I have always liked Scandinavian design in textiles and folk art, and I often shop at The Stabo, a Scandinavian store in Bismarck and Fargo. My daughter finds this embarrassing. “Mom, you aren’t Norwegian. You’re Dutch and German! Why do you shop there? Why do you like that stuff” I tell her that my ancestors are the people of Beowulf, and that something in the designs speaks to deep yearnings that must come from beyond the mists of the long distant past (well, not really, but if she wants to think I’m weird, I’ll play along).
My daughter takes particular exception to the tomte I have purchased-figures in different shapes made out of wool with luxurious beards and red hats. These are made from the wool of sheep raised on the Swedish island of Gotland. I keep them, along with a couple of Yule goats and straw girl, on top of our media cabinet in the living room all year long. Daughter warns me that I am to stow the tomte and goats in a closet the first time she ever brings a beau home to meet the family. I ask “What if he is Norwegian or Swedish?” She says it doesn’t matter, and the weirdness must be hid in favor of good first impressions.
Imagine my surprise this Christmas when I received this hefty fellow from my daughter. Now, I like tomte, but this guy is almost too much, even for me. Unlike the others, he has hands and thumbs, and I blame him for the dishwasher breaking down after Christmas. I didn’t put out the rice pudding, you see, so I suppose he let me know his disappointment by preventing the water from draining out. I mentioned this to daughter and she said “Good. Serves you right”.
I don’t think I need any more tomte after this. I have no more room, in any case. I am touched that daughter purchased something for me that I like but that she professes to loathe. Maybe something in the design speaks to a deep yearning in her. If so, the weirdness may continue long after I am dead and gone.
Thanks to cameras attached to the tail feathers of some New Caledonian crows, researchers have now observed the birds building tools and using them in the wild.
These elusive creatures were seen fashioning hooked stick tools to root out food – a remarkable discovery that sheds a bit of light on animal thought processes.
Or if it doesn’t, at least it shows us animal thought as interpreted via the cranial processes of humans like study author Jolyon Troscianko of the University of Exeter, in England.
“In one scene,” Troscianko said, “a crow drops its tool and then recovers it from the ground shortly afterward, suggesting they value their tools and don’t simply discard them after a single use.”
This is a likely explanation. But it is only one, and it assumes crows think like us, which may not be the case! I can think of at least three other options.
The crow dropped its tool, forgot about it completely, and then in an “aha” moment, picked a hooked stick it suddenly found at its feet.
The crow dropped the tool on purpose to fake out the potential food, and then grabbed the tool again when the mistakenly relieved morsel slithered into a more exposed location.
The crow dropped the hooked stick when it realized it had a camera stuck to its tail and it was giving away the company secrets. And then picked the stick up again when it thought, “oh what the Hell,” if I keep acting like I’m committed to the hooked stick, they’ll never find out about all our other crow-made tools, like the cawk gun.”
Hard to know exactly what is going on in the tiny mind of a clever crow.
If scientists pasted a camera to your tail, what tool would they see you use?
“Are you ready for Christmas?” This has been the standard greeting between folks out here lately, replacing “How about those Bison?”, or What do you think about the weather?” In my world, being ready for Christmas means that the lefse is made the weekend before Thanksgiving, all the baking and cleaning are done soon after, and the house is decorated by December 1.
This year, none of this happened, and the Tuesday before Christmas my home was not decorated, the presents had not been wrapped, the tree was in a box in the garage, and I hadn’t done much, if any, baking or cleaning. Since the first week of December, husband and I have either attended or participated in four Christmas “pageants” that have taken us away from home and complicated or enriched our lives, depending on our moods at any given time.
Pageant One was the traditional Concordia Christmas Concert in Moorhead to which we wore our Norwegian sweaters and heard lovely and perfect choral singing. It didn’t take too much out of us, except that it took us away from home for a weekend and we couldn’t do much Christmas preparation. I managed to bake 12 dozen cookies for a cookie exchange at work, but that was about all I got done.
Pageant Two took place as week later in a much more modest venue on the Pine Ridge Reservation. Here we helped distribute Christmas presents and food to about 500 people at a mission called the Dream Center. We played music with our Native friends and I helped read the Christmas story at the gatherings. I don’t know how relevant they found the story, given that they are struggling with poverty, homelessness, and hunger, but the children loved the gift boxes and the elders loved the gift bags and hams that were given out. This took us away from home for four more days, and no Christmas preparations took place at home.
