No Nog? Now What?

 

A new year sits on the horizon. Only a few days remain in 2023, which, for me, has been a year of adapting to what has changed rather than experiencing actual change. Of course change has happened in the past twelve months; life is always in some sort of flux, just not always as drastically as it’s been since 2020. That darned corona virus threw everything and everyone for a loop, but it can’t be blamed for everything that happened this year.

Well, maybe it can. If not for the pandemic, my work life would still be fulltime at the office, where my colleagues would also be present all day every day (and less work would be getting done!) But would Starbucks have kept eggnog lattes on their holiday drinks menu if COVID hadn’t happened?

Can’t say.

What I can say, however, is in the Before Time, a Bucky’s steamed eggnog was better than anyone else’s. The ratio of nog to milk was always perfect, the foam always thick, creamy and demanding of a spoon. I’d down at least one a week back then ... and but now, it’s impossible even if I still worked in town five days a week. Eggnog anything is no longer listed among their holiday drinks.

One thing that has not changed is my compulsion to lose it when I can’t have what I want because they’re out of a vital ingredient. I’m not referring to eggnog here – I took that one in stride, likely because they took it off the menu during the lean winter of lockdown. To give Bucky’s masterminds credit, they came up with a dandy if not preferable replacement in the form of a Gingerbread Oat Chai Latte. Hot or iced, when ordered half-sweet, oh my gawd, it’s good. Even Ter likes them, and she’s not inclined to “handcrafted beverages” at the best of times.

So we happily scheduled a stop at Bucky’s to celebrate our final Christmas shopping trip for the year. I cheerfully placed the order: “Two grande gingerbread oat chai lattes, please, half-sweet.”

The clerk at the counter hesitated, then regretfully advised us that “We’re out of gingerbread syrup.”

For anyone who doesn’t already know, many years ago, I went postal on a David’s Tea clerk who innocently told me that Persian Apple (my favourite at the time) was a limited edition and no longer available. My reaction almost immediately assumed legendary status thanks to my then-office roomie, who witnessed the scene and promptly told everyone at work how badly I’d behaved. Since then, anyone who’s with me is instantly traumatized when I am faced with similar information, whether or not I react with the same vehemence. I try not to, being mindful that it’s not the clerk’s fault and no one deserves berating over a First World trifle, but the legend lives on ...

On this occasion, I think I held it together pretty well. Also thanks to the pandemic, “pivoting” has become a thing, and I’m quicker than some on the spur of the moment. Ter is more easily flustered these days, and it took her completely aback. Ergo, our drinks order went from a straightforward “two of the same” to one half-sweet cinnamon dolce oat chai latter and a decaf Americano with cream and one raw sugar, which they were also out of (due to a strike at the sugar processing plant), so make that a shot of brown sugar syrup instead. We ran through it a few times for the clerk’s benefit – awesome as she was, she was determined to get it right – yet in the end, I couldn’t resist.

“You know,” I said to her, “this wouldn’t be so confusing if you hadn’t run out of gingerbread syrup.”

No Mo’ Sno’

 

You know that snowfall I reported a post or two ago? Well, it kept snowing. And snowing. And snowing, until 35 centimetres had landed on the south island and everything froze in place. No last minute prezzie shopping, no grocery shopping, no visiting, no departing upstairs neighbours. Nothing. The rest of Canada has every right to thumb their noses at us, but that doesn’t make the stress any less stressful for people accustomed to green Christmases.

My snowmance extends to fantasies of being snowed in, of the aforementioned hot tea, fat novels and cozy blankets. The truth is far less enchanting. The truth is even I get cabin fever. It’s not that I would go out, it’s that ability to choose whether or not to go out. Being snowed in negates that agency.

Oh, Ter and I did suit up and venture out the next day. We assessed the Tiguan situation, shovelling off as much of the snow as we could to prevent him from freezing solid when the melt came (it has yet to start). Mercifully, the snow was still light and powdery, and we managed to dust off the hood, windshield and windows, but digging out was too much for two babes in their sixties. Besides, if we’d been able to clear a path to the road, the road itself was impassable.

