Author: genenewman

How good are you at identifying yourself? Can you immediately pick out yourself in a large group photo? If a stranger is going to meet you in a crowded train station, how would you describe your looks? What are your most significant features? If none are significant, like being seven feet tall, you’ll probably blend in with the crowd. A large white carnation or a yellow derby might be necessary.

Mother seals can spot their offspring on enormous beaches, packed flipper to flipper with pups. And even the pups can pick out their Moms. At great distances, their personal calls will help. Unfortunately for us, “Yoohoo!” is not unique enough.

We’re not that good at describing others either. Surround a newborn baby with kinfolk and they will argue about whom he or she resembles. “Anyone can see he’s the spitting image of Uncle Oscar. Look at those big ears. Oscar has radar ears!”…..”She looks a lot light Aunt Agnes. See how her nose slants down, but turns left at the bottom?…. Finally, they’ll settle on the baby’s’s looks but agree he or she will eventually need plastic surgery on various body parts.

A more curious thing is that most of us don’t know exactly what we look like and we’re perfectly willing to throw out all the evidence and pretend we resemble someone else. Very often a famous someone else.

We fail to realize the movie we’ve just watched, starring our “almost twin” was shot after her or his four-hour session in the make-up department. But what do movie stars look like each morning when crawling out of bed and before checking in at the studio’s parts department to pick up their hair, teeth, moustaches, eyebrows and lifts?

P.S. Stop looking for your absolutely perfect duplicate, your doppelganger. Experts say the odds for that are a trillion to one. You might have some close look-alikes though who probably share a common ancestor. I’ve walked into a couple of pubs for the first time and have the bartender ask, “So you want the usual?” My unknown “cousins” had apparently run up pretty big bar bills and I had to prove this was my very first day in town.

Grandpa William had a good explanation for almost missing his Saint Patrick’s Day marching assignment. Nobody believed him, but they all agreed it was an entertaining bit of blarney.

Grandpa’s version varied widely with those of Seamus O’Shea, Mrs. Sweeny and Officer McCann, but I will repeat here only Grandpa’s tale and hope the others have grandchildren who will publish their rebuttals.

I was actually an eyewitness way back then but my view was obstructed by a heavy quilt, a bonnet and the sides of my perambulator.

On that St. Patrick’s Day, Grandpa William and Seamus O’Shea were honored to carry the Sons of Kerry banner, a 20-foot long emerald green masterpiece with gold letters and tassels that whipped about grandly in the breeze.

Grandpa and Seamus stood at the front of the Kerry marchers ready to step off. However there was a dispute down the road where the Tipperary Pipers were demanding to lead the parade. This caused a delay and two or three broken noses.

The Kerry marches were two blocks back and not involved in the discussion or contusions. Grandpa eventually decided his stalled marchers needed hot cups of tea on this chilly day. So the banner was folded and the Kerry men walked into nearby O’Shea’s establishment for their tea. Grandpa admitted O’Shea’s was not a tea room, but tea was what the chilled marchers needed. However, Mr. O’Shea argued successfully that a quicker beverage was needed since the “Forward March” command might be minutes away.

In the meantime, Grandma Honora and a crowd of relations waited in proud anticipation in front of the reviewing stand. I was in a wicker carriage holding a green balloon.

Back at O’Shea’s the Kerry men were well warmed up when Grandpa suddenly noticed the street outside was empty. He and the marchers dashed out the door with Seamus and Grandpa unfurling the banner. The parade was out of sight!

Grandpa quickly figured out a shortcut to the reviewing stand and took off down a side street with the Kerry men trotting behind. The volume of the pipers’ music increased. They were gaining on them! A sharp turn up ahead would do it.

“Hoy, Seamus!” Grandpa shouted and leapt over Mrs. Sweeny’s hedge, raced across her yard, under the filled clothes line and through the chicken coop to exit onto Main Street in time for the Kerry contingent to blend in with the other marchers.

“It’s a strange banner that County Kerry carries this year,” the Mayor remarked. Grandma Honora was more to the point. “Willie, why are you and Seamus dressed like Indians with all those feathers and whose unmentionables are draped across your banner?”

Grandpa and Seamus, who’d been marching with heads held high, suddenly discovered they were covered with feathers and there was grisly evidence that Seamus had stepped on a chicken. Worst of all, the banner was carrying Mrs. Sweeny’s bloomers.

