My Precious Ruby

Last Thursday, we rented the DVD, “Marley & Me”. I had planned on avoiding the movie like the plague because I knew it was about losing a family dog; a topic that is way to close to my heart. But my newly-eleven-year-old daughter had her way. As we hit the play button, I realize I would have an even harder time separating myself from the script because it was about a young couple, both writers, who find their way in this hectic world while they start a family; all with their beloved (and naughty) dog, Marley, loyally at their side. I swore I wouldn’t cry… and so much for swearing. But the flick got me thinking. Why haven’t I shared the beautiful story of our beloved pup? In the movie, the story is told by a real-life columnist; who had a steadfast best friend, with four legs and a bark. How endearingly clever.

My story begins on the worse night of my life; Christmas Eve 2004. I come home to find our family dog, Abby, a red Doberman, lifeless on her best friend (my then, six-year-old daughter’s) bed. The dog was two when the baby was born; and they were inseparable from the start. The hardest thing, I have ever done was sitting that little girl down to break the news. I get choked up at the recollection. She vowed to never get a new dog. She said her heart will never heal (and to some degree it hasn’t). For the next seven months, I looked at puppies, with and without her. When I was alone, none of them seemed right; when she was along, she said the same (if you can imagine a first-grader refusing a puppy). But that’s the way it was. Until a warm July night…

It was a particularly tying day; so I found solace in “puppy hunting” all by myself. I had found a little border collie at a pet store, and he won my heart. I called my mom and told her to bring my daughter, drop her off at the front door of the store, and tell her to come in, where I guarded the pup in the crowed pet store. She sported a smile that I hadn’t seen. I thought this was the one. But then she said, “Can we think about it?” With a heavy heart, we head back to my car. I reach in the backseat and grab the classifieds for one last skim, but it is eight-o-clock, so I make one last crucial decision. We head to a South Milwaukee pet store that had an ad for mixed breed puppies.

We walk in to a packed store that had a puppy sale for “$150 off”. My daughter walks to the glass, points at a brindle puppy, on a wall of over thirty dogs, and asks to hold her. Not sixty seconds passed before she turned to me, teary-eyed, and whispered, “This is her, she’s the one.” I distinctly recall, it was 9:03pm, and the store closed at nine. This time, it was me who said we’d think about it. She had no idea I had slipped the clerk the 10% deposit required to hold the pup until the next day. The rest is history, and thankfully present, because it nearly wasn’t.

The pup settled in to our life and her pre-picked name “Ruby” very quickly. And quietly. I didn’t think much of her lackluster demeanor, until the health department called to tell me they had shut down the store because of a deadly disease that ran fiercely among the animals. They asked about our dog, and I told them she was fine, as I pack her up to head to the vet before I hung up the phone. After several “all-clears” I thought we were out of the woods. It was life as we knew it for the next couple weeks, until I woke up one morning to a very sick puppy. By the time I made it from Kewaskum to the emergency vet clinic in Waukesha, the outlook was grim. My mom had called and gave the heads-up for our arrival. As I walk through the sliding door, the medical staff was waiting in scrubs. They asked if the pup was Ruby. As they reach for her, I realized she wasn’t breathing. Two techs restrain me as I try to follow, hysterical. One leads me to their private cafeteria. She explains how they had treated many of the sick animals from the same store. When I asked if any were spared, she somberly looked at her feet. Hours later, a vet with a sweat-beaded forehead, pulls off his blue cap, and flops on the bench next to me. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and I begin to cry again as I brace myself. The next thing I recall was one of the most beautifully shocking things I ever heard… “She’s got a lot of heart; that is a very sick little puppy. I need to know, on a scale of three choices, what measures you want me to take to save Ruby.” Confused, I asked if she was alive. He followed up with a gut-wrenching “barely.” She was on life support of sorts, and grasping to life, barely. He didn’t think her odds were good. I declared with conviction that I would pay for any means necessary, and I told him to save her; I told him I knew he could. I begged him to please go and do it. And that is exactly what he did. After several days in close contact, via phone and face-to-face, I got the news she was coming home. The vet put in personal overtime, and I don’t think he billed me for most of it; I got a refund from the initial $800 deposit; proof positive that I got the right man for the job.

