This is getting a little much

A group of eight students from the University of Alberta's 'Black Youth Mentorship and Leadership Program', wrote a piece in today's 'Calgary Herald' complaining about the lack of Black history in Alberta's educational curriculum.  They claimed that this was the cause of the inordinately low educational outcomes for Black students, who drop out of high school at double the rate of other students.

Come on.  

They also cited anti-Black racism they claim is rampant throughout schools in the province.

Come on.  Again.

I would think that values and upbringing have a major role to play in shaping the goals of all students, no?  How can it all be laid at the feet of the curriculum to which they object?

Perhaps they don't teach the Constitution Acts of 1867 and 1982, which explain how Canada was formed, i.e., two founding nations, French and English.  There were no other official nationalities at the time and still aren't.  But since then, multiculturalism has been enshrined in this country via special ministries and initiatives such as 'Black History Month', for example.

There are so many nationalities in Canada there'd have to be hundreds of other cultural histories incorporated -- or "infused", as these students demand -- into every provincial educational curriculum.  That's a Pandora's box no one will touch.  Are we going to build in Filipino, Chinese, Japanese history into course content?  And speaking of Pandora's boxes, another has been opened with the appointment of the first Indigenous Languages Commissioner.  Don't get me started!  It won't be long before native lawyers and lobbyists will be demanding their own "special" commissioners because they will claim their native bands and languages are "different" and need its own.  

That's how political rabbit holes get deeper and deeper and cost millions and millions to satisfy.

There are hundreds of colleges and universities offering specialized courses on ethnic, gender and cultural practices and histories in this country.  Take one, but don't expect official, provincial K-12 curricula to try to satisfy all requests.  Can't be done.  I mean, there is still a loud hue-and-cry against separate schools, for Gawd's sake.

So kids, buck up, study hard, go out into the world and make a contribution because trust me, no one in his/her right mind is going to open up the constitution ever again to accommodate you.    

          

More damning evidence

 The "roll out" of the COVID 19 vaccine is in complete disarray.  Every province is doing and saying something different, the feds are completely incompetent, provincial health "experts" are contradicting each other and huge supplies of vaccine sit rotting in warehouses.

This is an outrage.  'The Globe and Mail' is doing a great job uncovering the scandal, so pick up a copy and educate yourself.  Doctors are writing letters to the editor saying they are getting no information about when they will get supplies.  How can this be?!

Bureaucratic and political incompetence reign supreme hiding behind piles of our money.  Today's cartoon sums it up perfectly:

 We're totally effed.

  

What have I been saying?

As RCMP Commissioner Lucki hides under her desk and claims it was only in a few, rare cases, former chief justice of the Supreme Court, Michel Bastarache, releases a damning report about harassment and sexual assault in the force.  A few cases?  How about 3,000 that were reported!  What about the thousands that weren't reported?  

According to the report, covered in today's 'Globe and Mail', it wasn't just assault and harassment, it was out-and-out gang rape in some cases.  Lucki has to be fired.

And then there's the ludicrous Tam.  She, Trudeau and Hajdu have apparently been lying because Canada does not have nearly enough vaccine doses to cover the country.  We're at the back of a very long international line, thanks to Trudeau's ineptness.  Tam and Hadju also need to be fired for outright incompetence.

But no heads will roll, as I say, because Trudeau is a "feminist".

This is beyond it!

 A friend of mine was standing in line for a coffee the other day.  When she placed her order, she said, "Black coffee, please."  The woman behind her admonished: "You shouldn't say 'black coffee'.  You should just say, "Coffee without cream."

She was Black, by the way.  She'd probably have objected if my friend had said, "White coffee, please."  Used to be we all stayed politely and tolerantly in our lanes with a live-and-let-live attitude.  But not anymore.  When I posted this anecdote on fb, some young woman (yes, she was Black) attacked me and said I was knowingly lying and just making this up.  Said I was a white racist.  Oh well.......what Caucasian isn't these days!?       

Others had a sense of humour -- like the guy who said he was surprised they still allowed "White Christmas" to be played on the radio.  Now, that was funny.  

That's all she blabbed about

 The need to get Canadian money remittances to Jamaica much more quickly.  I refer to the then Jamaican High Commissioner, who had been invited to speak to the Royal Commonwealth Society a few years ago.  All she went on about was money, money, money -- not about the Commonwealth at all.  I wanted to hide under the table, so embarrassing was it.  

James Bartleman also blotted his well-funded copy book in a similar address when he raved on about the torture of residential schools, where he had been well-educated enough to become a lawyer and eventually Lieutenant Governor of Ontario.  It floored me because I had been the one who had invited him to speak in the first place.  

Thought about both of them the other day when I read an article in 'The Globe and Mail' about the head of something called 'The Jamaican-Canadian Association' complaining that the pandemic had hindered the speed with which care packages were getting to Jamaica.  Can you imagine, this guy is complaining about how covid has thrown roadblocks into his shipping plan.  The nerve of this virus!  Here's his plaint, page one:   

Apparently, Jamaicans living in Canada send hundreds of care packages and millions of dollars to their native country.  My question is, why?  Why are they earning money here and shipping it to Jamaica?  According to stats from 'The Economist', the Filipinos are the worst offenders, with Nigerians next, but why don't they appeal to their native countries' governments to feed, clothe and house their own people?  Why not call the current Jamaican PM, Andrew Holness -- in power from 2011 to 2020 -- for a few answers?  Why do people feel obliged to send money earned here out-of-country?  It needs to be put back into Canadian circulation.  (Note:  Don't know why this flipped into centre-align??)

Another thing on my nerves is the priority of the vaccine roll-out here.  Apparently, natives are top of the list because they are not following the rules and getting sick.  So, naturally, they are getting vaccines sooner than anyone else.  "We have to get them to these remote areas," is the rationale.  Well, why do they continue to live in these desolate places?!  Oh yeah, forgot:  Money.

But guess what?  They have decided they don't trust the vaccines developed by the evil white man and won't take them.  So, thousands of precious doses will be shipped to reserves to rot.  

I't all so wrong.         

The Empty Box

Another gem from my friend, Bob:

Even though it was only September, the air was crisp, and the children were already whispering about Christmas plans and Santa Claus. It made the already long months until Christmas seem even longer. With each passing day the children became more anxious, waiting for the final school bell. Upon its ringing everyone would run for coats, gloves and the classroom door, racing to see who the first one home would be: everyone except David.

David was a small boy with messy brown hair and tattered clothes. I had often wondered what kind of home life David had and often asked myself what kind of mother could send her son to school dressed so inappropriately for the cold winter months without coat, boots, or gloves. But something made David special. It wasn’t his intelligence or manners for they were as lacking as his winter clothes, but I can never recall looking at David and not seeing a smile. He was always willing to help and not a day passed that David didn’t stay after school to straighten chairs and clean erasers. We never talked much, he would just simply smile and ask what else he could do, then thank me for letting him stay and slowly head for home.

