If you didn’t need sleep, what would you do with all the extra time?
This is a source of some controversy for me. I regularly go to bed by 9:00. Often, I don’t rise, for the day at least, until 7:00. That’s an average of ten hours per diem in my rack! 😂
Yet I am tired.🫠
If I could recharge myself … automatically… or magically … I would work out from 9:00 to midnight. Three hours a day working out would be bonus. Then I would shower. That pushes another half hour. From 12:30 to 3:00 I’d watch a movie. From 3:00 until 6:00, I would read. I’d be … the sharpest cootie in the shack!😂
Certainly it would be an interesting thing to require no sleep! Yet, while I spend a lot of time racked, I can’t imagine giving it up permanently. Once, I went for a three hour nap in my college library. Oh the comments! 🤣 It was good racking back in the day. While I sleep more than just a little, I think it suits me!😇
Posted onNovember 28, 2023|Comments Off on Magic — A Christmas Story
Our previous house had a gas log — no chimney. The house where we live now and moved to from the old one has a real fireplace and so my children particularly Betty who was five was happy that Santa Claus would be able to enter our home by his preferred method of sliding down the chimney. This would enable us to stay home for Christmas she reasoned. For several of the previous few holiday seasons we had gone to “Grammy and Grampy’s.” Betty thought that we travelled to their house because they had a real fireplace with a real chimney. So our new hearth was greeted with great approval and anticipation. Betty inspected the opening peering up into the blackness and seemed pleased.
As Summer rolled into Fall then late Fall, anticipation for Christmas built. One day in early December of that year, I was out in the side yard near the chimney raking the last of the season’s leaves. The chimney is an ordinary brick chimney, but it has one perhaps unusual feature in that it open to each side with a covered brick arc over the top. I suppose this prevents rain from getting in or maybe it is just a random architectural affectation. The apertures on each side are about a foot or foot and a half wide and tall. I had never before given it much thought.
Betty approached me as I did my chores.
“Daddy?”
“Yes Sweetie.”
“Santa Claus is a big man isn’t he.”
“Oh yes. Yes he is.” I smiled delighted at this time in our lives and this time of the year when anticipation reigns supreme.
“In fact, you might go so far as to call him ‘fat.’ Would that be fair to say?”
“Mmmmmm. . . yes, I suppose honey. We want to be careful, using that sort of term, but. . . Yes! He is a “right jolly old elf.”
“Right . . . you’ve said that before . . . . But my question was whether you would AGREE that Santa is fat?”
“Yes, I would agree.”
“In fact, when he laughs, his belly shakes like . . . what did you say?”
“A bowl full of jelly?”
“Right, that’s it. ‘A bowl full of jelly.’ Your words?
“Yes, darling.”
“And, isn’t it true that Santa Claus brings toys to ALL the good little girls and boys of the world?”
“Yes,” I said. “ALL children IF they are good.” I knelt down to Betty’s level to emphasize this important qualifier in the hopes of maximizing goodness from my six year old over the next few weeks.
“Right . . . Now there was some question about brother Dale last year.” Dale was two years old at the time, but, according to Betty, often behaved questionably. “But he shaped up and even HE got some toys right?”
“Yes he did.”
“So most of us kids end up on the “nice” list.”
“Yes, it would seem so. Santa is very generous and forgiving.”
“Right . . . And it follows that it must be a pretty big bag to fit ALL those toys in. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“I would indeed.”
“In fact it would be an ENORMOUS sack would it not?
“I think so.”
“Well then . . . Daddy . . .” She paused for dramatic effect. “Can you tell me how Santa . . . is going to get his fat body . . . which is not unlike a bowl of jelly . . . AND his enormous sack of toys through that little hole down our chimney on Christmas Eve?” She pointed her pink mitten-covered finger to the chimney top for dramatic effect.
I thought for a moment. “Yes, Sweetie. MAGIC,” I whispered.
“Oh. Okay. No further questions.”
As I finished my leaf-raking I congratulated myself for my quick thinking and for withstanding my six-year-old’s withering cross-examination.
. . .
One evening several years later at about the same time of year at a lovely dinner of crockpot stew that tasted delicious after I had spent the day hanging outdoor Christmas lights, skepticism again reared up.
Betty, now eleven, questioned the ability of Santa’s work shop to produce all the technical gadgetry that go into modern toys. Sure it is easy to conceive how a whole bunch of wood toys could be produced by a workforce of elves, but how would they make electronic circuitry of . . . for instance . . . an X-box?
It was a fair question.
“Well,” said my wife, Catherine, “he has help and he gets a really really really good deal from the companies that make those toys.” Good strategy. Admit a small truth . . . that toy companies make the difficult toys . . . to save the bigger lie.
“He must be rich!” said Dale.
“Must be a billionaire,” echoed Betty quietly and with just an edge of skepticism.
