Christmas Is Coming, the Goose is Getting Fat...

Christmas is coming.... It's practically here! I am excited! And I am freaking out, as I have done my usually overly-ambitious trick of deciding to make Christmas gifts, AND cards. I had four handmade gifts on my list: I have completed one, am halfway through two, and have one I have not even started on yet. The cards, at present, exist merely in my own imagination, nor has a single rough sketch appeared on paper. Now would be a good time to panic!

No, no. No panicking. I am Mahri! I work well under pressure!

(And who needs sleep anyway?)

But I am taking time out of my busy, busy life to say hello to all of you, my faithful readers, because I am just that nice. Or possibly, I am avoiding working on things I am supposed to be working on. Or maybe the scanty sleep I have been getting (a result of late night craftiness, and a tenacious cough that disturbs what sleep I do manage) has given me an effervescence that cannot be expressed in yarn and stitchery. Or possibly, it is because we've finally had real snow for the first time in years, and I an gleeful and restless, and need someone else to be giddy with me. There is a foot of snow outside right now, which is modest for our area, but more than we have seen in at least two years. It is cold. It is winter. And I - child of winter that I am - am in a state of mild euphoria over the glory of snow.

But clearly I must have some legitimate reason for coming on here and being chatty when I ought to be crafty. And I do, I really do! I have noticed with some disapprobation, that there is a shocking dearth of songs for Advent, and I am setting out to remedy the lamentable state of things. If you will glance at the sidebar in this space, you will observer an addition; a fancy new addition: a playlist entitled "Christmas is Coming: Songs for Advent" and it is the partial result of the authors trawling about youtube looking for things I want to listen to. 

And as I am in a bountiful mood, thanks to lack of sleep and abundance of snow, I thought it only right an fair that I share this list with you, sir.... 

And on that note, I can no longer stay, sir. For my tasks are glaring there are me, in a most unpleasant way, sir. (A chocolate cookie to whosoever knows the songs from which I paraphrase :-)

Gracious and Good Lord, We Bless You On This Feast of St. Nicholas....

Today is St. Nicholas Day, everyone! Happy feast day!

I've mentioned my fondness for St. Nicholas in this space before, and I shall not go into all that again today. Suffice it to say, St. Nicholas is a really great saint - a far more interesting character than the distant relative, Santa Claus - and one who deserves to be far better known than he is. 

My family has been celebrating St. Nicholas Day for years now. We leave out shoes, as per the custom, and St. Nicholas obliging fills them with candy and things. I usually light a candle in front of my very fine statue of the good saint (depicted in this very poor picture):

We are a very food oriented family. When a celebration is in the offing, we always start by planning what we're going to eat... and drink too, for that matter. There is always a nice dinner on St. Nicholas day. (There is a pot roast cooking at present, fragrant in a broth of rosemary and ale) We will often brew up a very hearty batch of bisschopswhijn which is perfect for the cold winter nights. It is all very festive, very fun, and thoroughly seasoned in tradition. What is not to love about it?

In celebration of the Day, here is a hymn in honour of the saint. 

This is a particularly interesting song, from a linguistic and historical point of view, being one of the earliest English language songs to be preserved with its lyrics

The words are as follows:

Sainte Nicholas, Godes druth

Timbray us faire scone hus

At thee burthe, at thee hare,

Sainte Nicholas, bring us well thare. 

With the translation:

Saint Nicholas, God's beloved,

Build for us a fine dwelling place

At time of birth, at time of death,

St. Nicholas, bring us safely there.

And on that note, may St. Nicholas bless and guide you all.

Fine and Dandy

As readers of this blog know - and, for that matter, anyone with whom I have had a conversation of any length - I have a rather quirky vocabulary. One I am not shy of using to its full potential. There are several factors to account for this. The first is that I have a Californian father, and a Midwest mother. The idiom of my speech reflects this, as I am as likely to say "okie dokie" and "alrighty then" as I am to say "cool". The second is my penchant for picking up words from books - and the books I read often contain a rather antiquated vocabulary. The last is the Irish/Scots influence. My go-to music is Irish/Scots. I watch a fair amount of British film and TV. I have a Scottish friend. The result is that, in addition to an unplaceable (and vaguely Newfie) accent, I have acquired a deal of non-American slang and idiom. And I am like to use words from any of these influences within a single conversation, and frequently within a single sentence.

