Diane Stringam Tolley's Blog: On the Border, page 140

TeeTOTALed

The truth behind the beard...Husby and I come from a long line of designated drivers.Generations of teetotalers.It works for us . . .Husby also spends the month leading up to Christmas dressed in red and sounding jolly.These two facts go together.Perhaps I should explain . . .Santa lives at the North Pole.Where it’s cold.His wearing of red velvet and fur is out of necessity.Here in Edmonton, Alberta, though it gets bone-snappingly cold outside, Santa’s helpers – like my husby - inevitably end up sitting in a warm room. Surrounded by hundreds of overheated people. And in very close contact with those people’s kiddies.Let’s put it this way: The red suit absorbs more than ambiance.Now I know what you’re thinking. Simply throw it into the nearest washing machine!And that would be a great idea.Except for the fur.Fur and/or water and/or detergent don’t do well together. Just FYI.And sometimes there is a long drought between dry-cleanings.Sigh.Now the need for some sort of odor-eater is most apparent just after Santa finishes a ‘gig’, when Santa and Mrs. are stuck in a warm car together for the entire ride home.Sometimes it is a long ride.On one such ride, our daughter (also closely closeted with us) mentioned a solution that the theatre costume authorities here in Edmonton use. They call it ‘French Dry-Cleaning’.1 part Vodka and 1 part Water. Mix the two and spray all nasty odours away. "And it works!" she said, holding her nose. "It de-scents the unwashable!"There was only one problem.Our household did not have any vodka. (See above.)Being people of the moment, we stopped in to the nearest liquor store and Santa girded up his suspenders and headed inside.A quick question to the proprietor and he was walking down an aisle and procuring the cheapest bottle of vodka in the store.Happily, he joined the queue at the checkout.Let me describe: Man in an overcoat, paying for two bottles of whiskey.Another, younger man, buying a couple of cases of beer.A woman purchasing wine.And Santa, clutching his bottle of vodka.He looked up.And realized that all eyes were on him.Smiling, rather self-consciously, he said, “I know how this looks . . .”The man at the front of the queue promptly responded, “No. Looks pretty natural to me!”And another, "Hey, Mister, I've got no problem with it!"Ha! Ever wondered how Santa makes it through the holidays?You heard it here.

