5%

It was +5C yesterday and I treated myself to the full Aran effect for my long afternoon walk with the wonderdog, Ansa. I had to take a pic. I made it all myself over the years. A headless selfie wouldn't have done it justice at all.

My morning meditation had it:

"We only spent 5% of our lives doing what we love to do best."

It stopped me in my tracks.

Imagine! Only 5%!

Some of the 95% is maintenance, I imagine: roof, food, clothing, medical, etc.

Another chunk would be addiction: booze, food, TV, interwebz.

What do I love to do best?

Write. Read. Knit. Have friends and family in. Take photographs, play the piano. Write and direct plays. Visit friends and family.

I'm caught again by the weather today and had to cancel all town appointments including medical, lunch and dinner with friends, groceries and hair chop.

It is -10C with windchill and freezing rain now to be followed later on by 10CM of snow, followed my more rain. My larder is looking light but I have pre-prepped meals in the freezer.

And I'm writing. Even if it's the blog. I'm writing. Increasing that 5% even a wee bit.

Mmmmmmmm

10 really, really, really favourite food likes:

Gorgonzola cheese.
Anchovies.
Field mushrooms, picked by me from actual fields, preferably in Ireland.
Scallops. Large. Wrapped in bacon. Broiled.
Cappuccino.
Crepes.
Bastible bread.
Aloo Gobi.
Beef Wellington.
Steak & Kidney Pie.

And yes, I make/use them all.

You?

Wee Blisses

My sister and I talked on the phone for nearly 2 hours yesterday. I now get a cheap rate to Ireland of 5c a minute on my mobile. Ridiculous really. I love talking with my sister. My only sister who is nearly 14 years younger than me.

I'd given up hoping for one when all those boys started to arrive in our house. So had my mother. So had my father. When she was born somewhere around midnight on March 1st 195*, my taciturn father, a man who showed very little emotion and only cried once in my presence, burst into my bedroom in the small hours of the morning and could not contain himself: "It's a girl, it's a girl!" I didn't believe him. I had to see her.

And she was beautiful. I couldn't get over her. My mother (who was ill for a long time afterwards) and I mothered her. And dressed her in gorgeous clothes. I would knit her little jackets and Mum would make her dresses and we would clap our hands and exclaim to each other how simply lovely she was, how clever, how her blonde curly hair went to her waist in such a way Shirley Temple should be worried. I would take her in to high school with me and show her off. And yes, everyone was envious. They still remember it.

To this day, my sister never has had self-esteem problems and is a fabulous mother to 4 herself. When I think happy homes I think: my sister's place. She and her husband live in a very old house in Cork, one with rambling halls and back kitchens and an old conservatory and a big kitchen where everyone helps to cook and dance to silly music when they're doing it. She never stands on ceremony and I've seen her huge old table in the kitchen have two circles of chairs around it, the more agile eating on their laps and everyone talking at once. She has that way about her.

The sweetest thing among very many sweet things she says to me: "Your room is always here, WWW. Your room here has your name on the door. Always."

And one of the best things? Grandgirl and her friend are staying with my sister for a while this summer as they backpack Europe.

I get such a ridiculous charge out of calling my young sister "Great-Aunt."

Manifesto of Aging

I watch myself like I'm an experiment in a petri-dish sometimes.

The subtlety of behaviour changes.

My personal manifesto to aging.

No more sleeping in. Ever. Regular as clockwork. No late nights. No alarm. Up at 8.00 a.m. Without fail. Bed made. Dressed. Breakfast the same every morning without fail.

Showers and hair washing are not daily anymore. Skin and hair too dry. They need time to recuperate and gather themselves for the next aquatic assault.

When items around me go even slightly wonky, like needing a repair, I panic. Much like my dad did. My mother died too young for me to observe her in her elder years. Why can't it be fixed today! (Implied – I could be dead by the time it works again.)

