Happy Holidays!

Well, I was thinking about writing another entry in the closely-followed reality-blogging series 'Memoirs - Dad' and I thought I would write about my memories of family Christmases.

Then I realised that I (practically) haven't got any.

Not really true, I suppose. As I begin to write I seem to recall doing things like string alternate cranberries and bits of popcorn, to put on a tree - or was that something that Edna and I did?

I think I only distinctly recall one Christmas present. I suppose I was - what? - seven? eight? It was a pistol belt with two holsters and two cap pistols. What I cannot recall was whether I was the recipient or Peter, because I do seem to recall some strife between us about it. Did he receive it and was I jealous? Did I receive it and was I selfish?

I have not a clue - perhaps Peter can enlighten me. What I think it may tell me is that the importance of Christmas presents is, if not small, at least evanescent. And of course our family had no tradition of religious activities at Christmas - except there was that one fascinating memory of going to Mass with Kenny's kids, my cousins. I feel sure that was Christmas Eve Mass.

But I do recall vividly and with great pleasure two other sorts of holiday during the year: Easter and Hallowe'en.

Hallowe'en was "Trick or Treat." I have heard that things are a bit less innocent today. At the time, we dressed in conventionalised symbols of death - shirts with printed skeletons on them, masks - and went door to door, half a dozen or so of us together, knocking and crying "Trick or Treat!" I do not recall ever being disappointed, and I do not think any of us would have thought of 'tricking' had we not been 'treated.' If All Hallows' Eve is no longer innocent fun, I am sorry. In the early 1950s - we did not do it in Oroville, as we lived on the farm - it seemed harmless (except possibly to our teeth :-)).

Easter - again, am speaking of Bakersfield, in the early 1950s - was Easter eggs! My mother boiled eggs and we coloured them. I loved that process almost more than the hunt. On Easter morning we had our hunt, but the local council also put on an Easter egg hunt in a park. These were always hard-boiled eggs. Susan tells me she remembers chocolate eggs; that is as may be. I never heard of a chocolate Easter egg until we moved to New Zealand, in 1973.

When we lived in Oroville, there were no Easter egg hunts - at least I do not recall any - nor trick-or-treating (but my mother did host neighbour kids at a Hallowe'en party at our house, complete with rubber gloves filled with ice cubes to pass around, and grapes (as eyeballs, you see)). But I had my first introduction to Easter as a religious event. In high school I played my horn in the brass choir, at Easter sunrise service in the graveyard. That was the first inkling I had that Easter had anything to do with dying - and with rising again.

Christmas blessings to all of you! This year Susan is flying to Sydney on Christmas Eve, and I expect I will see Eddie and Eveline and the kids on Christmas Day. I will, I hope, write something again before then. Tomorrow is, after all, only the 3rd Sunday of Advent. But I thought of Christmas today, and wondered to think how little I remember of early Christmases.

Taawureng

Or Sehnsucht. What C. S. Lewis called "the 'inconsolable longing' in the human heart for "we know not what."

Taawureng is the Yapese word for it. I know that will not trigger anything in the minds of anyone likely to read this, but it does for me. 'Homesickness,' 'longing' - I know of no English word that quite does it.

The concert is over. The review was good - and William Dart is hard to please, so I suppose we did well. But the concert is over. And I am ... sad, I suppose, I must say. I am listening to the Tchaikovsky now. Foolish me!

Sehnsucht - taawureng -is the deep heart-ache that says, "if only I ... if only I do this, do that ... the ache will be stilled."

It will not be. Nothing will quench that thirst but Heaven, but God Himself. As we approach a concert I feel it so strongly; when the concert is over I am let down. The ache cannot be given peace.

But I will not live without it. We think of the theological virtue of hope as something cheery, light, perhaps. It is not. It is this ache, this deep longing for home. It will be - God grant it! - finally swallowed up in fulfilment. But not by anything this life can offer.

The paradox of hope is that the things - music, beauty, joy - that bring Heaven closest to us are the things that cause that wound to ache most intensely.

We would not do without these reminders of the Thing we hope for for anything. That way lies despair.

I thank God He has given me the inexpressible gift of music.

Rabbits

I don't really recall exactly how I started raising rabbits.

Naturally on the farm we had a lot of animals. Though our money crops were all from the orchards - olives, oranges, and almonds - we had pigs and steers, for meat; goats and sheep (to help keep the grass down in the orchard; at least, that was the theory, though I don't know how well it worked); chickens, ducks, geese, and guinea fowl; dogs and cats (also pet skunks, for which my mother is to blame).

But I raised rabbits.

