, you hate opera.”
True. But I like orchestras, which performed there, and I love movies, which were screened there. Other people like sports: Basketball games were once played in the Opera House. Suppers, musicals, dances … it was an armory during World War 2, and for a short time in the 1880’s it housed the Noble County Government. Maybe they even had operas there. Just ask Linda Shultz, who wrote a book about Albion’s history long before I did. (What, you thought I was original?)
But the reason I want to see the building saved dates not back to its construction before the 1880’s, but for something that happened to it in 1931 – something that should have ensured its destruction.
Considering the story I started with, I suppose no one is in suspense.
Consider not only the fire, but the times: It was January 16, 1931, when someone noticed the flames at about 11 p.m.
Only a year earlier the Albion Fire Department got their first motorized fire truck, a 1929 engine. When fire broke out in the large two story brick Opera House, and threatened to spread to other nearby structures, that was the first apparatus out of the firehouse two blocks away.
Second came a Ford pickup truck, on which had been mounted the chemical engine that was originally horse-drawn. The Ford also towed a 1910 era two wheeled cart, which had mounted on it 350 feet of hose. A second, rarely used reserve hose cart held 200 feet of hose, and was probably hauled to the scene by hand at this moment of crisis.
That was it.
Soon the chemical engine ran out of chemicals to pressurize water. Chief John F. Gatwood, his two Assistant Chiefs and eighteen volunteers were left with one fire engine, which could in a best case scenario supply two fire hoses. Did they call for help from other towns? Sure. But how long did it take other volunteers to go ten or more miles on 1931 roads, at nighttime in the middle of January?
In case you haven’t read Smoky Days and Sleepless Nights, I’m not going to spoil you on whether they managed to save the Albion Opera House. But I do think that the building is worth saving today.
Well, shoot.
Okay, forget the spoiler thing. The Noble County Democrat newspaper office on the first floor was saved, and by the first week of February contractors named Moore and Thomas started work on remodeling. Twenty-seven local businessmen each donated $100 to rebuild the second floor, putting in a brand new arched roof and a bigger stage. The place was open for business in two months.
So yeah, I think it’s worth saving: not only for the historical aspect, but because we already saved the thing once, doggone it. And while it’s going to take more than a hundred bucks apiece, I can’t help thinking an effort by local citizens to restore the place would be worth it.
Personally, I’d like to own the building myself. It would be cool to have a big open air apartment upstairs and maybe downstairs a little museum in front and my writing office in back. But I also think it would be cool to keep the bills I already have paid, so we’ll have to go to Plan B.
Does anyone have a Plan B?
Getting the (written) word out
For writers wanting to sell their work, what kind of promotion/publicity/advertising/bragging works best? Good question.
I dunno.
It’s hard to get concrete evidence of anything working, but here’s something that I think counts. In the last few months I didn’t do much promotion, due to various personal issues, although of course I did keep writing. Storm Chaser, which came out in June, 2011, sold no books online in the last quarter. None. Nada. Zero. Under the Roman numbering system, I’d have vanished.
A couple of weeks ago, Storm Chaser was featured on The Fussy Librarian (www.thefussylibrarian.com), which gives a daily list of books in various genres. (You’ll have to check on the requirements for getting on the list; I believe the criteria has changed.)
So far in January I’ve made three sales of Storm Chaser, a book that’s two and a half years old. That would be a three hundred percent increase over the month before, if I’d sold one the month before. So far as I know, the only difference is getting the book listed on one website.
So there you go. Getting the word out there works; you just rarely know when, or what, or often how. Nobody said it was easy.
I dunno.
It’s hard to get concrete evidence of anything working, but here’s something that I think counts. In the last few months I didn’t do much promotion, due to various personal issues, although of course I did keep writing. Storm Chaser, which came out in June, 2011, sold no books online in the last quarter. None. Nada. Zero. Under the Roman numbering system, I’d have vanished.
A couple of weeks ago, Storm Chaser was featured on The Fussy Librarian (www.thefussylibrarian.com), which gives a daily list of books in various genres. (You’ll have to check on the requirements for getting on the list; I believe the criteria has changed.)
So far in January I’ve made three sales of Storm Chaser, a book that’s two and a half years old. That would be a three hundred percent increase over the month before, if I’d sold one the month before. So far as I know, the only difference is getting the book listed on one website.
So there you go. Getting the word out there works; you just rarely know when, or what, or often how. Nobody said it was easy.
January 11, 2014
New Year's Writin' Eve
I wondered about the best way to start the New Year. I rarely drink, and had no desire to see Miley Cyrus' Epiglottis on New Years Rockin' Eve. What I do want in 2014 is to get published again.
So three hours into the New Year, I sent my Radio Red manuscript to a publisher. That means all seven of my completed but unpublished manuscripts, four novels and three shorts stories, are out and about and seeing more of the world than I. What do I do next? Well, I have a few more stories that just need some polishing ...
I know what you're thinking: "You lazy sod, why didn't you send it three minutes into the New Year"? Well, my paranoia had me pouring over the query letter and synopsis for hours before I uploaded the manuscript and hit the send button. Besides, I have a morbid fascination with seeing how incapable the folks in Times Square are of finding and using a trash can.
So three hours into the New Year, I sent my Radio Red manuscript to a publisher. That means all seven of my completed but unpublished manuscripts, four novels and three shorts stories, are out and about and seeing more of the world than I. What do I do next? Well, I have a few more stories that just need some polishing ...