She soon arrived with Officer McCann who dragged the pair out of the line of march while the crowd cheered. Damage payments and apologies soon soothed things. So did the fact that Mrs. Sweeny’s husband was a Kerry man.

Grandpa’s parade trophy (for Most Dramatic Banner) on the mantle was always an inspiration for another imaginative recital of that day’s adventure.

I become a different person when I enter a casino. During the bus ride to Atlantic City I’m James Bond or Brett Maverick, but as I strut past the slots and the tables the sweating begins and I become Barney Fife.

I try to be the devil-may-care type that Clark Gable and Paul Newman have portrayed so convincingly on the screen, but the croupiers, the dealers, the dice table crew and even the slot machines see right through me. They can sense my fear and see my perspiration. And I often forget to pocket my rabbit’s foot. I’m sure the Cincinnati Kid always remembered to hide his good luck piece.

“Ha, ha! Easy come, easy go!” I’ll say as the dealer rakes in my chips. But too often he replies, “Please sir, let go! You’re hurting my arm!”

There was the rare time I’d made three straight passes at the dice table. “Let it ride! I (James Bond) snarled nonchalantly, trying not to think about the thirty dollars (three lunches) at stake. I blew on the dice, tossed ’em, and as they tumbled down to the far cushion, my stomach complained loudly about the risked meals.

“Snake eyes. You lose!” the stick man called, but then, seeing my surprised expression, he added, “Sorry sir, but those are the rules of the game. Here, please take this tissue.” So much for my James Bond act.

The fact is, the world loves a winner, a favorite of the gods, and we losers are just anonymous casualties lying along the casino’s dangerous highway. So when I’m waiting for the next card or for the wheel or the dice to stop moving, I’m not only thinking about the rent or lunch money, but also about my delicate ego.

Even when I’m winning, I can get discombobulated. While trying to fake the calm confidence of the Mississippi riverboat gambler, I too often come off as Bozo the Clown. The croupiers and pit bosses are constantly revealing me as an absent minded old fogey. (“Excuse me ladies and gentlemen. Which one of you is betting two Rolaids on number seven?”)

I’ve seen gamblers behind huge stacks of chips referring to a notebook between bets. Google sources once helped me develop a fairly successful system, but it was quite awkward. “I must ask you to simplify your strategy, sir,” the croupier said. “It distracts the other players. It would be appreciated if you could do without the computer and the large blackboard.”

I once felt I had a big seven-card stud pot practically won, but later as the fellow next to me swept in five pounds of chips, he noticed my sad demeanor and said, “Sorry, pal , but you’ll have to sharpen your game. I almost folded after your sixth raise, but what in the world made you think deuces were wild?”

My dear wife never enjoyed watching me bluff my way towards poverty. Standing behind me during a blackjack game one night, she smiled knowingly at my 19-point hand, while the dealer was showing 16, a near fatal situation for him and the house, I thought with the odds greatly in my favor for once, I was on the verge of a very big win. Unfortunately, a voice within me whispered, “It could be even bigger!” I looked up at my wife and suavely called, “Hit me!” And she did.

It was our first winter living by the lake and my wife Barbara and I were rummaging in the attic, looking for our ice skates. The lake had suddenly become an inviting, smooth, shiny playground.

“Let’s have an ice skating party,” Barbara said, and I agreed. It was a great idea to get us through the January doldrums. “We’d better have it soon, while this cold spell lasts,” she said.

We decided to invite everyone, friends and family, who liked to ice skate, not worrying about an overcrowded house. “They’ll be spending most of the day doing figure eights or playing hockey,” I said. “And don’t forget your Aunt Ethel, Barbara. She’s always boasted about having been a talented ice skater in her youth. Something about almost achieving the most difficult jump, the ‘Triple Axel’, the one with three airborne revolutions.”

That was Monday night. By Friday our RSVP list covered two pages, with only a few “Sorry, can’t make its”. By then the frigid weather must have added another inch or two to the ice’s thickness.

Most of the guests arrived by noon on Saturday when a northern gale was blowing and I was able to coax only a few, including Aunt Ethel, down to the lake where it was quite grim. The sun helped a little, providing mostly light but only a degree or two of heat.

We struggled through the numbing ordeal of lacing up our skates, put our frozen hands back into our mittens and glided out onto the slippery dance floor. There were about a dozen of us. We must have resembled an ill-fated Polar expedition on its last day.

