A Dickens of a Christmas Tale

And so Mr. Scrooge kept Christmas in his heart all year long. In fact he kept so much of it that one day while waddling out of Al’s Bakery & Diabetic Supplies with a double whopper chocolate éclair he clutched his chest, uttered the words “trans fats” and dropped dead on the sidewalk.

People had come to love Scrooge and when word got out of his demise the whole city turned out to mourn. Even the governor showed up and told people how good a friend Scrooge had been to the poor and disadvantaged and not to forget elections were coming up soon and the state needed a good leader such as the governor himself. He also said that he, the governor, never had five mistresses. Then he flew away on an airplane.

Bob Cratchit smiled to himself. He and Scrooge had never seen eye to eye with the handouts Scrooge was giving to the homeless and the orphans. Bob was relieved to not have the old geezer barking everyday about how they ought to be doing more for the poor.

The real money was in politics.

Bob took the company out of accounting, went into municipal renovation and became Subsidized Solutions, Inc. You took a boatload of public money, gutted old dilapidated downtowns, put in new streets, spacious sidewalks and apartments with balconies featuring hot tubs. You held parades every afternoon with elephants and clowns and colorful floats featuring cartoon and fairy tale personalities. At night there was always a fireworks display. Soon empty shops were filled with niche businesses that might sell curtains and table clothes made from snowy owl feathers or lady’s shoes made from recycled pencil erasers. It caught on and cities throughout the nation began spending millions to renovate. Riding this wave all the way to the bank was Mr. Bob Cratchit until the EPA took him to U.S. District court for using toxic asphalt traced back to Chernobyl. The streets glowed at night.

“I’m innocent.” said Bob.

The court disagreed and gave him 8 years without parole in the federal pokey.

Meanwhile Tiny Tim lost the goody two shoes image. He’d become a lumbering hulk, shaved his head and had a barb wire tattoo around his neck. He formed a band, The Broken Legs, changed his name to T&T and wrote songs like “Text U2!” and a ballad called “Swallowed Pills”. He played Holiday Inn lounges on the Gulf coast and never had a top selling hit but did appear once on the Jerry Springer show, where just before a soup commercial he physically attacked his third cousin for dating his uncle’s niece. Neither girl was hurt.

Tim slowly slid down the slope of dark depression, started sniffing powdered goose down and ended up in rehab. It was there his life turned around.
While walking to a support meeting he came upon a hydrangea bush that suddenly burst into flames and began to burn, but the bush wasn’t harmed. He heard a voice say “You’re too self-centered. It’s not always about you so drop the self-pity, kiddo, and count your blessings. Love you. Now go get a bucket of water, quick.”

So Tim took his old name back and now he works for a Christian newspaper and writes a column called “Blessings From Above”. He also had a bestselling book titled “Hey God, thanks.” He loves the holidays and spends them with his wife, son and two daughters on their ranch in Colorado. His wife, Carol, says Tim is a wonderful father, cooks a great goose and on Christmas day you can hear him humming “Silent Night” all the day long.

A guide to the greatest Christmas ever!

Some years ago we managed to get a big crowd together for Christmas. The Visigoths came and so did the Huns along with a small tribe of half-crazed savages who hunkered at the table drinking from goblets, eating meat with their bare hands, belching, whooping and then they started using catapults. We were scrapping food off the ceiling fans for weeks.

As I was hosing down the dining room in a fully sealed contamination suit I figured there had to be a better way to celebrate Christmas.

Those ladies magazines that tell you how to decorate the windows with sparrow feathers and make center pieces out of dryer lint in ten minutes---they leave out some basics and I, as a professional organizer of words and conveyor of common sense, am here to give you some pointers for a really enjoyable Christmas.

Remember, the dinner is small potatoes. Take innovation out to the woods, kill it and bury it deep—it’s not worth the stress and heartache. That pheasant flambé with Noel bouillabaisse and brandy soaked caviar soufflés---Honey babe, that’s just a recipe for disaster. Dish out some spuds, deli rolls, stir-fried veggies, lay the turkey on a platter, open a can of cranberry sauce and say grace. Use only commercially baked pies. Christmas dinner should stay traditional like Coca-Cola, the less you tamper with it the better.

