Category Archives: Christmas Stories and Letters

All I Want for Christmas are Dead Balloons and a Twinkie


For the last several years I’ve written a Christmas story in some form. Some fiction – some fact and some a mixture of both. This year I am forgoing the Christmas story. No particular reason other than nothing has come to mind. Perhaps inspiration will pop into my head for New Years. If not New Years – maybe Valentine’s Day. Sure, why not…A Valentine’s Day story. Doesn’t quite have the same ring to it, though.

I’m not sure why I started writing a Christmas Story as opposed to a traditional Christmas Letter. Maybe it felt a little too narcissistic. I don’t feel that way when I receive Christmas Letters from others so I will assume it’s all in my head and will take the traditional route this year. I’ll try my best not to come off too self-absorbed, but really – when your kids have flown the nest and are scattered from here to Oklahoma…about the only things you have to talk about is yourself and your critters. It is what it is.

I’ll get the boring preliminaries over with first. I still work for the Oregon Department of Corrections. I work in Information Technology as an IT Security specialist…specializing in digital forensics and electronic discovery; “NERD” would take up less room on a name tag. I’ve been a State Employee for 20 years. Wow – never thought I would stick with anything for 20 years. That’s longer than my marriages, semi-serious and not –so-serious relationships combined. I’m not sure what that says about me other than I might be hard to get along with. I am who I am.

My “real” life bears no resemblance to my professional life. The closest I want to get to electronics away from work is the electronic eye timer during a mounted shooting event. Speaking of which, I took up mounted shooting about a year ago. I have no talents to speak of. I can’t sing – I can’t dance and I’m fairly certain my daddy don’t rock and roll. Mounted shooting seemed like a talent I might be able to possess with little effort. Guess again cowgirl.

I thought I’d be a natural. Having ridden almost as long as I’ve walked I consider myself a decent rider. I’ve shot some form of firearm near as long as I’ve been in the saddle. All you have to do is shoot at a latex balloon from 15 feet with what amounts to a shotgun blast. Who could miss? Me…that’s who. Not only can you miss – but you can look like a damn fool doing it.  I quickly learned that mounted shooting is the single most humbling sport on earth. It is also challenging, rewarding and as addictive as Twinkies at a Zombie Hoedown. I do love my Twinkies.

My horses and I covered 6 shoots in 4 states including Oregon, Idaho, Washington and Montana. We wrapped up the season with two first place wins and a buckle. After much frustration and a few tears along the way, things seem to be falling into place for us. I feel as if we improve with each run and look forward to next year’s shooting season.

I traded in my S&S cab-over camper for a Bison 3 horse slant gooseneck living quarters last fall. The difference in pulling a gooseneck as opposed to a bumper pull is night and day, not to mention eliminating the hassle of putting the camper on and off. Theoretically I can now hook up to the LQ, load up my two dogs and two horses and never return home. Yeah…like a gypsy. I like it.

When I’m not working or eradicating the world of rouge helium grade balloons – I can often be found somewhere out in the boonies with my horses and dogs. I use the term “found” rather loosely since 90% of the time I am hopelessly lost. A problem I remedied this year by purchasing a handy-dandy GPS. As much as I’ve come to love the sport of mounted shooting – my heart belongs in the backcountry – on the back of a horse at 3.2 MPH. That’s the average MPH my horses and I travel. I know this because of the handy-dandy GPS that logs my trail miles and average MPH.

I logged a total of 286.52 trail miles so far this year. Not terribly impressive when you consider a horse in good condition can travel 30 to 100 miles per day. I didn’t spend near as much time riding in the backcountry as normal due to my focus on mounted shooting. Something I plan to remedy next year. Most of my trail riding was done closer to home in shorter intervals – averaging 8 to 10 miles per trip. Admittedly, 286.52 miles in a years’ time isn’t much to write home about. However, one could envision the miles in a more adventurous way: I might have ridden all the way to Winnemucca Nevada in 3 days with time to stop off in Rome for a shot of Fireball and a Twinkie.

That’s pretty much my year in a nutshell. I worked – I rode and tried my hardest to leave a trail of dead balloons in my wake. It may not impress the average jet-setter traveling the globe – but, it’s what I do.

