Call Me Ralphie: The Gift of Resilience

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‘Twas the night before Christmas, and the air was thick with the promise of magic.

Our family Scotch Pine tree sparkled with lights and tinsel, and the scent of cinnamon and nutmeg mixed by my Mom into cookies and Christmas pudding wafted through the house, creating a festive “aroma carol”.

I was Ralphie Parker, the little boy in the movie The Christmas Story; all Ralphie wants for Christmas is a Red Ryder Carbine Action 200-shot Air Rifle.

As an active eight-year-old, my dreams were filled with visions of hockey scores, action figures, battles, and epic adventures—all wrapped up in the form of the coveted Johnny Seven O.M.A.(One Man Army) Gun. Yes, it truly was this 8 year-old boy’s wet dream.

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Christmas morning dawned with excitement and the promise of dreams come true. I had whispered my dream wish to Santa at Robinson’s department story a few weeks back… that should be the ticket, yes?

Amidst the sounds of Johnny Mathis Christmas carols and a sea of wrapped packages, one stood out—a box that seemed to echo the shape of my coveted treasure.

My heart raced as I tore away the paper, only to reveal the wide-eyed gaze of… Casper the Friendly Ghost. A talking doll.

Sure, I watched Casper the cartoon on our big black and white console TV, but…. A DOLL!!!??? Are you kidding? THIS was a little girl present. I was mortified, stigmatized and … did I mention horrified?

I smothered my tears internally…

Silence fell over the room, punctuated only by the gentle voice of Casper. Mom snuck a furtive look at my Dad… my brothers stared at my sisters… my sisters gawked back at my brothers…

The disappointment that settled in my chest was palpable, a heavy weight that hung over the room like a dark cloud. I attempted a smile, but inside, my dreams crumbled like a gingerbread house in a terrible, terrible snowstorm.

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The weeks that followed were a dance with embarrassment.

The mere thought of sharing my Christmas tale with friends sent shivers down my spine. How could I, the brave adventurer in our group, admit to receiving a talking doll when my friends would be regaling tales of hockey nets, GI Joe action figures and daring missions? They all had little boy gifts from Santa.

Santa had let me down with a THUD.

As the days turned into weeks and the weeks into months, the Casper doll became a constant reminder, albeit one stealthily buried in a corner of the bedroom I shared with my older brother— a silent reminder of a Christmas that didn’t go at all as planned.

One day, in the midst of playful banter with my friends, the story slipped out—a confession wrapped in embarrassment and the fear of judgment. And, as expected, the cruel wrath of as-insensitive-as-you-might-anticipate little friends Dougie and Roddy avalanched over my deep shame.

I’m sure there was a skipping rope chant invented that day that schoolgirls sang for years afterwards:

Little Larry, O what a sight

Casper whispers his secret delight

Skipping and giggling as this tale unfurls

Larry kissing Casper, is he a boy or a girl?

Lucy had pulled my football away, and me and my red face had no place to hide.

But life, in its inexplicable way, had a plan for me.

It took awhile, but instead of shying away from the teasing and mockery, I reluctantly embraced it and learned to laugh at myself.

With each laugh, I found a kernel of strength and a resilience that slowly grew.

The Casper doll, once a symbol of disappointment, became a talisman of my adaptability and the strength to rise above adversity.

As years went by, the Casper doll was a constant companion—no, not on the shelf (I ridded myself of that frickin’ doll at the earliest opportunity, I’m not Hercules!) but in the journey of growing up.

It taught me that not everything will go as planned, and I could live with embarrassment, and… that’s okay.

Sometimes, the unexpected detours lead to adventures we never knew we needed. It’s tough, but we call it building character.

At my next birthday, the Johnny Seven O.M.A.(One Man Army) Gun found its way into my ecstatic hands, fulfilling the childhood dream that had been momentarily deferred. It was everything I had ever hoped for, and more. I was a cardboard warrior supreme.

But the lesson from that fateful Christmas remained—a lesson in resilience, the power of vulnerability, and the strength that comes from sharing our less-than-perfect stories. It was just one of a million lessons that carried me into adulthood…

It’s about the humanness in humanity.

So, here’s to the Christmas that didn’t go according to plan, to the talking doll that became an unexpected ally, and to the gift of resilience that lasts far longer than the disappointment it replaces.

May your holidays be filled with the warmth of shared stories, the laughter of understanding, and the joy that comes from embracing the imperfect magic of Christmas.

Santa’s Truce at Christmas

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Last week, I posted a fictional winter story that took place in a school classroom. I’ll continue along this theme again this week, but in a darker theatre… war… the year 1914 to be exact.

As we approach the most venerable day in the Christian calendar, there are conflicting tales of what actually happened in the trenches of World War I on Christmas Eve 1914.

Roughly 100,000 British and German troops were involved in the informal cessations of hostility along the Western Front. The Germans placed candles on their trenches and on Christmas trees, then continued the celebration by singing Christmas carols. The British responded by singing carols of their own.

Is it possible that the version I’ve written below is the one that most accurately captures the dreamlike moment, surreal no matter how you relate the story?

Today let’s travel back over one hundred years …

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A War-Torn Christmas Eve

The year was 1914, and the Western Front had become a nightmarish tableau of destruction. The once-lush fields were now muddy graveyards, and the skeletal remains of trees, their branches reaching towards a moon that occasionally peeped from behind thick clouds, bore silent witness to the relentless barrage of war.

The frigid wind on this Christmas eve carried whispers of the soldiers’ longing and despair as they huddled in their trenches, yearning for warmth, home, and the innocence of seasons past.

Trench warfare had turned the battlefield into a muddy, hellish expanse, a far cry from the picturesque landscapes these men had left behind.

Private Thomas Mitchell, a young soldier with a face weathered beyond his years, peered cautiously over the trench. The echoes of distant artillery fire and the rat-a-tat-tat of machine guns filled the air.

The air was thick with the stench of decay, and the biting wind cut through layers of clothing like a knife. He clutched a crumpled letter from home, the ink smeared by both tears and rain. Each raindrop seemed to carry the weight of a thousand missed embraces.

