Thanks FBers
Tuesday, December 16, 2025
Monday, December 15, 2025
Sunday, December 14, 2025
Happy Funday ~ Odie’s Gift of Warmth ~ by Skip
That cold snap in Truckee right before Christmas? Man, it wasn't your usual winter bite. This was the kind that cuts deep, sharp enough to make you feel alive, under a sky so crammed with stars it looked like someone spilled glitter. Fresh snow blanketed everything, squeaking under your boots like a stubborn door hinge, while the smell of woodsmoke wrapped around you from every chimney. And there in his workshop, surrounded by the good, honest scents of sawdust and machine oil, Odie—everyone knew him as Woodsterman—was right in his element.
Once Odie got going, he was a damn force of nature. Ratty flannel shirt with sleeves worn thin at the elbows, beard flecked with stray tinsel like he'd lost a fight with a Christmas tree. He'd be humming some unholy mashup of "God Rest Ye Merry" and "God Bless the U.S.A." like it was perfectly normal. Behind him, next to an old Army photo gathering dust, sat the Nativity set he'd carved—rough-hewn but solid, just like him.
Every damn year, Odie pulled together his "Christmas for the Forgotten" gig. Not for the kids—the Rotary had that handled. Nah, this was for the old vets at the home, the loners on the ranches, the folks who might get overlooked when the holiday cheer started flowing. The workshop told the story: piles of wool socks, stacks of flannel blankets, crates of oranges, and those molasses cookies of his—ginger so sharp it'd kick your taste buds into next week.
Then the door banged open, snow swirling in with his crew—Lily, fresh out of college, nose redder than Rudolph's; Dave the mechanic, who Odie had drafted by shoving a wrench at him and declaring, "You're on nutcracker duty now"; and Brenda, retired librarian, dead serious about her new gig as "Head Wrapping Honcho."
"Cavalry's here!" Odie barked, his breath fogging up the cold air. "Dave, that sled runner's acting up—go show it who's boss. Lily, cookies. Three per tin, don't get greedy—this ain't a damn buffet. Brenda, wrapping station's all yours. Don't screw it up."
Beautiful chaos. The woodstove glowed in the corner, Bing Crosby crooned from the ancient radio, and then—because of course—Dave cranked a bolt too hard and split the damn sled runner clean in half.
"Ah, shit," Dave muttered, looking like he'd just kicked a puppy.
Odie just busted out laughing, his whole beard shaking. "Would you look at that! Dave here just invented the world's first air-conditioned sled!" He grabbed his trusty duct tape—the red, white, and blue kind—and slapped it on like a band-aid. "There. Now it's got personality. And freedom."
Meanwhile, Brenda's wrapping was precision work—every corner sharp, every bow flawless—until Odie tripped over a cord and sent oranges rolling like a damn fruit avalanche.
"Christ on a cracker, Odie!" Brenda yelped.
He just grinned, snatching one up near the stove. "Pre-heated! That's five-star service right there." Tossed it to Lily. "Merry damn Christmas, kid."
By sundown, they'd pulled it off—gifts wrapped, sled "fixed," boxes loaded. Last touch? Odie's hand-carved ornaments. This year's model: a no-bullshit angel with wings like a fighter jet.
They hit the road as the light faded, first stop Old Man Miller's place. Ninety-something Marine, lived alone with his dogs. Odie bounded up the steps, box in hand, hollering, "Miller! Special delivery—get your ass out here!"
The old man cracked half a smile when he saw the tinsel-bearded madman on his porch. Odie shoved the box at him. "Care package from Command. Socks, cookies, and an orange—field tested."
Inside, Miller turned the little angel over in his hands. "You whittle this?"
"Damn straight," Odie said, quieter now. "Same as that cross you carried up Iwo. Made by hand—that's how you know it counts."
A dozen houses later, Odie had left more than just presents—he'd left something like warmth in empty rooms, made sure nobody felt forgotten.
Back at the VFW, cocoa in hand, the crew was dead on their feet but grinning like idiots.
"You guys knocked it outta the park," Odie said, rare seriousness in his voice. "Christmas ain't the plastic crap they peddle on TV. It's this." He jabbed a finger at the crew. "It's making sure nobody's left out in the cold. Same love that built Bethlehem’s stable—same love that holds this town together. That’s the American part."
He stood, shrugging into his coat. "Now I gotta go stoke the stove and dust my Nativity set. Merry Christmas, you glorious bastards."
Outside, snow crunched under Odie's boots as he walked home under the stars, heart as warm as his forge, leaving Truckee just a little brighter than before.
Thanks Skip
Saturday, December 13, 2025
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)