Tag: Christmas

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Christmas Dinner

I was raised by feral wolves. At least that is how it felt every time we took a road trip.

My parents were big on travel adventure, short on planning. Somehow, it always worked out for them. They never bothered with any research or advance bookings. We would just pile into the car and drive. We would arrive at our destination late at night, be the last car through the drive through, then drive around to find a room in a low-end motel. Growing up we thought this was normal.

This same lack of planning defined our Christmas trip to Disney World when I was a young kid. This was a major trip from Canada to Florida at the busiest time of year. Most people spend months planning their Disney vacation, optimizing all variables to navigate the crowds. My parents did zero research. Their only real decision was whether to take a 50 mile detour from the Interstate to see the world’s biggest ball of yarn. Thankfully they did not.

We pulled into a suburb of Orlando at around 10:30 on Christmas Eve. Surprise – everything was closed. This was back in the 1970’s right in the belt buckle of the bible belt, so everything was closed. There wasn’t a single restaurant open. Mercifully, they found a hotel. It was so low end that you could put quarters in a machine to make the bed vibrate. We unpacked the car, tired and hungry.

The only food we had with us was a gingerbread house that my sister had made as a Girl Scout project. It had travelled with us from Canada in the trunk of the car and was still partially frozen. So our family piled on to the vibrating bed and dad fed quarters into the machine while we waited for the gingerbread house to thaw. Then he went down the corridor and came back with a couple of cans of grape soda and a bucket of ice. Feral wolves, I tell you.

There were four of us. Each person got one wall of the gingerbread house for our main course. For desert, we split the roof between us since it had icing and gumdrops. Then we washed it all down with Grape Crush. We fell into our vibrating beds in a sugar coma.

We awoke Christmas morning ready to face the crowds at Disney World. Outside it was freezing.  Truly freezing. Florida was in the grip of a rare cold snap. Parents who had done their planning and watched the weather report opted to stay away that day. We were from Canada and had all our cold weather gear, so no problem. And no crowds. We had Disney World to ourselves. Love my parents: somehow it just always worked out for them.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.

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The Anniversary

We knew we would get married the first time we met.  Still, it’s not the sort of thing you discuss on a first date. And it almost didn’t happen.

We met at a Christmas party in Canada. My job was to greet guests at the door. I was resplendent in a pair of yuletide green jeans and two oven mitts shaped like moose heads. I used the oven mitts like puppets, welcoming new guests to the house in my best moose voice. The moose slurred a bit, since I had been “sampling” egg nog most of the afternoon. But most of the guests spoke French, so they had no idea what the moose was saying anyways.

I opened the door and there she was. The moose slurred Merry Christmas. She smiled, greeted me, and glanced down at my green jeans. It was not altogether a look of approval.

As it so often does during Canadian parties in winter, talk soon turned to hockey. I overheard her say to someone that her sports interest was not actually hockey, but American football. She instantly had my respect because you NEVER say that in Canada. She overheard me laugh at myself as I slopped egg nog on my green jeans. She was amused. Those first moments – respect, humour, and slopped food – formed a pattern for what was to become our relationship.

I switched to drinking tea in an effort to actually engage her in meaningful conversation. We talked for hours about family, faith, our previous work in Africa, and other matters of the heart. We exchanged numbers. As the party ended the moose bade her farewell. I watched her walk away, and I knew.

The next day I called. She was abrupt. She hung up quickly. My heart sank. How could I have gotten it that wrong? I hadn’t drunk that much egg nog! But then she called back. “Sorry about that”, she said sheepishly. “It was 4th and inches with Dallas inside the ten yard line and the game on the line. I just couldn’t talk. Kansas City and Oakland play in an hour, do you want to come over to watch?” And so it was to be.

Two short weeks later we went on separate trips to opposite corners of the world. We were going to see very close friends who happened to be of the opposite sex. During our respective trips our friends disclosed to each of us their preference to be more than friends. These expressions came from people we cared for deeply and had known for years. She and I still barely knew each other. What to do?

When we returned home I asked her how she had responded. She smiled and said, “I said thank you, but I can’t. Because a few weeks ago I met the man I am supposed to marry.” And so it was to be, 20 years ago this week.

This story is dedicated to the love of my life. Happy Anniversary, my dear.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier.]

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Fishing in Florida – 08/01/2017

[Welcome back and Happy New Year! I hope everyone had a good break. This holiday story is a wee bit longer than most, but I believe it’s worth it. And it’s all true.]

