Speaking of greed. I’m stood on the street corner, waiting for the light to turn. The polar gusts somehow coil icy tendrils into my heavy winter jacket, leaving me shivering. A pathetic excuse for a Santa swings a bell that sounds as if someone had dropped shards of glass into a cheap tin cup. His drooping red sack of a coat is tarnished with soot and enhances a skeletal frame, he didn’t even have the decency to stuff a pillow under his shirt.

I glare at him, not hiding my disdain. Beside him, a handwritten sign, glued beneath a cracked plastic bowl wired to an old shower curtain rod might fool a distracted passerby, but not me. There’s a pitiful pile of coins at the bottom, like he couldn’t even be bothered. This guy’s a fraud. I should report him to the police. How despicable, a thieving Santa.

He’s not even wearing boots, just those fake wrap-around pieces of felt one sees in children’s plays. What a joke.

As the crowd surges forward, I catch a glimpse of his shoes, they’re full of holes, taped and covered in black marker. Blue skin, tight against bony ankles, protrudes above the shoes.

The light flashes green and I’m swept across the street. Grateful a few minutes later to be snug in my warm office and holding a mug decorated with eight tiny reindeer. Tendrils of steam wafts up, promising a hot cup of wakeup.

I pull the shutters down, but all day, whenever I hear the icy pellets rattle my windowpanes, I think about corner fraud Santa. I’d spent five minutes outside, dashing from parking lot to office, wrapped in a heavy jacket, grateful to get in out of the elements. Is raggedy Santa still on the corner, I wonder.

Eight hours later, when I step out onto the streets, colourful city lights twinkle against newly fallen snow. It’s almost up to the top of my low hikers. Heavy flakes, thick as blobs of yogurt, are still falling. I’m buffeted by shoulders, arms and hips by the masses of shoppers as they stream by me. Inside my thick toque the noise of the city is muffled, but, as I move closer to the corner, I hear the pathetic sound of broken glass.

Santa’s still there, arms wrapped around his body, hands covered in black socks. He’s stamping, almost prancing, trying to keep his feet from freezing. I hurry past him, he’s huddled close to a brick wall, his only windbreak. Recalling my self-righteous glare from this morning, I drop my gaze, the memory makes my cheeks sting more than the cold.

I hesitate at the parking entrance, then instead of going in, I continue toward a nearby discount army and navy store. Its windows stream friendly golden light, promising warmth and the pungent aroma of gun oil. Once inside, I scramble up and down aisles, guessing at sizes and filling my bags. Santa doesn’t even look up when I stop in front of him. “Here,” I say holding out two large sacks. “Put these on before you lose your hands and feet.”

He jerks and reaches out instinctively; his mouth widens into an oh. There’s a sturdy pair of boots inside. Two pairs of woolen socks, heavy black mittens, snow pants and a dark green scarf. Water floods his eyes; a perfect droplet clings to an eyelash as if reluctant to fall. Or maybe its already frozen in place.

“Oh. And I almost forgot…” I pull a red toque, trimmed in white fur, from my jacket pocket. I’d stolen it from our window display as I was leaving. “Santa needs a hat.”

His mouth moves but there’s no sound. Tears sparkle against his white cheeks, but before he can speak, I turn and run.

Merry friggin Christmas, I think as I make a beeline for my car. 

Photo Credit

Photo is courtesy of the author

Christmas is coming up in a month and for many it is a time to weep, a time to lie in bed with the covers over your head, a time to scream and yell and wish that
Christmas would just piss off.

It doesn’t, it can’t. Christmas is a time for many to look inward, to find solace and hope. It is a spiritual time of gratitude and thankfulness for many, a time of wonder and childlike magic. Christmas is about babies looking at the Christmas tree for the first time. That look of awe and expectation of all things good.

As a child, Christmas was one of the most glorious times of the year in our house. My parents would spend hours preparing for parties and dinners and guests. A time for those far away to phone and send their Best Christmas wishes.

The one thing all of us children hoped for on Christmas was snow. Because what could be more fun than building forts and having snow ball fights and making angels in a freshly fallen snow. Taking our toboggans to the hill and putting in some good runs, up and down we would go rosy cheeked and so very happy. Shouting with joy and maybe a bit of fear that your sled would crash but mostly it was about the fun.

