A Christmas Gift Sun, 14 Jun 2026 20:36:06 -0400 https://achristmasgift.buzzsprout.com en-us © 2026 A Christmas Gift yes 394e73c6-c63c-5d35-b7d1-541725908a13 Ray J. Whittier episodic false Inspired by a humanitarian act witnessed by Ray J. Whittier, "A Christmas Gift" became the basis of and the title poem for his first self-published book. 

"A Christmas Gift" is a collection of holiday poems from the lived life, heart, mind, and eyes of Lynn Poet Laureate, Ray J. Whittier. These poems capture classic snowy December New England coastal tales and the subtle and simple moments all year round that embody the spirit of Christmas. 

These recordings were found and remastered after Ray's passing in June 2024. They capture just a few of the hundreds of poems found in the pages of his self-published book, "A Christmas Gift". 

May his words and the sound of his voice bring joy and comfort to the countless friends and loved ones who knew him best. And if you're a stranger listening on a cold, December night nestled by your fire amongst the glow of twinkling lights, we hope you find a friend in them, too. 

Merry Christmas. 

Dedicated to Shirley Whittier, wife and loving mother of 64 years, and to Raymond and his wife Susan of Stratham, NH, Daniel and his wife Mary Ellen of Stratham, NH, and Mark and his wife Maria of Beverly; his daughters Denise Benevento and her husband Vincent of Stratham, NH, Mary Jean Raimo and her husband Michael of Beverly, Paula Funk and her husband Norman of Chaplin, CT, and Christine Moganelli and her husband Michael of Lynn; his brother John and his wife Karen of Fredericksburg, VA, his sister Judith McBriarty and her late husband John of Milford, NH; his cousins John Caldwell and his wife Clara of Ocean Ridge, FL and Patricia Chadbourne of Lynn; his friend Teddy; and his 20 grandchildren and 16 great-grandchildren.

Created by a loving grandson, who misses his "Grampy Ted". 

]]> Buzzsprout (https://www.buzzsprout.com) Ray J. Whittier https://storage.buzzsprout.com/hvedvlhtqf65lmdtp6w9erxbo7ch?.jpg A Christmas Gift Ray J. Whittier Bryan Funk A Poet's Introduction A Poet's Introduction Ray J. Whittier Buzzsprout-16313694 Sun, 22 Dec 2024 23:00:00 -0500 26 1 1 full false Changes Changes Thanksgiving napkins were put away. The holders on the table stayed. Soon the silver fingers were seen holding folds of red and green. The turkey made of paper brown from the front door was taken down. 

Its hanging hook left to hold. Salutations from verses old. A cornucopia the table graced. Now holly candles take its place. Surrounded by snowflake mats, replacing those with pilgrim hats. Pie plates now empty and still. Again the coming days would fill.  And dishes stored with edges blue made way for those of brighter hue. 

Mantle memories aside they lay, making room for deer and sleigh. And shifting over the old I van made a spot where the tree would stand.  And old attic boxes taken down, Christmases of the past were found. And from the backyard storage shed grew a front porch manger bed. November blew the odd trees bare.

But soon December white they'd wear, and in a season growing cold, it's Christmas, and a never changing story told. 

]]> Thanksgiving napkins were put away. The holders on the table stayed. Soon the silver fingers were seen holding folds of red and green. The turkey made of paper brown from the front door was taken down. 

Its hanging hook left to hold. Salutations from verses old. A cornucopia the table graced. Now holly candles take its place. Surrounded by snowflake mats, replacing those with pilgrim hats. Pie plates now empty and still. Again the coming days would fill.  And dishes stored with edges blue made way for those of brighter hue. 

Mantle memories aside they lay, making room for deer and sleigh. And shifting over the old I van made a spot where the tree would stand.  And old attic boxes taken down, Christmases of the past were found. And from the backyard storage shed grew a front porch manger bed. November blew the odd trees bare.

But soon December white they'd wear, and in a season growing cold, it's Christmas, and a never changing story told. 

]]> Ray J. Whittier Buzzsprout-16313776 Sun, 22 Dec 2024 21:00:00 -0500 114 1 2 full false The Wish The Wish A short distance from my beach house door,  
the surf seized a bottle and tossed it on the shore.  
Old Dog, Ziggy, and I on our daily walk, hearing the morning talk,  
I saw the sunlit bottle with a rolled up note inside, 
and wondered what was sent on the early morning tide.  

