Wednesday, December 29, 2004
The Arwyn went over the mountain...
...to see what she could see!
And what did she see?
Snow!
A nearby ski resort opened today for the season -- a happy occasion for those who love to strap sticks to their feet and slide down steep, slippery slopes going very, very fast! In honor of the occasion, my mom, older brother and I rented some skis, packed up the van, and drove out for a day on the slopes.
I've been skiing before. Once. Last February or March sometime, on a small mountain in Maine that had almost nobody there (despite it being a Saturday) and during which time one of my roommates (a former ski instructor) taught us how to go down hills with sticks on our feet and not fall off of them (too often). We went down the bunny hill in the morning, and spent the afternoon on the green circle runs. It was great. I loved it! I wanted to go faster and faster and managed to do pretty well -- and had such a wonderful time!
And today?
Got the skis strapped on, sun bright in my eyes, and joined Mom and Brother in line for the lift. Got carried up to the top of the hill. Got a glimpse of what I would have to ski down.
Got very, very scared.
You may call me a coward. I won't deny it. And I'll even provide four justifications for my cowardice:
1. I am scared of heights.
2. I am scared of falling off of heights.
3. I am scared of hitting the bottom after falling off of heights.
4. I am scared of going SPLAT all over the rocks at the bottom after falling off of heights.
At least the SPLAT is legitimate, I hope? Oh, good.
I've listed my ski credentials above, but allow me to reiterate: one morning on bunny hill; one afternoon on green circles; no ability above the snow plow; poor turning radius; and did I mention being scared of falling off of mountains?
Unfortunately, one of nature's laws runs something along the lines of: "What goes up must come down." Once I was up on that hill, with only blue square runs below me -- steep ones! -- I realized that I would have to get down somehow, fear or no fear. The first little way? Not too bad! I got going really fast...
...and promptly wiped out on my face.
No problem! Get up, keep going! And that I did -- I got up, kept going, got going really fast...
...and promptly wiped out on my face.
Still no problem! Third time's a charm! I could do this, I could tackle this, I could get down off that really steep really high oh-my-goodness-I'm-gonna-die-up-here mountain! So I started oing again...
...and promptly wiped out on my face.
This process got me nearly 1/4 of the way down the hill. With my hat soaked, my mittens a little damp, my face tired of making the snow's acquaintance, and my skis finally back on my feet, I started going down more slowly. Sideways. Perpendicular to the slope. Whenever I fell from then on, to be fair to all bits of me, it was on my side or my bum. I got to know that mountain pretty well -- one might say we came out acquaintances.
Finally, with Mom's help -- extraordinarily patient guidance while she was freezing that only a mother can give -- I eventually made it to the bottom.
An hour after I'd reached the top.
With very sore ankles, cold hands, a wet hat, and a great deal more courage, skill, and experience.
I spent the rest of the day on the green circle, and with the balance and control that I'd learned inching down that big hill, managed to make it down going fast without falling over -- managed to make turns without falling -- managed to get my skis back on and get back up when I did fall -- and managed to regain my confidence in myself and some enjoyment from sliding down icy snowy hills with sticks on my feet. I came out laughing from it all, and really did have a good time in good company on a beautifully cold day.
I'd like to draw for you some larger, moral lesson. I can see one forming, even: something about following the straight and narrow, or hard work, or dedication, or endurance.
But I'll let you draw what lessons you like. For my part? I'm flying down to visit my brother in Utah next week, and I'll be strapping sticks onto my feet again and tackling another mountain.
And hopefully I'll live to tell the tale.
And what did she see?
Snow!
A nearby ski resort opened today for the season -- a happy occasion for those who love to strap sticks to their feet and slide down steep, slippery slopes going very, very fast! In honor of the occasion, my mom, older brother and I rented some skis, packed up the van, and drove out for a day on the slopes.
I've been skiing before. Once. Last February or March sometime, on a small mountain in Maine that had almost nobody there (despite it being a Saturday) and during which time one of my roommates (a former ski instructor) taught us how to go down hills with sticks on our feet and not fall off of them (too often). We went down the bunny hill in the morning, and spent the afternoon on the green circle runs. It was great. I loved it! I wanted to go faster and faster and managed to do pretty well -- and had such a wonderful time!
And today?
