It goes:  A couple of weeks ago I told you that Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday.  Well, I gotta admit, as we get closer to Christmas, it gets harder to say that Christmas is my second favorite holiday.  I guess I wasn't in the proper frame of mind back then.  I was  probably thinking more about food than my need to share.  Both of these wonderful holidays are family oriented and if we're careful we can keep the emphasis for Christmas on love, peace and family.

As I retrospect, my early Christmases, my first thoughts are not on what I got or what I gave.  Instead I  remember most what was shared.  As a youngster I shared the excitement of a big tree, always beautiful with blue lights and blue balls.  It was put up after we went to bed on Christmas eve so we, my brothers and sister and I, thought that Santa did it.  Believe it or not, we still have some of those blue decorations.  They are fragile and frayed but they mean a lot.  My sister and brothers and I would help mom bake cookies and we made those clear toy candies too.  You had to be very careful handling the candy because it was so hot.  We made Christmas cards and secretly hand delivered some to friends who lived close.  A special memory was the listening to Santa on the radio each evening, just waiting for him to read our letters.  Of course that built to the great anticipation of his arrival sometime Christmas eve or early Christmas morning.  We always got one personal toy and some clothes.  Somehow the toy was a good one though.  When I got a little older, I had the privilege of maintaining that excitement for my younger brothers and sister.  That helped me later with our own kids.

Christmas day always started early in the morning.  Prior to my teen years we would have family visit throughout the day.  I do not remember a Christmas day back then that we weren't visited by aunts and uncles and grandmas and grandpas.  As I recall, Christmas dinner was always as good as Thanksgiving dinner, maybe better.  We did not travel and it was not until recently that I realized why.  We were the only family group, in that mass of humanity,  that did not have a car.  All my aunts and uncles did and most of them lived away from their hometown, so they traveled.  We anxiously waited their arrival.

Of course there was church, including Christmas eve.  Even though I couldn't sing in any prescribed key I spent many years in church elementary and junior choirs, but the only solo parts for me were soooo loooow, as in "Quietissimo."  I was always positioned in the back too... waaaaaay baaaaaack.  However I had a good memory which offset the problem of being musically challenged. So I was cast in many Christmas plays and learned endless scripts as a Wiseman, Joseph, or a mean old King, etc.  I basked in the oohs, aahs and cherished the light chuckles expressed by the easy to please audience.

When it was my turn to be Santa it was just like when Sue and I were kids. Like our folks, we did not have much money for Christmas.  We added a twist though, we took our two kids, Wendy and David, to help select and cut our tree.  You would not believe some of the locations we scoured for the "perfect" tree.  Many trees were the wild mountainside variety, Charlie Browns.  Sometimes the tree was so large that it would not fit in or on the car, even the station wagon.   Sue cooperated  with the all blue decoration tradition from my childhood.  That always rekindled the fuzzy feeling for me.  We wanted to get a lot of toys and clothes for the kids.  During their early years we were fortunate to have friends that would give us really nice toys that their kids had outplayed.   It was fun to experience the anticipation and satisfaction reflected in Wendy and David's eyes, their smiles and their thanks as they opened the gifts from Santa and then the final one from mother and dad.  They were always grateful.  Sue would urge them to be very careful with the wrapping paper so that we could reuse it, and we did reuse it. Today our grown kids, their spouses, and some of the older grandchildren tease us about our traditional unwrapping procedure, but we are still careful and to this day we still save all of the paper and decorations.

We started a fun tradition with Wendy and David when they were toddlers and continued it until their age nine or ten or so.  Each Christmas eve, just before children's bed time,  Sue and I would sit with them and I would read  "Twas the Night Before Christmas" from a big book.  It had great graphics to accompany the words.  Dave would want to get to the "Now Dasher, Now Dancer" page because of the picture of Santa and the reindeer staged on the rooftop for quick take-off and then flying about the sky as they headed for the Foust house.  The "Tearing open the sash" page was not that exciting to him.  Wendy just digested every word.

Oh my... So great that innocence and all too soon that wonderful world of magic and make-believe somehow becomes reality.  Well to me that reality doesn't matter.  So when it is tree decorating time  I still unpack that book.  It always causes a pause, a swallow, moist eyes and a smile.  Unbelievable that  something so simple as reading a book to two really great kids and a wonderful wife has become my favorite Christmas memory." 

And now I've enjoyed sharing it with you and wish you the Merriest of Christmases.
Mike Foust

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her 'kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled down for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of toys, and St. Nicholas too.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook, when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-NIGHT!"