In the trenches, the cold gnawed at them mercilessly, seeping into every layer of clothing and gnarling fingers as they clutched their rifles. Thomas thought of his family, hundreds of miles away, blissfully celebrating Christmas without the constant thrumming threat of death.

The words of his sister, filled with love and worry, seemed to mock him in the harsh reality of the war. Each soldier shared a similar story – dreams of warmth, laughter, and the tender embrace of loved ones that felt like distant memories.

Nearby, Corporal James Sullivan, a hardened veteran with haunted eyes, sat in silence. His gaze fixed on a faded photograph of his wife and children, their smiles a stark contrast to the grim reality surrounding him. The taste of longing pierced the acrid air, as tangible as the grasping mud that clung to their boots.

The moon hung low in the sky, its feeble light barely penetrating the meaty clouds. As the evening wore on, a hush fell over the battlefield, broken only by the occasional groan of artillery.

Mitchell, weary and longing for solace, peered over the trench once more. To his astonishment, a figure with a long white beard and a red coat emerged from the darkness.

“Who goes there?” Michell called out nervously, his breath forming frosty clouds in the cold night air. His hand formed a death grip over the icy metal of his rifle.

The figure turned, revealing a pair of kind, twinkling eyes. The dim moonlight revealed Santa Claus, his white beard billowing in the cold breeze. “Ho ho ho! Fear not, my friends, for I am none other than Saint Nicholas!”

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The Private, along with other soldiers on both sides of the no-man’s land, exchanged puzzled glances. Santa Claus on a war-torn battlefield? It seemed too surreal to be true.

A ripple of disbelief and curiosity spread through the soldiers.

Santa, in his crimson suit, surveyed the trench’s miserable conditions. He saw the exhaustion etched on their faces, felt the chill that gnawed at their bones.

Then, with a twinkle in his eye, Santa Claus explained his mission. “My dear soldiers, I’ve come to spread the spirit of Christmas and bring a moment of peace to your troubled hearts. Tonight, let us put aside our weapons and share in the joy of the season.“

He turned and repeated the very same words in German…

The soldiers, enchanted by the unexpected visitor, hesitated but soon began to cautiously emerge from their trenches. War-weary faces, etched with fatigue and despair, softened at the sight of the jolly old man who seemed to defy the grim realities of their existence.

As Santa led the troops into a makeshift no-man’s-land gathering, the spirit of Christmas began to work its magic. Soldiers exchanged stories of home, shared photos of loved ones, and even sang carols under the moonlit sky. The trenches, momentarily forgotten, echoed with the laughter of men who had nearly lost the ability to smile.

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Amidst the revelry, the barbed wire, and torn-up ground, a soccer ball miraculously appeared.

With Santa as the referee, soldiers from both sides joined in a makeshift game, their cheers echoing across the battlefield. The boundaries that had once divided them now seemed trivial in the glow of the Christmas spirit.

In the midst of the impromptu celebration, a German soldier named Otto approached Mitchell with a weary smile. “Tonight, my friend, let us be brothers instead of adversaries.” Mitchell nodded, realizing the profound truth in Otto’s words.

For a brief moment, the harsh realities of war melted away, replaced by the warmth of camaraderie and shared humanity.

Two more soldiers, Henri Dubois, a Frenchman, and Gunther Müller, a German, stepped forward. Henri approached Gunther with a tentative smile. “Perhaps, in another world, in a different time, we could have been friends instead of foes.” Gunther nodded in agreement, their shared humanity overpowering the enmity imposed by war.

The language barrier crumbled as Santa produced a worn sack filled with simple gifts – chocolates, small toys, and trinkets. The soldiers, momentarily transformed into children, exchanged laughter as they unwrapped their unexpected presents.

Santa called out merrily: “Die Magie von Weihnachten bringt uns zusammen – the magic of Christmas brings us together.“

Captain Sir Edward Hulse encountered a German interpreter he discovered was actually from Suffolk and had left behind his girlfriend and a 3.5 hp motorcycle. They initiated a sing-song of Auld Lang Syne, which all the English, Germans, Scots, Irish, and Prussians, joined in.

As the soldiers reveled in the unexpected joy of the evening, they momentarily forgot the biting cold and the gnawing hunger. Santa, aware that the truce was temporary, gathered the soldiers for a heartfelt farewell.

“My dear friends, it is true that the magic of Christmas has brought us together … but as the sun rises, I also know you must return to your duties. Carry the spirit of this night with you, and let it be a beacon of hope for you in the darkest of times. May you soon see the happy faces of your families once again.”

With a wave and a hearty “Ho Ho Ho,” Santa vanished into the mist, leaving behind a transformed battlefield and hearts filled with both joy and sorrow.

Shortly afterwards, the soldiers, forever changed by that magical Christmas Eve, returned to their trenches. The truce was over, and the harsh reality of war loomed once again.

As the horrific war raged on, the soldiers carried the bittersweet tale of Santa’s truce with them, a warm memory in the darkest days.

And in the years to come, the legend of that extraordinary Christmas Eve would be whispered everywhere that humankind breathed, a hopeful testament to the enduring power of peace and goodwill.

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Kenzie’s Secret Magic Socks

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It’s December story time. For kids … for adults… for kid-like adults…

My kindergarten-aged grandson was nervous this week about wearing a pair of purple socks to school… worried that the other kids in his class would make fun of him.

He asked my daughter, his Mom, if she would speak to the teacher to explain his worries to her (she did).

Worries, like minor surgery, feel major when they happen to us … and this was a major worry to him.

So today I’ve piggybacked on the idea behind this major/minor worry and weaved a little “parable” to get us underway for the month of December.

Let’s join in on my grandson’s world as the wintry snow slips lightly, like October’s leaves, from the sky…

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Once upon a frosty day in a quaint town in the Okanagan Valley, lived a young girl named Kenzie.

Kenzie was an otherwise ordinary seven-year-old with an extraordinary secret—she owned the most enchanting pair of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer socks.

These socks weren’t just any socks; they twinkled and jingled with every step she took.

Kenzie’s eyes would light up like Christmas lights whenever she wore them, for they held a special place in her heart.

A year earlier, they were given to her by her parents, a gift made at the time of her birth by her great-grandmother who had died before Kenzie reached the age of 1. Great-Grandma grinned and winked as she said she had made them with love… and magic!

