It's the feast of Saint Nick!

Today is the feast of Saint Nicholas of Myra, according to Wikipedia "the patron saint of sailors, merchants, archers, repentant thieves, prostitutes, children, brewers, pawnbrokers, unmarried people, and students in various cities and countries around Europe." He is also reputed to be the model for the legend of Santa Claus. It's unclear from the phrasing if the children, brewers, pawnbrokers, unmarried people, and students needed to be repentant for Nicholas to be their patron saint.

Santa, yule trees, stars, snow flake and holly cookies

Photo by J. Harrington

Today is also the birthday of our very own Daughter Person who may, or may not, aspire to sainthood. That partly depends on whether she takes after her mother or her father. We'll be celebrating her birthday later today and we'll wait until the 25th of the month to honor Saint Nick. Do you remember the Beach Boys classic Christmas song Little Saint Nick? We just can't make Christmas, Saint Nick and southern California come together in our imagination, probably because we've spent almost all our life in snow country. The odds that we'll have a white Christmas are about 75% around the Twin Cities and 90% to 100% Up North. At least that's what Minnesota Public Radio tells us. Snow lovers may hate us but we'd be happy with a couple of inches Christmas week and then be done with it, unless we need the snow for insulation to keep the septic system or pipes or something from freezing.

We're pleased to report that our own tree is now decorated and the rest of the house looks quite Christmasy. We've been busy replacing dead batteries in some of the LED fairy light strings and window candles and had sufficient supplies on hand that no emergency trip to a battery store was needed. We're getting into the spirit of the season and hope each of you remains safe, healthy and reasonably happy for at least the remainder of the year.

Christmas Mail

By Ted Kooser

Cards in each mailbox, 

angel, manger, star and lamb, 

as the rural carrier, 

driving the snowy roads, 

hears from her bundles 

the plaintive bleating of sheep, 

the shuffle of sandals, 

the clopping of camels. 

At stop after stop, 

she opens the little tin door 

and places deep in the shadows 

the shepherds and wise men, 

the donkeys lank and weary, 

the cow who chews and muses. 

And from her Styrofoam cup, 

white as a star and perched 

on the dashboard, leading her 

ever into the distance, 

there is a hint of hazelnut, 

and then a touch of myrrh.

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