I know what you're thinking: "You lazy sod, why didn't you send it three minutes into the New Year"? Well, my paranoia had me pouring over the query letter and synopsis for hours before I uploaded the manuscript and hit the send button. Besides, I have a morbid fascination with seeing how incapable the folks in Times Square are of finding and using a trash can.
January 8, 2014
2014, The Year Of - Me. Well, why not?
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
I’ve been thinking about how the New Year should go. We all tend to think of that this time of year, don’t we? We all resolve to be healthier, thinner, better educated, more understanding … and we all hope some scientist will come up with a pill to do that without any actual effort.
A certain amount of laziness is human nature. It dates back to the caveman days, when we had to sit around and conserve energy during lean times. If you missed out on the mammoth hunt there was no government assistance; you went hungry.
As a result, the caveman got used to being inactive when not hunting, which is why he got so upset when the cavewoman wanted him to help decorate the cave. “Ah, can’t we just hire Ugg to do the drawings?” He would protest.
“Oh, sure – Ugg is always eager to decorate everyone else’s cave, but not his own. It’s a hole. Well, I guess if I wait for you we just can’t have a nice cave, can we?”
Where was I? Oh, yes – I originally was going to resolve to stop going off on tangents, but I got busy with other things and forgot. Instead, I propose to make this year … wait for it:
The Year of Me.
I’m not talking the generic, general, all six billion of us me. Here in America, it’s been a whole generation of me. Or at least it seems that way; it’s mostly just that the people who scream “Me, me!” get louder every year, while the young people we don’t hear from are busy working to improve themselves and help others. You know – the non-me people.
I’ve always felt a little guilty whenever something seems to be just handed to me. I’m not saying I’d turn it down, mind you. But this year, 2014, is going to be the year things come my way, the big year, the year all my previous work pays off.
Okay, probably not.
Here’s the thing: I’m not a numerologist. I don’t believe in the power of numbers or in astrology or any superstition, knock on wood. Although it is true that during bowling I try to influence the path of the ball by body motion and the power of thoughts.
Still, the number 14 holds special meaning to me. I was born on the 14th, joined the volunteer fire department on the 14th, and … well, that’s about it. I also got married on the 14th, but that was my first marriage, so I can’t exactly use the term “lucky number”.
In other words, it’s a not-big deal that I tend to treat as a big deal. I remember back when I turned 14 years old, thinking that was going to be my big year: I’d get the girl (any girl), my grades would improve with little effort on my part, home life would get easier, all bullies would vanish from my life, and someone would recognize the burgeoning genius of my writing.
Didn’t happen.
But like all pessimists who are secretly optimists, I hold onto any small thing that might indicate good times to come. So this year will be 2014, the year of Mark. It will hold a dozen or so fourteens over the months, and a whole month of 7, which is of course half of 14.
I have decided that this means I’ll have a big year on the publishing front. Sure, I could have predicted the normal things, like losing weight, getting healthier, trimming my home’s bushes for once – but we all know that’s not going to happen.
But I’ve already got a new novel coming out late next year, so the way I see it I’m on a roll. (Unless there’s a delay and it comes out in 2015 … no. No thinking that way.)
In addition to that book I have six different fiction projects – count ‘em, six – sent out to publishers right now. All of them are pretty good, according to my mom, and the dog seemed fascinated when I read them to him. Three are short stories, which if bought will probably come out in ’14, and let’s ignore the “if bought” part. One is a novel that went to an agent, and if that agent should take me on she would start shopping it to publishers, so … yeah, we wouldn’t see that for a while. The other two are novels that went to publishers, and if they decided to buy them today, chances are good they’d come out in … 2015.
Maybe I should do that older person birthday thing and declare 2015 to be a repeat of 2014 …
But that’s okay, because I also have some self-published products almost ready, and those don’t go through the normal publisher delay. So expect an announcement about what will be announced sometime early in the year.
That’s right; I just made an announcement that there will be an announcement. A pre-announcement announcement, if you will. Don’t judge me – that’s my wife’s job.
So 2014 will be the Year of Mark (trademark pending), and the Year of Mark will be all about writing. I hope. Or maybe it will be the year I announce a lot of writing that will come out in 2015, which I will then identify as the year of the post-Mark.
Maybe I should stick with diet and exercise.
I’ve been thinking about how the New Year should go. We all tend to think of that this time of year, don’t we? We all resolve to be healthier, thinner, better educated, more understanding … and we all hope some scientist will come up with a pill to do that without any actual effort.
A certain amount of laziness is human nature. It dates back to the caveman days, when we had to sit around and conserve energy during lean times. If you missed out on the mammoth hunt there was no government assistance; you went hungry.
As a result, the caveman got used to being inactive when not hunting, which is why he got so upset when the cavewoman wanted him to help decorate the cave. “Ah, can’t we just hire Ugg to do the drawings?” He would protest.
“Oh, sure – Ugg is always eager to decorate everyone else’s cave, but not his own. It’s a hole. Well, I guess if I wait for you we just can’t have a nice cave, can we?”
Where was I? Oh, yes – I originally was going to resolve to stop going off on tangents, but I got busy with other things and forgot. Instead, I propose to make this year … wait for it:
The Year of Me.
I’m not talking the generic, general, all six billion of us me. Here in America, it’s been a whole generation of me. Or at least it seems that way; it’s mostly just that the people who scream “Me, me!” get louder every year, while the young people we don’t hear from are busy working to improve themselves and help others. You know – the non-me people.