Most importantly, I have much to be thankful for. Good health, good horses and good dogs. I am thankful for my family and friends. Even though you are scattered from one end of this country to the other – I carry you close in my heart. I pray your life is as blessed and enriched as mine for knowing each and every one of you.

Merry Christmas.

Laurie, Jack, J’Lo, Shade and Hank the Ninja.


A Man Misunderstood – The Christmas Raffle

X-masCard 001
Card from Aunt Doris

Another year has gone by. You would think 364 days would be ample time to dream up what has become my annual Christmas letter. Similar to last year, I could not get motivated, inspired, call it what you will…perhaps simply too lazy, to write.

I had made up my mind to bag the letter/story, snap a picture of a can of Beanee Weenees with a dollar store Santa hat and call it good. I changed my mind when I received a Christmas card from my Aunt Doris. Aunt Doris and I have exchanged Christmas cards for as long as I can remember. Aunt Doris will be 99 years old in three months. Her handwriting is not only legible, but it flows with the artistic stroke of a calligrapher. Aunt Doris has always inspired me. From her stubborn independence to her simple, steadfast faith.

First, I’d like to share Aunt Dori’s card with you.

Dear Laurie;

I so enjoy your stories and letters. Hope you keep them coming! Got them in my scrapbook to keep – (if that isn’t motivation enough to get my butt in gear, nothing is.)

I’m still able to take care of myself even though I have (“old age pains.”) I don’t phone anyone now cause my hearing is about gone and can’t hear without keeping repeating. I guess that comes with some of us, depends on our heritage. Being 3 months away from being 99 years old, I am well blessed. Have 2 wonderful sons and daughter in laws that look after me. I hope God takes me home before I am much older – But like Jesus prayed in the garden “not my will but thine be done.” So I live with joy and thankfulness! I love you,

Aunt Doris Parrott.

PS: I remember the times you visited us before and after  Floyd died. I think you are pretty special.

After reading Aunt Dori’s letter I pretty much had to come up with a Christmas letter. Not only does she actually read them – she looks forward to them and keeps them in a scrapbook! Best Christmas present ever.

I didn’t write a typical Christmas letter or a typical Christmas story, for that matter. I took an excerpt from a story I’ve been working on for some time. I refined it only slightly to make it more “Christmassy.” The story I’ve been working on is tentatively titled: A Man Misunderstood. The events are real. The characters are real. The names have been changed to protect the snobbish and unkind.



The Christmas Raffle

Excerpt from: A Misunderstood Man

He looked nothing like the Grinch. One might say he bore a closer likeness to Ebenezer Scrooge – more so in attitude than appearance. He was a man with little time for the frivolous things in life. He was a hard man, at times coming across as strict and unfair, seldom giving in to unsolicited displays of affection. It wouldn’t be until one Christmas Eve, many years ago, that another side to this man would be revealed:  A man misunderstood.

He was the younger of two boys who grew up without a father. The oldest both brother and father figure. He could be stern and unyielding and in the mind of a child at times unapproachable.

He was a business man and a meat cutter by trade. He built the small town grocery store with a mixture of sweat, calloused hands and a heart beating to the rhythm of independence and entrepreneurship. The concept of “borrowed money” was inconceivable. What he built, he would build by his own means.

The luxury of 9-5 does not exists for the small business owner striving to eek a living from a rural town of farmers and ranchers. He worked day in – day out. Sixteen to twenty hour work days kept him from the family that couldn’t understand why the man seldom shared their supper. Many late evenings found the children waiting for his arrival, nodding drowsily over a plate of cold, black pork-chops and fruit cocktail.

The man hunched over a plywood desk. A strip of white ribbon curled in a spool of printed numbers as his fingers punched the numbered keys of the adding machine. A fistful of paper slips in the other hand. “What are those?” Asked the child perched behind him on a wire milk crate. “Charge slips.” He growled. “What are charge slips?” She asked. “Charge accounts.” He growled with more impatience. “What are charge accounts?” She asked. The adding machine vibrated across the plywood counter with the slamming of his fist.

“Can’t you shut up for five minutes” Just FIVE minutes, please!” He barked.

The child recoiled. She’d made him mad again. She hadn’t meant to. It was late, she was tired and she wanted to go home. She didn’t like being at the store after closing. If the pistol under the meat counter and the other laying on the desk within reach was supposed to make her feel safe, it didn’t. She didn’t know how to use them. She was especially scared when the man left her in the office alone while he worked in the back recesses of the dark, cavernous building. Tears streamed down her face.

