Once upon a time, there was a priory. It was in Leipzig. It made Augustinian Canons. The canons were loud and unruly, but Dietrich, the evil Margrave of Meißen, liked them. He liked them so much, he annexed a school to the monastery for growing new ones. These canons-to-be had to sing for their supper and salvation. The St. Thomas Choir was born.
Over the years, many other gross simplifications of history occurred. The priory became the St Thomas Church, the choir stuck around, and Bach took over the reins in 1723. The church survived wars, plagues, and famines. (The people inside, not so much.)
More than 800 years after it sprung from the soil, two brave adventurers battle the cold to see the young boys sing. They pass inns and guard houses, markets and churches, pushing into the driving wind that freezes the beard of one and gives a frost-tash to the other.
Soon the tower’s in sight, but our brave duo are disheartened. A milling crowd of peasants waits before the doors, seeking redemption. What could the pair do but join them? They’d come all this way, after all. They stand in the icy -4 degrees.
But the ghost of the evil Margrave appears. It lights fires in people’s mouths, sending reeking smoke over the square. A troubadour tries to fight it off with his magic piccolo, but in vain. The crown turns sour. It demands entrance to the church. Such is the press on the doors that liveried men step out and turn all those outside away. The two brave adventurers take each other’s hands and head for home.
“Maybe next year,” they say, when they reach their little hovel.
They gather around a cocoa for warmth.
Once upon a different time, a young man, his wife, and his child set off for the Christmas market. They are greeted by music and the sweet smell of mulled wine. Food stalls offer snacks, and artisans display the wares they’ve worked so hard upon. Verily, there’s much merriment and joy. But, lo, what’s this? Some craven artist’s worked his wax into the shape of a vulva! And not just one, but a hundred! Penises, too! What foul crop is this, that blights the Good Lord’s birthday?
Outraged, the man quits the place, wife and child in tow. But the grim sight haunts him. Dick dreams wake him in the night, and every flower’s a fanny.
“What’s happened to our fair town?” he cries. “What’s happened to the world?”
As he searches for someone to blame, his wife discreetly hides the chestnuts.
And so Manger Day is marked, and a week later, the robes of 2025 fall to the floor. Before us all, the naked baby New Year, suckling at its mother’s teat. And we, the eager, pucker in preparation.
