Christmas and the wonder of it all

This is the week of Christmas and like a sponge dropped into a bucket of water and left over night, we have all been saturated with the holiday spirit. We have ‘Felix Navidad’ playing in our heads nonstop while we inhale Christmas with every breath. We consume platters of rich foods and the elastic in our underwear stretches tighter.

Our City is decorated with green and red ornaments hanging from lamp posts wrapped around with small white lights. Store fronts and windows are decorated with green plastic boughs while soft window lights beckon a person to come in from the cold and lay down some plastic. It’s Christ’s birthday—with great sales.

I was walking downtown one afternoon admiring the decorations that created a wonderful Christmas spirit. I became so overwhelmed with the joy of giving that I stopped in a men’s store and bought a beautiful shirt and tie. Just for me.

I’m like that sometime—self centered. I blame this on my upbringing because society accepts that kind of shuck and jive excuse and I moved on wondering if a Deli down the road had some fresh doughnuts. They did and I bought a dozen and ate about five while walking to my car. Before arriving home for dinner I ate two more---the result of having bad parents.

To make up for my parents mistakes I took my wife to a nice dinner at one of our fine restaurants. I believe Statesville should advertise our local restaurants more than we do. I have yet to eat at one that is not world class cuisine. I spent two weeks in New Orleans one time and gained 9.77 pounds and temporarily went on cholesterol medication. I know what I’m talking about.

At the restaurant I introduced my wife to the idea of ordering Anything You Want No Matter What It Does To Your Waist I’m Here For You Baby and we both devoured schools of shrimp and herds of beef. We then ordered an apple tart the size of a golf cart tire. When the check came I had visions of me and Bernie Madoff (the Ponzi Meister) sharing a room in the poor house with a straw floor, one rickety table and two empty rice bowls while snow drifted through the bars in the window and water dripped dripped dripped somewhere close by.

Earlier in the week the wife and I went to a drive through nativity scene with real people wearing robes and sandals. I’ve known the lady playing Mary for years and did not realize that she painted her toe nails fire engine red. The cold forced one wise man to wear Nikes but the point was well made. There is more to this life than our selfish motives and gains. Jesus loved us so much He gave up a great life with important angels in a gated community and had pieces of sharp iron pounded through his hands and feet so we could have hope and salvation.

Children stare in wonder at the lights and listen as we adults tell them the magic that can happen on Christmas. We put them to bed with a kiss and we whisper about reindeer on roof tops then we go downstairs with big watery eyes. We wish they’d never have to grow up and have to deal with a phone company--- or pancreatic cancer.

The Nativity story and children nudge me inside, my attitude starts to change and I begin to see Christmas like a child does—a wonder. We selfish types with bad upbringing need this time of year to help keep us in line. Merry Christmas!

A Christmas Carol-- what happened afterwards

And so the Christmas spirit took root deep in Mr. Ebenezer Scrooge’s heart and after the Cratchit household had eaten, he called a surgeon friend of his and arranged to get Tiny Tim’s wimpy leg fixed. Scrooge also booked himself into a spa; got his eyebrows and hair trimmed, lost 20 pounds and he and Cratchit (now Bob) started a goose-of-the-month club and pretty soon they went global. They also invested in run down areas of the city by turning old factories into condo’s for artists and political activists then sold at huge profits. Nice.

Scrooge married his 23 year old blond masseuse, traveled abroad and became a philanthropist which really irritated Bob who felt that people should work for what they get. Giving people money only taught them to be lazy and then they go to seed. Bob would point to Tiny Tim as an example. Since the kid got his leg fixed he wore his hair in a Mohawk, dyed it pink, sold his crutch to buy an XBox and sat around playing video games all day. Bob went on an anti-depressant ( Happidaze, 20 mg ) to deal with parental frustration.

When children came around selling cookies for their school and nervously went through their polite pitch to sell, Bob would glare at them and yell “Buzz off!” and slam the door in their horrified little faces. “ Bah! Handouts!” he would mutter and pour himself a glass of 20 year old Scotch.

