Ring Out Wild Bells, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

It's a poem I love. Here it is in its entirety.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,

The flying cloud, the frosty light

The year is dying in the night;

Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,

Ring, happy bells, across the snow:

The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more,

Ring out the feud of rich and poor,

Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;

Ring in the nobler modes of life,

With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;

Ring out, ring out thy mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,

Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,

Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;

Ring out the thousand wars of old,

Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart the kindlier hand;

Ring out the darkness of the land,

Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Afterward . . .

We take down the tree.

There is something sad about that activity. It signals the end of Christmas and an end to the gathering of family that comes with Christmas, an end to the bright eyes when someone gets a wished-for gift, an end to the reminiscing about Christmases past, times when we were all here together, funny things Wayne did that we'd love to see again. And an end to the singing.

Lola sat and played some Christmas songs for us, a lovely background music, and some of us sang along. Our traditional Far, Far Away on Judea's Plains. And I Wonder As I Wander, Let It Snow, Deck the Halls.  Later I went to Andrew's house for dinner, and we had a lot of spontaneous singing there, and I learned that George sings, and he knows the songs, words and music.

Andrew's family and their What Month Was Jesus Born In? were the hit of Christmas Eve. We demanded a second performance.  We had our regular chili and corn bread. (I'm thinking next year should bring a new something to eat on Christmas Eve. We'll see.)

We had a good time, but it's over, so today I have taken down the tree, put away the nativity scenes, the Santas and Christmas doo-dads, and the favorite wreath that Lola made for me.

Sad, yes, but also satisfying to put the house back in order. It's time to move forward. The new year, 2014, approaches. It will bring its challenges and heartaches, no doubt. But it will also bring that baby boy Larsen we have all been watching and waiting for. That will be a joy for all of us, especially Alyce and Ben. Our wish and prayer is for all to go well.

Christmas Morning

Up early, before 4 a.m., but only because I couldn't sleep any longer. Got my kitchen in order, dishes put away. Had breakfast and went to bed for a an hour or so.

I have listened to the Carpenters. I always think I hear her heart and soul in her singing. Still miss her. Their kind of music has passed away. I bought their Christmas album again the other day and put a bow on it. It's under the tree waiting for anyone who wants it. I really think everyone in my family already has the album, so if no one in my family wants it, I'll find someone who does.

Just now I am listening to The Messiah. How divine it is.

I cannot celebrate Christmas without music. And I must thank my mother for my love of music.

I have finished reading my mother's journal. Her final entry was September 18, 1979--five days before she died. I would say that it made me sad again, but I believe it is sad still. I am also happy and ever grateful for her and what I have and know because of her. A little bundle of energy and intelligence and music and work. She worked hard always and had such a difficult time obeying the doctor that month of September 1979 when he told her she should rest, take it easy, because of her heart. I did not know of this before today.

My children will be here soon, and we will open presents and miss our dad. But we'll have a good time. We had a good time last night. I think, though, that they will be unhappy with what I am giving them. Oh well.

Season's update

It's Christmas Eve eve. I'd like to get my voice back by tomorrow night. We are going caroling. I hope. I haven't been well enough to go to my neighbors and ask if we can come singing. I did speak to Shirley. She will be expecting us.

Snow remains on the ground, but the temperature is above freezing and much has melted. Footprints are again prominent and then there's my neighbor's bloody snow (the killing of the deer). So, all in all, it isn't as pretty as a "white" Christmas with new snow, but not much we can do about that. I love the look of it, newly fallen snow, but do not like the trouble it brings with it.

Warm back east, where Alyce and Ann live. In the 60s, and in New York, 70 degrees. Strange for Christmas. Except that where I grew up, Santa Monica, we had snow only twice in all the years we lived there, and none of it stayed on the ground. Most years our Christmas wasn't white but it was beautiful just the same.

But Christmas is about more than weather. I love this time of year, love to speak and sing about the birth of our Lord, to remember his birth and life and love for us, for me. And I am always happy when my family gathers here, thankful when they show love for each other. I have asked each of the three families to prepare a musical selection for Christmas Eve. I'll let you know how that turns out.                                                                                     



                                                                

On a soap box? Maybe

When I was young, but old enough to see that some people behaved in ways worthy of disapproval, I thought that when those people got older and had families they would somehow straighten up and become solid citizens. So they could raise their children properly. They would have standards and morality and would behave in socially acceptable ways.

