Christmas Past

Christmases Past





Tis the season for Christmas movies and in watching Scrooge for the thirtieth time, I decided to take a trip down memory lane to my Christmases past.



I was not surprised that it was not the gifts or lack of gifts that brought out cherished memories, but tiny moments of love or laughter that stood out.



Thought I would share some of those, so others might reflect on similar moments, and perhaps relax enough during this hectic season to take time to appreciate the small things.



# 1 memory “It does not take riches to laugh.”

When I was seventeen my sister lived on an Indian reservation in Northern Minnesota. I drove up to her North shore home for the holidays. Things were tight for my sister. She did not have money for fancy decorations. Getting a tree was an easy task, since my sister lived in the woods. We did not have to spend money for a tree, just the time and energy to cut one down. No fancy ornaments or colored lights, but out came the string and on went the popcorn on the stove. Well, my sister was so poor; she had the pan, but no lid. So when the popcorn began to pop-- it flew all over the kitchen. We chased after the flying popcorn, catching it in our bowls, laughing the whole time. We trimmed the tree with popcorn and cranberries and paper chains. Okay, some of the popcorn went in our mouths, but the point is we did not need fancy trimmings to enjoy each other.



#2 memory “Always stay young at heart.”

One Christmas when I was a teen my church had a Jesse Tree at the front of the church. Then each Sunday during advent, children were to come up and place an ornament on the branches. The ornaments depicted the events up until Christ’s birth.



My dad at the time was sixty-five years old. He was a big man, over six feet, barrel-chested and pot-bellied, and a loud voice to match his stature. The first Sunday of advent I was sitting in-between my mother and father for mass. Imagine my mother’s surprise, and mine, when the priest asked for the children to come up and place their decorations on the tree, and up pops my dad. As the children shuffled up the isle, there was my dad amongst them, all two hundred and sixty pounds of him. There were murmurs in the pews and I slunk down lower in my mortification. He placed his handcrafted decoration reverently on the tree and trekked back to his seat next to me. My mom chastised him all the way home for embarrassing us. Finally after being able to get a word in edgewise, this is what he had to say,

“ Mary” “The priest said, ‘Children come up and place your ornaments on the tree’ am I not a child of God? We should never be too old to celebrate the origins of our belief.“



I still was embarrassed at the time, and yes he continued putting ornaments on the Jesse tree for the rest of the season. I now realize what great insight my dad had, and courage to act upon those revelations.

#3 memory “Don’t take things so seriously”

I married my dad! No truer statement could be made. Asking my husband to go to the store is a fool’s errand. He usually comes back with everything but…what was on the list.

My mom’s experience was much the same.



One Christmas Eve my mother asked my father to go out to the local store and pick up some needed household items. My dad agreed to do the task, and at least mentioned he might take a little longer, since he had last minute Christmas shopping.



He arrived home and took off for the garage to wrap his presents. My mom interrupted his endeavors with an inquiry to the items she had sent him for.

“Oh yeah, I’m sorry I got carried away and must have forgot.”

She was non-to happy at this revelation. The stores were now closed and she continued to gripe at my dad the remainder of the night. Christmas morning we attended church and then returned home to open presents. As my mom opened those labeled with her name she unwrapped a beautiful expensive perfume bottle of Chennel #9. The next package contained light bulbs, the next toilet paper, and the next salt for the soft water machine. All the items she had asked dad for.

“Sy, why did you let me go on last night instead of just giving me the items?”

“Mary, you enjoy nagging, that was my part of my gift.”

My dad said this while joining the rest of us in laughter. That taught me to not always take everything so seriously.



I have many more experiences because I am constantly learning but I think this couple should help you to figure out some of your own and hopefully make you smile.

Secret Santa

SECRET (NINJA) SANTA










“Ahhh!!!”

I hear a scream coming from the living room. As I race down the hall, pain-filled words follow the scream.

