RANDOM ACTS OF KINDNESS

Even after all this time, the sun never says to the earth, "You owe me!"  Look what happens with a love like that, it lights up the whole sky.  Hafez

I hate to admit it, but we are almost a month from Christmas and I, a certified, self-proclaimed Christmas fanatic, am battling the dreaded Scrooge/Grinch syndrome.

On November 3rd., I visited one of my favourite little Aurora shops, Not Just Cards, in search of some autumn-themed h'or d'oeuvres serviettes. What was I thinking?  Of course, with Christmas 'only' (?) two months away, not an "autumn anything" was to be found; the store had been transformed into a Christmas fantasy with piped in Christmas music.  November 3rd.?  Heck, I was barely over Hallowe'en!

Speaking of Christmas music, effective November 15th. my chosen radio station, CHFI, moved to an "all Christmas Music" format. Please don't get me wrong. I absolutely love Christmas music as is evidenced by our huge library of Christmas CD's.  My fondest memories of Christmas as a child include the magical Candlelight Christmas Carol service at our family church.  But isn't 'nothing but Christmas music' for six straight weeks just a bit of overkill?  So starved am I now for the occasional regular music that I would happily listen to polka. OMG!

What finally dragged me into my SG Syndrome, were scenes from Black Friday, a phenomenon which has now sadly infected Canada.  Talk about a decadent display of consumerism!

Where, I desperately asked myself, is the true spirit of Christmas in all of this and how do I rekindle mine? Miraculously then my light bulb went on. Last year, Melissa challenged her Facebook friends to perform a random act of kindness.  Taking Melissa up on her challenge proved to be one of my most enjoyable endeavours in the Christmas 2013 season. And then there is beautiful Jackie, who after recently watching a homeless lady in a local Newmarket laundromat find warmth and access to a TV for news, gifted her with $60.  What a heart warming random act of kindness! ...... the Grinch's heart grew three sizes that day. Just the antidote I need!

With inspiration from Melissa and Jackie, I have promised myself that for each of the twenty-five days preceding Christmas, I will perform a daily random act of kindness.  It will be MY way to celebrate God's gift which was definitely NOT a fifty inch flat screen TV.   Hey, don't get me wrong; I am not ready for sainthood. My random acts will not be selfless gestures. In return, I hope to find some positive energy and rekindle my spirit of Christmas.

Although I am sure I will spend money, not all of my random acts need be expensive.  A genuine compliment, assisting an elderly person with their grocery bags, allowing traffic to merge are all possibilities.  As the ancient Arab proverb says, If you have much, give of your wealth; if you have little, give of your heart. I feel better already. And who knows, you may actually catch me humming Christmas songs as I act!

Care to join my challenge? Let me know!

IT'S COMING.....

I awake to a vision of heavy gray clouds compressing the vibrancy of my morning sunrise into a thin ribbon of peachy soft light. Chilly winds born in the north whip through denuded, forelorn tree limbs whose music is nolonger the swish of autumn leaves, but the clickedy-clack of bare branches tapping out their pre-winter beat.  

Oh, how welcome this fresh cup of coffee feels between my clasped hands. Warmth in the dark morning chill! Gone are the green and golden days of autumn. I open the front room curtains to November's bleak, monochromatic world.  Is this morning's dusting of snow a warning? I wonder.  

Depressing, is how most of my friends describe November.  Too cold and wet, complain others. To bewildered glances, Jim always proclaims his love for the month. Bizarre, is the only word I can assign to this unwavering love of his.

November, I have grown to believe, is Mother Nature's effort at transitioning we mere mortals, how she prepares us for the dark, frigid temperatures and snowy weather of winter. To move directly from glorious autumn to the depths of winter may be too shocking for our fragile systems.  I like to imagine that she sucks the colours out of our world to make the sparkling whites of her snow and ice more welcome sights. At least they cover the "blah".

Midway through November, I sigh. Time for snow tires. Time for locating where I buried our winter boots. Time for coats and mittens and scarves. Yup! All of the signs are in place. Get ready. It's coming.......

ARE YOU KIDDING ME?

The musings of my "retired" mind when allowed to run amok have been known to create some bizarre ideas and this blog is no exception. Please consider yourself forewarned! 

Herbert Hoover once stated that, War is old men talking, young men fighting.  During the Vietnam War when the carnage tally was at its peak, George McGovern complained, I'm fed up to the ears with old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in.  A journalist during the post 9/11 fighting in Afghanistan theorized that no one under fifty years of age should be conscripted. Save our youth was his call; send our 'old geezers' was his message. With great humour and an inherent grain of truth he wrote, The last thing the terrorists want to see right now is a couple of million old farts with attitudes. Hmmmm! Maybe he had something there.

