Christmas Confessions

These are just some things I need to get off my chest:

1.   I don’t like the new LED lights, especially the blue ones.  They hurt my eyes when I look at them.

2.  Mall Santas creep me out.

3.  The first batch of Cocoa Krispie Roll that I made, I ate.  By myself.  I had to make another one quickly before anyone found out.

4.  I love an excuse to shop.

5.  I hate wrapping presents.  You can tell how late into the wrapping process a present is by the amount of tape I have used.

6.  There are only three Christmas carols that I truly like.

7.  Little Drummer Boy and the Twelve Days of Christmas are NOT two of them.

8.  I love our real Christmas tree, even if I am still vacuuming needles in August.

9.  I find all plastic decorations tacky.  

10. I am willing to put up with all the fake, commercial, annoying, seemingly endless Christmas bruhaha if it makes us, as people, the littlest bit more selfless for even one brief moment each year.  

My friends and I were discussing synesthesia the other day.  It is the neurologically-based phenomenon where some people ‘see’ in their minds, letters, numbers, days and/or months as coloured or in a certain position in space.  So, for them, a ‘P’ might look pink when they imagine it or the number ‘3’ might be green.  Some see numbers as a long line going from left to right, or bending at a certain point.  

I think it would be cool to see letters and numbers in colour.  My mental numbers and letters are a boring grey and line up like soldiers on a parade ground.  Maybe that’s why I’ve always found math so boring and grey.

But my months, now that’s different.  As long as I can remember my months made a pattern in my mind.  From September to December the words would start rising to the right as if climbing a mountain.  The white/grey peak was right at New Years when the words would start descending the mountain.  June, July and August lay in a wide, flat green valley.  And then it started all over again.   

At least it explains why I’m so exhausted by November.  I’ve been climbing for months, and have a ways to go before I reach the top.  

One of my favourite family traditions is going to the Rockton World’s Fair on Thanksgiving weekend.  I’m not really sure why it’s called a ‘World’s’ fair seeing as it is held in a village of about 200 residents.  But by fair standards, it’s a good size, certainly much bigger than the one in our own city which has a population at least 500 times larger.

I think it’s so popular because it’s a truly agricultural fall fair.  It’s charm lies in the ancient white buildings and tents that surround the requisite rides, games and greasy food stalls.  Walking through the poultry barn I am not only amazed at the variety of ducks, geese and chickens but truly taken aback by the size of turkeys before they are plucked and shrink-wrapped.  

The sheer number of sheep, goats and cattle that parade up and down in front of judges for ribbons gives me some small comfort that family farms are not completely obsolete.  And the row upon row of showcases that display everything from gourds that look like faces to fancy tarts to homemade sweaters

reassure me that those talents aren’t yet extinct.  In fact, judging by the number of entries this year, they might even be gaining ground.

When we finally head home, stuffed and uncomfortable from an overindulgence of funnel cakes, fried onion flowers and corn on the cob, we swear we will lay off the fatty foods.  Until next year.

This September was a time of good-byes for us. Labour Day Monday we not only attended the funeral of my 93 year-old grandmother, but also dropped two of our children off at their respective university residences. 

There are several universal truths that parents need to face as their children leave home to attend  school:  

No matter what they tell you, the only way you know for sure that they ever change the sheets on their bed, is for you to offer to wash them and force them to bring them home.

The flurry of phone calls and email from the first week away will not gradually fade away.  They will abruptly end as soon as they make new friends and/or classes begin.  

Field trips are not always part of a course.

You will only ever know about half of their friends, a quarter of their marks and none of what they’ve been up to.

How many of us can say that we are truly brave?  Brave enough to face a fear so large, so threatening that there is no bribe, no reward great enough to shrink it?  Brave enough to look that fear in the face and not only conquer it, but stomp it into the ground?

My youngest has always had an overwhelming fear of deep water.  No amount of reasoning, explanation or example could remove her dread.  

For years she struggled to pass the most basic swimming level, because to move on meant she would have to overcome that fear.  

Three years ago a young man was assigned as her instructor.  He was easy-going, strong and very, very patient.  She learned to trust him and this year, after eight years of struggle, she let go of the side in the deep end and swam.  

There are no words to describe the pride I felt watching her, the humility in understanding what she had overcome.  

We should all be so brave.

Away

If our week at the cottage taught me anything, it’s that it is getting harder and harder to get away.  Where is away, you might ask?

Away is where the people you pass on the streets have no knowledge of your history, background or quirks.

Away is where there is no free WiFi with purchase of a tea and homemade chocolate crackle cookie to keep you tied to your work and deadlines.

Away is where there is no cell phone service to have relatives call about some trivial question, not realizing that you are on vacation.

Away is where city lights do not blur the stars at night.

Away is where you still stop and look at nature because you are not quite sure where you are and need to find your way back.

Away is finding time for early morning walks with the one child who is up as early as you.

Away is feeling the cycle of the day and the season.

I don’t get away often enough. 

