A Plethora of Puppies (aka A Canine Country Christmas...)

Brillo meets Scruffy

The holidays are over and winter finally seems to be setting in. God and Mother Nature worked in tandem to create a little magic, and at the last minute we had a white Christmas to allay my children’s fears. We didn’t have enough snow for our “sliding after dark in pajamas” tradition, but there was enough snow to make the landscape (and the teenagers’ dispositions) sparkle and shine.


On Christmas Eve we invited family and some new friends to The F.A.R.M. for supper. Three years ago our oldest son Guy created a wonderful family tradition. He arrives ‘home’ early on Christmas Eve day and prepares the meal, which is a wonderful gift for his mother. I find I invite more guests when I’m not doing the cooking…

Guy with Saint and Scruffy on his shoulder, Lucy on the arm of the chair, and the long-suffering and good-natured Boone, who (with Brillo) had to put up with the 3 puppies

This year, there were 14 humans and 5 canines in our home on ‘the night before Christmas’. The Pease Wees, the newest members of our household, were joined by their cousin Boone, Guy’s sweet dog. Cousin Brillo, the Labradoodle, was in attendance too—arriving with my sister Chris and staying with us for a few days so Chris and her husband Chris could travel to Cleveland to visit Chris’ family. Meaning the family of the other Chris, since this Chris’ family is here. Of course, now that they’re married, Chris’ family is Chris’ family, too. Two Chrises. One family.

No problem.

Thank God for wine.

But I was talking about dogs and not how many Chrises were Christmasing with us. The fifth canine to round out our party was Lucy, my friend Patty’s 7 month old Jack Russell terror. Jack Russells are an active breed. Always moving. Always jumping. Wiggling. Burrowing. Terrier-izing.

I didn’t realize how mobile the little dog was. The kids and I had pushed all the living room furniture back to the walls to make room for the tables in the center of the floor. We sat on sofas and chairs and enjoyed Guy’s hors d’oeuvres and Patty’s homemade wine while staying out from under the cook’s feet. All of a sudden, Lucy jumped onto Chris (one of them) and continued bouncing over the top of everyone else, springing from one sofa (and lap) to the next chair (and lap) to the next sofa (and lap) without ever touching the floor. Round and round in a circle she went, over duck tenders and around pesto pizza and under homemade cheese-its. Jack Russels aren’t large dogs, but they are solid. And their feet are quite pointy. Sharp. Wicked picked, in fact! Our new friends were quite taken with the gymnastic abilities of Miss Lucy as she knocked food out of hands and drove air out of tummies. I’m sure we impressed these newcomers to the point of ‘no return’.

Thank God for wine.

Guy and Josie on the (new) sofa (see towel...) and Lucy, Boone and Brillo on Guy and Josie.

Wee puppies and not so wee puppies tested the patience of the adults—both human and canine—as they teased for snacks, darted in and out of harm’s way, and generally confirmed the rumor that The F.A.R.M. is a zoo.

Eventually, the house quieted. Most of our guests stuffed themselves with good food and fine wine… and went home. Remaining to hang stockings with us were Guy and Patty…and the 5 dogs.  Oh, yeah.... and the 3 cats.

Stevie and Scruffy (Stevie never touched her [he actually loves the Wees) but Scruffy has felt the claws of Josie's cat Curious before...I thought this expression of ANTICIPATION was hilarious.)

I have a very patient and long-suffering husband. He puts up with a lot. I’m the one whose friend gave me the Wees, causing our household to revert to a nursery again after years without puppies or small children. It is my life-long friend and my family members who bring dogs to our parties.

It’s my side of the family that brings wine.

The living room had been put to rights. The tables and chairs taken care of, the dishes washed and dried…We sat on sofas and in chairs chatting, winding down, relaxing in the glow of Christmas tree lights and candles. Steven and Eli were on the big (new) couch, Josie and I sat on the love seat, Patty was tipped back in the recliner, and Guy was propped in the armchair. Dogs were lounging by feet and in laps. Suddenly, Eli spoke.

"Dame Scruffy of Dingleberry Bog" (bottom) and "Saint Baxter of Soggy Bottom" (top)

“Lucy! LUCY! Papa! Ahhhh...um…you might wanna MOVE, Papa!”

Eli’s words sunk in at the same moment that Lucy’s pee soaked in. Steven jumped off the (new) couch, pulling the seat of his britches away from his…seat. Lucy bounded off the (new) cushion behind him–her task complete; her bladder empty. Pal Patty perked up. A seasoned dog owner, she’s attuned to the change in tenor of the mood in a room when a human realizes he has been piddled upon.

I could have sworn Ricky Ricardo was in my house. “Looo-cee!” was repeated several times as Patty ran for paper towels, Guy belly-laughed and Josie tittered, Eli breathed a sigh of relief that he’d been on the other end of the sofa, and Steven went to take a shower and change his clothes for the second time on Christmas Eve.

It was interesting to watch the ‘host’ Steven as he attempted to curb his tongue and his temper after ‘the incident’. Had one of the Wees done such a thing on our (new) couch—especially when Steven was sitting on/in it—we would have been witness to a much more colorful display of emotion. Choice words, facial contortions…it would have been a far more interesting show. But ‘host’ Steven loves friend Patty and he didn’t want to spoil the Christmas mood. And he didn’t. What a guy.

Our Canine Christmas was hectic, but truly enjoyable.

Five dogs. Two Chrises.

And wine.

Merry Christmas from The Besseys

In 2009, I posted some Christmas poems written in the 1960's by my Uncle George Bessey and my grandfather, Arthur "Bappa" Bessey; who worked for Great Northern Paper Company at the time.  These poems were published in the "Pittston Farm Weekly"--GNPC's newsletter.

Two years ago, in an attempt to preserve family history (and make it entertaining, too...) I made voice recordings of most of these poems and burned them onto CD's for my closest friends and family members.

And then... I forgot about them.

The last two years have been unlike anything I've ever experienced-- or intended to experience.   I've been busy.  Preoccupied.  Right out straight, if truth be told. 

