Good morning Netizens…
During my prolonged absence I have endured a double heart bypass surgery, three heart shutdowns, a four month stay at a nursing/long term care facility and have nearly lost all control of my right hand fingers during and since my heart shutdown. The latter may be why you haven't seen my name splashed all over the walls of the Spokesman Blogs like so much mustard on a sesame seed bun. I cannot walk—in fact I am confined to a wheelchair and walker to get around. But I do on occasion get around.
In the beginning of the renewal of Community Comment I am going to examine the visions I see from this perspective and share my thoughts about love, laughter and the changes my aging fatbody may throw my way. I'm glad to be back.
Happy New Year!
First day of the year!!! A clean slate. An actual “Do-Over”. A day when my resolutions will be 100% successful!
This year, though, I simplified my resolution(s) to simply count my blessings all day long. Also, to be joyful; to be kind; to have a spirit that dances; and to be thankful for every good and bad thing that happens to me.
I want to have an Attitude of Gratitude, and be thankful for all the things I love in my life. I also will be thankful for all the bad things. Little trite phrases come to mind, when I say that. Like, “Behind every cloud there is a silver lining.” “When you get lemons, make lemonade.” If I get a red light when I am desperately in a hurry, I want to take that moment to be thankful for the red light, to slow down and “smell the roses.”
I have many blessings! At first, when I was starting this about two weeks ago, I thought - Hoo Boy, I only have about five blessings to count. But then I got started being thankful for each blessing and more popped into my head. I listed my Mechanic Man, my sons, my daughter-in-law, my grandtwins :) and my cats. Oh, then being thankful for the really beautiful sunsets we have had lately (and thankful I caught a fantastic shot with my cell phone) (being thankful for my cell phone). Then there's all my friends both in person and on Facebook and The Spokesman Review's Huckleberries Online and Community Comment. Babies. The scent of Lilacs. The crunch of my feet on icy grass. The taste of cold, cold water from the tap. And it goes.
I encourage you to count your blessings. If you are having worries or feel despondent (as the Holidays tend to make people crazy), stop your thought and start counting your blessings. You'll find that pretty soon you are taking what was a problem or worry and turning it into a blessing to be thankful for. There's no room for negative thoughts if you are spending all your time thinking positive thoughts.
I want you to feel joy welling up and a dance in your feet as you go into the New Year.
[One more story from Dave, while he is recuperating and recovering and healing ~ Jeanie]
Good evening, Netizens and friends…
As a writer and journalist, I strive each year to create vivid characters
that reach out to your imagination, to indwell in your consciousness and
allow you to enjoy all the rich, full range of the emotions. Each year, as
has been my habit for over a decade online, I have sent an electronic
Christmas card to everyone on my personal writer's mailing list, and this
year is no exception, although this year it is belated somewhat.
No, this won't be an exercise in plagiarism, by sending each of you graphics
or highly ornate Christmas cards by e-mail, for I know of lots and lots of
people who do that as witnessed by how my e-mail bogs down each and every
year about this time, no matter how robust I build my servers. No, this is a
story, one of the oldest stories I know by heart, and each year I rejoice in
retelling it, over and over again.
In 1983, which is the first year I began this tradition, my mailing list had
only 28 names in it (yes, I have a writer's archive that reaches back that
far) but when I sent out my first Christmas Card, we didn't have the World
Wide Web quite working yet in Spokane, so it was a text file. By 1990 the
numbers of people receiving this same text file had grown to over 60, and
now on the cusp of the new Millennium, it numbers around 500 people.
However, in 1992, much to my surprise, I found myself reduced to tears by
the telling of this annual story, because people, most of whom I have never
or will possibly will never meet in my life sent copies of the story they
had received either from me or others, to THEIR friends, adding little bits
of sentiment of their own, perhaps items about their families, afterward.
Last year, over 3200 such messages followed my original posting. As one
system administrator in Bayview, New York observed:
“…I felt compelled to respond to this, as it came to me through half
a dozen other people, and although it is one of those dreaded “chain
letters” that one encounters so often on the internet these days, I agree
with you— it is well worth repeating and passing on. Merry Christmas to you
and your loved ones. “
It is with humility and best wishes in my heart, I am proud to present the
greatest Christmas story of all time, and I give it to each of you as our
personal gift, in the hopes that you will read the story, take it into your
heart, cherish it and yes, please, pass it onto someone you love.
THE CHRISTMAS STORY
As told by a man named Luke
And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar
Augustus, that all the world should be taxed. (And this taxing was first
made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)
And all went to be taxed, everyone unto his own city. And Joseph also went
up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of
David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage
To be taxed with Mary his expoused wife, being great with child. And so it
was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should
be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in
swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for
them in the inn.
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping
watch over their flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon
them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tiding
of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in
the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you: You shall find the babe wrapped in
swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel
a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in
the highest and on earth peace, good will toward men.
And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the
shepherds said on to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see
this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.
And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in
the manger. And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying
which was told them concerning this child.
Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the only true star of Christmas, in a story
that has withstood the test of time for us all, Emmanuel, which translates
from the Aramaic to mean, Christ with us.
May all the blessings of this most joyous time of year be with you and those
you love most dearly. May you be overwhelmed with the depth of love that the
Birth of the Christ Child represents to all our lives, and may it give you
Peace and Goodwill to all men.
Dave Laird (email@example.com)
…and a cast of 100's of The Community Comment Blog…
[Another installment of one of Dave's Christmas stories. (He is recuperating very well, prayers for continued healing and recovery are very much appreciated.) ~ Jeanie]
Good morning, Netizens…
Like other Christmas stories I have written over the years, this is an excerpt from what I call a living series I call Tales of the City and, in this case, the story is true. Although it hails from a different time, a different place in my life, and perhaps I have taken some liberties with insouciant Metaphysical Philosophy, it is a story of the Anticipation of Christmas. The Anticipation of Christmas can change people for the better, as you will quickly see.
