Reflections on a Pond – Madeleine Horton

~ Madeleine Horton ~ 4 Comments

When I was a child, my English Mother told me about the fish pond in the back garden of her childhood home. No one I knew had a fish pond and it added to the exotic appeal her home, which even had a name, Icona, had to me. I wished when I grew up to have a house with a fish pond.  

When I eventually bought my home, I was delighted to discover it had a fish pond, a concrete fish pond, probably built with the house in 1949. Well, it probably was not built as a fish pond exactly, as I slowly figured out. It was large and kidney shaped, measuring at least  fifteen feet long and at points, six feet across. However, it had sloping sides so parts were shallow and no part was deeper than two feet. I think it was originally designed as a lily pond. And rather than a natural concrete colour, it was the aquamarine of a swimming pool.

There is a saying, “Be careful what you wish for,” the implication being the wish might not be exactly what you hoped for. I had wished for a fish pond, but strangely I had never owned fish, never thought about fish, knew nothing about fish. It took a while to dawn on me that if I had a pond fish, the pond was not deep enough to winter fish over. I would need an indoor aquarium with all the trimmings and some time to keep the fish clean and healthy. Still, in the early years, I was undaunted, even by the dreadful aquamarine paint, as besides a few fish, I planted water lilies whose lovely flowers and spreading leaves distracted from the swimming pool colour.

I did overwinter fish in a tank in the basement, surprisingly to me, with little fish loss. With spring, there was always a lot of cleaning to do after the winter had filled the pond with snow water and leaves that appeared despite a fall raking. Over some years too, the water lilies bloomed less and less as the surrounding trees grew more and more. I had to give up on the lilies which made me more  aware of the dreaded colour of the pond. There followed a series of attempts, too painful and too boring to recount, to change the colour of the pond until I discovered a product called rubber cement for ponds. It changed the pond to a satisfying black colour, but the wonder product itself  was not without issues of needing continued renewal, again too boring to recount.

With all this, you might wonder why I didn’t just have the pond filled in. Sometimes I wonder if it’s more the idea of having a fish pond than the reality. But ultimately, I think not.

It brings me joy to sit quietly and watch the fish swim freely. The pond is big enough that they seem to be exploring it, leisurely, alone or in a group. If fish can be happy, my fish are happy in the pond. I have replaced the water lilies with water hyacinths and pots of impatience in small pots that float in a styrofoam ring. There are no frogs around but dragonflies. Several kinds of birds come to the pond to drink and bathe.  Robins particularly seem to like a good bath and will spend several moments wetting themselves and then fluttering off the water. The squirrels and the couple of resident chipmunks come to drink.

Recently I have had to rehome eight of my fish as they have grown, over the past five years, too big for the indoor tank. I knew this coming winter, they would be shoulder to shoulder for those long winter months. When I left the aquarium store where I was able to take them, I felt sadder than I ever thought I would.

The ancient sage, Aesop, advised to be careful what you wish for because you may get it- and get unexpected consequences. I truly get the unintended consequences. Though my pond may be no Walden Pond, it gives me lovely reflections.

Summer Music

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Bayfield was one of our go-to places for several years after we moved to London. We discovered Bayfield and the Little Inn of Bayfield as attendees at chef dinner/wine tasting events. The weekend stay was a treat – relaxing.

This town just vibrates “summer”. The streets crawl with visitors enjoying the sun, the patios, just steps to the lake. Numerous restaurants and bars line the main street. And businesses like the Village Bookshop grace the side streets. This shop reflects decades of dedication to the classic book business – welcoming to casual browsers and bibliophiles alike – defying the trend to online blogs and podcasts.

So why a visit on a hot summer day when weather forecasts threatened thunderstorms and even tornadoes?

The Village Bookshop had announced an event on Facebook. The plan was to host a Jazz Daze performance in the garden behind the store. Their promotion introduced the quartet performers. Two of them I knew. The percussionist was a Londoner and the husband of a creative writing instructor from Western. His wife had shared the event posting with me. I had been introduced to the percussionist’s obsession for music from jazz to classical. Their London home chock-a-block with musical instruments and music collections. The trumpet player we had heard several times in more classical venues, playing classical music. He performed a concert in a Baptist church accompanied by the piano and another in a United church joined by an organist. The piano and the organ were played by the same man who happens to be my piano coach.

This was not an event to miss. We decided that it would be well worth the 1 ½ hours drive even if we had to take refuge from rain. My husband and I arrived in Bayfield to the news that the performance was now indoors in the lounge at the Little Inn in deference to the weather forecast. (Of course, not a drop of rain fell.)

The performers were just warming up as we coasted in. Let me introduce all the musicians.

“Jazz Daze” is a quartet consisting of the trumpet (Ken Baldwin), the double bass (Steve Harris), percussion (Paul Adams) and keyboard (David Lee).

Paul Adams handled introductions and entertained the attendees with an explanation of the musical roots of the Bossa Nova. Clearly passionate about the art of drumming in jazz Paul demonstrated the use of brushes as well as sticks. For us, new to the brushes, it was interesting to hear the unique, jazzy sound. Paul also spoke about his custom Ayotte snare drum. Ken commented on the difference between the trumpet and the fugelhorn and showed the mutes he used.

No programs but Paul very generously forwarded me a list of pieces performed so that I could share. The extensive selection was familiar to many in the audience – among the songs were Summertime, Fly me to the Moon, Girl from Ipanema, I Loves you Porgy, Cheek to Cheek, Moon River, Song for my Father. All had been performed in years gone by by great musicians, singers as well as instrumentalists. An afternoon immersed in a jazz legacy.

The atmosphere was casual, intimate. Locals and visitors wandered in enticed by the resonating tones – and stayed. They filled the few seats, other lining the walls. A little wine and beer. Laughter, conversation and applause.

The musicians performed two lengthy sets. We bid them adieu and headed back to London. Not as fortunate as Bayfield with the weather, London had torrential rain the whole afternoon and, further east, Ayr was hit by a tornado.