In a bizarre way, it was fun to be out in bright sun and knee-high snow, working with my proton to move the white stuff around. It felt like we’d accomplished something when we finally came indoors to thaw ourselves out. It’s important to feel empowered in such situations, because it’s hard to stay positive when the challenge continues beyond a day or two, especially as Christmas Day creeps ever closer and there are still things to be done.

I can’t imagine the strain on parents of little kids. How do you explain to a six year old who believes in magic that Santa couldn’t get his sleigh out of the driveway? Yup. I am luckier than most in these Currier and Ives conditions. Perhaps it’s a recognition of how overwhelming life has lately been that my loving friendly and generous Universe has blessed me with a puny-by-comparison set of args this Christmas. I’m warm, I’m safe, I’m fed, so quit whining, Ru.

I submit that it’s all relative. A few days of “severe by west coast standards” snow is hardly a life or death event, but Christmas has taken an odd turn in past years and this was the first holiday season since Mum died that looked promising. I’ve become woefully nostalgic for Christmases past, which in itself is different, if not understandable in the circumstances.

Ter and I used to go all out during the holidays, and while I’m sure we griped and got stressed at the time, I only remember the joy. The tradition. Filling the advent calendar with Quality Street chocolates. Dashing out to pick up sock stuffers during lunch breaks. Shopping trips on weeknights when the stores are less crowded. Baking a ton of cookies. Lavish Christmas teas with friends and family. Wrapping presents in elegant paper. My wee sister’s fabulous mincemeat tarts. Kicking back on Christmas Eve when all was said and done, sipping a ruby mimosa and watching Alistair Sim by the light of the “f***ing soap opera tree”, as a friend once called it. The Christmas Day phone call to my parents ahead of the Queen’s Message.

Everything has changed. My parents are gone. So is the Queen. Our beautiful Edwardian flat was traded for a ho-hum standard apartment. A global pandemic moved in, stayed for two years and never really departed. The world itself seems to have tilted further out of alignment. Indeed, why should Christmas have survived intact?

You have to laugh at the irony. Imagine, Christmas being called on account of snow.

Merry, merry anyway. With love,

Change Versus Rest

 

It’s said that a change is as good as a rest. So, in theory, I should be able to shift from work routine to home routine without doing a face-plant on the first day of vacation, right?

Wrong.

My first day went fairly smoothly in that I accomplished all I’d set out to do, which wasn’t very much in comparison to getting up and getting out to spend a day with my co-workers at the office. Such an endeavour demands more energy than a day off, so on Day One I went easy on myself ... I thought.

I slept in, took a walk, started my annual read of The Night Circus, ate way too much sugar, did some philosophizing with Ter, and did not need a nap to get me through the day. We planned to finish up the last of our prezzie shopping on Day Two, but when I woke up that morning, I was headachy and seriously conflicted about my ability to deal with crowds of people in a confined space. I tried to talk myself into soldiering on, that I was just tired but it would be okay—and the next thing I knew, I was in tears over nothing and Ter bailed me out by insisting I stay home while she tackled the Christmas crowds. Gratefully, I relented.

Ter was a trooper, making two forays into the retail wild and accomplishing her mission without me whining in her wake. I read my book, skipped taking a walk, ate no gluten, and yes, took that afternoon nap. Day Three was a much better start, though we were both semi-stunned at how quickly the fatigue set in during our quick trip to the mall. But that’s another post.

The point of this one is my realizing that a change is not always as good as a rest. Sometimes a full stop does more good than an altered focus, especially at this time of year. Christmas is a whole other barrel of monkeys when it comes to energy drain and I’m still figuring out the critical balance between capacity and demand in regular life. The curve remains pretty steep as I suss out which symptoms are attributed to age and which are the result of living in a post-COVID world. The plague struck as I reached my sixties so I’m not sure what would have happened anyway; in some ways I’ve never been so confused by ongoing change.

Methinks it’s time for a rest.

Holiday Hoopla

 

We did it. We got the tree up. All three trees, in fact, but the true triumph was in squeezing our six-and-a-half-footer into the corner where we originally thought it wouldn’t fit. We didn’t even try during our first two years in the new place; we bought a tabletop for the living room and made do with a reduction in favoured ornaments. And, no, it was nothing like the same.