He mopped at her tears with the blue bandana he pulled from his front pocket. It smelt of laundry detergent and suet. He explained to the child about charge accounts in what would pass as an apology for his impatience. People, he said, came in to the store for groceries and left without paying for them. The charge slips were a promise in writing to pay for the groceries later when they had the money. Feeling braver than usual, the little girl pressed on.

“Don’t they have money to pay for the food?”

The child looked around her.

“There’s a lot of food in here. Why don’t we give it to them if they can’t pay for it?”

It was an opportunity to teach his youngest child a little about life.

“Most of the names on these charge slips have steady jobs. They could pay their bills, but they don’t. They don’t see anything wrong with taking a handout. I suppose they weren’t taught any better. The folks that could use some help are the ones who won’t ask for it. You won’t see many of their names on these slips and those you do are good for it. Those folks always find a way to pay their bill even if they have to do without.”

The child thought back earlier in the day. She was standing next to her father behind the cash register ringing up a customer. The customer was a portly woman with blue polyester stretch pants and hair the color and texture of straw. She couldn’t help but imagine her pony grazing atop the woman’s head. She couldn’t imagine even her garbage-gut Shetland would find it appetizing.

The woman hauled herself to the counter with two scrawny kids in tow – both in dire need of a good bath. A girl and boy no older than 4 and 5. The woman pulled a carton of cigarettes from the shelf and slapped them down on the counter to be rang up. “These too.” Her voice was hoarse and her breath reeked of tobacco.

The man’s jaw tightened. He’d witnessed the familiar scene countless time before. It sickened him.

“You can’t pay for those with food stamps.” He said.

The little girl heard the woman mumble under her breath something that sounded like “no good cheap mustard” before pulling a wadded twenty from her purse for the cigarettes. Strange, the girl thought – she hadn’t bagged any mustard.

The boy standing behind the woman tugged on his mother’s sweat shirt. The woman acknowledge with a sharp, “WHAT!?” that made all three children instinctively duck. The boy handed up a chocolate bar. “Can we have one?” The woman snatched the candy from the child’s hand and tossed it back on the counter. “NO! We can’t afford it!” She sneered at the man across the counter. “This store don’t let you have candy if you ain’t rich.”

The little girl finished bagging the groceries before helping to carry them to the customers’ car. She was the only one to see the man slip two chocolate bars into the pockets of the children in tow.

It was that time of year. The holidays. Eleven months out of the year the girl could have passed for invisible. Most kids paid her little mind and the teachers less so. Until the holidays. It was the same every year. Donation asking time. Surely she wouldn’t mind asking her farther to donate the Christmas Turkey for the school raffle. She couldn’t even tell you what “worthy cause” the proceeds went towards. It was her responsibility –heck, it was her duty – as the daughter of the man who horded the entire towns food supply to ask him to ante-up the holiday bird.

She sat across the table from him. He seldom looked up. Dinner was a necessity. He wolfed down his food in haste. The faster he finished, the sooner he could get back to the store. She didn’t understand it. He didn’t seem happy when he was there – why was he always in such a hurry to get back to it? Maybe it was because she talked too much and annoyed him. She kept silent and watched him over the top of a spoonful of mashed potatoes and gravy.

Still, it was her “duty” to ask. She did so without making eye contact.

“My teacher wants to know if you could give ‘em a turkey for the Christmas     raffle.”

At the time she didn’t fully understand his answer.

“Half that school owes me money and the other half has nothing good to say about me until they want money for something. If they want a damn turkey they can come ask me for it themselves. You tell them that.”

She wouldn’t tell them that. The truth seldom came easy for the horribly shy and self-conscious. So, she did what any red-blooded American kid would do: she lied. “The stores not getting any turkeys in this year. There’s a shortage on them. I don’t know what caused it. Some sort of turkey eating fungus wiped ‘em out, I hear.”

Somebody somewhere had mustered up the courage to ask for the turkey donation. He reluctantly complied; 22 lbs. of frozen fowl…fungus free. Each year the man hoped the turkey went to somebody that truly needed it. Somebody like Mrs. Smithers, the elderly widow raising her granddaughter. Yes – he would happily donate a dozen turkeys if Mrs. Smithers could get just one. He knew life didn’t work that way, though. The turkey, as always, would end up on somebody’s table that had more than enough. Somebody who had nothing pleasant to say to him, or about him, other than grumble under their breath of “cheap mustard.” This year would be no different.

