A Christmas Carol

At the beginning of the festive season, I had the idea of posting a new carol for each day of Christmas with shout outs of the various feast days throughout the season. But alas I was in the hinterlands of NJ where a glacially slow dial up connection allowed for the thorough wrapping of presents during the lag time, but didn't inspire much posting.

So halfway though the season I present all the catch up section most of which will have to go without explanation except for the 25th.

December 24th, also know as Adam and Eve's Day. It can't be helped. The carol is the impossible to sing, but deeply meaningful, "Adam Lay Ybounden", which neatly lays out what Milton called "the Paradox of the Happy Fall"

Adam Lay Ybounden

Adam lay ybounden, bounden in a bond,
Four thousand winter thoughte he not too long;
And al was for an apple, and apple that he took,
As clerkes finden writen, writen in hire book.
Ne hadde the apple taken been, the apple taken been,
Ne hadde nevere Oure Lady ybeen hevene Queen.
Blessed be the time that apple taken was:
Therfore we mown singen Deo Gratias.


December 25th, Christmas Day. A carol, which really should go on the 24th as well, "Tomorrow Shall Be my Dancing Day". This carol was first published in 1833 but is far older than that. Scholars believe it dates back to the medieval Cornish mystery plays presented during the Christmas season. The tune is lovely but it's the imagery of man as the true and eternally wooed love of Christ that makes this carol.


TOMORROW SHALL BE MY DANCING DAY


Tomorrow shall be my dancing day;
I would my true love did so chance
To see the legend of my play,
To call my true love to my dance;

Chorus
Sing, oh! my love, oh! my love, my love, my love,
This have I done for my true love

Then was I born of a virgin pure,
Of her I took fleshly substance
Thus was I knit to man's nature
To call my true love to my dance. Chorus

In a manger laid, and wrapped I was
So very poor, this was my chance
Betwixt an ox and a silly poor ass
To call my true love to my dance. Chorus

Then afterwards baptized I was;
The Holy Ghost on me did glance,
My Father’s voice heard from above,
To call my true love to my dance. Chorus

Into the desert I was led,
Where I fasted without substance;
The Devil bade me make stones my bread,
To have me break my true love's dance. Chorus

The Jews on me they made great suit,
And with me made great variance,
Because they loved darkness rather than light,
To call my true love to my dance. Chorus

For thirty pence Judas me sold,
His covetousness for to advance:
Mark whom I kiss, the same do hold!
The same is he shall lead the dance. Chorus

Before Pilate the Jews me brought,
Where Barabbas had deliverance;
They scourged me and set me at nought,
Judged me to die to lead the dance. Chorus

Then on the cross hanged I was,
Where a spear my heart did glance;
There issued forth both water and blood,
To call my true love to my dance. Chorus

Then down to hell I took my way
For my true love's deliverance,
And rose again on the third day,
Up to my true love and the dance. Chorus

Then up to heaven I did ascend,
Where now I dwell in sure substance
On the right hand of God, that man
May come unto the general dance. Chorus

December 26th, the Feast of St. Stephen, Deacon and Martyr. You would think the first martyr would have some songs to himself, and so he does in the eponymous named "St Stephen." Two carols however do mention his day peripherally, the well known "Good King Wenceslas" and the lesser known "The Wren Song". In Poland however, Stephen is properly honored with a pastry, Podkovy, which are baked in the shape of horseshoes, because for some reason Stephen has long been viewed as the Patron of horses. (I have to say in all honesty that when I made Podkovy they were a bit disappointing, but I attribute that to the flaws of the baker rather than the recipe. Those interested in the recipe should consult the internet or the Bible of the liturgical baker, Evelyn Birge Vitz's A Continual Feast .

December 27th, the Feast of St. John. To honor the author of the hauntingly beautiful Gospel of Incarnation not a carol for him, but one about his Beloved "Of the Father's Love Begotten" . Many classify this an Advent hymn, but The Lutheran Hymnal places it as a Christmas hymn and who am I to argue with the TLH? Perhaps as you sing this you could accompany it with some St. John's wine. Good for loosening the pipes.

December 28th, The Feast of the Holy Innocents. A reminder that the perfect Christ was born into a fallen world, "Coventry Carol" .

December 29th, the 5th Day of Christmas. As Mary comes to grips with motherhood, the sprightly German carol, "Josef Lieber, Josef Mein." Sing it in English by all means, I do, but it really does sound better auf Deutsch.

December 30th, the 6th Day of Christmas. The delightful “Wexford Carol”, which sounds particularly good when rendered by a bass, but then I am partial to basses.

