Sunrise

Wishing you all a happy and blessed Easter!

xoxo CGF

Truth for today.

The stresses of daily life are proving too much.  And sometimes, it takes the almighty Karma to smack you up the side of the head, to make you take your foot off the gas.

It's time to stop thinking with my heart all the time, instead of my head.

Time to let go:  The job is just a JOB.

My LIFE is my kids, and my creativity.

It's time I got back to more of my life.

(Thanks, Karma.  I needed that.)

Be Your Own Prince Charming

Now that I'm a full-time "working mum", weekends will never be the same again.

(Not that I wasn't working every day when I was fortunate enough to be at home with my three girlies...  Those years were some of the most challenging of my life, as you may well remember.)

However, with my new teaching and tutoring schedule keeping me hopping all day and well into the evenings from Monday to Saturday, our "family day" has turned into a well-timed regimen out of sheer necessity.

As my middle child says gloomily:

"Sunday means CLEAN-UP day..."

And she's right, boy-oh-boy, because what with the four busy girls in this household, we sure don't have much time to keep up with clean-up during the week.

Today, we all pitched in with cooking, cleaning, laundry and ironing, in between bursts of homework and music practice.  Late in the afternoon, I excused the gloomy middle child to go off with a friend to watch a hockey game, and dragged Wee Three along with me on my struggle round the grocery store, so that my eldest child could study in peace.

Wee Three is a great kid to shop with, actually.  She's full of "can-do" attitude, and has a great willingness to help...  although admittedly, she DOES prove my downfall in the cookies-and-candy aisle (which is commonly known to us as "The Aisle of Tears":  To the kids, because they know that I'll say "NO".  And, to me, because I know what my backside will eventually look like if I dare give in to my children.)

We made it through with only one moment of weakness, when I bought my smallest daughter a package of her favourite Hubba Bubba Bubble Gum-- albeit with firm warnings about her tendency to park her gum in inappropriate places around the house (presumably to "save it for later").

We dragged our cart out into the slushy parking lot, heaved the lot into the trunk of the loser cruiser, and slogged home.

Once back in my own driveway, I emerged from the nice, warm car and pulled up the hood of my parka against the snow and wind.  I must confess, as I began to unload the contents of my trunk...  it was hard to resist the great temptation to wish for a nice, strong Prince Charming-type to come bounding up and relieve me of my burden.

Stephen Sondheim once wrote, "Everybody ought to have a maid..."  But, I say, to hell with that lot.  The fact is, everybody ought to have a SHERPA.  Especially mothers, at times times such as these.

It was at this precise moment that my littlest girl bounded out of the back seat, and skidded up beside me.  She took one look at my face, grinned hugely, and made me the proudest mother in the world, when she said:

"Don't worry!  WE can do it, Mum!!

GIRLS CAN DO ANYTHING!!"

How we're spending the weekend... sigh...

Now, if my Darth Vader impersonation would just work with my STUDENTS...

Cracked.

The new job has been a trial-by-fire, to put it very, very mildly.

And although the task of completely overhauling and re-inventing prescriptive, special education programs for eighteen challenging students is MORE than enough for me to adjust to...

My poor, neglected little family has had a lot to adjust to, too.

Mummy leaves the house before anyone else is up-- heck, before the SUN is up.

And, when Mummy comes to pick them up at school in the afternoon, she is, more often than not, tired, stressed, and overwhelmed by the prospect of a full night's work ahead of her.

No matter how hard I try to achieve some sort of balance in our life here at home, I always feel like I am at arm's length from my children.  If not physically (barricaded in my office, surrounded by mountains of books and a printer spitting out papers faster than I can collect them off the floor), then certainly emotionally.

For weeks, now, my new students haven't been out of my head, not even for a few minutes.  I even dream about them at night-- stress nightmares that I hope never come to full fruition.

We're scraping by.

And sadly, we seem to be eating way too much pre-made meals.  Frozen entrees from the grocery store used to be a last resort around here, and although I started out with a cheery "make-one-freeze-one!" mentality, the reality of my ridiculous schedule has gotten in the way.

Mercifully, my mother stepped in one night last week.  Not only did she bring us the most delicious almond chicken casserole...  she brought BREAD.

HOME-MADE bread.  Bread made from a recipe that originated with my great-grandfather, and handed down and perfected by his wife, his children and grandchildren.