Pageant Three took place one week after the Pine Ridge trip in the Sodbuster Room at the local Elks Lodge for my agency Christmas party. In addition to being a member of the Social Committee responsible for planning this soiree, I played my bass guitar in our agency band, and this, of course, meant evening rehearsals that also kept us from making preparations at home. We played everything from Stephen Foster (Hard Times Come Again No More) to Mavis Staples (I Belong to the Band) to Bachman Turner Overdrive (Taking Care of Business), with a Diana Ross medley somewhere in the middle.
Two days after the party, we played in our church bell choir for both Sunday morning services and at an afternoon Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols service. I was asked by the bell choir director to design the bulletins, and this, of course took me away from Christmas preparations at home.
Well, Christmas is upon us. Our children arrived and they decorated the tree and the house. They helped shop, and planned and will help cook Christmas dinner. The house is clean enough, and I finally got to sleep past 7:00 a few mornings this week. I am grateful that we are safe and together, and I guess that is the most important thing.
Merry Christmas, Baboons. Now, if I could only get “Stop in the Name of Love” out of my head, I could say that life was almost perfect.
Describe your role in a memorable Christmas pageant.
I have been on my feet in the kitchen for three days straight, faithfully baking the eleven different kinds of Christmas cookies my family expects to see displayed on the table when we sit down for our holiday meal.
Each cookie type calls for a specific set of ingredients and requires that I perform a carefully choreographed ritual that usually involves standing at the counter, kneading the dough, kneeling before the oven, wearing the ceremonial mitts, and arranging the finished offerings in a sacred tin.
At the meal, my cookies are the final course before we head off to church. But at that point I’m sore from standing and exhausted from the cookie-baking effort. I feel like I’ve already been to worship and I’d much rather take two ibuprofen and have a nap.
Does that make me a heretic?
Confusedly,
Aching Baker
I told Aching Baker she is NOT a heretic because all of her rituals seem perfectly ordinary and are widely practiced whereas heretics go very much against the grain. Also, “heretic” would be a good name for a twelfth type of cookie – probably something with a big fat walnut in the middle.
But cookie baking is a form of personal sacrifice, and if she is concerned that not going to church after all that work will somehow count against her in the final tally, I would like to suggest that a good long nap is also form of sacred meditation.
But that’s just one opinion. What do YOU think, Dr. Babooner?
I think every parent dreads the day when a child asks “that question.” I sure did. And yet it is almost inevitable that some day your child will come to you to ask the question you have avoided for years. And you can’t avoid it any longer.
“Daddy, I have a big question. You have to tell me: Is Santa real?”
This crisis of faith occurred for me when I was in fourth grade. I was playing with classmates during recess when I overheard a conversation that shook me up. One of my more cynical classmates was explaining that Santa Claus was an elaborate fiction. All that stuff about flying reindeer and delivering presents down the chimney was just a lie.
I didn’t join the conversation, but I began debating the issue in my head. I was that kind of kid.
By coincidence, a few weeks later I joined my dad as he ran an errand at his office at Collegiate Manufacturing, his employer in Ames. His office was in the third floor of the old Masonic Building. Because it was three stories tall, that building was one of the tallest structures in Ames.
While Dad fussed with his paperwork, I wandered over to the window on the north side of the building. Ames had a white Christmas that year, getting a drop of about five inches of snow the day before Christmas Eve. I was already experienced in woods wisdom at that age, having played outdoors for years. Looking out over rows of homes I suddenly knew the truth. Every home below me had an unblemished coat of snow, with no marks of sleigh runners and no reindeer footprints. Santa was a fraud.
All that came back to me when I became a parent and began teaching my daughter about Santa Claus. I bought books for her that showed in detail how Santa did his miraculous work. But when she turned nine I could tell she was beginning to harbor doubts.
Just before Christmas that year, the Pioneer Press Dispatch ran a huge color photo of Santa’s sleigh flying through the night sky. At the head of the team of reindeer was one that had a bright red nose. Molly stared at that photo in silent wonder for several minutes. She finally said, “And I was beginning to think Rudolph wasn’t real.”
