4th Of July-- Celebrate Freedom!

In September of 1951, I was 14 and on a ship that was taking my family and me, and hundreds of other refugee's of World War II, to America. On the tenth day of our journey I was out on the deck before dawn.

I remember gazing sleepily into the black distance, becoming slowly entranced by the trillions of lights out there on the dark horizon. It looked like a fairyland. It was my first look at America! Then, as dawn broke, someone in the crowd shouted, "There she is! There she is! The famous Statue of Liberty!"

Mesmerized, I gazed upon the vision of that grand lady with the torch rising magnificently out of the sea. From my vantage point on the ship, she seemed to hold her torch higher and higher on the New York skyline. I was overcome with emotion and could almost hear Lady Liberty saying the words I had learned in English class at the refugee camp school: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free." And it seemed like she was speaking directly to me. That vision is indelibly etched in my memory.

And a few years later, when I became a proud citizen of my new country, I finally gained full membership in American society, and had the right to vote. And by pledging allegiance and loyalty to my new country, I became a proud American by choice!
---------

(This is a short excerpt from my story "Two American Ladies" which was published in Mature Living Magazine" in 2004.)

Yes, I will be out there, celebrating freedom this 4Th of July.

While spending some time at our little cabin...

On a beautiful river....

And cruising around in a jet ski even. Weather permitting of course.

I hope you'll be celebrating freedom as well, this 4th of July. God Bless the USA!

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Thank you for coming by. Have a wonderful weekend!

Blessings from the woods.

A Downer, an Upper, and a Little Blogging Break

"Money will buy a fine dog, but only kindness will make him wag his tail." (Or his little stump!) I love this quote!

, The other day I found this old picture of my sweet, good boy Rottie, Oscar/Ozzie, on an old CD. He was my faithful guardian, protector and loyal friend for almost ten years. When he went to doggie heaven in the summer of 2007, it broke my heart. He is buried at the edge of the woods here, and to this day, whenever I pass his resting place, I tell him how much I miss him, because, oh, I do! That is the "downer" part of this post.


Now, to the "upper" part. This afternoon, my older son, daughter in law, and sweet, nine year old granddaughter Mckenzie arrived, to spend a few days with me. Yay!!

So I am now on a little blogging break for a few days, and will see you all again soon.

Have a wonderful rest of the week, friends.

Blessings from the woods!

Chasing Away the Winter Doldrums!

Well, besides still battling the last of this bug that has been plaguing me, I have been down with a major case of the winter doldrums. The Bah Humbugs! So I decided to post some of the pictures of Thanksgiving and birthday week, to remind me of the wonderful time my daughter and granddaughters, son Greg, and dear friend Eileen and I had together. Since I have several pictures here, I hope you won't be too bored with them.

My daughter took this picture of Eileen and me at the lovely restaurant where we all had lunch. And the waitresses even came and sang the Happy Birthday Song, to me! :-)

Here are my granddaughters Nichole and Hannah with Uncle Greg, in the woods. The girls think Uncle Greg is a cool and fun guy to hang out with!

City girls enjoy hiking around in Nana's woods!

And they also enjoy riding around on the 4-wheeler.

Since the weather was mild and beautiful the entire week they were here, we decided to go to the river, too. And as you can see, The Current River is beautiful even in November!

And here are the girls by our cabin on the river.

Alas, our visits are never long enough, and I always miss them when they leave for home. :(

I also had some good news in the mail this past week.

I received my copy of the Winter 2009 issue of "Pure Inspiration Magazine," with one of my stories in it. As a writer, I'm always happy to see my work in print.

I also received the new "Chicken Soup for the Soul, Loving Our Cats," book with my story in it.

And I have a story in "The Big Book of Christmas Joy: An Inspirational Treasury to Celebrate the Season," published by Howard Books.

I also have three awards I will acknowledge very soon, friends.

Thank you for visiting. I hope you are all doing well and ready for the holiday, unlike me.

Ah, and today is Chinese Buffet day. That should also help chase the winter doldrums. :-)

Blessings from the woods!

My Mother's Cat--A Story on my Birthday.

When my nineteen-year-old mother died, a few weeks after giving birth to me, I inherited her cat, Paprika. He was a gentle giant, with deep orange stripes and yellow eyes that gazed at me tolerantly as I dragged him around wherever I went. Paprika was ten years old when I came into this world. He had been held and loved by my mother for all ten years of his life, while I had never known her. So I considered him my link to her. Each time I hugged him tightly to my chest, I was warmed by the knowledge that she had done so, too.

