We were at the dining room table in my cousin Connie's apartment many years ago when my dad told this harrowing tale of a thirsty dog he'd seen at a gas station. The dog was so in need of water, my dad said, that he lapped up a puddle of gas before anyone could stop him, ran around and around in crazy circles, then fell over and didn't move. Oh no! What happened? Was he dead? We were all on the edges of our seats and so was my dad, though we didn't know why until he delivered the punch line: No, the dog wasn't dead, he just ran out of gas! Simultaneously my dad let out a peal of laughter, threw a napkin over his head, fell off his chair, and in a fit of glee rolled around on the floor.
Every Christmas Eve, Santa delivered presents to our front door right around supper time. The doorbell would ring and my sisters and I would jump up and race to the door, the dog barking at our heels. We'd get the door open and tumble outside and see nothing but footprints in the snow or a big splotch where someone had slipped and fallen. But my dad always saw more, because he was outside when it happened, every year taking out the garbage just when Santa arrived. We'd find him coming in the basement door all excited, brushing snow off his pant leg because he'd seen this bright light, or heard this clatter from above, and he'd looked up and there was this sleigh and then he'd fallen because he was so startled. Year after year he'd be all agog with the story.
On Christmas morning we would find a typed note from Mr. Claus thanking us for the cookies and carrots or whatever we'd left out. The note was always poorly typed with many errors due, as the note explained, to Santa's very cold fingers or, alternatively, due to his heavily mittened fingers.
For many years, in the 1960s into the '70s, our family Christmas cards were homespun, thanks to my dad. Some were collaborations with my sister, making use of her artistic talent, and some were collaborations with Niki, the family dog. The classic Allen Christmas card, the one that lives on in the minds of many, is the one that featured Niki playing the piano. I participated in the photo shoot, being in charge of Niki while my dad was in charge of everything else. Niki was not particularly obedient, but the photo card of her seated on the piano bench, paws on the keys, gaze intent on the artfully arranged seasonal sheet music in front of her, leaves one with the impression that she is indeed a gifted canine prodigy, a veritable angel.
I mention all this so that when I announce Dandy Do-Little Day, coming up June 3, and share the poem I've written with a little video, maybe you'll not judge me too harshly, but rather think oh, she comes by this silliness naturally. And maybe you'll wonder if somewhere in the U.P. there isn't someone falling off her chair in a little fit of glee and maybe, just maybe, someone in heaven is smiling and celebrating with a giggle of his own.
Every Christmas Eve, Santa delivered presents to our front door right around supper time. The doorbell would ring and my sisters and I would jump up and race to the door, the dog barking at our heels. We'd get the door open and tumble outside and see nothing but footprints in the snow or a big splotch where someone had slipped and fallen. But my dad always saw more, because he was outside when it happened, every year taking out the garbage just when Santa arrived. We'd find him coming in the basement door all excited, brushing snow off his pant leg because he'd seen this bright light, or heard this clatter from above, and he'd looked up and there was this sleigh and then he'd fallen because he was so startled. Year after year he'd be all agog with the story.
On Christmas morning we would find a typed note from Mr. Claus thanking us for the cookies and carrots or whatever we'd left out. The note was always poorly typed with many errors due, as the note explained, to Santa's very cold fingers or, alternatively, due to his heavily mittened fingers.
For many years, in the 1960s into the '70s, our family Christmas cards were homespun, thanks to my dad. Some were collaborations with my sister, making use of her artistic talent, and some were collaborations with Niki, the family dog. The classic Allen Christmas card, the one that lives on in the minds of many, is the one that featured Niki playing the piano. I participated in the photo shoot, being in charge of Niki while my dad was in charge of everything else. Niki was not particularly obedient, but the photo card of her seated on the piano bench, paws on the keys, gaze intent on the artfully arranged seasonal sheet music in front of her, leaves one with the impression that she is indeed a gifted canine prodigy, a veritable angel.I mention all this so that when I announce Dandy Do-Little Day, coming up June 3, and share the poem I've written with a little video, maybe you'll not judge me too harshly, but rather think oh, she comes by this silliness naturally. And maybe you'll wonder if somewhere in the U.P. there isn't someone falling off her chair in a little fit of glee and maybe, just maybe, someone in heaven is smiling and celebrating with a giggle of his own.
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