Bye, Beautiful

Hey, Beautiful!

It's New Year's Eve. Ron and Jean will be here soon to see the New Year in as we traditionally do. This time we're celebrating at our place.

M and I have had a moment this evening to sip his favourite liqueur, Amarula Cream and look back on the past year. You were with us at the beginning of the year but now you are gone.

The corner chair looks more at home in the corner window of the bedroom where we had your cat tree. We've got used to the spaciousness of the bedroom now that your scratching post and cushion are no longer there either. We also no longer think to pick up your bowls and wash them when we do the dishes.

We don't look for you as much anymore. We still miss you but not as acutely. Our lives are moving on. Not because we didn't love sharing our lives with you but because that is how life is: it moves on. And we should move on too.

I remember a saying my brother wrote in my mother's fortieth birthday card: 'You come alive each time you dare to die. Let go, move on, say good-bye.'

Bye, Beautiful.

Happy Birthday, M!

'Happy Birthday to my Husband!

We've been through it all - the good, the bad, the very good, the very bad, and the inspiring moments that make it all worthwhile ... and through it all, I've always been grateful to be sharing life with you. I love you!'

So read the words in the card I gave M this morning. We have spent his last sixteen birthdays together. Twice I have forgotten to get him a card and one of those times I almost forgot it was his birthday. That was ten years ago when we were visiting family in Arizona. Poor guy - it's not much fun that his birthday is slap bang between Christmas and New Year. It really is overshadowed by the festivities. Add a trip to the Grand Canyon in the mix and he's sure to be overlooked - bad wife.

M is a good man, not only I say so: my father's favourite description of him - 'champion'. He is honourable, trustworthy and reliable. He's quiet, a clown when he wants to be, and true to his word. Over fifteen years ago, he attracted my attention because his friends spoke so well of him. They respected and esteemed him; those qualities required closer inspection of the man.

That is what drew me to him. I married him because of his strong faith, dependability and financial savvy. I knew I was making the right choice when one of my students said to me, "Ma'am, he treats you like a queen." Which woman doesn't want to be queen in her man's life?

We've stayed married because of our faith, our shared interests, and the fun we have together. We laugh a lot. I didn't know I was funny until I married M. He understands my humour and laughs at my jokes. Also, he's a good hugger and a great kisser.

But the greatest attribute he has brought to our life together is his capacity to change. He's not the man I married fourteen years ago. And just as well, as I am not the same woman he married over a decade ago. I often think that I'm all M wanted in a wife and nothing he expected. His capacity to change has allowed our marriage to grow and he's given me room to explore and be more myself. This is one of his greatest gifts to me.

Honey, I love you and I'm so glad we're still journeying through life together. Happy Birthday! The best is yet to come.

Christmas Romance

Christmas Day 2009 was a gloriously sunny day in Vancouver - sans the snow. This Christmas season Vancouverites wistfully compared the weather to last year when we were blanketed with snow. A white Christmas is both romantic and impractical.

Indeed, this Christmas we missed the romance of last year's Christmas. Christmas Eve 2008, it snowed most of the day. The snow accumulated on top of previous snow falls and driving became treacherous. One of the pleasures of living on Lonsdale is that we can walk to stores, friends and church.

We put on gum boots and stylishly matched them with our hats, scarves and warm coats. Like pioneers we walked eighteen blocks to a Christmas Eve service. We stopped by Morrie and Em's place and walked the last five blocks together. It was snow quiet and dark. We walked in the road as few cars were out and about. As true Vancouverites would, we put up our umbrellas to keep dry from the falling snow.

The Christmas Eve service was sparsely attended. Did I mention the impracticality of snow? We sang carols, commemorated the birth of our Saviour, drank hot chocolate and chatted with others who made it to the service. On the way home, twenty steps from the church, some-one started a snow ball fight. Was it Morrie or was it M? It is almost guaranteed to be one of the boys, but it didn't take long for the girls to join in. We hooted with laughter at misdirected snowballs and ones that hit their mark.

Who else could we throw snowballs at? We headed to friends who live one block down from Morrie and Em. We could see easily into their second floor apartment. Angus was watching TV and Josie was working at a craft at the dining room table. We directed snowballs at their window. Splat, splat. Our snowballs were getting their attention. Angus came to the window irritated by the neighbourhood kids throwing snowballs. He opened the patio door and we broke out into a rendition of "We wish you a Merry Christmas!"

It was good to be kids again. We smiled, waved, shouted Christmas wishes and went on our way.

Christmas day was spectacular! The sky was an intense crisp blue. The snow was pristinely innocent. We equipped ourselves again in our gum boots, scarves and warm coats and trudged up to Morrie and Em's for brunch. A local supermarket had been cordoned off overnight; the roof had collapsed under the weight of the snow. A neighbour of Morrie and Em's was red-faced, exasperated and sweaty as she finished digging her car out of the snow. She didn't look too merry as we greeted her. I did mention the impracticalities of snow, didn't I?

Yes, we sure missed the romance of a white Christmas this year, but at least we don't have to dig ourselves out of the rain.

A Walk and a Wedding

Saturday afternoon we got our walk on the beach to Haystack Rock. There were no red-painted toe nails sinking into the warm sand this time. We bundled up with jackets, gloves and scarves. No hat was required but sunglasses were. Morrie and M strode ahead.

Summer sand castles were replaced by broken sheets of ice where the river tide had receded. The seagulls were fewer but plenty enough had stayed in town to delight me with their aerial show. A few diehard surfers took on the waves - wetsuit required to avoid hypothermia, even in summer. Dogs chased seagulls and walkers enjoyed the brisk air. Em snapped some pictures and we talked. We wondered what the boys were talking about.

This moment was a breather in the busyness of December; Christmas was just thirteen days away.

We didn't expect to be part of a Cannon Beach wedding reception. The ceremony was a private affair. It was rumoured the bride, Susie McEntire, sister to Reba, wore a black suit and carried flowers. A singer at our Christmas conference, Susie met her husband-to-be in May 2008 at a Cannon Beach conference. Now, Saturday afternoon's free-time was the perfect opportunity to tie the knot. While the lovely couple was married, we took our walk on the beach.

At dinner that evening, essentially the wedding reception, Morrie felt it would be fitting to toast the happy couple. He started to tap his glass with his knife. Guests at nearby tables turned their heads to look at us. My inhibitions got the better of me. Startled, I looked at him across the table, wide-eyed, "Morrie, what are you doing?"

Morrie stopped. My look pulled him back from a moment of light-heartedness and fun.

"You're blushing," one of the elderly ladies at our table commented to me. Not only that, I was kicking myself. I had single-handedly kiboshed a spontaneous toast and those turning to look at us had small smiles on their faces not frowns. But the moment was lost, Morrie wasn't about to start over. He laughed, "I saw your look and thought I'd better stop."

Later that evening, at the indoor caroling with hot apple cider, hot chocolate and cookies, Susie and her husband had their wedding dance while she sang. Her husband, Mark, snuggled in for a cuddle. "Hey, I'm still singing here," his wife laughed.

Too bad they never got their wedding toast. Morrie would've done a good job.

Clam Chowder and Tea in Oregon

This time, when we rolled into Cannon Beach, the restaurants were subdued and quiet. Cranky Sue's was closed (see Lunch Date August 2009). Their outdoor tables were packed to the side and the artificial thatch umbrellas were stacked for the winter. Already this little town felt familiar, part of the family, part of our lives. I eagerly anticipated two days of our lives unfolding here.

It was too early to get into our rooms at the conference centre and M had a taste for clam chowder. We headed into Seaside for lunch. Dundee's Bar and Grill looked appealing, served clam chowder and the menu at the doorway indicated that this pub would not rip our wallets out of our pockets and empty them for us.

The clam chowder was indeed superb, thick and flavourful; we earmarked it as a pub lunch well worth heading back to Oregon for. M ordered his served in a sourdough bread bowl. Yummy! I relish that part of marriage where what is his is mine too. I savoured the bread, especially the sticky side that was covered with the clam chowder.

