December 8

"O Christmas Tree"

played by Canada's very own

Oscar Peterson

"...I have to do quite a bit of trimming

for it's Christmas Eve tonight

trim trinkles and drinkles and sklinkles of glass

Trim everything in sight.

We hang everything on our Christmas tree

Ornaments big and bright

and all of these sparkling icicles

and twirling balls of white.

I always hang a star on top

with angels in between

Here's how many lights we have--

Thirty-seven and sixteen...

Then I must lie down and smell the pine

and gaze at the Christmas star

Perchance to feel in these piney pine needles

just where

my presents are..."

--excerpt from "Eloise at Christmastime", by Kay Thompson

illustrated by the ingenious Hilary Knight

December 7

The ceiling of Bell Harry tower, at Canterbury Cathedral

"Carol of the Bells"

performed by The St. Olaf Choir

Hark how the bells,
sweet silver bells,
all seem to say,
throw cares away

Christmas is here,
bringing good cheer,
to young and old,
meek and the bold,

Ding dong ding dong
that is their song
with joyful ring
all caroling

One seems to hear
words of good cheer
from everywhere
filling the air

Oh how they pound,
raising the sound,
o'er hill and dale,
telling their tale,

Gaily they ring
while people sing
songs of good cheer,
Christmas is here,

Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas,
Merry, merry, merry, merry Christmas,

On on they send,
on without end,
their joyful tone
to every home

Ding dong ding ding... dong!

"Carol of the Bells" (also known as the "Ukrainian Bell Carol") is a Christmas carol adapted from the Ukrainian "Shchedryk" by Mykola Dmytrovych Leontovych, which was first performed in December 1916 by students at Kiev University.

"Shchedryk" tells the tale of a swallow flying into a household to proclaim the plentiful year that the family will have. The title is derived from the Ukrainian word for "bountiful." In the Ukraine, the song is sung on the eve of the Julian New Year.

The English language lyrics were written in 1936 by Peter Wilhousky. The song reminded Wilhousky of beautiful ringing bells, and he captured that imagery in his lyrics.

December 6

Madonna and Child circa 1827-30, by William Dyce

"A Maiden Most Gentle"
trad. French, arranged by Andrew Carter

performed by The Choir of King's College, Cambridge

A maiden most gentle and tender we sing,
Of Mary the mother of Jesus our King.
Ave Maria

How bless’d is the birth of her heavenly child,
Who came to redeem us in Mary so mild.
Ave Maria

The archangel Gabriel foretold by his call,
The Lord of creation and Saviour of all.
Ave Maria

Three kings came to worship with gifts rich and rare,
And marvelled in awe at the babe in her care.
Ave Maria

Rejoice and be glad at this Christmas we pray,
Sing praise to the Saviour sing end-less.
Ave Maria

December 5

"The Nativity at Night" 
by Geertgen tot Sint Jans, about 1490

Sweet Little Jesus Boy

Words and Music by Robert MacGimsey (1898–1979),

and performed by Jessye Norman

Sweet little Jesus Boy

They made You be born in a manger

Sweet little Holy child

Didn't know who You was.

Didn't know You'd come to save us, Lord

To take our sins away.

Our eyes was blind;

We couldn't see

We didn't know who You was.

Long time ago You was born

Born in a manger low,

Sweet little Jesus Boy.

The world treat You mean Lord,

Treat me mean too.

But that's how things is down here,

we didn't know t'was You.

You done showed us how,

we is trying.

Master, You done showed us how,

even when you's dying.

Just seem like we can't do right,

look how we treated You.

But please, Sir, forgive us Lord;

We didn't know 'twas You.

Sweet little Jesus Boy

Born long time ago,

Sweet little Holy child

And we didn't know who You was.

Robert MacGimsey wrote this carol after walking past crowded speak-easies in New York City on Christmas Eve, 1932. Intended as an art song, it became one of many quasi-spirituals.

MacGimsey explained to Robin White in 1966, "This is not so much a song as just a meaning. You have to imagine an aging Negro standing off in the middle of a field just giving his heart to Jesus in the stillness."

"He was in the world, and the world was made by Him, 
and the world knew Him not.

He came unto His own,
and His own received Him not."

John 1:10-11

December 4

Remember, O Thou Man

by Thomas Ravenscroft (1592 -1635)

arranged by Bob Chilcott,

and performed by The Elora Festival Singers

Remember, O thou man,

O thou man, O thou man,

Remember O thou man,

Thy time is spent.

Remember, O thou man,

How thou cams't to me then,

And I did what I can,

Therefore repent.

Remember Adam's fall,

O thou man, O thou man!

Remember Adam's fall

From heaven to hell!

Remember Adam's fall,

How we were condemned all

To hell perpetual,

There for to dwell.

Remember God's goodness,

O thou man, O thou man!

Remember God's goodness,

And promise made!

Remember God's goodness,

How His only Son He sent

Our sins for to redress,

Be not afraid.

The angels all did sing,

O thou man, O thou man!

The angels all did sing,

On Sion hill.

The angels all did sing,

Praises to our glorious King,

And peace to man living,

With a good will!

The Shepherds amazed was,

O thou man, O thou man!

The Shepherds amazed was,

To hear the angels sing.

The Shepherds amazed was

How it should come to pass

That Christ our Messiah

Should be our King!

To Bethlehem did they go,

O thou man, O thou man!

The shepherds three;

O thou man, O thou man!

To Bethlehem did they go,

To see whether it were so,

Whether Christ were borne or no

To set man free.

As the Angels before did say,

O thou man, O thou man!

