St, Nicholas Day.
“The giver of every good and perfect gift has called upon us to mimic his giving, by grace, through faith, and this not of ourselves.” ~Nicholas of Myra, c.288-354 AD.
Today’s gifts:
A song: Santa Claus Is Coming to Town
A booklist: Mother Reader’s 105 Ways to Give a Book
A birthday: Joyce Kilmer, b.1886.
From the biography, American Lion: Andrew Jackson in the White House by Jon Meacham:
Shortly after nine on the evening of Monday, December 22, three days before Christmas, Rachel [Jackson] suffered an apparent heart attack. It was over. Still, Jackson kept vigil, her flesh turning cold to his touch as he stroked her forehead. With his most awesome responsibilities and burdens at hand she left him. ‘My mind is so disturbed . . . that I can scarcely write, in short my dear friend my heart is nearly broke,’ Jackson told his confidant John Coffee after Rachel’s death.
At one o’clock on Christmas Eve afternoon, by order of the mayor, Nashville’s church bells began ringing in tribute to Rachel, who was to be buried in her garden in the shadow of the Hermitage. The weather had been wet, and the dirt in the garden was soft; the rain made the gravediggers’ task a touch easier as they worked. After a Presbyterian funeral service led by Rachel’s minister, Jackson walked the one hundred fifty paces back to the house. Devastated but determined, he then spoke to the mourners. ‘I am now the President elect of the United States, and in a short time must take my way to the metropolis of my country; and, if it had been God’s will, I would have been grateful for the privilege of taking her to my post of honor and seating her by my side; but Providence knew what was best for her.'”
Today’s Gifts
A song: In the Bleak Midwinter, lyrics by Christian Rossetti, music by Gustav Holst.
A booklist: Biographies of the U.S. Presidents (books I’m planning to read)
A birthday: Christina Rossetti, b.1830.
Walt Disney, b. 1901.
Madeleine L’Engle is one of my favorite writers. Her memoir, The Irrational Season, includes a chapter about Christmas in which Madeleine tells the story of one Christmas in her family in which a close relative died and yet Christmas came and the Word was flesh and dwelt among us.
“The chapel is small, and in this smallness, holding Charlotte in my arms, with Lena leaning against me, I began to move into Christmas. The Sisters sang Solemn Vespers for Christmas Eve, and their high, clear voices, moving antiphonally back and forth across the chapel, contained for me the same reality I felt in the strong words of the Kaddish. Then we all gathered around the creche, the children on tiptoe to see the shepherds, the animals, Mary and Joseph and the infant in the crib, the helpless thing containing the brilliance of the galaxies and the shadow of the cross.
It was impossible, but for the moment I was the White Queen, and the loving and beautiful bodies of my grandaughters made it possible for me to believe: they have not been created to be discarded like dross; the baby lying between the ox and the ass affirms the ultimate value of all life.”
This is the irrational season
When love blooms bright and wild.
had Mary been filled with reason
There’d have been no room for the child.
Today’s Gifts
A song: “I understand Christmas as I understand Bach’s Sleepers Awake or Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desiring. . . When I am able to pray with the mind in the heart, I am joyfully able to affirm the irrationality of Christmas.” ~Madeleine L’Engle
A booklist: A Madeleine L’Engle Annotated Bibliography
A birthday: Rainer Maria Rilke, poet, b.1875.
A poem: Sunset by Rainer Maria Rilke.
O’Henry‘s most famous Christmas story is, of course, The Gift of the Magi, about young newlyweds who give each other sacrificial Christmas gifts. In Whistling Dick’s Christmas Stocking, a tramp named Whistling Dick rescues a family from a group of thieves on Christmas Eve. The story first appeared in the collection, Roads of Destiny, published in 1909.
A distant clatter in the rear quickly developed into the swift beat of horses’ hoofs, and Whistling Dick stepped aside into the dew-wet grass to clear the track. Turning his head, he saw approaching a fine team of stylish grays drawing a double surrey. A stout man with a white moustache occupied the front seat, giving all his attention to the rigid lines in his hands. Behind him sat a placid, middle-aged lady and a brilliant-looking girl hardly arrived at young ladyhood. The lap-robe had slipped partly from the knees of the gentleman driving, and Whistling Dick saw two stout canvas bags between his feet–bags such as, while loafing in cities, he had seen warily transferred between express waggons and bank doors. The remaining space in the vehicle was filled with parcels of various sizes and shapes.
As the surrey swept even with the sidetracked tramp, the bright-eyed girl, seized by some merry, madcap impulse, leaned out toward him with a sweet, dazzling smile, and cried, “Mer-ry Christ-mas!” in a shrill, plaintive treble.
