Hell Ain't Hot

My grandmother held an Irish wake for her eldest daughter (my aunt) who eloped with the local protestant minister. This from their small Irish Catholic town. Subsequently, the whole family was denounced from the pulpit by the compassionate parish priest who accused them all of harbouring a harlot. Then my father, her brother, lost his position as the head altar boy. And another one of his sisters was refused admittance to the convent because of her shameful family. This all happened in the early thirties of the past century. My grandmother and grandfather never spoke to their daughter again. They say she broke her father's heart and sent him to an early grave as she was his favourite.

A few years ago I phoned an aunt (now deceased) to cry on her shoulder about Missing Daughter. I knew my mother, if she'd been alive, would have sorted it all out. She had that way with her. So telling her sister made sense to me. Even though she lived in London, England. She wept with me. And then told me one of her grandchildren had done the same thing. Fled to Australia with a boyfriend, severing ties with her parents and by extension, her grandparents. She could only offer me empathetic tears, no solution.

We're a very fragmented family, our family. Very rarely is Missing Daughter mentioned. Except by one or two, who always ask for news. Whether this absence of support is a genetic legacy or cold-hearted 'I'm alright, Jacks'. I don't know. I don't care. I'd sure like to fix it though. Inject some compassion into the dispassion. Heal it up a little.

This whole post was triggered by a long, sobbing message left on my voicemail by Daughter while I was out yesterday. She was in Montreal and missing her sister so much she had to call me in floods of tears.

And ended her message with this:

"Mum, I can't imagine what hell you're going through without any family support. At least I have you!"

Yeah, hell would be a good term for it. Forget about those fires those compassionate parish priests talked about.

Hell is just unbelievably cold, bleak and lonely.

The Famine and the Laundries

I had a long, long conversation with a good friend in Ireland yesterday about the Ireland we grew up in, the Ireland of shame, guilt and sorrow.

I can't have conversations like these except with "one of my own." One who was brought up with the almighty grip of the Catholic Church running the lives of all around us. A grip that despised women and hated their children even worse. Where sex was a filthy word and if you had a "flirtatious" personality and were incested by your father or uncle or brother or raped by the parish priest you could be committed to an institution that would work you from dawn to dusk. Slavery by another name. Tiny children imprisoned and working their fingers to the bone. The government was complicit in these incarcerations. No surprise at all. Fear was a constant companion. An innocent walk with a father would result in him pointing out some of these grim gray buildings with barred windows in the middle of the country where "bad" boys and girls, some as young as 5, could be thrown, never to see their families again.

My friends, you have no idea. I'm just giving you the very spit of it, a wee taste.

To read more of it go to Bock the Robber's blog today. He connects the Famine (a genocide actually) and the Laundries in a way I've thought of but could never articulate as well as he has. He does it beautifully. Savagely. And succintly.

Excerpt:

Crushed. Demoralised. Three to four million native Irish speakers removed at a stroke. Its culture eviscerated by emigration, starvation and disease, thanks to a government in London that believed in tooth-and-claw laissez faire economics. A government whose only interest was the wealthy merchant classes, and the devil take the hindmost.

This is an Ireland far, far removed from those travel posters and paddywackery.

And the horror percolates downwards through all generations of my country.

Ask anyone there, ask me, what their families did to survive the famine and you will get a blank stare. We just don't know.

One of my family members ran one of those laundries.

And my highschool mini-choir would go to the institutions to sing for the unfortunates. But we were forbidden to speak to them and they to us.

And we knew our fate if we stepped out of line.

Blog Jam

Do you find that as the world spins more and more out of control males seem to fixate more and more on the world of sports? The gear, the beer, the cheer, the FB postings? I shouldn't say male. Some females of my acquaintance do too. I've always found it an odd pursuit, gaping at widescreen teevee sports, beer and wings and chips and popcorn at the ready, cheering for millionaire unknowns as if one knew them.

In extremis of the above paragraph: the superbowl had the most viewers, the most sexually charged performances, the most human traffic with pimps (an estimated 10,000), the raunchiest, most violent ads., etc., in history. And very few see anything wrong with that.

I'm thinking of starting a more cerebral type of dinner party circle here. A potluck and "bring something to read" event, drifting around to different houses once a month or so. I ran it by a friend today and she was really enthused. Elevating the level of discourse which tends to circle around the 3Ks here in my wee outport. If it doesn't start with me, where does it start. I instigated a really lovely one in Toronto years ago and most of us are still in touch.