Got the skis strapped on, sun bright in my eyes, and joined Mom and Brother in line for the lift. Got carried up to the top of the hill. Got a glimpse of what I would have to ski down.
Got very, very scared.
You may call me a coward. I won't deny it. And I'll even provide four justifications for my cowardice:
1. I am scared of heights.
2. I am scared of falling off of heights.
3. I am scared of hitting the bottom after falling off of heights.
4. I am scared of going SPLAT all over the rocks at the bottom after falling off of heights.
At least the SPLAT is legitimate, I hope? Oh, good.
I've listed my ski credentials above, but allow me to reiterate: one morning on bunny hill; one afternoon on green circles; no ability above the snow plow; poor turning radius; and did I mention being scared of falling off of mountains?
Unfortunately, one of nature's laws runs something along the lines of: "What goes up must come down." Once I was up on that hill, with only blue square runs below me -- steep ones! -- I realized that I would have to get down somehow, fear or no fear. The first little way? Not too bad! I got going really fast...
...and promptly wiped out on my face.
No problem! Get up, keep going! And that I did -- I got up, kept going, got going really fast...
...and promptly wiped out on my face.
Still no problem! Third time's a charm! I could do this, I could tackle this, I could get down off that really steep really high oh-my-goodness-I'm-gonna-die-up-here mountain! So I started oing again...
...and promptly wiped out on my face.
This process got me nearly 1/4 of the way down the hill. With my hat soaked, my mittens a little damp, my face tired of making the snow's acquaintance, and my skis finally back on my feet, I started going down more slowly. Sideways. Perpendicular to the slope. Whenever I fell from then on, to be fair to all bits of me, it was on my side or my bum. I got to know that mountain pretty well -- one might say we came out acquaintances.
Finally, with Mom's help -- extraordinarily patient guidance while she was freezing that only a mother can give -- I eventually made it to the bottom.
An hour after I'd reached the top.
With very sore ankles, cold hands, a wet hat, and a great deal more courage, skill, and experience.
I spent the rest of the day on the green circle, and with the balance and control that I'd learned inching down that big hill, managed to make it down going fast without falling over -- managed to make turns without falling -- managed to get my skis back on and get back up when I did fall -- and managed to regain my confidence in myself and some enjoyment from sliding down icy snowy hills with sticks on my feet. I came out laughing from it all, and really did have a good time in good company on a beautifully cold day.
I'd like to draw for you some larger, moral lesson. I can see one forming, even: something about following the straight and narrow, or hard work, or dedication, or endurance.
But I'll let you draw what lessons you like. For my part? I'm flying down to visit my brother in Utah next week, and I'll be strapping sticks onto my feet again and tackling another mountain.
And hopefully I'll live to tell the tale.
Sunday, December 26, 2004
Deadly sins?
As most of you know, I'm a sucker for the online quiz. Haven't had the luxury of taking one in a while, but chanced on this one and couldn't resist. The results? Well. Predictable, I dare say. But there's something amusing about knowing that my most deadly sin makes me related to a three-toed, tree-dwelling creature.
 | You scored as Sloth.
Seven deadly sins created with QuizFarm.com |
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
The Dante Club
A long day of travel dropped me off safe and soundly at home, and I've spent the last two days recuperating from finals. I think I'm just now beginning to reach the "alive" stage after those gruelling post-Thanksgiving weeks.
Usually I take the red-eye flight and get in late at night -- this allows me a chance to sleep through a good portion of the plane ride. On Sunday, I took the "why on earth are there people up at this hour?" flight -- the one that had me awake at 4:00 AM and leaving Boston at 6:00 AM. Aie!
Rather than sleeping through this flight, I read, listened, and wrote.
More specifically, I read The Dante Club, listened to Lord of the Rings BBC Dramatization (of which, I confess, I slept through the 20 minutes where Gandalf convinces Frodo that he'll need to leave the Shire), and wrote a couple blog posts.
I'll tell you about the LotR dramatization later; I'll type up the blog posts soonish; but I'll tell you about Dante Club now.
As I mentioned before, Matthew Pearl came to Bowdoin to talk about his experience as a writer, and about this novel in particular. I didn't get a chance to read the book before he spoke (I blame approaching finals and my own November Novel), but did enjoy his talk and the chance that I got to speak with him for about an hour afterward, in a small group of writing- and Dante-interested students.
