Neil Alexander Lithgow Robson

One hundred years ago. October 27, 1918. My grandfather, Neil Alexander Lithgow Robson, became the latest statistic in the small town of Fenelon Falls, Ontario. He was 27 years old with a wife and three small children when the H1N1 virus, known as the “Spanish Flu,” swept across North America.

Over 20 million people died in that pandemic, including 30,000 to 50,000 Canadians. Roughly half the population of Fenelon Falls was wiped out in just a few weeks. It ravaged my family there as it was ravaging — and in some cases completely destroying — families around the world.

The flu did not and does not discriminate. It killed off young and old, infirm and healthy, weak and strong, man and woman, rich and poor. It didn’t care about race, religion, or political affiliation. It just killed.

But we moved forward. Scientific research led to vaccines that did a better and better job of protecting us not just from influenza, but a whole host of other diseases. There are always people afraid of the unknown, afraid of change, and so vaccines weren’t universally accepted. They were widespread enough to completely eliminate some diseases from the U.S. and dramatically reduce others.

Then, in February of 1998, a doctor named Andrew Wakefield, along with a dozen co-authors, published a paper in the Lancet, a highly-respected British medical journal, which made a connection between MMR vaccines and autism. People panicked and began withholding the vaccine from their children, and Wakefield went on a speaking tour.

When former Playboy model Jenny McCarthy’s son was diagnosed with autism, she became the most prominent member of the anti-vax movement in the U.S. As vaccination rates plummeted, thousands of people came down with mumps and measles.

It later came out that Wakefield had been paid £435,643 (plus expenses) to fabricate his results by a lawyer suing a company that produced the vaccine. Ten of his co-authors issued a retraction. The Lancet retracted the paper and the editor-in-chief called the paper “utterly false.” Wakefield was barred from practicing medicine in the U.K. after the General Medical Council ruled that over 30 charges, including multiple counts of dishonesty and abuse of developmentally delayed children, had been proven.

Even though Wakefield was shown to be a fraud, he isn’t licensed to practice medicine in the U.S., and dozens of studies around the world involving hundreds of thousands of children (Wakefield’s paper involved 12 children) have found no connection between vaccines and autism, he continues his crusade. Jenny McCarthy and others like her support him.

And people die needlessly.

My grandfather would be appalled.

I’ve walked through the graveyard in Fenelon Falls, looking at rows of headstones from people who died in that pandemic, and hoping that we as a society will get smart enough to prevent it from happening again.

My wife and I have a Christmas tradition. Every year for Christmas Eve we go down to the local radio station (FM99.3 the Mountain) and record Night Before Christmas. We started out doing Clement C. Moore’s original A Visit from St. Nicholas, and then switched things up with the Rocky Mountain Night Before Christmas and Cowboy Night Before Christmas.

This year, we decided to try something different. We love the town where we live, and Kathy & I are both heavily involved in Red Lodge. She works on the Christmas Stroll every year and I’m the announcer for the big 4th of July parade. We’ve served on volunteer boards all over town, from the Chamber of Commerce and Downtown Merchants & Lodging Association to the Yellowstone Wildlife Sanctuary and the Festival of Nations.

So I wrote a Red Lodge version of the Clement Moore’s original this year, and Kathy did a little video as I read it on the air. We hope you enjoy it!

A Red Lodge Night Before Christmas

©2017 Gary Robson

‘Twas the night before Christmas in Red Lodge, Montana
The whole town was anxiously waiting for Santa;
There were cookies laid out with some milk in a cup,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would show up;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds;
While visions of snowboards and skis filled their heads;
My wife in her jammies all festive and red,
Had turned off the Xbox and joined me in bed.

And then a commotion arose in the street;
“A coyote!” I cried as I leaped to my feet.
Away to the window I ran with my gun,
And my wife grabbed hers too, since she won’t be outdone.

The noise had awakened the huge turkey flock,
Asleep in the tree at the end of the block,
But the thing that had caused me that night to arouse,
Was a beat up old sleigh pulled by eight Angus cows,

With a chubby old driver in Carhartts and jeans,
Grabbing his Stetson and urging his team.
Sauntering slowly his cattle they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

“Now, Stevie-Ray, Burger and Daisy and T-Bone!
On, Clarabelle, Bessie, on Brindle and Joan!
Drag this sleigh right away to the roof of the house,
Or we’ll have you for dinner with taters and grouse!”

They grunted and puffed and they snorted and moo’ed.
They dragged that old sleigh so they wouldn’t be food.
And up to the rooftop they pulled old St. Nick,
But nobody’s saying those cattle were quick.

And then moments later, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each big ol’ hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed in a duster all sooty and black,
Three layers of shirts kept him warm front and back;
He carried a bag stuffed with candy and toys,
And he looked like he’d had a few drinks with the boys.

His cheeks were all red from a long day of fun,
And his rodeo belt buckle shone like the sun.
Good roping and riding had won him that prize,
And it twinkled darned near as bright as his eyes.

That man had a smile that would set you at ease,
On that cold winter night it was like a warm breeze.
He laughed long and deep and I’ll never forget
How I saw in that moment that he was no threat.

He smiled and he said that those toys weighed a ton,
He laid down his sack and I laid down my gun.
I gave him a Helio straight from the fridge,
He winked and he said, “Well, I’ll just have a smidge.”

He drank down his beer and he dropped to one knee,
Putting our presents all under the tree.
He rose to his feet and his knees he unbent,
And giving a wink, up the chimney he went.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his cows gave a yell,
And away they all flew with a bovine “Noel.”
And I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight—
“Merry Christmas to Red Lodge; to all a good night!”