The Saint of a Thousand Slightly Different Faces

There he is! Kris Kringle. Pere Noel. Sinterklaas. Santa Claus. Thomas Nast's illustration of Santa has become the stand-bearer of the modern representation. Nast's image was largely based on Clement Clark Moore's description in his poem "A Visit from St. Nicholas" even though Moore imagined Santa as an "elf" with eight "tiny reindeer" pulling his "miniature sled." When exactly he grew to his popular Wellesian proportions, I nae can say.

Artists embrace variations on a theme. As such, with snowflakes and fruit cakes, no two Santas are alike. This became apparent to me when Adam unleashed a tide of Yule, nay a tsunami of Yule, in the house, saturating the basement in the process. Oh, foy! (festive joy)! Holiday LPs, vintage greeting cards, plastic Noel candles, old super-hot Christmas bulbs...and everywhere, on everything -- Santa Clauses! No twins here. Few siblings. Mostly chubby guys with beards and even (God forbid) beards sans mustaches (the worst). Come on, have a look!

No mustache, really? You put all that effort into a four-foot beard and you don't top it off with a 'stache?

I had no idea Mrs. Clause was so beautiful! She isn't. Santa is having an affair with Betty Draper.

This one brings toys to the boy and girl 'squatches all over the world!

Santa? Mrs. Claus? The football coach from "Glee"? The real question is: Hot dogs and beans
for Christmas?

What do you think his breath smells like? Candy canes? I'm thinking sardines.
He's got walrus breath. I'm certain.

That branch couldn't hold up a plaster ornament, never mind a 400-pound toymaker.

Santa after his third 5-Hour Power of the evening. It's beginning to look a lot like an addiction.

He thinks he's trapped in a box, but I keep telling him there's not even any cellophane. Happi, my ass!

Der Jingle.

Santa's forearm is as black as a coal miner's lungs. Must've been a lot of naughty kids that year.
Yeah, I see that kid. Do I even need to say anything?

That's just a sampling of all the St. Nick-nacks festooning our little winter wonderland. So many Santas! And reindeer. And so many snowmen and weird little elves! And so many Baby Jesuses!

Nope. No Baby Jesus. Or Snowbaby Jesus. Which might be worse than no Baby Jesus. You know what I mean? Oh, boy, I gotta go -- there goes Linus dragging that filthy blanket into the spotlight...

Christmas in the Basement 1.0: Plastic? Fantastic!

Wait! Don't eat it -- it's fake! You shouldn't be eating holly berries anyway, knucklehead. Unless you're a dog. A dog named Jack. He's already slobbered on a vintage decoration or two. He's so dumb, he's adorable, as my pal Harry Carbohydrate used to say.

Of course, when I say fake, I don't mean fake decorations. They're real decorations. They're real old decorations. Even the dust on them is old. That's an old smell, too. There are smells down here that died out fifty years ago. The basement's a museum of extinct Christmas aromas. And this is not a complaint.

This is a complaint: Entenmann's crumb cakes are getting smaller!

No, it smells terrifically festive down here (that's what she said) and it's not even Thanksgiving yet! Take a look around -- and it's still in a state of disarray:

Ah, On-A-Lite Christmas light strings! Do they even make things in Peoria anymore? (I'm sure they do. Sorry, Peoria!)

Gene Autry sings everyone's favorite Christmas carol, "The Three Little Dwarfs." Hardrock, Coco and Joe annoy the crap out of Santa's reindeer. I believe in the second verse, a felony is committed.

Guess who? Yep, you got it. It's quite uncanny, really, the resemblance. They're so friggin' excited for Christmas. "Eeeeeeee!"

Wait until Adam brings out the other ninety percent of the Eisenhower-era decorations! Someone's plastic Christmas Past is our Christmas Yet-to-Come!

Another Busy Day for the Cut-Out Witch*

There she is, the cut-out witch! Cute as a pun'kin! With a ragged cat named Licorice, maybe. Or Lucifer, probably. It's Halloween time! The weather autumnal, orange flotsam skittering up the streets. The breeze carries hints of cinnamon, pumpkin spice and wet leaves. Obviously, we have the windows closed in the basement where there's more than a hint of non-cinnamon scented cat breath. So we're upstairs. And Erin's making soup! (Hey, 'member the Sellwood Kitchen?)

Josh is working and Adam's out, so Erin and I are utilizing the upstairs kitchen and living room. But, no, we're not alone. Look...dogs! It's Jack, not listening, and Emma, doing her best impression of a sawmill. And there's cats here, too. Like this musical kitty, strumming Roy Clark's "Spooky Movie" (with a nod to Lucy Starcrest)...

 And this shark-eyed creeper plastered on the fridge. Yikes!

While the house isn't as enveloped in Halloween swag as it will be in Christmas props in a month, Adam nevertheless has decorated with sufficient spirit. As usual, all decorations are vintage (which around here means just slightly older than me).

I think I might go as that scarecrow for Halloween. All I'll need to do is grow out my hair. Ok, I might have to wait till next year...

Have you ever seen such a pleasant grin on a witch? She looks like she watching someone enjoy a piece of her pumpkin cheesecake, the pride of her recipe box! She's not too bad-looking of a broad. And her hair looks not so much green as streaked with copper highlights. I bet all the warlocks elbow up to the cauldron when she's mixing the brew.

 

The title of this illustration is "Witch Way to Willamette Street?" Does the owl know? Maybe, but he's too busy trying to act like a pine cone. He's high-pitch mumbling to himself, "Keep going, you creepy broad, I'm lousy with directions."

He's afraid she will put him in a pouch with a newt and a bat. That's no way to spend Halloween. No way to spend Halloween, at all.

*from one of my favorite Guided by Voices songs, "Cut Out Witch"