I basically lived by the seat of my pants it seems like forever. Now I'm that kind of model citizen I would laugh at (don't they ever have any fun for gawd's sake?). Regular hours. And bowel movements. No hangovers. No desserts. No seconds. Eating out rarely because home-cooked is best – you know what goes into it. Watching the pennies – ha-ha, I'm living longer than my savings and my pension just doesn't cut it. Keenly watching the weather for negotiability.

Hearing myself speak my father's words, my granny's (she outlived my mother, her daughter), setting firmer boundaries, having clearer dislikes and likes. But every pain/ache gets magnified a little. And I try not to talk about them. That is hard.

But also, more confident. My dramatic (my gawd, she has balls!) move to Newfoundland celebrated over and over again. My not caring really, anymore, about what you think of me. My opinions more cherished – by me. And my gifts. I never could see them before, I would demean them, tell you anybody could do what I would do, play piano, write, knit, sing, speak at public forums, host large get-togethers. Speaking openly about ageism, sexism and racism. I am more offended than ever at jokes about any of it. No, it's not funny. And don't tell me I have no sense of humour. But I refuse to laugh at the expense of a demonized group, like elders in diapers or prostitution or gays. And no, it's not extreme PC-ness either. You're the one who needs to grow up and become more aware of how offensive it is.

But being more at peace with myself is the best change of all.

And not too, too crotchety. Yet.

I'm waiting in anticipation.

Tell Me A Story

My gosh, old friends. Friends that have long vanished down the tunnel of their own lives, breathing and doing and celebrating and grieving - without you.

I can never sing the praises of FaceBook loudly enough. As I've mentioned before.

I had a friend, 12 years older than me – though I had forgotten exactly how much older she was as she had that younger energy around her until she reminded me. We played bridge in those days. A lot. In the absence of a foursome, her 12 year old son and my 9 year old daughter filled the gap. We were lucky they were so brilliant.

We lived around the corner from each other in a small town in Ontario. In enormous century homes of red brick and atmosphere. History breathed from each others' walls. I've never lost my love for old houses, obviously.

We cottaged (a uniquely Ontario term for going off to a wilderness cabin for a while) with our kids and husbands of the time. And drank together. Boy, did we drink together. The name of the cottage was “While You're Up”. Tells you everything you need to know. And then there was an incident, as there sometimes is. And the friendship survives or it doesn't, And ours went into a coma.

But I never forgot. And neither did she apparently. Because through FaceBook we have reconnected and it's been so very easy after, oh my, 35 years perhaps. So we now email. Lengthily. We pursued our individual artistic souls after we 'broke up'. And she ended one of her recent emails with: “Tell me a story”.

And so I did and ended mine today with: “Tell me one.”

This could go on for a very long time.

Carpe Something.

Daughter's kitchen and its wall of cast iron goodies. All of which she uses regularly.

Daughter brought her cream of broccoli soup, gluten-free, dairy-free, legume-free. I made my smoked salmon frittata. She also brought muffins.

We sat in front of the fire and ate this delicious repast. And got caught up. There has been limited visiting with each other because of the weather. So this time together was to be treasured. Later on we had a long walk, the old boreens were pretty packed with others carpe-ing while they could. We admired the sea views, the clear blue skies, how joyful Ansa was on the walk, the fellows out cutting wood on the edges of the road, the fellows with half a moose on the back of their trailers.

We spoke of of the Newfoundland Grand Blackout of 2014 which seizes every bit of writing and reportage around these parts and even to the national level. Our premier, Kathy Dunderdale, has been blistered repeatedly for her arrogance and down-talking to the peasants, basically telling us peons it wasn't a crisis even though people were dying and elders moved from senior homes to generator-run hotels in the dark blizzards of the night on stretchers borne down countless freezing concrete emergency stairs. Rumour has it that Kathy was banjed off on a beach in Florida and had to be dragged back kicking and screaming into darkened Newfoundland by her handlers to orate to her pitiful peons. As some pundit put it so well: "She speaks to the residents of the province like some vice-principal berating a class of poorly behaved 4th graders." She does.

But we survive. About which I've written previously. The kindness of strangers and neighbours and that Irish dark humour that keeps us all going. And emergency preparedness like torches and wood and batteries and candles. Note to self: buy some kerosene when it's back in stock again for those decorative oil lamps.

