Cold Weather Friends

Yule Gnome, Cat & Mouse
by Lennart Helje

To a Cat

Stately, kindly, lordly friend,
Condescend
Here to sit by me, and turn
Glorious eyes that smile and burn,
Golden eyes, love's lustrous meed,
On the golden page I read.

~ Algernon Charles Swinburne ~

Giant Snow Cat ~ Thunderpaws
by Artist ~ Monokubo

Nero the Cat in the Snow
Photo by Hannes Kilian (1909 - 1999)

The Little Owl
by Pirkko-Liisa Surojegin
from the storybook Olwen Finds Her Wings

Winter Morning (2016)
by Paolo Domeniconi

Lonely Looking Sky

In Memoriam
Leland Graves, III
June 9, 1959 - December 12, 2024

May 2013
Photography above & below by Lee Graves
~ friend, scientist, artist ~

Lonely looking sky, lonely sky
Lonely looking sky
And being lonely makes you wonder why
Makes you wonder why
Lonely looking sky
Lonely looking sky
Lonely looking sky

Lonely looking night, lonely night
Lonely looking night
And being lonely never made it right
Never made it right
Lonely looking night
Lonely looking night
Lonely looking night

Sleep
We sleep
And we may dream
While we may

Dream
We dream
For we may wake
One more day
One more day

Glory looking day, glory day
Glory looking day
And in it's glory told a simple way
Behold it if you may
Glory looking day
Glory looking day
Ah, lonely looking sky

Words & music by Neil Diamond

January 2012
Full Wolf Moon

October 2013
The Surfside Flautist:
"I was watching the sunset over the gulf
when I heard wonderful flute music and this
gentleman walked by on the beach playing his flute.
I haven't seen that in my neighborhood back home."

Legendary Christmas Collectors: Jock Elliott and George Meredith

I am saving these links and obituaries here so as not to ever lose track of these two creative souls and their Christmas research.

As xkcd says, "Christmas . . . is our most meta holiday. . . . All our Christmas stories now are about discovering the 'true meaning of Christmas'. . . and then sharing it with others. At some point, that quest itself became the true meaning."

Thanks Mr. Elliott and Mr. Meredith
for sharing your lifelong quests!

Obituary for
John "Jock" Elliott
Advertising executive & Christmas Collector
Author of Inventing Christmas
January 25, 1921 - October 29, 2005
Written by Maxwell MacLeod
Novembr 30, 2005
For The Guardian
Jock Elliott, who has died aged 84, was arguably one of the most significant advertising account managers of the 20th century. He was a driven, focused charmer, whose drive took the firm of Ogilvy and Mather virtually from scratch to annual billings of $2bn, with more than 300 offices worldwide. His charm led him to buy the Fingal's Cave island of Staffa for his wife Elly's 60th birthday, then hand it over to the National Trust for Scotland.

Christened John, but known in the trade as Jock, he was primarily enabled by being the close friend and colleague of the legendary advertising creative David Ogilvy, who often admitted to being similarly dependent on Jock, describing him as the keel of the company.

Jock had started slowly. He was born into a wealthy New York family, but his father lost much of his fortune in the 1929 Wall Street crash. Jock gained a scholarship to Harvard, where he dodged half the lectures, then joined the US marines during the second world war. Passing out well up the list, he was seconded to a safer berth in the US navy, where he spent most of the war on the battleship Pennsylvania, achieving the rank of sky commander, the officer in charge of air defences, by the age of 22.

Demobbed in 1945 with the rank of major, he took his first advertising job with the then small agency, Batten, Barton, Durstine & Osborne, where, after a not very successful stint as a copywriter, he moved into management and became its youngest director. He stayed with the company (now BBDO) for 15 years.

Jock's big break came in 1960 when Ogilvy appointed him manager of the lucrative Shell Oil account, which Ogilvy's firm had just acquired. He outshone Ogilvy as an administrator, and, within five years, Ogilvy had handed him control of the American branch of the organisation, and then of Ogilvy & Mather International. He was chairman of O&M International from 1975 until 1982, when he retired with the title of chairman emeritus. In his 22 years with the organisation, he trebled the billings of both divisions of the advertising giant.