Following Aunt Ethel’s advice, I began to skate briskly and felt the better for it. I began to get in touch with my previously numb left foot and worked on my right foot by jumping up and down.

Just when I began wondering how I could get my guests to mingle more, Aunt Ethel broke the ice. While trying her famous triple-spin jump, one skate got caught on the hem of her raccoon cloak and she crash-landed, uninjured except for her pride. That was what we needed to get our guests talking to one another.

We all pitched in, helped her to shore, removed her skates and ran her up to the house before she solidified. After three hot toddies, Aunt Ethel shushed our protests and was off again, to the frozen lake.

But more guests were returning from skating and others were making excuses for not skating at all. They all reported seeing Aunt Ethel in good shape and frequently airborne. But the crowd made it difficult to move through the rooms and Barbara had to push her way to the stove to heat up the hot dogs, beans and soup.

Crowding forced our guests to get chummy and there were lively conversations about wind-chill factors and frostbite treatment until the police arrived with four of our skaters who’d been blown across the lake and tossed up on the shore, dazed and frostbitten. We warmed them up with various hot drinks and reset the thermostat to 90 degrees.

Around sunset, we saw a small group, huddled against the wind, and walking slowly up the hill. “What are they carrying?” Barbara asked. “It looks like a white statue, but the arms are waving.”

“I think it’s Aunt Ethel,” I said. “Looks like the Axel’s third revolution spun her through the ice.”

I was hunched over the wheel in the hammer lane on Route 80, in reverse and with my foot down hard on the gas pedal, the needle shaking at 80 mph, when an elderly lady knocked on my side window and shouted over the whine of my rear wheels, “You”ll never get out of a snowbank that way, Dumbbell!. You gotta rock it, Sonny! ROCK IT!” She climbed back into her 18-wheeler cab and pulled around me.

That was the lowest point in my many years of driving through the Garden State’s terrifying winter wonderland where there’s the alternate chances of a slippery high speed accident or being plowed into a snowbank miles from home.

Way back at the beginning of this blizzardy day, there was the usual timing problem, after I’d shoveled my driveway. I had to know just how far I could nose out into the road drifts to avoid being plowed in again.

When my nabe’s reasonably dedrifted, I’ll fishtail over to the highway entrance and find, to my dismay, that the enitire rush hour crowd has waited for my late arrival and the normal speed limit today is 50 yards per hour.

Two thrilling hours later I’ll arrive at the instersection of Boredom and Panic and be zigging and zagging my way around dangerously high truck bumpers and haphazardly abandoned cars.

I’m reminded, at this point, of a paraphrased Robert Frost poem: “Who’s road this is I think I know. His office is in Trenton, though. He will not see me stuck out here in the deepest blizzard of the year. My little Colt must think it queer, this moving sideways in third gear.”

The sad thought as you creep through each hazardous mile, is that you might be dumb enough to attempt to repeat the terrifying adventure tonight, trying to get home.

A surviving driver who somehow reaches his work place will spend the day with his snowbound inmates, reciting scary stories of near misses. Very little work will be accomplished. Later, each one will call home with an “I’m safe” message and a promise to return as soon as possible before the Spring thaw.

The thick Penske file I’d been working on will serve as a pillow on my desk and my absent boss’s emergency raincoat will serves a a blanket. Of course, my loyal overtime pay will come in handy.

According to Shakespeare: “All the world’s a stage and all the men and women merely players.” He was so right! Our lives are like Broadway, TV and Hollywood productions with crises, climaxes and denouements.

Although we’re given some control over the outcome, in the important area of casting, it’s largely in the hands of Fate and we are rarely consulted. Take my life, for instance. I have no complaints about the leading character choices, but the selection of those in supporting roles and even the walk-ons, have caused a considerable amount of anxiety.

Fate made a big mistake near the beginning in casting my kindergarten teacher. Someone like Doris Day would have provided a great start to my scholastic career and instilled a sense of fun and adventure in my pursuit of knowledge. Central Casting sent in Norma Desmond and I had to be dragged to school every day, kicking and screaming.

My first real job was as a drug store delivery boy. I was a pre-teen and eager to learn. If the pharmacist had been a Jimmy Stewart type, I might have gone on to eventually win the Nobel Prize for Medicine. But Casting sent in Peter Lorre. The closest I got to dealing with medicine was planting rat poison in the cellar.

