The False Ducks Blahg

      Well, it’s the day before Christmas and I’m going to post this quick blahg. Today is December 24th and I’ve been sick for four days.  Last week I had to have a prostate biopsy, a nice theme for a Christmas narrative, and I had to go off my Prednisone for three days leading up to the procedure.  I was in rough shape and crippled up so badly that I my wife was assisting me in all the daily living activities.  I won’t detail those.  While I’ve been on the Prednisone I haven’t had a cold or the flu all year because that little steroid keeps everything at bay.  Three days off the medication and a virus going around work managed to work its way into my system.  I’m on the mend now and I hope Christmas day will see me close to my normal. 

     I decided to write another story for this Christmas season.  I won’t go into many of the details regarding the theme because the title of this blahg is the same as the Christmas Entertainment below.  This year’s story is all true with nothing made up but some embellishment allowed.  I hope that people enjoy it.  It was an experience just living it, let me tell you. 

 

MEATS AND CHEESES AND BABY JESUS

For the last few years I have endeavored to write a new annual Christmas story.  All of these have been fictional and I always struggle to try and find an original idea.  Sometimes a funny thought or phrase will pop into my head while I’m shaving or driving or avoiding listening to someone droning on at me.  I should be clear that the droning on does not refer to my wife or colleagues but then I’d never admit to it.

            I swear that the process of writing a story starts earlier each year but with the actual writing part getting later and later into the season.  The idea usually germinates for a while and then I write sporadically until a glance at the calendar emphasizes the need to double down on my efforts.  This year I promised myself it would be different.  Oh, I’m still writing this past the half-way mark of December but I’ve decided that this year’s effort will not be fictional.  It’s just too hard coming up with characters and situations when sometimes the truth is so much more entertaining.

So this is going to be a Christmas Entertainment.  I’ve used that term before when I once self-published a collection of stories in a volume titled “Proof For Believing”.  There were sections for short stories, poems, radio scrips, and the catch-all of Christmas Entertainments that were observations or recollections from past Christmases.  This year’s offering fits well into the category and I swear most if not all of this is true.  I hope it entertains the reader.  I know I was entertained in the experiencing of it all or at least inspired to write this entertainment.

As I have said, the process of inspiration usually starts early in the holiday season.  Sometimes inspiration strikes around the end of November when I’m playing Christmas music or during the first weekend of December when I’m struggling to put up my outdoor light display and wondering why something’s not lighting or something else isn’t inflating or I’m wracking my brain to remember where I put certain extension cords last year so I can access them this year.  I usually give up looking for the cords and purchase replacements only to find the mislaid ones right where my wife eventually tells me I left them.

Around the beginning of December we also acquire our Christmas tree.  I insist on a real tree every year but we’ve now gone through two Christmas Tree farms and we’re now onto a third…but I’m getting ahead of myself because the new farm is part of this narrative.

A number of years ago we used to cut our tree at Dewe’s Tree farm.  I don’t even know if that was the name of the farm.  It was just a large lot run by the Dewe family.  My oldest daughter Emily went to school with one of the Dewe girls or the only Dewe girl.  I don’t remember exactly.  What I do recall is that you drove down a dirt lane or mud lane or snow covered lane and past the Dewe home.  The lot was out back and once you parked your vehicle it required a lot of walking after that.  Oh, and there was no bathroom.  One year my son pooped his pants.  To be fair, he was three or four and had snow-pants on and had walked quite a bit.  We had to have the windows down on the ride home.

Mr. or Mrs. Dewe was always waiting by the make-shift parking area with a blazing fire and hot-chocolate for the kids and white-fish for sale.  I could never get my children to eat fish before that but I recall it being candied white-fish and that made the experience all the better.  Of course toasting marshmallows over the open fire was something the kids looked forward to as well.

The process of finding the right tree was always interesting.  When the children were little, every tree was a giant to them so they’d pick ones that, to the average adult, were not tall enough.  As they grew in height, the process seemed to take longer because they’d argue about not only the height of the tree and which one was the fullest but whether we were robbing some woodland creature of its home.  We always checked closely for nests or nut stashes before deciding if a particular tree merited further consideration.  We would of course walk about again before deciding on the tree we saw in the first few minutes of our trek.

The tree would be tied to the roof and hauled away home where it always had a prominent position in the home after the heavy moving of furniture was finished.  The cats always hunkered under the tree and drank the water from the stand and batted at the ornaments hanging on lower branches.  Until the Children grew in height, most of the ornaments hung by their hands were on lower branches.

I remember one particular Dewe farm Christmas tree that either came with an extra surprise or attracted one.  I recall coming downstairs one morning with my son and noticing one of our cats perched on the back of a recliner and staring intently into the boughs of our tree.  There, on one branch close to where it grew out of the trunk, was perched a small mouse.  It was a beautiful sight and the mouse was cute.  I however, was terrified.  I don’t do mice.  That’s another story.  My wife is the trap and live release expert in our home.  That morning I mustered up enough courage though to hasten along the visitor.  I turned on the Christmas tree lights and the mouse booked it down the tree and across the floor and under the couch with our cat fast on its trail.  The cat held it at bay under the sofa until my wife got up and caught it later in a margarine dish and released it outside.  I missed that experience.  When she got up, I went back to bed.

Eventually the Dewe family gave up running the tree lot.  That’s when we switched to Moore’s near Bloomfield.  The price also went from Dewe’s $15 to Moore’s $30.  There was also more walking involved.  There was still no bathroom but at least the children were older and could hold it longer.  Unfortunately I also got older and had to hold it longer.  Moore’s was not only more expensive and required more walking, the return trip home was now thirty minutes.  Usually I was the first one out of the vehicle and into the house.

Moore’s retired their tree farm last year.  I’ll come back to this year’s Christmas tree search in a bit.  I should add that I also have a tradition of disposing of the Christmas tree.  At the bottom of our property is a creek that runs fast and deep in the spring after the snow melts.  Our annual live Christmas tree, after its stint in the house, rests out behind our garage until I can get to the creek in the spring and chuck it in.  It’s swept up in the current and disappears.  I tried following a tree one year and got about half a kilometer before the creek took a bend through a farmer’s field and was carried out of sight.  In my imagination there is a Valhalla for our Christmas trees down where the creek ends or maybe it manages to make its way to the sea.  More likely there’s a dam of trees somewhere along the creek route overflowing and flooding the farmer’s fields or perhaps the basement of his farmhouse.

Getting back to the real point of this narrative and another particularly enjoyable tradition, for several years now my wife and youngest daughter and I have attended the live Nativity at Emmanuel Baptist Church in Bloomfield.  I’m not an overly religious person and I usually keep my beliefs to myself.  Let me be clear I have an open mind.  I hope that covers me.  If there are those pearly gates and I get there maybe they’ll rule out any of my transgressions while I was alive because I kept an open mind.  It would be interesting to get through those gates and see deceased relatives, friends, pets, those past Christmas trees and that one little mouse who scared me but who I let live.  That should count for something.

The Nativity story is a fascinating one and makes for a very interesting interpretation when enacted live.  Bloomfield however is not the first live Nativity that I have attended.  Once, in a large park, in New Market north of Toronto, I saw my first live Nativity.  In my recollection there was a hill and I recall seeing the three kings crest the hill with matching camels.  It might only have been one camel, which would make the going rough for the King sandwiched in the middle or the one in the back, but I’m going to remember the experience being complete with each King having his own mount.

The Emmanuel Baptist Church live Nativity is completely different than that one in New Market.  My first live experience was like watching a play and different characters entering and exiting the story.  In Bloomfield the Nativity is a series of vignettes.  Each part is set up as a station and you move from one to the next viewing the scene and hearing narration.  I can’t remember the order but I know the angel comes to Mary, there’s a scene where Joseph is also visited to explain why his virgin wife is bearing a child that is not his, and there’s even a scene between Mary and her cousin Elizabeth announcing the latter’s miraculous pregnancy and that Elizabeth’s child would grow up to be John the Baptist.  Of course there are the shepherds in the fields visited by an angel, the three Kings visiting Herod, and eventually the birth scene in the stable with an abundance of farm animals.  There has never been a camel in Bloomfield but they’ve always been able to muster up a donkey.  I think there might have been an alpaca one year because there are a couple farms around that specialize in that.  I used to drive by one of those farms and notice the odd donkey in with the alpacas.  Apparently wolves and coyotes won’t go near farm animals if there’s a donkey around.  Now that I think about it, the farm might have been a sheep farm and the alpacas were the protectors.  Maybe that’s why the alpaca was in Bloomfield.  It was there to protect the sheep at the Nativity.  Go figure.

The live Nativity at Emmanuel Baptist is spread throughout the parking lot of the Church.  You start at one end and eventually work your way to the manger.  It’s more about crowd control because you can start as soon as you arrive and you can’t move on to the next station until the one in front of you is finished and the spectators have moved on down the line.  Lights come up and the narration or acting continues until the lights dim cueing you to move to the next station.  Some years it’s bitter cold and I’ve been there in blizzard like conditions.  You wait your turn, the lights come up and the narration starts, you enjoy the experience, and you make your way down the road to Bethlehem.

As I’ve said, the live Nativity is a fascinating experience and if you are not frozen by the time you get to the manger scene then you are truly and wholly moved.  But wait, there’s a topper to all of this.  After the birth of Christ, you exit the stable and are invited into the church proper where every table is laden with goodies galore.  There’s always an abundance of cookies, tarts, squares, candies, chocolates as well as crackers, meats, pickles and cheeses.  Forgot that birth scene, the sight of that smorgasbord is the true miracle!

Every year I try to recover from the bitter cold of the live Nativity by stuffing myself full of every sugary treat that I can manage to sample.  There are so many delicacies that it takes an hour just walking about to be able to get your fill.  Oh, there’s live music and hot beverages as well but that heavenly banquet was always the true climax of the evening.

