Cherish The Christmas Present Before It’s The Christmas Past

The ground outside is white with snow.

The snow is lit by the outdoor lights of white, blue, red, green and gold. The reflection from the snow creates a surreal haze in the silence of the dark night.

Through the window the Christmas tree is lit in the center of the room. A sense of warmth emits from our well lit abode.

My faithful black lab Suzy's new favorite place to lie is no longer at my feet as I write from the back deck by the pool. The deck is now buried in white – the furnishings of the deck put away until the eternal hope of spring teases us with the nearness of summer.

Summer? It's Christmas!

Suzy's new favorite sleeping spot is under the foot of the Christmas tree.

The tree I just erected moments ago. Less than a week before Christmas.

My two little girls – promising so eagerly to help me put this three pieced mash of fake evergreen and pre-strung white lights – are strewn across the couch in tiny curled up forms of lightly snoring little princesses.

Useless princesses – but my princesses none the less.

I hope they marry into money – because the job market for princesses is likely to be very small when they grow up.

Our two little kittens are not quite as little now – but this will be their first Christmas. They are curious of the tree, the holly intertwined in the banister that wraps around our upstairs living room, and the larger than normal nativity scene on the large shelf above our foyer closet.

The kittens find all this more curious than normal. Climbing and balancing and weaving their way through the decorations.

Downstairs in front of the fireplace sits the green and red bin full of mantle decorations. Full of stockings, and stocking holders, and nutcrackers of all shapes and sizes. And a very special snow globe my cousin Jenny made for me to celebrate a headstuffing story called "Don't Be Scared Of A Little Snow" – depicting my arrival to the great white north from the sunny southern climate I grew up in.

All are very special to me. But the snow globe is the most special I think.

My daughters are now seven and eight years old. And I plan to cherish these few remaining Christmas's with them as little girls. Soon they will be young lady's – and soon the childlike wonder of Christmas will fade from their eyes.

Too soon – I know.

Their favorite decoration in the bin would be the tiny house of Advent – with twenty five doors – one for each day of the month from December 1^st to Christmas day. And behind each door is a candy for each of them. Each day they open a new door.

The Advent house hasn't been pulled out of the bin yet.

Alannah – while helping me line up the sections of the tree posts to fit them together – asked me:

"Daddy, can we open all of the doors of the Advent house tonight?"

"I'm afraid they don't have any candies in them Alannah".

"That's ok, I just want us to open the doors".

Shortly after – she was curled up on the couch – likely dreaming of doors to be opened in some mystical fashion.

Later, Ashley-Rae woke up and helped me spread the branches out on the tree to make it look full and natural.

"Lift me up Daddy, so I can reach the ones on the tippity-top" she asked.

As I did so, I realized my daughter weighed more this year at seven than last year at six. Combined with my additional year of aging, it was obvious next year would be an even greater struggle to do so.

I know it's silly.

It's silly to love something so much as to start missing it while you still have it.

I am already starting to feel the pangs of missing my little girls – even though they are still – to me anyway – little.

I see the days coming ahead in the not-as-far-in-the-future-as-I-would-like-them-to-be.

The days when Alannah comes home from wherever she is living – with her boyfriend or husband – and only having a brief moment to stop in and visit her mother and I as we sit in that same living room. She will pull a small parcel from her bag for each of us and explain that she has to be elsewhere for dinner.

And we will smile and say thank you and give her presents to her. And we will show her the lovely card we received from Ashley-Rae explaining that she cannot be in Ontario for Christmas but that she will be thinking of us.

And while the boyfriend checks his watch for the time, my lovely wife and I and Alannah will drop our heads in unison as to signify to each that we know the days of today are past and tomorrow's days have arrived.

And I will let out as deep a sigh then as I let out now as I wrote my premonition here.

But today is still today. No ghosts of Christmas Past, Present, or Future need visit me just yet. The bah-humbugs have not yet infested my soul and devoured my passion for Christmas with my little family.

It's not about getting. It's about giving. And it's about giving all that I have – all that I am to my two little princesses – strewn on the couch lightly snoring.

Useless as they may seem to me now – they are the most valued treasures of my future. And in their absence I will somehow love them even more then than I do now.

Merry Christmas to you all. Cherish the Christmas present – for soon it shall be in the past.

Be Of Service

Christmas is the time for giving.

That's what Christmas is all about right?

Giving.

But most often at Christmas, we mistake this idea with simply purchasing and wrapping something up with pretty bows and ribbon. We take that parcel and put it under a tree, and wait for Christmas day for the receiver of the gift to open it and tell you how much they like it.

