Dear America

 Dear America, qu'est-ce que c'est, eh? What happened to you? Canada, your closest friend and ally, is really worried about you. And what's up with this back-stabbing crap?

For a very long time, we have stood by your side, welcomed each other as friends, partners, even family. Generations of Canadians have marched into battle with you in two World Wars. We have supported and uplifted you through natural disasters, tragic accidents, and global pandemics. During the Iran hostage crisis, Canadian Ambassador Ken Taylor and a Canadian diplomat named John Sheardown gave refuge to six Americans, risking their own safety to do so. With the full support of the Canadian Government, the Americans were given Canadian passports and smuggled out of Iran on a flight to Switzerland. This life-saving operation became known as the Canadian Caper, and Ambassador Ken Taylor was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal by the U.S. Congress for his role in safe-guarding American lives.

And, then there's 9-1-1. Do you remember, dear America, how Canada swiftly initiated Operation Yellow Ribbon that day to save, feed, and shelter thousands of plane passengers destined for U.S. airports during that terror-filled time of anxiety and uncertainty? Lifelong friendships were forged between Canadians and Americans due to the amazing hospitality offered from neighbour to neighbour.

So, then, dear America, what's this current kerfuffle all about? Let's clear the air on what it's definitely NOT about - fentanyl or migrants. Here's an astonishing fact that Fox "News" probably hasn't told you: less than 1% of the fentanyl in your country enters through the Canadian border and ditto for migrants. Yet, if we want to get nitpicky about illegal smuggling through the Canada/U.S. border, the Toronto Police Service has said that 85% of guns used in criminal activity in that city have come in from the U.S. through illegal means. Texas, in particular, was noted as a source of these weapons. Is it too much of a stretch, then, to wonder if these same bad actors are supplying the drug cartels with their weapons as well? It might be prudent to check your own backyard first before pointing Uncle Sam's finger at your neighbour. 

Make no mistake, dear America: what the orange miscreant really wants by initiating this unjustified trade war is to annex Canada's sovereign territory and gain access to our vast stock of natural resources, such as water, oil, energy, and lumber. The buffoon has managed to fool enough of you to once again gain full control of your inner sanctum. His promise to drain the swamp is just one of his many, many lies. Instead, he has turned your once shining beacon of democracy into a swirling, stinking, decaying cesspool of oligarchs, sycophants, and brain-washed imbeciles.  

Dear America, is this how you really want to end our long-term, mutually beneficial relationship? We honestly do care about the well-being and economic success of our citizens and yours. Please, please, dear friend, open your eyes and plug your nostrils before it's too late; before there's no turning back from this fiasco. The stench coming from Washington now is permeating the planet with toxicity. We deserve better, and so do you!

Regards from "the true north strong and free"

Oh, it's twerking time again

I held my annual Battle of the Weeds today.  Why, oh, why do those suckers keep coming back year after year after year when I’ve spent a bloody fortune mixing up batches of homemade weed killer in a pathetic attempt to go green?  Maybe they were too insulted to die because I used Sunlight instead of Dawn dish liquid.  The aroma of vinegar in my backyard is reminiscent of a fish and chip truck on Water Street in good old St. John’s and my salt shakers are noticeably low on content.  If today’s effort doesn’t result in the annihilation of those ugly, yellow-topped, bleep-bleep so and so’s, I’m going to bring in the heavy artillery from Mr. Scott.

 After viciously soaking the friggin’ weeds, I planted some annuals to supplement the feeble display of colour from the perennials in my garden.  I don’t know what happened to all those lovely bulbs I planted these past couple of years.  Maybe the record number of days below -40C and the 8 feet of snow we had last winter had something to do with it.  Personally, I blame it all on the friggin’ weeds.

 So, here I was, twerking away in the garden when my trusty trowel sliced through the guts of a big, juicy earthworm.  For a split second, I paused in semi-horror as I watched the two pieces of worm wiggle and squirm before finally coming to a full stop.  Shrugging my shoulders, I dug into the soil again and two more big worms appeared on the surface.  I looked around and beheld an army of creepy crawlies slithering around my feet, just waiting for the opportunity to avenge their dead comrade.  My overactive imagination convinced my ears that I heard squeaky little worm voices calling for an attack on the giantess with the big ass up in the air.  I jumped out of there in a flash, ready to utter a few choice expletives until I remembered that I am now a respectable grandma with impressionable young minds to cultivate.  Cursing is a no-no, even when alone.

 It took a while to work up the courage to resume flower planting.  I didn’t see any more worms, thank God, but then I started to wonder where they had gone.  Maybe they’re holding a war council in the cavernous underbelly of my garden.  They’re probably joining forces right now with the poison-soaked weeds and plotting a joint assault on my weary bones.  When darkness falls, they’ll unite as one slimy unit and slowly slither across the patio, wriggle in through the sliding door, creep up the stairs and onto my bed…. OMG!!!! Hopefully, there’s a Walking Dead marathon on Netflix tonight so I can stay wide awake, ready for the friggin’ weeds and the stinkin’ worms, trowel in hand!

Winter Bugs

A nasty little bug wreaked havoc upon my innards for the past couple of days and I believe it’s starting to affect my poor brain as well.  I was fine when I joined the Rummoli group for a lovely pre-Christmas dinner at a local restaurant but by 10 p.m. that evening I definitely did not feel well.   As cautious as I am at buffet meals due to certain allergies, I must have inadvertently consumed some tidbit that just didn’t agree with my digestive system.  Yucky!

