Lift Up Your Hearts!

It's been a while since we paid college tuition (though the loans linger on), and even longer since we paid for private schooling pre-college (Heather's kindergarten and first grade years), but the desire to compare the cost of a trip to Antarctica to other forms of education led me to some shocking discoveries.

The educational system in America, like the health care system, is in terrible shape.  Don't get me wrong.  I have yet to be convinced that the situation is better in any other country, and the number of people who flock here from overseas, both to our doctors and to our schools, is ample evidence that I'm not the only one.

What's more, anyone who knows me knows my strong belief that the solution to neither problem lies in more governmental funding and/or control (it's always "and," anyway), but rather in more freedom of choice.  Despite my passionate thoughts on the value of home education, the three-fold cord of public, private, and home education is much stronger than any one of them separately.  Equally important is always to be thinking outside the box, and that (at long last) brings me to the heart of this post:  the cost of education.

The per-student cost of public education is not an easy figure to calculate, since (1) it varies from district to district and (2) school boards aren't always eager to make the figures readily available.  I did find that Fairfax County, Virginia calculates its average annual cost per student as about $13,500.  I'm not sure this has much meaning other than to depress those who are paying for private or home education on top of the taxes necessary to foot such a bill, but I offer it for what it's worth.

I surveyed the tuition costs of six private schools:  one Catholic (C), one "Classical Christian" (CC), one "other Protestant" (OP), and three elite private boarding schools (EPB).  Note:  the numbers are approximate, but accurate enough.  Some figures reflected this year, and some next, so I did some rounding.  Also, tuition isn't everything—I added the cost of a required annual "fee" of nearly $1000 to the tuition figure of the Classical Christian school, though for the other schools the fees were minor and I ignored them.  The elite schools have two figures, because there are two classes of students: day and boarding (boarding figures in parentheses).  In all cases I considered high school tuition.  (Lower schools usually charge less.)  So, for each year of private high school education, you will pay (scholarships excepted):

• C: $9,000 if you're Catholic; $12,000 if you're not, or not active in your parish
• OP: $9000
• CC: $10,000
• EPB1: $24,000 ($38,000)
• EPB2: $29,000 ($37,000)
• EPB3: $29,000 ($39,000)

For comparison, a year at Harvard University (tuition, room, board, fees) is about $46,000.

I'm not questioning anyone's decision to spend that kind of money on their children's schooling.  Those we know who have chosen these options (and we know people in all categories) are convinced that this is a worthwhile investment for their children: socially, spiritually, academically, and even financially.  (One parent credits his son's Classical Christian education with the "free ride" given him by a highly-ranked private university, and it's hard to argue that spending $40,000 to save $140,000 is unwise!  Not that that happens to everyone.)

The more I learn, the more I'm convinced that the wise expenditure of money on education before college is more important than saving for college itself.  But these numbers rattled me, and I fling them out as a challenge to all parents who have chosen public or home education for their families.  (I wish we'd thought of it this way during our homeschooling days.)

If these parents can sacrifice so much to send their children to private schools—and I know of no one for whom such costs are not a significant burden—what can the rest of us do?  (I realize these schools offer scholarships, and not every student is paying the full price, but many are, and I believe that includes most of the people we know.)  Just think about it!  Field trips (aka family vacations), museum memberships, opera tickets, laboratory equipment, books, videos, musical instruments, special classes—think what can be done for $10,000 - $40,000 per year!

I like my customized Google News page, the keyhole through which I see not only major world and U.S. stories, but also the latest news on specific topics of particular interest to me, such as home birth, home education, and Basel, Switzerland.  That's how I occasionally come upon little gems I'd never find otherwise, such as Homeschooling Grows Up, an article from today's Catoosa County News.  Have you ever  heard of the Catoosa County News?  How about Catoosa County itself?  Me, neither.  (It's in Georgia.)

Not that the article says anything spectacular or new to those already in the home education field, but it caught my eye because of a conversation I had recently with Janet, in which she noted that in her lifetime home education has gone from being considered extremely counter-cultural to being so common some people homeschool simply because that's what's expected of them, at least in their own circle of friends.  It's hard for me to imagine the latter, but apparently in places it's true.  I can't get too upset by that—I don't see it as being any worse than sending your kids to public school because "that's what's done"—but admit it does pose some risks as the pool expands.

