Image of Boots who lives with Santa Clause 

The Story of Boots 

The aroma of turkey roasting drew me into the kitchen. I rubbed up against Mrs. Clause legs and purred until she looked down at me.

“Boots, please. You’ll get your serving of turkey when it’s ready. Do you want something now? Leftovers?” she said, walking to the refrigerator, and pulling out last night’s salmon. She forked a nice piece of tender pink fish on a plate for me. Instead of setting my breakfast plate in its usual spot on the floor, she put my breakfast in the corner.

Ah, I thought she didn’t want to step on me. Mrs. Clause’s clattering pans and music woke me up around dawn. That’s when I do my rounds, chasing out any little critters brave enough to enter on my watch.

Mrs. Clause was cookie-happy, a result of too much sugar mixed with excitement that all coalesces on Christmas Eve. When I sauntered into the kitchen, she was dancing around to “Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time.”   

Despite her jolly figure, that woman could move like someone half a century younger. When the Mrs. moved to the music so did the tiny red and green pompons on her apron. When I was a kitten, I’d jump and swat each fuzzy ball while she worked in the kitchen.

I finished the cold salmon and licked my lips. That should hold me over until the noon-time feast. I retreated to the great room.

She turned down the music. Finally, peace and quiet to take a morning nap, I thought. Mr. Clause and I were sitting in front of the fireplace. I curled up on the braided rug and he slumped in his cushy rose-colored red recliner. When Santa wore his Union Jack red coveralls, like today, all I saw was his long white beard.

“Goodness gracious as reindeer fly, look at the time. Santa! Have you fed the reindeer yet?” Mrs. Clause said, or shouted at Mr. Clause, because he hadn’t put his hearing aids in yet.    

  “Thanks for reminding me. Boots, let’s go!” Santa said.

“Alright, I’ll follow along,” I said, even though it meant snow up to my knees. I didn’t like wet paws either, but the barn was warm and dry. Besides, I hadn’t talked to my reindeer friends for a few days.

Santa hoisted the special sack of feed on his left shoulder, and led the way to the barn.  The air was crisp and chilly. Santa always avoided saying phrases like freezing cold though I had heard him use some blue language with the temperature dipped to record lows one year.  

The reindeers’ lodging had more amenities than a typical barn. What Rudolph asked for, he got. He turned the barn into a club house with a large game room, an exercise area with the latest equipment, and he added central air and heat. That red-nosed charmer had clout with the Clause family. 

Santa pounded on the door then let himself in the barn. Rudolph greeted the two of us, and kicked the door shut. The two opened the feed sack and filled the trough. I sneezed thanks to those magic sprinkles flying off the feed.

“Bless you Boots,” Santa said.

He milled around talking to the team while I talked to Rudolph about what he had been reading. Lately, he said he only had time to read children’s books to his daughter. But her favorite stories were those he told her about learning to fly.

“Eat up! We have a big night,” Santa said, and he waved goodbye.

“Boots, remember your mouser days in the barn? We sure depended on you,” Santa said.

I felt like I earned my keep back then. But a robot replaced me. Sad, but true that a machine without whiskers could manage.

Santa must have sensed my sadness. “Boots, you’re living your best cat life now or best nine lives. Ho! Ho! Ho!”

Steps away from the house, Santa scooped me up and carried me the last few steps. Inside, he dried my paws.

I returned to the fireplace for a refreshing nap.

Mrs. Clause called us to our noon dinner – just us without the elves and their horrible table manners. My plate had a huge helping of moist dark turkey meat, leaving me satisfied.  

The Clauses limited their conversation to the olden days. Mr. Clause did all the clean up while Mrs. Clause sat by the fire. She wasn’t one for naps but allowed herself to doze off in the rocking chair. Santa settled into his chair with a book but soon the book rested in his lap and closed his eyes.

A cell phone alarm sounded, and Santa fumbled with buttons turning it off. He went back to snoozing. The old-fashioned grandfather clock chimed six times.

That should wake him up I thought.

He didn’t move, so I pulled his pantleg. Still, no movement.

  I sprang into Santa’s lap and meowed in his ear.  

“Meow. Santa, wake up!” I cried. 

He didn’t stir. Dang, he took his hearing aids out.

I jumped down and paced between the two sleeping Clauses. Pacing and meowing. Meowing and howling. Mrs. Clause was snoring as she rocked. Rocking chairs made me nervous, always have.