Great-Grandma never shared what it was that made them magic, but Kenzie loved them nonetheless.

One chilly Monday morning in early December, Kenzie decided to wear her special magic socks to school. She carefully put them on, her heart pounding with excitement. Today was show-and-tell day, and she couldn’t wait to share her bright little secret with her classmates.

As Kenzie stepped into the classroom, her socks gleaming with each stride, she couldn’t help but feel a bit nervous. Her classmates, usually engrossed in their own worlds, turned to look at her. Whispers and giggles filled the air as Kenzie made her way to her desk. The teacher, Mrs. Anderson, noticed the commotion and called for attention.

“Class, settle down. Kenzie, is everything okay?” she asked, a concerned look on her face.

Kenzie, feeling the heat of embarrassment rising to her cheeks, stammered, “I, um, just wanted to show everyone my special socks for show-and-tell.”

The whispers grew louder, and Kenzie wished she could disappear into thin air. Bodi, the class troublemaker, snickered and pointed at Kenzie’s twinkling socks.

“Look at Kenzie! She’s wearing Christmas puppies on her feet!” Bodi exclaimed, sending the class into fits of laughter. “They’re reindeer socks”, she whimpered quietly.

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Tears welled up in Kenzie’s eyes. She never expected her magical socks to become the centre of attention for all the wrong reasons. The day seemed to stretch on forever as Kenzie endured the teasing and taunting of her classmates. She couldn’t wait for the bell to ring, signaling the end of the school day.

As Kenzie trudged home, the weight of embarrassment clung to her like heavy wet snow on her boots. She wished she had never worn those socks. What was supposed to be a magical day turned into a nightmare.

When Kenzie arrived home, her mom, sensing something was wrong, asked her about her day. Kenzie hesitated, but broke out in sobs, eventually spilling the story of the teasing and laughter that haunted her throughout the day.

Her mother listened with a sympathetic smile. “Kenzie, those socks are wonderful because they were made especially for you and they make you happy. Don’t let anyone take that joy away from you. Tomorrow is a new day, and I’m sure your friends will see how marvellous your socks truly are.”

Encouraged by her mother’s words, Kenzie went to bed with a bright glimmer of hope in her heart.

The next morning, Kenzie hesitated for a moment before deciding to wear her magical socks again.

As she walked into the classroom, she braced herself for more teasing. To her surprise, the atmosphere had changed. Instead of laughter, there were smiles and curious glances.

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But little did Kenzie know, the worst was yet to come.

During gym class, as Kenzie was changing into her sneakers, Bodi and a couple of other mischievous kids seized the opportunity to snatch Kenzie’s socks. Laughing slyly, they darted away, leaving Kenzie in shock as she discovered her beloved socks were gone.

The gym echoed with laughter as the bullies tossed the socks back and forth like a game. Kenzie, with tears streaming down her face, pleaded for them to stop. The bullies, fueled by their own amusement, ignored her pleas.

In a final act of cruelty, Bodi aimed for the basketball hoop. With a swift throw, Kenzie’s magical socks soared, landing on top of the hoop, dangling just out of reach.

Kenzie, now tearful and defeated, looked up at her socks, wondering if she would ever see them again.

Word quickly spread about the heartless act, and the mood in the gym shifted from amusement to disapproval. Even some of the kids who had initially found Kenzie’s socks amusing couldn’t bear to watch the scene unfold.

Mrs. Anderson, alerted by the commotion, rushed into the gym. Shocked by the display of bullying, she reprimanded the culprits and helped Kenzie retrieve her magical socks.

The incident, though painful, had an unexpected effect on the class. The empathy of some students began to outweigh the cruelty of a few, and Bodi, in particular, felt a twinge of guilt for his role in the torment.

Later that day, Bodi approached Kenzie, remorseful. “I’m sorry, Kenzie. That was really mean. Your socks are cool. Can we be friends?”

Kenzie, still hurt but willing to forgive, nodded. The incident became a turning point, teaching the entire class about the consequences of their actions and the importance of kindness.

As Kenzie spoke about the magic and joy her Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer socks brought her, the tension in the room melted away. The classmates who had teased her the day before now admired the uniqueness and courage it took to be different.

Bodi, now understanding the impact of his actions, became an unexpected ally in Kenzie’s journey of self-discovery.

The once embarrassing socks became a symbol not only of individuality but also of resilience and the strength to rise above adversity.

And so, as the bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, Kenzie walked out of the classroom with her head held high, her magical socks twinkling with every step.

Sometimes, it takes a tiny person with a ton of courage to turn embarrassment into a shining moment of self-discovery and to teach others the power of acceptance and understanding.

Her great-grandmother was right, those socks really were magic!

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The Post of Christmas Past

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Today is December 25 and, like Ebenezer Scrooge, I’m casting my eyes out my window onto the snowy, blowy streets and across the fruit orchards with wonderment and warmth and gratitude.

Of course there is no young boy passing by to whom I can toss a farthing to purchase the biggest turkey in the butcher’s display, and that’s OK. Not everything must be Dickensian…

This frosty morning I’m pulling forward a flashback to Christmas of 2012, a mere 10 years back when I posted the following little essay.

I’m not sure that it’s aged well (much like me!) over a short timeframe, but it is what it is.

Maybe this provides you an opportunity to reflect on who would sit at your holiday table today if you had a magic wand to enact any scenario you wished.

And… a final note: Christmas gives us an opportunity to reflect and to be thankful, and I want to say a big thank you to each and every one of you for reading my posts and offering comments or opinions, whether through this site, Facebook, e-mail or personal contact!

May all your wishes come true, today and in your many many years to come…

Now friends, let’s fly back 10 years to a Post of Christmas Past…

HAPPY HOLIDAYS 2012!

The year end is approaching quickly.  And this means that many of us spend the long, dark wintry days turning inwards, becoming introspective, seeking meaning and reason in life. Do you think there’s more to it all than Facebook?

This search may be especially true for those of us who don’t put our trust in a higher power or being. Not believing in a deity and/or afterlife significantly compresses the time allotted for finding significance to our existence.

After all, to us heathens, existence and eternity usually means something like 40 up to about 100 years, really not a whole lot of time after you make your bed, eat breakfast, brush your teeth, and sleep.

