Merry Christmas

We will be hitting the road shortly – heading to Grandma’s house for some holiday cheer. Before we head out, I wanted to share this neat little story with you; “A Child’s Christmas in Wales” written and read by Dylan Thomas.
Dylan Thomas (1914-1953) began his writing career as a journalist in his native town of Swansea, Wales. He then moved to London where he worked in broadcasting and wrote film scripts, prose and drama to earn enough money to enable him to write what he most wanted to — poetry. In December 1934 his first book of poetry, “Eighteen Poems,” appeared to critical acclaim. During his fourth lecture tour of the United States, in 1953, and a few days after his 39th birthday, he collapsed in his New York hotel. He died on Nov. 9 at St. Vincent’s Hospital. His body was sent back to Laugharne, Wales, where his grave is marked by a simple wooden cross.

Click here to download the mp3. Enjoy.

Also, here is Mother Nature’s  frosty Christmas gift to us this morning.

Trans-Siberian Orchestra

Finally I received my Christmas wish, and one week early non-the-less. I have been wanting to see the Trans-Siberian Orchestra’s show for many years now, but life always seemed to get in the way. This year, it was the only thing on my wish list, and Santa came through.

Needless to say – if you have the chance, you have got to see this show. It is an unbelievable melange of storytelling, singing, dancing, guitars, keyboards, drums and violins, all tied together with a mind bending light show. The show ran for three hours, and it felt like half that.

I took a few pictures – check out their site for better ones, along with a sampling of their music. (click on Faith Noel, and crank up the volume!) Better yet, go see the show. You will be glad you did.

Imagination

 On thing I have never been good at is making up creative stories. So I was very envious when I read the latest story by Quinn.  He sure didn’t get his imaginative thinking from me.   Enjoy!

Days of a Snowflake: by Quinn

Once in the days of me being a snowflake my buddies and I were all bunched up in a cloud. But soon that cloud got so crowded we all burst out, floating in the air, waiting to fall on something. Suddenly things appeared. I think I am in Boston. That’s the Patriots playing the Dolphins. I’m about to land on Tom Brady. Perfect, no wind. Right on target.

Oh, no! Wind! It pushed me toward the ball just as he threw it. Oh oh. Oh no! Randy Moss caught it for a touchdown. But having me in his arms wasn’t the worst part. His end zone dance was. He picked up the ball, and pretended it was a pillow and he was sleeping. The bad part was, he was laying on me. I’m squished.

Finally, the wind. I’m out of the stadium. Wow, there is a lot of people and things in Boston. I am so sore. I hope I land on the ground. I better watch out, because here comes a snowmobile. He missed me, but I am back again in the air. Now there is more wind. I see a kid with his mouth open, and I am blowing right into his mouth.

That was the end of me.

Bah Humbug

I just finished watching my favorite Christmas show: A Christmas Carol. I borrowed the dvd from the library, as none of the network or public television stations carried it this year.

As I watched Scrooge go through his metamorphosis from a crotchety old miser to a light-hearted man full of good will and generosity, I am reminded of what a full and easy life I seem to have. But I am also reminded that material goods, as Scrooge comes to understand, are not the measure by which to judge our lives. It is likely then, that my life is not nearly as rich or as full as the lives of others who appear to have much less than I do. Very likely indeed.

So how does one reconcile the need to give to those without food to eat, or a roof over their heads? Is it as easy as writing a check,  or does it take something more? Scrooge’s saga tells me it takes something more – sometimes much more – to give with your heart, and not just your pocketbook.