The clock chimed once for the half hour.

Could I open the door letting a cold blast of air inside the house? I jumped as high as I could to reach the door knob. Three times, I tried. I knocked the jingle bells from the doorknob.

Another idea.

I grabbed the bells in my mouth jingling all the way. Jingle jangle. Reindeer bells. I stood at the foot of Santa’s chair shaking my head making a racket and getting dizzy.

 Don’t panic, I told myself. Think. I jumped onto the windowsill where I do some of my best thinking (napping) to save Christmas. Looking around the room, a tall glass vase caught my eye. What if?

What if I got in trouble? I could live out my days in the barn. Not really a punishment.

But to reach the mantle, I had to jump from the rocking chair whose constant back and forth worried me. Could I keep my tail from getting squished? Could I nail the landing on the narrow ledge?

I bounded into Mrs. Clause’s lap, jumped onto the back of the chair, and leaped onto the mantle. Balancing on three paws, I swatted the vase, which was heavier than it looked.

Don’t give up, I thought. I fought the vase like a boxer, right hook, left jab, and a hard right hook. Sweat dripped down my back. I had not exercised much this year. But a blazing fire burned in the fireplace.

Deep breath. I put my whole body into the punch. Ka-Boom! The vase shattered on the floor.

“What! What time is it?” Santa roared, waking up Mrs. Clause.

 He looked at his phone, saw the time and all the missed calls from Rudolph. I made my way to hide behind the curtain when Santa saw me.

“Boots, did you do that?” he said, raising an eyebrow.

It’s always best to confess. I meowed.

“You saved Christmas my friend,” Santa said.

Mrs. Clause opened her eyes, looked at Santa, the mess, and me. Her smile told me she understood what happened, and that I wouldn’t be living my last lives out in the barn.

 Who doesn't like to get lost in a story? 

Dear friends, this story takes place in the enchanted woods of Wisconsin with characters I imagine you've met earlier in your life. 

Image ofSanta's sleigh on a foggy night.

            The damp warm night air signaled a fog would soon roll in, just like that first night Santa tapped him to lead the team. Rudolph smiled to himself, recalling how proud he felt, how fast he flew, and how the icy cold seeped through him.

Dawn broke, coloring the sky a purplish pink like he’d never seen before, as he guided the team home. That magical night gave Rudolph purpose. He’d always love Santa for believing in him.

Tonight, he felt exhilarated about the night’s work ahead. But he also felt exhausted — the small price of being a new parent; he didn’t get enough sleep these days.

He heard the elves chorus singing off key as he passed by their barracks. Slowly, he strode through the towering pines where the forest elves lived. He smelled the wood burning fires from the forest dwellers. The Clause family had recruited elves from around the world whose craftmanship was revered. Rudolph respected the elves work ethic. 

As he neared the party barn, he heard laughter and jingling bells. A hardy Ho Ho -Ho rang out loud and clear. Rudolph recognized the baritone voice belonging to Vixen, not Santa. Vixen had mastered his boss man’s laugh and his impersonation had fooled Mrs. Clause once or twice.

Tonight, Rudolph would need Vixen’s help to herd the team of young bucks away from Santa’s shindig early, to navigate the foggy skies. The two reindeer bonded like brothers despite any actual blood relations.

Rudolph butted the barn door open with his head and stepped inside with no one noticing him. Strings of blinking red and green lights dangled from the ceiling, creating a festive feeling.  

He smelled the scent of sawdust mingled with hay. He sniffed the air taking in the goodness of vegetable stew. Each year, the food offerings had grown with the guest list. All of Santa's helpers and their extended families were invited. 

Rudolph surveyed the feast featuring tempting treats on every table. Trays of colorful red, orange, and purple carrots, cubes of imported cheeses, and red and green apples made up the appetizers. Loaves of fresh bread guarded the crockpots of soup on the center table.

A gingerbread sleigh filled with gingerbread people cookies served as the centerpiece at the dessert station. Gorgeous yuletide sponge cakes, sugar cookies, and sugar plum candy surrounded the handsome sleigh.   

“Isn’t it magnificent, Rudy? We will not eat this masterpiece. The sleigh took more than 100 hours to design, bake and decorate,” Mrs. Clause said to Rudolph.

“It’s a beauty. The detail is amazing,” Rudolph said.

