A Christmas to Remember...or Forget

Christmas 2025 was the first one my husband and I spent alone as a couple in all our 35 years together. We didn't plan it that way. The kids were going to come, but an atmospheric river caused a major washout which undercut a section of the highway between the Valley and the resort my husband manages. No one knew for sure when the road would open. The kid coming from the east of us decided to wait until his siblings from the west could join him at our mountain home. 

My husband was exhausted. He had driven to our home in the Valley the long way round, over the Coquihalla Highway, which added about two hours to the usual trip, to get the staff's Christmas mail, and bring me back with him on the 22nd. When we got to our cabin here at the resort, he lost another night's sleep trying to repair a generator that powered twelve guest cabins. The resort had been without power for ten days, since the road closure. I had a sinusitis flare-up to contend with - lots of Advil and sinus flushes, and naps after rough nights of headache. While we were glad to be together after a couple of weeks apart, we didn't have much energy for anything else, or anyone else. I spent much of the afternoon of Christmas Eve asleep in a recliner while my husband went skiing. 

This Christmas was also the first in ages that I did not cook Christmas dinner. My husband had hosted a gathering before I arrived, and there were plenty of leftovers in the fridge. Christmas Eve, we unceremoniously raided the fridge and plunked everything on the table. Pickles, cheeses, dips, crackers, fresh vegetables, chorizo salami, my Christmas cake and cookies, and some kind of winter ale to quench our thirst - my husband enjoying the lion's share since alcohol is not great for sinusitis. Family tradition dictates we watch Scrooged (which our eldest calls 'Dad's favourite redemption story'). We started the movie early and finished it earlier than any other year we have watched it. Then, we 'settled our brains for a long winter's nap'. On Christmas Day I was feeling a little better from all the rest I'd had the day before. We unwrapped our gifts from each other and enjoyed a good breakfast of bacon and eggs, delicious pannetone bread from the bakery I have worked at for several years, and oranges. After a walk and a light lunch we facetimed with our kids, determining which upcoming weekend would work best for the postponed gathering. After another nap, we donned our best sweaters and walked down to the resort's restaurant for turkey dinner. 

My husband and I said to each other more than once that although our Christmas had not gone to plan this year, it was exactly what we could manage considering the circumstances. I am reminded of the Christmas in the mid-2000's when we were all sick with stomach flu. I ended up cooking the turkey on the 27th, and it tasted just as good as it would have on the 25th. I have a turkey in the freezer now. I will take it out to thaw in the fridge tomorrow, and it will taste just as good this weekend when we cook it for our belated Christmas dinner with our kids. We're leaving the tree up, too. It's still green and healthy looking. 

As philosophical as I seem in my response to an upended family Christmas, I have been further challenged this New Year, making it a bit more difficult to remain positive and 'look on the bright side'. On December 20th, I had a CT Scan of my sinuses. Yesterday, my doctor called me with the results. While the scan indicated mild sinusitis throughout, it also indicated a blockage where my nose leads into my sphenoid sinuses - the little brute that's been giving me nearly three months of trouble so far. My doctor prescribed a course of treatment for up to three months. If the treatment doesn't work, I will be referred to the ENT (ear, nose and throat) specialist who may decide a procedure is necessary to remove the little brute. 

For the last several months, my eldest daughter and I have been planning a big trip to the UK for June. A trip that has been a dream of mine for forty years. A trip that would involve a long flight. I was quite sure the short flight I had done as a test in October of last year had triggered my current sinus issues. After the call with my doctor I decided to postpone our trip until my sinuses are totally clear. One should completely avoid flying with sinusitis. I'm living and painful proof of why that is. 

I was going to take only the winter off of work again this year, but I had to leave early December due to recurring flare-ups that rendered me miserable. My back would also become inflamed with each flare-up making it even more difficult to sleep. I spent one third of 2025 with inflamed sinuses. Fortunately, February through September were pretty wonderful. I felt healthier than I have since before 2020. I realized a couple of moderately big goals, too, and had many great times with family and friends. I can remember how it felt to be well. I will try and focus on that feeling as I strive to heal over the next few months.  

I know we all have our challenges, especially as we age.  I know postponing the UK trip is a First World problem. I know I am very fortunate in so many ways, like having someone who loves me to spend Christmas with, but please forgive me a few tears, too, as I let go of plans and dreams for a while until I feel better. 

Wishing all my lovely readers a happy, healthy, wonderful 2026.

'til next time, 

Rebecca

The Turkey that Kept on Giving

A couple of weeks before the last Christmas my husband and I ever spent living in the Kootenays, I went to the local butcher shop and ordered their smallest, locally raised organic turkey. When I asked how small they came, the woman at the counter said about nine pounds. We had two small boys at the time. Nine pounds would be plenty.

My mom had come a few weeks prior to look after the boys while my husband and I flew to the Comox Valley on Vancouver Island to look for a place to live. My husband was being transferred there by the non-profit educational organization he worked for to start an Island branch. Our little rental house in a cozy, beautiful mountain town in the East Kootenays had been perfect for us to live in as a small family, but it was pretty tiny. We looked forward to spreading out a bit more, especially in a larger kitchen. Moving day was to be a week from Christmas day. 

On a visit with my friend Sandy, I had mentioned the fact that I had never cooked a turkey. She gave me her copy of Martha Stewart's November, 1996 edition of her magazine because it had a 'turkey 101' guide in it. I was aware of Martha Stewart, of course I was. She was everywhere, but I considered her out of my league. I wasn't rich and her recipes were. I was, however, into good food and aspirational, so I read the recipe. It actually looked do-able and delicious, as did the recipe for stuffing, so I thanked Sandy for the magazine and tucked it in my diaper bag. 

On December 24th we drove down to the butcher shop to pick up our little turkey. When the woman brought out our turkey from the back I thought she had made a mistake. "We ordered a nine pound turkey" I faltered. "This is the smallest the farmer sent us" she said. "How much does it weigh?" I gasped, eyeing the Merry Christmas, Mr. Bean-sized girth of the bird on the counter. "Nine kilograms" she said. I'm pretty sure I said, "Oh my God". Well, there was nothing for it. We'd ordered it and it was Christmas Eve, so we had to buy it. 

I went about gathering all the ingredients for our now enormous Christmas feast. We had no family coming to dinner, no friends either, since the contents of our little house was mostly in moving boxes. It was just us and our 9 kilogram bird. I studied Martha's recipe and made calculations. I was not an entirely experienced cook so I was trusting Martha to lead me to victory. On Christmas Day, I melted a whole pound of butter with an entire bottle of white wine. I soaked a four-layer large square of cheesecloth in the liquid and draped it over the turkey. Once in the oven, I started preparing all the ingredients for the stuffing. My husband kept our little boys occupied with their new toys and cleaned up after me (our kitchen usually looks like a bomb went off when I've been cooking) while I chopped endless amounts of celery and onions. The stuffing recipe alone filled an entire large roasting pan. I don't remember where I got the pan for the turkey. 

Every half hour I wrestled with the roasting pan and basted the turkey with more of the white wine and melted butter. About three hours in I removed the cheesecloth as per Martha's instructions and continued to baste the bird on the half hour. Our entire little house filled with the delicious aroma, so much so that we opened a few windows in the middle of winter. 

