Tag Archives: Holidays

Independence Day

PothosPhilodendron. Common name, Pothos or Devil’s Ivy (ooooooh!). Derived from the Latin Vulgate meaning that which grows and spreads like wildfire yet can grow even in dark closets. This amazing plant has sprung up in every restaurant, every airport, every hospital, everywhere!

The obvious benefits of such a plant are well…obvious! They add a sparkle of green and yellow to the decor. They easily spread to cover a large area, and can be used to accent not only table tops, but also counters, shelves, bookcases, and in ancient times they even put them on either side of the portcullis of a castle.

But what we’re really concerned with today are the health benefits of the Pothos. As with any chlorophyll rich foliage, the Pothos is responsible for contributing to our ability to live and breathe on this planet.

Without the Pothos, oxygen would in fact be a rare commodity, sold on the black market: bottled, canned, spritzed, and vacuum sealed. There would even be different qualities of O2. For those on a diet, there would be Diet-O2 or O2 Zero. And if you’re looking for all the flavour of O2 without the gassy aftertaste, try O1.

At some point, they’ll start with the marketing gimmicks. New-O2, CherryO2, Diet CarbonFreeO2, Diet Black Cherry Vanilla O2. It will never end. And all of this could happen were it not for the majestic Pothos.

Obviously we can’t do without this precious plant. Unfortunately they are so abundant, their relative value and cost is next to nothing. Any resident of our planet with $5 can go to their neighborhood Target/Wal-Mart/Kmart and pick up a Pothos. Just imagine if we suddenly had only a finite supply of them left, or if they only grew in one remote sector of the world. They’d become as valuable as diamonds.

Soon you could only buy them at DeBeers Exotic Pothos Emporium, but you would have to get on a wait list, and the only way to get on the wait list would be to call a special phone number at a special time, and hope to not get a busy signal. Assuming you got through, then assuming you got on the wait list, you would still have to pass a rigorous Pothos Ownership Operating Process (POOP). Not only is there a written exam, but also an oral exam (to determine if your exhale can provide enough carbon dioxide to sustain the plant), home inspection, and a requirement to sign a waiver allowing DeBeers to reclaim the plant in the case of neglect, and allowing periodic home re-evaluations. You’ll notice I have switched to the present perfect tense because this could actually become reality sooner than you think!

There are probably those of you out there who are probably thinking, “I’m safe. I already have several Pothos at my house, so I don’t ever have to worry.” Unfortunately, the president of the planet just passed a law allowing the military to enter any personal property and seize any live Pothos on the premises. The law is actually so all-encompassing that they can seize dead Pothos as well, or force you to search your garbage for any you may have thrown away. So as you can see, no one will be safe from the threat of Pothos extinction.

Well, except for the very very rich. Anyone making over $900,000 a year would be exempt from the new law of course. Heaven forbid we deprive the rich from their double half-caf, half-decaf O2 with a twist of lime. Besides, the middle class should just learn to be happy with the middle class O2-AuLait right? For those of you who aren’t bilingual, Au Lait means with milk. That’s French. Which means that if you travelled to France and wanted to have some O2 with Milk, you’d have to say “Au Lait” instead of “with milk” otherwise they wouldn’t understand you, because no one in France is bilingual. Be careful about using this term in other countries, such as Mexico or Spain, or they might send a bull charging after you, because Au Lait is surprisingly similar in sound to O’le!

Unfortunately, there are no Pothos in France, so I don’t know why anyone would go there anyway. Except maybe to see La Toure Eiffel, that means Eiffel Tower. But you can see pictures of it anywhere, so again I ask, what’s the point? I’d much rather go somewhere and see something that no one has ever seen or taken a picture of.

