Fun Times with the Little Guy

So my two year old cousin--whom I'll call Little Guy--was crying big fat tears when his dad dropped him off at our house to spend the night. To make him stop, I took him to the piano, one of his favorite toys when he visits us. He sat on my lap while I played some songs, trying to see the notes over his head of big curly hair. He did stop crying, but he just watched me wide-eyed and didn't play along as usual. So we tried an assortment of other little toys he likes--a tambourine, a little drum, a lap harp, a little thing that walks across the floor when you wind it up--but nothing was making him too excited. Then I went over to the computer and checked my Facebook page. I brought him on my lap, thinking he might want to write an incomprehensible status update for his favorite cousin ever, when he said, "Boom boom pow." It hit me. His parents like to play him the song "Boom Boom Pow" by the hip hop group the Black Eyed Peas, and apparently it makes Little Guy very happy. So I went on to YouTube, and as I found the video, he pointed to it and said happily "I like dat boom boom pow." Okay, then. When I started the video his face immediately lit up, he started bouncing and and waving his arms. Then I let him down and he ran around in circles for about five minutes, while we all were laughing and laughing. I decided to see what other music he'd like, and I YouTubed "Gold Digger" by Kanye West, sung by the cast of "Glee," and "Single Ladies (Put a Ring On It") by Beyonce. The Little Guy looked at me pleadingly and said, "Boom boom pow!" So we watched that two or three more times. The joy of little children is infectious. I don't know about you, but when I was his age I listened to Raffi, Peter, Paul and Mary, and songs of French Canadian voyageurs. Times are changing!

Silent Noon

My favorite song ever as of late is "Silent Noon" by Ralph Vaughan Williams. As an amateur vocalist with a mezzo-ish voice and somewhat unreliable range, I got tired of finding all these lovely songs that required me to hit a high A flat or hold a note for twenty measures then add a fermata to it. A song is not worth it if it makes you feel like you're gonna pass out.* SO, one day I was flippin' through all our song books and was lucky enough to find "Silent Noon." After hearing the St. Paul Chamber Orchestra perform "Lark Ascending" last whenever ago, I spent a week listening to our Vaughan Williams cd over and over again. I loved it all, and was of course ecstatic to find out he wrote singable music as well. Thus, whenever I got a chance I practiced "Silent Noon." Thing is, I don't know what's funner--playing it or singing it? I love the opening piano riff (yeah, I know that's not pianological terminology), the rich sound of an E flat chord...sigh. I was surprised to find out how simple the notes were to sing, but of course when the notes are simple, that means you have to work harder to make the piece exciting, expressive and engaging. You have to work on phrasing and breathing. For the record, my breathing sucks. That's why you need a teacher, a voice in my head tells me. Someday, I guess. It's strange, but lately I've been feeling like it's my song, and with my sister home for break I've been afraid to practice it, because you know, she might steal it from me. I know, it's stupid. A week or two ago I accidentally nearly blew it by playing the beginnging of it on the piano. She popped her head in the door and asked, "What's that?" Thinking fast, I replied nervously, "Um, ah, it's nothin', just somethin' I made up, that's all." And she bought it! For the rest of the day I felt guilty for claiming creative ownership of it, and was waiting for Ol' Ralph to strike me down from heaven. But anyways, I believe this song is a face-melter (that's a good thing), so I found the best-possible YouTube video I could find and thought I'd share. Geek out over.







*or maybe my technique is just really bad!

Wear Warm Clothes

Returning from the wild and crazy fun time that is choir rehearsal, I was piled with layers, wearing leggings all day in addition to my jeans, my MMTA hoodie (the warmest sweatshirt I've ever had), gloves, red pashmina scarf and my Great-Grandma Chickie's hunting jacket (complete with back pocket for newly acquired dead pheasants---eeww!) . That coat's gotta be around 60 years old but it shows no sign of falling apart soon. And oh, how warm and fuzzy it all felt!
I was kind of expecting mass chaos with this 7 inch first snowstorm, but it seemed like people who didn't need to drive their car didn't, the people who did were mostly careful, and we didn't die. Yay!

If only it was the right type of snow, then I'd try and make a snow human/angel. I've always wanted to do some grand Calvin & Hobbes-like snow project. Maybe an ice and snow replica of the Easter Island faces. We can't sled for awhile because our sled is broken, which is something that needs to be addressed. But time and the lovely warmth of inside are what's keeping me from doing all these things year after year.

Yesterday, we embraced the weather--kind of. I shoveled snow off the driveway (and today I really feel it too), which pretty much wiped my wimpy self out, so I read a book to fight off boredom (A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore--it's real good so far). That's the thing when you're home schooled and there's a snow day. It's basically like all your other days, at least for us. So I was trying to find a way to make it less normal, but because I had been outside freezing my mouth closed and getting the most epic of hat hair, I didn't want to go outside and make a snowhuman or whatever. There will be other times, I'm sure.

