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

And a little music to go with the poemI Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

Merry Christmas Everyone

Christmas I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day

It’s Dec 24th, time for the annual posting of 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

Merry Christmas Everybody

Christmas In The Workhouse Christmas Day

It’s Festivus, and what is more Festivusy than Calvin??? This video is way cool, and really, is there a cooler cat than Calvin?

Here’s a quiz: how do you own The Band’s Islands album for years and not realize this beautiful Christmas song is on it?

There is an alternate version from Northern Lights Southern Cross (another album I’ve owned for years and &tc.).

Don’t know why, but songs that specifically refer to the Baby Jesus seem to have me this year. So here’s one that’s better than I remember:

Dear Santa: I have been a good boy and for Christmas, I would like:

And lest I be accused of forgetting the fairer sex.

Merry Christmas to everyone who has visited At Home in Hespeler the last year. Thank you for coming and reading my stuff.

Christmas, Cool For Cats Boney M, Calvin and Hobbes, Christmas Must Be Tonight, Mary's Boy Child, The Band

I’ve told this story before, but years ago a friend was commanded by his wife to create a web page for their cat. “What am I gonna put for content on a cat’s webpage?” he asked me.

Inspired, I wrote to following for him.

I have posted it every year, but this year it’s also being posted by my friends at the Cambridge Citizen.

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, Christmas A Cat's Christmas

It’s more than just a great movie starring Alastair Sim, more than just the inspiration for a Mickey Mouse cartoon and the Family Ties Christmas show. Before it was all that, A Christmas Carol was something people read, and a good read it is.  This version was produced by Canoe.ca, and I’ve linked to it for a number of years:

Chapter I MARLEY’S GHOST
Chapter II THE FIRST OF THE THREE SPIRITS
Chapter III THE SECOND OF THE THREE SPIRITS
Chapter IV THE LAST OF THE SPIRITS
Chapter V THE END OF IT

A Christmas Carol, Christmas Charles Dickens, Christmas Carol

Doing my part to make this great piece of work become a Christmas classic.

Christmas A Wish for Wings that Work, Bill and Opus, Bloom County

Picture of the Day

All the fluffy news about those nutty celebrities

I’m not a football fan, don’t base my month of January around the Super Bowl. Really, don’t watch it very much, don’t much care. If I do end up watching it, it’s always the same story: I turn on the half-time show, and decide to stick with the second half of the game.

This week it was announced he half-time show for Super Bowl XLVI will be headlined by… Madonna. The “singer” says she will team up with Cirque de Solei to produce a Super Bowl extravaganza.

All this gives me a big headstart when planning my January: In no conceivable way will I be busy on Super Bowl Sunday.

Wonder if all those football fans wish they hadn’t played their half-time show petition card on Nickelback?

Speaking of over the hill singers who can’t actually sing, Britney Spears turned thirty last weekend. The dancer with the headset donned her wholly underwear and went skating in Houston with her boyfriend, Jason Trawick.

As Britney Spears leaves her 20’s behind, it’s a worthwhile exercise to look back and remember the decade that was: the panti-less nights; her sister, who managed to avoid the talentless yet famous trap; and whatever became of her husband, Kevin Federline?

Well, since you asked, Federline is in Australia where he was recently hospitalised for heat exhaustion. He is in Australia filming a celebrity weight loss show called Excess Baggage. While Britney spent their breakup tramping around with Paris Hilton, Federline ate away his heartbreak, gaining 85 pounds. He lost 30 pounds in 2010, filming VH1’s Celebrity Fit Club: Boot Camp, but gained it all back. Hence, he was in the Australian outback filming Excess Baggage when he showed signs of heat exhaustion.

Here’s a question. Federline’s resume has one skill on it: dancer. Why does he need physical trainers in the Australian outback? Put down the sandwhich, turn on the music and dance for a couple of hours a day. It’s your one job, how hard can it be to do it?

Or was that whole dancer thing just a fabrication to convince us that Britney hadn’t married a completely useless tool.

Hey not all marriages have to end in appearances on Celebrity Fit Club: Boot Camp. Thus we all live in hope that Sinead O’Connor’s fourth marriage to Barry Herridge has better luck.

The singer and her “unknown boyfriend,” tied the knot in the back of a pink Cadillac at the Little White Wedding Chapel in Las Vegas Nevada this week. O’Connor met Herridge online three months ago, and the bulk of their relationship has been mostly of the virtual variety.

What I want to see is the morning he wakes up and realizes the woman he married is former singer Sinead O’Connor. Sure hope he’s not catholic.

Alec Baldwin had a flying sh*t-fit this week, when asked to turn off his phone based video game during take off. An American Airlines air-hostess asked Baldwin to turn off his phone while the plane was in the taxi-way. Baldwin refused and, according to the airline, left his seat and went to the bathroom to continue the game. He caused such a scene that he was escorted from the plane and had to take a later plane.

Baldwin says, much as he was moving to Canada if George Bush won in 2004, that he will never take American Airlines again, at which the bankrupt airline no doubt replies good riddance.

In Baldwin’s defence, he is an idiot.

Harry Morgan (1915-2011):

Henry Morgan is known mostly, and significantly, as Col. Sherman Potter in M*A*S*H from 1975 until it’s end in 1982. As a main character in one of TV’s most popular ever shows, Morgan virtually entered millions of homes every week for almost a decade.

So it is that we sadly say Goodbye, Farewell and Amen to Morgan, who died this week age 96. Morgan died at his home in Los Angeles.

Besides M*A*S*H, Morgan played officer Bill Gannon on Dragnet from 1967 to 1970 and appeared in over 100 movies, including two of my personal favourite oldies, High Noon and the Glenn Miller Story.

Morgan was predeceased by a son, and his wife of 45 years, Eileen and is survived by his second wife, three sons and eight grandchildren.

It was, in short, a life well lived and well worth celebrating.

Britney, Fluffernutter alec baldwin, American Airlines, Britney Spears, Henry Morgan, Kevin Federline, Madonna, Sinead O’Connor, Superbowl

I was planning on doing this in reverse order, but after seeing the first video, I changed my mind and thought it deserved to be first.

Winnipeg teenager Sean Quigley proves that, in spite of what us geezers like to think, the kids are alright. Having a house full of teenagers myself, I can attest that the next generation is not as lost as the damned media often makes them out to be. This may become my favourite version of one of my absolute favourite songs, Christmas or otherwise.

Of course, the classic rock version is Bob Seger, whose interpretation of this song is one of the big reasons I like it so much. Sadly, the only full versions of this video I could find involved extraordinary house light displays, causing my irony meter to explode.

Speaking of Bob Seger, last Friday in New York City an old friend joined him on stage.

Cool For Cats Bob Seger, Bruce Springsteen, Little Drummer Boy, Sean Quigley