It is Lucia day in Sweden, which means among other things that Christmas is right around the corner. (Gasp!) When my neighbors invited me over "for a bite to eat" later this evening, I felt the Christmas panic rising and I don't even do stuff any more, no leaky trees, no hauling out baubles from the spirit of Christmases past. An accelerating sense of emergency, nonetheless.

So, I got the idea to help everyone with similar panic. If we OD on Christmas before it gets here, we will be resistant to disappointment, no longer expectant, no longer with hopes built high to collapse alongside the lemon soufflé.

This is the place to share the name and a short (very short if copyrighted) extract from your favorite Christmas- related text: poems, psalms, prose, smutty acrostic. You choose.

Since I am of a cynical nature (when I am not being overly romantic), here is my contribution. It is from Adrian Mole and the Weapons of Mass Destruction, by Sue Townsend, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sue_Townsend, a marvelously funny writer, if you haven't read her work, do, oh do, it will cure even the most severe case of Christmas depression.

Wednesay, December 25th
Christmas Day

Woke up with the usual adult disappointment that there was not a sack of toys at the end of my bed. The sky was grey and it was drizzling. Why can't the weather give us a break for once and snow on Christmas Day?
(…)
The atmosphere at my parents' living room was more Pinter than Dickens. There was a Christmas tree in the corner of the room but it was a scraggy affair and looked more as though it was apologizing for its almost bare branches. My mother had done her best with three sets of Christmas lights, baubles and tinsel. I was pleased to see that the 'bell' I had made out of an eggbox and a pipe-cleaner when I was seven had been hung in a prominent position at the front of the tree. I sensed that my mother was depressed.
(…)
At 11 o'clock my father put on the Russian hat with the ear flaps that he wears in the winter and said that he had to go out and fetch something. I watched him get into his second-hand camper van and drive off.

I said to my mother, "I'm surprised you let Dad wear that, Mum. He looks so weird in it.'

She said aggressively, 'Mozart, van Gogh and Einstein were not conventional men.'

I went into the kitchen and stuffed the limbless and wingless turkey. There were still som ice crystals inside the bird, but quite frankly, diary, salmonella poisoning seemed quite a welcome prospect.

I enjoyed Adrian Mole, butwhat I really wanted to now is how Swedish Christmas Trees LEAK?

Janice,
I love Adrian Mole. And have you read her book about the British Royal Family?

And just how do Swedish christmas trees leak?

Lovely topic.
Janet

ha, ha, Swedish Christmas trees leak needles just like Christmas trees all over the world, drip, drop, drip, drop, The needles drop off the branches like drips from a gazillion leaking faucets and drip, drop to the floor. They spread in small streams under rugs and sofas and you never see them again until Easter. Everybody knows that!

What! No votes for "a little old driver, so lively and quick, " or "St. Luke 2:1-20."

Dylan Thomas's "A Child's Christmas in Wales": http://www.classicshorts.com/stories/xmas.html

[ Excerpt ]

Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea."

"But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."

"Were there postmen then, too?"

"With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully. But all that the children could hear was a ringing of bells."

"You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"

"I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."

"I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."

"There were church bells, too."

"Inside them?"

"No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops and storks. And they rang their tidings over the bandaged town, over the frozen foam of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It seemed that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the weathercocks crew for Christmas, on our fence."

"Get back to the postmen."

"They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the doors with blue knuckles. . . ."

"Ours has got a black knocker. . . ."

"And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted porches and huffed and puffed, making ghosts with their breath, and jogged from foot to foot like small boys wanting to go out."

"And then the presents?"

"And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled down the tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on fishmonger's slabs.

"He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's hump, dizzily turned the corner on one foot, and, by God, he was gone."

"Get back to the Presents."

"There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like silky gum that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding tam-o'-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything about the wasp, except why."

Go to this page to hear Thomas's own reading of the first half of the story.

(Btw I have dibs on "Everything about the Wasp, Except Why" as a poem title -- in fact this epic work is already drafted and in the "put away in the drawer for now" stage.)


[This message has been edited by peterjb (edited December 14, 2008).]

