Today, December 31, began with a fire.
A red ember at first, then a gigantic ball of orange-red flame rose and engulfed the landscape and entered into the very window of the study, penetrating the darkness and shadows of the house at 6:25 A.M. Why today, I wondered, is this phenomenon occurring? This day, the eve of something new, something bold and grand and frightening…this day, the symbolic end of things incredible, things unforeseen, things ominous?
Dead wood is why…and a lot of useless live wood, too.
The run rises every day on the water’s eastern horizon, but from the vantage point of our home-office the event was unobservable. Dead wood and useless live wood was the problem. But no longer…it’s all gone now, allowing the eternal flame to enter unobstructed into the house, offering up the glorious sunrise over the water, a new day with promises and possibilities unimagined.
Those with lucky horizons see this event every day, and they see it because there is no dead wood to obscure their vista. Today we join them. That’s because Josh, Tony and Roberto showed up yesterday, bringing with them the cruel but necessary tools to carve up the overgrown landscape that had also engulfed the yard.
“Here we are, boss-man, ready to let the sunshine back into your yard, and I hope nobody’s still sleeping, ‘cause it’s going to get noisy,” Tony said as he fired up his chain saw. “What do you want us to do?” Without hesitation I answered,”Boys, I want to see the sun shine again in this yard.”
“Yessir, Boss, we’re experts at getting rid of your dead wood, and the useless live wood that hangs out with it,” Josh hollered from the boom bucket rising 50 feet into the thick oak branches. “Senor, las palmas son una problema tambien,” Roberto points out. “I know,” I replied, “whack all those dead branches out so we can see the sun, Roberto.”
Progress seemed slow at first, but soon the useless debris of mingled dead and live branches littered the driveway, and even the once-nuisance pine tree lay comatose, bleeding its rosin in lifeless chunks on the gravel. These boys were board-certified ruthless surgeons, hell-bent on a mission of restoring a yard that was in desperate need of sunlight. On and on the saw buzzed, the branches fell, the light creeping back into the dark crevices that had laid waste to expensive zoysia grass. It all seemed so heartless, but so necessary.
Days end, as did this one, with the setting of the sun. The boys were done, and the yard was clean. What will it all look like tomorrow, I wondered? Like all new haircuts, or purges of other nature, the results would be seen with the rising of a new sun; I would know soon enough.
Nature itself abhors that which is useless, that which is dead, and soon the rot of decay renders stubble for fires and mushrooms, those grim reapers of death to the superfluous. There’s a lesson here for me, I thought. For even as nature itself is ruthless with the dead and useless, so must I be. The new will just not grow where sunlight does not shine…and as any arborist will tell you, the fruit is always in the new branches, not the dead ones.
The temperate coastal zones assure continued growth, especially when fertilized. So, no matter how often the foliage is pruned, it will grow again, some to flowers and fruit, some to useless branches with nothing but leaves. So yesterday’s purging of the dead wood and the useless live branches is not a “be all, end all” by any means. No, it is an ongoing process, especially if one likes to see new sunrises.
The eve of an old year is now upon us, and the dawn of a new one is about to occur. I always liked this day because I feel justified in purging my own desk, data base and life of that which is irrelevant and meaningless…all without a guilty conscious. Yes, it makes some room for the growth of new relationships, new things, new possibilities. It’s exciting.
Today’s sunrise was a harmless fire as it entered through the window this morning…a “friendly fire” in insurance lingo, the kind of fire that poses little risk to actuarial tables. As the sun rose I could see what yesterday’s purge had accomplished, and I knew this would not be the last “fire” I’d see this year.
Today the sun shines again in our yard. The big trees are perhaps still recovering somewhat from their surgery, and they will soon heal and be back at what they do best: grow. I think I hear this morning a chorus of small shrubs singing joyously in thanksgiving for this gift of new light.
Advice, or New Year’s Resolution? Not from me. But I promise you that for a while there will be a lot more sunshine around this homeplace, and less dead wood to spoil the view.
Welcome to the eve of a new dawn, and may 2009 be the best year of our collective lives. Happy New Year!
Bud Hearn
December 31, 2008
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Takin' Out the Trash
Some things defy explanation. This may be one of them.
It was late afternoon as a fiery red sunset cast long shadows across the lawn. The holidays were over, and the aftermath clean-up had been avoided, aided by a combination of music, merlot and meditation. I was mellow that day, listening to Bob Dylan wail about the Memphis Blues:
“Grandpa died last week and now he’s buried in the rocks,
But everybody still talks how badly they were shocked.
But me, I expected it to happen, I knew he’d lost control
When he built a fire on Main Street and shot it full of holes…”
Suddenly the situation escalated out of control and became a spectacle. The Menace had returned, waddling and flaunting its bulging body up the driveway. One cannot take such taunts lightly…urgent action was necessary.
Somehow the stalking Menace had found me again, apparently preferring old home comforts to those of the landfill. It sought revenge, and what better spot to intimidate than from a prominent spot in the driveway? Adding insult to injury, it allowed its morning breath to spoil the crisp afternoon air. The excited but terrified voices within the house disturbed my reverie…the remaining merlot would have to wait.
The scene outside was a shocking sight. The Stalker, now a bulging glob, had swelled to gigantic proportions, apparently from over-indulgence during the holidays (but then again, who had not, what with all the food and sweets…even Visa was stretched). Sullen, unkempt, contemptuous, it mocked the pristine surroundings with its uninvited and gloating presence. Something must be done…there are neighbors, you know.
I’d had many encounters with Mr. Smelly, also known by such aliases as The Vile Villain, The Nemesis, The Scourge and other nauseous appellations. My numerous puny attempts at eradication had previously proven futile. But this time, spurred on by a sudden Green-movement surge and insistence from the house, I found courage to face The Threat and terminate it, once and for all.
Bolstered by the Colt 45 six-shot revolver in a fast-draw holster strapped to my side, I strolled into the driveway to face The Intruder. Tilting the Stetson to block out the lowering sun’s glare, and having positioned the sun at my back (aka “The Eastwood Position”), I shifted into a comfortable gunslinger stance in the Tony Lama lizard skin boots in preparation for the ultimate showdown. It was a scene from The O.K. Corral, to be sure…Burt Lancaster would have applauded the portrayal!
