Monthly Archives: December 2019

About Christmas Eve and Perogies

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It’s Christmas Eve and that means…perogies.

Well, yes, I know that’s not all it means. But in my family, it’s certainly one of the “non-negotiables” of Christmas Eve. Rick and the kids and I have our traditions that we dip in and out of depending on the year: a candlelight Christmas Eve service at church, driving around town looking for Santa, Tim-Tams and hot chocolate or playing Gift Trap – one of those strange games no one else has ever heard of that we don’t even remember where it came from. But, perogies – as Severus Snape would say – Always.

Or pyrohy, as my Ukrainian side would assert. Being both Ukrainian and Polish, I can claim ownership of either way to name the potato-and-cheese-filled dumplings that we make and eat every Christmas Eve. There are other variations, of course, filled with sauerkraut, or even blueberries, as my niece is making this year, trying for a more vegan – and sweeter than sauerkraut – version. But potato-and-cheese is my favorite so in my house, since I make ’em, I get to decide what kind we have.

Perogies are part of our pared-down version of the twelve dishes of Christmas Eve that Ukrainians would traditionally eat. My mom had already moved past the original idea of the meal being traditionally dairy-free – hence, the cheese in the perogies – but her Christmas Eve table was filled with many of the usual Ukrainian suspects: kutia – or wheat pudding to start the meal – then fried fish, mashed beans with garlic and pickled herring, to name a few. But there were the not-so-traditional dishes, like steamed broccoli with lemon – a family favorite – and Jell-O for dessert. But always – always – perogies.

Maybe the reason the perogies figure so largely in my Christmas Eve psyche is because when I was growing up, making them was a big part of Christmas Eve. It was sort of a holy endeavor, all of “the girls” preparing and consecrating this bread-like thing for the meal we were going to share together. Making it all the more mouth-watering as we rolled and stuffed and pinched was our family’s observance of Christmas Eve as a fasting day (well, at least we ate a lot less than usual) in anticipation of that evening meal.

When I no longer spent Christmas Eve with my mom, I would make a date with her sometime before Christmas to have a perogy-making day. I would go to her house and she would have the filling and possibly the dough already made – she was terrible at procrastination – and we would spend the subsequent hours visiting and, factory-like, cranking out hundreds of perogies for her freezer and mine.

It’s been five years this Christmas that Mom has been gone. She passed away on December 15, 2014. Most of us had squirreled away some of Mom’s perogies that we had made with her at some other time during the year prior to her getting too sick to make them anymore. It was a bittersweet communion on Christmas Eve, eating some of the last of her perogies that year.

And so, it surprised me the next year when Christmas Eve was almost upon me and…I had no perogies in the freezer. Luckily, I had taken good enough notes and had badgered Mom for specific amounts for her dough recipe and her fillings – because she didn’t have it written down. It always just came out of her head and her heart and her hands. Which was probably why her food tasted so good.

But it’s really not about the food. Yes, the idea of Christmas evokes visions of “sugar-plums” – turkey and trimmings, shortbread, gingerbread, eggnog, even Christmas oranges – things that we may not only have once a year anymore, but at least have a strong association with Christmas and, I hope, with happy memories. Like in Dr. Seuss story of the Grinch, Christmas would still come, and has come, without perogies or turkey or Tim-Tams.

Perogies taste good. But the things I savor even more are in the making – of the perogies with mom, of the memories of Christmas Eves past and of the meal I will share with my husband and kids tonight. In the making of something concrete, we can create something ethereal and even – dare I say? – heavenly. That is what Christmas Eve is all about (Charlie Brown). Not to say that the baby Jesus is like a perogy, but a flimsy analogy can be made of the reverse process: Christmas is when the heavenly was made concrete.

And maybe, just maybe, the humble perogy can help us remember that.

About Me and Santa

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Dear Santa,

Hey there Santa, how you doin? I know it’s been awhile. In fact, I think it’s been like, forever, since I sat down to write you an actual letter. But you know, Christmas makes me a little nostalgic and I thought that maybe I should touch base with you. I really would prefer to be able to text you, but since you have your own postal code and everything, I assume that snail mail is your preferred method of correspondence.

I suppose the real reason it’s been so long is well, because I’m not even sure you are, you know, alive. Like alive enough to receive mail. Oh sure, I know that Saint Nicholas or Kris Kringle or Sinterklaas or whatever you used to be called was a real person way back in the day. But as for whether you are actually bunkered down somewhere in the North Pole making lists and bossing elves around, I’m just not so sure about that.

