At Home in Hespeler

I HEARD THE BELLS ON CHRISTMAS DAY
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I heard the bells on Christmas day
Their old familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet the words repeat
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

I thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along th’ unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

And in despair I bowed my head
‘There is no peace on earth’, I said,
‘For hate is strong and mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good will to men’.

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
‘God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The wrong shall fail, the right prevail
With peace on earth, good will to men’.

Till ringing, singing on its way
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime, a chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good will to men.

1864

Christmas

It’s that time of year again, Christmas Eve, when At Home in Hespeler offers a small gift to my more progressive readers. It’s the fourth annual In The Workhouse Christmas Day.

In The Workhouse Christmas Day, by George R. Sims 

It is Christmas Day in the Workhouse,
And the cold bare walls are bright
With garlands of green and holly,
And the place is a pleasant sight:
For with clear-washed hands and faces
In a long and hungry line
The paupers sit at the tables,
For this is the hour they dine.

And the guardians and their ladies,
Although the wind is east,
Have come in their furs and wrappers,
To watch their charges feast:
To smile and be condescending,
Put puddings on pauper plates,
To be hosts at the workhouse banquet
They’ve paid for – with the rates.

Oh, the paupers are meek and lowly
With their ‘Thank’ee kindly, mum’s’;
So long as they fill their stomachs
What matters it whence it comes?
But one of the old men mutters,
And pushes his plate aside:
‘Great God!’ he cries; ‘but it chokes me!
For this is the day she died.’

The guardians gazed in horror
The master’s face went white;
‘Did a pauper refuse his pudding?’
‘Could their ears believe aright?’
Then the ladies clutched their husbands,
Thinking the man might die
Struck by a bolt, or something,
By the outraged One on high.

But the pauper sat for a moment,
Then rose ‘mid a silence grim,
For the others has ceased to chatter,
And trembled every limb.
He looked at the guardian’s ladies,
Then. eyeing their lords, he said,
‘I eat not the food of villains
Whose hands are foul and red:

‘Whose victims cry for vengeance
From their dank, unhallowed graves.’
‘He’s drunk!’ said the workhouse master.
‘Or else he’s mad, and raves.’
‘Not drunk or mad,’ cried the pauper,
‘But only a hunted beast,
Who, torn by the hounds and mangled,
Declines the vulture’s feast.

I care not a curse for the guardians,
And I won’t be dragged away.
Just let me have the fit out,
It’s only Christmas Day
That the black past comes to goad me,
And prey my burning brain;
I’ll tell you the rest in a whisper, –
I swear I won’t shout again.

‘Keep your hands off me, curse you!
Hear me right out to the end.
You come here to see how the paupers
The season of Christmas spend.
You come here to watch us feeding,
As they watch the captured beast.
Hear why a penniless pauper
Spits on your paltry feast.

‘Do you think I will take your bounty,
And let you smile and think
You’re doing a noble action
With the parish’s meat and drink?
Where is my wife, you traitors –
The poor old wife you slew?
Yes, by the God above us
My Nance was killed by you!

‘Last winter my wife lay dying,
Starved in a filthy den;
I had never been to the parish, –
I came to the parish then.
I swallowed my pride in coming,
For, ere the ruin came,
I held up my head as a trader,
And I bore a spotless name.

‘I came to the parish, craving
Bread for a starving wife,
Bread for a woman who’d loved me
Through fifty years of my life;
And what do you think they told me,
Mocking my awful grief?
That “the House” was open to us,
But they wouldn’t give “out relief”.

I slunk to the filthy alley –
‘Twas a cold, raw Christmas eve –
And the bakers’ shops were open
Tempting a man to thieve;
But I clenched my fists together
Holding my head awry,
So I came home empty-handed,
And mournfully told her why.

Then I told her “the House” was open;
She had heard of the ways of that,
For her bloodless cheeks went crimson,
And up in her rags she sat,
Crying, “Bide the Christmas here, John,
We’ve never had one apart;
I think I can bear the hunger, –
The other would break my heart.”

