Vik's Blog

poem from ann

2012-02-16T09:54:00.000-07:00

...... The Wish of the Wind ......

Alongside the birds in the tall, tall trees,
I'd whisk through the branches and pass by the leaves.
The water would ripple each time that I pass,
And so would the flowers in the long, green grass.

A cheek I would tickle, a tear I would dry,
A star I would twinkle right out of the sky.
And when the night came, I would lie down again,
And wait until morning to dance once again.

..... author unknown

Nice

2012-02-14T14:05:00.000-07:00

XXX OOO XO XO XO

2012-02-14T00:01:00.001-07:00

February 14, 2012
Colorado, USA

Happy Birthday Tina!

2012-02-06T00:01:00.003-07:00

February 6, 2012

They say it takes a long time
to grown an old friend.
May we ever tend that garden well.
Happy Birthday Tina!
Love ya girl!
-V-

Only the groundhog knows...

2012-02-02T00:01:00.002-07:00

February 2, 2012
Fort Collins, CO

Happy 50th!

2012-02-02T00:01:00.000-07:00

February 2, 2012
Colorado, USA

To our good Okie friends Nancy & Don (with a great sense of humor) we wish a very Happy 50th Anniversary!

A ma wise beyond his words...

2012-02-01T10:29:00.001-07:00

February 1, 2012
Colorado, USA

Those who write of the art of poetry teach us that if we would write what may be worth the reading, we ought always, before we begin, to form a regular plan and design of our piece: otherwise, we shall be in danger of incongruity.

I am apt to think it is the same as to life. I have never fixed a regular design in life; by which means it has been a confused variety of different scenes.

I am now entering upon a new one: let me, therefore, make some resolutions, and form some scheme of action, that, henceforth, I may live in all respects like a rational creature.

1. It is necessary for me to be extremely frugal for some time, till I have paid what I owe.

2. To endeavour to speak truth in every instance; to give nobody expectations that are not likely to be answered, but aim at sincerity in every word and action -- the most amiable excellence in a rational being.

3. To apply myself industriously to whatever business I take in hand, and not divert my mind from my business by any foolish project of growing suddenly rich; for industry and patience are the surest means of plenty.

4. I resolve to speak ill of no man whatever, not even in a matter of truth; but rather by some means excuse the faults I hear charged upon others, and upon proper occasions speak all the good I know of every body.

Benjamin Franklin, A Plan of Conduct, 1726

I was born to live free across sunshine days...

2012-01-28T05:01:00.000-07:00

January 28, 2012
Colorado, USA

Shared with me by a friend...

Sunshine Days and Foggy Nights
by James Kavanaugh

I was born to catch dragons in their dens
And pick flowers
To tell tales and laugh away the morning
To drift and dream like a lazy stream
And walk barefoot across sunshine days.

I was born to find goblins in their caves
And chase moonlight
To see shadows and seek hidden rivers
To hear the rain fall on dry leaves
And chat a bit with death across foggy nights.

I was born to rub my hands in dirt
And walk green hills
To plant corn and make bread
To build a house strong against the wind
And to live free across sunshine days.

I was born to watch owls in dark forests
And hear coyotes cry
To feel trees tremble and the grass sleep
To taste cold air and smell the damp earth
And watch ghostly shapes disappear across foggy nights.

I was born to love a man wrapped in sunshine
And dressed in fog
To make a pact on a high hill
Ratified centuries ago by the sun
To walk together through sunshine days and foggy nights.

Ambitious only for life itself....

2012-01-27T12:52:00.003-07:00

January 27, 2012
Colorado, USA

Today a friend with a random post on a social network reminded me just how much I loved Kavanaugh...

“I am one of the searchers. There are, I believe, millions of us. We are not unhappy, but neither are we really content. We continue to explore life, hoping to uncover its ultimate secret. We continue to explore ourselves, hoping to understand. We like to walk along the beach, we are drawn by the ocean, taken by its power, its unceasing motion, its mystery and unspeakable beauty. We like forests and mountains,, deserts and hidden rivers, and the lonely cities as well. Our sadness is as much a part of our lives as is our laughter. To share our sadness with one we love is perhaps as great a joy as we can know - unless it be to share our laughter.

We searchers are ambitious only for life itself, for everything beautiful it can provide. Most of all we love and want to be loved. We want to live in a relationship that will not impede our wandering, nor prevent our search, nor lock us in prison walls; that will take us for what little we have to give. We do not want to prove ourselves to another or compete for love.

For wanderers, dreamers, and lovers, for lonely men and women who dare to ask of life everything good and beautiful. It is for those who are too gentle to live among wolves.”

― James Kavanaugh, There Are Men Too Gentle to Live Among Wolves

New Year... New Resolve... Mostly Baloney

2012-01-05T09:26:00.000-07:00

January 5, 2012
Colorado, USA

About those New Year Resolutions...

Sure, I have made resolutions, promised myself I would do better at this or that in the coming year -- but I don't really buy into them [resolutions]. I am the kind of person who believes if one feels the need to make a change... then one should make a change rather than arbitrarily plan for it. Waiting for a day on the calendar to make a resolution to be better at this or that or the other is procrastination not resolve. New Year's Day is a day much like any other day. The sun rises and sets just like any other day. If betterment of our personal selves and circumstances is the goal, then now, today, whatever that day may be is as good a time as any to begin -- isn't it?.

Still, the arrival of a New Year is a time of reflection for many, myself included. I read the following many years ago and was delighted when I ran across it again just a few days before Christmas. I believe any one of us could use this list to improve upon ourselves and be all the better for it. Any day. Any time.

An excerpt from the Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin (1784):

It was about this time I conceived the bold and arduous project of arriving at moral perfection. I wished to live without committing any fault at any time; I would conquer all that either natural inclination, custom, or company might lead me into. As I knew, or thought I knew, what was right and wrong, I did not see why I might not always do the one and avoid the other. But I soon found I had undertaken a task of more difficulty than I had imagined. While my care was employed in guarding against one fault, I was often surprised by another; habit took the advantage of inattention; inclination was sometimes too strong for reason. I concluded, at length, that the mere speculative conviction that it was our interest to be completely virtuous was not sufficient to prevent our slipping, and that the contrary habits must be broken, and good ones acquired and established, before we can have any dependence on a steady, uniform rectitude of conduct. For this purpose I therefore contrived the following method.

...and I included under thirteen names of virtues all that at that time occurred to me as necessary or desirable...

1. Temperance
Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation.

2. Silence
Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation.

3. Order
Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time.

4. Resolution
Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve.

5. Frugality
Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself, i.e., waste nothing.

6. Industry
Lose no time; be always employed in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions.

7. Sincerity.
Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and, if you speak, speak accordingly.

8. Justice
Wrong none by doing injuries or omitting the benefits that are your duty.

9. Moderation
Avoid extremes; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve.

10. Cleanliness
Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, clothes, or habitation.

11. Tranquillity
Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.

12. Chastity
Rarely use venery but for health or offspring, never to dullness, weakness, or the injury of your own or another's peace or reputation.

13. Humility
Imitate Jesus and Socrates

Read the entire discourse at the following link:
The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin

Happy New Year!

2012-01-01T00:01:00.003-07:00

January 1, 2012
Colorado, USA

Happy New Year Eve!

2011-12-31T16:03:00.001-07:00

December 31, 2011
Colorado, USA

...it was the season of hospitality, merriment,
and open-heartedness;
the old year was preparing, like an ancient philosopher,
to call his friends around him,
and amidst the sound of feasting and revelry
to pass gently and calmly away.
from The Pickwick Papers, Charles Dickens

Merry Christmas!

2011-12-25T00:01:00.000-07:00

December 25, 2011
Colorado, USA

Decking the Halls 2011

2011-12-24T00:01:00.002-07:00

December 24, 2011
Colorado, USA

Just a few photos of the decor this year.

Alternative link for this slide show:
Decking the Halls (part 1)

And a few more photos.

Alternative link for this slide show:
Decking the Halls (part 2)

A Soldier's Christmas

2011-12-21T00:01:00.002-07:00

December 21, 2011
Colorado, USA

Merry Christmas, My Friend...

Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
In a one bedroom house made of plaster & stone.
I had come down the chimney, with presents to give
and to see just who in this home did live

As I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,
no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand.
On the wall hung pictures of a far distant land.

With medals and badges, awards of all kind,
a sobering thought soon came to my mind.
For this house was different, unlike any I'd seen.
This was the home of a U.S. Marine.

I'd heard stories about them, I had to see more,
so I walked down the hall and pushed open the door.
And there he lay sleeping, silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor in his one-bedroom home.

He seemed so gentle, his face so serene,
Not how I pictured a U.S. Marine.
Was this the hero, of whom I'd just read?
Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed?

His head was clean-shaven, his weathered face tan.
I soon understood, this was more than a man.
For I realized the families that I saw that night,
owed their lives to these men, who were willing to fight.

Soon around the Nation, the children would play,
And grown-ups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom, each month and all year,
because of Marines like this one lying here.

I couldn't help wonder how many lay alone,
on a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home.
Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye.
I dropped to my knees and I started to cry.

He must have awoken, for I heard a rough voice,
"Santa, don't cry, this life is my choice
I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more.
My life is my God, my country, my Corps."

With that he rolled over, drifted off into sleep,
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.
I watched him for hours, so silent and still.
I noticed he shivered from the cold night's chill.

So I took off my jacket, the one made of red,
and covered this Marine from his toes to his head.
Then I put on his T-shirt of scarlet and gold,
with an eagle, globe and anchor emblazoned so bold.

And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride,
and for one shining moment, I was Marine Corps deep inside.
I didn't want to leave him so quiet in the night,
this guardian of honor so willing to fight.

But half asleep he rolled over, and in a voice clean and pure,
said "Carry on, Santa, it's Christmas Day, all secure."
One look at my watch and I knew he was right,
Merry Christmas my friend, Semper Fi and goodnight.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This piece in many versions sees wide circulation every Christmastime. It can be attributed to: James M. Schmidt, who was a Lance Corporal stationed in Washington, D.C., when he wrote the poem back in 1986. The story is that while a Lance Corporal serving as Battalion Counter Sniper at the Marine Barracks 8th & I, Washington, DC, under Commandant P.X. Kelly and Battalion Commander D.J. Myers [in 1986], wrote this poem to hang on the door of the Gym in the BEQ. When Colonel Myers came upon it, he read it and immediately had copies sent to each department at the Barracks and promptly dismissed the entire Battalion early for Christmas leave. The poem was placed that day in the Marine Corps Gazette, distributed worldwide and later submitted to Leatherneck Magazine. Schmidt's original version, entitled "Merry Christmas, My Friend," was published in Leatherneck (Magazine of the Marines) in December 1991.

Birthday Remembrance: Katherine Lee Duckett (1938-2003)

2011-12-15T00:01:00.009-07:00

December 15, 2011
Colorado, USA

Happy Birthday Aunt Kathy...

I am sharing my favorite picture of you... again.

There is snow in the Rockies today... you would love it and say we need to be up in the mountains sipping hot cocoa at a table beside a fire, watching it snow from a pretty window in a lodge.

My house is decorated from top to bottom and the memory tree is aglow with mementos from across time and memory. I know you would love that, too.

I miss you during the holidays, especially at Christmas-time. I say again how much I loved receiving a Christmas card in the mail from you, every year, without fail, no matter where in the world I might be. I remember how much you liked dressing up and visiting people. It always amazed how you could brighten any home with your sunny, cheerful entrance. I remember fondly the hustle and bustle of your house when you cooked for the family. I miss the noise and the laughter and the genuine light of welcome in your eyes for every person who walked through your door.

I rummage through old photos from time-to-time and remember well that you were the person behind the camera that captured so many good memories.

I say I miss you. What I mean is; I miss your physical presence, because in my memory you are as you ever were and so you are here.

I will be thinking about you today...

Remembrance is a golden chain
Death tries to break, but all in vain.
To have, to love, and then to part
Is the greatest sorrow of one’s heart.
The years may wipe out many things
But some they wipe out never.
Like memories of those happy times
When we were all together.

Happy Birthday Nancy!

2011-12-01T04:00:00.001-07:00

December 1, 2011
Colorado, USA

Happy Birthday Girlfriend! If I were there or you were here we would manage to get into some sort of mischief... as it is I wish you the company of friends and family and cake - lots of cake!

Anniversary Remembrance: Grandma & Grandpa Foster

2011-11-25T00:01:00.001-07:00

November 25, 2011
Colorado, USA

November 25, 1933 Leon & Odie Foster

At the time of Odie's passing in 1978 Grandma and Grandpa has been married just over 44 years. Grandma told me just after I married young in 1971 that the secret was how to be married old. November 22, 2011, the man I married young and I celebrated our 40th anniversary. Thanks for sharing the secret Grandma. We are working on it. You both are missed more than you know.

Happy Thanksgiving

2011-11-24T00:01:00.000-07:00

November 24, 2011
Colorado, USA

Happy #40 to US!

2011-11-22T00:01:00.002-07:00

November 22, 2011
Colorado, USA

Today we celebrate 40 years!

Check the Harley blog for the video. What follows is a slide show (no music or animation) of how we celebrated throughout year #40.

Remembering Grandma Foster 1906-1978

2011-11-14T00:01:00.001-07:00

November 14, 2011
Colorado, USA

Sharing this again... and remembering well and fondly one of the most important people in my life...

Grandma Foster. That's what I called her. Quite simply stated, she was the best of us. Aside from my parents, my paternal Grandmother was likely the largest positive influence on my life. I loved her dearly and I miss her much. Not a day goes by without some thought of her. I may be dusting some small item of hers handed down to me, or brown a piece of toast on one of her old cookie sheets, or run across one of her recipes, or sit down with some hand-sewing... and feel her presence. Crepe myrtles in bloom, scissor tails soaring, a stretch of long, dusty road or the aroma of something sweet wafting from the kitchen will conjure memories of Grandma that always lay close to the surface.

She was a serene presence, moving with economy and efficiency - never rushed, never harried - always fluid. Anger and discord were not part of her makeup. The only times I ever heard her raise her voice is when one of the cousins took a shot at the scissor-tails who nested nearby and again when they riled up the chickens. Riled chickens won't lay she explained and that was the end of that. She was kind and gentle and patient. She was generous with her time and her person. She was intelligent and wise (a term I rarely apply to anyone). She never complained about a day, she never spoke ill of another and she never made unreasonable demands. I do not use the word never here frivolously - I mean it quite literally. Somehow, she brought out the best in us. We strove to be the best in her eyes. She did not demand it of us - we demanded it of ourselves. To do otherwise would have been disrespectful and that, was simply unthinkable. When the family was in her presence, we were on our best behavior.

I was speaking with my Mom a few days ago about Grandma Foster and what a good person she was and how much it would mean to the family (especially some of our younger members) had she been with us longer. She was the first real Christian I have ever known and I have met few others of the same caliber. What I mean by that is she lived her faith. Not religion. Faith. She did not talk about it, she did not preach it to others, she did not impose it on others. She read her Bible, daily, and went to church when she could. She shared her wisdom, life experience and view of the world in soft spoken words that simply made sense. She lived as she believed. She never compromised her faith so she never seemed conflicted over things and circumstances that got out of hand or were beyond her control.

I learned many things from this grandmother... I learned to cook. I learned to sew and to take pride in nice hand work. I learned the pleasure of an afternoon spent with a good book. And, although I admit to struggling with the contrariness of my nature through the years - I have almost learned to live and let live.

I remember two things she said to me when I married quite young. And, trust me - at that time, her opinion mattered more to me than the whole rest of the family put together. She did not fail me. She is the only person who did not speak out against the marriage or in some way voice their disappointment or displeasure. She is the only person who welcomed my new husband to the family with open arms and a plate full of cookies. She simply said to me -- lots of people in my [her] day married young -- she continued in a somewhat conspiratorial vein -- the secret, she said, was to figure out how to be married old. Wink-Wink. Then, she shrugged her shoulders and smiled, pointing out because of the date in November we were married that we would be sharing our anniversary with Thanksgiving over the years, just like her and Grandpa... there are three days difference in our anniversary dates. She was right on both counts.

When I sat beside Grandma needle poised over an embroidery hoop, or stretched out across the bed beside her with a book, or stood in a chair and helped rinse the dishes I remember feeling calm and filled with purpose as if the mundane chore in front of me was the most important thing at that moment... and so it was...

Grandma knew. That's how we get through a day, then a week, then a year... deal with the thing in front of us, finish it well and move on. I wish Grandma was here today so that I could wish her a Happy Birthday and tell her: So far, so good. I think I've figured out how to be married old... wink-wink, I'll tell her anyway ya know - we speak often. I think she'll be delighted to know we [Tim and me] are quite literally rolling up on 40 years - the rolling part being a Harley.

I do not think I would be the person I am today without having the influence of my Grandma Foster (actually all my grandparents) in my life. I have a clear sense of who I am because I know who they were.

Veterans Day 2011

2011-11-11T00:01:00.001-07:00

November 11, 2011
Colorado, USA

Sounds like a Veteran to me... Each time a person stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others… they send forth a ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance. -- Robert F. Kennedy

Happy Birthday to Me!

2011-10-28T00:01:00.000-06:00

October 28th, 2011

I'M A CROTCHETY WITCH

I'm a crotchety witch
Living all by myself,
I haven't one crony,
Not ogre nor elf.
No wizard or warlock
Drops by for a stay,
Hobgoblins avoid me --
I like it that way.

My rooms are suffused
With perennial gloom,
I never go out,
I've retired my broom,
I don't even bother
To boil a few brews,
So, I'm not to blame
If there's ooze in your shoes.