I don't know why this story (true) popped into my head today, but it did. About 12 years ago I had a call from another accountant who had her own practice. She said she had to meet with me as she had a very sensitive matter to discuss. The long and the short of it was her son had died. He was a highly successful IT entrepreneur and hadn't filed his taxes in six years which was a total shock to her. A bachelor, he had left everything to her. She couldn't face the boxes and boxes of material he had left behind and engaged me to do the work. Which I did. But the oddest, weirdest thing was the way he died. The overhead fan in his bedroom had stopped working. He took a knife from his kitchen drawer and attempted to tighten one of the screws. The fan started up and the knife flew out of his hand and into his heart. Instant death. 34 years old.

I am preparing a story telling talk. I have so many stories. I really want to tell them. They float in and out of my head to bursting.

All of us should be telling more stories. I remember my granny's and even my great-granny's. And so many in between.

Conversational Booby Traps

It seems I'm always being taken unaware by conversational booby traps. It must be a comedy to be around me. I think to myself, privately, was I sometimes so unaware as a child to learn how to extricate myself from such entrapment? I could have been, though I can tell you I didn't miss much, I was your silent listener with a book behind the sofa or lurking at the top of the stairs, soaking it all in.

To my utter shock, I was caught a few times recently.

Example 1:

An acquaintance who has never been to my house grabs some DVDs off my shelves and announces:

A. "I am borrowing these."

WWW: "Well, actually, I never lend out my movies"

A.: "Don't you trust me?"

WWW: "No, it's not a matter of trust. I base this on past experiences..."

Friend standing by: "Oh, you can trust her. I'll vouch for her."

A.: "See how ridiculous you are?"

A marches off. With my movies. I still don't know what I could have said to her.

Example 2:

I tell a friend here I am going to Toronto for a few weeks as another friend has offered me her downtown house.

F.: "Oh great, I've always wanted to hang around downtown Toronto! We'll spend some time, you can show me your old haunts. Great!!"

WWW: "Well, the house is a bit small, my granddaughter might want to stay...."

F: "Oh, I won't be in the way at all, just point me towards the subway!"

WWW: "And I'll want to entertain my friends and gabfest, etc."

F: "I'm dying to meet your friends, see what your Toronto life was like..."

Why am I always afraid to say NO out loud and vehemently?

So here I am now, still shy of a couple of movies a month later, and with a Toronto flight unbooked.

People pleaser. Yeah, I know. But how to stop? Is there some kind of lingo I missed out on?

Imbolc

Today was Imbolc, a great pagan feast in pre-Christian Ireland, "one of the four quarter days of the pagan year, which marked the beginning of spring, lambing, and lactation in cattle." Commandeered, of course, by the early Christians who created the feast of St. Brigid in lieu.

My mother's middle name as it turns out - she was born on St. Brigid's Eve, and the eldest daughter. Bridie, Breed, Brie, Brigette, Gette, and my favourite "Bridgeen", are all variants of the name.

Daughter gave a talk last night on the story telling tradition of the women in our family. I had hoped it would be filmed but alas and alack it was not to be, but she summarized it for me today via speaker phone as she made her way home from doing familial representation for my friend David's wake. I would have loved to have been in her audience.

I was out driving last night in rather nasty conditions - fog and a high wind. I know that mix sounds crazy. But this weather is. Probably for you too. The fog was thick and nasty on the high hills and very distracting as it whirled and danced to the tune of the headlights. To add to my stress level I had a midnight deadline to meet for an "Expression of Interest" in a theatrical venture. Don't you love these terminologies? Like putting your toe in the water when you want to dive full throttle off the pier.

Anyway, I reached home in one piece and the phone was ringing. And it was a friend. Wanting to make sure I was OK after the drive. I was so touched. This check in is not a norm for me at all. Having a solitary existence 'n all. Sometimes these tiny touches of kindness are immense. This was. I knew I had to pass it on. And I did today.

Happy Imbolc to all.

Surly Bonds of Earth

Try as I might, I can't stop the only mental picture I have of my good friend David who slipped the surly bonds on Wednesday night.

