Perhaps it is time to rethink the Big Holidays of the year. The adornments of these days have almost suffocated the richness and joy these days once held.
The thought of one more slice of a beautifully smoked, cooked and decorated ham is daunting, the scalloped potatoes have found a welcoming home, and nary a stick of asparagus survived. My poor old system is still working overtime to rid my system of too much candy. So much mandatory fuss and rush.
The pussy willows I picked along Russia Road, for some reason hold something of the mystery of the season. Fresh spring air mixes with the salty air wafting up from the bay. The sun is still gentle on the skin.
This has been a sad time around here. Chocolate bunnies won't fill the void.
Cottage life has perhaps become the true place of ritual and celebration. The profound rests in simplicity.
An uncle holds his frightened niece as the thunder roars. A child picks a teacup full of wild strawberries. A rebellious daughter finds some peace as she paddles solo around the point. The weary get a chance for an afternoon nap. Everyone looks forward to supper on the shore with a big bonfire.
In days gone by, celebrations and feasts broke the neverending, unchanging days of hard work and an endless sameness to food and routine.
Today, for many, it is difficult to escape the whirling, world of Everything Now.
There needs to be a time to all sit together and just gaze at the stars.
Monday 25 April 2011
Friday 22 April 2011
Long Ago Easters
Those long ago Easters of childhood, seem so long ago, they have gained a mythic patina.
Good Friday was a day of black and navy blue. A Last Supper with wine and bread was sacred, even to my tea totalling grandmother. There was hiding in gardens, betrayal for money. One person was guilty, a people were guilty, and they tried to convince me, my little self was guilty. This was all happening for my sake. A day of graves and tombs and stones and blood and tears. Bodies crucified. A body washed by women. Sweet smells of fragrant oils. I don't quite remember how vinegar fit in, but most things that my mother was involved with involved vinegar. In our house it was also the day of hot crossed buns.
Saturday things were different. There were eggs to be boiled or blown, then coloured, construction paper tulips, daffodils, and lilies to be made. Extended family seemed to extend even farther. Adult talk was preoccupied with scalloped potatoes, ham to be picked up, pickles and olives. The house filled with flowers, especially Easter Lilies, though both my parents maintained they hated them. Personally I was drawn to the bright orange stamens whose pollen could stain almost anything temporarily, especially fingers. The day ended with an extra long Saturday night bath.
The fuss about clothing was over. Because Easter was at the end of a ten day school holiday, the trip to Eatons, in the city, had already taken place. New good shoes, new spring coat, new white socks, new white cotton underwear and white gloves. Grandma spent much time fussing about sewing matching dresses, for my cousin and me. My cousin's dress would be of a delicate hue. Mine, in the same style, was more likely a deep green or substantial rust, as I was prone to spilling. To top it all off, both figuratively and in reality was an Easter bonnet with an elastic string to keep it from slipping or being blowing off.
Year after year, the little boys had the same grey short pants, grey wool knee socks, brown polished oxfords, white shirts with plaid ties and a blue blazer with brass buttons.
Easter morning was what all the excitement was about. Brightly coloured baskets filled with green raffia, waited to be filled with candy the Easter Bunny had left. There was always a large creamed egg with a yellow centre, covered in chocolate. Laura Secord helped the bunny with these specific eggs. The smaller candy varied from year to year - jelly beans for sure, sometimes harder candy eggs that were a challenge for little teeth. They tasted of sugar and food dye. Sometimes the bunny left a hollow chocolate, bunny in a box, or a fancifully decorated chocolate egg with pink roses. These eggs were personally inscribed with our names, and protected with cellophane tied with a ribbon. One year, the bunny left me a small china teacup, another year there were coloured real rabbits' feet for luck sometimes stuffed real baby chicks with metal legs. The stuffed chicks and ducks were alarming. Each year we stopped in front of a florists shop to watch the small ducklings swim in a small pond or play on a bridge displayed in the window. The most confusing gift of all was the large basket of candy from the retired dentist up the street. Dentists and candy didn't seem to go together.
Easter morning was an itchy event; too much candy, stiff unfamiliar clothing and the constant reminders to take it easy in my finery. Worst of all was the pinching elastic under the chin belonging to the uncomfortable Easter Bonnet.
The public Easter Morning was a communal affair. As we walked down street towards the United Church, we were joined by the dwellers of the houses we passed. Even the folks that were not churchy turned up at church Easter Sunday. Everyone seemed to be headed towards our church, except the family next door. They were exotic. Their Easter preparations involved filling a small cardboard church with pennies throughout Lent. What is more the children had to give up a favourite activity for the forty days. They were Anglican. The Anglicans and Presbyterians provided the village's diversity.
Our church was filled with flowers. The choir expanded to twice its size. All the pews were filled with others in their Easter best. The front row of the balcony gave me a splendid view of all going on down below. I could have watched forever. I played with the bright, shiny dime, my collection, that was carried in my white glove. Someone inevitably took it from my hand, for fear it would drop from my hand onto a bald head below.