Clement Clarke Moore's famous poem, which he named "A Visit From St. Nicholas," was published for the first time on December 23, 1823 by a New York newspaper, the Sentinel. Since then, the poem has been reprinted, translated into innumerable languages and circulated throughout the world.

Clement Clarke Moore was born in 1779 to a well-known New York family. His father, Reverend Benjamin Moore, was president of (what is now) Columbia University and was the Episcopal Bishop of New York. Moore's father also participated in George Washington's first inauguration and gave last rites to Alexander Hamilton after Hamilton was mortally wounded in an 1804 duel with Aaron Burr. Moore himself was an author, a noted Hebrew scholar, spoke five languages, and was an early real-estate owner and developer in Manhattan.

Despite his accomplishments, Clement Clarke Moore is remembered only for "'Twas the Night Before Christmas," which legend says he wrote on Christmas Eve in 1822 during a sleigh ride home from Greenwich Village after buying a turkey for his family. Some say the inspiration for Moore's pot-bellied St. Nicholas was the chubby, bewhiskered Dutchman who drove Moore to Greenwich Village to buy his holiday turkey. Moore never copyrighted his poem, and only claimed as his own over a decade after it was first made public.

Moore read the poem to his wife and six children the night he wrote it, and supposedly thought no more about it. But a family friend heard about it and submitted the poem to the Sentinel, a newspaper in upstate New York, which published it anonymously the following Christmas. Moore's poem immediately caught the attention and imagination of the state, then the nation, and then the world. Finally, in 1844, he included it in a book of his poetry. Moore died in 1863 and is buried in Trinity Church Cemetery in lower Manhattan, New York.

Because of his "mere trifle," as he called it, 175 years ago Clement Clarke Moore almost single-handedly defined our now timeless image of Santa Claus. 

I remember my first Christmas adventure with Grandma.  I was just a kid.

I remember tearing across town on my bike to visit her on the day my big sister dropped the bomb: "There is no Santa Claus," she jeered.  "Even dummies know that!"

My Grandma was not the gushy kind, never had been.  I fled to her that day because I knew she would be straight with me.  I knew Grandma always told the truth, and I knew that the truth always went down a whole lot easier when swallowed with one of her "world-famous" cinnamon buns.  I knew they were world-famous, because Grandma said so.  It had to be true.

Grandma was home, and the buns were still warm.  Between bites, I told her everything.  She was ready for me.  "No Santa Claus?" she snorted.  "Ridiculous!  Don't believe it.  That rumor has been going around for years, and it makes me mad, plain mad.  Now, put on your coat, and let's go."

"Go?  Go where, Grandma?" I asked.  I hadn't even finished my second world-famous cinnamon bun.

"Where" turned out to be Kerby's General Store, the one store in town that had a little bit of just about everything.  As we walked through it's doors, Grandma handed me ten dollars.  That was a bundle in those days.  "Take this money," she said, "and buy something for someone who needs it.  I'll wait for you in the car." Then she turned and walked out of Kerby's.

I was only eight years old.  I'd often gone shopping with my mother, but never had I shopped for anything all by myself.  The store seemed big and crowded, full of people scrambling to finish their Christmas shopping.  For a few moments I just stood there, confused, clutching that ten-dollar bill, wondering what to buy, and who on earth to buy it for.  !

I thought of everybody I knew: my family, my friends, my neighbors, the kids at school, the people who went to my church.  I was just about thought out, when I suddenly thought of Bobby Decker.  He was a kid with bad breath and messy hair, and he sat right behind me in Mrs.  Pollock's grade-two class.

Bobby Decker didn't have a coat.  I knew that because he never went out to recess during the winter.  His mother always wrote a note, telling the teacher that he had a cough, but all we kids knew that Bobby Decker didn't have a cough; he had no coat.  I fingered the ten-dollar bill with growing excitement.  I would buy Bobby Decker a coat!  I settled on a red corduroy one that had a hood to it.  It looked real warm, and he would like that. 

"Is this a Christmas present for someone?" the lady behind the counter asked kindly, as I laid my ten dollars down.

"Yes, ma'am," I replied shyly.  "It's for Bobby."

The nice lady smiled at me.  I didn't get any change, but she put the coat in a bag and wished me a Merry Christmas.

That evening, Grandma helped me wrap the coat in Christmas paper and ribbons and write, "To Bobby, From Santa Claus" on it (a little tag had fallen out of the coat, and Grandma tucked it in her Bible).  Grandma said that Santa always insisted on secrecy.  Then she drove me over to Bobby Decker's house, explaining as we went that I was now and forever officially one of Santa's helpers.