Smug in its reproach and intimidation, Mr. Stinky stood motionless in the fading sunlight, casting its rotund shadow onto the shrubs. Threatened, its ominous bulge began to silently emit an odious aroma, fouling the air and distracting my concentration. (Apparently ancient Darwinian impulses evoke malodorous defensive measures in these creatures.)
The stare-down intensified, and my confidence began to wane. I knew action must be taken quickly or not at all. With lightening speed my hand slapped the leather, the 45 slipping easily into my grip. In less than a split second my six-shooter was out and leveled at the heart of The Undesirable. As the hammer clicked back, my finger tightened on the hair trigger, The Bulge dead-on in its barrel sights. But then…..
Suddenly, and without warning, Dylan quits singing and the sound of a shattering wine glass punctuates the still air. A shrill voice from the house, wilder and more urgent, now shouts loudly, “I said, take that trash out or I’ll shoot YOU full of holes!”
Jolted from my swoon, the illusion faded instantly in the sunlight. Surrounding me, hands on hips, were the bodies of the voices of the house, and I saw the remaining bags of holiday trash sitting quietly in the driveway—halfway to the trash dumpster, innocently minding their own business. Weird!
Were there consequences? You bet… sing along with me the refrain, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”
Fearing reprisal, and not to be confused with Dylan’s grandpa, I decided to keep the gunslinger dream to myself, at least for the time being. There would be opportunity later for the recital of such exploits, appropriately embellished by age and merlot.
Holidays bring out the best trash of the year. From experience I have concluded there’s a lot more than just holiday trash hanging around. Take my desk…yellowed papers everywhere, evidencing nothing…trash. The computer…hundreds of emails, trash from another time…delete, delete, O worthless clutter. Then there’s the mental trash that lingers around…see you later. Even in my data base thousands of irrelevant names clutter the memory…bye bye, y’all.
One must be ruthless with trash. And in a moment of stark insight, I wondered how many have eliminated me as trash from their data base…horrors!
One thing is for sure: We will always be takin’ out the trash. We created it, and as long as we’re around, it’ll continue to happen.
As for me, I’m now back to the music, merlot and meditation, and pondering the sequel of the epic struggle between man and his trash!
Happy New Year.
Bud Hearn
December 27, 2008
It was late afternoon as a fiery red sunset cast long shadows across the lawn. The holidays were over, and the aftermath clean-up had been avoided, aided by a combination of music, merlot and meditation. I was mellow that day, listening to Bob Dylan wail about the Memphis Blues:
“Grandpa died last week and now he’s buried in the rocks,
But everybody still talks how badly they were shocked.
But me, I expected it to happen, I knew he’d lost control
When he built a fire on Main Street and shot it full of holes…”
Suddenly the situation escalated out of control and became a spectacle. The Menace had returned, waddling and flaunting its bulging body up the driveway. One cannot take such taunts lightly…urgent action was necessary.
Somehow the stalking Menace had found me again, apparently preferring old home comforts to those of the landfill. It sought revenge, and what better spot to intimidate than from a prominent spot in the driveway? Adding insult to injury, it allowed its morning breath to spoil the crisp afternoon air. The excited but terrified voices within the house disturbed my reverie…the remaining merlot would have to wait.
The scene outside was a shocking sight. The Stalker, now a bulging glob, had swelled to gigantic proportions, apparently from over-indulgence during the holidays (but then again, who had not, what with all the food and sweets…even Visa was stretched). Sullen, unkempt, contemptuous, it mocked the pristine surroundings with its uninvited and gloating presence. Something must be done…there are neighbors, you know.
I’d had many encounters with Mr. Smelly, also known by such aliases as The Vile Villain, The Nemesis, The Scourge and other nauseous appellations. My numerous puny attempts at eradication had previously proven futile. But this time, spurred on by a sudden Green-movement surge and insistence from the house, I found courage to face The Threat and terminate it, once and for all.
Bolstered by the Colt 45 six-shot revolver in a fast-draw holster strapped to my side, I strolled into the driveway to face The Intruder. Tilting the Stetson to block out the lowering sun’s glare, and having positioned the sun at my back (aka “The Eastwood Position”), I shifted into a comfortable gunslinger stance in the Tony Lama lizard skin boots in preparation for the ultimate showdown. It was a scene from The O.K. Corral, to be sure…Burt Lancaster would have applauded the portrayal!
Smug in its reproach and intimidation, Mr. Stinky stood motionless in the fading sunlight, casting its rotund shadow onto the shrubs. Threatened, its ominous bulge began to silently emit an odious aroma, fouling the air and distracting my concentration. (Apparently ancient Darwinian impulses evoke malodorous defensive measures in these creatures.)
The stare-down intensified, and my confidence began to wane. I knew action must be taken quickly or not at all. With lightening speed my hand slapped the leather, the 45 slipping easily into my grip. In less than a split second my six-shooter was out and leveled at the heart of The Undesirable. As the hammer clicked back, my finger tightened on the hair trigger, The Bulge dead-on in its barrel sights. But then…..
Suddenly, and without warning, Dylan quits singing and the sound of a shattering wine glass punctuates the still air. A shrill voice from the house, wilder and more urgent, now shouts loudly, “I said, take that trash out or I’ll shoot YOU full of holes!”
Jolted from my swoon, the illusion faded instantly in the sunlight. Surrounding me, hands on hips, were the bodies of the voices of the house, and I saw the remaining bags of holiday trash sitting quietly in the driveway—halfway to the trash dumpster, innocently minding their own business. Weird!
Were there consequences? You bet… sing along with me the refrain, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound…”
Fearing reprisal, and not to be confused with Dylan’s grandpa, I decided to keep the gunslinger dream to myself, at least for the time being. There would be opportunity later for the recital of such exploits, appropriately embellished by age and merlot.
Holidays bring out the best trash of the year. From experience I have concluded there’s a lot more than just holiday trash hanging around. Take my desk…yellowed papers everywhere, evidencing nothing…trash. The computer…hundreds of emails, trash from another time…delete, delete, O worthless clutter. Then there’s the mental trash that lingers around…see you later. Even in my data base thousands of irrelevant names clutter the memory…bye bye, y’all.
One must be ruthless with trash. And in a moment of stark insight, I wondered how many have eliminated me as trash from their data base…horrors!
One thing is for sure: We will always be takin’ out the trash. We created it, and as long as we’re around, it’ll continue to happen.
As for me, I’m now back to the music, merlot and meditation, and pondering the sequel of the epic struggle between man and his trash!
Happy New Year.
