All Times are not Good Times

All times are not good times. Right now is one of those times. That does not mean there can't be good times in bad times. Nevertheless, some times are bad times. Sickness sucks.

Cancer is a nasty word. Maybe the word is not nasty, but what it stands for is. Cancer was discovered growing in someone important to me.

The good news is that the cancer was effectively removed and will not likely return.

The bad news is the removal of the cancer has harmed a body and taken one person a little too close to death's door.

The good news is the crowd of fine people who came to stand by a hospital bed, who sent messages, who baked goodies, who searched out radios, who called frequently and who didn't call when rest was needed for gathering strength.

We all hope it won't be long before the patient is freed from the confines of the hospital soon and  will once again have the opportunity to see the flock of robins that arrives this time of year, the ravens and crows cavorting in the air and the grass getting ever greener.

Pink Day

Valentine's Day is not right up there with the holidays I enjoy. Sure it is a friend's birthday, no doubt it is many people's happy anniversary or not, but to be truthful it is a day I detest. The day is one day up from Friday the 13th. I don't like the days of love enforcement.

So I will concentrate on thinking of Pink Day today.

I spent the Christmas holidays at my daughter's house with my two sweet, spunky, young grand daughters. My grand daughters spent Christmas Day and the days surrounding it with their daddy and their other grandparents out of town. They had a wonderful time.

When they returned, we had places to go, people to see, things to do, but we needed a Celebration, a low key, one of a kind, stressless celebration. My daughter is a star creator of celebrations, but was fully involved with handy person jobs.

Hmmm. Two little girls three and six.

I am not a big fan of Barbie. They have wonderful times "playing Barbie", but for this celebration Barbie was not a guest. I think for the girls, Princesses have almost reached a saturation point. However there was always the colour Pink.

Before I left Nova Scotia, I began to search out small, things pink that would be of interest to the two little girls. Pink felt markers, Pink computer paper with Pink roses, Pink food colouring for Pink cupcakes with Pink icing, Pink sprinkles, Pink serviettes. Their auntie found delicate pastel fairies to go atop the cupcakes. My biggest investment was in matching cozy, Pink plaid pyjamas for the two little girls and their mummy and me.

On Pre-Pink day, as their mum painted Pink baseboards, in the bathroom she was transforming,  we made the cupcakes. When interest waned, they went out to play in the snow as I carried on. They were definitely there for the icing part.

That night we all went to bed in our Pink pj's. Pink morning was much like any morning. There may have been a Pink cupcake or two at breakfast. As the day went on, we set a Pink table, and successfully and unsuccessfully put up some Pink decorations

Then it was time for the games. We made creatures out of Pink pipe cleaners. We drew Pink pictures on the Pink paper then guessed at what each person had drawn. There were gales of laughter, when we finally guessed the inspiration of my daughter's Pink drawing. Let us just say it was an anatomical Pink part of their black cat Betty Consuela.

We ate our dinner, toasted Pink Day with a healthy Pink drink in Pink paper cups, that was definitely not a hit and ate our Pink ice-cream and maybe another Pink cupcake. We wiped our mouths with the Pink napkins. So ended the Celebration.

I think I'll sleep in my cozy, Pink plaid pyjamas tonight.

Life's Arrivals and Departures

Beautiful babies, amazing pieces of new humanity, continue to emerge into my life, bringing so much love with them.

These babies are not only my grand children, although to be truthful there is a special spot set aside for them in my heart, but also the extended family's babies, my friends' grandchildren both near and far, the babies of my daughters' friends, the babies of my neighbours and the baby I passed in the grocery store,  who gave me a wonderful smile this morning.

The winds of change swirl. What lies ahead for these sweet souls?

As these babies arrive, the grand old dames move off toward new horizons. Just as the babies bring love, hope and innocence into our worlds, these women of force, wisdom and grace move us forward into the adventure of the unknown.

They were once the babies of love, hope and innocence.

Life is a challenging enterprise. These women, living into their nineties, some even passing the hundred year mark, are proof that it is possible to find strength to embrace sometimes with courage, sometimes with joy, sometimes with courage and joy what life offers.

Recently, an elderly summer neighbour died. I valued her friendship. In her nineties she had her small cottage moved back from the cliff. This was no small undertaking. The cliff through time was moving ever closer, as the mighty winter storms crashed the waves against the rock. The act is one of endless metaphors.

