Appreciating Gifts: It’s a Gift

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Recently, I’ve been informed by social media that children are now registering for birthday gifts much like future married couples and later divorcees have done for decades.  Some people may think this is a reasonable and efficient idea, but other than vomiting, I don’t have much to say about this issue.  Personally, I don’t have a problem with gift giving and receiving, but I do have a bit of a problem with certain celebrations of birthdays at young ages.  When countless friends and relatives are invited, the birthday Prince or Princess doesn’t always seem too appreciative of the gifts showered upon his or her royal crowns, thus creating a sense of entitled greed.

Perhaps, I’m just too old fashioned.  When I was child, I remember annually receiving gifts from my parents at very modest parties. Once in a while, a neighbor might show up for a piece of cake, but I knew my parents frowned on inviting many friends over, because they didn’t want them to feel obligated to bring anything for me.   Or, perhaps I just didn’t have many friends.

I once received a gift from a friend at school on my birthday, and the outcome was bitter sweet.   I still feel awful about my lack of appreciation for the gesture of kindness to this very day.   It was my saddest and most memorable of gifts.

In the eighth grade, I befriended a girl, and we eventually, according to others, became the school’s most conceited couple.  She found out that my birthday was coming soon and wished to purchase me a gift.  I begged her not to buy me anything.  Since I didn’t receive an allowance, I knew when her birthday came knocking on my wallet, other than a student body identification card, the only items filling it might be a couple of baseball cards.  So, unless she liked baseball cards, she would have to settle for a dandelion I could pick in our backyard.

Continuing to pester me, shrewdly, I announced to her what I wanted for my birthday: A new car.  Most thirteen year olds can’t afford this, so I thought it ended the discussion.  Indeed, it did.  And, of course, on my birthday, she still presented to me a gift at the lunch table we had been sitting at together for the previous five months.  In front of all our other friends, I opened it, and it was a car.  It was a remote controlled car.  Actually, I had never had one, and all my guy friends were impressed and a little envious.  So, we all took it out to the pavement outside the lunchroom and I let them all play around with it.  I then told her how much I liked it and gave her a hug.  For me, this was a display of sincere gratitude.  Usually, she couldn’t even get me to hold her hand.

A few months later, she presented me with another surprise at lunch. She broke up with me.  When you’re that young, breakups shouldn’t mean that much to you, but this one did.  For years, all I really cared about was sports.  Now, I found myself really liking this girl, so you could say I was a bit heartbroken.  What was wrong with me? Additionally, since she couldn’t provide a proper reason for the breakup, you could say I was a bit PISSED.  Nevertheless, I took it in stride, said goodbye, and did what any mature thirteen year old would do in this situation.  After baseball practice, I went home, walked into my room and looked at the car and my baseball bat.   Grabbing them both, I strolled out the backdoor, and I remember mother asking me, “Where are you going with that bat and car?”  Calmly, I told her I was heading out to the field beyond our backyard.  She just looked at me strangely.  When I made it to the field, I beat the holy hell out of that car into a thousand little plastic and rubber pieces.  Moments after I did it, I think I felt shame, but at the same time, closure.  Years after I did it, I’d matured slightly and sometimes thought about her and the car and what a horribly rotten thing I’d done.  The car was long gone, and it could never be replaced, along with my lack of appreciation for it.

Although she and I went to the same high school, we never spoke once to one another.  However, twenty five years later after that incident, somehow, the girl and I met again.   Being very contrite about what I’d done all those years ago, with a chuckle, she provided proper forgiveness.  Six months later, we were married.  We share that story with many of the same friends we had long ago, because they remember the car but never properly knew the reason for its demise.  It always makes them laugh or get angry wondering why I just didn’t give it to one of them.

Now, I tell her each day how much I appreciate her, and she says thank you and reciprocates the notion.  Now that’s a gift I can appreciate and won’t beat the hell out of with a bat.

Maids in Mad Hattan

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Because of my recurring nightmares about our eight long days working and vacationing in Manhattan, I thought I’d resurrect a story by strict orders from my counselor.  She told me it would help rid myself of my semi-hatred for the city and its inhabitants.  I’m extremely sensitive.  Just ask my family, friends, neighbors, wife or dogs.

