[nfbmi-talk] Child's Christmas in Wales
joe harcz Comcast
joeharcz at comcast.net
Tue Dec 17 22:40:47 UTC 2013
You bet, or even some up-to-date assistive technology and a little bit of
training.
Most of us nowadays are pretty digitally divided.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Christine Boone" <christineboone2 at gmail.com>
To: "NFB of Michigan Internet Mailing List" <nfbmi-talk at nfbnet.org>
Sent: Tuesday, December 17, 2013 5:33 PM
Subject: Re: [nfbmi-talk] Child's Christmas in Wales
> You are never too old to benefit from decent services.
> On Dec 14, 2013, at 10:07 PM, joe harcz Comcast <joeharcz at comcast.net>
> wrote:
>
>> Yes and we had a pond, still on the property to this day where we would
>> play hockey with anything we could find for sticks, and goals made from
>> cat tales. Now years later that fill pond has been dredged out by my
>> brothers abutting it and is swimable in the summer and stocked with fish,
>> but still very skateable by the youngsters of course. For there now is a
>> very much younger generation.
>>
>> My youngest neice is now a student at Western Michigan. My oldest one is
>> 37 and ateacher in Wisconsin though she grew up abutting that very pond.
>>
>> Her sone now eight or nine....They grow so fast ....Has RP. Likely a few
>> of my great nephews also have it as well for in our family it is
>> X-linked. The women carry it but don't manifest it. They can pass it on
>> to male children only. Three of we original seven have it for example.
>> That is the long and short of why I fight so hard for these things we
>> disguss here and the rights of the blind as well as proper skill
>> development. It really isn't for me any more as I'm getting pretty old.
>> In fact just turned 61.
>>
>> By the way we have the same conditions here north of Flint, weather wise
>> that is...Smile...
>>
>>
>> ----- Original Message ----- From: "Christine Boone"
>> <christineboone2 at gmail.com>
>> To: "NFB of Michigan Internet Mailing List" <nfbmi-talk at nfbnet.org>
>> Sent: Saturday, December 14, 2013 8:09 PM
>> Subject: Re: [nfbmi-talk] Child's Christmas in Wales
>>
>>
>>> I can just see you...7 boys all clad in winter garb, right down to your
>>> union suits...running through the snow with arms and legs all stiff and
>>> straight from so many layers of warmth bundled onto you. Man-- those
>>> were great days.
>>>
>>> Sitting in front of the Tablet is just somehow not the same.
>>>
>>> I don't know how it is where you all are tonight, but here in Kalamazoo
>>> County the snow has giving us a fresh 6 or 7 inches, and its just
>>> starting to slacken. It's a chilly 19 degrees, but no wind so it's not
>>> bad at all outside. All in all, a great night for a walk!
>>>
>>> Good Tidings to all,
>>>
>>> Christine
>>>
>>> On Dec 14, 2013, at 5:50 PM, joe harcz Comcast <joeharcz at comcast.net>
>>> wrote:
>>>
>>>> When I lived in New Hampshire a crusty old talk show host, Jerry
>>>> Williams, on WRKO, read this annually.
>>>>
>>>> Now, while a good read in print it is savorrred, being so poetic when
>>>> read aloud.
>>>>
>>>> Jows does a rather good reading as it captures the cadences and rythms.
>>>>
>>>>
>>>> Regardless, Lydia you found a real treasure in that basement when you
>>>> were twelve.
>>>>
>>>> Besides, though not so old as this story I can personally identify with
>>>> many of the events.
>>>>
>>>> For example, my brothers and I were often sock gloved hunters of cats
>>>> and all sorts of critters and objects armed with snowballs.
>>>>
>>>> Each and everyone of we boys, there were seven got a licking or at
>>>> least caught pelting passing cars and trucks from the drainage ditch
>>>> along Mt. Morris Road. The milke truck (we still had them when I was
>>>> young) was a particular target. It was a Nazi Armorred car to me. And
>>>> the driver was a slow old fellow who couldn't catch us even though we
>>>> were laden in wet, sodden wool coats that made your arms stand
>>>> outsstraight to the sides sometimes; and even though we had to run
>>>> through the snow in to the feilds with those darned rubber boots.
>>>>
>>>> Gotta scoot.
>>>>
>>>> Glad you and Christine enjoyed it.