Be that as it may, Homeschooling Grows Up struck me as a nice summary of the diversity of homeschooling experiences available today.

We've heard the story for years, how Grandma's cousin was captain of an icebreaker and had a place in Antarctica named for him.  But is it Truth or Tapioca?  Thanks to the Australian Antarctic Data Center and the U.S.G.S. Geographic Names Information System, we now have Evidence! (Click here for an interactive map.)

Feature Name:	Porters Pinnacles
Class:	Island
Latitude:	713300S
Longitude:	0990900W
Description:	A group of low ice-covered rocks forming a menace to navigation along the N coast of Thurston Island, located about 4 mi N of the E extremity of Glacier Bight. Discovered by the USN Bellingshausen Sea Expedition in February 1960, and named for Cdr. Philip W. Porter, Jr., USN, commander of the icebreaker USS Glacier which made this discovery.

I know you're all waiting to hear of our most recent adventures in Switzerland, but I've been catching up on blog reading (over 100), which resulted in yesterday's post, and e-mail (also over 100), which inspired this one.

Most of my readers, I suspect, are familiar with Randy Pausch, the CMU professor whose inspirational "final lecture" has been making the Internet rounds for months.  If you're not, I recommend listening to the entire recording, but some may prefer the much shorter "reprise" featured on Oprah.  (The latter is also grandchild-safe, as far as I recall—not that they would sit still long enough to catch the few mildly offensive words in the CMU version.)  Thanks are due to my friend LJ, whose e-mail to me of the Oprah version brought this all back to mind, and incidentally led me to one more Randy Pausch lecture, this one on time management.  (If you listen to that one first, you will probably opt for the Oprah version of the other lecture.  )  Most of what Pausch has to say is not new, but the purpose of such talks is more inspiration than information, and at that Pausch is a master.  If you're as frustrated as I was at not being able to see the PowerPoint slides he refers to, you'll be happy to know they're available here.

Unrelated side note:  For those of you who know BF, our friend from choir—note the many similarities in looks, voice, speaking style, and gestures!

Humor is a funny thing.  Laughter may be the best medicine, but it can also wound deeply.  John Stackhouse addresses this issue thoughtfully in his post, Why No One Here Is Laughing at My Jokes.  While lecturing in India, he discovered that all his standard jokes fell flat with his Indian audience, except amongst those who had been educated in the West.  Only when he switched to more obvious, I Love Lucy-style joking did the others respond.

Their humour, it seems, is straight on the nose, big smiles telegraphing the punch line, with no ambiguity: That’s a joke. Ours, instead, comes at you sideways, no smile, with a dash of bitters. Oh, yeah: I get it.

The experience caused him to reconsider his own joking.

Friends have warned me...that people near me, whom I want to stay near me and to enjoy being near me, are frequently uncomfortable with me just because they’re not quite sure what I mean by that. And not knowing means not feeling safe. And nobody likes to feel unsafe....

So some of my students are wary of me. Some of my colleagues keep a certain distance. And some of my family members wonder—if only for a second—whether I really love them.

That’s a pretty big price to pay for trying to be humorous.

Humor has indeed taken a dark turn in recent years.  Even children's movies must have a cynical (or sexual) twist, to entertain parents while purportedly going over the heads of the children.  Walt Disney would be appalled at what now passes for humor at his theme parks, where even the guests are insulted by pattering cast members.  Family members and friends routinely disrespect each other, verbally and physically.  All in the name of a joke.  This is not new behavior, but it does seem to be more widespread, and accepted, than ever.

The root of the problem is not, however, simply I Love Lucy versus Frasier.  Like Stackhouse, I prefer cleverness, wit, wordplay and irony to slapstick.  It's not a specific genre of comedy that I find disturbing; anyone who has watched the Three Stooges knows how cruel the latter can be.  Rather, to paraphrase a line from Randall Garrett's marvellous Lord Darcy mysteries, black humor is a matter of symbolism and intent.  If we would not give offense, it is important to know both ourselves and our audience.

What is my intent?  Does my supposed humor mask real hate, anger, or contempt in my heart?  If so, the victim is sure to detect it.  Worse, hearers who harbor similar feelings will be encouraged in their sin.