“It took 25 elves to carry the sculpture. It weighs about 75 pounds. I was going to add a dash of magic, ” Mrs. Claus said.

“It is magical enough,” Rudolph said.

Mrs. Clause beamed.

“Do you remember our first parties? I baked batches and batches of sugar cookies, which the crew of elves decorated. We had eggnog and sherbet punch,” Mrs. Clause said.

“I remember you used to play the piano too,” Rudolph said, making Mrs. Clause blush.

Before she could answer, a jam tart the size of a saucer whizzed by.

“Sorry, Mrs. Clause. Our game got out of hand,” said an elf.

Rudolph spied the elves playing a game of Jenga around the jam tart tree and shook his head. Mrs. Clause didn’t seem to mind and her eyes twinkled as if she were an elf herself. So Rudolph left her to mingle. 

Dasher, Dancer, and Prancer were dressed in gold holiday bells and red velvet finery. They cornered Mrs. Clause. Rudolph hoped the trio would not embarrass themselves, or worse, embarrass him by asking her for a raise.

Cupid frolicked around the mistletoe, trying to lure every cute doe to kiss him. He wasn’t having much luck because most does are shy.

 “We need to fix that frisky fellow up with a nice doe,” Blitzen said. He spoke too loud and too close to Rudolph’s face.

Blitzen looked like he’d hit the punch bowl early. Rudolph turned away at Blitzen’s sour candy cane punch breath.

Where was Comet? He was making his way to the stage with a saxophone around his neck. 

Vixen approached Rudolph. “I thought you were skipping the party to rest up before our midnight run.”

“Weather changed my plans,” Rudolph said. His nose started blinking bright red as it did when he was anxious. 

Vixen closed his eyes and sighed. 

“No, don’t tell me. Let Comet play one song, then break up the party. I’ll help you,” Vixen said.

“One song. I’m putting my hoof down,” Rudolph said.

“Let’s get this party started,” Dancer yelled across the room.

Moments later, Comet’s saxophone wailed out the familiar funky version of “ ’Zat you Santa Claus?” That one song lasted 15 minutes. Dancer was swing dancing, tap dancing, and doing a funky move that looked like he was playing Twister. 

After Comet bowed, Rudolph whispered something into Santa’s ear.

“Ho Ho Ho. May I have your attention?” Santa bellowed.

A few elves giggled. Rudolph cleared his throat.

“Listen up. Santa’s speaking,” Donner’s booming voice silenced the rowdy crowd.

Santa gave Donner an appreciative look and gestured to Rudolph.

“There’s a fog advisory tonight. Team, we need to harness up. Be ready to fly in 30 minutes,” Rudolph said, stepping away.

Groans sounded. 

Vixen gave a steely look to Cupid. “Come on. You have all next year to find the love of your life,” Vixen said.

One by one, the reindeer filed outside. Magic awaited this foggy night.

  Rocky reigns tall, proud.

        Fighting, dreaming, inspiring.     

         Love the underdog.

Yo! What gets more love (visitors), the Liberty Bell 
or the Rocky statue?

    While one is a historical site and the other is fictional, both are inspirational lasting symbols reminding us why we admire the underdog.

    More than 4 million visitors flock to see Rocky, according to the Philadelphia Visitors Center that tracks the data, making Rocky a formidable contender. The National Park Service (NPS) confirms around 1,63, 479 people pass through to see the bell. (The NPS uses sensitive technology the counts the people.) Now for the record, the data declaring Rocky entertains more people is based on cellphone data and foot traffic near the art museum where his statue lives. 

    Still, I believe Rocky is twice as popular thanks to his international fan base. Tourist buses stop in front of the art museum for a glimpse of the champion. No matter the season, day or night, people pay homage by walking, jogging, and running up the museum’s 72 steps to recreate the famous movie scene. Until the end of December, there’s a second statue on loan at the top of the steps.  

    So what if more people have posed with Rock Balboa than the Liberty Bell. I’m not going there. Because we need escapism in films, books, and art. I want to meet fictional characters to admire who achieve what I aspire to. Personalities who dream the impossible dream and fight the unwinnable fight.

    This year the first Rocky movie starring Sylvester Stallone marks its 48th year anniversary?  

    I watched the Rocky II film in a crowded London movie theater in the summer of 1979 with a friend from French class. We stopped in England before heading to France. 

