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 ...

Hallow Won't

 

Move Hallowe'en?? Horrors!

There’s an underground rumbling that suggests the scariest night of the year be moved from the last day of October to the last Saturday of October.

WTF?

Granted, the rumbling comes from disgruntled parents and teachers who are inconvenienced by managing children jacked on sugar the day after Hallowe’en, but it also indicates a lack of understanding about the day itself and why it exists in the first place.

“Hallowe’en” is the contracted form of “All Hallow’s Eve”, “All Hallows” being November 1, otherwise known as “All Saints Day” on the religious calendar.

Did I say “religious”? Yes, and I meant to say it. And I’m not apologizing, either. I may not be conventionally religious, but I do enjoy the holidays and observances associated with (and some say stolen from) annual celebrations of spring, fall, and winter.

I wonder why no one bothered to Christianize the summer solstice.

I digress.

Hallowe’en happens on October 31 for a reason. It’s not about the candy. Okay, maybe now it is, but originally, it was the last chance day in the year for evil spirits to work their nefarious magic on innocent souls before the saints came marching in on November 1. The dead rose to walk again, witches cast wicked spells and Satan roamed free. Folks dressed up to fool said evil spirits – and their earthbound minions – on the premise that they wouldn’t be recognized and the spirits would bypass them. That’s where the tradition of Hallowe’en costumes come from. In truth, I’m unsure where the trick-or-treat thing started, though it’s likely rooted in the same occasion, and candy was not the anticipated outcome. Successfully dodging the demons was.

The Easter argument doesn’t support moving October 31, either. Easter happens in coincidence with Passover, an event dependent on the lunar cycle, which is not attached to a static date. Candy wasn’t the anticipated outcome at Easter or Passover, either, by the way. I’m not at all sure where chocolate fits into history though, being a fool for Cadbury Creme eggs, I do appreciate its presence in the modern era.

If it hasn’t become obvious by now, I’m all for keeping Hallowe’en where it is. If anything needs to change, perhaps getting rid of trick-or-treat is the answer. After all, I’m not the only one who’s been buzzed on Hallowe’en candy since August!

Rockets - Yeah!

 

Now that Hallowe’en is a thing again – okay, maybe it never stopped, but during two years of COVID restrictions, it seems like everything did – the age-old debate is back: what’s the best Hallowe’en candy?

Tiny chocolate bars don’t count. First, they’re a given favourite. The only argument is which one is the best. Mars bars were tops for a while, then Crunchies took the prize, now I’m a huge (or would be, if I ate every one I see) Aero fan. Second, tiny chocolate bars are ubiquitous, a fact of life and school lunches in this era of dwindling seasonal treats. By “dwindling”, I mean much of what was once only available at select times of the year is now available all year, so it’s hard to get excited about a clutch of little chocolate bars when whole boxes of the darned things are in stores 24/7. The manufacturers try to make them special by issuing scary shapes in spooky wrappers, but I doubt the kids are fooled either.

I digress. Sort of. Back to the best of the Hallowe’en treat bag:

Stick gum? No, thanks.

Chiclets? Better than stick, but still, no thanks.

Bubble gum? Geez, how many kinds of gum are there, anyway?

Lollipops? Meh. The green ones are okay, but ...

Molasses kisses? A taste I neither appreciated nor acquired until adulthood. Now I love them, dark sticky ones and whipped chewy airy ones alike. If only they were available all year.

Apples? Straight to compost.

Skittles, Starbursts and Sour Patch Kids didn’t exist when I was trick or treating, nor did gummies of any ilk. I like gummy Life Savers now, but am lukewarm to the others.

Nope, my second favourite treat as a Hallowe’en kid was a roll of Rockets. Hands down, the best candy in the bag. Pure sugar with no real flavour, they are little buttons of pure sweet/tart delight – very much a mini-version of the SweetTarts I also loved in childhood. I could get SweetTarts at the corner store year-round, but Rockets were strictly a Hallowe’en thing. I hoarded them like a miser, they were off-limits in trades unless I had a friend who disliked them, in which case I’d happily surrender whatever my buddy wanted in return. If I ate them one at a time, I could make a roll of Rockets last far longer than a little box of Smarties.

A strange aside: I hear Rockets are called Smarties in the States. Their version of Canadian Smarties must be the sub-standard M&Ms ... but that’s a debate for another time.

Nowadays Rockets, like tiny chocolate bars, are available all year – if you know where to get ’em. And I do ... or Ter does, and so a constant supply resides in our kitchen pantry. I have a stash in my desk drawer at the office, too, and it’s not unusual to hear the telltale wrapper crinkling at some time between eleven and one on any given day, be it a weekday or a weekend, week in, week out, month in, month out, all blessed year. My favourite Hallowe’en candy is a seasonal treat no more.

I can’t decide if I’m happy about that, or a little sad.

Tough Love

 

My loving, friendly, generous Universe blesses me daily. I live in a world where miracles abound. All things happen with everyone’s best interest in mind. There is a reason for everything, even the difficult stuff. I try to go gently, practicing kindness, compassion and being non-judgemental.

