GET OFF YOUR A**, DAF

I feel like a slug, I moaned to Jim in early January.

Even with my concerted effort to get to the pool five mornings a week, cold winter days frequently find me, post-swim, hunkered down with a good book or performing the most simple of household tasks. Is an hour at the pool enough? I ask myself. Of genuine concern is that this sedentary winter existence, like the bubonic plague, will infect the remainder of my year.

Don't lecture me! I am fully aware of the health issues caused by a sedentary lifestyle - high blood pressure, coronary heart disease, dementia......and on and on the list goes.  With the big 7- 0 looming, one mental image strikes fear into my very heart:

Inevitable? I sure as hell hope not.

An inspiration for me is friend, Graham, who walks every day. Rain, shine, frigid cold, or sweltering heat present no excuses for Graham. The universally recommended 10,000 steps per day are also not an issue; daily and lengthy walks are part of the fabric of his life.  Small wonder he is physically fit and looks twenty years younger than his actual age.  During dinner at Jane and Graham's home in January, he showed me his Fitbit device, describing its use. Bingo! Just what I need - a way to confirm my level of activity!

Ever vigilant, Jim spotted my excited interest and, bless his heart, gifted me with a Fitbit Flex. OMG, I am hooked. More than just an advanced pedometer, this little weightless wrist device tracks activities, kilometres walked, calories burned, sleep patterns and, should you elect to input what you eat, calorie intake. Perhaps I should have titled this blog, " Big Brother Is Watching".

Worries that I would simply feel guilty have been put to rest.  I am motivated to stay active, to hit my minimum of 10,000 steps per day. Be it at home or away, I now create excuses to use our household stairs or reasons to walk further. Like a child in kindergarten attempting to earn stars, I now push to have the five tiny lights flash their signal that I have reached my activity goals. In truth, what I am monitoring is peace of mind that I won't morph into a slug.

Oh, and now Jim also wears a Fitbit Flex. The daily challenge is on - who can take the most steps!

Well, enough of this blog, I have to get off my a** and move. Can't let that husband of mine log more steps!

WHO WOULD YOU BRING "INTO TODAY"?

The year is 2010. An emotional Vincent Van Gogh moves in wonder through an exhibit of his paintings in Paris' Musee d'Orsay, listening to the Museum's curator refer to him as one of the world's greatest artists. He transformed the pain of his tormented life into ecstatic beauty, he hears.

What? But Vincent Van Gogh died in 1890, you argue. Of course he did. I haven't gone completely dotty........not yet, anyways.The scene I describe is from a British TV episode in which the time travelling Dr. Who and Amy attempt to have a tortured, self doubting Vincent realize his legacy by bringing him into the future. Knowing my love of Van Gogh's work and my fascination with his life, our son, Christopher, emailed the YouTube clip to me. Shamelessly, I admit to loving it. I actually shed a tear. Pure fantasy, but oh, how wonderful. Would that we could bring figures from the past "into today" so that they might understand their impact on our world. What a concept. And then my imagination flew. Not a mental game of what historical figure would I like to meet, I asked myself instead, Who would you bring "into today" and where would you take them?

I have a dream. My first thought was to bring Martin Luther King "into today". How I would love to walk the streets of any American city today enjoying his expression as blacks and whites together, exit the subway, enter places of employment, and eat in cafes, all without National Guard presence to force such integration. Though definitely not a perfect world, no one can argue that American race relations have come a long way since King's African-American Civil Rights Movement and subsequent 1968 assassination. Nothing, though, would make me happier than to have Dr. King ushered into the Oval Office and to hear the introduction, Dr. King, please meet President Barack Obama. Did he dream that far, I wonder.

Wouldn't it be fun to fly with Orville and Wilbur Wright on a jet or let Alexander Graham Bell handle that little rectangular box of communication, the iPhone? I doubt they could ever have imagined the impact of their dreams on future generations. How incredible it would be to bring them "into today".

As an admitted sentimentalist and making no apologies, my first choice of who to bring "into today" would be my parents.  I would like to seat my Mother at our Christmas Dinner table, watch her realize that her traditions continue to be celebrated, hold my breath as her glance settles on the laughing, bubbling, blond-haired young sister and brother at the table, and then feel overwhelming joy as Matthew introduces his beloved Gramma to her great grandchildren. I would feel my hand in my Father's as we walk the corridors of learning. His older, slower pace I know would lighten just to be in this university milieu. Into the rear of a classroom we would deke, just as the lecture commences. I can picture my Father in rapt attention and then the tears welling in his eyes as I nod towards the Professor and whisper in my Father's ear, Dad, you are listening to our Christopher.  

