A Remembrance Day to Remember

Remembrance Day has always been very emotional for me as both my father and my uncle served in the Second World War and then spent the rest of their lives in the military. In the 50's when I was quite young, my family lived in Germany as part of the Occupation forces. At that time bomb damaged houses and apartment buildings gaped eerily at us as we walked the streets of our small German town; gigantic hunks of concrete reinforced with rusting metal rods that had been Siegfried Line bunkers were scattered across the fields where we children played; my family took me to 'visit' Dachau before it had been prettied up for tourists. I thus grew up with a very vivid realization of the horrors caused by war.

Both my father and his brother have passed on but I have very strong memories of them as both proud military men and warm family members. But I have always been haunted by vague family references to 'Uncle Charley' who died in World War I. None of the family could offer me any specific details of where Uncle Charley served or more importantly where, when and how he died. So although I have spent many years of my adult life in Europe and have visited several of the Canadian gravesites in France I knew nothing about this distant family member or where to look for his grave.

On the morning of November 11th I was watching the Ottawa ceremonies and heard reference to a website where the records of Canada’s WWI soldiers were all available free of charge. I immediately logged on and despite the fact that I knew only his name and probable hometown and that our family name is not uncommon I was able to locate his records almost immediately. I was amazed to see his ‘Attestation’ papers – the form he had filled out when he signed up – written in his own hand. I learned that he was 50 years less a day older that me. I then uncovered the official report of his death giving the date and place as well as the number of other young men in his unit who died in the same trench. Lastly, I found a record of exactly where his grave is located. Most touching of all were notations in several different hands naming the cemetery, the closest villages and the row and number of his plot. It was comforting to know that unknown Canadians had taken an interest in identifying the precise location of his final resting place.

As I closed down my computer I felt so moved; Uncle Charley, who for so many years had been just an empty name, had now become a flesh and blood person. I made a Remembrance Day vow to be the first family member in 95 years to visit Uncle Charley's lonely grave.

The Night Owl Café

My husband, whose first experience of married life was in the early 50’s, is not what you would call a modern husband. He scrupulously avoids interfering in any household decisions or activities regarding food, housekeeping, furniture or the garden. In the distant past I do recall that he would make me coffee in the mornings but I never remember him ever actually preparing a meal for himself or any one else. Sometimes, however, he can surprise me.

The other night I awoke at 1 a.m. to the beeping of the microwave and the undeniable clink of a spoon against the side of a bowl. I know Harry often shuffles down to the kitchen to search for something to drink or to enjoy a yogurt more to assuage the boredom of a sleepless night than to satisfy hunger. But the sounds that had woken me indicated unambiguous culinary enterprise. So I crept down and peeped into the kitchen just in time to see him down his first spoonful of piping hot soup and toast. But that was not all. At his feet was an even more unanticipated sight. Fiddie, the Westie, who steadfastly insists on an uninterrupted 10 hours of sleep each night, glared defiantly up at me from his half-finished bowl of dog food. His little brown eyes challenged me: “What, have you never seen a dog eating food in the middle of the night before???” or perhaps: “Hey, I’m just keeping Dad company; you don’t want the poor guy to have to eat alone a this late hour!”

As they seemed quite happy and there appeared no danger of fire or explosion, I wished them 'bon appétit' and toddled back to bed wondering how I could channel Harry’s hidden talents to my own advantage.

A day at sea

Day at Sea #1, Wednesday, August 11, 2010

Today is our first Day at Sea (DaS) and the atmosphere on board is completely different. Whereas our previous six days have required discipline and punctuality, today’s mantra is ‘no need to rush.’ ‘Good morning, and what are YOU going to see today?’ has been replaced by “No need to rush, hey, hey; we’ve go a whole day at sea!” followed by the flash of universal but unspoken fear “But what are we going to do if we can’t fill the day???”

Priding myself on being both resourceful AND original, I decided to start the day by pressing the one blouse that had been wrinkled in transit. After a quick exploration of parts of the ship I had never seen before, I tried unsuccessfully to push open the door of the passenger laundry. As I peeked timidly around the door I was glared at by countless pairs of exasperated, frustrated eyes snaking their way around the room and assuring me that I wouldn’t be using one of the two ironing boards any time soon. Not such an original plan after all!

