CONVERSATIONS WITH MYSELF

Valentine Themes #3: THE SHEPHERD

2012-02-14T15:13:00.000-08:00

LALA

Mitso's house is the white one on the top. My little spitaki is hidden behind the trees to the left of the white house with the red showing.

Mitso

In 1984 I began living part-time in the village of Lala up in the mountains of Euboeia in Greece, and I spent nearly all my spare time there until 1987 when I had to return to Canada. Since then, I visited as often as I could, because it became "my" village, and the people there adopted me as their friend.

When I first started going there, I met Mitso, one of the shepherds, and we became very good friends over the years.

THE SHEPHERD (Part One)

I'm sitting on the stone fence, looking out over Lala, its houses nestled among the trees on the inner slopes of the mountain. everything is green, even this late in the summer The square white houses of the village are tiered up the steep hillside. Below them, tall cypress trees spire above the olive and citrus groves. On the far mountainside, behind the village, old groves of chestnut and oak trees cluster under the rock spires of the mountain's crest. Behind the village, the undulating grey rock ridges encircle the valley, rising like a fortress wall. Every sound echoes -- dogs barking, goats and sheep bleating, sheep bells clinking and clanking in their sonorous tone as the flocks move down the hillside to their evening pastures. I hear the distant sounds of Greek music, a man singing in a minor key, children's voices, neighbours calling back and forth.

Somewhere in this village, there is a shepherd named Mitso (Demitrios). I look at all the little white houses and wonder which one is his. Are those jangling sheep bells his sheep? Is that bleating nanny goat one of his herd?

This shepherd rides a white horse. He's a lean, wiry man, a mountain man. He has a wide, beautiful smile and eyes that crinkle at the corners. He wears a peaked cap and a checked shirt and grey trousers -- the shepherd's costume. He is in his mid-fifties, and he has lived in this mountain village all his life tending his flocks of sheep and goats.

This is the shepherd who comes to me in my dreams, tells me wise things, counsels me and makes me wake up feeling very happy. This is a special man, someone who has been a source of inspiration to me for almost ten years now.

But he doesn't speak English, and my Greek is very basic. So how do we communicate? Somehow, we do. But there is too much that has to be left unsaid, too much I want to say, he wants to say, we want to say. And how will we say it?

Across the valley I hear a man's voice. Is it his? Is that him driving his flock down the mountainside?

"THE SHEPHERD: Part Two "A Marriage Proposal."

The setting sun is shining right on Mitso's house, the 'acropolis' of Lala; the house where I have dreamed of sitting on the porch writing. But now I know it will never be. It's because of the village - the customs - the archaic rules that prohibit even grown adults like Mitso and me to sit privately together, or even have an intimate conversation. Life hasn't changed much in this village since the old days, though perhaps there are more modern comforts to make the life easier.

Far away I can hear the shepherd calling his flock. "Kroo kroo kroo-kroo"
One time I heard Mitso calling his sheep up on the ridge behind the old mill where I often sit to meditate and enjoy the cool, fresh spray of the waterfall. He appeared there, radiant as a knight, his appearance stunning me into speechlessness. He expounded poetically on the "zoe" (life) and I (as usual) was baffled by the translation.

Not much has changed. He still astounds me. I'm still baffled by the language and miss all the important things he tries to convey to me. Like the other day when we met on the dusty roadside, quite by chance, as I was walking down to the port to catch a ferry back to Athens. We stole a precious few moments, expressed our delight at seeing one another. Then he said something to me in a very serious tone. I couldn't work out the translation, and misinterpreted what he meant. Until ten minutes later, as I walked down the road, I realized he had said "When are you going to marry me and come to live in the village?"

My friend Antonia told me that long ago Mitso's father went off to America to earn money, and returned to buy his sons land. Mitso and his brothers had no education. They have lived their lives here on the mountain. When I considered Mitso's proposal, and asked Antonia's husband if I should marry him, and come to live in the village, Jimmy looked at me sternly over the top rim of his glasses and said: "How can you marry him? You don't have any money or property or anything."

I had forgotten the dowry system. In many villages in Greece this old-fashioned bride barter is still the custom. I'm just a struggling writer with no bank account and a part-time day job. I don't even own a car or a townhouse.
"And what would you do with him, anyway?" Jimmy asked. "Will you take him to Canada?"
Mitso rarely even goes to Athens, so how could I take him to Canada? He's a mountain man.
"Can you cook and do housework?" Jimmy said. "Because if you live here in the village, you wouldn't be able to sit around reading and writing. You would have to be busy preparing things!"

It was Jimmy's frank statements that made me see things as they really are here. Being married to a shepherd would be a life I could not tolerate. A loss of freedom. A loss of independence. So, the fantasy that has gone on for all these years, will remain forever a fantasy. I will always be just a guest-friend here.

It is evening now. The shadows are darkening in the folds of the hills. There are tinges of golden brown and russet on the hillsides, and patches of brilliant green in the valley where the mountain streams run through the olive and citrus groves.

I listen again to the pastoral sounds of sheep bells and these sounds, this mountain music, fills my heart and head, remains with me always, returns to me on wet night and winter days in Canada. These are the sounds I cherish, this special music of the village. And months from now, when I'm back home, I'll think of this place, my village, and my shepherd who is always on the mountain and is perhaps thinking to me.
****************************************

A couple of years after I wrote this, I rethought my decision and was going to village to see Mitso again, with the intentions of accepting his proposal. Just before I left for Greece that summer, Antonia phoned to tell me Mitso had died. It was unexpected and a shock to everyone. He’d succumbed to lung cancer. I went to the village that summer with my friend and put a sprig of myrtle on his grave. A funny turn to the story: I’d always thought he was ten years younger than me because he once told me his age. Turned out, according to the engraving on the grave, he was ten years older! See? Even men lie about their age!

I returned to the village again two summers ago with the intention of putting flowers on his grave. The graveyard was is disarray. Mitso was not in his grave – his sister was. Then I remembered that after five years the dead are dug up and their bones places in an ossiary. Little did I know then that just a few weeks later, my friend Antonia would be buried there. (I didn’t know until much later that she had passed away in Vancouver and the family took her body back to Lala to be buried.)

That was the last time I visited Lala. For some reason the village was deserted – like a ghost town. Many houses were shuttered up and not a soul was to be seen. The magic had gone out of the village, and so had the life.

Valentine Themes #2: FLYING ON A WING AND A PRAYER

2012-02-13T23:24:00.000-08:00

Istanbul

Each time I fly off into the rising sun, I am reminded of another flight I took some years ago. Although these trips I have plenty of money in my pocket, that time I was really "flying on a wing and a prayer" in what was to be an unforgettable magic carpet ride.

The adventure began in the winter of '75. I had recently split with my boyfriend. I was feeling melancholy that night my friend Rosalie invited me to the disco. I certainly was not looking for romance.

It was toward the end of the evening when the handsome young man asked me to dance. Although we didn't speak at first, there was suddenly magic in the air. he projected warmth, and something very special. Strangely, even before he said his name, I knew it. "Hakki."

He was Turkish, a Chief engineer on a Turkish ship. He spoke English well having been educated in the best marine officer's college in Istanbul. He was a small, dark man with a flashing golden smile, an athlete (marathon runner) and a career merchant seaman, an officer and a gentleman. We danced together for the rest of the evening and at the end of the night we could hardly bear to part. We fell in love that night. For the next two weeks we spent all our time together either at my house or on his ship.

I was welcomed on board by the Captain and crew and treated respectfully as an honoured guest. The Captain, who reminded me of my literary hero Ernest Hemingway, invited my friends and i to dine in his private galley. he was very much concerned about Hakki and me, in a fatherly sort of way. "What are you two going to do?" he wondered. Everyone knew this was the beginning of a big love story.

Then the day came when Hakki was leaving the ship to fly back to Istanbul for his leave. It was a difficult farewell, bitter sweet, but not without hope. Coincidentally, a week before I'd met him, I had gone to a travel agent intending to purchase a ticket to Guatemala to return to the villages where Dan and I had spent three months the previous year. On an impulse I booked a flight to London instead. England in February? At the time, I didn't know why I'd done that. Now I know it was my destiny and in fact, the decision may have saved my life because a devastating earthquake destroyed those Guatemalan villages right about the time I would have been there.

So I said goodbye to my beloved Hakki, agreeing to meet him in London the following month.

When I arrived in London, Hakki called and suggested I should come to Istanbul instead. he wanted to show e his city and some of the historical places on the Turkish coast. I decided to travel to Istanbul on the Orient Express train (me and Agatha Christie) and while I waited for my money to be transferred from Canada, I went off to Wales to visit my cousins.

While in Wales, I got a call from my friend in London. Hakki had sent a cable. "Don't wait for your money. Come now. i have signed on a new ship and must leave in 10 days."

I rushed back to London, booked a one-way flight to Istanbul with borrowed money, and wired Hakki to say I was arriving Saturday morning. I had no time to prepare myself for the adventure that lay ahead. I set off with only five Pounds in my pocket, on a one-way ticket to a city I knew nothing about, a mysterious city far away to the East, flying on a wing and a prayer to the Orient.

This was Istanbul during the time of "the Midnight Express" and the very first attempted plan hijackings. As we landed, I saw that the airport was completely surrounded by army tanks and heavily armed military police. The airport arrival building seemed to be only a Quonset hut. Hundreds of men milled about staring with their intense eyes, speaking a language that was impossible to translate. I had no idea of where I was or what I'd do if Hakki wasn't there to meet me. At that moment I realized how frivolous and possibly dangerous this escapade was. Supposing he wasn't there? What would I do? the Canadian Embassy was far away in Ankara. The five pounds I had in my pocket wouldn't even get ma a taxi into the city and a hotel for the night. I pushed my way through the crowd, breathless and terrified. And then i saw him! I ran to embrace him, relieved to be safe in his arms. He seemed taken aback, a bit reserved. Later in the taxi he explained that it was forbidden to publicly embrace and kiss in Turkey. "But anything goes in private," he grinned.

Those days I spent with Hakki in Istanbul were the most memorable of my life. There are so many moments I can never forget and often I can project myself into his apartment to relive those times. Each time I make Turkish coffee, I remember that first day in his kitchen when he was showing me how to mix the coffee and sugar, fill the little briki with water, then watch carefully til it bubbled up. And each time we'd be in a passionate embrace just as it bubbled up and boiled over. I remember watching gypsies with a dancing bear on the street below his apartment. I remember all the nights he held me close, nights I never wanted to end.

He took me everywhere, treated me like a princess, lavished love and attention on me, showed me every aspect of his magnificent, mysterious city. I fell in love with Istanbul and the Turkish people and most of all with Hakki, my Prince Charming.

Finally the day came for me to leave. I don't know how i got through the departure gate at the airport without bursting into tears. Both of us were torn apart by my leaving. I walked away from him bravely and took a seat in the waiting room. A strange man came and spoke to me, pointing to the departure gate. Hakki was still standing there, so I ran back and embraced him one last time. This time I couldn't stop the tears.

I cried all the way back to London, but I vowed I’d see him again somehow, some day.

We kept corresponding for several months. I still have the letters, the tender words "you are an estimable woman". I had wanted to have his child, but it was not possible so all I was left with were the precious memories.

Some affairs are never meant to be anything more than beautiful fairy tales. Eventually the letters stopped, but my memory of him, my love for him, never faded to this day. He taught me the tenderness of unconditional love. He restored my faith in romance.

I can still remember very clearly all those days in Istanbul: eating yoghurt for the first time at a small cafe by the Black Sea; wandering thr9ug the Topkapi palace in awe of all the treasures kept there; the Grand Bazaar where he bought me a beautiful maroon velvet shirt and embroidered slippers.
I left a piece of my heart in Istanbul. Some years later, when I was living in Athens, I went back there to visit. I was sitting in the coffee shop at the Topkapi museum and suddenly looked out on the palace gardens. At the moment I realized I was sitting in the exact place I'd sat with him. My memories of Hakki were everywhere and they still live in my heart.

Since then I've been to Istanbul three times, also Izmir, Cesme, Bursa, The Princes Isles on the Marmara Sea where the Byzantine princes had their summer villas. I've visited Assos, where Aristotle had a school, and Troy and Pamukalle where turquoise cascades flow over limestone cliffs.

Once at my favourite donair kebab shop in Kusadasi, a man joined my table. He said he was a sailor on leave from his ship, an officer, from Istanbul I said I'd been to the officer's club there, because I had a friend who was a sailor. he asked me my friend's name.

"Hakki Sarikaya."
"I know him," he said. "He doesn't go out to sea now. He inspects ships in the port.' He asked why I didn't try to contact Hakki. But ten years had passed by then. It was too late.

In my jewelry box is a small gold locket. Inside this locket is a pressed violet. I still recall the cold, windy March day that Hakki bought me the violets from the little gypsy girl. Whenever I see violets, I remember Hakki. And each time I have gone back to Turkey I think of him

Hakki and me in the night club in Istanbul.

In the corner is the little gold locket with the pressed violets he bought me.

Post note: A couple of years ago I was at a media dinner for Turkey and sat next to the tourism agent who reminded me a lot of Hakki. I told him this story. He was so moved by it he insisted he would try to find Hakki for me when he returned to Istanbul, and give him a message. After some time, he actually did track Hakki down and spoke to Hakki's wife (of course, by now I knew he'd be married!) He gave her the message for Hakki that his friend from Canada sent greetings. For me that was a beautiful closure to a real love story!

VALENTINE THEMES: #1 "APHRODITE'S ARROW"

2012-02-11T00:07:00.010-08:00

Valentine's Day is coming so I'm going to post some poems and stories about love, broken hearts and other appropriate themes.

APHRODITE’S ARROW

A quick-silver spark

like a diamond’s prism

strikes me.

Aphrodite’s silver arrow

turns this cafe bar

into the galaxy.

Reality escapes me.

Fleeting,

swift,

it hits its mark,

sets aflame

the dark night

of my heart.

MOONDANCING

2012-01-13T01:25:00.000-08:00

This is one of my "Confessions of a Black Sheep" memoirs and I decided to post it tonight for a very specail reason...

MOONDANCING

“We were born before the wind
Also younger than the sun
Ere the bonnie boat was won as we sailed into the mystic...”

We’re lounging on a heap of cushions in the middle of the floor at Fat Freddy’s house, passing a pipe of good black hash that came stamped with a gold seal from Pakistan. Van Morrison’s soulful voice comes over the audio...

“I want to rock your gypsy soul
Just like way back in the day of old
And together we will float into the mystic...”

My mind drifts in the slip-stream, those melodies, that voice as sweet as Tupelo honey. It is a safe and comfortable feeling being with my gathering of friends in Fat Freddy’s Tenth Avenue house.

“And the caravan has all my friends
It will stay with me until the end
Gypsy Robin, Sweet Emma Rose
Tell me everything I need to know...”

I was born with a gypsy soul, so it’s no surprise I ended up with a motley crew like these The guys all had names to identify them: Fat Freddy, Dirty Dan, Supersonic Joe, Mad John, Lofty. Half of them were on the lam from the States, deserters or draft dodgers trying to protest and escape the war in Viet Nam, a cool gang of long-haired hippy dudes. We were their long-skirted gypsy women. We were family.

“Turn up your radio and let me hear the song...
Turn it up, turn it up, little bit higher, radio...
Turn it up, that’s enough, so you know it’s got soul...”

We whirl, twirl, dance to “Ballerina”, swaying, drifting, grooving...

“Well, it’s a marvelous night for a Moondance
With the stars up above in your eyes
A fantabulous night to make romance
‘Neath the cover of October skies..”

I was living with Dirty Dan and my two kids and an assortment of other gypsy souls back then. It had been a long and interesting journey from the straight suburban life in Northern Alberta to the hippie houses of Vancouver. But it wasn’t surprising that I ended up there.

“I can hear her heart beat for a thousand miles
And the heavens open every time she smiles
And when I come to her that’s where I belong
Yet I’m running to her like a river’s song
She gave me love, love, love, love, crazy love...”

I was born a rebel. My adventurous spirit began when I was a toddler, gave my parents grey hairs at an early age. Growing up, I always felt I was singing a different tune, dancing to a different beat. In school the teachers despaired of me, said I was a ‘dreamer’. I often chose friends who were the ‘outcasts’ -- kids who were different and unpopular. Maybe I gravitated toward them because they were out of the ordinary, ‘different’, like me. It’s no surprise then, when I got out of high school and started working at the newspaper, that I discovered another bunch of rebels, the Beat Generation. Jack Kerouac became my hero, along with Alan Ginsberg and all the Beat poets. I read everything Kerouac wrote. I wanted to write like him, be hip, travel on the road with him. I wore black and hung out in smoky coffee houses, listened to jazz and bongo drums. I developed a taste for dry red wine, went to art school, wrote haiku and read Existentialist writings. I even took the bus to California a few times. These events began to shape and change my life.

Unfortunately the constrictions of marriage and raising a family deterred me from following my Beatnik dreams. Seven years in a northern suburbia raising my kids and dealing with my husband’s downward spiral with alcoholism isolated me from a world I longed to be part of.

Then, a trip to New York changed my life. I went to visit a friend who lived in Greenwich Village, a place I’d only dreamed of until then. I prowled the Village, the bistros and coffee houses that were the haunts of my heroes. The Beat Generation had been replaced by a new generation of rebels, the Flower Children. All the talk in the Village was about Woodstock. I was introduced to a different kind of music, turned on to marijuana and hashish and the kind of free-spirited life-style that I’d always longed to live.

“And it stoned me to my soul
Stoned me just like Jelly Roll
And it stoned me…”

Dan, and his friends, gave me love at a time when I had needed it most. I had met him the year we moved back to the Coast. He was a big, solid, gentle guy, a deserter from the American army, one of the group of deserters and draft dodgers who had taken shelter here in Canada and were hiding out from the immigration. They called him “Dirty Dan” because he was a wanna-be biker dude who had grown his hair long and joined the band of gypsy souls who hung out on Fourth Avenue.

Those were crazy days, but they were good days. I remember riding in the car with Dan and my kids, singing to the radio:

“On the way back home we sang a song
But our throats were getting dry
Then we saw the man from across the road
With the sunshine in his eyes…”

There was always music: The Doors, Janice Joplin, The Rolling Stones, T-Rex, Led Zeppelin, the Moody Blues and Van Morrison.

“And all the night’s magic seems to whisper and hush
And all the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush..”

And here we are again, in my mind’s eye, lolling on the cushions in the middle of the floor at Fat Freddy’s house, passing the pipe of good black hash, listening to that sweet lilting voice of Van Morrison resound from the speakers, cranked up to full volume, sweeping us away into the mystic…

“Can I just have one a’ more Moondance with you, my love
Can I just make some more romance with a-you, my love…”

*** In memory of Dan who I learned is dying (or perhaps already gone) from cancer.
We lived wild in those days during the '70's. I loved him once, but he chose a life of drugs and I had to say goodbye to him to protect myself and my children. Now he's gone, cancer and apparantly a long addiciton to crack cocaine. Karma? Perhaps, but still, I wanted to remember him and the parts of our time together that were free and fun.

Me? I'm still Moondancing, always the free spirit.

MEMORIES OF NEW YEARS EVES PAST

2012-01-01T22:41:00.000-08:00

New Years Eve at the Dockside with Steve Kozak and his West Coast Blues Allstars

Cheryl and me, New Years Eve 2011-2012

This is a memoir I wrote awhile back about New Years Eve. This year, to celebrate the year 2012, I went with my friend Cheryl to the Granville Island Hotel where my son Steve and his band, The West Coast Blues Revue was playing for their second New Years Eve in a row. We'd had such a grand time there last year that this year Cheryl and I decided to rent a room at the hotel for the night and really live it up. It was costly but great fun and we've already decided to do it again next year if Steve's band is asked to play there again.

For the last few years I've attended New Years Eve parties at the places where my son's band was playing, and in the company of good friends. So it has become a really fun event to look forward to.

This little memoir story is about other New Years Eves in the past, some of which were not so memorable or so much fun although I always tried to make the best of it, no matter what the circumstances.

ONCE UPON A NEW YEAR’S EVE

I have both fond and melancholy memories of New Years Eves. In the old times it was one of the most anticipated holidays next to Christmas. You always had a new outfit to wear which was planned well in advance, something fashionable and spectacular to wear to the celebration which was often held in a night club or at a gala house party. I’ll never forget the year I’d made a gorgeous gold pois de sois two-piece dress. I looked fantastic. But when I arrived at the big party with several other couples, which was held in a big barn-like place on Grandview Highway, I was chagrined to find that another woman in the group was wearing a dress of similar style and material. I was crushed, but of course I had made mine myself so considered it be more ‘original’. I recall one new years eve when I was in my late teens, my girlfriend and I had been invited out by two American sailors to attend a show at the Cave supper club. My girlfriend had a new dress but hadn’t time to hem it so she’d pinned the hem up and all night long the pins scraped her legs until they were bleeding. After the show at the Cave, we tottered over to the Holy Rosary Church for midnight mass. I was in charge of holding the bottle of wine in a brown paper bag under my coat, and I distinctly recall dropping it in the back pew!

Yes, New Years eve was always a night of wild abandon and over-drinking. At clubs or house parties, when it turned midnight, you are supposed to kiss your partner or date, but all to often I’d find myself alone in a crowd of strangers while my boyfriend was off in a corner kissing someone else. I soon grew weary of these episodes. New Years eve began to lose it’s romantic appeal, and instead it became a lonely time, especially once I was single. Eventually I decided I’d rather stay home alone, if necessary, so I’d bring in some goodies: the makings for Welsh rarebit, oysters to fry, a few bottles of McEwan’s ale and a bottle of Heiken Trokel sparkling wine. I’d tell a few people my plan and wait to see who’d show up, and usually a couple of close friends would drop by. One of my most memorable New Years Eves was one I spent all alone enjoying my own company, dancing to my favourite music.

I’ve had New Years Eve’s abroad, far from family and close friends, that were still fun in their uniqueness. One time I remember my room-mate and I heading off to a big hotel for the night and on the way stopped to get a bite to eat at a pizzaria. We walked into a party of rowdy Quantas airlines crew who immediately embraced us and invited us to party with them. That was one of my best times, and it landed me a nice boyfriend for several months, so long as Quantas was flying in and out of town.

Now I will occasionally make plans to go out, if friends are going along and the price is right. Being with close friends, dancing and dining, is quite satisfying. It’s no longer to me the ‘romantic’ exciting night it used to be, but it’s worth a little celebrating especially if it’s been a good year.

