Daddy-style Fairy Tales: Little Peter's Christmas Miracle

My kids are 10 and 12 and love to hear my fairy tales which I tell while tucking them into bed. Ok, "love to hear" may be less accurate than "willing to endure," but I'm not one to split hairs. If I interrupted their play-filled day to tell them the same story, they'd no doubt consider it child abuse. But, at bedtime, they'd listen to me recite my tax returns if it bought them an extra ten minutes with the lights on. As they say, "timing is everything."

     Still, I enjoy watching their little faces while I'm reading. They're so cute when they grimace and roll their eyes, and I challenge myself to see how many times I can make them groan.

     After hearing this one, my son groaned (yes!) and commented, "Well, that was a huge waste of valuable sleeping time," but his face flickered with a smile he fought to contain.

     Huzzah!

     If you have little children who enjoy rolling their eyes and groaning, or who, perhaps, are willing to do so in exchange for an extra ten minutes at bedtime, then sit them down and recount this short tale of Christmas magic...




Little Peter's Christmas Miracle 

      Once upon a time, in a land far from those who lived close by, a very old man lived all alone in a cottage in the forest, at the edge of a small village. He had never married and had no children and was known to be sad and lonely. He was also crotchedy—probably because he was sad and lonely, but, perhaps, because of anal fissures. No one could be sure.

     Every day, he would venture out from his little house and slowly, very slowly, make his way into town to buy groceries, after which he would trundle, slowly, very slowly, to the park and sit on a bench and feed the birds while listening to the children frolicking, close by.

     Peter was the littlest of all the boys his age, but he had the biggest heart and also anime eyes, which were really cute, but totally distracting. These are the kind of congenital mishaps that occur, sometimes, in small villages, if cousins marry. Little Peter noticed the old man and came to sit beside him on the park bench.

     "My name's Peter," he said, which was not obvious, yet very true, and a perfectly good way to introduce yourself, if your name happens to be Peter.

     The old man did not look at little Peter, or acknowledge him in any way, except to say, "Too much information. What do you want?"

     "I just want everyone in the who-o-ole world to feel love and to be happy," replied little Peter, flashing a Cheshire smile and his anime eyes, which, of all of his features were two of the safest ones to flash.

     The old man took no notice, which surprised little Peter because everyone was always impressed by this anime eyes—especially when he added his Cheshire smile.

     In his most crotchety voice, the old man began, "Kid, I just want to feed the birds..."

     "That's really nice!" interrupted Peter, enthusiastically.

     "... to my cat!" finished the old man. And with that, he suddenly grabbed one of the little birds by its throat and shoved it into a small cloth bag. For someone who was slow, very slow, on his feet, he was fast, very fast, with his hands.

     "Ohhh!" exclaimed little Peter.

     The old man tied closed the rustling, squeaking bag, crotchety-pleased to have shocked little Peter.

     "You can't do that!" exclaimed Peter.

     "Ha! I just did."

     "But that's a Christmas Dove and it's only three days until Christmas!"

     "Sounds delicious!" grunted the old man, rising from the bench.

     "Wait 'til Santa finds out!" warned little Peter.

     The man hesitated. "You believe in Santa?"

     "Of course!" said little Peter.

     "Well, I'm really old and I've never seen him! Christmas means nothing to me."

     Little Peter was shocked that someone would ever say such a thing and his hands flew to his mouth, his grin collapsing into the shape of a something circular. But then, at that very moment, his glistening anime eyes caught those of the old man and in them, he glimpsed a hundred years of hurt and disappointment. In his heart, he instantly felt the old man's pain and anguish. In his stomach, he felt a bit hungry; his butt was tingling slightly, as well, but such details were not relevant and so, never became part of this story.

     As the old man ambled away, slowly, very slowly, the small sack squealing and fluttering on his shoulder, Peter resolved to bring happiness to this sad figure by creating a true Christmas miracle!

     It took him two days to set his plan in motion.