So Harry and I sauntered off to enjoy a leisurely breakfast in the ‘Grande Dining Room.’ After all, there was no need today to grab a quick breakfast at the buffet, or just a roll and coffee at Horizons, or even to order room service so that we could nosh and dress at the same time and still be on time for the excursion of the day. We soon discovered that everyone who was NOT socializing in the laundry room was breakfasting in the GDR. Luckily we secured a window table from which we could admire the passing blue-grey water, clouds and sky.

It soon became even more apparent, that unlike over 60% of our fellow passengers, WE were not Experienced Oceania Travelers (EOT’s). Once again, we had made a strategic planning error: if you eat breakfast two late you risk a) not being hungry for lunch and b) not getting a seat for the illustrated talk on the next port of call. Usually, one can amble in two minutes before the start but not on a DaS! Thanks to thoughtful friends, both EOT’s, we found seats waiting for us and did not have to resort to catching a rerun of the lecture on one of the ship’s TV stations (thoughtfully provided for those who arrived late or dozed off during the presentation).

The rest of the morning we spent browsing the ship’s boutique with its enticing display of overpriced jewelry, haute couture and local wares, trying not to scowl disapprovingly at the scattering of lethargic gamblers in the casino, collectively attempting the daily crossword puzzle, quiz and sudokus, and trying to work up an appetite for lunch. We were no more successful at the latter than at any of the previous activities and embarrassed ourselves by being the last two diners in the GDR. Actually, Harry was completely oblivious to the sea of deserted tables around us as he happily scooped out every speck of his daily chocolate ice cream coupe.

Any thought that the afternoon hours would be hard to fill was completely expelled when we contemplated the afternoon ‘program’:
1. pool side melodies
2. premium wine tasting
3. Spanish lessons (obviously a hold-over from the South American routes)
4. Mah Jongg
5. bridge – duplicate or social
6. SpaClub lecture on Happy Feet!
7. shuffleboard competition
8. bingo
9. martini tasting
10. outdoor golf putting competition
11. presentation on other Oceania cruises
12. afternoon tea (no more food, PLEASE!)
13. team trivia.

We eschewed all of the above and opted to read in the library comfortably surrounded by the rhythmic breathing of the dozen or so other dozing ‘readers.’ I completed the afternoon with a brisk two-mile walk (that’s two NAUTICAL miles) on the fitness track (I just ignore the name) on the 10th deck of the ship. Despite a brisk wind, the sun was shining brightly and I enjoyed my half hour planning how I could blog about how unscripted and unrushed today has been. Thank heavens I have three days to rest up before we ‘enjoy’ another relaxing DaS!

Shetland, Monday, August 9, 2010

What a contrast between the rustic green of Norway and the stark ruggedness of the Shetland Islands! All 100+ of them where no trees grow and birds, sheep and ponies are the most notable inhabitants.

The archipelago is the northernmost point in the British Isles equidistant from Bergen, Aberdeen and the Faroe Islands (Denmark) in the middle of the Viking Route (the name of this cruise). The three points of this triangle are two day’s sailing apart – if you happen to be in one of those long, shallow Viking vessels with the tall menacing ‘dragon’ at each end. They could be propelled by wind or oar, the latter the preferred mode for quick plundering forays to foreign shores where silence and speed were essential. Shetland is also the confluence of the North Sea and the Atlantic Ocean.

Shetland is obviously British – drivers keep to the right, English with a distinct Scottish burr is the undisputed language and the people have a ruddy complexion and a good-natured, slightly crumpled style. But we note the absence of the Union Jack in favour of the Island’s newly adopted blue and white flag. It has the rectangular proportions of the Finnish flag but with the colours reversed. Street and town names reflect the area’s Norse roots and although Shetland has belonged to Scotland for several centuries, islanders feel a close affinity to the other Scandinavian countries and are proud of their Viking past.

Once again the weather is warmer and sunnier than predicted and there is no rain. But this succeeds only in making the bleak, sheep-strewn hills and mostly dull grey buildings of Shetland look only a little less drab. A few modern Swedish pre-fab houses with painted exteriors, scattered small gardens and patches of muted mauve heather add the only splashes of colour.

We pass up a visit to downtown Lerwick preferring a coach trip to David Robertson’s Shetland pony farm. This quiet, dignified islander greets us warmly and introduces us to his herd of tiny ponies and their three-month old foals. You can’t help but fall in love with these gentle creatures with their sturdy little legs, whispy beards and flowing manes. DNA testing can link them to no other equine breeds in the world. Their attractive colours and wide variety of combinations thereof along with their inherited affinity for children make them ideal pets the world over. When they replaced children in the coal mines in the 19th century their ‘work ethic’ and good nature won them the love and respect of the miners.

