| CANADA'S SOURCE FOR HUMOUR, PARODY, AND SATIRE
 by Fubrics Short
There is a cold Christmas
wind blowing this year through my beloved city of Ottawa, capital of this
fair land, and centre of these few acres of snow, cold and sharp and not
like the Christmasses of yester-year, joyful and filled with the brash
and rosy-cheeked excitement of youth, jam-packed with skating on the frozen
Rideau Canal, playing pick-up games of hockey with a frozen sock and the
fender of father's Model T, or perhaps sledding over hill and dale with
my chums and Rosebud, my sled, I forget why it was called that, but there
was a special significance to the name, those were the days, when the
cold did not matter, all that we needed was a warm and scratchy woollen
scarf knitted by mother, with the mittens that worked as long as we didn't
make too many snowballs, making them wet and soggy, or fell through the
ice like my good friend Jimmy Stewart once did, who got an awful ear infection
after that, although he did save his younger brother's life as I recall,
but life and Christmas was about the excitement of getting an orange in
our sock, we didn't ask for more, there was no more, we were lucky to
get an orange, dry and hard as it was, and we knew it, our lives weren't
only about getting our paws on the filthy lucre that surrounds me today
as I sit alone in my drafty garret in the top of my tower over-looking
the same Rideau Canal of my youth, it is still frozen, there are still
people skating, but where is the happiness, the carefree attitude, it
is a sport now, an exercise, not something done because people are filled
with the the flushness of life, where has the time gone, why can I no
longer skate or enjoy myself, where is Rosebud, why is it so cold, where
is that draft coming from
fubrics@thetoque.net
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