Robert Burns wrote some of the most beautiful poetry/lyrics. Ae Fond Kiss is perhaps my favorite. At the stroke of midnight of the new year (aka Hogmanay in Scotland), all over the world people join hands and sing For Auld Lang Syne.
Below is the traditional way Burns intended the song to be heard. Performed by Mairi Campbell and Dave Francis.
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind ?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne ?
CHORUS:
For auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne,
We’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
And surely ye’ll be your pint-stowp !
And surely I’ll be mine !
And we’ll tak a cup o’ kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.
CHORUS
We twa hae run about the braes,
And pu’d the gowans fine ;
But we’ve wander’d mony a weary foot,
Sin auld lang syne.
CHORUS
We twa hae paidl’d i' the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine ;
But seas between us braid hae roar’d
Sin auld lang syne.
CHORUS
And there’s a hand, my trusty fiere !
And gie's a hand o’ thine !
And we’ll tak a right gude-willy waught,
For auld lang syne.
CHORUS
Can't resist posting Ae Fond Kiss, performed acapella by Gemma Hayes.
Ae Fond Kiss
by Robert Burns
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever
Ae farewell, and then forever
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and goans I'll wage thee.
Who shall say that Fortune grieves him,
While the star of hope she leaves him
Me nae cheerful twinkle lights me,
Dark despair around benights me.
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy:
Nothing could resist my Nancy
But to see her was to love her
Love but her, and love for ever.
Had we never loe'd sae kindly,
Had we never loe'd sae blindly,
Never met - nor never parted -
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.
Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever
Ae farewell, alas, for ever
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee.
Wednesday, December 31, 2008
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Christmas for Cowboys (Gareth in the Whites)
The video Christmas for Cowboys written by Steve Weisberg sung by John Denver was taken down for copyright reasons; this version done by Wylie Gustafson (filmed at his ranch up in Washinton) is a nice alternative.
In August of 2005, I was fortunate to spend a week up in the White Mountains of east central California. About an hour from Bishop, the Mountains rise to about 14,000 feet. Unlike the Sierra Nevadas located just 10 miles west across Owens Valley, the Whites are extremely dry with almost no precipitation at all. From a distance the land looks barren, but once you are in the mountains, the landscape is beyond beautiful.
The 'campsite' was located in an extremely remote location about 15 miles down a 4 wheel drive only road at about 9,000 feet. Nestled in canyon walls 2 miles or so past the nearest campers (fishermen), the site had a rock fire pit and complete privacy. Sleeping under the stars took on a whole new meaning, as the night sky was very crisp and clear and truly breath taking; the stars so incredibly close, you could even track the movements of satellites across the night sky.
It was late in the summer and the sweet sent of sage was everywhere (I brought bouquets home and it just about broke my heart when at long last I had to throw them out). Patches of red and yellow and blue wildflowers flourished near the small trout stream. We brought drinking water, but took water for washing from the stream.
At 9,000 feet the sun was hot, but one only had to stand in the shade of a scrub tree or canyon wall to feel instantly cool. At night, the jackrabbits were plentiful and active, as I assume was their predator. Thankfully all the critters stayed to themselves.
You quickly become accustomed to the solitude of the wilderness. Oh so very quiet; only the sounds of the birds, insects and such. So, I was surprised to see a man on horseback ride into camp. Never mind the couple head of cattle he was herding, he was truly the most handsome male I have ever seen ever. Bar none. Looked like he just stepped out of a Zane Gray novel, complete with gun in holster (defense from rattlesnakes and mountain lions). The young man was a cowboy from the cow camp a canyon or two away. On our arrival, we had gone through 2 cattle gates in the road, and had seen and heard the lowing of cattle grazing, but did not know the herd was moved about. We were actually on private land, but it was not a problem. He was moving the cows and could not stay long to talk, so he invited us to his place. We we walked over the following day.
A small private college (Deep Springs) in the eastern valley below runs the cow camp each summer. The mountain cowboy serves three summers. First summer as the junior cowboy, the second alone, and the third as the senior cowboy mentoring a green trainee. It was Gareth Fisher's second summer. He was in charge of the herd - moving them about to protect sensitive areas from overgrazing and tracking down strays. The camp consisted of two small drafty one room cabins built in 1914; one a tidy living space with a bed and the other cabin served as the tack room. No running water or electricity. I don’t remember seeing or hearing a generator, but he had cold beer (and we brought some) so there must have been one or a ice box. There were three horses and a large fenced corral. The cow camp completely blended in to the landscape. He was brought provisions every few days. It was idyllic.
Ok, so I had to consciously try not to stare at him, as he really was very handsome so one could not blame me, but it was more than that. The young man also had a thoughtful and contemplative nature about him, a lovely aura. You could sense he was completely in his element in the canyon. I thought - if those girls down in Bishop knew about him, they would be finding ways to get up the mountain and get stranded. Too bad he wasn’t 25 or so years older.