>>>> ----- Original Message ----- From: "Lydia Anne Schuck"
>>>> <lydia.a.schuck at wmich.edu>
>>>> To: "NFB of Michigan Internet Mailing List" <nfbmi-talk at nfbnet.org>
>>>> Sent: Saturday, December 14, 2013 5:34 PM
>>>> Subject: [nfbmi-talk] Child's Christmas in Wales
>>>>
>>>>
>>>>> So when I was about 12, I spent a lot of time on Wednesdays doing
>>>>> laundry in the basement. Had to babysit the machine because the water
>>>>> was used for 3 loads, and the spinner was outside the main barrel of
>>>>> the washer. It was there on some Wednesday, that I found a dusty copy
>>>>> of Child's Christmas in Wales on a shelf down there. This was a
>>>>> basement full of old old stuff, jumping bugs...and no heat, ugh. But
>>>>> it held quite a treasure in that little book.
>>>>>
>>>>> Lydia
>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>> ----- Original Message -----
>>>>> From: Christine Boone <christineboone2 at gmail.com>
>>>>> To: NFB of Michigan Internet Mailing List <nfbmi-talk at nfbnet.org>
>>>>> Sent: Sat, 14 Dec 2013 17:28:17 -0500 (EST)
>>>>> Subject: Re: [nfbmi-talk] just an early holiday present in accessable
>>>>> form
>>>>>
>>>>> I love this Joe. You sent it to me several years ago and I never let
>>>>> this merry season pass without reading Dylan Thomas' delicious story!
>>>>>
>>>>> Thanks. And a Merry Christmas, and Happy belated Hanukkah to one and
>>>>> all!
>>>>>
>>>>> Christine
>>>>>
>>>>> On Dec 6, 2013, at 10:10 PM, joe harcz Comcast <joeharcz at comcast.net>
>>>>> wrote:
>>>>>
>>>>>> I do not wish to forget those whom don't celebrate the holiday season
>>>>>> or those whom do. I offer this story not for religious reasons or
>>>>>> anything else except for its pure poetic-like genius in capturing an
>>>>>> image along with the fact that this is accessible and should be read
>>>>>> to all of all faights or lack thereof as a simple and accessible
>>>>>> gift.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Joe
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Child's Christmas in Wales
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> by Dylan Thomas
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> One Christmas was so much like another, in those years around the
>>>>>> sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking
>>>>>> of the voices I sometimes
>>>>>>
>>>>>> hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it
>>>>>> snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it
>>>>>> snowed for twelve days
>>>>>>
>>>>>> and twelve nights when I was six.
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> All the Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold
>>>>>> and headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they
>>>>>> stop at the
>>>>>>
>>>>>> rim of the ice-edged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge my hands in
>>>>>> the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my hand into that
>>>>>> wool-white bell-tongued
>>>>>>
>>>>>> ball of holidays resting at the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out
>>>>>> come Mrs. Prothero and the firemen.
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> It was on the afternoon of the Christmas Eve, and I was in Mrs.
>>>>>> Prothero's garden, waiting for cats, with her son Jim. It was
>>>>>> snowing. It was always snowing
>>>>>>
>>>>>> at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though
>>>>>> there were no reindeers. But there were cats. Patient, cold and
>>>>>> callous, our hands wrapped
>>>>>>
>>>>>> in socks, we waited to snowball the cats. Sleek and long as jaguars
>>>>>> and horrible-whiskered, spitting and snarling, they would slink and
>>>>>> sidle over the
>>>>>>
>>>>>> white back-garden walls, and the lynx-eyed hunters, Jim and I,
>>>>>> fur-capped and moccasined trappers from Hudson Bay, off Mumbles Road,
>>>>>> would hurl our deadly
>>>>>>
>>>>>> snowballs at the green of their eyes. The wise cats never appeared.
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> We were so still, Eskimo-footed arctic marksmen in the muffling
>>>>>> silence of the eternal snows - eternal, ever since Wednesday - that
>>>>>> we never heard Mrs.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Prothero's first cry from her igloo at the bottom of the garden. Or,
>>>>>> if we heard it at all, it was, to us, like the far-off challenge of
>>>>>> our enemy and
>>>>>>
>>>>>> prey, the neighbor's polar cat. But soon the voice grew louder.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Fire!" cried Mrs. Prothero, and she beat the dinner-gong.
