Quip's Corner - Yellow Pansies

Yellow pansies lay crushed by a heel, ground into the black asphalt. Stems kicked aside, bent and broken. On a nearby stone bench, a boy sits, head bowed and shaking, supported by quivering hands. A ragged gray cotton pullover jacket hangs limply over one knee. The lonely cold stone bench gives little comfort to the young boy’s rasping sobs. The sea of green grassy fields surrounding this solitary event are quiet, holding its reverence. A clear blue sky with tiny tufts of white cotton hover motionlessly overhead. The warm yellow sun radiates its light on the grass and flowers below, painting them in their most vivid colors. But a cool, crisp morning breeze causes the boy to shiver involuntarily. His jacket slides, from his knee, into a large puddle. The material immediately begins to absorb the muddy liquid as the jacket sinks and turns a dark gray. The boys doesn't seem to notice. The colors are gone from his world.

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Beginnings - "And the Darkness Laughed."

The thick leather dog collar tugged at Joe’s throat as he pulled and lunged against the four feet of heavy steel cable attaching the black collar around his neck to the water stained concrete wall of the basement in which he was imprisoned. A glimmer of dusty yellow sunlight filtered through a small dirty window, the size of a loaf of bread. The window was pressed into an upper corner within inches of the unfinished ceiling. The bare wooden beams, covered in dust and cobwebs, ran the entire length of the room. The Whisperer was upstairs. Joe could hear him shuffle back and forth across the floor above, the Whisperer’s weight causing the floorboards to creak and groan. The dust cascaded down from the open ribs of the house and coated Joe’s head and arms. Joe stifled the urge to vomit as he choked on the greasy rag which had been used as a gag.
"How are we this morning?" His quiet voice sent chills up Joe’s spine. Joe spun around, which caused his head to be jerked back toward the wall. He gagged and then chocked uncontrollably. Low laughter came from the doorway. Joe straightened up and faced the voice.
"Did we sleep well?" The Whisperer hissed.
Joe struggled to see him in the shadows.
"Look out the window! Don’t you think that it’s a beautiful day to die?"
Joe swore bitterly through the greasy rags and again, defiantly, tugged at the restraints. He pulled at the bindings of cord which pinned his hands helplessly together behind his back. The Whisperer chuckled again as he watched Joe twist and jerk. He was unbothered by Joe’s flailing. The effort was futile. Joe would be dead before dark. He turned and walked from the room, pulling the door shut behind him with a click, a very quiet click.

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Beginnings - "The Deadly Bite of the Acting Bug "

A hush settled over the sparse audience of Tuesday night theater goers like a fog enveloping an English moor, thick and palpable. A fist clenching scene was being played out on the stage before them. The stage lights were low, softly illuminating the upper bedroom of an old Scottish castle. The young girl on center stage, preparing for bed, was about to meet the "Strangler," a villain stalking the play. The audience had been treated to glimpses of his hands, his black cloak and his feet throughout the first two acts, guiding them like little children through shrouded tunnels of stomach wrenching tension as, on by one, young girls fell prey to the Strangler’ sinister clutches.
The girl, dressed in a long, flowing nightgown, carrying a pewter candle holder with lighted candle, approached her bed, the light from the candle throwing ghastly shadows across the cold stone of the castle walls. The eerie whine of violins from the orchestra beneath the stage announced the presence of the killer. The audience cringed, collectively pushed themselves more deeply into the plush velvet of the theater seats. The music continued to build in earnestness as she placed the candle on the night stand and slid gracefully into bed. Leaning up on an elbow, she cupped her hand around the candle’s flame and blew it out gently, sending the stage into a black abyss.
The audience strained to see the stage in the darkness, not sure of the next passing moment. The music pulsated, increasing in volume slowly, deliberately, building the tension to a fevered pitch. Seconds continued to pass. The audience waited, edging forward in their seats. The music came suddenly to a screeching halt. A pause of silence. Then a piercing scream ripped through the darkness from the rear of the theater, sending the scattered audience into convulsions. Then from the balcony above came a heavy thump.

