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| This new Christmas song was an instant favorite the very first time our talented friend, Jamie Soles ( from Grande Prairie, AB Canada) gave an advanced preview of it on our piano--two years before he recorded it. He left the music with us, and we ( Jacob - bass, Jessa -tenor an octave up, Annah- alto and I- soprano/melody) sang it Christmas 2006. There are some songs you love to sing...this is one of those.
The song's simple phrasing captures the heart and mind, while the melody and harmonies touch a deep chord that resonates with a profound sense of joy. Jamie has encapsulated the beautiful message of Christ's birth in few words....allowing the imagination to take musical flight, filling in the details that we all know and love so well.
I'd share more, but why don't you just click on the play button and judge for yourself? (Shared here with artist's permission...please respect his copyright.)
Son [From the Weight of Glory album, 2007]
Joseph, Mary, nine months, carried
Census, senseless, we must go Travel, painful, comfort, hopeful
No room, what now?
One place more Barnyard, pungent, cattle, manger
What a time to be a stranger Dark night, starlight, shepherds, big fright
Angels! Bright light! Good news tonight!   Master, Saviour, Promised Deliverer
Humbled, veiled, God Most High Redemption, salvation, adoption, new creation
Propitiation, God's own Son Songs will always ring
From those who've left their wandering
And found rest, true rest
God's own Son © Jamie Soles Nov 28 1996
Prince of Peace" (c)1983 Diana Moses Botkin
Used by permission If you enjoyed it as much as I do, won't you take a few minutes to drop a line of encouragement to Jamie and his family (his wife and several children sing harmony)? So often we are blessed by music or writing, but rarely share how meaningful and encouraging someone's creative efforts have been. You can purchase the song or entire album from iTunes or directly from Jamie's website. And I highly recommend ALL his music. You can preview the full scope of his work at the link given above. Not only does he write delightful songs for children with strong, clear Biblical truths, but he is an incredibly versatile artist and talented guitarist. He mixes a number of styles/genres of music...blues, jazz, folk, rock. His music will appeal to adults also, with lyrics that are thoughtful, true, edifying to the listener and glorifying to God. Jamie, Val and family - thank you so much for sharing your talent in such a godly, encouraging way. You are a continual blessing to our family!
The poignant print of the Christ-child (shared by artist's permission) is an original creation of Diana Moses Botkin, a talented artist and personal acquaintance of mine -- who just happens to be running a special on her 'Renaissance' line of prints! Buy 2, get 1 free (+ free shipping on orders over $50 until 12/15/08). Contact her for more info. | | |
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(Performed by Caleigh. Please click on the play arrow above to start music - it's so beautifully done)
Four years ago in April, just days before my father passed away,
repairs on his father's fiddle were finally complete. It had been
damaged for some time and had lain mute for many years as Grandpa Nick's fingers became too gnarled with arthritis to play. I have the vague memories of a three- or four-year-old child -- of Grandpa playing a little tune for his beloved grandchildren, his "luptke tosheks" (Polish for "little hearts") despite the pain in his hands and weariness from
a long, hot day in the blacksmith shop. No one else in the family
played violin, so it had sat silent within its case for many years even before Grandpa died in 1989.
That night, Daddy cradled the restored fiddle in his hands, emotion welling up as
he remembered his father, knowing he would soon see him once again.
My sister's close friend, Lenore Siems, a member of the celtic group 'Caleigh' [KAY-lee], played 'Ashokan Farewell' on Grandpa's fiddle. (And yes, she has been crying her eyes out like the rest of us...her nose is not normally such a vibrant, glowing red!)
While she played, my parents
danced their last waltz together in the living room to the poignant melody. Dad, barely able to
move his swollen feet and legs, sported the silken 'fancy pants' boxers
that were soft against his ultra-tender skin. 
Tears flowed freely as children, children-in-law and
grandchildren witnessed this poignant expression of my parents' loving
partnership throughout life, together facing the upcoming
separation in that courageously beautiful final dance. Emotions raged within me...a keen sense of honor and privilege to share in this bonding moment as a
family but aware, also, that we intruded into their intimate expression of oneness and devotion.
Long days and wakeful nights of pain followed before Daddy slipped into unconsciousness and finally entered into the glorious presence of God on April 15, 2004, carried on the echoes of our praise songs that morning. I sat by his side and held his hand as his spirit slipped away with a last long exhale.
