The Year of Being Human

Twelve months ago, Ter and I stood in our kitchen and proclaimed 2018 “the Year of Transition and Change”. She was on the cusp of committing to retire from the public service, my job had settled down after a major shift in program staff, my wee sis and I were planning to visit our brother on Prince Edward Island. There was some concern over a nodule in Mum’s forearm, but the experts were confident—as was she—that it would amount to naught. In all, the new year seemed full of promise and adventure, and we were ready to tackle all the good things we envisioned.

Perhaps we should have been more specific. Perhaps we should have proclaimed 2018 as a year of positive transition and change.

Ter’s intention to cruise into retirement went south when she was called to be shop steward in an ugly harassment case. I lost my office and was moved into a shared space when branch staff expanded beyond the eighth floor’s capacity. Though Mum’s radiation treatment appeared to be a success in February, after a couple of months of normal, she fell ill and died four weeks after Ter’s last day at work. Wee sis and I cancelled our trip to PEI—she had injured her back while helping Dad care for Mum, and quite frankly, the shock was so overwhelming that we reeled through the summer and well into the fall. That’s when our landlord let us know she was thinking to sell the suite. Ter tweaked a muscle in her neck at Thanksgiving and was laid up into November. The Tiguan went into the shop for an expensive overnight service—twice. The postal dispute threatened Christmas delivery of cards and parcels ... and I’m sure I’ve forgotten something in the continuous monsoon of WTF? we endured throughout 2018, but that’s the gist of our Year of Transition and Change.

Keeping the faith was pretty darned challenging during the past twelve months. It’s easy to believe in a loving friendly and generous Universe when all is going smoothly. The tricky part is seeing the light in darkness. The majority of 2018 was, for me, a battle against a pervading sense of loss. Every night, I struggled to maintain my belief in being loved by a higher power, to trust that things happen for a reason, when they are meant to happen, and to know the rest of my life will not be spent gaping into a black hole. The gauge on my power of positivity has hovered perilously close to empty at times. I have cried more in the past months than I have in past years. I have raged at the heavens and thrown up my hands. I have stormed and begged and dug deep to get through the past turbulent, tumultuous, unexpectedly tragic fifty-two weeks.

And yet I have seen miracles. Small ones, to be sure, but miracles nonetheless. I will always remember the preternatural brilliance of the day after my mother died; how sharply defined and brilliantly hued the world appeared through the Ocean Room window. I will cherish forever the kindness and support I was shown by my friends and co-workers, people who rarely see me vulnerable yet rose to the occasion when I could not help myself. Christmas presents appeared from nowhere at the last minute, as did emails from loved ones after long silences. And others, too numerous to name. Feeling my mother’s presence in the room. Ter’s parking karma. Being able to pay cash for Tiggy’s repairs. Having a beautiful place to call home. Laughing with my office roomie, then going for tea with her because we like each other enough to be more than workmates. Hugging my little sister. The list goes on.

Though I almost lost it more than once, I managed to keep my grip on the thread that binds me to divinity. I still believe in something greater than myself, that all-encompassing presence that some call God. In truth, I’m no longer sure what to call it. I just know it’s there, that I am part of it and it is part of me—and of everyone else who is, who was, and who will be. For me, 2018 was all about the human experience and it truly sucked ... but I survived. I’m not through it yet, of course. The calendar doesn’t control time, it merely marks it. By all counts, I am only halfway through the process of reconciling myself to the tectonic changes that occurred in the past twelve months, so the drama ain’t over yet. I am relieved to say, however, that the light is more evident now than it was even three months ago.

It occurred to me on Christmas Eve, the most magical night of the year, that miracles are like stars strewn across a midnight sky:

The longer you spend staring up at them, the more begin to appear, and soon the entire night is bright with light.

Isn’t that wonderful?

Happy New Year.

With love,

And I Think to Myself …

… what a wonderful world.

With love,

Stepping Into Christmas

On November 22nd, Ter lamented, “Christmas is five weeks away and I’m not ready!”

I just looked at her.

Maybe she meant she wasn’t mentally ready. I certainly wasn’t. Steamed eggnogs aside, there wasn’t much to feel Christmassy about ... but why would there be, when it was only November 22nd? Even when you know it’s coming, you can’t be ready for anything five weeks in advance. If you are, you mustn’t have much of a life.

The big eastern syndicate has us programmed to freak out if we’re not wrapped and ready to go by December 1st. What we forget is the length of time between December 1st and 25th—and there’s a lot of it. There is also a real danger of peaking too early. Being Christmassed-out before Christmas Day kills the holiday buzz. Prepping is the fun part! Steps toward it can certainly start in late November, but you’d better pace yourself if you want to experience the holly jollies in full.

A week after Ter’s lamentation, the house was mostly decorated. Part of our shopping was done. Collecting for our festive feast was underway. Holiday tuneage was in light rotation. Miraculously, we were both feeling the cheer a tad more than we had been a week earlier.