Bob and Mrs. Cratchit built on the lake at a place called Cratchit’s Cove in a gated community. Bob came home one day to find Mrs. Cratchit in tears. She threw a meat pie at him, barely missed. “I’m sick of cooking porridge and pies all day.” She said,” I’m tired of being called Mrs. Cratchit by everybody including you. I’m a human being with feelings. My name is Vicki. We never go anywhere and I want to go to Myrtle Beach for a weekend. Is that asking too much from this relationship Bob?”

So Bob took Vicki to Myrtle Beach and they really had a nice time, learned to shag and shared a plate of spaghetti, even kissing on the last noodle like those dogs do in Disney’s “The Lady and the Tramp”. Later they made passionate love—one and half times, watched some TV and fell asleep. At midnight Bob awoke and went for a walk on the beach. While walking his Blackberry buzzed --- a text from some Spirit solicitor, “3 SPIRITS 2 CU MNDA”.

“Puhleeze!” thought Bob, “Enough already.” So he texted back, “NO 2BZEE!!!”
Nevertheless three spirits showed up at the office on Monday, jolly fellows with Brooklyn accents and prop chains and locks, spirits who seemed to be short on subject matter and long on office jokes. They also mentioned morals, ethics and greed just before they left.

Suddenly Bob Cratchit awoke and looked around. It had all been a dream. He was in the Hair of the Dog tavern and it was 1884. Bob had been retired for years, drank heavily and lived alone. A young man at the bar by the name of Mac or Mark “Twine” or maybe it was “Twain” approached Bob and tried to sell him the rights to a story about an American kid’s travels down the Mississippi river. “Not interested,” said Bob taking a big swig of ale then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “but maybe the newspaper will print it. Yea, you might even get your own column.” And he laughed so hard he fell off his bar stool.

Jack Daniels kept me from Jim Beam and Johnnie Walker

The man handed the bottle of amber colored whiskey over to me.

“Here. Want some?” he said. I was twelve years old.

I grew up on a farm in eastern North Carolina during the 60’s and 70’s when tobacco was the cash king. In those days everything from food to school buildings, churches and highways were made possible by tobacco. By the age of nine I was working in the tobacco fields as a “trucker”.

A “trucker” was the best job of all because you got to drive the tractor from the fields to the barns pulling trailers loaded with big green tobacco leaves. Tobacco was hot and dirty work in 95+ degree weather with humidity so thick you fought for every breath. Truckers hung out with the “primers”-- men who pulled each leaf of tobacco from the stalk by hand. As a farm boy I spent most of my summers with these men who discussed at great length the subjects of sex and drinking. By the time I was ten years old there was nothing I had not heard about human reproduction and the bottle. One of these men was a tenant that lived on our farm and he was like a big brother to me.

He was a tall muscular black man named Jack Daniels-- just like the whiskey and everyone would kid him about his name. Jack never could afford to buy his namesake drink so instead he bought cheap liquor every pay day.

Jack didn’t treat me like a kid—he made me work like a man. When we topped and suckered tobacco Jack set the pace with no mercy.

I followed Jack around the farm like a puppy and he taught me to shoot a .22 caliber rifle before I was suppose to, taught me how to smoke cigarettes and to change the water pump in a 440 Plymouth engine. By eleven years of age I could blow perfect smoke rings and adjust the timing on anything that had cylinders.

On this particular day during lunch break Jack was enjoying nips from a bottle of whiskey he had brought to the field. In the field everyone shared mason jars of water so it seemed natural when Jack offered me a drink from the bottle. The white label had a picture of a black crow walking across it.

So here I was, taking the bottle from his hand.

I was thirsty and took two big gulps like it was iced tea. Jack’s eyes went wide with alarm and he reached out to stop me and yelled “No! Not like that Joey! Just a little bit!”

But it was too late.

My eyes crossed! My belly, throat and all organs were hot and getting hotter. I couldn’t breathe! I dropped the bottle and went to my hands and knees trying to find fresh air—had to be some somewhere. The other primers started heehawing while Jack pounded me on the back laughing, “It’ll be alright Joey boy—breathe!”

I suddenly knew why preachers said don’t drink liquor--don’t even look at it. I had gone to Hell from the inside out! I saw small points of light and wondered if my brain had exploded on the inside. My mouth tasted like diesel fuel and I promised myself that if I lived I would never put whiskey in my mouth again!