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> And we ran down the garden, with the snowballs in our arms, toward
>>>>>> the house; and smoke, indeed, was pouring out of the dining-room, and
>>>>>> the gong was bombilating,
>>>>>>
>>>>>> and Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii.
>>>>>> This was better than all the cats in Wales standing on the wall in a
>>>>>> row. We bounded
>>>>>>
>>>>>> into the house, laden with snowballs, and stopped at the open door of
>>>>>> the smoke-filled room.
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who
>>>>>> always slept there after midday dinner with a newspaper over his
>>>>>> face. But he was standing
>>>>>>
>>>>>> in the middle of the room, saying, "A fine Christmas!" and smacking
>>>>>> at the smoke with a slipper.
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Call the fire brigade," cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "There won't be there," said Mr. Prothero, "it's Christmas."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> There was no fire to be seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero
>>>>>> standing in the middle of them, waving his slipper as though he were
>>>>>> conducting.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Do something," he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the
>>>>>> smoke - I think we missed Mr. Prothero - and ran out of the house to
>>>>>> the telephone box.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Let's call the police as well," Jim said. "And the ambulance." "And
>>>>>> Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires."
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> But we only called the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came
>>>>>> and three tall men in helmets brought a hose into the house and Mr.
>>>>>> Prothero got out
>>>>>>
>>>>>> just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a
>>>>>> noisier Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and
>>>>>> were standing in the
>>>>>>
>>>>>> wet, smoky room, Jim's Aunt, Miss. Prothero, came downstairs and
>>>>>> peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very quietly, to hear what she
>>>>>> would say to them.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> She said the right thing, always. She looked at the three tall
>>>>>> firemen in their shining helmets, standing among the smoke and
>>>>>> cinders and dissolving snowballs,
>>>>>>
>>>>>> and she said, "Would you like anything to read?"
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Years and years ago, when I was a boy, when there were wolves in
>>>>>> Wales, and birds the color of red-flannel petticoats whisked past the
>>>>>> harp-shaped hills,
>>>>>>
>>>>>> when we sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like
>>>>>> Sunday afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, and we chased,
>>>>>> with the jawbones
>>>>>>
>>>>>> of deacons, the English and the bears, before the motor car, before
>>>>>> the wheel, before the duchess-faced horse, when we rode the daft and
>>>>>> happy hills bareback,
>>>>>>
>>>>>> it snowed and it snowed. But here a small boy says: "It snowed last
>>>>>> year, too. I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I
>>>>>> knocked my brother
>>>>>>
>>>>>> down and then we had tea."
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "But that was not the same snow," I say. "Our snow was not only
>>>>>> shaken from white wash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of
>>>>>> the ground and swam
>>>>>>
>>>>>> and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow
>>>>>> grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather
>>>>>> moss, minutely
>>>>>>
>>>>>> -ivied the walls and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a
>>>>>> dumb, numb thunder-storm of white, torn Christmas cards."
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Were there postmen then, too?"
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "With sprinkling eyes and wind-cherried noses, on spread, frozen feet
>>>>>> they crunched up to the doors and mittened on them manfully. But all
>>>>>> that the children
>>>>>>
>>>>>> could hear was a ringing of bells."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "You mean that the postman went rat-a-tat-tat and the doors rang?"
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "I mean that the bells the children could hear were inside them."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "I only hear thunder sometimes, never bells."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "There were church bells, too."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Inside them?"
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "No, no, no, in the bat-black, snow-white belfries, tugged by bishops
>>>>>> and storks. And they rang their tidings over the bandaged town, over
>>>>>> the frozen foam
>>>>>>
>>>>>> of the powder and ice-cream hills, over the crackling sea. It seemed
>>>>>> that all the churches boomed for joy under my window; and the
>>>>>> weathercocks crew for
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Christmas, on our fence."
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Get back to the postmen"
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "They were just ordinary postmen, found of walking and dogs and
>>>>>> Christmas and the snow. They knocked on the doors with blue knuckles
>>>>>> ...."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Ours has got a black knocker...."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "And then they stood on the white Welcome mat in the little, drifted
>>>>>> porches and huffed and puffed, making ghosts with their breath, and
>>>>>> jogged from foot
>>>>>>
>>>>>> to foot like small boys wanting to go out."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "And then the presents?"
