Out doing some last and only minute Christmas shopping. I couldn’t help but notice that in the line ahead was some poor old lady with this disease. Fortunately, for me, the inability to purchase something not on sale isn’t contagious. Or unfortunately.
He whistled loudly as they approached the grocery store.
“What song are you whistling, Daddy?” H- begged.
“My Favorite Things,” he answered.
“Oh,” she said, not familiar with the tune.
“All aboard!” he called, signaling it was time for her to hop on the front of the cart if she was going to.
He watched and heard her begin an open mouth hum as she attempted to demonstrate her own Christmas spirit notwithstanding a deficit in whistling ability. Chuckling, he pushed the cart into the store and began searching for beautiful women whom he could make smile with the assistance of his little helper.
“I said humming to town,” H- said, laughing innocently as congestion in the baking aisle halted their progress.
“What’s that?” he asked.
H- then proceeded to hum the chorus of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town. Afterward she again giggled and said, “I said humming!”
Squinting and with a cocked head, he looked at her in disbelief and thought, “Surely she knows when she hums no one hears the words?”
“Oh yeah?” he quickly said before the moment passed.
Progressing now to the cereal aisle, another repeat of the chorus was followed by, “That time I said coming.” More humming and another laughing explanation. “I said humming again!”
“Man, I can’t believe they don’t have any corn flakes.”
“Santa is probably humming to the reindeer as they pull his sleigh,” she said thoughtfully, unconcerned with the moment’s dilemma.
“What?” he asked, rising from the crouched position where he had just verified the awful truth that he’d have to get creative to make the cookies.
“I said,” she labored, “Santa is probably humming to the reindeer.”
“A wordsmith is born,” he thought smiling, unable to hide his pride.
So every once in a while I post a scene from a day in the life with George. For organizational purposes these post’s title will now be prefaced with CCWG. I also added a CCWG category at the bottom of the page for easy reference to past conversations. On with it!
The driver and passenger doors shut near simultaneously as the two men got in the car.
“I didn’t want to say anything during the service, but did you smell that?” Pete asked, starting the car.
“Hmm, no,” George answered without confidence. “Smell what? What are you talking about?”
“Back in the church. I kept smelling something pretty rank. I even kept my mouth closed in an effort to eliminate the possibility it was just my own breath,” Pete explained.
“Ha. No, I can’t say that I did smell anything.”
“Weird. I felt bad because A- was right there too and he had invited us and all. A lot of people were lifting their hands in the air, so I guess it could’ve been just the B.O. from that,” Pete said.
“Yeah, it’s always possible. That was a lot of people in there,” George said.
“But it was pretty awful. As predicted, there were a lot of women there too. And you know how bad their farts smell,” Pete suggested.
“Oh yeah. Women’s farts are the worst!” George said. Pete couldn’t help but notice George’s energy go from zero to a hundred in an instant. “It’s all because they hold them in for sooooo long!”
“What? This is great,” said Pete, laughing.
“Yeah. They hold it and hold it and hold it. And then you let them into a large auditorium like that and they let them rip. They figure nobody will suspect them,” George articulated. Continuing the flawless rationale, he explained, “My older sister used to never fart. Never. She actually had me convinced that women don’t fart.”
“Come on,” Pete questioned.
“Dude, I was like seven,” George clarified. “Anyhow, one Christmas I heard her just rip one. She couldn’t deny it, so then she convinced me women only fart one day a year–Christmas.”
Daily, so-called experts advise us to change our perspective, change our job, change our life. They believe we should change our world. It’s sickening. Like you, I’ve followed that message too many times to count and for what? It is a false hope. Change? No thank you.
As the year wraps up I’m happy to report I like life the way it is. And I know you do too. Here’s how I know.
Forgiveness – You forgive me daily. I struggle with why, but am sure you’re the better person for it. It is at once free and invaluable.
Friendship – Again, you give it freely. I cannot imagine a world without the ability to make friends. I don’t want to either.
Peace – The world is close. Real close. Some want to keep the focus on the unrest. The rest of us know to keep peace the focus, and rightly so. Focus on the peace and see what unfolds, I say.