The guest list can make or break Christmas dinner. Never invite people similar to yourself—intelligent, smart, considerate, moisturized, lotion scented and modest. It’s like forming a symphony where everybody plays only one note. Invite people you dread to see—a cousin who sees the Virgin Mary in his mash potatoes, a vegan that believes she’s actually a reincarnated Holstein and Uncle Max who drones on about his latest colonoscopy. You want variety.

Make everybody a ringer. You welcome each guest with a handshake and whisper in their ear “Thank goodness you came. You’re the only one here with personality and humor. Everybody else is embalmed. Yuk it up some, please. Help me make this happen.”

Next you need some staged drama. Many a Christmas comes unraveled after the turkey is eaten. Conversation dies down because the body is packed with bird parts and people get drowsy. Create some discord to prevent massive REM stage sleep. A little trick I sometimes use is to suddenly throw my napkin down and say in a trembling voice, “Nobody in this family cares about me! When you’re gifted you’re different. I’ve never been accepted.” Then sob, leap up from the table and lock yourself in the bathroom leaving everybody to stare at their plates and feel guilty.

Okay, you’ve got momentum so go for a spectacular ending. You’re out of the bathroom now and everybody’s up giving you consoling hugs and telling you they love you. “I don’t know what got into me,” you say,” Please forgive me.” And of course they do. Then Uncle Max tells everybody to look out the window, it’s snowing and the front yard is full of carolers. You hear the soft sound of “The First Noel” and see Jimmy Stewart holding hands with Cinderella. Burl Ives is standing between a little drummer boy and the Grinch. Bing Crosby, Bob Hope and Perry Como are there and all the Munchkins from Oz are singing backup. At that moment Santa makes a low pass over the yard in his sleigh, waves at you and into your hand drops a winning lottery ticket.

Can Christmas really be this great? Sure it can Lamb Chop, just follow these pointers click your heels and believe. Merry Christmas!

Sometimes you have to leave home to find yourself

I grew up on a farm in eastern North Carolina and one Friday night when I was nine years old I walked past my father sitting in his recliner and he spoke into a newspaper and said, “We’re going into hog business. Tomorrow.” My dreams of being an astronaut were put on hold.

So we built pens, shelters and a farrowing house (a hog birthing and daycare center). I learned to pour concrete and dig post holes and do it all in ninety degree heat. Once that was done and all the electric fences were constructed we filled the place up with hogs. I also learned that even if your cousin Randy dares you, never urinate on a charged electric fence— you speak in tongues and flop around on the ground like a fish. When you get back up you don’t walk right.

Now the idea of hog business is to make lots of little hogs (pigs), raise them up, sell them, complain about the low price of pork, grumble about the bank and then do it all over again. My father was constantly going to the poor house in a new truck.

I gave names to some of my favorites-- Porkchop, Oscar Mayer and one particular lady hog I named Lou.

One day Lou put on some mascara and lip gloss, lit up a cigarette and walked seductively by a group of men hogs. Most of those guys had an operation when they were young so they ignored Lou and just stood around sipping wine spritzers and discussing mutual funds. But one never had the operation, a 400 pound red Duroc boar who was propped against a fence post smoking a Pall Mall and when he saw Lou he said “Hi doll face” and they went off together to a cheap wire pen that charged by the hour and they didn’t come out until late evening. My father explained that a miracle of life would come later.

And sure enough it did. A little over three months later on a Saturday the first wet sacks of life began to appear. My father and I watched the wonder of birth.

But as it turned out Lou wasn’t the maternal type. She seemed to regard her new family with disdain. She’d just lie there staring straight ahead while ten little squealing pigs used her as a milk hose. Later I’d come by to check on her and she’d be pushing against the door with her snout. Lou wanted out of the deal. I remember when I’d check to see that the gate was locked she’d look at me with small accusing eyes as though to say “ One day, maybe a week, maybe a year, but one day I’m going to have a life. I’ll go away and leave these little Wonders for you to take care of, Boss Man. See how you like it then.” Lou was restless and wanted to leave the farm.

I knew how she felt. Almost twenty six years ago today I bolted out the gate with a packed suitcase and never looked back. Sometimes you have to leave one place in order to find yourself in the next. Ever since moving to the city I’ve come to know exactly who I am. Ich bin ien Farm Boy.

Some days I stop the car, jump a ditch and stroll through open fields and gaze at livestock. Life is good with a breeze on your face, the sun to your back and plowed earth beneath your feet….just watch out for electric fences. When I see one I laugh and walk funny.