What we did do was make krumkake, the Norwegian cookie, and we turned on Garrison Keillor singing Scandahoovian Christmas music. That definitely warmed the house up and kept us busy for a long time. I was training in my younger brother to be krumkake roller, and I watched the stove. This is the second batch we've made this week, as we like to give a bunch for Christmas presents for teachers and friends. One of our regular krumkake recievers is doing an internship in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, however, and unfortunately I don't think it'd be the wisest thing to ship it all that way. If he got it, it would arrive as crumbs, and that's no fun.

And of course, while everything else in the county was cancelled for the day, choir still went off without a hitch. The hymn says, "No storm can change my inmost calm...How can I keep from singing?" Indeed.
I walked out the door thinking that I looked like a lumberjack, which led me to sing the classic Monty Python song that goes, "I'm a lumberjack, and I'm okay...", which led me to think, "I'm not just okay, I'm warm!"

May all enjoy winter and wear warm clothes.

Em: Christmas Music

I love Christmas music--to a point. I love singing it by myself and in church choir, I love listening to the good old classics sung by Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, and Bing Crosby (especially his duet with David Bowie!). I love it all, but I could never spend my days listening to the radio station that only plays Christmas music. There's enough that people stress out over during the holiday season already, and I would not want to be stressed out even more by something that I usually enjoy. Every store you go into to by gifts, it seems like, is always tuned to that radio station. Most of the Christmas music I like the best though is the church stuff. I mean, that's what Christmas is, a church holiday. I've always found it so interesting how it's supposed to be about celebrating Jesus' birth, but the way we celebrate it has so many pagan influences. Christmas trees did not grow in Israel, I'm pretty sure. Santa Claus, although showing goodwill towards all people in a way that I think Jesus would be proud of, he's...well, I don't know where he came from or why.

One Christmas album I could listen to forever is "Keepers Christmas," a collection put out by Minnesota Public Radio that has simply beautiful renditions of tunes I thought I would hate--but don't-- and some very nice original ones as well. Lots of the musicians are from the Twin Cities, and if you listened to MPR's morning show, you'd recognize lots of voices, like the Steeles, the Roches, Neal and Leandra, and Butch Thompson. I think you can still buy it online and in the Minnesota Store in Mall of America. My parents have played it every year since I was little, and without even trying I could sing along with every track, it's so ingrained in my mind.

On December 13, we'll be having a big Christmas hooha/concert at our church. It's lots of fun, but being in the choir and the bell choir makes it a busy night for me and my family. It lasts about two hours or so, and my feet always hurt afterwards. The price we pay. We always sing the "Hallelujah Chorus" at the end, and the audience stands up and is given music to sing with us. It's so funny to see them try really hard to sing the parts in the beginning, then eventually fold their arms in resignation and just watch us. I don't blame 'em though, it's a hard song to sightread.

Now, Hannukah is coming up on December 11th, sundown, but I only know one song for this: "The Hannukah Song" by Adam Sandler. In this song, you basically learn the name of every famous Jewish person in showbusiness, and many creative ways to make the word "Hannukah" rhyme with everything. I'm sure it doesn't really show the true meaning of the holiday, but if you like Sandler's humor, then you'll laugh through the whole thing. But I'd rather find a Hannukah song that doesn't include the words "smoke some marijuanikah, it's time to celebrate Hannukah." Any ideas?

Pictures from the trip

Here are a few pictures taken on our trip to Tanzania. We've had some camera difficulties where most of the pictures taken in Tungamalenga have strange color tints, but we have a photoshop expert on the case. Here are a few that turned out well from the end of the trip:

On our last day in Tungamalenga, Mom and I went exploring around the village while we waited for our friends to return from safari. You'll find many places to get your hair cut or braided, like the Francis Hair Cutting Saloon.

You'll also see lizards scuttling around. Aren't they cool?

When our group returned from safari, there was a send-off service for us at the church, and we had to say good bye to our friends. Here we are under the mbuyu, or baobab tree, with Barabeig evangelist Alex, his wife and their three children, right before we had to leave.

When I got on the bus, Alex's daughter told me through the open window, "Tutaonana tena, Mungu akipenda."

We will meet each other again, if God wishes it.

I sure hope so.

When we got back to Iringa about five hours later, we managed to get in touch with some university students sponsored by Shepherd of the Valley. This is Grace, whose mother Neema is a student at Tumaini University in Iringa.

Grace had been covering her eyes and being shy, but all of a sudden she popped up and gave this big smile, and she warmed right up to us.

Mom toured the Ilula Hospital (in the town of the same name, east of Iringa), where many of the patients are women and their newborns. This woman just had twins.

A stove for cooking at the guest house in Ilula, the morning we left for the airport to return home.