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The First Tree - Chapter 8

Claus’s Kitchen
Mrs. Claus stood in front of a large gas stove, directing a lecture, with a spatula, to the three tree elves sitting around a long rectangle shaped dining. Up and ready for the day, Mrs. Claus wore an ankle length pink skirt with matching embroidered sweater. She was a short, dainty women. This morning, her hair was neatly pinned with curled tendrils cascading down the sides of her round face, accented by a tiny set of round bifocals perched on the tip of her tiny nose.
Christmas, to Mrs. Claus, meant good smells, music, and lots of traditions. The combination of such was essential of making her Christmas complete. The smells that permeated every corner of her home during the holiday season were a tapestry of hot cinnamon, cloves, apples, and fresh pine.
Mrs. Claus was often teased around the North Pole for her constant humming of Christmas carols during the month of December. But the behavior was addictive and within the first week everyone had followed suit and was humming or singing as they worked.
"Bring the tree in through the west hall.... very carefully. And don't bend those branches," She chided. "I love those long beautiful branches. Remember, I would like to have the tree in the study before lunch." She brought her spatula up, commanding the elves attention. "In its stand and ready to be decorated."
"Yes, Mrs. Claus," the elves responded dutifully.
"And then collect my Christmas decorations from the storage sheds and meet my in the study by no later then 2:00 pm sharp. But don't hurry! I don't want you kids to rush. Be extremely careful! Remember, you will be carrying my entire Christmas in those boxes." Mrs. Claus was emphasizing each point with a downward swing of her spatula, splattering pancake batter, in tiny dots, across the counter.
"Good morning sweetheart," Santa bellowed, from the bottom of the stairs, forgetting the frayed pocket momentarily. He stepped from the last stair onto the irregularly shaped tiles which formed the kitchen floor. Mrs. Claus turned her attention from the elves at the table to Santa who ambled over, bent down and kissed her lightly on the cheek.
"Good morning yourself. I began to think you had forgotten what week this was." Mrs. Claus retorted. Santa just smiled and took the plate of pancakes that Mrs. Claus presented him, walking to his chair at the head of the table.
"I see that you have my elves out getting your tree again this year," Santa quipped, winking at the elves, who smiled through mouths full of food.
"Santa!" Mrs. Claus turned back toward him, hands on her hips in a mock pout, "Today will be very light, all they will need to do is simply retrieve the tree, bring it in, and then get my boxes of decorations from the sheds."
"Dear, don’t forget, I’ve seen you work on your Christmas trees. You will have these kids busy making adjustments and moving objects from here to there until long after I’m gone on Christmas Eve." Santa chided, his eyes twinkled.
"Well, you do want it to be right, don't you? Mrs. Claus asked softly. Sant smiled.
"Oh, of course dear, you do just what you feel you need." Turning to the elves, who were watching their interactions with amused smirks, he instructed. "Will you please help Mrs. Claus with whatever she needs this week? You are, of course, formally released from any further preparatory duties in the workshop"
"That was our plan Santa," the elves chimed, and as if on cue, they all stood up from the table and cleared their plates.
"Mrs. Claus, thank you for the wonderful breakfast. We’ll be on our way so that we can have the tree ready and in on time."
Santa watched them file out and called after them as they left the kitchen, "Thank you."
Santa turned and began eating his breakfast in earnest. Mrs. Claus walked over to where Santa was sitting and patted him on the shoulder. Noise from the hall caused them both to turn. In the doorway, a new group of elves, dressed warmly, with scarves and mittens, ready for the cold winter day, entered the kitchen, excitedly anticipating Mrs. Claus’s famous pancake breakfast. Santa watched with amusement as Mrs. Claus directed them to the table and immediately began peppering each of them with questions of their day. She then began dispensed wise council about proper diet and work habits along with the plates of food. Santa had observed that, through the years, the elves at the North Pole enjoyed the motherly approach that Mrs. Claus, so often, took with them. Santa knew that the elves loved her deeply and would often seek her advice.
As the latest group of elves gathered around the table, they wished Santa a good morning, asking his advice, confirming projects, and expressing excitement about the week. Mrs. Claus continued to serve heaping plates of steaming pancakes, large pads of golden creamy butter, and a pitcher of rich maple syrup, all of which was readily devoured. She then returned to her stove and continued to cook, knowing that there would be many such groups to arrive at her table that morning.
Santa was wiping his mouth after finishing the last bite of breakfast when Edger, an elf who served as Santa’s personal secretary and who took care of and categorized all of Santa’s correspondence, entered the kitchen holding a tattered piece of paper.
Edger was tall and well proportioned for an elf. His clothes were constantly pressed and neat and his vest was always buttoned. He wore small oval wire rim spectacles and kept his beard cut short and meticulously trimmed.
Santa cleared his throat before speaking, "Morning Edger, ...have the number of Dear Santa letters slowing as of yet?" Santa observed the business-like look on Edger’s face, a constant fixture. Edger was always working, a compulsion which drove Santa to try to find ways to get him to relax.
"The letters are still arriving by the sleigh full. If it’s like most years, we will not see it slow for a few days yet"
"Edger, please sit down and eat something, Mrs. Claus has outdone herself again." Santa patted the chair next to his.
"I appreciate that sir, maybe in a little while, if I get a minute. I still have quite a few things to file and catalog. But I was reading through the correspondence this morning and found one you might find of particular interest. It’s from little Whitney Safford."
"Whitney? What did she have to say?" Santa’s eyes crinkled with interest. "Did she have a Christmas request?"
"She did actually.....Sir, I thought you would probably want to read it for yourself." Edger handed the simple, hand-written note to Santa, who began fishing for the eyeglasses perched on his forehead. Sliding them down to the bridge of his nose, he held the ragged little piece of paper to his face and read it aloud.
Dear Santa,
I know that you are busy right now. You always bring really good presents. But this year mom and dad said that you probably wouldn’t be able to bring much. They said that times get hard at the north pole just like it is here. So I thought, if you hadn’t already made something, could you maybe make me a doll.... could she have dark brown hair with long curls and a pink bow? I’ve never had a real doll before. It doesn’t have to be special or fancy. I could even make her clothes from the scraps that mom brings home. Thanks for always remembering me and my little brothers. Merry Christmas
Love, Whitney
When Santa was finished, he pushed his glasses aside, wiped his eyes with the back of his thumb, and sighed.
"What is it dear?" Mrs. Claus said, stepping forward while wiping her hands on the white apron tied around her waist. "Who is Whitney Safford?"
Santa grinned with some sadness at Mrs. Claus and spoke with an uncharacteristic softness, "As Edger already knows, Whitney is a sweet, dear little girl who lives with her family in a tiny cinder block home, near a thick wooded forest. She is the oldest of three children, and will be eight years old in February. She has two little brothers, Zack who’s five and Jeffrey who just turned three."
As he spoke, Santa gathered up his juice glass and silverware, setting them on his empty plate. "Her father has worked for years at a local factory until becoming very ill. He has been confined to a bed for months. Her mother, to earn money for the family, has begun sewing dresses for a ladies shop in the nearby village. Unfortunately, She is often required to work long hours."
At this point, Santa paused to carry his plate to the sink. He then shuffled back, with a swish of slippers against cold tile, to his seat at the table. As he sat down he noticed that the elves at the table had all stopped eating and were waiting for him to continue. Santa appreciated their apparent curiosity and continued.
"Whitney has been required to shoulder the bulk of the housework, including the wash and the cooking. She has been a wonderful girl this year. She deserves much more. But if she wants a doll, it will be the best doll we can make."
"Santa, I checked my records to see the nature of the presents prepared for the Safford children? According to my log and as per the request of their parents, each was given a set of simple winter clothes and a square of holiday chocolate."
"We can do better then that!" Santa exclaimed, dismayed at the apparent lack of toys set aside for the children. "Edgar, give the toy department an assignment to add a few of their newest toys to the gifts for the Safford boys." And after a moment of hesitation he added, "And throw in a little set of drums. That should wake up that house on Christmas morning."
Edgar took notes feverishly on a tiny pad of paper that he had produced from a pocket. He couldn’t help but roll his eyes as he wrote down each of Santa’s additions. It went against his nature to make, in his opinion, last minute changes to a gift log that he had crafted meticulously over an entire year. It wasn’t easy keeping track of who was nice and who wasn’t and then combining that with millions of requests that he insisted on sorting personally. Santa seemed to think nothing of adding this or that at the last minute. But there were enormous coordination efforts that had to be orchestrated between the construction departments and the wrapping and labeling department just to complete these last minute changes. Ultimately, If you divert from the list then you were asking for errors was Edgar’s philosophy.
Santa watched Edgar with interest, "Edgar!" Santa called brightly. His nose lifted from the pad of paper and his eyes made contact with Santa.
"Edgar, just relax. It’s Christmas! The extra toys and drums won’t throw off the system. You do a great job. My only request of you is that you relax a little. Nothing bad is going to happen to Christmas. Why don’t you delegate some of your responsibilities this week and take a break.
Edgar smiled reluctantly, "Maybe in January, Santa." Returning the focus to the task at hand, Edgar continued. "What about the doll, Sir? You didn’t mention that you wanted me to add a doll."
Santa grinned broadly, again prominently displayed his rosy cheeks. "That request will be handled by me personally." He declared. He then waved the letter in the air. "You won’t have to worry about keeping track of this one on your list. It will be one of my personal projects!"
With that, Santa folded the letter carefully and slid it into his right breast pocket. In doing so, his finger brushed against the frayed hole along the side. Casually, he looked down and then grimaced, as the sight reminded him of his bedroom and the frustrating discovery of the hole.
"Sweetheart!" Santa stood and turned so his right pocket was towards Mrs. Claus. "Look at my pocket! I’m getting a hole in my favorite pajamas. A large hole!" An elf giggled from behind him at the table and another whispered in a teasing tone "..favorite pajamas!.." Santa turned sharply, looking back at the elves who abruptly sat erect, trying desperately to stifle their laughter.
"That's right," Santa retorted, turning back to Mrs. Claus, "They are my favorite pajamas, and now the pocket is practically falling off!"
"Now honey," Mrs. Claus cooed, "It doesn’t look at all that bad. It’s certainly not about to fall off. You have the green ones that you can wear until I can fix these. Just leave them in the sewing room and I will have them back for you in no time."

