Category: Special Occasions

I’ll Be Home for Christmas (Annie Carpenter)

~ Annie Carpenter ~ Leave a comment

I’ll be home for Christmas, you can count on it, I’ve been dreaming of it all year.

The quiet thump of a heartbeat engine, the brush of feather wings – so surrounding.

Woosh…

Take off…the most peaceful sound I have heard…

The landing…I still don’t feel like I have touched down it is so soft…the view? I can’t believe my eyes!

You should see how bright it is here…The Christmas tree ornaments – are pure shimmering crystals!  There are real Angels here! Wow!  Wait… the ones that sang to the shepherds on that Christmas Eve- are here! Yep…I’m supposed to tell you they’re all on Key! It’s true!

I can’t feel a thing here but peace, warmth, love- unimaginable love! I’ve never known anything like this.

 Christmas in Heaven is something beyond anything you could ever fathom.

Wish you could see this place…you’ll just have to trust me…Search it out you won’t regret it.

Don’t be sad for me…if you could see and feel what I am now…you’d understand!  

Take a second and look up tonight and find the brightest star…I’ll be sitting on it! I’ll give you a little twinkle….

You can count on it…

For the heart that never felt love on earth…you have found love everlasting …great joy has been brought to you this day…

Tuesday, December 12, 2023.

Christmas Concert – Anne of Green Gables (Madeleine Horton)

~ Madeleine Horton ~ Leave a comment

This piece owes its first three lines to Anne of Green Gables and references a concert put on by Anne and her classmates for Christmas.

We had recitations this afternoon. Our last practice.  I just put my whole soul into it. And now…

            I am standing on the stage, holding my cardboard letter turned into me. My letter is M. I turn my letter to the audience and speak. My voice is loud, clear, and stilted. M is for magical- Santa coming down the chimney. Relief, I’ve said it all and now can look down the line as each classmate in turn flips over a cardboard letter, -E R R-, down the line, some yelling out their piece- C is for Christ, the reason for the season- or whispering- H is for holy, Oh holy night- some shocked into silence until loudly prompted behind the curtain- T is for turkey, roasted and stuffed- some giggle, some shuffle, some look down at their feet, until the final card is flipped, a large exclamation mark to signal everyone to shout, “Merry Christmas” and to allow little Evalina to take part. Evalina who is in grade two and who would be in grade two when I graduated from grade eight in that one room school, Evalina still in the same desk, still the same size, with her face like a rubber doll and her hair ever wispy and white like an old woman’s.

            We are grade 2’s and 3’s at S.S.11 Public School and we are the closing act of the annual Christmas concert held in the basement of the United Church (established 1873) and this is the culmination of our weeks of preparation. It starts on the Friday afternoon after Hallowe’en when we begin the walk to the church, a stone’s throw away from the school and a blessed relief from the dreaded reading to an older student, possibly a boy, maybe dour Jacob Liemann, the oral math genius, reading that marked long afternoons.

            The concert is of course more ambitious than the presentation of my junior classmates. The serious Irene Black who is not allowed to play baseball for fear of injuring her fingers plays a classical piano piece. Three Grade 8 girls sing their song with harmony, the one prepared for the Rotary Music Festival. Shirley Gough plays her accordion. Two of the big boys give a comic recitation. As we prepared, there was an unstated message from our formidable teacher that somehow our work here will be evaluated, hence no writing of our short recitation on the back of our cardboard letters. I am in awe of the bigger kids, those who have a role in the two marquee presentations of the evening- Dickens’ A Christmas Carol and the always required retelling of the Christmas story. I am unaware that our twenty minute version of the Dickens’ classic is greatly abridged but am impressed because I have a part in the play. I am one of the Cratchit children though admittedly I have no real lines. Instead, as we play on the floor, we have been instructed by Mrs. McKenzie to say “rhubarb” over and over again which will make it seem as if we are having conversations. We have learned that this is what professional actors do in crowd scenes so feel disproportionately important. But my real awe is reserved for the grade eight boy who plays Scrooge who has many lines and never stumbles.       

            The retelling of the Christmas story is required every year and never varies much. The central figures, Mary, Joseph, and the Christ child doll take centre stage. Mary has nothing to say but has mastered her look of wide-eyed adoration as she leans over the manger and beholds the Christ doll. I am dimly aware that the girl chosen to be Mary is the prettiest of the senior girls, a slim girl with long wavy blonde hair and no trace of pubescent imperfection in her creamy skin. She seems as serene and elevated as a fairy tale princess awaiting a troop of suitors. Joseph is the dark haired captain of his bantam hockey team and already marked as cool. The angels come and go, the shepherds guard their stuffed toy sheep, the Wise Men trek across the stage to deliver their three gifts and few words to the holy couple, and circling this tableau, the massed choir of the rest of the school sing carols artfully chosen by Mrs. McKenzie to link the story together. There is huge applause at the end of the presentation.

            I look out from my place at the side of the stage near the front where the smaller students sit to sing. I can see my mother and my father. They are sitting in a row with Evalina’s parents and grandparents, the only people in that row. My father is right next to the grandfather, the scary Mr. McVicar with the sunken face and the jaw that looks all eaten away. “Cancer,” my mother has said and it is rude to stare at him. Evalina’s parents are there, her mother looking almost as old as my grandmother, her father looking as if he has just come in from the barn, still wearing a denim smock coat. I have asked my mother why they look so different from everyone else. “They are poor,” my mother said, “but Evalina has such a pretty name.” My mother is most impressed with names and has saddled me with a name I greatly dislike at this time. I am Briony and I will not hear that name given to any other girl until I am an adult of some years.

