Skip to main content

The Christmas Song


powered by ODEO

I mailed my Christmas cards out this week--in lieu of cards to the blogpals, here's a song. The only reason I'm not too ashamed of posting this to everyone is because I am confident in my own medocrity. Although it's been said many times many ways...

Comments

dive said…
And Merry Christmas to you too, Robyn.
That's so wonderful! At last you've managed to defeat my Grinchy loathing of Christmas (at least temporarily).
I shall play this whenever I'm feeling grouchy and for those hundred odd seconds, I shall love Christmas. I promise.

Thank you so much.
Scout said…
You're welcome. My daughter was disturbed when I told her I was going to post this. But what the heck, I said. It's Christmas, it's not a recital.

Hey, I know! You need to record a guitar something--a Liona Boyd Christmas number. That would truly make the season bright, dont' you think?
dive said…
If I knew what a Liona Boyd Christmas number was it might help.
But that would be rushing things. I'm still ninety percent curmudgeon, even with your festive influence, Robyn. It will take years more work before I'm sufficiently de-Scrooged to record Christmas music … Hee hee.
Anonymous said…
Well done Robyn, a very festive gesture!
Old Knudsen said…
Though I refuse to listen to a Christmas song thankyou anyway, I will be posting the location of where I've buried santa so he can get a proper service.
Thanks for such a personalized Greeting of the season. Not only do you play French horn and piano you have a voice too. Maybe you could sing that accompanied by piano.?
Scout said…
A very merry Christmas to all, even Old K who wishes death on St. Nick. Too bad for you.

Rich, I really have pretty timid voice, but since that isn't my voice, I don't care enough fix it. We played this in our Christmas concert this evening, and the trumpet soloist was beautiful, as always.
Sassy Sundry said…
That is anything but mediocre. Thank you! What a voice!

Merry Christmas!
Scout said…
HA, thanks, Sassy.

Popular posts from this blog

No More Mr. Nice Guy

It's good to be a nice person--to say nice things, to do nice things, to write nice things--but I declare an end to the use of the word nice. Nice is what you say when you can't think of any other adjective. Someone shows you a picture of their back yard--that's nice. Someone tells you about their afternoon adventure--that's nice. Or someone describes their childhood in great detail and sometimes with painstaking effort--that's nice. It's a lazy word, and it's non-descriptive. Nice is like mashed potatoes with noodles and chicken gravy all in a big pile on one plate with some canned corn for garnish. Everything is the same color and texture and base substance--starch (this is a favorite Amish dish). Nice is like a partly cloudy day in April when outside feels like inside, and you can't tell a difference between the lighting and the temperature of your living room and the lighting and temperature of your front yard. Nice is a glass of lukewarm water. ...

Long Live Anita Bowser

You know I occasionally check my hometown newspaper's website to scan the obituaries (morbid, I know, but I'm at that age). Over this past weekend, I read the obituary of Indiana State Senator Anita Bowser . She was a noted Democrat who championed causes protecting the neediest in the state's population. She was respected on both sides of the aisle for her intelligence and plain and outspoken approach to law making. The picture on her senate page is lovely. I remember none of those things about Anita Bowser . My first year or so in college was spent at a branch of Purdue University, and in the early 80s, Anita was a political science professor. She taught my American Government class my freshman year, and she was a mess. Somewhere in my old text book, I have a sketch of her drawn on a particularly dull day in class--her hose sagged at her ankles, her slip showed at least half an inch all the way around, her hair had been slept on but not brushed, and her bright red lip stic...

Ish People

Tell an Ish person to show up around 9 a.m., and you'll see them somewhere around 9 a.m. Tell them to show up at 9ish, and you'll see them anywhere from 9:05 to 9:20. You have given them license to dilly dally, and who wouldn't take advantage of that? The other night at the big shindig dinner party, one of the drummers said the rehearsal the next morning would begin at 9ish. "I am an ish person," he says. Immediately the clanker goes off in my head--oh, good, I thought. I can deliver my daughter a little late. No Ish person is early, so if you say 9ish, that does not mean give or take 5, 10, 15 minutes. It's exclusively a taking phrase. Take an extra 10 minutes to drink your cup of coffee. We won't mind. We're Ish people. Sunday's rehearsal started at 2:00. Because it was conducted by the same people who conducted the Saturday rehearsal, my understanding was 2-ISH. My daughter is worse than I am about taking liberties with Ish time frames, so she d...