HOPE (Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ 1 Comment

Hope means to cherish a desire with anticipation or to want something to happen or be true.

The other night, I was having a conversation with my oldest daughter about age. She got into how so many people are living until they are 100 or farther. I told her that I hoped to live at least to 100.

She asked how old she would be then, so I reminded her of my age and how many years I had to then. I told her to take her age and add that number. She decided that wouldn’t be too bad.

I have a lot of things to have hope about. First, that I live a long and productive life. Second, that I accomplish many more things in that time. I know now that I’m mostly healthy and hope for that to remain for many more years.

I have another hope that can happen soon. I want to meet some of my newest great-grandchildren now that they live closer to the Canadian border, and that hope is to accomplish that this summer before the newest baby is born in August.

I hope that this year, there will be a period where I can visit my two younger sisters in Massachusett for a while. I used to take Greyhound buses everywhere, but now they have left Canada for the most part. I did find out that there is one that goes from Toronto to the United States again, so that is good but not great.

I did find out recently that there’s a train that goes from Toronto to New York City, and that is a great discovery. There is also an Amtrack train that goes from New York City to Boston and a few places in between that will help me fulfill my hope to go home for a week or so.

My biggest hope is to find a way to spend time with my daughters, who all live in different places in the United States. I miss them so much, especially the oldest one, whom I would visit every year and who has been going through so many things without me there.

As for my writing work, there is a hope to get back to the pace I had before Covid showed up, as now, for the most part, I have lost my way. I question if this is what I want to be doing or should my path be different. Is there something more for me? If so, I hope that it will be revealed to me soon.

For now, my only hope is to work every day on my current books and make progress in the right direction. I need to go forward with a lot of anticipation for it to become great.

To all of you who are listening to me read this or who are reading this on their own one question. What do you hope for?

2020 – “MEMORABLE” YEAR – CATHERINE A. CAMPBELL

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

No ominous vibes.

2019 ended with a trip to Welland to see family with our new poodle puppy in tow, followed by a New Year’s Eve dinner. 

2020 started routinely.

JANUARY

We did make it to midnight, coughing the whole time.  

I spent the first few days trying to rehome a piano for Alison (one of the writing group). It ended up going to a young relative of hers who was just starting to learn. Piano looked to be a major part of this year – 2020. I had made the decision to pursue my Associateship of the Royal Conservatory of Canada so lots of piano lessons and piano practice. An onerous undertaking.

The Forest City Wordwrights, my writing group, continued its monthly sessions. Amazing that we have been together for four years. I submitted a story about the loss of Ivy, our last Doberman, to Chicken Soup – worth doing but like most rejections today the response was “silence”. 

Dog training is also a high priority for 2020 – Kohl, now 6 months old, is getting bigger and much more confident. Definitely got a mind of his own. He graduated from Grade 1 and moved on to Grade 2 – at a training centre about an hour and a half drive east of London.

Having invested in clippers, scissors and a very powerful dryer we wimped and pursued grooming services from the co-breeder who has set up a new business in Strathroy – a half hour drive west of London. 

Good thing Kohl likes the car.

FEBRUARY

I celebrated my birthday at the ortho clinic (again!) seeing the surgeon for my follow-up and to celebrate the completing of my participation in a two-year study related to different types of hip replacements.

The writing group was active – checking out competitions and reviewing books on the art of writing.

In a test of my piano accomplishments – I played t the St. Thomas Rotary Festival – this time a Chopin Etude, by memory. Wish it had gone better but the adjudicator was very generous. This piece is now so much better, but it is hugely challenging and wildly fast. I played in the Festival two years ago three weeks after my hip replacement surgery, hobbling up on stage on my crutches. I played that time much better – the adjudicator just about took a header over my crutch at the end of my performance.

MARCH

There were murmurs about a virus surfacing in Europe – my recollection is that Italy was the primary focus for the first part of the month. A couple of cases occurred in the West – US and Canada – but the general response from the powers that be here in Canada was that there was no great concern. So life went on.

We attended a performance to celebrate the 250th anniversary of Beethoven’s death – Gerald Vreman, my piano coach, played the Concerto #1 as the highlight of the event. It was well attended. I remember discussing the Italian situation with the virus with another of Gerald’s adult students who was planning to go to Italy in April to address family situations. (She didn’t go. Several of her relatives contracted the virus.)

Mid March we went to a wine tasting in Niagara – a fabulous cheese buffet spread and several wine options. But there was now a tension, a concern about the buffet and strangers in close confines. The winery had staff serve rather than everyone helping themselves.  We had stopped at a Niagara distillery on the way in and a couple of small bottles of hand sanitizer were included in our order. The distillery undertook the production of large quantities of sanitizer and delivered it for free to paramedics, police and other frontline workers in the Niagara region. Many other wineries stepped up to provide more supply.

It was still several days later before all non-essential businesses were ordered closed. Schools were closed. Our beloved Covent Garden Market and Jill’s Table (our favourite kitchen store) closed – we went to both weekly. The vendors were (well still are) our friends. No more housecleaning. No more hair salon. The Club closed but reached out to the community by establishing a meal delivery service. 

There was a mad rush on toilet paper.

Technology stepped in. Our dog training went online to complete the Grade 2 course. My piano lessons moved to FaceTime. Yoga went to Zoom. No dog grooming but, using Skype, the groomer delivered a lesson on coat maintenance. Our personal fitness training group moved to virtual using Physiotec.

We walked the golf course with the dog – my Fitbit recorded thousands of steps a day.

The writing group also went virtual – low tech. As if isolation wasn’t hard enough to bear additional upheavals happened. A marriage breakup (upside, the husband had bought a lot of toilet paper before he walked out and didn’t take it with him). The member I had helped with the piano – 88 years old – had just moved into a retirement home and no one could visit. The group tried to stay motivated by doing scheduled prompt writing sessions and circulating the results via email. The better efforts were added to our website. Forest City Wordwrights

In our family, our son worked from home and was “daddy day care” to a 4-year old. His wife quarantined herself thinking she had symptoms, but her test came back negative. She then went back to work, 12-hour shifts, in the dialysis unit of her hospital.

