November the Fifth

Yesterday was November the Fifth, which in Canada doesn't mean much but in England is a day for fireworks, potatoes cooked in embers so that they are burnt on the outside and inedible inside, and of course the extrememly medieval practice of committing the effigy of a man to the flames of a bonfire. Burning Guy Fawkes-who was really just the fall guy for the mastermind of the gun powder plot, Robert Catesby - may have fallen out of favour in our more politically correct times (when I tried explaining what to me was a fun childhood tradition to my children, I found myself reeling from my own explanations), but Guy himself, largely due to the graphic novel and movie V for Vendetta, has made something of a comeback as the face of protest.

As interesting as this all is (and in the wake of the current Occupy protests, there are some interesting parallels) it's not what this blog is about today.

This weekend, my parents visited, and since it was such a glorious day on Saturday I had the bright idea to have a November 5th bonfire. Dad bought some fireworks, the kids and Andrew dragged wood, and I sat around sipping wine. The usual division of labour on the farm. It was a cold enough night once the sun went down, we had a brief interlude of rounding up sheep (never a dull moment), and then we settled in around the fire and managed to make it through to dark when the fireworks lit up the night.

We did not burn a guy. But we did cook potatoes in the embers to go with dinner. And they were excellent.

Joust

There is nothing....

And I mean nothing....

As cool....

As crazy....

As macho....

As watching knights on horseback....

Charge each other.....

With solid wood lances......

(That's 5000 lbs of force right there.

Like driving your car at 60km/hour into a wall.)

For fun.

Summer always feels like it has started when the Upper Canada Village Medieval Festival comes to town.

Princesses

Tomorrow is the much anticipated Royal Wedding, and I confess that while we are not getting up at 3am to watch an endless procession of people arrive at Westminster Abbey, we will get up in time to watch the highlights on the internet. I was 11 when Charles married Diana, living in England, and remember that royal wedding quite well. I remember being bored by the television coverage, excited by the street party, and secretly delighted when my dog and my uncle's dog raided the cake table devouring the elaborately decorated royal cake (etched with Charles and Di iced faces) made by our neighbour who was not amused.

I don't consider myself a royal watcher, but I'm aware of them, and I like that. I like the Queen, I like Prince Philip and his wonderful gaffes, and I like Charles who I always picture in his wellingtons and carrying a walking stick, spouting eloquently about art and the environment. I think it's thrilling to have another royal wedding, and so yes, I want to be part of this historical event, even if its just watching live coverage.

My girls do too. They want to see the Westminster Abbey where William the Conquerer was crowned in 1066. They want to see Prince William and Prince Harry. They want to see the Queen. But mostly, they want to see Princess Catherine. It's all about the princesses.

It's interesting that I am reading this book right now.

A book about princess culture and what, if anything, it is doing to our daughters. Most of the time I don't think about it. We went through that princess period in our house where everything was pink and frilly and I despaired even while taking pictures because it was so darn cute. Today, the girls are 8 and 9 and that period is gone. Today they prefer pants which are easier to run and jump and play in, they race around the fields, and hardly ever do anything that is dainty. They have green belts in karate and are learning to stand up for themselves in ways that continuously impress me.

And yet, the excitement in the air over the fairy tale wedding of Kate and William is palatable.

I think, in our hearts, we all want to be princesses.

I just haven't decided if that's a good thing or a bad one.

More Than Just A Nativity Scene

I love my nativity scene.

My grandmother knitted this - yes all those figures and the manger and even the sheep. And she sent it over packaged in a box containing a bar of ivory soap, which I gather is supposed to keep the figures fresh all year. I don't know if it's true, but every December when I did out the box and open it, the first thing I notice is that fresh soapy smell.

The second thing I notice is the smell of the wool, and it's a smell that takes me back to childhood, and many, many Christmases of Grandma's knitted sweaters (the white one with a horse and rider, and matching hat) and all the teeny woolen clothes - dresses and onesies and hats and underwear and leggings and coats - that she used to make for my dolls.

There is a Nativity scene just like it somewhere at the Vatican. At least there used to be. My grandmother made a few of them, one of which went to my Aunt Valerie (who is also Sister Valerie) who was living in Rome at the time.

