The Holidays

CHRISTMAS EVE

In the Smith house Christmas Eve is a night of solemn and reverent observance, a time for reflection, and most of all, a chance to make a lot of money in a hurry. Like Easter morning, it's a time when the big downtown churches are willing to pay through the nose to have a trumpet player participate in their service and enhance the worship experience by playing descants on hymns and repeatedly shouting out bad words. (More on that later.) This year I played three Christmas Eve services, a 5:00 service at a Catholic church downtown, the 8:00 service at my church in Gates, and then back to the Catholic church for midnight mass. Midnight mass doesn't start at midnight--it starts at 11:00 PM, and lasts for 25 hours until midnight of the next day. At least, that's what it feels like when you're actually in the service and waiting to drive home in the snow and go to bed.

All three services went well, except for the questionable language part. At the 5:00 service I sat down in the choir nook--this probably has a proper name like Chancellary or Vestibulillum, but I don't know it--and waited patiently through the prelude. When it was time for the processional, the priest asked the congregation to stand and to sing "O Come All Ye Faithful," number 481. I was already standing up as he asked this, holding my trumpet in my left hand and pulling up on the top of my music stand with my right. I gave it a jerk, and all of a sudden the entire top of the stand, music still perched, went flying up in the air. I managed to catch it in my right hand, but not before yelling (much more loudly than I expected to) "Oh CRAP!" Emitting a bad word in near silence helps you to appreciate the acoustic engineering of those classic Catholic cathedrals. The CRAP reverberated throughout the Chancellary, the loft, the ornate stained-glass windows, and round the sculpted heads of Mary, Joseph, and baby Jesus in the life-sized nativity. The three kings did not look impressed.

"Crap" was one of those words that we were definitely not allowed to say when the older batch of Smith children were growing up. Also forbidden were "sucks," "shut-up," and "oh my gosh." The rules have definitely loosened over time. It wouldn't be surprising at all to hear my parents respond to a tale from Martha's school day with "Well crap...that sucks." I try not to slip up too often around James with those sorts of borderline words. (This is hard when you "cheer" for the Buffalo Bills.)

Anyhow, the rest of the service went pretty well. I drove back to Gates, and managed not to curse at any point during the service. This was not easy, because I definitely made a "behind" of myself during the prelude. Our organist can be a little flighty, and he started the prelude for the service in the wrong spot. (Variations in service order are very offensive to Presbyterians, most of whom have followed the exact same Christmas Eve ritual since 288 B.C. The actual birth of the Christ child, being a break with tradition, was frowned upon in committee meetings of that particular year.) Knowing that I would have to be the fearless leader and cue in the choir for their Introit out of the regular order of the service, I stood up to ask the choir to stand...just as the bell choir was starting their prelude number. (Fortunately I covered my misstep rather seamlessly by sitting down immediately, pretending that I was smoothing out my robes, and turning bright red.)

I had enough time after the 8:00 service to drive home and see J's progress with the gift-wrapping, and then went in for the final Catholic service in a steady Christmas Eve snow. I sat patiently through the prelude, noted with some pleasure that a former professor of mine was serving as the priest, and stood up with the congregation to sing the processional hymn, "O Come All Ye Faithful." I pulled up on my stand.

"Oh CRAP!"

CHRISTMAS DAY

James isn't yet old enough to wake us up with Christmas Day excitement, but he did get up earlier than either J or I had intended on Christmas morning. She brought him into bed with us and we had a drowsy family snuggle in bed until 7:30, when we went downstairs to open presents under our Christmas shrub. We bought the shrub when we lived in North Carolina, and waited to set it up until James had gone to bed on Christmas Eve. (With good reason...the first 10 seconds he was left near it unattended he seized and broke an ornament.) There was fresh snow on the ground, and the shrub had never looked more festive. James helped unpack his stocking, and then J and I opened ours. (I'll be saving a full account of our Christmas loot for a later post, hopefully with pictures and braggy comments.) After we'd had some french toast for breakfast I brushed off the truck and we made ready to go to Christmas Part II at my parent's house.