53 out of 54 dogs died from the pet store; unable to be saved. Even four years later, my heart smiles at the sight of our 100+ pound Ruby; who was initially predicted to mature to 35 lbs; but it turns out she was only three-weeks-old at the time of purchase. She is a four-legged angel among us. She is my daughter’s best friend, and our saving grace. She is so much more than ‘just a dog’. She is life’s blood at times. And laughter. And love. She has filled a void, I thought un-fill-able. So do I recommend renting “Marley & Me”? Absolutely; it’s a must-see.

The Five Year Plan and the Fundamentals in a Swat

The significant concept of the “five-year-plan” throughout our life-timeline is a reoccurring monotony that tends to seem quite redundant. To me, the very thought of it seems like a clip from the film, Groundhog Day; but only in my repetitious version, something has gone awry. It’s like the theory of the New Year resolution; we make a solemn vow (usually fueled by liquor, festive atmosphere, a bad year, or all of the above) to do something “this time”, with good intentions, that will make our existence somehow a bit more tolerable. I watch after the calendar year leaps, and without fail, I am able to spot a promise broken before its time to call it a night. But not just any promise; a promise from one’s heart to one’s head. Who worse to break a promise to? If you can’t honor your own word, is your word really honorable at all? Enter simile; the five year plan. I cringe at the double jeopardy. Thankfully, it is only once every five-metaphorical-years-or-so. I realize that we are taught to shoot for the moon, so that we land amidst the stars; and that the dreamers are the doers; or that we should set our sights high, raising the bar with every monumental moment. But what about promising oneself a realistic five year outline, so disappointment in our own ability is not the end result? Shouldn’t a revised outline to reach our ultimate goal of happiness, begin with the back-to-basic fundamentals that so often seem to fall by the way side? After all, everything needs a good, solid foundation; a house, a relationship, and a plan. And a lifetime of letdown from those surrounding us is hard to swallow; but a lifetime of disappointment at the hands of the voice within, is devastatingly damaging. And how is it we try to find ourselves accountable for things that are out of our hands? For example; ‘I want to marry Mr. Right’, or ‘I want my wife to love me again’. It baffles me.

This got me thinking, do most people remember the crucial elements that are the fundamentals of their very foundation? Admittedly, I forget, I forgot, but I just remembered, and I recall. So I rehashed exactly what my personal five-year-plan-for-happiness consists of; which by the way, I was temporarily lacking a few variables of. And as I conclude my plan; and revisit my list, to be sure I covered all my simplest necessities; I am reminded of one last thing I absolutely need to incorporate.

It’s a hot summer day, and I feel a bit melancholy and certainly stressed, so I find solstice in visiting the second hand book store all alone. I get lost in the titles and the smells that remind me how small we really are; I remember that this means our distresses are small too; no matter how consuming they feel at the time. I feel better. I make my way to Kmart on the way home. I walk back to the car empty-handed and stumped that the nation wide chain, who has partnered with Sears, hasn’t carried CDs in two years (truly, a sign of the times). I get in my hot car and quickly open the sunroof and the windows. I wait as the driver of the Buick Rivera next to me, attempts to maneuver the car to escape the sardine-can of a parking lot. After three do-overs, I am irritated at the beads of sweat of my forehead. She finally escapes; but now I am blocked by an older couple walking in the middle of my route towards the store. My only option is to wait behind them. They walk slow, arms wrapped around one another. I can’t stop the grin that creeps across my face; I love to see retired-aged couples in love. I shun the thought that enters my cynical mind that wonders if their smitten demeanor is because they are both married to someone else, or perhaps newlyweds. I forcefully engage in the thought that they are quite enamored with each other after 50 years of marriage (an anniversary that was once part of my own plan, but becomes less and less possible with each passing year). And as my devil dances with life’s demons-I see it. They step up to the store entrance, looking at one another playfully. As I am about to pass, he removes his arm from her back and with a polished, mechanical movement he gently swats her derriere, and then swiftly returns to the entangled position. I can’t help but feel hopelessly optimistic and warm-and-fuzzy inside. Then I remember some profound wisdom I was privy to when I was 25.