The novel takes place in 1865 in Boston, when Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is working on his translation of the Divine Comedy with the help of an informal group of friends and fellow literary types who call themselves the Dante Club.
A string of Dantesque murders begin to terrorize the city: murders that happen to some of the most prominent members of the community, and that are executed in the most gruesome ways.
I've never read Dante's work. I should very much like to someday...but after reading this, let it not be someday soon. I'm still trying to put these images out of my head. Perhaps they don't appear in such detail in The Inferno; perhaps they do. Either way, I'm not quite ready for them, because Pearl makes them very, very vivid -- and they are very, very gruesome.
Which, I think, is a testament to his style. He writes quite well. I read Da Vinci Code (and blogged about it, too), and was engrossed in the story, but had to struggle through what seemed to me like poor quality writing. This one? Maybe not top-notch, but I admired it all the way through. Pearl was able to bring historical characters to life in a very real way -- his Longfellow was touchingly gentle but driving, his Lowell passionate, his Holmes hesitant, his Fields clever. The story moved pretty smoothly from the first murder to the resolution -- pretty smoothly.
My biggest complaint, really, is that I didn't really buy the murderer's characterization or justification. It seemed like Pearl wanted him to be the guy you would expect the least. And sure, he was. Because the character of the murderer as we knew him before we figured out who he was seemed so completely different from the murderer we knew once his identity was revealed. I had a hard time believing they were the same person. And his justification for the murders, stemming as it does from his experiences aiding the Underground Railroad and on the battlefields of the Civil War...I don't know. It didn't seem realistic to me -- in fact, it seemed contrived. Like Pearl was trying too hard to make all the pieces fit together, but kept coming up with too many pieces.
Though the resolution is sweet, and though peace is finally restored to the streets of Boston, I don't feel as though all the loose ends were tied. I don't feel like the author's explanation cleared everything up. I felt as though clues remained that had no real place in the puzzle, and that some dead-ends that ought have provided real stumbling blocks both to the characters and the reader...didn't.
But all the same: if you have the stomach for punishments from Dante's Inferno meted out on the citizens of Boston, and are in the market for a good mystery, I recommend it as one cleverly and well-written.
Plus, I absolutely adore Longfellow. He's a Bowdoin grad, you know!
Usually I take the red-eye flight and get in late at night -- this allows me a chance to sleep through a good portion of the plane ride. On Sunday, I took the "why on earth are there people up at this hour?" flight -- the one that had me awake at 4:00 AM and leaving Boston at 6:00 AM. Aie!
Rather than sleeping through this flight, I read, listened, and wrote.
More specifically, I read The Dante Club, listened to Lord of the Rings BBC Dramatization (of which, I confess, I slept through the 20 minutes where Gandalf convinces Frodo that he'll need to leave the Shire), and wrote a couple blog posts.
I'll tell you about the LotR dramatization later; I'll type up the blog posts soonish; but I'll tell you about Dante Club now.
As I mentioned before, Matthew Pearl came to Bowdoin to talk about his experience as a writer, and about this novel in particular. I didn't get a chance to read the book before he spoke (I blame approaching finals and my own November Novel), but did enjoy his talk and the chance that I got to speak with him for about an hour afterward, in a small group of writing- and Dante-interested students.
The novel takes place in 1865 in Boston, when Henry Wadsworth Longfellow is working on his translation of the Divine Comedy with the help of an informal group of friends and fellow literary types who call themselves the Dante Club.
A string of Dantesque murders begin to terrorize the city: murders that happen to some of the most prominent members of the community, and that are executed in the most gruesome ways.
I've never read Dante's work. I should very much like to someday...but after reading this, let it not be someday soon. I'm still trying to put these images out of my head. Perhaps they don't appear in such detail in The Inferno; perhaps they do. Either way, I'm not quite ready for them, because Pearl makes them very, very vivid -- and they are very, very gruesome.
Which, I think, is a testament to his style. He writes quite well. I read Da Vinci Code (and blogged about it, too), and was engrossed in the story, but had to struggle through what seemed to me like poor quality writing. This one? Maybe not top-notch, but I admired it all the way through. Pearl was able to bring historical characters to life in a very real way -- his Longfellow was touchingly gentle but driving, his Lowell passionate, his Holmes hesitant, his Fields clever. The story moved pretty smoothly from the first murder to the resolution -- pretty smoothly.
