Gingerbread House

Gingerbread houses are made of cookie dough and icing. They are pretty and sweet and fragile. Real houses are big, beautiful and strong and today, cost a huge amount of money that few are able to pay off. Ever. But they must be had. They look wonderful in their neighbourhoods all in a row with sidewalks and driveways and rules to keep them painted in planned colours, tidy with well kept plantings. The front lawns are miniscule and the back ones, small, because no ones uses them. There are no side gardens because one house is almost joined to the next one. There is a decor styled back patio for pretty barbecue parties. The garages hold one car and space for another one in front. RVs and boats are not permitted. The people are real and not made of gingerbread but they look extra nice when they pile the kids into the cars in the morning and take them to school or the babysitters. No one is home all day unless there is a nanny or the grandparents are installed as such. After office hours, the cars with the house people come home and the children enter with their stylish backpacks now emptied of the popular nutritious lunches but holding homework and assorted screen devices. Parents bring their various styles of briefcases and device carriers in through the attractive doorways.  Inside the house the real family scramble begins. It's time to get dinner going, do homework, ready for activities to attend, and later watch favorite screens and perhaps family interact. The backyard is not used. Everyone is too busy. After dinner, it's playdates and sports and lesson events happening.  The cars are out again and equipment loaded on, coming and going until bedtime. Going back in time, the quieter more relaxed times, the difference is remarkable. There were no gingerbread houses then. Homes were bought with cash. Someone was there most of the day. One salary seemed to do. If there was a mortgage it was paid off or would be. Front yards were exactly how you wanted them. Most had a tree, if not in the front, in the backyard, which was big then. One tree had a swing and sometimes a fort with a ladder up into the leafy branches. Neighbourhood dogs roamed freely and everyone had one. Cats were there too, but not always seen. In your backyard, you could dig holes, build odd structures, climb the unkempt trees, some of which were fruit trees with scabby product. Sometimes a vegetable garden took up a corner and tomatoes and peas grew there amongst weeds. The dog had a house  that dad or the kids built. The lawn was cut not on schedule. The front yard was how you liked it and the front of your house was the way your family left it. Cars, if you had more than one, parked at the side because the garage  was jammed with hockey sticks and baby carriages and boxes of old things. There was a basketball hoop over the garage because of its patch of cement. Brick barbecues at the back smoked because they used coals. The smell of steaks burning dominated Sundays. Hot dogs, the cheap kind, were done in the firepit that dad created in the middle of the back lawn and in the evenings, the family and neighbours sat around its embers and talked to each other.

Keeping Christmas

A few years back, there was a silly move to eliminate the word Christmas from the season. Why I am not sure but someone got the silly idea that it was offensive. Everyone, no matter what their background recognized it, as a time of happy greetings and gift giving, family celebrations and for many, a spiritual experience. I couldn't see how my personal time was anyone else's business to meddle with. I felt that, and still do, every people should gladly celebrate their traditions because it is important to one's culture, for the progeny to understand their pasts so that they can find their place in the present. It's not an offense for anyone to celebrate who and what they are according to law in this fine country. Christmas is part of my culture and tradition and it is just as important to me that it be called its traditional name as for any other people to have their celebrations. It is called Christmas. I am not making excuses for what I am or apologising to anyone for my beliefs.  Just as everyone else, it's only me a human being living on this lovely planet and trying to do what I can to enjoy life in my way. I respect other Canadians and their beliefs as well. Christmas in my life was the one time when the whole family got together even if they lived far away. I can almost smell Christmas with its piney, mincemeat aromas, the roasting turkey, the candles, the waft of fresh snow scent when the door opened and in came the hugs and cheery greetings, the sounds of carols and  the paper crackles of gifts being unwrapped. As a child, the magic of Santa Claus and the telling of Dickens, Disney tales and the after dinner surroundings in the living room of the warmth of relatives who made you feel the love of being part of a family was Christmas. There was also spiritual wonderment in the songs sung around the creche: Silent Night, Oh Holy Night, O Little Town of Bethlehem. The jolly ring of Jingle Bells, Rudolph and Frosty lent a spirit of joy, too, as the little ones played with their new toys. Boxing Day was spent mostly at home and visitors in the neighbourhood came over and partook of the left over turkey, pies and the ever present and greatly feared, Christmas Cake. The fruit cake was either adored or hated but everyone had a piece because each piece meant a lucky month in the year ahead. In our family, there were no strict traditions. It was simply a time for family, all of the family. We visited as many of the aunts and uncles as we could squeeze in but at the top of the lists were the eldest members: the grand and great grandparents. They were revered and while often made jokes of in the nicest way, were dearly beloved because we knew their time with us was limited. It was a time of memories as we sat in the living rooms of our relatives and recalled other happy past times and recollections of Christmases past.