Weeks passed and the excitement over the coming Christmas grew into restlessness until the last day of school before the holiday break. I can’t recall a more anxious group of children as that final bell rang and they scattered out the door. I smiled in relief as the last of them hurried out. Turning around I saw David quietly standing by my desk. “Aren’t you anxious to get home, David?” I asked. “No,” he quietly replied. Ready to go home myself I said, “Well, I think the chairs and erasers will wait, why don’t you hurry home.” “I have something for you,” he said and pulled from behind his back a small box wrapped in old paper and tied with string. Handing it to me he said anxiously, “Open it!” I took the box from him, thanked him and slowly unwrapped it. I lifted the lid and to my surprise saw nothing. I looked at David’s smiling face and back into the empty box and said, “The box is nice, but David, it’s empty.” “Oh, no it isn’t,” said David, “it’s full of love. My mom told me before she died that love was something you couldn’t see or touch unless you know it’s there….can you see it?” Tears filled my eyes as I looked at the proud dirty face I had rarely given attention to. “Yes, David, I can see it,” I replied. “Thank you.”

David and I became good friends after that Christmas and I can say that with the passing years, I never again let the uncombed hair or dirty faces bother me, and I never forgot the meaning behind the little empty box that still sits on my desk.

OMG!

 So, the ridiculous Trudeau has appointed a Cree Language Commissioner.  OMG!  Why!?  Next, he'll be declaring it one of our official languages!  But what about the hundreds of other native languages?  They'll all be screaming they need  commissioners too!!

Being an official language means getting money, so that's what it's all about, folks:  Moola!

Some days there aren't enough exclamation points on the keyboard for what I have to say.  And here's another exclamation point:  Rosemary Barton has been handed THREE HOURS of blathering time on CBC on Sunday mornings.  THREE HOURS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  Contrarian-in-chief Catherine Tait is the culprit.  As you know, I used to babysit Tait and she was a spoiled brat back then.  Obviously remains one.  

"Ms. Tait, don't you think three hours for one person is a little much?" some minion might have dared posit.  "No, in that case, she's getting the show," Tait would have dug in, doubled down and said.  And let's not forget that this president of the CBC lives in.....wait for it.....calmly sit down......New Jersey!!!!!!!!  Again, someone might have suggested living in New Jersey would be a little out-of-touch for a CBC president and once again, Tait would have tripled down.  In her arrogance, she thinks she can run the place remotely.

Take it from me, I knew her and I knew her mother.  Tait's father was an ineffectual partner, so that's where their offspring ended up.  Coincidentally, before I met him, B was the mother's boss at FPRO.  He told me that in an hysterical outburst of women's lib, mother Tait upbraided him for the serious breach of holding a door for her "liberated" ass; shortly thereafter, she broke her leg and was in a cast.  One day they drove to a meeting with Tait in the back seat.  When they arrived, B got out and shut the door, leaving Tait stuck in the car screaming.  "Oh, sorry, I thought you didn't want any man holding the door for you."  Hahahaha!   

Catcalling??!!

 Doesn't Calgary City Council have more important things to worry about than catcalling??!!  Nenshi -- who will NEVER have to worry about such attention -- and his gang of idiots are debating about passing a bylaw to outlaw catcalling.

Whaaaaaat!!??

Talk about turbo-charged nothingness, this takes the cake.  What is wrong with catcalling?  Frankly, I used to enjoy it when I was young and hot.  Now I am invisible, so don't have to worry about it.  But I do remember touring Italy as a nubile twenty-something and feeling very safe when young men whistled or said, "Ooh la la!"  All they were doing was complimenting me, not lying in wait in some back alley to assault me.  It was out in the open and I loved the attention.  

Now, a few dowdies are wanting to outlaw it.  Get over yourselves.  Please! 

______________________________

Another guy who needs to get over himself is the righteous Perry Bellegarde.  Apparently his latest outrage centres around Erin O'Toole's "galling" assertion that Egerton Ryerson began residential schools because he believed in education for all.  OMG!  What an outrage!!  Ryerson actually thought it a good idea to teach natives to read and write!  Wow, what an affront!  Did a blog on another outraged success story, one James Bartleman, (see "The Pudding," March 28, 2017).  Bartleman would never have achieved the success he did without having attended a residential school.

In other countries, people actually pay big money to send their kids to boarding schools to be better educated than the public schools or parents could have achieved.  Bellegarde labelled O'Toole's assertions "political".  Well, duh!  Of course!  And what is Bellegarde if not wholly political?!  And if I have to look at, or listen to, the ridiculous harridan Pam Palmeter one more second I'm going to scream!  Ryerson is actually paying her a salary to crap on Ryerson?!  What!!??  Pamie has one agenda:  Hating "colonialism". 

Sexual abuse happens in all boarding schools and in the case of the natives, it has been revealed that most of the abuse was doled out by other native kids -- not those who ran the places.  So, let's get a grip here, calm down and be grateful for what society had given us.  Was I abused?  Yes.  Did I get over it?  Obviously.  Don't dine out on the past.  Move forward.      

For Always

by Will Fish

In 1994, two Americans answered an invitation from the Russian Department of Education to teach morals and ethics (based on biblical principles) in the public schools.  They were invited to teach at prisons, businesses, the fire and police departments and a large orphanage.  About 100 boys and girls who had been abandoned, abused, and left in the care of a government-run program were in the orphanage.  They relate the following story in their own words:

“It was nearing the holiday season, 1994, time for our orphans to hear, for the first time, the traditional story of Christmas.  We told them about Mary and Joseph arriving in Bethlehem.  Finding no room in the inn, the couple went to a stable, where the baby Jesus was born and placed in a manger.  

Throughout the story, the children and orphanage staff sat in amazement as they listened.  Some sat on the edges of their stools, trying to grasp every word.  Completing the story, we gave the children three small pieces of cardboard to make a crude manger.  Each child was given a small paper square, cut from yellow napkins I had brought with me.  No colored paper was available in the city.  Following instructions, the children tore the paper and carefully laid strips in the manger for straw.  Small squares of flannel, cut from a worn-out nightgown an American lady was throwing away as she left Russia, were used for the baby’s blanket.  A doll-like baby was cut from tan felt we had brought from the United States.  

The orphans were busy assembling their manger as I walked among them to see if they needed any help.  All went well until I got to one table where little Misha sat—he looked to be about six years old and had finished his project.  As I looked at the little boy’s manger, I was startled to see not one, but two babies in the manger.  Quickly, I called for the translator to ask the lad why there were two babies in the manger.  Crossing his arms in front of him and looking at his completed manger scene, the child began to repeat the story very seriously. For such a young boy, who had only heard the Christmas story once, he related the happenings accurately—until he came to the part where Mary put the baby in the manger.