As a team, Jock and Ogilvy's shared success was phenomenal, picking up accounts for IBM, American Express and Shell, among many others. Their talents complemented each other: Ogilvy was the genius, old Fettesian sophisticate; Jock the hardnosed marine major who knew the stench of poverty, spoke plainly and put in long hours.

At the heart of his talent was the ability to show affection while maintaining an impartial sternness. He really liked people, and they knew it. He also had huge admiration for creative people - something rare in administrators - recently causing shivers round the industry by observing, "Big ideas are so hard to recognise, so fragile, so easy to kill. Don't forget that, all of you, who don't have them."

Jock's second career was largely in Scotland. He had fallen in love with Grey Walls, the tiny, luxury golf hotel on the sea near Edinburgh, and had a whim to buy a highland estate. In the event, he and Elly - they had married when he was 21 - settled for a tiny cottage in a remote glen, which Jock said had brought him more fun than any estate. He bought her the island of Staffa for a few days, just so she could say she had been its laird. Shortly afterwards, he made a deal with fishermen on Ulva that he would buy them a fishing boat if they would act as his marine chauffeur for 10 years. The arrangement was enjoyed by both sides for much longer than that.

His other hobby was Christmas. Over the years, he would apologise for his silly habit of collecting books with the word Christmas in the title. Then, in his 70s, he revealed his 3,000 strong collection in exhibitions at Harvard and New York. In 2001, he produced a book about the festival, Inventing Christmas, and concluded the dedication to his wife by wishing her a Merry Christmas. She survives him.
************************

Obituary for
George D. Meredith
Influential Ad Man & Christmas Collector
Author of When what to my wondering eyes . . .
August 7, 1940 - January 5, 2023
Published in the East Hampton Star
January 19, 2023
George D. Meredith, a co-founder and creative director of Gianettino & Meredith, a New Jersey advertising agency, died at home in Springs on Jan. 5. He was 82 and had been in declining health.

Mr. Meredith was an influential copywriter and creative director who created and oversaw memorable campaigns for WNEW-FM, ShopRite, Benjamin Moore, Welsh Farms, Chevrolet, Kiwi Airlines, and countless others. He served on the boards of Unity Concerts, Bloomfield College, the Whole Theater Company, and the Montclair Art Museum in New Jersey, and helped found the Yogi Berra Museum there.

His first job after moving to the East Coast in 1969 was for Force, a marketing agency, as editor of the program that was passed out at New York Giants football games. This was followed by work at Keyes Martin, where he rose to the position of creative director. In 1976, he and Ron Gianettino founded Gianettino & Meredith, which, over its first 10 years, was built into the largest independently owned advertising agency in New Jersey.

While at Keyes Martin, he created the ShopRite “Can Can” campaign, with ads featuring a French can-can line and a jingle that became a decades-long earworm for residents of the Northeast. Gianettino & Meredith gained its first client when WNEW-FM turned to it as the rock radio station struggled against the rise of disco. Inspired by the poet Ted Joans, who spray-painted “Bird Lives” throughout New York City after the death of Charlie Parker, Mr. Meredith pitched “Rock Lives” to the station manager at the time, Mel Karmazin. It was adopted as WNEW-FM’s slogan for the next 20 years.

In 1992, when Kiwi Airlines was founded by pilots of the recently defunct Eastern Airlines, it turned to Gianettino & Meredith to market its low-cost flights. According to his family, “When they explained to Meredith their desire to employ nonprofessional actors to save money, Meredith protested and in jest said, ‘I’d do it before I’d let you do that.’ Their unexpected, eager reply was, ‘You would?’ ” And for the next seven years his voice was heard on the company’s droll radio campaigns.

He was inducted into the Advertising Hall of Fame of New Jersey in 1987. He retired in 2002, after 35 years in the business.

Mr. Meredith was born in Milwaukee on Aug. 7, 1940, to George Wade Meredith and the former Carol Catcott. The following year, his father was drafted into the Army. Between all the places his father was stationed and his restarting his career after the war, the family moved a lot when he was a child. In high school he got involved in theater and played varsity basketball and baseball. For two years he pitched for the University of Arizona in Tucson on a baseball scholarship. When he decided he wasn’t going pro, he transferred to Florida Southern College and earned a degree in English.

