The Hollisters at Hallowe'en

The Happy Hollisters and the Mystery of the Golden Witch, Jerry West

Finally! It's book 30 in the Hollisters series and the family is finally home in Shoreham! And it's October to boot. Pete (age 12), Pam, 10, seven-year-old Ricky, and Holly, age 6, plus 4-year-old Sue are off with their parents to the Johnson farm to buy pumpkins for their annual Hallowe'en party. They find Farmer Johnson stuck in the lane that leads to his pumpkin farm, his tractor broken. This means he won't be able to harvest his pumpkins and sell them at his farm stand. The warmhearted kids offer to help him harvest, tend the stand, and loan him their little burro, Domingo, and his cart until the crop's in, as well as offering their collie Zip as a watchdog for the burro. They also, while exploring the farm, discover a private graveyard and a riddle on an old headstone that hints there might be a treasure hidden on the farm! Plus Farmer Johnson has an old Model-T Ford in his barn, and the kids spot a strange young woman prowling near it. But it's when Pete and his friend Dave meet a man who offers them a reward if they find a weathervane in the shape of a witch that the mystery really starts.

 

We're taking a break from the travelogue stories of the last few books with a homegrown mystery involving the witch weathervane, why the mysterious "Curie-Us" is looking for it, the young lady who was found wandering near the barn, and even a woman entrepreneur, Aunt Nettie, who runs the local cider mill. Of course there's Joey Brill and Will Wilson to toss in a few mean pranks, and the Shoreham Hallowe'en festivities. An enjoyable entry in the series, with a couple of novel Hallowe'en items (like the RSVP for the party invitations) that I'd never heard of before.

"Leaves"

by Elsie N. Brady

How silently they tumble down
And come to rest upon the ground
To lay a carpet, rich and rare,
Beneath the trees without a care,
Content to sleep, their work well done,
Colors gleaming in the sun.

At other times, they wildly fly
Until they nearly reach the sky.
Twisting, turning through the air
Till all the trees stand stark and bare.
Exhausted, drop to earth below
To wait, like children, for the snow.

The People of Christmas: St. Francis of Assisi

Today is the feast day of St. Francis of Assisi, who is perhaps most commonly known as a lover of animals and nature. It was said that he preached the word of God even to the birds, and was so gentle with them that they came to him when he called, and birds perched on his heads. In the 1970s he was proclaimed the patron saint of ecology. In many churches, a Blessing of the Animals occurs around this date in honor of St. Francis. The current Pope, formerly Jorge Mario Bergoglio, picked his name in honor of the saint of Assisi, Italy.

Francis was originally christened "Giovanni" (John) and was the high-living son of a wealthy silk merchant. Even when he was a rich young man about town, he was known to give alms to the poor. After a sojourn to France, he returned to Italy with a love of all things French, so his family began calling him "Francesco" ("Frenchman").

Francis began to change after enduring an illness so severe it was feared he would die. Slowly, and to the dismay of his wealthy family, he began rejecting money and fine clothes and devoted himself to the poor. He founded the Franciscan order of monks, and also a similar organization of women, the Poor Clares.

Francis' connection to Christmas is simple: he was the first to create what we call "the Christmas crib," "the Nativity scene," or simply "the manger." He feared that people had forgotten that Jesus was born in a stable of humble parents, surrounded by animals, and staged the first living Nativity scene with carved figures representing the Holy Family (because it was thought using real humans might be blasphemous) and living sheep, donkeys, oxen, and other creatures. Later figures of wood, clay, porcelain, and so many other materials re-enacted the classic scene most people see under their Christmas tree, on a special table during the holiday season, in churches and on other properties.

The next time you're arranging your Nativity scene, thank St. Francis for adding this beautiful custom to the Christmas celebration.

Michaelmas

From the Historic UK website:

• Feast of Michael and All Angels.
  