Maybe some remote cave in the middle of a vast line of underground caverns that maybe hasn’t even been discovered, and maybe contains a vast cache of Pothos growing wildly and abundantly, creating so much O2 that if it ever escaped from the cave, would throw off the balance of the entire global O2 market, sending O2 stocks crashing down and ensuring quality breathing air for anyone on our planet, turning billionaires and other rich folks into ordinary middle class within minutes. (reminds me of the Great Chopsticks Incident of 2004)

It could happen…

*This commentary is based on the Award Winning Best Selling Novel by the same author, and in no way supports or defames the holiday of Independence Day, because it has absolutely no content related to aforementioned holiday.

Memories of Easter

easter bunnyWhat is Easter? Where did it come from? Is it solely a Christian holiday to celebrate the death and resurrection of a deity? Or is it a Pagan rite of fertility? Or perhaps it was created by a bunch of people who were really fond of rabbit fur.

When I ponder my childhood, I remember trying to stay up as late as I could on Easter Eve, so I could catch a glimpse of the resurrected Easter Bunny coming down the chimney to deliver fabulous and colourful eggs that would remind me of the cave and the stone that was rolled away.

I usually lasted until about 8pm, at which point my eyelids could no longer stay open.

But just like the savior, I arose the next day (well, technically 2 days earlier than he may have), and I jumped out of bed to see what Jesus had left for me. Who knew that Jesus could not only turn water into wine, but also into a basket of multi-coloured eggs?

I think that’s why I’m gay. No, not because a god performed a miracle with the chicken and the Easter egg, but because the rainbow flag was bestowed upon me at such an early age. The eggs were red and yellow and green and brown and scarlet and black and ochre and peach, ruby and olive and violet and fawn, cream and silver and purple and gold, russet and white and pink and orange and BLUE! (From memory, people. That’s the real reason I’m gay.)

Okay, so the basket didn’t have that many eggs, but it was quite full. But these were not just ordinary eggs. These eggs were plastic! I wasn’t sure what chemical process to apply to an egg to make it plastic, so I decided that this was just an Easter Miracle performed by a Great and Powerful Bunny.

eggsNot only were these eggs plastic, but they each had a perfectly carved seam around the middle. Easier to crack them with my dear. I tore them apart because I knew there was no yolk to spill. What I didn’t realize is that instead of yolk, Jesus had put money and candy inside these eggs! The money was obviously meant for me to put into the offering plate at church, but the candy was all mine! Candy can’t build a cathedral.

Inside the non-monetary eggs were jelly beans of every colour imaginable, jujube’s, candy corn (not just for Halloween anymore), marshmallow ducks with sugar on top, and raindrops on roses and noses on kittens. It was simply fabulous. Thanks Easter Bunny! Bwak! Bwak!

I was surrounded by candies of every sort, and I thought back to those post-Halloween candy review meetings with my parents in the kitchen. So many things I had to throw away for fear of poison and razor blades. You might ask what kind of neighbourhood I grew up in that would have such a fear, but in middle-class North Carolina you can never be too careful.

The Easter candy, unlike the Halloween candy, was sacred. The resurrected bunny would never think of putting something harmful inside his eggs, so these candies were one-hundred percent free and clear for the taking. And so of course I had to eat all of it before we left for church, which by the counting of the clock in my bedroom was in exactly two hours.

By the time we got to god’s newly decorated house – which for the occasion had been decked out with bright purple bunting and more shades of pink than I have ever seen in my life – I had a tummy ache. Let us give thanks to the Lord for these gifts which give us gas.

While my stomach churned and vocalized its own Easter music, the rest of the congregation sang songs about a tomb and a rock, and then something about rising from the dead. As a cold sweat broke out over my forehead I could not understand what those things had to do with candy so I didn’t sing along.

Church finally concluded with a never-ending sermon about the after-life. I was sure that I was about to experience the after-life because my stomach was in such turmoil, but there was no time. We had to make it to Easter Brunch before the lunch rush.

I don’t know why my parents insisted on calling it Easter Brunch, because by the time we got there it was well after noon. It was firmly into the lunch hour, but the point was not to be argued by me – the last thing I wanted to talk about was food.

