18 Hours left to figure out how we can get a Christmas 🌲 tree up outside the Children’s Hospital. Batman, Wonder woman and the three wisemen have come to help. One of the Camels has been dragging the tree behind him, his o2 tank has already run out and his lips are a bit blue. He has no intention of letting the baby Jesus down. There’s some politics this year so it has to be put up farther away from the hospital. As we all looked up not a window was without a little child’s face looking out at the stars and the tree below. Wonder woman flew up and waved at all the little kids on the Cancer floor. She was in a uniform different than her traditional one. A set of Nurses Scrubs giving a nod to the fact this is the year of the Nurse and no one had given them even the smallest acknowledgement. One of the respitory therapists came out to give the camel a new o2 tank! He was grateful. Batman flew to the second floor and started to pull the tree up so that it was standing perfectly in front of the children’s faces. Not a dry eye. It’s been a tough year. On the top of the tree a star that shines without batteries or electricity. It is powered by the greatest super power of all the baby Jesus himself. Batman put on a show for the kids swinging from the floor. They loved it. The wise men stood in awe. The oldest said…how things have changed…yet the message is still the same. At the very heart of Christmas lies a selfless heart. A baby born, and joy to the world, especially children. Even during a year like this…it only takes a little kindness to make someone feel thought of.
Tag: Christmas
A Boat Decked Out in Christmas Lights (Marian Bron)
Another email from Uncle Harrison’s lawyer popped up in my inbox. It was the eighth one. What did I want to do with the canal boat that my late uncle had left me? Uncle Harrison wasn’t really an uncle. He had been one of my late mother’s many paramours.
I didn’t want a boat. I had enough on the go. I would rather he had sold the thing when he was alive and had given me the money instead. With three growing kids all under the age of ten, I had my hands full. On top of that there was a global pandemic, and I was homeschooling, plus playing full time secretary to a husband who had made his home office of my kitchen table. I didn’t need a boat.
Roni the five-year-old glued to the TV, wiped her perpetually runny nose on the sleeve of her new jumper. Horace, the eight-year-old, was making flies. He was obsessed with fishing. Something he couldn’t do in December. Gloria sat with her phone, somewhere out of sight. Surrounding all this domesticity was a house that needed repainting, a tree that need trimming, a van that needed replacing.
This time the lawyer had included pictures of the boat. It was dark green with red and blue trim. Much like the tree that had to be decorated. It slept eight. Full kitchen and a tank full of gas.
The husband paced back and forth, wheeling and dealing with a computer screen. Roni sniffed and wiped, and Horace dropped another completed fly into his fishing kit. From somewhere in the depts of the house Gloria huffed. All the boat needed has a couple of strings of fairy lights and it would do.
“Pack your bags,” I declared. “We’re going on an adventure.”
Roni sniffed.
Husband stared.
Horace squinted.
Gloria groaned, “Seriously, mother. Christmas is two days away.”
“Exactly, Christmas Vac-cay! Time for a change of scenery,” I shouted at the unseen Gloria.
Roni, with tears in her eyes, asked, “But what about Santa? He won’t know where we are?”
“Nonsense, Santa knows where every kid is. He has Santa GPS on every one of them.”
The car was packed in under two hours. Roni had her tablet, Husband his laptop, Horace his box of fly making feathers, and Gloria hid in the back.
We stood on the dock in the unseasonably warm weather. There was no snow or ice. Uncle Harrison’s boat was the only one left in the water. All the others had been dry docked for the winter. It didn’t matter, it would provide us with a physically distanced vacation. We’d deal with dry docking afterwards.
“But mommy.” Roni tugged at my sleeve. “Santa won’t find me. It’s a boat. It doesn’t have a chimney.”
“Husband, the box with rope lights please.” I climbed up on the roof of the boat and carefully laid out the lights.
“Take Roni back up to the parking lot, Husband.”
When they were back up top, I turned the lights on.
“What does it say,” I shouted.
“Santa please stop here!” The three kids shouted.
Transported to a Christmas in a Past Century (Catherine A. Campbell) 2020
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.
What Christmas Means To Me This Year (Muriel Allingham) 2020
What does Christmas mean to me this year? As most people’s celebrations are arranged by a pandemic, mine is shaped by loss and struggle and having to grip a reality that I wasn’t prepared for. Oh no, not the least of which is being ripped into living and cracked like an egg. And while the details of my loss are gruesome, I must admit that I am experiencing something unexpected this Christmas season.