Ah! imaginery musings, these may be, but what about yours? Suspend reality for a moment. Who would you bring "into today" and where would you take them?

MY FAVOURITE WINTER ACTIVITY

VORFREUDE: the joyful, intense anticipation that comes from future pleasures.

Sunshine. Icy cold. Glistening snow. Yup! Today is absolutely perfect. Anticipation bubbles up inside me; I am filled with vorfreude. The time is now ripe for my favourite winter activity.

Ice fishing? Snowshoeing? Sledding? Snowmobiling? You list the possibilities.

I shake my head. No.

Curling? you persist.

I'll leave that to my ten year old "Little Rocks" granddaughter.

Ahhh! Skiing, you finally pronounce. I can just picture you.

Thanks for the mental image, but no, I simply state. My osteoporosis diagnosis killed any downhill thrills. I'll leave skiing to the Crazy Canuck talents of my seven year old grandson. Although now that you mention it, I did see an invention that may work for me:

Then what? you mutter, frustrated with this tiresome guessing game.

My equipment and supplies sit ready. I am pumped. Let the rustle, squeak, scratch and tapping of my favourite winter activity commence. Yup! It is time for me to plan our annual trip. I look forward with eager anticipation all year to this, my favourite winter activity. Where will we go? has always been one of my favourite questions and until I click Confirm on the airline website, our destination could be anywhere. Possibilities abound. New experiences, new sites,new foods await.

I devour books on travel. I sit transfixed when viewing travel movies and TV. I listen intently to anyone and everyone's travel adventures. Get the picture? Quite simply, I love travelling, but frankly admit that the anticipation, dreaming and planning process place a close second in my heart. So let the maps and travel books rustle. Let my highlighters and pencils squeak and scratch. And let my computer keys tap with research and reservations.

Where will we go?

EACH AND EVERY BEAUTIFUL DAY

Ugh! I groused, staring out the window on this blustery, cold winter's day. Snow persisted in accumulating on our Uxbridge roads. Temperatures continued to plunge into the double digit negative range. Imagine! Double ugh! And to think I have to go out in it. Moan! Groan! All my winter whining could not take away from the fact that having food in one's home is a good thing.  And so, bundled up like Nanook of the North, I ventured forth. Did I mention that I am Canadian?

One minute into my drive, all negative muttering ceased. Haunting in its beautiful muted light, January's sun spilled through the snowy cloud cover ahead. Like a golden glowing spotlight, it spoke to me of the surrounding beauty in my life if only I would take the time to look. Immediately my thoughts turned to our dear friend whose current journey is not-car driven, but cancer-driven. For whom no choice of destination exists. For whom the experience of hundreds of such cold, chilly Canadian days would be joyously welcomed.

Snowflakes, fluffy and seemingly weightless, danced like dandelion seeds on the wind, ultimately clothing the barren limbs of trees. Lit by the diminished brightness of the sun, white fields and yards glistened.  Elgin Pond echoed with the excited sounds of snow being shovelled to make room for an outdoor shinny, hockey game. With each foot driven, my smile increased. What a truly glorious morning.

Why, I chastise myself, does it take the final journey of a dear friend to make me appreciate the beauty in each and every day? 

What day is it?

It's today, squeaked Piglet.

My favourite day, said Pooh.

AT THE POINT OF NO RETURN (REFLECTIONS ON THE REAL ESTATE INDUSTRY)

In the real estate business you learn more about people, you learn about community issues, you learn more about life, you learn more about the impact of government, probably more than any other profession I know of. Johnny Isakson, United States Senator

I am profoundly grateful to have enjoyed a real estate career that spanned an amazing, rewarding thirty-five years including stints as a Real Estate Sales Representative, Broker, Branch Manager and Area Manager for Royal LePage, Brokerage Owner (Broker of Record), Vice Chair of Professional Standards at the Toronto Real Estate Board, Ontario Real Estate Association Instructor, Toronto Real Estate Board Outreach Program Facilitator and Complaints, Compliance and Discipline Committee panel member at the Real Estate Council of Ontario. Do I feel qualified to write about the industry? Hell, yes! Anyways, you can't stop me; this is MY blog and these are MY reflections.

Beyond the point of no return? you ask. In January, 2013, I terminated my real estate licence.  Time to join my husband, Jim, in his retirement. Ontario law (The Real Estate and Business Brokers Act, to be specific) allows a two year absence from the industry, after which all required course work and registration requirments must be redone and rightfully so.  However, that ain't happening here.  I have reached the point of no return. It has taken two years of adjustment, but I have learned to love retirement. This is my time for me; this is my time for my grandchildren. How did I find the time to work? I now find myself asking.