That the turkey was a rousing success is not the main point in my story. The fact that we ate it for lunch and dinner for the next five days after Christmas is. Sadly, we were forced to throw the last bit out. I suppose, looking back, that cooking a week's worth of meals before moving is a smart idea, just maybe not the same meal every day, twice a day.

I still cook that same turkey recipe, thirty-odd years later. It's a winner. The turkeys themselves vary in size, depending on the amount of people sitting down to dinner. I halve the stuffing recipe and it still fills a large baking dish. 

My husband loves the share the story of our first Christmas turkey. He's an expressive guy so the story is always accompanied by large hand gestures and increasing vocal volume. This post is in his honour.

Until next time, 

Rebecca

Closing the Door on 2024

I've had trouble settling down to write anything lately. My mind has been preoccupied by the sobering reality of several friends dealing with quite major health issues. My friends and I are all at that age now where, if we aren't ourselves dealing with major health issues, then we know someone who is. I am a person who prays, and I have been praying lately for five people, all women, in my circle who have been undergoing some sort of cancer treatment. In the last couple of weeks I received good news from two of these friends, and I now feel like maybe we are over the worst of this bout of scary and all-consuming scenarios.

In early December I attended a Christmas party at the home of a good friend of mine in the nearby town we used to live in. Her house was brimming with laughter and conversation. I had not seen many of the guests for a year or more. I noticed how everyone was looking a bit older, a bit greyer with a few more laugh lines and worry creases. I'm sure they thought the same of me. I thought how lucky we all were to be there, healthy, engaged and celebratory. There were a few young people there, too, friends of our hosts' son. I reflected on the gift that youthful energy and clear-eyed beauty bring to the table, and hoped that these young friends were making the most of this special and all too short-lived time in their lives.

Weeks ago, when my husband and I were walking on our favourite river trail, we noticed how friendly our contemporaries were. There were plenty of  'Hello! Nice day for it, eh?' greetings between us. I joked later that maybe we were all thinking the same thing: "Hey, look at us! Still upright and able. Isn't it great?" 

As I reflect on the past year, I feel grateful for being able to support my friends in their health crises. I have been on the receiving end of that support and know how much it can mean. I am grateful for my siblings whose support I feel through our daily check-ins and Wordle score sharing. I am grateful for my husband who continues to work through endless work challenges and toward personal lofty fitness goals while making sure I feel loved and cared for each and every day. I am grateful for my four children, whatever they bring, whether it is something to cheer me or educate me. It all counts. I am grateful for my mountain home away from home. Here I get to slow down, smell the good air, and drink the clear water. I am inspired here and always go home feeling refreshed. I am grateful for my health. It's not perfect, but with my cooperation (and often wavering motivation), it's pretty darn good. I am grateful for all the simple joys I experienced this past year, from cherry blossoms in spring to impromptu visits with old friends. And finally, I am grateful for the hard times. There's no school like them, and I hope I am a better and more resilient person for them.

As this year closes and another one opens, may you find doors to inspiration, to hope, and to love aplenty, just waiting for you to pass through and embrace them. 

Until next time, and with hopes for a more peaceful 2025 in our crazy, beautiful world,

Rebecca

An Engaging Topic

My husband and I were living it up in Vancouver, celebrating our wedding anniversary. We had spent the night at a guest house after indulging in a grand meal at the sort of restaurant people like us only go to once in a blue moon, and decided, for nostalgic reasons, to go for brunch at Sophie's Cosmic Cafe, a Vancouver institution, before heading home. Sophie's is chock-a-block with vintage chachkies and brightly coloured walls, and serves old-school breakfasts. V ordered an egg and sausage platter, and I ordered the French toast. We drank coffee (my half decaf Americano was actually kind of awful, but I didn't complain because the food was so good) and tucked into our meals. 

Like many restaurants, Sophie's had music playing at a good volume through the speakers. I noticed as we ate, that the playlist was vintage, like the restaurant and its contents (and some of its patrons). I hummed along to the tunes while V and I enjoyed our brunch experience, my mom's voice in my head saying "No singing at the table" silenced. A song came on that I had loved as a kid, "Don't Bring me Down" by ELO (Electric Light Orchestra). I had finished my breakfast and was sipping my bad coffee, alternating with ice water, and started singing along quietly. Suddenly, I heard a voice in the booth behind me, also singing along quietly. We both noticed each other singing at the same time and turned around to see to whom the other voice belonged. The chorus came up and we sang to each other, just a little louder,  

                    Don't bring me down

                    No, no, no, no, no

                    Ooh-ooh-hoo

                    I'll tell you once more before I get off the floor

                    Don't bring me down

People near us started staring. We didn't care. We sang the whole song together. Songs you knew when you were young tend to stay locked in your brain forever. I remembered most of the lyrics, even singing 'Don't bring me down BRUCE' instead of 'groos' as it's supposed to be, because I had never learnt the original version of the line. When the song was over we shook hands and introduced ourselves. Turns out the man I was singing with was celebrating his seventieth birthday, and sharing brunch with some good friends who had flown in for the occasion from Winnipeg. We all chatted for a bit in a jovial manner befitting a birthday celebration, and the man thanked me for singing with him - said I had made his day. He invited us to his birthday party (I'm not sure he really meant it), but we said we had to be going home.  

The experience I had at Sophie's brought to the fore some thoughts I have had lately, about how people these days engage (or don't) with the world. I grew up in a boisterous family in a small town where we knew almost everyone. Most of my siblings will still talk to anyone, anywhere. I am a bit more reserved than some of my family, but in the right moment and mood I can have great interpersonal exchanges with strangers. People often talk about how unfriendly Vancouverites are, but I have found that you often get what you give. My experience at Sophie's is a perfect example. Sure, I don't do impromptu karaoke in restaurants on a regular basis, but I tend to have friendly exchanges with people more often than not if I begin the exchange by being open and friendly towards them. I have to say, this happens more often with people who are my age or older. The pre-cellphone generations are much more used to greeting each other and initiating conversation. I find, even in my own mid-sized home city, that young people rarely make eye contact with me if I am walking down the street. It's like they are trained not to. When I do get a greeting or a smile I am pleasantly surprised. I do not want to harp on the younger generations. It's not their fault. They are a product of the society they grew up in. But, I do want to encourage them to engage more outside of their social bubble. As you get older life can often get decidedly lonelier. We are more isolated than ever before. If you don't believe me, Google the subject. There are a thousand articles proving my claim and warning of the dangers prolonged social isolation can wreak on one's mental health. 

There is a passage in a book I am reading by Ann Cleeves, the great mystery novelist, that reads: 

"When Jen got home, the kids were holed up in their rooms again. They answered when she shouted up at them, but they didn't come down. There was evidence that they'd scavenged for food. She thought that prison wouldn't be any sort of deterrent for this generation, as long as they were allowed cell phones and internet access in their cells." 

Makes you think, doesn't it? God, I hope it does.

