Monday, December 31, 2007

The Christmas Candle Sparks Compassion

There's an old story about a devout man who is told that God will be coming to visit him. He eagerly awaits his visitor, ready with refreshments, but his anticipation does not prevent him from letting in a series of uninvited guests, paupers in various states of distress. At the end of the day, he is grateful for the company but puzzled as to why God never showed up, whereupon he learns that he actually hosted God in disguise on three separate occasions.

It's a nice tale, one whose elements have crept into many a Christmas story. I can't help but think Richard Paul Evans, author of The Christmas Box, may have been influenced by this folksy narrative when he set out to write The Christmas Candle. The two stories are almost identical opposites, much like A Christmas Carol and It's a Wonderful Life. Instead of a kindly old gentleman, we have a surly young man who is terribly put out by all of the poverty-stricken people in town.

Stepping into a candle shop, he buys a Christmas candle, against the advice of the shop owner. Don't worry, the flames don't spread and start to eat everything in sight after midnight, a la Gremlins. But they do shed a most disconcerting light on all the ragged townspeople cantankerous Thomas meets. What will he do with this unexpected gift of illumination?

Well, with Richard Paul Evans at the helm, it's a pretty safe bet a change of heart is on the horizon. And what Christmas story worth its salt ends with a protagonist who is just as grouchy as he was in the beginning? The fantastic oil paintings by Jacob Collins sweeten the deal, drawing readers irresistibly into the moving, though slightly unsettling, story.

There's darkness in this tale, exposed by the illumination of the Christmas candle. It doesn't shy away from acknowledging that there are people in turmoil throughout this world. But it offers a solution of empathy and compassion, and the author puts his money where his mouth is by donating the proceeds to The Christmas Box House International, which seeks to rescue children from abusive situations.

Bring a little warmth and light to your bookshelf with The Christmas Candle.

So Many Dogs, So Little Time...

Is there any song in the history of Christmas music more irritating and easier to lampoon than The 12 Days of Christmas? Oh, I like the song just fine, but by the time that 12th repetition rolls around, I'm usually good and ready to have it over and done with. In fact, my favorite version of the song is the ludicrous sound effects extravaganza included on A Prairie Home Christmas, which manages to slice the song's running time about in half.

Despite stories floating around that each item on the list was originally written as a code by which to learn important aspects of Christianity, that sounds like revisionism to me. If you can get some meaning out of it, great, but my sense of it is that the list is just a random compilation of gifts, most of which are completely ridiculous, particularly since everything but the rings is alive, meaning the speaker is the lucky recipient of 324 entities. Who needs that?

Apparently, 7-year-old Emma Kragen does. Many children dream of getting a dog for Christmas. Emma dreams of getting dozens of them. Imagine the chaos! Imagine the grocery bills! Of course, while Kragen came up with the concept, she had a little help bringing her idea to execution. Donald Fuller provided the photography, while Sharon Collins and Kelly Ann Moore were in charge of illustration and design. It's the mix that makes this board book especially fun. Doodly backgrounds surround lively photographed dogs, sure to bring giggles for dog-loving youngsters like Kragen.

The list includes...

1 Poodle
2 St. Bernards
3 Cocker Spaniels
4 Basset Hounds
5 Golden Retrievers
6 Boxers
7 Huskies
8 Sheepdogs
9 Chihuahuas
10 Dalmatians
11 Labs

and...

Well, I won't tell you what shows up on the 12th day, but it certainly shakes things up a bit! The pages are great fun and demonstrate the personalities of the various canines. I especially get a kick out of the golden retrievers' haloes; the Bernards may be the saints, but is there any more angelic breed than the perpetually good-natured golden retriever?

For added fun (and eventual annoyance), a CD with a recording of the song is included. If you really like the book, it inspired a movie; I haven't seen it yet, but I intend to check it out one of these days. For yet another twist on the song that keeps on giving, check out The 12 Dogs of Christmas.

Show Off Your Lyrical Prowess With Encore

When we visit my aunt and uncle over Christmas break, we often break out the karaoke machine, mostly to listen to them sing, though once in a while the McCarty crew will join in. This year, none of us made use of any of that fancy equipment. Instead, we sat around playing Encore, which forced all of us to exercise our vocal chords as well as our brains.

Encore is one of those fun party games, though it's probably best with a smaller group of people. Unlike games such as Taboo in which more players just mean more mayhem and more points, Encore is set up in such a way that an especially large group of people, particularly with different musical backgrounds, could keep the game going all name.

The game comes with a board and a die with you roll. You land on a square and do your thing, and if you emerge triumphant from your turn, you get to go again. If not, the opponent rolls. Sounds pretty simple, and it is, but those turns can take quite a long time.

There are several different play options depending on the color square you land on. The most common seems to be group against group, either word or category. If you get stuck with a category, watch out; chances are, you're in it for the long haul, since there are so many songs that could fit in most categories. All you need is six or more words of the song and you're golden. It's trickier when it's only one word, but even that can take forever to stump someone. When we played, we spend such a long time on "rain" and "God" that in the end, we gave up and went with a new card.

Other colors entail a person against person match-up or person against team. The deck is stacked against the individual in that instance, but that doesn't necessarily mean that the single person has no shot at winning that round. In fact, it seems like it's sometimes easier for the individual, since there's no confusion over which person is going to sing. As long as there are plenty of songs left to go around...

I'm not sure if the timers we played with were officially included with the game or had just wound up in the box, but there only seemed to be half a minute on the clock. I suppose it could have been a minute, but it sure seemed shorter when we were searching our brains fruitlessly for songs with "kind" and "name" in it.

There were nine of us playing, and the game lasted well over an hour, and would have lasted longer if we hadn't called a draw on several of the category questions when we were still going strong after ten minutes. You don't have to be a good singer to get a kick out of Encore, though it might help those you're playing with enjoy it more. All you need is a lifetime of tunes rattling around in your head, the more eclectic the better. Sing your heart out with Encore!

A Gorgeous Tale of a Boy and HisTree

Every year, my family embarks upon a quest to secure a Christmas tree for our living room. Maybe we'll get lucky and find the perfect tree on the first try; more likely we'll drive all around town before we finally succeed. It will fill our house with the sweet scent of pine and the warm glow of lights for the rest of the month. But come January, its needles will fall, and the once-majestic tree will be relegated to the curb for an undignified pick-up. Such is the way of things for most Christmas trees.

But in Margaret Wise Brown's The Little Fir Tree, Christmas does not signal an ending for our arboreal protagonist. This spunky sapling dreams of being part of something, having lived in isolation since a brisk wind swept him away from the forest as a seedling. One day, his silent wish is granted when a man arrives, digging him out of the ground and taking him home to be a companion for his lame son. The fir witnesses and partakes in the joys of the season, and when spring approaches, he returns to the field, larger and stronger. Several months later, the man returns, and the scenario repeats itself. The tree and the boy will grow together.

This gentle book is beautifully written, particularly in its descriptions of the seasons. Spring comes "flashing with bees and flowers"; summer "drone[s] its hot bee-buzzing days," autumn skies "whirl their falling leaves and milkweed parachutes". In winter, the season we see most often, "grasses of the fields crackle with the diamond light of ice." But the illustrations are even more stunning, soft and luminous, with paintings by Jim LaMarche, who also provided gorgeous paintings for Bear's First Christmas. The scenes are almost photo-realistic, tinged with a Thomas Kinkade-style glow that accentuates the goodwill of each of the book's characters.

This environmentally friendly tale is a celebration of life, growth and togetherness. Each year, the boy gets a little stronger, the tree gets a little fuller and the group of children who gather and sing the boy's special song - "O Christmas tree, o Christmas tree, your greenest branches live for me" - gets a little bigger. But one year, the kind man with the broad arms and crinkly eyes fails to come for the tree. Has something terrible happened to the boy? Is the tree destined to be lonesome for the rest of his life?

Never fear. The conclusion to this tale is tender without being tragic, and the undercurrent of brotherhood and hope running through the story complements the marvelous illustrations perfectly and makes it one of the loveliest Christmas picture books I've read.

Sunday, December 30, 2007

When Life Gives You Lemons, Consult Lemony!

"A library is like an island in the middle of a vast sea of ignorance," writes Lemony Snicket, "particularly if the library is very tall and the surrounding area has been flooded." Silly addendum aside, this must be the way that Daniel Handler, the demented genius behind A Series of Unfortunate Events, feels about libraries. While the characters in those tales of woe are fun and their adventures are interesting, the best parts of those narratives, for me at least, involve off-hand remarks that allude to the annals of literature, history or science and convey a profound love of language that begs to be shared. Despite the forbidding marketing materials that have always accompanied the books, I suspect that Handler must feel quite pleased knowing that books bearing the name of his alter-ego can be found in libraries the world over.

Horseradish: Bitter Truths You Can't Avoid collects some of the wittiest and most useful of these asides, along with, as the jacket promises, "selections from his unpublished papers and remarks he has made at dinner parties and anarchist riots." Readers are not exactly warmly welcomed into the book. The back cover bluntly states, "Life is a turbulent journey, fraught with confusion, heartbreak and inconvenience. This book will not help." Then again, from an author who usually warns his audience to run screaming from his latest effort, this is pretty mild, as is the warning - for those folks with a habit of flipping to the last page of a book first - that "the quoting of an aphorism... rarely indicates that something helpful is about to happen."

