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!

DON'T MESS WITH MY CHRISTMAS!

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

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

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

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

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

REMEMBERING

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT A GREAT PARTY!

 

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

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

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

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

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

"BUT HE'S A GOOD BOY!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

CRYING THE BLUES

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

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

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

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

A WEEKEND OF BLUES & JAZZ

ENJOYING THE SHOW
At Maple Ridge

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

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

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

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

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

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

SMOKEY ROBINSON AT THE BURNABY BLUES/ROOTS FESTIVAL

THE SURPRISE BIRTHDAY PARTY!

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

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

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

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

MY FAMILY

STANDING STILL

 

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

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

ONE STEP FORWARD, ONE STEP BACK.

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

DANCING AWAY SOME POUNDS. WEEK 8, GI DIET PLAN

LES GIRLS DANCING ON NEW YEARS EVE

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

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

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

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

STEVE PLAYING BLUES GUITAR AND SUE DANCING

STARTING WEEK#7 ON A LOW NOTE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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