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What inspires you as you enter a word-filled new year? Do you find it helpful to set goals and make resolutions?
When I was growing up, and well into my adulthood, my mom always served ham salad sandwiches on Christmas Eve. It was a tradition and not one that I particularly liked. Whoever heard of a ham salad Christmas?
After my grandparents had all passed away and mom continued to serve the sandwiches, I finally asked her why. I never expected the special story that she shared with me on that Christmas Eve night.
Mom’s family had little money. They lived in an upper flat just a block away from the railroad tracks. Freight trains traveled that line connecting Chicago and Milwaukee, and the boxcars often carried stowaways. Bums, they were called back then. Hobos.
Around suppertime on one cold Christmas Eve, the doorbell rang at my mother’s house. My grandfather answered it and found a “hobo” standing on the front porch. The man was dirty and cold, and he asked if he could have some food. My grandmother had just made ham salad for their Christmas Eve supper. It was the best my mother’s family could afford, and Grandma made it special. She ground the ham with a hand-cranked meat grinder, added homemade mayonnaise, a little pickle relish and a good dash of pepper. She was just about to spread it on slices of homemade buttered bread when the doorbell rang. Not wanting anyone to go hungry on Christmas Eve, Grandma packed a brown paper sack with several ham salad sandwiches and gave it to Grandpa. Mother remembered that the man smiled broadly when Grandpa handed him the sack, and Grandpa tucked several one-dollar bills into the man’s pocket, too – money that my grandparents really couldn’t spare.
If you are reading this, you most likely have a computer, a warm house, and are anticipating a Christmas Eve supper filled with good things to eat. As you celebrate, don’t forget the ham salad sandwiches. Many people are poor or homeless this year. Will you spare some “ham salad” for them?
I wish all of my readers a peaceful Christmas filled with joy. I’ll see you back here the first week in January.
“Dickens began writing his "little carol" in October, 1843 finishing it by the end of November in time to be published for Christmas with illustrations by John Leech. Feuding with his publishers, Dickens financed the publishing of the book himself, ordering lavish binding, gilt edging, and hand-colored illustrations and then setting the price at 5 shillings so that everyone could afford it. This combination resulted in disappointingly low profits despite high sales. In the first few days of its release the book sold six thousand copies and its popularity continued to grow. The first and best of his Christmas Books, A Christmas Carol has become a Christmas tradition and easily Dickens' best known book.” (copyright © 1997-2011 David A. Perdue)
“Thanksgiving is the holiday of peace, the celebration of work and the simple life... a true folk-festival that speaks the poetry of the turn of the seasons, the beauty of seedtime and harvest, the ripe product of the year - and the deep, deep connection of all these things with God.”
‘What hast got in that basket, lazy hound?'
'Grip, Grip, Grip--Grip the clever, Grip the wicked, Grip the knowing--Grip, Grip, Grip,' cried the raven, whom Barnaby had shut up on the approach of this stern personage. 'I'm a devil I'm a devil I'm a devil, Never say die Hurrah Bow wow wow, Polly put the kettle on we'll all have tea.'
'Take the vermin out, scoundrel,' said the gentleman, 'and let me see him.'Barnaby, thus condescendingly addressed, produced his bird, but not without much fear and trembling, and set him down upon the ground; which he had no sooner done than Grip drew fifty corks at least, and then began to dance; at the same time eyeing the gentleman with surprising insolence of manner, and screwing his head so much on one side that he appeared desirous of screwing it off upon the spot . . .
'Bring him along,' said the gentleman, pointing to the house. But Grip, who had watched the action, anticipated his master, by hopping on before them;--constantly flapping his wings, and screaming 'cook!' meanwhile, as a hint perhaps that there was company coming, and a small collation would be acceptable.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door --
Only this, and nothing more."
Best-selling Books Repeatedly Rejected by Publishers
Auntie Mame, (rejected 15 times)
Jonathan Livingston Seagull (18)
Chicken Soup for the Soul (140)
Kon-Tiki (20)
Harry Potter (9)
Lorna Doone (18)
M*A*S*H* (21)
Carrie (30)
Gone With the Wind (38)
A Wrinkle in Time (26)
Read more about it.
When Linda Atkinson opened the front door, an overwhelming stench rushed past her; animal feces, rotting food, the unmistakable scent of mildew and mold. Slowly, carefully, she edged sideways through the narrow path in her aunt’s living room. Boxes packed with who-knows-what, stacked floor to ceiling, thrown precariously atop one another, blocked any light that might have come through the windows. Linda hesitated, fighting a crushing urge to run from the house and not look back.
“John always was one to procrastinate,” said old Mr. Potter. “He’s a selfish one, if you ask me. Too full of himself.”
