#34 - Not Enough - Angels Short
#34 - Not Enough
"This is a nice Christmas, don't you think?" chirped Mihr as she thoughtfully tied a waistband of gold lame thread on a square of black felt carefully chosen for Samael.
"Nice because you haven't turned over the Christmas tree, maybe," answered Shemiel as she flipped through holiday records, being of the opinion that there can be no substitute for good, worn vinyl. She seemed to consider her previous statement for a moment, and then added, "Yet."
"Papa, is it really true that I've turned over the Christmas tree every single year since I was born?" asked the little red haired mädchen, looking more excited than distressed at the prospect, as if every annual tree-tipping was a new adventure in good holiday spirit.
"It is impossibly true, ma fillette," answered her father, who was just returning from a hall closet with further supplies for the holiday decorating, "When you were just six months old we put you under the tree to take your picture, and you liked the lights so much that you pulled it down on top of yourself. It gave your mother and I a terrible fright, as you might imagine, but it didn't hurt you in the slightest. Every year since then like clockwork you have taken the tree down at least once ahead of schedule."
"When Mee was three it happened seven times," remembered Shemiel aloud, rolling her eyes as if her younger sister was a considerable trial to bear, "I thought it would save time just to leave it lying on the ground that year."
"That's a fire hazard, Shemmie -- " answered her father, but he was immediately cut off by another red head which had poked itself into the room and spied what was going on at the children's craft table in the corner.
"Father, that's indecent."
"What?" Alexei asked, arms full of the rainy day craft box, bits of yarn and pipe cleaner all flyaway. He was used to his eldest informing him that things he had heretofore considered quite harmless were in fact moral crises waiting to befall the hapless, but he had not expected it over a holiday craft project. "How, exactly, Miniel?"
The teenaged boy turned mauve, as if he loathed speaking unwholesome words where anyone, even his mother might hear them, but apparently came to the conclusion that without the identification of sin there can be no correction and leaned close to his father to whisper his denouncement, which could be heard clearly even down at the hardwood table where the youngest Berzukovs were already busy maiming handkerchiefs and clothespins with proper yuletide spirit.
"You can't hang them on the tree that way. They aren't wearing any trousers," he explained emphatically, his fingers twitching as if he wanted already to gather up all the proto christmas decorations and lock them all away in a box, where the could not tempt the innocent and unsuspecting.
Of course. No trousers. He might have predicted.
"They are wearing dresses," he attempted to reason with his agitated son, and it was true across the board. Every man Jack was in a hanky dress, in addition to every lady. Alexei Berzukov was possibly the greatest composer of his century. He was not a fashion designer. And honestly, trousers for all these tiny little wood and linen angels were quite beyond him. Squares of felt and handkerchiefs for their dresses he could manage, but he'd never proven particularly adept at sewing, needles and sensitive fingertips rarely being bosom companions. Trousers for the small army of clothespin angels he smallest daughters were producing seemed an unconquerable obstacle, and he wondered dolefully if he would have to confine all the new christmas ornaments to the bottom of a box to keep the family peace. Miniel was obviously deeply upset. This was very clear. Too much of the whites of his eyes were showing every time he rolled them terribly down to the worktable to look at the scandalous production line.
"But you're going to hang them on the tree," Miniel fretted, "Up high on on the tree, some of them, and when you walk by, all you'll have to do is look up and, there, right up their skirts with nothing underneath -- " He looked faint.
"Miniel, couldn't you imagine they were wearing underthings?" began his father, and even as he said it, he realized his mistake.
"Should I also imagine that Shemmie's still got all her pyjamas on when she goes wandering down the hall to the bathroom at night without her pants on? Should I imagine business suits on all the women in British Harmony when Jack Naaktgeboren sneaks in issues to school and hides them in his desk? Maybe I should just imagine away Professor Delaney's class entirely. This seems like a really practical solution, father. Now why didn't I think of it before?"
"Minnie," Aniel noted very seriously as she looked up from gluing gold yarn to the top of what was presumably Sahaqiel's head, "Sarcasm is very unbecoming."
"I know it's unbecoming," Miniel looked strained, "I'm sorry father, Annie, I'm just so overwrought. Last night I happened to walk by when Shemmie was watching the Meaning of Life in the living room and I've been on edge ever since." He took several deep breaths and then seemed to collect himself. "Still, you can't just put little undergarmentless angels on the tree. Not when they look like people we know."