This year, Ter lost it. She was absolutely determined to make the Big Tree possible; she even brought it up from the basement to test its dimensions in the corner. It’s embarrassing to admit, but if we had tried it the first year, the tabletop tree wouldn’t have been necessary. Let’s just forget that it never was necessary; at the time, our combined state of mind simply couldn’t do the math what with the stress of COVID, my father’s passing, and Christmas in a new environment.

I’m also somewhat chagrined to admit that the renewed excitement I felt for the holidays this year has seriously waned in the past few weeks. December is always a crash of work, life and seasonal obligation; ironically, Ter and I have ceased to exchange gifts between ourselves. All we want for Christmas is the lights, a few treats, our holiday movies, and the upstairs neighbour to go away for the winter. It appears that we may get our grownup Christmas wish, but man, it’s taking some time to manifest.

In the meantime, our annual obligations—which are less obligations than things we enjoy and want to do each year—require that we try to keep up with the season. Making matters worse is the threat of significant snow this week. Yup, with Santa Day looming, the weather gods are getting their own holly jollies. At least my work routine has ended for the calendar year, though keeping to it for the first half of December was its usual challenge. Or maybe its unusual challenge, given how things have changed in COVID’s wake.

Because they have changed. Or I have. I’m still working out the difference between what happened and what would have happened anyway. Until I figure it out for myself, I am a study in confused philosophy and am a lot less patient with it than I was in the Before Time. Perhaps I will use this holiday season to sort it out. I sure won’t be using the time to celebrate at the same rate as in Christmases past. Don’t get me wrong. I’m glad the house is decorated. I had a blast doing the cards. I’m enjoying the lights and the music. I relish having a dozen different cheeses in the fridge and ruby mimosas on a whim. And oat-based nog is a surprisingly favourable alternative to conventional eggnog, in case you’re wondering.

This holiday season will be spent sorting myself out—not terribly entertaining, I admit, but with pure intent to regain my former joie de vivre.

Assuming that my former joie de vivre ever existed, of course. Sometimes I forget who I was when I’m not impressed with who I am. While I get to work on solving that mystery, I’ll appreciate the beauty of the midwinter solstice, the respite from the daily grind, and the abundance of my loving, friendly and generous Universe.

With love,

Snow Daze

 

It’s snowing. I’m in my room writing about it, reminiscing about Christmases past when the only seasonal white stuff was the whipped cream on Mum’s Boxing Day trifle, or recalling one winter day when I stood with my father in the living room and watched a rare flurry outside the window.

I said, “Isn’t it pretty?”

Dad growled, “I hate snow.”

It’s definitely different when you don’t have to operate in it.

I remember some winters when Mum would do a massive grocery shopping in response to a menacing forecast. Once the kitchen was fully stocked, she would come into the living room and announce, “Now it can snow.” We’d all breathe a sigh of relief, knowing hearty soups and fresh-baked baps were in the works no matter how frightful was the weather outside.

These days, even on the west coast, snow seems an annual inevitability. I don’t remember a recent winter without it; in fact, a major snowfall in the Before Time prompted the Powers That Be to order laptops for all staff during the computer refresh (admin staff typically received desktops) so we could work from home on heavy snow days. The computers were also outfitted with VPN access, and whatever technology was required to keep the system from crashing was boosted to avoid a network catastrophe. (I wonder if our directors had a communal premonition, as it sure came in handy when COVID hit.)

Used to be that snow fell in January or February. Now it seems bent on wrecking Christmas, or at least one’s Christmas vacation, by dumping before festive preparations are complete. This year, the first round fell on November 7, followed almost exactly two weeks later by a second round. I now have a strategy to outwit the winter by either picking up my computer—my rig is left at the office on weekends so it gets its updates on schedule—or keeping it at home if it snows later in the week. It’s much less stressful to be on vacation, though today’s snowfall is interfering with last minute Christmas shopping; not mine, but everyone else’s, and that’s an extra stress on people already teetering on the edge.