What about the audience?  The physical and mental sparring that might strengthen some would crush others.  To trade insults and even blows is a well-accepted form of bonding, especially among males; whether this is overall beneficial or harmful I'm not in a position to judge, though I have my suspicions.  An appreciation of such humor requires a certain security, emotional stability, and self-confidence that I'm not sure we have a right to assume.  To joke about fat people with those who struggle with weight issues, mental illness among those who've fought depression for years, or brain death to one who has ever faced life-support decisions is to deliver a potentially devastating blow.

I would not have all humor crippled by a fear of "political incorrectness," but love and decency require that at the very least we not ignore the circumstances and personalities of those with whom we jest.

I always get depressed when guests leave. Those who know me know also that I am basically an introvert and am energized by solitude and by being at home. But that in no way lessens the empty feeling when company leaves. I mean good company, of course, but we've never had any other kind. We truly enjoyed Stephan's brief visit and are looking forward to spending more time with him at the Maggie P. this summer. So I deal with my depression by writing. It's healthier than some choices, even if it only worsens the time pressure I'm also dealing with.

Not that this is anything new, but I've decided that love and growth are inextricably intertwined with risk and pain, and each new opportunity comes with mixed joy and sorrow. I love the new ideas, knowledge, viewpoints, and friendships Janet is gaining from her overseas experiences—and that we are gaining, also. But with that comes the inescapable truth that she is planting roots a long distance from home, and developing a heart that can never again be monocultural without pain and loss.

Ah, well—it's been a long time since most people were born, lived and died in the same town, and we enjoyed the benefits (as well as the tribulations) of several generations living together. Now, at least, we have e-mail and inexpensive phone communication and not-impossibly-expensive plane fares to ease the sting a bit. And Skype. Stephan introduced us to Skype this weekend. I hadn't been enthusiastic about it before, since our phone calls to Switzerland are only six cents per minute and we can use our regular phones. But Skype can handle video, and it was so good to see Janet's face! Something tells me I need to invest in a camera for the computer (Janet said it wasn't expensive, even in Switzerland)—and convince the Daleys to do the same. :)

I'm trying to clean up my office.  There's too much stuff that needs attending to, and it's getting lost in the paper shuffle.

Unfortunately, one of the things that needs attending to happens to be my sample ballot for the upcoming Florida presidential primary.  It inspired me to go online and try again to find help deciding for whom to vote.  Now that was depressing.  I suppose it doesn't matter, because the Democratic National Committee has chosen to play the bully and not count our votes. (They're still sore over 2000, I guess.)  What hurts so much that it's hard to think about is how opposed all of the Democratic candidates are, in their stated positions, to so many things I hold dear.  What I once believed to be the party of the little people seems bent on being the party of big government, big unions, big education, and big medicine—the bullies that are pushing around the little people I know.  "Litmus tests" on the issues are of questionable value, but it's hard to see all the candidates failing all of them.  Sigh.  I can't say I'm impressed by any of the Republicans, either, but some of them at least give lip service in favor of my positions.  So I could always cast my primary vote hoping to put forth the least electable candidate.  If I could figure out who that was.

Clinton the First wasn't as bad as he threatened to be, partly because it seems one must be extreme while campaigning, and partly because Congressional opposition kept him from accomplishing all his goals.  Perhaps my best hope is a similar stalemate.

There's always the temptation to set up a Bush - Clinton - Bush - Clinton - Bush line of presidents (all different people).  :)

I have over 200 e-mails in my inbox, and though sometimes I can deal with a lot quickly when I put my mind to it, progress came to a screeching halt when I'm confronted with one from my brother, alerting me to the FreeRice vocabulary game.  It's a simple, multiple-choice vocabulary quiz that adjusts to one's abilities, making it suitable for a wide range of players.  For each correct answer, 20 grains of rice are donated (funded by advertising on the site) to the United Nations World Food Program.  All at one site: good turn, mental workout, and addictive distraction.

This game is particularly useful when there are so many other things you need to be doing that your mind can't concentrate on any of them.  :)  In my introductory session, I spent about half an hour and got up to Level 49 (of 50) and 3300 grains of rice.  This is much better than the Reader's Digest "Word Power" for challenging me.

The fun at the higher levels was in noting the many different ways I was able to get the correct answer.  Some I guessed from word roots and endings, some from similarities to others words.  Others I knew outright from a wide variety of sources:  Swallows and Amazons books, A.W.A.D., hobbies, Peter Wimsey mysteries, you name it.  My sister pointed out that a number of the words can be found in Ruth Heller's children's books (though they are by no means children's words).