It's not a good image. It's an image of him curled around a cigarette, outside buildings, on porches, sliding into his car. Banished to the outside of life, white stick in hand, smoke curling around his yellow face. Always standing at a distance, sucking in lungfuls of carcinogens. His hugs had the deep, invasive pall of nicotine. Enough to make one gag, enough to make one cough to cover up the gag. His skin showed it. His clothes wept it. His death exalts it to a sacrament.

Another good friend said to me one time after we both quit the evil weed. "Past forty, if one continues to smoke, one begins to look like a cigarette." I have to agree. David, along with many other good friends who continued on puffing, looked like a cigarette.

"Begone," I would scream at my not insignificant habit, "You effing white little tube, you do NOT own me anymore." This, along with other mantras and behaviour changes helped me kick it to the curb. Twenty five years ago now. I was seeing too much death from it then. Still do.

I didn't sleep last night. Too much leakage out of the memory bank. Too much what ifs.

If you're a smoker out there, stop. Stop! If I can, with my forty-a-day habit, anyone can.

His death was agony.

Chalk another one up to Rothman's.

Weather, blah-blah.

~~~~~~Monochromatic, beautiful winter on the bay. Click to enbiggen~~~~~~

We're all in that weather obsessed mode, aren't we. My blog friend Friko wrote about the sloppiness of it all. At least for those of us in the northern hemisphere. My friends hanging off the southern half of ye old globe try not to gloat too much, they send me pictorial reminders of a non-white, non-wet landscape choking itself on lush vegetation.

Yeah, I can't make any plans without a massive consult with the weather network. Though I did manage a WHOLE day out yesterday and plan another one on Wednesday.

Weather talk is boring. I need to focus on my magnificent landscape, the fact that a plea for more firewood on FB (long, long story for another time)resulted in friends jumping in yet again with trucks and chainsaws, another play happening-nearly, and yes, thinking Toronto is a good idea, there's a ticket sale, yahoo!

Attitude

I'm getting this photo of mine blown up for a friend who was raised in this magical valley.

I'm trying to push myself into an attitude of gratitude. I do try. All the time. But have to remind myself when I slip and kvetch.

I've spent most of the day on the phone. With two friends. One is a new friend who lives in Montreal. Funny that: how one can connect in the matter of minutes and just know that the relationship will hold. We talked books and writing. Mainly. But family stuff too. Heavy shyte as I like to say. Amazing that our lives are open books to each other and we, seriously, have only known each other a few months. That happens sometimes. Gratitude. She will share a session she's having in New York with a well-known author with me.

The other friend lives in Toronto and offered her house to me for a month while she's away. Right on the subway. And her car. And she adores my dog. And she has a piano. I've missed my piano something fierce. And I truly despise the electric keyboard that was given to me.

I'm thinking about it.

And I marvel at how generous these two people are in my life.

And yes, I will try and keep myself in this state of perpetual gratitude. It's a good spot to be in.

Love Stories

Have love stories been co-opted by romance?

To me, most love stories are the ones that live on and on and on. Romances can break, fall down, get up, fall down again, get obliterated along the way by another romance. This cycle to repeat itself over and over again. Unless one is in a long term marriage or partnership and still respect and honour each other. Not too many of those around in my observation.

I'm talking other love stories. The ones that stick around and hang out and support and sympathize and cry with you and almost identify you. The ones within families. The ones with lifelong friends. And with dogs. And cats and turtles.

I've never had a bad day with my dog. We just love each other to pieces. I grieve when I'm away from her. And she from me. Her dictionary is enormous. Her sensitivity to my moods acute. As mine is to hers. She is there through thick and thin. A love story.

I have a friend in Dublin. I fell in love with her when I was 5 and she was an import to our school from England. She had this English accent and was forced to sing a song in Irish. The class laughed and laughed with the encouragement of the evil teacher but I was in absolute awe of her lack of embarrassment. Completely unselfconscioous, she went right through to the very end of the song and even bowed. We email each other every day and send each other books we love. When we get together it is like the conversation is picked up from where it ended the time before. Sixty years is a true love story.

I think it goes without saying that my love for my daughters and granddaughter is a love story, though there is now an enormous gap in the story of my younger daughter and me. A gap that may remain. The same with another who was as precious as my daughters to me and severed contact without reason. We all have stories like those. But have to move on. To the love stories that are possible and continuous.