My biggest complaint, really, is that I didn't really buy the murderer's characterization or justification. It seemed like Pearl wanted him to be the guy you would expect the least. And sure, he was. Because the character of the murderer as we knew him before we figured out who he was seemed so completely different from the murderer we knew once his identity was revealed. I had a hard time believing they were the same person. And his justification for the murders, stemming as it does from his experiences aiding the Underground Railroad and on the battlefields of the Civil War...I don't know. It didn't seem realistic to me -- in fact, it seemed contrived. Like Pearl was trying too hard to make all the pieces fit together, but kept coming up with too many pieces.
Though the resolution is sweet, and though peace is finally restored to the streets of Boston, I don't feel as though all the loose ends were tied. I don't feel like the author's explanation cleared everything up. I felt as though clues remained that had no real place in the puzzle, and that some dead-ends that ought have provided real stumbling blocks both to the characters and the reader...didn't.
But all the same: if you have the stomach for punishments from Dante's Inferno meted out on the citizens of Boston, and are in the market for a good mystery, I recommend it as one cleverly and well-written.
Plus, I absolutely adore Longfellow. He's a Bowdoin grad, you know!
Saturday, December 18, 2004
Finals finally finished!
I'm done. Huzzah! Bus leaves in two hours, and them I'll be absent until I've slept for a week or two and caught up on all the sleep I've missed these past...six weeks. Will give updates from Seattle when I come out of hibernation (ie, after Christmas sometime when I've seen Return of the King Extended Edition six or seven times and have notes to share)!
Newsflash: Gollum suffers from vitamin B-12 deficiency!
According to a group of British doctors, Gollum suffers not only from a B-12 deficiency, but also "anaemia, hyperthyroidism and a metabolic disease called porphyria" that probably caused his paranoia and schizophrenia.
Poor Gollum! If only he'd had a better diet, and maybe some love...!
Poor Gollum! If only he'd had a better diet, and maybe some love...!
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Where I've been
This is my seventh semester of college. I should have the finals thing down, right? And I do -- it's not as scary as it was freshman year, nor as daunting as junior fall when I had five classes and was trying to juggle them all. But it's still deadly to my brain, and apparently my brain has entirely ceased working.
Because I did post recently. Those two posts that are just below this one? Yeah. I posted them over the course of the last week.
But I posted them to the wrong blog. They ended up on the Maine College Republicans blog. Which is not here. And I really, honestly, truly meant for them to be here.
So forgive me!
And finals? I've turned in chapter one of the honors project (that's those monster 35 pages on liberty in Burke's Reflections on the Revolution in France) and my final paper for the independent study I did on Pushkin this semester (basically an analysis of "what we can learn about the man and his relation to power from his poetry", but long and all in Russian). I just finished my Russian history final this morning -- 2 hours, 45 minutes of straight writing identifications and a few essays, mostly on 1917-1940 Soviet culture and society (you know -- the fun stuff!).
And now, if I can survive through the geology exam on Saturday morning, I'll be done.
That's right. Exam. Saturday. Morning. Something is wrong in the universe when you have to take exams on Saturday mornings. Saturdays should be reserved for cartoons, not rocks!
But Saturday afternoon I drive down to Boston with my friend, and bright and early on Sunday morning I head westward toward Seattle. And then vacation begins! And how fun it will be!
A couple weeks of sleeping and relaxing in Seattle...er...wait a second. No.
A couple weeks of reading up for and outlining my next Burke chapter, studying for the LSAT, and researching/applying for jobs for when I graduate. Rest? Hah! For the weak!
And then down to Utah to pay a call on big brother and maybe hit the slopes. Is that the right phrase for 'go skiing'? I've only ever been once, and my terminology is, understandably, unpolished.
And from there, back eastward to visit some friends in Massachusetts, then back up to Maine for another -- for the final! -- semester.
But right now? A nap. Definitely a nap. And then geology and I have a long night planned. Whee!
Because I did post recently. Those two posts that are just below this one? Yeah. I posted them over the course of the last week.
But I posted them to the wrong blog. They ended up on the Maine College Republicans blog. Which is not here. And I really, honestly, truly meant for them to be here.
So forgive me!