Turn off the TV I tell myself, time is running out. Time management for the atheist is the #1 priority right after food and sex!

So I say…

Damn you Christians with your eternal time in heaven with all of your loved ones and no worries about global warming.”

Damn you Muslims and your reward of 72 (some say only 40) virgins.”

Damn you Buddhists and your Nirvana and reincarnation.”

I won’t damn YOU Jews since you’re a bit confused on the whole afterlife side of things already, so why should I make you suffer more consternation with my words.”

Christmas 2012 will be unusual in my world as this will be the first time in 27 years that we’ve not had all or most of our 3 kids at home. They’ve provided the meaning to the season for so long, that I’ve forgotten that there were other reasons, you know… all of that birth of Christ child stuff and Wise Men and Shepherds and HOHOHO and pretty girls… oops sorry, I’ve slipped off on a Charlie Brown tangent. Blockhead!

Since the Christmas dinner table will be extra light on offspring this year, I’ve decided to enjoy a very special Christmas meal serving up 6 courses of my most appealing and satisfying guests from now and days gone by.

      Let’s Eat…   

Course 1 – Appetizers

With Authors James Michener and Leon Uris… a dinner that starts with appetizers should be filled with creative ideas and thought to whet the appetite. These guys aren’t literary heavyweights. But they have written a huge volume of amazingly researched, diverse, and well-written historical fiction covering all parts of the world.

I devoured their books in earlier years. And today I’d love to bite into some of their ideas on the writing process and organization.

I’m astonished by those who can be so determined to focus and deliver a huge body of work in one lifetime. Sure they’re old white guys, but inspiration comes in all colours, ages, and genders. 

I also loved radically individualistic Ayn Rand’s ideas in my younger days, but just can’t bring myself around to her level of narcissism at this point in my life. Fortunately, just looking in my bathroom’s mirror and seeing the “funhouse” image it reflects back is enough to keep me grounded!

Course 2 – Soup

With My Mom...Warm and inviting and full of goodness, this soup course will be my visit with a Ghost of Christmas Past.

It will be wonderful to have my Mom at my table this year. It’s been 39 years since she died and I was last able to sit at her table and share in the Christmas feast. She made the BEST roast potatoes.

Like any good, doting son, I’d want to tell her how much I love her and miss her after all of these years.

As the first person I encountered in life who showed me unconditional love, I would want to tell her about my successes and mistakes, knowing that she would listen, but not judge. And I’d want to tell her that she gave me the grounding and support I needed to go out and make a pretty damn good life, despite all of my fears and worries (Mom was a HUGE worrier herself). And I’d want to apologize to her for not knowing the basics of CPR when she needed it back in 1973.

Course 3 – Salad

Buffett is my favourite ninja…

With Legendary Investor Warren Buffett… what would a Christmas buffet be without a Buffett?

Well, not overly filling, but chock full of nutritious thoughts and concepts. Buffett is known as the Oracle of Omaha, and probably the best stock market investor of this generation. He’s also such a folksy kind of guy.

It should be fun to have him at the table, telling little stories about life and making great stock investments. It’s not very often that you meet people who are highly intelligent and independent-thinking who can also relate to people in a relaxed and personal way.

Making billions of dollars, almost all of which will go to charity when he dies, while playing a silly NINJA makes him my kind of guy. Buffett can take a story about a one-armed baseball player and an Iowa chicken and make a heartfelt parable of it that relates directly to the reality and oftentimes insanity of the investment world.

Course 4 – Main Entree

With Former U.S. President Bill Clinton… Clinton needs to be the main course because, despite his personal foibles (I’m buying you pants without a zipper for Christmas, Bill!), he’s one of the most substantial minds in the whole wide political world.

Clinton, like Obama, is one of the seemingly few rational and caring political-type Americans out there today. Clinton can spontaneously dissect just about any complex world issue and bring to it a common sense approach and potential solution.

There are many minds out there to admire, but Bill Clinton’s is at the top of my list. One discussion with Bill and I’ll be feeling overfull this Christmas.

Course 5 – Dessert

With Actress Reese Witherspoon… dessert should be a light, fluffy, and sugary sweet confection.

The perfect dessert, like fine wine, also has an underlying layer of complexity and depth. This is why I’ve invited actress Reese Witherspoon to this occasion rather than my gut-instinctive initial choice, Pamela Anderson.

The Queen of Jiggle, Anderson is just too much fluffy cotton candy that leaves me feeling sickly nauseous after consuming. The first lick is sensually encouraging, but a few bites later you can only feel regret.

I like Witherspoon even though she isn’t my favourite actress… she is sweet and light, but hidden behind her fluff-laden translucent facade is a woman of some core substance. She has a nice finish on the palate that leaves me satisfied and wanting more.

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Course 6 – Cheese and Wine

With Singers/Songwriters Carole King and James Taylor… it takes two to finish this delectable Christmas dinner because they’re inescapably intertwined for me.

After a large repast with so much to digest, some harmony is needed in this course for settling purposes.

Other beautifully harmonious cheese and wine pairings could be Simon and Garfunkel, Karen and Richard Carpenter, Don Henley and Glenn Frey, Lennon and McCartney, Milli Vanilli (just kidding there!).

But ultimately, what better finish could there be to a meal filled with symbolism and meaning shared with friends and relatives than with a blending of voices in “You’ve Got A Friend”? Whenever I’ve been “down and troubled”, a touch of musical melancholy from either of these two feels like rays of warm sunshine on the first sunny April day.

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Finally, the anxiously anticipated Christmas dinner is done, the turkey (tofurkey maybe!) has been deboned and made ready for next week’s soup and sandwiches.

There’s an awareness of satisfaction in knowing that we’ve made it through another year, however tumultuous or sensational.  A year filled with events that made us jubilant, made us cry, made us impatient, made us content, made us angry, made us appreciate.

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So. Merry Christmas, Happy Hannukah, Happy Kwanza, Splendid Solstice… whatever you choose to pay tribute to, I celebrate with you and I can only hope that your gala feast with whomever you’d relish sharing it, is SPECTACULAR!

