Christmas Letters My Father Wrote

My father was famous for his annual Christmas Letters. I would not be lying if I told you that people would actually call my parents and ask if they were receiving the letter. I wanted to share some of my father’s Christmas Letters with you. I hope you enjoy his sense of humor. Our family is made up of myself, the youngest, my brother John and my brother Paul, who is intellectually handicapped, and my sister Mary Clare.

A DOG’S DIARY 1978

As “Dada” is getting on in years, he asked me for help in reporting the family “doin’s” for 1978. As many of you may know I am the youngest Farley, and in many ways, the smartest (that wouldn’t be hard, you say?) I weave not, neither do I spin, and yet I lead a fairly comfortable life if you can call having your meals served to you on the floor of the garage comfortable, but let’s not get into that – it’s no time for “beefs” (now there is a beautiful word); to be succinct, this is the season to be jolly.

When I was asked to handle this vital task, I decided to keep a diary, so that the important events wouldn’t be missed, like licking the dishes and stuff like that. So here we go: the old boy finished up in November of 1977, so I’ll start in December.

Mummy and Daddy went to New York. Mummy had to have an operation before she left: she had the telephone cut off her ear. She said it wasn’t painful, but she sure looked funny for the first couple of days. They went by the Amtrak Train which took nine days or so, Amtrak being faster than a herd of turtles, as Norm would say. The highlight of the trip for Daddy was the night a seventy-three-year-old “Lady of the Night,” wearing three cardigans and carrying a shopping bag, tried to pick him up in front of a delicatessen. As Daddy said, “When you got it you never lose it.”

I was never “Big” on Christmas. I hate candied yams and turkey bones but the rest of them seem to get a charge outta opening alotta junk, and oohing and aahhing. The old man gotta camera, and after the first flash in my face, I left. Why he tried to take pictures I’ll never know; only about half of them ever turn out. Christmas 1977 was different in another way: My brother Paul got the Christmas spirit for the first time. Not only was he humming Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer but he also used about ten rolls of paper wrapping gifts for everyone. Among the more notable, John got a book he had given Paul the previous Christmas, Daddy got a two-year-old Canadian Tire Catalogue and Mummy got four copies of Canadian Aviation, a subject dear to her heart, and lucky Martha got two toilet paper rolls painted to look like binoculars.(On a clear day you can see forever).

January was as usual the month for big storms. Lots of snow and ice. I put in another grievance on the lack of toilet facilities for dogs, and as usual it was ignored. As I get older I sure hate to face those winter mornings when the snow is over ten inches. Daddy got a new car this month, a Pontiac, and true to the breed of Farley cars it ran like a top for twenty-four hours and then died. Daddy used the same words he used that time I threw up on the living room carpet, and Mummy called him a beast, which I thought was a bit of a compliment, but when she hit him with her purse I knew it wasn’t. He revived before the doctor came, and Mummy said she was sorry; she hadn’t realized she was carrying the Bingo money and a full set of wrenches. The last time she had her purse snatched the thief ran thirty feet before dropping dead of a heart attack.

February can be described as blahhhhhh at the best of times. I spent most of my time trying to find a sunny spot for my naps.

September is better forgotten. I have this friend down the street, a medium sized Airedale, very nice. We had a bit of a thing going for a while. To make a long story short, I got dressed up in my new white boots one night,  borrowed Mummy’s beaded evening bag and took a stroll down to my friend’s place. There I was standing under the street light, swinging my bag, when this car pulls up filled with the Fuzz. They hustle me into the car and take me downtown where I get booked for loitering with intent. Before you can say Gaines Burger, I get slapped with a 37.00 fine. The old man ranted and raved over that 37 bucks for weeks.

October. Canadian Thanksgiving Day is in October so we had another stupid turkey and those candied yams. We also had a bit of excitement: Mummy was making the gravy – about ten gallons of it – when the large element on the stove blew out. As Mummy jumped back from the flames she forgot to let go of the roasting pan, and the ten gallons of gravy ended up on the floor. Unfortunately, it was too hot for licking and with everybody yelling and screaming I took off for my quiet corner behind the furnace, my favorite spot during periods of stress.

November has been a fairly quiet month so far. The people around here are getting into the Christmas bit again. We hope you all had a good 1978 and that Dame Fortune will continue to smile on you…..keep wagging.

~

In 1979 my father started off his Christmas Letter with “Following her very successful ‘first production’ of these yearly reports, Cola decided to get temperamental and turned down the job. This is due in part to the fact she enrolled at a local community college and obtained her degree in Dog-ma. She now edits and publishes The Pointe Claire Bark and Hydrant (a rather pretentious title, I thought) which has scratched its way to a circulation of 10,000 (including fleas).”

~

I hope you enjoyed my father’s Christmas Letter and wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a wonderful 2014!

Image Credit

Photo by Martha Farley. All rights reserved.

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