• As it falls near the equinox, the day is associated with the beginning of autumn and the shortening of days.
• In England, it is one of the “quarter days”. There are traditionally four “quarter days” in a year (Lady Day (25th March), Midsummer (24th June), Michaelmas (29th September) and Christmas (25th December)). They are spaced three months apart, on religious festivals, usually close to the solstices or equinoxes. They were the four dates on which servants were hired, rents due or leases begun.
• St Michael is one of the principal angelic warriors, protector against the dark of the night and the Archangel who fought against Satan and his evil angels. As Michaelmas is the time that the darker nights and colder days begin – the edge into winter – the celebration of Michaelmas is associated with encouraging protection during these dark months.
• A well fattened goose, fed on the stubble from the fields after the harvest, is eaten to protect against financial need in the family for the next year; and as the saying goes:

  “Eat a goose on Michaelmas Day,
  Want not for money all the year”. 

   

  More Michaelmas Links
  

  The Merry Foods of Michaelmas
  
  Richmond Waldorf School Michaelmas Page
  
  Michaelmas: Prayers, Food, and Flowers

  Project Britain: Michaelmas

  
  

Autumnal Equinox

"Th[e] word, autumn, goes all the way back through Medieval English and Old French, autumpne and autompne, to the Latin autumnus, which is listed as "of uncertain origin." It simply means the third season of the year, that time between summer and winter, and apparently it always has. But my big dictionary adds, comfortingly, "the season known in America as Fall." Fall, of course, means many things—the fall of the leaves, the fall of temperature, the fall of man perhaps. Follow that word back and you come out at Old Dutch and Old German, vallen and fallen, meaning to go down, to descend, pretty much what we mean today when we use the word as a verb. It must have come to us as a season name through the Anglo-Saxon.

"Whatever you choose to call it, it is a beautiful time of the year, a comfortable and comforting time. It brings some of the most beautiful days, with clear, blue skies and mild winds and comfortable temperatures. It is adorned with color in the woodlands. It is the end of summer, but it also is a thoroughly pleasant interval between summer and winter."

. . . . . . . Hal Borland's Book of Days

Rudolph Day, August 2021

"Rudolph Day" is a way of keeping the Christmas spirit alive all year long. You can read a Christmas book, work on a Christmas craft project, listen to Christmas music or watch a Christmas movie.

 

Slashing Through the Snow, Jacqueline Frost

This is the third—and possibly last—book in Frost's "Christmas Tree Farm" mystery series taking place in Mistletoe, Maine, following 'Twas the Knife Before Christmas and The Twelve Slays of Christmas (although there's at least one unresolved plot line when the book ends). It's been a year since the inn at Reindeer Games, the Christmas tree farm run by the White family, opened, run by Holly White, who returned to her home town two years earlier. This year, Holly is trying to show a good time to Karen Moody, a persnickety reviewer for "New England Magazine," but Karen, whose annoying personality proceeds her, is all about complaining about the smallest thing. But it's no joke when Karen is found bludgeoned to death on the front porch of the Inn, her body in a collection bag meant for toys, and the murder weapon is the Christmas gift just given to Holly by her oldest (literally) and dearest friend, Delores "Cookie" Cutter, a metal nutcracker. Cookie's are the only fingerprints found on the nutcracker, and she had been heard by a guest making a bad joke about murdering Karen earlier in the day. So Sheriff Evan Gray must consider her the prime suspect, even if Holly won't stand for it. She determines she doesn't want to put herself in danger as in the previous two Christmases when first her dad and then her best friend were accused of murder, but she must clear Cookie somehow.

 

Due to Karen's personality, there are several suspects to zero in on, but I started looking at one person partway through the book and it turned out I was almost right. My big problem with this book is that other stuff was so predictable. For instance, Evan Gray and Holly are a couple, and when he says he's going to surprise her with something special for Christmas, I knew immediately what it was. Everybody else knows what it is, too, and I can't believe Holly didn't figure it out! Also, in the original synopsis the magazine critic was named Cleo. While that name seems to be overused in mystery fic these days, "Karen Moody" strikes me as such a pat, stereotypical name that it's annoying: "Karen" for the pushy privileged white woman who calls out people of color, and "Moody" describing her choleric personality. If you were going to peg anyone as being a pain in the ass, wouldn't you immediately think "Karen Moody"?

 

Once again with this series, I love the idea of the Christmas town, the great tree farm with its yummy coffee shop, and most of the supporting characters. But I would have preferred fewer stereotypes. And as for that surprise...Holly, dear, you are dense!