Bud Hearn
December 27, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Angels...And the Spirit of Christmas
“Be not forgetful to entertain angels, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.” Heb. 13:2
Our angel, we’ve had her for years. She occupies the uppermost branch in our evergreen tree which, this year, is 11 feet tall. The oxygen is thin up that high, but she seems not to mind. With her gold-inlaid wings spread wide, a rose at her breast, she smiles upon us, especially at night with the lights on.
Clothed in light and mystery
Her place secure atop the tree,
The Angel of The Heavenly Three
Broods in silence The Nativity.
You see, Christmas is about new birth, and angels are never far from new-born babies. These mysterious and ethereal spirits are well-documented throughout The Holy Word:
“…(who) makes His angels spirits, and His ministers a flame of fire,…ministering spirits sent to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation…”.
And Christmas, if it is nothing else, is a time for imagination, and contemplation of intrigue and mystery of angelic spirits. Even the secular world has conjured up its own spirits in Christmas…notably such as St. Nicholas, Santa Claus, and the ghost of Jacob Marley.
For Christians, angels are intricately connected throughout the conception, birth and life of The Christ child. The birth of Jesus, divinely purposed and spiritually attended, was also intertwined with the common elements of this world---a stable, a manger, barn animals, shepherds and cold weather. Could angels, so integrally part of the birth of Jesus, be associated with the nativity of all births? Who is to say?
All new births are miracles …a creative mystery of profound proportions. Can you remember the birth of your children, or family members? In “the old days,” men were not allowed in the “delivery room,” but relegated to a “viewing room” with a large plate glass window. The child, your child, was brought up in an incubator or by a loving nurse, held up to the window for all to see, and to wonder, to marvel.
Not so today, I’m told. Men are now required to be a part of the delivery process… fainting is not allowed. My generation of men would not have been able to pay this price!
We wonder, “What might the future hold for a new-born baby?” Some cynical persons may even dare to ask, “What good is any new-born baby in these days?” The question resounds unanswered, unanswerable. Do angels know? Perhaps, for it’s said, “He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways…”.
At Christmas the 16th century English melody, Greensleeves, is one of my favorites:
“What child is this who, laid to rest, on Mary’s lap is sleeping?
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet, while shepherds watch are keeping?
This, this is Christ the King, whom shepherds guard and angels sing;
Haste, haste to bring him laud, the babe, the son of Mary.”
To intrude into the sphere of angels is to leave one awed, confounded and mystified. Late at night in this season my family sleeps. With the dog in my lap and all lights out except those on our tree, I commune with our angel and ask such questions. The Spirit of Christmas always creates in me a new birth.
In a barn in Bethlehem a Child was born over 2,000 years ago. “What Child is This,” we wonder? I ask this question to my angel. In silence, and haloed in light, I think I hear her say:
Who is this Child I hear you say?
Why, He is the Answer to a better way.
This Child of Peace in Heaven holds sway
And He is the Promise of a much better day.
In a quiet peace I wonder at the Promise of a much better day my angel promises … while I imagine The Possibilities.
May the joys, hopes and child-like wonder of Christmas never cease in your home and mine. Merry Christmas!
Bud Hearn
December 24, 2008
Our angel, we’ve had her for years. She occupies the uppermost branch in our evergreen tree which, this year, is 11 feet tall. The oxygen is thin up that high, but she seems not to mind. With her gold-inlaid wings spread wide, a rose at her breast, she smiles upon us, especially at night with the lights on.
Clothed in light and mystery
Her place secure atop the tree,
The Angel of The Heavenly Three
Broods in silence The Nativity.
You see, Christmas is about new birth, and angels are never far from new-born babies. These mysterious and ethereal spirits are well-documented throughout The Holy Word:
“…(who) makes His angels spirits, and His ministers a flame of fire,…ministering spirits sent to minister for them who shall be heirs of salvation…”.
And Christmas, if it is nothing else, is a time for imagination, and contemplation of intrigue and mystery of angelic spirits. Even the secular world has conjured up its own spirits in Christmas…notably such as St. Nicholas, Santa Claus, and the ghost of Jacob Marley.
For Christians, angels are intricately connected throughout the conception, birth and life of The Christ child. The birth of Jesus, divinely purposed and spiritually attended, was also intertwined with the common elements of this world---a stable, a manger, barn animals, shepherds and cold weather. Could angels, so integrally part of the birth of Jesus, be associated with the nativity of all births? Who is to say?
All new births are miracles …a creative mystery of profound proportions. Can you remember the birth of your children, or family members? In “the old days,” men were not allowed in the “delivery room,” but relegated to a “viewing room” with a large plate glass window. The child, your child, was brought up in an incubator or by a loving nurse, held up to the window for all to see, and to wonder, to marvel.
Not so today, I’m told. Men are now required to be a part of the delivery process… fainting is not allowed. My generation of men would not have been able to pay this price!
We wonder, “What might the future hold for a new-born baby?” Some cynical persons may even dare to ask, “What good is any new-born baby in these days?” The question resounds unanswered, unanswerable. Do angels know? Perhaps, for it’s said, “He shall give his angels charge over thee, to keep thee in all thy ways…”.
At Christmas the 16th century English melody, Greensleeves, is one of my favorites:
“What child is this who, laid to rest, on Mary’s lap is sleeping?
Whom angels greet with anthems sweet, while shepherds watch are keeping?
This, this is Christ the King, whom shepherds guard and angels sing;
Haste, haste to bring him laud, the babe, the son of Mary.”
To intrude into the sphere of angels is to leave one awed, confounded and mystified. Late at night in this season my family sleeps. With the dog in my lap and all lights out except those on our tree, I commune with our angel and ask such questions. The Spirit of Christmas always creates in me a new birth.
In a barn in Bethlehem a Child was born over 2,000 years ago. “What Child is This,” we wonder? I ask this question to my angel. In silence, and haloed in light, I think I hear her say:
Who is this Child I hear you say?
Why, He is the Answer to a better way.
This Child of Peace in Heaven holds sway
And He is the Promise of a much better day.
In a quiet peace I wonder at the Promise of a much better day my angel promises … while I imagine The Possibilities.
May the joys, hopes and child-like wonder of Christmas never cease in your home and mine. Merry Christmas!
Bud Hearn
December 24, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Christmas...the Simpler Things of Life
Christmas...
The Simpler Things of Life
It just doesn’t take that much to be happy…even at Christmas.