I don't know so much about Sweden, but Norwegians have a verb 'drysse' for what the trees do with their leaves. Essentially it's the shedding of them after the trees have dried out in the indoor (and rootless) environment. You can pay two or three times as much and get an 'edelgrann', or 'noble fir', which holds on to its leaves. It's the spruce that loses its leaves though, and for many that's the only tree that can be called Christmas.
I once sold a Danish edelgrann to the Norwegian prime minister, and not a penny of it went through the books.

Was that your books, Peter, or his?

I searched in vain for Barry Humphries' (of Dame Edna Everage fame) character Sandy Stone--an old ghost in a dressing gown and slippers, who recalls Christmases in hot windy Melbourne when "all the chrissy cards had blown off the mantlepiece". It is a wonderful recreation of the hell of a traditional northern European Christmas day spent in the boiling heat of an Australian summer.

[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited December 14, 2008).]

peterb, great to get a reminder about "A Child's Christmas in Wales". I have that booklet somewhere and will look for it tomorrow. I have a feeling it might be in one of the boxes of Christmas ornaments which I am was determined not to open.

Now I am going to listen to that reading, for which reference I send you many thanks.

Peter R. If you sold an edelgran (silver fir) to Gro, I hope you got her autograph.

Maybe we can look forward to a contribution from you to the Translations forum??

Keep looking, Janet.

Here is one for erudite Eratospherians. There is a famous short story about the poverty-stricken lovers who, to buy each other a Christmas present, parted with the most precious possession of each. She sold her hair to buy him a watch chain. He sold his watch to buy an ornament for her hair.

This is how I remember the plot anyway. Possibly it is by Poe. Anybody recognize that story and know the title and the author?

It's by O. Henry and it has a lovely title which I must check up on. Something like "The Gift of the Magi".

YES. That's the one. I love it. Thanks for reminding me of it Janice.

[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited December 14, 2008).]

Gotta have "The Tex-Mex Night Before Christmas"! I've posted it once before, a bit down this thread:
http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtm...ML/000579.html

Today was my daughters' final performance of The Nutcracker--hooray!--which puts me in mind of Noel Coward's poem about being a child actor in Christmas plays...I'll see if I can find that one, despite its certain damnation around here for rhyming "remember" with "December".

(My big moment came yesterday, when our Czar Mouse had the flu but performed his role anyway because he is seven feet tall and the costume only fits him--anyway, he "died" early and in the wrong spot onstage (he later explained that he had actually fainted). The two people who usually drag him offstage during the stage blackout were trapped on the wrong side of the big fog machine. I was the only stagehand close enough to run out and drag him offstage before the spotlight came off the weeping Clara to show the transformed Nutcracker Prince. Mind you, I am a very scrawny, bony, unathletic person, and the guy weighs at least twice what I do, but I DID IT! Ah, the miracle of adrenaline! Fortunately he felt much better today.)

Julie Stoner



[This message has been edited by Julie Stoner (edited December 14, 2008).]

Apparently there's video of Noel Coward reciting it:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3Mv7VftdtAw

Anyway:

The Boy Actor
by Noel Coward

I can remember, I can remember,
The months of November and December
.....Were filled for me with peculiar joys
So different from those of other boys
.....For other boys would be counting the days
Unitl the end of term and holiday times
.....But I was acting in Christmas plays
While they were taken to pantomimes.
.....I didn't envy their Eton suits,
Their children's dances and Christmas trees.
.....My life had wonderful substitutes
For such conventional treats as these.
.....I didn't envy their country larks,
Their organized games in paneled halls:
.....While they made snowmen in stately parks
I was counting the curtain calls.

.....I remember the auditions, the nerve-wracking auditions:
.....Darkened auditoriums and empty, dusty stage,
.....Little girls in ballet dresses practicing "positions,"
.....Gentlemen in pince-nez asking you your age.
.....Hopefulness and nervousness struggling within you,
.....Dreading the familiar phrase, "Thank you, dear, no more."
.....Straining every muscle, every tendon, every sinew
.....To do your dance much better than you'd ever done before.
.....Think of your performance. Never mind the others,
.....Never mind the pianist, talent must prevail.
.....Never mind the baleful eyes of other children's mothers
.....Glaring from the corners and willing you to fail.

I can remember, I can remember,
The months of November and December
.....Were more significant to me
Than other months could ever be
.....For they were the months of high romance
When destiny waited on tip-toe,
.....When every boy actor stood a chance
Of getting into a Christmas show.
.....Not for me the dubious heaven
Of being some prefect's protégé!
.....Not for me the Second Eleven.
For me, two performances a day.