I also have to work on reaching out more. After going through burnout a few years ago, I isolated myself to a great degree, just to get some rest. I had been an incredibly social person who tended to attract similar friends. When I think back to my 30's and 40's I was rarely alone. Now I am alone a lot of the time. I don't generally mind because I have learned to like my own company and a quieter life than before, but I know I need companionship so I make the effort to engage when I am out and about. I greet people, especially elderly people, I make small talk with sales people and servers, and I compliment young parents on their cute children if they'll let me. While I hope I am brightening their day, I am the one who benefits most. And, if I can 'make someone's day' like the man in Sophie's Cosmic Cafe, then I get an extra-big boost of serotonin. Engaging is good for me, and I will argue that it is good for you, too. 

https://youtu.be/z9nkzaOPP6g?si=K2URmgx1QohGifRE

                   

'Til next time, 

Rebecca

The Case of the Missing Sunglasses

Since we are still within the Twelve Days of Christmas I feel like it's okay to tell a funny little Christmas story. 

A couple of weeks before Christmas I misplaced my magnetic clip-on sunglasses. I say 'misplaced' rather than 'lost' because the times I thought I lost them I have always found them, usually in an odd place. My clip-ons aren't the kind you buy at Walmart or Shoppers Drug Mart. They are specifically made for my glasses' frames and are one of the reasons I choose the brand of glasses I do. They are the only sunglasses I wear, and I especially need them up at the resort on bluebird days when the snow is blindingly white. I looked everywhere for my sunglasses but had no luck. My husband told me to order another pair from the eye doctor's; even if the originals turned up he thought a second pair would be useful to have. I didn't like spending the seventy dollars, but I didn't have much of a choice at that point. I suppose I could have walked around with my ski goggles on if worse came to worst.

I was already at the resort where my family was to spend Christmas when the eye doctor place called me to say my order was in. I told them I would pick it up the next week and hoped for cloudy-ish skies. I lucked out. The weather was perfect - just enough cloud to keep the sun from blinding me, but still lovely and conducive to many winter rambles in the woods. 

My kids arrived and our five day party started. Morning visits over coffee and lingering breakfasts, lunch with their dad on his break, then afternoons spent doing our own thing, either in pairs, or alone. We fueled our activities with the cookies I had made and soon started in on the pan of my husband's homemade and very delicious Nanaimo bars. Christmas morning arrived. My husband had to make his rounds first thing, so the rest of us opened our stockings and started making brunch. We would open our gifts after my husband returned and we had all eaten. 

Our bacon and eggs, mimosas, and panettone enjoyed, we gathered near the Christmas tree to open our gifts. We took turns passing out our gifts and watched each other open them. When it was my turn I handed my husband a box which contained a new pair of slippers. He's been having some trouble with his right heel and I thought some slippers with cushy memory foam would be a welcome replacement for his old ones. My husband tore the wrapping paper off and un-taped the old shoe box I had used. He lifted out the slippers and made an appropriately appreciative noise. I remember my eyes were cast down when he said, "Um, Rebecca?" I looked up. He was holding my sunglasses. In the whirlwind of acquiring, organizing, and wrapping gifts I must have dropped them into the slippers. I laughed. We all laughed. "It's a Christmas miracle!" I said. 

You see? I had only misplaced my sunglasses, and true to form, they showed up in the oddest of places. 

Happy New Year!

'til next time, 

Rebecca 

Will Elvis Leave the Building for Good?

When the current elderly generation expires, will Elvis Impersonators be out of a job? 

The above question occurred to a friendly acquaintance and me, pretty much at the same moment the other evening, at a 50th wedding anniversary party we attended with our respective husbands. 

I was so tired. I had been away working all week and driven home in the dark the night before - an hour plus of scanning the road for wildlife with exhausted eyes and a throbbing head. When I got home my husband reminded me about the party, which was on our schedules for the next evening. "Noooo!" or maybe some curse words escaped my mouth. I can't remember. Cancelling was not really an option for this particular event, though. I decided not to think about the party, brushed my teeth, and fell into bed, sleeping hard all night.

The next morning I woke up, still tired. I managed a half-hearted shuffle around the lake, had lunch and then, a nap. The party was back down in the valley, and was to go from 4:30 to 9:00 pm. At least it won't be a late night, I told myself. The theme for the party was the 1970's, in honour of the decade our hosts were married in, and also, we found out later, the decade in which they saw Elvis live in Las Vegas for ten bucks a ticket (and that included two drinks! said our host, enthusiastically).We had been invited to wear costumes. 

We arrived at the venue and changed into our costumes in the truck. I went for a 'Rhoda from Mary Tyler Moore' look, while my husband wore fake leather pants and a polyester satin shirt for a 'disco sleezeball' look. We had found our costumes at Value Village a couple of weeks prior. While we began to get into the spirit of the event I knew we both needed a drink. We opted for rum and cokes. We both needed the caffeine boost. 

The majority of the crowd were elderly peers of our hosts, but a small group of 50-somethings and assorted younger relatives rounded out the group. After drinks and mingling to the best of our ability (I admit to sitting down and posting photos on my phone after an hour of standing around making small talk), dinner was served. Our small table of four shared a bottle of wine and waited our turn at the buffet.

The evening's entertainment began after dinner. A local Elvis impersonator in a gold jacket entered the room and began his performance. While our table had misgivings about what to expect, none of us being Elvis fans, we soon had to admit our entertainer was a pro. He soon had the room singing along with the golden oldies, and a few couples, including the anniversary couple, got up to dance in the old way. 'Elvis' sang well and interspersed his Elvis material with some Neil Diamond. Roy Orbison, and Louis Armstrong, but it was his rendition of CCR's 'Proud Mary' that got us 50-something women on the dance floor. The alcohol and food had worked its magic and energized me briefly. A couple of spry older women were inspired to join us. The elderly folks unable to dance themselves, enjoyed watching us. We became part of the entertainment. 

After the cake, made to replicate the original two-tiered wedding cake, was served, my husband and I said our goodbyes. As we made our way through the crowd after stopping at the head table, an elderly woman grabbed my hand. "You all looked great!" she said, smiling widely. I covered her hand with both of mine, holding them for a moment, and said thank you. It made me glad to know she'd enjoyed herself so much.

The party, although I had approached it that night with a 'grin and bear it' kind of attitude, ended up being fun. I observed and appreciated how the Elvis impersonator had figured out his evolving audience needed more than the dated Elvis material (sorry, fans) to be entertained. In fact, he didn't really sound much like the original Elvis to me, just did his hair like him, danced a bit like him, and drove a pink 1970's Cadillac. He told us he was going to be performing at a big classic car show the next day. 

I also concluded I am very much in favour of parties starting early and ending at 9 pm, especially when the drive home is over an hour on a dark, curvy mountain highway. 

Ode to the Eastern Fraser Valley: Marking Twenty Years

We arrived in early spring, the slurry it stank

The farmers said it put money in the bank

We found the people down to earth

Of new friends there was to be no dearth

No one asked "Are these ALL your kids, Maam?

When many families filled a fifteen passenger van

The Bible Belt, ever so many churches

Chilliwack has over 50, according to Google searches

Artists, too, but harder to find

Find them I did, and they were most kind

A fab little folk fest where I found work

For ten days I would dance, my responsibilities shirk

Fields of green and lakes of blue

Ribbons of silver rivers, too

Mountains in a ring all around

Rising like castles from the ground

Flood plain living comes with warnings

We check the weather forecast in the mornings 

People shocked by how much I walk

But they almost always stop for a talk (often about the weather)

The wind can be fierce, the ice storms the worst

The swampy hot summer will give you a thirst

The autumn is nice, discuss it we must, but

With all the rain the leaves don't change, they rust

Agassiz, Chilliwack, Mission, Harrison, Hope

Agassiz' the hub, the rest make the spokes

We love to drive between all these places

The beauty that surrounds us puts smiles on our faces

We're lucky to live here, we remind each other

Our girls have left and so have their brothers

But, we have stayed for twenty years

If we ever leave, it will be with tears

Fraser Valley, yes, you have been good to us

Formed our family, gained our trust

Life here has been rich and abundant

I'll stop now, before this ode is redundant

Until next time, 

Rebecca

Running on Twenty

When my third child turned twenty-two this past November I realized that my adult relationship with running had reached the twenty year mark.

