Thanksgiving is over, and the big one is coming up, Christmas. I’ll try not to get into any past Christmas holiday memories. Some are a little too poignant. Occasionally fate takes a hand, and there I am, back in a memory. Recently I was rummaging through the back of a dusty upstairs closet, when buried under some things that years ago I thought I could never do without, I found a cigar box. The label, old and worn, touted, "White Owl Cigars."

Across the lid, in a child’s hand, was the penciled name, "Charlie Don, personal" (the name I was called when I was very young). Among the small childhood treasures was a blue slide whistle. On the side was printed, "Fat Bob’s Discount Fumiture," which was a reluctant Christmas gift from a fat man many Christmases ago. I must have been nine or ten years old, in 1950 something. It came to be that Fat Bob, either in the Christmas spirit or trying to increase sales, planned a program in the park to have children meet Santa and maybe get a small gift. On the evening of the anticipated occasion, the children began to gather early.

Little tykes were with mothers or older siblings to help control the mounting enthusiasm. The crowd gathered in front of a paper balustrade held up by cardboard poles. Santa's chair sat under a cardboard pavilion just as flimsy as the rest of the set. Oh, yeah, Fat Bob was cheap ... He would regret it. The children began discordant chanting, "Where is Santa? We want Santa." The tide had begun to swell, and nothing was going to hold it back. Santa trudged in from the rear of the set. He was dressed in red and white with a white beard. He carried a large bag over one shoulder and looked suspiciously like Fat Bob. Perhaps he was a relative.

 The crowd began to pulse forward and broke away from controlling hands. The paper poles and the rope collapsed as every child vied to be first to sit on Santa’s lap. Santa’s eyes grew wide, and his "Ho, Ho, Ho” turned into "No, No, No" as the swell descended on him like seagulls at a landfill. He started to sit on his folding chair, but becoming aware of the impending calamity, decided discretion was the better part of Christmas spirit. The chair tipped over, and his bag fell to the ground spilling its contents. Santa tumbled to his knees as the tots reached him. One black plastic boot spun across the ground, abandoned in a panicked retreat.

He was on his hands and knees scrambling to escape from whence he came, maybe back to the North Pole. Who could guess? Mothers were shouting, kids were screaming, "Come back Santa." Oh, mercy. It was murder. Then, all attention turned to the spilled bag of goodies on the floor. I got my hands in the pile, grabbing two Baby Ruth candy bars and a plastic whistle. The next thing I knew I was being lifted to my feet by my shirt collar, and my sister was dragging me from the fray. The walk home was long and silent. I knew I was in for it when my sister told mom what happened. Mom greeted us at the door, and her first questions were, "Did he have a good time, and did he behave?" "Sure, mom, he just got a little excited." I felt a weight lift from me.

 Later I went to my sister’s bedroom and asked why she had saved me. In the low light she said, "You’re my brother, and it's the Christrras Season.” I drew the two prized candy bars from behind my back. "These are for you, for pretty much the same reason, I guess.” I spent some time getting to sleep that night, thinking about what had happened. I didn't understand it all. How were the feelings of love and forgiveness and Christmas all mixed together? I had heard the words in church, but they didn't mean much. My sister’s Christmas lesson was the most valuable one that I received that year.

The other morning I was  sitting on my front porch  enjoying a cup of coffee in  the quiet coolness of a  Coquille Valley morning. As  often happens, a friend  stopped to join me. I noticed  that he had a new car.  Knowing how tight he was  with his money, (it was once  said that he would squeeze a  nickel until the buffalo's  eyes crossed) I asked him if  he had fallen victim to a  momentary lack of financial  clarity.

Now I must say that  my limited knowledge of  politics and economics complicated  his response. He  said that the government  offered him a $4,500.00  trade in on his old beater car  for a more fuel efficient one.  The plan would also help  stimulate the struggling  Detroit automobile industry  by encouraging automobile  sales. "Just think," he said,  "I can visit my girlfriend in  Powers a lot more than I  could with my old car and  not use much more gas.  "Two thoughts occurred to  me. First, the $4,500.00  came from my tax money.

Second, how is using the  same amount of gas going  to make any one in O.P.E.C.  nervous. I said that maybe  he should thank me for  helping him buy a new car  and for increasing his testosterone  runs to that cowgirl  in Powers. He chuckled as  he got up to leave. Before  he got to the curb I shouted  after him, "What kind of a  car is that anyway?" He  looked back and said,  "Toyota."

First of all let me start by  saying that I don't see much  humor in religion. It's a serious  subject that deserves  respect.

That said I must  admit to being a simple soul  who has to deal with the  subject of my salvation in  images that I can comprehend.  I have a close neighbor  who is a pastor and  could be the poster person  of what a good Christian  should be. I'm not a nonbeliever  but watching a  good Christian doing the  Lords work sometimes  makes me feel like more of  a heathen than I am willing  to admit.

The spirit denying  the flesh has always been a  tough go for me. The older  that I get the more I realize  that there are no loopholes  written in the bible. When  earthly lights begin to dim  and the flame on the candle  of life begins to flicker it  will be too late for repentance.

