A Christmas Story

photo courtesy of Spencer Greet

There are many Christmas stories in the naked city. This is one of them.

Well, there is nothing like two decades-old cultural references to reconfirm one's irrelevance (and advancing age). But no matter.

This story has nothing to do with the Jean Shepherd movie from 1983. It is more a story of a Christmas that was "belated" to use Spencer's expression.

Let's go back in time to Christmas Eve, shall we?

It had, of course, already been a busy week here at Lake Overcommitment (pop goes another cultural reference.) The previous five days had been filled events both secular and ecumenical, not to mention musical, what with the office Christmas party on Friday; a lovely Sunday morning Love Feast service at Lititz Moravian Church; an Episcopalian Lessons and Carols Evensong on Sunday afternoon sung by Norm and Spence in Lebanon, PA; a shopping trip to New York City on Tuesday, and a flurry of last-minute wrapping, cleaning, candy-making and shopping wedged in wherever possible.

So, we arrive at Wednesday, Christmas Eve, when Norm and I were scheduled to sing Christmas Eve service at our church, the Church of the Loving Shepherd (Jess and Allie sang and rang at Calvary Lutheran). We managed to get to the service where Spencer served as crucifer, sang a lovely selection of carols, and headed back home feeling pretty good about ourselves, with a bag of homemade cookies pressed on Spencer by a kind churchgoer and fellow singer.

Baked goods of all kinds are problematical for Spence, given his egg and peanut allergies. My attention was diverted when the cookies showed up, and I was not party to the discussion about the contents of the cookies (standard disclaimer language when something goes wrong). So, I took Spencer's and Norm's word that the cookies contained no allergens. Spencer proceeded to eat the cookies in the car, sharing a few with his parents along the way.

Not long afterward, Spence began feeling some symptoms that are, sadly, all to familiar to us. A metallic taste in his mouth, a lot of gas, a predictable progression that generally leads to, in this case, literally tossing his cookies.

The usual breast beating, accusations, acrimony and recrimination ensued, as we all played the "Who is responsible for this terrible breach of parental vigilance" game (one of my personal favorites.) Eventually, after an hour of anxious waiting during which Spence gave his girlfriend a play-by-play over the phone ("Wait, I think I am going to throw up. Call you back.") the cookies had indeed been tossed, and we thought the episode had cost us no more than a pleasant Christmas Eve.

We were wrong.

Spence continued to have some stomach pain which administrations of Benadryl did not alleviate. He was up a few times during the night, taking Tums. We still thought it was just the aftereffects of the cookies.

Until Norm awoke at 4:30 on Christmas morning violently ill.

At that point we realized that we were dealing with something other than allergies, since Norm does not share that issue with Spence.

Christmas morning came, and while Spence had bounced back, Norm continued to be bedridden. We called and cancelled our Christmas day dinner plans with my family, and decided to postpone our own Christmas until Norm could participate.

The day passed oddly, Christmas on hold, and by the next morning Norm felt well enough to at least get out of bed. We realized, however, that the house party for Norm's family planned for the next day (Saturday) would have to wait, since we did not know whether the virus Norm had would spread to other people (like, for example, me.) So, regretfully, we cancelled that party as well.

We decided to treat the 25th as if it had not happened, and declared the 26th to be Christmas Day (actually Boxing Day in the UK, so somewhat appropriate, given Norm's British heritage.)

Gifts were exchanged, the traditional pancake brunch was served, and with Vince Guaraldi's Charlie Brown Christmas music, cider, and eggnog on hand we celebrated quite nicely en famille.

By Sunday Norm was back to his old self, more or less, albeit shy a few pounds.

And even though the weather was actually pretty good, I will close with a favorite quote from Marmion, Canto the Sixth, by Sir Walter Scott:

"Heap on more wood! The wind is chill
But let it whistle as it will.
We'll keep our Christmas merry still."

Those Cwazy Squirrels

Now that my TMB has been resolved, I am back on the job, with hopes that my flow of verbiage can continue without further interruption.

Yesterday, I saw a provocative item on CNN about the disappearance of acorns. Now, if you are a seeker of useless yet interesting bits of effluvia such as myself, how could you pass up an article entitled "Scientists baffled by mysterious acorn shortage"?


