Let your heart be light

I don’t suppose there’s been a war in the past two thousand or so years in which all sides didn’t assure themselves that it would be over by Christmas. (And victoriously. For all sides.)

But since I’ve been thinking specifically about the events in the Ardennes of 70 years ago, I’m going to give you a couple of Christmas songs that evoke the hopes and desires of at least the Americans—those at the front and those at home. Hearing them always makes me think of those dark, bleak and fearful days.

The first dates from a year before the Battle of the Bulge, but speaks directly to the deepest yearning for home and familiar things of a citizen soldier serving on foreign soil in alien conditions. “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” paints an idealized picture of what the holidays represent. It sounds a little kitschy these days, but it must have cut deep into the hearts of everyone who’d been displaced by the war.

Apparently the song’s writer couldn’t sell it to music publishers until he sang it to Bing Crosby on the golf course. Crosby liked it, and back in those days, if Crosby wanted to make a record, he did. It was a substantial hit for him in both 1943 and 1944.

Josh Groban has got a lot of mileage out of his update—voted greatest holiday recording of all time in a recent poll by readers of the San José Mercury-News. He beat out Nat King Cole’s “The Christmas Song”, which I’d have thought unstoppable. It’s nice, of course, although I think it just a tad manipulative weaving in messages from serving soldiers and their families. (But, in fairness, I think a little Groban goes a long way, so when I hear him I need to guard against insulin shock.)

But since I’m thinking WWII, I’ll give you Crosby’s original.

The second song I’ll share featured in the film Meet Me in Saint Louis, which I classify as one of the best Christmas movies ever, even though it’s not strictly a Christmas movie. MMiSL was released in November 1944, and I’m thinking that “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” must have resonated with everyone who really had thought that, after the Normandy landings and the drive across France, the war surely would have been over by Christmas.

Instead, there was the confusion and fear engendered by the news of the totally surprising German offensive and the inability of Allied commanders to mount a solid defense, much less a counterattack as long as the weather prevented air operations.

The family in MMiSL are faced with a sudden and massive disruption, which is deeply upsetting to them all, but especially to the youngest (played by Margaret O’Brien). “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas” gives us Judy Garland trying to find a way to persuade her sister and herself that, if this Christmas is less than stellar, they can rely on their memories of the wonderful ones of the past and their hopes of more for the future to get them through it.

Which, of course, is what Americans here and abroad were having to do.

There were some bumps along the road to getting “Have Yourself” on the screen—the initial lyrics were exceedingly dark, and had to be rewritten. But what emerged on the screen was wistful and tender; I think it’s one of the best modern Christmas songs. (Beats the daylights out of “White Christmas”, war or no war.)

I’ve never been a fan of Garland’s voice, so I’m giving you Frank Sinatra. There's no one better than Sinatra for phrasing.

It was 70 years ago today that the thick clouds broke, and the Allies were able to fill the skies over the Ardennes with bombers as well as with cargo planes to resupply the Americans holding out against the massive German attack. I’d like to think that these two songs were running through the heads of the men in Europe and their families back home.

And that they are as warm and comforting for you as they are to me.

Calendar girls. And boys

If you’re still looking for a present for that challenging recipient on your list, consider this unique possibility. Yes, it’s a calendar; but what a calendar.

Residents in a retirement home in Essen, Germany, made a calendar featuring photos of them recreating iconic film scenes.

Think about it: your gran and gramps as Rose and Jack in Titanic.

 

Or Jake and Elwood in The Blues Brothers.

Or Tony and Stephanie in Saturday Night Fever.

Really, this thing is such a hoot.

But wait—there’s more.

Retirees from communities in several US states also decided to let it all hang out and created a calendar of their own, again based on iconic films and pop culture moments.

So here we have:

Charlie’s Angels:

(Do not mess with them. Just don’t.)

Cleopatra:

(I'd peel her a grape.)

Grease:

(They might have pulled some of those clothes from the back of their closets.)

From all appearances it looks like these folks were having a blast. And extra super points to the gran who channeled Ursula Andress in Dr. No.

You go, girl!

Light matters

On this Gratitude Monday before Christmas, I’m really grateful for the people who go a little cuckoo in the holiday lights/yard decoration department.

No, I’m not talking about the ones who spend tens of thousands of dollars to have professional light-decorators come in or any of that nonsense. I mean the folks who put up their grazing deer and inflated snowmen in their yards and run strings of lights along the eaves of their houses.

Well, okay—some of them are a little OTT, but I think those represent year-on-year accumulation of the Grinch, Mickey, Yoda and Muppets. And Christmas is definitely the season where you get a free pass from the aesthetics police.

Here are some of my favorites from this year from here in the Valley They Call Silicon.

You may recall my surprise at finding Target selling a Christmas Pig, wondering who might find them worthy of purchase. Well, I found out: someone in Palo Alto:

But if you look closely, you’ll discover that this pig has already been partying pretty hard; he’s lost one of his ears. Oh, dear.

