You Were Asking

About my new hip joint. The good news is the arthritis went out with the old joint. I am still going to the therapy pool at the hospital. The routine is sixteen visits to learn how to do the exercises and then three months at twice a week to practise. It must be helping but I don't know if I'm progressing. I'm still walking with two canes.

Worrying if things are melding the way they should is maybe the most stressful thing about the experience.

I had a list of things to attend to before the surgery. I went to the hospital one day for a workshop of some kind. I asked at the front desk where to find it. They had no idea. They asked what it was about. I told them.

"Oh yes," they said, "That's the pre-registration. That's round the corner."

I went there and sure enough, there were things for me to do. Questions to answer and such. My hospital experience is limited.

When it came to the moment of surgery, it seemed I had missed an important pre-requisite. The workshop required preparation exercises.

I also lost weight - but it wasn't enough. The surgeon's assistant, there were to have been two, had
enormous difficulty. My spine was in awful condition. The planned epidural could not be accomplished. They tried hard. I had several holes in my back to prove it. But a general anaesthetic had to be used.

My bent knee was still another serious impediment. I had talked about my knee beforehand. I wanted it to be known. I had the feeling I wasn't being heard. But I tried. After the surgery, on hearing all the terrible things with which they had to contend, I was quickly persuaded the surgery could not possiblly be successful and furthermore, it was all my fault.

I did get on my feet. I seemed to be doing alright .Then I noticed something. My upper body slopes substantially to the left as I sit. I regularly have to raise myself to the right to prevent tipping right over.

I already had a tilted pelvis due to mismatched legs.They had been that way since birth. Half an inch on the heel of my left shoe had helped but not corrected the limp completely. In my dreams I hoped the surgery might correct that and I would move gracefully for the first time in my life.

I never noticed my entire body listed to the left. Now I do. I talked about the mismatched legs before the surgery. But that too seemed not to register.

In the dressing room after the therapy, the women freely chat about their various experience.
So far the consensus is that things are not progressing as they should. When there are only two women, there will be whispered confidence, had she known how much pain she would not have gone through with the surgery.

One woman is very anxious to get back to work. She had knee surgery and had no idea she would be unable to stand. Her job requires standing all day. She likes it and needs to work.

Everyone seems to know people who wouldn't do it again.

I'm not thinking that. The arthritis is gone. It was in my knee before it became unendurable in my hip. Now there is no pain in my knee and none in my hip.

However, my tilted pelvis is giving concern. It has to be x-rayed. I have to add an inch to the heel and sole of my shoe. I'm not thrilled about that. Adding an inch on top of the half inch to my shoe isn't going to make me sit any straighter.I will await the results of the x-ray before I tackle the shoe.

So, since you asked, I am glad I had the hip surgery. The pain is gone. I am still working on regaining mobility. I am hopeful it will improve although I am obviously never going to glide like a swan or dance like an elf except maybe in virtual reality.

Send your own ElfYourself eCards

Wordle

HEATHER'S NOTE: Wordle is an online gadget for generating “word clouds” from text that you provide. The clouds give greater prominence to words that appear more frequently in the source text. Here is the Wordle that I've created using the top 150 words from Evelyn's personal blog.

Mothers Are All The Same

HEATHER'S NOTE:

This is a reprint of a letter Evelyn wrote to the Editor of the Auroran in 2003. I found it again yesterday and have printed it here for you to read.

Mothers Are All The Same

I was 15, he was 20. He was on leave and we were comparing notes on some of our experiences. He said when a person falls from a great height, he blacks out and is unconscious when he hits the ground. He told me the bombers were like huge metal canisters. With shells exploding on every side they would shake and shudder and the noise was horrendous.

I recalled the time five bombs fell on the town. They came down in a straight line. The last one made a huge crater on the shore. That's how we learned about the effect of concussion. It bounces like a rubber ball. All the windows on one side of the street can be smashed and on the other not even a crack.

He talked about the precision of bombing raids. The squadron would take off, reach the target, drop the bombs and leave at the same time. Any bombs not dropped would be dropped in the sea. That's when we realized the bombs dropped on our town were an accident. The pilot must have believed he was over the sea. A couple of houses were demolished and three or four people were killed. That was during the Clydebank blitz. It lasted a week.

There were air-raid sirens every night. Searchlights criss-crossing the sky and anti-aircraft guns firing for hours. We could hear the planes going over...it seemed for hours. No German planes were ever brought down. In the mornings when we walked to school, we found the pavement littered with ugly jagged chunks of metal.

I can't believe how matter-of-fact we talked about these things. He said the violence of the raids was terrible. When the crews got back they would climb into the trucks in absolute silence. It was as if their voices were locked inside their throats. It would be hours before they could speak again. There were always planes that didn't come back.

He went back off leave on a Sunday afternoon...his cap set at a jaunty angle, his kit bag hoisted on his shoulder. He left the house alone. We were not much given to hugs and kisses. There was no sense that we might never see him again. It was about the same time on the next Sunday afternoon that two policemen came to the door. They asked for our mother. She came down the stairs as if she was tumbling. I could hear her breath catching in her throat. She screamed when they told her his plane had not returned from a raid the night before. He was "missing in action".

We had a full house; grandparents, three aunts, a younger brother, three sisters, including me and a chubby little baby cousin. We all knew that whatever we were feeling, it was as nothing compared to what my mother was going through. It was November. The war was over within months.

During those months we scanned the papers for news of airmen being picked up at sea. It was my job to write letters to inquire if my brother was one of them. My mother kept on gathering and saving all the things that he liked - pineapple jam for instance - for when he would come home.

The war ended and soon we received a letter from the father of a crew member who had been taken prisoner. That's how we found out my brother was dead. and how he died.