Everyone passed out presents, we had plenty of coffee and pastry snacks, and there was much merriment in the Smith living room. James was not particularly interested in opening presents after his first or second turn, so J and I alternated chasing him around the house while everyone passed around the piles of gifts. I think my family is particularly talented at gift giving. There were just the right number of presents per person, and they were all very thoughtful. (As I said, the official list will follow later.) After most everything had been opened we recorded all 10 children/spouses and 2 grandchildren singing the Twelve Days of Christmas, and made ready for the Christmas feast. Somewhere along the way I kicked over my coffee cup, and walked around for most of the morning with only one sock on, while the other one dried. We also discovered a walnut ornament hanging on the tree that someone had stowed a message inside of through a small crack at the base. We made vain efforts to retrieve it without breaking the shell, but finally gave in, and found a little slip of paper that said: To the Dark Lord, I have removed the real horcrux, and I intend to destroy it as soon as I can. R.A.B. The kids all laughted uproariously, and Mom and Dad didn't have any idea why.

James went down for a nap (with J helping) after our enormous lunch, and I went to Christmas part III (the Grandparent Smiths) with an envoy. We wished our safe travels to the soon migrating Grandparent Smiths, caught up with some cousins, and nibbled on the remains of their Christmas Feast. A Very Uncles Christmas was distributed, and more loot was gotten, some of which hasn't been opened yet. (More on that later.)

We were back in Albion for Christmas part IV (Dudley Christmas in the barn) by supper time, and there were innumerable aromas there teasing our already overburdened bellies. The three feet closest to the barn floor at Dudley Christmas is an area scientists call the "toddlershphere." There are at least 20 small Dudley great-grandchildren, and I think several more might have been born and started to run about while we were there for Christmas. They all shout very loudly and want to run in circles clutching their new toys. Most of them are from farming stock, so between their clothes and their toys the barn looks like what you might expect the corporate day-care to be at the John Deere company. We left with a year's supply of free homemade jam and even avoided last year's tragic upending of the cold fruit-cup into J's lap. (Hayden sat with her own parents this year.)

We were on our way out. James was fried. We were both weary and over-full. We had been everywhere, we had seen everyone. We had been up way to late the night before. My Dad showed us a radar image of the storm that was coming in the next day, and we both got the same crazy idea. We debated it the entire drive back to Spencerport, and J (obviously) won. We would, after playing 4 Christmas Eve services between the two of us, then attending 4 different Christmases, drive to Pennsylvania that night with an overtired 13 month old in the back seat. Brilliant.

Actually, James did great. We turned around at our house in less than 20 minutes (though, of course, we forgot a lot of stuff) and he fell asleep almost immediately. I recaffinated and J, for whom I had brought 1000 Greek flashcards, for the purpose of keeping me awake and alert throughout the course of the drive, came up with lots of interesting discussion questions. (We didn't have to use a single flashcard!) We made the trip with no traffic, no red lights, and no pit stops. It took us 5 hours and 10 minutes.

And that was our Christmas

ST. STEPHEN'S DAY

Obviously, we slept in. We had Davis Christmas (loot list to follow) once we got up, and spent most of the day in pajamas. (Well, J was in pajamas...we forgot to bring two sets in the haste of our quick turnaround.) James loves the wide open spaces at Grandma and Grandpa Davis's house. He spent most of the day doing laps through the kitchen, dining, and living rooms while holding two plastic red spoons and shouting. (He likes to hear his echo.) He also found his favorite houseplant (the one he's not allowed to dig in) and a new houseplant that Mom and Dad said nothing about. (He dug out about a pound of dirt onto himself and the dining room floor before we found him.) Special honor was given to Steven Bear, since it was his feast day.

ST. JOHN'S DAY

We slept in again. James dug in his favorite plant again, and then ran in terror when we pulled out the vaccuum to clean up his mess. In a stroke of brilliant parenting, Grandpa Davis left the vaccuum parked in front of the plant. James hasn't been near it since. We also went down to the Great-Grand Weitzels with Uncle Dan and Aunt Emily to consume copious amounts of red meat, and (in J's case) shrimp. We went to bed at 8:30.