The chowder was good, the bread was good-good and the company was goodest of all. The only below average item was the tea - known as hot tea in the USA to differentiate it from iced tea.

I'm a tea pot. I drink pots of the stuff whenever I can. I like it hot, black or red, medium-strong and with milk. However, not many North Americans have acquired the etiquette of drinking tea. It is equated with coffee and a tea drinker is expected to put cream in her hot tea. Many times I ask for milk, other times I bastardise my tea and add the cream. My friend, Jules, won't desecrate her tea that way, but I'll take my tea anyway I can get it.

At my request, Dundee's did provide me with milk to add to my tea: a glass full. Next time though, I will request that a kettle is boiled rather than provide lukewarm water from an urn.

On second thoughts, I'm in a pub. When in a pub, order a beer - much simpler.

Cannon Beach, Here We Come!

It was winter dark at 7am. Within the next half an hour gossamer streaks of sunrise would start to paint out the darkness. We were headed for a weekend trip down to Cannon Beach with Morrie and Em.

In the darkness and quietness of the car, as we whooshed down the I5 highway, we recounted stories of our trip to Calgary to our friends. Our week so far had seen us spend Monday and Thursday in Vancouver, and Tuesday and Wednesday in Calgary. Now it was Friday and we were in Washington State headed down to a Christmas Conference in Cannon Beach, Oregon, until Sunday.

I looked forward to spending the weekend with our friends in this little jewel of a town. I also looked forward to a wintery walk on the beach.

Would the seagulls swoop up into the sky as if they were one just as they did in the summer? I had enjoyed lying on the summery warm beach with the seagulls squawking and swooping in the cloudless sky above me. A disturbance would set them all a flight: their circling orchestrated by an unseen conductor. It fascinated me how they circled and flew in different directions but still operated as a whole and didn't collide.

With my private view of the seagulls in flight directly above me, I felt part of their display. In that moment, I was a little girl again, seeing the world from a different angle. It reminded me of the times, as a girl, I would lie on the grass, look up at the African sky and lose myself in the shapes of the clouds. It's a surreal experience of time ceasing and being fully present in the moment.

I looked forward to seeing the seagulls, and I wondered which new memories would make their way home with us on Sunday.

Christmas in Calgary

This year we celebrated an early Christmas. We didn't have to dream of a white Christmas. Calgary's winter blizzard had blown in the weekend before our arrival. The temperature was North Pole cold at -15C , and -28C with the wind chill. Driving from the airport to the hotel we saw Santa's reindeer gearing up for their around the world trip as they meandered in a snow laden field. Our Christmas tree was brightly decorated and placed in the hotel foyer. Christmas lunch was a delicious Moxie's chicken burger enjoyed in a hurry before we reported for our Christmas elves' duty.

We knew a few of the elves volunteering at the Christmas warehouse; shoe box co-ordinators from other Operation Christmas Child collection centres in the greater Vancouver area. There was no shortage of gifts. There were thousands, and not one was for us. As Christmas carols and songs filled the warehouse, we sorted shoe boxes and taped them shut ready for their long trip to Central and South American children.

As elves, we inspected the shoe boxes for candy that was not hard-boiled. We removed offending candy that could melt or breakdown into a powder form resembling narcotics. Toys that might leak, melt or bring offence (war toys, playing cards) to the receiving country were also removed. Most shoe boxes were well and fully packed but, where needed, additional items such as paper and pens, knitted dolls and toys were added. Samaritan's Purse honours the intent of the donor and, except for when the shoe box is under packed and/or offending items are removed, the shoe box is sent on as it is received.

We worked hard - two shifts the first day and two the next. We returned to our hotel room tired, with home-made Borscht soup in our tummies, and pleased with our Christmas elves effort. I rewarded my tired muscles with a soothing soak in the tub. M stretched out on the bed and watched 'Law and Order'.

On our last shift I skipped my coffee break so that I could maximise my time and seal as many shoe boxes as possible before we had to hang up our elves' hats and head back to Vancouver on the 4:15pm flight.

My memory of my first quick in and out trip to Calgary is the city's skyline from the aeroplane, bone-chilling-I'm-glad-we-live-in-Vancouver cold, an over-heated hotel, seeing more shoe boxes than snowflakes and relief that we weren't stranded by the next winter blizzard that was showing its presence on our drive out to the airport.

But most of all is the great sense of satisfaction that, in a small way, we too are making a difference to a little someone somewhere else in this world.

Calgary Shower

I assessed the situation. The shower head and faucet can always be found in the expected place wherever one happens to be showering on the globe. The nuances though are to be found in how one operates it.

Do I get rushing water by turning a protruding gadget this way or that? Do I have to pull out a lever to switch the water from the bath spout to the shower spout or is there an ingenious way to accomplish that feat? Do I have to move a handle quickly from cold through warm to get to a hotter temperature or can I make a good guess and hope to find the right temperature straight away? Some showers let you do that others don't.

The shower at our hotel room in Calgary seemed pretty straight forward. I turned the protruding faucet handle through the various temperatures until I found the temperature I liked. While the water gushed into the bath, I looked with my trained eye at the apparatus more closely. Yes, this one had an almost indiscernible extension to the bath spout. If I pulled that down it should divert water to the shower head. Only problem is, if I'm right, I have to be quick and get out of the line of fire of the first burst from the shower.

I moved and angled the shower head. Hmmm - that looked about right. The initial blast of cold water coming out of the pipe would not assault my nakedness. I switched the running water to the shower head and, in a quick flash, stepped back.

Success! No rude awakening for me this morning.

I stepped in under the warm water and thought what a treat the shower is for M when we travel. It's my job to recce the shower. I'm deployed to ascertain its strategic features and to gain the upper hand. Equipped in my birthday suit, I run the risk of an ice cold or a blistering hot assault if I make a wrong move.

M on the other hand, approaches the shower equipped with the knowledge of where the strategic gadgets are, how they operate and at which hour to have the handle of the faucet for just the right temperature. No suprises for him.

However, to be fair, I conduct the shower reconnaissance because it takes me longer to get ready in the morning. It's not my face but my hair that takes the extra time. And to be really fair, when we travel, I get to put my clothes on the bed and M packs the suitcases; he also co-ordinates the all important paperwork (air tickets, passports et al).

Hmm, come to think of it, now that I'm warm under the shower, my recce contribution isn't such a bad assignment after all.

The Barracuda

Out came the Italian silk suit (see Divas Night Out November 2009). I matched it with a glittering evening top (inherited), my stylish black coat (also inherited) and I was ready for a night on the town. M and I were headed, together with an unmarried colleague of his, to the company's annual holiday gala (see Ride Sally Ride October 2009).

Over the years it has become an annual tradition that the three of us are an item at the gala. So much so, that this year Geena picked us up and chauffeured us to the Hotel Vancouver for our shindig.

One of the company treats was an automatic photograph cubicle to snap how good you look in your glitter rags! M and I lined up for our photograph. Geena joined us to have our picture taken. Like I said, we've become an item at the company gala.

Geena challenged us to do The Barracuda. The What? Well, what you do is open your eyes really wide and blow bubbles with your lips when the camera takes your picture. You look wide eyed, blubbery lipped and not real pretty - kinda barracuda like. Sure, why not?

Thankfully, we had four shots to get it right. As you can tell from the progression, Geena had a bit of a time getting her face into the shot. We had to encourage her to cosy up to M. Like I said...

M got it right straight away. He's proving to be a keen party animal. I, of course, had a bit of time loosening up. First I was tense, next a touch more relaxed but still looking down trying to figure it out and then ... I got it! It was great fun. We roared with laughter from beginning to end. No one else seemed to have as much fun in the cubicle as we did. But then again, like I said...

Much later, heading back to the banquet hall after the dessert buffet, we passed the open doors of the dance hall. The band was playing. M grabbed my hand and groovied through the doors. He wanted to dance. The dance floor was big and empty. Not another soul out there. I hesitated, and then agreed.

We hardly recognised ourselves out on the dance floor alone. Other patrons had already mingled in, standing to the side or finding a spot at the occasional tables. M and I danced anyhow. We applauded ourselves and the band at the end of the song. M was all geared up for the second song but I called it quits. It wasn't a good song and my bravado had cooled.