* * * * * * * *

Is it Christmas yet? Nope, still 120 days away! But here are some sites to get you in the mood:

* Northpole

* Smithsonian Magazine Christmas Articles

* My Merry Christmas

 

* Old-Fashioned Victorian Christmas

* Why Christmas?

Christmas in July

 

The Atlas of Christmas: The Merriest, Tastiest, Quirkiest Holiday Traditions from Around the World, Alex Palmer

I've been collecting Christmas books for 20-30 years now, so a lot of the customs talked about in this book I already know...but it's still a nifty little volume, because there are so many holiday customs I didn't know about as well. The book is divided into nine parts: Ceremonies and Rituals (Three Kings Day and Santa Lucia, among others), Musical Interludes and Interlopers (bagpipes in Italy rather than Scotland and mumming in Newfoundland), Local Quirks and Curious Practices (the much-vaunted Christmas book flood in Iceland along with Finnish saunas and a "poop log" in Spain), Saints and Gift Bringers (alternate Santa like La Befana, Frau Holle, Tante Arie, and even some male ones), Devils and Troublemakers (here comes Krampus with his long tongue and bag for naughty children and the problem with "Black Peter"), Holiday Trimmings and Trinkets (beautiful lanterns in the Philippines, a Yule goat, and a wheat chandelier), Fierce Competitions and Leisurely Pastimes (Christmas verse with a difference in the Netherlands and Christmas crackers), Savory and Satisfying Holiday Dishes (holiday foods...), and Celebratory Sweets (...and desserts and drinks).

 

This book includes a lot of new traditions from Africa and the Middle East that I'd never heard of, even a Chinese custom of giving apples during the holiday season, despite the government's efforts to suppress Western holidays. If you don't have any other books about Christmas customs in other lands, this would be a great starter volume for reading about world holiday customs. It's illustrated with quaint little cutout paper type illustrations, although photos of some of the food would have been cool. The only problem is that someone appeared to quit proofreading the book about halfway through and there are references to other articles that say "see page TK," but this doesn't spoil the narrative. Also, they seemed to skip the German custom of the peppermint pig.

(Incidentally, the story you hear about the custom of the pickle ornament on German Christmas trees is not here, as Germans say it's not a German custom.)

A Christmas Legacy, Anne Perry

This is this year's Christmas book from Perry, who is most famous for her two Victorian mystery series: the later set Charlotte and Thomas Pitt stories starting with The Cater Street Hangman and the earlier set William Monk/Hester Latterley novels starting with Face of A Stranger. In each of the books she has a usually minor character from one of the two series facing some sort of problem during the Yuletide season.

A Christmas Legacy stars one of Perry's most beloved supporting characters, Gracie Phipps Tellman, once the teenage servant of the Pitts. Now married to Thomas Pitt's old partner on the Metropolitan Police, Samuel Tellman, with three children (Charlotte "Charlie," Thomas, and Victor), Gracie takes pity on Millie Foster, whose mother she and Tellman had helped when Millie was a child. Millie works as a maid for a wealthy family and things like food are disappearing from the kitchen. She's afraid something odd is going on and the servants will be blamed for it, and she's desperate for someone to help. If one of the servants gets dismissed without a character reference, they will likely spend the rest of their lives on the street. So Gracie concocts a story that Millie is ill, produces a character reference from Charlotte Pitt, and with her husband's blessing, takes Millie's place at the Harcourt home. She promises Tellman and little Charlie she will be home for Christmas, but is immediately swept up in the problems Millie has spoken about, and can't figure out for the life of her what's going on...but it has to do with the food, and something upstairs.

I think readers will guess pretty quickly what's going on after Gracie finds out the secret of the food and especially after a conversation between the Harcourts, but it's the humanity of Gracie's reaction once she discovers the problem and the actions of the servants that carry this book. The actual mystery is a bit cliche, but it's all heartwarming, and Charlie is a darling character. I really wish Perry would write some books about Tellman's cases and how Gracie has helped him, as they intimate she has in at least one case with Millie's mother, as I find Gracie and Tellman both more interesting than her newest character, Elena Standish.

Happy Independence Day!

Happy Leon Day!

"Leon" is "Noel" spelled backwards, and it's now six months until Christmas. Lots of fun upcoming soon: autumn leaves, Hallowe'en, cooler temps, Thanksgiving, Advent, pumpkins and cinnamon, peppermint and gingerbread, the dream of wintry breezes.

