Scarves

Ever have one of those days (or weeks, months or year) that saps your photogenic-ness?

Most of the time, I feel like I fall into the camp of normal in terms of appearance, "feel" being the operative word. Yet when I see myself in digital photos, or any photo, I recoil in shock. "Who is she?" I think. "Is that what I look like?" It's not even that the person I'm looking at the photo is so scary, it's just that "she" is so unfamiliar. Often, what I see does not reflect how I feel I look. It's a bit disconcerting.

Enough of that. We've all experienced it. It's the same sensation I experience when listening to my own voice on an answering machine: "No, that's not me! That's not how I sound ... is it?" We listen to (or look at) ourselves and wonder how we 've managed to create any kind of existence on this planet, given the ___________ (insert appropriate adjective here) qualities of our voice/appearance/aura!

The point of this post is some good news: we found a solution for the photo shock phenomenon over the Christmas break, and its name is Scarf! (Still working on the voicemail problem ...)

Elaine gave us these lovely pashmina scarves. They are soft and comfy and very vibrant. Yes, we started out by taking pictures with our faces showing and scarves wrapped around our necks. I have about 10 of them in iPhoto. After looking at all of them, I had to metaphorically delete the lot. Too horrible to post. I kept pressing "enhance," and nothing happened.

But this second batch from the scarf photoshoot works very, very well.

These boots were made for ...

Kyle's grandmother MawMaw has often passed along stylish shoes and clothing items that didn't quite fit or work in some way. She's a champion shopper & I always appreciated these gifts.

I especially appreciate these boots that came my way right before Christmas. They didn't quite fit MawMaw's feet, but they work perfectly on mine! Check out the zippy zipper. I zippily wore them to teach Sunday School the day after I received them, and one class member told me (after the lesson) that I should consider dressing as Wonder Woman for Halloween next year.

When packing up for our Minnesota trip, space was tight. I packed two pair of shoes (knowing that I could borrow from family members, of course). Pair #1 was brown Chuck Taylors, for "casual outings." Pair #2 was these boots.

Us

Here are some family photos. Annie looks darling. She and her cousins wore matching dresses. (I'll post those pictures later this week.) We even curled her hair. I look festive too. My (overly) bright hair matches the backdrop quite nicely! And my dear son? His expression amuses me deeply. I've nicknamed this look "Surly Youth." The funny thing is, he doesn't mind sitting on my lap, snuggling close or posing for photos. He doesn't want to do it for hours, but he's okay with the folderol in small doses.

And yet ... this picture in particular captures something adolescent that seems to be looming.

I'm a little scared, to tell the truth.

A great holiday.

We loved being here.

I've celebrated Christmas Day in St. Cloud for 31 years. That's something, isn't it?

A White Christmas can mean many things ... kinda like saying an Italian restaurant. There's no indication of quality in the statement. But this year was absolutely beautiful. The snow was plentiful too. We even had a blizzard and the Yarringtons managed to arrive on time!

It was a merry time indeed. We had a sacred Christmas Eve program, an active Wii ongoing competition, plenty of sledding and sliding, hot cocoa galore, and some late-ish nights playing games and visiting.

Now it's time to leave the north.

Usually when we fly into Houston in January, the weather is warm-ish and the grass is green. I'm not sure what to expect tomorrow, however.

We'll be sad, that's for sure.

It's hard to leave here and go back to there, wherever here and there happen to be.

Christmas cards

The ability to put together a Christmas card/family letter, address all the envelopes and send them out during the holiday season is task beyond me. Yes, I help my mother put together our nuclear family newsletter, but I'm not the person in charge. My dad goes to Kinko's, my mom keeps track of the funny sayings all year, my siblings help with addressing the envelopes, and so forth. Just gathering the addresses of friends and family members feels beyond me. All of my address books have been repurposed by Annie. (She has a shelf of journals, notebooks, diaries and such, and likes to list all of her friends on the once-empty lines.)

I have so much admiration for people who accomplish the card ritual on a regular (yearly) basis. I love receiving cards and letters and notes from these admired people ... but I can't seem to do it myself. In fact, if I were to create a personal definition for the word daunting, sending out Christmas cards would be part of that definition.

Perhaps if I borrowed the words from Robert Frost, I could make it happen in 2010. Isn't this a neat story about his Christmas card tradition? I didn't realize that "Birches" was written as part of this yearly ritual! Here's another poem - "Christmas Trees" - that Frost wrote to be included in this greeting enterprise. What a wonderful poet.I love the images of these cards too, especially the blue card with a constellation of stars.

Aid

This is Elizabeth. We have been friends since college. Not sure how this is possible, but I have known Elizabeth for 15 years. That really feels like a typo. We worked together and wrote brilliantly individually but near each other for the Battalion, our college newspaper. Elizabeth taught me how to be a vegetarian. She also taught me how to organize my shirts in rainbow color order, although I don't actually do that. But she does. Elizabeth is amazing.

