FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH, AN EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER

Completely exhausted, my head fell on the pillow last night as I asked myself, Why so tired? 

Sadness overwhelmed our Friday afternoon as Jim and I attended a Memorial Service for Bob Luery. From the moment Bob, a Newmarket Real Estate Broker, joined my office, I knew that I was in the presence of a genuinely good and kind human being. Bob's identity came not from his award winning sales career, but from his involvement with his family and church. Christian missions took Bob to El Salvador, Nicaragua, Swaziland and Siberia. I still marvel at how he found time to mix church and community service, family priorities and highly successful real estate with such ease and grace. On October 15th, Bob was moving his sailboat, so aptly named Therapy, from Jackson's Point to Lagoon City for winter storage, when a vicious Lake Simcoe storm blew up. Therapy was later found floundering on the rocky shore without it's skipper. Despite the involvement of York Region Police, its marine unit, the O.P.P. and Trenton's Search and Rescue crews, Bob's body has yet to be found. His wife, Elaine, has been informed that Bob's body will likely surface in the spring. My god! During the service, my heart physically ached with overwhelming pain and sadness; my mind silently screamed, Dear God, why this man? Why Bob?

Paris is a city of history, art, stunning architecture and welcoming grace. At nighttime, sparkling lights reflect in the Seine as it winds its way through town. Cafes are filled with chatting Parisians and tourists alike, savouring a glass of wine and Paris' atmosphere of pure magic! Last night carnage and violence at six locations, took over 127 lives and turned the City of Light into a city of darkness and terror. Anger and fury roiled up inside me. So many innocent lives taken. What of their families and loved ones? My heart and mind gave into the rage. If only I were a dragon who could breathe fire! My mind silently screamed, Dear God. Why Paris? Why again? 

A breaking news clip then suddenly jolted my brain from fury, soaring its emotions in the ecstasy of defiance as I witnessed thousands of soccer fans join in the singing of their national anthem as they were evacuated from the Stade de France. I was touched beyond belief by their collective spirit in the face of such naked hatred.

Britain's Prime Minister Cameron announced yesterday that a major symbol of brutality and ISIS' state executioner, Jihad John, was successfully targeted and killed by an American Reaper drone. Finally a major step has taken place in the war against the sophisticated social media operations of ISIS. Yes, I silently cheered. My mind was then invaded by the warring emotions of revengeful cheer and guilt at feeling such joy over the death of an enemy. 

Sadness, rage, ecstasy, cheer and guilt all in one day. Mental fatigue, I answered myself and I gave into sleep.

RETAIL CHRISTMAS

Christmas isn't a season. It's a feeling. Edna Ferber

I am an admitted Christmas-holic and proud of it. I over-decorate, over-shop, over-wrap and over-play Christmas music. Oh, did I mention my love of Christmas themed movies? This addiction, directly inherited from my Mother, who was equally obsessed with our December holiday, is thankfully shared by my husband. I hate to imagine our life together if it weren't. So pathetic am I that our son, Matthew, posted a t-shirt on Facebook that he thought would suit me:

Ha! Ha! Very amusing! If it weren't so appropriate, I could feign upset. 

All of this said, I am not exactly a huge fan of retail Christmas displays popping up immediately following Halloween and now egad, even before. It has always seemed too early. Can't we please have a few days of rest between ghoulish delights and cheery Christmas decorations?

Jim's personal rule has been no Christmas music until December 1st. As a family, we have indulged him on this, although Christopher, Matthew and I have irrefutable evidence that he breaks his own rule. What are those empty Christmas CD holders in his car all about anyways? Just askin'.

An increasingly vocal school of thought states that it would be more tasteful if retailers held off on the festive cheer until November 12th, the day following Remembrance Day. However, an equally growing voice of veterans argue that Christmas decorations and Remembrance Day are two separate issues; as veterans, they are not insulted by the early retail displays.

Like a reformed addict avoiding temptation, I annually decry the early Christmas displays and valiantly attempt to hold off being lured in by them. Not until the Santa Claus Parade, I order myself. But oh, those colourful decorations, the seasonal warmth and hummably familiar carols are ultimately my undoing. Well, how can a peek hurt me? I think.Then the Christmas spirit invades all of my senses and I am a goner again.

My name is Daphne Lockett; I am a Christmas-holic and yesterday I gave into my addiction......already!

WHEN THEY ROLL UP THE SIDEWALKS

The nice part of living in a small town is that when you don't know what you are doing, some one else does.