Christmas was for me as an adult just as fun as it was for me as a child. For what is Christmas about than tradition, those things that were done as a child will repeat themselves as you age. The parties and get-togethers, reaching out to those that are far away. Waiting for that first snowfall so you can finally get the kids outside to play.

Its about baking cookies and cakes and treats of all kinds. Of making gingerbread houses and telling your child their house was perfect even though it had no walls. Christmas was for us a time of joy! My husband was in charge of the tree and the lights. This was a job he loved and he looked forward to sitting in the dark after the lights were up and just taking in the beauty of the tree. I would say our house was full of love.

Christmas to me now has changed in so many ways. I am a senior, sixty-six years old going on sixty-seven. The past few years my husband was ill with cancer and passed away in 2023. This is my second Christmas without him. Each day is tough but holidays are particularly hard. I had so many wonderful Christmas days with my husband that those memories keep me going. I also have awesome children and great friends that bring me so much joy. Time does heal wounds sort of, time makes it feel not so close.

This Christmas my children and I will celebrate with a beautiful tree and lights and my grandson will be with us, a bonus. He is after all one of our gifts having him here with us. My husband will be with us in spirit, in love in how we remember him every day. But on Christmas we will remember how he loved to look at the tree and how it glowed in the night.

I hope you find the meaning of Christmas in your heart. That you don’t fall prey to lying in bed weeping but that you rejoice in the fact that you are alive and that your loved ones who have passed will be grateful that you have found peace. Peace in your heart and soul, that you know deep down they are happy and without pain or sadness that they too are rejoicing that you are alive.

Wishing you all a very Merry and Bright Christmas!

Photo Credits

Photos by Martha Farley – All Rights Reserved

The kitchen was small and yet Mom had the magic touch in that tiny space. She could produce the most amazing things with flour, butter and sugar. And there were always pans of her nuts and bolts and cheese straws. All sorts of her fruit pies – apple, strawberry and blueberry – were frozen in her giant freezer in the garage. 

Mom and Dad were masters at being hosts. At parties, and in particular le Réveillon on Christmas Eve, Mom would cook up a ham and roast beef or a turkey with all the trimmings. Dad looked after the bar – rye, rum, whiskey, vodka, gin, beer and wine for dinner. And of course his favorite apéritif. He loved those tiny glasses and the rich taste of Irish cream. And the parties were always alive with music! My parents’ friends were all so talented and could play the piano or guitar or both. And the singing and dancing! I would sit on the stairs when I was very young until I was old enough to join in the festivities that lasted into the wee hours. It was always a treat to listen to the merriment! At midnight Mom would start bringing out trays and platters of food, and would lay down a feast amongst the candles and linens and branches of sweet-smelling pine. No expense was spared when it came to le Réveillon. There were beans with almonds and mushroom sauce, turnips and yams and mashed potatoes so creamy they would melt in your mouth, and broccoli au gratin made with old cheddar cheese. Mom never scrimped on butter or cheese. Her famous CCC (Chocolate Chip Cookies), oatmeal cookies, peanut butter cookies, chocolate candy and roasted almonds were always plentiful. She would let me taste a cookie in the dining room with her; we would chat while I ate my cookie and she had a smoke break. Her tomato aspic was something I always remember but could never quite understand why someone would eat it. Every dish was prepared with love and a thankfulness for all the people who sat around that table.

Those were the days of Christmas filled with such sweet and wonderful smells coming from the kitchen. Those are the moments in time that are kept close in my heart. Memories of my mom, who could cook up a storm, rest in my heart and give me a good feeling. It’s the feeling of what Christmas means to me: good food, family and friends sharing in those special moments. I hope I’ve been a part of my children’s Christmas landscape just like my parents were a part of mine; traditions passed down to keep those special moments alive for generations to come.

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

Have you ever met someone who’s commonly called a “Scrooge” – a Dickens name reserved for those, especially at Christmas, who are mainly concerned about themselves?

It’s not that they’re always “bad”; but, some feel they’re vulnerable if they don’t (in Leonard Cohen’s words) “Shoot at someone who outdrew you.” As, Donald Trump trumpeted, “Real power… is fear.”