New Years Eve at the Granville Island Hotel, December 31, 2011

ODE TO CHRISTMAS TREES

2011-12-22T15:29:00.000-08:00

One of the beautiful parts of Christmas are the traditional Christmas trees. I still prefer the real kind and usually try to have one in my apartment. But this year, because I'm going to be away, I am only having my small gold decorative tree. When I put it up, with special small decoration and a string of lights, it looks very pretty and is just as satisfactory as a real tree. These days many people prefer the imitation trees (much less trouble) but there is something about the scent of pine and cedar in the air that is missing when you use an artificial tree. (So yesterday I bought pine-scented candles to make up for it!).

This is a story I wrote a few years ago about Christmas trees. There are so many memories attached to Christmas trees. I love seeing them, and my own tree always has decorations collected over the years, each with a special meaning. (I buy a new decoration each year so I have something special to remind myself of that particular Christmas. This year, as I'm using the small ornamental tree, I bought a tiny carousel when I visited the Burnaby Heritage Museum and it is hanging on the golden boughs along with my other Christmas treasures.)

"OH, CHRISTMAS TREE!"

Two weeks before Christmas. The tree lots are full of fresh-cut firs and pines. Families make special outings to pick this year's tree. Around the city, coloured lights shine heralding the Yuletide.

In the line-up at the Supermarket, I browse through the display of magazines, their covers advertising the
Christmas season, displaying showcase homes with plump trees bedizened with extravagant decorations. Some trees are sprayed gold or silver. And under the dazzling branches are heaps of designer-decorated packages.

I am reminded of other Christmas trees. MY Christmas trees. Although perhaps not so grandly decorated, they are distinctly memorable and remarkably special.

At home I open a box of photo albums and take a nostalgic trip to Christmases past. in a black-and-white photograph, hand tinted by my mother, is Tree Number One. My first Christmas tree: a spindly fir garlanded and hung with lots of tinsel and ornaments. Under its thin branches are the toys Santa has left. In front of the tree, on a little rocking chair sits a large doll with a frilly bonnet and pink dress. Next to it is a doll crib filled with stuffed toys and more dolls. Two stockings hang on the red-brick fireplace behind it, one lumpy with fruit and candy, the other a store-bought stocking full of surprises.

In another photo, taken several years later, the tree has ivory-soap 'snow' on the branches and garlands of popcorn and cranberries. My Mom enjoyed creating special effects for our Christmas tree. Under it are two dolls in highchairs, the boy dolls our mother lovingly sewed wardrobes for. Mine was named Tommy.

Every Christmas was magic when I was a child, a splendid family affair with a house full of visiting relatives and good cheer. Even when we grew older, each year at tree decorating time, it was a special family get-together with mom's delicious Christmas cookies, ginger ale and popcorn for treats as we dipped into the box of decorations and drew out a bauble for the tree. It was a time of nostalgia too, because each ornament had its own little memory attached.

When I grew up and had children of my own, their tree always had some of the decorations they had made: toilet-roll angels with cotton-batting hair and gold wings; egg-carton bells painted red and green and glued with sparkles; cut-out trees with sticker decorations.

One year we had a cookie-decorating contest. We baked sugar cookies, decorated them, and hung them on the tree. The most elaborately decorated cookie won. We saved the best one. They lasted a year or two until some mice discovered them.

Another year we set out a box of ribbons, glue, paper and sparkles and invited each guest that entered our house to make a special decoration for our tree.

Sometimes, other things had to make do for Christmas trees. The year I was going away to California to attend my daughter's wedding, my avocado plant served as a tree, hung with tinsel and silver balls. Another time, when I was living in a cramped bachelor suite, I decorated my ficus plant with lights and tinsel. The year I went to live in Greece, I bought a small laurel plant and decorated it with tiny lights and baubles.

I still have a few of the old treasured ornaments, and every Christmas as I unpack the decoration box to trim my Christmas tree, I am filled with nostalgia, remembering Christmases past: the chenille wreaths from my childhood trees, the expensive silver and gold globes bought to decorate the first tree shared by my husband and I; our children's special ornaments -- little ceramic bells collected on my children's visits to Santa Claus; special little gift ornaments made by friends; starched snow-flakes crocheted by my daughter; ethnic decorations from Mexico and China given to me by newcomers at the daycares where I have worked.

I always look forward to Christmas, especially to the tree decorating time. Some of those old ornaments are getting tattered and tarnished. Each year I have to part with a few, but each year I buy one new ornament to replace the old.

"Oh Christmas Tree, Oh Christmas Tree, how lovely are your branches!"

FAMILY CHRISTMASES

2011-12-22T10:06:00.000-08:00

This was Christmas with my family in 1957. We always gathered (either at my parent's or my
Aunt Grace's home) for a big turkey dinner, lots of fun with skits and board games, and nothing stronger than gingerale to drink. They were truly merry affairs and looking back I miss those days.
In this photo, there's my Uncle Frank, the joker playing checkers with my husband Mike while cousin Adele and cousin Gracie's husband Gordon looking on. Gracies' son David is playing behing them. My son Stevie is just a year old, sitting on my cousin Gracie's knee. My dad, cousin Merilyn, Mom, a friend holding Gracies baby Caroline, Aunt Grace and cousin Lynette are in the background.

When I first married Mike, I was introduced to his Ukranian family, and it was quite a different kind of Christmas celebration for them. Here's a story I wrote about that experience.

CHRISTMAS WITH THE IN-LAWS

Christmas for me has always been a family affair. From the time I was a small child, it meant visits from the relatives, everyone gathered around the tree on Christmas eve drinking ginger ale, eating the delicious Christmas goodies Mom had baked while we played games like monopoly and crokinole or snakes and ladders. The men would tell funny stories. My Uncle Frank always recited “’Erbert Burped” and Dad’s famous singing of “When Father Papered the Parlour” never failed to send us into rollicking laughter. Mostly Christmas meant remembering the true meaning of the Season with carol singing and stories of the birth of the Baby Jesus.

Christmas dinner was a festive event. Turkey and all the trimmings, Christmas pudding with money hidden inside, and everyone gathered around the table with bowed heads while Dad or Grandpa or Uncle Frank said the blessing.

This is the way my Christmases always were in my family. And I thought it that way for all everyone.

What a surprise I got when I got married and was introduced to Christmas at the Ukrainian in-laws. The first time my husband took me home to spend Christmas with his family I was shocked and amazed. It was my first introduction to a hard-drinking, hearty-eating Ukrainian way of celebrating the holidays.

There I was, the new bride, sitting in the midst of a party of elderly folks, a bottle or two of rye whiskey plonked on the coffee table and water glasses filled to the brim -- neat! It was the first time I’d tasted rye straight and it made me gag. I guess I was too polite to say ’no’, so when nobody was looking I passed the glass down to my husband who eagerly downed it, matching glass for glass with the old folks. As the afternoon wore on, the merriment grew more boisterous and argumentative. It was a wonder to me how those elderly folks could drink so much.

I’ll never forget one of the Christmases we were invited for dinner. We’d already had my family’s Christmas dinner but we also had to go to the in-law’s house or they would be offended. Lena, my father-in-law’s common-law wife, was a great cook. She made the best cabbage rolls and perogis. This Christmas she had prepared a very large turkey to feed all the friends who were to drop in. By the time the bird was cooked and ready to come out of the over, she was so drunk that as she removed the turkey from the oven she teetered over and the bird slid off the pan and dropped on the floor. Without missing a beat she picked it up and plonked it on the platter. I was an eye-witness. The others were probably too drunk to notice. Anyway, it was a delicious dinner and as usual, she was constantly filling your plate. “Eat! Eat!” or your glass “Drink! Drink!” It didn’t occur to me, the naive youngster from the tee-totalling family, that all that booze was eventually going to be my husband’s downfall.

Oh yes, those Ukrainian Christmases were memorable. Especially the one when my father-in-law almost cut off his hand when he was demonstrating the new chain saw he’d got for a present. He was drunk, of course, and hardly felt any pain. But he bore the scars forever after and in fact caused serious nerve damage so his hand was never the same. Did that deter the constant partying? Never!

They were good-hearted folk though, and I know their intentions were well-meaning.

My mother-in-law, on the other hand, was a different story. My husband’s parents had been separated for many years and it was easy to see why there was no communication between them. She was a Seventh Day Adventist, strict and totally lacking the joviality and good nature of Lena and Harry. In fact, I was sure she had the ability to put the evil eye on me and quite frankly I was a bit scared of her. She had weird eyes and would sit scowling at me when I arrived with my husband and baby. She had her own ideas of how I should be handling my new baby boy and I know she didn’t approve of me one bit.

She’d cook us dinner once in awhile, never Christmas dinner, because she didn’t celebrate Christmas the way the rest of us did. In fact, my husband’s younger brother, still a teen-ager, lived with her, and at Christmas he was not given any gifts because she said it wasn’t Lennie’s birthday. It was Jesus’s birthday. I always felt sorry for Lennie so we’d invite him to our place and made sure he had lots of presents, and of course he’d drop by his father’s for the Christmas meals too. Maybe the way he was brought up warped him because he grew into the most avaricious nasty man, a bank-manager who had total control over both his parent’s finances and wills and made sure when they died neither of my children got a cent -- it all went to him, his Ukrainian wife, and their two kids.

Those Ukrainian Christmases were memorable, mainly for the vast amounts of food and booze that were consumed and the chaos that reigned as a result. Invariably it would somehow end up with a fight breaking out. I didn’t realize it then, but my father-in-law was not the jolly guy he seemed to be and poor Lena was often the brunt of his drunken temper.

It was an experience worth remembering, but to this day I prefer the old fashioned Christmases of my childhood.

Instead of spending Christmas with a massive hangover I’d rather enjoy what it is really meant to be, a time of good cheer spent with relatives and friends, presents stacked under the tree, stockings hung by the chimney with care and children nestled in their beds waiting for Santa to arrive. (He didn’t get a glass of whiskey at our place, just some ginger ale and home-made Christmas cookies. There weren’t any fights, Mom never ever dropped the turkey on the floor, and nobody ever cut their hand off with a chain saw!)

* * *

CHRISTMAS ON A SHOESTRING

2011-12-21T10:37:00.000-08:00

These days Christmas has become even more commercialized with all the hype of shoppers rushing to the malls to buy! buy! buy! But it wasn't always like that, especially in my family. Right from my childhood when my parents earned a meagre living (Dad, an immigrant coal-miner from Wales, was a pastor on the Prairies at the end of the Depression and during the War years my mom, sister and I lived with my grandparents in Stratford Ontario. Christmas was always a big celebration in our home, no matter what, and many of the gifts were lovingly home-made as there simply wasn't a lot of money to spend. Because of this family background, when things got tough for me and my kids, after the break-up of my marriage, we were still able to enjoy the holiday season even though "living on a shoe string". Here's a Christmas memoir I wrote a few years ago.

It happened that I had a lot of material goods brought from my past life, so I sorted through the china tea-cups, jewelery and other items that I had stored away, carefully picking just the right gift for each of my friends. The girls in the house baked Christmas goodies and the old house was full of the delicious, familiar smells of the holidays. The whole motley crew enjoyed a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. It was a special Christmas because it wasn’t in the least bit ‘commercial’. Everything we had made or chosen from our own belongings to give away. It gave Christmas a new, special meaning.

My kids, Steve & Andrea (Alex) celebrate Christmas in the early '70's (with one of our little Yorkies)

There were a few other Christmases on a shoestring too, during those years. Once I remember us having a box of odds and ends: ribbons, tinsel, shiny paper, glue, sparkles and various artsy craftsy thing and each guest who came visiting had to make a decoration for the Christmas tree. One year my daughter and I made gingerbread houses for all our friends. Another time we had a Christmas cookie contest and decorated sugar cookies cut in various festive shapes which we hung on the Christmas tree. The ornamental cookies were so pretty we decided to keep them for the next year. But alas! The following Christmas when I opened the box up, the mice had eaten all the cookie ornaments!

I recall as a kid, my Mom used to make whole wardrobes for our Christmas dolls, and sew all our holiday clothes too. My parents didn’t have a lot of money and in those days there were no credit cards but there were always plenty of gifts under the tree, and lots of goodies to eat. Christmas was a jolly time spent with family and friends. I guess those early days taught me how to have Christmas on a shoestring and in a way, those Christmases are the most memorable

* * *

"FAMILY PHOTOS: A View of Christmases Through the Years"

2011-12-20T17:49:00.000-08:00

My mother enjoyed photography as a hobby. Our family albums are crammed with black and white snaps taken with her Brownie box camera, some hand-tinted with pastel colours. browsing through them, I am transported back in time to Christmases past.

The first Christmas photos, Estevan Saskachewan., I'm an infant in a wicker pram, wearing an angora bonnet. My mother's tidy handwriting on the back says "Ruthie, six months old. She's wearing the bonnet Aunt Edie sent from Wales." In another, I'm propped up in a wooden box on the back of a sled. My father, dressed in his fedora hat and overcoat is posed beside me. In Dad's unique, tight handwriting, is written: "Ruthie's first sleigh ride. I made the sleigh."

Next year, I'm an 18 month old dumpling, podgy as a little snowman in knitted leggings, sweater and bunny-ear hat, knit by Mom. Next to this picture is one of a Christmas tree piled with decorations I can remember using for years to come, and piles of gifts including a doll in a pram and pictures books. A few years later, another Christmas tree, this time with identical dolls sitting in high chairs and a Red-Rover sled with shiny runners. By now I have a little sister, so each year Santa brought us identical gifts. She liked dolls better than I did though. I preferred paper-dolls.

There is always a lot of snow in these pictures: Lloyminster,Saskachewan. My pal Albert and I, age six, standing arm in arm in the back yard under bare-limbed trees with snow up to the tops of our galoshes. Me wearing the coat Mom had made me out of a hand-me-down: moss green wool trimmed with Persian lamb from one of her old coats. I'm still wearing that coat three years later in another photo, this one taken by a photographer for Santa, the year we went to Toronto to see the Sant Claus parade. This photo invokes clear and rather unpleasant memories of that Christmas.

I was nine then. We had moved from the Prairies to Brantford Ontario and then to Stratford when my father was called up as an army chaplain. We lived at Grandpa and Grandma's house while Dad was overseas. In a photo she had taken to send Dad, my mother stands on the front porch steps wearing an elegant crepe dress, her hair neatly coiffed in the fashion of the '40's, smiling.
Behind her, on the door, is a big silver bell with red writing: "Merry Christmas". Those Christmases without Dad must have been lonely for her, but she never showed us anything but her sweet smile. Christmas at my Grandparent's house was a joyful, exciting event with visiting relatives who arrived by train from other parts of Ontario, and a house full of cousins and Christmas cheer.

That particular Christmas, Grandpa promised us we could go to Toronto to see the famous Santa Claus parade. It would be a special Christmas outing for the whole family. We would take the train in the morning and return that night. It was an adventure I had longed for and I was beside myself with excitement for days before the scheduled departure.

Then, on the eve of our journey, I took ill with the flu. I was very sick, but determined not to miss the trip. I don't remember the train trip or the Santa Claus parade. I look at myself in the photo, puffy-cheeked and pale, totally wretched, sitting on Santa's knee unable to smile. I still haven't forgotten how ill I was that day, and how disappointing it was to have such a special outing spoiled.

The next year's Christmas photo shows us standing on Grandpa's steps with my Dad who is beaming proudly in his army great-coat and beret. My little sister Jeanie is on one side of him. She has a doll in her hand. Twelve-year-old me stands on the other side of him, skinny, long-legged and solemn. Behind us is a spangled sign that says: "Welcome Home!".

That was our last Christmas in Ontario. The following year we took the train across Canada and made our new home in British Columbia where Christmas wasn't always white, although I can still remember skating on the Lagoon and singing carols door-to-door in the snow.

Wherever we were, Christmas was always special in our family, with beautiful decorations, the aroma of Christmas baking, pine logs on the fire; Christmas music, and a tree we always decorated together with heaps of surprises wrapped in colourful paper under it. Santa always found us, and filled our stockings, even when my sister and I were grown up and had little ones of our own.

In her photographs, my Mother has captured all these memorable times and left us this legacy of Christmas with the Family. Christmases Past.

CHRISTMAS AT GRANDPA’S

2011-12-20T10:52:00.000-08:00

Grandpa Bexton's House in Stratford Ontario (and that's our dog, Dutchess)

Christmas in the ‘40’s was a time when all the relatives came to celebrate at Grandpa’s house. We would troop down to the train station and stand waiting on the wooden platform, our breaths puffing like the steam from the locomotive engine, the frosty winter air nipping our cheeks into roses. The train chugged into the station, the coach doors opened and travelers spilled out onto the platform. Happy greetings filled the air as merry as caroler’s songs, families embraced and made their way down the snowy streets.

When my uncle, aunt and cousins arrived, we all went back to Grandpa’s house. How my grandparents found room for everyone, I can’t imagine. All the Aunts, Uncles and Cousins crowded into the small living room around the Christmas tree to chat, the crackling of the flames in the hearth sounding like pop-corn. After a few games of monopoly and Chinese checkers, my Uncle Frank would performed a comical rendition of “Herbert Burped”, tongue-in-cheek, about a little boy who gets swallowed by a lion. Then all of us children were tucked snugly into beds, often three in a bed, the middle one squished between the other two, warm in our flannel pajamas, while the grownups sat up late eating Christmas cake and drinking ginger ale.

One particular Christmas stands out in my memory. That was the year I bought the best Christmas presents I’d ever bought before. Certainly, the most memorable!

I was nine years old, and I felt very grown up as I went off to town to do my own Christmas shopping. I headed straight for the Woolworths Five and Dime store where you could always get the best bargains. I looked over all the trinkets, trying to decide what would be the finest gifts. It was difficult to decide. I wanted something unforgettable. Something everyone would love.

Then I saw it: a little clay Chinese dragon on a bamboo stick. The head of the dragon was made of painted clay, and it had a red felt tongue that looked like fire shooting from its gaping mouth. The body was accordion-pleated tissue paper. When you waved the stick, the body expanded and the head shot out, tongue flickering, like a real fire-breathing dragon. The Chinese dragons would make the perfect Christmas gifts!

I bought one for each of my relatives and excitedly headed for home, proud of myself for making such an extraordinary purchase. But when I showed them to my Mom, she was not impressed. In fact, she

was upset with me for ‘wasting’ my money on such foolish toys as these instead of buying something more ‘practical’. I felt embarrassed and disappointed. However, it was too late to return the dragons to the store, so I wrapped them up and put them under the Christmas tree with the other gifts.

On Christmas morning I waited nervously for everyone to open their presents. I felt embarrassed thinking that my relatives would think the present’s I’d bought were foolish and useless.

Instead, when the gifts were unwrapped, everyone was amused and delighted. especially my Uncle Frank. He played with his dragon all day. Of course, Uncle Frank always was the life of the party!

A NEW CAREER FOR MR. CHEEKY BIRD: Bird-brained Artist

2011-11-29T21:10:00.000-08:00

Mr. Cheeky Bird on his favorite perch

I read a newspaper article the other day about Parrots in a Bird Refuge who were raising money by painting. Yes! Parrots were actually producing bird art, brandishing paint brushes and using their claws and feathers to create saleable paintings. The paintings are on canvas and will be sold at the World Parrot Refuge in Coombs, on Vancouver Island, in order to raise money for the centre which shelters birds who are discarded or mistreated by former owners.

The owner is quoted as saying, "I think the cockatoos are going to be the best artists."

That got me thinking. I have a very clever cockatiel, Mr Cheeky Bird. He loves getting into things. So what if I brought out my paints and some canvas sheets and let him try his claws and feathers at art too. I bet he'd really enjoy the experience. And maybe we can eventually hold an art show to display his unique creations.

The parrots at the shelter started with group painting sessions but they got a little feathery with paint splashing all over. So now the parrots work in pairs or individuals. Apparently they have their favorite colours a well. Two umbrellas cockatoos, Bailey and Peaches, favour reds and yellows. Bailey uses her tail to create impressionist influences. Peaches uses the brushes to throw paint on the canvas. Nickey and Sidney, two Moluccas cockatoos with pink feathers, seem to like the blue and green tones. I'm curious now to discover what colours Mr. Cheeky Bird would prefer.

Of course the paints are non-toxic so there's no danger of the birds inhaling or tasting something that might be harmful. They have baths following the painting sessions as they love using their feathers as brushes.

I'm honestly curious to find out if cockatiels are as talented at art as their larger cousins the cockatoo.

The Shelter hopes their bird-brained paintings will go on sale to help the finances of the centre and get the refuge out of the red. I think it's a truly innovative and creative idea. Apparently they are the only place in North America that does this. The World Parrot Refuge houses more than 800 birds.

My handsome cockatiel, Cheeky. Do you think he might show artistic abilities?

THANKFUL THOUGHTS

2011-10-09T17:32:00.000-07:00

It's the Thanksgiving weekend here in Canada and families are gathering to enjoy a traditional turkey dinner. This year I'm not cooking a turkey, nor am I attending a family get-together. Instead I'm going with my friend to the Irish Heather on Monday for a turkey feast. I've been once before to one of their special events (that time it was roast beef). It's almost like a medieval feast with a long table where everyone (friends and strangers) sit together and get waited on by the staff and served delicious food from their special dinner menu.

There's lots of ways to celebrate Thanksgiving. In the States it's held in later than ours and it's all about the Pilgrims. In England it's held around this time of year but it's called the Harvest Festival.
My friend Patrick says it's the same for Germany and there isn't really any big deal other than in the churches. (I remember when my Dad was pastor he always made sure the church was decorated for the Thanksgiving holiday, much in the tradition of the Harvest Festival would be in Wales where he was born.

Many countries around world have a special day for expressing gratitude and a bountiful harvest.
In Biblical times there was the Feast of the Tabernacles (tents). Hebrew people decorated their tent homes with leaves and branches and feasted and thanked God for their harvest. Jewish people still celebrate this festival, called Sukkot.

The ancient Greeks had a harvest festival to celebrate the goddess Demeter, goddess of the earth and harvest. The Romans also held an October harvest festival called Cerelia named after their goddess Ceres who protected their crops and help them grow. The word "Cereal" comes from the Greek word "Ceres"

China has also celebrated a Harvest moon for many centuries. Soon it will be the Harvest Moon here too, the first full moon of autumn. The Chinese-Canadians will mark the festival with celebrations.

Wherever you are this weekend, remember to give thanks for not only the bountiful harvests that put food on our tables, but the beautiful world we live in, our friends and families, and for the goodness and peace in our lives. HAPPY THANKSGIVING, Everyone!

MORE SUMMER FUN: The Nanaimo Blues Festival

2011-09-01T16:01:00.000-07:00

Horseshoe Bay Marina

Last weekend my friend Patrick and I headed out to Horseshoe Bay to catch the ferry to Nanaimo for the day. My son and his band were playing at the Nanaimo Blues Festival and neither of us had been to Nanaimo so we thought it would be an excellent weekend outing.

