Over the years, I have sent homemade Christmas cards to friends and family. Since I have no talent for art, decoupage or scrapbooking, I tried writing a short (hopefully humorous) holiday story.

Sunday, December 20, 2009

2009 - "It looks like rain, dear, for Christmas"

There once was a reindeer named Dasher
Who consulted a New York haberdasher.
He said, ‘Make me fashionable,
Not normal or rational.
‘Cause I see myself much more panacher.”

There once was a reindeer named Dancer
Who vacationed near the Tropic of Cancer.
She lounged by the pool
Looking sexy and cool
Searching for a buck to romance her.

There once was a reindeer named Prancer
Who wanted to be a break-dancer.
The antlers made it rough
So he had them cut off,
Hoping a bald head would be the answer.

There once was a reindeer named Vixen
Whose beauty was very transfixin’
She turned up her nose
At all of her beaux
Whom she led on just to eighty-six ‘em.

There once was a reindeer named Comet
Who asked, “Where’s the island of Guam at?
My stomach’s upset
So I need to get
A balm made of Guam palm to calm it.”

There once was a reindeer named Cupid
Who did something incredibly stupid,
She drank too much grog,
Mulled wine and egg nog,
And got a DUI near Guadelupe

There once was a reindeer named Donder
Who in a past life was a condor.
That might explain why
He soars through the sky,
But the laying of eggs is a wonder.

There once was a reindeer named Blitzen
Who loves New Orleans where she sits in
With a Dixieland band
Playing piano four-hand
While tour groups watch her, kibitzin’

There once was a reindeer named Rudolph
Who is an expert at black-and-blue golf.
In spite of its name,
This reindeer game
Is tame. It’s not quite that rough.

Have a Happy Christmas. See you here in 2010.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

2008 - A Pre-Crisis Visit from Sain T'Niklas

A PRE-CRISIS VISIT FROM SAIN T’NIKLAS.

By Clement C. Moore 5
Translated from Interlac

T’was the night before Pre-Crisis Christmas, when and all through our quarters
Not a creature was stirring, not even Proty.

The stockings were hung by the radiant heating fixture with care
In hopes that Sain T’Niklas soon would be there.

Graym and Validus were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And Imra in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap--

When out in Legion Square, there rose such a clatter
I sprung from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the view screen I flew like a flash,
Input my username and entered my password

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a giant space ship, and eight omnibeasts*

With a youthful looking pilot, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be Sain T’nik.

More rapid than tarocs** his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

"Now, Daxam! now, Braal! now, Rimbor and Durla!
On! Colu, on! Bgztl, on! Winath and Orando—

To the top of the porch, to the big giant “L”!
Now, dash away, dash away, dash away all!"

So, up to the rocket pad the coursers they flew,
With a ship full of toys -- and Sain T’Niklas too.

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof,
The stomping and tromping of each giant hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Over by the viewscreen, Sain T’Niklas materialized without a sound.

He was dressed all in synth-fur from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all covered with a personal trans-suit.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a holo-vid infomercial spokesperson just opening his pack;

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And if smoking hadn’t been outlawed in the 22nc century, the smoke would have encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face, and a little round belly
That shook when he laughed, like a Bouncing Boy full-size action figure.

He was chubby and plump--a right jolly old elf;
And I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself only having one arm.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his wrist-mounted-communicator,
And giving the word, he dematerialized.

He appeared in his ship, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a Winathian corn-thistle;

But I heard him exclaim, ere he flew out of sight,
"Merry Christmas to all, and try not to pay too much attention to continunity, because it is quite unreasonable to expect our modern chroniclers to hold fast and true to stories written almost fifty years ago, and besides it’s just a comic book, and to all a good night."

*Adventure Comics 309, “The Legion of Super Monsters”
** Adventure Comics 312, “The Super Sacrifice of the Legionnaires”


All right! It's time to reveal my dirty little secret. At 57 years old, I am a comic book fan. More specifically, a fan of the Legion of Super Heroes, a franchise of DC Comics that is over 60 years old. The Legion is a group of super-powered teenagers who fight crime and galactic invaders in the 31st century. If you are not familiar with the Legion, you won't get any of the jokes, but trust me, the fanboys who find there way here are LOLing and ROFing.

Next post: This year's Christmas message.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

2008 - There once was a fellow named Santa

There once was a fellow named Santa
Who wanted to move to Atlanta
“I’m tired of snow
And 40 below
I can move on down South if I wanta.”

He met with the elves and the Mrs.
And explained to them about his wishes.
The head elf, named Steve
Said, “When do we leave?”
And his wife just smothered him with kisses.

In a warehouse out off of route 9
Were elves in a wild conga line,
‘Cause Steve had replaced
Every tool in the place
With Computer Aided Design.

Since the hot red suit was so not couturesy,
The elf wardrobe master, Percy,
Gave Santa shorts and flip-flops
Assorted tank tops
And a replica Matt Ryan* jersey.

At the reindeer corral, Santa found
That their diet has made them quite round,
Instead of mistletoe
They pigged out on kudzu
And are too fat to get off the ground.

He learned that production had stalled
Since, Mrs. Claus had not sorted at all
The letters from boys
And girls about toys,
‘Cause she was spending her days at the mall.

Steve told Santa, “This year, I foresee,
We won’t have enough under each tree.
But I’ve dealt with a friend
Who works at Nintend-
-O, to get every kid in the world a new Wii.”

After an overnight session on eBay,
They remembered – no reindeer, no sleigh.
But with some elf luck
Steve found a red pick-up truck
Could be air-dropped by Chevrolet.

Then at last, Santa Claus ventured forth
In his elf-dusted flying transport.
Then we heard his voice call,
“Merry Christmas, y’all!
Next year, we’re moving back North.”

*Hunky quarterback for the Atlanta Falcons

In 2008, I began my first blog, The International Center for Limerick Studies, in which I attempted to publish an original limerick every day. Some were quite vulgar, some were suggestive, but that is the way of the limerick. At Christmas approached, it only made sense to write a story in limerick style.

Monday, December 14, 2009

2007 - The Christmas Day Massacre

The following is an excerpt of a transcript of a surveillance recording made at the Badda Bing strip club, Newark, New Jersey on November 1, 2007 by the New Jersey field office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Special Agent in charge – Clarice Blackbird

Meeting called by Anthony Soprano, capo of New Jersey crime organization.

Soprano: Ok, let’s get down to business. I’d like to thank all of you; some of you have traveled long distances, for coming to this meeting. It is good to see the members of the 7 families together again. Welcome, Father Time, representing New Year’s Day,

Time: Thank you, Tony.

Soprano: All the way from Mother Roma, Cupid to speak for St. Valentine’s Day.

