Author: admin@graham

In my early days I only remember Christmas trees as being a tree that had presents under. It could have been an oak or maple for all I cared provided it came presents.
I finally took notice when I went into the sitting room one Christmas to find my mother starting to decorate a tree. She was on hands and knees under the tree plugging the lights in. It seemed to be taking a lot of time and muttering to do this simple job so I stuck my head under. I found her trying to stick a bare wire into the outlet. There was already one in there, held in with a wooden matchstick. I quickly pulled the wire away from her with a “What are you doing? You’ll electrocute yourself trying to do that.” She told me that the plug had come of a few years ago and she hadn’t bothered to ask for a new plug to be put on.
I told her to leave the lights and get on with the decoration while I went to the shop to get a plug and put it on. I returned an hour later to find mum with a decorated tree, just putting candle holders on some of the branches. I asked if she was going to put candles in them and light them. “Oh no,” she replied. “I don’t need to light them now as we have plug in lights.” I crawled under the tree wondering how I had avoided being in a house fire from the candles setting the tree on fire and how I still had a living mum.
The next time I had dealings with a Christmas tree was when I was living on Smiths Island in Bermuda. It was Christmas time, my younger brother had come out to visit, and my wife decided we needed a tree. I suggested using a banana tree, we had plenty on the island, but was told that was not going to happen. She’d already bought the decorations and couldn’t hang them on banana leaves.
I got my brother, rowed over to the mainland in our 10-foot punt, and climbed the hill to our scooters. I suggested we both go on one bike but no. He had to drive himself. So, we set off to the Piggly Wiggly. We found a nice 8-foot tree, paid for it and proudly carried it out to the bikes, and then spent ten minutes trying to figure out how to carry the tree home. Eventually we settled on a great idea. I would hold the but end on my bike and he would follow holding the top on his bike. This actually worked well. We only had to go 15 miles and we actually made it ok.
We carried it down to the boat. There was a hole in a piece of wood at the front of the boat. The mooring rope passed through it. It was also just wide enough to stick the but end of the tree in. We set out rowing back to the island with the tree standing proudly at the front of the boat. We reached the dock on the island to find my wife standing there. “Where have you been?”
“Went to get the tree” I replied pulling it out of the hole and passing it up to my brother. “Why?”
“Bring it up to the house,” she said and looking up, gave a wave and a smile.
Walking into the house, I put the tree down and was told to go look at the tv.
My brother said. “Hey look. That’s us with the tree.”
And there we were. A traffic helicopter had spotted us and had broadcasted us with the tree to the whole island and was now running a repeat to Here Comes Santa Claus. It was a week before people stopped asking how the tree was.
The last time I had to get a tree was on the Isle of Mull. An old friend, at least 60, wanted a Scotch Pine for a tree. She talked me into driving her out to the tree plantation owned by the Woodland Commission. We took a small saw, wandered about till we found a couple of nice trees, looked around and couldn’t see anybody so we cut the trees down. In the car they went and away home. Two days later I was in the local pub when the tree warden came in. He was a good friend so I called him over for a drink.
“Were they nice trees you got?” he asked. “I was watching you from the hill.”
“The hill? That’s miles away.”
“Yep. But a good view, especially with binoculars. You are ok now though. They are in your house so they are now legally yours.”
“That’s good. Come by on Christmas and have a wee drink. You can see it in all its glory then.”
“Well next year. If you want a tree then take one from under the power lines. Save me a job as we can’t let them get big enough to hi t the lines.”
The next year I went out, cut 30 trees down from under the power lines and sold them on the mainland, went back home and bought him a bottle.

A few weeks ago my wife asked me if I wanted to go see a Voodoo Lassie. I call her that because I have no idea if she is a medium, a witch, or what she is. I said sure. A lot, well, six other friends were going so I looked forward to having a good night out. Then I forgot all about it.
So the day arrives and I am reminded that we were going to see the Voodoo Lassie. This called for a quick change, clean jeans, nice shirt and a tweed jacket. We are heading north to Plymouth, I am told, so the jacket could be a good idea. I have heard the Yeti lives up there in the snow.