But what takes precedence?  Work?  Community involvement?  Activism?  Or...should 'family matters' be what really matter?

Christmas comes but once a year.  And I think once a year is 'just about right' for how often a Bessey family poem should be read.  And enjoyed.

I hope you like this holiday poem which was written by my uncle George Bessey, published in GNP's Pittston Farm Weekly, and passed along to me and my kin to be enjoyed by you and yours.

Merry Christmas, from the Besseys of Maine to You.

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What a Night Before Christmas!


‘Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, except Santa’s spouse
Who, with shabby old house coat and curlers in hair,
Was making S.C. wish that he wasn’t there.

“So the children were nestled all snug in their beds!”
She shouted at him as she waved some blonde threads.
“Now, patience, my dear,” pleaded Santa with pain,
“If you’ll just let me speak, I’ll try to explain.

“I left here on time, albeit quite shivery,
Intending to make the Christmas delivery.
But before my first stop, it became crystal clear
That ahead of my sled were eight crazy reindeer!

They bypassed the houses where I planned to go
And finally dumped me right out in the snow
Where, what with my wondering eyes should I sight,
But a house full of girls—and a single red light!

“ ‘Hey, girls! Look who’s here!’ I heard one exclaim.
And there rose such a cheer I was glad that I came.
They dusted me off and invited me in,
And their boss introduced them to me with a grin:

‘Here’s Pat, Midge and Fran and a loser named Vixen.
She’s red-headed, drives a Rambler and voted for Nixon!
Here’s Connie and Cuddles and Bubbles and Joyce.
Now look them all over and then take your choice.’

“Now, my dearest, you know that I could not agree
To take one and not all of them…up on my knee.
So I said to their leader, ‘It would be a crime
If I didn’t give all of your girls equal time.’

She chuckled and said, ‘You’re a helluva gent!
And I lingered with them till my ear was quite bent,
Then before I departed, I gave them their toys:
Five sables, three bobcats, a beaver and a golden decoy.

“Despite what you think, there’s no reason to doubt
That I planned to continue my regular route.
But when for my list, I ventured to look,
What should I find but a little black book!

To hunt for my list I knew would take ages,
So I used in its place that little book’s pages.
And though (as you know) I’m quick to see,
The first address led to the Auberge at Ste Aurelie.

“Now, the names in that book included ‘Annette’,
‘Beatrice’, ‘Lilli’ and a yummy ‘Yvette’.
But just which was which? There was no guessing whom
Until they all took me to their dressing room.

And there I discovered Annette had a mole;
Bea really was blonde; and Yvette wore a scroll
Tattooed on her thigh that caused me to pause;
For on it was written ‘J’adore Santa Claus!’

“The evening rushed on in a dizzying whirl
As the little black book led to girl after girl
In Greenville and Jackman and St. George and St. Zacharie
And each of them had to eggnog and nutmeg me!

And I’m not to blame if their clothing was scanty
Or if they were all simply wild about Santy.
Thus it was that the sun rose over Maine
At the very same time I was leaving the I.P. Chain.

“After that, Sugarplum, your jolly old gnome
Hopped into his sleigh and headed for home.
Now I’ve told you my story with patience and care;
So I’m sure you’ll excuse that bit of blonde hair!”

“Indeed, I will not!” Mrs. Santa shot back.
Then without a word, she went straight to his pack
And dumped out a doll you’ll not find on a shelf!
Said Santa, quite weakly: “It’s just a new elf.”

“A disgrace to your calling—that’s what you are!”
Mrs. Santa came on like an angry hussar,
“There’s only one way to undo what you’ve done—
Now don’t argue with me! I’m sending our son!

He’s the symbol of everything you ought to be:
Love of family, clean living—in short—decency!”
“My gawd!” muttered Santa to this revelation,
“That pantywaist kid will kill my reputation!”

But although Santa pleaded, his wife remained firm,
Shouting, “Take off that suit, you philandering worm!”
In a twinkling their son made ready to go;
Candelabrum in hand and dimples aglow!

“Now be careful, my precious, and be a good boy,”
Mrs. Santa said kissing her bundle of joy.
'Twas then Santa shouted, his voice rather messy!
“Give that little black book back to bachelor George Bessey!

And so ends our story, as Santa said, rather meekly…
Happy Christmas to all—A la Pittston Farm Weekly.

A Tennessee Country Christmas...

It’s almost Christmas; the season for parties and festive decorating ‘round the house and spending time with family and friends. It’s the gift-giving season, too--and I have just received the most amazing gift from some wonderful friends. It arrived at Bangor International Airport on Saturday night--Delta Flight #5603.

Actually, I should say…they arrived.

That’s right. My gift was a matching pair of puppies; a brother and sister. I--a woman who has always had mutts and mongrels and pound puppies (and one really big Newfoundland)--was gifted with—brace yourself!—pure-bred Chihuahuas.

Aaaat! Now, before you react, it’s important to remember that wahwahs are dogs, too! That’s right. It doesn’t matter that Eli’s cat Stevie outweighs these guys by 13 pounds. And the fact that the puppies have to wear weasel collars because cat collars are too big…why, that doesn’t mean they are any less beastly than your average rotti or hound-dog or lab!

This breed has a reputation for being yappy little ankle-biters… but it all comes down to their training and the skill and dedication with which they are raised. I intend to have quiet, calm dogs. These will be country wahwahs, and they will be treated no differently than any other Pease puppies. They will be kind and gentle. Well socialized. They will do their business outside. They won’t chase the deer in our field or piddle in our corn patch. These farm-raised pups might not be suitably sized for herding cattle, but I’m sure they will excel at herding…chickens. Small chickens like…guinea hens. Little itty bitty biddies. Yes, these calm, working farm dogs will be clothed in dignity.

And sweaters.

Oh, my God. What have I done?

It’s been two years since the inhabitants of The F.A.R.M. have had canine companionship. We were ready to share our home with a dog or two and this gift was incredibly generous and well-timed. Yes, there will be challenges. Of course there will be. That’s only natural.

