COVID Hockey

 

Elliot comforts Basher (again)

Basher may be distraught, but I’m not. Not really. The Flyers didn’t make the playoffs (again) this year. The usual suspects – weak defence, iffy goaltending – are to blame; that, and too little production from the top guns. I think Jake Voracek was the team points leader and he didn’t hit double digits in the goal count. Same with Captain Claude ... but overall, I’m willing to blame the oddball circumstances of playing pro sports during a global pandemic. Momentum was broken by COVID delays as much as by injuries and consistently slow starts. Rarely did we score first, and while the boys were fully capable of coming back from a deficit, I don’t know how often (if at all) they actually held a lead straight out of the gate. Every first period I saw was a prime opportunity for the opposition to pounce as Philly spent twenty minutes getting their act together. Second and third periods were generally better.

I could speak more knowledgably if I subscribed to the NHL channel. Cardigan and Ter would be tormented with non-stop Flyer games, but I’d have a better idea of what went wrong if I’d seen every one. This year, Canadian fans of US teams were kinda cursed, though I must admit the revised format of a team playing within its own division made for some dandy, playoff-type rivalries. Philadelphia is in an ugly division, too. Boston, Washington and the Islanders make for way more swears from my chair, though I like Pittsburgh enough to forgive Sid Crosby for scoring in every game—sometimes twice!

At least I saw some Flyer games, via feeds picked up by Sportsnet from their American counterparts. Yikes, that’s another annoyance – listening to commentaries from the Boston, Washington or Pittsburgh crew. Philadelphia broadcasts must be contracted to a secret society or something, because I have yet to hear the play-by-play from their side. And it can be painful, listening to the man-crushes over players I’d like to slam through the boards. The best US broadcast team came out of Buffalo during back-to-back Sabres games: the guy doing the play by play was genuinely hilarious (opposed to thinking himself genuinely hilarious and being genuinely mistaken). He reminded me of Rod Phillips, who used to call the Oilers’ games in the days when Ter and I listened to them over the computer. Creative play by play is a true art form and Phillips was a master. We still use some of his sayings around the house, most notably the “dastardly defensive breakdown” when something goes awry in the kitchen.

Ah, well. This year’s irregular regular season is done and dusted for my boys. I’ll keep an eye on the playoff standings, and expect Ter and I will watch the finals. All was not lost, either. Cardigan has learned a ton of hockey jargon by osmosis; he and Basher often debated whether to pull the goalie and when, and darned if he didn’t hold his own against Basher’s blunt-edged logic.

He still doesn’t understand icing ... though I’m not sure Basher gets it, either.

Lightning Up

 

Sometime during the night following the Flyers’ elimination from the Stanley Cup playoffs, I decided to root full bore for the Tampa Bay Lightning. Originally, I only supported the Bolts until they served their purpose by punting the Bruins in their second round series, but I had also hoped Philly would do in the Islanders and proceed to face Tampa in the eastern conference final.

Dreamer! Silly little dreamer!

Without getting into it (because it still makes me furious), the Flyers pushed their series against New York to a seventh game, but it was only by the grace of Carter Hart that they got that far. We had no offense unless you count lucky bounces, though the defense was solid (Ivan Provorov’s got a great future), and we had a fairly effective penalty kill—but an utterly piss poor power play. The PP was so pp, in fact, that I groaned aloud whenever we drew a penalty. It got worse when, hoping to break the NYI shutout, Alain Vigneault pulled Hart with six minutes to go in the third period. “What are you doing, you fool?” I screamed. “The goalie’s the best man on our power play!”

So, the boys are off to the golf course and Basher is off to post-playoff therapy. Of course I’m a Bolts fan for the eastern final—I can’t abide the Islanders in any way shape or form. And in the west, I’d have chosen Vegas over Dallas, but now I don’t care. My Plan B preference had been for Vegas to go all the way, until I witnessed a cheap-o WTF? move by the Knights when they put out Vancouver in game seven of their series.

