Saint Sylvester Traditions

posted by Helen

It's the last day of the year -- the feast day of St. Sylvester. I've just been reading up on St. Sylvester and have found that this day has traditionally been "a night of fools and a funny good time" in the German culture.

When I was a kid, whoever slept too late on this day was awakened by the clattering of pots, pans and other makeshift percussion instruments. The idea was to start far away from the sleeper and process around the house until eventually reaching his (or her) room. This was a tradition perpetuated by my dad.

Imagine our delight one year when he was the hapless sleeper. We gathered up our instruments, crept quietly to his bedroom door and started making a racket. My diary that year noted that he was mad, but I don't have a strong memory of his being angry about it. Overall I remember the incident as having a note of hilarity about it.

Inevitably on New Year's Eve I think of past years. One of my favorites was my first year in Switzerland. I was invited to stay for a week of skiing at a chalet in Zweisimmen belonging to one of my dad's school friends. On New Year's Eve we attended a huge "Reveillon" dinner at someone else's chalet in nearby Lenk. All the long evening we feasted on smoked salmon, oysters, escargots and other luxurious dishes. At midnight we took our champagne out on the balcony and toasted the new year while watching a fireworks display on the hillside.

This year we are having a relatively quiet evening. We are joining friends for an early dinner to celebrate the birthday of one of Dave's closest friends. We may well be back in our own living room by the time the clock strikes twelve. I can't think of a sweeter place to be at the start of a brand new year.

Cold

posted by Helen

We had a cold spell last week. Bone chilling for this time of year. I suppose by February, the same temperatures might seem like a thaw, but it reminded me of a poem Dave wrote a few years ago.

On January 1, 2001, I woke with the intention to write a poem every day. Dave decided to do the same. We didn't make it much past April, but for a while, we kept at it. We wrote some real bad poetry, but a couple of cool ones emerged. I like the imagery in this one:

February 20, 2001

Cold. And there's colder.
Then there's simply the intolerance of any more cold.
That's when you push back from the table and say:
"No more, thanks. I've had enough."

But the cold just sneers its icy disdain and sits there.
"Have some more," it says. "Here, let's just refreeze that
bit of water that's accumulated on your front walk."

I wait for the sun. Huddled in my blanket.