Anyway, the Winter Festival of Lights Parade went ahead yesterday evening as planned and I forced myself to make an appearance at the community church celebration because of a previous commitment to the choir for this event.  Since our musician was out of town, I foolhardily thought that I could help the choir by playing a note or two at the start of each carol just so we’d all be in the same key.  However, I felt so lightheaded from the illness and lack of food for two days that I wasn’t sure I could manage even that little bit of assistance.  Thank heavens the Salvation Army clergyman came to the rescue with a spectacular gift of music in his blessedly talented hands.  Ecumenical cooperation at its best.

Then I discovered that our recently arrived priest from India required a ride to the next town for Mass immediately upon completion of the festival ceremony.  Having landed in Canada just over two weeks ago and never having seen snow before, he found himself unexpectedly plunked down in the middle of a northern winter scene straight out of a Thomas Kinkade painting.  The poor man has been shivering non-stop ever since.  He must be a rather brave soul.  So, after delivering him safely back to the rectory I drove home with visions of warm pyjamas and cozy slippers dancing through my fuzzy head.  By this time, I was so hungry that I ate a small portion of leftovers and promptly got sick again.

Taking to my bed did nothing to improve the situation as my dreams these past few nights have been unbelievable.  Last night I valiantly tried to clear an unfamiliar hotel lobby of an infestation of giant cockroaches while several busloads of tired and cranky senior citizens vociferously clamoured for rooms amidst the melee.  I woke up exhausted. 

Opening my eyes did not prevent continuation of the nightmare.  I soon discovered that my key ring was missing so I was unable to move my car which was blocking my son’s work vehicle.  After hunting high and low for those darn keys, I finally resorted to calling my husband at work (a 15 minute drive away) to see if perhaps he had accidentally put the keys in his pocket.  To be perfectly honest, I was hoping that was the case.  No such luck.  However, he valiantly offered to drive all the way home to give me his set of keys for the car.  Guess what?  Five minutes later, I found the @#%* keys hiding in a back section of my purse which I very rarely use.  Now, how did they possibly end up there?  I called hubby’s cell phone hoping to reach him before he left…. it rang and rang and rang until finally it was answered and I blurted out, “I found the keys.  Don’t worry.  No need to come home.”  Only after I hung up did it dawn on me that the male voice was not my husband’s.  Awwww, fiddlesticks!

Well, the good news is that the stomach sickness appears to be easing but I really miss my mind.  It served me well for over half a century.

 

Oh, Canada

 

O Canada

Oh, Canada, the pain of these days has pierced the heart of your people.

Our home and native land

Our beautiful country of prairies and oceans, cities and farms

True patriot love in all thy son’s command

With quiet dignity we pledge allegiance to this land of our birth.

With glowing hearts we see thee rise

Just watch the pride in Canadians’ eyes as the Maple Leaf is raised and tears when it is at half-mast.

The True North strong and free

We who call this northern land home magnanimously value its diversity and freedom.

From far and wide, O Canada

The vastness of our beloved nation inspires awe and humility.

We stand on guard for thee

From coast to coast to coast, we extend a heartfelt thank you to all military personnel, first responders and their families for their selfless service and commitment to this wonderful, awesome, amazing country…. so respected throughout the world.
God keep our land, glorious and free
In Canada, we are all free to worship as we please… to express our beliefs and live our faith in peace and acceptance.  Believers and non-believers share equally in the glorious benefits of democracy.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee

Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent and Corporal Nathan Cirillo, proudly and courageously you stood on guard for Canada, dying in the uniform of honour.  With one broken heart of sorrow, Canadians now stand on guard for you.  We will NEVER forget your sacrifice.  We will NEVER let evil prevail.  We will ALWAYS honour and respect your memory along with all the other heroes who gallantly personified what Canada stands for.  RIP.

by Y.M. Tucker

The Perils of Travel

Travelling anywhere these days poses risks.  We’ve all heard the sad, scary stories of Ebola and terrorist acts.  Then there are the less problematic incidents which, while thankfully not life-threatening, still manage to raise the stress level a notch or two.  Hubby and I just prevailed through such an experience.

We were in our home province for a brief, jam-packed visit which included a couple of family Thanksgiving dinners and an eventful medical specialist appointment for my better half.  While on the way to the hospital for that consultation, our rental car was rear-ended by another vehicle at a traffic light.  Fortunately, no one was injured and the damage to both cars was minimal but the blood pressure spike caused a dilly of a headache.

Later at the airport for our return trip, we were heading through security when my very considerate hubby offered to carry my overnight bag while I grappled with a jacket and bulging shoulder bag.  Awesome, I thought.  I breezed through the security line in no time and walked out the other side expecting my helpful spouse to follow within a few seconds.  Looking back through the glass enclosure, I saw a security officer motion him to the side.  That darn belt buckle must have set off an alarm, I figured.  No such luck.  Hubby had been randomly selected for a more in-depth search and swab test.  Oh me nerves!  You can imagine what was in the overnight bag.  There were several pairs of clean underwear, a nightdress, toiletries, a couple of magazines, etc.  – all of a decidedly feminine nature.  My 6’1”, 200 lb partner wore an expression of profound sheepishness as I watched him try to convince the security personnel that he really was carrying his wife’s bag. 

Mercifully, this embarrassing debacle lasted only a few minutes.  I guess the male security officer took pity on a fellow member of the brotherhood of chivalry.  As the man who vowed to love me for better or for worse strode by with his head held high, I uttered a muted apology.  “Sorry, next time I’ll definitely carry my own bag through security.”

“Yep,” was his terse reply.  Oh, the perils of travel!

A Life of Love

She flew into our lives in the spring of 2002.  Her ears were the biggest part of her then.  When we picked her up at the airport, she was a shivering, timid, quaking little ball of fur and she looked almost comical with those big Beagle ears on that tiny canine body.  As we swaddled and cuddled her like a newborn baby, she gradually relaxed and settled into her new home.  Love became our constant companion from that day on as our darling puppy girl entwined herself forever around the strings of our hearts.