Elizabeth lives in Washington D.C. She does good work well on behalf of cyclists! I love to visit her. I think I have been there  5 times ... so far! I love visiting Elizabeth in Texas and D.C. for the jokes, the laughs, the food, the commentary, and the wise words. Elizabeth helps me value myself.

She's a warrior.

Elizabeth and her husband Jason have a darling son, a scrumptious baby daughter, and a charming home that is filled with tasty treats from Trader Joe's and color-coded book shelves. (Maybe even rainbow order.) They are mindful thoughtful people, and what they eat/purchase/cook demonstrates that ethos, from farmer's market meat and eggs to baked-from-scratch cookies. They have not stuffed their baby full of processed food products the way some of us have. ("Yes, Annie, you can have another fruit roll-up.")

I admire this very, very much.

Meanwhile, in Texas, I am stumbling along, remembering and looking forward to food-ier days. Sometimes it's hard to remember when I used to check out Indian cookbooks from the library and savor dinner possibilities. I used to have a food calendar. Didn't follow it every night, but I had a list of various menu possibilities, and in my desire to categorize, sometimes we had various ethnic cuisines on certain evenings, like Italian food on Sundays or Asian food on Saturdays. I even invited people to eat in my home.

But I'm in a different life stage. I'm still trying to make meals, but short cut is the name of the game. I often do not have/recognize/make/take the time for anything more than that. It was with pleasure, then, that I set out to make sugar cookies on Friday morning. I was bringing all the fixings for a cookie decorating station to Graham's class party, and the fixings included sugar cookies. I thought about purchasing plain cookies but decided to make them myself since I had some time in the morning. My semester is over, and by goodness, I'm going to cover my hands in butter, sugar and flour!

While preparing the dough, however, I remembered that I don't have a rolling pin. That was one kitchen implement I did not take in the move. I certainly got more than my fair share of dishes, pots, pans and appliances, but Kyle took the rolling pin. He was always the master baker anyway. In the year and a half we've lived here, I haven't rolled out any dough. (I haven't rolled in any dough either!) I've made cookies, but only the buy-a-mix,-drop-them-on-the-pan variety. That's kind of sad, but we haven't been hurting for treats around here. Also, I had just been to the grocery store. I needed to get the cookies in the oven if they had any chance of cooling before the party.

So what to do? Improvise!

Lucky for me, I just happen to keep this empty Topo Chico bottle handy in my kitchen. Mostly I used it to water plants, but I also keep it around because I like saying the words "topo chico". I like chilled Topo Chico (just bubbly water, really) on hand, especially during the summer. I like the design of the bottle too. The design, in fact, is just right for use as a rolling pin. By the time I figured out the perfect flour consistency on the "floured" surface and pressed down hard on the glass, I was rolling out sliver thin dough circles and stamping Christmas trees and snowmen-shaped cookies. Thank goodness for my giant bucket of cookie cutters. Glad to put them to use.

 

Most of the cookies turned out fine, but the last baking sheets stayed in too long, and with my gas oven, a moment too long is a lifetime too long. I've learned the scorchingly hard way that a gas-powered oven, and a middle-aged one at that, can be brutally unforgiving. This torched snowman tells the sad tale. I put in the last trays, then went to get ready for the class parties, then got ready, then smelled burning snowman cookie flesh. It was not my high point as a pastry chef! There were enough cookies for the children to decorate, but I was still frustrated!

So imagine my utter delight when, on Friday night after helping friends move, I came home in the dark (to a kitchen with flour still dusting its counters and dead snowmen still on a sheet on the oven)  and saw this giant box waiting quietly on my porch. I screamed in the van! Screams of joy!

Oh no she didn't! I said to myself. I knew a mixer was coming but didn't realize it would be a KitchenAid. (Long story.) In the three days since Elizabeth called and required me to tell her a color preference lest she order a mustard yellow something/something for me, I just kept picturing a smallish handmixer on its way. I was expecting something a little lower down the appliance totem pole, and was shocked! struck! hit! with the enormity of this gift. Topo Chico!

I may not yet make cookies at Elizabeth's level (it was at her home that I discovered lemon sugar cookies, and we know what happened when I tried swapping out a few ingredients last year), but you can bet I'm going to be thinking of her every time I whip up an airy cake or finger-licking meringue. (I've never done that, but should try.) Now I can try making some of Sara's neopolitan cookies that look so delicious.

The words "thank you" feel pretty pedestrian. Screaming in the car is a more appropriate response.  My kitchen life may have been reduced to hurried breakfasts, dusty cookbooks with post-it notes reminding me of my now-departed hibernating glorious foodie-wannabe days, and crisper drawers filled with veggies only I will eat, but I am now the proud owner of a serious piece of kitchen equipment. 