Weeks later, right after Christmas, Molly came to me with a serious expression. “Daddy, we need to talk.” A group of friends at school had been debating Santa. Some believed in him. Some did not. Molly volunteered to resolve the matter, saying, “I’ll ask my dad.
He always tells me the truth.” The group agreed to let her research the question by talking to me.
With mixed emotions, I told her. As I remember, I made a big deal of the fact “Santa” was a fiction but Christmas love was not. Rather than debunking Santa I told Molly the love of parents was the true Christmas miracle. She instantly joined the great conspiracy to perpetuate the Santa story with younger children, and it touched me to see how hard Molly worked to preserve the secret with kids who still believed.
All this comes to mind because I just got a note from my daughter. For readers who might not know, Liam is my daughter’s five-year-old son. I’ll let Molly finish this story:
Liam came home yesterday, helped himself to a Christmas cookie and said, “Mom, we need to talk. About Santa.”
Santa and Liam – two real guys
My heart sank. “What about Santa, Hon?”
Liam crammed the rest of the cookie into his mouth, dusted his hands off on his pants and said, “Well, it’s more about his wife.” He leveled a very mature almost-six-year-old look at me and said in a conspiratorial whisper, “She’s not really real, you know. That’s what they say at school.”
After 15 minutes of discussion on the merits of having a wife to look after the elves and reindeer, not to mention to work as an attorney or teacher so that you can essentially run a non-profit for the world’s children, we decided she must really exist after all.
As he left the kitchen in a trail of crumbs and with a red and green sugar cookie mustache, my heart almost broke.
Stay young, little one. Treasure what could be, as well as what is. Believe in magic and your own heart. And dang it–Listen to your mother, not your friends, for just a little longer…
Do you recall how you learned about Santa? Or how you told a child?
Today is the day of the Winter Solstice, the moment in the calendar year when the northern hemisphere reaches its most light-starved point. For those who care about such things, the nadir happens at 10:49 pm local time, and then we begin the long slog back towards summer’s warmth.
Trail Baboon singsong poet laureate Tyler Schuyler Wyler has been shivering in his garret pondering the importance of this astronomical moment, and how it is so completely overshadowed by other things.
Some say that Santa can’t be real
in thought or deed or word.
Because no one can go everywhere
in one night. That’s absurd.
Even if he’s supersonic.
Even if he’s extra quick.
There’s no way that any human dude
could do the Santa trick.
And it’s more than just logistics
There’s another glaring flaw.
It’s that Santa, in one moment
can bring joy and warmth and awe
to each person that he meets
as he completes his yearly rounds.
At the risk of understatement
that is tougher than it sounds.
Is it possible, however?
I don’t see it being done,
unless somehow we’ve conflated
Jolly Santa and the Sun.
As if two old songs collided
in their wholly separate lives
and then merged into a hybrid
by the Beatles and Burl Ives.
For he sees you when you’re sleeping
Little Darlin’, stay awake.
Been a long cold lonely winter.
Here he comes, make no mistake.
All the kids in girl and boyland
will be hoping they can spy
something red and round and plump
that’s arcing low across the sky.
You’re already on his list
to get a gift of cheer and light.
If you’re nice or if you’re naughty,
doesn’t matter, it’s all right.
I grew up in central Iowa in the 1950s, a time when public schools performed Christian music like Away in the Manger and Silent Night. When choir directors heard me sing they quickly nominated me to be the narrator for our concerts. Since my family didn’t often go to church, I learned the story of baby Jesus’ birth by telling it to audiences of proud parents at school concerts.
My sense of Christmas music was further defined by what played on the radio in our living room. Bing Crosby, Nat King Cole, Judy Garland, Burl Ives and others performed such pop music classics as I’ll Be Home for Christmas and White Christmas (many of the tunes having been written by Jews working in the pop music industry). I heard (but never came to like) novelty Christmas music by Alvin and the Chipmunks or songs like I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.
As a child, I had a silly running battle with one Christmas tune: Santa Claus is Coming to Town. I hated that song with fervor that is hard to understand. When I heard “so you better be good for goodness’ sake,” I was outraged because clearly “goodness” was not involved, just greed for Christmas presents. Why that affected me so deeply I will never know.
