7 a.m. Christmas Eve. All systems go. The Christmas pageant underway – who knows what surprises the evening will bring? But it won’t be too cold – or wet, as it was last year – so we might have a big crowd. We’ve had 400 or more. But cast, baby, costumes, cookies – that we distribute as people leave – are all in place. And afterward we go to Mary’s, one of the loveliest houses in Cabbagetown, for a beautiful party.
Miraculously, in the chaos, I’ve been working on the memoir. I feel like a carpenter, finishing a project by polishing, polishing, sanding, and polishing again. Making each word stronger, if possible. I hope to send it out soon.
The little boys are coming over tonight for the pageant and the party, and then back early tomorrow afternoon for the main event. The ground floor of the house is livable, if not Christmassy. Upstairs, not so much.
But there are presents, and there is turkey.
I’ve been really worried about my friend Chris, whose blog appears on the left – he blogs nearly every day and suddenly went silent. After two days, after telephoning and Skyping and getting no answer, I wrote to Patsy, another friend on Gabriola, to ask if she knew where he was, and didn’t hear from her either. And then I read about the power outage on the coast – days now of no power for many thousands of people. Chris has a generator and a fireplace and Patsy has a fireplace, so I hope they’re safe and warm. I miss Chris’s daily missives.
Yesterday, my friend Eleanor sent email greetings and included a link to a performance by a singer I hadn’t heard of: Lorraine Hunt Lieberson. After listening, I found it hard to believe she’s not world-famous, and then I Googled and learned that she began as a violist, didn’t start her professional singing career until her thirties, and died at 52 of breast cancer. What a grievous loss for our world. Her voice is as rich and pure, powerful and wise as any I’ve ever heard. Here, as my Christmas gift to you, is what Eleanor sent to me:
Follow Lieberson’s other links, to Bach, to “Deep River.” The voice of an angel, literally, straight from god.
And, because this is me talking, here’s another treat. My Macca went a few days ago to see the Rockettes and met them afterward. Notice: he’s 76, and his leg is higher than theirs.
Merry Christmas Eve to you. May we all high-kick our way into tomorrow’s festival and the new year.