I’m in Atlanta Christmas shopping…well, kinda. I’m shopping the banks whose loan windows say, “Open—Final Days, 50% Sale on all Loans, or Going Out of Business, Entire Stock for Sale, Everything Must go.” Look, what use is real estate, or Christmas, without a quick, end-of-year loan to tide me over?
Being a loan-shopping expert, I’ve learned that it saves a lot of personal embarrassment if you just park outside and observe the people who exit the bank. Check out their faces, their walk…that’ll tell you a lot about the banker’s mood du jour. In such matters it is advisable to only test the depth of the water with one foot.
So, for today’s shopping spree I chose the bank which had a parking lot full of fine automobiles, those with proud, though suspect, family names, such as Bentley, Benz, Royce, Aston and Nardelli (oops…well, Italian anyway).
The gleaming granite edifice smelled of “old money,” while the sign on the door boasted “Rock Solid”. The parking lot met my criteria. Unfortunately, today the banker must have fueled his foul mood with “No’s”. (Bankers practice saying this word “NO” a hundred times a day in front of mirrors). The unshaven faces of “shoppers” were long, their suits tattered, threadbare and soiled. One might have sensed that perhaps their whole lives, not just Christmas, needed tiding over.
I had my answer, so I left, preferring the less pretentious bank down the road, its lot filled with GM’s and Fords. It looked as if it needed to make a few loans…or get one. Moreover, it was located directly beneath the lighted billboard that read, “Titanic…Experience the Thrill.” I took that as a good sign and felt lucky today. I was not!
After a few cold ones at Hal’s, and hearing enough hard-luck stories to sink a titanic, my self begin to feel good about itself again. I remembered the little town I grew up in. There was only one bank, and its loan window was always closed…it only accepted deposits. Since things were cheaper in those days, loans were not needed: Gas at $.27 a gallon and we could ride all day on two gallons; Cherry cokes were a dime, and a Saturday movie was a quarter…what deals.
Some genius in our family had the bright idea of planting 20 acres of Christmas trees on the farm, apparently figuring that it’d keep us out of trouble come Christmas. So, we’d cut those trees, load them in the pickup and peddle them from door to door, all for the exorbitant sum of $10 a tree. We neither got into much trouble nor made much money.
While I can’t say for sure, I don’t believe the family’s foray into tree farming was very profitable, and a couple of years later some sort of “lightening” struck the field and incinerated the trees. Oh, how wonderful was the smell of burnt trees to me, and there was great jubilation when the family received the insurance check!
In my little town, the most exciting thing about Christmas for pre-pubescent children was receipt of a large box of fireworks…cost, about $15. They occupied our idle hands for a few days before Santa came (we never doubted Santa, which proved expedient). The boxes were loaded with Cherry Bombs, rockets, roman candles and TNT Bombs. Have you any idea the mischief such explosives can cause in the hands of an un-supervised, roving horde of mindless pre-teens? Yes, fun was cheap in those days, and my neighbor’s 4 acre sedge grass field needed burning anyway.
Christmas is more expensive these days. Big loans are a necessity now to tide us over, whether credit cards or credit lines. But we have no more fun with all these expenses than we did in a more simpler time…I think less. After Christmas the fireworks were gone, the toys either broken or boring, and we got back to sand-lot football or shooting hoops in Tubby’s back yard. Simple things.
Christmas is here again, and for the first time in years we decided that “simple was better.” We’ve shopped modestly, shunned the banks and will avoid the Alka-Seltzers when the January bills arrive. (But I’m keeping my eye on the “Titanic” bank for good reason!)
Yes, simple is in this year. While I’m pretty well set with all I need, a nice pair of cashmere socks would be appreciated…..is anybody out there listening?
Bud Hearn
December 19, 2008
The Simpler Things of Life
It just doesn’t take that much to be happy…even at Christmas.
I’m in Atlanta Christmas shopping…well, kinda. I’m shopping the banks whose loan windows say, “Open—Final Days, 50% Sale on all Loans, or Going Out of Business, Entire Stock for Sale, Everything Must go.” Look, what use is real estate, or Christmas, without a quick, end-of-year loan to tide me over?
Being a loan-shopping expert, I’ve learned that it saves a lot of personal embarrassment if you just park outside and observe the people who exit the bank. Check out their faces, their walk…that’ll tell you a lot about the banker’s mood du jour. In such matters it is advisable to only test the depth of the water with one foot.
So, for today’s shopping spree I chose the bank which had a parking lot full of fine automobiles, those with proud, though suspect, family names, such as Bentley, Benz, Royce, Aston and Nardelli (oops…well, Italian anyway).
The gleaming granite edifice smelled of “old money,” while the sign on the door boasted “Rock Solid”. The parking lot met my criteria. Unfortunately, today the banker must have fueled his foul mood with “No’s”. (Bankers practice saying this word “NO” a hundred times a day in front of mirrors). The unshaven faces of “shoppers” were long, their suits tattered, threadbare and soiled. One might have sensed that perhaps their whole lives, not just Christmas, needed tiding over.
I had my answer, so I left, preferring the less pretentious bank down the road, its lot filled with GM’s and Fords. It looked as if it needed to make a few loans…or get one. Moreover, it was located directly beneath the lighted billboard that read, “Titanic…Experience the Thrill.” I took that as a good sign and felt lucky today. I was not!
After a few cold ones at Hal’s, and hearing enough hard-luck stories to sink a titanic, my self begin to feel good about itself again. I remembered the little town I grew up in. There was only one bank, and its loan window was always closed…it only accepted deposits. Since things were cheaper in those days, loans were not needed: Gas at $.27 a gallon and we could ride all day on two gallons; Cherry cokes were a dime, and a Saturday movie was a quarter…what deals.
Some genius in our family had the bright idea of planting 20 acres of Christmas trees on the farm, apparently figuring that it’d keep us out of trouble come Christmas. So, we’d cut those trees, load them in the pickup and peddle them from door to door, all for the exorbitant sum of $10 a tree. We neither got into much trouble nor made much money.
While I can’t say for sure, I don’t believe the family’s foray into tree farming was very profitable, and a couple of years later some sort of “lightening” struck the field and incinerated the trees. Oh, how wonderful was the smell of burnt trees to me, and there was great jubilation when the family received the insurance check!