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Quip's Corner - The Circle of Life

A young elephant rolled out of bed
took one step and bumped his head.
"who put this tree branch in the path"
yelled the young elephant in his wrath
"Someone could have really died
or been blinded when he smacked his eye"
"I want to know now", he demanded
And then from the tree, three tigers landed
Smiled at him and asked politely
"have we caused you to act unsightly
Throwing blame and demanding action
Can we help you with a retraction"
The elephant stuttered, stalled and slurped.
Then he let out a nervous burp
The tigers waited, flexing claws
stretching muscles, spreading jaws.
The elephant finally found his say
Mumbled something and backed away
Within a second he had turned and run
The tigers watched, they’d had their fun
They slapped high fives and turned to go
Went around a bush and fell in a hole.

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The First Tree - Chapter 7

Santa’s bedroom
Santa opened his eyes. Although it was still dark beyond his bedroom window, he could already hear noises coming from downstairs in the kitchen. His years of living with Mrs. Claus at the North Pole had told him exactly what she was doing. Mrs. Claus, for as long as he could remember, insisted on making breakfast with all the trimmings for the elves during the final week of Christmas. It was one of many Christmas traditions Mrs Claus held sacred. He couldn’t remember how most of them were started, but every year her many traditions were carried out like clock work.
Today would also be her tree day, he thought. It would certainly be quite an exciting week at the North Pole. Santa could hardly wait! He rose slowly from bed, rubbing and scratching his enormous belly through stretched plaid pajamas. Slipping his feet into a pair of worn, wool slippers, he lifted his arms over his head and yawned. Santa stood, wobbily, and while still stretching, glanced over into the bedroom mirror and admired his rotund physique. Oh yes, he was looking good.
Santa’s pajamas were made from a large red and green plaid flannel print, long sleeved, with two deep breast pockets on either side, secured with large round wooden buttons. A matching droopy flannel cap sat on top of Santa’s head. The cap flopped to one side and narrowed to a point where a tiny white ball of fluff was secured. The fluffy material blended nicely with his bushy snow white beard which rumbled and rolled, tapering down across his large barrel chest
Santa was still absentmindedly looking at himself in the mirror, mentally organizing his tasks of the day, when he noticed something alarming. Squinting into the mirror, Santa’s hand slid to his right shirt pocket. Looking down confirmed his suspicion, his pocket was beginning to fray and become separated along one side. "Drat.....Drat! On my favorite pair of pajamas too," Santa fussed, playing with the growing hole. Turning his body in the mirror so that his pocket was more prominently displayed, he examined it again through the reflection, hoping to find a more favorable outcome. After a few long moments playing with the growing hole, Santa sighed, resigned himself, shrugged in disgust, and ambled dejectedly out the door toward the kitchen. This was not a good start to his week, he thought. The pocket would have to be fixed at once.

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Beginnings - "The Rain"

The Rain
Dull yellow rain drops blur and streak the clear outer cover on the portholes of the protective bio-dome capsule. The drops sizzle and bubble as they make contact with the thin strip of silver incorporated into the window casing.
It had been two long months since the brothers had escaped into the dome. Although they were now free from the rain, they could only watch helplessly as the world they knew smoldered around them. The boys lived on the rations stored by their father in the food preservation units lining the main corridor.
Ekterk, the eldest brother by seventeen months, spent most of his time and energy monitoring the power levels in the regenerating energy cells. Their father had assured both of them that the regeneration units should provide sufficient power to sustain life within the bio-dome for at least three years before disintegration.
As Etam, the younger of the brothers, gazed out of the porthole at the world that they had once known, his mind drifted back to the days following the retreat into the capsule. The rains had come back again. Etam’s own arms showed wicked scars from the drops which had struck and clung to him before he could find shelter. Those next few days were the hardest for both boys. They watched their father die, being eaten by the savage wounds sustained while saving the boys with a rush to the capsule. He reassured them, in those last few hours, that he was no longer in pain. but at the end only his eyes were alive. The rest of his body was a mass of smoldering burnt flesh and exposed, visibly yellowed bones. His shallowed breathing, his open and blistered chest finally slowed to a stuttered halt.
Their mother was taken in death years earlier during a raid of the people of the east. She had been away from the city, collecting the wild flowers father loved so much. The ones that reminded him so much of the years of his youth. The alarm was sounded. She had reached the outer city walls when they overtook her. Father had reached the outer gates in time to see her fall and fought viciously to get to her side. She was all but gone as he knelt to pick her up. The wild flowers were still clutched within her long delicate fingers. As father lifted her from the ground, her eyes opened and she smiled at him, a pained but beautiful smile. He had always noticed and loved her smile, even when they were children. She mouthed the words "I love you" and drifted away.
Father submersed himself in his research and experiments in the years following mother’s death. He created and perfected many of his projects while hibernating in his laboratory for weeks on end. The boys helped as best they could with their father’s work. Father delighted in his boys and in teaching them about life and the sciences.
The rains had begun slowly, mildly, at first, leaving rashes on exposed skin, polluting their natural water supplies, taking the smallest of the children. The panic had begun. The rains returned in ever increasing intervals, each time stronger then the previous. Father had completed the outer layers of his capsule. He seemed to know that it was to save his boy’s lives, at least for now.
Etam blinked away the memories as he again focused on the streaked porthole and the wilted and smoldering landscape of dark greens and browns beyond. It was a stark contrast to the sterile white interior which now surrounded them. In his mind, he could still hear the shreaks and moans of the suffering and dying which occurred outside the protective layers of the capsule walls. He shuttered involuntarily and turned away from the porthole.