That wasn't the last dance of the evening. We like to dance and so does Geena. The three of us hit the dance floor, now full with others, shortly afterwards. We groovied the night away. At times I danced on my own; as long as the music is good I'll stay right out there.

At eleven o'clock the three of us called it a wrap. There wasn't much more fun we were going to squeeze out of the night. We had done the Barracuda, danced solo, and boogeyed our hearts out. What more was there to do?

Mediterranean Green Beans

M will eat pretty much anything I put in front of him. This makes for a happy marriage as I have little patience with fussy eaters. Also we like the same foods: Thai, Greek and Indian are our favourite with neither of us being overly keen on Japanese food. We'll eat it to be polite but, personally, I have never understood the furore over sushi.

However, there are some vegetables M doesn't care to eat. I don't understand what he has against brussels sprouts, green beans (or any type of bean) and peas. Speaking of peas, M will eat canned peas, whereas for me the mushy texture of canned peas is right up there with sushi.

Since our marriage, M has come to enjoy cauliflower. When grocery shopping together, he'll hold up a cauliflower, look at me expectantly, raise his eyebrows and nod his head hopefully. It's actually the cheese sauce that he likes so much. I can never make too much cheese sauce. I think M would happily eat a cauliflower cheese sauce soup. I have a good cauliflower shrimp soup recipe that helped win him over in appreciating this humble vegetable. I really should make that soup again this winter.

This year it was the year of the bean. I have won M over in enjoying black beans and green beans. He has no problem gobbling up black beans in that ever-so-copious-and-super-delicious chili recipe I got from Jackey (see Beef Chili with Cornbread Topping October 2009). There is also Em's refreshing Santa Fe salad that is loaded with sweet corn, cilantro, red peppers, the juice of four limes and black beans. It's a winner with summer guests and M alike.

But my greatest win so far has been my Mediterranean Green Beans. I first made this dish as an appetizer and served it with tuna. Next, I left out the tuna and served it as a side vegetable. M's been taken with these green beans ever since. The winners in this recipe are the fresh basil leaves and the lemon juice. The capers and sliced stuffed olives add to the Mediterranean twist.

And better yet, it is a snap to put together!

All you do is trim and slice the green beans, gut and slice the red and yellow bell peppers, and keep them at a rolling boil in salted water for 5-7 minutes. The beans should be tender but still firm. Drain well; add a tad of chopped red onion and a fair amount of chopped fresh basil leaves. Sprinkle with lemon juice and olive oil and toss to coat. Add capers, halved cherry tomatoes and sliced olives, season with black pepper and sea salt. Toss again very lightly. Best of all, it can be served hot or cold.

Yummy, yummy, M's got green beans in his tummy; now to find a great trick with peas and brussels sprouts. Any ideas?

Missing Magoo

Madam, it's been five days since we said our good-byes. Five long days. I find time is passing slowly and thoughts of you occupy my mind. I never imagined I would miss your bundle of fluff and fur so.

M misses you too - he told me so. I know you were very fond of him. Remember the night, November 18th, when M came home late from an evening meeting? I was reading in bed and you were settled for the night. Yet, when you heard him unlocking the door, you flew off your cat-tree at lightning speed to greet him as he came in. I didn't know you could still move so fast.

We do miss your greeting as we come in the door, even if sometimes you said, 'It's supper time! Where have you two been?' We miss your late night licks and washes which wake us (no, M doesn't). And we miss your early morning scratches informing us sleeping time is over. I even miss the cat litter you scattered over the bathroom floor like beach sand.

We look for you on your cushion in the bedroom; we look for you stretched out in front of the fire. We long to call out in greeting when we get home or tell you that we are leaving - and sometimes we do.

Amy inherited your bed and your dry food; Sid and Meg your scratching posts. Jango and Miss Minnie got your wet food and treats; Nibs and Coco your cat litter. We packed away your rug, threw away your cushion, and your bowls went into the cupboard. Yet with little evidence of you around anymore, we still look for you.

We miss you Magoo.

Christmas Shoe Boxes

M and I almost didn't pack our own shoe boxes this year. So busy were we this season with receiving and putting almost 2,500 shoe boxes into cartons that shopping for our own shoe boxes almost slipped right off the radar.

But last Tuesday we sneaked in our annual shoe box shopping night. We chose pens and pencils, just the right size note book, bars of soap, toothbrushes, a T-shirt, socks, a bouncing ball, a wind-up flashlight, and some other treats to fill a shoe box each for boys, aged between ten and fourteen.

Our annual tradition of packing shoe boxes brings us much joy and satisfaction. But it is coming to know the heartwarming stories behind some of the shoe boxes that is the most rewarding aspect of our participation in this ministry.

Twice this season we went to pick up shoe boxes from women who, for different reasons, were not able to deliver them personally.

The first was an older woman of modest means who had to start over when she lost all her possessions, including her car, in an apartment fire earlier this year. Yet, in a few short months, as finances allowed, she purchased items to make up shoe boxes for underprivileged children. M and I were humbled by this woman's selflessness in difficult circumstances when we picked up the fifteen colourfully wrapped shoe boxes she had prepared.

We received a call from a woman at a long-term care facility requesting a shoe box pick-up. Amazingly, this quadriplegic woman had packed a shoe box. She chose what she wanted to go in her shoe box and arranged for someone to make the purchases for her. Although she was not able to actually put the items in the box herself, this was still very much her shoe box. Once again, we were humbled.

A young woman in her late teens heard about this ministry from a friend and read about it in the local newspaper. She got on board, challenging her friends on Facebook, putting up flyers in her neighbourhood and getting her younger sister's sports team involved. Ten days later she delivered thirty beautifully wrapped shoe boxes to us.

More than anything this ministry highlights the selflessness of others who want to make a small difference in the life of someone else.

Our shoe box season is not yet finished. Next week, Mr. and Mrs. Shoe Box head to Calgary to participate in the next leg of the shoe box journey.

Mrs. Magoo

Allow me to introduce our cat, K2 Mrs. Magoo. Beautiful she is. More trusting she has become.

Five and a half years ago she was bequeathed to us by a friend who died of lung cancer. Her reputation was such at the time that she was the cat nobody wanted.

When Rod first asked us to adopt K2, we declined. At the time, we didn't see how a pet would fit into our lifestyle and, being mean and unfriendly, Mrs. Magoo certainly hadn't endeared herself to us.

Rod did try to find another home for her but there were no other takers or no-one to whom he wanted to leave his most prized possession. He sincerely wanted us to take care of his treasure knowing that she would go to a good home. We could not say no again. Two days after Rod died, early in May 2004, K2 came to live with us.

It was not an easy adjustment for any of us. K2 came with trust issues and we came with sharing issues; our freedom of movement had been curtailed. This was compounded by two humans whose love language is touch and a cat who didn't like anyone and didn't want to be touched. The adjustment wasn't just between cat and humans but also between M and me. I thought a cat should be raised this way; he thought a cat should be raised that way.

M and I don't make commitments lightly. This meant K2 was staying and we would all have to push through and make it work. In my 2004 Christmas newsletter, I referred to K2 as a single-minded monster. But by then our affection for her had already started to grow. Although she would've denied it, she had become more than just a little fond of us too.

Being a beautiful Himalayan, visitors to our home would be drawn to K2 and want to stroke her. We always warned them of her unfriendliness and to touch her at their own risk. One of M's first encounters with K2 saw her lash out at him with her claws because a third stroke was two too many.

Our greatest reward has been K2's trust of us and the change in her personality. We no longer have to warn visitors to watch out for her swipe. She is more responsive to affection and, although still not great with too much attention from strangers, she has learnt to walk away from the situation and not to attack.

Morrie has often commented that he can't believe that she is the same cat. Over the past five years she has become increasingly trusting, responsive and affectionate. She has brought us much joy and companionship.

Sadly, today, K2 Mrs. Magoo died.

Why I Write

I came across a John Lubbock (British politician d. 1913) quote this weekend that sums up why I write:

"To do something, however small,
to make others happier and better,
is the highest, the most elevating hope,
which can inspire a human being."