Emma was thirteen months when we moved from a roomy four bedroom home a few blocks from our city's downtown to an outdoor education center in the mountains of central Vancouver Island. The Lodge was a forty minute drive to the nearest grocery store/school/movie theater/Starbucks/mall/anyone I knew, and while I had always wanted to try living in a cabin by a lake in the woods, I also felt like someone had pulled the rug out from under my comfortable, convenient life and said, 'Here, deal with this!' The fact that I was under thirty and a mother of three only complicated the situation. A community of sorts lived year round at the Lodge. Anyone near my age had no children. The people with children were older than me and much wiser, and I was admittedly, a little intimidated. Fortunately, I made friends fairly easily and soon found companions to walk and hike with. Walking and hiking did not prove quite enough to ease my hemmed-in feeling and so I decided to start running again - something I had done as a child and young teenager in school. In a relatively short period of time - Keep in mind I was under thirty - I was running two and a half kilometers out the highway and turning around to run most of the way back. The way was rolling and the shoulder was decently wide, so I felt safe and challenged enough. I loved that I could cover a lot of ground in a short period of time, and so began my love affair with running. 

We lived at the Lodge for just over five years. In that time, I grew in confidence and fitness. My husband was proud to be able to think of his wife as something of an athlete for the first time ever. He bought me a subscription to Runner's World magazine. He came home for lunch every day, so often I would make lunch, say hello to him and leave immediately to go running. When my runs got longer I made supper, greeted my husband after work and ran while he and the kids ate and did the dishes. I ran every second day with a long run once a week. In my third year of running my friend Bridged who ran with a group of marathoners invited me to a group trail run. We did over sixteen kilometers that day and I knew I was well on my way to a half marathon at least. Part way through the run, however, I became exceedingly hungry. One of the women gave me an energy bar and I finished the run strong. The women in the group invited me to the next run. I was in! 

A couple of weeks later I discovered I was pregnant. 

I ran for the first few weeks of my pregnancy, and then I had to stop due to my usual morning sickness. Katie was born the following October, and within seven weeks I was running again, but not quite the same distances as before. She used to cry when I left to go anywhere, but eventually even she became used to my running and would sit on the stairs while I put on my shoes and say, "Goin' for a wun, mummy?" Running was my stress reliever, my fitness tracker, my way to get out and away from my busy household only to return fresh and energized. We moved to the Lower Mainland and I enjoyed discovering new running routes.

I have entered a few fun runs, run the annual Terry Fox run with my children's elementary school many times, but I have yet to enter one of the big runs - the Sun Run, or the Vancouver Marathon, or any of those. I am waiting until I have the time and brain space to train properly for a half marathon. I plan to celebrate my fiftieth year with a long run, whether it's alone or with other people doesn't matter. I have run by myself for most of my running career. I don't listen to music when I run. The silence and my footfall is enough music for me. My favourite times are when I get into what the running gurus call The Zone - when my run becomes rhythmic and seemingly effortless, and I just go as if carried by wings. A lot of my best thinking happens on my runs. 

These days I run often with my sister. We talk about our kids and our jobs and our aging mother who has dementia now. I enjoy these times very much. Other times, like this morning, I run alone. Once upon a time when I was younger and I didn't happen to feel like running that day it took me about ten minutes to get into a groove. I would tell myself, just get dressed, get out, and if in ten minutes you don't feel good turn around. I never turned around. These days it can take me up to thirty minutes to get into a groove, but that is okay. I recognize that my age is a factor, and if I want to keep running for many more years, which I do, I have to keep adapting and adjusting to what my body tells me. I have always stretched for about twenty minutes after a run. I am not a person who could go for a long run and then immediately go for coffee or a beer. My body would hate me. At the local Terry Fox run a couple of years ago I found a corner of the gym afterwards and stretched. A few people looked strangely at me, but I just had to do it. Stretching prevents injury and helps me work out the tightness in my muscles and in my back. I also credit my chiropractor, massage therapist, and whoever it was that invented yoga for helping keep me mobile and moving forward. 

Getting outside and putting one foot in front of the other is in my DNA. My family are all great walkers. I just happen to find it also enjoyable - sometimes more so - to run, and so I will keep on as long as I can. Several years ago my family bought me a t-shirt with the slogan, "Gotta run". It's true. I gotta. 

A Question of Marriage

Last week in my Facebook feed there appeared a handful of articles on the subject of Canadians' attitudes toward marriage. The articles stated that fifty-three percent of people surveyed believed marriage to be unnecessary, and one-sixth said they are not interested in the milestone at all. One of the major factors in people's hesitation to tie the knot was the expense and stress of having a wedding. In fact, these factors caused young people to put off marriage until their late twenties, if they planned to get married at all. Many of those surveyed believed marriage was not important even when children were in the picture. The reason for this lackluster feeling towards marriage just might have something to do with changing attitudes in this country. Couples more commonly live together before marriage and fewer people look down upon them for doing so. Shacking up is socially acceptable, which wasn't the case a generation ago. I read these articles with interest, and a bit of sadness because I, myself am married and wouldn't have it any other way. Let me explain:

My husband and I are about to celebrate our twenty-sixth wedding anniversary, so I suppose it's safe to say I believe in marriage. I definitely believe in my marriage. We were married when I was twenty- two and my husband was twenty-eight. Even back in 1992 I felt pressure from some friends and acquaintances to put off marriage. Many people looked at me strangely, like I was an idiot for marrying so young. Perhaps I was, but I did it anyway. We got married in my hometown cathedral. The ceremony was ancient, solemn and beautiful. I remember saying my vows clearly and with conviction. I did promise to have and hold from that day forward, in sickness and in health, and I have kept that promise, for the most part. Most of us who have been married for a long time would admit to a few bumps along the road. The thing is, I was young. I really was. I was immature, silly in many ways, but I knew love when it hit me. And when someone comes along who loves you despite all your faults, all your insecurities and your crazy family, and loves you enough to ask you to spend the rest of your life with them, you grab that person and you hold on for dear life. I am not saying people can't do that without getting married officially. I know lots of people do. Perhaps they are stronger than I am, more sure of life, more confident in keeping things informal. But I was not that person. I knew standing up in front of all my family and friends, not to mention a God whom I believed had brought my husband and I together in the first place, and proclaiming my love and devotion and intense friendship with my husband, was integral to my happiness. Our wedding cost us very little money, but then, we had rather curbed expectations of grandeur. As for stress, yes, it was a busy time getting ready for it, but event planning was something I did as a job at that time in my life, so I found planning a wedding came somewhat naturally. My large family and several friends took care of various aspects of the event and made my job easier. My husband was unable to join me until about two weeks before our wedding. When he arrived he filled in the gaps and everything came together. In my experience, most things worth doing involve a bit of stress.