Such a thing had not often happened to Whistling Dick, and he felt handicapped in devising the correct response. But lacking time for reflection, he let his instinct decide, and snatching off his battered derby, he rapidly extended it at arm’s length, and drew it back with a continuous motion, and shouted a loud, but ceremonious, “Ah, there!” after the flying surrey.
Today’s Gifts
A song: Moon River, music by Henry Mancini. Ok, it’s not a Christmas song, but it’s vintage Andy Williams. Enjoy.A booklist: The many short stories of William Sydney Porter, O’Henry.
A birthday: Andy Williams, b.1930. We always used to watch Andy Williams’ Christmas special on TV, back in the day.
Nicholaus von Amsdorf, German reformation theologian, b.1483. I only recognize this name because Eldest Daughter has been studying Herr Nicholaus von Amsdorf this past semester. Merry Christmas to all theologians and medieval scholars.
Joseph Conrad, b.1857.
A poem: Moon River by Johnny Mercer.
Moon River, wider than a mile,
I’m crossing you in style some day.
Oh, dream maker, you heart breaker,
wherever you’re going I’m going your way.
Two drifters off to see the world.
There’s such a lot of world to see.
We’re after the same rainbow’s end–
waiting ’round the bend,
my huckleberry friend,
Moon River and me.
From The Adventure of the Blue Carbuncle by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, a Sherlock Holmes mystery story:
The facts are these: about four o’clock on Christmas morning, Peterson, who, as you know, is a very honest fellow, was returning from some small jollification and was making his way homeward down Tottenham Court Road. In front of him he saw, in the gaslight, a tallish man, walking with a slight stagger, and carrying a white goose slung over his shoulder. As he reached the corner of Goodge Street, a row broke out between this stranger and a little knot of roughs. One of the latter knocked off the man’s hat, on which he raised his stick to defend himself and, swinging it over his head, smashed the shop window behind him. Peterson had rushed forward to protect the stranger from his assailants; but the man, shocked at having broken the window, and seeing an official-looking person in uniform rushing towards him, dropped his goose, took to his heels, and vanished amid the labyrinth of small streets which lie at the back of Tottenham Court Road. The roughs had also fled at the appearance of Peterson, so that he was left in possession of the field of battle, and also of the spoils of victory in the shape of this battered hat and a most unimpeachable Christmas goose.”
Today’s Gifts
A song: One of my favorite songs by one of my favorite singers, Karen Carpenter singing I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.
A booklist: Gift books for what they want to be when they grow up.
A birthday: David Macaulay, b.1946.
A poem: Christmas Bells by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. The entire poem has seven stanzas or verses.
From G.K. Chesterton’s Father Brown Christmas story, The Flying Stars:
That venerable financier, however, still seemed struggling with portions of his well-lined attire, and at length produced from a very interior tail-coat pocket, a black oval case which he radiantly explained to be his Christmas present for his god-daughter. With an unaffected vain-glory that had something disarming about it he held out the case before them all; it flew open at a touch and half-blinded them. It was just as if a crystal fountain had spurted in their eyes. In a nest of orange velvet lay like three eggs, three white and vivid diamonds that seemed to set the very air on fire all round them. Fischer stood beaming benevolently and drinking deep of the astonishment and ecstasy of the girl, the grim admiration and gruff thanks of the colonel, the wonder of the whole group.
“I’ll put ’em back now, my dear,” said Fischer, returning the case to the tails of his coat. “I had to be careful of ’em coming down. They’re the three great African diamonds called `The Flying Stars,’ because they’ve been stolen so often. All the big criminals are on the track; but even the rough men about in the streets and hotels could hardly have kept their hands off them. I might have lost them on the road here. It was quite possible.”
“Quite natural, I should say,” growled the man in the red tie. “I shouldn’t blame ’em if they had taken ’em. When they ask for bread, and you don’t even give them a stone, I think they might take the stone for themselves.”
“I won’t have you talking like that,” cried the girl, who was in a curious glow. “You’ve only talked like that since you became a horrid what’s-his-name. You know what I mean. What do you call a man who wants to embrace the chimney-sweep?”
“A saint,” said Father Brown.
“I think,” said Sir Leopold, with a supercilious smile, “that Ruby means a Socialist.”
Today’s Gifts:
A song: God Rest You Merry, Gentlemen
A booklist: Crime Fiction to Give for Christmas at Mysteries in Paradise.
A birthday: Rex Stout, b.1886.