Today is my birthday,
I baked a stale cake,
Instead of a candle,
I stuck in a snake,
I've turned thirty thousand
three hundred and three;
The snake snuck away --
Happy birthday to me!

© Jack Prelutsky (1940-)

Remembrance: Grandpa Davis

2011-10-27T00:01:00.005-06:00

October 27, 2011
Colorado, USA

Sharing these memories of Grandpa again... and adding Alice's poem at the end...

W.C. 'Red' Davis (1903-1978)

The first pumpkin I buy in the Fall is designated as Grandpa's Pumpkin in remembrance of my Grandpa on the maternal side who loved Hallowe'en and the Fall. I place it by the hearth and pin his photo to it. Grandpa was quiet spoken and good-natured. Every memory I have of him brings a smile.

Grandpa Davis told great "yarns" and spooky stories. Late one Fall, as we walked from his friend's house in the twilight of the evening, he showed me the official haunted ghost house of the small Texas town where he lived. The old abandoned house, complete with creaky porch and dilapidated shutters was a couple of blocks from Grandpa's house. We peered through cloudy windows at what I know now was a couple of saw horses and a carpenter's tool box, but at the time looked every bit like the coffin of the old, mean guy Grandpa told me it was. Being the oldest and a bit of a yarn-spinner myself, I couldn't wait to share the story with younger cousins and my little brother. I couldn't wait to lead them past the big old bare pecan tree with its limbs scratching the sky like claws, and up the creaky steps to show them the coffin of the meanest man who had ever lived. I imagine Grandpa got a big kick out of all of us (I believe the number was five or six)... who came screeching around the corner a short while later, full of wild ideas and big stories. Of course, the coffin lid had moved and of course a spooky face was seen in the window as we high-tailed it out of there... We were certain the mean man's ghost was chasing us... why would he chase good kids we wondered. (wink! wink!) I bet Grandpa is grinning still.

Another time near Hallowe'en Grandpa told us (myself, the brother and the cousins again, five or six of us) about the mean old boogey-man who had a bad leg. I don't quite remember how the man's leg went bad in the story, but it seems like he got it caught in the cellar door where his mean old step-mother locked him when he was bad. (That part of the story might have originated with Grandpa or I might have added that part in the re-telling.) According to Grandpa, this old man came to town on Hallowe'en night to carry off all the bad children. Grandpa himself swore he had seen the old cripple crabbing his way up the road beside the house at sundown.

My Grandma bedded us down all on one big bed beside the window one Fall evening. I remember curtains swaying to and fro in the slight breeze. Outside was the road the boogey-man traveled every year according to Grandpa. I and another cousin saw that old man out the window that night. First he was there, limping and dragging his bad leg through the dirt, scrabbling noisily through the gravel near the bar ditch, then, next glance… he was not there! After a few minutes, a face appeared at the window and booed us. Loudly. Kids and covers scattered everywhere. Our screams and cries gave Grandma quite a fright. Later, I overheard from the kitchen, Grandma giving Grandpa "what for" about riling us up at bedtime... mumbling it was gonna take forever to bed us down again. Soon, we were settled in again and whispering amongst ourselves under the covers about the boogey man. It was many years before the man in the road and the face at the window became one in the same with my Grandpa’s visage.

Mom tells a story about Grandpa seeing a ghost when she was a girl. They lived on a farm at the time. Grandma wore a long white nightgown. One night she visited the "out house". Grandpa happened to look out the window about the time the gown and her black hair billowed out in the wind... which gave him quite a start. He said that's about as scared as he'd ever been.

I guess it is no big surprise that I love the season well... the sights, the sounds, the spooky stories, and it is no big surprise that Hallowe'en is my favorite holiday. I learned to appreciate Hallowe'en and the things associated with it early in life. These days the stories would not resonate with children of the same age as we were when Grandpa told spooky stories and played make-believe at the window. Kids of this day and time are smarter, more grounded in reality and more worldly-wise. I cannot find fault with that I guess, but it also escapes me how much they might be missing of the wonder and the thrill of innocence lost, of times shared with old people and Grandparents, of Fall afternoons screeching through the dusty streets of little town Texas and of spooky stories fabricated and embellished under the covers.

Oh well! I have my stories and I still like to spin them. When a youngster in my neighborhood asked what the creatures on the shelf were (see photo – it’s a dam doll Hallowe’en collection) - I told him "oh those are last year's trick-or-treaters". I had him for a minute... He took a step back and gave first the dam doll collection a hard look and then gave me a hard look before he realized I was pulling his leg

I reckon Grandpa could have put quite a spin on that little bit of mischief... I know, if he were telling the tale, I would have bought it hook, line and sinker. And then, I would have borrowed it, embellished it and passed it on. That’s what story-tellers do. Ha!

Alice's poem written by you know who...

My Daddy, he loved Hallowe’en…
This I and my sisters remember well.
How he delighted in the squeals of wide-eyed children
as they shivered through his spooky tales,
told rightly, just before bedtime,
much to our Mother’s dismay…
he said, such stories are better told in the dark of night
than by the cheerful, bright light of day.
In a voice as dry as the whisper
of dead leaves skittering down the road,
with somber eye and leering grin
he would thrill us with the folk tales of old.
With covers pulled up to our eyeballs we heard
of raven-haired, broom-riding witches,
of bats fluttering hungrily at dusk
and Trolls lurking under bridges.
From the far shadows of the bedroom he warned
of Pumpkin-head monsters prowling
through cornfields haunted by shimmering ghosts
and unlucky black cats howling.
He said he knew of haunted houses to visit
and where skeletons crawled out of the grave…
He promised we could go trick-or treating,
but we would have to be very, very brave.

My Daddy, he loved Hallowe’en…
This I and my sisters remember well.
If we could have but one Jack-O-Lantern wish
It would be to hear Daddy tell one more tale…

First Snow 2011

2011-10-26T15:07:00.001-06:00

October 26, 2011
Colorado, USA

Happy Anniversary Mom & Dad

2011-10-26T00:01:00.001-06:00

October 26, 2011

Celebrating 57 years today!

So many times people think if you have been married forever that somehow you have found the secret to marital perfection. I do not believe perfection is the secret at all. I believe a long marriage is based on the ability of two individuals to overlook and live with imperfection. I also believe that while love may be the mainstay - the core of a marriage is the honor of a promise. Promises made. Promises kept. Congratulations on 57 years, Folks. It makes me smile to think you are still showing the rest of us how it is done. -V-

I didn't marry you because you were perfect. I didn't even marry you because I loved you. I married you because you gave me a promise. That promise made up for your faults. And the promise I gave you made up for mine. Two imperfect people got married and it was the promise that made the marriage. And when our children were growing up, it wasn't a house that protected them; and it wasn't our love that protected them - it was that promise. From The Skin of our Teeth by Thornton Wilder

Kim - Race for the Cure 2011

2011-10-02T17:00:00.001-06:00

October 2, 2011
Colorado, USA

Kim - Race for the Cure 2011 - Denver, CO

Kim runs in the race for the cure every year. She runs for her mother-in-law, Helen and her Great Aunt Kathy. This makes her Grandma Inez very proud.

October is here

2011-10-01T00:01:00.001-06:00

October 1, 2011
Colorado, USA

Red, White and Boo!

2011-09-28T17:00:00.001-06:00

September 28, 2011
Colorado, USA

Scarecrow #2 is patriotic. He is fashioned around an old milk can.

Here we go...

2011-09-27T17:00:00.001-06:00

September 27, 2011
Colorado, USA

Scarecrow #1 on Grandpa's Bench

It is Gold Star Mothers Day

2011-09-25T01:00:00.000-06:00

September 25, 2011
Colorado, USA

Suddenly it is Autumn

2011-09-23T00:41:00.003-06:00

September 23, 2011
Colorado, USA

My favorite time of year... time to go kick up some leaves...

Remembrance: Katherine Lee Duckett

2011-09-22T04:00:00.000-06:00

September 22, 2011

Katherine Lee Duckett (1938-2003)

If Aunt Kathy could speak to us today - she would say something very like this and she would say it with a twinkle in her eye:

What is Death?

Death is nothing at all.
I have only slipped away into the next room.
I am I and you are you.
Whatever we were to each other,
that we still are.

Call me by my old familiar name.
Speak to me in the easy way
which you always used.
Put no difference in your tone.
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.

Laugh as we always laughed
at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household word
that it always was.
Let it be spoken without affect,
without the trace of a shadow on it.

Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same that it ever was.
There is absolutely unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind
because I am out of sight?

I am waiting for you,
for an interval,
somewhere very near,
just around the corner.

All is well.

~~ Henry Scott Holland ~~

Remember

2011-09-11T00:01:00.000-06:00

September 11, 2011
Colorado, USA

Happy Birthday Mother-Mine!

2011-08-04T00:01:00.002-06:00

August 4, 2011

Greetings and Love Mother-Mine
On the Happy Occasion of your 74th Birthday

Home is where your story begins… is one of my favorite quotes. The first chapter of a child’s story is written by the Mother. After that, other characters arrive on the scene and add a chapter or two to the eventual whole. However, the Mother sets the tone of a child’s story.

Any book lover will agree -- a story is easier to get through if it gets off to a good start. I count it my good fortune, Mother-Mine… that my story begins with you. Not only that, I consider it one of life’s great blessings that you remain a beloved, central character in my story - faithful and true through every chapter.

Thumbing through the pages of my story is a joyful expedition because you were holding the pen from the outset, creating the mostly good times from your Mother’s heart, smoothing out the rough times with your Mother’s love, never breaking faith with the journey toward a happy ending.

My story is part of your story and so it goes… It is something we share. I so look forward to the next turn of the page, but like any good reader in the middle of a great book - I will savor the page I am on until it is inscribed upon my heart and committed to memory.

Home is where your story begins… your story, my story, our story…
It begins with love and continues with devotion…

May the brightest of blessings be written on your heart today and always…
Your daughter… Vickie
August 4, 2011

Happy Birthday Mom!
Sharing your smile... through the last 74 years

Happy Birthday Mom!

Click on the image above to play

Link to the slide show (no music).

Your Mother-Mine Letter to download and print
Happy Birthday Mother-Mine

Happy Independence Day USA!

2011-07-04T00:01:00.000-06:00

July 4, 2011
Colorado, USA

Celebrate the fourth but remember the fives

2011-07-01T05:00:00.003-06:00

July 1, 2011
Colorado, USA

July 2011 Calendar

This year, July has

5 Fridays (1st, 8th, 15th, 22nd, 29th),
5 Saturdays (2nd, 9th, 16th, 23rd, 30th), and
5 Sundays (3rd, 10th, 17th, 24th, 31st).

This happens once every 823 years. This occurence is called money bags and is considered lucky by the Chinese. I might point out one inconsistency - none of the apparently auspicious days occurs on the 5th although one occurs on the 15th.

Whatever! I call it a great month to plan a vacation (or two) and ride the heck out of here - woo-hoo!

Happy Father's Day

2011-06-19T05:00:00.000-06:00

June 19, 2011
Colorado, USA

Click on the pic for a larger view.

Flag Day

2011-06-14T05:00:00.000-06:00

June 14, 2011

I am what you make me; nothing more. I swing before your eyes as a bright gleam of color, a symbol of yourself. -- Franklin K. Lane, Secretary of the Interior (1914)

The “Stars and Stripes”, the official National symbol of the United States of America was authorized by congress on that Saturday of June 14, 1777 in the fifth item of the days agenda.

Memorial Day - Freedom is Not Free

2011-05-30T05:00:00.000-06:00

May 30, 2011
Colorado, USA

With Heartfelt Appreciation

2011-05-29T15:06:00.000-06:00

May 29, 2011
Colorado, USA

Source: Cagle Post.com, http://blog.cagle.com/2010/05/the-pen-is-mighty-grateful-to-the-sword/

HAPPY ANNIVERSARY HARVEYS!

2011-05-19T05:00:00.000-06:00

May 19, 2011
Colorado, USA

Happy Anniversary Stormy & Rob!

Green - just a catch phrase

2011-05-16T14:55:00.003-06:00

May 17, 2011
Colorado, USA

I got this from a friend and thought I'd share it. My generation and the ones before me probably have much to answer for but not as much as it would seem if one makes comparisons.

In the line at the store, the cashier told the older woman that she should bring her own grocery bag because plastic bags weren't good for the environment..

The woman apologized to him and explained, We didn't have the green thing back in my day. The clerk responded, "That's our problem today. The former generation did not care enough to save our environment."

He was right, that generation didn't have the green thing in its day.

Back then, they returned their milk bottles, soda bottles and beer bottles to the store. The store sent them back to the plant to be washed and sterilized and refilled, so it could use the same bottles over and over. So they really were recycled.

But they didn't have the green thing back in that customer's day.

In her day, they walked up stairs, because they didn't have an escalator in every store and office building. They walked to the grocery store and didn't climb
into a 300-horsepower machine every time they had to go two blocks.

But she was right. They didn't have the green thing in her day.

Back then, they washed the baby's diapers because they didn't have the throw-away kind. They dried clothes on a line, not in an energy gobbling machine burning up 220 volts, wind and solar power really did dry the clothes. Kids got hand-me-down clothes from their brothers or sisters, not always brand-new clothing.

But that old lady is right, they didn't have the green thing back in her day.

Back then, they had one TV, or radio, in the house not a TV in every room. And the TV had a small screen the size of a handkerchief, not a screen the size of the state of Montana . In the kitchen, they blended and stirred by hand because they didn't have electric machines to do everything for you. When they packaged a fragile item to send in the mail, they used a wadded up old newspaper to cushion it, not Styrofoam or plastic bubble wrap.

Back then, they didn't fire up an engine and burn gasoline just to cut the lawn. They used a push mower that ran on human power. They exercised by working so they didn't need to go to a health club to run on treadmills that operate on electricity.

But she's right, they didn't have the green thing back then.

They drank from a fountain when they were thirsty instead of using a cup or a plastic bottle every time they had a drink of water. They refilled their writing pens with ink instead of buying a new pen, and they replaced the razor blades in a razor instead of throwing away the whole razor just because the blade got dull.

But they didn't have the green thing back then.

Back then, people took the streetcar or a bus and kids rode their bikes to school or rode the school bus instead of turning their moms into a 24-hour taxi service. They had one electrical outlet in a room, not an entire bank of sockets to power a dozen appliances. And they didn't need a computerized gadget to receive a signal beamed from satellites 2,000 miles out in space in order to find the nearest pizza joint.

But, the current generation laments how wasteful the old folks were just because they didn't have the green thing back then... We live in a world that does not respect older generations. We live in a world where accountability always belongs to someone else. We live in a world that teaches that our past is evil and our forefathers negligent. We are taught our future depends on eradication of the past. We live in a world oblivious to history - so many see only what has been rewritten, only hear what has been retold, only understand that which has been redefined. Catch words, catch phrases like GREEN are only words - action speaks louder than words.

I could add dozens of other ways old folks recycled and re-purposed items this generation has never considered. In fact, I could add dozens of items to this list that old folks like myself still re-purpose that our consumer-bred young folks would never dream of doing. I can walk the streets of the suburb I live in and point out where an old person lives and where a college student lives any trash day. It isn't pretty, if you consider that the evidence reveals most college students still add more to the landfill any day than the rest of us. The color and size of the container renders the "green thing" irrelevant if it is filled to over-flowing and the contents are blowing down the street.

Happy Birthday Kimberly!

2011-05-11T05:00:00.004-06:00

May 11, 2011
Colorado, USA

Here are a few of your smiles through the years...

Happy #30 Kimberly

And remember: Never frown, even when you are sad, because you never know who is falling in love with your smile.

Happy Mother's Day Mom!

2011-05-08T05:00:00.004-06:00

May 8, 2011
Colorado, USA

Greetings Mother-Mine
On this your 55th Mother’s Day

Today, I celebrate you as my beloved Mother of over 55 years and count myself fortunate to be your Daughter for that same length of time. I celebrate Me and You. I celebrate US. We began our transformative journey on the day I was born, You became a Mother and I became a Daughter.

When I was but a child, I had no concept of US. There was only You. There was no Me without You. As a teen, I had no concept of US. There was only Me. A Me looking to grow away from You. That’s what children do if a Mother has done well the task assigned her with the advent of children to her life. A Mother must patiently observe as her children, somewhat heartlessly, grow up and grow away. As a young woman, I had no concept of US. I was too busy making a life for myself and being a Mother to my own child. At that time, there was no Me and no You. There was only Them (the others who needed Mothering and Grand-Mothering). As a mature woman, I have come to fully appreciate the concept of US, as Mother and Daughter. Once again, there is no Me without You and if I am correct in my thinking, no You without Me.

I believe in the cyclical nature of things… of people… of life… I believe what one sends out into the world - returns. I believe in paying things forward. I believe the receipts of sacrifice eventually come due. Call it karma… pagan… sentimental… Life is not linear. No one walks ever onward without glancing over their shoulders for a look at the place and time and people from whence they came. Eventually, if one evolves into a deep-thinking, reflective individual, then one stops to assess the value of one’s roots. Moreover, one cannot do that without fair consideration of those selfless individuals who have given their all to see one safely upon the road of life.

That’s why I say there is no Me without You, Mother-Mine. There is no time in my life when you were not present and involved, whether I would have that devotion from you or not. Sure, other relationships contribute to the whole of a person’s makeup, but none is more sacred than that of a woman and child… a mother and daughter.

Of all the things I have learned from You, the art of caring is probably the most important… caring with love, caring with honor, caring with respect. We must care for those who have peopled our past, care for those who are a part of our lives today and care for those we want in our future. Sadly, despite all our care, not all make it as far down the future road as we would like… still, others travel much farther than we ever expect.