Santa's Fourth Report Card

Santa and I are in the midst of 'Santa and Mrs.' season.
So I've decided to re-share Santa's reports from past years. Just because these experiences are soooo precious! Last year...Santa's Report Card: 2016Guest Post by Santa Claus (aka: Kris Kringle)
Kris and Rebecca Kringle
Photo by: Kimberley Laaksa Photography.As has become our tradition, Mrs. Santa and I would like to share with you the joys and delights we receive from visiting the world when it is at its cheeriest and most positive. There truly is a wonderful Spirit which accompanies the Christmas season.My Beloved and I have been recreating Santa and Mrs. Rebecca Claus (there – you heard her first name here first!) for some years now, and each year it is a special treat. We sincerely hope it also is for the people with whom we have the pleasure of visiting.This year, for about the last five or six weeks, we have visited some 25 organized events and several spontaneous ones (disorganized events?), and they have each and every one been special to us.  We have sat over 1000 little ones on our collective knees this year, over 200 not-so-little ones, and we have had the great pleasure of visiting with some 450 seniors, some of whom were not able to sit on our knees, so we bent ours to them.  As it should be.  And our knees are still working!  That in itself is a great Christmas blessing!We were privileged to visit a Seniors Lodge to which we have been invited for several years.  My failing memory notwithstanding (as my Beloved would say, ‘ooh, good word!) many faces are familiar – though I still struggle to put a name to most faces. I enjoy the smiles elicited when I flatter the ladies with the thought that they have seen what, now? 29 or 30 Christmases?? And the men always seem to enjoy my un-pretended envy of their beautiful white hair (mine still takes a little dye and paint to remove the last of the colour).  After visiting with these dear folks for a moment or two, we ask them not what they would like for Christmas but rather “what is your Christmas wish – for you, for your loved ones, or for the world?”Many—having endured the ravages of war themselves—many wish for the proverbial Peace on Earth; the Christmas-time phrase that many of us toss off without really thinking about its meaning. These folks are sincere.  In their age and disability and declining health caused by a lifetime of caring and struggle, they truly are burdened with the weight of war and strife in the world. We assure them we will do what we can to end the strife. We assure them that the secret to doing so is in working with the children of our little corner of the world. Chidlren who will need to know joy in their life, that they may be armed to stand up to the evils they will inevitably encounter.Amongst the senior crowd this year was a dear little old woman, 93 years old, assisted by a wheelchair due to an aged, bent body that could no longer keep up with her sharp mind.  I knelt down to greet her, took her hand in mine and asked, “What would you wish for this Christmas, Estelle? (We love the beautiful ‘old-fashioned’ names that we encounter!). Estelle looked up at me as best she could, caught my eye and said: “A kiss from Santa Claus”.I know that I hesitated, noticeably, with this request, as the possible implications of fulfilling her request ran through my mind. I must add here that I am most grateful to have Mrs. Santa at my side, who does a magnificent job of monitoring ‘players’ of all ages, even the 93-year-old ones. (A tangent to follow, if you will indulge me for a moment: I have, over the years, received some, shall we say, ‘interesting requests’ to intervene in the love-lives of teens and twenty-somethings. The most interesting and strident one this year was a request from Jackie, who asked me to stop off at Dave’s house in San Diego to let him know that Jackie was expecting him to bring back a ring – ‘a big one’ -- this Christmas.  “Have you taken this up with Dave yet, or will this be a surprise when I tell him?” “Oh, Santa,” said Jackie, “He knows who he is! And he knows alllllllabout the rock I want!” I assured Jackie that I would deliver a reminder to Dave. ‘Nuff said. Merry Christmas to Jackie and best wishes to Dave!)Estelle was still waiting for her kiss from Santa, and while my mind was still on pause with the request I asked her “Why would you want a kiss from this whiskered old face?” Estelle paused a moment also, and with a tear forming in the corner of her eye she breathed quietly, “I have not had a kiss from anyone for over 25 years . . . . “.   Estelle’s grip on my gloved hand tightened, but this was not the cause of a tear welling in my own eye.  As I returned the firmness of the hand grip, Santa and Mrs. Santa both granted a Christmas wish that, in the grand scheme of things, was easily granted and that cost nothing but a bit of the ‘milk of human kindness’, as Dickens so succinctly summarized it in the words of Jacob Marley. While delighted to grant so simple and meaningful a request, we were saddened by the tale of neglect that had sparked Estelle’s Christmas wish.I will end this 2016 Report Card with the story of Isabella, a gangly and quiet-spoken 10-year-old who had been on Santa’s knee, in turn with some 30 other children at a lively community-league Christmas event. Once all of the children had had their turn and had gone off to unwrap their gifts, two young ladies hovered nearby. One was a delightful 5-year-old who, with the full approval of her mother, had suspended a dozen or so candy canes in the neck of her crimson Christmas dress, delivering them to various and sundry at will.  Mrs. Santa and I were the grateful recipients of, I think, more than half of her deliveries.  Isabella hovered nearby until the candy deliveries were mostly completed, and until I noticed her there, again.  I waved my hand for her to ‘come over’, which she did, slowly.  “Would you like to sit on my knee again, Isabella?” (I actually remembered her name this time!).  She nodded, and I hoisted her up onto my lap, feeling that maybe she had forgotten to tell me something during her first visit. I tried to strike up a conversation with her.“What grade are you in at school, Isabella?”“Five.”“Do you like school?”“Yeah.”“What’s your favourite subject?”A shrug of the shoulders.“Do you like sports?”“No.”“Do you like to draw, make art?”“Yeah.”With each question, Isabella had snuggled closer and more closely into Santa’s warm furry suit.  After several more attempts at eliciting some information, I finally figured out that Isabella was sending me the only message that she needed to hear back from me.“Would you like Santa to be quiet now?”She snuggled right in close and leaned her head on my shoulder. “Yeah.”I wrapped my arms around her and granted two wishes, one of which was unspoken. I realized that Santa’s blathering on, trying to learn something about this lovely little lady, was masking the unspoken request she was making, which was simply to be loved.Isabella spent some twenty minutes on my lap that night, encircled by my arms.  A priceless moment in time we shall never forget and shall always cherish.My Christmas wish for 2017?  That each and every one of you will experience the milk of human kindness in the coming weeks and months and years.  God bless, and Merry Christmas to all!With our love to you at Christmas 2016,Santa and Rebecca Claus

