Remembering Christmas Past

Our Family Gathering Christmas 2007

Although steeped in tradition and celebrated for 2000 years, Christmas has evolved along with our Western Culture.

In days gone by, it was primarily a Religious Holiday to celebrate the birth of Jesus Christ. In pre-Christian times, ancient societies celebrated the Winter Solstice marking the end of the darkest days of winter and welcoming the New Year. Today there is more emphasis on Santa Claus, gift giving and feasting. The common denominator is that we gather together with our friends and family to enjoy each other’s company and celebrate life.

Many of us still love the traditional Christmas Carols. Nothing can convey the solemnity and mystery of the Nativity as “Silent Night“ Some songs, however, have become outdated. Does anyone know what a “Figgy Pudding” is? It must be some sort of dessert made with figs, but no one I know has ever made a figgy pudding, much less eaten one.

And then there is the famous line, “Don we now our gay apparel” which today has totally different connotations, and certainly not what the composer originally intended to say!

I have many happy memories of past Christmases and would like to share some of them with you.

As a child, Christmas always began with the annual trip to Hudson‘s Department Store in Detroit. I remember standing in line for hours, waiting to see Santa’s Village and sit on the knee of Santa himself. The village consisted of miniature robotic Elves posed in various settings with lots of mini lights and fake snow. It was hot and crowded, but we forgot about all those discomforts when we walked through that wondrous fairyland, our eyes wide with amazement.

In the weeks leading up to the big day, we sometimes participated in Christmas pageants at church and the Teutonia Club. This is the German Club in Windsor Ontario. Everyone was dressed in their finery as songs were sung, German verses were recited and St. Nick arrived. It was a production line as the children were brought up on stage, starting with the youngest. I remember the noise and chaos in the large hall as we waited our turn. Now, years later, I appreciate all the work and expense that was involved.

Because we didn’t have a fireplace, I was concerned about poor Santa. I was worried that he would climb down the chimney and end up in the furnace. My mother reassured me that he had a special key to the front door. Only then could I sleep in peaceful slumber. Santa was safe.

We upheld the traditions of our forefathers in Europe. Christmas Eve was a day of fasting so we ate fish instead of meat. My dad was the chief cook that day as he made the Fish Paprikash. It was a delicious fish soup made with fresh Carp ,onions, tomato juice and wine. My maternal grandmother was in charge of making the homemade noodles. She kneaded the dough and then rolled it out on a board. It was then cut into strips about 3” or 8 cm. wide. The strips were then lightly floured to prevent sticking and stacked one on top of the other. I still remember her skilful cutting, as she quickly sliced through the strips with a sharp knife, miraculously avoiding her fingertips.

We gathered around the table, said a prayer and enjoyed the soup. Fresh cut onions and roe (fish eggs) were sometimes added to the bowl and were considered a delicacy. It was the poor man’s version of caviar but we didn’t mind. After the soup, we each got a portion of the boiled fish and some potatoes. Carp is full of tiny bones and it required some skill and patience to avoid them. Not everyone appreciated this meal and my mother usually cooked some other seafood such as shrimp and scallops to tempt their discriminating palates.

We were well sated as we gathered in the living room. The tree was aglow with lights and ornaments. Our favourites were the little red bell and the birds that attached to the branch with a clip.

We were all eager to open our gifts (it was our custom to open gifts on Christmas Eve), but first we had to sing three Christmas Carols for our parents and grandparents. We tried to contain our excitement but soon tore off the wrappings of each gift with greedy delight. The entire living room was knee deep in wrapping paper in a matter of minutes.

Cookies and chocolates were offered but we were too full to eat.

Soon 12 am approached and we drove to church for Midnight Mass. St. Michael’s Church was resplendent in it’s holiday décor. Two huge white poinsettias flanked the altar and a pair of long slim trees covered in lights stood on each side. To the right was a large nativity scene; a manger with all the figurines nestled in straw and baby Jesus in the center. We celebrated Mass, the Choir sang our praise to the heavens and our Christmas was complete.

The next day as other families were just getting up for Christmas morning, we lingered in our pj’s and played with our new toys.

Christmas Dinner was always a turkey with all the trimmings at my maternal Grandparents’ house. The entire family gathered there, including aunts, uncles and cousins. Since the dining room was a bit small, the children ate in the TV room. After the meaI, the men stayed at the table and played cards. Cigarettes were not yet considered unhealthy and soon big clouds of smoke filled the room as they played for kernels of corn. 10 kernels of corn = 1 cent. It wasn’t exactly high stakes poker, but the games remained lively as they called out their trump cards and pounded them on the table. Meanwhile, the women sat in the living room and chatted about this and that. The children were left up to their own devices to find amusement. We sometimes played board games such as Monopoly and Parcheesi.

We also paid a visit to our Paternal Grandparents. My Oma offered us her crescent cookies filled with plum jam and sprinkled with fruit sugar. Her specialty was a Spritz cookie pronounced “Gex” ( I’m not sure of the correct spelling). Opa always had stories to share and the discussions that followed gave everyone an opportunity to contribute their own perspectives.

I was in Fort Lauderdale for Christmas 1968. It was very strange to see the colored lights strung on palm trees and Santa figures perched on green lawns. My friend and her grandparents were very gracious, but I missed my family terribly.

On Christmas Eve 1972 my Uncle Adam passed away suddenly. He had been suffering from stomach cancer and the chemo treatments proved too much for his heart. We were all devastated. My grandparents never put up a tree after that year. Each Christmas was a painful reminder of this tragedy, but life goes on as it must.

