Closing credits

Merry Christmas!

Rejoice, rejoice, daughter of Zion,

shout aloud, daughter of Jerusalem;

for see, your king is coming to you,

his cause won, his victory gained,

humble and mounted on an ass,

on a foal, the young of a she-ass.

He shall banish chariots from Ephraim

and war-horses from Jerusalem;

the warrior’s bow shall be banished.

He shall speak peaceably to every nation,

and his rule shall extend from sea to sea,

from the River to the ends of the earth.

Zecharaiah 9:9–10 (The New English Bible – the translation I read this year).

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Farewell, for the time being, to my step-grandma, who has gone to live with her daughter in southern Illinois; and to my grandpa (R.I.P.).

“He is not God of the dead but of the living” (Matthew 22:32).

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Welcome, Abel Barnaby, my littlest son. How celebrated he is, everywhere we take him.

Daniel and Samuel seem untroubled by him. The cats seem downright unaware of Abel, although Abel himself, so young, sounds like a cat (that’s how I distinguish him in a crowd of children).

Karin said today that she had one aim this year, which was to have this child. Abel, so-called, has been with us a short time. As “Pip,” however, he was ever-present in our talk.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Samuel has begun school spectacularly. We’ve been given to understand that he’s popular – a shock to us. His classmates look out for him. One friend follows him around and pulls his sagging pants up for him.

If Samuel is our introvert, Daniel is our good-natured scene-stealer. He’s the one with whom librarians and store clerks chat.

Winsome or taciturn, whatever you are or do, do it for the Lord.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Sports. Ecuador finished with a great victory that cast a nice glow over a frustrating year. (Indeed, this summer’s Copa América showing was rather good.)

At the club level, Moisés Caicedo and Piero Hincapié proved their worth.

Our Olympians also triumphed.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Politics. Ha!

Exercising. Ha!

Music. The song I listened to the most, by far, was “Style” by Taylor Swift: both versions: hers (re-recorded), and the original with copyright ajeno. I’d often choose “Style” as my lead housecleaning song.

I listened to almost nothing else by Taylor Swift.

Honorable mention: Dettinger.

Viewing. I subscribed to the Criterion Channel.

I’d often fall asleep viewing true crime shows on Tubi. I may write about Australian vs. Canadian crime.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Reading. I joined a club and was forced to read books I’d never choose so that I might force others to read books they’d never choose. This is salutary. Everyone needs reminding that there are other consciousnesses in the universe. “We read to know we’re not alone” (misattributed to C. S. Lewis). More like, we join book clubs to learn that, alas, one is not alone.

That said, what follows has to do with my private reading choices. I read two or more titles by these authors:

• E. M. Forster
• Jon Fosse
• C. S. Lewis
• Nancy Mitford
• Anthony Powell
• Peter Temple
• J. R. R. Tolkien
• Laura Ingalls Wilder

They’re all good authors, but whom you mightn’t’ve read but really should is Mitford. And, for linguistic virtuosity, Temple.

I’m probably the last grownup among my blood relations to have finished reading The Lord of the Rings. I made my first attempt in the fourth grade. That year, my parents bought me an extra birthday gift – a t-shirt – on the condition that I’d finish Tolkien’s series. That albatross has finally been cast off. It was necessary, first, to outgrow the shirt; to obtain the Ph.D. and sire three children; to read through the Bible several times; to read Beowulf, and the eleven Strangers and Brothers novels (for a better feel for Oxbridge). To learn to slog. It was no small victory, gaining the knowledge and courage and endurance to leave the Shire and cross Middle Earth.

Proust is on the docket for 2025, once I’ve finished Powell; after Proust, possibly Trollope or Balzac. But I doubt I’ll ever read The Silmarillion. Too few hobbits; too many elves.

Australianisms; more illness; March’s poem

I’ve begun another Peter Temple novel, The Broken Shore. It has a glossary of Australian terms.

Abo. Abbreviation for “Aboriginal.” The usage is derogatory or racist except in Aboriginal English.

Aggro. “Aggression” or “aggressive.” (Just takes two or three drinks, then he gets aggro.)

Ambo. An ambulance or an ambulance worker. (The following sentence is possible: Mate, the last thing I needed was an ambo with an aggro ambo.)

Bickie. A cookie. Abbreviation of biscuit.

Bloodhouse. A hotel known for its fights.

Blow-in. A term of scorn for a newcomer, particularly one who voices an opinion about local affairs or tries to change anything. (Bloody blow-in, what does she know about this town?) [Is Temple a blow-in? He immigrated from South Africa.]