Christmas: It's In The Bag

Gift giving has to be one of the hardest things to get right. Some people send out a list of what they "want" and that helps but that's usually within the fam.  This year I thought about how to get the gift business fixed early, so that not only my giftees but also I, could feel satisfied about it. I am not into expensive presents because most of us are grown up and being urbies don't have space to "put" things at any rate. In passing, I read The V Mag which I get free online because  no one I know has mags coming in the mail - or anything else, actually.  Just for fun, I gazed at what V recommended as last minute seasonal gift suggestions. On perusing the photos, I wasn't sure whether I was looking in the comedy section or Mad Mag on leave. I knew it couldn't be Mad, for it's no more, so I guessed that V was probably serious. The Magazine's "serious" is my laugh-uproariously. The fashions in it are mind-bogglingly ridiculous. Nothing in some of the styles could possibly be worn on the street by real people. Well, if you are top royalty or a movie star, perhaps or your last name starts with a K. I ask you, who is going to grab a 2000 dollar purse at the last minute for  their  BFF no matter what a good F they are? The one item in the piece I drooled to dream on was a pair of gold and pearl earrings. They were a four figure bargain but I had to turn them down -I am not six feet tall. I jest. A mere thousand? I guess that's thrifty for Park Avenue NYC.  Then there was the weird white vase at only half that. Still way too much. It was a definite no to the fake leopard coat in the triple zeros. Back to reality. Last year my wonderful career granddaughters gave everyone shopping bags. Ho ho ho! Great idea. I bought some bags very early on: one for each of my giftees. This year instead of noting what I'd go back to buy, I popped in and picked up the item right then. When I arrived home, without using wrapping paper, in it went to rightful bag. The bags have been sitting in my den on the couch in a row. Slowly, they filled up. I buy small items, but nice ones I hope. Some are sweets or a pen or a gift card or a  cosmetic item or a container of something the dear one mentioned they loved. It has been the easiest gift buying year ever. And my giftees will be getting a whole lot of little things I think they will enjoy the whole year through. A gift can be anything someone favours: an exotic jelly or chocolate, a sack of responsible tea or coffee, a jar of jam or sauce, a soap or candle to float or pretty paper napkins. You know your people and what they love. And not only you are shopping without last-minute pressures, you get a lot of little smiles as you go thinking about the person who will be receiving.  Best, at gift giving time, it's all in the bag.

Party Lesson

Having very recently suffered an obligation party, I learned a party lesson. Don't go unless you have a personal reason to. The food was wonderful and the company elegant but the so-called party lacked planning and was thus, to me, a disaster. I stayed a short time and spoke to a few of the guests, all of whom, I sensed, felt the way I did. We had to be there. But I, being at the age and stage of doing nothing I am not enjoying, time being the issue,  I thanked the hostess quietly and angled my way out the door after half an hour of trying hard. I don't think anyone noticed and I have no intention of asking. It wasn't being rude I am certain, but just in case, next time I will think before entering. When I arrived home from the so-called party I felt greatly relieved. I made the right decision. It was sad because it could have been enjoyable. What went wrong took some time to determine. The party had problems. First, there was no focus to the event even though the festive season seemed the most obvious one. It's too easy to have a celebration on one word: the holiday word solely. Some kind of extra reason must be thought up. When people arrive they need to find a place to go after the initial greeting. It could be the table of goodies or one with photographs and souvenirs or a fireplace or somewhere to gather. For one thing, it gives singles a place to head toward and perhaps connect with others of their ilk. When you are a single, be it a widow, a divorcee or an unattached, it's different than being part of a couple. When you're half a couple, there is someone to talk to and sit beside. When you're single, it's like being in a canoe with no paddle, and don't give me the eyeballs to the ceiling; I am no social butterfly who can make up a ho-ho with anyone or use false flattery or pluck out a line from mid-air to get a chat going. The second need for parties, is having a lot of bumping going on. Standing is a must. If you must have chairs, do not line them up along the walls. This disaster I attended  did so and when you sat, you had only one person at the side to speak with. They were heavy chairs so they could not easily be formed into friendly sets. The third must for a party is to have an active host. That person needs to be aware of what's happening in the group and to act as a catalyst to fix it if needed. Subtly, they can  keep things going, seeing that mingling is going on, seeing  that there is no lagging of the event's pace. Also, the party needs the host to direct the event: give it some kind of indication for the general times to partake of the food or special drink or toasts, to open and close the event and to make sure that things are moving. It doesn't always just happen on its own. A party is like a good stew that needs stirring. The final party rule is to have music somewhere. It doesn't have to be ear-splitting or specific to any style unless you know everyone wants it. Music adds a sweet tone to the evening giving something to comment on or somehow blend it all together. Next year when this party is announced, I might dress up for it but wait until it is underway and then, take a peek in the door. If those miserable chairs are in dining table formation again, I am going out somewhere else, sequins and all.