Just over three years ago, Jim and I moved to Uxbridge. In other words, we "downsized" from an area of over five million to a town in the country of just over nineteen thousand. I understand some of our friends love and preference for life in the city. I truly get it. I'm just not so sure that they, in return, understand our move to a smaller town. Time and again, in genuinely puzzled tones, I am asked the question, Well, what do you DO? It's time, I guess, to settle those inquiring minds and explain exactly what Jim and I do DO.

Aw' shucks, where do I begin........

Up at the crack of 9:00am, with coffee cups in hand ( you do that in the city too, right?), we watch our bird feeders; we just sit back in our comfy ole rockers and enjoy the antics of squirrels and chipmunks alike as they attempt to steal bird seed. Those dern little critters sure are amusing. We could, and often do, watch them for hours.

Jim then checks garbage pails and recycling bins to ensure that Racco the Raccoon has not broken in. I, in the meantime, head to my computer. Uploads are rather slow, but what can you expect with a dial-up system? Ah well, who's in a hurry anyways? 

Dust on the main gravel road through town, is kicked up by horse hooves as the local kids ride to school. So choking is the dust that Jim and I generally wait until it settles before heading into Uxbridge around noon. Lunch at our local Hungry Heiffer is always a treat. Oh, and big news, they now have indoor plumbing. After chugging back a few beers, that's sure a relief!

Afternoons can be quite hectic. Jim often heads down to the general store to chew the fat with the boys. When they are not busy with existing clientele, I like to get my nails done at Polly's Beauty Emporium and Funeral Parlour. Let me tell you, that Polly has some artistic talent! For real excitement we head to our Roxy Theatre, built in an old quonset hut. Movies are projected onto the curved side walls and lines of wooden chairs offer loads of seating. The seating could be a tad more comfortable, but Jim is totally oblivious to the discomfort, when his favourite cowboy serials are being offered - Lash LaRue, The Lone Ranger, Pancho and the Cisco Kid. How much more afternoon fun could you possibly ask for?

Oh, questions about, Where do you shop? also abound. Hey, I 'kin git' into Newmarket and that Upper Canada Mall in twenty-five minutes. No sweat! Fact is though, my jeans, plaid blouses and running shoes have proven just fine for even the most formal of local occasions. Who needs that mall, anyways?

Dinner is served in front of the TV as we watch the news, on one of our three available channels, to find out what you city folk are up to!  Friday nights are a blast as we town folk drive up and down the Main Street honking our horns and waving at each other. So much community fun! For the remainder of the week, Jim and I head to bed early on accounta' cause those crack of 9:00am mornings come quickly!

Well, I must be off. Our pre-dinner entertainment in town is about commence - the rolling up of our sidewalks. Oh, stop my racing heart.

MY FAVOURITE WEATHERMEN

I acknowledge that Anwar Knight and Tom Brown of CTV Toronto are talented weather presenters and admit that no one can match The Weather Network for long-range forecasting. I do love my Yahoo Weather App for instant temperature readings and in the case of severe weather forecasts immediately refer to the My Radar App on my iPad. However, none of these can match my three favourite weathermen for visual presentation.

Since moving to Uxbridge in 2012, I have headed to Uxpool for my early morning exercise. Much has been learned from the pool's experienced staff, strong friendships with fellow swimmers have been forged and introduction to my three favourite weathermen has been made. Who are they? Well.....

Jim often nostagically speaks about an exterior weather forecasting system written on an old barn board that decorated the outside wall of their family cottage.  It sounds similar to my three weathermen, but perhaps not quite as flamboyant.The board read:

Condition                                              Forecast

Board is Wet                                  Rain

Board is Dry                                   Not Raining

Shadow on Ground                       Sunny

White on Top of Board                   Snowing

Can't See Board                            Foggy

Swinging Board                             Windy

Board Gone                                  Tornado

Large sliding glass doors that run down the east wall of Uxpool overlook a local playground, pool parking and residences beyond. For most of the year, I enjoy that early morning view, but frankly admit that when heavy frost sneaks its tentacles up the windows and snow swirls blinding our outside world in white, I must do extra self-talk to convince myself that swimming that day is a good idea. Just get in!

Once in the water, my daily first glance is through the windows to my three weathermen who can be found gracing the end of the park. Yup! You would be correct. My favourite forecasters are trees. I have nicknamed them A, B and C........... short for Anemometer, Barometer and Condition. Accurate to a fault, they have never failed me. If I listen carefully, I can even hear them speak to me. I know - I'm certifiable!