Mourning + a poem

The week started with the news that a high school acquaintance, a person who was very good friends with friends of mine, had died. It was the accidental death of a young man, just 35, a brilliant scientist and delightful person, as many have attested. I cannot claim to have been in touch with him over the years, and yet, I feel that if I were to have seen him at a holiday party in Minnesota next week, we could have easily visited and I would have enjoyed time spent in conversation. He was affable and warm and obviously gifted.

As one of his Facebook friends, I went first to Huan's wall to see if there was any news. There was a post there, left by one of his friends, from the previous week. In response to that friend's query about holiday plans, Huan had listed his travel dates to Minnesota but noted that he first had to go to the mountains that weekend to work. His work site there was a massive telescope that he had helped to construct (a detail I discovered when reading his blog about the project. Since that blog was not private, I feel okay about posting the link here.) It was a casual comment noting one last commitment before vacation could begin. However, it was at work that weekend - last weekend - that he died. He went and did not come back. Huan's words noting the purchased tickets and excitement about Christmas gripped me.

Our time here is often so short, unfairly short for many, and sometimes I obsess about the knowing of death, the counting of the grains of sand, the deciphering of the time of departure. It is one of my macabre fascinations to wonder about the day of a person's death when I read of accidents or murders in the newspaper: does this person realize that there are only 10 or 18 or 22 or 3 hours left on this planet? I don't know how to answer my insistent question. Probably not, unless terminal illness is involved. Is there a premonition? I do not know.

Obviously, the question I'm really asking (in the manner of "Spring and Fall" by Gerard Manley Hopkins, a poem I posted earlier this year) is this: Will I know?

This man's friends have rallied on Facebook, posting pictures, memories and fond wishes. I am marveling at the site's utility for just this sort of purpose. Even as nothing more than a friendly high school acquaintance, I have been touched by the messages left for him.

Here is something that came to me, a remembered Emily Dickinson verse, full of her characteristic dashes. It is simple, as her poetry often is, and gets right to it.

All but Death, can be Adjusted
by Emily Dickinson

All but Death, can be Adjusted --
Dynasties repaired --
Systems -- settled in their Sockets --
Citadels -- dissolved --
Wastes of Lives -- resown with Colors By Succeeding Springs --
Death -- unto itself --
Exception -- Is exempt from Change --



And there you have it. There's the rub.

Etsy

This New York Times feature on some seller stories from this unique/phenomenally successful website is a good introduction to the online marketplace that is Etsy. As the etsy.com "home" page says, this site is "Your place to buy & sell all things handmade." Personally, I find it overwhelming and enticing and awe-inspiring. I could easily locate dozens of wonderful handmade items that would make my day. And in fact, they often do. It isn't necessary to own something to enjoy it. I appreciate the craftsmanship on display and the unique talents of Etsy's proprietors. I enjoy stringing beads as much as the next person, but am definitely a mediocre crafter at best. My hat goes off to those who create, discover, and sell on Etsy.

I love this old-fashioned typewriter ...

.

... and this funky stuffed toy named Blastoid Cat

The person who introduced me to Etsy - Jennifer - also maintains an Etsy shop that sells her husband's wonderful letterpress cards with carvings/art he creates! I have one of Todd's "Seek Him" holiday cards and just put it in a frame to use as a holiday decoration. It was just about too pretty to give away, and now I'm happy to have it on display instead!

Here are a few other Etsy favorites that I've noticed while e-window shopping, including a darling Owl mama/baby combo, some "gold fill scroll earrings", and a hand-sewn Scrabble journal.

Do you have any favorite Etsy shops or finds?

Out of the mouths ...

1) "Selena Gomez just wants to be a famous singer so that everyone will like her better than Hannah Montana and the Jonas Brothers. That's why she has that spiky-haired boyfriend. She is just trying to take over," said Graham last night, after seeing an ad for New Moon in a magazine and recognizing that Taylor Lautner/Jacob Werewolf is dating "Alex Russo" from Wizards of Waverly Place. (No, I haven't read the Twilight books but I did serve with the Young Women for several years.)

"Where did you get that theory?" I asked, assuming that he saw something on the Disney channel about it at his dad's house. And yes, I balked a bit at my own child knowing about the dating habits of celebrities, but I've been a celebrity-fact-freak all my life so I can't be too shocked if the apple has fallen directly below the tree.

"From my own mind. I'm really smart, Mom. Didn't you know that?"

Oh good, that and a little demon math should be just the foundation you need for a promising career, son!

2) Annie likes to engage me in a game of Guess My Mind just about every day and gets frustrated when I can't quickly and accurately decipher what's she's trying to communicate. Like yesterday after school ...

"Mom, give me some PCP!" she giggled from the backseat of the van.

