Dear Children,
I know it must be hard to imagine, but many, many nights--eighty-two--so far this year, to be exact--it gets so dark for so long, it is hard to imagine I will ever see another glorious bright blue sky.
The world is so gray with clouds that I don't suspect the fluffy white cotton balls that pass overhead in the summer will ever reappear. And the only light that approaches the earth, besides the dull white distant glow of sun--far away to the South--are the pin pricks of white twinkle from stars that are so remote in distance and time, they'e long forgotten that they set out to visit us here on Earth.
Dark.
Dark.
Cold.
Into this dark we invite the cheer of Christmas and all the winter celebrations. Hanukkah, Solstice, Devali. Light, smiles, giggles and laughter of children and mothers. And when we raise that cheer and open our hearts, we sometimes may find we notice all sorts of light.
It was just such a time that I chanced to see the best Northern Lights in all my life. I will tell you about them next time. For now, think about light. Light in your days, in your love for your mothers and family, and light in your own hearts. I hope that light chases the dark and the shadows away today and that you are nearer to your twinkling stars.
Love,
Father Christmas (aka. S.)
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Polar Bear's Misadventures!
December 15, 2012
Dear Children,
Polar Bear convinced me this year that he should take up farming--namely that it would be a good idea to add chickens to our roster of inhabitants at the North Pole!
I was not so easily convinced. What is good about chickens other than eggs?
I had a ready list of what is wrong with them:
Number one being that they POOP. EVERYWHERE.
They shed feathers
They smell
They peck
They devour any grass you might be so lucky to get up here at the North Pole.
I resisted mightily. "No!" "Not." "Never!" I said. "Besides who will build them a coop?"
The next morning:
. . . and a note from Polar Bear:
I was sold at #5.
Now that the Arctic ice is melting every summer, we have a terriblemosquito problem and we can't spray for them--it kills the fragile tundra plants and flowers. There are virtually no natural predators of bugs up here (we haven't had any for 1000s of years and apparently no one has told the birds yet that this is mosquito heaven. But the mosquitoes know that. And I am their favorite lunch!
So I couldn't wait to have these new exterminators arrive.
We ordered 8 to start, and a rooster.
More tomorrow, children. I am exhausted.
Love,
S.
Dear Children,
Polar Bear convinced me this year that he should take up farming--namely that it would be a good idea to add chickens to our roster of inhabitants at the North Pole!
I was not so easily convinced. What is good about chickens other than eggs?
I had a ready list of what is wrong with them:
Number one being that they POOP. EVERYWHERE.
They shed feathers
They smell
They peck
They devour any grass you might be so lucky to get up here at the North Pole.
I resisted mightily. "No!" "Not." "Never!" I said. "Besides who will build them a coop?"
The next morning:
. . . and a note from Polar Bear:
- Eggs
- Companionship
- Poop = fertilizer
- They will eat and compost all kitchen scraps and rotten foods (except chicken and eggs!)
- THEY EAT MOSQUITOES.
I was sold at #5.
Now that the Arctic ice is melting every summer, we have a terriblemosquito problem and we can't spray for them--it kills the fragile tundra plants and flowers. There are virtually no natural predators of bugs up here (we haven't had any for 1000s of years and apparently no one has told the birds yet that this is mosquito heaven. But the mosquitoes know that. And I am their favorite lunch!
So I couldn't wait to have these new exterminators arrive.
We ordered 8 to start, and a rooster.
More tomorrow, children. I am exhausted.
Love,
S.
Polar Bear's Chickens
Dear Children,
Before the arrival of Spring at the North Pole, Polar Bear became a chicken keeper. Eight hens and one rooster arrived in an insignificant cardboard box at our post office addressed to P. Bear. We were in the egg making / mosquito nixing business.
Polar Bear was excellent, too, at fetching eggs, making sure the feed, water, and kitchen scraps were in good supply and cleaning the coop. He even remembered--most nights--to close the coop.
Then trouble arrived. First we noticed fewer eggs in the laying boxes. THen we noticed some eggs were broken. If we were further south, we might have sustected raccoons, skunks, foxes or weasels. But none of those pests are worries here. Polar bear tore apart my wildlife library looking for clues about other predators, but found nothing on "predators of chickens in the Northern Polar regions." There is no such information...remember chickens are not familiar critters up here.
This turn of events greatly disturbed Polar Bear. Polar was angered and aggrieved by the loss of edible eggs, but saddened by the loss of the fertilized hatch-able eggs. He set about right away fortifying the coop: first adding an electric fence then amoring various entrances and cracks in the coop with chicken wire, rat traps, even motion sensors. But the egg raid continued.
One morning, Polar Bear left the house before anyone was awake with a saw and a bag of dried herring (his favorite snack). I didn't see him all day. I didn't see him all night. In fact, I heard nothing from him at all . . . until I saw a flash in the sky about the same time as that beautiful Aurora I was telling you about a few days ago.
Here's what happened.
