The Messenger

     A robin stopped in my yard today and pulled a worm from the ground.  First, he hopped across the warming earth, his little head cocked to the side as he listened for the silent wrigglings emanating from his meal hidden beneath the soil. With a quick thrust and a jerk, he plucked the plump morsel of struggling, pink flesh from it's burrow and gobbled it down. He seemed pleased with his dinner as he puffed his little red breast and flew to rest on a pyracantha branch.
     It was with more than just passing interest that I watched the robin. It was with an eager anticipation, a longing for the hint of spring that he unknowingly carried with him.  The small brown bird was a harbinger of hope for the warmer, longer summer days that were hiding in the future. He carried a vision of spring flowers painting the dull, sleeping earth with brilliant purples and blues and yellows and pinks. He hinted at the appearance of fat buds that would soon be bursting forth on naked trees. The quietness of winter seemed to be hovering on a delicate edge, as the chirps and twitters of the gradually returning birds sounded the alarm of awakening spring.
     Nature had teased us with a string of moderate days, with thermometers striking marks well into the seventies,  and I had reveled at running barefoot through the yard on a Saturday morning in February. Now, I wanted more. I wanted evenings that lingered long with light. I wanted trees to burst forth with tender green leaves. I wanted every day to be a barefoot morning, warm enough to rush outside without thought for sweaters or shoes or scarves.
       The arrival of the robin was a reminder that the cycle of life will continue-- seasons will continue to change, new growth will appear on barren branches, color will return to a pallid earth,  and the rhythm of the world will beat on. I thanked the little bird for the message he brought, and with a new spring in my step, I began another February morning.

And carry a big stick

     I like to walk. Not run, not jog, just walk. I could walk all day if I had to, and if you deposited me on a beach, I just might do it.  Walking is theraputic in more than just a physical manner; it heals my soul as well as my body. I can get lost in my thoughts and my dreams when walking, and I can pretend I am anywhere in the world....a white sandy beach on a Carolina shore, a pine-scented path by an Appalachian stream, a weathered boardwalk down an Everglade trail.  I try to imagine what life would have been like before cars consumed us all, before we would  jump into an automobile just  to run to the post office a block away or to  a friend's house right around the corner. I imagine people were not only healthier before cars took over, but they were probably quite social.  One is much more apt to stop and chat while strolling than while driving, and it is with nostalgia for those slower-paced, friendlier, conversational days that I walk.

       I hail from a sturdily built family, designed for endurance but certainly not speed. You won't catch one of us running a marathon or jumping over hurdles, but we can  go the distance.  If we were of the genus equus, I'm afraid we'd fall more into the catgegory of  mule than racehorse. But with a stubborn resolve, I can walk, and walk, and walk. I won't get there first, I won't win the race, but I will finish and eventually reach my destination. And so I walk.

      I have my quirks when I walk--  the paths I take, the gear I require.  I have a regular routine, a one-hour trek through town that incorporates 4 grueling hills which leave me panting at each summit. I have recently updated to step-and-tone shoes, the newest fad in walking apparel, but have not yet decided if these rock-and-roll sneakers are quite as wonderful as the marketers would have you believe.  I may soon regress back to my tried-and-true, comfortably broken-in, and quite stable oldies-- the shoes which have dutifully gotten me over many a hill and down many a path without throwing me for a single tumble.

     I must have music, the main motivator when I am walking solo.  I started years ago with a walkman, progressed through a series of I-pods, and now plod through town with my smartphone programmed to Pandora, where I can  freely listen to as many musical stations as I can create. Some days it will be a melancholy Frank Sinatra kind of walk, a meandering pace on a slow, bluesy day. Other days I'm motivated to step it up a notch with Pink or Gwen Stefani and I fairly hustle as I boogie through town.  On my cultural and cerebral walks, I tune in to the classics and methodically meditate with the big boys:  Beethoven, Brahms, Bach. Most days, however, I just like to take a pumped-up, country stroll with my regular guys: Kenny, Tim, George and the gang.     

      I refuse to wear ear-buds, having relegated them to the young and vain. Those little white wisps of amplification refuse to stay plugged into my earlobes, and I am convinced there is a secret society that instructs only those born after 1990 in the proper way of effectively instilling micro-speakers into one's ears.  Instead, I plop on a pair of 1980's antiquated headphones with speakers the size of a quarter-pound hamburger covering each ear. The bun-like effect on each side of my head gives me what I prefer to think of as a "Princess Leah" appearance, but in reality, I look more like an FAA-approved aircraft landing technician, and if  I were to walk carrying two lighted flashlights, I could probably safely land a Boeing 747 right on Main Street.

    I also have my stick, a billy-club type of instrument, a solid shaft of hearty wood, sturdy and lethal if properly wielded. It gives me a certain sense of security to have this deadly weapon strapped to my wrist as I go forth on my walks.  Pit bulls, pickpockets, perverts beware-- I am armed and dangerous! The stick was given to me thirty years ago when I first arrived in Charleston, SC. As a college senior, I was scheduled to complete my winter-term as a fledgling reporter for the local newspaper, The Post and Courier. My cousin lived in the village of Mt. Pleasant and I would be staying with her for the duration of my internship. The accommodations were perfect (free room and board!), but it meant I would have to cross the old bridge each morning on my commute to the paper's downtown office. This route took me through a less-than-desirable neighborhood, one that had sprouted underneath the concrete spans of the bridge. I had to drive through a section where the homeless took up residence under the bridge's protective shadows and where a crowded housing complex spilled across the streets.   Afraid that ruffians would attack me as I drove through these questionable areas, Jean insisted that I carry some type of protection, thus she presented me with "the stick". She was advocating the Teddy Roosevelt philosophy of "walk softly and carry a big stick," although Jean's interpretation was more like "carry a big stick, dahling,  and use it."  I was to have the stick in my car at all times in order to knock off potential carjackers and would-be rapists. I was to have it strapped to my wrist whenever walking, ready to bash in the brains of hoodlums and rabid dogs. I obediently took the proffered weapon and never let it stray far from my side.  I am proud to say that to this day, after thirty long years, I have never been attacked by a ruffian or rabid dog. I am convinced it is because of my stick, and I take it everywhere I go.

