December 4

"Sleighride"

music by Leroy Anderson, lyrics added by Mitchell Parish,

and performed (mercifully) by Sam Bush

I know what you're all thinking...

"She's cracked.  She HATES this piece.  And it's not even Monday yet..."

You're right.

I am.  I do.  And it isn't.

This piece is all wrong for me.  The words don't even mention Christmas.  They sing about pumpkin pie, which is actually more of a reference to Thanksgiving, for crying out loud.

But the words (which weren't actually penned for the tune until two years after it had been published and performed as a purely orchestral arrangement) aren't the only thing that is annoying about this piece.

The composer began writing "Sleighride" during a heatwave in July, 1946. Presumably, even he found the whole project so unbearable, it took him nearly two years to finish the damn thing-- which he finally did, in February, 1948. 

(Probably just in time for Valentine's Day.  I'd be willing lay a bet.)

Admit it, though-- the art work I've found for today is interesting.  

(Do you have any IDEA how hard it is to come up with an illustration of a Christmas Carrot?!)

Intrigued?

I actually like Sam Bush's guitar and mandolin arrangement.  The sound of it makes me think of the work of another artist I particularly admire:  the great Django Reinhardt.

So I began searching for something-- ANYTHING-- interesting to say about this piece, besides the usual complaint that normally, I hate the sound of it, right down to the fake whip-cracking and the last jingle bell.

As you may know, in the very last few bars of the orchestral version, there is a part for trumpet that IF done properly (and that's a big "if"), sounds very much like the whinnying of a horse.

In the early days of this piece, it was apparently traditional for the trumpet player who performed this part to be allowed a special "curtain call" of his own.  At the end of the performance, the conductor would single him out with a gesture, and the trumpet player would make a spectacularly exaggerated bow.

As he arose from this posture, he was ceremoniously presented with...

An enormous bouquet of carrots.

(And that's not Christmassy at all, either.  More Easter.  Just sayin'...)

Joyful.

Because I have a "thing" for flash mobs, especially when it comes to good music.

And, because of the miracle that a BANK (of all institutions) provided some lucky Spaniards with a little bit of much-needed joy.

December 3

"The Annunciation"

by Carl Heinrich Bloch

"Hymn to the Virgin"

music composed by Benjamin Britten, set to a c 1300 verse,

and performed by The Cambridge Singers

Of one that is so fayr and bright 
 Velut maris stella, 
Brighter than the dayes light, 
Parens et puella: 
Ic crie to thee, thou see to me, 
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me 
Tam pia, 
That ich mote come to thee. 
Maria! 

Levedy, flour of alle thing, 
Rosa sine spina, 
Thu bere Jhesu, hevene king, 
Gratia divina: 
Of alle thu berst the pris,
Levedy, quene of Parays 
Electa, 
Maide milde, 
Moder es 
Effecta.

Edward Benjamin Britten was born in the East Suffolk town of Lowestoft in 1913 on November 22:  the Feast of Saint Cecilia, patron saint of music.  His mother was a keen amateur musician, and encouraged all of her children to develop their own interests in music.  Of the four offspring, young Benjamin was the most enthusiastic of them all.  At first, it was mathematics and the pattern of the dots and lines on the paper that captured his interest.  He confessed that one day, he took a "drawing" of a musical manuscript he had made, and demanded that his mother attempt to play it on the piano.  The look of horror on his mother's face upset him considerably, but thankfully, her response did not dampen his enthusiasm.  He was soon enrolled in music lessons, and by the age of ten, was studying both the piano and the viola.  He was fortunate to have teachers who encouraged him not only to practice, but also to attend concerts.  It was at one of these concerts that he first heard Frank Bridge's orchestral poem "The Sea", and experienced a life-changing moment.  He was, in his own words, "knocked sideways".  An introduction was soon arranged for Benjamin and Frank Bridge, and Bridge took the boy on as his pupil.

Benjamin Britten's childhood years were remarkable, and he produced a great many works, some of which were of a very high standard. They include a symphony, various other orchestral pieces, works for chamber ensemble, suites for solo piano, drafts for Masses, the symphonic poem "Chaos and Cosmos", and many songs.  All of these works now form the extensive collection of his juvenilia at the Britten-Pears Library.

Even after leaving home to become a boarder at Gresham’s School at Holt in Norfolk, he pursued his musical passion and was extremely prolific.  In spite of terrible homesickness, he wrote, performed and listened to music at every opportunity, and often sat up in bed reading musical scores.  From this time come his settings of poems by Walter de la Mare, Hilaire Belloc, and the orchestral cycle "Quatre Chansons Françaises", with words by Victor Hugo and Paul Verlaine.

"Hymn to the Virgin" was one of Benjamin Britten's earliest religious choral works, and was written before he left Gresham's School:  he would only have been about fourteen or fifteen years old.  The piece was published in 1930, and first performed at a concert given by the Lowestoft Musical Society in St. John's Church on January 5, 1931.  Britten was then just eighteen years of age.

Many years later in 1956, "Simple Symphony" (a piece based upon works included in Britten's collection of juvenilia) was recorded.  The composer wrote this little portrait of his younger self to be included on the sleeve note:

"Once upon a time there was a prep-school boy. ... He was quite an ordinary little boy ... he loved cricket, only quite liked football (although he kicked a pretty "corner"); he adored mathematics, got on all right with history, was scared by Latin Unseen; he behaved fairly well, only ragged the recognised amount, so that his contacts with the cane or the slipper were happily rare (although one nocturnal expedition to stalk ghosts left its marks behind); he worked his way up the school slowly and steadily, until at the age of thirteen he reached that pinnacle of importance and grandeur never to be quite equalled in later days: the head of the Sixth, head-prefect, and Victor Ludorum. But – there was one curious thing about this boy: he wrote music. His friends bore with it, his enemies kicked a bit but not for long (he was quite tough), the staff couldn't object if his work and games didn't suffer. He wrote lots of it, reams and reams of it."

