I will admit, one of my favorite holiday classics was written by vet, writer, and cowboy classic, Baxter Black.  Merry Christmas: 

RUDOLPH’S NIGHT OFF

‘Twas the night before Christmas
and Rudolph was lame!
The vet from the North Pole said,
“Footrot’s to blame.

I’ll give him some sulfa,
it’s the best I can do
But stall rest is needed
the next week or two.”

“Great Scott!” cried old Santy,
he turned with a jerk,
“I won’t git through
Pierre if my headlights don’t work!

On Interstate 40
I’ll surely get fined
And lost in Montana if
I’m flying blind!”

“No cop in his right mind
would give any clout
To a geezer who claimed
that his reindeer went out!

“He gathered the others,
ol’ Donner and Blitzen,.
Were any among ‘em
whose nose was transmitzen?

They grunted and strained
and sure made a mess
But no noses glowed brightly
or ears luminesced.

“It’s bad luck in bunches,”
cried Santy, distressed,
“We’ll fly Continental,
the Red Eye Express!”

“I’ll just check the schedule,”
he put on his glasses
When up stepped ‘ol Billy,
the goat from Lampasasas.

He shivered and shook
like a mouse on the Ark
But his horns were a beacon…
They glowed in the dark!

Santy went crazy! He asked,
“Why?” with a smile”
I just ate a watch
with a radium dial!

Where I come from in
Texas we don’t have thick hide
My skin is so thin
it shines through from inside.”

“If that’s true then let’s feed him!”
cried Santy with glee”
Gather everything burnin’
and bring it to me!

“So Billy ate flashbulbs
and solar collectors,
Electrical eels and
road sign reflectors,

Firecracker sparklers,
a Lady Schick shaver
And Lifesavers,
all of em’ wintergreen flavor,

Jelly from phophorescellous fish,
Day Glow pizza in a glittering dish,
Fireflies and candles
and stuff that ignites,

Then had him a big bowl
of Northering Lights!
He danced on the rug
and petted the cat

And after he’d finished and done all of that
To store up the static ‘lectricity better
They forced him to eat
two balloons and a sweater!

When he opened his mouth,
light fell on the floor,
Like the fridge light comes on
when you open the door!

His Halloween smile
couldn’t be better drawn
When he burped accidently,
his high beams kicked on!

“Hitch him up!” cried ol’ Santy,
and they went on their way.
I remember that Christmas
to this very day

The sky was ablaze
with the stars shining bright.
They were shooting and falling
all through the night.

And I realize now,
though my fingers are crossed,
What I really was seein’…
was ol’ Billy’s exhaust!
                            -Baxter Black

I’m typing this at 37,000 feet, well, 37,002 to be precise, as I pass over Cheyenne, Wyoming.

Well, in truth, it is Carr, Colorado, not Cheyenne.

How do I know this?  Because I’m sitting at my laptop, after eating a hot breakfast, on a plane that now comes with internet connection.  Who would have guessed?

In my short thirty-five years, it is staggering to think of where modern technology has gotten us.  About ten years ago, I was lamenting the fact that I’d been forced to get a cell phone and the joys of distance was suddenly gone – no more long drives to think, now humanity could reach you almost anywhere.

It used to be that on a plane, there were no electronics – then you could use them in flight.  Now I’m sending emails, updating Facebook postings, and yes, even typing and posting this, all from 37,002 feet in the air.

You only have to go to my parent’s generation when flying was still a wonder – a luxury, not a seeming right.  Go back to my grandmother, and she was born about the same time that Wilbur and Orville were doing their experiments at Kitty Hawk, North Carolina.

Now we can cross the country at 653 miles per hour.

Let’s step even a little farther back, two thousand years or so, to the plains of Judea.  The vast majority of people were not only poor, but probably struggling to survive.  They lived under the boot of the mightiest empire on earth (Rome).  Warfare, death, disease, and hunger were constants.

Until a babe was born on the plains of Bethlehem.

He was born into a world of need.  A dark place of sin, of cold, of lonliness and pain.  A world that was ill prepared for his coming.

It is amazing how far we have come since then.  But many of the spiritual, emotional, and societal ills that existed still exist, but now are multiplied or made worse by the very technology that has propelled us thus far.

With all of our advances, we still have pain, emptiness, hunger, and while we don’t live in abject material poverty, many people live in as large, if not worse, societal, mental, and spiritual poverty.

We will in a world that is ill prepared for Christmas.  Wars still rage.  People hunger.  We aren’t ready.