At this point, the people who are around me on a daily basis take my singular manner of speaking in their stride. No one even blinked, for example when I used "felicitous" this morning to describe the happy outcome of a rather vexing situation. I forget that I don't exactly talk like everyone else. So when someone sees fit to comment upon my choice of words, I am a little surprised by the notice.

In a recent email exchange at work, my correspondent remarked, "I delight in your adjectives, as of late." I paused, and looked back at the last email I had sent. There was this sentence, the only one employing an adjective: "That's dandy." I stared at it for a while, suddenly and acutely aware of the fact that "dandy" is one of those words that I take for granted, and that take others by surprise. The longer I looked at it, the odder that word seemed. Where did "dandy" come from anyway?

As it turns out, no one knows. As far as anyone can tell, "dandy" in the sense I had used it - and in the phrase "fine and dandy" is a slang word of Scottish origin. Beyond that, it is an philological orphan, albeit, tentatively related to a number of other "-dand-" words throughout various European languages. And to make it even more difficult, all of those "-dand-" have indeterminate origins.

Curiouser and curiouser! Furthermore, there is apparently a sub-level of etymology of which I had hitherto been in ignorance: extinct slang, which (apparently) dies out, leaving only unexplainable words (hello, dandy!) to show that it had ever existed. Why the idea of secretive etymology should delight me so much, is a mystery, but I am hugely intrigued by this.

And, if you have made it through all my mandering to this point, I take it for granted that you have had your curiosity piqued as well. In which case, by all means, read this dandy article. It is fascinating and fun. 

Rambling From a Distracted Blogger

It is that time of year - almost fall, with an edge to the wind, a smell in the air, a gilding of yellow showing through the the foliage.... Autumn, the time of adventure, the time when I feel that I must take to the hills, fight trolls, slay dragons, bring home pots of gold to donate anonymously to good causes. I love autumn, but it makes me hugely restless. 

So I attempt to placate this restlessness by walks, in which I collect feathers, and bits of glass, and pretty rocks. Sometimes, I get all creative and draw things:

Le Steller's Jay Feather

Sometimes, I get all introspective, and attempt poetry. Mostly, I have not been having much luck with that, though occasionally, I manage to finish something before the wind sends wanderlust rushing through my veins, and I decided that all is straw:

When they, ravening, gather round me

With keen-edged words that cut me sore;

When I, in anger, and alone, 

Hold the the heart they broke in two - 

May I remember Calvary:

The wounds and words which once Thou bore;

Forgive - as Thou, Who died alone - 

Those, who know not what they do.

Mostly, through, I just read. Sometimes, I even find a book that makes me so happy, that for a time I forget all about going adventuring, and just enjoy my book,

The Moving Toyshop is one such book - and idiotic, farcical romp of a mystery. The detective: one Gervase Fen, an Oxford don, who exclaims, "Oh, my fur and whiskers!" when he is deeply stirred. Who freely, and without warning quotes from various works of literature and the Classics, Who drives at breakneck speed, a horrific vehicle, which he calls Lily Christine III. He is slightly mad, hugely well-read, impulsive, and totally unconcerned about the opinions of the world at large. 

The book itself just bowls along from one ridiculous situation to another. It is a very light work, but it contains a huge amount of literary illusion in it. I don't always get the references, but when I do, I snicker, for they are generally very witty. Even if one is not well-read enough to catch all the illusions, there is plenty of humour to be found. Take, for example, this scene, in which our intrepid investigator, hot on the trail of a Person of Interest, has crashed a choir practice, and is attempting to blend in:

Fen's voice, though penetrating, was neither tuneful nor accurate.

"We STAAAAY not," he came in suddenly, "but WAAAANDER." Several of the basses in the front turned round as if someone had struck them in the back. "We grief-laden," Fen pursued unconcernedly, "grieee-EEEF-laden mortals!"

Or this scene, in which Fen felt the need of an alias, whilst laying low at a public house, close to Oxford, and filled to the gills with literary folk, and is summon the the phone my a porter:

“Telephone call for Mr. T. S. Eliot!” he piped. “Mr. T. S. Eliot?”