I shook my head in a friendly fashion and lifted my shoulders in the universal gesture for I don't know what you're talking about.

"PCP, Mom. You always used to say that to me when I was a baby! It's your favorite thing! PCP, baby," she gurgles out. She's sorta shouting now.

"TCP, Mom! TCP, you know, what you always say to me," she whispers in a creepy-calm voice that's three registers lower than the voice she was previously using.

If I always say it, how come I can't think of it now, I wonder.

Also, is the school providing straight confectioner's sugar as an afternoon snack? I need to look into that.

"TLP, Mom. TLP! What is it, Mom? What do you say?" she begs in a frantic tone of voice, back in the high part of her vocal register.

"TLC?" asks Graham, unusually calm. "Do you mean TLC?"

"That's what I'm saying," she hoots out. "TLC, what Mom loves to give me!"

"Oh, of course," I respond calmly, hiding my rattled nerves. "Tender Loving Care. Do you want some? I could use some right about now," I add under my breath.

3) "I had a terrible dream last night," said Graham this morning. At my nodding, he continued describing what happened during his sleep. "Mom, it was chapter two in the Chronicles of My Pants Are Missing in Front of My Friends," he said, coming up with that little ditty off the top of his head. "I was so embarrased!"

To him, I gave a generic understanding smile, and then I turned away and took a moment of perverse pride in my son's budding sarcasm. Was that wit on display? Oh, sarcasm is Medusa-like beast, yes, but a little can add the right spice to life, and perhaps he'll be able to work for the Onion someday!

Of course, this is the same child who loves to spout back everything he's ever hear from me (often out of context) at the most inopportune times. It isn't all wit and charm. It isn't even mostly wit and charm. At times, I'm reading to pull out my proverbial hair. The other day, in fact, after allowing my feelings to boil over, I committed a cardinal parenting sin. I compared my kidlets to someone else's kidlets, and not just in front of them, but directly to them. No one else was listening since it was just us in the car. The comparison was for them; I'd had it with the quibbling and quarreling!

"Guys, I don't think "Bradford" and "Anastasia" fight the way you do," I said in a dramatic, melacholy, beleaguered-mother voice. "I wish you could get along like "Bradford" and "Anastasia." They love each other and have fun together! Why can't you be like them?"

"Mom, we're not them," responded Graham in a clipped voice. "Every family is different. You're always telling us that. Every family is special, every family is different. Families aren't all the same. Welll, Mom, we're not the same. We're us."

And at that point, I really felt melancholy.  Can't we be special in a loving, hands-around-the-Christamas-tree way?

Single lady

At a recent Cub Scout hike, I was approached by another Cub mom, a friend from my ward, a woman of my own age, a certain Sister L. She had a rather interesting proposition for me. "Erin, I want you and all the other non-married sisters in our ward to perform Beyonce's All the Single Ladies at the next ward talent show."

Loud loud laughter on my part, followed by me immediately breaking into, "All the single ladies, all the single ladies, all the single ladies, all the single ladies," then a quick jump to the chorus: "If you like it then you shoulda put a ring on it," and so on. (Visualize the appropriate hand/finger pointing to ring move.) Sister L. joined in. A duet! Her husband laughed really, really loudly too. A little too loudly...

"I'd give you $5," she said between the giggles, thus sweetening the deal considerably.

Here are a few things Sister L. might not know about me:
1) I do like Beyonce (guilty pleasure and all that). My kids and I often jam out to Crazy in Love as a get-up-in-the-morning song.
2) I love tightly choreographed dance numbers. I am always trying to rope people into learning them with me, and I watch High School Musical with un-ironic pleasure. (I watch it with ironic pleasure too.)
3) I was once made to wear a skin-tight black leotard while performing a number from Flashdance at a Ricks College theater department variety show. (Worst costume ever, but I did it.)
4) I have been practicing some of the moves to this much-parodied, much-viewed, much-admired and mocked song for some time.
5) This is the kind of thing I would actually consider doing. No, not at a ward party, but yes, I would enjoy practicing with other people and "working it up."
6) I would like to have an extra $5 in my pocket!

If - if - my sisters learned it with me and were part of the crew, I'd do it. Or if Becca and her sisters were part of the crew, I'd do it. When I think about the other single ladies in my ward, however, there are some concerns. There aren't any other 30-something singles. I'm not sure if there are 40-something singles. Don't think so. And honestly, I don't know how the Golden Girls bunch would feel about leotards.

Of course, there are single sisters at the other end of the age spectrum. I could round up a couple of fearless Laurels. They might even be able to help me with the necessary hair extensions, because no way would I shame myself with anything less than a glorious mane of Beyonce-style hair!

Cookies

I love this article about a Pittsburgh, PA tradition of serving fancy cookies at wedding receptions. What fun!

