Joy to the World!

"For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord."

Luke 2:11

Luke 2


"And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.
(And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)
And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.
And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)
To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.
And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.
And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.
And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.
And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.
And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.
And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.
But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.
And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them."

Ode to a Fruitcake

ODE TO A FRUITCAKE

How lovely, how lucious

you seasonal treat

I loudly pronounce you

as fitting to eat.

I will not mock you or hide you in shame

"I ADORE FRUITCAKE!"

 I proudly proclaim

So stuffed full of coconut, spices and berries

How I love to devour all those green and red cherries

Pineapple, nuts, raisins abundant

Need I go on? Am I sounding redundant?

I can't help myself, I get so excited

Just thinking about it, I'm oh-so-delighted!
Fruitcake for breakfast

Fruitcake for lunch

Fruitcake for dinner and high tea and brunch

Nibble a slice in the dark of the night

As you walk through the kitchen and pinch off a bite

Just a small little nibble, a sweet little taste

Who cares if the sugar goes straight to your waist?

It's Christmas! The holidays merry and bright

The season of yule logs and cookies and lights

Of  Santa and sleigh rides and reindeer and holly

Of baking and eggnog and elves that are jolly

Of carols and tinsel and garlands and bows

Of stolen sweet kisses beneath mistletoe.

And fruitcake! Yes! Fruitcake! A heavenly treat!

Sent straight from the angels for mortals to eat.

Full of fruit! And it's healthy! Don't even think twice-

It's a full balanced diet in one little slice.

So if you start groaning when fruitcake appears

and the thought of one bite quickly brings you to tears

If you simply re-gift it or secretly stash

Every slice that you're given straight into the trash

Then you've been so misguided, and I guarantee

They didn't use Grandmother's real recipe

The one that requires fruit by the pound

Hours of chopping, all done by hand

Fresh shelled pecans from old Southern trees

Raisins and dates (just a splash of whiskey!) 

If you're not a believer, a true devotee

I suggest you first taste one and then you will see.
And if you are one who turns up your nose
At the mention of fruitcake, then I say to those
that condemn the sweet fruitcake, that most noble treat
Do not belittle that which I eat!
The symbol of Christmas, a holiday pleasure
A family tradition, a long-lasting treasure.
Ah! Fruitcake, sweet fruitcake, I sing out your name
In a holiday carol,  I sing of your fame!
And to all who adore you and in you delight,
I wish Merry Christmas in each tasty bite!

I Know Where Wrinkles Come From

I know where wrinkles come from


This weekend, my son came home from college on the pretense of studying for exams. I was suspicious his visit had more to do with lack of clean laundry than with hitting the books, and I also knew he was adamant about being present to supervise the annual battle known as “The Selection of the Tree.” This is always a rather sensitive event as there is a wide range of opinions in our family regarding the correct height and girth required to meet the criteria of the perfect Christmas tree. One would think this would be a happy, blessed holiday time, but we are an extremely opinionated bunch, and there is always much debate about which tree is taller, rounder, fuller, fresher, fluffier, sturdier, greener, and smellier (in a nice way). The underlying consensus is always that fatter is better, and I only hope this has nothing to say about the Daly family in general.

However, after much debate and effort, the tree was finally up and decorated. In fact, we had stuffed so many ornaments and garlands and lights on that tree that we could have poked a dead branch in a pot to begin with and saved the $80 bucks. But the scent of fresh fir affirmed that underneath all the glitter and gold, there actually stood a live tree, and we all acclaimed that it was, in fact, a very nice tree.

After three days of decorating, wrapping, and baking, the weekend was too quickly coming to an end. Before Bro headed back to UVA, we were scheduled to have dinner with the grandparents, as Grandma Sarah was well aware of the necessity of refueling college students in the midst of exams.

And it was there, at that moment, in that kitchen, that I had an epiphany.