I was reminded of this when an old friend called today. She has had unimaginable health issues. It has almost become a joke as bits of her body break down or succumb to the cancer or heart trouble that invade her periodically. Now it is stenosis and arthritis and a hernia. It is mind-boggling. But our love story of artistic support and sympathy and occasional tears counter balanced by hilarious laughter binds us together. Forever I like to think. But forever is an illusion. Forever is a dangerous word.

I only have to count the love stories in my life in the zone of now. And I run out of fingers.

Something to Look Forward To

Newest Ad from Newfoundland and Labrador Tourism.

My father would say this at the beginning of the year:

To make life worth living, you always have to have something to look forward to in the coming twelve months.

He was right.

Daughter and I had one of our marathon phone sessions today. No, we don't do Skype as that locks you in place. We do Bluetooth. Which means we can move around and cook, clean, knit, let the dog out and some important etceteras.

My birthday came up in conversation and she really wants to plan a vacation trip for it, one with Grandgirl involved. The three of us have travelled a lot together over the years. South Carolina, Mexico, Ireland, etc. So Daughter said there are three choices I think Mum. New York, Iceland or Labrador.

You can guess what I chose (and Daughter agreed). Yeah, Labrador, the Big Land. There are people I know who have taken their vacations for the last 36 years in Newfoundland and Labrador and who have yet to see all of it. Truly.

We're much the same, we think. It is very easy to get sidetracked here. Every bend on the road produces a new vista, another outport to explore and stay a wee while. This year we want to head to L'Anse aux Meadows to the Viking settlement and then hop the ferry to Labrador.

Yeah, something to look forward to. I'm excited already. We 3 generations on the hoof. Again.

A Book Club Book?

My Den (don't I just wish!)

I was at my book club today. I love my book club. I think I've mentioned it before. To add to it now, my oldest friend in the whole wide world has hers on the 3rd Monday of each month also. She's in Dublin. We exchange daily emails and have for years and years. And of course talk books with each other. So she feels even closer.

Anyways, today, over our lunch, we were discussing "Dinner at the Homesick Restaurant" which was our book for last month and all these stories start to pop out of us about sibling rivalries (which was one of the book's themes) and even passive aggressive behaviours we've exhibited, and sad, unhappy mothers, and the biggest theme of all in the book: sibling memories which can differ so greatly from each other.

And someone nudged me and said, I think you should be jotting all of this stuff down, these real-life stories are so bloody interesting. And they are. And maybe I should. Or is it an overdone theme?

I would like to write a novel about a book club, I know it's been done before. BUT.

Knowing When To Fold 'Em

Knitted scarves but not by me.

Y'all know I'm a knitter. I've been knitting since I was seven. I never saw a pair of needles or a twist of wool I didn't jump on. I DESIGN knitting pieces.

I bought some local wool recently (well October, okay?) to knit three scarves for some beloveds. Reading it beforehand, the pattern was a piece of cake.

But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't get into the rhythm of it. Not at all. Like a piece of piano music, or a song, or a speech, or that perfect photo, the rhythm never took my fingers and made them dance. I can watch a movie or even read a book or look at the fire or the dog or talk to you while I knit. But this was a grim business that took all of my concentration. Many, many hours of work and I had a couple of inches.

We have a phrase in my family when something engages us, no matter what it is. We call it a "Pleasing Project". It can be a sandcastle or a homemade dishcloth or an intricate recipe. Most of my projects (I've posted them here) are pleasing. This wasn't.

So was I ever thrilled when on FB (us Newfoundlanders post just about EVERYTHING on FB)a local woman offered for sale 20 of these scarves in various colours, two of which were the ones I had tossed.)

She delivered them today and I gave her my rewound three balls of yarn.

"How on earth did you find the making of these?" I asked her.

"Oh, a breeze, love, a breeze, I turns one out in about two hours while watching some teevee."

"I thought you were a knitter - you posted some nice stuff on FB, baby blankets and leaf things?" she continued.

"I thought I was too," I said, "But sometimes you just have to know when to fold 'em, as you might want to avoid inflicting some serious damage on yourself."

Found Objects - 2.

I am snowbound, at least for today. Confined to barracks and happy about it. I suppose it's a good test of how content you are with yourself and your life and your home. And home is where my heart is.