Heading out into Howe Sound

It's a beautiful cruise through the islands of Howe Sound and out into the Strait of Georgia. The sailing takes just over an hour and is a relaxing, enjoyable trip.

As the ferry approached the Vancouver Island coast, I was listening to Diana Krall's song about Departure Bay on my mp3 player. Then we approached into the Bay, a scenic, beautiful sight.

Departure Bay, Nanaimo

Nanaimo is the second largest city on Vancouver Island and the third oldest city in British Columbia. It began as the home of five Coast Salish villages and became a Hudson's Bay Company outpost more than 150 years ago. Now it's a thriving port city, sheltered on the eastern side of the island. It has a population of 77,000.

The sheltered bays of the Strait of Georgia are perfect for sea adventurers including sailing and fishing excursions. Nanaimo is considered the best scuba diving destination in North America because of the rich marine ecosystem and diversity of saltwater inhabitants as well as sunken ships that have become artificial reefs.

The Blues Festival was held at Maffeo Sutton Park, a lovely sea-side venue with plenty of opportunity to wander the shoreline trails as well as relaxing under shade trees while listening to some of the best West Coast Blues. The Fesitval was presented by the Nanaimo Blues Society and was a three-day event. Unfortunately we could only afford the Saturday shows, but each day including the Friday and Sunday, was perfect weather and the most excellent musicians participating.

One of the craft tables.

It was a hot, sunny day and we had arrived just after noon but by later in the day the grounds filled up with more people.

Like me, most people brought along their own beach chairs

I wished I'd brought a picnic lunch like some spectators had, but there were food booths outside the venue with an interesting range of snacks. I enjoyed the pulled pork on a bun.

There were several different Blues bands performing before it was time for my son, Steve Kozak and his All-star band. So I took a break to cool off and walked along the sea front, enjoying the scenery.

By six o'clock it was Steve's turn. Meanwhile, one of my daughter's long-time friends had shown up with her pal and we had a beer at the Beer Gardens and then settled down to hear some more fine music.

Me, Connie, and Sue (Steve's wife)

Steve Kozak and the West Coast Blues All Stars

Steve and his group of West Coast Blues All Stars are popular with Blues fans. The blurb on the festival program says "You can feel the drive dirt and sweat in every note they play and sing whenever you see them perform." As always, it was an excellent show, and well worth making a day of it to attend.

My Blues Musician Son, Steve Kozak

We stayed for a little of the day's feature, The Duke Robillard Band, but didn't want to miss the one and only last ferry back, so we left early. Turns out we could have stayed much longer, but I guess it's better to be safe than sorry. And by then my eardrums were worn out as I'd sat in front of the amps for much of the day, close to the stage. So waiting at the ferry terminal, relaxing in the solitude, was a good, quiet way to end a wonderful day's outing.

Reflections: The End of a Perfect Day

MY SUMMER FUN, 2011: Blues Lunch at the Dockside

2011-08-26T11:06:00.000-07:00

The other Sunday, my son's Blues band, West Coast All Stars, was playing for the noon-hour Blues lunch at the Dockside Restaurant, in the Granville Island Hotel on Granville Island. My friend Patrick and I went to hear them play and enjoyed a wonderful meal while sitting dockside in the sunshine by False Creek.

There's nothing more pleasant than being down by the water on a sunny Vancouver afternoon. Granville Island is a great place to explore with the market and shops galore. I've been to the Dockside before for cocktails during the Jazz Festival and on New Years Eve when Steve's group played there. The service is efficient and friendly and the food was excellent.

I ordered the spinach Bennie which was one of the best I've ever tasted! Patrick had fish and chips.
Because it was a special occasion I also had a mimosa (champagne and orange juice) to accompany my brunch.

I try to attend as many of my son Steve's shows as I can, but this one was particularly special being outdoors by the water. Somehow the whole atmosphere was serene and it made the music sound so mellow. He'll be playing there again in September so why not come on down and enjoy a very special Sunday brunch!

SAYING GOODBYE

2011-07-23T02:31:00.000-07:00

Dora's Sunset (Poros, Greece)

DORA’S SUNSET

(written on Poros Greece in memory of my friend Dora Preston)

The night I learn you had left us,

I walk the seaside promenade

by Poros’ harbour

and pause, remembering.

The sunset has turned the sea

into a pool of crimson

And against the blazing sky

a four-masted sailing ship

lies at anchor

I remember you, the free spirit,

You who wore purple

and buttercup yellow.

You danced in floral frocks,

amused us with funny stories

about an old lady named Clover.

I still hear your sweet voice,

singing, laughing.

I search that crimson sunset sky,

say prayers, remember you.

The next day, on Kanali beach,

I wade into the water.

A gull soars overhead,

a small white bird circling

as though it is watching me.

My tears mix with the sea salt.

Is it your spirit

soaring over the blue Aegean sea?

I hear the gentle trill of your voice,

telling me not to cry.

How could it be that you are gone,

taken from us too soon?

Dora, you will always be remembered.

Since I posted the blog about my friends taking ill and some passing away, my friend Anne passed the end of May, and when I was in Greece the end of June, my dear friend Dora passed. That was a real shock to all of us and we were devastated. (How Fragile Life Is).

Before I went to Greece, I visited my cousin Shiela who had the stroke last November and it was so sad to see her lying on her back in a care-home bed unable to sit up or stand. She was always an independent woman and loved spending time with her family. It is not likely she will recover.

These are the frailties of life we must all face, but it leaves me so sad to think of these dear friends who have been taken.

None of them will be forgotten!

WHAT IS THIS 'RAPTURE'?

2011-05-22T17:05:00.000-07:00

This, to me is 'rapture': A beautiful Aegean sunset

So the "rapture" has come and gone, largely a non-event other than a couple of rumbles down in California and Iceland and a Icelandic volcano spewing a bit of ash. Along with some of the other natural disasters that have happened recently, this hardly seems too disturbing. What does disturb me though, is that this lunatic so-called "Christian" con artists, Harold Camping, should get away with his fear mongering and the huge scam that caused his gullible followers to sell property, quit jobs, and buy into his idea that on May 21 the world was going to end. This same guy has pulled this stunt off before and once again he got away with it. Meanwhile, I wonder what has become of him and the $70,000,000 he has amassed in his phony 'ministry'. These kinds of nut-cases make a bad name for religion and there are far too many of them, along with the hard-core fundamentalist bigots who claim they are Christians. I think Jesus called guys like Camping 'false prophets' and the others 'whited sepulcures'. And the unfortunate thing is, these types have been around for centuries and still they con the masses with their wild predictions and glean funding from the poor saps in the process.

The River Acheron

One of the big con job of the past centuries was the so-called "Oracle of the Dead", the Necromanteion of Ephyra on the north east coast of Greece. Back in the ancient times pilgrims came here to consult with the dead, bringing along their votive offerings to fill the sanctuary's coffers. One of these was Odysseus who went there to consult with Achilles' spirit.

The Necromanteion (Oracle of the Dead)

I've been to the Necromanteion on a couple of occasions and it's a fun boat trip from the port of Parga up the spooky river Acheron, symbolic of the Styx. There isn't much left of the sanctuary now but you can get an idea of it and how these gullible souls were lead to believe that they were actually going to talk with their beloved departed. Here's the way it worked, the pilgrims came (bearing their gifts -- nothing was free, even in those days). They were placed in windowless cells where they were visited by the priests and fed strange concoctions including beans and psychoactive lupin seeds which caused them to go into a trance. When the priests deemed them ready, they were lead down a stone labyrinth full of hallucinogenic smoke and into a small dark room. From here they descend into the pit of Hades where they would consult with the souls of the departed. It was a very popular sanctuary, one of the largest in Greece. Trouble is, it was phony. The 'souls' were really the priests who already knew what the supplicants meant to ask the dead and knew the right answers. An elaborate scheme that they got away with for literally centuries! When the Romans arrived in 168 BC they discovered the scam and destroyed the place. Later an orthodox church was built in the site.

You would think after what happened to all those poor folks who followed that other nut-case down to Guyana and allowed him to feed them poison that people would wise up to these charlatan so-called

'ministers of the gospel' but it seems that the charade goes on. I wonder if Camping dares to show his face now or if he bit the bullet and found his own private 'rapture'. Mostly I wonder about all those poor suckers that quit their jobs and sold their property. Will they be reimbursed from the massive bank roll of Camping's phony church?

IN MY OPINION...

2011-03-10T11:22:00.000-08:00

There are some things going on in the media these days that made me think back to ancient times. In Greece, one of the popular gods was Dionysos, god of wine, madness and vegetation. He was also god of the theatre. Dionysos has a dual nature: bright and joyous, but also dark, mysterious and deadly. He is the god of wine and therefore should be pleasant and beneficial, but wine has its negative aspects too, making people drunk and behave in strange ways. The Greeks were aware of the dual nature of wine mirrored by the dual natures of this god.

Dionysos is a male god, always surrounded by women, his chief worshippers. His worship involved transvestism and blurring of sex roles. Both men and women worshipped dressed in long robes covered by fawn skins. The women, known as bacchants, left their homes and revelled on mountainsides. Their name (in ancient Greek maenaeds) literally means "raving ones". Through dancing and drunken intoxication they went into a state of ecstatic frenzy, lost all self-control, began to shout excitedly, engaged in uncontrolled sexual behavior and ritualistically hunted down and tore into pieces animals (and in myth, sometimes men and children) devouring the raw flesh.

Death forms a major part in the worship Dionysos. He revels in human sacrifice. It was suggested that every tragic hero who suffers and dies on stage at the Dionysia, a great drama festival in Athens, is in fact Dionysos being killed. It was said that the sacrifice plot was the original plot of the tragedy.

Sadly, we are seeing signs of this mad, erratic behavior relating to people in today's entertainment business. In my opinion, the media has gone too far in their quest to sell news by dwelling too much on the antics of these out-of-control, misbehaving, addictive individuals. These actors/entertainers who make public spectacles of themselves -- using all forms of media to flaunt their unacceptable and crazed behavior to the world -- do not deserve a minute of press time. Anyone who has dealt with people with addictions knows there comes a time when tough love is the only solution. (Firing this actor from his TV show was a step in the right direction, so is laying charges of theft against one who 'borrows' an expensive piece of jewerly and refuses to return it and continually breaks their terms of probation.) If the user (alcoholic or drug addict) continues on their path of self destruction, refuses rehab (or makes a joke of it by checking in and out like they're at a luxury resort), refuses to admit they have a problem, endangers themselves and loved ones (especially their children) by their out-of-control, crazed behavior and refusal to seek proper treatment, they do not deserve the publicity the press is giving them. Yet we continue to condone this negative behavior by listening to their manic tirades, giving them a voice on radio, TV and Internet, and watch with fascinating as they self destruct.

It's time to quit giving all this attention to these sick individuals and focus more on people who are contributing their talents in a positive way. Oh, I know, bad behavior sells newspapers. But have we all resorted back to the days of the ancients, worshipping Dionysos and condoning this madness, following along like the raving maenaeds?

HOW FRAGILE LIFE IS

2011-03-01T22:33:00.000-08:00

There are times when you realize just how fragile life can be. It seems that for the past few months so many dear friends (and relatives) have suddenly been struck down, unexpectedly in many cases, leaving a huge ache in my heart and making me feel so vulnerable.

The first shock was when my dear cousin Shiela in Wales had a stroke last November. This was so unexpected and the tragic part is that she hasn't responded to physio and has been rendered unable to sit or stand. This meant she had to be moved to a care home and will likely never return to her own home which she loved so much and worked so hard to get. At the same time my other distant cousin Joyce, also in Wales, who is quite elderly and in fragile health, also ended up in the hospital in a near death situation. She's recovered enough now to be placed in a home and is doing okay other than some dementia. Shiela turned 80 this month. Joyce is a bit older than that.

Then there was the big shock when our dear friend Dora, who was 83 going on 63 and always the Energizer Bunny, suddenly became ill on a flight home from California after the American Thanksgiving. When she got home she had to check into the hospital with what turned out to be a burst appendix. This woman has never been ill and had no idea that was what she was suffering. Who would imagine having a bust appendix at her age? I can't imagine the pain she went through. The most upsetting of all was when they discovered that the burst appendix was because of a malignant tumor, so they had to do an iliostomy. She has now had to move out of the town to the care of her her daughter's on the Island. Although she is gaining strength it isn't certain if she will recover completely - that will depend on whether all the cancer is gone and she has decided against treatments if it hasn't, resigning herself to her fate.

All this while another close friend who has been suffering from congestive heart failure was admitted to the hospital with pneumonia and kidney failure. We completely expected that Anne, 81, would not survive and were prepared for the worst scenario. Surprisingly she did pull out of it and in fact, I spoke to her today on the phone. She's still in the hospital in very fragile condition and will be going into a home. And in spite of the ordeal is in amazingly good spirits.

Then, last night the biggest shock of all when I got a message about a friend who has been travelling in Peru. I last heard from Lorna on the 24th as she was heading by bus to Chile and planned to visit a friend of mine in Santiago. She's been travelling around the high Andes for some weeks now, having a grand time with many excellent adventures, and in spite of the high altitude was managing to see a lot. The last message was from Lake Titicaca and she was leaving the next day by bus. Well, somewhere along the line she got ill and was taken off the bus to a hospital in Chile (we don't know where) and there she died. We don't know the details but suspect it was altitude sickness. She was only mid 60's and had planned to travel through to Argentina before flying home. Needless to say, we who know her are all in shock.

This has all brought to mind exactly how fragile our lives are. I am a traveller too, and an elder, and although I am in good health, who knows what might happen and when? It is important then, to live the life you want, do the things you want to do, enjoy yourself, the way Lorna was. It was a dream trip for her. How could she know it was her ultimate trip?

I mourn my friend's passing, I worry about my friends who are ill and in care homes. I don't like to imagine it happening to me. But these are the realities of life. Life is very fragile. It is a gift. Live it the best way you can.

THOUGHTS ON THE NEW YEAR

2011-01-07T17:36:00.000-08:00

This is a piece I wrote some time ago about celebrating New Years Eve.

The balloons drop at midnight

ONCE UPON A NEW YEAR’S EVE

December 31, the final day of the Gregorian year and the day before New Years Day, is also called Hogmanay (in Scotland) and Sylvester (in Germany, Israel, Hungary and Poland) In the 21st century western practice, New Years eve is traditionally celebrated with parties and social gatherings. Many countries use fireworks and other forms of noise making to welcome in the new year. Some countries have odd traditions associated with this eve.

In Brazil music shows are held, most famously at the Copacabana Beach in Rio de Janeiro and in Sao Paulo they hold the Saint Sylvester Marathon, contested by athletes from all over the world. The Danes celebrate with family gatherings and feasts. In Ecuador they have elaborate effigies called Anos Viejos (Old Years) created to represent people and events from the past year. These are often stuffed with firecrackers. One popular tradition is the wearing of yellow panties, said to attract positive energy for the new year.

The French celebrate with a feast called Le Reveillon de la Saint-Sylvestre. In Berlin Germany, a huge display of fireworks is ignited at the Brandenburg Gate. There’s also fireworks in Hong Kong and in Japan the Buddhist temple bells are rung 108 times. Mexicans down a grape for each of the 12 chimes of the bell, and people who want to find love in the New Year wear red underwear (yellow for money).

Auckland New Zealand is the first major city to see the beginning of the new year as it’s 496.3 kilometres west of the International Date Line. The Filipinos celebrate with a dinner party called Media Noche; They have a custom of wearing clothes with a circular pattern, like polka dots, to attract money and fortune.

In Spain families celebrate with a special dinner of shrimp, lamb or turkey and also wear red underwear for luck, and eat the 12 grapes synonymous with the new year.

In Turkey homes are lit up and decorated with garlands and public celebrations are held. In Greece, while the adults gamble at card games, the children go around ringing little triangles while they sing “kalendelas” (carols) as this is the night that Agio Nikolaos (Saint Nicholas) comes with gifts for them.

In the U.K. Big Ben strikes the midnight hour as the crowds count down the chimes to the hour. In London the London Eye is the centre of a 10 minute fireworks display illuminated with coloured lasers. In Scotland the traditional song Auld Lang Syne, by Robert Burns, is sung and street parties are held. In the States the Bell Drop at Times square in New York is broadcast through America and Canada.

I have both fond and melancholy memories of New Years Eves. In the old times it was one of the most anticipated holidays next to Christmas. You always had a new outfit to wear which was planned well in advance, something fashionable and spectacular to wear to the celebration which was often held in a night club or at a gala house party. I’ll never forget the year I’d made a gorgeous gold pois de sois two-piece dress. I looked fantastic. But when I arrived at the big party with several other couples, which was held in a big barn-like place on Grandview Highway, I was chagrined to find that another woman in the group was wearing a dress of similar style and material. I was crushed, but of course I had made mine myself so considered it be more ‘original’. I recall one new years eve when I was in my late teens, my girlfriend and I had been invited out by two American sailors to attend a show at the Cave supper club. My girlfriend had a new dress but hadn’t time to hem it so she’d pinned the hem up and all night long the pins scraped her legs until they were bleeding. After the show at the Cave, we tottered over to the Holy Rosary Church for midnight mass. I was in charge of holding the bottle of wine in a brown paper bag under my coat, and I distinctly recall dropping it in the back pew!

Yes, New Years eve was always a night of wild abandon and over-drinking. At clubs or house parties, when it turned midnight, you are supposed to kiss your pattern or date, but all to often I’d find myself alone in a crowd of st4rangers while my boyfriend was off in a corner kissing someone else. I soon grew weary of these episodes. New Years eve began to lose it’s romantic appeal, and instead it became a lonely time, especially once I was single. Eventually I decided I’d rather stay home alone, if necessary, so I’d bring in some goodies: the makings for Welsh rarebit, oysters to fry, a few bottles of McEwan’s ale and a bottle of Heinken Trokel sparkling wine. I’d tell a few people my plan and wait to see who’d show up, and usually a couple of close friends would drop by. One of my most memorable New Years Eves was one I spent all alone enjoying my own company, dancing to my favourite music.

I’ve had New Years Eve’s abroad, far from family and close friends, that were still fun in their uniqueness. One time I remember my room-mate and I heading off to a big hotel for the night and on the way stopped to get a bite to eat at a pizzeria. We walked into a party of rowdy Qantas airlines crew who immediately embraced us and invited us to party with them. That was one of my best times, and it landed me a nice boyfriend for several months, so long as Qantas was flying in and out of town.

New Years Eve with friends at the Dockside

Now I will occasionally make plans to go out, if friends are going along and the price is right. Being with close friends, dancing and dining, is quite satisfying. It’s no longer to me the ‘romantic’ exciting night it used to be, but it’s worth a little celebrating especially if it’s been a good year.

This year I went out with a some friends to enjoy a night of partying at a rather posh restaurant where my son's band was playing. It was a more 'formal' affair but even the sedate older couples loved dancing to the Rhythm and Blues music provided by my son, Steve, and his band. A great time was had by all. I don't think you can beat celebrating the New Years with good friends and family!

Steve Kozak and the West Coast Blues Allstars

HAPPY NEW YEAR, EVERYONE!
BEST WISHES FOR 2011

CHATTY CATHY GIVES IT UP: How a Talking Doll Spoiled a Little Boy's Christmas

2011-01-02T00:28:00.000-08:00

Since my childhood, I've lived half my life in a a fantasy world. Believing in Santa Claus was one of those myths, and one that I regretted having to give up. Christmas was always very special in our house. Mom and Dad played along with the Santa myth to the fullest, and besides the real Christmas celebration of Jesus' birth, there was plenty of fun, pageants, carolling, sleigh-rides, visits to view the Christmas lights and, best of all, the yearly visit to see dear old Santa Claus.

One of the best Christmases ever was the one when all the cousins came to stay. We were living at my Grandparent's house then, Mom, my sister and I, while Dad served overseas. Every Christmas at my Grandparent's house was full of fun. The Aunts and Uncles and cousins from various parts of Ontario came and the house was full of laughter and good cheer.

That particular Christmas, because of the crowd, my cousins and I were allowed to sleep in the sun porch room. As usual, we stayed up late, played monopoly, crochinole, and Chinese checkers, drank glasses of sparkling ginger-ale (our tee totalling family's 'champagne'), ate lots of delicious goodies that Mom and Grandma had baked, sang carols, told stories, and finally were tucked into bed.

Sometime after midnight, we heard a sound on the roof. Jingling bells. A loud 'Ho! Ho! Ho!" Unmistakable footsteps. It was Santa Claus! He was up on the sun porch roof getting ready to come down our chimney to deliver toys! None of us dared make a sound, and ducked under the covers pretending to be asleep. Sure enough, the next morning there were lots of toys under the tree. Santa had really come, and we had heard him! I could hardly wait for school to resume so I could tell my friends.

The first day back after the holidays, I was bursting with excitement as I entered my class. "Santa Claus came to our house. We heard him on the roof!" I announced to my classmates.
"What?" scoffed an older boy. "Don't you know that Santa is a fake? He's just pretend. You couldn't possibly have heard him!"
I was crushed! I went home for lunch that day in tears. "A boy in my class says Santa isn't real!" I sobbed.
Mom was sympathetic. The disclosure had spoiled some of her Christmas fun too. But she admitted to me that Santa really was just a myth.
"But I heard him on the roof!" I insisted.
"That was just your Uncle Frank pretending to be Santa Claus," Mom explained.

For me, it was one of my biggest disappointments. I was ten years old, and my fantasy world was shattered forever. I've never forgotten it.

Many years later, when I was married and had my own children, I always tried to make Christmas the same kind of magical, exciting time my parents had made it for me. We decorated the tree, had parties, went to visit Santa and took part in all the Christmas festivities in our community. The year my son turned six and my daughter was just about to turn two, the Christmas fantasy got spoiled again.

This is how it happened: That was the year Mattel put out a new kind of doll. One that talked. Her name was Chatty Cathy, a blonde little cherub with a saucy face. When you pulled the ring in her back, she spouted various lines of dialogue such as "Hello, I'm Chatty Cathy. What's your name?"
I couldn't resist buying one for my daughter.

On Christmas Eve night, after the children had been tucked into bed, and my husband and I had waited to make sure they were asleep, we started to put out the toys from Santa under the tree. This ritual also involved eating the cookies and Christmas cake the children had put on a decorated plate and drinking the beer that would help refresh Santa on his journey. After this was done, we took the carefully hidden packages out of the closet and began setting them up: the usual GI-Joe toys and cowboy regalia for my son, the little girl trinkets for my daughter. And Chatty Cathy. I couldn't resist pulling the ring to hear her talk. She was so cute! I knew my daughter would be thrilled with her. Chatty Cathy and I chatted for awhile, then I put her in her special place under the Christmas tree.