To summarize the article, it has been observed in various pockets of the East Coast that there are not as many annoyingly crunchy oak reproductive devices littering the ground as there usually are. The consensus seemed to be that it is too soon to become concerned about an oakless future. There were lots and lots of acorns last year, and the trees were just exhausted. Then, the article went on to discuss the plight of squirrels with no acorns to eat.

One would think that this would be a welcome problem, especially since it means that there is less food for the squirrels, which I think of as rats with bushy tails, or pigeons with fur. You may choose your own annoying animal simile.


Sorry, but however cute Disney-rendered squirrels may be, to me they are just a form of rodentia. They can chew into homes and make a terrible mess. They do irrational things like waiting on the side of the road until your car is almost upon them, then they dash frantically out into the middle of the road, causing you to swerve to avoid them.


You know that they are doing this on purpose just to mess with your head.

I realize that the disappearance of squirrels might lead to one of those circle-of-life issues, wherein something else that preys on them would have trouble surviving, like red-tailed hawks or foxes or owls. But there would still be other tiny vermin for these vastly more interesting creatures to eat, like mice and chipmunks.

On the other hand, perhaps squirrels can be useful creatures. My grandmother, an intrepid gastronome, served us up some squirrel at some point in my childhood. They do make pretty good eating, as I recall, and taste sort of like...chicken.

You might perhaps wonder from whence my antipathy to the chubby-cheeked chatterers arises.

Well, I'll tell you.

Years ago, I had an apartment on an older, tree-lined street in the Roxborough section of Philadelphia. The apartment was in a charming old house, on the second floor. A large sycamore tree stood a few feet from the house, with spreading branches that essentially were sidewalks for the squirrels that inhabited the tree.

Sidewalks that led straight to the house I lived in.

The squirrels chewed there way into the attic of the house, where they scampered night and day, sounding like a herd of elephants right over my bed (gray squirrels can weigh as much as a pound and be 18 inches long). It was incredibly creepy.

I actually consulted the services of a pest control company, which informed me that it was very difficult to keep the bushy-tailed little monsters out of an old house like the one I lived in, without cutting the tree down.

Since I didn't own the house, and I really liked the apartment, there was little I could do but put up with the pests. So, for pretty much the entire two years I lived there, I tried to ignore them, although I did sometimes fantasize about getting a shotgun and blasting through the ceiling, like Elmer Fudd in a Warner Brothers cartoon.

Fortunately, I do not see many squirrels around my current home, even though there are many trees. Perhaps the hawks and foxes are keeping them at bay.

Or, perhaps, they are all out playing in traffic.

Incommunicado

Well, I have been absent from my post, but not intentionally, and not because I was just too darned busy.

I had planned to write on Tuesday, but awoke to find the household in a state of Total Media Blackout. That means no TV, no Internet, no phone service.

Actually, we did have phone service for awhile, but one phone call to tech support and attempt to fix the problem remotely took care of that.

Just goes to show you how best laid plans gang aft agley, as Robert Burns would say.

Our large corporate media channel provider, who shall remain nameless but provides our house with FiOS, could not manage to get one of their minions here until Wednesday afternoon.

That means 36 hours with no communication with the outside world. We might as well have been living in the Dark Ages.

Well, except for the electricity, indoor plumbing and cell phones.

Have you ever tried to read your email on a cell phone? It is an extremely painful exercise. I don't recommend it.

We were reduced to actually doing something meaningful on Tuesday evening. At first I thought, well, maybe this is a good thing. We can do what families used to do, play Monopoly and Scrabble, and converse. It will be sort of a Little House on the Prairie thing, without the oil lamps and hard labor.

But, of course, that would require not just a TMB but a power outage, which really does reduce us to Stone-Age conditions, what with the well pump and all. Spence was still able to play his PS2 and simultaneously talk on his cellphone, so I could not get his attention even if I set my hair on fire. Norm was working. I had run out of Lost DVDs to watch, so I got a brilliant idea.

I'll make candy.

Those who have read my posts before know that I am powerless in the face of the gods of Chocolate. It is the only substance to which I am totally addicted. If you ever want me to do something for you, just wave a bar of 60% Cacao in my face.

I first dipped my toe into the chocolate lake last year, when I made truffles. They were cherry bombs of delight. The interesting thing is, that when working with it, smelling it, melting it, pouring it, I don't necessarily have to eat it. Chocolate is such a sensory feast just to behold, so beautiful a color, so smoothly soothing, that the rest of my senses are fully occupied and my taste buds are kind of put to sleep.

So, I got out some candy making stuff, and started in.