In my little town, the most exciting thing about Christmas for pre-pubescent children was receipt of a large box of fireworks…cost, about $15. They occupied our idle hands for a few days before Santa came (we never doubted Santa, which proved expedient). The boxes were loaded with Cherry Bombs, rockets, roman candles and TNT Bombs. Have you any idea the mischief such explosives can cause in the hands of an un-supervised, roving horde of mindless pre-teens? Yes, fun was cheap in those days, and my neighbor’s 4 acre sedge grass field needed burning anyway.
Christmas is more expensive these days. Big loans are a necessity now to tide us over, whether credit cards or credit lines. But we have no more fun with all these expenses than we did in a more simpler time…I think less. After Christmas the fireworks were gone, the toys either broken or boring, and we got back to sand-lot football or shooting hoops in Tubby’s back yard. Simple things.
Christmas is here again, and for the first time in years we decided that “simple was better.” We’ve shopped modestly, shunned the banks and will avoid the Alka-Seltzers when the January bills arrive. (But I’m keeping my eye on the “Titanic” bank for good reason!)
Yes, simple is in this year. While I’m pretty well set with all I need, a nice pair of cashmere socks would be appreciated…..is anybody out there listening?
Bud Hearn
December 19, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Dipsticks...The Evolution of a Species
Dipsticks…
The Evolution of a Species
Darwin is deceased, but Dipsticks live on…and are evolving!
Huh, you ask? The short answer is that it is connected to Christmas, improbable as that may sound. Yes, it’s a stretch, but look, Christmas is a stretch, too.
Christmas is full of improbabilities…even small children know it’s a ruse, sort of. They know fat men with white beards cannot possibly skinny down chimneys, that reindeer don’t fly, and elves are a myth. They know Santa’s workshop is the internet, not a North Pole igloo, and that gifts are delivered by a UPS elf in a brown uniform, not a red suit. First grade Science classes dispel this nonsense. Willy Wonka and his Chocolate Factory is far more credible...even I believe that!
How, you ask, can a dipstick species possibly evolve into a connection to Christmas? I’ll explain.
I purchased an “evolved dipstick” while in McIntosh County at Harold Webster’s Christmas Tree Farm last Sunday, and again Tuesday. Buying a tree up there is a cultural event, sort of, at least as cultural as McIntosh County can get. And both my wife and the Right Reverend Brearley witnessed the dipstick’s extraordinary evolution.
You know what a dipstick is, right? It’s a long, greasy rod inserted in a cylindrical tube that extends into an engine block. It measures the fluid level in the engine, and no self-respecting Southern lady would ever touch one for fear of grease.
Well, the dipstick has evolved, “branched out,” you might say. It has joined the Green Movement and is now used to measure the water level in the tree stand. That’s right. It’s now a long plastic tube that extends into the tree stand with a cup on one end. It has a clear plastic tube that is inserted. Water is poured into the cup and the clear tube measures the water level in the stand. Ingenious, huh? Why crawl around on the floor filling the stand with water and uttering un-Christmas expletives? Santa hears these things!
Dipsticks have a colorful past, like Christmas and many of you. In fact, dipsticks were first discovered in a NASCAR shade-tree mechanic’s back yard near Darien back in the early 1900’s. Rumor has it that Henry Ford had once come through the county heading south on US 17 in one of his Model A’s. He was waylaid by some locals for resembling a Yankee, relieved of his Model A and last seen fleeing on foot towards the safety of Sea Island. Some say, that is.
Anyhow, rumor has it the car ended up being impounded as evidence by Sheriff Poppwell, and in its disassembly, the dipstick was discovered.
Dipsticks were born as honorable nouns. They have now evolved into vitriolic verbs, used derogatorily when referring to the concept of “dipsticking” someone, i.e., drilling down into their psyche to determine attitudes, intelligence and pecuniary proclivities. It’s a favorite word of congressional inquisitioners and financiers these days.
Dipsticks have evolved into ill repute by keeping company with unsavory characters. According to The Dukes of Hazard, people who are stupid, obnoxious and dummies are referred to as such. Today the news is replete with multiple applications of the term…case in point, Obama and the Illinois Gov. Blagojevich/Jackson being dipsticked by the media. In McIntosh County confessions are more readily forthcoming!
Word is that the Big Three auto execs are again heading to Sea Island for the winter sunshine after the Bailout Party is over. I’m pretty sure they’ll be driving, maybe carpooling, and the route does pass thorough Darien.
Now, there is no shortage of dipsticks in the South, and especially in Darien. I suspect, given the opportunity, these dips would like nothing better than to again stick the Detroit dips for more auto racing parts…or just for fun or for old times sake.
No household should be without a dipstick watering device. Yes, technically the tree is dead, and all you’re doing with the water is bailing it out for another week or so before it’s hauled off to the recycle bin. But after all, it is Christmas, and generosity is expected.
He that hath ears, let him hear.
Christmas is incomplete without evolved dipsticks around, and as my wife is fond of saying, “I have two in my home!” How about you?
Bud Hearn
December 11, 2008
The Evolution of a Species
Darwin is deceased, but Dipsticks live on…and are evolving!
Huh, you ask? The short answer is that it is connected to Christmas, improbable as that may sound. Yes, it’s a stretch, but look, Christmas is a stretch, too.
Christmas is full of improbabilities…even small children know it’s a ruse, sort of. They know fat men with white beards cannot possibly skinny down chimneys, that reindeer don’t fly, and elves are a myth. They know Santa’s workshop is the internet, not a North Pole igloo, and that gifts are delivered by a UPS elf in a brown uniform, not a red suit. First grade Science classes dispel this nonsense. Willy Wonka and his Chocolate Factory is far more credible...even I believe that!
How, you ask, can a dipstick species possibly evolve into a connection to Christmas? I’ll explain.
I purchased an “evolved dipstick” while in McIntosh County at Harold Webster’s Christmas Tree Farm last Sunday, and again Tuesday. Buying a tree up there is a cultural event, sort of, at least as cultural as McIntosh County can get. And both my wife and the Right Reverend Brearley witnessed the dipstick’s extraordinary evolution.
You know what a dipstick is, right? It’s a long, greasy rod inserted in a cylindrical tube that extends into an engine block. It measures the fluid level in the engine, and no self-respecting Southern lady would ever touch one for fear of grease.
Well, the dipstick has evolved, “branched out,” you might say. It has joined the Green Movement and is now used to measure the water level in the tree stand. That’s right. It’s now a long plastic tube that extends into the tree stand with a cup on one end. It has a clear plastic tube that is inserted. Water is poured into the cup and the clear tube measures the water level in the stand. Ingenious, huh? Why crawl around on the floor filling the stand with water and uttering un-Christmas expletives? Santa hears these things!