I don’t know exactly when it was that I decided to put such childishness behind me. Maybe it was when it dawned on me that we didn’t have a fireplace. Maybe it was because all my presents were wrapped and under the tree well before Christmas. Maybe it was that time when I was sleeping on the couch in full view of my stocking hung with care on the wall unit and I woke up early enough to see that my stocking was Still Flat. So I stayed in bed (well, in couch, actually) and pretended to sleep until mom came along and filled it up with grapes or something. It was pretty anticlimactic. But it was also pretty obvious that you weren’t the responsible stocking filler that rumor had said you were.

Mom never really did put much stock in perpetuating the idea of you flying around on Christmas Eve delivering packages faster than Amazon Prime. I think it was pretty much my idea to hang up a stocking. Did my six siblings preceding me ever do it? Maybe you would know, but I have no idea. As the baby of the family, all I knew was, much like Sally in A Charlie Brown Christmas, all I wanted was what I had coming to me and hanging up a stocking was like an insurance policy. And so Mom sewed me a stocking at my request- she was so good at that – and thus unintentionally set it up for me to expect someone to fill it. Maybe you.

I wasn’t expecting grapes.

To be fair to Mom, I think this was probably when I was around twelve and maybe she thought I was just too old for stockings but dang it, I had hung it up anyway. I could hear her in the kitchen, making cooking noises that Morning of the Flat Stocking. Because it was, after all, Turkey Eating Day and she had a lot to do before we went to church that morning. I didn’t understand that then, but I sure do now.

Maybe that was why I laughed at my older cousin when he adamantly insisted that Yes, Bonnie, There Is A Santa Claus and then presented to me the Encyclopedia flipped open to the page about you, Saint Nicholas, complete with a photograph and everything. I was pretty sure that there weren’t cameras in the fourth century so I just quietly concluded to myself that both the Encyclopedia and my aunt and uncle were doing a good job of lying to my cousins. Or to put it in a nicer way, perpetuating the story.

When I had kids of my own, it wasn’t long before we put the kibosh on believing that you were the one bringing them presents – we didn’t want to get them all hung up on you when it was Jesus’ birthday that we were celebrating. But ironically, that didn’t stop us from showering our kids with gifts, thus emulating your rumored generosity. And we made those presents magically appear on Christmas morning – the magic being that Rick was able to make me stay awake long enough so that we could escape them detecting us putting their gifts under the tree. AND we filled their stockings.

I still fill their stockings. Oh yeah, you probably know this, but Gil, Tim and Simon are 26, 24 and 22 now. And Tim is married! And I fill a stocking for Sharlie, too – that’s Tim’s wife. But stockings are important to me – probably even more than they are to them. If you are real, you must know that. And not just because my Mom wasn’t really into them, but because to me it’s part of the waiting, the expectation, the magic, the hope fulfilled that Christmas is so famous for. That you’re so famous for.

It was nice that you waved to us in the mall last weekend. (If that really was you.) We saw how happy you made all those little kids. And their parents. I think a lot of the times the parents were more excited to introduce their kids to you than the kids were to meet you. You do, after all, dress kinda weird, and have an entourage. Sort of like Lady Gaga.

It’s less than a week now till Christmas, so I know you must be busy. Make sure you load up on Cold FX and stay healthy for the big night coming up. I’m sure it’ll be a doozy, as usual. You know, like it will be for the rest of us – a little happy, a little sad, a little busy, a little lonely. It must be kind of a long night hanging out with all those reindeer and flying all over the world. Thanks for staying faithful to the job or the story or whatever. You are an inspiration for the rest of us.

Have a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year!

Love, Bonnie

About Dave Barry

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I’ve mentioned before that growing up, my family always got the daily Edmonton Journal newspaper. It was a different experience getting a daily newspaper in a small rural town, over 100 miles from where it was published. The paper would arrive late in the evening on the Greyhound bus and Dad would pick it up the next day. It was literally yesterday’s news.

But although we would already know the top news stories (my family being avid listeners of talk radio and watchers of the evening news) there was plenty more in the Journal to round out our reading. For me, it was first the comics. Then it was the Lifestyle section. The Lifestyle section is where I first discovered syndicated humor writers like Erma Bombeck and later, Dave Barry.