The spark of her living that shone out through her eyes will remain at this spot forever. A piece of another's living is left behind and a piece of my living moves forward.

P.J.s Too Late in the Day ?

Here I sit at the table in the kitchen wearing my turquoise blue wool socks, my plaid pink cozy pj bottoms, a pink oversized top, covered by a traditional red dressing gown.

The snow is steadily and softly coming down. The roads seem ok here by the shore, but I think the schools are closed. The kettle is boiling water for a second cup of tea.

The trouble is the time is 12:45 pm. What are my ancestors thinking? My grand father came from the "five to seven victory, five after seven defeat" school of thought concerning morning rising. Actually, it wasn't just the rising, it was t he "getting dressed and up and at 'em element" that was more challenging.

To be honest, I would be very comfortable if I could set aside the sense of transgression.  Let's hear it for the "my house, my rules attitude". There are no cows to milk or in my grandfather's case no souls to save. There are no doubt, many souls to save, but I'm not going there.

Tap. Tap. Tap on the side door. "@#*&" I have company. Helloooooooooo! Whew!

My friend, from up the hill, dropped in for a tea on the way from getting the mail at the road. She doesn't count as a visitor, as we have been friends since our early teens. I am sure there are still secrets to discover, but a case of possible sloth is of little shock and less interest to her.

The clock keeps ticking. The time is now 1:59. The bell, in my centre of well being, is about to ring.

I am about to get sensibly dressed, bring wood in for the fire, put away the clean clothes, make a try at sweeping clear the kitchen floor.

Then it will be time to do some real living. I will once again take some time to watch the new video of my beautiful baby grandson, enjoying sitting in his Bumbo. He is looking every bit as wonderful with his new blue woollen hat with tiny ears, as the little fellow in "Where the Wild Things Are". Not a bad reward, eh?

................................................................... and she's off.

A Sweater Named Rita

Heating with a wood stove has many advantages.  One of these advantages is that the  house becomes a home with rooms of varying temperatures. This works out well for guests with strong temperature preferences or individuals of a certain age, whose thermostats are decidedly erratic.

As winter sets in, the conditions change. The floors, the walls , the furniture claim the cold. There is no longer of a range of temperatures. Extremes reign- the relentless heat of the livingroom and the frigid zones of the bedrooms, despite the constant whirr of ceiling fans, the closed and blanketed doors and the sure and steady heat from the stove.

It is time to call Rita to the rescue. Rita is a family treasure.

In times long ago, my former mother in law knit the sweater coat, we call Rita. She knit and knit and knit and knit. I think she thought she could knit everything together again. That wasn't to be. Rita could hold all of us, but she couldn't hold us all together.

Rita is a sweater of weight, a sweater of size. To be honest I think Rita is continuing to grow; big, bold, beautiful Rita.

So much knitting went into Rita. The wool is thick. The pattern is a diamond quilt pattern in off white, red and tan. In time I think Rita will reach to the floor, as I shrink and she grows. I received her in the eighties, when something of cowboy fashion was sweeping North America. Even I had cowboy boots. I'll inevitably have to search some out if the stretch/shrink trend continues

Rita is the namesake of a well respected Maritime songstress, Rita MacNeil. She is a woman whose voice is familiar from one side of the country to the other. She is a woman, who has known hard times, yet lives with twinkling eyes. Rita is definitely a woman of size. Thus the name Rita.

Rita's presence at gatherings is always welcome. She was a source of merriment in sad times. How many people could fit into Rita ? The answer is many. The pictures of this merriment are gone. The memories remain.

In the winter when the north winds blow, Rita becomes a blanket offering warmth to those who dare to watch t.v., in a room where the rattling of the windows almost drowns out the sound. Rita becomes an outdoor dressing gown, when I struggle down the driveway to take the garbage to the road on frigid early Monday mornings. It is Rita I grab and toss on, before I dash up the hill to my friends house for a warm cup of tea.

In spring, summer and fall, Rita is always at ready. She is no uni-seasonal garment. She hangs contentedly on a brass hook in the front hall, easily accessible for action on cool, foggy days or as the sun sets or the wind blows, cooling down the temperature on the front or side porch. This is one perfect sweater for a grandma to wear, sitting in a wicker chair with a pajamaed grand child watching out for falling stars.

The reality is that Rita is a family member as no other sweater will ever be.

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