Trips planned got cancelled – my sister’s trip to Florida to join her spouse cancelled. Instead, he was trying to figure out how to get home. And her vet practice was working on a new no-touch system of treating pet patients.

We were already starting to feel guilty that our lives had changed but, comparably, we were untouched. Ergo my addition to my wardrobe – 

God grant me the

Serenity to accept things

I cannot change

The Courage to change

The things I can

And the Wisdom to know

When just to play PIANO

APRIL

Everything went quiet and the atmosphere was electric. Our community Owners’ Council (I am a long-time council member) went to Zoom. Wineries and the dog training outfit got creative to keep their clientele in the loop – Zoom, Instagram Live and Facebook Q&A. Friends talked of disappointment at not seeing family at Easter. Church services went online.

We drank wine, ordered more. The writers group organized lots of prompt sessions and took advantage of virtual writing workshops. 

I wrote at the time….

OUTSIDE THE WINDOW.

Coming back to life – cutting the grass. Seems almost normal. Kohl is checking out this new activity. Well not really new – back in the fall of 2019 it was normal routine. Nothing normal about today.

Well that really isn’t true either. The sun is shining, the grass is green, the leaves are starting to unfold from their buds on the trees. The bees are back, feasting on the dandelions. I rescued one from the sunroom and set him free. Something missing though. 

No golfers.

The irrigation system was being checked this morning. Big sprays of water over the 1st green. The fertilizer cart headed back from the second hole. The greens are cut, the rough is trimmed. 

No golfers.

There are walkers galore. What else is there to do? Our private park. I’ve hit my 10,000 steps several times. We have videoed Kohl doing his leash work and his tugging and his retrieving. Posted it online because there are no dog training classes. We chat from a social distance with fellow residents. Introduce Kohl but no social interaction allowed. Walking carefully by fellow walkers, an appropriate distance maintained, a wave, a smile.

The eagles are soaring in the afternoon sky. A robin has nested on the pillar by our front porch. Not sure where the ducks nested this year. Kohl and I watch them come and go from the ponds. And geese, of course. The superintendent was out a few weeks ago – loud noises to spook them away. Back down to the Thames Valley Conservation area or Kains Woods. Kohl has met a muskrat and checks out the stream every walk to look for him (or her). We spooked two deer who bounced down the fairway, tails flagging white and high. Kohl would have been in hot pursuit except for the leash.

No golfers. 

In a normal time, spring, warm, we would not be walking on this course soaking up the joy of renewal. We truly would be observing outside the window. So all beautiful and vibrant but all outside the window.  

Outside the window.

MAY

The days are now starting to blend together, one after another, a disturbing lack of rhythm. Days, now weeks, now months. 

Just in case we thought spring was actually here Mother Nature delivered a final dose of winter.

Just a week later the golf course opened. One person per cart. Social distancing. No raking of the traps. The Clubhouse was still closed. To complement the meal delivery program the Club initiated a grocery service. A godsend to some in the community who were reluctant to or unable to go to a grocery store. Social distancing at our favourite store was almost impossible so we stopped going. Masks were promoted for anywhere social distancing wasn’t possible – in a very short time both masks and social distancing were mandated.

Kohl was in dire need of a groom, but no groomers were allowed to be open. We discovered ticks. Fortunately, not carriers of Lyme disease but we combed Kohl out carefully after any walks in the fescue. Lots of deer and coyotes so not a surprise but easy to miss. End of the month Kohl got his groom. I didn’t. I looked worse than Kohl.

It was disappointing to have to celebrate a friend’s 88th birthday virtually. Not even a cake was allowed to be delivered. So, I made her a birthday card and posted a virtual party on the writing group website. The new owner of her family homestead tried to do a visit outside her window but was discouraged by the management of the retirement home.

Just for an outing we drove to Niagara for a curbside pickup of barbecued brisket – crazy – we were getting claustrophobic. It was delicious. Kohl came on the drive but didn’t share in the brisket.

JUNE

The region started opening up. With some trepidation we went back to personal fitness training – 1 client at a time, by appointment only. We visited the market and our favourite kitchen store but our emails setting up these outings show quite a bit of angst.

And now masks – I ordered masks from a clothing store – Frank Lyman specials. One of the residents in the community started making masks, no charge except that she was the volunteer fundraiser for the London Symphonia and a donation would be much appreciated. Expensive masks. One is a keyboard pattern and the other musical notes and clefs.

Out of the blue Howard got an email from his best friend when he was ten, a woman now living in Seattle. A package arrived from her – more masks. 

Mid-month in-person dog training restarted – small class, no spectators. The patio at the Club opened with masks required except at the table. Separate entrance and exit paths. Owners’ Council meetings remained virtual. Piano lessons still on FaceTime.

The writing group continued to meet “virtually”, writing prompts and just staying in touch. The birthday member had a fall and ended up in hospital. It was hard to track down how she was. Visitors were very limited and she had to quarantine because of being at the hospital.

Just to add another challenge an element in our oven burned out. It took weeks to organize a repair call and weeks to find out it couldn’t be replaced. Good thing we had the Big Green Egg. I even cooked Yorkshire puddings on it.

JULY

Our favourite July event for years was the i4C – International Cool Climate Chardonnay Celebration. The organizers put together a virtual offering including the School of Cool event. Not quite as entertaining as the in-person. Not sure whether the 2021 event will fly or not.

The virtual lecture was interesting but not in the same league as this real experience in 2018.

Mid-July, masks were made mandatory inside businesses and restaurants. 

A storm went through the area knocking out power. Wind shear took out trees and twisted a garage door like a pretzel. There was other minor damage, but our property was untouched. 

AUGUST

Here we are on the Hidden Bench patio participating in a dog training Zoom call (using my iPhone for data) – a treat to be in the open air, a socially distanced outing. Only a couple of people were allowed inside the tasting room at a time. Everyone was masked on the formal patio and inside. That did lend an ominous air to the occasion that we tried to ignore.