Dipsticks have a colorful past, like Christmas and many of you. In fact, dipsticks were first discovered in a NASCAR shade-tree mechanic’s back yard near Darien back in the early 1900’s. Rumor has it that Henry Ford had once come through the county heading south on US 17 in one of his Model A’s. He was waylaid by some locals for resembling a Yankee, relieved of his Model A and last seen fleeing on foot towards the safety of Sea Island. Some say, that is.
Anyhow, rumor has it the car ended up being impounded as evidence by Sheriff Poppwell, and in its disassembly, the dipstick was discovered.
Dipsticks were born as honorable nouns. They have now evolved into vitriolic verbs, used derogatorily when referring to the concept of “dipsticking” someone, i.e., drilling down into their psyche to determine attitudes, intelligence and pecuniary proclivities. It’s a favorite word of congressional inquisitioners and financiers these days.
Dipsticks have evolved into ill repute by keeping company with unsavory characters. According to The Dukes of Hazard, people who are stupid, obnoxious and dummies are referred to as such. Today the news is replete with multiple applications of the term…case in point, Obama and the Illinois Gov. Blagojevich/Jackson being dipsticked by the media. In McIntosh County confessions are more readily forthcoming!
Word is that the Big Three auto execs are again heading to Sea Island for the winter sunshine after the Bailout Party is over. I’m pretty sure they’ll be driving, maybe carpooling, and the route does pass thorough Darien.
Now, there is no shortage of dipsticks in the South, and especially in Darien. I suspect, given the opportunity, these dips would like nothing better than to again stick the Detroit dips for more auto racing parts…or just for fun or for old times sake.
No household should be without a dipstick watering device. Yes, technically the tree is dead, and all you’re doing with the water is bailing it out for another week or so before it’s hauled off to the recycle bin. But after all, it is Christmas, and generosity is expected.
He that hath ears, let him hear.
Christmas is incomplete without evolved dipsticks around, and as my wife is fond of saying, “I have two in my home!” How about you?
Bud Hearn
December 11, 2008
Thursday, December 4, 2008
The Great Vanishing...Mission Accomplished
The Great Vanishing…
Mission Accomplished
“This time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone.” Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
Things seem to be vanishing at a rapid rate these days. Why, Thanksgiving was hardly here, and now it’s gone.
Only yesterday my wife lost a pearl earring…vanished into thin air. It was discovered the next day in the dog’s bed. Hmmm….? And just this morning I looked into the mirror…why, I seem to have vanished more from yesterday. At this rapid rate, I will soon disappear totally.
And that’s not all. Over $9 trillion dollars of wealth has vanished from the stock market meltdown, not to mention the vanishing of over $4 trillion in home equities. Soon there may be nothing left to vanish.
Wonder where it vanished? Maybe it was an illusion after all, something that we psyched ourselves into believing was there. It reminds me of my first million of equities in land investments when I was about 30. I proudly sent the financial statement to my father, a Great Depression-era child, a skeptic when it came to esoteric “equities.” All he saw was the corresponding debt.
But I did have about $10,000 in cash, and he allowed as how that was a pretty good start towards becoming a millionaire. Of course, you know what happened in 1974…the same as is happening in 2008. The Vanishing Act ~ déjà vu.
We even have a President who has evolved into irrelevance in a short 8 years. He seemed to vanish to safe places when crises occurred. Hollywood could not compete with the scenarios that fate seemed to gleefully delight in dealing out. From “lying low” when 9/11 happened to “low-down lying” about WMD in Iraq, our Chief # 43 was adept at vanishing and leaving the mess for others to clean up.
The caricature of W by Mike Luckovich seemed to offer up some thoughts on this subject of vanishing, and I trust he will forgive me for passing this on to you.
The Communists prefer to preserve for perpetuity their Ideologues by entombing them in glass coffins for public viewing. I witnessed this while in Tiananmen Square recently. Thousands parade daily by Mao Zedong’s tomb, paying homage to his lifeless body while purchasing memorabilia and other junk. Communism and capitalism coexist nicely!
Twice a year the Chairman is taken to Moscow for re-cosmeticization. Unthawed, he is given a chemical bath and complete makeover. He is then re-frozen and shipped back to Beijing. Some say he looks younger and his eyes have a more benevolent gaze these days. In China, the past is always present.
And it’s much the same for Vladimir Lenin, the Icon of Communism, who died at age 53 and who has been on public display since 1924. Unfortunately, the chemical baths have not retarded the rot and green decay that creeps up from his extremities. Which is pretty creepy in itself. I guess if you’re into metaphors, this might be a good one for the long-term state of Communism.
Even The Vatican is into this preservation act. In St. Peter’s Basilica, I saw Good Pope John sleeping soundly, if not too silently to suit me, in his glass enclosure. He looked very happy, and I’m sure this gave affirmation and great comfort to the Faithful of his sainted stature. Catholics have vivid imaginations!
But not Americans. We soon tire of our leaders and are glad when they finally vanish. And it’s a pretty good time for Chief # 43 to pull his final vanishing act, too---he’s running a little short of stature left to vanish. Maybe Chief # 39 will finally take a hint!
On January 20, 2009, W will flash for the last time that smirky grin and finally vanish into the obscurity of the tumble weeds of West Texas, shouting as he leaves, “Mission Accomplished!”
God will have blessed America once again, and lets hope He hangs around for a long time to come!
Bud Hearn
December 4, 2008
Mission Accomplished
“This time it vanished quite slowly, beginning with the end of the tail, and ending with the grin, which remained some time after the rest of it had gone.” Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
Things seem to be vanishing at a rapid rate these days. Why, Thanksgiving was hardly here, and now it’s gone.
Only yesterday my wife lost a pearl earring…vanished into thin air. It was discovered the next day in the dog’s bed. Hmmm….? And just this morning I looked into the mirror…why, I seem to have vanished more from yesterday. At this rapid rate, I will soon disappear totally.
And that’s not all. Over $9 trillion dollars of wealth has vanished from the stock market meltdown, not to mention the vanishing of over $4 trillion in home equities. Soon there may be nothing left to vanish.
Wonder where it vanished? Maybe it was an illusion after all, something that we psyched ourselves into believing was there. It reminds me of my first million of equities in land investments when I was about 30. I proudly sent the financial statement to my father, a Great Depression-era child, a skeptic when it came to esoteric “equities.” All he saw was the corresponding debt.