            The basement is overflowing. Every pupil’s parents and many grandparents are there along with younger siblings. There may be over one hundred people. So many that some are standing at the back. These are mainly youths as old as seventeen or eighteen, all young men, all tall and gangly, looking uncomfortable in starched shirts and dress jackets, hair freshly combed and brylcreamed, young men who have just finished the evening’s milking. They are both awkward and intimidating standing there, sometimes laughing together for a moment between acts of the concert. They are intimidating but not so much as they will be in a few years when I am on the cusp of being a teenager and am a large girl in a pink taffeta dress, tragically the same dress as a grade eight girl who has recently lost many pounds of weight from a magic pill her doctor gave her, and we must make our exit from the stage, down the aisle, and past that clutch of perennially looming youths.

            But this night is one of great happiness. I have remembered my words. I have been a Cratchit child. Santa has come at the end of the program. And I do know already that he is just pretend, that the thin man with the skimpy beard is Mr. Hipley the Sunday school teacher and that the present he handed to me is the scarf I saw my mother accidentally leave in a bag on the table. I do not yet know how much I will later think about my mother and my father sitting with Evalina’s parents nor how the mysteries of early memory shape us and visit us especially at Christmas.

It’s time to “Deck the Halls” (Cathy Sartor)

~ Cathy Sartor ~ Leave a comment

Oh No!!!  Time is fling… No sooner have the summer chairs been stored and the leaves cleared but the forecast of snow is announced on the weather channel.  Thoughts of winterizing my wardrobe by keeping mittens and boots handy at my door has yet to sink in.  Already junk mail from retailers is bombarding my postal box with Christmas imagery advertising “Black Friday Gift Specials”.   Anxiety explodes in my heart, realizing that December is racing toward me and the much-heralded season of Christmas is creeping upon me once more.  With little time remaining, I need to accept that the season “to deck the house with balls of holly” and launch preparations for making friends and family “merry” is about to arrive.

The thought of being forced to assume the responsibility for spreading joy, producing sweets treats for family and friends who happen by, fills me with panic.  Chilly, shortened, darkened days of November have paralyzed me at the thought of having to make “merry”. Without intending, I hear myself muttering “bah humbug” aloud!   After self-diagnosis, it seems holiday preparations might improve my attitude, encourage my optimism and eliminate the emotional impact of the shorter, darker days of November. 

Decorating and planning promises to be uplifting in spite of the fact that it seems as if all the Christmas decorations recently made their way back into storage.  Facing this task, the most pressing question is exactly when is the appropriate time to begin displaying Christmas? Many obsessed with exterior decoration claim it is before the cold weather arrives threatening to freeze the exposed fingers working to install outside decorations. Families with small children might be pressured to believe the day after Halloween is a perfect time.  Like myself, many may be motivated simply by the short, darker, days of late November.  The reality is it is time to begin decorating and it is time to begin make some lists and check them twice.  

Once the traumatic realization passes and acceptance sinks in the decorating process begins. Small steps are good.   Replacing the nonseasonal décor with winter pieces like holly that can be accessorized later with shiny, festive balls.  A trip to the nursery for a live wreath maybe a potted arrangement and of course a poinsettia help to ease one into the spirit of the season. With the tree in place, lights, color and glitz enhance the spirit of the season.  Finally, the hallway and other living spaces come alive with lights and colorful ornamentations to greet family and friends who stop by.  With each step my spirits are buoyed inspiring hope that the celebration will enable me to share the joy with others.

In hindsight, it is interesting to consider how wise it was that Christmas was dropped into the late autumn calendar.  In reality, the upcoming celebration lifts the spirits of humans of all ages during the shortest, darkest days of the year.  My spirits are lifted but not without being aware of some persistent, nagging questions…when should decorations come down and what should come down first?  Secondly, how soon will the horticulturists be ready to assist me in planning shrubbery for my spring garden? And so, it seems…the calendar continually nags and drives us forward whether we like it or not.

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

~ 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.

Fairy Tale of New York (Muriel Allingham)

~ Muriel Allingham ~ Leave a comment

It was Christmas Eve babe,

In the drunk tank,

A lingering sludge drips down a cement block, resembling the arms of a clock ticking time away, and an old man said to me,

Won’t see another one.

And the gray of the eve was mirrored in the cell’s perpetual state of gloaming.

Is it worse to be here on the holiday of holidays?  One could easily

gather images of flickering fire light reflecting into dark wood floors, or the memory of being lost in the brilliance of the season armed with jeweled prizes that bob and weave their magic to bring back the light. 

Watching the mansion burn under the glow of a sinister chandelier. I would sip sherry in an alabaster robe.  And when I hadn’t been the spark of ignition, could I know the cause? Or is it always me?  Did I leave the iron on?  I am here now; I belong in this prison of my own creation. 

Slumped on the bench, the old man sighs and looks at me with eyes that have been bleached by sorrow or time, now almost void of colour—once china blue, I imagine them to once be.      

It wasn’t to be this way, he said.

I slip down beside him, taking in the aroma of death and whiskey.