The Great British Tale of Two Oliver’s…

Please Sir… I want some more…

Welcome friends to Idea Sex week…a dreamy trifecta, a misty ménage à trois, a threesome of cuisine’some…

The British Christmas Armada has invaded my television screen this week as we grow ever closer to the reason-for-the-season.

And while I’d actually prefer to watch The Muppet Christmas Carol (who can resist Gonzo as Charles Dickens the narrator, and his hilarious companion Rizzo the Rat?)…

… in Fozzie Bear’s place, instead, I’ve been watching urchin Oliver Twist doing battle with fat Mr. Bumble, scheming Fagin and evil Bill Sikes …

… I’ve drooled as celebrity chef Jamie Oliver seductively enticed me, like warm-hearted prostitute Nancy, with Yorkshire puddings and bacon-swaddled turkey, and finally…

… I’ve giggled as The Great British Baking Show judges Paul Hollywood and Prue Leith presided over a festive Christmas baking spectacle with 4 previous contestant bakers.

So…. (and with the greatest of apologies to the principals of this post)

Today, let’s go into our collective imaginations and, like the ephemeral Ghosts of Christmases – Past, Present, and Yet to Come, listen and watch from above as Jamie Oliver meets Charles Dickens meets The Great British Baking Show….

It’s a culinary Tale of Two Oliver’s as I bring you a cooking challenge of Oliver Twist vs Jamie Oliver… two great British characters separated by almost 200 years and a huge socio-economic divide.

The big question? Will Oliver Twist’s simple but rib-sticking cuisine outmatch the more sophisticated Yuletide fare of the Naked Chef?

The contest is set, so settle in and enjoy the “Christmas Breakfast Showstopper“.

In this match we’ll have young Oliver Twist preparing his famously simple, yet delightful, Yule Gruel, from his Workhouse childhood, running head-to-head against Jamie Oliver as he pulls together a memorable breakfast of Grinchy Green Eggs and Ham.

The nervous contestants fidget at their baking counters as the judges call out in unison…

“You have 15 minutes… BAKE!“

Oliver Twist’s YULE GRUEL

This blueprint is based on the ingredients used in the 18th century workhouse where Master Twist was raised upon his mother Agnes’ death during childbirth.

Gruel was one of the main foods provided to the workhouse children.

Oliver gained great notoriety (and disdain) when he humbly begged the master: “Please Sir, I want some more…”

Here’s the recipe that Oliver will be using to prepare his signature dish today:

Ingredients

• 3 dessert spoonfuls of oatmeal
• 1 pint of water
• a little salt
• …………..

Judge Paul Hollywood saunters to the station where wee Oliver adds and stirs, stirs and adds. “How are making your dish for us today Oliver?”.

Hollywood, hands tightly jammed into pant pockets, grins with his trademark smirk that says: “You have no idea what you’re doing, right?”

Oliver’s tender cheeks blush a bit as he squeaks out a timid explanation:

“First, Sir, mix the oatmeal with a little cold water to make a paste…

Put the rest of the water in a pan…

Add the mixture and boil for 10 minutes.

If it looks like dirty washing-up water, you’re doing it right.

Finally, add the salt.”

…………………

And now, the camera slides over to Jamie Oliver, who jumps enthusiastically into his preparations of:

Jamie Oliver’s GRINCHY GREEN EGGS AND HAM

Ingredients

• 1 small knob of unsalted butter
• ½ tablespoon olive oil
• 160 g cooked sliced higher-welfare ham
• 2 large free-range eggs
• Green chili and herb salsa
• 2 small green chillies
• a few sprigs of fresh mixed herbs, such as flat-leaf parsley, tarragon, basil, mint, dill, marjoram, chives
• 6 tablespoons olive oil
• 1 teaspoon cider vinegar
• ½ a lime

…………….

This time, judge Prue Leith stops by the cooktop where Jamie, bent over a mixing bowl filled with a fragrant salsa mixture of herbs, vinegar and oil, takes a tiny sip from a teaspoon to test his blend.

“Brilliant!” he calls out to Prue, who smiles brightly and gazes at him through bright pink eyeglasses that perfectly match her lipstick.

“Now to fry up the ham slices and break a couple of fabulous country eggs, cooked to perfection for 3 or 4 minutes… sooooo good for your Christmas morning.”

“We’ll just drizzle a few spoonfuls of this amazing salsa over the eggs and ham… presto… Green Eggs and Ham!”

…………….

“3…2…1… TIME’S UP, step away from your cooktops!“

…………….

The chefs-du-jour back away from their dishes, satisfied that they have done their very best. Now it lies in the hands of the judges.

Hollywood and Leith stand next to the judges’ table, brows furrowed as they scan and inspect the steaming dishes placed before them. With these skilled and experienced cooks, there will be no artful dodging when it comes to flavour detection and estimation.

The judges go to their work.

A nibble here, a munch there… Hollywood’s eyes close to allow the senses to absorb and discern the flavours and sensations on the tongue.

He shakes his head, but no one can tell if it’s in enjoyment or disgust.

Prue smacks her lips and quickly declares everything delicious. “The creaminess of the Yule Gruel is spot on, salted perfectly”. “And, the herb salsa has just the right amount of of spicy heat and tartness from the vinegar”.

Prue is mostly kind; everyone knows that Paul Hollywood will make the final cutting decision as to a winner.

Again, the iconic sly grin as he looks back and forth at the faces of the contestants… a hesitant nod up and down of his head before he turns to Jamie Oliver… and extends his right hand in congratulations… the greatest honour he bestows… a winner is declared.

There is joy and sadness in everyone’s eyes, for in victory there also lies defeat. Usually…

… as Jamie Oliver retracts his hand from the celebratory Hollywood handshake… tot Oliver’s eyes grow 3 sizes larger as he sees Hollywood’s meaty hand slowly also extend outwards towards him in congratulations.

Smiles beam in every corner of the land.

And then Hollywood, whom many might describe as a modern-age Scrooge, quietly recites a few final words as today’s dream-scene descends to black:

Scrooge was better than his word. He did it all, and infinitely more; and to Tiny Tim, who did not die, he was a second father. He became as good a friend, as good a master, and as good a man, as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old world. Some people laughed to see the alteration in him, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless Us, Every One!