As the flight-engineer, he didn't wear his parachute. The plane was hit and on fire. Half the crew had been killed. Patrick was wounded . . . his parachute burned...he and the boy who survived, wrapped their arms around each other and jumped together, hoping one parachute would save them both. It didn't.

When he came to, he was alone.

When we learned he was dead, it was my job again to write to the War Office. Promptly, as soon as they received my letter, they sent a priority telegram telling us he had been "killed in action".

War is weird. They have all these rules. Only drop the bombs on the targets... otherwise people might get killed. My brother was buried in Dusseldorf, by the enemy. They retrieved his identity tag, his little penknife and his rosary without the crucifix. These things came back to us.

My mother lived until she was 90. At the end, the only thing in her possession was his last letter. It was just a note, written on a typewriter. He apologized for his mistakes, said he had enjoyed his leave, especially the baby...and got back to base safely. Just a single sheet of war-time stationery. I don't know how it has survived this long.

Funny thing...on one of her last visits to Canada, my mother brought with her the last letter written by her brother to his mother before he was killed. He called her "Mother Mine" and thanked her for the parcel of nice baked things she had sent.

James was my grandmother's first-born child. He was the eldest of 10, the youngest was just a babe. He was 22 years old when he was dropped off on the beach at the Dardanelles along with almost an entire generation of young Scots. Their bodies were torn apart by the machine gun fire that awaited them. He had already been wounded in the hell-hole trenches in France, had been sent home to recuperate and recalled before he was healed. He was killed in Turkey in 1917.

When a child dies of an illness or an accident...a mother's life is never the same again. But time and other children can help to bring acceptance. But when a beloved son's body is ripped apart by weapons of unimaginable brutality, on the decisions and orders of strangers, there can never be peaceful acceptance. No fine words of glory and honor and courage and awards of medals and coloured ribbons can heal a mother's broken heart or take away the cruel memory of the horror of the manner of their death.

There is no dignity in savagery.

British...Canadian...American...German...Korean...Vietnamese...Israeli or Iraqi. God help them...mothers are all the same.

Thanksgiving

In the first couple of years Adam was transported to school. An orange bus came to the driveway to pick him up and drop him off. Then it was Keenan, the next sibling's turn to start school. He would be walking. A difference would be created between them.

Heather and Andy searched for a house backing on to the park where the school was situated. They found one and Adam walked to school like everyone else. He went through the gate in the backyard and crossed the park independently four times every day.

Mum and Dad were active in parent school affairs. Heather volunteered in various classes. They organized dances and auctions and raised money for various projects like computers and trips. Adam thrived as did his brothers and sister.

The backyard changed over the years. In succession there was a tree fort, an ice rink and a basketball net. This year an attractive privacy fence was erected at the end of the driveway and a cedar hedge planted. There's a patio and pergola, a shed with lace curtains in the windows and a place for a cosy fire in the centre of things.

Last Sunday, the temperature was 24 degrees. The Buck Family gathered at Heather and Andy's for Thanksgiving. Some members were missing and missed but the gathering was substantial. Thirty-two in all.

Jeff Nash and his wife were there from Kelowna B.C. Jeff spent a lot of his childhood in my basement. He and my son Andrew were best friends. Jeff's sisters, Kelly and Cindy were Heather's friends. They lost both parents recently. There were many memories to share.

There was a fire burning. Tables and chairs borrowed from neighbours created a long harvest table draped with fall colours. Heather once again worked in the federal election. On Saturday, Robyn was busy in the kitchen helping with the cooking and baking. I helped.

Vanessa, was there on Sunday. Hers was the summer wedding on the shores of Georgian Bay that I missed. The couple left soon after to work in Korea to earn enough money to pay off student debt. Korea is far and they were going to be away a long time. But the plan went awry.

Vanessa is with child or to be precise .... children. Twins are expected. Stephen and Mary will be grandparents.

How's that for a Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving Event.

Plan Ahead

I am buying the bench. I rented it the first month and kept it for a second month. I am not going to let it go.

It's called a transfer bench. Two legs are in the bath and two out. Half the bench is outside the bath so it's easy to sit down and swing my legs into the bathtub. I stand easily and sit when it's convenient. When I turn off the shower I can dry my hair and other parts without getting off the seat. It lifts easily out of the bathtub because it weighs hardly anything.

I was thinking about having a walk-in shower in place of the bathtub. For years. I've been advising people older than me to make that change. If plans are never to become dependent, it seemed like the sensible thing to do. I was at the point of shopping for what was needed and learned from the salesman a walk-in shower is not necessarily safer than a bathtub with a shower, and cost is prohibitive.

Fortunately, at the same time, I discovered the transfer bench. Three months ago, I didn't even know there was such a thing.

Early this year, I disposed of my dishwasher and replaced it with a washing machine. I don't miss the dishwasher and the washing machine in the kitchen means I am in complete charge of my own laundry.

It is my plan to maintain independence for the rest of my life. My recent surgery was my first. Being dependent on strangers has never held any appeal for me. Less now.

I think life must have a purpose even if it's just taking care of oneself.

So I am making plans. It's working out fine. I rented a bed rail too and I am keeping that as well. It's very handy.

I am still walking with two canes but not thinking about it. I have also started therapy at Whipper Billy Watson's pool at the hospital. He would be very proud to know how many people are benefitting from his energy and conviction.

The Blessings

On Tuesday I attended a Joint Council Committee at the Newmarket Administration Centre. I used two canes to navigate. I walked further than I had before with the canes. I was so pleased with my progress I walked some more at a shopping c entre. When it came to attending the town's general committee meeting in the evening, I couldn't. My arms were trembling, my hands shaking and I was cold all over. I had over-extended myself.

Yesterday, Friday, a beautiful day, I tackled the steps from the deck and did a couple of hours of weeding. The chair and cultivator had been set in place and beckoning me for a week. It was a day of accomplishment.

