Archive | December 2010

On the Tenth Day of Christmas, Claremont, England, 1836

Dec8

From Princess Victoria’s journal, Claremont, December 24, 1836:

“Very soon after dinner Mamma sent for us into the gallery, where all the things were arranged on different tables. From my dear Mamma I received a beautiful massive gold buckle in the shape of two serpents; a lovely little delicate gold chain with turquoise clasp; a lovely coloured sketch of dearest Aunt Louise by Partridge copied from the picture he brought and so like her; 3 bautiful drawings my Munn, one lovely seaview by Peser and one cattle piece by Cooper (all coloured), 3 prints, a book called Finden’s Tableau, Heath’s Picturesque Annual, Ireland; both these are very pretty; Friendship’s Offering and the English Annual for 1837, the Holy Land illustrated beautifully, two handkerchiefs, a very pretty black satin apron trimmed with red velvet, and two almanacks. From dear Uncle Leopold, a beautiful turquoise ring,; from the Queen a fine piece of Indian gold tissue, and from Sir J. Conroy a print. I gave my dear Lehzen a green morocco jewel case, and the Picturesque Annual; Mamma gave her a shawl, a pair of turquoise earrings, an annual, and handkerchief. I then took Mamma to the Library where my humble table was arranged; I gave her a bracelt made of my hair, and the Keepsake , and Oriental Annual. I stayed up til eleven!”

Victoria was seventeen years old when she wrote this entry in her journal. The next year, 1837, when she was eighteen years old, she became Queen Victoria, Sovereign of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland.

Today’s Gifts:
A song: Be Still My Soul, music by Jean Sibelius.

A booklist: Popular and well known authors choose their favorite books of 2010.

A birthday: Finnish composer Jean Sibelius, b.1865.

A poem: Jest ‘Fore Christmas by Eugene Field.

The Dancing Pancake by Eileen Spinelli

Dec8

I like it when a book wins me over to a genre or style of book that I had not been accustomed to enjoying before. The Dancing Pancake is a verse novel, and although I still don’t understand why books are written in this particular style or what the line is between poetry that tells a story and prose that sings a song, I did enjoy reading the story of a girl named Bindi and her broken, struggling, loving family and a restaurant called The Dancing Pancake.

I liked reading about Bindi’s struggle to overcome selfishness and to forgive. She didn’t really seem much different in her difficulties from adults who deal with the same issues. For example, here’s Bindi remembering her absent father while she’s trying to read The Yearling:

“I start to cry.
Again.
I guess I’m not
as finished with sad
as I thought.
I wish I was still
just mad.”

Or Bindi trying to reconcile with a friend whose feeling she hurt and at the same time still working out her own feeling toward her dad:

“Ruby Frances pours
more syrup on her plate.
‘That so?’ she says.
I take another breath.
‘Well, actually, there’s more,’
I say. ‘Since God forgives us
for all the stupid,
thoughtless, mean things
we do and say,
We should forgive others.’
I give her a long sideways look.
Is she listening?
‘Right?’ I say.
Ruby Frances just chomps away.
I plunge on: ‘If God never
forgave anyone, Heaven would be empty.
Right?'”

The Dancing Pancake was a lovely story of separation and forgiveness and reconciliation. Bindi’s anger and sense of betrayal over her parents’ marital problems is real and not too lightly resolved, and Bindi makes some mistakes of her own, getting caught up in her unhappiness and ignoring the problems of her family and friends. However, the tone never gets too heavy, and the story remains appropriate for third through seventh graders throughout. And Bindi deserves the cake that she gets at the end of the book that reads “Bravo to our Bindi!”

This book would make a useful bibliotherapy title, but it would also resonate with any child who deals with forgiving imperfect family members and friends or who finds things to forgive in herself. And don’t we all struggle to forgive others and ourselves?

On the Ninth Day of Christmas, New Mexico, 1850’s

Dec7

From Willa Cather’s Death Comes for the Archbishop:

Father Vaillant had been absent in Arizona since midsummer, and it was now December. Bishop Latour had been going through one of those periods of coldness and doubt which, from his boyhood, had occasionally settled down upon his spirit and meade him feel an alien, wherever he was. He attended to his correspondence, went on his rounds among the parish priests, held services at missions that were without pastors, superintended the building of the addition to the Sisters’ school: but his heart was not in these things.

One night about three weeks before Christmas he was lying in his bed, unable to sleep, with the sense of failure clutching at his heart. His prayers were empty words and brought him no refreshment. His soul had become a barren field. He had nothing within himself to give his priests or his people. His works seemed superficial, a house built upon the sands. His great diocese was still a heathen country. The Indians travelled their old road of fear and darkness, battling with evil omens and ancient shadows. The Mexicans were children who played with their religion.

The novel goes on to tell how Bishop Latour is renewed in his faith by the faith of an old peasant woman, Sada. We all need renewed vision sometimes. If the above description applies to you this Christmas season, take heart. I believe Christ will meet you in the middle of a Christmas drought if you keep your eyes open and your ears tuned to His voice.

Today’s Gifts:
A song: Come Thou Long-Expected Jesus at Mocha with Linda.

A booklist: Read aloud Christmas titles from the library at Hope Is the Word.

A birthday: Willa Cather, American novelist, b.1873.

A poem: The Oxen by Thomas Hardy

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.
“Now they are all on their knees,”
An elder said as we sat in a flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
“Come; see the oxen kneel

In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,”
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.

On the Eighth Day of Christmas, Myra, Lycia (Turkey), c.300.

Dec6

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.

A poem: The Fourth Shepherd by Joyce Kilmer.

On the Seventh Day of Christmas, Nashville, TN, 1828

Dec5

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.

A poem: Love Came Down at Christmas by Christina Rossetti.

Sunday Salon: The Amen! Praise the Lord! Edition

Dec5

The lame walk. Wow! HT: Lars Walker at Brandywine Books.

Here, both the data about world health and prosperity and the way it’s presented are fascinating. You’ll just have to take my word for it and watch to understand what I’m talking about:

I really like this idea: Journibles.

The idea for this comes from Deuteronomy 17:18, where God commands the kings of Israel to hand-write their own copy of the Torah, or book of the law. The purpose of this was so that they would carry it with them always, read it, learn from it, and lead the people accordingly. It’s interesting to note that 3400 years later, educators have been discovering that most people learn kinesthetically, by doing or writing things out for themselves.

As you open the book, you will see chapter and verse numbers on the right-hand pages. These are conveniently spaced according to the length of each verse. However, these pre-formatted lines are left blank for you to hand-write your Journibleâ„¢ book of yourself.

In fact, I think I’m going to ask for one of these, maybe the book of John, for Christmas.

On the Sixth Day of Christmas, New York City, 197-

Dec4

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.

On the Fifth Day of Christmas, Chalmette, New Orleans, 1909

Dec3

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.

On the Fourth Day of Christmas, Tottenham Court Road, London, 1892

Dec2

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.

On the Third Day of Christmas, Near Putney, England, c.1900

Dec1

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.