Away away away in a socially-distanced manger
The First No Smells
Disinfect The Halls with boughs of Lysol
Hark The Harolds Through a Mask
Baby It’s Covid Outside
Jingle Bells, I Can’t Smell
Oh, Clorox Wipes
Kevin The Mail Man IS The Only Man I See (Frosty The Snow Man)
ALL I want for Christmas is School
Carol of the Smells
The 10 Days of Quarantine
May 2020 Be Forgot
Four expectant fathers were in a Minnesota hospital waiting room while their wives were in labor. The nurse comes in and tells the first man, “Congratulations, you’re the father of twins.”
“What a coincidence!” the man exclaims. “I work for the Minnesota Twins baseball team!”
The nurse returns a short while later and tells the second man, “You are the father of triplets.”
“Wow, what a coincidence!” he replies. “I work for the 3M Corporation.”
When the nurse comes again, she tells the third man that his wife has given birth to quadruplets.
“Another coincidence!” he tells her. “I work for the Four Seasons Hotel!”
At this point, the fourth guy faints. When he comes to, the others ask him what was wrong. He moans, “I work for Seven-Eleven!”
Random Robby Thoughts
The other day I held the door open for a clown. It was a nice jester.
Geologists relax in a rocking chairs.
Q: What did the earthquake say to the volcano? A: It’s not my fault.
A Covid Christmas Movie this Year – HOME ALONE
In The Bag
A golfer is playing a round of golf with his buddies. On the sixth hole, a hole over water, he proceeds to flub nine balls into the water. Frustrated over his poor golfing ability, he heaves his golf clubs into the water, and begins to walk off the course.
Then all of a sudden he turns around and jumps back in the lake, his buddies apparently thinking he is going to retrieve his clubs.
When he comes out of the water he doesn’t have his clubs and begins to walk off the course.
Then one of his buddies asks, “Why did you jump into the lake?”
And he said, “I left my car keys in the bag.”
TRUE KID STORIES
We were driving home late one evening. We kept stressing to our three year old son that since it was so late, he was going straight to bed when we got home. Of course he didn’t like the idea and kept arguing with it. Later during the ride home, something happened that he needed to be disciplined for. I told him that as soon as we got home, he would be disciplined. It was quiet for a moment, then we heard him softly saying over and over, “Straight to bed. Yep, when we get home, it’s straight to bed.” I think he was trying to use subliminal persuasion on us!
Our three year old son loves to play drums. After playing drums to music for a long time, he asked to turn the music off. He said “I’ve got too much music in my ears.” Later that day he wanted the music on again. When I asked if he still had too much music in his ears, he said, “No, it’s in my heart now.”
At three years old, the first thing he said when he saw his new baby brother was, “Is he my best friend?”
One day our four year old son was making something at the dining room table. His mommy was upstairs taking care of the baby, and his daddy was standing just a few feet away from him. He needed help with what he was doing, so he yelled out, “Mommy, could you come here please?” She called back down to him, “I’m taking care of the baby, ask Daddy. He’s right there.” So he replied, “Daddy, could you tell Mommy to come here, please?”
Like most children, our son has tried every trick in the book. But this one was a new one to me. One day he said in the *sweetest* possible voice, “Excuse me, Mommy, may I be in charge please?” Trying to hold back the laughter, his mom replied, “No, I don’t think so!,” to which he promptly replied, “Well, could you think about it?”
YOUTH GOT TO BE KIDDING
Old Sam Johnson goes to his doctor complaining of aches and pains all over his body. After a thorough examination, the doctor gives him a clean bill of health.
“Sam, you’re in excellent shape for an 85 year old man. But I’m not a magician – I can’t make you any younger,” says the doctor.
“Who asked you to make me younger?” says Sam. “You just make sure I get older!”
Crazy About Fruit Cake
I never cared for the taste of fruitcake, but I’ve been saving one for years.
It’s the last of those I used to get every Christmas from Elizabeth, my friend Paul’s mom. She always cooked up what seemed like hundreds for family and friends, wrapping them in plastic, and tying them with red and green ribbons.
Fruitcakes are known to take on lives of their own, passing from one person to the next, sometimes lingering long enough to carbon-date. Cut one open, if you dare, and divine its age like you’d count the rings of some ancient tree.
Though we pretended to like them, Elizabeth never pressed us for reports on their flavor, probably sensing that many simply became souvenirs—if not albatrosses—not that it seemed to matter. Still, everybody got one, delivered with a proud smile and wrapped in love, a present from this woman who used her recipes to nourish our souls as much as our bodies.
The tradition was passed down by Elizabeth’s mom, who had learned it from her own aunt. With nobody sure how many generations back it goes, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn an early version of the recipe, scripted on papyrus and stored in an urn, has been unearthed during some distant archaeological dig.
Paul’s father lost his hearing some years back, and got to where he couldn’t see very well. Then Elizabeth’s diabetes eventually put her in a wheelchair and robbed her of sight, so Paul moved back home that fall to help care for them.
As Christmas approached, Elizabeth kept mentioning how much she wished she could hand out those fruitcakes again. Saddened by having to break the tradition, she reminisced about helping Grandma when she was a little girl. Tears welled in her eyes as she talked about her fruitcakes, admitting that eating them isn’t what matters, that it’s cooking up some love and sharing it with people who mean the most to her.
During her nap that afternoon, Paul searched through two boxes stuffed with hundreds of recipes filed in no particular order. He finally found it, flour-crusted, yellow with age, and difficult to read. He went out and bought the ingredients, then set about mixing, determined to make her a batch to give away. Paul’s not known for his culinary finesse, and most family recipes require a dollop of magic beyond what’s actually written down, so he finally had to wake her, confessing his plan and asking her to help.
They spent the rest of the afternoon making fruitcakes. She took charge, while Paul served as her eyes and hands. They didn’t need that old recipe card; Elizabeth knew this one by heart.
She glowed with pride as she handed them out, accepting kisses and thanks, hugging back with newfound strength despite her frail condition. She’d probably felt that way every year, but this marked the first time we really noticed.
Several days after Christmas, Elizabeth required hospitalization, but there was little that could be done, and she took a turn for the worse. In a stark, antiseptic room far from the familiar aromas of her kitchen, Paul lost his mother, and we all lost a friend.
Gathered at the house after the funeral, Paul and his siblings carefully copied her fruitcake recipe, all vowing to carry on the custom. Several of them did, too—for a couple of years. Busy with their own lives and still discovering their own unique ways to celebrate, they gradually let the fruitcake tradition slip away.
Some things will never leave us, though. Elizabeth’s children, like all of us she touched, will always carry on with a more important tradition: living the way she taught. Devotion to our families, integrity, loyalty, and love for each other . . . these are what I see being passed on to the next generation. These are truly Elizabeth’s recipe for life.
I still have that fruitcake somewhere, the one she and my friend made together. When I look at it, I can see her face lighting up as she presented it to me.
It is, after all, just a fruitcake. I still don’t care for the taste. And I can’t say how long I’ll manage to hang on to this odd thing, a souvenir wrapped in plastic and tied with red and green ribbons . . .
A family recipe, the reminder of those last precious moments my friend spent with his mom, a Christmas gift from the heart.