I’ve always felt a little guilty whenever something seems to be just handed to me. I’m not saying I’d turn it down, mind you. But this year, 2014, is going to be the year things come my way, the big year, the year all my previous work pays off.
Okay, probably not.
Here’s the thing: I’m not a numerologist. I don’t believe in the power of numbers or in astrology or any superstition, knock on wood. Although it is true that during bowling I try to influence the path of the ball by body motion and the power of thoughts.
Still, the number 14 holds special meaning to me. I was born on the 14th, joined the volunteer fire department on the 14th, and … well, that’s about it. I also got married on the 14th, but that was my first marriage, so I can’t exactly use the term “lucky number”.
In other words, it’s a not-big deal that I tend to treat as a big deal. I remember back when I turned 14 years old, thinking that was going to be my big year: I’d get the girl (any girl), my grades would improve with little effort on my part, home life would get easier, all bullies would vanish from my life, and someone would recognize the burgeoning genius of my writing.
Didn’t happen.
But like all pessimists who are secretly optimists, I hold onto any small thing that might indicate good times to come. So this year will be 2014, the year of Mark. It will hold a dozen or so fourteens over the months, and a whole month of 7, which is of course half of 14.
I have decided that this means I’ll have a big year on the publishing front. Sure, I could have predicted the normal things, like losing weight, getting healthier, trimming my home’s bushes for once – but we all know that’s not going to happen.
But I’ve already got a new novel coming out late next year, so the way I see it I’m on a roll. (Unless there’s a delay and it comes out in 2015 … no. No thinking that way.)
In addition to that book I have six different fiction projects – count ‘em, six – sent out to publishers right now. All of them are pretty good, according to my mom, and the dog seemed fascinated when I read them to him. Three are short stories, which if bought will probably come out in ’14, and let’s ignore the “if bought” part. One is a novel that went to an agent, and if that agent should take me on she would start shopping it to publishers, so … yeah, we wouldn’t see that for a while. The other two are novels that went to publishers, and if they decided to buy them today, chances are good they’d come out in … 2015.
Maybe I should do that older person birthday thing and declare 2015 to be a repeat of 2014 …
But that’s okay, because I also have some self-published products almost ready, and those don’t go through the normal publisher delay. So expect an announcement about what will be announced sometime early in the year.
That’s right; I just made an announcement that there will be an announcement. A pre-announcement announcement, if you will. Don’t judge me – that’s my wife’s job.
So 2014 will be the Year of Mark (trademark pending), and the Year of Mark will be all about writing. I hope. Or maybe it will be the year I announce a lot of writing that will come out in 2015, which I will then identify as the year of the post-Mark.
Maybe I should stick with diet and exercise.
January 1, 2014
Santa After Christmas
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
Santa Claus had a ritual, one he followed every year after he finished delivering gifts for all little boys and girls. It involved whiskey.
His main elf assistant, Evergreen Iciclepears, poured him two fingers, and started to walk away with the bottle. Santa snapped his fingers. “Keep ‘em coming, Iciclepears. I just delivered 1.6 billion presents.”
(Evergreen Iciclepears’ real name was Charles Anders. But Mrs. Claus, who was always sound asleep when Santa got home from his big business trip, had renamed all the elves to make them sound more festive. The Elves accepted this because North Pole work paid well and had great benefits – including dental – but privately they called her Cranberry Cuddlecane.)
Alcohol was not all of Santa’s routine, of course. After the reindeer were taken care of he went straight to his big easy chair, pulled off his boots, and stuck his aching tootsies in a tub of hot Epsom salt water.
Then he took three ibuprofen, which he always found waiting for him on a tray full of other items, brought by Nutmeg Sugarlights and placed right by his chair. (Her real name was Josephine Hendrickson.)
The other stuff including soothing eye drops, because even with the sleigh’s windshield that screaming wind tended to dry his eyes out. Then there was a cough drop, for similar reasons, and some antacid, because in the space of twenty-four hours he’d eaten approximately 450,000,000 pieces of candy and cookies.
Once he was settled, Forest Tinselstockings came in with the anti-static brush. (His name actually was Forrest – Forrest Gump, no relation. Since that Tom Hanks movie came out he kind of liked his new name.)
You see, Santa delivers all those presents by means of a space-time wormhole tesseract, a device given to him in 1032. At the time Santa, using his magical reindeer, could easily get around and deliver gifts to all the good children. Just the same, a strange man arrived at Santa’s home in the Forest of Burzee – literally inside his home, materializing in a small blue box and calling himself The Doctor.
The Doctor informed Santa that he’d someday need some time saving devices, and gave him a Bag of Holding (which proved to be bigger on the inside) as well as the tesseract. All he asked for in return was for Santa to make him a power tool he could use to open doors and make routine physics calculations with, but that would still fit in his pocket. The Doctor took his new
screwdriver and went on his way.
Within a few decades Santa realized he’d need those items. First of all, he just didn’t have the heart to give toys only to good kids, despite the protests of his Chief Naughty Judge, Toadstool Chocolatecake. Now out of a job, Toadstool moved south to England, where he fell upon hard times and took a servant job after changing back to his original name, Dobby.
Second, Santa could not predict the ability of the human race to … shall we say, expand. He originally served a population of a 250,000,000, which seems like a lot until you subtract adults and then divide by bad kids. The Viking kids almost never got presents, but up north they appreciated the coal.