      My mother is quite embarrassed over my stick and my bulky earphones. She tends to hide them each time I safely return from a walk, and I spend as much time looking for my gear as I do walking.  This morning, she sweetly asked me if I ever tried to hide the stick underneath my arm while I was walking through town, discreetly tucking it just out of sight of neighbors that might be driving by.

      "Good heavens, no!" I replied. "I have that thing swinging out in front of me like I mean to use it."

       It was a juvenile response, but somehow, it still gave me an adolescent thrill to register a look of shock in my mother's eyes.

       So equipped with a representative collection of gear from the last three decades of my life,I venture forth on my daily walks, my moment in the day when I can compose my thoughts, soothe my mind, strenghthen my body, and restore my soul. Armed and dangerous, lost in thought, oblivious to the world around me, I lose myself in music, I go forth, and I walk.      

Mrs. Ben Johnson

       It was the year 1969, and I was an awkward second grade student.  For the third year in a row, I was about to enter a new school, where once again I would have to learn all the intricacies and pecking-orders and cliques and rules and schedules and routines that determined the pace of academic life. I had started kindergarten in the segregated schools of Natchez, Mississippi, where we began the day with the Pledge of Allegiance, prayer, and all three verses of "Dixie."  It was there, as I proudly belted out ", Oh, I with I wath in the land of cotton" that my teachers realized I had a severe lisp, unable to pronounce my R's or S's, and enrolled me in speech therapy, the first of many awkward moments in my educational journey.
      Mid-way into my first grade year, my parents announced we were moving back to their native state of South Carolina. They put all the seats down in the back of their blue Ford station wagon, threw in a couple of mattresses,  piled four young and energetic children into the back, and we bounced and sang and slept our way across Alabama and Georgia until we reached the hallowed ground of home. I finished the term quietly as the new girl at  Foot Street School, where I simply called Miss Atkinson  "Teacher" for the rest of the year because I could not pronounce her long name.
       Tongue-tied and pigeon toed, once again I stumbled down strange halls as I searched for the room of Mrs. Ben Johnson, Second Grade teacher,  College Street Elementary School. I did not realize then that I was about to collide with a force that would change the course of my awkward world forever.
     When I first entered the second grade room of Mrs. Ben Johnson, I thought she must be a hundred years old. She was not tall, although at that age I thought she was a giant, perhaps because of the shock of snow-white hair that formed an aureole around her head and gave her the appearance of some other-worldly being.  She wore shirt-waisted dresses and sensible shoes, and always had a referee's whistle hanging from a chain around her neck. Mrs. Johnson  approached each day with vigor and vim; she did not walk the halls of the school, she marched, and she expected her students to march as well.   She believed that each day should begin and end with some form of physical exertion. Every morning, we had to stand beside our desks and stretch and bend, touching our toes then reaching for the stars. Next, she would herd her restless and fidgety students outside for an hour or so of daily exercise. She would blow her whistle and march backwards as she vigorously moved us around the sidewalks and paths of the neighboring streets, our arms pumping like mad as we tried to keep up with her rapid pace. I'm sure it was an amusing sight for those driving by, the image of Mrs. Johnson vigorously marching backwards as  a line of seven year olds tried to keep up with her, but it was on these daily marches  that my world began to change.
     For you see, these walks were not merely attempts to get her students to exercise. Mrs. Johnson was introducing us to the world.   We would stop on our little excursions to collect rocks,  and she would show us how the manifold stripes of color represented the unique environments from which they each were formed. We would stop to rest quietly on the grass as she pointed out  various birds that flitted among the branches of the trees. She taught us to identify the cardinals and blue-jays and sparrows and wrens that inhabited our backyards, and to identify those we could not see by listening for their unique whistles and cackles and warbles and tweets. We hung bird feeders from the trees outside our classroom window and diligently sprinkled seeds to nourish our newly found feathered friends.
        We learned the names of wildflowers and trees and grasses and shrubs. We would lie on the hard, scratchy ground, watching  the clouds billow and roll overhead as Mrs. Johnson introduced us to the world of   weather. She pointed out cumulus and stratus and cirrus, giving each puff of condensed water droplets a specific name. This would lead into discussions of soil erosion and conservation, and it was under the tutelage of Mrs. Ben Johnson that I completed my first project on the conservation of our land and become a life-long lover of all the things of our natural world.
      We set out rain gauges to measure the precipitation, and we recorded this in charts around the room.  We planted seeds into little clay pots that were lined up on the ledges of the window sills, and we recorded the growth of our precious plants as they timidly broke through the black soil and reached for the light.
      Second grade was the year I had to begin wearing corrective shoes, those bulky, horrendous, tight-laced saddle oxfords that doctors often prescribed  to straighten out the pigeon-toed or slew-footed paces of clumsy adolescents.  I was mortified with my ugly new shoes, and only wanted to slip quietly unnoticed back into class the first day I wore them. But this would not do for Mrs. Ben Johnson. She called me to the front of the classroom and proudly announced to the entire class that I was wearing a new type of shoe, and would I please tell the class about this special footwear. At first, I wanted to crawl underneath my desk and die a quick but painless death. I stumbled up to the front of the class, my cheeks burning crimson with embarrassment, and proceeded to tell my classmates about the atrocious footwear. In typical second-grade fashion, they received the information with a casual nonchalance that helped me to realize my shoes were not the most important element of second grade.   By exposing my most vulnerable self to the entire class, she had quickly defused a sensitive issue by exposing the unimportance of it, and in doing so, she had saved me from myself. She was teaching me to place less emphasis on my outer appearance, to accept life's challenges boldly and without shame,  and to listen to someone's story before passing judgement. It had been a brilliant move on the part of Mrs. Johnson, and it endeared me to her for life. Unbeknownst to her, she was also preparing me for a future role, the role of parenting a child with a disability. I have found that I continuously  draw on the life lessons I learned in second grade, and I think of Mrs. Johnson each time I try to teach my daughter to face life's challenges boldly and without shame, as I try to teach her to stand before the world and say, "This is my story. Get to know me before you pass judgement."
     But back then,  in 1969, I had entered a new world, a world where everything suddenly had a name and a purpose, where everything had value and was precious to behold. It was a marvelous world, a world I hungered to know about and to care for. She was opening our sleepy little eyes to the world beyond our mere selves, giving names to the ordinary things in life that we so often ignored, teaching us to care for more than our own narrow worlds, teaching us  to respect each other and the things of our world. But there was more to come, for Mrs. Johnson was just getting started.
      Mrs. Johnson didn't just teach us to see the world, and to know the world, and to love the world,  she taught us to write about it.  She gave us words and letters and sentences.  She read stories to us and had us write our own stories, we kept journals and notes, but most importantly of all, she gave us poetry, the language where letters come to life, where you nurture and grow sentences into something more than just stories, where there is a pulse and a heartbeat that keeps the words alive and gives them a rhythm. In that cramped little second grade classroom on College Street, Mrs. Johnson was planting the seeds of language into our fertile little brains, hoping those seeds would germinate and grow into a lifelong passion. And once again, she was saving me from myself.
    From that point on, I had a place to go when the world got tangled or unnerving. I could escape into my world of words, writing about the things I could not understand, hoping that through the words in my journals or poems I could somehow unravel the complex intricacies of life. At the very least, she gave me a place to unload the portions of life that were unfathomable, that somehow by writing about it I could lay to rest the unimaginable, and she gave me a place to record the portions of life that were worth savoring and remembering. 
      Little did I realize when I entered into the world of Mrs. Ben Johnson what an impact she would have on the life of this ungainly little girl. Little did I realize that in the second grade, Mrs. Johnson's impact would continue on for another generation as I tried to instill her lessons into the lives of my own children. Each time I taught them the name of a bird, or read them a story, or pointed out the drifting of a cumulus cloud in the sky above, the whisper of Mrs. Johnson's words were lingering in the wind. Each time they faced one of life's challenging moments, an embarrassing moment, an awkward moment, I reached back to the day Mrs. Johnson made me march to the front of the class and face my shame, and I tried to teach them to boldly do the same.
    It has been written by others that everything they needed to know about life they learned in kindergarten. For me, it began in second grade.