 

(And—O frabjous day!—finally the Friends of the Library book sale!)

 

All we have to do is make it through the sultry, stultifying, smelly, stinky, sweaty siege that is the remainder of summer.

 

I'd be happy for Independence Day, but the fireworks make the dog crazy...

 

 

"Easter Thoughts"

Dawning awakes and throws across the sky

Bright strands of pink that widen as they spread

And make a pathway for the sleepy sun till he

In rapture paints the waking world in gold.

Below, the pussywillows toss their yellow heads

At early trees, quite golden in the light,

And fresh forsythia vying with the sun;

Even the little dewdrops catch his rays

And sparkle like a million tiny flames

Upon the emerald grass; a voice is hear

Of many twittering birds that welcome with their songs

The dawning—and its symphony in gold.

Perhaps this proves to humans why Christ died;

Perhaps it means that there could be no Death–

Only a temporary night which flees and vanishes

Before a flood of light and golden morning.

Isabel B. Roche, age 11

from the July 1933 St. Nicholas magazine "St. Nicholas League"

Easter Greetings!

What are some of your Easter memories? I remember...

 

There was almost always a new spring dress for Easter, and new strap Sunday shoes, purchased after a deadly dull trip downtown to look at only clothes and shoes. I hated the early skirts of my childhood, which were stiffened with starched tulle slips and itched abominably. New Sunday shoes hurt, too. Had I grown over the year I would also get a new Easter hat, usually along the line of an old-fashioned bonnet or straw boater, with flowers on it (how annoying that awful elastic band that kept it firmly anchored to your head, but irritated the skin in the fold between your head and your neck!), and a new spring coat in a suitably spring color: pale yellow, pink, pale blue, and the most memorable one, a woven fabric of spring green, with saucer-like buttons down the front (see photo below from May 1967, I am eleven).

 

Mom would have baked Easter goodies: perhaps some wine biscuits for me, but more "spring" type baked goods: egg biscuits, finished with a light sugar glaze and sprinkles on top; almond bars for dad. She would also make a rice pie, which was, as you might guess, made with rice, with sugar and eggs. No top crust; it looked like a custard pie.

 

On Good Friday she would shut the TV off from noon to three, the hours Jesus was on the cross, and say her rosary and read the Bible. I was expected to be quiet, too, and occupied myself perhaps with reading my children's Bible, or coloring quietly, later just reading.

 

At the grocery store earlier she would have bought all the goodies for Easter dinner: a very small Virginia brown sugar ham, some potatoes, some type of vegetable, and we had the rice pie or the cookies for dessert. We might have already watched some religious films on TV: Barabbas with Anthony Quinn, or The Robe, and there would be just some generic Catholic films on as well, like Sally and Saint Anne, The Miracle of Our Lady of Fatima, Song of Bernadette, Going My Way. Our Easter lily, in a ceramic pot wrapped with pastel colored foil, sat on the front steps, and we still had the vase of pussy willows Uncle Guido brought us every spring sitting on the kitchen table.

 

Sunday began with 10:15 Mass, upstairs, a High Mass, which meant we could sing along with the choir, but it wouldn't do much good as we would have been drowned out. There were usually three priests officiating, Father Bernasconi as the main celebrant, and the scent of incense drowning out anything else, from the big waxy-white Easter lilies with their pale yellow throats on the altar to the lily and carnation corsages our mothers wore. All the responses were sung, so High Mass took a while, and since you'd been fasting since you woke up, so you could receive Communion, everyone would be very hungry once Mass let out at 11:30. You had to file out decorously, shaking hands with Father on the way out—and then bunches of people made tracks to Solitro's Bakery, one block down, to pick up some pastry for the afternoon. The line would snake out the front door and down the street. Everyone else was in the parking lot, waiting in or near their car, for the people in front of them to quit hugging and kissing friends and get in their cars to go home.