In 1964, Mr. Meredith moved to Bloomington, Ind., with his first wife, Ruth, to attend graduate school at Indiana University. The couple had a daughter, Hilary. In Bloomington, he met the woman who would be his second wife, Elizabeth Lee, who is known as Beth. She replied to a help wanted ad that Mr. Meredith “would later call ‘the best ad I ever wrote.’ ” When they married in 1969, he gained a stepdaughter, Lisa. Their son Sean was born soon after and they later adopted another son, Daniel.

“Ever passionate about arts and culture,” Mr. Meredith “was an avid collector of books and photography,” his family wrote. Together he and his wife also collected ceramics, art glass, and sculpture. They had a sizable collection of work by artists with ties here, among them Elaine de Kooning, Eric Ernst, Dan Christensen, Audrey Flack, Donald Kennedy, Joe Zucker, Hans Van de Bovenkamp, and Randall Rosenthal.

A music lover, Mr. Meredith was a regular at the Stephen Talkhouse in Amagansett, telling The Star in a 2014 interview, “I don’t know if we’d live here if it wasn’t for the Talkhouse.”

He curated three exhibitions of his collections that were exhibited at the Track 16 Gallery in Santa Monica: “Author! Author!” in 1996, a survey of photographic portraits of writers; “When What to My Wondering Eyes” in 1998, featuring Christmas art and literature, and “Table Turners” in 2003, with album covers designed by “artists who hardly ever did album covers.” The latter was also exhibited at John McWhinnie @ Glenn Horowitz Bookseller in Manhattan and Innersleeve Records in Amagansett. His portraits of authors were shown at the Grolier Club in Manhattan and at the Montclair and East Hampton public libraries.

In 2004 he donated his Christmas collection to the library at Penn State University.

In 1978, he and his wife bought a house on Springs-Fireplace Road, where they spent summers and weekends, splitting their time between Springs and Montclair. They moved to Springs full time in 2009. Not only a collector of photography, he also enjoyed it himself and could often be spotted exploring Springs with his camera in his 1973 red Mustang convertible.

Mr. Meredith is survived by his wife, two daughters, Lisa Stewart of Hewitt, N.J., and Hilary Meredith of Atlanta, and two sons, Sean Meredith of Los Angeles and Daniel Meredith of New York City. He also leaves six grandchildren, Bailey Stewart, Molly Stewart, Charles Meredith, Helene Meredith, Ansel Meredith, and June Meredith, and a sister, Cindi Davenport of Marietta, Ga.

A visit with
George Meredith: Collector Extraordinaire
Written by Christopher Walsh
May 6, 2014
For The East Hampton Star
George and Beth Meredith are collectors of paintings, sculpture, books, photography, and more. Above, Mr. Meredith discussed the artists represented in their extensive collection, in which local artists are emphasized. George and Beth Meredith are collectors of paintings, sculpture, books, photography, and more. Above, Mr. Meredith discussed the artists represented in their extensive collection, in which local artists are emphasized.Durell Godfrey Photos

A visit to the Merediths’ house, in Springs, is akin to stepping through more than a century’s worth of culture. The collections are smaller now, mostly donated or sold. But the stories and experiences cannot be diminished, and George and Beth Meredith have a surplus of all of the above.

A visit to the Merediths’ house, in Springs, is akin to stepping through more than a century’s worth of culture: Art, photography, books, ceramics, and sculpture are on display both inside and out. A wealth of South Fork artists is represented, as are, in rare, exquisitely rendered portrait photography, demigods of literature, music, sports, and more.