I picked up the bottle sunken in the sand,  
and read its cryptic note trembling in my hand. 

Whoever finds this bottle, one wish be granted thee.  

I thought about the wish, and how good my life had been,  
and said to myself, what more could a granted wish lend?  
So I rolled up the note  and placed it back inside,  
and threw the bottle back to the outgoing tide.

]]> A short distance from my beach house door,  
the surf seized a bottle and tossed it on the shore.  
Old Dog, Ziggy, and I on our daily walk, hearing the morning talk,  
I saw the sunlit bottle with a rolled up note inside, 
and wondered what was sent on the early morning tide.  

I picked up the bottle sunken in the sand,  
and read its cryptic note trembling in my hand. 

Whoever finds this bottle, one wish be granted thee.  

I thought about the wish, and how good my life had been,  
and said to myself, what more could a granted wish lend?  
So I rolled up the note  and placed it back inside,  
and threw the bottle back to the outgoing tide.

]]> Ray J. Whittier Buzzsprout-16313806 Sun, 22 Dec 2024 20:00:00 -0500 89 1 3 full false The Gift The Gift  Now let me tell you in this season of cheer, 
of gifts received throughout the year.  
The breeze that turned my whirligig's wings,  
carried the fragrance of lilacs in spring.  
A tall cluster of tulips, yellow and red,  
stout sentinels on their mounded bed.  
And the quiet evening when I heard the murmuring note of a cooing bird,  
and saw before the light was gone the singer of that evening song. 

The red roses in June that came and set my wooded trellis aflame,  
that caught and widened the eyes of friends and neighbors passing by.  
The sea spray that cooled my heated brow, blown over the rail of a plunging bow. 

And the orange sunrise peeking over the bay,
that came up and took my breath away.  
A dark night with stars far as I could see,  
I made a wish on one winking back at me.
For a starlight shining through time and space 
to fall upon my loved one's face. 

The snow and smell of burning wood that drifted down to where I stood,  
beside the snow capped lantern light, breathing in the beauty of a winter night.  Of all gifts given large and small, the one that's greatest of them all 
was born in a stable neath a star bright  
years ago on that first Christmas night. 

]]>  Now let me tell you in this season of cheer, 
of gifts received throughout the year.  
The breeze that turned my whirligig's wings,  
carried the fragrance of lilacs in spring.  
A tall cluster of tulips, yellow and red,  
stout sentinels on their mounded bed.  
And the quiet evening when I heard the murmuring note of a cooing bird,  
and saw before the light was gone the singer of that evening song. 

The red roses in June that came and set my wooded trellis aflame,  
that caught and widened the eyes of friends and neighbors passing by.  
The sea spray that cooled my heated brow, blown over the rail of a plunging bow. 

And the orange sunrise peeking over the bay,
that came up and took my breath away.  
A dark night with stars far as I could see,  
I made a wish on one winking back at me.
For a starlight shining through time and space 
to fall upon my loved one's face. 

The snow and smell of burning wood that drifted down to where I stood,  
beside the snow capped lantern light, breathing in the beauty of a winter night.  Of all gifts given large and small, the one that's greatest of them all 
was born in a stable neath a star bright  
years ago on that first Christmas night. 

]]> Ray J. Whittier Buzzsprout-16313852 Sun, 22 Dec 2024 19:00:00 -0500 127 1 4 full false A Gift Of Fruitcake A Gift Of Fruitcake From the warm kitchen of my friend B,  
A gift of fruitcake was given to me.  
Now a fruitcake buyer I've never been,  
A fruitcake taster, yes, now and then.  
Beneath its rum soaked cover 
The cake I sought 
Drew a slice and thought,  
What makes this the best of all the rest 
Is that special ingredient, 
Thoughtfulness.

]]> From the warm kitchen of my friend B,  
A gift of fruitcake was given to me.  
Now a fruitcake buyer I've never been,  
A fruitcake taster, yes, now and then.  
Beneath its rum soaked cover 
The cake I sought 
Drew a slice and thought,  
What makes this the best of all the rest 
Is that special ingredient, 
Thoughtfulness.

]]> Ray J. Whittier Buzzsprout-16313873 Sun, 22 Dec 2024 18:00:00 -0500 43 1 5 full false Christmastime Christmastime Has it been so very long ago?  
In your lifetime and mine,  
we've forgotten what it was like to be a child at Christmastime.  

Remember how our small world changed as it started turning red and green?  
And there were boxes and bags not supposed to be seen.  
Things came out we remembered seeing the same time a year before. 
Holly trays and a brown acorn wreath that Dad hung up on our front door.  

