Caught between Hanukkah and Christmas, school out but not much yet happening in the way of seasonal here, a grocery bag two-thirds full of the ingredients for chocolate-fudge-to-give-away occupying a kitchen counter, damp clinging leaves coming in with every footprint, whether one has removed one’s shoes, or not -- how can that be?, Important Decisions to be made:

Does Santa come when the child is twelve? Yes, she says, because Santa forgot altogether, last year. At this, Santa’s helper draws a complete blank and wonders no more how it is that Santa “forgot.”

Since I detest it when people write about their own children for public consumption (a terrible invasion of privacy, without permission), I am going to tell one story about a child I used to know: at age four-years-five-months, this skeptical very-small person asked her parents, separately, about the veracity of the Santa phenomenon. Her unreligiously Jewish father prevaricated, and said something like, “Well, Santa is real, if you believe.” And her unreligious-raised-Quaker mother lied outright. Told a lie – a big, fat, juicy, “myth” of a lie -- because not-yet-five seemed awfully young to be onto the ways of the adult word and its petty mysteries.

Well. Something had to be done to underscore the truth of this untruth, so a bowl of uncooked oatmeal was placed on the doorstep for the reindeer before the child went to bed. And before the mother went to bed, it got strewn about, overturned and generally made a mess of out on the front porch. In the morning, the Little Skeptic strode right past the bulging stocking dangling from the mantel, opened the front door, and screeched about the oats: “He’s real! He IS real, Mama!! Santa is actually, fantastically real, after all! Look, just look at the evidence!”

Never lacking in vocabulary, it was concrete, if faked, evidence she had needed all along to fuel her belief in the myth. But the pleasure -– oh, life was certainly much happier with that myth intact at not-yet-five. So with tongues firmly planted in cheeks, that hand-knitted stocking will be hung once again this year, in a last-ditch effort to pretend well enough to perpetuate the myth. Maybe this year he’ll just bring fudge – could there be a stronger hint that it’s time to give up the fantasy?

And no one here knows when that girl actually, really stopped believing -– which year, at what age -– because the real was supplanted by acting in one smooth, imperceptible sort of “passing,” kind of like tripping over your first high heels and then skipping a couple of steps to make it look as if the tripping part was on purpose. Or like a boy I knew in high school who, at lunch, turned to hear someone speak, and planted his elbow smack-dab in the middle of his plate of food. When we all gasped, and he saw what he had done, his fast recovery was, “I meant to do that!” and it became, after that, his trademark joke.

This year, it’s important to look around and notice the grim in the world right now, of which we can be but dimly aware if we choose; and keenly aware if we can afford to be. I recommend something in-between: enough attention paid that we live in the Real World, ready to see opportunities to contribute materially to its improvement; and little enough that we can carry on our daily lives with the sort of lightness of spirit that lets us enjoy our good fortune, our children, our quirks and foibles – and the great good fortune we have in being able to “know” each other.

B.D., Portland, Oregon

The silly formalities are incongruous when one considers what they are fumbling and bumbling around about.

I printed out the combined speeches of four of my state's five Representatives and added two more for good measure. Fifteen pages, single-spaced.

This should have been an "Up or Down" vote.

No one, I am sure, learned anything new from each others' esteemed speechifying, if indeed they listened. There has been nothing new about the ridiculous, uncivilized, imperialist, alienating, bankrupting, cause-less war since long before it began.

I knew that, thousand upon thousands of people knew it. Most of us don't live anywhere near DC or Iraq, either. We do pay attention to two important things: the information we can sift through because we're literate, and to our gut. It was a fabrication. Anyone (Congressfolks included) who wanted to know anything true could have known.

"Up or Down." That's it.

Here's my (fantasied) scenario: Nancy Pelosi walks in. She quashes the low din of the men and women and their aides who chatter and murmur about things they consider more important.

Ms. Pelosi walks to the dais and says, "All right. We already know everything we need to. The people you represent -- REP. RE. SENT. -- around the country are waiting for you to represent THEM. Right Now.

"There will be no speechifying, no posturing. You have already decided how you're going to vote. Wait! Is there anyone here, right now, who doesn't know which way to vote, yet? No? All right, no use in wasting time and money.

"This is going to be an 'Up or Down' vote. Get ready. It's your only chance. Cameras rolling? Let's not miss anybody. Remember, this is our beloved 'Up, or Down.'

"Ready? It's 'Aye,' or 'Nay.'

"All those in favor of doing whatever the President wants to do, say, 'Aye.'

"All right. Everyone opposed, say, 'Nay.'"

When this has been done, the "Ayes" will have won. As pandemonium threatens, Ms. Pelosi turns up her microphone and says, "Wait! I must tell you, someone slipped in a little earmark.

"It's BINDING!"

You can't con an honest man.