Mr. Meredith was co-founder, president, and creative director of Gianettino and Meredith, for many years the largest independently owned advertising agency in New Jersey. Unhappy at the agency they had worked for, he and Ron Gianettino established their own firm with “$3,000 and no accounts.” Mr. Meredith did, however, know Mel Karmazin, the broadcasting executive who was then head of the New York rock ’n’ roll radio station WNEW. “I went in and said, ‘I’d like your business.’ He said, ‘You’re welcome to it. I don’t advertise.’ ”

Just a week later, however, Mr. Karmazin called Mr. Meredith with an urgent request. WNEW had a trade deal with The Village Voice and needed an advertisement on very short notice. Gianettino and Meredith commissioned an illustration, added a pithy tag line, and a memorable ad for an upcoming broadcast of a Grateful Dead concert was born. “It changed my life in a lot of ways,” Mr. Meredith said, “because that made Mel decide he wanted to spend money on advertising. It led to a lot of other business. A lot of our ads won awards, and we got a lot of publicity for them.”

Of an estimated million words written, the adman said he was famous for exactly two. “In 1979, one of the stations, WKTU, converted to disco. For the next 13 weeks, they blew the ratings through the roof, and WNEW’s ratings were cut in half, I would say. Mel got into a panic.” Mr. Karmazin, with the late, legendary D.J. Scott Muni also on the line, summoned Mr. Meredith to their offices. “After we hung up, Scott called me back: ‘Get here. Mel’s talking about changing formats.’ ”

Before the calls had ended Mr. Meredith was at work. “When Charlie Parker died, a couple of poets in the Village went all over town spray-painting ‘Bird Lives.’ And I literally wrote ‘Rock Lives’ at that moment. I got there and had a big piece of cardboard that said, ‘Disco sucks.’ I said, ‘You can’t say this, but you can say this.’ I turned it over and it said ‘Rock Lives.’ They bought that, and that was their theme for some 15 years.”

His long experience in advertising, with its essential qualities of aesthetics, graphic design, and succinct messages, clearly played a part in the appreciation he brings to his and his wife’s extensive collections.

In 2012, part of Mr. Meredith’s immense LP collection was featured in “Table Turners: Album Covers by Artists Who Hardly Ever Did Album Covers” at Innersleeve Records in Amagansett. The exhibition had been staged a decade earlier, however, at what was then the largest gallery in Los Angeles, Track 16, owned by a friend, the comedy writer Tom Patchett. “I did it in New York, too,” Mr. Meredith said of an exhibition at John McWhinnie @ Glenn Horowitz Bookseller on East 64th Street.

Track 16 also staged Mr. Meredith’s “When What to My Wondering Eyes . . . ,” an exhibition of secular Christmas-themed art and literature from a collection he believes is the world’s largest. “That was a huge show and got lots of publicity,” he said. “The show was beautiful. It was a unique opportunity when you own something like that — you’d like people to see it.”

The collection was later sold and donated, in stages, to Penn State University. A show featuring portraits of authors was exhibited at Manhattan’s Grolier Club, the society for bibliophiles and graphic arts enthusiasts, where he is a member. Mr. Meredith’s collection of portraits numbers, by his estimate, 1,000 — many acquired through chance encounters and opportunities. The oversized prints offer rare depictions of the likes of Thomas Wolfe, James Agee, Isak Dinesen, Allen Ginsberg, James Joyce, Henry Miller, George Bernard Shaw, Tennessee Williams, and a young J.D. Salinger. “That’s really rare,” Mr. Meredith said of the Salinger, “because he didn’t let his picture be taken after this.”

Jazz musicians such as Dizzy Gillespie, Max Roach, Miles Davis, Sara Vaughn, and Mr. Parker, then 19, are pictured, along with baseball legends including Sandy Koufax, Jackie Robinson, Don Drysdale, and Duke Snider. Also depicted is a youthful Senator John F. Kennedy on the campaign trail and a portrait, by the late Bert Stern, of Natalie Wood. “Of all the photographs, it’s my favorite,” Mr. Meredith said. “Natalie Wood, as beautiful as could be.”

The Merediths’ house is a veritable museum of visual art, with an emphasis on local artists. Elaine de Kooning, Eric Ernst, Dan Christensen, Audrey Flack, Donald Kennedy, David Gilhooly, Joe Zucker, Hans Van de Bovenkamp, and Randall Rosenthal are but a fraction of the names represented. Even the late Zero Mostel is here: “He was a painter before he was ever an actor,” Mr. Meredith said.