Wine and the study of wine fills hours of the days. 

Not my favourite task at the best of times but we had to kick off the election process for Owners’ Council. Three vacancies, four candidates. We set up the voting process on Survey Monkey.

Our medical checkup appointment pushed out 6 weeks. The clinic was closed. Doctors dealt with non-emergency medical issues on the phone.

And for the writing group, I wrote virtual meeting notes – a truly virtual meeting as it didn’t take place even virtually.

SUMMER DOLDRUMS AND COVID-19

Although we are escaping the oppressive heat of July and early August the fresh cool mornings just exacerbate the feelings of physical and emotional constraint brought on by social distancing, masks and angst. For those of us “trapped” in relatively idyllic locations we ache for those who are confined to homes, deprived of social interaction, suffering from ailments (some serious but medical attention is hard to obtain) or working in difficult circumstances (vets, dentists, health care workers). The fear mongering in the media and amongst our political class (domestic and international) makes it difficult to define what social activity is a reasonable risk and what is not. As we mask everywhere it seems like eons ago that our public health advisors were saying masks were useless. Now you can be lynched for failing to mask and “endangering” others even if there is no-one within dozens of feet much less six. As we tentatively test a return to “normal” – my piano lessons are now in person, but I arrive at one door and leave through another, masks are worn, handwashing is required and all the door knobs get sanitized between students. Yoga is still on Zoom. Kohl’s dog training is in person – 6 students in a huge training hall, masked, no spectators and, just to be sure, social distancing. I guess this will be the “new normal” for many weeks, months. Winter is ominously lurking – another form of confinement.

The Wordwrights have supported each other’s projects and creativity for several years now. It is hard to lose the physical connection even though it was only monthly. And that is especially hard when members of the group are going through personal challenges. Let’s keep reaching out to each other, virtually for now, but, with the power of Zen, lift our spirits and energize our creativity. Share the moments of despair but also indulge the moments of accomplishment even joy. 

We will get through this!

SEPTEMBER

On the Labour Day long weekend, a Foreign Affair Brisket Event was organized – a picnic. Masks to enter the picnic grounds, questionnaire and temperature taken. Kohl accompanied us to this “socially distanced” picnic. He was a very good boy. Brisket sandwiches, baked beans and chips and, of course, a glass of wine. I was the driver – Howard had 2. Seven hours from leaving home to getting back. Pooched! 

Last day of August and it looks like a new range will finally be installed. In this complicated life the deliverers of the range don’t disconnect the old appliance or connect the new one. So, we had to find an electrician to come in the day before the delivery and the day after. Having strangers wandering through the house was stressful. Then the range arrived with a significant dent – the price was adjusted by $500. The dent doesn’t show because the range is set into the cabinets but still annoying.

The Owners’ Council election went ahead with only a hitch or two on Survey Monkey. Sadly, one of the council members was diagnosed with lung cancer during the summer. She voted from her hospital bed and died a week after the results were published. Still miss her presence at the meetings – bright, funny.

OCTOBER

This month it is a year since we saw our close family. We looked at the possibility of visiting. Too many “uncontrollables”, particularly the 4-year old who loves to hug. That and our son doing part-time firefighting. And our daughter-in-law still in the health care system. And we would have to bring Kohl who has never met their dog, Odi (standard schnauzer).

We roasted a turkey for Thanksgiving even though it was just the two of us. Multiple turkey dinners, turkey pies, turkey stock, stuffing for pork tenderloin…not really an ideal menu option for two.

The trials of several of the writing group members continued. Real emotional hardship. Our prompt sessions stalled – jaded perhaps. 

Makes me feel guilty for chafing at the restrictions when I have access to outdoors, to good food and wine, to books, movies and playing with/training my dog. I feel badly for my sister and the difficult processes implemented in her vet practice. Her significant other would normally be on the way to their property in Florida but not this year. 

Fall moves on. Golfing is still a go so our walks are around the outside of the course. Absolutely gorgeous.

So much routine too. Numerous meetings and issues with Owners’ Council. Personal training resumed. Piano continues. Seems surreal.

There is a change in email – less from friends and family and more from retailers, vendors, travel sites – constant barrage of specials and opportunities. And lots from the Tudorose Poodle group (Kohl’s connections) and McCann’s dog training (Kohl’s connection again). Most of the blog posts from writing sites and piano and music sites remain unopened. Maybe I am also jaded.

Kohl needed his vaccinations so headed for the vet. Phoned when we arrived. A technician came out and fetched Kohl. We spoke to the vet, masked and socially distanced, and paid by phone.

And another little bit of normalcy, we got our flu shots in an outdoor clinic. Never got out of the car. In and out of the parking lot in 20 minutes including the 15-minute wait to make sure there was no reaction.

I wrapped up the month with a Zoom workshop from Quick Brown Fox – How to Write Great Characters. Of course, I haven’t managed to put the info to use.

NOVEMBER

I signed up for a Jill’s Table virtual cooking class. – Marvellous Mushrooms. We picked up the necessary ingredients from the store and from the market. Then I discovered the downside. I had to do all the prep and do it all before it was needed if I wanted to keep up with the Zoom presentation. The kitchen was destroyed. No question the pre-pandemic cooking class, sitting in the store’s teaching space with a glass of wine watching the guest chef work “magic”, delivered to us to taste, was much more relaxing. Not that my culinary results were disappointing. Not at all. Just a lot of WORK.

I registered for a Mysteries and Thrillers writing course through Western. It provided a little intellectual stimulation and I did make a little progress on one of my projects. 

I finally got a scheduled medical procedure (CT Colonography) after a year of waiting. Initially I was told it could be scheduled spring of 2021 if I was prepared to go to Strathroy and summer if I wanted to stay in London. I got a call in November and took a deep breath and said OK. Perverse I suppose that a hospital is the last place we feel safe today – whether a patient or a health care worker. And an illustration of the delays the pandemic wrought on non virus health care procedures. 