Bring Him Guilt, Frankenstein, and Mrrth

Mommy, my turtle is dead,” little Brandon sorrowfully told his mother, holding out the turtle that Santa had brought him.

His Mom kissed him on the head, then said, “That’s all right.”

“We’ll wrap him in tissue paper, put him in a little box, and then have a nice burial ceremony in the back yard. 

After that, we’ll go out for an ice cream sundae, and then go and get you a new pet.  I don’t want you….”

Brandon began to perk up. Her voice trailed off as she noticed the turtle move.

“Brandon, look, your turtle is not dead after all.”

“Oh,” the disappointed boy said.

“Can I kill it?”

……………………….

Is telling an oral joke a lost art for the average bloke (female “blake”?).

You know, a joke that takes 2 or 5 minutes to tell?

The jokester professionals are out there in force… the Seinfelds, Gaffigans, Rudners, Silvermans, Comet and Cupid and Donner and Blitzen… oops, that’s another blog post.

Going back decades, my Dad, a couple of uncles, even a cousin or two were great joke tellers… but… today… no one I encounter verbalizes a joke.

A pun yes, a quick one-liner, sure… but a fully laid out joke with a beginning, middle and end… NEVER!

I know I don’t, although I admit I am guilty of spouting a Dad joke here and there. And I’m a funny guy according to the mirror that I consult regularly. Of course the mirror lies to me all the time about my age, so why would I trust it?

I’m a visual learner (ie. reader) and punster.

So one of the things I enjoy most (this might be an oxymoron) about visiting a doctor or dentist office is the waiting room period and the plethora of magazines… and… Reader’s Digests.

I love those little humour stories inside and it’s the only time I see them. “Can someone else here go into the office first? I haven’t finished this Laughter Is The Best Medicine page yet.“

No, these aren’t oral, but today I’ll share a few little Reader’s Digest-style Christmas funnies to try and raise your level of mirth… and best of all, won’t add to your girth!

A man kills a (rein)deer and takes it home to cook for dinner.

Both he and his wife decide that they won’t tell the kids what kind of meat it is, but will give them a clue and let them guess.

Daddy says, “Well, it’s what Mommy calls me sometimes.”

The little girl screamed to her brother, “Don’t eat it. It’s an asshole!”

Dianne was going to the Christmas office party but needed a new party dress.

In the clothing store she asked:

“May I try on that dress in the window, please?”

“Certainly not, madam,” responded the salesgirl,

“You’ll have to use the fitting room like everyone else.”

Grandpa decided that shopping for Christmas presents had become too difficult. 

All his grandchildren had everything they needed, so he decided to send them each a cheque.

On each card he wrote: ‘Merry Christmas, Grandpa’

P.S. ‘Buy your own present!’ 

Now, while Grandpa enjoyed the family festivities, he thought that his grandchildren were just slightly distant.  It preyed on his mind into the New Year. 

Then one day he was sorting out his home office and under a pile of papers, he found a little pile of cheques for his grandchildren.  He had completely forgotten to put them in with the Christmas cards.

A woman goes into a sporting goods shop to buy a rod and reel for her grandson’s Christmas present. She doesn’t know which one to get so she just grabs one and goes over to the counter.

A salesperson is standing there wearing dark shades. She says, “Excuse me, sir. Can you tell me anything about this rod and reel?”

He says, “Ma’am, I’m completely blind; but if you’ll drop it on the counter, I can tell you everything from the sound it makes.”

She doesn’t believe him but drops it on the counter anyway.

He says, “That’s a six-foot Shakespeare graphite rod with a Zebco 404 reel and 10-lb test line. It’s a good all around combination; and it’s on sale this week for only $20.00.”

She says, “It’s amazing that you can tell all that just by the sound of it dropping on the counter. I’ll take it!” As she opens her purse, her credit card drops to the floor.

“Oh, that sounds like a Master Card,” he says.

She bends down to pick it up and accidentally passes gas. At first she is really embarrassed, but then realizes there is no way the blind clerk could tell it was she who tooted. Being blind, he wouldn’t know that she was the only person around.

The man rings up the sale and says, “That ‘ll be $34.50 please.”

The woman is totally confused by this and asks, “Didn’t you tell me the rod and reel were on sale for $20.00? How did you get $34.50?”

He replies, “Yes, ma’am. The rod and reel are $20.00, but the duck call is $11.00 and the catfish bait is $3.50.”

……………………….

And finally… may the spirit of this holiday season find you in the way you celebrate it best:

Knowing that the pastor enjoyed his drink, a hotel owner offered him a case of cherry brandy for Christmas in exchange for a free ad in the church newsletter.

The pastor agreed and ran this in the next issue:

“The pastor would like to thank Patrick Smith for his kind gift of a crate of fruit and for the spirit in which it was given.” 

It’s A Wonderful… River…

Joy and Peace…

Sure, Joy and Peace, but you’d expect in this COVID year that isolation and loneliness might be prime themes too because we know that really, despite all the uplifting messages flooding radio and TV, that…

… Christmas has shadows of schizophrenic experience for many; the river of happiness melts into another counterpoint tributary of sadness, each river and tributary a personal journey of a life lived.

I love the bittersweet… the blend of jubilation and melancholy… the summary of life and living.

This week, while listening to beautiful seasonal music on the radio, one song sunk its teeth into me… Joni Mitchell’s bittersweet RIVER… a song I don’t even remember hearing until maybe 15 years ago, despite its release 49 years ago in 1971.

It’s coming on Christmas
They’re cutting down trees
They’re putting up reindeer
And singing songs of joy and peace
Oh, I wish I had a river
I could skate away on…

River, from Mitchell’s 1971 BLUE album, was never released as a single.

Derivative of Jingle Bells and set at Christmas time, its opening and closing melody is “Jingle Bells” in a minor key. Yes, those minor keys that pour a mist of sadness over us.

River is thought to be Mitchell’s lament over the loss of a relationship with her “best baby that I ever had”, the one who “made me weak in the knees”, singer Graham Nash… although Mitchell is a bit coy in letting that out.

And now, in the last 20 years, River has ascended to holiday-hit status as an antidote to all those “songs of joy and peace.” “We needed a sad Christmas song, didn’t we?” Mitchell said with a chuckle on National Public Radio in 2014. “In the ‘bah humbug’ of it all.”

