Frosty the Snowman

The week before Christmas I take on an alter-ego for one evening.  I dress up as Frosty the Snowman and hang out with a bunch of other "do-gooders" in their alter-egos and we hand out Christmas presents to a group of kids who otherwise wouldn't get much, if anything, for Christmas.  These kids live in a group home with two rotating sets of house parents because their own family situations aren't very family or home-like.  Last night there were kids 4 to 18 (and even older so long as they are in school). 

These kids wouldn't get Christmas presents if it wasn't for the kindness of businesses like the one for which I work and the most amazing efforts of the elf hanging out with Frosty in the above picture.

As much as I really don't like the commercial aspect of Christmas, there are few things that strike home as hard as seeing kids without loving families to care for them and who treasure the toys, clothing, and attention of our little group.


I would say it humbles me, except I'm not certain it does.  It does make me thankful for my childhood, my family, and the grace of God in my life and in the lives of the very children who otherwise wouldn't really know that there is a Christ(mas).

Merry Christmas!

I'm Southern

I try very hard to come across as a professional in my position. I mean, really, I do the purchasing for a 20 million dollar company. I run my own business part time, and I've hob-nobbed with some of the most powerful names across several industries over the last 20 years of my professional careers (I'm on, what, #7 now).

I have backwoods roots. You know the kind - NE Georgia on one side, NC mountains on another, country bumpkins throughout several previous generations with only a smattering of low-brow English immigration in the last 8 or so generations with the remainder being either from Kentucky (no wonder I like bourbon!!!) or Ireland (and Guinness!!!), but I try very hard not to let them show.


There are times.

Such as when I'm on the phone with a company for the third time requesting an RGA (Return of Goods Authorization) early on a Friday morning and I'm not quite halfway through my first cup of coffee and they can't get it correct.

I may as well have played banjo music to give away just how Southern I am. BTW, I recently GAVE away both of my banjos to neighbor from . . . California. I kid you not.

Here's the rub. I used the term "y'all" in conversation with someone from Buffalo, NY.

She laughed. She called it "cute".

. . .

. . .

. . .



I told her I'm not "cute", I'm Southern.

Fiercely Southern.

Not in a hate-mongering, fly the Stars & Bars, spit tobacco in yer eye sort of fiercely Southern.

Just Southern with some very strong opinions about the values of rural, Southern lifestyles that few people in Buffalo, NY understand and certainly fewer (especially those with nasal-intoned Buffalo accents) FROM Buffalo hold dear.

She laughed.

Heartily.

I threw in a couple more Southern-isms for her benefit, all the while maintaining my less-than-Southern accent except while providing her some mild education to counteract her stereotypical understanding of Southerners.

She came away with a brightened Friday morning and, I hope, an enlightened understanding of how not-so-backwoods, hick-ish, we Southerners have become.

It's a good thing she seemed to have "gotten it", because I would've hated to tell her to kiss my . . .