Job done. Objective met. Obligation satisfied.

Right?

Well, the one aspect of giving that many overlook this time of year is the most important one.

To be of service.

To offer assistance to someone in need.

To be available and receptive to requests for your attention.

To give your time and attention to someone who would benefit from it.

These are the gifts of the greatest reward.

Much better than a kitchen gadget that scoops ice cream and cuts pizza when it's not crushing fruits and vegetables into some form of juice.

Your attention is the most purest form of generosity.

The reward is the deepest sense of satisfaction, of purpose, of gratification.

It helps if the receiver of your attention appreciates your attention. But that should not be your motivation for being of service.

Some confuse this aspect with the self-serving form of self-promotion. Giving to people who can help them better their station in life.

But the greatest reward comes from being of service who have nothing to offer in return. Except for their sincere appreciation for your effort.

This year, as we get busier and busier with holiday festivities and the tasks they inspire – I would like to ask you to please keep your eyes open for opportunities to be of service.

Not when it's convenient. Not when it suits your schedule. But when it's required.

A laneway shoveled for a person not easily capable of shoveling.

A visit to a person who could use a friendly face to tell them you care how they are and to listen to them.

A trip with someone to someplace they need to go.

You know what I mean.

You may have had several opportunities to be of service come to mind as you read these few short sentences.

I encourage you to be of service. To give of yourself to others. And to ask for nothing in return.

Then you will be in the giving spirit of Christmas.

Should you heed this advice – well really this request – you will find the spirit of giving this season to make this Christmas even more special.

More special to you.

But even better – someone else.

And you might find you will want to be of service all year round- truly making every day Christmas.

Being Santa In Our Hearts

I have said it time and time again.

I am not a winter person.

But it's not quite winter yet. It's still fall.

It's December and Christmas has been charging full steam at our Calendars now for the last two weeks.

Last year about this time, my eldest daughter Alannah was questioning Santa Claus. So she and I had a long discussion about how Santa lives in your heart in the faith you hold that he exists. I wrote about this last year in a story called "Believe and He Exists".

But a year to an eight year old seems like an eternity. It does not seem as recent as it does to a nearly fifty year old Daddy.

So I shouldn't be surprised that last year's conversation has slipped out of her mind.

She seems to want to be grown up at only eight years old.

Meanwhile, our youngest daughter Ashley-Rae is seven. The same age Alannah was last year, but Ashley-Rae understands believing – and does not throw such logical explanations at us in such a well structured case of court room prosecution style that the fat man in the red suit is fake.

"You're Santa Claus Daddy, what do you think I am … stupid?" says Alannah, my future crown attorney.

Hmmm ….

I was getting ready for work last week. Standing in front of the bath room mirror brushing my teeth, I saw my own reflection.

I am heavier this year. Nearly two-hundred and forty pounds. Okay, I'm fat.

My hair is a bit longer in the cold weather – not nearly as short as my profile picture suggests. And every year in the cold weather I grow a beard. Not just the white goatee like my profile picture suggests – so this year more than years before – my beard is growing in white.

And it's pretty full.

See where I am going with this yet?

So this year I will continue to let my hair fill in. And I will let my beard grow as long as I can in the short four weeks left.

After this divine revelation presented in my bathroom mirror reflection – I bided my time for Alannah's next session of professional analysis. The clincher was at the point where she restated her position that "Daddy, you're Santa Claus" as her clinching argument.

"What does Santa Claus look like?", I asked.

"He is a big fat guy with a white beard", her voice raising an octave as she said "beard" – questioning where I was going.

"Yup", I said.

She picked up a shopping flyer left behind on the kitchen table from her weekly shopping planning excursion through the ads in the newspaper.

"He looks like this Daddy, but this is not the real Santa Claus".

I took the flyer from her hand. I looked at the picture. I held it up next to my own face.

"Look familiar?", I asked.

I pulled my reading glasses from my shirt pocket and I put then on the end of my nose, like the Santa in the picture.

Alannah just looked at me.

I asked her if she remembered our conversation from last Christmas – that cold evening in the garage where I explained that Santa Clause is in your heart – and lives in your faith – like the baby Jesus lives in your heart – lives in your faith.

"Oh yeah", answered my little girl slipping out of her analytical grown up persona and back into my little girl with an open heart.

"You have to believe for Santa to be real", I reminded her.

She looked at me, and she looked at the picture again. And then she looked at me.