Mars Sweet Home

Life in a flower pot isn't just for plants. Viewing a clip on line recently, there was a minodoc about houses made of Martian material and designed to accommodate the Red Planet's erratic climate. The house looked exactly like a terra cotta vase with artsy cutout windows. Currently, in real time, it sits near a charming stream rising four stories  and in a 21 foot circle of space. Its inhabitants have signed on for four hundred days to test the structure for its liveability. No doubts that here on earth, it would be an interesting experience however merely another tiny but tall abode. Climbing four stories to get to bed or make one up every day, I see big problems. There are other issues to life than the possibility of building such a structure on Mars. Given it can be done with the 3 D robot gizmo gooping it out before the residents arrive on M planet, once they get there it's the lifestyle adjustment that worries me. First of all, the idea, should it some day happen, means that having ruined Earth, we are now extending our destructive habits to another planet when we can't solve the huge one we have here and now. The proposed plan assumes mega conditions. Ifs are rampant and invade any sort of common, logical or scientific sense. Besides the hard-cast living environment including waste systems, storm and  meteor fall issues and psychological aspects, there are the unplanned social ones of medical care, security, consumerism, education and other institutions that are needed to meet human needs. Life isn't about a house. Housing is one need of the many that our kinds of beings require. I suppose one could get used to looking out through that thick bit of glass called a window, onto endless, plantless red, dry gravel or oohing at earthrise in the evenings. But there's more. Storing enough gravity accommodating clothing even, in a tiny tall house could take up a lot of space. And what if the roof leaks or a marsquake cracks the family flower pot? Flying space objects scarring the landscape might just destroy the house and possibly the whole neighbourhood not to mention their puncturing the walls that are supposed to protect one from undue pressures that harm delicate earth bodies inside. The urge to live on planet Mars would be rare indeed when the realities are considered and Flash Gordonism leaves its comic book pages to become everyday life. The idea is very romantic but like going on holiday, no matter how lovely that is, getting home is what we really want. Like the new outfit or the tiny house fad, the love affair simply doesn't last. Real life is messy and emotional and funny and hurts and loves and laughs and cries. Getting real, living on another planet would be immeasurably worse than taking up residence in Death Valley if you've ever rushed through on a just-because adventure in that forsaken place. While the dream is fascinating perhaps on paper, no thanks. I'll take home. HSH.

