The wood is in, the fire heats the house and there is not a sweet little boy sleeping in the front room of the house.
The plans had been made forever, but, Old Man Winter seems to have made other plans. A big old storm is forming itself up to take on Nova Scotia, this weekend.
I love snowstorms. Snowstorms here and snowstorms there are wonderful. It is the treachery of roads between here and there, that present the problems. Loved ones travelling in whizzing plastic vehicles , through blustery "white outs" is not an option. Adults make adult decisions, even if they are made reluctantly.
How I wanted to go out the front door, with my grandson to choose a little tree for the living room. Tree decorating has become a smaller and smaller enterprise for me, through the years. All that is needed is enough light and joy to catch the wonder. It won't be the same cutting a tiny tree without a small person by my side. I'll have to imagine him here in spirit.
He won't be able to see the sea boil in the deep cold, he won't be at the community Christmas gathering. To be honest, I won't be able to present a special piece of my universe to the community.
We won't be gathering around the table with his parents and my cousin, laughing as we enjoy eachothers' company.
The universe unfolds as the universe unfolds.
Christmas still awaits. I hope Old Man Winter will let us gather together at my small grandson's house next week.
For now, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
Saturday 14 December 2013
Monday 25 November 2013
Just Let Christmas Be
Much to my surprise, a photograph of a Christmas past, that has crossed my path many times over the years, woke up something inside that is very relevant to Christmas present.
There stood a family posed in matching nightwear, in the dishevelment of post gift opening on Christmas morning. All was not going as planned. The envisioned merriment was not there. Instead, a father, a mother and two young daughters stood dazed by the effort of too much role playing.
One glance at the picture this time, viscerally brought back the memory of the deep fatigue of a Mrs. Christmas who had immersed herself for weeks into the production of The Perfect Christmas.
It was the hubris of a young woman, who thought she could create a Christmas that would be all things, to the generations of people she loved.
Her husband, showered and shaved was ready for his role of the grand, gracious, host. Dishevelled me, stared blankly beyond the timed camera to the chaos of celebrations that lay ahead. The thawing turkey did not even make it into my mind. My children had their own private thoughts. From their expressions, it would seem visions of sugarplums were not dancing in their heads.
No doubt, as the day progressed, each and every one had a moment or two of glee and I am just as certain most had a moment or two of deep sadness. Such is the reality of grand family celebrations.
With age I am beginning to look more and more like Mrs. Christmas. With time the realization has finally come that I don't have to be Mrs. Christmas.
This kind of knowing is one of the joys that come with aging.
There stood a family posed in matching nightwear, in the dishevelment of post gift opening on Christmas morning. All was not going as planned. The envisioned merriment was not there. Instead, a father, a mother and two young daughters stood dazed by the effort of too much role playing.
One glance at the picture this time, viscerally brought back the memory of the deep fatigue of a Mrs. Christmas who had immersed herself for weeks into the production of The Perfect Christmas.
It was the hubris of a young woman, who thought she could create a Christmas that would be all things, to the generations of people she loved.
Her husband, showered and shaved was ready for his role of the grand, gracious, host. Dishevelled me, stared blankly beyond the timed camera to the chaos of celebrations that lay ahead. The thawing turkey did not even make it into my mind. My children had their own private thoughts. From their expressions, it would seem visions of sugarplums were not dancing in their heads.
No doubt, as the day progressed, each and every one had a moment or two of glee and I am just as certain most had a moment or two of deep sadness. Such is the reality of grand family celebrations.
With age I am beginning to look more and more like Mrs. Christmas. With time the realization has finally come that I don't have to be Mrs. Christmas.
This kind of knowing is one of the joys that come with aging.
Sunday 13 October 2013
There is No One Hallmark Thanksgiving
I was about to blither on about all Thanksgivings being one Thanksgiving, when the stupidity of such a concept hit me. Each Thanksgiving is singular, although we try to recall it as one.
My one Thanksgiving is rooted in the ideal Thanksgivings, that took place at the family cottages on Lake Simcoe; crisp fall air, beautiful autumn colours, logs ablaze in stone fireplaces, cottages filling with the aromas of the meal to come, children gathering leaves for table centrepieces, extended family and friends gathering together to celebrate one of the finest holidays.
Somehow through time, I hit the DELETE button in my grand remembering. There were no grumpy teenagers, no adults who had literally drunk in too much of the spirit of the occasion, no bitterly cold driving rain, no participants complaining about the senseless process of lugging mattresses, for unknown reasons, from one cottage to the next, no wee babies wheezing in the arms of a parent by the cranky oil burner.
Really, how many Thanksgivings actually took place at the cottage ?
There were the Thanksgivings I went with my parents to Massechuesetts as a small child, for several years, after my sister died, where it really wasn't Thanksgiving at all.
There were the cottage Thanksgivings.
There were the Thanksgiving train rides home from university for weekends primarily spent catching up with old school friends.
There was the Thanksgiving my husband and I prepared the meal in a small apartment in Stratford, as we awaited the November birth of our first child.
There were the Thanksgivings spent at my husband's family cottage, where his mother exhausted herself preparing the perfect Thanksgiving dinner.
There was the heartbreaking Thanksgiving we knew and didn't know, that it would be our last Thanksgiving together as a family.
Happy Thanksgivings were always interspersed with sad holidays.
For me one of the happiest was the year we had a real feast in the empty barn; tables covered with shiny gold tablecloths, decorated with bright red apples and laden with hams and turkeys with all the trimmings. I think it was a happy occasion for the many who attended.
There was the Thanksgiving my uncle died in Toronto, as he was preparing to drive down to Nova Scotia. My mother, daughter and I flew back, as my good friend and her family flew down here for the holiday. It was a sad and confusing time for all of us.
Not that long ago, my cousin and I celebrated Thanksgiving at my daughter's and her husbands new home in Halifax, with a new grandson. My daughter was recovering from the birth, a gall bladder operation and pancretitus. My older daughter arrived from Ontario, to see her new nephew and offer support. We were all so exhausted, we ordered Swiss Chalet and felt thankful.
Hallmark Cards could never come up with enough cards for all of these occasions.
Thanksgiving will always remain a time to acknowledge we have so much to be thankful for and accept that it is unnecessary to endlessly seek the perfect holiday, ending in exhaustion.
My daughters one year came up with a five minute Thanksgiving dinner. They gathered a pre-cooked chicken, instant mashed potatoes, canned gravy, stovetop dressing, canned cranberry sauce, frozen peas and a boxed pumpkin pie with dream whip. They had two minutes preparation leftover. It might have been one of the best Thanksgiving dinners ever. I wish I had been there.
The truth remains, though, I will always be thankful for the delight of leftovers from a Hallmark meal.
My one Thanksgiving is rooted in the ideal Thanksgivings, that took place at the family cottages on Lake Simcoe; crisp fall air, beautiful autumn colours, logs ablaze in stone fireplaces, cottages filling with the aromas of the meal to come, children gathering leaves for table centrepieces, extended family and friends gathering together to celebrate one of the finest holidays.
Somehow through time, I hit the DELETE button in my grand remembering. There were no grumpy teenagers, no adults who had literally drunk in too much of the spirit of the occasion, no bitterly cold driving rain, no participants complaining about the senseless process of lugging mattresses, for unknown reasons, from one cottage to the next, no wee babies wheezing in the arms of a parent by the cranky oil burner.
Really, how many Thanksgivings actually took place at the cottage ?
There were the Thanksgivings I went with my parents to Massechuesetts as a small child, for several years, after my sister died, where it really wasn't Thanksgiving at all.
There were the cottage Thanksgivings.
There were the Thanksgiving train rides home from university for weekends primarily spent catching up with old school friends.
There was the Thanksgiving my husband and I prepared the meal in a small apartment in Stratford, as we awaited the November birth of our first child.
There were the Thanksgivings spent at my husband's family cottage, where his mother exhausted herself preparing the perfect Thanksgiving dinner.
There was the heartbreaking Thanksgiving we knew and didn't know, that it would be our last Thanksgiving together as a family.