A rare Andy Warhol print is prominent. “This is a printed proof, and there were 30 others printed. Every one of them, the colors are different. I lucked into this piece at an auction.”

One striking portrait is a photograph of Picasso by Gjon Mili, a pioneering photographer who used stroboscopic light to capture multiple actions in a single image. “He spent three days and shot over 300 pictures of Picasso,” Mr. Meredith said. “But this is the best one, I think.”

The Merediths’ appreciation of culture extends to popular music, and on summer nights they might be found at the Stephen Talkhouse in Amagansett, rubbing shoulders with fellow patrons like Mick Jagger and Jon Bon Jovi. “I don’t know if we’d live here if it wasn’t for the Talkhouse,” Mr. Meredith said. “We’d have to go to Manhattan every time we wanted to see and hear the people we love.”

Partridge Poems for the Twelve Days

March 2024:
"May the light at the heart of Easter be with you always."

Thanks to my sweet friend Katie
for these clever collage cards,
created by artist ~ Temre Stanchfield

December 2015:
"Thank you too for being such a bright Christmas light for us all."

1.
December

A little girl is singing for the faithful to come ye
Joyful and triumphant, a song she loves,
And also the partridge in a pear tree
And the golden rings and the turtle doves.
In the dark streets, red lights and green and blue
Where the faithful live, some joyful, some troubled,
Enduring the cold and also the flu,
Taking the garbage out and keeping the sidewalk shoveled.
Not much triumph going on here — and yet
There is much we do not understand.
And my hopes and fears are met
In this small singer holding onto my hand.
Onward we go, faithfully, into the dark
And are there angels hovering overhead? Hark.

by Gary Johnson
[See also "Table Grace" and "Another Year"]

2.
The Weight of a Snowflake

So cold, ice had frozen the landscape,
Like a key turned in a lock.
A robin held her winter ground
And watched from a tree

As snow covered everything that could be covered.
Nothing was left un-white.
Ditches filled up and trees vanished,
Snow on snow, snow on snow.

A partridge shivered and sheltered
In the branches of a pear tree.
Two turtle doves cuddled up and cooed
From deep within a Scots pine.

Three French hens said ‘Joyeux Noël’
And went home for Christmas,
And four blackbirds called out,
Complaining about how cold it was.

How much does a snowflake weigh?
The robin thought to herself.
Nothing, she replied. In fact,
A little less than nothing.

At that moment the snow seemed to pause for breath,
Except for one solitary snowflake
Which landed on the robin’s branch,
And the brittle branch broke.

Snapped off by the less-than-nothing weight
Of a single, gleaming snowflake.
If one more snowflake falling
Could cause the branch to break,

Then maybe, thought the robin, all we need
Is one more voice to make a difference.
One more less-than-nothing voice.
And she sang. And she sang. And she sang.

by Bill Adair
[Facebook post for Tuesday, December 3]

3.
The one that got away . . .
I hate it when that happens: you come across something good, forget to save, retrace your steps, but have no luck tracking it down. Sigh. When I find it again, I will post it!

An Old Philly Christmastide

Broad Street in Winter ~ 1875
&
Market Street Cable Cars ~ 1885

Thanks to
Jack Galgon & Gregory Montanaro
for pictures of Old Philadelphia

Old Christmastide

Heap on more wood! the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deem’d the new-born year
The fittest time for festal cheer:
Even, heathen yet, the savage Dane
At Iol more deep the mead did drain;
High on the beach his galleys drew,
And feasted all his pirate crew;
Then in his low and pine-built hall
Where shields and axes deck’d the wall
They gorged upon the half-dress’d steer;
Caroused in seas of sable beer;
While round, in brutal jest, were thrown
The half-gnaw’d rib, and marrow-bone:
Or listen’d all, in grim delight,
While Scalds yell’d out the joys of fight.
Then forth, in frenzy, would they hie,
While wildly loose their red locks fly,
And dancing round the blazing pile,
They make such barbarous mirth the while,
As best might to the mind recall
The boisterous joys of Odin’s hall.