My youngest Megan sat quietly chewing her food and listening.
“Yeah, he must be RICH!” said Dale again, with more enthusiasm.
Betty was silent.
Megan, looked at me and waited.
I looked at Catherine and said nothing for a moment as if to ask, “You got a better idea?” She just shrugged.
“You’re right, Dale. Santa is rich. Extremely rich! And generous.”
It was a lame excuse. How did Santa get rich? Did he manage a hedge fund in his spare time? What business was he in? How did he stay rich year after year giving expensive toys to all the good children of the world . . . literally millions of them . . . even if those toys were marked down from wholesale as a favor to the great saint by the Nintendos and Apples of the world?
It just didn’t hold water. The aging father, who was by then more often “Dad” than “Daddy” wasn’t so quick as years before.
Tiger. Nothing can mess with a tiger. Or a lion for that matter. I like cats. I’m a cat man. No offense to dogs, because I like them too. But cats are dope.
Now I’m thinking of “The Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber.” Was that a tiger or a lion that was slain? It doesn’t matter. It’s not important. The point is the reverence and the power that we the ultimate predator have for that animal! Whatever it was!?! 🤣
Anyway … cats are cool. In due respect for their big brother, I give you Hazel. She’s a darling!
One of the more maligned — justifiably so — Christmas traditions of my generation of parents those of us aged 45-55 roughly is the so called Elf on a Shelf. Here’s our elf.
“Buddy” the Elf
When your family acquires an Elf on the Shelf, the first thing you must do is name your Elf. My family, without a lot of debate, settled on “Buddy.” We were/are big fans of the Will Ferrell vehicle Elf, co-starring Zooey Deschanel, James Caan and Mary Steenburgen. So it was an easy name.
Whatever you name your elf, the elf’s job is to observe and report . . . to the big man . . . what he sees and hears in your household. This is intel gathering data collection for Santa Claus, who at some point just a few years ago realized the benefit to his business operations of having forward observers in the homes of his clients. Santa Claus is driven by metrics just like everyone else. Buddy’s job is to report on a daily basis to Santa Claus what he sees and hears in our home.
This may include acts of naughtiness committed by members of the family that, because they were committed late in the year, might not otherwise show up in Santa’s data. This gives Santa the ability to make adjustments to his naughty/nice lists up to the minute before Christmas Eve.
In year’s past, before the Elf on the Shelf program, Santa had to rely on stale information to make his decisions. This had two negative effects. First, naughty children who late reformed their conduct might find themselves mired on the naughty list, despite behaving nicely in the final weeks before Christmas. These children undeservedly received coal in their stockings. The other corollary effect was that children who had acted nice for most of the year, but late committed acts of naughtiness, nevertheless received presents. That’s how the management consultants saw it, anyway. Both of these impacts were the impetus behind the Elf on a Shelf program. It was a team from McKinsey that proposed the Elf on a Shelf program to Santa and his Board of Directors.
“People aren’t just going to voluntarily bring something into their homes to let me spy on them are they?” asked Santa skeptically.
“Oh yes they will!” assured the consultants.
Turns out they were right. Now millions of homes have elves and voluntarily share information. It’s rocketed Santa Claus’s intelligence gathering into the 21st century, fundamentally changing the way Santa does business in a global economy.
The Elf, Buddy in our house, sits perched at whatever vantage point has been selected for him. Maybe he sits on the mantle . . . literally a shelf. Or, maybe he’s in the tree. He could be anyplace. It doesn’t have to be a shelf, per se. Wherever he might be, when he leaves to report to Santa at the end of the day he leaves his post. He will, of course, return to his home the next day . . . for more intelligence gathering . . . but the rule is that he must choose a new location to sit.
This presents a challenge to the parents of the naughty or nice children. You have to have your shit together when you’re a parent and you have an Elf on the Shelf. You cannot forget to move him. As long as you don’t, your children will be enthralled and you will have an ever more amusing set of photographs of your elf to post on Instagram. However, every once in a while . . . like one in every three evenings in my house . . . the parents will forget to move their Elf to a new location. This provokes all kinds of controversy. “Mommy? Sniff, sniff. Daddy? Sniff, sniff. He didn’t move! Why? Why?!!!” Cue wailing and gnashing of teeth.
“Wait what?”
“Buddy didn’t move! He’s sitting exactly where he was last night.”
Every parent in this situation has the same thought. “Shit. . . motherfucker!!”
So now . . . what lie to tell?
“What? . . . No. He’s on the fireplace mantle now. Yesterday, he was in your stocking.”
“Nooooo, I don’t think so Mommy. I specifically remember he was on the mantle.”
Rat farts! Lucky you and your smart kids with good memories.
“What? . . . No. He moved . . . just a little. He must think that that is a good place and he came back to very near but not exactly the same spot!”