As the Angels before did say,
So it came to pass;

As the Angels before did say,

They found him wrapt in hay

In a manger, where he lay

So poor he was.

In Bethlehem he was born,

O thou man, O thou man!

In Bethlehem he was born,

For mankind's sake;

In Bethlehem he was born,

For us that were forlorn,

And therefore took no scorn

Our sins to bear.

In a manger laid he was,

O thou Man, O thou Man,

In a manger laid he was

At this time present.

In a manger laid he was,

Between an ox and an ass,

And all for our trespass,

Therefore repent.

Give thanks to God always,

O thou man, O thou man!

Give thanks to God always,

With heart most joyfully

Give thanks to God always,

Upon this blessed day,

Let all men sing and say:

'Holy, holy!'

Thomas Ravenscroft started his career as a chorister at Chichester Cathedral and then moved to London to serve in St. Paul’s Cathedral. It was an exciting time in London as the Theatres were hugely popular, showing plays by such noted playwrights as William Shakespeare. Ravenscroft grew to know many of the actors and writers of this era, and wrote music to accompany some of the plays that were produced at the Globe Theatre. Ravenscroft was also responsible for the preservation of the largest collection of popular vocal music which were published in Pammelia(1609), Deuteromalia(1609), and Melismata(1611). These songs had massive popular appeal and, as with the plays of the era, proved profitable for the Publishers. These works became some of the longest surviving collections of traditional English popular songs.

Several years ago, my brother was at the Advent Carol Service at St. John's Church in Elora, where he heard this beautiful, "blues-y" version of the carol, arranged by Bob Chilcott. He kindly sent me a recording, and I've been enraptured by it ever since.  Last year at this time, I posted Chilcott's beautiful setting of Christina Rossetti's poem, "In the Bleak Midwinter", which has become another one of my Christmas favourites.

Bob Chilcott is one of the most active composers and choral conductors in Britain today. He has been involved in choral music most of his life, and was once a chorister in The Choir of King’s College, Cambridge. He is quite well known for having sung the “Pie Jesu” on the renowned 1967 King’s recording of Faure’s Requiem, conducted by Sir David Willcocks. He returned to King’s as a Choral Scholar, and between 1985 and 1997 was a member of the British vocal group The King’s Singers. He has been a full-time composer since 1997.

December 3

"A Christmas Carol"

from a live performance by the incomparable

Tom Lehrer

It's Monday, folks, so it's time to pull out the fun stuff!!  

(I'm starting a new job today, and quite frankly, I needed the laugh...)

"Actually, I did rather well, myself, this past Christmas...

The nicest gift I received was a gift certificate good at any hospital

for a lobotomy...  Rather thoughtful."

--Tom Lehrer

December 2

The Seven Joys of Mary, 15th Century German altarpiece

Joys Seven

Arranged by Stephen Cleobury, and performed by

The Choir of King's College, Cambridge,

and also by the band Great Big Sea,

from Newfoundland and Labrador, Canada

The first good joy that Mary had,

It was the joy of one;

To see the blessed Jesus Christ

When He was first her son:

When He was first her son, good man;

And blessed may He be,

Both Father, Son, and Holy Ghost,

To all eternity.

The next good joy that Mary had,

It was the joy of two;

To see her own son, Jesus Christ

To make the lame to go:

The next good joy that Mary had,

It was the joy of three;

To see her own son, Jesus Christ,

To make the blind to see:

The next good joy that Mary had,

It was the joy of four;

To see her own son, Jesus Christ,

To read the Bible o'er:

The next good joy that Mary had,

It was the joy of five;

To see her own son, Jesus Christ

To bring the dead alive:

The next good joy that Mary had,

It was the joy of six,

To see her own son, Jesus Christ

Upon the crucifix:

The next good joy that Mary had,

It was the joy of seven;

To see her own son, Jesus Christ

To wear the crown of Heaven:

"Joys Seven" fits very nicely into the group of "counting carols", of which there are too many to count, quite frankly (one of my least favourites being "The Twelve Days of Christmas".  No matter how interesting the meanings of the various symbols may be, that tune is just done to death.  UGH.)

The number seven has traditionally been recognized by the Franciscan religious order.  In 1422, a young man  named James observed a daily ritual of bringing a crown of flowers to a statue of the Blessed Virgin.  He entered a friary, but considered leaving when he discovered that his new situation prevented him from accessing fresh flowers.  Mary appeared to him and told him to stay in the friary, and to daily weave a crown that would be more pleasing to her.  She taught him to pray the Seraphic Rosary, which consists of seven decades in honour of her seven joys.  This rosary is now known as the Franciscan Crown.

This particular carol has ancient Medieval origins, and boasts several different versions:  The Joys of Mary vary greatly, and are counted as being anywhere between five and fifteen!  The various rhymes are all easy to remember in association with each number, and would have given Christians an effective, accessible way to learn the stories of the Gospels.  It is set to a jolly air, which can be found in the 1871 printing of Bramley and Stainer's book of carols.  One can even imagine children singing it as they trudged along on their way to Sunday school...  Indeed, W. J. Phillips recalls in his work, "Carols" (1890), a story where unemployed men tramped along with shovels through the London snow singing to the tune, "We've got no work to do-oo-oo!"  We think times are tough now, and they most certainly were then, back in 1850.

A song of Everyman, this!  And so, I have also included a Canadian folk version, sung by one of my favourite East Coast bands, Great Big Sea.