Even positive thinking guru, Dale Carnegie, acknowledged that “The world is full of people who are grabbing and self-seeking.” But added. “So the rare individual who unselfishly tries to serve others has an enormous advantage. He has little competition.”

So, what we’re really talking about is personal leadership. And, basically, there are two versions: power and control; and, service and support.

Power and Control: I’ve been exposed – however rarely – to this mode of leadership, and it’s no fun. Working in the face of fear and intimidation seldom is. In fact, Dickens, in his novel ‘A Christmas Carol’, has his wealthy protagonist, Scrooge, characterized to be devoid of any caring about his long-serving clerk, Bob Cratchit… even less about Bob’s destitute family.

And, why should he? There’s no law compelling him to be his clerk’s personal benefactor… until enlightened by his heart and soul. Scrooge feels that even allowing for unpaid time off at Christmas is simply an excuse for employees to put their hands into the pockets of their employers… “as it were, sir!”

“Boy, you’re going to carry that weight… a long time.”
~ Carry That Weight by the Beatles

Service and Support: Those who follow this way of being will often find staff don’t normally expect to be treated as adults… to being trusted to do the right thing. But, these employers have already made a life decision to be understanding, just and fair.

They also tend to get more than just passable job performance from staff. And, this mutual respect extends from top to bottom. Employees reward management with loyalty – decision-making that’s self-sustaining on many levels.

“And, in the end, the love you take is equal to the love you make.”
~ The Beatles

Of course, there’s always a few who will try to take advantage of others. And, it’s disappointing. But, what I’ve found, from conducting hundreds of management and employee interviews… you reap what you sow.

“Tis paid with sighs a plenty. And sold for endless rue.
And I am two-and-twenty, And oh, ’tis true, ’tis true.”
~ A. E. Housman

Standing by your principles – even if it doesn’t work out – can still give your struggles meaning.

“Like the fool I am, and I’ll always be,
I’ve got a dream.
They can change their minds, but they can’t change me.
I got a dream”
~ I’ve Got A Name by Jim Croce

“Merry Christmas! Celebrate Life!”

Photo Credit

Photo is pixabay creative commons

First published at Fred Parry

Guest Author Bio
Fred Parry

Fred Parry lives in Southern Ontario. He is a lover of people and a collector of stories, music, wisdom, and grandchildren. His newspaper column, Music in Me, can be found in ‘The New Hamburg Independent’ Metroland Media. His book, ‘The Music In Me’ (2013) Friesen Press is Available from Amazon and Indigo / Chapters.

Blog / Website: www.fredparry.ca

In our house, this was always a very special time for our family. The tree always stood in the same corner every year for as long as I can remember. My mother would prepare months in advance, baking and cooking and planning. The house was always spit-shined! Not one nook or cranny would go untouched. My father would haul out the toughest dirt removers, vacuums and rags to make sure there was not one spot or piece of dust or dirt anywhere in our house.

We always celebrated with friends and family Christmas Eve, and then everyone was welcome after midnight mass. Food and drinks were served until all hours of the morning, as guests, friends and family chatted and sang and enjoyed the festivities.

I was 16, the youngest, and was waiting hopelessly for the party to end this particular Christmas Eve, knowing that Christmas morning would soon arrive. I was hoping I would find what I had asked for under the tree. Often, Christmas mornings would turn into afternoons, as the majority of the household would be still recovering from the night before. So more often than not I had to wait patiently! In the early hours of Christmas morning my dad would always be cleaning and getting ready for the next onslaught of visitors. I decided to join him this morning, and we chatted as I helped him carry dishes to the sink, all the while wondering what was waiting for me under the tree.

Well, when gifts were finally being opened this particular Christmas, I came across a huge box under the tree for me. All I could think of was that maybe my parents bought me the stereo I had been dreaming about! I opened the box and discovered it was far from a stereo. What was in that big box? A suitcase. They bought me a suitcase?? I thought in disbelief. I stood over the horrible orange suitcase and wondered if perhaps it was some sort of joke and my real gift was inside the case. So I quickly popped open the bag, only to find it empty. I guess this is it, Martha, I thought to myself. I looked at my parents, who were busy talking to my brothers, and said thank you to them. I must have had a very strange and quizzical look on my face because my Dad started to laugh.