Over our twenty-six years together, my husband and I have been a team. We added four members to that team and formed an unbreakable bond - our family - which I find a great deal of comfort and joy in. Despite a bit of an age gap, which showed in our early years, we have evened out and become great equals. At a few points in those early years I questioned our marriage. I believe every couple goes through times of questioning, or at least the prone-to-navel-gazing partner does. When I felt some discontentment or frustration (I married a bit of an A type personality workaholic) I would haul out our wedding album and remember why we said our vows and made those promises in the first place. I would look at our extremely happy faces and come back to the source of our love. Those vows gave us a benchmark from which to work. Because marriage is work. Anyone who says it should be all deep gazes and roses is a big fat liar. Mind you, those deep gazes and roses do happen from time to time, and when they do, they are like a bit of beautiful embroidery on the fabric of our lives together.

I got lucky. My husband says he's the lucky one. That's what makes us work, and keep on working for and with each other. It's easy now, after twenty-six years, and it's great.

Cheers,

Rebecca

A Merry Christmas Boogie

Dear Friends,

It's raining cats and dogs here, but far away at the North Pole, Santa and his reindeer are gearing up for their gift giving frenzy ride tonight in any and all weathers.

I heard this song, ' The Reindeer Boogie' for the first time last night on CBC Radio 2 when I was making dinner. The girls and I broke into a kitchen dance party. We might not have snow this Christmas Eve but we do have some Hank Snow. And, we have our eldest son, his girlfriend and our niece arriving tonight. Our college kids have been home for a week already.

Wishing you all the blessings of Christmastime with your friends and family.

All our best!

Rebecca and family

  

Or, if you can't see this one, try clicking on this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mT148jvQCM8

Many Milestones to Go Before I Sleep

Our daughter lighting the birthday candles

This week my husband turned 50. This weekend our second son goes off to university. Next week, our eldest daughter enters her last year of high school, and our youngest will enter middle school. I am slightly overwhelmed by it all. I reflect on the fact of my husband turning 50 and think, whoa - my dad used to be 50; when I was a kid life seemed like it would last forever and anyone over 40 was practically ancient. Now that I'm in my 40's, Whoosh! is the sound the years make as they go by.

However, I like being in my 40's. I like how calm I am, and how generally patient I can be. I like my kids being at the age they are at, still young enough to be fun and fully open to life, yet old enough to have meaningful conversations with. Sometimes I look at mothers with young children and think, Oh, I remember that feeling. You are so tired and earnest, and everything your child does now seems so important to his future. I say 'his' because my first born is a boy. I remember with some guilt how much I expected of him at the age of two. Cringe.

When I met my husband, I was nearly 21 and he was 27. While apparently quite opposite in our interests, his being sports and business, and mine being the arts and literature, we fell in love over our shared taste in music, our love for nature, and the British comedy shows like Black Adder introduced to us by our brother-in-law, Brent. In fact, it was Brent and his wife, my sister Clare, who introduced us to each other at the Elephant Walk Pub in Vancouver. When we parted that first evening, and to paraphrase Ring Lardner, we gave each other a smile with a future in it and never looked back. When my mother heard we were dating, I am sure she thought he was too old for me. But when she met my new boyfriend, she told me he was very young at heart. And he still is. He says he certainly doesn't feel 50, except for this past Monday night when he had coached soccer for two hours in the pouring rain. He came in the house looking like something the cat dragged in. And we don't even have a cat.

We had a great party for my husband this past weekend. Several of our friends gathered at our home for an evening of friendship, food and good cheer. My husband was so touched by everyone's generosity, and was thrilled that our eldest son could come home for the event. My husband is having a good year. Besides reaching the half-century mark with great success and blooming health, he trained for and completed a 160 kilometer cycling race in July, knocking a full half hour off his personal best time. He looks and feels great - except when the invisible cat drags him in - and I am proud to be his partner in life, cheering him on. Quite a goal driven person all his life, my husband is mellowing, as I am, with age. He is more concerned with the quality of his life, and his family's life, than the visible achievements he may gain, although he was pretty darn happy to kick that road race's backside.

Speaking of goals, I thought this would be the summer I would train for a half marathon, but no. I injured the inner tendon on my right knee early in July and have only been able to walk. No hiking, no running, all summer long. I've made the most of it, though, enjoying many an evening walk-and-talk with my daughters. Although my knee is greatly improved and I plan to introduce running back into my life this fall, it is still giving me some minor pain now and again. That patience I mentioned earlier is coming in handy. There is always next year, I tell myself. Life is long, and yet it is short, too. We must make the most of it and be true to the gifts we've been given, and that includes the loved ones we have been given. I look forward to life unfolding as my family grows and develops. It is a new stage we are entering, that is certain.

When my husband and I were first married we listened to a lot of Neil Young. One of our favourite songs, 'Harvest Moon' seems apropo to the moment. The video is, too. Enjoy!

The title of this post is adapted from the last line of Robert Frost's poem, Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening. Have a lovely weekend, all.

A World of Music, with Small Town Roots

A few weeks into our relocation from a semi-remote rustic lodge on the rocky lake shore of central Vancouver Island to the lowland agricultural community we now call home my mother phoned to see how it was going.

I told her I was enjoying anonymity for the time being after living among a small collection of families who lived and worked at the outdoor education facility. I also told her I was a bit worried about finding a place for myself in this small town where, from what I had seen, it seemed that maintaining perfect lawns and power washing their houses' vinyl siding, driveways and vehicles were the chosen past times of its residents. 'Don't worry', she said. 'The artists are there. They're hiding. They'll reveal themselves sooner or later'. That conversation took place ten years ago.

A few miles north of our town was Harrison Hot Springs, a little hamlet of a resort community built up around a large hotel, my husband's workplace and the reason we had relocated. We thought the village was a magical little spot and visited often that first summer. We had left a lake shore community and it seemed important to visit our new nearby lake as often as possible. The Island was still very fresh in our minds and hearts and we were reluctant to pledge allegiance to our new home. Spending time by the water connected us to our recent past and helped bridge our lives between the two places.

By the fall I had discovered the presence of a little art gallery in a former forest ranger station on the east shore of Harrison Bay, just outside of the village center, and soon after, through a connection of my sister who was heavily involved in the arts community in her town of Prince Rupert, I found myself introduced to, and then elected as the secretary of, the executive of the small district arts council. The former ranger station was also home to the offices of The Harrison Festival of the Arts. The arts council and the Festival Society were separate organizations fulfilling different needs in the community but we shared the facility and the society helped us with running the gallery. Over the next couple of years I got to know the Creative Director of the Festival, Phyllis Stenson and the General Manager, her husband Ed Stenson, as well as their right hand man, Kevin Jones. Within two years of moving to the area I was working for them coordinating the festival Children's Day, a position I held for five years.

Working with Phyllis and Ed was like being a cog in a well oiled machine. Phyllis and I soon discovered we were both detail-oriented people. Phyllis shared her strategies with me on how to cope with the many small, but important aspects of putting on the event, which were, basically, to be super organized, work away steadily, and if things go sideways to repeat her mantra: 'If my family is well, I've got my health and they can't put me in jail, then everything is alright.' Ed, ever steady, always willing to share in the humour of any situation, helpful, encouraging, relaxed and realistic, was the rock that worriers  like me needed to lean against when the going got tough.

