This last one is not from the mountains, obviously, but it was in the batch with the rest of them.  It is actually the carousel from the county fair.

I decided to change the background for the blog title, and, leaning towards the ADD side of life, I realized (as far as I remember, anyway, which isn't saying much.  But still.....) I'd never posted any photos from the mountain trip my mother and I undertook.  I'm really hoping I didn't actually post these and that this is not a mind numbingly boring repeat of something no one was interested in the first time it was posted....................

Although there was unfortunately no Brad Pitt in sight on Saturday, I did get to play Thelma and Louise by taking a road trip with a group of women.  To see The Phantom of the Opera.  Fortunately, no bail had to be posted.  The mother of my piano student told me not too long ago that "adjective" is no longer used in the classroom, as it isn't 'exciting' enough to describe descriptive words.  Apparently they are now being called *sparkle words* (insert hands raised 'Hallelujah' style with wiggly fingers).  Personally, using the more difficult 'adjective' never seemed to impede my ability to use them; I can't tell you what a preposition is, but I have a feeling I use those ocassionally as well.  Anyway.....Here are my *sparkle words* to describe the show: Spectacular. Mesmerizing.  Stunning.  Beautiful. Gorgeous. Wish you were here.  (Okay, I know that last one is not an adjective, and I'm only hoping the rest of them qualify, but you get the point.)  I read the book for the first time in sixth or seventh grade, and ever since then, I have wondered how they could accomplish the demolition of a chandelier on stage without incurring the wrath of sue-happy lawyers.  Well, now I know, and it was more than vastly entertaining.  It was an artistic revelation set to breathtaking music.  It is one thing to sit at a stoplight, belting out Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman in the secure solitude of a Mercury Milan.  It is an entirely different thing to feel the concussion of the drums as they accentuate the Phantom's footsteps as he descends the main staircase at the masquerade, dressed as the Red Death.  It was brilliant.  My only complaint is the same complaint I had before I saw it live.  Christine.  Being a slightly indecisive person myself, it is a shortcoming I can only barely tolerate in minimal amounts.  My "favorite" part?  At the end, in the Phantom's lair, after Raoul has discarded any regard for his own life, and has descended beyond the portals of hell to rescue the girl he has loved since his childhood with the type of devotion only Jane Austen heroines get the opportunity to experience- AND SHE CAN'T MAKE UP HER MIND!!!!! Really?!  I know the Phantom has that aura of mystery which usually surrounds paranoid, homicidal geniuses, but enough already! While the noose is tightening around the throat of the one man who truly loves her she does nothing but cringe and wail.  Voluntary helplessness is an unforgivable sin in my book.  So while Raoul is dying (literally and metaphorically) Christine decides to all but have a love-fest make-out session with his murderer.  Typical blonde.  (In the book she is blonde.  Her father was Swedish, after all.)  Anyway, other than that?  Marvelous.  Stupendous.  Entrancing.  I fell in love.  Not just with the production itself, but with....the conductor.  Strange?  I know.  I can tell you the moment it happened, though.  It was when Raoul first comes to see Christine after her astonishing success at the gala.  The mirror prop which eventually becomes the escape route through which the Phantom kidnaps her from her dressing room was somewhat tilted towards the orchestra pit.  The bottom of the stage obscured everything below the conductor's cummerbund while the angle of the mirror only revealed anything from the bowtie down.  Sounding stranger all the time?  Yes, I assume so, but let me explain.  In other words, the only thing visible was the conductor's hands.  Aside from Fred Astaire, men aren't usually described as 'graceful,' but this man was graceful.  To see what you were hearing is the only way I can describe the experience.  I watched him for a while, his hands enacting what the instruments would vocalize a split second later.  In the next scene, as the Phantom and Christine are moving across the candlelit subterranean lake, the conductor's silhoutte was rendered a bit fantastical and spectral by the smoke skimming across the stage and cascading over the ledge.  Again, his motions as he conducted the musicians was almost hypnotic.  I had never really thought about the vital role the conductor plays in such a production.  It was actually nearly as interesting to watch him as any of the other performers.  Anyway, it was fabulous and a grand time was had by all.  One day I'll see Les Miserables.  But my heart will always belong to the conductor of the Phantom. 

"A youngster, clutching his soldier father, gazes upward while the latter lifts his wife from the ground to wish her a 'Merry Christmas.'  The serviceman is one of those fortunate enough to be able to get home for the holidays." December, 1944- source-National Archives and Records Administration  (I've always loved this picture.  My only question is this: how in the WORLD did she keep up with a toddler in those heels?!  Look at those things!)