First; it’s apparent we have a slight communication barrier. See, these aren’t your typical Spanish-speaking Chihuahuas from south of the border. It’s worse. These dogs are from Tennessee. If you’ve never heard a Tennessee accent, you don’t know what you’re missing. In fact, no one knows what they’re missing, because it’s almost impossible to understand a single thing uttered by a Tennessean. These dogs don’t bark. They don’t even yap. They “yay-up”.

“Yay-up, yay-up, yay-up!” What the heck does that mean?

Does it mean “I wanna go ay-out!”? “Ah miss ma maw-ma!”? “May-un, y’all have some honkin’ big cay-uts!”?

What???

Second, of course, is the issue of size. Wahwahs are easily misplaced. It’s crucial to develop the habit of emptying all pockets before throwing clothing into the wash. It’s vital to gently shake out shoes before shoving feet inside. These dogs can turn up in the most unlikely places.

The truth is that they have no concept of mass, bulk or dimension. To their way of thinking, they are leviathans. Powerful entities destined to rule the world… or at least—The F.A.R.M.  No matter the size of the being coming through our front door—these babies think they are bigger and badder. (Yes, badder. Don’t look it up in your dictionary—you won’t find it. It’s a Tennessee word--pronounced “BAY-uh-der”. Being a quick study when it comes to southern drawl, I’ve determined that it means “worse”.) What’s funny is that my two-pound puppies are able to convince all other creatures that they really ARE bigger and badder. More bad.

Worse.

Before we know it we’ll have it all figured out, and we’ll wonder how we ever got along without our wahwahs. For sure, it will be wonderful to have little ones around the Christmas tree again. With my youngest child now a doddering 15 years old, some of the sparkle and magic seemed to be missing during the last couple of holiday seasons. But not this year! We’re all delighted to have these wee ones in our family.

These Pease Wees.

From the multi-lingual crew at The F.A.R.M. (where there’s Fresh Air and Room to Move) to all of you: MAY-uh-ree CREE-us-mus! Feliz Navidad! And Happy Hanukah, too.

Scrappy butchers her 1st pig at The FARM

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P.S.  I should add in this disclaimer.  My friend has informed me (in somewhat haughty fashion) that the wahwahs fit into FERRET collars--not WEASEL collars.  My mistake.  Hehehe....I just like to yank his chain...

P.P.S.  Our puppies' names have not been determined, yet.  If you have ideas and would like to share-- please do.  We've had the babes for 48 hours and the monikers we've tried thus far don't please everyone in the house.  Current discards include Chalupah and Burrito, Kelly and Boog, Sweetie and Snappy, Butch and Brutus.  Today, the little girl has been called Scruffy and Scrappy, and the little boy has been Saint and Baxter.  To be determined....

Nutcrackers and Nuts

Living off the beaten path as many of us do, it is not often that we are exposed to the cultural side of life. So when the opportunity arises to visit a museum or attend the opera or theater, I’ve always thought that it would be educational and enriching to avail ourselves of that opportunity. Therefore, I was quite pleased when, eight years ago, my mother suggested taking my seven year old daughter to see the Russian Ballet’s performance of The Nutcracker.

Mum wondered if Josie-Earl would be old enough to appreciate it. I told her I thought so, and then went on to say that I had seen it once, myself, but I hadn’t been mature enough at the time. I was twenty-eight. I hadn’t quite made up my mind that “culture” was a good thing. Of course, I can always lay part of the blame for my inappropriate behavior on my friend Patty. She’s actually proud of the effect she has on me. When I accepted her invitation to see The Nutcracker, I should have known that I would revert to the ten year old I was when we first met in Mrs. Gilmore’s fourth grade class. And I did.

The first surprise of the evening came when we arrived at the Maine Center for the Arts. Hillbillies that we were, we made our entrance in slacks and sweaters, and were immediately surrounded by ladies in formal gowns and gentlemen in suits and tuxedos! Talk about feeling conspicuous! I immediately swatted Patty, who should have warned me about the formality of the occasion. Patty’s husband John was even wearing dungarees-- really nice, neat, new ones-- but blue jeans, nonetheless. I could feel the familiar tingle of hilarity crawling up my spine.

We found our seats, and were entertained with the sounds of the symphony orchestra as they tuned up their instruments. Based on the caterwauling emanating from the pit, I wasn’t at all sure they knew what they were doing. The pre-show clamor sounded more like the rumble of my husband’s belly after a good bowl of chili-- magnified by one hundred-- and the racket made by the neighborhood tomcats on a hot summer night. In all honesty, once the show began, the music was perfection. Unfortunately, it was too late to really appreciate it. For the dancers had emerged on the stage.

I didn’t know what The Nutcracker story line was about. I still don’t. It became a non-issue once the first male dancer pranced across my line of vision.

If a female ballet dancer is called a “ballerina”, what do you call a male ballet dancer? The word “exhibitionist” comes to mind.

I’m not a prude. I’m not a voyeur. And yet, with Patricia Anne giggling at my side, I felt like a combination of the two. With something like morbid fascination, I attempted to watch the talented star, while at the same time I tried NOT to look at him! Really! Is it breaking some ballet directorate to properly dress the dancers? Could not a single pair of baggy pants be found? Was I the only person in the audience who was slightly offended or embarrassed by the vaunting, leaping athlete? Perhaps if I’d dressed formally, I too would have been able to retain a dignified countenance. Instead, I had to fight the urge to rush onstage, cover the poor lad’s lap with my jacket and hustle him to the wings.

No, I certainly wasn’t mature enough to appreciate that particular form of art. Patty and I made utter fools of ourselves, although I felt the safety of anonymity since I lived two hours away from the Bangor area.
Poor John was beet red from the open neck of his classy flannel shirt all the way up to his hairline. He hates for John Q. Publick to know that he is associated with Patty and me. And so we cling to him all the more-- in retribution, don’t you see.