Mihr kicked back from her chair suddenly and fluttered her hands in the air the way she did when she felt she had something very exciting to say (which was about every three minutes).
"I think Minnie is right! Besides, otherwise their legs might get cold and fall off and then we'd have Christmas angels with no legs," she added insurmountably. Just when as a man and a father Alexei was about to despair at ever getting this surprise ready in time for wife's return from holiday shopping, Mihr added brightly, "But it's okay. I know just what to do!"
She dashed off in the direction of the kitchen, where her arrival was sounded as the thunder of the hanging rack of saucepans overturned and several drawers opened and then courteously slammed. When she came back she was bearing a box of the paper hats meant for the ends of chicken legs and the tips of crown roast. To these she applied some tape and the creative use of safety scissors and shortly produced a fine pair of white pantaloons just the right size for a clothespin angel. Aniel handed over her Sahaqiel, who had been judiciously rolled in blue glitter, and Mihr bravely flipped up her dress and aquainted her with her new undergarments. Miniel chose to look away, and had to be assured that the operation was a great success, since he had no desire to turn up the skirt of the former captain of the tower guard.
Alexei was relieved. A box of paper meat crowns was a small price to pay for peace in the drawing room during the Christmas holiday. Mihr hopped up and strained to hang the newest of the little angels as high as she could reach.
"Won't Mama be horribly surprised?" she asked, standing on her tip toes and using a convenient bough to balance herself.
"Let's hope she isn't horribly surprised -- " Alexei began, slightly distracted by the prospect, but then had the presence of mind to seize her by the arm and drag her out of the way just as the tree came crashing down.
"Twelve years in a row!" cried Mihr, astonished, presumably because knocking the tree over had not been one of her intentions. She looked so flushed and excited she might have just come from an Olympic laurel crowning ceremony.
Shemiel didn't look up from where she'd settled on the far side of the table to cut up paper for the bright construction paper garland that would deck the halls of the Berzukov dwelling, but she did laugh.
"It just isn't Christmas until Mee has knocked over the tree."
*
Notes: There's no place like home for the holidays.
"This is a nice Christmas, don't you think?" chirped Mihr as she thoughtfully tied a waistband of gold lame thread on a square of black felt carefully chosen for Samael.
"Nice because you haven't turned over the Christmas tree, maybe," answered Shemiel as she flipped through holiday records, being of the opinion that there can be no substitute for good, worn vinyl. She seemed to consider her previous statement for a moment, and then added, "Yet."
"Papa, is it really true that I've turned over the Christmas tree every single year since I was born?" asked the little red haired mädchen, looking more excited than distressed at the prospect, as if every annual tree-tipping was a new adventure in good holiday spirit.
"It is impossibly true, ma fillette," answered her father, who was just returning from a hall closet with further supplies for the holiday decorating, "When you were just six months old we put you under the tree to take your picture, and you liked the lights so much that you pulled it down on top of yourself. It gave your mother and I a terrible fright, as you might imagine, but it didn't hurt you in the slightest. Every year since then like clockwork you have taken the tree down at least once ahead of schedule."
"When Mee was three it happened seven times," remembered Shemiel aloud, rolling her eyes as if her younger sister was a considerable trial to bear, "I thought it would save time just to leave it lying on the ground that year."
"That's a fire hazard, Shemmie -- " answered her father, but he was immediately cut off by another red head which had poked itself into the room and spied what was going on at the children's craft table in the corner.
"Father, that's indecent."
"What?" Alexei asked, arms full of the rainy day craft box, bits of yarn and pipe cleaner all flyaway. He was used to his eldest informing him that things he had heretofore considered quite harmless were in fact moral crises waiting to befall the hapless, but he had not expected it over a holiday craft project. "How, exactly, Miniel?"
The teenaged boy turned mauve, as if he loathed speaking unwholesome words where anyone, even his mother might hear them, but apparently came to the conclusion that without the identification of sin there can be no correction and leaned close to his father to whisper his denouncement, which could be heard clearly even down at the hardwood table where the youngest Berzukovs were already busy maiming handkerchiefs and clothespins with proper yuletide spirit.
