When my younger daughter was in grade four, a little girl in her class, who sometimes called for her on the way to school, died violently.
On Saturday, my daughter went to her birthday party and had a wonderful time.
The following week, the father took the mother and his daughter for a late evening drive. It was their last drive. He intentionally drove up an exit ramp of a multilane Toronto highway, the wrong way and steered the car under an oncoming transport truck.
All were killed instantly.
The father had previous mental health issues.
The next day the school informed the parents of the children, in Desiree's class of the tragedy. Of course the members of the community already knew the horrid news.
My daughter's first reaction was surprising. "Why didn't her daddy let her have ice in her pop ?" Apparently, he was concerned about ice and teeth. "Why was he worried about her teeth if he was going to do that ?"
When the children arrived at school, they were met by their teacher and a team of grief counsellors. For several days the children drew pictures, went for walks in the park, listened to stories and expressed their ideas and emotions in small groups. Too be frank, it was just too much.
These were not the normal school days the children wanted.
About day four, my sunny dispositioned little girl, came home for lunch, furious. That morning the class had been read Desiree's personal classroom journal. The children had been assured, when they started these journals, they were for their eyes only. "What colour is maroon anyway?" That was her favourite colour. My daughter was offended, as only a young child can be righteously offended. The privacy of her friend was being invaded.
"Why can't they just leave Desiree alone to be dead?"
A death of a child who was tragically killed will always remain a part of the children's childhood memories. She was a sweet little girl.
The class went on to plan a little ceremony and plant a lilac tree in Desiree's memory. That was as it should be.
My daughter knew instinctively as a child, there was a time to let Desiree rest in peace.
My wish for the twenty children in Connecticut, who were brutally slaughtered in their classroom, and their friends and family, is that they will soon be given a chance to be at peace. They have no need for more flowers, balloons and stuffed animals.
I'll plant a tree, but the more fitting tribute will be when the laws of their country are changed to make future massacres of this kind, less possible.
Rest in peace.
Monday 17 December 2012
Thursday 13 December 2012
North Mountain Chorus Sings 2012
North Mountain Chorus sings, and I find myself singing with them. I have never fancied myself a singer. The only place I can imagine myself musically inclined is rocking wee babies to sleep, with lullabies.
And here I find myself dressed in black, like those around me, with unfamiliar bling around my neck, trilling away with the best of them.
That is the point. The less than expert trillers can trill, when they find themselves surrounded by the voices of fine trillers.
There we were, standing on risers at the front of the United Church, down the mountain, in the nearby town. We were making a joyful noise that was welcomed not only in ourselves, but by the many listeners as well.
I have always thought that perfection sucks, or as my late mother would prefer me to say, perfection isn't everything. There is no question near perfection is sometimes required; however, the hands of a potter or the hands of a weaver create objects touched by hearts, that no machine manufacturing the physically perfect object can ever produce.
The joy of singing enters songs. The strong singers clear a path for the less strong singers to move along. The voices are joined together in a hall up the mountain, where we practise each week. Here freedom is given each voice a chance to sing well enough to release joy into the songs, that is released into a world badly in need of joy.
Wednesday 28 November 2012
Community
I live in a very small community that is indeed boundless.
Small drops make ever expanding ripples that are noticed.
If someone loses a dog, others know, and what is more they care. When there is news of a baby's arrival, whether locally or hundreds of miles, even thousands of miles away, hearts celebrate.
When anyone is sick or leaves the community they are missed.
Several weeks ago, there was a horrific car accident on a rural road, late at night. Two teenagers were thrown from the car and gravely injured. They were flown to Halifax by helicopter, because they needed highly intensive care. Just recently they were moved from intensive care. Their lives have been drastically changed, but everyone is hoping for the best. The members of the community are heartbroken.
As the news spread so did the question "What can I do ? ". The answer was a lot. Some addressed the immediate needs of the families. Some opened their wallets to help with the immediate expences. Notes were written, prayers continue and I can just imagine the casseroles that were flying out one door into another. Everyone did what they could.
Good people organized an incredible brunch at the Community Hall. The spirit of the event was even better than the excellent breakfast, with all the trimmings, right down to homemade jam. The next day a Bean Supper was held at the large firehall in the nearby town. The building was overcrowded with musicians, tables covered with items to be auctioned, a string of individuals carrying in large pots and trays of fresh sweets and happy people enjoying the homemade baked bean supper.
At both events, there were boxes, for freewill donations, by the door. People gave as they were able. For the most part the contributions were five, ten and twenty dollar bills and a significant jangle of loonies and twoonies. When the money was counted there was over thirteen thousand dollars. This is from a community with deep pockets but not all that much in them.
The amazing thing is a family friend is fighting the good fight after a surgery gone very wrong, in a prestigious Toronto hospital. There will be no Bean Suppers for him and his family, but there are people scattered across the continent, who would be having them if they were needed. It might be a little more complicated, but it would happen.
It is comforting to know that the spirit of practical compassion that is so present here is present wherever people care. Community is an essential foundation stone of living.
Small drops make ever expanding ripples that are noticed.
If someone loses a dog, others know, and what is more they care. When there is news of a baby's arrival, whether locally or hundreds of miles, even thousands of miles away, hearts celebrate.
When anyone is sick or leaves the community they are missed.
Several weeks ago, there was a horrific car accident on a rural road, late at night. Two teenagers were thrown from the car and gravely injured. They were flown to Halifax by helicopter, because they needed highly intensive care. Just recently they were moved from intensive care. Their lives have been drastically changed, but everyone is hoping for the best. The members of the community are heartbroken.
As the news spread so did the question "What can I do ? ". The answer was a lot. Some addressed the immediate needs of the families. Some opened their wallets to help with the immediate expences. Notes were written, prayers continue and I can just imagine the casseroles that were flying out one door into another. Everyone did what they could.
Good people organized an incredible brunch at the Community Hall. The spirit of the event was even better than the excellent breakfast, with all the trimmings, right down to homemade jam. The next day a Bean Supper was held at the large firehall in the nearby town. The building was overcrowded with musicians, tables covered with items to be auctioned, a string of individuals carrying in large pots and trays of fresh sweets and happy people enjoying the homemade baked bean supper.
At both events, there were boxes, for freewill donations, by the door. People gave as they were able. For the most part the contributions were five, ten and twenty dollar bills and a significant jangle of loonies and twoonies. When the money was counted there was over thirteen thousand dollars. This is from a community with deep pockets but not all that much in them.
The amazing thing is a family friend is fighting the good fight after a surgery gone very wrong, in a prestigious Toronto hospital. There will be no Bean Suppers for him and his family, but there are people scattered across the continent, who would be having them if they were needed. It might be a little more complicated, but it would happen.
It is comforting to know that the spirit of practical compassion that is so present here is present wherever people care. Community is an essential foundation stone of living.
Sunday 21 October 2012
Dreary Fall Days and Halloween
The hills are beautiful. The vivid reds, oranges and yellows paint the hills. The tall dark spruces accentuate the out of control colour. The many days of steel grey skies are the perfect backdrop.
In the garden the last of summer flowers hold forth. The bright, pink honeysuckle doesn't know it is past its time.
In all this beauty there is a unique sadness. Rambunctious summer is gone and not yet replaced by winter fun.
Stacked wood fills the porch, as the long, evening gatherings have disappeared with the evening light. The white wicker chairs are dragged off to the barn.
Life's grand questions that seem to evaporate in the warm sunshine, gradually find their way home.
It is not yet cold enough for a warm fire to help quiet some questions.
Hearts have given thanks for the autumn abundance. The rush and crush of Christmas lies ahead.
Let's light the jack o lanterns and wait for the excited voices of small children in the dark night.
In the garden the last of summer flowers hold forth. The bright, pink honeysuckle doesn't know it is past its time.
In all this beauty there is a unique sadness. Rambunctious summer is gone and not yet replaced by winter fun.
Stacked wood fills the porch, as the long, evening gatherings have disappeared with the evening light. The white wicker chairs are dragged off to the barn.
Life's grand questions that seem to evaporate in the warm sunshine, gradually find their way home.
It is not yet cold enough for a warm fire to help quiet some questions.
Hearts have given thanks for the autumn abundance. The rush and crush of Christmas lies ahead.
Let's light the jack o lanterns and wait for the excited voices of small children in the dark night.
Saturday 6 October 2012
Canadian Thanksgiving Addendum
Today is the beginning of the Canadian Thanksgiving Weekend. Be assured that I am thankful for much that, I assume, would appear on most Thanksgiving lists.
I am also thankful
1. that I see my food growing, as I take my car on roads through abundant fields when I go to town.
2. that I know that the best don't necessarily make it to the top. There are big hearts, fine minds and willingness to work hard at all levels of society.
3. that I know so much of what is happening, good and bad, from varying points of view on the internet.
4.that Canada attempts to offer good healthcare to all.
5.that I get to breathe fresh sea air.
6.that so many people in my life have well developed senses of fun.
7.that I am a grandma.
8.that my dog is such a fine companion.
9.that the weather forecasts are so often wrong.
10.that the wood is almost stacked.
11. and that it is such fine hardwood.
12.that a friend makes the best cookies.
13. for tea.
14.that my water keeps flowing when the electricity goes off.
15.that I live in a community of people of all ages.
16. that my garden got a good start.
17. that there is always next year.
18.for Frenchies clothing stores.
19.for flannelette sheets in winter.
20. for waterproof boots all year.
21. for spontaneous shore suppers.
22. for a car that I can count on to get from a to b.
23. for senior citizens discounts.
24.C.B.C.
25. P.B.S.
26. that we don't have to register to vote.
27.that we get to vote.
28.that the system is as good as it is.
29.that children still learn to read.
30.for free spirits.
31.that I am not a perfectionist.
32.for an old house.
33.for poetry.
34.that I learned how to knit.
35.for concord grapes, horseradish and almonds.
36.for the many shades of green.
37.for writing paper.
38.unorganized time.
39. paint.
40.for chickadees.
41.for my mailbox.
42.local music.
