"And by the way, everything in life is writable if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise.
The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt."
-- Sylvia Plath
Some folks might read "Brazil Buzz," and wonder why I share so much.
Others might think my imagination controls my thoughts, in the sense that things in my life, good or bad, did not completely happen.
There will never be lies or anything demeaning to anyone in anything I write.
William Wadsworth said, "Fill your paper with the breathings of your heart!"
I find the above aforementioned quotes befitting to my purpose.
I have a hard time moving out some things that dance around in my dizzy dome.
Lately, the rhyming lyrics to Edith Nesbit Bland's "Christmas is Coming," play out quietly.
I do not mind the seasonal visitor composed toward the end of the nineteenth century tumbling out of my store and for good reason.
During the yuletide seasons I experienced during my childhood, my father recited it many times.
He would deliver, "Christmas is coming, the geese are getting fat. Please put a penny in the old man's hat. If you haven't got a penny, a ha' cent will do. If you haven't got a ha' cent, then God Bless you."
Dad usually sang that as we were dressing and packaging our fat white and gray geese and various other breeds of poultry, chosen for holiday delivery.
Our family knew how to live within modest means; we lived off the land.
Our larder knew no vacant shelves and we never went to bed hungry.
In those days' assets counting: Family, a warm house, abundance of food, the love of each other and money to get by was enough wealth for us.
Dad believed we should help others according to his means, of course -- if not much, something, someway.
Maybe, when he was repeating his verse over and over, the generous man was mentally checking his list to see whom he could help.
He knew how to brighten the holidays for the elderly, a hungry family, in need or an individual down on his or her luck.
Many times, we witnessed his acts of kindness.
Christmastime brought him great joy.
When the holiday season drew near, in 1993, my father was gravely ill.
He had Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma and the prognosis was not good.
Dad was still worried about giving a helping hand to faithful out of work, customers and other friends in need.
Like old times, he called on me and my obliging staff of one, Paul Baby, to follow his orders, fill his baskets with poultry and food and deliver the gifts.
We did and he smiled.
Still, long after his death, June 9, 1994, folks are telling me their stories of how our Santa touched their lives.
Dad loved to give candy to everyone, including us.
He worked with his brothers, John and Lester at Lynches Grocery, when I was a little girl.
Candy sold in bulk.
He brought home loads of haystacks, hard candies (ribbons and pillows), orange slices, candy canes, etc.
He loved cherry chocolates and thin mints.
The boxes stacked high made nice surprise gifts to all.
Nuts to crack with a well-seasoned hammer and navel oranges with thick peels and crated bunches of plump purple grapes raised right here in the vineyards of the good old United States of America brought him more hugs.
I disliked tangerines, figs and fruitcakes.
Dates sent me down the hill to the little house.
I neither worried much about calories nor cavities during those special Christmases of long ago.
Today, I rarely eat candy.
I always buy one box of cherry chocolates for my eating pleasure, turtles and other boxed treats for the good old boy that lives with Tootie Mae and me.
I keep the sweet memories of my childhood nearby and keep the home fires burning.
God is good.
I can be reached at 446-4852 or by e-mail at email@example.com.