A Simple Christmas Gift

I spied the two fruit mince pies straight away. They were accompanied by two pieces of fruit cake, offset against a red Christmas tree shaped plate and wrapped in clear cellophane. I hoped that the gift was for me.

Allie must have seen me looking because she said, "Glenda and Will were over for coffee last night and Glenda asked me to give you this gift."

I picked up the red plate. What a treat! It was just what I wanted to enjoy with a cup of tea on Christmas morning. And it is just what I didn't have. Mom's Christmas baking always included fruit mince pies.

Every Christmas I want to find time to do some baking and welcome Christmas in a restfully prepared manner. And every Christmas I don't. Every year there is a jolt of panic somewhere around the 20th of the month. This week? This week! Christmas is this week?!

And somewhere in there I quietly ask M, "Did you buy me a gift to unwrap on Christmas morning?" I see the panic in his eyes. No. "Good, then please don't because I don't have one for you." The relief is mutual.

And now, on Christmas Day, a simple gift of fruit mince pies and Christmas cake is pure delight for me. Later I say to M, "Next year, if you want to give me a gift for Christmas, wrap up some fruit mince pies."

Catapulting Brooks

M and Brooks have this fun game Brooks likes to play. It's called 'Catapult Brooks'. They discovered it purely by chance.

Brooks regards the study as her domain. Actually, it's her primary domain. Because, as she often reminds us, the entire apartment is her domain. And so, when she's out her cage, you can't do anything in the study without her approval and say so. You can't move a piece of paper or put a binder away without her acting like a member of the morality police, coming to check it out and make sure it is above board. She flies onto the object in question with a gust of bird chatter sporting her fluffed-up-feathers-I'm-intimidating look.

One day she landed on a binder M was returning to the cupboard. She ran around on the binder cocking her head to the left and then to the right in her frenzy to find out what it was all about. M flipped her off the binder so that he could put it away. In a high-pitched squawking flash, Brooks was back on the binder and M flipped her off once again. Brooks is relentless, especially in the pursuit of action and fun, and so she headed straight back onto the binder. This time though she swung herself around, facing away from M, tucked her wings tightly by her side and waited for M to flip her off the binder once more.

And hence, an ever-so-much-fun game of catapult was discovered.

Cheap Red Wine

"Do you want to join me in glass of wine?" I ask M.
"What do we have?" The connoisseur asks.
"Well, there's this Californian Merlot," I reply. "Otherwise, I have a Canadian Chardonnay in the fridge."
"Red, please."
I uncork the bottle and reach for a wine glass.
"Let it breathe first!" Connoisseur M corrects me.
"Breathe first?" I reply. "It's a cheap red wine. Cheap red wines don't have to breathe first. They're drinking wines. You just pour them and enjoy!"
M looks at me skeptically as I pour first one glass and then the next.

I stopped having a glass of wine while I cooked a long time ago. The empty calories were finding their way to my hips. But now that my teeth have metal fences on them and my mouth hurts, it's a treat to enjoy a small pleasure that doesn't involve any chewing.

M and I clink glasses. I take a sip and put my wine glass on the counter next to the yams waiting to go into the oven. That's going to be my next little pleasure: bright orange yams, naturally sweet in taste and mashed nice and soft. It's a perfect pairing with red wine and a great accompaniment to a sore mouth.

An Enormous Applause

"Don't go just yet," I think as some patrons get up and make their way to the exit. "The show's not over. They haven't played 'The Radetzky March' yet." And anyone who has watched more than one DVD of an André Rieu concert knows he plays that piece at every concert.

André Rieu is a star performer. He has a winning formula which gets a quiet appreciative audience on their feet baying for more. His formula works like this: turn out a brilliant performance straight off the bat with an hour long first and second half. At the end of the second half let the audience know you are playing just one more piece. Some people will leave, the uninitiated that is, but the majority will stand to applaud and call you back for an encore. After some encouragement, you concede and offer up a rousing encore like 'The Radetzky March'.

Of course, the audience is delighted, standing and clapping, and from there you just keep upping the ante until you have a crowd of classic music patrons resembling a rambunctious rock concert. Give them the most reverent rendition of 'Amazing Grace', accompanied by a piccolo and a bag pipe, they will ever hear, pop champagne on stage, play a salsa piece, get them to sing their own national anthem and show them just how much fun can be had in only half an hour.

Pop, pop, pop. Adults pop the colourful balloons dropped from the ceiling like happy kids. M and I hoot and holler. Even though it is a week night, we don't want to go home. Oh what a blast! We're having a good time. When the orchestra eventually leaves the stage, Jean says to me, "That was a long encore." I smile, "That wasn't an encore, that was part of the show."

André Rieu entertained us so well, we're already talking about getting tickets for next year's show in Vancouver and making this an annual tradition. And so, in André Rieu's own words, give him 'an enormous applause', he knows how to get us coming back for more.

Words in Language

I discovered my love for the English language when I was a secondary school English teacher in South Africa. I became enthralled with the structure of the English language as I studied it and taught it to students far less passionate about it than I was. I developed a deep affection for words.

I have just started reading Mark Buchanan's book, 'Your God is Too Safe', which I whipped off the library's shelf as soon as I saw it. Mark Buchanan's writing not only puts fire to your faith but his use of the English language is beautiful to read. I would read his books just to read his use of words. In the foreword to his book was a comment by Eugene Peterson that resonated deeply with me.

Eugene Peterson explains how the words we use, whether written or spoken, shape and form life. Our use of language has the ability to generate life, deepen our experience of life and enrich the life we live - or not. The flipside is that, if used loosely and without care, words have the ability to cheapen and devalue life. Words can also be used deliberately to damage and injure often times in subversive ways. If we care about life, we should also care about how language is used.

This encourages me to read books like Mark Buchanan's where language is skillfully used. It encourages me to continue to practise and learn the craft of writing so that the words I use may shape and form life, bringing hope and encouragement in a hard world. Do you remember the lie in the childhood chant, "Sticks and stones may break my bones but words will never harm me"?

