the goose is getting fat

Christmas is coming, the goose is getting fat
Please to put a penny in an old man's hat
If you haven't got a penny, a ha' penny will do,
If you haven't got a ha' penny, God bless you

Notes:
1. ha’penny = ellision of halfpenny (It’s an English song)
2. the ambiguity of "then God bless you":
a) if you haven’t got a ha’penny, you must be worse off than the old man, so you’re in need of God’s blessing;
b) a statement meant to make you feel guilty because you’re being blessed anyway, even though you’re not sparing even a ha’penny

This song comes to you courtesy of Miss Bazak’s grade four class of 1977. I believe I could recount pretty much every song we learned in music class that year. It’s quite possible that it is forever imprinted in my memory, folksy songs domestic and foreign, such as:

“Land of the Silver Birch” (the one with the drums)

Land of the silver birch, home of the beaver,
Where still the mighty moose wanders at will,
Blue lake and rocky shore, I will return once more,
Boom-da-da-boom-boom, Boom-da-da-boom-boom,
Boom-da-da-boom-boom-boom…
Boom boom


(the one about the goat)
One day a goat was feeling fine,
Ate three red shirts right off the line,
Jack took a stick, gave him a whack,
And tied him on a railroad track.
Sing adios! But not good-bye,
That goat was down, but not to die
He gave one yell, as though in pain,
Coughed up those shirts, and flagged the train!

(I had to do a quick Google search for everything but the first line and final couplet; I had no idea there were so many variations! Sometimes it’s Bill’s goat, sometimes Jack’s; sometimes it’s two shirts, sometimes three. Poor old goat.)


“Ting-a-lay-o” (the one about the donkey)

Ting-a-lay-o, come, little donkey, come,
Ting-a-lay-o, come, little donkey, come.

My donkey eat, my donkey sleep,
My donkey kick with his two hind feet,
Ting-a-lay-o, come little donkey, come,
Ting-a-lay-o, come, little donkey, come.

My donkey walk, my donkey talk,
My donkey eat with a knife and fork,
Ting-a-lay-o, come little donkey, come,
Ting-a-lay-o, come, little donkey, come.

(That was the version we learned, but here’s an extended one.)

They could almost fill a K-Tel “greatest hits of grade 4” collection. Or maybe they should be combined with the ones I remember from Mrs. Piché’s grade 5 music instruction: “You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown,” and the one whose title I don’t remember, but the words are, “A nice young ma-wa-wan lived on a hi-wi-will, a nice young ma-wa-wan, for I knew him we-we-well. To ma rattle to ma roo ra ree.” (That's a right cheery one, about a man who dies of a snake bite.)

Well, we made it through November, and Christmas is coming, and the goose is getting fat. This goose certainly is, at any rate. We haven’t even entered Christmas celebrations proper yet, and I may already have consumed my own weight in chocolate. Woe is me. Sears had a sale on their Lindt chocolate a few weeks ago – thus began the difficulty. (Thanks, Perry, for reminding me how good Lindt Swiss milk chocolate can be.) The trouble with the Lindt bars was compounded by the fact that I made fudge for Jason’s Grey Cup party held at Barry’s place (that's an anecdotal footnote in itself). OK, technically I wouldn’t have had to eat any myself, right, but I felt I owed it to Jason or Barry or whoever ultimately organized the event, to do some sampling – strictly for quality assurance purposes, understand.

Anyway, I’ve been reading friends’ blog posts about Christmas preparations, and I am truly put to shame. Dec 1 is the day that CFAM traditionally used to begin broadcasting Christmas carols—although perhaps they’ve given in like everybody else and now begin to play them right after Halloween. I haven’t even listened to my Elvis Christmas collection yet. (I’m not 100% certain I know where it is in my office jumble, but that’s beside the point.)

Well, I do have good – not great – intentions. Truth be told, however, the only decorating I’ve done this far is limited to the main floor powder room. I splurged on a dispenser of Body Shop Cranberry liquid hand soap (“sweet, fruity, and festive” proclaims its label). I think $12 is a ridiculous price. I could buy 6 Ivory liquid hand soap dispensers for that price, or 4 refill-sized bottles. Yet the sales guy was rakishly handsome in a young skateboarding dude kind of way, with longish bangs. He was very smooth, very subtle: no high-pressure sales techniques with him. He agreed with my assessment that $12 was pricey. He appealed to my feminine side which likes to indulge in frivolities by suggesting that one needs to spoil oneself every once in a while. He offered that I could test it over at their makeshift sink. (Hey, he had me at the agreeing part!) The guy is probably a psychology major—or a conflict resolution practitioner.

I should mention that there actually was a second perfectly legitimate reason why I wanted a new hand soap for the main floor washroom. The sink is rounded—I’ve never seen a pedestal sink quite so voluptuous (as sinks go)—and the soap ledge curves downwards rather sharply, so that my usual liquid soap bottle is prone to tip over.

So that’s all for decorating so far. Oh, wait, I’m using a forest green towel to contrast with the deep claret of the cranberry soap. Might get a tree when I return from my Winnipeg visit. I’m thinking the cats will try to climb it, shred it, eat it, or all three—but maybe not. I’ve done a practice run of lights on our silk ficus trees the last two years in the apartment, and that doesn’t seem to have troubled them. I’ll have to scope out the sales upon my return.