But like 2000 years ago, he comes anyway.  In a few days we will celebrate His birth and His coming – for He still comes to the hearts that will recieve Him.

From 37,001 feet above sea level, somewhere between Oshkosh and Hemming, Nebraska – willing you a fruitful last few days of Advent.

 At this point, we had gone on for about twenty hours of Thanksgiving celebrations, wine tasting, eating, merry making, and other good natured fun, with about five hours of sleep thrown in for good measure.

I was tired.

But we still had about an hour on the van, and being good frugal people, we wanted to get our monies worth, so we added one more stop on the agenda.

The last winery we were told is one of the best kept secrets in the Swan Valley (thought I’d argue that the Mann winery was one of the best kept).

Driving down the driveway with vineyards on either side of us, we were met at the end by a quonset hut on one side and an open air, stand alone veranda on the other.

The quonset was where they stored their equipment, the open air, covered veranda was where the wine and cheese were housed.  In the heat of the day, the shade provided under the mighty Western Australian timbers was welcome, as was the breeze that seemed to be blowing from off the ocean some twenty miles away and rustled through the vineyard and swirled through the open bar.

Under two big trees, a few twenty something girls sat in the shade, sipping wine and no doubt talking about boys and dreams.

The girls in our group dive into this last winery of the day.  Us guys have had enough.  A few of us grab the first white that is served, cool and refreshing, and retreat to a wide open space on the back of the tasting building.  From there, we discussed history, farming, Western Australia, wineries and breweries.

Soon, we were all ready to head back into town. 

The van pulled up outside of the hotel, and the debate ensued – what now?

It was five o’clock, we were tired, we were exhausted, and we had dinner plans in three hours – what to do.  There were two schools of thought, the first was, take a little time, rest, recharge, and meet again in about two hours.  The second was, lets all go over to the place where we had celebrated Thanksgiving (since half the group was already staying there) hang out, visit, and enjoy the evening air of Perth.

I was decidedly in the first camp, but decided to go with the flow.

And I’m glad that I did.

While I’m a normal introvert, I enjoy a good conversation.  For the next two hours, we enjoyed water, diet coke, cheese, crackers, and a few other delicies, while having engaging discussion about everything from religion and politics to history, travel.

In no time at all, it was time for supper – we walked down the main street of Leederville, careful not to lose the girls in any of the funky shops that lined the streets (the 1970′s are not dead, they only moved to fringe stores in Leederville outside of Perth).

Over a good meal of calamari (think squid parts, fried, and tasty) a lone beer, and diet coke, and continuing good conversation, we were, for lack of a better term, pooped.

We got a ride back to our hotel.  A good day done. 

 With some insistence, one of the girls said that there was a winery that we just had to go to.  It was small and a bit off the beaten track, but we were assured that she had heard from a friend of a friend that it was worth it.

Sean, our ever trusty driver, was sceptical.

We were turning up and down some seemingly little trails that pasted for roads, past fields of table grapes and wineries.  Even if we were hopelessly lost, it was a good place to look out the window and enjoy being hopelessly lost at.

Suddenly, the road we were at dead ended into a little yard with a little neat, elegant house, and a shed that had a simple winery sign out front.

I will admit, we did circle the yard just once, driving by the winery building, because it certainly did not seem to be a winery at all, just a shed – thank goodness for the sign.

Walking in, what the other wineries of the day had in elegance and sophistication, this one trumped with sheer simplicity, and a wonderful sense of understated grace.  The walls were simple brick.  The floor was wide, rough planking, the upper area, where we had walked in, was in truth the loft of the building, being built into a hill – you actually walked in on the second level.  The loft overlooked the simple production floor below where the tools of the trade, the simplest tools of the trade were strewn about.  From a rough hewn table, almost out of sight, was a television playing a cricket match.

The owner met us as we walked in the door, coming up the stairs from the production area below.  He shook our hands and welcomed us to his winery.

He only made two wines, old family favorites.  He told us that he had spent his life in the vineyards and the wineries and this was his retirement project.  He had helped the builders lay the bricks and place the beams and crosspieces.

In his vineyard, he had some of the rarest cuttings available – years of work had shown him to protect some of the odd shoots.  A good wine is made from a uniformed vineyard, but sometimes, the strays in a vineyard could create something magnificent.

On the walls hung pictures.  The first one that struck me was a series of cricket pictures that hung on the wall, some old, some newer.  Above them was the name of the winery – Mann’s Wines.  On the cricket pictures, each of them had one common name, though they seemed generations apart…Mann.