Luckily for Mum, Josie doesn't take after me. She knows how to behave in public. She liked the ballet; her only negative comment being that it was “too long”. She loved dressing up for the evening, too. There was no way my daughter going to get caught out like her poor Mama had! She went decked out in an emerald velvet and cream silk dress with green tights and snazzy shoes! Josie also loved spending the night with her Nanny. And upon arriving home, we were all treated to the spectacle of Josie attempting to imitate those great professional dancers. She pirouetted, flapped her toes right and left, and then performed a great leaping split, arms whipped out high to each side...at which time she smacked one hand against the corner of the wood stove, which caused even greater leaps, flails and bounds as she tore through the living room and kitchen in pain. She broke every blood vessel in her poor little ring finger, which swelled and turned blue from one end to the other.


Ah, culture. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.

Merry Christmas from The F.A.R.M., where there's Fresh Air and Room to Move!

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Photos from Christmas, 2009
#1: Our tree
#2: My pal for the last 37 years, Patty (the awesome woman to whom Grumble Bluff is dedicated).
#3: Patty, me and Josie
#4: Patty's hubby, John, my pal for the last 24 years.
#5: Josie, Eli, Patty ("Talk to the hand!"), John, and Mr. Grumbles' legs
#6: The Peases at The F.A.R.M. (Guy was working, and didn't arrive for the holiday until midnight...)

All She Wanted for Christmas

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This was the first Christmas in many, many years that I was able to spend some of the holiday with my grandmother. For the last decade she's spent her winters in Kansas with my uncle, her eldest son. This year, however, her visit was delayed. This year, she was a part of my holiday traditions, and those of my children.

My two youngest kids are only a little more than a year apart in age. Like puppies in a litter, they bicker and brawl, snap and snarl. It is rare for a day to pass without the two of them getting into an argument. Usually, the disagreement is over something stupid or trivial, like whether Duracell or Energizer batteries last longer. Neither of them knows the answer. Neither of them cares. Not really. But they each have the urge to have the last word. They each want to prove their superiority over the other.

There are days when they drive me 'round the bend.

But Mammy had a request for Christmas. When asked by my daughter what she would like for a gift, Mammy told her that all she wanted was a photo of the two of them. Together. Smiling.

Lordy, lordy, lordy...

I envisioned The Photo Shoot From Hell. My son hates to have his picture taken, and when I do manage to get him to stand still for a moment, he's usually scowling. And my daughter is convinced that she is The Boss. She has the urge to control her brother, and she drives him (and her parents) crazy as she tries to direct his every action, word and and expression. Which makes him grumpier, of course, and that causes the frowns to grow in size and frequency.

So I thought that getting a decent photo of my two youngest children was going to be a royal chore.

Instead, I didn't have to lift a finger. Not only that, but the two of them didn't fight, at all.


My daughter asked to borrow my camera. She told her brother that his great-grandmother had only one request for Christmas, and that was to have a picture of the two of them smiling for her. And that's all it took. She held the camera at arm's length and snapped away. My son smiled for every shot. They laughed together, and they acted a bit silly. Oh, they squabbled. They had to! It's a long-ingrained habit, and an addiction, of sorts. But they had fun and even though most of the pictures were a bit blurry or fuzzy or the lightning was wrong, they managed to find one they both liked, and they framed it and wrapped it and gave it to Mammy. She was ecstatic with her photograph. And I have twenty pictures which prove I am the mother of some of the most awesome teenagers on the planet.


Yes, my ninety-three year old grandmother made Christmas special for us this year. In more ways than one.

Thank you, Mammy.

Christmas Down Under (by Kazza for MPJ)

It's Christmas Eve, here on the 45th Northern latitude. On the 27th South, where my pal Jack lives in Australia, it is already Christmas Day. So I thought it was appropriate to post 'Christmas Down Under', a silly little poem I wrote for this member of my extended family, who is Christmasing in the heat of an Aussie summer. I am accustomed to a holiday season with snow and cold temperatures, but I also know this fact: Christmas comes from your heart. It is a willingness to give. A desire to help. A passion for putting others before self. Not many people really and truly 'get it'. But there are a few who do, and I am honored to know this one.

To my friends 10,000 miles away, I wish you the merriest of Christmases. And stay out of the hot sun, won't you?

T’was the night before Christmas, and at Kindra Drive
The Ramsays were drinking—T’was well after five!

Their stockings were hung for to dry by the fan
Sock-free you could see the dark line of their tan.

The kookies were quiet, the flock had been fed.
Rosellas and galahs were tucked into bed.

And Monty, the Python—(unusual name)
Was waiting for Santa, and so acted tame.

He’d sent out his list to that jolly old elf…
He’d asked for a possum to eat by himself.

He knew that his chances for getting his treat
Depended, in part, on how Santa liked heat.

The rosy cheeked elf was accustomed to cold,
But down here in Oz there were hot temps untold!

And Monty was sure that this Santa Claus dude
Might possibly let all this heat spoil his mood.

This snake, he had studied the man of the house,
Saw that when he got hot, he could act like a louse!

Jack didn’t mind heat, but he didn’t like muggy.
When dry, that old Ramsay was kissy and huggy.

He smiled all the time and he ironed his clothes.
He pounded on concrete and watered with hose.

When cool, he wrote novels—the best there could be!
As soon all those silly old agents would see!

But when hot combined with the wet in the air
That Ramsay was like an old grizzle-lee bear.

His brogue, it got heavy! His words became foul.
He stomped around wiping his sweat with a towel.

He muttered and cursed and he sprawled by the fan.
He did nowt but bitch as he sat on his can.

So Monty, who knew not of humanly sorts
Judged Santy by how Mr. Ramsay comports

Himself when he’s sticky and sweaty and muggy.
(Jack griped all the more when the day was quite buggy!)

The python lay sprawled in a sweet-smelling gum…
And waited, so patient, for Santa to come.

A possum would make him a happy constrictor…
And getting a fat one would make him the victor.

