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.