Wrong. It doesn't happen with everyone. Look around. Some people never grow up, and some people have no morality, or so it seems to me. Is it because they did not see moral behavior in the homes they grew up in or what?

I don't know if I'm making a point here. How could I? The subject is too vast. But there is so much in this world or this country that is a shame, a crime, reprehensible. Children deserve better than what many are getting.

I'm done.

Oh well

Yesterday we sang at the Plantation Home for the elderly. 

I guess that's a way to say what the place was, a place the likes of which I hope never to call home.

Our audience was a mix of asleep, distracted, needing help to get in there and seated--late--fidgity, still as stone, and enthusiastically entertained and vocally grateful to be so. I guess I could say that about the audiences in most places we have sung, including our concert.

 It is what it is, as they say, and I thought I'd never allow myself to say it.

Holiday dinners at Mama's

Turkey and stuffing, ham,* her fabulous potatoes au gratin, some kind of vegetable, salad--usually with fruit (she loved fresh pineapple)-- and at Christmas time a steamed pudding--carrot usually and sometimes  persimmon--cooked in a Crisco can and served with her special sauce. Not a hard sauce, but a sweet, spicy sauce.

Now that I don't cook big dinners, and am pretty much relieved by that fact, I marvel that at age 80 she was still doing it.

A remarkable woman. Not just because she's my mother, but because she was remarkable. I always said she wore herself out for other people, mostly us and our dad, her beloved Wilford.

 *Mama made her own ham glaze from mustard and brown sugar and spread it all over the ham before baking. Just plain good.

About my mother

I have been reading my mother's journal again. This time it seems to go right into my heart. She did not keep a journal faithfully all her life, but she did keep one quite regularly during the last few years. And she wrote some about her early life, thank goodness. I love knowing about the sleigh rides and Paul Baliff, for instance.*

I have suffered with her through their move--in 1978--to Bountiful, Utah. Turns out it was a good thing because all her kids were there, except Janeen, and she planned to move up soon. But it was agony for my mom and dad to leave all their friends and Allie. They had lived in California for nearly 40 years, most of their married life. They had many friends, friends for life. So hard to leave.

And I suffered with her through Heber Eastman's infant botulism.  That's Eric and Lucile's baby boy, who survived and is a fine man, father of two. But it was six weeks in the hospital and many anxious days and many prayers.

Back to Mama.
Now it's getting harder and harder to read, because I know she has only a year to live. I know that. It doesn't sound, as I read, that she had any notion of that. Her days were spent taking my dad to the hospital for radiation treatments or helping someone in the family or staying with Lucile's children or having everybody over and fixing a big feast for them or just doing. She was one small package of talent and smarts. And she was always doing. Doing. That was her life. That and music. At age 79, she still played as soloist and accompanist and ward organist and still taught piano.

Of course, I am curious to see the last things she wrote but apprehensive, too. And I do not want her to die.
It has been 34 years since she did. Her journal brings her to life again for me. I see her so clearly, love her so much.

* Lola (my mother) was invited to go on a sleigh ride. Her mother said no, but her dad said yes. So she went. Such fun. But on that sleigh ride, Paul Baliff kissed her. I think on the cheek. Next school day the kids were teasing her, saying she loved Paul Baliff. Lola said, "If there's anyone I hate, it's Paul Baliff." I know she didn't mean it, but Paul didn't know that. He did not speak to her for the rest of Jr High and all through high school. Obviously, she noticed. I'm sure both of them were hurt.

Some small things are important

I guess I have given up on finding the ring.

I wore Wayne's wedding ring on the middle finger of my right hand since he died. Nearly eleven years.

Until about three weeks ago, when I noticed it wasn't there.

I have no idea when or where it came off my finger.

It was very important to me. I feel bad and very sad.

In the back of my mind, though, I keep expecting it to appear somehow.

What do you call it?

Okay, here's my question, or questions. Not particularly important, but I'm curious.

Why is the restroom called the restroom? We don't exactly rest in there.

And why is it that we say, "I need to go to the bathroom," when we don't plan to take a bath but only to use the toilet?

When I was in elementary school, the place was called The Lavatory. Yes, we did wash our hands in there, or we were supposed to . . . after we used the toilet, which is why we went in there.

