Bibliography XI

“A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms” – George R.R. Martin

Live from Westeros!

I’m done with the TV series, but a book about Westeros is always welcome. Last Christmas, it was The World of Ice and Fire, which also won my award for “Pretentious Coffee Table Book of the Year”. A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms houses the stories of Ser Duncan the Tall and his squire, Egg, which take place well ahead of A Song of Ice and Fire. I read the first one in an anthology some years ago and loved it. GRRM has written more, obviously, and I think I read a second Dunk-and-Egg tale in another anthology, so when I heard that our heroes were getting their own collection in one cover, I was on it … but I did not tell Ter about it and it was soon forgotten in a landslide of other priorities.

As a writer, I completely understand the concept of spinoff. It differs from a series in that the serial storyline is broken. Create a world for one set of characters and eventually, if it’s done right, a host of other inhabitants will clamour to have their stories told. When (if) the original project gets out of hand, you can still enjoy being there by focusing on lesser known people or a different period in that world’s history. As a reader, I admit to being somewhat disappointed when a side project pops out, especially if I’m waiting for the next volume in a larger series, and I don’t usually invest in side projects. I guess I see them as indulgences for the author. I certainly write them as such, with no eye to anything other than completing a work for the sheer fun of it. Calling on familiar characters in a familiar environment helps with the “fun” part.

Writing a series is hard work. I can imagine that the success of GoT has catapulted GRRM into a bit of a quandary, too. Maybe he doesn’t want to finish the novels. Maybe it’s no fun anymore. Maybe he’s afraid to disappoint or fall short or be unduly influenced by what happens next on the TV series. In his position, I would check all of the above. Evidence of distraction/avoidance is everywhere, most notably in the absence of the sixth novel.

Or, in my own personal case, the seventh.

At any rate, A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms will entertain and inspire me, and serve as a reminder of why I first became a fan. GRRM was a darn good writer before the galactic hoopla happened. My hope is that his standards remain something to which someone like me can aspire.

Bibliography X

“Nevermore (a Cal Leandros novel)” – Rob Thurman

How the &$^%#* did I not know about this book? Imagine my surprise—and Ter’s unbridled glee—when I peeled the paper from a book-shaped Christmas prezzie and spied Cal Leandros on the cover!

I think I screamed.

One of the questions in a getting-to-know-you survey for a work conference last November was Which character from your favourite book would you like to meet? I chickened out and picked Louis de Pointe du Lac. Cal is so scary that I picked a vampire instead of him.

Yes, I love him. I think he’s f***ing awesome … but do I want to meet him?

Hell, no.

What really messed me up was how Ter knew that this, the tenth in the series, had been released and I didn’t. “Easy,” she replied. “I got an email from amazon.”

Oh, right. I haven’t purchased a Cal novel online for years. The last was Blackout, which put me on amazon’s reminder list, but when they advised me that Doubletake was due, I went to Munro’s Books and had them order my copy. I did the same with Slashback the following year. I got the nudge about Downfall , but because it came out close to September, I bugged Ter into getting it for my birthday in stead of buying it myself. Three strikes, I’m out, and now she gets the notifications.

Am I disappointed?

Hell, no! It was the best stunner ever! She’s still so proud of herself that she snickers when she sees me buried in it (I read the prologue before breakfast on Christmas Day); again, it’s a breakneck run-for-your-life shoot-’em-up roller coaster ride with my half-human, half-monster hero at the wheel. I read these novels so fast that I have to read them again when I’m done, to catch the details. They are primarily entertainment, but I’ve learned a lot about writing urban fantasy from them, too. I have to admit, despite my love and respect for The Vampire Chronicles and A Song of Ice and Fire, I have a soft spot in my heart for incorrigible Cal that puts the ongoing trauma of his fight to survive so high on my list of favourites that he may very well be the champion.

He’s a guilty pleasure, for sure.

Bibliography IX

“Big Magic” – Elizabeth Gilbert

I count on Nicole to ferret out helpful gems for my creativity. Over the years, she has gifted me with essays on writing by Ray Bradbury and Henry Miller, the collected poetry of Pablo Neruda, and a kick-in-the-butt called “Do the Work” by Steven Pressfield (who also wrote “The War of Art”, which has to be one of the best titles ever). Like Ter, she does the heavy reading and sends me the highlights, which I then take to the lab for testing myself. This year, she surprised me with this book by the author of “Eat, Pray, Love”, which I have not read but may very well pick up before 2016 is finished.

You know you’re on to something when a new book falls open and this line catches your eye:

“My novel was gone.”