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Quip's Corner - Life to perfection is a ladder with slippery steps

Life to perfection is a ladder with slippery steps
I've been taught to know the way to go
But just haven't made it yet
I try to go slowly from rung to rung
I take tiny steps but then.......
I step on a spot that I've stepped on before
Slip, loose my grip, and fall to the bottom again

I question why, I saw that spot coming
I knew what I should do
If I'd just avoid it, I would be fine
And I know that I'd make it through

I continue to try to climb that long ladder
I know of the pitfalls and traps
If I can just get past those weal slippery spots
The ones that I find hinder me
I'll find that the top was well worth the climb
And then I truly will see

That those weak slippery steps that gave me such sorrow
That gave me the tears and regret
I've learned how to climb them, I see my mistakes
My weakness has turned into strength.
Ether 12:27

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Quip's Corner - My Southern Love Note (act 1)

The sun was a beatin and I was a drinkin, a fishing pole between my legs.
The day was a long one, alone in the hot sun, with nothin in my brain but haze.
The fish could be bite'in but they weren't a fightin cause I couldn't feel a thing.
All I was doin, sittin and stewin, thinkin of her again and again.
She was a young one, but her growin was all done, a body that'd make a man crawl.
Her smile was infectious, the biggest in Texas, a true country babydoll!

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Beginnings - "Rough Sunset"

Rough Sunset
George opened his eyes. "It must be morning," he thought. There was too much street traffic, morning buses, air brakes, horns trumpeting in a new day in the city. George rolled to his knees, not an easy task in that he was still slightly drunk and kneeling on a broken cardboard box and a full garbage bag. He put an inquiring hand skyward, pushing on the plastic cover of the dumpster, and peered through bloodshot eyes out into the alley.
The morning sun had not yet reached the tops of the city buildings, leaving long grey shadows and a prevailing darkness in the alley. George hooked an arm over the side of the navy blue city dumpster. He could sense the wetness, between his forearm and the metal, of rotten tomates and what smelled like canned soup. Leaning out away from the dumpster, he rolled forward and fell to his back in a cloud of dust and bits of old newspaper. The plastic lid slammed shut behind him with a dull thud. George gathered himself and slowly climbed to his feet before wobbling toward the rectangle of light indicating where the alley met the busy street.
The alleyway was a jumble of garbage bags dropped from the apartments above. An old rusted yellow bicycle, missing its wheels, had been thrown or propped to one side. George reached the end of the alley and stopped. The world, moving anxiously, passed by him on multiple conveyer belts. Cars moved rapidly, honking and squealing at one another. People, dressed for work, walked passed with purpose and direction. George stood and absorbed the city’s energy. He rocked slightly on his heels, back and forth and side to side, watching colors pass in front of his eyes.
He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. His right hand fumbled with his pants pocket. He had been given a five dollar bill the previous evening from a couple on a walk. He had been sitting there, leaning against the corner of the building, at the entrance to the alley. They had dropped the money into his lap without saying a word to him. They talked about him as they continued to walk. Dripping with self-righteousness, they complained about the city. With the poor cluttering the streets. "Why didn’t they clean themselves up and get a job. Laziness, that’s what it was, laziness. They just all live off the system." The couple turned the corner and were gone.... but not forgotten. Deep in the recesses of his brain, beyond the alcohol, the words were recorded.
George fished the bill from his pocket, studying it intently. He held it to his nose and smelled it. It smelled of expensive perfume and fish. The fish was probably from his pants. He looked down at himself. Tattered tennis shoes, that he had found on the steps of a nearby apartment building, jeans, which were once light blue denim but now had stains of dark reds, oranges and browns, mostly browns, and a shirt that seemed to match the pants. A coordinated pair, long sleeved, its cuffs and collar were frayed. Originally, a dark green, the shirt had long since taken on the same multi-stained pattern. The two top and two bottom buttons were missing, leaving a generally open ragged appearance.
George put the five dollar bill between his lips. Then, with both hands, he brushed down, straightening his shirt, and tucked the ends into his pants. Plucking the bill from his mouth, he stuffed it into his left breast pocket and took a deep breath. He then turned to his right and walked stiffly down the sidewalk toward a tiny corner cafe.

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The First Tree - Chapter 6

The Workshop
Large fluffy snowflakes dropped softly in the darkness. They danced and floated through the crisp morning air. It was as if they knew that it was a special time here at the North Pole.
The great workshop lay quiet and dark, waiting patiently for a new day’s activities. Dawn had not yet arrived and the workshop was shrouded in shadows. It was nestled snugly in a thick grove of towering silver fir trees, each standing erect like sentinels guarding the magic within.
Suddenly, lights began to blink on in the windows of the roomy workshop. From deep within, preparatory noises could be heard . The click click and tap tap of hammers beginning to hammer and saws beginning to saw. Then the clomp of little boots ambling back and forth over aged wooden floors. The familiar sounds of tinkering filled the workshop and surrounding forest. It was the beginning of yet a new day for the elves in Santa’s workshop and they knew that it would be a busy one.
Behind the extensive workshop and up a gradually sloping hill sat a magnificent house surrounded by stunted dark emerald pines. A wide slate gray stone pathway wandered up through the trees, from the workshop to the house. It ended at the base of a large, plain but sturdy wooden front door. An oversized wreath, covered in prickly hazel colored pine cones, glossy green holly leaves and fresh red holly berries, hung from a shiny brass door knocker and covered most of the surrounding surface.
From a large frosted window on the second floor of the stately house, a light flickered. Inside the workshop, an young elf named Roger glanced up from his workbench, where he had been fastening shiny black wheels on toy trucks, and noticed the light in the window.
"Andy, Santa is awake!"
An elf wearing a droopy green hat, speckled with saw dust, and dirty paint-stained overalls looked up from his project and scratched his beard thoughtfully.
"Is it his bedroom light?"
Roger nodded, glancing at the master Christmas time clock hanging from the open rafters. "He is up even earlier today. "
Andy smiled ryly, "You know as well as I do that with only a week left before the big guy does his thing, he will be getting pretty excited. We all know how jumpy he gets at Christmas. I will wager one of Mrs. Claus’s pancakes that Santa even beats us to the workshop tomorrow!"
Roger shrugged, nodded in agreement and then, with a gleam in his eye, changed the subject.
"Andy, isn’t today the day that Sam, Pete and Robert bring Mrs. Claus’s tree in from the forest?"
"Sure as reindeer are cranky in the morning!" Andy replied. "That means that we will be seeing less of them then of a couple of blushing reindeer in the mistletoe shack." Roger chuckled and hammered another wheel in place, narrowly missing a finger. After a minute, Andy chimed again, "You watch, Roger, by the end of the week, Mrs. Claus will have those three as tired as a group of fat reindeer on Christmas morning."
"Still," Roger sighed, staring at the wall. "I would love to be chosen to be one of her tree elves"
"You sure are ringing the sleigh bells on that one!" Retorted Andy. "I would sleep in the stables for a month to be chosen to help Mrs. Claus." They both looked at each other over the projects in their laps and agreed.
"Well someday!" Roger mumbled. And across from him, Andy was thinking the same thing.