"Did you love her a lot?" I would often ask Paprika, as we snuggled on my bed.

"Meow!" He would answer, rubbing my chin with his pink nose.

"Do you miss her?"

"Meow!" His large, yellow eyes gazed at me with a sad expression.

"I miss her too, even though I didn’t know her. But Grandma says she is in heaven, and she is watching over us from there. Since we are both her orphans, I know it makes her happy that we have each other," I would always say, for it was a most comforting thought to me.

"Meow!" Paprika would respond, climbing on my chest and purring.

I held him close, tears welling in my eyes. "And it makes me so very happy that we have each other." Paprika’s orange paw reached up and touched my face gently. I was convinced he understood me, and I knew I understood him.

At that time we lived in the country of my birth, Hungary, and I was being raised by my maternal grandparents because World War II had taken my young father away, too. As I grew, the war intensified, and soon we were forced to become wanderers in search of safer surroundings.

In the spring of 1944, when I was eight, Paprika and I snuggled in the back of the wooden wagon as we traveled around our country. During the numerous air raids of those terrible times, when we had to scramble to find safety in a cellar, closet or ditch, he was always in my arms, for I refused to go without him. How could I, when one of the first stories I was ever told as a child was that of my dying mother begging her parents to take care of her cat as well as her baby?

After the Christmas of 1944, when we were almost killed in a bombing of the city we were in, Grandfather decided that we would be safer in a rural area. Soon, we settled in a small house that had a cemetery as its neighbor. Here Grandfather, with the help of some neighbors, built a bunker away from the house, and on an early spring day in 1945, we spent the entire night in the bunker. Paprika was with me, of course, because once again, I refused to go without him.

Warplanes buzzed, tanks rumbled, and bombs whistled and exploded over our heads all night while I held on to Paprika, and my grandmother held on to the both of us, praying the entire time. Paprika never panicked in that bunker. He just stayed in my arms, comforting me with his presence.

Finally everything grew still, and Grandfather decided it was safe to go back to the house. Cautiously, we crept out into the light of early dawn and headed towards the house. The brush crackled under our feet as we walked. I shivered, holding on to Paprika tightly. Suddenly, there was a rustle in the bushes just ahead. Two men jumped out and pointed machine guns directly at us.

"Stoi!" one of the men shouted. We knew the word meant, "Stop!"

"Russians!" Grandfather whispered. "Stand very still, and keep quiet."

But Paprika had leapt out of my arms when the soldier shouted, so instead of listening to Grandfather, I darted between the soldiers and scooped her up again.

The tall, dark-haired young soldier approached me. I cringed, holding Paprika against my chest. The soldier reached out and petted him gently.

"I have a little girl about your age back in Russia, and she has a cat just like this one," he said, smiling at us. I looked up into a pair of kind brown eyes and my fear vanished. My grandparents sighed with relief! We found out that morning that the Soviet occupation of our country was in progress.

Many atrocities occurred in our country in the following months, but because the young soldier took a liking to my cat and me, we were spared. He visited often, bringing treats for Paprika and me. Then one day, a few months later, he had some sad news.

"I’ve been transferred to another area, malka (little one), so I won’t be able to come and visit anymore. But I have a gift for you," he said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a necklace. It was beautiful, and had a turquoise Russian Orthodox cross on it. He placed it around my neck.

"You wear this at all times, malka. God will protect you from harm. And you take good care of your kitty."

I hugged him tight, and then watched him leave, tears welling in my eyes.
In the trying weeks and months that followed, Paprika’s love made things easier for me to bear, for he rarely left my side. He was my comfort, my best friend.

By the fall of 1945, Grandfather, who had spoken up about the atrocities taking place in our country, had gone into hiding, to avoid being imprisoned as a dissident by the new communist government.

Grandmother and I prepared for a solemn Christmas that turned into my worst nightmare when I awoke on Christmas morning to find Paprika, curled up next to me, lifeless and cold. I picked up his lifeless body and holding it close to me, sobbed uncontrollably. He was nineteen years old, and I was nine.

"I will always love you, Paprika. I will never give my heart to another cat," I vowed through my tears. "Never, ever!"

