The Promised Christmas Mystery Tale

It was on Christmas Day that I promised to share our very own Christmas mystery tale, but I was derailed by the great turkey slaughter. I am breathing and eating normally again and the involuntary shudders have abated. I can now share the Christmas tale.

'Twas the night before Christmas and on McLaws Road.....

Nope, sorry, I'm not adept enough at literary adaptations to tell this story in the verse and rhyme of that familiar prose. I'll just give it to you straight.

Mike and I were up late Christmas Eve, as parents often are. In fact, it was the wee hours of Christmas morning before we crawled into bed - about 1:30 a.m. or so. After a wonderfully exhausting Christmas Eve with family, we fell quickly off to sleep.

At 2:21 a.m. I was awakened by the soft tinkling of a bell. I startled, because in spite of the many childhood (and grown up) years of wishing to hear sleigh bells, I never, ever had. I leaped out of bed and padded to the dining room, which is really the entry to the house, and saw that Santa had already arrived. The stockings were stuffed and laying on the table (odd location), the presents were crammed under the tree. While I was tempted to snoop, I did not, believing the 1st glimpse of Santa treasures should be enjoyed by the kiddos in a few hours. I looked to the table one more time and noted the jingle bells knitted to the toes of Adam's and Tanner's stockings. "Hmmm," I thought. "That faint jingle sure sounded like the jingle I recognize from the boys' stockings."

I tottered back to bed and waited for sleep to come. Just as I was drifting off, I heard the soft jangling again and immediately the image came to mind of our beagle-esque dog Mia standing proud as punch on the table top rooting through one of the stockings for the chocolate that Santa surely left. For the 2nd time within in an hour (and, let's face it, probably the 2nd time in the last 25 years), I leapt from bed, this time in terror because Mia is a vomiting dog on the best of days; I surely didn't want her tanking on chocolate and ruining Christmas by up and dying on us. I returned to the dining room and found everything exactly as I'd left it not a half hour before. I looked around for a possible culprit and went back to bed.

I lay there tense and expectant - I knew I didn't imagine the tinkling bell. I don't imagine things (when outside the grip of a particularly entertaining migraine, that is). What could be making that....? There it was again - the tinkling. Just as I cottoned on to the obvious answer and the thought was forming in my head, "Crap! Is it a MOUSE in the stocking? I haven't seen evidence of a mouse since last year...how did a MOUSE find the stockings already?", suddenly, a crashing, clattering thumping shook the walls.

Now, I'd had it -- that was IT!! THAT was no mouse! What the heck was going on?!? I knew that Santa was long gone - I mean, why on earth would he have been lingering on our roof after he'd already dumped the goods? Was Adam trying to psyche us out by playing Santa? Didn't he know his little sisters were firmly in dancing sugarplums territory by this time? With all this running through my head, I shook Mike awake and hollered something at him about someone or something being on the roof.

He grumbled awake just as I thought I heard that faint tinkling again, followed by a "Whummpp!!", again rattling the wall. Sitting up and focusing my senses, I could tell the rattling was the front of the house, not the roof.

Just as Mike leapt out of bed (we had lots of leaping in our life suddenly, truly a disconcerting notion when you're our age) and I shot out from under the covers one last time, it started to dawn on me.

And then I knew. Well, I suspected. And a quick glance out the front window confirmed it.

It was Gertie, the Christmas Goat.

Only, I don't think she was full of good cheer. She looked a little peeved. In fact, I'm fairly certain that her bleak little expressionless face was conveying something along the lines of, "Yo, Dilberts, it's stinkin' cold out here! What the crap kind of Christmas is this? You guys go off for the night, come home visibly fatter, stoke your little fires, crank your little heaters and trundle off to your nice warm beds while I'm stuck out here with these poopin' turkeys, who, excuse me, sleep in their own dung!! Explain to me just what the heck there is to ho, ho, ho about right about now. Oh, I'm sorry - I see you there....whassamatter, did I disturb your slumber? Did I roll you out of your toasty little bed and you had to pitter patter across the chilly cement floor to peer out at the source of the disturbance? Oh, I'm sorry - hate to bug you while I'm FREEZING my furless buns off out here. Yeah, excuse me for fogging up the window there!"

Really, Gertie, where's your Christmas spirit?