‘All through that ever I watched her,
Holding her hand in mine,
Praying the Lord, and weeping
Till my lips were salt as brine.
I asked her once if she hungered
And as she answered “No,”
The moon shone in at the wondow
Set in a wreath of snow

‘Then the room was bathed in glory,
And I saw in my darling’s eyes
The far-away look of wonder
That comes when the spirit flies;
And her lips were parched and parted,
And her reason came and went,
For she raved of her home in Devon,
Where her happiest days were spent.

‘And the accents, long forgotten,
Came back to the tongue once more,
For she talked like the country lassie
I woo’d by the Devon shore.
Then she rose to her feet and trembled,
And fell on the rags and moaned,
And, “Give me a crust – I’m famished –
For the love of God!” she groaned.

I rushed from the room like a madman,
And flew to the workhouse gate,
Crying “Food for a dying woman!”
And came the answer, “Too late.”
They drove me away with curses;
Then I fought with a dog in the street,
And tore from the mongrel’s clutches
A crust he was trying to eat.

‘Back, through the filthy by-lanes!
Back, through the trampled slush!
Up to the crazy garret,
Wrapped in an awful hush.
My heart sank down at the threshold,
And I paused with a sudden thrill,
For there in the silv’ry moonlight
My Nancy lay, cold and still.

‘Up to the blackened ceiling
The sunken eyes were cast –
I knew on those lips all bloodless
My name had been the last;
She’d called for her absent husband –
O God! had I but known! –
Had called in vain and in anguish
Had died in that den – alone.

‘Yes, there in a land of plenty
Lay a loving woman dead,
Cruelly starved and murdered
For a loaf of parish bread.
At yonder gate, last Christmas
I craved for a human life.
You, who would feast us paupers,
What of my murdered wife!

‘There, get ye gone to your dinners;
Don’t mind me in the least;
Think of your happy paupers
Eating your Christmas feast;
And when you recount their blessings
In your smug parochial way,
Say what you did for me, too,
Only last Christmas Day

Christmas

shovel it:

BRITAIN is heading for more snow storms and travel chaos as sub-zero temperatures grip the country.

The cold snap is set to continue for the week with conditions plummeting as low as minus 12 in some areas, says the Met Office.

Parts of Kent and East Anglia saw up to 20cm of snow last night

Global Warming Climategate, east anglia, kent, snow

OK, we’ve all seen the Stephen Harper assassination picture and can all agree it’s harmless: not like they had a bird pooping on him or any such major indignity. It was stupid, and the collective MSM yawn in lieu of howls of indignity, as they do every time a Conservative speaks ill of a Liberal, was embarrassing for them. Pity they don’t have the common sense anymore to realize they’re embarrassed.

Remember this picture next time you hear howls of Stephen Harper being a mean spirited, nasty bully.

But the Stephen Harper assassination fantasy/crime, and the Stephen Harper arming a cow (in the not with a gun context) picture aren’t the only graven images in the Liberal Party Stephen Harper Photoshop contest and hate-athon currently underway at Liberanos.ca. There are six finalists now showing and they range from the childish (Harper as Waldo, Harper in a bunny suit) to reasonably clever (Something rotten in the state of Denmark), to the dammed racist if a Republican did it with their President (the monkeys) to the disturbing: one with Harper riding a bomb, and this one

Seeing as Hitler pictures are so darned hard to find and David in Ottawa only had 45 or 50 seconds to do his entry, a quick slice of Harper into the Communist Party poster, because we all know how vile the communists are. Isn’t that clever? Why there’s Lenin. And Stalin and Mao, the two worst mass murderers in the history of the world. Oh, and look, there’s Uncle Fidel in the back…

Uncle Fidel?