Obviously, there are days when I’m more successful at this than others.

I don’t rely on Oracle cards, but I do follow Colette Baron-Reid on F***book. She posts a daily card, which I often don’t see until days after the fact so, clearly, I’m not that invested. Still, there are occasions when the card of a particular day will ring true in hindsight (not that I look behind me that often. As Ragnar said to his sons in a later episode of Vikings, “Don’t look back; that’s not where you’re going.”)

One day recently, the card simply stated “It Is What It Is.” The message advised me to adopt radical acceptance, explaining that acceptance is the best means of opening myself to greater abundance, blessing, and/or happiness. It suggested taking things at face value and not to read more into a given instant. Sometimes things just happen. Not everything has a deeper meaning. Acceptance enables good energy to flow easily, clearing log jams that result from us focusing too intently on what vexes us.

That very same day, I lost my mind over something so trivial it’s almost embarrassing.

Anyone who knows me also knows that my vehicle is sacrosanct. Indeed, only two things can drive me to spontaneous acts of violence: Flyer games, and any slight, be it a scratch, dent or other misdemeanour, against my vehicle. Well, on this day, I was the victim of a visitor who parked in my reserved space – and boom! Kindness, compassion and being non-judgemental flew right out the window. I seethed and foamed and fretted at the utter lack of morality in that individual. Capital punishment was a just penalty for the crime of forcing me to park my beloved Tiguan on the street.

Once I cooled off (and it took a while), I marvelled at how cushy my life is that I have the luxury of obsessing over something that, as a First World problem, barely rates as a problem at all ... or it shouldn’t.

Suddenly, the day’s Oracle card returned to mind: It Is What It Is.

Huh, I thought. The card meaning was suddenly clear. By advocating radical acceptance, the Universe was saying, in the most loving, friendly and generous way:

“Get over it.”

State Funeral

 

I thought I would be more emotional during the Queen’s funeral. I was up at 2:00 a.m. to catch the start of the proceedings – mostly people arriving at the Abbey ahead of the service – and hung in there until 6:00 a.m., when the Queen’s motorcade crept out of London en route to Windsor. The procession from Westminster to Wellington Arch was gruelling – and I wasn’t even following on foot! Given the time between the funeral and the committal service, I figured I could grab a nap and be awake for the final stages at St George’s Chapel.

Nope. I slept past it; again, thank the gods for Youtube.

Ten days is a long time. At this point, I was more aggrieved for the royal family, especially the King and his siblings, for having to march in line behind the coffin once more. Of course it’s to honour their mother as much as the late monarch and I would have wanted to do the same, but oh, my, the miles they have trudged in Her Majesty’s wake. And, I dare say, at their ages. I can only imagine their relief that all is finally over. Closure has occurred, the second Elizabethan Era is ended and a new reign begins.

Shouldn’t something have changed? The world feels the same. The sun rose this morning, autumn is still scheduled for the end of this week, the war is still on in Ukraine. I imagined that her death would somehow mirror my own mother’s passing, when my surroundings took on a stunning new brilliance I hadn’t seen before. The royal Elizabeth was as important as mine, yet despite ten days of mourning, with four spent lying-in-state, now that it’s done, it’s done. There might be some global follow up in the next couple of days, but guaranteed the focus outside the UK will soon enough revert to the usual business of “suffering and greed, here today, forgot tomorrow”.

As for me, it’s back to walking my own path, being the best I can be in any given moment – but remembering Her Majesty’s example, which was really not dissimilar to what my mother taught me about treating others with kindness and respect. I’m grateful to have witnessed these massive moments in history. I have been touched through the connection that binds me to every living soul, uniting us in grief and sympathy for the loss of an exceptional person. Perhaps I can’t foresee a difference to my life in the aftermath ... yet there will be unexpected moments when I am reminded of the change in this country’s hierarchy. It may be a tiny thing, like a filing a chargeback from the King’s Printer when a month ago I was filing them from the Queen’s Printer, or something more poignant, like watching the King’s Christmas message when it used to be given by the Queen, but I will have those moments and then I’ll know.

Actually, I kind of know already. When someone passes on, whether famous or family, everything changes. We just don’t always recognize it.

With love,

God Save the King

 

I wonder how strange it must feel for the former Prince of Wales to sign himself “Charles R”.

Though it’s only been a few days since the Queen’s passing, the adjustment to having a King has been easier than I’d originally imagined, perhaps because yesterday was about the proclamation and accession of the new monarch rather than about Her late Majesty. The formal proceedings at St James’ Palace were fascinating to watch. I never thought I’d say this, but bless Youtube as a repository for such things. At the end of a busy day prepping for my return to work, Ter and I were able to catch up on this piece of living history hours after it had happened. Time zone issues, you know.

Maybe it’s as much because she and I are career public servants as we are Royalists that we observed with keen interest the reading, signing, and witnessing of the accession proclamation by the King and Privy Council members. Draft Orders-in-Council were approved regarding use of the existing royal seals pending creation and authorization of new ones, one of a million changes to be made when a king succeeds a queen. Even here in Canada, in BC, there are protocols regarding the Queen’s portrait (drape it in black), the state of legislation passed under the previous reign (they remain in effect), and the shift of lawyers named from Queen’s Council to King’s Council (it’s automatic and immediate).