I just gave her a little wink, looking down at her over my spectacles.

She gave me a hug, and then without a word she ran downstairs to the area around the pool table – where our indoor decorations were pulled out of the closet waiting in their boxes to be re-allocated around the interior of our lovely home.

She came back upstairs with a handful of read Santa hats. She handed me mine – with the name "Daddy" written in glitter and glue on the fluffy white fur bottom of the hat.

I put it on.

"Oh my …" said Alannah. "But your beard is not long enough."

"Not yet, I still have four weeks your know"

Alannah smiled and ran off to play with her sister.

Again, like last year, our conversation ended with my uncertainty of its effect.

But this year, I am a bit behind an eight ball now.

The next move is mine – and I really don't have a clue what to do.

I believe sincerely that Santa Claus lives within the heart of all that believe. He lives in our faith, and he lives in our actions.

But all I did was play off the fact I got fat, my beard happens to be white, and my now aging face with my wrinkled eyes looks a tiny bit like Santa's – if the light is right and I wear my spectacles on the end of my nose.

Now I have to back up this big impression with something substantial to make a lasting impression on my future female Clarence Darrow. If Santa lives in our actions, what should my next action be?

What do I do now? Any ideas would be greatly appreciated?

How do I get myself in messes like this?

Boxing Day At The Log Cabin

Yesterday, we celebrated another Brill Family Boxing Day at the stately Log Cabin I told you about last year.

And while we in Windsor celebrated our Christmas in an environmentally friendly green manner (there was no snow – only green grass) – the Log Cabin was very white. And my Cousin Sarah – my pseudo-little-sister - and her husband Rene had their stately rustic home done to the nines for Christmas.

All the kids took off into the night to walk the dogs into the deep woods. They returned telling tales of coyote tracks and blood trails.

I didn’t think it was still legal to let your kids have an adventure.

But all returned home and the head count that returned matched the number that had left. There were no injuries.

Just a freaked-out Mom here and there.

As the night wore on and the kids started to wear out, the snow outside started to fall again. We settled down at the dining table for our second Christmas Feast.

Our second night of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and gravy, yams, and cranberry sauce.

As we sat sipping coffee, the little-ones and big-ones alike reminded us that we had not yet achieved our primary objective. We had not yet exchanged gifts.

The chaos of family gift exchanges can never be truly well documented. It is more like an eruption of paper and ribbon sent miles into the air by young hands ripping cardboard to get to the gift inside.

And when the ribbon had cleared and the paper finally settled to crumpled piles on the ground, I found that I been presented with a home made gift from my cousin Jenny – one of my pseudo-big-sisters.

It is a hand made snow globe. Inside sits a picture of me, in my car, being towed onto the farm by Uncle Fred’s tractor. If you turn the key on the bottom, I believe it plays “Let It Snow”. On the other side of the picture, Jenny had written in gold ink: “Don’t be afraid of a little snow, Freddy”.

I damn near cried.

But I was cool.

My little family stayed the night, while the rest of clan headed to their homes in Kitchner, and London.

My little girls are about 3 years younger than Sarah and Rene’s two little girls. My little girls revere both Justine and Paige as much as they do Hannah Montana. This is truly the only real sleep over my little girls have ever had. It’s a big deal.

The next morning we awoke to a good little snow squall. The weather station was calling for freezing rain just south of us. And you have to go south to get to Windsor.

Big huge flakes were falling; covering the ground and roads quickly. To the kids; it looked like heaven.

To me, it looked like lousy driving weather.

It would have been grand to stayed with Sarah and Rene another night.

But we were not prepared.

We did not have another change of clothes.

We did not have either Darlene’s or Ashley-Rae’s prescriptions.

And Rene’s family were coming that afternoon. Sarah and Rene were going to throw the exact same party all over again.

They certainly did encourage us to stay. They almost had me sold. It has been some time since I saw his mom and dad, his brothers, his family.

But this was their Christmas day together. It was their time to exchange gifts. The table was set to fit their family members.

Little girls would not be understanding when presents are being exchanged that there are no presents for them.

So we decided to head home. Through snow, over the freezing rain.

But not before both Alannah and Ashley-Rae cried. They wanted to stay. They wanted to play. They wanted to live there instead.

Once on the road, the four-wheel drive of our jeep got us easily out of the snow, and the snow turned to simple rain just a few miles south of the log cabin. The enchantment of the trip was gone. It was just a rainy December drive home to Windsor.

But next year, next year maybe we can plan this better. Plan this differently. Let the girls stay and play longer. Let them get to know their cousins better.

