Hoping you have all been a little goody two shoes just like me and awaiting all the tribute from your family with as much anticipation as I am...

But should they not recognise your worthiness and give you a pair of socks in the middle of a hot summer, or undies five times too bloody big then just kick back and find some Moet like I am going to do soon

and you'll have a good day...the Moet is a pressie from future sone in law... he knows how to get in good with me. Hope he keeps it us hee heee.
..

I had heard about this remarkable incident from World War One, but was plased to come accross this article about this incident which as stated sent shudders through High Command...

The Christmas Truce by David G. Stratman
From his book We Can Change the World
It was December 25, 1914, only 5 months into World War I. German, British, and French soldiers, already sick and tired of the senseless killing, disobeyed their superiors and fraternized with "the enemy" along two-thirds of the Western Front (a crime punishable by death in times of war). German troops held Christmas trees up out of the trenches with signs, "Merry Christmas."
"You no shoot, we no shoot." Thousands of troops streamed across a no-man's land strewn with rotting corpses. They sang Christmas carols, exchanged photographs of loved ones back home, shared rations, played football, even roasted some pigs. Soldiers embraced men they had been trying to kill a few short hours before. They agreed to warn each other if the top brass forced them to fire their weapons, and to aim high.
A shudder ran through the high command on either side. Here was disaster in the making: soldiers declaring their brotherhood with each other and refusing to fight. Generals on both sides declared this spontaneous peacemaking to be treasonous and subject to court martial. By March 1915 the fraternization movement had been eradicated and the killing machine put back in full operation. By the time of the armistice in 1918, fifteen million would be slaughtered.
Not many people have heard the story of the Christmas Truce. On Christmas Day, 1988, a story in the Boston Globe mentioned that a local FM radio host played "Christmas in the Trenches," a ballad about the Christmas Truce, several times and was startled by the effect. The song became the most requested recording during the holidays in Boston on several FM stations. "Even more startling than the number of requests I get is the reaction to the ballad afterward by callers who hadn't heard it before," said the radio host. "They telephone me deeply moved, sometimes in tears, asking, `What the hell did I just hear?' "
I think I know why the callers were in tears. The Christmas Truce story goes against most of what we have been taught about people. It gives us a glimpse of the world as we wish it could be and says, "This really happened once." It reminds us of those thoughts we keep hidden away, out of range of the TV and newspaper stories that tell us how trivial and mean human life is. It is like hearing that our deepest wishes really are true: the world really could be different.
Christmas in The Trenches - Song To listen to this inspirational Christmas story in song: click here (free RealPlayer required) Words & Music by John McCutcheon, c. 1984, John McCutcheon / Appalsong
This song is based on a true story from the front lines of World War I that I've heard many times. Ian Calhoun, a Scot, was the commanding officer of the British forces involved in the story. He was subsequently court-martialed for 'consorting with the enemy' and sentenced to death. Only George V spared him from that fate. -- John McCutcheon
My name is Francis Toliver, I come from Liverpool.Two years ago the war was waiting for me after school.To Belgium and to Flanders, to Germany to here,I fought for King and country I love dear.
'Twas Christmas in the trenches, where the frost so bitter hung.The frozen fields of France were still, no Christmas song was sung.Our families back in England were toasting us that day,Their brave and glorious lads so far away.
I was lying with my messmate on the cold and rocky ground,When across the lines of battle came a most peculiar sound.Says I, "Now listen up, me boys!" each soldier strained to hear,As one young German voice sang out so clear.
"He's singing bloody well, you know!" my partner says to me.Soon, one by one, each German voice joined in harmony.The cannons rested silent, the gas clouds rolled no more,As Christmas brought us respite from the war.
As soon as they were finished and a reverent pause was spent,"God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen" struck up some lads from Kent.The next they sang was "Stille Nacht," "'Tis 'Silent Night,'" says I,And in two tongues one song filled up that sky.
"There's someone coming towards us!" the front line sentry cried.All sights were fixed on one lone figure trudging from their side.His truce flag, like a Christmas star, shone on that plain so bright,As he, bravely, strode unarmed into the night.
Soon one by one on either side walked into No Man's Land,With neither gun nor bayonet we met there hand to hand.We shared some secret brandy and wished each other well,And in a flare lit soccer game we gave 'em hell.
We traded chocolates, cigarettes, and photographs from home.These sons and fathers far away from families of their own.Young Sanders played his squeezebox and they had a violin,This curious and unlikely band of men.
Soon daylight stole upon us and France was France once more.With sad farewells we each prepared to settle back to war.But the question haunted every heart that lived that wondrous night:"Whose family have I fixed within my sights?"
'Twas Christmas in the trenches where the frost, so bitter hung.The frozen fields of France were warmed as songs of peace were sung.For the walls they'd kept between us to exact the work of war,Had been crumbled and were gone forevermore.
My name is Francis Toliver, in Liverpool I dwell,Each Christmas come since World War I, I've learned its lessons well,That the ones who call the shots won't be among the dead and lame,And on each end of the rifle we're the same.
Note: For an engaging movie based on this inspirational Christmas story, click here. For an article in a leading U.K. newspaper on one of the last survivors of the Christmas Truce, click here. For more on the history of the Christmas Truce, click here and here. For a highly decorated U.S. general describing how wars are waged largely to fill corporate coffers, click here. For another, even shorter inspirational Christmas story, click here.
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My sister came for a visit and bought her old cat Pussy Gardner on the trip...