"Paprika’s spirit is in heaven now, with your Mama, sweetheart," my grandmother said, trying to comfort me. But my heart was broken on that terrible Christmas Day in 1945.

Grandfather stayed hidden until the fall of 1947, when we were finally able to escape our communist country by hiding among some ethnic Germans, who were being deported into Austria. In Austria, we landed in a refugee camp where we lived for four years.

These were difficult times for me and I longed for Paprika often. I saw other people’s cats and knew it would be so comforting to feel a warm furry creature purring in my arms. But my loyalty to Paprika—mixed up in my mind with loyalty to my mother—never wavered. I had made a vow and I would keep it.

A ray of hope pierced this darkness when eventually we were accepted for immigration to the United States. In September 1951, we boarded an old Navy ship, on our way to America.

That year, we spent our first Christmas in the United States. The horrors of war, the four years of hardship in a refugee camp, were behind us now, and a life filled with fresh possibilities, lay ahead.

On that Christmas morning, I awoke to a tantalizing aroma wafting throughout the house. Grandmother was cooking her first American turkey. Grandfather, meanwhile, pointed to one of the presents under the Christmas tree that seemed alive, for it was hopping around to the tune of "Jingle Bells" playing on the radio. I rushed over, pulled off the orange bow, and took the lid off the box.

"Meow," cried the present, jumping straight into my lap and purring. It was a tiny, orange tabby kitten, and when I looked into its yellow eyes, the vow I had made in 1945 crumbled like dust and fell away. I was a new person in a new country. Holding the cat close, I let the sweetness of love fill my heart once again.

That Christmas Day, I do believe my mother smiled down at us from heaven approvingly, while Paprika’s spirit purred joyfully at her side.
-----

This story has been published in "Chicken Soup for the Cat Lover's Soul," ("Angel Cats," "A Dickens of a Cat." ) Copyright (c) 2004 by Renie Burghardt.


Unfortunately, the only picture we have of that era is the one above. All others were lost during the war.


I hope you enjoyed the story. My family is here to help me celebrate my birthday, and of course, Thanksgiving. I woke up to streamers and Happy Birthday signs and balloons decorating my bedroom. I feel like a kid of 72! :-)

Friends, I will be somewhat absent from the world of blogging this week, but will be back the weekend.

To all celebrating the holiday, Happy Thanksgiving. And to everyone, have a wonderful week!

I also want to thank my Russian cousin Elena, in Ballarat, Victoria, Australia, for the lovely birthday gift and card. It arrived yesterday, and was such a surprise. Thank you Elena and Vlad!


And thank you so much for reading.


Blessings from the woods!

Two American Ladies-A Story

I was fourteen when I boarded the old Navy ship, The General M. B. Stewart, in the port of Bremen, Germany. I was with my grandparents, who raised me, and hundreds of other people, many of them Hungarians like us,who were fortunate enough to have been accepted to immigrate to America.World War II had torn apart our lives and displaced us, making us refugees.

Though our arms ached from all the required shots, our hopes and dreams soared as we began our journey to America. Our prayers had been answered. Once aboard ship, women and children were ushered to one huge area below deck, men and older boys to another. Then we were all assigned sleeping quarters. I got the upper bunk, Grandma the lower. Grandpa, of course, went with the men. After settling in with our meager belongings, Grandma and I joined Grandpa up on deck.

As the ship pulled out to sea, the people on shore waved and shouted"Auf Wiedersehn" (until we meet again), and many had tears in their eyes, for we knew we would never see our homeland again. I remember studying my grandparents’ faces; their teary eyes revealed the bittersweet feeling I shared. But we were on our way to America, the land of golden opportunities. We had heard so much about America from friends who had gone before us. And two years before our departure, I started studying English in the refugee camp school, but my command of it was still poor.

Our Atlantic crossing took ten days, most in raging, stormy seas. My grandmother was seasick much of that time, but I thrived and soon made some new friends. A young America named Dave, who worked in the enormous galley, brought me my first Coke, a new taste delight. Then he asked me where I was going in America.

"I go to India," I had told Dave, shyly. He smiled at me and said, "That’s probably Indiana. Not India. In-di-an-a," he emphasized the last part, adding, "You will like America."

"In America, everything will be okey-dokey," I giggled, using the new phrase I had picked up from Dave.