My mother's beautiful whole-grain bread is a thing of beauty, and is good enough to bring tears to your eyes when it's lightly toasted and slathered in butter.  It's at its finest as a summertime sandwich, enclosing slices of the freshest garden tomato, still warm from the vine.

My girlies went into ecstasies over the bread that night.  (The chicken went down pretty well, too, needless to say.)

Child Number One:  (with her mouth still full)  I swear, Gramma bread has something ADDICTIVE in it.

Me:  Well, certainly.  All that whole wheat and bran...  I don't know how she crams all that good stuff in, and gets the loaves to rise up to be so LIGHT.

Child Number One:  (with a meaningful stare)  Nope.  It's not that.  I think she puts DRUGS in it, or something.  Kind of like the coffee at Tim Horton's...  Just enough to keep you wanting MORE...

Me:  (roaring)  That's hilarious.  Your gramma wouldn't have the first CLUE where to get illegal drugs to put in that bread.  Although...  it would certainly bring a new meaning to the phrase, "CRACKED WHEAT".

We chuckled until crumbs rained down onto the floor, just as Wee Three skidded into the kitchen and wanted to know what we were laughing about.

We explained in as "age-appropriate" a manner as we could.

She squinched down her eyebrows thoughtfully, and noodled for a moment, before she had her big "lightbulb moment":

Wee Three:  I KNOW WHERE GRAMMA GETS THE STUFF!!  She drives out to COUNTRY BULK!!

Crack...  WHEAT, that is.

Whatever it is that's in there, folks...  it sure is GOOD.

Knitty new year...

My only New Year's Resolution.

So many people are posting their "Best of 2012",  I felt the need to join in the game.

2012 wasn't the easiest of years for me and mine, however, so I think it best to keep the topic on one of the things I love best--  The Knitting, of course.  (What else??!)

It was a busy year, for sure, needle-wise.  Unfortunately, the Challenging Situation for teachers in Ontario meant that I was unable to teach knitting as an extra-curricular activity in school.  But, on the up-side, instead of driving between schools on a lunchtime circuit, I was able to concentrate on making a few things for myself, for a change.

Not only that, I was able to actually begin my Christmas knitting in September, which is unheard of...  Good thing, too, since the new job that I began in December nearly put the kibosh on all my out-of-school activities (like grocery shopping, cooking, and house-cleaning, for example).  I say NEARLY, because in a feat of stealth, I managed to put the final stitches in all of my presents by midnight on Christmas Eve.

Whew.

Here are a few of the things I cranked out during 2012:

A linen stitch scarf, knit from three balls of the very finest sock yarn, pattern from Churchmouse.  This one was a marathon, people...  knit length-wise, and working the delicate fringe as I went along, this scarf took me three years of on-and-off stitching to complete.  It was worth it in the end, though, as I was finally done (in more ways than one) in time for my sister's 40th birthday.  She got a very special present, and has been threatened with instantaneous death if she loses or abuses it in any way-- I don't think I'll ever have the patience to complete another one of these suckers!  You either love linen stitch or hate it, I've heard...  Although I love the way it looks, I'd much rather weave on a loom, than on my knitting needles...

After reading and watching a little too much Harry Potter this year, I developed a hero-worship of character Molly Weasley, mother of Ron, and knitter extraordinaire.  She literally DOES have magic needles, and the classic jumpers she produces for Christmas are legendary-- and maroon.  I chose this Cabin Fever pattern for a gigantic, cosy sweater of my own, knit from a beautiful tweed yarn that contains just a little bit of silk for softness.  Although I skipped the giant "H" on the front of my jumper, I love it enough to wear it at some point almost every day.

These beautiful blanket kits from Mountain Colours Yarns are such a pleasure to knit, and so interesting from start to finish, that I couldn't stop after just ONE.  The mohair and silk ribbon makes them feather-light, but divinely warm--  it's impossible for me to stay awake once I've crawled underneath my dark violet, indigo blue-and-black version.  My mother received the garnet coloured one (that you can see in the middle of the photo) for her birthday in March.  Now, if I could just figure out a good reason to knit a third one...

Another pattern I couldn't seem to quit was Lala's Shawl.  This photo is of someone else's work, as I gave the ones I made away before I thought to take pictures!  My favourite version was made out of Liberty Wool 7808 "Embers and Ash", and was made for a dear friend who had been diagnosed with cancer.  She needed an "aegis" to help her stay strong through her treatments, and is now in full remission.
 (I'd like to say something like, "Never Underestimate the Power of Knitting", but the truth is, my friend is One Tough Babe.)