Edward reached down and scratched Toby’s ears. The dog shoved its nose into the palm of Edward’s hand and licked it, wanting more. “You love me, don’t you boy?” said Edward. “You’re the only one who does.”
I wonder, thought Carolyn, if Ashley is really happy. She seems so on the outside, but there’s something about her that’s cynical and cold.
Whenever Trevor swung the bat, at best it was a foul ball, but Wilson Mays, he connected almost one-hundred percent of the time.
"So new to him," she muttered, "so old to me; so strange to him, so familiar to me; so melancholy to both of us!"
A man with no hat, and with broken shoes, and with an old rag tied round his head. A man who had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and lamed by stones, and cut by flints, and stung by nettles and torn by briars; who limped, and shivered, and glared and growled; and whose teeth chattered in his head as he seized me by the chin.
"O! Don't cut my throat, sir," I pleaded in terror. "Pray don't do it, sir.".
Ruddy, brown-faced, broad-girthed Spanish Onions, shining in the fatness of their growth like Spanish Friars, and winking from their shelves in wanton slyness at the girls as they went by.
Farmer in a rural cafe: "I nearly run over my wife in the cornfield this mornin'."
Waitress pouring coffee: “What the heck was Ruth doin’ in the cornfield?”
Farmer: “Said she was lookin’ for somethin’ that flew off the porch last night.”
Woman talking on her cell phone on the train:
"Before you fold the laundry tell Mark to take his underpants off the dog."
Doctor's waiting room:
Woman 1: "…then he went to Italy and saw the Parthenon."
Woman 2: "You mean the Coliseum."
Woman 1: “I thought he said the Parthenon."
Woman 2: "The Parthenon is in Greece. The Coliseum is in Italy. It’s where Daniel was in the lion's den."
Christina Pickles,
Ruby Knuckles,
Baldwin Bump, and
Pastor Peacock
“I came into the valley, as the evening sun was shining on the remote heights of snow, that closed it in, like eternal clouds. The bases of the mountains forming the gorge in which the little village lay, were richly green; and high above this gentler vegetation, grew forests of dark fir, cleaving the wintry snow-drift, wedge-like, and stemming the avalanche. Above these, were range upon range of craggy steeps, grey rock, bright ice, and smooth verdure-specks of pasture, all gradually blending with the crowning snow. Dotted here and there on the mountain's-side, each tiny dot a home, were lonely wooden cottages, so dwarfed by the towering heights that they appeared too small for toys. So did even the clustered village in the valley, with its wooden bridge across the stream, where the stream tumbled over broken rocks, and roared away among the trees. In the quiet air, there was a sound of distant singing—shepherd voices; but, as one bright evening cloud floated midway along the mountain's-side, I could almost have believed it came from there, and was not earthly music. All at once, in this serenity, great Nature spoke to me; and soothed me to lay down my weary head upon the grass …”— David Copperfield
It was a chill, damp, windy night, when … [he]… emerged from his den. He … slunk down the street as quickly as he could … The mud lay thick upon the stones, and a black mist hung over the streets; the rain fell sluggishly down, and everything felt cold and clammy to the touch. … As he glided stealthily along, creeping beneath the shelter of the walls and doorways, the hideous old man seemed like some loathsome reptile, engendered in the slime and darkness through which he moved: crawling forth, by night, in search of some rich offal for a meal. He kept on his course, through many winding and narrow ways, until he reached Bethnal Green; then, turning suddenly off to the left, he soon became involved in a maze of the mean and dirty streets which abound in that close and densely-populated quarter.[He] was evidently too familiar with the ground he traversed to be at all bewildered, either by the darkness of the night, or the intricacies of the way. He hurried through several alleys and streets, and at length turned into one, lighted only by a single lamp …. — Oliver Twist
The town was glad with morning light; places that had shown ugly and distrustful all night long, now wore a smile; and sparkling sunbeams dancing on chamber windows, and twinkling through blind and curtain before sleepers' eyes, shed light even into dreams, and chased away the shadows of the night. Birds in hot rooms, covered up close and dark, felt it was morning, and chafed and grew restless in their little cells; bright-eyed mice crept back to their tiny homes and nestled timidly together; the sleek house-cat, forgetful of her prey, sat winking at the rays of sun starting through keyhole and cranny in the door, and longed for her stealthy run and warm sleek bask outside. The nobler beasts confined in dens, stood motionless behind their bars and gazed on fluttering boughs, and sunshine peeping through some little window, with eyes in which old forests gleamed—then trod impatiently the track their prisoned feet had worn—and stopped and gazed again. Men in their dungeons stretched their cramp cold limbs and cursed the stone that no bright sky could warm. The flowers that sleep by night, opened their gentle eyes and turned them to the day. The light, creation's mind, was everywhere, and all things owned its power. — The Old Curiosity Shop