Cupid: (Speaking Italian, translation to follow)

Soprano: The little fella in the corner, Easter Bunny.

Bunny: Big enough to kick your –

Soprano: Hey, hey, I meant no offence. Lighten up, there.

Bunny: (indistinct)

Soprano: Welcome to the Spirit of America, representing Independence Day, Uncle Sam.

Sam: Good to see all of you gentlemen again.

Soprano: From Halloween, Jack O’Lantern. We all trust the flight from Ireland was pleasant.

O’Lantern: Enough Guinness makes any journey pleasant.

Soprano: And last but certainly not the least, here’s Fat Tom Turkey, to speak for Thanksgiving.

Turkey: Stop pulling my leg, Tony. (laughter) That never gets old. And I would like to thank our friend Tory for providing this security force. I didn’t realize that you had so many big bruisers in your crew.

Soprano: Yeah, well, these are some freelance guys. But I can vouch for them. Your as safe here as in your mothers’ arms. As you can see, the big Kraut is missing. Santa Claus was not invited to this meeting . . .

Time: . . . ‘Cause Fat Tom wants to whine about the Kraut muscling in on his territory, like he does every year. Look, it’s been like this for years. Claus gets the biggest territory, because he accepted the winter months, - like I did – and he needs a bigger area to generate his income.

Turkey: Listen, old man – no offense to my long time friend – but the Kraut is expanding even beyond my territory.

O’Lantern: That’s right. You all saw it. There was more red and green in the stores than black and orange all throughout October. I’m joining Fat Tom to ask – no, to demand – that this group do something to rein in Santa Claus.

Turkey: How long before he tries to squeeze you out, Time. Those after-Christmas sales are extending past New Year’s.

Cupid: (speaking Italian)

Soprano: Well said, my friend. Gentlemen, between the six of you, you control holidays across the entire calendar. But – forgive me for being frank – your combined take, doesn’t even come close to what Santa Claus brings to his North Pole home. I believe that your compatriot, Fat Tom, would like you to consider what your operations would be like without Christmas monopolizing holiday expenditures.

Sam: Hold on. I haven’t any problems with Santa Claus. He doesn’t bother Independence Day.

Turkey: Just you wait. A few billion I-Pods and Playstations dropped down some chimneys in China, and we’ll see how eager the Chinese will be to ship all thase fireworks for you. And face it, without fireworks, you’re nothing. And Cupid, when’s the last time that February jewelry sales beat December sales.

(Many voices speaking at once)

Soprano: Gentlemen, gentlemen! Please, some order, please. I’m just a neutral facilitator here, but it is evident to me that the size of Santa Claus’ operation is a threat to all of you.

(Murmuring)

Turkey: Now is the time to strike. If we whack the Kraut, we can bring in some new blood with heavy tribute for all of us. The Teamsters would love to elevate Labor Day. Think of the St. Patrick’s Day beer revenue that we could get a piece of.

(Murmuring)

Soprano: My friends, you could argue this until Christmas. (Laughter) This has been brewing for a long time. Without any objection, I suggest that by a show of hands, you vote on Tom’s proposal. Do you want to eliminate Santa Claus. . . . two, three, four, five . . . I’m sorry, Mr. Bunny, you’ll have to stand up. . . six.

Turkey: Thank you my friends. Now, are there any objection that we allow our friend, Tony, to handle this job for us?

(Murmurings of agreement)

Soprano: Thank you for your confidence in my organization. (Sound of chair movement) Although, I will have to break the news to my children. Meadow was counting for a convertible.

(Laughter, followed by doors bursting open)

Unknown voice: RED DOG, ONE BLUE EIGHTEEN!
(Sounds of gunshots, probably automatic weapons, shouting in both high- and low-pitched voices)

Turkey: (weakly) Tony, how could you?

(Single gunshot)

Soprano: Sorry, Fat Tom, just business. All clear. Peyton, let our friend in please.

Claus: Ho, ho, ho. What have we here? What could have happened to all of my dear friends? It looks like they didn’t appreciate their early Christmas presents. I was sure that they would like bullets.

(Laughter)

Soprano: I had no ideas that Elves could handle this kind of armament.

Claus: Are you kidding? They’ve been in training for over twenty years. I never trusted that old bird.

Soprano: Well, I suggest we vacate the premises as soon as possible. But I would like to finalize our . . .

Claus: Ho ho, ho. Not to worry. Just like we discussed. Thanksgiving is gone, now it’s Pre-Christmas, and New Year’s Day will be the last day of Christmas. Easter will be named Spring Christmas – I’ve already got my candy and basket operations working overtime. St. Valentine’s Day will be Lover’s Christmas. We’ll have American Christmas to replace the Fourth of July here in the US, and we’ll be taking over other national holidays across the globe. Halloween will be Dark Christmas – the gross profit on candy is so much higher than toys. And Tony, in addition to your percentage of all of this, you will also run St. Joseph’s Day with its new status as a full holiday. It’s about time the old buy got some attention.

Soprano: You are very kind. But what about Peyton Manning and our other friends here?

Claus: I did not forget your security detail. It was a precision operation, keeping my former colleagues pinned down while the elves moved in. Gentlemen, in exchange for a set of signed game-worn jerseys, we will be elevating Super Bowl Monday to full world holiday status, and we will help you push futbol – I’m sorry, soccer – off of the world sport scene.

Manning: Thank you sir, we were pleased to be involved. Say, would you like a cool “18” decal for the side of your sleigh? It’s priceless.

Claus: Don’t push it, son. (Laughter) Well, you’re all invited to my retreat for a little celebration.

Soprano: Thank you, but I’m not sure about the North Pole . . .

Claus: (expletive deleted) I’m talking about my place in the Bahamas. Just keep it quiet. Mrs. Claus doesn’t know about this one.

(Laughter)

This idea came from a comment referring to Thanksgiving as "Pre-Christmas". I imagined a plot engineerted by the riant retailers to eliminate the Thanksgiving meal to allow more time for shopping. That warped into a mob takeover. In 2007, I had never seen an episode of the Sopranos, but I worked with plenty of people who did. This one was for them.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

2006 - The Census

An excerpt from “The Inkeeper’s Tale” by Michael J. MacArthur

The following is an excerpt of a much longer story of Asa, the innkeeper in Bethlehem who witnessed the birth of Jesus Christ. In this tale, the young Asa is a shepherd boy living with his extended family in the hills above Bethlehem. When his father dies, Asa is adopted by Salah, who owns many businesses in Bethlehem, including an inn. Salah teaches the boy about the sacred Hebrew scriptures, and about the unwritten code of navigating the political waters of the the Temple and of a city occupied by the Roman Empire. Asa grows up to become a promenent business leader and a teacher in the local temple. After the events in this chapter, Asa and his wife move to Jerusalem and become a part of the life, death and rising of their Messiah, Jesus Christ.