Decked out in the lime green fuzz of new buds, my weathermen cheerily notify me that spring is on its way. The trio, their limbs set against a sinister black sky  and bent over in the same direction, warn me to don hat, scarf and rain gear before leaving the pool. Their brightly coloured leaves floating through the air as they descend, tell me that autumn is nearing its end. Sigh! Yesterday, their now naked branches clicking in the wind reminded me that snow tire time is rapidly approaching. I have become quite astute at reading their visual reports. Thanks guys!

So no. I don't watch Canada AM or look to my Yahoo Weather App. No huge weather maps, no talking heads, just early morning at the pool; my three weathermen tell me all I need to know.

OUR LAST TRIP

Whatever you want to do, do it now. There are only so many tomorrows. ( Michael Landon )

Where to next, Hon? is Jim's standard question for me at this time of year. My mind quickly ticks off places to which we have not yet travelled and have thought to visit - Chile and Argentina, Israel, South Africa, Spain, the Czech Republic, Norway............ OMG, the list of possibilities is quite simply overwhelming. We should go to Spain next, I think and then shake my head. Did I just use the word should? Why? To put a tick beside another country? Who am I trying to impress?

Perhaps it is because Jim and I are pushing seventy - egads, when did that happen - but all too frequently, we have dear friends fighting debilitating diseases or passing on. Father Time's clock ticks relentlessly on. Great physical condition appears to mean little. Five years ago a good friend, who religiously jogged fifty to sixty kilometres a week, regularly ran marathons, and appeared to be in top shape, dropped dead. Is that an advertisement for eating well and swimming daily? I wonder. 

Jim's, Where to next, Hon? made me stop and ask myself, What if there really was no tomorrow? What if this were to be our last trip? Where to? And so I posed the question to Jim. If you knew ahead of time that this would be our last trip, where would you go? His response was instantaneous. Italy! 

Two major, lengthy trips to Italia and we have both fallen in love with the Italian people, their culture, history and art, their food and wines, and mostly, their love of life. Recordati di vivere. Jim and I will, this time, journey where we have not yet travelled - into the land of the mafia, Calabria, and into the land of the trulli, Puglia. Rome may be my personal favourite city in the world, but during our last trip, Venice cast her magical la serenissima spell over Jim, seduced him and stole his heart. He voiced a wish then to live for a week in Venice, to shop at the Realto Market with the locals, to cook in an apartment overlooking the back canals and to wander the magical, tour mob-less streets at nighttime. Life is short. Let it be so! 

Today, we booked our air fare for next year and are both beyond excited. Now I have a winter filled with the enjoyment of researching, dreaming and filling in the details. My favourite pastime. Earphones and microphone on, Jim already has already plugged into his Rosetta Stone program. Si, parlo italiano...un po.  Will this be our last trip? That is most certainly not in our plans. Next year I hope to again ask, If you knew ahead of time that this would be our last trip, where would you go? But should there be no tomorrows, we will be happy.

Re-CALC-ulating!

Bagno Vignoni is a Tuscan bath town whose thermal springs have been celebrated since medieval times. Eschewing highway travel in favour of a scenic countryside drive, Jim and I headed out from Cortona with our G.P.S. chirping out directions. It was during this journey (September, 2011) that we tagged her with the Italian nickname, Gilo, by which we still refer to her. 

All went according to plan until, on our return trip through Tuscany's stunning "crete senesi", we were stopped dead in our tracks, our route impassable, having been fully closed for a village festival. What? Now how do we get home? Jim spontaneously turned right, into the tiny hillside village. "Recalculating", Gilo announced; with absolutely no other options, we trusted her directions. Through a labyrinth of narrow village streets, past farmer's stands in a local market and down barely navigable alleyways, Jim drove. Had our GPS gone mad? In 250 metres, turn right, came her next rather rapid direction. Obediently Jim did so and suddenly we found ourselves back on the main road, the village festival disappearing in our rear view mirror and the gorgeous crete senesi lying ahead. Oh, how I loved Gilo that day.

Horror stories about drivers placed in danger by their G.P.S abound. How about the Swiss driver who had to be rescued after he was directed up a remote mountain path? 

Looking at pictures such as these, I do have to ask myself when common sense should prevail. Thankfully, Jim and I have never been placed in a precarious situation due to Gilo's directions. Why then is our G.P.S. getting under my skin of late?

Returning from Georgian Bay on Sunday, Jim and I chose to cut south early and to pick up Highway 400 south of the congested Barrie area. Gilo obviously preferred the Barrie route as, like a sergeant major, she barked out U-turn orders five times before conceding to our route choice. Hey, who is in charge here?