Again, His Majesty gave a fine speech, this time to the assembly. There is no doubt he gets both the gravity of his new responsibilities and the weighty challenge of following his mother’s stellar example. I still think he’ll do well enough in his own right, in his own way.

I was particularly touched – and amused – when the motorcade departing Buckingham Palace at the end of the day yesterday suddenly stopped halfway along the Mall. The Rolls carrying the King veered off at an angle and came to a full halt. The back door opened and His newly proclaimed Majesty got out for a spontaneous walkabout with spectators along the road. The scramble of media cameras to seek and focus on him with the crowd was hilarious, as the car had stopped between established view points and no one was prepared for it. Yet it confirmed for me the suspicion that his private grief may be helped by sharing in the public’s, for the Queen was a beloved figure in many people’s lives as well as within her own family.

There’s the surreal thing again. In absorbing the protocols around naming a new sovereign, I am reminded that the sole reason for them is that Queen Elizabeth has died. The reminder came this morning, when I awoke to the news that her coffin had arrived at Holyrood House in Edinburgh, there to await tomorrow’s service at St Giles ahead of transport to London and a lying in state at Westminster until the funeral on the 19th. Charles is in a uniquely painful position, taking on his mother’s job while simultaneously mourning her loss. Surely no other member of his family can relate so acutely to the awful contradiction of ascending monarch with mourning son. On all counts, I truly wish His Majesty well.

God save the King.

HM Queen Elizabeth II

 

I am a Royalist. Have been for most of my lives. It feels strange to have a third King Charles on the throne when I had taken for granted that my Charles would be the last of his name. He and his father were Stuarts, and both of their reigns were fraught with tragedy and tumult as the country tore itself apart then experimented with having no monarch at all. One might suppose that they had it coming, believing that the divine right of kings set them apart from the common folk ... but doesn’t it? Each of us has a destiny determined before we are born. If the Stuarts had been more humble about it, the Commonwealth period may not have happened and Charles I could have kept his head but, as I say, the destiny of a person or a country, even of the world, is predetermined.

I digress.

This past summer saw the celebration of Queen Elizabeth II’s Platinum Jubilee. At ninety-six, she had been our queen for seventy years, the longest reigning sovereign in English history (and given the struggles of past monarchs to keep the throne, that’s quite the achievement). Talk about destiny. At the time of her birth, Princess Elizabeth of York was not expected to be Queen. If her uncle Edward VIII hadn’t abdicated, she likely would have lived a relatively private life, certainly one with less responsibility.

But her uncle did abdicate, and at the age of twenty-one she made a vow to serve the people of the realm for as long as she lived. Against all odds, through public and personal challenges, and the tenures of fourteen prime ministers, she kept her word. She was an exemplary public servant. She never quit, never gave up. She made the best of bad days and maintained her public face, a face that was calm, kind, and so similar to my own mother’s that I liked to claim the Queen actually was my mother, but there had been a mix up in the royal nursery and I ended up in the custody of a nice middle class Scottish family. When I was invited to reclaim my royal birthright as an adult, I refused. I loved my adopted family far more than I desired to be a princess of the blood. As any cherished daughter will tell you, being a princess isn’t exclusive to lineage.

I digress again.

It’s no longer news that the Queen passed away on September 8, 2022. Ter and I have been on vacation, so we’ve had the luxury of being glued to the TV as events unfold. Given Her Majesty’s advanced age, of course it’s no surprise that she’s gone, yet it came as a surprise when she went. Maybe because the end came so quickly—on September 6, she had welcomed Liz Truss as the next Prime Minister and forty-eight hours later, I woke up to reports that she was under medical supervision and the family had been summoned. I was stunned. Shortly afterward, the announcement came that Her Majesty had passed away, whereupon time assumed that odd elastic quality of being at once real and surreal. The expected becomes unexpected and we respond by running through a gamut of emotion that defies explanation.

It was almost like a death in the family. Shock, sadness, compassion for her immediate family and especially the new King, followed by a thirst for details about what happens next. I don’t know anyone who remembers when the Queen’s father died, so how is this going to work? Making a plan is not the same as implementing it. Even step by step instructions require physical action to manifest. I’m sure glad it’s not my job. All I have to do is get up at 3:00 a.m. PST on September 19 to watch the funeral. I can only imagine the stress running rampant at Buckingham Palace.

Am I digressing again? Maybe. I’m still running that gamut of emotion. I have been impressed with the King’s candour in his first speech as King. I’ve always considered him to be a gentle man, affable and kind with a genuine interest in the betterment of all people. I think he’ll do well enough. He’ll do best by following his mother’s example, which he has vowed to do though no one left on the planet can hope to meet the standard Queen Elizabeth II set during the course of her incredible lifetime.

She was quite simply the most valuable jewel in the Crown.