Old Sarah stirred restlessly, laying in the pile of newspapers behind the shopping mall in Century City. Of all the places that she had found to stay, this was by far one of the best. The warm air being pumped out of the mall by huge fans beneath the street kept her warm on even the chilliest of southern California nights.
Normally nobody bothered her here either, as she was always very careful to arrive long after the crowds of shoppers had gone home, and the few security guards still on duty were inside the mall somewhere guzzling styrafoam cups of hot coffee and minding their own business.
Except, now that it was nearly Christmas, she had to adjust her schedule to compensate for the late shoppers that jammed the mall until closing time. Tonight, for example, she had not been able to tiptoe into her customary place until nearly midnight, and still she couldn't sleep.
Images of her kids, now fully grown and on their own, kept haunting her. It had been nearly five years since her divorce from Ben and she hadn't heard much from either of them since. Of course that was a two-way street, as she would be mortified for either of them to see her now. Ben didn't help much by saying some of the nasty things he'd said, either.
“That no-good rotten drunken bastard”, she muttered angrily, turning over, making certain to clutch her shopping bag close to her. “Wish his memory'd leave me alone so's I can sleep.”
She had lost her home nearly a year before, about the same time she lost her job at Carlyle's machine shop outside of Bakersfield, and when unemployment finally ran out, she had found herself, at age 54, too old to get another job and too young to retire. Shortly thereafter, she joined the ranks of the homeless on the streets of Glittertown.
It hadn't been as bad as she had first imagined. Once you learned the ropes, a body could survive with some degree of comfort living on the streets, and it was never boring. Prior to joining the homeless, Old Sarah had never really had the time or energy to just watch people. Why, they were more fascinating than anything she had ever seen. The countless types of people, the voices and the looks on their faces when they thought no one was watching them…why it almost made living on the streets worthwhile.
Now Christmas, there was a matter of a different color.
“People start being extra polite to one another at Christmas, somewhat like peaked frilly white frosting on a cake that tastes bad to begin with.” she had observed earlier in the day to Charlie, one of her few friends. “They simply aren't the same over Christmas, until all the goodness they are supposedly feeling wears off, and then they go back to being their same nasty old selves. What's even worse is the kids these days never learn what Christmas is really about…”
Charlie had thought that was particularly funny, and laughed until he started coughing. Charlie was dying of emphysema, and living off his pension in an old hotel. He had offered, time and again, to let her stay at his room, but she refused, knowing that the room barely had enough space for Charlie and his collection of Zane Grey novels, let alone her.
The morning damp had moved in, and gray was already whispering its way across the eastern sky when Sarah stirred and moved out of her spot, long before the mall employees or early shoppers began arriving.
She had just stopped off at one of her usual morning stops, a MacDonalds that stayed open all night, to buy a cup of coffee and try and filch a copy of the early morning paper.
Frustrated at not finding a paper inside the restaurant, she had gone back outside, under the glare of the Golden Arches, to check a few of the trash containers next to the bus stop for a paper to read, when she saw the guitar laying on top of a pile of greasy rubble in the dumpster behind the restaurant.
Back in the 60's she had played the guitar quite well, and used to sing in the coffeehouses of that time. That had been one of the things that Ben did that ended their marriage, once and for all, was smash up her ivory-inlaid Gibson guitar during one of his drunken rages.
Surreptitiously looking around to see if anyone was watching, she lifted the guitar carefully from amid the mix of food and paper containers in the dumpster and set it carefully aside, next to her coffee. On a whim, she dug a little deeper into the rubble and found a battered, but serviceable hardshell case for the guitar, and before she finally quit digging in the filthy dumpster, had found several books of Christmas music to boot.
“Looks like somebody else is having a tough Christmas,” she muttered to herself, carefully putting the guitar back inside the case where it belonged.
She wandered aimlessly for a few moments, her newly-acquired booty tucked under her arm, until she found the right spot, next to an old, abandoned railway spur, where no one would notice her. Sitting down, she experimentally plucked a few strings, then strummed a few notes. Yes, she could still remember quite a few chords.
An hour or so later, as the sun began climbing in the east, she carefully put the guitar inside the case, and finishing off the last of her coffee, headed purposefully toward where she customarily met Charlie each day. Charlie, as usual, was already there, sitting on the park bench, basking as the early morning sun began warming the little park where they had met, on a daily basis, more or less for the last five months.
“What's you got there, Sarah?” Charlie peered at her over the tops of his bifocals, as she strode up with the guitar case in view.
“I found this guitar in a dumpster behind the MacDonalds. It even has a case and some Christmas music, 'n there's nothing wrong with it. It ain't busted or anything. What's even better, I think I remember how to play it.”
“Well I'll be damned.” Charlie took out his pipe and a rumpled sack of pipe tobacco and began stoking up his pipe. “Let me hear you play a few tunes.”
Sarah shyly opened up the guitar case, next to her on the park bench, and took the guitar out. Like most of her fractured dreams, old memories unfolded in Sarah's mind, as she struggled to tune the guitar. She had been there once, singing in front of uplifted faces in the coffeehouses. She had once been a folk singer, back in the 60's, although in those days her Gibson and her voice were both much better.
This was a good guitar, as guitars go, although not a Gibson, still it had a straight neck, and the strings were not too bad.
The morning waned, and as they returned from their usual noontime trip to the taco vendor, sitting in the park, she played what she had hoped to be her last song for her fingers and her voice were both getting sore. Charlie, who had sat there the whole time, with a beautific smile on his face, tapping his feet to the beat, sighed deeply when she became adamant about quitting.
“Could you sing me a song, please?”
A black child, holding firmly onto the hand of a young woman behind the park bench, was struggling against the woman's insistent efforts to leave this area of the park. He asked the question again, in that same soft voice.