And for my sister-in-law (the one who will know what I'm talking about), I present the word that made me stop playing and write this post:  geoduck!

I manged to get fairly quickly to Level 50, which is currently the highest (they are working on adding more words), but it's difficult to stay there, since a single wrong answer causes a one-level demotion that requires three correct responses to reverse.

If you plan to play the game with any regularity, you'll want to click on the Options link and set it up to remember your vocabulary level and amount of rice donated.  The default is to start anew each time, so my first session's level and more than 3000 rice grains were forgotten.  But it didn't take me long to recover, and now stand at over 5000.  I wonder how much rice that is?  I'm not about to go to the pantry and count to find out.  I'd rather earn and learn some more....

But I won't now; it's time to get back to work.  But geoduck...heh...that's great.

Uncle Vine, digging geoducks in Washington

After spending a much longer time than planned in Daytona Beach (see Part 1), I began the return drive with a great longing for home, a simple meal, a cup of hot tea, and something indulgent in the way of mental activity.  I did get them all, eventually, though much later than planned.

I was nearly to Sanford when the car suddenly bucked; I can't think of a better word to describe it.  It continued to drive without apparent difficulty, but with a rather strained noise apparently coming from the engine.  At that point I realized that, though it's possible I might have been able to drive home, (1) I could be doing damage to the car that would make repair impossible or at least significantly more expensive, and (2) if I pulled over soon there was room to get well off the road, whereas if I continued further towards the city I might break down on a bridge, or in some other difficult spot—and in rush-hour traffic.  So I pulled off onto the grass and noted that the engine sounded fine as long as I wasn't moving.  Reluctantly, I turned the engine off, not knowing if it would start again, though it didn't matter because I'd already made the decision to call AAA.

While I was still on the phone, a truck with flashing lights pulled up behind me.  Thanks to the AAA lady, I felt free to roll down my window and speak with the Road Ranger. I had no idea Florida provided this service.  The Road Rangers constantly patrol major highways, looking for motorists in trouble, and offer simple help such as changing tires, providing gasoline and water, and making phone calls—all for no charge.  Since AAA was sending a tow truck, I needed none of these services, but gladly accepted his offer to stay with me until the truck came. Since that turned out to be more than an hour, and the day turned from dusk to night, and I was a woman travelling alone, I was especially grateful.  The Ranger was friendly and interesting to chat with.  I knew he was one of that rare species, and Florida native, from the way he pronounced "Deland":  DEE-land, not Duh-LAND.  He could have made a commercial for AAA, saying that in his business he's discovered just how valuable their services are.  They are safer and more dependable, in his experience, than competing services, and just one incident can pay for the year's membership.

I was certainly grateful for our AAA membership, even though my call took over an hour to bear fruit, despite being given priority status due to my position on the side of a major Interstate, and even though my clearly-stated report of my position (the Ranger bore me witness) was lost in translation so the tow truck wasted 15 minutes by looking for me in the wrong place.  I had expected to have the car taken to our mechanic, then to get home somehow; at least the late hour meant a better choice of friends to call for assistance.  Insead, the AAA person suggested what she called a "continuous tow," which meant having the car (and me) taken home, then calling AAA again in the morning and having the car taken to the mechanic then.  A much better idea, especially since it only counts as one service call.

So I arrived home, albeit several hours later than planned.  There's nothing to complain about, really:  I'm thankful that I was able to control the car and drive it to a safe place; for having a fully charged cell phone (I'd thought in the morning that charging it would be unnecessary, but decided to do it anyway, "just in case"); for our AAA membership; and for the prompt and friendly Road Ranger.  And one more thing:  Remember the desire, mentioned above, for something indulgent in the way of mental activity?  The day's mail brought the latest World of Puzzles magazine....

Despite having started the day at 4:45, it was well after 11 p.m. before I made it to bed, partly because of my puzzle indulgence, and partly because there were a few things that just had to be done, no matter how exhausted I felt. 