Ennui

en·nui


/änˈwē/


noun

noun: ennui

Def:

a feeling of listlessness and dissatisfaction arising from a lack of occupation or excitement.

synonyms: boredom, tedium, listlessness, lethargy, lassitude, languor, weariness, enervation;

I've never been bored. I don't know what that looks like, actually. There is enough around for me to fire up any creative juices that remain after this continuing weather assault.

New Terms/lingo/phrases, generated by this latest weather permutation:

Polar vortex.
Rolling Blackouts
Warming Centres
Elder Shelters.

Ennui. I always wanted to use the word. It sounds like I'm flopped on the couch, back of hand pressed to forehead, moaning "woe is me", or somesuch. Well, one afternoon I did. I neglected the woe-is-me part and read a book until I fell into a deep sleep and awoke to the fire in ashes. Not bad. I recommend.

I did a bit of writing: started an article that was requested of me. I did some reading. I did office work. I even did some knitting. And bread-making. And even freezer-prepped some dishes. And baked a bastible. So there.

Not enough ennui to qualify me as a full participant, I suppose. But ohmygod will this fecking weather unrelent itself and defrost my outdoor pathways so I can put on the old shyte-kickers and just vacate my house even briefly? Please?

From the Hermitage.

We've been through a rough time on this island. Power outages. No water. The pump house frozen solid. Outrageous weather of lashings of snow and freezing rain completely outside of the norm for the bay. We usually are all green until February.

I am trapped in my house as the ice outside is severe. I laid down salt earlier, hardly a dent on the ice pack. First time ever I had to cancel my Nollaig Na mBan. But, time and again I realize I am never alone. Neighbours astonish me. Trucks arrive with hot (yes, hot!) water, trucks arrive to ferry me elsewhere for dinner, plumbing genius digs out pump house, runs heater into it, defrosts pump. Blessed water pours forth after another day. I genuflect to my wood stove every night during this. I cook on it and it heats the house.

Perversely, I am glad of these emergencies. They show my 'hood in its true colours, kind, caring, sharing. My chicken lady's husband delivered eggs today. Calls of care and compassion come in. A friend hands me an old fashioned phone to plug in. Those wireless fancy things do not work in a power outage but the old fashioned kind do. Note to self. And others out there.

And all systems are now go again. But I'm wondering about tomorrow, wondering whether I can leave here to head into my office up the road. I am wary of this ice. I have the utmost respect for it.

It looks so damn pretty but I know it hides nasty underneath.

A Reluctant Farewell

I wouldn't call him a friend, exactly. But he was more than an acquaintance or a ship passing in the night. I wonder why there isn't a word for those in between relationships.

He helped me a few times with research in the library. I was looking into the Blue Puttees - a Newfoundland regiment that fought in Beaumont Hamel in France in WW1 to an enormous loss of life and devastating effect on this island - a whole generation of young men wiped out and sacrificed for nothing. We'd meet frequently at cards and engage with each other relentlessly. A sort of semi-flirtatious repartee. Tall and quite handsome with a full head of silver hair, he was a life long bachelor with an obsequiousness for all things Catholic.

He reminded me greatly of the old Catholics I was surrounded by in Ireland. The sanctimonious ones who would lodge in one ear while renting out the other one.

The most peculiar thing he'd do would be staggering around on Good Friday up the road outside the church with a cross on his back, atoning for his sins.

He struck me as always being terrified. I'd heard he'd had a nervous breakdown way back in the day and was forced to retire early from teaching. He filled his long retirement years manning a volunteer library which he kept stocked and sorted and indexed. He opened it up two afternoons a week but you had to call first to make sure his opening the library was worth his while.

We bonded over books, though he was easily scandalized by any "unmoral" writings which forced me to tease him mercilessly. I did try desperately to be kind but the sight of him blushing and sweating would encourage me in the other direction. Though a small part of me still insists he enjoyed being scandalized.