And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had roll’d,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night;
On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas Eve the mass was sung:
That only night in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donn’d her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dress’d with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then open’d wide the Baron’s hall
To vassal, tenant, serf and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside
And Ceremony doff’d his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The Lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of ‘post and pair’.
All hail’d, with uncontroll’d delight,
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

The fire, with well-dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hall-table’s oaken face,
Scrubb’d till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar’s head frown’d on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garb’d ranger tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death to tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassel round, in good brown bowls,
Garnish’d with ribbons, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reek’d; hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor fail’d old Scotland to produce,
At such high tide, her savoury goose.
Then came the merry makers in,
And carols roar’d with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visors made;
But, O! what maskers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England, when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
‘Twas Christmas broach’d the mightiest ale;
‘Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer
The poor man’s heart through half the year.

~from Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field
~by Sir Walter Scott (1771 – 1832)
Scottish historian, novelist, poet, and playwright

The Darkest Dark, the Descent

~Traditional Celtic Verse ~

The sun is in the south and the days lengthen fast,
soon we shall sing of the winter that's passed;
for now light the candles and rejoice as they burn,
and dance our dance of the sun's return.

~ Solstice Meditation ~

Holiday . . . High Holy Days . . . winter Solstice . . . Yuletide Season . . . Christmas time, a time of family and friends, feasting and firelight, the sound of bells ringing out across a snowy night, the lighting of the candles, the trimming of the trees, and the turning of our thoughts upon the sacred ways of peace.

No matter what its name, this high point of the calendar has forever been celebrated in joyous and sacred ways as we bid farewell to the dark days of winter, and welcome with songs and thanks giving the bright, hopeful sun of a bright new year.

****************
Two lovely passages in celebration of the light. But wait -- today is for celebrating the dark, not the light. The Winter Solstice is the shortest day, the longest night, so meditations such as these are really for the next day, the day after the Solstice, right? Before the light returns, I want to celebrate the season's darkest dark, the year's descent, which is precisely why I relish every day from Mabon to Samhain to Yule.

I embrace the Winter Solstice not because it heralds the return of light but because it is the shortest, duskiest day of all, the culminating magic of increasing darkness. Instead of feeling joyful at the returning light, I am always a little sorry to bid farewell to the short dark days. It may be good that Spring is on the way, yet I always find something disheartening about the edgy new light of January, something jarring.

Perhaps feeling bereft that the darkening days are over for another year aligns with the Keatsian tendency to be "half in love with easeful death" (more on this to come).

A sunny Winter Solstice in Virginia this year,
standing under the Southern Magnolia

The Moon This Month

The nearly full Cold Moon rising from the chimney!
Dec 12, 5:36 pm

Crescent Moon & Evening Star
Dec 5, 5:24 pm

O Holy Night ~ ALL verses
(and wiki)

O Come All Ye Faithful ~ ALL verses
(and wiki)

Sing Along

Thinking about these three favorites -- lighthearted, joyful and unforgettable -- unforgettable except that I am always getting them confused with one another, so here and now I am setting out the lyrics and vowing to keep them straight this Christmas and the next, and every other Christmas yet to come:
1. I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday
Song by Wizzard
When the snowman brings the snow . . .

2. Merry Xmas Everybody
Song by Slade
Are you hanging up your stocking on your wall? . . .

3. Merry Christmas Everyone
Song by Shakin’ Stevens
Snow is falling all around me . . .

Complete lyrics on my recent post:

"the snowman brings the snow"

@The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A literary blog of connection & coincidence;
custom & ceremony

Two more tunes that I am learning
to keep straight in my head:

The Sussex Carol
On Christmas night all Christians sing
To hear the news the angels bring . . .
[also this version]

and

The Wexford Carol
Good people all, this Christmas time
Consider well and bear in mind . . .
[also this version]

Holiday Barns

Thanksgiving

Harvest Sunset

Red gold of pools,
Sunset furrows six o'clock,
And the farmer done in the fields
And the cows in the barns with bulging udders.

Take the cows and the farmer,
Take the barns and bulging udders.
Leave the red gold of pools
And sunset furrows six o'clock.
The farmer's wife is singing.
The farmer's boy is whistling.
I wash my hands in red gold of pools.