So Santa used the devices, and as a result Forest – Forest Tinselstockins – had to use the anti-static brush every December 26th. It not only helped static, it also removed tachyon particles that became attached to Santa’s wool clothing and beard during the trip. If not for that treatment, at random intervals Santa would find himself flung to a very hot planet circling the star 40 Eridani A, where absolutely no one believed in Santa and his jolly nature was seen as quite illogical. Getting back to Earth was a pain.
My point is that Christmas was a very stressful time for Santa Claus, even more stressful than for anyone else. At least Santa had a team led by the trusted Merry Toffeebaubles to get the lights untangled and strung up. (Merry’s real name is Mary; she considers herself lucky, especially since her last name used to be Weirenkawoski.)
So he had his Jack Daniels, his over the counter meds, his foot bath, and his combing. He’d relax with a couple of glasses of the good stuff while listening to gentle, soothing songs sung by Blueberry Embercane (previously known as Elvis). Planning for next Christmas started on December 27th, so the relaxation time was very important.
Later he’d be checked over by Dr. Gingercane, who had a degree, maybe ironically, from The University of Hawaii. Santa always had various scratches, bruises, and the occasional burn, and dog bites weren’t out of the question. He hadn’t been seriously injured since Saddam Hussein tried to shoot him down in 1989, and that was just a little shrapnel.
“Merry Christmas, Santa!” said Evergreen Iciclepears after Santa had, shall we say, warmed up a bit. “Preliminary indications are that it went very well this year.”
“Well, I got back with all the reindeer,” Santa replied. “So yes – Merry Christmas, indeed. Is breakfast almost ready?”
“Oh, absolutely. Partridge Emberwine is cooking up all your favorites. So, do you have any New Year’s resolutions?”
Santa paused to think. “Well, back in 1914 I resolved not to give gifts to bad kids anymore, but I just couldn’t stick with it. In 1964 I resolved to lose weight, but the wife wouldn’t allow it. ‘The kids expect a fat Santa!’ she kept saying. Who could foresee this health craze? Now she wants me to get a Wii Fit.”
Leaning back, he sighed. “I guess I’ll just resolve to keep going … and maybe, someday, if they come to understand giving enough, more of the bad kids will become good kids.
“Now, let’s get to that breakfast – I’ve got my early massage scheduled.”
Santa Claus had a ritual, one he followed every year after he finished delivering gifts for all little boys and girls. It involved whiskey.
His main elf assistant, Evergreen Iciclepears, poured him two fingers, and started to walk away with the bottle. Santa snapped his fingers. “Keep ‘em coming, Iciclepears. I just delivered 1.6 billion presents.”
(Evergreen Iciclepears’ real name was Charles Anders. But Mrs. Claus, who was always sound asleep when Santa got home from his big business trip, had renamed all the elves to make them sound more festive. The Elves accepted this because North Pole work paid well and had great benefits – including dental – but privately they called her Cranberry Cuddlecane.)
Alcohol was not all of Santa’s routine, of course. After the reindeer were taken care of he went straight to his big easy chair, pulled off his boots, and stuck his aching tootsies in a tub of hot Epsom salt water.
Then he took three ibuprofen, which he always found waiting for him on a tray full of other items, brought by Nutmeg Sugarlights and placed right by his chair. (Her real name was Josephine Hendrickson.)
The other stuff including soothing eye drops, because even with the sleigh’s windshield that screaming wind tended to dry his eyes out. Then there was a cough drop, for similar reasons, and some antacid, because in the space of twenty-four hours he’d eaten approximately 450,000,000 pieces of candy and cookies.
Once he was settled, Forest Tinselstockings came in with the anti-static brush. (His name actually was Forrest – Forrest Gump, no relation. Since that Tom Hanks movie came out he kind of liked his new name.)
You see, Santa delivers all those presents by means of a space-time wormhole tesseract, a device given to him in 1032. At the time Santa, using his magical reindeer, could easily get around and deliver gifts to all the good children. Just the same, a strange man arrived at Santa’s home in the Forest of Burzee – literally inside his home, materializing in a small blue box and calling himself The Doctor.
The Doctor informed Santa that he’d someday need some time saving devices, and gave him a Bag of Holding (which proved to be bigger on the inside) as well as the tesseract. All he asked for in return was for Santa to make him a power tool he could use to open doors and make routine physics calculations with, but that would still fit in his pocket. The Doctor took his new
screwdriver and went on his way.
Within a few decades Santa realized he’d need those items. First of all, he just didn’t have the heart to give toys only to good kids, despite the protests of his Chief Naughty Judge, Toadstool Chocolatecake. Now out of a job, Toadstool moved south to England, where he fell upon hard times and took a servant job after changing back to his original name, Dobby.
Second, Santa could not predict the ability of the human race to … shall we say, expand. He originally served a population of a 250,000,000, which seems like a lot until you subtract adults and then divide by bad kids. The Viking kids almost never got presents, but up north they appreciated the coal.
So Santa used the devices, and as a result Forest – Forest Tinselstockins – had to use the anti-static brush every December 26th. It not only helped static, it also removed tachyon particles that became attached to Santa’s wool clothing and beard during the trip. If not for that treatment, at random intervals Santa would find himself flung to a very hot planet circling the star 40 Eridani A, where absolutely no one believed in Santa and his jolly nature was seen as quite illogical. Getting back to Earth was a pain.