I also whipped up several versions of this fantastic pattern, Runner's Watch Cap, to help her keep her head warm and cosy through the cold months last winter.  If anyone else is looking for a close-fitting cap to wear underneath other hats, or to wear to bed at night, this one is apparently the winner!  I selected the very softest sock yarns I could find...  there was plenty of lovely stuff to choose from, and we made sure the colour scheme matched the season.

A few more Churchmouse Yarns and Teas patterns, here:

This lovely wrap was completed in a gorgeous Rowan Kidsilk Haze Stripe by Kaffe Fasset, especially for my pal "Dr. Gummy" who landed herself a fabulous new job out there in the West this winter!  Hers is a beautiful combination of dark purple and mossy green, suits her to a "t", and is my substitute for a congratulatory hug, since I can't be there to give her a squeeze in person.

I'm currently making one for myself out of Debbie Bliss "Angel", in the most amazing sky-blue.  That should cheer me up until the warm weather arrives again...

This nice little "Anniversary Tea Cosy" was whipped up for my dear old Dad for Christmas-- which, as you may remember, fell just a few days after my parents' 46th.  I did mine in a very dark blue felted yarn, held double-stranded, to help keep the Brown Betty extra-warm.  I also found a beautiful hand-painted clay button to crown the top.

It has since been decided by my family that the cables I thought were so romantically symbolic actually look like strands of DNA during the metaphase of mitosis... But, they're all science-nerdy that way.

By far, my favourite Christmas gift that I made this year was inspired by this Pinterest image!  I've got to grab my version back from my sister one of these days, so I can take a picture of the oatmeal-coloured felted mittens I made.  I then bought a special kit, and needle-felted the images of two black cats wearing tiny purple collars on the back of each hand.  I'd never needle-felted anything before, and am now completely addicted.  It turns out that stabbing something repeatedly with a sharp object helps to work out a nice amount of frustration, and creates something beautiful at the same time!  More projects are definitely on the horizon.

Now.  I'll tell you something that you'll NEVER believe:

Remember the bane of my existence?  My Mother's Sweater.

Yes, folks.  I did it.  I finished it.

I had cast it into the Hades that is the bottom of my knitting basket three years ago, having discovered that I had created two large pieces in two completely different sizes.  There, it taunted me every, single time I went rummaging through The Stash.

Well, in September, in a fit of frustration, I finally ripped out those two pieces, wound the yarn around a frame and steamed the heck out of it so that it was all smooth and fluffy and ready to re-use.

Then, I took an almighty highlighter pen to the pattern, so that the blinding yellow flashing would ensure the proper sizing.  What's more, I made myself a clip-board of charts so as to follow the stitching perfectly, and rammed the whole works back into my "In-Progress" bag.

Late, late on Christmas Eve, I secured the final stitches.

Alleluia.

Talk about your Christmas Miracles.

Next time:

I've been Good, people!  Time to share all the new projects already on-the-needles!

(Because, heck.  What are January Yarn Sales for, anyway??!)

2013

Forget Santa Claus...

When the heck are the Laundry Fairy and

 the Vacuum Genie comin' to town???

December 25

Sassoferrato:  Madonna and Child with Cherubs, 1650

i thank You God for most this amazing

poem by e. e. cummings, arranged by Eric Whitacre,

and performed by The Eric Whitacre Singers 

 i thank You God for most this amazing
day:  for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky:  and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today,
and this is the sun's birthday;  this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings:  and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing
breathing any-- lifted from the no
of all nothing-- human merely being
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)


Merry Christmas, my friends!
May you all be surrounded by those whom you love best...

xo CGF

The Heart-in-Waiting

"Madonna and Child" by Wee Three, 2009

The Heart-in-Waiting

Jesus walked through whispering wood:
‘I am pale blossom, I am blood berry,
I am rough bark, I am sharp thorn.
This is the place where you will be born.’

Jesus went down to the skirl of the sea:
‘I am long reach, I am fierce comber,
I am keen saltspray, I am spring tide.’
He pushed the cup of the sea aside

And heard the sky which breathed-and-blew:
‘I am the firmament, I am shape-changer,
I cradle and carry and kiss and roar,
I am infinite roof and floor.’

