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By Jim Poling Sr. My most cherished Christmas moment comes when I sit quietly and recall the Christmas Eve when I heard an angel sing.
Fresh-fallen snow protested beneath my gumboots breaking trail down the unploughed lane as I walked home that Christmas Eve. Dry, sharp squeaks, not unlike the cries of cheap chalk scrapped against too clean a blackboard.
Skuur-eek, skuur-eek.
The boots ignored the sounds. They moved on, ribbed rubber bottoms and laced high leather tops creating a meandering wake in the ankle-deep snow.
From each side of the lane, drifted snow leaned tiredly against the back- sides of the bungalows, dropped there by an impatient blizzard that just
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