Wait a minute, that uncle Fidel? Virtually the only world leader to make an appearance at the last Michael Ignatieff’s funeral? I thought the Liberals liked him. As for Mao, wasn’t last weeks big scandal that Harper can’t get along with Chinese Communists? In fact, if we imagine a party like the one pictured above, wouldn’t MM Chrétien and Trudeau be the Canadians most likely to RSVP in the affirmative?

What exactly is the message the Liberal Party is trying to send with this picture? That Stephen Harper is really a closet Liberal? Well, he did jack up the deficit, increase spending and stuff the senate? But it seems an odd message for the Liberals to be putting out none the less.

Maybe the message is they didn’t think this contest through very well.

Silly Liberals Castro, Chrétien, Communist Party, Conservative Party, Fidel, Hitler, Jack Ruby, Lee Harvey Oswald, Lenin, Liberal, Mao, Michael Ignatieff, puffin, STalin, Stephen Harper, Trudeau, Where's Waldo

At Home in Hespeler gave to me:

A Cat’s Christmas
By Button Noseworthy

“Button! Get out of that tree!”

That’s twice. And he’s walking this way. Chris. He’s not even my person, he’s Janet’s person, and Janet is mine. None the less, Chris is walking this way and the second time was louder than the first so I have to respond; I look at him like he’s grown an extra eye in the middle of his forehead.

“Button!”

That’s three and he’s almost at the tree. I jump down and run to the other side of the room. Stop. Lick my paw, just to show I didn’t get down because of any old person told me too. I got down because I had some dirt on my paw that had to be dealt with right away.

“Janet! Your stupid cat has been playing with the presents!”

Now this is a bit tricky, he wasn’t supposed to notice that. What do they expect though? Has he ever stuck a piece of thread in front of me that I don’t play with? They know my weaknesses. So now he wraps up presents and puts shiny ribbon around it, and I’m supposed to know it’s not for me? It’s probably better if I just leave, but with dignity. No running away, walk slow, tail in the air to let them know I’m appalled by the accusations being made against me. Some things must be done right; just as a ballerina must point her toes when doing a pirouette, a Cat must raise her tail when leaving a room amid accusations and slanders.

I walk slowly out of the room, stopping at my food dish. Empty! Who do these people think I am Gandhi? Not in this life, although maybe in my last life I was Gandhi or Mother Theresa or Elvis. How else do you explain that I am a Cat in this life? I give off an indignant meow to protest the service at this establishment, but the staff here could care less.

Chris goes running past with the present I had been playing with ten minutes ago, wrapping paper, ribbon and bow torn to shreds in his arm. He must be planning on re-wrapping that one; this could be fun. He’s taking it downstairs so I follow behind, stealthily so he doesn’t see me. He sits at a table and pulls out wrapping paper, new ribbon and a new bow. I want the ribbon, but timing is everything when you’re a Cat. I settle about two feet behind him and start licking my paws; it is most important to be cleaning, in case he notices me here. My attitude must be as if I am saying ‘I always come here to clean, and what are you doing here?’ Of course, we both know what he’s doing here; he’s re-wrapping Janet’s present and he’s just putting the tape on. That means the ribbon is next, so I move directly under his chair. He wraps it around once, then crosses the ribbon and wraps the other direction. Just as he’s about to tie it, I pounce. He never saw me of course, until I was on the present and grabbing at the ribbon. Grabbing and chewing furiously I completely ruin another wrap job for him before running back up stairs. He throws the roll of ribbon at me and yells “Button! You stupid cat!” The ribbon misses, but it’s close enough that I pounce on the end and roll downstairs, all the while fighting off the offending ribbon. Once at the bottom of the stairs I jump back up on the stairs, being sure to go around the balustrade at the bottom. Success! I have completely un-wrapped the roll of ribbon and it winds up and down the stairs looking like the stairs had been decorated for Christmas by a dog.