As if to discourage readers encountering Snicket for the first time through this book from picking up a volume of his famous series due to the presence of a particularly amusing quote, none of the advice comes with a citation. Having read all 13 of those books and jotted down several of my favorite one-liners, I remain largely unsure as to which ones I've read before and which merely seem like something that would fit right in with A Series of Unfortunate Events. An exception to my uncertainty is the following, which appears in the final section of this book and page 102 of The Wide Window, third in the series, which I know because it may be my favorite single sentence in the entire series: "If you are allergic to a thing, it is best not to put that thing in your mouth, particularly if the thing is cats."

Perhaps to further downplay the connection between this volume of wit and wisdom and his series, he refrains from dedicating the book to his dearly departed Beatrice, to whom each of the volumes in A Series of Unfortunate Events is dedicated. Curiously, though, he does not dedicate the book to anyone at all, as if the enigmatic object of his affections is the only one Lemony Snicket deems worthy of a dedication.

Like each of the volumes in that series, Horseradish is divided into 13 chapters, the subjects of which all are integrated into the introduction, which relates a skewered story about a woman who climbs a mountain in order to consult a wise man about the meaning of life. The chapter titles include Home, Family, School, Work, Entertainment, Literature, Travel, Emotional Health, Affairs of the Heart, A Life of Mystery, The Mystery of Life, An Overall Feeling of Doom that One Cannot Ever Escape No Matter What One Does and Miscellaneous. Each of the title pages is set apart and features a series of silhouettes of the photographed man weeping on the front cover, a horseradish root slung over his shoulder, who may or may not be Handler. The root and the handkerchief are absent in the silhouettes, and in the last few sections, he comes across as a rather jolly fellow, cheerfully resigned to his fate.

Most of the selections in this nearly 200-page-long book are funny, and many actually manage to be useful at the same time. They vary in length and font size, with those consisting only of a few words presented in large print and lengthy selections of several sentences in tiny print. Short or long, these clever commentaries are sure to amuse and enlighten.

Santa Claus Can Drop Off This Book Anytime!

I love Christmas music. I always get a little giddy around Thanksgiving when the stores begin blaring Bing Crosby and the Chipmunks, Trans-Siberian Orchestra and Mannheim Steamroller. When I can turn on the radio and tune into a station playing exclusively Christmas tunes all month. When I can break out my own favorite albums, which I've dutifully neglected throughout the rest of the year. On Denver! On Muppets! On Diamond! On Larry! On Garrison Keillor and Pete, Paul and Mary! Oh, yes. It's enough to make me jump for joy.

I'm starting to think that Bruce Whatley must feel the same way. Here Comes Santa Claus is the third picture book I've come across that consists of the lyrics to a Christmas song and Whatley's illustrations. This Gene Autry classic, which he wrote along with Oakley Haldeman, has been covered by the likes of Alvin Seville and Elvis Presley, and it's unusual in the way that it directly mentions both Santa Claus and God in an apparent effort to bring the gap between secular and sacred celebrations of the holiday. The tone of the lyrics is both energetic and pleasantly reverent.

Whatley's version, which includes sheet music on the inside cover to make for easy sing-alongs, doesn't overlook that aspect of the song. In one of my favorite illustrations, little Matthew, the boy who is a focal point of this story, gets tenderly carried off to bed by his dad. Through the window, the silhouette of Santa's reindeer-drawn sleigh is clearly visible against the moon, while on the windowsill rests a Nativity scene.

The primary focus, though, is on Matthew, the sleepy lad who wants a dog for Christmas, and the white pup who stows away in Santa's sleigh on Christmas Eve. As soon as a group of carolers arrives at Matthew's door and we get a peek inside, it's pretty easy to guess that the boy and the dog are destined to cross paths. The illustrations follow both of their journeys until Santa finally realizes he has an unintended visitor aboard who may just be the answer to the last-minute wish of the little boy we have been observing.

I adore Whatley's rendition of I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas, but this one shows even more creativity since he invents his own side narrative to augment the song lyrics. He's got lots of material if he wants to make a habit of creating picture books out of Christmas songs. Here's hoping there are lots more to come!

Don't Lose An Evening With Finding Preet

In the course of my Christmas travels, I can usually count on seeing a movie or two, even if it's just the traditional viewing of The Princess Bride with my dad's side of the family in Buffalo. Perhaps it was a bad omen that we never got around to watching that classic; the first movie I did watch during my out-of-town wanderings turned out to be a complete dud. I might have had a hunch when my uncle informed me that he'd never heard of anyone in the movie, but I was more interested in getting in some quality time with my uncle than heeding the dire warnings garnered from The Dogwalker. We settled in to watch Finding Preet, and while we did pass an enjoyable couple of hours, it wasn't because the movie was good.

The movie, directed by Adrian Fulle, stars Priti Chowdhury, who also wrote the screenplay and whose parents and brother play the parents and brother of the protagonist, whose name also happens to be Priti. This film from last year is her only credit, and I have a hunch it may stay that way. No doubt her intentions were sincere, but everything about this story of a divorced Indian doctor in her mid-thirties looking for a new start in her career and love life comes across as stilted, unnatural and just plain dull.

The film is littered with scenes in which characters speak to one another in muffled tones; it's hard to understand what they're saying and often even harder to figure out what relevance it has to the plot. The scenes in which she chatters with her fellow hospital workers are uniformly irritating and give off the impression that no one is ever paying attention while performing surgery, which is not very encouraging. Another aspect of the film involving the overzealous attempts of Priti's mother to find her an acceptable Indian husband are highly reminiscent of Bride and Prejudice, which had its flaws but was vastly more entertaining.

Many of the cast members are first-timers, and few have more than a handful of credits to their names. It shows. The acting is often painful; sometimes the actors seem like they're reading off of cue cards. Their attempts to put a little feeling into it are misplaced, resulting in over-the-top displays, particularly from Kanti Chowdhury, Priti's mom. It doesn't help that we know exactly where the story is going from the beginning; that's not terribly unusual in romantic comedies, but if there's enough charm, talent and chemistry among the leads and the script is witty and natural, predictability isn't necessarily a huge detriment. Since this movie lacks any of that, though, an hour and a half seems too long a time to get to an inevitable conclusion.

Everything about this movie screams low-budget, from the poor sound quality to the grating performances to the fact that it could almost be a compilation of the Chowdhurys' home videos - especially since we actually see her dad toting around a big video camera and documenting everything. There's also a television in the family room which, like Ugly Betty, features a phony gossip program with an annoying VJ and a culturally specific melodrama, though in this case it's a rip-off of Austin Powers, and the quality on the TV is laughably grainy.

I shouldn't be so hard on the freshman effort of a fledgling writer/actress, especially when the work is autobiographical, making me feel as though I am criticizing her life. But while there was little about the movie that offended me, there was also little that made any kind of impression upon me at all. I only found myself engaged when Priti's gorgeous golden retriever was on the screen, and he had practically nothing to do with the movie. There's nothing particularly pretty about Priti's series of misadventures, and while she may have been Finding Preet, she lost me almost before I got started.

Boy, Cat, You've Sure Got Some Stuff...

If you spend a lot of time around cats, you've probably figured out that they are incredibly photogenic. Mine spend most of their days reveling in lethargy, sprawled across the top of the couch or curled up in a tiny corner. While they lie there purring, it's not too difficult to arrange and snap an undignified picture. I know I have quite a number of such poses, the most recent of which features my cat Peaches wearing a badminton birdie as a hat. Her wide eyes reveal that she was feeling remarkably patient that day, allowing such an intrusion while she was actually awake. I was taking my chances; Peaches is known for abrupt mood swings, and it would have been all too easy for her to decide to sink her sharp little teeth into one of my fingers in retribution. But these are the risks we take for posterity.

The book stuff on my cat, assembled by Mario Garza, clearly reveals that I am not alone in my compulsive cat photography. A couple years ago, he decided to create a website featuring photos he had taken of his cat Love with a series of strange objects on top of her. Love didn't much mind being his model; she was too busy snoozing. And when other cat owners saw her, they gladly shared their own photos of oddly garbed felines. They even began actively seeking out opportunities to test Garza's philosophy that "stuff + cats = awesome".

Some of the best of those offerings are collected in stuff on my cat, which contains no words aside from an introduction and the cartoonish inscriptions of names on a few of the pages. Throughout the book are pictures of cats of all dispositions and physical descriptions. While some of them appear to be candid, most clearly are the result of human interference. There are several shots of cats boozing it up and several of them peeking, E. T.-like, from amidst a mountain of toys. There are cats with clothes, cats playing games, cats with other cats. Few of them failed to put a smile on my face.

The small volume, designed by Ayako Akazawa and featuring drawings by Deth P. Sun, is a terrific little coffee table book for only ten dollars. The only downside is that so many pictures are available on the website (www.stuffonmycat.com), the purchase of the book is rendered unnecessary, except that it's so much more satisfying to hold a book like this in your hands - or even, if you feel so inclined, to place it upon the nearest cat's head for a quick picture.

The photos included in stuff on my cat are fun and brightly colored, with marvelously expressive cats and some exceptionally bizarre items. There are also calendars featuring stuff-laden cats, and at the end of the book, it suggests visiting the website to see about including your entertaining cats in the 2009 calendar. I'm off to do that now, after which I will examine just how tolerant my cats are feeling today...

