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.

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

Rememberance Day...11 11 11 2011

Remembrance Day is a day of so many strong emotions. So many of the memory pictures are in conflict. There seems to be no thread to sew them into a whole. I would not like to sleep under a patchwork quilt of such diverse pieces.

- My first memory of war is going to play at a small friend's house. Her father had lost his legs in the war. I was so sorry they were not able to find them.

- My family were not the military sort, whatever that is,  but two of of my uncles, both gentle human beings, volunteered for the armed forces, during WW11. One was in the infantry that freed Italy. I had trouble reading The English Patient. The other was an air force man who rose quickly to the top ranks. The first never mentioned one word of his experiences, The second uncle only told amusing stories that were part of military life.

- As I sort through the boxes and boxes of old photographs in the attic, I discover so many portraits of young men in uniform. I knew these men as older men, I had no idea that they had served.

- One of my father's cousins was a pacifist. He served as a medic in the Red Cross, driving charcoal fueled medical equipment across China.

- Some of the Boys who went oversees were little more than children.

-  A relative married a RAF pilot from Newfoundland. He was lost over water in the Battle of Britain. He never got to see his little son who was born in Toronto, after his death.

- My mother, born in 1907, grew up during the First World War. As a small child, she was taken to a veterans hospital to recite to the young men brought home barely alive. She told the story of a young man, who had lost both his arms and legs, sitting upright in a wicker basket suspended from the ceiling, to listen to her recitation.

- Our school classes were taken to this same hospital to sing Christmas songs in the 1950's. It is probable some of the very old men, had listened to my mum so many years before,

-My children's paediatrician, as a young doctor, was with the Canadian troops that liberated one of the death camps. He was jewish. I often wonder about all the crosses.

- A neighbour was married when she was eighteen, Her husband was shipped out several weeks later. There was daily correspondence, but she says it was so complicated welcoming home a man five years later who had left not much more than a boy.

-I live fairly close to an air force base. It is common to see men and women in uniform. It gives a deeper appreciation for what our nation asks of these citizens.

- Everyone loves a parade.

- It surprises me how many women of my mother's acquaintance were WACS and WAVES There are also many who worked in munition plants and other factories

- At the local Roxy, the black and white war newsreels still played between the features, in the 1950's.

- There is something troubling about the deaths of those who were conscripted.

- I am proudest when our armed forces are really fighting for peace and the good of humanity.

- The honour in which the native members of the armed forces and veterans are held at Pow Wows is moving.

- I hope the Big Boys (and Girls) in government are not just trying to impress themselves and others with their big toys.

- The most moving part of the Remembrance Day Ceremony, for me, is watching the everyday people taking off their poppies and putting them on the tomb of the unknown soldier.

- I wish wisdom upon those who are making decisions that are so central to so many lives.

- Were those who chose not to serve cowards or honourable people who chose to differ.

-The Armed forces are made up of heavy equipment operators, cartoonists, clergy, truck drivers, dietitians, photographers, cooks, artists, cleaners, communication experts, crazies, musicians, strategists, combat troops, airplane technicians, pilots, doctors, construction workers, architects, plumbers, psychologists, public speakers, recreation specialists, accountants ........................................... . They all have the same colour blood.

- I wear a poppy with respect and with the sadness that all the loss may not have been or may not be necessary.

Two Bald Eagles

Two bald eagles have taken up residence somewhere nearby.

It is a little difficult to greet the realities of life, first thing in the morning.

I stand at a window, overlooking the harbour to see all the gulls in flight. Among them is the dark, large silhouette of an eagle gliding among them. The gulls, because of their size, can usually out manoeuvre the eagle, but eventually lose strength and become sitting gulls. There is one fewer seagull in the harbour this morning.

Out over the harbour, on the top of a tall fir tree, by the white clapboard church on the cliff, the eagle sits. A murder of crows now swarms below, waiting for leftovers.