Not that I said that to her. Frankly, I was a little rattled by the scalding tongue-lashing so I hurriedly ducked my head behind the door and out of view and turned off the porch light. And then, on Christmas Day, before we left for another day of revelry at Grandma and Grandpa's, Mike rigged a nice, toasty warming lamp on the front porch for Gertie and the turkeys. And we avoided eye contact for a few days, so as not to awaken the sleeping dragon behind those mysterious amber eyes.

And that was our Merry Christmas tale.

Next year, ear plugs.

Love from the farm,
Teri

I Have Flunked Farmer

I have been traumatized and may never be able to eat or write again.

I've tried to write about my present horror twice already this evening and I simply can't. I can't relive the images in my mind, I can't overcome the quease in my tummy, and I can't find the words to adequately describe how I'm feeling. All I can tell you is:

• This sorry state of affairs involves the turkeys that used to roam our farm, and 12 roosters.
  




• No one should ever have to wash a turkey in a bathtub because the creature is too big to fit in a sink.
  




• A turkey should not weigh 37.8 pounds.
  




• A portion of a turkey neck should not weigh more than one pound.





• A pressure-cooked rooster should not forever ruin the savory aroma of rosemary for a person.





• One's 11-yr-old daughter should not delight in a headless rooster flopping around on the ground and should absolutely not command the poor dead rooster to "jump higher!"
  




• The poor dead rooster should not comply to such a tactless command. It shouldn't...it really, really shouldn't. Dear Heavenly Father, could you please tell me why, oh why, dead roosters are capable of leaping on command?





• Finally, one should not find out that one is in fact NOT an unflappable, sturdy farm woman, but is instead an easily traumatized, urpy wuss as a result of one, 3-hr experience on a bright, shiny, sunny winter's day.

Because I can't bring myself to write (or eat) after today's shenanigans, I'm just going to leave you with the below image of our little farm the morning after the first snowfall of the season this year (which occurred in October, but given the frigid weather, is still timely).

Yes, those are my garden remnants you see poking up in the foreground - guess who didn't till under the garden in the fall?

Between my untilled winter garden and my squeamish response to today's carnage, it's official:

I have flunked farmer.

I hope spring will bring the renewal of my farming spirit. And the ability to put food in my mouth once again. And, I hope I can close my eyes tonight without seeing a replay of all the sights and sensations of this afternoon's gut fest.

Love from the farm,
Teri

A True Christmas Tale Teaser

Merry Christmas! We are enjoying a leisurely Christmas Day at Grandma & Grandpa Fraley's house, but I wanted to let you know we have a true, blue middle-of-the-night Christmas mystery story to share.

Right now, though, we're embarking on a Christmas Coma, so I'll share the story next time we meet here. For now, I'll need to decide what to imbibe in/on? Can't think of the right word...the coma has already commenced. Below is the list of choices of food we prepared for Christmas. Mind you there are only 10 people in the house, and 4 of them are under the age of 13:

• 2 hams
• 1 turkey
• 1 pot of green chili
• Couple dozen tamales
• Sausage Queso dip
• Meat & cheese platter (with about 8 cheese varieties)
• 7-layer dip
• Dessert dip (oh, mama...)
• Li'l smokies (no, thank you)
• Chips & salsa
• Chips & dip
• Crackers, crackers, crackers, tortillas, sour cream....
• Ham roll ups
• Dr. Byrd Cake (amazing moist banana bread w/ pineapple)
• Lemon pound cake
• Fudge
• Nut balls (Mexican Wedding Cakes)
• Dipped pretzels
• Beles (Butter, sugar and raspberry preserves - 64 lbs of these 3 ingredients per cookie)
• Pecan sandie-like cookies
• Banana pudding (baked Nilla Wafer variety w/ perfect merengue)
• Peppermint divinity
• Pecan divinity
• Turtles
• Relish tray (hey, don't ever say we're not health conscious)
• Cookie Press Cookies (almond spritzers)
• Toffee
• Spinach artichoke dip
• Guacamole (when the avocados ripen later today)
• 15 cases of soda (I kid you not)

Mom was concerned last night there might not be enough food and was going to make baked beans. We injected her with a strong sedative and laid her out on the couch for a few hours. She understood.

Anyone else going on the HCG Diet at New Years?

Ok, Christmas mystery post next....after the coma.

Merry Christmas from the farm,
Teri