He drove around to my side of the bay and brought me green peppers from his garden one year which I made into green pepper soup and froze. But he would never come into my house as he was terrified of dogs and didn't know why anyone would have one in the house where people ate and slept.

According to local lore, he was a savage gossip and just about ran the local church, the right hand man of the priest who was on the right hand of God himself. Inwardly, I referred to him as "priesty man".

I am saddened at his passing yesterday. Suddenly. He never travelled off the island and admitted to me the thought of leaving it made him "sick." He would laugh long and hard and inappropriately at something that confused him which could irritate those in his company.

I feel I could have done more for him. Been kinder and more welcoming when he'd stop his car when I was out road- training. He'd ask me if I was coming to the library soon or could I drop by for a cup of tea at his brown house across the bay.

I never did.

The Books of 2013

Well, I beat the 78 record of The Books of 2012 with 79 total books read in 2013. My ambition years ago was to read 100 books in a year. Not even close. I'm getting more fussy as I age. I toss far, far quicker than I used to if a book is not to my taste or interest or just badly written.

The short list of the very best were:

Austerlitz - W.G. Sebald
The Two Minute Rule - Robert Crais
Bel Canto - Ann Pritchett
A Virtuous Woman - Kaye Gibbons - I read it again, I love it so.
The Light Between Oceans - M.L. Stedman
The Book of Ruth - Jane Hamilton
Fidelity - Michael Redhill
Saints & Sinners - Edna O'Brien
Three Junes - Julia Glass
Home from the Vinyl Cafe - Stuart McLean
Amy & Isabelle - Elizabeth Strout
We need to talk about Kevin - Lionel Shriver
Mr. Sandman - Barbara Gowdy
The Hidden Mountain - Gabrielle Roy
Swamp Angel - Ethel Wilson
Friendship,Hateship, Loveship, Courtship,Marriage - Alice Munroe - again for Book Club and honouring her Nobel.
Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout

I am so pleased to see that many are Canadian. This was unintentional. Most are also female writers. Also unintentional. I read the choices of my book club, recommendations of others, and family-friends gifts/loans.
The best, by far, was "The Hidden Mountain" by Gabrielle Roy. Lyrical and beautiful. I would read again. And again. And anyone to whom I've recommended it are astounded by its beauty. Summary: 16 out of 79 were superb. Not a bad ratio.

Here is the complete list:

(1)Two Girls From The Bay - Helen Best-Colgan* Lecturing/reminding the reader,awful editing. Sad, sad story deserved much better.
(2)Martin Sloane - Michael Redhill****
(3)On the Natural History of Destruction - W.G. Sebald****
(4)What we all long for - Dionne Brand****
(5)Summer of Hate - Chris Kraus****
(6)Brick Lane - Monica Ali(gift)***1/2 too long
(7) (8)An Intimate History of Humanity
(9)Sweet Tooth - Ian McEwan**Huge construct with no payoff
(10)Hit Parade - Lawrence Block - dropped, pathetic 0
(11)Charade - Sandra Brown oddly compelling **
(12)The Great Fire - Shirley Hazzard****
(13)The Two Minute Rule - Robert Crais*****Brilliant
(14)Saint Maybe - Anne Tyler****
(15)The Reconstruction - Claudia Casper**
(16)Bel Canto - Ann Pritchett*****Brilliant
(17)A Virtuous Woman - Kaye Gibbons***** (2nd Reading loved it both times)
(18)Left Bank - Kate Muir***
(19)The Light Between Oceans - M.L. Stedman{BC}*****
(20)The Monkey's Raincoast - Robert Crais*Oh Bobby what happened to you? I'm now officially offya.
(21)The Book of Ruth - Jane Hamilton*****Extraordinary
(22)A Pale View of the Hills - Kazuo Ishiguro***lovely but unfinished?
(23)The Secret Stones - Dee Holmes**
(24)Vertigo - W.G. Sebald
(25)I, Fatty - Jerry Stahl***(fascinating story of the origins of Hollywood and the movies)
(26)No Fixed Address - Aritha van Herk(thanks Daughter)Marvellous****
(27)Fidelity - Michael Redhill*****
(28)The Time In Between - David Bergen**
(29)The Cat's Table - Michael Ondaatje***{BC}
(30)Saints & Sinners - Edna O'Brien*****
(31)Quench the Lamp - Alice Taylor****wonderful memoir of a Cork childhood
(32)Home from the Vinyl Cafe - Stuart McLean*****laugh out loud funny
(33)Three Junes - Julia Glass*****fabulous,complex{BC}
(34)Amy & Isabelle - Elizabeth Strout*****Stunning
(35)Bad Dirt - Annie Proulx
(36)We need to talk about Kevin - Lionel Shriver*****riveting, appalling
(37)The Good Mother - Sue Miller(did I read this back in the day?)**never got to care for this character, selfish almost narcissistic
(38)The Red Room - Nicci French****excellent for its genre
(39)Sweetwater Creek - Anne Rivers Siddons**all filler no meat
(40)The Chosen One - Carol Lynch Williams****made me cry
(41)Where She Has Gone - Nino Ricci****
(42)Fear the Worst - Linwood Barclay**formulaic
(43)A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again - David Foster Wallace***
(44)The Tipping Point - Malcolm Gladwell***
(45)The Badger Riot - J.R. Ricketts****(a period in NL history beautifully captured)
(46)The Summons - John Grisham*(unread book supply needs massive transfusion)
(47)The Stories of Eva Luna - Isabel Allende
(48)Girls Like Us - Sheila Weller****
(49)Reconstructing Amelia - Kimberly McCreight**** (unputdownable)
(50)The Salt Road - Jane Johnson
(51)The Bluest Eye - Toni Morrison{BC}***(not as impressed as most)
(52)The Redeemer - Jo Nesbo 0 - who recommended him? Scenes and characters jumping around even on the one page. Could not finish. Awful
(53)Priest - Ken Bruen****
(54)Mother - Linda Ann Rentschler
(55)Mr. Sandman - Barbara Gowdy, what a wonderful read! Thanks Daughter!*****
(56)Six Metres of Pavement - Farzana Doctor disappointing structure, poor editing**
(57)Bring up the Bodies - Hilary Mantel - thanks, bro. Don't understand The Booker or the fuss**
(58)The Magdalen Martyrs - Ken Bruen - can't get enough of this author****
(59)The Age of Hope - David Bergen*** {BC}
(60)A Casual Vacancy - J.K. Rowling - thank you Grandgirl!503 pages!****
(61)A Door in the River - Inger Ash Wolfe**Disappointing 3rd book in a series.
(62)The Hidden Mountain - Gabrielle Roy*****Lyrical, gorgeous writing - TY Daughter
(63)The Guards - Ken Bruen****
(64)Hungry Hill - Daphne du Maurier - thanks, bro!****
(65)Defending Jacob - William Landay{BC}****Unputdownable!
(66)Icy Sparks - Gwyn Hyman Rubio* FAIL
(67)Places Lost - Scott Walden*****
(68)The Dramatist - Ken Bruen***
(69)Headstone - Ken Bruen**
(70)Castaway - Elin Hilderbrand***
(71)Swamp Angel - Ethel Wilson*****
(72)The Black Box - Michael Connolly***
(73)Friendship,Hateship, Loveship, Courtship,Marriage - Alice Munroe(again)*****(BC)
(74)Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte (again&again)still hate it
(75)Olive Kitteridge - Elizabeth Strout*****
(76)The Year of the Flood - Margaret Attwood - dropped 2/3 in, not a fan of later Maggie
(77)White Heat - M.J. McGrath****
(78)A Death in Belmont - Sebastian Junger****
(79)Caught - Lisa Moore**** (thank you, Grandgirl!)

