HOW I CELEBRATED MY BIRTHDAY

Ever since I was a small child, birthdays have been special for me.  My mother always prepared special surprised and held parties for me when I was a kid and later, as a teen, she'd ask what special meal I'd liked her to cook.  I'd invite my class-mates over to do fun things like pull taffy and play games like 'spin the bottle'.  Even as an adult I've loved special birthday parties.  For some years I used to hold "Gemini Parties" and invite all the Geminis I knew (as well as other friends). One year the Geminis were told to bring their favorites cakes. There were a lot of strawberry shortcakes (my favorite), peach upside down cakes and other similar goodies.  The first year I went to live in Greece I wanted a special "Canadian" birthday.  I invited friends to meet up on Filopappou Hill.  My Gemini soul-brother Robbie (an artist from Argentina) drew maps for the invitees.  I got some wieners, buns, marshmallows and of course the bottles of wine and beer.  We couldn't light a bonfire so we cooked the wieners in a little gas cooker for our 'weiner roast'.  It was a merry crowd. Some people got lost on the way up and took time out to drink their wine. So by the time the group gathered they were really into party mode.  For a couple of years here in Vancouver I celebrated together with my friend Susan who is also a Gemini.  We often went to the Latin Quarter (now closed) for our parties.  But this year I wanted something different.  It happened to be the Powell River Blues Festival weekend so my friend Cheryl and I decided that we'd go up to celebrate.  My son Steve was organizer and host of the Festival and I knew a lot of the musicians too.  So we made our reservations for the weekend at the lovely Beach Gardens Resort where they Festival was held.

We left home early Saturday morning and drove to Horseshoe Bay to get the Sunshine Coast ferry.  It's a lovely drive up the coast and although the weather was somewhat overcast, we were hopeful that it would clear.  And it did, by the time we had traveled the long winding road up to Earls Cove to wait for the second ferry that would take us to Saltry Bay.

It wasn't a long wait and we enjoyed the scenery.  The sky was beginning to clear too. And pretty soon we were aboard the ferry.

The coast of British Columbia is one of the most scenic places in the world, and even when it's overcast and a bit damp it's still an enjoyable trip.  The ferry from Earls Cove to Saltry Bay was fast, like the Horseshoe Bay ferry -- a bit less than an hour.

The drive up to Powell River is also windy but Cheryl is an excellent driver.  All along the roadside were banks of bright yellow gorse which made a pretty sight.  We finally arrived at the Beach Gardens around noon.  The receptionist had our room key ready and an envelope with our guest passes for the Festival.  And Steve and Sue were there to greet us too!  We were shown to our room (with a view of the beach). Ah! what a beautiful sight!

After a little rest and some lunch on the terrace, we went up to the Festival site to enjoy an afternoon for Blues and fun with friends.

The highlight of that afternoon was the incredible show performed by singer Robin Banks, backed by my son Steve and the West Coast Blues All Stars.

We also enjoy the other bands especially the afternoon closing act of the Strange Tones, a group from Portland Oregon that got the place rockin' with their upbeat music and go-go girl dancers.

We retired to our room for awhile (Cheryl loves watching the hockey games!) We were both pretty tired, especially Cheryl after that long drive, so she went to sleep and I went down to the dining room and had a bowl of the most delicious sea-food chowder I've ever tasted.  There was an evening jam happening, but unfortunately I felt too tired to take it in.  Needed to save myself for the next day which was my Birthday!

In the morning, we remembered it was the Queen's 60th Jubilee so we turned on the TV to watch and managed to see the flotilla up the Thames.  So there I was early on my birthday morning, sitting in bed sipping pink bubbly while watching the Queen!

Chilean pink bubbly was definitely the drink of the day! And that's how the birthday celebration began.

It was raining that morning so Cheryl and I decided to take a little tour of the old town of Powell River. (I'll post a special blog about that later).  We had a great morning exploring and had brunch in one of the towns oldest hotels, then set off to explore. Of course Cheryl wanted to visit the local brewery and we even got to do a wine tasting.  Then we did some photos of heritage buildings and set off to take a look at the old hulls anchored off shore where divers practice.  While we were down on the beach we spotted a bald eagle up on the cable wires and lots of interesting things on the beach such as a jelly fish and star fish. Then on the way back we saw a deer run across the road in front of the car.  We headed back to the Beach Gardens in time for the afternoon show. And the sun came out just in time too!