A poem: Mistletoe by Walter de la Mare and Lines for a Christmas Card by Hillaire Belloc.
Winston Churchill spent the Christmas of 1941 in Washington D.C. in conference with FDR, regarding their joint response to the bombing at Pearl Harbor. Churchill broadcast this message from the White House on Christmas Eve:
I spend this anniversary and festival far from my country, far from my family, yet I cannot truthfully say that I feel far from home. Whether it be the ties of blood on my mother’s side, or the friendships I have developed here over many years of active life, or the commanding sentiment of comradeship in the common cause of great peoples who speak the same language, who kneel at the same altars and, to a very large extent, pursue the same ideals, I cannot feel myself a stranger here in the centre and at the summit of the United States. I feel a sense of unity and fraternal association which, added to the kindliness of your welcome, convinces me that I have a right to sit at your fireside and share your Christmas joys.
This is a strange Christmas Eve. Almost the whole world is locked in deadly struggle, and, with the most terrible weapons which science can devise, the nations advance upon each other. Ill would it be for us this Christmastide if we were not sure that no greed for the land or wealth of any other people, no vulgar ambition, no morbid lust for material gain at the expense of others, had led us to the field. Here, in the midst of war, raging and roaring over all the lands and seas, creeping nearer to our hearts and homes, here, amid all the tumult, we have tonight the peace of the spirit in each cottage home and in every generous heart. Therefore we may cast aside for this night at least the cares and dangers which beset us, and make for the children an evening of happiness in a world of storm. Here, then, for one night only, each home throughout the English-speaking world should be a brightly-lighted island of happiness and peace.
Let the children have their night of fun and laughter. Let the gifts of Father Christmas delight their play. Let us grown-ups share to the full in their unstinted pleasures before we turn again to the stern task and the formidable years that lie before us, resolved that, by our sacrifice and daring, these same children shall not be robbed of their inheritance or denied their right to live in a free and decent world.
And so, in God’s mercy, a happy Christmas to you all.
Today’s Gifts:
A booklist: The Books of Lucy Maud Montgomery. What’s your favorite? I’ll stick with Anne of Green Gables, but the sequels are worth reading and so are the Emily books.
A birthday: Jonathan Swift, Mark Twain, Lucy Maud Montgomery, and Winston Churchill.
A poem: The Christmas Night by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Wrapped was the world in slumber deep,
By seaward valley and cedarn steep,
And bright and blest were the dreams of its sleep;
All the hours of that wonderful night-tide through
The stars outblossomed in fields of blue,
A heavenly chaplet, to diadem
The King in the manger of Bethlehem.
From Eight Cousins by Louisa May Alcott:
The elders would have sat and talked all the evening, but the young folks were bent on having their usual Christmas frolic; so, after an hour of pleasant chat, they began to get restless, and having consulted together in dumb show, they devised a way to very effectually break up the family council.
Steve vanished, and, sooner than the boys imagined Dandy could get himself up, the skirl of the bag-pipe was heard in the hall, and the bonny piper came to lead the Clan Campbell in the revel.
“Draw it mild, Stenie, my man; ye play unco weel, but ye mak a most infernal din,” cried Uncle Jem, with his hands over his ears, for this accomplishment was new to him, and “took him all aback,” as he expressed it.
So Steve droned out a Highland reel as softly as he could, and the boys danced it to a circle of admiring relations. Captain Jem was a true sailor, however, and could not stand idle while any thing lively was going on; so, when the piper’s breath gave out, he cut a splendid pigeon-wing into the middle of the hall, saying, “Who can dance a Fore and After?” and, waiting for no reply, began to whistle the air so invitingly that Mrs. Jessie “set” to him laughing like a girl; Rose and Charlie took their places behind, and away went the four with a spirit and skill that inspired all the rest to “cut in” as fast as they could.
Today’s Gifts
A song: Nothing says “Thanksgiving” like a chorus of “Jingle Bells,” Mark Steyn on Jingle Bells
A book (or two): My Friend Amy lists Christmas mysteries for 2010.
A birthday: A Meme and a Celebration, C.S. Lewis, Louisa May Alcott, and Madeleine L’Engle.
A poem: Indwelling by T.E. Brown
I’m fascinated by young people who do hard things, like this 23 year old who has started an orphanage in Nepal.
Shakespeare really sounded like . . . a Scotsman?
Donate old cellphones to Hopeline to help women in crisis.
