Autumn Apples

I love autumn. I love apples in autumn. I love their crunchy crisp freshness. Apples I can forgo for most of the year but, in autumn, apples stop me dead in my tracks: just as they did today.

It was a brisk morning, made brisker by the first snow on the North Shore Mountains. I was making my way down Lonsdale from 15th to 11th, from one client to another. I was fully enjoying autumn on my walk: the peek-a-boo snow on the Lions, the warm morning sun, the crisp autumn air, the turning leaves, the purple of my T-shirt and the purples and browns threaded through my decorative scarf. Ah! So much about autumn is good. I didn't expect the moment to get any better than this.

My eye fell on the crisp green of the Golden Delicious apples. This isn't the tart green of the Granny Smiths that set my teeth on edge. No, this is the green that declares crunchy eat me now perfection, before the yellow-gold hues, for which the apples are named, arrive. At this time of apple perfection, the Golden Delicious outweighs the Gala apple for curbside appeal.

I picked up six, paid by respects to Anna, the fresh produce proprietor, parted with $1.51 and went on my autumnal way. Once home, I arranged the remaining five with the two home-grown backyard apples from a colleague. The butternut squash worked well in the bowl to display the apples. It was pretty enough for a picture.

As the apples are eaten, the butternut squash is uncovered and soon it will be a hot autumn soup served with olive bread or perhaps a sourdough. Ah! Did I say I love autumn?

The One Nighter

Fourteen is an innocuous number - paling after the year that inaugurates teenagehood and lacking in importance compared to sixteen or twenty-one in the milestones to adulthood. Nor is it a number as momentous as one or twenty-five in the clocking of matrimonial mileage. However, it will now be fondly remembered by us as our One Nighter. The anniversary year M jumped in with both feet to make it a memorable number.

M got wind that the Holland America Line was offering an affordable one-night relocation cruise from Vancouver to Seattle. As the cruise coincided with our anniversary date, he set us up for a night of fun on the sea. For twelve years we have enjoyed watching the cruise ships sail out of Vancouver's Burrard Inlet for Alaska. We've often wondered what it would be like to see it all from the other side, but knew that it wasn't something that was likely to happen in a hurry. Besides which, our lives aren't half shabby as they are.

September 23rd was a morning of heightened anticipation as we ate our celebratory breakfast of a soft-boiled egg, buttered toast with blue-gum honey, Dutch biscuit and cheese, and, of course, a glass of champagne and orange juice. We clinked our glasses and looked eagerly across the water to Vancouver where the ship was berthed. We had seen it sail in at 6:30 that morning.

We could board as early as 11:30 and M and I were sure to be one of the first on board. We walked down to the quay, took the seabus over and walked the block or so to Canada Place where the cruise ships dock. It was fun taking each other's picture with the ship in the background. It was even more fun boarding the ship and being whisked up to the 8th deck to enjoy lunch.

With wild-eyed excitement I took in the views of the North Shore Mountains, the sea planes in the inlet and Stanley Park with its turning leaves. I had seen it all before but not from this vantage point. After a lunch of too many choices, we headed for the outside deck to listen to a band and to enjoy the sun and the stunning views. Ours is a beautiful city.

We spent the afternoon exploring the ms Volendam and choosing the best vantage point for our 5pm sail. We chose to stand on a small deck just below the ship's bridge. It was less busy, and gave us a 180 degree view from the city across to the North Shore as we sailed out into the inlet, past Stanley Park and under Lion's Gate Bridge. We waved to the spectators on Lion's Gate Bridge, just as we had once waved farewell from the bridge to others leaving on their cruise.

When the wind eventually drove us indoors, we sat on the sheltered pool deck with tea and dessert. As we watched the sun set over Vancouver Island, I thanked M for our romantic one nighter. I thanked him again when we enjoyed our 4-course dinner and after we watched the evening comedy show. I thanked him for dancing with me at the night club until after midnight.

My husband, M - the unrivaled romantic.

Running Lonsdale

When the weather is fair I enjoy an early morning run. I call it a run. It's essentially a downhill run and an uphill jog mixed in with a walk. I run from our apartment down Lonsdale, switching with the traffic lights to keep moving. Downhill running is great for doing the cellulite test - testing for those parts of the anatomy that are not working in sync with the rest of the body, but have a rhythm of their own.

