IT'S NOT THAT FAR ( Christmas 2025)

“We’re not that far from Bethlehem. where all our hope and joy began. For when our hearts still cherish Him, we’re not that far….”

                                                            -Point of Grace

That night I walked with them.

When rain turned to snow, then back to rain.

 I hurried. And worried. I led them, preferring a warm fire to the gloom. 

  

It was beyond midnight. In the silent hours, when the city slumbered.

I heard their footfalls, behind me. They struggled to match my hurried steps. How did I end up here? Tonight.   

 Fading streetlights, showed our way.  They slowed, when we paused at the corner.

I sighed into the endless shadows. I could be anywhere but here.

“Is it far?” they asked. 

            I stepped into the sole light on the street.  Rain switched to snow once more. She reached for my hand.

And then I knew. At last, in that instant. On that deserted road. 

I Knew.

“No, it’s not far. We’re almost there,” I managed to say.

“Lead on,” she whispered wearily.

                                          

 So, I went before them that night.

Till we reached the place, when rain turned to snow and then to 

nothing, then to stars. 

There were no words.  They vanished into the depths, beyond my sight. 

It was where they longed to be.

                                                  

And as for me.....…I waited in the stillness. Only one light remained. 

Over the place we came to. It shone like a thousand suns.

The night was old. It waned into morning. A morning that was new .

But I was not weary. It had not been far.

                                                 

And Others came, while I kept watch.  

            

There was joy. There was no darkness. Only light.

That wonderful night of nights, when the world was born once more….….

"Once in our world, a stable had something bigger in it that was bigger than our whole world..." -C.S. Lewis

Photographs 2025 Campbell River, B.C. Canada    (Merry Christmas)

      "For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given..." -Isaiah 9:6-7

ISHBELL's SHORTBREAD ...

She was my mother's best friend. For always and forever. She was a talented artist. She had a family. She laughed and believed in the goodness of people. She loved my mother, and my mother counted her as her best friend. My mother fondly called her "Ishbell". She knew my dad. After he was gone, she told me how "Davy" as one in a million, about his generosity and kindness. I only knew him for a short while. Ishbell made him come alive.

My mother was godmother to her daughter, Marie, who became one of my best friends, my "god sister". To this day, Marie and I share a unique bond with each other, a friendship that has lasted through thick and thin. Ishbell gave my mother her the recipe for shortbread one year. Mum made it every year, squishing the tops with silver dragees, then  filling up the glass cookie jar with the  sugar showered rounds. I used to sneak them at midnight knocking off the silver dragees into the sink, pretending  they were marbles... 

                                         

 ISHBELL's SHORTBREAD ( updated with plant butter)

1 pound plant butter (you can use butter), 1 cup brown sugar, 3 3/4 cups flour ( maybe a tad more to get the right consistency of dough) 

"Christmas is the day that holds all time together..." -Alexander Smith

Beat the softened plant butter with the brown sugar till combined like pudding.

Add the flour and combine like pastry.

My mother and Ishbell were  so good for each other. So good for us.  She spent many Christmas evenings at our house, by the fire, listening to me dutifully scraping away at carols on the violin, then playing the same ones on the piano. "Wonderful, dear," she'd say encouragingly, no matter how I sounded. 

Combine dough well, and press into an ungreased, lined, cookie sheet. I used foil, because I ran out of parchment paper. Works just as well. 

Bake at 325 for about 12 minutes, for the first half of baking.

Score the hot shortbread into rectangles, or squares. Place back into oven and bake till brown and baked through. About another 8 or 9 minutes. I just keep an eye on it and lift up a piece to see if it's baked through.

It was always exciting when Ishbell and her family came over. She told stories with my mother, sipped sherry, and munched on fruitcake and shortbread. 

Lovely, sweet lady. I can still see her,in later years, long after mum was gone, surrounded by paintings, drawings, sketches, cards, and wonder. She  was full of wonder and grace. She still called me "dear". I can still hear her soft voice saying "Wonderful, dear..". But she was the dear one, for always and ever....

       "At Christmas, all roads lead home..." -Marjorie Holmes

Photographs 2025   "Ishbell's Shortbread" For Marie.......

                                                  
                                   

          ( "Ishbell" with her daughter.)     Mum walking on Government Stret, Victoria B.C. 1940's

MY PRIZE FIGHTER ( Christmas story 1967)

“A time for Christmas. For Light has come into  this world. That is our journey…” 

My father was a resilient person. He’d weathered much. Worked hard. Lived much.  He was my hero. I thought he’d always be there. In a way he always has.  His never left me.

December 1967 my mother brought him home . For the last time. For the best Christmas ever.

I was only seven, but I remember her chopping wood, late into the night, so the fire would burn long on the hearth. The days were damp and soggy. Cold and unforgiving. And she brought him home for Christmas. It was a wonderful time. Though, to some, it may not have been. But to us,  it was.

Christmas Day the stereo played his favourite carols. He sat in the great chair, trying to sing, but the words would not come. But he felt them.

We didn’t have a lot of money. Lived on the small paycheck my mother made  by being a seamstress. Nevertheless, she made sure there was Christmas dinner with all the trimmings.  I can still smell the pungent scent of sage stuffing wafting through the house. She’d had her hair styled in a huge blonde beehive that stretched into infinity.