The raffle was held during the Christmas programs intermission. The little girl scanned the bleachers from behind the black music stand. The elusive notes for “Deck the Halls” splayed in front of her. Who would be the lucky winner? The bleachers were full. Practically everyone in town was there to listen to their adoring band student’s rendition of classic Christmas carols. The Smiths were there. The Jones, the Wilkins and the ever important Parker family. Aunts, Uncles, moms and dads – all lined the bleachers in anticipation of the drawing. Yes, practically the whole town. The girl looked for Mrs. Smithers. She wasn’t there. She’d been ill and unable to make the drive into town to watch her granddaughter’s Christmas concert.

Trisha Christianson, student body vice-president and all around snob, reached a dainty, manicured hand into the coffee can full of raffle tickets. She pressed the ticket closer to her face in order to see the name. With much pomp and circumstance, she cleared her throat in true raffle fashion: “And the winner is….Mrs. Elouise Parker!” The bleachers erupted in applause.

Elouise Parker was an important person. All one had to do was ask her or any one of her important family. She was on all the important committees and boards. She attended Sunday services at least twice a year (on Christmas and Easter) and never grew tired of spouting the family’s generous donations to the widowed and orphaned. The school should feel lucky such an important person found the time to grace the Christmas program with her presence.

Mrs. Parker leapt from her seat atop the upmost bleacher waving her hands above her head. “Here! Over Here! I won! I won!” It took her a second or two to realize nobody was going to hand deliver the turkey to her. She parted a sea of spectators as she bound down the bleachers. You would have thought Johnny had just called her name to contestants row on The Price is Right. “Mrs. Elouise Parker….COME ON DOWN!” From behind the notes of Good King Wenceslas, the girl wondered if she’d be going to hell for envisioning the woman taking a header off the top bleacher.

Trisha handed the prize turkey over to the raffle winner. Mrs. Parker raised the bird over her head in triumph before bouncing back to her seat. All without a thank you or mere mention of the birds sponsor.

The child pounded on the locked glass doors of the grocery store. She shivered as she peered through the glass hoping to catch the attention of the man in the office. He heard a faint pounding and looked up from his bookwork. His youngest daughters face peered back at him. The Christmas program. He’d forgotten about it. The main compressor had gone out in the basement and he’d worked late fixing it before everything in it thawed. He didn’t mean to forget. He never meant to, it just happened that way.

She shrugged when he asked her how the concert went.

“ was ok, I guess. Mrs. Pretty Important Parker won the turkey.”

“Figures.” He said. “Grab a cart and help me before we head home.”

She pushed the cart down one isle and up the next while he filled it with groceries. A 10 pound bag of potatoes. A package of dinner rolls. Cans of green beans, peaches and creamed corn. Lastly, he took a fresh turkey from the cooler and placed it in the cart. Odd, she thought – they already had their turkey in the freezer at home.

“Box this up while I finish checking up and we’re out of here.”

It was a good snow year. Fence posts barely emerged from a blanket of white covering the pristine valley rimmed in snow covered pines. She was mesmerized at the millions of tiny snowflakes reflecting in streaks off the headlights of the truck landing in muffled silence as it piled up around them. He drove down the center of the road, unable to see the edges. She thought he’d missed their road when he drove past the gravel road crossing the bridge to home. When he pulled into the driveway of Mrs. Smithers little red house…she understood.

He dropped the snow plow on the front of the truck and made several swipes to clear the driveway before going inside. They placed the boxes of groceries on the kitchen counter and the fresh turkey in the refrigerator.

“My daughter tells me you won the drawing at the Christmas pageant. We figured we’d drop it by on our way home since you weren’t there to pick it up.”

Mrs. Smithers new the man long enough to know it would do her no good to argue. She knew she hadn’t won a raffle she never entered. With eyes glistening, she embraced the man in her thin arms. He hugged her back with ease. “God bless you, son. You are a good man.” She said. “A very good man.”

The little girl broke the silence as the old Ford pushed snow from the last of a half dozen driveways on their way home.

“You know they’re gonna be mad at you if you don’t tell ‘em why we’re late on Christmas Eve.”

