THE DUKE OF CLARENCE

Until one has loved an animal, a part of one's soul remains unawakened.  (Anatole France)

An adorable ball of fluff, he arrived home in a basket to the oohs, ahhhs and love of us all.

Named for a character in William Shakespeare's Richard lll, a play directed by Christopher at U of W, Clarence matured and actually developed the carriage of a duke. Tall, slender and statuesque, he ruled his household and owned his master's heart. From PhD days at Western through a move to Newfoundland and the ensuing ten plus years, he was Christopher's loyal buddy, his constant companion, and a true character, loved by all who met him.

Regal? Yes, but don't be fooled; Clarence was full of piss and vinegar.  With his feline buddy safely stowed in an airline-approved cat carrier, Christopher awaited his Air Canada flight to St. John's when a dog, released by its owner from its cage, began to sniff Clarence's carrier. You don't sniff a duke! A warning cat hiss and startled dog yelp were followed by the extraordinary site of a dog fleeing down the lounge corridor with a rolling cat carrier, powered inside by an infuriated Clarence, in hot pursuit. The indignant dog owner scolded Christopher who could only helplessly laugh at his cat's moxie.

Idiosyncrasies? Doesn't every royal duke have some? Perhaps it was due to St. John's chilling, damp Atlantic winds, but Clarence was addicted to sunbeams. No matter the season, he could be found resting whenever and wherever possible in the sun's warm rays.

He loved small 'go to' spaces...

...and like a king on his balcony, conversing with his loyal subjects, the birds, in springtime.

All things 'computer' fascinated Clarence, especially printers. Where does that paper come from? If he could just figure out this dang-ed contraption, perhaps he could assist his master.

As with all dukes, ritual was an important part of Clarence's regime. His 'morning greeting game' with Kristen was repeated daily and without fail at the bottom of the stairs. Nothing, but nothing brought him comfort like Kristen's coloured blanket. Even near the end, it was his choice resting location.

During the past six weeks, Clarence began his losses - loss of weight, loss of energy, loss of mobility, loss of piss and vinegar. Cancer was slowly robbing our duke of his life force until, this evening, in his master's loving arms, Clarence gently slipped away to the land of perpetual sun beams. God's finger touched him and he slept. (Lord Tennyson) Christopher is heart broken and I am reminded again that our pets, who gift us with their unconditional love, are truly family members.

Clarence, you have left your pawprint on our hearts.

MY MOTHER NEVER TOLD ME

Well she did....kinda'. More than once as the years progressed, Mom would smile and murmur, Aging is not for the faint of heart. Honestly, what did those words mean to a thirty, forty or fifty-year old? Nada, zilch, zero!

Next year, God willing, I will reach 70 years of age. OMG, when did that happen? My body has blessed me with very few aches or pains, creaks or groans, although I fully expect that they will ultimately make their uncomfortable presence known. I just don't know when to expect them. My Mother never told me!

My Mother never told me not to attempt to act younger than my actual age. Really, Mom, I could have used that advice when, in my sixties and new to yoga class, I attempted a backward bow.

Heck! Thirty-five year old classmates were doing it. Why not me? Two torn menisci in my right leg and an arthroscopic surgery later proved why not me? Come to think of it, although she was fit and active, I never noticed Mom try to act anything but her age. Confident in her skin, she felt no need to prove anything to anyone.

My Mother never told me that one day I would look in the mirror and nostalgically wonder when the face of that young child, young teen, young woman had morphed into a face of wrinkles as deep as Swiss Alp crevices.

Mom had plenty of wrinkles on her beautiful face. Did she fret? Did she consider a face lift? Never! No, she wore her wrinkles as badges of a life well lived. Wisdom lines, I remember her calling them.

My Mother never told me that I may tire more easily as I grew older. Moaning and groaning, hands massaging my tired back, I grouse about too much gardening, too much house cleaning, too much time prepping a meal, too much....oh, you get the picture. Thinking back, I cannot recall my Mom complaining about fatigue. Even in her eighties, on her feet and in the kitchen for days on end, baking Christmas cookies for family, Mom never complained. Of course her feet must have throbbed and her back must have ached, but a negative peep never escaped those determined lips.

My Mother never told me that in damp, cold weather, my knees, my legs, and my hips may stiffly ache. Man, these knees of mine are more reliable than any accuweather forecast. Hey, Mom, a warning would have been nice. I might have moved to Ariziona. But then Mom rarely complained about aching joints. In her eighties she did announce that she was having both knees replaced. Both? You see my knees have been a bit sore, dear. Bone on bone in both knees is a bit sore? 

My Mother never told me. Why? I believe that to Mom seeing her wrinkles in a mirror, feeling fatique or experiencing joint pain meant that she was still alive. The inconveniences of aging were to her better than the alternative. Life, no matter how uncomfortable, was to be celebrated. I have much to learn from my Mother.

