October Turtle

Just Another Day

faith1025 — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 13:58:51 -0400

by Thomas Keenan

I wrote this at the start of my senior year in college for the college newspaper, in October 1994.

After the long dark night, a faint glimmer of light appears low on the black horizon. A chorus of crickets is replaced by an orchestra of birds. They proclaim the birth of a new day. The blackness hanging in the air turns to a dark blue. The once blackened horizon is covered by a garment of orange and red. It is the royal gown of the daughter of night.

Finally, like it has done for billions of years before, the sun rises, spreading its mighty arms and embracing the vast lands of its domain with its magnificent lights. Morning has broken, and life stirs within its loving embrace.

Through a second-story window, the sun has cast one of her morning rays gently across the face of a tiny red- haired baby boy. The small child stirs and opens his sky-blue eyes. Like an angel spreading its wings, the baby spreads the corners of his mouth revealing a tiny but beautiful toothless smile. His eyes open wide with excitement as he talks quietly with the sun ray in a language that only the two of them can understand. Two hundred miles away, the little angel's uncle thinks about him and smiles, knowing that he is going home soon to see him.

The sun spreads her rays through a classroom window. A student stares down at her notebook, doodling as she waits for her professor to stop talking. It is her last class on Friday, and she thinks about her plans for that weekend. She is going on a road trip, visiting an old friend from high school at her college in Rhode Island. It is going to be a long trip, but who cares... at least she will be away from college for a weekend.

In her doodling, a number appears followed by a date: 220 days, May 13, 1995. She has to use her long dark hair to cover her face as her eyes light up and a huge smile takes control of her lips. People would think she was crazy if they saw her smiling that way in her Spanish class. Not much time left. A guy next to her just happens to catch her smile. He smiles also, thinking she was smiling at him...

In another part of campus, the sun casts its light across a white envelope with one of those clear plastic windows. A young man peers into the envelope. As he does so, he jumps for joy: he will be able to buy plenty of beer tonight. Just as he does so, a young lady stops to talk to him. It's the girl he has been flirting with since he first met her in his Geography class. She asks him if he wants to study with her for the test next week. It's going to be a good day, he thinks.

With the sun burning on her back, a girl dressed in green sprints down the field carrying her field hockey stick. Her entire concentration is on the small white ball that is rolling and bouncing along the grass towards a predestined rendezvous point ahead of her. She starts her back swing and fires. Another unidentifiable girl covered from head to toe in protective clothing dives to her right. The small ball rolls just beyond the edge of her stick. The girl in green shouts in joy as she is mobbed by her teammates. Laughter surrounds them.

With the sun reflecting off his glasses, a man talks excitedly on a pay phone with his mother. He's telling her about the job he will have when he graduates in two and a half months. His four and a half years at college have paid off. Barely able to speak in his own excitement, he tells her about the black 1995 Camaro he is going to buy in January. He tells her to tell Dad that he is getting in his car and is headed home. He will be there in four hours with a bottle of champagne. He tells her to be dressed nicely because he is taking them out to dinner. Tears are now in his eyes. His mother, her voice trembling in pride, tells him that she loves him. He returns the sentiment, hangs up the phone, and jumps into his old, rusty Chevette. He pauses, takes a deep breath and gently pats the dashboard of his car. 1995 Black Camaro, he thinks with a smile bigger than the Grand Canyon.

As the sun sits low in the western sky, two old friends talk comfortably on a small white bench beside the creek. After weeks of fighting, they have settled their major problems. A difficult road is ahead, but the worst is behind. A peaceful silence falls upon them as they stare deeply towards the full moon that has risen early on the eastern horizon. He finally turns to her and tells her that even in friendship, he will always love her. They embrace.

Across the creek from them, a young man zips past on a green and black bike. His Notre Dame hat sits a little crooked on his head. As he rides through the center of campus, he thinks about tomorrow's game, the laundry he has to do, and the fact that he has survived yet another stressful week. The cool, crisp autumn air feels good after the long, hot summer. There is just something about it that makes him feel so alive and free. As he reaches the peak of the hill going toward his apartment, his eyes are met with a fiery red, orange and purple sky. He loses his breath. No matter how many he times he sees it, he is always impressed by an autumn sunset. He pedals faster toward the sunset, the light reflecting off his face. He smiles, and then thrusts his arms in the air, as if he were flying. LIFE IS GREAT, he thinks. "Thank You, God," he says.

Hoboken Hippo

faith1025 — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 13:58:51 -0400

by Thomas Keenan

I wrote this in 2000 when Andrea and I lived in Hoboken. It was intended to be three parts, but I left it together here so it is a bit long. I have to admit when I wrote the first part, I thought it was completely original. II would discover later that the same premise was used in a Calvin and Hobbes comic strip which I almost certainly had seen before I wrote this.

Sunglasses

The soft light of the autumn sun smiles across the back window of 323 Park Avenue lighting up a pair of chocolate brown eyes staring out from beneath a pile of blankets on a bed within. Like hot fudge and vanilla ice cream, the warm light mixes perfectly with the chilly October air that has seeped into the room. The big brown eyes seem to give off their own cheerful light.

Edgar especially loved the mornings just before Benjamin would climb out of bed. His mom would come in and stir him awake. Benjamin, all soggy with sleep, would hold Edgar especially tight, with his rosy cheeks pressed against the soft nappy fur of his hippopotamus (hippa-ma-pot-o-mus, as Benjamin would say it). "I’m too tie-red," is what Benjamin would always say after his mom stirred him awake, and then he would squeeze Edgar as tight as he could one last time before facing the day.

However, this day was different. After thinking he had the bed to himself, Edgar found himself staring into the bright hazel-brown eyes of the child. Edgar knew that look. It was the look that Benjamin always had when he had a plan.

Benjamin ran over to his closet and disappeared into it. Edgar could hear him desperately rustling around for a couple of minutes before he stepped out, holding a green plaid tie. It was Benjamin’s school uniform tie from last year that no longer fit him.

Benjamin then climbed over the bed and grabbed his favorite Mets hat from the bedpost. His tiny little fingers went to work on the adjustable strap, pulling it apart, then setting it to the smallest possible size. Benjamin then climbed back over the bed, and carefully placed the hat on Edgar’s head.

Next, he went to his desk and packed up all his homework, notebooks and pens into his burgundy backpack, zipped it up and brought it back to Edgar. Finally, he wrapped the shoulder straps over each of the hippo’s front legs.

Benjamin surveyed the hippo for a few moments with a concentrated look on his face. "There’s sumtin missin’, Edgar…" He then pressed his lips together and furrowed his brow, as he sat thinking for a few more moments.

Suddenly, the boy yelled out…"Aha, I got it."

Edgar watched as Benjamin’s tiny legs sprinted to his dresser where he grabbed something off of it. Before he knew it, Edgar found himself sitting in the hallway out side Benjamin’s door. "Benji," his mother shouted out, "are you ready yet? It’s just about time to go."