Annie and I attended a mother/daughter tea party earlier in the month, and the sugar cookie stars served to us were absolutely delicious, almost as good (but not quite) as the Swedish butter cookies our exchange student Anna would make!

The secret to a perfect cookie is the butter, writes Julia Moskin, author of the article "Butter Holds the Secret to Cookies that Sing."

I would definitely sing out "I do ... believe I'll have some more cookies!"

National champs

I just finished grading an essay about the BCS poll/ranking system. The flaws are evident! Schools like TCU and Boise State are shut out of championship contention, despite their undefeated records, because they do not belong to counter conferences. I feel for them, I really do. I love rooting for the underdogs (or underfrogs as the case may be.)

I know what it feels like to see a rival dominate. It always stings here in Aggieland when those darned Longhorns get invited to the national game, as they have been for the 2010 national title, and it's even worse when they win. Will they beat the Crimson Tide? Not sure. Hope not. Is it just me or does it seem like the National Championship is now played by some combination of LSU (of course! How could I forget?) Florida, Florida State, Alabama, Oklahoma, USC and Texas, and it just keeps rotating between those big programs? Forgive me if I'm wrong, but they keep showing up. Give somebody else a shot, Tigers, Gators, Seminoles, Crimson Tide(s), Sooners, Trojans and Longhorns!

Texas A&M just doesn't cut it. Year after year, million-dollar budget after million-dollar budget, something just ain't clickin'. Some speculate that TAMU has the biggest budget program of all the losing teams out there. Not that we're losers ... this year we made it to a bowl game, the Independence Bowl, which will be played in Shreveport against Georgia. A friend who teaches at Georgia proposed a friendly wager with me. If TAMU wins, he'll send Georgia pecans. If Georgia wins, I need to ship him some spicy chorizo (hope it ships!).

But there's a bright spot in all this controversy, jealousy and disappointment. I am already affiliated with a national championship program. Blinn College defeated Fort Scott Community College in the Citizen Bank Bowl Junior College championship game on Dec. 6th. Go Bucs!

Hey, I just found out that today is Blinn Buccaneer National Championship Day. My timing is right on. And no, I'm not being tongue in cheek about this. I'm glad my school won. Yes, it's small potatoes, but it's still potatoes, however itty-bitty!

Flight of the Conchords

I needed a belly laugh today. It's all part of my plan to be happy with my life as it is, right now. To Do List item 1) Belly laugh as often as possible. So I watched another episode of the New Zealand import Flight of the Conchords in between grading and cleaning. (I still remember Marni's amazing observation that in New Zealand, canna lilies grow as weeds out of roadside drains!)

Jemaine and Bret aren't for everybody. I hesitate to recommend them (unlike The Office, for example), because I'm not sure they are your cup of kiwi tea. I wouldn't want you to watch them perform as rhyme-nocerous and hiphopopopatamus, not like those rap-n-rhymes, and blame me for the wasted 25 minutes of your life you'll never get back. But their songs and absurdist television episodes really tickle my funny bone. This song - "Think About It" - reminds me of that Norwegian police drama skit I keep referencing, i.e. the polluted streets of Times Square.

This song isn't even that great musically, but when Jemaine lets it wail, "But what's the real cost cause the sneakers don't seem that much cheaper?" I can't help but laugh. Today, I laughed so hard, I choked on the water I was drinking.

Item 2) Don't drink water while pursuing belly laughs!

Florets

Our division puts together a little holiday buffet during final exam week, one greatly appreciated by those of us on grading lock-down. I actually feel quite sorry for the students who have to study in the hallway where the food is found, because it smells luscious, and I certainly wouldn't be able to concentrate with a heap of cake in my peripheral view. There's lots of ham and turkey spread on platters, plenty of cookies of every sort, a beautiful tiramisu, salted nuts, candies, candied nut bread, plain brown bread with butter, and on and on. So much to choose from ... but my favorite potluck/buffet dish is this: Broccoli Salad. I love the way the broccoli, the yellow raisins, the onion, the dressing, the sugar, the all of it combines into sweet, crunchy, creamy slighty-healthy yumminess. Even the bacon I don't mind. I don't eat it, but there might be a little non-vegetarian flavor boost going on.

I love it when someone brings broccoli salad to a) book club, b) a church get-together, c) a work get-together, d) a school get-together, or e) a family Big Bowl get-together.

The weird thing is this - despite my professed/avid love for this midwestern-style flavor fest, I never make it at home.