She could see the fatigue in his eyes as the corners of the man’s mouth turned up in a half smile.

“Yes…yes they will.” He sighed.

“Aren’t you gonna tell them where we been?” She asked.

“It will be our secret, ok?” Said he.

Adults were difficult to understand but none more so than the one sitting next to her in the truck. Her thoughts caught hold of the events she’d witnessed that night. Thoughts of Mrs. Parker’s game show like win of the Christmas turkey. Bounding down the bleachers to greedily snatch her winnings. The gracious, gentle kindness of Mrs. Smithers when she received the fresh turkey and boxes of food.

She could almost smell the stale tobacco breath of the straw-haired woman with her hoarse voice and polyester pants. She wished she could see the children’s faces when they discovered a chocolate bar in each pocket.

Through the years that followed, the girl watched the man drive a thousand miles to collect a ninety dollar bill. The same man that looked the other way when the old timer who lived in the one room shack stuffed a package of hotdogs in his tattered coat pocket. She watched him tolerate the folks that cussed him Tuesday through Saturday, went to church on Sunday and were the first in line for the big sales on Monday.

People like the Parkers, she thought, need to be recognized for their good deeds. They make sure the entire town knows what swell, giving people they are. She guessed they didn’t feel like they had accomplished anything unless everyone knew about it.

It seemed to her a person was seldom remembered for the kindnesses they’d done unless they advertised it, like the Parkers.

The town folk remembered him as the cheap old “mustard” that didn’t like donating to every cause they deemed worthy. They would never know he was the same man that kept a single mother in her home through the winter by paying up three months’ of her rent. The same man that found it hard to donate twenty dollars to the towns fireworks display was the same man that donated thousands every year to the Shriners Children’s hospital.

She glanced over at the man behind the wheel, his thumb tapping to the rhythm of Oh Holly Night. There would always be much about this man that would remain a mystery. A self-made man with a fierce desire to succeed independently. A man who knew the difference between a hand and a hand-out. A man that this Christmas Eve… became less of a man misunderstood.

Merry Christmas and may God bless you all.

Earnest The Extraordinary

I came close to not writing a Christmas story this year. I started typing up a traditional Christmas letter before realizing how redundant it was with the phenomena that is Face Book. Anything I would care to share with folks has already been shared – complete with graphic high definition photos. Yes – you are welcome for the Franken Knee shots – hopefully nobody was eating dinner and perusing my page at the same time.

In summary:

  1. I shoot shit – mostly balloons and an occasional raccoon. I’m not very good at killing balloons yet – but I’m lethal on the coon population.
  2. I continue to cut trees and clear trail for the Backcountry Horseman when I’m not trying out new Dutch oven recipes on the crew. My specialty is dessert. I heard, “Here comes the dessert girl” more than once last year.
  3. I was somehow talked into (sounds much better than tricked) joining a drill team. Something I did not think I would really enjoy but turns out I love it and it’s been great for me and my horse. The best part has been the new friends I’ve met in the process.
  4. My youngest son, Blake, was married in August. He married into a wonderful family and will be starting their own sometime next summer.
  5. My horse had his unfair share of illnesses, injuries and setbacks this year. However, barring shooting him in the ear again, we plan to come back with a vengeance in 2015.
  6. I changed jobs with the department – my primary focus is e-discovery and data forensics. It’s like an interactive mystery novel and I do love a good mystery. Someday I plan to write one.
  7. I had a few pieces and parts removed and/or replaced. Again, you are welcome for the gnarly knee pictures that arrived in time for Halloween.

If I had to reflect on the most important aspects of my life over the last year – I would definitely say it has been my continued relationship with God, my family and the wonderful friends He has brought into my life. Without all of which I would be nothing but a shell and a $75,000.00 leg.

Oh – I almost forgot the Christmas story. A couple days ago I woke with the inspiration to write something. A children’s story popped into my head. As I wrote it – I pictured it illustrated in watercolor. A droopy, sad eyed donkey with long ears and a heart filled with hope. A donkey that no matter how small and insignificant he may appear on the outside, was rather quite extraordinary on the inside.

I hope you enjoy reading this story to your children and grandchildren.

Merry Christmas to you all and my God bless each and every one of you.