"Yes, mommy," Benjamin shouted, from behind the closed door. "I’m all weady to go." And Edgar was lifted from the bed and carried to the end of the bedroom.

Now, poor Edgar was really confused. Not only was he sitting in the hallway by himself with a heavy book-bag on his back, but he hadn’t seen Benjamin even change out of his pajamas yet. After a few minutes, Edgar heard Benjamin’s mom walking up the stairs. "Come on, Benjamin, I thought you were ready."

"I am, mommy. I’m juss walkin’ out of my bedwoom now," Benjamin shouted from behind his still closed bedroom door.

Just then, she turned the corner of the stairs and found herself staring at a small, nappy-furred hippopotamus, with a tie, baseball cap, book-bag and sunglasses gazing at her from the hallway floor.

Fighting back tears of laughter, his mother shouted in the most serious tone she could manage, "Benjamin! Edgar is not going to school for you!"

"Aw mom, why not?", came the response from the bedroom. "He wooks juss wike me. And hippo-ma-pot-amusses are weally smart. Edgar even told me so."

Mrs. Westover picked up the poor hippo and walked into Benjamin’s room. There was no sign of the boy except for a pair of small, non-hippo feet sticking out from the bottom of the blankets. Mrs. Westover went over to the bed and, with Edgar tucked under one of her arms, she started tickling the tiny feet. A burst of giggles erupted from under the blankets.

"Ok, Benjamin. Nice try. You have five minutes." She placed Edgar on the bed and walked out of the room.

A giggle filled voice reply from under the snuggly pile, "Ok, mom. I’ll be wight down."

Later on that day, Benjamin’s mom crept back into his room after he had gone to school. She picked up Edgar around the belly and looked into his fuzzy face. She adjusted his tie, straightened his hat and took the sunglasses off his face. Edgar’s eyes met her soft tear-filled eyes. Holding the hippo the way she held Benjamin when he was smaller, she went and sat in the rocking chair in the corner of the room. She rocked Edgar for close to an hour as he settled snug in her arms. She laughed again as she looked down at the funny hippopotamus. Edgar was very confused, because she still had tears in her eyes.

"I miss you, my little Benjamin, she finally said," before pulling the hippo tighter to her body, and turning her gaze to some point out the window. "I really miss you," she softly said again.

After another 15 minutes, Mrs. Westover stood up and gave the Edgar a kiss on his snout and and laid him down on the bed. She walked out of the room and left him staring at a red firefighter’s helmet hanging from the bedpost. Edgar smiled as he stared at the helmet and was reminded of an autumn day just like this one, last year.

The Fire Truck

It was a Saturday when Benjamin and he went to the hardware store with Mr. Westover. Benjamin, wearing his favorite New York Mets jacket, had his tiny hand tucked in his father’s giant hand, and held Edgar’s front leg with his other hand. Edgar often found his tail dragging on the ground, but he didn’t mind. He liked to be flopped around.

On the way to the hardware store, there was a small toy store that Benjamin’s father would visit with the silly duo. However, on this trip, as Edgar stared up at the birds, Benjamin came to a sudden stop, before they had even made it in the door of the toy store. After a couple of moments passed, he looked up at the boy. Benjamin’s brown eyes were open as wide as cookies, his mouth was open just slightly with his top teeth gently biting his tiny bottom lip. His little hand had closed tightly around the hippo’s leg. Edgar knew the look on Benjamin’s face well. It was the same look that he stared back at when he had first met the little boy years ago in the giant toy store in the big city.

Edgar followed Benjamin’s gaze to the toy store window. Just on the other side of the glass was a bright red fire truck that looked like one of the old trucks Benjamin and Edgar would see in dad’s history books. The truck had a seat that looked just big enough for a child Benjamin’s size and a place on the back that look as if it was just the right size for a small hippopotamus. There was a tiny wooden ladder attached to the side, and a silver bell sticking up on the hood. White letters ran along the side spelling out "Hoboken Fire Dept."

Mr. Westover looked down at him and Benjamin, with a big smile on his face. He took his giant hand and rubbed the back of the boy’s head, and said, "Well, if you’re good, maybe Santa Claus will bring it for you." He then pulled Benjamin away to the hardware store.

As the weeks went by, Benjamin would go on every trip to the store with his mom and dad, just with the hopes of catching another look at the shiny truck. Sometimes, when Benjamin and Edgar played Go-Fish together (which they did quite often), the boy would tell Edgar about all the fun times they would have in the fire truck: how they would zip around the house in it, patrolling for fires and rescuing cats from trees (which would really be Benjamin’s small gray elephants up on the bedposts). Or maybe, when the weather was nice, they would roll down to the park at the end of the street, and get ice cream from the ice cream truck.

At night, Benjamin would kneel down next to his bed and squeeze Edgar’s two front feet together between his hands to say his prayers. Every night, Benjamin would start his prayers with a joke that he memorized from his big book of knock-knock jokes (because he thought that even God needed to laugh). After the joke, he would thank God for his Mommy and Daddy and for all his toys and for his best pal, Edgar. Then he would ask God, in his most solemn voice, for the bright red fire truck he saw in the window of the toy store. Then he would climb in to bed, and fall asleep whispering more stories of great adventures that he and Edgar would have in the fire truck.

And, of course, Benjamin was the best little boy New Jersey had ever seen. He would eat all his peas at supper instead of hiding them under the mashed potatoes. He would help daddy wash the dishes instead of sneaking off to his room to play Go-Fish. And he would not only help mommy makes his bed but he would help make her and daddy’s bed.

Christmas Eve came around, and Benjamin and Edgar woke up early to go on errands with his mom. The old bakery was packed to the walls with people waiting to buy the famous sweets. Edgar stared at giant lemon meringue pies, muffin sized cupcakes decorated to look like Santa Claus and more cookies than he had ever seen in is life. Edgar could think of nothing else but the colors and sugar that surrounded him, yet Benjamin just seemed to stare past it all. His mind seemed to be in other places.

Edgar knew exactly where Benjamin’s thoughts were. Edgar knew that once again, he and Benjamin were off on another rescue mission, with the bright silver bell of their fire engines ringing, as a red blur zipped through the kitchen to rescue the marshmallow snowmen from the blazing gingerbread house. And so it was like this for the rest of the day. Everywhere they went, Benjamin thought of nothing else but the bright red fire truck in the toy store window.

Edgar liked Christmas Eve because Benjamin and he were allowed to stay up late so that they all could go to midnight mass. That was their favorite time to go to church. The hippo liked at get squished in Benjamin’s arms as the boy sang along with the Christmas carols. Benjamin would make the grown-ups shake Edgars "hand" when they wished him a Merry Christmas.

After mass, that Christmas, Edgar sat in Benjamin’s lap between his mommy and daddy, as they took turns reading him parts of "T’was the Night Before Christmas" with all his favorite Christmas songs playing in the background. Benjamin slowly fell asleep with visions on sugarplums dancing on a fire truck.

