Wordwrights Christmas Lunch 2024

December 30, 2024December 30, 2024 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Hard to believe but this was the 8th Wordwrights Christmas lunch – one of them virtual. Since the first lunch we have lost two of our original members – Rian Elliott and Alison Pearce. Two of the original members – Muriel Allingham and Maria Melillo Jones – did not join us. Two new members of the group were joining the lunch for the second year – Cathy Sartor and Krista Vanderhoeven. Welcome back to our supporter, Mary Ann Colihan, Annie Carpenter, Diane Chartrand, Madeleine Horton, Marian Bron. And me.

The location was the RiverBend Golf and Country Club, freshly renovated.

It is a great occasion to share some seasonal treats and to look forward to a productive new year. 2025 will be the 10th year of the Wordwrights. Hard to believe.

A writing challenge has also been regular and this year was no exception. We were challenged to write a “seasonal” piece and read it to the group. All the contributions were entertaining and creatively varied.

See the posted writings under Special Occasions..

Winter Season (Catherine Campbell)

December 30, 2024 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

My relationship with winter has deteriorated drastically over the years – although it didn’t start off all that well either. Five years old I froze my hands because I lost my mittens. Winnipeg weather is not kind and the family spent three years there.

Next stop was Goose Bay, Labrador. Activities there revolved around winter. Neighbourhood kids dug tunnels in the snow. Easy to do when the drifts were over our heads. My father rescued me walking down the corridor between those drifts in the middle of the night – barefoot. My sister and I loved to watch the dog sled races – teams racing across the frozen bay. The northern lights were spectacular as I walked home from Brownies.

Ottawa wasn’t a lot different. A long, cold winter with lots of snow was common. Here I did try and enjoy activities in that wintery environment such as skating on the canal.

Needless to say, our two years in Tanzania didn’t include “winter”. My mother still decorated. The fake tree was a montage of drawings of pastel branches stuck on the wall. The community celebration was odd – dishes prepared and served on picnic tables. The roast goat didn’t happen. Someone stole it the night before. I suspect its ending wasn’t any kinder.

Winter in Edinburgh was just “cold”. Our school uniforms didn’t include panty hose and the heating in the classroom was a copper pipe across the front of the room. Since I was the most junior member of the dorm room I was appointed the task of lighting the heater first thing in the morning. Of course I then dove back into bed to warm up my feet. No real winter sports made up my life here but I did continue horseback riding. My pony was decidedly hairy.

Back in Ottawa I invested more in “enjoying” winter. I started figure skating lessons and skiing on the local hills. More horseback riding on our palomino, Drifter, and our little thoroughbred, Tony. Felt boots, toques, scarfs, parkas – very chic. I did some cross-country skiing.

When I moved to Guelph to finish my first degree I acquired a car. Not exactly a winter vehicle – 1964 MGB. It was an ongoing challenge to get it started.

The next few years revolved around work and law school in Toronto, walking distance. No winter activities. I tried to revive my skiing activity but just ended up somersaulting down the hill. Bruised and humiliated I haven’t downhill skied since.

Cross-country skiing didn’t last long either. My husband and I actually took the skiis, two dogs (vizslas – not exactly cold weather dogs) to Calgary. We brought two collie puppies home with us. The skiis ended up in the rafters in our garage in Aurora. They might still be there.

The vizslas liked to run in the snow. My champion obedience dog and I finished a miserable dog show (failed all the trials) by going to Ashbridge’s Bay. February but the sun was shining. Sheba (the vizsla) took after ducks on the frozen surface of the bay. She went through the ice. A piece of ice was under her chest so she was floating – and howling! I crawled out on a spit with a good Samaritan and we coaxed her over to us. We got her out to the applause of about 200 spectators just as the ladder firetruck arrived.

So here we are in London. A gorgeous vista across the golf course and Kains Woods. The dogs (Dobermans) and I enjoyed admiring the view from the sunroom. Any snow activity was brief – exercising the dog and a little retrieving.

My current enjoyment is similar only now with a poodle. He quite likes the snow. Our short jaunts in the drifts results in a trip to the grooming table to comb out the snowballs and dry him off. Tedious. Sends me back to the hand warmers and a coffee.

2020 – “MEMORABLE” YEAR – CATHERINE A. CAMPBELL

January 10, 2024 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

No ominous vibes.

2019 ended with a trip to Welland to see family with our new poodle puppy in tow, followed by a New Year’s Eve dinner.

2020 started routinely.

JANUARY

We did make it to midnight, coughing the whole time.

I spent the first few days trying to rehome a piano for Alison (one of the writing group). It ended up going to a young relative of hers who was just starting to learn. Piano looked to be a major part of this year – 2020. I had made the decision to pursue my Associateship of the Royal Conservatory of Canada so lots of piano lessons and piano practice. An onerous undertaking.

The Forest City Wordwrights, my writing group, continued its monthly sessions. Amazing that we have been together for four years. I submitted a story about the loss of Ivy, our last Doberman, to Chicken Soup – worth doing but like most rejections today the response was “silence”.

Dog training is also a high priority for 2020 – Kohl, now 6 months old, is getting bigger and much more confident. Definitely got a mind of his own. He graduated from Grade 1 and moved on to Grade 2 – at a training centre about an hour and a half drive east of London.

Having invested in clippers, scissors and a very powerful dryer we wimped and pursued grooming services from the co-breeder who has set up a new business in Strathroy – a half hour drive west of London.

Good thing Kohl likes the car.

FEBRUARY

I celebrated my birthday at the ortho clinic (again!) seeing the surgeon for my follow-up and to celebrate the completing of my participation in a two-year study related to different types of hip replacements.

The writing group was active – checking out competitions and reviewing books on the art of writing.

In a test of my piano accomplishments – I played t the St. Thomas Rotary Festival – this time a Chopin Etude, by memory. Wish it had gone better but the adjudicator was very generous. This piece is now so much better, but it is hugely challenging and wildly fast. I played in the Festival two years ago three weeks after my hip replacement surgery, hobbling up on stage on my crutches. I played that time much better – the adjudicator just about took a header over my crutch at the end of my performance.

MARCH

There were murmurs about a virus surfacing in Europe – my recollection is that Italy was the primary focus for the first part of the month. A couple of cases occurred in the West – US and Canada – but the general response from the powers that be here in Canada was that there was no great concern. So life went on.

We attended a performance to celebrate the 250^th anniversary of Beethoven’s death – Gerald Vreman, my piano coach, played the Concerto #1 as the highlight of the event. It was well attended. I remember discussing the Italian situation with the virus with another of Gerald’s adult students who was planning to go to Italy in April to address family situations. (She didn’t go. Several of her relatives contracted the virus.)

Mid March we went to a wine tasting in Niagara – a fabulous cheese buffet spread and several wine options. But there was now a tension, a concern about the buffet and strangers in close confines. The winery had staff serve rather than everyone helping themselves. We had stopped at a Niagara distillery on the way in and a couple of small bottles of hand sanitizer were included in our order. The distillery undertook the production of large quantities of sanitizer and delivered it for free to paramedics, police and other frontline workers in the Niagara region. Many other wineries stepped up to provide more supply.

