It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year

I know that almost everyone says that Christmastime is his favourite time of year. What with the gift-giving and merrymaking, the festive songs of the season, cheery greetings and sincere wishes for a happy time, who among us - even us non-christians - doesn’t truly enjoy it all? Of course, it has its problems. The stress of finding gifts for loved ones and strangers alike, not to mention gifts for co-workers and in-laws, robs the act of its inherent joy. The endless parties can become a chore, the relentless upbeat mood you must don can wear your nerves thin especially in the face of everyday responsibilities or even personal tragedies (which we choose to hide from others all in the hopes of not marring what could be a perfect Christmas). So much heavy sentiment for a season that got its start with a quietness and nobleness lacking in today’s celebration of it. I am not a christian. I follow no religion nor adhere to any otherworldly philosophy. But I was raised in a house that celebrated Christmas with the decorating of a tree (always artificial) and the giving of gifts. I always loved walking through downtown and hearing Christmas songs piped over PA systems both in the shops and outside on the street. Many stores' systems were linked together, so you could wander from store to outside to store and never miss a line of any song. We always had seasonal songs playing in our house, too. I wore out an old Firestone record that my father had with Leontyne Price’s lofty voice singing “Ave Maria” and Dean Martin crooning “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”. There’s that glint of tradition again: you see, Firestone used to put out collections of Christmas songs from the best singers of the day. Vikki Carr, Bing Crosby, and Andy Williams. Later it was Anne Murray, Julie Andrews, and Lou Rawls.

While I do enjoy Christmastime, my favourite time of the year is (’m sure it’s no surprise) autumn. The days grow shorter but somehow brighter. The skies are clearer since the purple haze of summer has been banished. Robins sing their late good-byes (to borrow a phrase from Cheryl Wheeler), and the aerial V’s of geese and ducks point their way southward. With all the bustle of the harvest and the labour to pack in stores for the winter, one might think this a hurried and noisy time of year. But the opposite is true. Quiet blankets the land, and carpets of gold and brown muffle all manner of crunch and crack. A hush falls over people as they marvel in the show of colour all around them. Yes, this is my favourite time of year. There are no parties to attend, no frantic dashes to find a gift. A nice prelude to gather one’s strength for the coming holiday season.

It's Official!

The Fall has arrived. As of this morning, the Fall has arrived. Even though the days continue to be warm, the temperature fell below 60º F last night. And according to this week's projections, it will fall to 52º F for the next two nights. I am happy.

The forecast also calls for sunshine, always a welcome accompaniment to cooling autumn days. Cheryl Wheeler sings:

When Fall comes to New England
The sun slants in so fine
And the air's so clear
You can almost hear the grapes grow on the vine

The nights are sharp with starlight
And the days are cool and clean
And in the blue sky overhead
The northern geese fly south instead
And leaves are Irish Setter red
When Fall comes to New England

When Fall comes to New England
And the wind blows off the sea
Swallows fly in a perfect sky
And the world was meant to be

When the acorns line the walkways
Then winter can't be far
From yellow leaves a blue jay calls
Grandmothers walk out in their shawls
And chipmunks run the old stone walls
When Fall comes to New England

The frost is on the pumpkin
The squash is off the vine
And winter warnings race across the sky
The squirrels are on to something
And they're working overtime
The foxes blink and stare and so do I

'Cause when Fall comes to New England
Oh I can't turn away
From fading light on flying wings
And late good-byes a robin sings
And then another thousand things
When Fall comes to New England

Oh. My. Vishnu.

I was introduced this past weekend to a new vocalist: Matt Alber. I cannot say enough good things about him, about his voice, about his songs (in his debut album, "Hide Nothing").

The fifth song on the album is called "End of the World". Without exaggeration of any sort, I can honestly say that since I first heard the song on Sunday morning (and this is Tuesday morning), I have listened to it over and over about 100 times. Possibly more. I cannot keep myself from listening to it. I am sure that there are many reasons why. Possibly because barely two months have passed since I left a relationship of almost two years with someone I loved. Possibly because my heart aches at this loss, not to mention the loss of other boyfriends and good friends in my past. Possibly because I am feeling alone and a little adrift at this point in my life, and this song focuses that sorrow, distills it and pours it out in such lyrical phrases as "Don't you want to fall/ Don't you want to fly/ Don't you want to be dangled over the edge of this aching romance?" and "If it's gonna end then I want to know that we squeezed out every moment".

Truly heartbreaking. But in a good way, a reaffirming way. What is being reaffirmed, you ask? Love. The Pursuit of Happiness. Life.

Add me to the list of people who have fallen hopelessly in love with these songs. And - for a moment - with Matt Alber himself.