Vimy Ridge was for me a poignant reminder of war's horrific claim on the young lives who should have been our country's future. My heart ached and aches after that visit. Remembrance Day as always will drive home that message.  

Perhaps, I muse, we should make the politicians who declare war, fight them.  Hey, George Jr., I imagine saying. So you say there are weapons of mass destruction in Iraq.  Feel free to go get them, Sir! Can't you just envision his, Are you kidding me, glare?

I imagine a world in which only the retired or over fifty are asked to fight our wars and their responses.

Upon seeing the trenches in World War I:  Are you kidding me?  Muck, cramped quarters and dampness? Hell, my arthritis will kill me. Ah, nope, won't do it!

Or either side in the Battle of Britain training flight crews: Okay, let me get this straight; you want me to fit into that little cockpit?  Do I have guns?  Okay!  Does the other side have guns? Are you kidding me? Pause.  Ah, no. I think not. Nein!

Upon arrival in Korea, Iraq, Bosnia.....you choose.  Could I get hurt?  Are you kidding me?  I have investments to look after.  Nope, forget it!

When asked to fight in Afghanistan: Will I miss the Saturday night hockey game or next week's golf game? I probably will? You are kidding me, right?  Sorry, then no can do! 

Silly naive musings on a lazy Saturday afternoon yes, but I have to wonder what kind of world we would live in if two rules regarding war were universally accepted by every nation, fringe or terrorist group.  Rule # 1.  All leaders who declare war, must physically fight in that war. Rule # 2. All conscripts must be over fifty.  A more peaceful world, perhaps. I like imagine a world in which, even if war were declared, no one would show up. You are kidding me? you laugh.  Yah, I acknowledge. But what if? 

TEARS, RESPECT and REMEMBRANCE

If ye break faith with us who die, we shall not sleep. John McCrae

My hand moves across limestone sourced from an ancient Roman quarry in Croatia, limestone enscribed with the names of 11,285 Canadians killed during World War I, Canadians whose bodies were never recovered or properly buried. C.H. Blackmore. As if using brail, I randomly feel his name. I never knew you, Sir, and never will, I whisper, but thank you. My eyes well with tears and I bow my head to hide the uncontrollable wave of emotion rolling over me. So many names.

2014 marks the 100th. anniversary of the start of World War I.  In September, to honour the sacrifices made by 60,000 Canadian soldiers, Jim and I, with our friends, Cathy and Dave, journeyed into Normandy from Paris to visit the Canadian Memorial at Vimy Ridge.  Emotionally, it was most definitely not an easy day, but, as a Canadian, it was a trip that I will never regret and a day that I will never forget. France, recognizing the importance of this particular battle to Canada, ceded 225 acres at the top of Vimy Ridge to us for construction of our World War I memorial.  Sculptor Walter Allward's monument towers over the Vimy battlefield where a memorial park now preserves trenches, tunnels and craters. What Veteran's Affairs has created is a profoundly visceral, uniquely Canadian experience.

To approach Vimy from Arras is to pass a sea of endless rows of white grave markers undulating in waves across the landscape and seemingly stretching beyond the horizon. Commonwealth, American, French, and German cemeteries all starkly remind the visitor of the human toll claimed by this "war to end all wars".  So many dead.  The war to end all wars, I think. Don't we wish!

To walk the trenches at Vimy is to evoke visions of the horrific conditions our young men were forced to endure. Nightmarish artillery barrages; the menacing crack of sniper fire; rat-infested, waterlogged, muddy living conditions; lice infestations, infections, gangrene and devastating disfiguring wounds in an era with no antibiotics; the ever present fear of death. Dear god, and this was a war that should never have happened.

Like heavy makeup on a pockmarked face, the current blanket of thick green grass does little to conceal shell craters and collapsed trench lines in the surrounding terrain.  Add criss-crossing barbed wire and what an apocalyptic wasteland this must have been, this soil on which so many of our young Canadian boys fought and were killed.

What I was totally unprepared for was the power, intensity and profoundly moving impact of sculptor Walter Allward's stunning monument standing on Hill 45.  The luminous stone structure and figures, carved names of the fallen, and sheer commanding size of the memorial speak volumes.  To the valour of their countrymen in The Great War and in memory of their 60,000 dead this monument is raised by the people of Canada. We will not forget.

