Coal and Onions

This is a circa-1332 C.E./A.D. tempera painting on a piece of wood, about 2' x 5', of St. Nicholas of Myra, It is housed at the Galleria degli Uffizi in Florence, Italy but used to be in a the St. Procolo church. It shows him resurrecting a dead child (top) and acting as bishop of Myra, Lycia saving the people from famine by drying out and multiplying the wheat that fell into the sea (bottom).

His miracles are as mysterious as they come, for despite his popularity as a saint in Greek Orthodox and Roman Catholic churches, there is scant historical evidence. Facts stop at "was a bishop in Myra, fourth century."

They can't even decide when he died, 345 or 352 C.E./A.D.

They do seem to know he passed away on December 6.

What an honor to have people painting your life story 1,000 years after you die. And what an honor to have been transformed magically into a roaming pack-man who brings toys and such to children - not only on this day, but Christmas Eve as well.

At my Catholic grade school in the 1980s, we used to go to Mass together on this day, and some priest or maybe someone's dad would dress up in a bishop outfit and pointy hat and visit the classrooms. His mitre was dubious, his beard white and so lacking in authenticity that it looked like Kindergarteners had made it from cotton balls.

He was imposing nonetheless, and as Catholic kids, we had two semi-scary gift-bringers visiting our house in December, this guy and then Santa Claus (who, as you might guess, is kind-of based on St. Nick).

Getting up on December 6 was always chilly, always fun. Usually a school day, it was made special by the filled stockings hanging from the curlicues of the wrought-iron decorative gates in the living room. Coloring books were a staple, as was foil-wrapped chocolate candy, little wind-up toys and other little charming things to get excited over. I can get knots in my stomach just recalling the anticipation.

My mom made this holiday special for us.

Today, of course, I didn't put my shoes outside the door, and while there are loads of socks (it seems to a wife) dotted all over the household landscape, none were filled this morning with treats.

My compensation: going to Walgreen's on my way to work and buying a bag of almonds and 100 grams of 70%-cacao chocolate.

Part of the whole St. Nicholas Day at Catholic school was the sacrifice of a toy. All students were more-than-gently-encouraged to bring in a used, still-nice toy to offer up during Mass "for poor children." Part of the whole Catholic thing is to make kids feel guilty for what they have, and it was implied that we were "so much more fortunate" and should bring something we actually kind-of liked to give away.

I still remember two items. Having parted with them still makes me materialistically sad, or maybe it's just nostalgia.

It could be post-modern Ebay regret. . .

1. My Sesame Street playhouse, a Little People haven for the likes of Ernie, Big Bird and even Mr. Hooper that folded open and was really just a durable plastic dollhouse modeled after the set of the CTW show. . . I miss that. It had Crayola marks on it. I did not do it; I was always very respectful of my things. This was a hand-me-down, you see, from the older girl across the street.

I remember opening it one Christmas.

I loved it, but there is a strange emotional residue associated with things you know aren't new.

Implied is that my family was not so ultra-privileged as my parish would have its demographics show. Now, of course, I delight in used things and antiques because I believe that wastefullnes is folly.

I do wonder, though, how kids who get gifts from the "Operation Santa Claus" (Della Lamb Community Services in Kansas City) or any of the numerous other charities that pop up and have folks "adopt" families for the holidays feel? They give new items for the most part - a line in the United Way guide to holiday giving goes something like "think of what you would like to receive as a gift or what you would give to a friend" - but still. It made such an impression on me.

At school, they never told us what specific St. Louis-area charity was receiving the toys we brought to church or who these faceless "poor kids" were. Fact-based me would have felt better, I think, if they had. Full circles are comforting; they let you know your efforts matter, at least in a more matter-of-fact way.

2. One year, when I was a bit too old to have toys, maybe in fifth grade, I brought in Sludge, a Dinobot brontosaurus. I always liked dinosaurs, and again, this Transformer from 20 years ago might bring me a slice of financial joy today. At any rate, it's not quite a "girl's toy," but I have a younger brother and so we were less set in that plaything gender-bias you hear about. No, he didn't have any pink things I can recall, but he did play Barbie with me as much as I played digging out the parking area and setting up a world for Matchbox cars. I think the fact that I had brought in this robot was odd to my fellow classmates, as well. I loved it, but felt guilty about loving it, since I was "too old" to care about a robot dinosaur.

At any rate, the stupid boys stole my Dinobot from the cloak room. In a flashback to the horrible day in Kindergarten when my math book was lost from the common shelf and I thought I would be behind in math forever, I had terrible visions of being in the church without a toy, conspicious in my selfishness. Panic. Church-hour approaching. Everyone would look, everyone would blame me! Priests are not understanding, and back then, there was no way I would consider staying in the pew during any "everyone gets up" processional.

The robot turned up, with much laughter, or maybe they just put it back and no one laughed. I think the boys were afraid of actually being confronted or having to talk to me or whatever. I probably told the teacher what was going on, a no-no, for sure in terms of the kids' "just trying to have fun." I don't often play along well during annoyances and injustices such as petty, temporary theft.

They all got candy canes from "St. Nick" that day, of course, not coal and onions like they should have if the world was cosmically just.

In a cosmically-just world, too, my mom wouldn't have gotten black rocks and bitter root veggies in her stocking at the age of three or six or whatever it was when her young 1950s parents were trying to prove some point about her behavior. She still remembers that strange guilty feeling.

Being Catholic is weird. . . just wait for December 8 and more exciting mysteries with saints!