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.

Wie treu sind deine Blätter

When I was a kid, this was the Saturday when we finally could bring the Christmas tree inside, set it up in the bay window of the living room and decorate it. Dad hung the lights (including bubble lights, which no one else in the neighborhood had), and Mom strung the tinsel garland around. Then we offspring could hang the ornaments, some of which had had their color worn off from so many years of use. When the tree went up, we were officially on our way to Christmas.

Technically, “O Tannenbaum” is not about Christmas trees. A Tannenbaum is a fir tree, and the song is about the evergreen as a symbol of constancy and faithfulness. So, it’s not so much of a stretch to include it in the songs of the season.

The lyrics date from 1824 and the melody is an old Silesian folk tune that was known as far back as the 16^th Century. It’s interesting (to me), that when I was searching for a version of “O Tannenbaum” that didn’t make me throw up in my mouth, one of the results that popped up was this propaganda piece from World War II:

Looking at all the happy merry folk wrapping gifts and such, the first thoughts that popped into my head was all the perfume, wine and other luxuries that the Occupation troops in France were sending home to their loved ones. That and, “Hey—no footage of Stalingrad? ‘Cuz that one’s got less than two months to go belly up.”

But that’s just me.

With the appropriation of “O Tannenbaum” to the actual, decorated Christmas tree, it always strikes me that it should be sung by a children’s choir. So here it is from the granddaddy of all boys’ choirs:

A great song from Heaven

Y’all know how much I love watching birds in my backyard. I mean, put out a little birdseed and I’m in for the day. And it’s occurred to me that, generally speaking, all the publicity during this season goes to the large animals—your camels, your sheep, your oxen and your asses. I guess it’s down to the fact that birds seem to be hunkered down in the winter, not as visible and not

So I think we should have something for the, uh, feathered friends. ”El cant dels ocells” (“Carol of the Birds”) is a Catalan carol that became widely known outside Catalonia because of Pablo Casals’ instrumental version on the cello. Casals went into exile after 1939, when the fascist dictator Franco secured his death grip on all of Spain. As a kind of musical “…and the horse you rode in on”, at the end of every concert, Casals played “El cant dels ocells”.

Anyhow, the lyrics are all about how excited the birds are at the birth of Christ, how all their voices are raised. From imperial eagle to sparrow, linnet, owl, canary, woodlark, blackbird, nightingale, greenfinch; they all sing their joy.

I’ll give you two versions of this one. This first was performed by the Escolania de Montserrat here in the District They Call Columbia last summer as part of the celebration of the centenary of John F. Kennedy (Casals had played "El cant dels ocells" at the White House when Jackie invited him to give a concert). The soloist looks pretty uncomfortable, but it’s still an interesting rendition.

The first time I ever heard “Carol of the Birds”, it was this recording, so I’ll leave it with you:

Wind on the water

If anyone has a lock on modern Anglican music, it’s John Rutter. You can’t get through pretty much any church concert without something by him. So let’s bow to the inevitable and hear “Candlelight Carol”.

I have to say that I find it a little airy-fairy, especially the refrain. I mean, “Candlelight, angel light, firelight and star-glow”? Meh. But it's a nice, serviceable little piece about a mother's love, so I'll be charitable. 

There are a lot of recordings of this out there, including one by Neil Diamond, which I was frankly afraid to listen to. But see what you think of this:

Little miracles

Since today is the feast day of Saint Nicholas, let’s talk about him a bit.

It’s actually hard to see past the rotund Jolly Old Saint Nick that we’ve had in our minds ever since C. Clement Moore’s “A Visit from Saint Nicholas”, and the Coca Cola adverts from the 40s. The historic Saint Nicholas was a third-century bishop of Myra in Asia Minor (now in Turkey). Nicholas was reputed to have performed a number of miracles, including restoring three murdered and dismembered boys to life, and secretly tossing purses of gold through the window of a poor man who couldn’t afford dowries for his three daughters and was about to sell them into prostitution. He’s also known for bargaining with sailors for a portion of their shipment of grain (needed for a time of famine)—they were reluctant to give away any part of their consignment, but he promised they wouldn’t lose by helping those in need. When they arrived at their destination, the weight of their shipment was exactly what it had been before they met Nicholas, and the wheat given him was enough to last Myra for two years.

Nicholas is the patron of sailors, fishermen and merchants (tied to that last miracle); children, brewers and coopers (the dismembered boys had been put into a barrel to be brined); pharmacists, archers and pawnbrokers; broadcasters and the falsely accused (this would be a single group these days); and repentant thieves. He also is patron of Russia, Greece, Liverpool, Moscow, Amsterdam and Aberdeen (among other places).

We of course associate him with gift giving these days. Some traditions receive presents on Saint Nicholas Day, rather than Christmas, but this largesse does not come without a down side. The good saint is typically accompanied by a demon—called Krampus in some places and Zwarte Piet in others—who hands out punishment to the bad children, while the saint gives the goodies.

As Santa Claus (morphed from the Dutch Sinterklaas—Saint Nicholas), he’s the embodiment of our contemporary Christmas machine: we tell kids he has a toy workshop at the North Pole, staffed by elves and with transportation courtesy of reindeer. He holds court at every mall and most department stores in the country, and presides over countless holiday parties where people overindulge in pretty much everything.

In Québec last Sunday I came across a different iteration of him. This guy was parked on a throne in a street with his two dogs and a basket in front full of Canadian five-dollar bills:

  

Saint Nick was open for photo ops:

An hour or two later I happened by again and watched him head home, where I’m thinking he banked a haul that was well into three figures.

It’s hard to find music about Saint Nicholas—Google it and you get 3,478,622 hits on “Jolly Old Saint Nicholas.” No; just no.

What I’m going with is the Dutch song “Sinterklaas Kapoentj”, which featured in one of my favorite Christmas movies. I vastly prefer Miracle on 34^th Street over It’s a Wonderful Life, and this is one of the seminal scenes:

If that’s not enough, here’s a different version, by a trio of Dutch puppets; a bird, a mole and what looks like a worm:

Through his own redeeming love

Today’s piece is a staple of the “Lessons and Carols” service that Anglican churches (and some others) put on this time of year.

I can remember driving up to New Jersey from Williamsburg one year, and listening via NPR stations to the broadcast of this service from Kings College, Cambridge, which seems to be the big dog in Lessons and Carols services. As we drove away from one station’s signal, we’d pick the broadcast up on another one.

The format for “Once in Royal David’s City” is standard: single boy soprano sings the first verse solo and acapella, then the choir/congregation join in. Finally, the big blowout final verse, with descant. In my opinion, it don’t get much better than this. Youse’ll want to crank up the volume.