Red and White

At last, M and I have got to sport our Olympics 2010 red and white gloves! We bought them as must haves during the 2010 Olympics in February and didn't get much wear out of them then. February was warm; we were busy and, before the end of the Olympics, we jetted off to visit family in sunny South Africa.

Last night we ventured out into the cold to see the Christmas lights at Capilano Suspension Bridge. We dressed in layers, sported our down jackets - black for M and impractical white for me, donned toques and, best of all, our red and white mittens.

Do you know that to keep your hands toasty warm you should wear mittens rather than gloves? Your fingers keep each other warm when they are all huddled together in mittens. In a glove, each finger, separated from the others, has to work harder to keep itself warm. And, as we have found, fails miserably when you are in sub-zero temperatures on the slopes.

M and I forked out good money for expensive ski gloves our first winter season on the slopes. Before long, on the chairlift taking us to the top of the ski run, we were complaining of cold fingers. One night, running in for groceries at Superstore, I saw a bin of leather mittens with sheepskin lining at a quarter of the price of our high-faluting ones. I was desperate for warm fingers and got us each a pair. They were fabulous at keeping our fingers warm regardless of how low the temperature dropped below zero.

And last night, our red and white 'We love Canada' mittens did a sterling job. Apart from the warmth, they are such happy mittens sporting the Olympic rings on the outside and a white maple leaf on the inside of the mittens. Feeling happily Canadian, I asked Ron to take our picture, tourist-style, with the Royal Canadian Mounted Police bear at the entrance to the Trading Post store.

Winter is a lot more fun dressed in red and white.

A Simple Delight

"What are we going to do with these baskets?" M once asked. He hoped I'd say, "Let's throw them away," as they had been stored in our locker for almost a year.
"I know, I'll use them in the kitchen," was my reply.
I could see the groan stir in M's face.
"It will look nice. I'll use them for fruit and veggies."
I seized them from him with delight.

And a delight they are. They stand side by side on the counter, next to my cookery books. They are at their happiest when they are filled with fresh produce from the market: tomatoes, avocados, oranges, cloves of garlic and limes. The colours make for a burst of happiness in my kitchen.

I grew up in the eighties when, as maturing girls and young women, we wanted to stay as far from the kitchen and domesticity as we could. I prided myself that I didn't know much how to cook. Why would I? I was going to be a career woman. No kitchen duty for me.

And yet I still have the pages of my first cookbook hosting recipes cut from magazines and pasted on to its pear-yellow pages. As a teenager, I often made the Sunday evening pancakes in summer or the steamed pudding in winter; and this from a young girl growing up in a culture which said that there was more to life than the kitchen.

Twenty years later the young women of today live in a food craze culture. The cooking channel is much watched, no expense is spared to buy the best quality food at upmarket stores, food blogs abound and it's an honour to be known as a 'foodie' - an aficionado of food.

Yesterday, at a client's office, I overheard two young women, no older than twenty-two, talking food. I caught snippets of conversation about the quality of the food and the competence of the chef. Obviously, this is just the right place in downtown Vancouver to eat. I wondered how much money they were prepared to charge to their credit card to eat there. I shuddered at the thought.

I'm no foodie. And that's not say I scoff at those who are. I wouldn't mind being more competent in the kitchen. I like to read recipes and I certainly like to eat. Yet, I still want to appreciate the simple delight of fruit and vegetables cuddled together in a basket for the simple reason that I find them attractive not because the current culture has made them an icon to be worshipped.

The Joy of a Simple Shoe Box

Here is an excerpt from the article I wrote on Operation Christmas Child which M and I co-ordinate on the North Shore. The article was published in the Deep Cove Crier earlier this month:

Every year many North Shore residents pack a shoe box filled with toys, school supplies and hygiene items as a gift for a child elsewhere in the world. Since 1993 Operation Christmas Child, a project of Samaritan’s Purse, has distributed gift-filled shoe boxes to children who are often living in situations affected by war, poverty and natural disaster.

The joy of the shoe box, I’ve noticed, is not just that of the child who receives it in a far-off part of the world. The joy is also that of the individual who selects a toy for the boy or girl who will receive the shoe box and then adds to it a note pad, pens and pencils, bars of soap, hard candy and other items appropriate for the gender and age of the child.

Many individuals, families, schools, churches, businesses and community groups across the North Shore participate in this annual fun event. For some, it’s an event that they plan for throughout the year. Cathy Shorten lost her home and car in an apartment fire eighteen months ago. Despite having to rebuild her life, she continues to fill as many shoe boxes as she can, buying items on sale throughout the year.

“I started with one shoe box in 1999,” says Cathy, “and this year I will fill twenty shoe boxes. It’s become a hobby. I collect items all year long and my friends help too. I don’t have grandchildren and so I see these children as my grandchildren.”

And it’s not just adults who fill the shoe boxes, children love shopping for their shoe boxes too. For Desirée Botha, mother of two and administrator at Cove Church, filling the shoe boxes is an annual family tradition. “Children don’t have a choice about the situation they find themselves in,” says Desirée, “and we want to teach our girls, from a young age, that not everyone has what they have”. The Botha family let their daughters choose whether they want to fill a shoe box for a girl or a boy. “Our girls buy crafts and crayons for the other children because that is what they like,” says Desirée.

It just takes one shoe box to make a difference. You can use any standard sized shoe box of your own or pick one up from Ingledews at Park Royal North, Blenz Coffee Shop on Lonsdale or North Shore Alliance Church at 201 East 23rd Street. Churches in your area may also be participating. And it doesn’t have to be a shoe box. Shatterproof plastic containers that are a standard shoe box size can also be used.

There are a few do’s and don’ts to packing a shoe box. Do pack a balanced shoe box appropriate for the age group and gender you have chosen. A balanced shoe box will include small toys, hygiene items, hard candy, school supplies and a personal note for the child who will receive your shoe box. Don’t pack in used items, toothpaste (customs regulation), anything that will harm or scare children (e.g. war and Halloween toys), food items and anything that will melt or freeze.