It was still several days later before all non-essential businesses were ordered closed. Schools were closed. Our beloved Covent Garden Market and Jill’s Table (our favourite kitchen store) closed – we went to both weekly. The vendors were (well still are) our friends. No more housecleaning. No more hair salon. The Club closed but reached out to the community by establishing a meal delivery service.

There was a mad rush on toilet paper.

Technology stepped in. Our dog training went online to complete the Grade 2 course. My piano lessons moved to FaceTime. Yoga went to Zoom. No dog grooming but, using Skype, the groomer delivered a lesson on coat maintenance. Our personal fitness training group moved to virtual using Physiotec.

We walked the golf course with the dog – my Fitbit recorded thousands of steps a day.

The writing group also went virtual – low tech. As if isolation wasn’t hard enough to bear additional upheavals happened. A marriage breakup (upside, the husband had bought a lot of toilet paper before he walked out and didn’t take it with him). The member I had helped with the piano – 88 years old – had just moved into a retirement home and no one could visit. The group tried to stay motivated by doing scheduled prompt writing sessions and circulating the results via email. The better efforts were added to our website. Forest City Wordwrights

In our family, our son worked from home and was “daddy day care” to a 4-year old. His wife quarantined herself thinking she had symptoms, but her test came back negative. She then went back to work, 12-hour shifts, in the dialysis unit of her hospital.

Trips planned got cancelled – my sister’s trip to Florida to join her spouse cancelled. Instead, he was trying to figure out how to get home. And her vet practice was working on a new no-touch system of treating pet patients.

We were already starting to feel guilty that our lives had changed but, comparably, we were untouched. Ergo my addition to my wardrobe –

God grant me the

Serenity to accept things

I cannot change

The Courage to change

The things I can

And the Wisdom to know

When just to play PIANO

APRIL

Everything went quiet and the atmosphere was electric. Our community Owners’ Council (I am a long-time council member) went to Zoom. Wineries and the dog training outfit got creative to keep their clientele in the loop – Zoom, Instagram Live and Facebook Q&A. Friends talked of disappointment at not seeing family at Easter. Church services went online.

We drank wine, ordered more. The writers group organized lots of prompt sessions and took advantage of virtual writing workshops.

I wrote at the time….

OUTSIDE THE WINDOW.

Coming back to life – cutting the grass. Seems almost normal. Kohl is checking out this new activity. Well not really new – back in the fall of 2019 it was normal routine. Nothing normal about today.

Well that really isn’t true either. The sun is shining, the grass is green, the leaves are starting to unfold from their buds on the trees. The bees are back, feasting on the dandelions. I rescued one from the sunroom and set him free. Something missing though.

No golfers.

The irrigation system was being checked this morning. Big sprays of water over the 1^st green. The fertilizer cart headed back from the second hole. The greens are cut, the rough is trimmed.

No golfers.

There are walkers galore. What else is there to do? Our private park. I’ve hit my 10,000 steps several times. We have videoed Kohl doing his leash work and his tugging and his retrieving. Posted it online because there are no dog training classes. We chat from a social distance with fellow residents. Introduce Kohl but no social interaction allowed. Walking carefully by fellow walkers, an appropriate distance maintained, a wave, a smile.

The eagles are soaring in the afternoon sky. A robin has nested on the pillar by our front porch. Not sure where the ducks nested this year. Kohl and I watch them come and go from the ponds. And geese, of course. The superintendent was out a few weeks ago – loud noises to spook them away. Back down to the Thames Valley Conservation area or Kains Woods. Kohl has met a muskrat and checks out the stream every walk to look for him (or her). We spooked two deer who bounced down the fairway, tails flagging white and high. Kohl would have been in hot pursuit except for the leash.

No golfers.

In a normal time, spring, warm, we would not be walking on this course soaking up the joy of renewal. We truly would be observing outside the window. So all beautiful and vibrant but all outside the window.

Outside the window.

MAY

The days are now starting to blend together, one after another, a disturbing lack of rhythm. Days, now weeks, now months.

Just in case we thought spring was actually here Mother Nature delivered a final dose of winter.

Just a week later the golf course opened. One person per cart. Social distancing. No raking of the traps. The Clubhouse was still closed. To complement the meal delivery program the Club initiated a grocery service. A godsend to some in the community who were reluctant to or unable to go to a grocery store. Social distancing at our favourite store was almost impossible so we stopped going. Masks were promoted for anywhere social distancing wasn’t possible – in a very short time both masks and social distancing were mandated.

Kohl was in dire need of a groom, but no groomers were allowed to be open. We discovered ticks. Fortunately, not carriers of Lyme disease but we combed Kohl out carefully after any walks in the fescue. Lots of deer and coyotes so not a surprise but easy to miss. End of the month Kohl got his groom. I didn’t. I looked worse than Kohl.

It was disappointing to have to celebrate a friend’s 88^th birthday virtually. Not even a cake was allowed to be delivered. So, I made her a birthday card and posted a virtual party on the writing group website. The new owner of her family homestead tried to do a visit outside her window but was discouraged by the management of the retirement home.

Just for an outing we drove to Niagara for a curbside pickup of barbecued brisket – crazy – we were getting claustrophobic. It was delicious. Kohl came on the drive but didn’t share in the brisket.

JUNE

The region started opening up. With some trepidation we went back to personal fitness training – 1 client at a time, by appointment only. We visited the market and our favourite kitchen store but our emails setting up these outings show quite a bit of angst.

And now masks – I ordered masks from a clothing store – Frank Lyman specials. One of the residents in the community started making masks, no charge except that she was the volunteer fundraiser for the London Symphonia and a donation would be much appreciated. Expensive masks. One is a keyboard pattern and the other musical notes and clefs.

Out of the blue Howard got an email from his best friend when he was ten, a woman now living in Seattle. A package arrived from her – more masks.

Mid-month in-person dog training restarted – small class, no spectators. The patio at the Club opened with masks required except at the table. Separate entrance and exit paths. Owners’ Council meetings remained virtual. Piano lessons still on FaceTime.

The writing group continued to meet “virtually”, writing prompts and just staying in touch. The birthday member had a fall and ended up in hospital. It was hard to track down how she was. Visitors were very limited and she had to quarantine because of being at the hospital.

Just to add another challenge an element in our oven burned out. It took weeks to organize a repair call and weeks to find out it couldn’t be replaced. Good thing we had the Big Green Egg. I even cooked Yorkshire puddings on it.

JULY

Our favourite July event for years was the i4C – International Cool Climate Chardonnay Celebration. The organizers put together a virtual offering including the School of Cool event. Not quite as entertaining as the in-person. Not sure whether the 2021 event will fly or not.

The virtual lecture was interesting but not in the same league as this real experience in 2018.

Mid-July, masks were made mandatory inside businesses and restaurants.

A storm went through the area knocking out power. Wind shear took out trees and twisted a garage door like a pretzel. There was other minor damage, but our property was untouched.

AUGUST

Here we are on the Hidden Bench patio participating in a dog training Zoom call (using my iPhone for data) – a treat to be in the open air, a socially distanced outing. Only a couple of people were allowed inside the tasting room at a time. Everyone was masked on the formal patio and inside. That did lend an ominous air to the occasion that we tried to ignore.

Wine and the study of wine fills hours of the days.