I amused myself with the camera today.

I do like this shot of the outside of my office window, the tree laden, the deck railing puffed up like a marshmallow, the sea a grey mystery beyond:

And she comes back! My ladybird friend! Usually it's February she shows up in my office but with the days of odd unseasonal heat, she's early this year. Looking for dinner. And getting it.

Found Objects

I love the matches that are sold here. By law, all packaging in Canada is supposed to be bilingual - French/English - but not on these babies. Ballsy. The word "impregnated" used outside of its standard form always delights me. Sea*Dog. Great name. Didja know that there are some that collect matchbox labels?

And today I made rhubarb jam. I think it is right up there with my favourite jams. The sheer tartness of it. The way you can take it and make a rhubarb pie. Or throw it on icecream. Or chop a few peppers into it and fold it into rice and curry. Endless possibilities. Or mix it into your morning porridge. As I do.

I give up

I pull in to the parking lot outside the local store last night. I get the last parking spot. With the smallest car. The lot holds 7 cars.

And I turn off the motor. As I always do. And as I walk into the store past the rest of the vehicles I notice every single one is running in absentia of the owners. Every. Single. One. Trucks and SUVs all.

And if I ever needed proof that there is no hope at all for this planet, the evidence is all there in front of my nose.

And yes, of course, I am the only one also with my own reusable grocery bag.

A partridge not in a pear tree.

Overlooking the strand late in the day, yesterday

I'm fairly well brought up. If I wasn't I would have taken a picture of my dinner yesterday and shared it with you all.

I was at table ("at table" I must have read that in a book somewhere)with dear friends. Years ago, I remember being on the strand in front of their house with family members. We raved about this strand. It was exactly like one in West Cork in its rock formations, cliffs and overall layout. I remember looking up at the houses, then all unknown to me, and thinking - wouldn't it be lovely to have dinner overlooking all of this beauty?

Swear to gawd, at times my manifestations frighten even me. For here I am having dinner overlooking this beach.

The dinner. They asked if I liked partridge. Well I didn't know did I? So I said I was game(clever pun) to try it.

Oh, oops. The gourmet method of eating partridge is: it is stuffed with its own head and organs. Seriously. And you eat everything including the head. With this information I still held my own, so to speak.

Well, then I looked at my plate. I took a piece of the breast and it was a huge, huge feat on my part not to throw a projectiled barforama across their wonderful lace-dressed table overlooking the strand.

I waxed green I'm sure as mein hosts looked at me, laughed and said "We also roasted a back-up chicken". Oh bless you, bless you I thought as they whisked away my plate.

And fact: patridges get their odd mulberry coloured meat from their diet of partridge-berries. And I love partridge-berries. Unprocessed.

But I didn't look at anyone else as they devoured their delicacies (hunted by my host and his dog).

I was a vegetarian for years.

I may be revisiting that safe scene very soon.

Donald Trump and I

There is one quality in Donald Trump I admire. Very much. And no, I am not taking the mickey or the piss out of him. Seriously. It's his hair. Or rather the way he feels about his hair.

I think it must be the world's longest comb-over. There's some that say it is down to his waist at night and in the morning has to be flipped under/over/under five or six times to make it rest so massively on top of his head. And sometimes the hair spray doesn't hold it all together and a wind takes it in twists and turns around his shoulders and leaves him with a high forehead; by high I mean it goes back to the crown of his head. And all this blondy-white growth then tumbles hither and yon around his neck. Publicly.

And no, I never laugh at him and his hirsute obsession. Because it takes enormous chutzpah to face the derision of the world. And to carry on, and on, and on with the incredible management of your hair in the face of such mockery. He knows how everyone feels and he bloody well carries on and he's a millionaire who could shave his head or wear a wig or get hair-plugs or even tattoo his skull.

It's like his hair is a beloved pet he is going to honour and respect and downright love. For ever.

What brought this on? you might well ask. Well I'm with The Donald on hair. I am the only woman I know over sixty who has long hair. People (usually other women) don't know what to make of me and it. Seriously. It can irritate them. Much like The Donald's crop.

Isn't it a nuisance? Yeah, sometimes.

It must kill you to shampoo it? Yeah, it's a bit of work alright.

Why don't you cut it? It's not time.

Now everything else about Mr. Trump I just about despise, his politics, his racism, his misogyny, his prejudices.