Will it come to pass  that when the heavenly train  bound for glory land pulls  out of the station some of us  won't be on it? Instead a  dark coach pulled by fire  breathing black stallions and  driven by a specter in a  hooded cloak with a stink of  sulpher will stop, open the  door and with a skeletal finger  beckon for the ride into  eternity....Oh mercy.

Summers in Oregon are the most beautiful anywhere. The rain forest effect of colorful bloom, clean air and openness is unparalleled. I live for the spring and summers in Coquille.

But as with all earthly pleasures there is a price. The price comes due in the form of the wet, cold winters. It's not so much the weather that gets me down. My main complaint is the respiratory curse that comes to visit the lungs on the cold wet air.

The flu. For the older citizens (can I say seniors) like myself the effects of this ailment come and go and come and go and come and go. My head is so stuffy that my hearing that suffers from sixty years of overwork has problems with the simplest phrases. I was stopped on Highway 42 last weekend and the nice policeman asked m, "Do you know how fast you were going?" I replied with a quizzical, "Does my mother do any sewing?" and wondered why he would want to know that.

I asked him to "speak slowly and articulate" and he thought I was being a wise guy. My runny nose that requires copious amounts of Kleenex can get me into trouble. When the Kleenex is used up I start on the bathroom tissue then the paper towels. My wife inevitably has to make a McKay's run in the rain to restock. She loves me but I know she quietly abides while being driven nuts taking care of me. She sits and tries to watch television or read while I wheeze like an ancient pump organ. Raspy wind in, raspy wind out. Sometimes I even get a noise like a musical note. How entertaining for her.

For now I will follow my mother's time tested cold remedy. One third cup each of honey, lemon juice and Jack Daniel's. Then heat it, drink it, sleep and hope for an early spring.

By Chuck Palomino
Reading the sheriff's log in the Sentinel last week I came across an item that took me back to my boyhood. The item related that two goats tied to a shed at Bandon Farm and Garden ate $350 worth of plants that were for sale. How the goats got there and who they belong to is still a mystery. Oh yes, goats. Anyone who has ever had the misfortune to own one knows that they are ornery critters and will get into mischief where there is no mischief to get into.

That brings me to my story. My early childhood was spent in a simple country environment. We had lots of chickens and ducks and we had two goats. My sis and I loved them but they would test the patience of Job. They were garbage disposals from hell. At least once or twice a week, at night, they would jump the fence of their enclosure and we would find them in the morning enjoying a green salad from our garden, a main course from an over turned trash can or, sin of sins, standing on the roof of our dad's 1959 Chevy.

My sister and I fearful of our dad's wrath and a goat barbecue would throw rocks and shout insults. The commotion would rate only a casual glance from them before they trotted nonchalantly back to their pen. The item in the sheriff's log brought the memories back. There was a song we used to song that said it well. As I remember the words went something like this: Bill Hogan's goat was feeling fine. Ate three red shirts right off the line. Bill took a stick, gave it a whack, then tied it to the railroad track. The whistle blew. The train grew neigh. Bill Hogan's goat was doomed to die. It gave a cough, a cry of pain. Coughed up the shirts and flagged the train. And that's just about all I have to say about goats.

By Chuck Palomino
Looking for some happy news or any item in a local Eugene paper that would lift my usual winter spirits, I came across a piece of contemporary news that drew my attention. Before I continue, what I am about to say does not in any way endorse or criticize the moral or legal aspects of the smokable intoxicant, marijuana.

The herb that is referred to by different monikers such as weed, devil weed, and smoke or on the Mexican border, “mota.” My attention was drawn to the article and as I read I understood that the following had occurred. Michael Phelps, the Olympic swimming champ, had been photographed at a party sucking wind from a bong. I think everyone knows what a bong is. It’s a device for fogging up ones lungs before fogging up one’s head. Firing weeds from Satan’s garden packed in the barrel of the device before sucking said wind does this. For the uninitiated..... a pipe.

The age that we live in being what it is, the photo hit the front page of a British tabloid as soon as Phelps became famous. It was rumored that the paper paid $100,00 for the picture. On the talk show circuit Phelps was questioned and being the kind of person that he is admitted to the act, and said his mea culpa. I don’t think he would have lied about it even if the evidence were less convincing. That brings me to the crux of my mixed emotions about this whole affair. Several lucrative endorsements, Kellogg’s for one, have canceled contracts with Phelps. He no longer appears on the front of Kellogg Corn Flakes boxes.

I understand that the giant of the breakfast table is in business to make money. Any marketing decisions are dictated by that goal. I also believe that it is their prerogative to endorse or not endorse anyone they care to. Keeping that in mind I have always thought that fairness is at it’s best when the character of the accused is considered along with the severity and consequence of the offense. Focus, dedication and hours of hard work should count for something.

Public opinion, as always, divided between the objective and the subjective bathes it in pro and con. One thing for sure the man is a role model and hero to us who yearn for them. That comes at a cost. To paraphrase someone wiser than me, hero worship is strongest where there is least regard for human folly. As for me it is just something to think about on several levels.