Broccoli Salad
Ingredients:
5 cups fresh broccoli florets
1/2 cup raisins
1/2 cup sunflower seeds
1/2 cup cooked, crumbled bacon
1/4 cup of red onion, chopped
1 cup of frozen peas, thawed
.
Dressing:
1 cup mayonnaise
2 tablespoons vinegar
1/2 cup sugar
Preparation:
Combine broccoli florets, raisins, sunflower seeds, crumbled bacon, chopped onion, and peas in a large serving bowl. In a separate bowl or large cup, whisk together mayonnaise, vinegar and sugar. Add dressing to the salad and toss to mix well; chill thoroughly before serving.
Broccoli salad serves 4 to 6.

Resemblance

My father's mother passed away when he was 29 years old. I was born when he was 36 years old, so I never met her in this life. However, Ina Lenora Craner Silvers is very special to me, and my father's love and devotion to his mother is one of the important threads in our family narrative. He has told us countless stories of her singing, her tenderness, her vulnerability, her sadnesses, and also her beauty and vivacity. She did not have an easy life, and I am moved to tears when I think of some of her trials. But I am grateful to have such a sense of who she was from the stories of my dad. I suppose that is one of the purposes of genealogy, to forge relationships between generations, even when ancestors and progenitors have never met.

My Aunt Sherry posted these pictures on Facebook, two of me and one of Grandma Ina, just this week, and I wanted to share them here. I've always pictured my grandmother as a lovely woman, but it is a different photograph than this one that I summon when thinking about her. I did not know how much I looked like her, and feel so touched to discover this resemblance between me and someone I would like very much to know.

Santa, baby

Mr. Graham was invited to be the Santa in his school play on the strength of his eager participation in music class over the last couple of months. He has definitely felt the warm glow of popularity these past weeks (as I've previously mentioned in a blog post). Yesterday was show time, and my Santa son was starting to feel a little stage fright. Make that a lot of stage fright.

(In this picture, I think Graham looks exactly like the genetic cross between his mom and his dad that he is. Funny how a relatively small portion of someone's face can evoke another being and a full-set of related memories. The nose/mouth/chin thing is pure Kyle. The cheeks and squinty eyes are from me.)

I came to the school for the afternoon performance and helped him get dressed in the well-worn red suit. Stuffing the pillow took a little skill, and of course it shifted once he started moving. The more I safety pinned, the shakier he felt. He looked downright queasy when I walked him to the stage area, but garnished his courage and performed his role with something approaching qualified gusto. Of course, there were a few things to work on for the evening performance - things like waving to the crowd and calming down the zig-zag pattern he was tracing that the elves were desperately trying to follow, but he was ready for it.

What should I ask Santa to bring me?

I am sharing this picture partly to show the before of my blow-dried hairstyle after. This is full-on horrid pull-back creepy hair mode. For the same dress, next day, much improved hair, see "Final style mini photo essay." Maybe a 'Thanks, Santa, for this stocking full of hair product!' is in order.

Quick sidenote: does anyone besides me hate the way people refer to styling creams and gels as product, singular? Drives me nuts, almost as nuts as the way people say "Farve" when referring to the loved/hated QB (see "Leaving on a Jet Plane").

One more quick sidenote: I think that this lyric, from the nouveau classic "Santa, Baby" is odd. I know it's from 1953, but would a woman's wildest dreams of luxury (yachts, mink coats, etc.) include this?

"Santa honey, one little thing I really need, the deed/To a platinum mine"

In chorus

It was a few lifetimes ago that I served as ward choir director, one of my favorite callings! During the time I served, we put on two or three hearty Christmas programs and staged a well-done "From Cumorah's Hill" fireside. We always had a good turnout, though the same folks didn't always come two weeks in a row. I had big plans but was (and am) definitely a realist. I think I know when to fish or cut bait, musically speaking!

During my first year in the calling, I wanted the choir to sing from Handel's Messiah for our Easter service. Let's just say it was a tall order. A nail biter! The experience turned out so well, however, that I wrote it up and submitted it to the Ensign. They bought it and put it in the publish queue, or so I thought, but the month or so before it would have run, President Hinckley died and I think that it was bumped permanently. Oh well... I just wanted those who participated with me that spring to know what a special spiritual experience it was. Ward choir often combines the silly with the sacred, the mundane with the magical, and terror with triumph. It was so for me.

I just got home from a ward choir practice tonight, and our valiant/not always adequate attempts to nail the Christmas songs in time for Sunday's program brought back these memories of my own choir director fear and faith. Thought I would share ...

Note: try playing the song clip (at the bottom) while reading - the comments about tension/resolution will make even more sense.

Surely He Hath Blessed Our Choir

By Erin Hill Littlefield

We were a wreck. The basses and tenors were supposed to be singing a unison line—yet I kept hearing a variety of notes, none of them correct. I’d moved two altos and myself to the tenor line. Though the range was low, the tenor line was impossibly high for the actual tenors in our choir. The two remaining altos felt less secure with their divided section, so what should have been a confident counterpoint was inaudible. The sopranos knew their parts fine, but the sustained high notes sounded shrill.