Most of us will only be part of history; we won't make history. Yet that doesn't mean that our lives don't count. It doesn't mean that we can't "do something, however small, to make others happier and better".

I have learnt to live in the present and to look for the gems of life right where I am. I have learnt not to look over the garden fence and covet those flowers in my neighbour's garden that are absent in my garden. Instead, I have learnt to nurture that which already grows in my garden.

The heartache and tough times of life, guaranteed to all of us, becomes the compost which nourishes the soil, if we allow it to mature to all its stinking ripeness. For a beautiful and easy-to-tend garden, I now know to grow indigenous plants and flowers that are best suited to a garden's soil type and sun location. Some bulbs and plants are not going to grow in your garden, no matter how hard you try. Accept it. And weed regularly. All gardens need weeding - that is life. Pests will attack your garden; find the healthiest way to look out for them and to deal with them before they do too much damage.

I write with the hope that this expression of myself would, in a small way, encourage you to be more yourself and to grow your own most beautiful garden. And remember - stop coveting another's garden; you have not watered it with the same tears she has.

The Red Gate

The iron of the gate was cold in my hand. I hadn't packed in gloves for the journey. I knew I wasn't fully prepared. Nor would I be. I plunged my hand back into the warmth and comfort of my coat pocket.

The forest was still and the grey clouds were banding together for another lashing of rain. My feet slurped in the muddy path and wet leaves stuck to my shoes. I peered over the gate. The path on the other side wasn't any better. There was nothing to entice me through the gate. No promise of relief from the cold, shelter from the rain or protection from the wind.

This side of the gate, the expanse of a tree with dense leaves, had offered some protection from the rain. It had kept me dry from light rains. However, the rains had become frequent and more persistent. The storms were gathering with intensity.

I peered over the gate again. There would be no shelter from rain if I passed through. That was the certainty of opening the red gate. There would be no expanse of leaves to offer even partial respite. I felt the indecision rise in me and catch in my throat. I swallowed hard.

Do I weather the storms I know this side of the gate or do I choose the path of untamed downpours?

It was a choice I alone could make.

I lifted the latch from the gate. The gate opened quietly - no unoiled hinge to announce my decision to the hush of trees. I shut the gate and replaced the latch.

Tears caught in my throat and spilled on to my cheeks. I gasped for air and tried to still my internal storm. This side of the red gate a blizzard of winter would follow the drench of autumn. I had chosen this now over eternal autumn.

When the assault of winter would happen I did not know. But come it would. I had chosen the way of the barbarian (The Barbarian Way, Erwin McManus, http://www.erwinmcmanus.com/). I would walk this path and, by the grace of God, push through when difficulty, fear, confusion, and pain would cause me to recoil and want to pull back.

After winter comes spring. After death comes life.

Who's Afraid of Writing?

Who is afraid of writing? I am. Yet I press on, riding this rollercoaster of doubt. Eager to learn, I journey with my writing group to Westminster Abbey for a weekend retreat of writing, reflection and instruction from a master writer, Virginia Woolf.

Home for two days is a modest room of my own. The simplicity of the room reduces the fluff of life to the basics of the craft: a desk, a chair, paper and a pencil.

Simplicity epitomises the weekend: the swishing quietness of the monks' black robes, the down to earth meals and Virginia Woolf's overriding advice - just write.

At the abbey, I learn, I write, I read and I write some more.

I learn that the reward and joy of writing is the writing itself, not the accolades of strangers. I write want I want to write: my vignettes. I read a Virginia Woolf biography and start to read 'Mrs. Dalloway'. I write some more.

I chuckle when I realise that I am following in Virginia Woolf's footsteps by self-publishing my work.

Writing is creating art. I use my camera to capture scenes to illustrate the vignettes. And some scenes tell me of a vignette waiting to be written. I am creating art - my way.

I'm finding my way as a writer.

Walk to Write

Take a walk says Virginia Woolf. Get out and ramble, in the quiet of the country or the bustling streets of the city. Let it feed you, rest you and satisfy you. Give yourself time to think, to muse, to rejuvenate, and to spread out the mind. So says Virginia Woolf.

I don't get to walk for the sake of walking anymore. When I tramp up Lonsdale, as many as eighteen blocks, or down six blocks, it's to perform a duty: go to the bank, grab some groceries, stop in at the post office, pick up fresh fruit and vegetables. Seldom do I do it anymore on my own, just for myself, for no other reason than to walk.

It is soul restoring bliss to walk the grounds of Westminster Abbey in Mission: to take in the last of the autumn colours and the stark branches against the grey sky. To feel the cold on my hands and wish I had a warm scarf. I have precious time to breathe and for rest to find room in my soul. The wet leaves squelch under my feet and the ground is so wet that, at times, I'm concerned I may step into sinking mud.

I read the plaques of the Benedictine monks who have passed on to glory. I absorb the serenity of Mary Lake and discover a bench secluded in the trees. I walk and I talk, to myself. There is freedom in giving voice to my thoughts - to speak freely with myself.

I recall as a teenager the times I would have the urge to walk. I would walk out the front door and feel the freedom and rest begin to flood my soul even as I crossed the grass of our front yard to the road. I would walk my suburb and feel the expanse of being alone, company to myself with time to breathe, process my thoughts and be rejuvenated. I never thought of it in these terms at the time. It was instinctive for me to deal with the teenage years by taking a walk.

I have rediscovered the joy of walking. I have learnt how necessary walking is to free up the mind, to let the images rush in and to write. So says Virginia Woolf.

I am a writer and an eager lone walker.

Apricot Jam

I have foresworn commercial jam. Call me a jam snob (and, while you are at it, an up and coming chocolate snob). I like my mother's jam. She makes good apricot jam, as well as the best milk tart and lemon meringue pie.

I find commercial jams too sweet - including marmalade. How can marmalade be too sweet? That's what I ask. The joy of marmalade is in its tartness. That's why it is marmalade. Not so?

Case in point, I now put honey on my toast.

So when Anna asked me if I wanted apricot jam for my toast, I declined. My ears picked up when Father P, our Benedictine host, extolled the virtues of the monks' homemade jam, "and the apricots are picked in Lillooet. They are the real things with flavour."

My eyes zeroed in on the jam. I changed my mind. I would have apricot jam on my toast after all.

My teeth hadn't finished biting off a piece of the toast and I was already headed for apricot heaven. Apricot jam, fig jam and marmalade are my favourite jams. And this had to be the very best apricot jam I have ever tasted (sorry, Mom). It really is true. When cooking or baking, start with fresh quality ingredients. It makes all the difference.

I reached for a second piece of toast. I salivated while I buttered my toast. With reverence, I spread the apricot jam covering every bit of my toast.

Don't even talk to me; I want to savour the flavour in every bite.

A Morning Indulgence

Anna was right, I wouldn't miss the bells. They tolled loudly and extensively at 6am (or so I thought). They shocked me awake: and kept right on ringing so that I was not tempted to drowse off back to sleep. The Benedictine monks have their morning prayers at 5am and so the bells don't ring for them. Perhaps it is to wake guests, visiting the Abbey, in time for Mass at 6:30.

Attending morning Mass isn't obligatory. Hence I open the curtains to greet the still dark morning, turn on the lamp, prop myself up in bed and reach for my Bible. I read from II Timothy.

Turning off the lamp, I cuddle under the white coverlet and enjoy my private view of the cathedral's illuminated stained glass windows. It is refreshingly quiet. I pray, think and dream. The flush of my neighbour's toilet interrupts my reverie and the stillness of the moment. Life intrudes. And I should step along.

Balneotherapy is as effective under a hot shower as a good soak in the tub. I enjoy the morning indulgence and the liberty to soak a good long while under the stream of water. Bliss: no complaint from the other side of the curtain that I am steaming up hubby's mirror. The water massages my back and I take time for some stretches.

While treating my legs to the indulgence of a lathering of night cream, Anna knocks on my door. My writing group is heading down to breakfast.

It's already 7 o' clock? When did that happen?