Then Misha started to ad lib.  He made up his own ending to the story as he said, “And when Maria laid the baby in the manger, Jesus looked at me and asked me if I had a place to stay.  I told him I have no mamma and I have no papa, so I don’t have any place to stay.  Then Jesus told me I could stay with him.  But I told him I couldn’t because I didn’t have a gift to give him like everybody else did.  But I wanted to stay with Jesus so much, so I thought about what I had that maybe I could use for a gift.  So I asked Jesus, ‘If I keep you warm, will that be a good enough gift?’  And Jesus told me, ‘If you keep me warm, that will be the best gift anybody ever gave me.’  So I got into the manger, and then Jesus looked at me and he told me I could stay with him—for always.”

As little Misha finished his story, his eyes brimmed full of tears that splashed down his little cheeks.  Putting his hand over his face, his head dropped to the table and his shoulders shook as he sobbed and sobbed.  The little orphan had found someone who would never abandon nor abuse him, someone who would stay with him—FOR ALWAYS.

Really?

 Apparently, no one has died from the regular flu yet.  How can this be?!  Every year, thousands succumb -- and also thanks to garden-variety pneumonia -- but only covid is killing everyone these days.

Something is afoot here.  Is it easier for doctors to just tick the "covid" box on the death certificate?  I wonder?

There are a lot of jumbled-up facts surrounding this pandemic.  Yesterday we learned that Alberta's stats are wrong.  Apparently, the "brilliant" Deena Hinshaw confused the number of people tested with the number who tested positive.  Whoa!  That's a biggie because it was thanks to doctor-drone-a-thon that Kenney shut down the entire province.  Numbers matter, people.

And speaking of drone-a-thons, Hinshaw's daily recitation of numbers apparently turned off many people.  What did the numbers mean?  Today 28 people tested positive; yesterday it was 29; 400,000 tested negative; one died.  What the Hell?!  What does it all mean?  People just tuned out while Kenney hid under his bed.  After SARS, et al, many reports and recommendations were written.  Sadly, all governments threw them out the window and shoved a bunch of hapless doctors in front of the cameras to "inform" the befuddled public.  

That worked well.  We're still befuddled.

The other thing to note is that covid turns into pneumonia and it's the latter that kills.  Get both pneumonia shots.  Please.  

Christmas Loaves and Fishes...........

 by Ranier Maharaj, Toronto, Canada

On a Christmas Eve in homes everywhere there is a quiet excitement.  The festive feeling and the warmth of having family members near brings to mind a Christmas tale I love to relate each year. It’s a true story, even though it might sound unbelievable.  And it’s proof that miracles do happen.

A long time ago there was a group of young people who decided to spread some Christmas cheer.  They had discovered that there were several children who would be spending the festive holiday in a community hospital nearby.  So one of the friends dressed as Santa Claus, they bought nice presents, wrapped them, and armed with guitars and sweet voices, they dropped in unexpectedly at the hospital on Christmas Eve.  The children were overjoyed at seeing Santa, and by the time the group was finished handing out presents and singing Christmas carols, there were tears in everyone’s eyes.  From then on, it was decided they would play Santa every year.

The following Christmas Eve, other patients were included in the rounds, and by the third year the celebration was expanded to embrace some of the poor children in the neighborhood.  On the fourth Christmas Eve, however, after all the rounds were made, Santa Claus looked into his bag and discovered there were a few extra toys left.  So the friends mulled it over, trying to figure out what to do with them.  Somebody mentioned that there were a few squatters’ shacks nearby in which a couple of desperately poor families lived.  So the group decided to go there, thinking that there were perhaps three families at most.  But as they drove over the crest of the hill into this lonely area—it was around midnight now—the shocked group saw a large number of people standing at the side of the street.  Much to their surprise, they were children—more than 30 of them.  Behind them were not three shacks but rows and rows of shabby squatters’ dwellings.  As the cars drew to a stop, the children came running up, shouting with joy.  It turned out they had been waiting patiently all night for Santa Claus.  Somebody—no one could remember who—had told them he was coming, although our Santa had decided to go there only moments before.

Everyone was stunned, except Santa.  He was in a panic.  He knew he didn’t have enough toys for all these kids.  Eventually, however, not wanting to disappoint the children, he decided to give whatever toys he had only to the youngest, smallest children.  When the presents ran out, he’d just have to explain to the bigger kids what had happened.  So moments later he found himself perched on top of a car’s hood as these 30 or more sparkling clean children, dressed in their best clothes, lined up in order of height, with the smallest first, for their moment with him.   As each anxious child approached, Santa dipped into his bag, his heart heavy with dread, hoping to find at least one more toy.   And by some miracle, he found one each time he dipped.   And as the last of the children received a present, Santa looked into the now deflated bag.   It was empty—empty as it should have been 24 children ago.

With a sigh of relief, he let out a hearty “ho-ho-ho” and bade the kids farewell.  But as he was about to enter one of the cars (the reindeer, apparently, had the day off), he heard a child scream: “Santa! Santa! Wait!” And out of the bushes rushed two little children, a boy and a girl.  They had been asleep.  Santa’s heart sank.  This time he knew for sure he had no more toys.  The bag was empty.  He had seen it himself.  But as the out-of-breath kids approached, he summoned up some extra courage and dipped into the bag one more time.  And—lo and behold—there were indeed two more presents in the bag.

That group of friends, now all grown adults, still talk about this miracle on Christmas morning.  They still have no explanation for it, other than the fact that it happened. 

How do I know so much about this?   Well, I was the one playing Santa.

Stupidity beyond belief

It now seems that Canada put all its eggs in one Chinese dim sum basket when preparing to vaccinate its citizens.  Yep, a Chinese firm was originally the only one contracted to develop a corona virus vaccine.  

Can you believe that?!  Canada contracted with the very same country that created and distributed the virus in the first place to make the vaccine!  This Fall, when China suddenly pulled the plug, Canada had to scramble to find other sources.  And don't forget the genius on the WHO's payroll.  Our very "own" Theresa Tam.  And don't forget who controls the WHO:  China.  

So, folks, there we have it.  Canada's brilliant "leaders" have utterly and criminally failed to keep Canadians safe.  And if you think the roll-out strategy for the measly few doses that will trickle across this land will do any good, you're sadly mistaken.  In spite of continuing to claim that long-term care residents are first in line, no one has figured out how to get the vaccine to them.  Currently, with only a few adequate freezers to keep the vaccine usable, recipients have to get themselves to a freezer.  The freezers can't be taken to where the victims lie. 

It's all a disaster and the rest of us will be lucky to get a jab by next October.  Mark my words:  We're f-cked.      

This is very funny

 Someone posted the following sign:

Black (O)lives matter

By simply adding an "O" in front of "lives", they had made a screamingly-funny sign!  The post then said that they knew the Italians wouldn't stand for the whole brouhaha much longer.  Hahahaha!

I guess others are as sick of the whole thing as I.  

Because she cared

Recalled and Written by Ines Hunter Schultz

“She was only twenty-one when her father had died, leaving her mother with six children at home. She had been reared in a home where there had always been sufficient for their needs and sometimes more. 

Her parents had taught the children good values of work, prayer, sharing, and keeping close to Heavenly Father. But that was three years ago, and a lot had happened since then. A severe depression had swept across the land, wiping out their livelihood. She and her younger brother had become the family providers. 