December 1

"Happy Christmas", by Viggo Johansen

"The Candlelight Carol"

by John Rutter, and performed by The Cambridge Singers

How do you capture the wind on the water?
How do you count all the stars in the sky?
How can you measure the love of a mother,
Or how can you write down a baby's first cry?
Candlelight, angel light, firelight and star glow
Shine on His cradle till breaking of dawn,
Gloria, gloria in excelsis Deo!
Angels are singing; the Christ Child is born.

Shepherds and wise men will kneel and adore Him,
Seraphim round him their vigil will keep;
Nations proclaim Him their Lord and their Savior,
But Mary will hold Him and sing Him to sleep.
Candlelight, angel light, firelight and star glow
Shine on His cradle till breaking of dawn,
Gloria, gloria in excelsis Deo!
Angels are singing; the Christ Child is born.

Find Him at Bethlehem laid in a manger:
Christ our Redeemer asleep in the hay.
Godhead incarnate and hope for salvation:
A child with his mother that first Christmas Day.
Candlelight, angel light, firelight and star glow
Shine on His cradle till breaking of dawn,
Gloria, gloria in excelsis Deo!
Angels are singing; the Christ Child is born.

One more sleep...

Can you believe it??  One more sleep till December...

And, every December for the past five years, what we have traditionally done here at "I Can Fly, Just Not Up" is turn the blog into a Musical Advent Calendar, to help lead us towards Christmas.

Well, here we go again, folks!

For year six, what I've decided to do is look back at the music we've shared over the past half-decade, and re-visit some of the pieces that I've particularly enjoyed.  It's been such a pleasure to hunt through the archives, and listen to selections that I haven't had the opportunity to hear for a long while.  In so doing, I've also come across a few new gems that we haven't had here before.  So, every so often, I'll include one of those in the mix!

I hope you'll join me every day, and give yourself the opportunity to step away from the hustle-and-bustle and general whirl-windiness of this, the busiest of seasons.  There is so much more to Christmas than what we are bombarded with in the media, and experience in crowded shopping centres...  With all of our overly-scheduled daily lives, it's so necessary to be conscious of taking time out for ourselves on a regular basis, to relax, reflect, and re-adjust our mindset.

I hope your daily visits here this month will help you do just that.

See you in the morning!

xoxo CGF

Bleeding Hearts

 Dicentra spectabilis, "Bleeding Hearts"

When I was a little girl, I was blessed with two wonderful grandmothers.  One was a tiny, dignified Scottish lady-- the strongest, hardest-working woman I will ever know, and ferociously loving matriarch of my mother's people.  The other was a grand old English Grannie, complete with the top-knot of silvery hair, and a gift for manufacturing crystal bowls full of jammy trifle.

Both of these women spent painstaking hours teaching me to knit.  And, for that,  as you are well aware, I shall be eternally grateful.

But, the fact was that they both lived terribly far away.  They visited us as often as they could, and we them...  We wrote long letters to one another (remember those folded blue aer-o-grams you could purchase for a flat rate??  We kept the post office afloat for years...).  We talked on the phone, in spite of the alarmingly high long distance rates.  Dad stood by with a stop-watch in a vain attempt to reign in our relentless chatter, while we happily ignored him.  I even have a series of cassette tapes that my mother and grandmother recorded and sent to one another over the years, each telling the other about their daily lives and events.  My mother's end is, of course, interrupted at regular intervals with the sounds of violent crashing, the wailing of small children, and a hefty dose of tattle-tale-itis.  My grandmother gave me the tapes before she died, and I'm so grateful to have the gift of the sound of her voice all these years later.

Women miss their mothers after they've left home, but I think the time we miss them the most is after we've had children of our own.  Not only do we need the loving guidance of someone more experienced with babies (they raised US, after all), we actually need mothering, ourselves.  We need the person whom we trust most, and who knows us better than anyone else in the world.  We need them to bolster us up, and tell us that they BELIEVE in us:  that we are, truly, fit to be somebody else's mother, and that in time, everything will be all right.

My mum had three tiny children under the age of five for several years, and I'm sure that to her, it must have felt like a whole heck of a lot longer than that.  Those were the days before disposable diapers...  Come to think of it, I believe those enormous wads of paper and plastic had just appeared on the market in time for the birth of my youngest sibling.  And not a moment too soon, no doubt.

By the time my little sister arrived on the scene, my mother was completely exhausted from roaring after the two-and-a-half year old terror that was me, and my younger brother, who was at that horrifying toddler stage where every move he made seemed like a potential suicide attempt.  My mum not only had to keep us from killing ourselves, but also from killing one another.  Nothing like two squabbling kids to make nursing the brand-new baby a little more pleasant.

With her own mother thousands of miles away, and her husband a round-the-clock country physician, it's a wonder my mum didn't lose her mind entirely.

Thankfully, it was at this precise moment that God decided to put his hand down to us, and give us a miracle.

That miracle appeared at our front door in the form of a Red Cross Nurse, whom my father had called for, in an attempt to give my mother a break for three weeks.

She wore the traditional blue uniform with the red-and-white crest embroidered on one shoulder, sturdy support hose, and stout white shoes that made no noise whatsoever when she crossed the kitchen floor.  She was round and soft, with a fluff of curly brown hair, and a huge smile that would spread right across her face and dimple her ample cheeks.  Her belly laugh was positively contagious-- and she laughed often, usually accompanying her mirth by giving one of us kids a bone-crunching squeeze and a kiss on the cheek.

When she looked at us and loudly announced that we were "going to have a PARTY!!", we knew that she was magic.

She thought we were hilarious.