Not my favourite task at the best of times but we had to kick off the election process for Owners’ Council. Three vacancies, four candidates. We set up the voting process on Survey Monkey.

Our medical checkup appointment pushed out 6 weeks. The clinic was closed. Doctors dealt with non-emergency medical issues on the phone.

And for the writing group, I wrote virtual meeting notes – a truly virtual meeting as it didn’t take place even virtually.

SUMMER DOLDRUMS AND COVID-19

Although we are escaping the oppressive heat of July and early August the fresh cool mornings just exacerbate the feelings of physical and emotional constraint brought on by social distancing, masks and angst. For those of us “trapped” in relatively idyllic locations we ache for those who are confined to homes, deprived of social interaction, suffering from ailments (some serious but medical attention is hard to obtain) or working in difficult circumstances (vets, dentists, health care workers). The fear mongering in the media and amongst our political class (domestic and international) makes it difficult to define what social activity is a reasonable risk and what is not. As we mask everywhere it seems like eons ago that our public health advisors were saying masks were useless. Now you can be lynched for failing to mask and “endangering” others even if there is no-one within dozens of feet much less six. As we tentatively test a return to “normal” – my piano lessons are now in person, but I arrive at one door and leave through another, masks are worn, handwashing is required and all the door knobs get sanitized between students. Yoga is still on Zoom. Kohl’s dog training is in person – 6 students in a huge training hall, masked, no spectators and, just to be sure, social distancing. I guess this will be the “new normal” for many weeks, months. Winter is ominously lurking – another form of confinement.

The Wordwrights have supported each other’s projects and creativity for several years now. It is hard to lose the physical connection even though it was only monthly. And that is especially hard when members of the group are going through personal challenges. Let’s keep reaching out to each other, virtually for now, but, with the power of Zen, lift our spirits and energize our creativity. Share the moments of despair but also indulge the moments of accomplishment even joy.

We will get through this!

SEPTEMBER

On the Labour Day long weekend, a Foreign Affair Brisket Event was organized – a picnic. Masks to enter the picnic grounds, questionnaire and temperature taken. Kohl accompanied us to this “socially distanced” picnic. He was a very good boy. Brisket sandwiches, baked beans and chips and, of course, a glass of wine. I was the driver – Howard had 2. Seven hours from leaving home to getting back. Pooched!

Last day of August and it looks like a new range will finally be installed. In this complicated life the deliverers of the range don’t disconnect the old appliance or connect the new one. So, we had to find an electrician to come in the day before the delivery and the day after. Having strangers wandering through the house was stressful. Then the range arrived with a significant dent – the price was adjusted by $500. The dent doesn’t show because the range is set into the cabinets but still annoying.

The Owners’ Council election went ahead with only a hitch or two on Survey Monkey. Sadly, one of the council members was diagnosed with lung cancer during the summer. She voted from her hospital bed and died a week after the results were published. Still miss her presence at the meetings – bright, funny.

OCTOBER

This month it is a year since we saw our close family. We looked at the possibility of visiting. Too many “uncontrollables”, particularly the 4-year old who loves to hug. That and our son doing part-time firefighting. And our daughter-in-law still in the health care system. And we would have to bring Kohl who has never met their dog, Odi (standard schnauzer).

We roasted a turkey for Thanksgiving even though it was just the two of us. Multiple turkey dinners, turkey pies, turkey stock, stuffing for pork tenderloin…not really an ideal menu option for two.

The trials of several of the writing group members continued. Real emotional hardship. Our prompt sessions stalled – jaded perhaps.

Makes me feel guilty for chafing at the restrictions when I have access to outdoors, to good food and wine, to books, movies and playing with/training my dog. I feel badly for my sister and the difficult processes implemented in her vet practice. Her significant other would normally be on the way to their property in Florida but not this year.

Fall moves on. Golfing is still a go so our walks are around the outside of the course. Absolutely gorgeous.

So much routine too. Numerous meetings and issues with Owners’ Council. Personal training resumed. Piano continues. Seems surreal.

There is a change in email – less from friends and family and more from retailers, vendors, travel sites – constant barrage of specials and opportunities. And lots from the Tudorose Poodle group (Kohl’s connections) and McCann’s dog training (Kohl’s connection again). Most of the blog posts from writing sites and piano and music sites remain unopened. Maybe I am also jaded.

Kohl needed his vaccinations so headed for the vet. Phoned when we arrived. A technician came out and fetched Kohl. We spoke to the vet, masked and socially distanced, and paid by phone.

And another little bit of normalcy, we got our flu shots in an outdoor clinic. Never got out of the car. In and out of the parking lot in 20 minutes including the 15-minute wait to make sure there was no reaction.

I wrapped up the month with a Zoom workshop from Quick Brown Fox – How to Write Great Characters. Of course, I haven’t managed to put the info to use.

NOVEMBER

I signed up for a Jill’s Table virtual cooking class. – Marvellous Mushrooms. We picked up the necessary ingredients from the store and from the market. Then I discovered the downside. I had to do all the prep and do it all before it was needed if I wanted to keep up with the Zoom presentation. The kitchen was destroyed. No question the pre-pandemic cooking class, sitting in the store’s teaching space with a glass of wine watching the guest chef work “magic”, delivered to us to taste, was much more relaxing. Not that my culinary results were disappointing. Not at all. Just a lot of WORK.

I registered for a Mysteries and Thrillers writing course through Western. It provided a little intellectual stimulation and I did make a little progress on one of my projects.

I finally got a scheduled medical procedure (CT Colonography) after a year of waiting. Initially I was told it could be scheduled spring of 2021 if I was prepared to go to Strathroy and summer if I wanted to stay in London. I got a call in November and took a deep breath and said OK. Perverse I suppose that a hospital is the last place we feel safe today – whether a patient or a health care worker. And an illustration of the delays the pandemic wrought on non virus health care procedures.

Piano practice is taking its toll on my hands. I have started serious physio! Patients have to fill in a wellness check online before attending a session.

We actually had a dinner reservation at the Club the first week of November – oysters on the half shell. The Club is really trying to keep the residents entertained. Of course, many of them should have been in their southern destinations by now.

The US election provided some significant “entertainment”.

A military organization promoted a virtual Remembrance Day. I posted pictures on their Facebook page and on my own. These two photos pretty much bracketed my father’s military career.

Here is the first picture of my father shaking hands with Prince Akihito in 1953, Victoria, British Columbia.

And the second was a plaque commemorating his role with the Canadian delegation of the International Commission of Control and Supervision, Region 4, in South Vietnam – 1973. The Canadian delegation was pulled out in only 6 months with the observation that they had come to supervise a ceasefire but were instead observing a war.

I also posted the following on Facebook:

Military initiatives are frequently remembered by the works of artists retained to capture the nature of the mission. My mother (her artist name, Elizanne) was selected to be the war artist in Vietnam during this short stint. I have a couple of her works from this project but understood that additional pieces were held in the collection of the Canadian War Museum. My husband and I decided almost 10 years after her death to visit the Museum. The librarian I consulted found the microfiche for us – it was quite emotional to browse those images. What was perhaps more astounding was that the librarian had no idea Canada had played a role in the peacekeeping efforts in South Vietnam.