December 2

"You're a Mean One, Mr. Grinch"
performed by The Tennessee Tech Trombone Choir

It's Monday.

Which means that we take a look at the "lighter side" of Christmas music, to help us along with the idea of stomaching the week ahead.

I always loved this movie when I was a kid...  but not for the reason you might think.

Oh, yes, it's WONDERFUL that he eventually found the true meaning of Christmas, and that his heart grew to the point of practically bursting out of his chest.  He even footed the bill for all the celebrations.  Whoopee.

I like the "Before" from this before-and-after story.  I like the Bad Guy.

Every year, I plopped my tiny bott down on the old red chesterfield in front of the tv.  And I simply couldn't WAIT for the part when the Grinch came up with his idea... his awful idea... his wonderful, awful idea.

I loved that smile, and all its curlicues.  I love it still.

So here's my Grinch in all his glory, performed on the only instruments truly perfect enough to honour the occasion:

An entire CHOIR of brass trombones.

You're welcome.

December 1

"There Is a Star"

performed by The BYU Combined Choirs and Orchestra

lyrics by 19th Century minister Joseph Martin

It's the First of December!

Welcome, one and all, to the sixth season of the Musical Advent Calendar here at "I Can Fly, Just Not Up"!

I hope that you'll find our musical selections in celebration of the Christmas Season to be a restful interlude from all the hustle and bustle leading up to the Big Day.

It's sad but true that the "busy-ness of life" makes it necessary that we remember to schedule a little time for ourselves every once in awhile.

It's not easy.  Trust me, I get it.

My regular readers know that I'm a mother to three rapidly growing girls, juggling a career as a teacher with a side-gig at a knitting store.  If I'm not tap-dancing as fast as I can at the front of a classroom, or helping to facilitate other peoples' yarn habits, it's a pretty safe bet that my rear-end is firmly glued to the driver's seat of the New Blue Loser Cruiser.

We are ALWAYS on the go; rarely at home.

I confess, I AM THAT WOMAN standing in the grocery line knitting a sock while I wait, usually during the five-o'clock arsenic hour, while the kids are engaged in various extra-curricular activities...  Yes, I am that obsessed with not wasting a single moment of my waking hours.

Meditation?

Hah!

"You're a long time dead," my Grandmother used to say.

THAT'S when I'll catch up on my sleep.

But Christmas...

That's a whole other level of stress, altogether.  Talk about having to try to be all things, to all people.

We mothers of the world MAKE Christmas.  We INVENTED it.  The Holy Mother herself did the best she could for her family, under the circumstances in which she found herself, that first Christmas Eve.

At this time of year, my gift to you, from one busy person to another, is this:

A golden opportunity every day, from now until December 25, to sit down and rest.  Just BE.  Don't do anything, don't cook anything, don't wrap anything.  Put your feet up, and close your eyes.  NO mental list-making!!  And no worrying.

Just listen.

Christmas is coming, whether we attend to all that racket out there or not.  It doesn't have to be a perfect, grand production.  In fact, it's often more memorable if it isn't.

I'm casting my mind back, now, to several years ago when I was expecting 13 for Christmas Eve Dinner. The brand new dining set had all arrived, EXCEPT FOR THE TABLE'S FOUR LEGS.  I seriously considered throwing the linen on the floor, nipping out to the Dollar Store for chopsticks, and serving everything Japanese-style.  My main concern, however, was that if, even by some miracle, I managed to get the majority of the adults comfortable on their knees...  would they ever be able to get back UP?!

Happily, the crisis was averted literally minutes before my guests all arrived.  The table legs had been found by the delivery company in another van, in another town.  The owner himself, along with his two sons, made the long trek back to our place and finished assembling the furniture, on an evening when they all should have been in their own homes, celebrating with their own families.

I was so grateful, I packaged up and gave them the three big tins of Scottish shortbread I had cranked out in preparation for my company's arrival.

We may have been shortbread-less that Christmas Eve, but we were all able to gather around our table.

Those three guys didn't HAVE to search high-and-low, and then come back with those table legs that night...  they could easily have just gone home.  I would have understood if they had-- two of them had young children of their own.

They didn't just practice good business that day.  They re-affirmed my belief in the goodness of human beings:  that doing what's right and what's kind is more important than doing what's easy.

And that right there, folks, is the true essence of the Christmas spirit.

Sometimes we just need to calm ourselves and slow down a little bit to realize that it's here with us, all the time.  It's all around us.

We just need a good excuse to stop, to look around, and notice.

The music here every day will be your excuse to do just that.

Enjoy.

Happy, and In Love.

THERE'S a post title for you...

And it's all come to me in just two days.

Why so happy, you might ask?

Well, I've discovered music from my distant past that I thought was lost to me forever.

When I was a deeply unhappy and disgruntled early highschool student, I used to spend Friday nights alone doing homework in my bedroom.

(Yes, I was THAT POPULAR in grade 9.  We won't elaborate, and no, we will NEVER share photographs.)

One thing that I always looked forward to was the ten o'clock program on a London, Ontario radio station, when they would play an entire album of newly released music, with no breaks, and no commercials.

One night, they played music that literally stopped me in my tracks.  It was an album of flute music that I had never heard before...  a mix of pop and the most extraordinarily innovative "jazzed-up" classical technique.

I had discovered the great Steve Kujala, and his album "Fresh Flute".

It was some of the most joyous, imaginative sound I had ever heard.

During the first song, I frantically rummaged around in my desk drawers until I found a blank cassette tape, and snapped it into my "boom box". (God, remember THOSE??!)

I confess.  I pirated a copy of that album that night-- minus the first song, of course.

And I played it over and over again...  through those long, lonely nights of homework and studying...  I played and listened until that tape finally warped, then snapped altogether.