Last year I began to have some slight health issues and my blood sugars were creeping up.  My Doctor recommended I watch my sugar intake and I decided to go one better and give up sugar.  That meant no sugar in my coffee and a life with a limited intake of sweets.  It was probably a good decision and it helped me to lose twenty pounds.  This all came about however just before last year’s live Nativity so when I entered the Church I had to make do with the non-sweet items.  My Nativity experience in Bloomfield could now be summed up in a few words:  Meats and Cheeses and Baby Jesus.  Thus, the title of this narrative.

Now we cut to the current season and the flier that announced the Emmanuel Baptist Church live Nativity for the evening of December 6^th.  I marked it on the calendar and secretly counted the number of sleeps until the Nativity and the feast of snacks that would follow.  I think we received that flier well over a month before the event.  That was good, I thought, because I could make sure any other holiday plans would not interfere with the Bloomfield event.  Even another Christmas party that we attend yearly at our friends’ house was scheduled for the 7^th after having had the date changed three times and then back again to the 7^th.  It looked like nothing was going to interfere with our attending the live Nativity.

My luck ran out.  Even though that other event on the 7^th would not conflict with Bloomfield, I could not control plans made by others.  This time it was a staff Christmas party.  An email had been sent out in mid-November polling everyone for best dates.  I of course steered clear of even suggesting the 6^th.  I would have gladly have given up the party with our friends on the 7^th but when you’re a lone voice and everyone else picks a date you are holding close to your chest, you can’t win.  The staff Christmas party was a go for the 6^th.

To say that I was disappointed about not being able to attend the live Nativity is an understatement.  I tried not to grumble about it but some of my colleagues knew I was disappointed.  Some even thought I must be really religious if I had such dedication to the Nativity.  I thought about explaining my open mind policy regarding religion but in the end I just told everyone it was something more important than all of that.  It was about the meats and cheeses and baby Jesus.  It became my mantra when others became excited about how much they were looking forward to the staff party and becoming intoxicated.  I don’t drink.  So I’d just mutter “meats and cheeses and baby Jesus” under my breath and go about my business.

Two days before the staff party I broke my own vow against sugary confection.  I co-facilitate a men’s drop-in group at work and that particular day one of the attendees brought in some Portuguese Tarts to share with the group.  My colleague Alex extolled the virtues of the tart so much that I bowed to his peer pressure and ate one of the tarts.  It was a sugary custard tart delight.  The next day I was I sick.  Thank you, Alex.

I had been so good about avoiding all types of sweets that I think my body wasn’t ready for the richly sweetness of the tart.  It might also have been my body’s way of acting out its frustration that we weren’t going to get to sample all of those meats and cheeses.  The day after eating that tart I couldn’t be close enough to a bathroom.  There was a constant feeling that my bowels were ready to explode but all that would come out was sound or liquid.  I’m sure that’s not an image you expected to have in a story that also references the birth of Christ.

I still managed to go to work and keep up good spirits but inside my stomach was churning.  That evening I went out with a friend and I bought a platter of crackers, meats, and cheeses and a bottle of Schweppes Ginger Ale.  The platter was an assurance that I would at least be able to keep a part of my tradition by having the meats and cheeses on the night Jesus was being born in Bloomfield every five minutes.  The Schweppes was an added bonus because it was the only libation I would allow as an indulgence at this time of year.  The staff party was going to be held at my colleague Brittany’s house and she was a Canada Dry Ginger Ale fan and if I didn’t take the Schweppes then I’d have no say in what was offered to me.

The following morning, being the day of the staff party, was a Saturday and we had arranged to go cut down our Christmas tree for the year.  Our daughter Abbie was home but was taking a train back to Toronto that afternoon so she could attend a musical with her older sister Emily.  We would then drive to Toronto the following day to pick her up and bring her back home again for the rest of her holidays along with her necessities for the seasonal break and twenty pounds worth of laundry.  I really wanted Abbie to be included in the tree selection because she hadn’t missed a year of selecting a tree yet and with her older siblings in Toronto, it meant so much to me to have one of the children at least be involved.

I had done some research and with Dewe’s long closed and Moore’s finishing up the previous year, I still wanted to continue the tradition of going to a Christmas Tree farm and cutting down our own.  The closest farm, being 45 minutes away outside of Napanee, was Carol’s Christmas Tree Farm.  I thought the name of “Carol” and Christmas was a good connection and the fact that the last four digits of their telephone number spelled out “Xmas” synched the deal.  My stomach was still rolling from that Portuguese Tart but the thought of still being able to cut my own tree was a risk I was willing take and outweighed the thought of the 45 minute drive and the inevitability that, like Dewe’s and Moores, there would be no bathroom.

There’s not much to mention about the experience at Carol’s.  There had been a good deal of snow over the days leading up to our excursion so walking among the trees was magical if not slow going.  The farm itself seemed to be more upscale than Dewe’s or Moores and lent itself more towards the pretentious side with wagon rides, overpriced hot beverages, and a gift boutique.  It was also more expensive.  This year’s tree cost me $50.  That was more than the combined total of a tree from Dewe’s and Moore’s.  At least I didn’t poop my pants.  There still wasn’t anything coming out of that end so the lack of bathroom facilities didn’t make much difference.

The only other major change with Carol’s Christmas Tree farm was that they had some sort of netting device that you rammed your tree through to end up with a tree that resembled those netted hams or those bags of onions.  The whole netting process made it easier to secure your tree to the roof of your vehicle.  That was usually what we would do and I had brought along a goodly amount of rope as I wanted to ensure that the tree survived the 45 minute drive home.  Instead, because the tree was compressed in its netting enclosure, we managed to load it into our SUV with only one seat folded down and Abbie riding comfortably next to the tree in the other seat.  It was a nice fragrant ride home.  The total opposite of that time that my son…well you know.

The rest of the day was busy securing the tree into its stand in the house and cleaning up the needles that inevitably shed in our vehicle and across our floors despite the netting.  We left the decorating for another day because we had to also make sure that Abbie got on her train.  We didn’t want to leave her out of doing up the tree and I could use a little rest before the staff party.  In other words, I had a nap.

The drive to Brittany’s house was an hour from my house.  Everyone else lived within thirty minutes of her house but I had to leave at 6 so I could be there for the 7pm start.  I was the first to arrive and got the tour of Brittany’s new house.  I also got the first view of the buffet that Brittany had laid out.  Indeed there were many sweet items as well as an assortment of meats and cheeses.  I needn’t have worried about missing out on the meats and cheeses.  I also didn’t have to bring the platter of crackers, meats, and cheeses that I had purchased.  In fact, I don’t believe the seal was even cracked open on the platter that night.  Oh well, I didn’t go without and I also had my Schweppes.

Within fifteen minutes everyone else arrived at the party and I sat next to my colleague Terry on the sofa until someone suggested a game of Euchre in the kitchen.  Terry and I were partners and I never moved out of the kitchen for the next two and half hours while Terry and I took on and took down four other pairs of opponents consisting of work colleagues or their spouses.  At one point Terry and I came back from a seven to nothing deficit to beat one opposing team.  At ten o’clock I begged out of another game because I had that hour ride home and had to get up and drive to Toronto the next morning.  Terry would go on to play that final game with another partner and would lose.  At least I would retire unbeaten.  Nothing says Christmas like the competitiveness of a card game.

The next day we drove to Toronto.  I was still feeling unwell and slept all the way up while my wife drove.  On the return trip I managed to drive half-way home before giving into my body again and sleeping the remaining way.  I also had another quick nap before my wife and I had to head out to the Christmas party at our friends.

The annual party at our friends, Rick and Debbie’s is always a joyous occasion with singing and eating.  Rick plays the piano and their friend Greg plays a portable drumming device while my wife and Debbie gather around the piano as vocal accompaniment.  The rest of us join in on the carols we know or fumble along on those we think we know.  The food is potluck so you never know what you’re going to get.  This year there were lots of crackers and cheeses but no meats.  I think my stomach was thankful for that.  Rick, at one point, offered me a glass of Ginger Ale.  It was Canada Dry.  I was holding onto the glass and talking with someone when Rick came back and asked me if there was anything wrong with the Ginger Ale.  I said I hadn’t tasted it yet but his concern wasn’t that I thought there was something wrong with my drink but that when he poured it out, from a still sealed bottle, it hadn’t fizzed.  It turned out the Ginger Ale was very flat.  My stomach was also thankful for that.  It further turned out that Rick couldn’t recall when he had purchased the six-pack of smaller bottles of the Canada Dry but a look at the label revealed they had expired four years previous.

I thought that the experience at Rick and Debbie’s was a good capper to my weekend.  Not only had I missed the Nativity but my stomach couldn’t tolerate the meats and cheeses that I could access at the two parties.  At one party I had to supply my own Ginger Ale and at the other, the Canada Dry had gone off.  I bet the Magi never had had such a rough journey on their road to Bethlehem.

Everything else came together in the days following that weekend.  The tree at our house was beautifully decorated and my stomach returned to normal.  There was another work party a week and half later without alcohol but with another heavily laden buffet.  My stomach tolerated that one better.

At this Christmas work party there was also an ugly stocking exchange.  Each year you brought an ugly Christmas stocking and stuffed it with goodies up to the assigned dollar limit.  You randomly drew a number then you got to select an ugly stocking as long as it wasn’t the one you brought.  This year I thought I would make the theme of my stocking Meats and Cheeses and Baby Jesus.  Unfortunately I couldn’t find a Nativity stocking but that’s just as well because I don’t think there’s such a thing as an ugly Nativity stocking what with it being such a beautiful story.  I found a stocking at a thrift store with a Santa scene that looked like it had been cheaply and quickly made with all of the threads hanging out on the inside.

I filled my stocking with a re-gifted bottle of wine, an assortment of pre-packaged baby cheeses, a word puzzle book, and a large salami.  Unfortunately, with all of the threads hanging out on the inside of the stocking, everything I tried to stuff into the stocking became snagged and it limited what I could cram in there.  I had other cheese and some crackers but these failed to make the cut.  I also couldn’t find a baby Jesus ornament in any of my travels to thrift stores and dollar stores.  That too, was just as well.  The stocking summed up my experience.  It was an incomplete experience where I had to give up Bloomfield and everything else paled or sickened me…literally.  The stocking could not hold all the meats and cheeses and there was no Baby Jesus.  Next year when I get that flier from Emmanuel Baptist Church for the live Nativity I’m going to have it enlarged and copies given to everyone I know.  If they don’t get the message not to schedule events on that date then I’m going to call in sick.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

      Okay, so it’s been more than three months since my last blahg.  It’s been a long haul. Most of my problems have been been health related and I think the struggles with my physical and mental health can speak volumes for themselves so I’m going to let them do the talking…I’ll just channel everything. 