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "And then the Presents, after the Christmas box. And the cold
>>>>>> postman, with a rose on his button-nose, tingled down the
>>>>>> tea-tray-slithered run of the chilly
>>>>>>
>>>>>> glinting hill. He went in his ice-bound boots like a man on
>>>>>> fishmonger's slabs.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "He wagged his bag like a frozen camel's hump, dizzily turned the
>>>>>> corner on one foot, and, by God, he was gone."
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Get back to the Presents."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "There were the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach
>>>>>> days, and mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance
>>>>>> like silky gum
>>>>>>
>>>>>> that could be tug-o'-warred down to the galoshes; blinding
>>>>>> tam-o'-shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited busbies
>>>>>> and balaclavas for victims
>>>>>>
>>>>>> of head-shrinking tribes; from aunts who always wore wool next to the
>>>>>> skin there were mustached and rasping vests that made you wonder why
>>>>>> the aunts had
>>>>>>
>>>>>> any skin left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from
>>>>>> an aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books
>>>>>> in which small
>>>>>>
>>>>>> boys, though warned with quotations not to, would skate on Farmer
>>>>>> Giles' pond and did and drowned; and books that told me everything
>>>>>> about the wasp, except
>>>>>>
>>>>>> why."
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Go on the Useless Presents."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Bags of moist and many-colored jelly babies and a folded flag and a
>>>>>> false nose and a tram-conductor's cap and a machine that punched
>>>>>> tickets and rang a
>>>>>>
>>>>>> bell; never a catapult; once, by mistake that no one could explain, a
>>>>>> little hatchet; and a celluloid duck that made, when you pressed it,
>>>>>> a most unducklike
>>>>>>
>>>>>> sound, a mewing moo that an ambitious cat might make who wished to be
>>>>>> a cow; and a painting book in which I could make the grass, the
>>>>>> trees, the sea and
>>>>>>
>>>>>> the animals any colour I pleased, and still the dazzling sky-blue
>>>>>> sheep are grazing in the red field under the rainbow-billed and
>>>>>> pea-green birds. Hardboileds,
>>>>>>
>>>>>> toffee, fudge and allsorts, crunches, cracknels, humbugs, glaciers,
>>>>>> marzipan, and butterwelsh for the Welsh. And troops of bright tin
>>>>>> soldiers who, if
>>>>>>
>>>>>> they could not fight, could always run. And Snakes-and-Families and
>>>>>> Happy Ladders. And Easy Hobbi-Games for Little Engineers, complete
>>>>>> with instructions.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Oh, easy for Leonardo! And a whistle to make the dogs bark to wake up
>>>>>> the old man next door to make him beat on the wall with his stick to
>>>>>> shake our picture
>>>>>>
>>>>>> off the wall. And a packet of cigarettes: you put one in your mouth
>>>>>> and you stood at the corner of the street and you waited for hours,
>>>>>> in vain, for an
>>>>>>
>>>>>> old lady to scold you for smoking a cigarette, and then with a smirk
>>>>>> you ate it. And then it was breakfast under the balloons."
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Were there Uncles like in our house?"
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "There are always Uncles at Christmas. The same Uncles. And on
>>>>>> Christmas morning, with dog-disturbing whistle and sugar fags, I
>>>>>> would scour the swatched
>>>>>>
>>>>>> town for the news of the little world, and find always a dead bird by
>>>>>> the Post Office or by the white deserted swings; perhaps a robin, all
>>>>>> but one of
>>>>>>
>>>>>> his fires out. Men and women wading or scooping back from chapel,
>>>>>> with taproom noses and wind-bussed cheeks, all albinos, huddles their
>>>>>> stiff black jarring
>>>>>>
>>>>>> feathers against the irreligious snow. Mistletoe hung from the gas
>>>>>> brackets in all the front parlors; there was sherry and walnuts and
>>>>>> bottled beer and
>>>>>>
>>>>>> crackers by the dessertspoons; and cats in their fur-abouts watched
>>>>>> the fires; and the high-heaped fire spat, all ready for the chestnuts
>>>>>> and the mulling
>>>>>>
>>>>>> pokers. Some few large men sat in the front parlors, without their
>>>>>> collars, Uncles almost certainly, trying their new cigars, holding
>>>>>> them out judiciously
>>>>>>
>>>>>> at arms' length, returning them to their mouths, coughing, then
>>>>>> holding them out again as though waiting for the explosion; and some
>>>>>> few small aunts, not
>>>>>>
>>>>>> wanted in the kitchen, nor anywhere else for that matter, sat on the
>>>>>> very edge of their chairs, poised and brittle, afraid to break, like
>>>>>> faded cups and
>>>>>>
>>>>>> saucers."