Ms. Gilbert elaborates, describing how the idea for a novel that had once thrilled and motivated her, due to life going seriously sideways for a spell, fell out of her head. She had lived, breathed and researched this wonderful magical new story, then had to put it on hold to deal with a personal crisis. Returning to her novel a year later, she discovered that her enthusiasm had not only waned, the idea itself had disappeared and she was left with a great gaping void where her brilliant story should have been. Try as she might, she couldn’t rekindle the passion that had obsessed her at the start.

Eerie, how a woman whose work I do not know could so acutely describe my own sentiment regarding my own novel. Oh, the idea is still there; at least I still have that, but my enthusiasm for it is not what it once was. Reading those few pages of Liz Gilbert’s dilemma has me utterly intrigued, and hopeful that her insight might do me some good in the big picture. Creativity is a specialized energy, but it’s available to everyone. Nic says that her copy of “Big Magic” is underlined, highlighted and scribbled in, which hints at a resource of equal or greater value to Roget and Webster. More importantly, she sees something in it that she believes will benefit me.

She’s my sister in propinquity. I bet she’s right.

Read = Write

The best gift for a writer—this writer, anyway—is always a book. It’s true that I am more inclined to write if I am reading at the same time. The more interesting the book, the more creative I tend to be. Books educate and inspire. They entertain. Sometimes they do all three at once.

Those are the best books.

I scored a bibliophilic hat trick this Christmas. Three of my dearest, most discerning friends each discovered the perfect tome to adorn my collection. Also included in the loot is a Game of Thrones colouring book—I may be scunnered at the TV show, but I remain loyal to the novels.

My annual relishing of The Night Circus ended on Christmas Eve. Perfect timing, even though it was unplanned. I started reading before vacation and found myself lost in that world once more, admiring the beauty in every scene, hanging on every word spoken by Celia and Marco in their moments together. A masterpiece of poetry in prose, of painting in words. A wonderful, magical, mystical tale that’s a good start to the holidays even though it’s not a holiday piece. If it pays homage to any occasion, it’s Hallowe’en.

Previously, I had been trying to get through a book that proved unable to engage me. The premise was a good one, but the narrative was mediocre and the characters were painful. A good book has me either reading it every night or carrying it around with me in the event of spontaneous tea breaks. With this one, days would pass between one chapter and the next; I almost had to discipline myself to pick it up of a night. Finally, with November on the horizon and no hope of finishing the sucker before my annual visit to The Night Circus, I called it quits.

Needless to say, I wrote nothing during my struggle to enjoy it. Perhaps my life was hectic enough to provide a weak excuse, but I firmly believe that whatever I am reading at any one time exerts some influence on my own production. My happy place is the space between the real and the surreal. I don’t read much non-fiction, and the autobiographies of icons are only engaging if they’re well-written. (An interesting life is not so interesting when penned by an inept hand.) My imagination can be triggered, however, by a random photo in a pretentious coffee table book—it’s true when they say a picture is worth a thousand words. Some are worth a thousand pages!

With that in mind, my next few posts are about the latest additions to my library and what I hope to achieve by reading them.

Enjoy (but not as much as I will!)

Christmas Eve 2015

I drove a friend home after tea on Christmas Eve. It was just after five o’clock, fully dark and sprinkling a bit. Some, but not much traffic. One of the local radio stations had gone all-holiday hits for the week preceding Christmas, so Tig’s radio was set to that channel for the duration. The volume was low with company in the car, but after I dropped Treena at her place, I turned it up to catch a Christmas song on my drive home. It’s only ten minutes, through a winding, tree-lined neighbourhood removed from the main artery to/from downtown. Plenty long enough for one, maybe two tunes. Simon and Garfunkel’s “Silent Night” would be lovely in the burgeoning stillness.

I turn left at the four-way stop. The commercial set ends and lo, “Mele Kalikimaka” starts up. Sigh … but hey, it’s a Christmas song and it’s not as if I don’t know the words.

“Mele Kalikimaka is the thing to say on a bright Hawaiian Christmas Day …”

I’m singing with der Bingle. Tig is cruising down the hill, wipers occasionally clearing Christmas-coloured raindrops from the windshield. Fairy lights glow in gardens and on gabled rooftops. I am warm and, for the first time in a few days, alone. I reach the one traffic light on my route. A single set of headlights beams at me from across the intersection. Red turns green, we each roll forward in opposite directions, then I have the street to myself. The song (mercifully) ends. With luck, I won’t be looping it for the rest of the evening, and there’s still time for another.

