Frosty Morning

Everything is frozen solid. 

Hard, deep, fast cold came in.

With it grew this little forest of frost trees.

A white woods in miniature, floating on a field of ice.

Resolve to Resist

Jane's husband Gerry arrived at tea time this morning with tea and Timbits.
Jane handed me the sweet, little box full of those sweet, little donut holes -- oooh, chocolate -- and I said, "No, thanks."
If the last few years have been about saying "Yes", 2015 is the year of saying "No". It's the year of resistance.
Not resistance to resolve but resistance to those things that break my resolve to be more productive and ten pounds lighter.
1) Watch less television. By this I mean, cut out those time-waster moments when you turn the telly on simply because it's there and you are between tasks or avoiding tasks. I'm going to try to fill those moments with a walk and by leaving a book on the table in the living room to reach for instead of the remote.
2) Eat less sugar. By this I mean, no sweet snacks. My husband has a sweet tooth and can eat anything; he has a metabolism that prevents him from putting on weight no matter what he eats (jerk). I also have a sweet tooth but chocolate gives me pimples which makes it easier to resist but cookies, man, I love cookies.
Ultimately, these two resolutions are about improving two things: My writing production and my health. Especially since I will be sitting and writing even more in 2015, the Writer's Butt I've developed needs to be kept under control.  Thankfully, I already have a major daily water habit; I get more than enough hot lemon water during a day.
2015: It's all about writing, walking and watering.

Christmas Cake Finale

I tended to my friend Shelagh's Christmas cake as best I could for the month left to me after I'd neglected it for three weeks.
(Read about that in my Field Notes column of November 26, http://www.fieldnotescumberland.blogspot.ca/2014/11/how-to-kill-christmas-cake.html )
The grand unveiling was Christmas Eve and I am pleased (and relieved) to say the cake turned out: dark and moist and fruitfully strong in taste. Not having Shelagh's grandmother's fruitcake -- the original amazing creation -- to compare it to, we think Shelagh's, with a little help from me (and I mean a little), is quite delicious.

 

"The more you eat, the better it tastes," my husband declared as he noshed piece number three. After the first few slices, I realized I was cutting it wrong and it looked a lot better after I figured out what Shelagh meant by 'fingers'. Not having sprinkled it with brandy for long enough (I know, I know), it was likely a bit more crumbly than Shelagh would like but the crumbs were delicious too.
A few hours later, I presented my in-laws, who grew up eating Christmas cake made by my husband's grandmother,with a plateful of slices and they declared it delicious and familiar. Nothing like living up to the example set by both Nan and Gran. I suspect my father-in-law had a few pieces for breakfast.
So, Shelagh, dearest, I declare myself redeemed and delighted and hopefully will be on the receiving end of another small chunk of your Nan's Christmas cake next year. After all, I still have most of the sherry leftover.

Homemade Christmas

May your heart and your day be full of light, hope and peace.

May you be comforted by the joy of the season.

May you be blessed by small moments of love.

Merry Christmas.

All I Want For Christmas Is Electricity

First published in The Oxford Journal on Tuesday, December 23, 2014 by Sara Jewell Mattinson.

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the county,

Not a creature was stirring which so pleased the Mounties.

The work boots were placed by the back door with care,

In hopes that by morning, they would still be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds

While visions of Apples danced in their heads.

And my wife in her jammies and I in my briefs

Had just settled in to watch the Habs and the Leafs,

When out on the lawn there appeared a tall ladder,

I leaped out of my chair to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash

Pulled back the curtain and peered through the glass.

The moon shining down on the fresh foot of snow

Reminded me the forecast was calling for more.

Then what did my wondering eyes spy at that time

But a man in a red coveralls about to climb

Up over my eaves and onto the shingles;

The fear of a lawsuit made my toes start to tingle.

Parked beneath him was the most wondrous machine,

All white with bright lights like I’d never seen.

He wasn’t alone, there were eight workers with him,

Standing around holding cups full of Tim’s.

I whistled and shouted and called out a few names,

“Now, dash it, you morons, I’ll have none of your games.”

But all I heard in response was their answering reply,

“Now dash away, dash away, hurry up, fly!”

Up to the housetop the big man did scurry,

And I in my briefs to the second floor hurried.

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof,

The clomping and tromping of two great big hoofs.

I was running downstairs when my wife gave a shout

And I dashed to the living room to see what was about.

We were turning around when we heard a big crash

And in our fireplace sitting all warm in the ash

Was an unwelcome visitor in our abode: 

The big man himself, NS Power’s CEO.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

Although he was now tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of papers he had flung over his back

While another crash in the chimney brought down a huge pack.

His eyes, how they twinkled, and his face was quite merry

As he stood in our living room and said, “Happy Christmas, Larry.

I come bearing gifts, as your electricity king,

Rebates and discounts and other great things.

Incandescent lights that are full of mercury,

(But no solar panels that could save you money).

I have many more lights to string ‘round your tree

For with these gifts for you come gifts for me.

A year-end bonus that will buy me a new sleigh,

And a winter vacation far, far away.”

Then he stopped all his talking and went straight to work

Filling our stockings with a self-satisfied smirk,

Then laying a certain finger aside of his nose

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

Back down the ladder he went; to his team gave a whistle,

They jumped into the truck and drove off like a pistol,

But we heard him exclaim as they drove down the pike,

“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a rate hike.”

Sing Out Loud

These fine figures stand on the "front porch" of Lorneville United Church along the Amherst Shore. The first time I saw them, on the first Sunday of Advent, my spirit lifted. A celebration of Christmas music! Such an unusual decoration to see outside a church but this caroling couple is a delight.
This is the season, both the secular and the spiritual, the having and the giving, the celebrating and the contemplating.
Inside the church is a lovely, traditional nativity scene sitting evocatively on a table; it invites quiet reflection and acknowledgement of the significance of the holy day in the Christian faith.
But outside is the an invitation to gather together, lift our voices and sing with gladness and in celebration of hope, joy, peace and love.

The Best Christmas Ever

Ten years ago
my father was into his third year after a diagnosis with Alzheimer's and we were still caring for him at home; my divorce was not yet final but I had hired a lawyer;
and my nephew, the long-awaited and much-anticipated first grandchild born in September, was having open-heart surgery on December 21 to try and repair the arteries going in and out of his heart.
Egads.
When I submitted an essay about those days around Christmas 2004 to the Globe and Mail's "Facts & Arguments" section, the editor emailed me back within an hour.
"I want to publish this," she wrote. "I am crying as I type this!"
Ten years ago
seems so long ago.
So much has happened:
ny nephew is ten now and he has five siblings;
my father is dead and we don't live in Cobourg, ON, any longer.
At the time, Christmas seemed so fraught; first, George's surgery -- he was only three months old -- and then the following year, Dad was in a nursing home, Mum was in Atlanta with her grandchildren and I was home alone.
And yet I look back at those anxious, sad, heartbreaking times and think,
"They were the best Christmases ever."
They taught me more about living and living and letting go than anything else could ever.

Here's the column from December 21, 2007, as it appeared in the Globe and Mail newspaper:
http://www.theglobeandmail.com/life/finding-meaning-in-a-baby/article700414/