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The First Tree - Chapter 5

The Display
Mrs. Claus’s Christmas tree displays were legendary throughout the North Pole. She, herself, described them as exquisite and elegant. For as long as Santa or any elf could remember, Mrs. Claus had always decorated her tree in the same exacting manner. The word "decorated" was a misnomer and completely inadequate when describing the meticulous placement of each handcrafted decoration that graced the branches.
These were not ordinary decorations. Each one was as important as the next. Hand-carved reindeer ornaments, ranging in color from a deep amber to near ebony, carved from the tangled and twisted root of the remote and rare Da Cielo tree. The largest of which, standing nearly nine inches tall, were eight noble adult reindeer, in full harness and bell, each in near perfect likeness of one from Santa’s lead sleigh team. The remaining thirty four were smaller, ranging in size from three to seven inches, each representing a member of one of the eight adult reindeer’s families.
The single reindeer ornament that Mrs. Claus always kept near to help her choose the first tree of Christmas was one of these thirty four. It was the carving of a small deer, slight in stature, a right foreleg twisted and disfigured, the head raised sublimely, looking upward. It represented Prancer’s youngest daughter. Born unlike the others, she walked unevenly, hobbled with her deformity, and was never expected to fly. But there was a sparkle in her eye and sweetness to her spirit that had instantly and completely captured the heart of Mrs. Claus. Soon after the bantam reindeer was born, she and Mrs. Claus had become inseparable friends. She now went, by way of the ornament, with Mrs. Claus every year to choose the first tree.
The reindeer ornaments themselves had once been a gift. Years earlier when both Santa and Mrs. Claus were much younger and when Christmas was a more subdued affair for Santa and the elves, he set upon making a special gift for Mrs. Claus’s then not-so-perfect "perfect tree." He sent a group of his most diligent elves on a trip to a remote corner of the forest surrounding the North Pole. There, where the wind howled, the snow piled into mountainous drifts and the forest dwindled, grew the lonely Da Cielo tree.
The elves diligently uprooted and lashed eight of these trees together and dragged them back to the rear of the workshop. Santa had then spent every waking hour for the next four months either in the back of the workshop carefully and secretly cutting and sculpting the wood or out in the stables keenly examining the subjects of his project. Finally, all forty reindeer were finished and presented to Mrs. Claus as a gift from everyone at the North Pole. It had been an emotional Christmas that nobody had forgotten.
The reindeer immediately became the centerpiece for her Christmas tree display. As the years passed she had continued to add accents to complement them. These came in the form of rich, hand-tied bows in the shade of ripe holly berries which were pressed crisply to form evenly matched circles. The bows were secured with porcelain colored lace and extended down the tree in twisting tails that cascaded in strikingly contrast.
Typically, Mrs. Claus worked for days adjusting and arranging, working and reworking each piece until it fit within a symphony of color, groupings and balance. The tree was the Christmas tradition that she required be complete before she would allow Christmas to come. Santa knew all to well the importance Mrs. Claus placed on this experience. He had spent many long hours teetering atop an overworked metal ladder, leaning out into space while holding ornaments in front of this branch or that branch as Mrs. Claus scrutinized and directed from below. In recent years, Santa had declared that the tree elves, originally chosen only to find the first tree of Christmas, now be allowed the special opportunity to also assist her in all the subsequent preparations. An announcement which pleased both Santa and the elves considerably, although for vastly different reasons.
Regardless of how it happened and the time it required, Santa admired the drive with which Mrs. Claus displayed in her endeavors to prepare, in her way, for the most important time of the year. He encouraged her efforts and enjoyed watching it take shape each Christmas.

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Beginnings - "Troubled Minds"

Troubled Minds
The day wore on slowly, the hot afternoon sun slicing between the blinds of the large picture windows of the office studio onto the plush wall to wall burgundy carpets. The air was stifling and thick. Dr. Sorsotto tossed a manilla folder onto his desk and pushed his chair forward, the chair swinging upright from its reclined position, to examine the folder’s contents and review the lengthy reports he himself had dictated over the last few months.
Touching one of four green buttons on the phone at his elbow, with an index finger, Dr. Sorsotto cleared his throat and spoke slowly into the receiver, annunciating every word.
"Miss Oliver, have you called on the air conditioning company yet? He snapped the word yet as if it were a whip.
"Yes, doctor, I’ve called them again. In fact, I’ve called four times. They don’t seem to feel your same urgency. They just say the same thing every time I call, that we are on their list and that they will make it by to look at it when they get to us. I’ve tried others in the book but no one else will even try to get to us today. I’m sorry doctor.
She let her voice softly trail off into silence as if to emphasize her diligent effort and sincere concern for the doctor’s discomfort.
"Well," Dr. Sorsotto soften his own voice, "I can tell that you have tried. But you know that I can not work in this heat. It’s not like I can open a window on the 15th floor for a breeze. And..." He hesitated, "you shouldn’t have to work like this either. Call the rest of my schedule, move their appointments to next week, then find someplace to escape this heat for the weekend!"
"Thank you Doctor, but ..ahh, do you remember that you have Charlie in forty-five minutes? You know how he is going to react."
"Oh yes. Charlie.. Call the others and let me work it out with Charlie."
Abruptly, Dr. Sorsotto released the intercom switch, rotated in his chair and stood up. The white, tailored dress shirt stuck to his back while beads of sweat trickled down the sides of his neck and forehead. He tore at the tie around his throat and tossed it onto the folds of a long black leather sofa stretched across one wall of the office suite. Pulling the shirt tails from charcoal gray slacks, he strolled to the rear of the office, through a narrow oak-paneled door into a private bathroom. The bathroom was small and tidy, consisting of a wedge shaped corner shower, cream colored porcelain toilet and matching vanity with mirror. He slumped in front of the sink, letting the water run while it cooled. He then plashed the cool water onto his face and neck, letting it follow the sweat into his shirt. He then soaked a washcloth and held it over his face with one hand while leaning on the other. "It must be a hundred and twenty degrees," he thought. "Too hot to think, too hot to function. Definitely too hot to have to deal with Charlie’s fantasies and rage."
After fifteen minutes of repeated soaking of the washcloth, Dr. Sorsotto returned begrudgingly to his desk and the stifling heat. He quickly shuffled the jumble of multicolored files across his desk into a coherent order and placed them in a stack near the stapler and an empty tape dispenser. He then sorted some of the other clutter into keep and discard piles. The discard pile was then shredded through the machine placed strategically near his feet next to a plastic garbage can. As he bent over to feed the paper into the shredder, he heard the outer door of his office open slowly.
"Miss Oliver, did you call all of the ........." He looked up as he spoke and stopped abruptly, grasping the desk for stability. He tried to take a breath but could not get any air. His lungs had stiffened in shock.
Charlie McCannti filled the doorway, breathing heavy, slow raspy breaths. His hulking shoulders shuddered in rhythm. His lumbering hands hung at his sides and were covered in blood. For all of his training, Dr. Sorsotto was frozen. He mind felt like a car stuck in neutral. The brain’s nerve ending were firing panic signals but his body felt like it was being pressed into the chair. He looked numbly down at the blood dripping into pools on the carpet in the doorway.
Fighting the panic and shock, he straightened slowly in his chair. Choosing his words carefully, and trying to suppress the fear in his voice, he spoke.
"Charlie," he could feel the sweat run down his cheek and was aware of the pounding of his heart in his ears. "Come in. It appears that we have some things to discuss."
Charlie did as he was told and stepped into the office before turning to close the door behind him. From under Charlie’s arm, Dr. Sorsotto caught a quick glimpse of the outer office and his throat tightened, sealing off the bile rising from his stomach.
Charlie pushed the door closed firmly, purposefully, and turned back towards the doctor who seemed to shrink back even further behind the protection of the antique mahogany desk. Charlie stepped forward, pulling a long, narrow bladed knife, smeared with blood, from his belt. His breathing seemed to quicken.
"Doctor," he hissed "I think it’s time for our appointment!"
Hours later, a frantic call burst like static across Spring Rock Heating and Air’s two way radio frequency, addressing anyone who would respond. Frantic yells for help from the radio scared the only receptionist left working on a Friday afternoon, who in turn, jumped from her chair and ran down the empty hallway. As she frantically searched for anyone left in the building, she held the radio in an outstretched hand like she was carrying a dead rat. She eventually burst through the doors of a conference room into an evening sales meeting, screaming for someone, anyone!