Maybe.

A Christmas Morning Story

As this Christmas approaches, now two days away, I wanted to share with you my favorite Christmas Morning story of my family from years gone by.

The year was 2003. And we had just moved into a tiny house near the foot of the Ambassador Bridge in Windsor.

Darlene and my bedroom was at the front end of the house, and across the hall our two little girls shared a bedroom. Alannah was just to turn three; Ashley-Rae was one-and-a-half. The living room was the next room over, with the tree tucked into the corner.

I do not remember the presents we had for the kids that year. I do have the tapes, and I just recently converted them to DVD. But I was not thinking quick enough to capture this specific event on the video camera.

Darlene and I had stayed up late Christmas Eve, down in the basement wrapping. We finished about 3 AM and snuck all the presents upstairs, and quietly placed them under the tree. And then we went to bed.

We woke up to cartoons on the TV at about 6:30 AM. And we rolled over, looked at each other – and gasped “Oh NO!!”

You see, up until then, we had contained the movement of our children by those child-gates – the ones you wedge between the walls of a hallway or door jam. But this morning there was no child-gate between the girls and the Christmas Tree. And we both realized it at the very same moment!

We rolled out of bed and ran around the corner into the living room. The TV show “Big-Comfy-Couch” was on, and Alannah was sitting in the middle of the floor watching intently.

There was ripped open wrapping paper all over the floor. On top of the paper were the gifts – everyone’s gifts. Well mostly everyone’s gifts, all unwrapped. Luckily Alannah had come across a box of chocolates for her Uncle Glenn. They were opened – the little papers all around the floor, and Alannah turned to smile at us with that special “chocolate ringed mouth”.

I am ashamed to say – we were mad. For that initial instant I yelled. Quickly I and Darlene realized that there was nothing to be mad at, nothing at all – but ourselves. We did not barricade the tree. We did not give either of the girls instructions.

We screwed up.

It was hilarious.

I kept the girls both occupied, while Darlene, with some type of miracle gift-wrapping skill – like superman in high-speed – she wrapped the presents back up.

And we resumed our Christmas. And we watched Alannah open all her gifts again. She must have thought she got twice as many presents – because of all the unwrapping she did.

And as we all remember – it’s the actual unwrapping process that we all enjoy so dearly.

Now as the girls are 5 and nearly seven, we no longer use the child-gate. Life has indeed gotten easier.

As we approach this holiday season, I and my family would like to wish you all a happy holiday season.

And I would like to thank all of you who have sent me the wonderful emails over the last year. It is that kind of feedback that really makes this writing site so much fun for me.

Who knows, maybe my Christmas wish will come true this year, and I can start writing professionally.

The problem with that wish is that it might come true.

Merry Christmas to all.

Don't Be Scared Of A Little Snow

It snowed last night.

And this morning. And now this afternoon. In total we got nearly a foot. It is supposed to snow more tonight.

The radio says the roads are very bad. The expressway is like an ice rink. The authorities are asking us not to drive.

I was outside shoveling the driveway when Darlene came out with the phone.

My co-worker Julia called to tell me that she and the other Staff Association members think we should cancel the Children’s Christmas party.

I looked out the window. A pickup truck went sliding sideways by our house. He straightened himself out and slid the other way.

“I agree”, I replied. After hanging up I called our major AM radio station. Everyone in Windsor knows this is the station to listen to for local news and snow cancellations. While I tried to get through the busy line – Darlene submitted the cancellation notice request through their news tips website.

Shortly afterwards I heard our cancellation announcement crackle over the radio.

I went back out to finish shoveling.

And I started thinking about my Uncle Fred.

I had lived with Uncle Fred’s family when I moved back to Canada.

I was twenty-three and the year was 1985. I was living in an apartment with my brother Paul in Baton Rouge. I had decided that summer that I was going to move back to Canada.

I gave my notice at work. I was a night manager at a grocery store – and the store was closing down. It seemed to be a better idea to move to Canada and go back to school, rather than live a Janice Joplin song and be “busted flat in Baton Rouge”. So as Christmas approached, I packed up what I owned and stuffed it into my Mazda 626.

Paul and I spent Christmas at my Mom and Dads that year. The understanding was that I would go back to Canada – get this degree – and move back down south – this time to Pensacola – and start a real career.

I remember that Christmas morning because Paul and I woke up and played our traditional round of golf before we opened presents. We started on the 13th tee outside their back door, and played around to number twelve – where we came in for breakfast and opened our presents.