I have not pulled out the delicate and sparkling Christmas decorations that are reminders of travels and years now literally left forgotten. I am fortunate that I still have remnants of last Christmas on my doorstep and mantle—they seemed too heavy to remove after my loss, and they slipped from sight, as though they should be there all year. Guess I am the epitome of a Country and Western song.
One thing I am feeling is gratitude, and there are many on the list that deserve my praise. Friends that have held my hand and walked with me through inclement weather, both literally and figuratively. Friends that have laughed and cried with me, commiserated with me, and supplied me with unique and delightful avenues of revenge to carry out in my late-night fantasies.
And the crazy friends so full of life that it is hard not to be infected with their disease (as opposed to the Covid one).
And the unique people that have reached out to help me, and have become dear friends and sources of understanding and compassion.
My sister, who has worn the brunt of my emotional collapse, and from afar (UK) has reached out every day, since February 23—she is a saint, and being in lock-down since the beginning of the pandemic, has still listened to my woes on a daily basis. And there are days where it must be difficult.
And then there’s me. I didn’t think I could do it. I did not feel as though I could care for my property, deal with all the legalities, take care of the house, look after two aging dogs or even survive after 20 years of living a life I thought I would go out in. No, the house is not as clean as it used to be, but I did (with a bit of help) get all the outside work done this year.
Split from stern to stem; that’s what I feel like, but deep inside me is a growing joy, a personal best so to speak. A cyclist that rode 2000 plus km this year, a meditation practitioner, a singer (very poor one, but a singer none-the-less). A yoga enthusiast and a cook; yes, a cook. I am learning French and reading poetry and the classics. And I don’t have the leisure time I had a year ago, but that relaxation time is now golden moments that I can cherish.
Yes, there has been shit; pure shit, but I’m learning to embrace it all and to risk everything knowing that a great new adventure awaits out there somewhere.
This Christmas will be definitely different. I will at times be unhappy and I will feel lonely, but I know that I am blessed beyond what I felt last Christmas when I frolicked in what I believed to be my life of abundance. And maybe the miracle of Christmas will be in the forgiveness I will learn, and as I grow into accepting that which I cannot change, I will realize how much I can change. To everyone who has reached out to me this year; thank you from the bottom of my heart. And to those that have surprised me with their own humanity and their crazy love of life, I will say cheers. Next year’s goal; live in joy!
“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.
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)
- Lessons learned in childhood. Snooping for your presents leads to utter letdown on Christmas morning, no matter what the present is or how much you wanted it. That anticipation is often more rewarding than satisfaction is true for many parts of life.
- Finding out the truth about Santa may be a heartrending experience for a sensitive child. Maintaining the appearance of a continued belief in Santa may be a rewarding experience for a crafty child.
- Giving is a joy. Children should be taught it. Adults should learn that dropping your Canadian Tire money into the Salvation Army kettle does not count as a donation.
- When regifting, make sure you know whom the gift originally came from and be sure to send it to someone completely unconnected to the original giver. Otherwise re-gifting may cause re-gret.
- About decorating. In the house, one rule: Your house does not have to shout, “Merry Christmas.” However, if you believe William Blake’s dictum that “the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom,” do the following. Tear down all existing decor and festoon your house with seasonal trappings everywhere. Let greenery spill from mantels and lights twist and wrap and embrace everything embraceable. Bring on the Santas and snowmen, the carousel horses, the dancing bears, the green grinches, the baby’s first Christmas ball and the school-made paper chains. Forget the notion of colour clash and theme. Display memories. Beautiful old cards, last cards. Whirligigs. And of course, the tree. The tree that is always the best ever. Every year.
- Decorating outdoors. Blow-up Christmas decorations are an abomination. Of these, the worst is the blow-up nativity scene. Whether one is religious or not, there should be a law against having a blow-up nativity beside a Homer Simpson Santa. In fact, a Homer Simpson Santa is an affront to the Santa mythos.
- There is only one good version of A Christmas Carol – the black and white version with Alistair Sim.
- Christmas without snow was tragic as a child. As an adult, it means relief that loved ones will be able to travel safely. Adults should realise that safety and security can trump the pull of the dramatic.
- The worst of times often become the best of times. The times remembered and rehashed time and time again in our family are the year the oven quit on Christmas day and we ended up eating chicken nuggets cooked on the stove top instead of turkey and yes, it was the year dear family friends were over visiting from England.