“Nooooo, I don’t think so Daddy. He was exactly in that very same spot. He didn’t move at all!!!”
“Well . . . .”
“And I was super good yesterday, Daddy. I really was! I was really counting on Buddy telling Santa . . . because . . . you know . . . I have a significant number of asks this year. I have a list of demands.”
Not moving your Elf on the Shelf will get you reported to child protective services in my town. Every parent in Pleasantville fears a knock on the door. “Sir, we have a report that you and your wife failed to move your Elf.”
“Us? Nooooo. We are good parents!!!”
“Before you say anything, I need to tell you that you have a right to have an attorney present before answering any questions.”
The lies we tell our children. Is it any wonder they’re the way they are?!
Santa is an interesting lie. Sooner or later, that big fat ho ho chicken comes home to roost. His cousin the Easter Bunny is a similar thing.
Far more interesting the Tooth Fairy. The Tooth Fairy is a lie we never have to confront. By the time most kids have lost all their teeth . . . and been paid for it . . . they have forgotten all about the Tooth Fairy. A parent never has to cop to the truth. It just gets swept under the rug.
One time my daughter lost a tooth. She was very proud and put the tooth under her pillow anticipating just compensation. As an aside . . . what is fair compensation for a tooth? I once got four quarters — one dollar. In 1978, inflationary year it was, I thought that was awesome. Now in Pleasantville I’m thinking it’s a Jackson. Or at least a Hamilton. Whatever was fair, my daughter got bubkis because I and her mother forgot.
I was getting dressed for work when I heard my daughter sobbing making her way into our room.
Now being spry of mind, as I heard my crying daughter rousting about at an unaccustomed hour I quickly deduced my mistake. This gave me an extra two seconds to come up with a lie.
“Hmmmm. That’s weird. Wait! What time did you lose your tooth yesterday?” I had remembered it was in the evening.
“Ummmm, about eight o’clock . . . after dinner . . . right before I went to bed.”
“Oh! Well, that explains it. See sweetheart, if a tooth gets lost after five o’clock it goes on the next day’s business. He’ll come collect it tomorrow. I wouldn’t have expected him last night.”
“Oh . . . that makes sense,” said my little girl her tears drying up.
A quick lie is often the key to good parenting.
We have done so many things to perpetrate lies. One of our more ingenious tricks on Santa related prevarication is the obligatory milk and cookies that we leave for the great saint. Querry . . . if Santa Claus ate a cookie and drank a glass of milk at every home he stopped at, how many calories would that be? The cookies, usually one or two, would be left on a plate by the hearth. I would be sure to leave a conspicuously large crumb on the plate. . . maybe even a remaining bite with bite-marks left in the morsel. Then, there was the thank you note. I would write the note in a flowing cursive style that I have not used since fourth grade . . . in this way the children wouldn’t recognize my scrawly print penmanship that is reality for words written in my own hand.
Dear Dale, Betty and Megan —
Thank you so much for the delicious cookie and the glass of milk (which you will notice I left a quarter inch of milk remaining in the glass.) Overall, I am pleased with your niceness this past year. I sincerely hope you enjoy the Legos, video games, Barbie Dolls and other crap I have left for you. You are fine children. You should be very proud.
Very truly yours,
— S.C.
The rakish initial signature adding to the credibility of the lie. Of course . . . he’s in a hurry! Too busy to sign his whole name.
The other irrefutable evidence of Santa coming we settled on was the notion of “reindeer food.” Reindeer food consists of Quaker Oats and glitter. You spread a little bit out someplace . . . maybe your driveway or porch. You make a big dramatic gesture to your children of having done so. “Whelp! There’s a little something … in case the reindeer are hungry.”
Better still, get them involved.
“Megan, where should we put the reindeer food?”
“I don’t know Daddy . . . maybe the walk way.”
“Yes . . . I suppose that’d be fine. Why don’t you go spread it out there.” Then you take careful notes on where she puts the reindeer food and then sweep it up on Christmas Eve.
Now the next thing to happen is to allow the absence of the reindeer food to be discovered. Some parents . . . inexperienced ones . . . will draw attention to the fact that the reindeer food is gone. “OH MY GOD . . . would you look at that?! Santa’s reindeer really enjoyed their snack! THE REINDEER FOOD . . . IS GONE!!!”
I guess that’s ok. But the pro gamer move is to say nothing. Sooner or later at some point after Christmas morning . . . around noon or so . . . it will occur to your children to go looking for the the reindeer food to see what has become of it. You don’t say shit. You act like you forgot all about it. Then when they go check on the status and see that its gone, they’ll come running in with the news. “Mommy! Daddy! The reindeer food is GONE!”