To everyone’s surprise, Fen said “That’s me,” got up, and went out, pursued by the interested gaze of the other persons in the bar

Or the mad chase scene towards the end, where everyone even remotely connected with the case, joins in pursuit of a suspect - a pursuit on foot, as they have all be drinking rather freely, and the suspect was the only person to come equipped with a wheeled conveyance:

In any event, just as Fen was wasting his breath in chanting (rather inappropriately) "but with unhurried chase and unperturbed pace, deliberate speed, majestic instancy..."  he ran down the lane that leads to Parson's Pleasure, abandoned his bicycle, flung sixpence and the gate-keeper and disappeared inside.

There is even a passing reference during that chase, of the throng passing The Bird and Baby - a reference that made me wildly delighted. The Bird and the Baby is a public house, properly named The Eagle and Child, which was the gathering spot of the Inklings, back in the day. The Moving Toyshop was published in the 40s, which was when Tolkien was labouring over his first drafts of The Lotd of the Rings (Strider was still a hobbit named Trotters at the time.) In my mind, Tolkien and the Lewises were forgathered in the pub while Fen and his cohorts rushed past, but were so busy making the sort of scenes that they always made in public, that they did not notice the ruckus going on outside.

The Moving Toyshop is probably one of the most satisfactory things I have had the pleasure of reading in a long time. I would heartily recommend it to anyone who is in need of a good laugh, and a darned good read

And on that note, I sink back into the ether. Good night, all!

We Haven't Done A Library Post In A While

If I had to choose one picture - and one picture only - to summarise the last week or two or three..... or five.... or maybe, the last few months at the library, this one would be it. It ias been crazy...... craaaaazy.... And if coconuts truly are the epitome of craziness, I would have to say that the library is full to the roof of crazy-as-a-coconut people. 

There are all the usual suspects, of course: shady and somewhat mentally diminutive elderly fellows, who suddenly feel obliged to say weird things your's truly, in such a tone and with such a look, that I cannot tell if they have mistaken me for someone else - someone with whom they have an intimate relationship, or if they are attempting to be sexy and pick up a cute young thing, or if there is a bit of genuine 'interest in you as a person' going on. There are the year-round, semi-indigents, who have been such regular customers, that there are times when we (the legitimate library staff) must remind them that they are guests, not branch managers.There are the poor folk whose mental state is shaky at best, who hang about all day long, for days on days, and with whom one has a motherly relationship. ("Have you taken your medication today? No? Well maybe you shouldn't drink any more of that 16 litre Coco-Cola until you've done that. You're going home to do that now?  Splendid!") 

And then, there are people who tell you stories like this:

"Hey... I got a sea story  to tell you!"

Boss and self, finding that we are cornered, assume looks of polite interest. "Oh, yes?" we say.

"Yeah! It was is a story about the Atlantic! I was in Louisiana, near the coast... "

(Self becomes distracted, trying to come up with anyway for Louisiana to be on the Atlantic Ocean.)

".... You know, the coast around New Jersey..."

(Self begins to feel unequal to the task of maintaining a politely interested expression. Self also biting tongue, so as not to correct a lunatic's geography.)

"Yeah, so I am sitting there on a beach, you know, watching the waves and the sand. Livin' the moment, you know...."

An expectant pause... Boss and self nod in complete understanding.

"And then, you know, there's this hole. Just like that. Right in front of me. A hole. And as I'm sitting there, livin' the moment, I start to notice that it's spurting water out. And then it goes all quiet again and I forget about about... and then there is water spurting out again."

"Tide coming in?" Self inquires, in an effort to speed this story along. (If Pippin, from the movie version of The Two Towers had heard me, he would have told me, "Don't talk tae it, Mahri, don't encourage it!")

"So then, this totally hot babe goes by. Dressed in high heels... Fur coat. Classy babe. And I say, 'Hey! Look at that hole! There's water shooting out! Do you have a watch? I want to time how often it happens.' And so she sits next to me, and holds out her diamond encrusted Rolex, and we time it together... and... and it is five minutes apart....."

A prolonged silence. Storyteller's face convulses. Boss and self remain polite for a few more moments. Denouement not forthcoming, boss says, "Yes?"

"And that's all I got." He turned on his heels and left without another word.