Eighty, The New Eight

There's a lot of downgrading old age but the secret is that it's actually quite wonderful. You can say to your eight year old great grandchildren, should you be lucky enough to have them, move over kiddo, it's my turn. Sure, you begin to do some forgetting. Others are far more embarrassed than you are over it. The best thing is that you and everyone else in the world knows these things naturally happen. Even the Einsteins get old and forget. So why the guilt and surrounding snickering as though you're the only human in the world that is "losing it"? It is because human nature thinks it is immortal and will never age. Eighty year olds have that worked out.  The fact is, you are not losing anything. Aging is perfectly natural and ultimately eternally common. My tack is take heart and enjoy it. Like an eight year old, there are no holdbacks; you are what you are and you love it. No longer do you have to get up in the morning and go to work. Work, as one of my friends reminds me, was a waste of time. Not money. Time. Work takes up a lot of other things, too. It costs much to appear at "work". Work demands special attire, attitudes, expensive training and or equipment, and in many cases, a university education. The latter is a box to check on your resume. You go to all that time and money to get the degree, it's merely something to get you in the work world door. No, it doesn't make sense but, well, you know what I mean. Then again eight year olds, spend most of their time, having fun. If you are eighty plus or minus and you aren't having fun, it's your fault. Fun is free. You don't have to spend three days a week pounding it out on a tread mill or suffering on a skinny diet. Your life is without guilt or excuses.  Sit in the park and watch the crows or squirrels or seagulls or people as long as you wish. My mother and her husband spent many days a week driving to the park, parking in the right spot and while  having a car lunch inside cosily, people watched and when they tired of that, took a little nap. They were having fun. Like eight year olds, you don't need a bunch of the latest toys or adult supervised games. Give a little child a big empty cardboard box and you'll see fun happening. Give an eighty year old a big screen computer and they'll have a ball. The nonsense about them not using computers is a fallacy. Eighty year olds aren't trying to compete or shouldn't. They don't worry about wearing the latest styles or sporting the nuttiest running shoes or carrying the latest technotoys. They can sit and gab about the past with their cronies or tell family tales to the grandkids with endless joy. When my mother told and retold her yarns, we reminded her that we'd heard it a hundred times. She'd reply, I don't care, I like hearing my stories and if you don't like it, don't listen. Of course she also retorted with similar dignity, when reminded that she got a birthday wrong, when did they change it? The pressure to find a suitor is no more an issue either. Elders who live alone, find it quite enjoyable. They have only themselves to take care of. They rise when they want to and retire the same way. They eat what they wish, when they wish. They watch and listen to what they wish and if they choose to turn night into day, who is to judge? They are as free as eight year olds. When you see eighties anywhere, forget pity and cooing at them. They are having the time of their lives being eight again.

Music Wallpaper

None of my walls are papered - yet. Although it's an old place with new stuff mostly, its present decor is mainly music, in my case, of the classical kind. Informal popularish music just isn't my everyday love. Jazz appeals but not quite as much. Then again, it's a classic in its way. When I was a small kid, no household didn't have a piano. In the days when there was no such thing as television and radio was the method of in-home entertainment, the piano, usually a great hunk of oak and mellowing ivory and ebony, sat like an elephant in the living room. When you had company (that's what we called them) come to visit, you gathered around the big oak, to sing while someone thumped out chords to the old tried and true songs we all knew.  Don't laugh. I hear the young singing together in the car, their favorite songs, earbuds in place.  Every kid, then,  had to "take" music and sometimes tap dancing, too. My parents faithfully paid Myrtle, my professional piano teacher, aged eighteen and with a certificate, to take us through the rigors of the conservatory with its scales and exercises and piano books grade by grade. My sister wisely opted out demanding to be switched to the popular music vein so that she could sing and play and be the star attraction amongst the aunts, uncles and endless cousins who came to see us. I sulked because no one could sing Mozart or Czerny and I couldn't sing anyway. I knew the wiles of Harmony III and a sour note when I heard it, but my vocal chords didn't know an A from an E flat. How I survived my choir years, was to the credit of my pal Joanie who had a hog-calling voice and the will of Elizabeth the First. She dragged me into the alto section and sang into my ear and that's the only reason I was able to don the little black fur cape of The Penguins, our choir sponsored by the local fur coat store. Even though I was supremely jealous of my beautiful sister who had a gorgeous voice and talent for entertaining, I am eternally grateful to this day, for the tedious piano lessons that make me appreciate those who play it so well. Every day of my life, I am surrounded with the sound of music within my walls wherever I am. I love the orchestras, the instrumentalists who play the classics because when I enter their sphere, I am transposed into a world of beauty that they create for me with their hard work and talent. I am taken away from the stresses and pressures and ugliness of a world that seems to dig up dirt with a need to smear it, while saying they are making it a better place. Is it a better place? Better than music, all music, that is understood around the world by all of its peoples no matter their religion, colour, culture or race and needs no language training to comprehend? We owe a debt to musicians who spend most of their lives training to make a music world, a place of refuge by their efforts while receiving very little for what they gift us.