Lennon's Christmas Message Worth Hearing All Year Long

I've returned from my Christmas travels, and now it's time for me to wind down, basking in the glow of the tree lights for a few more days, listening to festive tunes on CD. I have to stick with my own albums since, sadly, the glorious month of Christmas music on one of our local radio stations has ended. While the play list was in yuletide mode, I enjoyed most of the offerings, but there were a few that made me sit up straight, turn up the music and stop whatever I was doing to sing along. One of these was John Lennon's Happy Xmas.

I was first introduced to this song several years ago when we bought Neil Diamond's live Christmas album, which featured a faithful cover of the fallen Beatle's hit. I didn't hear the original until quite a bit later, and Diamond's version was so similar that at first I didn't notice that Lennon was the one doing the singing. I suppose that's why a Wikipedia list of significant covers of the song doesn't mention Neil Diamond; it's not distinct enough. But it sure is nice.

Still, it can't quite beat the original, in which John plaintively spreads a simple message of goodwill and optimism, backed by a soaring anti-war chorus delivered by a choir of children from Harlem. "War is over if you want it," they insist, and though it never seems to turn out quite that way, a little positive thinking isn't a bad start. This was John and Yoko's Christmas card to the world in the midst of the Vietnam war, and sadly it still is relevant today. But the tone is hopeful, so although listening to the song sparks thoughts of foreign conflicts and slain idealists, it also leaves one with a feeling of resolve.

I think of the Whos in How the Grinch Stole Christmas with this tune that "started in low, but it started to grow". I could just as easily see them all standing together singing this song, hands clasped, perhaps with the reformed Grinch taking John's part while the rest of the Whos back him up. Sometimes there is great power to be found in few words, and that's the case here. My only slight beef with the lyrics is "another year over, a new one's just begun." If, indeed, "this is Christmas," then the new year has not yet begun - unless, as my dad postulated, Lennon was going by the church calendar, which given his history of beefs with Christianity strikes me as highly unlikely.

Nonetheless, he managed to write an incredibly moving Christmas song, one which blows fellow Beatle Paul McCartney's fluffy Simply Having a Wonderful Christmastime out of the water. Next year, I'll look forward to hearing on the radio again, but I might not wait until then to give it another listen. His message is one that rings true any time of the year.

Will This Be the Last Christmas I Must Put Up With This Song?

If Christmas music were considered a genre unto itself, defined not by a particular style but by a common theme, I probably would have to count it as my favorite even though I only listen to it for about a month out of every year. I sometimes claim that I never met a Christmas song I didn't like. But this is a sugary lie. Oh, I've encountered them all right, and there are several I wouldn't want to meet in a dark alley, or in a well-lit shopping aisle for that matter. There are some that make me cringe with the dawning of those first distinctive notes. And then I go ahead and sing along anyway. When it comes to music, sometimes hate is almost as good as love.

I hate Last Christmas. Okay, that's too strong a word. Heartily dislike. It induces reverse peristalsis more surely than a month-old fruitcake. Honestly, who thought this was a good idea? No, no, I mustn't say that, because Last Christmas was a smash, so the catchy tune obviously raked in a lot of money for WHAM!, who were gloriously spoofed in this year's Music and Lyrics, particularly in the song Pop! Goes My Heart, which I really hope gets a little love come Oscar time. But a spoof is one thing. Last Christmas certainly seems earnest to me, even if it originally was intended to be entitled Last Easter, which just strikes me as completely jarring, but I think I'd prefer it because you never hear Easter music on the radio and this song probably would have gotten lost in the shuffle.

I was listening to Delilah earlier this month, and a guy called in requesting this song as a dedication to his newfound girlfriend, citing the line "This year, to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone special." Bah.

First off, it seems like a really dumb dedication song since the addressee is the old girlfriend. Secondly, I despise that line because obviously the narrator thought that girl was "special" at the time. Moreover, it's clear that he still does, since his only purpose in having a new girlfriend seems to be to rub it in the face of girl number one, who judging by her reaction to his heartfelt confession last year probably couldn't care less. In fact, the more I listen to the song, the more I wonder if she ever was his girlfriend at all; maybe she was just some hottie he hit on in a bar unsuccessfully.

At any rate, I don't believe any of his claims that he's over her. "You'll never fool me again," he says at one point in the song, but earlier he indicates that he'd fall for her all over again if she just kissed him. New girl, watch out. If, in fact, you actually exist, which I seriously doubt. I hate to be so cynical, but Last Christmas is just about the whiniest song I've ever heard. This guy's more pathetic than the dishrag in Build Me Up, Buttercup who seems masochistically addicted to being manipulated, and that one's bounciness is much more tolerable than this one's yowling.

And then there's the little matter of the absent long "a" in "gave" and "save". I don't suppose George Michael can help his accent, but I sure find it irritating. And what, pray tell, is this "man undercover" stuff all about? Does this guy think he's James Bond or something? Because he most assuredly isn't, though maybe a lesson or two from Roger Moore could do him a bit of good.

I hope he isn't reading this review. I wouldn't want to send him into an emotional crisis. Ah, George... Maybe I'll have a change of heart next year.

Don't hold your breath.

Snoopy and His Rival Bury the Hatchet for Christmas

When it comes to cartoon characters, no group of two-dimensional pals holds a dearer place in my heart than Winnie-the-Pooh and his fellow Hundred Acre Woodlanders. But the Peanuts gang comes close. This time of year, I'm especially fond of Snoopy and the gang as I put out Hallmark decorations and plush Snoopys and Woodstocks in Santa hats, watch A Charlie Brown Christmas and go to work sporting a wide variety of festive shirts featuring the Browns, the Van Pelts and all their friends. It's certainly no surprise that I would embrace Schulz-inspired Christmas music; the only surprise is that it took me so long to discover Snoopy's Christmas, a heartening ballad by the Royal Guardsmen, who seem to have developed a bit of a corner on the Snoopy music market.

Snoopy's Christmas is not the first of their songs to draw upon the daydreaming beagle's fabled rivalry with the "bloody" Red Baron, a ruthless World War I-era German aviator. He breaks out of character in this peppy narrative, which seems to be a throwback to the remarkable Christmas Truce of 1914, in which German and British troops celebrated the holiday together, singing carols, giving gifts and playing games with their previous and future enemies. It's so strange to think that those soldiers could continue to kill one another after sharing such an experience; sometimes, I suppose, one must settle for a temporary miracle...

The feud between Snoopy and the Red Baron doesn't end with this song. But there is most definitely an aura of respect about their relationship now that they have taken a moment to toast one another, refusing to destroy each other on such a holy night. The chorus doesn't mention either of the main characters. Rather, it focuses on the Christmas bells ringing throughout the land, encouraging peace and goodwill. These bells seem to serve as the inspiration for the Red Baron's surprising gesture of friendship and Snoopy's acceptance, though their reaction may be subconscious.

I love the gusto-filled vocals and the instrumentals, which are strewn with sound effects. The bells, of course, have a starring role, and there's some fantastic percussion and several instances of zooming aircraft. The bounciness of the bulk of the song is enhanced by the somber opening, which features a chorus singing O Tanenbaum as bombs explode in the background. I suppose this is generally classified as a novelty song, but its message of peace and forgiveness puts it right up there with altruistic favorites like Happy XMas and Someday at Christmas.

It's hard to go wrong with Snoopy. The Royal Guardsmen realized that, and I salute them for it. Merry Christmas to all, from musicians to flying aces. May the goodwill that strikes the heart with the pealing of those bells remain throughout the year.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Rocket Man Charles Farmer Dreams Big

Several months ago, my friend Dan had the opportunity to attend a premiere for the Polish brothers' The Astronaut Farmer. He sat in an aisle seat in a packed theater where Billy Bob Thornton walked down to the front, passing within inches of Dan. Which would have been really exciting if he were a particular fan of Thornton or had been especially looking forward to the movie. As he wasn't and hadn't, the evening made for good conversation fodder but wasn't too memorable otherwise. The movie itself, he assured me, didn't have much to recommend it.

But as the Paula Abdul of movie reviewing, I disregarded his advice and put this PG-rated feel-good movie in my Netflix queue. Having finally watched it, I can see where Dan is coming from. There are a lot of very hokey elements to this film. But that doesn't stop it from being a heartwarming family film that encourages viewers not to give up on their dreams.

Thornton plays Charles Farmer, a devoted family man who abandoned his career with NASA in order to save the farm previously owned by his father. Though he'd switched gears officially, his sights remained on the skies, and over the years he managed to construct a full-sized rocket, incurring hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt in the process. As the movie begins, he's decided he's just about ready to launch his creation, particularly when all that money he borrowed comes back to haunt him. But along with all the other obstacles standing in the way of his vision, he has to get official permission from NASA to proceed, which may be the toughest part of all.

Thornton does a great job with the role, providing just the right mix of grim determination, affection and humor. He is aided primarily by Virginia Madsen in the role of his long-suffering wife Audrey; Max Thieriot as his stoic teenage son Shepherd; and the adorable Jasper and Logan Polish as his giggly young daughters Stanley and Sunshine. Bruce Dern provides a fatherly presence as Audrey's dad Hal, and Tim Blake Nelson's Kevin Munchak is one of the few folks outside the family who's in Charles' corner. Bruce Willis' appearance as his old NASA chum, Col. Doug Masterson, is particularly enjoyable, and it caught me by surprise because I don't recall having seen him in any of the previews, while Jon Gries and co-writer Mark Polish are hilarious as a pair of FBI agents sent to spy on Charles.