He’d hung out a stocking--he didn’t have tootsies.
He’d swiped one of Jack’s while the couple played footsies…

Their fridge he had raided for cookies and milk.
(This Claus seemed a pansy, and not of his ilk!)

But that seemed the way to get on his good side…
He’d studied tradition; it seemed true and tried!

Now all that was left for this cousin of asp
Was to wait for that possum to land in his grasp.

The darkness, it fell, and he stayed wide awake.
He wanted to see if this elf was a fake.

With sunset, the temps, they just didn’t abate.
T’was a night like the ones that Jack Ramsay did hate.

Inside Ramsay’s house, young Alibal waited
For Santa to come—and her breath, it was baited.

She’d asked for a cooker in which to make stew,
And hoped Mr. Kringle would make dreams come true.

She’d written a letter and posted from Oz,
To be sure t’was delivered way up North to Claus.

But Jack wrote no letter. He didn’t believe
That elves made a sleigh run on each Christmas Eve.

He’d rolled eyes at Ali when letter she mailed…
Why couldn’t she see just what was entailed?

No gent from the North could possibly ride
From Nome down to Brisbane, to homes far and wide!

T’was foolishness to get one’s hopes up too high!
This gift-bringing gnome was a helluva lie!

As dark settled in ‘round Jack Ramsay and spouse
They laid ‘cross their bed in their hot, humid house.

The snake and the humans, each one waited there
For possum and cooker and cool breath of air.

Despite good intentions, the python did snooze,
As did Jack and Ali (they’d drunk lots of booze).

And before they did know it, it was Christmas day.
Had gifts been delivered by fat man in sleigh?

Ms. Ramsay went into the lounge for a look…
And there by the couch was a ‘Mainer’ cook book!

And tucked in beside it…some spoons and some cups
To measure like Yankees when making their sups.

Another big box--wrapped real sweet—t’was a looker!
When opened, revealed the most fabulous cooker!

“Aha! Lookee here! You doubting old Thomas!
Santa Claus brought me my gift, like he promised!

“He said if I’d only be good all year through
He’d have all his ‘Cook Elves’ see what they could do!

“And here is the proof! That old man DOES exist!
It’s too bad YOU didn’t send Santy your list!”

Jack’s eyes, they did roll! What nonsense, her talking!
And then his gaze settled on his Christmas stocking.

It looked like it moved! He went over to peek…
And when he did lift it, it gave a small squeak!

Tucked into the heel of his best cotton Dickey
Was a gift that was left there by old Mr. Nicky.

A wee little possum, curled into a ball…
It wasn’t much bigger than a baby doll!


“What’s this?” said Jack Ramsay, not mildly perplexed…
The note pinned to stocking begged him to read text.

“Young Jack, I’ve neglected you down through the years.
You’ve never behaved, and you drink many beers.

“You’ve never had faith in the magic of things…
And so, I decided, no presents to bring.

“But what to my wondering eyes did appear,
A wish list from Ramsay, the Scrooge of the Year!

“You’ve come to your senses! You say you’ll be good!
You made me a promise, you’ve knocked on some wood.

“You gift isn’t standard. I most often find
Adults would like dishes or tools of some kind.

“But your letter touched me. You’ve softened up some
If you can lounge draping yourself in a gum!

“Your manners are better, you ended with ‘please’…
You want a wee possum to hug and to squeeze!

“I thought you were harder…a grouchy old Scot!
But you want a pet, so this possum, you’ve got!

“Keep up what you’re doing! T’was cute how you said
You’d tightly squeeze possum and nibble his head!

“Not often does Santa hear cuddling words
From men who have made me believe they are turds!

“But you’ve changed a bit, and I’m happy to say
This possum is yours for the rest of your days.

“So love her and snuggle and do all you said…
Just nibble her gently when up round her head!

“I’ll see you next Christmas! I’ll be keeping watch
To make sure, her upbringing you do not botch!”

The note was signed neatly. It said ‘Santa Claus’.
And Jack was the most baffled man down in Oz.

But grouchy or grumpy or sticky and hot…
What man could resist, when a possum he got?

He’d been proven wrong! Now, at last, he did know
There really were elves living North in the snow!

He took his wee possum right out of the stocking…
And sat down to give her her first little rocking.

And while the man bonded with pet soft and furry
Old Monty, the python, experienced curry.

He’d pulled from his stocking a furry round ball
Excited, he swallowed it--head, feet and all!

Too late, he’d discovered, the possum desired
Was nothing but fake fur well coated with fire!

The gnome, he had tricked him! He’d covered the fur
With peppers and curries that pricked like a burr!

As Monty looked ‘round for relief from his plight,
He saw Santa’s letter he’d left in the night.

“Did you really think that this jolly old elf
Would give you a possum to eat by yourself?

“I’m old and I’m wise, and you never will beat
This elf who’s resistant to Down Under heat!

“Now learn from this lesson! All day you’ll be sick…
But that is the price-tag you pay for your trick!

“The possum is Ramsay’s; she’ll soften that coot!
And Monty, I hanker for new snakeskin boots!

“So if you desire to keep all your hide
You’ll start eating berries, with nuts on the side.

“No more will you squeeze and no more will you squish
The Down Under critters for your supper dish.

“Next year, I’ll be back, and it is my belief
That Monty the Python turns over new leaf!”


So Christmas at Kindra was full of surprise.
A pet for a man; for a snake—watered eyes!

As Jack cuddled possum, as Monty’s eyes flowed,
A miracle happened…at Kindra, it snowed!
******************************
These amazing Autralian photos were taken (and are copyrighted) by my pal, Jack Ramsay. Merry Christmas!

Sequel to 'Christmas at the Hill Place' a.k.a. 'No Time to Write a Poem'

On yesterday's GAG posting, I shared a poem I wrote two Christmases ago for my mother to read at her yearly holiday party at the Hill Place in Elliotsville Township. In case I didn't mention it, it was a party I was not invited to...