Happy Thanksgivings were always interspersed with sad holidays.
For me one of the happiest was the year we had a real feast in the empty barn; tables covered with shiny gold tablecloths, decorated with bright red apples and laden with hams and turkeys with all the trimmings. I think it was a happy occasion for the many who attended.
There was the Thanksgiving my uncle died in Toronto, as he was preparing to drive down to Nova Scotia. My mother, daughter and I flew back, as my good friend and her family flew down here for the holiday. It was a sad and confusing time for all of us.
Not that long ago, my cousin and I celebrated Thanksgiving at my daughter's and her husbands new home in Halifax, with a new grandson. My daughter was recovering from the birth, a gall bladder operation and pancretitus. My older daughter arrived from Ontario, to see her new nephew and offer support. We were all so exhausted, we ordered Swiss Chalet and felt thankful.
Hallmark Cards could never come up with enough cards for all of these occasions.
Thanksgiving will always remain a time to acknowledge we have so much to be thankful for and accept that it is unnecessary to endlessly seek the perfect holiday, ending in exhaustion.
My daughters one year came up with a five minute Thanksgiving dinner. They gathered a pre-cooked chicken, instant mashed potatoes, canned gravy, stovetop dressing, canned cranberry sauce, frozen peas and a boxed pumpkin pie with dream whip. They had two minutes preparation leftover. It might have been one of the best Thanksgiving dinners ever. I wish I had been there.
The truth remains, though, I will always be thankful for the delight of leftovers from a Hallmark meal.
Thursday 10 October 2013
The Joy and Beauty of Imperfection.
Last night the North Mountain Chorus, of the tiny community of Burlington, Nova Scotia, sang in a large church in Wolfeville.
Music happened.
What an eclectic group of individuals, we are. There are so many stories that weave together the voices of so many personalities, that have emerged from so many unique life experiences. The breadth and depth of all this living provide a rich, dark soil in which the music takes root.
A factory made bowl can be beautiful, but a factory made bowl does not hold the special beauty left by a potter's hands or a glass blowers breath.
Friends of mine have unique wedding bands. Each diamond on each band is an uncut diamond. Future possibilities will forever remain to be shaped by future dreams.
A wise gardener tends the blooms, to create a joyful explosion of colour, recognizing the unique magic of each in all.
Music happened.
What an eclectic group of individuals, we are. There are so many stories that weave together the voices of so many personalities, that have emerged from so many unique life experiences. The breadth and depth of all this living provide a rich, dark soil in which the music takes root.
A factory made bowl can be beautiful, but a factory made bowl does not hold the special beauty left by a potter's hands or a glass blowers breath.
Friends of mine have unique wedding bands. Each diamond on each band is an uncut diamond. Future possibilities will forever remain to be shaped by future dreams.
A wise gardener tends the blooms, to create a joyful explosion of colour, recognizing the unique magic of each in all.
Monday 2 September 2013
Harbourville, Some Fine
As anyone who spends much time by the sea knows, the tides are a force unto themselves. The tide goes out and comes in, under the direction of universal forces. The great and small rhythms of life were here before we came and will be here after we leave.
The life of small communities waxes and wanes in similar ways.
The people of Harbourville, in the past decade, determinably gave so much of themselves to raise money to restore the dilapidated wharves and give new life to the Hall and its activities. This was an exhausting, demanding and often joyous and sometimes not so joyous endeavour. A community of strong minded people don't think with one mind or speak with one voice, but the reality is so much was accomplished and the community was the better for it.
Hundreds and hundreds of hours were volunteered, by so many.
Hall suppers, hall meetings, fashion shows, auctions, rummage sales, patio parties, children's plays, day camp, Santa's visits and so much more were evidence of the spirit of the place. A small monthly news letter, High Tidings, news in the local paper, even a website and of course the power of word of mouth, kept most informed of all the doings. A highlight was the High Tide Festival.
All this could not have been done without the support of the fishermen, the villagers, people of the surrounding communities, supporters of Harbourville from far and wide, the cottagers, local businesses, tourists, the local and provincial governments. This was a very big project for a very small place.
The money was raised, strong, new wharves were built and the hall was spiffed up. Many in the community seemed to need a chance to catch their breaths.
Potluck suppers, board meetings, The Christmas parties continued but many were weary from well doing.
As my daughters and their friends begin to swim in the waters of middle age, I and my friends cannot deny we have begun swimming in the new waters of older age.
It is so reassuring to know others, with new ideas and enthusiasm, have begun to chart the course. The Ladies of The Sewing Circle and their contemporaries laid a foundation that made all this possible and the members of the fishing, farming and business families who came before them gave life to Harbourville in its beginnings.
The High Tidings Festival returned this August. It was such a grand success. Fish box races, scallop shucking contest, pie contest, good food, a jewelry table, refurbished dunk tank, children's activities, fine entertainment were parts of the whole unique summer celebration.
The heart of Harbourville continues to beat.
Life is some fine here.
The life of small communities waxes and wanes in similar ways.
The people of Harbourville, in the past decade, determinably gave so much of themselves to raise money to restore the dilapidated wharves and give new life to the Hall and its activities. This was an exhausting, demanding and often joyous and sometimes not so joyous endeavour. A community of strong minded people don't think with one mind or speak with one voice, but the reality is so much was accomplished and the community was the better for it.
Hundreds and hundreds of hours were volunteered, by so many.
Hall suppers, hall meetings, fashion shows, auctions, rummage sales, patio parties, children's plays, day camp, Santa's visits and so much more were evidence of the spirit of the place. A small monthly news letter, High Tidings, news in the local paper, even a website and of course the power of word of mouth, kept most informed of all the doings. A highlight was the High Tide Festival.
All this could not have been done without the support of the fishermen, the villagers, people of the surrounding communities, supporters of Harbourville from far and wide, the cottagers, local businesses, tourists, the local and provincial governments. This was a very big project for a very small place.
The money was raised, strong, new wharves were built and the hall was spiffed up. Many in the community seemed to need a chance to catch their breaths.
Potluck suppers, board meetings, The Christmas parties continued but many were weary from well doing.
As my daughters and their friends begin to swim in the waters of middle age, I and my friends cannot deny we have begun swimming in the new waters of older age.
It is so reassuring to know others, with new ideas and enthusiasm, have begun to chart the course. The Ladies of The Sewing Circle and their contemporaries laid a foundation that made all this possible and the members of the fishing, farming and business families who came before them gave life to Harbourville in its beginnings.
The High Tidings Festival returned this August. It was such a grand success. Fish box races, scallop shucking contest, pie contest, good food, a jewelry table, refurbished dunk tank, children's activities, fine entertainment were parts of the whole unique summer celebration.
The heart of Harbourville continues to beat.
Life is some fine here.
Monday 19 August 2013
Lupin Hill Worry List
1. We don't seem to to be DOING enough about global warming. The birds and animals and insects, the sea levels, the thermometers, the weather are warning us that we must universally get our act together now and we aren't DOING such a great job.
2. We don't know enough about the long term effects of Genetically Modified food.
3. There is such a disparity in the hope for the futures of babies being born into this world.
4. Apathy is destroying democracy.
5. Power is too concentrated.
6. The Maritimes is producing good people who economically are being forced to work elsewhere. Those choosing to remain behind suffer economically and are often mislabelled as unwilling to work. This is economic cleansing.
7. Too many fishermen are losing their lives trying to make a living.
8. Thistles are taking over the hill.
9. Little kids from the wrong families are discriminated against at school.
10. Too many big kids are losing their lives on the roads.
11. The bees are dieing.
12. The bats are dieing.
13. The oceans are dieing.
14. I can't understand how corporations are people.
15. So many elderly are being ignored and forgotten.
!6. My kitchen floor needs painting again.
