Winter Solstice - four more days to Christmas

The decorations are up, presents bought, and all I need are a few stocking stuffers. Things seem remarkably quiet for this time of year.

Number one son and his s.o. have asked for my help in cooking their first roast turkey. They're providing the turkey at her family's gathering on Christmas eve. Then they will come to our house on Christmas day for another turkey dinner. In the past, I've tried to suggest a change in menu (duck, anyone?), but no one will hear of it. I'm looking forward to the day when I don't have to do the turkey and just need to show up and eat!

Number two son is currently in New York City with his girlfriend, visiting some of her relatives. They're trying to cram in as many art galleries, museums, tourist must-sees and shopping as they possibly can. He called last night to say they're having a wonderful time. They'd just gotten back from the musical, Wicked and he loved it. He was a bit skeptical going into Wicked (he wanted to see Spamalot) but said he was pleasantly surprised.

They'll be coming back on December 23, just in time for Christmas. Actually, their plane is scheduled to arrive early a.m. on Christmas eve, so it's cutting things a bit too close for my comfort. We're just hoping the weather will hold and they don't get stuck in a storm back east. Luckily, they have a direct flight from NYC to Vancouver, so as long as they get out of JFK, they should be fine.

Here they are when they left on the 16th:

Hopefully, the smiles will be just as big when they get back.

Meanwhile, I've been left in charge of the care and feeding of his two goldfish. Not an onerous task, I know, but I've been admonished not to overfeed them. Their names are Hans and Jurgen (named after German philosopher-sociologists, don't ask) with rather unique personalities - at least for fish. Hans has a swim bladder problem which occasionally causes him to swim and bob around lopsided until he's fed some peas, of all things. I check them first thing every morning in fear I'll find one floating belly-up and I'll need to blame a non-existent cat for his demise. So far, so good.

Today, I need to finalize my Christmas dinner menu and shop for ingredients. I don't want to be stuck in the crush of Christmas eve shoppers. I can't quite decide between my own Kahlua mousse or a store-bought mango mousse cake for dessert; and between a sweet potato casserole with walnuts or yams and pineapple (for some reason, another one of my family must-haves is a sweet potato or yam dish).

Anyways, here I go for one last foray into the crowds.

Musical Theatre (or for the Americans out there, "theater")

I was reading Here In The Hills' blog celebrating her 400th post and listening to the embedded YouTube clips of Audra McDonald.

(For those of you who don't know, Audra McDonald is a wonderful actress/singer and multiple Tony Award winner. If I had to name anyone that I felt was born for Broadway musical theatre, she'd be near - if not at - the top of the list.)

Anyways, watching Ms McDonald and listening to the Gershwin and Stephen Sondheim songs reminded me how much I love musical theatre. It combines all things theatrical that I love -- dancing, singing, and acting – and when done right, wraps them into a larger than life spectacle that lingers long after the final curtain.

My love of musicals started way back in childhood when, as an unsupervised eight year old, I'd watch late-night Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies. I dreamed of being a dancer.

Later, in high school, I lived with relatives who bought cast albums of all the Broadway hit musicals of the time. I knew the lyrics to Annie Get Your Gun and Carousel and West Side Story and My Fair Lady and Sound of Music. I joined the school choir from elementary school through to high school graduation. I sang in my head, I sang in the bathroom, I sang under the covers in my bed (I was a strange and nerdy kid). I was in the chorus of our high school musicals. I dreamed of being a Broadway actress.

Alas, I had a fair to middling voice at best; suitable for large choirs or school choruses, but not Broadway. I went on to other dreams and life has unfolded as it was meant (i.e. no one has to hear me sing in public).

But through the years, I've remained a fan of musical theatre and so I thank Naomi at Here In The Hills for the reminder and for the Audra McDonald clips.

Now, it's time to go dust off some scratchy old LPs and listen to Camelot and Fiddler On The Roof.