Twenty-one years of wisdom

     January seventeenth marked the twenty-first anniversary of the day my world changed forever. It was the day I proudly produced a combined total of five pounds of bluish-colored, wrinkled, practically transparent flesh. This came in the form of two very determined, albeit  three months premature, infants--one girl, one boy-- children so anxious to begin their struggle through this process called life that they chose to leave early the relatively safe environs of their mother's womb. And on that day, I realized I knew nothing.
    After an extended stay in the NICU, these now-pinkish, much smoother, and somewhat healthier two souls were released from their second relatively safe environ into my uncertain and quite shaky hands. They came with no instructions and were not even quite fully assembled. The nurses stuffed heart monitors and wires and battery packs and special formula into the back seat of our car, buckled the now 4.4 pound infants into their carseats, and shoved us quickly out of the parking lot.
      I was now expected to oversee their breathing and heart rates, their growth charts, their innoculation schedules, their daily medications, their feeding routines, their first playdates, their education, their health insurance, their bouts of chicken pox and flu and strep throat, their allergies and braces and broken bones, their acquisition of driver's licenses and first dates and beach trips and senior proms and Friday night football games and college acceptance letters  and safe passage into adulthood.  And on that day, I realized I knew nothing.
    The next twenty-one years, I searched for answers to questions I will never understand. As we came to discover that our daughter was going to have a life-long disability, I realized there were going to be a lot of blank spaces in the answer lines on my life exam.  I struggled with some basic philosophical questions: why do innocent children suffer? why is there pain in the world?  why are people cruel to each other? why does evil exist?
      Flash forward twenty-one years, and I am now sitting in a college philosophy class with my daughter, thinking that this is rather ironic that I am now watching her struggle to answer the same questions to which I have found few answers. Yet, when the professor prompted them to write an essay on whether they would choose a life of blissful ignorance or a life of facing the harsh realites of truth, I was intrigued to discover that my daughter would choose the less travelled road, the more difficult path, the rocky road of truth. 
     "Honey," I challenged her, "why would you want to go through life struggling and suffering, when you could just waltz through happy and blissfully ignorant?"  I knew there had been many times when I longed for blissful ignorance, when I wished I hadn't overheard the cruel remarks or seen the unkind stares directed at my daughter, when I wished I didn't know about the parties or trips or dances or gatherings to which she had been omitted, when I didn't have to face the reality of her life as a continual struggle to survive in a world where appearances meant everything and character meant less and less.   Blissful ignorance seemed like a soft place to fall, a welcome rest, a peaceful world.
       She shook her head in frustration that I didn't seem to "get-it."
      "It would have no meaning," she argued with me. "Why would anyone want to live a life that was just an illusion? If there is no truth, there is no reality and there is no meaning. You couldn't believe in anything if you weren't committed to the truth." And at that moment, I realized I knew nothing.
      My wise little one, my twenty-one year old philosopher, had once again taught me more about life than Socrates and Plato and Aristotle combined. It is in the struggle that  life has meaning. It is in facing the challenges-- overcoming some, accepting defeat by others, and  learning to live with the rest--that   real life is found.
    At that moment,  some of the blank spaces on my life exam began to fill in. Yes, suffering and pain and evil will always exist in this earthly world, but so does truth and goodness and kindness and love. The existence of one does not negate the existence of the other. We have to make a choice of whether we will choose truth and face the harsh realities of life or turn a blind eye in pursuit of  a vapid happiness.
     Even though life had played a cruel joke on my daughter by wrapping her in a cloak of physical disability, she is facing it head-on, eyes wide open,  and with honesty and integrity.  Her moral compass is set, her path has been chosen, and she is committed to the journey. And in the process, she is finding her way to truth. 
      And on that day, I began to learn something.

A Carolina Blizzard

     When in snows in the South, the world stops spinning and everything comes to a silent halt.  It is quiet, it is hushed, it is as slow and sleepy as life can get. You won't hear the grind of snowplows scraping against ice in search of asphalt. You won't see highway trucks spewing salt and chemicals up and down the highways. Anxious neighbors won't be hurriedly shoveling sidewalks and steps. Everything stops, as if time itself has become frozen, and we watch, and we marvel, and we wonder at the beauty of a world put to sleep with a blanket of white.