Smells grew sweeter, doorways tingled, windows with spray can ice.  
And a lot seemed to depend on If we were naughty or nice.  
And Christmas sounded different too. 
And in the air we'd hear Santa songs, bells, and choirs we hadn't heard all year. 

There was a straw covered stable with animals and figures growing worn 
who would wait with us for a babe to be born.  
Night there were many shining lights just as far as we could see.  
And in the front room corner stood a brightly covered tree.  

At last, Christmas Eve and snow came. 
With Santa's lunch made and stockings hung, 
we hurried off to bed 
to find the hottest night to sleep had come. 

If we listened very carefully, we could just begin to hear 
the sound of tiny neck bells on Santa's eight reined ear.  
Though tucked in bed, 
we were sure we could see 
his fast moving sleigh
round the old chestnut tree.

We drifted off to dreamy sleep, while wondering if our home he'd find.  
It's good to recall what it was like 
to be a child 
at Christmas time.

]]> Has it been so very long ago?  
In your lifetime and mine,  
we've forgotten what it was like to be a child at Christmastime.  

Remember how our small world changed as it started turning red and green?  
And there were boxes and bags not supposed to be seen.  
Things came out we remembered seeing the same time a year before. 
Holly trays and a brown acorn wreath that Dad hung up on our front door.  

Smells grew sweeter, doorways tingled, windows with spray can ice.  
And a lot seemed to depend on If we were naughty or nice.  
And Christmas sounded different too. 
And in the air we'd hear Santa songs, bells, and choirs we hadn't heard all year. 

There was a straw covered stable with animals and figures growing worn 
who would wait with us for a babe to be born.  
Night there were many shining lights just as far as we could see.  
And in the front room corner stood a brightly covered tree.  

At last, Christmas Eve and snow came. 
With Santa's lunch made and stockings hung, 
we hurried off to bed 
to find the hottest night to sleep had come. 

If we listened very carefully, we could just begin to hear 
the sound of tiny neck bells on Santa's eight reined ear.  
Though tucked in bed, 
we were sure we could see 
his fast moving sleigh
round the old chestnut tree.

We drifted off to dreamy sleep, while wondering if our home he'd find.  
It's good to recall what it was like 
to be a child 
at Christmas time.

]]> Ray J. Whittier Buzzsprout-16313903 Sun, 22 Dec 2024 17:00:00 -0500 159 full false Isn't That Odd Isn't That Odd Perhaps you could explain to me 
a phenomenon I often see. 
When driving through a city or town 
where road crosses and jaywalkers abound.

This is the question I ask  
When you stop your car to let them pass  
Why do the young with bodies strong and sneaked feet 
take so long to cross the street?  
And haven't the strength the good God gave 
to raise a hand in a thank you wave? 

But the old, who are bent and gray, 
rustle and run to get out of your way,  
and raise a thank you cane, or give you a nod.  

Now isn't that odd? 
   

]]> Perhaps you could explain to me 
a phenomenon I often see. 
When driving through a city or town 
where road crosses and jaywalkers abound.

This is the question I ask  
When you stop your car to let them pass  
Why do the young with bodies strong and sneaked feet 
take so long to cross the street?  
And haven't the strength the good God gave 
to raise a hand in a thank you wave? 

But the old, who are bent and gray, 
rustle and run to get out of your way,  
and raise a thank you cane, or give you a nod.  

Now isn't that odd? 
   

]]> Ray J. Whittier Buzzsprout-16314007 Sun, 22 Dec 2024 16:00:00 -0500 64 1 8 full false Reflections Reflections You can sit by a fire on a cold winter night,  
lie in the sun when the weather's right.  
You can warm your hands where the wood stove glows,  
adorn a cozy coat when the west wind blows.  

But no greater warmth will you come to know 
than that which comes from watching your little child grow.  
What you cannot do,  although at times you try,  
is to keep those young years 
from passing on by.   

]]> You can sit by a fire on a cold winter night,  
lie in the sun when the weather's right.  
You can warm your hands where the wood stove glows,  
adorn a cozy coat when the west wind blows.  

But no greater warmth will you come to know 
than that which comes from watching your little child grow.  
What you cannot do,  although at times you try,  
is to keep those young years 
from passing on by.   