Status Update

Qidi Vidi Village in the heart of St. John's - photo by Perry Howlett

It's been an unusual December around here. Normally, our December is green. But we've had lashings of the white stuff. Then a layer of ice on top. Then more lashings of white stuff. I have a tunnel up my driveway to the garage. I am very lucky I've a lot of land around me to handle all the snow. In the city people are stuck. Nowhere to put it. And St. John's does not clear off its sidewalks. Seriously. Like at the first sign of snow it rolls itself up in an ice fortress for the winter and tells everyone to feck off. I fantasize, sometimes, about living there in the heart of downtown St. John's which is uber pretty. But holy Hannah, I would go mental in the wintertime. Especially at my age, nervous about breaking something in a bad fall. Hearing the horror stories of others who smash their pelvises and other sundry bits on icy sidewalks. Kids risk life and limb meandering through traffic in the middle of the roads going to school. I've seen sidewalks piled six feet high with the snow from the roads. Impassable. Completely.

I'm reading Caught by Lisa Moore. And I'm thoroughly enjoying it. I love her writing style where the small is magnified into something beautiful, the swish of fabric, the lupines at the side of the road, the lighting in a bar. I was fortunate to be her dinner companion at a conference and was in awe of her vast general knowledge.

I'm trying to put a priority list together and getting nowhere. Screen sucking distracts me. I need to unplug the effing Thingies and get on with my life rather than create these endless byroads in my brain. I can waste, um, two six hours and not be able to tell you what the hell I was doing or even try and sound minimally intelligent at the end of it all. Not good. For me. For anyone.

Avoidance.

I'm the expert.

Free lessons.

To Soothe the Inner Beast

I know. Some of you haven't a clue what I'm talking about. I do have inner beasts. I would slay them with alcohol, food, whathaveyous. Sedate them into briefly napping. And then they would wake up and start to savage me from inside once again, they were insatiable. It was an endless cycle.

Not anymore. Not for today.

I felt them tickling my brain earlier today. I made a few phone-calls. Talked to others who like me, feel the dragons stretching and yawning. Not all the time. But especially this time of the year when the intensity of the Christmas is passed and there is a lull before New Year's and all is quiet. And then the slow stirring of the inner monsters begins.

I don't entertain them, these dragons followed closely by the Black Dog. I put plans in place: my annual Nollaig Na mBan for Sunday, January 5th. I reach out to others. I think: I need to paint this place. I think, like my father in his time: what can I truly look forward to this year? I think: my town has put me in such a position of trust, I will not let them down. I think:what a gloriously awesome day, can I put grippers on the soles of my boots and negotiate the now ice-layered snow. I think: what else can I do with turkey, what was that dish I would do with noodles? Tetrazini or something.

And I play Haydn's Maria Theresa Mass, see above. It soothes. Oh, how it soothes.

For a truly and thoroughly recovered former Catholic that is ironic, n'est pas?

The Best of Times

For your pleasure ~ The Chieftains - The Bells of Dublin

I don't take anything for granted. Some are alone and in despair this time of the year. Some are overcrowded and miserable and overeating and overdrinking. Some are alone by choice and loving it. It takes all kinds, right?

Whatever you're doing, I hope it is what you desire.

The season can be fraught with pitfalls. I know. One of my friends would brace herself every year for the 911 calls over the three days. They would draw lots in her office for who was unlucky enough to answer the non-stop telephone calls. It was the worst time of the year. Suicides, domestic violence, drunkenness, homicides or serious injury, overdosing. The stories she would tell from her 3 agonizing days of double pay had me never viewing Christmas in the same light again.

Mine?

I am truly grateful Daughter and Grandgirl are here with me. We are into a rhythm of daily walks in the snow, taking turns cooking and dishwashing, fire-lighting, movie watching, music listening. And most of all peaceful reading. We three are all avid readers and bonus! love each others' favourites.

I've loved our walks the most, I think. The snow has been deep and crisp and even and we play with our footprints in it and chase the dog who runs around us trying to decide who her favourite person is - for the moment. A friend took a wonderful portrait of the three of us at her house which some of you have seen on Facebook.

Memories. Created by the minute.

I wish you peace.
I wish you contentment.
I wish you quiet joy.