From our early days in the area, we attended the Festival, a ten day celebration of world and roots music and art. Soon, we were all volunteering, my husband, our four kids and myself after I had handed the Children's Day reins to someone else. From annual festival to annual festival we began to see a pattern. Not only did every year's festival shine with some unexpected performances such as the gospel-punk band Reverent Peyton from Lousiana, and the eleven piece very loud theatrical folk band Bellowhead from Britain, and some expected excellent ones like uber-guitarist David Lindley and traditional Cape Breton group Beolach or the dance band Rastrillos from Mexico, it also shone with the coming together of locals and non locals alike who shared a love for great music. People from every walk of life attended the free concerts on the beach stage. Enjoying the lake breezes in the shade of the willow trees and the Festival tents, young families, teenagers, high income people, low income people, elderly people and those with special needs sat on lawn chairs or blankets on the grass in front of the stage. And there were also those people who, having not expected to do anything but walk by the spectacle, found themselves spellbound by the sights and sounds and vibrations of energy emanating from the performers on the stage. As the Festival regulars met at the start of each day's concerts they asked each other, "Did you see the concert last night? Wasn't he/she/they amazing?" or even shared critiques: "I didn't care for that performer. Every song sounded the same to me."

The famous willow tree by the beach stage

Every July the Festival spans two full weekends of beach stage and hall performances as well as an all-day art market set up all along the esplanade. The Friday and Saturday night concerts are generally rousing and dance-able giving everyone a chance to cut loose and 'leave it all on the dance floor'. Sunday evening's concerts start earlier in the evening than the other nights' and are generally more thoughtful or stirring, and are generated to put everyone back together before normal, non festival life resumes. This planning of who should perform when and where is no accident. Over the years, Phyllis has fine-tuned her performance schedule, working with performers' agents to keep as many variables in mind as possible, which is an art in itself. Ed and his helpers run the production side of things to keep the Festival running smoothly, troubleshooting along the way and coming up with umpteen creative solutions. Our eldest was one of those hired stage hands last summer and saw first hand how well the event was run. Of course, very little of an event of this magnitude would be possible without hundreds of volunteer hours. It is to Ed and Phyllis' credit that volunteers like us clamor for an opportunity to become involved in the festival.  After all, we are treated so well, given a free pass to all ten of the evening hall shows (which are the only events in the festival that require purchased tickets) and have a party thrown for us at the end in thanks for our services. Well, we do work pretty hard sometimes.

This year's Harrison Festival of the Arts was the 35th annual, and Phyllis and Ed's last. Phyllis and Ed are retiring, and Kevin is moving on to other projects. In keeping with the way things work around the Festival, succession planning was well under way over a year ago, and come September two new people will be at the helm of the event. The festival society board will continue on providing continuity, focus, and support, but the new directors, who are younger and bring different skills and talents with them will undoubtedly put their own stamp on the event we have all come to love and look forward to each year.

There is no doubt that I consider the Harrison Festival to be one of the main reasons I began to feel at home here in this valley. I have met several friends through the festival, found work and made connections that have proven valuable to my sense of community. The Festival has also become a family affair, and I know my children will go out into the world seeking and perhaps even helping to create similar positive and uplifting community events wherever they choose to call home in the future. Long live the Festival! And a big thanks to Phyllis and Ed, and Kevin, who have worked so hard for many, many years to bring a rich and diverse world of music and art to all of us in this quiet corner of the upper Fraser Valley.


As someone out there said, the 'earth' without 'art' is just 'eh'.

The title of this post is taken from the theme of the Harrison Festival: World Music and Art, Small Town Roots.

I have taken a little summer hiatus from blogging and reading blogs but it is apparent that it is now over. See you soon! 

Big Things for Blog Post 200

I saw the most enormous recreational vehicle the other day. It was nearly twice as long as my neighbour's RV, which is the size of a small motel room and much fancier. She gave me a tour one day. The kitchen was complete with cupboards above and below, a decent amount of counter space along with a tidy sink, stove and refrigerator. The dining area could be expanded out the side with the push of a button, and the bedroom was fitted with a queen-sized bed, wood paneling, carpeting and mood lighting - and hers is a moderately sized 'fifth wheel trailer', called such because the front of it attaches over the box of her truck. Plenty of people around here have nearly the same one, so I suppose one could call it the average.

The R.V. I saw the other day blew by me on the highway when I was running and just seemed, like a train, to keep on going. It reminded me of another RV I saw years ago. I remember driving (nearly twenty-one years ago now) on the Alaska Highway with my very new husband, when we were passed by a bus. Except this was no ordinary bus. It was a private bus with dark windows and a pastel pink and blue paint job which exactly matched the expensive S.U.V. it was towing behind it. After the bus pulled into our lane, purring as it went, we saw the brand name in gold, three-dimensional script: Ferrari. I am fairly sure that Ferrari does not make recreational vehicles of that sort, so the bus we saw must have been a custom job for someone. "Ooooooo," we both said, and wondered who was hidden behind those tinted windows.

With our camping gear stuffed in the back of our Toyota Tercel hatchback, we were slung low to the road, the RVs towering high above us. After living and working a few months at Panorama Mountain Village resort in the high and dry cattle country of the eastern part of our province, the dry heat was what we were used to, and anyway, we had no air conditioning in that car. We drove a long way without enough water for drinking and few places to buy any bottled drinks. While the travelers in the RVs enjoyed the luxuries we went without, a place to go pee when they needed to, cupboards full of food and a fridge full of cold beverages, we sweltered in the hot afternoons and listened to music from our cassette collection. We arrived at the campground and, if it had showers, we gratefully washed off the road dust and grimy sweat. We slept alright, everything considered, in our much needed bug-proof tent each night of our three day journey from the south of the province 'due up,' as Daffy Duck would have it, to The North to take part in a seven-day river rafting expedition down the Tatshenshini and Alsek rivers.

Living near the TransCanada Highway now, we see giant RVs, although I have yet to see another Ferrari bus, all the time, especially at this time of year. They don't impress me much anymore. I think of the amount of gas they guzzle and shudder. We are car campers and always have been. I am, however, especially as I get older, open to moderately priced and environmentally friendly change.

It was when we started camping on the West Coast, land of fog and mist and the occasional downpour, that I found myself slightly envying those with trailers. While I have never desired the Las Vegas-hotel-suite-on-wheels sort of experience, it did occur to me that being able to sleep up off the damp ground might not be a bad thing. I began to dream of a pop-up tent/trailer hybrid such as some of our friends had, with storage on board and a simple fold out kitchen on the side. I would see people pulling these tent-trailers behind their mini-vans and think, 'I could get into that.'

We still don't have a tent -trailer for two reasons:

 1)  So far, my husband is a camping purist, which means tents, sleeping bags, roll-up mats, and a camp stove in dubious working order that will burn the hair off your arms when you are trying to light it. I don't try.

2)  It is hard to justify arguing for one when we rarely go camping these days. Sad, but true, although I am determined we go this summer.

So, I will continue to be fine with sleeping in our tent as long as I can have the following: two roll-up mats to sleep on, and my husband being the first one up in the morning, boiling the water for my coffee. I will even enjoy the experience, after the first night, of course. I never have a good first night anywhere away from home. Not even if I were to sleep on a Ferrari bus.