   

   If you thought Southerners moved at a different speed during normal weather, spin the thermostat down to freezing, throw in some snowflakes and ice, and you will see a pace of life not known to man in this modern-day age of hyper-speed and constant activity. You may laugh at our slowness, you may mock our simplicity, but we will smile politely because the joke is not on us. 

 We will not miss the irridescent red of a cardinal as he feeds in the brilliant white of a winter snow. We will not miss the cluster of crimson pyracantha berries as they glisten against a mantle of ice, or the green leathery leaves of the magnolia as it stands magnificantly draped in a silvery gown. We will regard the cedars as they bow to the ground, and hold our breath as we wait for the thaw to see which of those mighty soldiers will rise again.

     An average little town becomes a story book village. The soft covering of winter's frozen breath has transformed the mundane into the magnificent. Houses grand and small are dressed for a wondrous occasion, and they each wear their new gowns with a pride not seen in many years.. It makes us all step back and puff our chests as we gloat at the beauty of our home, our formally dressed little city. This is our moment to shine, so we stop, and we watch, and we wonder at the beauty of it all.

    When it snows in the South, we will be there to witness it and to enjoy it. It comes not often and we will not let this moment pass unnoticed. With a graciousness that lingers on, we will stop our busy lives and enjoy the company of the snow, visiting with it while it lingers, then fondly bidding it adieu when it disappears. This is our storm, our snow, our South, and we will not be hurried through an experience that will be too long in returning again.

     This is a Southern storm, a Carolina Blizzard, a storm that meanders across the lowland states and lingers and pauses and stays for a while.  It is like us... slow to come, slow to leave. We take it as the gift it is...a time to stop, and to watch, and to wonder at the beauty of it all. Oh, don't laugh at us, with our slowness and our drawling words, for we are revelling in a beauty that is missed by many, and it takes that wound-down pace to see it and to tell it and to appreciate it all.

     So don't laugh at us when it snows in the South. We are not ignorant. We are not lazy or simple or backwards. We are simply marvelling at the world, and we will not miss out on it's beauty. We are slow because we refuse to hurry and miss the moment-- the miracle of a world at rest, a world of peace and quiet. We calm our thoughts in the hush of the storm, we fill our lungs with the pure, clean air, we restore our souls with the peace of winter.

       Yes, we step slowly through our Southern storm, our Carolina Blizzard. We do not hurry, we do not rush, and  we do not miss the world at peace, the world at rest.
     We simply watch, we wonder, and we marvel at the beauty of it all.

Goodwill to Men

     Everyone has their dirty little secrets, their hidden obsessions, their dark habits. We do things that shame our families, embarrass our children, and sully our good name. But like every addict, we cling to these behaviors with a fierce loyalty and stubbornly refuse to become rehabilitated.  For many years, I have chosen to engage in a certain behavior which has caused my children to cringe and hide in the backseats of cars, driven my husband to the border of insanity, and made me the brunt of many family jokes. Like many addicts, I stubbornly refuse to conquer my obsession.  Instead, I  indulge myself as frequently as possible, looking for ways to feed my habit secretly, obsessively, consummately.
     I am a Goodwill girl.  I love thrift shops. I can't help myself-- the desire for a bargain boils in my Scottish blood, threatening to rupture an artery if I do not release the pressure.  Nothing thrills me more than to pull into an unexplored thrift shop, heart racing and as anxious as a hound dog sniffing out an early morning kill. I will wait in line with the masses, the unwashed and homeless, the illegal immigrant, the college student, the struggling young housewife, the retired book collector. I know no shame in standing in that line of the unproud bargain hunters.  We are a brotherhood, all differently motivated  but serving  a same purpose: find a deal, locate a treasure, meet a need.
      I was introduced to the magical world of thrift shops during my initial year as a Junior League novice. Part of the requirement of each new League member was to serve a certain number of hours each month volunteering in the Junior League Thrift Shop, a fundraising enterprise fondly called "The Clothes Rack."  We were required to not only volunteer our man-power, we also were asked to donate a certain amount of goods to the store, which in turn could be sold to bring in more dollars to distribute to worthwhile community projects.
     It didn't take many volunteer mornings before I realized I had stumbled into my wonderland. While most young women moaned and groaned about spending their busy mornings sorting through used clothing and discarded housewares, I could barely sleep the night before I was scheduled to pull a shift.  I would spend the weekend raiding my closets, basement, and attic to load up on my required quota of donated goods.  My husband would smile appreciatively as I cleaned out chests and drawers, purging bulging closets of unwanted apparel,  all for a worthwhile cause.
     I spent one morning each month driving downtown with a trunk of bags, depositing my unwanted apparel as quickly as possible, and completing my morning shift of sorting through boxes and pricing donations. I would then spend the next two hours as a merry thrift store shopper, snapping up items I had been secretly eyeing all morning, wonderful finds worthy of a good cause.  I would drive home with bags of housewares, children's clothing, antiques....all treasures casually discarded by some generous soul.
     And books! Oh, the books that pass through the shelves of thrift stores! I am an unabashed book-a-holic, and spending $1 on literature can't be questioned. I would buy boxes of books- classics, newly published novels, cookbooks, children's stories, gardening and decorating tomes, self-help manuals, study guides- anything printed and interesting would be added to my pile.  I would practically groan with pleasure as I hauled all those pages of words and stories and pictures  into my house and onto my bookshelves.
     My children couldn't understand why I was donating items for the needy, but then coming home with more than I donated.  My trolling through thrift stores humiliated them, and they spent countless childhood hours hiding on the floorboard of the car as I wheeled into the parking lot  and begged, " Just let me dash in here for a second and see if there's anything good. I won't be long."

     "Mom, that doesn't seem fair. You're supposed to be helping the needy but you're taking things they need."
       I patiently tried to explain to them that it was more helpful for me to buy these things, therefore donating money that could be used to buy food and shelter for a person in need.  Their precious little minds just couldn't understand that concept at all, and they still think that Mom is stealing from the homeless.

