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).
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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).
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