]]> Ray J. Whittier Buzzsprout-16313989 Sun, 22 Dec 2024 16:00:00 -0500 55 1 7 full false A Christmas Ring A Christmas Ring It was a cold Christmas Eve,  and I was very young.  
The Grange Hall tree was lit, and old time carols were sung.  
It was there that I saw Jenny in the glow of candlelight,  
pouring hot cider for the folks gathered there that night.  

Oh, we fell in love and dreamed what the future might bring. 
Our wedding day, tiny tots, a farm with fruitful plantings in spring.  
We were poor country folk with days hard and long working the fields,  
praying for a good crop the fall harvest would yield.  
At last our wedding day arrived. 
A wonderful day,  for one thing. 
 I had just enough for the parson's fee, 
but for my Jenny, no wedding ring. 

The years passed by, three boys and a girl she'd bear,  
a loving mother and wife. Yet, for my loving Jenny, still no ring to wear.  
As hot as it was, I struggled to save. I worked extra on old Jed's farm.  
I helped at the county store. and repaired my neighbor's barn.  
Our holidays were simple, but this coming Christmas would bring, 
along with thoughts of a manger birth, 
my loving Jenny's wedding ring. 

 

]]> It was a cold Christmas Eve,  and I was very young.  
The Grange Hall tree was lit, and old time carols were sung.  
It was there that I saw Jenny in the glow of candlelight,  
pouring hot cider for the folks gathered there that night.  

Oh, we fell in love and dreamed what the future might bring. 
Our wedding day, tiny tots, a farm with fruitful plantings in spring.  
We were poor country folk with days hard and long working the fields,  
praying for a good crop the fall harvest would yield.  
At last our wedding day arrived. 
A wonderful day,  for one thing. 
 I had just enough for the parson's fee, 
but for my Jenny, no wedding ring. 

The years passed by, three boys and a girl she'd bear,  
a loving mother and wife. Yet, for my loving Jenny, still no ring to wear.  
As hot as it was, I struggled to save. I worked extra on old Jed's farm.  
I helped at the county store. and repaired my neighbor's barn.  
Our holidays were simple, but this coming Christmas would bring, 
along with thoughts of a manger birth, 
my loving Jenny's wedding ring. 

 

]]> Ray J. Whittier Buzzsprout-16314015 Sun, 22 Dec 2024 15:00:00 -0500 122 1 9 full false The Fire's Getting Low The Fire's Getting Low Ray J. Whittier Buzzsprout-16313984 Sun, 22 Dec 2024 14:00:00 -0500 10 1 10 full false A Christmas Gift A Christmas Gift It was Christmas Eve with the sun going down 
on a snow covered street 
in a small coastal town.  

Most town folk had gone to family and home 
Just a few souls remained, where many had roamed. 
Shop lights were shut off, the late shoppers done,  
And off in the distance, Christmas carols were sung.  

The shawled old woman looked bent and gray, 
As she slowly stepped along her way. 
This special winter's eve held little for her, 
Having outlived friends and those she held dear,  

A north wind blew the snow, still in the air, 
And each step she took was with caution and care.  
The day grew darker with each passing minute, 
With holiday lights growing brighter within it.  
And as she neared the corner along the icy walk, 
A street person stopped by her side to talk. 

He had begged for many on that December day. 
And was ready to leave when she came his way.  
The people gave easier at Christmas, they say.  
So he told his tale of woe in his usual way.  
And then finishing his plea, what on luck was about, 
he leaned toward her closer and put his hand out.  
From empty pockets, she could not take the coin 
he hoped his tale would make. 

So she gave him a smile, while her head she shook.  
And seeing a plight back his hand he took.  
Wet snow was piling and he wished her no harm.  
With his waist bending slightly, he gave her his arm. 
They crossed the snowy road his help he gave,  
and then they parted with a nod and a wave.  

Thank you, son. Merry Christmas to you. 

He looked back. Merry Christmas to you, too.  

She had nothing to give but an aged, wounded smile.  
He had nothing to give but his arm for a while.  
Christmas reminds us, as long as we live,  
blessed with plenty of naught,  
we always have 
something to give.
 

]]> It was Christmas Eve with the sun going down 
on a snow covered street 
in a small coastal town.  

Most town folk had gone to family and home 
Just a few souls remained, where many had roamed. 
Shop lights were shut off, the late shoppers done,  
And off in the distance, Christmas carols were sung.  