These were the days long before CDs appeared on the scene...  and it was all but impossible to get my hands on a vinyl copy of the music, small towns being what they were, and specialty record stores being scarce.  NEVER MIND even bothering to look for it in our local Woolco department store...  At the time, if it wasn't Beethoven's 5th (souped up to sound like disco), ACDC, or Chicago (those were the days when Peter Cetera was King of the Monster Ballad), you weren't going to find it in MY hometown.

Time passed, and I cheered up a bit...  I found some friends, cut my hair, and fell into the theatre.

But I've never forgotten that music, and how much it meant to me.

Over the years, I've looked it up-- first, through our subscription to the Columbia Record Club, and then on the brand-new "inter-web": on Youtube and on Itunes.  To no avail.

Until last week, that is.

Last week, as my eldest daughter stood in front of a music stand in her room, diligently practicing her university audition pieces over and over and over again... I decided to give it another try.

And JOY...  There he was:

Through this Youtube video, I finally clapped ears-- 

and for the first time, EYES-- on Steve Kujala.

Better yet??

Through a private seller in Australia (God Bless Amazon!!!) I found the lone copy of the "Fresh Flute" album-- on CD!!-- left on the planet.

I can't even begin to tell you the emotion I felt yesterday, when I fetched it from my mailbox, and slid it into my computer.  I hadn't heard these sounds since I was a sad, tired and lonesome fourteen-year-old.  THIS was the music that made a difference.

"This music has so much positive energy that it's impossible to be in a bad mood after listening to it.  It is overflowing with beautiful melodies," writes Bob James, on the very first page of the liner notes.

And writes Mr. Kujala himself:

"...all of the songs express my true inner feelings on the positive and uplifting virtues of life.  While living in this turbulent world of ours, I have found joy in the privacy of my musical thoughts.  I hope that by sharing them with you, this joy will be yours, too!"

Oh, it was...  It was.  And now, it is, some thirty years later.

Thanks, Steve...  I feel like a kid again.

Happy.

******

Now, for the IN LOVE part.

Today, I bought a pair of THESE:

THESE, my knitterly friends, are ADDI TURBO SOCK ROCKETS.

They are the "Cadillac", if you will, of the sock-knitting universe.

They are expensive.

And, they are WORTH EVERY PENNY.

Go hence, knitters, and purchase a pair. 

 Then, get yourself a heavenly sock yarn.

I chose this:

Heritage Silk Paints by Cascade

85% Merino Superwash Wool, with 15% Mullberry Silk

(YES.  SILK.)

Colour 9812. 

( I call it "Sherlock", but that's probably because of my current appreciation

 for the work of  Mr. Benedict Cumberbatch.)

Now, the next thing you need to do, is go to verypink.com, my friends.  Because that is the place where you will find a series of excellent tutorial videos that will teach you the Magic Loop method of knitting socks:

Bye-bye, DPNs...  there's a "new guy" in town.

And he's currently rocking my socks.

Delicious.

They made me a "cake" in the sand centre today.

This?

Is why I LOVE teaching Kindergarten.

An Early Christmas Card.

I woke up this morning to a message from one of my dearest friends.

We met fortuitously nearly a decade ago, when I noticed a car bearing British Columbia licence plates parked on the road outside our school.  Who, I wondered, was this newcomer?  I had lived in BC for five years, myself, before my first child was born.  With my tiny Wee Three tucked firmly in one arm, I leaned up against the vehicle to wait and see who this addition to our community might be.

I finally saw her strolling up the path, with her own little girl in tow.  The four of us blinked at each other for a moment, and I swear, it was one of those rare times when you feel as though you've known someone for a lifetime.  We "recognized" each other, without ever having met before, and quickly fell in step with a friendship so firm, I couldn't imagine being any closer if we were actually sisters.  Together, we've faced life's greatest joys, and ruts so deep and dark, it didn't seem as though we'd ever be able to pull each other out.  But, for the past nine-and-a-half years, we've been a team.  And that has made ALL the difference.

Amazingly, even another cross-country move hasn't altered the relationship.  We may not be able to car pool our kids anymore, and our Thursday afternoon knit-alongs have had to become far less frequent.  But, we can still exchange a flurry of text messages, and schedule marathon telephone calls (sometimes firmly locked in our closets, to deter interruptions from various progeny).  Whenever we DO arrange to clap eyes on each other, it's as though no time has passed-- we just carry on right from where we left off.

That's pretty special.

She "gets" me, and likes who I am, warts and all.

She and her kids are my chosen family.

It's true that the long-distance thing can be a bit of a wrench, though.  There are absolutely times when I wish she was closer, that I could just nip 'round the block, plop my behind down in one of her cozy living room chairs, to knit and chat till our fingers fall off.  I don't think we've ever run out of things to say to one another-- but we're also comfortable spending entire afternoons together in near silence.

Today's message made me laugh till my sides ached.  But it also tugged at my heartstrings:

Imagine if you will...

I sat this morning in Francesco's, a quaint little cafe, sipping on a hazlenut latte, just passing the time knitting whilst waiting for Miss M. to finish up her art class next door.

When suddenly o'er top the faint bluesy acoustic guitar Christmas music, I heard the barista loud and clear, in his best Bing Crosby, from the back room singing:

"It's beginning to look a lot like bullsh*t..."

I kid you not.

And oh, how I wished you were with me.

Missing you so,

xoxoxo

I miss you, too, my dear.  I miss you, too.

* * * * * 

SHE KNOWS exactly how I feel about "that kind" of Christmas music-- and the commercialized wind-up towards Christmas in general.

She also knows that for the past few months, I've been searching high and low for some of the finest musical selections (and some of the silliest, too, don't worry!) of the season.

Last year's Musical Advent Calendar was a celebration of five years of good music, and I took the opportunity to post encore performances of my most favourite selections.

This year, there may be a few familiar tunes, but I'm making every effort to ensure that most days, you will be hearing something new, unique and wonderful.  Something that will lift your heart, soothe your spirit, and prepare you for the days ahead... 

DEFINITELY not what you'll be hearing over the loudspeakers in your local mall.  Thank goodness.