Sunday Morning

Heading off to worship at CPC shortly, and relieved to be having my coffee to a drizzle this morning instead of the recent heat wave. I had intentions of posting earlier this week when I returned from my first ever dental filling, but the blogging platform, like my mouth, was swollen and unrecognizable. The whole experience started with me entering a small room and being hailed by a frightening looking nurse with a thick Russian accent. I probably should have made a run for it then.

Other highlights of the past week include a visit (still underway) from J's parents, seeing and teaching alongside an old master teacher on Friday, Monopoly with O&K, and an end-of-year staff meeting at CPC. I translated the parable of the sheep and the goats yesterday, one of the most chilling passages in the New Testament. As I finish Matthew, and especially as I read it while attending CPC, I'm sure of a few things:
1) The case that Gehenna was only a dump can't be taken from the New Testament. I've read (unconfirmed) recent literature that suggests this whole idea is an unfounded fantasy of 19th century, but I'm certain anyone reading beyond chapter 7 can't see it in Matthew.
2) Whatever Gehenna or pur aionion might be, damnation (which I dwell on in this blog far more often than I do in regular life) is a real danger which is really addressed, not some incidental literary device or superstition that creeps into the language of the teacher.

I'm also reading Il 4, Livy, Paradise Lost, and the Summa Contra Gentiles.

Easter to the Present

It's only been a week and change since my last entry, but mind and body feel that months have passed. We now live in a new house in S-port, and have departed St. Vivian's. One of our most pressing responsibilities with the move completed is to find a name for this new house. (J is, as always, opposed to this idea. I here note her objection.) Pax lives at Hilltop. Calvus is moving into a parsonage which will also need a name. I was thinking Washington Square, but I'm now leaning towards Washington Willows. (There is a nice old willow out back.) Any ideas? J, I should note, wants the place to be simply "home." I, of course, am not opposed to this, but I think, just as we would be able to distinguish fairly well what we mean by "the baby," naming will be both formative and honoring.

I've finished Barnaby Rudge, in which I marked a passage I underlined for future bloggery. Unfortunately, as is the case with most of my worldly goods, I have packed it somewhere in an unmarked brown box and haven't the slightest idea where to start looking for it. Hopefully it will reappear in the next few days. I've always had a suspicion that moving-gremlins steal boxes from pick-up trucks and switch them with other households, leaving us to wonder what happened to our measuring cups and where on earth these patriotic candles came from. The Dickens passage, at any rate, is one of the most perfect pictures of Christian courage I've ever read. I've continued to plod along (with frequent interruptions from that fickle woman Responsibility) in Joshua, the Psalms, Iliad IV, Matthew, and Livy. I read The Maid's Tragedy in one sitting the other night, which turned out, to my great surprise, to be a tragedy. I rarely start a book knowing nothing about it, and the Maid's Tragedy recalled to me what it was like to read the classics as a child for the first time. It was gripping and horrifying, a wonderful read. I'm currently re-reading more Paradise Lost and Reflections on the Psalms, but hope to unearth another novel tonight. (Providing, of course, that the gremlins have left one.)

I played RPO last week, the second cornet (there ought to be an "s" in cornet, so I could spell it with the U.S. $ sign) on France$ca Di Rimini. It wa$ a $plendid week, and I received a double $alary. The orchestra cornets don't play particularly well in tune, but the section put up with me, and as usual, I had a glorious time. It's not quite possible to write how satisfying an orchestra week is.


I also played a concert with some ESM students of German Brass arrangements. The program included a Scheidt antiphonal number, the famous Bach Air, Corelli's Christmas Concerto, and this great Bach-Vivaldi concerto, which I enjoy almost as much as my favorite German brass number. It was an excellent chance to play some piccolo and "network," though I'd forgotten how late the rehearsal hours ran on conservatory events.