My point is that Christmas was a very stressful time for Santa Claus, even more stressful than for anyone else. At least Santa had a team led by the trusted Merry Toffeebaubles to get the lights untangled and strung up. (Merry’s real name is Mary; she considers herself lucky, especially since her last name used to be Weirenkawoski.)
So he had his Jack Daniels, his over the counter meds, his foot bath, and his combing. He’d relax with a couple of glasses of the good stuff while listening to gentle, soothing songs sung by Blueberry Embercane (previously known as Elvis). Planning for next Christmas started on December 27th, so the relaxation time was very important.
Later he’d be checked over by Dr. Gingercane, who had a degree, maybe ironically, from The University of Hawaii. Santa always had various scratches, bruises, and the occasional burn, and dog bites weren’t out of the question. He hadn’t been seriously injured since Saddam Hussein tried to shoot him down in 1989, and that was just a little shrapnel.
“Merry Christmas, Santa!” said Evergreen Iciclepears after Santa had, shall we say, warmed up a bit. “Preliminary indications are that it went very well this year.”
“Well, I got back with all the reindeer,” Santa replied. “So yes – Merry Christmas, indeed. Is breakfast almost ready?”
“Oh, absolutely. Partridge Emberwine is cooking up all your favorites. So, do you have any New Year’s resolutions?”
Santa paused to think. “Well, back in 1914 I resolved not to give gifts to bad kids anymore, but I just couldn’t stick with it. In 1964 I resolved to lose weight, but the wife wouldn’t allow it. ‘The kids expect a fat Santa!’ she kept saying. Who could foresee this health craze? Now she wants me to get a Wii Fit.”
Leaning back, he sighed. “I guess I’ll just resolve to keep going … and maybe, someday, if they come to understand giving enough, more of the bad kids will become good kids.
“Now, let’s get to that breakfast – I’ve got my early massage scheduled.”
December 24, 2013
Changing Rhyme Schemes, or: The not so perfect Christmas poem
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
T ’was the week before Christmas,
and I have to admit:
I wasn’t feeling the spirit;
not one little bit.
The stockings weren’t hung,
I didn’t know where they were!
This weather’s not festive.
It just makes me say “brrr”.
The world’s done crazy,
bad guys in control
and the good guys are lazy,
so we’re left in a hole
that would make the Grinch happy
with his heart way too tiny.
He’d think that this world
would be his kind of shiny.
Now, I’m not a Scrooge,
so don’t be mistaken;
I’ve just been so busy
my spirit was taken.
There hadn’t been time
to put up a tree
and entertain the family
(when it falls on me).
To save electricity
we hadn’t strung lights
to bring us some comfort
on those long winter nights.
My wife, deep in finals
for her last month in school,
and me writing fiction
like a publishing fool.
It seemed the holidays
would miss her and me
and even the dog
(who had wanted a tree).
So one night I came in
cursing the cold
and the ice, and the snow,
and all things in that mold.
But as I reached the door
feeling achy and slow
the oddest thing happened:
I was pelted with snow.
And then, with a curse
that would make Chef Ramsey proud
a man fell off the roof,
and his heavy bulk ploughed
right into the bush
I’d forgotten to trim,
which was now for the best;
or he’d have broken limbs.
He wore a red coat,
now all grungy and stained.
Twigs filled his beard.
His expression, quite pained
showed that his night
hadn’t gone very well.
“No, it hasn’t,” he said,
“In fact, it’s been heck.”
(Hey, he’s Santa. Santa doesn’t cuss.)
“A fighter from China tried to shoot the sleigh down;
The NSA’s bugging my base on the ground.
Over Syria I tracked three SAM missiles, inbound,
and I lost my left boot to a mad basset hound.
“To half the kids, thinking of me makes them sneer,
Alec Baldwin demanded some imported beer.
A hungry hunter took down half my reindeer,
and some ACLU moron tried to ban me, this year.
“My elves lost their insurance to that government goof,
my sleigh fell apart; seems it’s not so rustproof.
My big toe got smashed by Blitzen’s big hoof,
and to top it all off – now I fell off your roof!”
I could see the man’s point;
Things weren’t going so hot.
The way things are going,
he might have been shot
flying over some big city
where people are armed,
and don’t have much pity
for who might be harmed.
And care must be taken
when entering a house
where he might be mistaken
for some burgling louse.
But after a moment he smiled at me.
“It’s not really as bad as I make it to be.
Things always come up that you just can’t foresee,
Like when I got too close to that big honkin’ tree
that you really should trim, don’t you agree?
I wrecked when I swerved; think I fractured my knee.
And the sleigh’s now a wreck – see all the debris?
Think I’ll trade the thing in for a brand new Grand Prix.”
“Are you insane?” I asked him, I thought quite nicely.
“Sorry if I’m seeming a little too feisty,
but you almost got killed, and your sleigh is broke down,
and I think I saw Rudolph on a light pole downtown.”
“Don’t worry about Rudolph,” he said, with a grin.
“He’ll just hang out, relax, and kick back some gin.
I shouldn’t let him drink and lead teams, I suppose –
but how do you think he lights up that red nose?”
“How is this not so bad?” I asked when he paused.
“My insurance won’t cover a wrecked Santa Claus.
And those deer are destroying my roof with their paws.
Don’t you think you were breaking some low flying laws?”
“Don’t fret about that,” He replied with that grin.