     The van rental had been especially tricky as he could barely reach the pedals and didn't know how to drive. But Peter had flashed his Cheshire grin and anime eyes and explained to the rental agent that he was on a mission to perform a Christmas miracle, and the rental agent had suddenly smiled, ear to ear—but, more importantly, turned his back to put away the rental forms. And that's when Peter grabbed the keys and bolted for the van. Making good use of the bumper, he managed to escape the parking lot and drive across town to meet up with the other boys his age whose help he had enlisted. And no one was injured or killed, so his plan was really beginning to look like a Christmas miracle.

     It was now late on Christmas Eve and, under cover of darkness, he and the other boys his age made their way down the tiny road that led to the old man's cottage, backed the van to his doorstep and rang the bell. The old man was slow to be rousted but, finally, he opened the door and came face to face with little Peter, Cheshire grin and anime eyes set all aglow, by the light of his tiki torch.

     "What's going on? What do you want?" shouted the old man.

     Peter giggled with a maniacal variety of glee, and pronounced, "It's going to be a Christmas miracle!" whereupon he snapped his fingers and two of the other boys shoved a burlap sack over the old man's head, pushed him into the back of the van, and drove off to Santa's village where they knocked on Santa's door. (For this small town was very near the North Pole and everything in it was made of ice and covered in snow. Did I not mention that? Oh. Well, it was. That's why Peter's butt had been tingling from frostbite while he sat on the park ice-bench. Also, the rental van was a ski-do-type van.)

     Santa came to the door wearing only underpants and a sock. Another sock was in his hand and he looked flustered; obviously in a rush. Santa was hairy and he was very old, so all the hair on his body was white. Coincidentally, his underwear was also white fur so that it looked like he was naked and especially hairy, down there. Everyone except the old man thought that it was gross. "Good heavens, boys. Don't you know it's Christmas Eve? I don't have time for—did you kidnap an old man?"

     "Well, technically, old-man-napped... and, old men nap all the time, so..." Little Peter flashed his Cheshire smile and anime eyes and Santa's heart melted so it was a good thing he wasn't Frosty the Snowman.

     "Ho, ho, ho. What can I do for you, little Peter?"

     "I brought someone who needs to meet you," replied little Peter, pulling the sack off the old man's head. The old man stood there in the soft glow of the porch light, face to face with Santa.

     "You!" Santa exclaimed.

     "Who else would I be, Santa?" replied the old man.

     Little Peter was now more confused than usual. "Wait a minute! I thought you didn't believe in Santa."

     "Get me a cane!" demanded the old man.

     Little Peter thought it very rude demanding candy from Santa, especially on Christmas Eve. "Oh no you di—in't..." he muttered, and he and the other boys his age began to giggle nervously, anxious to see how Santa would punish the old man for his insolence.

     But Santa remained quiet and still, and the old man turned to little Peter. "I never said I don't believe in Santa, you idiot! I said I've never seen him."

     "Well now you have!" said little Peter, beaming proudly. "All because of my Christmas miracle!"

     "I'm blind, moron. Where's my cane?"

     I may have forgotten to mention that he tapped his way to town, using a white cane. This was one reason that he had to walk slowly, very slowly.

     "Oh," said Little Peter.

     "And where's my oxygen tank?"

     "You want an oxygen tank for Christmas?" asked little Peter, even more bewildered than usual because, although little Peter had a big heart, he had a small mind; so small that he wouldn't have known a Snow Dove from a common Brown Bat and could only think slowly, very slowly.

     "No, you knucklehead, the great big oxygen tank that I have to lug around everywhere I go."

     Oh yeah, that was another reason that he had to walk slowly, very slowly; because he had a heart condition and had to carry a huge tank of oxygen with him, everywhere he went.

     "Oh," said little Peter who finally seemed to come up to speed and who, incidentally, was 25 years old, like all the other boys his age.

     The old blind man turned, mistakenly facing no one, and said, "As long as I'm here, Santa, let's talk about that Rubic's Cube you put in my stocking last Christmas..."

Epilogue:
     Santa later testified in court, and little Peter and the other boys his age were sentenced to prison on charges of kidnapping and grand theft, auto. But it was an ice-prison and they managed to escape during a heated argument.