43. Cirque de Soliel.
44. for lobster rolls.
45.that I have so many happy memories.
46.that bad memories fade.
47.that I know a big city.
48.that my apple tree is so loaded with fruit.
49.that I have lucky stones from childhood.
50.and
I am also thankful
1. that I see my food growing, as I take my car on roads through abundant fields when I go to town.
2. that I know that the best don't necessarily make it to the top. There are big hearts, fine minds and willingness to work hard at all levels of society.
3. that I know so much of what is happening, good and bad, from varying points of view on the internet.
4.that Canada attempts to offer good healthcare to all.
5.that I get to breathe fresh sea air.
6.that so many people in my life have well developed senses of fun.
7.that I am a grandma.
8.that my dog is such a fine companion.
9.that the weather forecasts are so often wrong.
10.that the wood is almost stacked.
11. and that it is such fine hardwood.
12.that a friend makes the best cookies.
13. for tea.
14.that my water keeps flowing when the electricity goes off.
15.that I live in a community of people of all ages.
16. that my garden got a good start.
17. that there is always next year.
18.for Frenchies clothing stores.
19.for flannelette sheets in winter.
20. for waterproof boots all year.
21. for spontaneous shore suppers.
22. for a car that I can count on to get from a to b.
23. for senior citizens discounts.
24.C.B.C.
25. P.B.S.
26. that we don't have to register to vote.
27.that we get to vote.
28.that the system is as good as it is.
29.that children still learn to read.
30.for free spirits.
31.that I am not a perfectionist.
32.for an old house.
33.for poetry.
34.that I learned how to knit.
35.for concord grapes, horseradish and almonds.
36.for the many shades of green.
37.for writing paper.
38.unorganized time.
39. paint.
40.for chickadees.
41.for my mailbox.
42.local music.
43. Cirque de Soliel.
44. for lobster rolls.
45.that I have so many happy memories.
46.that bad memories fade.
47.that I know a big city.
48.that my apple tree is so loaded with fruit.
49.that I have lucky stones from childhood.
50.and
Tuesday 25 September 2012
Good-Bye, Sam the Record Man
Sam the Record Man, like Honest Ed, is a person who helped to bring about a new city of Toronto.
Unlike my cousins and many around me, I am not a musical aficionado. Music is a significant part of my life, but it is not my passion. Nevertheless, Sam Sniderman's store on Yonge St. was an important part of my teenage years.
Going to Sam the Record Mans was an event. We snooped through a warren of rooms, on many levels, connected by various stairs, in various directions and of various lengths. Each room was filled to capacity with vinyl records, mostly LP's. Cool dudes, and not so cool dudes stood by pillars with bulging sets of headphones. They checked out the intended purchase, before they put down the cash at the register. The coolest of all were the sales help, who obviously lived music
I guess I was a Folkie. My odd collection of records was of the Peter, Paul and Mary sort. Hootenanys were bright spots on my unimpressive social calendar.
I would trudge up to the third floor and flip through the records. The third floor at that time had folk music and jazz. Those who had not completely emerged from the Beatnik era, hung over these records in their solid blacks. The Greasers with their fancy hairdos rocked in another room downstairs.
Boxing Day was the big day. Despite the law that stores were to stay closed, Sam's was very much open. SALE.SALE.SALE. Ragged lines formed along the street. Sam stood by the front door welcoming everyone, as he did most days, the store was open. We were crushed by a mass of humanity, mostly young, from all parts of the city and beyond.
It was a sad day, when decades later, a cardboard Sam stood in his place.
The City Fire Marshals must have been aware of the doings and had a hard time sitting on their hands.
Toronto was very waspish in those days; Toronto the Good, Hogtown, City of Churches. Here a dinner of prime rib roast and Yorkshire pudding, at the Royal York Hotel, was the epitome of fine dine dining.
The city has changed. This is a good thing. It is now Toronto the Good, a different kind of good. Characters who lived in brash, new ways opened up doors, meant to stay closed, letting in freshness from all over the world to become a global happening. Sam was one of those characters who opened doors.
Thankyou Sam. Safe journey.
Unlike my cousins and many around me, I am not a musical aficionado. Music is a significant part of my life, but it is not my passion. Nevertheless, Sam Sniderman's store on Yonge St. was an important part of my teenage years.
Going to Sam the Record Mans was an event. We snooped through a warren of rooms, on many levels, connected by various stairs, in various directions and of various lengths. Each room was filled to capacity with vinyl records, mostly LP's. Cool dudes, and not so cool dudes stood by pillars with bulging sets of headphones. They checked out the intended purchase, before they put down the cash at the register. The coolest of all were the sales help, who obviously lived music
I guess I was a Folkie. My odd collection of records was of the Peter, Paul and Mary sort. Hootenanys were bright spots on my unimpressive social calendar.
I would trudge up to the third floor and flip through the records. The third floor at that time had folk music and jazz. Those who had not completely emerged from the Beatnik era, hung over these records in their solid blacks. The Greasers with their fancy hairdos rocked in another room downstairs.
Boxing Day was the big day. Despite the law that stores were to stay closed, Sam's was very much open. SALE.SALE.SALE. Ragged lines formed along the street. Sam stood by the front door welcoming everyone, as he did most days, the store was open. We were crushed by a mass of humanity, mostly young, from all parts of the city and beyond.
It was a sad day, when decades later, a cardboard Sam stood in his place.
The City Fire Marshals must have been aware of the doings and had a hard time sitting on their hands.
Toronto was very waspish in those days; Toronto the Good, Hogtown, City of Churches. Here a dinner of prime rib roast and Yorkshire pudding, at the Royal York Hotel, was the epitome of fine dine dining.
The city has changed. This is a good thing. It is now Toronto the Good, a different kind of good. Characters who lived in brash, new ways opened up doors, meant to stay closed, letting in freshness from all over the world to become a global happening. Sam was one of those characters who opened doors.
Thankyou Sam. Safe journey.
Friday 31 August 2012
Under Appreciated Hammocks
The sea air has changed from a breeze to a wind, the sun is shining brightly, the splendid, fuchsia, hollyhocks have almost finished their summer extravaganza AND I am in a colourful, striped canvas hammock on the good, old front porch. I have my beloved computer in my lap. I couldn't ask for more at this moment.
Hammocks are highly under rated.
I have been going through bushels of old photographs, very old photographs, sorting out so much past. This is a nasty task; what to keep, what to burn, where to find more appreciative homes for the photos. In one picture my paternal grandmother languishes in a hammock set up by the massive stone Presbyterian walls of her family's farmhouse in southwestern Ontario. Her five grown sisters gather around her in their long, starched, white summer dresses.
There is no question of burning this picture of my grandmother, Junie. I am given a glimpse of an unhighlighted time in a family's story. Her father died when her youngest brother was a baby. Her oldest brother, John, kept the farm going well enough that all of the sisters were able to eventually finish high school in various Girls Schools, as country one room schools only went so far. They went on to graduate from Teachers College. This was quite an accomplishment for a family of very limited means, at the beginning of the last century.
My grandmother knew more than a little about hard work, but there she is lolling in a hammock. This is an addendum to "the idle hands are the playthings of the devil" theology that seemed to permeate family ethos. Perhaps this was a Sunday when hands had a day of rest.
I kept the picture of my grandmother, Ethel, smiling as she rests in a hammock at the cottage on Lake Simcoe. This picture would have been taken a few years later, probably the summer of 1909, as my mother in another picture, taken at the same time, in the same hammock is about two years old. This grandma was familiar with hammocks every summer day. Leisure was part of her routine
At our home in Markham, a canvas, green striped hammock stretched out between the apple tree and the pear tree. My cousins and I didn't do much lolling. The hammock was an active recreation. We would take turns winding up the hammock as far as it could wind. Cocoon style a cousin was inside. When let go, the hammock spun its contents round and round until it became untwisted giving the cocoon quite a thrill, leaving the cousin slightly dizzy.
One of the great tragedies of my young life happened as I actively participated in hammock fun. My cousin Myra was wrapped up as tight as could be. I let go. She spun happily until she spun out onto the ground. Unfortunately she landed on tree roots and broke her collarbone. Unfortunately for me, I was held somehow responsible. My mother felt compelled to present her with a gift each day as she lay resplendent, recuperating outside in a lawn chair. The hammock was taken down.To be honest, I felt sorry for my little self with such wounded, tender feelings.
Last summer my younger daughter with her watermelon belly tried to rest in the very same hammock in which I now lie. Her young nieces constantly urged her on to more rambunctious endeavours.
This summer her baby boy wasn't really in to gentle swinging. He had his own swing. The little girls took over the hammock with a passion. Boy can that hammock swing. We had to go into town to buy an egg timer to accurately define each child's hammock time. I dreaded the accident in waiting, but it never came. A box and a half of bandaids were used up during their visit but none of them were hammock related.
My daughters and I had odd moments in the hammock, usually as the sun was setting.
My oldest cousin and I gave a huge handmade hammock with all the accessories to my daughter and her husband as a wedding gift. It would be fun to know what memories will swing into family lore from that hammock.
Hammocks are an essential part of summer.
Hammocks are highly under rated.
I have been going through bushels of old photographs, very old photographs, sorting out so much past. This is a nasty task; what to keep, what to burn, where to find more appreciative homes for the photos. In one picture my paternal grandmother languishes in a hammock set up by the massive stone Presbyterian walls of her family's farmhouse in southwestern Ontario. Her five grown sisters gather around her in their long, starched, white summer dresses.
There is no question of burning this picture of my grandmother, Junie. I am given a glimpse of an unhighlighted time in a family's story. Her father died when her youngest brother was a baby. Her oldest brother, John, kept the farm going well enough that all of the sisters were able to eventually finish high school in various Girls Schools, as country one room schools only went so far. They went on to graduate from Teachers College. This was quite an accomplishment for a family of very limited means, at the beginning of the last century.
My grandmother knew more than a little about hard work, but there she is lolling in a hammock. This is an addendum to "the idle hands are the playthings of the devil" theology that seemed to permeate family ethos. Perhaps this was a Sunday when hands had a day of rest.
