A little flash

Well, I’m not letting the Christmas season get away without a “Hallelujah” flash mob. This one is from Paris. France.

There’s a whole lot of credits at the beginning, so if you want, you can click to about the 60-second mark and start from the actual, you know, heart of the matter.

It’s frankly not the best-ever “Hallelujah” flash mob—those sopranos are straining a whole lot at the top notes. But still—compliments of the season.

Joyeux Noël et Bonne Année.

Home peace

Sometimes you just want to slow down the holiday frenzy—you know, when even the eleventy-seven film versions of A Christmas Carol on the tube won’t do. That’s when you turn to…books.

My two go-to Christmas tales are the original A Christmas Carol, of course, and the “Dulce Domum” chapter of The Wind in the Willows. Like the overall book, “Dulce Domum” is all about friendship, care for one’s fellow animal and the simple joys of home.

I’ve written about the set-up elsewhere, but here’s how it ends:

"Mole and Rat kicked the fire up, drew their chairs in, brewed themselves a last nightcap of mulled ale, and discussed the events of the long day. At last the Rat, with a tremendous yawn, said, `Mole, old chap, I'm ready to drop. Sleepy is simply not the word. That your own bunk over on that side? Very well, then, I'll take this. What a ripping little house this is! Everything so handy!'

“He clambered into his bunk and rolled himself well up in the blankets, and slumber gathered him forthwith, as a swathe of barley is folded into the arms of the reaping machine.

“The weary Mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his head on his pillow, in great joy and contentment. But ere he closed his eyes he let them wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received him back, without rancour. He was now in just the frame of mind that the tactful Rat had quietly worked to bring about in him. He saw clearly how plain and simple--how narrow, even--it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such anchorage in one's existence. He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he must return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this to come back to; this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome.”

I hope your holidays have this same sense of peace, comfort and love.

Gifts

Okay, look—I know Christmas isn’t all about the presents; well, not if you’re older than about third grade. And frankly, I’ve found it kind of hard recently to get excited too much about them—even though I’ve received some lovely ones.

This year, though—I’ve so far opened two, and, well: Santa been berry-berry good to me.

First of all, I have this lovely collection of Oregon pears. Even if these particular pears hadn’t been sent by my friends in Palm Springs, I’d think of them. Because I’ll always associate luscious, dripping-with-perfection pears with the picnic my sister and I had with them four years ago.

I’m making a pear salad tonight with one of them, candied nuts and crumbled chevre. (Had a bit of a to-do when I went to Whole Foods earlier this week, because the recipe actually calls for bleu cheese, and I’d rather dive face-first into a pool of vomit than eat bleu cheese. In fact, it’s pretty much all the same thing to me. Anyhow, when I said I needed a substitute for the bleu cheese, which I don’t care for, the cheesemonger said, “Maybe you should make a different salad.” Fortunately, his colleague suggested the chevre, so I’m happy.)

And I’m enjoying my second gift already, even though I’ve not officially used it. I was at Neiman-Marcus last week to have lunch with a friend, and was killing some time in the fragrance department. I went back on Friday and got serious, with the help of one of the staff, and came up with a couple of suggestions for a friend of mine to give me.

I’ve not had a new fragrance for more than ten years when I went on a binge in Caen, buying stuff by Dalì (yes—there was a line of scents with really great bottles). So I thought it might be time. 

This is Orangers en Fleurs (yeah, sorry, but I don't get that many Neiman-Marcus boxes, so I had to include it in the shot), and it’s filling my living room with orange, jasmine and some other things even though I’ve not opened the bottle yet. I’m so looking forward to wearing it—having a really good fragrance is kind of like knowing you have the good lingerie on. It just makes you feel more with-it.

And I believe I’m ready for with-it in the new year.

So I hope you’re as happy with your gifts as I am with mine (and the friendships they represent). And that you had as good a time as I did in the lead-up to it.

Guided by the lights

I’ve told you about how people here in the Valley they call Silicon go all-out at Halloween in terms of yard displays. And earlier this month I did a short spin through one Mountain View neighborhood to check out Christmas decorations.

But that was in daylight, so I thought I’d return at night to see how the displays played out in their natural environment.

Holy crap!

At least two of them were coordinated to music, although thankfully for the local residents, the volume on the players is low.

One of them was the yard with Yoda and Darth Vader:

There was more going on there theme-wise than a Tarantino flick.

And I have to say that Yoda and Darth didn’t seem all that engaging in the dark:

The Peanuts portion of the yard was a little better—Snoopy’s doghouse with another Snoopy on some kind of track in front of it. (Look—I have multiple degrees from respected academic institutions, and I really couldn’t figure it out):

Then it turned out that the other side of the house apparently fronted Sesame Street:

Well, spoilt for choice, really—but I’ll leave you with the nutcracker that guarded the walkway:

Oh, and they gave the deer something to drink, which I thought was kinda cute:

I walked on over towards the house with all the nativities. They also had music going; nothing, as you might imagine, involving a holly, jolly Christmas, though. Still, lot happening there; Nativity 1:

Nativity 2:

Moving on, this being the Valley they call Silicon, naturally, there was a festive Angry Bird:

Balanced off by the odd angel:

But I think my favorites were the geese; anyone can have deer, or angels--but geese!