I was at a livestock auction in Waverly, Iowa, and I made a habit of shadowing the elders of the industry, if you will. I had learned that they held ample amounts of wisdom; that I would soon learn is not limited to livestock. Over the course of several years I had developed a respectful, mentoring-ish relationship with a ninety-something Texan, Gary. One night, he arrives to the nightly post-auction social gathering; He is tidy as usual, with creases heavily starched into his Wrangler blue jeans. My immediate thought was that he did not iron them himself (rough-around-the-edge cowboys don’t strike me as the ironing type). Gary informs me that he is consumed with a guilty sadness because today is his 53rd wedding anniversary, and he is far from home. I give him an adoring look and ask, “The creases?” He sits up straight and is clearly proud of his wife’s handiwork. I was compelled to ask the wisdom of his secret to a long marriage, because it’s obvious he is as crazy in love with the woman he married, as the day they were married. He leans in to me and whispers out of the comer of his mouth, as if he wanted no one else to hear the top-secret revelation. He proceeds with a rapid southern dialect, “It’s real simple. I walk in the house e’vry day, smack ‘er on the rear, n’ tell ‘er I love ‘er; even if she’s a-madder-than-a-wet-hen.” (Which is outwardly enraged, for those not raised on the farm). Skeptical, but none-the-less in awe with my friend and his words of wisdom, I wondered if he’s on to something.

It seems, so often, we take for granted those that are near-and-dear. The Kmart couple reminded me that quite possibly a simple reminder of any sort is all the fuel any relationship needs to maintain momentum. People forget your loving conviction; and sometimes we forget ourselves. So atop my five year plan is to be the reminder (the swat) or the remindee (the swatter) throughout all my relationships (obviously the gesture is altered to suit the nature of the person you are engaged with). I will be a constant reminder, like a faded tattoo, to all those I love, that I wholeheartedly love them. I am beginning to believe it really may be that simple. At the very least, it will add to the happiness of our sometimes intolerable, sometimes beautiful, often uncertain existence, that we call life, or something like it. After all, anything leaning towards a happy ending is worth a shot because, beginnings are scary, endings are usually sad, but it’s the middle that counts. And the only one that can be held accountable for the happiness in the middle is our self. Don’t sweat the five-year-plan; look at the big picture; Make yours count.

“It’s Never To Late to Become What You Might Have Been…”

Blah, blah, blah is what my ordinary response would be to such a statement. Not this morning. On very little sleep, I feel like a prisoner of war who was forced to drink life’s turpentine straight-up; I am absolutely burning on fumes; but my optimistic side is grateful to maintain momentum, even if from toxic fumes. My Black-Irish inner cynic reminds me that the only thing we know for sure is that in the end, the world will break you heart. Nevertheless, I flip the TV on a few minutes after 7am, and instead of going to the Today Show, I watch the last 20 minutes of Away From Her. Out-of-character and reason being; the profound wisdom I hear before I have a chance to flip the channel. I find melancholy inner-peace, but at least its peace; a feeling I am growing more accustomed to lately. So I felt the need to share these words; in the hopes that they may lend the same inspiration to at least one other person who needs something to get through today.

“Sometimes you have to make a decision to just be happy; just decide.”

“There’s a man with a broken heart; broken in a million pieces.”

“(I am thinking) you never know how things are going to turn out; you almost know, but you can never be quite sure.”

“Things are not ever what you hoped they’d be; for anybody; not ever. The only thing that separates one person from another is; there are those who stay angry, and there are those who accept what comes their way.”

So for what its worth, I suggest not seeing life through rose-colored glasses; because I promise you, life is hard; your heart will break, your love will be lost, and you will be disappointed by the person you least expect. The sooner you accept, and expect this part of life, the less it may hurt. Shock is the sharpest kind of emotional cut; and it scars. But if you don’t continue to risk your heart, I promise you will never know happiness. To keep one eye open to reality, and one eye closed to cynical anger is no easy feat; but nothing good comes easy. With an upbringing some may consider a little deep-south-and-down-home; I was instilled with a few life lessons I take to heart; the first, cowgirls don’t cry, almost never; the second, ride without worrying about the fall; don’t think about the fall, focus only on the ride itself, like nothing else exists in that moment. So proceeding scarred, bruised, and broken; both in the hypothetical and literal sense; I highly recommend at some point, when your heart and your head are in sync for whatever reason, you close both eyes, grab someone’s hand, jump, and ride the fury of life’s passions, with little regard for the outcome. Just know it may end in tears, tragedy, or triumph; either way, a risk much too risky not to take. One of these times, we just may get it right.

