CHRISTMAS AT GRANDPA’S

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

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

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

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

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

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'?

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...

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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!