VOL. 8 NO. 10
Dec. 18, 2013
“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus”
Inside This Issue ...
By Anna Fair That’s the famous line from the was becoming disillusioned classic movie, “A Miracle on 34th with Santa. Soon enough Street.” It’s occurs when Virginia, after, she asked me the agea little girl who knows all about old question that every kid at how important money is around one point or another asks the Christmas time, thanks to her inside older people in their lives. knowledge of the department store “Is Santa real?” The Macy’s, starts to question whether skeptical 8-year-old asked Santa is real or not. It’s reasonable. If with a frown, arms across her Santa’s the one bringing gifts, then chest. why is everyone worrying about “Of course he is,” I would money and what to buy for presents? reply, giving my accounts Why is it that the gifts under the tree of how I had met him; of match what’s found in the stores? how since I was older, I was When we’re younger, we don’t his helper. She lit up like a question how Santa’s able to build Christmas tree, grinning ear that PlayStation 2, Nintendo DS to ear and bouncing on the or any other toy that can be easily couch, asking all sorts of found at Wal-Mart or Macy’s. Then questions with the sort of we start to hear rumors from other enthusiasm that only a child kids, we start to hear our parent’s could have. I grinned along whispered conversations about what with her; happy that… at to get, and in an attempt to find out least for this year… we had what mom bought at the store, we avoided breaking her heart. might stumble upon a toy that’s later But at her age, I had marked as being from Santa. already given up on Santa. My sister is 8, turning 9 just after How much longer will she Christmas. She’s starting to suspect believe? I don’t want to know. that the Elf on the Shelf isn’t real and Christmas loses some appeal Kyrstin Cloonan visited with Santa at Grandview Restaurant. because of her lack of enthusiasm on after you find out Santa isn’t the matter, he hasn’t moved from his real. It turns into worries both my mom and I were very proud of last hiding spot in over a week. She had about money and spending, and you get her. a Christmas list a mile long, but upon a horrible sense of how much it stinks to I realized soon after though, that seeing the worried look on my mom’s be a grown up. It’s inevitable, but I want Santa had never, ever needed a budget face, she trimmed it down to just a few to hold it off for as long as possible. and we had never had any sort of talk things that she’d really like that weren’t So yes, Em; there is a Santa Claus. with her that indicated otherwise. I too expensive. Of course this is a very wondered if this was a sign that my sister big thing for any little girl to do, and
Whistling Wings and Childhood Dreams
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Local Schools Pages 10-11
“Out ‘N’ About” Page 14-15
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By Patrick “Flybum” Robinson It’s 1981; I’m 6 years old and living in Quincy, Illinois. These are the formative years of my life and the memories, though not as numerous as later in life, are as sweet as they have ever been. It’s a beautiful fall day and the sun is setting out my bedroom window. I am busy meticulously laying out all of my clothes in great anticipation of the morning’s hunt. Within a short time, my father readies me for bed to insure a good night’s sleep and down I go. Hour after hour, I toss and turn struggling for a few minutes of sleep. The thought of hitting the river in the morning is more than my mind can bear and the possibility of sleep seems to slip away as fast as daylight on a late summer horizon. A few hours before sunrise, I am aroused by my father’s call, “Buddy, you goin’ huntin’ with me?” Little boy feet on the floor and eyes wide open is answer enough. I quickly grab my clothes and start getting ready and soon
we are on the road. The fog is thick, and the ride long. The dark of night is holding and in short order we pull up to the hunting camp. The air is crisp and cold. Your breath can be seen mingling with the wafts of fog as they drift riverside. “Dad, Dad” I say. “What son?” he replies. “Did you hear that?” “Hear what?” He asked. “I think I heard ducks!” My father encourages me to hurry with the loading as I continue to call out what I am hearing and seeing. As I bring the gear down to the boat, Dad gets the motor running and the familiar smell of outboard fuel is in the air. We quickly load the boat with the guns, ammunition, coffee, hot chocolate and the famous cinnamon rolls to be warmed on the propane stove. Moments later we pull up to the blind overlooking the mighty waters of the Mississippi. Dad quickly wades out and cleans the debris out of the decoys while I call out bird after bird and hear the whistling of ducks wings over and over. We can’t get in the blind quick enough, there
Patrick and Crossland Robinson are birds coming from every direction. This is destined to be one of the days the Mississippi flyway is noted for and the kind of morning you remember for a lifetime. Fast-forward to today, and I’m not on Continued on page 2