My father, Colonel Frank Campbell, retired several months after returning from Vietnam. He became employed with The Plan (then Foster Parents Plan) and returned to Saigon as director of their operations there. He was in the process of moving to a new post in Indonesia with belongings packed on the quay to be shipped when he was told to be on the tarmac the next morning to board a Canadian plane. Evacuation of Canadians was underway. I saw my dad walk across the runway to board the plane – newsman, Craig Oliver, had called to tell me to watch. Saigon was falling.

Time Fillers

Tartine bread making every couple of weeks – my starter is 8 years old, I think. Takes the better part of a day to get the loaves into the oven. Slice it up and freeze it – great for grilled cheese except that the cheese oozes through all the holes in the bread. And absolutely amazing for croutons. I have revived my fondness for Caesar salad.

We are back to driving to Flamborough once a week for Kohl’s training class. Still no spectators allowed so Howard gets to sit in the car. I recorded the class with my iPad, leaning it against a chair so that Howard could see what we were doing.

No question that over this year Kohl has provided us with an invaluable distraction. He is oblivious to the stress.

DECEMBER

Last month of a crazy year.

Worth noting the huge push of email to encourage purchasing before Christmas. Businesses trying to survive.

More trials and tribulations for members from the writing group – their friends and family. Even quarantine at the retirement home. Yet several members have finished projects, made major inroads on projects and persevered with the creative writing exercises. The Thrillers and Mysteries course wrapped up.

Family birthdays came and went – quietly – just email or cards.

A morning visitor made short shrift of one of our shrubs – 6 feet outside our sunroom door. Like the spring there was still a rhythm to life.

“Outside the Window”.

One of our favourite Niagara wineries organized a virtual tasting. The Wine Club offerings were poured into serving size bottles and delivered. Food pairing options were recommended (we didn’t try everything). Very decadent.

A selection of hard cheese with fruit compotes (Heritage cheddar from Upper Canada Cheese Company) is beautiful with the Chardonnays. Brie with warm mushrooms for the Nuit Blanche. Crab cakes with the Chardonnays. A charcuterie board will always work with many options. Duck confit bites with the Locust Lane Pinot. Shaved Roast Beef with plum compote for the Terroir Cache.

Then we were shut down again. All non-essential businesses limited to curbside or delivery. The Club closed again. So what could we do to “celebrate” the Forest City Wordwrights.

“Virtual” Christmas Lunch. With London now in a red zone we have to face the reality that Forest City Wordwrights annual Christmas lunch at the RiverBend Clubhouse is not going to happen in 2020. So it seems like the best substitute would be a wander down memory lane. https://www.forestcitywordwrights.com/2020/12/13/virtual-christmas-lunch

Christmas

I couldn’t bring myself to put up a tree. I did put the wreath on the door, lit the candle in the lantern of a ceramic snowman and put Queen Bear in her place on the piano. We cooked a prime rib for our Christmas dinner. Too much turkey still in the freezer. Lots of email greetings, a couple of phone calls.

Then on Boxing Day, the stay-at-home direction – unless absolutely essential!

New Year’s Eve

New Years’ Eve a delivered dinner from the Club. A single malt scotch for me, a martini for Howard and a nice bottle of wine. The traditional Campbell dress tartan. Good omens!

A toast to 2021 and prayers for a respite from the pandemic.

“O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree” (Catherine Campbell)

December 22, 2023 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

When it comes to Christmas for most people the main symbol of Christmas is a decorated tree – I reflect on that symbol and other Christmas events when the Christmas celebration is “relocated”.

Carlux. One of the most memorable was a return trip to France to our friends living in the Dordogne, in a small village, Carlux, in a property called Le Fournil.

We arrived before Christmas. It was 1999 and the millennial was on the horizon.

We purchased two little trees at the market and decorated them with red balls and Santa hats. Since it was also the millennium a lovely stuffed bear was acquired with a celebratory banner. Our little trees got planted in the garden above the Le Fournil – they are now 8 feet tall!

Millenours 2000 (my white bear) has gone a little yellow – I have gone a lot grey!

Tanzania – our Christmas tree was an artistic creation of pastel branches on sheets of paper – my mother was an artist and evergreens were not one of the native plants.

Indonesia – no Christmas tree but a special invite to a wedding (Christmas wasn’t part of the culture). The guests were seated facing the bride and groom and a meal was served to all. Unfortunately, the green beans were actually outrageously hot peppers. Tears streamed down my face while I tried not to interrupt the ceremony.

Palm Springs, the Ingleside Inn. We were without our son at Christmas so we took a trip to fill the holiday. Christmas decoration here consisted of a nude sculpture in the garden that had been graced with a Santa hat. Mini trees, decorated, about 8” high, were in every room. Echoing the near forgotten era of the piano lounge there was a pianist (Canadian co-incidentally) tickling the ivories on a grand piano, the food was excellent, classic tableside favourites, as was the wine – a Duckhorn Merlot.

Home and Christmas Tree Evolving – Aurora – London. The Christmas tree became “artificial” since our son was allergic to pine. It was graced with decorations that we had acquired from almost every place we visited. Nothing stylish about our tree but lots of memories. It has not been unboxed and “dressed” in five years. Just seems like a lot of effort when there is no one to share it with. Although, a visit including the grandkid is planned just after Christmas so I may have to take a deep breath and decorate.

As our focal point of Christmas, the tree has been displaced, replaced by a piano recital mid-December (since 2011) and a writing group lunch. COVID was hard on both off these get togethers. No piano recital 2020, one in 2021 and nothing since. This year is particularly hard because the MC of the recital, our piano coach, is still recovering from a serious motorcycle accident. The adult student participants have lost touch with each other and, to some extent, lost focus on the performance objectives. The writing group lunch lost a year to the pandemic and suffered the loss of two of the original group, Alison and Rian. They are missed.

Santa Claus The fantasy of Santa Claus permeates Christmas. Of course, gifts under the tree are a big part of Santa’s role. In Goose Bay, at 6 years old, I guess I was a believer. CBC tracked Santa’s route from the North Pole. Gifts from Santa materialized from the basement (we never questioned why but now know my father made cradles and brought dolls home from a trip – no Santa involved). The requisite photo of our grandson in Santa’s lap was taken when he was a toddler. None since and no gifts from Santa under his tree.

Fascinating was discovering the grave of the real Santa – St. Nicholas. We visited that grave in Antalya, Turkey. The stories of this saint’s life and good deeds seem so far removed from our bearded, classically attired in red and white, jolly old man with his reindeer and his elves.

As we move through the “silly season”

A Toast to Christmas

To the memories past and memories yet to be made.

From our Carlux hosts and the 8’ Christmas trees,

“standing in verdant beauty”

Bonne Fetes.

Sparking Creativity – Marian Bron

November 27, 2023 ~ Marian Bron ~ Leave a comment

Sources for story ideas can be found everywhere. As a way to jumpstart our group’s creativity, I thought ‘filling out’ the stories behind obituaries might be a good place to begin. Some were local people, but most were found online. I Googled a few key words like military, immigrant, beloved, humour, and found ten beautiful people who had excelled at life. From there I erased all names, funeral homes and hospitals, leaving blank spaces to fill in with our made-up names.