I like to get out as soon as it is light. I like to beat the busyness of the downtown commuters. The crisp autumn air is invigorating. I like to run out on to the pier. Usually it is quiet on the pier but this morning there's a boat with the American flag docked there. Access to the boat is cordoned off with security. It helps my form. "Look strong," I think to myself as I stride past security and the onlookers peering idly from the boat.

At the end of the pier, I like to do some stretches, enjoy my morning view across the water to Vancouver and, in summer, watch the cruise ships come in to dock. I particularly like to watch the seabus ferrying the early morning downtown commuters and give thanks that I am not part of the Starbucks coffee, iPod, Blackberry and laptop set. My taste of it did not leave me hankering after more.

Running back, I appreciate the red stop lights and I walk the crosswalks. I run as many blocks as I can but inevitably throw in some walking. It's deep ventilating work. I arrive at our apartment red-faced and alive. I will never be a good runner or even much of a runner. Yet, I like this teaser of a run. It burns a few calories and gets the blood flowing. I like saying, "I'm going for my run." Those few words are health to me.

I like running Lonsdale.

Coffee Conversations

We settle into the couches and the conversation.
"Did I tell you I'm going to be a grandmother?" she asks.
"No," I reply, "Congratulations!"
"Yes, my son's girlfriend is pregnant and they've decided to have the baby."

How do I respond? Do I say: How wonderful, but it would've been just as wonderful if they had decided otherwise, or: How wonderful that we live in a time of so many choices, when we can choose to keep or not to keep, to have or not to have, to bear or not to bear.

Will our future coffee conversations include announcements of, "Did I tell you that I just missed being a grandmother this time around? My son's girlfriend is pregnant and they've decided not to have the baby. Their relationship is still too new." Will we all nod and murmur in agreement?

I recall another coffee conversation of how a gangly 14 year-old sat on his mother's lap, hugged her and thanked her, "for not getting rid of me, 'cos I know you could've."

I sip my coffee and let the conversation move past me.

More Woolf

I rushed into the grocery store. It was 9:30pm. Not my usual shopping time. I needed to grab a few things for the picnic the following evening. There would be no time the next day. I had a mental note of the items: cilantro, grapes, limes and feta cheese.

I was six steps into the store and two steps past the magazine. I stopped. Took two steps back and lifted it off the rack. It was one among many. I flipped through the magazine. There it was - my little piece in print. Not much at all, four sentences I whipped together one morning. It was doubly delightful to read my words in a public area. My own copy was tucked up at home in my writing drawer.

I grinned. I put the magazine back on the rack. I grinned some more. A mother and her daughter gave me a quizzical look. I grinned anyhow.

Writing has been a surprise for me - a surprise that my words would be printed; a surprise that I would enjoy crafting the words; a surprise that others would read them.

Virginia Woolf gave me some sound advice the other day. She said that being a writer gives me the chance to live a rich life. Not rich from financial rewards, but rich from observing the world with intensity, rich from being engaged with the dailiness of life. I may not become a successful writer but I will be rich because I am a writer.

I'm eager to hear more Virginia Woolf wisdom when I attend my November writers' retreat, "Who's Afraid of Writing?"

September Sunset

September is still a good time for a barbeque at the beach. I'm sure to pack in something warm for when the chill comes in off the water. Although not as warm as other months of summer, September does offer earlier sunsets aglow with oranges brushed across the darkening sky.

With the sun setting, M headed off to dispose of the hot coals. I cuddled into the light-weight blanket I had thrown over my legs. I hate to admit that - I sound old and decrepit. A boy ran past our chairs. He approached from the left, circled me, and ran past again on the right. I gave him a small smile.

He had got my attention earlier with his valiant attempts to ward off a rogue seagull intent on pilfering what it could. When the seagull closed-in on unattended belongings, little superkid would run from his post straight for the seagull. He was as quiet as a stealth bomber. He charged without shouting a single war cry. He was all action - no noise. Mission accomplished, he joined his mother and grandparents talking at the picnic table and resumed playing with his yellow dump truck.