What I get is an update from NORAD. The base in North Bay is monitoring communications and confirms that Santa has left the North Pole. As soon as he reaches Canadian airspace, jets will be scrambled to provide a military escort … and for some oddball reason, a tingle of excitement runs up my spine. For a singular moment, I feel the magic of Christmas Eve in a way I haven’t felt since I was little. Santa is coming; he’s on his way …

I’m glad to be alone when it happens, even though it’s the first thing I blurt to Ter when I come through the door.

It was nice to discover that I’m not as immune, as grown up, as I believe I am.

God Bless Us ...

... every one.

Peak-A-Boo

It’s two days before Christmas and I’m almost done. Really. I’ve got a few more sock stuffers to get and we’re baking cookies this afternoon, but everything else is pretty well finished … including me!

Don’t get me wrong. I love Christmas. The lights, the music, the socializing, the food; it’s a kaleidoscope of colour and sound that remains unmatched by any other season.

It’s also exhausting. And with retailers out to score as much coin as they can in the precious few weeks surrounding the holiday, it’s easy to resent the occasion as much as anticipate it.

I managed to pace myself this year, squeezing in little bouts of shopping during coffee and lunch breaks before vacation, and running at warp speed to complete the to-do list once free of my harness. (Thank the gods for the magical “third paycheque” this month.) I’ve visited with family and attended too many celebratory teas/lunches/parties with my co-workers. I’ve enjoyed it all, but I’ll be happy when it’s over … kind of the way my father feels when visitors depart for home.

Last year, Ter and I bundled up and took a walk through the neighbourhood late on Christmas Eve. It was clear night and the sky spread wide overhead was sprinkled with stars. I don’t know why a winter sky sparkles more intensely than any other sky. Maybe it’s our distance from the sun that makes the darkness darker and the starlight frostier. No risk of a repeat this year—rain is in the forecast—but the silence close to midnight was sublime.

That’s the moment I treasure most at Christmas. The stores are closed, the presents wrapped and the pantry stocked. Neighbours, friends and family have been duly cherished and are tucked into their own homes to celebrate their own Christmas Days. The wee bears spend the night with their tree, lights on, and I go to sleep knowing I’ve done all I can even if it wasn’t all I wanted to do.

That’s when snow would be welcome.

Merry Christmas.

With love,

“Cookies For Santa”

The kids are decorating cookies when five-year-old Eric pipes up:

“My friend Jimmy says Santa isn’t real.”

“Jimmy doesn’t believe in Santa. If you don’t believe in him, then he isn’t real.”

“Well, I believe in him … but I have some questions.”

A bemused silence falls before Becky prompts him. “Like what?”

“Like how come we put out milk when he’d rather have a beer?”

“A beer? Who told you that?”

“Grandpa.”

Becky rolls her eyes, but Grandpa passed away last year and it would be disrespectful to say what she’s thinking.

“And what if he’d rather have a gingersnap or shortbread instead of a sugar cookie?”

“These aren’t sugar cookies,” Becky says. “They’re Christmas cookies, and Santa likes them best of all.”

“With a beer?”

“No, silly, with milk.”

“My teacher says the kids in England leave out mulled wine and mince pie.”

“That’s for Father Christmas, not for Santa Claus.”

“Aren’t they the same?” Eric asks, brow furrowed.

“Really,” Becky scolds him. “How could one person visit every house in every country in one night?”

“I was gonna ask that next.”

His sister speaks with the authority vested in an elder sibling. “Father Christmas goes to England, Père Noel goes to France, and Santa comes here. And if you don’t have Christmas at all, like in China, then you don’t get anything from anyone.”

“That sucks,” Eric declares.

“It makes Santa’s job easier, though,” Becky points out.

“I guess. So, what about the reindeer?”

She wipes a smear of neon green icing from her brother’s cheek. “What about them?”

“Why do they only get one carrot? We should leave out eight.”

“Yeah, but they’re tiny reindeer. Remember, in The Night Before Christmas? One carrot goes a long way.”

“I don’t remember carrots in The Night before Christmas,” Eric says, dubiously. “Or cookies, either,” he adds, eyeing the plate where iced snowflakes, stockings and snowmen are cementing themselves into a sticky pyramid. “How come the guy in that story doesn’t say about Rudolph?” he asks, suddenly.

“Rudolph isn’t in that story. He’s the ninth reindeer.”

Eric continues to frown at her, so Becky recites the reindeer names from the song. “ ‘Dasher’ and ‘Dancer’ and ‘Prancer’ and ‘Vixen’ …”

Eric snorts when she finishes. “If he’s the most famous reindeer of all, he should be in The Night Before Christmas.”

“Then so should Olive,” Becky says, daintily applying silver buttons to a snowman’s vest.

“Who’s Olive?” her brother demands.

“She’s in the song—‘Olive, the other reindeer’.” Becky laughs heartily at the joke, but Eric is annoyed.