To further confuse the issue, Easter Brunch consisted of the exact same food as we’d had for Thanksgiving Brunch and Dinner. It seemed to me that the two holidays must be related on some level. I could understand giving thanks for friends and family on the same day every year, but I didn’t know why anyone would give thanks for dying on the same day every year only to be stuck into a cold rocky tomb. But who am I to judge another person’s lifestyle?

So Easter Brunch Lunch ended, and my tummy was in even more distress, because how could I be expected to sit at the table and not eat the bounty placed before me? Now the jelly beans were combined with turkey and baked beans, and the juxtaposition of the two beans in my stomach created a very unpleasant ride home.

I am still not quite sure how I managed the ten minute drive, at which point I rushed to my room, shut the door, and lay on my bed moaning in pain. Let us give thanks to the Resurrection Rabbit for the blessings bestowed upon us this day.

For several hours I listened to the sounds of my stomach attempting to manage the onslaught of beans I was forcing it to process, but soon I began to feel somewhat better and the cold sweats dried up on my forehead. I decided to take account of the Easter basket to see if perhaps I had overlooked any additional gifts from the Rabbit.

eggs2Those who have experienced the Easter Basket know how easily things can get lost in the green plastic grass strips, and this basket did not disappoint. I dumped the money out of the non-candy eggs, and put the coins into my piggy bank. I continued to dig through the plastic greenery and behold and ye verily the Mother Lode appeared.
Apparently the savior appreciated me going to church to celebrate his death, because what to my wondering eyes should appear but The Cadbury Creme Egg. The epitome of egg. The creme-de-la-creme of egg. The Alpha and the Omega of egg. The great I AM egg.

I held the CCE gently in my hand, being careful not to warm it too much so that the chocolate would melt inside the wrapper. Slowly, I peeled back the foil which held it so tight, to reveal the true meaning of Easter: liquid sugar encased in chocolate.

Forget about all this death and dying and after-life nonsense. This was the only reason for living. My salvation and my rock. A gift from above that was to be savored, worshiped, and praised. And so like a good boy who was brought up right, I praised it like I should.

With one gigantic bite I split the egg apart, showering my taste buds with the rich and creamy goodness that could only come from such a precious gift. I let the egg-styled fondant melt across my tongue, washing away any leftover tastes from the Easter Brunch.

Gently I swallowed. I wanted to remember what it felt like – this very special egg – and in that moment I resolved to never forget the true meaning of Easter.

And then I promptly ran to the bathroom and showered the god who sits on the white porcelain throne with all that I had been bestowed on this most precious of holidays.

________________________________________
* Easter, like Christmas, is a blend of paganism and Christianity. The word Easter is derived from Eostre, an ancient Anglo-Saxon Goddess who symbolized rebirth of the day at dawn and the rebirth of life in the spring. The arrival of spring was celebrated well before any religious meaning became associated with Easter.
** Like most of the things I write, I include references to pop culture, products, or names which are copyrights and trademarks of their respective companies.

This story is available as a FREE downloadable ebook on the following platforms:

If you enjoyed this story, you might also enjoy these other books by the same author.

Memories of Easter

Copyright © 2013 Heath L. Buckmaster
ISBN: 978-1-300-88828-4
All rights reserved.

Valentine’s Day – A History

Amazing PlaidFluorescent Lighting. Buying Heath a book called “The Superior Person’s Book of Words”. Carpool lanes that require more than 1 person in the car. Plaid. What do all these things have to do with Valentine’s Day? They are all incredibly BAD ideas. (except for the plaid)

What drives us to buy chocolates, flowers, and cards today? What causes us to make reservations for the hottest restaurant four months in advance? Why do we max out our credit cards each and every year on a day that we don’t even get off from work? What are the origins of this false “holiday”…where did it come from…why do people accept and tolerate it…why does Hallmark stock break volume trading records on this day?