As of December 1, and continuing on until Christmas Day, drop by for a reprieve from the ordinary!  Grab a cup of something hot, put your feet up, and turn up the volume.

It's nearly Christmastime!

Random stitches.

It's cold outside, people, and winter will be here before we know it, whether we like it or not.

I've been busy whipping up a few things in an attempt to keep my progeny warm and toasty over the next few months!

I started with Child Number One, who is now seventeen.  (I KNOW.  I can't believe it either.  But she must be, because I rarely clap eyes on her unless she's riding shotgun in the Loser Cruiser while I'm driving her somewhere.  Usually, she's ensconced in her bedroom doing homework most of the night.  She streels through my room at about 1 AM, whispering remembrances of the unholy hour she needs to be driven to school for band in the morning, on her way to use the "good" shower in my ensuite bathroom.  There should be a "Hinterland's Who's Who" television vignette featuring The Teenaged Night Owl.  Now THAT would be a helpful public service announcement.)

Most seventeen-year-olds are extremely particular about the clothes they wear-- even here in the Great White North, where style would not seem to matter as much as the NUMBER OF LAYERS you put on your body before braving the elements.  Child Number One has an elegant style of her own, it is definitely true.  But she cares considerably less about the importance of outdoor-warmth than I, her long-suffering mother, do.  Hence, when it came time to purchase her a new winter coat, I knew that unless I kidnapped her from her bedroom, or lured her into the Loser Cruiser with the (false) promise of a trip to Dairy Queen, I would NEVER get her to the mall to try on, much less purchase, a parka.

The benefit of having a seventeen-year-old who is particularly studious is that she checks her emails quite frequently.  So, in order to preserve my own sanity, I perused the Land's End online catalogue, forwarded her snapshots of my top five choices, and indicated the one that I would be most likely to purchase for her.  Most importantly, I also gave her a TIME LIMIT:  if no preference was indicated within several days, an order would automatically go in for the biggest, fluffiest ankle-length version, complete with fake-fur-trimmed hood.  

Needless to say, I had an answer fairly quickly...  and I was able to begin knitting accessories to go with the coat even before I received an order confirmation.  (Victory in the Clothing Department is fuel for productivity, that's for sure.)

The hat?  Is "Who?", by Sara Aramoso-- and it's brilliant.  A quick and easy knit, it's a miracle of cable stitches that form a ringlet of tiny owls all around the wearer's head.  I've made several in a blue-and-grey shade of Pacific Colour Wave.  It's a beautiful superwash merino wool that is soft enough not to feel "picky" around the wearer's forehead.  The colours blend together so nicely as it knits up, I've chosen two more shades to make hats for Child Number Two and Wee Three, as well:  one blue-and-green, and one orangey-red (which is slightly weird, for owls...  but at least I'll never lose that kid in a snowstorm.)  I've added two little sequins for the eyes of one of the owls, and hope that the girlies remember to wear them just a little to the right or left of centre...  We'll see.  

The scarf was a simple choice-- and not a scarf at all.  The Gaptastic Cowl is all the rage right now, the pattern being inspired by an overpriced machine-made article of clothing available for sale at a certain clothing store.  Ahem.   The yarn is another Cascade superwash merino in a chunky weight, made in Peru-- it feels divine, and drapes so nicely when knit up on slightly larger needles (I used a 9 mm, when the ball band called for a 6 mm).  It's knit in the round on an odd number of stitches, so that the seed stitch pattern forms automatically, thus alleviating the need to keep track of rows-- I just kept on knitting mindlessly 'till the two skeins were used up.  Child Number One can wrap it twice, if she wants a more casual look when her jacket is undone, or (the more likely scenario) three times if it's DAMNED cold, and she wants something snuggled up to her chin!

At this point in the year, all of my girls are still wearing fingerless gloves.  I don't quite understand it, being the type of person whose fingers are the very FIRST body part to succumb to cold and threaten to drop off as soon as fall arrives.  I am a mitten-and-glove kind of girl-- preferably ones that stretch right up to my elbows.  No matter how hard I try to look stylish in them, I always find myself curling my hands up into balls inside the palms of my fingerless gloves, in order to stay warm enough during dreaded yard duties.  However, half-mittens are better than no mittens at all, and keep the mother-and-child relations from boiling over every morning.   I dutifully crank out at least three pairs of the fingerless kind every year, as soon as I feel a nip in the air.  Maine Morning Mitts is a divine pattern, in a simple K2, P1 rib, which makes the material almost a double-thickness.  I had some Noro Keuryon kicking around from a previous project, and so made my first pair out of that.  I then found a skein of Cascade "Jewel", a Peruvian highland kettle-dyed wool, in the silkiest deep, dark purple.  Gorgeous.  The older girls are still fighting over those ones.  The last pair will have to be for Wee Three:  it's an outrageous self-patterning yarn named "Sunshine", in Splash by King Cole.  (Needless to say, they're going to go perfectly with her bright orange hat.)  I'll need slightly smaller needles for that pair, but they'll knit up well to fit her smaller hands.

And as an aside...  The Maine Morning Mitts pattern was written by the wonderful and prolific Clara Parkes, whose latest book "The Yarn Whisperer:  My Unexpected Life in Knitting" is now available for sale, and has become on of my favourite reads of the year.  It would make a fantastic Christmas gift for any knitterly friends you may have...  or better yet, pop one under the tree for yourself!