It occurred as I was dipping pita chips into a bowl of hummus. Grandma Sarah was hustling around the kitchen while we chatted and nibbled on the array of dips she had set on the table before us. Being a blend of Julia Child meets Paula Deen, she had prepared a spread of roast tenderloin, scalloped potatoes, butterbeans, fresh cranberry-orange relish, hot biscuits, and Bro’s personal favorite, strawberry-spinach-artichoke salad. While she attended to the last minute preparations, Bro was locked deep in conversation with his grandfather, arguing the finer points of the proper attire for a fraternity holiday party. As they chatted, Clark suddenly realized he was looking up at Bro and exclaimed, “Look at you! You’re taller than I am! I must be shrinking!”

And that was when it happened. Suddenly, clear as a bell, it hit me. As I looked at the smooth, fresh, youthful face of my son who now towered over his septuagenarian grandfather, I had my epiphany. I knew where wrinkles came from.

Clark’s revelation that he was shrinking was the catalyst for my sudden discovery, quite possibly the greatest scientific revelation of the millennium. I now knew what caused wrinkles. It’s compression. It has nothing to do with sagging skin or aging or loss of elasticity or the toxic effects of the sun. It’s all about gravity and compression. Think about it. The earth is a globe suspended in the universe, with millions of pounds of atmospheric pressure pushing us from above and gravity pulling us from beneath. After years of being pressed and pulled, we start to shrink. As we shrink, we round out and loose the fine edges of our youth, as if the Master Creator suddenly took an eraser and blurred the borders of our former self. This compression causes pouches and bulges to appear where previously there were none. I know this to be true, as I now boast a marsupial pouch where a flat tummy used to dwell and strange crevices are appearing on my forehead.

I, too, am in the beginning stages of compression. As I am compressed, cracks and lines are appearing as my skeletal body collapses under all that atmospheric pressure. My frame is finally conceding to the power of gravitational pull, and I will eventually shrink and round out until I am nothing more than a short, wrinkly pile of mushed flesh. There is not enough cream or serum or botox or surgery on earth that can arrest the effects of all that pressure. It’s inevitable, and it will progress until we finally gasp our last dying breath and deflate, our souls mercifully escaping our compressed earthly bodies and fleeing quickly into heaven.

It was my Christmas epiphany, a miraculous revelation: Compression causes us to shrink! As we shrink, we wrinkle. It’s as simple as that, which is actually a quite merry holiday thought. Since there is nothing we can do to reverse the power of atmospheric compression or gravitational pull, you needn’t worry about exercise or diet as you skip through the holidays. Go ahead and have that second glass of eggnog. Enjoy another slice of fruitcake. Sleep in and forget about the treadmill. The world will continue to spin and we will continue to compress. Can’t do a thing about it, so you might as well enjoy the ride and have a very Merry Christmas!

And that, my dear, is where wrinkles come from.

It all makes sense...or is it cents?

      As noted previously, we have been struggling with all the rules and exceptions to the rules, understood-but-not-stated rules, secret rules, hidden rules, unwritten rules, and nobody-knows-why-they-do-it-this-way-but they-just-do rules that are the basis for mastering the language of French.  It's extremely complicated and confusing, and the one rule that underscores every other rule is that no matter what the rule, everything has to agree in GENDER.  No matter what you are trying to actually say, you must first know whether you are using a Masculine or Feminine word to say it. 

     This weekend, I finally got it. We do the same thing in English, only different.  The French apply masculine and feminine gender to their language, whereas Americans apply masculine and feminine gender to their math. Same rules, different subject. It took Facebook and a conversation with my brother to help me make the connection.