Yes.  I take his withered hand, cold and bony. It was to be—told more for my value than his.  Amore fate, the gypsy intellect profoundly states.

He shows me a mouth devoid of teeth, and from somewhere afar; perhaps the precinct, perhaps from the depth of our empty hearts, the Viennese waltz begins to play.

Do you hear it?  He seems to search for its source, but as though to conjure a monkey wrench to conduct the score, so painfully beautiful, I rise. And the wrench’s oddly distributed weight moves through thin air. Music reaches us from nowhere and everywhere, I sway in animation, my imaginary wrench capturing the light, the sound, Christmas as it is. 

The old man sinks into his reflections of what was and what could have been, transported to the cold of Russia and the romance of Anna. I could have skated far beyond. I could have skated away.

Where is your love? He slurs the biting question that pierces my heart.

I promised that Broadway was waiting for her, I reply sadly, letting the monkey wrench fall from the melody. 

And suddenly, gilded in gold waistcoats that glimmer with sparsely placed beads, we face each other, and the cell is a grand parlour, and the music our warmth. The sodium lights become candles and we see our reflections in regretful choices; crime and punishment.  Cement becomes artistry and our visions are pure.  We share this time hoisted onto the pedestal of Christmas miracles that holds court for those like us, in the good of misfortune, in the heart of the unloved.

There is more, he whispers, there is more. 

No, this is it. This is the glory. To understand that it is what it will be.  We are not made of this earth. 

And he leans his head back and the stain on the cement block that is the ticking of time speaks the truth.  And the cold cell turns to hallowed ground, a place of reverence. He closes his eyes, one time more, as the bells ring out for Christmas day, and the boys of the NYPD choir are singing Galway Bay, and the meaning of Christmas in this moment is more than it ever could be, with its sadness and poignant beauty.  

I wait, pressing my forehead to the cold bars, before I alert anyone, watching red and green Christmas lights flash in dull succession across the dirty linoleum floor, emanating from the small tree positioned at the front desk that taunted me on my incarceration. I am fascinated at their muted depth; an attempt at something, anything but the grit of this place.  And when I know for sure that his spirit has moved through the cement blocks, into the damp New York night, and beyond his world of suffering, I shake the bars, and face the direction where the lady of liberty stands, and in the peel of Christmas bells, I sense his grandeur, seeing a better time, when all his dreams come true. 

“Blue Christmas” ( Diane Chartrand)

~ Diane Chartrand ~ Leave a comment

When those blue snowflakes start fallin’, Ivan runs up and down the street trying to collect them, but they melt in his hands. He was amazed to see this strange thing happening.

“Marge, come outside quick. It’s magical and somewhat disturbing at the same time.”

Marge opened the front door and saw her crazy husband trying to catch blue things falling from the sky. As she glanced further closer to the stoop, Marge realized what was falling were blue snowflakes. She didn’t get it. Shouldn’t they be white?

“Ivan, what is going on,” Marge called out to him as she put on her coat and went outside.

“I have no idea but isn’t it sad that the snow is blue. I wonder why this is happening. Why is Mother Nature so sad that her tears are coming down blue?”

Marge put her hand out and let some of the blue snowflakes gather on it. They weren’t the same as white flakes since they disappeared as soon as they landed. She tried to push some together on the grass, but the same thing happened. No snowball-making ability was available.

“Ivan, I think we need to send Mother Nature a letter telling her we’re here to help in any way we can to stop her from being so blue.”

“Where would we send it? We don’t know her address.”

Marge thought about that for a minute. “We can send it to Santa and ask him to get it to her. I’m sure he knows where she is since he knows where everyone is located.”

Ivan and Marge sat down and wrote a short letter to Mother Nature asking why she was so blue that her tears were coming down as blue snowflakes. They left all their information so she could respond with how they could help. They addressed the second envelope to Santa with a short note inside asking him to get their letter to Mother Nature as soon as possible.

The blue snowflakes continued coming down off and on over the next two weeks. On Christmas Eve, Santa left an envelope on their mantle for them to find the next morning. When Marge got up, she looked outside and saw it was snowing, but the flakes were white again.

“Ivan, go look out the window quickly. The snow has changed back.”

Ivan sleepily wandered into the living room and looked out the front door window. He pulled open the door to check it out, picking up some of the flakes.

“They are white again. I wonder what made Mother Nature happy again.”

Marge then noticed the envelope on the fireplace mantle with their names in the middle of it. Curious, she picked it up and slipped open the flap. Taking out a piece of paper, she read:

Dear Ivan and Marge,

I received your lovely letter asking what was wrong. I was sad because I wasn’t going to be able to bring joy to all the beautiful children all over the world. There is so much sadness everywhere, and it makes me sad.

I’m sorry my tears turned blue and frightened you. Everything has been taken care of for me to share my time with all the children of the world even though some of them have gone to another place from their homes.

I will try harder to not let my moods influence the proper way that nature happens. Thanks for caring so much and offering to help. Just getting your letter was a big help.

Sincerely,

Mother Nature

Ivan looked over, and Marge had tears running down her face. She convinced him they were tears of joy, not sadness, and handed him the letter from Mother Nature. Kindness is always rewarded from places you would never suspect, so be kind to others.

It Came Upon a Midnight Clear… (Marian Bron)

~ Marian Bron ~ Leave a comment

It came upon a midnight clear when the majesty of the heavens made me feel so small yet immense at the same time. To know I was part of this vast creation, one average person in a population of eight-point-one-billion people. A person of value. An individual with talents.