I have no complaints about the acting, and on the whole the film is well done. It's shamelessly warm and fuzzy; it could have been a Hallmark movie. But that doesn't bother me. What does bother me are the plot holes. Like the fact that it seems to have taken Charles years to build his rocket, but when an accident occurs, a replacement rocket takes only weeks. Like when the family comes into some money, it doesn't seem like it's enough to cover even half their debts, but it allows them to be completely paid off and have enough money leftover for a new rocket. Like there being no repercussions for launching a rocket improperly and sending it whizzing through town, nearly taking a dozen people out in the process. The plot is outlandish enough that it detracted slightly from my enjoyment of the film, particularly since my dad was sitting next to me commenting on every absurd thing that happened.

That said, I would still recommend the movie, especially to saps like me or to anyone interested in space travel. The Astronaut Farmer encourages us to cling to our dreams, even if they're as unwieldy as a rocket the size of a barn.

Cookie Angel Crumbles

When I was younger, baking gingerbread cookies was a much-anticipated part of my Christmas preparations. I loved decorating them with intricate designs for the random shapes like stars and bells and with animated expressions for the soon-to-be-eaten people. I read the story of the Gingerbread Man many times, but I never had any desire for my cookies to come to life. I don't know whether the lovingly iced and sprinkled protagonist of Cookie Angel finds herself quite suddenly alive on Christmas Eve as a result of fervent wishes from the children who baked her or merely because the cryptically whispering snowflakes falling outside are in the mood to dole out gifts. I don't think it much matters; I would find the story odd either way.

There's an old idea in many children's stories that toys come alive when no one is watching. It's been successfully explored in the Toy Story movies, Hans Christian Andersen's tales, The Velveteen Rabbit and, to my mind at least, Eugene Field's maligned Little Boy Blue. With all these top-notch precedents, I am not prepared to be satisfied with a substandard offering about a motley crew whose leader is edible. At least we don't expect that she will be eaten, at least not right away; there are plans to hang her on the tree, and who really wants to munch on a cookie tainted with pine sap? We don't make it to Christmas, though, at least the part of Christmas in which the humans are awake, so we don't really know Cookie Angel's destiny.

When Cookie Angel receives the gift of life, I assumed that it was for some profound purpose. Perhaps author Bethany Roberts saw it that way. After all, the angel does keep all of the presents in line. But what is the point of them having this rare opportunity to walk and talk when all they do is create chaos and then fall asleep, presumably not to awaken until next Christmas? I don't get it, and while the Nativity scene under the tree goes with the angel and the carols she mysteriously knows how to sing, there's something off about the way the baby Jesus is incorporated into the story.

Vladimir Vagin's illustrations are colorful but pretty generic-looking, though I do like the snowflakes, which look as magical as the text indicates. The future Christmas gifts, which include a teddy bear, a jack-in-the-box, a doll and a monkey, each have distinct personalities, as does the dog that is disturbed by all the noise of the troublemaking toys. There are some amusing antics, but the impression I got throughout most of the action was of meaningless havoc.

A glance at any bookstore or library will soon reveal a wealth of Christmas-themed picture books. With so many tasty alternatives available, I wouldn't recommend that anyone bite into Cookie Angel

Sunday, December 9, 2007

Steve and Me: A Loving Tribute to the Crocodile Hunter

Last year, I awoke the morning of September 4 in a motel room, having attended my cousin's wedding the previous day. Drowsily preparing for the trip home and reflecting on this time of new beginnings, I was jolted from my reverie by the sober words of a news anchor. Steve Irwin, otherwise known as the Crocodile Hunter, was dead. Though I'd long suspected that the seemingly reckless abandon with which Stevo embraced the world's most dangerous creatures might eventually be his undoing, he'd dodged deadly injuries on so many occasions that I had begun to regard him as indestructible. I shook whispers of inevitability from my mind as I stared at the screen in mute shock, devastated at the loss of such a vibrant, passionate individual, a man who crammed more living into each and every day than most of us manage in a lifetime, who committed himself wholeheartedly to preserving the world's wildest places and most misunderstood species. John Denver and Rubeus Hagrid rolled into one. What a guy.

Because I only get basic cable, I never watched as much of Crocodile Hunter as I wanted to, usually only catching it at my grandparents'. I realized after his death that I wasn't really familiar with his wife Terri at all, though she was an integral part of his show. When I watched her interview with Barbara Walters last fall, I was mightily impressed with her warmth and passion, her kindness and intelligence. This year, I caught her again on Good Morning America, and when I learned that the reason for this interview was the publication of a memoir recalling her life with her husband, Steve and Me became a top priority on my reading list.

Terri doesn't put on any airs in her book. She writes from the heart, and a sense of profound conviction pervades each page as she invites readers to share in the exhilaration of her fateful love-at-first-sight meeting with Steve, the wonder of their outback expeditions together, the setbacks they faced and triumphs they achieved in their determination to live as "wildlife warriors". I already had a big soft spot for Steve before I read the book, but within the first few pages, I'd fallen head over heels in love with the guy, utterly enraptured by Terri's dizzying descriptions. As the book progressed, she continually demonstrated what an outstanding individual Steve really was: courageous, driven, emotionally open, hilarious, hard-working, utterly devoted to his family and his cause.

While Terri, aside from some ill-advised reptile wrangling while great with child, seems to have been a bit more level-headed than Steve, her passion for conservation clearly runs just as deep. In fact, their initial meeting came about while she was on a trip to Australia to discuss placing cougars, threatened in her native Oregon, in zoos there. Steve's reptile park was tiny at the time, and it certainly wasn't the sort of place that would house cougars, but Terri believes that destiny drew her that day to the man she would marry. What followed were fifteen years of partnership, of palpable love and respect. Maybe Terri slipped on the rose-colored glasses in the wake of her husband's death, but it certainly seems as though the two were soul mates and enjoyed as successful a marriage as any couple could hope for, an especially impressive feat once The Crocodile Hunter brought the limelight and public scrutiny.

The Irwins certainly had their share of difficulties - financial limitations in the early days, the ever-present danger of Steve's work that led to many injuries, stretches of time away from each other, the particularly painful sudden death of Steve's mother in 2000 and outcry over Steve's decision to include his infant son Bob in one of his crocodile shows - but they faced them together. Back when Terri and Steve first met, she couldn't imagine uprooting herself to relocate in a strange land across the world, but when their whirlwind romance led to a comically casual proposal, she knew there could only be one answer. The epigraph of Ruth 1:16 - the "your people shall be my people" speech - sets the tone for the book perfectly, hinting at Terri's deep faith and her absolute devotion to Steve and willingness to completely change her life for him.

Throughout the 19-chapter book, she repeatedly notes that whenever she and Steve were together, she had a sense that nothing could harm either of them. Apart, there was vulnerability. Every time she reiterates that conviction, it takes readers one step closer to the tragic conclusion, and I got the impression she was working through some guilt over having passed Steve up on his suggestion that she, Bindi and little Bob postpone a planned skiing trip by a couple of days in order to extend their own family vacation together. If they had, they would have been with him the day he died, and perhaps things would have played out differently. He might not have had the encounter with the stingray at all.

But Steve never thought he would pass the age of 40. He was convinced he was going to die young, which was part of the reason he was so determined to squeeze every last bit of living out of his time. It also was one of the reasons he was so anxious to have children; he hoped they could carry on his legacy, just as he had done for his parents. Bindi, only eight at the time of his death, has already taken up the challenge, spreading the conservationist message through her show Bindi the Jungle Girl.

This is a powerful book. I laughed many times as Terri described some of her outlandish adventures with Steve, whose sense of humor kept him always at the ready for a little mischief. I remember one of the moments that stood out in the interview with Barbara Walters was when Terri said what she missed most about her husband was that he was fun. That clearly shines through in this book, and the included photographs illustrate his zest for life. In the acknowledgements, Terri reveals that she cut about 700 pages from her first draft. I can't help but wonder what fantastic stories we're missing out on; maybe she should write a sequel!

In Steve and Me, we get a portrait of a vivacious man who adored his family and who felt called to the purpose of protecting some of the world's most maligned creatures. Steve inspired millions of people with his passion for wildlife. Terri's tireless efforts, including writing this ode to their life together, ensure that his work continues.

For information on how to be a Wildlife Warrior, visit www.wildlifewarriors.org.

Mary and Martha Share in the Miracle of Life in One Winter's Night

There was no room for Jesus in the inn. I know that was a travesty, and yet I've always been so moved by the notion of Him being born in a stable amongst all the livestock. No doubt many births had occurred there before and would again; it always struck me as a warm, friendly sort of place to be born, and much more accessible to visiting shepherds than a lush room indoors. So I always like books that focus on the humble circumstances of Jesus' birth.

One Winter's Night is rather odd as a Nativity story because while the text clearly hints at the divine identity of the baby about to be born and goes so far as to name the man and woman as Joseph and Mary, the setting certainly does not seem to be Bethlehem of two thousand years ago. The watercolor and pastel illustrations by husband-and-wife team Leo and Diane Dillon depict a barn that definitely doesn't look more than a couple centuries old, at most. It could even be a modern farm, though none of the tools scattered about the yard, which is enclosed with a wooden fence, are motorized.