“That’s stupid,” he says, crossly.

“You’re getting tired,” she decides. “Finish decorating your tree and we’ll get you ready for bed.”

He immediately starts whining—further evidence of waxing fatigue—but Becky is adamant. Babysitting five nights a week has made her an expert at reading the signs and a genius at manipulating him into obedience. Though Christmas Eve is only two nights away, she warns him, Santa watches up to the last minute.

Fearing for his status on the naughty-or-nice list, Eric is tucked into bed with no further argument.

Becky retreats to the kitchen and cleans up the decorating wreckage. She is standing at a sink full of purple water when her mother comes home from work. “Kettle’s hot,” she says as the door closes on the blustery winter night.

“Thank you, sweetie.” Mama hangs up her coat and comes to kiss the top of her daughter’s head. Becky is at the age of questioning Santa’s existence. She won’t be sure until Christmas morning, but right now, she remains doubtful. She casts a surreptitious glance at the bag her mother has dropped in the boot tray. It looks no weightier than usual.

“Did your brother behave?”

“Yeah. He was full of questions, though.”

Mama picks up a cookie—Becky’s fastidiously dressed snowman—and bites off his head. “Like what?”

“Like why we leave milk for Santa when he really wants a beer.”

Crumbs erupt as Mama laughs out loud. “Grandpa?” she asks when she can speak again.

“Yeah,” Becky says. She abandons the sink to pour hot water over this morning’s teabag. Her mother takes a seat at the table to finish her cookie. She looks tired, Becky thinks, and a little sad. They all miss Grandpa, but maybe Mama misses him the most. Though Becky doesn’t understand grown up words like “pension” and “finances”, she has noticed Mama’s more frequent use of the words “make do”. She dribbles milk into her mother’s tea. There isn’t enough in the carton to leave a glass for Santa unless Mama drinks her tea without it for the next two days.

Becky won’t have that.

She sets the cup in front of her mother. It’s a bold question, but one she is compelled ask. “Will Santa still come if we don’t leave milk and cookies for him?”

Mama is startled into meeting Becky’s gaze. “Of course he’ll come, muffin. You and your brother decorated these wonderful cookies for him, but even if you didn’t, even if we left nothing for him, he wouldn’t dare pass by my kids.”

Becky is more relieved than she imagined, so perhaps she isn’t quite ready to release the man in red.

Her mother watches her shoulders relax, and when she smiles, she is more beautiful than all the other mothers in Becky’s class. “I’ll tell you a secret, though,” she murmurs.

Becky leans close to hear.

“This Christmas Eve,” Mama whispers, “I think Santa will appreciate a coffee with his cookie.”

Everything Old is New Again

Is it cheating if a new story idea features familiar characters? It’s been a long time since I’ve written anyone new (or old, for that matter), but a few weeks ago, I started looping a song from the 70s and with it came a scene so powerful that I had to stop what I was doing and let it play out in my mind.

With the playing came the questions. Who, what, and why? “Where” was obvious from the song. “Why” became clear once “who” was answered, and if I bucked the characters’ identities at first, it’s only because I already know them.

The story appears to be a bridge in one of my ongoing vampire sagas, which is fine. At least it’s not a fourth variation on the vampire theme. I’m rather pleased that each of my three vampire worlds stands alone from the other two, but really. How many vampire societies can one author write before she begins to repeat herself?

My dilemma—if it even exists—is a growing concern that perhaps I am unable to write new characters. I don’t want to be the artist who paints the same tree for the rest of her life. I want to explore new worlds (and seek out new civilizations, ha ha), yet the comfort of a familiar voice, even a villain’s voice, is almost irresistible.

Like most writers, I get attached to my characters. When I want to go home, I return to Castasia, where the cast is so huge that I actually could spend the rest of my life writing about them. I still have plans to revamp (no pun intended) the Cassandra story from 2000, and a fourth Black story is presently incubating. I am not adverse to new characters by any means. I have a bunch of half-finished projects to prove it … so why is it that this latest nugget is about existing characters?

It probably doesn’t matter. Three vampire worlds and a mountain fantasy likely contain more characters than a lot of short fiction writers will conjure in a lifetime. The last thing I want is to be one of those folks who leaves the names blank and fill them in by global replacement after the story is finished. If I know the players so well, they know me as well, and that’s why they return.

There you go, Ru. No dilemma. Write on.

“What’s It All About, Elfie?”

Some cooks have a kitchen witch. The cook who lives here has me, an elf. Phil, to be precise. Phil on the Sill, not to be confused with the Elf on the Shelf. True, I only appear once a year, but that’s because my speciality is holiday treats.