The stillness of the night a lesson for my soul. Be quiet and breathe in. Let the peace quiet my anxieties instead of listening to the fuss of the holidays and letting it stoke my worries. Perfect place settings, hospital corners on beds, dust-free surfaces do not matter in the grand scheme of things. My days on this earth will be too limited by comparison, I shouldn’t waste a single one.

Away from city lights, in Ontario’s pristine north the sky opens.  Thousands of stars, each a mere pinpoint of light laid out in constellations, and beyond them clusters of white, pink and blue. Each star a tiny sun. Each a reminder of that great star two thousand years ago, the Star of the East. The star that led three wisemen from the east to worship a two-year-old boy. The future prince of peace.

Recently the Star of the East was thought to be an alignment of Saturn, Jupiter and the moon, which only adds to the grandeur. The night sky is amazing. Sailors sail by it, lost folks use it to get their bearings, and it’s said stars guide birds on their migrations.

The mysterious heavens are the next frontier. Space exploration and settlement a dream of many scientists and adventures. We’ve already polluted our earth and the skies above; do we need to fill the heavens with our earthly junk too? Let us leave the precious metals on our precious moon. A network of internet satellites nothing more than earthly vanity. Communication needs to be savoured, not circulated at lightening speed. We managed simply fine up until now. It worries me to think what will happen when those satellites become obsolete. I doubt they will be brought back to earth and recycled. Recently, astronomers have complained that these manmade objects are already interfering with our view of the night sky, blocking the light of stars. They have dimmed something so regal.

Let me breathe in the night air. Let the sparkling heavens still me. The plane quietly blinking across the horizon is a travel wish. The peace of flying through the night a sigh. The early morning sun a glow on the eastern horizon and the same sun a smudge on the western horizon.  Our little blue planet a speck in the universe.

Clear midnight skies are full of promise while a cloudy, misty night dampens the spirits. The soul cannot soar. It searches for the warmth of a woodstove and artificial light for guidance. Cocooning in the shelter of manmade walls.

Every evening, I part the blinds and look for stars. My telescope set to capture comets. As I snuggle under blankets, it comforting to have the stars above winking at me.

Alison Pearce – RIP – February 13, 2023 – 91st year

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Some of our memories…

Christmas Lunch 2019
Christmas Lunch 2022

Diane Chartrand

KNOWING ALISON PEARCE

The first time I met Alison was in the fall of 2014, both attending Mary Ann’s Introduction to Fiction Class at Western Continuing Studies downtown in Citi Plaza. The class was large but a few of us seemed to gravitate to each other, Alison among them. We attended several Creative Writing Classes together over the next couple of years.

Mary Ann suggested that we start a writers’ group. We ended up with nine people participating, rotating our meetings in each other’s homes. Friendships grew.

For me, it was time at Alison’s apartment. It was only a ten-minute bus ride from my house to hers and she would ask me to come over and help her with computer stuff. Alison was a whiz with education things but over her life, she had shied away from computers and never learned how to use them correctly. She always had issues trying to find where her writing had gone. In her words, “It just always seems to disappear into thin air.”

I would go over and sometimes we would go out for lunch, or she would have made something at the apartment for us to enjoy. Yes, there always was wine and if she didn’t have any we would get in her car and go get a bottle. Then we would go into the room where her computer lived. Watching Alison fluster over her issues seemed funny to me but I’m sure was very frustrating for her.

She would open Microsoft Word and type up some things, like the address book she was trying to create with all her friends and acquaintances’ addresses, emails, and phone numbers. I think over the years it got lost many times, but we always seem to find it somewhere in a file folder that had nothing to do with addresses.

I pinned the files she wanted to work on at the bottom of her main screen to help her find something quicker including how to access her email account. Sometimes that helped but it always seemed that she would either forget where they were or accidentally unpin them and had no idea where they had gone to.

At times we would mostly just sit and talk about everything from upcoming classes to other members of the group and their writings. Alison had a lot of great stories but most times she was unable to get them down entirely unless she put them into emails for us to read. I had kept a few of her stories that we went over during group meetings that were printed out and you will see them along with our memories. 

I think being able to make it into your 90s is a great feat and one I’m striving for. Knowing Alison helped make me a better and more informed person. Anyone who knew this fine lady definitely would agree. 

Marian Bron

The twinkle in Alison’s eye and the little knowing smile is what drew me to her. It was as if you and her were the only ones in on a delicious secret. I bet that’s what made her such a great teacher and principal. She knew how to captivate and disarm. 

Her storytelling was epic. Her warm voice, an arc of an eyebrow, the irrepressible smile and a chuckle, all hallmarks of a true raconteur. The listener was stuck in the mud with her on a road trip through the prairies or helped pack and lug a steam-trunk as she set sail for England.

I am honoured to have known her and to have been part of her circle.

Alison, you will be missed.