After my wife lost her wedding ring within the first twenty four hours of being in New York, I thought the worst of this trip was swept away by the notion that, although the ring represents our loyal relationship, it doesn’t define it.  Once recognizing this, I thought the worst of the New York trek ended in our hotel room.  Sadly, it didn’t.  The worst existed outside our hotel room on our twenty first floor.  Twenty one is an unlucky number.  Just ask the bartenders twenty one years ago when I celebrated my twenty first birthday.

Following the disappearing ring fiasco, the next day, I thought I’d attempt to to justify my life as a writer by working peacefully in our hotel room.  It was a weekday morning, and other than the room cleaning, I thought I’d be quietly left alone.  Six or seven sentences into solitude were interrupted by voices outside the room.  And, as Dr. Seuss would write about the “Whos in Whoville”, the voices started out low, and then started to grow.  These voices were not of English or Australian origin, (the only two languages I speak)  therefore, I couldn’t discern what they were saying.  Knowing it was none of my business, and not caring in the least about what their conversation may concern, my only wish was for them to decrease their volume.  After a minute or two of listening to these voices, which seemed to be located directly outside our room, I could not help but decide that in any language, although beginning as bickering, it had indeed increased to vehement arguing. In my language of origin, when a conversation swings from bickering to vehement  arguing, sometimes, it can lead to fighting.  And, as predicted, when the abject yelling began, I thought it best just to pack up my computer and head to the lobby where I could find a place to work, because, clearly, our hotel room was not as convenient as I previously imagined.

Walking out of the room, out of curiosity, I did wish to see who was making all the racket.  Two doors down, two men, employees of the hotel, AKA, maids, were nose to nose by their cleaning cart screaming what must of been the foulest of foreign obscenities I’d ever heard.  At that point, I merely chuckled, turned toward the elevator and noticed a female maid frozen with fear as she watched the spectacle.  I then told her she may want to call security.  She merely stared, watery eyed, and frozen with fear.  I then turned back to the Un-Merry maids only to witness the loudest, fiercest, most solid open faced sandwich slap I’d ever seen.  It was ON!  Retaliation didn’t come in the form of a slap.  Rather, it was a closed fisted smash to the nose, dropping the predecessor to his back.  Now, it is me in shock.  Here I am, second day in New York City, outside my hotel room, witnessing two fifty something maids, decked out in all their serviceable material glory, cleaning bottles dangling from their holsters like ammonia filled pistols, beating the Holy Hell out of one another.  Perhaps it was a Holy War.  Either way, this was a brawl. This is when I yelled at the lady to call security.  She wouldn’t.

Now, I’ve been told that breaking up a fight can be a silly thing to do, because you may end up with a bottle busted on the backside of your head, depending on who is watching.  With this circumstance, I thought I may get a broom handle bashed upside my  head, or smothered by a dirty sheet.  For all I knew, they could have been fighting over this lady!

I would have just walked away, and told security myself, but the man on top of the other, now rendered helpless by the headshot, continued to beat the man to a point where the bleeding looked a little dangerous.  So, instead of physically interfering, I used all my bilingual strength, summoned both my loudest English and Australian languages, and bellowed at the top of my larynx, “THAT’S ENOUGH!”  Evidently, they spoke English and the down under tongue as well, because they both stood up and bolted in different directions, leaving a derelict cleaning cart.

My heart was beating far too much at this point.   I felt I should have at least been allowed the opportunity to walk down a dark alley in Midtown Manhattan before something like this should happen.  Gathering myself, I strolled to the elevator, made it to the lobby without further excitement and talked to the concierge.  We never saw the un-merry maids again.

I’d like to tell you we slept well for the rest of the week, but we didn’t.  The man next door spent the remainder of our six days in New York throwing up each night as though it would be his last trip to New York, or anywhere for that matter.  I would also like to say it’s my last, but I know it isn’t.  I’ve watched the Yankees play, but I haven’t seen the Mets.  Leave it to baseball to bring me back to Hell.

 

New York and a Diamond in the Rough (Hotel)

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I wish someone would be kind enough to write and publish this blog for me.  I will admit to being a little confused in this “country” or city affectionally known as New York, New Tips.  Evidently, four times isn’t a charm.