     When my husband questioned my good motives, I was prepared with an honest answer.
      "It's all part of the volunteer requirement," I would explain. "We have to purchase a certain amount of goods in order to meet the monthly sales quota of the store. It's all for a good cause."
     I don't think he believed me, but he wasn't willing to be the first man in town to incur the wrath of all women by questioning the noble motives of the Junior League.
     And so began my long love affair with thrift stores.  Those volunteer hours in the backroom of the Clothes Rack opened my eyes to the world of treasures that are lurking in the bowels of thrift stores. From that day on, I began secretly trolling the local thrift stores: Goodwill, Salvation Army, the Fan Thrift Store. I scored my first major hit when I bagged four "Maeve" Waterford goblets for $1.00. 
     The next big hit was an oil painting that I paid $4.00 for at a Goodwill store on Broad Street. The store was one block from my daughter's school, making it a convenient place to spend an hour or so waiting for the carpool line to diminish. I made it a weekly habit to stop by the store, peruse the aisles, scope out the merchandise. On my big day, a truck had just arrived to unload the contents of an entire estate.  Evidently, the heirs  had little need for the worldly possessions of a deceased relative, so the entire estate of the dearly departed had been unloaded at Goodwill.  I happened to walk in at the right moment, just as the contents were hitting the floor. Two large oil paintings were propped against a wall. I picked up one as another greedy shopper grabbed the other.  I was pleased with my selection...a scene of a young girl shopping in a French market, and the price couldn't be argued with. It would cost me twice that much just to buy a blank canvas at Ben Franklin, so I knew it was money well spent. 
     The next evening, I had to attend a non-profit fundraiser at the Crossroads Art Gallery. I grabbed a glass of chardonnay and began to stroll through the various artist's booths, examining etchings and sketchings and paintings, a variety of subjects and mediums on display.  I almost choked on my wine when I rounded a corner and there, in full display and commanding a price tag of $800 was the companion piece to the painting I had purchased the day before for $4.00.  The artist was listed as someone who had taught extensively in both the United States and Europe, and the painting was part of a series of scenes from a Parisienne market.  I wanted to dance a little victory gig right there in the aisle, so proud was I of my find.
     It only took those two victories to enstill in me a life-long addiction to thrift store shopping, and I think my college-age children are starting to understand.  My son has discovered the beauty of shopping at the local Salvation Army, having consistently been voted as having the "Best Halloween Costume" for three years in a row, all thanks to his thrift store finds. Yesterday, I dropped Sissey off at college so she could help with the spring orientation and registration. With an entire afternoon free, I did what was only expected, what was only right, and she knew exactly where I was headed.  I hit the Goodwill Store on Highway Nine.  I bought a couple of books for 80 cents each, a Ralph Lauren umbrella for $1.00 and a pewter bucket with a palmetto tree embossed on it for 99 cents. It was a very good day and I was pleased with my purchases, plus, it was all for a worthy cause.
        So as we begin 2011, I wish each of you peace on earth,  good health, prosperity, and most of all, expecially if you haven't experienced it before,  Goodwill to all men.
      I am, afterall, a very Goodwill girl.

Joy to the World!

"For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord."

Luke 2:11

Luke 2


"And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.
(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)
And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.
And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)
To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.
And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.
And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.
And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.
And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.
And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.
But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.
And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them."

Ode to a Fruitcake

ODE TO A FRUITCAKE

How lovely, how lucious

you seasonal treat

I loudly pronounce you

as fitting to eat.

I will not mock you or hide you in shame

"I ADORE FRUITCAKE!"

 I proudly proclaim

So stuffed full of coconut, spices and berries

How I love to devour all those green and red cherries

Pineapple, nuts, raisins abundant

Need I go on? Am I sounding redundant?

I can't help myself, I get so excited

Just thinking about it, I'm oh-so-delighted!
Fruitcake for breakfast

Fruitcake for lunch

Fruitcake for dinner and high tea and brunch

Nibble a slice in the dark of the night

As you walk through the kitchen and pinch off a bite

Just a small little nibble, a sweet little taste

Who cares if the sugar goes straight to your waist?

It's Christmas! The holidays merry and bright

The season of yule logs and cookies and lights

Of  Santa and sleigh rides and reindeer and holly

Of baking and eggnog and elves that are jolly

Of carols and tinsel and garlands and bows

Of stolen sweet kisses beneath mistletoe.

And fruitcake! Yes! Fruitcake! A heavenly treat!

Sent straight from the angels for mortals to eat.

Full of fruit! And it's healthy! Don't even think twice-

It's a full balanced diet in one little slice.

So if you start groaning when fruitcake appears

and the thought of one bite quickly brings you to tears

If you simply re-gift it or secretly stash

Every slice that you're given straight into the trash

Then you've been so misguided, and I guarantee

They didn't use Grandmother's real recipe

The one that requires fruit by the pound

Hours of chopping, all done by hand

Fresh shelled pecans from old Southern trees

Raisins and dates (just a splash of whiskey!) 

If you're not a believer, a true devotee

I suggest you first taste one and then you will see.
And if you are one who turns up your nose
At the mention of fruitcake, then I say to those
that condemn the sweet fruitcake, that most noble treat
Do not belittle that which I eat!
The symbol of Christmas, a holiday pleasure
A family tradition, a long-lasting treasure.
Ah! Fruitcake, sweet fruitcake, I sing out your name
In a holiday carol,  I sing of your fame!
And to all who adore you and in you delight,
I wish Merry Christmas in each tasty bite!

I Know Where Wrinkles Come From

I know where wrinkles come from


This weekend, my son came home from college on the pretense of studying for exams. I was suspicious his visit had more to do with lack of clean laundry than with hitting the books, and I also knew he was adamant about being present to supervise the annual battle known as “The Selection of the Tree.” This is always a rather sensitive event as there is a wide range of opinions in our family regarding the correct height and girth required to meet the criteria of the perfect Christmas tree. One would think this would be a happy, blessed holiday time, but we are an extremely opinionated bunch, and there is always much debate about which tree is taller, rounder, fuller, fresher, fluffier, sturdier, greener, and smellier (in a nice way). The underlying consensus is always that fatter is better, and I only hope this has nothing to say about the Daly family in general.

However, after much debate and effort, the tree was finally up and decorated. In fact, we had stuffed so many ornaments and garlands and lights on that tree that we could have poked a dead branch in a pot to begin with and saved the $80 bucks. But the scent of fresh fir affirmed that underneath all the glitter and gold, there actually stood a live tree, and we all acclaimed that it was, in fact, a very nice tree.