I didn’t catch the name of the owner when I came in, but it was clear now.  This was Tony Mann.  Son of the wine making legend, legendary cricket player, and whose son is earning a name for himself in the wine industry.  The pictures on the wall were three generations of one WA’s finest in wine and cricket.

Shane, the local among us started asking questions about some of the other pictures on the wall – most of them of local celebrities.

We tasted the wine – and it was very good (as you would expect the family favorite of one of Western Australia’s foremost wine families’ to be).  We bought a couple of bottles and headed for the door.

I will admit, of everyplace we stopped for the day, this was my favorite – simple, solid, earthy, but steeped in history.  And I’m not talking about the wine.

 I want to speak for a minute about our driver, Sean.  He was a quiet man that didn’t say much.  I think I irritated him by constantly opening the door and helping people out – it was kind of his job, but to be quiet honest, I’m not much for having someone open doors for me.  He was ready to go whenever we needed him.  When he said something, when he gave advice, you knew it was worth it….

“You know girls, this is the third winery that you have visited.  What about a brewery for the lads?” He chimed in as we were leaving Sittella.

Sean was good. Sean was very good.

So our next stop was the very aptly named, “Feral Brewing Company.”

How should one describe the Feral Brewing Company?  It looked like an authentic looking Australian outback pub with rough boards, tin roof, big timber benches and tables, a big veranda, and cattle misters….

Yeah, cattle misters, for the heat.

Oh yes, and it was plunked down in the middle of wine country.

And the people, well, they were mainly feral…except us….

We walked in and us guys were in heaven, this is what Australia should be like, a good outback pub with good beer, sunshine, and warmth.

Then the first group of women walked in. Slightly intoxicated.  Scantily clad.

OK, this is what Australia should be like….

And it only got more interesting from there.

The group of us grabbed a seat outside under an old gum tree.  Three women and me on one side facing the parking lot, the three other guys facing back towards the big extending veranda.

From my vantage point, I got to see the first of the hen’s parties (bachelorette parties) leave for their bus, alcohol in hand, stumbling through the parking lot.  It was humorous.

Just as they were boarding and getting ready to go, another bus, this one filled with mixed gendered people in full costumes – from Mickey Mouse to Shrek, from Wonder Woman to the Incredible Hunk – all seeming to have already had more than a few stops under their belt.

How would I draw this conclusion?

Well, for starters, Mickey Mouse fell down at one point and had to be helped back up.

And the Incredible Hunk mooned the bus that carried the hen’s party.

The group proceeded to move to the veranda behind us, so being the gentleman that I am, promptly moved to the opposite side of the table to keep eye on the ladies to make sure that if they needed any help, I would be there.

That and we don’t believe that Tinker Bell was wearing underwear.

And we were quite certain that something was going to come out of the mermaid dancing on the tables.

But when the call came to help, we were behind the Australian Rules Football team that in a not so gentlemanly fashioned heaved Wonder Women back off the ground and onto the veranda by some parts of her body that in a non intoxicated state she probably wouldn’t appreciate.

This was the perfect Australian bar.

But nothing lasts for ever, and soon we were off to another winery.

O Shopping Mall! O Shopping Mall!
Thy crowds are overwhelming;
O Shopping Mall! O Shopping Mall!
Thy crowds are overwhelming;
Not only pushing, grumpy, rude
But also narly, nasty and crude.
O Shopping Mall! O Shopping Mall!
Thy crowds are overwhelming.

O Shopping Mall! O Shopping Mall!
Much pain thou can’st give me;
O Shopping Mall! O Shopping Mall!
Much pain thou can’st give me;
Why do I wait, ‘til eleventh hour
And by the crowds am cowered.
O Shopping Mall! O Shopping Mall!
Much pain thou can’st give me.

O Shopping Mall! O Shopping Mall!
The madness overwhelms me;
O Shopping Mall! O Shopping Mall!
The madness overwhelms me;
If you are going to stand in the checkout line,
Don’t take a call, and cause a bind,
O Shopping Mall! O Shopping Mall!
The madness overwhelms me.

O Shopping Mall! O Shopping Mall!
Is this the spirit of Christmastide?
O Shopping Mall! O Shopping Mall!
Is this the spirit of Christmastide?
To push, and prod, and buy, and charge
To yell, and curse, and pull, and barge,
O Shopping Mall! O Shopping Mall!
Ready or not here I cometh.

 Sittella looked promising. Largely because of the large number of seemingly single women that seemed to be congregating outside of the place.