The next day, after all the excitement of finding what Santa had left under the tree, opening presents and trying things out was over, I noticed that my son was unusually quiet. I wondered if he was disappointed with his gifts. No, it wasn't that. Very quietly, so as not to spoil things for his little sister, he said: "I know that Santa didn't really bring Chatty Cathy, Mom, because I heard you talking while you were playing with her." I felt so bad! Chatty Cathy had given away the secret of Santa Claus and spoiled the Christmas surprise for my son, just as long ago my class-mate had spoiled Christmas for me by telling me Santa wasn't real. After that, Christmas wasn't quite the same for my son, although we always tried to make it just as much fun. He was a good sport, and went along with the myth of Santa Claus for his little sister's sake.

HOW THE NAZIS HELPED SANTA CLAUS

2010-12-21T23:05:00.000-08:00

I was nine years old when my Dad was called up to be a Chaplain in the Canadian Army during World War II. Before that he was a circuit preacher on the Canadian Prairies, and he had been in the army reserve. But when the War was raging and all the available men had to go overseas, he went too.

Almost everyone at school those days had a dad, grandpa, uncle or older brother off in the war, and quite often the word would go around that someone’s relative was killed or missing in action.

Everything was rationed during the war years. I remember going to the store with ration coupons for dairy products. But my younger sister and I didn’t suffer or want for anything. We had our Mom and our grandparents, and every holiday season the relatives came to Grandpa’s house for get-togethers. There was a lot of love in our house, making up for the absence of my father.

When the War finally ended, the first newsreels were released about the horrible atrocities of the Nazi death camps. I was deeply touched by the films of the war and I’ve never forgotten those images of the Holocaust victims.

My Dad had sent many letters and gifts from overseas. We received books from England, Dutch dolls and wooden shoes from Holland. And when Dad finally returned home, he brought an antique German clock which had been wrapped up in an enormous Nazi flag and hidden at the place in Antwerp, Holland, where the armistice was signed. Dad said the soldiers of his hospital unit had brought it to him.

Inside the clock was a treasure-trove of antique jewellery, which he gave my mother. The clock was hung on the wall. The Nazi flag was wrapped up and packed away in Dad’s war box along with his photos of bombed buildings and army camps and letters from the families of the dead and wounded soldiers he had tended while he was the army hospital chaplain.

The year after my Dad returned from the war, our family moved to the West Coast of Canada where he would be pastor of a Baptist church. That Christmas was our first Christmas together in a new home. At the church where Dad was the new pastor, there was to be a Christmas concert. My parents enjoyed organizing concerts and pageants. Mom was a clever seamstress and loved making costumes, and Dad always made sure the Church was beautifully decorated with pine and cedar boughs and lots of Christmas candles. There would be a creche and a candlelight processional in the church Christmas Sunday and a pageant with shepherds, Wise men, angels and the Holy Family. We used the life-like little doll named Peter that Dad had sent my sister from Belgium for the Baby Jesus in the creche.

At the Sunday school concert, Dad would perform his amusing rendition of “When Father Papered the Parlour” and there would be a visit from Santa Claus for the little ones. But there was one big problem. Nobody had a Santa Claus suit.

So Dad unpacked his box of war souvenirs and got out the big Nazi flag, the flag that symbolized everything evil. Mom remarked how lovely and thick the red wool fabric was. And there was so much of it!

“Why not?” Mom asked.

“What a splendid idea,” Dad agreed.

Mom went to work designing, cutting and sewing and by the night of the Christmas concert, she had created a perfect Santa Claus suit out of the flag. Even though the war was over, and the bad things the Nazis had done would always be remembered, the flag had been put to good use.

The red woollen Santa suit made out of a Nazi flag made that Christmas extra special. In fact, the Sunday school Santa at the Grandview Baptist Church’s Christmas concert wore that Santa suit for many years afterwards.

PLAYING AROUND AT CHRISTMAS

2010-12-20T22:23:00.000-08:00

A Family Christmas, 1957

We always played games at our house on Christmas eve and at other times during the holidays when the family gathered. I have warm memories of us sitting around a crokinole board, flicking the round wooden discs with a forefinger as I attempted to get it into the winning zone or, better still, into the center hole. Those big wooden hexagonal-shaped boards were as much a part of Christmas as the tree and presents. We also played Chinese checkers and Snakes and Ladders. Having an aversion to snakes, it troubled me to sit in front of that board and have to slide my game chip down their slithery backs. I’d much rather climb the ladders.

Some years later we advanced to some new games: Monopoly, where you played with pretend money and bought and sold property; and Clue, a detective game where you got to solve a murder. (Always the wanna-be-crime writer, I loved that game!). Later it was Scrabble that was a popular game and one I still enjoy.

One year, when I was married and my husband was doing work for a businessman in Chinatown, we were invited to join the family for the Chinese New Years. The place where they lived and where Jimmy Lee, the owner had his watch-repair shop, happened to be listed in the Guinness Book as the narrowest occupied building in the world. And it was narrow. I remember being amazed when we were invited into the Lee’s living room and it was barely wide enough for a couch. Then I had a great surprise when we went ‘downstairs’ where the party was to be held, and discovered that the rec room was right under Pender Street. Who would ever guess? I wondered if it was at one time one of the secret rooms that led into the mysterious Chinatown underground.

There were a number of tables set up in Jimmy’s ‘rec room’ and on each was a board with coloured tiles and a bottle of very expensive whiskey. The players sat around on the four sides of each table and one shuffled through the tiles. This was mah-jong. I was fascinated! The sound of the tiles clicking was a familiar one but until that moment I didn’t realize that when I walked through Chinatown and heard the sound it was a mah-jong game being played in some back room. It’s one of the popular Chinese gambling games and they always play it on their new years eve.

A lot of money went back and forth on those tables and many bottles of expensive whiskey were consumed. I watched in rapt silence as the players gambled, won or lost. I wished I knew how to play and for a long time afterwards wanted to buy a mah-jong board and get someone to teach me. But gambling had never been allowed in my home. Not even a game of gin rummy.

Eventually, I learned how to play poker and on some Christmases my husband and I would invite friends over for friendly games of Rummoli, with a deck of cards, a stack of poker chips. The stakes weren’t too high as we always played for pennies. No bottles of expensive whiskey either, just cases of beer and chips with dip for refreshments.

I’ve never forgotten those Christmas eves of playing games with the family and every time I go by a toy store where they sell games, I think of buying a monopoly game or a scrabble game to play. Instead when I have the family over for Christmas Eve dinner we get into playing “Spot the hand!” scoring point whenever the hand in the video version of the fireplace comes out to place a new log on the TV fire. But now I have a gas fireplace and even that game has ended. Must find a new form of entertainment for this year: Video Games anyone?

HEY, MISS TAMBOURINE GIRL PLAY THAT SONG FOR ME!

2010-12-13T22:53:00.000-08:00

Before she married Dad, my mother was a nurse in a Salvation Army hospital. She played the tambourine in the Salvation Army band.

Perhaps that’s what inspired her that Christmas when I was four years old, to teach me to play the tambourine. We were living in Lloyminster Saskachewan where my Dad was the pastor of a Baptist church. Because it was then a small railroad community, all the local churches went together at Christmas to produce a Christmas concert. That year, Mom decided she would dress me up in her Salvation Army bonnet and show me how to play the tambourine. She also taught me a verse to recite for the concert. It was to be my debut on stage.

I don’t remember my exact role in this Christmas pageant, or what other children would perform. I do remember, very clearly, being coaxed onto a stage in front of what seemed like an audience of hundreds of strangers (probably just twenty or thirty.) I was absolutely terrified.

I stood there, dressed in mom’s oversized S.A. bonnet, my hair coiled in Shirley Temple ringlets (a procedure done the night before by Mom, each hank of hair wrapped carefully in rags). I was probably wearing one of the lovely hand-smocked dresses Mom made me, and those horrid brown ribbed tights (because it was a freezing Prairie winter day). I was carrying a large, jangling tambourine - the same tambourine Mom used to play with the S.A. band.

As I stepped (or was gently pushed) onto the stage, I heard a long, audible gasp from the audience.

“Ah...” and “Oh...”

Bewildered, I stared down at that vast sea of faces, frozen with stage fright. Someone from the wings prompted me, or possibly it was Mom herself coaxing me to perform.

I gave the tambourine a few tentative shakes and sputtered out my lines. “I will shake my tambourine for the Lord.”

To this day I remember those exact words and how I felt at that moment. Mortified and scared stiff!

A titter from the audience; another loud chorous of : “Ah...” And, whispered audibly behind hands. “Isn’t she cute...”

I could have died on the spot of embarrassment. Instantly I burst into tears and ran off the stage into my Mom’s arms.

Segue ahead four years. I’m eight years old and it’s Christmas Concert time at school. By now we are living in Brantford, Ontario.

I suppose because of my ‘experience’ I am chosen to play the tambourine in the class rhythm band for the Christmas concert.

We are dressed in red pill-box hats and capes and paraded onto the stage.

In the photograph taken of this performance, I am crowded, tiny and shy, in behind the bigger kids. I am not smiling. I probably had stage fright. I do not look happy to be playing the tambourine. Possibly I had hoped to be a drummer or triangle player.

Why then, did my career as tambourine player follow me all the way into my adult life?

Segue again, many years into the future, the 1970’s. I am living in a communal house with my kids and a renegade band of hippies. There is always music in our house. My son, age 14, has become an ardent guitarist. There are always musical instruments at our communal gatherings, including a tambourine.

Inspired by the beat of the music, one day I picked the tambourine up and began to tap and shake it to the rhythm of the rock beat. The tambourine player in me was resurrected. From then on, I practiced and always played the tambourine at parties.

Eventually, one Saturday afternoon at the jam session at the American Hotel, I got brave enough to get on stage with the band and play. I was good, so good in fact there was one particular drummer who would always request me to accompany him.

By now, my son was an accomplished Blues musician. He said he was going to play at the American Hotel jam session.

“I play the tambourine there on Saturdays,” I announced.

He looked at me aghast.

“You mean you get up on the stage and play the tambourine?

“Yes!” I said proudly. “And I’m good at it too!”

“But you’re my Mom!” he sputtered.

I don’t think he knew it was my Mom who had taught me how to play

the tambourine in the first place, at that Christmas concert so long ago.

CHRISTMAS ON A SHOESTRING

2010-12-13T01:16:00.000-08:00

Steve, Alex and one of our little Yorkies

Here it is, that Jolly Old Season again and true to tradition my bank account is running on empty and I haven’t even started shopping yet. It’s just a fact of life that happens when one lives on an extremely low-income budget. Somehow, things always work out alright though. I’ve had lots of experience organizing gala Christmas celebrations on a shoestring.
I recall those “hard times” back in the ’70’s when I was a divorced single mom struggling to support two kids on a miniscule salary as a daycare teacher. My boyfriend and I decided to cut the costs by moving into a big house which we shared with a variety of other equally poor lodgers and assorted dogs and cats.

My boyfriend was on the lam from the American army as this was during the Viet Nam war so any work he had was under-the-table at a car wash. The other lodgers were young college students, and an occasional deserter or wayward hippie that took shelter with us.

We never turned anyone away and each guest or tenant, no matter how impoverished, would participate by helping with cooking, sharing expenses and whatever. We all learned how to make do with very little and we were a happy, carefree gang.

The first year we moved in, with our very sparse budget, we were still determined to make the best of it for the Christmas season. After all, it isn’t Christmas without parties, decorations and presents. So all of us got together and cut out coloured tissue paper snowflakes to decorate the windows. We hung lights and somehow managed to get a Christmas tree which we decorated with traditional balls and tinsel as well as strings of popcorn. But what to do for presents?

It happened that I had a lot of material goods brought from my past life, so I sorted through the china tea-cups, jewellery and other items that I had stored away, carefully picking just the right gift for each of my friends. The girls in the house baked Christmas goodies and the old house was full of the delicious, familiar smells of the holidays. The whole motley crew enjoyed a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. It was a special Christmas because it wasn’t in the least bit ‘commercial’. Everything we had made or chosen from our own belongings to give away. It gave Christmas a new, special meaning.

There were a few other Christmases on a shoestring too, during those years. Once I remember us having a box of odds and ends: ribbons, tinsel, shiny paper, glue, sparkles and various artsy craftsy thing and each guest who came visiting had to make a decoration for the Christmas tree. One year my daughter and I made gingerbread houses for all our friends. Another time we had a Christmas cookie contest and decorated sugar cookies cut in various festive shapes which we hung on the Christmas tree. The ornamental cookies were so pretty we decided to keep them for the next year. But alas! The following Christmas when I opened the box up, the mice had eaten all the cookie ornaments!

I recall as a kid, my Mom used to make whole wardrobes for our Christmas dolls, and sew all our holiday clothes too. My parents didn’t have a lot of money and in those days there were no credit cards but there were always plenty of gifts under the tree, and lots of goodies to eat. Christmas was a jolly time spent with family and friends. I guess those early days taught me how to have Christmas on a shoestring and in a way, those Christmases are the most memorable

* * *

CHRISTMAS AT GRANDPA'S

2010-12-12T11:49:00.000-08:00

Grandpa's House in Stratford Ontario. That's our dog Dutchess out in front.

Christmas in the ’40’s was a time when all the relatives came to celebrate at Grandpa’s house. We trooped to the train station and waited on the wooden platform, our breaths puffing like the steam from the locomotive engine. Travelers spilled out onto the platform. Happy greetings filled the air as family members embraced and made their way down the snowy streets.

At Grandpa’s house we crowded around the Christmas tree, the crackling of the flames in the hearth sounding like pop-corn. We played games and Uncle Frank performed a comical rendition of “Herbert Burped”, about a little boy who gets swallowed by a lion. Then we children were tucked snugly into bed to await Santa’s arrival.

One Christmas stands out in my memory, the year I bought the most memorable Christmas presents. I felt very grown up as I went off to Woolworths to find some unique gifts.

Then I saw it. A Chinese dragon on a bamboo stick, the head made of painted clay, with a red felt tongue, the body accordion-pleated tissue paper. When you waved the stick, the body expanded and the head shot out,

tongue flickering, like a real fire-breathing dragon.

I felt proud as I showed Mom my extraordinary purchases, but she scolded me for ‘wasting’ money on something so impractical.

Christmas morning I waited nervously as the presents were opened. Instead of thinking my gifts were foolish, everyone was delighted, especially Uncle Frank. He played with his dragon all day. Uncle Frank always was the life of the party!

DON'T MESS WITH MY CHRISTMAS!

2010-11-27T18:46:00.000-08:00

It's almost December and already the Christmas music is playing in stores and the decorations are decking the halls. A lot of the usual commercial hype. But aside from that, it is a time to be jolly and think of what we'll do for the holidays. I haven't started Christmas shopping yet but I'm thinking about it. Probably this Christmas I'll do my traditional Christmas Eve Cornish hen dinner. Christmas has always been a special time for me and my family. It's my most favorite times of year. I love the Christmas traditions: the carols, the Christmas trees and decorations, the pagents and pantomimes, and I love Santa Claus too. Today, when I visited the mall, I stopped to watch Santa for awhile. There was a long line of children waiting to get their photos taken with him but at that moment he was sitting alone on his throne, a big jolly old elf just like Santa should be. And he even waved at me! (He must know I haven't been too naughty this year!)

Last week I saw on TV that one of our nearby towns has banned "Christmas holidays" from their school program. It now has to be called "Winter holidays". This isn't the first time that Christmas has been hijacked and erased from the week we know as Christmas Holidays, (from December 24 thru to New Years Day). In fact, in the last few years I've noticed more and more often the use of "Happy Holidays" replacing "Merry Christmas". Why? Because a certain group of our society feels that it is 'offensive' to other religious groups to refer to December 25 as "Christmas".

This political correctness crap has gone way too far. Sure, when 'political correctness' first came into being, it was meant to protect genders, cultures, religious rights, sexual preferences etc etc. But this is going too far. DON'T MESS WITH MY CHRISTMAS!

What would happen if we told the Jewish community they were no longer allowed to call their special holiday "Hanukkah"? or if we said the Muslims couldn't refer to "Ramadan" or the Hindus were not allowed to celebrate Diwali? Even the Wikken people celebrate Winter Solstice. Is it right then, that the Christian community (Protestants and Catholics among others) should have to drop "Christmas" from our holiday? I don't think so.

December 25 is Christmas. It's been called that for centuries. Should we obliterate it all and go back to the pagan Saturnalia of the Romans? Would that make all these 'politically correct' people happy?
In that case though, I suppose we'd have to abolish Santa Claus too. And I, for one, would be very unhappy about that!

REMEMBERING

2010-11-10T17:26:00.000-08:00

Rev. Capt. R. Frederick Filer M.B.E.

This morning in my Write from the Heart memoir writing group, they were asked to write something from the prompt "I Remember..." Because tomorrow is November 11, a time to remember the men and women who fought in the wars past and present, several people remembered back to these times in their childhoods. At this time of year, I always think of my Dad, who was a chaplain in the army during WW II. This is what I wrote:

I remember the day my Dad came home from The War. We were living at grandpa's house on Cobourg Street in Stratford Ontario where my mother, sister and I had stayed all the time dad was overseas. My grandma had died not long before the war ended. The War was a big part of our lives. Every kid in school had at least one family member: father, uncle, grandpa or brother, fighting overseas. Almost on a daily basis someone in the school would learn their loved one had been wounded or killed. I was lucky. My dad was coming home from The War.

During the four years he was overseas, every night we'd sit at the table in grandma's kitchen and listen to the BBC news on the radio. I still remember that static, far-away sound of the news-caster's voice. On the wall by the table was a big map, and we'd stick pins in it to show us where The Action was. There was a special pin marking the place were Dad was serving as a chaplain in the #10 army field hospital in Holland.

I thought of my dad often during those years when he was away. I remember going to Kingston with my mom and sister just before he was shipped overseas, and his last visit to Stratford when we went as a family for a portrait, dad looking so handsome in his arm uniform wearing his captain's hat and clerical collar. I was about 9 then and my dad was very special to me. I remember, going back to my early childhood living on the prairies, walking with my dad down country roads or visiting farm houses where he knew people from his congregation. I have a picture of myself, age 3, with dad holding me up to sit on a fence so I could pet the sheep. I remember my dad working in his garden, and preaching on Sundays, and telling me stories about his life when he was a boy in Wales, and later working in the coal mines in Caerphilly from when he was 14 to when he immigrated to Canada and met my mom. I had missed my dad so much, and when he was going to arrive home at last, I was more excited than at any other time.

And then, he came home. But it wasn't the same dad I remembered. He was a different dad, still handsome in his officer's uniform, a bit thinner and perhaps more careworn. But he was a stranger. I remember running to my room, sobbing uncontrollably, partly from happiness and relief at having him back again, but also for reasons unknown to me then. I didn't realize til years later just why I had cried. Now I understand it was that he was 'different' because of all he had seen and lived through. I remember later reading through piles of letters he had saved sent to him by parents and loved ones of young men he had buried or who had been wounded. My dad's job as chaplain had been to comfort the dead and dying and their families. He had lived through terrifying and devastating experiences. Once, he told us, a buzz bomb had stopped buzzing right over the hospital. He had thrown himself to the floor and prayed. And thankfully, the bomb exploded somewhere farther away. All these experiences had 'changed' my dad. But really, deep down he was still the same dad I had known before The War, full of compassion and love and gentleness. He won the MBE for his honorable service at the army hospital. And he won the respect and love of everyone he met.

So on this Remembrance Day I still think of that day so many years ago when he returned from the war, that 'stranger', but still he was my Dad. And I think of all the children in the world who are waiting for their Dads to come home from The War, and pray they get back home safely.

WHAT A GREAT PARTY!

2010-03-05T14:32:00.000-08:00

The party's over. The 2010 Winter Olympics has ended. And what a party it was! I don't remember ever seeing such a jubilant crowd of people day after day as I witnessed here. It even surpassed New Orlean's Mardis Gras.

But now it's over, what a let-down feeling. The feeling was immediate. By Monday morning, after that nail-biting golden goal hockey game between US and Canada (we won! Go Canada!) the streets flooded with thousands of people celebrating way into the night. And Monday morning on the bus, all was quiet, drab, dour. No more red and white toques, mittens, hockey jerkins. No more Canadian flags (and others) fluttering. No more happy smiling face. It was like waking from an unbelievable dream.

I lived one of my dreams during those two weeks, being the Roving Reporter for the Planet Eye Traveler, writing a couple of stories a day for their city guide and the Vancouver Guide. You can see them here
www.planeteyetraveler.com/travel/north-america/vancouver

I managed to get to most of the live free venues and was treated to a night at the medal awards and also got a media pass to an aboriginal fashion show and reception, thanks to a good friend. And although it was sometimes exhausting it was also very exciting and I am so glad I got involved. Because in the beginning I was one of the nay-sayers about the Olympics: all that tremendous expense when other things like low-cost housing for our street poor, the Arts, daycare and other things were being cut. I even planned to 'escape' with my friends to Cuba during the Games. But, as luck would have it, I had to stay behind and thus got invovled in the whole celebration. Being the Roving Reporter gave me a focus each time I went out and made it all the more fun. I even got to hold the Olympic torch on one of my excursions!

Now things have calmed down. All the visitors have left town. The atheletes too, with their medals. (We won 14 gold, the most any country has collected at the Winter Games.) There were highs and lows, tragedies and disappointments, but most o all there was this incredible spirit of patriotism. For once the Canadians were not reluctant to shout out their praise of Canada. The Games made everyone proud!

"BUT HE'S A GOOD BOY!"

2010-01-16T23:18:00.000-08:00

Recently another dangerous criminal went to roost thanks to the US justice system. We'll call him cocky Rooster, a big-time local gangster involved in the cross-border drug trade and implicated (though not charged) in several gang-relate murders as well as being the alleged leader of one of the biggest criminal gangs in the Lower Mainland.

No sooner had the sentence been decreed than this lout's father is proclaiming loudly to the press "I'm proud of my son because he didn't roll over!"
What kind of a father can possibly be 'proud' of a son who has made his money and his mark on society by dealing in death and drugs?

It makes you wonder what this world is coming to -- what kinds of moral and ethical values parents are teaching their children.

This man and the woman I wrote about in a previous blog are not alone either. Another local dad who's son (the second in a month) has been arrested on gang-related drug charges says only that "they are adults so you do what you do." But what where you doing when they were young and impressionable? One of this guy's sons has already been gunned down (survived) and he claimed at the time he 'wasn't a serious contender'. You've got to be kidding!

Drug and gang-related homicides were up 20% in the Lower Mainland in 2009 and these thugs were all a part of that action. Even young women are falling into the trap and becoming victims.