Piano practice is taking its toll on my hands. I have started serious physio! Patients have to fill in a wellness check online before attending a session.

We actually had a dinner reservation at the Club the first week of November – oysters on the half shell. The Club is really trying to keep the residents entertained. Of course, many of them should have been in their southern destinations by now. 

The US election provided some significant “entertainment”. 

A military organization promoted a virtual Remembrance Day. I posted pictures on their Facebook page and on my own. These two photos pretty much bracketed my father’s military career.

Here is the first picture of my father shaking hands with Prince Akihito in 1953, Victoria, British Columbia.

And the second was a plaque commemorating his role with the Canadian delegation of the International Commission of Control and Supervision, Region 4, in South Vietnam – 1973. The Canadian delegation was pulled out in only 6 months with the observation that they had come to supervise a ceasefire but were instead observing a war.

I also posted the following on Facebook:

Military initiatives are frequently remembered by the works of artists retained to capture the nature of the mission. My mother (her artist name, Elizanne) was selected to be the war artist in Vietnam during this short stint. I have a couple of her works from this project but understood that additional pieces were held in the collection of the Canadian War Museum. My husband and I decided almost 10 years after her death to visit the Museum. The librarian I consulted found the microfiche for us – it was quite emotional to browse those images. What was perhaps more astounding was that the librarian had no idea Canada had played a role in the peacekeeping efforts in South Vietnam.

My father, Colonel Frank Campbell, retired several months after returning from Vietnam. He became employed with The Plan (then Foster Parents Plan) and returned to Saigon as director of their operations there. He was in the process of moving to a new post in Indonesia with belongings packed on the quay to be shipped when he was told to be on the tarmac the next morning to board a Canadian plane. Evacuation of Canadians was underway. I saw my dad walk across the runway to board the plane – newsman, Craig Oliver, had called to tell me to watch. Saigon was falling.

Time Fillers

Tartine bread making every couple of weeks – my starter is 8 years old, I think. Takes the better part of a day to get the loaves into the oven. Slice it up and freeze it – great for grilled cheese except that the cheese oozes through all the holes in the bread. And absolutely amazing for croutons. I have revived my fondness for Caesar salad.

We are back to driving to Flamborough once a week for Kohl’s training class. Still no spectators allowed so Howard gets to sit in the car. I recorded the class with my iPad, leaning it against a chair so that Howard could see what we were doing. 

No question that over this year Kohl has provided us with an invaluable distraction. He is oblivious to the stress.

DECEMBER

Last month of a crazy year.

Worth noting the huge push of email to encourage purchasing before Christmas. Businesses trying to survive.

More trials and tribulations for members from the writing group – their friends and family. Even quarantine at the retirement home. Yet several members have finished projects, made major inroads on projects and persevered with the creative writing exercises. The Thrillers and Mysteries course wrapped up. 

Family birthdays came and went – quietly – just email or cards. 

A morning visitor made short shrift of one of our shrubs – 6 feet outside our sunroom door. Like the spring there was still a rhythm to life. 

“Outside the Window”.

One of our favourite Niagara wineries organized a virtual tasting. The Wine Club offerings were poured into serving size bottles and delivered. Food pairing options were recommended (we didn’t try everything). Very decadent.

A selection of hard cheese with fruit compotes (Heritage cheddar from Upper Canada Cheese Company) is beautiful with the Chardonnays. Brie with warm mushrooms for the Nuit Blanche. Crab cakes with the Chardonnays. A charcuterie board will always work with many options. Duck confit bites with the Locust Lane Pinot. Shaved Roast Beef with plum compote for the Terroir Cache.

Then we were shut down again. All non-essential businesses limited to curbside or delivery. The Club closed again. So what could we do to “celebrate” the Forest City Wordwrights.

“Virtual” Christmas Lunch. With London now in a red zone we have to face the reality that Forest City Wordwrights annual Christmas lunch at the RiverBend Clubhouse is not going to happen in 2020. So it seems like the best substitute would be a wander down memory lane. https://www.forestcitywordwrights.com/2020/12/13/virtual-christmas-lunch

Christmas 

I couldn’t bring myself to put up a tree. I did put the wreath on the door, lit the candle in the lantern of a ceramic snowman and put Queen Bear in her place on the piano. We cooked a prime rib for our Christmas dinner. Too much turkey still in the freezer. Lots of email greetings, a couple of phone calls. 

Then on Boxing Day, the stay-at-home direction – unless absolutely essential!

New Year’s Eve

New Years’ Eve a delivered dinner from the Club. A single malt scotch for me, a martini for Howard and a nice bottle of wine. The traditional Campbell dress tartan. Good omens!

A toast to 2021 and prayers for a respite from the pandemic.

I’ll Be Home for Christmas (Annie Carpenter)

~ Annie Carpenter ~ Leave a comment

I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on it, I’ve been dreaming of it all year.

The quiet thump of a heartbeat engine, the brush of feather wings – so surrounding.

Woosh…

Take off…the most peaceful sound I have heard…

The landing…I still don’t feel like I have touched down it is so soft…the view? I can’t believe my eyes!

You should see how bright it is here…The Christmas tree ornaments – are pure shimmering crystals!  There are real Angels here! Wow!  Wait… the ones that sang to the shepherds on that Christmas Eve- are here! Yep…I’m supposed to tell you they’re all on Key! It’s true!

I can’t feel a thing here but peace, warmth, love- unimaginable love! I’ve never known anything like this.

 Christmas in Heaven is something beyond anything you could ever fathom.

Wish you could see this place…you’ll just have to trust me…Search it out you won’t regret it.

Don’t be sad for me…if you could see and feel what I am now…you’d understand!  

Take a second and look up tonight and find the brightest star…I’ll be sitting on it! I’ll give you a little twinkle….

You can count on it…

For the heart that never felt love on earth…you have found love everlasting …great joy has been brought to you this day…

Tuesday, December 12, 2023.

