Monthly Archives: December 2011


Yes, this week’s word for Word Wednesday is happening on a Thursday.

Somehow, once inside Great Aunt Una’s rambling house in Harpswell, Maine, time stands still. I could have sworn it was Tuesday for the past three days. Ah, well. I suppose putting the blame on the house entirely is unfair. The grog has a lot to do with the time warping.

And there has been a lot of grog.

Which brings me to today’s word. Mickle is a noun that means a great amount. It is also an adjective that means great, abundant and an adverb that means greatly, much.

Mickle is a Scottish word which stems from the Middle English mikel,  which is from Old English micel and from the Old Norse mikill. There’s an old proverb: mony a little makes a mickle.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s probably already Friday and that means Mordecai and Charles have been out looking for dire wolves for three days.

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Groggy Fever

Mordecai and I imbibed too much grog last night. We watched Admiral (Адмиралъ), a Russian biopic film that follows Alexander Kolchak and takes place during the Russian Civil War of the early 1900s.

I was thus foggy when awoken this morning by Bubo.

She was crooning Peggy Lee’s infamous song Fever. In Russian. Clearly in her cups, Bubo seemed happy, if exhausted. A trip to Maine means she visits some rather raucous owls.

She is now sleeping it off whilst Mordecai and I sip coffee and watch the wild turkeys chase each other along Harpswell Neck.

By the way, pets, it’s Kwanzaa. Are you celebrating?


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Oh, my dears. It’s been a long week. And it is Friday night. The sky is dark, the moon is traveling past the stars, and much of the world is readying for bed. Curl up and listen to the tales I weave, until your eyes grow heavy and you slip into slumber, ready for the Dream Maker.

It’s a little known fact that Saint Nikolas picks one sweet sloth to be his co-pilot on Christmas Eve.

This tradition started hundreds of years ago, when old Saint Nick became enamored with sloths. He’d made a brief stop in Costa Rica, letting the reindeer splash in the Atlantic for a mid-flight treat. Nick sat beneath a tree, gazing out at the stars, his boots on the sand next to him, his toes burrowing into the soft warm ground. (It’s amazing how in the moonlight, snow and sand can look so similar yet be so very different.)

Whilst letting his gaze drift across the skies, old Nick felt someone, or something, playing with his thick white hair. Assuming a small child had sneaked out of his Christmas Eve bed, Nick tilted his head to get a peek at his admirer.

Imagine his surprise when his nose touched the nose of a small, brazen three-toed sloth. The sloth smiled sleepily. Then Saint Nick smiled sleepily. (How could you not?) And they both resumed their stargazing.

When the reindeer finished their splashing and were ready to continue their mission, the sloth accompanied Nikolas back into the sleigh. He donned a red velvet cap and wrapped himself in the warmest blankets in the sleigh and smiled from ear to ear for the entire flight.

And thus began a tradition not known to most of the world. Every year, Saint Nikolas lets a sloth join the sleigh ride and deliver presents to all the little boys and girls. Inevitably, the sweet and lucky sloth will climb a tree (or two or three) to gaze up at the stars.

Take a moment this Christmas Eve – no matter your religious proclivity, preference or tradition – and tilt your chin to the sky. Gaze up at the stars and let the wonder of a man in a sleigh with a sloth by his side sink in. Smile sleepily like a sloth, close your eyes, and make a wish.

Sleep tight, my pets. Dream deep.


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All Hail

It is official. There is no such thing as too many latkes.

They are delicious and render Bubo sedate.

All hail the potato pancake.

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