I kept the picture of my grandmother, Ethel, smiling as she rests in a hammock at the cottage on Lake Simcoe. This picture would have been taken a few years later, probably the summer of 1909, as my mother in another picture, taken at the same time, in the same hammock is about two years old. This grandma was familiar with hammocks every summer day. Leisure was part of her routine
At our home in Markham, a canvas, green striped hammock stretched out between the apple tree and the pear tree. My cousins and I didn't do much lolling. The hammock was an active recreation. We would take turns winding up the hammock as far as it could wind. Cocoon style a cousin was inside. When let go, the hammock spun its contents round and round until it became untwisted giving the cocoon quite a thrill, leaving the cousin slightly dizzy.
One of the great tragedies of my young life happened as I actively participated in hammock fun. My cousin Myra was wrapped up as tight as could be. I let go. She spun happily until she spun out onto the ground. Unfortunately she landed on tree roots and broke her collarbone. Unfortunately for me, I was held somehow responsible. My mother felt compelled to present her with a gift each day as she lay resplendent, recuperating outside in a lawn chair. The hammock was taken down.To be honest, I felt sorry for my little self with such wounded, tender feelings.
Last summer my younger daughter with her watermelon belly tried to rest in the very same hammock in which I now lie. Her young nieces constantly urged her on to more rambunctious endeavours.
This summer her baby boy wasn't really in to gentle swinging. He had his own swing. The little girls took over the hammock with a passion. Boy can that hammock swing. We had to go into town to buy an egg timer to accurately define each child's hammock time. I dreaded the accident in waiting, but it never came. A box and a half of bandaids were used up during their visit but none of them were hammock related.
My daughters and I had odd moments in the hammock, usually as the sun was setting.
My oldest cousin and I gave a huge handmade hammock with all the accessories to my daughter and her husband as a wedding gift. It would be fun to know what memories will swing into family lore from that hammock.
Hammocks are an essential part of summer.
Friday 24 August 2012
Sleeper Inners and Getter Uppers
It is a difficult life being a sleeper inner in a world of getter uppers.
For the most part my friends are getter uppers. By the time I enter consciousness, my compatriots, scattered hither and yon, have taken significant bites out of the day. Dogs have been walked, tea leisurely savoured, clothes washed, The Globe and Mail consumed, muffins baked. It goes on and on.
I know this because I get up early to feed my impatient dog. Before I crawl back into bed, I can hear the familiar buzz of a world awake, both literally and figuratively.
In a small fishing village, five o'clock isn't that early. It is the tides that tell the time. For the many farmers that load down my family tree, the day's schedule was guided by the needs of the animals, the demands of the land and the control of the weather.
Why should this matter to me ? I don't know, but it does.
I put much of the responsibility on the long gone shoulders of Calvin and John Knox that shaped the Protestant Work Ethic with the strong power of social pressure.
It is a decree of my grandfather, long gone before I was born, that has taken root in my psyche. "Five to seven victory, five after seven defeat." I can't seem to rid myself of the concept.
I am a nine o'clock kind of gal. I go for a leisurely morning awakening,unfortunately lightly coated with strong, flavourful sense of guilt.
Thankfully, nightwear and daywear, these days is almost indistinguishable from each other. I can almost convince myself, that the early riser at my door doesn't necessarily guess my morning secret.
For the most part my friends are getter uppers. By the time I enter consciousness, my compatriots, scattered hither and yon, have taken significant bites out of the day. Dogs have been walked, tea leisurely savoured, clothes washed, The Globe and Mail consumed, muffins baked. It goes on and on.
I know this because I get up early to feed my impatient dog. Before I crawl back into bed, I can hear the familiar buzz of a world awake, both literally and figuratively.
In a small fishing village, five o'clock isn't that early. It is the tides that tell the time. For the many farmers that load down my family tree, the day's schedule was guided by the needs of the animals, the demands of the land and the control of the weather.
Why should this matter to me ? I don't know, but it does.
I put much of the responsibility on the long gone shoulders of Calvin and John Knox that shaped the Protestant Work Ethic with the strong power of social pressure.
It is a decree of my grandfather, long gone before I was born, that has taken root in my psyche. "Five to seven victory, five after seven defeat." I can't seem to rid myself of the concept.
I am a nine o'clock kind of gal. I go for a leisurely morning awakening,unfortunately lightly coated with strong, flavourful sense of guilt.
Thankfully, nightwear and daywear, these days is almost indistinguishable from each other. I can almost convince myself, that the early riser at my door doesn't necessarily guess my morning secret.
Friday 17 August 2012
A Challenging Year
The End of Summer is nigh. The trees have lost their robust green. Some are even tinged with Autumn's yellows.
For me this is the end of the year. September brings a new season with a new pace. Some summer dreams are folded up for another time. The happy times recorded, wait on full cameras. The world drifts in lazy quiet.
This has not been a gentle year and I am tired.
In several weeks we will celebrate the first birthday of my grandson. He is a bright spark of humanity, with a gentleness that helps calm the world. His entry into the world was not a gentle one. For the first few weeks, he did not thrive and his mummy was in and out of the hospital with unrelated health issues for three months. I thoroughly enjoyed being a presence in his early days and now delight in his healthy pudginess. My daughter will return to work soon from maternity leave. His father is a wonderfully engaged parent. However the worry beads got a good workout.
My sweet, old rabbit hound died before our life could return to normal. She was an eccentric bundle of joy and I miss her daily. She died Thanksgiving weekend.
I never find Christmas an easy season. There are happy times, but it also comes loaded with grand expectations and memories of not so happy times. Last Christmas was spent at my daughter's house. Her little girls were spending their first Christmas apart with their daddy and his large family merriment.
On their return, we did our best to fill the house floor to ceiling with fun. We had fun, but it was a tough Christmas.
I love my house in winter. The fire burns and the living room glows. This past winter did not offer many chances to enjoy such warmth. My cousin, who lives nearby, went into the hospital for a relatively simple operation, and was caught in a grand struggle between life and death. Long ago warnings of blood poisoning in my mother's stories, became a reality. A once healthy man became a frail image of his former self. His friends rallied, his family rallied, indeed the whole community rallied until in fact he rallied. We finally were able to take a deep breath as he became able to return to his former life.
Spring brought with it fresh air and bright sunny days.
Unfortunately, all was not well in this small kingdom. For reasons beyond my understanding, we had a mini outbreak of unkindness. Words were spoken that could not be taken back, actions sometimes spoke even louder than the words. Good people acted in nasty ways.
It took an act of will to fully appreciate a wonderful world that usually, continuously seeps in.
.... and then my grandchildren arrived.
I cannot claim that an exuberant six year old and and her no less exuberant four year old sister brought about a peaceable kingdom. I do know that an egg timer measured hammock time, little baby cousin could not have got more love and attention and the nearby beaches of the shore absorbed so much energy and offered endless adventures and fascinations.
Water gun fights, trips to swim in a freshwater lake, late night sparklers, a living room filling challenging puzzle, creations involving puddles of glue and unwashable paint, endless watermelon, a fort in the bushes, dress up clothes, dolls from another time. The squeals of joy and the not so joyous squeals.
I became very aware of the wisdom of young women and men holding the reins of parenthood.
The house is quiet now, just old Moe and me. Maybe just a little too quiet. Good byes are not easy.
However, there is time to rest, and as I rest gradually kneed everything into a loaf of memory, for future baking.
For me this is the end of the year. September brings a new season with a new pace. Some summer dreams are folded up for another time. The happy times recorded, wait on full cameras. The world drifts in lazy quiet.
This has not been a gentle year and I am tired.
In several weeks we will celebrate the first birthday of my grandson. He is a bright spark of humanity, with a gentleness that helps calm the world. His entry into the world was not a gentle one. For the first few weeks, he did not thrive and his mummy was in and out of the hospital with unrelated health issues for three months. I thoroughly enjoyed being a presence in his early days and now delight in his healthy pudginess. My daughter will return to work soon from maternity leave. His father is a wonderfully engaged parent. However the worry beads got a good workout.
My sweet, old rabbit hound died before our life could return to normal. She was an eccentric bundle of joy and I miss her daily. She died Thanksgiving weekend.
I never find Christmas an easy season. There are happy times, but it also comes loaded with grand expectations and memories of not so happy times. Last Christmas was spent at my daughter's house. Her little girls were spending their first Christmas apart with their daddy and his large family merriment.
On their return, we did our best to fill the house floor to ceiling with fun. We had fun, but it was a tough Christmas.
I love my house in winter. The fire burns and the living room glows. This past winter did not offer many chances to enjoy such warmth. My cousin, who lives nearby, went into the hospital for a relatively simple operation, and was caught in a grand struggle between life and death. Long ago warnings of blood poisoning in my mother's stories, became a reality. A once healthy man became a frail image of his former self. His friends rallied, his family rallied, indeed the whole community rallied until in fact he rallied. We finally were able to take a deep breath as he became able to return to his former life.
Spring brought with it fresh air and bright sunny days.
Unfortunately, all was not well in this small kingdom. For reasons beyond my understanding, we had a mini outbreak of unkindness. Words were spoken that could not be taken back, actions sometimes spoke even louder than the words. Good people acted in nasty ways.
It took an act of will to fully appreciate a wonderful world that usually, continuously seeps in.
.... and then my grandchildren arrived.
I cannot claim that an exuberant six year old and and her no less exuberant four year old sister brought about a peaceable kingdom. I do know that an egg timer measured hammock time, little baby cousin could not have got more love and attention and the nearby beaches of the shore absorbed so much energy and offered endless adventures and fascinations.
Water gun fights, trips to swim in a freshwater lake, late night sparklers, a living room filling challenging puzzle, creations involving puddles of glue and unwashable paint, endless watermelon, a fort in the bushes, dress up clothes, dolls from another time. The squeals of joy and the not so joyous squeals.
I became very aware of the wisdom of young women and men holding the reins of parenthood.
The house is quiet now, just old Moe and me. Maybe just a little too quiet. Good byes are not easy.