Pretty soon Spence wandered into the kitchen, saw the chocolate, and the next thing I knew, we were both fully engaged in a creative pursuit that certainly was kin to what the Ingalls may have done just before Christmas. Nothing mesmerizes like the product of the cacao bean.

After all, the most active chemical compound in chocolate is theobromine, which is Latin for "food of the gods".

I made some chocolate Santas with a Wilton mold I had purchased; Spence had an idea and made stars that were half dark chocolate and half red-colored white chocolate. He only made four of them, so we each had one and saved some for Dad. They were heaven.

Wednesday afternoon our communication savior showed up, replaced some dinky little wire, and we were back in business. But our candy-making project has started us down a path that may prove to be quite delicious, as well as a great family activity.

I am sure that somewhere, Laura Ingalls is smiling.

You Know Them When You See Them

I have been contemplating two figures of legend and fact recently.

I have been contemplating them together because there are an amazing number of similarities between them.

Both of these figures, who were white males, are dead, and have been for some time. Yet they have generated enormous cult followings. They brought a great deal of joy to people in their lifetimes, which is part of the reason for the cult followings. The cult followings have transcended any reality that actually existed.

In life they wore outfits, self-designed, if myth is to be believed, that set them apart from everyone else. Now their imitaters wear these outfits, and they are instantly recognizable, certainly by anyone in the western world.

The outfits include a certain amount of idiosyncratic hair, including facial hair. Everyone who dresses like these two men must wear the hair to complete the outfit.

Both men usually are known by one name. The name has five letters in it.

Many people have claimed to see the "real" figure in many different places in the world. The interesting thing is that any time one of the imitators is encountered, he is treated as if he is the real person; it is bad etiquette to suggest otherwise.


Both men have been the subject of many stories and songs. They are treated with great reverence, for the most part.

They have both been in many movies, although in one case the real person was in the movies, in the other, only imitators.

Each person represents an enormous industry of merchandise which contains the likeness of the person. Each person has an unusual place of residence; if you mention the name of the residence, everyone knows who lives there.

Anyone is entitled to pretend to be these people, even if the pretender looks completely ridiculous in the outfit. Yet, something magical happens when the outfit is assumed, as if some portion of the charisma of the real person invests itself into the pretender.

OK, this is getting kind of annoying, isn't it? You must know by now who the two figures are. The pictures at the top of the post kind of clue you in.

Elvis and Santa.

They are in a unique pantheon, these two. Many people make a living (of sorts, in the case of Santa) out of wearing the costume. Santa (the real one, assuming that you believe there was a real Saint Nick) has been dead for a long time, but even Elvis has now been dead almost as long as he was alive, and he is still the top-earning dead celebrity, according to Forbes.

Yes, the black wig, mutton chops, and white sequined jumpsuit rock on.

Sadly, Elvis looked Santa-esque in his girth by the time of his death.


Elvis has a long way to go to achieve the cultural longevity of Santa, who really didn't exist in his current form until Thomas Nast gave him life in 1881. The true origins of Santa are shrouded in the mists of time; legend has him going back to St. Nicholas of Myra in 3rd-century Turkey. But the contemporary incarnation of Santa is so ingrained in western culture that he seems likely to be with us for a very long time to come.

At some point, all of the people who were alive when the real Elvis was alive will be dead. Only then will we see if Elvis has staying power as a legend, when the only flesh-and-blood Elvis anyone living will ever have seen will be an Elvis impersonator.

Of course, we will always have Viva Las Vegas if we want to see the real thing.

Wreathed in the Holidays

I am going to go all Martha Stewart today.

Feel like doing some Christmas crafts? This is the place.

I was inspired by this month's Good Housekeeping magazine, which I keep in the library, otherwise known as the powder room. I think this is a really fun magazine, especially for all of the recipes and crafts. Actually, come to think of it, Martha Stewart's crafts seem to require too much of a disciplined, organized lifestyle commitment, and that is not in keeping with my mantra of moderation.

Good Housekeeping's offerings are more suitable for The Haphazard and Disorganized Housewife, who would be me.

Plus, you can play Mahjongg on their website; now, who doesn't like a little Mahjongg now and then, perhaps with a cup of oolong tea?

It makes me feel very Miami Beach circa 1960, just thinking about it. Where are my silk pajamas?

And then there is Heloise, who must surely be 116 by now, still dispensing valuable advice on how to get those ink spots out of your brand-new slipcovers.