The good stuff. Shortbread and mince tarts. Fudge and peppermint bark. Cookies. I’ve also overseen December birthday teas (who celebrates a birthday at Christmas, for crying out loud?) and the holiday headliner: roast turkey with gravy and three veg. Yep, veggies are welcome in this kitchen. Even Brussel sprouts, and they don’t always have to be sautéed with bacon!

Every December, I see what’s developed while I’ve been away. What new tools and/or ingredients have arrived in my absence. A tea advent calendar is new for 2015; that’s kind of cool. If you like tea, of course. I’m more of an eggnog man, myself, though it’s not so prevalent since the locals went semi-dairy-free … and discovered where the rum was going.

They thought I was a cute plush ornament—which I am—but I also serve a useful purpose. Elves are magic, you see, and those GF thumbprints went sideways last Christmas because I was whooping it up with Captain Morgan. Now that the household is nog-less, my skills are sharper than ever. Everything baked has been gold. Everything roasted, braised or stewed has been juicy, tender and delicious. I might look like I’m doing nothing, but make no mistake. I’m thoroughly engaged.

It’s my job, but it’s also my bliss. How lucky am I?

Auto Biography XIII

“Classical Gas”

Blue Thunder didn’t have a standard issue gas cap. The cap was locked, the little door meant to conceal it having disappeared during the decade before the car fell into my hands. A previous owner must have replaced the original cap, securing the contents of the tank from theft by siphoning. Fuel was an outrageous $0.42 cents a litre in those days. “Regular” fuel was leaded, and unleaded was the pricier option. Thunder, like the majority of vehicles at the time, ran on regular.

I was twenty-three years old, and the era of full service gas stations was on the decline. Most outlets had the option of full or self-serve, and if you pumped your own, the price was a little lower. I once overfilled Thunder’s tank, spewing gasoline over my shoes and the car’s rear quarter, but that didn’t spook me out of the self-serve lane. I was a fully independent female and perfectly capable of fuelling up by myself.

Blue Silver came with the Ford factory gas cap. You can identify an early Mustang’s model year by the front grille and the gas cap which, in 1966, was solid chrome and so big that it required both hands to unscrew. Fortunately, Silver’s previous owner had seen fit to secure it in place with a coil of cabled wire that made it impossible to leave the cap on the trunk after refuelling, but my arthritic hands often had some difficulty twisting it back into place once the tank was full.

One evening I pulled into the station, unscrewed the cap, pumped in five bucks’ worth of regular, replaced the cap and went on my way—Christmas shopping, I think, because there was no other reason to drive alone into town after dark. It was a half-hour drive, part highway and part city street, until I got parked. Stepping from the car, I was hailed by a young guy who had driven in behind me and wanted me to know that my gas cap was hanging by its idiot string. He’d followed me from the highway and tailed me to the mall, staring, no doubt, into the gaping maw of the open tank the whole time.

There’s nothing like the automotive equivalent of walking up the street with your skirt caught in your pantyhose to scare an independent female out of pumping her own gas.

After that, I paid a little extra to have an attendant fill Silver’s tank for me. After she was sold and Ter took over driving duty with both Camaros, I had so few occasions on which to address the fuelling issue that I haven’t pumped a drop into the Tiguan and he’s almost six years old!

“A Little Christmas”

Psst! Hey, there! Down here! Don’t look around; I’m speaking to you. That’s right, hello-ho-ho!

I know, you don’t believe what you’re seeing. I bet you thought I’d be taller. Not so, I’m afraid. My reputation has created a larger-than-life image, but it’s only proof that great deeds can be done by folk of any size … and sometimes smaller is better. How else could I manage to get down a chimney?

That’s neither here nor there, however. I stopped you for a reason. I saw you coming, but you would have bustled straight past me, never noticing my scarlet coat against the weathered wood of this fence. Do you even know where you are? You look like a tapestry on the verge on unravelling. Believe me, I know what the holidays can do to a person. Fitting Christmas (or whatever you choose to call it; I’m not particular) into the work/life balance is a challenge, but don’t worry. You’ll get it done. You always do. There’s plenty of time yet, all the time you need.

Stop watching the calendar. Consult your list. I know you have one, too. Trust me, there’s nothing more gratifying than crossing things off of it. And while you’re rushing around doing for everyone else, take a minute to do something for yourself. Even a little thing will help, like pausing for a steamed eggnog in one of those non-denominational red cups. The colour is so cheerful, who needs a symbol to rune the effect? Get it? “Symbol”? “Rune the effect”? Ho, ho, ho! I kill myself …

Ahem.