Three weeks remained before we were to sing “Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs” from Handel’s Messiah in sacrament meeting, and we were nowhere near ready.

When I was called to direct the ward choir, I had felt prompted to tackle “Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs.” Handel’s music is often difficult, but this song was relatively simple, only four pages long. It was also perfect for the Easter season.

The text of the song comes from Isaiah 53:4–5: “Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows. … But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him.” The beginning of the song is forceful, and the ending becomes tumultuous, then resolves into something sublime.

The ward choir was excited. We started in January, dusting off thick, gray Messiah scores from the music closet. For three practices, we sang along with a Mormon Tabernacle Choir CD. Of course we could not match all the notes, but we were getting a feel for the majesty of the song. I figured it would get better.

I figured wrong. After weeks of drilling, our choir seemed no closer to mastering the song. After another three weeks of working doggedly, we still lacked confidence—not to mention good pitch. I started to worry that we wouldn’t have time to learn the replacement selection.

I decided to express my concern at the end of one choir practice. “I’ve been thinking,” I said to the choir as they packed up the gray books, “that we’ve bitten off more than we can chew.” A few people nodded in agreement.

Since I was a child,” I told them, “I have cherished this music’s message, that Christ paid the price for each one of us. This song is a touchstone of my testimony.”

To me, “Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs” was not mere notes or lyrics. It was gospel truth in musical form. Handel had composed the oratorio in a miraculous fashion, and it would be hard to deny that God had His hand in this music.

“I do think we have tried our very hardest,” I reminded the choir. “I think we can pray for some help in fulfilling this stewardship so we can sing in front of our ward.” Wry smiles scattered across the choir.

I asked each choir member to make it a matter of dedicated prayer that we could learn the music and sing it in a way that would bring the Easter spirit to our ward. I felt an assurance that if we would pray for Heavenly Father’s help, our singing talents would be magnified, and I promised the choir that we would still sing on the scheduled Sunday. Bold words, considering the state of our musical mastery, yet at the end of that discouraging rehearsal, our hearts felt lighter.

Sure enough, during that week, seeing my Messiah score reminded me to pray. Many choir members added their prayers. I invited the stake music chair, a trained soprano, to sing with us.

The following rehearsal, I felt nervous, but we jumped in. The men knew their entrance. I was actually finding the tenor notes. Did we have extra sopranos? I counted the regular faces in the front row, but their sound had doubled. We actually made it all the way through—a first!

And then we stopped. I could tell that our choir, after just one time through, felt the hand of our Heavenly Father in our efforts. Sure, we had places to improve, but it would be manageable. He had answered our prayers and then some! We would be able to perform “Surely He Hath Borne Our Griefs” after all.

We had a few bumps the following Sunday. The accompanist couldn’t attend, and the CD tempo threw us off. We were reminded quickly how weak we really were. Despite our fluster, however, there was hope. We knew Heavenly Father was blessing us, and we knew we needed to keep asking Him for that blessing.

We had faith. We had humility. We also had just one more practice. That week, people may not have practiced their voices, but they did get down on their knees.I even asked Heavenly Father to help people arrive on time. Sure enough, at 8 a.m. sharp, everyone was there.

Soon it was time to sing. The introduction was the right tempo; our entrance was together. Hallelujah! The altos came in powerfully and the baritones followed confidently. Even I was able to sing the tenor line without reading the musical score. We found the right note in a tricky measure. Our stake music chair’s exquisite voice provided substance, especially during those sustained high notes. Even with only about a dozen singers, the music was full.

It was nice to hear the compliments after sacrament meeting, only because it confirmed how far Heavenly Father had taken us. The congregation didn’t have a clue about the progress of our singing. It was our faith in God, not our voices, that allowed us to sing beautifully.

Final-style mini photo essay

I am proctoring final exams (or was) today. While they were writing bluebook essays, I was grading proposal essays online. I use a grading software program and do not mark actual paper copies of student essays, so I have to have internet access to do my work. I lost wifi access for a short time during the final exam block, which meant I could not grade any more of the blasted essays awaiting my evaluations. However, I did not bring a book and I was tired of writing to-do lists and/or instructions on the board (see my Office Hours behind my head!). Sleeping, of course, was out of the question, unless I knew how to somehow rest while keeping my eyes open and blinking.

What to do instead? Why, create a mini photo essay with my PhotoBooth camera. I scrounged in my purse for a worthy subject, and immediately found the perfect item!

I keep this insurance card in my purse because it amuses me. It came with my regular insurance card in some sturdy plastic laminated contraption that required me to punch out the card I needed. My card was found on the left half of this sturdy sheet; this card was found on the right. Not sure why the company couldn't print just one card per plastic sheet, but I've forgotten everything I knew about business printing since my long-ago Bankers Systems, Inc. summer job.