The congregation rose as one for the singing of the Hallelujah Chorus in honour of Queen Victoria, who had done just that same thing. Then we were off to Sunday School to colour pictures of Easter Lilies, while the adults carried on with adult worship.
What an array of images- eggs, bunnies, death, wine, disliked lilies, food galore, new clothes, boxes of money, crosses on buns and crosses on hills and on and on and on.
No wonder it was hard to figure it all out. No wonder it all seems difficult to figure out today.
Good Friday was a day of black and navy blue. A Last Supper with wine and bread was sacred, even to my tea totalling grandmother. There was hiding in gardens, betrayal for money. One person was guilty, a people were guilty, and they tried to convince me, my little self was guilty. This was all happening for my sake. A day of graves and tombs and stones and blood and tears. Bodies crucified. A body washed by women. Sweet smells of fragrant oils. I don't quite remember how vinegar fit in, but most things that my mother was involved with involved vinegar. In our house it was also the day of hot crossed buns.
Saturday things were different. There were eggs to be boiled or blown, then coloured, construction paper tulips, daffodils, and lilies to be made. Extended family seemed to extend even farther. Adult talk was preoccupied with scalloped potatoes, ham to be picked up, pickles and olives. The house filled with flowers, especially Easter Lilies, though both my parents maintained they hated them. Personally I was drawn to the bright orange stamens whose pollen could stain almost anything temporarily, especially fingers. The day ended with an extra long Saturday night bath.
The fuss about clothing was over. Because Easter was at the end of a ten day school holiday, the trip to Eatons, in the city, had already taken place. New good shoes, new spring coat, new white socks, new white cotton underwear and white gloves. Grandma spent much time fussing about sewing matching dresses, for my cousin and me. My cousin's dress would be of a delicate hue. Mine, in the same style, was more likely a deep green or substantial rust, as I was prone to spilling. To top it all off, both figuratively and in reality was an Easter bonnet with an elastic string to keep it from slipping or being blowing off.
Year after year, the little boys had the same grey short pants, grey wool knee socks, brown polished oxfords, white shirts with plaid ties and a blue blazer with brass buttons.
Easter morning was what all the excitement was about. Brightly coloured baskets filled with green raffia, waited to be filled with candy the Easter Bunny had left. There was always a large creamed egg with a yellow centre, covered in chocolate. Laura Secord helped the bunny with these specific eggs. The smaller candy varied from year to year - jelly beans for sure, sometimes harder candy eggs that were a challenge for little teeth. They tasted of sugar and food dye. Sometimes the bunny left a hollow chocolate, bunny in a box, or a fancifully decorated chocolate egg with pink roses. These eggs were personally inscribed with our names, and protected with cellophane tied with a ribbon. One year, the bunny left me a small china teacup, another year there were coloured real rabbits' feet for luck sometimes stuffed real baby chicks with metal legs. The stuffed chicks and ducks were alarming. Each year we stopped in front of a florists shop to watch the small ducklings swim in a small pond or play on a bridge displayed in the window. The most confusing gift of all was the large basket of candy from the retired dentist up the street. Dentists and candy didn't seem to go together.
Easter morning was an itchy event; too much candy, stiff unfamiliar clothing and the constant reminders to take it easy in my finery. Worst of all was the pinching elastic under the chin belonging to the uncomfortable Easter Bonnet.
The public Easter Morning was a communal affair. As we walked down street towards the United Church, we were joined by the dwellers of the houses we passed. Even the folks that were not churchy turned up at church Easter Sunday. Everyone seemed to be headed towards our church, except the family next door. They were exotic. Their Easter preparations involved filling a small cardboard church with pennies throughout Lent. What is more the children had to give up a favourite activity for the forty days. They were Anglican. The Anglicans and Presbyterians provided the village's diversity.
Our church was filled with flowers. The choir expanded to twice its size. All the pews were filled with others in their Easter best. The front row of the balcony gave me a splendid view of all going on down below. I could have watched forever. I played with the bright, shiny dime, my collection, that was carried in my white glove. Someone inevitably took it from my hand, for fear it would drop from my hand onto a bald head below.
The congregation rose as one for the singing of the Hallelujah Chorus in honour of Queen Victoria, who had done just that same thing. Then we were off to Sunday School to colour pictures of Easter Lilies, while the adults carried on with adult worship.
What an array of images- eggs, bunnies, death, wine, disliked lilies, food galore, new clothes, boxes of money, crosses on buns and crosses on hills and on and on and on.
No wonder it was hard to figure it all out. No wonder it all seems difficult to figure out today.
Saturday 9 April 2011
Sad Sad Day
Our tiny village is quiet now. Lights are still on in some houses. In others, all have gone to bed.
Only hours ago, the place was filled with rescue vehicles, police cars, and the volunteer fire department. A helicopter flew overhead. A fishing boat circled and circled outside the harbour.
Someone was missing. A neighbour drove the fishing boat. A car left for the nearby town to pick up a loving partner, an expectant mother, from her job at a restaurant. A little boy played happily, safely at a neighbours house.