Peace be with you, Daddy. I miss you so much. You fought a hard fight and, ever the educator, you taught us lesson after lesson until you had no voice left -- but showed, by example, the meaning of courage and forebearance until the very end.
Once again, Ashokan Farewell floated from Grandpa Nick's fiddle at Dad's 'Celebration of Life', played by Lenore and accompanied on the piano by my eldest, Jessica (age 14 at that time). I stood at the back of the church, holding my 17-month-old baby, who patted at my tears with chubby hands and hugged my neck to give sweet baby comforts to a grieving heart.
For many, many months I could not hear this song without a flood of tears. Four years later, I am left with a bittersweet ache as I listen to its beautifully haunting melody, skillfully performed here by the ladies of Caleigh.
Our daughter, Susannah, age 14, has since learned to play violin and has recently begun to fiddle. She just played 'Ashokan Farewell' on Saturday night at the Scenic Six Fiddle Show in Potlatch, Idaho and brought back a flood of memories, which prompted this post.
Someday she may give her great-Grandpa Nick's fiddle a voice once again. I long to hear it sing out...a vibrant testimony to the interconnectedness of generations and the eternal bond of family.
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| [These recollections, begun August 2006, were finished following the death of John's mom on December 9, 2007. Time presses ever on and I needed to capture these memories before they fade. It was written for Uncle Dick and Aunt Phyllis, so they would understand how much our visit to the homestead meant to me.]
My family is well acquainted with ‘hand-me-downs’ of all sorts. Raising a family of five children made it impractical to invest in separate wardrobes for each child at every size. Besides, there were special outfits at every stage that I particularly loved and couldn’t wait until it fit the next child. I sewed some for holidays or occasions, while others were a tangible connection to special people…in particular the coats sewn by my paternal grandmother for my sister and me when we were tots. My mother lovingly tucked these into the cedar chest, bringing them out when my babies arrived to wrap yet another generation in warmth and love. For us, ‘hand-me-downs’ are not worn and scorned items, but old friends connected with our family history. They mark various events and ages with a string of memories forever attached as firmly as the tag at the neckline. But a hand-me-down of a different sort marks the summer of 2006, when my three youngest daughters and I visited the Bauer homestead for the first time and received a little hand-me-down heritage.
After touring the Illinois countryside--mile after mile of cornfields spotted by houses (translation: I took a wrong turn and got lost), we were several hours late after lingering longer than expected at the Franklin Creek Heritage Village described in detail elsewhere. Though I had met John’s uncles and aunts once, shortly after our marriage nearly 21 years ago, and we had exchanged Christmas letters over the years, for all practical purposes we were unacquainted. Uncle Dick /Aunt Phyllis Bauer and Uncle Daryl/Aunt Joan (Jo-Anne) Eckland were sitting in the shade by the back door, waiting our arrival. Aunt Phyllis and Aunt Joan came to greet us as Sarah, Annah and I ‘waded’ into the sauna that is Illinois in July, the thick verdant air heavy after air-conditioned comfort. I extracted a soggy, sleeping Esther from her car seat. We sat and visited while she continued her much-needed nap in my arms. Soon she opened drowsy eyes, took in her surroundings, spied the dog, and that was it…she was re-charged and ready to go.
 Uncle Dick was eager to begin the grand tour and ushered us all into
the trailer hitched behind his golf cart. The cart enabled him to care
for the critters on the farm, despite encroaching years and ill
health. First stop was the pygmy goat pen, where we watched the young kids frisking about in their adorably hyper fashion. The nanny goats showed eager interest in the ‘treats’ -- wheat crackers. Giggling, the girls shared in the snack when Uncle Dick offered the open box and then nibbled on a cracker himself.
 Next, we stopped at the stone placed in memory of John’s father, Robert Bauer. In keeping with his brother’s request, Uncle Dick scattered Dad’s ashes across the fields surrounding the homestead. But I suspect his passion to preserve family history compelled him to erect a permanent tribute to Dad’s life, so he placed a memorial stone there among the flower beds.
As I snapped photos of my children around the memorial, I was so grateful for this tangible link to the grandfather they never knew. Even though Dad was not ‘there’ (not that a person buried in a plot is really ‘there’ any longer), having these special places provides a sense of connection to past generations, a bond to one’s family heritage. While Sarah (6) and Esther (3) simply viewed it as another posed photo with pretty flowers and a stately, polished stone, Susannah was pensive, reflecting on her unknown grandpa. And I ached anew that my children have grown up without the tangible love and hugs of Grandpa Bob, experiencing his life only through the remembrances of others.