Aside from the sumptuous richness of the production of the song (so lush you can feel the rubbing of your shoulders with Joni on the piano bench)… taking her message of loss and sorrow and turning that blueness into something of beauty is clearly one that rings true for many.

Just drown in the chilly airiness of her singing “fly” near the end of verses 2 and 3.

And River was never truly written as a Christmas song.

Listening to the song, this week before Christmas, I’m struck by thoughts of other creations from times-past that have unexpectedly ridden a tsunami wave of popularity…

Another example… this time a cinema case-in-point:

It’s A Wonderful Life… the Frank Capra produced, Jimmy Stewart and Donna Reed-acted Christmas masterpiece.

Released 74 (!) years ago in 1946, it barely caused a blip on the popular radar. The film had disappointing attendance and sales, and didn’t even return its cost of production ($6.3 million).

Nominated for Best Picture in 1947, it lost out to The Best Years Of Our Lives. Jimmy Stewart lost in the Best Actor category to Frederic March, also from The Best Years Of Our Lives.

Stewart had barely returned from a 4 year-long stint as an Army Air pilot who flew 20 combat missions over Germany when he took on the role of distraught son, brother, father George Bailey and turned the suicidal character into an emotional icon of film. Critics derided it as overly sentimental…

… it languished in the movie backwaters until the 1980’s when it was released royalty-free into the public domain. It’s A Wonderful Life is now ranked #20 on the top list of movies by the American Film Institute.

The rest is history, the film is a fixture of holiday watching. And today… we all know how an angel gets his wings, right?

My Christmas is best savoured with the bittersweet…

… the unloved Charlie Brown tree, sailing away on Joni’s long river, the recovered desperation of George Bailey…

In whatever way you find your journey through this COVID holiday season – whether you say Merry Christmas or Happy Hanukkah or Kwanzaa (Habari Gani)…

… may you discover some Joy and Peace in your little corner of the world.

Pass The Christmas Cake and Remote Please…

ME… preparing for Christmas!

Ah yes, Christmas in COVID times… a new life experience for all of us who live in the Christian world.

I’m gonna put down my TV remote now and share my guilt trip with you today.

If you can’t feel guilty at Christmas, check your pulse. A Charlie Brown Christmas will just have to wait (but I can listen to the music while writing).

This morning, I was having my twice weekly online 6:30 am tutoring session with my Syrian refugee friend (let’s call him Amir).

We sip coffee and latte together, and chat amiably (in English only – beyond hello, goodbye and thank you, my Arabic sucks big time… yup, more guilt) about our daily lives and the world, before diving into the day’s lesson.

Growing up, Amir barely glimpsed the inside of a classroom in Syria, and after 5 years in Canada, he still struggles hugely with the writing and reading parts of this silly English language we take for granted.

His literacy difficulties (Larry, have you thought that maybe it’s your teaching that is the problem?) hold him back in a major way from obtaining meaningful employment in this country.

The family of 5 (now 7) escaped the brutal Syrian/Russian troop incursions into their small agrarian town near the Jordan border, and arrived in this country having never uttered as much as HELLO in English, and never having felt the bitter chill of snow blowing past their faces. Difficult life? You bet.

Anyway, today – with his burgeoning bundle of English vocabulary – Amir told me the story of his friendly next door neighbour, a 50’ish year-old fellow with 2 young sons – one in Grade 7 and the other in Grade 2.

Amir’s 5 year-old son and the neighbour’s younger son play together often, racing their miniature RC cars in the driveways of the townhouse complex where they live. VROOM VROOM…

The man’s wife is in prison (reason unknown).

Just these tiny pieces of information tell you that the neighbour and his family, like Amir’s, must be in a difficult situation. Then…

Yesterday afternoon… a host of screaming emergency vehicles, blue and red lights flashing – police, fire department, ambulance… CORONER… descended on the neighbour’s house next door… a dozen responders in full uniform…

… an hour and a half later, the neighbour, the father, was declared dead, likely of a heart attack.

As the lifeless father was rolled out of the house in a shiny black, zippered bag, a family member arrived to whisk the 2 boys off to a new “home” in the local area. Merry Christmas little ones.

Even though I don’t truly count myself as a “Christian” today, I’ve lived my entire life in the cozy saturation of Christianity and the Christmas family; beautiful religious ceremony, music, and scents have filled me with nostalgia and warmth and an inclusive sense of belonging… a belonging to something weighty, magical and mysterious. It’s as much a part of me as my heart and lungs.

But with each passing year, and especially so at this time of year, I feel the burden of the discomfort of others (cue melancholy Sarah McLachlan song). This isn’t a bad thing, I don’t think.

It’s good because it tells me that I am experiencing a greater awareness of the whole.

No matter how young or old we are, the ability to unearth and display compassion for others is crucial, and whether it’s tied to a religion or deity doesn’t really matter. Empathy for others isn’t connected to Christianity or Islam or Judaism etc.

Those sounds of discomfort I’m hearing are emanating especially loud this year amongst many individuals and families who despair at the thought of little or no physical connection to family as they awake Christmas morning. It’s not part of our fabled Christmas scene.

Worse still is that Christmas will be even more challenging this year for so many who struggle on a daily basis in ordinary times. These aren’t ordinary times, you know it.

One example in my world: I can only faintly imagine the crushing hurt and thoughts of isolation surging up this year in many of the folks I’ve encountered over the years at the local soup kitchen… or those who can’t visit loved ones in hospitals and care institutions.

And it reminds me to my core of how fortunate I’ve been to have so many opportunities and so many creature comforts… you know… Peace on Earth and Comfort and Joy.

My challenges are infinitely smaller than a family of Syrian refugees living on this alien Canadian “planet”, or a pair of 2 young brothers who’ve lost their main parent and home, and will struggle through a Christmas season like no other.

You will likely find this hard to believe as you read along, but a few hours back I sat down to write this as a light, fluffy piece; a ditty of sorts about my guilty pleasure of watching The Great British Baking Show and this silly passion I hold for sweet food porn interlaced with lovely English, Irish, and Scottish lilts…

… but as so often happens, a tiny voice builds up to a crescendo inside me and crowds my space and finds a different message to write about (you know that speaking about these voices publicly could land you in a totally different space Larry?)

