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Visions of sugar plums

With profound apologies to Clement Clarke Moore, his heirs, assigns and estate’s attorneys. The Month Before Christmas ‘Twas the month before Christmas, from near and from far, Our neighbours from Washington packed up their car.

With profound apologies to Clement Clarke Moore, his heirs, assigns and estate’s attorneys.

The Month Before Christmas


the month before Christmas, from near and from far,

Our neighbours from Washington packed up their car.

With mom navigating, and me at the wheel,

Thanksgiving in Whistler seemed such a good deal.

The turkey was packed in our new SUV,

Canadian dollars seemed practically free.

The children and their friends, had spirits that soared,

At least for ten minutes, until they got bored.

Then there, up ahead, all the traffic had stopped,

The border was looming, just crawling with cops.

I opened the door, stood up and I looked,

While those all around me just gave up and cooked.

With new resignation, a sense of despair,

Cars simply weren’t moving, it seemed so unfair.

We inched slowly forward, while closer we came,

I seethed and I cursed that most hated of names.


AL-QAIDA! You hide, but we’ll settle your hash!

To the end of the earth! To the end of all time!

We’ll hunt your sad asses! We’ll kill you like swine!

And then, after hours, the border we’d passed,

Converting to metric, I gave it the gas.

Through sprawling Vancouver, and on up the sound,

I drove with a purpose and chewed up the ground.

Past Big Orange Bridge, over twisty two lane,

I drove ever faster, not feeling the pain.

Past Alice and Daisy, past Brandywine Falls,

The traffic got heavy, we all clenched our jaws.

Somewhere, well before the one long passing lane,

We came to a full stop, the end of the game.

I walked up ahead and joined in with the throng,

We looked at each other, "You know what’s gone wrong?"

Some silly-assed fool tried to pass one last truck,

He didn’t quite make it, now traffic is stuck.

Ambulances, fire trucks, helivac too,

Were all up there trying to free that poor fool.

We waited and waited, we fretted and fumed,

We froze by the light of the silvery moon.

We opened some crackers, we broke out the beer,

So near yet so far, oh it all seemed so queer.

We finally heard engines, we started to move,

And slowly we crawled toward our cozy warm room.

The condo was darkened and still as a mouse,

Eleven long hours since we’d left our house.

The snow wasn’t that great but we didn’t care,

We like it in Whistler, our getaway lair.

The turkey was dry, the spuds a bit lumpy,

Our favourite ski run, a little too bumpy.

But it doesn’t matter, cuz we’re coming back,

If not before Christmas, then surely for that.

Though I’m a bit worried, and I’ve got a hunch,

We’ll be at the border so long we’ll need lunch.


The Night Before Christmas


the night before Christmas, and all through the town,

The tourists were stirring, and a few local clowns.

The skis were still racked by the Longhorn with care,

The lowlifes were shopping, "They won’t miss this pair."

The children with nannies, were snug in their beds,

They played new Playstations, their eyes turning red.

Mamma in her Prado, and dad wearing Gap,

Stepped out on the town for a little nightcap.

When down in the Square there arose such a fuss,

A bylaw was broken, I heard a boy cuss.

"A pox on your children, a curse on your head,

Your chainstore in ruin, strange men in your bed.

You treat us like garbage, you treat us like dirt,

A small locals’ discount, it really won’t hurt."

"We don’t need your business," the owner exclaimed,

"This town’s full of tourists, you locals are lame.

You look and you look and you look but don’t buy,

I really don’t care if my prices seem high."

More folks gathered round and they grew rather loud,

The RCMP waded into the crowd.

DISPERSE! GO ON HOME! Or we’ll start busting heads,

Get out of the Square or you’ll wish you were dead.

To the left, to the right, they encircled the group,

But cool heads prevailed, the crowd flew the coop.

Elsewhere in their homes, in the far parts of town,

Folks gathered with friends and some doobs passed around.

The warmth of the season imbued them with cheer,

The tourists had come and relieved their worst fear.

The hotels were full, the restaurants were jolly,

September’s worst fears, seemed only a folly.

The slopes give great comfort and Canada’s nice,

We’ve got lots of powder, no sliding on ice.

The evening wound down and we bade friends good night,

The village grew quiet, avoiding a fight.

Then arced cross the sky, in the blink of an eye,

Something, but what? Not a sleigh? No fat guy?

But something had come, in the morning we found,

Some presents, all wrapped, ribboned up, tightly bound.

A board, new shaped skis and some neat logo-wear,

A Bogner, pashmina, oh won’t we look fair.

Then worker bees trudged through the dark and the snow,

To open the mountain, we gotta make dough.

Just glad to be working, it seems at long last,

We’re eating lots better, I don’t like to fast.

This town never sleeps and this town never stops,

We pause, catch our breaths, then reopen the shops,

The world likes to come here, this place is all right,

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.