Another week passed. We completed shopping for our December birthday girls. My annual anxiety over devising pictures and poetry for the cards was stirring. No drafts had begun, though. My anxiety has to become a grand mal panic before I get to work; part of the routine involves reassuring myself that the magic happens over a weekend, and that weekend hadn’t arrived yet.

Last week, I arrived home to the tantalizing perfume of Ter’s orange and almond Christmas cake, fresh from the oven. We helped the neighbours trick out the building lobby with holiday sparkle. Christmas music went into heavy rotation. We snacked on eggnog creams and fruitcake truffles. I got more loot, both to give and to get, as Ter checks off my Christmas list. And I finished the cards this weekend.

Next week, present wrapping, cookie baking, perhaps some visiting, ritual viewings of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation and Mr Popper’s Penguins—oh, and the rekindling of my annual fling with a dark and spicy Captain Morgan, yowowowrrr.

We’re not done yet, but little by little, we’re getting there.

That’s what the five weeks are for, silly.

Merry Christmas.

“The Christmas Party”

Their eyes met across the room, and for the space of a heartbeat, time stood still.

He wasn’t the most handsome man in the crowd, but his laugh lines and silvered temples struck her as wildly attractive. From his vantage point, she was beautiful without trying, soft in hair and form, and when she smiled, it too was soft, alluring in the manner of good Scotch or a warm sweater on a cold day.

Most of the women at the party would be offended at comparisons to alcohol and comfortable clothes. Somehow, he thought she wouldn’t mind.

They circled the room like moons in orbit, moving but drawing no closer. Conversation foiled them from approaching each other, idle chitchat about plans for the holidays and inevitable griping about office politics, some of which were in evident play over finger food and wine. Her smile only deepened at the catty commentary, her eyes revealing nothing. Intrigued at a distance, he forgot himself and changed the subject from his golfing handicap to getting out of town for Christmas. His colleagues traded wry glances and discreetly let it go.

Corporately funded, it was a semi-formal gathering, a show of appreciation from the executive members who mingled with the worker bees. The drinks were paid for and appetizers unlimited. The men wore ties and the women wore heels. Music was meant to encourage conversation rather than make it impossible. Dinner was a natural follow up, since everyone was already in their party clothes, and people who had arrived with a partner began joining other couples to form a larger group.

He finally made it to her side. “Would you be offended if I said that dress looks wonderful on you?”

She looked him up and down, her gaze lingering thoughtfully on the sapphire silk knotted at his throat. “How could I be, when it matches your tie so well it almost looks planned?”

“In that case, will you join me for dinner?”

She laughed. “You don’t fool around.”

“I assure you, I’m completely serious.”

One of the sales staff called to them. “Are you two coming?”

Their eyes met again, this time at close range. “What do you think?” he asked in a low voice.

“Mm,” she replied lazily, her gaze wandering over him once more. “I guess it would be a shame to waste this dress.”

“Especially since it matches my tie,” he observed.

“Guys! Are you coming?”

Her head moved minutely and he nodded once. “Not this time, Jim,” he said over his shoulder. He turned back to find her still smiling. “I’m all yours,” he told her.

“Good,” she answered. “Let’s go home.”

“What about dinner?”

“I’ll scramble some eggs.”

“We paid the sitter to midnight.”

“Oh, so what? The kids will be in bed, that’s what matters.”

They passed Jim and the gang on their way to collect their coats. The faces were hilarious as he helped her into her cream wool then took her hand to walk her out. “ ’Night, all,” she said brightly on the way by. “See you next year.”

“Merry Christmas, you two,” Jim replied, dryly. “And happy anniversary!” he added before the doors closed behind them.

Parking Karma

The dumbest place to be midday is at a shopping mall the week after Black Friday. Four weeks before Christmas and you’ll be lucky to escape with your life, let alone score a parking space. There was even a cautionary blurb on the news one night, stating stats around parking lot crashes at this time of year. There is no good will toward anyone when parking is at a premium. I do most of my shopping on weekday breaks; fortunately, I work downtown. I don’t have to go anywhere near a mall to get it done in December.

So why was I sitting in the Tiguan at noon on the last Friday in November? Going to the mall, of course. Aside from the annual holiday hubbub, Ter and I have December birthdays to contend with, which makes errant trips at inconvenient times something of a necessity.

Ter, who was at the wheel, rubbed her hands together and murmured, “Parking karma, parking karma,” beneath her breath. The traffic light turned green. We had to wait while four other cars turned ahead of us, but we cleared the intersection as the light changed to amber. We landed in another turn lane, this one leading onto the rooftop parking at the mall. I observed that people were leaving (good sign) and people were streaming in (bad sign). “No problem,” Ter said, undaunted.

Having surrendered any sort of control over my life the day before—but that’s another story—I took her at her word.