A few Christmases ago my brother-in- law and I rose in the early dawn light and piled into the car with our respective sons, sandwiches, a change of clothes, and high expectations. The previous night we had received a text from one “Captain Biff”, confirming that our deep sea fishing trip in the Gulf was on. His text also included an apology that his primary boat was in for repair so we would be using his backup
craft. No matter.

Not knowing where to park, we drove towards a man standing by the pier to ask for directions. He was a strapping fellow with short, ginger hair. He looked like a retired Rowdy Roddy Piper. He was wearing a filthy pea-green shirt covered with fish-ick and ripped camouflage shorts which offered a full view of his black boxers underneath. as we rolled up, the man leaned into the open driver’s window and said in a voice bristling with enthusiasm, “Y’all looking for Cap’n Biff?!” We nodded. “Co-ink-ee-dink! You found him!” He pointed us towards the parking lot and told us to meet him at the boat. The thrum of marine engines filled the air and added to our anticipation.

We gathered our things from the car and made for the pier. There sat Cap’n Biff’s backup boat, a little putt-putt party-barge pontoon with a 50hp Evinrude outboard. It looked like a floating David surrounded by marine Goliaths. As we stepped aboard, The Cap’n apologized that this was a lesser boat than his normal one, and noted we wouldn’t be hitting any deep water today but would instead fish in the shoals near shore. My brother-in- law slumped. The Cap’n cranked up some Bob Marley as we made for open water, while the Evinrude whined like a swarm of angry bees.

Despite the early hour, and I suspect in part to compensate for his crappy boat, Cap’n Biff proved to be quite the chatterbox. As we headed towards the shoals he told us about his time in the service, the ins and outs of charter fishing, and prattled on about the local gossip. My brother-in- law finally engaged. “Captain Biff”, he said, “I can’t help but notice a sort of musty smell here on the boat.…”

For the first time the Captain looked sheepish. “Yup”, he said. “When I pulled her out of storage this morning the seats were covered in a ton of dust and I didn’t have time to give her a full wipe down. So I covered the seats with these old hunting blankets here from my truck. I forgot that some of them blankets is scented with male buck urine, you know, to attract the horny female deer? So I expect that may be what we’re all smelling”. The air filled with Bob Marley as my brother-in- law and I sat tried to process the moment. …Buffalo soljaaahhh, dreadlocked Rasta…

Finally the Captain eased off the Evinrude as we drifted up to the shoals. Here he proved himself to be a veteran fisherman and a master at working with us novices. He taught us how to bait hooks, avoiding the spiky parts of the bait shrimp. He prepared the rods and lines, and taught our boys about the reels. Each time as we brought our arms back to cast, Captain Biff would yell “FLANG THAT DAWG!” with genuine enthusiasm.

As we kept casting, I noticed the Captain looking to the back of the boat with growing alarm. “Uh, fellas”, said Captain Biff with genuine worry in his voice. “I’m afraid we’ve got to cut this one a little short. It appears one of them pontoons is taking on water and we may be sinking”. Only then did I realize that my brother-in- law was indeed sitting a few inches lower than the rest of us at the back of the boat, and that we were listing noticeably to one side. Quickly Captain Biff flew into action, stowing the gear and firing up the Evinrude. He turned back for the pier as the rest of us huddled precariously on the front corner of the boat to counterbalance the growing weight in the rear waterlogged pontoon. The putt-putt Evinrude screamed for all it was worth as we inched across the open water.

Finally the pier came into sight. Captain Biff headed straight for the ramp, ignoring the stares of the other Captains who looked on wide-eyed at our semi-submerged party barge with its smoking outboard. Captain Biff threw a line on to the pier and ran up to get his truck and trailer, fearing that the boat might actually sink before he could skid it up out of the water. We remained on the front corner of the boat as counterbalance to keep it from going down. Meanwhile, the harbor master, an elderly man standing on the pier with glasses on the end his nose, began scribbling on his clipboard.

Captain Biff backed the trailer down into the water. Lashing the bow of the boat directly to the trailer he dispensed with the winch, knowing that he could not haul up the tons of water now filling the leaky pontoon. He motioned for us to step off the boat at the same moment as he dropped his truck into low-gear 4 X 4 and gunned it. The entire dripping mess lurched up the ramp. Tires smoked and the weight of the waterlogged pontoon almost crushed Captain Biff’s trailer. The prop, still spinning, flung water and weeds into the air. The harbor master’s writing became a blur while. Above the chaos …I shot the sherriiiifff…. could be heard coming from the boat’s sound system.