I never leave traces – now, where have you been?
Christmas magic will fix this, and also my shin.
so stop being moody – up with that chin!”
“It’s been a rough year,” I tried to explain.
With writing included, I’ve been working two jobs.
Our health has been iffy, and there’s been some pain,
And my wife’s college finals have given her probs.”
(lems. Problems. What do you want from me? I write prose.)
Shaking his head, St. Nick gave me a look.
“You had a bad year? Why, you published a book!
You have a great wife, and a home, and a dog,
and hundreds of followers reading your blog.”
(Well, dozens.)
“So you had a bad day! Suck it up now, and think
of the ways in which your life doesn’t stink.
Your family all loves you, and they’re not too bad.
No felons on death row, no deadbeat dad.
You’ve water to drink, and your cupboards are stocked,
and you haven’t been charged by the feds that you’ve mocked.
As for the rest, yes, we sometimes get sad,
but Christmas is more than having and had.
It’s about faith, and caring, and having some hope,
and doing for others, and learning to cope
with the cold, and the snow, and occasional dope.
So be of good cheer, and that kind of trope!”
It’s possible my heart grew three sizes that night.
Well, probably not, but I must say the sight
of St. Nick tooling off in his brand new Grand Prix
Gave me hope for us all … and especially me.
So my wish to you is more of the proof
that I picked up that night when he fell off my roof.
I hope that you see metaphorical dawn –
And don’t have a sleigh mess to clean off of your lawn.
T ’was the week before Christmas,
and I have to admit:
I wasn’t feeling the spirit;
not one little bit.
The stockings weren’t hung,
I didn’t know where they were!
This weather’s not festive.
It just makes me say “brrr”.
The world’s done crazy,
bad guys in control
and the good guys are lazy,
so we’re left in a hole
that would make the Grinch happy
with his heart way too tiny.
He’d think that this world
would be his kind of shiny.
Now, I’m not a Scrooge,
so don’t be mistaken;
I’ve just been so busy
my spirit was taken.
There hadn’t been time
to put up a tree
and entertain the family
(when it falls on me).
To save electricity
we hadn’t strung lights
to bring us some comfort
on those long winter nights.
My wife, deep in finals
for her last month in school,
and me writing fiction
like a publishing fool.
It seemed the holidays
would miss her and me
and even the dog
(who had wanted a tree).
So one night I came in
cursing the cold
and the ice, and the snow,
and all things in that mold.
But as I reached the door
feeling achy and slow
the oddest thing happened:
I was pelted with snow.
And then, with a curse
that would make Chef Ramsey proud
a man fell off the roof,
and his heavy bulk ploughed
right into the bush
I’d forgotten to trim,
which was now for the best;
or he’d have broken limbs.
He wore a red coat,
now all grungy and stained.
Twigs filled his beard.
His expression, quite pained
showed that his night
hadn’t gone very well.
“No, it hasn’t,” he said,
“In fact, it’s been heck.”
(Hey, he’s Santa. Santa doesn’t cuss.)
“A fighter from China tried to shoot the sleigh down;
The NSA’s bugging my base on the ground.
Over Syria I tracked three SAM missiles, inbound,
and I lost my left boot to a mad basset hound.
“To half the kids, thinking of me makes them sneer,
Alec Baldwin demanded some imported beer.
A hungry hunter took down half my reindeer,
and some ACLU moron tried to ban me, this year.
“My elves lost their insurance to that government goof,
my sleigh fell apart; seems it’s not so rustproof.
My big toe got smashed by Blitzen’s big hoof,
and to top it all off – now I fell off your roof!”
I could see the man’s point;
Things weren’t going so hot.
The way things are going,
he might have been shot
flying over some big city
where people are armed,
and don’t have much pity
for who might be harmed.
And care must be taken
when entering a house
where he might be mistaken
for some burgling louse.
But after a moment he smiled at me.
“It’s not really as bad as I make it to be.
Things always come up that you just can’t foresee,
Like when I got too close to that big honkin’ tree
that you really should trim, don’t you agree?
I wrecked when I swerved; think I fractured my knee.
And the sleigh’s now a wreck – see all the debris?
Think I’ll trade the thing in for a brand new Grand Prix.”
“Are you insane?” I asked him, I thought quite nicely.
“Sorry if I’m seeming a little too feisty,
but you almost got killed, and your sleigh is broke down,
and I think I saw Rudolph on a light pole downtown.”
“Don’t worry about Rudolph,” he said, with a grin.
“He’ll just hang out, relax, and kick back some gin.
I shouldn’t let him drink and lead teams, I suppose –
but how do you think he lights up that red nose?”
“How is this not so bad?” I asked when he paused.
“My insurance won’t cover a wrecked Santa Claus.
And those deer are destroying my roof with their paws.
Don’t you think you were breaking some low flying laws?”
“Don’t fret about that,” He replied with that grin.
I never leave traces – now, where have you been?
Christmas magic will fix this, and also my shin.
so stop being moody – up with that chin!”
“It’s been a rough year,” I tried to explain.
With writing included, I’ve been working two jobs.
Our health has been iffy, and there’s been some pain,
And my wife’s college finals have given her probs.”
(lems. Problems. What do you want from me? I write prose.)
Shaking his head, St. Nick gave me a look.
“You had a bad year? Why, you published a book!
You have a great wife, and a home, and a dog,
and hundreds of followers reading your blog.”
(Well, dozens.)