Give the Canucks credit—they went further than any other Canadian team and I’d have been delighted to cheer them to the Cup, if only. They had to call on their backup goalie when Markstrom was hurt in game four, and darned if Thatcher Demko didn’t stop all but one of something like a hundred and twenty shots over two games. You start to believe anything is possible when a team comes back from a three game deficit to force a seventh. But Vegas came to play, and they play rough. Not good rough, either. Not only did they out-bang the Canucks, they got away with some sneaky shots and won by a score of 3 – 0. They only beat Demko once, though. The insurance goal was into the empty net after Vancouver pulled him to get the extra man on in the last few minutes of regulation time. With eighty-some seconds left in the game, Vegas potted a second empty-netter and celebrated like they’d come from behind in the nick of time.

Really? A second empty net goal? Talk about rubbing it in—and while I may be a fan of the old Broad Street Bullies, I vehemently disagree with such poor sportsmanship. In my mind, what the Knights did in that last minute was naught but a poke in the collective eye of Canuck players and fans alike. Boo, hiss!

But, Ru, you ask, what happens if the Islanders beat the Bolts?

Don’t ask.

The bears console Basher after the Flyers are eliminated

Athletic Supporters

 

The Flyers have made it to the second round of the playoffs for the first time since 2012. They got past Montreal in round one, but now they’re duking it out with the hated New York Islanders, who are a much better team than the Habs. They’re also similarly matched with Philly—though the Flyers offense, which is more powerful on paper, would give us the edge if it was a bit more effective on the ice. We lost a meagre lead and ultimately lost game three, which shattered Basher’s confidence and means the Isles lead the best of seven series two games to one. Game four happens tonight.

I sincerely hope that Philly blows NY outta the arena.

As a pinheaded hockey fan, I wonder if the suspension of play for a couple of days messed with the Flyers’ momentum because they fought (and won) a super second game. Game three was scheduled for the very next day, then word came down that the NHL players were joining the NBA, MLS and (I think) MLB in support of their non-white teammates by suspending play for a couple of days. It’s messiest in the States right now, but systemic racism is an ongoing issue everywhere. Pro sports is as diverse an example as any—so while I may be a pinheaded hockey fan, I also applaud the players who stand in support of racial equality and justice for all.

Hockey, one may argue, isn’t that diverse given the vast majority of players are of European descent, but it’s also a very expensive sport and economic disparity is a product of systemic racism. Kids from economically disadvantaged families can’t get on the ice unless non-profits step up to help them with equipment etc. The number of non-white kids playing pro hockey is growing, but it’s almost painfully slow in comparison to other sports leagues.

How did we explain to Basher, who’d spent all day Thursday gearing up for it, why game three was cancelled on Thursday night?

The bears tend to disregard anything I tell them so Ter, being the Bear Whisperer, got down to eye level and gave Basher the news. She described the unrest and protests happening beyond our bubble, and how people are doing what they can to offer support where they can, including pro athletes. He’s a little, er, slow on the uptake, but as she talked, the other bears gradually abandoned their soccer game and gathered around to listen. Burl and Elliot are the troublemakers, but they’re also the quickest to grasp a concept. They were pretty blunt with their opinion of racist attitudes, but they are also part of a multi-hued ursine community and will notice another bear before they notice the colour of its fur. They just don’t understand social injustice or racial inequality.

They understand solidarity, though. When I got them out of bed on Friday morning, they had rallied the whole gang to the cause. I was unanimously advised to leave the soccer ball in the drawer of my nightstand. No football was played until the playoffs resumed.

Blue for Who?

 

Poor grammar in the title, I know, but bigger than that, there’s been poor language around our house of late. This past week saw our TV flipping between two channels: CBC (Hockey Night in Canada) and CNN (the Democratic National Convention). Granted, the poorest language occurred during HNIC as the Flyers tangled with the Canadiens and ultimately—by the skin of their collective teeth, by the way—won the first round. Round Two, against the hated New York Islanders, starts on Monday. This is where “poor language” will morph into full on “swears”, as Cardigan reproachfully puts it, and you just know he’s aiming the frown at me. The only time Ter uses poor language is when the goalie deserts his post in favour of playing the puck. She’s a Flyer fan by association anyway; her true heart lies in the west, with either Edmonton or Vancouver, and while she didn’t watch the Canucks’ first round, she’s happy that they’ve made it to the second. Against the defending champions, no less.