Outhouse I see. I mean it is outside of the house. But still it avoids the word "toilet."

It isn't a bad word, toilet, and has been used historically to mean something other than the way we use it today, as in A Lady at her Toilet, which was where she put the final touches on her hair and makeup. Or her personal maid did those things for her. The Lady could be sitting or standing, and it was usually done in her bedroom, facing a mirror, not in the "bathroom."

But that information I insert only so you will know I know about it. Really, it may have little to do with my original question, but it does raise another question.

How did that use of the word "toilet" change to the toilet we know?

Little Annoyances, or Biggish

igoogle went away November 1. Bummer and a half.

I have been disoriented and irritated. No longer can I, with one click of the mouse, see all the blogs I write and follow, see the phases of the moon, see the daily weather, read a poem daily, get a few news stories. All right in front of my face at once. One click.

I will have to adjust, have to cope, have to learn and make the best of it.

No big thing, you say, I'll bet.

Home Again, Home Again

Home from Saskatoon at midnight last night. Interesting that Saskatoon is directly north of Great Falls, Montana, but you can't go that way by plane. You have to fly to Minneapolis and wait four hours to fly back to Saskatoon. And yes, you wait in Minneapolis on the way home, only 3 hrs and 30 minutes.

Complaints out of the way.

I'm glad I went. I love my son Richard and his family. And I love knowing where they live, what their house is like, so I can picture them there.

Penelope is six and smart. Axel is four and smart. They're both cute as can be, too.

I offered to read a book to Axel. No. He only likes his dad or his mom to read books to him, and, he added, "I don't like to be next to old people." That would be me.

It's already winter cold in Saskatoon. I guess they're used to it.

Good to be back in Boise, where soon enough it will be cold enough.

My kids

When you get a text from your daughter telling you that she and her husband are driving through Watsonville, California, seeing fields and fields of strawberries, you like it. Such was my deal today. And this after a phone call from them.

They were in San Francisco for two days during the BART strike. Many many cars, much traffic. Two hours to go eleven miles yesterday, some of it right through the center of that Bay city.

It's Ben and Alyce. They are on their pre-baby vacation. Smart. Of course, he's with them, kicking for joy, just not on the outside yet.

Party

Jacob is 20, officially.
Fun party at Andrew and Michelle's house in celebration of Jacob's birth and of his wonderful self. No kidding.

And I have never seen such good looking jack-o'-lanterns as the ones the "young folks" carved. Great idea for an activity. Big pumpkins and mini-pumpkins. Some scary, some funny, all really well done. We have a bunch of artists in the family.
Michelle furnished carving and scraping tools. Whoever invented those did a smart thing.

Carvers included, in alphabetical order:  Aaron, Caroline, Clayton, Jacob, Nicholas, Patrick, Peter, Shane.

A Small Thing

When we had our babies, we had a little thing we would say.  One of us would go to get the baby up in the morning, and the other would call out, “Did he get ugly in the night?”  And the first would answer, “No, not this time, thank goodness.”  Or maybe, “Oh yeah, it’s terrible.”  I miss Wayne and all those little things.

?????

The government shutdown is over.

What's next?

Will my vote count in 2016? 

Thinking

Today, and yesterday, I'm watching the 183 semi-annual General Conference of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. And I'm loving it. Always when I watch conference I am inspired, and I feel like I want to and can be a good person, better today than yesterday, better tomorrow than today. Why not feel that kind of hope and optimism? Why not? With all I know and have been given, why not?

*     *     *

Two weeks ago I went to my 55-year high school reunion in Santa Monica, California. Some inspiration from that, too. Like from Ted Armbrister, who, like me, is 73. He is a defense attorney. Still. Not retired. He told me he will retire when he no longer enjoys what he does and for now he loves his work. He also told me I was always an inspiring person to him, someone he often thinks of. How nice.

We ran against each other for student body president. Pretty daring of a girl to do that, since there never had been a girl student body president. It was the 1950s, remember. But, hey, I thought it was time.

The girl lost, that's me, but not by much. But I guess losing by a little is just like losing by a lot. I still remember Ted's campaign speech. It was based on this saying, "A fighting team is never beaten." It was about football. And I will say it was inspiring. It must have been.