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Not many those mornings trod the piling streets: an old man always,
>>>>>> fawn-bowlered, yellow-gloved and, at this time of year, with spats of
>>>>>> snow, would take
>>>>>>
>>>>>> his constitutional to the white bowling green and back, as he would
>>>>>> take it wet or fire on Christmas Day or Doomsday; sometimes two hale
>>>>>> young men, with
>>>>>>
>>>>>> big pipes blazing, no overcoats and wind blown scarfs, would trudge,
>>>>>> unspeaking, down to the forlorn sea, to work up an appetite, to blow
>>>>>> away the fumes,
>>>>>>
>>>>>> who knows, to walk into the waves until nothing of them was left but
>>>>>> the two furling smoke clouds of their inextinguishable briars. Then I
>>>>>> would be slap-dashing
>>>>>>
>>>>>> home, the gravy smell of the dinners of others, the bird smell, the
>>>>>> brandy, the pudding and mince, coiling up to my nostrils, when out of
>>>>>> a snow-clogged
>>>>>>
>>>>>> side lane would come a boy the spit of myself, with a pink-tipped
>>>>>> cigarette and the violet past of a black eye, cocky as a bullfinch,
>>>>>> leering all to himself.
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> I hated him on sight and sound, and would be about to put my dog
>>>>>> whistle to my lips and blow him off the face of Christmas when
>>>>>> suddenly he, with a violet
>>>>>>
>>>>>> wink, put his whistle to his lips and blew so stridently, so high, so
>>>>>> exquisitely loud, that gobbling faces, their cheeks bulged with
>>>>>> goose, would press
>>>>>>
>>>>>> against their tinsled windows, the whole length of the white echoing
>>>>>> street. For dinner we had turkey and blazing pudding, and after
>>>>>> dinner the Uncles
>>>>>>
>>>>>> sat in front of the fire, loosened all buttons, put their large moist
>>>>>> hands over their watch chains, groaned a little and slept. Mothers,
>>>>>> aunts and sisters
>>>>>>
>>>>>> scuttled to and fro, bearing tureens. Auntie Bessie, who had already
>>>>>> been frightened, twice, by a clock-work mouse, whimpered at the
>>>>>> sideboard and had
>>>>>>
>>>>>> some elderberry wine. The dog was sick. Auntie Dosie had to have
>>>>>> three aspirins, but Auntie Hannah, who liked port, stood in the
>>>>>> middle of the snowbound
>>>>>>
>>>>>> back yard, singing like a big-bosomed thrush. I would blow up
>>>>>> balloons to see how big they would blow up to; and, when they burst,
>>>>>> which they all did,
>>>>>>
>>>>>> the Uncles jumped and rumbled. In the rich and heavy afternoon, the
>>>>>> Uncles breathing like dolphins and the snow descending, I would sit
>>>>>> among festoons
>>>>>>
>>>>>> and Chinese lanterns and nibble dates and try to make a model
>>>>>> man-o'-war, following the Instructions for Little Engineers, and
>>>>>> produce what might be mistaken
>>>>>>
>>>>>> for a sea-going tramcar.
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Or I would go out, my bright new boots squeaking, into the white
>>>>>> world, on to the seaward hill, to call on Jim and Dan and Jack and to
>>>>>> pad through the still
>>>>>>
>>>>>> streets, leaving huge footprints on the hidden pavements.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "I bet people will think there's been hippos."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "What would you do if you saw a hippo coming down our street?"
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "I'd go like this, bang! I'd throw him over the railings and roll him
>>>>>> down the hill and then I'd tickle him under the ear and he'd wag his
>>>>>> tail."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "What would you do if you saw two hippos?"
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Iron-flanked and bellowing he-hippos clanked and battered through the
>>>>>> scudding snow toward us as we passed Mr. Daniel's house.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Let's post Mr. Daniel a snow-ball through his letter box."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Let's write things in the snow."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Let's write, 'Mr. Daniel looks like a spaniel' all over his lawn."