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Quip's Corner - A Lil' Ole House

A lil’ old man lived in a lil’ old house down a long and weedy path
The house was nothing more then a dirty box, a place in which he sat
No family to speak of, basically old and all alone
Other then the house and a flea-bitten hound dog, there was nothing to call his own
This lil’ ole house that parents avoided and kids loved to fear
Well, it was as if this lil’ ole house was alive and had life’s sensitive ears
It could feel the man’s loneliness and hear his bones creak from the years of life’s indifference
But the house sat idly by, simply sheltering the man in this, his life sentence
Age danced and painted it’s cruel portrait across the ole man’s face, shoulders and back
Until it’s masterpiece was complete, hunched over, unable to stand straight, left in crumpled tattered mass, nothing more life lacked
Days turned to years, the dog wandered away to live, seasons turned an aloof shoulder to the man’s daily pain
Until one day, when unable to rise from bed, in a light frigid mist, it began to rain
The shackles became loosened on the ole man’s withered body and warmth filled his soul
A smile flickered across the man’s dry and shriveled lips, down a wrinkled cheek, a tear began to roll
The lil’ ole man rose from bed, leaving the years behind him in a withered shell
Peace, a stranger he had never met, embraced and held him, releasing his earthly hell
Life’s heartless etchings faded from the ole man’s brow, he did not fear of where to roam
This would be a glorious day, for the ole man was going home!

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Quip's Corner - Billy Bob

Billy Bob had some big ole boots
Thems were his favorite pair
He wore them with jeans, he wore them with suits
Even though folks complained, he din't care
Then one day, them boots, they got a hole
A big one right in the sole
So his wife took em and threw em away
But promised he could get some more some day
Well, Billy Bob took to wearin her high heels
She just din't know what to say
She headed down to a store named "Will's"
And told them that she would pay
For the nicest pair of their big ole boots
If they could get them right away
They pulled some out from off the shelf
And she agreed and said okay
She took them home and gave em to him while he was havin lunch
He swallowed and said "I don't where boots no more, I wear a medium pump!!"

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Quip's Corner - A Rocky Path (addiction)

Crystalline fantasies pulsating behind rainbow eyes
The lusting motivates every action and every lie
His life is backwards, inside out
A white powder hand seals the shout
Of the withering soul lost within his own black prison
Gone from him is the power to reason
Shackled tightly with crimson addiction
A kaleidoscope trial with personal conviction
Running a marathon with no goal in sight
Numb from all feeling, not caring wrong from right
Flowing tears of misery smothered from the sun
Wishes and regrets, of a tired heart, that this rocky path had never begun.

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Quip's Corner - Cool Yellow Eyes

Cool yellow eyes under a moonless night sky
Signal the passing of another from this life
Cries from the suffering last but a moment
Leaving only the emptiness which once was the human spirit
Hollow wind blows its earthly regrets across the darkened landscapes of the soul
Leaving brittle memories for those left to question on their own

Dawn gives little comfort but to chase away the haunted shadows
The air is cold, numbing the senses of those who wish the escape, with heads bowed
The wind unfolds its arms again, blowing hope to the ridge of an endless abyss
The sun appears over the mountain tops with its licking fingers of warmth and bliss
Scolding and chiding, revealing an empty landscape, void of movements
Browns and greens reflect the sun's power and kneel in quiet reverence
But the sun appears but for a season, its power is pulled from each as it drops into the black pool from whence it was born

Another is laid to rest in the darkness, but from which will they come to morn
To each his own valley and to each his own world, who really know what cold night brings
An angel gifts sight to ones who stumble in the darkening crevices of fear and prods a tired voice to sing
A hand is offered to those in blindness of love, charity nurtures the widows heart
But earthly power fights a dwindling battle, darkness echos the start
The wind returns, laughing and whistling across the hills and valleys of the mind
Let loose to prepare and make ready, for soon will come those cool yellow eyes!

