Nestled neatly in a fold of the mighty Ohio Appennines, lay the somnolent little hamlet of Conneaut. Unchanged since the thirteenth century, the village ached of age and time long past. The spires of its mighty cathedrals showed sullen defiance to the world, and groaned but slightly when the cruel gales blew from the lamp-black waters of Lake Erie. Pressed tight against the winding streets, the houses were small and mean and bone-biting cold.

By day, the streets were filled with the surly sounds of men as they creaked and carried their fearsome burdens of stone. The boulders they carried were pure granite, and arm-achingly massive. The men groaned under the weight, and their chains chattered and clattered as they limped, in unison, to The Hill. Ever aware of the break-falls that lined the causeway, the men did not want to become numbered among ³the weak² that filled them, and they added their rocks daily to the Great Pile. The townsfolk were grateful for the Great Pile, and the High Priests of the town convoked daily thanksgiving services, using symbolism and metaphors to demonstrate their fealty to the Princess Melinda.

By night, vast and unruly packs of dogs roamed the town. Fierce and feral were the dogs and bushy-tailed, with claws that catch and TEETH that snap and tear. The townsfolk resented the dogs, and seized them every morning with a loud shout. Lashing and whacking and striking out blindly, the townsfolk would cow the dogs and then chain them stoutly to trees.

Then November would come, and with it, the snow. Blinded by rage, the townsmen would grow tired, and drop their rocks in the street. Such a commotion there was, such noises never made, at every "Dropping of the Stones". Suddenly aware of their weariness, the men would form a caucus and petition the Princess Melinda for a redress of grievances. Gathered in the darkness outside her embattled door, the townsmen grew downhearted when she would never listen to their pleas. They would mumble the words to long forgotten hymns, and occasionally cry ³God Save Us All². ³God Save Us All² the dispirited crowd would answer in voices made of lead. In Conneaut, November was a month to sap the soul.

Their petition never worked, and, disconcerted, they would straggle home to their tiresome houses, and eat their endless mutton suppers. All bulbous after their meals, the townsfolk would sit on their rude pine chairs, reflecting sadly on what had come to pass.

But December follows November, just as sure as "disease" follows "venereal", and brings in its wake the blessed Christmastide. Though simple in form, what a stately ceremony Conneaut would hold! The men would form loose associations on Christmas Eve, and hold snatching-and-grasping contests. Later, they'd bathe in the ritual cocoa and still redolent, put on their robes: There were Jesters, and Liars, and Lunatics, and some impersonated Count Zeppelin.

And then, at the very stroke of midnight, "To the Lake!", they¹d cry, and we, as innocent children would follow, trying to imagine the marvels that might unfold. We youngsters would stop a little short of the darkling water's edge, on the yellow-soft sands of the beach. There, we would strain to see what the grown-ups were doing in the darkness.

Ahead of us, there they were. Pulsing and barking. they¹d gather in knots, and grimace as they slapped their knees. They shone in the night air as they waited. They wore sweet oils and unguents as emollients against the moon's hard staring. and fended off the chill with vasts drafts of Ohio Applejack. They were waiting for "The Coming".

Pastor Andrews always knew when The Coming was nigh. He would look down doubtfully at his watch, pause dramatically with his huge red handkerchief held high over his head, and finally announce "The Coming has come". The handkerchief dropped; the race was on. Thrashing wildly, the men burst through the reeds at the side of the lake - the reeds snapping and splintering and cracking underfoot - as they ran to the lake¹s dark, cold edge.

³It is the time², Pastor Andrews would breathe noisily, and the men would dive headlong and hatless into the lake. The spectators grew quiet and tense.

Then the great fish appeared, breaking the surface with its powerful beak, and roiling the waters with its ghastly tentacles. All would grow quiet as we watched the beast and its display of inarticulate fury from the safe vantage-point of the beach. For fully five minutes the water churned, as the beast thrashed and rolled and twisted, and then the waters grew calm. The beast was gone - back to the darkness and calm of the depths of Lake Erie. Not all the men returned from the lake, but we children would chatter happily with our Mothers and Grandmas as we laughed our way back to our houses, and talked about what we had seen.

Once home, we would receive a present - generally a 1/4 pound of tea - for which we gave thanks, and made merry. Nobody went to bed early on Christmas Eve in Conneaut.