My Shopping Pocket

Not exactly. But close...‘Twas Christmas. My Mom had us all in the car.It was time for the shopping. We had to go far,To Lethbridge ‘most seventy miles away.We talked and we laughed—just enjoying the day.
My brothers and sister had done this before,Gone shopping for Christmas with Mom at the stores.But for four-year-old me, this time was the first,I was way beyond eager, nigh ready to burst.
But when she had parked and I looked from the car,From the ranch to the city was more than just far,I had somehow moved on to a whole other sphere,And I stared at the thousands of folks that were here.
I was used to my world, I’ll admit it. It’s true.I was here, I must shop. What else could I do?All my siblings had spread—in the crowd, disappeared, I slowly climbed out, tried to swallow my fear.
Mother picked up my brother and gave me a grin,As I stood there so anxious on trembling limbs.“Let’s go shop for Christmas, Diane,” to me, said.And I nodded and shivered and wished I was dead.
But then she said something that filled me with hope,As she showed me the pocket attached to her coat,“Now you hold on tight and we’ll wander along,And no one can hurt you and nothing go wrong.”

So I did and I found that my mother was right,Holding tight to her pocket, I let go of my fright.I discovered that shopping for Christmas was fun!If I held Mother’s pocket till the shopping was done.
Years have passed, I forgot ‘pocket shopping’ with Mom,Till one day, with my kids, we had errands to run,And with my arms full with the baby and all,We started our tour of the stores in the mall.
A tug on my coat and I looked down to see,A toddler’s hand clutch my pocket. And me.I knew how she felt—the security. Calm.I’d felt it myself with a pocket. And Mom. 

Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we three besought,To try to make the week begin,With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?So Jenny and Delores, we,Now post our poems for you to see.
And when you’ve read what we have brought,Did we help? Or did we not . . .
And next week, from my friends, and me, Our 'Christmas Wish' for all to see!

Santa's Third Report Card

Santa and I are in the midst of 'Santa and Mrs.' season.
So I've decided to re-share Santa's reports from past years. Just because these experiences are soooo precious! Santa's Report Card 2015 A guest post by Kris Kringle