“So you had a bad day! Suck it up now, and think
of the ways in which your life doesn’t stink.
Your family all loves you, and they’re not too bad.
No felons on death row, no deadbeat dad.
You’ve water to drink, and your cupboards are stocked,
and you haven’t been charged by the feds that you’ve mocked.
As for the rest, yes, we sometimes get sad,
but Christmas is more than having and had.
It’s about faith, and caring, and having some hope,
and doing for others, and learning to cope
with the cold, and the snow, and occasional dope.
So be of good cheer, and that kind of trope!”
It’s possible my heart grew three sizes that night.
Well, probably not, but I must say the sight
of St. Nick tooling off in his brand new Grand Prix
Gave me hope for us all … and especially me.
So my wish to you is more of the proof
that I picked up that night when he fell off my roof.
I hope that you see metaphorical dawn –
And don’t have a sleigh mess to clean off of your lawn.
December 20, 2013
Christmas Around The World: They Think We're Odd
SLIGHTLY OFF THE MARK
Ojenyunyat Sungwiyadeson honungradon nagwutut. Ojenyunyat osrasay!
No, I didn’t position my fingers wrong on the keyboard. It doesn’t quite have the flow of “Merry Christmas”, but I’m told that’s the way the Iroquois say it. Turns out most Native American tribes don’t have a term for “Happy Thanksgiving”.
Just as they have different ways of saying it, people around the world have different ways of celebrating the holiday season. Just to give you an idea, I looked up some of the ways Christmas is celebrated around the world.
For instance, South Africans often have an open-air lunch for Christmas. It’s summer down there, after all.
Try an open-air meal here in the Midwest for Christmas and you’ll spend the rest of the holidays getting thawed out.
And yet South Africans don’t hang bikinis from their nonexistent fireplaces; just like up here, children hang stockings, probably from the air conditioner.
In Ghana, Christmas season coincides with the cocoa harvest, so for them it’s a time of profit while they also make the rest of the world very happy.
Like here they have a big meal, with includes such items as okra soup and a yam paste, called fufu. Fruitcake doesn’t sound so silly now, does it?
On the subject of food, Alaskan holiday treats involve maple-frosted doughnuts and – yum! – piruk, also known as fish pie. After eating the pie some adventurous young Alaskans indulge in the dangerous sport of breathing on polar bears.
In Australia, Santa often arrives on a surfboard or a boat. I mean along the coast, of course. Australians have a Christmas Bush, a native plant with little red flowered leaves, which knowing that place is probably poisonous. They have a Christmas pudding with a treat baked into it, and if you find it you get good luck. Back during the gold rushes Down Under, those treats often consisted of gold nuggets. Break your teeth on those and … you don’t mind.
In Austria, the beginning of Christmas is marked by the feast of St. Nicholas. Nick would go around asking children for a list of their good and bad deeds … while accompanied by the devil. I can’t help thinking the kids took that pretty seriously.
Not to be outdone, Belgium has two Santa Claus ... Claus’s … Clauses … Santas. One is St. Niklaas, the other Pere Noel. They often get into WWF style cage fights to determine which gets to drive the sleigh.
No, actually Pere Noel goes to those who speak the Walloon language, which is kind of like the Balloon language only not so inflated. He goes first on December 4th, on what amounts to a welfare visit, then returns on December 6th to bring presents to good kids, and twigs to bad one. What happens to bad kids who want twigs, I don’t know.
St. Niklaas goes to the part of the country called “Flemish”, where they speak Dutch instead of French. It’s kind of like the difference between speakers in Massachusetts and South Carolina, in that they live in the same country but can’t understand each other. But St. Nicholas isn’t there to celebrate Jesus’ birth – he delivers presents on December 6th, his own birthday. I guess Christmas itself must be pretty anticlimactic.
On the other side of that, in Egypt and Ethiopia Christmas is celebrated on January 7th. I’d imagine they’re pretty darned sick of Christmas songs by then.
In Brazil, they believe Papai Noel comes from Greenland, which as we all know is white. But when he comes down to South America he wears silk clothing – remember, summer down there. The surfer shorts and Hawaiian shirts are a bit jarring, and more than once he’s come close to getting his sandal-clad feet smashed by reindeer hooves.
Bulgarians make Christmas wishes around the fire while eating blood sausage. You heard that right.
Canadian celebrations are more or less similar to those in the US, except Canadians traditionally sit around practicing their politeness and comparing frostbite scars.
However, in Nova Scotia there are wandering hoards of masked mummers (also a movie starring Brendon Fraser), who go around making noise and daring people to guess who they are. On the other side of the continent, Eskimos (who are no longer called that) have a big winter festival called Sinck tuck, in which they dance around a fire made of sleighs, Santa outfits, and pretty much anything else that will burn.
In Costa Rica, models of the stable where Jesus was born are so big they fill an entire room. They would then have room for the animals, which I’m sure would make it more realistic but also a nightmare for the cleanup crew.
The Czech Republic is where the good King Wenceslas, famed in song and story (well, one song), comes from. His Christian beliefs and overall goodness infuriated his mother, who apparently thought he wasn’t bloodthirsty enough (maybe she should have fed him blood sausages?) so her other son murdered him on the church steps. You won’t find this in modern day Christmas TV specials.
On Christmas Eve in Denmark, parents secretly decorate the tree with homemade wood and straw baubles, which you can now order with free delivery from Amazon.com.