      The last I spoke about my Polymyalgia Rheumatica (PMR) my Doctor and a specialist didn’t think it was PMR. I was up and down with the Prednisone medication and my Doctor had put me back up again so they could ween me off and then the specialist could see if it came back and if he could figure out what this ailment is. None of that worked.

     I’ve lost track of all dates and times but I do know the specialist didn’t get it right. I was taken off the Prednisone and all of the aches and problems came back and the specialist wasn’t sure why his plan hadn’t worked. What plan? In his odd estimation he thought I was fine and that I didn’t know I was fine because the Prednisone was masking me knowing I was fine and that once I was off the medication then I’d know I was fine. Follow the logic? Only, none of his logic worked! I was still in pain and had to go back on the Prednisone and he was going to refer me to another specialist in another city an hour away but not until November.  My faith in the medical system waned.

     I decided at that point to take things into my own hands. I researched the PMR and discovered that most medical sites said that people needed to be on a six month dose of Prednisone before things were close to being cured. So, I went back on the maximum dosage and continued that with the one refill I had left. That took me into September but then I couldn’t get another refill. My personal doctor was on holiday and the specialist didn’t agree that I should be on the Prednisone so I had to taper it off until it was gone. The last day I had of one pill, one quarter of the dosage I had been on, was September 24th. After that I began to take Naproxen, a pain medication which the specialist had prescribed as needed, and which didn’t work when he first prescribed it to me. Four days on the Naproxen and I was having numbness in my legs, arms, wrists, palms, and fingers, as well as a rash on part of my abdomen and back. A nurse colleague suggested I discontinue the Naproxen because it might be causing the rash and numbness.

     Three days after discontinuing the Naproxen the pain and numbness was so bad I had to use a cane to get around and to help me get up from a sitting position. On the fourth day, I was so weak I couldn’t get out of bed. That was a Friday and my wife was already helping me get dressed and get around. The next day, Saturday, my wife was out all day and I felt like I was trapped in the house because I was so weak and couldn’t open doors or much else. When my wife came home about 3pm we made the decision to go back to the Emergency Room at Picton Hospital. It had been five months since I started my journey by going to the hospital in Picton the first time and being diagnosed with Myositis. Two weeks after than I had to go back and I saw Dr. Sarah LeBlanc who diagnosed me with PMR and put me on Prednisone. Surprise, surprise, when I went back to the Emergency in Picton this time, Dr. LeBlanc was the Doctor I saw again. She was very shocked to find me in the state I was in. I could barely walk, had numbness in all extremities, had little or no strength in legs and hands, and oh yeah, there was that rash. After a quick look at the rash, Dr. LeBlanc diagnosed that as Shingles. SHINGLES? WTF? In this case the WTF stands for what you think as well as WHAT’S THE FUTURE? What did this mean for me going forward?

     Dr. LeBlanc was none too pleased to see the sorry the shape I was in and that my personal Doctor and the specialist I saw, who will remain nameless so I can protect his incompetence, had monkeyed with my medication increasing and decreasing like I was some yo-yo being shared among children. Essentially by not having a consistent dose of Prednisone over those five months my body had gone into shock and the Shingles were the result.

     Long story short, Dr. LeBlanc put me back on the full strength of the Prednisone as well as a prescription to deal with the Shingles. The combination of both of those made me very tired and my boss insisted I take the week off work last week. The tips of my fingers also began to shed skin as a result of the two medications and I had to take sandpaper to my fingers every morning to remove all the loose skin. True story. Then I had to moisturize and moisturize again. Dr. LeBlanc also reviewed the specialist referral to the other specialist an hour away and agreed that I should continue with that appointment but that she was going to try and get it moved up because this newest specialist is a colleague of hers. So far, I haven’t heard about a change in appointment dates.

     Dr. LeBlanc stil maintains I have PMR until someone says different and told me not to listen to any other Doctors except her until I see this other specialist next month. She also ordered blood-work and an MRI to see if the numbness might be caused by something else like a pinched nerve or some other issue in the neck or spine. Unfortunately the Prednisone ramps things up in your mind, more about that next, and I couldn’t do the MRI when they put me in that long tube like a coffin. I had to ask to be taken out. They rescheduled a new MRI for three days later and suggested a sedative. I called Dr. LeBlanc’s office and they prescribed the sedative and the second MRI was much easier with me much more relaxed. I haven’t had the results back on that yet.

     So, onto the issue of the side-effects of Prednisone. This is where I hearken back to a previous blahg, P.M.R. where I parodied the PMR initials and this time will say that PMR could stand for Prednisone Mind Rage. The one thing I found about Prednisone, as I described earlier, is that it ramps thing up in your mind. Another PMR would be Profoundly Magnifies Results. Prednisone is a steroid and I found that it magnified little things in my mind so that I couldn’t ignore them and I stressed out about them more than I should have. The major problem was going to work and thinking everyone around me was stupid and then going home and rationalizing that it was the medication making me feel that way then going back to work and realizing people were still stupid and that they had learned nothing since the day before.

    This all affected my interactions with co-workers because I knew that it was the medication causing these thoughts so I would turn away from people or leave the room so I didn’t snap at them about things that weren’t really happening. Of course I did that anyway because I didn’t have full control. I was able to keep it down at home. I was very quiet during those times unless I was discussing the stupidity of co-workers. Talk about mind-games. Give me 20 questions or hangman anytime. Probably not good examples because I probably couldn’t have made it past two questions without getting frustrated and the hangman image was probably what I wanted to do to those around me whom I thought were stupid…so just about everybody.

     Eventually I had to tell my colleagues about the Prednisone and the side-effects and that it wasn’t them, it was me. Except I was still struggling with thinking it really was them. I worked harder at communicating with others so they knew when I was struggling and I believe before I went off the Prednisone last time, after being on it full strength for a month, I was able to separate out the stinkin’ thinkin’. I think now that I’m back on full strength Prednisone again, I can manage. This blahg will be the worst of it and having to share the issues I’ve had. Of course I reserve the right to think my Doctor and the first specialist are stupid but I have no such thoughts that way towards Dr. LeBlanc. Time will tell. 

     So, I want to move onto the next topic.  The reference to More Polly Tics again is a hearkening back to a previous blahg “I Hates Polly Tics!”  It’s election time again here in Canada, this time a Federal Election, with only days until we go the polls on October 21st to determine which party gets to govern Canada for the next four years.  In that previous blahg, I described Politicians as so repetitive with their dribble and you get tired of hearing the same old promises over and over again.  It’s like listening to a parrot with a tic.  Now, I bet you get that Polly Tics reference this time or maybe you got it last time but it still holds. 

     During the time of past elections I have posted about the yellow sign I would put on my lawn not advertising who I would vote for but who I was not going to vote for.  I have made it abundantly clear that I don’t trust the Conservative Party of Canada.  This election is no exception other than the one exception that I won’t be voting for any of the parties.  I just don’t think any of them deserve my vote. 

     The Liberals are the party currently governing Canada but they’ve made some missteps in the past year or so and the leader Justin Trudeau, doesn’t inspire confidence like he once did.  The Conservatives and Andrew Scheer are not to be trusted and are hiding deep cuts for the future and are touting a playbook like the one Doug Ford sprung on us in Ontario and that was disastrous.  Scheer and the Conservatives are also racist and homophobic.  Elizabeth May is the leader of the Green Party and I had personal interaction about 15 years ago trying to book her as a speaker for an environmental conference.  She acted like a rock star and had a number of demands that we found unreasonable so I remember that I don’t have faith in her.  Jagmeet Singh is the leader of the New Democratic Party and he’s certainly exuding confidence and a surge in the polls.  Unfortunately I would like him to make a stance against Bill 21, Quebec’s Secularism Law which is a ban on religious symbolism in the public sector.  I believe a Federal government needs to get involved when a law such as that limits people and borders on racism.  As for Maxime Bernier and his People’s Party of Canada, an offshoot from the Conservatives, they too are racist and should not get a single seat in government. 

     So where does that leave me and who to give my vote to?  It’s obvious.  No one deserves my vote.  The only clear choice is to go the polling station, register, and then deny the ballot that is offered.  This gets registered as a vote of No Confidence all of the parties and candidates.  I’ve done it before but I didn’t think I’d have to do it this time.  But, there’s five days left for me to change my mind or one of the leaders to change my mind.  I don’t see that happening because they’re too busy mud-slinging and regurgitating the same clap-trap like that parrot stuck on repeat.  I hates polly tics and I hates these politics even more.  I do believe in the process but more people should realize that you don’t have to choose between bad or worse and the choice of denying the ballot is a real option.  I’ll make it mine.  In the end, I can crow about not electing in the party no matter who wins the elections…especially when it feels like no matter who wins, we all lose.  Maybe that’s the Prednisone making Politics More Repulsive but I don’t think so.

      I’ve written many sad blahgs but this is one that I am not looking forward to writing. My father, George Arthur Henderson passed away January 19th, 2019. He was 81. Dad was born on May 24th, 1937. He would have been 82 this year.  I had previously written about the health issues my Father suffered after falling and breaking his hip June 1st, 2018.  You can read about that in my blahg “WHAT HAPPENED TO MR HENDERSON?”. 

     To finish the story started in that blahg, things did not get much better.  My Father was in and out of the hospital several times.  He returned home in mid-October with nursing and psw support but his health didn’t improve.  Equipment malfunctioned and he still had to have a feeding tube, a catheter, and was bed-ridden.  I’m sure he enjoyed the times he was home but internally, things were not good.  He returned to the hospital before Christmas and didn’t come home again until just before the New Year. 