Grandma parked down the street from Bobby's house, and she and I crept noiselessly and hid in the bushes by his front walk.  Then Grandma gave me a nudge.  "All right, Santa Claus," she whispered, "get going." I took a deep breath, dashed for his front door, threw the present down on his step, pounded his doorbell and flew back to the safety of the bushes and Grandma.

Together we waited breathlessly in the darkness for the front door to open.  Finally it did, and there stood Bobby.  Fifty years haven't dimmed the thrill of those moments spent shivering, beside my Grandma, in Bobby Decker's bushes.  That night, I realized that those awful rumors about Santa Claus were just what Grandma said they were: ridiculous.  Santa was alive and well, and we were on his team.

I still have the Bible, with the tag tucked inside: $19.95.

I've been a good mom all year. I've fed, cleaned and cuddled my children on demand, visited the doctor's office more than my doctor, sold sixty-two cases of candy bars to raise money to plant a shade tree on the school playground. I was hoping you could spread my list out over several Christmases, since I had to write this letter with my son's red crayon, on the back of a receipt in the laundry room between cycles, and who knows when I'll find anymore free time in the next 18 years.

Here are my Christmas wishes:

I'd like a pair of legs that don't ache (in any color, except purple, which I already have) and arms that don't hurt or flap in the breeze; but are strong enough to pull my screaming child out of the candy aisle in the grocery store.

I'd also like a waist, since I lost mine somewhere in the seventh month of my last pregnancy.

If you're hauling big ticket items this year I'd like fingerprint resistant windows and a radio that only plays adult music; a television that doesn't broadcast any programs containing talking animals; and a refrigerator with a secret compartment behind the crisper where I can hide to talk on the phone.

On the practical side, I could use a talking doll that says, "Yes, Mommy" to boost my parental confidence, along with two kids who don't fight and three pairs of jeans that will zip all the way up without the use of power tools.

I could also use a recording of Tibetan monks chanting "Don't eat in the living room" and "Take your hands off your brother," because my voice seems to be just out of my children's hearing range and can only be heard by the dog.

If it's too late to find any of these products, I'd settle for enough time to brush my teeth and comb my hair in the same morning, or the luxury of eating food warmer than room temperature without it being served in a Styrofoam container.

If you don't mind, I could also use a few Christmas miracles to brighten the holiday season. Would it be too much trouble to declare ketchup a vegetable? It will clear my conscience immensely.   It would be helpful if you could coerce my children to help around the house without demanding payment as if they were the bosses of an organized crime family.

Well, Santa, the buzzer on the dryer is ringing and my son saw my feet under the laundry room door. I think he wants his crayon back.
Have a safe trip and remember to leave your wet boots by the door and come in and dry off so you don't catch cold.

Help yourself to cookies on the table but don't eat too many or leave crumbs on the carpet.

Yours Always, MOM...!

P.S. One more thing...you can cancel all my requests if you can keep my children young enough to believe in Santa.

2. Drink as much eggnog as you can. And quickly. Like fine single-malt scotch, it's rare. In fact, it's even rarer than single-malt scotch. You can't find it any other time of year but now. So drink up! Who cares that it has 10,000 calories in every sip? It's not as if you're going to turn into an eggnog-alcoholic or something. It's a treat. Enjoy it. Have one for me. Have two. It's later than you think. It's Christmas!

3. If something comes with gravy, use it. That's the whole point of gravy. Gravy does not stand alone. Pour it on. Make a volcano out of your mashed potatoes. Fill it with gravy . Eat the volcano. Repeat

4. As for mashed potatoes, always ask if they're made with skim milk or whole milk. If it's skim, pass. Why bother? It's like buying a sports car with an automatic transmission.

5. Do not have a snack before going to a party in an effort to control your eating. The whole point of going to a Christmas party is to eat other people's food for free. Lots of it. Hello?

6. Under no circumstances should you exercise between now and New Year's. You can do that in January when you have nothing else to do. This is the time for long naps, which you'll need after circling the buffet table while carrying a 10-pound plate of food and that vat of eggnog.

7. If you come across something really good at a buffet table, like frosted Christmas cookies in the shape and size of Santa, position yourself near them and don't budge. Have as many as you can before becoming the center of attention. They're like a beautiful pair of shoes. If you leave them behind, you're never going to see them again.

8. Same for pies. Apple. Pumpkin. Mincemeat. Have a slice of each. Or if you don't like mincemeat, have two apples and one pumpkin. Always have three. When else do you get to have more than one dessert? Labor Day?

9. Did someone mention fruitcake? Granted, it's loaded with the mandatory celebratory calories, but avoid it at all cost. I mean, have some standards.

10. One final tip: If you don't feel terrible when you leave the party or get up from the table, you haven't been paying attention. Re-read tips; start over, but hurry, January is just around the corner.