They reminded me of Petunia’s Christmas, one of my favoritest ever children’s Christmas stories.

If you haven’t read it—get it from your library. Pronto.

Okay, I liked the polar bear, too:

I have to say that it wasn’t until I was walking down one of the unlighted side streets, dressed in black and hauling two cameras, that it occurred to me that it might look just the teensiest bit, uh, suspicious that there was someone out there shooting pictures of people’s houses—including of the interiors when they had their curtains open.

I started looking over my shoulder for patrol cars—I figured being a middle-aged white woman with no ID on her person wouldn’t be much of a mitigating factor when time came for me to ‘splain what the hell I was doing there. Fortunately, the need did not arise, or I doubt they’d have let me post from the slammer.

I’ll leave you with one last house that’s going to have a PG&E bill the size of the defense budget:

I hope your Christmas day is as bright and peaceful as these displays. Pax vobiscum.

Gratitude Monday: Noble heart and gentle manner

I was devastated this weekend to open a Christmas card from my friend Edna with an enclosure letting me know that her husband Bob was dying and not expected to last the night. Multiple organ failure from multiple causes, some of them long-standing. 

Edna summed him up beautifully: “He was a decent, caring man with a noble heart and gentle manner. I can hardly remember a life before him nor can I imagine a life without him.”

I can’t picture Edna without Bob. When I first met them, they were dating—Edna and I were Sherlockians (which is a bit like Trekkies, but without the aliens). Bob was an accountant, with a lot of the attributes you’d associate with that: quiet, unassuming, blah, blah, blah. But completely laid back, with an exceptionally sharp mind and a wicked sense of humor. And he’d do anything for Edna, including going to costume balls dressed up as a character from the Holmes stories.

And, lord, could he tell a tale. You should have heard him telling the one about a fellow resident of the apartment building he once lived in in LA—the guy who’d on occasion get tanked, step out onto his balcony and shout, “I am the great Filipino god!”

They got married in my senior year of college. A lapsed Catholic and a non-practicing Jew—the ceremony was performed by an Episcopal priest who was part of our scion society (The Loungers and Idlers of Empire, if you’re asking). I vaguely recall the reception. Bob probably didn’t give a toss about the particulars; he was marrying Edna and that’s all that mattered to him.

They used to have me over for dinner a lot while I still lived in LA. The conversation was always stimulating, entertaining and educational. I got such different perspectives on things.

As I mentioned, Bob had left Judaism behind long before he traded New York for LA. (Edna was the one who made sure that the menorah was up alongside the Christmas tree, and that the Seder dinner had all the requisite components.) He thought people put too many artificial barriers between them, and once said, “Everyone should just marry everyone else until we’re all beige-colored and don’t believe in any religion.”

I do think that notion has considerable merit, especially if we end up as kind and generous as Bob.

He was a huge Star Trek fan; when Star Trek: The Motion Picture came out, Edna and I went with him to see it the first week it hit the theatres. And, oh—it was such a dog; when the lights came up Bob looked kind of stunned and…betrayed, in a way.

Shortly afterwards, Edna and I wanted to see Polanski’s Tess, so Bob went along. When the lights came up after it was finally over, he turned to us and said, “We’re even.”

About eight years ago, I had a calendar printed up using photos I’ve taken over the years—the UK, France, Reston, Canada, Minnesota, Italy, Oregon… I gave it to people as Christmas gifts, and was astonished that no one—no one—twigged to the fact that they were my pictures. I mean—Reston? Where I lived?

No one, that is, except Bob. As I understand it, the conversation went something like this:

Edna: Look at these pictures—all these different places. I wonder who the photographer is?

Bob: I think [Bas Bleu] took them.

Edna: No—they have to be by someone…

Bob: Well, we have this picture of that church in Minnesota on our wall, and [Bas Bleu] took that, so…

Edna: No, there must be a photographer’s name here somewhere.

I about wet myself when I heard that exchange. It was so…so Bob: he recognized straight away that if one of the shots was mine, the rest had to be; but he wasn’t invested in being right, Even when he was.

I wish I had a photo of him to share with you, but there are some friends whose presence is so vividly imprinted on your memories that you just never take pictures. And even if you did, a two-dimensional representation isn’t adequate.

In recent years, Bob had been ill—badly ill; but he steadfastly refused to go gentle into that good night. Until now. Even the strongest heart can’t withstand the assaults forever.

I am so grateful that I knew Bob, that I benefited from his friendship, expanded my horizons through his perspective, took comfort from his encouragement, appreciated his generosity and shared so many laughs with him.

If there’s a Bob in your life, step away from your device right now and give him a call or a hug. He’s the most precious thing imaginable.