December 31st, the 7th day of Christmas, St. Sylvester’s Day, and the secular New Year's Eve. Oh what the heck, break out the Welshies, with their impossible language and great musical tradition, and the secular "Nos Galan." We know "Nos Galan" as "Deck the Halls," ("inexplicably still popular” sneers the Oxford Book of Carols), but for the Brythonic Celts among you here are the actual words and a closer translation for the English speakers. (By the way, the fa la la la la bits were supposed to have been played by the harpists answering back to the singers, but as harpists are in short supply these days beyond the "daft and happy hills" of Wales, the nonsense syllables were added to approximate the sound.)

Oer yw'r gwr sy'n methu caru,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Hen fynyddoedd annwyl Cymru,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Iddo ef a'u câr gynhesaf
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Gwyia llawen flwyddyn nesaf,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

I'r helbulus oer yw'r biliau,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Sydd yn dyfod yn y gwyliau,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Gwrando bregeth mewn un pennill,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Byth na waria fwy na'th ennill,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Oer yw'r eira ar Eryri,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Er fod gwrthban gwlanen arni,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Oer yw'r bobol na ofalan',
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Gwrdd â'i gilydd ar Nos Galan,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Soon the hoar old year must leave us,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
But the parting must not grieve us
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
When the new year comes tomorrow
Fa la la la la, la la la la
Let him find no trace of sorrow
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

He our pleasures may redouble,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
He may bring us store of trouble,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Hope the best and gaily meet him,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
With a jovial chorus greet him,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

At his birth, he brings us gladness,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Ponder not on future sadness,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Anxious care is now but folly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Fill the mead-cup, hand the holly,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
A Happy and Healthy 2005 to you all!

Two articles/essays to make you squirm with anger, but perhaps something constructive will come from them:

Screwing up a New Hampshire Christmas

Screwing up a whole host of Christmas' around America

And we are bracing for our first "lake effect snows" today. We'll be under 10-16 inches of the white stuff by tomorrow, they say. The fair Quaker of Amesbury will get us into the spirit of the thing:

The sun that brief December day
Rose cheerless over hills of gray,
And, darkly circled, gave at noon
A sadder light than waning moon.
Slow tracing down the thickening sky
Its mute and ominous prophecy,
A portent seeming less than threat,
It sank from sight before it set.
A chill no coat, however stout,
Of homespun stuff could quite shut out,
A hard, dull bitterness of cold,
That checked, mid-vein, the circling race
Of life-blood in the sharpened face,
The coming of the snow-storm told.
...
At last the great logs, crumbling low,
Sent out a dull and duller glow,
The bull's-eye watch that hung in view,
Ticking its weary circuit through,
Pointed with mutely warning sign
Its black hand to the hour of nine.
That sign the pleasant circle. broke:
My uncle ceased his pipe to smoke,
Knocked from its bowl the refuse gray
And laid it tenderly away;
Then roused himself to safely cover
The dull red brands with ashes over,
And while, with care, our mother laid
The work aside, her steps she stayed
One moment, seeking to express
Her grateful sense of happiness
For food and shelter, warmth and health,
And love's contentment more than wealth,
With simple wishes (not the weak,
Vain prayers which no fulfilment seek,
But such as warm the generous heart,
O'er-prompt to do with Heaven its part)
That none might lack, that bitter night,
For bread and clothing, warmth and light.

Within our beds awhile we heard
The wind that round the gables roared,
With now and then a ruder shock,
Which made our very bedsteads rock.
We heard the loosened clapboards tossed,
The board-nails snapping in the frost;
And on us, through the unplastered wall,
Felt the light sifted snow-flakes fall.
But sleep stole on, as sleep will do
When hearts are light and life is new;
Faint and more faint the murmurs grew,
Till in the summer-land of dreams
They softened to the sound of streams,
Low stir of leaves, and dip of oars,
And lapsing waves on quiet shores.
Next morn we wakened with the shout
Of merry voices high and clear;
And saw the teamsters drawing near
To break the drifted highways out.

So, first Prince Charles speaks out condemning faddish educational theories ascendent in Britain, causing a flash of anger from Labourites. Now Labour announces they will be investigating the Prince's finances in Cornwall "to see whether the public is getting value for money and that this isn't some sort of tax fiddle for the Royals."

And shame on your for thinking there is any intimidation, or any connection between the two.

Creeping Misanthropy

Sometimes I find it terribly hard not to be a complete misanthrope. That is not to say, as a curmudgeon, I am not perturbed at the direction of many things and with the ideas stapled in many people’s heads. Lord knows, I am. But in the living of everyday life, you encounter a steady stream, day-in and day-out with no break for lunch or holiday, of utterly dumb, inconsiderate, blindly selfish, arrogantly self-centered individuals. They are everywhere and are, I think, breeding at a rapid rate.