When Mary and Joseph arrive at the farm - which we see in pictures but don't actually witness in the text - there is no sign of an innkeeper, or perhaps a farmer in this case. There's no indication that there was anywhere else they might have stayed, or why they were traveling in the first place if not for the census. This ambiguous modernization of the Holy Family is a bit confusing, though it's interesting to see them in another context. The humans have kind faces with dark skin. They are bundled up against the snow, so we don't get a very clear picture of what they're wearing, though Mary is in the traditional blue and bearded Joseph wears a hat.

Each of the left-hand pictures is half-sized, with room for text on the bottom, and sepia-toned, while the right-hand illustrations are in full color and occupy the whole page. These directly complement the narration, while the smaller paintings indicate what is happening elsewhere, first showing Mary and Joseph's arrival and later a growing crowd of creatures from neighboring land gathering outside the barn to witness this very special event.

The main focus of the book is not on Mary and Joseph but on Martha, a young cow about to give birth for the first time. She wanders into the barn in search of humans to watch over her, and Joseph soon begins to comfort the frightened beast. The paintings of Martha, whose naming as a complement to Mary must have been deliberate, are lovely; I just want to reach right into the scene and scratch her behind the ears. The book extolls the compassion of Mary and Joseph as they welcome her into the stable and take measures to ensure her comfort.

In creating the parallel between Mary and Martha, first-time picture book author John Herman perhaps downplays the divinity of Jesus, particularly when Joseph says, "Well, now, two glorious babies on one winter's night." But as James Herriot demonstrated time and again in his tales of delivering livestock in sub-zero temperatures, every birth is a miracle. To emphasize that fact is to glorify the Creator, and I assume that this was Herman's intention. In that spirit, the beauteous One Winter's Night is a lovely and life-affirming tale.

A Rottweiler Proves a Responsible Babysitter in Carl's Christmas

When I was little, I had a book about a white dog who desperately wanted to be a fire dog. He finally proved himself worthy of the job when he rushed into a fire to perform an important rescue for a young child, gaining spots of soot in the process. I don't remember the name of the book. I do recall, however, that it had no words, so it was up to me to do the narrating whenever I read that story.

Carl's Christmas, by Alexandra Day, is like that. The book's first and only bit of text explains that the humans with whom Carl the Rottweiler lives are off to Grandma's and then attending a Christmas Eve service. There is no dialogue tag, but the man seems to have his mouth open and his hand extended mid-gesticulation. After this first page, the tale is told exclusively through the paintings.

Rottweilers have unfortunately acquired a pretty bad reputation, generally thought of in conjunction with bared teeth and throaty growls. I've met some perfectly congenial Rotties, however, so I know that Carl is not entirely unique to his breed. Still, it would be a tad jarring to see any type of canine assigned babysitting duties for the evening, even if we were talking about Old English Sheepdogs or Golden Retrievers. And I'm one of the most devoted dog lovers I know. It's one thing to have Nana in Peter Pan watching over the children; after all, Wendy is certainly old enough to be babysitting on her own, so Nana really is just a figurehead. But leaving a dog alone with an infant seems most unwise.

Children of an age to peruse this book probably won't care too much that Carl is pulling babysitting duty - though the dogless among them may find themselves desperate for a canine companion. The paintings are warm and imaginative, and Carl looks incredibly soft and huggable as he rides around town with the baby on his back, treating his charge to all sorts of Christmas delights.

It's especially nice that so many of Carl's activities involve kindness to others. After taking time to festively - though quite messily - decorate a plant in the living room as a complement to the majestic Christmas tree, he bundles up the little one and sets off for the toy store, where they observe a whirlwind of eye-popping delights and manage to win a basket full of Christmas goodies, which Carl promptly lays at the feet of a Salvation Army Santa.

They add their melodious stylings to a group of carolers and return home for a peaceful fireside snooze alongside a motley crew of new furry friends, who later receive special gifts from Santa, with whom Carl has a dramatic encounter. The dog's startled expression as he comes face to face with eight large reindeer wearing jingle bell harnesses and pawing the snow in his front yard is hilarious, while our parting impression of him, gently dozing on his paw while sporting a new Christmas collar, is adorably peaceful.

Children "reading" the book can add their own narration, filling in the details of Carl's lavishly illustrated Christmas Eve adventures. Or not; the pictures really do speak for themselves. I still wouldn't leave a baby in the care of a pooch, but as I'm old enough to look after myself, I'd love to step into the pages of Carl's Christmas and join this lovable pup on his frosty, festive journey.

Hanks Brings the Magic in The Polar Express, But It's Not Enough

It seems impossible to me that with all of the Christmas books I've read, I haven't ever cracked open the cover of one of the all-time classics, The Polar Express, not even when the arrival of the movie in 2004 made Chris Van Allsburg's acclaimed picture book one of the hottest sellers of the winter in the bookstore where I worked. I was all pumped up to read the book and see the movie, and somehow I did neither. But last week, I finally caught the movie. Now I feel the need to read the book even more than before, simply because I didn't quite get the film. Maybe it can explain a few things...

Like the name of the protagonist. Was this poor kid originally without a name, or was that a strange change made for the purpose of the movie? I find it very distracting not to know the name of the main character, or to be clear on just how he was selected to make this journey. Initially, I thought that this ride was especially for children who find themselves in serious doubt as to Santa's existence, but that doesn't seem to be the case with the young girl our hero befriends on the ride, nor with the thoroughly irritating know-it-all who thinks he has all the answers about the mysteries of the North Pole. The key to their invitation seems to be in the golden train tickets, which spell out a different word for each child at the end of their trip, giving them brief, compelling advice. But why was such a small selection of children chosen? And is every ride on the Polar Express this hazardous?

One of the decorations that always goes out this time of year is a little toy train we bought from Burger King when Anastasia hit theaters. I recalled that train as I watched the film, thinking of its fiery destruction in one of the movie's many intense scenes. The Polar Express takes its passengers on a voyage that is just as harrowing, with the dangers unrelenting. The protagonist and his new friends deal with one life-threatening obstacle after another.

Just one gratuitously narrow scrape involves the boy running outside after his new female friend to give her the ticket she forgot, resulting in him losing the ticket and nearly tumbling off the train. I like this sequence, though, if only because the flight of the wind-whipped ticket is like Forrest Gump's feather sequence on steroids. It gets snapped at by wolves, regurgitated by eagles, rolled into a giant snowball. It takes a swift, high-octane journey fraught with peril, somehow landing intact almost right where the girl left it - only for the boy to go trotting off after her once more, nearly losing the ticket again.

I doubt it's an accident that the scene reminds me so strongly of Forrest Gump. The movies share a director (Robert Zemeckis), a composer (Alan Silvestri) and a star (Tom Hanks). It's a regular Forrest reunion. But the result of their collaborative efforts is not quite so flawless this time. In an attempt to duplicate the mystical quality of Van Allsburg's illustrations for the big screen, Zemeckis relied on motion capture technology, which was used to bring Gollum to such vibrant life in Lord of the Rings. Each of the characters has its roots in the performance of an actor, while another actor usually provided the voice. The result is visually arresting, but I wouldn't go so far to say it's pleasing. "Spooky" would be a more accurate adjective.

Hanks practically carries the movie by himself, having acted for six different characters and voiced five. The most prominent and iconic of these, and my favorite character, is the conductor of the train, a man with a bristly mustache, a gruff accent, a twinkle in his eye and a remarkable resemblance to Hanks. He comes across as stern, intimidating... almost sadistic at times. But all of it is done with a wink, and evidently this conductor just likes to make the kids in his charge sweat a little. When it comes down to it, he's on their side. The conductor is a living, breathing, totally convincing character, and his train is a glorious piece of machinery. Nona Gaye puts in a touching performance as the protagonist's magnanimous new friend, and the late Michael Jeter, playing bumbling engineers Smokey and Steamer, has the opportunity to let his comedic gifts shine in this capper to a too-short career. Most of the other characters, however, look off-kilter. It's hard to say just how, but they're pale, ghostly figures, and for all the expense and effort that went into the project, most of them don't look any more realistic than the humans in Toy Story.

After all the hype surrounding the movie, I expected pure magic. What I ended up with was two hours spent mostly grimacing at the television, waiting to be drawn into the enchantment. I tip my hat to Hanks and those responsible for animating the conductor; the film is worth watching just for him, and for the shivery end-credits ballad penned by Silvestri and Glen Ballard and sung by the enormously talented Josh Groban. On the whole, though, The Polar Express never quite seems to get on track.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Put Some "Snap, Crackle, Pop!" Into Your Life!

When I was a tot, I used to eat Rice Krispies quite a lot. I remember sitting next to my cousin at breakfast while she demonstrated to me how she dug a hole in the middle of the bowl in which to pour the milk, so as to end with the perfect ratio of milk to cereal. At some point during those years, I seem to have lost my taste for Rice Krispies somewhat. If we have them, I'll eat them, but I'd rather just stick with puffed rice, which ideally starts out mushy. If Rice Krispies turn mushy - and they usually do at some point before the bowl is empty - it's hardly cause for celebration. But they certainly offer a satisfying noise before they become too submerged.