Meanwhile, over on CNN, the DNC provided an interesting diversion from hockey. I actually preferred the virtual format to the “live” conventions of yore; sure, it was a little odd seeing candidates and their advocates speaking to empty rooms but, for me, the speeches packed more punch without the distraction of a cheering, applauding, stomping, sycophantic crowd. (Let’s face it; no one at these things has come to be convinced. They’re already diehard supporters.) The Republicans get their airtime next week ... and I can’t imagine how on earth they will find enough to convince anyone in eight hours that the present incumbent deserves another term at the White House. In toe-curling fairness, they should be given equal time despite the fear of how high my BP may climb as a result. Coupled with the playoffs, the reading may spike halfway to Mars. I’m an avid orange supporter in one arena, but definitely not in the other.

Ter declared the other day that she’s keeping the blue polish on her toenails until November. With my head stuck in the bubble, I immediately commended her loyalty. “Good for you! Hoping the Canucks will go the distance, eh?”

“No,” she replied, “I’m hoping the Democrats get in!”

Priorities.

No Shoes, No Service?

Know what I like best about working from home? No shoes! Socks are optional depending on the weather, but they hardly count as restrictive footwear and besides, I had begun running around in sock feet at the office before COVID sent us into isolation.

It’s been a few weeks now and I’m getting into a groove. The bears are accustomed to me being here all day every day, so much that I wonder if I should make them all take the Oath of Employment, or at least of Confidentiality. Not that they (or I, for that matter) are privy to classified information, but what they sometimes hear could get me fired for being at odds with the party line. All government employees are at risk of biting the hand that feeds them at some point in their lives, and when you’re thirty years in ...

I digress.

Working from home is a notion I’d resisted for the longest time. I want to keep my worlds separate, and turning my bed/writing room into an office was a threat to that dividing line.

Turns out it’s not that bad. My office junk fits in a file box that gets hidden in the closet overnight and on weekends, and the government laptop, though hooked up to my personal rig’s keyboard, monitor and mouse during the week, is unplugged every Friday at quitting time and sits neatly atop my writing box, which is promptly restored to working order until Sunday evening. I have access to a kitchen shared with one person instead of seventy others – and that one person kindly does my lunch dishes in real time opposed to me doing them with the dinner dishes that evening. I take my morning tea with her instead of Treena, and have purloined a supply of loose Mumbai chai so I’m not missing my favourite despite missing the Blenz crew and my office buddies. I do communicate with folks on work matters, and visit the office once or twice a week to pick up supplies and go for a “real” Mumbai chai, often as a latte with extra foam, but overall ... working from home is working.

I do, however, insist on dressing as if for the office. Hair, bling, pretty tops and black jeans. It helps to hold that dividing line between the worlds, bare feet notwithstanding. Taking a walk after work also helps in shifting to “home” mode (I wear shoes then, or course). Do I want to WAH indefinitely, though? Not really. Part-time sure, but I am a social creature ... and some bears are getting too curious for their own good ...

The Company You Keep

Come on, get Happy!

One never knows what one is getting when a new bear joins the household. It’s a bonus that Ter’s critter instinct has never let her down; every bear she’s brought home has been a winner, but it takes time for each unique personality to reveal itself, and the group dynamic often plays a part in what that personality looks like.

Take Cardigan, for instance. He came by way of my Christmas stocking in 2015, so we didn’t meet each other until it was theoretically too late. I looked at him, he looked at me, and nothing immediately happened. I didn’t even know his name until he’d sat in somewhat anxious silence for a few days (they’re almost always anxious at first; after all, they don’t know us, either ... and when I say “us”, I mean “me” because they flock to Ter like kids to the ice cream truck). With his natty scarf and cable-knit coat, he seemed an academic type, shy and introverted. First hint: the smoke detector incident in November 2016 (“Chirping”) freaked him out. To this day, if he sees me put on my coat, he says, “I don’t want the con, Mum.”

Slightly neurotic? Check.

Then he met Basher, which I figured was a good thing because he needed socializing. Besides, a quiet, studious companion might be a good influence on my little goon, who has always been a bit of a thug. Flyer fan, you know.

Well, Basher nicknamed him “Nerdy”, at which he took mild offense until he realized Basher isn’t that bright and didn’t mean to be mean. Now he’s okay with it. Anyone else calling him “Nerdy”, however, gets a reprimand.

Even if it’s his mother.