However, there is time to rest, and as I rest gradually kneed everything into a loaf of memory, for future baking.
Monday 18 June 2012
Only in Nova Scotia, I Say
I was on my way home from Halifax, accompanied by my daughter and little grandson. My daughter wanted some fresh sea air. Her husband would join his family on the weekend.
It was late in the afternoon, as we pulled off the highway. I needed to pick up some groceries at The Atlantic Superstore in Windsor. We were a little weary. Nevertheless, we did well for the shopping challenged, picking up the required items. The groceries were paid for and then we pushed the cart through to the Nova Scotia Liquor Board store to pick up some cider.
My daughter shoved the cart to the car and and unloaded the groceries into the back. The baby slept in his Bjorn strapped to her chest. I went into the garden centre to buy a few stakes for my tomatoes that were not thriving in the sea breezes.
Into the car we got and headed westward. Before long we were looking out over the beautiful bay.
Early supper. Early to bed.
The next evening, as we made supper together, we decided to have a Strongbow. The box of cider was nowhere to be found, not in the kitchen, not in the laundry room, not in the car.
It gradually dawned on my daughter, the box did not make it into the car from the cart in the grocery parking lot. Oh well, it had been I nice thought.
My daughter did not give up as easily. She picked up the phone and called the NSLC in Windsor.
"Oh, are you the lady who was carrying a baby? Someone found the box in the cart yesterday and brought it into the store. We'll put your name on the box. You can pick it up later."
Sure enough the box was waiting for her at the store with a note on it, when she stopped to pick it up as they returned to the city, at the end of the weekend.
Only in Nova Scotia, I say.
It was late in the afternoon, as we pulled off the highway. I needed to pick up some groceries at The Atlantic Superstore in Windsor. We were a little weary. Nevertheless, we did well for the shopping challenged, picking up the required items. The groceries were paid for and then we pushed the cart through to the Nova Scotia Liquor Board store to pick up some cider.
My daughter shoved the cart to the car and and unloaded the groceries into the back. The baby slept in his Bjorn strapped to her chest. I went into the garden centre to buy a few stakes for my tomatoes that were not thriving in the sea breezes.
Into the car we got and headed westward. Before long we were looking out over the beautiful bay.
Early supper. Early to bed.
The next evening, as we made supper together, we decided to have a Strongbow. The box of cider was nowhere to be found, not in the kitchen, not in the laundry room, not in the car.
It gradually dawned on my daughter, the box did not make it into the car from the cart in the grocery parking lot. Oh well, it had been I nice thought.
My daughter did not give up as easily. She picked up the phone and called the NSLC in Windsor.
"Oh, are you the lady who was carrying a baby? Someone found the box in the cart yesterday and brought it into the store. We'll put your name on the box. You can pick it up later."
Sure enough the box was waiting for her at the store with a note on it, when she stopped to pick it up as they returned to the city, at the end of the weekend.
Only in Nova Scotia, I say.
Monday 21 May 2012
What's with Billions and Millions
I was just beginning to grasp the concept of a Million, when Billion replaced Million as the number of the time.
Once when my children were small, one of them asked me if I could count to a thousand. I told them I could, but that I never had. They didn't believe I possessed such a skill. And so I began. We were trapped in the car on our way back from the cottage. And so I droned on....... 134......283.....299...... 307.......... on and on and on and on. At some point they conceded that they believed that I did indeed possess such a skill. By that time, I had invested so much time into the effort, I wanted to complete the task. The car was filled with some mighty irritated occupants. ......842...... 875.......899. My intention was not to be irritating, though I was, I wanted to discover how big One Thousand really is. We don't really deal with a Thousand THINGS in everyday life, though the the number flies through a day so easily.
I can remember when the concept of One Hundred ruled. There were those Hundred bottles of beer forever on the wall. What were they doing there anyway ? How were they attached to the wall ?
Before One Hundred there was Ten. The now politically incorrect Ten Little Indians, as well as the Ten in the Bed with the Little One.
I guess Two was the jumping point of numeracy in my life. Two said there was more than One.
One just is. But sometimes One is too many.
Zero is the giant conundrum. This concept continues to fuel Doctorates in Mathematics, Science, Philosophy and Theology.
I don't want to go into the Negative.
For now I just want to stick to a Million and a Billion.
At some primary school somewhere children collected and brought together One Million bottle tops. This made for an impressive display. Being the sceptic that I am, I regretfully question the authenticity of this reality. It is hard not to imagine of all those little hands, One hand sneaking out One favourite bottle cap or adding just One more to the to the humongous pile. How many times did they count them ? Who was the Counter in Chief ?
I have decided to try to give up worrying about a Billion.
Although, what confuses me the most is there are two sorts of Billion. There is One Thousand Million and One Million Million, both Billions. Apparently One is British and the other is American. Perhaps some fine Scholar of Etymology should focus in on this discrepancy, as a pathway to Doctoratedum. Perhaps someone already has. This must be important to some people.
Oh well, I think it best for me to leave the Billion Thing behind, maybe even the Million Thing too. Biblical scholars tell us in the bible Forty means many. That is why there are so many Forties.
I prefer to look forward to lying on the grass, drinking up the beauty of the night sky, this summer without attaching those infinite numbers to the magnificence.
My self has a finite capacity to understand it all.
Once when my children were small, one of them asked me if I could count to a thousand. I told them I could, but that I never had. They didn't believe I possessed such a skill. And so I began. We were trapped in the car on our way back from the cottage. And so I droned on....... 134......283.....299...... 307.......... on and on and on and on. At some point they conceded that they believed that I did indeed possess such a skill. By that time, I had invested so much time into the effort, I wanted to complete the task. The car was filled with some mighty irritated occupants. ......842...... 875.......899. My intention was not to be irritating, though I was, I wanted to discover how big One Thousand really is. We don't really deal with a Thousand THINGS in everyday life, though the the number flies through a day so easily.
I can remember when the concept of One Hundred ruled. There were those Hundred bottles of beer forever on the wall. What were they doing there anyway ? How were they attached to the wall ?
Before One Hundred there was Ten. The now politically incorrect Ten Little Indians, as well as the Ten in the Bed with the Little One.
I guess Two was the jumping point of numeracy in my life. Two said there was more than One.
One just is. But sometimes One is too many.
Zero is the giant conundrum. This concept continues to fuel Doctorates in Mathematics, Science, Philosophy and Theology.
I don't want to go into the Negative.
For now I just want to stick to a Million and a Billion.
At some primary school somewhere children collected and brought together One Million bottle tops. This made for an impressive display. Being the sceptic that I am, I regretfully question the authenticity of this reality. It is hard not to imagine of all those little hands, One hand sneaking out One favourite bottle cap or adding just One more to the to the humongous pile. How many times did they count them ? Who was the Counter in Chief ?
I have decided to try to give up worrying about a Billion.
Although, what confuses me the most is there are two sorts of Billion. There is One Thousand Million and One Million Million, both Billions. Apparently One is British and the other is American. Perhaps some fine Scholar of Etymology should focus in on this discrepancy, as a pathway to Doctoratedum. Perhaps someone already has. This must be important to some people.
Oh well, I think it best for me to leave the Billion Thing behind, maybe even the Million Thing too. Biblical scholars tell us in the bible Forty means many. That is why there are so many Forties.
I prefer to look forward to lying on the grass, drinking up the beauty of the night sky, this summer without attaching those infinite numbers to the magnificence.
My self has a finite capacity to understand it all.
Friday 11 May 2012
My Mother Myra 1907-2008
Myra, this Mother's Day is for you.
Except for those flowery cards you wanted so badly, you made Mother's Day easy. I would stand for a long time in the card shops, going through card after card trying to find the perfect card. Humorous wouldn't do. It wasn't your style. I could not bare to put my name to the sentimental fantasies you and your compatriots loved so much. I remember you and my aunts swooning over the words on cards that belonged on bygone cards in bygone times. I inevitably purchased a beautiful wordless card, in which I wrote "Happy Mother's Day, I love you." Communication is between two people. We each had poetry in our hearts. The deep rhythms were the same but the words flowed from different times and different experiences.
However, buying a gift for you was always a joy. The only request, I remember you ever making was to go to the Mackay farm, to go for a walk in the bush to gather wild leeks. I often go for those wonderful walks, as I drift through the quiet of soft nights. I am growing wild leeks in my wild garden. There are not enough coming up yet, to pull up and eat one. There are times ahead. Each spring they rise, brings strong memories of you. What fun we had feeding them to the uninitiated.
The first present I really bought for you, was a set of coloured facecloths, I bought at Tim Clarke's store on Main Street in Markham. Those were the days when a little girl could walk down street with her little purse of coins to make a purchase, by herself, at a very young age. I was thrilled with my purchase. You were thrilled with your present. As I remember, when I was able to cross the road and venture further along the street, I bought collections of bright coloured sponges at Sinclairs, Five and Dime. All I know is that there was never a shortage of fresh sponges, under the sink.
Of course there were breakfasts in bed. Being too small to boil the kettle, your tea was made with hot tap water, your shredded wheat biscuit was softened in the same hot tap water. I am sure the tray was covered with a linen table mat and a tiny bouquet of johnny-jump-ups and blue forget-me nots from the lawn. Really presentation is everything, isn't it?
There were so many years that followed.
One year, I bought you a small burlap bag of hibernating lady bugs and a regal praying mantis - good aphid control for your organic garden. I stored them in my neighbour Karen's fridge. Of course the inevitable happened. Her children opened the bag and we spent an afternoon searching for them in an overloaded fridge.
Another year I bought you a fancy plastic system to house your Niagara Red Wigglers. The reality is it wasn't as good as the old wooden worm box. I still have the worms' descendents.
There were the pretties - rose bushes, handkerchhiefs, nighties and blouses; the edibles- Jordan Almonds, cherry filled chocolates, hoarhound and perhaps a fresh salmon steak or two from Healy's.
But the greatest gift I gave to you was a gift no one can really give. Children belong to the universe. When I became a mother, you became a grandmother. There wasn't anything in your life that gave you more pleasure than being grandma. You were an outstanding grandmother.