she stupidly volunteered to bring her old cat and our old cat Archimedes in for the night but had to be rescued when they soon showed her a thing or two about carrying to rival cats in one set of arms......











you should have heard the howls and hisses. We could see their claws extended for slashing from behind the camera lens...















she gave in and let us rescue her... but was good to see older sister have to admit defeat...hee heee. 

Its been a dreadful day in Australia for bushfires. I was quite bemused when I happened to go past the tele which Don had on (he was alseep...so I won my $20 bet with him) and there was some sort of international racing event on at Phillip Island in Victoria and they were apologising or explaining to "International" viewers about the haze on the track being from bushfires...and I wondered at the ingongruity of this big crow of fellas mainly and brave racing drivers "melting" in their souped up cars...
and the harsh and brutal reality that only miles away people were fighting for their lives and homes...volunteer firefighters men and women were out there exhausted fighting to help others they did not know, risking their lives...a few of these seem to die horribly every summer here...

and I wondered how people could justignore this stuff because maybe (and how could they be sure) it wasn't a fire in theor street, and it wasn't their brother or sister fighting that fire.

We live a few miles out of town..hundreds of miles from Victoria. In our little street the Rural fire volunteers held a meeting and showed us how to save our homes and lives should a fire come. I know what to do and would choose to stay with the house... (after making sure Don was out and safe)...its only the houses that are empty and whose owners don't know what to do which burn...a bushfire passes quickly and it is the embers in the gutters, and cracked glass windows etc which let sparks in...if you stay and enclose the house 9draw all curtains, fill up bathtubs sinks etc etc... and have your gitters filled with water (foam or a tennis ball down the downpipe works a treat and a metal bucket and mop for putting out embers - because the power goes down in a fire, and for those of us in rural areas on a water pump system that means no water...) the mop will put out embers which catch hold after the fire passes...most homes can be saved this way...

As far as I am concerned the wimps are in the race cars and at the track while the real heroes are five miles away fighting to save what they can of other's property.

A bit of a rant but it makes me bloody mad it does!

Happy Christmas y'all

Subject: Fw: AMAZINGLY SIMPLE HOME REMEDIES

1. If you are choking on an ice cube, don't panic. Simply pour a cup ofboiling water down your throat and presto. The blockage will be almostinstantly removed.

2. Clumsy? Avoid cutting yourself while slicing vegetables by gettingsomeone else to hold them while you chop away.

3. Avoid arguments with your partner about lifting the toilet seat bysimply using the sink.

4. For high blood pressure sufferers: simply cut yourself and bleed fora few minutes, thus reducing the pressure in your veins. Remember touse a timer.

5. A mouse trap, placed on top of your alarm clock, will prevent youfrom rolling over and going back to sleep after you hit the snoozebutton.

6. If you have a bad cough, take a large dose of laxatives. Then youwill be afraid to cough.

7. Have a bad toothache? Smash your thumb with a hammer and you willforget about the toothache.

8. Sometimes, we just need to remember what the rules of life reallyare: You only need two tools: WD-40 and Duct Tape. If it doesn't moveand should, use the WD-40. If it shouldn't move and does, use the ducttape.

9. Remember: Everyone seems normal until you get to know them.

10. Never pass up an opportunity to go to the bathroom.

11. If you woke up breathing, congratulations! You get another chance.

12. And finally, be really nice to your family and friends; you neverknow when you might need them to empty your bedpan.

Big Brother: Watching, Listening And Shouting http://www.infowars.net/articles/november2006/281106BB.htm

you Scots men especially will enjoy this but yur wives will enjpy it more... http://www.resiststorage.org/images/ScotishWife_New6.wmv

Mums Petals

Mum's Petals.