Chris’s yelling brings Janet to see what is all the fuss about, and finds that the fuss is her Cat is being cute and her person is allergic to cute. At least that’s how I explained it, but these simpletons can’t, or won’t speak Cat, thus I come off sounding much worse than I was. She’s sympathetic to me anyway, and says, “She’s just playing Chris.” She’s technically right of course but she’s made a minor error of distinction: She thinks I was playing with the ribbon, but I was, of course, toying with her person. I don’t bother sticking around to correct her impression and I’m certainly not helping to clean up the mess I’ve created, so I walk upstairs and take a comfortable spot under the tree for a nap.

I love Christmas!
**************
It’s Christmas Eve and the house is silent. What’s the poem say, “not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse”? I can personally attest to the fact there are no mice in this house, stirring or otherwise. The people are upstairs sleeping, visions of sugarplums no doubt dancing in their heads; I never could figure out what a sugarplum is or why it would be dancing. No dancing down here though, everything is quiet. Unlike other nights, however, it won’t stay quiet for long.

I do a quick circle of the main floor to make sure everything is in order. The outdoor lights are on so that Santa can find the house and the Christmas tree is left lit so Santa can find it in the dark easy enough, good. The stockings are hung by the chimney; as usual, however, there are only two stockings. But what about that ball that fell off the tree. Better see if I can fix that. Unfortunately, every time I try and lift the ornament it rolls away from me. Soon I am chasing it around the living room, batting at it with my paws and pouncing on it, batting and pouncing.
I don’t hear him come in, the first I realize I’m not alone in the room is when I hear him Laugh. “Oh, ho ho ho. Button, you are such fun,” says Santa. “I am glad to see you again.” By way of greeting I rub my head against his big black boot, and he reaches down and strokes me behind the ear. He immediately sets to his work, and before you know it Chris and Janet’s stockings are stuffed full. Silent as a cat, Santa walks to the tree and starts piling presents under it. On his way back to the chimney, he notices the milk, cookies and carrots that Janet left out.

“What’s this then?” he says, as he lifts a cookie to eat. A minute later the cookies are eaten and the glass of milk is half-empty. “I bet you wouldn’t mind a bit of this Button.” He pulls over the plate that only a minute before had held three big cookies and pours a bit of milk on to it. I quickly run to the plate and lap up the milk as fast as I can, purring my pleasure at developments. Santa laughs and re-fills the plate before leaving. “And don’t you worry Button, I didn’t forget you live here.”

I look up from my milk wondering what that means, but he is gone. I can hear him on the roof feeding the reindeer Janet’s carrots, and then he is off. The excitement is over and I go upstairs and make myself comfortable at the foot of the bed. Sleep, however, comes difficult as Santa’s parting words to me run through my head and I try to make sense of what they mean.
**********
Chris is the first one up, and he wakes Janet immediately. “Merry Christmas honey,” he says and gives her a kiss.

“Merry Christmas” she says back. I walk between them, purring and rubbing my head on the bottom of Janet’s hand. “And Merry Christmas to you too Button” she says in her cute baby talk voice. The women is an accountant, you’d think she could talk to a cat without reducing herself to inanities. She can’t, however, and I have to take them as I find them. I purr an acknowledgement of the day and let her pet me for a minute.

We gradually make our way downstairs, and they head immediately for the stockings. I think I detect relief from Chris, no doubt he was expecting a potato or a lump of coal. He avoided that fate, however deserved I think it would have been, and happily digs into his treasure. Janet comes over a minute later with coffee for two and settles into her prize.

Once the stockings are exhausted and the coffee done, we go to the tree. Janet sits beside the tree and digs out a present for herself and one for Chris. I don’t want to miss any of the fun, so I settle myself on Janet’s lap, at least until there is some free wrapping paper I can play with. Soon, they are opening with vigour and I am playing merrily with a sheet of wrapping paper that has ribbon taped to it. It is then that I hear Janet say, “here’s something for Button. Chris, did you buy this for Button?”

“Yea right,” says Chris, “like I would actually buy the cat a Christmas present.”

