Japanese New Year's Celebration Season

by Jean Henry Mead

Among New Year's celebrations around the world, the Japanese shōgatsu is one of the longest in duration. The New Year is celebrated on January 1, but the holiday continues well into January. Just as we prepare for Christmas and Thanksgiving, the Japanese take their holiday preparations seriously, especially New Year's Eve, which is known as Omisoka.

Buddhist temples around the country ring their bells a total of 108 times on New Year’s Eve to symbolize the 108 human sins and to rid themselves of the 108 worldly desires. A major attraction is “The Watched Night Bell” in Tokyo, which is reminiscent of the Times Square ball drop. The Japanese believe that the ringing of bells can rid them of their sins of the previous year. After the bells stop ringing, they celebrate and feast on soba noodles.

The New Year season is also celebrated with a special selection of food called osechirvori, or osechi, which consists of boiled seaweed, fish cakes, chesnuts, sweet potatoes, burdock roots and sweetened black soybeans. Another popular dish is ozoni, a mocha rice cake, which is often eaten with sushi and later a seven herb rice soup that is prepared on Jimijitsu, the seventh day of January.

Japanese post offices are their busiest during the end of December and beginning of January, due to the country’s custom of sending postcards called nengjo. Like our oun custom of sending Christmas cards, the postcards are delivered on New Year’s Day. However, the cards are not sent if someone in the family has died during the year. Instead, a simple postcard called mochyyn hgaski is sent to friends and relatives.

Children are customarily given money on New Year’s Day, which is handed out in small decorated envelopes called pochibukuro, which are similar to the Chinese red envelopes and the Scottish handsel. The custom, called otoshidama, began during the Edo period when large stores and wealthy families gave children small bags of mochi, a boiled, sticky rice cake topped with a a slice of Mandarin orange. The amount of money they receive depends on the child’s age but has been known to exceed $120 U.S.

The custom of giving mochi is a dangerous one because it has caused a number of chocking deaths, especially in the elderly. The death toll from eating mochi is reported annually in newspapers following the New Year, yet the custom continues.

Games are also part of the New Year’s celebration, including kite flying, or hanetsuki, and a game called sugoaroku, fukunwarai, which resembles our “Pin the Tail on the Donkey,” using paper facial parts to tack blindfolded to a wall. Other entertainment includes TV programming, which pits members of two teams of popular music artists against each other.

Another Japanese New Year's tradition is poetry, including haiku, a 17 syllable verse, as well as renga, or linked poetry. Some haiku celebrates a number of “firsts” for the New Year, including the first sunrise, first laughter and first dream. And before sunrise on January 1, people often climb a mountain or drive to the coast to watch the first sunrise of the new year while others visit a shrine after midnight.

Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony is played throughout Japan during the New Year’s season, often accompanied by a chorus. The symphony was introduced by German prisoners of war during World War 1, and was first played by the renowned NHK Symphony Orchestra in 1925. The Imperial government encouraged performances of the symphony during the Second World War, especially on New Year’s Eve, to promote Japanese nationalism because, at that time, Germany was an ally. The symphony became a tradition after the war and continues to this day.

No matter how you plan to celebrate the New Year, I hope that 2012 is the happiest and most successful ever!

Spell Check Can't Save You

By Mark W. Danielson

Ever find a typo in a published book? Most people have, and if it’s in your book, you’re mortified. How does it happen? Simple -- computers have made writing so easy that we get lazy. We are so used to reading and writing at the speed of technology that we tend to miss things. The up side is we can type at our thought’s pace. The down side it errors are easily induced.

If you’re like most authors, you use Spell Check and Grammar Check to proof your work. But what happens if your words are spelled correctly and are grammatically correct, but the wrong one was used? Then there’s a good chance it may come out something like this:

“What do you mean he’s dead?” she screamed. “He said he was heeled!” After saying that, she collapsed over his body and wrapped her arm around his waste, feeling the last of its warmth.

The doctor tried consoling her, but she pushed him away. Her actions shouldn’t have phased him, but instead they peeked his interest. “Wear were you when this happened?”

“In bed, of course. He swore he was fine, that the stitches wouldn’t rip, that it was okay to make love. But soon he screamed in pain. I wanted to poor him some water, but he declined. When he winced again, I called 911 and told them their wasn’t a second to lose. Oh, God, what will I do without him?”

“I’m not sure, but you need to weight outside. I’m very sorry for your loss.”

Without claiming this to be great dialogue, it does provide an example of ate dictionary words that sound the same, but are not the intended word. Subconsciously, it’s easy to induce errors, and while most are easily discovered, others sneak in like ants. As you can see, the wrong word can create entirely different images from those intended.

But incorrect words can also be the result of typos or mistakes, and Spell and Grammar Checks probably won’t save you on these. One book I recently finished contained several such errors. In one case, the character is firmly gripping another’s hand demanding he “Sweat it!” Certainly, the intended word was “Swear”, but the error remained. Bummer. The next mistake in this book involved naming the wrong President. The timing and all previous references were of Nixon and Johnson and the author certainly meant to name Nixon, but instead Reagan appeared on the printed page. As Rick Perry would say, Oops.