“Do you like your gift, Martha?” he asked.

“Very nice Dad, thanks. Is this some sort of a hint??” I responded jokingly.

My brother John looked on, smirking at what I got under the tree. I would have preferred underwear or socks.

“Martha, we thought that might come in handy for you sometime down the road,” my mother said while smoking her cigarette and rubbing her eyes from lack of sleep.

“Well, thanks Mom, should I start packing today??”

Both of my brothers laughed. I’m sure they would have been happy to get rid of their little sister – the sooner the better.

“Don’t be silly,” Mom said. “We just saw it on sale and figured why not get that for Martha. We know how you like to go and visit Lebby and, well, you know your father and I when we see a deal. We can’t pass it up.”

“I know Mom, I was just kind of hoping you might have seen a stereo on sale somewhere.”

I’m not really sure what got into my parents that Christmas, but a bright orange suitcase was one of the worst gifts I think I have ever received. To top it all off, in all the years I had that suitcase, I never used it. Not once. Today, my daughter’s Barbies are stored in it. I suppose, as my Mom told me, they were just being practical. But in my opinion, there’s practical and then there’s just plain crazy. At sixteen, a suitcase was really not at the top of my wish list.

After receiving the gaudy orange suitcase, gift opening on Christmas mornings thereafter was always done with trepidation. What could possibly be under the tree next, waiting for me? Yes, my parents were always thinking on the practical side. And I have to admit, gift opening was never dull on Christmas morning, even if it meant unwrapping the occasional suitcase. At least we were always surprised!

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

Two months ago I had to make the decision to put my two Maine Coon cats down, Rocky and Tye. I did what I always do when my heart hurts – I wrote. I wrote a poem; I wrote about love and loss, regardless if there are 2 legs or 4; I wrote about the intensity of the grief. I just wrote. I have never written so much in my life, and I knew it would never be shared. This was not writing that was well-structured. It was all over the map, and was exactly how I felt in the hours and days that followed. It was the first time I struggled with clear thought and could not answer the question I always ask myself when I write: what am I trying to say? It took me awhile to realize that I didn’t know. It took me even longer to understand that it was perfectly okay. It was clear I needed an outlet, and well-crafted sentences and continuity were far from the goal.

Over the past two months, I’ve had no choice but to get used to a life without Rocky and Tye in it. I feel their absence every minute of every day but am starting to come to terms with the fact that there will be no more shared routines and daily rituals. There’s also a sense that I’ve reached the end of an era. They were a connection to my past and were a big part of the journey to a new life. The four of us moved on (they had a sister CoCo that I had to put down two years ago) and we settled into a simple life, one of love and much quality time together.

So here I am. What now? There’s just me, and a new year is about to begin. I suspect it will take some time to move through the feelings of loss and change. But I will attempt to do as I always do at the end of every year – celebrate all that I’ve done and create a plan for the new year. And although I will forever miss the little beings whose hearts got so entangled with mine, I also feel a certain anticipation. I look forward to all that’s to come; the promise of new adventure, the freedom to say yes to life. I can’t help but feel that Tye, Rocky and CoCo’s love and companionship has, in many ways, prepared me for this moment. They truly were gifts.

As always, the love of family and friends will carry me through the holiday season. I will notice the quiet; the strangeness. I will notice the ache in my heart. But I will also notice the abundance. As I learn to let go, I will reach for the comfort that exists around me.

Merry Christmas everyone…may we fondly remember the Christmases of yesterday, embrace this Christmas with love in our hearts and cherish the moments we spend with those around us.  

Photo Credits

Photos by Carol Good – all rights reserved

This morning I was with half a dozen people in a self-help group who were sharing anecdotes and opinions, and the discussion turned to the lack of public recognition of the community aspect of Christmas. These people were older and remembered, mostly with fondness, a time when there were Christmas trees in public places, and overtly religious festivities did not have to be conducted behind closed doors, out of the purview of the politically correct.