     It unfolded like this.  My niece, Anna, had to attend Cotillion this weekend. For those of you who are not familiar with that French word, the English translation for cotillion is  "a gathering of males and females for the express purpose of buying a new dress." It is an annual rite of passage that also involves minimal dancing combined with  awkward conversations and insufficient food.  I believe this ceremony takes place in many diverse cultures, but the underlying  reason for the event is universal. It provides an opportunity for young men to prove their manhood by surviving six hours in a necktie, and it provides young women an opportunity to display their feminine ingenuity through the use of exceptional math and language skills.
     I was able to make the connection this weekend after my brother, Joe,  surprised us with a Sunday afternoon visit. Cotillion had successfully occurred the evening before, the after-party had been held at his house, the girls had all spent the night, and he was escaping a home full of tired and irritable adolescent females.  As we asked about the dance,  Sissey discovered that  pictures had already been posted on Facebook.  There, looking lovely as ever, was his beautiful daughter, Anna, dressed to perfection in a stunning black dress with a chiffon overlay and  an assymetrical, floral strap. A gorgeous dress, a stylish dress....just NOT the black dress she had previously modeled for us only two weeks earlier. Not even the second one she  bought after she decided she didn't like the first one. This was an unknown dress, a never-before-seen dress, a third dress!
   "Joe," I asked, "She looks lovely, but this isn't the dress Anna modeled for us.  Where did this one come from?"
    "Oh, she found this one last week and loved it, AND she got such a great deal on it that she's going to return the other two." 
     And that is when it all came together, the gender agreement issue that we had been struggling with in French. It's just like in French, only different. We do have gender agreement, but  it's in math and not language, and it all goes back to FRENCH and fashion!    
      I will explain.
     The French are responsible for instilling the love of fashionable attire in women around the world. This leads to shopping, which involves the equating of numbers and the computation of sums.  All math is based on the successful application of certain standard formulas.
       In American Math, there are two formulas for every equation: the Male Formula and the Female Formula. In order to successfully compute any equation, you must first determine whether the equation is male or female. Once the gender of the equation has been determined, you must then use all computations in the gender which agrees with the originator of the equation.
     If the equation is male, simply follow universal rules of computation based on the true value of each number.
     If the equation is female, however, all rules must change. The true value of a given number no longer applies. You must substitute the equivalent female value for all male values, the true value of which is only known to the female who is equating the problem.
     There are exceptions to every rule, and the exceptions are determined only by the female who is equating the problem.
    The only way to learn these gender rules is to memorize them.
     So when discussing Anna's attire for the ball, I tried not to laugh at my brother. I realized he had applied American Male Formulas to an obviously American Female Equation and had fallen for the oldest math trick in the book, the 29-39-49 Rule, which states:

 When purchasing a dress for any special occassion, you must always have three variables. 
 Each variable must become more valuable in progression.
Always drop the "1" before any variable. 

Example:
Problem #1. Anna must purchase a dress for cotillion. What is her net gain after purchasing three dresses, wearing one,  and returning two?

          Anna buys dress #1 for  $129.00
          She buys dress #2 for    $139.00
          She buys dress #3 for    $149.00

She applies the 29-39-49 rule which states that when in a progression, all purchases must be listed as the intended price, not the actual retail value. 
Therefore, the  "1" before any dollar amount is always dropped when reporting prices to any member of the male species, so that the above equation is actually stated as:

           Anna buys dress #1 for $29.00

            She buys dress #2 for  $39.00

            She buys dress #3 for  $49.00.

 It is then understood that items #1 ($29) and #2 ($39)  will be returned for a net gain of $68, at which point the 29-39-49 rule is reversed, the "1" is returned to it's original position in front of each number,  and the actual pocketed gain becomes ($129 + $139) = $268.

 Solution: Anna pockets a net gain of $200 after she returns the $68.00 her father expects from the return of dresses #1 and #2.

 

     So as you can see, we have borrowed many things from the French.  The French define haute couture.  Haute couture results in shopping. Shopping depends on math. Therefore, our love of fashion has led us to adapt the  French  rules of gender, only we apply them to a different subject- math! Everything works out when you understand GENDER agreement.

     Once the correct rules are applied, you can easily and successfully master any language and complete any math computation.  

    Finally, finally, it all makes sense. Or is it cents?  Ohh....all those darn  rules are just so confusing!

   

Par Lay View Frawn Say?

