Merry Christmas My Friend
"I will never forget you," the old man said. A tear rolled down his leathery cheek. "I'm getting old. I can't take care of you anymore."
With his head tilted to one side, the dog watched his master. He wagged his tail back and forth, wondering, what's he up to now?
"I can't take care of myself anymore, let alone take care of you." The old man cleared his throat. He pulled a hankie from his pocket and blew his nose with a mighty blast.
"Soon, I'll move to an old folks home and, I'm sorry to say, you can't come along. They don't allow dogs there, you know."
Bent over from age, the old man limped over to the dog and stroked his head.
"Don't worry, my friend. We'll find a home. We'll find a nice new home for you." And, as an afterthought he added, "Why, with your good looks, we'll have no trouble at all. Anyone would be proud to own such a fine dog."
The dog wagged his tail really hard and strutted up and down the kitchen floor. For a moment, the familiar musky scent of the old man mingling with the smell of greasy food gave the dog the feeling of well-being. But then, a sense of dread took hold again. His tail hung between his legs and he stood very still.
"Come here." With great difficulty, the old man knelt down on the floor and lovingly pulled the dog close to him. He tied a ribbon around his neck with a huge red bow, and then he attached a note to it. The dog wondered what it said.
"It says," the old man read aloud, "Merry Christmas! For breakfast, I like bacon and eggs -- even corn flakes will do. For dinner, I prefer mashed potatoes and some meat. That's all. I eat just two meals a day. In return, I will be your most loyal friend."
The dog was confused and his eyes begged, what's going on?
The old man blew his nose into his hankie once more. Then, hanging onto a chair, he pulled himself up from the floor. Buttoning his overcoat, he reached for the dog's leash and softly said, "Come here my friend." He opened the door against a gust of cold air and stepped outside, pulling the dog behind. Dusk was beginning to fall. The dog pulled back. He didn't want to go.
"Don't make this any harder for me. I promise you, you'll be much better off with someone else."
The street was deserted. It began to snow. Leaning into the wintry air, the old man and his dog pushed on. The pavement, trees, and houses were soon covered with a blanket of snow.
After a very long time, they came upon an old Victorian house surrounded by tall trees, which were swaying and humming in the wind. The old man stopped. The dog stopped, too. Shivering in the cold, they appraised the house. Glimmering lights adorned every window, and the muffled sound of a Christmas song was carried on the wind.
"This will be a nice home for you," the old man said, choking on his words. He bent down and unleashed his dog, then opened the gate slowly, so that it wouldn't creak. "Go on now. Go up the steps and scratch on the door."
The dog looked from the house to his master and back again to the house. He did not understand.
"Go on." The old man gave the dog a shove. "I have no use for you anymore," he said in a gruff voice. "Get going now!"
The dog was hurt. He thought his master didn't love him anymore. He didn't understand that, indeed, the old man loved him very much, yet he could no longer care for him. Slowly he straggled toward the house and up the steps. He scratched with one paw at the front door.
Looking back, he saw his master step behind a tree just as someone from inside turned the front doorknob. A little boy appeared, framed in the door by the light coming from behind. When he saw the dog, he threw both arms into the air and shouted with delight, "Oh boy! Oh boy! Mum and Dad, come and see what Santa brought!"
Through teary eyes, the old man watched from behind the tree. He saw the mother read the note, and tenderly pull the dog inside. Smiling, the old man wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his cold, damp coat as he disappeared into the night whispering, "Merry Christmas, my friend."
"I will never forget you," the old man said. A tear rolled down his leathery cheek. "I'm getting old. I can't take care of you anymore."
With his head tilted to one side, the dog watched his master. He wagged his tail back and forth, wondering, what's he up to now?
"I can't take care of myself anymore, let alone take care of you." The old man cleared his throat. He pulled a hankie from his pocket and blew his nose with a mighty blast.
"Soon, I'll move to an old folks home and, I'm sorry to say, you can't come along. They don't allow dogs there, you know."
Bent over from age, the old man limped over to the dog and stroked his head.
"Don't worry, my friend. We'll find a home. We'll find a nice new home for you." And, as an afterthought he added, "Why, with your good looks, we'll have no trouble at all. Anyone would be proud to own such a fine dog."