Let’s discuss.

Editorial note: Whether or not you subscribe to this historical interpretation of Valentine’s Day (or whether you actually celebrate it as a “holiday”), this is, in my opinion, the correct version of the truth. Referenced at the end of this editorial, you will find alternate interpretations. Believe them if you will.

Rudolph ValentinoLong, long, long ago…1895 to be exact, Rodolfo Alfonzo Raffaelo Pierre Filibert Guglielmi di Valentina D’Antonguolla was born (the smart readers will already know where I’m going with this, and yes, that really is his full and complete name).

Nothing especially special happened for the first 14 years of his life, so we’ll skip ahead to age 15: he decided to spice things up a bit and join the Navy.

Unfortunately, he did not pass the rigorous physical exam (running, jumping, climbing trees, hat, flag, bang, stuff like that – snaps to eddie izzard), or the Don’t Ask Don’t Tell policy. Rodolfo was so distraught by the military rejecting him, he took it upon himself to personally maintain a military-like-level of physical fitness.

Daily, he could be seen at 24-hour fitness, sweating to the oldies on the Precor elliptical bike. Of course, the oldies of the 1900’s were droll love songs, like Oh Lover Where Art Thou in thine Olde Kingdome, which really weren’t written to be danced to or ellipticalled to, but somehow it all worked out.

We’ll call this fitness fad Life Event #1 (with more to come).

For three years he worked out and worked out and worked out, eventually developing an 8 pack (due to a genetic aberration that gave him extra musculature that we can all be jealous of).

At age 18, he arrived in the United States, with a heavy Italian accent (unfortunately it was so heavy that he couldn’t bring it as a carry on and it had to be checked, and was subsequently damaged enroute even though he’d paid the overweight fee and insured it for an additional $50), which we’ll call Life Event #2.

After about a year or so travelling around America, Rodolfo developed a liking for driving cars very, very fast, not dissimilar to residents of LA or Sacramento (but completely dissimilar to the drivers of Oregon’s highway 26 which for some reason has a speed limit of 55), and we’ll call this Life Event #3.

And finally, as Rodolfo reached the drinking age of 21, he got drunk, broke into Hollywood, got arrested, and was given a job as an actor (hey, a creeping kid, for my new film, The Creeping Kid – word to eddie izzard), Life Event #4.

What have these four Life Events lead up to? The creation of the Ultimate and Total Ladies Man (UTLM) (or one could argue, a man’s man). And so the story continues…

SheikEvery year, the weather gets cold in America. Typically that time is around January/February, which means that people are bundling up in warmer clothing, burning wood in the fireplace, drinking hot cider or mulled wine, lighting candles, and snuggling under or on top of the bear skin rug in front of the aforementioned fireplace.

In some locations, such as Hell, Michigan (which incidentally froze over in an extremely cold winter of 1995-96, and made the news), the weather is colder than cold, which means that people are snuggling much closer than they normally would. Often, this snuggling leads to interludes of passion, which in many cases leads to hospital overcrowding in the September/October time-frame.

Being the physically fit, foreign, daredevil actor that he was, Rodolfo was no exception to the rules of cold weather and love, and thus he was never without a date for a cold Friday or Saturday night. Women flocked from all over the world to spend time with this fine specimen of manhood.

In fact, due to the volume of women continually invading his home trying to get some quality time with him, Rodolfo had a 9-foot-high stucco wall and floodlights erected at the mansion, and also purchased three Great Danes, two Italian mastiffs, and one Spanish greyhound to patrol the courtyard and terrace. (all true)

However, he did actually enjoy some of this “woman flocking”, which, due to his…um…”popularity”, extended well beyond just Friday and Saturday nights.