Mary Ann Colihan

Alison was remarkable. Age 80, she joined my writing classes at Western Continuing Studies. This gave confidence to everyone else that no matter what your stage of life, it was possible to take up the craft of writing. She then quietly shared that she had written a 600 plus page family history. I always told her she should be the one teaching. Of course, she was an educator through and through and was proud of her years in Toronto, especially at the Bishop Strachan School. She lived near me and I enjoyed driving her to class, She shared many family stories, told with sharp clarity, and tales of her career. She formed a writer’s group with others from the class and that was a successful model of team work and mutual support. We were invited down to visit her ancestral part of Ontario in West Elgin County. We toured the Backus Page Museum, the beautiful Pearce Park overlooking Lake Erie, St. Peter’s Anglican Church circa 1827 and cemetery in Tyrconnell where Col. Thomas Talbot is buried. The Pearce family was part of the Talbot Settlement. Alison was a gifted storyteller and we were lucky to be invited to her old family homestead nearby, a truly remarkable farm with stunning lakefront views. She loved to share all she knew about the people and events that shaped Wallacetown. As a consequence, the owners of the home always made time for her and became friends. And we never left without eating local pie from Tall Tales. She will be greatly missed by many, especially our literary group, the Wordwrights. But we know she will continue to inspire our rewrites.

Annie Carpenter

I remember quite vividly the face of dear Alison the first night I showed up for my very first Creative writing class. She was the first smile directed my nervous way. I scanned the room anxiously… and one by one the faces I would come to treasure over the next few years looked up at me. Alison held the most senior in the class title. She inspired me with her thirst for knowledge beyond the time most people seek new waters. She would stand and sway a little at many a class with lower back pain. She would say she just couldn’t write sometimes…and I would think… your words and your life already had made quite a statement. 

I miss the special moments with her and the writing group. I miss the Creative Creation that class inspired.  Catherine… hands down kept this group afloat… by persistently being consistent . Mary Ann and Catherine’s bond with Alison is a testament. I can’t think of Alison without thinking of the unique part each and everyone in the group played…wrote… in this story we’re in.  Where writing-joins souls from every walk of life. It’s a very unique thing that joins people who, by all means, may never have connected without the love of writing…. Dearest Alison, how brave you were…and so touched to have known you. 

Muriel Allingham

Everyone has captured Alison’s incredible spirit, her resilience, her love of life and her sweet nature. 

Maria Melillo Jones

In memory of our beloved Alison, our little firecracker. 

Alison was in her early eighties when she joined the Western Continues Education program. 

She sat at the back of the class; her perfect silver hair caught my attention.

“Well, it’s never too late to learn,” I mumbled.

 Alison shared personal stories regarding her life journey; I felt that I was on the expedition with her.

She brought part of her past to the present by scheduling a visit to her previous family estate in the town of Wallacetown, Ontario.

The estate is a gem with a stunning landscape heading to the shores of Lake Erie; we visited the John E Pearce Provincial Park, a charming little church, and the cemetery, where she chose her eternal rest. 

I feel privileged to have had a glimpse into her culture and traditions.

At times I would pick her up to go to our scheduled group writing meeting. Along the way, we joked and laughed with Diane and our dearly missed Rian. 

I had many talks with Alison most of them were to check in on each-other, where in other occasion she gave me good advice.

She was a strong-willed, independent woman. She lived most of her life on her own, then towards her late eighties, I noticed her health and mobility decline.

One day in a friendly and concerned way, I asked Alison if she had thought about moving to a retirement facility.

Her tenacious personality snapped back at me like a flashing light.

“Why don’t you?” 

I smiled and apologized, knowing I had offended her independence. 

 Rest in Heavenly peace, my friend. 

Madeleine Horton

I’ve thought if Alison were born in much earlier times when names signalled desired virtues, she might well have been called ‘Patience’ or ‘Honor,’ both fitting what I know about her reputation as an educator and her dedication and respect for local history and her family’s role in it. In this vein, I might call her ‘Modesty,’ fitting the unassuming and humble person I was fortunate to know. This was brought home to me very sharply at her Visitation when I was awed by the scope and detail of the book she had written about her family’s history, researching the earliest settlers, and reaching into the present. It is a book of so much more than genealogy; it is filled with personal accounts and anecdotes along with photos and diagrams. She had mentioned it briefly, and in an off-handed manner, as if it were nothing of significance.

At the same time, she was effusive in her praise of my writing when we did critiques of members’ writings at our Wordwrights meetings. She would often preface her comments by saying how much better all the other writers in the group were than she was. Definitely not true. I have kept an email she sent about one of my writings because it was both incisive and encouraging. 

Alison’s rural roots meant so much to her and as I also grew up in the country, we shared some chat about that. She had such interesting stories; I only wish I had met her earlier.

Catherine Campbell

I recall a vibrant lady with a captivating, warm smile and a self-deprecating manner. The writing she shared with us, her writing group friends, radiated her wit and humour.

Alison, I regret that I never got an opportunity to play that grand piano at OakCrossing for you thanks to the pandemic.

The Forest City Wordwrights did get to share coffee and special treats at our meetings and a glass of wine or two at our Christmas lunches. We were so privileged that Alison was able to join us at our first post-pandemic Christmas lunch this last December. We presented a screening of pictures from our last visit to the Pearson homestead that Alison had been unable to attend. This was all especially poignant when we lost her so soon afterwards.

I will certainly toast her often!