While traveling to New York for the forth time, since the third certainly wasn’t a charm, I thought I’d give it another gentlemanly shot.  We came on a business/vacation trip.  My wife came for work.  I came for vacation and to write to entertain, confuse, or bore people throughout the cyber world.  I also came to run in Central Park. That is my happy, semi- sane place.

My wife lost her wedding diamond in our hotel within twenty four hours after arriving safely to this place of  Metropolitan Magic.   I believe it was the first time something tragic happened in my life which wasn’t my fault.

Tears were flowing from her more efficiently than the faucet in our room.  Therefore, I can only assume, or, surmise, she loves me.  So, I guess I’ve got that going for me.   Not shedding a tear myself, I told her it was o.k.  The diamond can be replaced.

Tearing apart the hotel sink, I gave up when the hair and filth overwhelmed me with dry heaving and disgust.  I was willing to catch a flight back to Seattle, purchase her another diamond and be done with it.  She claimed I was being a bit too dramatic.  She was right.  That makes her my diamond in the rough.

Surly in Seattle

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The 2015 Super Bowl Sunday with my childhood favorite Seattle Seahawks playing for the championship of the American version of football world dominance ended emotionally: I’ve been waiting my whole life for this;  how can it get any better?  Wait a second…someone just informed me they won this title last year.  I guess I’ve only been waiting my whole year for this.  How can it get any worse?

For the last two weeks, everyone has maintained smiles in Seattle because of their NFC Championship win.  That’s the only reason I was hoping the Seahawks would win the Super Bowl.  A happy Seattle makes a happy Ben.  If they lost, which they did in the most inconvenient of fashion, I knew I would return to the angry traffic, (whether it be on the road or in a grocery store) the cloudy, rainy, and dismal atmosphere surrounding this beautiful city……depending on the weather, traffic, time and professional athletic success.

A little perspective:  I was fortunate enough to spend Super Bowl Sunday morning with my wife, two of my six sisters, and a wheelchair in an Emergency Room occupied by my mother.  Inconveniently, after separating her shoulder after a pre Super Bowl Touchdown Dance, our one hundred year old mother didn’t realize her fall would make her recognize all of her children cared more about her than the Super Bowl.

When we showed up at the E.R., and after mom knocked back a couple of pain pills, she looked at me with a bit of confusion.  Her eyes locked on mine and she said, “You look just like one of my sons.”  Entertaining her, I asked her which son I looked like.  (she has seven of them and I am the runt of the litter)  “Ben.”  Bingo.  I pulled a dollar out of my wallet and told her she won the pot.  It was a seven to one long shot, but she indeed earned that buck.  Three hours later, my mother was released from the hospital.  She was not going to miss the forty ninth Super Bowl.  Perhaps, she was so driven to watch this game because she missed the first forty eight Super Bowls while making pounds of clam dip for her husband and thirteen children.

Returning to our home in West Seattle, my wife and I watched the Super Bowl in disbelief.  Rather than crying because of the Seahawk loss, I instead laughed and decided we needed a vacation, because everyone in Seattle began honking their horns out of anger instead of the twelve man happiness.  Where are we heading?  We are going to the happiest place on Earth……..New York……a self proclaimed “country” which doesn’t believe the state of Washington exists any other time than football season.   It’s just too surly here in Seattle.

The Beacons are Back

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Leading a life of crime, I’ve been thrown out of many establishments.  I’ve been thrown out of bars, restaurants, classrooms, and campgrounds.  Never, up until this last week, had I been asked to remove myself from a beach………two days in a row, by women twice my age.  I’m forty two.  I guess I need to grow up.

Taking a leisurely stroll with our dog, Etta, on a surprisingly cloudy day in Seattle, Washington, we decided to take the trail leading to the rocky beach of Puget Sound.  The trail was quiet and the beach was nearly empty of Seatown humanity, save for, from a distance of about a half mile, three white beacons glaring in our direction.  Etta and I thought nothing of it.  Since there were no other dogs or people nearby, I released Etta (a bernese mountain dog) from her leash and enjoyed watching her chase the tennis ball and sticks I threw to her as though she was my black and white receiver.  Since we have no human children, watching her run, jump, wag, and smile on the beach is about as close as I can come to being a happy father.  When I was a child, I remember countless times begging for brothers, sisters, mother or father to throw me a baseball, football, shoe, a rock, or ANYTHING in my general direction so I could possibly catch it like a Major League center fielder or an all-pro NFL wide receiver.  I also remember them smiling watching my tail wag in the process.  Just like this day with Etta, harmless family fun.