I lived-- barely.

High school and college are tempting years for a young man and though people tried-- I could never be tempted by liquor. I am one of the few people that can honestly say that Jack Daniels kept me away from Jim Beam and Johnnie Walker!

Winter and hot flashes can freeze a man

Winter is a time of testing in North Carolina. The skies seem to stay dark-- like God redecorated and ordered a gun metal gray theme. We bundle up and listen to the wind outside shrill against the eaves and hope there is enough salt pork and flour to see us through to the spring.

Lucky me, I married Louise-- Warrior Queen of the North. My wife has recently become as hot natured as a boiling cauldron. Icicles hang from the kitchen cabinets, the dog is frozen in place with one paw pointed up towards the thermostat and she says, “Is it just me or is it hot in here?” She steps over a penguin to lower the temperature---again. Outside it’s so cold squirrels are throwing themselves on electric fences.

I do not argue with the Queen. I go outside in 21 degree weather and walk around a bit without a coat and when I return back inside I feel warmer. There is cold and there is less cold. Sometimes you just need perspective.

Luckily I grew up on a farm in eastern North Carolina where you accepted winter the way you accept your looks---with resignation. Nothing you can do about it, really.

There was no TV weather forecasting for people on the farm, just a sudden sense of doom and old people saying their bones ached while we inventoried the jars of canned beans, corn and okra. As far as meat they said that God would provide. A family of 10 would be reduced to a group of 8 by spring and everyone would appear well fed--- there were never legal inquiries.

Winter on our hog farm was intense and gave you a shot of determination. Can you survive? Yes, if you really want to.

So with your jaw set you trudge outside to do chores at 6:00 in the morning while the air still has the sharp bite of the cold night and the sun has yet to rise and give you hope. My job was to take a hammer to the water troughs and break what had frozen over night so the hogs could drink. The big swine would stand in the unheated shelters looking at me. I remember one very gentlemanly Birkshire boar hog, his eyes staring at me with icicles hanging from his snout. His eyes seem to say “Kill me now. Please”. I swung the hammer and hit the trough of ice instead and you could just see the disappointment on his face.

My father thrived on adversity and winter was his special challenge. If he could not see your breath while you worked outside then he called the whole thing off until the temperature dropped a bit more. He would put on long johns, two pairs of pants, a heavy flannel shirt, winter coat, gloves, a hat and then go outside to supervise my work. He would stand bundled up and watch me clean pens, repair broken gates and slats with my hands numb from the cold and say “Winters just don’t get cold like they used to”.

Days of old fashion farming, cows with names like Clarabell and beloved old mule teams are a thing of the past. So, like our parents who reminded us that they walked ten miles to school in the snow and 20 miles back, I had to tell this story.

I’m sitting here freezing; trying to write this column while my wife wonders if we should take the quilts off the bed. Menopause is a mystery I intend to ask God about first thing when I see Him. But right now, I’m thinking of crawling in our freezer to keep warm.

A mystery solved while I slept

Lately the weather has been what some would call a “real winter”. We’ve had lots of rain, low temperatures and now, plenty of snow. The white stuff has stayed around long enough to become boring-- like company that drops in unannounced and spends the whole afternoon with you. One begins to wish for change and relief.

The up side is that my sleep has really improved. There is nothing more resting than climbing into bed on a bitter cold winter night with a good book and let your mind forget the tribulations of work and stress. Beneath a warm blanket, flannel sheets and a quilt I read about a brilliant quadriplegic detective who is called upon by the President of the United States to find out who is killing off members of the United Nations. World peace hangs in the balance and there I am-- in my pajamas and reading glasses growing drowsy. I fall asleep and dream about a quadriplegic killer that is dispatching unwanted house guests.

All of this sleep energizes me and the weather stokes a desire to invite family over for dinner to ease us all through the season. Winter fare is fried meats, stews or soups and we sit around the table with several conversations going on simultaneously. You’d think we were French. The subject d’jour is the newest member of the tribe.

Her name is Juliet and every time I see her I claim holding rights. She’s about the size of a large football and sometimes I intercept her has her mother comes through the door. With Juliet in my arms I do a touchdown in the nearest chair.