“Be Nice to Everyone You Meet; They Might Be Your Neighbor One Day.”

That is what a perfect stranger said to me while visiting Green Bay, when I was only 21. I never forgot his face or his words. Five years, two college degrees, and one beautiful baby girl later, I move back from Florida to settle into adult life. I buy a farm near Fond du Lac, in a spec-on-the-map town called St. Cloud (WI, not MN). Imagine my surprise; I meet my country-mile neighbor; the man with the Green Bay-advice. I felt a bit like I was in an episode-gone-awry of the Twilight Zone; for a moment, I was looking for the hidden camera. Nevertheless, I have practiced the concept ever since; and it is amazing how many times irony has pulled into my driveway. Point being, be nice to everyone you meet, because not only is there a possibility of a common zip code, there is also a good chance, there is a good reason, for your chance meeting.

My next disclosure may sound a bit far-fetched, but I believe it to be true wholeheartedly; there is a reason for everything, and people cross your path at the exact second you need them, or they need you. I do not believe in coincidence. Still a skeptic? Well, maybe I can make you a believer.

I’m 16, a knock on the door brings a 4 month-old baby, who I w as my brother; but at the time, he was another child lost in the foster system. Thankfully, we never had to meet his biological parents, but that still did not stop “the system” from attempting to reunite the baby with the absent individuals, for five gruelingly long years. It made no difference that the people named on his birth certificate, never showed for the state scheduled meetings; or that my brother had found parents and siblings who would give their own life for the sake of his happiness, right there in my childhood home. We love and wait with bated breath; those five long years until the final court hearing arrives. The adoption was finalized, on grounds of abandonment. The nights of worry-fueled tears were over. He was officially my brother. And I was officially a passionate advocate for families in this situation, and children in general.

Most recently, my phone rings, and on the other end is a single mom who I don’t know very well, someone I had met under the most unusual circumstances. She is sobbing, and pleas for help. From our limited conversations, she is aware of my adoration for children; she is unaware of the personal experiences that led to this love. She takes a shot-in-the-dark and asks for guidance with her 15 year-old honor student who is in the midst of falling victim to some very unjustified treatment. I told her she dialed the right phone number.

In the mean time, I am working for the Chronicle, and run across a friend and Muskego resident, who I know is a passionate advocate for any child; with deep ties to adoption and the foster system. I explain the phone call I had received, and ask for her advice. She assumed I knew she was facing similar challenges with her adopted son, who I learn is biracial. I never even so much as knew her adopted son’s race. I had never met him, only heard all the wonderful stories. I was shocked, because the honor student’s problems are a result of racism and intolerance. My Muskego-friend wants to help, and I feel strong. The week is productive, and the 15 year-old has an army behind her; one made up of all races and walks of life. When it comes to children, I believe we all speak a universal language; the largest majority of us anyhow.

I feel accomplished last Friday. I pick up a long-time friend of my daughters, so the pair can go bowling and to Brookfield square. I see the little friends mom in the driveway; a wonderful woman who had become my friend over the years. As we stand and talk, a tiny blue-eyed 4 year-old teeters out with a just-had-lunch grin. The youngster is a foster child the family has been raising as their own for the last several years. I see worry on my friends face; and I ask how things are. She tells me the “system” is attempting the same reuniting efforts between the little girl and her biological father. I immediately give her my Muskego based friend and advocate’s phone number because I knew she would be honored to help in any way she could. We head off for our night of bowling and shopping. The little girl and the worry surrounding the situation came up several times in the car. I told my daughter’s friend about my brother, and the happy ending. I tell her I know what she is going through. I tell her I wrote a book about it. She is pleasantly surprised.