We almost always park on the roof of Toys R Us, but this time that was likely to be impossible. Glancing over the sea of shimmering cartops as we drove into the fray, there seemed little point in going the other way, though I reckoned our chances were better in that direction. Still, Ter followed her usual course, pausing at the end of one aisle to watch a silver Chevy slowly reversing from a space. My burgeoning astonishment at this unforeseen opening was abruptly dashed when Ter serenely drove on. Perhaps she’d spied the grille of a gargantuan SUV aiming for the same space from the far end of the aisle, or maybe imagined the space too tricky to navigate, else she would have gone for it.

She turned down the next aisle instead—a route we never take, incidentally; I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve driven along that short stretch. I looked to the left at a solid line of bumpers. Not much hope here, I thought.

Ter suddenly blurted, “Is that a parking space?”

I was still looking to the left, where a set of hash marks along the food court’s skylight could maybe sorta kinda have been considered a parking space if we didn’t get caught, and was about to say, “I don’t think so,” when I realized Ter was looking past me to the right. There, next to a mall service entrance and practically bathed in celestial sunbeams, was a space big enough to hold a Hummer. And it was empty.

I couldn’t even speak. I just sat with my jaw hanging loose as she nosed the Tiguan into place and cut the engine. “How do you do that?” I finally demanded.

She grinned at me. “Someone just said to me, ‘turn right down here’, so I did.”

“Praise your guy Jesus!” I exclaimed.

This is an exceptional example, but in truth, parking spots happen to Ter all the time. She simply accepts that she’ll find one where and when she needs it—and I rather suspect when she can’t find one, it’s because I’m with her.

Honestly, for someone who steadfastly believes in magic, I’m perennially surprised when it occurs in front of me. Yet miracles happen everywhere and every day; they exist whether or not we see them. We naturally expect to see them more at this time of year than at any other, however, and this one was most definitely a Christmas miracle. The first of many, I hope.

Season’s greetings,

Taste Buds

Ter and I are standing at the market deli counter. I’m holding an eggnog tart in a plastic clamshell from the bakery department. She is studying the variety of salads—and I mean variety. It’s not just coleslaw and potato salad anymore. Now there’s Mediterranean chick pea, curried carrot, twice backed potato, Asian slaw, three bean, Persian lentil, pesto pasta, you name it, there’s a bowl of it behind the glass.

“I love their beet salad,” Ter says to me.

I frown, unsure that I’ve heard her correctly. “Beet?”

She nods. I glance at the selection and, yes, there is indeed a beet salad. Heaven knows what’s in it besides beets, but I don’t ask.

“I got some the other day,” Ter continues. “It was so good, I ate it all for breakfast.”

I know. Beets for breakfast? Ewwww. Except for two things: one, Ter loves beets and two, she’s not a fan of conventional breakfast food. I’m the oatmeal/waffle/ granola-and-yogurt/eggs-and-toast half of the unit. During the thirty-plus years I’ve known her, Ter has preferred cold pizza to pancakes and leftover Chinese to Cheerios before nine in the morning. In fact, though we share the same passion for Italian food (who doesn’t like Italian food?), her culinary taste generally runs in the opposite direction to mine. She doesn’t enjoy cereal.  She’ll down a bowl of popcorn while I’m chomping cookies. Sweets are not her thing. Carbs used to be, but not so much now unless you count the chilli rice chips she snacks on while I’m snarfing a brownie or a butter tart with my afternoon cup of sweet creamy black tea. And let’s not even talk tea. Okay, let’s. Stash’s Earl Grey with double bergamot is her morning starter; after that, she might have a second cup of the same flavour at elevenses, though she occasionally deviates to a rogue Red Rose instead – and that’s it. She’s toyed with mint herbals in the past, but nothing has ever stuck. So the tea cupboard overflows with my addle-minded collection. The freezer is jammed with cake, cookies and tarts on my behalf. I tend the chocolate bin and Ter keeps the dishwasher stocked with a selection of corn, potato and rice chips. She likes wine, I drink liqueur. I can do breakfast for dinner, she does dinner for breakfast. Neither one of us can eat like vegetarian for more than a couple of days before we must have meat. Our tastes complement each other perfectly.

Back at the market, we get to the counter. Ter puts in the order, and the clerk starts loading a bin of bean salad. That’s when I realize I’d misheard. She’d said “beans”, not “beets.” Still, you can see why I wasn’t surprised even if I was wrong.

She makes a killer curried lentil/rice salad. It’s loaded with raisins and slivered almonds and carrot and green onion and it tastes like middle eastern heaven. I eat it warm or cold for lunch, with chicken or without, and it’s a kickass side with grilled salmon for dinner. Last time she made it, Ter told me that it’s awesome with a fried egg on top, too. “I had it like that for breakfast, today,” she said.

Of course she did.