The Time That Was

When I was living three provinces away in Halifax eight or nine years ago, my parents sent me a book during the holidays called Home for Christmas. There's a poem in it I keep returning to. Christmas strikes a deep nostalgia in me because I am lucky enough to carry happy memories from childhood. We'd tromp through tree farms with my dad and help him cut down a specially chosen spruce. On Christmas Eve, my sister and I read Clement C. Moore aloud and couldn't get to sleep. We were scared that if we didn't, Santa wouldn't come. (Actually, I think I was scared of Santa Claus himself -- of actually seeing him. Or maybe I was scared of not seeing him?) In the morning we felt delightful lumpiness at our feet where our stockings lay on the bed.
My dad also smoked a pipe.


THE TIME THAT WAS
Robert B. Richards

Lights with circuit-breakers wait on shelves.
Our puss is neutered and she has no claws;
Ask us why, we'll tell you it's because
We don't want cat or kids to harm themselves.

A purring clock accumulates its twelves;
Come the time, there'll be no pregnant pause
Before angelic chimes cascade; no laws
Say Christmas is for either Christ or elves.

But, oh, there was a time this time was ripe
And real, and rife with, yes, both love and joy;
Santa tamped tobacco in his pipe
And Jesus was no ordinary boy
But mad with love for sods like you and me
And dangerous candles on a living tree.

Thinking about blogs, I've questioned whether they are a suitable outlet for me. I'm a bit old fashioned, in that I sometimes worry computers filter out the soul in everything. Hypocritically, I use my laptop daily, sometimes to excess. I don't really believe anything can take the soul out of anything else, unless you let it. I'm going to give this a shot.