Jon and I went tromping today without Theodore, who had adamantly refused to snow-plow through snow that was deeper than his chest.  He agreed to chase his tennis ball up and down the long pea gravel driveway which had been snow-blown Christmas morning.  Yesterday was the perfect day for a prairie girl like me — blue skies and a good thick coat of powder snow.  As always, Jon and I deliver neighbourhood gifts then — his in the form of cleared driveways for those who needed them this year and mine in the form of raisin loaves warm from the local patisserie.  Theodore allowed me to dress him in a red coat and gamely struggled through drifts to front doors with me while Jon did the truly useful work.

By today our wee boy had reached his psychological snow limit so Jon and I left Theodore behind near the fireplace when we went down the slope behind us to the park and the river.  Warned by friends that, unlike yesterday, it was wickedly cold today, we overcompensated of course and got so hot that we had to rip off our balaclavas.    There was much to see and hear:  never tiring of snow’s cobalt shadows in the sun, I collected yet more photos of elegant weeds and laden spruce branches for future Group of Seven homages while the toboggan hill in the park reverberated with delighted screams.  We caught sight of a glossy fat beaver slipping into the river and swimming powerfully against the current.  Jon commented that for once the gift of skis for Christmas would have been perfectly timed and indeed there were tracks everywhere.   And not just of skis — even had we not seen their footprints, the deer had left evidence of their visit last night in the form of barenaked euonymus bushes around the house.  Our bird feeders were equally busy during the day.  I know the feeling, having eaten my own weight over the last few days.

It’s winter.   Stay warm and enjoy this beautiful country.  Glad tidings to all.

They’re back! The snowfall turned out to be deeper and heavier than expected, and we turned on the roofing cables this morning just after we noticed that our garden had returned to its winter state as an Eden for the local deer. Hoof prints everywhere, and a suspiciously empty bird-feeder. SOMEBODY figured out how to empty it onto the snow. Doesn’t that just prove my mother’s point that one must never brag about anything or God will consider you ungrateful and revoke the privilege. To add insult to injury the blasted feeder is so high-end that I couldn’t figure out how to disassemble it in order to refill it with sunflower seeds. Again, something I should have foreseen: when we will all learn to avoid owning something (a computer) or a someone (the dog) smarter than we are? I'm not as worried about the dog part: Skyes show up near the bottom of lists which compare canine IQ's; Jewell's EQ, however, was through the roof and we expect that Theodore's will too. They are not called "the heavenly breed" for nothing.

Segue aside, the poor euonymus foundation plantings have returned to their winter state: pathetic bald sticks. It takes them until June every year to fill out again! The poor things must dread the first real snow. On the plus side, it’s dead easy to see who dropped by the night before. Squirrel tracks are my favourite - so dainty - but the raccoons’ dexterous feet are also fun to find. The chippies are sawing logs underground but occasionally we see the trail of a glamour puss like a pheasant, the tail drag and long toes giving him away. For some reason the red-bellied woodpeckers have vacated the property. I am miffed because we did, you remember, provide free room and board this year. (Note: between the time I wrote this and now, the mister showed up at the feeder. Just proves that the jungle telegraph is alive and well.) And it would be lovely to run into Mouse (the House Grouse).

Indoors, the fireplace is on, wreaths and mercury glass ornaments have been hung, and gleaming bowls have been filled with pinecones. I'm even toying with the notion of baking something delectable - scones come to mind. But the snow outside muffles all city sounds and I am determined to finish my chores quickly, so as to grab an hour or two with a good book. Barkskins (the new Annie Proulx) and Do Not Say We Have Nothing (the 2016 Giller Prize winner - thanks, Carol) beckon.

Welcome back, Winter!

I've been fielding the odd phone call lately, reassuring friends that I am perfectly well and that we have neither departed for the Orient nor been lost at sea.  I confess that December is pretty thin as far as journalling is concerned.  I consider myself to be doing well if I can keep the wave of Christmas chaos out of the main floor.  Beyond that, no promises.  So in the spirit of Total Overload, I offer only my December 16th post of last year with the motto:  "Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose."


Most of our canoes (5 plus a kayak) have flotation devices.  These are simply big tough air-bags which are designed to discourage the vessels from sinking like stones.  This is particularly important when we are tripping on less-traveled rivers.  While Jon becomes more and more completely relaxed, I am feverishly visualizing the stages that a body (mine) will go through after I drown.  So the bags are a great comfort to me and are, besides, brightly coloured (so the search and rescue helicopter can locate my body).  On a sunny day they are cozy to curl up to.  Jewell even snoozed on them, although she had a tendency to toboggan off them in the rapids.  Flotation:  all good.

It is a week before Christmas and I caught myself thinking about this as we walked along in the pouring rain tonight.  The flotation devices I was passing were somewhat more frivolous in intent:  most of them were Santas, complete with interior lights and bouncing with seasonal excitement.  For several years I have been planning an entrepreneurial coup inspired by these hot-air gentlemen.  Now if I tell you, you must promise not to steal my thunder or hot air.......

To appreciate the brilliance of this concept you have to think like a pre-Christmas woman.  I know you can do this.  Now review the lists you are working from:  Christmas gift thinking/finding/hauling/wrapping/carding/delivering;  Christmas cards writing/sending/reading;  special people meeting/phoning/emailing/entertaining;  Christmas decorations unboxing/untangling/arranging/dangling;  Christmas food deciding/shopping/hauling/storing/baking/cooking/table-setting/ serving/cleaning up.  And, of yes, there is the Christmas house cleaning/paring/ dusting/polishing.  Anyway, that's the short-list.