Then there’s the ever popular Christmas pink flamingo:

Not far from me, there are several houses on a street that have their lights flashing in synch with a local FM radio station. I don’t know that I find all that flash all that attractive, but one yard had a tree that cycled through several color iterations, and I quite liked that:

Well, you get the drift.

On another of my walking routes, I got a kick out of this snowman listing a bit. Maybe he was at the same party as the Palo Alto pig.

Snowflakes are apparently trending this year. I found strings of them in both LED and regular lights

Well, you can see that there’s a lot to keep someone like me amused, and I’m grateful for that.

I’m also grateful that—so far—no one’s called the cops on me as I prowl their neighborhoods, taking photos like I’m casing the joint.

All things bright & beautiful

Not sure whether Wired does these roundups of the week’s weirdest animal encounters on a, you know, weekly basis. If they do, I’m not sure why I’ve not come across them before this, but I’m totally glad I’ve found this one. Because…I just know that you cannot make this stuff up.

I mean—a “free-ranging monkey” (is that like free-range chickens?) “terrorizing” the suburbs of Marseille? Because it fell in with a bad lot of human monkeys who (wait for it) fed it the simian equivalent of junk food, chocolates. Le petit singe had to be Tased and is presumably currently in detox, with rehab to follow. Then: the appearances on the talk-show circuit.

New Jersey looms large in this weird in the wild. Well, as you’d expect, I suppose, because…New Jersey. Pink geese, rampaging rams; you gotta love it. Plus, the woman who will not believe the obvious explanation for her unicorn sighting goes a long way to explain the outcome of last month’s elections.

Kudos to the Amherst students who look upon their visiting moose as an opportunity to rethink their school mascot. I hope they give the new representative the obvious name of Bullwinkle. They could then take on a new persona in keeping with that celebrity’s own academic institution.

As for the orangutans at the Paignton Zoo in England: if I opened a Christmas package only to find Brussels sprouts, I’d wrap myself in burlap, too.

Any port in a storm

The other night I had a girls’ night out with a couple of friends and we exchanged our Christmas gifts. One of the prize ones for me was a paper menorah.

Look, I love any festival that involves light in the darkness, and I don’t understand why I have not acquired a menorah across the years, but Amy and Natalie made that right. It was even better because I unwrapped it exactly three minutes before Hanukkah officially started.

Plus Amy and Natalie knew how to put it together. I was basically useless.

Anyhow, we “lighted” the shamash and the first night’s candle, and then we went out for the traditional Persian meal.

We spent the rest of the evening driving around the Valley They Call Silicon, looking at holiday light displays.

Well, the next day I was cleaning up the menorah detritus, and had a good look at the package. First of all, I hadn’t realized it’s called “Port-a-Menorah”; but there it is.

But what I really got a kick out of was the blurb on the back:

Specifically, the product comparison matrix between the traditional menorah and the Port-a-Menorah:

It seems that one of the benefits of this version is that it’s “not a fire hazard.”

But only, apparently, if you don’t set it on fire.

I totally love these Port-a-Menorah people.

What was that flash?

Y’all know what a sucker I am for a flash mob. There’s something about the ephemeral nature of masses of individuals stepping out of a crowd, putting on a bang-up performance of one piece and then melting back into the environment. You truly have to be in the moment to catch it.

The people who started it all for me are the Random Acts of Culture lot and the Opera Company of Philadelphia. You’ll possibly recall their stupendous “Hallelujah Chorus” at the old Wanamaker’s mother ship in Philadelphia.

Well, the one I’m sharing with you today is in an Ikea, which turns out to be a terrific setting for the Papageno-Papagena duet from The Magic Flute.

Seriously—that birdlike popping up from amongst the housewares and faux foliage. Priceless.

Catastrophic failure

Right—time for some holiday glitz. And cats. Can’t have Christmas without tree-related catastrophes.

Seriously—I’ve experienced one or two of these situations, and all I can say is: if you’re putting up a tree in a pwned environment, stock up on spirits. You’ll need every drop.

In the bleak midwinter

The Ardennes is a tricky place—thickly forested with dense brush among the trees. You can’t imagine getting an infantry company through the area, much less a fully-mechanized army, with armor and artillery. But that’s exactly what the Germans did in May, 1940, surprising the daylights out of the French and British, who’d assumed the region essentially defended itself.

The Allies never recovered, and within six weeks, the British had retreated across the Channel, and the French had signed an armistice with the Germans.

In December 1944, the Ardennes again was lightly defended, mostly by American troops, many of whom were brand-new replacements—not combat veterans. Following the debacle at Arnhem in September, Allied dreams of the war being over by Christmas had shattered, but they at least thought they’d get something of a respite, so this sector was not considered at-risk. It was hard enough just staying warm in one of the coldest winters on record, and mostly without winter gear—not even gloves.

A lot of units that had been fighting across France since June had been pulled back from the front lines and the men given leave. Despite being aware that German forces were massing in the area of Aachen, Allied leaders were counting on the perfectly ghastly weather to provide their primary defense against attack. On 16 December, the British popinjay-in-chief Montgomery reported with his usual ex cathedra assurance, “The enemy’s situation is such that he cannot stage major offensive operations.”