Edgar fell asleep, also, and only woke up long enough to see Benjamin being carried off to bed. Edgar was too tired to wonder why he wasn’t being carried to bed.

The next morning, Edgar woke up very confused. His first early glimpse was of Benjamin’s face, with tears streaming down his cheeks, staring back at him. Edgar at once looked around, and realized that although there seemed to be a thousand presents around the tree, none seemed big enough to be Benjamin’s fire truck.

Edgar looked back at Benjamin, heartbroken…Until he noticed that along with the tears, the boy had the biggest smile he had ever seen.

"EDGAR," shouted the boy. "Did you bwing this for me? How did you get it? You don’t have any dowars!"

Edgar, still confused, suddenly noticed a bright silver bell just under his snout. In the reflection on the bell, he noticed a furry hippopotamus looking very fetching with a bright red fireman’s hat on his head. He soon realized that the silver bell was attached to something big, shiny and red.

Suddenly, Benjamin’s arms swooped down and picked up the dazed Hippopotamus. The boy held him tighter than ever as he spun around in circles. It wasn’t until the second time around, that Edgar saw the red fire engine. And it wasn’t until the fifth time around that Edgar realized that he had been sitting on the fire engine the whole time.

The small boy then stopped for a moment to look at Edgar. Benjamin then looked around the room for a moment before walking over to the Christmas tree. Quietly, he looked under and behind the Christmas tree. He then peered around the room some more, before looking again at Edgar. Then a little twinkle sparkled in Benjamin’s eyes, and the boy moved his lips real close to Edgar’s ear. After looking around the room one more time, in his lowest voice, Benjamin whispered, "Edgar, I don’t know where your hidin’ the waindeer, but I won’t tell anybody that your Santa Claus."

Despite all the boy’s searching, he did not see his mom and dad looking at him from the kitchen, each wearing a hippo-sized grin.

Floating

Staring at the fire truck now, well used after a year but still as shiny as that Christmas morning, Edgar still cannot figure out how he ended up on it. As the small hippo stared out the window, he wished for more adventures with his best pal. He loved exploring the city with Benjamin and his parents. And when Benjamin wasn’t around like on days like this, Edgar liked to pretend he could float.

He pictured himself floating out the window into the fresh air of the back yard. He imagined himself, arms and legs extended and wind flowing beneath him, floating into Mrs. Westover’s small garden. During the spring, small red and purple tulips would grow around the edges. They would be the only signs of life in the garden, but Edgar knew that it was time for him and Benjamin to begin new explorations. In the fall, the small bush looking plants would explode into rich colors of burgundy and gold. Edgar loved the mums, because they announced the arrival of fall, which meant that the Halloween candy craze was coming, soon followed by Christmas.

However, it was the summertime daisies that were his very favorite. He liked to get close to them with his giant nose and smell them. He always imagined that the delicate little flowers were smiling at him. He always made a point of smiling back.

His favorite thing to do in the garden was to lie really still amongst the daisies, with the hope that one of the beautiful monarch butterflies would land on his snout. Sometimes he would lie there for hours waiting for a butterfly to land. Almost always, one would land, but would fly off after just a couple of seconds, because Edgar couldn’t help but smile. And when Edgar smiled, his whole snout would move, scaring off the butterfly.

Before floating out of the garden, Edgar would eat a couple of cherry tomatoes right off the tomato plants. Sometimes he would take a cucumber along with him on his trip through Hoboken.

From the garden, he would float up into the air, high over the rows of three story buildings. He liked how the small city looked from up there. He liked to pretend all the people were ants. It was when he was this high that he would practice doing flips, spins and the occasional dive bombing of flock of pigeons. Eventually, though, Edgar would become scared of being up so high, and he would float down to Washington Street and glide along just over the rooftops.

Though the toy store was his favorite, the floating hippopotamus loved all the small stores along Washington Street. There was the homemade ice cream store that had cherry-chocolate-chip ice cream served in pretzel cones. The only thing that Edgar didn’t like about the ice cream store was that he would always drip ice cream on his fur. He didn’t mind the red and chocolate stains, but Mrs. Westover didn’t, so he would always end up in the washing machine.

There was the comic book store, where he and Benjamin would flip through the pages of their favorite stories. They didn’t like the new stories so much. They liked looking at the old Green Lantern, the Transformers (when they were cars) and Batman. They also both agreed that Superman was the best of all the superheroes. (Edgar was partial to Superman because he also floated. Edgar sometimes wished that Benjamin would make him a bright red cape with the letter "E" on it.)

On Sunday mornings, after church, Benjamin’s parents would take them to the small coffeehouse at the end of Washington Street. Mr. Westover would get a big cup of coffee and read the "Sports" section of the newspaper. Mrs. Westover would read the girlie section and the section with all the scary numbers and graphs, while sipping tea. Benjamin and Edgar would sit at the counter against the window, drinking orange juice and eating a doughnut. Mostly, Benjamin would read "The Peanuts", "Garfield" and the other Sunday Comics to him. However, sometimes they would just stare out the window and giggle at the funny outfits that people wore on Sunday mornings. Sometimes, they would even see someone who forgot to take off their pajamas.

However, when Edgar was just floating along by himself, he would just look through the windows of the stores, and get excited waiting for his best pal to get home from school. After looking through all the windows, Edgar would float down to the park on the riverfront. Edgar wished that he had one of the big sailboats that he would see all the time going up and down the river. He could sail on it all day, and he wouldn’t have to worry, because hippos don’t get sunburns.

He liked to go fishing with Benjamin and his father. They would go in the evening at the park built on a pier sticking out into the river. Dusk was Edgar’s very favorite time to be in the park. As the sun set behind them, it would cast an orange and pink glow across the great buildings of the city across the river. Then, after the sun had set, the bright lights of the city would reflect off the river. It almost seemed to rise out of the river, and stand at the edge of the world as some fantastic storybook city.

Mr. Westover would often go for the bigger fish like striped bass or grouper. Benjamin liked to go after catfish and crabs. Benjamin would tie one piece of fishing line to Edgar’s tail, and a hook on the other end, baited with a jellybean. "Edgar wikes jellwy fish," Benjamin would explain to his father, "So how else is he gonna catch one if he doesn’t use a jellwybean?" Mr. Westover couldn’t argue that logic nor stop from smiling. Edgar never did catch a jellyfish. However, Benjamin and he suspect that they almost caught a starfish once, when they used a starburst for bait.

Once, though, Edgar did catch a crab…sort of. Edgar was just resting on one of the park’s benches after a long day of fishing. He never saw the other fisherman place a bucket under the edge of the bench. It was until he felt a tugging at his tail that he realized he was sitting too close to the edge of the bench. When he turned around, he saw the two tiny little eyes of a crab staring at him. The crab had grabbed on to Edgar’s tail with one of his claws. Lucky for Edgar, Benjamin saw it and was able to shake the crab off before it could get the hippo with his other claw.