My Day Not On Safari: Part IV

Sometime in the afternoon, we took off in the landrover again with the same people, but minus Alex and plus Barnabas. We went to Mapogoro, the next village over, to visit the Mtwavila family , who's daughter was also sponsored by my church to attend Idodi, and died in the fire. This family was of the Hehe tribe, I think, and lived in a very nice brick and cement house. We met the father and adult brother, and three women, one of whom was a sister. We all sat in a livingroom-type area on cushioned chairs, and Jacob, the evangelist for Mapogoro, led us in a hymn from the Mwimbieni Bwana, their Lutheran hymnal. Mom gave them words of comfort, a gift of t-shirts, and a necklace for the sister. It's hard for me to think that these two girls had survived all the more common causes of death in Tanzania--malaria, AIDS, bad water etc.--and had gone to school, a place of hope and opportunity, but that is where their lives tragically ended. The only thing we can do, though, is to move forward with them in mind so that we can change things for the better.

This visit was interesting because it was so different from the last. I saw the father wipe a tear away from his eye, but other that, it looked to me like they were in the acceptance process. They were solemn. I wonder how the grieving process varies from tribe to tribe, between women, me, and children. How are they expected to act? A question for my next trip. There were prayers, Mungu akubariki's (God bless you), and pole sana's (very sorry). The brother invited us to his duka, shop, for drinks, so we headed for what I guess you could call downtown Mapogoro. We all sat outside the store in plastic chairs drinking Pepsi and Mirinda and Coke, and the atmosphere seemed to change 360 degrees. We were talking, joking and laughing. I sat and listened, and wondered if we were acting appropriately. I quietly asked Mom, and she gave me the I-don't-know-what-to-tell-ya shrug. "It did kind of happen already," she said. Okaaay. So I just went with it. Next door to us was a bar, and it sounded as if someone was watching a sci-fi movie like Star Trek at very high volume. There were booms and bangs and it was kinda strange. Alex arrived on his bike and approached our group. "Get your book out, Mom, quick!" I whispered. She did, and greeted him with her newly-learned Barabeig word that she read from her notebook. Alex giggles and shakes her hand. Mom is a bit confused now, because on our return she looked at her notebook from her previous trip and found the Barabeig words she learned then. Her last trip, aguna maida bash bakhoda meant good afternoon. This time, we were told praise the Lord. Did something get lost in translation, you think? I love language.

We stayed at the shop for maybe half an hour, then we headed back to Tungamalenga Camp in the good old landrover. We all got back, sat down under the mango tree and talked until dark (and dark in Tanzania is dark). Then we said goodnight to them all, went to have our dinner, and just crashed in our rooms after the long, but very good day. I really enjoyed being there when nothing was really set to happen, we could just wander along at our own pace, and see people living their real lives, not trying to make everything perfect for the wazungu (white people). I feel very grateful for the experiences and memories I have been given by this day in Tungamalenga: sad ones, and happy ones, discouraging ones, and yet hopeful ones. It is something I will not forget.

My Day Not On Safari: Part III

We drove to Isanga, another preaching point nearby. Isanga is a mix of Hehe, Bena and Masai tribes, and the chapel they worship in is just a bit bigger than my bedroom (i.e., not very big at all). There were five girls there who were afraid to go back to Idodi Secondary School after the fire. That disaster had to happen when students were preparing to take their national exams. After the fire the school was closed for three weeks and students were sent back home. But there was hope at Isanga, too. We saw the piles of bricks they planned to use to build a house for the evangelist there, which is something of great need. We didn't stay too long there, but we sang, we prayed, gave gifts and recieved gifts. The whole trip seems to be one big act of humbly accepting gifts from our Tanzanian partners, whether they are tangible gifts or not.

After that we drove back to Tungamalenga for lunch at the parish hall. Alice, a primary school teacher who also helped prepare lunch, asked me, "Emmy, how many Swahili words did you learn today?" I confessed I hadn't practiced during our drive. The only person I wasn't afraid to make linguistic mistakes in front of was our translator, who was asleep most of the ride. Alice and I always practiced though. I felt kind of proud because when people would be talking in Swahili, I would sometimes understand the gist of the conversation, not just a few random words. Progress!

After we ate, Mom and I learned another language. We already knew basic greetings in Swahili, Masai and Hehe, and now it was time for Barabeig. One of our traveling companions was a young evangelist named Alex, a member of the Barabeig tribe. He came over to our table and at Mom's request taught us a few words in the language. I can't even explain how hilarious our lesson was. Alex only speaks Barabeig and Swahili, and Pastor Paulo next to us only Masai and Swahili, so we enlisted the help of Alice's husband Barnabas, clinical officer of the village dispensary, who was on the other side of the room, to translate for us. Here's how the conversation went: Alex would say a phrase (aguna maida bash bakhoda), Mom would say, "What? Say it again?" Alex wouldn't understand, Barnabas would repeat her question in Swahili, then Alex would say it again slower (a-gu-na ma-i-da bash ba-kho-da), Mom and I would say it back again (aguna maida bash...?), he'd correct us, Mom would exclaim, "Ooh, let me write this down!" and Pastor Paulo and I would look at each other, laughing and laughing. Repeat all this for maybe 20 minutes (with different Barabeig words of course), and you have one of my highlights of the trip. Alex was so nice and patient with us, too, firmly shaking our hands when we said something right. As a matter of fact, he seemed in slight disbelief that we were trying at all. It's nice to find out that language can be a bridge and not a barrier.