And finals? I've turned in chapter one of the honors project (that's those monster 35 pages on liberty in Burke's Reflections on the Revolution in France) and my final paper for the independent study I did on Pushkin this semester (basically an analysis of "what we can learn about the man and his relation to power from his poetry", but long and all in Russian). I just finished my Russian history final this morning -- 2 hours, 45 minutes of straight writing identifications and a few essays, mostly on 1917-1940 Soviet culture and society (you know -- the fun stuff!).
And now, if I can survive through the geology exam on Saturday morning, I'll be done.
That's right. Exam. Saturday. Morning. Something is wrong in the universe when you have to take exams on Saturday mornings. Saturdays should be reserved for cartoons, not rocks!
But Saturday afternoon I drive down to Boston with my friend, and bright and early on Sunday morning I head westward toward Seattle. And then vacation begins! And how fun it will be!
A couple weeks of sleeping and relaxing in Seattle...er...wait a second. No.
A couple weeks of reading up for and outlining my next Burke chapter, studying for the LSAT, and researching/applying for jobs for when I graduate. Rest? Hah! For the weak!
And then down to Utah to pay a call on big brother and maybe hit the slopes. Is that the right phrase for 'go skiing'? I've only ever been once, and my terminology is, understandably, unpolished.
And from there, back eastward to visit some friends in Massachusetts, then back up to Maine for another -- for the final! -- semester.
But right now? A nap. Definitely a nap. And then geology and I have a long night planned. Whee!
Mumakil of Mass Destruction
I was idly poking around the internet last night, and came upon the utterly hilarious War on Harad, complete with Al'Dubyar, the Reunited Kingdom, Orcistan, and, of course, the Mumakil of Mass Destruction.
Enjoy!
Enjoy!
Publicity!
Ours is a good, highly-ranked, well-fed liberal arts college. It also is a small liberal arts college. As a result, prospective students, parents, and even the guest lecturers who come to campus are uncertain about the correct pronunciation of the name -- I was walking across the quad with Matthew Pearl, author of The Dante Club (which is on my reading list for Christmas break), and he -- a Harvard grad, from nearby...Harvard! -- had to ask.
(A pronunciation guide for the challenged is available here)
Like I said, a small school. A good school, but a small one. As a result, we don't get much publicity in the eyes of the general public. In fact, I'm not sure I've seen it mentioned anywhere in the popular media since Gettysburg, where Jeff Daniels plays one of our more prestigious alums, Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain of the 20th Maine.
But two weeks ago, a new era of Bowdoin publicity began: our campus, a few of our students, and our women's soccer team appeared on MTV's The Fight For Your Rights: Protect Yourself campaign's "Campus Guide to Safer Sex".
Go us! I had the honor of watching this "30-minute condom ad" at work the night that it aired, and I remember watching with no little mixture of horror and...horror. I couldn't imagine being one of the poor souls they interviewed; I couldn't imagine having one of my favorite views of campus -- the quad, with the steeples of the chapel in the foreground -- on MTV to talk about sex. But there it was.
Don't get me wrong: I'm as much a proponant of safe sex as anyone. Better safe than sorry, right? But I'm also more a proponant of abstinance and self-control, which they did mention in passing on the program as the safest method to avoid STDs and unwanted pregnancy.
At the same time, I'm not sure that this is the best sort of publicity that I would want my college to have. "I go to Bowdoin" usually gets the response of "You go where?" and I much prefer that to "Oh! The sex place!" I mean...really.
Anyway. The show will rerun through the end of December, if you happen to be an avid MTV-watcher. Maybe you'll enjoy it. Me? It reminded me of the bad movies we watched in health class. Poor Bowdoin College.
(A pronunciation guide for the challenged is available here)
Like I said, a small school. A good school, but a small one. As a result, we don't get much publicity in the eyes of the general public. In fact, I'm not sure I've seen it mentioned anywhere in the popular media since Gettysburg, where Jeff Daniels plays one of our more prestigious alums, Colonel Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain of the 20th Maine.
But two weeks ago, a new era of Bowdoin publicity began: our campus, a few of our students, and our women's soccer team appeared on MTV's The Fight For Your Rights: Protect Yourself campaign's "Campus Guide to Safer Sex".
Go us! I had the honor of watching this "30-minute condom ad" at work the night that it aired, and I remember watching with no little mixture of horror and...horror. I couldn't imagine being one of the poor souls they interviewed; I couldn't imagine having one of my favorite views of campus -- the quad, with the steeples of the chapel in the foreground -- on MTV to talk about sex. But there it was.