     My Father had become very anemic and required blood transfusions on at least two occasions.  He had ulcers on his rear end that widened and never healed.  The week before he died I became very concerned that home wasn’t the right place for him and that it was also taking a toll on my Mother’s health.  My Mother and I had fought about him going back to the hospital and possibly going into long-term care.  It was not a pleasant time but finally she agreed and my Father went back to the hospital on January 17th with the intention that he would hopefully improve enough in the hospital with the eventuality of going into long-term care. 

     Around lunch time on the 17th I was called by the hospital and was asked to come and meet with the Doctor as she had some concerns about the care my Father was receiving.  I was prepared for an argument because we had provided good care for my Father but I clearly blamed Belleville General Hospital for what had happened to my Father from June of 2018 to January of 2019.  I was not prepared to hear what the Doctor really wanted to tell me. 

     When I met with the Doctor she showed my the large ulcers on my Father’s rear end and went over the list of health issues.  Then she asked me what was I keeping him alive for because there was no quality of life for him.  She even said if it were her own Father like this that she would let him go.  I was devastated.  I needed to take a moment to process this but she immediately asked who was the Power of Attorney for my Father.  I said it was me.  She said then I had to make the tough decision.  I didn’t hesitate.  I couldn’t allow my Father to continue to suffer.  I agreed to the recommedation to stop his feeds and all medications except something for pain.  She left the room after telling me that Dad would probably only last a few more days.  She said she was going to get another Doctor to come and talk to me. 

     After the Doctor left the room, I went over and talked to my Dad.  I asked him if he had heard what we discussed and he said yes.  I then said that if we continue on this course that he would die in a few days.  I asked him if he was ready for that.  He said yes.  Throughout all that time since his fall he never once talked about giving up.  I had asked him the hard question a few times and he always said he wanted to live.  This time he knew it was time to move on.  I bawled my eyes out. 

     Soon after, Doctor Webster came in to see me.  She had treated Dad four years earlier when he had broken his other hip but with better results.  I liked Doctor Webster.  She was very gentle and kind and she agreed with everything the other Doctor had told me.  She agreed there was no quality of life.  I told her that my Dad had basically told me he was ready to die.  I didn’t stay long after that.  I left and contacted my siblings and let them know.  I later met with my Mother and let her know.  It was one of the toughest things I had ever done. 

     I visited Dad in the hospital again the next day, Friday.  They had just given him something for pain but he was able to communicate a little with me.  I said “a glass of rye would probably be good about now.”  He said “yeah”.  He then mumbled something that sounded like “how are  you doing?”  I began to sob and tell him I wasn’t doing so well because I was losing my Dad.  I pulled back the covers to grasp his hand.  He was startled a little bit so I made a joke and said “calm down, I’m not getting in the bed with you.”  He smiled.  It was the last laugh between us.  He drifted in and out after that and there was no more communication. 

     On Saturday January 19th, my wife and I took my Mother up to say goodbye to my Father.  It was a very emotional time for us all.  Luckily my two brothers, Chris who lives in Ohio and Tim working in the Northwest Territories, had managed to make into Belleville to say goodbye to Dad.  They arrived when I was there with Mom.  Dad never spoke and he just stared off but he would raise his eyebrows whenever we spoke to him.  I think he heard us.  My other siblings also saw Dad on Saturday.  Just after 11pm, I received a call that Dad had passed away.  The Doctor was right, it had only been a couple of days.  Dad was on his final journey. 

     The next few days were very busy and very difficult.  Mom had said that Dad wanted to be cremated and she didn’t want any service.  Tim and I met with Quinte Cremation and handled everything.  We would eventually receive Dad’s ashes in a nice urn shaped like a deer.  We all agreed that Dad would have liked that.  Throughout that time I had been torn with guilt because as the Power of Attorney I had had to make that tough call to end treatment for Dad.  I had copies of the Will and Power of Attorney and it took me three days to find those copies.  When I did, I discovered there was also a Living Will that Dad had signed stating that if he ever was so ill that there was no chance of recovery or quality of life that we were to discontinue treatment and let him die.  I can tell you after reading that, a big weight was lifted.  I had honoured Dad’s wishes. 

     My Father was the last of his family.  His parents and siblings were all gone and the baby of the family was the last to go.  Here is the obituary that was posted for Dad:

George Arthur Henderson

HENDERSON, George Arthur – Of Belleville. Passed away at the Belleville General Hospital on Saturday January 19th, 2019 in his 82nd year. Son of the late Charles and Ada Henderson. Beloved husband of Sharron Nadine Henderson (Seeley). Dear father of Timothy Henderson (Rebecca Cameron) of Orleans Ontario, Todd Henderson (Tammy Thrasher) of Belleville, Scott Henderson (Jeanette) of Demorestville, Wanda Foley (Mike) of Wallbridge, Daniel Henderson (Debby) of Belleville, and Christopher Henderson (Valerie) of Hamilton, Ohio. Predeceased by his brother Claire Henderson, and by his sisters Helen Bradshaw and Muriel Grimpson. Loved by his several grandchildren and great grandchildren. In keeping with George’s wishes, cremation has taken place, and there will be no visitation or service. Donations to the charity of choice would be appreciated. Online condolences can be made at www.quintecremationservices.com

 

     I think that’s enough of all that.  Instead I want to share some photos of my Dad.  It’s tough because I don’t have many photos of my Dad.  I’m sure my Mother has some but I wanted to go with ones as they related to me.  The earliest I have in my possession is this one taken at the reception after my wedding to Jeanette on May 30th, 1987.  It’s a nice photo of both of my parents: 

 

The next photo was taken at my brother Chris’ wedding to Valerie in I believe 2004: 

Then there’s a photo of Mom and Dad at my other brother Dan’s wedding to Debbie around 2008: 

The picture below is a nice photo of Dad taken at the Celebration of Life for my Aunt Helen who passed away in 2016:

Next is a great photo of Mom and Dad with all their children on the occasion of Dad’s 80th Birthday in 2017: 
From left to right, Scott (me), Dan, Wanda, Tim, Mom, Todd, Dad, and Chris. My niece Keri is in the background in the purple dress.

The following photo I believe is one of the last photos taken of my parents together in August 2017.  This was taken on the occasion of my nephew Christopher’s wedding:

     I think that’s really all I want to post of photos.  Now onto some memories.  I have two special memories of my Dad.  When I was a kid, my Dad was a big fan of Stompin’ Tom Connors and I loved his music, too.  When Stompin’ Tom came to Belleville in the late 1960s or early 1970s, I begged my Dad to take me but I think he thought I was too young.  He took my two older brothers Tim and Todd and they weren’t even fans.  When Stompin’ Tom came again to Belleville in 1999 I got good seats and Dad and I went together.  It was a great concert and a great time. 

     My second favourite memory is of going to the movies with my Dad and my Uncle Rod (who sadly passed away last year) to see Walt Disney’s Snowball Express.  It became one my Dad’s favourite movies and I remember buying him VHS and DVD copies of this movie.  It’s still one of my favourites too.  We had a great time at the movies and it was one of the last movies my Dad saw in the movie theatre.  The last movie my parents saw together was The Exorcist from 1973.  They went with some relatives and friends.  Dad thought it was a comedy.  That was George Henderson for you. 

     Because there were no services for Dad I didn’t get to share any of these memories or to share a poem that was special to me about a poet’s Father and death.  I’ll share it now: 

 

WHEN MY FATHER WENT TO WALES

 

When my father went to Wales in ’61

for his father’s funeral

I was twelve

and knew nothing.

 

Death was real but remote,

like the origin of the world

or the Ed Sullivan Show.

But having touched my father

death became a constant

in my world. Having taken his father

my own was suddenly vulnerable

to that theft, and from then on

I guarded him with the magic

of a twelve-year-old: words,

 

things, the power of thought

unknown to him kept him free

of that other’s possession.

 

Once he came close to falling;

 

I forgot or relaxed or was distracted

and he glimpsed his father’s world.

 

Never again would I be so negligent.

 

And though he will fall, as he must,

into his father’s arms,

 

I know it will not be the magic’s fault

or mine, or anything to do with failure.

 

He will fall as we all must

into a world which was once his own,

and seeing his old man again

he will be happy, and happy

will turn to brace his arms

for me, following.

 

—Dermot McCarthy,  Canadian poet

 

I think I would have liked to have read that poem but if I’m being honest, I think my Dad would have rather I read from his favourite poems:

 

I found my thrill
On Blueberry Hill
On Blueberry Hill
When I found you

The moon stood still
On Blueberry Hill
And lingered until
My dream came true

The wind in the willow played
Love’s sweet melody
But all of those vows you made
Were never to be

Though we’re apart
You’re part of me still
For you were my thrill
On Blueberry Hill

The wind in the willow played
Love’s sweet melody
But all of those vows you made
Were only to be
Though we’re apart
You’re part of me still
For you were my thrill
On Blueberry Hill

BLUEBERRY HILL by FATS DOMINO

     All those years of listening to Stompin’ Tom Connors and country music growing up and I didn’t realize until I was into my twenties that Dad was a Fats Domino fan.  It came on the radio one time and he said that was his favourite song.  I don’t know if it remained his favourite but I’m going to play my Dad out with that song.  Rest in peace Dad, I Love You.

     Here it is 2019 and I’m doing one last blahg this evening before the newness of the first day wears off.  Today is January 1st, 2019 and I’ve changed this picture of myself using one I took with an application on my phone called Sketch Camera.  I think it looks cool.  I was just playing around with it and I think I might have been on the toilet or something because I don’t appear to have a shirt on.  That might be a theme for this blahg if you read on. 

     How do you start off a New Year? I know there is one thing I’ve always wanted to do and that’s a Polar Dip.  That’s where you go swimming in a large cold body of water on New Year’s day.  I always said I was going to do it but kept coming up with excuses and last year I was sick.  So, this had to be my year.  Seize it and freeze it.  I drove out with my daughter Abbie to North Beach on the Lake Ontario side in beautiful Prince Edward County and did the deed.  Here’s the proof:

 

     Thanks to my daughter Abbie for taking the video.  She was a little sick and didn’t think it would be a good idea to go in the water but she did stick her toe in.  She also didn’t think it was a good idea that I go in because she’d heard about other older people who had heart attacks trying the plunge.  Hey, I’m only 56!  Last year I ended up in the Emergency ward at the local hospital on Christmas Day with a throat infection.  You can read about it in my blahg “BEING SICK ON CHRISTMAS IS NO FUN…BUT HERE WE GO“.  This year I didn’t add New Year’s day to that bucket list. 

