The story of Carrot

May I introduce you to Carrot?
Lovely readers, this is Carrot.
Carrot, lovely readers.

Many years ago, before Carrot even had a name, he was an Easter gift to a youngish wife from her slightly romantic husband, Jeff.
On good days, he sat atop their nicely made bed.
On bad days, which was mostly, he languished on the floor, where he had been thoughtlessly tossed as the youngish wife crawled into bed after long days of refereeing four children.

Then, after several years of increasing prosperity, Rabbit's owners added a very tasteful storage bench to their bedroom accoutrements. It was placed at the bottom of their four-poster bed and the wife thought to herself, Self, that silly rabbit would look very nice sitting on this tasteful bench. So she retrieved him from his ignominious heap of rabbitdom on the floor and sat him in the corner of the bench.

But then she noticed, oh horror, that Rabbit was a tad crusty. On closer inspection, wife indentified it as dried milk. How dried milk had been spilt on Rabbit could hardly be imagined, unless it happened during those surreptitious forays into the under-the-bed chocolate stash. Which were always accompanied by a glass of cold milk. So wife cleaned up the old rabbit till he was as good as new and placed him lovingly on the bench.

And there he sat.
Unless he was on the floor, having been dumped, yet again, as not-so-young wife hunted for treasures in the storage bench.

Then one day, not too long ago, definitely-not-young wife decided that, sentiment aside, it was time for Rabbit to meet the Goodwill bag. So she girded her loins (wherever she could find them) and hurriedly stuffed him into the bag.

But wait, all is not lost for Rabbit!

Dum-de-dummmm!

A few days later, he was discovered by four intrepid grandchildren and gloriously named Carrot.
They played with him, fought over him, and called him by his name, over and over again.
Carrot, Carrot, Carrot!
They took him home for sleepovers.
But they always brought him back to Nana's house.
Who does not dare to ever throw him out again.

Which is kind of a happy ending for Carrot, don't you think?

Gathering the chickens

Jenny and the boys are in Utah visiting family.

Jon is working.

Sam and Charlie are dreaming of a wedding.

Well, Sam is! 

Annie and Edwin and baby Elsie will be leaving for California in a matter of hours.

The family is coming together again.

We ate stuffed pasta shells for Christmas Eve dinner with Bethany's family tonight. 

We exchanged a motley assortment of gifts.

The little darlings each got two (not one, but two!) pairs of pyjamas from Nana and Papa for Christmas. They were suitably impressed and immediately changed into them. 

Quick, photo time, I cried. Looks like good blog fodder to me!

No Nana, not about us, said Daniel.

Daniel, Nana always writes about us, said Kenzie, in a world-weary voice.

It was a challenge.

Our clever son-in-law fixed up our desk-top computer for Christmas. 

No more snail pace every time Norton is running.

And a sleek new keyboard.

We gave Chris a mop for Christmas.

It was a very nice mop.

It's a bleak mid-winter night outside....

....but here inside, the fire is quite delightful!

We'll spend tomorrow getting ready for our road trip and eating leftovers.

Merry Christmas to you, my admirable readers, and all that you love.

Stay tuned for sunny tidings.

A little sadness in the air

I am sad to report that Bethany is no longer pregnant. We went to get an ultrasound last week and the doctor announced, rather off-handedly and with no preliminary, that there was no baby. I could have strangled him and, in retrospect, I probably should have. He wasn't sure what happened, but the baby did not develop. 

So, for the last week, Bethany has been dealing with the physical and emotional fallout from that abrupt pronouncement. She called me this morning and said Mom, I need you to come out here. It is unlike her to be demanding, so I made some calls to reschedule my appointments and off I went.

Hoo-ee, those four little darlings can wreck a house in no time at all when Mommy's feeling under the weather. I rampaged around, putting kids to work and doing laundry and feeding everybody. 

The weather outside was....delightful!

After setting the house (downstairs at least) to rights, making sure Bethany was going to survive the day, upsetting Natalie enough that she took a nap, and putting Chris to folding mounds of laundry, I headed for home. 

I brought Kenzie and Daniel with me.

They lost no time in ferreting around to see if there was anything worth mooching.

Kenzie walked out of the sewing room with a nice little journal that I've been saving for a random gift. She wanted to know where I got it. 

From the store, I answered.

Duh!

Later, I found this on my bedroom door.

What a con artist that girl has become!

So then, of course, Daniel wanted one too.

Why, I have no idea!

I told him I didn't think I had another one.

Which just goes to show how much I know!

The Friendly Beasts

Hit the play button.
Please.





Jesus, our brother, strong and good,
was humbly born in a stable rude.
And friendly beasts around him stood,
Jesus, our brother, strong and good.




"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown,
"I carried his mother, uphill and down.
I carried his mother to Bethlehem town," 
"I," said the donkey, shaggy and brown.




"I," said the cow, all white and red,
"I gave him my manger for his bed.
I gave him my hay to pillow his head."
"I," said the cow, all white and red.




"I," said the sheep, with curly horn,

"I gave him my wool for his blanket warm.

He wore my coat on Christmas morn',"

"I," said the sheep, with curly horn.

"I," said the dove from rafters high,
"I cooed him to sleep so he would not cry..
We cooed him to sleep, my mate and I."
"I," said the dove from rafters high.