The family had moved to a new town three months before Christmas, and of course, had few friends. Shortly before Christmas, their mother was called away from home to go to the bedside of her dying father. All the funds the brother and sister had were required for the train fare and sustenance for their mother. 

There was no money for Christmas presents, and it was a lonely time for the family in a strange city with no father or mother there. The brother was on call for his job and worked every possible hour he could get. At this time he was working at night. So, the responsibility for the four younger sisters fell upon the shoulders of the older sister. How hard she prayed that in some way she could provide Christmas presents for her family, especially the two little sisters. 

It was a bleak day – the day before Christmas. But it was like a miracle, she said later. As she was leaving work about six o’clock that Christmas Eve, her boss handed her an envelope. It contained a small cash bonus. As she walked into the darkness, tears filled her eyes in gratitude. 

She hurried from store to store, getting one present each for her mother, brother, and her two teenage sisters. There was not enough money left to buy new dolls for the little sisters. With her mind racing and planning, she bought organdy, lace, and ribbon. She would make new dresses for her little sisters’ old dolls. 

As she trudged through the snowy night to her home, she reflected on the many gifts they had received on other Christmases. But her heart was light because there would be a Christmas for her family.

After the little sisters were in bed, she wrapped the precious gifts she bought. Then she started cutting and sewing the doll dresses. She turned the furnace down and sat by the coal stove in the kitchen, with the oven door down for warmth. She worked most of the night on the sewing. One of her teenage sisters stayed with her. Then the older sister, in her thoughtful way, told her to go to bed. “You look so tired, please go to bed.” After that she cleaned up the old dolls and dressed them in the beautiful new dresses and bonnets.

When the dolls were dressed, she carefully placed them in the living room, with one gift each for everyone else – except there was no gift for her. She said later that her gift was the answer to her prayer that brought the small, but precious, bonus. And then to see the eyes of her little sisters light up when they saw their beautiful dolls was the best gift she could receive.

After the gifts were opened a Western Union boy came to the door. He brought the news of the death of their grandfather early that Christmas morning. 

It was a Christmas never to be forgotten! But the unselfish love of their sister sustained this lonely young family that Christmas Day. They were a proud family and no friend, no relative, no bishop ever knew of their plight. Only a kind Heavenly Father knew and answered the prayer of faith of a loving, caring, sharing young woman.

I know that this happened because she was my sister. Her giving was not restricted to one Christmas, but she and her younger brother continued to provide for their family for many years. I pay special tribute to both of them this Christmas and I know that their influence will be with me forever.

 

Another wife

 "May I speak to Brian," a mysterious voice asked when I picked up the phone the other day.  "It's for you, I don't recognize the voice or name."  

It was his first wife (yes, I am his third), Denise.  And didn't they have a grand, old hour-long chat!  Well, why not.  I met her about 20 years ago, when we all had coffee so we could hand over their wedding album.  I made copies of the photos I wanted to keep, but she -- for some sentimental reason -- wanted the entire album.  Frankly, I liked her.  Can't say the same about the next one, who if you read my occasional blogs on that abysmal subject, is a complete b-tch.

She was calling, as promised, to tell B her mother had died -- at the amazing age of 100!  B always spoke very highly of his ex-mother-in-law, father-in-law too -- the latter of which was very angry when his daughter threw B over for a professional hockey player after just a year of marriage. But I can relate, having dated a couple of exciting hockey players myself, back in the day.  Very persistent and hard to resist!

So, 'tis the season to look back, remember and enjoy the life God has given each of us -- the good, bad and even the ugly! 

  

A String of Blue Beads

Another story......... 

By Fulton Oursler

Peter Richards was the loneliest man in town on the day Jean Grace opened his door. You may have seen something in the newspapers about the incident at the time it happened, although neither his name nor hers was publicized, nor was the full story told as I tell it here.

Pete’s shop had come down to him from his grandfather. The little Christmas front window was strewn with a disarray of old-fashioned things; bracelets and lockets worn in days before the Civil War; gold rings and silver boxes; images of jade and ivory, porcelain figurines.

On this winter’s afternoon a child was standing there, her forehead against the glass, earnest and enormous eyes studying each discarded treasure, as if she were looking for something quite special. Finally, she straightened up with a satisfied air and entered the store.

The shadowy interior of Pete Richards’ establishment was even more cluttered than his show window. Shelves were stacked with jewel caskets, dueling pistols, clocks, lamps, and the floor was heaped with andirons and mandolins and things hard to find a name for. Behind the counter stood Pete himself, a man not more than 30 but with hair already turning gray. There was a bleak air about him as he looked at the small customer who flattened her ungloved hands on the counter. “Mister,” she began, “would you please let me look at that string of blue beads in the window?” Pete parted the draperies and lifted out a necklace.

The turquoise stones gleamed brightly against the pallor of his palm, as he spread the ornament before her. “They’re just perfect,” said the child, to herself. “Will you wrap them up pretty for me, please?” Pete studied her with a stony air. “Are you buying these for someone?” “They’re for my big sister. She takes care of me. You see, this will be the first Christmas since Mother died. I’ve been searching for the most wonderful Christmas present for my sister.” “How much money do you have?” asked Pete warily. She had been busily untying the knots in a handkerchief and now she poured out a handful of pennies on the counter. “I emptied my bank,” she explained simply. Pete Richards looked at her thoughtfully. Then he carefully drew back the necklace.

The price tag was visible to him but not to her. How could he tell her? The trusting look of her blue eyes smote him like the pain of an old wound. “Just a minute,” he said and turned toward the back of tile store. Over his shoulder he called: “What’s your name?” He was very busy about something. “Jean Grace.” When Pete returned to where Jean Grace waited, a package lay in his hand, wrapped in scarlet paper and tied with a bow of green ribbon. “There you are,” he said shortly. “Don’t lose it on the way home.” She smiled over her shoulder as she ran out the door. Through the window he watched her go, while desolation flooded his thoughts. Something about Jean Grace and her string of beads had stirred him to the depths of a grief that would not stay buried.

The child’s hair was wheat yellow, her eyes sea-blue, and once upon a time not long before, Pete had been in love with a girl with hair of that same yellow and with large eyes just as blue. And the turquoise necklace was to have been hers. But there had come a rainy night–a truck skidding on a slippery road–and the life was crushed out of his dream. Since then, Pete Richards had lived too much with his grief in solitude. He was politely attentive to customers, but after business hours his world seemed irrevocably empty. He was trying to forget in a self-pitying haze that deepened day by day.

The blue eyes of Jean Grace jolted him into acute remembrance of what he had lost, The pain of it made him recoil from the exuberance of holiday shoppers. During the next ten days trade was brisk; chattering women swarming in, fingering trinkets, trying to bargain. When the last customer had gone, late on Christmas Eve, he sighed with relief. It was over for another year. But for Pete Richards the night was not quite over. The door opened and a young woman hurried in. With an explicable start, he realized that she looked familiar, yet he could not remember when or where he had seen her before. Her hair was golden yellow and her large eyes were blue.