In the car I put the directions into my cell phone and find it is an hour and a half drive to get to Plymouth. A long drive north. I ask my wife if I need my passport but am told we will still be in New Hampshire.
Well finally we get to Plymouth and meet up with our friends at the Common Man Restaurant. I didn’t think much to the food, I said I did to keep the peace, but am not in a hurry to go back. Then I find out we are going to see the Voodoo Lassie at a place called The Flying Monkey. Well. The night is looking up.
Of course when we get to the Flying Monkey there is no parking to be had so we end up driving round. I did suggest that we just go home and that the Voodoo Lassie, if she is any good, will know that we came, couldn’t park so went home. That idea went down like a lead balloon.
We did eventually find parking just up the street from the Flying Monkey. There were no sidewalks so we braved walking on a road full of people in cars looking for someplace to park.
The Flying Monkey is just like a lot of small town movie theaters except for one thing. When you go in the concessions are right there in front of you. Hot food, beer, wine and candy all lovingly displayed drew me straight into the line. I reached the front and looked at the wines they were offering and opened my mouth to order when a poke in my back and a whispered “Don’t forget you are driving” turned the glass of wine into a box of Cow Tails.
I then followed wifie down into the theater and to our seats in the middle of the 5th row. Nice and close to the stage. Can’t miss a thing and can be seen from the stage so have to behave myself. I looked around and found that the theater was filling up. Everyone except me here to get a message from the dead. I can’t think why your dead parent would want to come back for a chat. They have put up with you for all the years, talking to you all that time, so why do they want to come back for a chat? No. They should be enjoying a bit of peace and quiet instead of wondering how the Patriots are doing.
Right on time some gentleman comes out on stage and introduces the Voodoo Lassie who then comes out on stage. No music or drum rolls. She just walks out and plonks herself in front of the microphone. She is a pleasant looking lady. Nice smile with a voice that I know is going to lull me to sleep pretty dam quick. She is dressed in some sort of body suit with a light, flowing dressing gown type cover that seems to float behind her when she walks.
She starts the show with a brief intro, explaining for those ignoramuses, like me, what is going to happen and how the evening will go then she gets into it.
“I have a spirit here” she starts, then waffles on describing who the spirit wants to talk with until a woman behind me puts up her hand and says she knows who he is. While this is going on I nudge my wife. “Where is the spirit?” I ask. “What spirit?” “You know. The spirit who is here. There is only her up there. How do we know who the spirit is if he doesn’t show up?” “Be quiet and listen.” I was hoping it would be like a Christmas Carol with ghosts popping in and out to chat. Oh well. I opened the box of Cow Tails.
This first woman certainly got the room going. You could feel the change. Suddenly everyone was at attention waiting to see if they would know the next spirit. As the show went on there would quite often be two or three people claiming to know who was coming through. These people were quickly and gently whittled down to one then off we went again.
I did start to nod off once but gave that up after getting an elbow in the ribs. “What?” I said. “I wasn’t snoring.” I looked at my friend next to me. He was sleeping.
My attention was drawn back to the show when the Voodoo Lassie started looking for someone who knew a spirit who had three dogs. One woman was up quick with a “That’s my uncle” when someone else jumped up. The conversation went something like, “I know him. With my three daughters.” “No. He has three dogs on leads. He walks them everywhere.” “No. It’s my three daughters.” “Definitely three dogs.” and with that the woman sat down again. I felt sorry for her daughters. Fancy having a mother that can’t tell the difference between you and a dog.
The show was winding down when she started looking for someone who knew a spirit that had been in the air force. No one was owning up to knowing him and I started to feel sorry for him. Fancy showing up and having no one to talk to. I nudged my wife. “I know it’s not my father but I think it might be brother Malcolm.” “What are you talking about? Mal is not dead.” “Well I hope not.” “So it can’t be him.” “Well maybe his cell phone has no signal and he needs to contact me.” “Oh. God. Shut up and behave. Don’t be standing up.” Just then some guy stood up and claimed the spirit. I was a bit disappointed.