Last year, Mum asked for an encore. She still did not invite me to the celebration. But I am a generous and loving daughter. I always try to comply with my mother's wishes, and so I wrote another poem for her to recite to her favorite people. Her guests. The ones she'd invited to the party.

No Time To Write A Poem

Last year my mother asked me—
“Could you, a poem compose?
‘Cause all my Christmas party guests
Just love your lilting prose!”

And so, with trusty keyboard
I wrote a little ditty…
Something ‘bout a puzzling gift…
I thought it was quite witty!

I kinda made a little fun
Of all you aunts and uncles.
I picked on your infirmities—
Your deafness and carbuncles.

Your body parts that were worn out,
The ones that’d been replaced,
The fingers that were sawn off,
Your sense of sight and taste.

But last year was quite different.
I had some time to kill.
I had an hour or two to spare
To ‘wow’ you with my skill.

Back in Two-thousand-seven,
I was a common lass.
And comfortable I was--back then--
To tease you with my sass.

But now those days are over.
I’ve an image I must keep.
No more can I be frivolous—
My thoughts must now be deep.

For I’m a published author!
It’s true, I swear it is!
I am, like my pal Stephen King,
A big shot writing whiz!

I must now have decorum,
I must display finesse!
Like my friend J.K. Rowling
I must wear stylish dress.

I must e-nun-ci-ate my words.
With fans where e’er I go,
No cleavage can I now expose
With blouses cut real low.

No more can I write poems
Of sneeze, or burp or fart.
I must compose pure sonnets
That speak about the heart.

My penmanship must be precise,
For all those autographs.
And I must put a tinkling,
Not a belly, in my laugh.

Like my chum Johhny Grisham,
My words will sound so clever.
No more can I act like a hick.
(‘Twill be a huge endeavor!)

My mentor, ole Tom Clancy,
Said, “Karen, don’t be humble!
You’re sure to hit best sellers’ lists
With your new book called Grumble.”



“Your star, it is now on the rise…
And yes, the road is rough.
But you will touch the hearts of kids
With novel, Grumble Bluff.”

And so, as you can clearly see,
My time is not my own.
I have too many pressing tasks!
I’ve gotten too well-known.

I cannot write a poem for you,
For that, I’m much too grand!
I’ve got to concentrate on the
Endorsements I will land.

The signings and the lectures,
The engagements where I’ll speak,
It’s going to be quite difficult
To stay this sweet and meek.

And so I ask your pardon…
For not giving verse or rhyme.
My agent said, “No freebies!
They must pay you for your time!”

But while I have no poem for
Your merry Christmas bash.
I’ll hap-pi-ly sell you a book.
(I take both check and cash!)

Happy Holidays, Everyone!

Christmas at the Hill Place

I wrote this poem three years ago. My parents, Chuck and Jo Bessey, were hosting their yearly Christmas party in Elliotsville Township, the place of Dad's birth, and Mum asked if I would write a poem for the event. I wasn't invited to the party... but I was more than happy to mark the occasion for them in my own special way. Each of the decrepit, aging and feeble characters in this poem are real live people; my aunts and uncles and aints and carbuncles... the Besseys and our extended family, all of whom I love dearly.

Even if I'm not ever invited to their stinking Christmas parties...

It’s Christmas at the Hill Place, and friends have gathered near,
To eat good food and have some fun, and drink some Christmas cheer!

Chuck and Jo spiffed up the place-- Decked halls and strung some lights,
And sang some Christmas carols, while doing it... (Yeah, right!)

Their guest list was impressive-- The township’s fabled few!
Aristocrats and noblemen-- a majestic, royal crew.

Drinks were drunk and food was et; off-color jokes were told.
(They’d never do that publicly, with reputations to uphold!)

At last, with filled-up bellies, they leaned back in their chairs.
They’d help Jo clean her kitchen, but no-one really dares.

Such an esteemed gathering, surely warrants gifts!
Jo sent Chuck to go get them, out through the snowy drifts.

Several truck doors then were slammed-- too many to make sense...
Then Chuck came grinning sheepishly. “Guess mine’s the one with dents!”

He placed a pretty package beside them on the floor.
“The first one to guess what this is, will surely get some more!”

Even noble folks like these do love to get nice gifts.
This fierce new competition was sure to cause some rifts.

Bob, in a bright new muscle shirt of red and green and gold,
Said, “Do we get a hint or two-- If I might be so bold?”

Jo smiled quite beguilingly, “Of hints, there’s none, I fear.
“But you can use your senses-- of touch, and sight, and ear.”

Jim-- who hates to come in last-- thought he’d go shake the thing.
But when his bad knee held him back, said “Wife, I bid thee-- Bring!”

But Marilyn was tuckered out. “Jim, you’ll just have to wait.
“Once my meal has digested, then I’ll accommodate.”

Clowes stood up, approached it, and felt it up and down.
“I’m good at guessing packages... I cart them all ‘round town!”

“This one here is pretty.” He sniffed along the border.
“Reminds me of the whiskey our pastor likes to order.”

“’Course, I, your humble servant, would never tell a tale...
My job is confidential, when I deliver mail!”

With rosy cheeks, Clowes sat back down, and Patty slapped his knee.
“Your loose-lipped indiscretions will be the death of me!”

Fred was next to take a guess. He turned it round and round.
“It must be something awful soft-- for I can’t hear a sound!”

Prue said, “Your total deafness, I truly can’t abide!
“It clearly makes a little sound! At least, on my good side!”

At that, Dick hollered, “What was that? And Chuck, he queried, “What?”
And Jay said, “Boys, I think she said, she’s got a little butt!”

Mary Ann, and Rose, and Jo just rolled their eyes around.
This crowd would surely not divine the gift based on its sound!

Sisters Beve and Flora thought they would try their luck.
Between them, they had four new knees! In their chairs they weren’t stuck!

Together they approached the box, they looked it up and down.
Of dignity-- they had too much to sniff it like Clowes Brown.

Flora laid her ear on it-- With tongue, Beve took a taste.
“Reminds me, Patty, of school lunch, we made for kids to waste.”