My indulgent start to the morning is over. I throw on clothes, comb my wet hair and leave the room in disarray. Life intrudes yet again.

Remember Me

Today, a year ago, a bugle called my name. It called me to remember those who no longer hear the call of their name. It called me to Victoria Park, just two blocks from my home, for the Remembrance Day ceremony. Last year I was close enough to hear the bagpipes and the bugle calling us to remember the dead. This year, I pinned a red poppy to my black coat and fell into step alongside others on their way to the park.

I was moved by the number of Canadians who had come to remember. I was surprised (and pleased) by the religiosity of the ceremony. I remembered a friend's comment when we were at university together. Having served in the South African Defence Force and having come under fire, Rory testified that there was no such thing as an atheist in a fox hole; when under attack, every soldier prayed and called out to God.

I was inspired by the march-past and the flight formations of the aircraft. I teared up with the singing of the anthem and the saying of the Lord's Prayer. I thought of the nameless dead who gave their lives for the freedom of others. And I remembered two victims of war, a young woman and a boy who no longer hear the call of their name.

The failure of Operation Market Garden to liberate Holland in September 1944 had tragic consequences for Laura Smit and Jan Keizer.

In retribution for the strike of Dutch railway workers in support of this Allied invasion, the German occupiers forbade food transportation and Holland endured a harsh winter, the Hungerwinter. In Amsterdam, 11 year-old Jan Keizer died of starvation. One of thousands, he is easily forgotten. His brother, now a 90 year-old man, passed the memory of little Jantje on to me.

Across that small country, in February 1945, 20 year-old Laura Smit and her young cousin, Anton, were killed. A V-1 flying bomb, launched by the Germans in Holland to attack England, malfunctioned, landing on the house in Tilburg in which M's aunt was living with her father's family. Separated from her own family, it was not until after liberation in May 1945 that M's grandparents learnt of the death of their daughter.

"Remember me," they call from the grave. Remember "we (too) lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, loved and were loved" (In Flanders Fields, by John McCrae).

I remember Laura and Jantje so as to remember the harshness of war. I remember two young people I will never meet so that I may appreciate the security and peace I know. I remember how short their lives were so that I may not take for granted the length of days I am given.

I remember, so that their lives may count. I remember, because my life is not my own.

Française Encore

We've progressed from salutations, counting to ten and the days of the week to place settings. In order to learn that the utensils are un couteau, une fourchette and une cuillère, never mind a plate, salt and pepper set, glass and serviette, M and I set up a permanent place setting on the diningroom table. Every time we pass by we reinforce the words in French.

We're now better able to politely order our meal in a restaurant, name colours in French, as well as some of our body parts, and recite the months of the year. We can count to 69, follow rudimentary directions and talk about the weather.

This week we're hammering verbs into our heads and some prepositions. Or should I say, M is. His learning curve is not as steep as the first two weeks and he's starting to have some 'aha' moments. This evening, practising our new words, he clued-in how the French word 'sous' is used in English to refer to a sous-chef (the under-chef or trainee chef). And the French interrogative 'pourquoi' (why) was a snap for him as I have used it in our conversations for years. As with 'n'est-ce-pas' (isn't it).

The statements M practises the most are the ones he feels he will use the most often, "Repetez, s'il vous plaît. Parlez plus lentement, s'il vous plaît. Je ne comprends pas." (Please repeat. Please speak more slowly. I don't understand).

And he stoically perseveres.

Divas Night Out

As one gets older it is important to have friends who are older than you are. Not just because they still think that you are a young 'un but because you get to see that the passage of life is not that frightening after all. I remember when I thought that 35 was old, let alone 50 and anyone over 60 was living on borrowed time. Now that I'm on the better side of 40 I have moved the post of old age to 80. Then again, I think of my neighbour Ginny, vital at 81, and so I shift it again to 85.

Friday night, nine mid-life girls got together to celebrate life and the turning of a page. One of us turned 50 and we celebrated in style.

First, we dressed to the nines. Something we don't get to do much anymore. I have one outfit that qualifies as a nine. It's a charcoal-grey silk pantsuit made in Italy. Now, don't think too hoity-toity of me. A wealthy woman somewhere passed it on and somehow it ended up with my friend, Jett, who passed it on to me, a grateful heiress.

Next we met on a blustery and wet night at Kay's place for appies and wine. There's something special about being all dressed up, sipping wine and nibbling appetizers, knowing that you actually have somewhere to go. Our birthday girl was crowned with a tiara and sash. She was queen for the night and so, very suitably, a limousine arrived at 7pm to drive us royally to Granville Island Theatre.

My first limousine ride, alive with nine women laughing and talking and drinking champagne, was the highlight of the evening for me. It's way more conversational to sit in a U formation in a stretch limo bantering and taking pictures than to sit facing forward and craning your neck to talk to those behind you. I wasn't in the limo 5 minutes when I knew I wanted to celebrate like this with my girlfriends. Now to find a good reason - my 50th is too far away!

Finally, we swanned into the theatre glamorously overdressed considering that West Coast patrons casually wear blue jeans to the theatre and the symphony. The queen of our entourage gamely, unabashedly and stylishly sported her tiara and sash. She wore her crown of 50 years with pride and poise.

Some of the jewels in my crown of life are my girlfriends. I am blessed with friendships and connections with a number of women. Whether they be 50, 105, 93 or 35, I value the richness and depth they bring to my life. We pass life lessons on to each other, share tears, heartaches, dreams and triumphs. I wouldn't want to walk through life without any of them.

My gorgeously glamorous girlfriend has shown me how to be comfortable in my skin, to wear my age with enthusiasm and openness, to do life with my girlfriends and that wearing a sparkling crown is for all of us, if we are game.

Halloween Tree

Halloween is a North American tradition that has just never won us over. Until we moved to our apartment building last year, out of reach for trick or treaters, Halloween was always a date night for us. We escaped early to a nice meal out followed by shopping - designed to keep us away from our home, long enough, for the princesses and monsters to go by. I know, we are a bit dry. Perhaps one day we will limber up these dry bones, dress up in a costume and join in the fun. If we do, M can go as a tree - a Halloween tree.

In early September we went camping with Ron and Jean in Merritt (see Missing Merrit, September 2009). Ron likes to hunt with a bow and arrow. Happily for Jean, he seldom succeeds in shooting a hapless deer or any other animal minding its own business in the wild. That weekend, Ron suggested that he and M dress in his hunting gear and go shoot wildlife with their digital cameras.

I couldn't resist a picture of my husband camouflaged as a tree. Do wild animals really not notice something odd when they see skinny short trees with two leg trunks skulking in their back yard? I know the idea is not to be seen but animals aren't dumb. Ron admitted that squirrels do give the game away, squealing to alert the other animals of a tree intruder. Yeah for the squirrels!

What do two city girls do once the boys head off to play their game? Well, of course, they enjoy a spa treatment in the country! Jean and I love our camping tradition of indulging in manicures, pedicures and facials.

One of our best spa camping memories was a few years back camping at Loon Lake, quite a bit further north than Merritt. The boys went fishing and we set up our spa at the campsite picnic table to enjoy the open air and warm sun. We soaked our feet in small tubs brimming with bubbles, had masks on our faces doing their deep penetrating work, and sipped ciders while yakking and paying careful attention to our finger nails. The camp site was relatively private as we indulged in our city in the country experience.

The owner of the campground came to the shed next to our camp site to do whatever a campground owner does in his shed. This down-to-earth countryman shut the shed door, looked up at two of his city guests having some fun, stopped, looked again, got a small smile of his face, shook his head slightly, smiled at us more broadly and continued on with his day. I guess he had now seen it all!

Considering that M and I have each had some experience in looking ridiculous, we're probably not too many steps away from feeling comfortable enough to participate in a Halloween costume party. We've learnt that Halloween is not just for the kids, it's also for six foot tall teenagers who are trick and treating their way to a sugar overload. And adults who throw Halloween parties and consume their sugar overload in another form.

No, for now, M and I are happy to save our moments of looking ridiculous for our country camping trips.