What you’re doing for others is enough, my dear. More than enough, in some cases. No need to bankrupt yourself in a show of affection. Love has no price tag. It has no anniversary, either, despite what the diamond merchants insist. Besides, I’ve watched you. Oh, yes, I’m watching every day, all year. I make no snap judgments on the naughty-or-nice matter, it takes a lifestyle to earn a visit from this jolly old elf. (I’ve never actually enforced the “no gifts for naughty” policy, by the way. The definition is too subjective.) My point is that you love your people every day, and you show them so by being your kind, compassionate, generous self. My work is so much easier thanks to folk like you, so be of good cheer, my dear. You are not alone. You are loved. Most importantly of all, you are worth loving, and you needn’t spend a fortune or wear yourself out to prove it.

On your way, now.

Merry Christmas.

Def Leppard

Cool graphics, too!

Their thirteenth studio album is self-titled. Fitting, from a band who needs no introduction. Every track on the disc is undeniably Leppard—the quintessential 80’s rock band. Not metal and not pop, but a perfect blend of the two that no one else managed to achieve despite the multitude of those who tried. Listen to any other hair bands from the era and you’ll hear a plethora of Joe Elliott wannabes, wailing away at fever pitch yet never quite duplicating, and certainly not surpassing, the wildcat yowl that made him famous.

And that sounds better now than it did then.

Slang remains my favourite Leppard album. I like its darkness, and its maturity. By that point in their career, the boys had become men and were unafraid to show it. There is pain in that album. There is loss. There is anger and betrayal and bitterness and desire, all so powerfully portrayed that you almost don’t recognize the work as theirs.

Maybe that’s why it didn’t sell.

The band spent the years after Slang trying to recapture what some fans feared they had lost: their signature sound. Euphoria kinda worked because it was obvious. X was a semi-departure into pop that also kinda worked (and inspired me to write the first volumes of Fixed Fire). Yeah! was a 70s cover album that totally worked because they made every track their own (their version of Thin Lizzy’s “Don’t Believe Me” blew me away). Songs from the Sparkle Lounge veered a little further off the beaten path, but you know what? Every successful band has a signature sound no matter what they produce—anything the Leps record will sound like the Leps because that’s who they are. No one else can sound like them, hence no one else will sound like them, and now that we’ve reached this inevitable conclusion, let me introduce you to what might be the best Leppard album since Hysteria.

I’ve played it from end to end a couple of times and I can’t find a throwaway track. It’s all gold. Maybe “Dangerous” is a little cheesy, but the guitars still kick butt, and as mentioned at the beginning of the post, His Royal Leppardness has maintained a powerful set of pipes. Really. I heard him perform live in April. Screaming in tune in his twenties was one thing. He’s still doing it in his fifties. I’d pit him against any of the present day howlers and dare any of them to keep pace with him.

This is a fun album. Sure, some of the lyrics are mildly embarrassing when sung by a middle-aged man, but there are serious sentiments, too. The guitars are bright and sharp. The bass is bold and occasionally funky (Sav is clearly a Queen fan). The drums boom and Joe’s voice is magnificent. I don’t say any this through my hormones, either. Def Leppard is a genuine, rock solid performance that deserves two things:

Play it loud; and

Guys, play it live! PLEASE!

Great Big Tree

It always takes a full Saturday. We break for lunch and laundry, but from start to finish, putting up the big tree takes between six and eight hours. It depends on how fussy we are about stringing the lights and draping the beads—this year, the lights took about an hour, the beads about half, but getting the star in place and securing Bart the Bear in his perch brought us perilously close to losing our minds completely.

Okay, maybe that steamed eggnog for breakfast was stupid, but fatigue is definitely a factor. Once again, fitting the holidays into a hectic work life will be a challenge; no matter how early we begin, it’s always a mad dash to December 25 … or at least until we start our Christmas vacation.

Enough whining. Back to the point.

Ter and I have built a significant collection of cool ornaments over the years. It’s so significant that we often forget the ones most recently acquired until we pull them from their bubble wrap. Then eyes go wide and one of us will gasp, “I forgot about that!” before some frantic rearranging happens to make frontal space for the shiny new(ish) piece. I’m still unaccustomed to the typewriter Nic sent me two years ago, but I anticipate my talking Hoops and Yoyo from our last year at Rockland because it’s had time to set in my memory. I’d also forgotten the Lannister lion that Ter stuffed into my sock in 2014, and the jester stocking she bought the year before—you’d think that three trees would be enough to hold everything we have, but a Bean tree to handle all the trinkets from Nicole may be on the horizon. I realized with a pleasant start that she and I have been shipping things from coast to coast for almost twenty years, so it looks like this friendship is in it for the long haul.