 

Easter dinner was at noon or thereafter: the sweet, succulent ham, warmed up in the oven with brown sugar and canned pineapple in juice, the potatoes, the veg. As on all Sundays, we would probably go for "a ride" after dinner: this was usually up to Diamond Hill or down to Oakland Beach, or out to Scituate and drive around the reservoir, but on Easter Sunday we joined the long, long lines going through the big black iron gates at the entrance to Roger Williams Park on Elmwood Avenue to take photos with the new beds of colorful tulips and hyacinths and crocuses, a riot of scarlet and saffron, lilac and orange, lavender and white, or else to the Japanese garden if the weather had been warm enough—alas, there were Easter Sundays, especially in March, where we went to church in winter coats and clothes—and the flowering trees were in bloom, branches snowy in white or looking like cotton candy in pink. Sometimes we would also walk in the zoo and pet the farm animals, still shaggy with winter coats.

 

Then about 4 or later, it was off to Papà's house where Aunty Margaret had fragrant coffee waiting along with her nicely decorated trays of cookies: more egg biscuits, some of them finished with sparkly silver dragées; the inevitable little torrone pieces in their colorful boxes; struffoli basted in honey and sprinkled with tiny multicolor candy periods, and wandi doused in confectioners' sugar (the latter two probably ordered beforehand from a bakery, as they were time-consuming to make); and even Easter-colored wrapper Hershey's kisses. Even with all this bounty, someone had evidently gone earlier to one of the numerous bakeries in the Silver Lake neighborhood like Crugnale's or Scialo's and there were pastries: lemon squares, sfogliatelles, cannoli, New Yorkers... Oh, and pizza strips! I called it "bakery pizza," and every Italian bakery had them: rectangular pans with pizza crust covered in pizza sauce. No cheese, just goodness.

 

When we got home there was this year's Easter basket to look forward to. We did not dye eggs in our house. Nobody ate hard-boiled eggs and they would have had to be thrown out; as teens in the Depression and conserving food during the second World War, my parents refused to waste food. I usually got an Easter basket Mom had put together. I wasn't allowed jelly beans or Peeps (nothing pure sugar, and I disliked them anyway), but there was the nice basket; Easter grass for a colorful bedding (the basket and the grass were stored in the attic and used year after year); a few plastic eggs with faux gold coins in them; usually a new stuffed Easter bunny, each year in a different color: white, pink, pale blue—the bunnies stopped when I was twelve and finally received my favorite one, a brown-and-white rabbit that looked almost like the real thing; I named him Harold J. Rabbit, "Hoppy" for short); small solid-chocolate eggs with colorful foil wrappers that I carefully removed, flattened, and used to make Christmas ornaments from; and of course a big Peter Rabbit, a hollow chocolate Easter bunny. This I would nibble on successive days during the week, from the tail to the ears, until it was all gone.

Nine Months Until Christmas

Solemnity of the Annunciation of the Lord

In the sixth month, God sent the angel Gabriel to Nazareth, a town in Galilee, to a virgin pledged to be married to a man named Joseph, a descendant of David. The virgin's name was Mary.

The angel went to her and said, "Greetings, you who are highly favoured! The Lord is with you."

Mary was greatly troubled at his words and wondered what kind of greeting this might be.

But the angel said to her, "Do not be afraid, Mary, you have found favour with God. You will be with child and give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus. He will be great and will be called the Son of the Most High. The Lord God will give him the throne of his father David, and he will reign over the house of Jacob forever; his kingdom will never end."

"How will this be," Mary asked the angel, "since I am a virgin?"

The angel answered, "The Holy Spirit will come upon you, and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. So the holy one to be born will be called the Son of God. Even Elizabeth your relative is going to have a child in her old age, and she who was said to be barren is in her sixth month. For nothing is impossible with God."

"I am the Lord's servant," Mary answered. "May it be to me as you have said." Then the angel left her.

 

 

Today Valentine's Day seems mostly like an excuse to chivvy one person into buying expensive jewelry or gifts for another (with the burden being especially on young men to buy diamonds to "prove their love" to a young woman). And indeed it's always been associated with "courting" and romantic love in some way. But children also have celebrated Valentine's Day in school in past years. A big box was covered with red paper and you bought Valentine cards at the five-and-ten cent store for all your classmates and dropped them in the box. Back in those days children didn't have as many allergies as they do now, and cupcakes and candy were often provided on the holiday to be enjoyed after the cards were distributed.