My snowmance continues, however, with images of hot tea, fat novels and cozy blankets. Ter suffers more, being prone to cabin fever long before I get restless. She’s never actually declared a loathing for it, but a snow advisory can rattle her until she’s able to restock the pantry. Then she emerges from the kitchen to announce, “Now, it can snow.”

Christmas Kryptonite

 

Lookee what Ter brought home the other day! Oh, joy! Hallelujah, let the church say “Amen”, Christmas candy is now available – and November has hardly begun!

Remember when holiday treats were truly limited editions? When eggnog, candy canes, boxes of chocolates and tins of cookies were on the shelves for maybe four weeks before Christmas? When the sublime blend of white chocolate and peppermint candy had yet to be invented? I remember those days. I don’t lament them much, either, but whoever decided to mix crushed candy canes into melted white chocolate deserves some sort of culinary—nay, Nobel—award.

Something magical has happened this year. For the first time since the Before Time, I’m getting excited about Christmas. The neighbours behind us put twinkle lights on their balcony a few days before Hallowe’en—it was probably to celebrate Diwali, but I was thrilled with the multi-coloured light show anyway. Eggnog lattes are now available at my coffee haunt, even ahead of Starbucks; I haven’t indulged as yet, but I won’t wait until December to have one. Ter and I are talking about holiday baking again. I’ve listened to Christmas tunes on two occasions so far and she’s confessed to playing holiday discs in the car. And we may be out of our minds in this smaller apartment, but this year, we’re tackling the Big Tree without caring if it overwhelms the living room.

But it started with the Candy Cane Kisses. I don’t even like Hershey’s chocolate, but these little bonbons are deadly addictive (something in the toxic red food colouring, perchance?). Their similarity to my favourite ice cream ever – peppermint candy – could explain it; maybe it’s the refreshing punch of peppermint in the sweet white chocolate. Or the textural contrast of crunchy bits in melty surroundings. Don’t know, don’t care. Get ’em while you can. They might be here early, but they sure won’t stay late.

Think I’ll have just one more ...

Desert Island Discs

 

Ter and I baked cookies yesterday. Before we started, she declared, “Baking music!” and popped a disc onto the kitchen stereo. Just as I asked what “baking music” was, the first notes of A Charlie Brown Christmas trickled from the speakers.

Well, duh.

Vince Guaraldi’s version of O Tannenbaum never fails to lift my spirits. In fact, every time I hear a track—any track—on the CBC album, I am transported to a tranquil world of joy and beauty that no other album can invoke. Ter often plays it while she’s cooking; I’ll hear it from my room and my whole being relaxes. We even play it in the car, cruising on the mellow notes of a recording we have both loved for-seeming-ever. I can’t explain why; it just is.

Which means it holds the top spot in my trio of “desert island discs”. You know, the perennial conversation-starter about what three albums you’d have if you were stranded on a pile of sand in the south Pacific. Yes, Virginia, a Christmas album is my top pick for indefinite isolation. I never get tired of it. My favourite track is the instrumental of Christmastime is Here, where the piano is played so casually, with such elegance, that it’s easy to picture my beloved Julian at the keyboard (sorry, Vince). And Hark! the Herald Angels almost always begins with Ter and I “loo loo loo-ing” along with the kids. As a twelve track album, it’s crammed with so many pleasant memories and good feelings that packing it past Tahiti is a no-brainer.

The trouble comes with choosing the second and third of my top three discs. Okay, Duran Duran for sure—but which album? Can I cheat and make my own lengthy “best of” playlist? Do home-made discs count, and if so, does a double-disc count as one or two? I might go with Notorious for its jazz-influenced riffs, but I actually prefer 21^st century DD to their earlier work. Even then, I can’t pick a single album because Astronaut, All You Need is Now and Paper Gods are all fabulous. (Red Carpet Massacre is only okay, though as an experiment it was brave attempt by the band to stay relevant.)

Assuming I can settle on a DD album in the second spot, my third choice is probably something by Ludovico Einaudi, whose instrumental work on piano ranges from delicate to epic depending on the track and whether or not an orchestra is involved. Every one of his albums inspires an award-winning story I have yet to write, so again, how do I choose one over the others?