Like Frank Peabody, who--and I'm not kidding--looks exactly the same as he did 55 years ago and who has the same energy he had. A cheerful, pleasant, positive guy. Someone I gave not a lot of thought to in high school but who inspires me now with his friendliness and encouragement. Funny word, but it seems right.

Like Monica and Linnea and Donna, who not only look very young for their years but who are good, generous people. Kind to any and all at that gathering. I know, because I watched them. It's charm and confidence, but it's more than that. I say it's goodness. And it's inspiring.

Two Reports

Yesterday's report from Ann.

1.  This morning Edmund (three years old) said the family prayer. He expressed thanks for "the opportunity the boys have of going to school." The boys are Charlie and Johnny, his two old brothers. Ann was tickled her three-year-old used "opportunity" correctly. So am I. 

But there's more in that expression than a correct use of language. There's the sense that he is not yet one of the boys, and that reaches my heart. It makes me remember Richard's feelings when his big brother Andrew went off to kindergarten, leaving Richard at home, just as Edmund is left at home. I hope and trust that when Edmund has the "opportunity" to go to school he will know he is one of the boys.

2.  Later, when Ann took Edmund and Mina outside, she said, "It's a such a nice day." Edmund said, "Yes, there's a breeze."

I love that little kid.

Last night's report from Lola about what Clayton did yesterday. Clayton is ten years old.

He said, "Mom, what would you have done?" Then he told her what he did.

First, you need to know that Clayton has been wanting a yo-yo. His big brother Bryan bought him one, which made Clayton very happy. Sure, a yo-yo is no big thing, but it's a fun thing, and when you want one and then you get it, you're happy. 

Now his story. He has a friend at school who has been absent for some long time because of a fractured skull. Yesterday the friend finally came back to school. When Clayton saw him he felt bad for him and wondered what he could do to help, to make him feel better.

He told his mother this, "I thought he was more important than I was, so I gave him my yo-yo." Yes, his friend liked the yo-yo and felt better. It made him happy. But for me the best part is that Clayton gave away something dear to him to help someone else. That's the part his mother likes, too.

She told him it was a very nice thing to do. And when she told me the story, we both cried a little. 

I suspect Clayton will get another yo-yo, but that was not in his mind when he wanted to help his friend.

What's not to love about a kid like that?

 

Looking Forward

Tomorrow Andrew and I leave for my 55-year high school reunion. Holy cow! Fifty-five years!

I have been sick. Quite sick. Hoping so much that tomorrow and the weekend will find me well.

I'm sure that between me and my friends from high school that I'll see there, I will look the oldest, my face the most wrinkled, my hair the whitest. I have always looked old, all my life. Once upon a time I liked that fact. Now guess how I feel about it. 

But here's a good thing: I'm not fat.

I hope Andrew will enjoy this time in Southern California. (I capitalize the "S" in Southern because I have long considered 

Southern California the true California. Live with it.) I will be glad he's with me. I want to show him where his dad and I grew up, and I want us to see the ocean a lot. I miss the ocean, almost every day. And many days I wish to be there, driving along PCH and watching the water, as I did long ago in my mother's 1955 Ford hard top convertible. Sweet car. Beautiful drive.

Okay, I'll say it. Those were the days.

I loved growing up in Santa Monica. I know much has changed there. I will have to live with that for three days.

Tree trash

I've had two tree guys come and give me estimates. I think I'll not have any others come. I liked both of those guys, but there's $560 difference in their bids, for the same work.

I have several trees I want trimmed up, and I want the limbs of my front dawn redwood cut so they don't hang in the Shuells' yard.

The other neighbors' pine trees bother me, of course. I want them cut back so their limbs are not over my space, over my property line, which they are big time at this time. I have spoken to my neighbor and told her what I plan to do. She was agreeable, but I don't think that means they'll pay, although they should because the law says their trees are trespassing.

Did you know that?

I asked her if she knew when they bought the house they bought the trees also. She said, "No."

But it's a fact. And there are three pines in their front yard and two in the back. Four of the five trespass onto my property. And, by the way, contribute greatly to the crummy way my lawn looks.

I didn't say all that to her, but she said to me, "I actually thought these were your trees."

Fat chance.

One of the tree guys, Matt, the guy I won't be hiring, said, "These pine trees. People plant them and then look what happens to them. They get huge."

"I know."