Make no mistake; this blog is not about sales representatives whose sole interest is lining their personal pocketbooks; it is not about the scourge of uninformed, unprofessional so-called 'agents' who spend their careers attempting to evade the requirements of Ontario real estate law, risking client investment along the way; it is not about gigantic brokerage barns who hire anything that breathes and can pay desk fees; it is not about Brokers of Record who take no interest in the professional development of their sales staff. Hmmm? All fodder for future blogs, though, don't you think? This blog IS about me reflecting on what is absolutely good in the real estate industry - the professionals who care. 

 

Unless your real estate sales representative/ broker is in possession of a fortune teller's crystal ball, they cannot and should not predict what equity you will realize in your investment by next year, exactly what will happen to real estate values or where mortgage rates are definitely headed. Line up twenty economists and each would offer different answers for each of these questions. Real estate professionals are no different. So what exactly do good 'agents' do then? Just to list a few tasks provided often 24/7, how about advise, analyze, advocate, educate, guide, listen, communicate, market, negotiate, be proactive and decipher a myriad of legal paperwork. Whew!

The Lynn Kongkhams, Susie Stroms, Izzi Popats, Clare Woolgars, Len Chapmans and Diane Depasses represent for me what makes the real estate industry great and how I wish to remember it. Thankfully, my list is too extensive to enumerate and is obviously not inclusive of all the talent to be found in Ontario. Consistently putting their clients' best interests first, these consummate professionals treat very seriously the task of handling most people's single largest investments. No platitudes voicing what the client "wants" to hear. Just honest, experience and market-based opinions on what the client "needs" to hear.  Their transactions could be counted on to be legally clean, always preserving and protecting their clients' best interests. Real estate is in their blood; they live, breathe and love their profession of fulfilling dreams. They earn and deserve every penny of the commissions charged.  

I would be remiss not to mention backing by quality front desk staff such as the Jackie Uprichards of the industry.  How they balance ringing phones, incoming faxes, a plethora of emails, appointment requests, clients needs, information demands, pushy 'agents', and, and, and is beyond me. As the front-line and first point of contact, real estate offices would fall apart without their calm multi-faceted talents.  Support from the Hugh Foys, Brenda Gwilliams and Marg Gourlays of TREB's Outreach Program and ongoing guidance from the staff at RECO round out the extraordinary depth of professionalism in our Ontario real estate industry.

And so, as I pass the point of "real estate no return", I am grateful for my time spent in this vibrant, exciting, fulfilling world. It has been a honour to work with some of the best. I dream of an industry representatived by professional, caring sales representatives, brokers and brokerages, supported by quality in-house staff, and innovatively led by TREB and RECO.  What more could the real estate buying public ask for!

DISMANTLING CHRISTMAS MEMORIES

Warning: the following blog is 100% self indulgent. Read at your own risk.

One of my idiosyncrasies, of which I am so frequently reminded I have many, is my overwhelming need to enter the new year with our home returned to its normal state, all Christmas decorations down.

But the twelve days of Christmas are not over until January 5th, you argue.  I know! I know!  Perhaps it is my desire to enter the new year with a blank slate.  More likely, it is my feeling that with Boxing Day passed, the Christmas season for me is over.  Christopher and Kristen have journeyed to London. Morgan and Zachary, Matt and Michelle are busy with Christmas break activities. Christmas music no longer plays on our air waves. We have no more entertaining planned.  Why not move on?

Dismantling our Christmas decorations, though, has never once led to the blues.  As I return everything to bins to be stored in our garage loft, I reminisce about the great memories created this year and warm myself with memories of years passed.

HGTV will never cover this Lockett family Christmas tree. Such a vision is actually too amusing for words. No fancy ribbons, no matching designer decorations, no colour scheme, our natural, needle-dropping spruce is bedecked in a mishmash of decorations from years past and my more recent Pier 1 acquisitions.  Ironically, as I pack our ornaments away, it is not the flashy Pier 1 glass balls that garner my attention. Rather it is the "mishmash" that floods me with nostalgia. Children, grandchildren, decorations handed down from our parents, gifts from family and friends, all warm my thoughts.

Even the long-empty, beaten-up bottle of Henkell Trocken which Jim has used for over twenty years to water our tree makes me smile. This would have originally contained the bubbly, supplied by Richard and Meredith, for one of our annual Christmas tree cutting brunches.

Children and Christmas; it doesn't get better.  From December 1st on, anticipation ran at a fever pitch. Christopher and Matthew would count down the days using an adorable advent calendar gifted to us by friends, Jane and Brian. With our grown children having flown the coop, I frankly admit that Jim and I now move the counter forward every morning. Such sentiment! Rolling up this Santa calendar for storage, the increased excitement as the counter moved closer to the 25th remains palpable.