We named her Mica (mee-ka).  I don’t recall how we made that choice, but it sure fit her perfectly.  She was the quintessential tri-coloured Beagle – white paws and underbody, black back and beautiful golden head.  Her soft gorgeous eyes were like liquid chocolate.  My heart melted the minute I saw her and she has been Mommy’s little shadow for over a dozen happy, wonderful years. 

In her early puppy days, she tested my patience on numerous occasions but her infantile antics delivered more laughs than tears.  One morning while she was still in the training stage and I was getting ready for work, I opened the patio door a smidgeon in case she had to “go” while I was in the shower.  When I went to get dressed, I noticed articles of clothing leading all the way downstairs and out the door.  Mica was having a grand old time ripping my undies to shreds in the backyard.  The rungs of my rocking chair still show evidence of her teething period, and whenever we painted she wore a coat of many colours until a trip to the doggie groomer restored her beautiful fur to its usual three shades.  She also thought that everyone was her friend; however, she soon discovered to her detriment that cats don’t fall into that category.  Her super sensitive Beagle nose often led her into places where she should not have gone, but her joie de vivre was infectious.  She loved, loved, loved to go for a walk with Mommy and Daddy.  She would get so excited upon hearing the word “walk” that we began to spell it.  That only fooled her for a short time, though, because she apparently learned to spell at a very early age.  “Bath” (no way, Mommy), “car”, “drive”, “go” and “treat” were quickly added to her spelling vocabulary. 

Over the years, her youthful playfulness was replaced by a loving, unwavering loyalty.  I think she could tell time because I’m told that at 4:30 p.m. each weekday she would pace between the living room window and the door waiting for Mommy’s arrival home and repeat the same process at 8:00 p.m. when Daddy finished work.  If we left the house without her, she would give us “the look”.  Those big, sad brown eyes would shoot arrows of reproach in our direction and then she’d heave a huge sigh of resignation.  Talk about a hang-dog look – she really had it mastered.

There was never a more faithful, caring friend.  Whenever I was feeling down or stressed, she knew it.  She would stay by my side and place her head in my lap, looking up at me with those warm brown eyes so full of love and concern.  We spent so many, many hours together that the bond of companionship forged will be a part of me forever.

You have probably already guessed where this story is going.  Our darling little Mica was recently diagnosed with a massive, rapidly growing tumor in her spleen and further tests indicated that it had most likely spread to her liver and pancreas as well.  Given her advanced age and the status of the tumor, surgery was not a viable option so we had to make the awful decision that all animal lovers dread.  Our hearts are broken but to let her linger and suffer would be very selfish and we could never do that to the little dog we have loved so much and for so long.  It was astonishing and heart wrenching to see her energy level and quality of life go downhill so quickly.  Our final act of love was to set her free. 

In a dream I had a few days ago, Mica was a happy little puppy again, bounding through a field of grass and daisies.  Her floppy ears were swinging with each step and she was running with so much joy and enthusiasm.  It gives me some relief to picture her that way, free from pain and the restrictions of old age.  Our faith assures us that greener pastures await us all on the other side of this life and I truly believe that beloved pets are included in that promise.  I look forward to our happy reunion some day.

I once read a very profound, touching story.  Its premise was based on who had the more perfect heart – a young man whose heart was pristine and untouched by life’s ups and downs or an old man whose heart was swollen and scarred after a long life of love and reality.  When the old man shared the tale of each particular scar and gash on his heart, the young man’s eyes were opened and he saw that the perfect heart is one which has lived and loved to the fullest, taking a chance that its fragility could be shattered many times throughout life’s journey.  Those who choose a pristine home and heart over the love and loyalty of a faithful animal companion may be spared much….. but they also miss out on so much more.

So now, precious puppy girl, with tear-filled eyes and a lump in my throat, I’ll sing our special song for you one last time.

                                “Oh, Mommy loves the Baby, Baby loves the Mommy, too

                                Mommy loves little Mica Chica Baby,

                                Yes, Mommy loves the Baby, Baby loves the Mommy, too

                                Mommy loves little Mica Chica Baby,

                                Mommy loves little Mica Chica Baby.”

The Francis Effect

Thirteen months ago Pope Benedict stunned the world by resigning.  His successor, Pope Francis, has been stirring up dust and sweeping away cobwebs throughout the Vatican since last March.  It started with the red shoes.  He simply refused to wear them.  Then he spurned the comforts of a chauffeur-driven limo to ride the bus with the Cardinals and showed up to pay his hotel bill in person.

What sort of Pope is this?  Clearly he hasn’t read the company policy manual.  Although not a single word or comma has yet been altered in Canon Law or Church doctrine, Pope Francis has made it abundantly clear that the status quo is no longer acceptable within the Roman Catholic Church.  His preference for simplicity over pomp and ceremony is refreshing and his concern for the poor appears to be quite genuine.  Protocol be damned, this Pope really likes to press the flesh and to be visibly present to the people.  His security detail no doubt suffers from collective migraines.

Pope Francis is a man of action who has chosen to lead by example.  His exhortation to the clergy to spend more time mingling with the people they were ordained to serve is a page right out of his own book of life.  Before joining the seminary, he held several distinctly non-clerical jobs including a chemical technician’s position in a laboratory and a stint as a janitor and nightclub bouncer.  Now that’s definitely mingling with the people.

From his moves to update the Curia and the Vatican Bank, to greeting people outside the walls of the Vatican, to his unequivocal condemnation of child sexual abuse, to his willingness to reach out to those who feel cast aside by the Church, Pope Francis is slowly changing the face of the world’s oldest Christian institution.

