A cold and frosty morning

Maybe three years ago, I was in the Korean coffeeshop in the Valley They Call Silicon sometime early in December. I loved the Paris Baguette in a mostly-Korean strip mall in Santa Clara, partly because it was great for people-watching and partly because of the excellent pastries. But PB locations in Cupertino, San José and Palo Alto offered more or less the same thing, and were all somewhat more up-market (even if San José’s and Palo Alto’s coffee tasted worse than Starbucks’).

The thing I loved most about PB Santa Clara was Kenyon, the store manager, who—the minute I walked through the door and before I’d settled my laptop on a table near an electrical outlet—would start making a decaf latte for me. If he was with a customer, he’d have one of his staff do it, but whenever he was making it, there would be exquisite latte art, even though it was a take-out cup with a lid on it.

Anyway, back to three years ago. I was in PB, sipping my latte, listening to KDFC and writing, when I took out my earbuds to visit the loo. I became aware that the store’s Sirius station was playing Bing Crosby singing “Christmas in Killarney”. I thought this a very interesting choice given that PB’s customer-facing crew were Asian millennials on the young side of that demographic, and the baking staff looked to be largely Latina.

So when Kenyon had a break in serving customers I asked him who chooses the station. He had to stop and actually listen to what was playing, whereupon he kind of shrugged and said, “Management.”

Yeah, I can see that.

When I returned to my table, I considered that if sitting in a Korean-owned French-themed bakery in California, listening to “Christmas in Killarney” is not America in a microcosm, I don’t know what is.

Which brings me to today’s selection for Advent. No, it’s not Bing, nor is it “Christmas in Killarney”. (I nearly went into insulin shock listening to it.) But it is from Ireland, at least this recording of it is. “Past Three O’Clock” is a carol set to a traditional tune called “London Waits”.

And the “Waits” being referred to is a category of watchmen common in England and Scotland from Medieval times up until the 19^th Century. City waites (the early spelling) patrolled the streets using musical instruments to mark the hours. (Carrying something musical also distinguished you from other bands of night-crawlers.) It’s not clear to me how they knew, precisely, what hours they were sounding, but apparently it worked quite well as a system for a number of centuries.

So, “London Waits” as a melody captures the functions of the waits of that city, and George Ratcliffe Woodward put words to it around the turn of the last century. It’s in The Cambridge Carol-Book, Being Fifty-Two Songs for Christmas, Easter, and Other Seasons, published in 1924, so it’s still somewhat new on the Christmas carol continuum, although—because of the provenance of “London Waits”, it sounds much older.

This recording is from The Bells of Dublin, by The Chieftains, and it features along with them the Renaissance Singers.

I like it fine. But I wouldn’t push it onto Kenyon and his crew at Paris Baguette.

Watchmen in the tower

I love “Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme”. It’s the first chorus in J.S. Bach’s cantata of the same name, BWV 140. I just love the way the various parts flow into and around one another, like the waters of a stately river.

This chorus is based on a Lutheran hymn that predates Bach by about 125 years, and it’s about being both alert and prepared for the arrival of the Messiah. (It references the parable of the wise and foolish virgins waiting to greet the bridegroom at a wedding. The wise virgins have brought both lamps and oil; the foolish ones only lamps, so when the bridegroom arrives, they are unready and thus left out of the celebration.)

Here’s the text:

Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme,

der Wächter sehr hoch auf der Zinne,

wach auf, du Stadt Jerusalem.

Mitternacht heisst diese Stunde,

sie rufen un smit hellem Munde,

wo seid ihr klugen Jungfrauen?

Wohlauf, der Bräut’gam kömmt,

steht auf, die Lampen nehmt,

Allelulia!

Macht euch bereit

zu der Hochzeit,

ihr musset ihm entgegen gehn.

Zion hört die Wächter singen,

das Herz tut ihr vor Freuden springen,

sie wachet und steht eilend auf.

Nun komm, du werte Kron’,

Herr Jesu, Gottes Sohn,

Hosianna!

Wir folgen all

zum Freudensaal

und halten mit das Abendmahl

Gloria sei dir gesungen,

mit Menschen- und englischen Zungen,

mit Harfen und mit Zimbeln schon.

Von zwölf Perlen sind die Pforten,

an deiner Stadt sind wir Konsorten

der Engel hoch um deine Thron.

Kein Aug’ hat je gespürt,

kein Ohr hat je gehört

solche Freude,

des sind wir froh,

io, io,

ewig in dulci jubilo!

In English:

Awake, calls the voice to us

of the watchmen high up in the tower;

awake, you city of Jerusalem.

Midnight the hour is named;

they call to us with bright voices;

where are you, wise virgins?

