As an experiment, I've decided to choose five of my favorite performances of Christmas carols and write a short blog about each of them rather than try to do a whole blog of all of them together. Bear with me, and as always kindly hold your yawns till the end.

Some time ago I mentioned in a blog how I first came to hear the gorgeous American baritone Thomas Hampson at a Rossini gala. It was not too long after that that I purchased my first of his CDs: CHRISTMAS WITH THOMAS HAMPSON (1991), back in the days when the Book of the Month Club still sold the occasional CD. The usual stuff does turn up--such tired chestnuts as "White Christmas," the overdone "I Wonder as I Wander" (about which I will have more to say another time)--

Several of the tunes are sung in German, and of these my favorite is one called "Macht hoch die Tur." You'd think I would have chosen one whose tune was at least recognizable, like "Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht," which is of course the beloved "Silent Night," or "Es ist ein Ros' entsprungen" which is in English "Lo, How a Rose E'er Blooming." Nope. Gotta be ornery. Chose a German carol I'd never heard before. Don't ask me for a translation. There was one in the long lost liner notes for this CD. Otherwise, my German is limited to "Gesundheit," which is universal; "hassenpfeffer," rabbit stew, for which I am indebted to Yosemite Sam and Bugs Bunny; and of course "Sprechen sie Deutsche?" ("do you speak German?") to which the answer is a resounding NEIN!

I just like the vocal. As the Bard might have put it, I have no other than a woman's reason. Thomas Hampson has a naturally beautiful voice anyway, he's comfortable singing in German, and the tune itself has this indescribable stately reverence to it. Give me this one over some pathetic pop singer crooning "White Christmas" in its nine hundred thousandth ersatz version anytime.

One tiny blow to my self-esteem, though: I rather pride myself on my alto, but when I sing along with Hampson (phonetically, of course), I sound like Minnie Mouse.

To continue the Bard's analogy, I think Thomas Hampson so--so sexy, so gifted, so--ACK! because I think him so. Hey, it's only my opinion, out there though it is. Till next time, fair thee well.

In October 1843 Charles Dickens was in a bind. Married since 1836, he was already the father of four children and his wife was pregnant with a fifth. His latest novel, MARTIN CHUZZLEWIT--published in installments, as were his previous ones--was not doing well. Worse yet, he was in debt. As a twelve year old, Dickens had seen his father imprisoned for debt, one of the more charming conventions of European history. He was damned if he would expose his family to that shame and horror. He needed to write a "potboiler" to raise cash, and he needed to write it fast.

Sometime during that dreary October, he had an idea for a story of a miserly old bachelor whose whole character would change after visits from a series of ghosts associated with the Christmas season. Eventually he would call that old buzzard Ebenezer Scrooge, and the little book that told his story was given the name A CHRISTMAS CAROL: BEING A GHOST STORY OF CHRISTMAS.

Dickens was, in fact, recycling material he had already covered. In his first great work, THE POSTHUMOUS PAPERS OF THE PICKWICK CLUB, he used the theme in a story within a story, told by Mr. Wardle of Dingley Dell. Later extracted from the main narrative of THE PICKWICK PAPERS and anthologized as "The Story of the Goblins Who Stole a Sexton," it treats of one Gabriel Grubb, a drunken curmudgeonly sexton who is spending Christmas Eve digging a grave instead of joining in the jollities of the season. He is dragged off by goblins, and changes in character after a series of visions shown him by the Goblin King convince him he lives in a wonderful world after all.

Dickens would in A CHRISTMAS CAROL enlarge upon that theme. He would replace the visions with actual visits from the ghost of Scrooge's dead business partner, Jacob Marley, and the spirits of Christmas Past, Present, and Yet to Come. He threw in a grossly sentimental subplot about a sickly poor child--Tiny Tim Cratchit--of the sort Victorians adored and wept over. He wrote in a frenzy; he told a friend that he laughed and cried, cried and laughed, throughout the composition. And he delivered it to his publisher in less than six weeks, with very little if any rewrites.