Since using the canes and abandoning the walker, I can walk several short steps independent of support. It is two months since the surgery. I dont know if that is good or poor progress because everyone I have asked has difficulty remembering their own timetable.

I am noting my progress for the benefit of anyone who might be contemplating the surgery. I thought I would be able to attend my grand-daughter's wedding two weeks after the surgery and it would just be a matter of willpower.

Obviously, I was wrong.

Don't Forget Possible!

My mother was born in 1902. The amenities of the day were oil lamp lighting, water from a common spigott in the yard carried indoors in a bucket and heated in kettles on the coal range. Bath-time was once a week.; Except for Grampa, a coal miner. For the rest of the family bath time coordinated with wash day when there was ample hot water from the boiler in the wash-house in the yard,.

Daily ablutions were perfomed in the house from a basin at a wash stand. My mother often recalled Grannie's admoniton:.

"Wash down as far as possible and up as far as possible", then with her finger raised, "Don't forget possible!"

The first seven years of my life were much the same as my mother's. except that we had a sink and cold water faucet in our home and gas lighting . My memories are clear.

I can now shower without needing someone else in the house. I can stand easily and wash possible. I have never taken modern amenities for granted. Since the surgery more than ever before.. I consider experience as a profound asset.

I am driving, shopping, attending meetings,still walking with support and blogging.

My grandparents would be amazed and amused.

PROGRESS

In terms of my recuperation,every day is better than the one before. I've stopped trying to pin people down to when exactly they walked without support. I know it's coming. I had no such confidence before.I can now lean forward to the bath faucet and stand easily to adjust the shower.

I have been shopping and eating out. I attended a council-in-committee meeting.I intend to attend the office of the Director of Corporate Services to find out what transpired at the in-camera sessions. Apparently the Mayor has given orders to councillors the information is not to be shared with those who were not at the meetings.That was myself and Councillor Collins-Mrakas. The Mayor did offer to come to my home and give me the information. I did not accept .

But best of all,my muse has returned . I have resumed my relationship with Blog.

I was frankly shattered to discover how physical limitations affected my psychological equilibrium. I do not expect my outlook will ever be the same again. But that's the effect of life experience. I now have a sense and an overwhelming empathy for people who are powerless
for whatever reason.
*****************

Adam had a great summer. He was a star at the two family weddings. Nobody who saw him perform his break dance routine will ever forget his energy and sheer joy in living. Four
cousins in his age group joined him on the floor and delighted the entire gathering with moves that even they didn't know they had .
Aunt Theresa told young Mark, "I never realised you could dance like that" He answered" Aunt Theresa, I didn't know myself until I did it."Clearly, Adam was the inspiration.

They were indeed a merry throng.

Adam travelled to various tournaments in Special Olympics. His baseball team came first in the final competition which means he will travel to next year's Special Olympics in Windsor.

The only cloud in his life at the moment is not having a meaningful purpose in his day. A couple of years Ago the Province approved a program called Passport. It allows parents to seek out meaningful activities for their special needs young adults. It's a great program. Since the year it started ,no new funds have been made available.

Adam will attend a program in Aurora two days a week.It provides an opportunity for work experience and maintaining literacy skills. It will cost his parents $400. a month. Because of Adam, theirs is a single income household.

Parents who were fortunate to obtain funding at the beginning of the program continue to have funding.. Others ,like Adam,who came of age later , do not.For them ,it will mean they will simply spend their days without meaningful activity and without the opportunity for growth that is every person's right.Adam had that until he graduated from high school. That was a year ago.

He has progressed. He discovered if he didn't go out everywhere with his mother, he could go out alone after she left. They live handily to the commercial centre of Newmarket. Adam goes shopping with his money card. The last time he favoured Wallmart with his business. When he paid for his shopping ,he was asked if he wanted cash back. He asked for forty dollars and went to MacDonald's and had lunch.


He also has some extravagant tastes.He completely understands the selection of video games available. So he is no longer free to choose whether to stay home alone until the van disappears down the street.

I'm Back!!!

So, one wedding and a new hip joint later, I am back. It seems ages.

I didn't make it to my grand-daughter's wedding. I will always regret that. But thanks to digital cameras and many personal accounts of the event, I feel didn't miss it completely. There was never a real possibility that I would make it but I didn't know that.

I've been urged to write about my hip joint replacement. I was not eager.

In the first place, my experience may not be like others. Secondly, the surgery is only the first part of the process. Success apparently depends on months of physiotherapy that follows. It is not yet complete.

The pain of arthritic degeneration has vanished. There is no pain in the hip joint. But muscles forced into action after who knows how many years of disuse are not quiescent.

Dire warnings if I lean this way or bend that. Blood clots are a significant postsurgical hazard. The drug to combat blood clots has serious connotations in its own right.

Pain killers make the physio painless. Pain killers are powerful and therefore addictive. That's not good.

Every day I hear of someone whose life was turned around after the surgery but it took months. How many months? Am I slower than others? If I am, why am I?

I am doing the physio, but I was never good at exercise routines. Am I doing it right? If I'm not, am I doing more harm than good?

Yesterday I learned the therapy cannot hurt the new hip joint Only the muscles are being impacted. So, every day I learn something new and positive.

I am at home in my own bed. I make my own breakfast and lunch. I look out at my own garden and sit out on the deck. I have supportive friends and family and never in my whole life have I appreciated them so much.

A pleasant, serious and sensible therapist comes to my house once a week to give me instructions and support.

If I do not recover and be in better shape than I was before, it will be no one's fault but my own.

But that will not be a comfort.

Two Weddings and A Hip Joint Replacement

In case you were wondering, this has been a summer of intensity. I discovered I can only focus my attention on six major matters at one time.