In his daydream, Edgar was about to do what he had never done before. He could imagine himself floating out over the Hudson River. He could almost feel the cool breeze coming off the river. As he got closer to the other side, he could hear the honking of car horns and smell the roasting peanuts of the street vendors. And just as he was about to float into the city, the voice of Benjamin washed over Edgar like a tidal wave, and the hippo suddenly found himself back in the bed of the first floor apartment.

Within seconds, he could feel the weight of Benjamin jumping onto the snuggle pile. Before long, the boy swept his hippo up into his arms and buried his face in the nappy fur of his hippo. Edgar realized he didn’t need peanuts, flowers or fire trucks. All he needed was the love of his best pal, Benjamin.

Happy Donut Day

faith1025 — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 13:58:51 -0400

by Thomas Keenan

There are two things in this world that I love above all else. Donuts and ice cream. Now, some of you might be surprised that I did not say something sappy like my wife and kids or something macho like the New York Mets and New York Giants, but I simply cannot deny who I am. I love donuts and ice cream. They are always appropriate and almost always available. When I am at work, I cannot be with my wife and kids, but I can sit with a dozen donuts at my desk. They don't play football in the summer and they don't play baseball in the winter and there is a couple of months in between when the play neither, but I can have ice cream anytime I want (and ice cream doesn't disappoint me in September).

So, since today is National Donut Day (it's the first Friday of June...make sure to mark June 4th for next year ...I like something in a glaze and my size is a dozen...make that a bakers dozen), I wanted to do something to honor the donut. At first, I thought about running a live blog, commemorating the events of the day, starting at midnight ("First donut of the day ...a nice glazed french cruller. Light enough to not disturb your sleep and cause heart burn, but satisfying enough to compliment a tall glass of whole milk"), continuing into the first big decision of the day ("Okay, Dunkin Donuts' is on the way to dropping the kids off at daycare, they have a drive through and I could use a real nice cup of coffee but on the other hand, I could swing by the Giant after I drop off the kids and really put in the time needed to pick out the perfect half dozen and maybe even stick my face into the case to really take in the fine sugary aroma."), on to the next big decision ("While I am getting my lunch at Wawa's, do I get one of the 'fresh' donuts or should I get a box of the Entenmann's crumb donuts?") and finally the dinner selection ("Beer is already heavy in yeast, as well as the pizza, so I will go with a chocolate glazed cake donut that will really bring out the hops in the beer"). However, I thought there would just be too much material to cover on Donut Day, and I do want to make sure I have a chance to enjoy it.

I thought about getting a few dozen donuts and handing them out to the various people I encounter during the day, but I am fairly certain that would have ended with me being too shy to hand them out to strangers and me ultimately having to go to a hospital to have my stomach pumped because I ate six dozen donuts rather than performing an act of pure sacrilege and throwing them out...you must honor the spirit of the donut every day of the year, not just on this, the Holiest of days (ouch, yes, that pun even hurt me).

I thought about keeping the kids home with me and doing the traditional Donut Day festivities, like frying up our own, leaving flowers at the empty donut cases at the local gas station where they use to deliver Krispy Kremes every morning and making a chain of donuts and hanging it around the dogwood tree in front of our house. You can make your own chain of donuts by cutting a donut ring, link it up with another donut and use a nice royal icing to close up the donut. You keep going until you have a donut for every year since the Salvation Army started Donut Day. So, this year, you would have 71. However, I did have to work today, I couldn't afford anymore vacation days in this economy.

So, I thought I would just write about donuts and offer some thoughts about them. For the record, donuts can be spelled either "Doughnut" or "Donut". Archeological evidence seems to indicate that donuts can be traced back to ancient Native American tribes in the south west. However, the donut as we know it, was introduced to the U.S. by the Dutch as "olykoeks" which translates to oily cakes.

My personal favorite brand of donuts are the fresh made ones from Giant grocery stores here in Pennsylvania. These underrated donuts are soft and delicate, practically melting in your mouth. I am fairly certain that they are cooked, not in oil, but in the tears of laughter from angels that has been heated by the flames of the Olympic torch. The flour used in these noble creations must have been grown on the plains of Elysium and the sugar taken from the great banquet tables of Valhalla. They are not overly weighed down in sugar glaze like a Kripy Kreme and they aren't as heavy as a Dunkin Donut. They are perfection. I must wipe a tear from my eye.

Don't get me wrong ...I love Dunkin Donuts, especially their apple donuts with the filling inside and toasted coconut on a sugary glaze on top. Their bow-tie donuts are fantastic...two donuts, interlocked to form a gooey, squishy knot in the middle. And, if you are in the mood for a great cup of coffee, really, no where else can top the combination DD offers (don't even get me started on their Coolatta's).

Although very good, I believe Krispy Kremes to be overrated. There, I said it...that feels good to have that off my chest...even though I am a stock holder (my four shares are worth $14.84 as of 10:45 this morning ...I wonder how many donuts that buys). These donuts are good, but I feel that the heavy glaze really insults the delicate little rings. A little less glaze or maybe just dusted in some cinnamon and sugar and I may have a new favorite.

A friend of mine reminded me this morning of Maple Donuts. This is a chain in the York, PA area. Some also had a little diner attached. It was a popular place to hang out in the middle of the night in college. They made national news during the OJ Simpson trial when the put up billboard with black backgrounds that said "Free OJ" in big white letters and "With the purchase of a donut" or something like that in very little letters. They also stirred up trouble when they offered "Powdered Pontiffs", Pope shapes donuts covered in confectioners sugar, when the Pope John Paul was visiting the U.S. I was never a big fan of their donuts, but I have some fond college memories from there. Plus, how could you resist a donut with a sense of humor like that.

Speaking of York, the Giant grocery stores (I think) there had my favorite all-time donut. They took a normal chocolate glazed cake donut, sliced it in half and then put a light, fluffy icing in the middle...pure genius. These were a favorite at bake sales in college. I could never resist a table full of sorority girls, the field hockey team or the women's tennis team offering up these wonderful little creations ...There were times where I think I may have passed out once or twice in front of their table. Who am I kidding ...I could not resist them when a fraternity, the rugby club or the male tennis team were selling them, either.

Earlier, I mentioned "fresh" donuts at Wawa's. These are decent, but they are unreliable. They claim that they are made fresh daily, but sometimes, they just don't seem that way. A few weeks back, I found out why. I went to our local Wawa's around 10:00 PM and saw them delivering the "fresh" donuts. Yeah, they may be made fresh daily...but it looks like it was the day before. I have since boycotted Wawa's donuts ...Don't mess with my donuts, Mr. Wawa! (I am a big fan of your coffee and bacon, egg and cheese biscuits, however, although it seems my local store have stopped making them).

If I am forced to buy a box of donuts off a shelf in a grocery store, then I would have to go with Entenmann's crumb or chocolate donuts. For "not fresh" donuts, they are fantastic. When I was younger, my brother and I would cut my neighbor's lawn or shovel her drive way for cash and a box of donuts (or some other cake or cookies...her husband worked for Entenmann). If I am honest with myself, at that age, I probably would have shoveled three feet of snow for just the box of donuts...what could be better than working that hard in the cold and heading back home to a nice warm fire with a box of donuts to go with the hot chocolate? These days, it would probably take two boxes of donuts and a cream filled French Crumb Cake, which are impossible to find in a supermarket.