Cute BearDuring the winter months, Rodolfo had to hire a full time assistant just to keep the living room cleaned up from the night before. He had a different bear skin rug for each day, which were kept cleaned and hanging in a special room in the house, which he called the Bear Skin Rug Room (as you’ll come to understand as you keep reading, that he wasn’t the most creative guy in the world).

A full time dry cleaner, who specialized in authentic bear skin rug care was on-staff to monitor and manage the quality of the rugs. Rodolfo certainly couldn’t have one of his ladies over on a matted burber.

WineIn addition to the dedicated cleaning staff, Rodolfo also had one of the best stocked wine cellars in the country. Racks and racks of premium Italian wines were shipped from overseas, as well as boxes and boxes of Italian chocolates. In the back yard of his mansion, another full time employee tended to the elaborate rose garden, which included nearly 8 varieties of red, white, pink, lavender, mauve, carnelian, canary and aubergine roses.

Rodolfo (Rudy) Valentino was pretty much set to entertain any number of ladies, each day of the winter months. With a nearly endless supply of wine, chocolate, and roses, he could afford to meet with a new lady every weekday, and possibly two on each weekend day (depending upon cleaning staff availability). But he was faced with a dilemma…

From a day-to-day perspective, he had no problem keeping up with the rigorous duties required. He was physically fit, knew how to thrill a woman by taking her on a fast ride on his motorcycle or in the Fiat, and had all the supplies to make for a wonderful evening. But Rudy was never the kind of man to have a one-night-stand without some type of follow-up. He wanted these women to feel special, and to feel as though they had really meant something to him (which they had). He needed a way to show his appreciation and gratitude to these lovely ladies who had spent the evenings with him.

Thank You CardFortunately for Rudy, his close friend Hal came up with a way for Rudy to really mark the occasion. Why not send a little paper note of thanks to the numerous ladies, and attach a small personal message in each one? Rudy was very keen to this idea, as he did not want any of the ladies to think that they were not as special as the others, and in fact, he did not want them to KNOW that there had been any others besides them. In this way, he could maintain very positive relationships with all of them, and quite possibly have repeat performances with those whom he found most enjoyable.

So Rudy and Hal set out to write the letters.

Unfortunately, Rudy had spent so much of his energy on the evenings of passion, he lacked the creativity to develop personalized messages for so many different ladies. Again, his pal Hal came to the rescue. Hal, being a man of the “creative” persuasion (and before you go there, I can put that in quotes because _I_ am so go ahead and hang up with HR), had no trouble coming up with cute little rhymes or poems which spoke of love, passion, friendship, and pleasure.

Rose PetalsHe spent several weeks sitting out on the veranda of the mansion, writing poem after poem, but making each one unique and special. Hal even had another idea. Why not include a petal from one of the roses in the garden, inside each note? A petal from the same colour rose that Rudy had used on the night of passion. Now he had a card with a personalized poem and a personalized token of affection, which would truly make a mark on the occasion.

Rudy was thrilled! His friend had really come through to provide a solution to the problem. Rudy was a very humble man, however, and refused to take the credit for this creativity. He insisted that on the back side of every card, a small letter H would be watermarked into the paper, in deference to his great friend who had helped him thank all of these women.

When Hal noticed the small letter, he asked Rudy what it meant. Rudy informed him that this was the Mark of Hal, otherwise known as the Halmark. Needless to say, Hal was most pleased.

And so Rudy rushed down to the postal office, and mailed off each of the notes to each of the women he had come to adore. The notes arrived, poems were read, rose petals were smelled, and the women knew that they had made a difference in the life of this handsome, dashing man.

As Rudy aged, the number of women he sent these cards to increased and decreased (we all have good years and bad years), but he continued to send the notes, and continued to stamp the small H on the back, even after his friend Hal had passed on.

Valentine CardWe continue this tradition today, celebrating the unique style and nature of a man named Hal, who might never have become a published poet were it not for his dear friend Rudy Valentino. And this, is the true story, of Valentine’s Day.