     The other thing I managed to accomplish was to finish a late Christmas story.  In a December blahg “SOME CHRISTMAS STORIES” I published a story called “Billy Built A Robot Christmas Morning.”  I also said I was working on a sequel.  Well, last night I finished it and this evening I finished the final edit.  I guess you could say it was a two year effort.  Get it?  Two years?  2018 and 2019?  Skip it.  The story’s better.  Happy New Year.

 

BILLY’S BEST WORST CHRISTMAS EVER

by

Scott Henderson

     This is the story of Billy but it’s not really his first story.  Let me be clear I’m the author and I’m the one writing this story.  I felt I needed to say that because I’m not sure if Billy is a good character or if he’s redeemable or worth redeeming.  That’s what this story will determine.

            We first met Billy in a story I wrote entitled “Billy Built A Robot Christmas Morning.”  I guess he was about nine or ten.  I never really gave it any thought.  He wasn’t really likeable although I liked the story I wrote.  But I’ve been thinking about Billy lately.  I got to wondering how he turned out.

            I was getting my hair cut not that long ago and I heard two women discussing what you get a 14 year old for Christmas.  There were comments about it being a tough age and everything is electronic and gift options were limited.  Really?  I would think a good swift kick in the pants might be a good option.  That last comment, like the good swift kick, should be aimed squarely at Billy.

            Let me be clear, I don’t dislike 14 year olds or teenagers in that age range.  I don’t even dislike Billy.  I just think that all the stories today are about teenagers who get to save the world, as if there weren’t some more suitable older or even senior adults able to do that, or the teens are lost and struggling and you’re not really sure if they’re likeable or capable of redemption.  I just would like to know where Billy fits into all of this.  He’s going to be 14 in this story and we’ll see what happens.

            So, I’m going to give Billy one more chance.  He could be a good character but that’s up to him.  When you have nothing to lose then you have everything to gain.  I didn’t make that up.  I’m just remembering that from somewhere.  But that fits Billy.  Let’s find out.

—————

           Billy came home from school on at the start of his Christmas vacation on December 22^nd to find a note pinned to the door of his home:

Billy, we’ve gone away for Christmas and we’ve taken Logan with us.  Everything you need is at Grandma at Grandpa Thompson’s.  Don’t try the door because it’s locked and we’ve armed the alarm with a new code.

Merry Christmas.

 

Mom & Dad

All Billy could think to say was “they took Logan?”  Logan was his dog.  Well, it was more the family dog.  Billy had whined long and hard about having a dog and when his parents gave in, like they always did, he got a beagle for no particular occasion.

Billy was good with Logan in the beginning and did his best to feed him and walk him and clean up after him but when that became too much for him, or more to the point Billy lost interest, Mom and Dad provided for Logan.  But still, “they took Logan?”  What was that all about?  They went away for Christmas and they took the family dog and left Billy behind?

Of course, I could tell you what that was all about.  I am the author after all.  Simply put, Mom and Dad had had enough…not with caring for Logan but with Billy not caring at all.

Billy tried the door.  It was locked.  He wondered if he should try his key.  Maybe that part about changing the alarm code wasn’t true.  He decided against that.  No, this seemed all too real but he thought he’d better look around a bit.

Billy pressed his face up against the window in the door.  He couldn’t see anything.  It wasn’t dark but his view was only of the entrance hall and there was nothing there.  He tried the living room window.  Nothing there either.  Oh, he could see the Christmas tree and all of the decorations but no sign of Mom and Dad.

“This makes no sense,” he said aloud to no one in particular.  It really didn’t make any sense as far as he was concerned.  Throughout the month of December his parents had been fools about Christmas.  The decorations and the lights came out early and the tree went up and the holiday specials annoyed Billy for the whole month.  Of course Billy had nothing to do with any of it.  He shook his head at all that holiday nonsense.  It had been too much for him and he had retreated to the sanctity of his room and his video games.

Of course, you and I can see it plainer than Billy.  His Mom and Dad had tried to make a Christmas but Billy didn’t want to be a part of it.  He wanted Christmas day and the presents and the dinner and that was it.  No wonder Mom and Dad had split with Logan.

“What about the presents and the dinner?”  Billy was getting good at talking to himself.

Mom had been baking all month and there had been cookies and squares and tarts and all kinds of things that Billy did indulge enjoy.  He didn’t help bake anything but he really liked sampling them.  He always ignored his mother’s pleas to “leave those alone” or “save some for others” or “you’ll spoil your dinner.”  It was like a game to Billy.  He never thought his mother was really upset.  That was just what mothers do or say.  The truth is that’s what Billys do or say.  And Billys never think.  But boy was he thinking now.

“Grandma and Grandpa’s?”  His utterings would have been comical to anyone walking by who heard this all coming from a 14 year old boy with his nose pressed against the living room window of a house that was armed and alarmed by owners who took their dog and left for Christmas and left their son to Grandma and Grandpa.

“Grandma and Grandpa’s?” he asked himself again.  It was a fate worse than death.  They had no internet and no cable television.  They had rabbit ears and got three channels and one of those was public broadcasting.  Public broadcasting, Billy thought, was for toddlers and old people.  He wasn’t any of those.  “Great, more Christmas specials,” he said to the window.  Billy thought that with his parents gone he’d at least dodge that bullet.  He called that wrong.

Grandma and Grandpa’s house was on the other side of town.  It was a long walk and it would not help much with Billy’s mood.  Maybe they’d be gone too.  Maybe there’d be another note pinned to the door passing him on to other relatives until he came full circle back to his own home and it would all have been a cruel joke and his parents with Logan would be there to greet him.

No such luck.  Grandma and Grandpa were home.

“Your parents dropped off what they thought you needed.  We put everything up in the spare room,” Grandma said.  “Oh, and they left this note.”

Great, another note, Billy thought.  Here’s where the gag would be revealed and they’d all have a good laugh…at his expense.  Again, no such luck.

 

Billy, listen to Grandma and Grandpa.  Their house, their rules.  We have left you no electronics.  Don’t even try your phone.  We’ve cancelled your plan.  No texts, no data, no calls.  Don’t forget to wear your boots.

Merry Christmas.

 

Mom & Dad

 

Billy reeled with the horror.  He tried his phone.  Nothing worked.  Emergency Service only.  Would 911 consider his plight an emergency?  He dashed up the stairs to the spare room.  The note didn’t lie.  There were no electronics.  No game consoles.  No hand-held game systems.  No tablet, no laptop.  But there were boots.

“I’m not wearing those,” he said to the room.  Surprisingly, the room didn’t answer.

The next day, Billy wore the boots.

It had been a rough night.  He had pressed Grandma and Grandpa for answers but they gave none.  All they would say was that he was there for Christmas and they’d see about New Year’s.  Nothing about Mom and Dad and Logan and his cancelled Christmas.  Nothing about the presents and the dinner.  Nothing about anything.  He had hid out in the room.  The blankets were wool and itched.  Oh, and it snowed.

Overnight the landscape had turned to white and Billy’s expensive running shoes were useless.  Two feet of snow and climbing.

“Doesn’t beat the seven feet of snow they had in Buffalo a few years ago,” Grandpa said as he shook Billy awake the next morning.

“What?” was all Billy could manage at seven o’clock.  His eyes were hardly open and the room was too cold.  “Why do old people always like it so cold”, he thought.  He knew better that to at least say that out loud.

“Shovelling first,” Grandpa went on, “and then Breakfast and then shopping.  Get a move on.”  Grandpa whipped off the blankets before flipping on the lights and leaving the room.

“Could this get any worse?” Billy said to the room.  The room was a good listener.  It was not much on small talk but it didn’t laugh at him for talking to himself.

Billy struggled out of the bed and into his clothes.  At least his parents had provided him with what seemed like enough clothes for a long stay.  And he put on the boots and a toque and gloves and a scarf.  All provided courtesy of his parents.  Bundled that way, no one would recognize him.  At least he had his anonymity to cling to if he wanted it…oh and he wanted it.

“This is my grandson, Billy, and he’s going to shovel your driveway.  Merry Christmas.”  Grandpa didn’t know anything about anonymity.

Not only did Billy have to shovel Grandma and Grandpa’s driveway but they insisted on introducing him to every elderly neighbor on the block and extending them the courtesy of Billy’s free labor.  Billy wasn’t one for good deeds but Grandpa kept an eye him until everything was done.  Five driveways and aching arms later, it was time for breakfast.

“Oatmeal, there’s nothing like it on a cold morning,” Grandma said as she spooned out a good sized bowl’s worth.  Billy glared at it.  There was no sugar.  The milk was skim or non-fat or something he’d rather avoid.  At least they let him have some coffee.  It was too strong.  There was no sugar.  The milk was skim or non-fat…you get the drift.

This was really shaping up to be an awful holiday for Billy.  First, no Christmas and now no sugar and some liquid that passed almost as white water.  At least he had the shopping to look forward to.  He had some money on him and maybe he could buy himself something to make it all passable.

They drove to the Bulk House.  Everything was in bulk.  Grandma and Grandpa bought fifty rolls each of paper towels and toilet paper.  Oh, but there were vegetables.  Billy had to heft a fifty pound sack of potatoes out to the car.  That didn’t include the 20 pounds of carrots or the big bag of onions.  Billy had to huddle in the back with groceries.  Grandpa said his summer tires were in the trunk.

That evening, dinner consisted of fish with, you guessed it, boiled potatoes, carrots, and onions.  The evening also consisted of watching a Christmas movie with Grandma and Grandpa.  They insisted.  It was A Christmas Carol.  Of course it would be.  This story is about redemption and what better tale happens at Christmas about redemption than Ebenezer Scrooge’s own?  I don’t mean to hit the reader over the head with this but I thought that Billy might need some poking.