I am now a grandma, so I know the dimensions of such love. Two little girls and now a bouncing baby boy are your great grandchildren. Somehow I know you know all about them.
I don't miss you. One hundred years were so many years to live. You went happily. Thankfully you left so much of yourself behind for us.
Except for those flowery cards you wanted so badly, you made Mother's Day easy. I would stand for a long time in the card shops, going through card after card trying to find the perfect card. Humorous wouldn't do. It wasn't your style. I could not bare to put my name to the sentimental fantasies you and your compatriots loved so much. I remember you and my aunts swooning over the words on cards that belonged on bygone cards in bygone times. I inevitably purchased a beautiful wordless card, in which I wrote "Happy Mother's Day, I love you." Communication is between two people. We each had poetry in our hearts. The deep rhythms were the same but the words flowed from different times and different experiences.
However, buying a gift for you was always a joy. The only request, I remember you ever making was to go to the Mackay farm, to go for a walk in the bush to gather wild leeks. I often go for those wonderful walks, as I drift through the quiet of soft nights. I am growing wild leeks in my wild garden. There are not enough coming up yet, to pull up and eat one. There are times ahead. Each spring they rise, brings strong memories of you. What fun we had feeding them to the uninitiated.
The first present I really bought for you, was a set of coloured facecloths, I bought at Tim Clarke's store on Main Street in Markham. Those were the days when a little girl could walk down street with her little purse of coins to make a purchase, by herself, at a very young age. I was thrilled with my purchase. You were thrilled with your present. As I remember, when I was able to cross the road and venture further along the street, I bought collections of bright coloured sponges at Sinclairs, Five and Dime. All I know is that there was never a shortage of fresh sponges, under the sink.
Of course there were breakfasts in bed. Being too small to boil the kettle, your tea was made with hot tap water, your shredded wheat biscuit was softened in the same hot tap water. I am sure the tray was covered with a linen table mat and a tiny bouquet of johnny-jump-ups and blue forget-me nots from the lawn. Really presentation is everything, isn't it?
There were so many years that followed.
One year, I bought you a small burlap bag of hibernating lady bugs and a regal praying mantis - good aphid control for your organic garden. I stored them in my neighbour Karen's fridge. Of course the inevitable happened. Her children opened the bag and we spent an afternoon searching for them in an overloaded fridge.
Another year I bought you a fancy plastic system to house your Niagara Red Wigglers. The reality is it wasn't as good as the old wooden worm box. I still have the worms' descendents.
There were the pretties - rose bushes, handkerchhiefs, nighties and blouses; the edibles- Jordan Almonds, cherry filled chocolates, hoarhound and perhaps a fresh salmon steak or two from Healy's.
But the greatest gift I gave to you was a gift no one can really give. Children belong to the universe. When I became a mother, you became a grandmother. There wasn't anything in your life that gave you more pleasure than being grandma. You were an outstanding grandmother.
I am now a grandma, so I know the dimensions of such love. Two little girls and now a bouncing baby boy are your great grandchildren. Somehow I know you know all about them.
I don't miss you. One hundred years were so many years to live. You went happily. Thankfully you left so much of yourself behind for us.
Monday 30 April 2012
Some things have changed since my childhood
Once upon a time, when I was a child.
We couldn't place crank calls because we had to go through an operator.
.....now the problem is call display.
- Young ladies had to wear hats to church.
.....now few young ladies go to church hats or not.
- I unsuccessfully begged my mother to buy Wonder Bread.
.....now we search out "designer" bread.
-We thought all things American were good.
.....we cross the border with at least a small sense of dread.
-Tap water was the norm to fill water glasses.
.....water comes in fancy bottles.
-Milk was delivered in appealing bottles.
.....we drive the car to pick up boxes of milk.
-When we came home from school we changed from our school clothes to play clothes.
.....school clothes and play clothes are one and the same. Besides few kids play outside.
-When a parent called the doctor, the house was filled with a hushed sense of doom.
.....doctors don't call. We go to clinics.
-A dime was a big deal in a world of pennies.
.....the death knell has been rung for the copper. There isn't any penny candy anyway.
-Grass was grass. Weed was a weed. The fathers spent much time and effort trying to eliminate the
weeds.
weeds.
.....Now grass and weed are an evil, a recreation or a occupation for both the growers and the police.
-We brushed our teeth with tooth powder.
.....it takes some time to choose the appropriate toothpaste.
-Our mothers hadn't discovered casseroles. Spaghetti was exotic.
.....now we can't pronounce the names of many things we eat.
-Going out for dinner was a grand event.
.....sitting down to a home cooked meal is not always the norm.
-Nurses were visions of crisp whit cotton.
.....it is difficult to figure out which person is the nurse.
-There were no seat belts.
.....we lucked out when we could stand on the hump in the middle of the back floor.
-Stupid, idiot and shut up were the bad words.
.....it is doubtful our mothers would even recognize the bad words today.
-Sweaters, mitts, scarves were knit of wool.
.....now these are mostly made of recycled pop bottles.
-When we drove an aunt to the aeroport she wore a corsage, got flight insurance from a machine, walked out to the aeroplane across the tarmac.
.....now we drop our friends off and wave as they drag their suitcases through the moving doors.
-We always had to have a clean hanky in our pocket.
.....kleenex is available almost everywhere.
-We had to stand when our parents friends entered a room.
.....now our parents' friends are our friends.
-Polishing shoes was a weekly task.
.....who polishes their shoes?
-Small English Canadian children's skill at french was limited to Frere Jacque.
..... many small children are at least bilingual.
-Boys had hammers and girls had aprons.
.....Boys and girls have neither.
tbc
-We brushed our teeth with tooth powder.
.....it takes some time to choose the appropriate toothpaste.
-Our mothers hadn't discovered casseroles. Spaghetti was exotic.
.....now we can't pronounce the names of many things we eat.
-Going out for dinner was a grand event.
.....sitting down to a home cooked meal is not always the norm.
-Nurses were visions of crisp whit cotton.
.....it is difficult to figure out which person is the nurse.
-There were no seat belts.
.....we lucked out when we could stand on the hump in the middle of the back floor.
-Stupid, idiot and shut up were the bad words.
.....it is doubtful our mothers would even recognize the bad words today.
-Sweaters, mitts, scarves were knit of wool.
.....now these are mostly made of recycled pop bottles.
-When we drove an aunt to the aeroport she wore a corsage, got flight insurance from a machine, walked out to the aeroplane across the tarmac.
.....now we drop our friends off and wave as they drag their suitcases through the moving doors.
-We always had to have a clean hanky in our pocket.
.....kleenex is available almost everywhere.
-We had to stand when our parents friends entered a room.
.....now our parents' friends are our friends.
-Polishing shoes was a weekly task.
.....who polishes their shoes?
-Small English Canadian children's skill at french was limited to Frere Jacque.
..... many small children are at least bilingual.
-Boys had hammers and girls had aprons.
.....Boys and girls have neither.
tbc
Saturday 28 April 2012
Mess, Mess, Mess
My life is a mess. Well my life isn't actually a mess, but I am presently living in a world of messiness.
The Income Tax Forms are sent in on time, although the act of searching out numbers has left behind a veritable mass of wasted forest that eventually took over a room. I thought computers were meant to make paper obsolete.
It is a fine thing to be able to shut off unneeded rooms to keep other rooms, being used throughout the winter, with more heat.
Into these unused rooms mysteriously drift the flotsam and jetsam of everyday living. Unfortunately when the warmer weather arrives, the doors must be opened to let the fresh spring breezes wisp throughout the house. The contents of the unused rooms is a blemish on any sense of order, even mine. The collection of Frenchie aprons, for some forgotten reason, cover the bed. Books weep from the bookcases. Christmas ditrius doesn't look the least bit merry at this time of year. Is that pile of clothes meant to be taken to the Red Cross Bin or reclaimed for the glorious days of summer? Why did I have all of those old picture frames out? Why are my best snow boots in there?
It is possible to keep the doors closed another week or two, but an imprint of it all is stored away in that place for disorder in my brain, refuses to be put aside indefinitely.
....... and then my poor, neglected garden. There are always good reasons why the beds weren't tucked in nicely for the long winter sleep, but once again I am left to struggle to discern which are beauties and which are weeds. The weeds will have time to thrive until the other plants make their identities known.
The shrubs haven't been trimmed. Winter's leftovers, shovels, windshield scraper, lost mittens litter the yard. The lawn is scruffy. I'm not even going to talk about my dog Moses' winter contributions.
In time, most things will find more or less appropriate spots. I will sit on the porch in a wicker chair with a cup of tea watching the flags flutter.
These past few months, I feel like I have had a little too much in common with Florence Nightingale. I can understand how when she returned to England, she took to her bed. But if I want to leave my Crimea behind, I must forge on ahead towards summer, when all must be welcoming for my friends and family.
However I plan to take to my bed sometimes, until the birds convince me with their songs, it is time to be up and out to embrace the day. I'm still a little weary.
The Income Tax Forms are sent in on time, although the act of searching out numbers has left behind a veritable mass of wasted forest that eventually took over a room. I thought computers were meant to make paper obsolete.
It is a fine thing to be able to shut off unneeded rooms to keep other rooms, being used throughout the winter, with more heat.
Into these unused rooms mysteriously drift the flotsam and jetsam of everyday living. Unfortunately when the warmer weather arrives, the doors must be opened to let the fresh spring breezes wisp throughout the house. The contents of the unused rooms is a blemish on any sense of order, even mine. The collection of Frenchie aprons, for some forgotten reason, cover the bed. Books weep from the bookcases. Christmas ditrius doesn't look the least bit merry at this time of year. Is that pile of clothes meant to be taken to the Red Cross Bin or reclaimed for the glorious days of summer? Why did I have all of those old picture frames out? Why are my best snow boots in there?
It is possible to keep the doors closed another week or two, but an imprint of it all is stored away in that place for disorder in my brain, refuses to be put aside indefinitely.