A Maple Leaf Christmas

Leo's easy to buy for. And I buy for him rather than make for him as his mental age is 12. He keeps my house running beautifully. The stuff I would be reluctant to learn. At my age we know our skill sets. And I have many. But the sawing of wood and the drawing of water are not amongst my talents.

He has an undying passion for the Toronto Maple Leaf Hockey Team. A totally losing team. And before a game starts on TV, he dons it all before he sits down to watch: the hat, the jersey, the pants. All logoed.

I've managed, over the 10 years I've employed him, to endow him with Maple Leaf gear: the watch, a bed blanket, coffee mugs, a rack, etc. I am running out of items to get him. Each gift is met with a joy beyond bounds. This year Daughter tracked down a wreath, a wreath with two Maple Leaf snowmen in the middle - see above. It came in a big box. When I gave it to him, I was reminded of my own childhood Christmases. The longed for teddy. The books. The fresh supply of building bricks. My brother's first train set. Magic.

Leo takes care of all my wood. He harvests it up on my back woodlot, he brings it down to the meadow in his ATV trailer. He chainsaws it, he makes the splits, he stacks it in the barn. He makes sure my indoor woodbox is always full. He cleans out the chimney every 3 months, top to bottom. He mows my lawn, he takes care of the sheds.

He is indispensable. And he teaches me all the time.

For instance, the other day my fire just wouldn't light. I am too rushed at times. He showed me what his father had shown him and what his father had shown him......you get two splits. You place them in the sign of the cross over the struggling fire. And bingo! the fire starts up in a beautiful blaze.

Blog Jam

I was up the earliest in the house this morning. I had to go to my office up the road. I took this shot of the bay with its ice fog while still dancing around in my peejays. The warm air and the cold air duking it out. The bay, in all its manifestations, never ceases to enthrall me.

I cruised blogs, sprinkled comments here and there. Most of my favourites never cease to engage me, they get my mind rolling in different directions.

I can't link to all of my reads of today. I'll link to my thoughts instead. I had a cautionary story from one not to rant so much as my elder years pile up on top of me. As I started a bit of a rant in my office today I was reminded of that, I watched the glaze build-up in the eyes of my listeners who were, well, trapped. Captive. I'm their boss. I deserve respect, blah-blah-blah. I remembered the post, put on my brakes and talked resurfacing local roads instead. Phew. Yes, the ranting days are over. Time to do. Time to listen. Hang up the blowing off steam shoes.

Another had a post about motherhood. Surely, there is no monolithic motherhood format, is there? It is what it is in all its complexities. The title of mother does not encompass a one size fits all, surely? I would never think I was very good at it. I did my best. Still do. Like my mother did. And some would say a fulfilled mother, intellectually, emotionally, creatively, is the best kind of mother and a power of example to her daughters and sons. And yes, some of us are thrust into the role before our time. Access to birth-control was non-existent in my girlhood. The whole slut/virgin thing reigned supreme courtesy of a blinkered government with religion as the puppet master. You were supposed to keep your legs crossed until rescued from this appalling spinster state by the White Knight. And many mothers have no choice in working and putting food and clothes on the wee ones' backs, untraceable dad having scarpered four years ago with the babysitter.

A few of my blogmates have broken hearts this season. I grieve for them but know that it is only through my pain I learned the most. About me. And so will they.

I try not to write from privilege. I try and understand and learn and listen. And recognise my own failings and sometimes follow the wisdom of others. I don't always succeed.

I am grateful Daughter and Grandgirl are here with me. Sharing the joys of each others' company, having a good old belly-laugh with each other. Planning a slow-moving holiday season, savouring each precious moment.

I feel very, very fortunate.

But I know that far too many in the world can't say that.

Clementine Bread

One of the great bonuses of a sort of semi-retired life (at least retired from the stuff that never quite fulfilled me) is baking and cooking. There never was time for it before. I've always cooked and baked of course, but never got time to experiment, take the time to create. I dig into the memory box and mentally go back to my granny's kitchen and watch her gather her bits and pieces about and throw it all into the bastable oven and hang it over the turf fire. This is how I remembered her bastable cake/bread recipe.