His message, like the man himself, is simple:  there is a God who loves us unconditionally.  Period.  We are the ones who are hung up on conditions, restrictions, and limitations…. all of which lead to judgements.

When Jesus walked the earth, he said, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her” (John 8:7) concerning a woman accused of adultery.  In perfect emulation, Pope Francis replied to a question regarding homosexuality by stating, “Who am I to judge?”

There is a long way to go before lapsed Catholics or even atheists rush to Church, but at least there seems to be some hope now of bridging the gap.  This shepherd knows that only a minority of his flock can be found in church pews on a Sunday morning.  The vast majority are outside those walls and he’s doing his best to reach them where they are.  Can the example of one person really change the world?  Just ask Jesus.  I bet he’s cheering on the “Francis effect.”

Wicked Winter, eh?

What a wicked winter, eh? Remember the catch phrase “when hell freezes over”? Well, it's a done deal – not even an ember left smoldering to warm up Old Scratch's hooves. The polar vortex has a strangle hold on North America and we are all caught in its long-reaching icy grip. Thirty torturous minutes on the treadmill can barely produce a sweat these days. Last night Hubby Dear swore that his poor old bones would take till July to thaw. What a cacophony of creaks and groans we make each night as we help each other up the stairs to bed. Not much chance of a race to the finish, that's for sure. All together now, let's hear a rousing chorus of “Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones.”

Even the deep south is in a deep freeze. From Virginia to Florida and across to Texas, cars are slipping off icy roads and people are bundled tighter than mummies in an Egyptian tomb. Canadian snowbirds are crying in their frozen daiquiris while shivering in their capris and sandals. It seems that the dawning of a new ice age has caught global warming proponents by surprise. What a mess!

I wonder if the winter of 2014 is producing a bumper crop of people suffering from SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder)? I have always stated clearly and emphatically to anyone who would listen that I hate winter. Finally, scores of others have seen the light (or lack thereof) and are joining in my heartfelt plea to Mother Nature and Old Man Winter to bring an immediate halt to their nefarious version of Ice Capades. Enough already, you two sadistic old jackasses.

The frigid air has even managed to freeze dreams of escaping to a warmer climate. How far south would you have to go this year to find a tropical paradise? And who wants to spend half their vacation time stuck in an airport with thousands of other disgruntled passengers anyway while planes remain frozen to the tarmac?

Let's try to stay positive. We can wrap ourselves in blankets, consume copious amounts of calories for fat storage to stay warm, drink hot chocolate with extra marshmallows and watch Fantasy Island on Netflix. At least the planes are flying there and people are strolling sandy beaches or sipping cocktails in gently swaying hammocks under a palm tree. Sigh!!!!

Aloha'Oe, Aloha'Oe.....

Losing the Little Guy

There's a current TV commercial which shows a young mother taking a leisurely stroll through time to find the best food for her family. She eventually ends up in an old-fashioned little store where a smiling grocer personally serves up freshly cut deli fare for her to sample. Ah, a simpler time.

Like many of my acquaintances, I grew up in a tiny outport community nestled along the rugged shoreline of Canada's 10^th province. There was very little luxury in any of the homes which spread out from the brook running through the middle of town, but it didn't matter anyway because everyone had the same lifestyle. Scattered throughout the community were several little stores (shops) owned by local residents, and their contents were varied indeed.... “everything from a baker's fart to a thunderclap”, to use the vernacular. These little mom and pop establishments played a vital role in people's lives, providing them with food, sundries, and an opportunity for social interaction. The proprietors were also livyers and they knew everyone else in the community. When you walked through the door, a little bell sounded overhead and you were greeted with a smile and often called by name by the person behind the counter. Inquiries about your school grades or how your parents were doing usually followed as you passed in your mom's handwritten order. Then slices of ham or baloney were wrapped in brown paper and tied with string from a big bobbin sitting next to the meat cutter. If you were really lucky, a tiny paper bag filled with candy was passed over the counter with a wink as a little gift for doing so well in the latest spelling bee or getting an A on a math test. These pillars of the community certainly never became millionaires but they managed to make a living and they knew what it meant to help out a neighbour when times were tough. Many people in the community carried “tabs” with the local storekeeper and would pay up at the end of the month or whenever cash became available. Credit cards were non-existent but a family's good name was enough collateral to see them through when necessary.

Those days are long gone. Big box stores have cornered the market and, like mindless robots, we all line up with plastic in hand to put ourselves further in debt buying up the latest fashions and gadgets. Even in a remote area such as I live in, the small local retailers are dropping off one by one. They either can't compete with the prices offered by megastores or they are being forced out of prime locations to make room for the conglomerates. While I like a bargain as much as the next person, I find it sad that many small businesses are facing an uphill struggle these days. The little guy is being stomped into the ground by the invading giants. Where's David and his trusty slingshot when you need him?

Governments pay lip service to encouraging entrepreneurship, but the reality for business and tax revenues is that the almighty dollar dictates the bottom line. If you are fortunate enough to live in an area where there is a choice of products and services, please support the little guy whenever possible. You may just find yourself taking a pleasant stroll down memory lane in the process.