What literally brought me my knees and caused a free fall of tears was the sculpture of a grieving Mother Canada.  Standing apart, all alone at the rear of the monument, she stares down at a fallen Canadian soldier and mourns her loss.  Not a Remembrance Day will pass without this image playing in my memory.

  

Too many conflicts - World Wars I and II, Korea, Bosnia, Afghanistan, now Iraq. Will the list never end?  Our young men and women have died away from home on the soil of too many countries. Too many families and friends have suffered a great hole in their lives, a void impossible to fill. Such sacrifice should never be forgotten. Wear a poppy in remembrance. Attend a Remembrance Day ceremony if possible. At the very least, at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day in the eleventh month, take a moment to remember and respect. 

O CANADA

On October 23, our son Christopher wrote, The one definitive way to defeat terrorism is to refuse to be terrified. Never have I been prouder to be a Canadian than right now. Bravo, Chris! Well said.

For the past week we Canadians have ridden an unwelcome emotional roller coaster. The deliberate hit and run killing of Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent in Quebec, an unarmed Corporal Nathan Cirillo gunned down while standing guard at the World War I War Memorial in Ottawa and deadly gunfire in the hallowed halls of our sacred Parliament Buildings, have shaken a nation. We are a country generally unused to such naked violence.  Extreme security measures in our national capital are virtually non existent; our Houses of Parliament have never been an armed camp, distant from its citizens. Rather, the general public are welcomed, even encouraged, to attend Question Period and to tour Canada's seat of democracy.

Make no mistake, though, Canada has proven that its fuzzy, warm, "nice" exterior is like a soft glove covering an iron fist. Don't mess with us. Our troops have more than proven their mettle, Vimy Ridge and Juno Beach, being fine examples. We will not be intimidated wrote the Calgary Sun.

Tough talk aside, it has been the remarkable actions of solidarity by Canadian citizens that, for me, have defined the strength and heart of my Canada and brought a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes.

Gunfire, a targeted downed soldier and panicked fleeing onlookers!  Margaret Lerhe, a nurse on her way to work, began to run, not towards her own safety, but into the dangerous chaos and towards Corporal Cirillo.  She was the first to administer CPR.

I would love to hug the young cadet in Port Coquitlam, B.C., who daily has, of his own volition, stood guard at his city's cenotaph in memory of Nathan Cirillo.

And to our veterans, who right across our glorious nation, have held vigils for Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent and Corporal Nathan Cirillo, I say thank you. Lest we forget.

As Corporal Nathan Cirillo's body was moved along the Highway of Heroes from Ottawa to his hometown of Hamilton, veterans, emergency workers and young people alike flocked to the highway bridges and streets along his route.  No special invitation was provided; "they" just came to honour their fallen soldier. Canadian flags, crisp salutes and somber hands on hearts said it all.

And then there was Ontario's Premier, Kathleen Wynn.  With our federal government and much of Ottawa in lockdown, Ms Wynn rose to address the Ontario Legislature. Our belief is that people who are using violence to undermine democracy want us to be silenced, and we refuse to be silenced.  Greeted with a standing ovation from all political parties, she then proceeded with the normal question period.  God bless you, Kathleen Wynn!

Horrific circumstances and a nation showing remarkable solidarity. I agree, Christopher. Never have I been prouder to be a Canadian than right now. O Canada, how I love thee!

COOKING UP MEMORIES

Christopher: I brought some Mt. Scio Farm savoury with me. How about we do up some Newfoundland-style stuffing for a change this Christmas?

Matthew (upon entering the kitchen and in shock at hearing his brother's sacrilegious suggestion) orders: Step away from that stove!

Jim and I are blessed with two sons who love to cook and who are exceptionally good at it.  Thank heavens, because both of their Grandfathers barely knew how to boil water. Christopher, our innovator, is always for altering recipes, jazzing them up, and experimenting with flavours. Had he not chosen a life in academia, he could easily have become an accomplished professional chef.  Matthew, our traditionalist, is equally talented in the kitchen, but posseses a staunchly loyal 'you-don't-mess-with-tradition' attitude. And what you don't mess with, according to Matt, are treasured family recipes handed down from his Gramma. 

My Mother was nothing short of amazing in her kitchen. In the months before Jim and I were married, I followed Mom around like an eager little puppy dog, jotting down recipes on little cards, as she dramatically waved her hands using terms that made absolutely no sense to me.  A 'nob' of butter!  A 'handful' of paprika!  A 'jigger' of lemon juice! Whaaaat? I moaned.  It has taken me a lifetime of trial and error with those now dog-eared, food-stained little file cards, to come close to matching what my Mother so blithely produced.