I told you last year that I thought Kris Kringle had a great thing going, and that I fully intended on encroaching on his territory.  And I have to admit that I do it willfully and intentionally, and, to some degree, selfishly.  I find that  I  get soooo much out of being Santa Claus, I often feel like I am taking more out than I am putting into the real purpose of Christmas.  Notwithstanding my own misgivings, I still maintain it is the best job going.My Beloved and I have been recreating Santa and Mrs. Rebecca Claus (there – you heard her first name here first!) for some years now, and each year it is a special treat. We sincerely hope it also is for the people with whom we have the pleasure of visiting.This year, for about the last five or six weeks, we have visited some 25 organized events and several spontaneous ones (disorganized events?), and they have each and every one been special to us.  We have sat over 1000 little ones on our collective knee this year, over 200 not-so-little ones, and we have had the great pleasure of visiting with some 450 seniors (who were not able to sit on our knees, so we bent ours to them.  As it should be.  And our knees are still working!  That in itself is a great Christmas blessing!).During Christmas-time 2015, my beloved Rebecca and I have been fêted by young Irish Dancers, world-class Figure Skaters, Madrigal Singers, Farmers’ Marketers, school children galore, hockey players, patients in the Sick Kids’ hospital, and many dental patients–all of whom knew the song “All I Want For Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” (and most of whom asked me ‘Please, PLEASE don’t sing it to me, Santa, you sound like my Dad!’.)Amongst the middle-aged crowd were a myriad of parents who, without exception, wished only the best for their children and families.  It was good for Santa to see and hear that.One very special young man, in his mid-20s, had never before encountered our western incarnation of the Santa Claus legend.  He was a large fellow, who asked if he could hug me; of course I replied it was expected!  He put his burly arms around me and literally lifted me off the floor – not an easy task in itself when you think of Santa’s size–all the while giving me the best bear-hug I have ever had!  After I regained my ability to breathe and speak, I asked a bit about himself.  Turns out he had only been in Canada two weeks, a Syrian refugee who after many months had found a new home with some wonderful caring people.  When I asked him what he would like for Christmas, he wished for peace and a new home for all of his family and friends still enmeshed in the war and strife in his homeland.  He wished me a Merry Christmas before I could even mutter the words to him.On the campus of the local University, we had been invited to the home of a professor and his family who were hosting a Christmas party for his family and about 20 or so international graduate students studying with the professor–students from Iran, Turkey, India, Syria, Japan, Israel, China, and a couple of other far-flung lands.  To my knowledge none were Christian, but each insisted on visiting with Santa and Rebecca to learn more about what must have been strange western Christmas customs.  We spent more time that we probably should have with these bright young people. Each of them sported a huge smile and returned wishes of peace and success and prosperity–for us, for their hosts in a new country, and for their families and friends back home.  Not one of them hesitated wishing me a Merry Christmas, and I received with great gladness many wishes for a happy Hannukah, a good Ramadan, and several other upcoming holy-day festivals that I am still studying up on.  I will celebrate each of them with glee and gladness for new-found friends.The most moving experience for Santa this year was a delightful young 9-year-old Irish dancer–Natalie.  She came to my knee with a little less than her usual smile or her usual brightness for the season.  When I got around to asking what she would like for Christmas, I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear: “I would like the bombing to stop.”  This was just a couple of days after the terrible events in Paris, and I could tell little Natalie was carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders that night.  “Yes, Natalie, I would like the bombing to stop too. [Long pause].  I will see what I can do about that, okay? In the meantime, is there something that you would like for Christmas, something just for you?”Natalie was not to be deterred.  “No, Santa, I just want the bombing to stop.  Is there something I can do to make it stop?”Another long pause.  But then the words came into Santa’s mind.“Yes, Natalie, there is something you can do to make the bombing stop.  In fact, there are two things you can do.  First, you can keep smiling!  You have such a beautiful smile!  Share your smile with everyone in the world, because that tells everyone that you lovethem—and the bombing will stop.  And second, dear Natalie, just keep on dancing!  I promise you that if you keep on dancing, and show the world that you love everyone like I know you do, the bombing will stop, one day.”I had a great Christmas in 2015, my friends, thanks mostly to the Natalies of the world.  I hope and wish that yours has been a wonderful one too.Peace on Earth, Good Will to Women, Men and Children, Always!With much love,Santa and Rebecca Claus From all of us to all of you:
a very Merry Christmas!

