It is to those of you in the latter category that this message is principally destined. Today (it’ll be tomorrow your time at the earliest when you read this, but no matter) is St. Swithin’s Day, one of the grand folkloric observances in this or any calendar. For those of our readers who reside on the side of the Atlantic away from the flow of the Gulf Stream, St. Swithin’s day is basically Groundhog Day, without the groundhog, and five-and-a-half months later. Standing in for the weather woodchuck (who at this time of year has enough to keep him occupied, what with chucking all the wood that he could) on July 15 is a 10th-century bishop and fresh-air fiend whose stipulation that he be buried among the elements (this was easier in those days, since before the creation of the periodic table, there were a whole lot fewer elements) has led to a tradition concerning meteorological prognostication. It is held that, should it rain on July 15, St. Swithin (or his appointed agents and/or deputies) will see to it that the next 40 days are similarly soggy. Leaving aside the fact that nearly six weeks’ worth of consecutive 24-hour periods with at least some precipitation constitutes a minor drought by English standards, I thought it might interest all of you to know about a few of the traditions that have coalesced around the feast days of assorted other saints:
St. Minge’s Day (September 19, except during leap years whose final two digits are divisible by 7):
Legend has it that if you find any odd number of loose paper clips among your personal effects on this day, you can expect a piece of mail from a distant relative addressed to someplace you haven’t lived in five years to be delivered to one of your neighbours.
St. Bergnargle’s Day (June 25; also June 14 and July 6 in Russia, Belarus, Ukraine and other countries formerly on the Julian calendar, where they know they were 11 days out at some time in the past, but can never remember in which direction, and aren’t taking any chances on missing out):
If, on this day, a merchant honours an expired coupon for more than seventy-five cents off any non-perishable item you purchase, that item will go on a ‘no coupons’ sale for at least a dollar-fifty less than that within the week.
St. Pancreas’ Day (May 11, except between the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn, when it is celebrated every fifth Friday during yachting season):
If you are seen in public eating sweetbreads, kidneys, tongue, or tripe, a stranger will kiss the first fool he or she sees between the hours of 9:03 and 9:17 PM (Eastern Daylight Saving Time), provided this occurs within 500 yards of an unpaved shoulder beside a drainage ditch.
St. Higginbotham’s Day (the closest even-numbered Tuesday to March 24):
If the exact hue of either dawn or sunset can be described as ‘viridian’ for a period of 37 minutes (on aggregate), the trombone will be proclaimed the national instrument of Ireland.
St. Saint of Saint’s Day (the patron saint of bureaucracy, said to have been inspired in a dream by the archangel Michael to invent the process of doing things in triplicate; celebrated on the official deadline for filing tax returns in whatever country one happens to be in):
If anyone in a staffing, classification, or human resources department signs an inter-office memo by dotting an ‘i’ with a smiley face or a heart, job interviews and hiring practices will take on a distinct tone of flippancy for the next six months.
St. Spatters’ Day (any day that looks good for getting a suntan on a warehouse roof, provided it’s a Saturday in August not too close to Labour Day):
No matter what happens on this day, trends in postmodern visual art will continue to be largely incomprehensible.
This, of course, is but a small sampling. Given the number of saints to be honoured during the course of any given year, the ramifications of every possible occurrence and/or action at any given time are positively endless. Daunting proposition, really, when you think about it. It’s probably better we don’t, and all just go to bed early.
Uncle Fun
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