Dave Barry, like most humorists, has a great deal of intellect behind the silliness. He earned a bachelor degree in English and then was hired as a journalist which opened the door for his humor column to get published and then he got syndicated and then he got a Pulitzer Prize for Commentary. (So, I guess I like some Pulitzer Prize winners after all.)

I fell in love with Barry’s nonsensical and hyperbolic style the first time I read him. For instance, here’s his take on the Christmas season:

“Once again we find ourselves enmeshed in the Holiday Season, that very special time of year when we join with our loved ones in sharing centuries-old traditions such as trying to find a parking space at the mall. We traditionally do this in my family by driving around the parking lot until we see a shopper emerge from the mall, then we follow her, in very much the same spirit as the Three Wise Men, who 2,000 years ago followed a star, week after week, until it led them to a parking space. “

I think Barry’s magic comes in being relatable. The subjects he exaggerates and pokes fun at come with not a small nugget of truth. We were at THE MALL last weekend and were summarily stalked when we went to drop off some packages in the car. This was followed by the screeching of tires as the cars honed in on other prey when they realized we weren’t giving up our spot just yet.

And take for instance, one of the many fiction books he’s penned, The Shepherd, the Angel, and Walter the Christmas Miracle Dog. Last weekend, after we left THE MALL and all the Christmas shoppers (and parkers) behind, I finished reading this book out loud to Rick as we travelled the two hours home. Barry tells a story that strikes a chord for nearly everyone: it’s got dogs, death, church, puberty, bat poop, a Christmas pageant, a high-strung Christmas pageant lady and to top it off, the hero, probably modelled on Barry himself, actually saves a damsel in distress. Not only does he serve it all up with plenty of humor, he can make you cry, too. You have been warned.

It’s not a long book to read and it nicely sets the stage for Christmas. It’s probably sitting on the Christmas display rack at your local library right now. There’s something about this time of year that makes you want to feel all the feels, which is why those dang Hallmark Christmas movies are so popular. So tune in the Yuletide Log channel and snuggle in with a good book like this one instead. It might be a little predictable (like a Hallmark Christmas movie), but maybe that’s just one of the things we like about Christmas.

About God and Christmas

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Circa December 2004: Every Sunday School play needs a wise man (Simon), Joseph (Tim) and, of course, a Russian named Boris (Gil)

[Because I love this story from 2002, it’s another Throwback Thursday. Enjoy.]

Some of the most interesting discussions can be overhead from the backseat of a minivan. Sometimes parents are even invited to contribute. The other day as we were on our way to our Sunday School Christmas concert dress rehearsal, my ears perked up at the conversation that was going on behind me. Gil had taken that moment to educate his brothers about what mammals were.

“We’re mammals, aren’t we, Mom?” Gil called for confirmation. Tim, who was in Christmas concert mode and not quite following the conversation, gave the two of us a confused look when I confirmed Gil’s statement. The confusion became obvious to us when he protested, “But I thought we were shepherds!”

Gil responded by telling Tim that people were mammals. But Tim wasn’t leaving Christmas concert mode that easy. “So are shepherds mammals?” he queried. In the qualitative style of a scientist, he then proceeded through the entire cast of nativity characters, asking if each one in turn were also a mammal. Yes, sheep were mammals. Camels, too. No, not angels. And then came the inevitable question.

“So is Jesus a mammal?” By this time Tim was enjoying his goofy repartee immensely. But when Gil answered Tim by saying, “No, Jesus wasn’t a mammal. He’s God,” I had to gently correct our little theologian. Yes, Jesus is God, but when he was a man on earth, he was a mammal, too. 

What parent on their way to a Sunday School Christmas concert could pass up a teaching moment like that one? I explained to the boys that the whole reason we celebrate Christmas is because Jesus came down from heaven and became a mammal just like one of us and that even though he is God, he knows what’s it’s like to be a human being, too.

The boys gave me their token attention, and then digressed into what the difference was between mammals and birds. Gil’s qualification, which for some unknown reason involved the number of times a day a bird goes “poop”, had me making a mental note to spend more time on Science after Christmas.

As Gil continued to “educate” his younger brothers, I marveled at how easy it is for the little ones to believe. In their childlike way, they have the faith to accept that Jesus, who is God, was also once a man. By that same token, it is sometimes impossible for adults to acknowledge the same fact.