If you’re floundering with Christmas blues this year (and I hope you’re not, but if you or someone you know is struggling – Canada’s Crisis Hotline – 1-833-456-4566), my wish is that you can search your universe and find the positives, your Silver Linings Playbook to get you through …

Here’s my offering, a tiny token to help you along your peaceful trail… another country-style Christmas tune (written by my old bestie John Denver) I played and produced in my little home studio this week. HO HO HO…

Lost Christmas

Like a straight-line, linear graph (this is my lab background rearing its ugly head) …

… emotional intensity rises as we inch closer to Christmas.

Must be all that Harking and Jingling and O Holy’ing…

The good, the bad, the beautiful, the tragic. The amplification soars.

I feel this intensity every year… my emotional core was struck deeply this past week by the news of a senseless cold-blooded murder of a young woman – a daughter, a sister, a student, a musician – in a New York City park.

Any parent will tell you that likely the most gut-wrenching and worrisome part of bringing children INTO the world, is still being alive to usher them OUT OF the world.

Nothing can prepare us for this.

Although I once experienced a close call many years back, I can only pretend to understand the inner devastation that cuts into a mother or father for the remainder of their days, upon the loss of a child.

So, as a kind of catharsis, I’ve “penned” a set of lyrics this week leading up to Christmas, that attempts to capture a bit of the heartbreak in losing a child, like the family of Tessa Majors … the unexpected, the shock, the despair.

CRIMSON CHRISTMAS   (A Parent’s Lament)

by Larry Green

INTRO:

If she wasn’t young and pretty
would they care?
If he wasn’t an agitated kid dressed out in civvies
would they care?
Are thoughts and prayers enough for us
to show they care… when
the past is our only gift left to unwrap

Verse 1

Silver bells and mistletoe laugh
why would she walk those steps
in darkness alone?
gaudy glittered trees and romantic chaff
frosty wreathes over blood-stained snow
our goodbye epitaph

Verse 2

What ghostly happenstance
brought her to this savage moment
this chain of devil’s chance
from a day of season’s fa-la-la’s
from a life crammed full of plans

CHORUS

Headlines rage
screen lines scathe
tears scorching scars
ripped into our hearts
who asked for this unwanted fraternity
lasting for eternity

Verse 3

Her jacket torn and gashed askew
down feathers fill the evening sky
her heart that lost its beat
her bro that’s lost his feet
her guitar left deathly quiet

Verse 4

There’s little left inside this shell
please god I’ll bare my chest with glee
slash me deep to spare her tears
Crush my face in gravelled snow
I’ll forgo life’s wine and years

Bridge

Our morning seems to never come
Snow angels turn your heads in shame… while…

CHORUS

Headlines rage
screen lines scathe
tears scorching scars
ripped into our hearts
who asked for this unwanted fraternity
lasting for eternity

… and the past is our only gift left to unwrap.

What Language Will You Learn in 2019?

Son of a Moose!

It’s so simultaneously frustrating and delightful… I know you’re speaking English, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.

And it’s not only because I’ve been drinking myself into an every-waking-moment anti-Trump sh*thole – OK, guilty as charged… but…

I love languages…  a kaleidoscope of colour and nuance and beauty in the form of words and the way they’re strung together. The phrase-work of Venus and Shakespeare.

I guess that’s why I enjoy writing this blog so much.

How many languages do you speak?

No, not Punjabi or Portuguese or Cree. If you can speak any of these, I am super-impressed and orgasmically jealous, but…

No matter your answer because we’re all multilingual.

Let me explain.

Just to be Christian seasonal, I’m pretty fluently Christmaslingual, but not Hannukahlingual or Diwalilingual … in my laboratory working life I was Blood-cellslingual and Bacterialingual but not fluent at all in Orthopedicese or Oncologese.

Different languages… in each stage of our lives we learn new languages, the words and phrases and acronyms that are confusing to most, yet have meaning to others surrounding us with whom we share a common bond.

In my days of working in hospital labs in Yellowknife or Comox or William’s Lake I would be called to SURG125 to draw a CBC for a TUPR on a patient with BPH to be done STAT.

Got that? Makes perfect sense if you speak LABese, right? You’ve had the same experience in whatever field you’ve travelled en-route to your livelihood.

This year I’ve been a “life coach” to a Syrian refugee family that needs assistance with the discombobulated convolutions of government and institutional bureaucracy. It’s been a crash course in a new set of language skills.

No matter how much French I learned in the classrooms of high school or Spanish in a language school in Cusco, Peru, I’m unprepared yet exhilarated by the onslaught of vocabulary needed to be effective or even understood in this latest incarnation of my life.

So while learning and understanding national languages is wonderful, adding to the richness of our existence, so too is learning a new “language” within our own tongue.

The fine-tuning of our brains needs the stretch of unknown unknowns that later become the known knowns.

In 2018, in addition to bureaucracy language I dangled my tongue in the tepid new language waters of:

• Vegan cooking
• Music production and recording
• Non-lab related medical issues
• Different music styles and tastes
• Skate-style Cross-country skiing
• Tai Chi
• Parachuting

Some new words that graced my tongue in 2018: AUG Funding and Permanent Resident Card, TVP (Texturized Vegetable Protein) and Cashew Cream, EQ and Normalization, Fenestration and Intracystic Septation, Fragile Chords and Pentatonic Scales, Diagonal Skate and Double Pole, Pushing Hands, Reserve Handle and Canopy.

When you think over your own past year of activity and events, what new words were added to your vocabulary? What levels of understanding became a part of who you are? What were the stretches of language you encountered along your journey?

With only a few days left in 2018, I’m searching my mind, trying to foresee, like the Spirit of Christmas Yet-To-Come, the vocabulary that will define the year 2019 for me.

But honestly, I have no idea where the path will lead… which languages will find a place in my lexicon.

Perhaps I’ll merely live by the words of lovably cantankerous Ebenezer Scrooge:

Ghost of the Future … But as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart.”

And finally, as we draw close to the day of Christmas and the sight of a new year, a new beginning:

And it was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us!’’