It was my tiny brother who gave her the name that stuck with her in our family forever.  Just learning to speak, he looked at her fondly one day and called her "Tekker".

Spriglerle

Tekker came for three weeks, and stayed for three years.  Stayed in our house, that is.  She stayed in our lives and our hearts for far longer than that.  After she stopped working and playing with us on a daily basis, she was a steadfast family friend; our adopted grandmother.  She had us over to her house, and visited ours regularly.  Every Christmas, she'd arrive with an enormous load of her famous baking:  shortbread with tiny coloured sprinkles, which were absolutely melt-in-your-mouth delicious, and a box of the strangest, stiffest, white German cookies that had been intricately patterned in a series of antique presses.  They were made with anise, and were, to our little minds, completely inedible.  They would, we thought, have made beautiful bathroom tiles, however.  (I now know these cookies to be "springerle", and appreciate them for the masterpieces that they were.)

She was the proud wife of the local Lutheran pastor, and raised two fine sons, who became my little brother's heroes.  To avoid the risk of us three becoming complete heathens, she often gifted us religiously-themed books (the comic books depicting The Adventures of Jesus Christ were a particular favourite), and dragged us all off to her parish's Vacation Bible School for several weeks each summer.

She watched over us as we grew, a strong and loving presence in our lives.  She was with us for holidays, birthdays and celebrations.  She came to concerts and plays, graduations and weddings.  She was there to cuddle all of our brand new babies, and bolster up the second generation of mothers.

She always had a wise word, and a bone-creaking squeeze.  We were never in any doubt of how much she loved us.  And we loved her right back.

She was a genuinely devout woman:  she Walked the Walk.  She did a lot of good, not just for us, but for many, many others.  I remember her showing me a very special typewriter that she kept at her house.  I was not allowed to touch it, but was allowed to touch the thick paper she used in it, after she had finished with a page.  Each one was dotted with clusters of tiny bumps I could feel with my fingers--  that was the only Braille typewriter I have ever seen.  Tekker would spend many hours transcribing documents and entire books for the blind, and she began to teach me to read with my hands.

Another one of the skills she was famous for was her quilting.  The enormous wooden quilting frames were first set up for the ladies at her church to use.  Together, they spent many happy years collecting, sorting and cutting scraps into a wide variety of shapes, then carefully piecing them together.  I would dearly love to know how many hundreds of quilts the ladies created and donated to charity over the years.  Another happy result was that I was the recipient of dozens of bags of Tekker's quilting scraps, having just learned to sew, myself.  Tekker would laugh heartily, and say that she never imagined how anyone could make use of the scraps of other people's scraps...  but, I managed quite nicely, as I was intent on furnishing a doll's house.  My quilts boasted squares no bigger than a baby fingernail, and that fact pleased her to no end.

Once her husband retired from his parish, the frames were brought home from the church, and her industry was set up in the basement of her house.  It was there that she taught my mother the special running stitch that binds the multiple layers of a quilt and creates a delicate pattern, as they worked on a gift for my as-yet-unborn baby:  the very first grandchild in our family.

A "drunkard's path" quilt

After the death of her husband, Tekker kept ticking along, quilting, cooking, and tending to her garden and her friends.  Eventually, though, her own health gradually declined, and she was welcomed into a retirement facility where she received the care that she needed.  There, she had a room to herself, and the staff encouraged her to make use of one of the many common rooms to once again set up her quilting frames.  She continued to work away, and we continued to visit her.  Each time I took my girlies to see her, we would pour over her unique photograph albums:  they were filled with pictures of the quilts she had made over the years, in all their fine detail.  The one design that I'll never forget-- and one that I had the good fortune to admire in person, as well-- was called "Drunkard's Path", and the combination of colours and pattern produced an optical illusion that boggled the mind.  Photographs of her children and grandchildren were naturally thrown into the mix, as many of her later quilts were designed especially for them.

The last time I saw Tekker, she had asked that her quilting frames be taken down:  she had completed her final project.  The common room seemed so empty with only a jigsaw puzzle on a table, but the girlies and I dutifully put in a few pieces.  Tekker's conversation had always been punctuated with phrases like, "God willing!", spoken in her gentle Southern accent.  But this time, she seemed to take even more care in how she spoke, letting us know that she'd be able to do things "if The Lord saw fit" that she should still be with us.

She was happy to see us, sorry to see us go...  but I do think that in her heart, Tekker was tired, and she was getting ready to leave us.

Yesterday, as I began decorating my house for Christmas, Tekker's formidable spirit finally slipped away.  The gaping hole her absence leaves in our family can hardly be described...  and yet, I find it hard to actually feel sad.  She was such a Christian, in the most heart-warming sense of the word.  I know that she firmly believed that there IS a Heaven: a well-earned reward for all of the loving and giving she did while she was here with us.  I can picture her now, in my mind's eye, enjoying what she had been looking forward to for so very, very long.

The gathering of family and friends to celebrate her life is tomorrow, and I am certain that we will all mourn our loss.

But, more importantly:  we will all give thanks that we had the great good fortune to be mothered by the miracle that was our Tekker.

Missing you.

For future reference...

Note to self:

Remember this.

Putting the "CHRIST!!!" back in Christmas...

Okay, I SHOULDN'T feel this way about there being only five **gasp!** short weeks until Crazy Time...

But, this year, I do.

I'm not ready.

Not that I necessarily SHOULD be ready at this time of year.  It is still only November, after all.

But, this year is different.  I have a sense of urgency and panic that I haven't felt since the impending birth of one of my children.  This year, I feel like I have to do it ALL, and do it NOW, before it's too late, or I might never get anything done around here ever again.