Gareth is a very unusual name, so upon my query as to how he was named, he said his mother was born and raised in Scotland and he had spent time there. Perfect! I had not yet started my Scotland quest so I did not know much about my own heritage, but I did mention my family name was MacDonald. Upon learning that, it was as if we were distant kin - he opened up and talked about his family. I mentioned his Mother must worry a bit about him being in such a remote place all alone. When I asked if she had sent him cookies, he said yes, cookies and an old thick warm wool blanket from Scotland which he showed us. It was exactly what I would have sent my own son. There is nothing quite like a well loved blanket which smells of home.
We talked about life in the canyon, music (of course), books, trout fishing and such. He spoke of his college which was student run and geared towards preparation for lives in public service; he was very serious about his studies. I mentioned my youngest niece was just starting at Prescott College which concentrates on community involvement and the environment. He knew the school and said they were similar, although his was much smaller and more intense. Deep Springs College is an all male working cattle ranch and alfalfa farm where academics, manual labor and self governance are its cornerstones. He said it was very hard to get admitted as class sizes are small. We were sitting on the porch of an old cabin, miles from civilization, looking out on an amazing landscape few have ever seen. A most enjoyable visit with a most interesting young cowboy.
Circumstances changed, and I never did make it back to the White Mountains the following summer. No doubt, young Gareth is off doing his part to help change the world for the better. And no doubt, breaking hearts along the way.
"All of the good gifts given today,
Ours is the sky and the wide open range."
Merry Christmas.
In August of 2005, I was fortunate to spend a week up in the White Mountains of east central California. About an hour from Bishop, the Mountains rise to about 14,000 feet. Unlike the Sierra Nevadas located just 10 miles west across Owens Valley, the Whites are extremely dry with almost no precipitation at all. From a distance the land looks barren, but once you are in the mountains, the landscape is beyond beautiful.
The 'campsite' was located in an extremely remote location about 15 miles down a 4 wheel drive only road at about 9,000 feet. Nestled in canyon walls 2 miles or so past the nearest campers (fishermen), the site had a rock fire pit and complete privacy. Sleeping under the stars took on a whole new meaning, as the night sky was very crisp and clear and truly breath taking; the stars so incredibly close, you could even track the movements of satellites across the night sky.
It was late in the summer and the sweet sent of sage was everywhere (I brought bouquets home and it just about broke my heart when at long last I had to throw them out). Patches of red and yellow and blue wildflowers flourished near the small trout stream. We brought drinking water, but took water for washing from the stream.
At 9,000 feet the sun was hot, but one only had to stand in the shade of a scrub tree or canyon wall to feel instantly cool. At night, the jackrabbits were plentiful and active, as I assume was their predator. Thankfully all the critters stayed to themselves.
You quickly become accustomed to the solitude of the wilderness. Oh so very quiet; only the sounds of the birds, insects and such. So, I was surprised to see a man on horseback ride into camp. Never mind the couple head of cattle he was herding, he was truly the most handsome male I have ever seen ever. Bar none. Looked like he just stepped out of a Zane Gray novel, complete with gun in holster (defense from rattlesnakes and mountain lions). The young man was a cowboy from the cow camp a canyon or two away. On our arrival, we had gone through 2 cattle gates in the road, and had seen and heard the lowing of cattle grazing, but did not know the herd was moved about. We were actually on private land, but it was not a problem. He was moving the cows and could not stay long to talk, so he invited us to his place. We we walked over the following day.
A small private college (Deep Springs) in the eastern valley below runs the cow camp each summer. The mountain cowboy serves three summers. First summer as the junior cowboy, the second alone, and the third as the senior cowboy mentoring a green trainee. It was Gareth Fisher's second summer. He was in charge of the herd - moving them about to protect sensitive areas from overgrazing and tracking down strays. The camp consisted of two small drafty one room cabins built in 1914; one a tidy living space with a bed and the other cabin served as the tack room. No running water or electricity. I don’t remember seeing or hearing a generator, but he had cold beer (and we brought some) so there must have been one or a ice box. There were three horses and a large fenced corral. The cow camp completely blended in to the landscape. He was brought provisions every few days. It was idyllic.
Ok, so I had to consciously try not to stare at him, as he really was very handsome so one could not blame me, but it was more than that. The young man also had a thoughtful and contemplative nature about him, a lovely aura. You could sense he was completely in his element in the canyon. I thought - if those girls down in Bishop knew about him, they would be finding ways to get up the mountain and get stranded. Too bad he wasn’t 25 or so years older.
Gareth is a very unusual name, so upon my query as to how he was named, he said his mother was born and raised in Scotland and he had spent time there. Perfect! I had not yet started my Scotland quest so I did not know much about my own heritage, but I did mention my family name was MacDonald. Upon learning that, it was as if we were distant kin - he opened up and talked about his family. I mentioned his Mother must worry a bit about him being in such a remote place all alone. When I asked if she had sent him cookies, he said yes, cookies and an old thick warm wool blanket from Scotland which he showed us. It was exactly what I would have sent my own son. There is nothing quite like a well loved blanket which smells of home.