Back at the ship, Marion and Cynthia proudly modeled their Shetland purchases but we were warmed by our memories of fluttering long lashes and soft, warm pony noses.

Fjords of Norway

The Fjords of Norway, Sunday, August 7, 2010

We awoke this morning to mile after mile of craggy Norwegian hills gliding silently past our balcony. I had no idea that fjords could be so majestic: so wide, so high and, we were told, correspondingly so deep. And Sognefjord is Europe’s longest and deepest fjord. The hillsides are dotted with green, green trees and tiny parcels of bright pasture, as well as grey and white cliffs and rocks with the odd sure-footed sheep bleating and grazing on their mountainside breakfast. Every now and then an isolated farm or tiny hamlet (think Newfoundland outport meets Swiss mountain village) with no evidence of roads or any other means of connecting with the rest of the country drifts by. The air is deliciously pure and the glacier green water sparkles and ripples passively to the passing shore.

Our destination is the world famous Flaam (population 400) where tourists from all over the world flock to ride the 13 mile mountain railway. This feisty little train climbs through a series of cleverly engineered tunnels and tight, twisting turns to the top of the 2800 foot mountain. The downward trip is so steep that the train is equipped with five separate sets of brakes - each one capable of stopping it – just in case …

Despite predictions of cool temperatures and rainy weather, we enjoyed glorious blue skies and warm, welcoming sunshine. In a tiny, outdoor museum where there were no attendants, entrance fees or even postcards, we roamed at our leisure through a collection of abandoned ‘houses.’ They had all been relocated there and shared one common feature: they all sported roofs of vegetation – wild flowers, grasses, raspberries, and mixtures of all of the above. This natural insulation provided heat during the chilly winters and coolness during the summer and the added bonus of dessert if you were the lucky inhabitant of the raspberry dwelling.

Western Norway is a popular summer and winter holiday destination for the out-doorsy types. The main tourist accommodation takes the form of tiny, treeless campgrounds with only the most basic of amenities. Ironically, Norway’s ratio of land to population ratio is inordinately high but you would never guess this looking at the miniscule individual plots with space for one car and a tiny tent. Getting to know one’s camping neighbours’ intimate habits would seem not only inevitable but de rigueur.

We spent most of the day cruising the fjords viewing the passing scenery and cascading waterfalls from our balcony, the walking track on the 10 level of the ship, our breakfast, lunch and dinner tables, and just about anywhere else on the ship. How sad we will be to leave this peaceful, unassuming country.

Bergen, Norway

Apology and explanation:

OK so I am not a faithful blogger but I vow to mend my ways. Last Wednesday, August 4th, we flew to Copenhagen where we boarded the cruise ship Regatta of the Oceania Line along with friends Marion and Cynthia who share the stateroom beside us. I intend to write accounts of each day at sea but so far have been caught up in enjoying all of the luxuries that I am forced to endure daily – food, drink, pleasant company. So I will begin my account of the trip on day 4.


Saturday, August 7, 2010
Today we awoke in Bergen, Norway. From our personal, wharf-side balcony we gasped in excitement at the panoramic view of the houses of Bergen clinging to the lush green hillsides; they look as if they have been poured from a massive jug full of multicoloured Monopoly houses and hotels.

As we left the ship and strolled out of the harbour area, we were met by one of the ubiquitous, red Hop-on-hop-off busses that greet tourists in tourist cities all over the world. Ours efficiently negotiated its cumbersome way up and down the steep, narrow old city roads and byways filling our brains with dates, dimensions and relevant data soon to be discarded with our VISA stubs and used Kleenexes.

We learned that it rains an average of 245 days a year here but, lucky travelers that we are, it did not rain on us. We enjoyed warm breezes and sunny skies and were most thankful that we had not arrived here in the soggy year when Bergen endured 84 straight days of rain. We found this record even harder to believe as the entire town exuded such optimism and cheerfulness. With its steep cobble-stoned alleys and rows of gaily coloured brick, stucco and wooden edifices, Bergen seemed an amalgam of both old Quebec City and Newfoundland’s St. John’s. Every ledge, balcony and garden no matter how small bloomed with hydrangea, geraniums and roses. Oh so many roses!