Santa's Second Report Card

Santa and I are in the midst of 'Santa and Mrs.' season.
So I've decided to re-share Santa's reports from past years. Just because these experiences are soooo precious! Santa's Report Card 2014 Santa’s life is not an easy one.  Oh, there is plenty of the joy and happiness and ho-ho-ho laughter, all those things that Santa stands for in the world.  But in today’s enlightened, social-media-friendly world where information can be passed seemingly faster than the speed of light, Santa faces several conundrums that are not easily dealt with.Case in point: Santa’s 3-year old granddaughter, Linnea, whom we most affectionately call Linnie, she of the firm mind and undaunted spirit.  Linnie, along with her 12 cousins of the Santa and Mrs. Santa lineage, had observed in our Claus career last year that Grandma and Grandpa would occasionally put on the red velvet suits and go out and about as the happy couple.  The questions were inevitable, so Grandma Claus and I decided to be proactive and tell them all the truth before the questions started – that Grandma and Grandpa were only some of Santa’s ‘helpers’, because the real Santa needed lots of helpers to visit all the little boys and girls in the world.  The plan worked well – last year.So this year, little Linnie was present when Santa emerged from his ‘dressing room’ – and Linnie’s face lit up like the star on top of the Christmas tree.“Grandpa, you’re Santa Claus, aren’t you.”  No question – more of a declaration.I started in with my pre-arranged explanation.  “Well, Linnie, Grandpa is not Santa, I’m only one of his . . . “Linnie interrupted, fists on hips and with a stern look on her face which said that she wasn’t putting up with any more of Grandpa’s stories.  “NO, Grandpa!”  She said, with a look that would put any man to cringing in his fur-topped boots.  “You ARE Santa!” And she stormed away, having put both Grandpa and Santa Claus in their rightful place.I guess I’ll just have to live with it.Santa survived that encounter with a sure-minded 3-year old to enjoy something in the neighbourhood of about seven hundred children on his knee this Christmas season.  I am pleased to report that my knees survived, along with the rest of me.  (It was only due to the TLC that Mrs. Santa brings along on every visit). I have spent my life studying people, and the Santa believers are the most interesting people I have ever encountered.  About 75% of the under 2 crowd will NOT go anywhere near Santa, suffering from what social scientists call ‘coulrophobia’: fear of clowns.  I understand this affliction perfectly.  Whenever I look in the mirror, I wonder that anyone would want to come near.  We always reassure the parents of the coulrophobic little ones that “s/he’ll feel better about Santa next year.”At the other end of the spectrum are the late pre-teen crowd, who have discovered the truth about Santa and who are reluctant to sit on my knee and participate in what they feel is an elaborate deception, somehow meant to make them seem silly.  Many of them will still come, reluctantly, and I try to reassure them that they are not silly, rather that they are only helping to bring some happiness into a world that desperately needs more of it.
The middle grouping, from about age 3-10, are the smiling, happy crowd for whom Santa exists fully and benevolently.  And this is my report card for 2014:  the world of my future will be in good hands, because today there are THOUSANDS of young ones who have a smile that will not stop.  From 5-year old Arrabella whose smile was so infectious I still smile to myself, filled with the love of happy child, when I think of it; to 10-year old Jake, afflicted with Down’s, whose smile told me that even with his challenges in life he was as happy a young man as he could be.This smile phenomenon tells Santa much, without a word being spoken.  It tells me that today’s parents are in fact bringing their children up in happiness, teaching them, raising them with love and a hope for a better future.  It tells me that in a world that appears on all fronts to be going to pot, that there are still plenty of smiles out there amongst what I can only conclude to be the quiet – and happy – majority.  Yes, of course there is much to be done, much sadness to banish – but there are plenty of smiles out there with which to fight the good fight.It tells me there is hope for the future.  And that any time now, when my daughter puts me in a seniors’ rest home as she often threatens to do when I tell groaner jokes or silly stories, that there will be plenty of smiling people around to look after me, when I need it the most.I’m glad to have had every one of those 700-odd smiles this year.  I hereby dub 2014 the Year of the Smile!Merry Christmas to all, and to all a very merry 2015!Keep Smiling!!