Happy Valentine’s Day to one and all 🙂

Editorial Comments:
Interview on The Awful Truth, Michael Moore’s TV show
Michael Moore: You seem like a very sensitive man – you got married on Valentine’s Day. Don’t you think you’re in the wrong job, being Secretary of Defence?
Secretary William Cohen: Not at all. The preservation of the nation’s security is the most important thing. We couldn’t write poetry if we didn’t have a secure country.

To write a good love letter, you ought to begin without knowing what you mean to say and to finish without knowing what you have written.
– Jean Jacques Rousseau

Independence Day

Epipremnum aureum (Wikipedia)
Epipremnum aureum (Wikipedia)

Epipremnum aureum. Common name, Pothos.

Derived from the Latin Vulgate meaning that which grows and spreads like wildfire yet can grow even in dark closets.

This amazing plant has sprung up in every restaurant, every airport, every hospital, everywhere – and the obvious benefits of such a plant are well…obvious!

They add a sparkle of green and yellow to the decor. They easily spread to cover a large area, and can be used to accent not only table tops, but also counters, shelves, bookcases, and in ancient times they even put them on either side of the portcullis of a castle.

But what we’re really concerned with today are the health benefits of the Pothos. As with any chlorophyll rich foliage, the Pothos is responsible for contributing to our ability to live and breathe and thrive and do other things on this planet.

Without the Pothos, oxygen would in fact be a rare commodity, sold on the black market: bottled, canned, spritzed, and vacuum sealed. There would be different quality and purity levels of O2.

For those on a diet, we’d offer Diet-O2 (or O2 Lite if you’re somewhere other than the United States), and if you wanted all the flavour of O2 but not all the gassy aftertaste, we would offer O1.

At some point, we’d start with the marketing gimmicks.

NewO2, CherryO2, Diet CarbonFreeO2, Diet Black Cherry Vanilla O2. All of this would happen were it not for the Pothos.

Obviously we can’t do without this precious plant. Unfortunately they are so abundant that their relative value and cost is next to nothing. Any resident of our planet with $5 can go to their neighborhood Target/Wal-Mart/Kmart (well not Kmart unless you live in some remote location where they haven’t gone out of business) and pick up a Pothos. Just imagine if we suddenly had only a finite supply of them left, or if they only grew in one remote sector of the world.

They’d become as valuable as diamonds.

Soon you could only buy them at DeBeers Exotic Pothos Emporium, but you would have to get on a waiting list, and the only way to get on the waiting list would be to call a special phone number at a special time, and hope to not get a busy signal. Assuming you got through, then assuming you got on the waiting list, you would still have to pass a rigorous Pothos Ownership Operating Process (POOP). Not only is there a written exam, but also an oral exam, home inspection, and a requirement to sign a waiver allowing DeBeers to reclaim the plant in the case of neglect, and also allowing for periodic home re-evaluations.

There are probably those of you out there who think “I’m safe. I already have several Pothos at my house, so I don’t ever have to worry.”

Unfortunately, George W. Bush signed an executive order before he left office, authorizing the military to enter any personal property and seize any live Pothos on the premises. The law is actually so all-encompassing that they can seize dead Pothos as well, or force you to search your own garbage for any that you may have thrown away.

No one will be safe from the threat of Pothos extinction.

Well, except for the very very rich. Anyone making over $500,000 a year is exempt from the new law of course. Heaven forbid we deprive the rich from their double half-caf, half-decaf O2 with a twist of lime (oooh I’ll have a twist of lime too!).

Besides, the middle class should just learn to be happy with the middle class Starbucks O2 Au Lait right? For those of you who aren’t bilingual, Au Lait means with milk. That’s French. Which means that if you travelled to France and wanted to have some O2 with milk, you’d have to say “Au Lait” instead of “with milk” otherwise they wouldn’t understand you, because no one in France is bilingual. Be careful about using this term in other countries, such as Mexico or Spain, or they might send a bull charging after you, because Au Lait is surprisingly similar in sound to O’le! (I learned this the hard way.)