Part of caring is simply making time for those we love and voicing appreciation in recognition of those who are part of our lives while they are still in our lives and that is as simple as saying I Love You. Today. Now.

Never think for a moment, Mother-Mine that You are not the key to my past, the heart of my present and the hope of my future. Someday life will dictate otherwise, but not today, and not now. I Love You.

Some of us choose to celebrate our whole lives, the happy parts, the sad parts, and even the weird parts… not just the parts that lie ahead in what may or may not be a pleasant future.

Some of us choose to celebrate the people responsible for who we are. That is Me celebrating You, celebrating US - on this Mother’s Day and every day.

With love and constant devotion
To the Loveliest Mom in the Universe,
From Your Daughter, Vickie
Mother’s Day - May 8, 2011

Happy Mother's Day

2011-05-08T04:59:00.000-06:00

May 8, 2011
Colorado, USA

Passing the torch

2011-05-07T05:00:00.002-06:00

WORRY

Is there an imaginary cutoff period when
Offspring become accountable
For their own actions?
Is there some wonderful moment when
Parents can become detached spectators in
The lives of their children and shrug,
'It's Their life,' and feel nothing?

When I was in my twenties,
I stood in a hospital corridor
Waiting for doctors to put a few stitches
In my son's head and I asked,
'When do you stop worrying?'
The nurse said,
'When they get out of the accident stage..'
My Parents just smiled faintly
And said nothing.

When I was in my thirties,
I sat on a little chair in a classroom
And heard how one of my children
Talked incessantly, disrupted the class,
And was headed for a career
Making license plates.
As if to read my mind, a teacher said,
'Don't worry, they all go through this stage
And then you can sit back,
Relax and enjoy them.'
My Parents just smiled faintly
And said nothing.

When I was in my forties,
I spent a lifetime waiting
For the phone to ring,
The cars to come home,
The front door to open.
A friend said,
'They're trying to find themselves.
'Don't worry!
In a few years, they'll be adults.
'They'll be off on their own
They'll be out of your hair'
My Parents just smiled faintly
And said nothing.

By the time I was 50,
I was sick & tired of being vulnerable.
I was still worrying over my children,
But there was a new wrinkle..
Even though they were on their own
I continued to anguish over their failures,
Be tormented by their frustrations and
Absorbed in their disappointments..
And there was nothing I could do about it.
My Parents just smiled faintly
And said nothing.

My friends said that
When my kids got married
I could stop worrying
And lead my own life.
I wanted to believe that,
But I was haunted by my parent's warm smiles
And their occasional,
'You look pale. Are you all right' ?
'Call me the minute you get home'.
Are you depressed about something?'

My friends said that
When I became a grandparent
That I would get to enjoy
The happy little voices yelling
Grandma! Papa!
But now I find that I worry
Just as much about the little kids
As the big ones.
How can anyone cope
With all this Worry?
Can it be that parents are sentenced
To a lifetime of worry?
Is concern for one another
Handed down like a torch
To blaze the trail of human frailties
And the fears of the unknown?
Is concern a curse or is it
A virtue that elevates us
To the highest form of earthly creation?

Recently, one of my own children
Became quite irritable, saying to me,
'Where were you?
I've been calling for 3 days,
And no one answered
I was worried.'
I smiled a warm smile.
The torch has been passed.

A friend shared this with me and it just seemed fitting to share it near Mother's Day... this Mother's Day (tomorrow) I am off for a ride on the Harley, feeling quite at ease with being out of touch from sunup to sundown... oh yeah - I have passed the torch.

PASS THIS ON TO OTHER WONDERFUL PARENTS
(And also to your children... That's the fun part)

Happy Easter!

2011-04-24T05:00:00.002-06:00

April 24, 2011
Colorado, USA

Meeting the Easter Bunny

On Easter morn at early dawn
before the cocks were crowing,
I met a bob-tail bunnykin
and asked where he was going.

"Tis in the house and out the house
a-tipsy, tipsy-toeing,
‘Tis round the house and ‘bout the house
a lightly I am going."

"But what is that of every hue
you carry in your basket?"
"Tis eggs of gold and eggs of blue;
I wonder that you ask it.

"Tis chocolate eggs and bonbon eggs
and eggs of red and gray,
For every child in every house
on bunny Easter Day."

He perked his ears and winked his eye
and twitched his little nose;
He shook his tail -what tail he had
and stood up on his toes.

"I must be gone before the sun;
the east is growing gray;
"Tis almost time for bells to chime."
So he hippety-hopped away.

Written by: Rowena Bennett, 1930

We're gonna miss you Molly...

2011-04-22T05:00:00.001-06:00

April 22, 2011
Colorado, USA

Texas -- Yesterday, the Folks had to say good-bye to long time friend and faithful companion - Miss Molly. They took her in off the streets several years ago. She was tired, scrawny and half starved, abused and scared but with a little TLC she recovered quickly and brought all of us many moments of joy. We are going to miss you Molly-Bolly.

Happy Birthday Dad!

2011-04-21T05:00:00.001-06:00

April 21, 2011
Colorado, USA

Whatever the day brings - I hope it is just what you have in mind...

Birthday post on the Harley Blog.

Happy Birthday Eric!

2011-04-14T05:00:00.000-06:00

April 14, 2011
Colorado, USA

Hope the day treats you right!

Happy Birthday Grandma Criswell!

2011-04-14T04:59:00.001-06:00

April 14, 2011
Colorado, USA

Today is my Great Grandmother Criswell's birthday. Her birthday post this year is on Sadie's Blog.

Lydia Bertha Cochran Criswell
Mother to Sadie Inez Criswell Davis
Birth date: April 14, 1887
Madison County, Mississippi
Death date: July 10, 1988 (age 101)
Wichita County, Wichita Falls, Texas

HAPPY BIRTHDAY STEWART!

2011-04-07T05:00:00.001-06:00

April 7, 2011
Colorado, USA

Grandson #2 - Stewart Adam Young is eight years old today. He likes lizards and sea monkeys, magic and his new electric guitar.

Happy Birthday Stormy

2011-04-04T00:01:00.012-06:00

April 4, 2011
Colorado, USA

As a youngster she believed in fairies and delighted in the discovery of fairy rings (toadstools that popped up in the lawn after a rain). She thought a lightning bug glowing in the summer night was Tinkerbell. She looked hard into the center of lilies thinking she might find Thumbelina and she fashioned tiny beds out of walnut shells just in case she ever found the fairy princess. Goldilocks in the story of The Three Bears tested her patience (she thought Goldy wasn't very smart). In the version told by Stormy - Goldilocks got eaten by the bears. She loved koala bears, Strawberry Shortcake, Weeble-Peeple and telephones, rode a Wonder Horse into the ground, wore the wheels off two Big Wheels, loved all kinds of music, the 64 pickup, race cars and show cars. She thought her Grandma (Mama) was the prettiest woman on the face of the earth and her Grandpa (Papa) was the koolest guy on the planet. She walked before she was a year old, drove a tractor before she had a driver's license, has not let a set of wheels cool off since and has traveled a good part of the world. She was a rag-taggle, skin-on-the-chin, knot-on-her-head, freckled face, smiling, butterfly imp of a child, a fast-rolling, put-it-all-out-there, all-or-nothing teen who magically morphed into a strong-headed, driven young lady, the result of which is a beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated woman who is a force in the lives of all who know her. It's been a helluva ride so far and from the looks of it I wouldn't unbuckle just yet. Ha!

The daughter celebrates a birthday today, so we're taking with a trip down memory lane... just a bunch of old photos put together in a little video featuring Stormy through the years and one of her favorite songs... Walking on Sunshine, which is appropriate as sunshine is exactly what she's brought to our lives these many years...

Happy Birthday Stormy

I'm walking on sunshine , wooah
I'm walking on sunshine, woooah
I'm walking on sunshine, woooah
and don't it feel good!!

From your grandparents:
Happy birthday to our beautiful granddaughter

Good morning Stormy and happy birthday to our first granddaughter. We wish you a happy fun filled day with friends and family. Know that we love you and that you always have a very special place in our hearts.

It only seems like yesterday that you came into our lives and made us all a better person. You were brand new and something to love and to care for. You are the shining star in our night and the bright sunshine in our days. We have been so blessed with your laughter, love and caring for a lot of years. We have had our good times and our bad times but the good times overrule the bad ones.

You taught us that you are strong and that you have made good choices in lots of things that you did, God only knows how you survived to become the young woman that you are. You were so passoniate in what you wanted and you made it through all these years and look at you now. How could we not be proud of you and what you are today.

God bless you our granddaughter on your birthday and may the fairies sprinkle star dust upon you today and make this a joyous day. Even though we will not be with you today, you will be in our thoughts today.

Remember your pop-pa and mom-ma love you and we love what you have become. So stand tall our red haired and beautiful girl and face all the tomorrows with a smile on your face and say "I did it my way".

Happy birthday Stormy

Love you
Mom-ma and pop-pa
April 4th, 2011

And Tina said:
Happy Birthday Stormy!!!!!!!!!! I love the birthday blog your mom put together. I've seen you grow up since you were 4rs old and honey you always had a way of walking on sunshine.....Keep it up and enjoy your day.... Love Aunt Tina

Happy Birthday Uncle O

2011-04-01T05:01:00.000-06:00

April 1, 2011
Colorado, USA

Happy Birthday Uncle Orval!

Remembering with a smile my sailor-man Uncle who traveled the world, showed me places he had been in a book, brought me beautiful dolls from far away countries, gave me rides to Fun Land in a convertible with the top down, bought me cotton candy and didn't scold if it got stuck in my hair and remembered that little girls liked to play with hand carved toy guns and swords, too.

Just a happy day from long, long ago - wishing you smiles just like this for your birthday today and always.

April Fools Reality Check

2011-04-01T05:00:00.000-06:00

April 1, 2011
Colorado, USA

Happy Anniversary Claude and Linda!

2011-03-31T05:00:00.000-06:00

March 31, 2011
Colorado, USA

Happy 44th Anniversary to our good friends Claude and Linda today! Wishing you the best of life's blessings today and always...

Happy Birthday Alice!

2011-03-26T05:00:00.034-06:00

March 26, 2011
Colorado, USA

Happy Birthday Alice. Remembering me and you, aunt and niece, close enough through the years to be more like sister-friends, so much so that often forget you're actually my Aunt.

Here's a photo movie I put together for your birthday, Aunt Alice... enjoy.

Happy Birthday Alice

REMEMBER?

Picnics on a quilt in the back yard (saltine crackers and jam, tiny boxes of raisins and a jar of sweet ice tea)...

Rolling down a hill into the ditch in a big old cardboard box...

Princess Parades (where we were certain Benny Burleson would be watching **grins**)...

Austin, TX: waiting for Dad's buddy Ken to drive up in his hot rod (wonder who had the bigger crush do ya think?)...

Strolling down the street singing "She Wore an Itsy Bitsy Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka-Dot Bikini" at the top of our lungs...

A little dog named Austin...

Mad dashes in Grandpa's car to the library so I could get a book to read (that was the excuse, anyway). We got the same book every time, remember? - so we would have time to run by the Lo-Boy for a Cherry Coke or Cherry 7-Up - you think the grownups ever caught on about that?...

Seeing Godzilla or some monster flick like that at the theater in Henrietta together...

Amarillo, TX: watching Dark Shadows every afternoon together, mooning over Quentin and Barnabus...

Working together (remember gift-wrapping at the jewelry store?)... and years later tying legs on ninny-dolls...

You doing my hair up fancier than I ever wore it before - in a side pony tail with lots of ribbons for my first high school dance...

Me and you and Clay watching a storm out your front window - there were "funders" out there ya know...

Me and you at rodeo dances and parades, spinning 45's, making "city quail"...

Would you believe I still have that little cowhide purse you gave me before the Clay County Reunion one year? I wore the soles off those hand-me-down cowgirl boots, too...

Remember? Everybody loves a nut - the whole world loves a weirdo - somehow we identified with that - haha!...

Raising kids together, sippin' a beer together, and cajun cookouts with Tim as the guinea pig. I miss your Red Draws...

Moving and decorating, moving and decorating again - how many times did we do that? I lost count - ha!...

Thanks for letting me hang out and tag-along as often as you did...

We go back a long way, girl. We've shared laughs and tears, weathered a few of life's glitches, suffered a few of life's insults, rolled with a few punches, wore a black sheep mantle now and then, but at the end of day or a year we emerged with a shake of our head and a smile on our face. Looks like we have a few more miles and years to travel yet. No matter how it all turns out -- you are still you and I am still me and hopefully we'll see a few more good times together.

The way I gauge whether a person still belongs in my life is how after an absence of days or weeks or even months we can pretty much pick up where we left off as though we had only spent an hour apart. I believe we have that although maybe we shouldn't test that theory quite so strenuously.

I wish you all the brightest of life's blessings - today and always.

Remember this old John Denver favorite?

Sunshine, on my shoulders - makes me happy
sunshine, in my eyes - can make me cry
sunshine, on the water - looks so lovely
sunshine, almost always - makes me high

If I had a day that I could give you
I'd give to you a day just like today
if I had a song that I could sing for you
I'd sing a song to make you feel this way

Sunshine, on my shoulders - makes me happy
sunshine, in my eyes - can make me cry
sunshine, on the water - looks so lovely
sunshine, almost always - makes me high

If I had a tale that I could tell you
I'd tell a tale sure to make you smile
if I had a wish that I could wish for you
I'd make a wish for sunshine all the while

Sunshine, on my shoulders - makes me happy
sunshine, in my eyes - can make me cry
sunshine, on the water - looks so lovely
sunshine, almost always - makes me high

Sunshine and sunflowers always bring you to mind...

I miss you. I love you.
I wish you a John Denver kind of
sunshine on your shoulders day!
-- Vickie --
March 26, 2011

What follows is a slide show (similar to the movie), no music - just photos of Alice through the years.

Printable version of this post:
Happy Birthday Alice

Happy Anniversary Orval & Donna!

2011-03-24T05:00:00.000-06:00

March 24, 2011
Colorado, USA

Orval and Donna are celebrating Twenty years today! Love and best wishes to you both!
Have a great day!

Remembering Grandpa Foster

2011-03-22T05:00:00.024-06:00

March 22, 2011
Colorado, USA

Remembering Grandpa Foster
Leon Uston “Gramps” Foster (1911-1985)

Today is Grandpa Foster's birthday. He was born 100 years ago on this day. In later years, he was known as "Gramps" to some but he was always Grandpa Foster to me.

Grandpa was a man of gentle nature, good humor and quiet strength, a strong, steady, hard-working no-nonsense sort of guy. Still, a quiet kid could curl up in his lap, feel safe and be content. He was a clean-shaven man with a ruddy complexion. He had an oil and soil, earthy scent about him, one I equate with hard-working men, a combination of lava soap, old spice and for lack of a better word, "sun". He smelled warm like a summer day in the country, like heat on a wheat field near harvest time, like the interior of a truck baking on a hot Texas afternoon, like the electricity in the air just before a thunderstorm.

Grandpa wore overalls and long sleeve denim or chambray shirts most of the time. The overalls he wore as work clothes were called "greasers". These are the ones that got really dirty. He usually wore a hat with a brim or a straw cowboy hat. When he dressed for an outing or to go to church, he wore khaki pants or dress pants and shirts. I don't believe I ever saw Grandpa in a pair of blue jeans.

Grandpa was a man with a large appetite. He could eat a whole pie and most of a fried chicken much to my childish amazement. He could finish the last bite of fried okra on a platter before I had a chance to say, Hey! I wanted some of that. He wanted his coffee boiling hot and slurped it from a saucer. I learned this is how he cooled it. I learned to drink coffee at mid-morning with Grandma and Grandpa Foster. Grandma always knew exactly when to put the pot on. Grandpa liked ice cream and we [the grand kids] looked forward to a bowl of Neapolitan with Grandpa after supper, but we never asked for it. We simply waited for Grandpa to tell Grandma he believed he'd have a bowl of ice cream now. Sometimes he said it with a wink. That meant we would have ice cream, too. As far as I know, Grandpa never touched a drop of liquor. He smoked cigarettes and sometimes a pipe.

Grandpa worked for Bridwell Oil Co. He pumped an oil lease. His work days were long. He worked in all sorts of weather and as far as I know never missed a day of work. He kept ice cold water in an insulated water cooler on the back porch. Attached to the side of the cooler was a tin dipper which gave the water a metallic taste. We thought we were really big after getting a taste of cold water out of Grandpa's dipper.

In the daytime, one doesn't notice much the sound of the motors on an oil lease, but in the dead of night, when the motors stop, the silence was remarkable. A few minutes after such an occurrence, one could hear whispers and Grandpa's feet would hit the floor. Off he would go into the blackness that is night in the country to set things right.

Other things I remember about Grandpa is that he was one heck of a gardener, loved to play dominoes, shushed us when he watched the news (Huntley and Brinkley) and Gunsmoke. After lunch, he would sit in a corner on the floor near the kitchen door and watch part of Grandma's stories (soap operas) with her before heading back out to work. Sometimes he would come in the door and tell Grandma a storm was brewin'. When I asked how he knew, he would tell me his elbow told him. When a storm came in as predicted, I have to tell you I was quite impressed with Grandpa's talking elbow. Grandpa named the dogs he kept Boy, Dog and Pup.

I do not recall Grandpa watching sports. In the evenings after work, and after jotting down his "figgers", (recording numbers in a ledger), we would be cautioned into silence. He snored loudly in his chair while pretending to watch TV, which caused grand kids to giggle behind hands clamped over mouths as Grandma winked and wagged a finger of "shush" to us.

