“And she brought forth her first-born son,
and wrapped him in swaddling clothes,
and laid him in a manger…”

In Germany, it’s called a Weihnachtskrippe. Spaniards know it as a naciamento. Italians say presepio; for the French, it’s a crèche. Since that starry night in Bethlehem 2,000 years ago, the celebration of Christmas has almost always included some scenic tribute to the Nativity. From simple representations of the three principal figures — the Holy Family of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph — Nativity sets have grown to include figurines of almost everyone even remotely connected to the Christmas story. In addition to the expected—angels, shepherds, the Three Kings, and a varied assortment of friendly beasts—many modern manger scenes also incorporate mythic secular characters. Current Bethlehem visitors include little drummer boys, homeless kittens — even kneeling Santas.

Early pilgrimages to the Holy Land served as inspiration for the Nativity scene tradition, and a sixth-century Roman basilica, “Holy Mary of the Nativity,” featured the first three-dimensional figures. It was, however, several more centuries before the concept of a figural Nativity scene really took hold. In the meantime, there were the “living Nativities” of the Middle Ages, staged in churches by costumed performers. The earliest and most famous of these was created by St. Francis of Assisi in 1223.

St. Francis felt that, for many of his congregation, Christmas had lost its true meaning. A “living Nativity” would bring the story closer to them. The village of Greccio, near Assisi, was restyled as Bethlehem; local shepherds (and their livestock) starred as the main characters. On Christmas Eve, torch-bearing villagers arrived to experience, in person, the wonder of the crèche.

Nativity dramas became a much-anticipated annual social event, but the boisterous crowds eventually proved too much for somber cathedrals. By the late 16th century, Nativity re-enactments had moved to town squares, eventually disappearing from view. The tradition resurfaced in the 20th century, with many communities again staging “living Nativities.” One of the most spectacular has been featured at New York’s Radio City Music Hall.
Figural representations were popularized in the 15th and 16th centuries by the Jesuits. These Nativity scenes in European churches were fashioned of wood, terra cotta, stone, fabric, or metal. They could be nearly full-size, half-size, or miniature, depending on space, and were often backed by a realistic stable setting.

Hey there. . .check out this month’s Play Mate!
Now that I have your attention. . .

Once upon a time, “play-mate” meant something a lot different than it did to the gang at Playboy magazine. From the early 1930s onward, Children’s Play Mate was the publication getting all the publicity. Sure, there were competitors (Jack and Jill, Wee Wisdom, Highlights for Children), each with some of what Children’s Play Mate had to offer. But this digest-sized monthly, hailed as “The Favorite Magazine of Boys and Girls,” had it all. There were stories (“The Circle-D Kid”, “The Mystery of the Old Barn”); poems (“children of Holland, with busy feet, go clomp-clomp-clomping down the street”); puzzles (“find 10 hidden faces in this picture!”); recipes (“Barbara’s Favorite Frosty Grape Lemonade”); projects (“Make A Pumpkin Totem Pole!”); and contests (“Win A Pedigreed Cocker Puppy All Your Own For the Neatest and Most Interesting Letter!”). There was even, in that much more trusting time, “Everybody’s Mail Box,” with letters (and addresses) from prospective pen pals around the world.

Lots more was stuffed into each issue’s 50-plus pages, which were geared to an enthralled readership “from 4 to 14.” But what primarily appeals to today’s collectors, who might not be partic-ularly interested in playing connect-the-dots or reading about “Tailspin Teena—The Little Witch Who Couldn’t Learn To Fly,” is the Play Mate artwork. Most of the cover illustrations, as well as the interior art, were the work of Fern Bisel Peat, Art Director for Children’s Play Mate from 1933 until 1955. Her unique style captures all of the era’s childhood milestones in brightly col-ored, whimsical drawings that serve as a time capsule of mid-20th century America.

A boy and a girl sail past the pine trees on their rope-and-plank swing. Another pair brave brisk spring winds to hang a birdhouse. And an angler duo peer into a pond, wondering if they’ll ever have any luck on their fishing trip. And, since the maga-zines were monthly,
Play Mate covers run right down the yearly calendar, from New Year’s and Valentine’s Day, through Halloween and Christmas.