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Or we walked on the white shore. "Can the fishes see it's snowing?"
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> The silent one-clouded heavens drifted on to the sea. Now we were
>>>>>> snow-blind travelers lost on the north hills, and vast dewlapped
>>>>>> dogs, with flasks round
>>>>>>
>>>>>> their necks, ambled and shambled up to us, baying "Excelsior." We
>>>>>> returned home through the poor streets where only a few children
>>>>>> fumbled with bare red
>>>>>>
>>>>>> fingers in the wheel-rutted snow and cat-called after us, their
>>>>>> voices fading away, as we trudged uphill, into the cries of the dock
>>>>>> birds and the hooting
>>>>>>
>>>>>> of ships out in the whirling bay. And then, at tea the recovered
>>>>>> Uncles would be jolly; and the ice cake loomed in the center of the
>>>>>> table like a marble
>>>>>>
>>>>>> grave. Auntie Hannah laced her tea with rum, because it was only once
>>>>>> a year.
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Bring out the tall tales now that we told by the fire as the gaslight
>>>>>> bubbled like a diver. Ghosts whooed like owls in the long nights when
>>>>>> I dared not
>>>>>>
>>>>>> look over my shoulder; animals lurked in the cubbyhole under the
>>>>>> stairs and the gas meter ticked. And I remember that we went singing
>>>>>> carols once, when
>>>>>>
>>>>>> there wasn't the shaving of a moon to light the flying streets. At
>>>>>> the end of a long road was a drive that led to a large house, and we
>>>>>> stumbled up the
>>>>>>
>>>>>> darkness of the drive that night, each one of us afraid, each one
>>>>>> holding a stone in his hand in case, and all of us too brave to say a
>>>>>> word. The wind
>>>>>>
>>>>>> through the trees made noises as of old and unpleasant and maybe
>>>>>> webfooted men wheezing in caves. We reached the black bulk of the
>>>>>> house. "What shall we
>>>>>>
>>>>>> give them? Hark the Herald?"
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "No," Jack said, "Good King Wencelas. I'll count three." One, two
>>>>>> three, and we began to sing, our voices high and seemingly distant in
>>>>>> the snow-felted
>>>>>>
>>>>>> darkness round the house that was occupied by nobody we knew. We
>>>>>> stood close together, near the dark door. Good King Wencelas looked
>>>>>> out On the Feast of
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Stephen ... And then a small, dry voice, like the voice of someone
>>>>>> who has not spoken for a long time, joined our singing: a small, dry,
>>>>>> eggshell voice
>>>>>>
>>>>>> from the other side of the door: a small dry voice through the
>>>>>> keyhole. And when we stopped running we were outside our house; the
>>>>>> front room was lovely;
>>>>>>
>>>>>> balloons floated under the hot-water-bottle-gulping gas; everything
>>>>>> was good again and shone over the town.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Perhaps it was a ghost," Jim said. "
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Perhaps it was trolls," Dan said, who was always reading.
>>>>>>
>>>>>> "Let's go in and see if there's any jelly left," Jack said. And we
>>>>>> did that.
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> Always on Christmas night there was music. An uncle played the
>>>>>> fiddle, a cousin sang "Cherry Ripe," and another uncle sang "Drake's
>>>>>> Drum." It was very warm
>>>>>>
>>>>>> in the little house. Auntie Hannah, who had got on to the parsnip
>>>>>> wine, sang a song about Bleeding Hearts and Death, and then another
>>>>>> in which she said
>>>>>>
>>>>>> her heart was like a Bird's Nest; and then everybody laughed again;
>>>>>> and then I went to bed. Looking through my bedroom window, out into
>>>>>> the moonlight and
>>>>>>
>>>>>> the unending smoke-colored snow, I could see the lights in the
>>>>>> windows of all the other houses on our hill and hear the music rising
>>>>>> from them up the long,
>>>>>>
>>>>>> steady falling night. I turned the gas down, I got into bed. I said
>>>>>> some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>>
>>>>>> _______________________________________________
>>>>>> nfbmi-talk mailing list
>>>>>> nfbmi-talk at nfbnet.org
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>>>>>> nfbmi-talk:
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>>>>>
>>>>>
>>>>> _______________________________________________
>>>>> nfbmi-talk mailing list
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