Think back over your last few weeks and the characters Fate has pushed into your path. Do you realize how these supporting players have changed, at least temporarily, the tone of your life? What about that waitress last Friday evening? After a very rough work week , great food and friendly service was what you needed. Dorothy or Aunty Em would have been perfect servers, but the Wicked Witch of the West was sent out. She spilled the soup on your new suit and claimed you’d tripped her.

Supporting players on a typical work day have such minor roles we often fail to recognize their effect on our psyche. Dealing with a grouchy bus driver (Ralph Kramden) or a weird subway passenger (Freddy Krueger) can impart a sense of imbalance to your day. Would it make a difference if the office security guard who greets you each morning was Jack Lemmon or Bela Lugosi?

Why is it every time I’m called in to authenticate my income tax deductions I have to deal with Inspector Clouseau or Howard Cosell? And how come I was stuck with Felix Unger for my State’s car inspection? He failed me again. For dirty bumpers.

I have to end here. The Three Stooges just arrived to fix my water heater which was recently installed by Homer Simpson.

We astraphobia sufferers, past and present, disagree with the dictionary’s definition of a phobia as an intense irrational fear. An astraphobia sufferer’s fear of lightning is very rational and, unlike irrational fears, can be mollified by studying the way lightning works. The odds of survival are very much in our favor especially if we know the the nuts and bolts (especially the bolts) of a lightning storm.

We should consider the first thunder boom as the starting gun of the storm. The boom comes right after the lightning bolt. If you count the seconds between bolt and boom and divide by 5 you’ll know the number of miles between you and the approaching storm. If the answer is one or less, get into a hardtop car (not a ragtop convertible), or a house, right away. Both are very safe.

But don’t stand under a tree. They are often the targets of lightning bolts and a strike will increase the internal temperature of a tree 50,000 degrees F. The tree will explode and you might end up on the collateral damage report having been clobbered by a falling limb. Also, bolts hitting trees have been known to continue traveling underground to strike nearby animals and people. So, skedaddle!

I’ve never been a fan of lightning. Who would be, except maybe Dr. Frankenstein and Ben Franklin? As a five year old I was trapped with my family in our stalled car during a tremendous electric storm. A nearby tree turned into a tower of flame and crashed down. The following thunder sounded like we were inside a bass drum. I loudly recommended that we evacuate, but cooler heads prevailed and we stayed in the safe car with no other trees nearby.

I was a serious sky watcher for a year or so but calmed down when I learned our very favorable odds. For instance, in the U.S.A. in 2023, lightning strikes killed 13 people and injured about 50 others out of a population of over 340 million.

We can make our houses even safer during lightning storms by avoiding dish washing and baths (no problem) because pipes and water are electrical conductors. So are wires, so avoid landline calls and electric appliances till the boom-booms end. It was quite a relief to learn there was most likely no bolt out there with my name on it, just like there’s no big lottery ticket’s winning number that matches my social security number.

Of course we can forget all of the above if we go by my Mom’s explanation of a thunder storm when I was a wee kid. “It’s just the noise the angels make while they’re bowling in heaven.”

The most dangerous party in the world is no longer the Communist Party which enslaved vast populations before it crumbled. The second most dangerous party, the office party, continues to promote chaos, organizational upheaval, dyspepsia, fisticuffs and unemploymnet.

The recent holiday bash of the Whimsey Widget Company for its loyal staff contained two volatile ingredients. First was the pretense of a spirit of camaraderie in a group which is used to the stringent rules of a chain gang. When the second ingredient, alcohol, is mixed in, the results can be staggering.

The festivities begin with a merry speech by Vice President Cuthbert Mainchance, an infrequent visitor to the office. He usually cuts everyone dead, but today he’s a jolly elf with inaccurate first name greetings and feeble handshakes.

Underlings smile politely, reflecting on Mr. Mainchance’s rise to the top owing to his courage to marry President Whimsey’s middle-aged daughter. Every employee has a warm feeling in his breast for V.P. Mainchance. It’s very similar to heartburn.

Mr. Mainchance does not dwell on boring company performance details. This is a party, after all, and he knows very little about these details. In fact, he’s not sure what the company makes, but he knows, to the penny, what he makes.

Checking his notes, he praises the acheivements of key employees like Office Manager Simon Hartless who “treats the staff like his own family.” Everyone nods in agreement, knowing Mr. Hartless’ real family ran away years ago.