My kids love to set it up, and spend time deciding where in the creche to place them all, and who of the wise men or shepherds gets to be inside and who outside. Depending on where they are placed, it tells a different story.

It's usually the first thing to come out at Christmas, and I love to watch them ever so serious in their task of setting it up just so. I'm neither Catholic nor particularly religious, but I love what this scene represents - the miracle and hope of birth, the promise and mystery of life.

But I love my Nativity Scene most for a different reason altogether.

I love it for the textures and the smells and the picture it conjurs up of my grandmother sitting by the electric fire in her Liverpool flat, beside the great brass candlesticks and horse brasses I used to polish when I stayed there long ago. The silver Christmas tree and the budgies, and the big old scullery/pantry where all the scones and cakes where piled high. Electric blankets on the bed and a woven stool my brother and I used to turn upside down and pretend was a boat. The box of cars, and a small shelf with dusty hardcover school books belonging to my dad and his brothers and sister when they were kids themselves.

So much more than just a Nativity Scene.

We interrupt this Christmas spirit....

...to talk about Festivus.

Actually, to find out more about Festivus, check out my friend Laura's blog. It sounds really fun. One of the things I particularly liked was the idea of airing grievances, so I thought I'd take advantage of the Festivus tradition to air a few grievances of my own.

1. Folksy Softeners: I saw a sign in the mall by Santa's workshop that read Folks, no private cameras and it got me wondering about that word Folks, and how it gets used when you want to soften the message you are about to impart. As if prefacing with Folks makes it acceptable to get away with saying something people won't like. As if saying it makes you avuncular, hearty, one of them. You're the jovial uncle saying put those cameras away for now - we don't need them here instead of the hard nosed business wanting to scrape every nickel it can out of Christmas shoppers and children eager to sit with Santa for a moment.
2. Nothing for Christmas: When I ask you what you'd like for Christmas and you say nothing, that just having your friends and family around is enough, I smile. I get that. We all do. But assume for a moment that if I am asking you, it is because I am going to buy you a Christmas present and have no clue what you would like. If you absolutely refuse to help me out, you are going to get something you don't want which doesn't make sense for either of us. What I really want to hear is Having my family and friends around is enough, but I'd really like the new Tom Clancy book out in paperback or a chocolate orange. Thank you.
3. Holiday Trees: No, no, no, no, no. It's a Christmas tree. Always has been. Don't try to change it. And while we're on the subject, why does political correctness always take the fun out of everything. It takes the sublime (whether it's Christmas, Hanukkah, Ramadan or Kwanzaa) and reduces it to a bland mass of homogeneity with no heart or soul. We shouldn't live in a world where we're afraid to say Merry Christmas for fear of offense. Crazy.
4. Advertising: I know this is the biggest season for stores. And they need to make money. But honestly, does Christmas advertising have to be so abrasive and in-your-face. You want. You need. You should have. You must buy. Buy $100 now and we'll give you a free coupon for $5 off your next purchase of $100 or more. Wow. Thank you so much. Now I love Christmas shopping - buying the right gifts for people. But the ads drive me crazy. They start early, ramp up to a pre-Christmas frenzy, and then - in case that's not enough - start in on Boxing Week (and when did Boxing Day expand to 7!). My least favourite ads - the ones that really make smoke come out of my ears - are the ones that air right after Christmas. Didn't get what you want? Auntie Ida send you another boring scarf again? You deserve more. Come in and buy ....etc. Um, isn't Christmas about other people, not yourself? And Aunt Ida probably put thought into that scarf (or you told her you wanted nothing, see point 2 above), so making fun of my relatives who tried to do something nice for me is just going to tick me off.
5. Gift Cards: This kind of ties in. And I know they have a purpose, especially for those far away. I often tuck an I-tunes or Subway gift card in for those who will use them. And I have one child who loves gift cards because they can put them in a wallet and carry them around (like Mommy's credit card). But really, gift cards are a cop out. If you don't have the time or inclination to sit down and really think of something someone will love, maybe that person should not be on your Christmas list at all. I know gift cards are convenient, but they suck the soul out of the joy of Christmas giving. Why not just give cash? Or - easier yet - we all keep our own money, and go out on Boxing Week and buy ourselves the things we really want.