AH, SWEET ELIXIR

Early morning sunshine streams across our lawn hinting at springtime. The view is beyond welcome, but I am oblivious. That the end of winter's cold should immediately lift my mood, matters not. At the moment, I am immune to nature's transitional beauty. Figity, my jumbled thought patterns focus only on the words, Oh come on. Speed up.

Are my hands shaky? I hope not. When, I wonder, did this physical dependence increase. Now I pace. Did I know 'back then' the psychological  power my elixir would eventually wield? Did I foresee how addicted I would become? Intensely awaiting its 'hit', I swear thay my circulatory system is actually buzzing. Hurry!

With a start, I react to the raucous buzzer. Finally, I sigh and a narcotic-like rapture surges through my body. Hand firmly holding the handle, I lift the mug to my eager mouth. Is there anything more sublime than that first sip of coffee in the morning?

2 WANNA' BE ITALIAN CHEFS

The choreography of the kitchen - I peel, you scrape, wine spills, bag splits, beans simmer, sink slurps, petals fall, flour drifts, crusts split, aromas spread, lights flicker, chocolate melts, glass shatters, sauce thickens, finger bleeds, cheese ripens, crumbs fall, sweat drips, spoon bangs, meat glistens, oil spatters, wine breathes, garlic mashes, lettuces float, silver shines, apron snags, you sneeze, I sing 'oh, my love, my darling', and dough rises in soft moons the size of my cupped hand as planet earth tilts us towards dinner.  From Every Day in Tuscany by Frances Mayes.

As Jim and I donned aprons for our day-long cooking class in Rome, Chef Stefano Cirillo spoke of two ironclad Italian cooking rules:

1. Never more than five ingredients, and

2. Fresh, fresh, fresh.......always fresh!

I have never forgotten those rules which have now been emphasized by more than one Italian chef. That day marked our first cooking class ever "in Italy" and what a day it was. One of the highlights of our first trip to bella Italia. On the return flight to Canada, Jim and I promised each other to try a new Italian recipe once a week. That pledge over the years has morphed into what we now lovingly refer to as Italian Fridays. 

Cooking in Italy is a beautiful, love-filled family ritual with traditions passed down from generation to generation. I know of no Italian family who does not have at least one "legacy" recipe handed down from Nona. With no Nona and no Italian blood to which we can legitimately lay claim, Italian Fridays are completely experimental and expectations, as you can imagine, flexible. Armed with Italian cookbooks generously gifted by family and friends, recipes from my Passionate Cook classes and pages from cooking classes enjoyed in Italy, Jim and I choose our Friday repertoire. The chaos and laughter then begins!

One early favourite were our golf ball-sized, rubbery gnocchi. Such an epicurean delight! My teeth have never been the same. Jim and I communicate on Italian Fridays with hands waving and gesticulating. Who knew it was contagious? Scary that we actually understand each other. Frances Mayes refers to the "cooking dance". How correct she is. Upon moving from Thornhill, the different configuration of our new kitchen in Uxbridge threw we two wanna'-be-chefs into bumper car mode until we learned the new cooking dance steps necessary to survive each other. Oh, and then there is the wine. All Italian meals are accompanied by wine.......so, thankfully, is Italian cooking! If the meal is terrible, who cares?

Are we improving? For sure. Practice makes perfect, right? We even serve our experiments to family and friends.....our guinea pigs. Thus far no one has died! Good sign, eh? We must be improving!

A stack of Italian cook books now sits on our kitchen counter ready to be perused by we two wanna' be Italian chefs. Italian Friday calls and needs planning. Addio per ora!

MY LOVE AFFAIR WITH ARIZONA

This was the year in Arizona that wasn't to be. Given the insane exchange rate and plans for an extensive European trip this coming September, Jim and I made a painful decision to forgo our Cave Creek home rental this spring. But wait, though! Thanks to dear friends, Cathy and David, who wouldn't hear of us missing time in our favourite state, a gracious invitation was extended and we have just enjoyed ten glorious days in the sunshine, not to forget also the laughter-filled company of good friends.  My love affair with magical Arizona has once again been renewed.

So why Arizona? Quite simply, I love the outdoors and The Grand Canyon State is all about the outdoors. Humidity free and bug free, it is the land of walking, hiking, horseback riding, golfing, 

swimming, eating outdoors and sleeping with windows open to the cooling night breezes of the Sonoran Desert. Did I mention sitting outside under firy, blazing sunsets followed by diamond-studded midnight black skies? Pure bliss!

One could travel to Arizona for years and not scratch the surface of sites at which to marvel and adventures to be had. From desert landscapes to pine forests to 12,000-foot snow-capped peaks, much of the world's most spectacular scenery is to be found within these 114,000 square miles. Breathtaking sites such as The Grand Canyon and Sedona; 

quirky little towns like Jerome and Tortilla Flats; the sophisticated metropolitan areas of Scottsdale and Tucson; and the spiritual, cultural and historic presence of Arizona's Indian cultures. It is all here for the taking.