As everything changes. so did our Christmases. We got married and merged our traditions with those of our spouses and their families. As we raised our own families, we formed new traditions while honouring the old.

One of the most memorable Christmases was at my parent’s home in the mid-1980’s. My siblings, cousins and their families were all there. My dad slipped out quietly and soon we heard a knock at the door and a lot of Ho-Ho-Ho’s. It was Santa Claus come to deliver his gifts! The kids were all jumping for joy as they gathered around Santa. If they suspected my dad, no one said anything to ruin the magic. It was one of the best Christmases we ever had and one of my dad’s finest moments.

Now as our lives continue, the next generation is gathering for the Holidays. It is our turn to create memories for our kids and grandkids. Many things have changed, but many things remain the same. The Spirit of Christmas is alive and well in the love we share with family and friends. Love is the eternal bond that brings us all together. Love has always been there since that very First Noel.

Merry Christmas Everybody!

Adventures in Plumbing

We take the modern conveniences of indoor plumbing for granted. In fact, next to electricity, we scarcely give it a thought. Unless we are on a rugged camping trip, we expect hot and cold water, drains that drain and a toilet that flushes whenever we need it.

We have all experienced that foolish feeling when trying to flick on the lights, even though we are aware that there is a power outage. It’s just automatic. We don’t care why it works or how it works or where it came from. We just use it. Period.

This morning, the strangest thing happened as I was getting ready for work. The lid from a small plastic bottle of lotion flew out of my hands and landed right in the drain of my bathroom sink. It landed top side up, just to make it more interesting. It was a perfect fit. It completely plugged the sink. I stared at it, dumbfounded. What are the odds?

I had visions of my bathroom sink being an attraction at the carnival and me shouting: “Get the cap into the drain; win a stuffed animal; 3 tries for $1” I don’t think anyone could do it even if they tried. But here was the lid, finding its’ way into the drain without any help. There must have been some gremlins at work, or that cap had serious suicidal tendencies.

I brushed my teeth in the guest bathroom, while thinking of ways to dislodge the cap. I thought about it all day. I talked about it to co-workers and patients. I was obsessed. That cap became Moby Dick to my Captain Ahab.

First I tried wedging two slim steak knives on either side and lifting up, but the knives kept slipping. Then I remembered “Red Green” and his Duct Tape. I attached tape to the lid and pulled up. No luck. It did not have a large enough surface area to adhere properly.

Then my vacuum cleaner was brought out. Let it be known that my vacuum and I have a hide and seek policy. It hides and I try not to seek it. (I hate vacuuming). But this was an emergency. I placed the hose above the cap and turned on the motor. It sucked and strained. I changed attachments and tried again. The cap rose slightly but sank back down as soon as I removed the hose. The toilet plunger had the same result.

I tried using a corkscrew, but the cap was made of hard plastic and not as easily penetrated as a wine cork.

Next came a manual drill, a relic from my dad’s wood shop. I held it upright, turning the knob as the bit rotated into the cap. But the cap had other plans. It turned with the bit and refused to cooperate. I could feel the frustration building.

Calling a plumber was always an option, but it was the weekend and the cost was a deterrent. That and the fact that I really wanted to do it myself. I wanted, no needed to prove to myself that I can and I shall prevail over that cap.

In the midst of all this bravado, the cap was still embedded in the sink, quietly taunting me, firm, resolute, impenetrable. I imagined smashing it to bits, but there was a possibility of damaging the sink so I resisted.

I felt like Scarlet O’Hara in that scene where she raised her arm up in the air, vowing never to be hungry again. Only in my reality, the foe was not the Union Army. It was a small white plastic cap, mocking me in it’s refusal to budge. But I was determined.  I would not be defeated! I would not give up!

It was time to bring out the big guns: glue gun that is. I melted some glue onto a circular piece of wood ½” in diameter and attached it to the cap. I burned my fingertips on the hot glue and silken strands cascaded all over the sink like spider’s webs. I waited for the glue to harden, eyes gleaming, counting the minutes in breathless anticipation. My victory was near. Or so I thought. The elusive lid must have been wet or oily since the glue failed to stick. Drat!

The fates move in mysterious ways. I was in the process of decorating our Lab-X Ray department for Christmas and while searching for supplies on my workbench, my eyes fell upon an old soldering gun. I used that tool to melt holes into plastic pots for additional air circulation for growing orchids. In a flash of inspiration, I decided to melt a hole into that cap and then use a crochet hook to pull it up.

A little voice inside my head said: “I’ll get you my pretty sink; and your little cap too!” I wondered when I turned into the Wicked Witch of the West but no matter. There was a battle to be waged!

I heated up the tool and easily melted a hole into the cap. Then with my crochet hooks spread out like surgeon’s tools, I selected the proper size. Into the opening it went and up popped the cap. The entire process took 5 minutes. Everything is easy when you know how.

Success at last! The drain was free! I danced around the bathroom, cap in hand like Gollum when he found the Ring.

The lessons to be learned from this are as follows:

1.Never give up when you have a goal in mind.

2. Conventional problems can be solved in unconventional ways.

3. Avoid little bottles with plastic caps unless you have extraction tools.

And in conclusion: Duct Tape may be the handyman’s secret weapon, but a middle aged woman with a crochet hook can conquer the world!

In Memory of Zeus

In Memory of Zeus

Last Saturday, we said farewell to a dear friend. Our beloved Doberman, Zeus had to be euthanized.