Thus all the beasts, by some good spell,
In the stable dark, were glad to tell
Of the gifts they gave Emmanuel,
Of the gifts they gave Emmanuel.

P.S. Here is a longer, but masterful, version by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and Brian Stokes Mitchell.



You're welcome.

A little Reggae never hurt anyone

Well, no one answered the question I asked in my last post.
Too bad for you, it could have been worth something.
Look for the very small writing under the post title.

Now, hit the play button and listen to a little reggae while you read.
It won't hurt a bit. You can trust me.


Today, I had two preschool music groups in the morning  (both first-timers so I had no idea what to expect), an elderly group in the early afternoon and then six piano lessons in quick succession. It was one of those days where I wake up and see the day looming ahead of me and wonder what the heck I have done to myself.
Now, from the declining end of the day, I can look back and see how good it was.

The first preschool group was adorable, if slightly rag-tag. I love how music creates a container for the energy of little children. Even in a big open area, a dozen children will sit in a circle with me and it will feel like our very own intimate space. We sang Christmas carols and played jingle bells and generally had a whale of a time.

The next group was a freebie for the Cultural Center. I am quite dismayed by their lack of marketing, but there were three children with various grown-ups and we had an entertaining time. Hopefully, word will spread and I will have a group come January.

Some lighter moments from the memory care facility:

I was wearing jeans and a white camisole under a blue sweater. As I was wandering the room, playing my guitar, one old dear kept motioning to me, pointing to my behind. I thought maybe there was a thread or something that was bothering her, so I positioned my derrier in front of her reaching hands.
But no.
She didn't like my camisole hanging beneath my sweater.
So I tucked it up underneath and she was perfectly happy.
Oh.
Okay.
Maybe a girl of my vintage shouldn't be wearing things hanging out from beneath my sweaters anyway.

Then, after we finished a rousing rendition of Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen, sweet R., who usually sleeps through most of the session, looked up at me with wide-awake eyes and said What trouble have you seen? 
Wow.
I didn't want to share my worst troubles with her, way too complicated, so I told her how my Dad died when I was twenty and how I miss him.
Oh, that's so sad, she said, her eyes misting over.
And what troubles have you seen? I asked.
She thought for a moment and told me her grandpa died.
I love it when music awakens the sensibilities of my elderly clients.

Piano lessons were likewise very sweet today. We're getting ready for a Christmas recital at the care home and the kids love their Christmas songs. One little boy, who has been, shall we say, a little reluctant, has taken a shine to Jingle Bells. He did a magnificent job of playing it today and so I high-fived him when we finished.
I knew I was good, he said, beaming.
So we played it again while his sisters accompanied us on the guiros.
Awesome.

All things shall perish from under the sky.
Music alone shall live, music alone shall live,
Music alone shall live, never to die.

Blast this Christmas music!

It's joyful and triumphant. 
Who said that?

This song takes me right back to the 70's. It was written in 1956, the year I was born, oddly enough. It was first recorded by Harry Belafonte (and hit the top of the UK charts in 1957) and has been covered by such shining stars as Mahalia Jackson, Andy Williams, John Denver, The Lettermen, Nat King Cole, Rolf Harris (yes, that Rolf Harris!) and, sad to say, The Wiggles. 

In 1978, Boney M.'s version rocked it again to the top of the UK charts. 

I love Boney M.

I used to have a cassette tape that had survived from my youth. We used to rock out to it as we drove the interstates in our old non-air-conditioned Colt Vista. 

By the Rivers of Babylon.

Brown Girl in the Ring.

Sunny.

Ahhh, sweet memories.

I love road trips.

I dare you not to jig a little.

You might even sing along.

Best.

Christmas.

Song.

Ever.

Bi-lingual happiness

Jenny's Mom is visiting, all the way from Peru, so we had them over to dinner on Sunday. I was flummoxed by what to have for dinner, because I wanted Elsa to enjoy it and Peruvian tastes are a little different than most Americans. 

Then, Sunday morning (one of those Sundays, with too many things to accomplish by the end of the day) I had a brainwave. 

We would have soup (corn chowder, because Peruvians love corn) and fresh wheat bread. 

It was Elsa's birthday on Saturday and I wanted to make a cake, but knew I didn't have time. Again, inspiration in the way of flan. 

Peruvians love flan.

And, it is easy. Go here for my fave flan recipe.

The meal was simple but successful. Elsa had two helpings of soup.

Te gusta sopa, Elsa? says I, in my best Spanish accent.

Si, si, she replied, with a big grin on her face.

Jon got in the dog-box with Jenny because he ate a helping of flan.

He tells her he doesn't like flan, she said.

Bad Jon.

Jenny's mom doesn't speak one word of English.

We got along really well.

Maybe that is why.

Did you know flan is flan in English and Spanish?

Afterwards, we made the most of our bi-lingualness and sang a few rousing verses of Feliz Navidad.

I'll tell you what, we know how to have a good time at our house!

My low E string was broken, hence the strange strumming pattern.

Which reminds me, gotta add that to my list for today.

I've been blogging too much lately, considering all the other tasks sitting on my list.

But it makes me strangely happy.

Try the flan recipe, it will make you happy too.

So will this video.