Coming Home

“Turn up the stereo, Hun! Let’s bake up a storm! Then we can go get our tree and really fill this place with good smells. Mmmmm . . . Baking and pine!”“Okay, Sis.” Obediently, I hit the button on the remote and strains of ‘Christmas in Killarney’ in the Crosby’s magical voice drifted through the room.Now you have to know that, normally, this song can totally get my holiday gears running. Within seconds I’ve been known to be dancing along to the tune and kicking up my heels.So to speak.But, let’s face it. This year was . . . different.Oh, the season had arrived, right on time. As always.And all through the neighbourhood, lights and assorted decorations had appeared, magically bedecking otherwise unremarkable homes and making them . . . magical.Nope. The difference this year was me.And my sister, Norma.Or rather, the absence of my sister, Norma.For any of you who have been following our story, you know that, in typical I’m-Norma-and-I-suffer-from-a-complete-lack-of-forethought fashion, my elder sister had gone to the ‘other side’. For a visit.And by the other side, I mean the OTHER side.Oh, I have no doubt that she is still living. She just isn’t doing it in the same room—or on the same plane—as I am. You who know Norma also know that last isn’t unusual. The ‘same plane’ thing. But now the plane she is on isn’t visible to the naked eye.Or any other eye for that matter.Moving on . . .I hear from her often. A little too often in fact.In the living room when I’m attempting to meet the needs of Reggie, her certifiably mad macaw. (In my defense, he has never really taken a like to me. The feeling’s mutual.)In the kitchen when I’m trying, once again, to make something edible out of one of her recipes. (Again, I will cite justifiable confusion here. Her writing is illegible and her instructions . . . well, the word ‘nutty’ comes to mind.)In the bathroom when I’m . . . powdering my nose.On the stairway when I’m vacuuming. (Now that’s a story!)In fact, she seems to pop up (in a manner of speaking) at the most inconvenient times.But I’m finding that now, as Christmas approaches, I’m . . . missing her. Her physical presence. The goofy things she does—appearing in the doorway carrying who-knows-what and completely oblivious to why she’s doing so.Finding her atop a ladder, a new addition to the ‘I’ve-quite-lost-my-mind’ contingent.Toting suitcases.I sat down as this last thought struck me. She was toting a suitcase the last time I saw her. I turned to look through the front room into the hallway. Right there. She had been pulling it . . . and talking . . .I sighed and got back to my feet. Better to keep on moving. I picked up the recipe I had set out before my sister’s voice told me to turn on the stereo. ‘Swedish Meatballs’. A family favourite since there was a family.“Norma,” I said, pointing at one of the ingredients. “Is this a pinch of pepper? Or a pound?”“Have you never made anything?!” my sister’s exasperated voice came from somewhere near the corner of the ceiling above the stove.I shrugged. “You know I don’t cook. I explore the freezer.” I set the recipe down and turned toward the door. “I tell you what. I’ll go over to Costco. They have it all. And I won’t have to do anything more than open and reheat!”“Pah!”I sat down again and folded my arms. “Well I don’t know what else to do!” I shouted at the corner.“I’m over here.”I swiveled my head. Sure enough, the voice now emanated from the small patch of peeling paint in that corner of the room. “Stop doing that! I’m getting whiplash!”Norma laughed. “You can’t get whiplash from turning your head from side to side. If that was so, tennis audiences would be in a lot of trouble.”I rolled my eyes and reached once more for the recipe. “I’m just so . . . lost, Sis.” A tear blotched the ink on the card, effectively erasing the oven temperature and baking times. “I . . . miss you.”A hand gripped my shoulder and I spun around.
Use Your Words is a challenge issued by Karen of Baking in a Tornado.Each of her followers submit a series of words which are then re-distributed among the group.One doesn’t know what words one will get or who they will be from.It’s fun!My words this month?addition ~ stereo ~ bake ~ pine ~ freezerThey were submitted by: http://www.southernbellecharm.com         Thank you, my friend!    Got a minute?See what the others have crafted!
Baking in a TornadoCognitive ScriptThe Blogging 911The Bergham ChroniclesSouthern Belle CharmBookworm in the KitchenPart-time Working Hockey MomTaylorLifeClimaxed             

Santa's First Report Card

Santa and I are in the midst of 'Santa and Mrs.' season.
So I've decided to re-share Santa's reports from past years. Just because these experiences are soooo precious! Santa's Report Card 2013A guest post by my Husby.
Or 'Santa' as he is so affectionately known . . .