The week was full of tedious negotii, a necessary but easily neglected swarm of chores that accompany a move; I changed our address, forwarded our mail, updated my resume, called the power company, etc. I've probably forgotten some of them. If you, personally, are waiting for me to send in a form or make a necessary phone call, please post in the blog or write to
R. Dudlius
Washington Willows
S-Port, New York

On a less pleasant note, I visited the dentist for the first time in over ten years today, and only for the third time in my life. I know nothing of modern dentistry, so I can't say for sure whether this particular practice has changed at all from the 17th century. They had, of course, plenty of modern equipment, but the hygienist who came to clean (read: remove) my teeth appeared to be using a flint axe and stone hammer. She was a perfectly friendly and professional woman, and I believe she received her training from the Guantanamo Bay School of Interrogation and Dentistry. After seeing her I was visited by a serious-looking woman with a lab coat and perfect teeth who informed me I'd need to undergo at least three more visits for either "fillings" or "filings" (I can't decide which is worse) and that she would require, in the meantime, all of my money.

All of this is, perhaps, just punishment for our recent thievery. After casting mistrustful glances at Opifera during the entire course of her move, we have ourselves been found guilty of stealing several laundry baskets and vital electronics parts from St. Vivian's. Furthermore, we left (unwittingly) clocks, foil, candles, jars, checks, boxes, and brooms behind, thus further littering the property in addition to the enormous mound of garbage we generated. The rubbish at St. Vivian's is nothing, however, compared to the pile currently standing watch in our driveway, which, as we found out last night, does not receive garbage pick-up from the town. In all of these things, again, I blame the gremlins.

We really do owe significant credit to Pax, Kylie, Calvus, J's friend Michelle, Blessed Mother, and Truck-Bringing Bill, all of whom helped us move on Saturday. With such an array of vehicles we were able to move all of our worldly goods in just two trips. More impressively, the women were able to scour St. Vivian's to near perfection. We bought pizza for all of our helpers, but our gratitude runs much deeper. Remembering our lonely North Carolina days, we are blessed beyond measure to live among our people again. Perhaps the best part of the whole.

Running through the Thursday concert, a Friday night party (with a great growler of Scotch ale from Pax) and the Saturday move was the 2011 NFL draft, the great cornerstone of hope to the Buffalo Bills fan. Pax, Bill, and I made nonsensical analysis of the whole thing, and are come to the same consensus we find every year: This will be the year we return to the playoffs and glory.

Since we've moved in to Washington Willows we've made a rare indulgence in the furniture budget. Moving to a new home is a significant blank slate, and we've tried to make the most of this chance. We are re-enacting our budget, rolling out a cleaning/dishwashing policy, and once and for all getting organized. We bought end-tables, folders, lamps, a bookshelf, cleaning supplies, and organizers. We acquired (through odd circumstances) a couch, and got rid of (through even odder circumstances) a piano. The couch happened like this: On Friday morning I walked over to the local church garage sale in search of a serviceable piece of used furniture. (I can never use the word "furniture" now without thinking of CSL's Studies In Words analysis; apologies, Jack.) I joined outside the sale a long and eager looking line of elderly folk, all awaiting the 9 AM church bell. The bell rang, and I got to see, for the first time in my life, what the looting of a village might look like. There was throughout the gymnasium a swarming throng of angry geriatric people, shoving and colliding walkers, wheelchairs, and canes. Each person appeared to be contented with no less than buying every item in the sale. At one point I did find a couch, but as soon as I'd put my hand on it to examine the fabric a woman ran over and threw herself on it, as if to claim it first. As I made my way (hoping only for safe passage) towards the exit I saw an old man among the books sweeping armfuls into a box without even looking at the titles. Eventually we found that Pax and Kylie have a spare couch in their basement, which we'll use for the time being. It wasn't easy to move, but I shudder to think what might have happened if I'd tried to escape the plundering of N. Chili with anything other than my own head. The case of our piano was simply miraculous. To put it simply, I forgot it existed until we'd already packed away the rest of our house. Knowing that we had no room or desire for it in our new apartment, my brothers made the helpful suggestions of 1) pretending it had been in the garage before we moved or 2) painting it camouflage colors and hoping no one would notice it. We loaded it into Bill's truck and decided to take a chance on putting it at the end of the road. Within in an hour it was picked up by persons who, even knowing the truth about its soundboard and receiving repeated warnings from J, carted it away and out of our lives forever. We will probably need to offer libations to the gremlins to keep it from re-appearing in the future.