My favorite thing about the current GH issue, however, is the Eco-Friendly Christmas Wreath Project. Here is the place where you can find out what to do with those 500 old Christmas cards that you have received over the last 17 years.

What, you mean that everyone doesn't save those Christmas cards, in a huge basket that gets dragged out of the closet every year, and now weighs about ten pounds?

The cards from family and friends that come in the mail and reaffirm that you are worth the price of the card and the stamp, and the time it takes to sign, address and mail them, so how can you throw them away?

The cards that you sweat to respond to in a timely fashion, which usually means that you mail your cards on December 23rd, instead of early in December when you should?

But I digress, and should not be letting my latent Christmas card guilt issues usurp my post.

The recycled holiday-card wreath is going to take care of all of those old cards. Clearly, we are not the only household that doesn't throw them away. GH provides a handy stencil to use to cut the cards into a holly-leaf shape. All that is needed is a styrofoam wreath, toothpicks and a hot-glue gun, that staple of holiday crafts, and voila!

The other wreath that really captured my fancy was the tie wreath. Norm has about 250 ties hanging up in his closet; I know this because I accidentally pulled off the rotating tie rack while rooting through his closet one day (don't ask) and had to pick them all up. The wreath only uses 19 ties, so I will have to think of something else to do with the other 200 ties he doesn't wear. Cut 18 of the ties into 15 inch lengths, wrap them around a wire wreath form, put a stitch in the back so that they don't fall off, tie one in a bow on the front, and voila!

By the way, for all of you wine drinkers out there (you know who you are) there is a lovely wine-cork wreath.

I feel all energized just thinking about making these wreaths/getting rid of those old cards. So, before that feeling dissipates, or my morning coffee wears off, maybe I will pull out the big basket o'cards, print off the stencil and start in on wreath-making.

Now, where would I find the glue gun?

18 Spots

Did you know that a ladybug can have 18 spots on its back?

That means nine dots on each wing, in a symmetrical pattern.

I know this because I just had one on the end of my finger, and I counted them. Of course, I had to put it down or I wouldn't be able to type. So, now it is crawling over a roll of stamps.

I don't know where this ladybug came from. It just appeared on my computer desk. But I have noticed times when ladybugs just seem to appear, and in great profusion. They have been known to cluster in large groups in odd corners of the upstairs hallway.

These are apparently Asian lady beetles, formally known as Harmonia axyridis. They are part of the beetle family Coccinellidae. When they cluster in a corner, they are trying to hibernate. They are not all ladies, of course. Only the really spotty ones are ladies. The ones with no spots or few spots are males.

Interestingly, as the name suggests, they are not native to this country. Asian lady beetles were introduced to several states (including Pennsylvania) perhaps as early as 1916 and continuing into the 1990s to try to control pests such as aphids or scale insects. Now, of course, they are everywhere.

There are species of ladybug that are native to the U.S., so I am not sure why it was deemed necessary to bring in foreign ladybugs. Perhaps they have bigger appetites.

In England and Australia, ladybugs are called ladybirds.

It would appear that the clustering ladybugs are the Asian ones, not the native ones; the habit of clustering indoors to hibernate can create unpleasant infestations. Also, these beetles can emit a nasty smell, although I can't say that I notice it on this particular bug. The smell is from compounds produced by the beetles to ward off predators such as birds.


Uh oh, the ladybug is now inside my coffee cup. I am not sure that the caffeine would be good for her.

Here's a creepy thought for you wine lovers out there (you know who you are). Asian lady beetles have been known to get mixed into wines because there are so many of them on the grapes when they are harvested. The compounds they emit then become a part of the wine.

Winemakers call this unusual taste and smell in the wine "ladybug taint"; it is the methoxypyrazine compounds in the ladybugs, compounds also found in wines, that could change the character of the wine; they are said to smell of bell peppers, or roasted peanuts. This is obviously of some concern to the winemaking industry.

At least one winemaker does not seem to be put off of the lady beetle, however; the Lolonis Winery is an organic winery that uses the pest control qualities of the lady beetle to avoid the use of pesticides. Lolonis Winery is so fond of these insects that the ladybug is the symbol of Lolonis Wines.

They even have a Ladybug Red and Ladybug White wine.

My ladybug is still with me. I don't mind her being in the house; she can stay as long as she doesn't bring her friends.

And, of course, the wine rack is completely off limits.