Continuing our fun, we moved along the beach heading south towards the white beacons which seemed to be moving back and forth like wounded, frustrated chickens.  Finally, I surmised that these beacons were humans. Out of respect for the general public, when people are around, I commonly place the leash back on Etta’s collar just so they can feel at ease around our dog.  (Etta is very large, but is as sweet as a Hermiston Watermelon.)  Proceeding along the beach, we were heading back to the trail leading us to the wooded area of the park  when the beacons attacked.   Waving their arms wildly with their triceps flopping back and forth with the breeze, they were trying with all their might to speed walk in our direction before we made it to the trail.  I smiled and knew what was coming.  These three old ladies, or Q-Tips, as I and others affectionately refer to them because of their glowing white hair, were dead set on kicking us off of one of God’s glorious beaches.  Now, to their benefit, there are signs reminding us common canine owners or “criminals” that dogs are not allowed on the beach, but I thought this day could be an exception for bending the law.  (On weekends, there are usually more dogs than people on this particular beach.)  Nervously, Etta sat down on my feet where she seems to feel the safest.  As I pet her head and told her not to worry, I allowed the ladies ample time, about three minutes or so, (thirty feet away) to finally arrive and provide the proper lecture, thus probably making their day while fighting for justice the AARP way.  With a smile on my face, I said, “Good morning, ladies.”

A little rattled by my kind greeting, old bag number one,  excuse me, “Queen of the Q-Tips” bellowed, “YOU CANNOT HAVE THAT DOG ON THIS BEACH!”  It wasn’t really a bellow, but the tone was clearly sharp as a fowl’s beak.  I truly believe she wanted me to argue since she had her younger hens staring me down from behind her in case I made a move to strike.  Simply, I said, with a smile and eyes swaying back and forth from her’s to Etta’s, “I know.  We’re sorry.  We were just trying to find the best spot to get over that rock embankment so we can safely get back on the trail.”

“Good.  There’s a spot right over there.  You best be on your way.”  She turned toward the others, only in their spring seventies, and looked at them as if to say, “See, I told you I could teach this young man, thinking he’s Marlon Brando, a thing or two about breaking the law. ”

Since Etta and I had successfully committed our misdemeanor for the day, we happily returned peacefully to the trail without so much as a fine, or proper explanation as to why they couldn’t apply a little rational human discretion.  “Have a nice day ladies.”  Yes, I said it, and I meant it too.

The very next day, Etta and I took the same walk under the same circumstances.  This time, the Queen sent one of her younger beacons to catch us as soon as we set foot on the rocks and sand.  We were probably ten feet into our walk when this beacon of mass destruction of fun arrived.  She was a little nervous, but she did her best to keep us from spreading the wrath of Hell unto God’s beach and stealing all of its natural beauty.  We didn’t wish to steal anything from the beach. We merely wanted to harmlessly lease it for about fifteen minutes.  With a pair of binoculars dangling from her neck as though it was her weapon of choice, she stated sternly, “You know, you really can’t have your dog on this beach.  You both need to get back on the trail.”  This time I gave her another smile, and said, “I know.”  Etta and I just kept walking along the beach as though it would be worth the fine if proper law enforcement stormed the beach and seized the two of us.  She provided the necessary old lady gasp and “Well I NEVER!” expression as Etta galloped on the beach while I gave her encouragement by shouting what a good dog she is.  We had our fun until we came to a spot where God, the only one I was going to pay attention to on this day, would say, “Ok, Son, you’ve gone far enough.  You’ve proved your point.  Now, you and Etta get back on the trail, and have a terrific day.”

Etta and I did have a terrific day, and not a soul was harmed.  One of these days, perhaps I’ll grow old, broken, surly and grey, and begin enforcing the law instead of breaking it.  Then again, maybe I won’t.

 

 

Here’s To New Years (My Toast to Some People)

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Hashtag:  I don’t make New Year’s resolutions.  Sadly, I have an excuse.