Cardie’s time with Basher is determined by the number of Flyer games on TV, as he resides in the living room and Basher is a bedroom bear. This means Cardigan spends a lot of time by himself—and as anyone who spends too much time alone can tell you, it messes with your head. While Cardie retained his sweetness, his shyness intensified and his neurotic tendencies became more evident. He stayed in his spot and didn’t want to stray, and while he seemed okay with being alone during the day, he worried incessantly that Ter and I wouldn’t be home before dark. Not a problem in summer. In winter, he was really bothered. I started to wonder if he might need professional help.

Then Happy Livewell arrived. He came to us last winter, as part of a Christmas present for Ter, but I think he’s been more of a gift to Cardigan. Happy immediately felt at home in the living room. He staked out his spot near the window, and one day asked Ter who the little blond guy was sitting under the lamp. She brought him over and introduced him to Cardigan.

Now the pair are inseparable. Every morning, Happy comes to hang out with Cardie while Ter and I are at work. They watch TV together in the evening. Happy is so cheerful and optimistic that Cardigan has finally begun to relax. He’s even cracked a couple of jokes! Happy always laughs at them, but his constant good humour has boosted Cardie’s confidence to the point where my little guy occasionally sasses me! He’s come out of his shell, and is so much healthier and happier with his new best friend than he was when he was his own best friend.

I think people are the same. Why not build positive, nurturing relationships rather than negative and needy ones? Remember, a single candle throws a whole lotta light. Don’t imagine for an instant that your attitude has no effect on others. It does. You can lift someone up as sure as someone else can bring you down—and if you spend too much time in your own head, that little voice will work its sinister magic and convince you the world is a hostile, lonely place. It is, and it isn’t. A lot of it depends on the company you keep.

With love,

Overheard At a Hockey Game

Flyers 4 - Oilers 2

Cardigan doesn’t know much about hockey. He probably doesn’t care a whole lot, either, but Basher is his friend so he tries to be supportive when the Flyers are on TV.

Last month, when the Canucks were in Philadelphia, he cheered when Vancouver scored their first goal. Basher immediately pounced. “No, no,” he said, “we’re rooting for the guys in the orange sweaters, not the white ones.”

Cardie looked confused. “But, your sweater is white.”

“Yah, white with black and orange,” Basher replied, which did nothing to help Cardie’s bewilderment.

“The visiting team wears white,” I added. “We want the home team to win.”

“Oh,” said Cardigan, without any conviction at all in his tone. He cheered when the Flyers scored, however, so Basher and I figured he’d got the  message.

Until Wednesday, when the Flyers played in Edmonton. The Oilers also wear orange, and their home sweaters are even more aggressively so than Philly’s. The Flyers scored, Basher and I cheered, but Cardigan was silent. The Oilers scored, Basher said something I would have smacked his ears for except that I said it at the same time, and Cardigan said nothing.

After a while, he whispered to Basher, “I’m confused.”

“Why?” Basher asked.

“Because last time, you told me to cheer for the orange sweaters instead of the white ones. Now you’re cheering for the white ones instead of the orange ones, so I don’t know what I’m supposed to do!”

At this point, Ter chimed in to elaborate on the home versus visiting sweaters, and that it’s better to cheer for the crest on the sweater rather than the colour. Cardigan took a long, hard look at the Flyer logo on Basher’s chest, and proceeded to cheer for the visiting team (who won, incidentally—woo hoo!)

The next night, Philly played in Vancouver. “Do you know who to root for?” Basher asked his nerdy friend.

“Yup,” Cardie happily replied. “The white sweaters!”

Basher looked pleased, until Cardigan added, “Because the other ones are blue!”

Christmas Tree Lights

I love this quote from Maya Angelou. I don’t travel enough to have lost any luggage, but I live in a rainforest and at tree-trimming time each year, I am reminded of the best opening line to a story I have yet to write:

“They found the body in dumpster, a string of Christmas tree lights wrapped tight around its neck.”

I’ve not determined whether the body is male or female, but there have been years when it’s been blonde and of Scottish/Finnish heritage. The time it takes to wire 400 twinkle lights in place is the perennial test of patience, Ter because she’s the one wiring them, me because I’m the one trailing behind her, doling out the string bulb by bulb, and intermittently declaring, “Hey, this one’s dead!” to which she traditionally replies, “How the h*** did that happen? They were fine when we tested them!”