Recently we had a gathering of the clan over for pork chops, sweet potatoes, green beans and dinner rolls. At the end of the meal the tribe was picking at pork bones and planning a hunt for the Wooly Mammoth. I decided to take Juliet away from the bone gnawing Neanderthals and give her some culture time. That would be time with just me.

I took her to the living room and sat on the couch and proceeded to tell her about the fellow that made her name famous, Shakespeare. I told her that he was a pretty good writer and that she will one day read O. Henry, Hemmingway and that God loves her very much and that she is so beautiful. I told her she was a princess and would have many friends in her life and to remember that her grandfather will kill the first boy that tries to date her.

Her little hand was wrapped around my forefinger and I decided to tell her that I was working on an idea for a book. She looked at me and those big round eyes squinted shut and her face contorted into a grimace ---then she passed gas. I guess the book idea needs some work.

The minutes drifted by, the heavy meal kicked in and I grew quiet and Juliet’s little eyelids slowly closed. I dozed off —my headed tilted back with my face turned upward and my mouth open.

I suddenly awoke and saw that everyone was in the room. My daughter-in-law held a cell phone picture about a foot from my face that was taken while I was asleep. Everyone was laughing and doing imitations of me asleep and used their fingers to show drool. You don’t forget moments like that.

Ever wondered what you look like asleep? Well, now I know. Just like that a mystery is solved on a winter evening with a loving family. I bet it’s already on the internet.

Life is unfair but the trash has to be taken out

Jon and Kate Gosselin of “Jon and Kate plus 8” have experienced nothing that has not happened to thousands of other couples—they got married, had kids, threw up their hands and called the lawyers. However the Gosselins pulled down big bucks for that mess.

The rest of us mop the kitchen floor, get the kids to school and make sure the dog has water --all without the big bucks. The righteous suffer and Gosselinites prosper. Life is not fair, we all know this.

I grew up in a house with only one bathroom and two sisters and so I know something about unfairness and suffering. Most mornings I needed some alone time but the bathroom door would inevitably be closed. I would bang on the door and Mother would tell me that was rude, to wait my turn as I hopped from one foot to the other trying to avoid sudden relief. Mornings at our house could be tense.

One day Mother tried Socialism. She called us into the kitchen and pointed out that we all had five minutes each for only one bathroom; the bathroom belongs to the people, not an individual. Her eyes were wide and crazed and she waved a big spatula in the air adding that we would all learn to love one another even if it killed us!

You push through childhood and yearn for the day people will treat you properly. You try to find it in college through academic performances like chemistry class as you explain how an equation showing the oxidation of sodium with air can be mathematically balanced-- hoping to impress lovely Cathy who sits beside you in class. She has auburn hair, long legs, brown eyes and full lips. This makes her the most wanted woman in the universe. After class one day you ask her out to the homecoming football game. She tells you “I like you as a friend but no, I’m going with someone else. Thanks, you’re so sweet”. She walks out of your life.

This loss may cause you to switch from rock n’ roll music to country songs like “I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry”, “Tennessee Whiskey” and “Always On My Mind” and your heart bleeds by the gallon. You also consider medical treatment for your acne.

Then maybe you get a job; work hard, be a team player but other people are promoted. You instead get a heavier workload then your furnace dies, your prostate enlarges and your neighbor wins the lottery. You chafe against unfairness.

You reach a fork in life—become bitter or keep reaching out for new experiences; maybe try writing or chinchilla farming. You now know that either way there will be disappointments, some joy and that the trash has to be taken out every day.

Remember that unfairness has broadened your understanding. You can now feel for the masses of people that suffer unrequited love. You’ve been humbled and appreciate things you did not earn, like sunrise and your child’s first words. You will never cut in line and take someone’s rightful place. You know how that feels.

So, you bumped into unfairness but you lived through it. Some things you cannot change, you make peace with life and try to get more fiber in your diet.

Along the way you buy a house with two and half baths and have a family. Maybe you write a column and people like it. You’re glad you kept reaching out for new experiences.

If you learn that unfairness is something you have to reach over then you’ll start to smile a lot, even when taking out the trash.