If the world was a safe place, we’d all be in better shape.

Let’s make this clear.  I don’t enjoy jogging.  If someone was chasing me years ago, I used to enjoy a good sprint now and then.  Unless I am  participating in a sport involving some sort of ball, with the exception of soccer, I get no kick out of running these days.  However, since we live next to a beautifully wooded park with trees filled with squirrels, owls, eagles, and sometimes, murderers, I make it a point to stroll through the park on a daily basis.  Walking becomes my movement of choice so I can more easily spot the beauty nesting, perching, crawling, or spying from the trees.

I like to take advantage of the park by either walking or jogging in it with one of our dogs.  If I have my choice of walking or running in a park whose trails lead to the majestic Puget Sound with an Olympic Mountain backdrop as opposed to a gymnasium where there are far too many mirrors. I choose the outdoors.  It’s a terrifically medicinal and physically healthful activity for Etta (the only dog who wakes up as early as I do) and me.

Mornings work best for me when working out.  If I don’t do it then, I probably won’t do it all.  Getting some exercise out of the way early also allows me to return home to share quality time with my wife who claims she has a job to get to by nine or ten in the morning.  Seems like a win win for all of us.  Not so damn fast.  The sun doesn’t rise until about 7:30, and I am ready to roll by 6:00 a.m..  In a perfect world, this shouldn’t be a problem or an excuse for me not to get my Irish Icehole down to the park on a daily morning basis.  Unfortunately, there is a significant glitch and legitimate excuse for me to stay home and, instead, use our eucalyptus (elliptical) machine which I despise.  Annually, there is a murder at this park when the sun is down.  People are advised to stay out of the park until daylight hours.  Normally, if I didn’t have a family to feed my family, (and by that, I mean cook for) I would probably take my chances.  (It’s probably the only reason my wife doesn’t encourage me to go.)  But, there is nothing worse than worrying about being ambushed at any moment passing a tree by a common ne’er-do-well lurking behind one of the pines sporting a knife, gun, machete or chainsaw.

So, here’s a toast to all those sons of bitches out there who scare the hell out of me, making it that much more difficult for me to maintain my girlish figure and for all those others struggling to fulfill their New Year’s Resolutions because of these Lincoln Park Pirates.  I guess most of the pirates won’t be capable of reading this, so I will do the next best thing any good Catholic boy would do.  I will simply pray for them each night and request they all burn in Hell.

Cheers

 

Christmas Trees (All Life Long?)

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My wife and I set up our first fake Christmas Tree last year. It was a marital bickering display at its finest and funniest.  According to friends and relatives, I was convinced fake trees were the easy way to go.  After five hours of finding the correct tree, I didn’t know it would take an addition five hours to make it stand without falling.  Collectively, after successfully accomplishing our goal of respecting Jesus,  we decided to not break it down after New Years to save our marriage.  Unless our dogs, cats, or raccoons decide to rip it down, it will remain in our living room until next Christmas, happy new year, or perhaps, forever.

Christmas Cards Part II: (Peace on Earth; Rest in Hell)

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“This is NO Disneyland!”

When someone busts out with this introduction, it makes you “NOT”  wish to believe in Mickey Mouse or Santa.  However, it does make you wish to drink.

Lightyears ago, along with several friends and family members, I participated in a chartered rafting trip which can only be described properly through video evidence.  Fortunately, no video evidence exists.  My recollections of the details are sketchy at best, or worst.  I do know this.  Prior to hitting the five star rapids, we were informed of how dangerous the river may be for novices.  Unfortunately, we were all novices.  Thus, prior to setting sail, the instructors, for legal purposes, informed us as such, “This is no Disneyland.”  They deemed it as the most dangerous place on earth…or a river.   Most of us on this trip were fortunate enough to visit Disneyland as youngsters.  We were also reluctantly pleased to have paid so much money to be at the most dangerous place on earth as opposed to the “happiest”.  Collectively, our group made it the most dangerous and funnest place on the earth that day….only according to some.