Christmas Concert – Anne of Green Gables (Madeleine Horton)

~ Madeleine Horton ~ Leave a comment

This piece owes its first three lines to Anne of Green Gables and references a concert put on by Anne and her classmates for Christmas.

We had recitations this afternoon. Our last practice.  I just put my whole soul into it. And now…

            I am standing on the stage, holding my cardboard letter turned into me. My letter is M. I turn my letter to the audience and speak. My voice is loud, clear, and stilted. M is for magical- Santa coming down the chimney. Relief, I’ve said it all and now can look down the line as each classmate in turn flips over a cardboard letter, -E R R-, down the line, some yelling out their piece- C is for Christ, the reason for the season- or whispering- H is for holy, Oh holy night- some shocked into silence until loudly prompted behind the curtain- T is for turkey, roasted and stuffed- some giggle, some shuffle, some look down at their feet, until the final card is flipped, a large exclamation mark to signal everyone to shout, “Merry Christmas” and to allow little Evalina to take part. Evalina who is in grade two and who would be in grade two when I graduated from grade eight in that one room school, Evalina still in the same desk, still the same size, with her face like a rubber doll and her hair ever wispy and white like an old woman’s.

            We are grade 2’s and 3’s at S.S.11 Public School and we are the closing act of the annual Christmas concert held in the basement of the United Church (established 1873) and this is the culmination of our weeks of preparation. It starts on the Friday afternoon after Hallowe’en when we begin the walk to the church, a stone’s throw away from the school and a blessed relief from the dreaded reading to an older student, possibly a boy, maybe dour Jacob Liemann, the oral math genius, reading that marked long afternoons.

            The concert is of course more ambitious than the presentation of my junior classmates. The serious Irene Black who is not allowed to play baseball for fear of injuring her fingers plays a classical piano piece. Three Grade 8 girls sing their song with harmony, the one prepared for the Rotary Music Festival. Shirley Gough plays her accordion. Two of the big boys give a comic recitation. As we prepared, there was an unstated message from our formidable teacher that somehow our work here will be evaluated, hence no writing of our short recitation on the back of our cardboard letters. I am in awe of the bigger kids, those who have a role in the two marquee presentations of the evening- Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and the always required retelling of the Christmas story. I am unaware that our twenty minute version of the Dickens’ classic is greatly abridged but am impressed because I have a part in the play. I am one of the Cratchit children though admittedly I have no real lines. Instead, as we play on the floor, we have been instructed by Mrs. McKenzie to say “rhubarb” over and over again which will make it seem as if we are having conversations. We have learned that this is what professional actors do in crowd scenes so feel disproportionately important. But my real awe is reserved for the grade eight boy who plays Scrooge who has many lines and never stumbles.       

            The retelling of the Christmas story is required every year and never varies much. The central figures, Mary, Joseph, and the Christ child doll take centre stage. Mary has nothing to say but has mastered her look of wide-eyed adoration as she leans over the manger and beholds the Christ doll. I am dimly aware that the girl chosen to be Mary is the prettiest of the senior girls, a slim girl with long wavy blonde hair and no trace of pubescent imperfection in her creamy skin. She seems as serene and elevated as a fairy tale princess awaiting a troop of suitors. Joseph is the dark haired captain of his bantam hockey team and already marked as cool. The angels come and go, the shepherds guard their stuffed toy sheep, the Wise Men trek across the stage to deliver their three gifts and few words to the holy couple, and circling this tableau, the massed choir of the rest of the school sing carols artfully chosen by Mrs. McKenzie to link the story together. There is huge applause at the end of the presentation.

            I look out from my place at the side of the stage near the front where the smaller students sit to sing. I can see my mother and my father. They are sitting in a row with Evalina’s parents and grandparents, the only people in that row. My father is right next to the grandfather, the scary Mr. McVicar with the sunken face and the jaw that looks all eaten away. “Cancer,” my mother has said and it is rude to stare at him. Evalina’s parents are there, her mother looking almost as old as my grandmother, her father looking as if he has just come in from the barn, still wearing a denim smock coat. I have asked my mother why they look so different from everyone else. “They are poor,” my mother said, “but Evalina has such a pretty name.” My mother is most impressed with names and has saddled me with a name I greatly dislike at this time. I am Briony and I will not hear that name given to any other girl until I am an adult of some years.

            The basement is overflowing. Every pupil’s parents and many grandparents are there along with younger siblings. There may be over one hundred people. So many that some are standing at the back. These are mainly youths as old as seventeen or eighteen, all young men, all tall and gangly, looking uncomfortable in starched shirts and dress jackets, hair freshly combed and brylcreamed, young men who have just finished the evening’s milking. They are both awkward and intimidating standing there, sometimes laughing together for a moment between acts of the concert. They are intimidating but not so much as they will be in a few years when I am on the cusp of being a teenager and am a large girl in a pink taffeta dress, tragically the same dress as a grade eight girl who has recently lost many pounds of weight from a magic pill her doctor gave her, and we must make our exit from the stage, down the aisle, and past that clutch of perennially looming youths.

            But this night is one of great happiness. I have remembered my words. I have been a Cratchit child. Santa has come at the end of the program. And I do know already that he is just pretend, that the thin man with the skimpy beard is Mr. Hipley the Sunday school teacher and that the present he handed to me is the scarf I saw my mother accidentally leave in a bag on the table. I do not yet know how much I will later think about my mother and my father sitting with Evalina’s parents nor how the mysteries of early memory shape us and visit us especially at Christmas.

It’s time to “Deck the Halls” (Cathy Sartor)

~ Cathy Sartor ~ Leave a comment

Oh No!!!  Time is fling… No sooner have the summer chairs been stored and the leaves cleared but the forecast of snow is announced on the weather channel.  Thoughts of winterizing my wardrobe by keeping mittens and boots handy at my door has yet to sink in.  Already junk mail from retailers is bombarding my postal box with Christmas imagery advertising “Black Friday Gift Specials”.   Anxiety explodes in my heart, realizing that December is racing toward me and the much-heralded season of Christmas is creeping upon me once more.  With little time remaining, I need to accept that the season “to deck the house with balls of holly” and launch preparations for making friends and family “merry” is about to arrive.