The seagull though was only so much fun. He watched two girls his age walk by with their arms around each other as little girls in pink are inclined to do. He ran around a younger girl enticing her to play with him but she was too young. He returned to the dump truck. When his mother and grandfather headed off for a walk on the beach, he ran in circles and called, "Grandma, will you race with me?" A gentle no was the reply.

So when he ran past my chair, I gave him a small smile. When he passed by the second time, I complimented, "You run so fast!" He came by a third and a fourth time. "Here you come again! You're so fast!" His circular route took him past our chairs, up 20 metres round a picnic table where two women were talking, past his picnic table and back down to our chairs.

I clapped on round seven and again on round ten; I cheered on round twelve and fifteen. He didn't stop running. He didn't stop to talk or to say a word to me. He ran and ran. Each time he ran past he looked straight at me and, with each round, his grin got wider and wider. Not for a moment did he tire. Grandma had seated herself on the picnic table to read her book, keeping an eye on her energetic grandson.

M returned on round seventeen. While we packed up, my stealth runner continued his circular route. "Number eighteen," I clapped. "Wow, look at you! This is number nineteen!" After round twenty-one, M and I walked past grandma, grandpa and his mother who were now all sitting on the picnic table watching their boy run.

"He's a lot of fun," I smiled.

"He's appreciated all your comments," grandma replied.

"Well, he's going to sleep well tonight," I added.

We passed the little super runner circling back for his twenty-second fly past. Perhaps the last one as the sun set with a golden glow. "It's been fun playing with you," I said. Still no sound from the stealth bomber - just a delighted grin.

To Beer or Not to Beer

To beer or not to beer? That is the question, as the days become cooler and the sun loses its edge. M and I like our beer cold and the day hot. We're not fussy about the beer itself. It doesn't have to be a Corona with a slice of lime squeezed into the bottle. Or an import with a Germanic sounding name. No, cheap and Canadian will do for us, so long as it is cold and the day is hot.

Once the sun sets on a hot summer day we switch to ciders or hard lemonade. Beer is heat quenching; cider is refreshing. Too light to beat the heat, cider comes into its own with orange-pink sunsets or warm starry nights.

Our summer camping drink is gin and tonic, courtesy of Ron and Jean. After our harrowing Merritt exit experience (see Missing Merritt, September 2009), we sat down to dust on our feet, sun on our heads and a gin and tonic in our hands. A simple pleasure of life, actually make it two. With camping, there's always time for another one.

Sangria is how we like our wine when the heat is on. Jean's speciality is a white peach sangria - best sipped slowly in her beautiful in-full-bloom backyard. Red sangria is a good accompaniment to summer salads and pizza.

As Fall quietly turns leaves yellow-gold and red, we bid farewell to beer and sangria. Cider may linger as an autumn drink but wine starts to come more into its own - a chilled white or a good red (good is qualified by price - anything under $10!). A glass of good red, sipped while I cook dinner, was one of my destressors after a busy day. But I have forgone that treat since New Year as part of my commitment to downsizing (see Bootylicious, September 2009).

When winter's in full swing, I enjoy my good red in a ceramic goblet. It's particularly enjoyable with the rain against the window and the fire warming the room. Before bed, M and I often enjoy a nightcap of a South African Ruby port or an Amarula cream (M's all-time favourite).

We have good memories of white wine with M's parents and Castle Lager beer shandies with mine on their stoeps in South Africa. Memories of Heineken along the Seine, pression in Provence and kir in Burgundy with M's aunt and uncle from Holland. We enjoy champagne and orange juice Christmas brunches, a glass of wine with Sunday dinner at Morrie and Em's, Em's Christmas treat of ice wine and, of course, champagne to ring in the New Year.

A lush, I am not. I have seen and experienced first-hand the ravages of alcohol on individuals and families. I treat alcohol the same way I swim in the ocean - with respect and caution, knowing its potential pitfalls. Yet, it can be enjoyed as much as a swim in the Indian Ocean.

Alcohol is not my friend, companion or confidante, for that I have real-life relationships. It is an accompaniment to my life.

Bootylicious

Not one for too many mementos, I returned from our trip to Australia in April with a good book 'Who Stole my Mojo', Tim Tams, Buderim ginger sauce, blue-gum honey, some Aussie wine and a new word - bootylicious. The instant my sister-in-law used it, I embraced this remarkable word as my own.