Indeed, the Bridegroom comes;

rise up and take your lamps,

Alleluia!

Make yourselves ready

for the wedding,

you must go to meet him.

Zion hears the watchmen sing,

her heart leaps for joy within her,

she wakens and hastily arises.

Her glorious Friend comes from heaven,

strong in mercy, powerful in truth,

her light becomes bright, her star rises.

Now come, precious crown,

Lord Jesus, the Son of God!

Hosanna!

We all follow to the hall of joy

and hold the evening meal together.

Let Gloria be sung to You

with mortal and angelic tongues,

with harps and even with cymbals.

Of twelve pearls the portals are made,

in Your city we are companions

of the angels high around Your thrown.

No eye has ever perceived,

no ear has ever heard

such joy

like our happiness,

io, io,

Eternally in dulci jubilo!

I’ll give you two versions, this first by a brass ensemble performing at a church near the District They Call Columbia. Note the piccolo trumpet; it’s not something you see every day.

And here’s the Munich University choir singing it:

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Little bitty baby

Yeah, okay—today’s offering isn’t technically an Advent or Christmas piece. It’s from the African-American tradition, and is what I’d call a counting song. But since I loathe “The Twelve Days of Christmas”, you’re going to have to accept this one in its place.

Also, this recording of “Children, Go Where I Send Thee” is from a Peter, Paul and Mary Christmas concert, so there’s that.

I first heard a version of this from my mother-by-her-first-marriage, a Methodist. It can go up to the Twelve Apostles, and sometimes the numbers two and three represent different biblical figures.

Crank up the volume. You’ll be glad you did.

A new day will rise again

Today is the feast of Saint Lucy, a Sicilian martyr of the Diocletian persecutions in the Third Century. When you hear the term “Christian martyr” applied to a woman of the early years of the Church, it’s almost always a young woman whose only defense of her virginity against pagan lechers is death. And so it was for Lucy, also known as Lucia, who was burnt at the stake in Syracuse. Although she did not die until given Christian rites…

Ah, good times, eh?

Well, interestingly, Saint Lucy (whose name derives from the Latin lux, lucis; light) was taken up big time by the Nordics. Interesting, but not really surprising. For one thing, when you live in areas enshrouded by darkness for months at a time, anything relating to light is highly valued.

For another, it turns out that, in pre-Christian Scandinavia, 13 December was dedicated to Lussi, a kind of female demon, who led her followers around wreaking havoc on everyone. In the period between Lussi Night and Yule, trolls and evil spirits (possibly joined by spirits of the dead) roamed the land and committed all manner of mischief. Lussi could come down the chimney and take naughty children away.

So you can see why folks might want to wrap a saint rumored to have taken food and supplies to refugees hiding in caverns (wearing a wreath of candles on her head, so as to leave both arms free for schlepping stuff) around the Old Ones’ Lussi.

Last year I gave you a different take on Saint Lucy, so this time why don’t we go to the Far North for something more, um, kosher. There, the celebration features girls and young women wearing white nightgowns (symbolizing virgin purity) and red sashes (for the blood of martyrdom), singing appropriate songs. One of them wears a crown of lighted candles. There are also Lucia buns and other treats, which pretty much rounds it out in my estimation.

Here's a typical procession of Saint Lucy and her cohort in Sweden, singing a song that you might more readily associate with Sicily.

The lyrics are all about the fight between darkness and light, which seems apt.

Night walks with a heavy step

Round yard and hearth,

As the sun departs from earth,

Shadows are brooding.

There in our dark house,

Walking with lit candles,

Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

Night walks grand, yet silent,

Now hear its gentle wings,

In every room so hushed,

Whispering like wings.

Look, at our threshold stands,

White-clad with light in her hair,

Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

Darkness shall take flight soon,

From earths valleys

So she speaks

Wonderful words to us:

A new day will rise again

From the rosy sky…

Santa Lucia, Santa Lucia!

Gather round the table

Since the Christ child was, in fact, a Jew, it seems appropriate that we pause a moment for a Jewish holiday. Because at sundown tonight, Hanukkah begins.

(To refresh your memory, Hanukkah lasts eight nights to commemorate the rededication of the Second Temple at the time of the Maccabean revolt against the Persians. Unlike some other Jewish holidays, this one is focused on the home and family, as opposed to the temple and outside world.)