Sometimes we would convince Grandpa to let us go to work with him. We would spend that day bumping along down dusty roads in the truck, trying to hang our arms out the window like Grandpa. We would sit in the shade of the truck, sipping cold water from the truck cooler and run through the bar ditch while Grandpa completed his work. We were happy to come in after a day of "work", sunburned and covered from head to toe in grease and oil (stains that would never come out of the clothing we wore) just like Grandpa.

Grandpa was also a great fisherman. Many of his photos show him holding up a prize catch of catfish, hauled out of the Wichita River.

One of my favorite memories is when Grandpa would allow us kids to crawl up on the hood of his truck on a hot summer night to gaze at the stars. We would lay flat on our backs and dream about what lay beyond the milky way while swatting at mosquitoes until Grandma called us in.

These are childhood memories but I have many young adult memories of Grandpa as well. What I remember most is how inseparable Grandma and Grandpa Foster seemed to be and how right that seemed.

Grandma and Grandpa Foster 1970

Remembering Grandpa with fondness in my heart...

Grandpa Foster with great granddaughter, Stormy (mid 70s).

Grandpa Foster with great granddaughters Stormy and Kimberly (1981).

Happy Spring!

2011-03-21T13:54:00.002-06:00

March 21, 2011
Colorado, USA

I have seen the season turn with the sun, all my days, and each year I feel the growing warmth as my world turns green.

My years are Spring, all of them, spring returning like a promise and a fragrant fulfillment.

Hal Borland - -This Hill, This Valley

Remembrance: Happy Birthday Grandpa Davis!

2011-03-14T05:00:00.001-06:00

March 14, 2011

Happy Birthday Grandpa!

A few random recollections:

Grandpa Davis (that's how my generation addressed him) was a good-looking man. Tall, lean, angular in build, and clean cut like one would expect a natural born Texan to be, he was neat in his dress and his person. I don't remember him having much hair, just a neatly groomed comb-over. Perhaps he once had red hair and that's where the nick name "Red" originated. He was always clean-shaven and smelled of Old Spice after-shave. His clothing was always clean and pressed. He favored light-colored, long sleeve, western-cut shirts and khaki pants, boxer shorts and sleeveless undershirts. He dressed in muted tones of brown and beige. Most of the time he ironed his own clothes, although I remember earning a trip to the store for soda-pop a few times when he conned me into ironing a shirt or two in the summer. There was always lots of ironing to do back then with clothes coming in fresh from the clothes line. Grandpa often wore overalls for work clothes and white painter's pants. I don't believe I ever saw him in a pair of bluejeans.

Grandpa usually wore a hat or a ball cap, most often sitting at a slightly jaunty angle on his head. The felt or beaver hats he favored usually had a tall crown and a wide flat "farmer" brim (not the typical up-turned cowboy crease). Grandpa's straw hats had a little more of a cowboy crease, probably because they came that way from the store. It was from Grandpa that I learned one wore straw hats in summer and felt hats in winter and why. Other than the lace up boots he wore to work (as a carpenter and painter) and slippers in the early morning, I do not recall Grandpa wearing anything other than cowboy boots on his feet. I do remember he wore sock garters which, as a youngster, I found very curious.

Did you ever see Grandpa roll a cigarette? I was always fascinated by the process and marveled at how Grandpa's large hands could manage such fine work. I never picked up smoking but I loved watching him smoke. Grandpa usually had a cigarette in hand. I have memories of him sitting on the front porch for what seemed like hours on end, watching the day slowly sink into the west. I can remember the orange end of a cigarette glowing in the dark of a still evening and a ribbon of pale smoke curling over his head.

Red Davis and oldest grandchild Vickie - April 1957

When I was a young girl, Grandpa tended a back yard garden that yielded tomatoes and cucumbers and other country veggies. He had a pear tree. Alongside the old house he "wasted water" (said Sadie) on a spectacular stand of orange ditch lilies with a few gladiolas sprinkled in. Grandpa's favorite flower was a gladiola. I suppose he was tending flowers his mother might have planted since the place was the family home.

Grandpa loved to play dominoes. The dinner table was always immediately cleared after a holiday meal and the men-folk played dominoes all afternoon. Someone was always accusing Grandpa of cheating which seemed to greatly amuse him. I don't know if he was really cheating or just pulling a prank by testing the attention of the other players. After he retired, Grandpa spent a good many afternoons at the pool hall in downtown Henrietta, playing dominoes, perhaps a bit of pool, sitting around smoking with his cronies and solving the ills of the world, no doubt.

He sometimes cooked his own breakfast and washed his own supper dishes. It was from Grandpa that I acquired a taste for sorghum molasses which he often had after supper with white bread or biscuits. Sometimes he would have cornbread or toast in buttermilk, but I never acquired a taste for that.

Grandpa was not a drinking man although he would have an occasional nip from the bottle, for medicinal purposes you know. He seemed to prefer vodka which he pronounced "vadke" (like bad-key only with a v -- vad-key). He used to call Dad (Ted) and tell him to bring a bottle of vadke on his way to Henrietta whether Dad was planning a trip to Henrietta or not. Ha!

Grandpa liked going to car races and other sporting events. My Dad (Ted) tells an amusing story about Grandpa nearly getting him arrested by making illegal bets at the boat races once. He was always playing some sort of prank on young girls at the rodeo (Clay County Reunion Rodeo). He would pretend he was lost or had amnesia, asking young people what year it was and what town was he in, things like that. He would say, "Little girl... I wonder if you could help me..." I believe baseball was Grandpa's favorite sport. He would watch games sometimes on TV, but, I think he mostly listened to night games on a transistor radio with an earphone.

Grandpa went to bed with the chickens and rose before the early bird could get the worm. That's what Sadie always told me. When my brother and I stayed with Grandma and Grandpa, I slept with Sadie and my brother slept with Red on big beds which sat across the room from each other. (They seemed big because the mattresses were so tall I guess). Not too long ago, Mom (Inez) reminded me of something Grandpa used to say. Once my brother learn to whistle, he whistled all the time. Inez tells me she and her sisters used to sing in the bed.

Grandpa would warn:
Whistle at the table, sing in the bed,
The boogie man will get you by the hair of the head.

Grandpa drove fast. I can remember him barreling up and down the dusty streets of Henrietta with a back seat full of sweaty, sunburned, freckle-faced grand kids. Sometimes he took the long way to town, threatening more than once to leave us with some mean ol' woman on the wrong side of the tracks or the creek. Excursions with Grandpa usually ended up at the small grocery store downtown where he bought us all a soda pop or a popsicle. Early on, he showed us how to dump salted peanuts in a coke. We felt really naughty when we did that. Grandma (Sadie) did not allow kids to eat nuts.

Grandpa was a slow moving, quiet-spoken man, never in a hurry and never speaking much above a whisper. His laugh was more a dry, raspy chuckle. Still, when Grandpa decided to tell a story, we [the grand kids] grew quiet and listened. Grandpa told the best stories... long, drawn out tales full of detail. We never tired of the story of the Three Billy Goats Gruff. The troll was much better (and more ornery) in Grandpa's version of the tale.

As a teen, I still spent a good bit of my summer with my grandparents. Grandpa and I would sit on the porch trying to catch a breeze, talked about normal every day things, sometimes took a stroll. He liked for me to wash his car and at least once a summer I waxed it.

To this day, I cherish every minute I spent with Grandpa. I cannot recall a time where he was cross or ill-tempered or hard to get along with. He was always the same gentle presence, no matter the passing of years.

Withers (Weathers) Clay "Red" Davis was born March 14, 1903 in Denton County, TX. He was one of twelve children born to Samuel Oscar and Alice Davis. His father was a farmer in Clay County and a former saloon owner. Grandpa was a twin, his brother was named Voss Willis Davis.

Sadie and Red were married November 7, 1936 and remained married for just shy of 42 years. Between them they had five children, a son, W.C. Davis "JR" from his first marriage and four daughters, Inez, Kathy, Hallie and Alice with Sadie.

Sadie & Red with Kathy & Inez - early 1940s

Red died October 27, 1978. He was 75 years old and I was one day shy of 23. Grandpa loved the Fall and Hallowe'en. So do I. Every year the first pumpkin I buy is Grandpa's pumpkin. I pin his picture to it and it sits on the hearth through Thanksgiving. It's just my way of remembering someone I loved well.

Here is a brief Davis history compiled in 1996 by Davis Doris Warren Sr, oldest son of Betty Zane Davis shared with me by Sadie in 2003. I have it in pdf format so feel free to read or download and print it.

A Brief Davis History (1996)

See prior post with a few more stories: Remembering Grandpa - October 2010
Read: The Three Billy Goats Gruff

Cross-posted to Sadie's Blog

Texas: Getting it right for over 175 years...

2011-03-02T05:00:00.000-07:00

March 2, 2011
Colorado, USA

March 2, 1836

Texas Declaration Of Independence

When, long after the spirit of the constitution has departed, moderation is at length so far lost by those in power, that even the semblance of freedom is removed...

When a government has ceased to protect the lives, liberty and property of the people, from whom its legitimate powers are derived, and for the advancement of whose happiness it was instituted, and so far from being a guarantee for the enjoyment of those inestimable and inalienable rights, becomes an instrument in the hands of evil rulers for their oppression.

When the Federal Republican Constitution of their country, which they have sworn to support, no longer has a substantial existence, and the whole nature of their government has been forcibly changed, without their consent, from a restricted federative republic, composed of sovereign states, to a consolidated central military despotism, in which every interest is disregarded but that of the army and the priesthood, both the eternal enemies of civil liberty, the everready minions of power, and the usual instruments of tyrants.

When, long after the spirit of the constitution has departed, moderation is at length so far lost by those in power, that even the semblance of freedom is removed, and the forms themselves of the constitution discontinued, and so far from their petitions and remonstrances being regarded, the agents who bear them are thrown into dungeons, and mercenary armies sent forth to force a new government upon them at the point of the bayonet.

When, in consequence of such acts of malfeasance and abdication on the part of the government, anarchy prevails, and civil society is dissolved into its original elements. In such a crisis, the first law of nature, the right of self-preservation, the inherent and inalienable rights of the people to appeal to first principles, and take their political affairs into their own hands in extreme cases, enjoins it as a right towards themselves, and a sacred obligation to their posterity, to abolish such government, and create another in its stead, calculated to rescue them from impending dangers, and to secure their future welfare and happiness.

Nations, as well as individuals, are amenable for their acts to the public opinion of mankind. A statement of a part of our grievances is therefore submitted to an impartial world, in justification of the hazardous but unavoidable step now taken, of severing our political connection with the Mexican people, and assuming an independent attitude among the nations of the earth.

The Mexican government, by its colonization laws, invited and induced the Anglo-American population of Texas to colonize its wilderness under the pledged faith of a written constitution, that they should continue to enjoy that constitutional liberty and republican government to which they had been habituated in the land of their birth, the United States of America.

In this expectation they have been cruelly disappointed, inasmuch as the Mexican nation has acquiesced in the late changes made in the government by General Antonio Lopez de Santa Anna, who having overturned the constitution of his country, now offers us the cruel alternative, either to abandon our homes, acquired by so many privations, or submit to the most intolerable of all tyranny, the combined despotism of the sword and the priesthood.

It has sacrificed our welfare to the state of Coahuila, by which our interests have been continually depressed through a jealous and partial course of legislation, carried on at a far distant seat of government, by a hostile majority, in an unknown tongue, and this too, notwithstanding we have petitioned in the humblest terms for the establishment of a separate state government, and have, in accordance with the provisions of the national constitution, presented to the general Congress a republican constitution, which was, without just cause, contemptuously rejected.

It incarcerated in a dungeon, for a long time, one of our citizens, for no other cause but a zealous endeavor to procure the acceptance of our constitution, and the establishment of a state government.

It has failed and refused to secure, on a firm basis, the right of trial by jury, that palladium of civil liberty, and only safe guarantee for the life, liberty, and property of the citizen.

It has failed to establish any public system of education, although possessed of almost boundless resources, (the public domain,) and although it is an axiom in political science, that unless a people are educated and enlightened, it is idle to expect the continuance of civil liberty, or the capacity for self government.

It has suffered the military commandants, stationed among us, to exercise arbitrary acts of oppression and tyrrany, thus trampling upon the most sacred rights of the citizens, and rendering the military superior to the civil power.

It has dissolved, by force of arms, the state Congress of Coahuila and Texas, and obliged our representatives to fly for their lives from the seat of government, thus depriving us of the fundamental political right of representation.

It has demanded the surrender of a number of our citizens, and ordered military detachments to seize and carry them into the Interior for trial, in contempt of the civil authorities, and in defiance of the laws and the constitution.

It has made piratical attacks upon our commerce, by commissioning foreign desperadoes, and authorizing them to seize our vessels, and convey the property of our citizens to far distant ports for confiscation.

It denies us the right of worshipping the Almighty according to the dictates of our own conscience, by the support of a national religion, calculated to promote the temporal interest of its human functionaries, rather than the glory of the true and living God.

It has demanded us to deliver up our arms, which are essential to our defence, the rightful property of freemen, and formidable only to tyrannical governments.

It has invaded our country both by sea and by land, with intent to lay waste our territory, and drive us from our homes; and has now a large mercenary army advancing, to carry on against us a war of extermination.

It has, through its emissaries, incited the merciless savage, with the tomahawk and scalping knife, to massacre the inhabitants of our defenseless frontiers.

It hath been, during the whole time of our connection with it, the contemptible sport and victim of successive military revolutions, and hath continually exhibited every characteristic of a weak, corrupt, and tyrranical government.

These, and other grievances, were patiently borne by the people of Texas, untill they reached that point at which forbearance ceases to be a virtue. We then took up arms in defence of the national constitution. We appealed to our Mexican brethren for assistance. Our appeal has been made in vain. Though months have elapsed, no sympathetic response has yet been heard from the Interior. We are, therefore, forced to the melancholy conclusion, that the Mexican people have acquiesced in the destruction of their liberty, and the substitution therfor of a military government; that they are unfit to be free, and incapable of self government.

The necessity of self-preservation, therefore, now decrees our eternal political separation.

We, therefore, the delegates with plenary powers of the people of Texas, in solemn convention assembled, appealing to a candid world for the necessities of our condition, do hereby resolve and declare, that our political connection with the Mexican nation has forever ended, and that the people of Texas do now constitute a free, Sovereign, and independent republic, and are fully invested with all the rights and attributes which properly belong to independent nations; and, conscious of the rectitude of our intentions, we fearlessly and confidently commit the issue to the decision of the Supreme arbiter of the destinies of nations.

Source: Lone Star Junction, Texas Declaration of Independence

Eleven things your child will not learn in school...

2011-02-22T11:18:00.007-07:00

February 22, 2011
Colorado, USA

I believe the following rules would serve our younger generations well. In our present molly-coddling society we teach our youngsters there is no such thing as a loser. I do not get the concept that everybody wins because everybody gave it their best shot. In my day, if your best shot did not get you a win then you were the loser. There was only one spot available at the top, only one #1. It is not a good idea to rewrite the definitions of basic polar opposites, is it? If you redefine Winner-Loser - they why not redefine Black-White, North-South, East-West, Up-Down, Hot-Cold or here's an idea let's redefine Smart-Stupid.

The author of the list below talks about how feel-good, politically correct teachings created a generation of kids with no concept of reality and how this concept sets them up for failure in the real world.

Rule 1: Life is not fair - get used to it!

Rule 2: The world doesn't care about your self-esteem. The world will expect you to accomplish something BEFORE you feel good about yourself.

Rule 3: You will NOT make $60,000 a year right out of high school. You won't be a vice-president with a car phone until you earn both.

Rule 4: If you think your teacher is tough, wait till you get a boss

Rule 5: Flipping burgers is not beneath your dignity. Your Grandparents had a different word for burger flipping: They called it opportunity.

Rule 6: If you mess up, it's not your parents' fault, so don't whine about your mistakes, learn from them.

Rule 7: Before you were born, your parents weren't as boring as they are now. They got that way from paying your bills, cleaning your clothes and listening to you talk about how cool you thought you were. So before you save the rain forest from the parasites of your parent's generation, try delousing the closet in your own room..

Rule 8: Your school may have done away with winners and losers, but life HAS NOT. In some schools, they have abolished failing grades and they'll give you as MANY TIMES as you want to get the right answer. This doesn't bear the slightest resemblance to ANYTHING in real life.

Rule 9: Life is not divided into semesters. You don't get summers off and very few employers are interested in helping you FIND YOURSELF. Do that on your own time.

Rule 10: Television is NOT real life. In real life people actually have to leave the coffee shop and go to jobs.

Rule 11: Be nice to nerds. Chances are you'll end up working for one..

If you can read this... Thank a Teacher.
If you can read this in English... Thank a Soldier!

My challenge: If you are a parent, put this list in front of your teenager...

This list makes the round on the internet and is more often than not, incorrectly attributed to Bill Gates. It makes no difference who wrote it, it's still worth the read.
The original op-ed piece appeared in the San Diego Union-Tribune on September 19, 1996. It was written by Charles J. Sykes, best known as the author of "Dumbing Down Our Kids: Why American Children Feel Good about Themselves, but Can't Read, Write, or Add." Read the entire article here: http://www.ourcivilisation.com/dumb/dumb1.htm

Family Breakfast

2011-02-21T15:20:00.004-07:00

February 21, 2011
Colorado, USA

While in Texas for Grandmother's 100th birthday party, a few of us gathered for breakfast at IHOP in Wichita Falls. The Folks had the pleasure of sitting down to breakfast with both granddaughters for the first time in several years.