What kind of an example are parents setting when they knowingly allow their gangster off-spring to operate out of their own homes. "Oh yes, he's a good boy! He drives a Lexus, has a huge bank account, wears a bullet proof vest, illegal weapons on the premises and he deals drugs." Give your heads a shake, folks! These are bad boys! And by offering up excuses for them you are condoning their criminal behavior.

CRYING THE BLUES

2009-11-15T12:05:00.000-08:00

It's been ages since I blogged here, and even longer since I got on my soap-box to rant about something. Quite awhile back I was posting stories about the infamous Pig Farmer who is now in prison (and appealing, of course!) for the murder of countless women.

Having grown up wanting to be a Crime Reporter (that was during my apprenticeship days working in the Vancouver Sun newsroom) I guess I've always had an interest in criminals and their stories. And lately, in our papers and newscasts, there are a number of stories that have given me cause to want to rant and rave. That is, the stories emerging about this infamous gang of brothers who I will simply refer to as The Breakfast Boys, because their last name is really a breakfast food. (Funny thing how this all ties in somehow with "pigs" aka the famous Pig Farmer case.)

These young thugs are either in prison or awaiting trial for numerous gang killings, drug busts, illegal weapons charges and countless other criminal activities. They live at home with their apparantly adoring parents. And recently there was a sob story in the news about how the mother was so protective of her boys, insisiting they should wear bullet proof vests, because the police might shoot them. (These bullet proof vests, by the way, are very expensive items, along with the bullet proof vehicle the Breakfast Boys had on order. Just in case some other rival gang members or the police might happen to shoot at them.) I have to wonder what kind of parents these are who have obviously condoned the illegal and murderous behavior of their three darling sons. I mean, really! wouldn't it be enough to have one renegade criminal kid in your house (which, if they didn't shape up I'm sure most parents would show out the door), but three of them is a bit unbelievable and especially since the parents are obviously living off some of the avails of their crimes. ("My kid doesn't have a job but he drives an expensive car, has weapons hidden around the place, wears a bullet proof vest and has on order an armoured vehicle that only security and police are suppose to have." Give your head a shake, lady! These are not your innocent angels. These guys are killers and drug dealers.)

I guess all of this make one be grateful that their own son (or sons) are decent, hard working, honest, kind and talented human beings who really make a mother feel proud. I simply can't imagine what has been going on in the Breakfast Boy's mother's head -- or their father too, who, I have heard, is a school teacher. (Or was!) He hasn't appear in court so far so there's no telling what story he'll come up with to 'protect' these thugs. But lately the paper is full of sob stories about the one brother who is in solitary confinement in prison because (boohoo!) he can't see his TV from his bed, among other whines and gripes he has. Stay tuned for more of this incredible saga. And kudos to the mother of one of their innocent victims for initiating a law suit against them for the murder of her young son. She is one brave lady, who lost a son who was truly worthy of honor and respect, to these goons and their criminalf friends.

A WEEKEND OF BLUES & JAZZ

2009-08-10T23:35:00.000-07:00

ENJOYING THE SHOW
At Maple Ridge

On Saturday, August 8, I was lucky enough to get a free pass into the Maple Ridge Blues & Jazz show where my son Steve's band The West Coast Blues Revue was playing. What a treat to enjoy such excellent music all day long, on a day that wasn't too hot (cloudy but no rain!) with good friends.

STEVE KOZAK AND THE WESTCOAST BLUES REVUE
Playing at the Maple Ridge Blues/Jazz Festival

There were several talented groups performing, among them my son's band. I went along with Connie who is a harmonica (harp) player and we had a great time chatting and listening and dancing. Truly a memorable time.

Then I was equally fortunate to be offered tickets the next day to the Burnaby Blues and Roots Festival. My son was very generous to give me tickets that had been designated to band members who weren't able to attend. It was the first I'd been to this huge festival, held at Deer Lake Park in Burnaby B.C. And the biggest thrill was being able to see the fabulous Smokey Robinson perform.

Unfortunately I didn't mosey down to the stage like I did at Maple Ridge so I didn't get very good photos (Steve did! He was right there!) But still it was excellent to watch Smokey perform, a real Vegas type show, very dynamic and with the sweetest, most angelic singing voice.

So that was quite a weekend -- filled with music, fun and friends. What a great way to top off the summer!

SMOKEY ROBINSON AT THE BURNABY BLUES/ROOTS FESTIVAL

THE SURPRISE BIRTHDAY PARTY!

2009-05-20T20:45:00.000-07:00

Last Sunday my friend Cheryl invited me out for dinner to the Greek taverna near my place. We often go there as we have known Stan, the owner, and his wife for quite a few years. Cheryl came in the late afternoon and we hung out awhile, then mosied over to the taverna. When we arrived, and I walked in, what a surprise!
There were all my friends, and not only that, my daughter Alex was there. She and her partner had come all the way from Salmon Arm. I was speechless.

It was an early birthday party for me as I will be away in Greece at the time of my birthday in June. And this one is a Big One so very special. But I had no idea at all. Even my LQ friends were there and I'd seen them last Friday but nobody let on. My son and his wife, too, and I'd spent Saturday afternoon with them. They all had kept the secret very well.

We had an excellent Greek meal (I had arni - lamb) and of course there was a delicious birthday cake. Then I was presented with a beautiful bouquet of white roses. I felt like a bride! There were gifts of cards and money in a 'treasure box' and other gifts too. One is a plaque that says "IT'S NOT THE YEARS IN YOUR LIFE, BUT THE LIFE IN YOUR YEARS." How appropriate!

I can't thank my friend Cheryl enough for planning and plotting this fantastic event. I think it's the first time in my life I've had a surprise party and it was truly unforgettable. And I also can't thank my friends and family enough for their generosity. Thanks to them, my vacation will be even grander!

MY FAMILY

STANDING STILL

2009-05-03T11:48:00.000-07:00

I haven't budged with my weight for weeks. I was a bit off my diet program for a couple of them, but found I am (as always) just standing still. One pound up, one pound down. And although I have been exactly following "the plan" I have been getting lots more exercise. So all this is rather discouraging.

It's a busy time for me with classes, lots of writing to catch up with, and trip plans. In just three weeks my sister, niece and I will be embarking on our big adventure, first to London, then Caerphilly Wales for a family reunion, and on June 1 we fly to Athens to celebrating my Big Birthday. I'll be on the road for a month but will try to post at least one or two blogs while I'm away. And maybe all that Greek sunshine and hiking around will help to move me a big forward toward losing some of this mass of body fat that seems to be stuck around my middle!

ONE STEP FORWARD, ONE STEP BACK.

2009-04-19T14:54:00.000-07:00

It's been a couple of weeks since I posted the updates. That's because I got a little off track for one week (too many social events, partying and I tried some different recipes that weren't part of the usual menu). Then my computer blew so I couldn't post. Anyway, there's not much progress to report. I decided to get back on the proper menu this week and step up the exercise now that the weather is improved. I can only get to my waterfit once a week (well, I'm going to try for two but my schedule is pretty busy) however I can walk more now that it's Spring time in the city. I'm heading off for a Sunday walk as soon as I finish this post from the local web cafe.

My holidays are coming up in just over a month and I really want to look better in that swim-suit i just got. So that's a good incentive to get back on track again. My son has been following the same program and he's looking mighty good these days. Says he hasn't lost that many pounds, but he's lost a lot of inches which looks good on him! So maybe there's hope for me as well.

THE GI DIET WEEK #9: SLOW GOING...

2009-03-22T20:24:00.000-07:00

Here I am checking out David's thigh. He's in pretty good shape. Must be all that time he spends in the gymnasium! As for me, I think the reason things are going slower than I'd hoped is that I am not getting the amount of aerobic and floor exercises that I need to tone up. My weight hasn't budged again, although last week's measurements showed I'd lost a bit off my bust and hips (none off the middle which is my major problem area.

So I will try and increase the exercises now the weather seems better. Today I went out for an hours' walk. And I am able to get back to my old waterfit group for the next two weeks, which I find is a much more strenuous workout than the new place I was attending. (And besides, there's not a lot of Asian ladies talking the whole time which I find distracting.) At the Brit pool there are singing Italian mermaids instead.

I will try to make time to get to the gym now that my morning classes are finished for the Spring break. It means taking 2 buses but if the weather is OK I don't mind that too much. It's standing around bus stops in the pouring rain and icy cold that has deterred me this winter.

Now it's Springtime and surely the weather will warm up so we don't have to bundle up in heavy coats every time we go out, which I find makes taking brisk walks a little more difficult

I was away for the weekend and made a few slips on the food plan -- nothing too serious til last night when I went out dancing (good exercise!) and drank red wine which isn't exactly on the program at this point in time. But it's my one little 'sinful' cheat and doesn't happen every day. However, I'm going to have to be more diligent because soon it will be bathing suit time (I need to get a new one) and I don't want to look like an over-stuffed sausage on the beach. A voluptuous mermaid, perhaps. But not a sausage!

I've followed all GI recipes the last two weeks and found them to be tasty and satisfying. So now it's grocery shopping time again and I will sit down tonight and plan my next week's menus. Generally I use either the GI recipes or some from Weight Watchers and South Beach Diets, both of which fit in the scheme of things.

DANCING AWAY SOME POUNDS. WEEK 8, GI DIET PLAN

2009-03-09T23:46:00.000-07:00

LES GIRLS DANCING ON NEW YEARS EVE

A small victory today when I weighed myself and found I'd actually gone down a pound. Not much, but after the plateau I've been on which I'd found so discouraging, this was a good sign. I think perhaps the stepped-up exercise program is helping. Not that I'm doing as much as I should. But I've manaed a couple of longer walks, got to waterfit today, and I have a plan in place to help me get back into the old exercise routines that I used to be so faithful at doing.

One thing I love to do is dance, so I try to go dancing on the weekend. I like salsa dancing a lot but we also go to hear my son's Blues band and then we dance rock 'n roll. I also like waterfit and swimming and although I haven't been that fond of the new pool I've been going to, it has helped. But now that pool is closed for Spring cleanup and I will go back to Britannia which I like much better (even though it's farther away and takes me 2 buses to reach there). I looked at their Spring recreation program and discovered a couple of fitness and yoga classes that suit my schedule. So I plan to try and enroll in them when they start up. And once the weather clears I'll get the bike out and do more of the Jenny Craig fitness walks that I used to lve doing.

Meanwhile, I am following the GI recipes in the book and really enjoying them. This week I made the hamburgers (on 1 side of a bun only and cole slaw on the side) and the meat loaf, which was absolutely delicious. No need to deprive oneself and starve on this program. And my fridge is full of good things to make gourmet meals, so I will, as usual, sit down and make my week's menu up and from there will choose each day what I want to eat. Most of the recipes are for 4 servings so I put the extras in the freezer and have ready-made TV dinners when I don't have time to cook.

I'm hoping for more weight loss this coming week. It seems much slower to lose on this than when I was following Weight Watchers so I am thinking of counting the points as well, just to make sure I'm not eating too much, although I've been pretty careful and trying hard to stay away from the RED things. They do seem to creep in though. Sneaky!

STEVE PLAYING BLUES GUITAR AND SUE DANCING

STARTING WEEK#7 ON A LOW NOTE

2009-03-03T21:47:00.000-08:00

ME , AT THE STARTING LINE FOR FOOT RACES, OLYMPIA GREECE

It's week #7 of the GI diet and I had felt sure I'd lost more weight. What a disappointment when I weighed in at the pool yesterday and the scale had not budged. In fact it may have gone up a fraction or two. I've been tracking my food, marking in red any time I went out of the green zone and tried real hard not to do that. But still no results.

About the only thing I can think of doing is upping the exercise regime. I know i'm not getting nearly enough and not half as much I used to do before the winter laziness set in. I got out all my videos and DVDs for exercises, my hand weights and stretchy rope and so far all I've done is look at them as they sit there cluttering up my coffee table. I'm trying mentally to devise a plan of action. Today I thought it would be good to start going for a Jenny Crait fitness walk early in the morning before I plunk myself in front of the computer. And yes, I will do that but first let's get some decent weather. One moment it's raining, then a bit of sunshine as a teaser, and then rain again and it's way too cold. I think when the sun is out to stay for awhile it will be more inviting to think of getting out and doing my fitness walks, going to the gym and other things. Meanwhile, I really must get out the yoga book and try to resume some floor exercises. I can't believe how lazy I've become. I've also become so stiff I can hardly walk sometimes. That is NOT good!

So, keeping in the spirit of the Games (after all the 2010 Winter Olympics will be held here in Vancouver) I will get back at that starting line and make a run for it! Go for the Gold, as they say. I have to get myself into good shape for my holiday in Greece which is coming up pretty soon.

G.i. WEEK 6: R.I.P. METABOLISM

2009-02-23T16:31:00.000-08:00

I had to admit I was a trifle disappointed when I weighed in today and found I'd only lost barely a pound. I was hoping for a bit better than that to make up for the plateau I found myself on last week. I have been trying harder to eliminate those naughty little red items from my menu but they do seem to slip in occasionally -- especially on the weekend when I want to go out and party with my friends.

This Saturday was another example of that when I joined the gang a Amberjacks for an evening of Blues with my son's band, and a whole lot of beer (although it was "lite" beer). And the other thing is, I am not getting enough aerobic type exercise and I know that counts for a lot.

I did managed a few small walks and today I made it to waterfit, but my schedule is so full these days I haven't as yet had time to go to the gym. I found all my hand weights and exercise videos last night though. I have one for Tai Chi, one for Jane Fonda, one for Yoga, and one I bought some time ago from Weight Watchers. So I am really going to try and get myself into a routine again. It seems that once you break your routine it is so hard to resume it. I used to be good about doing stretches and floor exercises every single day and for months now I haven't even attempted it. Laziness, I suppose. I also have some very good Jenny Craig fitness walking tapes and now the nicer weather is returning I will defintely try to get out with those as they keep you stepping at a very good pace. There are stretching exercises before and after you start your walks too, which is important to remember.

The menus themselves have been delicious and easy to stick to. (It's the occasional extras that cause me grief. Last night while watching the Oscars I ate a big bowl of popcorn with a bit too much (lite) marg on it. I should look for the WW popcorn and use that instead. But last week I cooked most of my meals from the G.I. book and their menus are excellent. I just made up this week's grocery list and have included most of their menu suggestions along with a couple from Weight Watchers.
Can't go wrong there.

I swear though that my metabolism has died somewhere over the past few years. And it's my aim to revive it. Otherwise I am not going to see any remarkable results (as usual). But...as they say: "Slow and steady wins the race". So like the pokey old tortoise I hope that by May I can have lost at least ten pounds.
(**I think it's important to say though, that people have been remarking how well I look. My friend asked me Saturday if I"d lost a lot of weight. She was surprised when I said it was only four pounds so far. So there's hope yet!

THE G.I. DIET WEEK 5: IT'S ALL THE FAULT OF THE WINE!

2009-02-16T23:50:00.000-08:00

OK, I goofed. But it was Valentine's Day and my friend invited me out for dinner at an Italian restaurant. So you can't eat pasta without Italian wine, can you? And I did. I also indulged in a delicious taramisu dessert. (I have to say here that I DID leave half the tortellini, however!) Well...it wasn't entirely the Italian dinner. I went dancing later. More wine. But I did have some exercise doing the salsa. (Excuses, excuses)

And then there was yesterday --- the ceviche was perfect and the sole was too. But did I need to sample those glasses of excellent Argentine and Italian wines? How can you eat ceviche and sole without a nice glass of crisp white wine?

So today I got up early enough to make sure I headed for the pool for a waterfit class. Weighed in. Do the scales lie? I was exactly the same weight as last week.
And I have to admit that if I'd not overindulged this weekend I'm quite sure I'd have been down at least a pound.

Whine, whine, whine....It's my own fault for not being stricter with myself. Also not getting enough aerobic exercise these days. So my resolution for this week (week #6) is to be more careful and try to work harder at this. It really isn't difficult. I just have remember to stay away from that wine!

WEEK 4 OF THE G.I. PLAN: I'm Shrinking!

2009-02-08T23:10:00.000-08:00

CHINESE NEW YEARS DINNER AT FLOATAS
(No, the sweet and sour spareribs were NOT on the plan!)

Well I'm finished WEEK #4 of the G.I. Diet Plan and although I'm still finding myself making a few little slips (as in the photos), basically I am finding it a very easy program to follow. My biggest problems is drinking the required 8 glasses of water a day and getting more aerobic exercise. This weekend I had a bit of free time and went dancing Friday night (that's one of my favorite exercises -- dancing salsa). And today I went for a two hour walk (also another favorite exercise pastime of mine)
But -- I need the pool and the gym!

These meals I have photographed aren't what I've been eating this week. This week I have been making menus from the G.I. book and cooking up some delicious meals.
So far I've tried the Egg & Ham Rollup; The beef and kale soup (excellent!); tuna cassarole; stuffed portabello mushroom; linguine with clams (so delicious!) and the best of all: orange chicken with almonds. I can't say I've been starving or feeling deprived. I also have learned to like the no-fat yoghurt (with fruit) and squirrely bread is really good too. I always try and remember to take my snacks with me and find that by doing so I am not starving when it comes to meal times. (For snacks I'll usually have almonds and a piece of Laughing Cow cheese.)

The good news is, although I haven't been to the pool yet to weigh myself, I did take my measurements today and discovered I have gone down an inch from last week. So I am shrinking, slow but sure and that's good!

I'm looking forward to week #5 and determined to get back into a better exercise routine and watch those items off the red and orange list that keep sneaking into my diet!
***weighed in 3 pounds less than when I started. Hoping for more loss next week.

CHICKEN TEMPORA BENTO BOX
(Uh Uh, not the Tempora either!)

THE GI PLAN WEEK #3

2009-01-29T23:39:00.000-08:00

THE SEAWALL, STANLEY PARK

We're into the third week of the GI diet plan and really, I have to say it is very easy to follow and stick on. I've still made a couple of slips but nothing too serious. (I went out for Chinese New Years dinner on Monday. I tried to be careful and not eat what's not on the green list. The sweet and sour pork wasn't but I ate a little anyway. Today I went out for breakfast and they served strip bacon and scrambled eggs. I ate a little and didnt feel too bad about it as I was on target the rest of the day and did a fair amount of walking today too.

The most difficult part has been drinking the required 8 glasses of water a day. In summer I don't have a problem, but these cold, wet days I seem to have trouble getting that much water into my system. And the exercise program needs to be increased. I haven't been to the pool due to my schedule and having a bad cold; I haven't been to the gym at all due to my schedule; and I haven't done much walking either. On Sunday I made a point of going to Stanley Park and had a good walk along part of the seawall. Today I walked quite a ways downtown, though it wasn't a 'fitness walk'.

These are the two areas that I need to try and improve next week, as well as decreasing the red circles that go around any food I eat that isn't on the green list. It's a simple as that. I'm not starving. I'm not hungry. I'm feeling more energetic. And I think I'm starting to look better -- at least it seems to show in my face (always the first part to lose the fat). And this week I've received a couple of encouraging compliments that I really do 'look like' I've lost some weight. (I haven't been able to get to a scale for two weeks now but will try to soon.)

WEEK TWO OF THE G.I. PROGRAM

2009-01-20T22:29:00.000-08:00

THINK GREEN! I'm trying to keep that motto in mind every day when I make my meals. So far I've mainly done not too bad MOST of the time, but there are still a few too many 'slips'. Especially last weekend when I went to a family birthday party.

I really intended to only eat GREEN, but the buffet that was served, although it was healthy foods, was mostly not on the green list. There were huge trays of sushi (containing rice which isn't OK unless it's a certain kind like basmati) and deli meats and small cheese cubes. Then there was a lot of tasty Chinese and Asian dishes that were mostly OK (but again, there was the rice and noodles.) I tried to take only small portions but I admit I had a taste of everything. There was also wine, of course, and birthday cake. I only had a tiny taste of birthday cake but certainly overdid it on the wine.

One thing I did better last week was the exercise -- waterfit and walks. I was looking forward to more of the same this week but so far it hasn't worked out.
I was supposed to start my Memoir groups this morning but it ended up there were no trolleys due to the wires being frozen so I sat in front of the TV all day long (and all evening too) watching the inauguration. OK, it was a historic event and certainly worth watching. But I did intend on going out to the store, at least take out the trash, just to get some fresh air and exercise. After all, the sun was shining. But by the time I decided to go it was getting dark and foggy so I skipped that idea and continued watching TV or working at the computer. Oh well, tomorrow I'll be running around like crazy all day long.

I did better on the foodie stuff this week except I've indulged in having one of the home-made chocolate chip cookies a friend made for me. That's a no-no!
What I've been doing, in the little book I bought to track my progress, is that every time I slip (or cheat!) I write it in RED so it shows up as a reminder.

Because I was unable to get to the pool today (and won't be able to from now on so must get myself to a different pool for waterfit) I was unable to weigh in. I certainly FEEL better and find it really quite easy to follow the correct menus. It's just those little 'cheats' that are getting in my way. One thing I like about this program is you don't have to count calories or points but you DO have to watch out not to eat stuff that's not on that GREEN list.

I'll try a little harder tomorrow. Every day will get easier, I know!

JOINING THE GIs: WEEK ONE

2009-01-14T16:27:00.000-08:00

ME, THIS CHRISTMAS (DEC 2008)

We all have our New Years Resolutions, and some of us actually attempt to follow them. Mine are usually the same two: Finish my novel and Diet/Exercise (lose some pounds and get fit!) And this year is no different only I am much, much closer to finishing the novel (in the back stretch now) and I have decided to try a whole new program of eating and losing weight. A friend of mine and her office mates have all been on the GI Diet, a sensible eating plan that has shown such terrific results. (I've never seen my friend looking so good in all the years I've known her). It really inspired me to see the results and also to recieve 5 large bags of beautiful clothing all top quality, stylish and hardly even worn, from one of her office mates who had lost so much weight she had to buy a new wardrobe. So this week I decided to get on the band-wagon and join the GIs too.

It's really not difficult, in particular since I'm usually always following menus from South Beach or Weight Watchers. So first I cleared out the fridge from all the tempting Christmas left overs (such as chocolate and chip dips) and my cupboards too (had to hide the peanut butter but I'll buy some of the kind you can eat).
The book my friend loaned me is excellent and easy to read and follow. Simply eat green. That is, everything from the 'green' list. You'll notice in the photo I am holding a glass of wine. Well, the wine has got to go now until I lose some weight and then a glass with dinner will be OK. Being the social butterfly that I am, that might be one of the difficult points to follow. But the thing is, not to beat yourself up. This is mainly a glucose index guide kind of diet and as long as you stay on track 90% of the time you should be OK.

The moment of truth came when I had to take my Body Mass Index. Yikes! I was two points over into obesity. Not good! And then....a worse shock...was actually measuring myself. You'll see in the photo I don't look too 'obese'. But you have to get a load of the side view. Not good, in fact, very BAD! But that 'shock' was enough to make me realize that things are worse than I was trying to tell myself and it was definitely time for some serious action.