The Perfect Heart

The Perfect Heart

by Y.M. Tucker

the perfect heart began its quest to find the perfect home

around the world it wandered, ever on the roam

its splendour and its beauty, its pristine virgin state

remained intact until it met the soul of human fate

the joy upon a mother's face as she gently held her child

caused the perfect heart to swell with feelings new and wild

the shudders and tremors intensified and then the heart was torn

at the bedside of a little girl whose family prepared to mourn

an Afghan woman's disfigured face slashed the heart once more

but it revived as strangers came to help the homeless poor

the scars of life then marked the heart, its size and shape had altered

yet still it sought the perfect place, its search never faltered

beneath the glow of a heavenly star, in a humble stable stall,

a baby lay on a bed of straw, a gift of hope for all

battered and pierced yet full of love for present, future and past

the perfect heart had finally found its perfect home at last

What Really Matters

We sure know how to mess up a good thing, don't we? People get so caught up in insignificant little details and self-righteousness that they allow themselves to become as close-minded and obtuse as the ones with whom they have a difference of opinion. The latest pile of nonsense making the rounds of the hogwash circuit is a dispute over the skin color of Jesus, Santa Claus, and St. Nicholas. Who cares? How could the skin pigmentation of either of these messengers of harmony and goodwill possibly change one iota of earth's past, present or future? If humankind is made in the image of God, as related in the Book of Genesis, then He/She must be multi-colored. Wouldn't that be lovely to see!

Christmas is a gift. The spirit of this blessed season is one of love, joy, hope, peace, tolerance, compassion, kindness, forgiveness, generosity, acceptance, reconciliation...... It's not a competition of race or creed. Christians, Jews, Muslims, Buddhists, Hindus and any other denomination – yes, even atheists – can all benefit from a healthy dose of that magical elixir so freely dispensed by the bounteous Ghost of Christmas Present in Dickens' classic story.

As a Christian, I commemorate the coming of Jesus Christ at this time of the year. The actual date of his birth is immaterial - it's the celebration of that event that's significant. Amidst the frigid darkness of barren winter, the light of love brings warmth and joy to my heart and home.  Exchanging gifts and happy greetings adds to the spirituality of the occasion. I admit to being slightly miffed upon repeatedly hearing Happy Holidays or Seasons Greetings instead of the traditional Merry Christmas, but I get the fact that social and political correctness are currently in vogue. It's all just a matter of perspective. The underlying expression of benevolence remains the same.

So, while the antagonists of this world play their silly games I refuse to be drawn into such vacuity. I will happily accept your offering of Happy Holidays or Seasons Greetings if you will allow me the same courtesy as I wish you and yours a very Merry Christmas. To quote Tiny Tim, “God bless us, everyone.”

Baking up a Storm

It happens every few years, in cyclical fashion. I get an uncontrollable urge to bake Christmas goodies. In between years, I rely on the pastry chefs at the local supermarket to impress my guests during the holiday season. Last year the Grinch had a strangle hold on me as not only was baking nowhere on my checklist, but I didn't even put up a full size Christmas tree – just a tiny table top excuse for a tree with about six little bulbs on it! Sure, my livingroom was less messy and less crowded, but there was definitely something missing.

Things are going to be different this year. I've been devouring Christmas cookbooks for the past few days and writing lists of baking staples to be purchased so off I went to the grocery store today, hubby in tow to do the heavy lifting. Why the change of heart? Well, as I said, it's partly the cycle of life (for me, anyway) but it probably has more to do with the blessings which my family has to be thankful for this year. My husband battled cancer and won, my son suffered through a three hour flight with his appendix ready to rupture and was rushed into emergency surgery upon landing, and just a few weeks ago, we welcomed the birth of our first little grandchild. So, why not be happy and eager to celebrate the joyous gift of Christmas?

I'm even challenging myself to make a dark fruitcake to serve to friends and family this year. That's a major leap up the elf ladder for me because a.) I'm not overly fond of fruitcake, and b.) just looking at the lengthy list of ingredients and directions for fruitcake usually sends me scurrying for cover. But last night I found a recipe for a simplified version and it looked so incredibly easy that I currently have it baking in the oven. Imagine that! One down, many more to go. I'll no doubt spend more money on baking supplies over the next few weeks than it would cost to buy the store bought varieties, but I plan to enjoy every bit of mess I make in the process.

Speaking of kitchen messes, I recall one pre-Christmas baking frenzy when my kids were young and I enthusiastically decided to try my hand at creating a batch of intricately detailed gingerbread men. All was fine until the miniature menfolk went into the oven. Something distracted me (not much wonder, with three rapscallions galloping around the house stirring up heaps of mischief) and my poor little gingerbread men burned to a crisp. The smoke alarm first alerted me to the disaster and after removing the scorching cookie sheet from the oven, I ran around opening doors and windows to clear the air. Looking at the cluttered countertop, the sink full of dirty bowls and utensils, and the cindered gingerbread, my eyes burned with smoke and frustration. In desperation, I hurled a ginerbread man to the ground and watched as tiny cookie body parts flew all over the kitchen floor. It felt so darned good that I did it again. By this time, the kids had halted in their tracks and were watching their mother like silent statues. We all burst out laughing at the same time and then I held out the cookie sheet so they could join me in destroying the evidence of my baking fiasco. What fun we had smashing all of those little gingerbread men into thousands of gingery crumbs. Naturally, the cleanup was extensive. We didn't make another batch of gingerbread men that Christmas but we sure made a long-lasting memory. My grown sons still talk about it with fondness. Maybe my little grandson will have his own turn at smashing gingerbread men someday.

So, now the wind is howling and the snow is swirling outside but inside all is toasty warm. There's a lovely pot of beef stew simmering on the stove and the aroma of fruitcake is wafting through the house. There's plenty to go around if you'd like to drop by. I'll put the kettle on.

To Logan

The rhythmic beating of a swollen heart has coursed through my veins before.....

Love in various ways and forms has radiated joy afore......

Fingers intertwined with mine have passed affection from one to another.....

Tears have flowed from my eyes before for one reason or other.....

I've known the desire to protect and shield, I've felt its intense power.....

Breathed the soft sweet scent of newborn skin, unmatched by any flower.....

Laid bare my soul in darkest night to commune with the Maker in prayer.....