I wanna dance

For our recent vacation, my husband and I took a cruise. You can do as little or as much as you like and it's one of the most relaxing types of vacations I've been on - a great place for a people-watcher like me. I love dancing and watching others dance – all forms of dance - ballet, jazz, ballroom, it doesn’t matter. As long as there’s music and movement, I’ll watch. So while on this vacation, I mostly watched the sixty-plus crowd dance. Why this age group? Because they can really dance.

Almost every night and on every special occasion, they’d be the first on the dance floor. They did it all: foxtrot, cha-cha, rumba, salsa, waltz, jive. They did it with verve, enthusiasm and energy – especially the jive. I was in awe. All these grey-haired seniors dancing and boogying as if they were still in high school. Then it occurred to me – they’re probably the last generation who really learned “how” to dance as a matter of course when they were young.

I grew up in the fifties and sixties. The music of the times ranged from Patti Page, the Mills Brothers and Doris Day to the beginnings of rock ‘n roll with Buddy Holly, The Big Bopper and Elvis, then The Everly Brothers and Roy Orbison, eventually segueing into The Beachboys, Beatles, and the psychedelia of love ‘n peace and hippies. Other than the early rock ‘n roll years, the music of my youth was not very conducive to couples or touch dancing.

Admittedly, the fifties music I listened to was a result of living with much older teen cousins. They had frequent rumpus room parties and after school get-togethers listening to 45s. It was during the parties (where I lurked behind doors and around corners, well past my bedtime) that I’d marvel at the crinolines, ponytails and couples jiving. They slow-danced, too, but I thought it was pretty yucky at the time. It was the jive I loved. One of my cousins even tried to teach me. It didn’t stick.

At about the same time, I started watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movies. I loved them. I was a sucker for the romance, the tentative meeting, the falling in love, the “I’m-mad-at-you, never-see-you-again” misunderstanding and the eventual reconciliation by way of a glorious dance number. No Gene Kelly for me. No sir. He always danced by himself except for those Cyd Charisse-type numbers from American in Paris. Too tough and athletic, not at all romantic. I wanted to dance like Fred and Ginger. I imagined myself as Ginger - floating feathers and trailing sequins in my wake.

By the time my own teen years arrived, it was the sixties and the jive had given way to everyone for themselves, no-touch, freeform dancing. There were no “steps” to speak of, just a self-involved flailing of limbs and a movin’ to the groove style of dance.

At school, we had so-called dance lessons in gym class to learn the waltz, foxtrot and square dancing. I suppose the teachers thought it would be good for our social development. But for the life of me, I still can’t figure out why they taught square dancing (when was the last time you did a “dosey doh” or “swing your partner” at a wedding or party?). Maybe they were caught in a time warp of their grandparents’ barn dances and hoedowns.

For my part, I thought it would be cool to learn ballroom dancing (visions of F & G still beckoned). But I was in the minority. At that age, few were interested. It was more of an embarrassment and ordeal to endure. For the girls, the main objective was not to get stuck with a truly obnoxious, sweaty-handed, smelly boy who had to count under his breath in order to keep time. I’m sure the boys had other objectives. Did anyone learn to dance? No.

By the time university rolled around, I had reconciled myself to a life of non-ballroom dancing. Then, along came Sam. He could really dance! He knew how to do a proper waltz, cha-cha and jive. He was patient enough to teach me. Alas, our relationship didn’t last (though in retrospect, I probably stayed with him longer than I might have if he couldn’t dance) and I never dated another guy who could dance as well as Sam.

Fast-forward to my current husband. He dances – sort of – in the late sixties, shuffle your feet in time to music kind of style. He tries, really, he does. He even went to ballroom dance classes at the community centre with me – twice. But like the jive of my childhood, it didn’t take. He’s promised to take private dance lessons with me after he retires. He figures all he needs is some individual attention. We’ll see.

Meanwhile, I live my dance fantasies vicariously by watching others. On the formal nights of our cruise, if I squinted hard enough, the grey-haired gentlemen with their lovely wives could pass for Fred and Ginger. Really.