Inez (Mom/Gma), Kimberly, Stormy, Rob, Ted (Dad/Gpa), Tim and Vickie

Be on the lookout...

2011-02-17T19:00:00.000-07:00

February 18, 2011
Colorado, USA

One final party note (mostly for fun):

Wanted (no reward): Notorious Party Paper Thief (aka Dede - you little sneak) for committing the ultimate party foul... making off with Inez's commemorative copy of Sadie's History. One of five printed copies for Inez, Kathy {presented to Diana the oldest of Kathy's group} Hallie, Alice & Uncle Wayne went missing just after Dede was seen reading it at Sadie's table. This copy can be identified by the photo of Inez and Sadie on the front cover. Duh.

Dede was last seen at Sadie's 100th Birthday Party in north Texas... Please be advised: She may now be roaming the greater Dallas area. Keep an eye out for this bubbly, charming, charismatic, sticky-fingered culprit.

Fair Warning: This person is armed with a what-the-hell-else-might-she-have-in-there purse. Paper valuables should be kept under lock and key. It is further advised to keep a watchful eye on small pets and infants as well.

Happy Squeeze Your Honey Day

2011-02-14T05:00:00.001-07:00

February 14, 2011
Colorado, USA

Sadie's 100th Birthday Party

2011-02-12T21:00:00.045-07:00

February 12, 2011
Colorado, USA

Texas -- Today, my grandmother Sadie celebrated her 100th birthday with just over 60 family and friends.

See: Sadie's 100th Birthday Party post, photos and more

Sadie - Age 100 Today!

Happy Birthday Sadie!

2011-02-12T05:00:00.002-07:00

February 12, 2011
Colorado, USA

Happy Birthday Grandma!

Grandma Celebrates 100 years

Happy Birthday Tina!

2011-02-06T05:00:00.000-07:00

February 6, 2011
Colorado, USA

A moment of respect

2011-01-12T05:00:00.002-07:00

January 12, 2011
Colorado, USA

Bill of Rights, Amendment I

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

Bill of Rights, Amendment II
A well regulated militia, being necessary to the security of a free state, the right of the people to keep and bear arms, shall not be infringed.

!!&%(%&*$^$@%@^%$#!!

2011-01-07T17:34:00.000-07:00

January 7, 2011
Colorado, USA

No, this will not be my final word on it...

Reading List 2010

2011-01-04T10:24:00.002-07:00

Reading List 2010

RECOMMENDED FICTION
Angelology - Danielle Trussoni
Angels of Destruction - Keith Donohue
Booked to Die - John Dunning
Greely's Cove - John Gideon
Her Fearful Symmetry - Audrey Niffenegger
Horns - Joe Hill
Runemarks - JoAnne Harris
The Alchemist's Daughter - Katharine McMahon
The Angel's Game - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
The Lost Symbol - Dan Brown
The Red Thread - Nicholas Jose
The Serpent's Tale - Ariana Franklin
The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
The Story Sisters - Alice Hoffman
The Swan Thieves - Elizabeth Kostova

RECOMMENDED NON-FICTION
A Nation of Sheep - Judge Andrew P Napolitano
Common Valor - S.T. Simms
Constitutional Chaos - Judge Andrew P Napolitano
The Constitution in Exile - Judge Andrew P Napolitano
The Man Who Loved Books Too Much - Allison Hoover Bartlett

REVISTED WITH PLEASURE
If I've read it again consider it recommended...
Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll
The Last Picture Show - Larry McMurtry

AUDIO BOOKS
Harlequin Valentine - Neil Gaiman

YAWN!
The Next Queen of Heaven - Gregory Maguire

All ones...

2011-01-01T05:00:00.000-07:00

January 1, 2011
Colorado, USA

This year we will experience 4 unusual dates 1/1/11, 1/11/11, 11/1/11, 11/11/11.

Now take the last 2 digits of the year you were born plus the age you will be this year and it will equal 111.

Happy New Year!

2011-01-01T00:01:00.000-07:00

January 1, 2011
Colorado, USA

Happy New Year Eve!

2010-12-31T05:00:00.001-07:00

December 31, 2010
Colorado, USA

...it was the season of hospitality, merriment,
and open-heartedness;
the old year was preparing, like an ancient philosopher,
to call his friends around him,
and amidst the sound of feasting and revelry
to pass gently and calmly away.
from The Pickwick Papers, Charles Dickens

First Snow Day - White New Year

2010-12-30T17:21:00.003-07:00

December 30, 2010
Colorado, USA

We did not have a White Christmas this year. As a matter of fact, we rode the Harley on the 24th (shopping), 25th (to dinner) and 26th (just for fun). We've had little more than a dusting of snow all year on the front range. The mountains have been hammered though with snow that measures in the feet instead of inches. They can have and keep that. Ha!

Today we got the first measurable snow of the season and it is going to be cold during the New Year. No big deal - we have no plans that require us to get out. so, we'll sit by the fire, read a book, tinker on the laptops and chill...

About those New Year Resolutions...

2010-12-30T05:00:00.004-07:00

December 30, 2010
Colorado, USA

About those New Year Resolutions...

Sure, I have made resolutions, promised myself I would do better at this or that in the coming year -- but I don't really buy into them [resolutions]. I am the kind of person who believes if one feels the need to make a change... then one should make a change rather than arbitrarily plan for it. Waiting for a day on the calendar to make a resolution to be better at this or that or the other is procrastination not resolve. New Year's Day is a day much like any other day. The sun rises and sets just like any other day. If betterment of our personal selves and circumstances is the goal, then now, today, whatever that day may be is as good a time as any to begin -- isn't it?.

Still, the arrival of a New Year is a time of reflection for many, myself included. I read the following many years ago and was delighted when I ran across it again just a few days before Christmas. I believe any one of us could use this list to improve upon ourselves and be all the better for it. Any day. Any time.

An excerpt from the Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin (1784):

It was about this time I conceived the bold and arduous project of arriving at moral perfection. I wished to live without committing any fault at any time; I would conquer all that either natural inclination, custom, or company might lead me into. As I knew, or thought I knew, what was right and wrong, I did not see why I might not always do the one and avoid the other. But I soon found I had undertaken a task of more difficulty than I had imagined. While my care was employed in guarding against one fault, I was often surprised by another; habit took the advantage of inattention; inclination was sometimes too strong for reason. I concluded, at length, that the mere speculative conviction that it was our interest to be completely virtuous was not sufficient to prevent our slipping, and that the contrary habits must be broken, and good ones acquired and established, before we can have any dependence on a steady, uniform rectitude of conduct. For this purpose I therefore contrived the following method.

...and I included under thirteen names of virtues all that at that time occurred to me as necessary or desirable...

1. Temperance
Eat not to dullness; drink not to elevation.

2. Silence
Speak not but what may benefit others or yourself; avoid trifling conversation.

3. Order
Let all your things have their places; let each part of your business have its time.

4. Resolution
Resolve to perform what you ought; perform without fail what you resolve.

5. Frugality
Make no expense but to do good to others or yourself, i.e., waste nothing.

6. Industry
Lose no time; be always employed in something useful; cut off all unnecessary actions.

7. Sincerity.
Use no hurtful deceit; think innocently and justly, and, if you speak, speak accordingly.

8. Justice
Wrong none by doing injuries or omitting the benefits that are your duty.

9. Moderation
Avoid extremes; forbear resenting injuries so much as you think they deserve.

10. Cleanliness
Tolerate no uncleanliness in body, clothes, or habitation.

11. Tranquillity
Be not disturbed at trifles, or at accidents common or unavoidable.

12. Chastity
Rarely use venery but for health or offspring, never to dullness, weakness, or the injury of your own or another's peace or reputation.

13. Humility
Imitate Jesus and Socrates

Read the entire discourse at the following link:
The Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin

Harvey Family Christmas 2010

2010-12-25T23:00:00.005-07:00

December 25, 2010
Colorado, USA

Frisco, TX -- What follows are the slide shows of daughter Stormy and family's Christmas Decor, goodies, the boys and of course, Walter.

Slide show #1 - Christmas Eve (33 photos):

Slide Show #2 - Christmas Day (37 photos):

Christmas 2010 - Just US

2010-12-25T23:00:00.003-07:00

December 25, 2010
Colorado, USA

Santa was good to us this year... so were our family and friends...

Here is a slide show of our Christmas (36 photos):

Merry Christmas Folks

2010-12-25T21:00:00.000-07:00

December 25, 2010
Colorado, USA

Wichita Falls, TX -- Here are a few photos Mom shared with me Christmas evening.

My lovely Christmas Harley Mom...

Dad's new shirt says - You either have one - or you don't - Ha!

Dad and Molly with her candy cane from Us

Merry Christmas Folks - we missed being with you at Christmastime.

Grandma at Christmas

2010-12-25T17:00:00.001-07:00

December 25, 2010
Colorado, USA

Merry Christmas Grandma! I wished Grandma a Merry Christmas yesterday by phone. We had a nice, long chat, laughed much and both wished we could be together for the holiday. Grandma is 99 years old - soon to be 100 and something she says.

Grandma - Christmas Day 2010
Grandma - Christmas Day 2010

Merry Christmas!

2010-12-25T05:00:00.000-07:00

December 25, 2010
Colorado, USA

Mom's House Christmas 2010

2010-12-22T19:32:00.003-07:00

December 22, 2010
Colorado, USA

Wichita Falls, TX -- That's right - it's Mom's house, especially at Christmas. Mom decorates. Dad watches.

Mom's house at Christmas is soft and bright, light and festive. It always smells so good. When I think of Christmas at home (home in Texas) this is what I see in my mind's eye. What I can't share through a photo is my memories of warmth and love that light these walls with a light both pure of heart and generous in spirit. Merry Christmas Folks - I miss you. Of course, I will point out there are a couple of photos missing, Mom --- of You and Dad and Molly...

Here is a slide show of Mom's Christmas decor 2010 (photos = 38):

Decking the Halls 2010 (part 5) Tim's Snowman Collection and a little show of patriotism

2010-12-22T18:34:00.003-07:00

December 22, 2010
Colorado, USA

Downstairs in the comfort zone we have Tim's rather amazing snowman collection and a few rustic ornaments. This year we gathered the patriotic items together, and added a few flags. Patriotic was definitely the way to go. A large Uncle Sam (one of our barefoot prim creations) sits in a prominent spot beside the tree. Another smaller Sam (another of our barefoot creations) sits nearby. Antler Santas and Santa cowboys carved by Uncle O are scattered about. I gave a tired old paper mache cowboy Snowman a patriotic facelift and we love the effect.

Here is a slide show of the comfort zone decor (photos = 29):

Decking the Halls 2010 (part 3 & 4) The Memory Tree and more

2010-12-22T17:50:00.004-07:00

December 22, 2010
Colorado, USA

In the guest bedroom is the memory tree and other mementoes. We do not have guests for Christmas this year so I could put out as much as I wanted in the guest bedroom. On the memory tree and practically every surface in the room are items I have collected over a lifetime. The idea of a memory tree grew from a small collection of crochet ornaments, many of which were crafted by my Grandmother Foster. I also have a collection of my Grandmother's Sunday hats, which now adorn the old dressing table that was my mother's and her sister's growing up. Over the years I began tucking in a hanky here and a small doll there, then a piece of jewelry here and a pair of the Grandmother's old spectacles there. You know all those little things you keep through the years that mean something but which rarely see the light of day? One year I decided all those things would find their way out of their boxes and the cedar chest and enjoy the Christmas season on a tree. In the branches you will find dolls from my childhood, old flocked and paper ornaments, lots of jewelry, watches, bracelets, lockets, earrings and pins from Mom, my grandmothers, and some that belong to me. There are gum charms and my first wish nik (damn doll), ID bracelets, my beloved charm bracelet, a hanky from Mom's girlhood pen pal in England, Tim's dog tags and Saint Christopher and Air Force hat emblem. There are many small items made by friends and relatives. More than one set of spectacles are displayed.

All around the room, on the surface of the dresser and tables are Dad's old pipes sitting in a military ashtray, dolls and ornaments, a favorite Santa or two, grandmother's gloves, hankies, the skeleton key to grandmother's house, and many, many other things. I can tell you about each and every item (if you only had the time) because it is a room full of a lifetime's wonderful memories of people and places and times.

I love to decorate trees and there is a tree or two in every room of the house. This is my favorite tree to decorate. It is always the last tree I decorate because I want to take my time with the memories.

The guest bedroom decor slide show (photos = 24):

The memory tree slide show (photos = 22):

Decking the Halls 2010 (part 2) Bed, Bath, Kitchen

2010-12-22T15:54:00.002-07:00

December 22, 2010
Colorado, USA

The star tree and the redbird tree are in the master bedroom along with a few old Santas. The bath is small so we keep the decor to a minimum. The kitchen is decked out with the gingerbread collection and a few black Americana pieces.

Here is a slide show (34 photos):

A quaint, long Dickensian tale for a chill Yule evening...

2010-12-21T05:00:00.004-07:00

December 21, 2010
Colorado, USA

A Christmas Tree
By Charles Dickens

I have been looking on, this evening, at a merry company of children assembled round that pretty German toy, a Christmas Tree. The tree was planted in the middle of a great round table, and towered high above their heads. It was brilliantly lighted by a multitude of little tapers; and everywhere sparkled and glittered with bright objects. There were rosy-cheeked dolls, hiding behind the green leaves; and there were real watches (with movable hands, at least, and an endless capacity of being wound up) dangling from innumerable twigs; there were French-polished tables, chairs, bedsteads, wardrobes, eight-day clocks, and various other articles of domestic furniture (wonderfully made, in tin, at Wolverhampton), perched among the boughs, as if in preparation for some fairy housekeeping; there were jolly, broad-faced little men, much more agreeable in appearance than many real men, and no wonder, for their heads took off, and showed them to be full of sugar-plums; there were fiddles and drums; there were tambourines, books, work-boxes, paint-boxes, sweetmeat-boxes, peep-show boxes, and all kinds of boxes; there were trinkets for the elder girls, far brighter than any grown-up gold and jewels; there were baskets and pincushions in all devices; there were guns, swords, and banners; there were witches standing in enchanted rings of pasteboard, to tell fortunes; there were teetotums, humming-tops, needle-cases, pen-wipers, smelling-bottles, conversation-cards, bouquet-holders; real fruit, made artificially dazzling with gold leaf; imitation apples, pears, and walnuts, crammed with surprises; in short, as a pretty child, before me, delightedly whispered to another pretty child, her bosom friend, "There was everything, and more." This motley collection of odd objects, clustering on the tree like magic fruit, and flashing back the bright looks directed towards it from every side, some of the diamond-eyes admiring it were hardly on a level with the table, and a few were languishing in timid wonder on the bosoms of pretty mothers, aunts, and nurses, made a lively realisation of the fancies of childhood; and set me thinking how all the trees that grow and all the things that come into existence on the earth, have their wild adornments at that well-remembered time.

Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a fascination which I do not care to resist, to my own childhood. I begin to consider, what do we all remember best upon the branches of the Christmas Tree of our own young Christmas days, by which we climbed to real life.

Straight, in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no encircling walls or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowy tree arises; and, looking up into the dreamy brightness of its top, for I observe in this tree the singular property that it appears to grow downward towards the earth, I look into my youngest Christmas recollections!

All toys at first, I find. Up yonder, among the green holly and red berries, is the Tumbler with his hands in his pockets, who wouldn't lie down, but whenever he was put upon the floor, persisted in rolling his fat body about, until he rolled himself still, and brought those lobster eyes of his to bear upon me, when I affected to laugh very much, but in my heart of hearts was extremely doubtful of him. Close beside him is that infernal snuff-box, out of which there sprang a demoniacal Counsellor in a black gown, with an obnoxious head of hair, and a red cloth mouth, wide open, who was not to be endured on any terms, but could not be put away either; for he used suddenly, in a highly magnified state, to fly out of Mammoth Snuff-boxes in dreams, when least expected. Nor is the frog with cobbler's wax on his tail, far off; for there was no knowing where he wouldn't jump; and when he flew over the candle, and came upon one's hand with that spotted back, red on a green ground, he was horrible. The cardboard lady in a blue-silk skirt, who was stood up against the candlestick to dance, and whom I see on the same branch, was milder, and was beautiful; but I can't say as much for the larger cardboard man, who used to be hung against the wall and pulled by a string; there was a sinister expression in that nose of his; and when he got his legs round his neck (which he very often did), he was ghastly, and not a creature to be alone with.

When did that dreadful Mask first look at me? Who put it on, and why was I so frightened that the sight of it is an era in my life? It is not a hideous visage in itself; it is even meant to be droll, why then were its stolid features so intolerable? Surely not because it hid the wearer's face. An apron would have done as much; and though I should have preferred even the apron away, it would not have been absolutely insupportable, like the mask. Was it the immovability of the mask? The doll's face was immovable, but I was not afraid of HER. Perhaps that fixed and set change coming over a real face, infused into my quickened heart some remote suggestion and dread of the universal change that is to come on every face, and make it still? Nothing reconciled me to it. No drummers, from whom proceeded a melancholy chirping on the turning of a handle; no regiment of soldiers, with a mute band, taken out of a box, and fitted, one by one, upon a stiff and lazy little set of lazy-tongs; no old woman, made of wires and a brown-paper composition, cutting up a pie for two small children; could give me a permanent comfort, for a long time. Nor was it any satisfaction to be shown the Mask, and see that it was made of paper, or to have it locked up and be assured that no one wore it. The mere recollection of that fixed face, the mere knowledge of its existence anywhere, was sufficient to awake me in the night all perspiration and horror, with, "O I know it's coming! O the mask!"