There is one other "little" article that I'm making every effort to set aside a certain number of minutes per day to work on.  After many years of dedicated work in our district school board, Child Number One's favourite music teacher and his wife are expecting their first baby, who is set to appear on the scene sometime in early December.  It was this amazing teacher who changed my daughter's life by handing her a flute and showing her how to play, more years ago than I care to remember.  He is the type of educator who looks past the "student" and take a sincere interest in the child.  He started with a timid, self-conscious little girl, and has brought her along and encouraged her to become an extremely talented, confident young woman.  I am more grateful to him than I could ever express in words... and it is for this reason than I am tackling a very special pattern.  It's called "The Heart Blanket"...  and if I didn't "heart" this little baby so much, I confess that I'd probably be tempted to attack this half-completed project with garden shears, and then run over the whole mess, needles and all, with a steam-roller.  I don't know why the pattern eludes me...  I've even written the chart out explicitly in words, IN ENGLISH, and copied it onto a spread-sheet.  Every time I finish a row, I grab a pencil and dutifully check in another box...  to no avail.  With every single repeat, I've had to tink out AT LEAST two or three rows, to figure out where the hell I went wrong.  Which is frustrating, to say the least.  

Confession (and slight worry):  I think it might be bad karma to swear this much when lovingly creating a gift for a newborn.  

**Sigh.**  

There are, of course, many, many other projects on-the-go in my arsenal.  I was under the illusion that I had my "UFO" habit under control (and by UFO, I mean "Un-Finished Object").  Last summer, during the worst of the July heatwave, I retreated into the air-conditioning of my sewing room and spent a good week or two combing through the stash.  I spent hours sorting and thinking and desperately trying to be "realistic" about my Habit...  Eventually, projects that were driving me mad (but that I was too stubborn to give up on) were ripped out, the yarn steamed and re-wound, and each collection of skeins secured in enormous zip-loc bags for future consideration.  However, to my dismay I realized that all my efforts had been (mostly) in vain by some point in late September.  It was then that I deemed it necessary to weed all my "summer" knitting projects out of the myriad bags and containers that I have placed round the house, in order to make more room for the "fall/winter" projects.  

I had unwittingly done it again.  And now there's a whole new pile-up of crazy tossed into wicker baskets in my basement, waiting patiently to be sorted.  

Will it ever end?

I doubt it.

(Actually...  I hope not.)

Lullaby

In memoriam

Sir John Tavener

Composer

1944-2013

So many people hold the death of a significant person in their lives to be a "turning point";  a moment in time from which all others are measured.

I don't mean to sound trite when I confess that that person for me is Diana, Princess of Wales.  I am "of that age", after all.  Most certainly, as a young girl, she was The One whom I held up as the ideal perfection.  I followed her carefully staged romance, engagement and marriage, besotted by the "fairytale".  Her clothes, her hair... the style of her was of constant fascination to me.

As I grew older, of course, the cracks in her public persona most certainly began to show.  She was far from perfect-- just like the rest of us.  With such a troubled background, minimal education, and the inexplicable lack of support and compassion from those placed around her, she could not possibly have been expected to survive.

Her death shook me to the core.  But it is a few moments of the hauntingly beautiful funeral service that will be forever burned in my brain, for as long as I live:

The finality of that closed box, 

draped in scarlet, gold and blue, in the cavernous Abbey.  

A circlet of white rosebuds; the gut-wrenching sight 

of the card inscribed: 

"Mummy"

Two small boys, one with his head buried in his hands.

And the sacred lullaby by Sir John Tavener,
lifting a soul to heaven.  

"The important thing about music is not what one writes down...  It is what is left out.
One should move towards silence."
--Sir John Tavener

Strategy

 

Well, it's Hallowe'en Week, people, and the girlies are gearing up.

This year, the gang's all coming out to our place:  my girlies, my brother, sister, brother-in-law and 2 Nephews Extraordinaire.  It'll be a really full house, and to make things perfect, one of my dearest friends (who is a former make-up artist with the Vancouver Opera Company) is also going to be visiting that night.  It's going to be quite a PAR-TAY, to say the least, and with all the mischief-makers in residence, it's hard to anticipate whether there will be more TRICKS or more TREATS on the agenda.  (That thought alone is enough to boggle the mind, quite frankly.)

This morning, the topic-of-choice at the breakfast table was "Trick-or-Treat Strategy":  our small Creatures-of-the-Night spent at least half an hour on speaker-phone with their Uncle (our family's Grand Master of Hallowe'en), trying to determine how to maximize candy-intake, within the limited opportunity of one evening.

They discussed candy bag size, and whether it might be wise to stop home to empty the haul in between canvassing blocks of houses.  They noodled upon the possibility of riding their scooters, but nixed that idea when it was discovered that the youngest of the pack will be sporting a long Grim Reaper get-up, complete with gigantic scythe accessory...  They wracked their brains to remember the most generous houses from last year, and ensured that their route would be accurate and inclusive.  Then, horrified to discover that the Uncle had not yet planned his own costume, they threatened to dress him up in our finest Little Bo Peep outfit, a beautiful hand-made remnant from our dress-up box.  (He laughed heartily, and wisely changed the subject.)

Wee Three was surprisingly sedate during this conversation.  Usually the most enthusiastic of our resident junk food junkies,  I noted a nonchalance in her attitude that did not accurately reflect the usual ricocheting-off-the-wall anticipatory hyperactivity.

Me:  What's the scoop, Wee One?   You not that excited about Hallowe'en this year?

Wee Three:  (thoughtfully chewing a mouthful of cheerios)  Oh, yeah...  We'll get lots.

Me:  Well, then.  How do you plan to do that?  What's YOUR strategy for the haul?

Wee Three:  (eyes twinkling)  Same as always, mum.  It's easy:  RUN!!!

Brings new meaning to the phrase Sugar Rush, non?

My style of optimism...

Snippets from the edge.

On Wednesday of last week, I was happily teaching the last period of a grade one class.  They're not my own class, mind...  but I sure regard them as a "bonus":  After a full day of working in the Special Education Centre at my new school, I'm lucky enough to have "prep coverage" for a grade one teacher during the final forty minutes.  This means I get to do ARTS with these kids:  drama, dance, music...  and not surprisingly, it has become something I really look forward to-- my "reward" at the end of a long and challenging schedule.

We were doing a music lesson, and I had just finished teaching the kids the old camp song, "Poor Little Bug on the Wall":

Poor little bug on the wall!