After being housebound for weeks due to excessive snow, we are finally able to get out and about and this week I got back to waterfit again and was actually able to walk without fear of falling and breaking a hip. I can hardly wait til it's a nice day and I can go for one of my really LONG walks. And I have no excuse about missing waterfit now as the pool located nearer to my h ome has waterfit every day and twice a week at night. It's getting to the gym that might pose a challenge unless I force myself. And my wallet is full of gym tickets from last year that went unused as I was too lazy or busy to get myself there. This has to change!

I'll post occasion blogs here about my progress as a means of keeping myself on track and encouraging others who might be doing the same thing.
Trouble is, what do I do with this wonderful new wardrobe once I shrink down a size or two??? Well at least I know everything will look a heck of a lot better on me!

SNOW ANGELS

2009-01-04T21:35:00.000-08:00

PANDORA PARK AT NIGHT IN THE SNOW

It's snowing!

It's snowing everywhere.

Whirling and twirling

and swirling down.

It's snowing!

It's snowing, everywhere!

It really is. And it's been snowing non-stop is seems (well, a bit of respite with rain in between) for weeks! For the Pacific West Coast this is an unusual abundance of the white stuff and we're all wish it would just go away. As fast the weatherman predicts rain, and it does rain and melt the white stuff into slush, then it freezes over and the flurries start again. Bring out the dog sleds and skis! The roads and sidewalks are treacherous. The city crews haven't been clearing the side roads and a lot of people can't be bothered shoveling like they should do so it makes everything impassible. I've hardly been out anywhere in the past few weeks because it's too risky. Even getting on and off buses has been difficult as there are high banks on snow on the sides of the roads, they haven't cleared paths to the buses and you are in danger of falling getting on and off. I heard a story yesterday about a guy who slipped right under the wheels of the bus. Fortunately the driver saw him and didn't pull away. And a lot of people (not just the elderly) are falling and breaking bones. So far (touch wood!) I've been very lucky. But that's why I've not been going anywhere unless necessary, because it's not worth it slipping and sliding and when it starts melting, sloshing through ankle deep ice water and slush. Enough is enough!

THE BALCONY SNOWMAN

After the first big snowfall I was worried about the weight of it on my balcony, so I built a little snowman. He lasted a few days til the rain came, then he slowly melted away. But it was fun to do and he was cute, with a date for a nose, and candies for eyes and mouth. Don't you think he's a handsome snow fellow?

SNOW ANGEL

I have been wanting to make a snow angel but was afraid if I got down on the ground I'd not be able to get up and I'd be stuck there and they'd find me in the morning frozen in the snow bank. (Not too impossible as a couple of dear old ladies have gone outside and been found later frozen to death). Anyway last night coming home by the park I simply couldn't resist any longer. So I put down my bags and laid down and made an angel. Not a very good one as I was afraid to take my feet off the sidewalk just in case. But I think you can see the outline there: head, wings and billowing angel dress. I've always been a kid at heart!

CHRISTMAS WITH THE FAMILY

2008-12-26T10:31:00.000-08:00

THIS WAS MY FAMILY AT CHRISTMAS (in the late '50's), PLAYING THE USUAL BOARD GAMES AND HAVING FUN TOGETHER.

Another wonderful Christmas Day has come and gone. I had my traditional Christmas Eve dinner of Cornish hens in sherry sauce with my own family and friends and yesterday went for turkey dinner with my daughter-in-law's family. I've always enjoyed the family Christmases. This comes from a long tradition in my own family when all the relatives would get together for the festivities, sometimes at our house and sometimes at my aunt's or grandparent's. I have many happy memories of those holidays and try to make them somewhat the same for my own family even though it is usually just my son and his wife and a few friends (my daughter and grandson live away and rarely have come to spend the holidays with us).

THE CHRISTMAS FEAST

THERE WAS ALWAYS TURKEY WITH DRESSING , CRANBERRY SAUCE, MASHED POTATOES, BRUSSELS SPROUTS, CARROTS AND OTHER TRADITIONAL GOODIES

The Christmas feasts at our house were always jolly times, with the true spirit of Christmas which included the remembrance of the Christ child's birth. Both my father and my uncle Frank were Baptist ministers, so naturally there was never any drinking or carousing. Just good fun with jokes and games and lots of merriment. Imagine what a shock it was for me when I married into a family where the Christmas traditions were different, because they were from a different culture and did not focus on the 'holy' aspects of the holidays at all. Yes, Christmas with the in-laws was quite an eye-opener for me, at the time a reasonably 'innocent' bystander quite unused to their kind of "merriment" which included a lot of Christmas 'cheer'.

CHRISTMAS WITH THE IN-LAWS

The children (me, my sister and various cousins) would be tucked into bed with the proverbial visions of sugar-plums dancing in our heads, convinced Santa could be heard stomping on the roof, and going off to slumber-land with happy dreams of the surprises we’d find Christmas morning under the tree and in our stockings.

Christmas dinner was a festive event. Turkey and all the trimmings, Christmas pudding with money hidden inside, and everyone gathered around the table with bowed heads while Dad or Grandpa or Uncle Frank said the blessing.

This is the way my Christmases always were in my family. And I thought it that way for all everyone. What a surprise I got when I got married and was introduced to Christmas at the Ukrainian in-laws. The first time my husband took me home to spend Christmas with his family I was shocked and amazed. It was my first introduction to a hard-drinking, hearty-eating Ukrainian way of celebrating the holidays.

There I was, the new bride, sitting in the midst of a party of elderly folks, a bottle or two of rye whiskey plonked on the coffee table and water glasses filled to the brim -- neat! It was the first time I’d tasted rye straight and it made me gag. I guess I was too polite to say ’no’, so when nobody was looking I passed the glass down to my husband who eagerly downed it, matching glass for glass with the old folks. As the afternoon wore on, the merriment grew more boisterous and argumentative. It was a wonder to me how those elderly folks could drink so much.

I’ll never forget one of the Christmases we were invited for dinner. We’d already had my family’s Christmas dinner but we also had to go to the in-law’s house or they would be offended. Lena, my father-in-law’s common-law wife, was a great cook. She made the best cabbage rolls and perogis. This Christmas she had prepared a very large turkey to feed all the friends who were to drop in. By the time the bird was cooked and ready to come out of the over, she was so drunk that as she removed the turkey from the oven she teetered over and the bird slid off the pan and dropped on the floor. Without missing a beat she picked it up and plonked it on the platter. I was an eye-witness. The others were probably too drunk to notice. Anyway, it was a delicious dinner and as usual, she was constantly filling your plate. “Eat! Eat!” or your glass “Drink! Drink!” It didn’t occur to me, the naive youngster from the tee-totalling family, that all that booze was eventually going to be my husband’s downfall.

Oh yes, those Ukrainian Christmases were memorable. Especially the one when my father-in-law almost cut off his hand when he was demonstrating the new chain saw he’d got for a present. He was drunk, of course, and hardly felt any pain. But he bore the scars forever after and in fact caused serious nerve damage so his hand was never the same. Did that deter the constant partying? Never!

They were good-hearted folk though, and I know their intentions were well-meaning.
My mother-in-law, on the other hand, was a different story. My husband’s parents had been separated for many years and it was easy to see why there was no communication between them. She was a Seventh Day Adventist, strict and totally lacking the joviality and good nature of Lena and Harry. In fact, I was sure she had the ability to put the evil eye on me and quite frankly I was a bit scared of her. She had weird eyes and would sit scowling at me when I arrived with my husband and baby. She had her own ideas of how I should be handling my new baby boy and I know she didn’t approve of me one bit.

She’d cook us dinner once in awhile, never Christmas dinner, because she didn’t celebrate Christmas the way the rest of us did. In fact, my husband’s younger brother, still a teen-ager, lived with her, and at Christmas he was not given any gifts because she said it wasn’t Lennie’s birthday. It was Jesus’s birthday. I always felt sorry for Lennie so we’d invite him to our place and made sure he had lots of presents, and of course he’d drop by his father’s for the Christmas meals too. Maybe the way he was brought up warped him because he grew into the most avaricious nasty man, a bank-manager who had total control over both his parent’s finances and wills and made sure when they died neither of my children got a cent -- it all went to him, his Ukrainian wife, and their two kids.

Those Ukrainian Christmases were memorable, mainly for the vast amounts of food and booze that were consumed and the chaos that reigned as a result. Invariably it would somehow end up with a fight breaking out. I didn’t realize it then, but my father-in-law was not the jolly guy he seemed to be and poor Lena was often the brunt of his drunken temper.

It was an experience worth remembering, but to this day I prefer the old fashioned Christmases of my childhood.
Instead of spending Christmas with a massive hangover I’d rather enjoy what it is really meant to be, a time of good cheer spent with relatives and friends, presents stacked under the tree, stockings hung by the chimney with care and children nestled in their beds waiting for Santa to arrive. (He didn’t get a glass of whiskey at our place, just some ginger ale and home-made Christmas cookies. There weren’t any fights, Mom never ever dropped the turkey on the floor, and nobody ever cut their hand off with a chain saw!)

* * *

IT'S CHRISTMAS, AND IT'S SNOWING!

2008-12-22T14:00:00.000-08:00

I have always loved the snow. You'll see that in this photo of me, age 18 months, when we lived on the Prairies. I have many memories of sleigh-rides and building snowmen and snow forts.
I only vaguely remember falling into a big drift and getting stuck and almost frozen. To this day my feet get cold very quickly. But still, I like snow!

When we lived in Lloyminster, I remember learning to ice skate, first on bob-skates with a double blade, then real blade skates. I loved playing hockey on frozen ponds and once fell and cracked my elbow. I still remember the wire cast I had to wear for awhile. Still, I love snow!
Here's a photo of me age 6 with my 1 year old sister Jeannie. Even in the snow she loved having her dolls and doll carriage to play with. I prefered skates, sleds and later skis.

Christmas and snow time were always exciting happy times in my childhood and I still try to keep them like that. This weekend a heavy snow fell on Vancouver which is unusual in that the temperatures were extremely low, below zero celcius and there is about a foot of snow on my balcony. This wrecks havoc on the streets, of course, as people here aren't used to driving in these extreme conditions. Still, I love snow. Today the sun is shining, it's much warmer, there's a lot of slush on the roads (you need hip-waders to cross streets at the corners), but it's a glorious winter day. I actually built a snow-man on my balcony! Yes, I'm still a kid at heart.

Some of the best Christmases in my childhood were spent in Stratford Ontarion when my mom, sister and I lived at my grandparent's house during the war when Dad was overseas. Christmases even in war-time were happy events. All the relatives would come to Grandpa's for the holidays and there was great fun all the time. Some of my Christmas memoir stories are about these times. And this is one of my most favorite memories.

Grandpa's House, Stratford, Ontario.
That's our dog, Dutchess.

CHRISTMAS AT GRANDPA’S

At Grandpa’s house we crowded around the Christmas tree, the crackling of the flames in the hearth sounding like pop-corn. We played games and Uncle Frank performed a comical rendition of “Herbert Burped”, about a little boy who gets swallowed by a lion. Then we children were tucked snugly into bed to await Santa’s arrival.

One Christmas stands out in my memory, the year I bought the most memorable Christmas presents. I felt very grown up as I went off to Woolworths to find some unique gifts.

Then I saw it. A Chinese dragon on a bamboo stick, the head made of painted clay, with a red felt tongue, the body accordion-pleated tissue paper. When you waved the stick, the body expanded and the head shot out, tongue flickering, like a real fire-breathing dragon.

I felt proud as I showed Mom my extraordinary purchases, but she scolded me for ‘wasting’ money on something so impractical.

Christmas morning I waited nervously as the presents were opened. Instead of thinking my gifts were foolish, everyone was delighted, especially Uncle Frank. He played with his dragon all day. Uncle Frank always was the life of the party!

CHRISTMAS ON A SHOE STRING

2008-12-16T16:26:00.000-08:00

Christmas 1972
Kids and Yorkie

For some reason this Christmas (so far) I don't seem to be as short of cash as usual. Perhaps it's because I've learned to cut back and eliminate unnecessary expenses. I also try to plan ahead for the gift-buying and by doing so aren't so inclined to purchase things without careful thought to expense, necessity and appropriateness. For my Christmas eve dinner, I decided on just a small family event with invitations to friends to drop in later for appetizers and punch.

I guess everyone is tightening the purse-strings this year what with the economic crisis looming. I've already been told my monthly pay is being cut back on the web site I write for (Planet Eye) but at the same time I was offered two new classes by the school board teaching kids writing. So that was an unexpected bonus and a good start for the New Year too.

I remember lots of years when things were tight and tough -- much tighter than now. And yet we always had a very nice Christmas with gifts, turkey dinner and lots of good cheer.
Here's one of the stories about those times, when the best way we had of surviving was to live in a communal setting and share expenses. (This story was written in the mid '90's.)

CHRISTMAS ON A SHOESTRING

Here it is, that Jolly Old Season again and true to tradition my bank account is running on empty. No, not because I squandered every cent on presents. Fact is, I haven’t even started shopping yet. It’s just a fact of life that happens when one lives on an extremely low-income budget. Am I worried? Not really. Somehow, things always work out alright. Besides, I had lots of experience in my past at organizing gala Christmas celebrations on a shoestring.

I recall those “hard times” back in the ’70’s when I was a divorced single mom struggling to support two kids on a miniscule salary and at times an even more miniscule donation from the dole. My boyfriend and I decided to cut the costs by moving into a big house which we shared with a variety of other equally poor lodgers and friends and assorted dogs and cats.

As my boyfriend was on the lam from the American army (this was during Viet Nam) any work he had was under-the-table at a car wash. The other lodgers were young college students, and an occasional deserter or wayward hippie that took shelter with us.
We never turned anyone away and each guest or tenant, no matter how impoverished, would participate by helping with cooking, sharing expenses and whatever. We all learned how to make do with very little and we were a happy, carefree gang.

The house had been occupied by bikers before we moved in and was known as “The Opium Palace”. We’d hung an American flag upside down in the window as our form of ‘protest’ against the war and there was a big mirror ball hanging in the middle of the front room ceiling.

The first year we moved in, with our very sparse budget, we were still determined to make the best of it for the Christmas season. After all, it isn’t Christmas without parties, decorations and presents. So all of us got together and cut out coloured tissue paper snowflakes to decorate the windows. We hung lights and somehow managed to get a Christmas tree which we decorated with traditional balls and tinsel as well as strings of popcorn. But what to do for presents? It happened that I had a lot of material goods brought from my past life as a plant-manager’s wife.

So, I sorted through the china tea-cups, jewellery and other items that I had stored away, carefully picking just the right gift for each of my friends. The girls in the house baked Christmas goodies and the old house was full of the delicious, familiar smells of the holidays. The whole motley crew enjoyed a turkey dinner with all the trimmings. It was a special Christmas because it wasn’t in the least bit ‘commercial’. Everything we had made or chosen from our own belongings to give away. It gave Christmas a new, special meaning.

There were a few other Christmases on a shoestring too, during those years. Once I remember us having a box of odds and ends: ribbons, tinsel, shiny paper, glue, sparkles and various artsy craftsy thing and each guest who came visiting had to make a decoration for the Christmas tree. One year my daughter and I made gingerbread houses for all our friends. Another time we had a Christmas cookie contest and decorated sugar cookies cut in various festive shapes which we hung on the Christmas tree. The ornamental cookies were so pretty we decided to keep them for the next year. But alas! The following Christmas when I opened the box up, the mice had eaten all the cookie ornaments!

I recall as a kid, my Mom used to make whole wardrobes for our Christmas dolls, and sew all our holiday clothes too. My parents didn’t have a lot of money and in those days there were no credit cards but there were always plenty of gifts under the tree, and lots of goodies to eat. Christmas was a jolly time spent with family and friends. I guess those early days taught me how to have Christmas on a shoestring and in a way, those Christmases are the most memorable.

OH, CHRISTMAS TREE

2008-12-14T23:22:00.000-08:00

My little ornamental tree

OH, CHRISTMAS TREE

It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas around town. The tree lots are full of fresh-cut firs and pines. The malls are full of shoppers and families make special outings to pick this year’s tree. Around the city coloured lights shine heralding the Yuletide. In the line-up at the Supermarket, I browse through the display of magazines, their covers advertising the Christmas season. Family Circle, Better Homes showcase homes with ornate trees bedizened with extravagant decorations. Under dazzling branches are heaps of designer-decorated packages. I think of Christmas trees past. My Christmas trees. Although perhaps not so ornately decorated, they are distinctly memorable.

At home I open a box of photo albums and take a nostalgic trip to Christmases past. In a black-and-white photograph hand tinted by my mother is Tree Number One. My very first Christmas tree: spindly fir garlanded and hung with lots of tinsel and ornaments. Under its thin branches are the toys Santa has left. In front of the tree, on a little rocking chair, sits a large doll with a frilly bonnet and pink dress. Next to it is a doll crib filled with stuffed toys and more dolls. Two stockings hand on the red-brick fireplace behind it, one lumpy with fruit and candy, the other a store-bought stocking full of surprises. There are Christmas cards on the mantle.

In another photograph, taken several years later, there are two dolls in high chairs under the tree. Those must have been the dolls for my little sister and me that our mother lovingly sewed entire wardrobes for. Mine was a boy doll named Tommy. That year we also got a new sled with bright red runners.

Christmas display at Van Dusen Gardens

Every Christmas was magic when I was a child, a splendid family affair with a house full of visiting relatives and good cheer. Even when we grew older, each year at tree decorating time, it was s family get-together with Mom’s delicious Christmas cookies, ginger ale and popcorn which sometimes we stung for the tree. We dipped into the boxes of decorations and drew out the baubles. It was a time of nostalgia, because each ornament had its own little memory attached.

When I had children of my own the tree always had some of the decorations they had made: toilet-roll angels with cotton-batting hair and gold wings; egg-carton bells painted red and green, glued with sparkles; cut0out trees with sticker decorations. One year, when we lived in a house full of friends, we had a cookie-decorating contest. We baked sugar cookies, decorated them and hung them on the tree. The most elaborately decorated cookie won a prize. We saved the best ones. They lasted a year or two until the mice discovered them. Another year we set out a box of ribbons, glue, paper and sparkles and invited each guest to make a special decoration for our tree.

I still have a few of the old treasured ornaments, so every Christmas as I unpack the decoration box to trim my own tree I am filled with nostalgia, remembering Christmases past; the chenille wreaths from my childhood Christmas trees, the expensive silver and gold globes bought to decorate the first tree shared by my husband and I; our children’s special ornaments -- the little ceramic bells stamped “Woodwards” collected on their visits to Santa Claus; special little gift ornaments made by friends; little starched snow-flakes crocheted by my daughter; ethnic decorations from Mexico and China given to me by newcomers to this country.

Tree in the Art Gallery plaza, Vancouver

I always look forward to Christmas, especially to the tree decorating time, because of these special memories. Some of the old ornaments are getting tattered and tarnished. I usually have to part with a few. but each year I buy one new decoration so that when I trim the tree the following year there will be a new memory to add to the box of Christmas treasures. And while I’m trimming the tree I’ll be singing the old familiar song:
“Oh, Christmas Tree, Oh, Christmas Tree, how lovely are your branches...”

Tree in Santiago Chile

HOW A TALKING DOLL SPOILED A BOY'S CHRISTMAS.

2008-12-09T00:17:00.000-08:00

I saw on TV that there's a new talking doll on the market that is causing quite a stir. It's the "Little Mommy Cuddle and Coo" doll and like one of it's predecessors, it talks. It brought to mind a story from past Christmases about a talkative doll that spoiled my son's Christmas and dashed his belief in good old Santa Claus. This new doll though happens to (according to adults who have listened to it's chatter) provide a subliminal message that supposedly says "Islam is the Light". Good grief! What would happen if it said "Jesus Saves"? Would it cause quite the same commotion. And does it really say this phrase or, as the Mattel people insist, it's just a phrase that happens to sound like that. Well, at any rate. a number of irate parents returned the dolls to the toy stores very indignantly. I am very skeptical that the doll really 'says' that, but who knows for sure? And so what? Would a small child really understand this? And what might happen? The whole thing sounds pretty ridiculous. But at the same time, I remember clearly how my son's Christmas was spoiled by a very chatty doll. This is the story:

"CHATTY CATHY GIVES IT UP: How a talkative doll spoiled a little boy's Christmas."

Since my childhood, I've lived half my life in a a fantasy world. Believing in Santa Claus was one of those myths, and one that I regretted having to give up.

Christmas was always very special in our house. Mom and Dad played along with the Santa myth to the fullest, and besides the real Christmas celebration of Jesus' birth, there was plenty of fun, pageants, carolling, sleigh-rides, visits to view the Christmas lights and, best of all, the yearly visit to see dear old Santa Claus.

One of the best Christmases ever was the one when all the cousins came to stay. We were living at my Grandparent's house then, Mom, my sister and I, while Dad served overseas. Every Christmas at my Grandparent's house was full of fun. The Aunts and Uncles and cousins from various parts of Ontario came and the house was full of laughter and good cheer.

That particular Christmas, because of the crowd, my cousins and I were allowed to sleep in the sun porch room. As usual, we stayed up late, played monopoly, crochinole, and Chinese checkers, drank glasses of sparkling ginger-ale (our tee totaling family's 'champagne'), ate lots of delicious goodies that Mom and Grandma had baked, sang carols, told stories, and finally were tucked into bed.

Sometime after midnight, we heard a sound on the roof. Jingling bells. A loud 'Ho! Ho! Ho!" Unmistakable footsteps. It was Santa Claus! He was up on the sun porch roof getting ready to come down our chimney to deliver toys! None of us dared make a sound, and ducked under the covers pretending to be asleep.

Sure enough, the next morning there were lots of toys under the tree. Santa had really come, and we had heard him! I could hardly wait for school to resume so I could tell my friends.

The first day back after the holidays, I was bursting with excitement as I entered my class. "Santa Claus came to our house. We heard him on the roof!" I announced to my classmates.

"What?" scoffed an older boy. "Don't you know that Santa is a fake? He's just pretend. You couldn't possibly have heard him!"

I was crushed! I went home for lunch that day in tears. "A boy in my class says Santa isn't real!" I sobbed.

Mom was sympathetic. The disclosure had spoiled some of her Christmas fun too. But she admitted to me that Santa really was just a myth.

"But I heard him on the roof!" I insisted.

"That was just your Uncle Frank pretending to be Santa Claus," Mom explained.

For me, it was one of my biggest disappointments. I was ten years old, and my fantasy world was shattered forever. I've never forgotten it.