When my friend Amy gave me a paper Menorah a few years ago, she sang this song while we and her daughter punched out all the pieces. I’ll just let the Barenaked Ladies do the honors this time around. As one does:

But I’ll also give you Tom Lehrer’s “Hanukkah in Santa Monica”, basically because I can:

Aaaand that’s as good a segue as I’m going to get to this one, which just…makes me hungry:

Cherries by command

If you look around the Christmas story, you’ll notice that Joseph plays a decidedly secondary role; this one’s all about Mary and the baby. Well, tbh, it’s not like Joseph played much of a role in Mary’s pregnancy (except in the story as told by Republican officials in Alabama). In fact, it’s strikingly unusual that the male person is not the focus of attention in a narrative of such importance. Joseph is basically relegated to being the guy who knocks—completely ineffectively—on doors to try to find a room for the night.

This holds true in most of the Christmas music, too. What do we hear? What child; holy infant; Gesu bambino; Mary was the queen of Galilee; Christ is born of Mary; Mary, the mother, quietly singing… Seriously—the ox and the ass get more play time than poor old Joe.

And it’s interesting to me that, when he does show up, it’s not always in a completely positive light. Today’s offering is a case in point. Versions of “The Cherry Tree Carol” were sung as far back as the 15^th Century. Some stop with the pre-natal miracle, some move on. But all depict Joseph as being, at the least, bitchy. I mean, you can kind of see his point, and of course, he does eventually come round. But still…

Here are The Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem singing it.

Gratitude Monday: Aspects of snow

We had our first snow of the season on Saturday here in the District They Call Columbia. It started out in the People’s Republic of Reston around 0740, and I was a little anxious about driving, but I had two weeks of errands to run, so I headed out around 0800.

Pretty much everywhere I saw pairs and more of sanding/plowing trucks idling at the sides of roads. Even in the Wegmans parking lot, there was a pickup truck with a plow on the front end, ready to clear away any accumulations. At some point in my two-hour sojourn, visibility was limited, and my windscreen wipers got a good workout. But I made it back safely, refilled the bird feeders (sadly, the sparrows are back, so it the one with the Fine Tunes mix gets emptied in less than 24 hours), and settled in to watch the birds and listen to Christmas music.

The snow stopped late in the day, and as far as I can tell, it never stuck to paved surfaces. I scraped my car off, so it was ready to go to Metro this morning, using the scraper I bought (along with a snow shovel) only last Wednesday.

I did notice the difference between the weekend’s snow here and what I encountered in Québec City last weekend—where it was considerably colder. I loved watching it fall from my hotel room; walking on it, not so much. But I’ll give you a couple of videos and pix.

Here's a long shot of it falling against the building:

And here it is closer:

I’m so grateful for a snow shovel that I don’t have to use yet, for having a well-heated house, for the gift of being surrounded by music, for happy birds, and for all the blessings in my life that watching snow fall brings to my mind.

My soul was lost

Advent can be a tough time for a lot of people. Surrounded by the sometimes frenetic gaiety, feverish activities, determined parties, mandatory indulgences—some of us feel like we’re drowning in all this festiveness, especially if we’re bleeding from the loss of a loved one. The first Christmas after the death of someone close can feel more like an ice axe to the sternum than an occasion for celebration of any kind.

My mother died at the beginning of December 1978. I was a senior in college, alternating overnight stints with her in the hospital for the last three weeks with driving out to Claremont to attend classes. On Saturday the 2^nd, I filed two research papers with the college library. She died on Sunday the 3^rd. On Monday I defended one paper in class, and on Tuesday I defended the other. The block of time from then until late February is lost to me. That’s what this kind of thing can do to you.

A friend of mine in the UK lost her stepfather on 19 November. (Well, the "step" is a technicality. Les came into her life in her teens, but was the only father she effectively knew.) As with my mom, his death wasn’t unexpected, but it’s still hard on those whose lives he enriched over his 91 years. His wife, children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren; extended family; friends. At his funeral last Tuesday, even his caregivers were there. That’s how beloved he was.

The Harris clan are strong; its members support one another, and that’s excellent. But I know from experience how difficult this first Christmas can be, especially when the death is so recent. Your ganglia are exposed, you pick up something and think, “Hey—he would like this. I’ll just… Oh.” Or you hear something that you just know will tickle her fancy, so you… Oh. Or something flashes into your mind that you meant to tell him… And the realization washes over you in icy waves and tears appear out of nowhere.

Christmas amplifies every one of these things. It’s like you’re constantly having the breath knocked out of you, and you struggle to get air back in so you can keep going. Because you have to keep going, right? It’s Christmas. Nobody wants a sad sack around at Christmas.

Well, sod that for a lark. Here’s something for Marcia and Lesley and their mum, and all their family, and all those who loved Les. And for everyone feeling a double dose of loss during this season. It won’t miraculously heal the bone-deep sorrow, but it may possibly bring some comfort.

There are a number of versions of “There’s Still my Joy”, including a fine one by Kathy Mattea and a really gorgeous one by Oleta Adams. But the one that speaks directly to my soul is by the Indigo Girls.