Sarah turned to look at him, and realized that he was blind, for he had a white cane in one hand opposite his attendant. And behind the bushes she could see a small group of children, all with white canes and escorts, getting off of a delapidated old school bus at the curb.
“Why…sure,” she stammered. “I'm really not a very good singer, though.”
“We used to have a teacher that sang to us, but he died, and now we don't have anyone to sing Christmas songs to us anymore.”
The young boy pulled his attendant, somewhat against her will, around to the front of the park bench, whereupon he prompted sat down on the grass, only to be joined by the rest of the children from the School for the Blind.
“Please…” he whispered softly. “Please sing some Christmas music for us.”
Sarah picked up the guitar once more, inwardly chiding herself for the tremor in her hands, while Charlie smiled that same enigmatic smile of his, and leaned back, puffing silently on his pipe.
She sang Santa Claus is Coming to Town, and then when one of the kids asked to hear it, Jingle Bells. Of course, there was a request for Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and then Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. She played nearly every song in the faded songbook, and many of them twice, even three times.
When she finally stopped to catch her breath, and to rest her fingers, she realized, with a sense of shock, that she had lost track of how long she had been playing music for these kids. The sun was going down, yet the children were sitting silently in a circle around the park bench, their sightless eyes and faces upturned, as if to capture every nuance, every phrase and tone of each song, patiently waiting for more.
Then, as suddenly as they had arrived, someone from the school, a supervisor probably, reappeared with the wheezing schoolbus, to retrieve all the children. One by one, each of them solemnly reached out to touch her face, and thank her for singing to them. When the last child had thanked her by touching her face, she and Charlie were once again alone, together.
As they trudged back the way they had came, and as the night dressed itself in its finery ready to take to the streets, in a secret corner of the park, an elderly old man dressed in a moth-eaten red suit and faded red pants, a very special old magician with a white beard known to children both sighted and unsighted throughout the world, peered over the tops of the bushes as Sarah and Charlie passed on their way into the twilight. He had delivered an early Christmas present—one battered guitar and its case for Sarah, former bag lady and musician extraordinaire, who would find it, on her way back to the meaning of Christmas.
The city, contrary to what some people think, breathes and has life. Although we hear so much about the bad things in the city, occasionally, and with no help nor assistance from us, goodness just naturally oozes forth from its concrete and steel barriers and just embraces us. The City lives.
Postscript: Although the real-life embodiment of Charlie passed on in 2000, Sarah, despite her advancing years, has gone on to a well-deserved retirement and currently lives in a senior center in Santa Monica, California. However, I have it upon good report that each Christmas she still makes the rounds to assisted-living facilities, foster care facilities and other non-profit agencies where she plays Christmas music.
[Another entry of Dave Laird's Christmas stories, this one entitled “The Christmas Present.” Dave is improving daily, but very slowly. He is in his second week at North Idaho Advanced Care Hospital in Post Falls. Visitors are welcome. Please send a card to Dave Laird, c/o North Idaho Advanced Care Hospital, 600 N. Cecil, Room 421, Post Falls, Idaho 83854. Keep those prayers going on.]
Good evening, Netizens…
The Christmas Present
Copyright December 2000
by Dave Laird
The weatherbeaten old highway had seen better days, lots of patch jobs
hastily done by county employees who didn't care how well it held up. Where
it crested the steep grade, the roadway generously overlooked part of the
sloping valley to one side, with a tiny creek now frozen hard as a rock in
the throes of winter. Down the road a quarter of a mile, there were a set of
huge scars where, one spring several decades ago, the creek had neatly
bisected the roadway in a flood. The patch job bore mute testimony to the
violence of the washout, still to this day.
In the half-hearted sunshine of a cold winter morning, a rattling
clattertrap of a vehicle, a faded red Toyota Landcruiser with dented fenders
and a spare tire on the back door that jiggled at every bump, began wheezing
its way up the hill, desperately attempting to dodge the potholes, and as it
reached the scars on either side of the roadway, it momentarily slowed.
Behind the wheel, a woman with hair gone to white, slowed down, carefully
downshifting, easing her way over the broken pavement. Although she wasn't
that remarkable, really, she was the kind of woman that if you met her in
the grocery store, you would remember her brilliant blue eyes and white
hair, all soft and downy, and perhaps the gentle lines of humor that tickled
at the corners of her eyes. She wore a brown 60's-style Chairman Mao work
cap, shoved back on her forehead, and was dressed in a faded pair of bib
overalls with a blue nylon down-filled jacket, open at the throat. There
were a brace of pencils jutting this way and that out of the front pockets
of her overalls, which lent her a rather businesslike air, much like a
farmer on his way to town.
It was not unusual that the road was devoid of any other traffic at this
hour of the morning. Those few houses scattered throughout the hills on
either side seemed vacant, or so it appeared, driving down the road. Having
been this way a number of times, she knew better. Since this was part of the
Spokane Tribal lands, there were Indian families for the most part, living
back in the trees, eking out their humble living hidden in nearly invisible
cul de sacs that more resembled dirt tracks than driveways.
Down the road a few miles from the summit, where the valley began spreading
out a mile or more on the right side of the highway, there was a wide spot
in the road, and easing the Landcruiser off the side of the road, she
stopped, turned off the engine, listening to the sound of silence,
interspersed with the cooling sounds of the exhaust. A pair of brilliant red
cardinals landed on the barbed wire fence to her right, and saluted her with
a blast of song before they, too, went along their way, leaving her and
As she opened the driver's door, it complained with an angry squeal of rusty
'I must do something about that hinge', she thought to herself, and she went
around to the back of the Landcruiser and opened the rear compartment.
Sitting on the rear deck, she began unlacing her brown leather shoes, and
putting on a pair of well-worn hiking boots in their place, meticulously
making certain to tie double knots.