In the Rockland days, she fussed more about getting the lights “just right” and I thought more about strangling her with them. I occasionally consider hanging myself with them when half the cursed bulbs burn out, but remember the 60s and 70s, when one dead bulb killed the entire string? I bet my mother does, as she’s the one who strung the lights before we kids put up the ornaments.

We bought a string of LEDs for the bears’ tree one year. Duly christened “the jellybean lights”, the wires were so thick and horrible to work with that they didn’t make it onto the tree at all. We remain fans of the old school fairy lights. In fact, we’re almost hoarding them for fear of losing the option in years to come, due to some silly government regulation about fire safety.

One of our oldest and dearest ornaments is Tigger in his Christmas sock. It’s an “ornamotion”, one of those fun decorations plugged into an empty bulb socket to make it move. Unfortunately, Tigger is so old that his plug is no longer compatible with the light sockets. Let’s face it, twinkle lights are not made to last forever, and the Noma strings we’ve preserved specifically for Tigger have all shorted out, never to be heard from again. Ever hopeful, we will always try the plug in a new string, but even present day Nomas no longer comply. So, for the past couple of years, Tigger has peered over the top of his sock, but not popped in and out of it.

Some traditions are forced into retirement.

This year, the lights were untangled on a rainy day—addressing two of Maya’s three checkboxes. We got a late start and at the time of this writing, the tree is still in pieces let alone strung with those rackinfrackin fairy lights, but somehow or other we’ll get ʼer done. No one will die and the end result will be fabulous as always.

That holiday murder mystery won’t be written this year … I don’t think …

Rufus

Rufus and Ru in 2006

Rufus came to us either in 1993 or 1995; I don’t recall exactly, though I do know we were living in Number 15 and he was a birthday present from Ter. He’s a Boyd’s bear, a collector’s item probably picked because his name matched my then-nickname, but I may be completely wrong about that. Ter picked him from the crowd – or he picked her – and, once he was adopted, he made himself at home and began exerting his personality.

Ter says he’s sensitive. I say he’s a drama queen. One year I got a pair slipper socks for Christmas and he appropriated one to wear on his head. Fashionable in a 1600s French-Canadian trapper sort of way, he’s worn it ever since and fusses like mad when Ter adjusts it, which she does quite frequently because the elastic has lost its grip and is in constant danger of falling off. That really upsets him, but he won’t be convinced that adjusting his hat is a preventative measure and not done to vex him. He also wears a bell on his wrist, the summons for bedtime cuddles and smooches because, at heart, he really is an affectionate and loving little bear.

One Sunday, I woke him up with the announcement that it was sanga day for him and his pals. He looked at me like I was an idiot and said, “I know it’s sanga day, Mum. When you and Tanta (what he calls Ter) are home together for a whole day, the next day is always a sanga day.”

Well, I thought, aren’t you smart? Of course I didn’t say it, since that would set him off, but when I mentioned it to Ter later that morning, her response was similar to the look Rufie had given me on waking.

“He’s no bear of very little brain,” she said. “He knows what’s going on.”

I have to agree with that. If any of our bears are comparable to Winnie-the-Pooh, it’s not Rufus. It’s Moon Pie. Before I left for work the other day, the little puffball asked me if I was going to tango with world again. At first I couldn’t figure out what he was talking about, until I realized I’d said on a previous morning, “You guys have a good day while Ter and I are off tangling with the real world.”

Ironically, he’s helped to change my somewhat surly attitude toward workdays. Dancing is more fun than wrangling, right? Now I try to tango, thanks to little Moonie.

Every bear is clever in his own way.

Chirping

As Ter and I were leaving for work the other day, I casually said to one of the bears, “Cardie, you have the con.”

“Okay, Mum,” he replied.

Fast forward to that evening. Ter picked me up from a massage appointment after work and the house was dead dark when we arrived home. She unlocked the door and swung it open for me to go ahead. I started slowly up the stairs, nursing a knee that had just endured a bone-deep fingering courtesy of my RMT.

Chirp! said the smoke detector, advising us that the battery was dead.

“Well, that answers my question,” I remarked.

“What question is that?” Ter asked from below.

“I’d been wondering if that alarm even has a battery.”

Really. Five years into our residency and the alarm hadn’t so much as peeped.

“It’s a nine volt, right?” I asked, trying not to limp as I fetched the stepladder from the back hall.

“I think so,” Ter replied. “Geez, I hope we have a spare.” She went straight to the kitchen stash and hallelujah! A nine volt battery was nestled among the plethora of AAs we keep on hand for our gazillion remotes.