A daddy, a fisherman set out, over calm water, in a small boat, not far from shore.
The boat flipped. The daddy and his friend struggled in the cold cold water.
We knew everything and nothing.
Crowds gathered.
A sister stood on the wharf by her fishing boat.
Family gathered at the fisherman's house on the harbour.
The father's dozer made a path through the rocky shore towards the receding tide, the highest and lowest tides in the world, to take the rescue boat to the water.
From one window I watch the rescue boat go out to bring back the body.
From another I watch a grieving family wait outside their house.
I know the little boy is safe and unknowing in a nearby house.
The fisherman's old dog, Boy, rambles up around my house.
The young rescuers, who may have gone to school with the young fisherman, demand privacy and respect for his leaving.
One by one the vehicles leave. One is carrying the young fisherman, who is no more.
The little boy is reunited with his mummy and his sibling, who is yet to be.
A larger family mourns.
A tiny village mourns with them, this dark night.
Wednesday 6 April 2011
Colouring Between the Lines
I delight in my friend's formal labelling, Reverend, Doctor, Captain MacGillvary. Reverend in the United Church, Doctorate from Boston College, Captain in the Armed Forces. It doesn't end there. He is a strong supporter of the Monarchy, works hard for the New Democratic Party, is happily married with grandchildren and now a great grandchild and is a respected standard bearer for the Gay Rights Movement.
The world is not black and white, not even with many shades of intervening grey. The earth vibrates with rainbows of colours and so do the people.
Dark lines often define boundaries and barriers, but it is not always possible or desirable to colour within them.
My extended family were the arty sort. Except for school and Sunday School, my life was almost colouring book free. At home we were given endless sheets of blank newsprint, from the Markham Economist and Sun office. We were encouraged to paint, colour, print, squish our little souls out onto the paper. Heck, it didn't much matter if we went beyond the paper onto the floor or easel.
School was another matter. Pages for colouring were a reward for work well done and complete. Surprising as it may seem, I was the recipient of many pages. The Disney characters of today did not cavort across the pages. As I remember it, the sheets were titled, Ducklings Swim in the Pond, Big Brother Catches the Ball, Daddy Waves Good Bye, Mummy Sweeps the Floor, Frog Jumps.
At Sunday School, Jesus Held the Little Children, Baby Moses Floated Down the River, Easter Lilies beside the Cross. I knew enough to use the "right" colour - duck yellow, frog green, Daddy's hand flesh, which in those days only came in a somewhat odd pink. Jesus, too, was in this odd pink.
I wasn't so good at keeping neatly inside the lines. I was amazed and envious of the lauded precision of Gerry Cosburn. I was amazed and impressed when I learned my two year old granddaughter's report from pre-school noted she pasted neatly. I don't worry. I have every confidence this little red headed character will paint the world with every colour and sprinkle it with every kind of sparkle.
I delight in the complexity of it all. We are bombarded by such a collection of images of lives and living in black and white with little room for an odd bit of grey. Bring on the swirling colours that are an essential part of each individual. Enjoy colourers and colours of every kind.
Go out and buy a great big box of crayons. Find a large piece of paper. Draw a picture of the Reverend, Doctor, Captain and use as many of them as you can. Break open the sparkles.
The world is not black and white, not even with many shades of intervening grey. The earth vibrates with rainbows of colours and so do the people.
Dark lines often define boundaries and barriers, but it is not always possible or desirable to colour within them.
My extended family were the arty sort. Except for school and Sunday School, my life was almost colouring book free. At home we were given endless sheets of blank newsprint, from the Markham Economist and Sun office. We were encouraged to paint, colour, print, squish our little souls out onto the paper. Heck, it didn't much matter if we went beyond the paper onto the floor or easel.
School was another matter. Pages for colouring were a reward for work well done and complete. Surprising as it may seem, I was the recipient of many pages. The Disney characters of today did not cavort across the pages. As I remember it, the sheets were titled, Ducklings Swim in the Pond, Big Brother Catches the Ball, Daddy Waves Good Bye, Mummy Sweeps the Floor, Frog Jumps.
At Sunday School, Jesus Held the Little Children, Baby Moses Floated Down the River, Easter Lilies beside the Cross. I knew enough to use the "right" colour - duck yellow, frog green, Daddy's hand flesh, which in those days only came in a somewhat odd pink. Jesus, too, was in this odd pink.
I wasn't so good at keeping neatly inside the lines. I was amazed and envious of the lauded precision of Gerry Cosburn. I was amazed and impressed when I learned my two year old granddaughter's report from pre-school noted she pasted neatly. I don't worry. I have every confidence this little red headed character will paint the world with every colour and sprinkle it with every kind of sparkle.
I delight in the complexity of it all. We are bombarded by such a collection of images of lives and living in black and white with little room for an odd bit of grey. Bring on the swirling colours that are an essential part of each individual. Enjoy colourers and colours of every kind.
Go out and buy a great big box of crayons. Find a large piece of paper. Draw a picture of the Reverend, Doctor, Captain and use as many of them as you can. Break open the sparkles.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)