Yes, this is my 200th post, believe it or not. I started this blog back in the fall of 2009, and it has been a rich experience, meeting other bloggers from around the world and writing all these letters. 
I also want to welcome the two people who have recently joined this blog. I hope you like it here.

Easter Traditions Then and Now

I remember once sitting in the living room with my parents some time over the Easter weekend while we listened to the entire recording of Handel's Messiah. I'm not sure if that was a yearly tradition or not, but it left an impression on me. Now I like to turn on CBC Radio while I am cooking breakfast on Easter morning and tune in to The Messiah with all the other people listening across the country. It's a good, unifying feeling of joy and celebration while maple flavoured bacon sizzles in the pan and the scrambled eggs cook up light and fluffy. We have bacon and eggs every Easter morning, and my family looks forward to the meal, but it is the beautiful braided Easter bread that is the crowning glory of the white clothed breakfast table.

Every year, For as long as I can remember, my mother has made her family-favourite Easter bread. My mom is an excellent bread maker and I have good memories of sitting in the kitchen watching her knead the dough - thump thump thump - as she turned the dough over and over with her capable hands on the yellow formica topped kitchen table. She generally made a large batch of sweet dough and after decorating the braided bread with white icing and brightly coloured jelly beans, would deliver a few loaves to close friends. We still had plenty left over for Easter breakfast, though, and it was always a big treat sliced and slathered with sweet and slightly salty butter. 

When my boys were little I asked my mom for her Easter bread recipe. She gave me the original booklet from which she had first learned the method; the booklet had probably come free of charge with a bag of Robin Hood flour. Every year since, I have made Mom's Easter bread, and it has become an essential part of the Easter celebrations in our house. I make two loaves and they are both gobbled up in as many days. Easter bread is not terribly filling and being white bread, it becomes stale fairly quickly. Fortunately, it never lasts long enough in our house for staleness to be a worry.

The first rising (I love punching down the dough)

Ian insited on putting his copy of Ben Hur in this photo
of the braided dough ready for baking

Golden baked loaves. They smell sooo heavenly.

Iced and decorated for Easter morning

I made our Easter bread today, and this evening, our youngest is decorating eggs. When I was growing up, Holy Saturday was the day for egg decorating. I, the youngest would do my best not to smudge the colours on my eggs, while my sisters, especially my sister Pauline created objet d'art with theirs. A local shop also sponsored an Easter colouring contest each year, and Pauline often won First Prize. I could only gaze in wonder at what she could accomplish with a set of pencil crayons. We had a beatiful collection of eggs which decorated the sideboard or the table for the Easter season.  My girls have made some beautiful creations over the years, and my eldest brought home one she had made by tying a piece of patterned silk around an egg before boiling it for several minutes in vinegar water in her cooking class this week. The pattern transferred itself onto the egg throughout the process which made for a very pretty result.

The egg on the left was boiled tied in patterned silk, while the
other was decorated with felt tipped pen by my youngest daughter

On Saturday night, our family would attend the Easter Vigil at our Cathedral. With the lights dimmed and the scent of incense sitting heavily in the air, I would generally fall asleep on my dad and sometimes he even carried me all the way home. Easter morning, we children rose and sought out our stash of chocolate and jelly beans. We always had a large, flat Peter Rabbit, and my brother and I would attack the ears first. We even had a type of Easter treasure hunt once. We had clues that we had to follow in order to reach the hiding spot of our cache of treats.

As a family now, we attend whichever Easter mass works for us because my husband is usually very busy during any holiday period at the hotel where he is employed. He even used to dress up as the Easter Bunny on Easter morning and hand out chocolate eggs to all the children staying at the hotel for the holiday. This year we opted to go to mass early Sunday morning, when our eldest girl will be singing in the choir. For several years I hid plastic eggs filled with little chocolate eggs and other candies in our downstairs for my own children. Each of our four kids was assigned a colour of plastic egg. They had to find only their colour. Eventually, they got too old for that (or my skills at hiding just could not keep up to their skill at finding) and for the past few years I have simply filled a basket or similar container with brightly coloured Easter grass to make a nest for their treats. I make one for their dad, too, so he doesn't feel left out.

We always get together with friends for an Easter supper, generally of baked ham, scallopped potatoes, salads and of course, luscious desserts and wine. This year, with the weather being so beautiful we will shake things up a bit. We are going out to our friends' farm where we will gather with some other families and go for a long walk followed by an Easter Tea (which our host says will be supper disguised as something easier). We often shared our Easter supper with friends when I was growing up, too, if I remember correctly. Easter was always the most important celebration in the year and many of the traditions I grew up with I have carried on with my own children. Taking the rich and meaningful moments of our childhoods and adapting them to our own families is what tradition is all about. And barring that, we make our own.

A joyful and very happy Easter to all!

I decided to re-post this from April 7 of last year, as much of it still holds true for our Easter celebrations this year. Again the weather promises to be beautiful and warm, and again we will be going to our friends' farm for a walk and an Easter tea, but on the Monday this time. Three of our kids will be working Sunday afternoon after the early mass, two here at the bistro, and our eldest back at his job in a music store in Vancouver (although he will be here Friday night and Saturday for a little visit). "The numbers are dwindling," my friend said last night, "The numbers are dwindling." Even on the Monday we will be with only two of our kids as our second eldest is making a visit to his grandparents for the week. One tradition we will all partake in together, however, and that is the eating of the Easter bread, but I'll be making it a day early so that can happen. 

Here is an extra photo from a little side road I took the other day. A little valley within our Valley: 

And I found some of these just opening up:

Happy Spring!

A Little Valentine's Post

I saw on the TV news last night, that the average person spends $168.00 on Valentine's Day for their loved one, but that only 17% buy the jewelry so aggressively advertised this time of year. I bet that many of those $168.00 are spent on roses and a night out at a favourite restaurant.

My husband and I have celebrated twenty-two Valentine's Days together. Our Valentine's Day gifts usually consist of a thoughtful card and a box of chocolates, because we both appreciate thoughtfulness as well as chocolate very much. Sometimes I have had flowers, too, but not often. I usually cook a special Valentine's supper for my family and we all gather around the table to celebrate our love for each other in the best way we know how - with food.

This Valentine's Day my husband had to get up at five a.m. to go to work (there is lots of sickness and other stuff happening at his workplace this time of year), so while he was in the shower I sneaked upstairs and left his card and chocolates for him to find on the kitchen table where he would be assembling his breakfast. He left for work without saying goodbye, which is not unusual because as he dresses his focus is already on the day, and the challenges, ahead. Instead of being hurt as I would have been fifteen years ago, I went back to sleep and dreamed of the African jungle in the book I'm reading. When I awoke I went upstairs to make my coffee and see my girls off to school. There, right where I grind the coffee beans, was an envelope and a box of chocolates from the same shop where I had purchased his. The message in the card was simple and loving, very similar to the one I'd left him. I suppose after twenty-two years, the need for a lot of words ebbs and flows just like everything else in marriage.