Two grandchildren, brother and sister Myles and Vanessa decided to marry within one month. In that time, I will travel to Ottawa for the first wedding and Georgian Bay for the second. Between times surgery for a hip joint replacement is scheduled with rehabilitation therapy to follow.

Preparation for the surgery has required losing weight. It might have prevented the need for surgery had I never gained it. Now nothing fits and I have been busy at the sewing table.

Swimming is a daily exercise. It is most summers. But the function is more than simple enjoyment this year. Exercise is another prerequisite for successful surgery. Like weight reduction it makes for greater ease of movement. Now I am wondering do I really need the surgery? But x-rays do not lie. I just wish I had the proficiency to read them. Replacing essential parts of myself carries no appeal.

Anyway, the surgery will soon be over and the remaining challenge will be to dance at my grand-daughter's wedding. I did at Myles and Melissa's, I must again at Vanessa and James'.

So, if you don't hear from me often in the next few weeks, you will understand why.

Adam danced up a storm .

A Discovery Shared

I rented a scooter. I intended to use it for the street sale which happens once a year. I could not contemplate the amount of walking needed to enjoy the whole thing. In past years, I thought about a golf cart but tracking one down was harder than a scooter.

It's just as well from a couple of reasons. I could never have navigated the crowds with a golf cart, though my grandchildren would undoubtedly have enjoyed the ride. Also, the scooter rental had a minimal charge and that was for a week. It was delivered to the house which solved another potential problem. It is currently outside my door, being charged up and swathed in plastic bags awaiting my pleasure.

I have it for a week. I traced steps yesterday that I have not walked since my children were small. There were places on the main street, Yonge Street which have changed so much since I was last on foot, I had trouble recognizing where I was at a particular moment.

The stalls were a delight. I bought sweaters from Equador for my two little great-granddaughters. Heather Sisman bought me a sun hat that shades my entire face and looks quite fetching, if I don’t say so myself. It stays securely on my head.

When I first bought my cane, I recalled how walkers in Scotland would carry a cane as a matter of course. I read somewhere it was a good for walkers to use a cane. Humans were not originally intended to walk upright The cane aids posture Then there was always the image of the Edwardian - dandy in silk top hats, tails, white gloves and an ebony cane with an ornately shaped silver handle. I have yet to bring myself to the point of buying such an elegant accessory, though I have tracked down a source. My current “dress” cane is painted black with a silvery but smooth metal handle.

I think a cane would be a very fine and practical accessory for anyone to use.

But now my friends, I am about to embark on a different mission. I suspect an electric scooter might very well prove to be a delightful alternative to using a car in pleasant weather. Obvious advantages are enjoying the fresh air, appreciating the place we call home, the cost of gas might certainly be an imperative. A normal association with neighbours would definitely be an advantage and we might never need to spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on insane and over the top traffic calming measures ever again. Of course, sidewalks would need to be wider and the width taken from the roadway. That might not be all bad.

While I am sitting here on the computer, the sun is shining and the day is already half over. I am missing all of that. So I think I will get going now to tootle around and rediscover my world from a different perspective.

I am off to buy a tarp to cover my rented scooter.

Another Adam High Point

It was in high school. A project was organized for students like Adam. A theatrical performance was to be produced with everyone performing a role according to their ability. Each student had two regular students working with them.

The Show went on. . To our surprise it was held in a classroom. It was a smash hit. There wasn't room for everyone who wanted to see it ,so it played a second night
.
Adam has always been a ham.. He loves an audience and his performance has always been self-directed. The routine was his own , from a combination of favourite movies and TV shows. All he needed was complete attention so that no-one would miss the little bits of business. . He was in his element. .We laughed until we cried. We cheered and applauded.He knew he was good.

The school project was several weeks in rehearsal.. He did a song and a soft-shoe shuffle. The Title "I'm just a Gigolo".

He wore white circa 1920's baggy pants a white shirt and bow-tie. A black silver-tipped cane and a straw hat. completed the ensemble. The music was taped. His timing was perfectl. He stood the cane on its end and strutted a circle around it. He twirled it and tossed it ,stretched it high between his hands and moved it to the music. He finagled the hat between his fingers and ended by tossing it over and back. Like every performer before him the warmer the audience response, the more bits of business he introduced. He brought the house down.

His Mum, Dad and I floated on the triumph for days. But there were a couple of puzzling aspects. Why had it not been performed in the auditorium with room for an audience? Why was there no talk of it becoming part of the regular program? Then we realised, the object of the exercise had not been for the kids like Adam. It had been to give regular students a chance to better understand them.

Soon after, my girl found him sobbing into his pillow. When she asked why, his answer was quick, simple.

"My friends." he said.

Adam had misunderstood the relationship between himself and the two regular students. He thought they had become friends. What happened i to make him realize it was not so,, we will never know. All we knew was the depth of his sadness. . We know that was not intended.

Adam didn't.

Adam

Adam was the highlight of the family gathering at Easter. Our numbers were down due to grandchildren living in places distant.. A couple of sons and families were no shows and no calls either.

When that happens I ponder my options. Should I shorten the list next time and see how they like that? Should I say nothing, as if it doesn't matter? It does but there is little I might say that would make a difference. It doesn't happen often.. If I dwell on it, I could feel sorry for myself. . So, I won't.

Anyway, it was still a crowd and everyone enjoyed the company. Robyn had made a video of her brother Adam at a swim meet. She played it a couple of times to cheers and applause.

There were three races. He came in first in one, second in another and was last in the pool for the last and longest race.

Adam's swimming has been marked with major advances. He started in the backyard pool like everyone else with small plastic water wings on his upper arms. They were cheapest of water safety gadgets and most effective. The young ones were proficient in the pool before they could walk. They bobbed around like corks. Nothing entertained them better. They were always clean. When they turned blue and shivery we lifted out, kicking their fat little legs in protest.