The next morning, being the day before Christmas, Billy did indeed wake to some poking.  It was Grandpa again.

“Up and at ‘em, boy, it snowed another foot in the night.  You know the routine.  Shoveling first, then breakfast, then shopping.”  Grandpa jerked the covers back again before leaving the room.

“What time does he even get up?” Billy muttered.  Again, the room had no response.

Five more driveways plus Grandma and Grandpa’s.  Breakfast was fried potatoes and toast.  The margarine was cheap and hard.  It tore the toast.  Billy flavored his semi-milk with some coffee this time.  It wasn’t a welcomed change.

Shopping consisted of another trip back to the Bulk House.  This time it was just Grandpa and Billy.  They did not go inside.  Grandpa bought a Christmas tree from the man who sold them at a corner of the parking lot.  There was some haggling between Grandpa and the vendor.  Billy tried to hide among the pre-cut forest.  Apparently this was a ritual for Grandma and Grandpa.  They waited until the 24^th before buying their tree.  At least Billy didn’t have to suffer that too much.

Billy, however, did suffer.  He counted his scratches.  Guess who had to help lift it on the roof and drag it in the house and crawl underneath the tree and help balance it in the stand until Grandma declared it was perfect?  Not Grandpa, I can tell you that.

You know I hate to see anyone suffer; especially at Christmas.  I’d like to say I take no joy in seeing my boy Billy suffer but I don’t want to lie to you reader.  Billy has to suffer.  Without the suffering there’s no motivation for change.  After all, haven’t I caused him enough anguish by cancelling his Christmas and packing him off to his Grandparents and then having him break his back with a shovel only to suffer yet another fruitless trip to the Bulk House where he got nothing for himself again except the scrapes he’s now counting?  I thought the message of A Christmas Carol would have been plain enough for him.  What’s it going to take?

After the tree decorating, Grandpa delighted in beating Billy twice at Cribbage.  Billy hadn’t played in years and Grandpa made sure to collect all of the points for himself that Billy missed in error.

“Your head’s not in the game, boy,” Grandpa stated after the second defeat.  At least Billy was only skunked in the second game.  The first game had ended in a double skunk with Grandpa declaring that Billy should study harder in school because math obviously wasn’t his strong suit if he couldn’t realize what cards added up to fifteen.

Billy escaped.  After the game he wore the boots again and trudged down the block to the corner store.  Grandma had sent him there twice the day before for bread and then the watered down milk.  Not only did she forget to stalk up on these when she was at the Bulk House, she couldn’t even remember everything she needed so she wouldn’t have to send him out more than once.

This time, Billy went for himself.  He still had his money.  He bought a soda and rejoiced in the sugar.  He eyed the magazines but found he was not old enough for some and the others were nothing he’d care to read.  Your corner store doesn’t usually stock in the latest gamer magazines.

While Billy was enjoying the sweetness of the soda he thought about the lack of sugar at Grandma and Grandpa’s.  He bought some sugar cubes, a carton of good milk possibly 50 proof, and some coffee creamer.  Given the exorbitant prices at the corner store, Billy soon found his spending money well depleted.  He bought a Christmas bag with his loose change.  He’d put the sugar, milk, and creamer in that and that would be his gift to his Grandparents.

Dinner was cabbage and pork-roll.  Oh yes, and baked potatoes and more carrots.

The movie that night was “It’s A Wonderful Life.”  It had been a while since Billy had sat through it in its entirety.

Billy lay awake long into the night.  You would think that redeeming thoughts of histories of his youth or a life lived by others without him or visions of sugar plums at the very least would have been dancing in his head.  No, instead he thought of this Christmas lived without him.  Mom and Dad and Logan were probably on some beach somewhere or at some mountain resort thinking of anything but Billy.  He began to wallow in his own misery.  He piled on everything from the cancelled Christmas to the pine needles he had had to shake from his hair.  Grandpa had said that wouldn’t have happened if Billy got a haircut once in a while.

Billy finally drifted off to sleep feeling thoroughly sorry for himself and wondering what type of potato would greet him for Christmas dinner…if there was a Christmas dinner.

The room was very warm when he awoke.  No one had whisked away the covers.  He had kicked them off himself.  And it was still dark.

Billy looked about the room.  There was a glow from the street light but he could only see shadows in the room.

“Hey room, Merry Christmas,” Billy called out in the dark.  It was meant as sarcasm.

“Merry Christmas yourself Billy,” the room replied.

Billy bolted up in the bed.  He reached over and turned on the lamp beside his bed.  The light was suddenly too bright in the close darkness.  Eventually the shadows became blurs and then shadows again and then he saw it…saw him…Santa Claus

“Merry Christmas Billy,” Santa said.

Billy rubbed his eyes.  No, this couldn’t be.  He closed his eyes tight for a few seconds and then opened them again.  It was no use.  He was still there.  And it was Santa.  Billy knew this right off.  It wasn’t Grandpa or anyone else dressed up like Santa.  It was the real Santa.

Billy looked Santa over.  Red suit and real beard.  He looked just like a thousand images of Santa he had seen in print or on television or in the movies.  The image was immediately recognizable and true to his own memories of what he thought Santa looked like.  Not that Billy ever thought of Santa Claus these days.  That was kids’ stuff.

“Merry Christmas Billy”, Santa said again.

“You said that already,” Billy pointed out.  Billy didn’t mean to be flippant but what do you say to Santa when he shows up in the middle of the night at your grandparents’ house after you’d been dreaming of your thoroughly miserable Christmas.

“And would it kill you to say it back?” Santa asked.  Apparently Santa was not opposed to being flippant.

“Merry Christmas,” Billy replied, “but you can’t be…”  Billy trailed off what he was going to say.  Why couldn’t he be Santa Claus?  Nothing else that had happened to him lately made any sense.

“Oh, but I can be and I am.”  Santa looked around the room.  “What, no cookies and milk?”

“I’m not a kid you know”, Billy found himself answering.  “That stuff’s just for kids.”  Again it was the kids’ stuff guiding his thoughts.  Substitute Bah Humbug and you will understand what Billy was getting at.

“The cookies aren’t for the kids, they’re for me.  I’m for the kids.  But I’m not just for children Billy.  I came because you need me.”  Santa shook a mittened hand in Billy’s direction.

“I don’t need anything”, Billy replied in defiance.  “I’ve got everything I need.”  Billy shook his own hand back at Santa.

“No Christmas, potatoes galore, scratched up arms, and pine needles in your hair.  I guess you do have everything.”  Santa was good at stating the obvious.

Billy ran his fingers through his hair.  It was true.  There were still some pine needles clinging to his scalp.  At least he could thank Santa for that.

“You see Billy, you really don’t have anything.  Listening to me might just change that.  When you have nothing to lose then you have everything to gain.”  Santa sat down on the bed.  “I heard that somewhere and it bears repeating.”  Told you so, reader.

Billy couldn’t think of anything to say.  Santa was right…on all accounts.

“You once needed me Billy and I used to come to you every year.  You were always a delight when you were sleeping.  Still are.  I bet your parents would say that about you now.  It’s the waking times that need a little polishing.”

“Thanks a lot Santa,” Billy snapped.

“It’s only the truth.  Don’t blame the messenger,” Santa replied without buying into Billy’s anger.  “Then you grew up.  You thought you knew it all.  You didn’t want anything.  Or if you did, your parents gave it to you.  I blame them for expelling me from your life.  What do you need me for after they break the illusion?  Still, you didn’t have to buy into it all and let it run your life.”

“I thought you said I needed you?” Billy asked.  The sarcasm was creeping back in.

“You do.  You did and then you didn’t and now you do.”

Billy looked confused.

“It’s like this”, Santa continued.  “When you are little you need the magic and the wonder and I’m there for that.  When you got older you didn’t need that anymore or maybe you didn’t want it.  But boy do you need it now.”  Santa was shaking his hand at Billy again.  “You’ve lost something and it isn’t just this Christmas.  You’ve lost all your Christmases.  You gave them up.  Thought you didn’t need them.  There’s an emptiness in you that you can’t find a way to fill.  No video game’s going to give you back that.”

Billy stared at Santa.  He had cut Billy to the core; only because it was true.  Santa was right.  It wasn’t just this Christmas.  Billy had walked away from all of that the first Christmas he didn’t get everything he wanted.  The memory of not getting the Grim Reaper 4 video game came back to his mind.  That was the morning he had built the robot.  But that’s the other story.

Santa reached over to pat Billy on the arm.  Billy thought about quickly pulling his arm away but he didn’t.  Billy felt the touch.  It was real.  It was true.  Everything Santa had said was true.  There was truth in the words and Billy knew it.  The truth was the one thing that Billy would never have thought to ask for but the one thing he needed most.

“Don’t think on it too much kid”, Santa went on.  “I’ve given you a gift.  It might not have been anything you wanted but sometimes it’s the things we need that are the best gifts received.”

Santa stood up and stood beside the bed for the moment looking into Billy’s eyes.  He reached out to shut off the lamp.  Just before he did he turned back to Billy and said “and that was a nice touch about the sugar cubes, milk, and creamer.  Now go and find your own Christmas.”  The light went out, the room grew colder, and Santa was gone.

Billy lay in the bed trembling for a long time.  He wasn’t sure if it was the coldness of the room or what had just happened.  He pulled up the blankets and hunkered down.  He couldn’t be sure if what just happened really happened or if he’d been dreaming.  Soon he slept again.

In the morning Billy woke to a strange sound.  He didn’t recognize it right away.  It was like bells in the distance and it stirred him.  Church Bells?  Christmas Bells?  No, it was his phone.  The chiming signified he had a message.

Billy snatched up his phone.  It was working again.  The service was back on.  There were about a dozen texts from friends wondering where he was or what he got for Christmas or bragging about their own gifts.  And there was a text from Mom and Dad:

Billy, there’s a gift for you at the house.  We’ve disarmed the alarm and we’ve restored your phone service.

Merry Christmas.

 

Mom & Dad

 

Billy practically flew out of bed.  It was Christmas and there was a gift.  After dressing he ran down the stairs and called out to Grandma and Grandpa.  They must have gone out or were sleeping in.  He left his gift bag for them on the table.  They’d find it.