It started about 2 months ago when we noticed a lump on his hip. It was surgically removed, but proved to be a malignancy. In a relatively short time, more tumors appeared. He grew weaker as the disease progressed. It was very difficult to see him succumb to this deadly disease and even harder to make the decision to end his suffering.

Zeus was true to his breed possessing intelligence, courage, loyalty and gentleness. He was part King Doberman and stood slightly taller than the standard. With his slim physique, sleek coat and long legs, he was sometimes mistaken for a Greyhound.

Zeus was born on April 6, 2002. As a youngster, he exhibited all the routine puppy habits, chewing everything in site. On his first visit to Oma’s, he ate her freshly planted Pansies. He was not the most popular fellow in her books.

In true Doberman fashion, he was aloof with strangers, but to those he considered part of his pack, he never lost that puppy innocence and playfulness. I was proud to be part of his inner circle. When my son Mark was housebound with a knee injury, he and Zeus formed a lifelong bond. To the end of his days, Mark was the most important person in his life. When Mark was away at work, Zeus would throw back his head and howl sorrowfully, as he waited for his master to return.

Zeus was a terrific guard dog. No one dared to venture onto the property once they heard his ferocious bark. Little did they know that he never bit anyone in his life. Apparently, biting was not in his job description. (this endeared him to us even more). Ever on alert, he immediately sprang into action if we asked “who’s there?” He would scan the entire yard, looking for trespassers with an intensity only a Doberman could create.

We never mastered the art of walking him with a leash. It always appeared that he was walking us, and our shoulders were practically getting dislocated. Even with a choke chain, he seldom lessened his vigorous tugs.

When Mark was in Europe, I had the privledge of keeping Zeus for 6 weeks. We went for daily hikes on the nature trails. Since there was often no one else around, I let him run off leash to his heart’s content. He ran like a gazelle, up and down the trails, delirious with happiness. Every once in a while he would bound off into the underbrush. There would be some loud barks, a few yelps and soon after, he would reappear on the path, his muzzle full of sharp porcupine quills. He always looked startled and slightly embarrassed, like the cat who ate the canary. He avoided eye contact with me as if he admitted his guilt.

Even though he had a canine’s superior sense of smell, Zeus often clashed with Skunks. It happened once, late at night as Mark and family were ready to drive back home to Edmonton. Picture 3 of us in the bathroom, with an 85 lb Dobie in the tub, doused with tomato juice, jumping up and down, shower curtain tearing, tomato juice everywhere except on the dog. My house smelled like a skunk den for a week.

Zeus also had a knack for getting into the garbage, especially when his people were gone for a few hours. Our patience was tested to the limit, coming home to the mess. On one occasion Zeus hit the jackpot. I had a roast beef defrosting in the sink. Taking advantage of his height, he reached in and easily grabbed the meat. I assumed that he ate the entire thing in a gluttonous frenzy, since I never found that roast. He was sneaky and knew when to seize an opportunity. An entire box of Girl Guide cookies also suffered the same fate.

He loved to do tricks for small treats. I taught him to SIT, STAY, SPEAK, LIE DOWN, ROLL OVER, and SHAKE A PAW. Anything for a treat. He sometimes ran out of the yard and enjoyed the exhilaration of freedom for a few minutes. The only way I could convince him to come back was to hold up a cat as a “treat” The cat was not amused but that trick worked every time. Zeus didn’t mind cats, but cats minded him. He couldn’t resist the chase, but he was such a gentle soul, he would never hurt them.

Ah Zeus. He was our loyal companion, our furry friend and our protector. He was a member of our family and a part of our life. We will never forget him.

　

REST IN PEACE SWEET ZEUS

WE WILL MISS YOU

　

The Case for Christmas Cards

The Case for Christmas Cards

I sent out my Christmas Cards today. In this age of instant messaging there has been a noticeable decline in the more than 100 year old tradition of sending cards to our loved ones.

Many people are questioning the value of this custom. Everyone is stressed to the limit and sending cards is just one more thing to get out of the way. There is also the rising cost of stamps to consider in these harsh economic times.

However, I choose to continue this traditional ritual and I invite all of you to do the same. Let’s not think of it as a duty or obligation, but rather as a way to renew a sense of kinship with our recipients. It’s a simple gesture of reaching out to those who matter to us.

I carefully sort out the cards, matching each one to the receiver. I take the time to admire the art work and design elements of each card. The “Season’s Greetings” and “Happy Holidays” are sent to the non Christians. Devout Christians can expect a Nativity scene or angels and a “Merry Christmas”. The rest of you non-commited folks (and you know who you are) get the Snowmen and Santa’s and Ho Ho Ho’s. In the true spirit of Christmas, no one is left out. Love and joy are universal no matter what your personal beliefs.

The design or the words on the card are not the most important thing. What really counts is that you matter to me. I value your friendship and kinship and want to express that sentiment. I send the cards freely and without expectation. I don’t want someone to rush out and reciprocate just because I sent them a card. I don’t expect that. In the true spirit of giving, one should not keep score or expect anything back.

 The Dalai Lama said “my religion is simple; my religion is kindness”. Kindness and compassion are what set us apart from all living creatures. Let’s be mindful at this special time of year to spread the message of peace and love. (and if you happen to love Walmart, that’s ok too!).