Instead of discarding the non-insurance card card, I promptly gave it a place of honor in my wallet.  I love the way the insurance company has tried to be clear lest I worry that something important was omitted. The left-side card helpfully reads: This card intentionally left blank.

Brilliant.

Also brilliant? My lustrous locks. This morning, I woke up, showered, and made an interesting decision - to blow-dry my hair. It's cold outside and I did not relish stepping into the frigid air with wet locks, even though that's what I always used to do when I lived in Minnesota. I regularly walked to school over the river and through the woods, or across a barren park and next to a chilly pond, with long, wet hair. I usually pulled a cap of some sort on, but I had hair-cicles by the time I walked through the school doors. For some reason (oh, to understand the mind of a teen?!?), I thought hair-cicles were a little bit chic. But not today. Not in Texas. Too chilly!

Anyhoo, this morning I dried my hair ... and I sort of get what all the fuss is about. It looks TONS better. Is this what I've been missing my entire adult life?

p.s. I am definitely going to grow out my hair ... if only to enhance the pleasure I'll feel when I cut it chin-length again in a year or so. I've realized that I'm one of those people who likes to vary lengths. I cut it short, then grow it out, rinse, and repeat, and although the layers can be sometimes intractable in the process, I like the drama of the differences. Also, hope springs eternal in my heart that with a new style (this new style ... the one I'm approaching!), I will be transformed into some kind of swan; I am able to exist as a normal-ish duckling because of this (rather irrational) hope that all I need is a new look, Stacy & Clinton ambush-style.

Cold snap

It is genuinely cold here. 38 or so degrees today. I've lost count of the number of people who have seen me shivering and then retorted, "But you're from Minnesota ..." Guess what, people? We get cold in Minnesota too. My teeth chatter in Minnesota. My arms shake in Minnesota. My joints ache in Minnesota. The one advantage to actually being in Minnesota is that I have access to adequate winter wear.

I'm not really upset. Those folks are hurting too. They like to think that I have some kind of Eskimo-style layer of body fat that will tide me over til spring time. I do, but it doesn't actually add any warmth. They hope that I have assorted tundra skills that might help all of us in Zone 9, but I don't. Not really. I wear socks when I sleep and I wear a scarf around my neck.

Because we've had two nights and three+ days of below-freezing weather and because I didn't manage to cover all of my (I mean any of my) outside plants with blankets, many of my plants are limp and gone, gone for the rest of the winter, at least. I am not sure about this special tree, however. I can only hope that come spring (January 1), its little shoots will be shooting happily. It's called a Sweet Potato plant, even though 1) it's a shrub/tree and 2) there are no sweet potatoes to be found on its branches or blossoms. I planted it in this little bed between the driveway and front stoop. Its purple blossoms made me happy this summer.

I did bring in the aloe vera plant before the freeze, and the spider plants will grow back, yes. I've been party to this death/rebirth cycle with them many a winter. To every thing there is a season, and I'm glad to have a taste, a "snap" of the winter season here in our neck of the Texas woods.

Winter brings to mind this well-known lyric verse by Robert Hayden, one of those tender poems that lives in my heart all year round but seems especially appropriate during cold spells because of the tactile and visual imagery he includes: "blueblack cold," "cracked hands that ached," and "banked fires." This poem speaks to all the ways we misunderstand each other and lose love in the process. The Five Love Languages has a corny title and a rather pop-psych way of quizzing your way to relationship happiness, but I agree with its conceit that each of us has a love language, a way that we share with others. There's nothing more lovely than being spoken to in your own love language, but sometimes we have to live in translation ... to give in the language someone else speaks and to receive an offering as if it were in our own language.

Hayden's speaker does not yet know anything of "love's austere and lonely offices," but he will. He cannot see that his father shows love with the fire building and shoe polishing. Instead, the speaker only perceives the fighting and tension also present in the home. He misses the love that was lit with a match every cold morning. We make the same mistake, don't we? We sometimes fail to register when love is extended to us ... and our own hands are slapped down when we extend love to others who cannot or will not receive. Love can be a lonely office indeed.

Those Winter Sundays
By Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he’d call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love’s austere and lonely offices?

Strange creatures

I am a Mac mama if for no other reason than the hours (or minutes) of fun provided by PhotoBooth. I scream, you scream, we all scream when your face gets distorted on mom's laptop! Being able to superimpose your own face onto a roller coaster picture or deep sea scene is fun for children. Also, for grown ups. When I took my laptop to Minnesota for Thanksgiving 2008, we (me, Fred, Susan, Grandma Janell, Courtney, and Andrew) had a blast taking super-horrible-death shots!

Here's are two PhotoBooth delights ... from our house to yours:
1) Annie is doubling her pleasure, doubling her fun
2) Graham loves all things related to cyclopses! Now he even looks like a one-eyed creature