In just over a week, I'm starting a new job.  It's a job that has me excited, yet absolutely terrified at the same time:  a junior/intermediate class of young boys with severe learning disabilities.  Yes, I've done this sort of thing before-- but in a much smaller classroom and far more intimate setting.  There has been more time for one-to-one, individualized attention for each student.  Lessons have been planned by modifying whatever has been going on in the main-stream classroom to which each child belongs.

What's more, I've never actually felt like "The One In Charge" before.  But, this time I most definitely will be:  these are children who do not thrive in main-stream classrooms.  These kids are going to be all mine.

What feels like the weight of the world is about to shift onto my shoulders.  I'm just praying that I'm ready to accept this overwhelming challenge.  Combine all of this with a union that is braced and ready to begin strike action, and I've got myself a fine kettle of fish.  I'm terrified that, in supporting my colleagues in their quest to preserve our education system, I won't be able to find the extra hours I so desperately need in order to do this job justice.  (I will, of course, but it sure won't be easy.)

Then, there's the issue of keeping body-and-soul together at home, during this, "The Most Wonderful Time of the Year".  Argh.  Every time I hear that phrase over the loudspeaker in the shops that have so abruptly become "Winter Wonderlands", I want to go screaming off into what's left of my rhubarb patch.

How on earth am I going to make Christmas this year???  Even when I was in university, classes stopped at least a week ahead of the Big Day, thus enabling me to cobble together something resembling a celebration.  This year, I'll be in classes right up until December 22, and I'm sure-as-shootin' not facing the mall on THAT weekend.

Today, I'm taking a day off of making my rounds of the public schools to begin shoveling out my house, and have grudgingly hauled the massive boxes and bags of Christmas decorations out of the basement.  I'll be swagging that garland up the banister, setting out all the twinkly lights...  and it all feels FAR too soon-- in spite of the fact that Santa Claus was sighted downtown at the big parade yesterday.  (I couldn't watch.)

Maybe if I put on some better music this morning, once the kids are all out of here and ensconced in school...

Maybe if I whip up a batch of shortbread, the smell of Christmas will kindle something within me that will help me to bear the sight of it...

I don't know, people.

But, there's one thing I DO know:

All of this is certainly helping me to put the "CHRIST!!!" back in Christmas.

Even if it is only November.

Maternal with a capital "M"...

Truth.

"One good wish changes nothing.

One good decision changes everything."

--Anonymous

Thank you.

It was the right decision.  

Congratulations, America.

And now, we wait.

After everything my family has been through in the past five years, 

I must confess...

Even though I am a fiercely proud  Canadian, I would give almost ANYTHING to be permitted to vote in the U.S. election today.  

It cannot be fathomed how much the Economic Crisis, brought on my the gross mishandling of the previous administration, has affected the world:  in particular, MY little world.

It has taken every ounce of strength I possess to scrape my way back to some semblance of normalcy and stability, and the constant support of my family and dearest friends to see me Through.

Tonight, I pray that Americans realize what a tremendous responsibility they carry in casting their vote, and what a privilege they have in doing so.

The world is waiting.

Please, may they make the right decision.  Again.

FINALLY. Sunshine!

Just when you thought it was safe...

...to go outside, the rain and the wind started.  AGAIN.

It was a long night of howling (the cats-- as well as the wind), and the sound of torrential downpour on the roof of this old heap we live in.

But, we've certainly fared FAR better than our neighbours to the south of The Border.  This "super storm" was NOTHING compared to what the good folks of the Eastern United States were dealt last night, and are still dealing with this morning.

Still, I look outside and see beautiful old trees that have come crashing down around my pond, toppled over right from the roots.  Confused, hysterical birds (who should definitely have started heading south ages ago) are twittering around my leaning tower of a birdfeeder, presumably exchanging their own disastrous news.

Only my statue of St Francis, whom we affectionately call "Frank", stands tall and calm in the centre of my garden, smirking beatifically and gesturing with one hand, as if to say, "For Pete's sake, just calm down, you lot...  this was NOTHING."

Yep, no plagues of locusts or torrents of toads (yet), so I consider us very, very lucky.

Still, I'm taking the day off today, due to power outages, general ickiness and malaise.  School kids and indoor recesses just do not mix well, and all that pent up energy, topped with the anticipation of Hallowe'en hijinks tomorrow, might just be the death of me.

I'm staying home to make soup, instead.

This recipe comes from one of my dearest friends, a born and bred Prairie Girl.  If anybody knows about weather and survival, it's her-- she's got one of the warmest hearts I know.

Potato, Bacon and Cheddar Soup for a Blustery Day

I swear, if Winnie-the-Pooh had known about this stuff, he'd have kicked his hunny habit easily.  Minus the bacon, however, for poor old Piglet's sake...

2 tbsp butter

1 onion (minced)

2 cloves of garlic (chopped very finely or pressed)

5 medium Yukon Gold potatoes, peeled and diced

2 c chicken stock, plus perhaps a little more if the soup seems too thick

1/4 tsp dried thyme

2 tsp freshly ground black pepper

2 c milk (I use 1%, but homogenized is definitely best)

salt to taste

About 10 rashers of good bacon

1 c old cheddar cheese, shredded (at the very least...  more, if you like)

2 tbsp chopped parsley

Melt the butter in a large soup pot, and add the onion.  Cook the onion slowly over low heat, until translucent.  Then, add the garlic and stir to combine the flavours.