Then, right there at the top of the ramp, in the midst of the stares from onlookers, the judgement of his peers, and pending fines from the harbormaster, Captain Biff proved what kind of man he really was. He stepped from his truck up on to his boat, now spurting water from its leaky pontoon like a dozen little boys peeing, and crowed like a rooster on a dung heap “YEEAAAHHH! FLANG THAT DAWWWGGGG!!!” And while others waited in disbelief to get their boats down the ramp, Biff took the opportunity to fillet our caught fish. And he took his sweet time doing it, too. Then he added as a masterstroke while handing us the bag of fresh fillets, “I think I’m gonna offer you boys a discount”! Pure. Divine. Poetry.

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier. Happy New Year!]

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The Christmas Concert – 18/12/2017

It officially became the best Christmas concert of all time when they broke out the bongo drums and booze.

My daughter’s school choir sang this morning in an ancient stone church in the next village. As I walked there I greeted some French-Swiss construction workers who, true to form, were leaning on their shovels and smoking. The German-Swiss street crews work. The French-Swiss crews smoke.

The concert was hosted by the local International Women’s Guild.  The only thing international about the Guild is the use of the word “International” in the title. These women are all English. Like Maggie Smith in Downton Abbey. Like the Queen mum and her Corgies. The aging flower of Britannia.

The audience sang along with Silent Night, While Shepherds Watched their Flocks, What Child is This, and other old-fashioned-hey-nonny-nonny English Christmas classics. The songs were interspersed with readings by proper British authors like Rudyard Kipling and Charles Dickens. There was even an inexplicable Beatrix Potter poem about an Ostrich pulling the Christmas sleigh. How did these people once hold dominion over a quarter of the world?

Then things got “International”.

First, the choir made the mistake of projecting the words to a French carol. The Guild ladies sang along, but only out of duty and with nowhere near the gusto of the other carols. There were sideways glances and knowing nods exchanged, lest anyone be perceived by their Guild-sisters as being unpatriotic or worse, a Francophile.

Then came the Hanukkah song. This was received by the stunned assembly like the sting of a boxer’s jab. It was followed by the bruising right hook of the Kwanza song. The choir director had to explain to the baffled crowd what Kwanza was. One of the boys in the choir produced a bongo drum.

Then all hell broke loose. The bongos wailed, the choir sang, and the director, with her ample backside to the crowd, began to shake her caboose in time with the music in a most un-British manner. The Guild matrons swooned.

Decorum was restored by the taking up of a collection for some suitably obscure British charity involving animals. Then the crowd filed into the back of the church for biscuits and mulled wine. Even the kids were given mulled wine. It was 10:30 in the morning.

As I walked back to the car I passed the construction workers once more, their cigarette butts piled high from a long, unproductive morning. Each of them was by now also holding a steaming cup of mulled wine, a gift given by the passing Guild ladies returning to their cars.

I love Christmas. God bless us everyone, no exceptions.

 

[If you know someone else who might enjoy a lighthearted story to begin their week, kindly forward them the link to WordsfortheWeary. The more the merrier. Note there will be no posts for the next two weeks on account of the holidays. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, and Happy New Year to everyone! More to follow in January, 2018.]

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Special Christmas Advent Appeal – 4/12/2017

Africa: December, 2003.

They thought she was dead when they first found her, half-buried in the excrement at the bottom of the outhouse.  Certainly that had been the intent. Born unwanted in the night and lowered into the latrine by a desperate African mother, probably herself barely more than a child. She was a day old at most, lying silent in the filth, vermin crawling from her nose and ears.

But she was not dead. Someone fished her out, cleaned her up, and took her to The Babies Home.

Even the most seasoned hands at the orphanage were shocked by this little one’s circumstances. A staff member there remarked that the child was not alone in the tragic nature of her arrival. They noted that Christ himself had likewise been born into this world by way of a dung-heap, long ago arriving into the filth of a barn floor, care of an impoverished mother who was herself barely more than a child.

I found this statement to be cold comfort at the time. Its meaning has become more dear to me with each passing December. I think of that little girl as each Christmas approaches. I wonder what has become of her, and of the amazing things she may have done with the gift of her life.

Befitting the season, the orphanage named her Grace.

This true story is dedicated to BeadforLife. Founded in 2003, the year that Grace was born, BFL is the most effective organization I know of helping African women to permanently lift themselves and their families out of poverty – 46,000 individuals to date and counting. Please consider visiting the BeadforLife web site this holiday season and sharing this story with others. With our support, BeadforLife can help even more women like Grace and her mother to transform their lives, forever.