  

  I believe in ghosts, not that I’ve ever seen one.

    And I’m hooked on ghost hunting programs.  I even know all the lingo: EVPs, full body apparitions, EMFs, heat signatures. What amazes me is that I’ll spend an hour watching the program only to realize afterwards that nothing happened.  Every second is fraught with tension and danger lurks around every corner, but in the end, it turns out the place probably isn’t haunted and it’s all due to high magnetic fields.  And yet....I keep watching.  

    I’d love to participate.  I don’t think I’d be afraid, more curious.  If I ran into an ‘intelligent haunt’ I’d want some questions answered.  What’s it really like where you are?  Can you eat chocolate?  Do you still have to wait for things? 

    I’m not sure how much information I would get before they would float away from me, screaming.  I can be rather determined.  

    On the other hand, maybe the spiritual world isn’t ready for me yet. 

   We just booked a cottage for a week in July at Sauble Beach.  I can’t wait.

    It is one place where I can truly relax.  My favourite part of the day is my afternoon walk down the beach.  Alone.  With my feet splashing in the surf and the sun on my face, I can almost feel my muscles sigh with relief.

    Each morning starts with a trek to the small neighbourhood bakery for fresh cinnamon rolls.  Heavenly.

    And in the afternoon it’s tradition to head to Scoops for an ice cream.  

    Fries on the beach from the Crowd Inn is a must, but dangerous.  Those seagulls will fight you for them and they’re big with sharp beaks.  

    Supper is cooked over the fire pit at the cottage and we round out the day with toasted marshmallows by the campfire.

    Gee.  You’d almost think my vacation revolved around food.  

    Uh, maybe this year I better take two walks down the beach each day.  

Things Most People Don’t know About Newfoundland

    I am of Newfoundland heritage.  When I was little I rarely told anyone this because then I would be bombarded with Newfie jokes.  But now that I’ve been there and met the people and I’ve seen the beauty,  I don’t mind telling people.

    On my first visit I expected to find a barren hunk of rock sitting in the ocean.  I never expected such warmth and hospitality or incredible scenery.  I realized I had a lot to learn about ‘The Rock’.  

    Here are some things worth noting:

•  It has the only airstrip outside of the United States that can land the space shuttle.
• It has the most pubs per square foot in Canada. (George Street!)
• It has the longest running continuous sporting event. (The Regatta in St. John’s)
• A Newfoundlander built the world’s first artificial ice arena.
• A Newfoundlander was with Abraham Lincoln at Gettysburg.

Go figure.

   I am a chocoholic.  

    I am.  No doubt about it.  I could eat if for every meal.  Worse than that, I think about chocolate all the time.  Something should be done about me.

    In the meantime, let me tell you what I’ve been thinking:

1.  Chocolate needs to be included in Canada’s Food Guide.  Under ‘Fruits and Vegetables’.  It comes from the cocoa BEAN.  5-10 servings a day, people.

2.  I don’t believe that dark chocolate can possibly be better for you than milk chocolate.  Milk chocolate has ‘milk’ in it.  There has to be bonus vitamins and minerals present.  There has to be.

3.  I’ve never met a chocolate bar I didn’t like.  (Except dark chocolate)

4.  The Disney World of chocolate lovers has to be Cadburyworld in England.  There’s a ride and everything!

5.  I would totally fall in the chocolate river with Augustus Glub.  Who in their right mind would pick a gumdrop tree over a river of chocolate? Seriously.

Some writers say that revising a manuscript is actually harder than writing it in the first place.  I have to admit, now that I am deep in revisions on my middle grade novel I find myself longing for the freedom and escape only a first draft can give.  There’s nothing like the exhilaration of just letting the story flow despite the fact that your plot is rambling and your characters are running rampant.

    Revisions can be tedious and frustrating, but wouldn’t it be great if we could revise real life?

    Who wouldn’t want a ‘redo’ on a hairdo?  A bad haircut lives with you for weeks until it grows out.  What if we could not only cut more here and there,  but paste hair back in where the hairdresser got a little too vicious with the scissors?

    How great would it be to take back a nasty comment made when you didn’t realize the person was standing right behind you?  Oh, could I ever use a backspace key right then. 

    Or how about when you need to tiptoe around a teenager’s hormonal mood swings?  You could try twenty or thirty different comments until you found just the right one that wouldn’t have them either ranting about the unfairness of the universe or bursting into tears.  How useful would that be?! 

     In the end though, only my manuscript will be organized and consistent.  My life will still be messy. 

New Math

4 / 1 = 0

Four litres of milk in the fridge and one 19 year-old home from university leaves 0 milk for everyone else.

3 x 14 = 2

Three 14-year old boys stay for a sleepover.  How much sleep do Mom and Dad get?  Two hours max.

6 x 1 x 7 = ~

Six people in a household, each takes one shower per day.  How many towels end up in the laundry hamper by the end of the week?  Infinity, my friends.  There is no end to the towels.