She was brave enough to try the ladder first, but even with my bum knee, she’s not as steady on her feet as I am, so I got the short straw. (Actually, I practically thrust her aside to “let me do it, dammit!”) Up I went, recalling the old alarm at Rockland and what a pain it had been to get into the battery compartment. I can puzzle out just about anything given time, and after a few seconds of eyeballing this one, I pushed on the little door. It popped open without protest. Too easy! I happily pulled the battery and exchanged it for the replacement Ter handed up to me.

All the while, every thirty seconds, the alarm cheerily went Chirp! While I was up there, I decided to test the alarm. Darned near blew out my eardrums, but the thing worked so I closed the compartment door and came down the ladder. Ter and I high-fived, did the power pose (there’s nothing two girls and a Tiguan can’t do!), and I hefted the ladder down the hall.

I opened the back door and … Chirp!

Ter and I traded scowls. “That battery must be dead too,” I said.

“Gods know how old it is,” she morosely agreed.

I brought back the ladder. She steadied it and I climbed back up to see what the frack was going on. I pulled the battery and flipped it end to end. “Oh yeah,” I said, “it’s been leaking.”

“Great,” she said, dryly. We looked at each other until one of us suggested we might be able to leave it until morning.

The alarm disagreed. Chirp!

Turns out its one of those safety coded ones that’s wired into the house and won’t shut up unless a working battery is installed.

I came back down the ladder. “I’ll go,” I said, meaning to the hardware store.

Ter gave me the shark-Finn look. “Not with your knee. I’ll go.” But I think it was more to spare herself the intermittent and insistent Chirp!

She was back in twenty minutes, the new battery was installed and the ladder posted in its designated spot shortly thereafter. Blessed silence descended. My knee was treated to some ice, and the evening passed as usual. We only wondered for a minute or two exactly when the alarm had begun to chirp, as no one had been home for most of the day and the bears weren’t saying.

But the next work day, as we were getting ready to leave, Cardigan piped up, “Mum, I don’t want to have the con anymore.”

Attitude Adjustment

It’s often easy to forget my efforts to be Zen in the workplace. I work for government, after all, and if ever a system was designed to drive its employees crazy, government at pretty much every level (municipal, provincial or federal) is it.

The latest WTF? initiative saw the removal of everyone’s deskside garbage cans. The powers above insist that it’s an eco-friendly policy to centralize the office refuse location, but what it means is that, rather than continue with twice-weekly janitorial service, everyone from administrative clerks to executive directors is responsible for transporting their candy wrappers and apple cores to the kitchen (happily—for me—located next to my office).

Anyway, to appease the disgruntled rabble, our branch executive went the extra mile to source inexpensive little desktop bins for everyone on the floor, and the unfortunate employee tasked with distribution found herself faced with the same stupid joke from every workstation she visited.

Including mine.

So when I happened on her in tears later that day, I was appalled that my poor attitude had contributed to making her job harder. She reminded me that I am not responsible for how someone reacts to a comment, and I agree, but it didn’t stop me from regretting my part in the overall drama. It wasn’t her fault that we lost our garbage pickup; she was simply given the impossible job of trying to make it better and nobody, not even I, appreciated her effort.

I thought about it for a couple of days before I worked up the courage to stop by her office and thank her, not for the tiny Starbucks trash bin, but for the gift of witnessing her tears. She started to protest, but I held up a hand to stop her:

“It is never my intention to upset anyone,” I said, “but I realized after the other day that I was taking it all too seriously and my attitude was causing you—who least deserve it—pain. Without that ‘aha’ moment, I’d still be acting like a ratbag, so thank you for allowing me to learn from this experience.”

We all but hugged (neither of us is comfy with raw emotion, especially in the workplace), and we’re back on solid ground. My stuffie, Isbjorn, has appropriated my trash cup for himself, and I am resolved to think twice before the next senseless policy is allowed to alter my attitude with the people I value most.

Wish me luck!

Isbjorn set for winter hibernation

Another Perspective

At Rockland, Ter and I would stay up to see the Canada Day fireworks from our living room window. Since we moved to sea level, we only get the acoustics. Pop pop, pa-poppopop, popopopopoBANG! And so forth. It’s scheduled, so there’s no surprise when the explosions start.