I Write

Once a month I meet with my writing group. One of our exercises today was to write a short piece on our perfect scenario, as though it is accomplished, not still a dream for the future. This is my piece:

At last, I don't work to earn money. I write and the writing works for me. It affords me a lifestyle of writing and reading, of words and books, and our little stone cottage in France.

It started with a writing group and my husband agreeing to learn French with me. With each pronunciation of this foreign tongue a blue wooden door creaked open and through that door I glimpsed my writing desk at the window, our kitchen with the slate floor, and the patio doors opened out on to the terrace. I glimpsed my husband bringing me tea, cup after cup, while I write.

I write at my desk, at the kitchen table or on the patio in the shade of the vines. I glance up from my writing and see the countryside unfold to the village steeple. I didn't then consider my deadlines and the moments of drought that would threaten to overwhelm me. But I remember Ernest Hemingway's advice, "Write until you find the first true sentence."

And so I do, I write.

Christmas is Coming!

October 25th - two months today it is Christmas! I feel some panic at the thought, as time slips through my fingers like sea sand, and I also feel excitement for what Christmas means for us.

It may be two months to Christmas, yet we are in the middle of the busyness of our Christmas season. M and I volunteer as co-ordinators for Operation Christmas Child on the North Shore (www.samaritanspurse.ca/occ/). This Christmas program of giving shoe box gifts to underprivileged children across the world captured our hearts twelve years ago. Through our church, we started by each packing a shoe box for a boy aged from ten to fourteen. For twelve years it has been a fun Christmas excursion to do our shoe box shopping.

One year, probably six years ago, the program wasn't co-ordinated at our church. We felt the loss of it as did others. The next year, M was committed to make it happen, so he stepped in and filled the gap. Once again our church participated in this project and we became Mr. and Mrs. Shoe Box.

Mr. Shoe Box is an administrative giant. Although he will tell you that he doesn't care for administration, he has an acute attention to detail. He is phenomenal at co-ordinating a project, making it run smoothly and ensuring that a job is done well. It wasn't too many seasons later that his contribution to this project for our church came to the attention of the regional co-ordinator to whom we delivered the 300 to 400 shoe boxes filled by our church community.

Before long M was asked to head up this program, not just for our church, but for the North Shore area which includes liaising with other churches, schools and businesses interested in participating. We deflected the request for one year, but the regional co-ordinator didn't let up and now, for three years, we have been the North Shore area co-ordinators for this project. Or to be perfectly honest, M is the co-ordinator and I'm his trusty assistant.

For us, Christmas happens in October and November as we distribute shoe boxes, get them back filled with gifts, box them in cartons and deliver 2,000 shoe boxes to the regional collection centre. One day we hope to distribute these shoe boxes to the orphans and children who have so little and to see the joy on their faces and the light in their eyes. Unfortunately, we don't see that happening for a while yet, but this December we will be heading to Calgary to be part of the next step of the process - sorting and checking the shoe boxes at the Samaritan's Purse warehouse. We're looking forward to it, even if it means two days of being Calgary cold.

Operation Christmas Child is named not only for the mammoth operation it is to get Christmas shoe box gifts to children across the globe but, more importantly, for the child who came to give each of us the greatest gift of all. And in two months we celebrate the coming of this child.

Indeed, it is a great blessing to give. And how wonderful it is too, when we receive a gift of love which fills us with hope and joy.

Dinner Alone

It doesn't happen often and when it does I relish it. Morrie invited M to join him at a hockey game. I arranged an evening with a girlfriend which, at the last minute, didn't work out. This meant an evening alone at home - pure enjoyment.

I pottered in the kitchen. I rearranged a few things to give the kitchen a fresh look. I polished a few things to make them sparkle. The romance of Il Divo filled the airwaves as I prepared my salad and cooked salmon. Cooking alone in my kitchen is music to my soul. M learnt early on to find something else to do when I'm in the kitchen.

I set the table for one; lit the candle and poured a glass of chilled Californian white - a date with myself. The maple syrup drizzled salmon served with an arugula, pear and feta salad with lemon poppy seed dressing was a feast for my eyes. This is a typical quick and easy dinner that I like to make. It takes no time and it's so easy to do.

With Il Divo for company, I sipped the wine, savoured the meal and enjoyed the time alone with my thoughts. A week ago we had guests at our table enjoying the beef chili I tried for the first time. Despite my tension-filled run up to the evening (see Beef Chili with Cornbread Topping, October 2009), it had been a success. I smiled to myself when I remembered Morrie and Em's humorous interactions.

Em explained that she no longer buys expensive dinnerware or dishes as Morrie has a way of wrecking them, "like my irreplaceable Ming bowl."
"Which one was that?" Morrie asked. "The one I used for painting?"
"But don't touch his breakfast bowl," Em explained. "The one with sheep and the word, 'baa' printed all around it." Em packed it up in preparation for their kitchen renovations and Morrie was distressed that it wasn't available as part of his morning routine.
"I got over it," Morrie defended himself. "It took a week but I got over it."

I smiled to myself. Small things in life can unsettle us. For me, it's cooking for guests, for Morrie, it's upsetting his routine. I need to practise entertaining. It doesn't have to be perfect. Em is a fabulous hostess and I remember her advice to me, "Don't aim for perfection." Time together with others is what it is all about.

Em calls after 7pm. She's going to be home shortly and do I want to come over to watch a movie while the hubbies are out. After a time of soul replenishment, I'm game for a visit, to catch up with Em and their kitchen renos and to watch a movie. After all, time together with others is what it is all about.

Margharita

What does 105 look like for you? You'd still live by yourself, wouldn't you? And wouldn't you grow award winning clevias, cook five course meals for your guests, clean your kitchen yourself, crochet tablecloths for charity and give Italian cooking lessons? Well, perhaps at 105, you might ease up a bit, but surely this would be your life at 104?

I enjoy the company of older people. I enjoy hearing their stories and being transported to another era, another lifetime, another season. There is so much to know and learn from those who are further along the journey of life than we are. Our society values youth and youthfulness. Yet what does that mean for any of us at all? God-willing, we will turn thirty and then forty, followed by fifty and beyond. If being twenty-something, without a crease on your face, is what we aspire to then we are setting our sights too low.

I must've been about sixteen when Margharita Blaser first impacted my life. I remember her conversation with my mother as she described her busy life at eighty. Being a professional seamstress she still sewed extensively. She gardened, grew her own vegetables, entered flower competitions, entertained visitors, made her own pasta and just enjoyed life enormously. I remember thinking that I wanted to grow old like that.

I only met Mrs. Blaser that once. Yet over the years I wondered what her secret was to growing old well. Earlier last year, the thought crossed my mind again and my brother, Mark, confirmed that Mrs. Blaser was still feistly independent at 103. I gave her a call, we struck up a friendship and last year September I met her for the second time when M and I visited her in Cape Town with my brother, Mark.

Today, I called to wish her for her 105th birthday. I didn't call on the day, Wednesday, October 14th, as I knew that she would be busy with calls. "Yes, I must've had 40," she responds. I believe it. No doubt every available space is filled with flowers unless she has succeeded in convincing her friends and family rather to donate the money to her favourite charity, Radio Veritas. Even today, her house was busy with visitors when I called.

I have learnt so much from Margharita (she doesn't want me to call her Mrs. Blaser). To record it all would take a booklet which I may just do. I envy her gift of hospitality and flair for cooking. Last year she prepared a five course lunch for us, including her own hand-made ravioli and wouldn't let us help her clean up. "Oh, I'll do it. I have all evening," was her reply.

When I look for common threads running through the lives of those who grow old well, it's not so much what they eat, where they live or how comfortable their lifestyle is. Rather it is in their attitude to life and how they stay engaged with life. If I was to describe growing old well with one word it would be 'simplicity'. From Margharita and others I have observed a simple approach to life.

Live simply, eat healthily, love greatly, laugh easily, stay busy, give of yourself, pray for others, be content with what you have, stay out of debt, and look for the small pleasures in life. I could write on how Margharita has embraced each of these qualities in her life. Her attitude of gratefulness and positive perspective underscores who she is and how she responds to the difficulties of life. The most negative thing I've heard her say is, "I can't understand people who don't believe in God and don't go to church." She has a simple faith. And her simple approach to life is, "I've never wished for anything that wasn't within my reach."