But I did have about $10,000 in cash, and he allowed as how that was a pretty good start towards becoming a millionaire. Of course, you know what happened in 1974…the same as is happening in 2008. The Vanishing Act ~ déjà vu.
We even have a President who has evolved into irrelevance in a short 8 years. He seemed to vanish to safe places when crises occurred. Hollywood could not compete with the scenarios that fate seemed to gleefully delight in dealing out. From “lying low” when 9/11 happened to “low-down lying” about WMD in Iraq, our Chief # 43 was adept at vanishing and leaving the mess for others to clean up.
The caricature of W by Mike Luckovich seemed to offer up some thoughts on this subject of vanishing, and I trust he will forgive me for passing this on to you.
The Communists prefer to preserve for perpetuity their Ideologues by entombing them in glass coffins for public viewing. I witnessed this while in Tiananmen Square recently. Thousands parade daily by Mao Zedong’s tomb, paying homage to his lifeless body while purchasing memorabilia and other junk. Communism and capitalism coexist nicely!
Twice a year the Chairman is taken to Moscow for re-cosmeticization. Unthawed, he is given a chemical bath and complete makeover. He is then re-frozen and shipped back to Beijing. Some say he looks younger and his eyes have a more benevolent gaze these days. In China, the past is always present.
And it’s much the same for Vladimir Lenin, the Icon of Communism, who died at age 53 and who has been on public display since 1924. Unfortunately, the chemical baths have not retarded the rot and green decay that creeps up from his extremities. Which is pretty creepy in itself. I guess if you’re into metaphors, this might be a good one for the long-term state of Communism.
Even The Vatican is into this preservation act. In St. Peter’s Basilica, I saw Good Pope John sleeping soundly, if not too silently to suit me, in his glass enclosure. He looked very happy, and I’m sure this gave affirmation and great comfort to the Faithful of his sainted stature. Catholics have vivid imaginations!
But not Americans. We soon tire of our leaders and are glad when they finally vanish. And it’s a pretty good time for Chief # 43 to pull his final vanishing act, too---he’s running a little short of stature left to vanish. Maybe Chief # 39 will finally take a hint!
On January 20, 2009, W will flash for the last time that smirky grin and finally vanish into the obscurity of the tumble weeds of West Texas, shouting as he leaves, “Mission Accomplished!”
God will have blessed America once again, and lets hope He hangs around for a long time to come!
Bud Hearn
December 4, 2008
Monday, December 1, 2008
The Yarn-Spinner's Christmas Grab Bag
The Yarn-Spinner’s Christmas Grab Bag
In a few weeks we will again be asked to believe in the improbable: That reindeer can fly, sleds sail through air, elves jingle and a fat man in a red suit slides down chimneys. Yes, it’s Christmas again.
We also ask the same question every year about this time: “What do you want for Christmas?” And we usually get, and give, the same vapid answers: “I don’t know,” or, “Oh, I don’t need anything,” or more stupidly, “Whatever you do, don’t spend much money.” Familiar? Another desperate cycle of Christmas shopping!
It’s true, of course that we don’t really “need” much…but we surely do “want” something nonetheless. An “Amen” here is appropriate! How about a real surprise this year…no more socks, slippers, cookbooks, and PLEASE, no more pot-pourri. Opt for the bold, the creative, and for once in your life, go all-out wild for Christmas.
But “How,” we wonder? Gifts do not appear by some stroke of magic just because we wait until the last minute, and we always end up with the Christmas Blues again---but wait! This year Santa’s special emissary, The Island Yarn-Spinner, is offering some truly unique gift ideas from his grab bag…gifts certain to dazzle, amuse, entertain, insult, horrify, recycle and exchange, and some rules for shopping.
Gifts for The Frugal: For Stocking Stuffers try the banks…they’re loaded now with jars of candy and ball-point pens, as well as gifts for patrons, like beer mugs, coffee cups, Frisbees, ice coolers, note pads and key rings, yours for the taking. Cost? Free…Load up early and often.
Gift Boxes: Buy large quantities of specialty retailer’s boxes, like Tiffany’s and Neiman-Marcus, and fill the gaily wrapped boxes with very cheap merchandise. Who’ll suspect? Cost? About $20.
For Unwanted Relatives: “Ah, Mom, not THEM again?” Yes, Aunt Maude and Uncle Eldo… for such there are great choices at the island drug stores, cornucopias of useless trinkets like Robot Pickup, magic tricks, magnifying glasses, bulging eyes on slinky springs, incense sticks and assorted elixirs for all pains, real and imagined. For the lot, about $30, and you’ll get an unparalleled bonus: they will never spend Christmas with you again!
Flowers: Thoughtful…says a lot about the giver. Try the cheap silk ones at the flea market…great choices, though a bit dusty. Cost? Less than $20. Lasts forever.
For the Discerning Shopper: Try Fine Art. Much can be had everywhere, though the term, “fine art,” is a relative one. Quilts, blankets, velvet Elvises and sunsets can be negotiated with roadside gypsies on the cheap…and with shocked disbelief, your recipient will gasp, “Wow, too nice, too nice.” Caution: all sales are final.
Jewelry. Beware …sleazy New York carpetbaggers infiltrate the South peddling jewelry…the term, “satisfaction guaranteed,” is suspect. Advice? Avoid alcoholic eggnog when shopping for jewelry. But for an ephemeral bargain, “gold” Rolexes with “real” diamond bezels can be had on some street corners for as little as $50. OK, so the “gold” fades in about 2 weeks, and it stops recording time altogether…but hey, what does last these days?…it was Made in China. A heart-stopper.
Clothing. Generally smart to avoid. But if you must, try shopping online, www.Harley, and have it delivered right to your door. “It?” you ask? Yes, those sought-after leather “intimates” your spouse always wanted. Think Marlon Brando here and go wild! Choices unlimited, but pricey.
Disguises and Pretenses. Christmas is incomplete without glitter and flash. The cheap way out? Splurge on big boxes, expensive wrapping paper and ribbons, and fill them with such tasteless frivolities as:
Handbags made of recycled tire tubes…chic this year. Cost? $11.95
Photographs of your mother-in-law, framed by an old toilet lid found on a construction site. Cost? Free…her look, Priceless! Hang in guest bedroom for added effect.