 "And why did they plant them so close to your property line? They're almost on your property line."

"I don't know and I know."
 
(My across the street neighbor was over and I told her I was tired of sweeping and raking and hauling pine needles. She said, "Well, but you don't want them cut down, do you?" I said, "Oh yes I do."  But I guess I'll have to settle for cutting them back.)

Matt pointed out something I should have thought of, as in DUH. "Even if you cut these lower limbs, the tree will still drop needles on your property."

"Oh brother. That is true."

He said, "These trees belong in the forest."

Exactly.

My dilemma

Paul has spent half an hour on the phone with me, helping me troubleshoot (try this, try that) my printer. He is very good and patient to do that. We went down all of HP's steps. At least twice.

Nothing worked.

My printer is broken. Right? I never had a printer that broke.

Do I have to buy a new printer? Or should I buy a new car?

Just kidding.

Addendum:
Just kidding about the car. I bought a new printer today, Friday, the 13th. 

A Small Story

Yesterday I found a little note from Wayne, my husband, to his mother. He was four years old when he wrote it and missing his mother very much. She was gone for ten weeks because she was struck down with polio in July 1943.Wayne's baby sister, Kate, was six months old. A very hard time for them all. The children moved in with their grandparents for those ten weeks and maybe a little longer. I suppose Goldie spent his time, when not working, at the Kaiser Hospital with Doris.

When Doris returned home there were many people--nurses and others--to care for her and help her because she could do nothing for a long time. And the children were kept from her. Eventually, she could walk again--I do not know how long that took--with a cane and a brace on her left leg. That is how I knew her.

During her convalescence at home, Wayne was responsible for carrying and emptying the bedpan. Kate says he told her years later that he liked doing that job because of the warmth of the bedpan. It was warm like his mother.

The note breaks my heart. The printing is large and irregular, but clearly it was important for him to write it. He drew lines across the paper to help himself keep the words straight.

DEAR MAMA

I AM A GOOD BOY. HURRY UP AND GET WELL. WE MISS YOU TOO. LOVE FROM KATE E AND WAYNE

Kate E is Kate Ellen.

It's the "I am a good boy" that breaks my heart. I think he always wanted to be a good boy, especially for his mother.

A Little Grammar

PB2. I already don't like it, but that just means I have a) a closed mind; or b) a resistance to change; or c) an aversion to products using words incorrectly in their ads or on their labels; or d) all of the above. It's powdered peanut butter. One reason I don't like it is that the label says 85% less fat calories. Less is the wrong word.

Less is used sometimes as an adverb and sometimes as an adjective. In this use it's an adjective, but it's still the wrong one.

Here's why: Because the noun, calories, is plural, the descriptor must reflect the plurality and so has to be fewer. Fat doesn't really influence the adjective because it is also a modifier of calories. If the message on the label said 85% less fat, that would be correct. But it's fat calories.

You get it, I'm sure.

Nobody cares about that kind of stuff but me. But to me it speaks of carelessness, in every sense of that word, or ignorance, and reflects on the product itself. That's, to me.

Yeah, I like peanut butter. And I buy the old fashioned kind you have to stir. But you don't add water and stir. That's something else I don't like about PB2 right off the bat.

You try this powdered stuff and let me know. 

P.S. Amazon sells PB2, sent me the picture of the jar, its price--$4.79--and encouragement to buy.

A Few Matters

Last night Lola came and waited for Anna and Paula. We had a good visit, about 30 minutes, but she had to leave before they arrived. Then they came, and Carol Pladsen was with them. We went to dinner, they came in afterward and stayed an hour. This story has a point. It's this: all the while, I was wearing only one earring. Here and at the restaurant, of course, and no one said a word about it. No one. This substantiates my claim that women become invisible as they age, especially white-haired women. And, no, my hair does not cover my ears. It's just that nobody really looks at me. Oh well.

Or perhaps they think I'm losing my mind and they didn't want to call attention to it. 

Naah. That's not it.

*     *     *

Troubled by my dream. Wayne was in it. So was Gary O'Keefe, but he was not the troubling part because he means nothing to me. It was Wayne, his indifference, his total okness without me. Just a dream, Carol. Funny, they both looked as they used to. Only I had white hair.

*     *     * 

My friend Joan says I should keep telling myself I'm young. I'm trying to. Last night didn't help.