Holiday Help

by Beth Alexander Walsh

The holidays are here.

Will my list ever end?

The cards are on the counter,

with no time to send.

The tree is in the corner,

naked to the eye.

The presents are not wrapped,

and I need to bake a pie.

My list keeps on growing

as I stand in one more line.

Should I look for the perfect present

or would a gift card be just fine?

I forgot to book the groomer

so, the dog’s hair won’t be tame.

I also skipped the hairdresser;

dog and I will look the same.

My bank account is dipping and

my head is beginning to ache.

There are no visions of sugarplums,

only cookies I need to bake.

Tree needles cover the floor and

the house could use some cleaning.

I should be making merry and

find some Christmas meaning.

So, Santa I am begging

for you to send some aide.

Send me at least two elves

Or several Merry Maids!

Wishing everyone a SIMPLE and joyous holiday!

Things That Go Bump in the Night...

by Gail Balentine

It was cold and late and the snow was three feet deep. Nobody had been able to make it for my Christmas Eve party and there was no way that I would get to my daughter’s house for Christmas morning. Bah, humbug.

            I’d just headed toward the front door to turn off the outside lights when I heard a sound, muffled and undecipherable, but definitely a sound that didn’t belong. Perfect, a Christmas break-in? Well, he’ll get a present he’s not expecting from me! My baseball bat was in the closet. I got it and headed toward the living room.

All the lights were out except for the tree so I figured I’d startle whoever was there when I switched on the overheads. The room lit up only to find - nobody. It’s not a big room, not too many places to hide. I looked behind furniture and the tree. It was then that I realized the noise was coming from the fireplace. A critter of some kind stuck maybe?

            I tiptoed over to the chimney, feeling more than a little foolish, still all dressed up but now with a bat accessory. I bent over and that’s when I saw it, a foot – or rather a black boot – hanging down. Then there was a large puff of black soot that blew right in my face as a voice yelled clearly: “Oh no … help …ouch!”

            Coughing and sputtering, I reached out only to grab a handful of fur. When I could see, there was someone’s very round, very red velvet-covered backside trying to wiggle out onto my hearth. I was so stunned I forgot to be afraid and helped tug him out, the result of which was me pancaked on the floor beneath no less than what appeared to be jolly old St. Nick himself!

            “What the …” I pushed to get him off me and, with more agility than I thought he’d have, he jumped up and then gallantly helped me up. Before we could speak, a huge thud brought a bag crashing down onto the now scattered logs Santa had landed on, and toys spilled everywhere.

            There I was almost eye-to-eye – he’s not a tall man – with Santa Claus. He was grinning, eyes crinkling at the edges, cheeks black with soot, the what used-to-be-white fur of his suit now black. I couldn’t help it, I started laughing and so did he.

            “Well, that was some entrance Martha, wasn’t it?”

            Hearing my first name was instantly sobering. “How do you know my name and who … who are you really?” In a flash I’d decided he was a thief with a sick sense of humor. I looked for my bat.

            “Why of course I know your name, I used to go to your house when you were a child. I was sad the year Mary Ellen Polanski told you I didn’t exist and you believed her. I don’t go when children don’t believe in me.”

            I gasped. How could he possibly know about Mary Ellen? “You really are Santa Claus?!”

            “Yes, my dear, and I’m running late. I was stuck in your chimney for a while. By the way, it needs cleaning. And speaking of that …”  He looked down at his suit. It was a mess.

            We went to the back hallway and I helped him out of his coat. His red long johns were fine, no soot. I directed him toward the bathroom and proceeded to brush his coat and hat vigorously out the back door. The soot came off easily and I admired how soft and warm the suit was. The thought came to me that if I told anyone I had cleaned Santa Claus’ suit on Christmas Eve, they would shuffle me off somewhere with speed. I laughed again and it felt good.