All day he walked, he walked all night,
Then Jesus came to the heart at dawn.
‘Here and now,’ said the heart-in-waiting,
‘This is the place where you must be born.’

-KEVIN CROSSLEY-HOLLAND
from Selected Poems
Enitharmon Press 2001

For Christmas Eve

The Cradle in Bethlehem
performed by Sara Groves

Sing sweet and low your lullaby,
Till angels say Amen,
A mother tonight is rocking
A cradle in Bethlehem.

While wise men follow
Through the dark,
A star that beckons them,
A mother tonight is rocking
A cradle in Bethlehem.

"A little child will lead them,"
The prophets said of old,
In storm and tempest heed Him,
Until the bell is tolled.

Sing sweet and low your lullaby,
Till angels say Amen,
A mother tonight is rocking
A cradle in Bethlehem.

The composer of this lovely carol, Larry Stock, was born in 1896, the son of a cellist with the New York Symphony Orchestra. He began attending the Juilliard School when he was twelve years old, and studied piano. After graduating at the age of 16, he continued his studies at The City College of New York. Stock also studied piano with a then prominent teacher, Clarence Adler.

Larry Stock spent nearly a half century of writing and composing, and turned out literally scores of popular songs, including Blueberry Hill (a major hit recording for Fats Domino), Umbrella Man (which ultimately surpassed Blueberry Hill in sales, selling over 50 million records and more than a million pieces of sheet music), and the Dean Martin classic, "You're Nobody 'Til Somebody Loves You".

He composed the music for The Cradle in Bethlehem with lyricist Alfred Bryan (who was born in Brantford, Ontario, Canada). The song was first recorded on Nat King Cole's album, "The Magic of Christmas", which was released in 1960.

The news from here...

It should come as no surprise to any of you who know us that our life is lifted directly from the morning funny pages...

Child Number One's Christmas Eve:

Child Number Two's Christmas Eve:

Child Number Three's Christmas Eve:

 

Hurry up, Christmas...

We need you!

December 24

Still, Still, Still

A traditional Austrian Christmas carol,

the Salzburg melody dating from 1819.

performed by Musica Sacra

Still, still, still,
One can hear the falling snow.
For all is hushed,
The world is sleeping,
Holy Star its vigil keeping.
Still, still, still,
One can hear the falling snow.

Sleep, sleep, sleep,

'Tis the eve of our Saviour's birth.
The night is peaceful all around you,
Close your eyes,
Let sleep surround you.
Sleep, sleep, sleep
'Tis the eve of our Saviour's birth.

Dream, dream, dream,
Of the joyous day to come.
While guardian angels without number
Watch you as you sweetly slumber.
Dream, dream, dream,
Of the joyous day to come.

December 23

The Wild Wood Carol

by John Rutter, and performed by

The Cambridge Singers

Sing O the wild wood, the green holly,
The silent river and barren tree,
The humble creatures that no man sees,
Sing O the wild wood.

A weary journey one winter's night,
No hope of shelter, no rest in sight,
Who was the creature that bore Mary?
A simple donkey.

And when they came into Bethl'hem town,
They found a stable to lay them down,
For their companions that Christmas night,
An ox and an ass.

And then an angel came down to earth,
To bear the news of the Saviour's birth,
The first to marvel were shepherds poor,

And sheep with their lambs.

"The voices ceased, the singers, bashful but smiling, exchanged sidelong glances, and silence succeeded--but for a moment only. Then, from up above and far away, down the tunnel they had so lately travelled was borne to their ears in a faint musical hum the sound of distant bells ringing a joyful and clangorous peal.

`Very well sung, boys!' cried the Rat heartily. `And now come along in, all of you, and warm yourselves by the fire, and have something hot!'

...It did not take long to prepare the brew and thrust the tin heater well into the red heart of the fire; and soon every field- mouse was sipping and coughing and choking (for a little mulled ale goes a long way) and wiping his eyes and laughing and forgetting he had ever been cold in all his life..."

--From Kenneth Grahame's classic work, "The Wind in the Willows", Dulce Domum

For as long as I can remember, "The Wind in the Willows" has been an integral part of our family's Christmastime.

Many years ago, my English grandfather perfected the hobby of planning and executing meticulous reel-to-reel recordings of a wide variety of BBC programs.  Upon Grand-dad's death in 1969, my own father inherited a sizable collection of these enormous spools, and set about transferring them first to cassettes, then later to CDs.  