    Boxing  (real or staged) is painful for me to watch. I cringed and ducked in time with the punches. Eyes closed, I relied on the sound effects such as crunching, grunting, and the cheering crowd for the ring-side experience.

    Today, Rocky lives in the City of Brotherly Love and Sisterly Affection. I imagine Rocky feels at home standing near the art museum rather than his former residence — the stadium. Not everyone believes Rocky deserves a Philadelphia home, and the museum, once opposed to the statue, now embraces him and his spirit.

How does Giving Tuesday inspire you?

I feel overwhelmed, choosing among all the charities vying for donations during the holidays. My strategy is to choose charities that reflect my values and interests. 

I enjoy giving to local arts, museums, and my ala mater which have enriched my life. Primarily I support organizations that help feed families, promote literacy, and protect nature. But hundreds of groups fit into these broad categories of food, books, and animals. 

Every day, I receive a plea from worthy groups to “be the change,” “save the bees,” “feed my neighbors,” “protect the Chesapeake Bay.” The messages are urgent, compelling, and often heartbreaking. Many requests come with gifts of notepads, cards, address labels, and bookmarks, reminding me to act on their behalf.  

Many of my friends and family members practice planned giving. Every year, they donate to the same charities because they believe in the organization’s mission. I admire their ongoing steadfast commitment. They embrace giving throughout the year, not just at Thanksgiving or after a natural disaster. They serve as role models and advisors for me to invest wisely.  

How can I best invest in the community where I live and work? That’s a critical question for me. Investing includes giving time and is a meaningful gift. Early in my career, I volunteered more because I had the time but earned little money. I joined the KC Jazz Ambassadors, an enthusiastic group of jazz lovers. This nonprofit is dedicated to preserving jazz, from supporting student scholarships to fundraising for jazz musicians who had fallen on hard times. I met many Kansas City musicians working for the group and writing for their monthly magazine, which still exists.

Nonprofits operate thanks to dedicated volunteers. However, they survive only if well-run and well-funded. Today, I proudly volunteer at a nonprofit community bookstore Hilltop Books whose proceeds benefit the library.

But back to Giving Tuesday. I will donate to groups that reflect my values. I will give to charities both in honor and in memory of those people whom I value.

Time flies like an arrow. 
Fruit flies like a banana. 

Have you heard: Everything’s 

Punny in Philadelphia?

    The act of being punny has found a home in Philly, the city known for brotherly love and sisterly affection as well as for booing Santa Clause. So, it’s not surprising such a critical audience welcomes pun-offs. Contestants compete in a three-round pun off event. 

    Sounds like fun to me.     

   Not everyone appreciates the art of the pun—what is unfairly dubbed as the lowest form of humor. In order to pull off a pun, one has to be witty and wise. 

   "The first thing I do in the morning is brush my teeth 

and sharpen my tongue." Dorothy Parker 

    Paying attention matters. Although many can unintentionally exploit an expression or word, few have the innate ability manipulate words on purpose. I admire those nerds whose wacky wordplay makes me groan. The it’s so bad it’s brilliant effect.  

    Some people can’t control their punning. The puns pop off at breakfast, slip out during a serious activity, or pour down like a thunderstorm. Other pundits wait until there’s an opportunity to dust off a favorite pun for a subtle snicker. Their patience pays off if they get an eye roll or a guffaw.

    My hubby and I love playing around with puns. It’s the same irresistible feeling I get when splashing through puddles on a summer day.

    One of my former coworkers could fling puns all day. I remember his go-ahead-and-pun- ish me smile. Unable to resist the challenge, we battled back and forth, faster and faster, until the last pun won.

    I’ll skip explaining types of acceptable puns, from homophones to mixing up metaphors. But I will offer some guidelines when volleying words about. Puns should exploit the situation, surroundings, or the context but not the person. Be kind, and don’t engage in cruel punnery.  

·         A pun is most effective when spoken.   

·         It takes two to pun. More than two people can make it punnier.

·         Be deliberate, direct, and daring when you pun.

·         Keep the wordplay clean.  

·         Evergreen puns work: you don’t have to branch out. (Get it?)

·         Know your competitor, your audience, and yourself. But the most important is knowing when to stop or risk being asked: Do you know what a pun is spelled backwards? A-nup is a-nup. 

Image of two ghosts. 