I know, I know. It’s not likely to become an issue. I seriously doubt the island I get stranded on will be wired for sound, but whether it be cookies in the kitchen or sunning on the beach, A Charlie Brown Christmas is definitely music to bake by!

Stuff It

I love single servings!

When I was a kid, the only time Mum cooked a turkey was at Christmas. That means we had stuffing once a year, and I’m here to tell you, though Mum cooked a beauty every time that I remember, the bird was not the star of the family holiday feast. Mum didn’t go in for the homemade sausage/cranberry/chestnut/kitchen sink dressing; for expediency’s sake she knocked out a box of Stove Top and we were fine with it.

“Stove Top or potatoes?” The answer was a no brainer in our house:

Both!

However, if forced at gunpoint to choose one over the other, my younger younger brother once said he’d be content with a bowl of stuffing and gravy—and I completely, heartily, vehemently agree. And while one might argue that a boxed stuffing mix is cheating, you can’t really call it substandard because the bread should be a little stale anyway and most of the herbs in a homemade version are as dry as they are in the commercial product. Fresh herbs just don’t pack the same punch; not in stuffing, anyway.

Mind you, my older sister made a batch from scratch at Thanksgiving a couple of years ago, and I would have devoured the whole pan except there were seven other people at the table and it would have been rude not to share.

So this weekend, Ter was debating about veggies to go with our Easter dinner. “You’re doing sprouts, right?” I asked, because we love Brussels sprouts and apparently can’t have them too often.

“Oh yeah,” she concurred, “but instead of carrot/turnip mash, I’ve got a couple of squash that I haven’t used, so maybe the acorn ...?”

That’s a lot of cooking and I try to spare her where I can. “I’ll forfeit the mashed potatoes for squash,” I said.

She knows I’ve never met a spud I haven’t liked, so she was sufficiently dubious. “Really?”

“Oh, yeah. Because it’s really all about the stuffing.”

Stuffing with gravy, sprouts, squash, and a side of turkey.

Happy Easter.

Stepping Out of Christmas

The night before we took down the tree, I noticed something I always forget until the night of the day we put up the tree: I love how the twinkle lights are reflected in Ter’s wineglass. This year, the inverted effect also reflected the tapsalteerie nature of Christmas 2018 ... or of 2018 in general. As my office roomie bleakly observed in mid-December, “2018 can go f*** itself.”

Amen, sister.

Right up to December twenty-first, real life inflicted itself on the festivities. Physical challenges, work pressure, car repairs, and the cyclical nature of grief conspired to foil my seasonal joy—but we got ’er done in spite of the obstacles.

Don’t we always?

Think about it. Life doesn’t stop because it’s Christmas. It doesn’t stop for vacation, either. I once asked my boss if I could have my time back because my February leave had sucked. Alas, my request was denied. Since then, I have been aware of the contrast in supposedly good times, Christmas being the most obvious target for the simple reason that it demands more energy than a summer holiday. When you’re already exhausted, the smallest hiccup can be tectonic in result.

Conversely, this past Christmas was also brighter, more peaceful and somehow happier than previous ones. I thought frequently of Mum, but the memories of Christmases with her made up for the first one without her. As for the big tree ... I did the heavy lifting since Ter was out of commission, but it felt like more of a team effort once Bart the bear was in place next to the star. Ups and downs came fast and furious throughout the season, but upside down or right side up, it was consistently beautiful. I couldn’t have imagined better.

On to 2019!

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,

Traditions 2.0

Before Christmas, one of our local radio curmudgeons did a bit about the importance of tradition. During the holidays in particular, we treasure the rituals that make us feel safe and secure in a world getting nuttier with every headline. Many of our rituals come with us from childhood, and new ones develop as we establish our own homes and families. For me, it’s alcohol and TV shows. I don’t drink so much at any other time of year, and it’s not Christmas until we’ve watched Charlie Brown.

Even at the office, we have seasonal traditions. On the day the fireplace went up, one of my colleagues paused when she saw it, broke into a grin, and announced, “It’s official! Christmas is here!”