Prompt Writing Christmas Lunch – December 8 2022

~ Catherine Campbell ~ Leave a comment

Prompts included:

Gratitude      (Mary Ann Colihan)

Letter to Santa…    (Catherine Campbell)

Letter to Santa       (Cathy Sartor)

“The Cover-Up and How I Learned the Hard Truth About Santa”        (Catherine Richards)

Letter to Santa – December 8      (Diane Chartrand)

How Christmas Has Changed over the last decades!      (Marian Bron)

Christmas Letter      (Muriel Allingham)

Gratitude            (Mary Ann Colihan)

Writers, solitary by nature, may have gotten off lighter in the pandemic. We were quick to ZOOM and share work online. But I regret that in-person classes, the ones that forged the Wordwrights, may be gone forever.

It is impossible to replace human contact. For this literary group, road trips to Hillsdale for pie and a gander at the vista of Lake Erie from the old and now lavishly refurbished homestead, were postponed with Alison in regular lockdown.  Libraries removed furniture and did not want anyone lingering, let alone talking about books and writing in quiet corners. Covid made our existence all high tech when we yearned for more high touch.

So today, we are grateful beyond measure to Catherine for gathering us, once again at Christmas, in this beautiful space. A private club where we are free to be ourselves, together – a luxury to meet as colleagues and friends. Over the many years we have been together, the Wordwrights are about much more than writing. I am grateful that Catherine also provides leadership for technology and task mastering. But there is a secret sauce here. Recently, with members passing on and punching out to deal with family matters, new members were welcomed into this tradition of shared writing and support. This may be the single most important thing you do to get words on paper.  I am thankful for each one of you in my life and hope these new writing sessions will yield more prize winners.

Letter to Santa…          (Catherine Campbell)

I don’t remember writing a letter to Santa. I believed in Santa – sort of.  I mean we moved every year so maybe a letter making sure he knew where to find me would have been an excellent strategy. But I don’t remember…

If I were to write a letter to Santa today it would have to start with apologies. This year the tree is not up and nor was it the last two years. I couldn’t get psyched to pretend we were welcoming the “joy” of Christmas when everything was locked down and no visits, gifts were delivered online to distant recipients. Phone calls seemed alienating. Reluctant to hang up but nothing really to say.

I did take a picture with my favourite snow bear sitting on the piano – I wore my Campbell tartan kilt – floor length. I took a picture with Kohl admiring that same bear but, in the sunroom, not the top of the piano. Kohl’s place is under the piano. No playing of Christmas carols on the piano. Not the year before either. My fingers stumbled over the notes on the couple I tried to play today.

So back to writing a letter – worth a try.

Dear Santa:

I was actually close to you, maybe one of your first stops. Goose Bay, Labrador. You did well by my sister and I that year – 1960, I think. A beautiful doll for each of us and handmade cradles. But we figured it out. Our father had hidden in the basement making the cradles and had brought the dolls back from a trip to “civilization”. All the hokey stuff on TV about your progress across the world was just that – hokey.

Like many families ours scattered. Personal visits became rarer. The holiday lost its importance. Guilt about forgetting to phone my mother on Xmas. She didn’t call me either, but I found out she had been quite sick. Three weeks later she was dead in a car crash.

I wish you were real, Santa, and that you could gift me a do-over.

I am being a little misleading. I say that fat, jolly man in red is not real, but Saint Nicholas was real. We viewed his coffin in a church in a small village in Turkey. Who would believe that Nick originated in Turkey. Connecting that saint to the Christmas hype over the centuries requires real imagination. 

Maybe that is my problem. Christmas is not “joy” but belief in fairy tales and ceremony and pageantry. And most important wanting and needing to share the magic with others.

Perhaps a sign, Santa, to restore that magic.

Letter to Santa            (Cathy Sartor)

Sunday, December 25th, 2022 @ 2:45 am

Dear Cathy,

         Thank you for your Holiday Greetings and for the delicious carrot cake and thermos of fresh coffee.  I trust  the coffee and your delightful snack will fortify me onward during this long, cold night on my mission to fulfill most Christmas wishes.

         About your Christmas Wish…I understand the possible need but I fear my inability to grant it.  Most Christmas Wishes are tangible  and my elves are readily able to make them possible.  Granting traditional wishes like a toy truck for a little boy or a doll to fill hours of enjoyable play time for a little girl is my job.  Granting  an intangible wish for a grandmother is a challenge beyond my pay grade.

         In Santa’s workshop, the elves labour tirelessly all year to produce gifts for me to deliver. Over time, I have enjoyed many experiences and requests for wishes. Your wish requires the wisdom and insight that only Father Christmas can muster and provide. Delivery requires no searching or wrapping but instead it demands a lifetime of expertise and a loving heart.

         Cathy, your Christmas Wish for “Inspiration” is impossible to wrap and deliver. I am aware that retirement, relocation, a pandemic and the unthinkable world events since February following knee replacement surgery and recovery have caused the world to seem out of balance.  As with Alice in Oz, you are feeling confused and frettful not knowing which way is up or how to find down.

Rather than remainng stuck while enduring this period of uncertainty, imagine life differently.   This should be a period of remaining strong, of taking stock and of preparing to move on.  Buck up buttercup.  Define your hopes and dreams. Decide your  priorities and preferences.  Stay focused and keep busy. Hold joy and gratitude in your heart.  Trust that your “Christmas Wish” will be granted. In due time, you will be inspired and ready to move on.  

My job is done. Now it is your job to do the work in your search of “inspiration”.

                  Our sincere wishes for an inspired future!