     The old man was actually a great magician—this is why he was fast, very fast, with his hands. He had once been very powerful and had, in fact, given Santa his magical powers, way back when he, Santa, and the world were young. More recently he made helium balloon animals and sold them online, shipping them in little boxes that tended to float and saved money on delivery charges.

     After this incident, the old blind man slowly, very slowly, returned to his daily routine of tapping his way into town, lugging his oxygen tank, sitting in the park, trapping birds for his cat, alone in the knowledge that he was sad and lonely because he didn't actually have a cat. The truth was that lately, every time he'd made it to the grocery store, it was closed, so he had been forced to come to the park and trap birds to eat at home. What he didn't realize was that his Braille watch was running slow and he was now always going to town at night, after store hours, when the only ones in the park were gangs of losers partying and smoking cigarettes, like Peter.

Also, the birds tasted a lot like common Brown Bats.


CHRISTMAS BONUS! 
Alternate Endings:
     After this incident, the old blind man slowly, very slowly, returned to his daily routine of tapping his way into town, lugging his oxygen tank, sitting in the park, trapping birds for his cat, alone in the knowledge that he was sad and lonely because...

(A) ...his cat never ate any of the birds he brought home for it. Only the cat knew that he was actually a rabbit. Also, it was made out of a balloon.

(B) ...he had never married because he got tired of the blind dating scene.

(C) ...he was German and afraid people would call him a not-see.

(D) ...he never enjoyed jokes because he couldn't see the humour in them.

(E) ...he never married. He'd once had a girlfriend, but after she broke up with him, he just couldn't make himself start seeing other people.

(F) ...he was racist and constantly worried that he might be black.

EXTRA CHRISTMAS BONUS...

30 sec. CHRISTMAS BONUS VIDEO...

One basic difference between my 2 kids...

#kids #parenting #humor #funny #video

https://youtu.be/TbNZ8FgYMh0

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Dad's IT Guy

In every life, there comes a point where a new technology overwhelms you. That is the point where you officially become "old."

A lot of people instantly got old when they couldn't figure out how to get rid of the flashing 12:00 on their VCR's. More were thrust into old age when phones became so advanced that their least impressive feature was phoning. For me, it might be when everyone lives in empty white cubicles with fully augmented reality and I refuse to give up my flesh and blood wife, or my plastic lava lamp—depends on the day. It'll definitely happen if people begin getting USB ports sewn into their necks. I'm pretty happy with the orifices I have, thank you.

"Old" happens when change comes too fast and goes too far.

My father became "old" at 70, when he got his first computer.

It's not a matter of intelligence.

At 78, he walked into a party where 50 guests, including myself, had spent the better part of an hour puzzling over a picture-word puzzle, took one glance, said "The answer's 'Tumbler,'" as if it were no more of a challenge than picking Ronald McDonald out of a lineup of Mallard ducks, grabbed a beer and sat down seemingly preoccupied with keeping his drink from foaming over.

Beyond his family, he truly loves only three things: TV, sports and gambling. He's now 80, but as physically fit as a 60-year-old with a mind agile enough to regularly conquer Sudoku and Crosswords. He golfs at least twice a week and plays floor hockey against 40-year-olds. He's a good enough poker player to amass small fortunes in online credits without spending a dime and regularly places near the top in worldwide tournaments. Perversely, when he goes to Vegas, he plays the slots and Keno, games that require the least skill and offer the worst odds. He only seems interested in beating odds that are overwhelmingly stacked against him. This may explain fifty-plus years of marriage to my mother.

He's brilliant when he's motivated but, to my mother's frustration, has spent the better part of his life unmotivated except by sports and gambling. He is gregarious and very popular, but largely unconcerned by what others think and is unapologetic if his frank assessments or opinions make others around him miserable. He is also not much concerned whether his assessments and opinions happen to be accurate. I think he sees them more as social experiments than social comments.

As he's aged, he's adopted the outward demeanour of a crusty old curmudgeon but has always remained active, astute, and one of the most deeply satisfied people I know.

He is also one of the most frustrating people to do a favour for.

I once cleaned his gutters which were clogged to the point where it was less like whisking dust from a trough than digging up a well-established garden bed and had to listen to him grumble the entire time about the dirt falling into his garden. Until then, I'd always thought a garden an appropriate place for dirt.