Then there are the “WTF?” ornaments – Darth Vader and James T. Kirk, Captain Jack Sparrow and Daffy Duck, wizards and rock stars, unicorns and stilettos mix among church bells and sleigh bells and snowmen galore, you name it, the big tree has it. We’ve got winter solstice covered, too: stars and moons and polar bears, and the resident foodie’s fruit collection to represent the season’s bounty. Every branch tells a story from our history, collective and individual—the ornament Ter contributed to her third grade class tree is present, as is the circa-1967 ornament that I pinched from the Greig family tree when I left home. The big tree has it all, including its own guardian: Grizz, the bear who hibernates from January to November and stands guard throughout December.

He worried me a bit, yesterday, though. After welcoming him from his nap, I told him that Moon Pie is eager to see him again and, rather than being pleased, he looked bewildered. “Who is Moon Pie?” he asked.

My heart broke for the puffball, who was at that moment telling his buddies that he’d be hanging with the Grizz tonight. How could he not know Moon Pie????

Dismay rendered me speechless, so Ter took over and the gods be thanked for it. When she explained about the baby polar bear, the light went on. “Oh, the little white guy! Yeah, I know him!”

What a relief, but a larger question resulted from that exchange. We have names for every bear … but what do they call each other?

The Tree Bears

It’s a ratty little tree, but the bears love it.

Every Christmas, Ter and I struggle to recall how a string of fifty lights the previous year was enough to light up a two-footer when we need six feet of beads to effect the appropriately effortless drape. Answer: string the lights in a zigzag pattern from top to bottom instead of winding them around the circumference.

It helps that this tree is missing a lower branch. The “tannenbum”, as it’s called, faces the corner, so all that really needs decorating is the part that can be seen. Fifty lights will do the trick if you’re crafty about it, and Ter is an expert light-stringer.

The second of our three Christmas trees to go up each year, this one is known as the little bears’ tree because most of the ornaments are—you guessed it—bears. Crystal clear bears, coloured glass bears, tiny polar bears, and painted wood bears dominate, though a few other critters adorn its scrawny branches. Red and silver balls shine in the shadowed spaces, and we always hang one or two on the very lowest branch because Burl likes to look at his reflection. He thinks it’s the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

The smallest bears vie for seats in the wicker sleigh. Last year, Elliot decided to hog the leopard chaise by reclining like a glamour queen atop its black velvet cushion. That won’t hold this year; as soon as the gang saw their tree on Sunday night, there was a stampede to see who reached the settee first. Now we have a schedule to give everyone a turn.

The big bears don’t care so much, being too large to fit comfortably (or at all) either in the sleigh or on the settee; and though Moon Pie sits in during the day, he sleeps with Bobo and Jarkko in my TV watching chair at night. Once the big tree goes up and Grizz comes out of hibernation for the holidays, Moonie might stick with him in the living room. They’re buddies from the puffball’s first Christmas with us, and the annual reunion is a joy to behold.

We let the gang sleep around the tree (lights out, both literally and figuratively) on the first night, but they won’t get to do it again until Christmas Eve. Honestly, you’ve got to have some rules.

Down and (Shut)Out

“Hey, Ruthie,” a co-worker says, “how’s your team doing?”

I reply, “They got back-to-back shutouts on the weekend.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?”

“Oops; sorry. I meant that they were shut out in back-to-back games on the weekend.”

I must have downloaded the wrong app. I wanted the one that notified me when the Flyers win. The one I have tells me when they lose.

They have all the offensive talent in the world, yet my guy Giroux and the kid Jakub Voracek, the same pair who racked up the most points in the league last season, have a combined total of twenty-seven after twenty-one games—and the Flyers have now officially scored the fewest goals of all thirty teams so far this year.

When you’re this far down, the only way out is up … or next year.

I saw the game against Ottawa last Saturday. End result: 4 – 0 for the Sens. Absolutely no offense, and Steve Mason was left to flail in the net. The one pool point I got came from Ottawa’s Kyle Turris in the third period, when he scored the fourth goal against them. There’s no heart in their play, no motivation, no enthusiasm, no cohesion. Basher was beyond inconsolable. He’s become resigned, and I fear he may refuse to watch the next game because no matter who the opponent is …

No, I won’t go there. I’ll admit, they’re pretty well hooped as far as the post-season goes, but I will always watch them on TV. I get few enough viewings, and I just laughed when a sympathetic friend suggested that I might want to try another team. Besides, who knows? They beat Carolina in overtime last night. A winning streak may be imminent!