Without speaking, she drew from her purse a package loosely unwrapped in its red paper a bow of green ribbon with it. Presently the string of blue beads lay gleaming again before him. “Did this come from your shop?” she asked. Pete raised his eyes to hers and answered softly: “Yes, it did.” “

Are the stones real?” 

“Yes. Not the finest quality–but real.” 

“Can you remember who it was you sold them to?” 

“She was a small girl. Her name was Jean. She bought them for her older sister’s Christmas present.”

 “How much are they worth?”

 “The price,” he told her solemnly, “is always a confidential matter between the seller and the customer.”

 “But Jean has never had more than a few pennies of spending money. How could she pay for them?” 

Pete was folding the colorful paper into its creases, rewrapping the little package just as neatly as before. “She paid the biggest price anyone can ever pay,” he said. “She gave all she had.”

There was a silence then that filled the little curio shop. In some faraway steeple, a bell began to ring.

The sound of the distant chiming, the little package lying on the counter, the question in the eyes of the girl and the strange feeling of renewal struggling unreasonable in the heart of the man, all had come to be because of the life of a child. 

“But why did you do it?” 

He held out the gift in his hand. “It’s already Christmas morning,” he said. 

“And it’s my misfortune that I have no one to give anything to. Will you let me see you home and wish you a Merry Christmas at your door?” 

And so, to the sound of many bells and in the midst of happy people, Pete Richards and a girl whose name he had yet to learn, walked out into the beginning of the great day that brings hope into the world for us all.

 

 

 

The Real Story of Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer

 From my buddy, Bob................

A man named Robert L. May, depressed and broken hearted, stared out his drafty apartment window into the chilling December night.  His 4-year-old daughter Barbara sat on his lap quietly sobbing.  Bobs wife, Evelyn, was dying of cancer. Little Barbara couldn't understand why her mommy could never come home. Barbara looked up into her dad's eyes and asked, "Why isn't Mommy just like everybody else's Mommy?"

Bob's jaw tightened and his eyes welled with tears.  Her question brought waves of grief, but also of anger. It had been the story of Bob's life. Life always had to be different for Bob. When he was a kid, Bob was often bullied by other boys.  He was too little at the time to compete in sports. He was often called names he'd rather not remember.  From childhood, Bob was different and never seemed to fit in.

Bob, after completing college, married his loving wife Evelyn and was grateful to get a job as a copywriter at the Timothy Eaton Department Store, in Toronto, during the Great Depression. Then he was blessed with his little girl. But it was all short-lived. Evelyn's bout with cancer stripped them of all their savings and now Bob and his daughter were forced to live in a two-room apartment in the poorer area of Toronto.  Evelyn died just days before Christmas in 1938.

Bob struggled to give hope to his child, for whom he couldn't even afford to buy a Christmas gift.  But if he couldn't buy a gift, he was determined a make one – a storybook!  Bob had created an animal character in his own mind and told the animal's story to little Barbara to give her comfort and hope.  Again and again, Bob told the story, embellishing it more with each telling.  Who was the character? What was the story all about?  The story Bob May created was his own autobiography in fable form. The character he created was a misfit outcast like he was. The name of the character? A little reindeer named Rudolph, with a big shiny nose.  Bob finished the book just in time to give it to his little girl on Christmas Day.  But the story doesn't end there.

 The general manager of the T. Eaton Store caught wind of the little storybook and offered Bob May a nominal fee to purchase the rights to print the book. They went on to print, “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” and distribute it to children visiting Santa Claus in their stores.  By 1946, Eaton's had printed and distributed more than six million copies of Rudolph. That same year, a major publisher wanted to purchase the rights from Eaton's to print an updated version of the book.  In an unprecedented gesture of kindness, the CEO of Eaton's returned all rights back to Bob May. The book became a best seller.

Many toy and marketing deals followed and Bob May, now remarried with a growing family, became wealthy from the story he created to comfort his grieving daughter.  But the story doesn't end there either.  Bob's brother-in-law, Johnny Marks, made a song adaptation to Rudolph. Though the song was turned down by such popular vocalists as Bing Crosby and Dinah Shore, it was recorded by the singing cowboy, Gene Autry. “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” was released in 1949 and became a phenomenal success, selling more records than any other Christmas song, with the exception of "White Christmas."

 The gift of love that Bob May created for his daughter so long ago kept on returning back to bless him again and again. And Bob May learned the lesson, just like his dear friend Rudolph, that being different isn't so bad. In fact, being different can be a blessing. 

The meaning of Christmas

 

YOU MAY SEE AN ANGEL
by Pat Leonard

John was almost five years old that Christmas.  Wasn’t it only natural that he was filled with awe and curiosity on that special night?

He did not have an important part in the school Christmas pageant, but was just one of many in the kindergarten class.  As the children gathered at school for the program, the teachers were busy with preparations and the costumes of those chosen to be Mary and Joseph and the angels, shepherds, and wisemen.  No one noticed a little boy go out the door into the hall.

But he had heard the baby!  There was to be a baby—he knew that.

Down the dark hall was the way he had to go.  He wondered why God didn’t send the star, and then he remembered.  The star wasn’t for him.  It was really for the shepherds and the wisemen, and he wasn’t anybody important like that.  He’d have to be very brave and go alone to find the baby.  He turned the corner cautiously.

At the far end of the hall, he saw a light from a doorway.  Then he heard the baby’s cry more clearly.  He knew where to go.

Mary Meadowcroft knelt beside the chair her husband, Joe, had brought to school for his sixth-grade reading corner as she put young Jeffrey down to rest.  He was normally a contented baby.  Had she known he would cry like this, she would have stayed at home with him instead of coming to school with Joe to see the pageant.

The sudden presence of so many eager children must have frightened Jeffrey for be began crying almost immediately and would not be stilled.  At least the program would not be long.  Mary decided to wait here in Joe’s classroom with the baby, so his crying would not disturb anyone.

Suddenly, she was startled to hear a little voice questioning, “Are you Mary?”

“Why, yes, I am,” she answered with amazement.  “Do I know you?”

“I came to see your baby,” said John.  “I didn’t know He ever cried like that,” he added softly.

“Jeffrey is just frightened to be in a strange place.”

“Hi,” John said softly as he knelt down beside the baby.  “I’m John.  I’m not a wiseman or anything, but they couldn’t come.”

The baby stopped crying to turn and look at John.  Mary remained perfectly still, her mouth drawn into an astonished “Oh!”

“I forgot to bring something, little Jeffrey Jesus.”

The baby was smiling now.  John put out a tentative finger to touch him and said in whispered adoration.  “I really do love you, Jeffrey Jesus.”

Suddenly John smiled.  “I know what I can give you!  I’ll sing you a song that we’ve been practicing!  I know all the words!”

By now John’s parents had come searching for him.  They were stopped in the doorway by the sight of Mary and the baby listening to John’s gift of song.