17. Things are highly overrated.
18. For many it is so difficult to find the time to ....
19. Excellent health care is not universally available.
20. Equal access to justice does not exist.
21. My dog Moses is getting too fat.
22. Newspapers are disappearing.
23. There isn't enough joy going around.
24. There are still too many pot holes on Russia Road.
25. Too much hope is being replaced by bitterness.
26. We don't have enough respect for pure water as a necessity.
27. Some people's rights are more valuable than others.
28. Native people need action not words.
29. Few realize that our wilderness is as valuable as our cities.
30. The jails are too full.
31. Serious mental health issues are not being addressed.
32. Farmers are under appreciated.
33. What is going on with all these drugs?
34. The many understandings that swirl around the concept "enough"are unacknowledged.
Thanks for letting me get this off my ample chest.
Tuesday 30 July 2013
So Goes Time, So Goes Life
Last week I learned the house I left in central Toronto, twenty years ago, is being demolished. This isn't just any house. This house was built for my great grandfather and was the home where my daughters grew, a solid, large house that reflected the time in which it was built.
The house had always remained in the family, welcoming every generation, my mother and her sister as children, my cousins in their later childhood and teenage years, my grandmother, aunts, uncles and all their pets through time. The house was loved and had many friends.
We celebrated the house with a big backyard party, fireworks and all, the week before I left for this loved place by the sea.
It is funny but the concept of it being no more has a rightness. Everything inevitably comes to an end. It is difficult to see the essence of the old houses in the neighbourhood being renovated into oblivion.
However it was difficult reading
Demolition/Content Sale - Midtown (Yonge and Lawrence)
83 Glengrove Ave W
Hosted this Saturday July 20th 10am-3pm.
Bring Your Own Tools.
The house is now gone. The memories good and bad live on with us. The neighbourhood now houses more and more of the shakers and movers of the city. Their lifestyles require much more of a house than my great grandfather could ever imagined.
I cry for the gardens. There is a picture of my aunt as a child in about 1918 standing under an impressive maple tree. When my children were small they could put their ears against the thick bark to hear the fairy elevators going up and down inside.
It was under this tree I made a wild flower garden. The trilliums came from the farm where my other grandmother grew up, the periwinkle from my Aunt Lilah who loved all things living, the ferns and a lady slipper from the cottage, several umbrella plants from the sides of rural roads and of course some of my mother's infamous Niagara red wiggling worms. I hope they and theirs survive.
The other garden that was important to me was between the old, perfect pink, climbing roses, that through time had made it past the second floor. It was here I planted special flowers to honour special people and special occasions. It was so difficult to say good bye to this garden. I don't think there is a chance, the plants will survive the mighty machines that are now preparing this tiny drop of the ever expanding city for newness. I do hope someone thought to take a shovel to rescue one or two of them.
So goes time. So goes life.
I think it is now time to go out to work in the garden, I dreamed into existence on long winter nights. My mother gave me money, for my fiftieth birthday, to make the dream a reality. This garden brings enough joy.
The house had always remained in the family, welcoming every generation, my mother and her sister as children, my cousins in their later childhood and teenage years, my grandmother, aunts, uncles and all their pets through time. The house was loved and had many friends.
We celebrated the house with a big backyard party, fireworks and all, the week before I left for this loved place by the sea.
It is funny but the concept of it being no more has a rightness. Everything inevitably comes to an end. It is difficult to see the essence of the old houses in the neighbourhood being renovated into oblivion.
However it was difficult reading
Demolition/Content Sale - Midtown (Yonge and Lawrence)
83 Glengrove Ave W
Hosted this Saturday July 20th 10am-3pm.
Bring Your Own Tools.
The house is now gone. The memories good and bad live on with us. The neighbourhood now houses more and more of the shakers and movers of the city. Their lifestyles require much more of a house than my great grandfather could ever imagined.
I cry for the gardens. There is a picture of my aunt as a child in about 1918 standing under an impressive maple tree. When my children were small they could put their ears against the thick bark to hear the fairy elevators going up and down inside.
It was under this tree I made a wild flower garden. The trilliums came from the farm where my other grandmother grew up, the periwinkle from my Aunt Lilah who loved all things living, the ferns and a lady slipper from the cottage, several umbrella plants from the sides of rural roads and of course some of my mother's infamous Niagara red wiggling worms. I hope they and theirs survive.
The other garden that was important to me was between the old, perfect pink, climbing roses, that through time had made it past the second floor. It was here I planted special flowers to honour special people and special occasions. It was so difficult to say good bye to this garden. I don't think there is a chance, the plants will survive the mighty machines that are now preparing this tiny drop of the ever expanding city for newness. I do hope someone thought to take a shovel to rescue one or two of them.
So goes time. So goes life.
I think it is now time to go out to work in the garden, I dreamed into existence on long winter nights. My mother gave me money, for my fiftieth birthday, to make the dream a reality. This garden brings enough joy.
Thursday 25 July 2013
Hot Dogs and Black Olives
My house is now oddly quiet. My grandchildren are once again living their urban lives. We had so much fun together. The transformation of city mice to country mice was almost complete, if only temporarily. The little girls ran out the doors into the space of forever. It makes me so happy to think they are old enough to remember their visits to grandma's house by the sea and take those memories with them.
Happy summer memories warm hearts through long cold days of lifetimes.
My cousins and I thrived in the liberty of childhood summers at the cottage. Those days are gone and the cottages are gone, but the happiness of those summers is with us always.
I said the city mice almost became country mice.
We took part in a special Day that happens annually, the Shoreline Yard Sale. Yard sales take place along miles of rural roads and in the tiny communities that dot a significant stretch by the the Bay of Fundy. Treasures await the eager, excited participants, but for many the food is the draw.
It all begins at breakfast at the Morden Hall. Men fill the community kitchen. They jovially fill the plates of a long line of a hungry bunch who hold out their plates to be filled; fresh fish cakes, homemade baked beans, scrambled eggs, toast, bacon and fried ham. The jams and jellies and relishes from the local kitchens wait on the tables. A jar by the door fills with free will offerings.
With full tummies we set out by car in our quest for the best. On this occasion the best seemed to be porcelain collector dolls. It is amazing how much two little girls can buy with their baggies of change that they clutch tightly in their hands.
Before long we find ourselves at the Burlington Hall. Men are setting up for the horse pulls that are about to be held this day, because they were cancelled due to rain on Canada Day. Women are slicing the homemade pies.
My red headed five year old granddaughter decides she wants a hot dog. She goes to the booth to place her order. The hot dog arrives and she chooses ketchup and relish as her condiments. The friendly woman behind the counter asks if there is anything else she needs. She innocently asks for black olives. Her cover is blown. Are you a little girl from a city the lady asks. Those around chuckle. Black olives are not a mountain staple.
We're off to Harbourville Hall for fresh lobster rolls for those who still have room for more and then on to Black Rock Hall where the Jolly Workers are offering strawberry shortcakes with real whipped cream.
The trail continues but we are done, more than pleasantly full and a little bit weary. With little regret, we head home to display the many purchases, as I sit with a fine cup of tea, admiring.
Happy summer memories warm hearts through long cold days of lifetimes.
My cousins and I thrived in the liberty of childhood summers at the cottage. Those days are gone and the cottages are gone, but the happiness of those summers is with us always.
I said the city mice almost became country mice.
We took part in a special Day that happens annually, the Shoreline Yard Sale. Yard sales take place along miles of rural roads and in the tiny communities that dot a significant stretch by the the Bay of Fundy. Treasures await the eager, excited participants, but for many the food is the draw.
It all begins at breakfast at the Morden Hall. Men fill the community kitchen. They jovially fill the plates of a long line of a hungry bunch who hold out their plates to be filled; fresh fish cakes, homemade baked beans, scrambled eggs, toast, bacon and fried ham. The jams and jellies and relishes from the local kitchens wait on the tables. A jar by the door fills with free will offerings.
With full tummies we set out by car in our quest for the best. On this occasion the best seemed to be porcelain collector dolls. It is amazing how much two little girls can buy with their baggies of change that they clutch tightly in their hands.
Before long we find ourselves at the Burlington Hall. Men are setting up for the horse pulls that are about to be held this day, because they were cancelled due to rain on Canada Day. Women are slicing the homemade pies.
