Book Lovers' Advent Calendar -- Day Six: The Feast of St. Nicholas


Today, even though it is the Feast of St. Nicholas, I cannot bring myself to eat a corned beef sandwich in honor of the pickled boys that St. Nicholas miraculously revived (sorry, Susan).  I did have a bagel for breakfast, so I am going to say that was in honor of the wheat that the good saint miraculously provided for his starving city -- although actually, I just really wanted a bagel.  And St. Nicholas did secretly throw gold coins into the stockings of three young girls in his town, thus saving them from prostitution and slavery.  So in honor of St. Nicholas I shall have gold foil-covered chocolate coins for lunch.  



I will wash down my chocolate coins with a Coke. Because I mean, come on!


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Here is a great book that has recently been re-published, Kersti and Saint Nicholas, by Hilda van Stockum.  Kersti is a naughty girl (though she is also brave and generous), and a good case could be made that she should get nothing but coal in her clogs on December 6 .  But St. Nicholas (Sinterklaas in Dutch), accompanied by his Moorish assistant, Pieterbaas, sees something more in Kersti -- and we do, too!



Here's the original cover, from when the book was first published in 1940.  When van Stockum was criticized for glorifying such a naughty girl in her story, here's her hilarious response:  "I claim no responsibility for [Kersti's] actions. I had a lovely, sweet, good little story for nice little children and Kersti just came and played havoc with it. She ruined the moral, shocked Pieterbaas, had a very bad influence on St. Nicholas and did not deserve a present at the end. I wash my hands of her."

Cause and effect


Once upon a time I had hostas in all of my flower beds.  They're the perfect plant for me to cultivate because the work involved goes like this:
ME:  Hmmm -- looks like the hostas are thriving all on their own for yet another summer.  Well.  Time for more coffee!



But for whatever reason, just in the past couple of years the deer have really taken a liking to the delicious, salad-like goodness of the hostas that are planted all over my yard -- along with any other delicious garden treats they can lay their delicate muzzles on.  This little lady has just bitten the tops off of all the remaining daylilies in my side bed (a palate cleanser), and now she is preparing to jump the neighbors' fence.  Their squash and zucchini blossoms look so tasty!  So --



-- this is what my hostas look like now.  Not quite the desired effect, is it?


 Looks like someone just discovered the (up until now) pristine plant at the base of the mailbox.  The blossoms are now history; any bets as to how much longer those leaves will last?

Snapshot: then and now



So some of you may remember that I mentioned once a long time ago that we had a hole in our carport ceiling from when the tall boy fell through it.  Here's how it happened:

The young tall boy (he was twelve) was fetching camping gear from the carport attic, in preparation for a Boy Scout adventure, when he stepped in the wrong place.  He crashed through the drywall ceiling of the carport, bounced off the top of the minivan, and landed flat on his back on the cement floor, right next to the trash dumpster.  Inside the house, the husband and I heard the crash, and seriously -- one of us said to the other, "Huh.  I wonder what that noise was."  Then we both picked up our coffee mugs and went back to whatever we were reading. 

And people, I swear that's exactly what happened.  When you think I'm exaggerating, or making something up for comic effect -- that is when I am telling the precise truth.  The stuff I make up cannot hold a candle to the shit that really happens to me.

Well -- after a spit take as we both realized that our beloved child was in the carport attic -- and the noise had come from the carport attic! -- we put down our coffee and strolled outside to see what all the racket was about.

Actually, I did make that part up.  Once we realized that the noise and our boy were probably connected, we did bolt out the door pretty quickly.  We're morons, but caring morons.

There was the tall boy, splayed like Wile E. Coyote after he chased the Roadrunner off a cliff.  The husband said, "Can you move, buddy?"  And the tall boy said, "Uh, no . . . ."

Insert all your own worst nightmares here.  They will be an accurate representation of the thoughts that ran through my head in slow motion.

While I was imagining my new life as the parent of a paralyzed child, and looking around for a discreet place to throw up, the husband responded to the horizontal tall boy:  "Listen.  Is it that you can't move, or that you're afraid to move?"  And the tall boy shot his father a pitying look.  "Dad.  I just got the First Aid merit badge.  You're not supposed to move a back injury."  And the world bounced back into place.

After determining that our boy could in fact move his fingers and toes, his arms and his legs, the husband got him up off the ground and dusted him off.  "What do you say we head on over to the hospital and see if you're brain-damaged?"

The tall boy laughed dismissively.  "No way, Dad!  We're going camping!"

And that was the end of that.

* * *

Well, so the hole in the carport ceiling was huge, and needed repairing in the worst way.  But somehow we never quite got around to it.  I have joked that we are lazy, and it is true -- but we're not that lazy.  In the ten years since the hole appeared, we have painted almost every room in our home, replaced flooring, renovated our kitchen, built a lovely fireplace mantel, gutted, designed, and restored one whole floor of our house, replaced a deck, and put up a split rail fence.  Some of these chores were accomplished by hiring professionals, but many of them were done by us, our own lazy selves.

And yet the hole in the carport ceiling lingered.  Why?  What was the weird dysfunctional thing going on that would not allow us to get rid of this unsightly and dangerous and embarrassing open wound?

I have no answer.



But it's gone now!  Our long national regional local pathetic nightmare is over!

And somebody needs to slap me, because I did actually say out loud to the husband, "You know, if we wait just a little longer, we can have a tenth anniversary party for the hole . . . "

Snapshot: Lazy Easter Bunny


The Easter Bunny is usually exhausted by the time he makes it to our house. He hides the eggs only in the most ceremonial sense of the word. It's true that he does sneak inside the house -- he knows that my bed-loving children would never bother to go outside first thing in the morning to look for eggs and risk getting the fuzzy socks wet. But the eggs are usually left in pretty blatant spots.

I sometimes imagine the Easter Bunny standing in my living room, smoking a cigarette and swaying with exhaustion (he drank too much Scotch at that party after the Easter Vigil Mass), flinging hard-boiled eggs without looking to see where they land.  Good thing, too -- because the teenaged urchins are way more interested in the candy he also leaves behind -- and in getting themselves wrapped around a mug of coffee.