A few more favorites
from Tammy Sandel's
"Barn Heart Series"

Christmas

Improved Farm Land

Tall timber stood here once, here on a corn belt farm along the Monon.

Here the roots of a half mile of trees dug their runners deep in the loam for a grip and a hold against wind storms.

Then the axmen came and the chips flew to the zing of steel and handle the lank railsplitters cut the big ones first, the beeches and the oaks, then the brush.

Dynamite, wagons and horses took the stumps--the plows sunk their teeth in--now it is first class corn land--improved property--and the hogs grunt over the fodder crops.

It would come hard now for this half mile of improved farm land along the Monon corn belt, on a piece of Grand Prairie, to remember once it had a great singing family of trees.

Both poems by Carl Sandburg (1878 – 1967)

Barn of My Heart

Happy Birthday ~ Emily Dickinson
Born this day in 1830
[died May 15, 1886]

#178 ~ I cautious, scanned my little life

I cautious, scanned my little life—
I winnowed what would fade
From what would last till Heads like mine
Should be a-dreaming laid.

I put the latter in a Barn—
The former, blew away.
I went one winter morning
And lo—my priceless Hay

Was not upon the “Scaffold”—
Was not upon the “Beam”—
And from a thriving Farmer—
A Cynic, I became.

Whether a Thief did it—
Whether it was the wind—
Whether Deity’s guiltless—
My business is, to find!

So I begin to ransack!
How is it Hearts, with Thee?
Art thou within the little Barn
Love provided Thee?

~ Emily Dickinson [emphasis added]

My friend Tammy Sandel takes these stunning photographs
and then captures the personality
of each Indiana barn with a unique name.
The two shown here are from her "Barn Heart Series"

Tammy has also inpsired me a couple of times
with my own barn - naming:
Kittredge & Portia

Earring Christmas Tree

Little Tree from Katie F.
topped with my mom's watch locket
and decorated with miscellaneous earrings

That little genius Ellie
asked me if my earrings
were upside down pineapples!

Ben never cared too much
about his Phi Beta Kappa Keys
so I turned them into earrings!

Joan Didion: "I had not been elected to Phi Beta Kappa. This failure could scarcely have been more predictable or less ambiguous (I simply did not have the grades), but I was unnerved by it; I had somehow thought myself a kind of academic Raskolnikov, curiously exempt from the cause-effect relationships that hampered others. Although the situation must have had even then the approximate tragic stature of Scott Fitzgerald's failure to become president of the Princeton Triangle Club, the day that I did not make Phi Beta Kappa nevertheless marked the end of something, and innocence may well be the word for it. I lost the conviction that lights would always turn green for me, the pleasant certainty that those rather passive virtues which had won me approval as a child automatically guaranteed me not only Phi Beta Kappa keys but happiness, honour, and the love of a good man (preferably a cross between Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca and one of the Murchisons in a proxy fight); lost a certain touching faith in the totem power of good manners, clean hair, and proven competence on the Stanford-Binet scale. To such doubtful amulets had my self-respect been pinned, and I faced myself that day with the nonplussed wonder of someone who has come across a vampire and found no garlands of garlic at hand." ~from her essay "On Self - Respect"
~see also: FN ~ KL ~ QK

Thanks Ben!

Texas A & M ~ Thanks Sara!

Christmas Tree Art

A festive art project
at the Sites Hotel ~ Medellin, Colombia

First an original work,
then a Christmas Tree Version:

Original . . .
Christmas Tree!

You get the idea!

Photos from December 2016

****************

Another way of doing it . . .

Not forgetting Reindeer . . .

And Valentines . . .

Sitting Still A Minute

End of November
Artist: Tejana Lukovic

Sitting still for just a minute
between Thanksgiving & Christmas . . .

Two more fall favorites
from Cassie Bourque

Thinking about the meaning of life . . .

"Victoria on the Void"

@The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A literary blog of connection & coincidence;
custom & ceremony

And looking at some picture books . . .

"Halloween Favorites"
&
"How to Find Orion"

@Kitti's List