 Bless all the dear children
In your tender care,
And take us to heaven
To live with you there.

The baby beamed at the singing child while the three adults, their hearts full of wonder, saw a glimpse of an angel that night.

More Christmas stories...............

 Courtesy of my swim buddy, Bob.....

A Jewish Santa

By  Jay Frankston 

There’s nothing so beautiful as a child’s dream of Santa Claus.  I know, I often had that dream.  But I was Jewish and we didn’t celebrate Christmas.  It was everyone else’s holiday and I felt left out, like a big party I wasn’t invited to.  It wasn’t the toys I missed, it was Santa Claus and a Christmas tree. 

So when I got married and had kids I decided to make up for it.  I started with a seven-foot tree, all decked out with lights and tinsel, and a Star of David on top to soothe those whose Jewish feelings were frayed by the display and, for them, it was a Hanukah bush.  And it warmed my heart to see the glitter, because now the party was at my house and everyone was invited. 

But something was missing, something big and round and jolly, with jingle bells and a ho! ho! ho! S o I bought a bolt of bright red cloth and strips of white fur and my wife made me a costume.  Inflatable pillows rounded out my skinny frame, but no amount of makeup could turn my face into merry old Santa.  I went around looking at department store impersonations sitting on their thrones with children on their laps and flash-bulbs going off, and I wasn’t satisfied with the way they looked either.  After much effort I located a mask maker and he had just the thing for me, a rubberized Santa mask, complete with whiskers and flowing white hair.  It was not the real thing but it looked genuine enough to live up to a child’s dream of St. Nick. 

When I tried it on something happened.  I looked in the mirror and there he was, big as life, the Santa of my childhood.  There he was . . . and it was me.  I felt like Santa, like I became Santa.  My posture changed.  I leaned back and pushed out my false stomach.  My head tilted to the side and my voice got deeper and richer and a “MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE.” 

For two years I played Santa for my children to their mixed feelings of fright and delight and to my total enjoyment.  And when the third year rolled around, the Santa in me had grown into a personality of his own and he needed more room than I had given him.  So I sought to accommodate him by letting him do his thing for other children.  I called up orphanages and children’s hospitals and offered his services free.  But, “We don’t need Santa, we have all sorts of donations from foundations and . . . thank you for calling.”  And the Santa in me felt lonely and useless. 

Then, one late November afternoon, I went to the mailbox on the corner of the street to mail a letter and saw this pretty little girl trying to reach for the slot.  She was maybe six years old.  “Mommy, are you sure Santa will get my letter?” she asked.  “Well, you addressed it to Santa Claus, North Pole, so he should get it,” the mother said and lifted her little girl so she could stuff the letter into the box.  My mind began to whirl.  All those thousands of children who wrote to Santa Claus at Christmas time, whatever became of their letters?  One phone call to the main post office answered my question.  They told me that, as of the last week of November, an entire floor of the post office was needed to store those letters in huge sacks that came from different sections of the city. 

The Santa in me went ho! ho! ho! and we headed down to the post office.  And there they were, thousands upon thousands of letters, with or without stamps, addressed to Santi Claus, or St. Nick, or Kris Kringle, scribbled on wrapping paper or neatly written on pretty stationary.  And I rummaged through them and laughed.  Most of them were gimme, gimme, gimme letters, like “I want a pair of roller skates, and a Nintendo, and a GI Joe, and a personal computer, and a small portable TV, and whatever else you can think of.”  Many of them had the price alongside each item . . . with or without sales tax. 

Then there were the funny ones like: “Dear Santa, I’ve been a good boy all of last year, but if I don’t get what I want, I’ll be a bad boy all of next.”   And I became a little flustered at the demands and the greed of so many spoiled children.  But the Santa in me heard a voice from inside the mail sack and I continued going through the letters, one after the other, until I came upon one which jarred and unsettled me. 

It was neatly written on plain white paper and it said:   “Dear Santa, I hope you get my letter.  I am eleven years old and I have two little brothers and a baby sister.  My father died last year and my mother is sick.  I know there are many who are poorer than we are and I want nothing for myself, but could you send us a blanket, cause mommy’s cold at night.“   It was signed Suzy. 

And a chill went up my spine and the Santa in me cried, “I hear you Suzy, I hear you.”  And I dug deeper into those sacks and came up with another eight such letters, all of them calling out from the depth of poverty.  I took them with me and went straight to the nearest Western Union office and sent each child a telegram: “GOT YOUR LETTER.  WILL BE AT YOUR HOUSE ON CHRISTMAS DAY.  WAIT FOR ME. SANTA.” 

I knew I could not possibly fill the need of all those children and it wasn’t my purpose to do so.  But if I could bring them hope.  If I could make them feel that their cries did not go unheard and that someone out there was listening . . . So I budgeted a sum of money and went out and bought toys.  I wasn’t content with the five-and-ten cent variety.  I wanted something substantial, something these children could only dream of, like an electric train, or a microscope, or a huge doll of the kind they saw advertised on TV. 

And on Christmas Day I took out my sleigh and let Santa do his thing.  Well, it wasn’t exactly a sleigh, it was a car and my wife drove me around because with all those pillows and toys I barely managed to get in the back seat.  It had graciously snowed the night before and the streets were thick with fresh powder. 

My first call took me to the outskirts of the city.  The letter had been from a Peter Barsky and all it said was: “Dear Santa, I am ten years old and I am an only child.  We’ve just moved to this house a few months ago and I have no friends yet.  I’m not sad because I’m poor but because I’m lonely.  I know you have many things to do and people to see and you probably have no time for me.  So I don’t ask you to come to my house or bring anything.  But could you send me a letter so I know you exist.”     My telegram read: “DEAR PETER, NOT ONLY DO I EXIST BUT I’LL BE THERE ON CHRISTMAS DAY. WAIT FOR ME. SANTA.” 

We spotted the house and drove past it and parked around the corner.  Then Santa got out with his big bag of toys slung over his shoulder and tramped through the snow.   The house was wedged in between two tall buildings.  The roof was of corrugated metal and it was more of a shack than a house.  I walked through the gate, up the front steps and rang the bell.  A man opened the door.  He was in his undershirt and his stomach bulged out of his pants. “Boje moy ” he exclaimed in astonishment.  That’s Polish, by the way, and his hand went to his face.  “P-p-please . . .” he stuttered, “p-please . . .de boy . . . de boy . . . at mass . . . church.   I go get him. Please, please wait.”  And he threw a coat over his bare shoulders and, assured that I would wait, he ran down the street in the snow. 

So I stood in front of the house feeling good, and on the opposite side of the street was this other shack, and through the window I could see these shiny little black faces peering at me and waving.  Then the door opened shyly and some voices called out to me “Hya Santa” . . . “Hya Santa”. 