This prompted me to share a memory from more than sixty years ago, which is still vivid in my mind and became more so when I told it. In 1954, when I attended first grade at Condon elementary school in Eugene Oregon (where I still live) I had the opportunity to take part in a school-wide Christmas pageant that included my good friend Dicky K. singing a solo of “We Three Kings of Orient Are” and a play about a miraculous statue of the Virgin Mary. As the smallest kid in the entire school I was selected to play the part of the child of a needy woman, played by a sixth grader. The central character in the story, a German clockmaker from hundreds of years ago, spent a long time making a beautiful clock to present to the statue of the Virgin Mary and Baby Jesus in the Cathedral as a votive offering on Christmas Eve. There was a legend that the statue would come to life and accept the best offering, though no one could remember this having happened in living memory. At the last minute the clockmaker sold the beautiful clock to get money for a woman in desperate circumstances, and had only the apple he had saved for his supper to bring as an offering. The statue came to life and accepted it. The take home lesson, that God, or Jesus, or the Virgin Mary considers private generosity to the poor to be better service than conspicuous public gifts, was not lost on me at age six and is a good lesson at Christmas or at any other time.

A little sleuthing on the internet turned up the source of the story I remembered, a children’s book by Ruth Sawyer called “This Way to Christmas” published in 1916. The clockmaker episode, one of many, was made into a short play in 1939, and that is probably what I encountered in 1954. The text of the entire book is available in the public domain.

Set in the context of the whole book, the story is even more inspiring and timely. The main character of the book is a boy whose parents are doing medical research in the front lines in Europe; he is spending Christmas with his former Irish nanny who now serves with her husband as a caretaker at a snowbound summer resort. A few people, all more or less outcasts and isolated from each other, are spending Christmas in this nearly deserted town. The narrator of the clockmaker story is an elderly German immigrant railroad worker with a heart of gold, shunned by other members of the community because of hysteria against Germans during World War I. Other characters – an old negro caretaker, a trapper and guide from the Balkans, a Hispanic lady with her invalid son, and Johanna, the Irish nanny relate traditional Christmas stories from their cultures, and the book ends, first with Peter the artist’s tale of Santa Claus going on strike and making Christmas happen at the last possible moment with the help of mythological spirits (fairies, brownies, giants, dwarfs etc.) from many traditions, and then with a communal feast at the inn where Johanna and her husband are caretakers.

The title refers to a sign inviting everyone to Johanna’s house for a feast, but also to David’s search for the “locked-out fairy,”, a supernatural being from one of Joanna’s stories in which the fairies all emerge briefly on Christmas Eve and return to their “holt” promptly at midnight. The stories are strung together by David’s search for the locked-out fairy which never got back to its holt. It is a well-written parable about the contributions of immigrants, the importance of being welcoming to them, and the role of war in keeping people separate.

I hope this book becomes a theme for the coming Christmas; it is as timely as it was when it appeared just over a hundred years ago. What other signposts are hidden in my memory, ready to point down “rabbit holes” when the time is ripe for uncovering old information in a new context?

Photo Credit

Photo is a plate from the book, This Way to Christmas  – Public Domain

Truth be told, I wasn’t born into a family of shopping enthusiasts. We aren’t recreational shoppers; we’re a pragmatic bunch when it comes to gift giving. Growing up in the 70s, our big night was Christmas Eve, when we gathered at my Nonie’s house. My mom’s family drew names every year, so each person only had to shop for one other person. The adults, all seven or eight of them, all shopped for the children, as was appropriate. My brother and I liked to show our giving spirit also, so we usually pooled our resources and shopped for the relatives out of the Avon catalog. To this day, I choose to believe my uncle appreciated every one of his yearly musk-scented soap-on-a-ropes, which likely paid off handsomely down at the pub for weeks to come. Catalog Santa for the score!

As much as my brother and I were eager to get to the main event, I enjoyed watching the grown-ups open their gifts. They were almost always big, like a countertop appliance, or some weird gadget just out on the market (think, Water Pik, when that was cutting edge). The expression on my Nonie’s face conveyed one of two thoughts, whether watching someone else open a gift, or peering into her own present as she carefully unwrapped: “What the hell?” or “Oooooooh,” depending whether she knew exactly what she was looking at.