With apologies to David Letterman, here are the

                             Top 10 reasons to send Christmas Cards

1.     You remind your friends and relatives that you are still alive

2.     You get a chance to edit your address book

3.     You spend time on quiet reflection as you focus on each name

4.     You support the Hallmark and other Card companies

5.     You create work for Canada Post

6.     The cards can be used in crafts and the stamps can be collected.

7.     You can give everyone a short summary of the fabulous year you had

8.     You can send greetings and best wishes at your convenience and without paying for long distance.

9.     You carry on a long tradition that began over 100 years ago.

10.  And the best reason to send a card: “You can spread good wishes and guilt in one tidy package.” It’s a mother’s dream come true!

Merry Christmas

Once upon a Shovel

My mind was wandering the other day as I shovelled snow from my driveway. As humans, we have a tendency to see patterns, make associations and attach meanings to otherwise meaningless occurrences. As I worked, I had an inspiration: Snow can be a metaphor for life.

 

Different types of snow are like the different challenges that present themselves in our lives. How we handle this snow is an indicator of our coping mechanisms and personality types.

The Inuit have different words for snow depending on the type. Snow is not just snow. It can be light and fluffy, wet and heavy, blowing and drifting, flaky and crystalline, dirty and yellow, made into Snowmen, and so on.

The light fluffy stuff that coats everything like powdered sugar can represent the sweet surprise that delights us when we least expect it. It’s the available parking spot at the front of the lot; the refund from the tax man; a phone call from an old friend; a double rainbow after a storm. It’s fragile, fleeting and fluffy. We need to appreciate it’s beauty and marvel at it’s perfection. We need to gaze upon the fading sparkles as the sun quickly melts it away. It serves as a reminder that “all we really have is the moment, and then it’s gone.”

 

The heavy wet snow is like a burden that weighs us down physically and spiritually. It’s moisture is like the sweat and tears we shed in frustration. It can be a death or divorce, the loss of a child, a chronic illness or financial problems. It’s heavy on our hearts and chills us to the bone. It’s difficult to overcome and we often need the help of others to rise above it.

Blowing and drifting snow represents our ever changing fortunes as life unfolds. There are highs and lows, ups and downs, prosperity and famine. The higher you ascend, the more precarious your position. We are always at the mercy of the winds of destiny. Nothing is forever and the peaks and valleys follow in quick succession. Like a roller coaster ride, we just need to hold on, scream a little and enjoy the trip.

Snowflakes are one of nature’s masterpieces. We are the only species on earth with the intellect to appreciate their crystalline structure. We marvel at their complexity and simplicity. Every one is unique. Every one is fragile. Every one is a miracle of creation- just like us.

And now we need to mention yellow snow. We all know why it is yellow and why we should never eat it! I think it represents the seven deadly sins:

gluttony, jealousy, hate, greed, sloth, pride and lust. Yup, make sure you stay away from yellow snow!

Snowmen (and Snowladies) are made by us. They represent our innate desire to build and create things. We have shaped our environment with the raw materials that nature provides. It is the end product of a vision. It is the concept come to fruition.

How we deal with snow is a reflection of our approach to life.

Some of us shovel in straight rows, step by step until complete. We live our lives like that too. We are neat, organized, methodical and analytical

Some pay someone else to do it. They may be physically unable to do it , too busy or trying to support the local economy.

Some people just ignore the white stuff and wait for it to melt. They are unmotivated, unimaginative and passive. They spend a lot of time in front of their TV watching mindless game shows.

Others, (myself included) run hither and thither (if thither is really a word), crisscrossing back and forth in a totally random pattern. We approach life in the same way. We take it as it comes, run around like mad and hope for the best. Most of the time it all turns out ok. We don’t overplan. We appear disorganized but always complete the task eventually.

And there you have it. My own version of Life and Snow and how they are the same.

                                      “LET IT SNOW; LET IT SNOW; LET IT SNOW”

Bread is the Stuff of Strife

Bread: The Stuff of Strife

Bread is called the Staff of Life, but to me, it’s the Stuff of Strife.

Cereal grains have been a staple in our diet for thousands of years. The simple recipe for bread was probably discovered by accident by someone hungry enough to eat it. Thus begins our saga.

It’s mostly flour, water, salt, a little oil, and yeast. First the yeastie beasties are gently nudged awake by warm water and a bit of sugar. They have a big party, consuming and reproducing and digesting. Co2 is a by product of all this revelry and the gas is trapped by the elastic gluten, a protein that is found in wheat flour. The gas bubbles cause the dough to rise When baked in a hot oven, the result is edible, and the party's over for the yeast.

Like so many other traditional foods, white bread is now considered unhealthy. Apparently we need to limit our carbs to avoid the dreaded belly fat. Too late! The bread is out to get me. I dutifully switched to “whole grain” but only “gained rolls”.

Enter technology. I recently bought a bread maker so that I could control what goes into the food I am eating. At least that’s what the lady on the Shopping Channel said. You simply add a list of ingredients into the pan in the order stated in the recipe, close the lid and push start. In 3 hours, your house smells heavenly and a fresh loaf is ready to be enjoyed.

The other day I decided to whip up a quick loaf. When I got to flour, I realized that I only had 2 cups. The recipe calls for 3 cups. Going to the store was not an option. It was -27C and the car was covered with white stuff that was definitely not flour. My neighbours don’t bake. So, I decided to explore my cupboards. I found some oatmeal, some bran and some cream of wheat. I added some of each to make one cup and threw it into the bread maker. The mix looked soggy, so I threw in more yeast. I was beyond following any rules or recipes. Even on a good day, I always find it a constant struggle to follow directions exactly. The devil is in the details. Just look at Martha Stewart. (sorry Martha but you seriously need to relax a bit).

I was winging it, “wings as in angels, or birds in free flight”.