Whether it’s Jesus or Santa Claus, Adam and Eve or the Big Bang, everyone wants to believe in something. And when you think about it, maybe the whole idea of Jesus being born a child of poverty in a stable, the humblest of births, is not such a far-fetched idea after all. God made his Son accessible to everyone by making him a mammal, in his own way like both a lamb and a shepherd. During this season of wonder, it’s time to enter into the amazing reason we celebrate Christmas in the first place.

About Church and Christmas

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In the very small town where I grew up there were two churches, one little and one big. My family went to the little church.

And when I say family, I mean it. Not just my immediate family but aunts, uncles, cousins. And neighbors that were like family from our very small town. And when I say little church, I mean that, too. We filled up that very small church every Sunday.

On Sundays, we entered quietly, reverently, craning our necks to look back to see who was whispering so loud before the service started, or worse, laughing. Not that laughing was bad, it just wasn’t part of the proper preparation in waiting for the priest to parade from the back of the little church. But talking, visiting and yes, laughing, were definitely heard after we had paid God his attention, after the climax of the Sunday story – holy communion – had taken place. First communion with God, then with our family and friends.

Going to church was a part of the fabric of our lives, but living in a very small town, the church building itself belonged to us in special way. It was very normal to enter the church on a Sunday, but if we were to go in on another day of the week, it felt different to me, like I wasn’t sure where to stand or what volume of voice to use. But I welcomed it, those odd times of meeting there and the feelings it created in me.

Every year before Christmas, my mother and aunties and almost-aunties would get together to clean the church, enlisting any of their children who were around to help wash the windows and polish the pews. I’m sure it was done more often, but perhaps I remember this best because it preceded decorating the church for Christmas. It was exciting to change the landscape where we worshipped, to anticipate the birthday of the Christ child once more.

I loved being in that church on not-Sundays – the weightlessness of standing around the altar where usually only the priest and altar servers walked and the giddiness of being somewhere sacred and secret. And at Christmas, we would descend into the old basement to retrieve the annual decorations, the most fascinating being the small nativity scene that would be set up on the communion table, the small figures watching as parishioners came in and placed their host in the cup, like the taking of attendance.

It was my first nativity set that I remember. Long before Christmas decorations started multiplying in stores like Helga Hufflepuff’s cup in a vault in Gringotts, the same precious decorations were brought out year after year, with no thought of replacing them. Because they were part of the tradition itself, not just decorating, but remembering, cherishing. Maybe it wasn’t my first nativity set that I saw, but it was the first one I was allowed to touch, as we set it up on the table.

One of the wise men had lost his head. (Well, wouldn’t you if you met God in a manger? Though it seems rather funny – a wise man without a head.) No matter, he still counted – his body was there. It was small, but the whole set was small. Not much shuffling on the table was necessary to include this stable scene that reminded us all of Jesus’ humble beginnings as a man-baby.

The placement of the figures was important, it was part of the alchemy of Advent: the wise men three at one side, shepherds and sheep to the other. The angel with a tiny hook on a tiny nail at the apex of the stable roof. Mary and Joseph flanking the tiny little babe, center stage, like God is supposed to be. I was very young, but I always remembered how it was supposed to go.

I have two nativity sets now and I use the same guiding principles when I set them up. I take attendance as I pull them out of the boxes where they live hidden but waiting. I love how they represent everyone – families, blue collar workers, professionals, animals – and God. Everyone may not be related, but they come together in small spaces and represent the same thing every time: a family.

God’s family. Everyone is included. Even if you lost your head – you are welcome, you are part of the family. Even if you are dressed kind of odd or shabby and you stink like sheep poop – you are welcome, you are part of the family. Even if your beginnings aren’t perfect – that’s not his real dad, you know – you are welcome, you are part of the family. And yes, sheep and camels and all manner of animal friends are part of the family, too.

Angels above us. God with us. In a very small stable in a very small church in a very small town, but representing Everywhere.

About Two Christmas Stories: Part Two

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Mr. Edwards meets Cowboy Santa. (illustration by David Lockhart)

There is something about finding a familiar story in an anthology that makes me happy. Kinda like, I knew this was good! The second story that I loved from Treasure of Christmas Stories was one called Mr. Edwards Meets Santa Claus, excerpted, of course, from The Little House on the Prairie by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

Prairie is actually the second of several books that Wilder wrote about her family experience that bounced between homesteading and moving on in the late 1800s of the American frontier. I loved those earliest books best that showcased littlest Laura with her affinity to her Pa and to always striving for, but never quite matching, perfect older sister Mary’s attitude and behavior. (I won’t touch the un-PC-ness of Wilder’s books as they read in this day and age. For now.)

