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.

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

Why Christmas?

I don't want to get into a debate about Christianity, but I do wonder what it is about the season that makes even non-religious people participate with such enthusiasm.

It could be that the Coca-cola version of the holiday - buy presents, get together, eat, drink and be merry - has taken over. But I don't think so.

Personally, I think it's because the message at Christmas is essentially one that is universal. Christmas is about Peace on Earth. Love and Goodwill to Man. Comfort and Joy. And yes many people find that in religion. But many people find it without religion as well.

In the messages of hope that abound this time of year;, as we light up our homes to ward off the dark days of winter (or metaphorically, if you prefer); and as we open our homes and hearths to friends and neighbours, there is something special about the season that brings happiness to those who embrace it.

One of my favourite Christmas songs is actually a poem written by American Henry Wadsworth Longfellow in 1836. In it he talks about hearing the bells, and their song of hope and joy. He questions that, despairing: And in despair I bowed my head/there is no peace on earth I said/For hate is strong and mocks the song/Of peace on earth, goodwill to man.

He was thinking of the civil war when he wrote about that hate. We can just as easily apply it to any one of a hundred situations around the world today. Despair, under these circumstances, is easy.

But the bells continue, refusing to give in to that. And in the end, Longfellow could not resist: Then pealed the bells more loud and deep/God is not dead nor does he sleep/the wrong shall fail, the right prevail/In peace on earth, goodwill to man.

For a short time, at Christmas, it is easy to believe that the world is in harmony. That there can indeed be peace on earth.

It's a promise of hope that we can all relate to.

Money, Money, Money

So here I am feeling sorry for myself because one of the cars blew up the other day and it’s going to cost four times more than I first anticipated because of damage to the motor.

Yeah, that’s a bite. And yeah, it’s going to hurt a bit.

We could buy a new one, I suppose, but one of Andrew’s endearingly eccentric traits is that he prefers old cars, and in fact in the 15 years I have known him has never had a new car. An ancient Jeep, a practically classic Bronco, a series of old VW Rabbits, a collection of vintage trucks, and now the 12 year old Golf he currently drives.

We live in the country and we need two vehicles, and either way, we pay: Either payments on a new vehicle or repairs on an old. In the end, we come out more or less at the same place. The difference is that with a new car the payments are more or less scheduled, whereas with the old car they hit you with unpredictable vigour.

I admit, the news was enough to make me a bit glum. I’m a bit of a scrooge when it comes to money. Not in terms of everyday expenses - no holds barred when it comes to food and wine, or kids’ activities for example. But in terms of saving….different matter! The first thing I do every paycheck is divert money into the savings account, and once it’s there, I hoard it. Theoretically we do have a short term savings account especially for emergencies like car breakdowns, but I don’t actually plan to spend it. This drives Andrew crazy. We are diametrically opposed in our approach to savings. I want to keep it, keep it all, and he feels if it is there, it is there to spend.

Of course, when it comes to the car, there’s little choice. So when faced with having to pay out money I’m not anticipating, I have a bit of an anxiety attack, then I take out my excel budget and retool it so see how to replace the money I have to spend and how quickly I can do this.

Then I start to throw crazy ideas around. Like We’ll stop having Pizza Hut on Friday nights, and We’ll cancel the cleaning lady, and (craziest of all) We’ll stop drinking wine. And Andrew ignores me because he knows I’m all talk – none of those things are actually going to happen.

Finally I realize (as any sane person would have right from the start) that it’s not in fact the end of the world. So we have to spend money on the car….at least we have a car. So we have to take some money out of the savings account…but we do actually have a savings account. In a period of economic uncertainty we have rewarding jobs and good incomes. When 800,000 families are forced to use foodbanks, we eat like kings every day and have two freezers stocked with every kind of food imaginable.

I started off feeling sorry for myself. That has evaporated now. We may not be rich, but we're doing okay. I am off to the grocery store tonight to pick up a week’s worth of groceries in canned and dry goods, and I’m going to take them to the local foodbank. I’m sorting out a bunch of kids’ snowsuits and boots for the Salvation Army. We’re going to put together some Christmas Boxes. And perhaps best of all, I’m going to take the opportunity to count my blessings.

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!

Perspective

To make a long story short, my three children go to a different school this year, a school that is further away, and for which they are not on a bus route. I've been driving them which means instead of a 12 minute commute to work, I drive 20 minutes south to drop them off and another 30 minutes north again to get to the office.

I do this uncomplainingly and cheerfully.

Most of the time.

Because I believe it's the right school, and because education is a high priority in our house.

But also because I just read Three Cups Of Tea by Greg Mortensen. He's the mountaineer-turned-humanitarian who dedicated his life to building schools for rural children in poverty-stricken Afghanistan. In his book, he tells of seeing children walking miles each way, barefooted and often hungry, to gather together and teach themselves rudimentary skills using sticks to write in the dirt because their communities can't afford $1 a day for a teacher.

It's humbling to see what others go through to get what we take for granted. And so instead of grumbling about our morning commute, I found myself putting it in perspective. All we have to do, after all, is get in a car and drive. It's not exactly hardship. We have excellent schools, caring and compassionate teachers, and we have never EVER known what it is like to not have enough to eat.

And if the morning drive is a bit out of the way, there are perks. For example we can brainstorm ideas for journal entries. Or we can talk over puzzling math problems. Or (like this morning) we can discuss proper grammar and good use of sentence structure. Oh the fun we have, and how the kids will miss it now that they've been approved for bussing starting tomorrow.