Our youngest daughter, who has had a cold for a week, developed a bad cough last night. It wasn't much better this morning, so I kept her home from school and took her container full of homemade, individually wrapped and labeled iced heart cookie Valentines - I made the dough and she and her sister did the rest - to her teacher to distribute. Now I am settling down for a morning of writing a blog post and then an article for the newspaper on an upcoming annual event I organize with the local librarian. The dishwasher is scrubbing last night's dishes, my sick daughter is eating toast and watching a DVD, and my son is practicing his violin pieces for his upcoming auditions. Family life carries on and does not stop for this holiday. It is, however, made a little bit sweeter because of it.

Happy Valentine's Day, however you spend it, or whatever you spend on it.

The photo is one I took at the end of a gloriously sunny, frosty day in January, when my Valentine, our girls and I went for a walk on a local trail. 

What's so Great about Martha Stewart?

I am not American, neither am I rich (well, not in money anyway), I am artsy, but not particularly crafty, so why have I, every November for the past twelve years, bought a copy of the December issue of Martha Stewart Living? What do I see in that magazine that is so enticing for me to spend 6 bucks on it, read it cover to cover, and then keep it enshrined with all the others on a shelf in my dining room to be brought out and pored over every year? I will attempt to answer these questions, for anyone who cares, in the following post.

Martha Stewart is an American icon by now. She seems to be an expert on everything from breeds of fowl to how to keep foxing (those brown age spots in old books) out of your collection of First Editions. She speaks with the alto voiced drawl of the more laughable New York Yuppies depicted in Norah Ephron and Woody Allen films, and her hair is forever blonde. She will hand roll her own wrapping paper in a faux bois pattern and curl ribbon to emulate wood shavings to extend the woodland theme she has chosen for all her Christmas decorations of a particular year even to her packaging of gifts. She will hand make all her Christmas gifts, be they delicious puddings or be they begonias produced from cuttings of her own perfect plants, and present them in re-usable vessels, such as terra cotta pots made locally in her Bedford, New York neighbourhood and stamped with the name of her farm, or specially chosen bowls from her collections, all wrapped exquisitely, of course, as mentioned above, and personalized with a handmade, thematic gift tag. I'm not sure how many of these gifts she gives out to friends and family, but I am willing to bet the number is a high multiple of ten - at the very least. I also hear Martha Stewart, like many powerful people, only sleeps four hours a night. Go figure.

I started my interest in Martha Stewart back in 1995, when I was talking to a friend about cooking my first Turkey for Christmas. My friend gave me an edition of MSL magazine with an article entitled 'Turkey 101'. I followed the directions to the letter and every year I use the same recipe because it makes for delicious results. How can it not, when basted in a bottle of white wine and lashings of butter? Martha Stewart recipes make up a large portion of my special occasion recipes, as well as some of my everyday ones. My mother-in-law heard I was getting into Martha recipes and bought me one of her cookbooks for Christmas in 1996. The best chicken or turkey stock, the best chicken soup (with leeks and fennel) to cure a cold with, the best devilled egg recipe, the best pumpkin pie recipe, the best gingerbread cookie recipe, are all to be found in that falling apart book. My husband bought me a subscription of MSL magazine in 2002 and, while I enjoyed receiving an issue per month, I was a bit overwhelmed with a new baby at the time, and one solid year of fantastic gardening tips for my nonexistent garden and advice on where to find the best bookbinder for one's antique tomes was enough for me. Fortunately, 2002 was a great year for the magazine and I still have all my copies and refer to them often for the best recipes for coconut cake, quesadillas with caramelized onions and zucchini, various cookies and punches, and for a delicious recipe for the chicken and corn empanadas my daughter has requested I make for her birthday party tomorrow. Her birthday cake recipe is also coming from a back issue.

I remember a party we had to which we invited a few friends for quesadillas and margaritas. I made a rich, hot fudge sauce from MSL for the ice cream sundaes I served for dessert. Like all MSL recipes it makes an overly generous amount (I have learned to halve some recipes, particularly for dessert sauces and such), but I made the full recipe thinking I would have leftovers to warm for a future dessert. No such luck. Three of the women at the party proceeded to sit down around the bowl of hot fudge sauce and polish it off. There went a pound of good quality chocolate, but also, there lay the proof of the appeal of MSL recipes. They just taste so darn good.

Martha Stewart Living is about more than recipes and beautiful, artistic photos of food. The magazine contains ideas and instructions for craft projects, features on wonderful American artisans, decorating ideas for houses and apartments, and even occasional articles on how to invest your extra money in a seaside cottage or mountain retreat (which I ignore because I already spent all my money on chocolate). What I like about the magazine is that it sticks to these themes, and it knows what it's about - gracious, good and healthful living, which celebrates the home and family and those who care for them creatively. It's honest about its purpose, too: good taste and quality matter. I also like the fact that much of what is presented in the magazine to be created at home is approachable for 'the rest of us' if we have the time, the desire, and the energy to make some beautiful, delicious things from scratch for our family and friends, and for ourselves. To be completely honest, I'm a busy person and I do not have time or energy to embark on a lot of projects. The times of year that I do make a point of doing so is in preparation for the major holidays, and most of my chosen projects involve creating good things to eat. So, in that way, I am not a thorough devotee of the great Martha. I am not always looking for patterns to make my own dog bed, or ways to stencil my furniture. But for a new cake to make for Easter, or a pretty ornament to make for Christmas gifts? Yes, I'm there, studying the Martha manual along with all the well-to-do housewives of Connecticut.

Martha Stewart Living put out a magazine for kids for a few years. I bought several issues and found them to be full of beautiful ideas to do with my children. We made batches of marshmallow fudge for their teachers, personalized gingerbread people with the neighbourhood kids, lots and lots of cut paper snowflakes after learning the real way to do so, and various other projects. I taught one little boy I looked after to make paper snowflakes and he and my daughter wiled away many hours making them and taping them up in my hallway. One year, my kids and I made little ornaments out of pipe cleaners - little skiing Santas and skating snowmen, wreaths, candy canes, stockings and tiny deer. The project was so much fun and definitely inexpensive. We sent one to everyone on our list with their Christmas card and a mix-tape of seasonal music. The kids made those pipe cleaner ornaments the next year, too, and the year after that.

The other night I bought this year's December issue of Martha Stewart Living. I brought it home with the groceries, which my eldest daughter, Emma, nearly sixteen, helped to put away. After the groceries were in their proper places, my daughter went to bed, but not before she had picked up the new issue of MSL and asked me if I would let her take it to bed with her before I had had a chance to read it. Emma is a baker, beginning to be a good cook, is crafty and like her mother, loves pretty things and good food. The next morning she said she had stayed up late, reading the magazine cover to cover and getting all kinds of ideas for projects to make. For the past two years, Emma has made a beautiful wreath from cuttings of cedar and holly for our front door at Christmastime. Every year she also chooses some kind of special dessert to make for Christmas, and just the other night, she came up with a prototype for our annual Christmas card. It was lovely, so I said, 'go to it!' and she has. I think I will end up being her assistant for that project - if I can keep up.

Years ago, a woman who immersed herself in cooking, baking and decorating would be called a 'little Suzy homemaker,' conjuring up images of a 1950's smiling housewife in a ruffled apron and pearls, but now, she might be called something like 'the next Martha Stewart,' which means something different entirely. I mean, does the owner and brainpower behind Martha Stewart Omnimedia look like a 'little Suzy homemaker' to you?  Heck, she's even done time in the big house.

Photos found online. Happy weekend, friends!