Thoughts On A Clear November Morning

I awoke three times in the night.

The first time I woke up, it was more sort of a roll over as Andrew left my small thermos of coffee next to the bed before he left for the dairy at 4:30am. The second time was to hear a small dog barking by the river and groggily realise it was actually a coyote yipping, a warm up for the group coyote howl which followed. I was awake then, momentarily. until reassured by the deep barking that followed that Tundra the sheepdog had the situation in hand,  I fell back into sleep. It was around 5:30am. The third time was at 6:30am when Grace punched her way into the room (in her usual delicate fashion) to tell me the dog had thrown up three times in their room. It reminded me of Mother's Day last May, and I lay back on my pillow, sipping my coffee, reflecting that I'd seen the dog in the back fields yesterday and wondering just what disgusting things she'd been into.

I felt a bit like Scrooge - like I'd been visited three times in the night - and like Scrooge, by the time I was finally awake, the sun was shining, the sky was bright and clear, and I felt full of joy and optimism.

November, on the cusp of both fall and winter, can be a bit of a bleak month, but I've always found it beautiful in its austerity. If October is like a king (think Henry VII), resplendently robed in gold and crimson, November is like a nun, (think Mother Superior from The Sound of Music), simple and pure and wise.

And as I sit here this morning, gazing out the window, past the pine trees and over the field towards the river and the forest behind, I am thinking only good thoughts.

Except of the dog. She is still disgusting.

Homework

Erik has a school project due tomorrow. A poster to advertise a book they just read in class. The assignment due date has been written in his agenda for two weeks, and being the overbearing, over-achieving interested mom I am I've been asking him every day for two weeks if he needed help with it at all ("No"), if he's working on it with ("two other boys") and if he needed to bring it home ("No, we're doing it all in school"). Cool. I'm cool with that.

Then tonight, Thursday, Cubs, he brings home a poster board that has three lines written on it in pencil in his handwriting in the top left corner, leaving a huge white space to fill.

I thought you didn't need help, I said.  (He shrugged.)

I thought there were two other boys working on it with you, I said. (Both out with H1N1 for the past week or more)

I thought it was all getting done in school, I said. (But apparently they are allowed to bring it home if they want to. He just chose not to until the very last minute.)

I always said I'd never do my kids' homework for them. I always said they could learn the lesson the hard way. So how come I ended up sitting down with him and brainstorming ways to make his poster more interesting? How come we ended up creating callouts and pictures and text boxes on the computer to add colour and visual variety to his poster? How come I found myself at seven o'clock on a Thursday evening with a pair of scissors and a glue stick instead of a glass of red wine and a book?

Perhaps it was because he got left on his own while his project mates were out sick. Maybe it's because it's his first project of the year. Maybe it's because he was telling me how he had to write the three lines he did write upside down because he couldn't reach across the desk to the top of the poster board.

However, the sad truth is that when it came down to brass tacks, I couldn't let him pass it in without some input. He got it done, hopefully learned something in the process (even if it is only to bring it home sooner next time), and got off to Cubs on time.

But next time, next time, he's on his own.

Right!

The Allure of the Theatre

I was sitting having lunch at the delectable 2Bean Cafe when I overheard them: Two women, older than me, maybe in their late 50's or early 60's, talking about the theatre. Not as theatre-goers, but as part of the theatrical troupe, which to my (admittedly eavesdropping) ears seemed infinitely more interesting. One of the ladies was telling the other about the role she was doing and the role she was going to try for next, and as they sat there, conversing in low rich voices, I felt a thrill go through me.

I love live theatre. I love the anticipation, the deep seats, the rustle of shawls and coats as people shift around waiting for things to start, the orchestra warming up, the gilded lights and elaborate carvings that are de rigeur at so many older establishments, and the deep crimson curtains, velvety and plush, that fall in graceful folds to the floor, and that pull back with a swoosh of golden tassles as the lights dim, the crowds hush, and the show begins.

I have often thought about becoming part of a local theatre group. Not acting, neccessarily - my acting career never went much further than one performance of Acastos in university. And not props - I still recoil with horror at the memory of being involved in props in high school and being asked to create a larger than life pencil for our version of You're A Good Man, Charlie Brown (which was a success despite my complete inability to do this one little job). And definitely not stage director - one of my favourite little hobbies is reading Shakespeare's plays just to have a giggle at the scanty stage directions he provides. (ie:Exit left, carrying a head, accompanied by various wispy ghosts)

But I did enjoy screenwriting a play once as a project for a philosophy class. Doctor Faustus never made it to stage, but I still have a dogearred copy of the screenplay somewhere. And although I've never written a play (with the exception of doing so with the children for Christmas) it's on my list of things to try.