Most of the kids on the ship whiled away the hours playing games and watching Roy Rogers movies in the huge recreation room. There was also plenty of excitement. One day while a friend and I were sharing an easy chair, an enormous wave hit the ship, throwing the chair across the room, sending us and everyone else in its path scrambling for safety. In the enormous mess hall, where we had our meals, we often had to hold on to our trays with one hand as we ate, to keep them from sliding off the table. Topside, we’d often watch dolphins at play in the water, bobbing up and down in the great waves. Sometimes, we even saw other ships passing, like the luxury liner The Queen Elizabeth, heading towards Europe with its American passengers! When we chugged past the White Cliffs of Dover, we sang "There’ll Be Bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover." Someone in the recreation room had taught us that song.

Then, one morning before dawn, my grandmother awakened me. "Hurry, getup, sweetheart. The lights of New York are visible in the distance!" she told me excitedly. I jumped down from my bunk and quickly dressed, and then we headed out to the deck, where hundreds of people had already gathered.Grandfather was there, waiting for us. I remember gazing sleepily into the black distance, becoming slowly entranced by the trillions of lights out there on the dark horizon. It looked like a fairyland. It was my first look at America! Then, as dawn broke, someone in the crowd shouted, "There she is! There she is! The famous Statue of Liberty!"

Mesmerized, I gazed upon the vision of that grand lady with the torch rising magnificently out of the sea. From my vantage point on the ship, she seemed to hold her torch higher and higher on the New York skyline. I was overcome with emotion and could almost hear Lady Liberty saying the words I had learned in English class at the refugee camp school: "Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free." And it seemed like she was speaking directly to me. That vision is indelibly etched in my memory.

Later, as we pulled into the harbor, the "Star Spangled Banner" played over the loudspeakers, and we learned that it was the national anthem of our new country. Once again, tears filled our eyes, and many others aboard. We had arrived in America! After several hours of being processed, my grandparents and I were finally released to our sponsor, Mr. Levin, and his wife. We traveled with them by train to our new destination, Indiana.

During the long train ride, I answered Mrs. Levin’s questions in my broken English, painfully aware of my shabby condition. But I thought she was the most beautiful, kindest lady I had ever met. After helping us get settled into a small house they had ready for us, Mrs. Levin came by with some news for me.

"You’ll be going to school soon, so tomorrow you and I are going shopping," she announced with a bright smile. ‘And how old did you say you are?"

"I’m almost fifteen," I replied shyly.

"Well, I was thinking that a young lady of almost fifteen might like to get rid of her little-girl braids, so we’ll visit a beauty shop, too." Her smile was so kind and bright that I had the urge to hug her.

"Oh, thank you," I said. "I would like that very much."

So the following day was a day of transformation for me. I got a stylish new haircut and stylish American clothes and shoes. Then Mrs. Levin took me to see a movie, where I got another boost to my adolescent self-confidence when a couple of teen aged boys "made goo-goo eyes" at me in the lobby. That’s what Mrs. Levin said they were doing, while I blushed, but was secretly pleased about it all. She shared many other insights and in many other ways helped a shy young Hungarian girl become a confident young American woman.

So it was on that bright September day in 1951, I met two special American ladies who forever changed my life: one who welcomed me into the land of promise, and one who helped me make my way in this golden land. I will always remember Mrs. Levin’s kindness and Miss Liberty’s warm welcome.

First published in Mature Living Magazine, copyright (c) July 2004

Thank you for reading the long story of one proud American lady! Happy Independence Day, everyone! God bless America!

His Inspiring Motto--A Story for Father's Day

I was eleven when we fled our Soviet occupied country Hungary, in 1947, landing in a refugee camp in Austria. Our only worldly possessions were the clothes on our backs. We had lost everything because of World War II, but we were alive, and for that we were grateful to God.

The refugee camp housed hundreds of destitute refugees. Although dismal and cramped, the camp provided a roof over our heads, donated clothes to wear, and soup and bread to fill our hungry stomachs. So what did it matter that we didn’t have penny to our names?

But it mattered a great deal to Apa (Hungarian for Dad.) He hated living off the charity of others; hated not being able to provide for his family, as he always did in the past.

Just beyond our dismal camp home was a beautiful natural world of mountains, a crystal clear river, and farms with grazing animals. The river was the Drau River, and Apa and I discovered it on a summer day while taking one of our rambles through the countryside.

“You can enjoy the water, while I get busy with something else,” he said,.