Billy didn’t care that it was cold out or that it had snowed again.  He was just glad he hadn’t been awoken by Grandpa hovering over him with a shovel.  There was a spring back in Billy’s step and the walk home didn’t seem half as long as normal.

Billy tried his key in the lock.  It opened.  No alarm went off to spoil it all.  But there was something.  Billy smelled bacon.  And there was music.  Okay, it was Christmas music but he’d take that over alarms ringing.  And then Logan was there jumping up at him.  And Mom.  And Dad.

“What?” Billy started.  But it stuck in his throat.

“Merry Christmas son.”  Dad was at his side pulling off Billy’s toque.

“Stamp that snow off your boots,” Mom said appearing in the hall with Grandma and Grandpa.

“Merry Christmas boy,” Grandpa said.  “More snow hunh?  Still, it doesn’t beat what they got in Buffalo a few years ago.”

“I know, seven feet of snow in Buffalo,” Billy replied.  Billy found himself chuckling at what he said.

“You’re just in time for breakfast,” Grandma said.  “Bacon and eggs and toast and waffles if you want them.”

“What, no hash browns or home-fried potatoes?”  Billy asked.  Billy gave off with another laugh.

“Thought you’d had your fill of potatoes?” Grandma replied.

But there were potatoes.  Mashed potatoes with dinner.  And turkey,  And stuffing.  And gravy.  And just about everything that makes Christmas dinner Christmas dinner.  And pie for desert.  Mom’s apple and Grandma’s pumpkin.  He hadn’t missed them.

Before dinner but after breakfast, there were presents.  Billy hadn’t expected anything so no matter what he got, he thoroughly welcomed the presents.  There was even the Grim Reaper 4 video game.  Dad had found it in a retro game shop.  Billy put it away.  He didn’t need it right now.

In the afternoon he beat Grandpa two straight games of Cribbage.  He loaded the dishwasher.  He even walked Logan.

That night, Billy lay in bed and thought back on the day.  He hadn’t even asked his parents what it had all been about.  Had they been there the whole time?  Should he have tried his key that day after school?  He didn’t care.  He had lost something and now he had got it back.  He had found his Christmas.

Billy didn’t really know if Santa Claus had really come to him.  It might have been too many potatoes or too many movies with Christmas spirts or angels.  He couldn’t be sure.

“Merry Christmas room.”  Billy waited for a reply.  There was none and that was okay.  Still, he wish he knew for sure.

The next year he took no chances and he hung up his stocking and left out cookies and milk.  Logan ate them all.

The End.

 

 

 

      Here it is Christmas Day 2018 and I’m posting another quick blahg. I didn’t get that Christmas story about Billy finished but then I got super busy.  My dad is back in the hospital and didn’t get home for today so that’s a little depressing.  I don’t want to focus on that so instead I’m going to up some photos of the inside of my house.

      These are photos of our big fat Christmas tree which looks like its constantly falling over.  The trunk of the tree is at the back of the tree so it looks like it’s leaning.  This is probably the last real tree we’ll get from Moore’s Christmas Tree farm outside of Bloomfield.  The guy said this was his last year because the trees are getting too big and he didn’t do any pruning.  I believe it.  The rest of the photos are of are mantle display of Santas that keeps getting bigger every year and of all of our Nutcrackers and my wife’s wooden Nativity.  Again, click on any of the pictures below to get a larger close up in a new tab.

      I said this is going to be a quick Christmas blahg and the next blahg will be sometime in 2019 which, knowing me, doesn’t necessarily mean January.  I’m going to end this blahg with a quick memory of the first time I heard a particular song on the radio around Christmas.  It was probably seven or eight years ago and I was driving and listening to Warm 101.3 FM out of Syracuse, NY.  They play Christmas all throughout the month of December and it’s a good way to get into the holiday spirit. I was aware that there was a version of “Silent Night” recorded by Frank Sinatra in 1991 and I didn’t have it.  I had never heard it before because it had been released in 1991 on an obscure CD called “The Christmas Album…A Gift of Hope”.  Well, sure enough, Warm 101.3 played it and I was amazed by the vocal.  It was the elder Sinatra backed by Frank Sinatra Jr. on piano and a choir.  A failing voice that was tender and cracked but with emotion that almost made me cry.  Give it a listen:

 

     The other version was another take with just Bill Miller on the piano.  It would not be released until 2004 when it was a bonus track on “The Frank Sinatra Christmas Collection”.  Thirteen years between releases?  Of course, Sinatra had died by then, back in 1998, but we at least had an alternate take on the last song he ever recorded.  Here’s that version of Sinatra singing “Silent Night” backed by Bill Miller: 

     I hope you enjoyed that and that both versions added to your Christmas enjoyment.  Merry Christmas once again and you’ll hear from me again in 2019.  But in the words of another great song by Sinatra, who knows “Where or When.”

 

 

 

      Well, it’s about nine days until Christmas and I’m going to try and toss in a quick blahg. Today is December 16th and my daughter Abbie’s 20th Birthday so Happy Birthday to Abbie!  I will mention her later on in this blahg but  I really want to dash this off while I’m still in my pyjamas and to post some of my Christmas stories…both real and fictional. 

     First up is my 2018 Christmas Light Display.  Last year, my wife Jeanette gave me a new inflatable Santa which is good because my giant inflatable Christmas Tree started smoking after being plugged in and then the motor died.  Every year it’s the same thing:  some of the things from last year don’t work this year.  Click on any of the pictures below to get a larger close up in a new tab. 

     The sad thing about the above Light Display is that all the snow in those pictures was from about 4 days ago and now the snow  is all melted.  Also, the large stump visible in the front yard is all that’s left of our 125 year old maple tree that had to be cut down.  It developed a large split down the trunk earlier this year and Ontario Hydro had to cut it down before it took down the power lines.  Fun fact, a limb from the tree did snap off in a wind storm over my Birthday weekend in September and took down the hydro line…twice that night.  I think the Hydro crew were cursing me or cursing the tree that night.  Below, is a picture of the front of my house in 2016 showing my light display and where the tree once proudly stood: 

     So what about those Christmas Stories?  First, I have to give a prelude or prologue to my first story in the form of a list.  The following list of movies are some lesser known Christmas movies that I like to watch around this time of year: 

1. “Remember The Night” (Barbara Stanwyck & Fred MacMurray) 1940

2. “Beyond Tomorrow”” (aka Beyond Christmas) 1940

3. It Happened On Fifth Avenue” 1947

4. “Miracle of the Bells” (Fred MacMurray, Valli, & Frank Sinatra) 1948

5. “Holiday Affair” (Robert Mitchum & Janet Leigh) 1949

6. “The Great Rupert” (Jimmy Durante) 1950 aka The Christmas Wish

7. “The Holly and the Ivy” (Ralph Richardson) 1952

8. “Room For One More” (Cary Grant & Betsy Drake) 1952

9. “Young At Heart” (Frank Sinatra & Doris Day) 1954

10. “Fitzwilly” (Dick Van Dyke & Barbara Feldon) 1967

11. “The Christmas Tree” (William Holden) 1969

12. “The Gathering” (Ed Asner & Maureen Stapleton) 1977

13. “An American Christmas Carol” (Henry Winkler) 1979

14. “The Man In The Santa Claus Suit” (Fred Astaire) 1979

15. “Ebenezer” (Jack Palance & Ricky Shcroder) 1998

16. “Nativity” (Martin Freeman) 2009

17. “Arthur Christmas” 2011

     Of the above list, only “The Christmas Tree” 1969, and “The Man In The Santa Claus Suit” 1979 have yet to have DVD releases.  “The Holly and the Ivy” 1952 has only had a DVD release in the UK but if you have a region free DVD player or a DVD player or Blu-Ray player that you have hacked to make region free, like I have, then you can order it and watch it.  Great film about a family gathering and happy dysfunction.  I’ve held onto my copies of The Christmas Tree” 1969, and “The Man In The Santa Claus Suit” 1979 because I still have a VCR and it’s the only way to watch these movies.  I have a bin of old Christmas Cartoon specials that were issued on VHS and never issued on DVD but some I have converted to digital format unless there was some copyright protection that prevented me from converting them. 

     Now, my copy of “The Christmas Tree” is one that I picked up at a Library yard sale some years ago.  You can see from the image at the right that it’s a library discard.  The thing about this movie is that it’s not a happy movie.  Here’s a quote from the back jacket:  “Learning that his son has only six months left to live after being exposed to a nuclear explosion, William Holden is determined to make them the happiest of his life.  He meets his son’s every wish including buying him a blue tractor and stealing a pair of wolves from the zoo.  The boy’s gentleness tames the savage wolves and they become his pets.”  Spoiler:  The Kid Dies In The End!  I told you it wasn’t a happy Christmas movie. 

     I like this movie.  I think William Holden does some phenomenal acting in this film and Brook Fuller who plays his son, Pascal, does a decent job.  But remember, this is not a happy film.  I showed it to my two oldest children, Emily and Noah, probably more than ten years ago and they hated it.  In fact, every year they are adamant that I never show it to them again.  I either have to watch it myself or find a new viewing partner.  This year, my daughter Abbie, who turned 20 today, had heard all the previous lamenting from her siblings but committed to watching it with me.  It took me several days to find the VHS because it wasn’t in the normal bin and I had practically given up when I finally found it hidden behind some other old VHS tapes at the bottom of a cabinet.  Abbie and I stayed up until 1:30am last night watching it.  It still holds up but now I have to add Abbie to the list of people who won’t watch it again with me. 