The origin of the rabbits was somehow connected with 4-H. "Calf Clubs" are the closest New Zealand equivalent that I know of, though it's not really the same. 4-H clubs had rather more the flavour of scouting. Although agricultural in orientation, there were a lot of activities - were they called 'merit badges??' - that you could do that were not strictly agricultural. I know that I did an electricity project and a Morse Code project.

And I did rabbits.

I remember that what attracted me to the idea of rabbits was making money. I wanted to buy a telescope, and the bottom-line one that I wanted cost US$49.95 - a quasi-infinite amount of cash to a 12-year-old. I don't recall whether I had any formal allowance from my parents. But I decided rabbits was the way to get the telescope (it worked - eventually).

My father and mother supported me grandly. The idea was that I would have eight breeding does, two bucks (this was the proportion that the book said was what I needed). This implied 10 rabbit hutches - which my father built. It also implied a steady supply of Purina "Rabbit Chow" (I was going to put in a link to that product but when I go on the web now I find they have so many duded-up versions of "Rabbit Chow" that I decided I would be embarrassed to link to them). I only now begin to think that my mother may always have paid for that. If so, my money-making business may not have been as money-making as I may once have thought.

Raising rabbits is not itself difficult. You feed them. You give them water. The hutches have a little dark box in the back for the doe to go into to have her babies. You have to put the buck in at the right time for breeding, wait 8 weeks for birth, and then feed the babies for twelve weeks.

Then you have to kill them.

Hmmm...

Eventually I became reasonably skilled at slaughtering rabbits - though I cannot say I ever approached the task with aplomb - but learning how was a bit traumatic.

Jeremiah promised to demonstrate for me, with the first one. OK, we bring out the victim. Jeremiah explains. Then, in the smoothest fashion you could imagine, with his left hand he gently grasps the little rabbit by the hind legs, has a stick in his right. Up sweeps the rabbit, down comes the stick sharply on the back of the neck. Probably severs the spinal cord because there is no wriggling now. Out comes the knife, throat cut, and the rabbit is in Rabbit Heaven before it knows it is dead.

With similar expertise comes the slaughtering. Skin cut just so and so, peel it off like a sock. The skin goes on a stretcher to dry and the skins eventually are sent to a place in Sacramento that pays me US$.25 each for them - and at one point sells me, for ... well, I don't remember, but only a few dollars - a lovely pair of rabbit skin gloves that I wish I had now and would probably cost me hundreds.

Gutting the carcass is quick and clean. Be very careful not to rupture the gall bladder as the liver is part of the meat you will sell and gall will ruin it for eating.

OK, now it's my turn.

My stomach knots a little even now, in memory of that 55-year-old crime.

I grab the rabbit. Not gently. It begins to struggle. I raise it quickly and start smashing it with the stick. It does not like this. I am in tears by this time. Eventually it is sufficiently subdued that I manage to cut its throat.

The rest of the operation is a blur. I do remember that we had to throw that one away.

I did, as I say, get reasonably skilled at the operation. It is surely a sign of the fallen state of creation, that, as St Paul says in Romans 8 (I think it is) 'groans in tribulation' now. Adam and Eve were told that the plants were for them to eat; Noah had explicitly to be given permission to eat the beasts. I am not a vegetarian and do not believe we are required to be - but it is surely a reminder of our state that, however well we succeed in reducing the pain an animal feels in being killed, we ourselves know that it would be well if it were not necessary to kill in order to eat. It is. It will not always be so. The lion will, one day, lie down with the lamb; and 12-year-old boys will one day no longer need to kill rabbits to buy telescopes.

I must tell you some time about the day Peter and I were given permission to kill a rather mature cock, with a rather dull axe. But not now.

When does it stop?!

I posted nothing last week and if I don't do something now I will post nothing this week. In fact, I think I posted nothing the week before last but am afraid to look to find out.

OK, yes, I have been busy, but in truth the reason for my silence lies more in the fact that everyone else has been so busy that I have been unsure what to write about. And from today I am very definitely busy, so just a few brief notes, and then I have to head off for rehearsal.

Johnny is in the States at the moment. He has just finished spending two weeks with Adele, and then is off to California to see Kathleen, his half-sister, and Peter, my brother.

Last 14 November was Eddie and Eveline's 11th wedding anniversary. So that they could have a couple of days to themselves, Sue and I spent the week-end at their house. Saturday I took Robyn, Jonnie, and Julian to the zoo - Sue had an appointment in Auckland, so it was just me.

And having survived the wild beasts at the zoo, I thought I should be safe taking the kids to St Luke's Shopping Centre for lunch.

I got out of the car and felt something on my left thumb - just some fluff or something from the car, I suppose. I brush it off.

Hmmm... That is the thumb with the damaged joint (Peter - that is from a time when I thought I could box with Jeremiah and he, fending me off, allowed me to bash it against his fist :-)) and it throbs sometimes. Nevertheless, it is not many seconds before I realise I have been stung - by a bee, I assume. Never mind. Bee stings don't bother me for long, and we are in a hurry. Let's go, kids!