So I splashed around in the shallow, clear water, while Apa walked up and down the bank. I noticed he was cutting some branches from the river willows growing all along the bank. Soon, he had a large armful of them, so we headed back to camp.

“What are you going to do with them?” I asked him curiously.

“I will make some baskets,” Apa replied.

“And what will you do with the baskets?” I continued, suddenly remembering that his hobby in the past used to be weaving.

“I will try and sell them to the Austrians.”

Soon, Apa found some old boards and bricks, and set up a worktable in front of our barrack. Then, after peeling the willow branches, he began weaving his first basket. A large crowd gathered to watch him. Some boys volunteered to get more willow branches for him.

“Thank you. And when I sell my baskets, I’ll pay you for your help.”

Within a short time, there were six beautiful baskets ready for market. Apa hung them on a long stick, flung them over his shoulder, and off he went to town, looking like a hobo peddler. He returned a few hours later minus the baskets. He had sold all of them!

Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out the book I had been longing for, while we had walked around in town.

“Oh, thank you, Apa,” I shrieked, giving him a hug. “I can’t believe you were able to buy me a new book.”

“You are welcome, Sweetheart. Never forget–where there is a will, there is always a way,” he said. Then he went off to pay the boys who had helped him.

Apa continued with his new venture all summer, and even gave free lessons in weaving to anyone interested. After he sold the next batch, he bought himself a fishing pole, too, and a large frying pan, and building a fire outside the barrack, soon cooked up a large batch of fish he caught in the river, and shared it with our neighbors. It was most unusual to have the aroma of that frying fish wafting through the camp, where barracks were lined up like soldiers, and helpless people lived their lives in them, hoping and praying for something better.

My dear Apa’s example was an inspiration to many at that refugee camp. His motto became my motto in life, and it has always served me well.

-----


"Any man can be a Father but it takes someone special to be a dad."
-- Anne Geddes

This story is from the book, “The Best Dad in the World” published by Howard Books, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Copyright © April 2008.

A longer version of this story was previously published in Chicken Soup for the Father and Daughter's Soul. Apa was my dear grandfather, who raised me.

Thank you for reading. Have a wonderful weekend!

Prom Pictures and a Small Woo Hoo!

My daughter sent me some pictures of my oldest granddaughter, Nichole, going to her Senior Prom, recently. Pictured above is Nichole and her date, Danny. Aren't they cute?

And here is Nichole, with her best friend Ally. They have been best friends since kindergarten! They are lovely young women now, going off to college soon.

It seems like only yesterday that Nichole was a little girl, chasing my chickens around the yard, swimming with baby ducks in the kiddie pool, taking a walk in the woods with me, collecting pretty rock treasures, catching tiny frogs in cups at the river, and trying to sneak them home by hiding them in a suitcase, and crying when they were leaving to go home to the city, because she didn't want to leave her Nana! But, of course, she will always be my Honey-Bunny. And did I tell you that I am very proud of her?

Sunrise, sunset, sunrise, sunset

Swiftly fly the years

One season following an other

Laden with happiness and tears

-From "Fiddler on the Roof"

.......

I also want to mention a small Woo Hoo. I have a short, writing related article in this week's Writer's Weekly, a popular newsletter for freelance writers. Angela Hoy, who publishes the newsletter, bought this from me recently, and if you'd like to take a peek at it, here is the link to it:

http://writersweekly.com/success_stories/004730_06042008.html

Thank you for reading. Have a wonderful day!

Happy Mother's Day!

God's Masterpiece Is Mother

God took the fragrance of a flower
The majesty of a tree
The gentleness of morning dew
The calm of the quiet sea
The beauty of the twilight hour
The soul of a starry night
The laughter of a rippling brook
The grace of a bird in flight
Then God fashioned from these things
A creation like no other,
And when the masterpiece was done
He called it simply-Mother.

--Herbert Farnham-American Poet

This is a picture of Anya, (which in Hungarian means Mom) my dear Grandma, the only mother I ever knew. Pictured here with my two boys, her great-grandsons, in 1963.( Since I can only take a picture of the original, it's not the best of pictures.)

She was there for me through thick or thin, and gave me gifts of the heart, when there was no money for store-bought gifts, during the war. Her faith was strong, and her love deeper than the deepest ocean!

She went to her heavenly reward in February of 1989, at the age of 89. I miss her to this day!

"The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always discover forgiveness" --Honore De Balzac

Have a Happy Mother's Day, everyone!