It seems Ter and I have ton of them. The house gets decorated first. I get the cards done and gone by mid-month. The big tree goes up on the first Saturday in December (or the last one in November). We watch Jim Carrey’s Grinch on that night, and every other holiday movie/TV show we have between then and the 23^rd, when A Christmas Story kicks of the holiday hat trick that includes Alistair Sim on the 24^th and Jimmy Stewart on the 25^th. We stock the kitchen with Imperial cheese and garlic sausage, mincemeat tarts and eggnog (and my annual bottle of Prosecco). We visit my folks, friends, and a sibling or two ahead of Christmas Day, not to mention getting presents bought and wrapped for distribution at those visits. Our holiday CDs go on heavy rotation in the house and in the car.

You get the picture.

Well, this year something happened. A bunch of things, actually, that interfered with our nicely organized, pre-scheduled, comfortably familiar holiday hoopla. Some switchups were deliberate, like Ter deciding to bake fruitcake for the first time in a few years, but others were, er, forced upon us. We were too bushed after wrestling with the tree to watch Jim Carrey, so the Grinch got put off for a week. My parents were unavailable when we hoped to visit them, and we were unavailable when my older sister invited us to tea. (Happily, those visits happened after the 25^th, though it felt weird having to reschedule them.) We got hung up on some other oddball things that escape me now, but despite some of our traditions being waylaid by circumstance, other things happened to make holiday magic.

It snowed on Christmas Eve. It started within seconds of my return from dropping Treena home after her ritual holiday visit, and it didn’t stop until the street was thick with frosting and our view of Oak Bay had disappeared. Ter put on the cheeseball Christmas tunes channel, and we sat in a candlelit Ocean Room with wine and popcorn, watching the snow and revelling in the unexpected hygge.

We spent the next morning in the same room, opening our presents in the glow of the penguin tree when our habit is to spend Christmas morning with the big tree. Neighbour noise caused that one, but it worked out in the end. In fact, all the adjustments worked. The OR is my favourite room in the house; why not open our presents there? Visiting parents and siblings after Christmas Day was more relaxed than if we’d crammed it in ahead of the 25th. I survived without my jar of clotted cream and discovered the joy of vanilla and cinnamon Bailey’s. Limited rotation of Christmas music didn’t kill us, though it’s too bad we missed running Blackadder’s Christmas Carol and Nation Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation.

Maybe new traditions were born of the pre-empted old ones; I won’t know until next Christmas. I do know however, that despite the hiccups and with the gift of snow on Christmas Eve, ours in 2017 turned out to be quite festive. Traditions are important, indeed they are, but when conditions are right—though they may seem wrong at the time—traditions can also be improved!

“Alfie the Christmas Tree”

This year I wanted to write a meaningful piece for Christmas Eve; something wondrous and magical that reflects the spirit of the season. Alas, nothing original came—but I remembered a poem that was written by the late John Denver and performed on a TV special with the Muppets many years ago (John Denver and the Muppets: A Christmas Together). I’m unsure that it’s as powerful in writing as it was when he read it aloud, but the sentiment speaks to my wish for the holiday this year, so I thought I’d share.

Merry Christmas, with love.

* * *

Did you ever hear the story of the Christmas tree that didn’t want to change the show?

He liked living in the wood, he liked icicles and snow.

He liked wolves and eagles and grizzly bears, and critters and creatures that crawl.

Why, bugs were some of his very best friends, spiders and ants and all.

Now that’s not to say that he ever looked down on twinkle lights

Or mirrored bubbles and peppermint canes and a thousand other delights,

And he often had dreams of tiny reindeer and a jolly old man in a sleigh

Full of toys and presents and wonderful things, and the story of Christmas Day.

Oh, Alfie believed in Christmas, all right. He was full of Christmas cheer

All of each and every day, all throughout the year.

To him it was more than a special time, much more than a special day.

It was more than a beautiful story; it was a special kind of way.

You see, some folks have never heard a jingle bell ring and they’ve never heard of Santa Claus.