No one loved Christmas more than my Mother.  Holiday baking - over fifteen different varieties of cookies!  House decorations - over the top!  Christmas candles, in particular, remind me of my Mom.  She made her own and our childhood home glittered and flickered with her artistic creations throughout the holiday season. Unlike Mom, I am terrified of hot wax. Another idiosyncrasy? Thus no reprise of her candle making expertise will be forthcoming.  When my Mother passed away, in her honour, I purchased an array of electric candles for our mantle.  I cannot open them when decorating or store them away until the following year without fondly remembering my Mom at Christmas. Her warm Christmas glow lives on. The same set of dining room candle holders have graced our table for so many years that I have lost count.  How many boisterous, joyous Christmas dinners have they witnessed? I wonder.

Christmas boughs decorated the banisters in our Thornhill home.  I clearly remember purchasing them at Cullen Country Barns in Markham in 1987.  ( Remember Cullen Country Barns now torn down and replaced by the gigantic Pacific Mall?  Ugh! )  To this day, I have found no boughs as thick and realistic as these.  Denim poinsettias reflecting our country kitchen have now replaced the more formal velvet bows of Shady Lane, but these boughs, although now somewhat ragged and showing their age, are part of the fabric of our Christmases. Memories are made of this.

A half day will be required to dismantle our miniature Dicken's Village.  What began as a gift ( The Counting House ) from my sister and her husband, and ...

... from my brother ( The Horse and Carriage ), has ...

... grown over the years, thanks to the largess of Matthew and Michelle, to this:

I am sure that friends question our sanity when thinking about the time spent erecting and then dismantling our little village. The wonder on Morgan and Zachary's faces makes it well worth the effort.  To say that Jim and I enjoy our mini megalopolis all aglow in the evening and reflecting Jim's favourite novel, A Christmas Carol, is to make an understatement.

Today I dismantled our tree. I have to wonder if, after Durham has finished with it, it will be somewhere in the over fifteen bags of mulch I will disperse on our gardens this spring. I like to think so.  Tomorrow, Jim and I will lovingly store away our Dicken's village in boxes indicating the date on which we were gifted with each piece.  By the time we head out for New Year's Eve dinner, all traces of Christmas 2014 will be carefully stored away.  I sincerely hope that your Christmas season, like ours, was full of memories that will last a long time.

BOXING DAY BLUES

My Father was of the belief that children should be surrounded with unconditional love, encouraged to pursue a good education and then allowed to fly free on their own abilities.  Jim and I have added to Dad's advice; we have cut the proverbial apron strings and have attempted to allow Christopher and Matthew an adulthood without any nitpicking parental interference, all in the hope that our boys and their spouses will not begrudge our presence but willingly choose to have us part of their lives. With my Type "A", control-freak personality, you have got to know that this is an ongoing exercise in agonizing self control for me.

It must be working though, because, blessedly, Christopher actually enjoys flying in from St. John's to spend Christmastime with us. So why the Boxing Day Blues? Well, tomorrow our elder son leaves for London, Ontario and time with Kristen's family.  December 30th will see them winging their way back to Newfoundland.

I know! I know! Friends with children in the U.S., western Canada, Australia, and even the armed forces overseas are rolling their eyes. I can hear their resounding, Suck it up, Princess. Okay, okay, but for today, I am indulging myself in the blues and wallowing in my sadness.

Christopher never fails to inspire me. Well read? Of course, what would you expect from English Professor? My stack of books to read grows exponentially when he is home.  But it is Christopher's grasp of history and the current state of our world that reminds me to "care", to never slip into complacency and to endeavour to remain informed.  I will miss early morning conversations over coffee and pre-dinner discussions, wine glass in hand. Precious times ending today.

I will miss Christopher's presence in our kitchen. An accomplished cook, his quirky little tidbits of advice on using an herb or spice, previously not considered, never fail to add sparkle to our meals. Perhaps, you should be writing a cookbook during your sebatical, Hon!

I will miss watching my elder son simply enjoying a good book, working at his computer or smiling at the antics of his much loved neice and nephew, Morgan and Zachary.

Oh, get over yourself, you huff. There is FaceTime and Skype and email and phones. Yup! All true! But I will miss actually being able to touch Christopher's shoulder or hand. Most of all, I will miss being crushed in one of his giant bear hugs. These cannot be replaced by modern technology.

And so, this morning on Boxing Day, I make no apologies for feeling blue. Now if you will excuse me, I am on my way to a Pity Party For One.