One random Saturday night, we heard the same thing: Pop pop, pa-poppopop, popopopopoBANG! We wondered aloud what the occasion might be, since we knew of no celebration associated with July 9, then shrugged and went about our nightly routine of getting the bears ready for bed.

They weren’t bothered, either. One of them reminded me, huffing a little with displeasure, that there had been fireworks before Canada Day as well, at the home opener for the local baseball team. And I seem to remember a similarly unexpected display last year, something to do with Oak Bay perhaps, that I dismissed as simply more fireworks.

How fortunate I am to live in a place where Pop pop, pa-poppopop, popopopopoBANG! heralds nothing more sinister than an unscheduled fireworks display. It’s not a sniper picking off police officers or a religious nutbar massacring innocent people at a nightclub. It’s not civil war. It’s not an insurrection. It’s just a light show against the night sky.

A similar thought occurred ahead of a Snowbirds performance a couple of years ago (and I might have mentioned it in a previous post). The rush I feel on hearing the fighter jets’ approach is nothing remotely like what another woman in a war-torn country must feel on hearing the same sound. I was at work one day when the roar of low-flying military planes rattled the building and a co-worker asked me what the heck was going on. “The Snowbirds are in town this weekend,” I replied. “They must be practicing for the show.”

“I thought we were being bombed by Lebanon!”

She was joking, of course, but the sentiment has stayed with me. I can’t stress it enough. I can’t be grateful enough to live in a place where the sounds associated with war and craziness are a signal not to duck and cover, but to take the kids outside and watch the show.

Serial Panda

A fondness for pandas resides in this house. Ter still has the black and white bear she was given as an infant and I have vague memories of a somewhat larger panda being deposited in the bedroom I shared with my sisters when I was a preschooler. Whether or not it was intended for me I don’t recall, but it was most definitely a panda.

Nowadays, a clutch of pandas fights for space among the gang of polar and brown bears who rule our roost like little furry dictators. Fortunately, the pandas are more laid back than their ursine compatriots. It must have to do with them being strict vegetarians. They demand nothing and welcome cuddles.

A few years ago, due to Ter’s affection for the critters, we watched Kung Fu Panda and fell immediately in love with Po, the adopted son of the noodle-slinging Mr. Ping. Played by Jack Black, Po loves kung fu and dreams of joining a crime-fighting quintet known as the Furious Five; how he gets there is a series of misadventures so hilariously presented that I was in tears by the final credits. Laugh-out-loud moments are scarce in animated films—I’ve been disappointed with most of the ones I’ve seen—but something about Po strikes every note with a purity that’s made me a fan.

Kung Fu Panda 2 is equally good, if not a touch darker in that it delves more deeply into Po’s beginning (how did a panda come to be adopted by a goose, anyway?) and he must face the villain responsible for making him an orphan. Tear jerker moments to be sure, but hey, if they’re well done, I will embrace them despite the joke that a cartoon character never dies; the artist simply stops drawing it.

Fabulous as Po is, however, my favourite character is Master Shifu, brilliantly voiced by Dustin Hoffman. Shifu is a Zen master with patience issues, especially when Po lumbers on scene and set about tossing his serenely balanced world on its ear. The dialogue is sharp, the action is paced at warp speed, and the hero is as real as you and me. Not since The Emperor’s New Groove have I enjoyed an animated film so thoroughly. Snappy repartee and non-stop martial arts aside, the beauty of Kung Fu Panda is the simplicity of its 

message:

There is no secret ingredient.

Life is about being who we are as we are, about being our best, and finding peace within ourselves.

Kung Fu Panda 3 is released this weekend. The first two movies are so good that Ter and I are going to brave the knee-high throng and see it at the theatre. With popcorn … and maybe a panda hiding in my hoodie.

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.

Simple Syrup

Flanked by his buddies after Moonie's fall, when the light bothered his eyes

Moon Pie fell off the back of the couch when he was about a year old. He liked to climb up and look at the streetlight outside the living room window—he thought it was a star. Specifically, his star …. but he is a polar bear and they are loaded with ’tude. One night, he was perched in place atop the back cushion and from the corner of my eye, I saw him tip toward the window …

Why do these things always happen in slow motion? I started moving as soon as I saw him tilt, yet I knew going in that he was going down and sure enough, he executed a perfect somersault and disappeared before I was fully out of my chair.