 

❥ 1950s Children's Valentine Cards 

 

❥ 1960s Children's Valentine Cards 

 

Children in the 19th century didn't have pre-made Valentine cards and relied on their imaginations to have a successful Valentine gathering. The second half of this chapter of the classic novel What Katy Did shows inventive Katy hosting an clever Valentine celebration despite the fact she is confined to bed after a spinal injury.

 

❥ Chapter 10: St. Nicholas and St. Valentine 

Somewhere It's Snowing...But Not Here

Snowy Night 

Mary Oliver

Last night, an owl
in the blue dark
tossed
an indeterminate number
of carefully shaped sounds into
the world, in which,
a quarter of a mile away, I happened
to be standing.
I couldn’t tell
which one it was –
the barred or the great-horned
ship of the air –
it was that distant. But, anyway,
aren’t there moments
that are better than knowing something,
and sweeter? Snow was falling,
so much like stars
filling the dark trees
that one could easily imagine
its reason for being was nothing more
than prettiness. I suppose
if this were someone else’s story
they would have insisted on knowing
whatever is knowable – would have hurried
over the fields
to name it – the owl, I mean.
But it’s mine, this poem of the night,
and I just stood there, listening and holding out
my hands to the soft glitter
falling through the air. I love this world,
but not for its answers.
And I wish good luck to the owl,
whatever its name –
and I wish great welcome to the snow,
whatever its severe and comfortless
and beautiful meaning.

"Winter Night"

Pile high the hickory and the light
Log of chestnut struck by the blight.
Welcome-in the winter night.

The day has gone in hewing and felling,
Sawing and drawing wood to the dwelling
For the night of talk and story-telling.

These are the hours that give the edge
To the blunted axe and the bent wedge,
Straighten the saw and lighten the sledge.

Here are question and reply,
And the fire reflected in the thinking eye.
So peace, and let the bob-cat cry.

                                                           Edna St. Vincent Millay

"When Winter Came to Call"

Mildred L. Jarrell
from Ideals Christmas 2020

A silver world was all about
when I awoke this morn,
for overnight the silver frost
of winter came along.

An ermine robe was draped around
the stately evergreens,
and tatted lace of frost was placed
on deown pond and stream.

The little brook was silent,
locked in winter's clasp,
Hemmed in crystal stitchery
with icy blades of grass.

The meadow lay in silence,
while over all the snow,
wildlings tracked their calling cards
where'er they'd come and go.

A wondrous cloak of whiteness
the snow king laid o'er all,
fashioned from a leaden sky
when winter came to call.

Last of the Christmas Books (At Least Until Rudolph Day)

Ideals Christmas 2020, Ideals Publications

As Christmas got derailed, so did my reading. Since the 24th of December most nights I have tumbled into bed without reading what with being so exhausted or sad. I'd intended to get a few more volumes under my belt but never made it. (My digital reading is way behind, too; I still have autumn magazines I put aside for Christmas magazines I never got to, and the few hardcopy magazines I bought I am still reading through as well.) But just over the line, one night, on Distaff Day, I decided to fit this one in.

This year's issue had a lot more essays in it than usual, as always of the inspirational/nostalgic sort. Anne Kennedy Brady, daughter of Pamela Kennedy who has an annual essay, has one of her own this year about the family's plane trip to visit Grandma, where, Pamela reveals, they ended up crowded in one cabin instead of having two. David La France suggests a unique keepsake if you get a live tree each year. There are nine essays in all, plus the usual complement of Christmas poems—I was particularly fond of "Simple Joys" and "Christmas Song"—plus Tennyson's "Voices in the Mist," four pages of Biblical quotations and accompanying illustrations, two pages of recipes and another duo of quotations, the story of the hymn "O Come, O Come Emmanuel," and of course the softly nostalgic paintings and simple photographic still lifes (including a snug little den scene that I wanted to leap into) that give the "Ideals" books their distinct flavor.

My favorite piece was probably the winter poem by Mildred Jarrell, "When Winter Came to Call," with its lovely imagery, and the quote from Mary Oliver's "Snowy Night."

