Happiness hoped for in New Year
Happy Xmas, Ymas to all the Zumans along the Human Highway.
2017 was a rough year for this planet. We could expand on this ad nauseam.
Instead, here’s an excerpt from a Christmas story by Scott Young about his son, Neil Young, found in the book: “Home for Christmas, and other stories” on the blog, “The Dusty Bookcase” by Brian Busby.
Almost everyone has his own favorite Christmas story. I believe that I am particularly lucky in that my favorite concerns one of my sons. He is 19 now, a little taller than I am and a lot thinner. But this story happened six yard ago when he was 13 and delivered a Globe and Mail route on Brookdale Avenue in North Toronto.
I used to hear him almost every morning at six when he wakened. Usually the two hours after he left were my soundest sleep of the night.
On the rare occasions when he overslept, this built-in alarm mechanism in my mind brought me awake about the time he should have been moving. When I could not hear him I would tiptoe to his room and say, “Neil”.
“Yes,” he’d say instantly, sitting upright in bed, wide awake.
“I guess you overslept.”
“Guess I did.”
But on this Christmas morning of 1958 he was up on time and, like all other Globe and Mail boys up that morning, rose when the world was black and cold.
He made the blind trip to the bathroom and sleepily began to pull on his clothes.
Downstairs, he stood for a moment and looked at the stacked and laden Christmas tree, did the slow march past it, stopped to shake a parcel or two and stood like a robin to listen, and then went on.
A glass of milk and a brief forage in the refrigerator, and then on with his ear-covering cap and his scarf and parka and overshoes and mitts, on that ice-cold bicycle seat and down the driveway to pedal into the morning alone.
~~~~~~~~~
Enjoy life with those who can feel your love.
memphish on 
Albert Stromann on 
liza on 
Baz on 