So here's the pitch:

an inflatable wife/mother/sister/daughter/professional!  But unlike Santa, she will fully inflate only in the mornings, and will gradually lose air throughout each day.  After Christmas morning, she simply remains collapsed on the grass.  Isn't that a money-maker?

What do you think?

I still think someone could make a fortune with this.  That, and a teeshirt to be worn underneath regular clothes, which can be ripped off to reveal the phrase "Just Shoot Me."  There you go:  my two best (only) entrepreneurial ideas.  Merry Christmas.  

​

On the second page of The Burgess Boys,  the narrator observes  that her mother "didn't like Unitarians; she thought that they were atheists who didn't want to be left out of the fun of Christmas."  Okay.  But even if that were so, who could blame them?  Christmas-time conjures so many happy memories.  And it is always a joy to create new memories for the children in our lives.

When I was very young, we would  often travel to my grandparents' home a province away.  This would involve a train trip on a Pulman car.  The porters were kindly gentlemen who made the whole event feel special.  I have always loved cozy spaces so the best part was watching the transformation of the seats to a cunning double berth made up with crisp white sheets.  The world felt less dangerous then, The War safely in the past, and the rough wool privacy curtains more than enough of a divider.  The parent who drew the short straw would share the lower bunk with me;  apparently it was a dreaded ordeal, as I was an eggbeater with sharp elbows and knees.  But for me, at least, falling asleep to the clickety-clack of the wheels pre-disposed me to a life-long affection for rail travel. 

Wherever we were, Christmas was always a busy time.  There were special projects at school:  for years, my sainted mother kept the Yuletide log I had fashioned in grade two out of flour and water with a sprinkle of sparkle and one sprig of spruce which went bald almost immediately.  She must have clung to the hope that it had a certain lumpen charm.  And every year there would be yet another creation for me to haul home triumphantly and for her to make a fuss about.  She was an exemplary mother.

It seems to me that we sang a great deal -- in the classroom, in the music class, and at church, whether in the pew or in a choir.  Once we had a piano we sang at home too.  To this day I belt out the alto line of the carols and feel the absence of Mom's soprano and Dad's tenor beside me.  The Christmas season ended on New Year's Eve with the singing of Auld Lang Syne;  after that, the prospect of  going back to school was unavoidable.  (I like to think that I've always been someone who always made excellent use of free time....  It wasn't school I disliked so much as having to get up on a cold dark winter morning!)

For a child, it was all about the gifts.  Trying to fall asleep on Christmas Eve was sheer agony.  Sometimes I just crawled over to an air register to eavesdrop on the adult conversation;  that was a guaranteed sleeping pill.  Come morning, there would be my stocking at the end of the bed and I could usually count on a doll or doll clothes to fill in the hours until everybody else woke up.

And we ate.  Christmas was a turkey dinner, a ham graced the table on New Year's Day, and I ate my own weight in Christmas cake and mincemeat tarts.  To this day I cannot understand how anyone might reject a good fruitcake and so I offer the magnificent gesture of allowing those of you who suffer fruitcake surfeit to send me your cake.  Let me eat cake, as Marie said.  You can even send it COD and I'll pay the postage.  While I have my mother's recipe, the year I tried to bake it (at great cost, I might add), the recipe foundered on the reef of assumed knowledge  -- it seems that I needed more guidance than a recipe with no timing for the traditional three nesting cakepans.  The Mama Bear cake was fine, but Papa was too dry and Baby needed changing.

Jon and I have been busy wrapping gifts for all of the little people and finishing the hand-made ones;  he has a pair of hickory walking sticks in progress for the boys next door, for example.  I try to combine book gifts  and art supplies with special things from my own childhood like tiny dolls.  My Aunt Bess always had something of the sort for me and I still treasure them.  

May your Christmas be enriched by those of the past and serve as a joyful future memory for others.

Most of our canoes (5 plus a kayak) have flotation devices.  These are simply big tough air-bags which are designed to discourage the vessels from sinking like stones.  This is particularly important when we are tripping on less-traveled rivers.  While Jon becomes more and more completely relaxed, I am feverishly visualizing the stages that a body (mine) will go through after I drown.  So the bags are a great comfort to me and are, besides, brightly coloured (so the search and rescue helicopter can locate my body).  On a sunny day they are cozy to curl up to.  Jewell even snoozed on them, although she had a tendency to toboggan off them in the rapids.  Flotation:  all good.

It is a week before Christmas and I caught myself thinking about this as we walked along in the pouring rain tonight.  The flotation devices I was passing were somewhat more frivolous in intent:  most of them were Santas, complete with interior lights and bouncing with seasonal excitement.  For several years I have been planning an entrepreneurial coup inspired by these hot-air gentlemen.  Now if I tell you, you must promise not to steal my thunder or hot air.......

To appreciate the brilliance of this concept you have to think like a pre-Christmas woman.  I know you can do this.  Now review the lists you are working from:  Christmas gift thinking/finding/hauling/wrapping/carding/delivering;  Christmas cards writing/sending/reading;  special people meeting/phoning/emailing/entertaining;  Christmas decorations unboxing/untangling/arranging/dangling;  Christmas food deciding/shopping/hauling/storing/baking/cooking/table-setting/ serving/cleaning up.  And, of yes, there is the Christmas house cleaning/paring/ dusting/polishing.  Anyway, that's the short-list.


So here's my idea:

an inflatable wife/mother/sister/daughter/professional!  But unlike Santa, she will fully inflate only in the mornings, and will gradually lose air throughout each day.  After Christmas morning, she simply remains collapsed on the grass.  Isn't that a money-maker?

What do you think?