A trio of holiday shenanigans

These merry elves from my childhood have endured a lot between getting packed and unpacked during far too many holidays to count along with quite a few long distance moves, as well, that must have unsettled them to no end. They never were certain where they would be hanging out, or if a family cat would pounce on one pulling him to the ground leaving teeth marks somewhere.

Call the elves resilient is to speak highly of them.

Frankly, there were years when they were simply thrown into the holiday box without much thought for how they would rest over the long winter in a dark attic. One or two years the trio never got taken out either for some reason or other not worth going into here.

One elf had his head detached from his neck as a result of a tug and pull episode during my childhood - I don't remember the actual story - and in my clumsy way, I handsewed his head back using thick white thread and uneven stitches as my mother ordered for my unruliness.

I never bothered to fix the guy up properly, and I made one excuse after the other to him. (He's the one on the left.) Now it's too late for major surgery and I leave it as a reminder of years gone by and well-loved holiday friends.

Here's the backstory of the nativity

When the articulate young Russian woman at the St. Petersburg hotel front desk gave me exact directions to a shop a couple blocks behind the hotel that most tourists don't ever find on their own, I knew that I would have my best chance at locating a Russian nativity scene to add to my international collection.

The hotel was color-schemed in a deep red and green brocade on the walls and thick rugs on the floors, which the desk clerk matched so well on purpose I would presume. You might consider it an overstatement as I did. My own room had two walls of red and the other two were green making it rather dark in appearance especially for a climate that is mostly cloudy anyhow. After a day or so, I became rather used to it, and there was something comforting about going to sleep under a red brocade coverlet surrounded by the heaviness of the decor from another century.

I thanked the desk clerk profusely for being so kind, and I assumed the role of a gushy American tourist the likes of which the Russians don't quite understand. She was a petite red-head dyed as so many other Russian women in unnaturally dark shades of browns, blacks or reds and wore her dark green uniform stylishly. There's a formality to Russsian people that distances them from others, and the desk clerk was no different, although she did show an interest in my problem.

I gathered up a couple others from our tour group that were searching for specific items, and we headed out the hotel in the direction of the shop. It was right where the young woman at the front desk said that it would be located, and in fact, it was quite massive in size from the spacious windows stretching a bit down the avenue.

When I opened the front door we were the only customers from my first glance inside. Several clerks came to us eagerly and guided each one of us to where we wanted to look all the while pounding us with one question after another about our United States presidents of the past twenty years. I deferred, and I later found out that the others in my group did pretty much, too. We were all on a shopping mission, and none of us minded lighter conversation. The Russians up to this point on my trip had been guarded, and I was surprised at the sudden openness here. Perhaps, I missed my window of opportunity. I'll never know.

My personal clerk followed me into a room of glass cases filled with nativity scenes and it was there on the bottom shelf that I found just the perfect one. The tiny handcarved faces were so expressive and filled with awe when I took a second look. A Russian artisan created a beautiful piece that would sit on my table for years to come.

The clerk took it apart and wrapped each piece individually in bubblewrap for the long trip home.

With a handshake and a shot of vodka , I left with my friends.

Simplicity is the rule of thumb

The Christmas markets along the Danube River are filled with handmade ornaments unique to each city, thick molasses cookies and carolers proclaiming joyous tidings of the season in the crisp early winter air. Glühwein is part of the tradition and tourists and locals alike warm themselves sipping the mulled wine drink by the steaming mugful while browsing the vendors, who are dressed in authentic folkloric outfits from Germany or Austria.

In the early morning hours the riverboat is docked near Saltzburg, Austria, and there is a dusting of snow - maybe an inch if you stretch it - and opening the shades of the patio window to giggles, I discover that there are passengers lying on the ground making snow angels to their hearts delight. No one has to tell me that these six adults are from somewhere warm in the United States where snow is only a scary word on the national weather news for others to worry about.

By the looks of their head-to-toe Arctic gear, those folks came prepared for the worst conditions, which they would not encounter in a moderate European climate. Still, they are having a splendid moment, and I am not about to criticize them. No penguins. No glaciers. They would have to go elsewhere for those beauties.

In a couple hours after a huge breakfast buffet and the remains of the snow is a bit of slush, the riverboat unleashes it passengers and they walk in groups to the market. Houses along the streets are draped evenly in simple white lights, and there are no signs of plastic blow-up Santas anywhere on the horizon searching for rooftops.

It reminds me of New England houses with candles lit in every window illuminating the blanket of snow, and what decorations are inside remain in the privacy of the dwellers. That is somewhat like the reserved personality of a New Englander, too, not allowing strangers to peer into his innermost thoughts.

This particular market produces handcrafted wooden creches, and I find one that suits me, and hopefully my suitcase, too.

I buy a bag of dark molasses cookies like grandma used to make to take back home on the plane, but alas, that's another story how I devour the whole dozen - not a one of my fellow passengers assists me when I realize the cookies will be conviscated at Customs. I know better, and totally forgot the drill. My stomach isn't as excited as I am either.

One of my prized nativities brought back home from Germany.