Add the chicken stock, and once the mixture comes to a boil, add the diced potatoes and thyme.  Cover the pot, reduce the heat and simmer slowly, until the potatoes are very tender.

While the potatoes are cooking, fry up the bacon rashers in a frying pan.  Cook until very crispy (at least, that's the way I like it), and then place the bacon on a plate covered in paper towel, to absorb the excess fat.    Once the bacon is cool, take a large knife and chop it into small pieces.  Throw the pieces into the soup pot to simmer with the potatoes.

Once the potatoes are cooked, take a potato masher and squash those suckers up.  For those who prefer their soup more finely pureed, use a mixer or food processor to blizz out the lumps.  We like our soup to have a bit more texture than that-- especially the bacon pieces, which release a nice burst of flavour when you get a bite of one!

Add the 2 c of milk very slowly, to avoid curdling.  Heat the soup through, stirring constantly.  Once heated, add the shredded cheese, and continue stirring until all the ingredients are nicely combined.  Now is the time to give it a taste, and adjust the seasoning with salt and pepper.  Add a bit more chicken stock if the soup seems too thick to you.

Ladle the soup into great big bowls, sprinkle with parsley, and share with the people you love best.

Everyone knows it's WINDY.

Hurricane Sandy...  heading our way...

Wise advice for today from comedian Ron White:

"There was a guy down in Florida who said that, at the age of 53 years old, he was in good enough physical condition to withstand the wind, rain and hail of a force-3 hurricane.  

Now, let me explain something to you:  

It isn't THAT the wind is blowing...  

It's WHAT the wind is blowing.

If you get hit by a Volvo...

 it doesn't matter how many sit-ups you did that morning."

If only it were so...

...I might just be able to watch tonight.

Right here behind you, Mr. Obama...  With you every step of the way.

Motherlove.

 

Yesterday, I was teaching a delightful group of brand-new grade three students. 

We had a rollicking good time, in spite of the weather (which was awful), and all of the cooped-up indoor-time that it necessitated.  If there's one thing I've learned, it's that ALL kids-- especially the ones who have only been trapped in school and told to sit-down-and-be-quiet for a scant two weeks-- need regular opportunities to get up and get their sillies out.  Preferably, outside in the fresh air.

We read books.  We picked out characters, settings, problems and solutions.  We made predictions and connections.  We took turns writing on the whiteboard. 

We talked about gravity, and how we need it to keep the food on our plates, so that peas and rice and chicken fingers don't go flying up in the air all around us.  One kid even asked the Famous Question:  "How do astronauts go to the bathroom?", which threatened to start us off on a WHOLE other tangeant...

At the end of the day, we did hard math.  I searched for and dragged out every manipulative I could get my hands on, to help those kids visualize and understand the concept of Growing Patterns.  WHY this unit is introduced to little ones right smack at the beginning of the year, before we've even had a chance to review Whole Numbers, is beyond me.

But, somehow, we managed.

I signed agendas, instructed them to "Read for twenty minutes tonight!!", and sent them on their merry way at three o'clock.

I was kneeling on the floor, tidying up the last of the coloured wooden shapes that had been liberally passed around during our last period, when one of my more "restless" boys came bursting back into the room, backpack flying.  He tore over to his desk, and proceeded to empty half of its contents onto the floor.

I straightened up, and went over to lend a hand, wondering what on earth he was up to.

Me:  (scooping two books and a pack of Spiderman trading cards up off the floor)  What's up?  Aren't you supposed to be getting on your bus?

Him:  (slightly frantic)  I forgot my math books!!  My mum says I have to bring my text book and my note book home EVERY NIGHT this year.

Me:  Your mum sounds like my kind of lady.  She must really love you.

That dear, sweet boy looked up at me and grinned hugely.

Him:  Nah.  She just thinks I watch too much Spongebob.

I roared with laughter, helped him on with his backpack, and put my arm around his shoulders as we walked out towards the bus loop.

Ah, my little friend...  Your mum loves you more than you will ever, ever know.

O, happy day!!

"We are the music makers,

and we are the dreamers of dreams."

--Roald Dahl

Endure.

 

"Endure, and keep yourself for days of happiness."

 

--Virgil, The Aeneid, Book 1

It's been eleven years today.

The anniversary is painfully easy for me to remember-- I simply have to recall my second child's age.

My baby was only a few months old on that shattered morning-- a morning that, for me, started out as any other. 

Rose at dawn with the teeny tiny siren that was my "starving!!" infant daughter, and then hustled my eldest girl off to another day in kindergarten.

Once children were ensconced in school, my next-door-neighbour and I pointed our strollers towards the trail that winds around the pond.  After two kilometers (that baby weight was hard-pressed to melt, I'll tell you), we headed over to our neighbourhood coffee shop.  The littles were fast asleep, wrapped up in cosy blankets, and it seemed as good a time as any to take a rest, ourselves, before continuing the daily routine.

As we eased ourselves into our chairs and wrapped our hands around a couple of mugs of strong decaf, a stranger burst through the door, took three steps into the shop, and changed the world.

"A plane just flew into the World Trade Centre."

That was all he said, before turning and leaving.

You could have heard a pin drop. 

Back home, I began the surreal experience of watching sheer horror unfold, live in front of me on my television screen.

How could it be possible to bear witness the deaths of so many thousands of people-- REAL people-- right in front of my eyes? 

People just like me.  Just like my family.

Like any other parent, that day I wondered what on earth I had done, bringing my innocent children into a world full of such horror and danger and sadness...  How I could have been so selfish...  so naive as to think that I could possibly keep them safe.