One of my most prized possessions is a copy of a radio drama from the 1950s, of Kenneth Grahame's masterpiece, "The Wind in the Willows".  When my brother, sister and I were small, we used to beg to hear installments of the program each night, leading up to Christmas-- and then we would gorge ourselves on the story (particularly "The Adventures of Mr. Toad") on Christmas Day.  

The tradition continues.

When I was in labour with my children, it was the stories of Toad, Rat, Mole and Badger that calmed me through long hours in hospital.

My own children-- the third generation of listeners-- are now enjoying the recording, and I like to think that Grand-dad is eminently pleased that his wonderful gift continues to give such pleasure to his family.

December 22

Sure on this Shining Night

poem by James Agee,  arranged by Samuel Barber,

performed by Gerald Finley, 

and also by The Joyful Company of Singers

Sure on this shining night

Of star-made shadows round

Kindness must watch for me

This side the ground

The late year lies down the north,

All is healed, all is health

High summer holds the earth,

Hearts all whole

Sure on this shining night

I weep for wonder

Wandr’ing far alone

Of shadows on the stars.

December 21

Bethlehem Down

music by Peter Warlock, with words by Bruce Blunt, 

and performed by Polyphony

"When He is King we will give Him a King's gifts,

Myrrh for its sweetness, and gold for a crown,

Beautiful robes", said the young girl to Joseph,

Fair with her first-born on Bethlehem Down.

Bethlehem Down is full of the starlight,

Winds for the spices, and stars for the gold,

Mary for sleep, and for lullaby music,

Songs of a shepherd by Bethlehem fold.

When He is King they will clothe Him in grave-sheets,

Myrrh for embalming, and wood for a crown,

He that lies now in the white arms of Mary,

Sleeping so lightly on Bethlehem Down

Here He has peace and a short while for dreaming,

Close-huddled oxen to keep him from cold,

Mary for love, and for lullaby music,

Songs of a shepherd by Bethlehem Down.

This is a haunting, gorgeous carol by Philip Arnold Heseltine, who was best known as the Anglo-Welsh composer, Peter Warlock (1894–1930). For his text, he used a poem written by journalist and poet Bruce Blunt (1899–1957).

I find the story behind this, one of my favourite carols, to be almost impossible to believe-- it comes close to spoiling my enjoyment!! I have learned that Warlock wrote it to finance an "immortal carouse" (a heavy bout of drinking) on Christmas Eve, 1927, for himself and Blunt, who were experiencing financial difficulty. The pair submitted the carol to the Daily Telegraph's annual Christmas carol contest... and won. Necessity being the mother of invention, it must have been a very happy Christmas, after all.

December 20

"Adoration of the Magi" by Pranas Domsaitis

Here is the Little Door

a poem by Frances/G. K. Chesterton

scored for a capella choir by Herbert Howells

and performed by Chanticleer

Here is the little door, lift up the latch, oh lift!

We need not wander more but enter with our gift;

Our gift of finest gold,

Gold that was never bought nor sold;

Myrrh to be strewn about his bed;

Incense in clouds about his head;

All for the Child who stirs not in his sleep.

But holy slumber holds with ass and sheep.

Bend low about his bed, for each he has a gift;

See how his eyes awake, lift up your hands, O lift!

For gold, he gives a keen-edged sword

(Defend with it Thy little Lord!),

For incense, smoke of battle red.

Myrrh for the honoured happy dead;

Gifts for his children terrible and sweet,

Touched by such tiny hands and

Oh such tiny feet.

This is a carol that is commonly performed for Epiphany, and is sung from the point of view of the Magi, who are approaching the infant Christ, born in a stable in Bethlehem. I find it to be positively mesmerising... the reverent anticipation of the Three Kings seeking the baby Jesus is so perfectly reflected in the soft, delicate opening of the piece. The Kings, who have traveled together for so long, seeking the infant Christ, sing in perfect unity as the discovery is made, and their gifts are presented. There is a dramatic juxtaposition between the purity and innocence of the tiny newborn child, and the future that they predict for him, which is foreshadowed in their offerings. As the tone of the poem changes in the second verse, composer Herbert Howells amplifies the melody both dynamically and harmonically. The choir sings in unison the ferocious line, "Defend with it Thy little lord!", only to be reduced once again to the realization of the humanity of the newborn Saviour, who, in spite of the awe-inspiring life they prophesised for him, is still just a wee babe, after all.