Compassion – Everyone I have ever met understands compassion. While not always possible to act on, their feelings of compassion are always real. I cannot imagine this world before it was filled with compassion. Like most good things, once conceived, the concept of compassion cannot be forgotten. And it never will be.
Love – There is no greater source of strength than the fact that the lowest of the low, the meanest of the mean, I’m talking about the most wretched wretch, this man or woman is still loved by at least one person if they’ll only let themselves feel it.
Change that? Never.
Venspu would have knocked but when he saw Santa at the window he decided against it. He was looking outside, his head resting on his forearm which was pressed against the glass.
“What is it, Venspu?” Santa asked, startling him.
“I can come back,” Venspu began, “it’s nothing.”
“Nothing wouldn’t have led you here tonight, not this night,” Santa said.
Santa’s back was still turned, but Venspu could see his eye’s reflection. They never lost their twinkle, no matter how tired he was. Remarkable, he thought.
“Speaking plainly, the elves are tired,” Venspu said hurriedly. “There’s six days to go. I’ve crunched the numbers. It’ll be close, but if you give them a break tonight, we’ll still be finished before the big night.”
“Think so?” Santa asked, finally turning to face his lead foreman.
“I do,” he said, careful not to betray his hope.
“And just what would the elves do with their time tonight if they didn’t work?” Santa asked.
Could he know? Venspu thought. No. There’s no way. Not this time.
Exhaling, Venspu said, “Sleep, Santa. They’d sleep.”
Santa loved the elves. He couldn’t understand why they were so ready to turn on him. He only enslaved them because he knew they would be happier working for him than facing the cold reality of the human world. Yet here was one of his finest workman, Venspu, looking him dead in the eye and lying. As a tear formed, Santa turned back to the window.
“Give them the night off,” Santa said.
“Thank you, Santa,” Venspu said, adding, “You can count on me to be sure they’re ready for work at first light.”
“Good night, Venspu. You may go,” Santa said, only too aware of the slaughter to come.
Dear Stereo Makers,
How many times have you ever broken a nail with a hammer? Or how many times have you sat on a chair and had the chair just simply break? I know! I know! How many times have you turned on a faucet and the water came out so fast that it put a hole in the sink? No, better yet, how many times have you read a book so fast that it broke?
Then why, for the love, do you sell a product which allows me to turn up the volume so loud that it breaks my speakers? Why? Surely there’s a way you can prevent this. Surely you can put a line on the knob that lets me know “any louder now, Bub, and you might break your speakers”. I would obey. Promise.
Thank you for reading. Just do better.
PS – If you’re interested, I ended the affair. The End.
“Shhh,” Tinsel mouthed to Mercutious, as he deftly and silently approached his target. Mercutious sat opposite the campfire from Jupton. He couldn’t watch, but neither could he look away as Tinsel, the leader of the Elven resistance, lined up his first officer’s pointy ear for a playful–though painful–flick.
“Ahh!” Jupton cried, as he leaned forward and away from the assailant. Seeing Tinsel standing there with an ear-to-ear grin infuriated and invigorated him. “So you’re back! This is good. How does it look?”
Tinsel informed the rebel Elven leaders that since their last attack, Santa had doubled the number of guards at the wall.
“Were you able to get a response from Venspu? Do they know tomorrow is the day?” Jupton asked.
“I was. They do,” Tinsel replied.
“So this is it,” Jupton pronounced. “The end of Christmas. The end of Santa’s unlawful reign, and the end of the enslavement of two million innocent elves.”
“God willing,” Tinsel said. “You know the plan. We know the plan. Stick to the plan. Venspu wrote that he only has two thousand elves willing to fight. Of those, he personally vouches for only fifteen hundred,” he stopped, harnessed a grave look and continued, “that means the fight is ours.”
“The fight is ours,” muttered the small group of officers in unison.
“Santa is not going to go down easy,” Tinsel lectured. “He has his lists. He remembers everything.” A few of the men chuckled. “What?” Tinsel asked.
Mercutious couldn’t help but sing, “He’s making a list, checking it twice.” Soon the others joined in, “He’s gonna find out who’s naughty or nice.”
A thunderous laughter erupted among the rebel leaders.
