Michelle's+Page



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= = = = =Michael Morrison = = =  My father, Michael Morrison has lived in Dixfield all of his life since he was born on May 29, 1960. He went to school at Dirigo in Dixfield and he has worked in Mexico at Morrison Motors since he was a kid going in to work after school. He worked along side his father, my grandfather until his father passed away on December 11, 2002. My great-grand-father started the family business and a Morrison has run Morrison Motors ever since.

My dad is a big role model to me in my life. He works hard all of the time, and supports me in all I do. He loves the community that he lives in, and it shows very much, because he decided to continue living in Dixfield and start a family. What my father likes the best about Dixfield is how his family is all connected through the community and the communities right around the Dixfield area. My Dad’s mother lives right across the road from his house now, in the house that my father grew up in.

My father's family is all connected by the communities in this area. His sister and nieces live in Carthage, Maine, only a few minutes away from our house, and his mother lives right across the road from our house in Dixfield. His aunt also lives in Dixfield. My father says, “Dixfield is the town that ties my family together.” 

 The Best Christmas for the Worst It was Christmas Eve and I was about ten at the time. Mama, papa, and I had just finished trimming the tree for Christmas. I loved this time of the year best of all. Presents, carols, and decorations. It was all just so wonderful. “That sure is a mighty fine tree I chopped down,” papa exclaimed as he let our dog, Bud inside from the snowstorm. Now Bud didn’t get inside the cabin much, but when he did, woooey, our fat cat, Bubba better watch out.

Just then Bud caught a glimpse of fat Bubba, and they were off. Round and round and round the Christmas tree they went. Bud crushed the Christmas presents as he ran.

“Oh no,” we all shouted as Bud chased fat Bubba up the Christmas tree. Ornament by ornament landed on the floor with a smash. Christmas bulb after Christmas bulb shattered as they smashed on the hard wooden floor of the cabin.

We looked to the top of the Christmas tree and there was our angel, slowly tumbling down to the floor. Mama and Papa dove for our angel, but they just ended up bumbin’ heads and laughin’ like the dickens. The angel broke her wings on impact. But as sad as it was, we all just couldn’t stop laughin’.  We looked to the top of the Christmas tree again, and instead of seeing the angel, we saw fat Bubba, and the tree swaying back and forth, back and forth. The tree came down with a crash. Fat Bubba scurried away, fast as his little legs would carry him, with his stomach bouncin’ cross the floor the whole way.

We all decided to cool down, so we went out into the snow storm with Bud, to do some Christmas caroling. “Look at all of the snow,” mama said as we came to the first house in town. We started singing “Deck the Halls,” but as the owner of the house opened his door, we started to sing louder. The old man was yelling something at us but we couldn’t hear him, so we came up to his front stoop singing all the way. The cranky old geezer shouted, “Shut Up,” and he slammed his door in our faces. The slamming of the door shook the house and an avalanche of snow landed upon us in a giant heap. After that we ended up trudging all the way back home, sad, silent, cold and wet.

By the time we got back to the cabin, depression had really started to sink in. We all rested on the porch and watched the snowstorm. One massive snowflake swiftly plummets to the ground after another. The first snow of the year, and on Christmas Eve.

“Tonight wasn’t so awful,” momma pronounced. “Christmas isn’t about the tree, or the decorations, or the caroling, or the presents,” she continued.

“Your right, mama,” papa declared. “I guess it isn’t.” “Ya,” I agreed. “I guess Christmas is just about being together with your family.” “And that’s what really matters,” we all agreed. 