Every gift-filled shoe box is given unconditionally, regardless of religion, gender, or race to children in need to bring hope in difficult circumstances. Shoe boxes from Western Canada are directed to Central and South America. Last year, Canadians filled over 640,000 shoe boxes with gifts destined for children in the developing world. Of this number, the North Shore Collection Centre, based out of North Shore Alliance Church, collected over 2,400 shoe boxes.

It’s fun thing to do and as Cathy Shorten said, “It’s a bit like being Santa Claus. It’s neat to think that the kids will open their gifts and be so thrilled.”

Mid-Life Maintenance

I suck the saliva shimmering in my mouth and swallow. "Whoth idea wath thith?" I ask M. He commiserates with a sympathetic smile and cuddles me in his arms. I let a few tears slide on to his shoulder. "Thith ith mitherable," I lisp again.
"Ag, Pops, I feel for you," he commiserates once more.

I see the sympathy in his eyes. My mouth already hurts and my lips bulge over the braces that will be resident on my teeth for two years. It's not pretty. I know it. And I see it in M's eyes. My husband doesn't lie to me. And I love that about him.

As unattractive as the braces are, it's the retainer I have to wear for the first two months that is the worst right now. It causes a speech impediment and saliva collects between it and my palate. I'm lisping and swallowing. My daily word count has dropped drastically. I say as little as possible.

Eating is a sad experience: soft food, slow chewing, and little conversation. But it's the food collecting between the retainer and my palate that grosses me out. I'm done. I whip out the offender in the bathroom, rinse the food off it and leave the retainer languishing alone on the counter.

"But you've got nice teeth" and "There's nothing wrong with your teeth" were common comments from friends when I shared about my mid-life maintenance. Yes, I know, but it's all thanks to a toffee and being a teenager.

I remember the day twenty plus years ago. A history assignment was due. I chewed a toffee, a Toff-O-Lux to be precise, while I worked on the assignment in the William Cullen Library at Wits University. Crunch! I bit into a filling and the part of the tooth that the toffee had successfully broken off from the back of my mouth. There wasn't much of my molar left standing. The dentist decided to pull what was left of the tooth. And that was that. Until now.

Twenty-four years on, my bottom teeth have slowly been slipping into the cavity, and my top teeth are moving too, as the structure of my mouth is compromised. If I want teeth I can rely on in my later years, I should correct it now.

I finally finish my dinner.
"I'll clean up," says M. "You go clean your teeth."
I do.

"That took long. I was going to come and look for you," M says when I finally join him in the kitchen.
"Not another morsel of food is passing my lips tonight," I reply.
"Are you wearing your retainer?' he asks.
"No, I couldn't face it after the saga of getting the food out of my braces."
"Oh, that's why I can understand what you're saying," he replies.
"Yes, and when you see me do this," I pull my lips into a forced smile. "I'm not smiling. I'm resting my cheeks from the metal brackets that are cutting into them."
"Ag, Pops," M says again, "I feel for you."

I'm feeling pretty sorry for myself too. I'm mourning the festive food I won't get to eat this Christmas season and the lipstick I won't be wearing because it marks the clear braces on my top teeth. But on the upside, soon I'll look dynamite in that form fitting black skirt and that is something to smile about or, at least, rest the inside of my mouth about.

Yeah! A Sick Day

"Are you sure you should go in today?" M asks as I put the finishing touches to my work outfit. "You don't want to make Carole sick too," he adds. He is right. I shouldn't spread the joy of my cold around.

But what to do? Now I'm all dressed up for work with nowhere to go. I don't feel terrible, just a little more than a bit off-colour, so no need to head back to bed. I make another cup of tea and head for the study looking for something to do. I guess I could clear this pile of papers leaning Pisa-like on my desk.

I pick up the newspaper on the top of the pile. Yes, I want to phone Jackie and thank her and her daughters for posing for a photograph for an article I wrote on the Samaritan's Purse shoe boxes and which made it into the North Shore News. The photograph that is, not the article. The article made it into the Deep Cove Crier, so all is good.

It's a bit too early to call someone in Vancouver but South Africa will do. I call home and have a good talk with my Mom. Next I call Jackie and we have a good talk too. "You should have sick days more often," Jackie says as we end our conversation. "I know, at least we get to have a talk," I laugh.

I finish and publish two blogs I wrote the morning before and feel satisfied. I'm enjoying this sick day. What else can I knock off my personal to do list? Mmm, I should start my next article for the Deep Cove Crier. I start do some research and put in a call to the owner of the business I'm writing about to ask a few questions. I sneeze; my eyes water and I reach for a tissue.

I don't care for the sore throat, the stuffy nose or red tired eyes but this cloud of cold has its benefits. I'm pleased I took Doctor M's advice to stay at home today. Well, at least for the morning, this afternoon there is some work that can't wait until I'm feeling better but there is always tomorrow morning and I'm sure I won't be feeling any better by then.

A Norfolk Island Pine

For the first time in a couple of years, M and I will have a Christmas tree. For a long time we tree-sat a friend's artificial Christmas tree while he was working in the Middle East. When he returned from his extended work period abroad, we returned his tree in its box.

We talked about buying another tree. We didn't want a real tree that drops needles, dries out, becomes a fire hazard and has to be disposed of at the end of the season. We shopped around for the artificial kind only to find that we weren't prepared to pay over $200 for a bit of cheer that will last a month at the most, even if it comes around once a year. No, we'll wait for the after season sales we said. We did, only to find that in January we had lost our taste to buy a tree only to take it home and store it until the end of the year.

And so a couple of years went by with no tree in our home, until this Saturday night. Shopping at WalMart, the first thing I see as we walk in the door is a pint size pine in a pot. Perfect, it won't dry out and this tree doesn't look like it will drop needles. Its leaves are soft and feathery. And at $12.50 it is in our price range. I look at M, "Please, let's buy a Christmas tree." We choose our tree and into the cart our nearly waist high tree goes.