Lately this has come home to me in two areas: driving and dogs. Let me explain. First, no matter what they say about East Coast drivers being jerks, it has not changed much on my sojourn out to the Midwest. They drive extraordinarily fast out here and tailgate with the best of them. Tailgating represents vehicular arrogance and seems to be based on several important points (and I flatter it by making it seem a rational choice – it is always unthinking): (1.) you are going too slow for the driver behind you, or (2.) the driver behind you does not like people in front of him, (3.) by driving very close the driver behind you either hopes (a.) you’ll speed up, or (b.) pull over, and finally (4.) the driver behind you thinks you do not notice him, so he pulls over toward the left (toward the yellow line) so that one half of his car and one headlight is clearly visible in your side mirror.

Referring to my list above, tailgaters are dumb people because they assume that by their unsafe actions they can affect another’s driving behavior. Tailgaters are inconsiderate because they are intent on making a public statement (via their car) that you are too slow for them, and it is terribly annoying to have someone inches off your bumper. Tailgaters are blindly selfish and arrogantly self-centered because they are only considering their own situations and do not care about anyone but themselves. “Whatever I think gets me to my bowling match on time, that’s what I’ll do. So get outta my way.” It is sort of like driving and getting to my destination by any means necessary.

Second, I would estimate fully half or maybe more of dog owners should not own a dog. Every day we walk our dogs around the block and every day we encounter utterly dumb, inconsiderate, selfish, and arrogant fellow dog owners. They often refuse to keep their dogs on leashes and let them run free around the neighborhood, where they can pester other dogs, do their doos in other people’s yards, and harass other people walking their dogs on a leash. When their dogs get run over by a semi-truck at rush hour, do you think they will realize the error of their ways? I doubt it.

Those dog owners who do walk their dogs on leashes (God bless them all) often do not pick up their dogs doo, which means the rest of us have to walk through a cesspool. I am often tempted to monitor who is not cleaning up after their canine charges, collect their deposits, and return them to their owner’s front porch. “I’m sorry, you must have dropped this.” These people must think they are the only ones in the world, that their dog doo will evaporate, that no one else will ever notice or care. Notice: the world is not your oyster. Lift up your head and see that other people have to live with you and your dog.

Finally, too many dog owners do not train their dogs, and when you encounter them on walks (again, assuming they are on leashes) they bark deliriously and sometimes viciously, and pull on the leash so violently they leave the ground and their owners are often dragged with them. And the owner’s response? Rarely a “sorry” or “I apologize,” but usually a smile or no recognition at all (“Maybe if I ignore them, they won’t notice.”)

Hence, with some reservation but based on experience, misanthropy is rapidly become my creed. Is thinking outside yourself that difficult? Is the notion that the world is larger than yourself too hard to fathom? Apparently so, for far too many.

Pride of Place

One of the things I have noticed since being in Indiana is that many people here have very little of what I call "pride of place," of being proud of their native state or region and thinking it (at least in some particulars) superior to other places. So often, when I ask students about Indiana, they roll their eyes and sarcastically ask, "Well, how do you like it?" They take no joy in their native soil and seem rather sheepishly embarrassed by it.

Where does this come from? I wonder if lack of pride comes from simple lack of knowledge. In order to have "pride of place," you must have a "sense of place," of knowing, at least in part, the historical and cultural particulars of a region. What makes Indiana different, unique, indeed superior than other places? Have they ever read Booth Tarkington? Or James Witcomb Riley? Or discovered the Battle of Tippecanoe? Or visited the Benjamin Harrison home? Or heard of the immortal Charles Warren Fairbanks?

Once fortified with some cultural knowledge, a sense of the state's uniqueness amidst the flat expanse of the Middle West (we are not Illinois or Ohio, we are Indiana, and here is why), pride of place should follow.

Back after a Thanksgiving respite "back East."

I've been reading Wyndham Lewis lately, a tough but interesting read. Has Mr. Soames spoken much about PWL? I can't remember. Some bits:

But whatever the special circumstances, with Rymer on board the ship would have ceased to be at peace. Such pacific bliss as I have dwelt upon would have been out of the question; politics, religion, and the itch-to-teach would have combined, a trinity of irritants, to sow disquiet in the ship from one end to the other ...

I hope the man of parts I write of is not disappearing beneath such elaboration: not this poor clergyman who forgets he has no money, who yearns for honor -- who certainly has dreamt of fame, but who dreams incessantly now of social justice and a new, bright, bossy, fraternal world -- a new Jerusalem. He comes from a part of England that has bred rebels like rabbits. His verse is of a wizard elegance, the song of a rather mechanically cheerful bird, on the highest and frostiest bough in a frost like the last frost of all, celebrating the winter of our discontent as though it were the morning of the world ...