* * * * *

I am Asa, son of Levis, a shepherd of the hills above Bethlehem. I am also Asa, adopted son of Salah, innkeeper of Bethlehem, synagogue elder and teacher. I am also Asa, innkeeper, businessman, former member of the Sanhedrin of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem and a witness to some of the most wonderous events in the history of our people.

* * * * *

One afternoon, an assistant to the local Roman governor visited me at the inn. After finishing many cups of wine, (“No charge for the aide to the governor,” I had foolishly said.), he told me about an upcoming census of all of the lands controlled by Rome. Caesar wanted an accounting of all of his subjects. Our people, like the members of all other conquered nations, would be required to return to our birthplaces to be counted. The governor wanted to reserve a number of our rooms for the Roman accountants and the representatives from the court of Herod who would be on hand. He offered to pay a premium rate to insure that his Roman guests were treated in a proper manner. I assured him that Asa’s Inn would be at his disposal.

He had given us about three months to prepare. The census workers would fill almost all of our guest rooms. I moved my servants from their quarters to tents on the back of my property. I arranged to rent rooms and entire houses from families who would be traveling to their own birthplaces. I knew that I could re-rent the rooms at a generous profit. My wife, Relana, turned her seamstresses to work making bed linens and I hired tent makers from as far away as Jerusalem. We overfilled our food stores and bought extra cattle and fowl for slaughter.
Soon Bethlehem was filled with pilgrims and many of them found their way to our front door. We operated at full capacity for weeks. Every room and every tent was in use. We even opened up our winemaking rooms for cots and bedrolls. A number of the visitors to Bethlehem stayed with their own family members, and I was able to capitalize on them also. My kitchen prepared many entire feasts that we delivered to wives overwhelmed by houses full of hungry relatives. I visited the synagogue every day to thank God for our good fortune.

Late one evening, my servant found me and told me of a young couple from Nazareth who needed a place to stay. The woman was pregnant, about to give birth, he reported. At the door, I met a stranger dressed in a shabby cloak. I had enough problems keeping all of my patrons content. Now I had to deal with a Nazarene, probably with an empty purse, who was looking for alms.

“My man told you that there is no room at the inn,
I trust?” I asked him.

“Yes, sir, but there is no other place to go and my wife will soon deliver her child.”

“It is not my fault that you are traveling at this time.”

“Please, sire. Caesar chose the time of the census and God chose the time for the child to be born. We have food and provisions, we only need a place to rest.”

By this time, Relana had joined me at the door and had overheard our conversation. Her delicate fingers became iron spikes in my forearm as she pulled me aside.

“We must let them stay here. God would want us to do so,” she whispered.

“That might be true,” I replied,“ But the Romans do not want the cries of childbirth to disturb their dinner or their sleep. The Romans are paying good money.”

“We must do something,” she insisted.

Relana was correct, of course. We must do something. I saw the woman, heavy with child, wrapped in an old blanket for shelter from the night wind. She was beautiful with a serene countenance that denied her situation. Had I come so far from my days as a shepherd boy sleeping in Salah’s stable and . . .

“The stable. You can stay in the stable,” I cried. Relana jabbed me in the back with her knuckles, but I continued. “I spent many night there as a boy. It is warm and dry and sheltered from the weather. I am sorry, but that is the best that I can do.” I gestured for my servant and instructed him to make them comfortable in the stable.

Relana glared at me for what seemed like an eternity. Finally she said, “They will need blankets and something warm to eat. Do not worry, my most benevolent innkeeper. I will gather some rags from under the wash basin and some table scraps and bread crusts. I will not disturb your precious Romans.” She hurried off to the kitchen, ignoring my attempts to explain my position.

With Relana attending to the Nazarene couple, I dealt with the demands of the dining room, the kitchen and the guest rooms. It was not until several hours later when the last guests were served and the dining room had emptied that I again thought about the young couple. I looked for Relana and was told that she had never returned from the stable. She obviously was still angry with me. I found her there with the man and his wife, who was nursing a plump baby. The infant was wrapped in the robes and blankets that my mother had made for the child we never had. The young man immediately rose and clasped my hand.

“Sire, thank you for your kindness,” he said. “The stable is indeed quite warm and dry, as you said. My wife, Mary, has borne a son. It was not a difficult birth, thanks to the assistance of your wife.” He embraced me and pulled me closer to see the child. I looked about and felt great shame. How could I have allowed this to happen? Had I known the child would be born this night, I could have done something better than this. The young woman looked up at me and smiled. Relana sat at her side, stroking the hair of the infant and ignoring me.

“I . . . I . . . must find you better lodgings,” I stammered. “I will evict someone from a room . . . make room for the two . . . er, three of you.”

Mary shook her head and said softly, “Joseph and I can not force someone out into the night. God will provide for us. He brought us here to you, did he not?”

I repeated my intention to move them indoors, but my words trailed off as I looked upon the child. He was oddly serene. He did not kick or cry like other newborns. His face was round with a few tufts of dark brown hair. His dark eyes were bright and did not wander about the stable. They focused on me.

A stray dog crept in slowly without being seen or heard until it was next to Mary and the baby. When the dog sniffed at the boy, Joseph and I both jumped forward to grab it. But the child giggled and touched the nose of the dog. With that, the dog sat back on its hind legs as if it had always been his pet and protector.

My demonstration of contrition must have softened the ill feelings that Relana had harbored toward me. She rose and took my arm to lead me from the stable. I lingered at the entrance long enough to see Joseph take the child and lay him in a bed that he had made from one of the feed troughs.

“His name is Jesus,” Relana said, putting her head on my shoulder as we walked. “Your inn has been the site of a miracle from God.”

Before I could ask her meaning, we heard a voice calling from the darkness, a voice strangely familiar to me. “Hail, sir. Is this where the child has been born?”

At once, I knew the speaker. “Uncle? Are you Sota, the shepherd? This is Asa, the son of your brother,” I shouted.

Footsteps quickened in the dark. A cloud passed from overhead and the stable and fields were bathed in moonlight. I looked up. It was not moonlight. All I saw in the black sky was a single star, shining directly overhead.

Suddenly, my eldest uncle lifted me off of my feet. He whirled me around in his strong arms and I saw my other two uncles leading a small army of women and children. I embraced each in turn while tears rolled down my face with memories of my childhood. I turned to Sota and began a rambling apology for not visiting my family.

“Nonsense, we know that you are a busy man with many responsibilities,” Sota said. He looked around at the yard and the buildings and asked, “All of this is yours?”