Inside the open maw of the rear compartment, she fetched a tiny Coleman
stove, a large canteen and a slightly-dented teapot, which she carefully set
on the rear deck, and fumbling in her jacket, she came up with a book of
matches. She lit the stove, poured water into the pan and setting it atop
the stove, she then squatted on her heels beside the road, gazing at the
snow-covered mountains off in the distance. A meadow lark gave voice,
somewhere off in the wheat stubble, but otherwise, there was no sound to
break her reverie until the tea pot began whistling.
She made two cups of tea in tiny porcelain tea cups with matching blue
flowers around the sides; she used a pair of tiny tea strainers to brew the
tea. She carefully set both cups in matching saucers on the rear deck, then
turned off the Coleman stove, and taking one of the cups with her, once more
resumed her vigil squatting alongside the Landcruiser, leaving the one cup
sitting in its saucer beside the stove.
It was cold there in the shadow of the mountain on the other side of the
road from the valley. She quietly sipped her tea, and the steam from the tea
in the icy cold air quickly built a soft-edged cloud around her head.
The land was hard and cold, with tiny bits of snow and ice hiding in the
shadows where the sun would not reach until spring. It was, as she had once
read, resolutely sleeping. If you were to gaze across the wheat stubble
toward the mountains, you would never know it was the day before Christmas.
Nothing moved, not a vehicle in sight and only a few birds chattering in a
madcap way from atop a nearby power pole broke the serene silence.
“Time to go', a voice inside her head spoke, and quickly gulping down the
last of her tea, she reached inside the Landcruiser and removed a holly
wreath from inside, and carefully draping it over her left shoulder, hanging
it beneath her right arm, she picked up the single remaining cup of tea, and
closed the back door.
She'd been this way for fifteen years, so her feet, unbidden, knew the
nearly invisible path that led between the rocks on the side of the road
opposite the valley. She moved with care, trying to avoid spilling any of
the tea, as she wove her way up into the rocks overlooking the road.
Finally, just as she was about winded, she reached the peak of the hill,
overlooking not only her Landcruiser parked below, but the entire valley,
open at her feet.
A pair of towering fir trees stood back among the rocks, and as she neared
them, she could see an empty china cup and saucer were still sitting there
where she had left them the previous year, untouched and unmoved. She
carefully set the cup of tea sitting on its saucer beside the empty cup, and
taking the wreath from around her shoulder, she hung it on one of the giant
fir's spreading branches. There was no sign of the previous wreath, but
nature has its ways.
Then, picking up the empty cup and saucer, she softly said, “I just came to
wish you a Merry Christmas, honey. It's been fifteen years since I last saw
you, but I'll never forget our Christmases together. I brought you a cup of
your favorite tea, and a wreath, just like always. Oh, how I wish you could
be here, with me, again. I miss you so.”
She stood, unjudged by any, save a curious blue jay who carefully examined
her from the relative safety of a nearby branch, curiously observing the
tears silently streaming down her face and onto her jacket.
Then, as soft was the feathery white hair which shone in the morning's
light, she walked from that place, her hands brushing the hot tears from her
cheeks, as she strode back down the way she had come.
Over fifteen years earlier, at her late husband's request, she had buried
him there, between the pair of fir trees, where he could gaze at the valley
below. Each year, in good weather and bad, she had brought him her presents,
and thus she had become a part of Christmas itself.
[From co-blogmeister Jeanie: While Dave is recovering from a heart attack and bypass surgery and several other ailments, I am posting some of his Christmas Stories for your enjoyment. The following is from December 18, 2012.]
The China Doll
Written by Dave Laird
November 22, 2001
Copyright Dave Laird
None of the stuffed animals reclining against the overstuffed sofa in the front window of the Swap and Shop on West First Avenue actually saw the blue china doll arrive, since she was obviously inside a set of pasteboard boxes, although they all could clearly see the boxes being hauled into the front door of the old pawn shop on a dolly on Monday morning. It had been a few days since anything interesting had happened in the old store. They had long since grown tired of gazing out onto the sidewalk, where hobos, winos and the homeless gathered together to talk, gamble or share bottles of cheap wine, so they welcomed just about any changes that might come about.
Peter Panda, because of his great height, could clearly see that the boxes were overflowing with used clothing, tattered school books with their covers all bent and mangled and the various other bits and pieces that were hanging down the side. Old Burt, towing the dolly like a locomotive behind him, set down the dolly on the creaky wooden floor by the cash register. Until his arrival, his stepson Billy had been reading a weathered comic book from a pile of Superman comics he kept stashed by the cash register for just such occasions.
“What's you got?” Billy asked his stepfather brightly, as if he really cared a great deal about it. “Looks like you've got yourself some kids' stuff.”
Old Burt chewed on his lip pensively a moment, as if debating whether to chew him out for sitting around reading comic books when he should be sweeping the sidewalk out in front or perhaps, god bless him, dusting off the shelves. He sighed, and leaning on the dolly, said, “No, I just got some stuff from a landlord over on Grace. He said the tenants were busted by the cops for meth last week, and since they were six months behind in their rent, he finally evicted them this morning. Three weeks before Christmas, and the whole lot of 'em are in jail, 'cepting for their daughter, who's been placed in a foster home somewhere. A sad story, I tell ya.”
Wide-eyed, but being very careful not to make any noise, the twin stuffed otters peered at one another from their vantage point in the front window, their black eyes blinking, at hearing this bit of news. They were both very shy and unworldly, having recently arrived in the store's front window after the freight truck in which they were riding had crashed outside of town some months back.
“We Little Beasts don't use meth,” Agatha the chimpanzee hissed, giving a reproving look in their direction. “Only very bad humans do that.”
“What's Christmas?” Oliver, the grey overstuffed cat asked hesitantly, sitting behind them on one of the semi-vacant bookshelves. Oliver, like most of his species, was exceedingly curious about everything and always prided himself on knowing the latest events. “Is that a thing or just a place?”