Not familiar with this particular store, we get lost up and down aisles looking for items: cleaning materials, packing tape, shoe polish, a heating pad for M's sore shoulder and bird seed. All our items finally tracked down and placed in the cart with our Christmas tree; M pulls me away from the book stand and says, "We should buy a card for Pete."

We follow the signs and find the cards. M takes the cart from me and leaves it tucked away behind a display in the middle aisle out of everyone's way. We look high and low, there just isn't a suitable greeting card for Pete. None of the blank cards will do. We head out to the middle aisle and our cart. M walks up a few aisles and starts to look lost.

"Did you forget where you parked it?" I ask.

"I left it about here," he says.

The only cart in the vicinity of here, unattended, is empty - tucked away, nice and empty. We walk the aisles quickly looking for someone who may have mistakenly made off with our cart and our Christmas tree. We don't find a case of mistaken identity. I feel frustration and tiredness fill me.

Well, there's nothing else to do. We have to start again. I head for another Christmas tree and M gets another cart. Now that we know where everything is, we delegate who is getting what. In less than ten minutes, everything is packed in the cart. Wow, that was quick. We head for the checkout counter. "Did another Christmas tree come through here?" I want to ask the person at the checkout. But she wouldn't get my tired humour.

Bizarre. What was that all about? But at least we still have a lovely Norfolk Island Pine for a Christmas tree this year. And, for all we know, it may be the one we originally chose. When I showed our replacement tree to M, he said, "That looks like our first tree." That's what I thought too.

Surely, WalMart staff isn't that efficient to unpack an unattended cart so quickly. Besides which, where did they put M's cap which he left in the cart? And was it just co-incidence that there was an empty cart where M left our cart? Bizarre. Bizarre.

Hawaii on a Bun

When it comes to eating out, M follows my lead - mostly. More often than not we order the same main course and the same thing to drink - two of everything. We even like our steak cooked the same way - medium well. Liking food as I do, M has come to trust what I order.

In our first year of marriage we visited Holland so that I could meet the extended family. Out for coffee and a piece of cake in Bronkhorst with his aunt and uncle, M ordered the town's namesake, Bronkhorstkoek, to go with his coffee. I decided on plain apple tart and cream. M got a boring sliver of square cake on his plate while my apple tart was robust with a generous dollop of cream. Rather than look at my order with longing and his with disappointment, over the years, M has switched to ordering what I order. Mostly.

Recently we were at our favourite haunt for burgers, Bob's in Sumas USA, with our friends who first introduced us to this amazing burger place (see Bob's my Burger February 2010). Waiting at the border to cross into the States, I say to M, "Order the Hawaiian burger. You won't be disappointed." Instead M orders the Aloha. "Are you sure you don't want the Hawaiian?" I ask as I place my order. M seems happy with his choice. No well, fine. I did check. Our burgers arrive. My Hawaiian swells with pineapple rings, grilled onions and stacks of back bacon. M's has the pineapple rings and grilled onions but no back bacon. It's not nearly as impressive.

M eyes my burger. "I told you to order the Hawaiian," I say as a slip a roast potato fry off his plate. I prefer the traditional slim cut French fries to the roast potato size fries M orders, but a little taste is still good. "Next time, go Hawaiian," I say as I remove the top part of the bun and tackle my monster burger in my usual way, with a knife and fork.

A House to Dream By

I stride up Lonsdale headed to do business. Fifty feet from our building I spy the open house sign. Bonus, bonus, bonus! The heritage house a couple of doors up from our apartment is for sale and today, a week day, is open house for realtors. I take a sharp left, go through the bold black door and step into another world.

"Are you a realtor?" I'm asked. No just a dreamer I want to reply.
"I've always wanted to know what this house looks like on the inside," I say. "I'm not in the market to buy."
"Well, today you're going to find out," says the realtor. I sure am and I'm delighted.

Being a lookey-loo, I feast my eyes as quickly as I can without being intrusive. The realtor trusts me to go upstairs on my own but keeps watch at the bottom of the stairs. I'm only here to steal ideas, storylines, atmosphere and history. I'm smitten with the romance of the house: high ceilings, a marble fireplace, bold windows, interleading rooms, crystal chandeliers and the black and white Italian tile. There is ample evidence that the current occupants are artists and musicians.

As I come down the stairs, I start to see a story unfold: a story of intrigue, conflict, resolution and life. Somehow I know that should I ever write a novel it will be centred on a house. And not a house of great grandeur, I don't care for large homes; they are often all show, little class and no character. No, it will be a house similar to this one. But even this one will need some alterations to go with the story.

I head back up Lonsdale redecorating the kitchen and bathroom. I keep some of the furniture, especially the large white framed mirror propped against the wall in the dining room. I change the colour on the walls in the living room; it will need to be a bolder and stronger colour to go with the story. The bedroom gets a dramatic bed with posts and bright art on the walls. I leave the desk just where it is but the artist in the house will be a writer not a painter and the musician will play the piano, not an electric guitar.

My dreams stop with the red light that tells me not to cross the busy intersection. Before I bring that house to life in words, I have bills to pay and accounting work to do. I cross on the green light and step into the life that helps to pay those bills and one day fund a dream.

A French Flair Halloween

This year I celebrated Halloween for the first time by accepting an invitation to a Halloween lunch with four other ladies in our apartment building. I was the only one under the age of seventy and couldn't participate in reminiscing about the dashing looks of Clark Gable and James Stewart. But I could participate in savouring the audacious lunch hosted by the oldest in our group, Gerty (85).

Gerty festooned her apartment with orange and black balloons, a carved pumpkin, black dinner plates and dark purple champagne glasses. In the spirit of Halloween, Gerty had black witches' hats, orange pumpkin hats, or red and black wigs for us to wear as well as black garlands with orange pumpkins. I opted for the dramatic black pointed hat.

I brought the starter nibblies to enjoy while we sipped Gerty's delightful raspberry champagne surprise from large bubble wine glasses. Gerty loves to entertain and Halloween is a good excuse to throw a luncheon party. I was already having fun but Gerty's recital of the lunch menu had me doing back flips.