- You can’t make someone like Christmas cake. It is genetic. Ditto Christmas pudding.
- No matter your religious affiliation, or not, only a heart of stone could not be affected by the great Christmas carols – Joy to the World, Good King Wenceslas, Silent Night, and my favourite, Once in Royal David’s City. These are the cathedrals of Christmas music. A corollary to this: None of these should be allowed to be played in the temples of commerce. There songs such as Let It Snow, Santa Claus is Coming to Town, Jingle Bells, and possibly “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” bring seasonal cheer.
- The question of where Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer should be played is a good one. With its at least six degrees of separation from the original Christmas impetus, perhaps it should best be played outdoors to accompany the nightly rising of the inflatables in those who choose such a manner to celebrate the season.
Christmas Memory 1999 (Diane Chartrand)
I stood freezing in the long line, at the Toronto Greyhound Terminal, for over two hours at Bay 6 with my bag beside me. The bays were outside, and the wind and snow were blowing directly into us.
Being just a few days before Christmas, everyone appeared tired and ready to board their bus and sleep. The time was closing in on midnight, but I was wide awake and anxious to see my six grandchildren in Ohio and their beautiful mother, my first-born daughter.
Finally, the bus had arrived. I won’t have to change buses until we cross the border in about two hours and enter at the Buffalo Terminal. I’m excited, and sleep doesn’t come. I look out as the night has changed to a bright full moon and millions of stars. As we go south, the snow is left behind us.
I envision the scene, I’ll hopefully see, in the next few days. Getting to watch the kids open the presents I shipped down. There will be joy on their faces along with a lot of noise as the children range in age from two to thirteen.
As we arrive at customs, the driver says, “Make sure you take all your belongings off the bus. Pick up your bags from under the bus and take them with you through that door to the left. Make sure you have all your identification ready.”
I grab my backpack and a small bag from under the bus and make my way into line. A customs agent calls up one person every twenty minutes. At this rate, I’ll never make my connection in Buffalo. After about forty minutes it’s finally my turn.
“ID please. Where are you going and for how long?”
“To visit my daughter and six Grandchildren in Dayton, Ohio and will be there for five days.”
“Are you declaring anything into the country?”
“No. I already sent my gifts to their house a couple of weeks ago.”
“Okay move on to the other officers to get your bags checked.”
Customs hadn’t started using screening machines yet, so our bags were checked manually. This process always left a mess inside.
“Okay, you’re good to move on. Take your bags and go back to the bus and wait with the driver.”
I was overjoyed that was over. There were others, though, who didn’t get through as quickly. One lady had packed sliced meat and oranges, both items not allowed to cross the border. This caused a delay for over an hour while one of the customs agents searched for an interpreter because this lady, nor anyone in her family, spoke English.
After several more transfers along the way, I finally arrived in downtown Dayton. I was so relieved to see my daughter and son-in-law sitting in the waiting room. After a short drive, we arrived at the house. All the children came up and gave me a big hug.
My Christmas in 1999 was the first I had spent with my family in many, many years. It will always be the one I treasure the most. It was the beginning of many more years of special occasions with them.
Christmas Back in My Time (Maria Melillo Jones)
The Christmas Novena began in the middle of December. Although harsh, several of us young kids got up just before 5 a.m. and went to church.
The cold mountain air pinched my cheeks and took my breath away. When I inhaled through my nose, my nostrils would stick together. I wrapped a scarf around my mouth and nose. As I walked, seeing my breath, I pretended I was smoking a cigarette. The condensation in the chilled air not only affected my breathing but bones as well.
Everything around us kids was innocent, but the mischievousness in our developing minds was not. The mass was monotonous, but the spirit of Christmas influenced us to attend, knowing our families were still sleeping. We made plans the night before to meet by the church at quarter to five.
My father would never allow me to leave the house at such an early hour.
Since I took religion classes, I was able to convince him. I came up with a little fib. Our priest demanded we attend the Christmas Novena to help us get a good mark in religion, and with our first communion blessing.
Little did he know.
My girlfriends and I sat behind a pew of old ladies praying the Rosary. We were too young to know the Rosary, but we said a few Our Fathers, and Hail Mary’s.
As they kept going, we sat silently. The old ladies, all wore the same brown square shawls with long fringe resembling dreadlocks. The shawls were folded in a triangle. It covered most of their bust and waist, and from what I heard it kept them very warm. My grandmother also had one.