In the Grooms household my mother preferred the pop classics in a style she called “mood music.” Mood music (a forerunner of “new age” music) was atmospheric stuff meant to be played softly in the background. Her favorite, by far, was an album by Jackie Gleason (who was also a bandleader). Gleason’s Merry Christmas album was a light jazz treatment of Christmas music performed in a deeply nostalgic vein for people who liked to celebrate the day weeping wistfully in their eggnogs. The first big shock I experienced after getting married was learning that my bride considered my family’s Christmas music embarrassingly banal and beneath contempt.
In my first Christmas as a married man I was introduced to her Christmas music, which was all about choirs performing classic European religious Christian carols. Many of the tunes were created in medieval times. Her Christmas music was usually sung in vast cathedrals, so it had a lot of echo, and many songs featured the piercing purity of the sounds of boy sopranos. The audio highlight of Christmas for my wife was the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols performed each year at King’s College.
In short, her Christmas music could not have been more different from what I’d known as a kid. At first I was humiliated by her disgust for my old Christmas music, but I quickly embraced the beauty of the more traditional choral music my in-laws loved so much.
Still later, I acquired great fondness for Celtic music. Inevitably I began enjoying performances of Christmas music performed in that style by folk and Celtic musicians. At some point I had to add the music of the Charlie Brown Christmas show to my list of favorites.
It all becomes mixed together. I have known so many Christmases that my tastes are eclectic and inevitably mixed with memories, good and bad. I fell in love with one album during an extremely emotional Christmas, the worst of my life. George Winston’s December album became a classic in the winter when we discovered our old cat had cancer. My daughter’s last evening with him was spent holding him in her crib while the December album played over and over in the night.
To hear Christmas music now is to be reminded of earlier times, with all that was sweet and terrible about them. Like Scrooge, I am haunted by Ghosts from Christmas Past, and they come with a soundtrack.
What is your favorite Christmas music?
I’ve just come from a semi-annual Care Conference with two of the people in charge of my mom’s care at her assisted living residence. This is sort of like parent-teacher conferences, except in reverse – YOU are learning about your PARENT. You find out which medications are working and which aren’t, what other services might be needed, and any concerns on our part or theirs are addressed. You are given a written update, and may have to sign permission slips which will be appropriately filed. “Are we all on the same page?” is one underlying question, and “Do either of us know anything the other doesn’t know that would be helpful?”
The concern I voiced was “What would it take for my mom to get an assisted walk every day?” We resolved that to the best of our ability. Then they had one for me – a new behavior my mom has done just once so far: testing the system. She apparently called out to one of the cleaning people for help, telling them she had fallen and needed a nurse or caregiver. When the caregiver showed up several minutes later, they learned that she had indeed not fallen, but just wanted to see how long it would be before someone would come to help her.
Oh, boy. We’re going to “watch and wait”, see if this happens again. What is behind it – some sort of desire for attention? If it does happen again, she and I will have a little talk about: if you create false emergencies, then when you really DO have an emergency maybe no one would believe you… She is still lucid enough to understand that she shouldn’t be doing this.
All in all, I am pleased with where she is – she loves the physical space, the resident dog and cats, and she now has pretty good relationships with the staff. There is just this one little glitch.
Have you ever “cried wolf”, or known someone else who did?
Today’s post comes from Congressman Loomis Beechly, representing all the water surface area in the State of Minnesota.
Greetings, Constituents,
I am often asked who I support for President in 2016. Whenever this comes up, the first thing I have to do is check to see if I’ve thrown my own hat into the ring. So far, every time I’ve looked I’ve discovered that I’m not in the running. But I do like politics and I enjoy watching the debates for the color and pageantry, although usually with the sound turned down.
I know a lot of people complain about the number of candidates we’ve produced but I take it as a point of pride. The United States is bounteous in all things, and when I see a platoon of prospective presidents take the stage, my heart swells.
And I have to say I do like the uniform. Black suit. White Shirt. Red tie.
That’s for the men. For the women, simple dresses in bright colors, with red a clear favorite because back in the day it was the one eye-catching color that could get Ronald Reagan’s attention at a crowded press conference.