By evening I am thinking it is an odd bee sting. My thumb has swollen massively. This is very unusual!

In the morning the swelling has gone down but there is a large and nasty-looking blood blister. I conclude - what is almost certainly the case - that I have been bitten by a spider - very likely the white-tail. There is a story that white-tails can cause arachnogenic necrosis, but Wikipedia says white-tail bites are probably not implicated - and I am counting on Wikipedia to be correct! At present it appears to be slowly healing.

5-6 December we are playing:

• Mendelssohn's Hebrides Overture
• Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto
• Xian Xinghai's Yellow River Cantata

The Tchaikovsky is the most romantic music in the world. The biggest challenge will be not to get teary-eyed whilst playing :-) The Cantata is a challenge! A local Chinese choir will sing the Mandarin, and they are bringing in 20 soloists (singers and instrumentalists) from China for the thing - should at least be interesting!

And that is it for the week-end - and possibly until after the concert.

jj learns a lesson

I bought this horn eleven months ago from KBB Music (which means, please God, that in another month I will finally have paid for it - but that's another story).

On the 13th of October, KBB sent me spam that I could not resist:

Dear French Horn Player,

Visiting horn player Mark Paine will be joining forces with three other international artists to perform a concert featuring the first NZ performance of Benjamin Britten’s The Heart of the Matter for voice, horn, piano and narrator, as well as Schubert’s Auf dem Strom for voice, horn and piano at the Raye Freedman Arts Centre, Epsom Girls' Grammar School on Sunday 1 November 2009. more

During Mark’s stay he will also be available for private horn lessons between Thursday 29 October and Monday 2 November. To book a lesson, please contact Mark directly by email markwpaine@yahoo.com

Mark is the principal horn of the European Union Chamber Orchestra and co-principal horn of the City of London Sinfonia. He specialises in playing high horn parts of the early Classical period, especially in the works of Haydn. Mark’s latest CD of Haydn Divertimenti and Symphonies has just become Editor’s Choice in UK’s Gramophone Magazine. Mark also plays natural horn, having done several projects with John Eliot Gardiner in the Orchestre Révolutionnaire et Romantique. Visit Mark’s website

Your KBB Music Team

I have never had a horn lesson in my life (which will not surprise some of my musician friends). Indeed, I have never felt the need of one. I have thought that in order to get anything from a teacher, I would have to attend lessons weekly for a year or something - and there was no question of that, either from the point of view of money or time.

But Mark was a one-off. And Mark is at a higher level of ability than any teacher I might have available in Auckland under normal circumstances.

I e-mailed him. And he answered!

In short, it was arranged. The lesson was arranged for yesterday, Saturday the 31st of October, at 11 in the morning. My children will understand that it was a bit of a trek when I tell them that Mark was located in Torbay (72.2 Km, according to Google Maps).

I am very glad I went.

I was very nervous about going. What was this world-class horn player going to think of John Jensen's feeble blatting?

He was, in fact, very helpful, both straightforward and modest - and I don't mean false modesty. I mean he recognised his own ability and worth - and honoured what I was able to do, without either puffing it or putting it down.

And his instructions gave me what I wanted. I have been at loose ends as to how to practise between concerts. I have not, in fact, done very well with that. Mark gave me an excellent run-down of what I might do. He also very patiently listened to me rattle on - I expected half an hour of time with him; he gave me an hour and a half.

We are now preparing for our final concert of the year. It is going to be challenging. We have just three pieces - but two of them are big enough. We start with an overture:

• Mendelssohn's Hebrides

Then the gut-wrenching (to me, at least):

• Tchaikovsky's Piano Concert No. 1

(which, if it doesn't bring tears to your eyes, nothing will).

And after the interval (ready for this?):

• Xian Xinghai's Yellow River Cantata

in Mandarin! (All the music instruction notes are in Chinese - I trust someone will tell me what they mean). The Music Association of Auckland is supplying the Chinese choir and soloists (some 20 of them, I think I have heard, being brought from China for the purpose).

I think we will be busy for a while.

I have to go now and put some of my lesson into practice :-)

Sacrament

Today is Labour Monday - no, that is not a Sacrament - not even a sacramental - I only mention it to explain how it is I am able to write a bit on a Monday.

It is, indeed, a bit of a marvel that I am able to write anything, three-day week-end or not. This has been an extremely busy week-end. Susan and I spent all of Saturday and much of today shifting furniture between the house and the 'sleep-out' room that is my bedroom-cum-office.

And Sunday was the day of ... well, Sunday was the reason for the title.