Later that night, my daughter crawls out of bed and comes to find me, tears in her eyes, cell phone in hand. She shows me a text from her friend; it said the 4 year-old has to spend every Saturday night with her biological father; a man I had been told was less-than-ideal. She continues to say how she is so attached to her foster sister, and how she is lying in bed with the little girl and “crying her heart out.” My heart sinks at the sight of her words. I have walked in her shoes. I can’t help but cry at her heartbreak.

Saturday morning, I ask my mother to help in any way she can; even if only to talk to let the family know they are not alone. I ask the other women mentioned earlier, if they are there for this family if need be. They are eagerly on stand-by, even though they have never been personally introduced. Because there is strength on numbers. And neighbors. And we all speak the color-blind, love-filled, universal language of our children. Not just our own, but everyone’s. So treat everyone nice, they may in fact, end up next door. You may need help, or you may need to help. And nothing in this world feels better than helping a neighbor’s child.

Hollywood Tragedy in the Suburbs; Minus the Paparazzi

I’ll admit, I enjoy the latest antics of Hollywood’s stalker-paparazzi; but honestly, my heart goes out to the young starlet’s (i.e.; Brittany) who never have a moment’s privacy, especially during much publicized pain. They can’t mend a broken heart, or break a vicious addiction, without making front page headlines. But it got me thinking, what if this was the standard for everyone? What if the ramifications for the 17-year-old suburban teenager, were the same as the starlet’s? If she made a bad choice, it was on the evening news. No more hush-hush, keep-the-shame-away secrecy. No more enabling. Then what? Would you think twice if you knew your preverbal dirty laundry would be thrown on the front lawn for all the neighbors to see? And why does the average American’s ‘stupid-mistake’ seem to be growing remarkably colossal by the minute?

Flip through the paper; turn on the news, it’s all right there. Beautiful, young, privileged suburbanites turned convicted felons. And those are just the few who got caught. It is my belief; the numbers of families with dirty secrets are exceedingly on the incline. It seems like an endless circle; starting with a bad choice, being hidden by family to avoid shame, all with punishment to the perpetrator because of the enabling secrecy conspiracy. Then it just starts over. It’s like the theory about finding a wallet full of money if you were all alone; would you take it or turn it in if no one would ever know any different? I wonder if it works the same; do teenagers, or adults for that matter, go to a party and risk illegal behavior because they know from experience, mom and dad will bury it? I see both sides, and I am certainly not condemning or casting judgment; I just wonder. How many families think they are alone in trials such as these? I bet everyone is all alone, but if so, we are alone together. I am certain a good majority of local villagers are, or have been affected by the squalid purgatory of an addiction; either their own, or a loved one’s. Ambiguous? I think so. A hopeless washout? Absolutely not. As a matter-of-fact, it may be a bit cathartic to entertain the thought that we are not alone; not in the sense of bathing in another’s struggle, but rather the satire, in the soothing sadness born with the revelation that you may not be the sole David-and-Goliath-story in the neighborhood. At some point, we are all common-man, armed with only a slingshot and a rock, in a battle against a giant. Metaphorically speaking, of course.

And as to why; I’m stumped. Easy access to abusive chemicals is one factor. I remember in high school, and shortly thereafter, it was alcohol my peer-group misused. Not that it was right; but it was ample. Occasionally you would run across someone who used marijuana, but I never recall excess, and it is my belief it was the low-potent breed, and not the hybrid mixes you hear of on the street these days. Either way, the only time I even got a whiff of second-hand pot smoke was at an Elton John concert at Summerfest. And I distinctly recall, if there was liquor, the parents of the home we were at (yes, they were aware) took away all keys. Right, wrong, or indifferent, it’s just the way it was. We never uttered the word heroin, or heard of Zanax. But times are changing, and in 2009 I wonder if we have become a self-diagnosing, self-medicating society. And when did it become the norm, or acceptable; and even scarier, dare I ask-what’s next?