Togetherness brings the flu and a kitchen nightmare

Fall and winter weather brings us indoors and corrals us like penned livestock at the county fair. This togetherness demands politeness which allows the flu to move from runny noses to hearty handshakes and the entire herd is soon infected-- sickened by good manners.

During flu season some years ago my family left to visit my wife’s folks and I and the Boxer were left behind to keep the home fires burning. A few days earlier I had politely shaken about three hundred hands after speaking at a seminar on public health and drinking water. Now I planned a weekend of pizza, war movies and more pizza. Instead I felt sick and achy.

By night I had fallen down the deep dark well of flu. I lay in bed drenched in sweat, my bed clothes damp and twisted around me. My joints were on fire and my head was a bass drum that beat with a vengeance. I would drag myself out of bed to get things like ginger ale, cold drinks, saltine crackers and more blankets. I lost track of time, my street address and the concept of America. I no longer cared about gas mileage or quick relief from hemorrhoids.

I was hot and someone hit me in the stomach with a baseball bat. I hurried to the toilet then returned to bed and collapsed on sheets that were now pulled off the corners of the mattress. I burrowed into blankets that had become infused with sickness. My mouth tasted like I had eaten bad gopher meat.

I dozed off, then awakened and was cold and there weren’t enough blankets so I put on my old blue bathrobe. Still cold, I saw my wife’s pink bathrobe and put that on –gender distinction was now a casualty. Then I became hot and I threw the robes and blankets off. My stomach would sink and then rise and I turned green.

I had short vivid snatches of dreams, sometimes chasing a yellow taxi that could not be caught. I made a mental note to be more sympathetic to dogs that chase cars. The flu was two days and a night that blended into an eternity.

Finally I awoke and felt a bit better. The house was dark, chilled and quiet. I got up and went downstairs to the kitchen. I turned on the light switch and the clock on the wall showed the time to be 5:00 a.m.

The kitchen looked like the 82nd Airborne had passed through it! Saltine crackers were scattered all over the counter, cabinet doors had been thrown wide open, balled up tissues were strewn about, a liter of ginger ale with the top off sat by the sink and red and white Tylenol capsules were scattered beside an empty water glass. An unbroken stream of paper towels ran from the towel rack on the counter down to a folded-over pile on the floor-- evidence of a quick pull that had gone terribly wrong.

My gaze settled lower. A bottom cabinet door had been left open. The Boxer had found a box of Pop-Tarts and her belly was swollen as she licked up what looked like her 37th Pop- Tart. From the looks of the floor she had eaten her way through a buffet of Cheerios, all-purpose flour, marshmallows, a blue sponge and pancake syrup. The fall of Rome was prettier than this.

I stared wide-eyed at the scene as the Boxer stopped for a moment and looked up at me with an expression that said, “What?” I snapped the lights back off!

This was the price of togetherness. I’ve never gotten over it.

Christmas letters could use more truth, less glamour

The first batch of annual letters arrived today! Oh. Joy. These are letters we get from people during Christmas that informs us how their life has been for the past year. The letters come written on paper with green and red Christmas symbols along the borders. In some of these letters modesty is abandoned and accomplishments are flaunted in print – confirmation of can-do people with great parenting skills:

“Brendon put out a big fire at the orphanage while the Fire Department watched him in awe, solved a murder case for the police and also won a scholarship for $100,000 to two universities—his choice. To demonstrate aptitude he did his college applications in Latin! He is such a funny kid.” The letter might go on to add that Brendon has a knack for finances and that Wall Street would be lucky to have him. How he achieves so much is a wonder and, yes, he is still helping at the Children’s Burn Center in his spare time on Saturdays.

Jack and Sybil love both of their new cars and the Resmonds were so struck by Germany they could have stayed longer than four weeks.

What lives! No one is sick, forgot an anniversary or suffered lower back pain. Occasionally some reality seeps in between the lines. “Alex is developing into a mature kid and his new friends are helping.” This tepid reference could mean Alex did something bad and is now serving time under armed guard.

Such accomplishments are hard on normal people like you and I. We love our children but daily joy is not what they always bring us. A teenager goes through periods of revulsion for those that love them by slamming doors, mumbled replies and glaring stares. If you ask them how they feel or you just say hello their eyes roll in their head. They say things like “I hate this place.” and “Todd’s parents got him a new car, wish I was him,” which makes you wince like you just stepped on broken glass barefooted. You’ve skipped vacations and heart surgery to buy a used car for the irritated teenager. You’ve done your best and it does not seem to be producing stellar results or gratitude.