Don't get me wrong: I'm as much a proponant of safe sex as anyone. Better safe than sorry, right? But I'm also more a proponant of abstinance and self-control, which they did mention in passing on the program as the safest method to avoid STDs and unwanted pregnancy.
At the same time, I'm not sure that this is the best sort of publicity that I would want my college to have. "I go to Bowdoin" usually gets the response of "You go where?" and I much prefer that to "Oh! The sex place!" I mean...really.
Anyway. The show will rerun through the end of December, if you happen to be an avid MTV-watcher. Maybe you'll enjoy it. Me? It reminded me of the bad movies we watched in health class. Poor Bowdoin College.
Tuesday, December 07, 2004
Letters From Father Christmas
When I was nine or ten years old, my family watched movies -- as families are apt to do. One evening, my father brought home the animated "Lord of the Rings" movie -- the one that ends, if I recall correctly...somewhere in the middle of Two Towers? I was young; I forget. What matters most about this movie (horrible, horrible though it was! Aie! I watched bits of it last year, and I shuddered to think what a travesty this...! Right -- back on topic!) is that it ends before the trilogy; it ends abruptly; and it ended leaving young 9-year-old me wanting to know what happened next.
That is a terribly wonderful feeling.
Wanting to know "what happens next" is what keeps me up nights until two, three, four in the morning with a good novel, or even with my own writing. Wanting to know "what happens next" is what keeps me moving through philosophy or history readings; it's what keeps me moving through life.
I wanted to know what happened.
So I read The Hobbit.
Which, you likely know, is a prequel to Lord of the Rings, not the ending of it.
Okay, so I didn't know what happened. But I did dive into Tolkien's world, and my mother will tell you that I haven't properly surfaced since.
I read Lord of the Rings a few short years later, in the seventh grade. It took me three weeks -- two weeks to get past the first half of Fellowship of the Ring because it's so incredibly dull, and a week to finish that and read both Two Towers and Return of the King.
For a number of years, I counted those my favorite books -- my favorite books. Being much wider-read in the realm of literature now, I would name others favorite, but Lord of the Rings does hold -- and will always hold -- a dear place in my heart and my imagination. I read it every other year, and wonder at the depth and breadth of it with every reading, to the point that Tolkien's world often seems as real to me -- if not more real -- than our own.
Having established my affinity for Tolkien's work from a young age, I must ask the question:
How on earth can I be as old as I am and never have heard of Amazon.com: Books: Letters From Father Christmas? I am obviously behind in my Tolkienology, and ought to be flogged around the fleet for being remiss and entirely missing such a fun book!
(Yes, the whole point of this post was to wonder why on earth I'd never heard of it...any explanations would be more than welcome, especially if they release me from fault for not having done my homework thoroughly enough.)
That is a terribly wonderful feeling.
Wanting to know "what happens next" is what keeps me up nights until two, three, four in the morning with a good novel, or even with my own writing. Wanting to know "what happens next" is what keeps me moving through philosophy or history readings; it's what keeps me moving through life.
I wanted to know what happened.
So I read The Hobbit.
Which, you likely know, is a prequel to Lord of the Rings, not the ending of it.
Okay, so I didn't know what happened. But I did dive into Tolkien's world, and my mother will tell you that I haven't properly surfaced since.
I read Lord of the Rings a few short years later, in the seventh grade. It took me three weeks -- two weeks to get past the first half of Fellowship of the Ring because it's so incredibly dull, and a week to finish that and read both Two Towers and Return of the King.
For a number of years, I counted those my favorite books -- my favorite books. Being much wider-read in the realm of literature now, I would name others favorite, but Lord of the Rings does hold -- and will always hold -- a dear place in my heart and my imagination. I read it every other year, and wonder at the depth and breadth of it with every reading, to the point that Tolkien's world often seems as real to me -- if not more real -- than our own.
Having established my affinity for Tolkien's work from a young age, I must ask the question:
How on earth can I be as old as I am and never have heard of Amazon.com: Books: Letters From Father Christmas? I am obviously behind in my Tolkienology, and ought to be flogged around the fleet for being remiss and entirely missing such a fun book!
(Yes, the whole point of this post was to wonder why on earth I'd never heard of it...any explanations would be more than welcome, especially if they release me from fault for not having done my homework thoroughly enough.)