And I ho! ho! hoed my way over there and this woman asked if I would come in and I did.  And there were these five young kids from one to seven years old.  And I sat and spoke to them of Santa and the spirit of love which is the spirit of Christmas.  Then, since they were not on my list, but assuming from the torn Christmas wrappings that they had gotten their presents, I asked if they liked what Santa had brought them during the night.  And each in turn thanked me for . . . the woolen socks, and the sweater, and the warm new underwear. 

And I looked at them and asked: “Didn’t I bring you kids any toys?”  And they shook their heads sadly.  “Ho! ho! ho! I slipped up,” I said “We’ll have to fix that.”  I told them to wait, I’d be back in a few minutes, then trudged heavily through the snow to the corner.  And when I was out of their sight, I ran as fast as I could to the car.  We had extra toys in the trunk and my wife quickly filled up the bag, and I trotted back to the house and gave each child a brand new toy.   There was joy and laughter and the woman asked if she could take a picture of Santa with the kids and I said, sure, why not? 

And when Santa got ready to leave, I noticed that this five-year-old little girl was crying. She was as cute as a button.  I bent down and asked her “What’s the matter, child?” And she sobbed, “Oh! Santa, I’m so happy.” And the tears rolled from my eyes under the rubber mask. 

As I stepped out on the street, “Pan, pan, proche . . .please come . . . come,” I heard this man Barsky across the way.   And Santa crossed and walked into the house.  The boy Peter just stood there and looked at me. “You came,” he said. “I wrote and . . . you came”. He turned to his parents.  “I wrote . . . and he came.” And he repeated it over and over again. “I wrote . . . and he came.”  And when he recovered, I spoke with him about loneliness and friendship, and gave him a chemistry set, which seemed to be what he would go for, and a basketball.  And he thanked me profusely.  And his mother, a heavy-set Slavic-looking woman, asked something of her husband in Polish.  My parents were Polish so I speak a little and understand a lot.  “From the North Pole,” I said in Polish.   She looked at me in astonishment.  “You speak Polish?” she asked. “Of course,” I said. “Santa speaks all languages.” And I left them in joy and wonder. 

And I did this for twelve years, going through the letters to Santa at the post office, listening for the cries of children muffled in unopened envelopes.  In time I learned all that Santa has to know to handle any situation. Like the big kid who would stop Santa on the street and ask: “Hey, Santa, where’s your sleigh?”  And I’d say, “How old are you son?” And he’d say, “Thirteen.”  And I’d say, “Well, you’re a big fellow and you ought to know better. Santa used to come in a sleigh many years ago, but these are modern times. I come in a car now.”  And I’d hop in the back seat and my wife would drive off. 

Or the kid who would look at me closely and come out with, “That’s a mask,” pointing a finger.  And you never lie to children so I’d say, “Sure, son, of course. If everybody knew what Santa really looks like they’d bother me all year long and I couldn’t get my things ready for Christmas.”  Or the mother who would whisper so her young son couldn’t hear, “Where do you come from?” I’d turn to the child and say, “Your mom wants to know where I come from Willy.” And he’d say, “From the North Pole, Mommy,” with absolute certainty. And she’d nudge me and whisper, “You don’t understand. Who sent you? I mean, how do you come to this house?” I’d turn to the boy and say, “Hey, Willy, your mom wants to know why I came to see you.” And he’d say, “Cause I wrote him a letter, Mommy.” And I’d pull out the letter and she knows she mailed it, and she’s confused and bewildered and I’d leave her like that. 

As time went on, the word got out about Santa Claus and me, and I insisted on anonymity, but toy manufacturers would send me huge cartons of toys as a contribution to the Christmas spirit.  So I started with 18 or 20 children and wound up with 120, door to door, from one end of the city to the other, from Christmas Eve through Christmas Day. 

And on my last call, a number of years ago, I knew there were four children in the family and I came prepared. The house was small and sparsely furnished. The kids had been waiting all day, staring at the telegram and repeating to their skeptical mother, “He’ll come, Mommy, he’ll come.” And as I rang the doorbell the house lit up with joy and laughter and “He’s here . . . he’s here!” And the door swings open and they all reach for my hands and hold on. “Hya, Santa . . . Hya, Santa. We just knew you’d come.”  And these poor kids are all beaming with happiness. And I take each one of them on my lap and speak to them of rainbows and snowflakes, and tell them stories of hope and waiting, and give them each a toy. 

And all the while there’s this fifth child standing in the corner, a cute little girl with blond hair and blue eyes. And when I’m through with the others, I turn to her and say: “You’re not part of this family, are you?”

And she shakes her head sadly and whispers, “No.”

“Come closer, child,” I say, and she comes a little closer.

“What’s your name?” I ask. “Lisa.”

“How old are you?” “Seven.”

“Come, sit on my lap,” and she hesitates but she comes over and I lift her up and sit her on my lap. “Did you get any toys for Christmas?” I ask.

“No,” she says with puckered lips.

So I take out this big beautiful doll and, “Here, do you want this doll?”

“No,” she says. And she leans over to me and whispers in my ear, “I’m Jewish.”

And I nudge her and whisper in her ear, “I’m Jewish too. Do you want this doll?” And she’s grinning from ear to ear and nods with wanting and desire and takes the doll and hugs it and runs out. 

It’s been a long time since I last put on my Santa suit. But I feel that Santa has lived with me and given me a great deal of happiness all those years. And now, when Christmas rolls around, he comes out of hiding long enough to say, “Ho! ho! ho! A Merry Christmas to you, my friend.” 

And I say to you now, MERRY CHRISTMAS MY FRIENDS.”

 

Who cares?

 'The Globe and Mail' continues to run prominent stories about such places as Azerbaijan and Nagorno Karabakh.  Fine, bury a couple of lines here and there, but front-page with photos?  I don't get it?  Not saying these places -- perpetually at war -- aren't internationally critically important (tongue firmly in cheek there), but are there not other stories with more Canadian impact here?!  

 Another page-one offering featured China's erasing all traces of Genghis Khan.  Sounds like they are following Canada's reprehensible lead.  Disgracefully, ungrateful Canadians have torn down, or defaced, statues dedicated to nation-builders such as Sir John A. MacDonald and Hector Langevin.  They seek to rub clean any vestige of the men who built this country -- the same one most of the destroyers and demonstrators fought to get into -- legally or otherwise.  

Where's Lucki and the RCMP when these criminal acts take place?  That was another of my rhetorical questions.  I'm sick of it.

 

Another............

 A Christmas Miracle

by Kathleen Ruckman

It was December 23, 1910, and a plague of diphtheria swept through eastern Czechoslovakia that Christmas season.  In the tiny village of Velky Slavkov, lying in the shadow of the High Tatra Mountains, a solitary man walked a deserted street.  Pushing his hat lower on his head against the bitter wind, the man pressed ahead, passing homes with drawn shades and tightly shuttered windows.

For weeks, diphtheria—an acute infectious disease that strikes the upper respiratory system—had ravaged the small towns along the foothills of the Tatra region.  Nearly half the townspeople of Velky Slavkov had fallen to the plague; many of the victims were young children less than 10 years of age.