I encouraged the group to do a bit of research into the history of what was left in our outlines. A woman who fled Eastern Europe, a mother growing up in the south, a Winnipeg orphan and so on. Life was to be added back into our obituary outline.

The results speak for themselves. A journalist meeting a famous Canadian on a kibbutz, a doctor who dedicated his life to restoring sight around the world, a train aficionado ruled by his tomato harvest, a young ambulance driver who met the love of her life in a time of war, and a young woman rescuing her boyfriend from his mother’s claws.

Obituary Stories

Obituary Memory (Madeleine Horton)

Sand was whipping around the bus as Randy Kerr prepared to board. She reminded herself through the stark light that fitfully shone through the sand, that she had wanted an adventure. Her plan, if she had a plan, seemed more and more absurd.

She could see through the shadowy windows the outline of many figures. The bus was nearly full. A couple of soldiers, clearly late comers, stepped back to allow her to board. She stood at the front, quickly glancing at the passengers and the two empty seats at the front. No one would think it strange if she moved to the back and sat in one of the two seats with a single passenger.

She had been here in Israel before. Twelve years ago when she was still an idealistic younger journalist. She had scored a much desired assignment to write a long article on kibbutz life. It had probably been the piece that really ignited her career and set off the stream of prestigious awards that followed. She was here now for a different reason. She had felt for some time that she was coasting, taking cosy domestic assignments, being paid to stay in posh hotels and given unquestioned expense accounts. After all, she was Miranda ‘Randy’ Kerr.

This would change everything. A war had started. The Yom Kippur War they were calling it and she had a scoop. Leonard Cohen was here secretly to entertain troops. That was the payoff from keeping in touch for all these years. A tip from a friend in a kibbutz, a call to the commander the friend knew and here she was boarding a troop bus to the camp Cohen was going to.

Her plan, if she had a plan, was to wander around the camp. If questioned she would show her press credentials and use the chutzpah she hoped she still possessed. She stood at the front of the bus. She was the only woman. No one stared up at her. With her loose beige shirt and baggy cargo pants and long hair tucked under a floppy sun hat, she drew no approving glances. And the dozen more years on her face, middle-aged, she reflected. She knew at once where she would sit. She couldn’t believe her luck.

“I had forgotten the sandstorms. Maybe because I was at a kibbutz, indoors a lot.” She sat down. “Will the sand affect your guitar playing?” she said with no introduction and the presumption she knew who he was.

She had already heard he had called a soldier his brother, cementing his ties to the tribe. It was all they talked about at the kibbutz.

“I called a man my brother,” he said, as if he were reading her thoughts. “He wept and grasped my hands. ‘You, you understand us’ he said. I told him we are all brothers, I have many brothers, across many borders. His hand went limp and fell from mine. I’m not sure why I am here. Forge a bond with those like me….” He looked at her, “May you find what you seek.”

Randy sat in the silence for a long time. This alone could make a sensational piece. More came as she free floated from topic to topic without the questioning she’d heard he abhorred. Later she watched him sing surrounded by men, no stage, no barriers. Such good details for a story.

He was not on the bus she took back. In her room, she jotted quick notes for her story. “I am here and not here.” She thought of his crushed identity, never really to have a tribe, a people. The true artist, always the outsider. And herself, an undercover scavenger gnawing on his torment. She grasped her notes and tore them up.

Obituary Project (Cathy Sartor)

October 22, 1921 – October 7, 2023 – Doctor John Alexander Campbell

A routine “turn around the sun” ended abruptly after 102 rotations which was a goal achieved by “Doc. J” as he loved to be called. He would be especially pleased to know that his passing coincided with the Canadian Thanksgiving weekend of October 7, 2023. John’s mother was a Canadian at birth and she launched the family tradition of celebrating both Canadian and American Thanksgivings which John celebrated throughout his life.

Enjoying life to the fullest and in the face of challenge was a preference John embraced wholeheartedly. His partner in life for seventy-four years was his awesome wife Matty who supported him during his academic years while qulifiying to practice optometry. John and Matty met when they were high school students in Hudson, New York.

John was the devoted father and father-in-law of Neil and Shirley Smith, Robert and Mary Brown, Douglas and Margaret Matthews and Ronald. Adored grandfather of Jacob, Cameron, and Lara. Dear brother of Michael and the late Mary Jones, and brother- in-law of the late Ronald and the late Elizabeth Hewitt, brother of the late James and Johanna Caughlin. Cherished uncle of Peter, Susan, Camilla, the late Judith, and the late Teresa.

In recent years, his love of jazz sustained him while in palliative care. Born in 1921, Jazz was ingrained in his upbringing and throughout his young adult years. Performers like Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Louis Armstrong influenced his love of jazz from a very early age. He and Matty enjoyed years of wintering in Palm Springs where he riffed and jammed with many jazz performers that he met during his extensive travels. During his winters in Palm Springs with Matty at his side, Dr. John continued to enjoy and fine tune his jazz repertoire. Sadly, Matty predeceased John. Following her passing and in his remaining years he was able to maintain his well-being and enthusiasm for life by sharing his love of music with fellow long term care friends.

Jazz was not Dr. J’s only passion. Dr. J’s career passion to provide eye care followed him into retirement. With the conclusion of his practice of Optometry, he volunteered travelling into remote areas of Canada providing support and diagnostic eye care for residents living in remote Canadian locations. He was especially proud of his work with ORBIS. Over the past four decades, ORBIS the Flying Eye Hospital has flown world-class professionals to provideeye care in over 95 countries and has been a call-to-action for better eye care around the world. Wherever ORBIS lands, specialists raise awareness, create change, and ralley support from local governments, global organizations, and philanthropists in an effort to contribute to the global fight of ending “avoidable blindness” particularly in children. (can.orbis.org) John’s enthusiasm and determination to engage will be missed by all who knew him, those he diagnosed and those who may have benefited from his expertise and connections.

The family wishes to thank his wonderful caregivers, Mary, Matthew, Danielle, James, and William for their years of compassion and loving care. Their dedication touched us profoundly. The family is also very grateful to the Palliative Care Unit at the St. Joseph’s Hospital. Funeral service took place from St Peter’s Basilica on Monday, October 9^th 2023 at 2pm.

Obituary Reflection (Catherine Campbell)

Obituary – Henry Nichols – Sept 22, 1946 – Nov 19, 2022

It is with great sadness that we announce the death of Henry Nichols on Nov 19, 2022 after a two year battle with cancer. Henry is survived by his loving wife Thea and his sons Brendan (Leslie), Jeffrey (Rachel), Derek (Laura) and daughter Deirdre (John) as well as his loving grandchildren Francis, Serena, Elsa, Daniel, Stephen, Indra, David and Richard. Henry was predeceased by his parents, Andrew and Emily. He was born and raised in Richmond, attended Vancouver College and graduated from UBC. His love of travel began with a backpacking trip through Europe and the Middle East in 1969. Henry was a great provider for his children and coached many of their sports teams – football, baseball, lacrosse and soccer. He began working in Prince Rupert Pulp Mill’s technical department as well as serving in production, marketing, management in various other BC mills.