As the tour continued, we obligingly ogled statues of Norwegians of whom we had never heard, gasped in awe at fountains and modern sculptures that would make the Beaubourg in Paris seem outdated, and scratched our heads trying to name one Norwegian composer OTHER than Grieg.

At stop 12 we disembarked to take the modern funicular to the top of Bergen's Mount Fløien. Harry’s wheelchair status gained us immediate entry to the elevator (along with babies in prams and dogs) and seats in the much coveted first car. We loved our view of the sprawling city and a photo op with the resident Troll.

Back again on terra firma, we headed straight for the lively waterfront market and breathed in the intoxicating smells of fresh crab, lobster, shrimp, and crayfish mingled with the delicate perfume of colourful sweet peas and other summer blossoms. Elegant Norwegian red/white and blue flags waved gracefully along the quays where townspeople, market vendors and tourists negotiated their crowded way with respectful courtesy, smiling nods and multilingual greetings. With disciplined determination, we made our bumpy way back to the ship in time for a casual lunch and a noisy discussion of our wonderful morning in Bergen.

15 Reasons I’m happy it’s Canada Day

1. I got to wake up at whatever time I wanted. No ringing alarm clock at 5:45 a.m!

2. For the first time since March, I had NO items on my to-do list.

3. I lolled in bed and read not one but TWO newspapers.

4. This is the one day in the year Glenfiddich can sport his Canada Day scarf.

5. I had Kawartha Dairies ice cream (the best in the country, if not the world) for breakfast.

6. I stood outside in the morning sunlight and talked over the garden fence about flowers and bird feeders and her pond with my neighbour Mary.

7. I got to wear whatever I felt like and my shoes didn’t even have to match.

8. We watched the Canada Day celebrations from Parliament Hill and enjoyed seeing the Queen in festive red and white, the smartly dressed parading soldiers, the precision flying, thousands of happy, cheerful people and Stephen Harper not embarrassing the country - for once.

9. I took the dog for a long walk during which he got to sniff other dogs while I exchanged pleasantries with the owners. As a bonus, we saw the subway trains rushing and grinding beneath our feet as we stood on the bridge over Yonge Street and one of us whirled and twirled and lept into the air and barked and didn’t even get scolded.

10. I started Fraser Simpson’s annual giant Canada Day cryptic crossword puzzle in the Globe and Mail and didn’t feel guilty because I was neglecting something more important. (What SHOULD be more important than a cryptic crossword puzzle?)

11. I changed my telephone greeting at school to inform callers that I would be out of the office until the end of August.

12. There’s only one more sleep until Toby and I can go to the zoo and see the tigers and monkeys and lions. But we don’t want them to roar – any of them.

13. The neighbourhood is tranquil and the lawns and gardens are lush and green because of all rain and warm weather we have had this spring.

14. I exchanged Canada Day greetings with my friend Angie who lives in Australia and who often sends me little messages that make me smile but that I don’t normally take the time to respond to properly.

15. I wrote my first blog entry in a month and a half.

I wish every day were Canada Day.

Menace on the Road

My husband has not driven for several years and since he can’t walk more than a few steps, finds himself confined to the house. He therefore rates the success of each day according to whether he can persuade me to take him for a drive in the car or let him take me ‘some place nice’ for supper .

Until recently I have found fulfilling the former desire much easier than the second. Harry is never particular or dictatorial about where he wants to go; he’ll settle for anywhere errands take us and then happily wait in the car for up to an hour as long as it’s not too cold. Even when I’d LIKE him to accompany me into a store to buy something for HIM, he’ll gently but firmly insist that he’d prefer to wait in the car. His favourite destination is the liquor store even though he declines to browse the aisles and gets to enjoy almost none of the purchases.

But lately, I’ve had to start reconsidering our daily outings. He mentally drives along with me and aggressively exhorts me to ‘Go ahead, you can turn left now!’ --‘Yes, and run over that old lady and her dog.’ Or ‘Why did you turn left HERE??’ --‘Because that’s the direction we’re going in and you don’t even know what our destination is!’ This is somewhat unnerving but I’m working on training myself to eschew any Pavlovian reaction that would risk injury, a collision with another car, or a traffic ticket.

