The Post in Which Monty-The Belligerent Cynic- Contributes to the Blog of Pants in Her Time of Need

Hello all, Montgomery Jack Farnsbooth here.

I have kidnapped Miss Sugar, and will be posting for her in my own classy way... MWAHAHAHA!!!

Anyways! I haven't really kidnapped her but she is busy working and has decided to have someone else keep things up and running...

So I'm Blog-sitting... And it better damn well pay....

So, the Christmas days are coming, and the controversies, old clay-mation cartoon specials, and bonuses (i wish!) with it.

A snow covered town, hot Wasil (yes, this is spelt right, pronounced wah-sil[as in baby noise and a window sill]), and cookie S'mores cooked over iron pot fires. This is Christmas for the Britches family.In a previous post Pants mentioned Silver Dollar City. Well I'm here to give an in detail description of the wondrous times that are spent there at Christmas time._________________________________________________________________

The gates are in sight!!! The two triangle billboards are crystal clear in the flurried night. The trip to the heavily wooded parking lot holds us in its frosty anticipation, as we slowly mount the climbing winding hill.We search for a spot and are victorious in our venture and we all pile out.

Immediately the trunk is popped and all of our winter wear is grabbed until it's hard to discern one from the other except by the color jacket we wear. We slowly run to the round-about to wait for the open air tram to shuttle us to the city on the coldest ride in the park.

We sit in electric anticipation of the wonders that await us on the other side of the tree line, though we have been raised on the sight, at winter it's remodeled in our minds, the memories of years past refurbished, and the congregation of the mass emotion hits us all as we smile, sigh, then run like maniacs to the turn-stile so the ole gaffers, all decked out in suits and top hats, await to grant us entrance to the kingdom of the Ozarks, with it's fires smoking away keeping the streets warm, trade shops of all sorts lit merrily as we stroll down the lane, with soft whispers of caroling in the trees.

As we huddle together in the warmth of family, in the way only an over-mind of years of tradition can, we stroll subconsciously to the first and most important stop of the night....IT'S SANTA!!!!!!!! Amongst all the tiny tot's and toddlers who await with baited breath to see the man of all their Christmas dreams, they're are two teenagers with their eager mother, as she claps her hands together in rapid fashion, in a way only a mother who has had years of practice can, shudders and yells "YAAAAAY!!! IT’S SANTA!!!!!!" And the two young men(As she HATES being told that they are) roll their eyes, look at each other and smile, knowing that there is no other place in the world that is quite like Silver Dollar City in the winter.

The two of them mount the stage and sit on the air over Santa's lap, trying not to break the poor old man, because, as I said, these two young men do weigh just a bit more than they look, being corn fed and all. They sit with aching thighs as the minutes tick by as Santa tells you nice things jolly old men are supposed to say, such as, the joy of Christmas may never be forgotten, as long as it lives forever in your hearts, and the hearts of all those you meet, and they just wish that they would take the blasted photograph before their legs will fall off their da...~FLASH~ The picture is taken! And we slowly and proudly leave, having saved another Santa from a destroyed lap, and improving the fortress of memories our mother has in the delicate snowflake ornaments, containing pictures dating back since Little was born of her two little boys and Santa.

We make our way through the children, hugging our mother as she fondles her sons, and go to the next stop in our agenda to pick up yet another hardy token of the Ozarkian City of Lights. Down the winding lanes and trees, and through allies and shops of warmth and homeliness, we make our way to the Smithy to receive the reward for our faithful attendance to every festival, the pewter ornament of a building in the city in its entire holiday garb! “OOH!"Our dear matriarch exclaims " They cast this years after the tree on the square!" meaning of coarse the giant 5-story Christmas tree that sings and dances with it's spectacular show of songs that is enough to make any man with his family cry.

"Well, we can go home now..." says our father with a smirk on his face as he turns towards hill street(Cardiac hill, heart attack hill, cardiac street, hardy cardy heart attack hill and all other names given the steepest hill in the city)

"SAYS YOU!" say me and my brother in the best manners possible, then promptly turn our backs on them and flea to the Christmas tree to see the show, because it has just started, and is' playing the carol of the bell's, our favorite one!

The tree erupts in a display , with it's multi colored lights chasing each other over the tier's of candles lighting the sections, the angels proclaiming joyous refrains, and the familiar ghosts and spirits of past, present, and future, meld together into one bountiful creature of holiday festivity and shout into the heavens it's most merry greeting “MERRY CHRISTMAS!!! AND MAY GOD BLESS US! EVERY ONE”!

As I run, I turn back to see my dad chuckling as he turns and looks around at the trees and lights in a place that time has forgot and will never remember, at the place that he worked and toiled for more than a wage, and slowly turns and gives his last tender gaze towards the beautiful girl that he caught so many years ago, and soundly kisses her, amid the lights, sounds, and smells in the one place that love will never be forgotten, as long as there is one piece of popcorn (or one popcorn seller) to be swept up.___________________________________________________________________

And such is a Christmas tale from Monty, to Britches and all her readers. Merry Christmas Y'all!

And as I sit here in my Vicodin induced euphoria in the early morning of Christmas Eve, I hear the clangor of a wood stove burning up fuel, I remember presents needing to be wrapped, and I anticipate, with Silent mouth, to hear the sleigh bells on the sleigh of the jolly old man of Christmas dreams.

And so I leave you, with but an echo of Christmas cheer in the lofts.