Thursday, December 31, 2009

Ideas for Your 2010 (music & books I fell in love with during 2009!)

If you're fortunate, you've already experienced the talents of these authors and musicians that occupied my brain space during '09....and if you haven't, you have something to look forward to!

These are my favorite discoveries of 2009...

The novels of Marisa de los Santos . Love Walked In and Belong to Me are heartwarming, unique stories of families...Marisa does an amazing job with her characters. They're genuine, real people -- people I'd love to know in real life.

I read sixteen novels by Elizabeth Berg this year. Sixteen. You can safely assume that she's amazing. Her novels are full of life -- family, friendship, the art of appreciating the small moments of a day. I'm in the middle of her book of writing advice, called Escape into the Open: the Art of Writing True. If you have any inclination to write, it's a must-read. It's friendly and encouraging -- and contains great writing exercises.

Sing Them Home, by Stephanie Kallos, is a novel about missing people. It's about how absences affect us, how our heritage affects's beautiful, really. I can't wait to read her other novel, Broken for You. It's on my list for the new year!

I'm not usually a sci-fi reader, but a friend recommended the John Twelve Hawks Traveler series and I was hooked after the first couple of pages...these novels are fast-paced, action-packed, and thought provoking. They make you step back, look at the world, and go -- whoa. There's a grid and we're all on it. It also opens up that realm of parallel-world kind of stuff, which is always fun.

My last stand-out suggestion, even though I can add more if anyone's interested, is Audrey Niffenegger's Her Fearful Symmetry. It's creepy and a little twisted -- the perfect historical/haunted/rainy October kind of book...

And as for music...I've always been a Bethany Joy Galeotti fan and she's part of a group called Everly...they haven't released a full album yet, but I'm eagerly anticipating it...check them out! And, um, this one!

Happy reading!

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Advice From Thoreau For The New Year

"If thou art a writer, write as if thy time were short, for it is indeed short at the longest." -Henry David Thoreau

Tuesday, December 29, 2009

For That Resolution...

And Christmas is over...just that fast. I spent the last days before the holiday with a pitiful baby girl - Kailey ended up with a sinus infection. She's finally perking up, but we had a rough few days. We had a good time with our families and we're still having a good time with the presents Santa left beneath the tree. Now I'm trying to make the
most of this vacation from school...and, of course, preparing for the new year.
And here's a bit of child-wisdom for you...
Neil and I were talking about our plans to diet in the new year and Sean piped up with his opinion on the subject. "Everyone's bigger than mouses, so don't panic about your bellies!"
It's really all about perspective, isn't it?

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

The Night Before the Night Before the Night Before Christmas

Dec. 22nd. 11:06 pm. Gifts bought? Check. Gifts wrapped? Ummm...half a check. Baked goodies baked? 3/4 of a check. Santa visit/picture successful? Not yet. House cleaned? HA!

It gets here so fast. It's no secret that a sick kid will bring havoc into the best laid plans...and this week has been no exception. Between the frenzy of Christmas plays/school parties/shopping (mostly on-line!) and Kailey being sick all week...well...I'm sort of where I didn't want to be. Exhausted with a to-do list still a mile long...but --

The kids were cute and crazy in their play at church. We've watched Charlie Brown and Home Alone (1&2) and the Grinch...we've eaten a ton of popcorn and sang Christmas carols nonstop...Kailey's learned to say 'Santa' and 'ho ho ho' (followed by exuberant applause)...Neil was awesome in the choir's Christmas service...and, after all is said and done, no matter how busy and tired and nuts this place is -- there is still that abiding truth beneath it all.

EMMANUEL. God is with us.

Tuesday, December 08, 2009

O Christmas Tree

As of Friday, the Christmas tree is finally up. We did have a few was leaning over at a precarious angle, branches kept snapping off, and half of the pre-lit tree wouldn't light, so there was much rearranging and adding of new lights...the star still doesn't work, but it'll stay where it is on top of the tree. Symbolism works just as well without a few bulbs, right? Sean and Christian were more excited than ever to help decorate, so the bottom half of the tree started out as interesting and becomes more Picasso-ish every day with Kailey's adjustments to the ornaments.
I love it when darkness falls outside and inside is full of twinkling, happy lights...there is no cozier feeling than sitting in a warm room with a Christmas tree.
It's one of those particular happy/achy feelings...because it reminds me of all the Christmases past with my family (and, as one song says, I miss them most at Christmas-time), fills me with hope and anticipation that this season will be magic for my kids (and the magic-making falls to Mommy--what a responsibility!), and...just a whoosh of peace that I wish could last forever. It's contentment I feel, with my kids snuggled on the couch (even when they're wrestling, as the boys always are) and the popcorn popping and their wild excitement when Daddy gets home from work...and I know these moments won't last forever. Which makes them even more precious.

Thursday, December 03, 2009

Those Christmas Bells

Simply gorgeous. (Click the title! ;))

Wednesday, December 02, 2009

A Classic Tale

"The Gift of the Magi"
by O.Henry

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty- seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.

While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.

In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."

The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.

Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.

There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pierglass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.

Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.

Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.

So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.

On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.

Where she stopped the sign read: "Mne. Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."

"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.

"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."

Down rippled the brown cascade.

"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.

"Give it to me quick," said Della.

Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.

She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of The Watch. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.

When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.

Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.

"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! what could I do with a dollar and eighty- seven cents?"

At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.

Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."

The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.

Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.

Della wriggled off the table and went for him.

"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."

"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.

"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"

Jim looked about the room curiously.

"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.

"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"

Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.

Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.

"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."

White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! a quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the lord of the flat.

For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jewelled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.

But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"

And them Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"

Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.

"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."

Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.

"Dell," said he, "let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."

The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house. But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts these two were the wisest. O all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.

Tuesday, December 01, 2009

Oh, Let it Snow!

Today there was frost on the car! As Sean said - "Jack Frost visited!" I think he did -- just in time to say, "It's the first day of December. Let's get winter-ish."

This poem by Robert Frost is one of my childhood favorites...I love how it conveys that feeling of a peace a snowy day's that rare feeling of true quiet. A blanket of snow (especially in the South!) forces us to take it slow down. There's nothing quite like freezing outside while you're throwing snowballs and then sitting inside with hot chocolate and a view of a natural wonderland. I am wishing wishing wishing for snow this Christmas....

"Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening"

-Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

And in the spirit of wishing, let me introduce you to the wonderful Bing Crosby.