I closed the lid, hit start and left it alone. About 3 hours later, I smelled that familiar aroma. Divine yes, but not angelic. The loaf was only 5 cm. high, weighed almost as much as I do and quite chewy. I know this, because I was determined to eat it. Belly fat be damned. All that chewing exercise should count for something.

Then there was “The English Muffin Incident.” (whole wheat of course).

It’s no secret that I love a bargain. I sometimes buy baked goods at half price. I just put them in the freezer and take out small portions as needed. All those saved loonies and toonies add up. If I eat a lot of bread, I’ll be going on that world cruise before long. Of course the ship will lean to one side when I get on!! No matter.

On this particular day, I picked up whole wheat English Muffins. After I got home, I noticed that they charged me full price. It was only $1.50 but I was determined to stand up for my rights as a matter of principle. I drove back to the store and marched purposefully back to the courtesy counter armed with the receipt and bag of muffins. I waited. And waited. And waited some more. There was no one behind the counter and no little bell to ring for service.

In a store of 8 checkouts, there was only one opened. The cashier was making a valiant effort to handle all the customers. I waved the muffins to catch her eye.

“Where is the customer service?” I shouted.

“There is no customer service” she said. “No kidding!” I said.

I walked over to her and told her I was overcharged.

“You’ll have to get in line.” she said.

I looked at the long procession of fully loaded carts, the squirming toddlers, the tired mothers all looking at me with solemn faces and said “But I’ve already been waiting over there for 10 minutes.

She was adamant. No deals, no cuts.

“May I please speak to the manager?“ I said as sweetly as I could.

“There is no manager, just the acting manager” she said.

“Well then, may I speak to the acting manager?” my turn to be adamant now.

She paged Mr Acting Manager and returned to her cashier duties.

I waited another 10 minutes, the principle of the thing was losing it’s lustre.

She finally turned around and said, “I’m sorry Ma’m, he must be in a meeting”

I felt like saying that he is probably having a meeting in the Men’s room, but I kept my composure.

I had waited patiently, “acting calm” but had mixed feelings. I felt sorry for the poor cashier who was working very hard. I felt angry at the management for their lack of concern for their customers or employees. And most of all, I felt foolish for having wasted about 30 minutes for a $1.50 refund that never materialized.

So, I smiled weakly at the cashier, mumbled something about writing a letter of complaint to the management and slinked out the door, still holding that guilty bag of English Muffins. I could just feel my belly getting bigger with each step.

It’s not the bread that makes you fat. It’s the stress caused by bread! Bread is the Stuff of Strife.

Walmart Ecstasy

Walmart Ecstasy

I love Walmart. I know that it is not something to be proud of in these days of political correctness. We all know that we need to buy local and support our home town businesses. It’s better for the planet and better for the economy. But why can’t we do both? If the privileges of our society include Free Enterprise and Freedom of Choice we are entitled to exercise those rights as we wish.

This nationwide chain has been subject to a lot of negative press. There are some that complain about the low wages and the lack of Union representation. There is also the sad fact that many of the products coming from Asian countries are manufactured by workers that are subject to substandard conditions. We hear about sweat shops, underage employees, and lack of safety protocols. Many toys from China have been recalled due to inferior or unsafe materials. The most recent outbreak of bedbugs across North America has been blamed on the influx of textiles from parts of the world where the little fiends are endemic.

And then there are those e mails: “The People of Walmart”. The fashion faux-pas that have graced those hallowed aisles are legendary. I always scan the photos quickly, just to make sure that I am not one of those unfortunate bargain hunters caught unaware with my midriff bulge exposed.

In spite of this, the popularity of this Consumer’s Shangri-La has soared. When it comes down to the nitty gritty, price is the main incentive and we manage to set aside our guilty consciences long enough to load up the carts.

I love to wander around the store, going down every aisle scanning the shelves for little treasures. It’s like a scavenger hunt. Part of my subconscious reverts back to the hunter-gatherer mentality. Maybe that’s why women love to shop. (leave it to me to always mention the ancestors). But it was women who kept their families fed and clothed when the hunters failed to bring home the big game. Women gathered fruit and other sources of food. They used their foraging skills to bring home nature’s bargains.

Now the bargains are marked with yellow clearance signs and I am drawn to them like a moth to flame. The bliss of discovery! And on sale too!! Ecstasy!

There is another reason for their success. All the Walmarts have the same merchandise and are organized with the same floor plan. As we are all creatures of habit, we are drawn to the familiar. It’s one of the reasons McDonalds also became so successful . A Big Mac and Fries tastes exactly the same no matter where you are. (Of course there was that one McDonalds my daughter Allison and I visited in Singapore that did not serve beef hamburgers because it was against their religion but that is another story)

I can go to any Walmart and know immediately where the pet food is. Same goes for the shoes or the home furnishings or electronics. Just like our hunter-gatherer peoples knew every rock or tree or hill, we know how to find our goods. But also just like them, we never know what will be on sale or how much it will cost. The thrill of these details keeps up our interest and anticipation.

Most of the Walmarts have been renovated to include a food section and wider aisles. I preferred the smaller stores with crowded inventory. It makes for more of a challenge to rummage through the goods looking for that elusive prize. I also enjoy those bins with the movies marked 2 for $10. I marvel at their genius marketing. It automatically encourages the shopper to buy 2 movies instead of one. That is another reason for their success.

The return policy is also very accommodating. As long as you have the receipt, you can buy something at one Walmart and return it at another. I have done that more than once.