“SSSHHHHHH!” Peter Panda admonished them all, waving one paw in the air frantically. “If you persist in making so much noise, I cannot hear what is being said. Even worse, the humans might get suspicious.”
Once more, all the animals gathered in the front window fell back into that peculiar posture of relaxation they all maintain when there isn't anything really important to watch, and within minutes, half of them had fallen back to sleep.
It was a short time later that the otters, Hissie and Missie, in adjusting themselves into a more comfortable position, suddenly noticed the Blue China Doll sitting back in one corner of the storefront window. They were both very sure she had not been sitting there before, her expression blank, her eyes gazing through the dusty window to the street outside.
“Hello?” Hissie asked in a barely audible whisper. “I say, how long have you been sitting there?”
“Not long,” the doll barely answered. Her pretty blue satin dress was soiled in places, her hair badly mussed up, as if she had just arose from bed, with her face smudged with sleep. “I just arrived a short time ago.” Her voice drifted off, as if it took a great deal of energy even to speak. “Where am I?”
Peter Panda, who awoke the instant he heard them whispering, leaned toward the twin otters and looking directly at the doll, stated, “Why, you are in the front window of a place called The Swap and Shop, on a street called West First Street, though we know not where that might be. The two otters to your right are Hissie and Missie, the yellow tomcat behind you on the bookshelf is Oliver and the Chimpanzee to your left is Agatha. I am called Peter Panda. If I might ask, what is your name?”
“I… I'm called Cass,” the doll whispered, brushing fitfully at the dirt on her dress.
“If you will pardon my manners,” Peter whispered knowingly, “you look like you could use a bit of rest. Generally speaking, we try to keep our conversations down during the daytime when the owner and his stepson are around, to avoid suspicion. We will have lots of time later on to talk more about things, so close your eyes and try to sleep.”
The day wove fitfully through its paces like a drunken sailor marches down the street, and shortly after Old Burt turned off the blinking neon sign over the front door, and he and Billy left the store for the night, only then did the stuffed animals in the window begin to stir themselves, and only after each of them had stretched thoroughly, did anyone speak.
“How did you come to be here?” Oliver the cat purred, stretching himself to full length behind the blue china doll atop his perch in the bookcase. “Since none of us saw you being carried in, one must presume that you came in among those boxes of things Old Burt carried in this morning.”
“Yes, tell us your story!” Missie the otter exclaimed in a loud voice. “All of us came from someplace, once upon a time. Tell us about where you come from.”
The blue china doll hesitantly stood on her feet, and attempting to smooth out the wrinkles in her dress, said in a soft undertone, “I came from a horrid place, actually, although my mistress was as gentle and loving a creature as any of the Little People I've ever known. There were terrible things taking place, at all hours of the day and night. My mistress cried a lot, because no one fed her. Once or twice strange men and women came for her, took her away and made her cry some more. I wanted so to make her smile again, but try as I might, I could not. Yesterday more strangers came for her, and took her away for good, but not before the men in blue uniforms had taken away all the rest of her humans.”
“Well, since you had a mistress,” Hissie the Otter said, her oval brown eyes gazing at the doll, “Why is it she didn't come back for you? Peter Panda had a mistress once, for most of his life as a Little Person.
Peter's mistress did something he calls passing away, and she was no more. If your mistress is still in our world, why hasn't she come to claim you?”
Peter Panda abruptly stood up at this point, and smiled gently upon hearing this. “From what I have learned about human-kind, when they pass away, they cease to exist. They die. They cross over. In Cass's case, I believe someone took her mistress away before she had a chance to take Cass with her. Such horrible things should not be spoken of so near to Christmas, however. This is supposed to be a time of joy and great happiness.”
“As I recall, you were about to tell us about Christmas,” Oliver the Cat sighed, laying back down, his large green eyes blinking in the dim light shining through the store window. “I am very confused. Is Christmas a place in the heart or a thing?
“It depends,” Peter said evenly. “To those who have had a mistress or master, it is always a place in the heart. To everyone else it is a thing, a time of the seasons when humans get and give gifts to one another and perform acts of kindness like Little People do for one another every day.”
“Do they only do these things at Christmas? That's ABSURD!” wailed Oliver.
“I'm confused!” both Hissie and Missie exclaimed in unison.
Cass, smiling a bit for the first time since she had joined the group of stuffed animals in the window, held up one hand, quieting everyone down.
“To my mistress and others of her own human size, Christmas is a time of love, of tenderness and great mysteries. There are all those pretty gifts to buy for other humans, and sweetbreads and rich fudge to make for everyone. There is crinkly wrapping paper around gifts beneath the Christmas Tree, and sleigh bells ringing in the snow. It is one of the most joyous times, and they do this every year.”
“That sounds delightfully familiar,” Peter Panda said, nodding his leonine head. “I remember something quite like that back when I was with my mistress a long, long time ago.”
He paused, scratching his large pink nose for a moment, then in a puzzled tone of voice asked, “Just a few minutes ago, however, you whispered how horrid it had all been. What went wrong? Isn't Christmas supposed to be a joyous time of year?”
“Oh yes,” Cass said, nodding her head vigorously. “When my mistress and I were hiding beneath her bed one night, she told me all about how, once things got better, we would have a Christmas celebration, just like we once did.”
“Hiding beneath the bed? Hiding from WHOM?” Peter Panda asked gently, his eyebrows arched high up on his head. “That sounds simply dreadful.”
“Our last night together, her family held something they called a 'meth party',” Cass said. “Lots of new people came over, and started acting in very strange ways. My mistress and I hid beneath the bed after one of the adult humans slapped my Mistress across the face and made her cry. All I was ever able to figure out was she had made them all very angry through no fault of her own. When people started hitting her, she came running into our room, grabbed me and hid beneath the bed. People were kicking at her, trying to drag her from beneath the bed and yelling loudly. It was very frightening.”