Tour Eiffel (Wikipedia)
Tour Eiffel (Wikipedia)

Unfortunately, there are no Pothos in France, so I don’t know why anyone would go there anyway. Except maybe to see La Toure Eiffel, which means Eiffel Tower. But you can see pictures of that online, so again I ask, what’s the point? I’d much rather go somewhere and see something that no one has ever seen or taken a picture of.

Maybe there’s a remote cave in the middle of a vast line of underground caverns that maybe hasn’t even been discovered, and maybe contains a vast cache of Pothos growing wildly and abundantly, creating so much O2 that if it ever escaped from the cave it would throw off the balance of the entire global O2 market sending O2 stocks crashing down and ensuring quality breathing air for anyone on our planet, turning billionaires and other rich folks into ordinary middle class citizens within minutes. (this reminds me of the Great Chopsticks Incident of 2004)

It could happen…

* This commentary is based on the Award-Winning Best-Selling Novel by the same author, and in no way supports or defames the holiday of Independence Day, because it has absolutely nothing to do with it.

Silent Kay and the Night before Christmas

The night before Christmas was a long, long time ago. This fact is rarely disputed even thousands of years later, despite nights being eves and having their own associated celebrations. But this is not a tale of eves and nights – it’s a tale of a child, more powerful that she could have ever realized.

And so in that time of nights and Christmases there lived a young and precocious girl named Kay. She hardly ever spoke – her shyness so profound as to confuse and confound those who so desperately wanted to talk to her. So they called her Silent Kay (at least, the exceedingly naughty boys who insisted on pulling her hair after school called her that).

On the day before Christmas – neither night nor eve yet – Silent Kay was casually knitting a sweater to give to her mother. The value of home economics was seldom appreciated in youth, but Kay was an appreciable child and therefore knew the value of needles and knitting.

In the midst of her knitting came a knock at the door. Kay frowned in frustration at the callous disregard for her moment of knitting, but gave up her efforts as the knock came again.

Opening the door with a turn of the knob, Kay looked. What she saw on the doorstep was a bold and confusing sight to behold. On the doorstep was a knight – a knight whom she did not know.

What a silly thought I’ve just had, Kay thought to herself. I know no knights to begin with, much less this one who disturbs my holiday knitting. So she settled herself against the door frame and asked, “What do you need?”

“Pardon me,” said the knight. “I’m in need of your help! I have casually yet vigorously scraped my knees and my knuckles. I need a bandage.” He paused for a moment to fret, and then continued his thought. “I have a bandage in my knapsack, but I can’t get it out due to knots in the rope holding everything together! Please can you help me?”

Silent Kay pondered a moment then thought of her knitting. Knots were her thing and she nodded her head as if to say “yes.” She inquisitively wondered why nodding was easier than simply saying, but by the time she was nearing an answer she had already gone to the kitchen to fetch a knife.

“Here let me help you, good Knight,” said Kay. And with expertise in her grip she took knife to knot, and cut it away. “There,” she exclaimed, “the knot is undone. Now let’s find that bandage and fix you all up.”

“Oh, Kay,” said the knight. “You’ve been so kind to me that I must make the truth known to you. I am not really a knight. I am the King!”

This mad revelation caused Kay to go silent. The King at her house? How crazy was that?

“I would like to thank you for helping me, Kay. Especially since you helped me never knowing that I was really not a knight! If you will kneel down, on your right knee please, I will make you a real knight – a Knight of the Kingdom!”

It was the first time Kay even knew she lived in a kingdom, but the sweater would not knit itself, so she knelt down on her knee.

The king tapped her shoulder with his sword and proclaimed, “Kay on this Christmas Eve day, I dub thee a knight. From now on you will be known as Knight Kay.”

And that is how Silent Kay became a Knight before Christmas.