It has long been debated as to who actually penned the words to this lovely poem. G. K. Chesterton was a noted English author (1874-1936), but his wife, Frances, was also a gifted writer. She penned many Christmas-themed pieces, including poems, stories, a short play, and the lovely children's carol, "How Far is it to Bethlehem?" G. K. Chesterton is given an author credit for "Here is the Little Door" in many scholarly publications, and the use of paradox in the verse would seem to fit with the style of a great deal of his writing. However, I feel that it is important to give credit to both authors, since there is evidence of both possibilities.

December 19

We Three Kings

performed by The Canadian Brass

...and, because an instrumental version is the only way 
I can endure this piece, I also offer alternate lyrics.  

You're welcome.

We Three Cats

by Laurie Loughlin

We three cats of Orient are

Terrified to get in the car.

Why go out for celebrating?

We'll stay right where we are.  Ooooohhhh--

Chorus:

Home is heaven.  Home is good.

Home is where we get our food.

Why go out for Christmas parties?

Frankly we're not in the mood.

We're not happy with a trip yet.

Seems they always end at the vet.

These excursions are diversions

We'd just as soon forget.  Ooooohhhh--

(Repeat Chorus)

We three cats are Siamese,

Himalayan, and Tonkinese.

Bring us gifts of meat with gravy

And mild kinds of cheese.  Ooooohhhh--

(Repeat Chorus)

Purrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

December 18

How Great Our Joy

by John Rutter

and performed by The Cambridge Singers

King John's Christmas

King John was not a good man —

He had his little ways.

And sometimes no one spoke to him

For days and days and days.

And men who came across him,

When walking in the town,

Gave him a supercilious stare,

Or passed with noses in the air —

And bad King John stood dumbly there,

Blushing beneath his crown.

King John was not a good man,

And no good friends had he.

He stayed in every afternoon ...

But no one came to tea.

And, round about December,

The cards upon his shelf

Which wished him lots of Christmas cheer,

And fortune in the coming year,

Were never from his near and dear,

But only from himself.

King John was not a good man,

Yet had his hopes and fears.

They’d given him no present now

For years and years and years.

But every year at Christmas,

While minstrels stood about,

Collecting tribute from the young

For all the songs they might have sung,

He stole away upstairs and hung

A hopeful stocking out.

King John was not a good man,

He lived his life aloof;

Alone he thought a message out

While climbing up the roof.

He wrote it down and propped it

Against the chimney stack:

“TO ALL AND SUNDRY - NEAR AND FAR -

F. CHRISTMAS IN PARTICULAR.”

And signed it not “Johannes R.”

But very humbly, “JACK.”

“I want some crackers,

And I want some candy;

I think a box of chocolates

Would come in handy;

I don’t mind oranges,

I do like nuts!

And I SHOULD like a pocket-knife

That really cuts.

And, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,

Bring me a big, red india-rubber ball!”

King John was not a good man —

He wrote this message out,

And gat him to his room again,

Descending by the spout.

And all that night he lay there,

A prey to hopes and fears.

“I think that’s him a-coming now,

(Anxiety bedewed his brow.)

“He’ll bring one present, anyhow —

The first I’ve had for years.

“Forget about the crackers,

And forget about the candy;

I’m sure a box of chocolates

Would never come in handy;

I don’t like oranges,

I don’t want nuts,

And I HAVE got a pocket-knife

That almost cuts.

But, oh! Father Christmas, if you love me at all,

Bring me a big, red india-rubber ball!”

King John was not a good man —

Next morning when the sun

Rose up to tell a waiting world

That Christmas had begun,

And people seized their stockings,

And opened them with glee,

And crackers, toys and games appeared,

And lips with sticky sweets were smeared,

King John said grimly: “As I feared,

Nothing again for me!”

“I did want crackers,

And I did want candy;

I know a box of chocolates

Would come in handy;

I do love oranges,

I did want nuts.

I haven’t got a pocket-knife —

Not one that cuts.

And, oh! if Father Christmas had loved me at all,

He would have brought a big, red india-rubber ball!”

King John stood by the window,

And frowned to see below

The happy bands of boys and girls

All playing in the snow.

A while he stood there watching,

And envying them all...