For Christmas in England, it traditionally rains.
In France kids leave their wooden shoes, called sabots, in the hearth to be filled. Sometimes they’re left too close to the flames and catch fire. This leaves Pere Noel scorched and believing it was done on purpose, an act that to this day is called sabotage.
And finally, Christmas in the Bethlehem is … kind of traditional.
However you celebrate Christmas, make it a fun one and, as they say in the Philippines: Maligayang Pasko at Manigong Bagong Taon!
I’ll bet their holiday banners are bigger than ours.
Ojenyunyat Sungwiyadeson honungradon nagwutut. Ojenyunyat osrasay!
No, I didn’t position my fingers wrong on the keyboard. It doesn’t quite have the flow of “Merry Christmas”, but I’m told that’s the way the Iroquois say it. Turns out most Native American tribes don’t have a term for “Happy Thanksgiving”.
Just as they have different ways of saying it, people around the world have different ways of celebrating the holiday season. Just to give you an idea, I looked up some of the ways Christmas is celebrated around the world.
For instance, South Africans often have an open-air lunch for Christmas. It’s summer down there, after all.
Try an open-air meal here in the Midwest for Christmas and you’ll spend the rest of the holidays getting thawed out.
And yet South Africans don’t hang bikinis from their nonexistent fireplaces; just like up here, children hang stockings, probably from the air conditioner.
In Ghana, Christmas season coincides with the cocoa harvest, so for them it’s a time of profit while they also make the rest of the world very happy.
Like here they have a big meal, with includes such items as okra soup and a yam paste, called fufu. Fruitcake doesn’t sound so silly now, does it?
On the subject of food, Alaskan holiday treats involve maple-frosted doughnuts and – yum! – piruk, also known as fish pie. After eating the pie some adventurous young Alaskans indulge in the dangerous sport of breathing on polar bears.
In Australia, Santa often arrives on a surfboard or a boat. I mean along the coast, of course. Australians have a Christmas Bush, a native plant with little red flowered leaves, which knowing that place is probably poisonous. They have a Christmas pudding with a treat baked into it, and if you find it you get good luck. Back during the gold rushes Down Under, those treats often consisted of gold nuggets. Break your teeth on those and … you don’t mind.
In Austria, the beginning of Christmas is marked by the feast of St. Nicholas. Nick would go around asking children for a list of their good and bad deeds … while accompanied by the devil. I can’t help thinking the kids took that pretty seriously.
Not to be outdone, Belgium has two Santa Claus ... Claus’s … Clauses … Santas. One is St. Niklaas, the other Pere Noel. They often get into WWF style cage fights to determine which gets to drive the sleigh.
No, actually Pere Noel goes to those who speak the Walloon language, which is kind of like the Balloon language only not so inflated. He goes first on December 4th, on what amounts to a welfare visit, then returns on December 6th to bring presents to good kids, and twigs to bad one. What happens to bad kids who want twigs, I don’t know.
St. Niklaas goes to the part of the country called “Flemish”, where they speak Dutch instead of French. It’s kind of like the difference between speakers in Massachusetts and South Carolina, in that they live in the same country but can’t understand each other. But St. Nicholas isn’t there to celebrate Jesus’ birth – he delivers presents on December 6th, his own birthday. I guess Christmas itself must be pretty anticlimactic.
On the other side of that, in Egypt and Ethiopia Christmas is celebrated on January 7th. I’d imagine they’re pretty darned sick of Christmas songs by then.
In Brazil, they believe Papai Noel comes from Greenland, which as we all know is white. But when he comes down to South America he wears silk clothing – remember, summer down there. The surfer shorts and Hawaiian shirts are a bit jarring, and more than once he’s come close to getting his sandal-clad feet smashed by reindeer hooves.
Bulgarians make Christmas wishes around the fire while eating blood sausage. You heard that right.
Canadian celebrations are more or less similar to those in the US, except Canadians traditionally sit around practicing their politeness and comparing frostbite scars.
However, in Nova Scotia there are wandering hoards of masked mummers (also a movie starring Brendon Fraser), who go around making noise and daring people to guess who they are. On the other side of the continent, Eskimos (who are no longer called that) have a big winter festival called Sinck tuck, in which they dance around a fire made of sleighs, Santa outfits, and pretty much anything else that will burn.
In Costa Rica, models of the stable where Jesus was born are so big they fill an entire room. They would then have room for the animals, which I’m sure would make it more realistic but also a nightmare for the cleanup crew.
The Czech Republic is where the good King Wenceslas, famed in song and story (well, one song), comes from. His Christian beliefs and overall goodness infuriated his mother, who apparently thought he wasn’t bloodthirsty enough (maybe she should have fed him blood sausages?) so her other son murdered him on the church steps. You won’t find this in modern day Christmas TV specials.
On Christmas Eve in Denmark, parents secretly decorate the tree with homemade wood and straw baubles, which you can now order with free delivery from Amazon.com.
For Christmas in England, it traditionally rains.
In France kids leave their wooden shoes, called sabots, in the hearth to be filled. Sometimes they’re left too close to the flames and catch fire. This leaves Pere Noel scorched and believing it was done on purpose, an act that to this day is called sabotage.
And finally, Christmas in the Bethlehem is … kind of traditional.
However you celebrate Christmas, make it a fun one and, as they say in the Philippines: Maligayang Pasko at Manigong Bagong Taon!
I’ll bet their holiday banners are bigger than ours.
