Give Credit Where Credit Is Due

So, I’m sitting at my desk this morning, and, in all honesty, I’m coming up empty on something to write about. Then out of the blue, the phone rings. Although it’s early, before business hours, I pick up the phone.
“Is this Mr. Steve Cook?” the voice on the other end of the line asks.
“Yes,” I reply honestly.
“The Mr. Steve Cook?” he says.
I get that instant throbbing feeling one gets as his head starts to swell. “Yes, but you can call me ‘The,’” I say.
“My name is Lochru,” he says. “And, I’m hoping you can help me out.”
“Lochru? “ I question. “Sounds rather Druidish.”
“Bingo,” he says.
“Bingo?”
“Yeah, you’re right,” he answers. “I’m a Druid.”
“Sure you are,” I say with a certain degree of sarcasm.
“No, honestly,” he continues. “I’m Druid, actually half-Druid, half-Nordic…and half-Roman.” He laughs. “That’s an old Druid joke.”
“Do you take me for a fool?” I ask him. The Druids have been extinct for centuries.” I say. I’m not so sure that’s accurate, but I throw it out there.
“You’re basically correct,” he answers. “I was frozen for centuries at the bottom of the Falling Creek Reservoir, and only just recently thawed out.”
Now I know he’s lying. “The Falling Creek Reservoir hardly ever freezes,” I say.
“Thin blood, I guess,” he answers.
I decide to play along. “So where are you living now,” I ask.
“I’ve been renting a room from Rufus T. Matthews,” he says.
“You mean the Chesterfield guy…”
“Yeah, the guy who won’t sell his house to them coloreds,” he says, doing a pretty decent Rufus T. Matthews impersonation. “What antiquated thinking,” he adds, in his own voice. “But, all in all, the guy’s not so bad, just a little behind in the times.”
“You seem to know quite a bit about ‘the times’ for someone who’s been frozen for centuries,” I say, congratulating myself on the quick retort.
“I read,” he says.
“So, you said you wanted my help,” I say, changing the subject.
“Yeah, exactly,” he says. “I’ve been following this ongoing debate about whether to call it a Christmas tree or a holiday tree, and whether to say ‘Merry Christmas’ or ‘Happy Holidays.’”
“So?” I ask him.
“Well,” he continues, “I heard this woman on TV say since it’s Christian, it ought to be called a Christmas tree. I have to admit, that gets my goat.”
“What do you mean, Mr….Is it Lochru,” I ask.
“Yeah, but you can call me what everyone else does, or did…back in the day,” he says.
“And, what’s that?”
“Sonny,” he answers.
“Okay, Sonny,” I say. “What do you mean it gets your goat?”
“Everybody’s talking about all these holiday festivities, but nobody ever stops to thank us Druids,” he says. He does sound sincerely upset.
“Could you explain?” I ask him.
“Hey,” he continues. “A lot of these things started with us Druids, although I admit, we stole some of ‘em from the Romans.”
“What kind of things?” I ask him.
“You know, the holly, the mistletoe, that sort of stuff.”
“Really?” I ask somewhat incredulously.
“Oh yeah,” he says. “We were big on the nature stuff. We specialized in the worship of trees and bushes and the like.”
“Tell me more.” I’m getting interested in what Sonny has to say.
“We even had a Holly King,” he explains. “He wears red, lives just one night a year, and drives a team of eight deer.”
“You’re kidding,” I say. “That sounds like…”
“Don’t it though,” he interrupts.
“I’d like to know more,” I tell him.
“Well, you scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You know, let’s give credit where credit is due,” he says. “Give us the credit for all these traditions you folks stole from us, and, if, I run into any re-thawed fellow Druids, I’ll let them know that this idea of not selling your home to ‘them coloreds,' originated with you all.”
With that he hung up. I really don’t know whether to say anything about this or not.