Steve and his group were backing up Mitch Wood (on keyboards) and his Rocket 88s.  A great band.  At one point Mitch made an announcement that there was a special guest celebrating her birthday. Me! And they sang happy birthday to me. That rounded off the program for the weekend and a very successful Festival and made it an extra special day for me.

Now it was time for the birthday dinner.  I ordered a cup of that delicious seafood chowder along with linguine with scallops and prawns. Yummy!

We also had Cajun oysters for appetizers.

The whole gang of musicians was there too so it was a nice party. It was a surprise when the waitress brought in a little chocolate birthday cake with a candle and sparkler. And again everyone sang Happy Birthday to me.

After dinner we went to the special party that was thrown for the volunteers and enjoyed an evening of more music at the jam in the PowWow Room.  That really rounded off the weekend of great music and fun. That night there was a spectacular full moon enveloped in clouds that gave it a dramatic effect.

The next day (Monday) we headed back home and for a treat stopped at Molly's Reach Cafe in Gibsons Landing which used to be part of the set of the old Beachcombers TV series. 

Right across from Gibsons I could see Keats Island where our family used to have a summer home.  That made for some nostalgic memories.  Then we headed on down the road to catch the Horseshoe Bay ferry back home.

It was definitely one of the special birthday parties I'll always remember! Thanks Cheryl, Steve, Sue and all the others who made it so memorable and fun for me!

A BAD HAIR DAY (1952)

After my visit to the Museum of Vancouver last week, and finding another example of one of these hideous electric hair perming machines, I decided to revive a story I'd written a couple of years ago and submitted to the BC Museum in Victoria when they had a large display of memorabalia.  The story went along with the instrument of 'torture' after I'd  remembered all those unpleasant memories of a real 'bad hair day'!

Old fashioned electric perm marchine 

 Back in 1952 when I was soon to graduate from Britannia High School in Vancouver, there was a popular hair style called the ‘poodle cut’.  It was a short hair cut, permed into a soft curly style resembling a poodle’s pom-pom.  A lot of my classmates were having their hair styled this way for our grad, and I wanted to be like them.

 It happened that my Mom and little sister both came down with scarlet fever and were quarantined as they did in those days and I had to go and stay with a family friend, a very kind old lady named Mrs. Grey.  I told Mrs. Grey how much I wanted a poodle cut.  So one day she gave me some money and told me to go up to Commercial Drive and make a hair appointment.

Up to this time, my Mom always cut and permed my hair.  So it was quite a thrill for this teenager to have an appointment at a real beauty salon.  I felt somewhat daunted when I saw the electric perm machine, something left over from the ’30’s,  a kind of weird thing like you‘d see in a mad scientist‘s lab. But I was determined to get my ‘poodle cut‘.  The woman cut my hair, then rolled it up in the perm rollers.  The perm machine worked on electricity. As I sat under it, I could feel it sear my scalp and I smelled  burning hair. When the procedure was finished and the rollers were removed, to my horror I looked as if I had been zapped by 220 volts of lightening!  My hair was frizzed like a Hottentots.  You couldn’t even get a comb through it.  What a frizzy mess!  I was in tears.  I wouldn’t go out without a kerchief on for days and even missed school because I was so embarrassed.  How could I face my class-mates looking like such a freak?  I didn’t realize I was pre-dating the Afro hair style of the late ‘60’s and ‘70’s. 

   My "poodle cut" after Mom had cut off most of the frizz!

 Fortunately, my Mom soon recovered enough for me to return home.  She immediately set to work on my ruined mop with her clippers.  She had to cut off most of my hair. Even then it was still tight and frizzy. When I returned to school, the older guy that I had a crush on started calling me Puppy Dog.  He’d pat me on the head every time I passed him in the hall.  At least he was paying attention to me.  After all, I did look like a poodle! 

Valentine Themes #3: THE SHEPHERD

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

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"

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

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

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

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

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.

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!)

*   *   *

CHRISTMAS ON A SHOESTRING

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.

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, 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"

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.