First story is something I wrote about the weeks before Christmas a long time ago as part of my weekly humor column for the Plano Star Courier. While the people and places have changed, not much else has when it comes to getting ready for the Big Day. I’m always in what I call The Holiday Hustle.
This year, I’m juggling holiday prep with an editing job, finishing the set up in my sewing room, and dealing with health issues. My son has helped with some of the decorating, setting up the deer and a lighted tree in the front yard, and helping with the decorating inside.
Still, the house is in more than a bit of disarray with bins still open. Ornaments still waiting for their place on the tree. And an orphaned garland draped across the back of the rocking chair as if it might stay there all season.
Hopefully I can get the decorating done and the living room put in order before company comes on the 22nd. And I still have to do Christmas cards and finishing gift shopping.
Don’t even ask me about baking. 🙂
But there is joy in all the hustle that I tried to share when writing this piece. First for the newspaper, then as part of my humorous memoir, A Dead Tomato Plant and a Paycheck.
What would the season be without fun and joy?
My friend and humor writer Slim Randles has a similar approach to this time of year, and his December column will follow this from me. Enjoy!!
The Christmas Season was always a source of great excitement at our house. It was also a time of great panic. Every year I found the Christmas Season closing in fast with me panting to cross the finish line before Santa Claus.
I’d immediately start my “Holiday Hustle” working non-stop for three weeks to get everything done. There were gifts to send out of state, and cards to mail. Since I didn’t start early enough on that task, I had to decide if I would write one letter and copy it for all our friends, or try to find the time to write individual letters. This was before the birth of The Holiday Letter, which has now become a standard way for friends to stay in touch. Some people don’t like them, but, you know, if the alternative means not keeping up with friends, I’m all for it.
Maybe instead of getting angry at the stores that were putting out their Christmas stuff before Halloween, I should have taken their reminder seriously. Then I wouldn’t have let Thanksgiving slip by without a thought of the next holiday.
My basic problem was, and still is, the fact that I don’t get in the Christmas spirit until a couple of weeks before The Day, and then the frantic juggling act begins. If I could just bring myself to think about Christmas in October, I wouldn’t be faced with the necessity of regimenting my time down to the last second to get everything done — structure and discipline being the closest thing to medieval torture I can think of.
However, I knew that I had to have some structure, so sometimes I made a calendar with Things to Do. Monday was slotted for shopping. No giving in to the urge to sing carols with the kids or start making decorations. Friday was slotted for singing, and decorating would start the following week. Tuesday was the day to finish the Christmas cards. No fair claiming writer’s cramp as an excuse to quit for a while and play with the dog.
Wednesday of that week started out easy. That was the day to write my column, and I didn’t have to stress over what I would write about as I had all this great material to work from. But the strangest thing happened as I wrote about all the things I hadn’t done yet. I had to fight the urge to quit working and dash out to the store when I thought of the perfect gift to get Uncle Barney. Not to mention all the other things I’d forgotten on Monday.
While fighting down that urge, another distraction popped up. The Girl Scout caroling party. I still hadn’t called the leader to tell her what songs I’d planned for the girls.
Then I remembered someone else I should have mailed a card to.
Then I remembered I was supposed to get pop for a neighborhood holiday party.
I don’t even remember the rest of that week.
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Now here’s Slim’s offering:
The subject came up spontaneously at a recent meeting of the New Mexico Cowboy Curmudgeon Coalition, where our motto is: “If we actually existed, would anyone really care?” It came about because of the time of year and the spirit of Christmas, and was encouraged by other spirits, of a more … well … bottled variety.
“I think it’s time,” said one member, “we gave credit where credit is due. Santa Claus … hear me out now … is a cowboy.”
This met with derisive outbursts in the House of Commons, which is more the Bunkhouse of Commons here. Why? Because being a cowboy is the pinnacle of human achievement, and those who reach these heights tend to jealously guard the gates. It was quickly pointed out that Santa is a bit … chunky, to make much of a hand. And what did we know of his ranching background?
But then a miracle happened. The clouds of doubt pulled away from the argument and the light of sense and reason shone round and about like dawn on a thistle. The coalition member who had suggested membership for Santa spent the next half hour laying out why Santa is really a cowboy.
Let us examine his points with care, in hopes that enlightenment soon will be there.
Cowboys selflessly dedicate their lives to helping others and protecting women and children from evil, naturally, and no one could argue that if anyone were to threaten a kid, he’d get a Santa whuppin’ in no time flat. This was as clear as the moon on the crest of new fallen snow, so, from a valorous point of view, S. Claus was well on his way to cowboydom.
A true cowboy loves animals, too. In fact, a true cowboy will feed completely useless stock long after they have outlived their usefulness, just so he can go out and feed something. Naturally, if a guy were to feed … oh, say eight reindeer all year long just so he’d have some transportation for a single night?
Oh yes, the luster of midday to objects below was beginning in force.
Then, too, Santa spends all year long discovering new ways of having fun, without once giving heed to the family exchequer. It’s as though money were no object in a year-long pursuit of happiness for others.
And then, when a year’s hard work is completed, what does Santa do? He gives it all away in a single night! Yea, verily, it makes a guy lay a finger aside his nose with glee.
But is all this truly the essence of being a cowboy? Well then, consider this: Santa has the ability and desire to get into literally millions of tight places in a single night on the town! And somehow he manages to get himself out of these tight places, as well, as he makes his way back to the stock.
Add it all up, Santa’s life is impressive, but simply blowing the fruits of a year’s work on a single night of selflessness doesn’t carry with it the élan, the Santa savoir faire that fans have credited to genuine New Mexico cowboys all these years. Surely there must be more.
Well, there is. And this is what put the cherry on the whole Cowboy Santa brouhaha.
Santa has, for eons now, spent all night out, gallivanting around here and there on a marvelous and miraculous worldwide toot, and is still able to convince Mrs. Claus he is just going out for milk and cookies.
“Now there,” we said in a spontaneous toast to the jolly old elf, “is a real cowboy.”
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Slim Randles has driven Alaska’s Iditarod Race with seven dogs, and has done enough other idiotic things to qualify for membership in the New Mexico Cowboy Curmudgeon Coalition. Slim and his wife, Catherine, live in Albuquerque.
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That’s all from me for today, folks. Whatever winter holiday you’re preparing for, I hope the prep involves lots of fun and laughter.