"Ladies," she announced in her Jamaican accent, "I am quite hooked on 'French Cooking at Home' on the cooking channel and so this is our menu. First we'll start with a vegetable soup and home-made olive bread. Our second course will be the anchovy salad Freda brought. And then the main course is a baked tortière, stuffed cabbage, roasted carrots and butter squash, asparagus with stuffed olives and a seafood risotto. Ginger brought pumpkin pie for dessert and Iris baked lemon squares."

Our contributions to the lunch were meagre offerings compared to the spread Gerty had single-handedly pulled off. "You must have been so busy preparing all this!" we gasped. "Oh," Gerty dismissed the praise, "I do a little bit every day and then it isn't too much. Besides which" she smiled, "you are all my guinea pigs."

What a time to be a guinea pig. What a privilege to participate in this extravagant meal. What an honour to be invited to Gerty's Halloween celebration with its French flair. M was just as thrilled with the leftovers I took home for him. He lost out on the atmosphere but he still got to enjoy all the full flavour of Gerty's French cooking.

A Crown of Feathers

We've turned a corner, I would say. We don't talk anymore about finding another home for her, M would say. Not that another home for Brooks would've happened in reality because her saving grace has been that when one of us is ready to send her back where she came from, the other is defending her.

And so Brooks has stayed and we have persevered. We always had the magical six months to carry us through her bad behaviour and busy antics. We'll give it six months, we would say, six months to settle down and adjust, otherwise...

Brooks made it past the six month mark a couple of weeks back. And she's pretty relieved she gets to keep her pride of place as M's crown of feathers. Since M's saved his neck by stopping her shoulder rides, Brooks has taken up residence on his head. She holds on to M's hair as though she's sitting on flattened elephant grass. She loves her fast rides through the apartment when she has to hold on tightly.

She loves busyness and excitement and when there's not enough of it, she makes her own, chattering at a high pitch looking for something, anything, that she can dive bomb. Then she and M play fight until someone gets hurt, always M with a bite to his fingers or wrist. When I can't take the high pitched chatter from the play fight any longer I hear my mother's voice: "Will you two stop fighting!" "But she loves it. She's having a ball," comes the reply. "Yes, but someone's going to get hurt." I hear my mother's voice again.

I've discovered that Brooks turns to mush when I talk to her in a high pitched cootchy-coo voice. She melts like butter in a hot pan and so I use it all the time to win her over. She even does her love jig for me, usually only reserved for M, when I talk sweet nothings to her. The other night, in her sweet moment of listening to my nothings, I high-pitched, "See Brooks, I told you I'll beat you. I told you I'll win." (see Bad, Bad Brooks May 2010)

She wagged her little body and chirped her little chirp.

Fried Pears

If you haven't noticed, I like food and I like to eat. I also like to cook, most especially, when it is just for M and myself because then I'm not striving for perfection.

I must share with you my latest delight: fried pears.

Melt butter in the pan, add ground coriander and brown sugar and stir. Add the pears, either sliced or chopped very chunky, and fry for as little or as long as you like. Add cracked black pepper.

Now if you think this is a dessert you are wrong. It is an excellent accompaniment to pork anything. I've served it with a pork loin and with kasseler. I first tasted it in a salad. It is just real yummy. Try it, you will like it!

Fish and Chips in White Rock

A favourite ending to a favourite way to spend a Sunday afternoon (see Royal Albert Tea October 2010) is with fish and chips in White Rock. Perhaps because, after visiting Nell and Joe, we are close to White Rock any way or because it is a meal we have enjoyed a number of times with them in Steveston, another great place for fish and chips.

But first a stroll along the board walk to work up our appetites. Gorgeous, just gorgeous. The sun shines, the clouds are sparse, the air is brisk and mildly warm; the board walk bustles with patrons. We take a trip out on to the pier. It is packed. I start to feel like I'm caught in the sardine run up the Natal Coast.

We leave everyone on the pier and head for our fish and chips. My restaurant of choice is a pub with heavy dramatic chandeliers, red leather couches, brown leather chairs, dark corners, gothic candles in empty wine bottles, heavy drapery and a brick wall. I love the drama combined with the simplicity of a meal of fish and chips. We sip our room temperature lemon water and talk.

This is a favourite moment of my life.

Royal Albert Tea

"She was heartbroken. We thought we were going to lose her to love sickness," says Nell. "He was very good looking."
"Like Joe?" asks M.
Nell looks across at her aged husband. "Oh, he was good looking but this man was special."
We laugh. Joe shrugs his shoulders and sips his tea.

This is a favourite way to spend a sunny Sunday afternoon: drinking tea from Royal Albert China, nibbling Dutch treats and being regaled by Nell and Joe's stories of yester year. "It's so nice that you kids come and see us," she says. "When I was young I didn't like old people."

Nell launches into her next story: "Once at church there was this old man who couldn't hear and he asked me to find the song in the song book for him. And so I did, but I found the wrong one for him. He couldn't hear that he was singing the wrong song. We young people laughed so hard we had to leave the church." She pauses. "It was funny then but not very nice."

"And now you can't hear," says M speaking louder for Nell to catch his words.
"I know," Nell says. "I spent $3,000 on a hearing aid I don't like to use."
"Yes," adds Joe, "she hears much better now that it lies on the kitchen counter."
We laugh and, after 60 plus years of marriage, Nell lets the comment go.

Joe takes the gap and starts to tell us of life in the slow lane of old age. At 91 there are a lot of things that he has had to let go and can't do anymore. Nell jumps in and explains how a caregiver comes in once a week to help Joe bathe.

"Even if he baths today, and the caregiver comes tomorrow, she will bath him again. You know," Nell continues, "where I come from, things were a little different. We bathed once a year at Christmas." We all laugh again.