For me, it is the Sonoran Desert that will forever make my heart soar. The peace and inspiration of this desert landscape never fail to nourish my soul. As daytime progresses, brilliant Arizona sunlight constantly alters the soft palette of desert colours. Look once, turn around, look again, and it is a different scene that greets your eyes. My favourites, the majestic saguaros, silently encourage me to stand taller. Animal and plant life surviving in this desert climate inspire me. In spite of the harsh conditions, life is to be lived. And when the desert floor comes alive in late March/early April with spectacular cactus blooms, I am reminded that there is beauty in every circumstance and every person.

Tomorrow, we fly home. Thank you Dave and Cathy. Thank you Sonoran Desert. Thank you Arizona. I am inspired; I am at peace and my soul is nourished.

THE HIGH STRESS OF AN EASY WINTER

Our easy winter has me totally stressed out. 

Two years ago a catastrophic ice storm brought Ontario to its knees during the Christmas season. Few who lived through it will ever forget the tree strewn roads and highways, the downed hydro lines that left thousands without power and in the dark for days, the streets closed due to the risk of falling ice from high rise buildings and offices, and the many frustrated stranded travellers.

Oh, and let us not forget last year's winter. Mother Nature treated us to ongoing snow storms from November until March. Commuting was often a nightmare; the rate of heart attacks experienced while shovelling almost daily snow falls, increased dramatically. Add to that the polar vortex that plunged us into record breaking, sub-zero temperatures. Ski hills experienced reduced attendance not due to lack of snow, but because of the bitterly cold, windy conditions. By the end of February, most Ontarians were afflicted with that bug-eyed will-this-ever-end look. I still haven't warmed up!

And now we enjoy the anomaly of this winter. Since November, the number of heavy snowfalls and days with frigid temperatures can be counted on one hand. Snow generally falls in the form of light flurries; rain is a more common forecast than snow.  Travel on dry, clear roads is a pleasure. Remind me again why I put my snow tires on in November. Green lawns are visible almost everywhere in Southern Ontario. Wonder when my tulips are going to pop up? Sunny skies and temperatures hovering just around the freezing mark are the norm. My winter boots and hats remain lonely and rarely used in our hall closet. This past Wednesday, Jim and I headed downtown in the afternoon; the outdoor temperature reading on our dashboard was 16 degrees C. What? In early February?

So why the stress? you ask, head shaking. 

You are kidding right? Mother Nature never gives us something for free. Like a gentle song building to an ear shattering crescendo, I cannot help but wonder to what snowy, icy, frigid crescendo is Mother Nature building? Winter is not yet over. What are we being set up for; what does she have in store?

10,000 !

10,000. That number has become my obsession, invading my daytime thoughts and haunting my nighttime dreams. From the moment my feet hit the floor in the morning, I silently chant my mantra, 10,000, 10,000, 10,000. My daytime plans and activities revolve around 10,000. I nolonger own my life; the number 10,000 does. No, I haven't found a new religion and no, I don't need the money.

What I do need is to take a minimum of 10,000 steps a day. Because of my interest, a year ago, my husband gifted me with a FitBit. Aaach! What is that line, Be careful what you wish for?

For anyone who does not know what a Fitbit is ( is that possible? ), it is a small computerized wristband that measures the number of steps you walk, the quality of your sleep, the steps you climb, plus a myriad of other personal activities. Thank heavens, it cannot yet read brain activity. Fitbit's step goal is based upon the principle that the minimum number of steps we should take is a daily 10,000.

My bizarre little judgemental wristband continually eggs me on. You have only 2345 steps remaining to your goal. So? I want to scream, but pathetically live for the sole purpose of getting my FitBit to vibrate and flash 10,000. Then, like an eager child craving acceptance, I run to my synced computer to read my You Nailed It notification. I need to get a life.

When shopping, you will find me parked in the most distant, lonely out-reaches of the parking lot and returning my grocery cart to the farthest opposite drop off point. Such behaviour elicits questioning looks from most shoppers; those who knowingly nod, I can only assume also possess FitBits. Whether I know where the item is located in the store, matters not at all. I walk up and down every aisle adding ( padding? ) valuable steps. I now take three or more trips back and forth to our laundry room to disperse a small single load of clean clothes. More steps, whew!  FitBit charging? Don't walk; it doesn't count. OMG, what has become of my once efficient life?

But you swim, you argue. That should add steps. Yup! I wore my FitBit, my first FitBit, now deceased, to the pool last spring. How was I to know that a tiny computer and highly chlorinated water weren't compatible? Go figure!  Before my FitBit meltdown, it measured 3500 steps for my pool time. So add it, you say. How pathetic am I? I can mentally add the 3500 steps daily, but they won't count towards my FitBit 10,000, a vibrating wrist and You Nailed It notification. I know, I need to get a life.

That said. I can't sit here all day; enough with the blogging. I have to move. 10,000 awaits me. I'm walking to our local Blue Heron Bookstore. They must have a book on sleep walking!!