DailyDirt: Fact-Checking Some Christmas Traditions

from the urls-we-dig-up dept

We’ve noticed some Christmas dinner traditions that might sound a little strange. But there are some traditions around this time of year that are curious enough to warrant some quick fact-checking. Whatever the case may be, enjoy whatever traditions you follow!

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Comments on “DailyDirt: Fact-Checking Some Christmas Traditions”

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Lawrence D’Oliveiro says:

Re: Re: But I don't know why shepherd's crooks are shaped like shepherd's crooks.

  1. If they were straight, they wouldn’t be crooks. Shaped like crooks … crooked … geddit?
  2. The shepherds use them to hook the sheep offstage when their act is being received badly by the audience. By hook or by crook…
Beta (profile) says:

Re: Re: Re: causality

  1. Yes, I know they must be shaped like themselves, but usually things are named descriptively, not shaped to fit their names. If you’re saying they’re shaped that way because of their name, you’re raising more questions than you’re answering.

    2. “By hook or by crook” refers to the law that the fruit on the tree belonged to the landowner, but the fruit on the ground (windfall) was free for the taking — and sometimes the wind needed a little help from the not-entirely-honest. And come to think of it, that might actually answer my question.

Andrew D. Todd (user link) says:

Lunch at the Greyhound Bus Station.

Here’s a different kind of tradition, back from the early 1970’s. On Christmas, in Cincinnati, a group of men and teenage boys would all get together for lunch at the Greyhound bus station. The women of our families were all busy cooking Christmas dinner, and they didn’t want us underfoot, going in the kitchen in search of snacks and getting in their way. The airport restaurant must have been open as well, but that was miles out of town, and airports still had upper-middle-class associations. The Greyhound bus station, apart from being open on Christmas, was earthy and working class, a place to tell moderately ribald jokes, of the sort which get imported from the military, the kind of jokes one would not tell in the presence of a lady. Someone would ritually recite Kurt Vonnegut’s aphorism that “the Indianapolis bus station is the navel of the universe.” Vonnegut’s novel, _Breakfast of Champions_, is the purest distillation of the mentality that I know of.

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