The only thing I dislike intensely is the Self-checkout. I always make a scene, hands in the air, alarms going off, people waiting in line behind me, clerks running to help and general chaos because I can’t seem to figure it out.

But, nobody and nothing is perfect, not even Walmart!

　

Remembering Woodstock

Remembering Woodstock

I recently had a moment of reckoning when I watched the original Woodstock Movie.

1969 was a big year.:

The US put a man on the moon ( although there are some that don’t believe it)

The New York Mets won the World Series (against all odds.)

And in a small town in Rural New York State, 500,000 people gathered for the biggest Rock Festival the world has ever known.

It was a big year for me too:

I graduated from High School;

I got my Driver’s License

And I started my first part time job as a cashier at N&D, a Windsor Owned and Operated Grocery Store.

As the famous festival Rocked and Rolled, I was checking out groceries and making $2.00 an hour. I remember we could buy 4 loaves of bread for $1, so you might say “that was a lot of bread”. Bread was also a slang term for money.

The movie chronicling the event came out the next year. It was 1970 and Windsor was thrilled to open their first mall, The Devonshire. We walked through the place with reverence, in total awe of the sights and sounds. Amidst the oohs and ahhs, we behaved like gullible tourists. We couldn’t believe that this was our mall in our town. Windsor had finally hit the big time.

And, of course, everyone wanted to see the Woodstock Movie. It was the next best thing to being there. In retrospect it was better than being there. We could sit back, eat our popcorn and enjoy the music without dealing with the crowds or traffic or rain or lack of restrooms. Or maybe that’s just my mature brain’s opinion.

Actually attending the 3 days at Woodstock was probably the experience of a lifetime and the inconveniences were part of the charm. Some of my most memorable trips are the ones where everything went wrong and we had to live by our wits.

What I really can’t get over is that it’s been 41 years! It seems like a long time ago, but trust me, those years went by very quickly. Now, many of the Flower Power generation are pushing up Daisies ( if you know what I mean) and the rest of us are entering our senior years.

I was shocked to see Peter Frampton on Oprah recently. He used to be a hottie back in the day. He’s a full blown geezer now! Still a good looking geezer, but a geezer nevertheless!

I could imagine him playing his guitar in Florida between rounds at a Bingo Hall. Maalox still rocks!

Oprah also had David Cassidy on that show. He still looks pretty good, but I expect him to be selling Home Reverse Mortgages or those easy entry door bath tubs before long. He can be the next Ed McMahon!

The 60’s marked major changes in civil rights, social attitudes and morality, but nothing from this decade left a deeper imprint than the music. We moved and grooved to the enormous talent of such artists as Jimmie Hendrix, the Who, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, Santana, Joan Baez, Arlo Guthrie, Joe Cocker and many more. Sadly, many of them burned out before their time due to drug addictions and excessive lifestyle.

My all time favourite band is Crosby Stills and Nash, before Neil Young (who should change his name to “not so young” if you get my drift). Their lyrics and melodious harmonies epitomized the essence of that era. Woodstock was their debut. It was only the second time they had played in front of a live audience. And what an audience it was!

There is now a Museum at Bethel Woods to commemorate Woodstock and the 60’s and you could say that those of us who remember those days have become Museum pieces as well. Groovy man!

Snip Snip Snippets

Snip Snip Snippets

I cut my own hair yesterday. It wasn’t the first time. Since my hair has thinned considerably in the last few years, my penny-pinching personality does not see the need to spend a lot of money for someone to take a few snips. All of us have had a bad experience at the hair salon. Now, if I’m not happy with the result, I have no one to blame but myself. And it was free!

There are such a variety of current styles; chances are my amateur trims will fit right in. Have you seen the Traffic Girl on Global Edmonton? She probably paid a fortune for that scraggly hatchet job. I am so busy looking at her hair, I can’t remember anything about the traffic. I can do my worst and still look better than she does. Of course it helps to have a healthy dose of self-esteem. After all, it’s only hair.

If you are feeling adventurous do try this at home. The first thing you need to do is look in the mirror and decide that you like your face. Hair is optional. So, if you mess up the cut, your face can stand-alone. Think Yul Brynner. The man was a god!

It also helps if you are not a perfectionist and a bit of a risk taker. I qualify in both of those categories. If it doesn’t work out there is always “Plan B” and no, B is not for Bald, but rather Beautician.

We can all recall cutting our doll’s hair when we were kids. “Dream Girl Barbie” became “Punk Chick Babette”, Permanently! At least our hair will grow back.

I’ve always been adventurous with my hair. A few years ago I dyed it Nuclear Red. People stared; dogs growled; babies cried. Even I gasped every time I looked in the mirror, but I kept that red hair for two years. I was going for a Maureen O’Hara look but ended up like Lucille Ball on Mood Enhancers. I guess I was just going through a phase.

Now I’ve settled back into a soft and sweet Blonde, sort of a Marilyn Monroe meets Madonna with a touch of Mae West. (can you tell I am into old movies? Just wait for the blog on that!)

Eventually I’ll let it go au naturelle and show off the grey. But at this point, I’m not ready for the Steve Martin look- alike contest just yet.

We are fortunate to live in an era when women do not need to conform to one standard. Short or long, dyed or natural, bald or wigged, anything goes. Our hair is a reflection of our personality and an expression of our self image.

After the emotional trauma of a death or divorce, many women make a drastic change in their hairstyle. It’s symbolizes both physical and psychological new beginnings. It’s like taking an Etcha-sketch and turning it upside down to shake. We shake off the old and embrace the new.