I infinitely adapt it as the mood and supplies take me. Just like her. Today I had an overload of clementines. Those luscious little balls of sunshine. So I made a zest of 3 of the skins to the music of Frankie Gavin and kinda pulped their insides. Added 3 more clementines for good measure, these I sectioned and halved. For more colour I threw in cranberries. And bingo!

I bet you never saw the marriage of those two words, clementines and bread, before now did you?

And you were asking about Frankie? I just love the fresh twists he puts on Beatles, Mozart, etc. Here's a sample, try not to dance.

Snowbound

'Tis early for the snow. Very early. Normally we get it around February as we are so sheltered on this part of the Avalon Peninsula where I live.

I had to cancel a lot of plans for yesterday as I made the decision not to head into St. John's where I had a few commitments. I cancelled them and just hunkered down at home. Blizzards on the highway at night with flying trucks and wayward moose are not conducive to peace of mind. Not at all. I speak as one who has huddled in terror at the side of the un-safety-railed road as passing trucks threw snow on me in such quantities that the wipers could not perform.

The sun is brilliant right now. I took a picture this morning of it cracking the hill behind my house. It was minus 10 Centigrade and I was wondering why I was so cold. The fingers had it. My fingers tell me the temperature. Always.

Yesterday morning I spent in my brand new office up the road. Filing cabinets and bookshelves and guest chairs and everything. I never thought to be in such a place.

My present life continues to astonish me.

The calendar ticks over.

In her sister's arms.

Today, on her birthday, every year, I write about her - my estranged child.

What more is there to add? Nothing has changed. The pain can bite me out of nowhere some days. Catching sight of someone who looks like her, hearing one of her songs on the radio, remembering her acerbic wit, astonishing intelligence and outrageous humour.

How can you give up hope? asked a friend the other night. It's easier not to hope, I respond, if I have no hope of a reconciliation then I can't be disappointed, right?

Sometimes love is just not enough.
Or the right kind.
Or unwanted.

Rebirth

As we come up to Winter Solstice , I am struck by the fact that for the first December in eons I'm not complaining about the short days. I'm working my life around them, early to bed, early to rise. Masses of Vitamin D.

I was in the midst of my jog-walk today,(picture above taken from my android)and thinking I'd never felt more alive. Normally, in December I'm a bit of a horrible wretch, longing for Spring, renewal, colours. But not these days. I'm feeling very present, enjoying the chill in the air, my woolly cap on my newly shorn head, my thinsulate glovvies on my fingers, my layers of many colours underneath the running jacket. Elder dog seems to be in the same mode as me. Bounding joyfully along the side of the road in front. As you can see.

My December motto: Grab each day as it arrives and French kiss it to the ground.

Mwah!

Problems and Solutions

I've recently been thrust into a position of enormous trust which was an intrinsic component to my decision in having some recent downtime on the blog.

I've been writing for years and years (and years) on the disturbing trends in increased corporatism, rampant climate change, the ongoing inequality of women and social classes, not to mention ethnic groups, the shrinking fixed incomes of private sector single retirees, the hellish marriage of church and state, oh, bloody hell yawn, I could bore for Canada on such matters. And beyond.

So where to begin. I mean the whining has to stop, the blood pressure has to be lowered. So then what?

Well, it begins where I live. I can only change me. And then it was down to a nutshell. Do I continue to piss into the wind or do I turn around and become part of the solution. Maybe a solution that is just felt in me and the small territory around me. Maybe sprinkle a little more awareness with a spice of:

"Will you look at that erosion on our seashore in front of our noses there".

"How about old Albert, is he getting extended home care, we don't want him leaving his house, he loves his bit of garden so."

"What do you think, we have that old trail winding up to the most gorgeous bird-rimmed fish-filled lake, maybe we can get together and clear off the bits of brush on the sides of it and put picnic benches by the lake and Joe over there would write the story of it. What a tourist attraction for our small outport and for us!"

So, yeah.

I'm becoming part of the solution. It's not the years in my life, it's the life in those years.

Wish me well.