“I’m blind, I’m blind,” my ex-Marine husband exclaims. He faces my voice, his eyes squinted shut. He is holding a pair of night-vision goggles.

“What happened? “ I ask.

“I almost had him,” he responds.

“Had who?”

“Our Secret Santa! But the noise-sensitive flood lights came on and blinded me through the goggles.”

We’ve had a Secret Santa leaving presents the last couple of days. The gifts are accompanied by a poem coinciding with the twelve days of Christmas. Now my husband and I had both belonged to a military intelligence unit when we met. We now own and operate a martial arts studio. So, sometimes my husband forgets there is a regular world out there that does not require paranoid surveillance.

“Let’s see what he left,” I say walking to the front door.

“Yeah, I guess its okay,” my husband agrees. “He’s long gone by now.”

It’s five gold napkin rings. “Why is it so important to catch our benefactor?” I ask William, playing with the rings.

“I just hate the idea someone can get one on us.”

“What do you mean get one on us?’

“You know, sneak up on us. We are the sneaks.”

I shake my head, and the stakeout continues. Our Santa never comes at the same time, so it makes things difficult. William becomes obsessed and recruits our daughter into the operation. I come home from the studio to find black construction paper on all the windows facing the front of the house. Eyeholes are cut out and there are no lights on inside except for a red glowing chem. light.

“Where is Ciara?” I ask.

“Shhh, bedroom,” he whispers.

I go to our daughter’s bedroom. There she sits. On a chair. Facing the blackened window. Keeping lookout. Through peepholes.

Now it is my turn to yell, and when I let loose with an “Ahh,” my daughter starts and jumps up from the chair. My husband runs down the hall.

“Did you see something? What direction did they come from? Couldn’t you signal quietly?”

I answer in order.

“No. I don’t know. And I’M TIRED OF BEING QUIET!”

Our daughter returns to her post and softly says, “I think there’s something on the porch.”

My husband then gives me the look, the one that says “Thanks a lot” and really doesn’t mean it.

I privately think, he needs a hobby.

This time it is eleven “Lords a Leaping” ornaments. There’s one day left to catch the Ninja Santa.

This time William goes all out. He dresses in his Army cold weather, all white, gear. He climbs on the roof to settle in for the watch.

I’m sitting inside watching “White Christmas” on the tube when a loud war cry comes from out front, followed by an “oomph.”

I race to the front door to see the pursuit in progress. My husband is chasing a black-clad figure down a couple of yards. I pull on my boots to follow, to keep William in check. The Ninja-Santa jumps a neighbor’s fence, and their large but friendly dog tackles the culprit. William pulls the dog off the figure and hauls him to his feet. He removes the hood on the now very docile St. Ninjalas

It is a young 17-year-old from the Taekwondo school.

“Jeesh, Mr. Guy this Twelve Days of Christmas Secret Santa business has been a tradition of my family for years. But this had to be the hardest mission ever.”

William was grinning ear to ear. “Caught ya, didn’t I? Can’t get one over on me.”

I pat the young man on the back and say, “This was the best Christmas present you could have given him.”

But I hope next year our students just give us cookies.

Eliminating Fear 

“ Trips to the out house

daily routine of elimination

first thing in the morning

last thing at night.”


My sister wrote that poem about her austere way of life in the north woods. People suffer all kinds of disabilities but few rank up there as too embarrassing to discuss. We all associate bowel talk as a subject for the elderly or young mothers potty training their toddlers. Circumstance has changed both my life and my views.

Elimination is a part of everyone’s life; no one escapes it, yet why does it embarrass us so? Maybe because we recognize there are many kinds of toxins that we need to eliminate, not just from the food we eat or the air we breathe. Toxins such as negative thoughts or words that we fail to eliminate and drag us down or stop us from reaching our goals. Living with an ostomy means: I no longer can just appear strong but that I am strong.