“They do such strange things whenever there is meth around,” Agatha murmured. “I heard about these things from Richard the Lion, who chanced to be here, in this place once. He had a huge tear in his side, the direct result of a meth party. Eventually Old Burt gave him to some strange woman who chanced by the store one day. Richard was SUCH a delightful old scamp! Despite his injury, he told us such marvelous stories late at night and made us all laugh. I was so sorry to see him go.”
“Now I'm REALLY confused,” Hissie the Otter said softly, speaking to Missie. “First they are planning a delightful-sounding celebration, and next they are chasing Cass's mistress into her room, where she and Cass both hide beneath the bed. Were they celebrating Christmas?”
“No, silly,” Cass said gently, scratching both of the otters behind the ears which sent the pair into throes of delight. “It was the adults and whatever meth is that started the problem. Once the meth dealers started coming by, they stopped celebrating Christmas entirely. Had I not been there, to see the pretty lights and hear the joy in their voices, I would have never believed that such a thing was possible, after seeing what meth did to their lives. Meth destroyed Christmas for everyone. Everyone. I so wish I could have seen another Christmas with my mistress. It is such a special time,” and with a glance in the direction of Oliver the Cat, added softly, “It is such a special place in my heart.”
“Meth does terrible things. As I said, you never find Little People that use meth. We are smarter than that,” Agatha said with another reproving sniff. “They say humans are the smarter species. HA!”
The rest of that night, they sat up telling tales about The Humans, laughing at some of the funny things they did. Even Cass, who had once been so forlorn, joined in their laughter, and sang a few of the old Little People songs for them. Still, it was long before the sun would soon brighten the eastern sky when nearly everyone had fallen back to sleep, except for Oliver the Cat, that is. Like usual, he was sitting with his tail curled up around his nose, cautiously watching the window, when the old elf dressed in red and white came by.
The wizened up old man dressed in a red snow suit somehow stepped inside the store, although it was hours and hours before Old Burt was due to arrive and unlock the door. Peering uncertainly at a list he held in his right hand, he walked over to where the Little People were all laying in the store window. He stood looking over the top of his glasses, until he spied Cass, sitting back in the shadowy corner where she had returned for her day's rest.
“Ah,” he said, and reaching past Peter Panda, he gently picked up the blue china doll, first smoothing her hair and then smiling to himself. To everyone's surprise, he spoke the language of The Little People flawlessly, not the language of the humans. It was the first time any of them had ever heard a human speak in their own ancient tongue.
“You are the one they call Cass?” he gently asked the Blue China Doll.
“Y-y-yes,” Cass said uncertainly. “Are you taking me back to my mistress?”
“Not to worry, pretty doll. I am taking you home with me, right now, and in a few weeks, I will take you to a new home, where they still have Christmas lights, sleigh bells and shiny presents wrapped up beneath a Christmas tree.”
The old elf wrapped her up carefully in a warm fluffy blanket, and pausing long enough to pet and admire the other animals who, by now, were wide awake. Having petted all of them once more, he strode out the door to where an old wooden sleigh and eight tiny reindeer stood waiting in the cold gray of the early snowy morning.
Putting Cass beside him on the worn leather seat, he called to his reindeer by name, and with a hearty wave at the assembled Little People remaining in the window, mounted up and up into the sky, and as they rode out of sight, everyone, all the Little People with their noses pressed against the glass of the old storefront heard him cry, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
This is a prayer request for Dave Laird.
I count Dave as one of my best friends. If you are lucky enough to have him as a friend, you will always be respected, loved, and valued. He is gregarious, eccentric, boisterous, and he beats to his own drum. If his personality could be described in clothes – he would be wearing checkered with plaid with stripes in green and purple and fuchsia. He would wear one green sock and one blue sock and be perfectly stylish in his own fashion.
It’s been five years since Dave Laird’s dream came true. Via the Spokesman-Review, he implemented his version of a community forum known as “Community Comment.” It sports hot topics of the day, such as the objective and purpose of the new Omnibudsman for the Spokane Police Department. Subjects have been controversial and boil and sizzle and then wind down, only to have another hot topic spring from his fingertips. He wanted it as a community and invented the Virtual Ballroom and Garden, complete with various characters that have passed away from this world onto a celestial level. I call it a Village.
It takes a Village! I think it is appropriate that I approach this community, our Village, and request prayers and positive thoughts for Dave Laird. Dave has had a series of medical issues the past year, being bed-ridden for much of it. Dave had a heart attack three weeks ago – his fourth. He had double bypass surgery and seemed to be going forward, when suddenly his heart rate spiked and then crashed. Since then, he has struggled with breathing, with his heart rate, and with myriad afflictions.
He needs our support.
His wife, Suzie, is posting daily status reports to Facebook. https://www.facebook.com/dave.laird.334?fref=ts
I personally am asking for your prayers for Dave. I believe in prayer. What more perfect prayer circle than Community Comment.
I thank God for Dave – for his exuberant and eccentric ways – for his prolific writing and his touch of humor – for his sense of justice for every man. I thank God for Dave’s prodding and poking style that piques each reader to search for the same justice in themselves. Now I pray God’s blessing on Suzie and Dave and that His hands are holding and healing Dave’s heart and lungs. That while Dave is healing, God is embracing him and pouring over peace and calm. I believe that God can bring Dave back to us – and with all of Community Comment trained in together, a miracle will occur and we will each be touched by it.
Good morning, Netizens….
Depending upon where you live, last night's thunderstorm/severe thunderstorm may have been an anti-climax. Of course if you have ever lived in the Midwest or portions of the Deep South, perhaps you already have a good first-hand knowledge of what a severe thunderstorm is all about, in which case you may already have a bottle of contempt ready to pour on the Spokane Weather Bureau for their near-hysterical coverage of the run up to last night's storm.