They had to wear life jackets when they were running around the pool. Then they would jump in at the shallow end and work their way to the deep end. Older ones went in off the diving board without jackets, young ones watched, waited and learned.

Adam, however, was cautious. He took no chances. He moved around the perimeter, toes clinging to the two inch ledge and arms gripping the concrete deck.

After a couple of summers he ventured to the diving board. Still he wore the life jacket. Nothing could persuade him to give it up. We had to learn. He would do things in his own time and not to suit anyone else's timetable..

His mother would exhort him to jump without the jacket. Cousins ten years younger were leaping and splashing on every side. Adam would roar back in admonition; ”Mum, do you want me to die?"

It seems only a few summers ago he finally jumped without the jacket and splash enough to engulf the entire deck. The whole neighbourhood must have heard his triumphant roar “Rocky!“

Then we noticed. When he went to the bottom, he lingered before he swam in a single movement to the other end.

Adam has an inordinate lung capacity. That should not have surprised us. He was always capable of drinking copious amounts of fluid and lasting ages without having to pee. When eventually he did, he would pee for ten minutes non-stop.We figured his lung capacity must match his bladder capacity.

He has been involved in Special Olympics for the last few years. His photo was in The Toronto Sun in full stride breaking a ribbon in a race. He plays floor hockey. Scored a goal in a Mississuaga Tournament last week-end and his team won .

Ice hockey was organized by a parent a couple of years ago. Adam plays goalie. Players ages vary. One young man of twenty-seven is autistic. In his whole life, he has never known involvement. Today he laces up skates and plays hockey.

Adam leads his team onto the ice like a parent duck with a straight row of ducklings behind.of varying shapes and sizes..

Two months ago he enrolled in a swim program. He has since been coached one on one. At the end of a lap he rises out of the water ,arm raised and his familiar cry of "Rocky". The swim meet before Easter, the subject of his sister's video, was the highest point yet. He came first in one race, second in another. He was flagging in the third but it was longest.He was las in the pool but he finished the lap.

Each time he reached the end he slapped the deck hard , turned around to face his mother, sister and camera, placed a kiss in the palm of his hand and blew it in their direction.

Adam will be twenty three next month. He has extra chromosomes, a condition identified as Down's Syndrome. Since the day of his birth, he has taught us much. His accomplishments never cease to amaze and delight us.

A Highly Improbable City

The last time I was in Sudbury, it was a grim place. What remained of the trees were black pointy sticks protruding from vast expanses of rock. The province created a Regional Municipality up there thirty years ago.

John Pianosi, a member of the Social Assistance Review Board was from the company town of Coppercliff a close neighbour of Sudbury. He had lots to tell about his childhood. Board members spent many hours driving around the province with plenty of time for talk about themselves and anything and everything else. His parents emigrated from Italy to Sudbury. Like the Caruso's came to Aurora and the Bondi's to Newmarket.

I was in Sudbury to see my granddaughter perform in the musical Grease. She was in the chorus. I have not missed a performances since she was at Dennison Secondary School. We went to Guelph and Fergus when she was at University. She had never done a musical. She wasn't sure she had singing and dancing skills.

I went with her mother, (my daughter Theresa) and Heather Sisman. It was a fun trip. We re- discovered how easy it is to laugh at ourselves and each other. Theresa loves to drive but she works in Toronto and commutes every day on public transit. I rented a Toyota Matrix for the trip.

The sky was blue all the way and the road was clear and dry. We saw very little traffic but when we pulled into Tim Horton's at Nobel (close to Parry Sound) it was packed.

We had to drive around quite a bit in the city to find the theatre. It's an awesome place.,literally chiselled out of rock. Old road allowances have just enough level area on either side to accommodate a sidewalk, a small house, a thin slice of backyard. Flat rock rises straight up at the rear lot line.

Gabion baskets in some places are piled thirty or forty feet high, presumably to hold the earth back. What earth I wondered? Looks like solid rock to me. How are sewer and water mains installed in a place like that? Obviously they've done it. but it's not obvious how. February is hardly the time to check curb appeal but it sure is a happening place. Flags from every country in the world are flying. on both side of a long bridge. The government must have poured billions into the economy to make the city what it is.

They have two universities, several hospitals and at least one other theatre. Eric, Stephanie's partner is doing his Master's degree. He is a marine biologist and gets paid to mess about with plants and fish and trails and the like. He is a happy man. Stephanie is sewing canvas boat covers with hands that would look right on a ten year old.

The play had been performed for six night in each of two weeks with matinees and full houses in a high school theatre. They rehearsed four nights a week beforehand. She played the lead in a couple of rehearsals and the director told her he wished he had cast her for the part. It is community theatre so there is no pay. But it beats doing nothing. Talent needs to be honed.

For days after, my head was filled with the music of the show. For some reason, I thought of my grandparents. A particular scene came into focus.

As a teenager, I worked in a war-time residential nursery. Mothers worked round the clock in munition plants. Fathers were at war. Pre-school children came in to the nursery on Sunday night and went home Friday.

At one time, three infants came to us from another nursery. They were the survivors of an episode of gastroenteritis that killed twenty babies. One tiny girl named Morag never went home. Her mother visited most weekends.

On afternoons, when I was off-duty I would take her in a battered old pram to my grandparents. Grampa would struggle out of his rocking chair to bend down and put his gnarled and shaking finger into her tiny grasping little fist.

Charlie Rose had an Irish actor, Gabriel Byrne, as a guest the week after I was in Sudbury. He talked about his "silent culture". I had never thought about my people being silent. They seemed to be always telling stories. They loved to laugh at themselves and each other. But it was true, they rarely expressed their feelings. I gained a fresh understanding from Gabriel Byrne's reference. They never talked about loving. I think it was supposed to be taken for granted. Children don't presume. If nobody ever tells you they love you, it's because they don't.