Bludger. Once, a man living off a prostitute’s earnings; now applied to anyone who shirks work, duty or obligation. A dole bludger is someone who would rather live on unemployment benefits than take a job.

Bluey. A workman’s hard-wearing cotton jacket. It can also be a blanket, a cattle dog, or a red-haired person. [Also, a children’s cartoon series on Disney Plus (in the U.S.), and a character therein – a talking dog.]

And so on. A few more:

Hoon. Once a procurer of prostitutes, but now any badly behaved person, usually a young male. Irresponsible young drivers are hoons who go for a hoon in their cars. Mark Twain uses the expression as drunk as hoons in Sketches Old and New, where it presumably derives from “Huns.”

Macca’s. The popular name for McDonald’s. It is also used for anything eaten at McDonald’s. (We had Macca’s for lunch.)

Pommy. Someone from England. The English are often known as Pommy bastards. This has been known to be said affectionately. The term derives from “pomegranate” as rhyming slang for “immigrant.”

Salvo. A member of the Salvation Army. [“Sally” or, less commonly, “Sally Ann” in Britain, Canada, or the U.S.]

Spaggy bol. Spaghetti bolognese. Also called spag bol. Italian immigrants to Australia were once called spags.

Suckhole. A vulgar term for one who curries favor with others, an obsequious person. A future leader of the Australian Labor Party once described those in the Liberal Party who looked to America for leadership as a conga line of suckholes.

Swaggie. An itinerant, a person of no fixed address who carries all his belongings in a swag. (A celebrated note passed to a speaker in the Australian Federal Parliament advising him to change the subject read: Pull out, digger, the dogs are pissing on your swag [other terms not in glossary].) A distinction was formerly made between swaggies and travellers, the latter being people looking for work. The expression Nice day for travelling means: You’re fired.

Temple’s protagonist wasn’t much of a reader until a period of convalescence. Then he read In Cold Blood in a day and a night and The Executioner’s Song in the same amount of time. I don’t believe the part about reading The Executioner’s Song so quickly.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

The boys are on the up (but Daniel sleeps more than usual); Karin, having caught the bug and missed one workday, is on the up; I now am the sickest person in the house. This will be a Mucinex-and-water day for me. I shall try to do some productive coughs.

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

Dear March – Come in –

How glad I am –

I hoped for you before –

Put down your Hat –

You must have walked –

How out of Breath you are –

Dear March, how are you, and the Rest –

Did you leave Nature well –

Oh March, Come right upstairs with me –

I have so much to tell –

I got your Letter, and the Birds –

The Maples never knew that you were coming –

I declare – how Red their Faces grew –

But March, forgive me –

And all those Hills you left for me to Hue –

There was no Purple suitable –

You took it all with you –

Who knocks? That April –

Lock the Door –

I will not be pursued –

He stayed away a Year to call

When I am occupied –

But trifles look so trivial

As soon as you have come

That blame is just as dear as Praise

And Praise as mere as Blame –

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

(Emily Dickinson)

The sodfather; a warm day; a blood test; blurbs

Man ends 80-year career when bureaucrats tick him off (USA Today).

“They can’t tell me what to do anymore!”

… says the “Sodfather.”

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Wednesday: so warm, so dry, I let Samuel and Daniel have the run of the back yard. In shorts. We had a lovely time.

As of this afternoon, there’s snow-slush everywhere.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

Daniel went to his one-year checkup. They gave him five injections and poked him to test his blood. Seems a bit much, doesn’t it?

Anyway, he has too much lead in his blood.

♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

These are the best blurbs I’ve seen upon one dust jacket.

Re: the book:

“No summary or catalogue of details

will do it justice.” (Age)

Re: the author:

“Brilliant.” (Australian)

“Inspired.” (Sun-Herald)

“Irresistibly entertaining.” (Time Out New York)

“The genuine article.” (Australian Book Review)

“Gutsy.” (Australian’s Review of Books)

“Fast, funny, fabulous.” (The Adelaide Advertiser)

“World-class.” (Canberra Times)

“A cracker.” (Australian Bookseller & Publisher)

“Towering achievement.” (Guardian)

“Stone classic.” (Independent [UK])

“Top-class.” (Telegraph [UK])

“Startlingly good.” (Sydney Moring Herald)

“Powerfully economical.” (Bulletin)

I read the book. It truly was all of those things.

P.S. Australians are savage.