                           Santa and his buddy Father Christmas

“The Cover-Up and How I Learned the Hard Truth About Santa”                                  (Catherine Richards)

It was Christmas morning, me and my bowl cut hair style were wide awake. We had a rule in our house that you couldn’t open or touch anything under the tree until Mom and Dad had had their first cup of coffee. So, my brother and I would wait. 

We would get up and look at the tree and the stockings while our little bodies teemed with excitement. When Ian got a bit older, he would make the first pot of coffee which was likely terrible. Ian was almost four years older than me so he was wiser, more accomplished in life and could spell his whole name, so he was in charge of coffee. Ian would also turn on the outside Christmas lights, a signal to the neighbours that we were up. A competition between the two houses to see who was awake first. 

On Christmas morning when I was 7, I couldn’t help but notice that some of the presents from Santa were wrapped in the same paper as presents from Mom and Dad. A curious kid who was always encouraged to ask questions – I asked: why is the wrapping paper the same? Mom quickly answered something along the lines of isn’t that special that the wrapping paper we picked is the same as Santa! Must mean you were extra good this year! This seemed like a reasonable answer as I had been very good that year. 

The following Christmas we were opening presents, and to my surprise, there were some price tags on some gifts. I asked: why are there price tags on these gifts from Santa? Mom quickly answered that sometimes Santa asks the Elves to pick up items at local shops because there are so many children around the world, and he can’t always make all the presents. It seemed a reasonable answer and it really didn’t make sense for Santa to make all the presents when they were already available elsewhere. 

The next year we were opening presents, and Mom jumped up and said Santa forgot something! I thought this was extremely weird as she raced into another room and came back with two presents, one for Ian and one for me. As we were opening them, I asked: why did Santa forget these and why were they in the other room? Mom quickly answered that sometimes Santa gets startled when putting everything under the tree and drops presents in places they shouldn’t be. Again, this was a reasonable answer and something my primitive brain could imagine. 

But my suspicion was increasing and the following year I asked: Mom, is Santa real? Mom quickly answered: “well I believe in Santa because there are presents under that tree that I didn’t put there”. I bought that answer too. And went on my merry way with the full belief that Santa was real, and my mom wouldn’t lie to me. 

I was at least 10 years old when I learned the hard truth. I was at a new school, and it was the period when the class would go to the library. We were sitting in “the pit”, the carpeted story reading area. As I looked down at the beige-grey carpet, perfect for hiding the residue that comes off the sticky and dirty hands of children, a classmate made some passing comment about Santa not being real. I couldn’t believe it and kept staring at the carpet. All the other kids started to nod their heads and shared how they couldn’t believe kids our age still believed in Santa and that they had known for years. I was in shock. On the way home from school, I asked my brother. As you know he was wiser, in high school now and could do complex math problems so he would tell me the truth. He replied: “Yeah I’ve known for a while, but Mom asked me not to tell you to not ruin Christmas for you”. I couldn’t believe that for years my family, possibly my friends, had all been in on the cover-up. It all started to make sense – the identical wrapping paper, the price tags, “Santa forgetting” and obviously there would be presents under that tree that my mom hadn’t put there. 

I don’t recall what happened next, if I told my parents or not. I don’t recall if I was upset for longer than an hour or a day, but I don’t carry any resentment towards them for the cover-up or how I found out (officially and very very late). I’m only thankful. My Mom believed in continuing with the magic for years and that is precious to me.  She and my Dad would have been exhausted at Christmas time. They both were working, getting me and my brother to school, participating in seasonal activities and having to do the never-ending task of feeding us daily so no wonder on Christmas morning after a marathon evening of wrapping presents there would be price tags. As a thank you, and now that I can spell my whole name, I will make their first cup of coffee on Christmas morning. 

Letter to Santa – December 8                (Diane Chartrand)

Dear Santa,

I know it’s been a long time since you’ve heard from me. The last several years have been hard, but I got through them. I usually don’t write and ask for things, but I need your help this year.

I have a special request that I hope you can help with. A special person in my life needs a unique gift this year. I don’t know if you can take care of it, but I’m still going to ask.

My youngest granddaughter is due to have her fourth son in March of the new year. I don’t think she’s ready for so much responsibility yet. She gave birth to her third son only a year ago. So far, she has found a way to manage day by day most times, but the stress of being alone to take care of everything must be difficult.

My ask, if you think it could be possible, is to have her husband home more to help out. I know being in the service fighting for your country is commendable, but he’s always gone. Each time he returns, it takes the family a long time to adjust then he leaves again.

I’m putting this request in your hands and praying that you can find a way to grant it, if only for a short time, until the older children can help Mom with the younger ones.

Worried Grandma, Diane

How Christmas Has Changed over the last decades!                 (Marian Bron)

I blame love. Possibly hormones. The change started when the cousins and my brother started pairing up more almost forty years ago. Never mind that it left me as the odd wheel out, it was bigger than that.

On their own I had no problem with the individuals they paired off, they were friends from our own social circle, but why couldn’t things be left as they were? The Christmas shopping expeditions of our tweens where we set off on foot and met downtown Strathroy and spent the afternoon together or the trips to the town fair where my oldest cousin lied and said she was under twelve to get in free like the rest of us, gone forever.

Christmases together with the two families and occasionally cousins from Holland, a whole other story there, was laid back, festive, fun. It was family. But with pairings came logistical problems. Christmas Eve no longer suited everyone, and it became the Saturday before or, if there were conflicts, squeezed in Tuesday after a completed work day. Christmas Eve with the extended family no longer happened.

