Ground Zero

Hello World, Happy Winter Solstice to all! Saturday represents the shortest day of the year, and ushers in the official first day of Winter, and if that's not enough to warm the cockles of any respectable Druid's heart, well then, I personally don't know what it would take, by golly. The good news for the rest of us is that it's all on the upswing from here, as every day will get longer and longer as we go along, with an incremental increase in daylight time from one day to the next, until we're not all going to work in the dark of the morning and coming home in the dark of night like a bunch of grumpy vampires. Of course, the welcome glitter of holiday lights certainly helps to dispel the winter's gloom, but there's nothing like real sunshine to cheer things up, as the Druids would be happy to tell you. After all, they didn't build Stonehenge just for the heck of it, and I ought to know - although frankly, I have always found that it runs a little too fast for the pinpoint accuracy I prefer in my prehistoric astronomical monuments. And while we're on the subject of things going too fast, I was reminded this week that it's probably just as well that we don't know what's right ahead of us in this crazy world, or we'd likely all run off into the hills screaming, I shouldn't wonder. The killer storm from the Midwest blew east earlier in the week, leaving most of the horror behind it, but still dumping an ugly mix of snow and freezing rain throughout the region, that closed schools and made getting around an exercise in frustration for all concerned. Bill and I had an appointment in Elmsford after work on Tuesday, and set off with determination, but luck was not with us on this occasion, as conditions were treacherous and traffic was heavy. We hadn't gotten far on the highway when the car in front of us got a flat tire of all things, and somehow we managed to come to a stop in spite of the ice, only to be rear-ended by the car behind us, which failed to slow down before it was too late. At least it didn't push us into the car with the flat tire, because Bill had just gotten a brand new bumper on the front, and also the air bags didn't deploy, so that was even better. But the SUV behind us made a mess of the Neon's rear bumper, and although we were all able to drive away from the accident under our own power, we elected to cut our losses, cancel our appointment, and just focus on getting home safely. We didn't notice that as a result of the crash, the trunk didn't close properly, which caused the trunk light to stay lit for two solid days, so that on Friday, the battery was completely dead and the car wouldn't start, and we had no idea why. At that point, I expected that we would be unavoidably late for work, but Bill called a cab, which showed up almost instantly, then peeled away from our house at breakneck speed, running every red light, taking corners on two wheels, with pedestrians leaping out of the way in fear of their lives, and dropped us at our destination with time to spare. Later, our young wizard mechanic solved the mystery of the dead battery, and soon had it set to rights, so we were once again back in the driver's seat of happy motoring. Pretty soon there will be a brand new rear bumper to match the brand new front bumper, or as we like to think of it, buying a new car, one piece at a time. In other news, alert readers may or may not have noticed a story about former teen heart-throb Joey Lawrence on the AOL Welcome screen, with this perplexing announcement: ======================== "Woah! He doesn't look like this anymore" ======================== "Woah?" Seriously, is that Noah's long-lost nephew or something? I mean, what kind of word is that supposed to be? It certainly isn't anything that I would recognize in English, at least on this planet, and I didn't just fall off the back of the inter-galactic turnip truck, I can assure you. I would expect even the most rudimentary of spell-checkers to pull up short at the likes of that, and give it the old heave-hoah long before it made its way to untold millions of eyeballs in cyberspace, just like it was a regular word that should be seen by people, instead of some derelict cast-off from the ark that should have been left behind with the rest of the overfloah. (I understand that Overfloah was Noah's third cousin twice removed on his great-grandmother's side of the family.) Honestly, sometimes you just don't knoah whether to laugh or cry. And people may call me a literary stickler and a curmudgeon (don't you dare!) but I really do hate to complain about our well-meaning volunteers at church, whose selfless hard work and unsung efforts help to keep the doors open and things running smoothly, week in and week out, with no thought of material reward. These days, they've pulled together a sort of small ad hoc choir that sings offering anthems periodically, and recently favored us with a contemporary composition for the Advent season, whose official title is: "Emmanuel, Hallowed Manger Ground" about the holy birth in a stable. Normally, I wouldn't pick on a typo in our Sunday bulletin, where overworked volunteers can be forgiven for the occasional lapse, but this managed to have two of them in only four words, and I just couldn't resist when I spotted it printed in the bulletin as "Emmanuel, Hollowed Manager Ground" instead. Frankly, I don't know what a hollowed manager would look like, but it certainly doesn't sound good, grounded or not. Although personally, I happen to believe that some management would be vastly improved by being hollowed out, and if anyone is interested, please contact me because I have a list. Speaking of church, last Sunday was our annual celebration of Lessons & Carols, and while the weather was not as cooperative as might have been hoped, a fine time was had by the few hardy souls who braved the elements to enjoy this seasonal treat. Earlier in the year, I had approached our organist to ask if he could rustle us up a tenor that I could sing a duet with, as a change of pace from the same old routine, and he said he would see what he could do. You can imagine my surprise - and here, chagrin would not be too strong a word - when he showed up not only without a tenor, but with yet another soprano, of all things, and thanks ever so much not. She also did a couple of solo pieces that were well received, and added a dash of novelty to the proceedings that had been sorely lacking in recent years. The good thing about our duet was that it made no difference whatsoever what I was singing, because I was completely drowned out by this large and imposing Wagnerian valkyrie, bursting with booming vibrato and rafter-rattling volume at full throttle. I was obviously no match for her, so the pressure was completely off me, and I found I wasn't a bit nervous, as I normally would have been in that situation. The rest of the program came off without a hitch, and don't think that we don't have the videotape to prove it, and the plucky choir (choir-ette) did a commendable job despite their reduced numbers. I still haven't given up on the tenor idea at some point in the future, but it occurred to me that it was probably a good thing I didn't ask the organist for a watch, or he most likely would have turned up with Stonehenge instead, for all I know. Or should I say, knoah. Elle