Writing is easy, but creating an error-free novel seems next to impossible. The solution? Once everything is finalized, find yourself a good proof reader who has never seen your work before. Then, and only then, do you have a chance at submitting an error-free manuscript. Happy hunting.

The season of cheer?

OK, for the purposes of this aside on the festivities, let’s leave kids out of the equation. Christmas for them is different. Never mind that the Star of Bethlehem doesn’t move nearly as fast as the flashes from their magnums as they play the kindergarten equivalent of Grand Theft Auto – there are sparkly things everywhere, a huge tree is suddenly growing and twinkling inside the house and the fat guy with the red gear is on his way. My cynicism about it all is barely disguised but I genuinely am happy that it makes kids happy.

But this isn’t about the kids’ Christmas (or the Christmas for genuine believers, which, again, I acknowledge is something different and something special). This is about Christmas for heathens such as me and even those heathens who still pay lip-service to the notion that it’s somehow connected with a religious faith.

I used to get angry about the whole thing – all the enforced jollity, the contagion of Santa’s ‘Ho-ho-ho’. I found it sad that people were nice to one another just because it was Christmas and couldn’t see that it would be good to be like that right through the year. Why not be happy, caring and ho-ho-ho-ish because it’s Tuesday or October or late afternoon? I didn’t like the profits made from crap goods that wouldn’t even last until bedtime. I couldn’t see the point of sending a card to someone ‘because they’d sent one to you’. I was the guy wandering amongst all the ever-so-jolly adverts, listening to Bing Crosby, George Michael, Wizzard and Slade belting out their singalongs in all the shops and muttering ‘Bah humbug’ at every opportunity. I was the pre-ghosts Scrooge minus his miserliness.

Then, lo, it came to pass (several years ago, actually) that the scales fell from my eyes and I realised what I’d known all along – that’s it’s the festival of Godot. Waiting for Godot is about all sorts of things. It’s bleak and yet very funny, it’s simultaneously theatrical and anti-theatrical, and it sums up marvellously how we live our lives. I want everyone who reads this to have a wonderful happy time, so I won’t stress (well, not much, anyway) the essential self-deception of waiting for something which never happens, but that’s what Christmas is. The anticipation begins earlier and earlier each year – and that’s marvellous, because there’s a feeling of direction, purpose, a reason to do particular things. The excitement and magic is a daily experience, through late October, November, December.

The mistake is to assume it’s building up TO something. It’s not. Nothing could match the build-up, so Christmas Day arrives, then goes. And almost at once the newspapers start including supplements about summer holidays. Philip Larkin’s poem Next, Please is a powerful evocation of our Waiting for Godot lives and, although it’s not about Christmas, it encapsulates the season. I’m not going to quote it because its truth (for an unbeliever) may seem uncomfortable (and for a believer, it’s just plain wrong).

And no, I’m not just being a miserable old bugger. I’m having a good time. I like the excitement, the gaudiness, the superficial impression that everything’s OK really. I love the wonder in the faces of the younger kids and the naked, smiling acquisitiveness of the older kids who’ve learned how to work the system. And I actually think it’s a shame that, in the USA, for some reason, the bluff, complex cheer of the greeting ‘Merry Christmas’ has been replaced by the bland ‘Happy Holidays’.

But I really, really do want everyone (of all faiths or none) to have a great time. So please do.

Geezer-lit Mysteries

This is my first posting as a new member of Murderous Musings, so let me introduce myself. I’m Mike Befeler, and I write the Paul Jacobson Geezer-lit Mystery series, which includes Retirement Homes Are Murder, Living with Your Kids Is Murder and Senior Moments Are Murder. The fourth book in the series is under contract with my publisher and will appear December, 2012, and is titled, Cruising in Your Eighties Is Murder. I’m always interested in what readers think of the word “geezer.” I’ve had debates with some fellow authors who don’t like the word, but I use it in an affectionate not derogatory fashion because I’m a geezer-in-training. My protagonist is in his mid-eighties with short-term memory loss, has a good sense of humor and can laugh at his predicament. He may have this adversity of old age but is still an active and contributing citizen. So my advice to everyone is to embrace your inner geezer. Thanks to Mark Danielson and Chester Campbell for inviting me to join this blog.

A Christmas Wish

Christmas is upon us. Glory to God in the highest. Peace on Earth is my Christmas wish to everyone, regardless of their religion. Over the past two weeks I have traveled halfway around the world and back and have seen frantic shoppers everywhere trying to make last minute preparations for their family celebrations. As the hours fly by, it's easy to forget the significance of this holiday. The birth of Christianity. The Son of God, delivered to us. I'm not the most religious person on the planet, but the principles that came with Christ's birth apply to everyone in everyday life, not just at Christmas. If we learn to respect one another, to accept each other with all of our faults and differences, then peace on Earth is possible. During this holiday season, take a moment to tell everyone you know how much they mean to you, and enjoy the blessings that have been sent your way. I speak for all of us on the Musings staff when I say, have a very Merry Christmas.