Polar bear had gone that morning to the coop, moved his chickens into the pecking yard, secured the coop, and sawed a hole right in the back of one of the laying boxes . . . just about the right size for a polar paw. He stuck his paw through, a bit satisfied with himself. Then he pretended it was night, peeped through, keeping one eye on the inside of the coop and when he imagined the pretend invader coming through, stuck his paw in to grab for it.
Only one problem, he noticed: with his paw in, he could no longer see the invader he was pretending was there.
No problem. He got the saw and expanded the hole. This time it was polar bear head sized.
Polar stuck his head through and pretended (again) the invader was coming through. At the moment of (pretend) surprise, he pounced. . . .and winced! Polar, with his head in the one-foot by one-foot laying box, had pounded his forehead something awful on the top of the box. He also realized he couldn't pounce far because his shoulders stopped him. So he shoved a paw in through the hole next to his head and tried to reach. But it didn't get very far. And, when he tried to pull it out, Polar found his head and his paw were stuck.
So there he sat for the rest of the day. And the afternoon. And for dinner time. And into the deep night. The chickens returned themselves to the coop to perch and dose. Polar Bear dosed off eventually, also. The coop door didn't get closed that night.
Then, in the deepest part of the night, Polar woke to little footsteps. Shuffling tiny itching steps, first across the floor of the coop, then up the side wall, and on to the perch.
The night offered no light for seeing, but the visitors themselves lit their way with tiny lamps! As they got closer to his laying box (well, the one he was borrowing) he could see their skinny little legs, their hunched over bodies, their tattered, useless black wings: DARK ELVES!
One of them carried a sack on his back just the size for lugging away an egg. Polar was seized with rage. What to do? He squirmed to release himself from the hole, pulled at his stuck paw, twisted and screwed his body into tormented positions to free himself. But he couldn't budge. All of this udging around shook the coop a bit and raised the dust and shavings into the air and into P. Bear's nostrils.
His nose began to tingle. And itch. And drip. And twitch. And-
SNEEZE! and then about 5 milliseconds later,
POW! (a clear, fiery explosion in the sky)
. . . .
After the rubble settled, all that was left was my sweet, kind bear friend and some dazed, wandering chickens and a cold starry night sky.
The explosion--which had happened when the lamps the Dark Elves were carrying ignited the hay dust, the corn feed, and the chicken poop in the coop--had created an accidental organic bomb (which was the first I had heard of Polar Bear all day) and was all I knew of the incident until I heard the whole story later.
. . .
Meanwhile, over the hill, I had trudged across the snowy tundra to do my once a month tending to the North Pole (the actual pole that sticks up at the actual spot on the Earth). And, for my efforts, I had been greeted with a swirling wand of green, yellow and pink solar dust and the sweet, haunting singing of the Aurora. I took a photo with my iPhone:
Then the explosion. Then a roaring, running, panicked Polar Bear racing over the tundra, knocking me over.
After some hugs and tears and laughs, all was ok and we trudged home together.
The next day we made plans for an elf-proof coop. . .
. . .
So, my children, as you can see, all is well and all is as usual at the North Pole. I know that you all are just as adorable and loving and good children as ever a Santa could ask for. You are growing up so fast and learning and exploring. And you are becoming young ladies and young men. I enjoy watching you grow and make your parents proud. I will look forward to reporting again to you in the new year.
Until then, with love, I remain,
Yours,
S.
Before the arrival of Spring at the North Pole, Polar Bear became a chicken keeper. Eight hens and one rooster arrived in an insignificant cardboard box at our post office addressed to P. Bear. We were in the egg making / mosquito nixing business.
Polar Bear was excellent, too, at fetching eggs, making sure the feed, water, and kitchen scraps were in good supply and cleaning the coop. He even remembered--most nights--to close the coop.
Then trouble arrived. First we noticed fewer eggs in the laying boxes. THen we noticed some eggs were broken. If we were further south, we might have sustected raccoons, skunks, foxes or weasels. But none of those pests are worries here. Polar bear tore apart my wildlife library looking for clues about other predators, but found nothing on "predators of chickens in the Northern Polar regions." There is no such information...remember chickens are not familiar critters up here.
This turn of events greatly disturbed Polar Bear. Polar was angered and aggrieved by the loss of edible eggs, but saddened by the loss of the fertilized hatch-able eggs. He set about right away fortifying the coop: first adding an electric fence then amoring various entrances and cracks in the coop with chicken wire, rat traps, even motion sensors. But the egg raid continued.
One morning, Polar Bear left the house before anyone was awake with a saw and a bag of dried herring (his favorite snack). I didn't see him all day. I didn't see him all night. In fact, I heard nothing from him at all . . . until I saw a flash in the sky about the same time as that beautiful Aurora I was telling you about a few days ago.
Here's what happened.
Polar bear had gone that morning to the coop, moved his chickens into the pecking yard, secured the coop, and sawed a hole right in the back of one of the laying boxes . . . just about the right size for a polar paw. He stuck his paw through, a bit satisfied with himself. Then he pretended it was night, peeped through, keeping one eye on the inside of the coop and when he imagined the pretend invader coming through, stuck his paw in to grab for it.
