It was a cold, windy, gray day in Oxford a couple of Saturdays ago. As your intrepid local newspaper guy, I braved the inclement elements to get the story for our dear readers. Don’t get me wrong, I was dressed for the weather, but it was still cold out. I was not wearing pajama pants like the kids wear all day. Oh, no. I donned a red and black flannel shirt, vest, jeans and a red and black Stormy Kromer cap. I was warm and looked Christmasy with my outfit and big bushy, white bear. With rosey cheeks and the spirit of the season in my heart, I walked the streets, smiling, saying hello and Merry Christmas while snapping photos of the Oxford Area Chamber of Commerce’s annual Christmas parade.

“Click,” a picture of a parade entry here.

“Click,” a picture there of cute kids all bundled up waiting for Santa to appear.

The streets of Oxford were lined three deep with people, kids, parents, aunts, uncles, grandparents and just regular folk who wanted to share the goodwill and cheer that was there in downtown Oxford. As I walked and smiled and told folks to waive for my camera (so I could get them in the paper) I noticed a young family. There was Mom. There was Dad with their daughter on his shoulders. At that time I was walking behind the giant line of people watching the parade in front of them on Washington Street.

Then the sweet little girl turned from the parade and looked at me. Her eyes got very wide and she looked down to her mother. Dad turned around and with my reporter’s super sense of hearing I heard Mom whisper to Daughter, “See, I told you might see him.” Mom, Dad and the little girl now with wide eyes, smiled.

I returned the smile, winked a twinkling blue eye at the family, did my best Santa, “Ho, ho, ho” and kept walking past.

At that time I made a mental note to trim my beard.

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Santa’s Log, Star Date 12-04-2022. At approximately 2100 hours, I entered the bathroom and turned on the overhead lights. Little did I know what future lay before me. From under the sink I located my trusty beard trimmer. With deft motions of my hand I gracefully started to trim the Santa look off my face. The trimmer buzzed and hummed and little by little, gray/white pieces of my beard fell onto a towel I had laid across the sink to catch said facial hair. In a few minutes the right side of the beard was significantly less bushy. I smiled at the reflection in the mirror, “You, handsome . . .”

. . . then click, “Ouch!”

The trimmer stopped, one of my beard hairs got caught up in the now motionless trimmer blades and when I pulled at the trimmer I pulled the hair out. And, it hurt.

“Smackin-frackin, rizen-blizin,” I said aloud. Then, thought I, “Well, let’s charge her up and finish up tomorrow morning before work.”

It was Sunday night, I was tired so I jumped on my bed, pulled the covers up and slept until 6 Monday morning. I grabbed the trimmer and got ready to finish trimming my now lop-sided looking head. “Click.”

Nothing.

My trimmer had not just lost its charge, it had given up the ghost. Kaput.

The next 40 minutes were the result of that unfortunate trimmer incident. With a pair of not-too-sharp scissors and three Bic disposable razors, I snipped, cut, hacked and scraped my face clean. No one will confuse me with Santa now because that beard is yesterday’s news. Like most people I am not a fan of my face, so I did leave a groovy cool, 1970’s mustache over my lip. So, I got that goin’ for me.

* * *

Last week I wrote of my not love of fruit cakes. I made fun of it. I joked and I put the sweet, seasonal cake down. This caused one of my old buddies from the old Oxford Police Department, James Malcolm to respond in defense of fruit cake.

“Hey Kemo Sabe, they put fruit cakes in C-Rats when I was in the United States Army stationed in Germany (1965-68). They were pretty good! Came in a can and you opened it with your trusty P-38 can opener which came in every box of C-Rats.
“When we would go up on the border or to gunnery qualification, we would give them out to the kids as we went through railroad stations on the way. We transported the tanks by flat car then which cut down on maneuver damage to the German streets! (Especially in winter when we had cleated tracks on the tanks.) I can’t believe you don’t like them! They are great with a cup of coffee.”

I wrote back to Jim, “If I get any, Jim, I will send them to you. Merry Christmas.”

* * *

Oh, by the way, a C-Rat is a Combat Ration. According to someone online, “The Army introduced the C ration, or combat ration, in 1938. At first, a day’s portion added almost six pounds to soldiers’ packs.” Now you know, too.

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Send your holiday cheer to Don via email, DontRushDon@gmail.com

  beard, don rush, don’t rush me