Well the show finished and we swapped the safety of Flying Monkey for the death defying walk back to the car. On the way home I was asked what I thought about the show. I said that I thought the first woman was a ringer to get folks going and after that everyone was just eager to know the spirit and that it was a load of bull. I spent the rest of the journey home hunched in my seat in a disapproving
silence.
Will I go to another one? Sure. It is a night out and I get to have a dinner that I didn’t cook.

A good friend of ours goes to Manchester to watch the bull riding every year. This year she invited my wife and I to join her and her husband in Manchester to enjoy the show.
When the night arrived we drove over to Derry, switched to their car and off we went. After parking we walked over the road to the SNHU Arena, went through security, and wandered through the venue looking at all the merchandise for sale. I bought a hard seltzer and went over to the food booth. I wanted a hot dog with all the toppings except mustard, ketchup and pickle which meant all I got was a miserable looking dog in a bun. I did ask if I could have some of the cheese used to top the nachos. I would have got a better response if I had asked the bank for a gold bar.
We found our seats, made ourselves comfortable, and waited for the show to start. Actually, on time, two females came out with some sort of mascot, several guys came out and started pouring liquid into groves in the sawdust. I was just about to take a sip of my drink when there was a huge bang, sparks flying everywhere, the liquid they had poured caught fire and the people behind me were grateful that I had left the top on my drink.
After introducing the riders, no bulls were introduced which I thought was a bit mean, the show got under way. On the big screen we watched as the riders, one by one, spent about ten minutes getting ready to go, the gate opened, and the rider promptly fell off the bull. All that getting ready for a 3 second ride. But then, suddenly, a rider stayed on for the full 8 seconds. Wicked exciting. The rider scored 85.5 points. I would of given him 100 just because he got the crowd going. I was actually enjoying myself when, after the third 8 second rider, my mind drifted back some 54 years. Back to when I was 18 and went on holiday to Spain with a friend of mine.
I don’t remember the resort we went to but I do remember that we went to a bull fight. We quite enjoyed it then went out for a steak with a couple of girls we had met. Two days later we went on an outing to a farm where they raised fighting bulls. After looking around the place we had a decent pick nick lunch and after lunch, they came round asking if anyone wanted to fight a bull. Well. After a nice lunch and about ten gallons of sangria I was only to happy to sign up.
We all walked over to the makeshift bull ring. Everyone else went up the steps and sat down while myself, and three other guys, went into the bull ring and, after a quick lesson, went and stood behind the safety boards. Some guys dressed as clowns came out, took the first willing bull fighter, gave him a red cloak and left him in the middle of the ring waiting for his bull. The gates opened and a wee, baby calf came trotting out. Everyone laughed and cheered. The other two guys took their turns and I noticed that the bulls were getting bigger and bigger. Finally it was my turn so I walked out, took the red cloak and stood waiting for the bull. I had worked out that I was likely to get an almost full grown bull and I had also figured that I could outrun it back to the boards.
I was brought back to the present by my wife nudging me to see if I was still awake. I looked at her, smiled, and asked if we were going for steaks after, and would she go get me another drink at the next interval.
I got my drink, no steak though, and sat and watched the rest of the show. I actually enjoyed it and said that I would like to go back again next year.
We drove back to our car, said goodnight to our friends, and drove home while chatting about the show. Wifie said she would like to go to a full rodeo one day. I said that would be wicked good so we agreed to try to fit some time in to go back to Texas one day.
Oh. I guess you want to know what happened in Spain.
Well I stood in the middle of the ring waiting for my bull to be released. Full of confidence that I could outrun the fool thing. I looked round for the clowns but they were hiding behind the boards so it was just me in the ring. There was a crash and the gates shook and the sound of hooves scraping the ground filled the air. Just don’t run in a straight line I thought. Zigzagging is better.
Finally the gates opened and, a donkey came running out. I remember saying “what the f….k” and laughing as I walked over to the donkey and petted it. The talk and laughing carried on to the bus and we were still talking about it half an hour later when we got back to the hotel.