I have made donuts at home several times, and have been mostly disappointed by them. And it usually takes eating about a dozen of them before I realize how disappointed I am with them. I have gotten the dough just right a few times, but I think there must be a trick in the oil you use. Mine never come out with that nice delicate "crust". I still need to do my research.

I like to cycle (I need to work off the donuts, plus, I like to pretend the wheels of my bike are two giant glazed donuts) and every year, the local bike club, the Lehigh Valley Wheelmen, hold an even on Labor Day called "The Donut Derby". It is a 36 mile ride with two rest stops. At the rest stops, there are donuts as far as the eye can see. For every donut you consume, three minutes are taken off your final riding time. The only rules is that the donuts need to be eaten at the rest stop and you are listed as "Did Not Finish" if you don't keep the donuts down while riding. It is the perfect event, although I have had disappointing results. The first time, I was only able to do five donuts. The winner did 17. It took me a while before I could look my brothers in the eyes after that. They know my love of donuts, and they were so disappointed in me, as was I. The second time I did it, I ate a more respectable 10 donuts, finishing in the top 10 for donuts consumed. What's more, my average speed was 18.5 MPH, by far my fasted ever for a distance of 35 miles or more, and that wasn't even using the DAT (donut adjusted time). It was one of my most proud days.

So, yes, I love donuts, and I am not sure I could tell you why. I think it may be the variety you can get them in or the understated sweetness. I realize that I may have a problem, but I figure there are worse problems I could have. I do love donuts and I was happy to share my love of them with all of you. Happy National Donut Day and it's only three months to the Donut Derby and seven and a half months to Fasnacht Tuesday! And one last thought ...Homer Simpson is my personal hero.

Discovering the Internet (apologies to Al Gore)

faith1025 — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 13:58:51 -0400

by Thomas Keenan

I wrote this about 10 years ago, inspired by a conversation I had with a friend in 1993 or 1994.

"Pictures and graphics pulled up in a browser? What the hell is a browser?" I asked, letting the basketball knock me in the side of my face with a loud, audible THUD.

Now, I consider myself a computer savvy individual with a fairly active imagination, but I just could not believe that there is a huge network out there, criss-crossing the country, and the world, like a giant web, in which I could connect to through my parents old glorified typewriter, and view pornogr… er...I mean baseball statistics for free.

"Yeah, it's pretty amazing," my old high school buddy responded as he grabbed the rebound off my face. "They use it for the military to share information. I've been messing around with it at work. You type in an address like www.usarmy.mil and an informational page with pictures appears on the screen."

We were both home for the summer to work with our fathers. His father happened to work at a U.S. Army arsenal in our county. He was a computer major. I was a speech communications major meaning that he actually knew what he was talking about while I only pretended to know what I was talking about.

We went to high school together (thus, him being an old high-school buddy), and actually grew closer as friends after graduation. During the summers and on breaks, we tried to get together as much as possible to play a little basketball and catch up on each other's lives like the girls we had hooked up with in the previous semester. So, that would take about 15 seconds and being that we were both borderline geeks, computer talk did creep into conversation.

"So your saying that on my parents' old Apple computer, I can type in some magical phrase likes ‘abra cadabra' or set of numbers and plans for building my own F-16 jet will suddenly appear on my screen?" I half pondered, half proclaimed. Obviously he found me to be quit amusing as he tripped up, mid-stride of a lay-up, sending the ball careening off of the pole and back to me.

"No," he said through his snickers. "You need to have a program call Mosaic. It's a browser…An Ethernet card and …"

I interrupted, "Browser? You still haven't told me what the hell that is…And, Mosaic? I thought we were talking computers, not art history…Ether-what card? Can I use my Visa card?" (I prefer being a wise-ass to being patient. Although using sarcasm to cover for confusion or ignorance probably isn't a good trait.) I bounced the ball back to him, thinking somehow it might emphasize my point or to let him know that he needs my charity.

"A browser is a program that interprets code that is past to it from a server on the network or internet," he carefully explained as he sunk a fifteen foot jump shot, hitting nothing but net. "It is used to display text that is embedded in the code and gif files that are downloaded from the network or internet.

"Mosaic is the name of this browser software, much like WordPerfect is the name of word processing software," he announced, hitting the bottom of the net with another 15-footer.

"An Ethernet card is a piece of hardware that you plug into the motherboard of a computer, and then you plug a network cable into it." Swoosh went another jumper from 20 feet out.

Now, I might be a smart-ass, but he was just plain smart.

"So a browser interprets the code and displays whatever like WordPerfect interprets the code tag you use to bold or center text in a document?" I inquired while putting in an easy lay-up.

"Exactly," he responded.

"The Ethernet card is the hardware that allows the computer to communicate with the network?" I dropped in a short jumper from about three feet out.

"Right."

"And Mosaic is a browser software program that I can go to the computer store at the mall and purchase." I tried another easy lay-up that rolled around the edge of the rim.

"Well, not exactly." My shot fell to wrong side of the rim. "You have to download it off the Internet. And it is free."

"Your bullshitting me, aren't you? No software is free. Especially if it does everything you say it does. And the Internet? So, what, I get the program by using my school e-mail account? How do I do that? I'm lucky if my school's e-mail system can handle a two page letter. Your making all this up." My next shot hit the backboard like a brick.

"Seriously. You don't use your e-mail system. You connect to the internet, go to an address and download it off a server." Almost to further humiliate me he hit a shot from mid-court.

"So, almost like Telnetting. Someone gives me the address to go to. I would telnet out to that server. And then download the program to my computer?" I threw up a high awkward shot as I tripped over my own feet. Somehow, the ball went through the net in what is called in basketball, a "Hail Mary".

"Yes…Just about. You're very close." He missed the rebound, somewhat surprised that I was kind of getting the point. Of course, he did proceed to make minor corrections to what I said, but I was pretty surprised I was even on the right court.

Being a good American that I am, I asked, "But what the hell can it do for me?" I wanted to get past the technical crap and move the conversation a long. And, like any hot-blooded young man, I wanted to know how to get to the porn…I mean baseball statistics as quickly as possible. (Oh yeah, I also hit a beautiful 10-foot turn around jump shot from the right side of the basket.)

"I mean, if it can only be used by the military, how I am I going to be able to get anything truly useful off of it." Although the thought of floating out on Lake Hopatcong in a battleship while "studying baseball statistics" intrigued me.

"Well, it was designed for the military, but guys are using it for other stuff like pictures and stories. Like today, I downloaded some ‘baseball statistics' and photos of Darryl Strawberry," he gasped as he attempted to copy my shot.

I was less interested in what exactly he was downloading and more interested in why I didn't have the kind of job he had. He managed to get the rebound and sprinted to the top of the key, turned around and drained his shot. "And I think I may focus my major in college on it a little bit," he added.