Many years later, when I was married and had my own children, I always tried to make Christmas the same kind of magical, exciting time my parents had made it for me. We decorated the tree, had parties, went to visit Santa and took part in all the Christmas festivities in our community.

The year my son turned six and my daughter was just about to turn two, the Christmas fantasy got spoiled again.

This is how it happened: That was the year Mattel put out a new kind of doll. One that talked. Her name was Chatty Cathy, a blonde little cherub with a saucy face. When you pulled the ring in her back, she spouted various lines of dialogue such as "Hello, I'm Chatty Cathy. What's your name?"

I couldn't resist buying one for my daughter.

The next day, after all the excitement of finding what Santa had left under the tree, opening presents and trying things out was over, I noticed that my son was unusually quiet. I wondered if he was disappointed with his gifts. No, it wasn't that.

Very quietly, so as not to spoil things for his little sister, he said: "I know that Santa didn't really bring Chatty Cathy, Mom, because I heard you talking while you were playing with her."

I felt so bad! Chatty Cathy had given away the secret of Santa Claus and spoiled the Christmas surprise for my son, just as long ago my class-mate had spoiled Christmas for me by telling me Santa wasn't real. After that, Christmas wasn't quite the same for my son, although we always tried to make it just as much fun. He was a good sport, and went along with the myth of Santa Claus for his little sister's sake.

If you google Chatty Cathy you will find several videos on U-tube of the old ads for the doll and you can hear her talk. And check out the new Little Mommy and see if you think it's really conveying a subliminal message.

VISITING SANTA

2008-12-06T16:29:00.000-08:00

SANTA DISPLAY at the BRIGHT LIGHTS

I met a woman yesterday who says she hates kids. We were both on our way to see the free Christmas display at the indoor tropical conservatory and she was worried that as it was a free day there'd be lots of children there. Of course there were as it's a great family place with the tropical plants and beautiful parrots and other birds flying around. Later on I asked if she'd been to the Van Dusen Gardens for their spectacular Christmas display. That's when she told me how she hates kids and doesn't like being where they are. I told her the gardens were very spacious and of course, being Christmas lots of family go. But most of the children love going most to the Bright Lights display in Stanley Park, and that if she doesn't like children she ought to avoid going there.

Why would anyone hate children? I've been thinking about this since our conversation, wondering what could have possible happened in this reasonably young woman's life to give her that attitude. And how could anyone hate children anyway? After 34 years of working in daycare, and raising kids of my own, I am still very fond of children and especially miss my daycare work during the holiday season. After all, Christmas is a big important season for kids. Isn't it all about the birth of the baby Jesus? And isn't there Santa Claus and toys under the Christmas tree and all that? Christmas for me has always been a magical time and even in my adulthood I still love it and enjoy going to the malls just to see the kiddies visiting Santa, watching their delight (or in some cases, fright at the old bearded man with the loud Ho! Ho! Ho!)

Today was the Santa Claus parade and unfortunately it's been pouring rain, so no doubt it put a damper on some of the fun. I've attended a few in the past along with my friend and her grandchildren. And I remember distinctly one long ago when I was a kid and we went up to Toronto for the Santa Claus parade. Here's a story I wrote about it:

VISITING SANTA

As I watch children at the mall sitting on Santa’s knee, it reminds me of a Christmas when I was 9 years old. Every year the T. Eatons Company in Toronto would launch the holiday season with an extravagant Christmas parade. Grandpa suggested we take the train to Toronto for the event. I loved parades, train rides, and more than anything else Christmas and Santa Claus. But the morning of our trip I woke feeling nauseous and feverish. I didn’t tell Mom or she would have canceled the plans and spoiled it for everyone. By the time we reached Toronto I had all the symptoms of full-fledged stomach flu.

I don’t remember much about standing bundled up on the snowy street watching the parade go by; the colorful floats with mechanical toys and story-book characters, the glittering fairies, comical elves, snowmen, reindeer and clowns throwing candies to the children or the big sled carrying Santa himself greeting the crowds with his familiar “Ho! Ho! Ho!”

After the parade came we went to the big Eaton’s department store, through the impressive Toy Land to where Santa sat on his throne waiting to greet the children.
I was wearing my moss-green coat with the velvet collar that Mom had made me, and the red hat with white tassels she had knitted for the festive occasion. I felt wretched, green-around-the-gills. I clutched the candy cane Santa gave me and posed for the camera to have my photo taken with Santa. It was impossible to smile. I could feel the bile rise in my throat, my cheeks burned with fever. What if I threw up on Santa? Would he scratch my name off the ‘good kids’ list and put me down with the naughty ones?

“What would you like Santa to bring you for Christmas, little girl?” he asked in a jolly voice.

The big moment had arrived for me to put in my Christmas toy order but I was too sick to reply. I just wanted to go home and crawl into my warm bed. My greatly anticipated visit to Santa ended with me feeling utterly miserable. I only hope Santa didn’t catch my flu germs!

MY HALLOWE'EN

2008-11-02T20:47:00.000-08:00

Some of the people from my building carved pumpkins and this is what the outside of our building looked like. There were lots more than that, and brown paper bag lanterns too. A bunch of us waited in the lobby with bowls full of goodies, but alas! most of the neighbourhood children were in a different area. Some of us went scouting to find them and direct them to our place. In the end we only had about 10 trick or treaters but we all had fun anyhow.

I put on my pirate clothes and after the handouts were over I headed down to the Drive to meet my friends. The streets were full of merry-makers, many of them in costumes. And fireworks were going off in the parks. At the Latin Quarter there were a lot of people in costumes and it was a real party atmosphere (more so than usual!) We had lots of fun and merriment.

Now Hallowe'en is over for another year and pretty soon it'll be Santa and the elves and Christmas decorations will go up instead of candle-lit pumpkins and spooky things. Any holiday like this is fun and brings out the kid in me.

I am hoping to write more on this site now that my other on-line diary is off the web for good. It's been a very busy time for me lately though and not much leisure time for my own writing although this weekend I've managed to catch up somewhat. Still, for the next 3 weeks I expect to be very busy and may not get time til after that.

The next 'holiday' is Remembrance Day on November 11th.

AN AUTUMN ADVENTURE

2008-10-16T16:18:00.000-07:00

My girlfriend Andrea and I went on a road trip to the mountains in September. I had a free media weekend at Three Valley Gap Chateau, which is located at the edge of a lack where three valleys converge in the mountains near Revelstoke B.C. There's a ghost town there that I wanted to write about for my travel blog and website.

It had been some years since I had travelled into that part of the Province so it was quite exciting to head off early one Saturday morning on a gloriously warm, sunny Autumn day.

We passed a lot of farms and ranches along the way. The scenery is fabulous all throughout the Province of British Columbia. Our stay at the Chateau was a lot of fun. I'll write more about it on my travel blog and I've already written some things on my Living the Writer's Life blog as well. http://wynnbexton.blogspot.com

On our journey back, we took the back roads through the Interior of B.C. The day was as warm as summer -- a real Indian Summer day! There were several farms selling produce. This was one of the most intesting ones. So we stopped, took a lot of photos, bought some produce and home-made sausage (and I bought home-made peanut brittle that was simply to die for!)

A very pleasant journey, and a whole lot of new memories to write about. Check out details on my travel blog: http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com
and I think I'll do a story for my travel web site at www.travelthruhistory.com

THE LAST DAYS OF SUMMER

2008-09-22T13:57:00.000-07:00

Summer's over
Now it's Fall
Quite the nicest
Time of all!

It's the end of summer. Time goes so quickly and for the most part, it was a lovely summer. We had some rain at the end of August that spoiled the last few weeks of holidays, but once it was September the hot weather returned for awhile so we were able to enjoy some excellent adventures.

I went on a kayaking trip -- first time ever! You can read the details of this adventure on my travelthroughhistory blog. It was a lovely day paddling up the Indian Arm, stopping for a salmon barbecue on one of the tiny islands. Certainly one of those experiences that will remain in my memory forever!

My friend Patrick came to visit so we went up Grouse Mountain on the gondola one day. Another first for me! We enjoyed browsing around the mountain top, taking lots of photos, seeing the sights and having a little picnic. I've written about it on my travel blog too.

One of those warm days my son, his wife and I went for a picnic to Locarno Beach. We intended to go swimming but chickened out. However we enjoyed lounging in the sun watching the sailboarders and ships in the harbour.

I had lots of picnics this summer both at this beach and at the pool and beach in Stanley Park where I often went swimming. Now it's the first day of autumn and a chilly wind is blowing. There are clouds with a bit of sun. But autumn can be a lovely time too. And next weekend I'm looking forward to another big adventure in the mountains when my friend and I go on a little weekend trip to Three Valley Gap. Another first!

THE BEDSIDE MEME

2008-08-31T10:47:00.000-07:00

My Work Station
This is a Bedroom Meme I found on Scott's blog which I thought I'd try out for fun.

THE TABLE: This is my work station which is part of my bedroom. It's here that I create and write. I have another desk beside my bed where I keep supplies and odds and ends. As I don't usually read in bed, I don't have books on the desks unless they are reference books I am using for research. But I do have a big bookcase in my bedroom (there are another two in my living room.)

READING AT THE MOMENT: "Ines of my Soul" by Isabel Allende. I am very fond of her books.

CAN'T PUT DOWN: The last book I read that I couldn't put down was "Eat, Pray, Love" which I read while traveling in California in June.

GATHERING DUST: "Love in the Time of Cholera" by Gabriel Garcia Marquez. I like the Latin-American magic realism style and I loved this movie, but somehow it is taking me forever to plough through it. I will eventually. I actually have another book gathering dust as well, "The Religion" by Tim Willocks. It's a hard-cover book and as I usually do most of my reading while in transit on buses, it's a bit heavy to tote around with me. I also have a pile of To Be Reads which I will eventually get through depending on my mood.

Literary Inspiration (above the desk next to my bed)

SECRET INDULGENCES: I don't really have any except I do like occasionally browsing through Bartlett's "Familiar Quotations" , the Webster's Dictionary and
an excellent volume of The Synonym Finder. These are useful tools for my writing whether it's for my novel writing or blogs, or just for fun. I also enjoy looking through my travel books (Lonely Planet Greece & Chile and Venice) once in awhile so I can daydream of travels and reminisce about places I've been to.

LOOKING FORWARD TO: There's so many books I haven't read yet and of course I always look forward to finding new texts about Alexander the Great. And as I am planning to visit Rome next year, I'd like to read "A Walk in Ancient Rome" by John Cutler.

TAGGING: Whoever wants to participate. It's a kind of fun way to pass time and get your thinking about what you might like to read or remember books that have impressed you in the past.

CELEBRATING THE END OF SUMMER

2008-08-23T10:17:00.000-07:00

Sechelt Shoreline

Summer's almost over, although I'm still hoping for a few more beach days. After a steaming hot weekend on the Sunshine Coast last week, the weather took a down-turn and it got rainy and cold. Later this week, the sun has been making a valiant effort to return. I hope it does as I don't want the summer to end. I've been enjoying every moment of it!

Late summer blooms

Last weekend I was up on the Sunshine Coast at the Festival of Written Words. It had been some years since I'd been there so it was good to return. It brought to mind the week, several years back, when I spent time at a women writers' retreat at the lodge there. That old lodge doesn't exist now, much to my disappointment. Apparently it was constructed of temporary sections that began to deteriorate, and they haven't build a new one. Too bad, one of the features of the Festival was after the day's end when writers and readers gathered for wine and cheese in the lodge and got to talk personally to the guest writers after their presentations.

We had fun there last weekend though, and it was inspiring to be there. So this week I have spend much of the time at home getting a lot of writing done. Now it's the weekend and some sunshine is in order. I see gray skies though.

Pretty soon I'll be busy preparing for my Fall classes. And my friend Patrick is coming from Germany for a visit. We are hoping to make at least one trip to the islands when he gets here. I'm hoping for a warm Indian summer during September. There's still lots I want to do including a few more picnics at the beach. I don't want summer to end!

Sunset across the water

A DAY AT THE SEASIDE

2008-07-21T21:22:00.000-07:00

This weekend my cousins had a reunion picnic at this beautiful Provincial Park on Vancouver Island (Bamerton P.Pk)
There are camp sites above the beach and along the beach lots of picnic tables and a changing room and other fascilities.
There were about 30 of us there including all the little grandchildren. So it was quite a merry gathering.
Lots of good food and warm family cameraderie.

The beach was strewn with clam and mussle shells as it's obviously quite a rich harvesting spot. But because of a red tide warning the seafood here is inedible at this time. The kids had fun chasing all the tiny crabs that were scuttling across the sand.

Most of the adults stayed up on the grass under the shade trees, visiting and catching up on family news. Eating, of course. There were salads and hot dogs and watermelon. All the good stuff you usually have at picnics.

Here's my cousins Adele, Lynette and Merilyn and their foster sister May and me. I always love spending time with my cousins and it was a real nice surprise having May along this day too. We really enjoyed ourselves. May and I had gone over on Friday and spent the day in Victoria with Adele and her husband Garry. Then we drove to the Park on Saturday and met the rest of the crowd who were coming from various parts of the Island. A few family members were missing, but most of them were there, even the newly weds who had just got married on Thursday (Merilyn's son and his new wife). And my goodness! I've not seen so many little ones. It's hard to keep track of them all.

The two Grandpas, Garry and Marv, took some of the little boys down for a swim. The water was quite refreshing and the beach is sandy and shallow so it's a great place for the kids. They had so much fun making sand castles and later they found a little waterfall and a creek running down to the beach so they went exploring.
A really great day was had by all!

ENJOYING SUMMER FUN

2008-07-06T21:33:00.000-07:00

What have I been doing since the last time I blogged here? Well, besides a 10 day trip to California to visit cousins, Auntie and attend the graduation of my grandson from UCSB, I've had a very busy time. For two days I was involved in a media culinary tour of Steveston and Richmond, two of Vancouver's suburban municipalities. Here I am riding a cruiser bike on one of those days. We rode down the river to a heritage farm, our first stop for that day and the beginning of an amazing culinary adventure.

The summer finally arrived, and in good time as California was so lovely and hot. So I headed for my favorite swimming/picnicing place at Second Beach and had a little picnic on the beach after a refreshing swim in the pool. That will be the first of many such outings to the pool and beach this summer. One of my favorite pasttimes!

And then there was the International Jazz Festival. I missed some of it but did manage to get into one event and of course there was all that free music on Canada Day. And just look what a lovely venue it was, right by False Creek yacht harbour. And a lovely sunny day so everyone enjoyed lounging on the grass while we listened to music.

Summer is just beginning. There's be lots more fun in the sun. Just watch this blog and I'll keep you posted!

AN ODE TO THE GRAPE!

2008-05-12T10:01:00.000-07:00

I like wine. I can still remember the very first taste I had of it -- some home-made Italian brew. It was at the home of my friend's fiance. We were young kids then, not more than 18, and Junie was celebrating her up-and-coming marriage to an Italian boy. We were gathered at his home and his father served us all a small glass of his home-made red. It made me very dizzy and sick and I spent most of the evening lying on a bed recovering before I could go home. But that gave me the first taste of what would be my favorite drink.

After that we used to buy cheap raisin wine from the Italian bootleggers and drink it on the sly before going dancing on Friday and Saturday nights. Once I recall sneaking home late after one such wild night with my pals, scared in case my strict Baptist parents found out I'd been imbibing. I woke in the night feeling very ill and was too afraid to go downstairs to the bathroom so I stuck my head out the window and threw up. In the morning, when I stuck my head out the window again to get a breath of fresh air to clear my fuzzy brain, I noticed Dad down below examining something by the sidewalk. Later, I had a look myself and saw something red splattered on the cement. I freaked, thinking I'd puked up my guts, but realized afterwards it was just the wine. I learned to be more cautious after that!

Wine is the nectar of the gods -- namely Dionysos, who was the Greek god of wine (also called Bacchus by the Romans). Whether I'm enjoying a glass of Boutari red in Mykonos, Greece (above) a campari by the canal or a glass of pinot noir at a fine dining restaurant in Italy (below) I am very fond of wine. You'd think, though, that by now I'd be a connoissseur, but I'm not!

Recently I was invited to a media event, a wine-tasting put on by New Zealand wineries. That was an excellent experience and a chance to learn how to properly savour the grape. I went along with 3 friends who are wine writers, (one of them spent a number of years working in wineries in California). I did have the basics down, because a few years ago my Chilean friend taught me how to properly 'taste' wine. SNIFF. SIP. SWILL. SAVOUR and SPIT. But was I going to 'spit' all those delicious New Zealand wines? There were at least 45 breweries represented at the show. Each table had various samples of Pinot Noir, Cabernet, Sauvignon Blanc, Reisling, Chardonnay, Merlot. My god! I felt as though I was at a real Bacchanal! The only thing missing were the wild maenaeds dancing themselves into a frenzy. (There wasn't any dancing, just sipping). I made my way around the tables sniffing, sipping, swilling, savouring and occasionally spitting -- careful to rinse my mouth and glass with water after each taste. It was glorious! Never have I tasted so many delectable wines -- many of them more expensive than I would ever be able to afford to buy. But still, I don't feel like a connoisseur at all because I can't possibly keep the tastes, names, wineries, straight in my wine-addled brain.

The week before I'd been on a gift weekend to the Spinnaker's Gastro Brew Pub in Victoria. This included an eight course meal with beer and wine pairings. The sommelier carefully explained each of these and how they complimented the gourmet foods we were served.
I couldn't possible remember them all, but later I did buy a bottle of B.C. brew - -Averill Creek Pinot Noir (2005) to save for a special occasion. And I just got the menu with details of the wine/beer pairings and delectable food we had prepared especially by the chefs. It was positively erotic!

So let me raise my glass to all you wine imbibers and wine connnoisseurs. Sniff, sip, swill, savour...and enjoy!

MY MERRY PRANKSTER PAST

2008-04-03T21:40:00.001-07:00

APRIL FOOLS

For as long as I can remember up to my adulthood, my mother always played April Fools pranks on us and we always got tricked. When I was really little, it would be something fairly simple, like an empty half of an egg shell in my egg cup at the breakfast table, so when you tapped the shell with the knife to open the egg, the shell would crumble. One year she had us all rushing to the window when she proclaimed there was a horse on the front lawn.

Mom was always expert at this kind of tom-foolery and I think she inherited the art from my Grandpa Bexton, her dad. Grandpa was always teasing and playing tricks, not only on my sister and me, but on the adult members of the household. He had a perpetual mischievous twinkle in his eye. To this day I can still hear my Grandma's voice saying "Oh George!" and I'd know Grandpa had either said something naughty or had done something tricky. Grandpa Bexton had that knack of being able to put you on or to pull some trick from up his sleeve. Maybe it was an inherited skill at mischief-making, as according to my Uncle Harold, the Bextons, who hailed from near Nottingham, England ( and Sherwood Forest) were related to Little John of Robin Hood's merry band of rogues and rascals.

At every birthday party, my Mom would come up with some amusing game to play to entertain the guests. One of her favorites was the Hen Game. I've used it to amuse and trick friends and the children at the daycares where I used to work. It never fails to create gales of laughter.

This is how the Hen Game works. You have two chairs facing each other and each chair has a pillow on the seat. You chose someone to be the hen. They must sit on the pillow (nest) while making clucking sounds. The instigator of the game stands behind one of the chairs and encourages the 'hen' to cluck furiously, first on one nest, then on the other, and so on and eventually when enough clucking is produced, after one such clucking session suddenly there's an egg deposited on the 'nest.' (slipped onto the nest by the instigator while the 'hen' was changing nests.) The hen laid an egg! Amazing! This trick has always created gales of laughter and never fails to fool the participants. Guaranteed to create lots of fun at kids birthday parties or inane adult social events.

A MEME OF FOUR'S

2008-03-30T17:34:00.001-07:00

My friend Michael over at Popcultureinstitute http://popcultureinstitute.blogspot.com
has challenged me to a meme about "4's". Seems a good way to pass away another afternoon indoors where I've been recuperating from a nasty chest cold that has laid me low for a week now. So here goes: and I might challenge you too!

FOUR JOBS I'VE HAD:
1. scraping carrots in a cannery (my first job, age 16. lasted til the first payday then I left. Never ate another canned carrot after that!)
2. copy-runner in the editorial department of the Vancouver Sun. Had dreams of becoming a crime reporter. Ended up in charge of crime files in the news library. Best job ever!
3. file clerk in the office of a moving/storage company. Ditto. Boring! (left cause I was pregnant)
4. Daycare supervisor in various inner city daycares/preschools. Finally retired after more than 33 years.

FOUR MOVIES I COULD WATCH OVER AND OVER
1. Shirley Valentine (She's my gal!)
2. Hideous Kinky (loved those kids and it was even more precious as it was a true story)
3. Under the Sheltering Sky
4. Alexander (in spite of critics, I've seen it 3 times and just bought the DVD)

FOUR PLACES I'VE LIVED
1. I was born in Estevan but remember Lloyminster Sask. the most
2. Stratford Ontario (I lived here during the war at my Grandpa's)
3. Edmonton Alta.
4. Athens, Greece (my second home. I'd return in a heart-beat!)

FOUR PEOPLE WHO EMAIL ME REGULARLY
1. Anne
2. Judy
3. Cheryl
4. Rei

FOUR TV SHOWS THAT I WATCH
1. The 6 pm or 11 pm news on CTV
2. The Daily Show
3. Sometimes the History Channel
4. Sometimes Leno or Letterman

FOUR PLACES I'D LIKE TO BE RIGHT NOW
1. Athens
2. any of the Greek islands
3. London Eng
4. Wales

FOUR FAVORITE FOODS
1. BBQ chicken
2. tortellini with 4 cheeses and prawns
3. mushroom/cheese burger
4. roast lamb

FOUR PLACES I HAVE VISITED
1. England/Wales/Scotland/Ireland (Dublin)
2. Greece (and many of the islands)
3. Turkey
4. Morocco

FOUR EVENTS I'M LOOKING FORWARD TO THIS YEAR
1. finishing my novel!!!!!
2. making some money from my travel web site
3. my grandson's graduation from university in Santa Barbara CA
4. my visit to Argentina and Chile with Patrick next Nov.

FOUR PEOPLE WHO SHOULD POST FOUR THINGS
1. Sam
2. Debra
3. Gabriel
4. Marie

OK, there ya go, Michael. That kept me occupied for a little while. I've been too fuzzy-brained to work on my novel lately so maybe little bits of fluffy fun like this will help get those creative juices flowing again!

SPRING EQUINOX

2008-03-20T19:14:00.000-07:00

This is the first day of Spring and these were the early signs of what it should look like. Cherry blossoms in bloom.