Life is hard. I admit, personally, I hate to hurt. And I much prefer physical pain to the emotional variety; this coming from some who has endured 11 broken bones, and over 700 stitches. Honestly, I understand the desire to make it stop hurting, or dull it, by extraordinary means. But I wonder, if you don’t hurt, can you still feel? Pain is a reminder that we are alive, but how much can one person take before it breaks them? And how much can it be masked, until the mask becomes the person? Sometimes reality really sucks, but no matter what it is still there when you open your eyes, either hypothetically or literally. And in the worst case scenario, which I personally knew one, how far can the envelope be pushed before eyes are closed forever?

It’s an epidemic of sorts, our own modern day tragedy. Personally I worry about what my daughter may see in her lifetime. I pray for the best. Maybe we should alert the paparazzi.

The Seven Deadly Sins; Should They be Revised to Suit the Times?

Pride/vanity.

Envy.

Gluttony.

Greed/avarice.

Lust.

Sloth.

Wrath/anger.

Times change; and language follows suit. As a Non-Catholic Irish person; I realize I am a walking contradiction, but I ask, is there grey area? If we teach our children one thing, but tell them to be inspired by another, it may be a bit confusing; and rather uninspiring.

As a God-fearing woman; I proceed by questioning the loose verbiage, of the seven sins and if they have actually been the cause of death to anyone, or are they simply Old Testament rigmarole?

Pride and vanity can be confused with self confidence and esteem. And in a world that can break even an angel’s spirit, shouldn’t we take a little ego boost when we have the opportunity? Flattery accepted is neither narcissism nor arrogance.

Envy; could it be misconstrued for admiration? After all, we worship our role models; many we only know from the pages of the ‘good-book’ itself. We all need to see something or someone when we look up.

Gluttony; has it ever been mistaken for well-deserved indulgence, or reward?

Greed and avarice; or hunger and drive for happiness and/ or success?

Lust; or the start of love fueled by the hearts passion? In the Greek culture, when a man dies, rather than remiss via eulogy, they simply ask, “did he have passion?” truly a crucial variable one is not typically condemned for.

Sloth or much needed rest? Or should we be expected to use our being until we become useless to everyone, ourselves included?

Wrath and anger; dare I ask, why? Could it be justified? Certainly, there may be suitably appropriate circumstances that call for anger, even vindication. What if it was your child they found savagely murdered on the riverbank? The old-testament says “an eye for an eye; and a tooth for a tooth” so why not follow the antiquity of this written word too? Because it is old? Obviously I am not sanctioning vigilantism, just pointing out the satire.

As a person of extravagant excess and even compulsion at times, I still do understand, and respect the concept of ‘everything in moderation’. But life is not black and white, or brimstone and fire. Maybe it used to be, but not anymore. The world is shades of grey, with outlines of electric blue mixed with the reds of irreversible anguish. So again I ask, are the seven deadly sins open for modern-day interpretation? It is certainly worth a thought. We are responsible for our own actions; Wiggle-room, misinterpretations, shades of grey, vibrant tones of human-truth and all. I am not a lawless or God-less woman; but according to the structure of a certain highly-publicized-and-corrupt organization; I am a sinner. But that’s okay with me because I am a self-professed benevolent Christian woman, with Christian convictions. I’m certain I’m going to heaven when I die; and I may have some explaining to do when I get there; I just don’t believe it will be in regards to the seven deadly sins. After all, freedom of religion is one of our 1st amendment rights, and that is a chronological kitten in comparison. So, can somebody give me an “Amen?”

“Yes, Virginia…”

With a name like Noelle, one would assume the Christmas spirit is a birthright; which couldn’t be furthest from my typical reality. I personally feel the season has been swallowed by corporate America, and somewhat of a hallmark-holiday-cliché. Point being, as adults, we tend to lose sight of what the season is supposed to be about; A time we should be focused on family and friends; and blinded by the sparkle of the children’s eyes; that by far outshines the brightness of all the holiday lights.

Reflect upon your own childhood memories of Christmas morning; you may not be able to recall exactly what the pretty paper and ribbons revealed, in the thirty seconds it took to tear open your anticipation. But chances are, the emotions surrounding the magic moments is readily available in your minds eye. If that doesn’t serve as proof that the numbers on a price tag are, for the most part; irrelevant, I don’t know what will.