This proves conclusively . . . with irrefutable evidence . . . once and for all that Santa and his magic reindeer are real. Elite level parents won’t bat an eye. “Oh yeah. . . I’m not surprised . . . those reindeer get hungry . . . flying all over the planet pulling a heavy sleigh filled with toys and a fat man and what not.” Then, change the subject. “Hey? Does anyone want hot chocolate?” Bonus points for leaving a few oats and glitter not swept up. Because of course! Famished but hurried reindeer are likely to miss a speck or two.
It’s the little details that really sell the story.
Posted onNovember 25, 2023|Comments Off on Beach of the Southern Atlantic Coast
Beach or mountains? Which do you prefer? Why?
I prefer the beach.
People say the beach is the same all the time. But nothing could be further from the truth. The beach on the gulf coast of Florida is different from the Atlantic coast, which differs from the Caribbean, which is different from Massachusetts, which is different from the Pacific coast. I like the Atlantic coast. Beaches are wide on the coast. I get the sense that the Gulf is more crowded. My realistic expertise lies in this comparison. I like the Gulf alright, but my preference is for the wide ocean of the southern Atlantic coast.
I’ve been to Colorado. It’s ok. I didn’t like driving there so much. And the mountains, while pretty, tend to obscure the things around them.
So I like the water. The constant sound. The breeze. The interminable breeze. Sunglasses and suntan lotion. Watching the storms come in … I get a real sense of the smallness of myself. I can breathe at the beach. It’s peaceful.
SSW
Comments Off on Beach of the Southern Atlantic Coast
⁃ “1 tsp hot sauce”… (alright seriously… literally just dump some hot sauce in if u aren’t a coward. Invoke “Rhiannon’s” blessing and ring it like a bell in the night!!!)
⁃ 1 tsp salt
⁃ 1 bay leaf (which as always means three bay leaves)
⁃ 3/4 tsp dried thyme
⁃ 1/4 tsp dried owl’s blood (if unavailable, may substitute 1/4 tsp red pepper flakes
⁃ If you so choose, Any of the following meat options:
• 1 slice of ham, chopped
• 2 pounds shrimp
• 1 pound crabmeat
• 1 12oz container undrained standard oysters
***DISCLAIMER*** if you put anything other than shrimp or crab or oysters (or all of the above) you’re wrong please rot! NO BACON!!!
****EDITOR’S NOTE **** http://www.nostigmata.Wordpress.com no way endorses hate speech directed towards bacon. The views of “Betty” expressed herein are hers and hers alone. — SSW 😐
⁃ 7 cups hot cooked rice
Ok Let’s Cook This Bitch:
1. Combine 1/2 cup oil and flour in Dutch oven (or BIG pot). Cook over medium heat, stirring constantly until roux is caramel colored (takes ~20 minutes)
2. Stir in celery, onions, green pepper, and garlic. Cook for 45 minutes, stirring occasionally. It will be kinda mushy-ish by the end
3. Fry okra in 2 tbsp hot oil until browned (you can do this simultaneously with the previous step). Add to pot, reduce heat to low, and stir well.
4. Add broth, water, Worcestershire sauce, hot sauce, salt, bay leaf, dried thyme, and red pepper flakes. If, GOD FORBID, you have chosen to use bacon and/or ham add it here. Simmer uncovered for 2-2.5 hrs, stirring occasionally
5. If you want shrimps, peel and devein. Add any of the following to the pot for the last 10 minutes of cooking: shrimps, crabmeat, oysters. Cook until shrimps turn pink or oyster edges curl.
If you could meet a historical figure, who would it be and why?
I think I would choose to meet Ernest Hemingway. I think he really lived … when he lived … until he died. I’d want to meet him while he was young and before fame wore him down.
“Young” Ernest Hemingway
He’s a fascinating person to me. I love “The Sun Also Rises.” Most regard his first novel as a splendid work, but one which lacks the technical mastery and tragedy of “A Farewell to Arms.” I think I see that, but “Sun” is a masterpiece of flawed characters.
I think the that when I do, good things happen. My instincts tells me not to reply to a certain email from a “friend.” My instinct tells me that, if I do, there will be nothing good come from it.
My instincts are good. Pretty good at least. 😂They’re mine. I trust them. They have been with me and I trust them. When I saw this email from my “friend” a darkness came over me. Do I have to respond at all?🧐
They may be a sort of disincentive … keeping powder dry. What is an instinct? I think I hit it on the head with that sense … with the question itself? I can play with fire, pretty effectively. But if there is nothing to burn, except my own hands, then what’s the point.
I’ll say this once, now that we are in the season of driving to and from work in the dark, but damnit!!! Doesn’t it seem like everyone’s light are brighter now? I know I’m getting older and stupider, but Jesus it’s bright out there on a night like tonight. It’s a stupid thing to bitch about. You just avert your eyes to the right. But God damn!!!
I need to go to my ophthalmologist and get a check up … like I did last year!😂
Steven S. Wallace 