Speaking of beautiful noises, Rice Krispies' three mascots - the elves Snap, Crackle and Pop - have always delighted me, particularly when they are singing. Somewhere in my house lies an old tape so worn it crackles just as much as the cereal. I played it often when I was younger, and on the rare occasion when Rice Krispies decides to resurrect the old jingles, I watch and listen with a big goofy grin on my face. There's the fantastic three-part tune in which the little lads argue good-naturedly about which of them makes Rice Krispies great and the "let 'em pour" one, which preaches the virtues of the cereal with all the conviction of a gospel choir.

But better than the cereal itself and better than the commercials are Rice Krispies treats. Sure, you can buy them separately now, but there's nothing quite like mixing up a batch yourself and cutting out an often too-goopy square, leading to sticky fingers. The treats are easy to make and hard to keep around the house; it's rare that they'll last much more than a day. I may not enjoy marshmallows in my morning cereal, but I love them as the glue that holds these bars together.

Like Cheerios, Rice Krispies contains 110 calories per one-ounce serving. There are plenty of worse things you could be eating for breakfast, and these classic bits of rice are even better if you have access to fresh strawberries. Take a moment before eating to just sit and listen to the distinctive "snap, crackle, pop" once you've poured the milk in; it's quite a sweet little symphony. Hooray for musical cereal!

Mickey Rooney Steps Into the Santa Suit for the First Time


I happened upon Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town this evening, which prompted me to look up my review and see what I had written about it way back when. But lo and behold, when I mused about Rudolph, the Heat and Snow Misers and Nestor, I somehow managed to leave out this Rankin and Bass gem. Time to amend the situation.

Like most Rankin and Bass Christmas specials, this one centers around a particular holiday song and uses it as a way for the narrator, a cheery mailman voiced by Fred Astaire, to provide a framework within which to place the story of the origins of Santa Claus. Of course, it's all a bunch of stuff that writer Romeo Muller made up, so it's sort of silly to listen to the mailman going on and on about how all these things actually happened. Nonetheless, the creative story does seem to tap into the legend of St Nicholas to some small extent, though it doesn't come right out and say so.

Mickey Rooney, who later played the crotchety old Santa in my favorite of the Rankin and Bass specials, gives voice to dashing young Kris Kringle, the boy raised by tiny toymakers. As a young man, he sets out to Sombertown, a dreary village where toys have been outlawed by the grouchy Burgermeister Meisterburger (Paul Frees), whose rules are enforced by his devoted lackey Grimsby (also Frees). Obviously, this interferes with his mission to deliver toys to all the children there, but he isn't too concerned about breaking what he considers to be a ridiculous law.

So the young Kris becomes a noble outlaw, aided by the penguin Topper and the initially disapproving but soon smitten Jessica (Robie Lester). They exercise civil disobedience, refusing to kowtow to an unjust ruler - though Kris does kindly offer the Burgermeister a yoyo, momentarily winning him over. His victory with the ferocious Winter Warlock (comical Disney baddie Keenan Wynn), an ancient magical being who threatens him on his journey between Somberland and home, is more lasting, imparting the value of reaching out to those who have been persecutors and offering them kindness instead of disdain. Put One Foot in Front of the Other, Kris' duet with the rejuvenated warlock, is probably my favorite of the songs written for the special and the one that holds up best out of context.

Claymation isn't the smoothest way to make a movie, and plenty of scenes come across as a bit choppy. That's part of the charm. If I were experiencing it for the first time, as my friend did while over at my house last year, I might raise an eyebrow like she did. But Santa Claus Is Comin' to Town is much too deeply ingrained in my banks of nostalgia for that. When this precursor to The Year Without a Santa Claus comes to town, I'll be watching!

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Toot and Puddle Are a Credit to Pigdom

When I was little, my dad often wore a shirt that read "Pigs Are Precious". I've always been inclined to agree with that sentiment, and lots of books seem to back me up on that. Now to Wilbur, Babe and Piglet I add a pair of porkers named Toot and Puddle. Evidently they're not newcomers, but while I'm familiar with Holly Hobbie, I'd never had the pleasure of meeting the congenial Toot and Puddle, who remind me pleasantly of Frog and Toad, only not so obviously disparate in personality. Oh, they're unique all right, and distinguishable from one another, but while curmudgeonly toad seems to do rather more receiving than giving, Toot and Puddle have comparable temperaments.

In Toot and Puddle Let It Snow, both are excited to find the perfect Christmas gift for each other, and they know it won't be easy. Toot muses that "the best present was usually something you made yourself, a one-of-a-kind thingamajig, not just a whatsit anyone could buy in a store." And there's Opal to consider as well, since this young female pig will be joining them for Christmas morning. But mostly, they are preoccupied with one another and searching for inspiration, and Opal's advice on that score doesn't seem to be getting them very far.

The watercolor paintings are pleasantly drab, making the book feel homey, with the sparseness of the landscape contrasting the closeness of the friendship. We watch Toot and Puddle struggle separately, recalling past gifts they have given each other and examining notable hobbies and traits that might offer a clue as to the perfect present. While there are many full-page paintings, some pages feature a series of small illustrations. The variety gives the book an extra dash of the unexpected, and all of the pictures, large and small, are endearing.

"I wish I could take this morning and put it in my pocket and keep it forever," Puddle remarks at one point in the story when he and Toot walk together through a woodland freshly coated in snow. Readers can essentially do just that, and what's more, they can have an added reminder of the book's simple beauty with the four cardboard ornaments that are included.

Toot and Puddle Let It Snow is a story of friendship in winter that warmed me like the soft glow of Christmas lights emanating from an evergreen. There's an indication that this is the last book in the series. I hope Ms Hobbie changes her mind; these pigs are too precious to be retired!

Ezra Jack Keats Lovingly Illustrates The Little Drummer Boy

I've read many Christmas books inspired by The Little Drummer Boy, the tender song about the poor but earnest lad who is stuck for a gift to give the newborn Jesus until he hits upon the idea of presenting Him with an impromptu concert, complete with animal accompaniment. This mid-sized board book of the same title uses the text of the song by Katherine Davis, Henry Onorati and Harry Simeone, and it works just as well as any of the spin-offs because, short as it is, the little drummer boy's tale is a self-contained story.

What makes the book unique is the artwork by acclaimed illustrator Ezra Jack Keats. The paintings have a smudgy, mystical quality about them, featuring sandy expanses lit by moody skies. The focal point is the young boy, who trots along with his drum, a tall, handsome instrument strapped around his shoulder. The barefoot boy doesn't seem to mind his poverty except for the momentary concern that he will not have anything for the Christ child. As he plays, one imagines that the birds who steadfastly follow him sing along, and his face reflects the exuberance of their joyful noise.

Animals seem naturally drawn to this young chap, as most dramatically illustrated in a two-page spread in which he and a host of creature companions - a cow, sheep, birds, rabbits and a goat - march along, silhouetted in sepia tones against a striking sunset. The book is the perfect size for little hands, with pages sturdy enough to withstand a lot of abuse. While there is no recording of the song included, this is not a hard carol to get ahold of, and for musically inclined parents, sheet music is printed in the back for a family sing-along at the piano.

This is a story of wonder and empowerment that brings the Nativity to a child's-eye level. "Let the little children come," Jesus said. This boy, hearing the call before the words were spoken, responds with reverence, making excellent use of the abilities he has been given. The Little Drummer Boy is an outstanding presentation of an inspiring story.

Determined Dad Saves a Christmas Gone Awry in The Night Before the Night Before Christmas

Christmas is a time of happiness and beauty, when all the world is supposed to glisten in candy-coated splendor, when flawless feasts are supposed to tantalize the nostrils, when peace and brotherhood are supposed to reign. Only sometimes, it doesn't quite work that way. Sometimes the perfect celebration doesn't seem possible, and all the stress of the holiday seems to outweigh the joy and wonder. There have been days when even I, the girl who has read hundreds of Christmas books and would listen to carols in July if it wouldn't drive everyone else crazy, have had occasion to wonder whether it might just be easier to say "Wake me up when December ends."

In The Night Before the Night Before Christmas, a take-off on Clement C. Moore's classic poem by Natasha Wing and illustrated by Mike Lester, nothing seems to be going right in the family of the young narrator. Mom has the flu. She's sick and miserable, and consequently she's not really up to all the Christmassy tasks that await. Dad steps up to help, but disaster befalls him too, and chaos escalates. After a day full of burnt cookies, scrawny evergreens, holey stockings, burnt-out light bulbs, scary Santas and decimated decorations, it looks like Christmas is ruined. Can anything be salvaged from the wreckage of the holiday preparations?

The narrator is a wide-eyed little girl who observes the calamitous series of events with incredulity. Her infant brother Patrick is a cutie pie who seems to be enjoying the anticipation, at least until he meets up with the intimidating old elf. Mom looks completely exhausted, and it's clear that she's only going to be a trooper to a certain point. Dad, however, is all chipper good cheer, and he doesn't let the mishaps get him down. He's my favorite character in the book, reminding me of lovable, upbeat Arthur Weasley, the peppy papa J. K. Rowling just couldn't bear to kill off.

The book's cartoonish illustrations are fun and vibrant, and while the narration's rhyme scheme is occasionally inconsistent, for the most part it reads very well, and I like to think of the rocky spots as a reflection of the fact that the speaker is a child imitating her favorite Christmas poem rather than as sloppy writing on Wing's part. The book's nuclear family attempting to prevent their Christmas from going horribly awry makes me think of A Christmas Story, while Dad's refusal to let all the problems get him down because, after all, "those things are just stuff," seems to echo the anti-commercial message of A Charlie Brown Christmas.