Changing our hair often reflects a change in our circumstance. When women gained the right to vote they shed the rigid Victorian restrictions: corsets were cast off and hair was cut.

A few generations later with the rise of Women’s Lib, bras were burned and hair was grown long and swung free. Remember these lyrics in the musical HAIR : “Give me down to there hair; shoulder length or longer”. It was the battle cry of our generation, a passive protest against the Establishment.

Devout women in India cut off their hair as an offering to the gods. The monks then gather the shorn locks and sell them to wigmakers all over the world. It’s a huge industry. The Gods may be impressed, the women express their devotion and the monks have a valuable source of revenue. Everybody wins.

Alas, neither the Gods nor the monks want my hair, but I plan to keep on cutting it myself, even if I look like the little Dutch Boy on the paint cans. Or maybe he looks like me!

A Mother's Love

A Mother’s Love

On this Remembrance Day 2010 I have a few thoughts to share.

The statistics are staggering:

The Boer war 1899-1902.…………………………….......7582 lives lost

WW1 1914-1918.……………………………................66,655 lives lost

WW2 1939-1945.……………………………................44,893 lives lost

Korea 1950-1953.……………………………................ 516 lives lost

Peace Keeping Missions……………………………….......121 lives lost

Afghanistan ongoing……………………………….............152 lives lost

As a Canadian, I mourn the loss of all these lives.

As a mother, I mourn the loss of all soldiers worldwide from every nation, from every war.

If it was up to mothers, war would not exist. For every soldier lost, there is a mother left behind to grieve. Try to imagine the immeasurable pain of losing a child grown to adulthood in the prime of life. To lose a child in a military conflict is a bittersweet cross to bear. As a mother you will never get over the grief, but as a patriot, you are comforted by their noble and ultimate sacrifice.

No matter how old, your child always remains a child in your eyes. It is because of a mother’s love for her offspring that we survived as a species. That protective instinct is like a surge of emotion that kicks in when our child is threatened. I have felt its power. We do everything we can to ensure the well being and survival of our offspring.

My Grandmother Theresia once flew into a rage when a neighbour insulted her son, my dad. Without going into further detail, let it be known that my Grandfather had to sort things out at the Police Station and my dad’s honour was summarily restored. Such is the fervor of the lioness, the mother bear, the she wolf protecting her young.

When our child faces difficulties and hardship, we suffer along with him (or her). When a child dies, a part of us dies as well.

We think of our modern society as civilized and yet war persists. People are getting killed every day in Political, Economic, Ethnic and Religious conflicts. Each life is filled with infinite potential and we lose much more than the loved one. Humanity loses the possibility of what might have been if that person had lived. It’s tragic and senseless and must end now.

If mothers ruled the world we’d settle our differences with milk and cookies, or pound cake and tea. We’d ask for a list of disagreements from all nations and then hold an annual “Mothers for Peace” conference. We’d discuss each issue and find a resolution, insisting on compromise and cooperation. Hell, we do that every day when raising a family. War is not an option!

Business accomplished, we’d open our wallets and take out the photos of our children and grandchildren and remember, this is why we came. Then we’d head off to the gift shop and buy Tee shirts or Fridge magnets that say: “What if they gave a War and no one came?”

There is nothing greater than a Mother’s Love. Love is the answer. Love is eternal. Love will set us free.

Calling St. Anthony

St Anthony of Padua is the patron saint of lost things. Although not a particularly religious woman, my grandmother Theresia always called upon his help when she couldn’t find something. And, apparently he never let her down.

It has been said that we all turn into our Mothers eventually. What they don’t tell you is that if you live long enough, you turn into your Grandmother. Yikes!

I am not a superstitious person, but I decided to call upon our favourite Saint whenever I lost something. I was telling myself “what have I got to lose?” and then “but I already lost it” and “what a loser I am” or “have I lost my mind and just don’t know it yet?”

After all this internal dialogue, I just concentrated on a simple thought, “Dear St Anthony, please help me find the ………amen”. “please,please please help me find it ” and then “thank you”.

It’s amazing and magical and wondrous, because in almost every circumstance, the missing object is found. It usually works within a few minutes and never fails to amaze me. The power of focused energy is phenomenal.

On one such occasion, I was visiting my sister in London and my mom and I were ready to drive back to Windsor. Imagine us ready and packed and standing by the door, but missing the car keys. We looked everywhere, turned our pockets inside out, emptied our purses and searched the entire house for 30 minutes. We even called a locksmith to open the car trunk to see if the keys were in there. No luck. All of a sudden, in a flash of inspiration, I remembered St Anthony. I closed my eyes and said a short but desperate prayer. Then, as if I was led by some unseen force, I walked into the laundry room and found the keys laying on top of the laundry basket. Voila! Problem solved.

I was missing two rings and searched high and low and in between. I called friends and family to check their homes. It was time to ask a higher power. I sent out my request and then let it be. I stopped looking and knew that they would be found when they were meant to be found. It took a week.

Sometimes, just to keep me from getting over confident, things really do stay lost. I misplaced my favourite pair of glasses and no amount of praying has brought them back.

Two cats have gone missing in the last 4 years and I suspect my waistline is gone for good.

Ah well. That’s life!

And just in care you’re listening…“St Anthony….you rock!!!..…at least most of the time.”

　

　

Password Purgatory

The new and exciting world of the Internet has  opened up limitless opportunities for us. We can send instant messages to distant corners of the planet, look up long dead ancestors , order tickets, look up our bank statement and even find a mate! It has changed how we do business and how we interact as a society.