Realizing that the complexity of what he was trying to tell me was hampering my game (I was sure that was indeed his intention); I decided that I needed to end the conversation. So I tried to dismiss it with the following proclamation, as I headed to the top of the key to copy his shot, "It will never make it big."

For an exclamation point on my statement, I launched the ball just as I finished the sentence. My eyes followed it's tall, graceful arc, until it bounced off the pole behind the backboard and ricocheted into a large oak tree and careened quickly right back at me and slammed off of my head and over the fence. Onto the street it rolled and down the hill. I heard my friend laughing so hard he could barely breathe as I gave chase to the ball that now appeared as a small orange dot in the night.

A Return to the Woods of Life

faith1025 — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 13:58:51 -0400

By Thomas J. Keenan

I wrote this as a column for my college newspaper during my Junior year...more than 15 years ago. It was about walking in the woods behind my house in Hopatcong, NJ.

It was Good Friday. The sun was shining and the air was cool and still. I could feel spring in my bones. I went down to the woods behind my house to walk with my father and play with my nephew.

To my nephew Kevin, the woods and the stream and the giant "climbing rocks" were all so brand new to him. I, however, once knew the place well. It is where I had spent much of my childhood. It was where I went when I needed to escape as I got older. It was the place that I had abandoned when I went to high school.

After my father decided to head back to the house with Kevin, I decided to try to find something that was missing in a place I had once called, "The Woods of Life", in a poem written a long time ago.

The woods, for me, holds a special parallel to life. They serve as a parable to my views of life and a reminder of hope in the early spring. How? Let me explain.

The Dam: My friends and I used to spend a great deal of time trying to dam up this one part of the stream at the edge of the swamp. We figured that if we dammed it up, it would form a little pond where fish and other wildlife could live. We looked at it as a challenge.

We spent hours digging at the bank of the stream and dumping the mud and dirt on the dam which was made of everything from old wood to pieces of metal we found scattered around. But we could not stop the water. It would always find a way through the dam or around it. But we kept at it for what seemed like years. We were successful at making the stream wider, but we could never get the "pond" as deep as we wanted it. And anytime that we felt we had got it right, a rain storm would destroy the dam.

There are still pieces of metal and some wood there. The water runs through, not hindered by much. Looking at it on Friday, I would not have guessed that anybody had ever tried to dam up that part of the stream. I wondered why we had spent so much time at that one spot. I wondered why we had never given up. I wonder how such a huge failure to me and my friends now served to put a smile on my face as a warm feeling took over my body. I thought about it and came up with this conclusion.

Sometimes in life we become huge failures. Situations and our own bad decisions can hand us humiliating defeats. We may work very hard at something and give everything we have, yet sometimes everything is just not enough. However, we learn from those failures. It is the failures that teach us more about life. We take these bad times from our pasts and we refer to them in the future.

We also have to remember the old cliche: "It doesn't matter if you win or lose, it is how you play the game." My friends and I did not dam the stream, but I have such good memories from our endeavors. Digging and splashing and laughing and planning all are etched in my mind fondly. We failed at the dam, but we had a damn good time failing.

A year or two after we had failed creating that dam, I made an attempt at another dam, just to prove that I could do it. Sometimes, we have to know when to give up, move on, and start over. I did. I moved up stream to an area with higher banks that could form a natural barrier. I then rolled huge boulders into place in the water. After placing a pipe between the rocks to regulate water flow, I piled thick mud and moss in the gaps of the rocks. The dam was about a foot or two tall, and it was a complete success. I took my previous failures and used them to succeed. Eventually, the dam became too successful and was partially destroyed by someone else to return the rest of the stream's flow. Yet, even now, my dad had to build a little bridge out of old tires and trees so that my nephew could cross the once thin and shallow stream. I beat the stream.

The Swamp: In the woods, there is a swamp that spreads out over a relatively large area. Throughout it is scattered moss, covered islands of dead tree stumps or mud. In order to cross the swamp, you have to hop from island to island, hoping the island doesn't sink. Every so often, you may slip and find yourself up to your ankles in mud or water. As you travel through it, it seems like it will never end. The other side is so difficult to see and dead trees lie all around. You can get confused and lost easily.

There are times when life seems like this murky swamp. Things seem bleak and it seems that hopes and dreams lie dead all around. Like the waters, life seems stagnant, and sometimes you cannot do anything but pray that you don't fall into these waters. There are times when you don't feel like hopping to another island because you are afraid, afraid of what the next step may bring. You don't know if the next island will give under your weight or that you may not jump far enough and land in mud. It is this place in my life that I feel I am at now.

You know you cannot go back and sometimes you just want to stay in one spot. But you must move on. The swamps in life are stagnant and scary, but you have no choice but to continue on. You just have to realize that you will eventually find your way out. There is another side, a place where the footing is sure. A place where you can look back and feel proud at what you have accomplished.

The Hilltop: On the other side of the swamp in the woods is a steep hill that seems to rise above the tree tops. Climbing the hill is no easy chore. It is covered in dead leaves that may cause you to lose your footing.

But when you have made it to the hilltop, you can look out at everything around you. You can see clearly where you have been, and you can see what is ahead of you. On the other side of this hilltop, the stream flows smoothly and the water is crystal clear. The plants in the valley are lush and beutiful. From this hilltop, you can clearly see the beauty of the sunset. Being up on this hill is truly breathtaking.

In all our lives, we will make it to the hilltop. We may have to struggle through swamps and climb steep inclines, but eventually we will make it to the hilltop. We can look and see why we had to go through the swamps, and we can appreciate it. We can see where we are going. We can see the beauty of life and how wonderful it is. The waters are flowing clearly ahead of us. All we have to be willing to do is to climb that mountain and struggle through the swamp, because once you make it to the hill top everything is forgotten.

Although I believe I have a long way to go to get through this swamp that I am in now, I know something beautiful lies ahead of me. Although there are more struggles ahead, I know they will be worth it, and I can't wait.

The woods of life are beautiful. They are constanly changing and growing. Like trees, dreams die but are quickly replaced by other trees. There are different paths and trails through life; which ones we take are completely up to us. Streams don't always flow straight. They curve and bend. They run slowly sometimes and faster other times. This represents our hopes and our faith. There are going to be hills and valleys and swamps throughout our lives. We just have to muster enough confidence to make it through.

Perhaps one of the most insightful things I have heard lately came from my three-year-old nephew, Kevin. I went back down in the woods with him on Easter Sunday. He wanted to climb on these rocks. It soon became a tough climb for his little body but he kept on going. When I asked him if he wanted me to carry him, all he said was, "No, I am like the little train." Then he continued climbing, saying, "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can..." Perhaps that is all we need to do to get through the tough parts of life: Keep reminding ourselves that we can do it. Life is beautiful.