My red headed five year old granddaughter decides she wants a hot dog. She goes to the booth to place her order. The hot dog arrives and she chooses ketchup and relish as her condiments. The friendly woman behind the counter asks if there is anything else she needs. She innocently asks for black olives. Her cover is blown. Are you a little girl from a city the lady asks. Those around chuckle. Black olives are not a mountain staple.
We're off to Harbourville Hall for fresh lobster rolls for those who still have room for more and then on to Black Rock Hall where the Jolly Workers are offering strawberry shortcakes with real whipped cream.
The trail continues but we are done, more than pleasantly full and a little bit weary. With little regret, we head home to display the many purchases, as I sit with a fine cup of tea, admiring.
Wednesday 17 July 2013
Ingredients for a Successful Visit to Grandmas
INGREDIENTS FOR A SUCCESSFUL VISIT TO GRANDMAS
1. an aunt and uncle full of fun.
a red headed toddler full of mischief
a faraway aunt who is up for adventures,
specilizing in Frenchies.
and her two little ladies with endless energy
grandma's cousin who can't quite believe all that is going on around him
grandma's cousin who can't quite believe all that is going on around him
friends and neighbours, big and small who love
to play
2. a tiny white fluffy active puppy and a great big aging beauty
3. a big pink front porch with two hammocks and a wicker rocking chair
4. a sunny deck with a gate that closes
5. an ocean
6. a bundle buggy to roll around the youngest cousin when he is willing.
7. a fort in the bushes
8. a car to explore
9. a large inflateable pool.
10. an ancient round sprinkler
11. a box of bandaids
12. endless changes of clothes
13. mud flats
14. a long clothesline
15. beach fire and marshmallows
16. lobsters
17. enough libations but not too much
18. never ending snacking
19. a children's picnic at the hall -egg races, three legged races...
20. gross slug, amazing moth, smelly lobster shells
21. toys from other times
22. bubbles, water balloons, water guns.
23. somewhat controlled chaos
tbc
4. a sunny deck with a gate that closes
5. an ocean
6. a bundle buggy to roll around the youngest cousin when he is willing.
7. a fort in the bushes
8. a car to explore
9. a large inflateable pool.
10. an ancient round sprinkler
11. a box of bandaids
12. endless changes of clothes
13. mud flats
14. a long clothesline
15. beach fire and marshmallows
16. lobsters
17. enough libations but not too much
18. never ending snacking
19. a children's picnic at the hall -egg races, three legged races...
20. gross slug, amazing moth, smelly lobster shells
21. toys from other times
22. bubbles, water balloons, water guns.
23. somewhat controlled chaos
tbc
Sunday 28 April 2013
The Joys of Spring Cleaning
Yes, there is joy in spring cleaning. I am presently taking a wee break from the joy, to record this fleeting insight.
Usually in "before" and "after" pictures of all sorts, I opt for the "before". In spring cleaning, I have an opportunity of fully appreciating the "after". Keep in mind, that for many, my "after" would be a nightmare of "before". Wood heat, big dog with big paws, muddy driveway, outside footwear inside lead, to put it bluntly, inside dirt.
It is not that I don't give the floors a quick brush or mop every so often, but thorough, frequent scrubbing does not seem to have secured a place on my life path. I strive to make the housekeeping category "almost ok".
I sometimes joke, in the muddiest times of the year, that I am considering going into Shurgain, to buy some seeds to plant on my kitchen floor. They say humour has roots in reality.
It is not just the the floors whose deeper cleanliness is hidden beneath a substantial patina of living. I really try to quickly dust when I begin to be tempted to leave messages in the furniture dust.
The frig is done. The kitchen chairs are washed.
Just this morning, I tried a cleaning tip, I saw this week on the computer- how to effectively clean your chandelier. Yes, I have a chandelier. It is not in the dining room, as I chose not to have a dining room, because I wanted to eat and entertain in my big friendly kitchen.
My chandelier is a wonder, I picked up at a garage sale, on my way to visit a daughter at university, years and years ago. Blue and pink and purple and crystal clusters of grapes with their delicate green glass leaves, hang from the piece. Candlelike low wattage bulbs glow in place. What a wonderful delight for my bedroom ceiling, as it accents the nature inspired life on the wallpaper.
The reality is to clean such an item is a big deal.
But not this time. This time I took my recently purchased hairdryer, with an extension cord, with me as stepped with aplomb up onto the bed. With the thing on high, I blasted the delicate cobwebs and the accompanying dust clots throughout the room. The results were miraculous. As I write the sunshine coming in the bedroom is having a whee of a time dancing light up onto the ceiling.
The plants that fill my bedroom window demanded immediate attention. Their delicate selves did not appreciate the leavings from the chandelier. Knowing the needs of living things have priority, they were soon whisked and spritzed. I went on to tackle the rest of the room, with rare abandon with the exception of the slatted clothes and of course the less than perfect floor. They await another burst to spurt from a happy homemaker.
I must go now as I promised myself I would finish scrubbing the living room floor before, I go out into the sunshine. A neighbour just called to tell me to come to visit, as her little next door neighbours' cat had just had five wee kittens on her soft kitchen chair.
I think I'll take a little fish as a gift to the new mum. The floor can wait.
Usually in "before" and "after" pictures of all sorts, I opt for the "before". In spring cleaning, I have an opportunity of fully appreciating the "after". Keep in mind, that for many, my "after" would be a nightmare of "before". Wood heat, big dog with big paws, muddy driveway, outside footwear inside lead, to put it bluntly, inside dirt.
It is not that I don't give the floors a quick brush or mop every so often, but thorough, frequent scrubbing does not seem to have secured a place on my life path. I strive to make the housekeeping category "almost ok".
I sometimes joke, in the muddiest times of the year, that I am considering going into Shurgain, to buy some seeds to plant on my kitchen floor. They say humour has roots in reality.
It is not just the the floors whose deeper cleanliness is hidden beneath a substantial patina of living. I really try to quickly dust when I begin to be tempted to leave messages in the furniture dust.
The frig is done. The kitchen chairs are washed.
Just this morning, I tried a cleaning tip, I saw this week on the computer- how to effectively clean your chandelier. Yes, I have a chandelier. It is not in the dining room, as I chose not to have a dining room, because I wanted to eat and entertain in my big friendly kitchen.
My chandelier is a wonder, I picked up at a garage sale, on my way to visit a daughter at university, years and years ago. Blue and pink and purple and crystal clusters of grapes with their delicate green glass leaves, hang from the piece. Candlelike low wattage bulbs glow in place. What a wonderful delight for my bedroom ceiling, as it accents the nature inspired life on the wallpaper.
The reality is to clean such an item is a big deal.
But not this time. This time I took my recently purchased hairdryer, with an extension cord, with me as stepped with aplomb up onto the bed. With the thing on high, I blasted the delicate cobwebs and the accompanying dust clots throughout the room. The results were miraculous. As I write the sunshine coming in the bedroom is having a whee of a time dancing light up onto the ceiling.
The plants that fill my bedroom window demanded immediate attention. Their delicate selves did not appreciate the leavings from the chandelier. Knowing the needs of living things have priority, they were soon whisked and spritzed. I went on to tackle the rest of the room, with rare abandon with the exception of the slatted clothes and of course the less than perfect floor. They await another burst to spurt from a happy homemaker.
I must go now as I promised myself I would finish scrubbing the living room floor before, I go out into the sunshine. A neighbour just called to tell me to come to visit, as her little next door neighbours' cat had just had five wee kittens on her soft kitchen chair.
I think I'll take a little fish as a gift to the new mum. The floor can wait.
Wednesday 17 April 2013
I'm choosing the Microcosm
It is a beautiful, bright sunny day. I'm planning on concentrating on life around me. There is so much out there beyond my understanding.
1. The sage plant in my bedroom has beautiful, tiny blue flowers.
2. I actually pruned many bushes before they began to spread forth.
3. At a local Hall, I learned so much about leather back turtles from a local professor and
fishing people.
