Latest Episodes for this Channel
Sat December 20 2008
Choral favorite which retells the famous poetic memoir by Welsh
poet Dylan Thomas. Commissioned by the Harmonium Choral Society,
Dr. Anne Matlack, Mus...
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Choral favorite which retells the famous poetic memoir by Welsh
poet Dylan Thomas. Commissioned by the Harmonium Choral Society,
Dr. Anne Matlack, Music Director, and composed by Matthew Harris.
For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_Explorations.xml; or visit
http://www.sustainyourspirit....
read more
Choral favorite which retells the famous poetic memoir by Welsh
poet Dylan Thomas. Commissioned by the Harmonium Choral Society,
Dr. Anne Matlack, Music Director, and composed by Matthew Harris.
For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_Explorations.xml; or visit
http://www.sustainyourspirit.com.
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Wed April 25 2007
For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_E...
read more
For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_Explorations.xml; or visit
http://www.sustainyourspirit.com. One Christmas Was So Much Like
Another in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of
all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes
hear a moment before sleep, th...
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For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_Explorations.xml; or visit
http://www.sustainyourspirit.com. One Christmas Was So Much Like
Another in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of
all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes
hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it
snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it
snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six. All the
Christmases roll down toward the two-tongued sea, like a cold and
headlong moon bundling down the sky that was our street; and they
stop at the rim of the iceedged fish-freezing waves, and I plunge
my hands in the snow and bring out whatever I can find. In goes my
hand into that wool-white bell-tongued ball of holidays resting at
the rim of the carol-singing sea, and out come Mrs. Prothero and
the firemen.
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Wed April 25 2007
For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_E...
read more
For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_Explorations.xml; or visit
http://www.sustainyourspirit.com. Fire! cried Mrs. Prothero, and
she beat the dinner-gong. And we ran down the garden, with the
snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was
pouring out of the dining-room, ...
read more
For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_Explorations.xml; or visit
http://www.sustainyourspirit.com. Fire! cried Mrs. Prothero, and
she beat the dinner-gong. And we ran down the garden, with the
snowballs in our arms, toward the house; and smoke, indeed, was
pouring out of the dining-room, and the gong was bombilating, and
Mrs. Prothero was announcing ruin like a town crier in Pompeii.
Something was burning all right; perhaps it was Mr. Prothero, who
always slept there after midday dinner with a newspaper over his
face. But he was standing in the middle of the room, saying, A fine
Christmas! and smacking at the smoke with a slipper. Call the fire
brigade, cried Mrs. Prothero as she beat the gong. They won t be
there, said Mr. Prothero, It s Christmas. There was no fire to be
seen, only clouds of smoke and Mr. Prothero standing in the middle
of them, waving his slipper as though he were conducting. Do
something, he said. And we threw all our snowballs into the smoke I
think we missed Mr. Prothero and ran out of the house to the
telephone box. Let s call the police as well, Jim said. And the
ambulance. And Ernie Jenkins, he likes fires. But we only called
the fire brigade, and soon the fire engine came and three tall men
in helmets brought a hose into the house and Mr. Prothero got out
just in time before they turned it on. Nobody could have had a
noisier Christmas Eve. And when the firemen turned off the hose and
were standing in the wet, smoky room, Jim s Aunt, Miss Prothero,
came downstairs and peered in at them. Jim and I waited, very
quietly, to hear what she would say to them. She said the right
thing, always. She looked at the three tall firemen in their
shining helmets, standing among the smoke and cinders and
dissolving snowballs, and she said, Would you like anything to
read?
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Wed April 25 2007
For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_E...
read more
For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_Explorations.xml; or visit
http://www.sustainyourspirit.com. Years and years ago, when I was a
boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of
red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we
sang and wallowed all night ...
read more
For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_Explorations.xml; or visit
http://www.sustainyourspirit.com. Years and years ago, when I was a
boy, when there were wolves in Wales, and birds the color of
red-flannel petticoats whisked past the harp-shaped hills, when we
sang and wallowed all night and day in caves that smelt like Sunday
afternoons in damp front farmhouse parlors, when we rode the daft
and happy hills bareback, it snowed and it snowed. But here a small
boy says: It snowed last year, too. I made a snow-man and my
brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we
had tea. But that was not the same snow, I say. Our snow was not
only shaken from whitewash buckets down the sky, it came shawling
out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands
and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the
houses like a pure and grandfather moss, minutely ivied the walls
and settled on the postman, opening the gate, like a dumb, numb
thunderstorm of white, torn Christmas cards.
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Wed April 25 2007
For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_E...
read more
For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_Explorations.xml; or visit
http://www.sustainyourspirit.com. And then the presents? There were
the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and
mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like
silky gum that could be t...
read more
For more music by Harmonium Choral Society, search "Choral
Explorations" in the iTunes podcast section, or visit
http://www.gcast.com/u/jabez/Choral_Explorations.xml; or visit
http://www.sustainyourspirit.com. And then the presents? There were
the Useful Presents: engulfing mufflers of the old coach days, and
mittens made for giant sloths; zebra scarfs of a substance like
silky gum that could be tug-o -warred down to the galoshes;
blinding tam-o -shanters like patchwork tea cozies and bunny-suited
busbies and balaclavas for victims of head-shrinking tribes; from
aunts who always wore wool next to the skin there were mustached
and rasping vests that made you wonder why the aunts had any skin
left at all; and once I had a little crocheted nose bag from an
aunt now, alas, no longer whinnying with us. And pictureless books
in which small boys, though warned with quotations not to, would
skate on Farmer Giles pond and did and drowned; and books that told
me everything about the wasp, except why.
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