You’re just you, a laborer in girded loins toiling in the salt mines humming “Sixteen Tons”. You pay the light bill and hope the furnace does not die.

Reality is stark and unpretentious. My letter is a lot simpler.

“Dear Reader. This year has seen me grow older and wiser. I lost some friends and made some new ones, still have a great job and decided to try something new-- writing. I write a weekly column and by the grace of God the newspaper is still carrying it, almost a year now.

Our son will reach the end of High School this year and we have been helping with the college application process. This is his last Christmas with us as our “kid”. Next year he will be a young man making his way into the world. The nest will be empty.

My wife and I are also grandparents and get to spoil three little girls then hand them back to their parents and smile-- smiles of revenge!

I would write more but there are chores to do—take out the trash, mail some bills and untangle the Christmas tree lights before putting them on the tree.

Our house is warm and there is food on the table. We are as healthy as could be expected right now and I hope to plant some azaleas beside the house come spring.

I hope you are alright. God bless.”

Santa, thanks for the email

Dear Santa,

It’s been awhile since I’ve written to you but now I take pen in hand and paper to thank you for Christmas’s past ( the chemistry set in ’65 was neat--- home owners insurance did pay for mom’s kitchen) and to ask you for a favor.

I have three wonderful grandchildren and I would love for you to make a special appearance this Christmas at their homes. If you could stop by, knock on the door or even come down the chimney and surprise them with your jolly Ho! Ho! Ho! , shake that big belly of yours and bring some special toys I’d really appreciate it. Oh, and if you could let them see the sleigh and the reindeer-- Donner, Blitzen, Cupid and the rest that would really be a hoot!

Sincerely,
Joe
(Your biggest fan)

To: Joehud@hotmail.com
From: Sclaus@northpole.mx.net

Joe,
Sorry for the delay in answering your letter but our postal mail division was downsized some time ago. We deal mainly with emails or website orders—it’s a 30% savings over handling postal letters.

Our security people X-rayed your envelope, cleared it then sent it to our Finance Division for their opinion as to the most cost effective way to address this matter. From there it went to our Risk Management division to be reviewed for legal and liability issues. I’m sure you can appreciate our concerns.

Joe, while I am honored by your request for me to make an appearance for your grandchildren our Public Relations Division and Accounting has determined it simply is not cost effective for the CEO to make house calls anymore. I do publicity appearances and handle the really big jobs but these days I’m mostly administration.

I’m now working with a great bunch of reindeer but they are currently under contract doing a Discovery Channel documentary (Reindeer—Animals With Feelings) and are unavailable at this time. The old bunch is no longer with us. We can’t discuss personnel issues but if it’s all the same to you I’d forget that bunch of union threatening hoof stomping hay eaters (read: JERKS). We have a new contract with a reindeer firm in New Zealand and things run much smoother now.

As far as toys I don’t work out of a bag anymore. We now distribute out of Puerto Rico, the Philippines and India. Elf labor got to be expensive with health care, holiday pay, workers comp, retirement benefits, etc. Besides, the North Pole isn’t going to last much longer what with global warming so we’re looking at Miami for a new headquarters.
We now deliver by automated GPS guided robotic reindeer with pneumatic lifts and tubes that shoot the presents right down the chimney within a five foot radius of a Christmas tree. I can monitor any delivery from my laptop and be on FaceBook at the same time. LOL!

You mentioned the “big belly”. Joe, I’m not the big fat guy I use to be. No, I was weight challenged and decided to face it head-on. I learned that I don’t have to be fat and jolly in order to be accepted. I admitted to candy abuse, joined a support group and now I do a lot of cardio workouts and keep a diary of my feelings. I’ve taken charge of my life and I’m down to 167 pounds. I was motivated to do all this by watching Dr. Phil on TV.

It was good to hear from you. I’ll mail you three 8 by 10 glossies, autographed. Mrs. Claus and I love your column.

Merry Christmas.

Later.

SENT FROM MY WIRELESS BLACKBERRY