I never wondered what the dear old donkey with the panniers, there he is! was made of, then! His hide was real to the touch, I recollect. And the great black horse with the round red spots all over him, the horse that I could even get upon, I never wondered what had brought him to that strange condition, or thought that such a horse was not commonly seen at Newmarket. The four horses of no colour, next to him, that went into the waggon of cheeses, and could be taken out and stabled under the piano, appear to have bits of fur-tippet for their tails, and other bits for their manes, and to stand on pegs instead of legs, but it was not so when they were brought home for a Christmas present. They were all right, then; neither was their harness unceremoniously nailed into their chests, as appears to be the case now. The tinkling works of the music- cart, I DID find out, to be made of quill tooth-picks and wire; and I always thought that little tumbler in his shirt sleeves, perpetually swarming up one side of a wooden frame, and coming down, head foremost, on the other, rather a weak-minded person, though good-natured; but the Jacob's Ladder, next him, made of little squares of red wood, that went flapping and clattering over one another, each developing a different picture, and the whole enlivened by small bells, was a mighty marvel and a great delight.

Ah! The Doll's house!, of which I was not proprietor, but where I visited. I don't admire the Houses of Parliament half so much as that stone-fronted mansion with real glass windows, and door-steps, and a real balcony, greener than I ever see now, except at watering places; and even they afford but a poor imitation. And though it DID open all at once, the entire house-front (which was a blow, I admit, as cancelling the fiction of a staircase), it was but to shut it up again, and I could believe. Even open, there were three distinct rooms in it: a sitting-room and bed-room, elegantly furnished, and best of all, a kitchen, with uncommonly soft fire- irons, a plentiful assortment of diminutive utensils, oh, the warming-pan!, and a tin man-cook in profile, who was always going to fry two fish. What Barmecide justice have I done to the noble feasts wherein the set of wooden platters figured, each with its own peculiar delicacy, as a ham or turkey, glued tight on to it, and garnished with something green, which I recollect as moss! Could all the Temperance Societies of these later days, united, give me such a tea-drinking as I have had through the means of yonder little set of blue crockery, which really would hold liquid (it ran out of the small wooden cask, I recollect, and tasted of matches), and which made tea, nectar. And if the two legs of the ineffectual little sugar-tongs did tumble over one another, and want purpose, like Punch's hands, what does it matter? And if I did once shriek out, as a poisoned child, and strike the fashionable company with consternation, by reason of having drunk a little teaspoon, inadvertently dissolved in too hot tea, I was never the worse for it, except by a powder!

Upon the next branches of the tree, lower down, hard by the green roller and miniature gardening-tools, how thick the books begin to hang. Thin books, in themselves, at first, but many of them, and with deliciously smooth covers of bright red or green. What fat black letters to begin with! "A was an archer, and shot at a frog." Of course he was. He was an apple-pie also, and there he is! He was a good many things in his time, was A, and so were most of his friends, except X, who had so little versatility, that I never knew him to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe, like Y, who was always confined to a Yacht or a Yew Tree; and Z condemned for ever to be a Zebra or a Zany. But, now, the very tree itself changes, and becomes a bean-stalk, the marvellous bean-stalk up which Jack climbed to the Giant's house! And now, those dreadfully interesting, double-headed giants, with their clubs over their shoulders, begin to stride along the boughs in a perfect throng, dragging knights and ladies home for dinner by the hair of their heads. And Jack, how noble, with his sword of sharpness, and his shoes of swiftness! Again those old meditations come upon me as I gaze up at him; and I debate within myself whether there was more than one Jack (which I am loth to believe possible), or only one genuine original admirable Jack, who achieved all the recorded exploits.

Good for Christmas-time is the ruddy colour of the cloak, in which, the tree making a forest of itself for her to trip through, with her basket, Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me one Christmas Eve to give me information of the cruelty and treachery of that dissembling Wolf who ate her grandmother, without making any impression on his appetite, and then ate her, after making that ferocious joke about his teeth. She was my first love. I felt that if I could have married Little Red Riding-Hood, I should have known perfect bliss. But, it was not to be; and there was nothing for it but to look out the Wolf in the Noah's Ark there, and put him late in the procession on the table, as a monster who was to be degraded. O the wonderful Noah's Ark! It was not found seaworthy when put in a washing-tub, and the animals were crammed in at the roof, and needed to have their legs well shaken down before they could be got in, even there, and then, ten to one but they began to tumble out at the door, which was but imperfectly fastened with a wire latch, but what was THAT against it! Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaller than the elephant: the lady-bird, the butterfly, all triumphs of art! Consider the goose, whose feet were so small, and whose balance was so indifferent, that he usually tumbled forward, and knocked down all the animal creation. Consider Noah and his family, like idiotic tobacco-stoppers; and how the leopard stuck to warm little fingers; and how the tails of the larger animals used gradually to resolve themselves into frayed bits of string!

Hush! Again a forest, and somebody up in a tree, not Robin Hood, not Valentine, not the Yellow Dwarf (I have passed him and all Mother Bunch's wonders, without mention), but an Eastern King with a glittering scimitar and turban. By Allah! two Eastern Kings, for I see another, looking over his shoulder! Down upon the grass, at the tree's foot, lies the full length of a coal-black Giant, stretched asleep, with his head in a lady's lap; and near them is a glass box, fastened with four locks of shining steel, in which he keeps the lady prisoner when he is awake. I see the four keys at his girdle now. The lady makes signs to the two kings in the tree, who softly descend. It is the setting-in of the bright Arabian Nights.

Oh, now all common things become uncommon and enchanted to me. All lamps are wonderful; all rings are talismans. Common flower-pots are full of treasure, with a little earth scattered on the top; trees are for Ali Baba to hide in; beef-steaks are to throw down into the Valley of Diamonds, that the precious stones may stick to them, and be carried by the eagles to their nests, whence the traders, with loud cries, will scare them. Tarts are made, according to the recipe of the Vizier's son of Bussorah, who turned pastrycook after he was set down in his drawers at the gate of Damascus; cobblers are all Mustaphas, and in the habit of sewing up people cut into four pieces, to whom they are taken blind-fold.

Any iron ring let into stone is the entrance to a cave which only waits for the magician, and the little fire, and the necromancy, that will make the earth shake. All the dates imported come from the same tree as that unlucky date, with whose shell the merchant knocked out the eye of the genie's invisible son. All olives are of the stock of that fresh fruit, concerning which the Commander of the Faithful overheard the boy conduct the fictitious trial of the fraudulent olive merchant; all apples are akin to the apple purchased (with two others) from the Sultan's gardener for three sequins, and which the tall black slave stole from the child. All dogs are associated with the dog, really a transformed man, who jumped upon the baker's counter, and put his paw on the piece of bad money. All rice recalls the rice which the awful lady, who was a ghoule, could only peck by grains, because of her nightly feasts in the burial-place. My very rocking-horse,, there he is, with his nostrils turned completely inside-out, indicative of Blood!, should have a peg in his neck, by virtue thereof to fly away with me, as the wooden horse did with the Prince of Persia, in the sight of all his father's Court.

Yes, on every object that I recognise among those upper branches of my Christmas Tree, I see this fairy light! When I wake in bed, at daybreak, on the cold, dark, winter mornings, the white snow dimly beheld, outside, through the frost on the window-pane, I hear Dinarzade. "Sister, sister, if you are yet awake, I pray you finish the history of the Young King of the Black Islands." Scheherazade replies, "If my lord the Sultan will suffer me to live another day, sister, I will not only finish that, but tell you a more wonderful story yet." Then, the gracious Sultan goes out, giving no orders for the execution, and we all three breathe again.

At this height of my tree I begin to see, cowering among the leaves, it may be born of turkey, or of pudding, or mince pie, or of these many fancies, jumbled with Robinson Crusoe on his desert island, Philip Quarll among the monkeys, Sandford and Merton with Mr. Barlow, Mother Bunch, and the Mask, or it may be the result of indigestion, assisted by imagination and over-doctoring, a prodigious nightmare. It is so exceedingly indistinct, that I don't know why it's frightful, but I know it is. I can only make out that it is an immense array of shapeless things, which appear to be planted on a vast exaggeration of the lazy-tongs that used to bear the toy soldiers, and to be slowly coming close to my eyes, and receding to an immeasurable distance. When it comes closest, it is worse. In connection with it I descry remembrances of winter nights incredibly long; of being sent early to bed, as a punishment for some small offence, and waking in two hours, with a sensation of having been asleep two nights; of the laden hopelessness of morning ever dawning; and the oppression of a weight of remorse.

And now, I see a wonderful row of little lights rise smoothly out of the ground, before a vast green curtain. Now, a bell rings, a magic bell, which still sounds in my ears unlike all other bells, and music plays, amidst a buzz of voices, and a fragrant smell of orange-peel and oil. Anon, the magic bell commands the music to cease, and the great green curtain rolls itself up majestically, and The Play begins! The devoted dog of Montargis avenges the death of his master, foully murdered in the Forest of Bondy; and a humorous Peasant with a red nose and a very little hat, whom I take from this hour forth to my bosom as a friend (I think he was a Waiter or an Hostler at a village Inn, but many years have passed since he and I have met), remarks that the sassigassity of that dog is indeed surprising; and evermore this jocular conceit will live in my remembrance fresh and unfading, overtopping all possible jokes, unto the end of time. Or now, I learn with bitter tears how poor Jane Shore, dressed all in white, and with her brown hair hanging down, went starving through the streets; or how George Barnwell killed the worthiest uncle that ever man had, and was afterwards so sorry for it that he ought to have been let off. Comes swift to comfort me, the Pantomime, stupendous Phenomenon!, when clowns are shot from loaded mortars into the great chandelier, bright constellation that it is; when Harlequins, covered all over with scales of pure gold, twist and sparkle, like amazing fish; when Pantaloon (whom I deem it no irreverence to compare in my own mind to my grandfather) puts red-hot pokers in his pocket, and cries "Here's somebody coming!" or taxes the Clown with petty larceny, by saying, "Now, I sawed you do it!" when Everything is capable, with the greatest ease, of being changed into Anything; and "Nothing is, but thinking makes it so."

Now, too, I perceive my first experience of the dreary sensation, often to return in after-life, of being unable, next day, to get back to the dull, settled world; of wanting to live for ever in the bright atmosphere I have quitted; of doting on the little Fairy, with the wand like a celestial Barber's Pole, and pining for a Fairy immortality along with her. Ah, she comes back, in many shapes, as my eye wanders down the branches of my Christmas Tree, and goes as often, and has never yet stayed by me!

Out of this delight springs the toy-theatre,, there it is, with its familiar proscenium, and ladies in feathers, in the boxes!, and all its attendant occupation with paste and glue, and gum, and water colours, in the getting-up of The Miller and his Men, and Elizabeth, or the Exile of Siberia. In spite of a few besetting accidents and failures (particularly an unreasonable disposition in the respectable Kelmar, and some others, to become faint in the legs, and double up, at exciting points of the drama), a teeming world of fancies so suggestive and all-embracing, that, far below it on my Christmas Tree, I see dark, dirty, real Theatres in the day-time, adorned with these associations as with the freshest garlands of the rarest flowers, and charming me yet.

But hark! The Waits are playing, and they break my childish sleep! What images do I associate with the Christmas music as I see them set forth on the Christmas Tree? Known before all the others, keeping far apart from all the others, they gather round my little bed. An angel, speaking to a group of shepherds in a field; some travellers, with eyes uplifted, following a star; a baby in a manger; a child in a spacious temple, talking with grave men; a solemn figure, with a mild and beautiful face, raising a dead girl by the hand; again, near a city gate, calling back the son of a widow, on his bier, to life; a crowd of people looking through the opened roof of a chamber where he sits, and letting down a sick person on a bed, with ropes; the same, in a tempest, walking on the water to a ship; again, on a sea-shore, teaching a great multitude; again, with a child upon his knee, and other children round; again, restoring sight to the blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health to the sick, strength to the lame, knowledge to the ignorant; again, dying upon a Cross, watched by armed soldiers, a thick darkness coming on, the earth beginning to shake, and only one voice heard, "Forgive them, for they know not what they do."

Still, on the lower and maturer branches of the Tree, Christmas associations cluster thick. School-books shut up; Ovid and Virgil silenced; the Rule of Three, with its cool impertinent inquiries, long disposed of; Terence and Plautus acted no more, in an arena of huddled desks and forms, all chipped, and notched, and inked; cricket-bats, stumps, and balls, left higher up, with the smell of trodden grass and the softened noise of shouts in the evening air; the tree is still fresh, still gay.

If I no more come home at Christmas-time, there will be boys and girls (thank Heaven!) while the World lasts; and they do! Yonder they dance and play upon the branches of my Tree, God bless them, merrily, and my heart dances and plays too!

And I do come home at Christmas. We all do, or we all should. We all come home, or ought to come home, for a short holiday, the longer, the better, from the great boarding-school, where we are for ever working at our arithmetical slates, to take, and give a rest. As to going a visiting, where can we not go, if we will; where have we not been, when we would; starting our fancy from our Christmas Tree!

Away into the winter prospect. There are many such upon the tree! On, by low-lying, misty grounds, through fens and fogs, up long hills, winding dark as caverns between thick plantations, almost shutting out the sparkling stars; so, out on broad heights, until we stop at last, with sudden silence, at an avenue. The gate-bell has a deep, half-awful sound in the frosty air; the gate swings open on its hinges; and, as we drive up to a great house, the glancing lights grow larger in the windows, and the opposing rows of trees seem to fall solemnly back on either side, to give us place. At intervals, all day, a frightened hare has shot across this whitened turf; or the distant clatter of a herd of deer trampling the hard frost, has, for the minute, crushed the silence too. Their watchful eyes beneath the fern may be shining now, if we could see them, like the icy dewdrops on the leaves; but they are still, and all is still. And so, the lights growing larger, and the trees falling back before us, and closing up again behind us, as if to forbid retreat, we come to he house.

There is probably a smell of roasted chestnuts and other good comfortable things all the time, for we are telling Winter Stories, Ghost Stories, or more shame for us, round the Christmas fire; and we have never stirred, except to draw a little nearer to it. But, no matter for that. We came to the house, and it is an old house, full of great chimneys where wood is burnt on ancient dogs upon the hearth, and grim portraits (some of them with grim legends, too) lower distrustfully from the oaken panels of the walls. We are a middle-aged nobleman, and we make a generous supper with our host and hostess and their guests, it being Christmas-time, and the old house full of company, and then we go to bed. Our room is a very old room. It is hung with tapestry. We don't like the portrait of a cavalier in green, over the fireplace. There are great black beams in the ceiling, and there is a great black bedstead, supported at the foot by two great black figures, who seem to have come off a couple of tombs in the old baronial church in the park, for our particular accommodation. But, we are not a superstitious nobleman, and we don't mind.

Well! we dismiss our servant, lock the door, and sit before the fire in our dressing-gown, musing about a great many things. At length we go to bed. Well! we can't sleep. We toss and tumble, and can't sleep. The embers on the hearth burn fitfully and make the room look ghostly. We can't help peeping out over the counterpane, at the two black figures and the cavalier, that wicked- looking cavalier, in green. In the flickering light they seem to advance and retire: which, though we are not by any means a superstitious nobleman, is not agreeable. Well! we get nervous, more and more nervous. We say "This is very foolish, but we can't stand this; we'll pretend to be ill, and knock up somebody." Well! we are just going to do it, when the locked door opens, and there comes in a young woman, deadly pale, and with long fair hair, who glides to the fire, and sits down in the chair we have left there, wringing her hands. Then, we notice that her clothes are wet. Our tongue cleaves to the roof of our mouth, and we can't speak; but, we observe her accurately. Her clothes are wet; her long hair is dabbled with moist mud; she is dressed in the fashion of two hundred years ago; and she has at her girdle a bunch of rusty keys. Well! there she sits, and we can't even faint, we are in such a state about it. Presently she gets up, and tries all the locks in the room with the rusty keys, which won't fit one of them; then, she fixes her eyes on the portrait of the cavalier in green, and says, in a low, terrible voice, "The stags know it!"

After that, she wrings her hands again, passes the bedside, and goes out at the door. We hurry on our dressing-gown, seize our pistols (we always travel with pistols), and are following, when we find the door locked. We turn the key, look out into the dark gallery; no one there. We wander away, and try to find our servant. Can't be done. We pace the gallery till daybreak; then return to our deserted room, fall asleep, and are awakened by our servant (nothing ever haunts him) and the shining sun. Well! we make a wretched breakfast, and all the company say we look queer. After breakfast, we go over the house with our host, and then we take him to the portrait of the cavalier in green, and then it all comes out. He was false to a young housekeeper once attached to that family, and famous for her beauty, who drowned herself in a pond, and whose body was discovered, after a long time, because the stags refused to drink of the water. Since which, it has been whispered that she traverses the house at midnight (but goes especially to that room where the cavalier in green was wont to sleep), trying the old locks with the rusty keys. Well! we tell our host of what we have seen, and a shade comes over his features, and he begs it may be hushed up; and so it is. But, it's all true; and we said so, before we died (we are dead now) to many responsible people.