My parents have a huge hedge in their back yard and once every few years all us siblings get together and trim it, which requires scaffolding and specialized trimming tools. Each time we do this, he spends the day whining about possible damage to his lawn, trimming too much foliage and leaving a huge mess, though none of these things has ever occurred.

Of course, my siblings and I all feel that we owe our parents a huge debt for all the things they have done to help us through life. And, to his credit, in the end, Dad always makes it clear that he is genuinely thankful for our help. But things go so much smoother if he's busy golfing.

Other than socializing, TV, sports and gambling my father feels that most other activities are an unnecessary burden, so if he has to do something like house repairs or maintenance he aims for hair's-width perfection in the vain hope that, if done right, he will only have to do it once in his lifetime. He applies this philosophy indiscriminately which is why whenever he mows the lawn he does it in different directions, thrice over. He's hoping that this job, well done, need only be done once a year. Both my mother and the grass refuse to accede to his logic.

About twenty-five years ago when my brother-in-law was new to the family but safely past the line for an annulment, I volunteered him to work with Dad at one end of a new fence-line while my brother and I worked together at the other. Our part went very smoothly and after a few hours we had installed about eighty percent of the new fence and came upon my Dad and brother-in-law still working on their third post. Dad was bent over the hole which was, apparently, not yet deep or straight enough. He had an old hammer and chisel and was bashing away at solid rock, three feet beneath the surface. My brother-in-law stood holding the 8-foot fence post, gazing aimlessly skyward, frustrated by the knowledge that they would now have to fill beneath the post so that it would not be too short for the six-foot panels. When he saw us, he did not smile... for many years.

Who is going to be my father's IT guy has been a hot potato since that same brother-in-law made the mistake of giving my father his first computer, many years ago. It was a PC and, at the time, I was never more happy to be a "Mac Guy." Since then, my brother-in-law has continued to donate his business's older PC's to my father. But this year, there were no PC's in the system when my Dad's suddenly died—probably suicide. However, my little consulting business had an Apple iMac that it no longer needed. And that's how I became my father's IT guy. It's nice to see my brother-in-law smile again, but bittersweet.

GUI (graphical user interface) concepts like desktop, file folders and files are useless analogies for my father. If you ever saw his actual desk's top, you'd quickly understand why. As in real life, he files everything on the desktop. If a file accidentally ends up inside a file folder, he considers it irretrievably lost. An assessment that is not without merit.

The inevitable phone-line support calls are difficult because, regardless of his crossword prowess, his descriptive ability is severely limited, proving that I get my writer's mind entirely from my mother's side. To him, a monitor is a TV. The computer, its RAM memory, the hard disk memory, any tangle of wires in the vicinity and, often, the Internet are all just "the computer." Words like reboot, program, app and scrollbar have as much meaning to him as Gangsta Rap lyrics in Sanskrit. He dislikes anything that works differently from his first computer, so being able to run two programs at once is a fault, not a feature. Also, his first computer was a PC, so he hates Macs—more intensely, with every update. "It's just like Apple to waste resources on a stupid concept like multitasking."

This is the foundation upon which I am to build a functional IT relationship.

My first approach was to put aliases, buttons and links everywhere thinking that he could activate his favourite programs and websites in any of four ways. This was a mistake. A week later, when I checked in, he had stopped using the computer because it was too slow. There were fifty-seven tabs open on Chrome.

DAD: ...and then there's this cheap aluminium keyboard...

ME: Cheap? Compared to plastic?

DAD: ...it has too many keys.

ME: It's the alphabet, Dad. Same on all keyboards.

DAD: What's with these ef'n keys.

ME: That's "Fn" keys... they're function keys.

DAD: What do they do?

ME: That depends on what you are doing on the computer at the time.

DAD: I'm hitting the damn key, is what I'm doing. Useless. Take them off.

ME: Uh...


It's been tough slogging, but we've made some progress. Not in the IT department—we're no further ahead there—but we've established a routine that ensures the problem gets dealt with as quickly as possible.

DAD: Your crappy computer's busted again. I get some sort of message about errors.

ME: What's on the screen right now.