     Oui, oui, oui, wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!
     Today was the last day of classes for the fall term, and, ooh-la-la, our gal survived French!!!   It has been très stressant à la maison the past few months as Sissey has undertaken the challenge of mastering a foreign-foreign language. Geology rocked, psychology analyzed, computer science computed, but French was just plain foreign. And I don't mean that in a good way.
     Why she decided to tackle French, I'm still not quite sure, other than the fact that she wanted to be different from her twin brother, who happens to be fluent in Spanish. Contrary to the advice of her academic advisor, who suggested Spanish (which only has two accents and is a language she may actually use one day), she insisted on signing up for French 109. 

     J'adore le français. The food is delicious. The fashions are impeccable. The wine is superb. You can't beat a day in Paris wandering through the Louvre or strolling along the Champs d'Elysee. No one can turn mere bread and cheese into a gourmet meal quite like the French. Perhaps Sissey was dreaming of haute couture and the cafes of Paris when she signed on, perhaps she was envisioning starry nights drifting down the Seine, I don't really know. But I do know that she sure wasn't thinking about accents and verb conjugation, gender and number agreement, past, present and future tenses.  When it comes to their language, it's not all wine and roses.
         We're talking about a language that uses a million different accents. Accents that shift and turn in numerous directions over various letters with no apparent rhyme or reason. A language that uses thirty-seven letters to spell one word-- and then only pronounces three of those letters when the word is spoken.  A language that makes a distinction between gender and number in a world that has become gender-neutral and could care less about  little details like number-agreement. It has been, to say the least, a challenge.  But everyone needs a good challenge in college, or so I've been told, and after French 109,  I think Sissey's good for life.
   Thankfully, mid-way into the semester, behold! an angel called "Too-tour" appeared. The French "Too-tour" was patient and kind,  she had great knowledge, and she took our gal under her angel wings and poured French into her soul. Day after day, Too-tour worked with Sissey, breathing the foreign sounds into her soul and heart and mind. Before long, a miracle occurred. Our gal opened her mouth and hark! foreign sounds appeared. She was PAR-LAY-VIEW FRAWN-SAYING!!  And more than that, she was still alive! Elle n'est past morte! Contrary to her insistence, she did not die. Nope, she didn't even come close! Merci, Too-tour, merci beaucoup!
       She passed her oral interview on Tuesday without throwing up, fainting or dying. She didn't even need the Depends I had on reserve.  Our gal  is now  "par lay view frawn-saying" like a true native. Well, at least like a native from some foreign planet. The requirements for matriculation only indicated she needed three semesters of a foreign language, and believe me, we have been speaking some kind of foreign language around here. I'm not always sure what planet it's from, not always sure if it can even be translated into any language, but we are just not too particular around here anymore. If it sounds like French, it must be French, and we're going with that. C'est bonne, c'est bonne, c'est bonne, n'est-ce pas?!?!
    Now, we are officially three-eighths of the way through our HomeBound College project. Sissey will finish up all of her exams by Thursday, then we'll head to Richmond for a quick Christmas Break. In January, it's back to the grindstone, with only five more semesters to complete before she can flip that tassel and fly away into the unknown future.
      From my perspective, five semesters seems like a milli-second, a gasp, but for Sissey, it seems incomprehensible that the day will finally arrive when she can clutch that sheepskin firmly in her french-manicured little hands, prance across that stage in a très à la mode cap and gown, and with a certain joie de vivre, flip that tassel and jump into life. 
      Today,we're simply  breathing a sigh of relief that the semester is over, fini. One French class down. Two more to go, and then, happily, joyfully, gleefully, we'll bid Au revoir to French classes. When the exit exam is finished, when the orals are over and all the verbs have been conjugated to perfection, when the tenses past, present and future are properly aligned and all the numbers and genders agree--when that day arrives, we're going to pack our little travel bags, hop on a big silver plane, grab a glass of the very best French champagne, and with a toast and a smile, experience the fun part of  French as we shout  Bonjour Paris! Nous sommes ici!!

     Ahhh, until that day, I bid you Au revoir!