Two mornings later – my car still loaded with all my possessions and clubs squeezed back into my inventory – I kissed my Mom and Dad good bye and started my Drive up I-65 through Alabama – then I-64 across Kentucky and Tennessee, over to I-75 that would take me up into Michigan.

The first day was a breeze. I had the windows down, and the tapes in my cassette player blaring loud. I made it to Dayton, Ohio. It was raining and dark – so I decided to pull over for the night.

The next morning I stepped out of my motel room, and nearly broke my neck on the ice. The rain had frozen. It was cold.

I had crossed the Mason-Dixon line.

I filled my car up with gas and started out onto I-75. About 45 minutes up the road, a gust of wind grabbed my car, and slid me across 4 lanes of expressway, into a deep ditch – just missing a cement drain pipe.

I spent the rest of the morning hiking to a gas station to get a guy with a tow truck to haul me out of the ditch and put me back on the road. As he did – he tried to sell me some winter tires. I declined.

I did not cross the border into Canada in Detroit. I did not enter into Canada in Windsor. Instead I rode I-94 north of Detroit to a little town called Port Huron. I arrived at the empty border crossing expecting to be searched and have my car taken apart.

I crossed the Bridge and reached the Canadian customs booth in Sarnia.

“Citizenship?” asked the customs officer.

I held up my green card. A plastic card that had a picture of me at the age of three. “Canadian” I answered.

“How long are you staying?” he asked.

“Until I’m done school” I replied and briefly explained my educational plans and agenda.

He smiled and replied “Welcome home”.

That has always stuck with me.

I looked at the road ahead. I saw none. It was all white. I looked back at the officer “One thing please, where is the road?”

“See those little white posts?” he asked in reply, “the road is about 3 meters to the left of those:,

“Oh”, I replied. “Welcome to Canada, Fred” I thought to myself.

It got easier as I drove on. In my little Mazda 626 with everything I owned in the car. I could see other tire tracks, and I could see the edge of the road. But I drove very slowly.

It was really snowing and the roads were being closed behind me. My perception of what “bad” meant kept expanding as the day progressed – and now I felt I understood what “bad” meant.

Every twenty yards or so, a one or two foot high snow drift would appear. And now I felt comfortable to just blast through them. I did this for about an hour. And now I was getting close. I had made my way to Perth County Road 11. I was simply trying to find the concession Uncle Fred’s farm was on.

I thought I saw it, and pulled into the snow drift that fronted the concession gravel road – Boosh – I smashed through and drove up the gravel road – only to really see the farm on the next concession up – looking across the fields. I turned around, and blasted through the drift again. Back on the road, I traveled up to the next concession.

Boosh – I blasted through the drift at the front of the concession.

But this was different. I didn’t come through the other side. Instead I drove to the top of it, and my car sunk down into the drift – which was not a drift. The snow was easily five feet deep all the way down the concession.

I sat there in my little Mazda 626 – with Louisiana license plates on the front and back. I sat there and wondered how I would get down the concession to the farmhouse I could see all lit up about half a mile down the road.

I almost made it.

I flashed my headlights – and turned my car off. I was just about to get out of the car and literally swim the snow to the farmhouse. That’s when I saw the two snowmobiles – and they were coming straight at me.

“How’s goin eh?” said the first – a kid I would later know to be Jim.

“I’m stuck” I smiled.

“Yer stuck alright. Where yer goin?” asked the toque (tuke) and parka clad Jim.

“To the Brill’s farm” I replied, “and I almost made it”.

“I’ll go tell Fred yer here, wait here” said Jim. “Who do I say’s coming?”

“Fred Brill”, I said. “He looked at me. My Uncle Fred and I do have the same name.

“Okay den”, and hopped back on his snowmobile and away he sped.

Shortly after, Fred appeared with the John Deere tractor with the snow blower attachment on front. He came blowing right at me. He climbed out of the cab and waded over to me.

He was smiling as happy as could be to see something funny like me and my southern car stuck in the snow.

“Jimmy says Fred Brill’s comin to visit me” he laughed – those big old teeth grinning like he couldn’t be happier.

“It’s snowing” I said.

“Tis, tis so” said Fred. “Stay put lets get you in the barn”.

Uncle Fred hooked me up to the tractor – lifted the front of the car right up with the rear of the tractor while the front of the tractor was still pretending to be a snow blower.

The girls, my cousins Sarah, Ellyn and Jenny, all took pictures of their southern cousin – the bumpkin – being towed down the farm laneway. I have to see those pictures every Christmas.

