Happy St. Nicholas Day

Every year, December 6 means sap in my hair, an influx of out-of-town spiders, and a Jetta full of pine needles. It means keeping Fabio from nesting in the ornament boxes and imploring Linus to suppress his natural instincts.

It also means sucking down bourbonized eggnog and watching Holiday Inn, A Christmas Story, and A Charlie Brown Christmas while we decorate.

Maus and I don't have too many holiday traditions of our own, but damn if we don't do the tree up right, year after year (and we live in a pointy, gingerbready brick Tudor that just screams Christmas). For the record: She strings the lights, and does so with the same precision and detail she puts into her baking. Me, I get to assemble the complex cat-perturbing electric train that negotiates the narrow passes among the presents below.

We surrender ourselves to Norman Rockwell precisely once a year, and December 6 is it.