Wow. I feel better already. This Festivus thing really has something going for it. Kind of a release of the inner Grinch.

Now. Back to that Christmas Spirit!

Christmas Cookies

The cookies won't bake any faster...

...because you are watching them!

Not even if you give me that slow Grinch smile...

...that always makes me laugh.

Holly Leaves and Christmas Trees

It's Monday night, and everyone is out at karate. The dog and I are curled up in the warmth of the living room - a warmth that seeps out from the fireplace and enfolds us even in this big old drafty house. We decorated the tree yesterday, so there is colour and light and cheer taking up the west wall of the living room.

Because I am here by myself, I am able to give in to my penchant for cheesy Christmas music and so am lounging on the serenity couch with a mug of hot sweetened tea, writing out Christmas cards and listening to Elvis Presley sing Holly Leaves and Christmas Trees.

Holly Leaves (I planted this one last year)

And Christmas Trees 

Christmas Cards

I like the ritual of writing Christmas cards for close friends and family and sending them off. Once or twice I have handmade them - painstakingly painting winter scenes one year, photos of the kids the next, and one year having  a pile of fun making witty photoshopped cards of our farm animals wearing Santa hats with captions (such as the sheep saying "he knows if you've been baaa-d or good"). Yes juvenile, But fun.

But this year, short on time, I was just planning to buy cards. Then my daughters got involved. And they have their own ideas.

So don't be surprised this year if you get some of the following paper versions of cards (these are incomplete at the moment):

Well, these aren't too bad are they? Fairly traditional. The prototypes won me over.

 But then, here, flanked by a recognizable snowman and a candy cane is some sort of, um, demonic elf.

And Anna's latent catholicism is obviously feuding with her cute-puppy-dog-with-huge-eyes phase.

As for what goes inside the card...

Most people are content with Merry Christmas, Happy holidays, May your days be merry and bright, that sort of thing.

Grace takes it one step further:

(ho ho ho, Santa Clause is comeing to the city and the countryside. isn't it AWSOME!!!)

Well, yeah, actually it is awesome. And inclusive too.

Though I am still looking for stickers that proudly proclaim Hand Made by Anna and Grace.

Just in case there is any confusion.

It's coming...

For the record, I love Christmas. True, I don't get giddy about decorating right after Hallowe'en, and in fact get downright stubborn about not shopping in stores that insist on trying to woo me with Christmas baubles too early. And we don't go and get a tree until December is well underway, preferring to draw out the anticipation.

But when I heard Elvis' White Christmas while shopping in The Bay last weekend, it bought a smile to my face, and I have started thinking about gifts.

That was about as far as I got until today when two things happened to remind me that the season is almost upon us.

First a friend who has three daughters sent an email to see if we would be up for a Christmas craft afternoon with the kids. Sounds great, I thought, and checking my calendar, was a bit shocked (as always it creeps up)  that there are only five weekend left before December 25th.

Wow.

Secondly, Andrea from A Peek Inside The Fishbowl twittered about her 25 days of Christmas tradition, which involves taking the commercializaion and rush and crazyness out of the season (well, as much as possible, anyway) with some fun, gentle, family time activities. I don't do it exactly as she does, but one of the first things I do every early December is make a list of things we can do together that maybe, just maybe, take the rush and hustle out of the weeks leading up to the big day.

Thankful....

For good health...

For family...

 For fresh air and room to run...

For plentiful food...

For a happy home...

It was a spectacular Fall weekend in the Glen. All across southern Ontario the sun was bright and the air crisp and we enjoyed having Andrew's family here for the day. Nothing says Thanksgiving like a houseful of family, the laughter of children playing with their cousins, and the smell of turkey roasting in the oven.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Where did they go?

Where did they go, those little children of mine?

Two years ago we went to the Williamstown Fair and hand-in-hand we walked around the grounds. The children went with trepidation on some of the rides, waving every time they caught my eye, and stayed close to my side, their eyes aglow in the sensory overload of music and colour, hustle and bustle.

Last year we were at the Cottage and missed the fair. But we returned this year. And what a difference.

There's Alex, said Erik, racing off after his school friend.

We'll meet you at the ticket booth, called out a nonchalent Anna as she and two friends strolled by.