4. Spring plants- Coltsfoot, crocus, pussy willows, cilia - so far.
5. The little boys are running down to play on the shore.
6. A little boy fishes for trout in the brook.
7. The old dogs lie out in the sun.
8. The red lumps on the rhubarb plants are emerging.
9. The first spring peeper has made a call.
10. Gardening gloves replace mittens.
11. there are times when it is ok to let the fire go out.
12. Jackets replace snow wear.
13. Some people have had their snow tires changed.
14. I wake up to bird songs.
15.A local farmer is sugaring off.
16.Running shoes replace boots.
17. It is time to bring out the chairs on the front porch.
18. The wild leeks are making their appearance.
19. The hot dogs for shore suppers are in the frig.
20. The choir is preparing for Spring Concerts.
21. Relatives are making arrangements for summer visits.
22. Clotheslines are a flutter.
23.There is enough light for the children to play outside after supper.
24. The soccer teams are forming.
25. The last snow from the mighty drifts have almost disappeared.
26.Pens for chickens are being prepared.
27.Open seed catalogues rest on kitchen tables.
28. It is not all that long until lobster season.
29. The cottagers are returning.
30. People from town are checking out the bay.
31. I no longer have to wrap myself up in a comforter, to sit in the television room.
32.The crows are jovial.
33. The willows glow yellow.
34.the birches and maples glow pink.
35. I am thinking of finishing the painting in the kitchen.
35. Composts are once again a common topic of conversation.
36. The red wigglers are free n the garden.
37.The snow shovel is in the barn.
38.Outdoor rinks have disappeared and the NHL soldiers on.
39.The sun is setting farther and farther up the bay.
40.The Gaspereau are surging up some rivers.
41.The farmers are busy in the orchards.
42.The small and big rock falls continue.
tbc
1. The sage plant in my bedroom has beautiful, tiny blue flowers.
2. I actually pruned many bushes before they began to spread forth.
3. At a local Hall, I learned so much about leather back turtles from a local professor and
fishing people.
4. Spring plants- Coltsfoot, crocus, pussy willows, cilia - so far.
5. The little boys are running down to play on the shore.
6. A little boy fishes for trout in the brook.
7. The old dogs lie out in the sun.
8. The red lumps on the rhubarb plants are emerging.
9. The first spring peeper has made a call.
10. Gardening gloves replace mittens.
11. there are times when it is ok to let the fire go out.
12. Jackets replace snow wear.
13. Some people have had their snow tires changed.
14. I wake up to bird songs.
15.A local farmer is sugaring off.
16.Running shoes replace boots.
17. It is time to bring out the chairs on the front porch.
18. The wild leeks are making their appearance.
19. The hot dogs for shore suppers are in the frig.
20. The choir is preparing for Spring Concerts.
21. Relatives are making arrangements for summer visits.
22. Clotheslines are a flutter.
23.There is enough light for the children to play outside after supper.
24. The soccer teams are forming.
25. The last snow from the mighty drifts have almost disappeared.
26.Pens for chickens are being prepared.
27.Open seed catalogues rest on kitchen tables.
28. It is not all that long until lobster season.
29. The cottagers are returning.
30. People from town are checking out the bay.
31. I no longer have to wrap myself up in a comforter, to sit in the television room.
32.The crows are jovial.
33. The willows glow yellow.
34.the birches and maples glow pink.
35. I am thinking of finishing the painting in the kitchen.
35. Composts are once again a common topic of conversation.
36. The red wigglers are free n the garden.
37.The snow shovel is in the barn.
38.Outdoor rinks have disappeared and the NHL soldiers on.
39.The sun is setting farther and farther up the bay.
40.The Gaspereau are surging up some rivers.
41.The farmers are busy in the orchards.
42.The small and big rock falls continue.
tbc
Monday 15 April 2013
discombobulate verb
Definition of discombobulate verb
[ with object] humorous, chiefly North American disconcert or confuse (someone):(as adjective discombobulated) he is looking a little pained and discombobulate.
I am discombobulated.
This weekend I heard the term "monetizing compassion" in a television political discussion. Apparently this is an emerging term.
What the hell!
I can't understand why low paid jobs are being sent offshore, while many here in the East Coast are desperately looking for work.
I can't understand why Canadian International Development has to be tied to our economic good as children continue to needlessly die of Aids in Africa.
I can't understand why the process of accepting refugees to our country is a less and less welcoming process.
I can't understand why we have difficulty recognizing the First Peoples' rights, because those rights are at odds with with our financial benefit.
I can't understand why we and our companies can irrevocably maim the good earth, without thought for those who will follow us.
I can't understand why it is necessary for more and more people to sleep on the street.
why so many desperate mothers do their food shopping at the Dollar Store.
why some families can't afford to wash their clothes.
why there can be such a chasm between those with so much and those
with little.
To be honest I'll never understand.
Monetizing compassion is an impossibility.
I am discombobulated. (not humourous)
Let's ALL pull together.
I am discombobulated.
This weekend I heard the term "monetizing compassion" in a television political discussion. Apparently this is an emerging term.
- Monetization is the process of converting or establishing something into legal tender. It usually refers to the coining of currency or the printing of banknotes by central banks. Things such as gold, diamonds and emeralds generally do have intrinsic value based on their rarity or quality and thus provide a premium not associated with fiat currency unless that currency is "promissory": That is the currency promises to deliver a given amount of a recognized commodity of a universally (globally) agreed to rarity and value, providing the currency with the foundation of legitimacy or value. Though rarely the case with paper currency, even intrinsically relatively worthless items or commodities can be made into money, so long as they are difficult to make or acquire. Monetization may also refer to exchanging securities for currency, selling a possession, charging for something that used to be free or making money on goods or services that were previously unprofitable.
- Compassion is the understanding or empathy for the suffering of others. It is regarded as a fundamental part of human love, and a cornerstone of greater social interconnection and humanism —foundational to the highest principles in philosophy, society, and personhood.
What the hell!
Where are we going?
I can't understand why low paid jobs are being sent offshore, while many here in the East Coast are desperately looking for work.
I can't understand why Canadian International Development has to be tied to our economic good as children continue to needlessly die of Aids in Africa.
I can't understand why the process of accepting refugees to our country is a less and less welcoming process.
I can't understand why we have difficulty recognizing the First Peoples' rights, because those rights are at odds with with our financial benefit.
I can't understand why we and our companies can irrevocably maim the good earth, without thought for those who will follow us.
I can't understand why it is necessary for more and more people to sleep on the street.
why so many desperate mothers do their food shopping at the Dollar Store.
why some families can't afford to wash their clothes.
why there can be such a chasm between those with so much and those
with little.
To be honest I'll never understand.
Monetizing compassion is an impossibility.
I am discombobulated. (not humourous)
Let's ALL pull together.
Wednesday 10 April 2013
Pink Shirt Day Apr. 10, 2013
In 2007, a grade nine student wore a pink shirt to school, at the local rural high school. He was mercilessly teased by a group of older boys.
The next day, two older boys came to school with fifty pink shirts for themselves and their friends. They wore the shirts as an act of solidarity with the new boy and as an act against bullies.
News of this kindness spread across the country and beyond Canada's borders. The young men were humbled by the attention they received. From their act, a movement was born. Today, is Pink Shirt Day in the Annapolis Valley, a day to address the issues of bullies and the bullied.
This past weekend, a young woman in this province took her life. The news of her life and her death have spread across the country and beyond Canada's boundaries. She killed herself because at fifteen she drank vodka, became drunk and was raped by four young men. One of these men took a picture of the rape, as it was taking place. A young man turns to the camera and gives a thumbs up.
When the young girl returned to school the next week, she discovered this picture had travelled throughout the social media of her fellow students. "Slut"was a word she heard too often that day. She was devastated. Her Facebook became a receptacle for trash.
At home, she collapsed, then told her mother the story. In time, the police were called. She did not return to her school, but enrolled in a new school. She was a good girl with a kind heart who made a mistake and became an object of distain and ridicule, when four boys obsenely took advantage of her mistake.