The siblings gave up quietly. Was it food, or clothes, or toys?
Their brains were just too tired from raising all those boys.

Mickey gave Dick one quick jab, then Dick poked Roy and Bob.
“I guess it’s for us men-folk to tend to this-here job!”

Now all the women rolled their eyes, Geneva, she did knit,
While Mary Ann smoked quietly-- Dick really gave her fits.

These lusty men, they stroked the box. They tipped it to and fro.
They turned it up, they turned it down, they lifted high and lo.

“Mickey, what’s it look like?” Dick asked his friend to try.
“How the hell do I know? Like you, I’ve got one eye!”

Mary Ann said dryly, “Don’t bother to ask me!
I’ve got ‘em both, but out one side is all that I can see!”

Chuck said, “Hey there, Leroy! Take a guess and get your wish!”
Well, Leroy gave a mighty snuff and said, “It smells like fish!”

“Fish are best when smoked, you know... and that is what I do!
But fish is all I smell these days, so the rest is up to you!”

A light bulb flashed in Skeeter’s head, where mostly screws were loose.
“By gorry, chums, I’ve got it! It’s frozen cuts of moose!”

“Well if it is,” said Peter, “then Jo’s the one that killed!
“We know by now that Chuckie-Poo, surely ain’t that skilled!”

“I’ll have you know,” drawled Bessey, “in case you dopes can’t figger,
“I’ve recently misplaced the thing that used to pull the trigger!”

By this time all the Bessey’s guests-- the brave, the fine elite,
Had taken turns to figure out the gift there at their feet.

Not one of them came even close, none had the slightest notion.
No help forthwith from sight or sound, or taste, or smell or motion.

At last these valiant townsfolk, these Besseys and their kin,
Threw up their hands, surrendered, and asked what was within.

All eyes then turned to look at Jo, to find the answer sought.
She looked back at them blankly, and said, “Good God, I forgot!!”

What a Night Before Christmas!

It's Christmas: A time for family, for giving and for tradition. And in this household, it is a time for writing poems!

A few years ago I wrote a poem to read at my family's Thanksgiving feast. It was a silly ditty that showcased each of the family members gathered at my parents' home that day. The poem was a big hit, and what started as a one-time occurence has snowballed into a tradition. A tradition that I once considered uniquely mine.

I have written at least one Christmas poem each year since 2,000. Sometimes I write one to commemorate a gathering of the Peases, and occasionally my Christmas poem features the Bessey side. These poems are not serious attempts at poetry. They are simple rhyming verses made up on the spur of the moment, designed to entertain my friends and my family members.

But what I once thought was my own stamp of originality on the Besseys' holiday season has been proven to be an older family tradition, instead. It is one that makes me proud. I have discovered that my uncle, George Bessey, and my grandfather, Arthur 'Bappa' Bessey, were writers of silly ditties, too. As many members of my family once did, George and Bappa worked for Great Northern Paper Company back in the 1950's and 1960's, and lived for weeks and months at a time in that company's woods camps. The winters in our northern forests were long and desolate, and these two men passed their leisure time composing poems to delight and entertain their fellow loggers, cooks and clerks. As you will soon see, their senses of humor were rather ribald. (Finally! I have an excuse! It's a genetic predisposition! Phew...) The town of Ste. Aurelie which is referenced in this poem is in Quebec, just over the border from Big Six Township. St. Zacharie is just south of that, west of Maine's T5 R20. Rumor has it that the delights beyond the boundary were irresistible, even for a jolly old elf.

Many of Uncle George's and Bappa's poems were published in the GNP's newsletter, the Pittston Farm Weekly. I invite you to visit Pittston Farm's website. The farm brims with history pertaining to Maine's once-great logging industry. That same history is the story of the Besseys. My family.



With Christmas less than a week away, I thought I would share one or two of those old poems with you. The river drives are over. The snow-bound logging camps in the woods are gone now, too, and so are Uncle George and Bappa. I miss those men every day. But I have their written words, and those words--those verses--make me smile.

Just like they used to.

Merry Christmas.

What a Night Before Christmas!‘
by George Bessey
circa 1960?

Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, except Santa’s spouse
Who, with shabby old house coat and curlers in hair,
Was making S.C. wish that he wasn’t there.
“So the children were nestled all snug in their beds!”
She shouted at him as she waved some blonde threads.
“Now, patience, my dear,” pleaded Santa with pain,
“If you’ll just let me speak, I’ll try to explain.

“I left here on time, albeit quite shivery,
Intending to make the Christmas delivery.
But before my first stop, it became crystal clear
That ahead of my sled were eight crazy reindeer!
They bypassed the houses where I planned to go
And finally dumped me right out in the snow
Where, what with my wondering eyes should I sight,
But a house full of girls—and a single red light!

“ ‘Hey, girls! Look who’s here!’ I heard one exclaim.
And there rose such a cheer I was glad that I came.
They dusted me off and invited me in,
And their boss introduced them to me with a grin:
‘Here’s Pat, Midge and Fran and a loser named Vixen.
She’s red-headed, drives a Rambler and voted for Nixon!
Here’s Connie and Cuddles and Bubbles and Joyce.
Now look them all over and then take your choice.’

“Now, my dearest, you know that I could not agree
To take one and not all of them…up on my knee.
So I said to their leader, ‘It would be a crime
If I didn’t give all of your girls equal time.’
She chuckled and said, ‘You’re a helluva gent!
And I lingered with them till my ear was quite bent,
Then before I departed, I gave them their toys:
Five sables, three bobcats, a beaver and a golden decoy.

“Despite what you think, there’s no reason to doubt
That I planned to continue my regular route.
But when for my list, I ventured to look,
What should I find but a little black book!
To hunt for my list I knew would take ages,
So I used in its place that little book’s pages.
And though (as you know) I’m quick to see,
The first address led to the Auberge at Ste Aurelie.