True, there were wind gusts nearing 60 miles per hour, which was as predicted. Thanks to the wind, we even had a considerable dust storm blow through our part of town, leaving a hefty dose of farm topsoil from parts of Othello, Odessa and Adams County in its wake. At the time some may have bitched to the weather gods because they could not see across the street well enough to spy on the sex goddess living across the way who occasionally wanders around her living room in scanty attire.
But severe thunderstorm in Spokane? The Weather Bureau should put out warnings to watch out for spurious severe weather warnings in the near future. That, or perhaps sentence our weather spotters to six months in Tornado Alley to watch for some real cloud busters.
How I broke my back and survived to tell the tale, the short version .I slipped in the shower and fell on my patjunkus, and unbeknown to me, I had serious and advanced oteoporosis which how I came to shatter one of my lumbar vertebrae into a bazillion little pieces. For a short time afterward I could not walk; in fact I could not sit comfortably on anything that a normal human would consider fit for use. I lay in bed, miserable, scared and frustrated for over three weeks, unable to do more than call people by phone.
Things are getting better, for at least the last few days now I can huddle in bed with my laptop computer and am cogent enough that I can once more participate with the rest of the world. I still cannot drive and walking is still out of the question.
One week from this Monday at 1:30 PM I am surrendering myself to a fine bone doctor for an MRI bone scan. Some medical sources tell me that with therapy I could be as good as new. Other sources say not so fast fat boy.
I guess we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.
Thanks to Susan Waters, Jeanie and others for all their thoughts and care.
Good Evening, Netizens and all the populace of Dave Laird's Virtual Ballroom. Dave has had a really rough 12 months - the final piece of this roller coaster ride is culminating in a procedure to fuse a vertebrae that he somehow broke a couple months ago. He'll have that procedure in the next ten days and should be raring to charge out to the Ballroom.
Dave has been bedridden for the last couple weeks. Over the last few months, he has had little problems here and there - and subsequently he has written less and less - only wanting to write more and more. He, both of us, have seemed to get stuck in a rut where the creative juices just don't flow.
I am asking for everyone's positive thoughts, uplifting prayers, and maybe a few good clean jokes our way.
The spirit is a powerful thing and thrives under positive ideals. We all have things in our lives that either build us up or wear us down and our spirit is what rises to the top.
Here's to David Laird and may he be up to ballroom dancing soon - if not a simple two-step - and tiptoe his way to a keyboard hooked to Community Comment and make some noise!
~Humbly yours, Jeanie~
Good afternoon Netizens…
: being of such a nature that one part or quantity may be replaced by another equal part or quantity in the satisfaction of an obligation
Since fruits and vegetables are regarded as fungible in this diet, you are allowed a total of five servings of either or both.
“Oil is a fungible commodity and its prices are determined in the global market.” — From an article by Gal Luft in The Wichita Eagle (Kansas), May 30, 2013
DID YOU KNOW?
“Fungible”—which derives from the Latin verb “fungi,” meaning “to perform” (no relation to the noun “fungus” and its plural “fungi”)—is a word that often shows up in legal and political contexts. Something fungible can be exchanged for something else of the same kind. For example, when we say “oil is a fungible commodity,” we mean that when a purchaser is expecting a delivery of oil, any oil of the stipulated quantity and quality will usually do. Another example of something fungible is cash. It doesn't matter what twenty dollar bill you get — it's still worth the same amount as any other twenty dollar bill. In contrast, something like a painting isn't fungible; a purchaser would expect a specific, identifiable item to be delivered. In broader use, “fungible” can mean “interchangeable” or sometimes “changeable, fluid, or malleable.”
Good morning Netizens…
a : to run counter to so as to effectively oppose or baffle b : to oppose successfully : defeat the hopes or aspirations of
: to pass through or across
At the end of the episode, the fleeing villain told the hero, “You may have thwarted me this time, but I'll be back.”
“But the union and its parent organization, the American Federation of Teachers Massachusetts, are also trying to thwart the Lawrence turnaround plan legislatively.” — From an editorial in the Boston Globe, May 29, 2013
DID YOU KNOW?
“Thwart” and its synonyms “foil” and “frustrate” all suggest checking or defeating another's plan or preventing the achievement of a goal. “Foil” implies checking or defeating so as to discourage future efforts (“foiled by her parents, he stopped trying to see her”), while “frustrate” suggests making all efforts, however vigorous or persistent, futile or ineffectual (“frustrated attempts at government reform”). “Thwart” usually indicates frustration caused by opposition (“the army thwarted an attempted coup”).
Good morning Netizens…
I have been absent without leave for some time now, partially because my health hasn't been up to the standards set by Clark Kent during his brief sojourn as a journalist while leaping over tall buildings. In fact, I'm still trying to figure out if there is anyone with the temerity or skill to run this pop stand were I to expire and end up dancing in the Virtual Ballroom as a ghost.
But I am on my way to better health, but I will not be leaping any tall buildings.
Good evening Netizens…]
She lives in a large estate outside of the village, at the foot of the downs.
“They also said that it is increasingly difficult to walk on the Downs as there are cattle grazing and the ground has been 'churned up' and been made slippery by work carried out by the farm.” — From an article by Hannah White in the Salisbury Journal (United Kingdom), March 27, 2013
Today's word has a number of homographs in English, all of which share etymological kinship to the same Sanskrit origins, though they followed different paths into modern English usage. The “down” we are featuring today can be traced back to Old English “dūn,” which is related to Old Irish “dūn” (“fortress”) and Sanskrit “dhūnoti” (“he shakes”). The noun “down” that is used for a covering of soft fluffy feathers comes from Old Norse “dūnn,” which is also related to Sanskrit “dhūnoti.” The adverb “down” (and the related preposition, adjective, verb, and noun) used to indicate a lower physical position or direction is from Old English “dūne,” a shortening of “adūne,” itself a combination of “a-” (“from, of, or off”) and “dūne,” the dative form of “dūn” (the Old English ancestor of today's word).