After three days of decorating, wrapping, and baking, the weekend was too quickly coming to an end. Before Bro headed back to UVA, we were scheduled to have dinner with the grandparents, as Grandma Sarah was well aware of the necessity of refueling college students in the midst of exams.

And it was there, at that moment, in that kitchen, that I had an epiphany.

It occurred as I was dipping pita chips into a bowl of hummus. Grandma Sarah was hustling around the kitchen while we chatted and nibbled on the array of dips she had set on the table before us. Being a blend of Julia Child meets Paula Deen, she had prepared a spread of roast tenderloin, scalloped potatoes, butterbeans, fresh cranberry-orange relish, hot biscuits, and Bro’s personal favorite, strawberry-spinach-artichoke salad. While she attended to the last minute preparations, Bro was locked deep in conversation with his grandfather, arguing the finer points of the proper attire for a fraternity holiday party. As they chatted, Clark suddenly realized he was looking up at Bro and exclaimed, “Look at you! You’re taller than I am! I must be shrinking!”

And that was when it happened. Suddenly, clear as a bell, it hit me. As I looked at the smooth, fresh, youthful face of my son who now towered over his septuagenarian grandfather, I had my epiphany. I knew where wrinkles came from.

Clark’s revelation that he was shrinking was the catalyst for my sudden discovery, quite possibly the greatest scientific revelation of the millennium. I now knew what caused wrinkles. It’s compression. It has nothing to do with sagging skin or aging or loss of elasticity or the toxic effects of the sun. It’s all about gravity and compression. Think about it. The earth is a globe suspended in the universe, with millions of pounds of atmospheric pressure pushing us from above and gravity pulling us from beneath. After years of being pressed and pulled, we start to shrink. As we shrink, we round out and loose the fine edges of our youth, as if the Master Creator suddenly took an eraser and blurred the borders of our former self. This compression causes pouches and bulges to appear where previously there were none. I know this to be true, as I now boast a marsupial pouch where a flat tummy used to dwell and strange crevices are appearing on my forehead.

I, too, am in the beginning stages of compression. As I am compressed, cracks and lines are appearing as my skeletal body collapses under all that atmospheric pressure. My frame is finally conceding to the power of gravitational pull, and I will eventually shrink and round out until I am nothing more than a short, wrinkly pile of mushed flesh. There is not enough cream or serum or botox or surgery on earth that can arrest the effects of all that pressure. It’s inevitable, and it will progress until we finally gasp our last dying breath and deflate, our souls mercifully escaping our compressed earthly bodies and fleeing quickly into heaven.

It was my Christmas epiphany, a miraculous revelation: Compression causes us to shrink! As we shrink, we wrinkle. It’s as simple as that, which is actually a quite merry holiday thought. Since there is nothing we can do to reverse the power of atmospheric compression or gravitational pull, you needn’t worry about exercise or diet as you skip through the holidays. Go ahead and have that second glass of eggnog. Enjoy another slice of fruitcake. Sleep in and forget about the treadmill. The world will continue to spin and we will continue to compress. Can’t do a thing about it, so you might as well enjoy the ride and have a very Merry Christmas!

And that, my dear, is where wrinkles come from.

It all makes sense...or is it cents?

      As noted previously, we have been struggling with all the rules and exceptions to the rules, understood-but-not-stated rules, secret rules, hidden rules, unwritten rules, and nobody-knows-why-they-do-it-this-way-but they-just-do rules that are the basis for mastering the language of French.  It's extremely complicated and confusing, and the one rule that underscores every other rule is that no matter what the rule, everything has to agree in GENDER.  No matter what you are trying to actually say, you must first know whether you are using a Masculine or Feminine word to say it. 

     This weekend, I finally got it. We do the same thing in English, only different.  The French apply masculine and feminine gender to their language, whereas Americans apply masculine and feminine gender to their math. Same rules, different subject. It took Facebook and a conversation with my brother to help me make the connection.

     It unfolded like this.  My niece, Anna, had to attend Cotillion this weekend. For those of you who are not familiar with that French word, the English translation for cotillion is  "a gathering of males and females for the express purpose of buying a new dress." It is an annual rite of passage that also involves minimal dancing combined with  awkward conversations and insufficient food.  I believe this ceremony takes place in many diverse cultures, but the underlying  reason for the event is universal. It provides an opportunity for young men to prove their manhood by surviving six hours in a necktie, and it provides young women an opportunity to display their feminine ingenuity through the use of exceptional math and language skills.
     I was able to make the connection this weekend after my brother, Joe,  surprised us with a Sunday afternoon visit. Cotillion had successfully occurred the evening before, the after-party had been held at his house, the girls had all spent the night, and he was escaping a home full of tired and irritable adolescent females.  As we asked about the dance,  Sissey discovered that  pictures had already been posted on Facebook.  There, looking lovely as ever, was his beautiful daughter, Anna, dressed to perfection in a stunning black dress with a chiffon overlay and  an assymetrical, floral strap. A gorgeous dress, a stylish dress....just NOT the black dress she had previously modeled for us only two weeks earlier. Not even the second one she  bought after she decided she didn't like the first one. This was an unknown dress, a never-before-seen dress, a third dress!
   "Joe," I asked, "She looks lovely, but this isn't the dress Anna modeled for us.  Where did this one come from?"
    "Oh, she found this one last week and loved it, AND she got such a great deal on it that she's going to return the other two." 
     And that is when it all came together, the gender agreement issue that we had been struggling with in French. It's just like in French, only different. We do have gender agreement, but  it's in math and not language, and it all goes back to FRENCH and fashion!    
      I will explain.
     The French are responsible for instilling the love of fashionable attire in women around the world. This leads to shopping, which involves the equating of numbers and the computation of sums.  All math is based on the successful application of certain standard formulas.
       In American Math, there are two formulas for every equation: the Male Formula and the Female Formula. In order to successfully compute any equation, you must first determine whether the equation is male or female. Once the gender of the equation has been determined, you must then use all computations in the gender which agrees with the originator of the equation.
     If the equation is male, simply follow universal rules of computation based on the true value of each number.
     If the equation is female, however, all rules must change. The true value of a given number no longer applies. You must substitute the equivalent female value for all male values, the true value of which is only known to the female who is equating the problem.
     There are exceptions to every rule, and the exceptions are determined only by the female who is equating the problem.
    The only way to learn these gender rules is to memorize them.
     So when discussing Anna's attire for the ball, I tried not to laugh at my brother. I realized he had applied American Male Formulas to an obviously American Female Equation and had fallen for the oldest math trick in the book, the 29-39-49 Rule, which states:

 When purchasing a dress for any special occassion, you must always have three variables. 
 Each variable must become more valuable in progression.
Always drop the "1" before any variable. 