DAD: Lint.

ME: Is the computer on?

DAD: Yes.

ME: But no picture?

DAD: No. I shut it off.

ME: You shut off the picture? Does that mean the TV-part is off?

DAD: No. That's on. There's a yellow light.

ME: Turn on the computer.

DAD: What do you mean, turn it on. I've got a yellow light.

ME: No, that's just the TV-part. You need to press the button on the box-part. You'll know it's on when you see a blue light.

DAD: Ok. . . . There's a blue light.

ME: Great. What's on the screen.

DAD: Lint.

Silence.

ME: Is the blue light actually lit up, or are you just telling me that you finally spotted it? (Because this is not the first time.)

DAD: It's there. (In Dad-speak, this is adequate confirmation that it's not lit.)

ME: Did you press the "on" button?

DAD: I'm still pressing it.

ME: You've got to let go.

DAD: You never said that.

ME: How have you been turning it on for the past two months?

DAD: I never turned it off.

ME: Is it on now?

DAD: There's a box in the corner and all hell below that. The thing doesn't work anymore and when I press the other thing all I get is crap.

ME: What's that sound?

DAD: I'm trying to make it go.

ME: Is that the mouse clicking? Why is it clicking so much?

DAD: I'm clicking on everything to get it going.

ME: We should go slowly here.

DAD: Are you kidding? It's slow as molasses!

ME: How many windows are open now?

DAD: Windows, boxes, lines... There's junk everywhere.

ME: Is there an error message?

DAD: There was but I clicked it away.

ME: What did it say?

DAD: Something was an error.

ME: Yes, but what?

DAD: I don't know... something about "insufficient."

ME: Memory?

DAD: I don't know. Illegal, invalid, restricted... something, something, "wager not placed" something, something.

ME: Were you playing on an online Casino when it first came up?

DAD: What the hell else does a person do with a computer?

ME: Were you trying to make some sort of bet at the time?

DAD: I don't know. This box came up and I couldn't see the slots anymore. Your crappy computer broke the Internet. I want my old one back.

ME: Your old computer was barely compatible with electricity.

DAD: It worked better than this.

ME: I'll come over.

DAD: Great. Bring a trowel.

ME: Sorry? What?

DAD: One of those gutters you "supposedly" cleaned is clogged again.

ME: I did clean it, Dad. That was 3 years ago.

DAD: You should probably bring a ladder, too. And don't get dirt in my garden.

ME: See you in a few minutes.

DAD: There's a six-pack in the fridge.

At last! A foundation upon which I can build a functional IT relationship.

Cheers!

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A Short Speech for Dad's 80th

Rather than just filing away all the little scripts and speeches that I am forced to write so that my kids can participate in the year-end home schooler's Christmas pageant, friends can turn a year older and their kids can get married and/or graduate, 

I thought I'd start posting them, so that others can adapt them for their own needs. 

Feel free to take and reuse anything that works for you.


Here is the link to the video of this speech: https://youtu.be/Ht6UTryhod4

Life Hack: If you actually use 80 candles on a birthday cake...
the cake will bake during the song.

When my father turned 80, my little sister cajoled me into saying a few words, not because I am the oldest (I am) or the wisest (meh) but because I "like to call myself a writer." 

ME: What?! When I say "I'm calling myself a cab," you don't think I'm a taxi, do you? 

SISTER: You're wasting time.

ME: (sigh!) OK. When is the party?

SISTER: In two weeks.

ME: What?! I'm really busy right now...

SISTER: Doing what?

ME: ........Netflix.

SISTER: He's 80, so keep it short.

Here is that short speech:

It’s a rare man who achieves greatness in his own lifetime. But tonight is my father’s 80th birthday party and so I will talk, instead, of my Dad...

My father has always been gentle, kind, patient and understanding... with the cats. With the rest of us, not so much.

He was a firm-handed father: stern, silent, and we all feared him getting involved in anything because when he spoke his word was law and small incidents could incite large punishments: “You have to change the channels on the TV for a week!” or “Go wash the car!” or “Scratch - my - back!” — which was so unfair, because sometimes my brother really was looking at me! 