After retirement, Henry and Thea pursued a life of travel visiting 138+ countries in all seven continents. Travel also comprised of train trips in South Africa, Zimbabwe, Egypt, Morocco, Peru, Europe, India, China and Mongolia. His passion was collecting model trains especially those made for the Canadian market culminating in a published book. He also loved to work in his vegetable garden each year providing great crops for the family. We would never leave on vacation until the tomatoes were harvested!

A Mass of Christian Burial will be held at St. Mark’s. Rest in peace, Henry.

Reflection on a life

Rest in peace, Henry.

Rest would certainly seem to be needed. Filling a couple of paragraphs with a lifetime of activity. Can’t help but look at the selfless presentation and question how it was possible.

I had known Henry in his younger years – ironically he got involved in smuggling. Perhaps that unmentioned past is reflective of his fondness for travel.

Although I hadn’t spent a lot of time with him over recent years I remember his joie de vivre with fondness. Then he packed up and headed out west.

So I headed to googling several of the details in his obituary. Only Henry’s name shows up (not his wife or family) – reflects the uniqueness of his life’s passions.

Henry and Thea certainly didn’t have reservations about a big family and that aspect of the obituary suggests a real family-based life. Let me work it out – Henry’s travel started in 1969. A typical backpacking post university jaunt – 23 years old. Then back to British Columbia to marry, work, coach multiple sports. I am going to assume he retired at 65. And I am going to assume that his children were born in the 1970’s, grew up, went to university, married and produced grandchildren in short order. During this period Henry seems to have taken up gardening (and provided generously) and developed a passion for model trains. He had the time to write a book. I have a friend who is infected with that train passion. It is an intensely time-consuming activity. Without writing a book.

Given his focus was Canadian trains it is surprising all the travel references are elsewhere. Train trips were still a focus. Planning and organizing a series of tours through Zimbabwe and South Africa to see the falls and safaris is time consuming not to mention the actual trips.

All the other locations mentioned for the travel are stand alone. Exotic. Add them up though and the total is a long way from 138 countries on seven continents. Maybe cruising – no suggestion he and Thea chose that mode of travel.

It doesn’t feel credible.

Impose the growing season of tomatoes, the social and sports activities of children and grand-children Henry and Thea must have spent zero time at home during some key events in the years.

Who was this obituary written for or by? No intimate anecdotes about activities with his family, friends, workmates. No memories of coaching the sports teams – winners or losers. Was it written by a grandchild impressed by ticking off the numbers and not missing a relationship with his/her grandfather.

Perhaps the absence of reflections on a deceased’s personality, uniqueness, is common in obituaries. It is uncomfortable to dwell on the loss. But it reads like a Wikipedia post. Cold. Unreflective. No recognition of the deceased’s personal essence.

I don’t care about 138 countries and harvesting tomatoes. I remember the young, vibrant Henry. Laughing over a glass of wine. Talking about the backpacking adventures. Making his friends feel special.

That Henry – rest in peace.

Obituary (Diane Chartrand)

A document with text on it

Description automatically generated

NAMES FOR OBIT 8 WRITING

OBIT PERSON-

Amelia Brook Kirk

HUSBAND-

Noah Kirk

CHILDREN-

Sadie (Daughter) and Christoper (Son)

GRANDMOTHER OF-

Tilly, Pearson, Arthur, Petunia, and Elroy

PREDECEASED BY-

Husband: Noah -Sister: Mazzie – Brothers: Max, Donald, Stuart, Allen, David, Nathan, and Michael

OBIT SCENE FOR AMELIA

A year before her passing, Amelia contacted her remaining family members and asked them to come to the house for a special dinner. She wanted to show them a secret she had been keeping. Amelia just got several copies of the memoir she recently published. She wanted to read portions of it to them.

Amelia selected specific sections and marked each one with a sticky note. Her children Sadie and Christoper knew some of how she had met their father, but Amelia and Noah never talked about their lives in England before and during the war.

In the memoir, Amelia revealed her entire life, starting with growing up in England with her older sister Mazzie and her seven brothers Max, Donald, Stuart, Allen David, and Nathan, who always were her protectors since she was the baby of the family.

There are sections telling about the painful times during the war and her work as an ambulance driver while serving in the Women’s Auxiliary Force of the RAF. Her job was how she met the wonderful man she married in 1946.

Amelia wanted them to each have a copy and read about her life, but she needed to tell them about a special time for her that created the family they have become. It was time her children and grandchildren knew how she had met Noah that terrible day.

After everyone had taken their assigned place at the nursing home dining room table, Amelia brought in a box and set it in the middle of the table, taking her book off the top and sitting down.

“I’ve summoned you all here for a surprise. In my hand is a copy of my memoir that I published. Before giving you each a copy, I need to read a section to all of you.”

“Mom,” said Sadie. “You wrote a book? How did you hide this from us?”

“I had a lot of help from the staff who typed it up for me and helped to get it up to the publishing site.”

Amelia opened the book to the page she had marked. “For years, a story was told about how I met my beloved husband Noah, the father to Sadie and Christoper and grandfather to the rest of you. That tale wasn’t completely true.”

“What are you saying, Mom,” said Christoper.

“Your father and I didn’t want to revisit that terrible time during the war, but now, since I’ve put it in the book for the world to know, I thought it was only fair that you hear it first from me.”

The room was so quiet you could hear the rain hitting the two windows next to the table. Amelia looked around the room and began to read.

As the sound of guns and explosions could be heard, I drove my ambulance to a location given to me. I found a young man lying on the ground with a lot of blood flowing from his chest area. My assistant and I did what we could to stop the bleeding. We loaded the young man into the back of the vehicle and drove at high speed to the field hospital a few miles away. For some reason, I couldn’t leave this patient and waited to see if he’d make it or not…..

Obituary – Lila and the Ladder (Marian Bron)

Process: I first googled Ooltewah, Tennessee to find out its history and if anything, interesting had happened that would affect my character’s life. It was a Union stronghold during the civil war which I found interesting since it was in the traditional south. Her parents are mentioned but not her late husband’s, only a sister-in-law. That gave me a reason for her elopement in October of 1960. I made her the descendant of a rebel, something her mother-in-law could hold against her family. From there I had fun.

The twelve-foot wooden ladder I had lugged from my parent’s house thudded against the second-story windowsill of a white clapboard house two streets over, making more noise than wanted. Wesley Freichuk had always been a sound sleeper, his mother not so much. My luck she would find me standing beneath her pride-and-joy’s bedroom window in the middle of the night and spoil my plans. Squatting next to the leafless lilac bushes beneath the kitchen window, I waited until I was sure she hadn’t heard me.

Wesley’s very manhood needed saving. If Mrs. Freichuk had her way, those apron strings of hers would never be cut. Especially for the likes of me, the great-great-granddaughter of a rebel. But I loved Wesley, and he loved me, so there was no way ancient hostilities were going to ruin my happiness. His sister Melinda liked to joke that those strings were tied tight around her brother’s neck. He couldn’t breathe without his mother’s say so. Mrs. Freichuk was a force to be reckoned with, and I was up to the task.

The Freichuk house was locked tighter than Fort Knox. There were no spare keys hidden under flowerpots, especially since flowers were sentimental wastes of money according to Mrs. Freichuk, and no windows cracked open to catch the mountain breeze. Since no lights came on, I started my climb up my father’s rickety ladder, avoiding the rotten third rung. The seventh rung was also a bit punky. I stood on the tenth and tapped on Wesley’s window.