As we sat quietly, we all had the same idea. We began tying the fringe of the shawls from one lady to the other, down the entire pew. It was priceless watching them trying to come out of their seats — some exiting towards the right the rest towards the left. The surprised look on their faces, as they were pulling against each other. Suddenly all their shawls fell on the church floor. Some were upset, and some took it with a good laugh and much patience, untying the dreadlocked fringes. As we looked from afar laughing like silly girls.
One of the other things that attracted us to church was the massive Nativity scene. It was an entire village with big mountains, houses, a blacksmith. All kinds of animals, and figurines. They all had a purpose. If you watched it long enough the Nativity Scene started to come to life. The empty cave waiting for the arrival of our lord and savior.
I could stay there for hours, admiring it and use my imagination to create the saga of Jesus.
What made Christmas special was my Uncle Rosario, who could always put a smile on our faces. Artificial Pine trees were rare in houses of poor people, my uncle would cut down a Lucina tree, bring it home and before we all knew, it became a beautiful Christmas tree. It filled the house with the fresh scent of the Mountains.
We decorated it with candies, chocolate kisses, mandarins, and strings of popcorn that we helped make. Now no longer bare, it was a beautiful and humble Christmas tree.
My uncle had four sons, and I was his only niece in town. Uncle Rosario told us not to touch the ornaments until after Christmas. The aroma of the mandarins circulated the house teasing us.
We resisted the first day, after that, the cheating began. My oldest cousin asked what I would like. I chirped out a chocolate kiss. All of the boys took something as well.
“That’s way too many decorations off the tree, yells my oldest cousin. Papa is going to notice.”
One of the boys came up with a brilliant idea to replace the candy. Fill the wrappers with old chewing gum.
There we were the five masterminds, sitting by the fireplace, chewing gum like little mules, to fill the empty foils. We shaped the wrapping as perfect as possible and placed them towards the back of the tree. It worked like a charm.
Little by little even the popcorn garland was getting skimpy, which made my uncle suspicious. One day he gathered us around the tree and asked if we had noticed a mouse eating the popcorn.
I stayed silent as the boys looked at each other. The middle one finally spoke up.
“Now that you mention it, Papa, we did hear some noises last night; It could have been a mouse, or two.”
My uncle had a big smile on his face not able to bring himself to laugh, but his grin said it all.
A Merry Christmas to you all.
Christmases to Remember (Catherine Campbell)
Well here we are in 2018 well into the “silly” season. Christmas music swirls around us everywhere we go. Christmas containers grace the porches. Christmas lights brighten the evening. Now the scramble to organize gifts, dinners, cards and notes – for so many people there is just angst, stress, guilt and loneliness. And, do we treasure the moments?
Most Christmases are forgettable and with all the emotional energy that is poured into this “festive” time that is rather sad. Still, if I am typical, there are a few special memories.
Dar es Salaam, Tanzania – 1966
I was 14 years old – my father had been assigned a 2-year tour in Dar es Salaam, training the local military pilots on search and rescue aircraft. I had been enrolled in a dance school in Cannes, France, but the educational offerings (almost non-existent) didn’t meet my father’s expectations. By November I was “home” in Dar.
Christmas to all of us had been “snow, snow, snow”. Manitoba, Labrador, Ottawa. Not tropical. My mother, an artist, took up the challenge. Her rendition of a Christmas tree was an abstract, pastel creation made out of multiple sheets of paper stuck on the wall. It didn’t need lights or ornaments! Christmas dinner was a pot luck at a park just outside of town. The lunch was to have included roast goat. However, the unlucky beast was stolen the night before the feast (probably not to meet a kinder fate) and, in the morning, the organizers scrambled to find a replacement. They did, but the roasting time was significantly diminished, and the result was decidedly unappealing.
Still there was laughter and sharing…and thanks for what we had – maybe a little more of the real “meaning” of Christmas.
We missed my brother – he was in Switzerland at boarding school – he spent a lonely Christmas.
Lundin Links, Scotland – 1967
My brother and I spent our next Christmas together, without the rest of the family! I had started boarding school in Edinburgh, Scotland. The Wests (our neighbours in Dar es Salaam) had returned to Scotland to a small town on the other side of the firth from Edinburgh. They invited both my brother and I to join them for Christmas since a trip to Tanzania was not possible.