            When he came back, he looked like all the Hallmark pictures I had ever seen of him – snowy white hair and beard, rosy cheeks, glasses low on his nose, and a belly that jiggled – reminding me that I now had a jiggle or two, myself. He quickly dressed and we went back into the living room.

            “May I ask you a question?” I said.

            His right eye quirked up. “You want to know why I’m here tonight – when none of your guests could get here and you don’t think you can go to your daughter’s house tomorrow?” He rummaged in his sack as he waited for me to answer him.

            “Well, yes, that’s exactly what I was wondering.”

            “Here it is!” He pulled out of the sack a beautiful, genuine Tiny Tears doll dressed in a pink and white dress with white shoes. It was identical to the one I had found under our Christmas tree so many years ago.

            “Oh!” was all I could manage to say.

            “I seem to remember a doll like this and a play bassinet way back when - do you?” My eyes filled as I nodded. “Well, just because I don’t come every year doesn’t mean I don’t check on my ‘older children’ now and again. And you’ve had a tough year.” He reached out and patted me on the shoulder gently. “A ruined party and Christmas without Sarah is not the way to end it off. I thought you could give the doll to your granddaughter and since she’s seven, like you were when I gave you yours, the two of you will enjoy playing with this one together.”

            I reached out, touched the box and could have easily been transported back to my childhood except for his voice urging me on.

            “Now, you need to hurry and get dressed for the trip. We have stops to make but we should get to Sarah’s house just as they wake up. I’ll leave you at the end of the walk and you can ring the bell.”

            “But … how?” Then I thought of his sleigh and reindeer and pinched myself. Since it hurt and I didn’t wake up, I ran upstairs, dressed warmly, and came back down to find him eating the cookies I still left out each Christmas. I put on my coat, grabbed the shopping bag full of presents for my family and the precious Tiny Tears doll, and then stopped short as he headed toward the front door.

            “Aren’t we going up the chimney?” I asked. I was getting into the spirit of the thing now.

            “Martha,” he looked at me over his glasses and said in a very patronizing voice, “Do be realistic. If I couldn’t fit coming down the chimney, how am I going to fit going up?” He shook his head.

            We went out front and he summoned the reindeer. Rudolph’s nose cast a red glow on the snow on my front lawn as Santa and I hopped into the warm, snuggly sled.

            “When they ask how I got there in the middle of a snowstorm, what am I to say?”
            “The truth. Tell them Santa stopped by your house, picked you up, and brought you there. Smile each time they ask and don’t change a word of your story. They will eventually stop asking how and instead start talking about the year grandma came for Christmas by sleigh.” I knew he was right.

            Santa looked at me and said, “Do you want to say it this time?”

            Bells jingled as we leapt into the air and I called out:

“Ho, Ho, Ho and a Merry Christmas!”

A Fully Functioning Feline

by Terri McFadden

Demanding, aloof, funny and affectionate – any cat lover has seen these characteristics and more in their beautiful friends. Often embodied in a single, sleek feline. Somehow the cat stories from my family that have stuck with me the longest are about a lovely, black cat named Theo. He was a singular fellow – the characteristics mentioned above - demanding, aloof and funny fit him well. As to affectionate, not so much. This was a cat who knew exactly what he wanted and how to get it from the humans he chose to live with.

He was born to a free cat mother. Our son and his friends found her and a litter of kittens on Brackenberry Beach and without asking, brought one of the tiny critters to our house. We hadn’t had a cat in several years and I had decided that I didn’t need another animal in the house, what with four children and a dog. But I was charmed by the small animal bounding over the living room furniture and it made me smile that the little mite had exactly the same black coloring and white toes as our dog, Sasha. With a little trepidation (I’d had some rather destructive cats) I agreed he could move in. A lengthy discussion on a proper name ensued – our youngest pushed hard for Paws, roundly rejected by our eldest, who didn’t like “a body part name”. The ‘music’ the cat made my husband think of a black jazz musician that he liked; why not call the cat Theo? The name stuck.