Though it seems long, long ago, Easter was only a week ago. I had in a brass quintet (not RBQ) for the Sunday service and Cranford Pres, including a trumpet student at RWC, a former member of the church (horn, Ithaca college) and her fiancee (trombone), and my ever-faithful tuba playing choir member. The group played quite well, and I got to show off on the Handel Suite in D Major. It's been an active few weeks at church, trumpet-wise. Ryan and I last week reprised our Endearing Young Charms, and of course I played with the hymns as well. I always feel a certain kinship with even the most liberal of Creedal Christians around Easter, what with our holding together the doctrine of the Resurrection. This year was, however, particularly chafing. The Easter sermon (which I won't detail here) was a concise example of every illiberal liberalism that the Cranfordians wander in; and the past week proved that Thomas was, after all, quite right to doubt.

Finally, I've immensely enjoyed a look through my old notebooks and mail. I found in one of them a note from M (at age 8) attached to a necklace and Catholic coin which read:

Dear R--, I hope you like it in Chicago. I'll miss you. Try not to lose your present. If you do, I'll understand. Love more than one could write, MLS

I've said goodbye to a house, sat in a symphony orchestra, and been gouged by a sadistic dentist over the last week. But it was this that brought tears to my eyes.

Home Sick

I am home today with M, who came first as a guest but is now acting as my nurse. I am laid low by a vicious cold, and plan to spend the rest of the day reading. I’m currently working through more of Paradise Lost, Matt 17, Joshua 6, Iliad 4, and Barnaby Rudge. (A book I’m tempted to call Barnaby Fudge, probably from Cornelius Fudge in Harry Potter.) I am off teaching this week (hence M’s visit) but in the midst of Holy Week preparations at CPC. The Palm Sunday sermon passage was from Matthew 21,

“ Εἴπατε τῇ θυγατρὶ Σιών
Ἰδοὺ ὁ βασιλεύς σου ἔρχεταί σοι
     πραῢς καὶ ἐπιβεβηκὼς ἐπὶ ὄνον
     καὶ ἐπὶ πῶλον υἱὸν ὑποζυγίου.

"Say to the daughter of Zion,'Behold, your king is coming to you,
    humble, and mounted on a donkey,
   and on a colt, the foal of a beast of burden.'"

from which were elucidated the following points: That 1) Matthew was convinced Jesus was in fact riding two donkeys, and that 2) the donkey being a nursing mother, this was surely a sign of nonviolence. I often get the impression that liberal Christianity considers itself too well educated to get on with the Evangelicals. This sort of sermon would seem to show it is too illiterate. First, there is the whole muddle of failing to realize this is a quoted prophesy from Zechariah. Second, there is an utter ignorance of the poetic device of parallelism. Suggesting that this passage means two asses is like suggesting that Isaiah’s prophecy “for unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given” indicates two infants. The Old Testament poets are full of parallelism; they use it as the English poets use rhyme. It is, as C.S. Lewis remarked, a very happy chance that the Hebrew poets used a technique that would translate to all languages. Or at least, we might now remark, to all people who read language. The remaining absurdities, being mistakes in Greek, are a little easier to excuse; that kai translates as either “and” or “even,” thus easing the semantic burden of translating two donkeys; or at least two riding donkeys.

Other highlights from this week include B’s second bridal shower, wherein many boys and the Haydenbaby attended the cleanup. (Primarily eating)

-Officially agreeing to move to Washington Street. We will need a name for our new home once we leave St. Vivian’s…perhaps Washington Square?

-Attending a Westside Brass Quintet Recital and the RWC Wind Ensemble concert (in which J played.