Oliva said, “Santa stinks,” and tried to climb down. Olivia was six. Santa was a donkey.
Olivia’s father Zachary steadied her. “That’s nature, honey. Santa is an animal.”
“He needs a bath.” Scowling, Olivia wriggled free.
Extending the rope attached to Santa’s halter, Zachary said, “Hold this.” His wife Jennifer was taking pictures. His brother-in-law Ryan took the rope.
They stood in the middle of Main Street. The four-block commercial district of Mierenhoop, New York was decorated for Christmas. A banner strung overhead read FÊTE DE L’ÂNE.
Ryan said, “Why the French?”
“This was a Christian feast in medieval France. Celebrates donkey stories in the Bible. A child on a donkey is led to the church. The donkey stands beside the altar during the sermon.”
Jennifer said, “We’re competing with other towns to attract visitors.”
To Ryan, Mierenhoop was what rural America must have looked like in the 1950s. The place was either quaint or grim, depending on your point of view. Ryan understood why Jennifer and Zach had fled New York City with Olivia during the pandemic. Why they stayed, he didn’t understand.
“Ononkote Corners has that ridiculous Elfapalooza,” Zachary said. “Just another tacky street fair. Pure consumerism. Fête de l’âne has heart.”
“What does fête de l’âne mean?”
“Feast of the Ass. Wouldn’t exactly draw a crowd.”
“It might, but not the crowd you’d want.”
Ryan wasn’t sorry he’d driven up from Brooklyn, but neither was he thrilled. Thirty-three and unattached, his Christmas alternative was Kung Pao Chicken and Netflix.
Spectators idled along Main Street. A family in matching mackinaws munched corn dogs. Nearby, the regional high school band was assembling. The scent of weed spiked the crisp Adirondack air.
Jennifer said, “You’re the star of the procession, Ollie. Everyone came to see you ride Santa to the church.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Daddy’s going to walk right beside you, Mommy’s going to take videos, and Uncle Ryan will lead Santa. Won’t you, Uncle Ryan?”
“Sure.”
Ryan had never seen a donkey in person, no less led one in a medieval Christian feast.
“Better turnout than last year,” Zachary said. “The event’s catching on. We have a Facebook page. And Jen posts to TikTok. There’s a couple staying at our b&b that came all the way from Burlington.”
“Religious zealots?”
“God, no! We don’t play in that space. I mean, we do the church and all, but it’s strictly private sector.”
The procession kicked off. In the lead were Nativity re-enactors, accompanied an Elmo and a Michael Jackson impersonator.
Zachary said, “Unauthorized.”
At the signal, Ryan tugged Santa’s rope. Santa wouldn’t budge. Ryan tugged harder. Santa planted his heels and lowered his head.
Olivia wailed, “I wanna go home!” Her parents scrambled to prevent her escape.
Spectators hooted. Ryan snatched a corn dog from a mackinaw boy. He waved it under Santa’s snout. Santa got underway. The crowd applauded.
The boy shouted, “That’s my corn dog!”
Ryan said, “Where’s your Feast of the Ass spirit, kid?”
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David Sherman lives in New York. He took up writing during the pandemic lockdown. It was either that or renovate his apartment. David’s writing is getting better. His apartment is getting worse.