Or not.

Last Hurrah of Summer

It's a tradition every year to do something "fun" to commemorate the end of summer. A last hurrah, if you will, before returning to school and the routines of autumn. This year, I surprised the children with a train trip into Ottawa for the day.

We took the bus from the train station - an adventure in itself for my country-raised kids - and headed for Parliament Hill to see the Changing Of The Guard (with its bagpipes and brass band and ceremonial sword salutes and fixing of bayonets), and to wander around the grounds.

And we took a tour of Centre Block. We had to go through security to get inside. Kind of like being at an airport. They actually confiscated my corkscrew(?) - try explaining that to a 6, 8 and 9 year old...!

~

Inside we saw the House of Commons, the Senate, the beautiful architecture (the kids liked the wonderful reliefs and gargoyles carved out of the limestone) and the awe-inspiring Parliamentary Library which took our breath away (a fortunate turn of events as talking is prohibited inside). Then it was up, up, up to the Observation Deck of the Peace Tower. We were there at noon, just as the 23 bell carrillon was ringing out over the city.

After, we walked through Ottawa and the Byward market, past the US Embassy where a hunger strike was being staged (more explaining to a 6, 8 and 9 year old - who really didn't get why people would voluntarily not eat!) and onward to the National Gallery.

After lunch at the Cafe, we saw the Papal Art by such 16th century masters as Raphael, Michelangelo and Titian, although the kids were only really impressed once - at the large and somewhat gruesome painting of David holding up the head of Goliath.

~

We did the Canadian Gallery because I just like to sit in the Group of Seven gallery and absorb their work (I particularly like Tom Thomson's The Jack Pine with it's layers of colour), but I somehow managed to miss the work of Alex Colville, who I also like very much.

~

We looked at some of the modern art where huge canvases of colour (and one that was just painted black) were hung, making me feel ignorant because I have never really understood what makes them art. (If you're reading this and you can explain it, please do so).

~

And we visited the Rideau Street Convent Chapel, because it is calm and serene and has marvellous presence, and sat by the adjacent Water Court to (pardon the pun) reflect on what we had seen.

~

But of course, all of this paled beside one piece of art: the 30 foot tall giant bronze spider, Maman, that sits at the entrance to the National Gallery. And if art can be measured by wide eyed wonder, thrills and chills, this sculpture by Louise Bourgeoise won hands down.

Minute by minute

Did you know that I can get live feeds to keep me informed to the minute as to what our Prime Minister is discussing with President Obama today. I can join CBC’s live blog and know exactly what words tripped out of Harper’s mouth as they trip. I can follow twitter and get second by second coverage of what anyone and everyone who is present thinks of every gesture, word, and nuance.

Does anyone else think this is weird?

Frankly, I’d rather wait for a few hours and then get a cohesive, well thought out, intelligent report from a trusted news agency.

Just because you can get your live comment heard around the globe doesn’t necessarily mean you should.

Fashionista

I have been fascinated by the media (internet, mostly) focus on Michelle Obama's clothes.

Riveting Stuff.

And I'm wondering why I haven't been noticed for my very own fashion sense.

Oh right. I have none.

I have 2 styles: Summer - where I wear a collection of navy blue capris, shorts, or skirts, along with a variety of white and off white t-shirts and blouses; and winter - where I wear a collection of brown and black cords with a variety of brown and black (and the occasional white) turtlenecks and sweaters. Those 2 looks, along with a pair of denim jeans get me from work to weekend all year long. Oh - and a pair of oversized coveralls for working with the animals.

And I'm wondering what Andrew would say if I traded my black pants and turtleneck for a fabulous dress/coat ensemble?

Probably he'd think someone had stolen his wife.

Of politics and barnyards

Woo-hoo - a double header today!

Of Politics
Barack Obama won the US Presidential election last night in an election that was both more tedious (so long) and yet way more exciting and relevant than the recent Canadian fiasco. Although I’m not American, it’s hard not to follow what’s going on in what is arguably the most powerful country in the world, so I wasn’t too surprised to hear the results this morning.

Good for Obama. (As an aside - I was also very impressed with the gracious and forward-looking speech McCain made in the wake of his defeat.)

Obviously I can’t speak for most Canadians, but as a Canadian, I feel the democrats in general, and Obama in particular, are a lot closer to our ideal of a politician. In fact, at this point, I think he’s probably closer to the Canadian ideal than is our current Canadian Prime Minister – and that’s saying something. For the first time ever, I’m more excited about US politics than the plodding politics of our own country, which seem sad and weary at both ends of the political spectrum.

Haiku for Canadian Politics 2008
No vision, no spark
To fire up our people’s hearts
And move us forward

Of Barnyards
Anyhow, that’s all the time I have for politics today – much more pressing things to think about…like how the sheep escaped this morning, which meant I had to chase them across the fields (wearing rather unsuitable shoes, I might add) and back into our meadow. More to the point, why would they escape?

I know it’s a classic case of the grass always being greener, but all the green grass, not to mention their hay and water, was on this side of the fence, and all that was on that side of the fence were old combined stalks of nothing. What were you thinking? I shouted at them, as I stumbled after them wishing (not for the first time) that we had a sheepdog and not a lazy Labrador who I knew had seen us leave and was most likely curled up on the sofa or one of the kids beds.

But the sheep just gazed back unblinking at me.