I nodded with a little bit too much pride.

He clapped me on my shoulders and said, “Then this is a blessed inn. Angels, glorious creatures have appeared to us this very night. With voices full of song, they told us that a child would be born here. Born in a stable. They said that the child will grow up to lead our people to greatness. We were told to find the child in Bethlehem, lying in a manger. We were at least three days away from Bethlehem, but we immediately set out. But after we crested the first hill, we found ourselves less than an hour from your town. It is hard to believe, but here we are. We have found our new king at the inn of our brother.”

His eyes widened as he looked past me into the stable. He motioned for quiet from his family and gathered them around the stable doorway. Joseph rose to greet them and let each in turn to view the sleeping infant.

I pondered his story. Angels saying that this child is the future leader of our people? It was a story that could only be told by a drunkard or a lunatic. But Sota was neither, or was he? I had not seen him for many years. Perhaps he had dragged his family out from the hills because of a vision seen while drunk. But how could he have known about the birth of the child. He had only been born a few hours ago. He said that they had been traveling for three days.

While Sota led his family in prayer, I noticed another commotion. I heard foreign voices and the hooves of camels and horses on the hard ground. Three men, regally dressed, came out of the darkness, followed by a large caravan. I ran inside to awaken my servants and then I returned to greet my visitors.

“Hail, Sir,” said the first man as he dismounted from his camel. His skin was a black as the night and I saw black curled hair under a colorful headpiece. He wore a fine woven cloak and a robe colored green and yellow with golden trim. “I am Caspar. My companions are Balthasar and Melchior,” he said. The second man nodded to me. He had much lighter skin than I had ever seen and his hair was yellow. He wore a robe made from animal hides with fur trim along the collar and cuffs. The third man wore robes of lustrous red silk. His long black hair was gathered in the back and braided like a rope. His face was round with what appeared to be two small slits for eyes.

Caspar continued, “We are scientists from the East of your land. A number of years ago, we separately began our study of the stars. After we united our research we discovered signs that a great king would be born in this town this night. Since we have found in our travels that an innkeeper usually knows much about the happenings in his town, we are seeking out the owner of this establishment. We were told his name is Salah. Is that you, good sir?”

I was having trouble coping with the events of the evening. I stood numbly and simply nodded. Relana came to my rescue.

With a bow, she said, “My lords, you have made
your way to the proper location. My husband is Asa, the only son of Salah. The child that you seek is here, born this evening.” She pointed toward the stable.

Caspar laughed. “Balthasar, you are indeed wise,” he said. “You told us that the great king would be born in a poor station.” The second man smiled and dismounted along with his other companion. Servants approached and gave the three men three golden chests. We all watched in awe as the three strangers approached the sleeping child, falling to their knees, and murmuring prayers in three foreign tongues. Then they laid the chests at the foot of the manger where the child slept. We watched from the doorway and each man whispered a blessing over Mary and Joseph. The couple seemed to be attempting the return the three gifts, but Caspar would not allow it. He put his finger to his lips as if to not wake the child, and with his companions, he backed out of the stable to join the rest of us.

Caspar looked about the yard and saw the numerous horses and other pack animals tied up. “Herod warned us that accommodations would be dear in his land. You must have people sleeping on your floor, innkeeper,” he said with a laugh. He called to his servants and instructed them to erect their tents in the nearby field. “Put up additional tents for our fellow pilgrims,” he said, indicating my uncles and their families. “They look to be far from home.” My uncles knelt before the man, but the one dressed in red silk said, “Gentlemen, do not bow to us. We are all brothers at the end of a quest. Save your worship for the child.”

Since I was still in a daze, it took Relana to invite our visitors and my family inside for some refreshment. Caspar and his companions settled at our longest table and they asked my uncles to join them. At their request, Relana and I retold the story of how the child had come to be born in our stable. Balthasar took a small vial of ink and a pointed piece of bone and made notations on some dried animal hides. Then Caspar turned to Sota and asked how he learned about the child. Sota stiffened. He looked terrified at the prospect of addressing these learned men. But Caspar was insistent. He rose and pulled Sota to his feet and asked him to leave nothing out.

After a few false starts, Sota began, “Lords, I am a shepherd, not a man of words or learning. But, three nights ago, my brothers and I witnessed a grand miracle, an act of wonder.”

“We were moving our flock home as night approached. A man, bathed in light, appeared before us. He was a man of perfect beauty. It almost hurt our eyes to look upon him. We fell to our knees, shaking with fear. But he told us not to fear, that he was an angel of our God with great news for all of his people. The man said that soon the Messiah would be born in the city of David, which we took to be Bethlehem.” Melchior nodded in agreement.

“We were told to go to the town and to look for a child wrapped in swaddling clothes and sleeping in a manger. Suddenly the sky was filled with uncountable numbers of angels. With the most beautiful of voices they sang, ‘Glory to God in the highest and on Earth, peace to those on whom his favor rests.’” Sota looked to his brothers, who all nodded.

Caspar and Melchior asked many questions about the experience. Then Caspar poured a large cup of wine and presented it to Sota, escorting him to his seat and thanking him for his story.

Then Caspar rose and began to speak. He explained that he and his companions had traveled from the far shore of the Caspian Sea. As young men, they independently began the study of the movements of the stars while in their homelands. Their studies brought them to Persia to consult some ancient writings. It was there that they met and discovered the similarities in their studies.

Working together, they combined this information with the writings of Isaiah and Jeremiah and other of our prophets and they determined that a mighty king would one day take dominion over the world. A single bright star, blazing alone in an ebony sky would mark the birthplace of this king. Each man experienced an intense desire to find this king and to pledge his loyalty to him. -When their calculations predicted that this star would soon appear over Judea, they traveled together until they arrived at the palace of King Herod.

“Your king welcomed us warmly,” said Caspar. “He showed immense interest in our studies. We spent many evenings dining with him as we showed him our charts and maps. He gave us strict orders to report back to him after we found the new-born king, for he also wished to offer homage to the child.”

Our discussion continued until dawn. Relana and I escorted everyone back to the caravan site. Outside of the tent belonging to Caspar, she stopped me and said, “You must not let these men return to Herod. Is it reasonable to you that Herod would want to honor a rival to his throne, even a newborn baby? How many of his perceived rivals have been killed? Surely you see that this young child is the Messiah?”

“You are being ridiculous,” I said. “We all know that the Messiah will be a warrior king from the line of David. He will not be a Nazarene son of a carpenter. This child will not lead our people over our enemies.”

“You are the one being the fool. Was not even Caesar once a babe? All that has happened was foretold by the prophets ages ago. Or has the teacher forgotten his studies?”

