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Sounds of childhood
Science tells us that smell is the sense most keenly tied to memory, but as a lifelong allergy sufferer, I've personally never found that to be true. My memories are tied most firmly to sounds, often in surprising ways.
Christmas in south Florida is a strange experience--I think this is the fourth year that I've joined my brother and his family for a Florida Christmas, but it still never feels like Christmas. It's just an odd time of year when there's decorations, small children wired on sugar and a gift exchange ritual.
This Christmas eve we decided to attend mass, the first time the girls had been in church since Camila's baptism. For most of my adult life I've only gone to mass when the occasion demanded it--weddings, funerals, baptisms, and escorting elderly family members. But as the priest spoke the opening blessing I was filled with a wave of nostalgia and longing. It wasn't the experience of mass but the sound of his voice. He spoke with the accent and cadence of a Kerryman, and I was immediately swept back to my childhood--the sound of my grandparents and their friends, and the mysterious folks who appeared at major holidays, whose connections with the family I never quite understood. Second cousins, godchildren, neighbors who'd grown up in the same town in Ireland, and a woman that had once lived in the same apartment house but was still considered family decades later, they filled my grandmother's house at the holidays, and gathered in the corners to share news of home.
Then, on Christmas Day, my brother unveiled his newest acquisition--an electric carving knife. As he revved it up before carving the turkey, I exclaimed, "You know what that is? It's the sound of every Sunday dinner at Outlook Avenue." He revved the knife again, and immediately agreed.
The electric carving knife was a very big deal when I was a kid, which was still the era of roast beef for Sunday dinner. (Unless, of course, there was a turkey. In the Sullivan family turkey was the meal of choice for special occasions, even in the summer.) But whatever the meat, each time the electric carving knife was ceremoniously brought out, and as the meat was carved, I'd be helping my grandmother carrying bowls of food into the dining room. Just hearing that sound made me feel as if I closed my eyes I'd be magically transported to her kitchen.
Other people remember the smell of pumpkin pie, or how the scent of fresh baked cookies filled the house. Me? I'm remembering the soft lilt of my grandparents' voices, and the way they called my name.
Christmas in south Florida is a strange experience--I think this is the fourth year that I've joined my brother and his family for a Florida Christmas, but it still never feels like Christmas. It's just an odd time of year when there's decorations, small children wired on sugar and a gift exchange ritual.
This Christmas eve we decided to attend mass, the first time the girls had been in church since Camila's baptism. For most of my adult life I've only gone to mass when the occasion demanded it--weddings, funerals, baptisms, and escorting elderly family members. But as the priest spoke the opening blessing I was filled with a wave of nostalgia and longing. It wasn't the experience of mass but the sound of his voice. He spoke with the accent and cadence of a Kerryman, and I was immediately swept back to my childhood--the sound of my grandparents and their friends, and the mysterious folks who appeared at major holidays, whose connections with the family I never quite understood. Second cousins, godchildren, neighbors who'd grown up in the same town in Ireland, and a woman that had once lived in the same apartment house but was still considered family decades later, they filled my grandmother's house at the holidays, and gathered in the corners to share news of home.
Then, on Christmas Day, my brother unveiled his newest acquisition--an electric carving knife. As he revved it up before carving the turkey, I exclaimed, "You know what that is? It's the sound of every Sunday dinner at Outlook Avenue." He revved the knife again, and immediately agreed.
The electric carving knife was a very big deal when I was a kid, which was still the era of roast beef for Sunday dinner. (Unless, of course, there was a turkey. In the Sullivan family turkey was the meal of choice for special occasions, even in the summer.) But whatever the meat, each time the electric carving knife was ceremoniously brought out, and as the meat was carved, I'd be helping my grandmother carrying bowls of food into the dining room. Just hearing that sound made me feel as if I closed my eyes I'd be magically transported to her kitchen.
Other people remember the smell of pumpkin pie, or how the scent of fresh baked cookies filled the house. Me? I'm remembering the soft lilt of my grandparents' voices, and the way they called my name.
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The Boar's Head Carol, though, is almost impossible to find.
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The boar's head in hand I bring
Bedecked with [something] and rosemary!
And I pray you, my masters, merry be,
Quod estis in convivio!
I can't remember the rest of the words, alas. I think it goes on in Latin for a bit ...
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Do you sing S or A?
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That's what I sing now, too, but I've bounced around a lot over the years, everywhere from first soprano to tenor (!). I find I'm smarter when I'm not singing first soprano, for some reason ... ;^)
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Is the rarest dish in all the land!
is another bit...
("Rarest" in this case, of course meaning "finest," since there's no reason the head would be any rarer than the rest of the boar.) and yes, lots of Latin. and really should be sung by a baritone, no?
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The boar's head in hand bring I, (Or: The boar's head in hand bear I,)
Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary.
I pray you, my masters, be merry (Or: And I pray you, my masters, merry be)
Quot estis in convivio (Translation: As many as are in the feast)
CHORUS
Caput apri defero (Translation: The boar's head I offer)
Reddens laudes Domino (Translation: Giving praises to the Lord)
The boar's head, as I understand,
Is the rarest dish in all this land,
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland
Let us servire cantico. (Translation: Let us serve with a song)
CHORUS
Our steward hath provided this
In honour of the King of Bliss;
Which, on this day to be served is
In Reginensi atrio. (Translation: In the Queen's hall)
CHORUS
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My favourite is this one:
Psallite unigenito
Christo, Dei Filio,
Psallite Redemptori,
Domino, puerulo
jacenti in praesepio.
Ein kleines Kindelein liegt in dem Krippelein.
Alle lieben Engelein dienen dem Kindelein
und singen ihm fein.
Psallite unigenito...
I also like
In dulci jubilo,
Nun singet und seid froh!
Alle unsre Wonne
Liegt in praesepio;
Sie leuchtet wie die Sonne
Matris in gremio.
Alpha es et O!
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