Today is my sister Gayle's birthday. Which she always thought was a bummer. She almost never got a "birthday present" because everyone said "This is for Christmas and your birthday." Which us other kids thought was funny. Gayle, not so much. Of course she said "Thank you" and never complained, but we knew.

Now, the rest of the story.

This must have been about 1960 I guess. I sort of remember this, but I'll rely more on the story as my mother told it.

It was a couple of weeks before Christmas. My mother was about 8 3/4 months pregnant, when my father got the idea that he needed to clean the chimney to the oil stove we used for heat. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm sure he needed to, but over the years it has morphed into "he got the bright idea"...if you know what I mean.

Well, up on the roof he went with a burlap bag with a couple of bricks in it, tied to a rope. He dropped the bag down the chimney. As the bag hit the bottom, the door to the old oil stove flew open and black soot just ROLLED through the house. I know I remember that much. Even at my age, I knew not to hang around. I was out the door.

My mother screamed. My father came down and looked. There was oily black soot from one end of the house to the other. I don't know how many have ever seen oil soot, but it's almost weightless. You can't sweep it. You have to wipe it.

Here my mother was, 8 3/4 months pregnant. About two weeks before Christmas, and she didn't even have a vacuum cleaner. She said she stood in the middle of the floor, with tears streaming down her face. She looked up to heaven and cried, "Dear God! Just get me through Christmas!"

Gayle was born at 26 minutes after midnight. December 26th. God got her through Christmas.