There was no theatre in our town but movies were in their heyday. Grannie was addicted. Two or three times a week, rain or shine, she and my mother went to" the pictures". She would read every night until the small hours of the morning. She had a sweet singing voice and an endless repertoire of ballads. The wireless was always tuned to Family Favourites at ten in the morning.

As each person came in from work, my grandparents would hear every detail of the day's conversation. Decades before there was T.V., we had daily soap operas in our house. There was some drama but mostly it was comedy.

Grampa was a coal miner who worked six days a week for fifty-one years. His fingers were blunted and gnarled and shaking. His body full of rheumatism from working in water much of the time. My mother told once of how he would have to stand in front of the fire to thaw his frozen clothes before they could be removed. That was after he had walked the several miles home from work.

It may have been Sudbury, it may have been the laughter, it may have been my singing, dancing granddaughter or it may have been driving for miles in a brand new Matrix to a mining city that would have been familiar but amazing to my grandfather that made me think of them both and how great it would have been to share my story about the week-end with them.

A Christmas Remembered

They were nine and seven year old sisters. There had been a change in their circumstances but being so young, they didn't fully understand why they weren't going to live as a family in their own home any more. Grannie and Grampa were kind and Mum always did all the talking. Children were to be seen and not heard.

There was an older sister, a small brother and several aunts in the house. The little one spent a lot of time at the window each day, forehead leaning against the glass, face stained with tears as he watched his mother leave for work and waited for her to come back.

The girls still went to the same school but it was further away. Every morning Grannie left two pennies on the table to take the bus. The nine year old took charge of the money and they walked to school together. The money was saved though and that first Christmas, they had an entirely new experience.

Christmas Eve was a Saturday and it was dark and raining. Cobblestone streets were narrow, and lights from shops bounced and danced like raindrops on the wet pavement. In Scotland, rain and gloom dominate winter months and sometimes summer too. There was a pressing need for creature comforts, like a cheerful fire and good food. A chronic lack of sunshine creates a universal craving for sweet things.

There were Sweetie shops galore. M&Ms and Birrel's chain stores sold nothing else. Ice Cream Cafes were a delight. Variety was endless. Cream toffee in slabs had to be broken up with a small hammer, tablet was cut in squares and weighed in a shovel shaped receptacle on an avoirdupois scale.

On the walls behind the counter, tall glass jars filled with candy of every colour, shape and taste with hard and soft centres, lined the shelves. Caramels in a variety of flavours and brazil nuts encased in butter brittle were a mouth-watering attraction. Sticks of rock and lollipops came in a vast selection of shapes and facsimiles. Dates, ginger, jellies, and butter creams dipped in dark or light chocolate were displayed in rows in the long glass case that formed the counter.

For Christmas, the stores had fancy little cardboard boxes with carrying ribbons which held as little as two ounces. The excitement of choosing for this Aunt and that, for older sister and little brother was intense. Mum's favourites were Turkish Delight, chocolate covered ginger and dates.

For Grannie, they bought a cheese dish in the shape of a thatched cottage with climbing roses. There was no figuring going on and finally there was only fourpence -halfpenny left and Grampa's present was still not bought. In a newsagent and tobacconist shop window, pen knives clad in enamelled tartan were displayed on a card for sixpence each. Grampa cut his own tobacco. It was the perfect gift but there wasn't enough money left.

While they were gazing in the shop window, Aunt Peggy came by. There were six children in her house all younger than the sisters. The oldest was often sent to Grannie's house for a small loan for rent or some other essential. But the sisters knew nothing of that. All of their lives, Aunt Peggy had always lived next door to their former home. She shared everything .When she stopped to talk, they told her how much money they needed to buy the present for Grampa and she gave it to them.

They raced home laden with the bundles of small packages. Everyone was in the sitting room, the room with a cheerful fire burning. The sisters couldn't wait for Christmas Day. They immediately handed out the presents. There was surprise and delight all around.

Then it was over and time for the sisters to hang their stockings and go to bed.

But the stockings had disappeared. The search became desperate. Finally, they were made to understand, the stockings were not to be hung because there was to be no Christmas for them . Their circumstances had changed.

Waking up on Christmas morning each found at her side, a paper bag holding an orange, a bar of toffee and a penny.... from Grannie. Christmas stockings had never held much more. An apple and orange in the foot..a little white sugar pig with pink eyes and a teeny tail of pink yarn. A few chocolates in cellophane wrapping that crackled, sometimes a pomegranate, and a doll half in and half out of the stocking as it hung from the mantle where Santa had left it.

Christmases that followed had presents but the memory of that one would never be undone. It would haunt every Christmas thereafter.

In life, there are no guarantees because stuff happens and constant bliss is not much of a character builder. But when there are small children in the house, it is well to remember, a child's memory is a parent's legacy. It's the only one that matters Whatever creates a record of absolute clarity at a particular moment in time, is not itself clear... But there's a lesson to be learned and it is not about things.

Children should be able to trust that love given is love received.

Tis the Season.......

Season's Greetings and Merry Christmas Everybody!

Click this link for a wee bit of Christmas Cheer.

Wishing you health and happiness.

~'Elf'elyn

Remembrance

I was a child before and during the second world war. On November 11th at eleven o'clock we stood beside our desks in silence and contemplated the meaning of war. There were few families in Scotland who had not suffered loss. My mother's twenty-two year old brother had been killed at Dardanelles in Turkey. There was bitterness and grief still in my grandmother's house.

There was no talk of courage or glory or ultimate sacrifice just a realistic grasp of cruel and senseless slaughter and cold indifference to suffering.