But he and I sing from the same songbook when it comes to our hair.

Hunkering

Can you believe the way the snow crept up my window? Photo taken this a.m.

The thing about storms and hunkering is that regular hours can be thrown for a loop. I couldn't sleep last night, the howling of the wind and those odd creaky things in an old house that come blaringly to life in a storm has thrown my night into day, day into night.

The 3.00 a.m. horror show also appeared - you know how that goes, don't you? Every thought you've had since you were two comes to life. First day of school is there, then a brand new film for me: beloved grandfather dying, mama weeping for what seemed like months afterwards. And no, you can't go to the funeral, we want you to remember him the way he was which always led me to the belief it was a huge big scam and Granddad had run off somewhere never to be seen again. So that film played for a couple of hours inevitably leading to the deaths of other beloveds and maybe it was my turn tonight, and the what about the dog? thought, this time left with my corpse? Would she howl? Eat me? Great, enough of that now.

I could go on and on about the stark raving horrors of the three ayems. I wrote a poem about it one time. And I salute the almighty power of the search engine for locating it:

In the three ayem darkness
To a mind run amok.
In the afternoon rainstorm
To depression unstuck.

In the loan of a shoulder,
To the lean of a hold,
In the ear of attention
To the warmth from the cold.

In the years gone behind us,
To the old you and me,
In the comfort we offer
To the days yet to be.

Written in 2002. I was young then. Well, old then. Well, much older now. In that way of passing sixty at high speed.

It is still windy out and drizzling. Cabin fever hasn't set in yet. I truly love being isolated in times such as these.

It sets the mind to dreaming without interruption.

Da Big One

This is the immediate forecast:

For Thursday night there's an additional 35 to 40cm of snow. Friday has another 20cm and this is all followed on the weekend by a dumping of rain. Winds are supposed to hit 100km/hour which will make it a first class STORM alright.

Right now it is -8c which is very chilly for here. It makes for a star struck night though. Every single star keeps the darkness of the sky awash in white. It is spectacular.

The dog barks outside. I can't see at what, but the bay bounces her voice back at her. There is an overstuffed cat who is patrolling the road out front lately. White with black splotches. You can tell by the strut that (s)he owns the place. It could be the cat out on night patrol putting the fear of gawd into the canines. I had a cat like that once. Owned the entire city block. Would walk with our dogs, head high. Other dogs would whine and run from him.

Grocery stores were so busy today with the impending storm coming. I am well stocked. Power outages are the biggest fear. I am grateful I have the wood stove which does just about everything except wash the dishes.

Hunker is the word I'm using. Lots of books, candles and even an oil lamp and Daughter has fortuitously stored a propane ring in my garage.

What could possibly go wrong?

I'll let you know.

And a picture of flower gifts from the weekend (as a scent-filled reminder of "can Spring be far behind?"):

Nollaig Na mBan

One of my friends bakes her shortbread on her grandmother's stone circle with the old design embossed on it. I just love this connection. Here she is serving it.

I mark the years in my Nollaig na mBan celebrations now. It gives a good slap to the back of December and on to a new year with my women friends.

It reminds me of the loveliness of the Nollaig na Mbans of my childhood years with my mother and aunts and greataunts and grandmother packing our 'front room' in front of the fire. With the laden tea trolley. It is a continuation, an honouring of the female traditions which I am sure were passed down from pre-Christianity in the times of the goddesses in Ireland. I miss my family at such events, my own progeny and Grandgirl, my beloved nieces, my darling sister - though she is with me in spirit as she celebrates it in Cork. And of course my Toronto and Irish friends.

There was much laughter in my diningroom. I allowed the guests this year to bring food. Newfoundlanders feel very naked without staggering under a hamper of food as they come in a friend's front door. And now I will be eating for weeks on the bounty that was laid on my table surrounded by flowers and chocolate and scented female gifts - candles, lotions and soaps. I am reminded of the fragility of our lives, how many that came to my Nollaigs in prior years are no longer with us. I count them by the candles I light. But I do not share this private ritual as a pall might descend.

I was amazed at the number who liked my photo of the event on FB, over 40 at last count, many are suggesting they are going to start their own Nollaig celebration next year. I am delighted, for we need to spread this far and wide. For the women who went before us and the women coming up behind us.

For this annual celebration is a beautiful, loving link to each other.