Mostly, I just enjoy being a theatre-goer. Everything from local productions of War Brides or The Dresser (both excellent) to the latest and greatest musicals (just got tickets for myself and the girls to see Mamma Mia at the NAC in January), to the ones you see over and over because they're popular (The Importance of Being Ernest springs to mind). Heck, we even cut short our honeymoon to get back to Toronto in time to see Colm Wilkinson perform the lead role of Jean Valjean in Les Miserables.

But there is no denying that part of me, the part that was thrilled by the coversation I overheard at lunch, would like to be part of the production, and not just watching it. So far, I've shied away, mostly because of the time commitment. But one day, I will have the time. And if the allure of the theatre still holds sway, I look forward to being part of it all.

Every Day

Every day, you should do something that makes you happy.

Every. Single. Day.

Hallowe'en

If it weren't for the kids, who love Hallowe'en, I'd probably be one of those grumps who hide in my basement with the lights off so that no-one comes to my door. Not that anyone, in the six years we've lived here, has ever ventured down the quarter mile long laneway even when all the lights have been on and the kids' jack o'lanterns are glowing in the windows. Most kids are more savvy than to bother with the country when they can go to the nearby villages and towns. Which is what we did last night after a leisurely get together dinner with friends.

We started off at the firehall where the volunteer firefighters and Sparky the fire dog served hot chocolate and snacks to anyone who ventured by (about 700 kids most years), and then went trick or treating through small town Ontario. And I discovered that despite it all, there are benefits to Hallowe'en.

1. Walking the leaf-strewn streets of a small town past the library and the senior's centre and the community hall and the century brick and gingerbread homes is a wonderful experience, and on a night like last night, where it was cool but not cold, and a full moon scurried in between clouds, was downright beautiful.

2. We got to socialize and catch up with all the people we know but don't always get a chance to see. While the kids ran up to doors, we stood in the streets chatting and exchanging news with old friends, as well as meeting parents of friends the children have made in their new school. I had the urge all night to say things such as "Well met again by moonlight" but resisted because Andrew would have disowned me if I started quoting Shakespeare at random.

3. While there are always some teenagers who think regular clothes and a mask do a Hallowe'en costume make, some of the other costumes were clever and intricate and really very well done.

4. As for the kids, they were all just adorable. Nothing is more cute than a wobbly 18 month old in a Tigger costume or a Bat Man suit.

5. On the way home we stopped at the rural homes of some of our older neighbours because they don't get out as much and because they love to see the kids, and though it took roughly 10 minutes at each house, it was worth it just for the smiles.

History Mystery

Children love him, songs have been written about him, even his enemies reportedly admired and respected him. He is renowned for bravery, and stands for all that is chivalrous.

He was an English King who spent little time in England, spoke but little English, and (according to a renowned British historian) was, "a bad son, a bad husband and a bad king."

He revolted against his own father, was betrayed by his brother, and was adored by his mother. He survived mighty battles and a lengthy capture, yet died of a gangrenous arrow wound fired inside his own castle walls at the age of 42.

Who is he?

Answer: Richard the Lionheart (King Richard I)

Incredibly Drunk On Whiskey

Then you looked at me
Pointed out that I was drunk on whiskey
You looked at me
Said, “let's get incredibly drunk on whiskey"...

This is the catchy chorus of a great song I've heard a couple of times on CBC radio 2 by (Canadian) band Memphis. Can't make head or tails of what the rest of the song means, but it's the kind of tune that sticks in your head.

I don't drink scotch. I leave that to Andrew who enjoys a glass or two of single malt, and who has been known, particularly in the company of my brother-in-law Stephen, to indulge in more than just a glass or two while my sister and I responsibly sip quaff wine.

I don't drink it, I said. But I love scotch. At least I love the smell of it. I don't say this lightly - in all honesty, I would rather sniff a good quality single malt scotch  (such as The Macallan 15 year, pictured here) all evening than drink a glass of cheap wine. It makes me feel light headed, and pleasantly disposed towards the universe.

So I'm wondering what it would be like to have the chance to sniff a glass of the 55 year old Macallan I was reading about? At a (mere) $14,000 a bottle, I don't think I'm ever going to find out!