Nobody died.  I guess that’s the most important part of this “Christmas” story.  Wearing helmets and proper life jackets, we rode those rapids so fiercely, and with such strength, confidence, and ambition, you would almost think a beer would be waiting for us upon arrival after surviving such a journey.  Indeed, there was a beer.  It was a really big beer.  It was a beer so large all twenty of us participated in drinking it, yet it never seemed to be empty until someone, in the most unholy of manners, stole it from us.

Nobody stole our beer, and no charges were filed.  Our seemingly endless supply of beer was somewhat justifiably confiscated by the campsite managers for somewhat ridiculous reasons.  Once they confiscated the adult beverages, the campsite was also not a Disneyland.  Those level five rapids were nothing compared to the level five idiots squatting for an evening at their campground.

Legend has it that several members at the campground had a little too much fun.  Allegedly, one member of our party performed a “spot on” wonderful silver back gorilla routine.  On an intensity scale of one to five, the routine started as a six.  After entering  several tents whose members did not include those with our party, the performing gorilla   kicked it up to level ten, a level formerly not known to exist with such a routine.  Fortunately, no one was injured, and he remains married to my sister in law.  There was loud music, obnoxious Billy Joel sing-a-longs and even louder laughter.  Another member of our group decided it would be a terrific idea to climb a tree and  leap upon a neighboring tent, thus destroying the tent, and ultimately, manifesting the creation of the  second best Christmas card still dangling from refrigerators for those still living in the Pacific Northwest.  (Maintaining Holiday Sprit, I will refrain from using the actual organization’s name.)  The Christmas card reads as such: “On behalf of Furious Five Star Rapids and our neighboring campground, Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!  P.S.  You, and any member of your group, are officially banned from setting foot on our privately owned campsite and won’t be allowed to participate in rafting with our charter company forever.    Peace on Earth.”    They could have just ended with, “May you all live happy lives before resting in Hell.”  Seems a bit more peaceful….

 

 

Christmas Envelopes Part I

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In many households throughout the civilized world, Christmas cards or letters are being written, sent, received and, sadly, made fun of everywhere by ungrateful jerks like me.  Perhaps this is why I don’t send or receive many of them any longer.

Receiving one specifically creative Christmas card annually makes my holiday season a little brighter.   And, for the third year straight, I have received the Christmas card “triple crown” of unique holiday cheer.  Much like me, it is as simple as it gets.

Three years ago, a dear friend sent me an envelope during the holiday season.  A Santa Clause stamp was strategically placed upon the upper right hand side of the envelope, and the address was a spot on match of his wife’s penmanship.  With the envelope arriving safely to our home, I was expecting to find a photo of their two children pissing on Santa’s pants.  While opening it, I searched for the perfect magnet for attaching it to our refrigerator.  The envelope was empty.  Brilliant.  Perfection!  I laughed my tail off, wishing this was deliberate.  After taping the envelope to our refrigerator, I later called my friend to thank him for the envelope.  He then asked me if I laughed at the picture of their two sons squeezing Santa’s Jingle Balls.   Much like the empty envelope providing me joy, my only response was laughter.  His wife, sending out dozens of Christmas Cards that year, simply forgot to include a card or picture in ours.  The 2014 Holiday envelope again hangs proudly from our refrigerator.

 

 

A Modern Holiday Proposal

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(After I read this ridiculous piece, I thought of how it should be properly heard. If you can remember Barney Fife from the old Andy Griffith show, it may be more appreciated.  Imagine him delivering this proposal to a group of adults.)

There lies a unique unfairness and inequity amongst most holiday traditions whether you celebrate them or not.  Holiday mascots are accepted with grace, except at the Thanksgiving table, where it should be the most applicable.  I’d like to change that.  Let me begin with the most ridiculous before making my proposal.

St. Patrick’s Day and the Leprechaun, or Lepre “con” Artist:  The day itself, other than getting pinched by greasy fingered little boys and girls if you’re not wearing your best emerald green on that day, can be a hoot.  With terrifically high probability, you may also end up in the hoosegow (local jail)……not such a hoot.  This is especially true when, being released, the officers only hand you back your wallet filled with mandatory counseling sessions instead of the pot of gold promised at the end of that phony rainbow by an even phonier dwarf.

Easter and the Easter Bunny:  At least this has some religious redemption, but personally, as a youngster, I have sprained more ankles trying to find hard boiled eggs, only for those eggs to be consumed angrily by uncles and aunts concluding their pious vows of Lent, while fasting and then feasting off of deviled eggs and alcohol.