Only one problem, he noticed: with his paw in, he could no longer see the invader he was pretending was there.
No problem. He got the saw and expanded the hole. This time it was polar bear head sized.
Polar stuck his head through and pretended (again) the invader was coming through. At the moment of (pretend) surprise, he pounced. . . .and winced! Polar, with his head in the one-foot by one-foot laying box, had pounded his forehead something awful on the top of the box. He also realized he couldn't pounce far because his shoulders stopped him. So he shoved a paw in through the hole next to his head and tried to reach. But it didn't get very far. And, when he tried to pull it out, Polar found his head and his paw were stuck.
So there he sat for the rest of the day. And the afternoon. And for dinner time. And into the deep night. The chickens returned themselves to the coop to perch and dose. Polar Bear dosed off eventually, also. The coop door didn't get closed that night.
Then, in the deepest part of the night, Polar woke to little footsteps. Shuffling tiny itching steps, first across the floor of the coop, then up the side wall, and on to the perch.
The night offered no light for seeing, but the visitors themselves lit their way with tiny lamps! As they got closer to his laying box (well, the one he was borrowing) he could see their skinny little legs, their hunched over bodies, their tattered, useless black wings: DARK ELVES!
One of them carried a sack on his back just the size for lugging away an egg. Polar was seized with rage. What to do? He squirmed to release himself from the hole, pulled at his stuck paw, twisted and screwed his body into tormented positions to free himself. But he couldn't budge. All of this udging around shook the coop a bit and raised the dust and shavings into the air and into P. Bear's nostrils.
His nose began to tingle. And itch. And drip. And twitch. And-
SNEEZE! and then about 5 milliseconds later,
POW! (a clear, fiery explosion in the sky)
. . . .
After the rubble settled, all that was left was my sweet, kind bear friend and some dazed, wandering chickens and a cold starry night sky.
The explosion--which had happened when the lamps the Dark Elves were carrying ignited the hay dust, the corn feed, and the chicken poop in the coop--had created an accidental organic bomb (which was the first I had heard of Polar Bear all day) and was all I knew of the incident until I heard the whole story later.
. . .
Meanwhile, over the hill, I had trudged across the snowy tundra to do my once a month tending to the North Pole (the actual pole that sticks up at the actual spot on the Earth). And, for my efforts, I had been greeted with a swirling wand of green, yellow and pink solar dust and the sweet, haunting singing of the Aurora. I took a photo with my iPhone:
Then the explosion. Then a roaring, running, panicked Polar Bear racing over the tundra, knocking me over.
After some hugs and tears and laughs, all was ok and we trudged home together.
The next day we made plans for an elf-proof coop. . .
. . .
So, my children, as you can see, all is well and all is as usual at the North Pole. I know that you all are just as adorable and loving and good children as ever a Santa could ask for. You are growing up so fast and learning and exploring. And you are becoming young ladies and young men. I enjoy watching you grow and make your parents proud. I will look forward to reporting again to you in the new year.
Until then, with love, I remain,
Yours,
S.
Monday, December 24, 2012
Dear Hannah & Eli, Aslan, Caspian, & Penelope . . .
The funniest thing happened in November:
I heard through a friend that Polar Bear was very busy this year and that I needed to check in and find out what was going on up there in the North Pole. I -- of course -- went to Google "North Pole" and "Father Christmas" and "Polar Bear and the dark elves" and all sorts of weird things started coming up on my screen. I had forgotten about the weird North Pole and the Northern Lights images J.R.R. Tolkien had written about for his kids and his nieces and nephews...
In one image, the overwhelming glory of the Pole and the Lights. Then in another picture all fading away into a bleak, black, snowy December night. In the first image, Father Christmas is wowed. In the next image, he is overwhelmed--sometimes trudging in dark to or from unknown points, carrying a satchel on his back.
"Hard to imagine," I can see him writing, "But many, many nights--52 so far this year, to be exact-- it gets so dark for so long . . . " I could not only see him writing, but I could hear him speaking, telling me a story. So I wrote it down, collected it, and put it here for you to see.
Love,
M.
The funniest thing happened in November:
I heard through a friend that Polar Bear was very busy this year and that I needed to check in and find out what was going on up there in the North Pole. I -- of course -- went to Google "North Pole" and "Father Christmas" and "Polar Bear and the dark elves" and all sorts of weird things started coming up on my screen. I had forgotten about the weird North Pole and the Northern Lights images J.R.R. Tolkien had written about for his kids and his nieces and nephews...
In one image, the overwhelming glory of the Pole and the Lights. Then in another picture all fading away into a bleak, black, snowy December night. In the first image, Father Christmas is wowed. In the next image, he is overwhelmed--sometimes trudging in dark to or from unknown points, carrying a satchel on his back.
"Hard to imagine," I can see him writing, "But many, many nights--52 so far this year, to be exact-- it gets so dark for so long . . . " I could not only see him writing, but I could hear him speaking, telling me a story. So I wrote it down, collected it, and put it here for you to see.
Love,
M.
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