Okay, so I know this post is late, but by my standards of procrastination this post is actually about a week early.  It seems as if the holidays have really just sprung out from a hidden recess and caught me completely off-guard, unprepared as I usually seem to be for their descent.  I love the holdiays, Christmas and Easter are my two favorites; however, it seems as I get older, the ability to enjoy them diminishes in the face of what must be done by tomorrow.  Tomorrow becomes next week, and before I realize it, I have missed the beauty of daffodils on Easter morning, the anticipation of Christmas Eve, the quiet moment I used to enjoy as a child when we arrived home late on Christmas Eve after visiting my grandparents.  It may sound cliche to admit, but there was something sobering, even as a child, about that pause for a moment on my way to a warm home to look at the stars.  They always looked so hard and bright against the frozen, midnight blue sky.  The odd thing is, it makes you feel infintesimally small; suddenly, you feel your place in the grand scheme of the universe.  The infinite number of stars remind you of that hand which orchestrated their placement in the depths of the universe; the untold mysteries of eternity suddenly seem inexplicably familiar. Although you do not understand, you feel.  When I tried to explain this to someone once, they asked a bit skeptically, "You thought about all that as a kid?"  Well, no, maybe not, but sometimes I think as adults we underestimate children's abilities to understand things intuitively which they can't yet express coherently.  Anyway, I promised myself I wouldn't digress into any tangents......So, to get to the purpose of this post (and yes, hopefully, there is one.....)  Monday was December 7.  Pearl Harbor Day.  As an individual who becomes unduly excited by anything remotely connected to history, I was debating about whether or not to post something.  But what?  A history of events? No, everyone knows the story.  Roosevelt's "A Day That Will Live in Infamy" speech?  No, too depressing and political.  Then, fate made an entrance.  I could write about Christmas and D-Day.  Genius!  I was reading through a book I purchased when I visited the Library of Congress (I hope that if I live a decent life, heaven will be the Library of Congress....).  It is entitled "I'll Be Home for Christmas: The Spirit of Christmas During World War II."  I had to eat sparingly for the rest of the trip, as I spent most of my money in the bookstore, but with a title like that does anyone really fault me?  Anyway, I came across this passage as I was reading through it the other evening.  Forgive me as I type it out in its entirety.

In Norfold, Virginia, news that the United States had been plunged into war sobers the mood of the shipmates on the USS Washington.  When the radio plays "The Star-Spangled Banner," the men all stand and sing.  They realize that immediate action on the high seas is ahead.  A few days later, just before Christmas 1941, a writer for the ship's weekly news-letter, Cougar Scream, talks about duty, love, and sacrifice.

"The knowledge of a catastrophe cannot be comprehended within the immediate moments of its announcement.  It is one thing to know-it is another thing to realize.  We all heard the shocking narration of death, disaster, and destruction as relayed from Pearl Harbor last Sunday.  We know it took place.  But do we realize its significance?
  It is difficult to realize that some of our shipmates of former days and duties are dead; that others are seriously wounded.  It seems incredible that ships-of-the-line have been sunk.  And to watery graves went men who manned those ships.  those men wore the uniform of their country by their own choice, through their own free will.  When each solemnly swore: "I do solemnly swear that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the United States of America, and that I will serve them honestly and faithfully against all their enemies whomsoever, and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the Officers appointed over me, according to the rules and articles for the government of the Navy," he assumed a grave responsibility.  That responsibility can be shouldered only by the security of a sense of duty.  Duty is any assigned service.  Duty is founded upon love or upon fear.  A fearful man could not freely undertake this responsibility. he would have to be forced into it because he would be afraid of its obligations.  That rules out fear and leaves love only.  It might be a love of country; a love of home and family-and their attendant preservation; a love of an ideal and the subsequent pride of maintaining the high standards of that ideal.
  Love and Duty have one common denominator-Sacrifice.  Both require it; both demand it.  Without sacrifice there can be no duty.  Sacrifice is in proportion to love.  The more we love something, the less willing we are to part with it.  Since self-preservation is the first law of nature, it follows that we are least willing to part with our life.  To part with life requires a tremendous sacrifice and such a sacrifice demands a tremendous love.  Therefore, "Greater love hath no man than he lay down his life for his friends."
  The men of last Sunday who could not be bribed by the Grim Reaper to desert their posts; the men who placed duty, love and honor above fear, life, and dishonor; the men whom the Angel of Death tapped on the shoulder and who, without flinching, returned Death's gaze as they stood by their stations-those men were our shipmates of former days and duties; those men laid down their lives for their friends.  Greater love could no man have.
  We of the WASHINGTON pause with bowed heads to pay homage to our gallant brothers who have "given the last full measure of devotion."  May their souls rest in peace through the infinite mercy and love of Almighty God."

I have nothing to add to that which could possibly improve upon it; I simply want to add a few thoughts of my own.  There have been countless sacrifices made for each of us; and for those who feel as if there has been no mortal sacrifice made for their security and comfort, perhaps not.  I don't know the circumstances surrounding everyone's station in life.  However, I feel obligated to add that there have been countless sacrifices made for each of us.  Wealth and privilege were and are not guaranteed or promised to any of us, but humanity and the opportunity to both experience and express kindness have been.  If kindness, mercy and forebearance seem to be absent, a different sacrifice of Duty and Love has provided for that as well.  There was a "last and greatest" sacrifice which provided for each member of the human race.  "Sacrifice is in proportion to love."  That is what I feel the most at Christmas.  A birth meant for a death.  A death meant for the benefit of all mankind.  It may be politically incorrect to write about religion on something as public as a blog, but political correctness does nothing to salve the pains of the human race, those seen or unseen.  Political correctness does nothing to provide for the loneliness felt by so many at this time of year.  Political correctness does nothing to remind men of their essential humanity, the humanity which suffers empathy for others, the humanity which is an indication of that from which it is derived.  So, politically incorrect or not, I say, "Merry Christmas," with all its inherent meaning.