Those of us born before 1970 can still remember when none of this was  possible. We used to write letters and send them by snail mail. Telephones had a rotary dial and long distance was something reserved for bad news such as when someone died. It all sounds backward and difficult in this modern age. However, it was far simpler and less stressful than today. Why? Because we didn't need a user ID, PIN or Password to get through our day.

I have an ongoing war with passwords and trying to remember them all. Every login requires a name and code. I have many old passwords floating around in my head,  and the list is getting bigger. Every program we use at work needs a separate password and they need to meet certain criteria : 8 letters, some numbers, some capitals etc.Then for added security, they need to be changed every 3 months. Sometimes I feel as if we are protecting our national secrets and the world will end if there is a breach.

Getting older makes some of us forgetful. We can remember our teachers from 45 years ago, but we don't know what we had for dinner last night. With all these passwords and login ID's and PIN's it is getting more and more difficult to get the job done. I've broken the cardinal rule and written some of them down, but then I forget where I put the list, or they are out of date, with the frequent changes.

I had a bright idea the other day, I  switched  to E Post for my bills. I thought I was saving the planet with less paper waste etc. I was so proud of myself! But my euphoria was short lived.

The  problem is, I forgot my login and Password. So now I am getting bills I can't review because my password is in purgatory somewhere, waiting to be saved. I tried calling the help desk, but when he asked me the security question, it was my full name. I told him."but that's not a quesion! How can I answer a security question that is not a question??" He replied that this is what I put in the line as the security question and he could not give me any more information for security reasons.. Arrrgh! Short version of a long story, I made a mistake when filling out the online application and now I was locked out of the system because I could not answer the security question. I should have just kept up the snail mail and left E Post to the youngsters. I eventually figured out how to get back into the E Post, but it was a big hassle and a waste of time.

I want the Internet people to figure out a simple way for us to maintain security without all the word juggling. Maybe it's time for a Retinal scanner like they used on those Spy Movies. In the meantime,  my  forgotten passwords remain in Purgatory and their numbers  are increasing every day.

Grandchildren are the Icing on the Cake

My dad always used to look at his grandchildren and say  "Here is our everlasting life". I guess he meant that we live on in our children and our children's children. He passed away at the relatively young age of 68 and never had the chance to see the next generation grow up. But he lives on in his descendants:  3 children, 9 grandchildren and one great grandchild, Nicholas named  after him.

Nicholas the younger was born 15 months ago. Becoming a Grandmother  was and still is, a profound experience for me. Gazing upon the offspring of your offspring is like having a glimpse into the future. You see how your genes have been passed on. We all instinctively look for signs of a family resemblance as did the countless generations who came before us. By recognizing their own and banding together, our ancestors survived a  hostile environment. We need to appreciate their struggles and realize that every one of them were able to live long enough to pass on their genes. Every one of us had a one in a trillion gazillion chance at being born at all. Our very existence is a miracle. And then, some of us are lucky enough to become grandparents.

Nicky (as we call him) visited his Grammie (as he calls me) this weekend. We played our usual games, such as taking a tour of the house and naming everything. Then I bounced him on my knee and sang old German nursery Rhymes that my own grandparents once sang to me.Then we played with the cats who were curious but cautious. Then we explored Grammie's closet and looked at all the shoes and purses. He also loves to rummage through my collection of beads and necklaces. He can't talk yet but understands most of what I am saying. He's like my silent partner, my miniature mime, my mini me. "what happens at Grammie's stays at Grammie's" I can make a complete fool of myself and he does not mind. He gets it! He plays along with the jokes and silly little tricks we invent just for the fun of it. It's pure magic!

It has been said that grandchildren are the reward for enduring the teen years of your children. I think it's heaven on earth and the icing on the cake.

This thing we call Middle Age

Sunday, October-24-2010

I’ve been mulling it over for quite some time now and am thrilled to finally start the my long awaited blog. I left the topic and theme wide open to avoid the dreaded writer’s block. As long as it pertains to the middle age perspective, from my own point of view, it’s acceptable for these pages. Whether it’s entertaining and or fit to read will be up to your discretion. I hope you like it and I welcome your comments!

My first blog is simply an introduction. This “Middle Age” thing takes some getting used to. It’s a good thing we live our lives one day at a time. Most things tend to creep up gradually. I guess it’s nature’s way of softening the harsh reality of aging. Tiny, almost imperceptible changes happen every day, and eventually they manifest to a degree that is noticeable.

I was always proud of my perfect eyesight, but to my surprise, in my mid 40’s things started to get blurry unless I held them at arm’s length. Now, I wear progressive lenses every day at work.

I used to be able to eat anything, in any combination at any time. Now, I need to limit certain foods or pay the consequences. My body responds with digestive upsets and gout. Gout?! I thought that was a disease for old folks. When did nature decide that I qualify? Any amount of coconut milk or seafood or alcohol has my toe tingling in no time.

My once luxurious mane of hair is now thinning both in numbers and dimension. Why can’t everything else get thin as well?

I can recall as a teenager, I considered anyone over age 21 as old . Being over 40 was almost impossible to imagine. When I thought about the future and the year 2000, the realization that I would be 48 was almost traumatic. My reaction was “ I might as well be dead”. Well, here I am 10 years later and to my astonishment, I find myself very much alive. I am still learning new things every day and I anticipate my future with joy and an open heart.

Life is an adventure with a limitless array of challenges and surprises. I will attempt to share them with you. Let’s enjoy the journey together!