Earnest the Extraordinary

The journey of an ordinary donkey

 Ask anyone and they would tell you: Earnest was an ordinary sort of donkey. Not special in any sort of way; just a donkey, nothing more, nothing less. Earnest, sadly enough, felt much less than ordinary.

Earnest looked around the small barnyard he called home. There was nothing special about it at all. Chickens scratched in the yard. Oxen lazily chewed their cud beneath the shade of the olive trees and sheepdogs stood guard over their flock.

It seemed that everyone had an important job to do; everyone except Earnest. He tried so very hard not to let it get him down, but some days he just couldn’t help it. You see, deep down Earnest felt he was meant to be something more than just an ordinary donkey. He didn’t know what that something was exactly – but he felt it just the same.

Earnest was feeling particularly ordinary the day Mrs. Goose found him looking more distraught than usual. “Why Earnest Donkey, you look positively and utterly hopeless with that sad, long ordinary face!” she squawked. “Whatever is the matter?” Earnest explained to Mrs. G how he felt like an ordinary donkey on the outside, but rather extraordinary on the inside. “Nonsense!” she honked. “You are what you are, nothing more, and nothing less. Facts are facts and the fact is, Earnest E. Donkey, you are not extraordinary.

Earnest wasn’t ready to give up just yet. He bade Mrs. Goose good day and wandered over to the chicken coop. He poked his head inside the small door of the hen house. Blustering hens filled the boxes of nests with fresh eggs of varying shades of brown – some freckled, some speckled and some neither nor. “Good morning ladies,” said Earnest sweetly. At once the house erupted with gaggling hens. “Good heavens! What’s he doing here! It has gotten to be where a lady has no privacy! No privacy at all!” “I’m sorry ladies.” Earnest apologized. “I was hoping you might be able to help me. I would like to be less ordinary and more…I don’t know – productive perhaps, like you.” A large red hen waddled closer to Earnest and cackled before pecking him smartly on the muzzle. “Like us? You want to be like us? Preposterous! You could never be like us because you, Earnest E. Donkey, are not extraordinary.

Earnest backed out of the hen house rubbing his tender muzzle. He strolled into the pasture where oxen pulled heavy plows through the farmers’ field. “Good day to you gentleman, I would like to offer my assistance!” Earnest said proudly. The oxen stopped what they were doing and laughed at Earnest as he fumbled to slip the cumbersome yoke around his small neck. The yoke was much too large and much too heavy for poor Earnest –tipping him topside down and bottom side up. The sight of Earnest tipped upside down in such a manner caused the oxen to laugh harder still:  “Away with you silly little donkey! You could never be strong and powerful like us because you, Earnest E. Donkey, are not extraordinary!

Earnest tipped himself right-side up. His head hung low as he left the field of oxen and ambled toward a large sheepdog guarding a flock of black faced mutton dotting the hillside. Earnest marched right up and plopped matter-of-fact onto his haunches next to the dog. He turned his head from side to side surveying the hillside without uttering a word. “Who do you think you’re fooling?” barked the dog. His bark was so fierce and so loud it caused Earnest to jump. His voice trembled when he answered. “I…I only thought I could help watch over the flock, like you.” “Like ME?” barked the dog. “Don’t be absurd. You could never be bold and fearless like me because you, Earnest E. Donkey, are not extraordinary.

Earnest wandered to the far edge of the farm where he was born and raised. He paused at the corner separating the familiar from that which was not. Everything he had ever known was behind him; the oxen in the fields and the sheep grazing on the hillsides. The cackling hens and gaggling geese – all reminders of what he was not…Earnest was not extraordinary.

As Earnest left the farm behind him, the days passed beneath his ordinary hooves – each as uneventful as the next. He passed by Shepherds tending flocks and milkmaids milking the cows. He passed merchants on their way to peddle wares at market and weary travelers on their way to and fro; all much too preoccupied to pay mind to a little donkey that was, after all, not extraordinary at all.

Just when Earnest was beginning to think there wasn’t anything extraordinary left in the entire world – he came upon a caravan of camels laden with treasures the likes of which he had never seen! Jewel encrusted chests stuffed full of silver, gold and fine linens…all adorned with golden chains and strands of precious pearls! Earnest had to trot to keep up with the long legged camels. “Good day my magnificent friends. My name is Earnest. Might I travel with you for a bit?” A particularly regal camel looked down his long muzzle without breaking stride. “Surely you jest. We carry the treasures of mighty kings upon our backs! One might say it beneath one to associate with an ordinary donkey. Especially, Earnest E. Donkey – one so obviously not extraordinary.