A couple of years ago I became very ill with ulcerative colitis. It is a physically painful and embarrassing disease. It started out with; I could not go anywhere there was not a bathroom close by, to not eating for thirty days. I was hospitalized and the doctors could not get the disease under control, thus resulting in an operation. This operation involved the complete removal of the large intestine. I have what they call an ileostomy. Without a bowel I have no normal way to excrete toxins out of my body, “In lay terms I can’t poop.” So part of my intestines is pulled out through a hole that is made in my abdomen and waste exits there in a bag I attach every couple of days. I was told that as an osmotic that I would live a perfectly normal life. There were only a few things I could not do, like: wrestling, football, and martial arts.

Martial Arts! I owned and operated a martial arts school for the last twenty years and was the only breadwinner of a family of four. The doctor said, “ You could easily herniate the intestine with that vigorous of exercise and you must be careful not to receive a blow to that area.”

“ It’s okay’” I said. “I block really well.” Anyway being an A-type personality I continued in the martial arts.

This brings us to living and dealing with the ileostomy. The very act of kicking for me is a risk, not to injury but in an embarrassing situation. The bag that is attached to my stomach is applied simply with a paste similar to denture cream and a sticky tape wafer. I take a chance every time I throw a kick that the apparatus could dislodge resulting in a mess.

Of course this in fact has happened. That perfect day, or so it seemed, over one hundred students came through my school doors. I felt fulfilled, then the sh__ hit the fan or should I say ran down my leg. I closed my eyes momentarily and prayed, “Please. God, just let me disappear now.” I didn’t disappear and as I looked up at my students I knew it was time to put my mental martial arts training into place. I excused myself and went into the bathroom, cleaned up, changed and went back out to teach. I then shared with the class my ailment. In doing so opened up the floor to all sorts of dialogue I had no idea was possible. Some shared with me ailments they had that I did not know afflicted them. As a result of my sharing and my example of continuing in my training some felt inspired to accomplish their goals. I continue to be open, both in an outside of the school. I’m not shy about my ostomy and I have been surprised at how many people know of someone with some type of ostomy or are an ostomite themselves.

I still have bad days because there are a lot of inconveniences to this disability. I generally try to use humor to diffuse them. I make jokes about myself like: I give a whole new meaning to, “I have a gut feeling,” or, the other day when I went to the pharmacy and they asked me, “What kind of bags do you need?”

I had to remember not to say, “Paper!”

Yes, humor helps on those days when I would rather not put up with this disease’s challenge. There are many different avenues of coping as there are people with this problem. I have a few friends who find it difficult to leave their homes or to travel. I look at it this way: I am an ostomite whether I leave home or not, so eliminate fear and live life!

Life On The Rez

Life On The Rez. II

LUCY



Lucille Ball had nothing on my sister and I.

One time while visiting my sister on the Grand Portage Indian Reservation we proved this theory. My sister was living with her husband and child in her mother-in-law’s residence. An unenviable position. It is hard enough for the average daughter-in-law to measure up to her spouse’s mother’s expectations, but my sister compounded this by being twenty years younger then her husband and being white.

Granny (her mother-in-law) decided to lie down for an afternoon nap. While she was napping, we decided to catch up on the laundry. Life on the reservation was hard. Poverty abound, and although it was the early nineteen eighties, conveniences were behind the times.

“Therese, get me the basket of clothes from the living room." My sister instructed. As I returned to the kitchen I saw my sister roll out a strange looking contraption from a storage closet. It looked like a white tub with four, three feet tall legs. There was an electronic cord and a hose attached. She plugged in the cord and began attaching the hose to the sink as I exclaimed,

“What the heck is that?”

“It’s a washing machine silly.”

She said this as if we had not grown up in the same household with all the latest modern equipment.

She sighed. “It is the best we have, and it does the job.” She brushed back a lock of wavy black hair behind her ear and continued, “Besides it beats the heck out of a washboard.”

I shrugged my shoulders and began loading the ancient cleaning apparatus. After loading, I turned to my sister and inquired,

“Where’s the laundry detergent?”