When through the window big and red

There hurtled by his royal head,

And bounced and fell upon the bed,

An india-rubber ball!

AND OH, FATHER CHRISTMAS,

MY BLESSINGS ON YOU FALL

FOR BRINGING HIM

A BIG, RED

INDIA-RUBBER BALL!

--A. A. Milne

December 17

Du Ring an Meinem Finger

from Frauenliebe und Leben Liederkreis op. 30

music by Robert Schumann

and performed by Dame Janet Baker

Thou ring on my finger,

my little golden ring,

I press thee piously upon my lips

piously upon my heart.

I had dreamt it,

the tranquil, lovely dream of childhood,

I found myself alone and lost

in barren, infinite space.

Thou ring on my finger,

thou hast taught me for the first time,

hast opened my gaze unto

the endless, deep value of life.

I want to serve him, live for him,

belong to him entire,

Give myself and find myself

transfigured in his radiance.

Thou ring on my finger,

my little golden ring,

I press thee piously upon lips,

piously upon my heart.

46 years is a long time.

But time passes in the blink of an eye, when you work as hard, and fit as much into an average day as my mum and dad always have.

It's their wedding anniversary today, and I can't think of a better way to celebrate than to offer them this music, which Robert Schumann composed for his bride, Clara Wieck, in 1840.

It's also the music that my dad played for me, almost exactly 20 years ago, the night before I was married.  We'd finished the wedding rehearsal, the guests had all gone home, and the rest of the family had retired to bed.  He ushered me into the little "music room", selected the cd, and said somewhat apologetically:

"Unfortunately, the words are a bit sexist..."

Well, yes, I guess they are.  They WERE written by a man, after all-- Adelbert von Chamisso, who lived from 1731-1838, so perhaps a bit of slack should be cut there.

But, the melody is exquisite.  And, if you are mature enough to look a little further than the absurdity of a man having the chutzpah to write about "A Woman's Love and Life"...  There's an awful lot more to admire, here.  The sentiments are genuine, and are undoubtedly an optimistic reflection of how we should ALL feel-- both men and women-- when we're just about to set off into the most important relationship of our lives.

It may not always have felt like this to my mum and dad, during all these 46 years... not by a long shot.

But the strength of their partnership is something I'll always admire, depend upon, and be incredibly grateful for.

Cheers, you two.

Sybil Fawlty: You seem very jolly, Basil.

Basil Fawlty: Hm?

Sybil Fawlty: You seem very jolly.

Basil Fawlty: Jolly?

Sybil Fawlty: Yes, jolly. Sort of happy.

Basil Fawlty: (with feigned reminiscence) Oh, happy. Yes, I remember that. 

No, not that I noticed, dear. Well, I'll report it if it happens, though.

In memoriam.

The Seal Lullaby

poem by Rudyard Kipling, music by Eric Whitacre,

and performed by The Eric Whitacre Singers

Oh! Hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,

  And black are the waters that sparkled so green.

The moon, o’er the combers, looks downward to find us,

  At rest in the hollows that rustle between.

Where billow meets billow, then soft be thy pillow,

  Oh weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!

The storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,

  Asleep in the arms of the slow swinging seas!

Dedicated to the brave teachers and small students:  
all innocent victims of  the tragedy at 
Sandy Hook Elementary School.

December 16

Madonna and Child c. 1340-45, by Pinacoteca di Brera, Milan

A Hymn to the Virgin

Anonymous, c. 1300, with music by Benjamin Britten

performed by The Choir of Trinity College, Cambridge

Of on that is so fayr and bright

Velut maris stella,
Brighter than the day is light,

Parens et puella:
Ic crie to the, thou see to me,
Levedy, preye thi Sone for me,

Tam pia,
That ic mote come to thee

Maria.
Al this world was for-lore

Eva peccatrice,
Tyl our Lord was y-bore

De te genetrice.
With ave it went away
Thuster nyth and comz the day

Salutis;
The welle springeth ut of the,

Virtutis.
Levedy, flour of alle thing,

Rose sine spina,
Thu bere Jhesu, hevene king,

Gratia divina:
Of alle thu ber'st the pris,
Levedy, quene of paradys

Electa:
Mayde milde, moder es

Effecta.

Several years ago, I was very fortunate to have been contacted by a lovely lady who had been reading my blog, and listening to the Christmas carols. We enjoyed a lively correspondence that Christmas, and I was so delighted by her writing, her warmth and good counsel.