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Quip's Corner - Little Drops of Rain

Little drops of rain on the window pane
Remind me of my daughter's tiny tears again
The look of betrayal that filled her eyes
The hurt of broken trust that she could not disguise
Running to mother for somewhere to hide
Wanting to erase the story of this, my darker side

As if a crushing blow, I reveal all the lies
With tear stained cheeks, My wife questions "why"
My gaze held down from the weight of her eyes
I talk of another, of perverse desire
I express deep regret, My soul burns inside
Beg of forgiveness, only shallow replies

House feels empty, memories echo through a hollow heart
I don’t see them now, she thought it best I depart
The children are angry, not to know who to blame
They need a father’s hand, only one’s not the same
She struggles, she fights to raise and to teach
Always afraid that they’ll only drift out of reach

My choices, so personal, are like waves on a beach
Effecting the lives of all that they reach
So blinded by passion, my heart gone astray
I had no understanding, the results of that day
How do I answer to promises broken to children and wife
The aching regrets fill my being of what I once had in my life.

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The First Tree - Chapter 4

This is the One
The elves where caught in a moment of complacency and conversation when it happened. They realized, through near collision with Mrs. Claus, that she had stopped and was gazing up into the air. They turned to follow her line of sight and immediately became quiet with reverence for what they saw. The tree was magnificent. Set alone, beyond the path, away from the cluster and clutter.
There was little need for the formalities of measuring or comparing. Mrs. Claus knew that she had found it, the first tree of Christmas. Even shrouded in snow, it was obvious that the tree was not too tall nor too short. The branches were evenly spaced and tapered uniformly to a base that was full and beautiful. The trunk was of proportional width and was exposed below the lowest branches at just the correct height to properly display Mrs. Claus’ tree skirt and wintery village scenes. In fact, from the moment Mrs. Claus looked upon this extraordinary tree, she knew that it was meant to be the canvas for this year’s Christmas display.
She quietly instructed the elves.
"This is the one! This is it. There is no need to look further." With increased excitement, she continued. "Robert, please go collect any yellow ribbons that we have left this morning. Have this tree placed in the Grand Study no later than one week before Christmas. That should give us just enough time to get it dressed for the holidays!"
"Yes, Mrs. Claus," said the elves, still staring.
Pete spoke with enthusiasm, "Ma’am, may I escort you back to the house."
As he asked the question, he extending an arm, as if in invitation.
Mrs. Claus was euphoric with the discovery of the tree and pleased at the gentlemanly gesture. She nodded in acceptance and allowed him to lead her back along the path as the other elves, with hearts pounding, ran on ahead.
"This will be the first time that I have ever helped you decorate your Christmas tree." chirped Pete, as he and Mrs. Claus stepped from the forest canopy into the open air on a sloping rise above the rustic looking buildings which made up the North Pole Village.
Her eyes twinkled. "You may not be quite so enthusiastic by Christmas Eve," she chuckled in the motherly way of one who knew of the enormity of the task ahead. "But I assure you, that with your help, this year’s display will be the best ever."

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The First Tree - Chapter 3

A Stroll Through the Forest
"Mrs. Claus, what makes you so excited about Christmas trees?" asked Samantha, as she pressed her way through the snow to Mrs. Claus’s side. Mrs. Claus grasped her hand as they walked. She smiled at Samantha. A far off look crossed her eyes.
"Samantha, that is a good question. Would you believe me if I told you that it was my mother. Yes, my mother was meticulous with everything in her life. Her home was spotless, everything in its place. Everything done for a purpose. She instilled in me the desire and need to create traditions for my Christmas."
Samantha looked thoughtful. Mrs. Claus laughed at the little elf as she could tell that there was yet another question that Samantha wanted to ask but was hesitant to voice.
"What is it my dear? What do you want to ask?" She squeezed the little elf’s hand encouragingly.
"Well..." She coaxed.
Finally, Samantha blurted out the question in a rush of words reminiscent of air escaping from a balloon.
"Was your mother as picky or as choosy or as particular about her Christmas tree as you are?"
There was some relief on Samantha’s face having finally rid herself of the question that had been building up inside. But the relief was quickly replaced by an anxious expression as she slowly looked up at Mrs. Claus to see if she was in trouble. To her relief, Mrs. Claus started to laugh. She laughed and laughed. She finally stopped walking, leaned over her cane and cried with laughter.
"My mother," she choked, "was twice as bad as me!" Wiping her eyes, she continued. "She would have called herself ‘exacting.’ But it was just as you described. She was picky! Why, she would have been out in this forest for days. Finally, She would have my father bring in three of the prettiest trees in the forest and from them build one perfect tree. Oh, she was much worse then me. You three are very lucky! Although I admit, she did rub off. I find myself acting in many of the same ways and saying things that I heard her say to me when I was just a little girl. Christmas craziness aside, she was a wonderful mother and certainly knew how to put together a beautiful tree!" She paused as if in thought "But our Christmas’s were magical." And then said, "Santa was much younger back then and it was long before we met."
With no small amount of satisfaction, Mrs. Claus returned to the task at hand. But instead of walking in silence, she began reminiscing with the elves of Christmas past with stories of her mother and of the many traditions that she could remember.

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The First Tree - Chapter 2

The Chosen Tree
As they moved more deeply into the forest, Mrs Claus stopped and pointed to a group of trees to her left.
"There might be some possibilities in that group." She said brightly. "Lets look to see, shall we." Mrs. Claus enjoyed this search immensely. She focused and planned on it throughout the year. It seemed to motivate and drive her endless flow of energy. The elves had learned quickly the extent of her exacting standards. The first few trees that they had examined had clearly been too short. This had been quite sufficient for Mrs. Claus to dismiss them and move on. The second grove of trees was definitely not too short. On the contrary, these trees were just completely too tall for the grand study with its place of honor near the great stone fireplace.
"It would never fit properly," she had said, pointing to one. "The top third of the tree would bend and droop for fear of touching the ceiling." And of course, she was correct.
Soon the elves picked up the routine of the search and commenced with their duties without the prompting from Mrs. Claus. First, they would help to select a suitable tree for examination. Then Samantha, who was called Sam by everyone at the North Pole but Mrs. Claus herself who refused to contribute to the emasculation of such a feminine little elf, would give it a few quick shoves to coax the tree to give up its winter blanket. As the snow cascaded down from the upper branches, she would give an exaggerated hop in retreat to avoid a frosty shower.
Free from the snow, the tree would straighten and curl the tips of its branches skyward, primping and posing for Mrs. Claus’s approval. Sam would then return to the base of the tree and begin measuring. She would measure the circumference of the trunk and the length of the longest branches from tip to toe. Robert would follow behind Sam as she made the measurements. As each was assessed, Sam would call out the number and Robert would quickly write it on his clip board with the proper notation to location and type. After this was done, Sam and Pete would walk slowly around the tree looking for obvious bare spots or misshapen sides. After and only after each tree passed the elves inspection would Mrs. Claus step forward and begin to scrutinize for herself.
"Not green enough!" She would say about one. "My tree skirt would be much to large for this tiny trunk" she chided about another. "Too few branches on this side!" She observed about a third.
Mrs. Claus would shuffle carefully around each prospective tree, lifting branches and calculating spaces in her mind. From deep within a warm pocket of her winter coat, she would produce a delicately hand-carved ornament in the shape of a slender reindeer and hold it up to the tree. Squinting behind narrow egg shaped spectacles, she would visualize such ornaments hung evenly across each branch.
"This one is too full. There would be no way for me to get all of my reindeer and my ribbons in this tangled mess." she commented. And toward another, she remarked, "this one is not nearly full enough, half my reindeer would remain on the floor if I used this tree."
Time and again, the elves would sigh and nod to one another before gathering up the clip board and the measuring tape. But every so often, Mrs. Claus would pause, drop her head slightly and hesitate before whispering "This one has possibilities." On these rare occasions, a wide smile would spread across the faces of the elves and Pete would promptly tie a few yellow ribbons around the most prominent of branches and scribble a star next to that tree’s measurements on his clip board.