Of late, he has developed an even more dangerous habit. Always critical of other drivers, Harry has now escalated to yelling critical comments to other vehicles at the car window (mercifully closed in the winter), or randomly waving other drivers to go ahead or stop and give me priority despite what MY intentions might be.

Monday, we were attempting to leave the parking lot at Dominion (I REFUSE to call it Metro!!) when a big SUV (is there any other kind?) blocked my way. Harry’s solution was to order me to ‘Honk at him!’ Forgetting my resolve, I stupidly obeyed and as I inched by him, the driver rolled down his window and expressed HIS feelings on the situation. I ignored him and congratulated myself on having extricated myself from a potentially nasty encounter. Glancing to my right, however, I was horrified to see that Harry, the usually mild-mannered gentleman scholar who never even swears, was defiantly giving the guy the finger.

I’m beginning to think my life will be much safer if I restrict our daily outings to ‘some place nice’ located as short a driving distance as possible from home.

Love is in the Air

It is spring in Toronto! Yes, this is NEWS! Canadians are always surprised and grateful to see spring arrive and this year we are more jubilant than ever as we have had no snow or bone-chilling cold since … well, since … the BEGINNING of February! The crab apple trees are celebrating by bursting forth in extra vibrant bright pink blossoms; the birds are singing more brightly and loudly than ever; even the earthworms seem more vigorous and extroverted than usual. I joined in the general euphoria by falling in love.

A couple of weeks ago, I was walking through Yorkville when I first encountered the object of my newly minted adoration. Since then I have shamelessly sought out or created reasons for sauntering down Yorkville Avenue; one day I managed to rationalize spending 55 minutes there. When I think of it, I blush at how easily I overcame all my scruples in order to facilitate a second rendez-vous.

No matter what I do or where I go lately, I find myself face-to-face with young love. Sitting at my computer (an ‘activity’ I engage in about 8 hours a day) I gaze directly into a lovingly constructed nest, delicately balance between the down pipe and the brick wall and carefully nestled under the protective eaves of my neighbour’s house. Mum and Dad Robin spell each other off several times an hour and on each occasion, they make little birdy eye contact with one another and nod responsibly to confirm that their progeny have been and will continue to be in good hands (or should I say wings?). I feel the electricity, pride and love pass between them as I observe, jealously, from my voyeuristic keyboard.

In the subway, on my way to elicit encounter number two, I was riveted by a young married couple, oblivious to the crowded subway, who stared long and hard into each other’s eyes obviously replaying blissful private moments that elevated them both above their drab, mundane reality: he, very ordinary looking developing a slight paunch beneath his pasty face and nerdy clothes; she, hanging tenaciously onto the perkiness that had obviously attracted him and that would serve her well until the birth of their first child after which she would plunge immediately and irrevocably into dowdiness. But last week, on their way to work, thigh to thigh on the plastic TTC banquette, they sat cocooned in the love emanating from each other’s eyes.

Still reeling with vicarious giddiness, I descended from my train, ran up the grimy subway stairs to the morning sunlight and slipped clandestinely into Pusateri’s where I ordered a decaf cappuccino accompanied by my latest 'péché mignon', a crusty 'pain au chocolat' filled with decadent mounds of almond paste. As I savoured every bite, I hoped that all those around me would stare in covetous awe at my secret spring affair.

The Secret behind the Earbuds

I’ve always had trouble when faced with time on my hands. It’s not that I don’t always have an extremely long to-do list, it’s simply that when I have an unscheduled hour or two I don’t want to squander it on cleaning out my clothes closet, organizing the mess on any of my three desks, or updating my photograph album. For the past three years, however, I have not had to worry about this as I inadvertently found myself a member of three different book groups.

Upon hearing this, people assume that I am some kind of super-reader or intellectual. On the contrary, my literary über-agenda has lead to a life of subterfuge and dubious strategies. Whenever the topic of what books we will read next is raised at any of the clubs, I sit back and try, atypically, to play no part in the discussion. Invariably, it will be my turn to say something (all groups are scrupulously democratic) and I quietly and as neutrally as possible suggest a book that I just happen to have read for another literary event. I rationalize that a second read will give me deeper understanding of the work and remind myself of what Lesley Stephenson, the father of Virginia Woolf had to say on the subject “If a book is worth reading once, it’s worth reading twice.”