While we were fearful that we may not get a place to eat, we were on the one hand lucky – we got a place immediately, unlucky because we didn’t get one outside.

At this point, everyone was suffering a bit, I believe, from a little bit of exhaustion, a little bit of dehydration, and a little bit of old fashioned hair of the dog.  And we were hungry.

We ordered food and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I know this now, but at the time, as hungry as I was, I don’t think that I noticed.  But what I did notice was the value of good conversation.  We had a table of pretty interesting people.  Interesting people with interesting stories, that grew up in interesting places, that had met some interesting people.

There was the guy that grew up in the great expanse of Western Australia, with a background on the farm and on the city.  That knew the ins and outs of the weather, of the agricultural systems, of the tourists areas, of the great expanse called the outback.  And he had travelled outside of Western Australia too.

There was the guy that had been to the wedding with a Hollywood celebrity – one with bad body odor, a taste of the wild life, who liked to hang out in the local bars (wedding in Mexico) and didn’t mind doing dishes when their wallets were AWOL.

There was the guy who was born in Pittsburgh, raised in New Jersey, went to school at one of the elites, and worked in Arkansas, before going back to grad school, getting a different job, and ended up in Singapore.

Then there was me.  I grew up pulling milking cows.

When the meal finally came, it was satisfying.

But not half as satisfying as the conversation.

 As much as any of us kids enjoyed school, we did look forward to the winter break.  That time that hit right before Christmas and lasted on through New Year was a bit of a magical time, but it also began on a high note – the annual Christmas party.

At St. Mike’s, it was an annual tradition, that last day of class before the Christmas – note I said Christmas and not ‘Holiday’ – break meant the annual Christmas party.  It was quite the deal.

First of all there was the annual gift exchange.  You would put your name into a hat and every one would take turns drawing out a name.  Who ever you drew, you would have to buy a gift for.  For some of us, it was a terrifying prospect – it was our first real encounter with buying a girl a gift.  Luckily at that age (under twelve), diamonds and jewery were substituted by My Little Ponies and Barbie accessories.  As for the guys, a Stomper or assortment of Matchbox cars would do the trick.

Of if you knew who you were shopping for, even a toy tractor would be a special gift.

Then there was the matter of food.  Each family was expected to participate with food throughout the year, some would be assigned to each of the respective parties through the year (Halloween and Christmas being the two big ones).  Which meant for our class of ten, we were guaranteed at least five different cookies, candy, and cake.

There was also the teacher’s gift.  This was always a delicate issue.  Our teachers at St. Mike’s were not overpaid…ok, they made a fraction of what their counterparts at the public school made, but they did what they did out of love.

How do you repay something like that?

Some people did nothing.  Maybe an occasional apple.  Maybe a pen and pencil set.  Mom did things differently.  I think she figured that if they had to put up with her children, she should compensate for all of the pain and suffering.

Maybe she just knew that all of them – Sr. Rosella, Sr. Baptist, Mrs. LaVoi, Ms. Slawson, Mrs. Speath, Mrs. Offerdahl – were just special people that gave their all to make sure that the children in their charge got a darn (didn’t learn that word at St. Mike’s) good education.

One year it was a nice little plaque.  One year it was a homemade Christmas decoration (a red and green croqueted boot with candy canes).  One year it was a box of baking.

Then, there was the highlight – Santa Claus.  It happened more in the first couple of years at my time at St. Mike’s where Santa Claus would grace our school.  It was strange as a child that Jolly Old Saint Nicholas would bear such a striking resemblance to our principal, Sister Baptist – same height, same build, same glasses, same voice – and it was hard to believe that that five foot tough as nails nun that wasn’t afraid of going toe to toe with six grade boys and dragging them into the bathroom to wash their mouths out with soap might be related somehow, someway to the man at the north pole.

Guess it must be one of those Christmas miracles.

 Back on the van, we were down the road to our next stop, Houghton’s Winery.  One of the oldest in the Swan Valley, there was a touch of elegance as we drove up.  It was particularly interesting to us gentlemen, who were quick to notice the large group of young, good looking females partaking in the wine tasting.

We tasted a few of the wines, but I will admit my eyes…I mean thoughts…were elsewhere, and I had a hard time concentrating on the wines.  After a few tries, I wandered the shop where you could get a wide display of various gifts and souvenirs.  Being a man that likes to read, I browsed with interest a book on the famous wine maker from Houghton’s, a man named Jack Mann who served as the chief wine maker from 1930 to 1974.  He actually took over from his father who served in that capacity from 1922 to 1930.

You could say that wine was in his blood.