Thought I'd known all there was to know of life's bountiful fare.....

.....and then there was you. Precious one.

Tricks and Treats

There'll be shrieks of laughter, howls galore, and loads of fun at my house this Halloween. Oh, yes, there will probably be trick or treaters, too, but Thursday is Rummoli night and it's my turn to host this week. Five or six years ago a few ladies from my Church invited me to join their card group. I thought at first that it would probably be a very staid affair. Boy, was I wrong!

The stakes are high at these weekly gatherings. We still play for pennies even though they are no longer in monetary circulation. But who cares anyway? It's definitely not about the money. I have no doubt that if someone were to secretly videotape one of our Rummoli nights, it would be a viral hit on Youtube.

In between sharing the good and the bad, the happy and the sad stories of our lives, we also manage to play a few hands of cards, although it gets very confusing at times when no one can remember who played last or whose turn it is to deal. One night we were totally befuddled when duplicate cards started turning up over and over again. No matter how many times we counted the cards and came up with 52, those darn duplicates made an appearance round after round. By the time we finally realized that two identical decks of cards had been mixed up, it was time to stop playing and have a little lunch.

Good-natured joking is par for the course with this group of hardened gamblers but it's each girl for herself when the poker pot grows to a whopping 38 coppers. Hot flashes often rotate around the table, especially after a glass of wine (or two). Once a year, as many of the group as can make it journey to the cabin of one of the members for an unforgettable night of revelry. No need to say anymore. What happens at the cabin stays at the cabin.

Within the group, each woman brings a particular gift to the table. Anne is the official keeper of the almighty hosting schedule and chief s—t disturber. She thoroughly enjoys stirring things up and then sitting back to watch the hilarious outcome with smiling lips and shining eyes. Flos is our maid extraordinaire. When she's present, lunch proceeds with finesse and flow. When she's out of town, disaster usually prevails. Theresa's laugh is infectious and so are her yawns. Carol has the gift of storytelling and Margie's absentminded plays keep us in stitches. Alice's feet are always cold but her heart is warm; she keeps us honest when someone forgets to add pennies to the pot. Fan is the quiet one of the bunch but she enjoys a good laugh as much as the rest of us. Rose Marie's sense of humour is phenomenal and she has a snippet of song to share for just about any eventuality. And me? Why, I'm just thrilled that they've invited me along for the ride.

I can't say I've learned much about card playing from these ladies, but I've sure learned a great deal about friendship and support. We've got each others' backs and when the chips are down, this bunch of unlikely card sharks can pray the heck out of any gaming table in Vegas.

Happy Halloween to everyone and especially to my Rummoli group. Looking forward to a spooktacular night!

I Confess

I've always been highly annoyed by well-prepared people who proudly proclaim in September that they just finished wrapping all of their Christmas gifts. Smiling and nodding, I usually make some inane comment while my blood boils and I long to shake the smugness right out of them. No, I'm not hiding a propensity for violent behaviour, but I do have a confession to make and I'm finally ready to admit it. I am a procrastinator. There, I've said it. I think I've been one all my life – with the exception of giving birth. I somehow managed to do that ahead of schedule three times in a row. But that might have something to do with medical circumstances rather than my own initiative.

My recollection of elementary and high school years contains numerous moments of near panic followed by hours of intense preparation as due dates for assignments and exams loomed perilously close. This pattern seemed to repeat itself in college and even sometimes crept into the workplace in later years. It's not that I'm lazy or nonchalant about my work. On the contrary, I have a troublesome habit of over analyzing matters which often results in unnecessary self-inflicted pressure when deadlines are involved.

For instance, after taxing my brain to its limits during the past fifteen months of enrolment in a distance education program and having achieved a degree of success so far, I hit a roadblock in preparing my final project, the most comprehensive challenge of all. I pondered ideas over and over again; rejected them over and over again; sat at the computer to put words on paper (so to speak) over and over again; and got nowhere over and over again. My mind wandered to an amazingly varied range of topics to distract me from the real task and I even found myself cleaning the toilet or washing floors to avoid concentrating on my assignment. Then the calendar date smacked me right in the gob a few weeks ago when the page rolled over to October with its colorful depictions of falling leaves and carved pumpkins. OMG! Panic time again! Is there some perverse aspect of my character which prevents me from becoming fully engaged until adrenalin flows through my veins, startling me into action? I finally got down to business, completed the project, and submitted it with one week to spare. Wow! Maybe I'm improving.

Now for that Christmas list which has been sitting on my coffee table for the past week or so. I'm sure I'll get around to it before December 24^th. Yep, it's definitely time to stop procrastinating. Starting tomorrow.

The Thanksgiving Parade

The Thanksgiving Parade

by Y.M. Tucker

A rumor spread like wildfire of a coming big award

as the leaves of fall began to swirl around the old barnyard

in crimson, gold and orange, autumn's festive hues,

a day of thanks for hard work done was the glorious news.

 

The animals of the kingdom all gathered for discussion

in groups of twos and threes and fours; landsakes, what a percussion!

Lazy Daisy and Sweet Bess, that gossiping bovine pair,

with swishing tails and flapping lips mooed the message to Fanny Mare.

 

Uncle Tom, his wattle swinging, gobbled to the others

of how he heard with his own ears the farmer's sons and daughters

talk of the festival soon to come with bountiful food and dancing.

All this excitement in the air set the hens to scratching and prancing.

 

The squealing pigs within their pen rolled gleefully in the muck

while Mama Duck and her little brood couldn't believe their luck.

A day of thanksgiving! What a treat! Oh, plans they must be made

to celebrate such a wonderful thing with a big barnyard parade.

 

Away upon the far off hill where the farmer's house did stand

were tables spread with harvest crops, fine bounty from the land.