The magazine’s visual vision-ary, Fern Bisel, was born in 1893, and graduated from Ohio Wesleyan University with a degree in fine arts. In 1917, she married Frank Peat, and the pair opened an interior decorating firm, specializing in décor items for children’s bedrooms and nurseries. In the early 1930s, the family moved to “Beech Hollow Farm,” near Bellville, Ohio, which became the home base for Fern’s artistic endeavors. There was no doubt about who lived there: the brightly colored Beech Hollow window shutters were decorated with Fern’s imaginative illustrations.

In addition to her cover paintings (a duty occasionally shared with other artists), Fern was responsible for the entire “look” of Children’s Play Mate. That included creating the artwork for the magazine’s interior color pages (puzzles, “cutout” toys, and paper dolls), as well as the line art for its many stories, articles, and promotional ads.

Bisel Peat was a versatile artist, which kept the family finances afloat during the Depression and World War II years. In addition to Fern’s magazine duties, other pro-jects included illustrating more than 60 books, among them new editions of Mother Goose and A Child’s Garden of Verses. As a freelance artist, she also designed everything from children’s toy chests, wallpaper, and room div-iders, to rag dolls, holiday decorations, playing cards, greeting cards, and coloring books. A notable assignment was for famed toymaker Ohio Art. There, Bisel Peat was the artistic force behind those Ohio Art tin toy favorites found in every reputable sandbox: pails, shovels, buckets, and watering cans.

Originally just 15 cents, vintage copies of Children’s Play Mate remain a bargain at $10 or less. Framed, the magazine’s colorful covers are exuberant depictions of childhood in America. (Even better: unlike their centerfold namesakes, Fern’s cover illustrations don’t have a staple in the middle).

The scene: a suburban basement, circa 1960. Orange and black crepe paper streamers have been carefully taped to the rafters. Cardboard die-cut images of hags, haunts, and assorted other hobgoblins adorn the walls. On the floor sits a metal tub, awash in icy water and bobbing red apples. A honeycomb scarecrow centerpiece, engulfed by Indian corn and gourds, reigns atop the refreshment table. There, a bowl of “witch’s brew” (tropical punch with a slab of steaming dry ice), and plates of “cat cookies” (with gleaming candy corn eyes and fork-tine whiskers), await the hungry hordes. Near the foot of the stairs, an eerily grinning Jack-o’-lantern awaits his prey.

And slowly down the stairs they descend: pint-size devil imps and fairy princesses, friendly ghosts and wart-nosed witches, each lugging a stuffed-to-the-brim trick-or treat bag. Their fresh-out-of-the-box costumes (dime-store bargains that even included a mask), are at last making their long-awaited, once-a-year appearance.

It’s 1960, it’s Halloween, and the party is on!

Nowadays, Halloween is second only to Christmas as the biggest decorating holiday ever. We spend more than $6 billion annually on new and vintage Halloween decorations, costumes, treats, and other paraphernalia. Over one quarter of the candy sold each year is sold at Halloween (That fills a lot of trick-or-treat bags). Halloween décor items, both old and new, have been fashioned from die-cut cardboard, crepe paper, metal, composition, plastic, fabric, wax, and ceramic. Among the most popular depictions of things that go bump in the night: Jack-o’-lanterns, witches, skeletons, bats, and black cats.

Although Halloween collectors veer toward the vintage, they sometimes have a devil of a time finding exactly what they’re looking for. The relative rarity and corresponding priciness of Halloweenabilia is primarily because these were items of ephemeral shelf life. Die-cut cardboard cats and witches with accordioned crepe paper arms and legs were really only intended for one-time use. Hung with a lavish application of Scotch tape, or poked with thumb tacks, the pieces were often damaged, then discarded when the witching hour had passed. The reason? They were inexpensive, and next Halloween would bring a brand-new crop (One party goods manufacturer, Dennison, even published, for a time, an annual “Halloween Bogie Book” featuring the latest additions to their ghoulish décor line).

Prices can sometimes be on the scary side: a U.S.-made die-cut witch face from the 1950s can fetch up to $30. Her German-made pre-World War II sister can top out at an even scarier $150. Each originally sold at dime stores for well under a dollar.