The dog wagged his tail really hard and strutted up and down the kitchen floor. For a moment, the familiar musky scent of the old man mingling with the smell of greasy food gave the dog the feeling of well-being. But then, a sense of dread took hold again. His tail hung between his legs and he stood very still.
"Come here." With great difficulty, the old man knelt down on the floor and lovingly pulled the dog close to him. He tied a ribbon around his neck with a huge red bow, and then he attached a note to it. The dog wondered what it said.
"It says," the old man read aloud, "Merry Christmas! For breakfast, I like bacon and eggs -- even corn flakes will do. For dinner, I prefer mashed potatoes and some meat. That's all. I eat just two meals a day. In return, I will be your most loyal friend."
The dog was confused and his eyes begged, what's going on?
The old man blew his nose into his hankie once more. Then, hanging onto a chair, he pulled himself up from the floor. Buttoning his overcoat, he reached for the dog's leash and softly said, "Come here my friend." He opened the door against a gust of cold air and stepped outside, pulling the dog behind. Dusk was beginning to fall. The dog pulled back. He didn't want to go.
"Don't make this any harder for me. I promise you, you'll be much better off with someone else."
The street was deserted. It began to snow. Leaning into the wintry air, the old man and his dog pushed on. The pavement, trees, and houses were soon covered with a blanket of snow.
After a very long time, they came upon an old Victorian house surrounded by tall trees, which were swaying and humming in the wind. The old man stopped. The dog stopped, too. Shivering in the cold, they appraised the house. Glimmering lights adorned every window, and the muffled sound of a Christmas song was carried on the wind.
"This will be a nice home for you," the old man said, choking on his words. He bent down and unleashed his dog, then opened the gate slowly, so that it wouldn't creak. "Go on now. Go up the steps and scratch on the door."
The dog looked from the house to his master and back again to the house. He did not understand.
"Go on." The old man gave the dog a shove. "I have no use for you anymore," he said in a gruff voice. "Get going now!"
The dog was hurt. He thought his master didn't love him anymore. He didn't understand that, indeed, the old man loved him very much, yet he could no longer care for him. Slowly he straggled toward the house and up the steps. He scratched with one paw at the front door.
Looking back, he saw his master step behind a tree just as someone from inside turned the front doorknob. A little boy appeared, framed in the door by the light coming from behind. When he saw the dog, he threw both arms into the air and shouted with delight, "Oh boy! Oh boy! Mum and Dad, come and see what Santa brought!"
Through teary eyes, the old man watched from behind the tree. He saw the mother read the note, and tenderly pull the dog inside. Smiling, the old man wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his cold, damp coat as he disappeared into the night whispering, "Merry Christmas, my friend."
I tried not to, but failed miserably
Do not ever be embarrassed by your dad - Someday he will not be there and you will regret the moments terribly...
Sarah Ann Harris
When you think of Christmas, which food springs to mind? Perhaps turkey, mince pies or mulled wine? For me, it’s the festive fruit tart my grandmother baked every year, to be eaten on Christmas Eve. When we settled down to eat dessert on 24 December, after all the hustle and bustle of festive preparations, journeys across the country and the tensions that often come with a family Christmas, the serving of the tart was a signal to relax.
But when my grandmother died unexpectedly in 2016, we couldn’t find the recipe anywhere. We scoured her kitchen, flicking through cookbooks and notes, but there was no sign of it. Her recipe, it seemed, had died with her.
That Christmas was brutal. Our celebrations were muted. Family members would dissolve into tears whenever Little Donkey, one of her favourite carols, played. Everywhere I looked, there were holes where Grandma should have been. She should have been sitting on her usual stool as we opened our presents. She should have been perched on the kitchen stairs while dinner was prepared, her offers of help being batted away. She should have been prodding us out of the door for one of her “little ambles” to walk off the mince pies. She should have been dishing up her tart on Christmas Eve.
For most of my life, my grandmother was the fittest older person I had ever met. Her great passion in life, aside from her family, was walking. She was most herself tramping along a footpath, eating a packed lunch in a sodden field or planning a route along the South West Coast Path. Even in her 80s, she could make it up a hill faster than me. She seemed invincible.