Well, the library being the library, and the sort of clientèle we serve, being what it is, we were soon up to our ears with other curious incidents, nor overly bothered at being left in suspense as to the nature of the water-spouting hole, in Louisiana... or New Jersey, as the case may be. The next couple days were spent in waking up people who had fallen asleep at the computer and drooled all over the keyboard. Or in telling the human snail with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder that he cannot store the entirety of his possession in our meeting room. Or listening to stories about the increase in fairy abductions. Also, there is the fielding of inappropriate inquiries -  "do you know what I am thinking now?" with a leer. "I choose not to delve too deep into a strangers' mind", self says, cleverly extricating herself... And let us not forget the woman who had scribbled tattoos all over both arms with a Sharpie, who came charging up to unsuspecting people, placed her face uncomfortably close to their, and demanded that they sell her a cigarette. When they, fearing for their lives, back up, averring that they had no cigarettes, she answered, mysteriously, "Well, then, you're not him." Then she stalk away muttering, "Did you see that? Something's wrong.... People are getting annihilated all over the place here. She was, quite frankly, rather terrifying, and as none of the Mental Health services were available, we called the cops on her. She obligingly lunged at the officer and was taken away in handcuffs...

Indeed, so much drama occurred in the time between the cliffhanger, and the return of the storyteller, that he had quite nearly been forgotten.... He was not the forgetting type, however. A couple days later, he marched in and without preamble announced: "One word: think sand crabs" before walking back out again.... and that was the end of that story.

At present, I am rather tired of people. All people. Crazy people in particular. I feel that if I have to be around them much longer, I too will be crazy as a coconut.

At least my car still runs.

A Harvest of Days

Well, for all of you who find my calamity stories so funny: I am sorry. Today, you do not get a funny story. My car, I am happy to report is still running. The jury is still out as to whether it will truly "run forever" as the English mechanic avers, but it has run for a whole week without the need of boiling water or jiggling wires. And I have taken it off the hill thrice. So perhaps, it shall whinny with us for some months longer.

At present, I am sleepy, so if there are any glaring errors is spelling, grammar, or punctuation in this post, you will know it is because I have scarcely been to bed in 2 days. It is not because I am ailing - oh no, not at all! Quite the contrary. I have not had so splendid a set of days in some time. The dratted White Dog of Life has been distracted for the time being, and I find that I can stand up in the puddle of my existence without being bowled over. The World Pipe Band Championships took place on Friday and Saturday, and as usually, there was a live stream of the proceedings, for those who wanted to observe the event in real time. I, obviously, was amongst that number, so I dragged myself out of bed at 2 ack emma, so that I might have the pleasure of gluing myself to a computer screen for the next 7 hours, and listening to band after band play the most astonishing music. 

Here is quite a low-quality picture of the blogger, taken
with my pathetic wee phone camera. It is about 3 am,
and I am drinking coffee from an appropriate vessels, whilst
wearing my Inverary and District Pipe Band shirt.

Last year's competitions were quite exceptional, and there were a few sets that were mile-markers. This year... Oh, this year! The piping was transcendent. By the time a mere handful of bands had played, the bar had been set so high that you began to feel as if this could not possibly be mortal men, standing there in a circle on Glasgow Green. Perhaps the Fair Folk had come out of the Hollow Hills and were enchanting us all with fairy music.... Do not mock. At 3 in the morning it seemed a very real explanation for the quality of music we were being treated too. I have no idea how the judges were able to produce a winner, the puir men, nor did I envy them the task. Suffice it to say, the title of Champion, after dwelling with Field Marshall Montgomery these last three years, has gone back to Scotland, With Shotts and Dykehead taking the honours, and my two favourite bands, St. Lawrence O'Toole and Inverary and District, coming in 2nd and 3rd, with only a point between them. I have had as near to my fill of piping as I have ever had, and the world is Good.

Here the blogger, having been out of her bed for 5 hours,
is treating herself to a pre-breakfast glass of Laphroaig,
whilst cheering on her favourite bands

Add to that, the unexpected treat of having Mass on the Feast of Our Lady in Harvest (otherwise know as the feast of the Assumption) and a splendid dinner of barbecued corned beef, with potatoes and carrots (also prepared on the grill as we DO NOT turn on the indoor cooking equipment in this weather) not to mention the luxury of two extra days off from work, and you have yourself one well contented blogger. If only every weekend could be like this!

