Merry Christmas

Perhaps the stockings will be hung from the chimney with more care this year. For it seems that an anthropologist (it never matters who in these accounts) discovered the origin of St. Nicholas in a primitive fertility god--truly a shock for those of us who have regarded the great man with blind affection all these years.

We should have seen it coming. Claus had a furtive air about him to begin with, like a man who drinks before noon. First, there was the song about Mommy kissing him on the sly--and of course that reindeer with the bulbous nose (probably acquired from "nightcaps" during the long polar dark). But now, the flood-gates are opened. We will be hearing Freudian chuckles about Santa's pipe, husbands will be accused of wearing invisible antlers; children will be warned about fat, beared men who get too friendly.

Perhaps Santa ought to be left alone for a while, like a Passion Play one takes out of mothballs only every ten years or so. In the meantime, we can make do with Christmas trees and holly, turkeys, cranberry sauce and mistletoe (which is, thank goodness, only a plant). Then our days would be merry and bright, and all our Christmases, pristine white.