Naughty Santa and Captain Underpants

Decorating for Christmas is almost as much fun as Christmas itself. Pulling the Rubbermaid bins from the closet and unwrapping the crumpled tissue within can unleash a joy that obliterates anything imagined by the Big Eastern Syndicate.

The best part is reconnecting with the memories. Almost every item in our holiday collection inspires laughter and a gleeful, “Do you remember …?”

Case in point: Naughty Santa and Captain Underpants. Photos printed off the internet and slipped into frames from the dollar store, it just ain’t Christmas without them.

Truly, I don’t recall exactly when Naughty Santa was conceived, though the shot of John Taylor wearing a Santa hat and tilting that eyebrow the way only he can was a goofball sock stuffer, one of those off-the-cuff trinkets designed to get a giggle on Christmas morning. I put it together for Ter near the end of our tenure at Rockland, and while she loved it on sight, she retaliated with a vengeance a few years later.

2011 was the worst Christmas of my entire life. What had begun as a fresh start in a new residence had blown up three months into our lease and suddenly our treasured Yuletide celebration became an ordeal to be endured. We did the best we could, but by the morning of December 25, we were going through the motions. The only gift I remember from that darkest of holidays was the helpless laughter that erupted when I ripped off the wrapping to reveal a photo of my hormonal hockey crush, posing proudly in his Calvins. I screamed, I laughed, I cried, and I will love Ter forever for giving me that moment of unbridled joy when I had thought I’d never laugh again.

That’s what Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown.

By Any Other Name

A boy is named “John” by his parents. His little brother calls him “Johnny”, and his friends call him “Jack”. His first girlfriend calls him “Jonathan”, even though that’s not what he was christened. She just likes it better because it sounds more highbrow.

On a tour of Europe in his twenties, the locals call him “Juan” in Madrid, “Jean” in Paris, “Giovanni” in Rome, “Sean” in Ireland, “Jan” in Stockholm and “Ivan” in St Petersburg.

When he returns home and marries his third girlfriend (the second called him—gasp!—“John”), she wants to name their son for him but chooses another variation: “Zane”. John would have preferred “Shane”, but isn’t so invested that he wants to start a war.

A co-worker who passed away in 2009 said two things to me that I have always remembered. One, that he hated the Philadelphia Flyers and couldn’t believe I’m a fan, and two, by passing along the quote at the top of this post. Six years later, the argument continues, yet I believe that all sides are raging over the same individual: a singular creator who is known by a dozen different names.

But it’s not about God at all, is it?

“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace” – Jimi Hendrix

Take the Day

The cough medicine commercial is right: a sick day is misnamed. It’s actually a “getting well” day—and I’m taking one. Admitting this may cost me a day’s pay should my boss happen upon this post (a billion to one shot, I’m sure) but it’s worth it to point out that I am not physically ill. I needed a mental health day; a day for self-care and to nurture a spirit that’s been flaring hard against a smothering global darkness and finally conceded defeat last night.

I’m down, but not out.

I may be a little drained from the daily lineup of coworkers who stop by my office to tell me their woes, but on a deeper level, I think I am royally pissed. Not with my colleagues, not with my family, not at home, and not even at life. Life is good. It’s a challenge in contrast, but life is a gift. No one has the right to rob someone else of it.

I digress.

I think that I’m pissed at the folks who sit online and berate the good intentions of others. When Paris happened, I witnessed an explosion of French flags popping up in social media as horrified humans rose to their higher natures and rallied in solidarity with France. Shortly after this surge of collective compassion, a second explosion occurred—of outraged reproach for this show of “selective support”. Beirut had been similarly assaulted on the same day. The same number of deaths and equal amount of terror were suffered there, only few in the western world had risen in that country’s support, hence those who had done so for Paris were called out as hypocrites.

They are not hypocrites. They are uninformed. Is it their fault that the western news outlets did not report the attack on Beirut? I knew nothing of it. I was still reeling from the stupidity of the Starbucks Red Cup Controversy, which got more airtime on my newsfeed than anything out of the Middle East, when I stumbled onto CNN’s coverage of Paris.

The public doesn’t decide what makes the news. Advertisers and programmers decide what we are told and, to some extent, what we’re to do about it. Then they sit back and watch the masses squabble about it all.

So I crashed. The negativity has been overwhelming, and while I believe implicitly in the power of one solitary candle, I also believe that the flame requires tending, else it will burn out completely.

Balance. Contrast. Achieving and maintaining one in the face of the other requires an awareness of your own needs as well as the needs of others. If I am guilty of anything, it’s of assuming that I have superpowers of endurance, resistance, and acceptance. Actually, I do have them, but they are not limitless. A single day should get me back on my feet. A day of green tea, quiet meditation, and gratitude.

A “get well” day.

With love,