“Now, the names in that book included ‘Annette’,
‘Beatrice’, ‘Lilli’ and a yummy ‘Yvette’.
But just which was which? There was no guessing whom
Until they all took me to their dressing room.
And there I discovered Annette had a mole;
Bea really was blonde; and Yvette wore a scroll
Tattooed on her thigh that caused me to pause;
For on it was written ‘J’adore Santa Claus!’

“The evening rushed on in a dizzying whirl
As the little black book led to girl after girl
In Greenville and Jackman and St. George and St. Zacharie
And each of them had to eggnog and nutmeg me!
And I’m not to blame if their clothing was scanty
Or if they were all simply wild about Santy.
Thus it was that the sun rose over Maine
At the very same time I was leaving the I.P. Chain.

“After that, Sugarplum, your jolly old gnome
Hopped into his sleigh and headed for home.
Now I’ve told you my story with patience and care;
So I’m sure you’ll excuse that bit of blonde hair!”
“Indeed, I will not!” Mrs. Santa shot back.
Then without a word, she went straight to his pack
And dumped out a doll you’ll not find on a shelf!
Said Santa, quite weakly: “It’s just a new elf.”

“A disgrace to your calling—that’s what you are!”
Mrs. Santa came on like an angry hussar,
“There’s only one way to undo what you’ve done—
Now don’t argue with me! I’m sending our son!
He’s the symbol of everything you ought to be:
Love of family, clean living—in short—decency!”
“My gawd!” muttered Santa to this revelation,
“That pantywaist kid will kill my reputation!”

But although Santa pleaded, his wife remained firm,
Shouting, “Take off that suit, you philandering worm!”
In a twinkling their son made ready to go;
Candelabrum in hand and dimples aglow!
“Now be careful, my precious, and be a good boy,”
Mrs. Santa said kissing her bundle of joy.
‘Twas then Santa shouted, his voice rather messy!
“Give that little black book back to bachelor George Bessey!

And so ends our story, as Santa said, rather meekly…
Happy Christmas to all—A la Pittston Farm Weekly.

The Camera Adds Ten Pounds!

December is typically not a good month in which to diet. The Christmas holiday season is jam-packed with social events…the ‘company’ party, the neighborhood party, the family parties, and the OTHER company party. Too, there are the shopping trips. It is practically unheard of to spend a day in town, bustling from shop to shop, without stopping for a bite to eat in a restaurant or a café or a fast food joint. Such extravagances almost always result in an over-indulgence or two. It’s impossible not to splurge on a piece of strawberry cheesecake or a dish of chocolate mousse. After all…it’s Christmas! It’s a tradition!

But you see, I have a problem. I am going to be a guest on a local television show on December 27th. Just two days after Christmas. I’m excited… psyched, even! What a great opportunity to tout my novel, Grumble Bluff! To spread the word about my newspaper column, ‘Observations from The F.A.R.M.’! And what fun!



But holy smokes! Everyone knows…the camera ADDS TEN POUNDS!

There are some people, admittedly, who can afford to look a bit heavier, a tad more fleshed out. Sure there are. Of course!

But I’M NOT ONE OF THEM!

Oh, brother…

I have NEVER been skinny. Even when I wasn’t curvaceous, I wasn’t skinny! I’ve already HAD the ten pounds added. The twenty! The…um…twenty-one!

Good heavens…

I suppose it’s a good thing that there are men hereabouts who like their women with a bit of meat on their bones. I know I would have been up the proverbial creek without a paddle if every man in western Maine was only content with slender ladies who sported collarbones and had space enough between their thighs to throw a Frisbee through.

Yup. As Martha Stewart would say, ‘It’s a good thing.’

Of course, it’s important to remember that we well-rounded girls have many other attributes that make us attractive. I read a survey once that stated that Maine had one of the highest percentages of overweight women in the country. That may very well be true. After all, we have a very long, cold winter here! It’s hard to concentrate on how your bikini will look when you’re hanging wet laundry on the clothesline in -20 degree weather, or trying to peel an icicle off your tongue without drawing blood. We stay inside except to shovel snow or lug wood, and sort of semi-hibernate.

Nope, for seven months out of the year, we’re basically inactive. These months include Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, Valentine’s Day, Easter, Ground Hog’s Day, Martin Luther King Jr. Day, President’s Day, April Fool’s Day, Ash Wednesday…even FAT TUESDAY, for crying out loud! And several full moons, too!

We’re doomed!

And we have only May through September to take that winter weight back off.

Do the math. If we gain five pounds a month for seven months, work hard and manage to lose five pounds each month during the summer, we are still ten pounds overweight when winter rolls around again. In four years, we’ve gained forty pounds! In eight years...EIGHTY! That’s what an average ten-year-old child weighs. That’s sixteen bags of sugar. Three hundred and twenty sticks of butter!

Man, am I depressed!!

So, it’s possible that Maine men do prefer large women. It’s also conceivable that they have no other choice…their options are that limited. Therefore, it’s vital we ladies constantly remind them that what we lack in slenderness, we make up for in hair.



See…most men in Maine don’t have a lot of body hair. Oh... you’ll occasionally see a fellow with a tuft of hair peeking out over the top of his tee shirt, but chances are good, that same man will be as bald as an egg. It’s like the body compensates for what the head has lost...

And while men have a problem with thinning hair as they get older, it’s just the opposite for us gals. As we age, we fur out. A little moustache on the upper lip, some downy fuzz on the cheeks...the occasional black wiry hair sprouting from a mole.

It’s all part of our charm, I’ve been told.

My point is, so what if some survey conducted at a college on the coast of southern California says that Maine women are overweight? We have many other attributes that make us sexy!

Hmm. For some strange reason, I’m STILL depressed.

The bottom line is this. I’m going to be on TV. In front of a host of viewers who will be both strangers AND folks who know me… and I’ll be looking like I’ve gained ten pounds. In order to appear as I do right now, I need to lose ten pounds in the next three weeks. During the season with the biggest, most food-filled holiday of them all.

Can I do it? In an intelligent and healthy manner? Well, I’m going to try. I’ll give it my best shot.

And I think I’ll start by having a shave…