Dickens distributed advance copies of his little "Ghost of an idea" on December 17, 1843; the original printing of six thousand copies sold out within three days of its official December 19 release date. It never looked back; it has never gone out of print. It has been done as a one act play, a musical, and in any number of movies, the earliest being a 1908 production by Thomas Edison. Ebenezer Scrooge even lent his name to a Bill Monroe instrumental on Monroe's 1981 MASTER OF BLUEGRASS LP.

For our purposes, though, Dickens established the tradition of ghost stories being written, read and told at the Christmas season. Until his death in 1870, he produced a number of so-called Christmas annuals consisting of ghost stories written by himself and other Victorian writers. The tradition survived into the 20th century.

And by the way, he was able to pay off the debt that plagued him into writing A CHRISTMAS CAROL, and was from then on well to do. He was able to leave both his wife, from whom he was formally separated in 1858, and his mistress, an actress whom he met in 1857, independently wealthy to the ends of their lives.

And as Tiny Tim said, God bless us, every one. And until next time, fair thee well.

Turkey always reminds me of the first Thanksgiving the Princess was beginning to talk a little. At that age they begin to mimic animal and bird sounds, and the first one she learned was "Turkey says gobble gobble gobble." L sounds were of course a bit hard. To the question "What does a turkey say?" her answer was invariably "Gabba gabba gabba" in a slow drawl that made me almost choke trying not to laugh. Lost that battle though when I asked her, "Can you say turkey?" and she pulled her bottle out of her mouth and said with a seraphic smile, "Mama." Sis through her own giggles reminded her that SHE was NOT the one who gobbled all over Wal-Mart, but the Princess just grinned. Those days are long gone though; nowadays she prattles about school and Hannah Montana and all sorts of big-girl stuff.

Anyway, just wanted to wish all of you a happy Thanksgiving. We'll all be at Sis's, including Willard, while Madame Sadie called me awhile ago to let me know she'd be away for the next few days. From what I gather she'll be at the beach with a bunch of her psychic friends. Not sure exactly what psychics do on vacation, but she does have her bikini and sunscreen packed. (No, Bella, the possum skin one won't be here until shortly before Christmas.) To be honest, we're glad Madame has friends to be with; we were afraid to invite her to any gathering for fear she'd burn down the kitchen trying to deglaze pans with Bud Light or (God forbid) spike the pumpkin pie. Maybe she'll come back less depressed over the Colbert debacle. Hope so. She has had several relapses in the past few weeks and Willard and I are running out of ideas about how to cheer her up.

Be happy, be careful if you're traveling, and always know that I am grateful to every one of you for giving Willard, Madame and me an opportunity to share our thoughts, passions and nonsense with you. God bless.

Okay, back to something serious. Excuse my outbreak yesterday; Willard and I still blame low blood sugar. That's our story and we're stickin' to it.

The last four on my list of twelve favorite country gospel songs are, in reverse order:

"Weapon of Prayer" as performed by The Cluster Pluckers. First recorded by the legendary Louvin Brothers in 1951, during the Korean War, and again by The Country Gentlemen during Vietnam, this is a song about how we can use prayer as a weapon on the home front in time of war. I fell in love with the song after hearing The Cluster Pluckers perform it on an episode of the defunct RENO'S OLDTIME MUSIC FESTIVAL TV show. Silky sweet three part harmony that would move you to tears. Not to mention that in these troubled times, with our troops engaged and in danger in both Iraq and Afghanistan, it is again relevant.

"The Darkest Hour Is Just Before Dawn" recorded by Emmylou Harris and Ricky Skaggs. A Ralph Stanley original, Emmylou and Skaggs, who was at the time a member of her great Hot Band, recorded this on her 1980 release ROSES IN THE SNOW. Not only did Skaggs sing gorgeous harmony and a solo verse, he also did all the instrumentation. A high point of one of Miss Emmylou's finest hours as a recording artist.