But, as New Yorkers and many, many more hundreds of thousands of people around the world proved after the disaster, through their acts of sympathy, generosity and peace:

Together, we're better than all that.

Evil, sadly, has its place-- but it must not define what we believe our world to be.

Instead, we must rise up in the face of that which we abhor, and show the very best of ourselves.

In so doing, we realize what we're made of...  we find out just how much we can endure.

Ubi Caritas

arranged by John Rutter, with The Cambridge Singers

UBI caritas et amor, Deus ibi est.

Congregavit nos in unum Christi amor.

Exultemus, et in ipso iucundemur.

Timeamus, et amemus Deum vivum.

Et ex corde diligamus nos sincero.
 

WHERE charity and love are, God is there.
Christ's love has gathered us into one.

Let us rejoice and be pleased in Him.

Let us fear, and let us love the living God.

And may we love each other with a sincere heart.

UBI caritas et amor, Deus ibi est.

Simul ergo cum in unum congregamur:

Ne nos mente dividamur, caveamus.

Cessent iurgia maligna, cessent lites.

Et in medio nostri sit Christus Deus.

WHERE charity and love are, God is there.

As we are gathered into one body,

Beware, lest we be divided in mind.

Let evil impulses stop, let controversy cease,

And may Christ our God be in our midst.

UBI caritas et amor, Deus ibi est.

Simul quoque cum beatis videamus,

Glorianter vultum tuum, Christe Deus:

Gaudium quod est immensum, atque probum,

Saecula per infinita saeculorum. Amen.

WHERE charity and love are, God is there.

And may we with the saints also,

See Thy face in glory, O Christ our God:

The joy that is immense and good,

Unto the ages through infinite ages. Amen.

Words to live and die by.

 

This week, I've actually had TIME.

Time to myself, that is-- with everyone else out of the house, and my full-time work not yet begun, I've actually had moments where I have had the conscious thought, "What should I do?"

Well, time-vampire that it is, I inevitably wind up on Youtube.

I love Youtube.  You can type anything-- ANYTHING-- into that search engine, and learn something.

More often than not, I learn that some things simply should NOT be posted on Youtube, and the incredible capacity the human race has for stupidity.

But sometimes-- sometimes, there's a gem.

I have learned new knitting stitches from someone who calls herself "The Knit Witch".  I still won't face the Kitchener Stitch without her gentle guidance.

I've learned the art of re-upholstery.  I kid you not.  I decimated and re-covered a couch in my basement last year, after discovering that it was simply too heavy to lift, and too large to fit up the stairs so I could throw it out.

Following a small pipe explosion in my children's bathroom late one night, my eldest discovered me sitting in the tub (fully clothed), laptop in one hand and a large wrench in the other, trying to teach myself emergency plumbing.  Incidentally, that little escapade was slightly less successful than the re-uphostery, and I wound up having to call a plumber in the morning...  but, at least it gave me something to do all night.

The girlies and I have learned to weave bracelets, to cook amazing desserts, and to do hard math, amongst a million other things.

And then, there's "people" searches.

I love searching up great musicians, great actors, and great comedians.

Most of all, I love searching my childhood.

Today, I looked up one of my absolute favourite people; one of my heroes.

Jim Henson was the creator of The Muppets, and founding father of all the delightful insanity that surrounded them.  He was goofy, but no goof-- through his life's work, he brought to the world much love, uproarious laughter, and later, through the early years of Sesame Street, learning. 

I often wonder what the people on my list of The Great Ones of Children's Programming:  namely, Jim Henson, Bob Keeshan, Ernie Coombs and Fred Rogers, would think of "educational television" today.  As tragic as it was to loose these men, I am grateful that none of them lived to see what my students watch at home.  The dumbing-down of popular entertainment is one of this generation's great tragedies, in my opinion.

Jim Henson left us far too soon, at the age of only fifty-three, in 1990.  He waited to treat what turned out to be "galloping pneumonia" for three days, and by the time he reached hospital, the illness was far too advanced to be cured.

The gaping hole that he left in our world can still be felt...  I feel it, every time I hear a little green voice that isn't the "real" Kermit...  and, every time I hear the one that is.  Which is often, actually-- The Muppets are still my favourite, and I play old episodes and albums over and over.

They still make me laugh.

Yesterday, I found Jim Henson's memorial service on Youtube, and I watched every, single minute of it.  The best bit, of course, came from Jim. 

His last words, read by his friend and colleague Richard Hunt. 

They are words to live by, and to die by:

 

Jim did not cling to the past, he did not worry about the future,
that would work itself out.

And he did not live for the moment, instead he lived in the moment.

Because that’s all we really have.

 

It’s important that we all stop giving ourselves such a hard time.

We’ve got to remind ourselves and push ourselves to let go.

Not much we can do except to be and in being to become aware.

See what’s going around all the time and allow it to happen,
all the sadness, all the joy.

And that’s why Jim’s last words are most important.

 

Please watch out for each other he says

Love everyone.

Forgive everyone including yourself.

Forgive your anger, forgive your guilt, your shame, your sadness.

Embrace and open up your love, your joy, your truth and most especially your heart.

 

Let us all have mercy on each and every one of us.

And every day, we will open up like a cocoon

and turn into beautiful butterflies

and live this moment,

and the next, and the next, and the next …..

 

 

Someday, when it's my own turn to go, I hope my memorial service will sound a lot like this:



Falling.

 

School is back in, and my part of the world is slowly but surely tilting away from the sun.

I have always dreaded fall, right from the earliest parts of childhood that I can remember. 