Because of this, and as young people so often do, I thought I had more time with her. I didn’t always text her back, I didn’t call her as often as I should have and didn’t visit nearly enough. I didn’t ask her enough questions. I didn’t take enough photos of her. I didn’t preserve the sound of her voice. I didn’t ask her for her recipes.
I thought I had more time. We always think we have more time.
Always.
Christmas stockings that are REALLY full of good cheer!
Life can sometimes be as good as a log fire on Christmas day...
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
Dunblane (You have to see it to understand)
|
On a hillside near Dunblane...
Meanwhile at the Tappit Hen...
Aye, Ross. It's you we're talkin' aboot!
|
Even before Christmas has said Hello, it's saying 'Buy Buy'
Children's section
It's true, Christmas can feel like a lot of work, particularly for mothers. But when you look back on all the Christmases in your life, you'll find you've created family traditions and lasting memories. Those memories, good and bad, are really what help to keep a family together over the long haul.
|
Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus By Francis P. Church, first published in The New York Sun in 1897. [See The People’s Almanac, pp. 1358–9.] We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Sun: Dear Editor-- I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus? Virginia O’Hanlon Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished. Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world. You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding. No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - About the Exchange Francis P. Church’s editorial, “Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus” was an immediate sensation, and went on to became one of the most famous editorials ever written. It first appeared in the The New York Sun in 1897, almost a hundred years ago, and was reprinted annually until 1949 when the paper went out of business. Thirty-six years after her letter was printed, Virginia O’Hanlon recalled the events that prompted her letter: “Quite naturally I believed in Santa Claus, for he had never disappointed me. But when less fortunate little boys and girls said there wasn’t any Santa Claus, I was filled with doubts. I asked my father, and he was a little evasive on the subject. “It was a habit in our family that whenever any doubts came up as to how to pronounce a word or some question of historical fact was in doubt, we wrote to the Question and Answer column in The Sun. Father would always say, ‘If you see it in the The Sun, it’s so,’ and that settled the matter. “ ‘Well, I’m just going to write The Sun and find out the real truth,’ I said to father. “He said, ‘Go ahead, Virginia. I’m sure The Sun will give you the right answer, as it always does.’ ” And so Virginia sat down and wrote her parents’ favorite newspaper. Her letter found its way into the hands of a veteran editor, Francis P. Church. Son of a Baptist minister, Church had covered the Civil War for The New York Times and had worked on the The New York Sun for 20 years, more recently as an anonymous editorial writer. Church, a sardonic man, had for his personal motto, “Endeavour to clear your mind of cant.” When controversial subjects had to be tackled on the editorial page, especially those dealing with theology, the assignments were usually given to Church. Now, he had in his hands a little girl’s letter on a most controversial matter, and he was burdened with the responsibility of answering it. “Is there a Santa Claus?” the childish scrawl in the letter asked. At once, Church knew that there was no avoiding the question. He must answer, and he must answer truthfully. And so he turned to his desk, and he began his reply which was to become one of the most memorable editorials in newspaper history. Church married shortly after the editorial appeared. He died in April, 1906, leaving no children. Virginia O’Hanlon went on to graduate from Hunter College with a Bachelor of Arts degree at age 21. The following year she received her Master’s from Columbia, and in 1912 she began teaching in the New York City school system, later becoming a principal. After 47 years, she retired as an educator. Throughout her life she received a steady stream of mail about her Santa Claus letter, and to each reply she attached an attractive printed copy of the Church editorial. Virginia O’Hanlon Douglas died on May 13, 1971, at the age of 81, in a nursing home in Valatie, N.Y. |
|
Not all Christmases are merry... Are they?
Remember those that may be on their own...
For those a little older...
|
|
Even Santa can have problems!
Santa was very upset. It was Christmas Eve and NOTHING was going right!
Mrs. Claus had burned all the cakes. The elves were complaining about not getting paid for the overtime they had while making the toys. The reindeer had been drinking all afternoon and were dead drunk. To make matters worse, they had taken the sleigh out for a spin earlier in the day and had crashed it into a tree.
