From the land where ice is ice.
To make even the kindest jest about Christmas offends
some good-hearted people, and if our ruminations in
previous weeks regarding the yule season have done so,
we offer our apologies.
Nothing offends Mother Weeg, however, she seems to only
see errors in thinking that have a simple remedy: better
information. There is, in Iceland, we're told, an old
folk tale of the Christmas Cat, a legend we can take some stock in.
"That Cat Was Huge Indeed", they say, not kitty-cat, nor pussy-cat,
but a man-eater, a meat-grinder, and a sore loser. His celestial
policy entitled him, somehow, to eat anyone who had no new
clothing on Christmas Day. (We look over our shoulder at the
slightest sound.)
There is, in these other countries, much more of the
character and the meaning that surrounds this time of
year, and Mother Weeg has carefully gathered up those
fascinating stories from her friends around the world,
and brings them to us this week.
Old habits die hard, no matter whose habits they are.
Those of our tiny powerhouse, the pweedlemeister, tend
always toward bringing goodness and joy into a sometimes
cruel and stupid world. Our own, sometimes, we must keep
in check, and remind ourselves that our habit of finding
fault and falsehood in the world sometimes conceals from us
the good things... the things never out of Patricia's
sight for long. Merry Christmas, Mother Weeg.
Take a ride with the Delmar Spiders for...
A Holiday Tour |
December 24, 1995 Charles Paparella The Shore Journal