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.
Monday, 25 November 2013
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.
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