Unfortunately, there will be much to discuss on this "Pink Shirt Day". Rape and harassment are on a path so far beyond bullying, but have roots in the same dangerous thinking that there are excuses that allow some humans to treat other humans, inhumanely. Humans are humans, who must all be treated with respect.
At this moment there are girls in local schools being labelled sluts and of course, the boys are just being boys.
One fine young girl took her life last weekend. Two years of suffering became more than she could bare.
The communities that touch young peoples' lives must provide effective ways for both young men and young women to discover the honourable ways, to be human with each other, in this confusing world.
The next day, two older boys came to school with fifty pink shirts for themselves and their friends. They wore the shirts as an act of solidarity with the new boy and as an act against bullies.
News of this kindness spread across the country and beyond Canada's borders. The young men were humbled by the attention they received. From their act, a movement was born. Today, is Pink Shirt Day in the Annapolis Valley, a day to address the issues of bullies and the bullied.
This past weekend, a young woman in this province took her life. The news of her life and her death have spread across the country and beyond Canada's boundaries. She killed herself because at fifteen she drank vodka, became drunk and was raped by four young men. One of these men took a picture of the rape, as it was taking place. A young man turns to the camera and gives a thumbs up.
When the young girl returned to school the next week, she discovered this picture had travelled throughout the social media of her fellow students. "Slut"was a word she heard too often that day. She was devastated. Her Facebook became a receptacle for trash.
At home, she collapsed, then told her mother the story. In time, the police were called. She did not return to her school, but enrolled in a new school. She was a good girl with a kind heart who made a mistake and became an object of distain and ridicule, when four boys obsenely took advantage of her mistake.
Unfortunately, there will be much to discuss on this "Pink Shirt Day". Rape and harassment are on a path so far beyond bullying, but have roots in the same dangerous thinking that there are excuses that allow some humans to treat other humans, inhumanely. Humans are humans, who must all be treated with respect.
At this moment there are girls in local schools being labelled sluts and of course, the boys are just being boys.
One fine young girl took her life last weekend. Two years of suffering became more than she could bare.
The communities that touch young peoples' lives must provide effective ways for both young men and young women to discover the honourable ways, to be human with each other, in this confusing world.
Sunday 31 March 2013
Scary Puzzle Piece
It is hard being a Far Away grandma, especially when country feet quickly refuse to painlessly play city games on concrete sidewalks.
But then there are jig saw puzzles.
My small grandchildren are puzzle whizzes. I think the skill has been passed down, through a long line of puzzlers. The puzzles may have child friendly themes, but the puzzle pieces are just as difficult as those of adult puzzles.
My East Coast daughter sent my young grand daughters a wonderful puzzle. The picture combined many familiar and not so familiar characters of many fairytales, into a delightful scene reminiscent of a Bruegel painting. The puzzle was fairly large. There were so many characters that of necessity they were very small.
To be honest, I am sick of the Disneyfication of so many of the ancient stories. I particularly liked this one.
The characters would have been far more familiar to the Brothers Grimm. One person in particular, the Beast, of Beauty and the Beast, looked like he had just recently arrived from the Dark Side. His eyes almost glowed. From the beginning, the small piece made me somewhat uncomfortable and made my four year old granddaughter more than a little apprehensive.
The two little girls and I set out searching for edge pieces to assemble on the top of an old blanket box in their mother's room. We made a good team. By bedtime the outline was almost put together. The next night and the night after that we worked together on the puzzle.
We found all of Rapunzel's long braid, one of Red Riding Hood's shoes, and began to gather the pieces, for a Giant. We had a good time together, we tried to avoid each other's elbows, as we excitedly rushed to place each piece we had been looking for, for some time.
The evening before I was to fly home we finished the puzzle, except for the last piece. It is always an honour to be able to place the last piece, an honour often reserved for the youngest puzzler.
The problem was that there was no last piece to be placed. There was Beauty on a brick balcony with an empty place beside her. We couldn't find the scary piece. My grand daughter said she hid it because she didn't like the piece. Unfortunately she couldn't remember where the piece was hidden.
We searched and searched everywhere, without success. The puzzle remained almost finished when I left.
Today, two weeks later, I got a call from her older grand daughter to tell me, the piece was found. Unfortunately, the puzzle was disassembled and back in the box.
The Beast will have to wait for Beauty until the next time.
I asked the little sister where the piece had been found. She replied that it was under the bed.
I wasn't the least bit surprised, because as I remember from my childhood, under beds was where scary things lurk.
Monday 18 March 2013
City Experiences - Toronto Revisteded
Recent Toronto Experiences
1. After all those years of giving my seat up for the elderly on the subway, a young man gave up his seat for me. Oh well, pluses and minuses.
2. The city is changing constantly, yet in many ways still stays the same.
3. I am definitely not swimming in my own gene pool here. The diversity is refreshing.
4. For the first time, I went out for chinese food with someone who could order in Chinese.
5. Most people live in cities and dream dreams of the country.
6. It is painful to walk on concrete, when I seldom walk for any time on sidewalks at home.
7. It is possible to walk from one end of the new subway train to the the other.
8. The rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer.
9. The snowdrops are a special treat amid all the surrounding cement.
10. The regular rumble of the subway underneath the house is somehow soothing.
11. Parks are an essential part of children's daily life. This is where they can run.
12. I see more alphabets on signs than I consciously knew existed.
13. I went for my first ride in a Zip car. Instead of owning a car you sign up and can pick up a car at one of many downtown spots. The cost per hour covers insurance, gas etc.
14. Most cars on the streets are black, white or grey and clean and shiny.
15. So many people are ordering on line, the malls and shopping areas are losing customers.
16. Nova Scotians are not the only ones constantly talking about weather, especially when it is bad.
17. It is not difficult to get worn out by constant noise.
18. Oh so many homeless.
19. It is still fun to find coins on the street, as the snow melts.
20. It seems odd to see so many people and not recognize anyone.
21. Art is a bigger part of everyday life.
22. Sirens are a common sound.
23. People stil hold doors open for each other.
25. Food is everywhere.
26 Some of it is scary.
27. Oh for the taste of pure mountain water.
28. Some of the new houses on the Bridle Path are bigger than
small hotels. Who has that many relatives?
29. There isn't a food that you can't have delivered to the door,
except Mary's baked beans.
30. No one bakes squares. They don't even know what they are.
31. There is a trend towards grand kitchens and take out food.
32. Beautiful old homes in the more affluent parts of the city are
bought for two million dollars and then torn down to build monster
homes.
to be continued.
1. After all those years of giving my seat up for the elderly on the subway, a young man gave up his seat for me. Oh well, pluses and minuses.
2. The city is changing constantly, yet in many ways still stays the same.
3. I am definitely not swimming in my own gene pool here. The diversity is refreshing.
4. For the first time, I went out for chinese food with someone who could order in Chinese.
5. Most people live in cities and dream dreams of the country.
6. It is painful to walk on concrete, when I seldom walk for any time on sidewalks at home.
7. It is possible to walk from one end of the new subway train to the the other.
8. The rich are getting richer and the poor are getting poorer.
9. The snowdrops are a special treat amid all the surrounding cement.
10. The regular rumble of the subway underneath the house is somehow soothing.
11. Parks are an essential part of children's daily life. This is where they can run.
12. I see more alphabets on signs than I consciously knew existed.
13. I went for my first ride in a Zip car. Instead of owning a car you sign up and can pick up a car at one of many downtown spots. The cost per hour covers insurance, gas etc.
14. Most cars on the streets are black, white or grey and clean and shiny.
15. So many people are ordering on line, the malls and shopping areas are losing customers.
16. Nova Scotians are not the only ones constantly talking about weather, especially when it is bad.
17. It is not difficult to get worn out by constant noise.
18. Oh so many homeless.
19. It is still fun to find coins on the street, as the snow melts.
20. It seems odd to see so many people and not recognize anyone.
21. Art is a bigger part of everyday life.
22. Sirens are a common sound.
23. People stil hold doors open for each other.
25. Food is everywhere.
26 Some of it is scary.
27. Oh for the taste of pure mountain water.
28. Some of the new houses on the Bridle Path are bigger than
small hotels. Who has that many relatives?