Being married to a writer like my Beloved Diane is a fascinating, fun experience.  We never are bored: there is always a plethora of pedantic words to explore; a new phrase (noun) to, well, phrase (verb); a new bit of Grammar to enforce (especially on Grampar); or a new pun to at which to giggle, like the groaner just inflicted upon you.
One of the fun bits of language-exploration in which we engage every so often is exploring Collective Nouns – those words that describe a group of something or other, usually animals.
A Pride of lions.  A Pod of whales.  A Flock of sheep.  And a Flock of birds.  A Herd of cattle.
One of the most interesting collective nouns is a Murder of Crows.  Now who is it that gets to decide these things, hmmm?  I’m not objecting to calling a bunch of crows a “murder” (because that’s usually what I want to do to them when they sit in the tree outside my bedroom window at four in the morning on what is potentially a beautiful summer day and awaken me to the cacophonous symphony of collective cawing, but in this instance “murder” becomes a very active verb rather than a collective noun) – but why not a Caw of Crows?
Over the years we have invented a few collective nouns of our own.  They haven’t made it into the Oxford English Dictionary yet, but we’re working on it.
 Examples:
A group of two or more five-year-old boys is known as a Chaos of Boys.
A group of more than one teenager of either gender should definitely be known as an Idiot of Teens.
A group of mature women becomes, justifiably, a Flash of Ladies.
Any two men trying to fix something mechanical about which they know nothing is called a Mistake of Men.  (When they can’t fix it, they turn into a Grump of Men).
A bunch of bearded old white-haired guys that should, once again justifiably, be called a Santa of Grandpas.
And so it is, unilaterally claiming the privilege of creating collective nouns, that I offer you my final report card of the special experiences of one Santa and Mrs. Santa for the year 2013.
My Beloved Mrs. Santa and I had the privilege this Christmas season of visiting some thirteen different Christmas functions.  Each of the thirteen was a special experience – you read about some of the more tender ones here.
Since that time, one stuck out in our minds as being especially fun and moving.
We had been invited to a day-care facility containing about 120 children – what we would have called, collectively, a Crown of Children.  Early in the proceedings Santa placed, in turn, each of five five-year-old girls on his knee and had his special visit with them.  Two were named Jenna, then a Katie, a Courtney, and a McKenna, and they were all in the same class and obviously close friends.  Santa inquired of each if she was a Princess, and they all acknowledged that status without hesitation.  Here was Santa, in the midst of a Slipper of Princesses.  (He wasn’t complaining, then or now).  The Princesses didn’t want to leave, not any of the Slipper of them, and the teachers were trying very hard to get individual pictures with each of the other children with Santa and Mrs. Santa, without being picture-bombed by one of the Princesses.  They kept coming back, as often as they could get away with it – and each return brought more hugs and snuggles and words of love and appreciation.
And questions about reindeer.
As is Santa’s wont, he likes to joke and gently tease the kids, and the Princesses became so familiar with it that this became the game every time the Slipper returned – growing and growing with each return.  Each smile and laugh seemed to make them want to stay, more and longer, square in the picture frame, despite the entreaties of the Exasperation of Teachers. And the laughing and the joking and the jolly good time and the countless hugs, the loving and the smiling with the Slipper of Princesses, touched our hearts, deeply.
What a wonderful Christmas gift!
But when does a Slipper of Princesses grow too big to fit the glass slipper?
When they become a Giggle of Girls.
Merry Christmas, everyone.  May you all enjoy the Giggles of joy and happiness and the Chaos of the season.
See you again next year.

An Ending?

“There was a time, dear Mom,” said he.“When I no longer fit your knee.And one day, when you picked me up.You set me down, said, ‘That’s enough!’You never picked me up again.”His statement filled my heart with pain.Cause he was right, that son of mine,(Who, in his socks, stands six-foot nine.)There was a time I set him down,I groaned, and then, perhaps, I frowned.Said, “Son you’re getting way too big,And you don’t qual'fy as a ‘twig’. Your poor old Momma just can’t lift,For it will give my back short shrift.”An era ended on that day,The day I sent my son to playWithout his ‘pickmeup’ cuddle time,That, for us both, was so sublime.Instead he got a kiss and hug.And on my heart, a little tug,Then, I looked back into the past,And thought of things that just don’t last,How precious are your memories,When kids grow too big for your knee.But know, before you shed a tear,For my son’s young and baby years,That though we had an ‘ending’ there,‘Twas nothing that I could not bear.For as an era waves. Departs.Another era’s set to start. And then he gave us grandkids . . .
Karen, whom we all hold dear,Issues a task 12 times a year,A poem based upon a theme.We beat our brains, we cry and scream,But nothing can be done about,Cause Karen has a lot of clout!(The truth about the poems thereof?We really do it out of love!)

