It was December 20th, a couple hours after directing the Sunday School Christmas program. Dishes and laundry were piled high. Lunch was over and my husband laid on the bed comfortably enjoying the start of his two-week vacation.
I opened my laptop, started a new document and typed:
"Hi, my name is Dan. My wife has assigned me the annual Christmas letter" and sat the works on his belly. He read the opening line and said, "What? Those haven't gone out yet?"
I shook my head, "Who's had time?" He grimaced. I handed him our family photo saying: "Use this for inspiration and make 'em laugh! We all need it."
Three hours later, I was making copies, writing brief messages, addressing and sending off this
Husband's Humor!***
Hello, My name is Dan:
I’m looking at a photo. Perhaps you are looking at it too. It’s a picture of a family. There’s the old man, old before his time. The beard and sideburns – turning a snowy white. The “French” hairline – in fast retreat behind the Maginot line. The jowls – best described as resembling a basset hound. The shoulders and chest caving, as if under a heavy weight. A forced, teeth-gritting smile adorns his lips. How could this happen? Perhaps the photo holds the clues.
Standing next to the old man is what appears to be a beanstock. (If only a person could climb it and find the hen that lays golden eggs.) But no, this beanstock hasn’t quite reached the clouds yet. Instead, after turning 15 in August, the beanstock started driving. So far, this experiment has been uneventful and even the insurance adjustor seems bored by it (or just waiting to drop the hammer until the actual driver’s license arrives). The beanstock has gained notoriety as the only form of plant life to captain a high-school cross-country team and play forward on the basketball team. Inside his sophomore class, the beanstock is also known for his academic and musical accomplishments. But at home, he remains modest, quietly sulking between his room and the refrigerator. More sunlight, some nitrogen and we may be able to harvest him next year.
Sitting in front of the beanstock is the bassmaster. The bassmaster watches too much Outdoor Channel and entertains fantasies of being the next Roland Martin. He began the 09 season by spearing his first northern and ended it by shooting his first woodcock. But he isn’t all grub worms and spinner baits. The bassmaster also played tackle for the 8th grade football team, and is getting all fired up for basketball season, measuring in at 5’ 10” with a wicked 4” vertical leap, he plans on dominating the boards. He practices by strutting like a rooster while intoning, “This is my house!” The old man responds, “Then why not vacuum the floor and pick up your socks?” The bassmaster was selected to join the high school band on their trip to Nashville this spring. As someone who struggles to maintain composure with his brothers on an hour-long car trip, the bassmaster will probably face expulsion after a bus ride to Tennessee.
Over in the opposite corner I spy a real poser. Thoughtful, composed, mischievous. “Isn’t he a little Dickens?” as the church ladies say. Dickens, ha! More like Torquemada. This grand inquisitor is responsible for more than half of the old man’s slouch. In between dodging his homework and raiding the cookie box, the Dickens amuses himself by stealing the old man’s pillow, hiding the TV remote and attempting to pull gray whiskers out of his beard. And to top it all off, he informed the old man that he has no intention of ever moving out of the house. This is OK, because the old man plans to apprentice him out as a carpenter or electrician and put the little bugger to work on home improvement projects.
In the center, right where she should be, is the crazy old woman, so described by the bassmaster because of the cackle and hoot she emits when teasing him about his many girlfriends. The crazy old woman has slowed down a bit, with no international travel or “part-time” work this year. Instead, she contents herself by folding four loads of laundry a day, buying and preparing $300 worth of food a week, and sneaking away to the vet to have emergency surgery performed on one of the mangy cats that live in the screen porch without telling the old man until the bill comes due. She is of course also very busy conducting Sunday School programs and baking cookies. Too busy, in fact, to write a Christmas letter.
So that brings us back to the old man, who enjoys composing Christmas letters nearly as much as he likes reading them. Despite being battle worn and haggard, despite being eaten out of house and home by a tapeworm-ridden gaggle that puts away more chow than a Great Dane coming off a Lenten fast, despite the crack of the whip and the pounding of the drums, the old man, if honest, would say that just like Grandma, he’s feeling rather spry. And he has good reason. Aside from a few compressed vertebrae and pinched nerves, everyone is in good health. In spite of the generally awful economy, the tribe has a roof over their heads and shoes on their feet. And despite not having one room in the house where he can find a minute’s peace, he realizes peace and joy are incompatible, or as Grandpa might say, there’s plenty of time for peace in the cemetery.
So the old man raises his glass and toasts some Christmas cheer for all the old men out there, old before their time, forced to write Christmas letters on a Sunday afternoon when they would rather be watching football or cleaning the toilet.
What, you wanted notes on family vacations and awful career updates and tales of MRIs and bunion surgery? You’ll have to wait till next year, when the old man has enough folding money to bribe the Dickens into writing the Christmas letter for him.
Merry Christmas, and if I may part with one piece of advice for the New Year: never try to change the bandage on the surgically reconstructed leg of a male cat by yourself.
Dan of the DWIAN clan
With warm wishes from Wendy and the hope of delivering the Gift of Laughter! May you find the babe in the manger working his wonders this season and throughout the year.
Dressed in shorts and a sweatshirt, Aaron ventured out into the elements. 
Hello, My name is Dan:
Extending great thanks to ALL who participated in the Sunday School Christmas program. From the participating children, helpers, teachers, musicians and their families to the pastors and congregation who supported us in prayer, service and song, YOU made the performance a wonderful testimony of what we can do together as a church family to honor our Lord and Savior. May the joy of Christmas shine in you throughout the year!
I could hear him in the corn: Rustling. Hiding. Sneaking. Peeking. "Where's Mooser?" I called over again. Until at last I captured him!
In the 
What's 
Noah wanted Norwegian cake for his birthday. 
Hurra for deg som fyller ditt år! Ja, deg vil vi gratulere! CHING
Cross-country teams run in all kinds of weather: hot and sunny at the season's start; cold and rainy as autumn settles in.
Isaac's school team concluded this year's season under extreme conditions. (One cross-country coach - with a 25-year career in the sport - said, "These are the worst conditions I can ever remember.")
When it came time for the captains to issue awards at tonight's Cross Country Banquet, Isaac received the "Creativity Award" for coining quotes throughout the season.
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Noah knows the trick to 
Aaron came home from school Wednesday with a finger injury.
Our local doctor had no late-afternoon openings and referred us to UrgentCare in the nearby city. Given the current flu epidemic, I hesitated before putting through the call. Fortunately, the receptionist was able to put us in as the evening's last appointment at 7:30 PM.
Less than two minutes later, the doctor knocked, entered and began listening to Aaron's injury story. He examined Aaron's finger, ordered an x-ray, reviewed the results and returned with a referral to the orthopedic surgeon.
Aaron went to school Thursday morning to take a couple tests. 
Today Aaron came home from school wishing he'd made a sign to hang from his arm. "I should've drawn a picture of my finger tip hitting an arm," he said, "Everyone's asking: Aaron! What happened?"
We all teach.
We were working on Laura Ingalls Wilder's seventh book called "Little Town on the Prairie" and had reached the last chapter called "Unexpected in December."
Just then, a knock at their door produced an opportunity for Laura to teach at a school 12 miles away. The school board chairman had seen Laura perform at the School Exhibition and was willing to wave the age requirement if she was willing to take a certification test on the spot and work with five pupils grades 4 and under. 
"You're right," I replied marveling at the wisdom my third grader drew from a story that happened long ago. 
Upon retrieval, he found his first bird bagged was a woodcock.