It was this time last year, I was on assignment for the first Christmas edition of the Muskego Chronicle, and a very special group of children helped locate and light my inner Christmas spirit; and ironically it is the same newspaper and a similar situation that scared off my scrooge once again.

There is nothing like the excitement of a child on Christmas. Sometimes it just takes something or someone to remind you; and I found twenty-six ‘somebody’s’ right here in Muskego, to remind all of us, and lend a whole bunch of holiday cheer. It is my pleasure to gift their blessing and belief, to all the readers in our community. The story starts with a letter most are familiar with…

To The New York Sun,
I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in the sun, it is so.” Please tell me the truth. Is there a Santa Claus?
Virginia O’Hanlon, 1898

Virginia O’Hanlon’s letter to the NY Sun has become one of the most widely celebrated editorials in newspaper history.

Twenty-six Bay lane Middle School students, from Mr. Hulbert’s fifth grade, published a book compiled of individual entries written in response to this famous letter, as if they were editors from a big city newspaper. The book was sent home with every student for all to enjoy, and bask in the wonderment of childhood at this magical time of year.

The following is a menagerie of the correspondence, combined as one letter to Virginia, with something from every child; each sentence is from a different youngster. And the sincerity of these children will persuade even the nastiest of skeptical scrooges and Christmastime cynics; until they too, say out loud; “He really does exist!”

It is printed exactly how the young writers wrote them; no grammatical corrections have been made; as this certainly adds a little more magic and conviction to their words.

The guest editorial writers for the Muskego Chronicle answered;

Yes, Virginia, he is real; do not believe your little friends Virginia…
Your little friends that aren’t so nice are really wrong. I guess you can’t prove there is a Santa, but your friends can’t prove there is not a Santa. Everyone has the right to believe what they want, but don’t let others fool you into not believing. Your friends might be less fortunate than you and because of that they don’t believe. There is a lot of stuff in life where you don’t know what to think or believe but you have to trust yourself sometimes. Without magic in your heart, it won’t be the most wonderful time of year! So don’t worry about what other kids have to say. Tell them to tell their parents to stop putting presents under the tree. Then they’ll see what happens. He is as real as the snow; or the teacher in your school. He is as real as you and me. I was little and I believed in him and I still do. I saw him before, but I didn’t have a camera. You can never make a disbeliever out of me! I heard a story about a little boy (who is now a man) had a life like yours, and all his friends and classmates said Santa wasn’t real; but he saw him and wanted to scream in joy! Think about this…
You have seen black and white Christmas moves, right? If he is in the movies he must be real. Who would want to play an imaginary person?
Once he even left one of his red gloves in my house.
Just because you can’t see something doesn’t mean it’s not real. How does his reindeer fly? Magic right? So that’s why you can’t hear or see him and if you try he won’t come next time. And if you don’t believe strong enough he won’t come. I know a kid that once got a lump of coal; he is not very nice, so it must be true.
Do you think your parents would lie about such a thing?
Who eats all the cookies and drinks all the milk? Have you ever seen a present that says ‘To; Virginia, from; Santa Claus’, and you don’t recognize the writing? If you have a chimney, do your parents slide down it or does Santa? And He still manages to do it all in the same night; no one else could do that!
See, I told you there was a Santa!
Don’t listen to those kids, listen to your heart. Santa will always, always watch over you no matter what.
Make sure you put out milk and cookies for Santa Claus and carrots for his reindeer.
Never for get that he is real, and will always be a part of you forever. I told you the facts and gave you the reasons, now it’s up to you, I believe, do you? Make a good choice; live well, dream big!
Yes Virginia, there is ‘such things as Santa claws!’

Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

Sincerely,
Mr. Hulbert’s fifth grade students

“No Santa Claus? Thank God he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.” (Written by, Francis P. Church, in his original response to Virginia O’Hanlon, printed in the New York Sun, 1897)

The fifth graders have made a believer out of me. A gift that is priceless, and quite legendary. So proceeding with cheerful Christmas spirit; and a name that is a synonym for December 25th; merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!
Sincerely, Noelle Lorraine