Example:
Problem #1. Anna must purchase a dress for cotillion. What is her net gain after purchasing three dresses, wearing one,  and returning two?

          Anna buys dress #1 for  $129.00
          She buys dress #2 for    $139.00
          She buys dress #3 for    $149.00

She applies the 29-39-49 rule which states that when in a progression, all purchases must be listed as the intended price, not the actual retail value. 
Therefore, the  "1" before any dollar amount is always dropped when reporting prices to any member of the male species, so that the above equation is actually stated as:

           Anna buys dress #1 for $29.00

            She buys dress #2 for  $39.00

            She buys dress #3 for  $49.00.

 It is then understood that items #1 ($29) and #2 ($39)  will be returned for a net gain of $68, at which point the 29-39-49 rule is reversed, the "1" is returned to it's original position in front of each number,  and the actual pocketed gain becomes ($129 + $139) = $268.

 Solution: Anna pockets a net gain of $200 after she returns the $68.00 her father expects from the return of dresses #1 and #2.

 

     So as you can see, we have borrowed many things from the French.  The French define haute couture.  Haute couture results in shopping. Shopping depends on math. Therefore, our love of fashion has led us to adapt the  French  rules of gender, only we apply them to a different subject- math! Everything works out when you understand GENDER agreement.

     Once the correct rules are applied, you can easily and successfully master any language and complete any math computation.  

    Finally, finally, it all makes sense. Or is it cents?  Ohh....all those darn  rules are just so confusing!

   

Par Lay View Frawn Say?

     Oui, oui, oui, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
     Today was the last day of classes for the fall term, and, ooh-la-la, our gal survived French!!!   It has been très stressant à la maison the past few months as Sissey has undertaken the challenge of mastering a foreign-foreign language. Geology rocked, psychology analyzed, computer science computed, but French was just plain foreign. And I don't mean that in a good way.
     Why she decided to tackle French, I'm still not quite sure, other than the fact that she wanted to be different from her twin brother, who happens to be fluent in Spanish. Contrary to the advice of her academic advisor, who suggested Spanish (which only has two accents and is a language she may actually use one day), she insisted on signing up for French 109. 

     J'adore le français. The food is delicious. The fashions are impeccable. The wine is superb. You can't beat a day in Paris wandering through the Louvre or strolling along the Champs d'Elysee. No one can turn mere bread and cheese into a gourmet meal quite like the French. Perhaps Sissey was dreaming of haute couture and the cafes of Paris when she signed on, perhaps she was envisioning starry nights drifting down the Seine, I don't really know. But I do know that she sure wasn't thinking about accents and verb conjugation, gender and number agreement, past, present and future tenses.  When it comes to their language, it's not all wine and roses.
         We're talking about a language that uses a million different accents. Accents that shift and turn in numerous directions over various letters with no apparent rhyme or reason. A language that uses thirty-seven letters to spell one word-- and then only pronounces three of those letters when the word is spoken.  A language that makes a distinction between gender and number in a world that has become gender-neutral and could care less about  little details like number-agreement. It has been, to say the least, a challenge.  But everyone needs a good challenge in college, or so I've been told, and after French 109,  I think Sissey's good for life.
   Thankfully, mid-way into the semester, behold! an angel called "Too-tour" appeared. The French "Too-tour" was patient and kind,  she had great knowledge, and she took our gal under her angel wings and poured French into her soul. Day after day, Too-tour worked with Sissey, breathing the foreign sounds into her soul and heart and mind. Before long, a miracle occurred. Our gal opened her mouth and hark! foreign sounds appeared. She was PAR-LAY-VIEW FRAWN-SAYING!!  And more than that, she was still alive! Elle n'est past morte! Contrary to her insistence, she did not die. Nope, she didn't even come close! Merci, Too-tour, merci beaucoup!
       She passed her oral interview on Tuesday without throwing up, fainting or dying. She didn't even need the Depends I had on reserve.  Our gal  is now  "par lay view frawn-saying" like a true native. Well, at least like a native from some foreign planet. The requirements for matriculation only indicated she needed three semesters of a foreign language, and believe me, we have been speaking some kind of foreign language around here. I'm not always sure what planet it's from, not always sure if it can even be translated into any language, but we are just not too particular around here anymore. If it sounds like French, it must be French, and we're going with that. C'est bonne, c'est bonne, c'est bonne, n'est-ce pas?!?!
    Now, we are officially three-eighths of the way through our HomeBound College project. Sissey will finish up all of her exams by Thursday, then we'll head to Richmond for a quick Christmas Break. In January, it's back to the grindstone, with only five more semesters to complete before she can flip that tassel and fly away into the unknown future.
      From my perspective, five semesters seems like a milli-second, a gasp, but for Sissey, it seems incomprehensible that the day will finally arrive when she can clutch that sheepskin firmly in her french-manicured little hands, prance across that stage in a très à la mode cap and gown, and with a certain joie de vivre, flip that tassel and jump into life. 
      Today,we're simply  breathing a sigh of relief that the semester is over, fini. One French class down. Two more to go, and then, happily, joyfully, gleefully, we'll bid Au revoir to French classes. When the exit exam is finished, when the orals are over and all the verbs have been conjugated to perfection, when the tenses past, present and future are properly aligned and all the numbers and genders agree--when that day arrives, we're going to pack our little travel bags, hop on a big silver plane, grab a glass of the very best French champagne, and with a toast and a smile, experience the fun part of  French as we shout  Bonjour Paris! Nous sommes ici!!

     Ahhh, until that day, I bid you Au revoir!

Off to the Maul....