“That’s funny,” Tinsel assented. “You’re right. I talk too much. Get some sleep. Be ready at first light.”
Christmas is around the corner. Going free association for a minute here, I’m thinking kids opening presents. Kids means youth. Youth means ignorance. Ignorance means needing instruction. Needing instruction leads me to push responsibility to someone who cares to teach and has a knack for it. And that leads to David Kramer. Since he can’t be everywhere at once, he wrote a book. It is called Entering the Real World: Timeless Ideas Not Learned In School. (Buy it today and use promo code RLEGEN14 for 20% off).
Like his namesake, in his new book David stares down and defeats the Goliath that is the real world. Kramer moves swiftly and purposefully through his list of 149 helpful tips. Yet he goes further than most of his peer’s books and provides substantive “take action” steps to help those of us who read this genre and often think, “Great. But how do I actually do it?”
You know who you are. You have children, nieces, nephews, maybe grandkids that need useful gifts this holiday season. Schools don’t teach what we all know would’ve been nice to learn before we entered the real world. David does though. And he’s good at it. Buy the book. Give it to a young person. Improve a life.
“Merry Christmas,” he said, walking into her room.
“Daddy,” she began, “you know what? I heard Santa last night.”
“I did, too,” he confirmed. “Let’s go see if he brought any presents.”
She led the way to the tree and let out a giggle before she reported her findings.
“I wanna open this one,” she said, pointing to the biggest present.
“Actually, it’s better if we start with the gifts from relatives. Then you can open the gifts from Santa. Is that a deal?” he offered.
“Deal,” she agreed.
“Okay then. Let’s start with Uncle Sam’s gift. What do you think he gave you?” he asked.
She struggled with the bow until, at last, it relented, at which point she lifted the heavier than expected box. She sensed a liquid inside, and like any American child, guessed with more excitement than adults have the capacity to fake, “Is it…wah-der?!”
“Yes child, it’s water. The one thing in life you’ll never be without due to your ‘kul-cherr and hair-i-tij’. Sam waited all year to surprise you with this once in a lifetime gift,” he laughed to himself, head shaking.
“I don’t know,” he answered, “why don’t you open it and find out?”
Then in the morning, the two of them began their weekend day as usual.
She pleaded “Daaaddy” while prone and unmoving. He went to collect her. As it was the weekend, he convinced her it was to be a lazy day, so more sleep was necessary and allowable. Now in his bed, she seemed to try to sleep. That lasted all of three minutes. After thirty minutes of unsuccessful attempts to quell her, he finally agreed to wake up.
“You forgot my chair,” she reminded him, standing and pointing to the table and chairs.
“That’s right I did,” he groggily responded. “How can you help me make chocolate chip pancakes if you don’t have your chair?”
“I want cocoa puffs,” she confessed.
“Really? That’s too bad. I want chocolate chip pancakes, so that’s what we’re having. It’s going to be a rough life kiddo.”
“What kind of cookies are we making?” she wanted to know.
“You’re not going to know them by name, but they’re called peanut butter blossoms. They’re special Christmas cookies.”
“Can I pour it? Can I pour it? Can I pour it?”
“Sure. Be careful, it’s heavy.”
“What’s that daddy?”
“It’s peanut butter.”
“You’re putting peanut butter with the muh-muh-margarine?” she asked, inquisitively seeking proper pronunciation affirmation.
“Yep, that’s what the recipe says to do.”
“Can I stir?”
“Uh, your bowl just has flower. But sure. Go ahead.”
“Look daddy, I’m stirring.”
“Yep, you’re doing a great job.”
“Why are you stirring so fast daddy?”
“Watch me stir fast!”
“Whoa, slow down. Try to keep the ingredients inside the bowl. You didn’t make the mess because you stirred fast, it’s that you didn’t watch what you were doing when you stirred fast. When I stir fast, I’m always watching the bowl. Understand?”
“Like this daddy?” she asked, beginning to speed up while looking him directly in the eye, again seeking approval.
“No silly, you’re still not looking at the bowl.”
“Why are you stirring so fast daddy?”
Luckily, for him, the war had acted as a preparation of sorts for relentless interrogations such as these.
“Just keep stirring your bowl H-.”