Of course finding the time to REread a book is even harder than reading it for the first time. Hence my foray into the world of audio books. Thanks to the digitalization of practically everything in print and my trusty iPhone I can download almost any novel and amuse myself on long drives to and from Collingwood, in uninspiring doctor’s /dentist’s/ hospital waiting rooms or in the mind-numbing tedium of an international airport.

At first, I strictly limited auditory ‘reading’ to books that I had already read in the traditional way. This was not cheating; I was merely refreshing my memory. Inevitably, however, I found deadlines approaching more rapidly than I could handle and thus adopted what I secretly refer to as the leapfrog approach. I read as much as I can of the physical book but if I have to leave it to pursue other activities, such as earning a living or shopping for or preparing meals, I snap in the earpods and switch to the audio version; as soon as possible, I return to the paper book. Each time I switch, I ‘rewind’ a few pages and thus cover sections of the story twice.

There are many benefits to listening; I find out how to pronounce strange names or words; I have the benefit of another person’s emphasis, accent, and interpretation; I can smugly criticize all of the above if they don’t reach my standards. At first, I found that I didn’t pay enough attention to what I was listening to so didn’t have an in-depth understanding of the material; now I am happy to say that my auditory skills and concentration have progressed to the point where I can’t remember which sections of a book I read the old fashioned way and which ones I heard through my iPhone.

I also feel right at home as I travel on the TTC or walk along the street, my trendy white earbud cords dangling from my ears. I exchange knowing glances with teenagers bopping along to their hip-hop beats and flash a sphinx-like smile to people of my own generation who raise a quizzical eyebrow wondering what on earth this super-cool grandma could be listening to.

How I became a Streetwalker

Thanks to the funeral of the mother of my son-in-law’s best man and a conference on palliative care, I have become a streetwalker.

For the past week, I have been primary caregiver to Toby, our 2-year-old grandson. Toddlers, in addition to being very busy all of the time and eating and drinking non-stop, love to spend as much time a possible out of doors. The word stroller can put an immediate end to even the most ferocious, irrational terrible twos tantrum. And since our boy has not been in tip top physical shape lately I have had to play the card more frequently than usual.

I must admit, however, that I have become somewhat addicted to our neighbourhood strolls. Eglinton Avenue is a miracle of vehicular eye candy: city buses, school buses, taxis (but so far we recognize only turquoise and orange Beck cabs), vans of every shape and size but invariably painted white, motorcycles, police cars, garbage trucks and magnificent red fire trucks that always seems to be speeding to or from their station around the corner.

Lately, however, the excitement of these has been eclipsed by the hundreds of Hydro trucks tail to nose lining every street. Last week, yellow helmeted workers in swaying cherry-pickers pruned the trees while their mates on the ground raised and installed the new super-high poles and fitted them with metal pulleys and thingamabobs to hold the more powerful cables. This week, they dangled above our heads restringing the wires, and removing and reattaching the streetlights. Next week, we predict, the street-sign contingent will perform a similar manoeuvre with the parking signs (boo! hiss!) and following that, we await the thrill of the demolition and removal of the old concrete poles. I do seem to be getting into this, don’t I?

During our walks, I have learned to see the world through eyes that are much closer to the ground than my own. Who knew there was so much litter on the ground? A refrain of “What’s THAT, Gramma? What’s THAT, Gramma? What’s THAT, Gramma?” marks time with my steps as a little finger points out every piece of detritus along the way. And when did the invasion of worm-starved robins occur? Not to mention the glut of dogs. Even Glenfiddich with his finely-tuned terrier nose cannot detect ‘doggies’ two blocks away.

When Toby isn’t outside, he spends his time practicing his favourite sports: golf, tennis (played just like golf but with the club held in the air), curling (played just like golf but lying on your belly and with the club acting as a broom), hockey, snowboarding (pillows on a bed make a fine ersatz ski hill), baseball and soccer. The other day he announced, a look of incredulous horror on his face, that he couldn’t play basketball (pronounced ‘bastetball’) because he didn’t have a ‘bastet!’ He knew there was one at the park (pronounced ‘part’) but had found it useless as all the balls we had were the wrong size. Yesterday, during our morning excursion my eyes spied two slightly-used but still beautiful tot-sized bastetballs sitting on the side of the road waiting to find a good home. So we scooped them up and headed to the part where Toby honed his shooting skills and I celebrated the fruits of viewing the world from the knees down and having become a successful streetwalker.