Carrying a pail of black paint, the man climbed a flight of outdoor stairs and swabbed an “X” on the wooden doorpost of the Boratkova household.  Another home was quarantined.

After the man left, Suzanna Boratkova kneeled at her doorpost, weeping and praying in Slovak.  In less than a week, she and her husband, Jano, were suddenly childless.  Their oldest child, 5-year-old Malena, had succumbed to the disease a few days earlier.  In the back yard, Jano labored in the woodshed, pounding the last nail into a coffin he was building for his two sons, who had died earlier that day from diphtheria.  Between sobs, Jano coughed and wheezed, because he, too, had contracted the deadly plague.

Suzanna returned to the house.  Crying in agony, she cleaned and wrapped her sons for the final time, carefully laying them into the handmade pine caskets.  She and Jano lifted them onto the wagon, and with a quick jerk of the reins, started the slow journey to the town cemetery.

Driving the horses through the foot-high snow, Jano and Suzanna braced themselves against a chilling wind that stung both body and soul.

“Another trip to the graveyard is more than I can bear!” Suzanna cried out, as they passed house after house marred with the black death mark.  The couple empathized with those families, but they didn’t have the strength to offer sympathy or encouragement.  They were too wrapped up in their own grief, much like the cotton muslins tightly swathed around their sons.

Two more grave sites had been dug into the frozen earth.  Now, all three children were together for eternity.  Suzanna struggling through the Lord’s Prayer, hugged the cold ground and wouldn’t let go.  Jano finally pulled her away with what little strength he had and led her back to the wagon.  She clutched her empty arms and crossed them over her broken heart.  She reminded herself that she would never hold her babies again.

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve.  As Jano and Suzanna re-entered their barren and branded house, they needed comfort.  They needed solace from their village friends.  But no one dared come near.   There were no Christmas greetings.  No sympathies were extended.  The black “X” spelled “DEATH” and “DO NOT ENTER”.  Their dark house was a frightful, forbidden tomb.

Little high-laced brown leather shoes were still lined up against the wood stove—as they usually were when the children were tenderly tucked into the same bed.  But now, the large feather bed was empty, and the old stucco house had never felt so cold.

“I won’t see another Christmas,” Jano whispered weakly to his wife.  “I don’t think I’ll see the New Year in, either.  

He pushed away the soup and bread that he could not swallow.  It was as though the diphtheria had tied a noose tightly around his throat, neither allowing food nor sufficient air to sustain him.  The village doctor had shrugged his shoulders when he visited Jano a few days before.  He had no cure.

Suzanna gathered some kindling wood and lit a fire for the night, sure that her husband was about to die.  Morning arrived—Jano was still alive.  Snowflakes fell from a gray sky and the wind blew a white mist over the frosted windows.  Suzanna, exhausted from a restless night with little sleep, dipped her cloth again in cold water to cool Jano’s burning fever.  Then, rubbing the icy glaze off her lattice window, she fixed her eyes on the Tatra Mountains.  Her mind contemplated Psalm 121:1-2; “I will look to the hills from whence cometh my help.”

Suddenly her gaze was interrupted as she saw a peasant woman trudging through the snow.  The old woman’s red and purple plaid shawl, draped over her hunched shoulders, hardly seemed warm enough against the morning chill.  A babushka, or kerchief, was wrapped around her head. Her long peasant skirt was a bright display of cotton and linen patchwork, and her woolen leggings and high-buttoned boots allowed her to successfully trod the snow-filled street.  In one of her uncovered hands she held a jar of clear liquid.  Suzanna stood half-stunned as she watched the old woman shuffle up the forbidden walkway.

Suzanna heard the knocker strike twice.  She cautiously opened the door and saw an unusual face, one wrinkled from years of farm work and severe winters.  But her eyes expressed a warmth that filled Suzanna’s heart.

“We have the plague in our home, and my husband is in a fever right now,” Suzanna warned her.

The old woman nodded, and then asked if she could step inside.  She held out her little jar to Suzanna.

“Take a clean, white linen and wrap it around your finger,” she instructed.  “Dip your finger into this pure kerosene oil and swab out your husband’s throat, and then have him swallow a tablespoon of the oil.  This should cause him to vomit the deadly mucous.  Otherwise he will surely suffocate.  I will pray for you and your family.”
The old woman squeezed Suzanna’s hand and quickly stepped out to the frigid outdoors.  Never before had Suzanna’s heart been touched in this way.  Here was a poor woman appearing—in love—on her doorstep in the midst of a plague.  Her unexpected gift was folk remedy against diphtheria.

“I’ll try it,” she called out to the old woman, with tears in her eyes.  “God bless you.”

Early Christmas morning, Jano retched up the deadly phlegm.  His fever was broken.  Suzanna wept and praised God.  A flicker of hope lightened her heart for a moment; surely God would someday bless her and Jano with more children.  There were no presents under a trimmed and tinseled tree that Christmas morning.  But the jar of oil glimmering on the window sill was a gift of life for generations to come.

Postscript:  In the days following the miraculous healing of Jano, Suzanna shared the folk remedy with neighbors.  In the 1920’s, Jano emigrated to America to find work, Suzanna joined him later with their eight children.

 Their ship reached Ellis Island on Washington’s birthday, February 22, 1926, and the family settled near the steel mills of Johnstown, Pennsylvania.  The family consisted of a set of triplets, two sets of twins, and two single births.  Two of the triplet boys were named John and Paul after the two sons who died from diphtheria.  The other triplet was named Samuel, who today is the father of this author.

Christmas story

One of my swim-lane buddies sends inspirational and charming stories around on Christmas.  With his permission, I am going to run them as I receive them; here's the first:

________________________________________ 

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, and 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 to 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; he didn’t have a good 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, ma’am,” I replied shyly. “It’s for Bobby.”

The nice lady smiled at me, as I told her about how Bobby really needed a good winter coat . I didn’t get any change, but she put the coat in a bag, smiled again, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat (a little tag fell out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible) in Christmas paper and ribbons and wrote, “To Bobby, From Santa Claus” on it.  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 door 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 coat tag tucked inside it of $19.95.

Last time I checked.....

 .....the "C" in YMCA stood for "Christian".  Apparently, even some of the younger staff at the local Y in Crowfoot don't know that.  This arose because they are putting up decorations and a tree in the lobby and I congratulated them.  

"And you better not call it a "holiday" tree," I admonished as I walked past towards the locker room.  "Well, some people might object," said one.  I went postal!  That's when I told her what the "C" stood for.  "Just remind anyone who dares challenge the tree of this basic fact," I added.  "Thanks," she replied, grateful for a little help in beating back the infidels.

I mean, if you're going to call it a "holiday" tree, you better change the name of the Y.  Seriously.  I am sick of it.  December 25th is not "season's" day, it's not "holiday" day.  It's Christmas Day, so please let us have one measly day to celebrate the birth of Christ.  

Started a little decorating today -- even though no one but the two of us might enjoy it.  Here are a few Christmas additions to our home:

Merry merry!