There is very little room to depart from this formula. Remember the shock and horror last summer when President Obama wore a brown suit? People are pretty clear about what they want. Like Top 40 music, presidential fashion has been thoroughly focus-grouped and the results offer very little room for improvisation.
I guess the tie can lean a little more toward burgundy, if you’re daring.
I want a commander-in-chief who will do whatever is necessary to serve our nation. So I was pleased to see that at their debate last night, most of the Republican candidates toed the line and wore the uniform. After all, if you’re going to win an election to lead the Land of the Free, you can’t be too independent. Those two guys who chose totally non-red ties must not want to be President very much.
I know they all have policy positions too, but it’s still so early in the process I don’t have time to pay attention to that. Those positions are bound to change anyway, as the pitch broadens out to include more Americans. I’ll catch up with the political survivors in August of 2016, when things like ideas start to matter.
But for now, it’s all about appearances. That’s why, when I see the uniform on display, as it was so clearly last night, I shake my head in wonder at the marvelous system we have created!
Header image of epic poet Homer is from Homer and His Guide, by William-Adolphe Bouguereau (1825–1905), portraying Homer on Mount Ida, beset by dogs and guided by the goat herder Glaucus. This image is in the public domain
Today’s post comes from tim
at concerts by daughters singing songs of the season
wondering if Muslims and Jews see the reason
that Donald is finding what Adolph would find
that solutions are easy if you disregard humankind
more dead in 5 weeks caused by hand guns it’s true
than have died due to terrorist since 2002
the NRA lobby owns the congressmen souls
with contributions gleaned from assault weapon holes
this ho ho ho season needs a bit of rethinking
while claiming peace love and unity what are they drinking
the world is messed up circa 2015
we’re right and were left but theres no in between
Americas crying out for a solution that works
get the others to think like me the stupid old jerks
it may be the most interesting of election
and cause centrist minds to rely on reflection
even if Hillary isn’t your lead pipe cinch
if the choice is tea party she’ll do in a pinch
Donald Ben Ted and Marco have the pundits all pacing
troubled times we live in and the problems were facing
when news is for revenue instead of for knowledge
presented for grade school instead of for college
capitalizing on fears of the ignorant masses
looking through blinders not rose colored glasses
the doors swinging open for change to occur
fixing problems by voting for him or for her
it’s never been easy being a tightrope dancer
can we put aside bickering and work toward an answer
the news is the thing that repeats in our ear
it’s driven by rating points soars when it’s fear
how about working to find answers to whys
instead of the posture that points fingers and cries
I hope we find closure with the best woman or best man
poor republican candidates becoming inside out yes men
or Donald who seems to enjoy shock value tactics
making political gymnasts do poll response back flips
the front page of world papers as the USA pigs
haven’t been seen since w left after he finished his gig
Donald Ben Ted or Mario all are so lame
Hillary should take it with match set and game
republicans stop while for whom the bell tolls
when decision popularity is measured in polls
the worlds a mess and Fox News a main reason
we all hate it again when its campaign news season
instead of 8 minutes before weather and sports
news has become cancer prime time with warts
the world is connected with social media dude
so get used to the idea of politically rude
Obama found out and Hillary will too
that an agendaed opponent hopes that you get screwed
they’ll do what they can to make straight lines go curving
then site your inaction as why they’re deserving
I think Donald Ben Ted and Marco will rewrite the Way
Americans view the right to vote on this day
it’s no longer a privilege that makes you feel proud
it makes you resort to a whimpering sound
I hope the world heals, be a shame if it doesn’t
the possible wonderful mess that just simply wasn’t
here’s hoping that holiday cheer will promote
the view that a pleasant feeling will emote
if only we try to let concern stay on track
and stop trying to heap ugly stuff on your back
if hatred and fear are the topics we lead with
it’s sadness and division we can be guaranteed with
look to the people who want to make good
on the promise to their kids hat life will be good
the golden rule spoken is all that need to be said
peace on earth to your fellow man now go to bed
Trail Baboon 
![The Boy Who Cried Wolf](http://"Boycriedwolfbarlow" by Francis Barlow - http://mythfolklore.net/aesopica/barlow/59.htm. Licensed under Public Domain via Commons - https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Boycriedwolfbarlow.jpg#/media/File:Boycriedwolfbarlow.jpg){kind=link}