....... and then my poor, neglected garden. There are always good reasons why the beds weren't tucked in nicely for the long winter sleep, but once again I am left to struggle to discern which are beauties and which are weeds. The weeds will have time to thrive until the other plants make their identities known.
The shrubs haven't been trimmed. Winter's leftovers, shovels, windshield scraper, lost mittens litter the yard. The lawn is scruffy. I'm not even going to talk about my dog Moses' winter contributions.
In time, most things will find more or less appropriate spots. I will sit on the porch in a wicker chair with a cup of tea watching the flags flutter.
These past few months, I feel like I have had a little too much in common with Florence Nightingale. I can understand how when she returned to England, she took to her bed. But if I want to leave my Crimea behind, I must forge on ahead towards summer, when all must be welcoming for my friends and family.
However I plan to take to my bed sometimes, until the birds convince me with their songs, it is time to be up and out to embrace the day. I'm still a little weary.
Sunday 15 April 2012
Asparagus, you just have to eat one piece.
"You just have to eat one piece. You have to give yourself a chance to like it.", my mother said as she plunked down a plump piece of asparagus drizzled with butter on my plate. I knew she was wrong, but there was no sense in arguing, as my mother's pride in the vegetables she grew in the backyard garden was so strong. A kind little girl didn't want to hurt her mummy's feelings.
Surprise, momma was right.
I would give almost anything about now, to wander out to a garden to pick a nice fresh bunch, to gently steam, crown with a dollop of butter and a sprinkle of salt and a grind of pepper. With a slice of flaxseed toast and a hard boiled egg, this supper is fit for the queen.
These days wilting bunches of asparagus still rest languidly, with astronomical prices tags among the other edible winter exotica, in the larger grocery stores. These delights are shipped from far off warmer climes, at great expense. They are merely a sham and delusion of the real thing.
The real thing beats most other local plants to the table in early spring, with perhaps the exception of the hardy Swiss chard, a vegetable that also requires an acquired taste.
When I was pregnant with each of my children I would slink down to the corner store, in the city for a can of slippery, lank asparagus. Once home, the can was opened and eaten immediately, without so much as a quick visit to the microwave. I had to make do.
In time I discovered the tall, slim bottles of white asparagus in the carriage trade stores, but it was hard to justify buying "far from the real thing" for the price of a nice bottle of wine.
I live in a place where tea sandwiches remain an art form. They inevitably appear at receptions after funerals or other events of import. It is so hard for me not to appear to be the glutton, I can be, when the large heavy laden sandwich plates are brought to the tables. It is so hard to move slowly with a small luncheon plate to pick only one or two of the asparagus swirls or of asparagus rolls, the crustless wonders,
made so delicately and small, by the real ladies of the community.
Thank goodness, in the near future, I'll be able to go out to buy fresh local asparagus to have supper after supper to my heart's content, until the freshness of the following emerging vegetables catch my fancy.
Then it is time for a local specialty, hodgepodge, but that is another story.
Monday 9 April 2012
A Shiny Little Red Ford Truck
Down the road, across the bridge, around the bend, a shiny little red Ford truck sits in a driveway and a community smiles. The quarter tonner is a new again vehicle. The rough, muddy, spring roads have added a distinctive mountain look, but the cherry ripeness continues to shine forth.
The MacIsasles have a truck. The truck couldn't have a better home. It has found itself in the driveway of one of the most welcoming homes in the county. Kitchen delights are always at ready. Sounds of woodworking rise from the basement with the fresh smell of sawdust. The wood stove continuously burns.
The shiny little red Ford truck couldn't have a better home and the MacIsasles couldn't have a better truck.
Pride of ownership is a fine, fine thing in people who don't really care much about acquiring things. The truck has brought a well deserved "Seal of Approval" to a couple who already have a "Seal of Appeal" from friends and neighbours.
This little truck is no mere eye candy. The previous owner was an elderly man who treated it with love, but the poor thing seldom hit the road. Perhaps it was a fulfilment of a long ago sixteen year old's dreams.
Now the beauty has a chance to play with the big boys.
The box has not been empty since its arrival- wood for splitting, a lawn mower for fixing, groceries for feeding, even a load of children, held tightly in parents arms took a slow ride up the driveway re-enacting childhood memories and making new ones.
In a small village a new vehicle is an event, especially if it is a shiny little red Ford truck.
The MacIsasles have a truck. The truck couldn't have a better home. It has found itself in the driveway of one of the most welcoming homes in the county. Kitchen delights are always at ready. Sounds of woodworking rise from the basement with the fresh smell of sawdust. The wood stove continuously burns.
The shiny little red Ford truck couldn't have a better home and the MacIsasles couldn't have a better truck.
Pride of ownership is a fine, fine thing in people who don't really care much about acquiring things. The truck has brought a well deserved "Seal of Approval" to a couple who already have a "Seal of Appeal" from friends and neighbours.
This little truck is no mere eye candy. The previous owner was an elderly man who treated it with love, but the poor thing seldom hit the road. Perhaps it was a fulfilment of a long ago sixteen year old's dreams.
Now the beauty has a chance to play with the big boys.
The box has not been empty since its arrival- wood for splitting, a lawn mower for fixing, groceries for feeding, even a load of children, held tightly in parents arms took a slow ride up the driveway re-enacting childhood memories and making new ones.
In a small village a new vehicle is an event, especially if it is a shiny little red Ford truck.
Friday 2 March 2012
Good Things
Good Things
1. fresh snow
2. chickadees
3.sweetgrass
4. the scent of newly cut hay
5. Apple computers
6. respect of family and friends
7. organic brown rice
8. homemade ice cream
9. the endless tide
10. front porch
11. side porch
12. willow trees
13. nests
14. dogs of all sorts
15. chipmunks
16. asparagus
17. well cooked fish
18. bright colours
19. sun streaming in a window
20. books
21. poetry
22. red flannelette sheets
23. Canadian landscapes
24. first daffodils
25. holly bushes
26. poutine
27. fine offspring
28. fine family
29. fine friends
30. pebbly beaches
31. mud flats
32. array of apples
33. home
34. barbeques
35. shore suppers
36. local choir
37. lucky stones
38. a letter in the mailbox
39. the smell of spring
40. spring peepers
41. old houses
42. candlelight
43. thanksgiving
44. fluffy pillows
45. local food.
46. pure water
47. tea made with pure water.
48. rain washing windows
49. safe car
50. new glasses
51. clean hair
52. comfortable clothes
53. bright socks
54. favourite shoes.
55. prime ribs of beef
56. real hamburgers.
57. homemade baked beans
58. peaches ripened on the tree.
59. the sound of a brook
60. laughter
61. the smell of cedars
62. canoes
63. 4 leafed clover
65. success of a friend
66. hummingbirds
67. crows
68. flying squirrels
69. soft breezes
70. fog at the shore
71. icicles
72. well worn nighties
73. washed dishes
74. clothesline.
75. woodpiles.
76. asparagus
77. freshly cut grass
78. night skies
79. northern lights
80. bagpipes.
81. clean windows
82. clean clothes from the clothesline.
83. children's drawings
84. healthy septic system
85. endless white beaches
86. wild roses
87. huge snow drifts
88. moss
89. cows in a field
90. lupin covered hills
91. fall maples.
92. full tank of gas
93. ironed white cotton sheets
94. camp songs
95. nursery rhymes
96. warm bath.
97. silence.
98. Niagara Falls
99. unusual lists
100. cbc radio
101. health
etc.
1. fresh snow
2. chickadees
3.sweetgrass
4. the scent of newly cut hay
5. Apple computers
6. respect of family and friends
7. organic brown rice
8. homemade ice cream
9. the endless tide
10. front porch
11. side porch
12. willow trees
13. nests
14. dogs of all sorts
15. chipmunks
16. asparagus
17. well cooked fish
18. bright colours
19. sun streaming in a window
20. books
21. poetry
22. red flannelette sheets
23. Canadian landscapes
24. first daffodils
25. holly bushes
26. poutine
27. fine offspring
28. fine family
29. fine friends
30. pebbly beaches
31. mud flats
32. array of apples
33. home
34. barbeques
35. shore suppers
36. local choir
37. lucky stones
38. a letter in the mailbox
39. the smell of spring
40. spring peepers
41. old houses
42. candlelight
43. thanksgiving
44. fluffy pillows
45. local food.
46. pure water
47. tea made with pure water.
48. rain washing windows
49. safe car
50. new glasses
51. clean hair
52. comfortable clothes
53. bright socks
54. favourite shoes.
55. prime ribs of beef
56. real hamburgers.
57. homemade baked beans
58. peaches ripened on the tree.
59. the sound of a brook
60. laughter
61. the smell of cedars
62. canoes
63. 4 leafed clover
65. success of a friend
66. hummingbirds
67. crows
68. flying squirrels
69. soft breezes
70. fog at the shore
71. icicles
72. well worn nighties
73. washed dishes
74. clothesline.
75. woodpiles.
76. asparagus
77. freshly cut grass
78. night skies
79. northern lights
80. bagpipes.
81. clean windows
82. clean clothes from the clothesline.
83. children's drawings
84. healthy septic system
85. endless white beaches
86. wild roses
87. huge snow drifts
88. moss
89. cows in a field
90. lupin covered hills
91. fall maples.
92. full tank of gas
93. ironed white cotton sheets
94. camp songs
95. nursery rhymes
96. warm bath.
97. silence.
98. Niagara Falls
99. unusual lists
100. cbc radio
101. health
etc.
Saturday 25 February 2012
All Times are not Good Times
All times are not good times. Right now is one of those times. That does not mean there can't be good times in bad times. Nevertheless, some times are bad times. Sickness sucks.
Cancer is a nasty word. Maybe the word is not nasty, but what it stands for is. Cancer was discovered growing in someone important to me.
The good news is that the cancer was effectively removed and will not likely return.
The bad news is the removal of the cancer has harmed a body and taken one person a little too close to death's door.
The good news is the crowd of fine people who came to stand by a hospital bed, who sent messages, who baked goodies, who searched out radios, who called frequently and who didn't call when rest was needed for gathering strength.
