I became a cowboy Christmas of '67 [View all]

...sharing this little Christmas tale of mine for the second year in a row. Hope everyone looking in is safe and warm this Christmas Eve.



...I woke my little self up one Christmas morning, ran down the stairs and discovered a complete cowboy outfit just my size under our silvery tree; complete with fringe vest, fringed chaps, a red cowboy hat with a multi-colored rolled stitch around the brim, and two six-shooting pearl handled pistols which fired off rolls of red caps.

I wore that outfit everywhere until it wore out years later, storing all my cowboy gear at night in a smooth, rounded wooden chest by the window where I kept the rest of my toys hidden away until the next day arrived and I became a cowboy once more.

I almost didn't become a cowboy that year. Two days before Christmas, my older sister led me down to the cellar where the root beer Dad had made and bottled was stored, the same homemade brew that exploded one day and sliced his arm open so bad that Mom made me drive with him to the hospital. He had made his way there wincingly in our olive green Impala and I stood beside him as he got stitched up, just as he stood beside me when I broke my arm after he tried to straighten it out by himself and ended up racing us to the hospital in that same green Impala and I got my first plaster cast.

My sister Maria told me that day there was no Santa Claus, and she'd prove it to me in the basement. There behind the stacked cases of potentially explosive brew looked to be a pile of every toy we'd written Santa for, and more.

My sister looked triumphant, and, while I was a little excited to see the toys, I was a little bit crushed that she'd managed to spoil my visions of other-worldly magic and wonder with her selfish act of superiority; my know-it-all big sister beating me over the head with yet another tattle-tale truthing to shatter my childhood dreams.

"Nuh-uh,' I shot back.

"Uh-huh," she retorted - and before she could twist the knife any further, Mom appeared behind us and we scattered, denying we'd seen anything, but she'd heard everything. I didn't get the expected whipping, but it felt like I'd been caught trying to rob a bank.

That feeling of dread was still with me on Christmas Eve, and no one was more excited and relieved to see the presents under the tree than me. But before I could dive in, Dad called me over and said he was phoning Santa to tell him about my sister and me sneaking and peeking at presents. After he finished his strange conversation into the receiver, he told me Santa would forgive me 'this time,' and let me have my gifts.

It started out the most frightening Christmas Day ever in my life, and ended as the best one yet. It's really the only one I can remember well, except for the 'Christmas play' my sister wrote and organized around our piano for our parents in which I just stood there dumbfounded while my ballerina sister acted out her calculatingly prepared Christmas present which was clearly designed to make me look like an ungrateful idiot.

Finally free from my penance, and after attacking every present and littering the living room with wrapping paper and ribbon, I quickly slipped into my new cowboy duds and went out back to play, popping off the red roll of caps through the pistols, then just banging the caps on the frozen ground with my shiny new pistol's pearl handles (no they didn't last long, not the caps, nor the pearl handles).


It's a cold and windy holiday this year, without any snow, but it's still a perfectly picturesque Christmas Eve with a dusting of sleet that fell just before dawn covering the street and sidewalks until it melted.

A pair of young deer are ambling around among the bushes I planted in the backyard, sheltering against the cold, even more of them likely to inch out one by one on Christmas morning to warm themselves in the dappling sun, taking refuge along with the fox who's waiting to pounce on the squirrels and birds who are gathering and feeding on the seed mix I scattered on the patio after I made coffee...

Here's a poem I wrote a while back... I wish everyone here a very merry Christmas! -ron

When You Smile at the Falling Snow

When you smile at the falling snow,
You're likely remembering joy and beauty,
Experienced over a lifetime.

From the very first time your parents,
Bundled you up with layers of long underwear;
Woolen trousers and several pairs of socks;
Oversized sweater over a turtleneck;
All crammed inside that impossibly small snowsuit.

You remember that first misshaped snowman,
Mixed with dirt and grass, and snot;
More brown than the white ground surrounding it,
Well-dressed in Mother's good scarf you borrowed,
Perfectly natty in Father's old cap.

There's hastily erected snow fort on the front lawn,
Fully fortified with a neat pile of perfect snowballs,
Smoothed over by stiffening, soaked mittens,
Too precious, maybe too deadly to actually throw.
The fort is everything; only room for friends, and you.

Was there ever a truly safe hill for sledding;
One without the sharp drop into the half-frozen creek?
A sledding hill without that fence at the end,
Or that busy street with cars whizzing by past the curb,
Threatening to drown, decapitate, or drive over you?

Soaked to the bone, soaked through seven solid layers,
Stubbornly ignoring frostbitten feet and swollen hands,
Struggling with your sled back up to the top of the hill,
Standing in line behind the big kids, you spot your sister,
Shivering from the cold; you're suddenly shivering, too.

I was able to recreate all of that winter magic, as an adult;
My own sons, layered and stuffed into impossibly small snowsuits.
We made our own dirty snowmen; sturdy snow forts;
And sledded down unsafe hills; scraping swollen knuckles;
Stubbornly shivering as we stayed too long.

It's snowing, and there's a family of deer in my suburban yard,
Taking refuge on the softer ground deliberately layered
With the trees' fallen debris and evergreen litter.
There's spirit here; they know it's safe from predators,
A perfect place to digest their food and nibble a bit more.

They startle when I open the door to scatter birdseed,
Standing perfectly still once more, when they hear my voice
Softly reassuring them there's no reason to run away.
They're covered with snow, and one is trying to lick flakes off of the other.
The snow is falling fast, and I'm smiling again.




My sons, decades ago