But this is what it looked like today. Somewhat barren and cold. Spring is here! Why doesn't my heart go dancing?
I had to go downtown to my Memoir group this morning. It was cold, raining and I have come down with a nasty chest cold and cough.
It didn't seem much like the Springtimes I recall from the past. Yet, we on the coast are lucky. Back East they are still up to their armpits in snow!

Today we were writing about the first day of Spring. And this is what I wrote:

On this first day of Spring 2008, I'm longing for sunshine and warmth but instead there's a chill in the air and it's been raining, the skies a gloomy grey. Springtime has always been a time of renewal for me -- as a child livingint he East, it meant shedding the snow suits, bring out the new Spring wardrobe -- quite often made by my mother who was an expert seamstress. I recall skipping down the street in a dreww and cardigan, wearing knee socks instead of those long cotton leotards. Spring broughtout the skipping ropes, jacks, bolo-bats and marbles. Today, it's bringing out th eumbrellas -- again!

There are flowers blooming in some gardens -- the usual crocus and daffs that herald the Spring. The cherry blossoms are just beginnng to bloom and I've seen new leaves sprouting on tree branches. Still, it doesn't seem very "spring-like". Rain here, snow in the East. Spring must be near though as I've heard song birds trilling and usually the birds know when it's time to start nesting (even though the trees are still bare.)

I'm still wearing my winter coat and my wardrobe seems drab and somewhat threadbare. Perhaps if I replentish it, I'd feel more like I did in those choldhood days when I went off to school or to the park on Easter Sunday dolled up in my fancy new Spring clothes. Perhaps if I did some "Spring cleaning" of my house and wardrobek, I'd capture the real spirit of the season. The calendar says Mrch 20th, "Spring Equinox" and it can't be wrong. But to me, Spring still seems a long way off!

DOWN WITH THE FOOD POLICE!

2008-03-09T22:08:00.000-07:00

This is me indulging in my favorite Thursday noon past-time on the Art Gallery bench.

There was a story in the paper last week that someone in City Council is lobbying to have the laws changed for street vendors -- that the good old hot-dog stands have to start serving more 'nutritious' food. Here we go again...first the perfume police scolding you if you dare scent yourself up, now the food police telling us what we should be eating! Every Thursday noon when I'm coming home up Robson St. from my Memoir class, I stop at the vendors and buy a Smokie, with fried onions and sauerkraut with a few dill pickles for trim; an iced tea and a little bag of chips which I may or may not eat right then, likely will save for later. This is my lunch-time snack. I sit on the cement bench of the Art Gallery at the corner across the street and enjoy my lunch while people-watching. Sometimes there are even street entertainers to provide some music or magic while I relax and have my delicious lunch. If I wanted a banana or an apple, I'd likely have brought one from home in my back-pack. If I want to buy fruit, I'll get it at the corner grocery. Or, if they really want to do a good deed to the folks who buy street food, they might consider fruit carts as well as hot-dog stands. But I don't think the hot-dog stands need to be selling fruit and 'nutritious' foods. Anyway, what's not 'nutritious' about an all-beef Smokie wiener, or a turkey hot-dog?

Really, all this 'political correctness' and do-gooding is going a bit far these days. I can agree with taking junk food out of the school (although the kids will get it anyway, at the corner store or local fast-food place). I also agree with the banning of trans-fats and anything else like that which is detrimental to a person's health. But please...don't take away my Smokies and sauerkraut!

A MOMENT IN TIME TO REFLECT

2008-03-04T21:16:00.000-08:00

This is a meme using six words. "A moment in time to reflect"
The purpose is to write a six word memoir. Post it to include a visual, if you like, and forward it to the person who tagged me. (I'm seinding the tag to Marie although she didn't really 'tag' me. I found out about it on her blog. And then, if you like, you tage five more people and nvite them to reply.

I tag Marie
Samantha
Adrian
Daisy
Sally
and
Gabriele

A VALENTINE'S DAY MEMOIR: For All the Men I've Loved Before...

2008-02-14T14:07:00.000-08:00

ANIBAL, Dancing Salsa

Here it is, VALENTINE'S DAY and I have been thinking of times past, and all the men I've loved before...some of whom have left this earth but will never be forgotten. I was walking up the Drive this morning wondering "Who will be my Valentine today?" and remarkably, I immediately bumped into the next best thing to being my 'real' Valentine -- the one I fantacize most about these days -- that gorgeous Frenchman. Ooh-lah-lah. Well that made my day (so far!)

But, still, the others are much on my mind these days so I thought I'd post a couple of love poems, mainly dedicated to my dear departed friend Anibal who left us so tragically two years ago. "We will be friends til the end of time," you said. And yes, Anibal, we will be. Forever!

APHRODITE’S ARROW
(written one night at the Latin Quarter)

A quick-silver spark
like a diamond’s prism
strikes me.
Aphrodite’s silver arrow
turns this cafe bar
into the galaxy.
Reality escapes me.
Fleeting,
swift,
it hits its mark,
sets aflame
the dark night
of my heart.

A HAIKU FOR HAKKI

In a Bodrum market
I buy striped Turkish slippers
Memories of Istanbul.

THREE POEMS FOR ANIBAL

CAPTIVE AUDIENCE
I sat at your feet
a disciple at the feet of the Master
I listened to your stories
of shanty towns, poverty
President Allende dying in his bombed-out palace
Victor Jara, the musician/poet,
his hands crushed,
beaten to death in the Stadium
because he sang for the people.
I learned about social injustice
from you.
You taught me well.
Urged by your political passion
I joined marches,
raised my voice with the populace:
Peace, not War!
You captivated me,
I was your willing audience.
Your smile lit up my world
like a blaze of Chilean sun.
I absorbed every story you told.
Hundreds of Chileans died you said,
tortured, beaten,
some dropped from helicopters into the sea.
Thousands disappeared.
You were imprisoned,
Ran for your life across the mountains
into Argentina
disguised as a priest.
Over glasses of Chilean wine
red as blood
you told how you had to flee again,
this time on a plane bound for Canada.
I shared your anguish
though I could never truly experience your pain.
Exiled, torn from your roots
like a tree blown down in a fierce storm.
this stormy life of yours
enveloped me,
I was swept into the vortex of your melancholy,
submerged under the waves of your nostalgia,
drowned in the sea of your despair.

THE GARDEN

In the arbour
under a tangle of vines
the artist wields his brush.
Strokes the canvas lightly
spreading colours: pink and lavender and yellow.
Flower petals take shape.
A garden is revealed.
I remember the touch of your fingers
on my arm,
soft as a brush stroke
awakening a garden in my heart.

LET THERE BE POETRY

Let the words flow
Let them pour forth
eroding the stones
of my desolatenesses.
Let them cascade
like tears
and flow
forming pools where
water lilies bloom
and dragon flies dance
in the sunshine
of my inspiration.

Written August 2005 in Van Duesen Gardens when he was in Palliative Care.

A WINTER DAY

2008-01-30T16:07:00.000-08:00

My Street in the Snow

We had some snow over the past couple of days here on the Coast. In some parts of the Lower Mainland it was really snowed in and a fair amount fell here in the city yesterday as well. Of course, by today it's all turned slushy. A shame. Because I love the snow, always have, ever since I was a child.

I was born on the Prairies so snow was a big part of my early childhood. Later we moved to Ontario where the winters are also long and cold. I remember walking to school along the road with the snow banks piled higher than my head, and taking a short-cut across the river on the ice. When we moved to the Coast in 1947 I was afraid there wouldn't be any snow. In fact, my mother made me give away my skis.
But much to my delight, there usually was a bit of snow in winter time. And on rare occasions it even got cold enough skate on Lost Lagoon in Stanley Park, and go sleigh-riding on the hills.

For several years in the '60's I lived up north again, in Edmonton, and there it was very cold in winter. I recall on winter when, with the wind chill, it was 90 below F. for a solid week. Everything stopped. Schools were closed, mail delivery suspended, and everyone stayed indoors bundled up. We even got certificates to commemorate the excessive cold snap.

So here on the mild west Coast where when it does snow it doesn't usually stay around for too long, and it never gets that excessively cold, I can't understand why people complain. Of course, funny thing about the Coast, people complain in summer too. When it's rainy too late in the season, they complain. When it warms up they complain it's too hot. When it rains again, they complain about that and when it snows, it's a major disaster. After all, it IS winter. And it's no surprise when it snows here as it always has at some point during December to February.

It was fun yesterday to see kids out on sleds. It reminded me of when I was a child. We always had lots of fun in the snow building forts and having snow-ball fights. In Edmonton it got cold enough to flood the back yards and have your own skating rink. So, I'm glad it snowed. And I wish it would stay longer, and not get all slushy and soggy like it always does here. Winter is fun. Especially when the sun shines and the sky is blue and all that white stuff sparkles!

A Snowy day in the Park

WHO AM I?

2008-01-12T18:00:00.000-08:00

Me, as Persephone.

Who am I? A friend was asking me why I have a different name on my blog. The name says "Wynn Bexton". And why didn't I change it? "Because,"I said, "that's my other name!" Well, actually, it's my pen name. However I've come to really like that name and don't mind at all if people call my "Wynn". After all, it's actually a Welsh name, kind of a derivative of my real first name "Winifred". And "Bexton", which surely has Saxon roots, was my mother's maiden name.
I chose "Wynn Bexton" quite some time ago as a great name to use for writing and publishing historical fiction. So, that's my other name, and I'm sticking with it!

I do have other personas, besides the 'real' me, though. Because I'm a Gemini, I'm allowed to have more than one, actually several. Since I was a child I always loved costumes and pretending to be other characters. When I was a teen, I considered using the name "Cam Alexander" as I thought that sounded cool. Nobody loves it more than me when there's a chance to dress in a costume and assume a different role. I've put up pictures of me dressed as a few of my favorites here on my blog. I wish I had the photo of me as "Miss Piggy". That was a hoot!

Me, as Jack Kerouac

The first picture on this page is me as Persephone, the Earth Mother. My writer's group often has these theme weekends when we go away for writer's retreats. That one was the Rites of Spring. I really liked playing Persephone and think she suited me.

This next picture is me as my writer-hero, Jack Kerouac. This was a retreat where we got to dress like our favorite literary hero and read from his/her writing.
And actually I adopted this 'costume' as my writer's garb and often wear it, especially the little black cap which has become a sort of my signature. I have one of my Jack Kerouac photos up on Facebook and another writer friend of mine says I should use it for the cover of my novel when it's published.

Me, as a pirate. Aargh, Matey!

This third picture is me as a pirate. I am certain that in another life I was a pirate or a gypsy. I've always been intrigued by these characters. And the life I lead is a rather gypsy/pirate sort of life (well, I don't plunder and raid, but I do travel a lot and I am fond of exotic destinations.) When I was a kid I was fascinated with pirate stories, next came Robin Hood, then Zorro. So when we had a Pirate's Weekend on one of our writer's retreats I jumped at the opportunity to dress up like one of my storybook characters. Aaargh, matey!
(I must add that this weekend was one of the most memorable we've ever had. We even had a search for buried treasure!)

Well, who am I anyway? I'm a kid at heart, a gypsy - that's for sure - and a true romantic/adventurer. I'm also a mother, grandmother, sister, auntie and friend to many - young and old. I'm a writer and a dreamer, sometimes an artist, and a singer. Once I wanted to be a jazz singer, but I mostly sang in church. I'm a lover of jazz and Latin music and classical too. I listen to music constantly. I love to dance and wished I could have been a ballerina. Once I studied flamenco dancing too. I love words and books. I love travelling and I'm a travel journalist. I love life. And I'm glad I'm ME.

Who am I, really? I have several names, "Wynn Bexton" is one of my favorites. I'm also known as
Ruthaki (my Greek nickname), Ruthita (by my latino friends) and Ruthie (by my friends.)

DOLLS

2007-12-27T11:10:00.000-08:00

Me (age six) and my baby sister with my doll buggy
in the snow, Lloydminster, Sask.

NOTE: This was written a couple of years ago. I haven't checked on what kind of dolls are currently popular with little girls. When I was a child I much preferred paper dolls, which I found a very creative form of play, building cardboard houses for them and designing extra costumes for them or cutting out my own from Sears catalogues. It was my little sister who adored dolls the most and perhaps this is what gave her the early experience of being a 'mother' as when she grew up she had a large family and now has many grandkids which she loves having around her. She even has an expensive collection of porcelain dolls on display. I've still got my old dolls though, nostalgic treasures from my childhood.

The other day I paid a visit to the toy department of a big department store. I was hoping to see Santa Claus, to let him know I haven't been naughty. But the old fellow wasn't in, so I decided to browse around and see what sort of new toys he'll be leaving for the kiddies this year.

I wandered into an entire section of Toyland devoted to that voluptuous high-fashion super-model doll, Barbie.

On a wide screen video, three middle age women -- Barbara Cartland types -- were showing off their Barbie collections and gloating, in sugary terms, over how many of these dolls they own. (One had several hundred). They were gushing and gooing over their Barbies like obsessed, doting mothers doting over little girls made up to look like Dolly Parton...those kids who are exploited and displayed in kiddie beauty contests.

As I listened to their prattle, I looked over the shelves and racks of Barbies, her playmates and accessories to see just was IS going on these days in the world of dolls. Aren't dolls supposed to be the 'perfect gift' for every little girl? And aren't dolls meant to be played with? When I heard one of these wanna-be beauty-queen 'moms' gasp "Oh, we NEVER take them out of their boxes!" I almost choked. How can you play with a doll in a box?

I remember when my daughter, age five, got her first Barbie for Christmas. Barbie was still new then, and just as popular as she is now, only back then Barbie was made for little girls to play with. Moms, like me, had fun making all her delicate wardrobe. I recall the pleasant hours I spent that Christmas sewing cute little outfits, designing fur-trimmed coats and glittering evening gowns, and knitting tiny sweaters. I had as much fun assembling Barbie's wardrobe as my daughter did playing with her. It didn't cost me a week's wages either - just the pleasant time I spent sewing and knitting.

Back then, Barbie had a little sister, Skipper. She was my favorite. I made her wardrobe too. She was about my daughter's age, a little more suitable for a child than her big-breasted older sister Barbie. I looked for Skipper on the shelves of Toyland, but she wasn't there. Instead, there's a bevy of newcomers, none of them as cute as Skipper. Did Skipper grow up and elope with G.I. Joe, I wonder?

There's a tiny tot in the new collection. What clandestine things have been going on between Barbie and her long-time boyfriend Ken, when Toyland's shops are closed for the night? I see Barbie’s wedding dress, but does anyone remember an actual wedding?

Yes, ever faithful Ken is still around, showing off his array of trendy costumes and disguises. Ken even has his own car, boat, RV and sports equipment to keep him occupied. perhaps he even has a secret girlfriend on the side, because Barbie is so popular and busy. She has all kinds of toys and accessories for herself too, including her own house and furnishings.

There's no end of Barbies. They come in every colour and style, from the old fashioned '50's version to the deluxe year 2000 model. Prices range from affordable to exorbitantly pricey. One of these fancy-dressed Barbies is priced at over $1500. Barbie isn't a little girl’s doll anymore. She's a super star. To be politically correct, in keeping with the times, she now comes in assorted colours. There's a whole range of ethnic Barbies wearing national costumes, priced about $80.

Then there is trendy tattooed Barbie, cheerleader Barbie, Barbie the baseball player and aerobic exerciser, Barbie the nurse, secretary teacher, movie star, fashion model, and soap opera diva. Even Cinderella Barbie and Princess Barbie. Barbie loves Frank Sinatra and is posed in a stage-prop box beside a man-doll likeness of the famous singer. (I wonder if he sings.)

I am overwhelmed by this extravaganza! What became of dolls that wear baby clothes and cry "Mama" when you tip them over, and close their little eyes when you tuck them into their cradles? Where is cute little Baby Wettums who peed on your knee when you fed her from her tiny bottle? And remember the rag dolls grandma made with braided wool hair and checked dresses covered with crisp white pinafores? What ever happened to good old Raggedy Ann and Andy? Remember Chatty Cathy, the first real 'talking' doll? The Christmas my daughter got her from Santa, my son overheard us playing with her and realized Santa was a hoax. Now Chatty's been replaced by that goofy red-haired Tickle-me-Elmo critter and weird Furby, another pair who caused a sensational buying frenzy by ADULTS who price-gouged and went nuts in their quest to obtain these dumb toys as gifts (or for collections). Just as a couple of years ago rag dolls were replaced by that ugly stuffed Cabbage Patch Doll, another ridiculous 'fad' perpetuated by ADULTS.

When we were kids, my sister and I got dolls from Santa that were real DOLLS. Our Mom got great plasure making their wardrobes, just as I enjoyed sewing clothes for my daughter's dolls. I wasn't much interested in playing with dolls, prefering instead the paper variety that stimulated a lot of dramatic play. But my little sister was crazy about dolls. During the War, Dad sent her a life-size baby doll from Belgium. His name was Peter. He had baby-soft skin and blue glass eyes that moved as if he was really looking at you. Dressed in a real baby's layette, Peter could pass as a newborn. One day my sister took baby Peter for a walk in his little pram. A frantic neighbor rushed to our house to report that Jeanie had 'kidnapped' somebody's baby. Mom tried to explain that it was only a doll, but the neighbor was convinced Jean had taken somebody's baby because she said she heard it crying. She didn't know my sister could do a perfect crying baby impersonation.

You can't put Barbie or her runty little side-kicks in a pram or a doll's cradle and pretend they are real babies like little Peter. You can't feed them and they won't pee on your knee. But amazingly, Barbie's popularity never wanes, perhaps thanks to the collectors who are willing to pay outrageous prices just to have a fancy doll to show off in a display case. Even my sister has a collection of dolls -- china dolls, babies included, who live on the shelves of a display case in her rec room.

Once in awhile I unpack the little girl doll with the Shirley Temple dimples that was the very last doll Santa brought me one Christmas long ago. She's still wearing her original yellow bonnet and dress, though she's lost her shoes. Her auburn hair is slightly moth-eaten, and she's showing her age. She reminds me of a time when dolls were dolls and little girls played at being Moms. Wasn't that the purpose of dolls in the first place? And isn't that what used to make them the perfect gift for little girls to find under the Christmas tree?

CHRISTMAS IS 'ACOMIN'....

2007-12-14T22:03:00.000-08:00

Christmas tree in the main square,
Santiago de Chile, December 2006

Christmas is 'acomin' and the goose is getting fat,
Please put a penny in the old man's hat.
If you haven't got a penny, then a ha'penny will do.
If you haven't got a ha'penny, the God bless you!

Yes, it's that time of year again and everything is getting to look mighty festive around here in spite of the rain and gloomy days.
I was looking at this photo and reminiscing how last year in early December, I was visiting my friend Cecilia in Santiago de Chile.
They were putting up this immense Christmas tree in the Square in front of the Cathedral. At first it was just a skeletal frame-work. The men who were in charge of decorating it had to climb up very high on ladders or on the frame to wrap around the garlands and lights. It took them several days to complete it and this was the final results. A very pretty, very tall tree.

The other week I was in downtown Vancouver passing by the Art Gallery and saw a similar sight, although that tree was probably only half the size as the one in Santiago, and the men had a cherry-picker machine to lift them up to put on the decorations. I saw it once it was finished but somehow it didn't look as impressive as the Santiago tree did.

I've celebrated Christmas in Greece where there was a big artificial tree put up in Syntagma Square with lights covering it, but not the greenery that we see in the Santiago tree. My first Christmas in Greece back in 1983 was a bit disappointing, as they don't celebrate the holiday in quite the same way we do. But I made the best of it and bought a little laurel plant at the market which I decorated with tinsel and a few small ornaments and tiny string of lights.

I haven't had a real tree for Christmas for the last couple of years, just a small gold ornamental tree. But this year, because I needed a new big plant, and my cousin is coming for the holidays, I decided to buy a 'real' potted tree, a Norfolk Pine, quite pretty. I'll put some lights and decorations on it and it will take the place of the usual fir or pine tree. Trouble is, it isn't fragrant. So I think I'll buy some fresh boughs from the tree seller to give the room the essence of Christmas. Maybe some mistletoe too, though I don't know who will come to kiss me under it. At any rate, it will be a nice Christmas, as usual. Already my apartment is beginning to look very festive!

JUSTICE?

2007-12-12T09:57:00.001-08:00

WEDNESDAY, December 12, 2007

It's time to get on the soap-box again. This week there have been several trial events that have had country-wide (if not world-wide) attention. After ten months of grueling trial, some of the details of which were too gruesome to comprehend, the infamous serial killer, Willie Pickton, was finally sentenced: life on each of six counts of second degree murder, with no chance of appeal for parole for 25 years. He still has to face 20 more counts of murder so it seems very certain he'll never walk free again in his lifetime.

The police, and others including victim's families were disappointed as there were many pages of evidence unadmissible to the court in order for a 'fair' trial, he was only found guilty of 'second degree' murder (because the jury couldn't find proof for intent to kill).
Unfortunately, some of that unadmissible evidence may have swayed the decision. The day after the sentencing, the newspapers ran copies of letters Pickton had written to a pen-pale in which he states that "God put him on earth to rid the world of evil doers..." At any rate, most people feel it is certain he was not in on this alone and it's just unfortunate the police could never pin anything on the other culprits -- namely his brother. The whole things has been a hideous tragedy, and yesterday when the families read their victim's impact statements, the were lots of tears, as well as rejoicing for justice done on behalf of the victims. Pickton had nothing to say. Witnesses described him as 'dead', stone cold, icy and unemotional. His defence lawyer wouldn't let him speak in court. And, strangely, there didn't seem to any sign of his 'supporters', including his brother or other family members. Was 'justice' really done if these other suspects are never called into account?

The same day, another court room scene unfolded with the sentencing of two youths (part of a trio) who attacked another youth, beat him, sprayed him with pepper spray and took an ax to him, rendering him a quadriplegic for life. They were tried as 'adult's rather 'youth' but still, the one lout got only 3 years less 1 year already served and the other got 20 months of community service and house arrest. This kid was smirking and laughing the courtroom so now there is to be an inquiry into the lenient sentencing. The mother of the victim was angry, as can be well expected. Her son is suffering and incapacitated for life and these thugs get away with it. The third one is due to be sentenced later this week and lets hope they throw the book at him -- as they should have with these two. Is this 'justice'?

Then there's the arrogant S.O.B. Conrad Black who still refuses to admit any wrong after bilking millions from investors and walks away with a mere 6 years prison term. His team of high-paid defense lawyers claim they'll appeal and get him off with an even lighter sentence. Money talks, obviously. And certainly there are a lot of his 'victim's' who will cry 'injustice' here.

Sometimes it makes you wonder, about our court system. In all three cases it seems that the victims were let down although at least Pickton will never go free again. It's just hoped that the next long trial, for the 20 other victims, will go ahead as planned. These women deserve justice.