Birdie Berries

Day 67: English Holly is considered an invasive species in much or all of western Washington, so although I normally would not cut greens from a living tree to use as decoration, when a Holly made itself available to me at the roadside, I decided to take measures to reduce its spread, if only in a very small way. Assuredly, I would be a poor host to Pik-pik and his mom, wintering on my mantel, unless I provided some fruit for their diet. Pik-pik began begging immediately, little wings spread and his beak turned up to his mother as if to say, "Can't you thaw them out any faster?" Like any youngster, he loves his sweets, but we all know what happens when you eat too many berries. That's one way English Holly spreads, after all.

St. Nicholas' Day Greetings!

Day 65: St. Nicholas' Day was a significant event in our household when I was growing up, a foretaste of Christmas for a little girl who was trying (but not always succeeding) at being good as gold in anticipation of a visit from Santa Claus. I was too young to understand the permutations which had carried the good saint from holy man to roly-poly man, although I felt instinctively that there was some connection between the two. On one hand, Santa was a jovial and grandfatherly sort who inspired affection, while on the other, St. Nicholas was someone for whom I felt a deep respect and perhaps a little awe. You could cozy up to Santa and sit on his knee, but you would have approached Nicholas with deference and might have dropped a curtsey as you offered him your hand.

Both of these figures brought gifts. Santa had his big bag full of toys, but St. Nicholas brought candy. Santa came down the chimney at midnight when I was fast asleep. Nicholas was bolder. He came between the evening meal and bedtime, arriving and departing in clandestine haste. He seemed to show up at the moment when I least expected him, when for a second my anticipation lapsed and I was engaged by something else. I was convinced that he could read my thoughts, an ability I attributed to Santa in a much smaller degree. When my attention wandered (and what child's doesn't?), a sudden THUMP would bring me out of my reverie and send me scampering for the door, and whether front door or back was not predictable, subject to the saint's whim. There, I would find a bag of candy, but never for all the times I looked did I see footprints in the snow.

Treasure in hand, I would then rejoin my mother where she sat reading. "Look at what St. Nicholas brought me!" I'd exclaim. And when my father came back in the room, having excused himself earlier to work on a project or visit the bathroom, I would share with my parents the brightly colored ribbon candy the good saint had delivered, none the wiser until my dad passed away.