My father’s chair was set close to the fire, so he could enjoy the warmth. His eyes watched the flames lick at the dry wood, as we listened to it snap and crackle, like rice Krispies cereal.

My mother spent a huge portion of her earnings on a beautiful dressing gown. She wanted my father to have the best gift ever. Maroon satin, with velvet collar, velvet tie and  fabric stitched through with brown velvet lines. He looked like a fancy prize fighter. That’s what my mother said.

She was genuinely happy. She said it was Christmas, no matter what. It would always be Christmas. As it should always be.

I liked to run my hands over the soft collar of his Christmas dressing gown. He would try to smile and hum to the carols. I told  him it was okay. I would sing them for him. He  wiggled his finger at me, which was our way of communicating. I’d wiggle my finger back at him and giggle. My mother took photos of us that day. Four of them. Ones I keep  in a special place. 

Our  cat lay on the hearth getting toasty warm, as my Mother rattled about in the kitchen. The cat purred. My father dozed, as I sat with him. It was in the quiet  that we seemed to best understand each other.

My father didn’t really eat much of dinner.  We sat by the fire. My mother had set the table with all of her best antique chine. The china I use, to this day, when friends come over. But  he decided to stay in the big chair , so we brought plates over from the table to sit with him.  

I caught him  looking at my mother. And she at him. Their eyes locked in some silent thought. Something meant just for the two of them.

My mother cleaned up the dishes. The carols played, and the cat purred, and the fire flapped in the darkened room, as night fell.

We must have stayed in the Christmas quiet till the fire burned low. It was the best Christmas ever. I know that sounds strange. But it was.

My father was  my hero. He showed me how to be strong.  He died three months later. March 26 1968. My mother , strong willed as he was, passed away exactly twenty  years later, on March 26, 1988.

It was exactly how they had  dreamt of it, I imagined. I found his Christmas dressing gown in the closet , when I cleared out the house. I ran my hands over the velvet lapels. Just for a moment. To remember.  He  had only worn it that one time. 

 He taught me about finding great joy. My prize fighter.

 “While the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for Joy..” -Job 8:7

Photographs 2023

LIVER 1958 for COUSIN BOB

"Christmas is doing a little extra something for someone..."

                                                                                - Charles M. Schulz (Creator of Peanuts )

Cousin Bob made a surprise visit to my parents, one day late November 1958.  He  carried a folding metal chair. He placed it down in the kitchen, dusted it off and sat down. The metal scraped against  his long key chain. He was also carrying an accordion case.  He slid it into the kitchen. My mother stared at the box.  Then looked at my father who hid behind the newspaper. 

  "I've been taking lessons the past couple of years," boomed Cousin Bob.  He was loud. And happy.  My mother was at a loss.  My father lit two cigarettes and  alternated each one. Cousin Bob mopped his head. The chair groaned under him.

He told my mother he brought his own chair this time. Last visit was four years before. Being a large man of substantial proportions he had broken my mother's antique settee chair with the curved back. She spent months gluing it back together. She tried to send him the bill. He sent her a pair of slippers.

Now Cousin Bob was parked in her kitchen, sitting on a folded chair.  It didn't look too strong.  My mother looked at my father,  who purposely  smoked furiously and peeked over his newspaper.

My mother offered Cousin Bob a large glass of sherry.  His eyes lit up like an owl. He thanked her kindly  and sipped  at the beverage that was ice cold from living in the fridge.It was her cooking sherry but he enjoyed that sherry like it was the finest vintage.

Cousin Bob unpacked his accordion and harmonica that he attached around his head.  He said he would play some tunes while waiting for dinner. He was going to warm up with a glissando. My mother stuck her head in the fridge, trying to figure out what to feed him. 

"A glissando is a glide from lower to higher key," said Cousin Bob, oblivious to my mother's rummaging. "It goes like this..." He demonstrated. My mother jumped.  My father stamped out a cigarette and started another.

"Liver!" My mother brought out a packet and waved it at Cousin Bob. "Oh how nice," he said in between  chords. " I love liver," he bellowed.

That was supposed to be my father's dinner. He scowled. at Cousin Bob.  My mother hauled out onions and  a jar of homemade pickled beets.  Cousin Bob nodded enthusiastically. He played carols . Lots of them.  He hummed along over the din. My mother fried up liver and onions. My father scowled some more. But not too fiercely. The tunes were familiar and  catchy.

Cousin Bob finished playing twelve Days of Christmas for what seemed like the fifth time. He stashed the accordion under the table.  My mother plopped down a huge plate of liver and onions in front of him. He asked for ketchup. He used up whatever was left . My parents watched him eat their dinner.

 After Cousin Bob finished everything on his plate, he burped at last twenty times. My mother told me years later, she actually counted his burps. She placed in front of him  a small leftover Xmas cake, from a few years ago. Her last one. She kept it in the freezer and hacked off slices as was needed. Cousin Bob  drank a huge mug of tea. He ate what was left of the fruitcake, and said it was the best meal ever.

My mother sighed. She asked Cousin Bob to play  more carols. She sang  along. In her tuneless , offkey voice, drowned out by the instrument. My father  tapped his foot. Cousin Bob beamed. He only stopped once to ask what they would be serving  Christmas Eve......

Photographs 2023