The shawled old woman looked bent and gray, 
As she slowly stepped along her way. 
This special winter's eve held little for her, 
Having outlived friends and those she held dear,  

A north wind blew the snow, still in the air, 
And each step she took was with caution and care.  
The day grew darker with each passing minute, 
With holiday lights growing brighter within it.  
And as she neared the corner along the icy walk, 
A street person stopped by her side to talk. 

He had begged for many on that December day. 
And was ready to leave when she came his way.  
The people gave easier at Christmas, they say.  
So he told his tale of woe in his usual way.  
And then finishing his plea, what on luck was about, 
he leaned toward her closer and put his hand out.  
From empty pockets, she could not take the coin 
he hoped his tale would make. 

So she gave him a smile, while her head she shook.  
And seeing a plight back his hand he took.  
Wet snow was piling and he wished her no harm.  
With his waist bending slightly, he gave her his arm. 
They crossed the snowy road his help he gave,  
and then they parted with a nod and a wave.  

Thank you, son. Merry Christmas to you. 

He looked back. Merry Christmas to you, too.  

She had nothing to give but an aged, wounded smile.  
He had nothing to give but his arm for a while.  
Christmas reminds us, as long as we live,  
blessed with plenty of naught,  
we always have 
something to give.
 

]]> Ray J. Whittier Buzzsprout-16313976 Sun, 22 Dec 2024 13:00:00 -0500 181 1 11 full false Goodnight Goodnight Ray J. Whittier Buzzsprout-16314022 Sun, 22 Dec 2024 12:00:00 -0500 17 1 12 full false Epilogue - The Missing Christmas Poem Epilogue - The Missing Christmas Poem Christmas 2024 marks the first year that our family won't receive the annual Christmas poem in the mail written by Grampy Ted. As the year turned from summer to fall, in the midst of a move, we dusted off some old boxes and found recordings left by my grandfather. 

To keep an decades old Christmas tradition alive, we decided to gift his poems back to our family and the world. This final poem is my own story of finding these cherished recordings, and for the never ending wait I'll endure through these winter days for the cherished annual Christmas poem. 

Thanks for listening. 

- Bryan, A Grandson 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Each day the postman walks his route,
With parcels and cards that bring joy about.
But I linger, longing for the one I miss,
A token of love, a holiday bliss.

A white envelope marked with holly red,
"A Christmas Poem" from the words he said.
Inside, a verse so carefully penned,
A tradition, now lost, that had no end.

Year by year, his poems would show,
A glimpse of the season, a heartfelt glow.
A message of hope, of joy, of cheer,
His words of Christmas each passing year.

Now as I sift through the attic's past,
I find a treasure meant to last.
Old recordings, his voice so near,
Echoing stories I hold so dear.

Tales of wonder, of simpler ways,
Of festive nights and snowy days.
Though this year his card won't come, his words remain,
A gift of his spirit, a sweet refrain.

This year I share what he left behind,
His voice, his heart, his Christmas mind.
Yet still, I wait, for my heart to uplift,
For the missing Christmas poem, the greatest gift.

]]> Christmas 2024 marks the first year that our family won't receive the annual Christmas poem in the mail written by Grampy Ted. As the year turned from summer to fall, in the midst of a move, we dusted off some old boxes and found recordings left by my grandfather. 

To keep an decades old Christmas tradition alive, we decided to gift his poems back to our family and the world. This final poem is my own story of finding these cherished recordings, and for the never ending wait I'll endure through these winter days for the cherished annual Christmas poem. 

Thanks for listening. 

- Bryan, A Grandson 

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Each day the postman walks his route,
With parcels and cards that bring joy about.
But I linger, longing for the one I miss,
A token of love, a holiday bliss.

A white envelope marked with holly red,
"A Christmas Poem" from the words he said.
Inside, a verse so carefully penned,
A tradition, now lost, that had no end.

Year by year, his poems would show,
A glimpse of the season, a heartfelt glow.
A message of hope, of joy, of cheer,
His words of Christmas each passing year.

Now as I sift through the attic's past,
I find a treasure meant to last.
Old recordings, his voice so near,
Echoing stories I hold so dear.

Tales of wonder, of simpler ways,
Of festive nights and snowy days.
Though this year his card won't come, his words remain,
A gift of his spirit, a sweet refrain.

This year I share what he left behind,
His voice, his heart, his Christmas mind.
Yet still, I wait, for my heart to uplift,
For the missing Christmas poem, the greatest gift.

]]> Ray J. Whittier Buzzsprout-16333600 Fri, 20 Dec 2024 23:00:00 -0500 121 full false