There’s an expression of appreciation for veteran switchboard operator Mrs. Smirf (who often takes calls from a giggly female named “Boopsy” who leaves messages for a certain V.P.) And special praise for old Mr. Coot in accounting who’s been with the company longer than anyone can remember, including Mr. Coot.

New employees must be embraced into the bosom of the company, V.P. Mainchance says as he introduces steno clerk Zelda Zowie. A slight disturbance occurs as two mailroom boys attempt to obey the order.

He expresses pride in the elegant buffet table which is “loaded with the traditional delectable dishes and mouth-watering desserts.” There is whispered disagreement by some who claim last year’s fare was much better. Others say it is actually the thawed out leftovers from last year.

But the drinks are fresh and, according to Ms. Zowie, so are the mailroom boys. She has locked herself in the ladies room and they are pounding on the door. Mr.Hartless has just opened his present from the staff, a wooden plaque with the burned-in message, “To a Swill Guy.” He will have it checked for fingerprints.

Old Mr. Coot, under the influence and also under the table, is mumbling something about his upcoming trip to South America just before the next audit.

Ms. Zowie has accidentally tripped the burglar alarm as she escaped through the ladies room window and a dozen policemen have burst into the building, slipping and falling on discarded hors d’ouevres. Well-oiled V.P. Mainchance ignores the commotion and turns to his bleary-eyed audience to announce, “In contusion….”

“There’s a bulge in the living room ceiling! We have to clean out the attic,” I told the family.  “Clean out the attic? There’s nothing up there but fond memories and keepsakes!” they protested.

 “You’ll remember, last fall we found the storm windows under a pile of fond memories and when we dug out the Christmas ornaments, they’d been crushed by 100 pounds of keepsakes. The junk has to go!”

So the six of us climbed up into the upper reaches with leaf bags and boxes and a great deal of resolve. “We must be brutal about this,” I said. “We have to put aside sentimental nonsense.”  

“You can count on us to the end, Dad,” they shouted.  The end came about ten minutes later when the first Barbie doll turned up. Soon everyone was busy album-flipping, toy-winding, clothes-modeling and hula-hooping.

 “Get a grip on yourselves!” I shouted. “You’ve got to let go of the past and toss out these foolish mementos.” I was actually getting through to them. They’d put aside the Parcheesi game and paid attention, but then the effect was ruined when my roller skates slipped out from under me and I dropped my Mickey Mouse jelly glasses.  

 “You should be setting a better example,” my wife Barbara said.  “You’ve got as much junk up here as the children.” 

“Junk? These are perfectly good roller skates.  I might need them if there’s another bus drivers strike.”

 “What about these science books you bought at a garage sale years ago?  I know you haven’t read them.”

“I definitely intend to, but first I have to learn German. Please give me a chance!”

We invented a voting system to decide on the heave-ho items. The majority would rule, but each of us had one veto vote to save a cherished item. After three hours of rummaging and voting we’d tossed four wire coat hangers and a questionable bicycle pump. I’d used my veto vote to save my ukulele. “Such a fine old instrument,” I said, caressing its frets.

    “Dad, how can you call it a ‘fine old instrument,'” Steven asked.  “It’s made of plastic and has a picture of Donald Duck on it.”

     “And you never really played it,” Janis added… “You just made funny noises with it,” Carolyn recalled… “Over and over and over,” Denise added.

     “Those were chords,” I protested. “I was on the verge of playing ‘Billy Boy,’  I might have eventually made it to Carnegie Hall.”

“We might have rented Carnegie Hall just to get you and that fiddle out of the house for awhile,” Barbara said.

That did it. I offered to toss the uke if everyone else would make a similar sacrifice. The white elephants began to march out to the curb and there was room enough in the attic to swing a dead cat.  Thank goodness we didn’t find one. 

 Six a.m. the next morning I was awakened by strange sounds outside. I saw the garbage truck out there and, perched on our broken rocking chair, stroking the ukulele, the dreamy-eyed driver was playing a familiar tune.

I opened the window and shouted,  “By George, you’ve got it! I’m sure you’ve got it! O-ho where have you been, Billy Boy, Billy Boy?”

“Who me? Santa Claus? Not a chance!” I said.

“You forgot ‘Humbug,'” Barbara scolded.

“Now don’t try to make me out as Scrooge. I’m just home from a busy work day, the week before Christmas, a report to finish and my wife wants me to drive across town and play Santa, for goodness sake.”