Check out his website and you can listen to the songs. www.mattalber.com/matt.htm

Summer 2010

I am fixing my eyes on Alaska. For my summer escape. I spent five formative years of my childhood there, from 1971 to 1976, in Fairbanks. I recall well the drive from the lower 48 up the Al-Can Highway, then just a dusty, bumpy path through the wilderness. My imagination tells me that in the 21st century it must surely be paved, modern filling stations spaced every 200 miles on the edge of civilization, through parts of the map of the world that few ever get to know. Towns with names like Destruction Bay, Swift River, Yellow Knife. Names that invoke a past full of men untamed and untameable. I want to be one of those men.

Several plans have bubbled up in my conscious, the wildest and most daring being a drive from southern Georgia (where I currently reside) westward, through the plains states, into Colorado (for a first taste of wilderness) and then north through Wyoming, Montana, and into Alberta. Then I would hitch my wagon to the north star and let it lure me ever northward along the Al-Can Highway. How is it that trips through the wild inevitably lead us back to our childhood?

The Fall

I lived for two years in Australia during the early part of the century (2002 - 2004). During my time there, I found that Australians loved to poke fun at us Yanks, their jibes and taunts covering topics from how we hold (wrongly, in their expert view) our forks and knives during a meal to which words we use to describe various things. In some respects I see their point and I actually agree that the Australian way has a certain offbeat ring to it, a fun flavour, if you will. Among some examples are: "sausage sizzle" instead of "cookout" or even "barbecue"; "knackered" instead of "exhausted"; or (one of my true favourites): "a dog's breakfast" instead of "a total mess".

One meek little word that was often the object of their derision was the rather unassuming 'fall'. As in the season of the year, what they would call 'autumn'. This is where I must rise up in defense of our Yankee words and draw a line in the lexical sand.

It is possible that most Australians - and surely their British counterparts who join in on the verbal bashing - fail to see the poetry at work in the word. Allow me to explain.

For starters, I like to call it The Fall. Not merely fall. By including the definite article (the) and placing the word in capitals, this time of year becomes an Event. Like Christmastime. Or the World Cup. By writing it in lower case 'f', the word loses its poetry, its majesty. Even the quotidian likes of the days of the week are graced with capital letters. So why not this (I would argue) most majestic of seasons?

No one makes a special trip to Vermont to sit in a forest and experience the leafless trees draped in snow. No one plans a vacation or even a long weekend to behold the splendour of New Hampshire in the summer because its summer. It is the Fall, ablaze with colour, that draws us in, beckons us like pilgrims to a holy place.

All beauty, by its very nature, is transient. A thing to behold today but likely faded tomorrow, like Robert Herrick's old poem, "To the virgins to make much of time", tells us:

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

We could change the words to read:

Drink in the colours while ye may,
Old Winter is come a-calling:
And these same leaves that blaze to-day
To-morrow will be falling.

One last blaze of glory before the leaves fall. A mass gathering of colours that lasts about three weeks at which time begins the Falling of the Leaves. The Fall. It's a wonderfully active word. I can see each leaf stem detaching itself from its branch and beginning its slow and zigzagging but inexorable descent to the earth. And this leaf is not alone. There are millions, billions. As countless as the stars.

'Autumn' is a fine word, and one that I like very much. It's an attractive word with its austere pairing of 'au' and silent final 'n'. But it's just not The Fall.

Winter

Clouded with snow
The cold winds blow,
And shrill on leafless bough
The robin with its burning breast
Alone sings now.

The rayless sun,
Day's journey done,
Sheds its last ebbing light
On fields in leagues of beauty spread
Unearthly white.

Thick draws the dark,
And spark by spark,
The frost-fires kindle, and soon
Over that sea of frozen foam
Floats the white moon.

- Walter de la Mare

Summer is lovely, too

I have been languishing in the depths of a balmy southern spring. And summer approaches. No end in sight to the heat. This year has actually been - thankfully! - a mild one. It stayed cool all the way through April, and even touched a bit of May.

I want my travel plans to take me north this year. Montreal, I think. Perhaps Maine. I would dare to dream of Iceland or Alaska, but the expense keeps these places out of my reach. Québec may just be the ticket.

Of course, while the northern hemisphere basks in warm sunlight, life on the other side of the globe becomes ever colder. The snows of Patagonia call. Maybe even Peru or Bolivia. I would like to share a snuggle in the cold with Kevin. Maybe.

Last night I let my thoughts before sleep set the stage for my dreams. I was traveling around the globe, hitting Scandinavia and Turkey, southeast Asia and New Zealand. Adventure. Walking. Quiet. Solitude.

Why am I longing to be alone when all I can do is miss the friends of my past? I miss Thomas. I miss Evelyn. I miss Kevyn Gibson and Kurt Sanders. I miss Paul Jones. I miss being able to call up at the last minute and run out for a bite to eat, or a (strong) drink at the Merc. I miss the laughter. I miss the shoulder to cry on. I miss the advice, given and received.

I can't seem to meet people like them these days. No close friendships. I feel drawn to no one. Only Kevin.

At any rate, my searches through the internet have brought pictures of Torres del Paine, in the Chilean Patagonia, to my attention. What a wonderful place. Towers, indeed. And snow. And ice. Looks like paradise.