John Grisham’s latest thriller (yes, I admit to taking a guilty pleasure in reading the novels of Grisham) features a Lutheran pastor. I usually eschew popular, best-selling literature, unless I can say I discovered it before it became popular, in a sort of reverse, inside-out snobbery. But I make an exception for Grisham. I am tired of Grisham’s anti-death penalty agenda getting in the way of his story-telling, and from what I can tell by reading the review this latest book harps on that topic. I’ll probably read it anyway.
Jamie Langston Turner, who writes generally wonderful but quiet little stories, has another book or two that I haven’t read: No Dark Valley (reviewed at Hope Is the Word) and maybe a couple of older books: Suncatchers and By the Light of a Thousand Stars. I have read her latest book, Sometimes a Light Surprises, and I reviewed it here, although it wasn’t my favorite of her books.
Finally, the books I’ve read this month (October) have been mostly Cybils nominees and INSPY nominees, with a few exceptions thrown in for variety:
CYBILS MIddle Grade Fiction nominees:
Shooting Kabul by N.H. Senzai. Semicolon review here.
The Red Umbrella by Christina Diaz Gonzalez. Semicolon review here.
The Strange Case of Origami Yoda by Tom Angleberger. Semicolon review here.
The Fences Between Us by Kirby Larson. Semicolon review here.
I, Emma Freke by Elizabeth Atkinson. Semicolon review here.
Tortilla Sun by Jennifer Cervantes. Semicolon review here.
The Private Thoughts of Amelia E. Rye by Bonnie Shimko. Semicolon review here.
Wishing for Tomorrow by Hilary McKay. Semicolon review here.
A Million Shades of Gray by Cynthia Kadohata. Semicolon review here.
This Means War! by Ellen Wittlinger. Semicolon review here.
The Death-Defying Pepper Roux by Geraldine McCaughrean. Semicolon review here.
The Total Tragedy of a Girl Named Hamlet by Erin Dionne. Semicolon review here.
My Life as a Book by Janet Tashjian. Semicolon review here.
Grease Town by Ann Towell. Semicolon review here.
Max Cassidy: Escape from Shadow Island by Paul Adam. Semicolon review here.
Rocky Road by Rose Kent.
Crunch by Leslie Connor.
Leaving Gee’s Bend by Irene Latham.
Betti on the High Wire by Lisa Railsback.
Mamba Point by Kurtis Scaletta.
INSPYs Young Adult Fiction nominees:
This Gorgeous Game by Donna Freitas.
Once Was Lost by Sara Zarr.
(I’m not allowed to post a review of these until the judging is over in December.)
Others:
The Cardturner by Louis Sachar. Semicolon review here.
No and Me by Delphine de Vigan. Semicolon review here.
Keep Sweet by Michele Dominguez Greene.
Carney’s House Party by Maud Hart Lovelace. Semicolon thoughts (and music) here.
My Hands Came Away Red by Lisa McKay. Semicolon review here.
8th Grade Superzero by Olugbemisola Rhuday-Perkovich. Semicolon review here.
I’ve just been reading the newly published edition of Maud Hart Lovlace’s Deep Valley, Minnesota novel, Carney’s House Party in which a group of college girlfriends, old and new, come together in the midwestern epitome of style and fashion for a house party, a month long sleepover with lots of picnics and teas and parties and dances and sight-seeing and good wholesome fun. Of course there’s romance, and lots of singing.
The house party sing and dance to this lovely tribute to the “flying machine.”
And these are two more songs that the orchestra plays at the “dance party” that the Crowd enjoys.
Sam, one of Carney’s two love interests, plays this song on his saxophone.
Besides the music, the other things I noticed while reading this book:
Carney is appalled and embarrassed that a boy that likes her dares to kiss her BEFORE they have an understanding or an engagement:
When they reached an elm tree so large and thickly leaved that its shadows defeated even Japanese lanterns, he stopped and kissed her.
Carney broke away from him. She was really angry now. It was possible to forgive what had happened the night before . . . they had both been wrought up. But this was different. It was inexcusable.
Wow! We’ve come a long way, baby, since 1912, and not in the right direction. Nowadays if the guy doesn’t make a pass at a girl, she might have a suspicion that he’s gay, or at last uninterested.
Carney’s House Party ends with Carney engaged to be married to the love of her life, but also returning to Vassar to finish her college degree before getting married. Back then, it seemed as if women definitely could “have it all.” And why not? Education, career (?), family, marriage. Just because it’s difficult to juggle everything doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.
I am so fond of these new editions of Maud Hart Lovelace’s Deep Valley books that I’m planning to save them to give to a special daughter as Christmas presents. I may even buy some more copies so that I can give each of my lovely daughters their own set. (It’s OK. I don’t think they read the blog very thoroughly, if at all.)