One memory, particularly, stands out. I must have been about eight, because as I recall, I was rocking one of my favorite material possessions ever, a pair of white, knee-high leather boots with embroidered flowers up the sides (remember, this was the 70s). After the various blenders, toasters, air popcorn poppers, etc., were opened by my parents, aunt, uncles and grandpa, it was my Nonie’s turn. Out of the box came a DaZey Seal-a-Meal. We marveled at the technology of the day. This was going to change everything for my grandma, who cooked entirely from scratch, often in batches large enough to feed a platoon. Consequently, a lot of oooohs and aaaaahs were heard that night. Secret Santa for the win!

Then came the envelopes. Every adult and child got an envelope from a certain not-so-secret Santa who wasn’t much for shopping, even for one person. We all loved Envelope Santa. If you asked the adults in the room that age-old Christmas question, “Do you believe?” they would have all answered “Yessss.” Luckily, that torch was passed and Envelope Santa still makes it possible for my generation to hear the bell on Christmas. Envelope Santa rocks!

But did you know that there are other Santas, such as Buys Clothes Anyway Santa? Even when you have specifically asked, or even begged BCA Santa not to buy you clothes, you know what’s in the box. In all honesty, BCA Santa hits a home run now and then (further reinforcing her position to keep swinging for the stands). But the ground-out-to-first-base years, not so much. Those post-gift-exchange rituals are more like needle exchange programs: “Give me a clean needle (the receipt) and no one gets hurt.”

This year, it’s going to be a home run year for BCA Santa; as a matter of fact, it’s shaping up to be Chicago Cub-like! I happen to know this because recently (spoiler alert), my mom asked me if I thought my brother might like the same sweater she had just bought for my father. Like a dutiful sister, I said, “No. He’s asked you not to buy him clothes.” But then, a week later, when my brother was visiting, this happened:

Son: “Pop, love the sweater! Where’d you get it?”

Pop: “Costco. Want to try it on?” (sneaking a look at my mom, who was salivating at the idea of a “W” on the Christmas books.)

Son: “Sure. (tries on the sweater) Wow, I really like this.”

Mom: “I’ll get you one for Christmas!”

Son: “Can I just have this one?”

Pop (frown): “No.”

Mom: “I’ll take care of it!”

BCA Santa for the walk-off home run!

Photo Credits

Photos courtesy of Lisa Lucke

Originally published in the Amador Ledger Dispatch

As I opened a bag, I found leftover wrapping paper and bows from the previous year, folded for use once again. Then those wonderful noise-making stuffed animals that brought laughter to my daughter as a child. Those will never part the collection. I placed the array of goofy characters in a corner, almost like a corner of time passed, to cherish and not to lose. There were so many beautiful memories of so many smiles as we passed cookies and sat together as a family, staring at the Christmas tree lights. The joy of decorating once again made me feel my life had such purpose, such direction – to be a mother during the holidays again. On my notepad, I began writing a list of cookies, cakes and desserts to bake. Each one made year after year – brownies, cheesecake, muffins, chocolate chip cookies and this year, gingerbread cookies.

It was late at night before I fell asleep. As I was about to head to bed, from the corner of my eye I caught an image of years past, and my heart began to experience what only mothers who are watching their daughters become young women experience – one day, this will be what she has. When I have passed and time has gone, she will have these things to cherish; not the things as objects, but the memories of them as they linger through the lights, the decorations and the cookie smells. She will have her mother.

Photo Credits

Photo from Flickr – some rights reserved

Tree up, fire on, CBC classical background
the past lingers, a spectre
ornaments twinkle in the half-light, ghosts
what has been, has been, now distant and with bittersweet pangs
the motions of the season taking on a hollow tone, memories
brought back in flickers, like a guttering candle
pleasant in small doses, a past like a previous addiction, vanquished

Photo Credits

Photo by Eric Stofer – all rights reserved

Guest Author Bio

Eric Stofer
Born and raised in Victoria BC, Eric is a keen observer of human strengths and frailties… including his own. He prefers brutally honest over candy-coated, and integrity over all. He has a love of old machinery, fine art, good food and honest, caring people. Humor in life is so very important.