Canadians and the weather

I’ve been thinking a great deal about weather lately. Atypically, however, all my thoughts were good ones. Easter weekend temperatures in Toronto rose to the mid-twenties, the average daily high for June! This meteorological aberration elicited more grins and giggles than all of the Easter eggs collected by greedy little tots in the entire province.

On Friday morning, as tender crocus tips pierced through the winterkill, I found myself grabbing a broom and cheerfully sweeping up bags full of left-over fall leaves. The street became alive with people I hadn’t seen since Christmas. That afternoon it was ME who awoke the happily dozing Glenfiddich and coaxed HIM into taking a little walk just as an excuse to stay outside. Back at home, I was thrilled to see that the emails had been flying back and forth and a golf match was organized for the next day. For Good Friday dinner I wore clothes I hadn’t seen in months and we enjoyed our drinks on the patio.

Our lives had been transformed. EVERYONE was in a fantastic mood and I wondered how long such euphoria could last. But then I remember that the very essence of being Canadian is accepting bad weather with stoicism and greeting fine weather by doing the verbal equivalent of crossing our fingers and turning around twice anti-clockwise. I realized that all of the recent conversations that began “Can you believe the fantastic weather we’re having?” ended with “if it lasts” or “but we mustn’t get our hopes up” or “let’s not put the snow shovel away just yet.” This reminded me of a story I heard recently.

While flying cross-country a few years ago, a friend was seated beside a government mandarin on his way to an international conference on global warming. This chap’s main mission was to convince the representatives of the other countries that they had to find a term other than Global Warming if they wanted Canadians to take any serious steps to combat it. Rather than spurring people into action, he pointed out, the thought of rising global temperatures was guaranteed to unite Canadians from Newfoundland to Northern BC with special enthusiasm emanating from Winnipeg and just about anywhere on the Prairies. They would be all for it! Global warming? Bring it on!

I wrote this, my second blog, last weekend but I didn’t dare send it. A true Canadian, I was afraid the weather gods would become aware of my weather–induced euphoria and blanket the city in snow. But today I breathed a huge sigh of relief as the mercury plummeted and I saw flurries of snow. All is once again right with the world and I can bask in fond remembrance of the premature spring of 2010.

Why Write a Blog???

I’ve never written a blog before but I find myself under a certain … moral obligation to give it a try. The reason will become clear if you read on.

I like birthday parties: little kids’(balloons, knee-high wrapping paper, cake and ice cream), ‘older’ people’s (good champagne, hors d’oeuvres but skip the cake), family members’ (dining room table lined with all age groups, too many presents, no room for cake), my friends’ (wine, good food, funny stories, did I mention wine?). I even enjoy my OWN birthday festivities. But not this year!

March 2, 2010 was the day I became officially OLD. Family and friends were under strict instructions not to plan anything that resembled a celebration. It was my intention to handle the situation in a fashion befitting my years: pull the covers over my head and ignore it completely.

I don’t FEEL old! My body may be drooping in a few places but it hasn’t start to fall apart in any serious way; I have lots of energy and don’t want to give up my day job; I don’t need a hearing aid, cane or special underwear. I try to dress well and give a modest nod to fashion. (I must admit, however, that my Mother gave up on my fashion sense when I was just a teenager and came home with a newly purchased navy blue skirt. According to her, navy blue was AN OLD LADY’S colour and she would never wear it; she staunchly eschewed it until she passed on at the age of 86.)

Nor do I get excited about any of the so-called advantages of ‘the Golden Years’. Seniors’ tickets on the TTC just slow you down as you have to line up at the ticket booth. I don’t 'do' Florida and refuse to eat supper before 7:30. As for movies, sweet young things assumed I was eligible for senior subsidization the minute my hair turned grey.

So when the dreaded day arrived, my nearest and dearest treated me like a geriatric, female Peter Pan. Everyone was marvelously obliging and gentle: spring flowers from colleagues, a lovely surprise supper with tasteful and tasty attentiveness from close friends, a small family gathering at which I made the main event my giving presents to Toby who would turn two in a couple of days. But then it was MY turn to open my cards. My wily daughter had not defied maternal edicts; she had not bought me a present. Ever inventive and ready to give me a challenge I wouldn’t be able to resist, she had set up a blog page for me.

So this is my blog #1. If my strength, eyesight and lucidity continue into my waning years I may even write a second entry.