“Then where did it come from?” says Janet “I didn’t buy it.” Santa’s parting words last night come back to me and I jump on to Janet’s lap. It is a plastic stocking with a toy mouse, a package of soft dry food, and a catnip ball, whatever that is. I don’t care what it is, I am the happiest Cat in town and I dive for my toys as soon as Janet gets them out of the stocking.

I leap on the mouse and start batting it around the room. Pouncing, jumping and whacking at it like I am playing a game. I chase it out of the room, and then back into the room. It bumps into the catnip ball and I pounce on the ball. Wait a minute, what’s that smell? Something smells incredible, a smell unlike anything I have ever smelt before. It’s definitely coming from the ball, and I grab the ball in my mouth to have a taste. Wow! This must be the catnip. This is incredibly, and I now chase the ball all around the room, grabbing it my mouth every chance I get.

Soon I am no longer Button the Cat. I am Queen Button the Lion. I climb to the top of the Christmas tree and wait for prey. It is not long before a warthog comes sauntering along. I wait patient and silent until he is in just the right spot. Claws out, teeth ready, I seize upon the warthog. Not a warthog! Chris!! Surprisingly, he acts like a wounded warthog and I find myself sliding across the floor of the room like a bowling ball. Good thing it’s a wood floor, carpet would burn. I jump to my feet and race into the kitchen where Janet is eating breakfast at the table. I jump up on to the table and slide across it, landing on the floor on the other side of the table. Now I could use some carpet.

I don’t know what’s going on, but I feel great. I run into the living room grab my ball and run upstairs, only falling twice, to chew on some more catnip. I leap up on the bed and … miss? I hit the side of the bed with some authority, and decide the floor is a good place for a nap, thank you very much.
***********
I slowly make my way down the stairs. It is dark and quiet. Christmas is over for another year and Chris and Janet are sitting on the couch drinking a glass of wine. I see space between them, not much just an inch or two, but it’s enough. I crawl between them and snuggle in, purring like an idling Honda. Chris reaches down and starts stroking my back, I let him, but only because it’s Christmas. Janet also starts petting me too, scratching under my chin. The tree still smells like a tree, giving the room a pine forest aroma. There is a fire on the fireplace that Santa came down last night. Somewhere in the background Christmas carols play, but quietly, nicely. This is nice, the Cat’s meow in fact.

I love Christmas!

A Cat's Christmas, A Christmas Cat, Christmas

At Home in Hespeler Gave to me:

Good Canadian lasds Murray McLauglan (middle), Tom Cochrane & Paul Hyde (mandolin) doing the wonderful celtic tinged song “Let the Good Guys Win.”

Christmas Let the Good Guys Win, Murray McLauglan, Paul Hyde, Tom Cochrane

Ar Home in Hespeler gave to me:

Muppets Ringing of the Bells:

Christmas Muppets, Ringing of the Bells

 All the fluffy news about those nutty celebrities

British rocker/drug fiend Pete Dougherty may be in a spot of difficulty with the Huns. Dougherty during a broadcast concert sang a portion of the verboten Nazi national anthem. During a performance of Ray Charles vampire classic, Hit The Road Jack, Dougherty threw in a few rounds of “Deutschland, Deutschland, Uber Alles.” The German’s frown somewhat on Nazi symbolism, including the Casablanca classic.

You expect things like “German authorities are investigating Pete Daugherty,” to come up now and then. Less expected is “Harpist hooked on heroin played at royal wedding.” Yet that was the story this week as former royal harpist (that’s harp as in angels play the harp, not “the blues harp of Sonny Boy Williamson”) was accused of burgling houses while battling drug addiction.

Jemima Phillips, a 28 year old harpist who was appointed royal harpist in 2004, testified at her own trial that she had two abortions and started using crack cocaine soon after her second, at age 23. She progressed to heroin by the time of her royal appointment. She was also bullied at school and has been in a series of abusive relationships.

Reports are that she is giving up the harp for a career in rap.