When I grew older, after the Second War, my reading in large part was about various aspects of the recent war. It was long enough after the conflagration for propaganda to have been terminated. We had an accurate account of my own brother's death at twenty-one years of age. We knew the full horror and terror of his experience.

There is no dispute the Second War had to be fought. History however is not kind to the politicians in charge at the time of The Armistice and the years between. They made the Second War inevitable. My grandmother lived long enough to grieve again for a beloved grandson and to contemplate the horrifying details of his death.

When I attend a Remembrance Day Service, my thoughts are of senseless waste and the same thing happening over and over and politicians still yammering on about courage and valour and sacrifice, while they sit in a comfortable pew completely unaffected by the horror and sorrow they create by decisions they make

I did not attend Remembrance Day Service this year. I had two reasons. My remaining brother died at this time last year. I received the phone call on my way out to the Remembrance Day service. He was in hospital having survided a life-threatening episode but was not out of the woods yet. I spent most of the next seven days with him and all of the last three. I was glad to have been there, He needed me.

I remember the day he was born, when he took his first wobbly steps, when he started school and put his small hand in mine and held on tightly. When he came to Canada at twenty-one my house was his home. I know time heals. I know sorrow must simply be endured. I do not go where it is likely to be beyond endurance. Remembrance Day will forever be one of those places.

I had a second reason for not going. I thought I might be the only one who resents the new ceremony of the occasion. An endless succession of wreaths are laid by various commercial enterprises, a basket is opened to release a flock of pigeons, and a flock of politicians are prominent near the Altar of Sacrifice to open the basket.

This year I heard of two other people who have had the same reaction. The first a woman of my own years, turned down an offer by a younger relative to take her to the ceremony. She didn't want to go because it has become just another opportunity for politicians to show themselves off.

The second, a much younger woman, went to the Service and commented afterwards on the numbers of wreaths laid by various commercial enterprises. She feels the ceremony has been commercialized. It’s hard to criticise, when you know something is being done with the best of intentions. Still if it is not said, it will not be heard. Even if it is, things may not change. But it must be said, for there even to be a chance for change.

It is almost ninety years since the appropriate form of commemoration was decided. For two minutes at the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, all activity is to stop, silence to reign, people to bow their heads and contemplate the hundreds of thousands of young lives lost, brothers, husbands fathers and sons. We inherited grief that never ends, that spills down through the generations

For two minutes, we silently contemplate the unspeakable horror that is war and realize, incredibly, for all the annual resolve, the fine words and sentiments, the bombast of Glory and Valour. War continues. In foreign places, in a society that bears no resemblance to our own, our children are still dying, their perfect bodies blown to smithereens by weapons manufactured by private industry in capitalist countries like ours.

Still about the Thanksgiving Feast

We had our feast at Heather and Andy's house. I shopped the day before. Robyn, my granddaughter and I stirred, chopped, broke bread and baked for several hours. Robyn moved easily about the kitchen, discovering her own skill.. She is thirteen years old.

We made scalloped potatoes. One dish with chives, one with cheese. Robyn had a mandolin and was eager to use it. I have been trying for months to make myself spend eighty dollars for such a gadget. Robyn found hers at a yard sale for five dollars . She sliced potatoes until her hand ached. Yukon Golds do not need to be peeled.

We created layers together. I placed each slice separately and precisely, Robyn picked up a handful and plonked them down, just like her mother would have done.

We made stuffing with brown bread, crumbed white bread for the sauce. It took four different places to find freshly baked bread. The loaf had heft and heavenly aroma. I cut off crusts and promptly buttered and ate the end slice.

Garden fresh chives and sage were chopped. Robyn did the footwork. She made pumpkin pies as well.

I found a new roasting pan for the turkey, stainless steel with a domed lid. The rack inside was its special attribute. It held the twenty-pound bird exactly. Strong, round handles at each end lifted it easily clear when it was done to golden perfection.

I marinated the beef with herbs on the eve and roasted it in my own oven on the day. The turkey was done at Heather's house.

Marnie shouted down the shaft from Barrie. "I am not doing punch any more". She baked pies, one pumpkin and one lattice apple - from scratch. Her mother told us how she came looking for unsalted butter no less.She also made an enormous basin of strawberry salad with strawberry dressing. It was eaten with gusto to the very last leaf.

Theresa was happy. She brought fizzy pop for the young ones. They were happy. They kept coming and hoisting bottles to pour drinks, because parents were too busy socializing to pay attention.

Patrick, my artist grandson, took the bus from Ottawa to come to the feast. Lizzie and Cameron were there as well.

Keenan, at whose house the feast was held, complained bitterly that I had adulterated the stuffing. I added a handful of dried cranberries to the sausage, sage and onion. Every crumb was eaten. But Keenan is a man of clarion conviction.He is all of twenty years old. Things have to be exactly how he anticipates them. I have no idea how he got to be that way.

The ham was baked the night before. It came with a packaged glaze. We dressed it with cherry centred pineapple rings and studded it with cloves. It was s-o-o good.

Heather didn't have time to bake her delectable little bites of buns but Rhonda stopped off at Molisano's bakery and bought fresh crusty dinner rolls. Heather came in time to serve the feast.

Marg and Doug, Andy's parents were there. Margaret has had a serious brush with the Big C. It was especially sweet to have them with us.

It was a true Fall day. Andy made a fire in the backyard. When grandchildren came in for drinks and hugs, hair and sweaters smelled of wood smoke.

The day came and went and was enjoyed by all. Nobody even noticed it wasn't at Grannie's house.

Harrumph!

So, Turn The Page Already!

If you live long enough, change and endings are inevitable. I will not gather my family together for Thanksgiving Dinner. this year. I am in the process of dealing with that.