We all hope it won't be long before the patient is freed from the confines of the hospital soon and will once again have the opportunity to see the flock of robins that arrives this time of year, the ravens and crows cavorting in the air and the grass getting ever greener.
Cancer is a nasty word. Maybe the word is not nasty, but what it stands for is. Cancer was discovered growing in someone important to me.
The good news is that the cancer was effectively removed and will not likely return.
The bad news is the removal of the cancer has harmed a body and taken one person a little too close to death's door.
The good news is the crowd of fine people who came to stand by a hospital bed, who sent messages, who baked goodies, who searched out radios, who called frequently and who didn't call when rest was needed for gathering strength.
We all hope it won't be long before the patient is freed from the confines of the hospital soon and will once again have the opportunity to see the flock of robins that arrives this time of year, the ravens and crows cavorting in the air and the grass getting ever greener.
Tuesday 14 February 2012
Pink Day
Valentine's Day is not right up there with the holidays I enjoy. Sure it is a friend's birthday, no doubt it is many people's happy anniversary or not, but to be truthful it is a day I detest. The day is one day up from Friday the 13th. I don't like the days of love enforcement.
So I will concentrate on thinking of Pink Day today.
I spent the Christmas holidays at my daughter's house with my two sweet, spunky, young grand daughters. My grand daughters spent Christmas Day and the days surrounding it with their daddy and their other grandparents out of town. They had a wonderful time.
When they returned, we had places to go, people to see, things to do, but we needed a Celebration, a low key, one of a kind, stressless celebration. My daughter is a star creator of celebrations, but was fully involved with handy person jobs.
Hmmm. Two little girls three and six.
I am not a big fan of Barbie. They have wonderful times "playing Barbie", but for this celebration Barbie was not a guest. I think for the girls, Princesses have almost reached a saturation point. However there was always the colour Pink.
Before I left Nova Scotia, I began to search out small, things pink that would be of interest to the two little girls. Pink felt markers, Pink computer paper with Pink roses, Pink food colouring for Pink cupcakes with Pink icing, Pink sprinkles, Pink serviettes. Their auntie found delicate pastel fairies to go atop the cupcakes. My biggest investment was in matching cozy, Pink plaid pyjamas for the two little girls and their mummy and me.
On Pre-Pink day, as their mum painted Pink baseboards, in the bathroom she was transforming, we made the cupcakes. When interest waned, they went out to play in the snow as I carried on. They were definitely there for the icing part.
That night we all went to bed in our Pink pj's. Pink morning was much like any morning. There may have been a Pink cupcake or two at breakfast. As the day went on, we set a Pink table, and successfully and unsuccessfully put up some Pink decorations
Then it was time for the games. We made creatures out of Pink pipe cleaners. We drew Pink pictures on the Pink paper then guessed at what each person had drawn. There were gales of laughter, when we finally guessed the inspiration of my daughter's Pink drawing. Let us just say it was an anatomical Pink part of their black cat Betty Consuela.
We ate our dinner, toasted Pink Day with a healthy Pink drink in Pink paper cups, that was definitely not a hit and ate our Pink ice-cream and maybe another Pink cupcake. We wiped our mouths with the Pink napkins. So ended the Celebration.
I think I'll sleep in my cozy, Pink plaid pyjamas tonight.
So I will concentrate on thinking of Pink Day today.
I spent the Christmas holidays at my daughter's house with my two sweet, spunky, young grand daughters. My grand daughters spent Christmas Day and the days surrounding it with their daddy and their other grandparents out of town. They had a wonderful time.
When they returned, we had places to go, people to see, things to do, but we needed a Celebration, a low key, one of a kind, stressless celebration. My daughter is a star creator of celebrations, but was fully involved with handy person jobs.
Hmmm. Two little girls three and six.
I am not a big fan of Barbie. They have wonderful times "playing Barbie", but for this celebration Barbie was not a guest. I think for the girls, Princesses have almost reached a saturation point. However there was always the colour Pink.
Before I left Nova Scotia, I began to search out small, things pink that would be of interest to the two little girls. Pink felt markers, Pink computer paper with Pink roses, Pink food colouring for Pink cupcakes with Pink icing, Pink sprinkles, Pink serviettes. Their auntie found delicate pastel fairies to go atop the cupcakes. My biggest investment was in matching cozy, Pink plaid pyjamas for the two little girls and their mummy and me.
On Pre-Pink day, as their mum painted Pink baseboards, in the bathroom she was transforming, we made the cupcakes. When interest waned, they went out to play in the snow as I carried on. They were definitely there for the icing part.
That night we all went to bed in our Pink pj's. Pink morning was much like any morning. There may have been a Pink cupcake or two at breakfast. As the day went on, we set a Pink table, and successfully and unsuccessfully put up some Pink decorations
Then it was time for the games. We made creatures out of Pink pipe cleaners. We drew Pink pictures on the Pink paper then guessed at what each person had drawn. There were gales of laughter, when we finally guessed the inspiration of my daughter's Pink drawing. Let us just say it was an anatomical Pink part of their black cat Betty Consuela.
We ate our dinner, toasted Pink Day with a healthy Pink drink in Pink paper cups, that was definitely not a hit and ate our Pink ice-cream and maybe another Pink cupcake. We wiped our mouths with the Pink napkins. So ended the Celebration.
I think I'll sleep in my cozy, Pink plaid pyjamas tonight.
Wednesday 8 February 2012
Life's Arrivals and Departures
Beautiful babies, amazing pieces of new humanity, continue to emerge into my life, bringing so much love with them.
These babies are not only my grand children, although to be truthful there is a special spot set aside for them in my heart, but also the extended family's babies, my friends' grandchildren both near and far, the babies of my daughters' friends, the babies of my neighbours and the baby I passed in the grocery store, who gave me a wonderful smile this morning.
The winds of change swirl. What lies ahead for these sweet souls?
As these babies arrive, the grand old dames move off toward new horizons. Just as the babies bring love, hope and innocence into our worlds, these women of force, wisdom and grace move us forward into the adventure of the unknown.
They were once the babies of love, hope and innocence.
Life is a challenging enterprise. These women, living into their nineties, some even passing the hundred year mark, are proof that it is possible to find strength to embrace sometimes with courage, sometimes with joy, sometimes with courage and joy what life offers.
Recently, an elderly summer neighbour died. I valued her friendship. In her nineties she had her small cottage moved back from the cliff. This was no small undertaking. The cliff through time was moving ever closer, as the mighty winter storms crashed the waves against the rock. The act is one of endless metaphors.
The spark of her living that shone out through her eyes will remain at this spot forever. A piece of another's living is left behind and a piece of my living moves forward.
These babies are not only my grand children, although to be truthful there is a special spot set aside for them in my heart, but also the extended family's babies, my friends' grandchildren both near and far, the babies of my daughters' friends, the babies of my neighbours and the baby I passed in the grocery store, who gave me a wonderful smile this morning.
The winds of change swirl. What lies ahead for these sweet souls?
As these babies arrive, the grand old dames move off toward new horizons. Just as the babies bring love, hope and innocence into our worlds, these women of force, wisdom and grace move us forward into the adventure of the unknown.
They were once the babies of love, hope and innocence.
Life is a challenging enterprise. These women, living into their nineties, some even passing the hundred year mark, are proof that it is possible to find strength to embrace sometimes with courage, sometimes with joy, sometimes with courage and joy what life offers.
Recently, an elderly summer neighbour died. I valued her friendship. In her nineties she had her small cottage moved back from the cliff. This was no small undertaking. The cliff through time was moving ever closer, as the mighty winter storms crashed the waves against the rock. The act is one of endless metaphors.
The spark of her living that shone out through her eyes will remain at this spot forever. A piece of another's living is left behind and a piece of my living moves forward.
Wednesday 1 February 2012
P.J.s Too Late in the Day ?
Here I sit at the table in the kitchen wearing my turquoise blue wool socks, my plaid pink cozy pj bottoms, a pink oversized top, covered by a traditional red dressing gown.
The snow is steadily and softly coming down. The roads seem ok here by the shore, but I think the schools are closed. The kettle is boiling water for a second cup of tea.
The trouble is the time is 12:45 pm. What are my ancestors thinking? My grand father came from the "five to seven victory, five after seven defeat" school of thought concerning morning rising. Actually, it wasn't just the rising, it was t he "getting dressed and up and at 'em element" that was more challenging.
To be honest, I would be very comfortable if I could set aside the sense of transgression. Let's hear it for the "my house, my rules attitude". There are no cows to milk or in my grandfather's case no souls to save. There are no doubt, many souls to save, but I'm not going there.
Tap. Tap. Tap on the side door. "@#*&" I have company. Helloooooooooo! Whew!
My friend, from up the hill, dropped in for a tea on the way from getting the mail at the road. She doesn't count as a visitor, as we have been friends since our early teens. I am sure there are still secrets to discover, but a case of possible sloth is of little shock and less interest to her.
The clock keeps ticking. The time is now 1:59. The bell, in my centre of well being, is about to ring.
I am about to get sensibly dressed, bring wood in for the fire, put away the clean clothes, make a try at sweeping clear the kitchen floor.
Then it will be time to do some real living. I will once again take some time to watch the new video of my beautiful baby grandson, enjoying sitting in his Bumbo. He is looking every bit as wonderful with his new blue woollen hat with tiny ears, as the little fellow in "Where the Wild Things Are". Not a bad reward, eh?
................................................................... and she's off.
The snow is steadily and softly coming down. The roads seem ok here by the shore, but I think the schools are closed. The kettle is boiling water for a second cup of tea.
The trouble is the time is 12:45 pm. What are my ancestors thinking? My grand father came from the "five to seven victory, five after seven defeat" school of thought concerning morning rising. Actually, it wasn't just the rising, it was t he "getting dressed and up and at 'em element" that was more challenging.
To be honest, I would be very comfortable if I could set aside the sense of transgression. Let's hear it for the "my house, my rules attitude". There are no cows to milk or in my grandfather's case no souls to save. There are no doubt, many souls to save, but I'm not going there.