Had I not been exhausted from my busy day and my most extraordinary night, I would have had a proper response. Instead, I threw up my hands and said, “Let us try to get an hour of sleep before our guests awaken. The sight of this caravan and of all of these shepherds will not go unnoticed. We can consult with our visitors in the morning.”

She kissed me and headed back to the stable. “I will sit with Mary for a bit,” she said. “Our servants can go one morning without their mistress to oversee them.”

She was right; her staff was capable to handle the morning meal so I was allowed to sleep until mid-morning. My man woke me with the message that the king wanted to see me.

I sprang from bed. “Herod? Herod is here?”

“No, master. One of the great kings camped outside has called for you.”

I dressed hurriedly and ran to the tent of Caspar. I saw that their servants were taking down their tents and were packing their belongings. Caspar rose to greet me and said, “Innkeeper, you must be truly blessed by your God, for the most amazing events happen on your estate. This morning, before I fell off to sleep, an angel of your God spoke to me, though I saw no one, man or spirit. The angel told me that Herod would mean harm to the child. That I cannot allow. My brothers and I will break our camp and leave this town today. We will avoid Herod and return to our homelands where we will tell everyone who will listen about what has happened here.” He pressed into my hand a rather large bag of gold coins.

“Take this, innkeeper, for our caravan has damaged your yard and property,” he said. He then offered a delicate golden necklace. “Give this to your lovely and charming wife. For if spirits do indeed walk the earth, she is truly an angel.” He then left to supervise his servants.

I walked out to the field where my family had camped. I was filled with such shame for abandoning them. I stood before Sota, unable to speak. He embraced me and laughed. “I know, I know,” he said, “It took a miracle from God to bring us down from the hills to visit our brother.” He stopped to wipe a tear from his eye. “Asa, thanks to you, our family has been favored by God. We must make sure that this day is always remembered by all of our people.” He then took my arm and led me around his camp. We spent most of the day exchanging memories of my parents and of my childhood days. I visited with my cousins and played with their children.

Before leaving, Caspar called all of us to the stable. He led us in a prayer, demonstrating an amazing knowledge of our scriptures. It ended with these words, “Hail to the King of the Jews, he who will bring peace to all peoples.”

That evening, Sota invited Relana and I to share in a lamb that they had roasted. When Relana and my aunts left to take some food to Mary and Joseph. I remembered the bag of gold coins. While the men dug a pit to extinguish the fire, I slipped equal amounts of coins in the saddlebag of each man. Let them think that another miracle had occurred.


As stated above, this is an excerpt of a larger work, the fictional memoirs of the Innkeeper of Bethlehem, who plays an important role in the life and death of Jesus Christ. I wrote this story at a time when my life lack direction and purpose. It remains unpublished, but it may soon find its wat to the internet

This edition surprised many of it recipients. They didn’t think I could write anything that wasn’t at least trying to be funny. But it is the only card of which additional copies were requested.

Sunday, December 6, 2009

2005 - The Exchange Counter of the Magi (With apologies to O. Henry)

1
Danny could not believe his eyes. He had won. He had blankin’ won.

He leapt out from in front of his computer and danced in his cubicle with his fists raised above his fists.

He heard a chorus of sighs and tsks from the cubicles around him and quickly sat down. He didn’t need anybody sticking a head in and finding him on eBay at work. He clicked on the “print” button, turned off the computer screen and bolted down the aisle to the community printer to pick up his sheet before it fully exited the machine. Giving the sheet of paper a quick kiss, he ambled back to his desk, full of self-congratulations.

2

“Wow, a Curt Gibson autographed jersey. I am soooo jealous.” Ed put the paper down on the table and concentrated on finishing his Big Mac.

Danny put the paper back in front of his friend’s face. “You should be jealous. This is from the 84 World Series. Probably the one he wore when he hit the home run to win the game.”

“Yeah, you’re right. After all, he did wear over 50 shirts that day. It gets hot in Detroit in October.”

“It’s been authenticated, I wouldn’t have spent $400.00 if I wasn’t sure it was the real thing.”

After swallowing his last bite, Ed said, “Ok, ok. Why are you telling me this?”

“Look here, I’m having it sent to your apartment. Is that the right address?”

“Sure, but why me?”

“Because, your wife doesn’t know my wife. She won’t immediately get on the phone and tell her about it.”

“Why the big secret? I’m sure you didn’t buy old Curt here for Jenny for Christmas.” Ed looked up from the picture of the baseball jersey and stared straight at his friend. “And where did you get $400.00 to blow on this. Is that the secret?”

“Never mind, just let me know when it comes in and I’ll buy lunch.”

3

About a week later, Ed dropped a carefully wrapped package on Danny’s desk. “You owe me. The old lady thinks I’m ordering porn off the Internet. Lunch today and tomorrow.”

4

Danny could hardly keep his eyes on the road. He kept looking down at the jersey – Curt Gibson’s jersey – lying on the passenger seat. He had been at the game – the greatest game ever played in Detroit Tiger history. He had seen Gibby, hobbling to the plate on two injured knees, It was a desperation play, if he didn’t hit a home run, he would never make it to first base safely. And hit a home run he did. Fists pumping, he half ran, half limped around the bases. And Danny Marcus had been there. And now Danny Marcus owned a signed Kurt Gibson Detroit Tiger Greatest Game Ever Played Jersey.

Danny’s grandfather had worked for the Tiger baseball team as a locker room custodian for almost 25 years before he retired in the late sixties. His legacy, which had been passed down to his father and then to Danny was three signed baseball jerseys from the three greatest players to wear the “Olde English D”, Rocky Colavito, Al Kaline, and Norm Cash. One day, those three jerseys would be hung with pride in his rec room (still many years off, since Danny didn’t even own a house yet). And now he had a Gibson to add to the collection.

Over the years, he had received many offers to sell the jerseys, many for thousands of dollars. As much as he could have used the money, he never thought twice about selling. Well, he had considered selling once. Last Christmas, his first Christmas as a married man. A married man with very little money to buy gifts for a new wife. But this Christmas was different. Jenny had a part time job, one car has paid for, and he had saved enough to buy that Calfalon pot and pan set that she had talked about last spring. (And she thinks I don’t listen to her.)

Then the jersey showed up on eBay. He was tapped out, but he bid anyway. Everytime he placed a higher bid, the joy of possible winning was matched by the agony of knowing he couldn’t pay for it. Ed suggested that he just sell something else that he didn’t need anymore. But Danny couldn’t find anything in the back bedroom that he could bear to part with, even for Curt. Then he found the box of dishes. The mysterious box of dishes.