She dropped free flowing the petals, in her daily travel,
Just a hand shake or movement and they'd gently unravel.
As the sky drops its stars and the waves drop their sand.
Her petals dropped quietly all over the land.

Finding one of her petals, we'd say, filled with the devil.
"Oh! Mother dear, it does appear you've dropped a little petal.
Her action of retrievement, by tucking into strap or sleeve,
To our delight forced other petals there, to take their leave.

At all birthday parties and on every Christmas night,
A batch of photos taken of Mum all show tiny bits of white.
Clutched in hand, or at a sleeve, or nestling round her shoes,
Were her lovely little petal friends, in more than ones and twos.

She was a 'petal' person, on bus or on a train,
She always took them while out walking or on a jumbo plane.
Leaving petals, in her wake in a manner very grand,
Her petals dropped like autumn leaves, from sleeve and from her hand.

At the Kiwi wedding of her darling child, she left the petal-trail.
The petals travelled to New Zealand, it was their holy grail,
To appear in every wedding shot, in that frigid foreign land.
and make a 'petal protest' against the man who took her baby's hand

From a myriad of mum's old handbags, came petals white and soft,
So good for waving us goodbye, when held up high aloft.
From behind all lounge chair cushions, mum's petals could be found,
Squashed sadly flat within the fluff, or very finely ground.




It is no lie, but solemn truth, the petals bred like rabbits,
Ensuring their survival, because of mum's petal- dropping habits.
And true it is they'd hide away, before mum went out, to the store,
And puzzled, she'd declare, 'No petals - I'd better get some more!'.

We called them mum's little petals, so freely they did fall,
She'd use them to do everything, or use them not at all.
Huge piles of petals, found a cosy haven in mum's friendly place,
To be firmly held while writing letters and always while saying Grace.

Each small petal, waited patiently, its brief moment of petal- glee.
As Mum gave her "Petals of Kleenex" their one chance to be free.
I'll bet there are soft white petals in heaven, without number or end,
For mum to drop and scatter, or just hold and to tend.

Vera

Vera.

Does the music played by my Grandmother still circle old Earth, disipating with time to become part of the hum I still hear when I lie in peace on the verandah? Do the gentle inland autumn days in the mountains still breathe in her music, drifting though windows long since submerged under water? Do the soft, frost rimmed stars, still resonate with the joy of her youth and her dreams and her love, as she sits softly stroking the notes into life eternal? Ah! To have known her, to have seen into her eyes. To have this memory of her to give to my daughters; would it make my life richer and theirs? - I think so.

My own Mother now gone, remembered so little of the young mother who, generations ago, bent over the toddler and said ,to "Put your shoes on Margaret, my dear!" Thats all her words recorded . But there's the music, handwritten in books whose delicate language sings to my ear, of a soul for whom beauty was much more important than waxing the floor, and sifting the flour. Now I have no doubt she did these things, in the high heat of summer, I have no doubt she cleaned chamber pots, broke horses, killed first and then stuffed dead chooks with her hands. But there is no doubt in me that when her heart was a stirring, those same hands stroked the music, that still hums in my head.

How different as she than I and my sisters and daughters? A few years and time are all that seperate us all? Would we, could we have been friends in a time that is nowhere on earth? Is there so much between us that would make us seem strangers? My Mother, her Daughter. My Daughters, her shoot into the future, wherein her music still circles the globe of our living, her sense of beauty still pulls us in complete understanding.

The fey-faced bride with her large eyes still looks out of her youth at me from browning photos, and fading dreams of my Mother. The stories I gleaned from my Mother and Aunty, see my Grandmother still young and moving like perfume through my own aging life. And yet she is older than this century and those still living around me. How much of her lives in me, in mine and on into the future? Where does she bide?

In the dear eyes of my Mother, my daughters and my sisters, she lives in the beauty, the fun and the laughter. She lives in the twinkle, the eyeshine and the suprise. She lives in the wind, and the sky and the starlight. Those who have loved, and been loved are never lost to old earth. Somewhere she lurks, still childlike, behind doors. Poking her tongue out at the years that are weighing the rest of us down. But I'd have rather I had known her, and she having the life with us.

There is music in the hum I hear in the autumn air. It sounds like bells on water, on sunlight in cool places - up high in the mountains. Its there in the night stars, its there by the fire. Its there inside my heart , the music played by my Grandmother, Vera.