Then there is Gilo's condescending, frustrated robot voice. Re-CALC-ulating!!! Why do I feel the need to apologize for forcing her to rethink a new route? I keep waiting for her to yell at us or for her circuits to blow up during the onerous recalculations. Bossy? Hell, yes! Perhaps she should be mounted in the back seat. Now there is an idea! I do get small satisfaction when pronunciation of street names is incorrect. My favourite? Take ramp to "Q" when we are merging on the QEW. 

All kidding aside, every time Jim and I venture forth, whether in a foreign country or at home in Canada, I marvel at G.P.S. technology. How did we ever travel by car without it? So much time wasted getting lost is now spared. So much time reading teeny tiny print is an agony no longer. I never was good at folding those giant maps, anyways. Boss away, Gilo! Have G.P.S., will travel.

NEWFOUNDLAND REFLECTIONS (3)

Subtitle: A NEWFOUNDLAND BLESSING

May the sun always shine on your wild wooded mountains.

May the sea beat as one with your rugged hearts alone.

May the doors of your homes always be open.

May God's hand guide your boats back home.

                        (Chorus  from Newfoundland Blessing by Rex Roberts)

What began as a trip to explore our son's adopted province morphed into a journey of discovery, learning, appreciation and inspiration. On numerous trips to visit Christopher, we have explored St. John's and the Avalon Penninsula to the south, but to quote Jim, The farthest north we have been is St. John's International Airport. Let's do it properly, he proposed. Et voila.

How little I knew of our most easterly province before this trip. I remember learning that Newfoundland joined confederation in 1949...and that's about it. No discussion of how Joey Smallwood garnered a majority vote to join Canada, no coverage of heart-wrenching resettlement issues, no description of early settlers, cod fishing or the seal hunt. When I asked Christopher what he had covered in school on our last province, he offered the memory of making popsicle-stick lobster traps. Now there's a real learning experience about a province whose economy at the time was based on cod fishing. How province-centric our education was.

Newfoundland's award winning ads portray a province of staggering, untouched, natural beauty. To experience its lushly forested mountains, rocky precipitous cliffs, windswept shoreline landscapes or tiny colourful outports is to realize that in real life, Newfoundland is even more beautiful than tourism ads portray. For me, the highlight and #6 checked off my bucket list, was the trip down Western Brook Pond. Sparkling blue waters, soaring cliffs, rushing waterfalls - an excursion I will forever remember.

Historic sites are meticulously maintained, guides, passionate and informed, and many lessons, for me, life changing.

Newfoundland's reputation for having the most hospitable, friendly population in Canada is no myth. I need only harken back to how Gander and its surrounding area responded to the 9/11 crisis. A heartwarming read is:

Not once during our three weeks were we greeted by anything but a smiling face and courteousness beyond measure in eagerness to serve meals, assist or answer questions. Perhaps this can be best illustrated by Christopher's experience during his first weeks in St. John's. Walking down Water Street, the equivalent of our Yonge Street, he stopped on the sidewalk. Had he forgotten something at home, he pondered. Thinking that Christopher's intention was to cross Water Street, like the parting of the Red Sea, traffic halted. No traffic light, no crosswalk, simply a section of busy road. At this juncture, Christopher, feeling guilty, crossed to the unwanted side of the street. How could he possibly disappoint all of these drivers?

And the dumb Newfie? Don't for a second believe it. Witty, keenly intelligent and well informed are the three descriptions that immediately come to mind when I think of the cross section of Newfoundlanders with whom Jim and I spent time.

Long gone are the days when Newfoundland cuisine immediately brought to mind Ches' Fish and Chips. Raymond's Restaurant in St. John's has been named by Canadian Chefs as the number one restaurant in Canada and justifiably so. Bacalao, Chinched Bistro and The Mallard Cottage would complete my personal St. John's favourites list. Newfoundland chefs refer to foraging and sourcing locally grown ingredients. With fresh seafood, game and produce abundant, this new regional cuisine has taken hold across the island. From Trinity on the east, to Fogo Island on the north, to Gros Morne on the west, Jim and I savoured some of the best meals ever experienced on our travels. So much cod was consumed by me that I have grown gills. And I promise that you have not lived until you have eaten a warm partridgeberry tart drizzled with custard. Oh my! 

If you have viewed those beautiful Newfoundland ads on TV or read the print versions and thought, maybe, I say, "Just do it. Go." I guarantee that you will experience a fascinating, beautiful corner of Canada whose warm heart is larger than its area. 

Newfoundlanders like to refer to, 1949 when Canada joined Newfoundland. Dear Newfoundland, I am so happy that Canada decided to do so. What a blessing!