29. There isn't a food that you can't have delivered to the door,
except Mary's baked beans.
30. No one bakes squares. They don't even know what they are.
31. There is a trend towards grand kitchens and take out food.
32. Beautiful old homes in the more affluent parts of the city are
bought for two million dollars and then torn down to build monster
homes.
to be continued.
Monday 4 March 2013
A Hearth Bug's Armchair Travels
I love to fly. There is no better "people watching" than in large airports.
In my teenage years, there was little more appealing than going out to Toronto Airport, to watch people from all over the world, re-unite with people they love. I was a cheap date.
The reason I travel is to be with people I love. Having grand children has greatly intensified these experiences.
I have travelled to far off places to visit the unfamiliar, familiar. It was such a thrill to stand in the Scottish Highlands, among the foundations of the crofts from which my family, two hundred years ago, were herded to make way for sheep. Being at home remembering is the best part.
I picked some heather to bring back to a land of maple leaves.
My passport is in the process of being renewed. I want to be ready if I am needed outside our borders, but, I have no wanderlust.
My present joy is getting a taste of far off places from the adventures of far flung travellers. Women, I have known as babies, right now are experiencing places I will never be. A long time friend's daughter will soon be returning with her husband from Singapore, Thailand, Laos, Viet Nam, Cambodia. Another young woman, who has been part of my life since her childhood, will soon be returning to her family from Rwanda.
What a pleasure it is to get a personal peek of "other" from the views on Facebook.
In my teenage years, there was little more appealing than going out to Toronto Airport, to watch people from all over the world, re-unite with people they love. I was a cheap date.
The reason I travel is to be with people I love. Having grand children has greatly intensified these experiences.
I have travelled to far off places to visit the unfamiliar, familiar. It was such a thrill to stand in the Scottish Highlands, among the foundations of the crofts from which my family, two hundred years ago, were herded to make way for sheep. Being at home remembering is the best part.
I picked some heather to bring back to a land of maple leaves.
My passport is in the process of being renewed. I want to be ready if I am needed outside our borders, but, I have no wanderlust.
My present joy is getting a taste of far off places from the adventures of far flung travellers. Women, I have known as babies, right now are experiencing places I will never be. A long time friend's daughter will soon be returning with her husband from Singapore, Thailand, Laos, Viet Nam, Cambodia. Another young woman, who has been part of my life since her childhood, will soon be returning to her family from Rwanda.
What a pleasure it is to get a personal peek of "other" from the views on Facebook.
Monday 25 February 2013
Dear George Clooney, It's about Argo.
Dear Mr. Clooney,
Perhaps this should be addressed to Ben Affleck, but I think I might be wasting my time.
First of all I should make it clear that I have not seen your movie, Argo. I will be there when it comes to the local drive-in in the summer. I do know the plot line.
Years ago, I followed the real story, as it unfolded on the national news in both Canada and the United States. It is clear the truth of a piece of real history was grandly manipulated to produce an American heroic thriller.
This may seem a little deal to the immense American ego, but to Canadians it is a much bigger deal.
You see Canadians do not grow up with sense of homemade hero worship. This to my mind is a good thing.
According to a large cross country poll, the most admired man in Canadian history is a Saskatchewan baptist preacher, Tommy Douglas, who as a member of parliament brought the reality of universal healthcare to our country.
Incidentally, this man was father to Shirley Douglas, father-in-law to Donald Sutherland and grandfather to Kieffer Sutherland. These may still be familiar Hollywood names, however, his name will remain strong in Canadian history as the names of his relatives fade. Such is life.
Unfortunately, Tommy Douglas's story, is not the kind of story of which thrillers are made.
Here is the problem. When Canadians have a story of epic proportions, it is disheartening to see the story claimed and presented to the world as just another American escapade. The story is a story of brave men and women from both countries.
For the most part we are a good people, who recognize our weaknesses and who willingly offer our help where it is needed . We are a people with heroes, we acknowledge in our own way. Please understand why we are upset when you lessen the heroism of our citizens to aggrandize the myths of yours.
I live in a small fishing village on the Bay of Fundy, and see men and women and children of courage living their everyday lives. I am also witness to everyday drama. Everyday stories are more powerful than fiction. It is not always wise to mix the two.
It is not appreciated that you took one of the grand acts of heroism of our land, to embellish the myths of your own. Leave some of the leading roles where they belong.
Perhaps this should be addressed to Ben Affleck, but I think I might be wasting my time.
First of all I should make it clear that I have not seen your movie, Argo. I will be there when it comes to the local drive-in in the summer. I do know the plot line.
Years ago, I followed the real story, as it unfolded on the national news in both Canada and the United States. It is clear the truth of a piece of real history was grandly manipulated to produce an American heroic thriller.
This may seem a little deal to the immense American ego, but to Canadians it is a much bigger deal.
You see Canadians do not grow up with sense of homemade hero worship. This to my mind is a good thing.
According to a large cross country poll, the most admired man in Canadian history is a Saskatchewan baptist preacher, Tommy Douglas, who as a member of parliament brought the reality of universal healthcare to our country.
Incidentally, this man was father to Shirley Douglas, father-in-law to Donald Sutherland and grandfather to Kieffer Sutherland. These may still be familiar Hollywood names, however, his name will remain strong in Canadian history as the names of his relatives fade. Such is life.
Unfortunately, Tommy Douglas's story, is not the kind of story of which thrillers are made.
Here is the problem. When Canadians have a story of epic proportions, it is disheartening to see the story claimed and presented to the world as just another American escapade. The story is a story of brave men and women from both countries.
For the most part we are a good people, who recognize our weaknesses and who willingly offer our help where it is needed . We are a people with heroes, we acknowledge in our own way. Please understand why we are upset when you lessen the heroism of our citizens to aggrandize the myths of yours.
I live in a small fishing village on the Bay of Fundy, and see men and women and children of courage living their everyday lives. I am also witness to everyday drama. Everyday stories are more powerful than fiction. It is not always wise to mix the two.
It is not appreciated that you took one of the grand acts of heroism of our land, to embellish the myths of your own. Leave some of the leading roles where they belong.
Tuesday 22 January 2013
Mr. President, Congratulations on a Fine Day of Celebrations
Here I sit at my computer, a grandma, in a little fishing village on the Bay of Fundy, in Nova Scotia watching your big day, your country's big day. I wish you well, I wish your family well and I wish your country well.
There are ties, even strong family ties, that have bonded us together for over two hundred years.We are the same people yet different. Our nationhood emerged in a far different way. In a land of great cold, community was not an option, but a necessity.
Our country seems to be moving against the will of many citizens into becoming a less inclusive, less compassionate country. Our practical compassion for all our people and all the people of the world is being thwarted by our leader.
Many of us are striving to return to a more generous time.
My hope is that your "We the people" are all people, not only the people within your borders. The people of our countries need to embrace the reality that all people everywhere are created equal.
You see my two daughters are now women with children of there own. Sometimes I think we are running out of time to make good on the promises we made for our children and the promises we make for our grandchildren, and for all the people's children and grandchildren yet to come.
Let's hope that together all nations can come together to fulfill our obligations to posterity.
There are ties, even strong family ties, that have bonded us together for over two hundred years.We are the same people yet different. Our nationhood emerged in a far different way. In a land of great cold, community was not an option, but a necessity.
Our country seems to be moving against the will of many citizens into becoming a less inclusive, less compassionate country. Our practical compassion for all our people and all the people of the world is being thwarted by our leader.
Many of us are striving to return to a more generous time.
My hope is that your "We the people" are all people, not only the people within your borders. The people of our countries need to embrace the reality that all people everywhere are created equal.
You see my two daughters are now women with children of there own. Sometimes I think we are running out of time to make good on the promises we made for our children and the promises we make for our grandchildren, and for all the people's children and grandchildren yet to come.
Let's hope that together all nations can come together to fulfill our obligations to posterity.