I have always considered my pear-shape a curse. A size 8 dress fits my shoulders and chest but not my hips. A size 10 works well on the hips but my upper half floats in the dress. I don't need any fingers to count the number of dresses in my wardrobe.

Bootylicious, however, has turned my dilemma into an asset. The T-shirt boasting, "With a butt like this who needs boobs!" hits the mark. Quite right, either way you have cleavage. It's all about perspective.

I succeeded with my New Year's resolution to get my size 10 hips in line with my size 8 top. In a few short months my pants were too large and I had to scale back a size. What I didn't realise, until I bought a few new T-shirts in Cannon Beach, was that my top is now a size 6. So much for that! A pear I am and a pear I will be. Bootylicious has allowed me to embrace my fruit type.

With my Aussie-initiated-Vancouver-perfected tan, a Bosc pear I am. An Anjou or Bartlett pear I am not. I'm a little past young to be green of any shade. Comice, Seckel and Asian pears are too round to qualify. A Red Bartlett I may be should I have cause to blush. Admittedly, Morrie (see Morrie and Alice, August 2009) reminds me I turn Red Bartlett after a glass of wine.

Bootylicious - a remarkable word that has improved my body image, freed me to see the humour in it, and walk with confidence.

Missing Merritt

It was just a little gnaw. And I dismissed it. It gnawed when we were 20kms outside of Merritt, a small town set in the beautiful Nicola Valley. M and I were on our way to join Jean and Ron for a weekend of camping at Monck Provincial Park, just north of Merritt, 3.5 hours drive from Vancouver. As we descended the mountain pass, the town nestled below us, I said to M, "Tell me where I must turn after we pass Merritt."

I am a better navigator and M is far better at keeping his cool when driving in an unknown area. The gnaw alerted me to the realisation that I would be driving and M navigating when we needed to turn off the highway, our roles reversed. But we had been to this park before, probably four or five years earlier, so it wasn't totally new territory.

With Merritt whizzing past us on the left, I knew there was a turn we needed to take coming up but couldn't remember how soon after Merritt it was. Again I asked M to tell me where to turn.

"Just keep going," he said.

"But we have to turn somewhere. Tell me where to turn."

M hesitated and said cryptically, "5A - just keep going."

I struggled to keep my voice neutral.

"Michiel, where must I turn? Tell me where to turn!"

Which part didn't he understand?

"I'll tell you after we get past this bend," he responded.

There was an exit from the highway just past the bend.

"Don't we have to go off here?" I asked with mounting frustration.

M hesitated again. It was too late. I couldn't make the exit without some dangerous driving. We whizzed past. It would've been easy if there was another exit just a few kilometres along, but we were already starting to climb the next mountain pass. I knew there wouldn't be another one for kilometres.

"I did a better job in France with a high-level map than you've done in Merritt with directions," I said bitingly. I was furious.

"It's not a big deal," M responded. It was a big deal to me and now he knew it. My knuckles tightened over the wheel and my brow set into a deep scowl. I floored it up the hill.

"Brenda, pull over I'll drive! Pull over!"

"No, I don't want to! Just find somewhere we can turn around."

Happy Holidays Honey! Not only were we going to be late and drive who knows how far before we could turn around but, now, with my set scowl and jaw, I was getting some serious wrinkles and lines on my face. So much for trying to avoid lines around the eyes!

It was 30kms before an obscure country off-ramp afforded us the opportunity to turn around. After M's second more polite request, I pulled over and let him drive. On our return journey I took a couple of deep breaths and exercised my facial muscles to release some of the tension. I knew I had over-reacted - a little.

I turned down the music and apologised.

"I'm sorry I got so bent out of shape."

"You're easily angered today," he replied and turned up the music.

Admittedly, it was a valid comment. Was the apology accepted? I wasn't too sure.

We found our way in stilted silence and without anymore fanfare. We apologised to Ron and Jean for being a little late because "we missed the turn at Merritt."

Ron graciously conceded, "I've done that before. It's not a big deal."

"That's what I said," M chimed.

"Except that his wife was driving," I explained, "and for her it was a big deal."

"Ah, you were navigating," Ron looked at M, "so it was your fault."

"That's what I said," I smiled.

Apology accepted.