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The First Tree of Christmas - Chapter One

The First Tree
of Christmas
By A. R. Jackman

The Tree Search
A pear shaped, bushy tailed red tree squirrel fidgeted with the shelled remains of his breakfast nut. While chewing the last few meaty morsels, he gazed down from the withered branch, on which he sat, out over a quilt of new fallen snow softly covering the forest of trees and bushes far below his winter hideaway. The first morning rays of sunshine peeked carefully over the crest of the treetops, chasing away lingering shadows which clung to the underlying branches and empty corners. As the sun encroached upon the forest, the freshly fallen snow began to sparkle and shine.
The squirrel, having finished his breakfast, turned in retreat to the knot in the tree where he had fashioned a warm winter nest, when movement beyond a distant hill caught his eye. He paused with interest, squirrels being very curious creatures, and waited.
Within minutes, the movement, that had caught the squirrel’s attention, appeared over a slight rise in a clearing. It paused momentarily and began weaving back and forth between distant trees. In the silent morning air, he could hear the distinct chatter of voices. Cocking one little furry ear to the sky, the squirrel listened intently for further noise. Presently a broad smile spread across his furry cheeks as he recognized the faint but unmistakable voice of Mrs. Claus.
As the group approached the squirrel’s home, he scampered further out along the branch to get a better view. When they came into focus far below, he recognized the warmly dressed figure of Mrs. Claus leading three cheerful looking elves through the snow. The elves were stuffed into well-worn winter coats, zipped tightly over traditional, muddled green, workshop overalls and tidy crimson colored long-sleeve work shirts. Their feet were covered with rubber-soled high laced brown work boots. Each wore a thick woolen cap that matched their shirts. The caps, pulled low over their ears, stretched to a point and drooped severely to one side. The first elf, named Samantha, held a measuring tape tightly between her woolen mittens. The second, a mischievously happy looking elf named Peter, had pockets bursting with yellow ribbons. Robert, the last elf of the group, pressed a clip board tightly to his chest with a pale yellow pencil sticking out of the breast pocket of his overalls.
Mrs. Claus was wrapped tightly in a fluffy red and white striped winter coat with matching boots and gloves. Her face was open to the crisp morning air, exposing rosy red cheeks, sparkling gray oval grandmother eyes and silver white hair pulled atop her head in a tight bun. She pushed briskly through the snow with the assistance of a smartly carved walking stick.
The elves stumbled happily along behind Mrs. Claus, attempting to shuffle within the trail she was creating in the snow. Despite the early hour, the elves were excited to be participating in the morning’s special outing. They had earned this opportunity and been chosen to assist Mrs. Claus on this, her most important, Christmas task.
Every year, when the workshop’s calendar proclaimed that Christmas was just two weeks away, Mrs. Claus would gather all the elves at the North Pole together in the village’s cobble-stoned square and would, with a fair amount of pomp and circumstance, announce the names of three chosen elves. This announcement was the culmination of days of anticipation. For the elves chosen by Mrs. Claus were the three that she felt best represented the spirit of Christmas that year. They were judged, among other things, on how efficiently they worked in the workshop, how creative they were with their toy making, if they showed a positive attitude at all times and finally, if they went above and beyond to show their love for the children whose toys they were making. The three elves who were given this unique honor, were bestowed the title of Tree Elves and were released from their typical duties for the opportunity to assist Mrs. Claus in her final preparations of Christmas. The most exciting of which was accompanying Mrs. Claus into the forest to select and retrieve the first tree of Christmas.
The choosing of the first tree marked the height of the Christmas rush at the North Pole. The excitement bubbled and spread throughout the crowds as they gathered to watch Mrs. Claus and the elves’s triumphant departure into the forest at first light. Cheers arose in the chilled arctic air and holiday spirit flowed through the remaining elves as they separated, vacating the village square, to begin their day within the workshop of the North Pole. The elves laughed and chatted as they worked. This was the climax of all that they had accomplished during the year. Since most of the toys had now been made and set aside in towering piles, the tremendous task began of checking the lists twice, wrapping the presents with colorful paper and bows, and labeling the gifts with each of the children’s names.

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What to talk about?

Now that I have committed to contributing to this virtual playground of words, the question rises from the ooze - "What in the world would I write?"

Is this to be a daily or weekly log for parental confessions of misjudgement and worry or is it my personal forum wherein to vent nonsensical pet peeves, theories and judgements on others behavior? Only to risk that the very words that I spew could and would be used against me by others with differing views and opinions. Not that I have been opposed to stirring the pot occasionally just for reactionary sake.

So what do I write?

Do I put my to do lists and activities? Like..........
I have an Elder's Quorum "activity" tonight. 9 hole scramble. I will be going.
I am three or four weeks from finishing a three day project of replacing the baseboards in my kitchen, living and family rooms that I started approximately 16 months ago. Now find the contradictions in that!

So....so far I am determining blog focus. Not a good start to this project.

I may use this "thought Garage" to send out chapters of my stories so that Deborah will assist me in content and dialog.

Later!

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With tentative baby-steps I begin......

I begin this virtual journey despite the screaming of every instinct in my toned and curvaceous mind to run - or, well, ok if not run, at least walk purposefully the other way. I have heretofore lived my life with one predominant theme, "Don't do anything that would allow Clarke to say - See, I told you that you would like it." I fear that my pride will not survive that gleeful look from the technojunkie.

Regardless of my trepidations, I suppose that I will try this "sport" made popular by the privacy challenged desk heads and begin spouting my twisted thoughts skyward like a hyperactive humpback.

Well.... maybe tomorrow!

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