My little Halloween visitors this evening will not hold the same horror of the ancient celebration, that I was met with this morning.

Let the Celebrations Begin............ Halloween Birthday

Daddy is feathering the wings. Mummy suffered glue gun harm sparkling the beak. There is a flutter when Halloween is the birthday. Six-year old to be, labels everything with her newly honed printing skills. Excitement on excitement as the big day approaches.

Little Super Girl whirls through all the action.

Far, far away, in the land of the rising sun, another mummy microsizes a Super Man costume, for her brand new tiny Super Hero. 

Grandma is kept well informed of all the doings, as she happily continues to stack winter wood at her house by the sea. She remembers the happy, but sometimes frazzling special days.

Home Again

The sun shines. The flag somewhat detached from the flagpole, flutters when the wind gusts. Moses lies on the porch at the south side of the house. I just took the tea bag out of my mug.

I am ready for the familiar rhythm of the house to begin.

Anyone who has ever heard me play the uke knows rhythm isn't my strength. I would give myself a solid D in simple strumming, but my style is unique. So goes the rhythm of my days.

What a time it has been. My older daughter has flown away to her home, to be missed until Christmas. Thanksgiving, a Swiss Chalet,  order in, delight is one more unusual holiday for the memory book. The birth of a beautiful baby boy, filling Grandmas arms perfectly, and the wounded body of his momma, the death of a longtime companion take up pages in the book as well.

When I have been away for a while, I bring home new insights from new experiences that in time will be woven into a tapestry of what it is to be me. This I know. The lives of those I love most give a priceless richness to the fabric.

Sweet Clara Died at Thanksgiving

My sweet little rabbit hound, Clara, died in her sleep, on my bed last night. I shouldn't really say little, as over her twelve years she became quite full figured.

I can't describe how my heart aches.

I have been away for weeks, helping to look after my beautiful new grandson and his less than hardy mummy. Mummy just had her gall bladder out and her pancreas is still making its presence known. She won't be able to lift her wee babe for a while yet.

I got a call that Clara had disappeared. In years past, she roamed far and wide with the best of them, in search of the elusive rabbits. Lately she has been a stay at home girl, making do with the less exciting odors in her smaller domain.

Without hesitation, I got in the car and headed home, knowing there were others to care for my daughter for a while. My friends had searched everywhere and more.

Clara had left the house early in the morning with determination. She didn't touch her homemade breakfast. She was in search of a good place to die.

My older daughter was with me. She came to Nova Scotia to meet her new nephew and to celebrate Thanksgiving with family. We had just given up hope of Clara appearing, when she stuck her head out from under the holly bushes beside the house. My daughter shouted and I came running.

It was clear that the dog was sick. She could walk, but I carried her in. She drank and drank and drank from her water bowl, but wouldn't touch a prime morsel of chicken.

Clara was no spring chicken. She knew more than a little bit about old age. I knew she was very unwell, but she had made miraculous recoveries before. This time it was not to be.

We spent the next day side by side. At night she lay on my bed. She died in her sleep.

I hope she is not resting in peace. That was not her thing. I hope she she is excited by all the new smells leading to new adventures with all the loved dogs that have gone before her.

Clara was a character who took a part of my heart with her.

                                                    .............................................................

As a postscript, I was sitting at my computer the day after Clara's death, where I look out over the Bay,  a Sun Dog appeared in the sky.  To be honest, I am heartbroken over the death of my friend. We had such fine times together.

I had left the house, suddenly in the night weeks before to be with my ailing daughter and her family. My friends took good care of my dogs. I hadn't had a chance to say goodbye. I worried that Clara believed I had deserted her. I am for the most part a hearth bug.

Clara was a very sick dog when I returned, too sick to actually interact.

When I saw the sun dog in the sky, I thought the universe was welcoming her blithe spirit. Now I choose to believe, she was saying I know. she would have wagged her tail if she could.