Whump!

When I got to him, he was spread-eagled on his back, thoroughly winded and staring up at me from glazed eyes. Of course nothing was broken, but I was certain that he’d given himself a concussion—a certainty that remains to this day.

He’s always been a sweet little guy, cuddly and loving as few of his compatriots are. The other bears—even his paunchy older brother, Jarkko—watch over him as if they know he’s had a head injury and has special needs. I dunno. If he hadn’t whacked his head that night, he might not be so loving and good-natured (I repeat, he is a polar bear), but I see him wake up every day with bright eyes and all sorts of enthusiasm … and I envy him.

Bearing Up

The wee bears have had a hard week. Construction began on the penthouse elevator a few weeks ago,  so the house has been a war zone with hard hat dudes and power tools running amok in the back yard. They’re used to the drilling and hammering by now, but a new twist occurred after Ter’s day off on Monday.

Work on the elevator paused while an old oil tank was dug out of the garden and removed during the past few days—I considered suggesting to the strata that they install a hot tub rather than refilling the hole, but we’re only renting and about to renew our lease for another year, so it might be prudent to restrain myself. This project started huge and anyone who’s embarked on home renovations knows that the plan rarely follows, well, the plan. Better for the renters to keep mum until the worst is over, then bring it up as a joke during the celebratory barbeque in September … assuming it’s finished by then.

Anyway, Rufus is crankier than usual, his bedroom compatriots are misbehaving from nerves, and the kitchen midgets are clinging like the last two Cheerios in the bowl, so I’m spending my day off reassuring them with a domestic presence. I’ve dusted up the house, baked a batch of rhubarb crumble muffins, and am just bashing out this post before I make tea and start writing in earnest. Periodic checks indicate that the bears are relaxing a little—thank the gods that the weekend will be quiet!

Elevenses

It’s the best time of the morning. Midway between breakfast and lunch is the hallowed moment when fresh tea is brewed and some form of sustenance is consumed. It’s been in sync with our biological rhythm for ages. It goes by many names. My favourite figures in the Paddington Bear stories by Michael Bond:

Elevenses.

Every day, Paddington visits the old guy down the road for hot chocolate and a sticky bun. In my world, it’s tea and a muffin or a slice of Ter’s killer ginger/pumpkin/date loaf. At work I often have company for it, but on days off, it’s just me and my tea tumbler. It’s also proof that working straight through can be detrimental to the project; as a writer, I have found that getting away from the computer for a few minutes often unravels the knots in a scene. Stalled dialogue almost always gets traction the instant I leave, as if the characters are waiting for me to go away so they can continue without my interference.

I could “do coffee” for a living. I spent a lot of time hanging out in cafés with artists, poets and musicians during a previous life, and the love of socializing over hot milky drinks and pastries has remained with me. My workweek is populated by pals with whom I take such breaks, usually in the afternoon as I tend to pound through the morning without pause. Elevenses seems specifically reserved for downtime or a writing day.

Which reminds me … it’s time for a break.

Bear Repair

the Surgery Triplets

For a woman who glories in writing blood, sex and violence, I am almost comically squeamish. Paper cuts put me into a coma and, to this day, though I have watched the movie a hundred times and consistently include it among my top ten favourites, I have yet to watch the open heart surgery scene in All That Jazz.

So when one of the bears needs an operation, it’s inevitably Ter to the rescue. My aging brown bear, Rufus, needs more paw surgery. He’s already had one foot and his other hand refurbished, and he’s in good company: Elliot needed stitches after a mysterious football incident tore a seam in his leg (a chronic injury that yet plagues him when it’s convenient), and the Emperor Ming, aka “the Big Fat Panda”, had back surgery a few years ago. Ter is meticulous, compassionate, and not afraid of stuffing. Even the most anxious bears trust her. I, on the other hand, would be a basket case and the patient would react accordingly. Like children with a hysterical mother, my bears are more highly-strung than their cousins; bedtime is a nightly circus because I want them to settle NOW and they must have their cuddles and smooches and drinks of water … *sigh*

But back to Rufie’s surgery. He and I have been in denial for a while, but when one of his inner beads popped from his paw the other night, we both freaked out and the appointment was settled.

Paging “Doc” Ter!

Peace on Earth …

… and goodwill to all bears.