Apples, carrots, yams and squash, and pumpkin pies galore;

No finer feast could e'er be found in the city's fanciest store.

 

Anticipation mounted as the farmer could be seen

descending from his hilltop to the barnyard's pastoral scene.

An axe he carried in one hand and a musket in the other.

Quick, step in line for the grand parade, whispered Tom onto the others.

 

The clucking, mooing, squealing and gobbling created a splendid din

as animals took their place in line to greet the farmer and his kin.

When the old man's eyes beheld the sight of the prattling barnyard critters,

his heart it took a painful leap and his hands they got the jitters.

 

He placed the axe against the barn and the musket in its rack

then headed home with animals in tow, Ole Tom leading the pack.

Through the barnyard and up the hill they marched in baronial fashion;

ne'er before nor since was thanks bestowed with such finesse and passion!

 

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

 

Elusive Equality

This morning I watched in sadness and disbelief as one of the big TV news stations aired an online video about a 25 year old woman from Vera Cruz, Mexico whose boyfriend had padlocked her jeans to keep her faithful to him. Apparently this wasn't something new but this time she was in extreme pain from needing to use the washroom and, so, in desperation she ran to the local police station for help because she was afraid of retaliation if she cut herself free. The police took pictures of the padlock on her jeans, brought the 40 year old boyfriend in for questioning and, because she refused to press charges, they released him after he signed a statement promising to never padlock or abuse her in any way again. Meanwhile, he nonchalantly produced a key from his pocket which fit the padlock perfectly. In an interview with the TV station, a women's rights spokesperson in Mexico said that the woman at the center of this story has been a victim of crime for 12 years. Now, let's do the math. She's currently 25 years old and she has been a victim for 12 years? Shouldn't that astounding revelation be enough to warrant further investigation? Shouldn't the onus of pressing charges be removed from the victim in such extenuating circumstances? Obviously the poor young woman is terrified of reprisal if she files charges against her tormentor.

We are nearly 14 years into the new millennium – ostensibly an age of technology, freedom, universal equality.... Bull crap! Here in the “civilized world”, legions of women face harassment, intimidation and even physical abuse on a daily basis in their homes, workplaces, and social settings. Many choose to let it pass because they don't want to stir up trouble. Sadly, others have such low self-esteem that they convince themselves they deserve this kind of treatment. Fear of speaking up in defense of themselves paralyzes a lot of women, especially when the intimidation is perpetrated by a man in a position of authority in their life (real or perceived).

Although our modern society claims equality in the workplace, the truth can be a different reality for some women employed in non-traditional occupations. How many women silently endure ridicule, sarcasm, condescension, sexual innuendo, pinches, grabs, lewd whispers, etc. in the workplace? Going to work every day on your guard against such unwelcome attacks is physically and mentally draining.

How many women, like the young woman in Mexico, live in dread of their spouses or physical abusers? Often, women in domestic abuse situations have nowhere else to go so they put up and shut up as a method of self-preservation.

Even a young woman who enjoys an evening out with friends is subject to suspicion and skepticism if she alleges inappropriate conduct by a male acquaintance, bar patron or cab driver. She was only looking for trouble is the mindset of some who would judge her.

Is the legal system sometimes guilty of failing to fully support the victim in harassment/abuse cases? Innocent until proven guilty is the basis of justice in democracy. It's a commendable tenet; yet, what about the victim? When a young woman lies bleeding to death from a gunshot wound to her back and her ex-boyfriend is found hiding in bushes nearby with a recently fired gun, it can take years of legal wrangling before a trial date is even set. Whose rights are being protected then? Certainly not the victim's. She remains in her grave.

Women and girls everywhere need to find the courage to speak out against any form of intimidation or abuse. The law needs to better protect them when they do come forward. Men need to be more vocal in their condemnation of abusive behaviour. They, too, are being victimized by gender association. Equality is not quite a reality yet.

The Turnaround

After nine months of waiting, three weeks of hospitalization, and eleven hours of labour, a young couple in a northern Canadian mining town welcomed their firstborn son with joy and wonder. That baby was mine and I still vividly recall the amazement I felt at having accomplished such an incredible feat. I held him close as I breathed in the sweet baby scent of his soft skin and marvelled at his exquisite perfection.

I turned around and he was zipping across the floor in mad-baby fashion, laughing with wild abandon to be free of the confines of crib and playpen. What a cute, contented, pleasant baby he was. Big brown eyes and sandy hair, he made us deliriously happy when he mimicked the words “Mama” and “Dada.” A genius in the making!

I turned around and he was a curious toddler, eagerly exploring the world around him and astounding his parents with his intellectual skill in learning the alphabet at such a tender age. His expressive face took on a studious look whenever he encountered something new and intriguing. How proud I felt when someone commented, “Isn't he a smart little fellow?”

I turned around and he was heading off to Kindergarten with a little blue school bag slung over his shoulder. I remember trying to hold back tears as I saw the tell-tale signs of uncertainty in his eyes and the slight tremble of his lower lip. Off he went into the big unknown, leaving the security of home to follow his teacher and classmates while a tiny break opened up in his mother's heart.

I turned around and he was an active young boy playing street hockey with his friends and younger brother. Keenly interested in dinosaurs and the intricacies of the galaxy, my growing genius was a straight A student (for a while at least). He revelled in video games, Japanese comics, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Calvin and Hobbes, and big hardcover books about scientific discoveries. Oh, yes, he also found time to team up with his middle brother to make their baby brother's life a living hell at times. Toughening him up, they called it.

I turned around and he was a tall, lanky, wise-cracking teenager. Sometimes distant, sometimes sarcastic, sometimes looking at me with an air of superiority – occasionally condescending to smile at me, revealing brief glimpses of the little boy who used to be. A typical know-it-all teen; I, of course, as the mother, knew nothing. How could I? I was an ancient old hag in the latter stages of my thirties!