One particular day, she wrote something that struck a deep chord in me. We had been discussing motherhood, and the challenges we both face. She said that she had suddenly realized that as women,"WE create Christmas. Even in tough times. It's up to us."

She is so right. It is up to us. That is how Christmas began, after all:   With a new mother, just doing the very best she could, in the circumstances she found herself with... Trying to be a good woman, against all odds. Just like us.

Hence, the choice of carol today, the "Hymn to the Virgin". A beautiful, thirteenth-century verse, dedicated to an extraordinary woman, devoted wife and loving mother, who did the very best she could, for her child, and for her family, on that first Christmas Night.

December 15

"True"

performed by Sara Groves

December 14

Stained Glass Window by Herbert William Bryans

at St Andrew's Church, Holt, Norfolk.

The Holy Boy

music by John Ireland, poem by Herbert S. Brown

performed by The Cambridge Singers,
and also by pianist Eric Parkin

Lowly, laid in a manger,
With oxen brooding nigh,
The Heav’nly Babe is lying
His Maiden Mother by.

Lo! the wayfaring sages,
Who journey’d far through the wild,
Now worship, silent, adoring,
The Boy, The Heav’nly Child –
The Heav’nly Child!

Leave your work and your play-time,
And kneel in homage and prayer.
The Prince of Love is smiling
Asleep in His cradle there!

Bend your heart to the wonder,
The Birth, the Mystery mild,
And worship, silent, adoring,
The Boy, The Heav’nly Child –
The Heav’nly Child!

Dim the light of the lantern,
And bare the mean abode,
Yet gold and myrrh and incense,
Proclaim the Son of God.

Lowly, laid in a manger,
By Virgin undefiled,
Come worship, silent, adoring,
The boy, The Heav’nly Child –
The Heav’nly Child!

John Ireland was born in 1879, to parents who were cultured and "literary". Indeed, they were friends with many influential writers of the day, including Ralph Waldo Emerson. Sadly, Ireland was orphaned at the age of 14, when both of his parents died within just a few months of one another. Luckily, he had found music by this point in his early life, and was able to continue his studies at the newly-established Royal College of Music in London. He concentrated on piano and organ, with a focus on composition, under the tutelage of Sir Charles Stanford, who taught many of the English composers who emerged at the end of the 19th century: Ralph Vaughan Williams, Gustav Holst, Herbert Howells, George Butterworth, and many others.

Ireland seems to have been extremely hard on himself during his early years of composition: he destroyed almost every work that he wrote during his youth, and very little remains of his "juvenilia". However, near the end of The Great War, he became an overnight sensation when his Violin Sonata No.2 in A minor was extremely well received by audiences and critics. From then until his death in 1962, he worked as a composer and teacher at the Royal College of Music, where his students included Benjamin Britten and E. J. Moeran. One of my great-uncles also had the privilege of Ireland's teaching, and remained a devotee of his music and influence for the rest of his long life. John Ireland also served as organist and choirmaster at St. Luke's Church, Chelsea, in London.

Ireland's work has often been described as "musical impressionism". He tended away from writing heavier works for full orchestras- he never wrote a symphony- and preferred writing chamber music, and works for voice and piano. He was very strongly influenced by British poetry, and set the writings of A. E. Housman, Thomas Hardy, Christina Rossetti, John Masefield and Rupert Brooke to music. He also dearly loved the English countryside, and eventually settled in a converted windmill in Sussex, where he died on 12th June 1962.

The Holy Boy is perhaps one of John Ireland's best-known works, and it has been arranged for voice, choir, piano, and string orchestra. I also have a great fondness for his hymn, My Song is Love Unknown, composed in 1918, for lyrics written in 1664 by Samuel Crossman.

My great-uncle

My very favourite piece, however, is The Towing Path, which was the first of John Ireland's music that I ever heard played. I was about nine years old when my very elderly great-uncle (who had been Ireland's pupil at the Royal College of Music) came to Canada with my grandmother for a visit. He brought a suitcase-full of sheet music with him, as he had heard that my mother was a gifted pianist. He must have been impressed by my mother's skill and interest in music, as he gave her copies of many of the pieces that she had admired before he left.

Whenever I hear Ireland's music, I am reminded of my great-uncle: a tall, foreboding looking gentleman, who was, in fact, soft-spoken, and possessed the gentle soul of a gifted artist.