St Lucy's Day

Lucia of Syracuse (283–304), also known as Saint Lucy, or Saint Lucia (Italian Santa Lucia), was a young Christian martyr who died during the Diocletian persecution. She is venerated as a saint by the Roman Catholic, Anglican, Lutheran, and Orthodox Churches. She is one of seven women, apart from the Blessed Virgin Mary, commemorated by name in the traditional Canon of the Mass. Her feast day, known as Saint Lucy's Day, is celebrated in the West on 13 December. (From Wikipedia. You didn't think I was going to type it out for myself, did you?)

Sadly the Episcopal Church in the USA does not mark her day, but I take joy - together with Swedish people the world over, for she is their matron saint - in wishing you a Happy St Lucy's Day!

'Tis the Season

And it's cold. A wind chill of eleven degrees Fahrenheit, or so they say. But for the time being it's a dry cold and I can cope with such low degrees. My grandmother would say tell everyone to stop complaining and pull on another sweater. And her small house in Fishguard only had a small coal fire in the front room (which was only used when the Vicar called to visit) and a similar heater in the middle or living room.

But tomorrow the dry turns to wet and snow is forecast. Perhaps an inch or two. Maybe as much as five inches. No forecaster agrees on how this storm will affect the east end of the island so we simply wait and see.

And the more I think about it, the more I despair of those who dream of a white Christmas. But then I realise that those who do, and who compose songs to that effect, are city dwellers who generally speaking don't have to travel far to work, shop or play. And what is this Yuletide fascination with snow anyway? I blame it on the Victorians. In fact, most things snowy and sentimental about Christmas can be blamed on the Victorians. But then they did produce Charles Dickens and his Ebenezer Scrooge so they can't be all bad.

Let there be Light(s)

 

A light in my winter
For spring dreams to come
Shady darkish tinter
Where my summer is from
A light in white frost
For the blossoming dreams
Those with autumn were lost
In oblivion river streams.

Each morning come glowing
With sunshine and day
Through the darkness going
To lead forthcoming way
When rose shall reddish
So lovesome in my bed
To bring in spring wish
Through their colors red.

A light in my heart
To fulfill my dark eyes
For blossoms shall start
When there are blue skies
And again summer spring
With each beauty of worth
And birds in trees to sing
Every song of new earth.

Rich but gentle words by Peter S Quinn, but my words were nothing of the kind yesterday afternoon when, having stubbed my toe on an old tree stump I hopped around only to find the exact spot that Lizzie the labrador chooses to use for her morning latrine. What was I doing?  Starting my annual, and now traditional task of putting in place thousands of outdoor lights in time for the Christmas season.  What began as a single grazing stag evolved over the years into a brilliant extravaganza.  It takes many days and much testing of cables and bulbs, but when all is wired and done it is immensely satisfying to walk up the road, look back and see the finished work.

And I tell myself – this is not just for Christmas.  It is part of December and entering winter and the approaching solstice.  An act of defiance maybe, as mornings and evenings are now dark.  And like those pagans of old, an act of hope that spring will come, eventually.  Even when I take down those lights after the Epiphany, the rite and ritual has been fulfilled.  But the images live on until it’s time for Lent – and the putting away of such pagan things!

DRESSED FOR THANKSGIVING

Two days to go before the great and glorious feast of varied origins, and the food is already being assembled ready for prepping and eventual cooking.  In Lewis Towers this is now a truly team effort as we all have our culinary roles and signature dishes to bring to the table.  Gone, thankfully, are the days when I would labor at everything.  Now, having sharpened all the knives, I can relax a little as Sandi makes her squash casserole and creamed onions, and Kate brings creamy French beans to the pot, the turkey roasting all the while.

My main dish is a sausage and bread dressing.  I prefer to cook and serve this outside of the bird as it is crisper and in my opinion (which seldom counts for much) more flavorsome.  And I always make it the day before and reheat it shortly before the main course is served up.  The recipe?

Three tubes of sausage meat.  I prefer Jones’ Sausage, but this isn’t compulsory.  Just watch out for MSG in other brands.

Two medium sized onions, chopped.

Three cloves of garlic, chopped.

I ½ large loaves of sliced white bread, crusts cut off and the slices broken up by hand.  Don’t laugh, but Wonderbread is excellent for this recipe.  Or any cheap supermarket bread.

The zest of one large orange and the juice of two large oranges.

1 Tsp+ dried sage

1 Tsp+ dried thyme

Two eggs.

A little canola or vegetable oil.

Salt and freshly ground black pepper.

Roll up sleeves and wash your hands. They will be your principle kitchen tools!

Heat oil in large pan.

Add onion and garlic.

Break sausage meat into pan and cook over medium heat until well-browned.  Remove from heat and scoop into a large mixing bowl to cool.

Prepare the bread (as described) and when the meat is cool enough to handle mix in the broken bread with your hands. Then add the herbs and the zest. 

Finally mix in the eggs, orange juice  and (to taste) seasoning.

Spread into two-inch deep baking dish, cover with foil, and cook at 375F for about 25 minutes. Remove and cool.  Then keep it in the fridge until the following day.  Remove about two hours before the Thanksgiving meal and when ready heat up in oven.

And where were you?

Now that the media hyperbole surrounding the fiftieth anniversary of the slaying of President John Kennedy has subsided I have had time to recollect myself as much as I can about that violent and bloody event.  But as I was seven years old at the time the memories are blurred to say the least.  The primary questions that those of age have been asking themselves are:  Where was I, or, where were you?  Well I have sat and thought and thought some more and to be candid I have no idea whatsoever where I was at 6:30 pm in Worcester, England, on Friday the twenty-second of November 1963.  Presumably eating an early supper as that was the family routine. And I cannot remember anything involving watching the television news (brief children’s programming having ceased at 5:45) or my parents reacting in any way – or even discussing the event.  Odd, perhaps, but that’s my honest recollection. Or lack of.

My vivid memory is of the following morning, Saturday, when, at St Alban’s Preparatory School, we were all gathered in the small chapel for assembly.  And “Wilf” Thomas, the Housemaster, strode to the front swishing his chalk-streaked academic gown as he always did, and we fell silent.  He told us that last evening the President of the United States had been assassinated (or words to that effect) and that we were now all going to kneel and say the Lord’s Prayer, remembering the people of America.  And this we dutifully did, flanked by other teachers, some of whom I recall stared up at the ceiling during these proceedings.  But this was English public school (American readers may understand this as “private” school) and more than one master and well-heeled pupil would sneer at God and talk about the coming Communist salvation.  Just a passing phase, you understand.  And then we stood, and I was dispatched, as duty pumper, to the chapel organ where the bellows filled and we sang O God our help in ages past.  Followed by double geography.

Burial in the Early Morning

"What voice colder than the wind out of the grave said: ‘It is over’?"  No Time.  RS Thomas 1913-2000

And it was also a bitterly cold morning in Edgewood cemetery that early morning.  Yet the sky was already bright blue and the huge diggers and earth-movers were already at work in the nearby woods, making space for even more houses.  But they stopped work when the cherry-wood coffin was placed on its trestles.  I wonder if the workers stood there and peered through the trees out of curiosity and respect.  Who knows?  The night before gave us the first hard freeze of the season and in shaded parts of the graveyard the grass still glistened white.  With the undertaker I slowly began to feel the cold creeping up my legs.  No amount of cassock and layers can prevent that intrusion.  And gathered around an open grave there was no bodily warmth for any of us.  The words of the prayer book went by quickly.  Tokens of her enjoyment in life were placed with the coffin.  She had been sixty-four years of age.  Death seemed to be in a hurry, as we were to get back into the warmth.