They’ve never heard the story of the Son of God, and that made Alfie pause:

Did that mean that they’d never know of peace on earth or the brotherhood of man,

Or how to love or know how to give? If they can’t, no one can.

You see, life is a very special kind of thing, not just for a chosen few,

But for each and every living breathing thing, not just me and you.

So in your Christmas prayers this year, Alfie asked me if I’d ask you

To say a prayer for the wind and the water and the wood—and those who live there too.

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 …

Holidaze

For years now, people have complained about Christmas showing up in October. That’s never bothered me, probably because I love Christmas, but this year I’ve noticed something I’m sure was not the ordinary until now.

There used to be space between holidays. Sometime after school started, harvest froufrou would kick off Thanksgiving (breathe), then Hallowe’en (not an “official” holiday but you’ll see my point) would be proclaimed (breathe), then Remembrance Day (breathe), then Christmas would get into gear, followed (followed, mind you) too soon by Boxing Day and New Year’s, after which we’d get a few weeks off before being confronted with Valentine’s Day in early February. Retailers gave consumers a break between reasons to consume, but that no longer happens.

Hallowe’en candy is in stores just after school starts. Thanksgiving is celebrated with little to no preamble, probably since it’s counter-intuitive to promote acquiring more stuff at a time when we’re meant to be grateful for what we have. Poppies are on lapels before Hallowe’en – no discredit there, as November 11 is hardly a goldmine for the veterans – but this year I saw my first Christmas commercial mere hours before the first trick-or-treaters emerged on October 31. Geez. That blew my mind. I mean, I try to restrain my Yuletide spirit until November 11, and I believe the rest of the world should do the same thing.

What’s that, Ru? The rest of the world should wait until the veterans have been remembered before we launch into the annual consumer frenzy like good little lab rats? And where were you on the first weekend in November, hmmmmmm?

Okay, okay. I confess—I was at Canadian Tire, topping up on twinkle lights and stopping at Starbucks for a steamed eggnog. Sue me. I have lately been so overwhelmed by the bad news and negativity in the world that I was desperate for something to make me happy. Well, Christmas makes me happy. The lights, the food, the music, the convivial cheer that seems more prevalent among strangers—in the face of death and destruction and people behaving badly, I’m all for indulging in a little premature holiday spirit.

I digress. Sort of. As Dr Seuss pointed out, and contrary to what the big eastern syndicate would have us believe, Christmas doesn’t come from a store. And it doesn’t matter anyway, when I know what’s coming on December 24: the first Boxing Day sale ads, mixed in with New Year’s sale ads, bleeding into Valentine’s Day diamond commercials in January, blurred by Easter treat blurbs in February, Mother’s Day flower adverts in April and so on and so on ...

Believe me, I’m into the holidays this year, and because I’m into them, I want to slow down and enjoy them—even the commercials (the celebratory food and drink ones, not the appalling Black Friday ones)—before the marketing moguls snatch the Yuletide season from my grasp.

Merry Christmas in advance!

The Next Two Weeks

This is my life for the next two weeks. With breaks for the new Star Wars film and hosting a visit with my wee and boy sisters on New Year’s Eve, the bulk of my remaining fortnight’s vacation will be spent writing. Yup, a typewriter and a coffee cup (actually a computer and a tea tumbler) are my constant companions as I devote myself to reconnecting with the Muse.

My primary project is the story of Caius and Aurelia. I won’t get it finished—there’s too much to tell—but now that I feel more like myself again, I’m eager to resume the writing of it. While I was doing the dishes the other night, the opening lines of Aurelia’s POV drifted in on the winter wind, soon followed by a third character stepping up to tell his version of the tale. I was so excited I forgot about the dishes and stood with my hands in the hot water, watching the pictures in my mind’s eye. With that much meat on the bone, I’ll be feasting well into 2017!