Tuesday 15 January 2013
Good Bye to the Little White Church on the Cliff
To everything there is a season. A church is the people. The little white church on the cliff no longer has people and it is sad.
The one roomed building needs so much care and there are no longer the people to care for it. One by one the shingles fly off in the magnificent winds. The foundations crack as the land shifts. The edge of the cliff moves imperceptibly closer. The walls need paint, the old oil burner is no longer legal and the outside privy has been neglected for years.
Almost all of the people who gave life to this church are gone.
For over one hundred and fifty years the church served the community and so many people served the church.
The church in its simplicity remains beautiful inside. The hard, straight backed pews were built by and for the hardworking, no nonsense Methodist people of a time gone by and have changed little from that time.
When I first arrived in Harbourville, the small, devoted congregation included many for whom the church had always been part of their lives. They had a fierce loyalty to the place. To a certain extent the matriarchs spoke and there will was done. This was not an oppressive situation. There was a sense that this was as it should have been. Those matriarchs are gone now and there are not others to take their place.
As someone from a different time and a different place I cannot speak with their voice, but a piece of my heart will remain with this church. No one else seems to claim the voice.
Throughout the years, the church has filled on Christmas Eve. The building gets this one night to remember what it was to be filled. One night is not enough.
We few are too few.
Others will make the decisions on what the future will hold in the seasons to come.
........ to be continued
The one roomed building needs so much care and there are no longer the people to care for it. One by one the shingles fly off in the magnificent winds. The foundations crack as the land shifts. The edge of the cliff moves imperceptibly closer. The walls need paint, the old oil burner is no longer legal and the outside privy has been neglected for years.
Almost all of the people who gave life to this church are gone.
For over one hundred and fifty years the church served the community and so many people served the church.
The church in its simplicity remains beautiful inside. The hard, straight backed pews were built by and for the hardworking, no nonsense Methodist people of a time gone by and have changed little from that time.
When I first arrived in Harbourville, the small, devoted congregation included many for whom the church had always been part of their lives. They had a fierce loyalty to the place. To a certain extent the matriarchs spoke and there will was done. This was not an oppressive situation. There was a sense that this was as it should have been. Those matriarchs are gone now and there are not others to take their place.
As someone from a different time and a different place I cannot speak with their voice, but a piece of my heart will remain with this church. No one else seems to claim the voice.
Throughout the years, the church has filled on Christmas Eve. The building gets this one night to remember what it was to be filled. One night is not enough.
We few are too few.
Others will make the decisions on what the future will hold in the seasons to come.
........ to be continued
Saturday 12 January 2013
Moses Goes for an Overnight
Moses and I were invited, as weekend guests, to friends home on the South Shore. The truth is this was my dog, Moe's, first invitation, anywhere.
I figured the same road that took us there could always take us home again, if all did not go well.
All went well.
We were greeted at the farm, by five cats, five horses, one small dog with attitude, and two wonderful human beings. Given the option of sleeping in an apartment, in the horse barn or a bedroom in the house, I chose the barn for us. I was thinking thoughts of Mickey Rooney's bed in National Velvet, or my long ago Scots ancestors in the crofts of the Highlands. Perhaps I was thinking of a re-enactment of the Christmas Story, Moses having the starring role.
It was no surprise that our accommodations were most gracious. It was also clear that we were sleeping in a barn. On a cold winters night, as we snuggled in a cozy bed, the horses stamped their feet, rattled chains and made impressive horse noises. Although I am nervous around big animals without strong boundaries between us, I slept comfortably in their nearby presence. Moses to my surprise didn't acknowledge the sounds of their presence.
When we went up to the house, his behaviour was exemplary. He behaved in a most respectful manner with the cats. To be honest, he was a little intimidated by the sweet things. The little dog's proprietary rights were respected and he even ate a big, bloody bone on the sheet provided.
While exploring the great outdoors, he found himself in a paddock, as the horses were entering it from the barn. A very large grey didn't want him there and took off after him in a most ungracious way. Moses fled into the woods. I was with him in the paddock and was just about as welcome. Thinking, "don't run, don't run, don't run", I made haste to the closest exit.
In time Moses returned from the woods, as we called him with our sweet voices offering all sorts of delights.
When our visit was over, before he fell fast asleep in the back seat of the car, the big old dog let me know he would be happy to come back; but, was there anything they could do about the horses?
I figured the same road that took us there could always take us home again, if all did not go well.
All went well.
We were greeted at the farm, by five cats, five horses, one small dog with attitude, and two wonderful human beings. Given the option of sleeping in an apartment, in the horse barn or a bedroom in the house, I chose the barn for us. I was thinking thoughts of Mickey Rooney's bed in National Velvet, or my long ago Scots ancestors in the crofts of the Highlands. Perhaps I was thinking of a re-enactment of the Christmas Story, Moses having the starring role.
It was no surprise that our accommodations were most gracious. It was also clear that we were sleeping in a barn. On a cold winters night, as we snuggled in a cozy bed, the horses stamped their feet, rattled chains and made impressive horse noises. Although I am nervous around big animals without strong boundaries between us, I slept comfortably in their nearby presence. Moses to my surprise didn't acknowledge the sounds of their presence.
When we went up to the house, his behaviour was exemplary. He behaved in a most respectful manner with the cats. To be honest, he was a little intimidated by the sweet things. The little dog's proprietary rights were respected and he even ate a big, bloody bone on the sheet provided.
While exploring the great outdoors, he found himself in a paddock, as the horses were entering it from the barn. A very large grey didn't want him there and took off after him in a most ungracious way. Moses fled into the woods. I was with him in the paddock and was just about as welcome. Thinking, "don't run, don't run, don't run", I made haste to the closest exit.
In time Moses returned from the woods, as we called him with our sweet voices offering all sorts of delights.
When our visit was over, before he fell fast asleep in the back seat of the car, the big old dog let me know he would be happy to come back; but, was there anything they could do about the horses?
Wednesday 9 January 2013
Another Christmas Slips Away
There was no Christmas Tree to de-decorate this year. The Christmas Spirit came quietly and slowly, asking no fuss or bother of me. What a wonderful gift !
Of course, Christmas was welcome. The Christmas dishes filled the kitchen cupboards throughout December. Christmas packages were unhurriedly wrapped. The parcels sent to far away places were mailed days before the post office deadline. For the first time in ages I mailed Christmas cards and even enjoyed it. The sparkly wreath hung on the door and a child's sleigh, bedecked with a great big red bow, until a strong wind blew it away, hung from a porch pillar.
Unexpected snow lightly covered the ground. Others busied themselves with preparations for a Christmas Eve Service, in the little white clapboard church on the cliff.
My cousin and I were off to a new Christmas in the city, at my daughter's and her husband's house. What a treat it was to have a merry little elf about, taking in the magic with his big brown eyes.
The stockings were hung on the bannister with care, and indeed at some moment St. Nick was there.
We woke to a morning of the fun of enough, without the burden of too much.
My daughter entertains with simple elegance. Next year if she wants, she can have a chance not to be Mrs. Christmas. It sure suited me this year.
Perhaps differing Christmases are the new norm.
Of course, Christmas was welcome. The Christmas dishes filled the kitchen cupboards throughout December. Christmas packages were unhurriedly wrapped. The parcels sent to far away places were mailed days before the post office deadline. For the first time in ages I mailed Christmas cards and even enjoyed it. The sparkly wreath hung on the door and a child's sleigh, bedecked with a great big red bow, until a strong wind blew it away, hung from a porch pillar.
Unexpected snow lightly covered the ground. Others busied themselves with preparations for a Christmas Eve Service, in the little white clapboard church on the cliff.
My cousin and I were off to a new Christmas in the city, at my daughter's and her husband's house. What a treat it was to have a merry little elf about, taking in the magic with his big brown eyes.
The stockings were hung on the bannister with care, and indeed at some moment St. Nick was there.
We woke to a morning of the fun of enough, without the burden of too much.
My daughter entertains with simple elegance. Next year if she wants, she can have a chance not to be Mrs. Christmas. It sure suited me this year.
Perhaps differing Christmases are the new norm.
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