Ahem. Back to Christmas.

Before Disney Plus and YouTube, before smartphones and separate rooms for every activity, the winter months on the prairie allowed for huge swathes of time for the Ingalls family to sit before a roaring fire in their open-concept home and. . . sew. Or make bullets. Or listen to Pa play the fiddle or read the Bible (on Sundays) and then go to bed.

And so, we find Laura and Mary in the days before Christmas staring out the window at the rain wondering if Christmas will come that year. Because Santa is the one that brings Christmas and snow brings Santa’s reindeer and Santa’s reindeer bring the jolly old elf. And for some reason (probably because of some well-intentioned Ma-and-Pa propaganda) Santa’s reindeer could not come across the roaring creek that was being fed by the constant rain. Like some magical Texas gate.

This is confirmed by Pa when he comes in with a wild turkey for Christmas dinner. The creek is not abating. And here we find out how the propaganda found its footing: Ma and Pa agree that their friend Mr. Edwards, a fellow homesteader who had been invited to Christmas dinner, would not be foolish enough to risk crossing the wild creek for a wild turkey drumstick.

“Of course, that meant that Santa Claus could not come, either.”

And so for a whole page we have to endure the girls going to bed unhappy and Pa so disheartened that he can’t even play the fiddle and Ma suddenly, in spite of all reason, hanging up the girl’s stockings and whispering to a protesting Pa that she could give the girls the last of the white sugar. I repeat: MA HUNG UP ACTUAL SOCKS THAT ACTUAL FEET WENT INTO, PLANNING TO FILL THEM WITH A BAKING STAPLE.

We are so freakin’ spoiled these days.

All that foreshadowing had to lead somewhere and, you guessed it, a cold and wet Mr. Edwards suddenly shows up on their doorstep. When he confesses to Ma and Pa that it wasn’t Christmas dinner that compelled him, but the thought that the little girls would have no gifts on Christmas Day, an eavesdropping-and-supposed-to-be-sleeping Laura sits bolt upright in bed and demands to know if he saw Santa Claus.

While Ma fills the stockings, Mr. Edwards distracts the girls, answering all their questions about him meeting Santa on the streets of Independence, Missouri: how Santa was too old and fat to swim across the river himself, how Santa recognized Edwards from when he was a little boy sleeping in a corn-shuck bed in Tennessee, how Santa led Mr. Edwards over to his pack-mule to retrieve gifts for the girls who lived yonder on the Verdigris River. (Thus solving the snow problem, reasoned Mary.)

Here’s where the real magic happens: as a young girl myself, I would pore over the description of the simple gifts the girls received, as if they were as valuable as those the Magi presented the baby Jesus. A glittering new tin cup. (“Now each had a cup to drink out of.”) A long stick of peppermint candy. (“Sucked…till each stick was sharp-pointed on one end.”) A heart-shaped little cake. (“Made of pure white flour, sweetened with white sugar.”) A shining bright, new penny. (“They had never even thought of such a thing as having a penny.”)

And then, the piece de resistance. Mr. Edwards starts pulling sweet potatoes out of his pockets, nine in all. At that point in my life, I had never eaten a sweet potato before (and did not until I learned their magic firsthand at the Christmas table of my husband’s family.) But surely, they must have been better than regular un-sweet potatoes.

The ensuing description of the Christmas meal was not so compelling because I wanted to eat their food. It was because I wanted their delight, their satisfaction, their wonder. And yet it was generated by such simple things like sweet potatoes you can now find in any grocery store and pennies which you could now find discarded on the ground because they aren’t worth anything anymore.

Now I am not particularly fond of camping. Transport me back to Little House on the Prairie and I would probably be more whiny than a rusty door hinge in a haunted house. But I don’t have to go back in time or take a vow of poverty to appreciate the good messages that Laura Ingalls Wilder has sown into her story.

Things are sweeter when they are unexpected and rare.

Holidays are best celebrated with friends and family close.

The simple things really are the best.

I am thankful today for good stories that help me remember this as December rushes onwards to Christmas Day.

About Two Christmas Stories: Part One

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At this time of year when I was a kid, I loved to read a little Scholastic anthology called Treasury of Christmas Stories.