The Tooth Fairy on any day of the year:  Get the hell out of here!  I wish my parents would have just told me this one didn’t exist.  Any form of ghost, even if they wish to give me a quarter, is not welcomed into my bedroom.

Santa Claus, A.K.A. Old St. Nick and Christmas: This is a tough one for those of us old enough to recognize him before Jesus.  But, just ask anyone younger than the age of eighteen, and I’ll bet you they acknowledge the big guy with the presents before the baby sacrificing his life for us.  Dispatch the three kings delivering a bunch of presents to those who have been with or without sin for a year, and you are left with one fat bearded guy cramming himself down your chimney annually, and quite generously, for the rest of your life.  Look what the milk and cookies dragged in.

This brings us to Thanksgiving and my holiday proposal.  For centuries, not ONE of the former fictional holiday mascots I’ve written about brings us a pot of gold, quarters, eggs or gifts on Thanksgiving.  As adults, we don’t really give a damn.  Thanksgiving is the only natural holiday where we don’t forget the food, but we do forget the children.  We thirst upon mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, stuffing and turkey as though we are too old for candy on Halloween.  Our children only witness our gluttony with pain and anguish waiting for the pies and “a la” anything rich with sugar to be unveiled from the oven.  Do they dream of anything the night before Thanksgiving?  No.  If only they had something to believe in which has been shrouded in mystery.  Therefore, I propose, only as a write-in, “Sasquatch” or “Bigfoot”, to be the official, 2015 and beyond, Thanksgiving Day Mascot. My agnostic views regarding this subject only provide further substance to the, otherwise, outlandish topic.

What will Bigfoot bring to the Thanksgiving table? Probably nothing, other than the cornucopia presented by them to the natives and pilgrims centuries ago.  However, your children will either be terrified and/or excited straight down to the britches at the possibility of this creature strolling through their back yard the night before the feast.  In order for the children to get excited, they need more than turkeys, pilgrims and drunken uncles to dream about the night before Thanksgiving.  They require something as universally recognized (or sometimes unrecognizable) as the elusive eight to ten foot tall hairy Sasquatch to dance and stomp on their roof on Thanksgiving Eve.  As peaceful as that may not seem, rest assure, your children will be wide awake the following day afraid to speak to their elders regarding such a preposterous idea.   This is precisely what the elders wish.  On Thanksgiving, the children should be afraid and not heard.

What shall the children place in the yard for Sasquatch as a form of acceptance?  Since this a professional study, according to scientific analysis, they eat mostly roses, blueberries and blackberries when in season.  Seeing as November is not the season for such ruffage, Sasquatches will settle for mashed potatoes and gravy.  They are particularly finicky about their gravy.  Lumps will only agitate them, and since they are also particularly interested in throwing large rocks when agitated, I would advise you keep the gravy smooth.

How does one know a Sasquatch is present during the holiday gathering if one of our bipedal brothers from other hairy mothers doesn’t arrive?  Physical evidence does not only rely on a dead specimen.  This evidence may be gathered by hair samples, scat, (bigfoot droppings) or even voice recognition, save for the text version.  The colorful and hair raising “whoop whoop whoop” disguised gracefully by Bigfoot’s second cousins, “the Swinging Singing Siamea,” can only be heard in its most natural of habitat, “AnyZooUsa”.  However, they can’t be heard on the last Thursday of  each November.  According to legend, those “whoops” on Thanksgiving are a guttural cry which can only stem from the belly of a Bigfoot.   If one is fortunate, the “whoops” can be heard when the human family is eating dinner, but, much like leftovers, they are only left for the believers.  Some naysayers believe the “whoops” are contrived from human relatives singing their praise for the smooth gravy and moist turkey.  Yet, when the “burps” arrive and the “whoops” subside, there is only momentary silence.

That’s when the legendary “whoops” remain.  Just like an angel receiving her wings when a bell rings on Christmas, when a person gives sincere thanks for the beautiful meal provided on Thanksgiving, arriving in the form of a burp, the Sasquatch and his family grows another beard; thus, keeping itself hidden within the trees and brush where it perhaps belongs.