Tap. Tap. Tap on the side door. "@#*&" I have company. Helloooooooooo! Whew!
My friend, from up the hill, dropped in for a tea on the way from getting the mail at the road. She doesn't count as a visitor, as we have been friends since our early teens. I am sure there are still secrets to discover, but a case of possible sloth is of little shock and less interest to her.
The clock keeps ticking. The time is now 1:59. The bell, in my centre of well being, is about to ring.
I am about to get sensibly dressed, bring wood in for the fire, put away the clean clothes, make a try at sweeping clear the kitchen floor.
Then it will be time to do some real living. I will once again take some time to watch the new video of my beautiful baby grandson, enjoying sitting in his Bumbo. He is looking every bit as wonderful with his new blue woollen hat with tiny ears, as the little fellow in "Where the Wild Things Are". Not a bad reward, eh?
................................................................... and she's off.
Wednesday 25 January 2012
A Sweater Named Rita
Heating with a wood stove has many advantages. One of these advantages is that the house becomes a home with rooms of varying temperatures. This works out well for guests with strong temperature preferences or individuals of a certain age, whose thermostats are decidedly erratic.
As winter sets in, the conditions change. The floors, the walls , the furniture claim the cold. There is no longer of a range of temperatures. Extremes reign- the relentless heat of the livingroom and the frigid zones of the bedrooms, despite the constant whirr of ceiling fans, the closed and blanketed doors and the sure and steady heat from the stove.
It is time to call Rita to the rescue. Rita is a family treasure.
In times long ago, my former mother in law knit the sweater coat, we call Rita. She knit and knit and knit and knit. I think she thought she could knit everything together again. That wasn't to be. Rita could hold all of us, but she couldn't hold us all together.
Rita is a sweater of weight, a sweater of size. To be honest I think Rita is continuing to grow; big, bold, beautiful Rita.
So much knitting went into Rita. The wool is thick. The pattern is a diamond quilt pattern in off white, red and tan. In time I think Rita will reach to the floor, as I shrink and she grows. I received her in the eighties, when something of cowboy fashion was sweeping North America. Even I had cowboy boots. I'll inevitably have to search some out if the stretch/shrink trend continues
Rita is the namesake of a well respected Maritime songstress, Rita MacNeil. She is a woman whose voice is familiar from one side of the country to the other. She is a woman, who has known hard times, yet lives with twinkling eyes. Rita is definitely a woman of size. Thus the name Rita.
Rita's presence at gatherings is always welcome. She was a source of merriment in sad times. How many people could fit into Rita ? The answer is many. The pictures of this merriment are gone. The memories remain.
In the winter when the north winds blow, Rita becomes a blanket offering warmth to those who dare to watch t.v., in a room where the rattling of the windows almost drowns out the sound. Rita becomes an outdoor dressing gown, when I struggle down the driveway to take the garbage to the road on frigid early Monday mornings. It is Rita I grab and toss on, before I dash up the hill to my friends house for a warm cup of tea.
In spring, summer and fall, Rita is always at ready. She is no uni-seasonal garment. She hangs contentedly on a brass hook in the front hall, easily accessible for action on cool, foggy days or as the sun sets or the wind blows, cooling down the temperature on the front or side porch. This is one perfect sweater for a grandma to wear, sitting in a wicker chair with a pajamaed grand child watching out for falling stars.
The reality is that Rita is a family member as no other sweater will ever be.
It is time to call Rita to the rescue. Rita is a family treasure.
In times long ago, my former mother in law knit the sweater coat, we call Rita. She knit and knit and knit and knit. I think she thought she could knit everything together again. That wasn't to be. Rita could hold all of us, but she couldn't hold us all together.
Rita is a sweater of weight, a sweater of size. To be honest I think Rita is continuing to grow; big, bold, beautiful Rita.
So much knitting went into Rita. The wool is thick. The pattern is a diamond quilt pattern in off white, red and tan. In time I think Rita will reach to the floor, as I shrink and she grows. I received her in the eighties, when something of cowboy fashion was sweeping North America. Even I had cowboy boots. I'll inevitably have to search some out if the stretch/shrink trend continues
Rita is the namesake of a well respected Maritime songstress, Rita MacNeil. She is a woman whose voice is familiar from one side of the country to the other. She is a woman, who has known hard times, yet lives with twinkling eyes. Rita is definitely a woman of size. Thus the name Rita.
Rita's presence at gatherings is always welcome. She was a source of merriment in sad times. How many people could fit into Rita ? The answer is many. The pictures of this merriment are gone. The memories remain.
In the winter when the north winds blow, Rita becomes a blanket offering warmth to those who dare to watch t.v., in a room where the rattling of the windows almost drowns out the sound. Rita becomes an outdoor dressing gown, when I struggle down the driveway to take the garbage to the road on frigid early Monday mornings. It is Rita I grab and toss on, before I dash up the hill to my friends house for a warm cup of tea.
In spring, summer and fall, Rita is always at ready. She is no uni-seasonal garment. She hangs contentedly on a brass hook in the front hall, easily accessible for action on cool, foggy days or as the sun sets or the wind blows, cooling down the temperature on the front or side porch. This is one perfect sweater for a grandma to wear, sitting in a wicker chair with a pajamaed grand child watching out for falling stars.
The reality is that Rita is a family member as no other sweater will ever be.
Monday 9 January 2012
No one is Cool in Canada's Cold
No one is cool in Canada’s cold. When tears almost turn to ice, glazing the eyes, a real winter’s day is the great fashion equalizer. From top to toe, warmest is best. Layers are not a statement, but a necessity for survival.
Who cares if a little alligator waddles across a chest or a horse gallops? As long as soft cotton, lamb’s wool or silk, rests next to skin, Old Man Winter knows the first layer of armor is on. The soft woolen Stanfield’s, I inherited from my mother, are almost worth their weight in gold, and if I were to get lost in a great freezing, more than gold.
Those plastic bottles, I lug off to their recycling future, can be spun into fabrics of wonder. However, Mother Nature knows best. They have their place, but not next to the skin.
In the ethically murky world of animal exploitation, some turn from fur, wildfowl’s feathers, and Bambi’s mother’s smoked skin.
Others don’t. I just can’t go there, but try to remember to give thanks.
We are a nation built on the backs of beaver pelts. Beaver pelts
destined for the great top hats for the great heads of Europe.
Next come a layer and another layer after that, maybe more. The necessity is that they are psychologically and physically warming. Love always remains a part of hand knitted wear.
The outer layer is a topic of many hot discussions. Windproof, waterproof, often coming with numbers and symbols of freezing thermometers, both centigrade and Fahrenheit, as well as breathability seem are key issues.
Warm and dry remain key words.
I pick from a long rack of used clothing store finds. Somehow there is an intuitive sense of what the day requires. Perhaps dressing for the Canadian Great Outdoors in Winter, has attached subtly to the DNA, I received from my forbearers.
Then the fun begins; hats, mittens, scarves and my personal favourite socks are dug out of the old wicker basket, often in an explosion of colours. Sometimes the mitten on the left hand comes from a different era than the one on the right.
Headgear is a matter of choice as long a toque is shoved in a pocket or backpack. This is a requirement of true patriot love.
I have waited somewhat impatiently, all summer to return to my precious collection of friends of winter, heavy, many times mended, knit socks. I have been waiting for Winter.
The day dictates the footwear.
Whether I am getting ready to leave the house to take grandchildren to The Santa Claus Parade, to once again attempt snowshoeing back in the woods, brave the winds along the Fundy Shore, hurtle myself one last time down the tobogganing hill or walk to a friend’s for a cup of tea, I am ready.
Damn fashion. I am ready. Bring on Winter.
Saturday 7 January 2012
Magic Pockets
When I arrived, in the city where my daughter lives, school was not yet out for the holidays. My eldest grandchild who recently turned six was off to school.
One morning, my daughter, my younger grand daughter, who is not yet in regular school, and I were off to get groceries with a bundle buggy. I have been told I am "shopping impaired", so I have great sympathy for everyone, especially small children who do not consider shopping a positive event.
As any faraway grandma would do, I tried to make the outing as happy as I could. Yes, we went to McDonalds. Yes, we bought a Happy Meal. Yes, the Happy Meal had a hula hoop swirling Hello Kitty inside. On discovering this, yes I bought a Happy Meal for myself so both girls would have such an amazing treasure.
Later that afternoon mother and daughter got ready to pick up the young scholar. Little sister begged to take her sister her Hello Kitty. In downtown Toronto, most outside playing takes place after school is let out. The children race about the yard and scramble over the playground equipment, as parents and caregivers stand by and watch. A community of people from all corners of the world begins to build. I thought this was no place for the distraction of Hello Kitty. I said no.
When they arrived at the school, the little one rushed to her sister and presented her with a Hello Kitty still in its plastic wrap. The three year old looked at her mother earnestly and said she just put her hand in her pocket and it was there by magic.
.... to be continued
One morning, my daughter, my younger grand daughter, who is not yet in regular school, and I were off to get groceries with a bundle buggy. I have been told I am "shopping impaired", so I have great sympathy for everyone, especially small children who do not consider shopping a positive event.
As any faraway grandma would do, I tried to make the outing as happy as I could. Yes, we went to McDonalds. Yes, we bought a Happy Meal. Yes, the Happy Meal had a hula hoop swirling Hello Kitty inside. On discovering this, yes I bought a Happy Meal for myself so both girls would have such an amazing treasure.
Later that afternoon mother and daughter got ready to pick up the young scholar. Little sister begged to take her sister her Hello Kitty. In downtown Toronto, most outside playing takes place after school is let out. The children race about the yard and scramble over the playground equipment, as parents and caregivers stand by and watch. A community of people from all corners of the world begins to build. I thought this was no place for the distraction of Hello Kitty. I said no.
When they arrived at the school, the little one rushed to her sister and presented her with a Hello Kitty still in its plastic wrap. The three year old looked at her mother earnestly and said she just put her hand in her pocket and it was there by magic.
.... to be continued
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