THE CHRISTMAS SEASON always takes me back down memories' lane.
To a little dirt-roofed cabin out on a sage brush plain,
I see our little stockings hanging in a row,
While wind howled 'round the cabin, piling up great drifts of snow.
I remember how I used to try to solve the mystery, Of that Old
Santa-man that entered through the chimney, Our parents understood it,
but I desired proof, That he could get into our house, through the stovepipe
in our roof!
But anyhow when morning came, those socks we'd hung at night,
would always be full to the top, with good things tucked in tight.
And of one thing we were sure, be the gifts, dolls, mugs or tops,
Old Santa always left us a hand-full of CHOCOLATE DROPS.
From one year to the next I would wait for that ONE treat,
and vow when I grew up, I would have all that I could eat.
My apple and my orange, delicacies rare,
I would trade off to the others, for a little of their share.
and when the CHOCOLATE DROPS were gone, the season lost its cheer.
And I'd settle down to wait for more, for another long, long year.
That's fifty years ago, and still, I search the stores and shops,
When I buy Christmas candy, to find some CHOCOLATE DROPS.
Occasionally I find some that look exactly like the ones that made
my Christmas when I was a little "tyke".
But the taste is just as different as two things could ever be!
Is the candy any different?
I wonder if it's me?
Fanny Gudmundsen Brunt