Along Sea and Over Land in Kent

A Kent Christmas, Sutton Books

I found the first of these Sutton Christmas anthologies (A Worcestershire Christmas, if you care) at a library book sale several years back, and another at a library sale a couple of years later. I think the coronavirus emergency made me a little crazy this year; every time I found a book from this series for less than five dollars with postage, I bought one and managed to accumulate nearly a half dozen, a portion which will either need to be saved for Rudolph Days or next Christmas, thanks to our perilous Christmas adventures. Anyway, these contain short excerpts of Christmas/Christmastide passages from various British novels, memoirs, and poetry books, with the action taking place in the shire or historical era denoted in the title.

Kent, in the southeastern portion of England and one of the "home counties" around London, is famous for being the home of Canterbury Cathedral and also for the Romney Marsh coast where smugglers, enraged at the taxes the King imposed on luxury items, especially from France, flourished. With the latter, it is totally appropriate that the first entry is a Christmas tale from Russell Thorndyke's multi-book "Dr. Syn" series, which was made into Walt Disney's noted Scarecrow of Romney Marsh three-part story and later film. Due to Kent's Channel-side location, a Christmas shipwreck story is also in order.

Dickens' happiest childhood days were spent in Kent and The Pickwick Papers' Christmas scenes were set there, so there are two entries from that volume, Christmas Day itself and a Boxing Day spent skating. Nonfiction includes several memoirs from men and women who remember their childhoods in Kent, including a butcher's daughter, and a man who recalls a snowstorm which isolated his family for days over the holidays, and some of the unique customs, including the Hooden Horse, in which players went from house-to-house with a man dressed as a horse as part of their act.

Two Kentish historical events also figure in this volume: the return of Lord Nelson's body after his death at Trafalgar to England where he was interred over the Christmas holidays. Nelson's body was preserved in a barrel of brandy, and, when decanted, was found to be well preserved. The other death was of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury as appointed by Henry II, who then became the King's enemy by taking the church's side against the monarch. Becket was murdered in Canterbury Cathedral on December 29, 1170.

Other articles address Christmas at the Churchill country residence, Chartwell; unique Kent versions of Christmas songs; royal visits to Eltham; even a recipe for Christmas pudding and an old-fashioned Twelfth Night cake. A nice package of essays, especially the historical ones.

Who...is La Befana?

The story goes that as the Magi made their way west following the Star, they stopped one night at the home of a lone woman, living on her own or widowed we do not know, and asked a favor. Depending on the story, they asked to water the camels, or asked to stop for the night on her land, or perhaps asked to buy any fresh food she had to supplant what dried supplies they had brought with them. This elderly woman was famous in the area she lived for her cleanliness, and she indeed was once again cleaning her small cottage when the Magi stopped by. Legend has it that she was quite rude to them, and may have even refused their request, or given to them what they asked with bad grace.

 

Yet the Magi treated her respectfully and told her the story of the Child they were looking for. She was too busy scrubbing something to even look up at the Star. Some hours after the Magi left and she'd finished scrubbing, she thought about what they had said about the Child and felt ashamed. She dressed in traveling clothes and stout boots and found a big bag into which she put some toys (whether she bought them or they were her grown children's toys no one knows), looked up in the sky, and began following the Star, too.

 

Alas, she never caught up with the Magi, and felt so badly that now yearly she travels from home to home on the eve of the Epiphany still looking for the Christ Child. She looks carefully into the face of every child she sees, but since he or she is not the Child she is looking for, she leaves them a toy or a book or something else special instead.

In Italy this gift giver is known as "La Befana," "Befana" coming from the word "Epiphania," from the feast of the Epiphany on January 6. She's portrayed as a typical old Italian woman in a long skirt, cloak, and slippers or shoes, and she rides a broom like a stereotypical witch to get around to search all the children of the earth on Twelfth Night, so she is frequently referred to as "the Christmas witch." La Befana used to be the only gift giver in Italy until the advent of "Babbo Natale," Father Christmas or Santa Claus. So now some lucky Italian children get gifts both on Christmas and Epiphany, and should they live in northern Italy, they often get a visit from "Santo Nicolo," St. Nicholas, too!

This custom also exists one other place, in Russia. There our gift-giver is known as Baboushka.

 

"La Befana Vien Di Notte" Song 

 

Italian Rail's The Legend of La Befana 

 

La Befana: The Witch of Christmas 

 

The Befana Tradition 

The Legend of La Befana