The Night Before the Night Before Christmas is a charming little story demonstrating that although the trappings of the holiday are nice, it's much better not to get too bogged down in them. As Dad so succinctly puts it, "Christmas is about love." Well said.

Melancholy Same Old Lang Syne Reflects Pain and Beauty of Life and Love

All my life, I've been in love with Christmas music. The first song I recall singing along with is Silver Bells, at the tender age of two. I associate the carols with trimming the tree, which has become less of a family event in recent years and more of an extended panic as we realize we have enough ornaments to fill three trees (which would be all right with me, and I'll get right on that as soon as Santa grants my wish for a spacious family room complete with a fireplace). I associate them with wrapping gifts and candle-lit services and kitschy holiday specials. I associate them with warmth and family and togetherness. The best of them fill me with joy, hope and wonder. They are optimistic and exuberant.

Except when they're not.

The "not" can be pinned on one song in particular, whose delicate piano undercurrent, gradually augmented by sighing strings, wakes me in the middle of the night when I have my radio tuned to the all-Christmas-music station throughout December. My subconscious seems to seek it out and gently shake me from my slumber to bask in its aching melancholy. Dan Fogelberg's Same Old Lang Syne is one of the least uplifting Christmas songs I've ever heard, and yet it remains one of my absolute favorites year after year. Perhaps it's important to be reminded that the joy of the season does not necessarily immunize us against painful experiences and can actually intensify them. I know few songs that seem so honest and gut-wrenching.

Over the course of four and half minutes, Fogelberg, possessor of a marvelously mellow voice especially suited for the sensitive, introspective songs he tends to write, recounts an encounter with his old girlfriend at the grocery store. They embrace, have a drink and get the scoop on each other's lives. She's stuck in a dispassionate marriage (and I always feel rather sorry for her husband, wondering how he could fail to identify himself in this very famous song and whether the marriage lasted). He's on the road all the time. They ache for the love they once shared, and we are left wondering if old acquaintances really are best forgotten when current circumstances conspire to keep them apart. The narrative is spread out across two plaintive choruses and three shrinking verses. The first - the awkward but giddy initial meeting - contains four stanzas; the second - playing catch-up with bittersweet small talk - contains three; the third - the regretful conclusion, with only the shadowy instrumental toast to follow - has a paltry two.

Fogelberg, harmonizing with himself, shows off his upper register in the chorus, which is frustratingly tricky to sing along with. Though the setting is Christmas, the spirit is New Year's, with all the mixed feelings encapsulated in Robert Burns' famous song. In fact, the title, the central toasts to Innocence, to Now and to Time and Michael Brecker's minor-key soprano saxophone solo of Auld Lang Syne that follows the conclusion of the lyrics all make it easy to get confused about which holiday is occurring. I used to wonder why they couldn't find an open bar on the biggest night of drunken revelry of the year, and then I would remember that "the snow was falling Christmas Eve". I do find the conclusion slightly worrisome, as it would seem that the meeting ends with two drunk, distraught drivers - though for a seasoned drinker, perhaps three beers wouldn't create much of a buzz...

I call this a Christmas song because it takes place on Christmas Eve and because it always gets such heavy airplay this time of year. It might be more appropriately described as a song that happens to take place on Christmas Eve, as I suspect Fogelberg still would have immortalized the occasion had it happened in April or August, though the compelling juxtaposition would be missing. The holiday itself provides an ironic undertone, accentuating the loneliness of both parties at a time when they should be at their happiest, celebrating with the ones they love most. I suppose it explains why there were no bars open, forcing the rendez-vous into the cramped quarters of the former flame's car, and the date on the calendar exponentially increases the impact of the song's final line. I can think of few drearier images than snow turning to rain on Christmas Eve.

The beauty of a relationship momentarily renewed is balanced against the grim knowledge that time changes things, for better or for worse. Decisions are made, the consequences of which we can never know at the time, the alternatives to which may always haunt us. Earlier this year, I took a crack at applying the song to the situation of Desmond in LOST, who also finds himself tugged by time, separated from his beloved. It's a pale imitation, but it's a credit to Fogelberg's talent that I hear the echoes of his recollection so clearly in other situations. In Same Old Lang Syne, we have a soliloquy that is at once intensely personal and widely applicable. And despite its painful contents, every time I listen to the song, I emerge with a deeper appreciation of how beautiful life is, how precious love is.

Mr. Fogelberg, I drink a toast to you.

Monday, December 3, 2007

Frank McCourt Draws on His Mother's Memories for the Tender Angela and the Baby Jesus

One of the books that has been sitting on my shelf and my must-read list for a very long time is Angela's Ashes by Frank McCourt. My brother read it under duress and rather enjoyed it, though he found it a lot to slog through, especially since much of it would have been utterly dreary and depressing if not for McCourt's sparkling wit and exceptional skill as a storyteller. Unsure of how much family tragedy I can stomach in one narrative, I haven't braved the book yet, but when I saw that he had written a Christmas story about - and dedicated to - his mother, I was eager to lay eyes on it.

I gather from what Nathan has told me that it's often unclear to what extent McCourt is embellishing the truth. Obviously he didn't witness the events described in Angela and the Baby Jesus, since they happened when his mother was a little girl. No doubt he took a cherished family recollection and polished it up a bit, making it even more lustrous for the lucky readers. But the story seems plausible enough, and it certainly is touching.

The six-year-old Angela is depicted as a headstrong, compassionate girl. Because she is so little, she finds that her family members tend to ignore her, and she's counting on that happening when she takes it into her head to smuggle the statue of the baby Jesus home from St. Joseph's Church. She knows they will object to her taking Jesus away from His mother, away from the church full of parishioners, their eyes brimming with devotion. But stubborn Angela doesn't care. All that concerns her is keeping the infant warm.

As the story progresses, there are gentle chuckles to be had, particularly when Angela scolds the statue for wandering off during their journey home. But mostly, this is a tender story of kindness, charity, faith and family devotion. Rich with religious imagery and theological contemplation from the point of view of a young child, it inspires and entertains in exquisitely written prose.

The illustrations in this version are done by Raul Colon, whose painting style incorporates watercolor and colored pencil, with the result of soft pictures reminiscent of pointilism. For whatever reason, this is not the only edition of the book to have arrived on shelves in the past month. A small, square gift book-sized version - the "adult edition" - also exists and features fuzzy illustrations by Loren Long. Both artists complement the story nicely.

It's apparent in the story that as Angela worries about Jesus' well-being, she isn't exactly so well-off herself, but she does have a home and the love of her family, even her annoying older brother who threatens to expose her. In this hopeful Christmas story, that is more than enough.

Expand Your Cultural Awareness with The Seven Days of Kwanzaa

Several years ago, when my brother Benjamin came home from college for Christmas, he and my brother Nathan went on a Christmas Eve shopping expedition and returned laden with gifts that showed up under the tree the next day in unusual wrapping. "I hope you're not offended," he said before he brought the presents from their hideaway in his room. During his shopping trip, he'd happened upon a roll of Kwanzaa paper, and the rich African designs struck his fancy. I don't know why he thought we'd be offended by such a display; I'm always happy to expand my cultural awareness, and that goes for the rest of my family. Those particular trappings just made his offerings that year all the more memorable.

I will admit, though, that my knowledge of Kwanzaa has been pretty limited, so I was happy to come across The Seven Days of Kwanzaa, a small paperback book that uses the framework of The Twelve Days of Christmas to explain the traditions of this relatively new holiday. A note by author Melrose Cooper in the back goes into greater detail discussing its origins in an African harvest festival and noting that the words used for the days of the week-long celebration are in Kiswahili, with which I am vaguely familiar in association with Lieutenant Uhura from the original Star Trek series.

The days and related objects are as follows:

Umoja (Unity) - a promise for unity
Kujichagulia (Control) - two drums
Ujima (Cooperation) - red (for struggle and bloodshed), green (for fairness and plant life) and black (for the people)
Ujamaa (Sharing of Profits) - four dollars
Nia (Purpose) - five friends
Kuumba (Creativity) - six handmade presents
Imani (Faith) - seven candles

Jeremy Tugeau’s pictures, which have a smudgy quality to them, depict several scenes of family togetherness and celebration of one’s culture. As the members of the extended family gather, they create gifts, make music and light candles, expressions of jubilation on their faces and colorful clothing on their bodies.

For children and for adults who want to learn a bit about this holiday, The Seven Days of Kwanzaa is a basic but enlightening introduction.

Cheerios: These Little Os Are Oh So Good!

I'm not much of a morning person, so more often than not, I find that I don't make time for breakfast. But when I give myself those extra twenty minutes or so, few things get my day off to a better start than an overflowing bowl of Cheerios. Not honey nut, not frosted, not multi-grain. Berry Burst is all right for a diversion now and then, but nothing hits the spot quite like the plain old Os from that bright yellow box.

When I was little, my favorite snack in the whole world was Mom's special trail mix, which consisted simply of Cheerios, raisins and chocolate chips poured together into a little Tupperware container. Many a too-short lunch period was improved with this hearty treat. I've got a hankering right now just thinking about it.

Some might call my taste in cereal bland. I've never been too keen on the ones loaded with sugar and marshmallows. For me, it's always been Raisin Bran, Shredded Wheat, puffed rice and the like. But none of them quite matches the simple satisfaction of Cheerios, those itty bitty circles that used to find their way into all sorts of strange orifices: nostrils, our gristmill lamp, the tape recorder. Thankfully, the days of Cheerios-related disasters are long behind us, and they can be enjoyed for breakfast or as a quick snack any time of the day.