I am not a fan of horror movies, haunted houses, or gruesome creatures that lurk 
in my closet and under the bed. 

Give me " scary safe."

A caldron of apple cider suits me. Put out purple mums and orange pumpkins to decorate the porch. Let me dress up and become someone else for a night. 

What was your Best Ever Halloween costume?

A prize-winning outfit you envisioned and created? An unexpected find in the thrift store? The celebrity costume that turned you into a glamour star. Or the perfect disguise, the one that fooled even your best friend’s mother?

At first, Halloween centered on collecting treats until I found fun in the tricks. No, not stringing toilet paper in the trees, or smashing poor pumpkins. The delightful trick of impersonating characters—the heroes, Hollywood actors, and everyday heroes (firefighter, nurse, teacher). Of course, there are ghoulish creatures like witches, devils, and vampires. I’ll throw in politicians here too and you put them in the category.  As a teenager, I plastered my face with a dark green eye shadow like the Wicked Witch of the East. A small sacrifice intended to scare up attention. 

I’ve wondered how costumes have changed through the decades or not. Do we dress up like our idols? Astronauts. Do we turn ourselves into what we fear? Aliens. Ax-welding madmen wearing hockey masks? Will cartoon characters always be in vogue? What costume garners more candy, huh? Cute or scary?

My favorite costumes throughout the years:

A spunky monkey child’s costume my mother made for me. My mask and the long tail earned me third place prize.

The court jester outfit I made with bells on the collar that jingled and jangled.

Finally, the circus performer attire that caught my eye in the thrift store. This cherry red leotard with silver sequins transformed me into a trapeze artist. The magical experience continued when my future husband also got into the act donning teal tank top and black bicycle tights. What dazzling trapeze partners we made, if only for one night.

But Halloween has gone beyond one night because starting in September, we are haunted with Halloween décor. We can’t escape the spooky soundtracks and purple lights casting surreal shadows about.

Strolling through the neighborhoods, I have seen skeletons dancing, stuffed scarecrows lounging about, tombstone populating lawns, and wisps of ghosts dangling from every tree limb. A few pumpkins and purple, orange, and maroon mums added festive touches. (A few mums brighten up every place.)

Recently, I read about homeowners, who spent thousands of dollars on outdoor decorations for an elaborate spectacular Halloween scene. What an economically chilling amount of money! Yet, it’s hard not to admire the innovation and investment to delight our spirits. 

Image of a heart in an open book.

What is hate reading about? 

Hate reading: Reading with the intent to criticize, mock, or feel  smarter than the writer. 

 My theory, and I’ll call it resentful reading, results from the  reader feeling betrayed, misled, or annoyed by how the author presents the content. Not enough action, unrealistic characters, or gratuitous violence. 

Too much of this, too little of that.                

Maybe the reader is having an awful day and a close reading to     find fault makes them feel better?

 I imagine the worst case is when the writer offends or insults the reader. For example, a glaring spelling error, albeit a street name, city, or beloved person.  A hate reading experience differs from analyzing an academic paper, where finding flaws and inconsistencies is expected. And valuable. 

Still, the question remains: Why choose to read something whose entertainment is derived not from pleasure but from hate? Reading with this attitude can’t be healthy, can it?

Hate-readers express their views with the same enthusiasm I do when I love the book.        

“I couldn’t help myself, now I was hate-reading it with vengeance,” a writer friend said, sounding gleefully satisfied.

“I kept hate-reading this book and was hoping I wasn’t the only one,” said a book club member. Why? Well, he wants everyone to “hate on it.”

 In my view, that particular book does not deserve the hate-reading treatment. Just because the author blends many genres, creating a book as unsatisfying a potluck lunch where the dishes all miserably mix together, leaving the diner with a tummy ache. Stick to one or two serving.   

My reading recipe is simple: Subtract one’s age from 100 for how many pages to read before committing to finishing the book. I will change my standard recipe if:

•  A trusted friend presses this book into my hands.

•  The book is by a family member, dear friend, or colleague.

•  It’s a book club pick.

• Open or closed, the book gives off scary spine-tingling vibes. I am a sensitive reader, friends.

 In the end, I want my relationship with books and people to enrich me.

I will spend time, money, and energy to find, finish and enjoy reading. Love, not hate keeps me reading. 

           

Footnote: Hate reading is not yet in the Merriam Webster’s dictionary.