Wordless Wednesday!

December Sunrise in the Woods

There was a beautiful sunrise in the woods, this morning, so I braved the chilly temperatures (24F) and took some pictures of it.

December 6th is the Feast of St. Nicholas in Europe. In Hungary, we called him Mikulas Bacsi. Santa Claus was not a part of our Christmases.

Mikulas Bacsi came on the Eve of St. Nicholas, dressed in the robes of a bishop, with a red miter on his head, a staff in one hand and a sack full of small presents in the other. He didn't come on a sleigh, pulled by some raindeer. He was accompanying by a scary "Devil" boy, or Krampusz, in a black costume, complete with horns and a long tail. He usually held a switch made of dry twigs, ready to smack any "naughty" children.
Each "good" child received a small gift and some sweets from Mikulas Bacsi.

I like the American Santa Claus better!

Christmas cheers and blessings!

The Twelve Questions Of Christmas

Hootin'Anni is hosting a wonderful Christmas Meme. Here is what she said about this meme:

For the holiday season, I've started a meme. "The Twelve Questions of Christmas" If you'd like to participate, I'd be honored to have you join in the fun. If you'd like, you are welcomed to use the meme header graphic!

To get into the spirit of the season, I have decided to participate. Thank you, Anni ! So here are the questions and my answers:


1. Christmas is Joy. [fill in the blank with ONE WORD]


2. In memories, what was the best part of your Christmases past?

Seeing my children's faces on Christmas morning, going to church as a family, Christmas dinner with the family, were all a wonderful part of our Christmases.

3. Was Santa ever good to you? [describe how and what]

On my first Christmas in America in 1951, Santa brought me a very special gift, a tiny orange tabby kitten! Since I had lost my 19 year old cat on Christmas Day in 1945, I was overjoyed with this special gift in 1951.

4. Do you open gifts on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, or both?

We always opened gifts on Christmas Day morning, when my children were little, but these days, I often open mine on Christmas Eve, like I used to as a child in Hungary.

5. Is there something you make each and every year? [craft or recipe]

We used to bake lots of Christmas cookies and breads and cakes. But my kids' favorite were the Walnut Butterballs, or Snowballs, as they used to call them.

Walnut Butter Balls /Snow Balls
1 c. unsalted butter
1 tsp. vanilla
2 c. sifted flour
1/2 c. sugar
1/4 tasp. salt
1 c. finely chopped walnuts
powdered sugar

Cream butter, sugar and vanilla until fluffy. Sift together flour and salt and add to creamed mixture. Mix well to make a soft dough. Stir in walnuts. Shape into 1 inch balls. Bake on ungreased cookie sheet at 375 about 12 to 15 minutes until slightly brown. While cookies are still warm, roll in sifted powdered sugar. Makes 4 dozen cookies. Enjoy!


6. What is your favorite five[5] Christmas songs/hymns?

I love them all, so it's hard to chose, but the top five would be:

1. O Come All Yea Faithful (Adeste Fidelis) (It always moves me to tears.)

2. Silent Night

3. O Holy Night

4. What Child Is This

5. I'll Be Home for Christmas


7. Is there a new tradition for Christmas since your childhood days?

Christmas in Hungary was very different from here. So all the traditions we followed here, are different, except for always going to church on Christmas Day.

8. Describe one of your Christmas trips. [whether it's across town or across country]

When my children were young, we often spent Christmases in Florida, where they swam in the pool or ocean, while Christmas music played in the background. It was enjoyable, but we missed Christmases at home.


9. Do you have a special Christmas outfit to wear for the day?

Not really, except I try to wear something red and festive!


10. Have YOU or any of your family members sat on Santa's lap?

Oh, my yes! Santa's lap was a Christmas season tradition!

11. What is/or will be on your Christmas tree this year?

Old ornaments from years ago, along with some newer ones acquired more recently.

12. Do you/or have you decorated your yard for Christmas?

When the kids were young, we always decorated the yard, and had lights on the bushes around the house, but these days, I don't do any of it, except for the Merry Christmas sign. The colorful birds that come to the feeders, and the deer and wild turkeys around here are my wonderful live decorations. And I always have special treats for all of them on Christmas.

If you would like to participate in The Twelve Questions of Christmas Meme, just follow the link to Hootin'Anni's blog, and then follow her instructions.

Christmas Blessings to one and all!