It's okay. I'm riding with these guys, Grace tells me when I suggest we go and look at the booths, concerned that her brother and sister have abandoned her for their own friends.

And I find myself alone in a crowd, holding cotton candy bags and half finished drinks, extra sweaters and stuffed animals won at the fair.

I watch them run around, happy, confident, at ease in this world that used to be so foreign to them. I watch them ride the Spider  and the Scrambler-rides I loved as a child, and other rides that I wouldn't go on today, but which doesn't seem to bother them at all.

I look around and see I am not, in fact, alone. There are other parents like myself, whose children - 8, 9, 10, on the brink of adolescence - are expressing a new sudden independence in this place that is at once new and exciting and yet familiar to them.

It's wonderful to see. But yet I wonder.

Where did they go? Those small children?

When did they get so big?

Highland Games

This weekend was the Glegarry Highland Games - a weekend of piping and dancing, competition and bands, scottish food, and good parties.

We spent the weekend there - pulled our picnic blanket, chairs, and basket of goodies up to the hill around the arena and watched the Men's and Women's Heavyweight Championships: burly men in kilts tossing Hammers and Cabers in the air. For Fun.

The girls had a blast running around the grounds, meeting up with school friends and generally enjoying themselves.

Erik liked the pipe bands, but LOVED the old cars on display. He wants one of these:

Yeah - I don't think so either!

Andrew joined us Friday evening and we watched the Tattoo which started off with parachuters, and then rocked the Fairgrounds with the massed bands and a celtic band from Scotland who were pretty terrific.

As for me, I like to listen to the pipe bands. They entered the field in a swirl of mist and sent a chill down my spine. Terrific stuff. Takes me back to my years in Halifax. We were there until almost 10:30 pm when the Tattoo ended with a fireworks display and the massed bands were the last things we heard as we hauled three sleepy kids back to the cars. But they were up bright and early keen to get back to it.

Another Games over, another successful year. See you again in 2011.

Days of Summer

Summertime...and the living is easy...

The jazzy notes tumble out of the open window and here on the porch swing, in this instant, it seems true. Summer is easy - no need to match clothes for the kids for school....they toss on shorts over their swimsuits and are off;  dinners tend to be simple...barbecues and salads, and fresh ripe berries for dessert; bed time has more flexibility....we are often up until close to sunset biking or playing croquet in the coolness of evening.

In this instant, the living is easy.

But that is mostly because I have a knack for enjoying the moment and pretending there is nothing outside of it.

In this space, there is no half-acre garden to re-mulch, no weeds to pull, no flowers to deadhead and nurture. There is no hay to bale, no sheep to tag, no grass to mow, no driveway verge to trim. The mud room does not hold the remnants of a school year's worth of artwork and books and papers to be organized, and dressers are not overflowing with pants and skirts and shirts and sweaters that will be too small come Autumn and need to be sorted.

In this space, we are not planning camping trips and beach picnics, a week at the cottage and a canoe trip into the wilderness. We are not counting down the days until the Highland Games or the Williamstown Fair - must-do things in our summer. We are not still working, and grocery shopping, and heading off on hot sultry nights to sit at the site of a soccer field and watch the kids play. We do not have eight family birthdays to celebrate before September.

In this moment, in this space, in this instant, there is only the sweet jazzy belief that summer is, in fact, easy.

Knights

Another fabulous year at the Upper Canada Village Medieval Festival.

Mad Hatter Tea Party

Grace wanted a Mad Hatter Tea Party for her 7th birthday. We had visions of setting the table outside under the maple trees, but Mother Nature had other ideas (rain, flurries) so we bought the party inside.

Yes. 12 kids. In my house. For three hours.

And it was amazing.

We set two tables end-to-end, laden with dishes: sandwiches, sausage rolls, veggies and dip, tri-coloured jello, jam tarts, berry tea, iced tea, and pink lemonade.

We made a cake in the shape of a hat. Well, sort of.

The White Rabbit showed up.

As did the Knave and Queen of Hearts.

Jam tarts were stolen, mad hats were made, croquet was played, food was devoured, fun was had.

The birthday girl was happy.

Mom was exhausted, but that's another story.