Santa was furious. "I can't believe it! I've got to deliver millions of presents all over the world in just a few hours and all of my reindeer are drunk, the elves are on strike and I don't even have a Christmas tree!"
He continued, "And I sent that stupid Little Angel out hours ago to find a tree and he isn't even back yet! What am I going to do?"
Just then, the Little Angel opened the front door and stepped in from the snowy night, dragging a Christmas tree behind him. He said, "Where do you want me to stick the tree?"
And that, my friends, is why you will always find an Angel sitting atop the Christmas tree!
|
|
|
|
|
|
Wouldn't be Christmas without a little bit of politics...
Glasgow's ghosts of Christmas past...
Ha! - Christmas may your's merry be.
Like snowflakes, my Christmas memories gather and dance
each beautiful, unique and too soon gone.
each beautiful, unique and too soon gone.
A short story...
I had been shopping for almost an hour by the time I got to the checkout. My two youngest sons were with me, the four-year-old refusing to hold onto the trolley, the two-year-old trying to climb out and jump down to play with his brother. Both got more restless and noisier as I tried to keep them under control, so I was looking for the fastest checkout possible. I had two choices. In the first queue were three customers, and they all had just a few purchases. In the second queue was only one man, a young father with his own crying baby, but his trolley was overflowing with groceries.
I quickly looked over the three-person queue again. The woman in the front was very elderly, white haired and thin, and her hands were shaking as she tried unsuccessfully to open her handbag. In the other queue, the young father was throwing his food onto the conveyor belt with superhuman speed. I got in behind him.
It was the right choice. I was able to start unloading my shopping before the elderly woman was even finished paying. My four-year-old was pulling sweets from the shelf, and my little one was trying to help by throwing cans of soup at me. I felt I couldn’t get out of the supermarket fast enough.
And then, over the sound of the store’s Christmas music, I heard the checkout assistant in the other line talking loudly, too loudly. I glanced over as my hands kept working.
“No, I’m sorry,” she was almost shouting at the old woman, who didn’t seem to understand. “That card won’t work. You are over your limit. Do you have another way to pay?” The tiny old woman blinked at the assistant with a confused expression. Not only were her hands shaking now, but her shoulders too. The teenage assistant rolled her eyes and sighed.
As I caught a soup can just before it hit my face, I thought to myself: “Boy, did I choose the right queue! Those three are going to be there forever.” I was feeling pretty smug as my assistant began scanning my food.
But the smiling woman directly in line behind the elderly lady had a different reaction. Quietly, with no fanfare, she moved to the older woman’s side and ran her own credit card through the reader.
“Merry Christmas,” she said softly, still smiling.
And then everyone was quiet. Even my rowdy children paused, feeling the change in the atmosphere.
It took a minute for the older woman to understand what had happened. The checkout assistant, her face thoughtful, hesitated with the receipt in her hand, not sure whom to give it to. The smiling woman took it and tucked it into the elderly woman’s bag.
“I can’t accept …” the older woman began to protest, with tears forming in her eyes.
The smiling woman interrupted her. “I can afford to do it. - What I can’t afford is not to do it.”
“Let me help you out,” the suddenly respectful assistant insisted, taking the basket and also taking the old woman’s arm, the way she might have helped her own grandmother.
I saw the assistant in my checkout pause before she pressed the total key to wipe the corner of her eye.
Paying for my shopping and gathering my children, I made it out of the store before the smiling woman. I had made the right choice of queues, it seemed.
But as I walked out into the bright December sunshine, I was not thinking about my luck but about what I could not afford.
I could not afford my current, self-absorbed frame of mind.
I could not afford to have my children learn lessons of compassion only from strangers.
I could not afford to be so distant from the spirit of Christmas at any time of the year—especially during this season of giving.
I could not afford to let another stranger, another brother or sister, cross my path in need of help without doing something about it.
And that is why I hope never to forget the Christmas hero in the supermarket. The next time I have a chance to be that kind of a hero, I can’t afford to miss it.
A short story….
The Miracle by Author Unknown
The violent grinding of brakes suddenly applied, and the harsh squeal of skidding wheels gradually died away as the big car came to a stop. Eddie quickly picked himself up from the dusty pavement where he had been thrown, and looked around wildly.