It held all sorts of important Christmas readables: Hans Christian Andersen’s tale of The Fir Tree (spoiler alert: it ends badly for the title character), the words to carols like Deck the Halls (half of which I already knew for sure – fa la la la la, la la la la) and Clement C. Moore’s precedent-setting poem that taught everyone what Santa really looked like (‘chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf’).

Two stories were my favorites.

The first one was called Christmas Every Day written by W. D. Howells. It’s a story within a story – an impudent little girl asks her father to tell her a Christmas story and, perhaps sensing a learning moment, he relates to her a cautionary tale of sorts. The little girl in the story petitions the Christmas Fairy, begging her to have Christmas every day. (Fairies have always been powerful females.) After many, many pestering letters, the Fairy acquiesces, with the caveat that “she might have it Christmas every day for a year, and then they would see about having it longer”.

You can imagine how it played out. Regular Christmas came: full stockings followed by presents followed by too much candy followed by a full turkey dinner extravaganza followed by sledding until the little girl came in with a stomach-ache and then everyone in the family went to bed early, cross.

But then the next day, it happened again. And the next day after that, and so on and so on, for the entire year.

Turkeys went up astronomically in price, then became scarce. Cranberries cost a diamond apiece. The woods became stubble fields, all the trees cut down to be decorated indoors. And people became poorer and poorer, buying presents and serving up Christmas the way Christmas was supposed to be done, day after day after day, ad nauseum. Well, except for the storekeepers and delivery persons – they were making a killing.

It was intolerable, but unstoppable. All the other holidays were obliterated, except April Fools’ Day, when everything was fake, which actually provided some comic relief.

It’s not that far off from where we are now, with Christmas creeping into the stores sooner and sooner. It used to be that Christmas displays went up sometime after Remembrance Day and it was exciting to see. Then we started to get confused in October when the Halloween treats were juxtaposed with candy canes and chocolate Santas. Now people are tripping over each other trying to snap up Costco’s newest Christmas offerings – in July – because once they’re gone from Costco, they’re gone.

I don’t like the stores messing with my calendar in this way. And I don’t like them telling me how Christmas is supposed to be done. I will never understand who shops in those “Christmas All Year” stores, much less what ______________ individual owns them. (You can insert your own adjective – I didn’t want to be too disparaging.) I like Christmas music to stay in December and even for snow to stay the heck away until then, too. (But that might be asking too much of the Christmas fairy. Because: Alberta.)

A very telling part of the Christmas Every Day story is when people get so tired of giving each other presents that they aren’t even nice about it anymore – they just fling them over fences and into windows saying, ‘Take it, you horrid old thing!’

The impudent little girl gets what she wants. (illustration by David Lockhart)

Ouch. Getting a present “thrown” at you can hurt. But it’s a lot like getting a gift that was shopped for under duress, given because they “had to” and, to add insult to such injury, was paid for with a 22% interest-bearing credit card. Someone I follow on Instagram, a well-known, not un-rich person, was recently advocating a gift-free Christmas, as she has done for the last thirteen. But not just gift-free: debt-free and guilt-free, to boot.

I have to admit, though I am averse to the commercial Christmas that is peddled these days, I still like giving gifts to people I love and appreciate. I like receiving them, too, if the same sentiment comes with them. I like to buy or get a new Christmas decoration (or two) each year. And I embrace the Christmas transformation that happens in my house, in town, on television, on the P.A. system in stores – in December. Just the opposite of it being the same thing every day, it’s nice to embrace the different-ness of Christmas. A weary world rejoices.

Ironically, in the story, the Christmases stop on Christmas Day the following year. People are relieved, then ecstatic. They throw out the candy and burn all the presents. The different-ness that has come is celebrated.

The little girl pays a visit to the Christmas fairy to thank her and this time to make sure that Christmas will NEVER, EVER come again. To which the Christmas fairy very wisely says that “now she was behaving just as greedily as ever, and she’d better look out.” They finally agree to go back to good-ole-once-a-year Christmas in the end.

There’s a lot to be said for the special-ness of things that come once a year, the excitement of revealing things that have been hidden for a long time, that you almost forgot. My little story book is fun to revisit when it comes out of its Christmas box where it lives for the other eleven months. It can even be surprising like a visit from Santa in a little house on the prairie when you didn’t think he’d make it.

But that’s another story.