5

When they had combined their two sets of belongings, many items were put into the second bedroom of their new apartment to be sifted through later. A box marked “Flowered dishes” had intrigued Danny.

“That’s just some old dishes.”

“Well, let’s get them out and use them.”

“No, there too old. And there isn’t a complete set. Just put them over there. I’ll find someplace to put them.”

Jenny placed the box in her old Girl Scout sleeping bag and placed them on the floor in a corner. And that’s where Danny had found them, under the skis, a Scrabble game and a storage bag of summer clothes.

6

He remembered that one of the gals at work, Darlene, he thought, had sold a set of
dishes on eBay for a couple hundred dollars. Jenny’s might be worth that much. She must not want them. We never use them. Who knows, I might get more than I need and I can give her the balance.

He took the box to work, scanned the markings on the bottom of one of the plates and wrote up a listing. “Three large plates, three small plates, three bowls. Marked ‘Lenox 1937’.” The bids came in fast and furious. He had made over $900. Just enough for Curt, a CD system for his car, and a little left over for Jenny.

7

On Christmas morning, Danny had regressed over 30 years. He couldn’t wait to go downstairs and unwrap Curt. But Jenny had this crazy idea about looking good for each other before starting the holiday. So Curt had showered and shaved, and was impatiently waiting for Jenny to finish fixing her hair. Eventually, wearing their brand new holiday flannel pajamas, they went downstairs to open their Christmas gifts.

Jenny went first. A sweater set from her Mom in Florida. Cash from her Father in Arizona. Picture frames from her sister. A really ugly Japanese figurine from her favorite uncle who traveled the world with Exxon. And a big box of Calafalon pots and pans from her loving husband (that got a suprisingly unenthusiastic reaction). And another box that read “To Jenny from Danny.”

Jenny put the box in her lap. “I saw these in that giant antique center by the mall.” She said. “I couldn’t believe it. I’ve been looking for these for years, So I traded . . .”

Danny stopped listening. Jenny had opened the box and removed one large flowered plate, one small flowered plate and one flowered bowl. And he was sure that if he turned one over it would say “Lenox 1937.”

“. . . and this china is the only thing that Grandma was able to save. So I really have you to thank for this. I’m going to go get the rest of the set.” Jenny jumped up, kissed Danny on the forehead and headed to the back bedroom.

8

In the 13 seconds between this kiss on his forehead and Jenny calling out “Have you seen the box marked “flowered dishes”. Danny had figured it out. Jenny had said “. . . traded your old baseball shirts from the back bedroom. You never wear them, so I thought you wouldn’t mind.” Danny picked up the brightly wrapped Curt Gibson autographed Detroit Tigers jersey and walked slowly to the back bedroom.

9

Years later, the property manager at Oaken Acres Apartment Village, still tells the story of the big Christmas morning fight when he shows 2C.



Merry Christmas
The greatest gift my parents gave me was my love of reading. O. Henry was one of my favorite authors, because of the surprize endings to his short stories. My favorite story was "The Gifts of the Magi," In this tale written around the turn of the century, our heroine sells her beautiful long black hair to buy a chain for her husband's pocket watch as a Christmas present. Con Christmas morning, she learns that he sold his watch to buy her a set of tortoise-shell combs that she had been admiring in a store front for months.
Shortly after mailing my 2004 homage to Charles Dickens, I began thinking about this story. A radio interview with Sparty anderson and Curt Gibson was the last inspiration I needed, the story was completed in July. And, yes, I am a Detroit Tiger fan; no, I do not own any jerseys.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

2004 - A Christmas Carol: The Lost Stave

. . . Then Tiny Tim struggled to his feet and said, “God bless us, every one.”

After Ebeneezer Scrooge left the Christmas Eve feast, Bob Cratchit remained at the window, watching his employer dance down the street. When he was sure that the old man was gone for the evening, he turned to his family. With a worried look on his face, he said, “Well, we certainly saw a different side to Mr. Scrooge this evening.”

A voice from the darkened hallway said, “Yes, Uncle Ebeneezer seems like a new man.” Fred emerged into the room and continued. “It would appear that your plan was successful, Mr. Cratchit.”

Bob crossed the room to put an arm around his wife who was still standing at the dinner table. He poked the remains of the Christmas turkey that Scrooge had so generously provided and said, “Yes, I believe that we have another great bird ready to be plucked.” He hugged his wife, lifting her feet from the floor and spinning her around the room. “Take a last look at his hovel, my dear. We’ll soon be leaving Camden Town.”

“Yes, my dear Mrs. Cratchit,” said Fred, “We will all be moving up in the world, thanks to my newly philanthropic uncle, dear Ebeneezer Scrooge.”

Mrs. Cratchit rounded up the children and escorted them to their bedrooms, while Fred and Cratchit cleared the dishes from the Christmas feast to the kitchen. Fred crossed the room to the window by the door. He pulled the drapery aside and lit his pipe.

“Mr. Nelson and Mr. Heath will be here shortly. Shall I break out the brandy that I brought?” he asked.

“If you want a drink, you best. You know I cannot yet afford such amenities.”

Bob set five glasses on the table. Fred pulled a small flask from his coat pocket and set it next to the glasses. “Mr. Cratchit, we are well on our way to curing your financial ailments. So you best accustom yourself to amenities such as this.”

Fred returned to the door in response to a light rap. Mr. Nelson and Mr. Heath, the two businessmen who had earlier attempted to solicit a contribution from Scrooge for the poor, entered the room.

“I trust our little masquerade was successful?” Mr. Nelson asked eagerly.

Fred put a glass in each man’s hand as Mrs. Cratchit joined the men gathered around the dinner table.

“Gentlemen, and of course, my dear Mrs. Cratchit, (he directed her to raise the last glass) let us drink a toast to the new partner of Scrooge and Cratchit, and the orchestrator of this most original Christmas carol, Mr. Bob Cratchit.”

The celebration turned into an accounting of expenses (after all, Cratchit was a clerk).
Fred needed to be compensated for the few grains of opium that Cratchit had blended into Scrooge’s pipe tobacco. (Fred just smiled when Mrs. Cratchit asked, “However did you acquire such a thing?”) That small amount had been enough to place Scrooge in a very suggestible state.

The actor who played Marley’s ghost and Fezziwig was paid with a bottle of cheap whiskey. “The old sot thought he was auditioning for the Old Vic,” said Mr. Heath.

Mr. Nelson presented bills for the makings of a costume of green velvet and ermine fur. “Good thing I put extra padding in that suit. We stood out on the window ledge for an hour while I described our flight over the rooftops of London.”

“He really believed he was flying?” asked Mrs. Cratchit.