Nobody loves him at all.

No one to blow his nose,

No one to tickle his toes,

Poor little bug on the wall!

One of the things I love MOST about teaching the littlest students is that when they giggle hard enough, they actually tip over, and remind me of the Weebles toys I loved to play with when I was a child.

One little girl did NOT find the lyrics amusing, however:

"That's SUCH a SAD SONG!!!"

Yes, I replied, it IS a sad song.  Cue the perfect segue for the next part of the lesson:  How many different ways can you sing the song by changing the sound of your voice?  Could you make the song SOUND really, really sad?  What does "happy" singing sound like?  (How could we cheer this song up?)  Then, what about "angry" singing?  Heck, what if different animals were to sing the song??

We had a rollicking good half-hour together.

Before the bell was to ring, I reminded the children that we would all be going on our first field trip together the next day.  They were all to remember to dress warmly (with wellies on!!) to attend the Fall Fair.

As a "ticket out the door", I said that each student would have to tell me the answer to a question, using a "complete sentence" response.  The question was:

"What are you MOST looking forward to seeing at the Fall Fair tomorrow?"

Now, some of these children are very, very young-- really, just glorified kindergarten students, and many of them are English Language Learners, as well.  So, I prompted them:

"I am MOST looking forward to seeing..."

And each kid would repeat my words, then fill in the blank.

I was slightly alarmed when answers such as "ZEBRAS!" started cropping up.

"No," I said as gently as I could, "I don't think so.  Can you think of something else???"

When the subject of "GIRAFFES!!" was broached, I couldn't take it any more.

After all, I'm a proud "farm country" girl.  I know that Farmers Feed Cities.  I shop local markets.  I know exactly where my meat comes from, and I expound on the fact that "Good Things Grow In Ontario" whenever I get the chance.

The kids patiently listened to my spiel, and didn't even seem all that disappointed by the time I was done. Once I was fully satisfied that they all understood the "No Giraffes at the Fall Fair, and Why" lecture, I allowed them to pack their little backpacks and go home.

Bright and early on Thursday morning, we all clambered onto a rickety orange bus that smelled like old cheese...  but we didn't care!  Everyone was leg-swingingly happy as we drove up the main road North, on our way to the fair grounds.

The squealing started at the first sight of the ferris wheel, and grew louder as the scent of hot buttered popcorn and spun sugar candy wafted over us through all the windows I had opened.

"NOPE," I said firmly, to groans of disappointment.  "That's not why we're here!!"

I reminded everyone of the farm animals we had listed the day before-- and what's more, the wide variety of craft competitions, the horse jumping exhibition, and the Ontario Dairy display-- they might get a chance to milk a cow!!  Excitement resumed-- amazingly, I had discovered that there was more than one child who had never clapped EYES on a cow...

We exited the bus, and made our way in a line through the throngs of other screaming children.

And you'll never GUESS what was waiting for us in the first field, smack to the right of the Main Entrance Gates...

To a multitude of the delighted screeches of "MS. BAAAAAAKER...  We thought you SAAAAAID..."

I looked over and saw:

An elephant.

May God have mercy on my poor, weary soul...

Many happy returns...

A very happy birthday to my dear old dad today.

(He's a bit of a turkey, but we couldn't love him more.)

Mistakes. Learn from them.

Notes to self, at a time of New Beginnings:

Try never to want something TOO MUCH.  Desperation often leads to wanting the wrong things, making the wrong decisions, and achieving the opposite of what you'd been hoping for all along.

More often than not, "want" and "need" are two completely separate issues.  Stop.  Think.  Figure out which is which.

Smile, and keep them waiting.  Don't rush decisions out of pressure.  If they want you badly enough, they'll let you know-- perhaps even moving mountains for you in the process.  That said, if they don't come after you, they're probably not worth it, anyway.  Some things aren't meant to be.  Inaction speaks far louder than words.

Play your cards very close to your chest, and keep them that way.

Time flies.  Even if you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time, the hard parts of life will eventually pass.  That's not to say there isn't another tsunami coming, but the trick is to get better at keeping your head above the water every time one does.

Don't get stuck constantly looking in the rear-view mirror.  Remember the things the past taught you-- but make a concerted effort to release the nitty-gritty details.  Enough is enough.

Focus on the here and now, and try not to worry about the future.  Tomorrow doesn't exist yet.  All you can control is what you are choosing to do right now.

You are not your job, neither does your job does not define you.

Remember who you are.

I can see the light between me and my mind,

I can feel memories fall behind,

And the light is growing brighter now.
--Phish, "The Light"

On Losing.

Well, there's been a change in the family.

Our faithful loser cruiser has passed on, and I have to tell you, the girlies and I spent the better part of last week feeling pretty broken up about it.

As you may remember, during a rather dire moment in transit several days ago, it became apparent that the old girl's body was on its way out.  And for a change, I'm not referring to MYSELF.

The loser cruiser turned eleven this year, and in the end, she owed us precisely nothing.  She was average in many ways-- an extremely ordinary make and model, in a comforting shade of beige.  The unassuming colour hid dirt fairly nicely-- and even most of the rust that eventually began creeping out beyond the wheel wells, not to mention the crumbly lower edge of the back hatch.  It camouflaged so well, in fact, we often had a terrible time locating her in parking lots:  every damn mini van seemed to look exactly the same.

When the "panic" button on my key chain eventually conked out from over-use, we resorted to hanging a large pair of fuzzy sheep from the Loser Cruiser's rear-view mirror.  "I SEE SHEEP!!" is not usually a phrase you would imagine could bring vast feelings of relief, but it sure did to us, on many occasions.  (Although I suspect it thoroughly confounded anyone passing by us on the endless fields of asphalt).

She didn't seem to mind the indignity of being scraped down with a little wet/dry sandpaper every spring... nor the many layers of Bondo, or the Crappy Tire brand spray paint we repeatedly slathered on her problem areas.