About a week ago Eddie told Susan and me that he intended to be baptised. This was news of mixed import to us, as Eddie had been baptised when he was an infant. So I understood that what he intended was to go through a form of adult baptism. By the end of the week, Eveline had chosen to follow him in this step. Eddie wanted Susan and me to be present.

It has been a bit of a stormy week for us all, debating, considering, and, finally, deciding that we would go to the event. Although no re-baptism is possible for a person who has once been validly baptised, I understood that this was Eddie's way of affirming his determination to follow Christ. That is a determination that I most emphatically want to support. I suppose one can view this as a renewal of baptismal vows.

It had long been the plan for Sue and me to spend yesterday with Eddie and Eveline - our monthly lunch with them - and the baptism was to be at his church's evening service, at 5PM.

Calling it a 'church service' is, perhaps, a bit misleading. It was indistinguishable from a Christian rock concert. I must confess that the volume of the band was such that I genuinely think a steady exposure would be damaging to one's hearing. Thankfully, the noise ... er, music :-) ... didn't last too long.

There was a sermon (on faith) - I have heard worse from Catholic priests. It was a bit of a trip back in time for us - the standard evangelical sermon urging (rightly!) faith in God, followed by a call for decision.

The baptism itself - looked like about twenty persons were baptised - was fully-clothed, full immersion - full-on! I couldn't hear anything of the words used in the baptism, so I don't know whether any there who had not been baptised before were in fact baptised now or not - that is, I don't know if it was baptism "in the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." I hope for their sake it was, and, indeed, I prayed then, and since, for all those who were baptised.

This morning Sue and I went to Mass, as we usually do. It was, in style, quite a contrast! Well, of course, it was a week-day Mass, not a full Sunday Mass, and there were only about 20 people there. There was no music, but, had there been, it would not have threatened anyone's hearing. And Father's 5-minute homily did not end with a call to persons who wanted to determine to follow the Lord to raise their hands!

All that is true, but the deep difference was stark, and real. Eddie will read this post, and I do not wish to be writing a sermon to him, nor to give the impression that I am not very glad we decided to go to his re-baptism ceremony. I am deeply glad that we went, and pray for him and Eveline and their children. Nonetheless, last night during the baptisms, I had a sudden thought: what is happening here is John's baptism. These people are undergoing a baptism of repentance - and well they, and each of us, should. If the formula was Trinitarian, even although the minister performing the baptisms made clear, in his speech, that he did not believe in baptismal regeneration, then this was valid baptism for the unbaptised. Nevertheless ... what I thought of was John's baptism.

At the end, after the sermon, Sue and I left. There had been some good music - that of it that could actually be heard, of course! - and wonderful zeal, and a sermon that I could well take to heart on believing God and trusting Him. Still - something was missing.

Not something, actually; Someone. This morning God condescended to give Himself to me Bodily, in His full Substance. I cannot forget that. I cannot do without that. I can readily contrast some points of Protestant worship with Catholic to the credit of the Protestant. There is much that they do well that we do not (though I would either have to find a congregation with less powerful amplifiers, or else wear earplugs :-)). They can give me Jesus spiritually. They can give me His Words. They can tell me of His love.

I am thankful for what the Reformed Church gave me. I am thankful for what the Baptist Church gave me before that. I am thankful to Eddie and Eveline for inviting me. But there is something that only the Catholic Church can give me. The Catholic Church gives me Jesus. I cannot do without that. It is my prayer for Eddie and Eveline, and for all men and women, that they come to know Him Whom to receive is life eternal.

Harry Potter

I was going to write something this week-end - honest, I was! But time has crept up on me. Tomorrow is our 'Family Concert.' We play for 'subscription concerts' each year - those are ones you have to pay more for - and one Family Concert. The Family Concert is ... cheaper. The subscription concerts cost (depending on the seat) $30 or $40, for adults. The Family Concert seats are $15.

So I suppose it's a matter of 'you get what you pay for.' We try to deliver the same quality performance for the Family Concert as for the subscription concerts, but they are much shorter - and are aimed towards young people. This year we are playing:

• Benjamin Britten's "Young Person's Guide to the Orchestra" - written for children but definitely not for children to play! It ends with a fugue that goes at a lightning pace. There is narration from a local actor named Robert Mackelenberg.
• Tchaikovsky's "Nutcracker Suite" - just the dance section, but a local young dance troupe is supposed to be dancing (I haven't seen them yet).
• John Williams' "Hedwig's Theme" from "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone."

So I expect it is the last piece that will be the most popular. At rehearsal last night our conductor - Rupert d'Cruze - asked if anyone had a stuffed owl! "Yeah, right!" I thought. To my astonishment, someone - our second horn player, Christine - said that she had - "If the children haven't destroyed it by now."

Well, it just goes to show you what amazing things some people have in the back room.