“That and more. You saw him at the Pig’s Whistle. He really thought that he was at Fezziwig’s. And you did a fine job impersonating his first love,” said her husband.

“Letting that old goat kiss me sent me shuddering. Your plan better work, Bob Cratchit.”

Cratchit swatted at her bottom as she set out some leftover bread and butter. “We spent quite a bit at the Whistle. Luckily, after an hour, I was able to dilute most of the whiskey. The publican tried to cheat us, but Mr. Heath managed to convince him to settle for 20 pounds.” Heath laughed and rubbed his sore knuckles.

Cratchit studied his ledger. “Have we covered the cost of Scrooge’s false headstone?”

“I did, “said Mr. Nelson, “With a quid to the caretaker.”

Cratchit gathered up his papers and account sheets. “Well, my friends, tomorrow is Christmas. A very Merry Christmas, I would say. So relax and enjoy the day. The next day, I will start the wheels turning to provide our rewards for this night’s hard work.”

“Mr. Nelson and Mr. Heath will come in early to thank Scrooge for his generosity to the work they do with the poor of the city. We will manipulate the old fool to set up a regular contribution, let’s say 100 pounds every fortnight, half of which you will return to me.”

The two men clinked their glasses. “Here’s to 25 pounds every fortnight for each of us.” Said Mr. Nelson. “A small fortune,” agreed Mr. Heath.

“Fred will come by later to discuss and opportunity he has to buy into a mercantile operation. With his newfound generosity, Scrooge will jump at the chance to finance his nephew’s business venture. You can spend the money any way you want, Fred, as long as I get my half.”
“Mr. Cratchit, I believe you don’t trust me.”

“Not at all. But I can deduct my share if it will be more convenient for you.” Fred raised his glass in salute.

Cratchit turned to his wife. “My darling, you can begin to arrange for furnishings for our new house and a few things for yourself with the money that Scrooge will provide for poor Tim’s medical treatments.”

“Does that mean that I can dump this stupid crutch?” asked your Tim from the hallway.
“You lose that crutch and I will whip your miserable eavesdropping hide,” growled Cratchit. “That crutch will get you and your brothers into Oxford.”

Mrs. Cratchit crossed to room to hug her youngest son. “Your father has worked very hard to provide for us. The very least that you can do is pretend to be crippled and sickly for a few more years.”

“Well, when the old fool dies, I’m throwing this stick in the river.”

“I’ll have no more talk like that. Don’t you ever forget that you are supposed to be an innocent and sickly urchin.”

Fred rose and addressed the table. “Gentlemen, the night is late. Let’s allow this lovely family to get its rest. Let us adjourn to enjoy our holiday and reconvene in 2 days.”

As Bob Cratchit approached his place of employment on the day after Christmas, he noted that a craftsman was already preparing new signs. “’Scrooge and Cratchit’” he said to himself, “Maybe Tim was right, ‘Cratchit and Sons’ had a better ring.”

The office had an unfamiliar feeling. It was warm. There was a roaring fire in the stove. Bob smiled. His plan was falling into place.

“Merry Christmas, Bob.” Scrooge bounded out from his office and embraced his new partner. “Did you see the new shingle? You don’t mind that it’s ‘Scrooge and Cratchit’? After all, I still am the senior partner.”

“No, Mr. Scrooge, I would have insisted on that wording. You are very generous.” “No more ‘Mr. Scrooge’. You must call me Ebeneezer.”

“Yes, Mr. . . I mean. . . Yes, Ebeneezer.”

Scrooge took Cratchit’s arm and guided him into his office.

“Bob, a wonderful thing has happened to me. I would explain it to you, but you wouldn’t believe me. You would think your partner was mad. But my eyes have been opened to how I have wasted my life.”

“I am determined to make up for my miserly ways. Did you have a merry Christmas with your family? I hope so. I was very busy. You remember those two fellows who were asking for help with the poor?”

Cratchit suppressed a smile and just nodded.

“Yesterday, I arranged to do just that.”

Those devils, Cratchit thought. They are trying to cut me out of our deal. Trying to hide a note of panic, Cratchit asked, “What do you have in mind, because I have a few ideas . . .”

“It’s done, Bob, I have already arranged to transfer most of my, I mean, our accumulated profits to the church.”

“I . . . I . . . don’t understand, Mr. Scr . . . Ebeneezer.”

“Yesterday, after church, -- I had not been to church in years -- I asked the bishop if the church needed any money to help the poor, to keep those poor wretches out of the poor houses and the debtor’s prisons. We talked at length. He was very enthusiastic to hear of my offer of financial assistance. In fact, he has already sent a vicar over to pick up the bank check this morning.”

Bob mopped his brow and put a hand across his stomach to settle it. “That’s a wonderful . . . wonderful . . . thing you have done. How much have you decided to . . . distribute in this way.”

“Don’t worry, Bob, I’ve left enough for you to run the office for about a year. I’ll be stepping aside at that time. I don’t believe that I told you that. I won’t need much to maintain my house. But you’ll have the greatest gift that I could offer.”

Those words were like the sight of a familiar shoreline to a sailor. Bob started to smile weakly as Scrooge came around the desk to take Cratchit’s hand.

“I am offering to you the chance that I wasted. As young men, Marley and I built this business, thinking only of money, without regard for our family or our community. I am too old to start over. But I will get my second chance through you. This office will be yours with a small amount of capital for you to start out with. You’ll be building a business for your family from almost nothing. But you will also have learned from my mistakes. What a wonderful opportunity.”

“Almost nothing?”

“Yes, a wonderful opportunity for you and your family. And don’t worry about Tiny Tim. He is an amazing boy. London’s finest doctors are waiting to care for him. They are ready to examine him today. They have already been given sufficient funds to cover any treatment that he requires. Any money left over will go to the care of other unfortunate children. You see, I have thought of everything. Merry Christmas, Bob.”

Cratchit slowly raised from his chair and went into the outer office.

Scrooge heard some scratching sound and asked, “Bob, what in heaven are you up to?”

Cratchit was using tongs to extinguish glowing coals in the ash bucket. “Turning down the fire, my friend. One or two coals will be sufficient.”

It's a story that has been told and retold; adapted dozens of times in movies (starring Jim Carrey, now in theaters), on television, in popular literature, even in comic books. So, I gave it a go. One of my readers, obviously not a Dickens fan, said, "This is cool, just like that Scrooge McDuck."

Saturday, November 28, 2009

2003 - Santa 2.0

For about a month; something had been bothering Santa Claus. He was sitting in his study, not eating the milk and cookies that his devoted Mrs. Claus had left for him, going over the operation reports about last Christmas. As usual, everything had gone off flawlessly. The toys had all been constructed in plenty of time. The wrapping and sorting departments had run perfectly (except for that little mix-up with the Hilton twins and the Olsen twins). Cartography put together a route that shaved 17 minutes from last year’s record time and the reindeer sniffed out a flight plan that evaded a nasty snowstorm over Norway that could have put Santa seriously behind.