2011--What a year!

by Carola Dunn

So much has happened in my life in the past year, not just in the world of books, but I'll stick to that world here.


My 20th Daisy Dalrymple Mystery, Anthem for Doomed Youth, came out in the spring, in both the US and the UK, and later in large print.

UK

US

Large print

First 6 are mine

My UK publisher set up signings for me at Heffers, the Cambridge University bookstore, and Hatchard's, the 200+ year-old book shop in London. That shop had been there for nearly 20 years already at the beginning of the Regency, the period I used to write about. It makes an appearance in at least one of my books. Believe me that was a thrill, especially when my UK editor sent me a photo of my books featured in their window.



The 19th Daisy mystery, Sheer Folly, came out in paperback.

 

 

 

 

Two of my Regencies came out in large print.

large print

e-book

original paperback

[I can't get them all to go on the same line!]

Large print

e-book

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

And all my Regencies, which have been available as e-books for years, at last made their appearance on Amazon, for Kindle. Considering how long ago I wrote them, sales have been amazing.

What a year!

Oh, Danny Boy

by Jaden Terrell

In 2004, my father-in-law, Dan Hicks, was diagnosed with Alzheimer's. It's a disease sometimes called "the long, slow goodbye." It's a thief, and a cruel one at that, stealing memories, independence, and even the ability to carry on a conversation. It makes children of grown men and women, turns spouses and children into caretakers. What it cannot do is vanquish love.

Dan was a quiet man. It's a trait shared by both his sons, who bide their time until exactly the right moment, then say exactly the right thing at exactly the right time. None of them have ever been much for small talk.

Case in point: Mike and I were once in a grocery store buying chips and soda for a get-together at our house. The man behind us said to Mike, "Are you guys having a party?"

There was a long silence. I smiled at the man and looked at Mike, not wanting to be one of those pushy wives who answer for their spouses. More silence. The man shifted uncomfortably, gave me an embarrassed smile. Finally, I answered the question and we had a brief conversation. As Mike and I were walking back to our car, I said, "What do you do when I'm not here?"

He said, "What do you mean?"

"That man. He asked you if you were having a party."

"Oh that." He shrugged. "He didn't really want to know."

Over the years, Thelma, my sister-in-law Nikki, and I would shake our heads over it. "Those Hicks men," we would say, and laugh. They were three of a kind: men of few words, but also strong men of dignity and kindness. Men who would come out in a thunderstorm to fix your flat tire, who dropped you off at the door when the weather was bad, even though they knew you wouldn't melt and wouldn't have minded walking across the parking lot in the rain.

Dan's quietness helped him cover for his diminishing intellect. Those first few years, he could follow a conversation fairly well, inserting an occasional apt comment, even making the occasional joke. As the disease progressed, his jokes became simpler.

"How are you?" I would ask.

"Still here," he would say, with his old smile. It was an answer with layers of meaning. Still here. Still alive. Still me.

A few years ago, Thelma bought him a powderpuff Chinese Crested puppy. Dan fell in love with the pup and named it after himself and after his favorite song: Danny Boy. The family had begin a tradition of meeting weekly at a nearby Sir Pizza, and Dan would fret, "Do you think my little puppy is going be all right? . . . We'd better get back home and take care of my little puppy."

Always a man of few words, those words became fewer and fewer. Still, he would reach across and straighten Thelma's collar or pluck at a stray thread. Those Hicks men. Always taking care of the ones they love. Even when he could not remember her name, he remembered her.

She kept him at home and cared for him as he became less and less her partner and more and more her child. His daughter, Rene, says it was Dan's gentle nature that made that possible. Yes, he was stubborn (those Hicks men!), but his easygoing nature made him easier to care for. But I also think his love for Thelma carried him. She was his anchor and his lifeline. When he didn't remember himself, he remembered her.

It was hard to watch him slip away. It was just as hard to watch Thelma lose her best friend and life mate, little by little and inch by inch. When they married, she was sixteen and he was nineteen. Her older sister, Lucille, signed the papers allowing her to marry, and for fifty-three years, they loved each other. Raised three children. Loved four grandchildren. Welcomed their children's spouses as if we were their own.

At 2 AM on December 16, just four days before his 73rd birthday, Dan passed away. His daughter, Rene, gave the eulogy. It was a brave and loving thing to do, and I admire her for it. She painted a picture of a loving father who taught his children to swim and to love roller coasters, whose quiet humor blessed their lives, whose pride in his service in the Marine Corps inspired one son and whose love of hiking and photography inspired another.

I once read a quote in a Jewish prayer book. It said that every act of kindness contributes to the goodness in the world and that these acts of kindness live on forever, long after those who committed them are gone. It was about acts of goodness done by common men and women, whose names will never be in history books but whose lives touch other lives like ripples in a pond.

Dan Hicks, you made the world a better place. And now...the pipes, the pipes are calling.

You will be missed.