My sister’s green eyes widened.

“ Ahhh, opps, we are out.”

“You want me to run down to the trading post?”

“It’s closed. But I have an idea.” My sister said as she bent over and opened the cabinet beneath the sink. She pulled out a bottle of dish soap.

“Soap is soap right? If it can clean dishes, it should clean clothes just fine.”

Sounded good to me. So we poured some into the machine and turned it on. We then retreated to the living room, her to work on a sewing project, and me to play with my nephew. We heard the device agitating and gurgling a bit, and with naivety continued with our tasks. A short time later we went to check on the clothes, and low and behold, the kitchen was filled with bubbles. It was like a scene from a Lucy episode. It was hard to even locate the washer. Panic ensued with the thought of my sister’s mother-in-law coming out and confirming her view of my sister’s ineptitude.

We slipped and slid our way into the sudsy mess and grabbed some bowls from the cupboards. The bailing commenced. We would then run to the bathroom with the containers and fill the tub, rinsing the bubbles down the drain. We were soon soaked and were trying not to be loud. The absurdity of the situation, coupled with the fear of waking Granny, made it difficult not to break out in hysterical laughter. We managed to mop up the remaining mess with towels, just moments before Granny awoke from her rest.

Granny entered the kitchen. Behind her bottle cap thick glasses, her eyebrows arched. The floor sparkled clean and the air had a lemony fresh scent. I think that, along with our disheveled appearance, gave off the wrong impression.

“Oh wah, didn’t know you guy’s were going to scrub the floors, guess your good for something.”

I think that was the first time in my life I was quiet, probably cause I was biting my tongue to keep from laughing. Oh, and by the way the clothes came out clean too, but soap is not always the right soap. Lesson learned.

Pillow Talk (A Valentines Day Up-date)

Pillow Talk


“The titanium screws in my ankle,” he moans. “The arthritis in my knee,” I whine.

It becomes a contest.

“The crick in my neck”

“My lower back”

“My blood sugar is low”

“I think I have a kidney stone”

I finally acquiesced. “You win.”

“I win.” He says as a smile spreads across his face. The smile quickly turns into a puzzled look. “I win what?’

I sigh, and reply, “The last Tylenol with Codeine and a peaceful nights sleep. I’m heading for the living room and the Lazyboy.”

I think I remember what our Pillow Talk use to sound like. You know, before children, or gray hair.

“I Think we need a new mattress, this one is lumpy.”

“Who needs a new mattress when we have each other for comfort.”

“Ohh is that cinnamon lotion.”

“Yea, for one spicy hot woman.”

“Is that the phone I hear?”

“It can wait, our love can’t.”

Then it slowly started to change as the years snuck by.

“ I think they mismarked the mattress, there does not seem to be enough room for both of us on this king sized bed.”

“ Ohh! Honey, is that Tanactrin? Could you rub some on my foot, I think I’m getting a fungus under my left toe.”

“ Is that the phone I hear? ”

“ I’ll get it, it might be Joe about war gamming night.”

My little trip down memory lane is interrupted, as my concerned, loving spouse, comes out to my Lazyboy sanctuary. He brings me a heated rice sock for my neck.

“ Aww, you do still love me.” I croon.

“ Of course Hon,” he replies. “But could you try keeping the snoring down a bit tonight? I think it might help that peaceful night sleep I won.”

I resist the urge to throw the rice sock at him.

“Sure DEAR, but maybe, you could use the ear plugs I so lovingly bought you for Christmas.”

“Good idea.” He mumbles as he ambles back down the hall to the bedroom.

(A Few Days Later)

Well, I’ve come to a conclusion; it may be less heart pounding talk, and occasionally from different pillows, but at least we still talk. I have to sign off now; William and I are having a race. Who can fall to sleep fastest? He misplaced the earplugs somewhere and he cuts the Z’s rather loud himself. I think I have a Bayer nighttime left somewhere.