This morning, as planned, AAA took the car to Blue Book.  That worked smoothly, but Jim's call soon confirmed my fears.  Superficially things looked fine, but a test drive revealed the bad news:  Our darling Geo Prizm had transmission failure, repair cost estimate of $1200-$1500, more if the differential is also involved. "If you can't afford to buy a new car, sure, we'll fix it—but I recommend against it.  A $400 repair every six months or a year is cheap rent, but when you get a single repair that's worth more than the value of the car...."  Why did this happen?  "Bad luck and old age."  He's only seen the problem once before, on another Toyota from the late 80s or early 90s.

I firmly believe in the adage, "Love people, use things."  The car was 16 years old (ours for 10 of those), with high mileage (well over 100,000 miles; I'll look up the number when I go tomorrow to clean it out), and has owed us nothing for quite a while.  It seems particularly petty to mourn its loss when still in mouring for the loss of a person.  Nonetheless, I did love that little car.  It was small, handy, nice to drive, and has many memories associated with it—and I tend to be a sentimental person.  Not to mention the fact that I hate car shopping!  And all the time and decisions and phone calls and paperwork associated with it. 

R.I.P., little car.  You carried us well through many years and states. 

It's just as well Heather and Jon's next automotive need will be for a van, since we managed to finish this one off before passing it on.  The air conditioning still works, too! 

The day began with the sound of the alarm at 4:45 a.m.  Normally I don't have trouble awakening in the morning, even at that hour, but for some reason it was hard this time, which perhaps signaled what the rest of the day had in store.

I exaggerate a bit.  It could have been much worse.

The predawn drive to the airport went well, and I had a few hours to try to tackle the work that piled up over a very busy weekend.  Okay, let's be honest; there's plenty of work still piled up from end-of-the-year days spent enjoying myself out of town, not to mention all that comes with setting up a new computer...but that which accrued over the weekend would have been sufficient.

The main even of the day, or so I thought, was attendance at the interment of my aunt.  (Funeral-related activities were part of what had made an already-busy weekend seem a bit stretched.)  This required a drive to Daytona Beach, so I decided to go early and take advantage of the fact that the library, with its genealogical resources,  is less than 10 minutes away from the cemetery.  I didn't make any finds of note, but did get to know its resources a little better.

It was a lovely day, sunny and cool, and the ceremony was brief.  The grief that always accompanies loss was mitigated by a number of factors: my aunt was less than a month shy of her 90th birthday, had lived a long and satisfying life, and was sure of her hope of heaven; my cousins had the burden of all the arrangements; and best of all it was an reason to get together with people whom we don't see often enough, including some we seem to be in the habit of seeing only every 19 years.  The fact that they live in Costa Rica is no excuse for people who seem to have recently developed the habit of travelling the world to visit family.  Compared with Japan and Switzerland, Costa Rica is practically next door.

It seems odd to say that the day went downhill from there, but it did.  First was negotiations with the cemetery people over gravestones.  This particular cemetery is under new management, the previous owner now being incarcerated himself, not in a tomb but in a prison cell, due to certain business irregularities such as misplaced bodies.  Apparently two of the missing ones ended up in our family plot.  There must be few things more disconcerting than getting such a call from the cemetery:  "We're terribly sorry, but we won't be able to bury your loved one in her own grave, next to her husband, as planned; our investigations have revealed that that spot is already occupied."  A solution was found—there was an empty spot nearby—but one can only hope that the new management is doing a better job.

I was part of the gravestone meeting because my mother is buried there (I hope!) and there is a spot reserved for my father (free of other bodies; they checked), and we are trying to clean up the mess the previous owners made of everything—stones broken or missing, not to mention the extra, unknown bodies (not just one but two were found).  All in all it was a very distasteful process.  Perhaps they hope not to scare people away by the large price tag, but I think it was worse to have it come piecemeal.  $2300 for this, $1300 for that, $600 here, another $600 there, every time we turned or asked another question there was another fee.  And the rules!  A casket or urn is not sufficient; each must be put, not directly into the ground, but into a buried vault.  The vault is labelled and sealed, so perhaps the hope is to avoid further misplacement of bodies, but it does conjure up the image of Yucca Mountain more than peaceful decay and reintegration with the elements of the earth.

Thanks to my genealogy work, I have a newly-acquired appreciation for gravestones and the information inscribed thereon,  and as I have grown older, I've come to understand the value of symbols.  Our loved ones can be (and are) remembered and honored anywhere, but it is good to have a particular place where those activities are focused.  Nonetheless, this day's activities have me leaning more than ever towards having my name inscribed on the existing monument (in a different cemetery) and my ashes scattered if they can't be buried in something more permeable than a heavy metal vault.  In any case I see the value of making such decisions, if possible, before they are dumped on our heirs.