The mood lightened as we visited the sheep and miniature donkeys. They, too, loved wheat crackers – the universal snack. Uncle Dick obviously enjoyed his hobby farm, and had a real affection for his animals. After observing my laying hens, or even the neighbor’s alpacas, I understand the magnetic draw of quietly observing animals, learning their individual personalities and quirks, marveling at the amazing and varied creatures our Loving Father created, and enjoying the quiet moment to ponder and muse. The modern world cannot comprehend this, caught up in the frantic pace that characterizes life in our time, the cacophony of the accompanying soundtrack making quiet reflection nearly impossible.
 Piling back into the trailer, we hit to the next point of interest…and probably the most memorable part of our Illinois trip for me. The trailer stopped before the old barn, built by the children’s great, great, great grandfather, John H. Bauer, when he homesteaded the farm.
 Standing in the dusty entry, looking at the walls filled with farming ‘stuff’ collected over the years, I found myself blinking through tears for the second time that day, experiencing another profound connection to the past. Did the man have any inkling, as he labored within these walls--caring for his livestock, putting up hay in stifling humid heat, faithfully laboring to provide for his family--that his descendents would stand here on the threshold in hushed awe, five generations later?
We stepped inside to experience this mute testimony to his life and labor, senses a-tingle. Maybe I am far too romantic and sentimental, but the realization that my children’s great, great, great grandpa John stood here and worked, sweated, worried or mused while watching his animals in a quiet moment was profound. Reflections swirled within and touched chords of emotion. I thought of each successive generation; they also had labored within these walls…great-great-Grandpa George, great-Grandpa Howard, Grandpa Bob, and my children’s father, John. Do those who have grown up in its shadow, who possess this wonderful link to the past, experience the same sense of awe, or are they inoculated against it by proximity and familiarity?
The wagon frame, though old, was not ‘family owned’. The bent wood arch on the front belonged to the settlers who founded the town of Mendota, Illinois. But Uncle Dick drew our attention to a sledge tucked underneath, a orange extension cord impertinently draped over one runner. It looked monstrously heavy, solid, immovable. That very sledge was used to haul logs to build the primitive settlers’ cabin for young John Bauer, the usual dwelling of newcomers as they established their farms in this untamed land of opportunity. Of course, my little girls’ eyes open wide with acknowledgement; they had stood in just such a cabin earlier that day in the Heritage Village. Suddenly their family history came zooming into focus. A handle of understanding was grasped as they made the connection to the past.
We also admired an old black cutter…in sad shape, but still sporting the lovely, gracefully curving runners and front. Aunt Joan has one of the lanterns that George hung on it when he went a-courtin.’ Looking at antiques from yesteryear is interesting, but gazing on things once used by your ancestors goes beyond interesting and borders on numiscient. Nearby sat a wheelbarrow and old hand tools, nearly passed usefulness. Things cherished and valued not for intrinsic worth, but because who’s hands had used them.
We viewed the site where the old log settler cabin had sat, no trace left except the flourishing clump of lilac bushes nearby. Uncle Dick informed us that priorities of early settlers ran something like this: build cabin, build privy, plant a lilac. Apparently everyone planted a lilac by their privy!! [The next morning we dug up a small lilac shoot so I could transplant a bit of the homestead in Idaho, but it didn’t survive the long trip back in the stifling car trunk. However, I plan to make another attempt on our next visit, or will plead with John’s brother Denny to dig me a shoot and ship it to me next spring.] We also saw the place where the lovely Victorian house had stood before it burned to the ground when Grandpa Bob was a baby. All that remains are old photos of the gracious home and stories passed along by those who had lived there.
 Our last stop was the garage. Nothing noteworthy downstairs, but up the narrow stairs on the back wall was a true treasure. There, kept company by two rows of vintage clothing from various estate sales, sat the battered old immigrant chest of my children’s great-great-great- grandmother, Kunigunda (it almost sounds African!) Here stood a dusty but solid, tangible testimony to the brave spirit and determination that prompted the journey from Germany to America, their hopes for a better life nestled around the worldly possessions of Kunigunda and her sister. I had the girls perch on the chest for photos with Uncle Dick…and cherished the moment. Then the girls started playing dress-up with all the clothes…funny clown wigs, dusty frocks and fun hats.