She was also fairly co-operative and understanding when we took her to the doctor (mechanic), and negotiated about selective treatments for anything that ailed her over the years...  We carefully weighed the risks (to my bank account) with the benefits (to her happiness and longevity), and whatever the final decisions were, she cheerfully got us to wherever we needed to go.

Someone once told me that no one actually buys mini vans on purpose.  Apparently, after the third child is born, they just show up in your driveway as a public display that your life is pretty much over, for at least the next decade or two.

I would love to say that this is how our Loser Cruiser came to us, but that doesn't seem quite fair.  Because in many ways, that car saved me.

Nine years ago, I had just given birth to another tiny, perfect baby girl.  I was so proud of myself, only a few days postpartum, as I carefully strapped each little girlie into the back seat of my slightly creaky Volvo station wagon.  They were like little matryoshka dolls in a line, I thought (although each one had a different complicated and weird system to lock her safely into her respective car seat).

We had just hit the first highway en route to the grocery store, and I was feeling extremely self-congratulatory as I hummed along to Raffi's "Singable Songs" on the cd player.

Suddenly, there came an ear-splitting shriek from Child Number One, who was then seven years old:

"MUMMEEEEEE!!

SHE'S GOT HER FINGERS STUFFED UP THE NEW BABY'S NOSE!!"

I screeched over to the side of the road, leaped out of the car, and practically ripped the back door off its hinges.

Sure enough, there sat Terrible Two, then barely three years of age.  She was grinning happily, with a finger firmly jammed up each of the baby's nostrils.  Wee Three was desperately mouth-breathing for dear life, but amazingly, not making any fuss.  I think she was just as shocked as I was.

I picked up my cell phone, called the children's father, and screamed with all the self-control of a woman on the edge:

"WE.  NEED.  A.  VAN."

Suffice it to say the Loser Cruiser appeared, and once I could firmly ensconce my children out of arm's (and leg's) reach of each other, life went on.  And on.  And on.

I got my very first speeding ticket in that car:

Officer:  Morning, Ma'am.  Where are you off to in such a hurry?

Me:  (Gritting teeth and raising my voice over the intense wails coming from the rear of the interior)  I?  Am going to PRESCHOOL.

Or, alternatively, straight to Hell.  At that precise moment, I wasn't sure.

He didn't let me off-- he was clearly not a father.  But if he is now, by GOD I hope the mother of his children has taught him a few important life lessons.  

After that, the Loser Cruiser and I made a pact that if we were going to speed, we were going to have to really boot it, to ensure that we would outrun irritating police officers.

She never failed me after that.

Together, we hauled a multitude of kids, made countless grocery runs, and screeched up to emergency rooms in the nick of time.  We moved furniture, small trees, hysterical cats, and entire garden-loads of plants.  We drove-thru for gallons of coffee, for ice cream, for prescriptions and bank machines.

Her "fuel" light flashed on a fairly regular basis, but she always waited for me to be able to find a service station, rather than gasping her last in the middle of a busy intersection.  She was nothing if not polite.  She didn't want to inconvenience anybody.

She also had a great sense of fun.  One night, six children and I sneaked up on my best friend, blindfolded her, stuffed her through the back hatch of the trunk, and whisked her off to a surprise 40th birthday party, "gangster-style".  Those same six children and I also perfected a game in which we quietly waited by the side of a certain back road until the coast was clear, then revved up and barreled like maniacs over a series of large speed bumps, to a chorus of whoops and giggles.  Three of those kids eventually moved across the country, but whenever they come back to visit, one of the first things they request is always a speed-bump run.

Memorably, one year she became an impromptu Mother's Day card, when several small people (who shall not be named) sneaked out in the middle of the night and scrawled loving graffiti all over her in bathtub crayons, which rendered me speechless the next morning.  Needless to say, I got more than my usual number of perplexed stares as I proudly drove around for the next several days-- much to the children's mortification.  (That's payback, kids... I actually managed to preserve the yellow happy face drawn on my gas cap cover for months.)

She was a tough old gal, the Loser Cruiser.

We couldn't possibly have had respite away from home without her.  She got us to Stratford and back so many times, I swear, I don't even remember steering.  She always got us, and all the Stuff that went with us, where we needed to go.  My father was consistently alarmed by the sheer amount of luggage I regularly produced from the enormous trunk when we arrived.  ("Good Lord, HOW LONG ARE YOU STAYING???!")

In the summer, she was full of grass clippings and sand from bare feet.  She was caked with the salt and slush from small boots in winter.  She happily stored the kids' secret treasures in her back-seat pockets and hinged compartments, including one unpleasantly memorable container of chocolate milk that Wee Three was "saving for later"...  MUCH later.

She was the safe place where I took respite from a job I dreaded last year.  Every day at the lunchtime bell, no matter how cold or how hot the weather, I'd escape from my classroom, and drive till I found quiet parking lot away from school property.  I'd set the alarm on my phone, roll my seat back, and desperately attempt to relax.  Only then could I bear to face the afternoon.

Granadpa is quietly amused

This past summer, she made it through a mammoth journey to the place that was my childhood playground, south of the border, on the coast of Maine.  She chugged through the Green Mountains, carrying not only the girlies and me, but my parents, as well.  My dear old dad has a very bad back, and had compiled a long list of concerns about the car and the trip in general before we left.  But amazingly, throughout the journey, he pronounced our Loser Cruiser to be a resounding success, on both the comfort and reliability fronts.  (This was no small praise, I assure you.)

Our Maine Vacation turned out to be our Loser Cruiser's swan song.  Last week, emergency response to her "Check Engine!!" light resulted in a prognosis "nil".  

We returned to the dealer and settled on a rather splendid replacement, in a unique shade of grey, at a respectable price.  We were assigned a "trade-in" date...  and yet, our hearts sank.  It was quite ridiculous-- a melancholy reaction, to such a happy prospect:  hell, we hadn't been fortunate enough to be able to treat ourselves to something like this for years!