Feedback from all of the good boys and girls around the world was highly positive. Mrs. Claus had been right about that Hokey Pokey Elmo. Who would have figured it would be such a big hit. Maybe he should tell her about his concerns.

Over breakfast, Santa tried to explain his misgivings to his devoted wife. He paced about the kitchen, stopping frequently to push a forkful of bacon or fried potatoes into his mouth. When he was done, she refilled his coffee cup and lovingly stroked his white beard.

“Oh, Santa, you worry too much. All you need is a change. . .”

Santa jumped up from the table and put his arms around his wife, picking her up and twirling her about the kitchen. “Of course! That’s it! My dear, you’ve done it again.”

He leapt to the window that overlooked his workshop. “For how many hundreds of years have we been running Christmas in the same way?” Mrs. Claus shrugged her shoulders.

“See, that’s what I mean. We don’t even know how long we’ve been acting this way. We’re in a new millennium. We need to change with the times.”

Mrs. Claus went to the window and put her arms around Santa’s neck. “I was thinking of a week in Hawaii. What are you talking about?”

“You’ll see. We’re going to bring Santa Claus into the 21st Century, ” he called as he headed out the door and across the courtyard to his workshop.

For the next few months, Santa, Mrs. Claus and a few of his senior elves, worked on updating Santa’s image. First to go was his belly. “With everything we know now about the problems of obesity, a fat Santa is a bad role model for all of the children,” Mrs. Claus had said. Santa agreed grudgingly and began on a exercise regimen, until the executive elf in charge of British operations reminded him that the same technology (elf dust) that allows him to slim down to wear the Father Christmas costume could be applied for a permanent weight change without changing his eating and exercise patterns. (Santa made a note to drop some elf dust off at Oprah Winfrey’s house next year.)

This gave Santa another idea. He would consolidate all of the personas he used in different countries into one new character. His design elves worked up a new costume using the best features of his many identities.

He would wear a green tunic and leggings trimmed with brown fur and cinched with a wide black belt. For the traditionalists, he agreed to a long red full-length coat, trimmed with white fur. (PETA had no representation of the design team.) He kept the beard, but he grew his hair long, which he wore in a ponytail. There was a great deal of contention over Santa’s hat. Mrs. Claus put his foot down and insisted on a red leather beret, cocked rakishly to one side.

The sled would be retired. Many options were discussed and rejected – helicopters, flying bear-skin rugs, one-man jets – until Santa’s eyes lit up over the plan from North American operations. The drawings featured Santa sitting behind the wheel of a flying 1964-1/2 Ford Mustang convertible - yellow body, black top – with bags of toys filling the back seat. When the reindeer caught wind of the changes and threatened a job action, it was agreed that they would continue to make the annual trip, now acting as an advance guard, clearing the way for Santa in his fine new ride.

His back-story was changed. Klaus (One name would make him a little edgier) had been a handyman who made toys for poor children in his spare time. While delivering a load of toys in his restored Mustang, he and his wife got lost in a blinding snowstorm. When the storm lifted, they found themselves in a strange community of elves (now tall and blond like Orlando Bloom in those Tolkien movies). Klaus learned that he had been selected by the Spirit of Christmas (modeled after Julia Roberts) to take over for Santa Claus.

After the final presentation, Mrs. Claus stood defiantly and said, “All this is well and good, but what about me? Don’t I get a new image?”

Santa laughed and nodded to his head design elf. “I thought you’d never ask, my dear.” The elf sprayed Mrs. Claus with elf dust. Slowly, her gray hair turned bright red in a short spiky cut. Her dress and apron transformed into a red-velvet jumpsuit and a white fur jacket. She also lost about 50 pounds.

“I look wonderful,” she gushed as she twirled in front of a mirror. “But . . .”

Santa immediately went to her side. “What’s wrong, dear, we . . . I mean . . . I was sure that you would like this. We can change it.”

She looked into Santa’s eyes. She reached up to play with his new ponytail. “No, I love my new look. It’s just that . . . well . . . I’m tired of being called Mrs. Claus.”

Santa was crushed. He whispered, “You not leaving me are you? I don’t think that I could . . .”

She laughed and said, “No, no, nothing like that. Its just that after all this time, . . . I want to have a first name.”

Santa turned to his design team. “You heard her. Come up with a first name. Pronto!”

Mrs. Claus stepped in front of her husband. “If you don’t mind, I already have a name in mind. Meredith. I’ve always like Meredith. And. . .” She turned to face Santa before finishing; “I want to ride along next year.”

Santa put one arm around his wife’s waist, and addressed the elves. “There you have it, ladies and gentlemen. Klaus and Meredith, sailing around the world in one of Detroit’s finest muscle cars, on their annual mission of spreading Christmas joy. There’s just one last thing to do. . .”

The next day, Klaus called in his senior elves in charge of advertising and public relations. He went over every facet of his new image. He asked them to put together a complete multi-media communications program to introduce Klaus to all of the children of the world.

J. C., senior executive elf for marketing, took the floor. “The way I see it, we’ll have to put something together for all of the greeting card firms with the new designs. Local libraries and storytellers will have to be alerted. I’ve got plenty of contacts in New York and Hollywood; we’ll get some updated books and TV programs. We can get our music people working on some new Christmas carols. For example, I’m sure that we can update that Rudolph song. Paris will love to do something on the new wardrobe. Do you thing Mrs. Sa . . I mean Meredith . . . would like to be on the cover of Cosmo?”

Klaus ignored the last question. “That sounds good, J. C., but can you get everything done in time?”

J. C. leaned on the conference table, looking at his pocket calendar. “Don’t worry about a thing, Big Guy. We can get the whole thing delivered by December 27th.”


This was my first attempt at a Christmas story. But the idea was about 10 years old. In a previous life, I was a freelance writer, producing newsletters and other promotional materials for a few local companies. While shopping for holdiay cards to send to present and potential clients, my partner and I decided to make our own. Since neither of us were artists, we prepared a fold-over card with the following on the cover,

"Don't worry. We'll have everything you need for the big Christmas sale. The ads and inserts, the window signs and the stand-up, and the Santa hats for all of your people. . ."

The inside of the card read, ", , , I guarantee it'll all be in your hands by the 26th."

I am now semi-retired, just trying to keep busy and off the shuffleboard court. In 2003, i recalled the deadline gag and adapted it for a short story format. It was a hit and I hope you enjoy it.