“Yes, for goodness sake. Old Mr. Schultz has the flu and if there isn’t a Santa at the town’s tree lighting ceremony it will break a tradition. How sad!”

“Let me think about it,” I said as I opened the closet door to hang up my coat and spotted a bright red suit on a hanger. “You took me for granted!” I said.

“I took your Christmas spirit for granted. You should be flattered.”

Ten minutes later I was walking out the door, unsteady in Mr. Schultz’s size 13 boots and adjusting my new beard. “How do I look? The suit fits quite well, don’t you think? “It was made for you, dear. Just think how uncomfortable Mr. Schultz has been all these years. He had to use a pillow.”

I drove to the town hall, arriving just in time to help the mayor light the tree. I ad libbed a few ho-ho-ho’s and had my picture taken with the high school choir. An easy gig. But I was detained on my way back to the car by a greedy little boy who insisted on reading his long wish list to me. It took five minutes and sounded like the complete inventory of FAO Schwarz.

I told him if he obeyed his parents, was a good student, said his prayers and voted straight Republican, he’d eventually get everything he wanted. He bought that and I crossed the empty square to find my car. I got in, turned the key and NOTHING! A dead battery!

My wallet and cell phone were in my other suit, the one without the white fur trim. Muttering Christmas carols, I walked over to Main Street just in time to see the last store lights blink out and the first snowflake side slip past a street lamp. I pulled my furry hat down over my ears and headed for home.

A man was walking towards me through the flakes and I thought he might be able to help me avoid a two-mile forced march. ” Oh Buddy! I called, “can you….?

“Santa Claus!” he shouted, stopping in his tracks and wobbling a bit. “You remembered my name! I meant to go straight home from work, but the guys were going to Murphy’s….”

“Can you give me a lift, Buddy?”

“I’d love to Santa, but I don’t think I should be driving tonight after my stopover at Murphy’s. But Santa, where are your reindeer?”

‘They’re at the vets, Buddy. Something about an annual antler checkup. They’ll be ready for the upcoming flight. Thank you, anyway. Now walk home to your family and have a merry Christmas!”

“Okay Santa. Wait’ll the kids hear about this!….Antler checkup ?” He was only a fading voice in the swirling snow by then as I trudged on, beginning to marvel at the credibility that went with my eye-catching red hat, jacket and knickers.

Further on I overtook a little girl and, probably her Grandma. The old lady was shivering in a man’s overcoat as she pulled a sled carrying the girl and a large overflowing bundle of laundry.

“Susie!” she cried. “Look who’s here!” Susie was about five with big blue eyes. I leaned over the sled and smiled at her. “Susie, I know you’ve been a good girl and I’m going to bring you something nice for Christmas. How would you like……? ” I caught Grandma’s signal….”a pretty doll to take care of?” She laughed and reached up to touch my beard.

I pulled the sled for a while towards the laundromat sign shining through the snowfall. It’s a beautiful doll!” the old lady whispered. “Just like the one you brought me when I was her age, remember?” I told her that I did.

I helped by carrying in the the laundry, not realizing the effect of seeing Santa walk in carrying a large bag. Everything seemed to stop in the laundromat. A young couple sorting clothes, paused and eyed me expectantly. A teenaged girl jumped back with hand to mouth and did an impromptu dance.

An old man stopped unloading a dryer to stare at me. I recognized him as a nodding acquaintance who was recently widowed. My neighbors said he was taking it hard. “Merry Christmas, Michael, I whispered to him. “Try to take comfort in the real meaning of the season, the promise of it.”

“Thank you Santa. Thanks for stopping by,” he said.

The snow was deepening, but I was nearing home and I made it almost without another incident. I told Barbara about the dead battery, but the homebound adventure accounts would have to come later. I was tired and accepted her offer of a mug of her famous chicken soup as I sank into the welcoming sofa cushions. “Aren’t you going to change your clothes?” she asked.

“Not yet. I want to dream by the tree with you for a while. ” She asked about my important report work. “Oh the elves will take care of that ,” I said. “Please come and sit beside me.” We gazed at the colorful lights for awhile and then Barbara said, “You make a nice Santa, quite authentic, but how did the seat of your pants get torn, Santa?

“I was jogging the last twenty-five yards to keep warm when I was joined by an over playful shepherd.”

“Santa wrestled with a shepherd at Christmas time?

“A German shepherd.”