This day was long enough I think it deserves to be split into two posts.... 

Today's Hi and Lois, not true for us, but too close for comfort.  Good thing Janet's earning her money in CHF.

A long time ago (in computer years), we were told that the best way to extend laptop battery life was

• Always do a full, complete charge/discharge cycle; never do partial charges/discharges.
• Always charge the battery with the computer off.
• Take the battery out of the laptop when running on A/C power.

There must have been something valuable about this advice, because our IBM Thinkpad R31 battery is six years old, and only recently has shown signs of deteriorating—and that after we had begun being a little careless with the above procedure, though at that age it may have been coincidence.  Searching around on the Internet I find that people even today seem to be happy with a three-year battery life.

However, I'm sure technology has changed, and I'm wondering if the recommendations have.  The instructions that came with my new computer recommend the full charge/discharge cycle, but say nothing about keeping the machine off while charging.  Although they don't deal with the issue directly, they seem to assume the battery will be in at all times, even when using A/C power.  They do suggest removing the battery if the computer will be off "for an extended period of time" (whatever that is) when on the road, to prevent battery power from draining.

Looking online, I can find (as one might expect) every possible variation on (1) the original advice, above; (2) everything has changed and you don't need to do any of that anymore; and (3) some of it is still helpful, but not enough so to be worth the hassle.  One piece of information I didn't know is that there is a power meter in the battery itself, which is calibrated by full charge—full discharge—full charge, which is why it's important to do that when the battery is new, and perhaps every 30 days thereafter.

With this new machine, I'm inclined to leave the battery in most of the time and not worry about it, after the initial calibration, but anyone else's experience, knowledge, and suggestions would be appreciated.

Orlando set a record low high yesterday, meaning the high of 49 degrees was the lowest ever recorded for January 2.  A hard freeze was forcast for last night (mid to upper 20's for several hours) so we took the standard precautions:  covered the plants (with their precious tomatoes, peppers, and new blossoms), turned the pool pump on, set the outside faucets on trickle, and set the recycled water to spray the grapefruit tree.  (Let me tell you, the water which I would have otherwise called very cold felt positively tropical on my hands, compared with the air.)  It must not have been as bad as predicted, however, because the temperature on our back porch was a hair over 40 degrees at 5:30 this morning.  The plants seem to have survived, even though there were spectacular icicles on the grapefruit tree through most of the morning.

I've been making soup stock, enjoying the peculiar situation in which I can have the oven and stove on for hours and not make any obvious difference in the warmth of the kitchen.  Soup-making is a cold-weather sport, and this has been our first opportunity this year to enjoy it. 

I'll write in further detail about my wonderful Christmas present from Porter, the outcome of the debate detailed in this post.  But while reading the Safety and Warranty Guide for my new computer, I came upon this admonition and could go no further without reporting it:

Do not operate your computer inside furniture, as this might increase the risk of overheating. 

My mind boggled trying to imagine what piece of furniture I might wish to be inside, even if I could imagine how to get there.  I finally decided this must be a very generic booklet that doesn't realize this is a laptop computer—after all, it did also tell me to keep the cover closed whenever the computer is plugged in.

Porter, of course, is amazed that I am actually reading the booklets—well, most of them.  I'm skipping some of the more boring details, and the parts that are in French.  I did observe that a "Notice for users in the U.S.A." warns, "Handling the cord on this product or cords associated with accessories sold with this product will expose you to lead, a chemical known to the State of California to cause cancer, and birth defects or other reproductive harm.  Wash hands after handling."  Users in other countries are safe, one could conclude.  The computer was manufactured in China, so maybe there's some truth behind a friend's joking remark that China is sending us lead-painted toys as part of a secret military effort to impair our children's brains. 

Okay, back to reading. I do miss the days when computers were shipped with several thick manuals one could curl up with before turning them on, but I'll have to do so soon because most of the manual appears to be located on the hard drive, which is kind of hard to curl up with. Especially inside furniture.

You haven't lived until you've been awakened at precisely 6:30 Christmas morning to the glorious strains of O Come, All Ye Faithful on the clarinet just outside your bedroom door!  And very nicely played I must say.