I have also been attempting to apply myself to my arts lately. (My, aren't we preening!) I have produced a few passible little miniatures over the last month or so:

There us this beehive:

And this curious little medieval dragon and border:

There is this painting. There is a marshy bit of meadow, a couple miles from my home, where a little river comes out to the lake. We've been in a drought for long enough, that the grass comes down nearly to the lake in a wide swath of marsh grass and wild flowers. I like to walk down there if it is cool enough in the evening, and watch the sunset. I came home from one such jaunt and made a paint sketch of it - free hand. No preliminary drawing, just wet washes laid down quickly on top of each other, and a bit of drier painting on top for detail:

And lastly, there is this ladybird beetle - otherwise known as a ladybug in the US - painted up yesterday, for the feast of the Assumption, this particular insect being named for Our Lady:

And lastly, I have been trying to write poetry. I am not entirely sure why I am struggling so much with it. I have attempted four poems in the last month, and none of them have made it through the creative process. I still think the ideas behind them are quite good. I just can't get them out on to paper. This one came to me a couple days ago. The weather has been a bit warm of late, and the summer sun here at nearly 6,500 feet, is piercing, but the nights are getting the least bit cooler, and there is a bit of autumn in the wind. So I wrote this:

Turning From the Sun

The air lies heavy still, with heat

And still too fiercely burns the sun -

Too bright the blue, unclouded sky,

Too hard the earth, for want of rain.

But winds have come now, edged and sweet,

And copper needles, slanting down,

A chill curls where deep shadows lie,

And clouds give hope of green again.

Maybe we will finally have a proper winter here on the West Coast, and the drought will ease, if not leave entirely. I miss snow in winter, and green growing things in summer. 

Semper Gumby

See this thing:

From Wikihow

That is a car battery terminal. That is where you clamp the red or black wires to the car's battery. Everyone who has ever had cause to open the hood of a car and glimpse the battery, knows what a terminal is, even if they don't know they know it. 

Here's the thing about battery terminals - they are subject to corrosion. And corroded terminals are a bloody nuisance. They cause your car - which has had its alternator replaced twice in one week - to lose its charge as it sits in your driveway overnight with the engine off, so that when you go out a bit early, intending to run an errand before heading off to work...You find yourself subjected to that increasingly familiar experience of sitting in a car that is so dead, even the dashboard lights quit on you when you attempt to start it. 

And Your mechanic is then subjected to the weekly wail of a stranded and very fed-up female.

"What's your car doing?" the laconic and unflappable English voice demands.

"Its not doing anything. Its just sitting there, and won't start."

"All right, Lovely, I'll tell you what you do. Just pop up under the hood, and look for the black wire on the battery terminal and give it a bit of a jiggle."

"Battery terminal" you repeat dutifully, walking out, phone in hand to the car.

"Right. It will be the one on the right - right up there under the fender. Just give it a bit of a jiggle."

You obediently pop up under the hood and jiggle the black wire on the terminal - which you already knew how to find - it being, after all, the only jiggleable black thing on the battery. Then you try it again - upon which the car gives you a wheezy cough before lapsing back into a coma.

"It didn't start." you say.

"Riiiight. Ok, then. Here's what I want you to do. Boil up some water, right? It needs to be boiling...."

"Right." 

"And then you pour it all over the terminal. Got that? Boiling water. All over. Give it a jiggle. And it will start right up and run forever."

"Right."

"And be really, really careful not to get any of the water that will come pouring off on to your clothes. Because anywhere it splashes.... it will leave a little hole."

"O... K....."

"Right. Give me a call back if it doesn't start. That's all it needs - well a new terminal really, but I can't do that from here. My arms aren't long enough. So just pour boiling water all over it and that will be you."

So, after vowing to replace the terminal as soon as possible, you take yourself off to boil water and fetch it back. You pour boiling water all over the terminal, taking care to avoid splashing little holes on to your clothing. You gingerly give the black terminal wire another bit of a jiggle and sit behind the wheel, feeling something like a mad scientist, about to test his newest theory. To your relief, the car does start right up, as though its brush with death never happened. Whether it will run forever remains to be seen, but so far, it has carried through the day. You might not have to hit it with a hammer after all.

And you know a new trick. Fancy that.