Hello,

Shirley said to write a Christmas story. And when Shirley says, I write. I think Christmas is over by the time you get this, but I’m writing it before Christmas so just bare with me. And that happens because, unlike ranches, newspapers adjust their schedule for printing on holidays.

Christmas time is a time for friends and families. Kids and grandkids are coming home for Christmas. Neighbors are stopping by to drop off a gift or share a cup of coffee and wish each other well for the season. Santa is greasing up the sleigh and getting the hump out of the back on the old reindeer, and most likely tying up a leg on a new one.

Mrs. Santa is slapping those elves into shape and baking a few sugar cookies.

Kids are scouring the toy catalogs and, if they’re like my grandkids, they are circling nearly every toy on every page. They have ten thousand toys, but every ad that comes on TV, RJ says, “I want that”! And I’ve learned it is easiest to just say “OK”, rather than argue.

And the weather can stand out at Christmas. We would always go up to the folks for Christmas Eve. Go to midnight Mass at six o’clock. We had an innovative parish that could adjust to the times. Then we’d eat roast duck. Why, I don’t know. But I suppose the duck raisers have to make a living too. After supper the gifts would be exchanged, hugs given, jump in the car, or pickup, and head home. Chores to do in the morning.

One year we left Berthold about midnight and only made it a couple miles. I mean she was a white out. People that are pretty sure they can go anywhere in a Dakota blizzard (I’m talking about Gracy and Gage) have never seen a good old fashioned, rip-roaring blizzard. We sat on the road for a couple hours and then crept back into Berthold.

The next day we would go to the One Bar Ranch (Shirley’s folks) for Christmas dinner. After chores of course.

I remember one Christmas when Shirley and I hadn’t been married too long. The relatives didn’t know me well and still liked me. Colleen, Shirley’s little sister thought I was cool. She was right.

Anyway, after dinner, we’re setting around the living room and the office, and Colleen is in charge of handing out gifts. I mean there are twenty-five people and this is quite a project for a little girl.

She, knowing I was cool, was especially excited to see what Santa had gotten me. Well, Grandpa Jack had wrapped up a lump of coal for his favorite son-in-law. When Colleen watched me open it, she just threw a fit. She broke into tears and began screaming, “I hate Santa Claus! I hate Santa Claus!”

Now, things have changed and are still the same. There are still Grandpas and Grandmas, only they are us. Mrs. Santa still slaps the elves around, but she hits Santa once in awhile because he is deaf. Kids are still circling toys and friends and relatives still share suppers and dinners and hugs and kisses and tears of joy.

I hope this Christmas finds you and yours healthy. Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from the Meyers!

Later, Dean

Happy New Year!

I suppose, depending on when you get your paper, you are either getting ready for New Years Eve, or getting over New Years Eve.

I like New Years Eve, but I hate that midnight stuff. Years ago it wasn’t so bad. Dance and visit and just have a grand old time. At midnight everybody whooped and hollered and threw confetti and shook noisemakers and toasted the New Year. Everybody kissed everybody and wished him or her a Happy New Year.

That’s fine and dandy if you are young, but when you spend all year going to bed at eight or nine o’clock, midnight comes awfully late. Alvin used to say that for him, Hollywood Squares (6:30) was late night TV. Last year we made it up to New Hradec. And I’m sure leaning that way again.

But all that talk about hugging and kissing reminded me of a story. I guess it happened down on the river south of Watford. Or north of Grassy Butte.

There was this homesteader who settled on the banks of the Little Missouri. It was a tough life. No neighbors. Just a couple horses, a few cattle, a crippled dog, and a few magpies to keep him company.

One day he noticed an axe hewn log come floating down the river. Since he hadn’t seen anyone for months, this sparked a bit of interest. Figuring he must have a neighbor upstream somewhere, he saddled up Old Brown and headed up river.

He’d ridden a pretty good part of the day when he came across this homestead shack. There was smoke coming out of the stovepipe so he gave a holler and waited. This old boy came out of the cabin and greeted him with a big smile. Invited him in for coffee and some grub. They had a good visit and just after dark, our rancher tightened the cinch on Old Brown and mounted up.

The new homesteader asked what he was doing a week from Saturday. The rancher said he didn’t have any plans, so the homesteader said, “Come on back. I’m having a party that night. There’s going to be a big meal. Then a little drinking. A little dancing. Maybe a little fighting. Then some more dancing. And maybe even a little loving!”

This first old boy hadn’t seen anyone for months, so this excited him. “What shall I bring,” he asked?

“Don’t make too much difference,” said the homesteader, “Just going to be you and me!”

Happy New Year!

Dean