We may not all live to be 105 and make the news, but we do all have the opportunity to live well, to grow old well and to finish well. Margharita, thank you for showing me.

Beef Chili with Cornbread Topping

I took a deep breath; rolled my shoulders back a few times, loosened my neck and took a couple more deep breaths. I can do this; I can do this; I can do this; and it will all turn out just fine. I envy women who entertain with ease. Who throw an appetizer, main course and dessert together - all made from scratch - set the table with flair and greet you at the door looking refreshed. Entertaining is not one of my strengths. I love the thought of it but my perfectionist streak can paralyse me when I dare to invite guests over for dinner.

I felt the anxiety on Friday night scouring the store for ingredients I don't usually have in my kitchen. Although this beef chili was supposedly easy to make, it called for a lot of ingredients. So there I was, with mounting anxiety, squished in with the after work Friday crowd at Superstore trying to make sure I didn't forget anything the recipe called for.

Already I could hear M's voice - don't try a new recipe, make something you know. Where's the fun and stress in that? All our guests have already tasted my trusted bobotie recipe more than once. I like to cook. I just don't consider myself particularly good at it. After a busy day at work, I like to unwind in the kitchen making supper. But that's just for the two of us and M will eat almost anything I put in front of him. Cooking for two, I often make quick and easy meals, having company over affords me the opportunity to try something new.

Now here I was in the kitchen, Saturday morning, with all the ingredients out in front of me on the counter doing some deep breathing and shoulder stretches. Already I had run five blocks down to the IGA store to buy cornmeal. Over breakfast my mind was whirring through the recipe. I was becoming surer and surer that cornstarch and cornmeal is not the same thing. Having had this dish at Jackey's I knew that the topping was yellow but cornstarch is white, so how does it become yellow? M googled it for me. Goodbye cornstarch, hello cornmeal, which I don't have in my kitchen; hello morning run down Lonsdale.

Remove the four guests coming for dinner from the equation and I would've had a ball in the kitchen, but with every spice I added to the softened onions, I worried if this was going to turn out. I brought the sauce to the boil and added it to the browned ground beef in the slow cooker. The corn and black beans followed. It was looking and smelling good. I did a quick taste test. Ouch, that's hot! This chili was going to make a statement tonight - my poor guests. I let out a deep sigh. You can add more chili but you can't take out too much chili. Well, all I could do was let it cook on low for the next six hours.

I started to clean up the kitchen, pack away the bottles and spices and do some washing up. I picked up the can of condensed beef broth. It was unopened. Where was this supposed to go? I frantically scoured the recipe for the step I had missed. I was supposed to add it with the Worcestershire sauce, tomato paste and tomato sauce just before I brought it all to a boil. Well, it's just going to have to go in now, rather late than never!

Kitchen clean, I ran my eyes over the ingredients for the cornbread topping. Somehow, I now had a sneaky suspicion that I didn't have baking powder. I ransacked my pantry shelf. Yip, no baking powder. I slowly remembered that I had thrown it out the year before when we had moved. It's one of those ingredients you buy for one recipe and, unless you bake a lot, it hangs around forever in your pantry until you decide to throw it out when you move homes.

Another trip to another store for baking powder. "Are you sure you have everything now", M asks. Yes, Yes. Back home I double check the cornbread recipe. Who added an egg to the recipe while I was out? How did I miss that? We had eaten the last two eggs for breakfast and I needed just one. I couldn't believe this, neither could my anxiety level nor one, up-to-now, very patient husband. Another trip to another store for free-range eggs.

The beef chili with cornbread topping served with sour cream, salsa and green onions, accompanied by a salad and a robust Chilean red was a hit with our friends. I'll tackle it again. I am less daunted by the recipe and, besides which, I now have most of the ingredients in the house. And those I don't have, I know just where to buy them - even in a pinch.

Ride, Sally, Ride

Granny James fondly called me Sally when I was a little girl. I never did ask her why. And I'll never know for sure as she died when I was twenty. Those weren't questions I pondered in my youth but I do now. Whatever the reason, I'm glad that she did. It makes the words, 'Ride, Sally, Ride' more personal for me. Whenever I hear the song 'Mustang Sally', I am reminded to be a bit of a dare devil, to let go of my inhibitions (just a little at least) and to seize the moment.

M's company hosts a year-end extravaganza gala. We pay $25 a head for the opportunity to put on our glad rags, enjoy a four course meal, be entertained by a band, and dance the night away. It's a popular annual occasion with 1,500 guests when we attended our first one in 2006. M and I enjoy dancing far more than we are actually any good at it. But give us a half decent beat and we'll happily grace the dance floor, provided there are enough other patrons to offer us some degree of camouflage.

During one of the songs that evening, the band announced that someone would go around the dance floor to get some people up on the stage to help with the next song. I didn't exit the dance floor quickly as I am prone to do. The floor was packed and I anticipated that the odds were slim that they would pick on me. What I didn't notice, while we danced, was M catch the eye of the recruiter, put his hands high in the air and point at me. I caught his devious plan just seconds before I felt hands on my shoulders to haul me off up on to the stage.

I knew that there were two, well probably three, things I could do. Get in a huff and leave the stage; go through with it as best as I could and then let my husband have it when I was done or just live the moment and love it. Approaching forty at the time, I thought it better to embrace adventure and wisely chose the third option.

Just as well, as I was positioned front and centre accompanying the lead singer! I told him I couldn't sing. Don't worry; just fake it was the response. The song was 'Mustang Sally'. I belted out each 'ride, Sally, ride' of the chorus with the lead singer or at least appeared to. While he sang the other components of the song, I danced.

M and a handful of his colleagues gathered at the bottom of the stage pretending to be wild fans. I was embarrassed and loving it. For one song I was a rock star. When I got off the stage one of M's colleagues ran up and asked for my autograph. All I wanted was to ride around in the fun of the moment. At some stage I was going to have to slow my mustang down and get my feet back on the ground. But it wasn't going to happen that evening, it was all far too liberating.

Now I can't hear the song without releasing my inhibitions a touch and embracing the moment (see The Run of the Pinks, October 2009). In my forties, I am discovering and determining for myself what signifies being a woman. It's a great ride.

The Run of the Pinks

In August when I shared the news of my mother's breast cancer with two of my girlfriends, their almost immediate response was - we should do the 5km 'Run for the Cure' in honour of your mother. The run on October 4th would give us a number of weeks to train and get a little running fit for the modest 5kms.

Or so I thought. I did not get out to do my Lonsdale run (see Running Lonsdale, September 2009) nearly as often I would've liked to. With much vying for my attention, it is easy to put the run on the backburner. In two turns it was October and the three of us were making our arrangements for the day. There was some relief for me when Starr mentioned that she wouldn't be able to run the 5kms but would happily walk it.

On the day, we lined up with men, girls, women, breast cancer survivors and breast cancer fighters to run or walk the 5kms. Breast cancer survivors were noticeable in their pink T-shirts. Those fresh in battle displayed the beautiful contours of their heads no longer shrouded by hair. Before the race, we heard the testimony of a young woman in her thirties who battled breast cancer, endured a double mastectomy and the ensuing seven surgeries to finally regain her life with her husband and young son.

As we walked under the pink balloons of the starting line I gave thanks for my mother and all that she has meant to me in my life.

Starr set the pace and so we ran and walked - my favourite running style - get the heart rate up and then slow it down a tad. The weather was superb: sunny, warm and autumn crisp. We walked, we talked, we ran. We walked some more, we talked some more and we ran again. Jackey, the third member of our trio, has feathers for feet, having trained with Zola Budd in Bloemfontein. Yet she politely and encouragingly jogged at our pace.