As the great day drew closer, the girlies and I were finally able to decide what was really bothering us.

We would miss her.  NOT the rust and the dangly exhaust pipe and the never-ending blinking dashboard lights, but rather, we would miss the SPIRIT of our trusty Loser Cruiser.

And this got us to thinking...  As long as we were indulging in nonsensical thoughts ANYWAY... What if we imagined our old girl to be a Buddhist?

What if our friend was just shedding her old shell, to take on the form of the new one?

It was decided.  

And once we had our story straight, we felt a whole lot better.

Last Thursday evening, as we prepared to pull out of the dealership parking lot, the girlies and I carefully hung Tony and Jude the sheep on the new rear-view mirror.

"Re-in-CAR-nation!!" proclaimed Child Number One, as we pulled out into traffic, roaring with laughter.

We may look a little different as we cruise down the street in our new ride...

But deep down, we're still happy to be Losers, and that's a fact.

Sing out loud, sing out strong.

It's Trash Tuesday again, folks.

And for the past week, I've been wracking my brain to figure out ways to simplify my little family's somewhat harried existence.  My girlies and I are working towards the idea of "stream-lining" our routines this year.

This will mean making an effort to cut out the stuff that tends to drive us crazy and gets us nowhere.

(Except the laundry, unfortunately.  Apparently, the general consensus is that we need to keep doing that.  Same goes for making supper every.  damn.  night.  **Sigh.**)

Child Number One is undoubtedly the busiest of us all, and we've been extremely careful to choose her high school courses, as well as her music activities, with extreme consideration.  Thankfully, she is now at the point in her education where the pre-requisites are behind her, and she can pick her courses based upon what she enjoys, and what she intends to pursue in university.

There has been some talk about her dropping out of her secondary school's choir.

Now, Child Number One is "Musical-with-a-capital-M", as some of you may remember.  She has never had a burning desire to sing-- the flute has become her voice, instead.  But, as many good music teachers have encouraged her, she has felt the need to TRY to sing, to help her perfect her ear training, as well as her sight reading.

Besides, singing in a group-- as opposed to having to "face the music" and sing on your OWN-- is fun.

It's good for the soul to combine your voice with others', and marvel at the beautiful sounds that can be created.  It's good to learn the music "by heart": that way, it stays there forever.

Number One had a super year singing at school last year, and made some wonderful new friends outside of the instrumental music program.  She also sang, without pressure and with joyous abandon, at the National Music Camp for several years, as a part of her orchestral training.

This year, a new music department head was announced at the school.  And this department head, although absolutely marvelous at his job, announced that he would like the members of the choir to do more solo work this year.  Starting with a recorded vocal audition.

Well, Child Number One's no stranger to auditions.  She rises to meet the challenge of all kinds of performing situations, and succeeds.

But this one made her hesitate.  It made her nervous.  She can MORE than carry a tune.  But, singing is not what she would call her forte.

She began to think...  that if she didn't continue with choir, she would not only reduce her own personal stress, but she would also lessen my weekly driving load... thus stream-lining the schedule, as we had planned.

Well, I appreciated the offer.  And I understood her feelings.  Hell, I wouldn't have wanted to sing on my own, either-- and I sang in a number of church choirs for a number of my younger years.

I was sure the teacher would understand.  I encouraged her to go and see him, and explain her reservations.

In the end, he was sympathetic and understanding, and of course would have her in choir, even if she didn't feel comfortable singing alone.  They would work it out.

So, then there was just the issue of stream-lining the schedule to consider.

We decided to sleep on it.

And after we had risen and dressed to leave the house in the wee hours this morning, I met my eldest child in the kitchen for a mini-pow-wow.

Would she stay, or would she go?

In the end, the decision was simpler than either of us would have imagined:

(Insert a loooooong moment of thoughtful silence.)

Mother:  Are you singing Rutter this year?

Child Number One:  Yes.

Mother:  Here's your lunch.  Get in the car.

Sing your heart out, kiddo.  

Here There Be Monsters...

Well, it's September, all right.

School is back in full swing, and although it's been just shy of two weeks of frantic routine, my girlies and I appear to be "running on empty" already.  I'm back at work (although, thankfully, NOT in the same ring-of-Hell position I was in last year), and the race is on to balance my life with the needs and routines of my progeny.  

Every morning, we fire out the door in three different directions.  And every afternoon, I drive my weary carcass around town, picking them all up, only to have to muster a Mario Andretti impersonation in order to get them all to their extra-curricular activities in a "punctual fashion".  Bonus points if I have remembered to remind them all to pack the appropriate accoutrements.

The worst day is Tuesday.

There is school and work.  And early band.  And then mid-afternoon band.  Then choir...  I sh*t you not, my bum doesn't leave the car seat between two forty-five, and seven thirty at night.

It's no wonder I'm out of shape--  the servers at all the drive-thru windows in town know us by name.

We call it "Trash Tuesday".

Well, this past Trash Tuesday, we hit a snag in the routine, in the form of a massive traffic jam.  The clock was ticking, but Child Number One and I were in gridlock, while Two and Three languished in their respective school pick-up zone.  Apparently, fifteen minutes in "child time" is officially an Eternity.

When we finally screeched to a halt in front of the gates, two droopy, thoroughly cheezed-off children clambered into the back seat of the Loser Cruiser (who, incidentally, was also rebelling in the form of a flashing "CHECK ENGINE" light...  Traitor.)

I endured the "How COULD YOU???!!" melodramatics for the duration of the drive to the next stop.  And as soon as I could safely unbuckle my seat belt, turn around and blast the little ingrates till their hair blew back from their foreheads, I did just that.

When I was finished, there was an uneasy silence.

That is, until Wee Three piped up:

"Oh YEAH??  

Well, it's YOUR FAULT for taking us to school this morning in the first place!!"

That's "Blame The Mother", folks.

My kids have it down to a science.