In spite of the intense beauty that I see all around me-- the brilliant colours of the changing leaves, the sharper angle of the light in the early evenings, the ducks and geese streaking noisily across the sky, pointing their beaks firmly south-- I carry a dull ache in my stomach every waking minute of my day.

I guess it stems back to childhood, and the sheer dread I felt, going back to school.  Then, it was the overwhelming anxiety of scrambling through university.  Now, I'm a TEACHER, for crying out loud, and I feel as guilty about trapping little people indoors all day after a summer of running wild and free, as I feel about sending my own babies to their new classrooms and into the care of strangers.

I know, I know.  I could deal with this-- SHOULD probably try to deal with this-- by changing my attitude.  Cognitive behavioural therapy, and all that. 

I've tried.

It's the darkening of light.  It's the whiff of freshly sharpened pencils and the coarse stiffness of brand new jeans.  It's the alarm clocks, the sandwich meat, the chrysanthemums instead of roses. 

It's the emptiness I feel when my children sprint from my arms and into the school playground.  It's the distance-- not just physical, but emotional distance-- between my girls and me at this time of year.  I know it's necessary-- they're growing up, and we all need to live our own little lives.

But it takes time for me to get used to it all. 

Every, single year.

Do you remember...

 

This amazingly talented and beautiful man?

Freddie Mercury and Queen were a huge part of my adolescence.  I was left simply gobsmacked by Freddie's "appearance" at the closing ceremonies of the 2012 Olympics in London this summer-- which took place in the very arena where his most spectacular live performances had occurred.

This past weekend, my sister and her boys came to stay.  We all have a legendary hatred for Labour Day: the final few precious hours before the school year ramps up again for us all (both sis and her husband are teachers, too...)

One night, while we were cleaning up the aftermath of another "kid-friendly" (read:  MESSY) meal, we chatted about her family's recent trip to London, and all they had seen and heard when they attended Olympic events.  It sounded so wonderful to have been part of the crowds; a witness to the "magic" that manifests itself at such world-wide events.  She hadn't seen the entirety of the closing ceremonies, however-- after running after little boys all day, it was impossible for her to stay up waaay past midnight, goggling at The Box, no matter how incredible the talent was!

So, we dialled up my favourite moment on Youtube, which led to another video, and another... 

Finally, we came across this recording from one of the pinnacles of our youth:  the 1985 LiveAid Concert.

That's 72,000 people out there in the audience, all singing and swaying, clapping and cheering...  I can assure you, we were all feeling just as "connected" to Freddie Mercury through our old-fashioned radios and tv sets as we danced around our living rooms at home, all over the world.

It was nothing short of astounding.

Queen's set has been called the greatest live performance in the history of rock music. 

You get no argument from yours truly.

Ready, Freddie.

 

I just wish you could have stayed with us longer.

Little do they know...

...that teachers feel exactly the same way.

The New Points System

 

 

Tonight, I was at Dairy Queen, at right around suppertime.

What??! 

I'm the exhausted mother of three, and we're all sweltering through the last days of summer, simultaneously sweating the anxiety of returning to school.

Where else would I be?

(Besides the liquor store.)

I sidled up to the counter, where the owner was waiting, looking not unlike a lioness who has hypnotized her prey.

As I emerged from where my children and I had converged in a huddle to make our final menu selections, she picked up a little pamphlet, and made beckoning gestures. I swear to God, for a brief, shining moment, I could hear the angels singing.

"I have something here you're going to LOVE," she said, "It's the NEW POINTS SYSTEM."

I shuddered inwardly.  To someone who's been on (an admittedly, somewhat lax) health-kick all summer, the idea of counting points relating to cheez-laden hamburgers and chocolate-coated ice cream was nothing short of horrifying.

"Look!" she cooed, convincingly, "Every time you eat here, you can earn points!  Those points add up, and we'll e-mail you coupons for MORE FOOD!  Sometimes, FREE FOOD!  Two-for-one deals!!  Isn't that GREAT?!"

Holy Hannah.

My Points would add up to FREE ice cream?!  And I didn't even have to do all the adding MYSELF?!!

Are you KIDDING ME?!

"Sign.  Me.  Up." I croaked, sounding not-unlike a cross between Darth Vader and Satan (who, I am sure, was possessing my diet-addled brain at the time).

Dear Weight Watchers,

I'm sorry, what else can I say?  It's not you, it's me.

As it turns out, starving doesn't do much for my math skills, which were no great shakes to begin with, I'm afraid.  Constantly adding up  WW points all day (and, truth be told, sometimes in the middle of the night) just didn't work for me.  No matter how hard I tried to tot up the sums, I just couldn't make them add up to 18.  Hell, I couldn't even fudge the answer properly.  (Mmmm...  fudge...)

I confess, I have been seeing someone else behind your back, whom I shall simply identify as "D.Q." for the purpose of preserving our privacy.  This is someone who understand my (chocolate) needs, and emotional (stomach) fulfillment. 

Again, I'm sorry.  I just can't be with two systems at the same time.  I only wish there were more of me to go around... 

 

Although, I have a feeling that very soon their might be.

xoxo CGF

Points!!!!

Out of the mouths of babes...

...cometh truth.

Yesterday, upon hearing the radio news headline that Toronto's "infamous" mayor had been caught reading while driving his car, a small voice piped up from the back seat of my loser cruiser:

"He was probably just looking at the pictures."

Indeed. 

Federer may be "better-er"...

...but Andy is BEST!!

Woo-hooooooooooo!!!!!!!!!!!