Christmas Memories

faith1025 — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 13:58:51 -0400

By Thomas Keenan

Originally, I had planned to write a "novella" through the Christmas season and publish chapters of it every couple of days. It is a Christmas story that I have been developing in my head for years. I sat down and wrote the first couple of chapters during Thanksgiving, but realized that I'd be rushing it if I tried to finish it before Christmas and was enjoying the writing process too much. I'm hoping it will be worthy of being published someday and I've committed myself to finishing it over the coming year. So, in it's place, I've decided to put some new and old stuff up as a sort of gift to family and friends (of course, I've had to convince myself with some beer that what I write is of some value and thus, worthy to be a gift, but that's a story for another time). It will probably be only three or four over the next couple of weeks. This first one is specifically for my family. I hope you enjoy it.

My brother and half the family was in one car and the rest of us were in another when "Feliz Navidad" came on the radio. It was Christmas Eve years ago and we were packed into the two cars headed up to one of my aunt's houses for a Christmas party. Both cars had the same radio station on, and for some reason, the song just sparked what my son would call, a case of the sillies. Each car started to try to outdo the other in the lip-syncing to the song and the "dance" moves (mind you, I believe the youngest in the cars was my sister Danielle, who was probably in high school at the time) as we drove up the highway, side by side. I won't go into too much detail - it was one of those "you had to be there" type moments - but it has burned in my memory as one of my favorite Christmas memories.

As an adult, before my own children came along, I have struggled with Christmas. It is truly my favorite time of year, but as a kid, there was more magic to it. I still remember when I honestly believed in Santa Claus. I loved having that "fairy story" to believe in, and even now, I feel my soul and heart turning as I think of those days. I think it had to do with coming from such a big family...There were surprises around every corner.

A memory that really holds on tight with me was when I was a senior in high school or maybe a freshman in college when late on Christmas Eve my parents sent me to the Quick Check to get a bottle of Egg Nog. I took my time, enjoyed the freedom and quiet of Christmas Eve and looked at all the decorations. I ran into a couple of people I knew at the store and exchanged greetings and I headed home. It was such a surreal sense of peace that I can't explain that lasted for 20 minutes at the most. In a lot of ways, I felt that was the end of my Christmas innocence. All the years before, Christmas was about being with family, but for the first time, my favorite memory from a Christmas was being by myself. It wasn't that I didn't enjoy the company of my family that year...it is very much the opposite. And I certainly don't enjoy being alone on Christmas. However, it was the first time, because I could drive, that I had a Christmas memory that was mine and mine alone. The Christmases before were about being dragged around by and "adult" on errands and church and parties and they are great memories. The Christmases after seem to be about rushing around and trying force moments with people and focusing too much on trying to create the perfect Christmas memory instead of remembering that perfect Christmas moments just happen...like the trip in the car. That trip to the store seems to be the dividing line between the Christmases as a child and the Christmases as an adult.

With each person in my family, I have such specific memories...favorite memories with them. So many of my childhood memories involve Kyle and Danielle, because they are the closest in age to me. It feels like yesterday that Danielle and I sat on the floor in my room as Kyle was drawing in the upper bunk. I don't remember the year, but it was Christmas Eve and we were exchanging theories on Santa. None of us believed in Santa anymore, but we had theories of Santa being a spirit that brings good things to people that believed in him and were good. We talked about how he might get around...walking through walls and just instantly jumping from house to house. It's still a fun theory to think about.

I have an endless stream of Christmas memories with Danielle. So many times we would sit early in the morning trying to figure out what might be under the colorful gift wrap and conspiring on how long we had to wait before waking up the rest of the family and the best way to do it. Kyle was often involved, but he would grow out of it before Danielle and I did because of our ages. Because Danielle and I are the youngest and so close in age, most of my Christmas memories of a child are in being shoulder to shoulder with her and I treasure those memories.

My favorite memory with Kyle was the year we combed the woods behind our house in Hopatcong, NJ and the neighborhood to find the perfect Christmas tree for the room we shared. I think the previous year we had taken the top off a tree in a lot down the street that belong to someone else. Needless to say, we got in trouble. So that year, we found ourselves stumped after spending most of the morning looking. Finally, we came across an old mattress that someone was throwing away. A couple of springs were sticking out and it occurred to us that they were shaped a bit like pine trees. So, we went home, grabbed my dad's wire cutters and removed a bunch of these. We then piled them three-high in the shape of a Christmas tree and then cut small branches of the giant pine tree in our front yard. We stuck these between the wires of the springs and then put lights and decorations on it. It was perfect in my memory, and, by far, my favorite Christmas tree.

The memories with Chris, Terry and Tara are a bit different because of the age difference. Tara is 10 years older, Terry, 8 and Chris, 5. However, I have so many great memories. A lot of times, I feel, they tried to help make Christmas special for Danielle, Kyle and I. Admittedly, they had different ideas of what that meant...We had a tradition in our family of doing Kris Kringle during Advent. We would each pick a name out of a hat and during advent, we would secretly leave little gifts like candy under each others pillow or somewhere else or do something nice for the person you had. There was something magical to waking up one random day to find a candy bar in your shoe, a candy cane tucked in the pocket of your jacket or a peppermint patty tapes to the back of your neck (Terry's idea of making Christmas special). Then on Christmas, we would try to guess who our Kris Kringle was.

You always wanted to have Tara as your Kris Kringle, because she would go all out. You would never know what you would get. The one year, she had me and twelve days before Christmas, paper bags with my name started showing up and a modification of "12 days of Christmas". I think instead of a partridge in a pear tree, she did a Twinkie in a paper bag and instead of five golden rings, it was five jelly rings. I remember how exciting it was to wake up each morning to see what was in the bag that day...which always included the stuff from all the previous days, as well as the new stuff. Still, to this day, I find that to be so cool.

My strongest memory of Terry at Christmas is that car trip. I believe he was the one that initiated it and the one that really had the rest of us really laughing. At one point, to express how lame he thought our "song and dance" routine was, he put his head down and pretended to be sleeping. Of course, he was the driver of the other car, and we didn't know that my mom was secretly holding the steering wheel that he had his head resting on with his eyes closed. Oh, of course, this could have gone a whole other way as far as Christmas memories, but something about it was so funny and I still chuckle to this day thinking about it.

My memories of Chris and Christmas seem to be around LEGOs. He loved them as a kid and I think that is where I got my love of them (which still exists to this day). I remember one Christmas, when we lived in Colorado in 1977 or 1978, we had all gotten LEGO's from Santa. I can remember sitting in Chris' room with him and a giant pile of LEGO's between us as we built castles and spaceships. I think that is were we spent the entire day. In subsequent Christmas' he would seem to always be there to help put a toy together or figure something out.

When I look at a potential new place to live, as I walk through it, I imagine how I would decorate it for Christmas. I love decorating for Christmas and each year, I try to top what I did the year before. I believe this is a trait I get from my dad. Every year, he would do everything he could to make the house just right for Christmas. Whether is was taking us out into the mountains of Colorado to find the perfect trees or taking these small mirrors he got somewhere and turning them into ornaments that would reflect the tree lights around the room. As I get the house ready for my own kids, I always find myself thinking about the ways he would decorate.