Then, not wanting more grog (i.e. wine), I headed for the old wine cellars that doubled as a museum to see the ancient wine presses, the old bottlers, and read more about the history that seemed to revolve around the passion and presents of Jack Mann – many of the innovations of the Australian wine industry seemed to start with Mr. Mann.

Soaking in both the wine and history, a rest was in order, and I proceeded to the picnic tables where most of the men of our party sat in what little shade was afforded to us by the vines that covered the awning that covered the dining area.

As the women folk continued to drink and shop, we discussed farming, wine, and with Shane, the local, we learned the ins and outs of the local culture, history, and weather phenomena that exists in Western Australia.

It is a fascinating place.

With the women joining us after their full flight of wines, there was much oowww’ing and aahhh’ing over the flowers – and flowering trees – that graced the property, with small family groups enjoying picnic lunches under the biggest of the majestic of these kings of local vegetation.

As we headed for the door, I noted with a mixture of both excitement, and disappointment since we were leaving, another group of young ladies making their way to the entrance.

Such is life.

With the wise counsel of our van driver Sean and the decision making of the fine ladies in the van we were off for lunch to our third winery of the day, Sittella.

(Tom Jirik wrote columns in several newspapers in Iowa from the late 1980’s to the mid 1990’s.  This column originally appeared in the The Boone Today in December, 1989)

Mary used both hands to set a gigantic pile of cards on the table in front of me.  “These are yours,” she announced.  “And don’t wait until the last minute.” She warned sternly.  The date was Dec.14, the first day of Christmas.

On the second day of Christmas, a Saturday, I drove to Des Moines to shop for that perfect gift for my true love.  I knew exactly what she wanted and knew exactly where to find it.  The store was sold out.  I spent the rest of the afternoon bumbling around the malls trying to think of an alternative gift.

“That evening, we celebrated a “Mexican Christmas” with friends.  Tacos and margaritas brightened my mood.

On the third day of Christmas (in the morning especially) I vowed never to visit Mexico for Christmas.  Later in the day we found the perfect tree at the Ho-Ho-Holt Tree Farm near Stratford.  We put it in the stand and called it a day.

On the fourth day of Christmas, I received a lecture about finishing my Christmas cards from my spouse, who noted that she mailed hers days ago.

In the pre-dawn darkness of the fifth day of Christmas, I was blasted out of bed by “It’s a Heavy Metal Holiday” playing on the clock-radio.  The night before I had set the alarm to go off early so I could get to the office and make some progress on those end-of-the-year projects.  I went to work at 6 a.m. And returned home at 9 p.m.  Happy Holidays.

On the sixth day of Christmas we finally found the time to decorate our tree.  Where are all those needles on the floor coming from?  We celebrated a quiet Christmas at home that evening because we would be cavorting with relatives in Minnesota during the real holiday.  It was very nice.

On the seventh day of Christmas, Mary asked if I had finished my Christmas cars yet.  “Oh, yes,” I lied.

“You’re lying,” she replied.

On the eighth day of Christmas we realized that in just 24 hours we would be leaving for the holidays.  We ran around frantically for about an hour, packing and cleaning.  Then we gave up and watched Christmas specials on TV.  Mary didn’t mention my cards and neither did I.

On the ninth day of Christmas, a Saturday, I spent the day packing while Mary spent the day at work.  I mailed the last of my Christmas cards.  For the first time ever, we left at 5 p.m. And exactly on schedule.  At 5:30 we returned to Boone to get the checkbook.

On the tenth day of Christmas, we arrived at our first holiday destination, Detroit Lakes, Minn., at 2 a.m. To visit with Mary’s parents.  How were the roads?  We spent the day recuperating.

We spent Christmas Eve, the 11^th day of Christmas, in Mahnomen.  It was a mere 35 mile trip.  My whole family was there.  Lots of presents.  Lots of laughing.  Lots of chaos.  Lots of fun.  At 10 p.m. We left for our next destination.  Minneapolis is only four hours away.

We spent the 12^th day of Christmas with Mary’s family in Savage, a suburb of Minneapolis.  Most of the family was there.  Lots of presents.  Lots of laughing.  Lots of chaos.  Lots of fun.  At 6 p.m. We headed back to Boone.  Only four more hours of travel.

The sky is dark and the streets are quiet when we get back to Boone.  Mary is snoring in the seat next to me.

“Merry Christmas, Boone,” I think to myself.  “I hope your Christmas was a happy, hectic, exasperating and exciting as ours was.”

I can’t wait for next year.