I turned around and he was stepping on a plane to fly off to college. Oh, how my head and heart ached for days. How would he ever get by without me? Was he hungry? Or lonely? Would those far away profs know that my boy was so smart and so special? Was he making new friends? Good friends? Was he safe? Oh, the torture of those early days of separation!

I turned around and he was wearing a grad gown, striding across a stage to receive his diploma. The future lay ahead of him, bright and shining with dreams of success. When the reality of the job market dashed those hopes for a while, I commiserated with his frustration until, once again, a plane ride bore him off to an unknown future.

I turned around and he was an ecstatic young man calling to inform his parents that he had secured a lucrative position after passing through an intensive screening process of application.

I turned around and listened carefully as he spoke so glowingly of a lovely young nurse he had met. I turned around and heard the love in his voice as he assured us that she was definitely “the one.” I turned around and he was again on the phone with a nervous tremor in his voice saying that he was sitting in his car outside a jewellery store and he was going inside to buy an engagement ring. 

I turned around and watched through tear-filled eyes as I witnessed his wedding vows to the woman he loves with all his heart. His tall brothers stood by his side – the three amigos, toughening up days behind them.

I turned around and that magic phone line once again brought incredible news of an impending arrival. Now my firstborn son and his beautiful wife await the birth next month of their firstborn son. In the midst of falling leaves and thoughts of thanksgiving, they will harvest their little pumpkin from life's bountiful garden.

If I were to share one piece of wisdom with the new parents, it would be this: Savor every blessed moment of family life and, oh yes, don't turn around too fast!

Twerking

I did some twerking in my backyard today. (Look it up online; the word is probably too new to be in a printed dictionary.) Now, wait a minute. Don't call for a strait jacket yet. Let me explain. Yes, my ass was up in the air most of the day and there was definitely a whole lotta shakin' goin' on, but not of the Miley variety.

Here in the north, we have two seasons: a very short, barely warm summer and a very long, mind-numbing cold winter. So, late August to early September would qualify as fall. Therefore, it is time to begin preparing my newly created miniature garden for fall bulb planting. Hence, the twerking. Raking, hoeing, tilling, spreading new topsoil, etc. It gave me tremendous satisfacation to rip out the roots of my mortal enemy – weeds.

Although allergies prevent me from having flowers in my house, I seem able to enjoy them in the great outdoors with no apparent side effects. This week's blooming of an absolutely beautiful pink rose in the corner of my yard has inspired me to dream big when it comes to flowers, so I've decided to opt for perennials instead of a few miserly annuals. Now that I've discovered my long dormant green thumb, I can hardly wait to get started. Over the next couple of weeks, I'll visit the local garden centre to ferret out the heartiest bulbs for zone 0 to 1 and plant them lovingly in the freshly tilled ground. Hubby was kind enough to install a temporary chicken wire fence around my precious plot of soil to keep the dogs from burying bones there. I've vowed to chop the tail off any hound caught digging (or planting, if you catch my drift) in my garden. 

Well, we shall see what next spring brings; hopefully, it will be worth the effort. I don't know if Miley's butt hurts as much as mine does, but I know for sure that my twerking is done, at least until the bulbs are ready to be planted. The neighbours are no doubt grateful for small mercies. 

Claustrophobic Travels

Everyone loves to get away for a while, especially during the long, lazy days of summer. Some head for the beach or the mountains, some go home to visit friends and family, others take the trip of a lifetime to see with their own eyes the history and beauty of other countries. All of this moving around the globe involves various forms of travel. Getting there can be either pleasurable or a real pain in the posterior.

If you're claustrophobic - like me - the journey, more likely than not, brings its share of hyperventilating moments. It all began many years ago when someone sat on me while I lay face down in a snowbank. Were it not for several quick-thinking friends who hauled the kid off me in the nick of time, I might have made an early exit from this life. From that day on, I have had a mortal fear of enclosed spaces.

Yet, like millions of others, I love to visit new places and favorite old haunts, and, since I live in a fairly isolated northern community, long travel days are par for the course. Driving is my preferred mode of transportation, except when it involves a ferry ride or tunnel excursion. The twins of my Gemini psyche are constantly at war with one another when I'm travelling – logic vs emotion. You will definitely not smother while exiting your vehicle in the bowels of this ship, asserts logic in a condescending manner. Omg, I can't breathe, I'm trapped, I'm going to die from paralytic fear down here in this dark, stinking hellhole, screams emotion in a state of utter panic. Quintessential Mr. Spock vs Dr. McCoy for all you Trekkies. While driving through the Lafontaine Tunnel in Montreal one time, I was so overcome with dread and apprehension that I cried silently for however long it took to travel the 1.8 kms (must have been at least a hundred years) and I was incapable of speaking for about two hours after the ordeal. Poor hubby always wears a worried frown when escorting me on trips that involve travelling in confined spaces. He's no doubt wondering if this is the time she really loses it.

Flying is also problematic for the legions of us who suffer this sort of malady. It's not the fear of heights nor the possibility of crashing that scares the daylights out of me. No, sirree. I could probably fly around the world without a hitch if they didn't have to close the damn door.

Even when I drive to the supermarket in the middle of winter, I usually have to open the window a crack just to reassure myself that there is a good supply of air circulating throughout the car. Up to this point, I've somehow always managed to survive the stomach churning, irrational anxiety of claustophobia sufficiently to allow me to travel to other locations, but it is definitely draining. As I plan to roam further afield in future years, I'll have to rely ever more deeply on my tried and true mantra: “This is what I have to do to get to where I'm going.”