Mom would just go to great lengths to make the food perfect through the holidays. I can recall so many times sitting with her at the big wooden kitchen table, making a million different kinds of cookies. The kitchen would just become a flurry of activity on Christmas Eve and I so enjoyed being in the middle of it. However, my favorite memories were of going on different errands on Christmas morning. It was kind of the calm before the storm, and it was just her and I going from place to place, picking up fish or meat or going to the Viking bakery to pick up a cake or pie. I still miss doing that with my mom. There was something really special about the peace of Christmas Eve morning.

All-in-all, it is the memories of my entire family together on Christmas Eve the most. I hate to over use the word, but they were magical (and, in hindsight, I don't know how my parents did it with six kids). It would start with a Christmas party at my aunts house in late afternoon or evening. We would then leave that and go home for maybe an hour or two. Danielle and I were often sent to bed to try to get a little sleep before we were taken to midnight mass. I loved midnight mass...the excitement and the people and the special music and the colors and the incenses. We would come back and then eat a ton of food that my mom made. We would be allowed to open a present or two before we went off to bed. It was a whirlwind of excitement and year after year is burned in my brain in this endless stream of memories. Just thinking of them today, makes that magic come back alive.

In the years since, I have a whole host of wonderful memories, but they are just different kinds of memories. Andrea and I have ten wonderful Christmases together and each one has been so special. However, I always felt there was a stress in the preparation an run up to the holiday. Christmas became more about getting from house to house rather than enjoying the magic.

That all changed in 2005, when Benjamin was born. He was four months old at his first Christmas and I can still see the colorful tree lights reflecting in his eye. Of course, he didn't know what was going on, but I saw all the Christmases of the future in that sparkle and the magic returned.

Each year, as my own boys get older, Christmas feels like it did when I was a kid. The wonderful magic is all around in their little faces, especially with Benjamin, as he not only remembers things from last Christmas, but is developing his own theories on Santa and how Christmas should be. These days, I enjoy plotting ways to perpetuate the magic of Santa Claus with them. They remind me of the wonder and splendor of Christmas, again. In my mind, I try to picture all the Christmas going forward as Andrea and I mark time for the kids with the holiday. I picture the four of use getting older together and developing our own traditions and seeing what magical moment will be burned in our brains going forward.

And, the great memories do continue with my brothers and sisters...sure, a lot of spiked Egg Nog is involved, but they continue. We don't always get to see each other on Christmas, but usually we find time to be together at the holidays and it is always cherished. As I write, my brain is flooded with new memories and moments from the last few years with my family, but they will have to be for another time.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Christmas Lights

faith1025 — Wed, 09 Jun 2010 13:58:51 -0400

by Thomas Keenan

I wrote this my senior year in college.

With the cold wind whipping around her body, the tall red-haired girl walked silently, with a hint of a smile on her face. She should be feeling the icy grip of winter as it bites her nose and cheeks, but she has other things on her mind. Tucked under her arm was small square box, wrapped in green wrapping paper with little silver rocking horses on it. It was tied up with a large red velvet bow that just about covered up the top of the box. She was going to visit her boyfriend. The small box had been tucked away in her closet for a month now. She could barely contain the excitement as she thought about the look the gift would bring to her boyfriend's face. She smiled wider as she could hear the distant angelic voices of carolers.

A small boy in a bright green jacket stood by his mother's side as he tried to sing along with the large group of people. His long red stocking cap with the giant pom-pom on it draped over his red, chubby cheeks. He kept looking up at his parents with great joy and pleasure. He didn't know the words of the song, nor their meaning but liked the way they made him feel inside. Joy to the world . . . Not knowing what to do with his excitement, he started bouncing up and down with a smile and a loud giggle. His father stared down at him, still singing but with a smile on his face. He can see what Christmas is all about in the twinkling blue eyes of his son.

In a tiny little college apartment, a small group of friends, dressed in their best clothes, sat around a table. In the center of the table, flanked by two tall red candles, was a turkey cooked golden brown. Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer plays softly in the background, almost drowned out by the laughter of the students. Each one knows this is their last college Christmas together, yet it doesn't phase the festive atmosphere. They have tonight and the rest of next semester to deal with that issue. For now, they're just a group of friends, enjoying each other's company and the Christmas holiday.

In the silence of his room, a young man sits staring into the face of a beautiful young lady. They talk about everything but nothing. His only thoughts are about this special woman lying next to him. His hand softly caresses her face as the glow of a hundred colorful Christmas lights illuminates her gentle features. He had only met her a few months before, yet he felt he knew her for a lifetime. His face almost hurt from smiling too much. He thought he was going to spend this Christmas season alone. However, he suddenly found himself involved with this brown-eyed girl. He could feel Christmas in his heart. Suddenly, he could not take it anymore. He bent near her now and touched his lips to hers for the first time. She accepted them warmly, and his heart leapt through his chest.

A couple of old friends, a young man and woman, sit in a white beat-up "truck," talking about the past three Christmas seasons. They reminisce about old friends and wonder what is happening with them now. They remember how different they were three years ago and even just last year. They start to laugh together. He points out one house, completely outlined in white lights, and trees in the front covered in blue lights. They talk about how they might decorate their houses in the future. They wonder how long it will be before each of them gets to share the holidays with someone special. They both sigh deeply. It doesn't matter, though. Their friendship has survived so much; they are just thankful to have each other. Friendship. . . that is what Christmas is all about.

A small girl sits in front of the television, blankly staring at the screen. The Charlie Brown Christmas tree in the corner of the living room casts an eerie light across her face. In her eyes, a deep sadness remains. Her stomach rumbles in hunger. She fights back tears as she thinks about how all her friends were getting Barbie dolls for Christmas. She knows she won't be getting one. Santa Claus has always been pretty cheap when it came to her house.

About to burst into tears, she hears the doorbell ring. Her mother is standing at the door, talking to a Federal Express man. He holds a package slightly smaller than a shoe box. She gets to the door just in time to hear the package is for her. Her mother, confused, demands to know from where it came. She couldn't understand why her daughter was getting a package and was concerned. Standing in the cold with snowflakes falling all around him, the man says the package just came in, and the only other name on it is Santa Clause.

Before her mother could object anymore, the little girl grabs the package and rips it open. Inside she finds a beautiful new Barbie doll in a gorgeous green dress. Her eyes light up with the glow of a million Christmas lights, tears forming in the corners. Her mother, speechless, starts to cry herself. The hunger in the girl suddenly goes away, and The Charlie Brown Christmas tree suddenly seems like the Rockerfeller Center tree. Unable to express herself, the little girl hugs the legs of the Federal Express man, and then jumps up into her mother's arms, all the sadness drifting faraway.

The Federal Express man, unable to control his smile turns and starts walking away. He looks up and winks at a lady in a car across the streeet. She smiles back at him and drives away. Sleigh bells ring in the distance.