It was a cozy cottage, the Scottish chill handled by gas fires (I did discover the joy of chilblains by toasting my cold feet too close to the heat). And Christmas music. Muriel West was a pianist (had instructed me in Africa) and the young son had a beautiful voice, a member of the King’s College choir.
The gossip mongers in town had a field day with two young people of the opposite sex – strangers – in town. I remember a hug from Brad on the streets of Lundin Links. He was laughing, happy – hard to believe he died at only 41.
Palm Springs – 1986
My husband and I headed to California for Christmas – his son was spending the holidays with the ex, so it seemed like a good idea to get away. We flew to San Diego and then drove to Palm Springs to a quaint hotel, the Ingleside Inn. It touted itself as the location for the stars and the list of famous guests was impressive. There were none to be seen when we were there but there were many signed pics of Hollywood stars, all decades old. The weather was warm, of course, belying “Christmas”. But there were festive touches. A nude sculpture in the garden had been graced with a Santa hat. Mini trees, about 8” high and decorated, were in every room. Echoing the near forgotten era of the piano lounge there was a pianist tickling the ivories on a grand piano, the food was excellent, classic tableside favourites, as was the wine – a Duckhorn Merlot.
What an absurd thing to remember!
Carlux, Dordogne, France – 1999
The millennium beckoned – maybe December was not the best time to visit the Dordogne in France but closing out the 20th century it seemed destined. The sun was shining, and the unseasonably warm breezes made shirt sleeves comfortable out on the stone patio.
We bought two little trees and decorated them with red balls and a lacy cap.
Christmas Eve we attended mass at the local cathedral. The organ music reverberated against the stone walls, the voices of the chorists made the hairs on my arm stand up. It was mesmerizing.
Christmas dinner was planned for the house. We were joined by an Australian couple staying in Sarlat, our friends who owned the Le Fournil property, Wayne (our son) and Sharon (a friend from Toronto). We had shopped at the local butcher for a turkey and a roast of beef and the market in Souillac for oysters and vegetables. The butcher’s careful instructions unfortunately produced a barely cooked roast of beef. The turkey prepared by our hosts in their coach house was perfect. The oysters and the champagne…what can I say?
We were home by New Year. That y2k conflagration that had been forecast – didn’t happen.
Postscript: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!
12 Days of Christmas (Rian Elliott)
Sorry for the delay in posting – expect everyone to CATCH UP by the next meeting!!!
TWELFTH
The Great Writing Guru gave to me: TWELVE Paper Clips:
(See Catherine Campbell “Interconnected” for instructions)
ELEVENTH
Sites for that “something to read”:
www.librovox.org, The Literature Network, www.authorama.com, Project Gutenberg, Questia Public Library, Bibliomania, The Open Library, Sacred Texts, SlideShare, World Public Library, www.FullBooks.com
TEN
Sites to explore if you haven’t already:
CBC Books, www.techwalla.com, www.babble.com/baby-names, www.surnames.behindthename.com, www.thecanadianencyclopedia.ca, www.indy100.com, www.domesdaybook.co.uk, www.onthisday.com, www.usnews.com, www.historic-newspapers.co.uk
NINE
Rediscover the book! Start here with a list of 25 “page turners”. Maybe find out when Brian Henry’s next workshop is to learn about the 9 “d”s of writing a page turner.
EIGHT
Rs for writers:
Remember, Rigour, Relish, Reflect, Ribaldry, Reticence, Rascalry, Revise plus your own favourites.
SEVEN
Exercises for those days (250 words only):
- A dream
- A historical event or character
- The weather
- Someone in the coffee shop
- A teacher
- Describe a piece of art
- Pick a photo from the paper and just write!
SIX
Questions to answer in any story (5 Ws and an H):
Who, What, Where, When, Why and How
FIVE
Golden senses to include in any story:
Feel, Taste, Smell, Hear, See
FOUR
Personality outline sites:
www.myersbriggs.org, www.ongoingworlds.com, www.liveboldandbloom.com, www.socialmettle.com
THREE
Writing aid sites:
www.grammerly.com, www.prowritingaid.com, www.storymind.com
TWO
Highliters:
When revising go through printout and highlight anything to be removed or changed in one colour, then go through with second colour for keepers
ONE
Old Tyme storage device (aka a notebook):
For frivolous thoughts – deathless prose – ideas wild, wonderful and woeful – snippets – reminders of any sort