Reconnecting means more than with the Muse, however. I lost some serious touch with my daily practice after accidentally igniting an auto-immune reaction to a homeopathic flu preparation in November. A natural alternative to an annual flu shot, which I have never had, I decided to get back with the program after some years of going without—and I wish I had gone without it this year, too. Within 48 hours of the first dose, joints were flaring all over the place; and while there is no definitive proof that the medicine was the culprit, the timing is too suspicious to discount it. Over the five week course, my arthritis progressively worsened, started to recover, then worsened again. Three health practitioners had three different theories. None of the treatments made it better. One or two made it worse. I decided to finish the flu program rather than quit halfway through—it may or may not have been a good idea, but four weeks after my final dose and my body appears to be recalibrating. Oh, my joints still hurt like tiny star flares, but the frequency, location and intensity are diminishing and, as I say, I am beginning to look outward with more interest in things than I was through the past couple of months.

During those interminable weeks, it was all I could do to get out of bed, get to work and hang on until fatigue sent me to a premature bedtime. Christmas only happened with the help of tea fairy Treena and my angels—thanks to them, I was able to pull off the coup of Christmas prezzies for my beloved Ter, who was my stalwart rock the whole time—but anything else requiring energy or focus fell by the wayside. Weekly yoga sessions, daily meditations, attention to detail at the office (I’m sure my mistakes will show up later in January), and writing anything other than my name were sacrificed in the name of survival.

Though I did finish my annual reading of The Night Circus. And the Christmas cards got done. Priorities, you know.

So, my fiendish plan for the rest of my vacation also includes reconnecting with Ru. Gradually, gently, I mean to reinstate my twice weekly yoga sessions and practice more frequent meditations. Ter has wryly warned against “over meditating”—she has as many gurus as I have doctors, and in helping to make her point with me, she realized that she has a similar proclivity to spiritual maintenance as I have to physical. And it’s true: too much of a good thing can be as harmful as too much of a bad one. The pendulum on maintenance (physical for me, spiritual for her) swung a bit too far and messed us up in 2016. Between us, we intend on simplifying our practices as we move into the new year, aiming for balance in all things.

With love,

The Day After Christmas

It was fun, but now it’s over. No more shopping, no more wrapping. No more jingle bells. No more Santa runs to friends and family. Holiday movies have been watched and Christmas CDs are back in the rack. No more prezzies to open—the tree now shelters the unmasked goodies bestowed on us by our loved ones. Ter and I are stuffed with December treats and the kitchen is jammed to the rafters with the surplus. We live in such abundance, we are most grateful to be so fortunate.

There is, however, an oddly hollow sense when all is said and done. Sated and exhausted, we awake on December 26 to the perennial question of “Now what?”

Luckily, I have a plan—but that’s tomorrow’s post.

Last night I wondered what the day after the first Christmas was like. If it had been as anti-climactic as the day after every Christmas since.

The answer is a no-brainer, really. What can possibly outdo a heavenly choir and three wise men dropping by with gifts of gold and rare perfume? Like it’s awaited everyone else in all the centuries to follow, real life awaited the little family in Bethlehem. I bet Mary wanted nothing more than a bath and some peace and quiet, but no—she was expected to preside over the festivities. Apparently none of the kings was able to wield any influence with the local innkeepers, so the party stayed in the stable. The next morning, the kings would have departed, the shepherds returned to their fields, and Mary was faced with a newborn son of God unable to articulate his wants and needs, and she a new mother with no experience to guide her. Worse, she had to get back on that donkey for the trip home to Nazareth—bad enough while heavily pregnant, but trickier now that the babe was on the outside. She’d have to nurse him, clothe him, and cuddle him, all the while thinking how nice it was that everyone turned out to praise the birth but didn’t stick around to help with the clean up. Once they got back to Nazareth, they’d have been welcomed home by the community and life would fall into a new routine, and pretty soon the royal visit and Hallelujah chorus would have seemed like she had dreamed it.

No blasphemy is intended here. Whatever happened on that night all those years ago, life went on for the players as sure as it goes for each of us. The baby had a singular destiny, but what baby doesn’t? We are each born of divinity, each on a path designed specifically for the individual, and while few of us will change the world as radically as Jesus did, we will change our little corners of it, hopefully for the better but sometimes not.

I’m a day late, but the sentiment is no less heartfelt: Merry Christmas.

With love,