Agnes! Where was his little sister he had been holding by the hand when they had started to cross the street? The next moment he saw her under the big car that had run them down, her eyes closed, a dark stain slowly spreading on her white face.
With one bound the boy was under the car, trying to lift the child.
"You'd better not try, son," said a man gently. "Someone has gone to telephone for an ambulance."
"She's not...dead, is she, Mister?" Eddie begged in a husky voice.
The man stooped and felt the limp little pulse. "No, my boy," he said slowly.
A policeman came up, dispersed the collecting crowd, and carried the unconscious girl into a nearby shop. Eddie's folded jacket made a pillow for her head until the ambulance arrived. He was permitted to ride in the conveyance with her to the hospital. Something about the sturdy, shabbily dressed boy, who could not be more than ten years old, and his devotion to his little sister, strangely touched the hearts of the hardened hospital apprentices.
"We must operate at once," said the surgeon after a brief preliminary examination. "She has been injured internally, and has lost a great deal of blood." He turned to Eddie who, inarticulate with grief, stood dumbly by. "Where do you live?"
Eddie told him that their father was dead, and that his mother did day work--he did not know where.
"We can't wait to find her," said the surgeon, "Because by that time it might be too late."
Eddie waited in the sitting-room while the surgeons worked over Agnes. After what seemed an eternity a nurse sought him out.
"Eddie," she said kindly, "Your sister is very bad, and the doctor wants to make a transfusion. Do you know what that is?" Eddie shook his head. "She has lost so much blood she cannot live unless someone gives her his. Will you do it for her?"
Eddie's wan face grew paler, and he gripped the knobs of the chair so hard that his knuckles became white. For a moment he hesitated; then gulping back his tears, he nodded his head and stood up.
"That's a good lad," said the nurse.
She patted his head, and led the way to the elevator which whisked them to the operating room-- a very clean but evil-smelling room, with pale green walls and innumerable shiny instruments in glass cases. No one spoke to Eddie except the nurse who directed him in a low voice how to prepare for the ordeal. The boy bit his quivering lip and silently obeyed.
"Are you ready?" asked a man swathed in white from head to foot, turning from the table over which he had been bending. For the first time Eddie noticed who it was lying there so still. Little Agnes! And he was going to make her well.
He stepped forward quickly.
Two hours later the surgeon looked up with a smile into the faces of the young interns and nurses who were engrossed in watching the great man's work.
"Fine," he said, "I think she'll pull through."
After the transfusion Eddie had been told to lie quietly on a cot in the corner of the room. In the excitement of the delicate operation he had been entirely forgotten.
"It was wonderful, Doctor!" exclaimed one of the young interns. "A miracle!" Nothing, he felt in his enthusiastic recognition of the marvels of surgery, could be greater than the miracles of science.
"I am well satisfied," said the surgeon with conscious pride.
There was a tug at the sleeve, but he did not notice. In a little while there was another tug--this time more peremptory--and the great surgeon glanced down to see a ragged, pale faced boy looking steadily up into his face.
"Say, Doctor," said a husky voice, "When do I die?"
The interns laughed and the great surgeon smiled. "Why, what do you mean, my boy?" he asked kindly.
"I thought...when they took a guy's blood...he died," muttered Eddie.
The smiles faded from the lips of doctors and nurses, and the young intern who had thought there was nothing greater than the miracle of science, caught his breath suddenly.
GREATER LOVE HATH NO MAN THAN THIS, THAT HE LAY DOWN HIS LIFE!
This ragged lad had climbed to the very height of nobility and sacrifice, and showed them a glimpse of the greatest miracle of all--a selfless LOVE! But Eddie must never know this. The lesson was too poignantly beautiful to be wasted. The great surgeon motioned the others for silence. "I think after all you will get well, Eddie," he said gruffly. "You and little Agnes."
Yeah, it did that to me as well!
Sometimes it really is, a wonderful life...
If you enjoyed this Christmas page, please click on any of the buttons below to tell your friends.
page and website designed and maintained by Bill Cowan, Dunblane. [email protected]
Merry Christmas everyone.
|
|