Love Cruikshank, Love notes

Christmas is not my favorite holiday, but almost my favorite holiday. I still have moments of muttering “Bah! Humbug&8221; at moments of stress.

I have a friend, whose name shall not be mentioned here, because I want her to keep on being my friend.

Every year about this time, she’d discover that her husband planned on a family vacation. It was always a big surprise to her and the rest of the family.

Of course, it interfered with her Christmas activities, card sending, decorating, Christmas tree choosing, baking and the like.

She would return well after the holidays, looking as if she’d just had a long stay in a beauty spa, refreshed and beautiful. The rest of us would gaze at her with some envy. We looked as if we’d been spending the pre-holiday and the rest of it in …

well, you can imagine. We were frazzled.

I’m not complaining, but there was always some ugly little note to spread me thinner than I wanted to be spread. Usually it had something to do with The Tribune.

For several years The Tribune was the center for packages collected for Santa’s Helpers. There was a deadline for them to be left, but you know how good people are about meeting deadlines.

One Christmas Eve &045; Christmas Eve, mind you &045; a sack was left just before everyone went home.

The gifts were for a special family. It was a year when families were writing letters to Santa and donors were preparing their gifts to meet the children’s desires.

Lois West and I were the only ones available to deliver the goodies and we certainly didn’t want those kiddies disappointed. So off we went.

I don’t remember the address, but the house stood at the top of a flight of outdoor stairs. That wasn’t too bad, but standing at the top of the stairs was a German Shepherd dog.

The dog had long, yellow teeth, which, pulling up noseward, he exhibited to us freely in an unfriendly snarl. Lois, whom I’ve never thought of as exactly an animal lover, promptly shut the car door. “I’ll wait in the car,” she said.

“Barking dogs don’t bite,” I said trying to put the sack of toys between me and the dog, as I staggered up the steps. I couldn’t help wondering if the creature might be part wolf, like something written by Jack London.

I was rather proud of not being bitten. Lois explained our plight the next day when we were telling our tale to other staff members.

“Love was very polite to him&8221; she said. “She kept sort of murmuring things like ‘Nice dog, good old dog. Fine dog.’ Actually I felt she was overdoing it a little. He wasn’t all that great.”

Few of my Tribune Christmas memories are altogether comfortable. Colleen, the gal from circulation, and I were named to provide table decorations, favors, for one of the parties for the women staffers.

We were the two least gifted in handicraft to be found in the entire plant. For a while we had no ideas at all. Then with a remarkable burst of no originality, we decided on snowmen. We made them from marshmallows and redhots. If you squinted your eyes a little and didn’t examine them too closely they were recognizable.

Unfortunately there was a last minute blizzard the night of the party. It had to be postponed for a week. We had saved the snowmen. They were dried and hard.

The slightest movement caused them to tumble to the table with a loud thud.

Colleen and I were among friends and I know they didn’t want to hurt our feelings. But it was awfully hard to control their hysteria.

(Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column runs Thursday.)