     “The Christmas Tree” is not available for viewing anywhere online but I did find this ten minute video on YouTube that summarizes pretty well with scenes from the movie: 

     Okay, so onto the stories.  First, I want to present a new inspirational holiday message for this Christmas.  I used to have a radio sketch comedy show from 1993 to 1995 under the title of “Dead From The Neck Up” with my friends Stephen Dafoe and Bryan Dawkins.  Dafoe and I created two characters known as Stan The Welcome Mat Man and his sidekick Teddy The Topless Dancer.  I was Stan and Dafoe was Teddy.  Stan would welcome new people to the neighbourhood but would also rail against ethnicities and other types he didn’t like.  I know he’s not politically correct but he’s evolved over the years.  Evolved being that our radio show went off the air in 1995 and there was no new Stan until 2014 and then again this year when I recorded a new message.  I’m going to present the four Stan The Welcome Mat Man Holiday Inspirational messages.  The first is from Stan in 1994 or 1995: 

Next up is Teddy’s message from around the same time: 

I revisited Stan in 2014 and recorded a new Inspirational Holiday Message:

And just yesterday, I recorded a new Stan The Welcome Mat Man Inspirational Holiday Message with a 12 Days of Christmas Theme:

     So, I know what you’re wondering is where’s the story in that?  I wrote the new message so that counts for something.  If that’s not enough, I’m going to post a couple of Christmas stories that I have written in the past.  First up is a reflection piece I wrote around 2006 called “Pinheads”: 

Pinheads

          Once upon a time, which is not how this story should start but is how all good stories used to start and as I would like this to turn out to be a good story, there were three girls.  I of course am remembering this and find fault in having not remembered it until recently seeing those three girls again long after I had matured and had children of my own.  But for all intents and purposes this story is about those three girls and that once upon a time.

          These girls were pinheads.  Well, now they’re pinheads but that long ago they were three little girls to three little boys and I was one of those boys and was eight or nine which is not really all that little.

          My brother, my cousin, and I were the boys and the girls were the same age as us respectively.  They were friends of my grandmother or that is to say they were daughters of friends of my grandmother.  At that time my cousin lived next door to my grandmother and we spent a lot of time visiting between the two houses as we were but aren’t now a close-knit family.

          Anyway the girls were friends of ours.  And their father stank.  At least I think he stank.  It might have been those overalls he always wore when he came to visit.  “Ma, it’s time to go a-visiting so I better put them overalls on and go wade about in the manure up to my waste.”  I bet that’s how it went.  All I know is he stank and as much as we liked seeing the girls we hated smelling the father.  For a long time afterwards I didn’t readily associate relationships with the opposite sex with a pleasant aroma.

          What I remember about these girls mostly other than the pungent perfume of their father was that they were very friendly.  I also remember one of ’em kissed me.  I’m sure it was the one who was my age but I might want to admit I probably said it was one of the older ones so the retelling of this event made me seem more mature.  This of course means I lied to my friends about my first encounter with a girl.  It probably was the younger of the set as I was the younger.  And I think there were more kisses than just that one.  That was probably why we liked those girls so much, because anyone who’d have kissed us boys back then couldn’t have been all bad.

          Now here’s where I skip ahead and tell you I never saw those girls again.  Oh I heard about them from time to time and I recall their father dying and the family having some financial difficulties and having to sell off the farm but I never saw them again.  Well, maybe that’s not really true.  I saw them again today and when I looked at them they were still girls except they were pinheads.

          I suppose at this point I should describe a pinhead.  I am by no means being chauvinistic or derogatory.  I’m just trying to describe them using a term I heard once in a movie.  Pinheads, is a circus freak term to describe not so tall people with pointy heads and little intelligence.  I remember reading a book once about a circus pinhead who turned out to be rather intelligent but never spoke as he really never had anything intelligent to say.  This might be a good thing as I’ve known people who have not had an intelligent thing to say but who proceeded with saying it anyhow.  These girls had become pinheads.

          It was in a department store when I saw the pinheads again.  I was killing time with my two-year-old son by amusing him with brightly coloured children’s Christmas video jackets.  I’m attuned to the pander of small children and so I didn’t immediately take notice of other cooings over those animated cases.  It might also have been that the smell that I had associated with these girls wasn’t there.  But they were there.  Oh, they were older, and their mother who was chaperoning them was older, but it was them.  I looked cautiously as it had been many years and I wondered after these many years if they’d recognize me and categorize me as I had done them as pinheads.  The recognition never dawned on them.

          I think I was upset.  Here was a lost part of my youth and what I had held as a beautiful memory was now sharply contrasted by their childlike gait and vocabulary.  I tried to deny it was them but when the mother called them by their names there was no mistaking their identity.

          I’m trying to remember if they’d always been pinheads.  They probably weren’t.  I’d like to think any girl who’d have kissed me back then knew what she was doing.  It might be that I remember this all now with a matured educated brain.  This tends to cloud the memory as I analyze everything I’ve ever done and rationalize why I was the way I was and why things were the way they were.  This means those girls may not have been all that smart back then but as a boy I didn’t notice.  Children can be blind that way.  Some say children can be cruel.  I think it can go the other way, too.  Children can overlook things like intelligence and handicaps and poverty lines when it comes to friendship or pre-pubescent kisses.

          I did not say hello to the girls.  I think maybe they would not have remembered me.  I might be uncaring in not giving them that credit; after all maybe their memory was intact.  What’s that about not judging books by covers?  That would be more than appropriate as my son and I had been judging Christmas video covers without viewing the production.

          I didn’t want to pigeon hole these girls as pinheads but I believe there was something in me that wanted to use the term as a defence.  As I said, I thought a girl who kissed me long ago had to know what she was doing and I didn’t want to admit that maybe she really didn’t know what she was doing.  It bruised my ego to think I might just have been an experience like swimming or falling or getting a haircut.  As you get older you lose that blindness of childhood for the all seeing all knowing perspective.  After all those years I was finally seeing the truth about myself.  I really could detect pinheads.  All I needed to do was look in the mirror.

The End

     I like that story.  It shows how much, like Stan, I’ve grown.  The last story, which I’ll end on is “Billy Built A Robot Christmas Morning.”  I wrote this around 2005 and the reason I’m posting this one is due to the fact that I’ve been thinking about writing a sequel Christmas story about Billy and what happened to him when he gets older.  I haven’t got it written yet but like visions of sugarplums, I’ve got snippets dancing around it my head: 

Billy Built A Robot Christmas Morning

The first thing Billy did was to build a robot.  Well, that wasn’t exactly true.  The first thing Billy did was to wake up Christmas morning, open all of his presents, and express his extreme dissatisfaction at not getting the Grim Reaper 4 video game.

“It’s too violent,” his parents said.  “You need something educational,” said his mother, “not something that’s all about killing and destroying stuff.”

So Billy built a robot.  At first it was difficult.  He didn’t grasp all of the principles of building the robot.  He didn’t understand how to connect certain elements or to build a self-contained renewable energy pack to power the robot.  And then there were the principles of motor control and incorporating a simulated brain with cognitive features allowing it to understand and carry out specified instructions.  What did Billy know about any of these things?  He was only ten.

So Billy used the Internet.  There were numerous websites explaining certain codes and how to enable certain features.  He even went to a chat room and talked for an hour with a guy in Canada who had managed to build a fleet of robots capable of recreating other robots in their own image.  “Robots who built robots,” Billy thought.  “That’s cool.”

It took quite some time for Billy to build his own Robot but when it was completed he was very pleased with himself.  This Robot would be better than any others he had researched.  It would obey only Billy and do his bidding.

So Billy set the Robot loose.  At first it fumbled around and crashed through a few walls.  It was bulky and its weight was considerable enough to cause extensive damage wherever it went.  “Cool,” Billy exclaimed.

Then Billy maneuvered the Robot down the street and had it smash a few cars.  People ran in terror when they saw the Robot.  Billy didn’t care about the people.  He could hurt them if he wanted too.  He had learned from the Internet how to bi-pass certain inhibitors that would normally prevent the Robot from causing harm or even damaging things like walls and cars.  But Billy would not allow his Robot to hurt any people.  His parents wouldn’t like that.  But eating cars and smashing buildings was cool and nobody got hurt.

Billy wasn’t sure what he should really do with his Robot.  After a while he got bored of just having the Robot walk around and destroy things.  He could try and build other robots like that guy in Canada but then what do you do with a bunch of robots other than having them destroy more stuff?

So Billy set his thoughts on world domination.  He didn’t think about his parents anymore and he hardly even thought about Grim Reaper 4.  This Robot thing was way cooler.

So time passed and Billy built more robots and appointed his first Robot as their leader.  But they all followed Billy’s commands.  At first they just all walked around destroying stuff but Billy soon commanded them to destroy only really important stuff so that the people would all be really scared of the robots.  Sometimes some people shot at the robots but Billy had learned the trick to making his robots invincible.  This just made the people angrier and they shot more stuff at the robots and there were explosions and things that made Billy more excited.

Eventually the robots destroyed all of the cities and the people followed the robots through the countryside.  Some of them still shot stuff at the robots but most just followed the robots because there was nothing else to do.

The Robot that Billy built first always walked in the front.  He was the biggest.  Billy had made some changes to him and had given him laser eyes so he could destroy buildings and stuff from a distance.  Some of the other robots looked just like the first Robot but they could do different things.  Some had saw blades for hands and others had cannons in their chests.  There was this one robot that Billy really thought was cool that had treads on the bottom of its feet so it could run through forests and destroy trees and stuff.

Eventually with all of the cities destroyed, there was nothing much left to do but to set up a post from where he could rule the world.  That was easy.  First he found a city that was all surrounded by water and he had the robots destroy all of the bridges.  Then Billy had the robots build a fortress.  That was cool.  The robots kept anybody from going in there that weren’t robots.

All of the people who were on this new island city ran around and screamed and stuff but Billy didn’t care.  He looked over this new island and thought this is probably the best spot where no one could hurt his robots.  He could hear the people all yelling and stuff but he didn’t care.

“Billy!”  Billy could hear one of the people calling his name.  Why would someone be shouting his name?

“Billy!”  Billy vaguely recognized the voice.  He hadn’t heard it in a while but he was sure it was his mother’s voice.

“Billy!”  Billy turned about looking for the source of the voice.

“Billy, shut off that robot video game.  You’ve been playing it all day.  Now shut it off and come to Christmas dinner.

The End

     Well, that’s it for now.  I don’t know if I’ll get the sequel story written or even if I’ll get another blahg written this month.  If I don’t then I’m sending you all my Christmas blessing and all the best for 2019.  Happy Holidays!