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Rumi

how long
can i lament
with this depressed
heart and soul

how long
can i remain
a sad autumn
ever since my grief
has shed my leaves

the entire space
of my soul
is burning in agony

how long can i
hide the flames
wanting to rise
out of this fire

how long can one suffer
the pain of hatred
of another human
a friend behaving like an enemy

with a broken heart
how much more
can i take the message
from body to soul

i believe in love
i swear by love
believe me my love

how long
like a prisoner of grief
can i beg for mercy

you know i’m not
a piece of rock or steel
but hearing my story
even water will become
as tense as a stone

if i can only recount
the story of my life
right out of my body
flames will grow

Winter

Old man winter came knocking on our door yesterday afternoon, for the 3rd time since Thanksgiving. Despite temps in the low teens, we had several hours of sleet and freezing rain. The world is an ice rink this morning.

Quinn and Brent drove to Stevens Point yesterday for a 3PM hockey game.  At 5:30 Pm I got a phone call from Quinn.  “We are in Waupaca. It’s a mess out here. We are looking for a hotel.” Some areas of the state got 6 inches of snow – much more than I see when I look out my window. The thermometer reads a balmy 36 degrees at 6:30 this morning, and as Quinn and Brent arrived home from their adventure, the ice crusted snow drifts were starting to melt.

Ah – winter.

Another shitty job..

I wonder what kind of wages they pay for this job?

Formosan rock monkeys have long been a scourge to coffee farmers in Taiwan’s mountains because they eat the ripe berries and spit out the seeds.

But now, the farmers are collecting these half-chewed seeds and roasting them to produce a coffee that is being brewed all over the island.

“The monkeys pick the reddest fruits to eat, and spit out the seeds. They cannot swallow them because that may cause indigestion,” said Liao Ching-tung, a coffee farmer for 30 years who has recently taken up roasting the regurgitated seeds.

“For other crops it may cause serious loss, but if they eat coffee in this area, then it saves me the trouble of peeling the fruits,” he added.

Liao says the discarded seeds yield a sweeter coffee with a vanilla-like scent, which sells for about $56 a pound (450 grams).

For coffee lovers like Wang Chih-ming, price is no object.

“I like coffee it’s got a nice aftertaste, that’s really good,” said Wang.

Coffee beans excreted by native civet cats in Indonesia and painstakingly extracted by hand from the animals’ forest droppings reputedly produce the world’s rarest and most expensive coffee, which sells for around $1,000 a kg ($450 a pound)

Happy Belated Birthday Quinn

Since Quinn was busy with hockey last weekend on his birthday, we delayed his celebration until yesterday. He, and friends Nolan(left) and Tanner(right) spent the afternoon at Wild Air in Appleton, followed by pizza at Grazies.

We arrived back home at 7PM, and after DQ ice cream cake, and hours more of play, they finally crashed at 11PM.

Quinn has a hockey game in Appleton this morning, so we will be back on the road soon for that – tired or not. It may be a long day

Stolen..

I found this poem buried in a box of old pictures. It is typed, double spaced, complete with title and by line – obviously done with care. I wish it had a date to give me a better glimpse into the life of the author at the time it was composed. All I have to go by is the yellowed paper, and the uneven. blotchy text caused by a typewriter ribbon that has been used to much. Do you remember those typewriters – where you had to insert the little white “correction tape” behind the ribbon to white out errors? The passage of time has ways of sneaking up from behind in the most unlikely ways.

This morning, I became aware that the earthy, color infused aura of the fall season has quickly been replaced by frost laden mornings with star struck skies. It seeemed an appropriate time to post this poem, as tribute to the season of autumn, and the autumn of life.

Autumn

By JoAnn

We gaze at the beauty of the leaves on the trees,  as the green fades, and the forests are dressed in hues, of red and gold.

How majestic they are as they prepare to die and fall, leaving a great emptiness with branches, oh, so bare and cold.

Strange  some mortals cannot seem to see something of beauty, in our old folks, in their autumn of life.

The green beauty of youth has faded, but left – instead – wisdom gained from years of laughter and tears, joy and strife.

Yet too many of us seldom look upon their beauty. Instead, they are tolerated, forgotten, or ignored. What a terrible waste.

God has made them majestic also, as they prepare to fall into his loving arms – leaving a bare spot that cannot be replaced.