After marriage came babies. So many babies. The two families became too large and separated. However even with our own family unit Christmas Eve gatherings was still a problem. It was my sister-in-law’s parent’s anniversary. As far as I’m concerned only selfish people get married on big holidays but that’s beside the point. Christmas Eve, the only holiday we actually celebrated as a family, was no longer ours. 

As time has passed my own little odd family out has paired off too. Christmas is further complicated once again. It was time for me to become selfish. I didn’t care what anyone else did but I was spending Christmas Eve with my parents whether or not my brothers and kids could make it. Both sets of parents, the husband’s and mine, are in their eighties, I need this while I can.

And for the last two Christmases it has worked. Both sets are basically under the same roof now so it’s just a matter of meeting in one apartment. Now we sit, eat gebakjes and other assorted tasty treats, and visit. There are no gifts exchanged because we’ve all outgrown that. None of us need more stuff.  

As for the cousins? My aunt and Uncle are five units down from my parents. A knock on the door and an exchange of Merry Christmases works. Christmas Day whoever is free can come for dinner at our place. Simple.

Christmas Letter                   (Muriel Allingham)

Today, I’m reminded of the last Christmas lunch we shared, and would have to say that probably no one could have predicted the bizarre route our lives would take in early 2020.  For me, looking back on our gathering that December, in this exact room, enjoying great food and company, I was blissfully unaware that I was soon to be drop kicked through the goal posts of life. And while the world wrestled with Covid, my life took on another challenge that made the fear of infection almost something to look forward to.      

That which does not kill us………..makes us want to kill ourselves, and often times during the following months, I contemplated on long sleepless nights, a particularly heinous form of hari-kari, leaving me gorgeously pale in a black lace negligee; of course, never to be found until my rotting corpse ruined the whole Juliet effect. 

And I had to accept that after twenty some odd years of a life partnership, mine crumbled in moments.  An unpredictable and misfortunate betrayal that left me more vulnerable and wounded than if I had been dismembered. 

Faced with property management alone, aging and grieving dogs, loss and failure, I had to put away my bicycle, my hikes, writing and my life of ease.  I was left to pay our home equity loan and my income diminished by two thirds, but my expenses expanded.  

Would some future movie scene portray me emerging from the mist, in combat gear, dishevelled, and dirty, but victorious?  Certainly! 

I did some epic shit—I know that now.  Chain sawing and retaining all limbs, caring for the dogs, the property, and the house.  I sold it all, disposing of Blair’s existence into landfills and goodwills. I relocated into a highrise (a story unto itself). I fought and won a legal battle, said a sorrowful goodbye to my beloved Jasper, who for all his quirks and disobedience was the most amazing creature that ever wore poodle attire.  

Presently, Zola and I live in Blackfriar’s Estate, where a variety of eccentric residents entertain and delight us.  And, we enjoy the presence of ghosts that slip up and down stairs and around corners unexpectedly.  What could be finer?  Except for the two chihuahuas that wear pearl necklaces and indulge in vodka in the afternoon, or the dashounds that bark incessantly.  Or the parrot named Joey that likes to imitate the back up alarm on a garbage truck—first thing in the morning.  “Joey, shut the fuck up,” I hear from my open bedroom window.  

It takes three years to heal; five years to heal, and I’ve also been told ten years to heal, as though time is infinite.  I don’t think I will ever heal, not completely. When I drive country roads from my past, I feel strangely detached, but also shaken by the familiarity of a bridge I have crossed hundreds of times, and I can still anticipate that bump in the road. I know those beautiful country homes that changed season by season; artistry of nature and decor.  Often the sky over the horizon brings brutal nostalgic beauty.  Was that the same cloud formation that would drift slowly by, as we ventured on our Sunday tours of the countryside?  The driving rain—the same as when we drove to the airport.  I will be haunted forever, but that is something I must come to love and cherish.  

I have learned how to be alone.  I can handle anything, and my motto has become ‘what’s the next logical step?’ A mantra that unravels the complexities of yet the latest disaster.  I look forward to my future, to adventure and am quite happy in my solitude—mostly content and free.  I am fortunate that I have wonderful, and not so wonderful friends (the latter makes it all so interesting).  At the end of my life, I can say with certainty that I did not take the easy road.  I did not back down.  But more importantly, I did what was right.

Sometimes it feels as though my heart is stuck between zipper teeth, tugging and pulling will only result in more seizures and pain, so I am resigned to live with my damaged heart, because I know my soul is one of brilliance and light.    

This Christmas, we are once again together.  We are all different people after three years of isolation, separation, and tragedy. And I could say something cliché about living in the moment, caring for those we love, or getting hit by the proverbial bus—wait, my mother did get hit by a bus, so I’ll leave that one out.  We are lucky, even when we are not.  We are walking each other home.  It is all we are doing—we have no claim to anything, I have learned that well.  Anything can happen and it likely will. 

So, here’s a suggestion for the new year; let’s all take out our damaged hearts, our pieced together with duct tape, shoe laces and packaging twined hearts. Take them out, put them on the table and let everyone admire them.  We are all heroic to be standing in this difficult world.  

Let everything happen to us, the beauty, the magic, the horror and let’s keep standing against it to let it fall around us, like rain.