Earnest could sink no lower. His long donkey ears practically drug the ground. He trod on in this fashion for days, or maybe weeks. He didn’t know or care. As far as he was concerned, his journey was over. He would spend one last, lonely night along the River Jordan before returning home. Home to his ordinary life on the ordinary farm where he would live out his days as an ordinary donkey – quite possibly less than ordinary. He let out a big sigh.

Earnest stretched his short, grey donkey legs and yawned at the rising sun. The previous day had made up his mind to go home. What changed … he could not say. As Earnest slept that night he was overcome with a powerful feeling compelling him to continue on his journey.

Late morning brought Earnest to a crossroads. The sign pointed in two directions: this way to “Nazareth” – that way to “Bethlehem.” The feeling he experienced the night before returned…pulling him toward Nazareth.

Earnest walked several miles before meeting a group of travelers heading south. A young couple was amongst the travelers; the woman heavy with child. The couple lagged behind the rest. Earnest feared for their safety as the roads were known to be teeming with bandits!

Earnest was pleasantly surprised when the young couple did not brush him aside as others had on his journey. They told him they were on their way to Bethlehem to register for the census as the law required. The woman’s time was nearing. Earnest knew what he must do. “Please, let me help. I know I am just a small, ordinary donkey, but my back is strong and I could easily carry you as far as you need to go!” The woman smiled at Earnest as the man helped her onto the donkeys back.

The young couple was able to travel much faster with Earnest’s help. They passed rolling hillsides with sheepdogs guarding their flocks. They passed oxen toiling in the fields and majestic camels burdened with the weight of untold riches. Not one said an unkind word to Earnest. They merely knelt in wonder as the little donkey and his companions continued on their journey.

The trio reached Bethlehem on the fourth day of travel. The young couple went from inn to inn searching for a place to rest to no avail; each filled to capacity. With nowhere else to turn, they settled in to a manger. The small cave offered privacy for the mother-to-be and a place for Earnest in the outer chamber.

Earnest could not fall asleep. He tossed and turned, worried about his new friends. Suddenly, a beautiful voice came to him out of the night. Earnest had never heard an angel before – but he knew it to be true. The angel spoke: (Luke 2-10)…“Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. 11 Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. 12 This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.” A wondrous peace came over Earnest such as he had never felt and he drifted soundly into sleep.

Earnest stayed with the young family for several days before deciding it was time to return home. He said his tearful good-byes to the young couple and the child he knew he would carry in his heart forever. As he turned to leave, an angel appeared before him. “My dear Earnest, as a gift to you for your strength of heart and unwavering courage, I place upon your back this shadow of the cross. Let it be a reminder to all who see it of the love of our Father in heaven and the rewards offered to those willing to accept his Grace. And…my dear little one – let it be a reminder to you as well that you, Earnest E. Donkey… are most extraordinary.






Mountain Santa

I am still refilling my blog with content from my old site – thus the reposts – which will continue for some time.

I wrote Mountain Santa for 2013’s Christmas Story. My grandson Emmett is the lead character along with my version of what a real Santa ought to be. I hope you enjoy!

click to read: Mountain Santa


A Christmas in Silver City Past

I don’t normally write pure fiction – sure, as my friend Lou Ann will attest, I might embellish a bit – but rarely do I write pure fiction. This story is based in historical Silver City Idaho. The buildings and many of the characters are real. My friend, Janine Townsend, has ancestral roots in Silver City. Janine took me to the historical ghost town late this fall and gave me a tour of the homes once owned by her family. The Townsend House was built by Janine’s Great Grandfather, Hank Townsend. Janine’s Grandfather, Harry Townsend, was born in the house. The Townsend House is amongst the buildings still standing and in use today. Janine and I (and a reluctant Lou Ann whether she likes it or not) are planning to pack in to Silver City in the spring as soon as the snow melts.  

The character “Sadie Cattlebuyer” in this story is based on a poem I wrote when I was fairly young. So, while Sadie may not be real – she has always lived in my heart.

 This story is dedicated to the Sadie “Joe” Cattlebuyer’s in all of us.

Click the link below to read:


A Christmas in Silver City Past – 6×9