Previous cats, despite furniture clawing and litter-tray missing, had all been lap-cats. Not so Theo. He rarely deigned to visit any of the six laps available to him of an evening. When he did however, the recipient, while honored, knew he or she was required to sit perfectly still. If you moved or (worse yet) absentmindedly rubbed an ear or chin, you could be sure you would first get an angry green glare. Moving or rubbing a second time usually brought a lightning fast nip. Eventually I realized that Theo didn’t expect his furniture to move, let alone rub his head. Understandable, if you thought of it that way. How would you feel if your sofa shifted underneath you or reached up an arm to pat you on the head?

Theo turned out to be the easiest cat I’d ever owned…I’ll revise that…ever shared a home with. When he wanted to go out he scratched the door, quite gently. Unless of course, the human in the room didn’t respond quickly enough. When he wanted to eat he meowed in the kitchen next to the drawer where the can-opener was kept. And meowed and meowed. We moved pretty smartly to his jazzy tune.

When Theo was about eight years old, our son was home from college and we were going away for the weekend. Ross agreed to feed and keep the litter clean, as no one else would be available. Although the cat preferred to be outdoors, he was fastidious and would use a litter box if absolutely necessary. When we returned, our son had gone back to school. As we climbed the stairs to the second floor the pungent aroma of cat urine greeted us. A small wet spot adorned our bed – on my side. But far worse was to be found in Ross’s room. Suffice to say the mattress had to be discarded. At first, I feared that our black prince was ill. However, it turned out that the porch door, where the litter box was waiting, had not been propped open. Both the human servants were blamed, but punishment was meted out as was only fair for the transgressions involved. Theo was nothing if not a fair judge.

That evening, as my husband and I watched TV, the cat scratched to go out. I rose and opened the door. He exited. I sat again, got comfortable and resumed watching the show. Mere minutes passed. As was his way, Theo flung himself, full-body on the exterior screen door. (His ‘let me in’ was always perfectly clear.) My husband rose, opened the door. Cat in. Giving us a clear-eyed look, he turned and raised one paw and scratched again. Sighing I got up and let him out. He vanished into the night, evidently satisfied that the door openers were once again working properly.

A few years later we moved to the mountains of North Carolina. I was fearful that the coyotes and foxes would make short work of this city cat. I remember thinking, ‘it’s a big house, he can explore it, at least for a few weeks’. The long journey had subdued the feisty animal and that first night he curled in a corner of our bedroom and fell asleep. In the middle of the night a commotion roused us. Turning on the light we saw our joyful cat, happily tossing a desiccated mouse from paw to paw. You could almost hear him say how much he loved his new country home; hunting had never been such a breeze back in Massachusetts.

The evening after our arrival, Theo scratched at the door leading to the yard. I ignored him. He subsided and I thought he was settling to a new, less active way of life. Minutes went by. Unseen by me he had circled the living room, silently slipped behind my chair and clawed the brand-new, brown leather. Never in his life had he clawed the furniture. Recognizing the inevitable, I got up, called the dog and we made a little parade behind Theo to the front door. I opened it, he turned right, padding across the grass. We followed. He stopped, looked over his shoulder and hissed. Loudly. His meaning was crystal clear: “I’m a fully-functioning feline. Leave me alone!”

I was sure that was the end of his imperious highness. Surely, he would become dinner for some larger carnivore. When we retired long after dark, he hadn’t returned and I comforted myself that I’d only done what he wanted. I couldn’t force him to be a different sort of cat – a housecat. Sadly, I just hoped his end had been swift.

About three in the morning a soft scratching could be heard on the door to the deck off our bedroom. Somehow Theo had figured out which was our bedroom – I’d let him out on the opposite side of the house at ground level. He came up a long flight of steps to the deck after his adventures in the new and beckoning countryside.  Clearly, he was a match for any wild mountain carnivore. A fully functioning feline and a very happy fellow indeed.