But on 16 December (the day Montgomery also put in for Christmas leave to go to England) the Germans poured 200,000 men, including two Panzer armies spearheaded by 1^st SS Panzer Division into the Ardennes, directly at the American line. The overall troops were mixed, including tough veterans and scrapings of the very old and the very young from the Volkssturm. (Many of the numbers were leached from the armies facing the Soviets, thus substantially weakening the defenses in the east.)

Nonetheless, they had the advantage of total surprise (due to the failure of Allied intelligence to correctly interpret what data they did receive, which was less than usual because the Germans maintained strict radio silence), as well as that of facing largely inexperienced American replacements, thinly dispersed across the sector. And then there was the weather, with solid cloud cover rendering aerial reconnaissance impossible.

Plus—Panzers and SS divisions are never anything to be shrugged off.

When I consider the Ardennes campaign (which became known as the Battle of the Bulge because of the salient the Germans drove through the American line), what always stops me is how cold it was for those soldiers. I’m from Los Angeles; I know nothing from cold. Even after living in some seriously cold places, being in freezing weather has always been a matter of going from one warm place to another; not spending hours and days out in blowing snow, much less worrying about enemy infiltration.

I find horrifying the thought of huddling in shallow foxholes or makeshift shelters, being colder than you could ever imagine being and wondering if you’re completely alone in that frozen world, if you’ve been somehow forgotten in the Larger Execution of the War; no hot food, no radio, no TV, no video games, no electric blanket; nothing but snow, ice, mist and misery…

The coldest winter in years, with freezing fog making the world around them invisible. What a nightmare it must have been—to be in a foxhole, already scrabbling for warmth (not even gloves, remember?), just you and a couple of buddies, and suddenly you’re aswarm with assault troops you can’t see until they’re right on you.

Here’s the thing about this battle: while Allied commanders were emerging from their lousy intelligence-induced fugue, trying to assess the true nature of the attack and how to counter it, it was those weary, frightened, half-frozen untested infantrymen, in their twos and fives, who with rifle and grenade refused to give way. In the worst possible circumstances, they held their positions just long enough to scupper Hitler’s grand strategy.

Cut off from resupply, they fired and tossed until they had nothing left, which was just long enough for the generals to settle their whizzing contests and focus on the task at hand. Before Patton or even the 82^nd and 101^st could get there. They held off whatever was thrown at them until the weather broke on the 23^rd and more than 2000 fighter sorties were launched, as well as air drops of food, weapons and ammunition.

In their shivering and hungry twos and sixes and squads and platoons, they delayed tank brigades and shock troops just long enough to totally wreck the plan and leave Hitler’s ability to wage war on either front vastly diminished. He could replace neither the men nor the matériel he’d spent so profligately trying to dislodge those infantrymen.

As you’re preparing for your holiday festivities, perhaps going from one warm place to another, spare a thought to those men who stood their ground, their frozen, isolated ground, with nothing but small arms and grit, to hold off Hitler’s last best hope in the bleak mid-winter 70 years ago.

(Photos from Time-Life.)

Gratitude Monday: Healing sounds

Writing yesterday’s post got me thinking about the healing properties of music.

The thing about music—especially in the Age of the Interwebs—is that it’s easy to acquire. A couple of clicks on a streaming site and a pair of earbuds, and you can be immersed in whatever type of music feeds your soul at any particular moment, whether it’s Jay Z or Prokofiev.

But also, as shown in this NPR story, creating music is a way for the bereaved and the broken to share their pain, and thereby mitigate it. When his six-year-old daughter Ana was killed two years ago at Sandy Hook Elementary School, jazz musician Jimmy Greene was devastated. It took him months to be able to face any sort of music, which was one of Ana’s great joys. But eventually he built an album around his daughter’s memory, Beautiful Life.

One of the cuts is Greene’s take on “Maybe”, one of Ana’s favorite songs, from the musical Annie. Greene’s soprano sax approximates his daughter’s voice beautifully.

You should listen to it.

Songs of joy

I’ve been doing some thinking about joy recently. Which coincides nicely with this being Gaudete Sunday in the season of Advent.

There are many seasonal songs related to joy; one of my favorites is “Gaudete”, which dates well back into Renaissance times or beyond. The streaming of the polyphonies into and around each other makes me think of a flowing river, especially when sung a capella.

My favorite version is by Mediaevel Baebes. There’s something about the purity of all women’s voices to evoke the sense of joy for me.

Here are the refrain and first verse, in Latin and English, to get you started.

Gaudete, gaudete! Christus est natus

Ex Maria virgine, gaudete!

Tempus adest gratiæ

Hoc quod optabamus,

Carmina lætitiæ

Devote reddamus.

Rejoice, rejoice! Christ is born

Of the Virgin Mary – rejoice!

The time of grace has come—

what we have wished for,

songs of joy

Let us give back faithfully.

Here’s to joy—today and every day.