And who has joined me here today?Why, all my friends! Join us and play!
Karen of Baking In A Tornado: From the End to the Beginning Dawn of Cognitive Script: TheMeaning of the End Jules of The Bergham Chronicles Name of Poem: La Fin Lydia of Cluttered Genius Name of Poem: The End is Here Jenn Sparkly Poetic Weirdo Name of Poem: Endings, The NewBeginnings

The Architect

One of the most beautiful Christmas presents I've ever seen.Created by my son, Mark, for his wife, Barb . . .First, the poem:

The BuilderIf you’ll ask any builder whatIt takes to raise a wall –They’ll say, “A firm foundationWill help them to stand tall.
“Some days the effort seems in vain,Stones crack, or break, or fall,Some days it might seem there's beenNo progress made at all.
“But nothing great was ever builtWithin a single day,Press on, endure, and what is builtWill never fade away.
“And bit by bit the building growsFrom one stone to the next,And many things might come aboutThat you did not expect.
“It takes so many years to buildA house of wood and stone,The daily toil and strife and hurtSeems worth it when it’s done.
“Though 50 years to build, and then500 it may stand,The building is a monumentTo the builder’s blessed hand.”
Note: They're not finished yet,But someday they'll be masterpieces!
Then, the pictures: Architect: Barb Tolley
Structures: Megan: Erected 2003
Kyra: Erected 2005
Jarom: Erected 2009
Leah : Erected 2012
Emma: Erected 2017 (To be added)

Describe the most touching gift you've ever seen!
This is the BIG ONE!
And I need your help . . .
Daughter of Ishmael is up for the big award: Book of the year!
I need your vote!
It's simple and REALLY effective.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
http://whitneyawards.com/nominate/

Family Favourites

Me.
Drawn by my sweet DIL. In about 30 seconds . . .I cannot blame another soul, I did it on my own,The po’try Monday theme, I mean. (My fate, I do bemoan.)My ‘Happiest Family Memory’ shouldn’t be a task complex,But how to choose a single one, now that, did me, perplex.
Was it Mom and Bobby Cow and me? I barely did survive!Or climbing up the TV mast? I’m glad to be alive!Or times spent eating Mama’s food, I was in Heaven then.And when I travelled with my dad. I’d like to go again!
My brothers, sisters, uncles, aunts, and days spent on the ranch,Too numerous to just sort through! It’s like an avalanche!Riding pigs and fleeing chickens, flying ‘cross the range,Sunk in mud up to my knees? There’s nothing I would change!
And here there is another group, my kids and their kids, too.Now how am I supposed to choose? There really aren’t a few!With special days and holidays and every day between,And all of our activities, from crazy to serene.
Sooo,You know what I am going to do? I won’t decide this now,I’m sure you would not want to read a book now anyhow.So, I’ll say this, I love these tales! And they, I will recount,Though taken all in all my friends, to a lot, they do amount.
Past or present, future, too. You’ll find them all right here.In city or in country and in places far or near.Each one a little slice of life, each one a story, too,My favourite family memories are each one I share with you!

Mondays do get knocked a lot,With poetry, we three besought,To try to make the week begin,With gentle thoughts--perhaps a grin?So Jenny and Delores, we,Now post our poems for you to see.
And when you’ve read what we have brought,Did we help? Or did we not . . .
And next week, from my friends, and me, A Christmas (or holiday) Memory!


This is the BIG ONE!
And I need your help . . .
Daughter of Ishmael is up for the big award: Book of the year!
I need your vote!
It's simple and REALLY effective.
Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!
http://whitneyawards.com/nominate/