21 December 2023

The winter solstice arrives today, and I am soon off to my local VW dealer to have my snow tires mounted, however pessimistic I am about having much snow headed our way.  In 2022, I got to use my snowshoes (what a delight for this Florida cracker!) only twice.  Monday’s big rain and wind storm brought power lines down, a double whammy as the silence immediately following the outage also revealed that my generator serviced only a couple weeks earlier had not, in fact, been repaired.  I lost an hour plus yesterday composing an account of that series of missteps:  three months, three service calls, and still no functioning machine.

The Eversource guys’ prompt arrival and restoration of power (and so, for me, not only heat and light but also water) lifted my spirits a bit, but the climate crisis that prompts such storms is never far from my mind.  My friend Carol S., out walking in Miami Beach when my call reached her on Tuesday, reported that it was unusually cold there for 19 December:  60^o; I could only reply that it was unusually warm in New Hampshire:  60^o.  And I’ve yet to see a single chickadee, those dear, confiding spirits who usually crowd my feeders this time of year, finding only those “bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang.”  Shakespeare’s Titania had it right:  “we see the seasons alter . . . and the mazèd world now knows not which is which.”

I thought I heard a chickadee late yesterday afternoon, but it made no appearance.  Instead, the most notable appearance last Saturday was the Orange Horror who, alas, came to the Whittemore Center at UNH, poisoning the blood (like a martial artist, I redirect his and Hitler’s words against him) of those who attended.  I stayed well clear of Durham; I’m afraid of those MAGA-ots.  With good reason, as the latest issue of The Atlantic points out.

Biden’s not even on the primary ballot in New Hampshire, which I can only think is a political mistake.  The Democratic ballot looks like a joke!

 I fear voters not apprised of Biden’s honoring South Carolina with the role of “first state on the Democratic primary calendar” will be confused and/or sufficiently disgusted not to vote at all.  Well, at least Carol B., who did check out the Durham scene last Saturday, found protestors and a cart hawking MAGA-wear deserted.

And Colorado has kicked T**** off the primary ballot, perhaps a sign of change for the better.  Still, I wish I could see some chickadees.

I’ve received fewer holiday cards so far this year; I suspect many on my list are aging out of that tradition.  I do enjoy sending them, however, as I also do simultaneously re-reading both David Copperfield and Demon Copperhead to prepare for a new Madbury Public Library book group’s first meeting in late January.  Reading by the fire helps with Seasonal Affective Disorder—as does our imminent cruising past the winter solstice on our annual lap ‘round the sun.  And I’m making some better progress with KDP Amazon’s formatting my book, Will to Live:  Learning from Shakespeare How to Be—and NOT to Be, hoping for a launch in time for Will’s 460^th birthday on 23 April 2024. That’s the good news.

And there are joys.  Pianist Jeremy Denk’s performance in the gorgeous and still-new-smelling Groton Music Center on 10 December was an uplifting marvel with its program dedicated to women composers and, in the second half, “love letters” to Clara Schumann, including Brahms’s Four Klavierstücke, Op. 119, a favorite that my David practiced and Chris Kies played for his memorial here at home in 2019.

And there are delightful gatherings with friends:  a wonderful dinner party at Phil and Fran’s with Brian, Shiao-Ping, and Julee (who contributed THE best pumpkin cheesecake EVER:  see https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes/1023580-spiced-pumpkin-cheesecake). All that good food and good cheer!

And on Tuesday I served a high tea here at home, a more intimate celebration to rival the 250^th anniversary celebration of a more famous Tea Party in Boston last Saturday.

Still, something’s missing—like the baby Jesus absent from my neighbors-down-the-road’s three-quarter size crèche set up in their front yard.  Their manger will be empty until Christmas morning, but in the meantime, it’s a creepy sight, as the circular red light set to illuminate where the baby’s head will lie looks in the meantime for all the world like the aftermath of an execution.

As so often happens, however, I am solaced by my NPR pals.  Yesterday’s Fresh Air featured Terry Gross’s interview with David Byrne and his unusual, almost-never-heard Christmas play list.  Gross concluded the interview by introducing Byrne to a new favorite of her own, jazz singer Samara Joy singing with her father Antonia McLendon “O Holy Night.”  Sublime.  You can find it on YouTube (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CoEwU-35sng ), but I recommend you don’t watch.

Dear Readers:  Just listen.

Dona Nobis Pacem.