Hub-cap wind chimes for a neighbor. Cost? $25, and a neighbor who will avoid you forever…a real winner.
Spam, a caviar substitute suitable for hors d’oeuvre in certain circles.
A year’s gift certificate for Waffle House hash-browns.
And for real shock and awe, write and circulate your own obituary or eulogy. Never leave such important matters to others, ‘because nobody knows the real facts better than you. Even if you survive 2009, it can be posted at conspicuous places as reminders to employees or friends of your importance.
Some Don’ts for the Last Minute Shopper:
Never give your wife a homemade fur coat, no matter what the price.
Chainsaws, while utilitarian, are not acceptable as musical instruments.
Never purchase jewelry at any hardware store.
Wine as a gift is acceptable, but not in cardboard or plastic containers.
Look, Christmas is not for sissies…so when time gets short, as it will, your nerves frazzled and ideas stifled, then take that plunge into the Yarn-Spinner’s Grab Bag and make it a memorable Christmas. And if the gifts bomb out on Christmas morning, just remember two things: First, you can blame it on others, as you have done for everything else that failed in your life; and Secondly, leave the “From” name off of the gift card, feign ignorance and “Deny, Deny, Deny.”
“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there…” and again this year he will not disappoint!
So, for 2008, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night...”. Just don’t forget what Christmas is really all about.
Bud Hearn
December 1, 2008
In a few weeks we will again be asked to believe in the improbable: That reindeer can fly, sleds sail through air, elves jingle and a fat man in a red suit slides down chimneys. Yes, it’s Christmas again.
We also ask the same question every year about this time: “What do you want for Christmas?” And we usually get, and give, the same vapid answers: “I don’t know,” or, “Oh, I don’t need anything,” or more stupidly, “Whatever you do, don’t spend much money.” Familiar? Another desperate cycle of Christmas shopping!
It’s true, of course that we don’t really “need” much…but we surely do “want” something nonetheless. An “Amen” here is appropriate! How about a real surprise this year…no more socks, slippers, cookbooks, and PLEASE, no more pot-pourri. Opt for the bold, the creative, and for once in your life, go all-out wild for Christmas.
But “How,” we wonder? Gifts do not appear by some stroke of magic just because we wait until the last minute, and we always end up with the Christmas Blues again---but wait! This year Santa’s special emissary, The Island Yarn-Spinner, is offering some truly unique gift ideas from his grab bag…gifts certain to dazzle, amuse, entertain, insult, horrify, recycle and exchange, and some rules for shopping.
Gifts for The Frugal: For Stocking Stuffers try the banks…they’re loaded now with jars of candy and ball-point pens, as well as gifts for patrons, like beer mugs, coffee cups, Frisbees, ice coolers, note pads and key rings, yours for the taking. Cost? Free…Load up early and often.
Gift Boxes: Buy large quantities of specialty retailer’s boxes, like Tiffany’s and Neiman-Marcus, and fill the gaily wrapped boxes with very cheap merchandise. Who’ll suspect? Cost? About $20.
For Unwanted Relatives: “Ah, Mom, not THEM again?” Yes, Aunt Maude and Uncle Eldo… for such there are great choices at the island drug stores, cornucopias of useless trinkets like Robot Pickup, magic tricks, magnifying glasses, bulging eyes on slinky springs, incense sticks and assorted elixirs for all pains, real and imagined. For the lot, about $30, and you’ll get an unparalleled bonus: they will never spend Christmas with you again!
Flowers: Thoughtful…says a lot about the giver. Try the cheap silk ones at the flea market…great choices, though a bit dusty. Cost? Less than $20. Lasts forever.
For the Discerning Shopper: Try Fine Art. Much can be had everywhere, though the term, “fine art,” is a relative one. Quilts, blankets, velvet Elvises and sunsets can be negotiated with roadside gypsies on the cheap…and with shocked disbelief, your recipient will gasp, “Wow, too nice, too nice.” Caution: all sales are final.
Jewelry. Beware …sleazy New York carpetbaggers infiltrate the South peddling jewelry…the term, “satisfaction guaranteed,” is suspect. Advice? Avoid alcoholic eggnog when shopping for jewelry. But for an ephemeral bargain, “gold” Rolexes with “real” diamond bezels can be had on some street corners for as little as $50. OK, so the “gold” fades in about 2 weeks, and it stops recording time altogether…but hey, what does last these days?…it was Made in China. A heart-stopper.
Clothing. Generally smart to avoid. But if you must, try shopping online, www.Harley, and have it delivered right to your door. “It?” you ask? Yes, those sought-after leather “intimates” your spouse always wanted. Think Marlon Brando here and go wild! Choices unlimited, but pricey.
Disguises and Pretenses. Christmas is incomplete without glitter and flash. The cheap way out? Splurge on big boxes, expensive wrapping paper and ribbons, and fill them with such tasteless frivolities as:
Handbags made of recycled tire tubes…chic this year. Cost? $11.95
Photographs of your mother-in-law, framed by an old toilet lid found on a construction site. Cost? Free…her look, Priceless! Hang in guest bedroom for added effect.
Hub-cap wind chimes for a neighbor. Cost? $25, and a neighbor who will avoid you forever…a real winner.
Spam, a caviar substitute suitable for hors d’oeuvre in certain circles.
A year’s gift certificate for Waffle House hash-browns.
And for real shock and awe, write and circulate your own obituary or eulogy. Never leave such important matters to others, ‘because nobody knows the real facts better than you. Even if you survive 2009, it can be posted at conspicuous places as reminders to employees or friends of your importance.
Some Don’ts for the Last Minute Shopper:
Never give your wife a homemade fur coat, no matter what the price.
Chainsaws, while utilitarian, are not acceptable as musical instruments.
Never purchase jewelry at any hardware store.
Wine as a gift is acceptable, but not in cardboard or plastic containers.
Look, Christmas is not for sissies…so when time gets short, as it will, your nerves frazzled and ideas stifled, then take that plunge into the Yarn-Spinner’s Grab Bag and make it a memorable Christmas. And if the gifts bomb out on Christmas morning, just remember two things: First, you can blame it on others, as you have done for everything else that failed in your life; and Secondly, leave the “From” name off of the gift card, feign ignorance and “Deny, Deny, Deny.”
“The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there…” and again this year he will not disappoint!
So, for 2008, “Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night...”. Just don’t forget what Christmas is really all about.
Bud Hearn
December 1, 2008
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