From dozens and dozens of spectacular concoctions, a few of the most sacred are Mom's recipes for turkey stuffing, pumpkin pie ( part of her Bajan heritage with a molasses twist ), French salad dressing ( the reason I don't use bottled dressings ), spaghetti sauce ( OMG good ) and, of course, the plethora of Christmas cookies for which she was so well known.  To enjoy any of these is to savour years of family meals shared and remembered.  

Eating Mom's beef stroganoff is to hear my Father's teasing voice, Great Boris Stromberg, Jean! and Mom's head shaking correction, Oh, Norm!  Christmas shortbreads that literally melt in my mouth evoke memories of Mom's annual Herculean stint in the kitchen ( until she was eighty-seven, by the way ) baking up her fifteen different Christmas cookies. Yup, fifteen! Now you understand why I have such a lithe ( cough! cough! ) figure. If it is cheese soufflé, it must be Friday night!

My sister, brother and I were raised in a family that cherished deep and plentiful Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas traditions; traditional foods as prepared by Mom were an intrinsic part of our celebrations. Perhaps that is why, early Christmas morning while all are still asleep and as I stuff the turkey, I so strongly sense my Mother's presence.  It is as if she is enjoying her early morning coffee, overseeing my preparations.  Not a year has gone by since her passing that in those early morning moments I don't look heavenward, smile and thank her for the treasured food heritage she left us.

I'M A B.O.F. WHO KNEW?

Early morning swim complete, I rushed home, grabbed my iPad and began my search.  B.O.F.?  Today was my first exposure to the term and although it was explained to me, I felt a need for further clarification.  "BoF" popped up on my screen. "Business of Fashion" it read.  Think not, I giggled, glancing down at my scruffy, chlorine-smelling jeans.  And then there was "Bof" (spelled differently). No luck! That is French for "whatever" as in:

Tom: Hey, Harry, wanna' shoot some pucks.

Harry: Bof!

Nope, I muttered.  No B.O.F.  The meaning? you ask. Well, according to one of my fellow swimmers, her grandson reported that old retired people are collectively referred to as B.O.F.'s - Boring Old Farts.  Who knew? Not moi and on behalf of my fellow B.O.F's, I am offended. Don't anger a B.O.F., sonny boy, unless you are prepared to handle what you unleash.

So hey kid, here's the thing.  After, you provide me with your operational definition of "old", we can discuss " boring". Nah! Who needs to wait; I'll cover 'boring' now.

By 9:00 am this morning, most of my BOFy friends were in the pool, at the gym, cycling, walking our local trails or volunteering their time.  Had you rolled out of bed yet? Just askin'.  Coffee or lunch with my fellow BOFs is most likely too noisey for you. We are prone to talking and laughing. Verbal communication, I think is the term. Not cool, I guess, when our time could be better spent in silence, head down, texting pals on our iPhones.  Just sayin'.

My thoughts automatically turn to BOFy people we have met on our travels.  In 2007 on the Amalfi Coast, just after I had retired into BOFdom, we met a true BOF specimen with wrinkled face and snow white hair. Imagine! Probably truly boring and uninteresting, not deserving of any time. Right, kid?  And all he had ever accomplished in his life was developing the laser beam. Hmmm? Know what that is? Just askin'.

On our recent Rhone trip, we met a BOF who would have really put you off.  White-haired, he slowly walked with a cane, frequently dragging his right foot. Oh, and his right arm had limited use, too. Having suffered a stroke last year, Chris, the BOF in question, nolonger able to fly (oh, yes, he was once a pilot) decided to do something about his bucket list.  Travelling alone, yes alone, from Brisbane, Australia, he visited Singapore and Dubai, then took two European River cruises, the Rhine and the Rhone. When we disembarked from our cruise he was on his way to London, England. White-haired and older.  Must have been boring. Right?

You know what, kid?  As I pen this blog, I am becoming prouder with each word I write of being a BOF!  I have laughed, cried, sung, danced, worked, cursed, contributed and loved for a lifetime.  I have earned the distinction BOF.  Now that I am nolonger Daphne Lockett, Broker of Record, you can refer to me a Daphne Lockett, B.O.F.  Got that, kid!?!  Now, if you will excuse me, I'm off for a drink with my fellow BOFs.