     Christmas lights are going up in town, wreaths are appearing on doorways, carols are playing on the "Holly" station, and all the stores are putting up holiday decorations and stocking shelves. That most glorious time of the year is approaching, and Black Friday cometh. Put on your armor and strap on your weapons....it's time to head to the Maul.
     Ah, Christmas....the season of giving, the season of forgiving. And believe me, you're going to experience both of those emotions before the holiday is over with if you plan on going to your local mall. It all begins that special day after Thanksgiving-Black Friday-a day when Americans are saturated  and idle, a day when we are lethargically laden with turkey-induced tryptophans while simultaneously pumped up on pumpkin-pie carboyhdrates. We're tired, we're wired, and we're ready to spend some money. It's time to meet the masses at your local shopping trough, time to wade into that wild and weary land lovingly and affectionately known as "The Maul".
       To really appreciate the peace, love, and joy of Christmas, you must spend Black Friday at your local shopping maul. There, as you indulge your obession with gift-giving, you will also have to immerse yourself in some holiday forgiving, because as you negotiate the masses that are frantically searching for that one hot item, that lone toy-du-jour, that MUST HAVE gift of which only one is left in the entire 48 contiguous states, you will quite possibly be mauled to death. After you have manuevered through the crowds, after you have encountered frantic and aggressive shoppers, after you have plowed through mountains of merchandise and spent hours trekking across concrete floors, believe me, you will be so anxious for peace, love, and joy that you may never venture there again!
     But Black Friday approacheth, and being only human, we will continue to trade peace, love and joy for consumerism, commercialism, and consumption.  This is opening day of  the official Christmas shopping season, and all the bargain hunters will have their credit cards loaded and will be flocking to the buying fields.  But be prepared. Plan in advance. Have a strategy. This is not a day for amateurs and only the seasoned Black Friday troops will survive.
     Put your big girl panties on before you go, because you'll need to be tough and stoic to deal with the other holly jolly holiday shoppers. Heck, you'll need to be tough and stoic just to get past the parking lot. The battle starts the minute you arrive. You'll probably have to pull out an AK-47 or some other high-powered assault weapon as soon as you enter just to get that one empty parking space-- the space you finally spotted after your twentieth lap around "the maul."  Oh, don't actually shoot it. Just sort of wave it around in the air, rev your engine up a couple of times,  slap a "crazy old lady" look on your face, and believe me, the virgin shoppers will bolt out of the lot before they complete a single lap around "the maul." It's pretty amazing how quickly you can clear'em out with a little pre-planning.  Then you can just ease that big ole SUV into the spot closest to the door, where you'll be able to run back and forth all day long as you load your deals and steals into the cargo hatch. You've just accomplished your first tactical holiday mission. Congratulations.
    Now, take a deep breath, pop a xanax, and say a prayer -you're about to head inside.  The battlefield can get pretty ugly when people are purchasing gifts to celebrate the birth of our Savior.  I've been accosted, assaulted, stepped on, run over, cursed at, pushed, shoved and insulted during Black Friday shopping excursions. I've had items ripped out of my hands and little old ladies practically steamroll over me in order to snag a two-for-one deal.  The joy of the season becomes more of "Boy if I had a reason to stay at home, this is it" after a few hours inside that environment, and it becomes quite apparent why they call this place "THE MAUL." As I've warned you before, it can get ugly at the battlefront, and sometimes, the troops just have to retreat and head back home. Don't be ashamed if this happens to you. Retreat-and-advance is an age-old manuever, it can be quite effective, and it's the reason they invented the internet, where success is just at the tips of your fingers.
     But if you do advance back into "the maul,"  you may want to pull a Nancy Reagan and brush up on your "Just Say No" skills. Don't expect to be able to casually meander through the buildings, happily searching for the items you actually wanted to purchase. There are troops stationed up and down every inch of the hallways and aisles, pacing back and forth, searching for the weak. Those soldiers aren't about to let you pass until you have stopped at their station and completed their inspection.  They will spray you with noxious gases called "perfume" which will disorient your senses. They will grab your hands and cover them with lotions and oils so you are unable to hold onto your weapons. They will offer you foods to eat which may be contaminated with biological germ warfare, so be very, very wary.
     I've been commanded by these warriors to have my teeth bleached, my eyebrows waxed, my jewelry cleaned, my back massaged, my kitchen renovated, my bathtub re-glazed, my phone service re-configured, my retirement plan upgraded and  my gutters cleaned. Seriously, do they think that's why I came to "the maul" in the first place? Do they really think those are services I am going to purchase here? I wouldn't be surprised to learn next that I can have my annual gynecological exam completed in front of Victoria's Secret while simultaneously filing my tax returns.  You are going to have to be able to firmly march past, arm extended and hand up, and just shout "NO!" as you pass each station. You will not survive if you cannot complete this tactical manuever.
      Black Friday at "the maul" is an experience everyone should undergo once in a lifetime, because, as Nietzsche reminds us, that which doesn't kill us only makes us stronger. It will, however,  wear you out. Coming home bruised, tired, frustrated and irritable may not quite be worth that 20% one-day discount, and it sure doesn't put me in the holiday spirit, but it helps me keep things in perspective. Unlike Nietzstsche, who doubted God and declared Him dead,  I am sure He lives and so I celebrate.  Commercialism may try to overshadow it, but as I hustle and bustle with the rest of the world, as I bargain and banter for that perfect present, as I move with the masses through the mobs at the mall, even then--- I will not forget the reason for the season.  I see it in a face in the crowd, the smile of a child, the kindness of a stranger, or the compassion of a sales clerk-- even in the midst of all this stress and mess,  even at "the maul,"  I see God and I celebrate.
     So yes, I will probably venture out on Black Friday, for just a bit. I don't know why I continue to do this, but I do. I dread it, but I'm out there with the rest of the world.   I would  rather stay at home with my family, browsing Amazon.com and eBay, shopping in my jammies while curled up on the sofa with a hot cup of coffee, but off I will go, armed and ready, headed to "the maul," celebrating the season. It's my Christian duty.
         And if you decide to venture out, be sure to have a list and check it twice. Be well-hydrated and well-rested. Carry a stash of energy bars and a large bottle of Purel. Update your will and say your prayers.  Plaster a "Merry Christmas" grin across your face, stick a sprig of mistletoe in your hat, and  hum a few bars of "O, Holy Night!," Then, strap on your armour, choose your weapons, and advance, or cash-advance, whichever suits you best. You're ready for battle.
     And if you bump into me,  "Merry Christmas" friend, peace and goodwill,  but I spied that bargain first.