.....Ah, those first rehearsals! Only very few lines:
.....Rushing home to mother, learning them by heart,
....."Enter Left, through window"--Dots to mark the cue lines:
....."Exit with the others"--still it was a part.
.....Opening performance; legs a bit unsteady,
.....Dedicated tension, shivers down my spine,
.....Powder, grease, and eye-black, sticks of make-up ready
.....Leichner number three and number five and number nine.
.....World of strange enchantment, magic for a small boy
.....Dreaming of the future, reaching for the crown,
.....Rigid in the dressing-room, listening for the call boy
....."Overture Beginners--Everybody Down!"

I can remember, I can remember,
The months of November and December,
.....Although climatically cold and damp,
Meant more to me than Aladdin's lamp,
.....I see myself, having got a job,
Walking on wings along the Strand,
.....Uncertain whether to laugh or sob
And clutching tightly my mother's hand.
.....I never cared who scored the goal
Or which side won the silver cup,
.....I never learnt to bat or bowl
But I heard the curtain going up.

Thank you, Janet, for sharing your smarts. I found it in my series collecting O. Henry's stories, published 1906, in the book titled "The Four Million".

(...) Now there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the Queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

And it ends:

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for eah other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. Of all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

Thanks to Julie also. I am a devotee of Noel Coward.

Wonderful to get all the literary clips abounding around your referenced one, I drown, I drown.

The middle short poem by Hemingway (here)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MFRuh8eaj1k

has a Christmas connection as well.

Everybody, don't miss Julie's link above. If you did not look, go back and do it NOW.

The Tex-Mex Night Before Christmas

Jim and Nita Lee (Dec. 1972)

'Twas the night before Christmas and all through la casa
Not a creature was stirring. ¡Caramba! ¿Qué pasa?
Los niños were all tucked away in their camas,
Some in vestidos and some in pijamas.
(...)

(PS. Hooray for the Czar Mouse! A real troooper.)

One of my favorite Christmas card sentiments. sent to my husband by an old school buddy:

Merry Christmas, times are hard,
Here's your f---ing CHristmas card!

One Christmas Eve, Santa confused
his spreadsheets and carelessly used
... a list of exclusions,
... which led to confusion
when all of the gifts went to Jews.

Who can forget this immortal gem?


It has always seemed to me after all, that Christmas, with its
spirit of giving, offers us all a wonderful opportunity each year
to reflect on what we all most sincerely and deeply believe in--
I refer of course, to money. Yet none of the Christmas carols
that you hear on the radio or in the street, even attempt to
capture the true spirit of Christmas as we celebrate it in the
United States, that is to say, the commercial spirit. So I should
like to offer the following Christmas carol for next year, as
being perhaps a bit more appropriate.


CHRISTMAS TIME
(Tom Lehrer)

Christmas time is here, by golly,
Disapproval would be folly.
Deck the halls with hunks of holly,
Fill the cup and don't say when.

Kill the turkeys, ducks and chickens,
Mix the punch, drag out the Dickens.
Even though the prospect sickens,
Brother, here we go again.

On Christmas Day, you can't get sore,
Your fellow man you must adore.
There's time to rob him all the more
The other three hundred and sixty-four.

Relations, sparing no expense'll
Send some useless old utensil,
Or a matching pen and pencil.
("Just the thing I need, how nice!")

It doesn't matter how sincere it is,
Nor how heart felt the spirit,
Sentiment will not endear it,
What's important is the price.

Hark, the Herald Tribune sings,
Advertising wondrous things.
God rest ye merry merchants,
May ye make the Yuletide pay.
Angels we have heard on high,
Tell us to go out and buy!

So let the raucous sleigh bells jingle,
Hail our dear old friend Kris Kringle,
Driving his reindeer across the sky.
Don't stand underneath when they fly by.!

Actually I did rather well myself, this last Christmas.
The nicest present I received was a gift certificate
good at any hospital for a lobotomy. Rather thoughtful.

Listen to it Here

[This message has been edited by Martin Rocek (edited December 17, 2008).]

Robert Benchley could also be delightfully cynical about the holidays, notably in his essay "A Good Old-Fashioned Christmas".