"You can't hang them on the tree that way. They aren't wearing any trousers," he explained emphatically, his fingers twitching as if he wanted already to gather up all the proto christmas decorations and lock them all away in a box, where the could not tempt the innocent and unsuspecting.
Of course. No trousers. He might have predicted.
"They are wearing dresses," he attempted to reason with his agitated son, and it was true across the board. Every man Jack was in a hanky dress, in addition to every lady. Alexei Berzukov was possibly the greatest composer of his century. He was not a fashion designer. And honestly, trousers for all these tiny little wood and linen angels were quite beyond him. Squares of felt and handkerchiefs for their dresses he could manage, but he'd never proven particularly adept at sewing, needles and sensitive fingertips rarely being bosom companions. Trousers for the small army of clothespin angels he smallest daughters were producing seemed an unconquerable obstacle, and he wondered dolefully if he would have to confine all the new christmas ornaments to the bottom of a box to keep the family peace. Miniel was obviously deeply upset. This was very clear. Too much of the whites of his eyes were showing every time he rolled them terribly down to the worktable to look at the scandalous production line.
"But you're going to hang them on the tree," Miniel fretted, "Up high on on the tree, some of them, and when you walk by, all you'll have to do is look up and, there, right up their skirts with nothing underneath -- " He looked faint.
"Miniel, couldn't you imagine they were wearing underthings?" began his father, and even as he said it, he realized his mistake.
"Should I also imagine that Shemmie's still got all her pyjamas on when she goes wandering down the hall to the bathroom at night without her pants on? Should I imagine business suits on all the women in British Harmony when Jack Naaktgeboren sneaks in issues to school and hides them in his desk? Maybe I should just imagine away Professor Delaney's class entirely. This seems like a really practical solution, father. Now why didn't I think of it before?"
"Minnie," Aniel noted very seriously as she looked up from gluing gold yarn to the top of what was presumably Sahaqiel's head, "Sarcasm is very unbecoming."
"I know it's unbecoming," Miniel looked strained, "I'm sorry father, Annie, I'm just so overwrought. Last night I happened to walk by when Shemmie was watching the Meaning of Life in the living room and I've been on edge ever since." He took several deep breaths and then seemed to collect himself. "Still, you can't just put little undergarmentless angels on the tree. Not when they look like people we know."
Mihr kicked back from her chair suddenly and fluttered her hands in the air the way she did when she felt she had something very exciting to say (which was about every three minutes).
"I think Minnie is right! Besides, otherwise their legs might get cold and fall off and then we'd have Christmas angels with no legs," she added insurmountably. Just when as a man and a father Alexei was about to despair at ever getting this surprise ready in time for wife's return from holiday shopping, Mihr added brightly, "But it's okay. I know just what to do!"
She dashed off in the direction of the kitchen, where her arrival was sounded as the thunder of the hanging rack of saucepans overturned and several drawers opened and then courteously slammed. When she came back she was bearing a box of the paper hats meant for the ends of chicken legs and the tips of crown roast. To these she applied some tape and the creative use of safety scissors and shortly produced a fine pair of white pantaloons just the right size for a clothespin angel. Aniel handed over her Sahaqiel, who had been judiciously rolled in blue glitter, and Mihr bravely flipped up her dress and aquainted her with her new undergarments. Miniel chose to look away, and had to be assured that the operation was a great success, since he had no desire to turn up the skirt of the former captain of the tower guard.
Alexei was relieved. A box of paper meat crowns was a small price to pay for peace in the drawing room during the Christmas holiday. Mihr hopped up and strained to hang the newest of the little angels as high as she could reach.
"Won't Mama be horribly surprised?" she asked, standing on her tip toes and using a convenient bough to balance herself.
"Let's hope she isn't horribly surprised -- " Alexei began, slightly distracted by the prospect, but then had the presence of mind to seize her by the arm and drag her out of the way just as the tree came crashing down.
"Twelve years in a row!" cried Mihr, astonished, presumably because knocking the tree over had not been one of her intentions. She looked so flushed and excited she might have just come from an Olympic laurel crowning ceremony.
Shemiel didn't look up from where she'd settled on the far side of the table to cut up paper for the bright construction paper garland that would deck the halls of the Berzukov dwelling, but she did laugh.
"It just isn't Christmas until Mee has knocked over the tree."
*
Notes: There's no place like home for the holidays.