It hasn't happened suddenly. It 's a long time since I did everything. The family grew. First were the children. Then they were teenagers with friends. After that, they were couples, then there were grandchildren. Sometimes the odd set of parents of spouses came, then friends of grandchildren. The numbers were always more than thirty and sometimes over forty.

I was obsessive about some things. A table or tables had to be set and Grace said. Plates needed to be hot and food steaming. Bread sauce called for onions and cloves to be soaked in milk on top of the stove all day, to be finished with soft white crumbs, cream and butter. Pies had to be home-baked, served still warm with freshly whipped cream

Cranberry sauce was made with orange juice and slivered almonds. One year I served it in cups of half oranges with the innards scooped out..... very pretty...never did that again.

The ham would be baked the day before and form part of the decor. In a clear amber coating with pineapple rings and studded with cloves, it held pride of place on the sideboard. Sausage stuffing with sage and onion was also made the night before. On the day, everybody stayed close to the kitchen. Stuffing had to be sampled and the rich gravy from the drippings sipped from a spoon. Grandchildren darted in like magpies to steal Aunt Heather's hot crusty buns as they came from the oven.

In time, gourmet vegetables and other dishes came from satellite homes. It all added to the festivity.

The talk would swell as the wine flowed and gales of laughter regularly erupted. My minstrel son, Frank, would sometimes bring his guitar - to the delight of all present. As grandchildren grew they joined the adult circle and shared in the sometimes raucous hilarity. But there were still always little ones tumbling about.

The change was gradual. My daughter Heather, without whose help the event would long have been impossible, put her foot down.

"You can't hope to sit everyone at a table, Mother. Give it up. Plates cups and cutlery have to be paper and plastic." Since she was in charge of the clean-up, that's how it came to be. It certainly made things easier.

Tipsy Trifle no longer appeared on the dessert table. Some desserts became store-bought but Brie cheese rounds baked in pastry and served with red-pepper jelly made a new and highly delectable appearance as an appetizer from the kitchen of Storm. Two types of punch were a resplendent display of strawberries, kiwi and star fruits, the creation of Marnie,. Theresa's Ceasar salad was a hit with everybody.

Then no-shows began. First one grandchild, then another and, inevitably, Thanksgiving at Grannie's became second choice on some years. .Other excitements beckoned. Now , the satellites are wider afield; London, Peterborough, Ottawa, Sudbury, Seattle and Korea for goodness sake.

Heather, who has been a stay-at-home mother, acquired skills in election organizing. When it's happening, the task is almost twenty-four/seven. She has long been my co-host, my election campaign organizer, my manager and involved with sundry other tasks too numerous to mention. Without her, Thanksgiving dinner would have been beyond me years ago. This year, a provincial election overlaps Thanksgiving.

This family has been almost sixty years in the making. I brought two sons from England. Then there were three more and two daughters. They envied their friends family reunions. So I built it for them. I nurtured it, it grew and flourished. Now they are each other's friends.

Grandchildren know their cousins as blood brothers and sisters. There are no family feuds.. Thanksgiving gatherings have always been a joy. My task is done.

Am I sad? Not at this moment.

I have often pondered the question, at what point does a parent stop being a parent.? Is it when children become adults? No, not then. There is no precise moment. But on the basis of my experience, I have to say, if children have been raised to stand on their own feet, there comes a time when they do exactly that and there is no longer a parental role.

Mine have been independent many times longer than they were dependent. I have grown accustomed to the fact.

This year, Thanksgiving at Grannie's house will not be.. It may never happen again the way it was. Was it precious?.... .. Indeed it was......Indeed it was.

The Daily Tabloid

I am convinced my daily newspaper is contorting itself into a tabloid. The realization has been gradual. Royson James has been a beacon of gloom for some time. He has a daily column and presents as an expert on all things municipal. No reference is offered for his expertise. Nothing he writes reveals familiarity with the workings of any city in Ontario.

He recently offered ten bullet points to resolve the city's financial woes. Raising taxes was not one. It seems Toronto has a real aversion to raising property taxes to pay for needed services. Apparently they do not care for user fees either.

James first suggestion was for elected officials to surrender their perks: free passes to the zoo and city golf courses. He acknowledges giving up "freebies" would not save much. It would be a symbolic. Well hell, it's numbers that make the bottom line, not symbols.

How many times does a person visit the zoo? Why does the city own and operate golf courses? Shirley Hoy, city manager, says they will close a month early to save money. Why not sell the golf courses, make a few million and save a whole lot of money?

The paper had another story recently, complete with picture; a man with a baker's tray full of chinese dumplings. The dumplings were said to be filled with ground up corrugated cardboard laced with toxic stuff for flavour. I was horrified. A couple of weeks later, on an inside page, it was revealed the dumpling story had been a hoax . A Chinese reporter had gone to jail for reporting it. The Toronto paper however had printed it.

The final fable was about an American study of seniors’ sexual activity. It seems seniors had told researchers that x number between the ages of 75 and 85 years old are giving or receiving oral sex x times a month.

The fact these were face to face interviews was offered to verify the accuracy of the study. The story ended with a quote from Dr. Ruth, a seventy-nine year old sex therapist who gained fame from her frank, free, and joyful discussion of sex. She told the reporter she never answers personal questions.

That left me to imagine a group of anonymous seventy-five to eighty-five year olds being questioned by an earnest, youthful researcher about whether and how often they had given or received oral sex.

"Oh sure. Of course. We seniors are as hip as you juniors. How many times d'you think?"

Wink wink. Nudge nudge. How's your father

Today is the day I cancel my subscription to the Daily Tabloid. I need to be able to believe what I read. I have never subscribed to the Toronto Sun. I cancelled the Globe and Mail when it started emulating the Sun. The National Post never appealed. As much as I like turning pages, from now on I intend to choose what I read from outlets on the internet.