"Wayfaring Stranger" recorded by Tim O'Brien. Emmylou Harris had a major hit with this old camp meeting tune, another highlight of the ROSES IN THE SNOW LP, but I prefer this version recorded by Tim O'Brien from SONGS FROM THE MOUNTAIN, his 1998 collaboration with Dirk Powell and John Hermann. The CD features songs that appear in the text of Charles Frazier's powerful Civil War novel, COLD MOUNTAIN. I have a sentimental attachment to "Wayfaring Stranger" as well; I'm told it was the favorite song of my paternal grandfather, who died when I was barely two years old. Papaw was first generation down from the mountains. I sang it in church once in his memory, and that performance is the only one I ever gave that truly sticks in my mind; I think Papaw cried in heaven when he heard me.

"Where No One Stands Alone" recorded by Porter Wagoner and the Blackwood Brothers. Stunning is the only appropriate word for this rendition. Solo vocal and a recitation by Porter, and stately stirring choruses by the Blackwood Brothers, recorded in 1967 for the King label rather than Porter's RCA, it far outstrips any backup this great gospel group ever did for Elvis. Good for the soul.

And on that note, fair thee well.

Willard and I went on an expedition this AM. We braved the wilds of our local Wal-Mart. As far as our famous retail establishment is concerned, Christmas begins at Halloween and there is no Thanksgiving. This could be because we're down in the boonies and don't know how people behave at other Wal-Marts. Ours is roughly four to five years behind all other retail establishments in updating merchandise, they move the merchandise around to make it look new and only succeed in confusing shoppers who think things should be in the same place they were last week (you should have seen the treasure hunt we had trying to locate the tartar sauce), and the only place we felt sure we knew the territory was on the Christmas candy aisle. Even there we found frightening, sinister and downright disturbing items: an Elvis three-pack Pez dispenser (frightening), Lifesavers in a Lifesaver shaped tin (sinister), and the Penguin Pooper (do not ask us to describe this: it is too disturbing, and Willard has speculated aloud as to the mental state of its creator; quite possibly a descendant of Dr. Frankenstein who couldn't find enough body parts to emulate his forefather).

Still, it all sort of began to put us into the holiday spirit--although we both suspect low blood sugar was what gave us the giggles and had us crooning "Blue Christmas" when we saw the guitar-playing blue peanut M&M on a tee shirt. Another tee shirt that solemnly proclaimed "What happens under the mistletoe stays under the mistletoe" brought on visions of Josh Bernstein (or maybe Mike Rowe--or both) on waterbeds.



When we started home though, we got the full meaning of Christmas in a lady's yard. Due to road construction, her lawn has been decimated, to roughly a tenth of its original size. This lady has always been an enthusiastic decorator,and this year she does not disappoint, with lighted trees, herds of reindeer, Santas dancing with angels, and under a large bush a Holy Family attempting to restore some decorum to the scene (or perhaps, Willard suggests, they're seeking shelter from road equipment and reindeer poop). This riot, surrounded by a fence of candy canes, sits within two feet of the road, and it's only a matter of time until the bright lights cause an accident or the reindeer are stolen by the construction workers.

Still under the influence of low blood sugar and sentimentality, we simultaneously broke into a chorus of the Bill Monroe classic, "Christmas Time's A-Comin."

Can't you hear them bells ringin' bringin'
Joy to all, hear them singin'
When it's snowin' I'll be goin'
Back to my country home.

Never mind that in lower East Tennesse we have had Christmases with tee shirt, shorts and sandals weather, or rain on Christmas Eve. I can remember one white Christmas in my thirty-nine years on earth (Willard and Sylvia, not a word out of either one of you). Not that it mattered; we were in the spirit and we were on the way home.

Christmas time'a-comin'
And I know I'm goin' home.

BAD Fairweather! And until next time, fair thee well.