Good evening, Netizens…
In this campy horror film, the men of a college campus are attacked and killed by a seductive lamia who slips into their dorm rooms at night.
“She finds herself plagued by visions of a dreadful lamia, a man-eating monster that's half woman, half serpent.” — From a book review on Kirkus Reviews, March 15, 2013
According to Greek mythology, Lamia was a queen of Libya who was beloved by Zeus. When Hera, Zeus's wife, robbed Lamia of her children from this union, Lamia killed every child she could get into her power. Stories were also told of a fiend named Lamia who, in the form of a beautiful woman, seduced young men in order to devour them and who also sucked the blood of children. Such nightmarish legends compelled poet John Keats, and many other writers before and after him, to write their own tales of Lamia, which still haunt and terrify those souls who dare read them.
Good evening, Netizens….
It is with great sadness that I heard that singer/songwriter/poet Richie Havens died today of a heart attack at age 72, and suddenly my world drew a deep introspective breath and held it a long time before letting it go. My God, it hardly seems like a day goes by but what another person falls off the ladder of life, leaving my world a bit less in stature.
I first heard Richie Havens sing in the East Village of New York, then he moved to the West Village as his popularity increased. I made the trip to Woodstock before it was even fully set up, which is how I came to hear Richie Havens at what I believed to be his absolute best. None of the other bands could get their equipment trucks through the dense traffic, and eventually Woodstock promoters asked Havens to play his set first.
I do not recall how many sets he actually played, but I still recall his rendition of Motherless Child, a song that will reside inside my heart so long as I draw breath.
Rest in Peace, Richie…
Good evening Netizens…
The police are still trying to determine what really transpired on the night of the accident.
“The Battle of Lexington Green transpired this morning as it always does. The British regulars advanced, a lopsided battle broke out, eight Minutemen died, the British marched on — and thousands of spectators, their heads full of history, headed to pancake breakfasts at surrounding churches.” — From an article by Joshua Miller in The Boston Globe, April 15, 2013
“Transpire” came to life in the late 16th century and was originally used in technical contexts to describe the passage of vapor through the pores of a membrane. From this technical use developed a figurative sense: “to escape from secrecy,” or “to become known.” That sense was often used in ambiguous contexts and could be taken to mean “happen.” (For example, Emily Dickinson wrote in a letter, “I long to see you once more … to tell you of many things which have transpired since we parted.”) Thus the “to take place” sense developed. Around 1870, usage critics began to attack this sense as a misuse, and modern critics occasionally echo that sentiment. But the sense has been common for two centuries and today is found in serious and polished prose.
Good evening Netizens…
Honey has a demulcent property that is thought to be effective in relieving sore throats and coughs.
“Chickweed (Stellaria media) has a demulcent effect on the stomach, which can help to suppress appetite when prepared as tea.” — From an article by Barbara Fahs in Big Island Weekly (Hilo, Hawaii), January 2, 2013
“Demulcent” derives from the Latin verb “demulcēre,” meaning “to soothe.” “Demulcēre” in turn comes from a combination of the prefix “de-” and “mulcēre,” an earlier verb that also means “to soothe.” As an adjective, “demulcent” often applies to the soothing nature of some medicines, but you can also use it to describe such things as a soothing voice or a soothing demeanor. The noun “demulcent” is used for a gelatinous or oily substance that is capable of soothing inflamed or abraded mucous membranes and protecting them from further irritation.
Good afternoon Netizens,,,
“A Labour MP has been accused of xenophobia after complaining about the Polish staff who served him a disappointing bacon sandwich.” — From an article in The Telegraph (London), April 25, 2012
“A few counterexamples raise doubts: the downturn in immigration during World War I due to the interruption of transatlantic ship traffic and the mobilization of many young Europeans for the war did not lead to a decline in stereotypes and prejudice; in fact, the wartime period and the few years afterward produced some of the worst xenophobia the United States has ever seen.” — From Richard Alba's 2012 book Blurring the Color Line
If you look back to the ancient Greek terms that underlie the word “xenophobia,” you'll discover that xenophobic individuals are literally “stranger fearing.” “Xenophobia,” that elegant-sounding name for an aversion to persons unfamiliar, ultimately derives from two Greek terms: “xenos,” which can be translated as either “stranger” or “guest,” and “phobos,” which means either “fear” or “flight.” “Phobos” is the ultimate source of all English “-phobia” terms, but many of those were actually coined in English or New Latin using the combining form “-phobia” (which traces back to “phobos”). “Xenophobia” itself came to us by way of New Latin and first appeared in print in English in 1903.
Good Afternoon Netizens…
The teacher admonished Jenny not to run in the hallways.
“A struggling backup goaltender will stand up in the locker room during the intermission of a game in which he isn't playing, and he'll admonish his teammates to, essentially, stop being so stupid with the puck.” — From an article by Dejan Kovacevic in TribLive, March 17, 2013
We won't admonish you if you don't know the origins of today's word—its current meanings have strayed slightly from its history. “Admonish” was borrowed in the 14th century (via Anglo-French) from Vulgar Latin “admonestare,” which is itself an alteration of the Latin verb “admonēre,” meaning “to warn.” “Admonēre,” in turn, was formed by the combination of the prefix “ad-” and “monēre,” “to warn.” Other descendants of “monēre” in English include “monitor,” “monitory” (“giving a warning”), “premonition,” and even a now archaic synonym of “admonish,” “monish.” Incidentally, “admonish” has a number of other synonyms as well, including “reprove,” “rebuke,” “reprimand,” “reproach,” and “chide.