Upon occasion, my mother did use the old, “Wait until your father gets home!” and on those days, we’d all sit quietly for hours, soberly dreading the moment Dad returned from work. When he arrived, he'd take his time coming to our room, then he’d tower over us and say something very stern and then let us off with a warning. I was always mortally afraid that he would, but in all the years, he never once spanked us! Which I think is a remarkably progressive thing because at that time, most of my friends were regularly being walloped by their parents. I remember one time he took my brother and I to the coat closet to give us “the strap.” He made a show of taking off his belt and looked sternly at us for a long moment, then he crouched, smiled and whispered that he was going to play a joke on Mommy and that we should shout out whenever he slapped the coats with his belt. When we returned, fake-crying, to Mom, she was sobbing at the kitchen table. It was hilarious! 

He’s always been a straight-shooter and man of few words so I think it was tough for him whenever he felt that he had to soften a message to spare our feelings. I remember when I was about 12, we were driving home from one of my baseball games and he suddenly decided to give me a “pep” talk: “Not everyone can be a super star. A team needs guys on the bench, as well. It’s called balance.” Until he said it, I hadn’t realized I’d needed a pep talk. My baseball career was not a long one.

When it comes to what he believes is right, he is like a dog with a bone. He’s that one in the crowd who will stand up and say what everyone else is afraid to. And though he’s never really lectured me, I’ve seen him give accounting lessons to the teen-aged cashier at Red Lobster who thought a 10¢ error on the receipt was nothing to worry about. She was one of the most popular girls at my high school, so I was fortunate enough to get to hear, first hand, how much she appreciated that. I've seen him block traffic because the gas station he’d been going to for years would not accept that a half tank in his huge V-8 was like 3 fill-ups of those bean-can imports, and that he should get the free car wash. And, I know that he started and ended a bar fight in Cultus Lake because some guy insulted his father. Sorry Dad, but whenever people insult you, I let it go—but mostly because I would never hit my mother.

Dad was always the type who might go ballistic if you left a light on, but on the other hand usually faced typically stressful situations very calmly. I remember how patient he was while teaching me to drive. The first time he took me out, I think he waited almost six blocks before telling me I was on the wrong side of the road. 

Dad’s a simple man. He loves his family, his friends, his cats, golf, gambling, sports, and movies. I’m sure it’s occurred to him that a movie about family might have killed two birds with one stone and interfered less with his other interests, but he’s never shirked his obligations or complained. Except, maybe, to the cats.

He was a classic, upstanding Dad of the 50’s. He went to work, brought home the bacon, talked little, but always talked straight; but I think the single biggest thing was that he was always there when you needed him. It’s such a simple thing, but a lot of fathers overlook it. When I was growing up, during the 60’s and 70’s, I noticed that a lot of fathers were never there for their kids, and even as a teen I could see the negative effect this had on them. I realized I was lucky because I could rightly assume that if there was ever a problem, my father would be there to pull my ass out of the fire. Of course, rescue always came at a price. But Dad rarely lectured, or told me what I should have done. Mostly, he just repeatedly told me what I had done and how really, really stupid it was. Also, he shook his head a lot. 

But he had our backs: 100% guaranteed. We could afford to be bold. And so, we are.

Children learn a father’s role from their Dads. I truly believe that my brother and I are the fathers we are today, and my sisters married the fine, family-oriented men they married, because of my father. 

He has four children (Tracy, Lindy, Mike and me: Bill.) I am the oldest, and though I have accomplished little… I know that my siblings will eventually catch up. 

My father is not really “Dad” any more. He’s now “Grampy” to eleven grandchildren from ages 23 down to 8, all of whom enjoy “cat-like status” and, consequently, all think he’s pretty cool. My kids think he’s hilarious because he says things like, “you ain’t smart,” which they quote, endlessly. And they even think it’s funny every time he says, “What?!” So they tend to laugh a lot when we visit.

Our family seems to be a rarity: a happy one in which we are all sometimes claustrophobically, irritatingly, painfully close and yet we all still love and respect each other. Dad is undeniably the captain of this family ship and though the course he set may not have been a perfect one, the final destination can not be argued.

Happy birthday, Dad.

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