If you went to see rock band Weezer here in Toronto last Saturday, as someone I know did, you unexpectedly saw there last show of 2009. Weezer was in a bus accident on Sunday morning in upstate New York, with their bus skidding on ice, striking a guard rail and sliding into a ditch. The crash resulted in lead singer Rivers Cuomo being injured and the band cancelling the rest of their 2009 dates.

Fluffernutter Deutschland, Germany, Jemima Phillips, Pete Dougherty, Rivers Cuomo, Royal Harpist, Toronto, Uber Alles, Weezer

Picture of the Day

If you’re having a few drinks and decide you want a smoke, it’s against the Smoke Free Ontario Act to light up in the bar, but it’s public drunkenness if you step outside to light up.

“You’d think we had robbed a bank.”

Dalton Dalton Dalton, In Dalton McGuinty’s Ontario…

At Home in Hespeler gave to me:

The spectacular Bill and Opus in A Wish for Wings that Work

A Christmas Cat, Christmas

All the fluffy news about those nutty celebrities

Randy Bachman and former bandmate C.F. Turner have announced a plan to get back together with a CD and tour. The duo, the heart of 70’s rockers Bachman Turner Overdrive (BTO), haven’t played together in 20 years. Don’t, however, expect them to go by the Bachman Turner Overdrive name, and former band-mates Blair Thornton and Robbie Bachman are suing them to stop them using the name.

Hey, Randy Bachman, back when we were kids and BTO was outselling Led Zeppelin, a family friend used to call you guys the Boston TurnOvers. You’re welcome to use it.

Rolling Stone Ron Wood was arrested this week in an “assault in connection with a domestic incident.” Wood, it is presumed, had troubles with his  20 year old granddaughter  lover Ekaterina Ivanova.

Wood recently divorced his long suffering wife Jo Wood, leaving her for the Russian, who is younger than his marriage was.

Wood and his young lover are both, it appears, getting what they deserve.

Hey Tiger. This is the kind of woman you cheat with,

not on.

Fluffernutter Bachman Turner Overdrive, Blair Thornton, BTO, C.F. Turner, Randy Bachman, Robbie Bachman, Tiger Woods

Deputy Mayor (Joe Pantalone) Eyes Curb on Media:

“I’m not advocating restrictions (on media reporting of city hall) at this moment in time”

Toronto: Not in a Death Spiral Joe Pantalone

Born, depending on whom you listen to, in Hawaii or Kenya, Barack Obama has been an environmental refugee for years.

The Sea Level Rising Behind Barack Obama

If you accept the Kenya hypothesis, Obama realized early in life that desertification was coming and left to find water, where he settled in Hawaii, Indonesia and back to Hawaii. If you accept the born in Hawaii hypothesis, the young Obama just travelled a lot. What’s clear is that in 1979 he saw the risks of living on an island in a warming, water rising world and headed for the mainland.

Landing in Los Angeles in 1979, Obama soon realized that Los Angeles was sure to burn down, fall over and sink into the ocean. New York was next, where the young Obama studied at Columbia before learning that Manhattan would also sink when the ocean levels rose. In 1984, Barack Hussein Obama, environmental refugee, landed in Chicago well away from the ravages of desertification or soggy menace of rising oceans.

Other than some winters in Boston, where he studied law, Obama stayed in Chicago until last year, when he moved to Washington DC. Still safe from the menace of global warming, Barack Obama has finally settled, finally found peace in an ever warming world.

Global Warming, Going... Going... Gone Nuts For The Environment, Uncategorized

Desertification. You’ll hear that phrase a lot as you start to meet the environmental refugees. Phoenix, a mere 350 miles from the Pacific Ocean is experiencing desertification. So close to all that potential precipitation, yet Phoenix gets an average 8.3 inches. There is only one explanation: global warming. Disagree if you want, but with an average daily temperature of 72 degrees (106 in July), what else can you call that but warm?

Global Warming, Going... Going... Gone Nuts For The Environment desertification, Global Warming, Hamilton, Jim Balsillie, Moses, Phoenix Coyotes