With the finish line not far ahead, Starr and I were deciding when we would start our final run for the line. We were still getting our breath back. A band was playing, encouraging the participants across the line. My ears caught the tune and the words of the song, 'Mustang Sally' (see Ride, Sally, Ride, October 2009). This is my song, courtesy of my husband putting me front and centre at a company party - and I took off. I relished the feeling of having feathers for feet. This must be what it feels like for Jackey when she runs. I felt light, I felt fatigue-free, I felt alive, I was so happy. In that moment I was 'Run, Sally, Run'.

I was doing the run of the pinks - a run for my mother, a run for myself with my girlfriends and a run in honour of women and the indomitable female spirit.

BC Wildlife Weekend

Have you ever heard the sounds of Africa at her most natural - when the hyena barks, the lion roars and the hippopotamus snorts? M and I love the bush. Whenever we visit family in South Africa, we try to slip in a few days away with his parents to the Kruger National Park.

This weekend, we experienced a touch of BC urban bush. Perhaps harbour seals, hawks and deer don't compare with hyena, lion and hippo but they are still a delight to behold. And did you know that we have wild dogs in Canada too?

Friday early evening saw us enjoying our staid ritual of a Macca's (Ozzie word) muffin and tea sitting in the car at the Foreshore like two old fogeys (folks). It's a bit like a roadhouse with a view. The patrons bring their takeout dinner or coffee, like us, and sit snugly in their cars to watch the dog walkers and the activity in the inlet.

We had just arrived at the Foreshore when M commented on a black medium sized dog that was standing on the bow of a small boat. "That dog better be careful, he's going to fall in," he warned. I looked down to tuck into my muffin and heard, "There he goes. He jumped in!" He did indeed. He was swimming in the frigid water to a group of harbour seals. As he approached, the seals ducked into the water and disappeared. Not snubbed in the least, the dog switched direction and headed for another group of seals. This group was further off and entailed a longer swim. I looked at the occupants of the boat. They seemed oblivious as their boat drifted and they talked. Did they even know where their dog was?

The dog got close up and personal with the next group of seals. So close that he appeared to get nose to nose with a seal. There was a big splash and then the seal and its mates disappeared. "Wow, do you think the seal snapped at the dog?" I asked. "They don't usually make a splash when they go under the water." Snapped at or not, the wild and wet dog headed off for the next group of seals. How long could this dog swim? Were we going to see him do a seal imitation and duck under the water too, only to not reappear? Thankfully, the owners decided that he had had enough sport and headed off to haul him in. I take it that this is a common activity for the sole wild dog of the Burrard Inlet.

On Saturday a hawk circled just outside our livingroom window with seven squawking attendants. He flew seemingly oblivious to the crows dive-bombing him. I couldn't understand what the crows' problem was. They're not North Vancouverites. I don't believe that they roost on the North Shore so there would be no young to protect. If they were seagulls I'd understand having once seen an eagle swoop by our apartment with what looked like a young seagull in his talons and three seagulls in hot, squawking pursuit.

Sunday afternoon M and I mellowed out at the bird sanctuary on the North Shore. We were in the area and stopped in for a walk, a time of quiet to enjoy the sun, and hopefully spy a few birds. I spotted the deer along the path. It was a young one. Now happily resident in the bird sanctuary it allowed us to get relatively close. Deer are peaceful and serene. Their presence alone is one of stillness.

We gleaned life lessons from the wild antics of a dog and his seal mates, an unfettered hawk and the serenity of a deer. The wild dog was the epitome of having fun, reaching out to others and doing what you love. The hawk modelled staying focused, remaining calm under pressure and ignoring the cacophony of crows in your life. And, appropriately, on the Sabbath, the deer instilled the value of taking time to rest, to find quiet places in your life and to live at peace with God, yourself and those around you.

The wild life of British Columbia may be tame in comparison with Africa yet we do have bears that walk our North Shore streets and rummage our backyards, eagles and coyotes that make off with our cats and other wildlife that impart lessons to eager observers.

La Leçon Française

A new sound is murmuring in our apartment: a sound that speaks of country courtyards and blue shutters, red geraniums in terracotta pots, ancient stone walls, olive groves and lavender fields. Bonjour! Bonjour! Je suis très contente. I am particularly happy because M is doing the conversational French class with me.

I have done intermittent French classes since high school French but, sadly, I have never been able to sustain my fragile command of this language. Now for eight weeks every Thursday night we have a group of eight in our home to practise 'comment ça va', s'il vous plaît, une tasse' and so much more.

After one lesson, M and I greet each other, enquire after each other's health and offer tea in French. M's brain is pounding with the convolution required to understand and think in a language in which, at best, he knew how to say yes, thank you and please. He is soldiering on as a gesture of affection to sa femme (his wife). I know that he will find it all worthwhile when next we visit France. A smattering of the language will help with reading signs, asking for directions, and just conversing with locals at a basic level.

Doing our ironing takes on a French flair as we exchange greetings, pose questions, reply, practise pronunciations, count to ten and memorise les jours de la semaine (the days of the week). I hold up various combinations of my fingers and M responds, "huit, six, quatre, neuf". I keep a beady eye on the shirt he is ironing to ensure it isn't scorched with each delay he has in retrieving the relevant number in French. Considering that this is only day two of acquiring new French vocab, he is doing très bien.

As the dark evenings arrive earlier and earlier, get colder and wetter, we can transport ourselves to sun-drenched hill-top villages, ancient arenas, cobbled streets, terracotta rooftops, sidewalk cafés and the sound of cicadas with every 'bonjour, enchanté, j'ai faim, j'ai soif, une baguette et deux pression s'il vous plaît'. Bon Voyage!

Telephone Conversations

The sound emitting from M's bedside table on Wednesday night was a little foreign. M didn't stir. I nudged him. "Your pager went off. Are you getting up?" He grunted. I raised myself to look at the clock on his bedside table - 10:35. It wasn't late. We'd got into bed at 10 but neither of us was sound asleep yet. I rolled over to try to sleep.

"It's your mother." My mother? I rolled back. M stood next to the bed with one of his two electronic gadgets in his hand. He read, "I'm up and about doing things at half pace. Thanks for all the prayers." Mom had sent us a text message. We seldom get text messages which is why I didn't recognise the sound.

It was good to hear from my mother herself. We had received news from my brother in Johannesburg on how my mother was doing. We knew that she had been in pain directly after her mastectomy on September 28th. A second email informed us that she was discharged 24 hours after the operation, was at home sleeping and to give her a day before calling. The next one said that Mom was in good spirits and feeling much better after a good sleep. And now the fourth update was from the lady of the moment herself. It was welcome news. I had been concerned and eager to know how my mother was. Yet I didn't want to call too soon. It was important that she recuperate.

Our telephone conversations have been more frequent since August 8th. We've discussed heartfelt issues, the C-words (cancer and chemo) and the reality that one day each of us will die. The question is 'will it be a thief, or will I have a chance to say goodbye' ? (Brian Doerksen - Your Faithfulness). These sincere conversations have not been sad or depressing. My mother's calm acceptance of her cancer journey, having processed her emotions for a time alone with my father before bringing others into the news (See Balneotherapy, August 2009), has had a calming effect on our interactions.

So I called her this morning, four days after the surgery. I anticipated more of my mother's calmness even expected some sadness and angst at the assault on her femininity. What I didn't expect was my mother's elation. Yes, she has lost a breast but she is alive! Not to say that she doesn't have six months of chemo to get through, but the prognosis for her type of cancer is good and, in this moment, she is the happiest she has been in a long time. I was blown away at Mom's speedy recovery and her positive outlook.

"You've been shrouded in prayers," I said "and it is showing."
"Please don't stop," she replied. "I've still got a long race ahead of me." My mother has run eleven Comrades Marathons (89km marathon in South Africa). She sees this as her twelfth. She knows what it is to do a gruelling race and cross the finish line. She's preparing herself mentally for the long haul. We also spoke about faith and God's faithfulness. Trusting that our life and times are in His hands gives us a different perspective to our hardships.

Mom, my prayer for you is that you will run the race set before you, that you will fight the good fight (you know the rules) and that you will receive a crown of health when you cross the finish line of chemo and, more importantly, that you will receive the crown of glory when, one day, you do cross the finish line of life.