We talked about life in the canyon, music (of course), books, trout fishing and such. He spoke of his college which was student run and geared towards preparation for lives in public service; he was very serious about his studies. I mentioned my youngest niece was just starting at Prescott College which concentrates on community involvement and the environment. He knew the school and said they were similar, although his was much smaller and more intense. Deep Springs College is an all male working cattle ranch and alfalfa farm where academics, manual labor and self governance are its cornerstones. He said it was very hard to get admitted as class sizes are small. We were sitting on the porch of an old cabin, miles from civilization, looking out on an amazing landscape few have ever seen. A most enjoyable visit with a most interesting young cowboy.
Circumstances changed, and I never did make it back to the White Mountains the following summer. No doubt, young Gareth is off doing his part to help change the world for the better. And no doubt, breaking hearts along the way.
"All of the good gifts given today,
Ours is the sky and the wide open range."
Merry Christmas.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Joe and the photo
Schubert - Liszt: Ständchen (Serenade) performed by Tobias Sing
A few days from now is the birthday of my father’s mother, Elsa. She was born in the year 1880 and passed three days before her 98th birthday. I was 22. Every year around December 18th I think of her and remember......
She came to live with my parents when I was in my mid-teens. I was her youngest grandchild, born 20 years after the first. I was the grandchild of her old age.
One day, I asked her if she would please tell me something about life in Ohio. She told me the most beautiful and magical story of how she met my grandfather. Not so long ago, I shared this story with my mother and sisters, and surprisingly no one had ever heard it before. I must have caught my grandmother in a weak moment.
When Elsa was about 19 or 20 or so, she sat for a portrait in her village of Glandorf. This was the era of beautiful high collared lace embellished blouses and long hair held up with combs and pins. (Elsa was an accomplished seamstress and had a love of finery.) The photographer was so pleased with his work, he asked if he might display the photo in his storefront window. She of course, was flattered and agreed.
Joseph was an up and coming young man from a neighboring village, also of German descent. His father was a hard working saddle/harness maker, and the family scraped together just enough money to send the oldest son to medical school. With no means to pay for law school, Joseph studied law on his own while working for an attorney who mentored him. Joe happened to be in the village, walking down the main street, when a photo in a storefront caught his eye. It was a portrait of a young woman with dark hair and smoky eyes and a certain je ne sais quoi. Dear Joe was instantly smitten-love at first sight. He immediately went inside and asked the shopkeeper about the young woman in the photo. Resourceful and determined he found out her name, Elsie Kolhoff, where she lived.....
Sometime later, Elsa’s church sponsored a picnic type social. The women would bring a box or basket filled with culinary works of art. They would have a raffle of sorts for the boxes prepared by the unmarried women. Single men would bid on a box lunch and then have the pleasure of eating it with the lady who brought it. A young man she knew asked Elsa to accompany him, and she agreed. The poor man of course, assumed he would be eating what Elsa had prepared.
Joe lived in the town of Lima, about 20 miles from Glandorf. He somehow found out about the picnic social. It was the opportunity he had been waiting for. The girl in the photo was sure to be there. He was a man on a mission. Now, traveling 20 miles on horseback is do-able, but traveling in a small horse drawn buggy would take some time. Joe showed up at the social with a horse and buggy. Perhaps he rented it in Glandorf. There was no reason for a single man to need a buggy, except if he was hoping perhaps someone would be sitting beside him. Buggies were built rather narrow, and one had to sit very close, perhaps even touching. What an optimist, that Joe. What must have gone through his mind as he made his way to Glandorf. Was he rehearsing what he would say to her? How his heart must have quickened at the sight of her in flesh and blood. Did she see this stranger in the crowd and wonder who he was? Did his face betray him? When did he approach her?
She had absolutely no idea anyone had noticed her photo, let alone had gone through some considerable effort to meet her. The dear girl was clueless. I do not know what Joe told the photographer for he did not run and tell Elsa about the young man who inquired about her. Glandorf was a small village, and no doubt he knew Elsa’s family as her father owned a small sawmill. Had Joseph appeared less than worthy, the photographer would have told Elsa’s father. Of this I am certain. Perhaps he was just an old fool who loved the possibility of such a love story, especially one in which he and his photo played such a pivotal part.
As my grandmother told me, to make a long story short (I would have given anything to have heard the long version), she did not return home with the young man who took her. I remember her pause and the sparkle in her eye. The sparkle was a mix of remembering her own youthful coquettishness and of a tear starting to well. Completely shocked and dumbfounded beyond belief (this was my very proper and correct grandmother after all), I blurted “Do you mean you dumped your date for my grandfather?” “Yes”, she replied simply. “Please tell me more” I begged. “Well” she replied, “Joe had a horse and buggy and we took the LONG way back to my house and Joe drove REALLY slow..., and you are a smart girl and you can fill in the blanks”.
Some memories were hers and hers alone. Too precious to speak. Elsa got up and went into her room. Following her, I watched her pick up the framed photo of my grandfather. In that moment and for the very first and only time, my grandmother and I were in perfect harmony. We both loved Joe.
Friday, December 5, 2008
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