I can't believe that Christmas is almost here!
I have a special shout-out to my friend Matt for passing this heartfelt story on to me. I'm not above posting something that's traveling around the internet and although this might not exactly fit in the format of the Wacky blog, it really got to me.
So - in the time-honored tradition of the Christmas Shoes, here is a Christmas story for 2009.
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Late last week, I was rushing around trying to get some last minute shopping done. I was stressed out and not thinking very fondly of the Christmas season right then. It was dark, cold, and wet in the parking lot as I was loading my car up with gifts that I felt obligated to buy. Then I noticed that I was missing a receipt that I might need later. So mumbling under my breath, I retraced my steps to the mall entrance.
As I was searching the wet pavement for the lost receipt, I heard a quiet sobbing. The crying was coming from a poorly dressed boy of about 12 years old.
He was short and thin. He had no coat. He was just wearing a ragged flannel shirt to protect him from the cold night's chill. Oddly enough, he was holding a hundred dollar bill in his hand.
Thinking that he had gotten lost from his parents, I asked him what was wrong.
He told me his sad story:
He said that he came from a large family. He had three brothers and four sisters. His father had died when he was nine years old. His mother was poorly educated and worked two full time jobs. She made very little to support her large family. Nevertheless, she had managed to skimp and save two hundred dollars to buy her children Christmas presents.
The young boy had been dropped off by his mother, on the way to her second job. He was to use the money to buy presents for all his siblings and save just enough to take the bus home. He had not even entered the mall, when an older boy grabbed one of the hundred dollar bills and disappeared into the night.
"Why didn't you scream for help?" I asked.
The boy said, "I did."
"And nobody came to help you?" I wondered.
The boy stared at the sidewalk and sadly shook his head.
"How loudly did you scream?" I inquired.
The soft-spoken boy looked up and meekly whispered, "Help me!"
I realized that absolutely no one could have heard that poor boy cry for help. So I grabbed his other hundred and ran to my car.
In PA, winter means rain, sleet and snow, all mixed together or at least the threat of said precipitation. That threat creates early releases from work - like today, we're all supposed to go home at 2:30. Drivers freak out, not because it's so rare, but because the winding, curving, hilly roads are almost impassible when it's dry and sunny. Drivers around here have as much chance of successfully navigating those roads as Joe Biden has of successfully navigating a press conference.
In MI, winter means snow. Snow as far as the eye can see and it never ends. Winter also lasts 6 months. Michigan drivers have to drive in straight lines and there are snow plows armed with rock salt. Also, everyone drives huge american made tanks with 4-wheel drive so they don't care about the roads any more than Hillary Clinton cares about New York state.
Along the way, there were pictures of the road through Toledo. Most of them looked just the way I remember from the many times I've driven through Toledo, gotten on 475, and even hit the Ohio Turnpike. As I continued to pull up the images along the way, I discovered a rather disconcerting image.