There is no end to the old houses, with resounding galleries, and dismal state-bedchambers, and haunted wings shut up for many years, through which we may ramble, with an agreeable creeping up our back, and encounter any number of ghosts, but (it is worthy of remark perhaps) reducible to a very few general types and classes; for, ghosts have little originality, and "walk" in a beaten track. Thus, it comes to pass, that a certain room in a certain old hall, where a certain bad lord, baronet, knight, or gentleman, shot himself, has certain planks in the floor from which the blood WILL NOT be taken out. You may scrape and scrape, as the present owner has done, or plane and plane, as his father did, or scrub and scrub, as his grandfather did, or burn and burn with strong acids, as his great- grandfather did, but, there the blood will still be, no redder and no paler, no more and no less, always just the same. Thus, in such another house there is a haunted door, that never will keep open; or another door that never will keep shut, or a haunted sound of a spinning-wheel, or a hammer, or a footstep, or a cry, or a sigh, or a horse's tramp, or the rattling of a chain. Or else, there is a turret-clock, which, at the midnight hour, strikes thirteen when the head of the family is going to die; or a shadowy, immovable black carriage which at such a time is always seen by somebody, waiting near the great gates in the stable-yard. Or thus, it came to pass how Lady Mary went to pay a visit at a large wild house in the Scottish Highlands, and, being fatigued with her long journey, retired to bed early, and innocently said, next morning, at the breakfast-table, "How odd, to have so late a party last night, in this remote place, and not to tell me of it, before I went to bed!" Then, every one asked Lady Mary what she meant? Then, Lady Mary replied, "Why, all night long, the carriages were driving round and round the terrace, underneath my window!" Then, the owner of the house turned pale, and so did his Lady, and Charles Macdoodle of Macdoodle signed to Lady Mary to say no more, and every one was silent. After breakfast, Charles Macdoodle told Lady Mary that it was a tradition in the family that those rumbling carriages on the terrace betokened death.

And so it proved, for, two months afterwards, the Lady of the mansion died. And Lady Mary, who was a Maid of Honour at Court, often told this story to the old Queen Charlotte; by this token that the old King always said, "Eh, eh? What, what? Ghosts, ghosts? No such thing, no such thing!" And never left off saying so, until he went to bed.

Or, a friend of somebody's whom most of us know, when he was a young man at college, had a particular friend, with whom he made the compact that, if it were possible for the Spirit to return to this earth after its separation from the body, he of the twain who first died, should reappear to the other. In course of time, this compact was forgotten by our friend; the two young men having progressed in life, and taken diverging paths that were wide asunder. But, one night, many years afterwards, our friend being in the North of England, and staying for the night in an inn, on the Yorkshire Moors, happened to look out of bed; and there, in the moonlight, leaning on a bureau near the window, steadfastly regarding him, saw his old college friend! The appearance being solemnly addressed, replied, in a kind of whisper, but very audibly, "Do not come near me. I am dead. I am here to redeem my promise. I come from another world, but may not disclose its secrets!" Then, the whole form becoming paler, melted, as it were, into the moonlight, and faded away.

Or, there was the daughter of the first occupier of the picturesque Elizabethan house, so famous in our neighbourhood. You have heard about her? No! Why, SHE went out one summer evening at twilight, when she was a beautiful girl, just seventeen years of age, to gather flowers in the garden; and presently came running, terrified, into the hall to her father, saying, "Oh, dear father, I have met myself!" He took her in his arms, and told her it was fancy, but she said, "Oh no! I met myself in the broad walk, and I was pale and gathering withered flowers, and I turned my head, and held them up!" And, that night, she died; and a picture of her story was begun, though never finished, and they say it is somewhere in the house to this day, with its face to the wall.

Or, the uncle of my brother's wife was riding home on horseback, one mellow evening at sunset, when, in a green lane close to his own house, he saw a man standing before him, in the very centre of a narrow way. "Why does that man in the cloak stand there!" he thought. "Does he want me to ride over him?" But the figure never moved. He felt a strange sensation at seeing it so still, but slackened his trot and rode forward. When he was so close to it, as almost to touch it with his stirrup, his horse shied, and the figure glided up the bank, in a curious, unearthly manner, backward, and without seeming to use its feet, and was gone. The uncle of my brother's wife, exclaiming, "Good Heaven! It's my cousin Harry, from Bombay!" put spurs to his horse, which was suddenly in a profuse sweat, and, wondering at such strange behaviour, dashed round to the front of his house. There, he saw the same figure, just passing in at the long French window of the drawing-room, opening on the ground. He threw his bridle to a servant, and hastened in after it. His sister was sitting there, alone. "Alice, where's my cousin Harry?" "Your cousin Harry, John?" "Yes. From Bombay. I met him in the lane just now, and saw him enter here, this instant." Not a creature had been seen by any one; and in that hour and minute, as it afterwards appeared, this cousin died in India.

Or, it was a certain sensible old maiden lady, who died at ninety- nine, and retained her faculties to the last, who really did see the Orphan Boy; a story which has often been incorrectly told, but, of which the real truth is this, because it is, in fact, a story belonging to our family, and she was a connexion of our family. When she was about forty years of age, and still an uncommonly fine woman (her lover died young, which was the reason why she never married, though she had many offers), she went to stay at a place in Kent, which her brother, an Indian-Merchant, had newly bought. There was a story that this place had once been held in trust by the guardian of a young boy; who was himself the next heir, and who killed the young boy by harsh and cruel treatment. She knew nothing of that. It has been said that there was a Cage in her bedroom in which the guardian used to put the boy. There was no such thing. There was only a closet. She went to bed, made no alarm whatever in the night, and in the morning said composedly to her maid when she came in, "Who is the pretty forlorn-looking child who has been peeping out of that closet all night?" The maid replied by giving a loud scream, and instantly decamping. She was surprised; but she was a woman of remarkable strength of mind, and she dressed herself and went downstairs, and closeted herself with her brother.

"Now, Walter," she said, "I have been disturbed all night by a pretty, forlorn-looking boy, who has been constantly peeping out of that closet in my room, which I can't open. This is some trick." "I am afraid not, Charlotte," said he, "for it is the legend of the house. It is the Orphan Boy. What did he do?" "He opened the door softly," said she, "and peeped out. Sometimes, he came a step or two into the room. Then, I called to him, to encourage him, and he shrunk, and shuddered, and crept in again, and shut the door." "The closet has no communication, Charlotte," said her brother, "with any other part of the house, and it's nailed up." This was undeniably true, and it took two carpenters a whole forenoon to get it open, for examination. Then, she was satisfied that she had seen the Orphan Boy. But, the wild and terrible part of the story is, that he was also seen by three of her brother's sons, in succession, who all died young. On the occasion of each child being taken ill, he came home in a heat, twelve hours before, and said, Oh, Mamma, he had been playing under a particular oak-tree, in a certain meadow, with a strange boy, a pretty, forlorn-looking boy, who was very timid, and made signs! From fatal experience, the parents came to know that this was the Orphan Boy, and that the course of that child whom he chose for his little playmate was surely run.

Legion is the name of the German castles, where we sit up alone to wait for the Spectre, where we are shown into a room, made comparatively cheerful for our reception, where we glance round at the shadows, thrown on the blank walls by the crackling fire, where we feel very lonely when the village innkeeper and his pretty daughter have retired, after laying down a fresh store of wood upon the hearth, and setting forth on the small table such supper-cheer as a cold roast capon, bread, grapes, and a flask of old Rhine wine, where the reverberating doors close on their retreat, one after another, like so many peals of sullen thunder, and where, about the small hours of the night, we come into the knowledge of divers supernatural mysteries. Legion is the name of the haunted German students, in whose society we draw yet nearer to the fire, while the schoolboy in the corner opens his eyes wide and round, and flies off the footstool he has chosen for his seat, when the door accidentally blows open. Vast is the crop of such fruit, shining on our Christmas Tree; in blossom, almost at the very top; ripening all down the boughs!

Among the later toys and fancies hanging there, as idle often and less pure, be the images once associated with the sweet old Waits, the softened music in the night, ever unalterable! Encircled by the social thoughts of Christmas-time, still let the benignant figure of my childhood stand unchanged! In every cheerful image and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that rested above the poor roof, be the star of all the Christian World! A moment's pause, O vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are dark to me as yet, and let me look once more! I know there are blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved have shone and smiled; from which they are departed. But, far above, I see the raiser of the dead girl, and the Widow's Son; and God is good! If Age be hiding for me in the unseen portion of thy downward growth, O may I, with a grey head, turn a child's heart to that figure yet, and a child's trustfulness and confidence!

Now, the tree is decorated with bright merriment, and song, and dance, and cheerfulness. And they are welcome. Innocent and welcome be they ever held, beneath the branches of the Christmas Tree, which cast no gloomy shadow! But, as it sinks into the ground, I hear a whisper going through the leaves. "This, in commemoration of the law of love and kindness, mercy and compassion. This, in remembrance of Me!"

THE END

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A Christmas Tree by Charles Dickens

The Fir Tree - Another old favorite... Where did they go to? What became of them?

2010-12-21T05:00:00.001-07:00

December 21, 2010
Colorado, USA

THE FIR TREE
By Hans Christian Anderson

Out in the woods stood a nice little Fir Tree. The place he had was a very good one: the sun shone on him: as to fresh air, there was enough of that, and round him grew many large-sized comrades, pines as well as firs. But the little Fir wanted so very much to be a grown-up tree.

He did not think of the warm sun and of the fresh air; he did not care for the little cottage children that ran about and prattled when they were in the woods looking for wild-strawberries. The children often came with a whole pitcher full of berries, or a long row of them threaded on a straw, and sat down near the young tree and said, "Oh, how pretty he is! What a nice little fir!" But this was what the Tree could not bear to hear.

At the end of a year he had shot up a good deal, and after another year he was another long bit taller; for with fir trees one can always tell by the shoots how many years old they are.

"Oh! Were I but such a high tree as the others are," sighed he. "Then I should be able to spread out my branches, and with the tops to look into the wide world! Then would the birds build nests among my branches: and when there was a breeze, I could bend with as much stateliness as the others!"

Neither the sunbeams, nor the birds, nor the red clouds which morning and evening sailed above him, gave the little Tree any pleasure.

In winter, when the snow lay glittering on the ground, a hare would often come leaping along, and jump right over the little Tree. Oh, that made him so angry! But two winters were past, and in the third the Tree was so large that the hare was obliged to go round it. "To grow and grow, to get older and be tall," thought the Tree--"that, after all, is the most delightful thing in the world!"

In autumn the wood-cutters always came and felled some of the largest trees. This happened every year; and the young Fir Tree, that had now grown to a very comely size, trembled at the sight; for the magnificent great trees fell to the earth with noise and cracking, the branches were lopped off, and the trees looked long and bare; they were hardly to be recognised; and then they were laid in carts, and the horses dragged them out of the wood.

Where did they go to? What became of them?

In spring, when the swallows and the storks came, the Tree asked them, "Don't you know where they have been taken? Have you not met them anywhere?"

The swallows did not know anything about it; but the Stork looked musing, nodded his head, and said, "Yes; I think I know; I met many ships as I was flying hither from Egypt; on the ships were magnificent masts, and I venture to assert that it was they that smelt so of fir. I may congratulate you, for they lifted themselves on high most majestically!"

"Oh, were I but old enough to fly across the sea! But how does the sea look in reality? What is it like?"

"That would take a long time to explain," said the Stork, and with these words off he went.

"Rejoice in thy growth!" said the Sunbeams. "Rejoice in thy vigorous growth, and in the fresh life that moveth within thee!"

And the Wind kissed the Tree, and the Dew wept tears over him; but the Fir understood it not.

When Christmas came, quite young trees were cut down: trees which often were not even as large or of the same age as this Fir Tree, who could never rest, but always wanted to be off. These young trees, and they were always the finest looking, retained their branches; they were laid on carts, and the horses drew them out of the wood.

"Where are they going to?" asked the Fir. "They are not taller than I; there was one indeed that was considerably shorter; and why do they retain all their branches? Whither are they taken?"

"We know! We know!" chirped the Sparrows. "We have peeped in at the windows in the town below! We know whither they are taken! The greatest splendor and the greatest magnificence one can imagine await them. We peeped through the windows, and saw them planted in the middle of the warm room and ornamented with the most splendid things, with gilded apples, with gingerbread, with toys, and many hundred lights!

"And then?" asked the Fir Tree, trembling in every bough. "And then? What happens then?"

"We did not see anything more: it was incomparably beautiful."

"I would fain know if I am destined for so glorious a career," cried the Tree, rejoicing. "That is still better than to cross the sea! What a longing do I suffer! Were Christmas but come! I am now tall, and my branches spread like the others that were carried off last year! Oh! were I but already on the cart! Were I in the warm room with all the splendor and magnificence! Yes; then something better, something still grander, will surely follow, or wherefore should they thus ornament me? Something better, something still grander must follow--but what? Oh, how I long, how I suffer! I do not know myself what is the matter with me!"

"Rejoice in our presence!" said the Air and the Sunlight. "Rejoice in thy own fresh youth!"

But the Tree did not rejoice at all; he grew and grew, and was green both winter and summer. People that saw him said, "What a fine tree!" and towards Christmas he was one of the first that was cut down. The axe struck deep into the very pith; the Tree fell to the earth with a sigh; he felt a pang--it was like a swoon; he could not think of happiness, for he was sorrowful at being separated from his home, from the place where he had sprung up. He well knew that he should never see his dear old comrades, the little bushes and flowers around him, anymore; perhaps not even the birds! The departure was not at all agreeable.

The Tree only came to himself when he was unloaded in a court-yard with the other trees, and heard a man say, "That one is splendid! We don't want the others." Then two servants came in rich livery and carried the Fir Tree into a large and splendid drawing-room. Portraits were hanging on the walls, and near the white porcelain stove stood two large Chinese vases with lions on the covers. There, too, were large easy-chairs, silken sofas, large tables full of picture-books and full of toys, worth hundreds and hundreds of crowns--at least the children said so. And the Fir Tree was stuck upright in a cask that was filled with sand; but no one could see that it was a cask, for green cloth was hung all round it, and it stood on a large gaily-colored carpet. Oh! how the Tree quivered! What was to happen? The servants, as well as the young ladies, decorated it. On one branch there hung little nets cut out of colored paper, and each net was filled with sugarplums; and among the other boughs gilded apples and walnuts were suspended, looking as though they had grown there, and little blue and white tapers were placed among the leaves. Dolls that looked for all the world like men--the Tree had never beheld such before--were seen among the foliage, and at the very top a large star of gold tinsel was fixed. It was really splendid--beyond description splendid.

"This evening!" they all said. "How it will shine this evening!"

"Oh!" thought the Tree. "If the evening were but come! If the tapers were but lighted! And then I wonder what will happen! Perhaps the other trees from the forest will come to look at me! Perhaps the sparrows will beat against the windowpanes! I wonder if I shall take root here, and winter and summer stand covered with ornaments!"

He knew very much about the matter--but he was so impatient that for sheer longing he got a pain in his back, and this with trees is the same thing as a headache with us.

The candles were now lighted--what brightness! What splendor! The Tree trembled so in every bough that one of the tapers set fire to the foliage. It blazed up famously.

"Help! Help!" cried the young ladies, and they quickly put out the fire.

Now the Tree did not even dare tremble. What a state he was in! He was so uneasy lest he should lose something of his splendor, that he was quite bewildered amidst the glare and brightness; when suddenly both folding-doors opened and a troop of children rushed in as if they would upset the Tree. The older persons followed quietly; the little ones stood quite still. But it was only for a moment; then they shouted that the whole place re-echoed with their rejoicing; they danced round the Tree, and one present after the other was pulled off.

"What are they about?" thought the Tree. "What is to happen now!" And the lights burned down to the very branches, and as they burned down they were put out one after the other, and then the children had permission to plunder the Tree. So they fell upon it with such violence that all its branches cracked; if it had not been fixed firmly in the ground, it would certainly have tumbled down.

The children danced about with their beautiful playthings; no one looked at the Tree except the old nurse, who peeped between the branches; but it was only to see if there was a fig or an apple left that had been forgotten.

"A story! A story!" cried the children, drawing a little fat man towards the Tree. He seated himself under it and said, "Now we are in the shade, and the Tree can listen too. But I shall tell only one story. Now which will you have; that about Ivedy-Avedy, or about Humpy-Dumpy, who tumbled downstairs, and yet after all came to the throne and married the princess?"

"Ivedy-Avedy," cried some; "Humpy-Dumpy," cried the others. There was such a bawling and screaming--the Fir Tree alone was silent, and he thought to himself, "Am I not to bawl with the rest? Am I to do nothing whatever?" for he was one of the company, and had done what he had to do.

And the man told about Humpy-Dumpy that tumbled down, who notwithstanding came to the throne, and at last married the princess. And the children clapped their hands, and cried. "Oh, go on! Do go on!" They wanted to hear about Ivedy-Avedy too, but the little man only told them about Humpy-Dumpy. The Fir Tree stood quite still and absorbed in thought; the birds in the wood had never related the like of this. "Humpy-Dumpy fell downstairs, and yet he married the princess! Yes, yes! That's the way of the world!" thought the Fir Tree, and believed it all, because the man who told the story was so good-looking. "Well, well! who knows, perhaps I may fall downstairs, too, and get a princess as wife! And he looked forward with joy to the morrow, when he hoped to be decked out again with lights, playthings, fruits, and tinsel.

"I won't tremble to-morrow!" thought the Fir Tree. "I will enjoy to the full all my splendor! To-morrow I shall hear again the story of Humpy-Dumpy, and perhaps that of Ivedy-Avedy too." And the whole night the Tree stood still and in deep thought.

In the morning the servant and the housemaid came in.