He slept on.

I tapped a bit louder.

Still, he slept on.

The window wouldn’t budge. Knowing, Mrs. Freichuk she had nailed her son’s window shut to preserve his chastity. No gold-digging princesses were going to get at her boy and ruin his virtue.

I tapped louder yet.

The window one room over flew open. I pressed myself against the wall.

“Lila?” Melinda whispered. “What the blazes are you doing?”

“Shh!” I whispered, finger to my lips, almost losing my balance. “Your mother will hear you.”

She shook her head and shut her window. Moments later, Wesley’s window opened.

“The dope’s still asleep.” She tip-toed to his bed and plugged his nose.

His eyes whipped open in a panic. He looked from his sister to me at the window. Melinda put a finger to her lips. He nodded in understanding.

“You are crazy,” was all he said as he started to dress. He filled a paper sack with clean underwear and socks. The family’s only suitcase was in Mrs. Freichuk’s bedroom closet.

Before her brother could climb out the window, Melinda said, “Wait.” She slid from the room and came back moment’s later with the keys to her brand-new Chevy Bel Air. “Don’t scratch it and don’t eat in it.”

“Thanks Sis,” Wesley said as he pocketed the keys and kissed her cheek.

The seventh rung snapped under his weight, and he crashed through six and five on his way down to four.

“Shh!” Melinda and I hissed in unison.

He rolled his eyes and reached for the third rung with his foot. He crashed to the ground, taking two lilac branches with him.

He dusted himself off. “Who knew eloping with you would be so dangerous? I take it that is the reason for all this subterfuge?”

Home Left the Dog (Catherine A. Campbell)

July 4, 2023 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ 1 Comment

A dog stood, motionless, in the middle of the sidewalk. A busy sidewalk, many walkers, along a road with many cars.

“Where was she?”

His head swivelled; his tail wagged gently – then drooped. He sank to the ground. It wasn’t very far because his legs were short. His long body stretched along the wet pavement.

“Where was she?”

The dog, a dachshund, had been pushed out of a car several hours ago. It had sped off down the road. He had been standing in the same spot all that time. So, she would find him.

His head sank onto his paws, his eyes closing.

Startled awake he looked straight at the toes of polished boots. So polished his nose and eyes reflected in the gleam. A hand touched his head.

“What are you doing here, buddy? No leash, no collar. Did you run away from home?”

No, home had run away from him. “Where was she?”

“Buddy, maybe you should come with me.”

Pulling his ears back, hesitating. She might come back!

“Don’t think so, buddy.”

The dog looked up at the voice, up the pressed trouser leg, the leather belt, the uniformed jacket. A kind face with a 5 o’clock shadow. The brim of a cap shielded the eyes from the setting sun.

Setting sun! Where was she? His home had run away. The day was waning. She was gone.

Gentle hands lifted him to his feet.

“Come with me, buddy. We will figure this out.”

The Canoe and the Shrine(Catherine A. Campbell)

January 27, 2021January 27, 2021 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ 2 Comments

The Canoe

The garden spilled down the slope to the water’s edge. A Japanese garden oddly out of place in the less temperate Ottawa. Stone paths wound through shrubs. A gingko tree stretched up to one side, planted in memory of her son. A couple of little ponds, very little, graced the only flat spot of the property. A beautiful place, very peaceful.

The Mississippi River flowed gently between the garden and the town on its other bank. An old canoe rested upside down, its keel battered, the paint worn away.

Anne wandered down lured by the motion of the water. She tipped the canoe over and slid it down. The sun was barely visible on the horizon. Dawn yet to come. Sleep had not and Anne was looking for solace. She clambered into the canoe. Picking up the oar she pushed out into the current. The canoe rocked gently and floated slowly along. There was no need to row – just slide the oar into the water to redirect the canoe away from shore.

The bench seat was uncomfortable, so Anne slid down into the rounded interior of the vessel. The rhythm of the water was hypnotic. She felt herself drifting off, finally, to sleep.

The canoe bumped intermittently against the shore and then continued along guided by the river. No destination in mind.

The sun rose and the surface of the water glistened with its reflection. A breeze came up and the canoe moved a little faster. Anne slept on. Oblivious.

Another boat headed up the river against the current. The boater, a young man, from several miles down-river, was actively paddling. Thinking the canoe was empty he pulled up to check it out. Seeing the inert form in the bottom of the canoe he called out. No response. He reached over into the canoe and touched Anne on the shoulder. No response. He grabbed her shoulder and shook. Now she moaned. The fog of her sleep clung to her. She had been awake for so long and desperate to rest.

The young man spoke to her gently. “You are getting close to the rapids, ma-am. You need to turn around.” Anne stared at him blankly not seeming to understand his words. “Would you like me to tow you?” he said. Seeing the tie rope at the front of the canoe he reached for it and tied it to the bench of his boat. This was going to be a tough row he thought.

“I think I know who you are”, he said. “The lady with the gardens. I have seen you walking and remember the canoe at the bottom of your hill.” Anne nodded and slowly sat up. The sun was warming the air. She had not taken a sweater or a life jacket.

She acknowledged her saviour. No question had she hit the rapids still asleep the outcome would not have been good. Still disoriented she told him. “I think I can paddle now. Please go ahead with your morning row.” Anne picked up the oar as the young man released the canoe and headed back towards her garden. She sensed that he was going to “escort” her home and found that strangely reassuring. About the age that her son had been when he died. She felt like he had reached out and made her safe.

Pulling the canoe onto shore she waved him goodbye. A tear slid down her cheek.

The Shrine

Wiping the tears from her cheeks Anne slowly wandered up the stone steps that graced her gardens. Thyme ground cover spilled over from between the stones, soft lime green and, bruised, let off a pungent perfume. Anne shook her head trying to clear the foggy fallout from her stuporous sleep in the canoe. Maybe a green tea would help. She pushed open the side door to her bungalow, stepping directly into her kitchen. Turning on the element on her stove she filled the kettle. She scooped tea leaves into her Japanese tea pot and found a mug. As the tea steeped, she wandered into her studio. The light this early morning was soft and warming. She loved the luxury of working on her art in a natural light. Not that she had done much work for months now. The shock of the news of her son’s death had yet to dissipate – she had tried to sketch but there was no spark.

“Derek, oh, Derek.” He was going to come to visit her for her 65^th birthday. She knew he was going to. And then he was dead. “I don’t believe you, Joy.” she had told her daughter-in-law. Joy had tried to ease her pain by telling her that Derek could never have made the trip. He was too ill. “No, he was going to come. I know it in my hear he was going to be here with me.”

Anne poured her tea and sat cross-legged in front of a small shrine.

The shrine had been put together piece by piece in the days after she learned of her son’s death. She had been inconsolable in her grief – keening, rocking, pacing, striking her body to share the pain she believed he must have suffered. Her daughter had come to the house to try and help. Nothing she could do or say would draw Anne out.

Looking at a copy of the last poem she had kept, that Derek had written, she moaned. The mug was too hot to hold and she set it down beside a photo of her son from before he left to go live in Dorset, before the birth of his two children, before he descended into despair and alcoholism. Long before he contracted pneumonia and died in hospital – just 24 hours after being admitted. His wife had turned him out of the house and he had lived on the streets before finally coming to terms with his drinking. He was getting better. He was getting better and he was going to visit her.