I look at the old woman across the table from me and I search the folds of her skin for the youthful dark-haired beauty she claims to have been. I picture her as a girl growing up dirt poor in rural Norway. "By the time I was eleven, I lost all my teeth," she will say and Joe will sympathetically nod his head. And yet, she tells her stories of poverty with gusto and oodles of humour. Nell loves to laugh.

"God gave you a back-bone not a wish-bone," she often says. And I know that philosophy of life explains her transition from serfdom poverty in Norway to a comfortable middle-class retirement in Canada serving tea in her best tea pot. With, of course, oodles of stories in between which fill the 94 years of her life.

Other than the tea and treats and the sense of family we enjoy on our visits to Nell and Joe, I value the life lessons I glean from their stories, lessons on how to live life well, right up to the end.

A Thanksgiving Turkey

Candles flicker. The children talk happily at the dinner table. Adults joke in the kitchen filling their plates with turkey meat and ham, gem squash and peas, mashed potato and cauliflower au gratin. I sip champagne and live Will and Glenda's stories of the family trip to Europe this past summer (see Memoir on Paris July 2010).

The opulence of Versailles, the majesty of the Eiffel Tower and the sounds of Barcelona accompany our Thanksgiving turkey dinner replete with autumn leaves scattered on the table. Stories of travel abound. I feel wanderlust stir in me again.

I call my thoughts back to this Canadian autumn and our Thanksgiving dinner with long-time friends: thirteen years of friendship with Will and Glenda, and an even longer friendship with Reid and Allie, who were guests at our wedding. We catch up on news and happenings in each other's lives.

Were we together for Thanksgiving dinner last year? somebody asks. And we all rattle our memories twelve months. Yes, Glenda says, remember it was at our place and such and such were there too. Yes, yes, that's right, we all agree. Was that just a year ago? It seems so much longer.

A long while after dinner and dessert, we pull ourselves from pending slumber on the couches to collect in the hot tub. The October night air is brisk on my skin. I enjoy the warmth of the water. Glenda joins me, as do Will and Reid. M hops in and the water rises even more. This is going to overflow as soon as Allie gets in, someone says. Yes, says Will, this hot tub is a bit small for six adults and a turkey.

We laugh, and laugh again. Put Paris and Barcelona on hold, this hot tub is just the place I want to be.

A Snail Snooze

The sun lulls us and we eat our tuna sandwiches in companionable silence. M sits on the table and stares into the space just above the ground. I sit on the bench with my back against the table and watch a snail slowly trail across the gravel towards the grass.

Not having legs, I'm fascinated how he moves his black slimy body. And not having a shell, I guess he is actually a slug. I've seen a number of his compatriots squished into a mess by bike tires on the road. I wonder where he is journeying to. He's in no hurry; he has all afternoon to get there.

He slides onto the grass and a small piece of gravel stuck to the end of his body slides with him. I watch as he curls up underneath the leaf of a dandelion weed ready to take his Saturday afternoon snooze.

"Look!" I say to M. "This snail has just curled up to go to sleep."

M opens his eyes, "Perhaps tomorrow after church, I should go and pick up the shoe boxes from Willingdon."

I look back at the slug. The wonder at his little life is going to be mine alone. M and I fall silent again, he, preoccupied with thoughts about deadlines and Samaritan's Purse shoe boxes, me, I watch a slug sleep.

I look again at M. His eyes are closed, his head bowed, enjoying the warm sun. I take my cue from him and close my eyes too. And so we snooze in the mid-afternoon sun: M and me - and a slug.

An Outhouse

"Hey, have you seen that these long-drops have skylights?" I shout to M as he bikes ahead of me onto the grass and to the picnic table where we always have our rest break. Pretty stylish for a forest.

I get off the bike scolding myself, "Outhouse, outhouse, I've got to remember it is an outhouse." After thirteen years of living in Canada I still often default to South African terminology (see Bob's My Burger February 2010). And 'long-drop' is one of them.

Once in a conversation with Jean, we were talking camping and I was merrily versing about long-drops. Jean interrupted me, "They're called outhouses." Whatever else I was going to say went down the toilet.

"What? Don't you like the word 'long-drop'?"

"No, it is too graphic."

South African frankness meets Canadian politeness.

And looking at these cabin style units with their clear Perspex skylight roofs, I suspect they've earned the more stylish title of 'outhouse'. But, whichever way I word it and for whichever reason I use it, certain little functions still have a long way to drop.

A Blessing of Friends

The morning is crisply cool with a hint of the warm sun-filled day to come. The mid-week traffic raises the tempo on the street and the sidewalk. With the rush of life around me and the cool air on my sandaled feet, I'm looking forward to the peaceful serenity of Lucy's living room. I spy the window to her apartment; my feet hurry and stillness settles dropping slow in my chest.

I count my blessings in friends: women who enrich my life, women who laugh with me, who cry with me, who share their lives with me and who drink tea with me. Lucy and I visit once a month to drink vanilla rooibos tea in her delicate blue and white tea mugs. We sit at the window and enjoy the morning rays filtering through warming our conversation.

What I love most about my times with Lucy is hearing her laugh. Her laughter is filled with joy. She laughs at my stories of the antics of Brooks and married life. Her quick, easy and hearty laughter fills my soul. With each outburst that fills the room, Lucy is teaching me to enjoy life. Lucy's hardships are many. Her laughter does not come from a place of ease. And yet, she laughs readily and fully.

I am grateful for the presence of friends in my life. Friends show me that I am not alone. Busy with life, I often focus on tasks and deadlines, and sideline my friends. And for that reason alone I know that they are friends. There are no recriminations at the lapsed time, just pleasure at seeing each other again and catching up where we left off.

I continually strive to simplify my life and make room for friends. I remember what Robert J. Wicks said about friendships in his book 'Riding the Dragon' (see To Mom, With Love May 2010):

'Lost in our own schedules, needs and little problems, we can't respond in a generous, genuine, helpful way. Surprisingly, this is more a sin of the wealthy than the poor; more apt to be a fault of the religious elite than those of a simple faith.'

May I be a woman of simple faith.