"Now then the splendor will begin again," thought the Fir. But they dragged him out of the room, and up the stairs into the loft: and here, in a dark corner, where no daylight could enter, they left him. "What's the meaning of this?" thought the Tree. "What am I to do here? What shall I hear now, I wonder?" And he leaned against the wall lost in reverie. Time enough had he too for his reflections; for days and nights passed on, and nobody came up; and when at last somebody did come, it was only to put some great trunks in a corner, out of the way. There stood the Tree quite hidden; it seemed as if he had been entirely forgotten.

"'Tis now winter out-of-doors!" thought the Tree. "The earth is hard and covered with snow; men cannot plant me now, and therefore I have been put up here under shelter till the spring-time comes! How thoughtful that is! How kind man is, after all! If it only were not so dark here, and so terribly lonely! Not even a hare! And out in the woods it was so pleasant, when the snow was on the ground, and the hare leaped by; yes--even when he jumped over me; but I did not like it then! It is really terribly lonely here!"

"Squeak! Squeak!" said a little Mouse, at the same moment, peeping out of his hole. And then another little one came. They snuffed about the Fir Tree, and rustled among the branches.

"It is dreadfully cold," said the Mouse. "But for that, it would be delightful here, old Fir, wouldn't it?"

"I am by no means old," said the Fir Tree. "There's many a one considerably older than I am."

"Where do you come from," asked the Mice; "and what can you do?" They were so extremely curious. "Tell us about the most beautiful spot on the earth. Have you never been there? Were you never in the larder, where cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from above; where one dances about on tallow candles: that place where one enters lean, and comes out again fat and portly?"

"I know no such place," said the Tree. "But I know the wood, where the sun shines and where the little birds sing." And then he told all about his youth; and the little Mice had never heard the like before; and they listened and said,

"Well, to be sure! How much you have seen! How happy you must have been!"

"I!" said the Fir Tree, thinking over what he had himself related. "Yes, in reality those were happy times." And then he told about Christmas-eve, when he was decked out with cakes and candles.

"Oh," said the little Mice, "how fortunate you have been, old Fir Tree!"

"I am by no means old," said he. "I came from the wood this winter; I am in my prime, and am only rather short for my age."

"What delightful stories you know," said the Mice: and the next night they came with four other little Mice, who were to hear what the Tree recounted: and the more he related, the more he remembered himself; and it appeared as if those times had really been happy times. "But they may still come--they may still come! Humpy-Dumpy fell downstairs, and yet he got a princess!" and he thought at the moment of a nice little Birch Tree growing out in the woods: to the Fir, that would be a real charming princess.

"Who is Humpy-Dumpy?" asked the Mice. So then the Fir Tree told the whole fairy tale, for he could remember every single word of it; and the little Mice jumped for joy up to the very top of the Tree. Next night two more Mice came, and on Sunday two Rats even; but they said the stories were not interesting, which vexed the little Mice; and they, too, now began to think them not so very amusing either.

"Do you know only one story?" asked the Rats.

"Only that one," answered the Tree. "I heard it on my happiest evening; but I did not then know how happy I was."

"It is a very stupid story! Don't you know one about bacon and tallow candles? Can't you tell any larder stories?"

"No," said the Tree.

"Then good-bye," said the Rats; and they went home.

At last the little Mice stayed away also; and the Tree sighed: "After all, it was very pleasant when the sleek little Mice sat round me, and listened to what I told them. Now that too is over. But I will take good care to enjoy myself when I am brought out again."

But when was that to be? Why, one morning there came a quantity of people and set to work in the loft. The trunks were moved, the tree was pulled out and thrown--rather hard, it is true--down on the floor, but a man drew him towards the stairs, where the daylight shone.

"Now a merry life will begin again," thought the Tree. He felt the fresh air, the first sunbeam--and now he was out in the courtyard. All passed so quickly, there was so much going on around him, the Tree quite forgot to look to himself. The court adjoined a garden, and all was in flower; the roses hung so fresh and odorous over the balustrade, the lindens were in blossom, the Swallows flew by, and said, "Quirre-vit! My husband is come!" but it was not the Fir Tree that they meant.

"Now, then, I shall really enjoy life," said he exultingly, and spread out his branches; but, alas, they were all withered and yellow! It was in a corner that he lay, among weeds and nettles. The golden star of tinsel was still on the top of the Tree, and glittered in the sunshine.

In the court-yard some of the merry children were playing who had danced at Christmas round the Fir Tree, and were so glad at the sight of him. One of the youngest ran and tore off the golden star.

"Only look what is still on the ugly old Christmas tree!" said he, trampling on the branches, so that they all cracked beneath his feet.

And the Tree beheld all the beauty of the flowers, and the freshness in the garden; he beheld himself, and wished he had remained in his dark corner in the loft; he thought of his first youth in the wood, of the merry Christmas-eve, and of the little Mice who had listened with so much pleasure to the story of Humpy-Dumpy.

"'Tis over--'tis past!" said the poor Tree. "Had I but rejoiced when I had reason to do so! But now 'tis past, 'tis past!"

And the gardener's boy chopped the Tree into small pieces; there was a whole heap lying there. The wood flamed up splendidly under the large brewing copper, and it sighed so deeply! Each sigh was like a shot.

The boys played about in the court, and the youngest wore the gold star on his breast which the Tree had had on the happiest evening of his life. However, that was over now--the Tree gone, the story at an end. All, all was over--every tale must end at last.

I'll only be 139

2010-12-21T01:30:00.001-07:00

December 21, 2010
Colorado, USA

I watched the lunar eclipse. A solstice lunar eclipse... and we have a full moon! That's a once in a lifetime opportunity I guess because it has not occurred during my lifetime thus far and if I live to see another I will be 139 years old... Well, you never know, I have one grandmother who lived to be 101 and another knocking on the door of 100 -- I might be around that long. Ha!

Geoff Chester of the US Naval Observatory inspected a list of eclipses going back 2000 years. "Since Year 1, I can only find one previous instance of an eclipse matching the same calendar date as the solstice, and that is 1638 DEC 21," says Chester. "Fortunately we won't have to wait 372 years for the next one...that will be on 2094 DEC 21."

When Tim called to remind me about it, the eclipse had just started. We had a light veil of cloud cover... but about two thirds of the way through the process, the skies cleared and the show was amazing! The moon was fierce in its brightness and the skies twinkled in the dark winter sky. Near the end, the moon transformed into a copper globe... I wish we had snow cover because the effect of an eclipse on snow is supposed to be spectacular. I would love to see copper snow! There is lots of snow in the high country this year, but I'm betting with a winter storm raging they never got a glimpse of the Yule Moon.

As I am calling it a night, the moon has dulled to russet in color...

How like a queen comes forth the lonely Moon
From the slow opening curtains of the clouds
Walking in beauty to her midnight throne!
-- George Croly

Source: NASA.gov Solstice Lunar Eclipse

A Soldier's Christmas

2010-12-20T05:00:00.002-07:00

December 20, 2010
Colorado, USA

Merry Christmas, My Friend...

Twas the night before Christmas, he lived all alone,
In a one bedroom house made of plaster & stone.
I had come down the chimney, with presents to give
and to see just who in this home did live

As I looked all about, a strange sight I did see,
no tinsel, no presents, not even a tree.
No stocking by the fire, just boots filled with sand.
On the wall hung pictures of a far distant land.

With medals and badges, awards of all kind,
a sobering thought soon came to my mind.
For this house was different, unlike any I'd seen.
This was the home of a U.S. Marine.

I'd heard stories about them, I had to see more,
so I walked down the hall and pushed open the door.
And there he lay sleeping, silent, alone,
Curled up on the floor in his one-bedroom home.

He seemed so gentle, his face so serene,
Not how I pictured a U.S. Marine.
Was this the hero, of whom I'd just read?
Curled up in his poncho, a floor for his bed?

His head was clean-shaven, his weathered face tan.
I soon understood, this was more than a man.
For I realized the families that I saw that night,
owed their lives to these men, who were willing to fight.

Soon around the Nation, the children would play,
And grown-ups would celebrate on a bright Christmas day.
They all enjoyed freedom, each month and all year,
because of Marines like this one lying here.

I couldn't help wonder how many lay alone,
on a cold Christmas Eve, in a land far from home.
Just the very thought brought a tear to my eye.
I dropped to my knees and I started to cry.

He must have awoken, for I heard a rough voice,
"Santa, don't cry, this life is my choice
I fight for freedom, I don't ask for more.
My life is my God, my country, my Corps."

With that he rolled over, drifted off into sleep,
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep.
I watched him for hours, so silent and still.
I noticed he shivered from the cold night's chill.

So I took off my jacket, the one made of red,
and covered this Marine from his toes to his head.
Then I put on his T-shirt of scarlet and gold,
with an eagle, globe and anchor emblazoned so bold.

And although it barely fit me, I began to swell with pride,
and for one shining moment, I was Marine Corps deep inside.
I didn't want to leave him so quiet in the night,
this guardian of honor so willing to fight.

But half asleep he rolled over, and in a voice clean and pure,
said "Carry on, Santa, it's Christmas Day, all secure."

One look at my watch and I knew he was right,
Merry Christmas my friend, Semper Fi and goodnight.

Mom's Ginger Bread - YUM!

2010-12-19T12:00:00.003-07:00

December 19, 2010
Colorado, USA

I made Mom's Ginger Bread recipe last night. It is a bread-like cake not a cookie. Mom would bake this recipe for Dad in the winter time, often around the holidays. She would serve it up warm with a generous dallup of butter. YUM!

She baked it in a square cake pan. I used a bundt pan. It is rich and dark and moist. The house smelled like Christmases past while it was baking. Savoring a slice of it late in the evening evoked memories of Mom busily baking and the smile on Dad's face when she served it up.

Click below to read and print the recipe:
Mom's Ginger Bread

A favorite Christmas Story... of all who give gifts these two were the wisest

2010-12-19T05:00:00.001-07:00

December 19, 2010
Colorado, USA

THE GIFT OF THE MAGI
by O. Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

Santa always insisted on secrecy...

2010-12-18T05:00:00.002-07:00

December 18, 2010
Fort Collins, CO

Someone shared this story with me last year. It has become one of my favorite Christmas stories. And now, I am sharing it with you...

Santa Claus, A Christmas Adventure With Grandma

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma. I was just a kid. I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered. "Even dummies know that!"

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been. I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me. I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her world-famous cinnamon buns. I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so. It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm. Between bites, I told her everything. She was ready for me. "No Santa Claus!" she snorted. "Ridiculous! Don't believe it. That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad. Now, put on your coat, and let's go."

"Go? Go where, Grandma?" I asked. I hadn't even finished my second world-famous, cinnamon bun. "Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything. As we walked through its doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars. That was a bundle in those days. "Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it. I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.

I was only eight years old. I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself. The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping. For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.

I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors,the kids at school, the people who went to my church. I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker. He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs.Pollock's grade-two class.

Bobby Decker didn't have a coat. I knew that because he never went out for Recess during the winter. His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough, and he didn't have a coat.

I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement. I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!

I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it. It looked real warm, and he would like that. "Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down. "Yes," I replied shyly. "It's .... for Bobby." The nice lady smiled at me. I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) and wrote on the package, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" -- Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy. Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk Then Grandma gave me a nudge. "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going."

I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma. Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open. Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.

Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes. That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous. Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.

I still have the Bible, with the tag tucked inside: $19.95.

He who has no Christmas in his heart will never find Christmas under a tree.

Decking the Halls 2010 (part 1) The Living Room

2010-12-17T05:00:00.004-07:00

December 17, 2010
Colorado, USA

Well, the hall is decked out from top to bottom, inside and out. Every room has at least one tree. Here are a few photos of the living room which houses a good portion of the Santa collection and the Santa tree loaded with ornaments. Many of the Santas I made myself, others were made by friends over the years, some I have collected along the way and some were gifts or handed down to me. A good number of the Santas are vintage or one of a kind. Tim and I enjoy browsing through antique stores and second hand shops looking for Santa all year round. Enjoy.

Slide show (67 photos):

Photos of the other rooms coming soon...

About he who makes glad the heart of childhood...

2010-12-16T05:00:00.001-07:00

December 16, 2010
Fort Collins, CO

Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus
By Francis P. Church
first published in The New York Sun in 1897.

We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Sun:

Dear Editor—

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?

Virginia O’Hanlon

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Click on the image to view larger size.

About the Exchange
Francis P. Church’s editorial, “Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus” was an immediate sensation, and went on to become one of the most famous editorials ever written. It first appeared in the The New York Sun in 1897, almost a hundred years ago, and was reprinted annually until 1949 when the paper went out of business.

Thirty-six years after her letter was printed, Virginia O’Hanlon recalled the events that prompted her letter:

“Quite naturally I believed in Santa Claus, for he had never disappointed me. But when less fortunate little boys and girls said there wasn’t any Santa Claus, I was filled with doubts. I asked my father, and he was a little evasive on the subject.

“It was a habit in our family that whenever any doubts came up as to how to pronounce a word or some question of historical fact was in doubt, we wrote to the Question and Answer column in The Sun. Father would always say, ‘If you see it in the The Sun, it’s so,’ and that settled the matter.

“ ‘Well, I’m just going to write The Sun and find out the real truth,’ I said to father.

“He said, ‘Go ahead, Virginia. I’m sure The Sun will give you the right answer, as it always does.’ ”

And so Virginia sat down and wrote her parents’ favorite newspaper.

Her letter found its way into the hands of a veteran editor, Francis P. Church. Son of a Baptist minister, Church had covered the Civil War for The New York Times and had worked on the The New York Sun for 20 years, more recently as an anonymous editorial writer. Church, a sardonic man, had for his personal motto, “Endeavour to clear your mind of cant.” When controversal subjects had to be tackled on the editorial page, especially those dealing with theology, the assignments were usually given to Church.

Now, he had in his hands a little girl’s letter on a most controversial matter, and he was burdened with the responsibility of answering it.

“Is there a Santa Claus?” the childish scrawl in the letter asked. At once, Church knew that there was no avoiding the question. He must answer, and he must answer truthfully. And so he turned to his desk, and he began his reply which was to become one of the most memorable editorials in newspaper history.

Church married shortly after the editorial appeared. He died in April, 1906, leaving no children.

Virginia O’Hanlon went on to graduate from Hunter College with a Bachelor of Arts degree at age 21. The following year she received her Master’s from Columbia, and in 1912 she began teaching in the New York City school system, later becoming a principal. After 47 years, she retired as an educator. Throughout her life she received a steady stream of mail about her Santa Claus letter, and to each reply she attached an attractive printed copy of the Church editorial. Virginia O’Hanlon Douglas died on May 13, 1971, at the age of 81, in a nursing home in Valatie, N.Y.

Source: Newseum, Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus

Remembering Aunt Kathy on her birthday

2010-12-15T05:00:00.010-07:00

December 15, 2010
Colorado, USA

Remembering Aunt Kathy (1938-2003). I usually remember Aunt Kathy on her birthday and on the anniversary of the day that she left us. I think of her often. She never forgot my birthday and she always remembered me at Christmas with a card. A couple of days ago, Mom shared the following memory of a Christmas past with her Sissy and it made me smile... I couldn't think of a better or more fitting birthday remembrance tribute to a woman we both loved dearly.

Christmas Past

Once upon a time, in a small farming community in northern Clay County there is a place called Thornberry, Texas. On August 4th, 1937 the first child of “Red” and Sadie Davis was born. They called her Inez.

The first Christmas that I remember is very special to me. I was about four or five years old and by that time, we had a new member of our family. I will call her “Sissy”.

I remember that it was cold and frosty outside and there was snow on the ground. It was Christmas Eve and Momma was busy getting things ready for Christmas day. She always made candy, cakes, cookies and everything that was good and made the house smell good. We lived in a very small, old, old house, warmed with a potbelly stove, but being a small girl, everything to me and my sister was beautiful and comfortable.

On Christmas Eve, my Daddy and my Momma always put us girls to bed as early as they could. The reason, was so they could put together Christmas for us.

You see, our small white paper Christmas tree with paper garland was never put up before Christmas Eve night.

As we slept snug under mounds of homemade quilts so heavy you could barely move, we went to sugarplum dreams.

Momma and Daddy were busy putting together for us a cardboard dollhouse with all the extras that came with it and a few paper dolls cut from a Sears catalog, in other words our dream book.

When Sissy and I woke on Christmas morning, we were excited to find that Santa had left us a dollhouse, very small dolls and a stocking for each of us, filled with fruit and candy canes.

This is my favorite Christmas story and a Christmas I so fondly remember.

Now I am a great grandmother myself and everything has changed, but I bet you can relate to this story, one and all.

Have a very Merry Christmas 2010
My story to you at Christmastime
Inez

Merry Christmas Vickie from Grandma

2010-12-09T21:00:00.000-07:00

December 9, 2010
Colorado, USA

My Grandma - age 99

Mom and Alice attended the Christmas party at the Senior Center where my 99 year old Grandmother resides. Mom reports it was a lovely, festive event and that Grandma was in a pretty good mood. Mom sent the pictures in a Merry Christmas Vickie from Grandma email. I was happy to get them because I miss her very much.

Grandma opens a Christmas present

I Believe...

2010-12-07T05:00:00.001-07:00

December 7, 2010
Colorado, USA

Click on the image to see a larger version...

O Winter!

2010-12-04T05:00:00.001-07:00

December 4, 2010
Colorado, USA

O Winter! ruler of the inverted year,

...I crown thee king of intimate delights, fireside enjoyments, home-born happiness, and all the comforts that the lowly roof of undisturb'd retirement, and the hours of long uninterrupted evening, know.

-- William Cowper (1731 - 1800)

Vik's Blog

poem from ann

Nice

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Reading List 2010

All ones...

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