I almost made it. 1,200 miles, and I got stuck in the last half mile.

But Uncle Fred never let a little snow scare him off.

I miss Uncle Fred.

But today – during our foot of snow blizzard – after cancelling our Children’s Christmas party - I can hear his voice loud and clear.

“It’s just a little snow, Freddy. Don’t be scared of a little snow.”

and that's what Christmas means

We are currently at T-minus-thirteen-days … and counting.

That seems to be the opening message broadcast to everyone at the start of every day until Christmas morning.

Believe me, the planning process for this holiday exceeds most NASA projects. So far this year I have attended two Christmas parties, two Christmas dinners, a secret-Santa event that spans two weeks, and numerous snack festivities.

And that is just at the office!

There is still the company’s children’s Christmas party on Sunday, and a luncheon the middle of next week.

I find it difficult to believe the news that this is actually a very depressing time of the year leaving many to feel left out.

I must be hoarding everyone else’s Christmas celebrations. And I feel bad that I am.

The other night, the old classic “Merry Christmas Charlie Brown” cartoon special was on. We all remember the peanuts gang dancing to that great jazz riff that really has nothing else to do with Christmas except that Schroeder plays it over and over again on this show.

I actually love that jazz riff.

Then all the kids make fun of Charlie Brown’s Christmas tree. And Linus steps out into the spotlight on the dark stage and hits us in the face with the truth of the matter:



"And suddenly, there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, 'Glory to God in the Highest, and on Earth peace, and goodwill toward men,'" Linus says.

"And that's what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."

It is amazing this show identified this commercial delusion of Christmas fifty years ago.

And fifty years later we are drowning in this delusion, even deeper than before. Artificial tinsel trees now are fiber-optic. And the greatest tragedy is that this special show, this special moment of the show – has become a parody of itself, losing it’s poignancy.

I admit that I really do love Christmas in our western flare. I love hanging the lights outside, trimming the tree, and getting my little girls all revved up for the holiday. I love the parties, the feasts, and the traditions of Santa, reindeer, caroling and mistletoe.

But every once in a while we must stand back from this gala – this month-long extravaganza – and remember “Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace and goodwill toward men”.

So as you’re celebrating these next two weeks – please – stop and remember those words. And share them with everyone you meet – even if as casually as saying:

“Remember that speech that Linus said in Merry Christmas Charlie Brown?”

“Oh yeah”, may come the reply. “How did that go?”

And you can wow your friends and say “it ended with – ‘Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth peace and goodwill toward men’

Amen.

Breakfast With Santa

I am back in Toronto again.

It is cold and snowy; much more so than Windsor.

Another week with the new team interviewing sales staff about their roles, gathering requirements, and sleeping in the local hotel.

I will admit it is enjoyable. The people are great. The food is great.

But it is not home.

At home, the Christmas trees are up, one upstairs, and one down by the fireplace and pool table. Outside the lights are up and twinkle through the windows at night.

And at home, it is snowy. But not like here. It may have already melted. I may still need to put those golf clubs back in my car.

At home my daughters are bickering – about who gets how many Hershey’s kisses from the little Christmas house. It is a small house with 31 doors – one for each day of December. My mum sent it up for the girls last year, and we thought it would be a great annual tradition. Until the first time the girls beg to open the doors, and bicker over who gets the red ones. Then we remembered why we questioned this tradition last year.

Last night I called home. Ashley, her mum and grandma went to an event called “Breakfast with Santa”. Ashley answered the phone.

“Hewo?” said Ashley-Rae, my five year old who can’t say “R”s or “L”s.

“Hi Ashley, it’s me” I said. She squealed and told everyone I was calling.

“I sat on Santa’s knee, Daddy” she said quite proudly.

I remembered the event was that day. “Oh, yeah, what did you ask Santa for?” I asked.

“nuh-in, I told him a joke.” She replied.

“You did, what joke did you tell him?” I replied – stunned at the twist.

“Why is Rudolph’s nose so red” Ashley asked.

“Why”

“Because it’s cowd” she answered, and laughed so hard I had to laugh to.

I spent the night in my room, a very nice room, looking out the window at all the lights of the houses below, the cold winds blowing and the few houses with fireplaces puffing smoke out the chimneys.

And I thought of Ashley’s joke. And I laughed again.

I bet you Santa laughed. I bet he went home that night and told his wife about the little five year old girl who didn’t ask for something, but instead told him a joke. I bet there was more than a "Ho Ho Ho"

I can’t wait to call home tonight.