Words by Which to Fly

The leaves are falling golden brown. Apples crunch with each bite. Morning mist gathers over the water in the inlet. The air is warm; the first snow on the mountains has yet to arrive. This is autumn in Vancouver at its sunny warm best.

This autumn morning thoughts from summer Cannon Beach came to mind. Surprisingly, it wasn't the beaches, seagulls or jagged mountains reaching to the sea that occupied my thoughts. It was a quote I didn't include in Cannon Beach Over and Out (see September 2010). Namely, 'I fail my own moral judgements'.

How do I call others and myself out to a better and fuller life by making sound choices and also allow others to make mistakes without judgement? And how do I keep the words, 'I told you so' in check? Or better yet, 'Don't look to me now to rescue you.'

In that vein, I hear the words, 'You made your bed; you must lie in it'. There is truth to these words. I've learnt that they are best used in the first person pronoun to acknowledge situations I have created myself, to accept responsibility for them and to find a way forward. They are hard and necessary words others need to hear, but are to be spoken with compassion to encourage the hearers to accept responsibility for their choices.

'By the grace of God, there go I' are sobering words by which to fly. As are ones my friend, forthright Lois, has taught me, 'Did anyone ask your opinion? Mind your own business'. How we long to have the world look as we see fit. How we long to change others so that their lives look as we believe they should.

But really, if I was in control, would it be that much better? The last words to echo in my head are, 'Your kingdom come, your will be done'. Now these are words by which to fly.

Autumn Ride

We're still getting out for our more than occasional bike ride (see Bike Hard August 2010). The leaves have started to change and now scatter themselves like confetti heralding our efforts. I love the brisk air of warm autumn days, the crunch of its dry leaves and the gold and red colours. I don't have a favourite season; each season has its own delights. And this is a great season to be out biking.

I'm proud that the huffs and puffs on my rides are fewer. Another marker in my increasing bike fitness. But I still have a way to go, as M politely illustrated this past weekend. When we bike, we pass walkers and skate boarders. Sometimes even roller bladers on the uphills. We seldom pass other bikers unless, of course, it's a dad out with his child who still uses training wheels.

On our return 10km trip, after our rest break, a woman cyclist breezed past us. Nothing unusual in that, except M says, "That's the second time she's passed us." Nah! I don't believe him. "It's true," he says, "She passed us earlier."

I watch as her firm trim legs pedal hard to increase the distance between us. Her slightly ample butt hugs the seat. "Good for her," I say. Good for her. I have no intention on biking 40kms in one go. There's still got to be some pleasure to all of this. Besides which, it's not doing much for her butt. Note to self: I had better watch that.

Soon she is over the hill and out of sight. "Good for her," I say again to M. And anyhow, when last did she stop to take a picture of the autumn leaves on the road? And, at the speed she's going, she surely doesn't hear the streams gurgling with recent rains. I'm happy with my efforts. Can't you tell?

Champagne Anniversary

"Put the kettle on. Let's have another cup of tea," I suggest to M.
"No, let's drink champagne."

Champagne? Champagne! Is this my husband offering champagne at nine in the morning? Well, if he insists, I guess we could sip some of the celebratory bubbly. M pops the cork and zips the fizz into two wine glasses.

We're certainly dressed for the occasion as all couples should be when they celebrate fifteen years of togetherness, fifteen years of give and take and fifteen years of 'honey, please put the roll of toilet paper on facing this way not that way.' We've swopped the wedding dress and tuxedo for pyjamas, bed-heads and yawns. But, hey, we still know how to drink champagne.

We clink glasses, have our first sip and put our feet on the ottoman. M presses play. And there we are - fifteen years younger, with more hair. The year, 1995, wasn't quite the heyday of big hair but my hairstyle was more voluminous than it is today. And M, well, I couldn't help myself, "Look at all your hair."

The romantic occasion of watching our wedding video takes a turn into wide-eyed wonder at the dearly recognisable aliens at our wedding. We're hooting and hollering at the younger versions of our mid-life selves and our loved ones. Boy, how we have changed.

We're sobered at the obvious passing of time. The two toddler nephews are now strapping teenagers. The two pretty nieces handing out the order of service are, today, young women in their twenties embarking on adventures of their own. Ouch!

We count three marriages that didn't make it - six people living separate lives in different places fifteen years on. And, of course, the number of friends with whom we have lost contact since emigrating to Canada.

Good heavens! We were younger! I start to see myself the way others see me, middle-aged. The blush of youth is over, gone ta-ta and not coming back. I moved our wedding photographs out of the living room a few years back, after our friends, Jopie and Edel, who were in their eighties then, commented on how young we looked in the photographs.

Sobered, I take another sip of champagne. After this, I think those photographs are moving from obscurity in the study to retirement in the dark recesses of our bedroom. But, hey, extra lines, crow's feet, bald spots and all, at least we still know how to drink champagne!

A Dream on Pages

Sunday afternoon, I curl up on the couch, a cup of tea and a book for company. M's doing handyman bits and bops around the apartment, so I start a new book while I wait for him to finish.

I'm eager to read the book because it's the completion of a dream, on pages. Leta, the author, had a dream to write her life story and to publish it. How many of us have ever said, "I'll write a book someday" or "That's a story I'm going to put in my book when I write it"? Well, Leta's done just that. Put down all those stories in a book and gone ahead and published it herself.

I'm inspired by one woman's dogged determination to see her dream come true. When mutual friends and acquaintances heard that I was dabbling in writing they told me time and again, "You must speak to Leta". And speak to Leta I did. We got together a year ago to talk about writing and the correspondence writing course Leta did and highly recommended.

It took me a while to think it through, get serious about it, and sign up for the course. And now in the same week in which I have submitted my first assignment, I have Leta's book of memoirs in my hand, "There's No Rehearsal - This is it!". That's no co-incidence. It's an encouragement to continue to put one word down after the next and see where it will go.

I don't have a writing goal or a dream like Leta had. I'm not sure where my writing may take me. But as the title of Leta's book so aptly says, there are no practice runs at life. Lost opportunities are just that - lost. And I don't want to lose the opportunity to hone a craft that may still unearth a dream - a dream that may just show up on some white pages one day.