 Finally, Uncle Dick points to an old, beaten up wooden swivel chair. It was Grandpa Howard’s favorite desk chair as he worked on the Bauer and Mueller genealogies. It is in sad shape, missing back spindles, splattered with paint and tilted askew, but I would have carted it home in a minute if I could have secured it to the roof of my Lincoln sedan. Instead I brought home photos of his chair to add to my memories of the only meeting we had before Grandpa Howard died.
 We enjoyed a quick snack inside, then Aunt Joan whirled us off to see the burial places of those who built the homestead we had just toured. It was a poignant moment to stand before the bold ‘BAUER’ on the polished granite tombstones. Susannah in particular was pensive and a little sad that we did not have flowers, so she strolled about, looking for dandelions to put by the stones. Alas, the grounds were too well-cared for and offered no bright spots of yellow.
 Soon, we stopped off to visit Aunt Mildred Truckenbrod and see her lovely garden. I had never met Aunt Mildred…hadn’t even known there WAS an Aunt Mildred. Actually I had heard her married name but never made the connection. Apparently she and John’s dad had not seen eye-to-eye and so there was little contact between their two families, though John remembers playing with his cousins when he came to visit Grandpa Howard and Grandma Ivy in the summers. Aunt Mildred was delightful and seemed to take pleasure in our admiration of her flower beds. Then Annie hit her with an odd question: could she pick some flowers for her great-great-great- grandparents grave? Somewhat bemused at the quaint request, Aunt Mildred helped the girls gather a lovely bouquet before we left, then we backtracked to the cemetery in the growing twilight to leave this small token of respect.
After stopping at Joan’s place to say ‘hello’ to Uncle Daryl and see the house Grandpa Howard and Grandma Ivy moved into when Uncle Dick took over the homestead farm), we turned the car back to Uncle Dick and Aunt Phyllis’ place.
We had only meant to spend the day and return to Sycamore early that evening. But it was growing late and Uncle Dick and Aunt Phyllis pressed us to stay the night. Assured that it was not an imposition, or at least a welcomed one, we agreed to stay. The Littles were so excited! Each of us was issued a T-shirt to sleep in, and we made use of the travel toothbrushes stowed in the car’s jockey box for these types of ‘just in case’ moments. It was a delightful visit and we frittered away the next day with visiting, looking through old pictures and talking. Uncle Dick ‘gifted’ the girls with ceramic figurines and other mementos of their visit, and we headed north as the afternoon drew to a close, taking lovely memories home with us and hopefully leaving the same behind with John’s family.
©2007 Photos and reflections by Paula Bauer (wife of John Howard Bauer – great, great, grandson of John H. Bauer 1818 - 1903) upon her first visit to the Bauer Family Homestead with her three youngest children, Susannah Faye (12), Sarah Grace (6) and Esther Elizabeth (3) on July 13-14, 2006.
Writing begun in August 2006, completed December 2007.
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| Esther, eager for her Saturday morning bagel, was stretching to reach the toaster.
"Hey Toot! Can I assist you?"
Taking the bagel, I pop it into the toaster for her.
"Mom, what does 'assist' mean?' asks the perplexed four-year-old.
"Oh," I chuckle, "that's another word for 'help'."
(We encourage vocabulary building in our house...the consequences of a very verbal mother.)
Big sissy Susannah pipes up in her best pedagogical tones, "And...that's why I am called... a sister!"
ba-da-boom
ROTFLOL
Good one, Annie....and oh so true!
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| Last night I sat and visited with my husband as he labored on the
latest 'honey-do' project - a rotating compost barrel for my gardening
endeavors.
The smell of the acetylene welding torch, the
familiar weld flash lighting the shop with white-hot light, the odor of
hot metal all transported me back to childhood.
I remember
watching with wide-eyed fascination as Grandpa Nick, a blacksmith, and
Dad did these same tasks, with hats turned backwards before it was
'cool.' Once again I reveled in the delightful shower of glowing
sparks--mini-fireworks-- though the smell of hot metal and the grimey
surroundings were hardly festive.
This mental picture of yesteryear triggered a wave of emotion as I
remembered, and missed, these two 'giants' in my life. Tears were
accompanied by thankfulness and respect...my own giant of a man shares
the same ability to fabricate and fix about anything.
God bless strong, capable men!
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