It seemed in a way that he had – just now, on the river. Anne felt a strange warmth, sense of peace. Her daughter had talked about Derek visiting her in her sleep, telling her that all would be well. He had brushed her hand, his hand calloused and rough just like it always was.

There was a presence – a wispy presence – in the room. Anne moved over to her easel, tea in hand. Setting it down on the window ledge she picked up her charcoal and began to sketch Derek’s face. His anger, his disappointment, were gone – just his poetic, intelligent presence. Anne sighed and slowly smiled as she touched his cheek.

Transported to a Christmas in a Past Century (Catherine A. Campbell) 2020

December 28, 2020December 28, 2020 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ 2 Comments

Curled up in front of the fire in a small Scottish cottage in a place called Lundin Links. Christmas without family but welcoming strangers.

Christmas Eve is a special time. Music is resonating in the rafters along with laughter. The twelve days of Christmas, starting tomorrow. A festive time since Elizabethan days. Mulled wine in hand I stared into the fire. I had been dreaming of the stories that my hosts had shared with me. Slowly a Yule log appeared on the hearth. The room turned into the foyer of a large old house. The fire crackled even more vigorously. The laughter became raucous. The room was filled with partiers all clad in Elizabethan garb – stiff collars, corseted gowns, capes. All seemed to have silver goblets of mulled wine.

There were garlands of ivy and bay leaves hanging from rafters. Christmas Eve was the time for giving and unwrapping. Piles of gifts were scattered around a Christmas tree. The Lord of Misrule (a clown organizing the entertainment) cavorted around the room. Actors, masqued, mimed the messages of Christmas. Guests clapped their hands in glee. I found myself doing the same although I scarcely made sense of this story of Christmas. Definitely more about festive events than the birth of Christ.

Looking down I realized that I was wearing an embroidered gown, cinched tight at the waist and cut low in the bodice. A man grabbed my hand and spun me around in a wild gavotte (how did I know what steps to do). He pulled me up to him and kissed me full on the lips. His were moist with the mulled wine.

Hunger made me head to the tables loaded with wildfowl – turkey, pheasant, swan – and bread and beer and more wine. It seemed like the partying would go on forever. Dogs wandered around the room stealing tidbits where they could.

Then a hush. The Queen glided into the room. All elegance. Hair piled high. Gown stitched with jewels. Pointed toe slippers. Sparkles on her face and elaborate makeup. Courtiers bowed and then toasted her. Was it really Sir Walter Raleigh who knelt to take her hand and then guided her onto the dance floor? And my childhood idol, Sir Francis Drake, looking every bit the naval officer bowing to me and reaching out…

I started awake, someone gently shaking my shoulder. The space around me shrank back to the small cottage living room, the fire back to smoldering coals. Sir Francis Drake faded and I returned to Christmas 1967.

“Virtual” Christmas Lunch

December 13, 2020March 20, 2023 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

With London now in a red zone we have to face the reality that Forest City Wordwrights annual Christmas lunch at the RiverBend Clubhouse is not going to happen in 2020. So it seems like the best substitute would be a wander down memory lane.

Lunch #1 – 2017

Hard to believe – 3 years ago. The Forest City Wordwrights have been an entity for four years. For some reason there don’t appear to be any pictures from that lunch. Our “prompt” exercise consisted of writing about winter before the meeting and reading to the group at the meeting.

Lunch #2 – 2018.

The full group attended.

Lunch #3 – 2019

Lunch #4 – Virtual

Reflect on 2020 – well not too long. Best put this year behind us and look forward to a new year.

Lunch #5 – 2021

Let’s plan!!

One more thing…

Readings from past meetings:

12 Lessons of Christmas (Madeleine Horton)

https://www.forestcitywordwrights.com/2018/12/20/12-days-of-christmas-rian-elliott/

12 Days of Christmas (Rian Elliott)

Cleaning (Catherine Campbell)

June 2, 2020June 2, 2020 ~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

An appropriate topic to expound on today. It has been 10 weeks since our bi-weekly (every 2 weeks) cleaning lady has been here (COVID-19). Now why would a retired couple with all the time in the world to polish trinkets need a cleaning lady? Because this member of the household has a powerful aversion to the menial tasks of cleaning.

When I was working there were always more important things to do. Running errands, shopping, training dogs (six of them at one point), playing the piano….I could come up with all kinds of excuses.

Laundry I could handle. Well, sort of. It got done on Sunday or not at all. My son was apprised that his laundry had to be delivered or it wouldn’t get done. I wasn’t braving his room and the various heaps of clothing to collect. I thought that would result in him being more organized. Maybe putting his laundry in the pending load. Nope. He followed my approach to a “t”. He did his own, when he was desperate for something clean.

Dishes? My husband has taken that task upon himself. Not exactly sensitive to over-use of power. The dishwasher hums away multiple times a day. I love to cook so it is a godsend to have someone following me around, cleaning up. It is a mite challenging when tools that I have not yet finished with disappear into that dishwasher. He married me knowing my proclivities. While courting he often arrived at my house to a sink stacked full of dirty dishes. I knew I had found the right man – he would wash them.

Dusting? Swifters are an amazing invention. Our dog’s favourite “I gotta have it” toy. Those trinkets we should have plenty of time to polish – with my approach to cleaning we should be totally “uncluttered”. My mother was an artist. My brother, sister and niece into art and crafts. I love the arts and crafts shows and have acquired innumerable items that grace the mantle, the shelves on the living room furniture, the bookcases downstairs. All needing that TLC called dusting.

The only dog in the house now is one of those outstanding no shed varieties. Well, except that isn’t quite true. Poodles shed their puppy coats – there are tufts of black “fur” all over the house. At least it doesn’t weave into the drapes and the carpet.

Speaking of bookshelves. Here my husband is less helpful. I have hundreds of books and dozens haven’t come off the shelves in the entire time we have lived here. Sound like another “uncluttering” task. Then the files from all my projects during my consulting career, the binders from my Masters, files from my time in practice, years of statements and receipts.

Things get stuffed into the closets – out of sight, out of mind. Until the door won’t close.

Too many hobbies. Cameras and camera bags including a 35m camera – you know the film kind! We have enough lights and tripods to stock a studio. Chairs, tents from dog show days. Agility equipment – tunnel, jumps, weave poles. Never ends.

My home office, that I now rarely visit, has three laptop computers sitting on the floor and a PC that hasn’t been turned on in at least 6 months. All waiting for me to be sure that all essential data has been archived and then to reformat and dispose of. I am a hoarder by nature as my above comments indicate. That includes data. I might need it or someone might need it. You want an email that was sent 7 years ago. No problem.

Here we are in lockdown (nicely referred to as social isolation) so what better time could there be than to tackle the issues. Too unutterably depressing. Back to the piano, or train the dog, or browse the news. I should really be chasing down my friend’s son and his “Got Junk” business venture. My husband would be applauding.

Ah, well. Maybe tomorrow. Oops. Made plans, including welcoming back our housecleaner. At least the surface dirt can be addressed.

Is it too late to reform?