The thought of being forced to assume the responsibility for spreading joy, producing sweets treats for family and friends who happen by, fills me with panic.  Chilly, shortened, darkened days of November have paralyzed me at the thought of having to make “merry”. Without intending, I hear myself muttering “bah humbug” aloud!   After self-diagnosis, it seems holiday preparations might improve my attitude, encourage my optimism and eliminate the emotional impact of the shorter, darker days of November. 

Decorating and planning promises to be uplifting in spite of the fact that it seems as if all the Christmas decorations recently made their way back into storage.  Facing this task, the most pressing question is exactly when is the appropriate time to begin displaying Christmas? Many obsessed with exterior decoration claim it is before the cold weather arrives threatening to freeze the exposed fingers working to install outside decorations. Families with small children might be pressured to believe the day after Halloween is a perfect time.  Like myself, many may be motivated simply by the short, darker, days of late November.  The reality is it is time to begin decorating and it is time to begin make some lists and check them twice.  

Once the traumatic realization passes and acceptance sinks in the decorating process begins. Small steps are good.   Replacing the nonseasonal décor with winter pieces like holly that can be accessorized later with shiny, festive balls.  A trip to the nursery for a live wreath maybe a potted arrangement and of course a poinsettia help to ease one into the spirit of the season. With the tree in place, lights, color and glitz enhance the spirit of the season.  Finally, the hallway and other living spaces come alive with lights and colorful ornamentations to greet family and friends who stop by.  With each step my spirits are buoyed inspiring hope that the celebration will enable me to share the joy with others.

In hindsight, it is interesting to consider how wise it was that Christmas was dropped into the late autumn calendar.  In reality, the upcoming celebration lifts the spirits of humans of all ages during the shortest, darkest days of the year.  My spirits are lifted but not without being aware of some persistent, nagging questions…when should decorations come down and what should come down first?  Secondly, how soon will the horticulturists be ready to assist me in planning shrubbery for my spring garden? And so, it seems…the calendar continually nags and drives us forward whether we like it or not.

“O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree” (Catherine Campbell)

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

When it comes to Christmas for most people the main symbol of Christmas is a decorated tree – I reflect on that symbol and other Christmas events when the Christmas celebration is “relocated”.

Carlux. One of the most memorable was a return trip to France to our friends living in the Dordogne, in a small village, Carlux, in a property called Le Fournil.

We arrived before Christmas. It was 1999 and the millennial was on the horizon.

We purchased two little trees at the market and decorated them with red balls and Santa hats. Since it was also the millennium a lovely stuffed bear was acquired with a celebratory banner. Our little trees got planted in the garden above the Le Fournil – they are now 8 feet tall!

Millenours 2000 (my white bear) has gone a little yellow – I have gone a lot grey!

Tanzania – our Christmas tree was an artistic creation of pastel branches on sheets of paper – my mother was an artist and evergreens were not one of the native plants.

Indonesia – no Christmas tree but a special invite to a wedding (Christmas wasn’t part of the culture). The guests were seated facing the bride and groom and a meal was served to all. Unfortunately, the green beans were actually outrageously hot peppers. Tears streamed down my face while I tried not to interrupt the ceremony.

Palm Springs, the Ingleside Inn. We were without our son at Christmas so we took a trip to fill the holiday. Christmas decoration here consisted of a nude sculpture in the garden that had been graced with a Santa hat. Mini trees, decorated, about 8” high, were in every room. Echoing the near forgotten era of the piano lounge there was a pianist (Canadian co-incidentally) tickling the ivories on a grand piano, the food was excellent, classic tableside favourites, as was the wine – a Duckhorn Merlot.

Home and Christmas Tree Evolving – Aurora – London. The Christmas tree became “artificial” since our son was allergic to pine. It was graced with decorations that we had acquired from almost every place we visited. Nothing stylish about our tree but lots of memories. It has not been unboxed and “dressed” in five years. Just seems like a lot of effort when there is no one to share it with. Although, a visit including the grandkid is planned just after Christmas so I may have to take a deep breath and decorate.

 As our focal point of Christmas, the tree has been displaced, replaced by a piano recital mid-December (since 2011) and a writing group lunch. COVID was hard on both off these get togethers. No piano recital 2020, one in 2021 and nothing since. This year is particularly hard because the MC of the recital, our piano coach, is still recovering from a serious motorcycle accident. The adult student participants have lost touch with each other and, to some extent, lost focus on the performance objectives. The writing group lunch lost a year to the pandemic and suffered the loss of two of the original group, Alison and Rian. They are missed.

Santa Claus The fantasy of Santa Claus permeates Christmas. Of course, gifts under the tree are a big part of Santa’s role. In Goose Bay, at 6 years old, I guess I was a believer. CBC tracked Santa’s route from the North Pole. Gifts from Santa materialized from the basement (we never questioned why but now know my father made cradles and brought dolls home from a trip – no Santa involved). The requisite photo of our grandson in Santa’s lap was taken when he was a toddler.  None since and no gifts from Santa under his tree.

Fascinating was discovering the grave of the real Santa – St. Nicholas. We visited that grave in Antalya, Turkey. The stories of this saint’s life and good deeds seem so far removed from our bearded, classically attired in red and white, jolly old man with his reindeer and his elves.

As we move through the “silly season”

A Toast to Christmas

 To the memories past and memories yet to be made.

From our Carlux hosts and the 8’ Christmas trees,

“standing in verdant beauty”

Bonne Fetes.

Fairy Tale of New York (Muriel Allingham)

~ Muriel Allingham ~ Leave a comment

It was Christmas Eve babe,

In the drunk tank,

A lingering sludge drips down a cement block, resembling the arms of a clock ticking time away, and an old man said to me,

Won’t see another one.