I'm not exactly the world's healthiest eater, so eating Cheerios has the added benefit of making me momentarily feel like a responsible muncher, even though I know it's not really true... All those commercials with cute kids declaring the heart healthiness of my favorite cereal haven't fallen of deaf ears. I may be unhealthily obsessed with cheese, but at least I've got Cheerios going for me!

One 20-ounce box of Cheerios is designed to last for about 20 servings, though I usually exceed the recommended serving size, so I wind up getting more than the 110 calories indicated by the nutritional information. I can live with that. The only bad part is that it means we run out faster, and at the moment our house is sadly lacking a big box of breakfast sunshine. Looks like a trip to the grocery store is in order!

Sunday, December 2, 2007

Woolly Russell Delivers Christmas Magic

I've always been a sucker for sheep, ever since the days when I toted a little toy lamb around with me as a toddler, but I'd almost forgotten how much I enjoy those fleecy fellas until I started watching Jakers! The Adventures of Piggley Winks, the computer-animated show on PBS Kids in which a flock of silly, silent ewes are led on a series of adventures by the wise-cracking sheep Wiley, voiced by Mel Brooks. He was the first thing I thought of when I spotted Russell's Christmas Magic by Rob Scotton.

I understand that this is not the first story that has been written about Russell, so children who open this book may be encountering a familiar world, but the fanciful locales of Frogsbottom Field, where sheep bundled in cozy quilts doze under a lantern-lit night sky, and Firefly Wood, where Santa Claus and the eight disgruntled reindeer pulling his sleigh crash, were brand-new to me, and I liked what I saw.

The illustrations are soft, muted and strange, in an endearing sort of way. The words match the whimsy of the pictures with sentences like "An idea bounced around in Russell's hat and settled on his head." Russell, in his absurdly long striped stocking-cap and accompanied by a tiny frog, occupies the role of Heroic Creature quite nicely. He's an unassuming chap, kind and considerate but seemingly not subjected to ridicule like poor Rudolph.

Santa and the reindeer are guests in his corner of the world, so he deems it only polite to help them find a way out of their predicament, which involves a shattered sleigh and a broken spell. While his creative solution calls for considerable suspension of disbelief, it's hard to begrudge Scotton that in a story about a talking sheep.

Not only are the illustrations joyous and inventive, the text meshes with them, sometimes winding around in attractive swirls like gusts of magical Christmas wind. A glimpse of the Aurora Borealis as Russell joins Santa as a special guest on his delivery route increases the enchantment.

Now that I've met Russell and entered into his quirky world, I'm eager to seek out his other adventures. For a holiday tale as warm as a hand-knit sweater, count on this sheep to deliver!

Olive Isn't a Reindeer, But She Still Can Save the Day

As classic Christmas stories go, few are more iconic than Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. Not only is it a classic, but it has spawned a sub-genre in the world of Christmas picture books of stories about special helpers, usually initially overlooked, who get Santa out of a jam. Olive, the Other Reindeer, by Vivian Walsh and J. Otto Seibold, openly admits that influence, as its title character, a dog named Olive, misunderstands the snippet "all of the other reindeer" as she's listening to Christmas music and takes it as a clue that she ought to be working for Santa.

Olive must not have been listening very closely; the line doesn't describe her at all because she's much too sweet-natured to laugh at Rudolph and call him names. She's a shy creature, but she has the gumption to go to Santa and report for duty as "the other reindeer." Though Santa is surprised to see her, he's much more understanding than the disappointingly crotchety Santa in Rankin and Bass's lauded claymation special. He gives Olive a chance, and he and the reindeer soon learn just how handy a pup can be. Olive's nose is not remarkable at first glance like Rudolph's, but her expert smelling skills help guide Santa through a thick fog, while her retrieving abilities and fondness for chewing also help ensure a successful Christmas Eve flight.

The illustrations have a strange, skewered look about them, and I figured the story would be irreverent to match, something along the lines of The Stinky Cheese Man, perhaps. I thought the characters might be sarcastic and crude, and they weren't at all. There are no antagonists in this story, except perhaps the weather. All of its characters are refreshingly gentle and good-natured.

In this special pop-up edition, the fun of the pictures is increased by the pages' extra components. Some pages have pictures that move. Others have flaps or pop-ups. Some have scratch-and-sniff. A few have a combination. The pages are very thick and easy to grasp, and the pop-ups, while very fun, aren't as delicate as Robert Sabuda's, so this book would probably last a little longer in tiny hands, though I'd still recommend it mostly for children five and up.

In many holiday stories, Santa delivers a dog on Christmas Eve. In Olive, the Other Reindeer, a dog delivers him. Two hooves up for the other reindeer!

Holly Claus an Intricate Christmas Fairy Tale

The Santa Claus of legend devotes his life to creating and distributing gifts to children, granting wishes penned in earnest letters. But in the midst of all his charitable activity, might Santa ever stop and make a wish of his own? And who could make such a dream become reality? These are ruminations that propel Holly Claus: The Christmas Princess, written by Brittney Ryan and illustrated by Laurel Long and Jeffrey K. Bedrick.

In this eloquent, fanciful fairy tale in the Julie Andrews Collection, one young boy has the wisdom and selflessness to write to Santa asking what he would like for Christmas and promising he will do his best to see that he gets it. Out of this remarkable letter is born Holly Claus, beloved Princess of the land of Forever, where Santa lives with the fairies and magic folk and those mortals whose names have been inscribed in the Book of Forever for various noble deeds.

This sweet, gentle child grows up in the company of several faithful arctic animals. Tundra the wolf serves as her guardian, while she also finds friendship with the funny penguin, Empy; the wise owl, Euphemia; and the mischievous fox, Lexy. Hers is a pleasant enough existence, but the world of Forever has grown sad because an attack from the evil Herrikhan has barricaded the country from the world of humans, preventing Santa from making his Christmas deliveries. When Holly discovers a way to sneak into that world, she finds herself in the bustling Empire City at the turn of the century and takes a job in a magnificent toy shop, which leads her to meet the very man whose childhood generosity brought about her existence and whose faith now could help Christmas to return.

There's a lot of text in this book, which seems to be geared toward pre-teens; the length and complexity would probably be prohibitive for especially young children. The illustrations are striking, rich in intricate details and with an elegant Victorian feel to them. There's an air of antiquity about the book, making it easy to imagine that this story actually is a century old, as we are intended to believe. The tale prickles with enchantment, hinting at the far deeper development in the novel of which this is an abridgement. Though at times it seems as though there are slight gaps, for the most part, the story works on its own.

One unique aspect of this book is the inclusion of an address for Holly Claus so that children can write to her just as they write to her father year after year. While I think such a desire would be more likely from someone who had invested in the novel and really gotten to know the character thoroughly and that children old enough to tackle a 500-page book probably wouldn't have much interest in writing to someone they know doesn't exist, it's still a neat idea and the perfect finishing touch on a lovely, mythical story.

A Chocolate Bar a Day Keeps Dementors Away

For as long as I can remember, I've been a constant grocery store tag-along. I'd like to think that once in a while I actually contribute something worthwhile to these trips, but mostly it's just an opportunity for me to get really hungry and drop a few subtle hints about what might fit extra nicely in that cart. By the end of the trip, I'm not the only one with a major case of the munchies. Within arm's reach of just about every check-out stand is a bountiful display of candy bars, often at the price of three for a dollar, just perfect for my parents and me. Mom and Dad will often opt for a different type of candy bar ever time, but I always know exactly what I want: a Hershey almond bar.

Hershey isn't the most glamorous chocolate out there. Its taste is sweet and creamy but not overpowering, not really the type of candy you must eat with your eyes closed, relishing every bite with exaggerated appreciation. It's exquisite in its simplicity, however. There's something so homey and downright American about the skinny little bar with its name pressed into it. Milton Hershey, who shared a birthday with my brother (and, interestingly enough, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory author Roald Dahl), gave us all a flavor to savor.

When I think of Hershey, I think of the gorgeous amusement park I've visited several times, watching the chocolate-making process, sniffing the scented air and feeling like I have a hunch of what it might be like in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. I think of M*A*S*H and the episodes in which that little bar of chocolate made a harrowing day just a little bit brighter in the midst of wartime. Mostly, though, I just think of that delicious, comforting taste, with crunchy almonds to break up the monotony of a vast expanse of flat chocolate. I eat around the edges, leaving as many of the almonds as I can for the last few yummy bites. Unlike a hefty Cadbury fruit and nut bar, the basic Hershey almond bar is scrawny enough that I always gobble it up in one sitting. It helps that it isn't partitioned into handy squares - though the King Size bar is.

I see that this particular listing is for a box of 36, and I suppose I should admit that I don't think we've ever actually had a box of 36 Hershey almond bars in the house. That, I suspect, is a good thing, because it wouldn't last long with me around, and if the aim was fundraising, I'd probably just buy the lot myself. Each bar contains 210 calories and 14 grams of fat, but who's keeping track? Not me! After all, Remus Lupin always advised chocolate in the face of adversity. That is one prescription I will take gladly, and if I slip in a preventative dose here and there, it ought to keep the ol' Dementors at bay for a long time to come.