And the gray of the eve was mirrored in the cell’s perpetual state of gloaming.

Is it worse to be here on the holiday of holidays?  One could easily

gather images of flickering fire light reflecting into dark wood floors, or the memory of being lost in the brilliance of the season armed with jeweled prizes that bob and weave their magic to bring back the light. 

Watching the mansion burn under the glow of a sinister chandelier. I would sip sherry in an alabaster robe.  And when I hadn’t been the spark of ignition, could I know the cause? Or is it always me?  Did I leave the iron on?  I am here now; I belong in this prison of my own creation. 

Slumped on the bench, the old man sighs and looks at me with eyes that have been bleached by sorrow or time, now almost void of colour—once china blue, I imagine them to once be.      

It wasn’t to be this way, he said.

I slip down beside him, taking in the aroma of death and whiskey.

Yes.  I take his withered hand, cold and bony. It was to be—told more for my value than his.  Amore fate, the gypsy intellect profoundly states.

He shows me a mouth devoid of teeth, and from somewhere afar; perhaps the precinct, perhaps from the depth of our empty hearts, the Viennese waltz begins to play.

Do you hear it?  He seems to search for its source, but as though to conjure a monkey wrench to conduct the score, so painfully beautiful, I rise. And the wrench’s oddly distributed weight moves through thin air. Music reaches us from nowhere and everywhere, I sway in animation, my imaginary wrench capturing the light, the sound, Christmas as it is. 

The old man sinks into his reflections of what was and what could have been, transported to the cold of Russia and the romance of Anna. I could have skated far beyond. I could have skated away.

Where is your love? He slurs the biting question that pierces my heart.

I promised that Broadway was waiting for her, I reply sadly, letting the monkey wrench fall from the melody. 

And suddenly, gilded in gold waistcoats that glimmer with sparsely placed beads, we face each other, and the cell is a grand parlour, and the music our warmth. The sodium lights become candles and we see our reflections in regretful choices; crime and punishment.  Cement becomes artistry and our visions are pure.  We share this time hoisted onto the pedestal of Christmas miracles that holds court for those like us, in the good of misfortune, in the heart of the unloved.

There is more, he whispers, there is more. 

No, this is it. This is the glory. To understand that it is what it will be.  We are not made of this earth. 

And he leans his head back and the stain on the cement block that is the ticking of time speaks the truth.  And the cold cell turns to hallowed ground, a place of reverence. He closes his eyes, one time more, as the bells ring out for Christmas day, and the boys of the NYPD choir are singing Galway Bay, and the meaning of Christmas in this moment is more than it ever could be, with its sadness and poignant beauty.  

I wait, pressing my forehead to the cold bars, before I alert anyone, watching red and green Christmas lights flash in dull succession across the dirty linoleum floor, emanating from the small tree positioned at the front desk that taunted me on my incarceration. I am fascinated at their muted depth; an attempt at something, anything but the grit of this place.  And when I know for sure that his spirit has moved through the cement blocks, into the damp New York night, and beyond his world of suffering, I shake the bars, and face the direction where the lady of liberty stands, and in the peel of Christmas bells, I sense his grandeur, seeing a better time, when all his dreams come true. 

“Blue Christmas” ( Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

When those blue snowflakes start fallin’, Ivan runs up and down the street trying to collect them, but they melt in his hands. He was amazed to see this strange thing happening.

“Marge, come outside quick. It’s magical and somewhat disturbing at the same time.”

Marge opened the front door and saw her crazy husband trying to catch blue things falling from the sky. As she glanced further closer to the stoop, Marge realized what was falling were blue snowflakes. She didn’t get it. Shouldn’t they be white?

“Ivan, what is going on,” Marge called out to him as she put on her coat and went outside.

“I have no idea but isn’t it sad that the snow is blue. I wonder why this is happening. Why is Mother Nature so sad that her tears are coming down blue?”

Marge put her hand out and let some of the blue snowflakes gather on it. They weren’t the same as white flakes since they disappeared as soon as they landed. She tried to push some together on the grass, but the same thing happened. No snowball-making ability was available.

“Ivan, I think we need to send Mother Nature a letter telling her we’re here to help in any way we can to stop her from being so blue.”

“Where would we send it? We don’t know her address.”

Marge thought about that for a minute. “We can send it to Santa and ask him to get it to her. I’m sure he knows where she is since he knows where everyone is located.”

Ivan and Marge sat down and wrote a short letter to Mother Nature asking why she was so blue that her tears were coming down as blue snowflakes. They left all their information so she could respond with how they could help. They addressed the second envelope to Santa with a short note inside asking him to get their letter to Mother Nature as soon as possible.

The blue snowflakes continued coming down off and on over the next two weeks. On Christmas Eve, Santa left an envelope on their mantle for them to find the next morning. When Marge got up, she looked outside and saw it was snowing, but the flakes were white again.

“Ivan, go look out the window quickly. The snow has changed back.”

Ivan sleepily wandered into the living room and looked out the front door window. He pulled open the door to check it out, picking up some of the flakes.

“They are white again. I wonder what made Mother Nature happy again.”

Marge then noticed the envelope on the fireplace mantle with their names in the middle of it. Curious, she picked it up and slipped open the flap. Taking out a piece of paper, she read:

Dear Ivan and Marge,

I received your lovely letter asking what was wrong. I was sad because I wasn’t going to be able to bring joy to all the beautiful children all over the world. There is so much sadness everywhere, and it makes me sad.

I’m sorry my tears turned blue and frightened you. Everything has been taken care of for me to share my time with all the children of the world even though some of them have gone to another place from their homes.

I will try harder to not let my moods influence the proper way that nature happens. Thanks for caring so much and offering to help. Just getting your letter was a big help.

Sincerely,

Mother Nature

Ivan looked over, and Marge had tears running down her face. She convinced him they were tears of joy, not sadness, and handed him the letter from Mother Nature. Kindness is always rewarded from places you would never suspect, so be kind to others.