Dried Oregano and a Clay Pot

It's a small thing, I know. Just bit of dried oregano stored in a small clay pot on my kitchen counter. Yet, it lifts my focus from the privilege and wealth of the Western life to the suffering of others.

Visiting Jean on Wednesday night, I enviously eyed the herbs drying on a cloth on her counter, "Oh, look at all your herbs!"
"It's oregano out of the garden. Do you want some?"
Do I ever - fresh organic oregano - what's to say no to?

In the last light of the day, Jean and I picked oregano from the small plants hugging the soil in her garden. I was surprised that these little plants could supply such a bounty. Back in the kitchen, I rinsed the herbs multiple times. "Get rid of all those critters," Jean counselled.

Back home, after an evening of tea and talk, I lay the oregano out to dry for two days. When the time came to pull the dried oregano off the stalks I found just the right bowl for it - my small clay pot. A pot I got at MissionsFest to remember to pray for the Dalit people.

The Dalits, the lowest caste in India, are called the 'Untouchables'. They are so untouchable, they are below animals in status. Cows are treated better in India than Dalits. According to the caste system, they are relegated to live a life of abject poverty and dehumanization as the slumdogs of their society.

Quite a life for some 250 million people, nearly a quarter of Indian society, who have been relegated to doing untouchable work: butchering, removal of rubbish, animal carcasses, and waste, cleaning streets, latrines, and sewers. Fifty years of apartheid seem inconsequential in human right travesties once measured against the centuries of discrimination and enslavement the Dalits have endured.

This modest little pot, looking at home as a herb pot, represents so much more and is a reminder to me that our Western lifestyle is not how most of the world lives. It reminds me to pray for those suffering in this world. When I see it on my counter the words of Alfred, Lord Tennyson echo in my kitchen:

'More things are wrought by prayer
Than this world dreams of. Wherefore, let thy voice,
Rise like a fountain for me night and day.
For what are men better than sheep or goats
That nourish a blind life within the brain,
If, knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer
Both for themselves and those who call them friend?'

Dear Diary

Dear Diary,

Sorry you haven't heard from me in a while. M and I returned from Cannon Beach inspired and motivated; just as well as life has been busy these first two weeks of September.

I must tell you that we did get out to bike a couple of times in the forest: ten kilometres of hard pedalling out and ten kilometres back (see Bike Hard August 2010). Our breathing is better and the saddle soreness a lot less. Funny how it is - I don't enjoy biking this trail for a Saturday afternoon recreation ride but knowing I'm doing it for a good work out makes me more game. We hope to get out a couple more times, schedules and weather permitting! I ain't doing this in the rain.

My first writing assignment was due September 15th and I made the deadline. I had hoped to make a head start on it while we were in Cannon Beach but that was a no go. So with just a week to go before its due date, M and I got up an hour earlier every morning so I could write. The first part of the assignment wasn't difficult, just time consuming: write an introductory letter of two to three pages. What do you say about yourself to someone who doesn't know you? What do you include, what do you leave out and what is the most informative stuff to say now? I worked through that and got it done.

The second part of the assignment was to write a character description in 500 words. And this was the part I wasn't looking forward to. In fact, I dreaded it. But this past Sunday afternoon free time opened up like a break in the clouds of busyness to let the sun shine through. I sat down with my course binder, started through the steps, sketched my character in words on a page and then moved to the computer to start the dreaded deed. It flowed better than I anticipated. I got the bare bones on the computer and liked it. The word count was 170 words short. So Sunday evening, while M was at a meeting, I added more detail and liked the outcome even more. I couldn't believe that before bed it was all done. Yahoo!

Today it is scheduled writing time for my monthly newspaper article. I usually find that to be a bit of slog, so with a cup of tea for company this Saturday morning, I thought I'd first drop you a quick line to say I'm still here, dear diary. There is so much still to tell you.

Last Sunday morning I baptised a woman I have started to mentor. It is so exciting to see how God redeems our broken lives if we let Him! Baptising Mel is undoubtedly one of the best experiences of my life, but more about my 'Brenda the Baptist' (coined by Morrie or was it Em?) experience later.

I must go, the washing machine has already buzzed. It is time to hang the laundry and then knock the next deadline off my list. Thanks for listening, I'll write again soon!

Cannon Beach Over and Out

Our second annual trip to Cannon Beach is over. We didn't expect to make it to any of the summer conferences this year (see Summer Longing June 2010). But then we heard of the great half price deal for the last week of summer. We called but the conference was already fully booked. We went on the waiting list and thought that was the end of it.

It wasn't and, once offered, we snapped up the half-price opportunity to be spiritually enriched. Our speaker for the 6 days was Bill Farrel. We had not heard of him before the trip but all the speakers at the conference centre come highly recommended. Apparently, you can't get a poor one. And so far, that has proven to be correct.

Bill Farrel worked through 1 Peter as a GPS to find God's way in a wandering world. I enjoyed all ten sessions (morning and evening) and found something of value in each one. There is always a lot to take in at sessions like these. And so, rather than do it all, I aim to take away a few inspirations that will impact how I live life better today than yesterday.

Here are some of my Cannon Beach jewels:

'A common denominator of humanity is pain. We can't erase it but it doesn't need to define us. Which leads to another thought - does the stuff in your life have purpose and is it leading somewhere? It doesn't matter who has it hard or harder - is it leading somewhere or just to destruction?'

'Each life counts. The things we say and do, count.'

'Is the unfairness in life going to ruin you or launch you?'

This encourages me to live a life which has purpose, to weigh my words and actions carefully and to accept that life is unfair. For me, some of the most meaningful words in the Bible are those spoken by Jesus when he says to Peter, "... what is that to you?" What is it to me, or you, what God chooses to do for someone else? Jesus' next words are equally powerful, "You must follow me." (John 21:22)

The Beach Run

I reach for my hat. The wind whips it three steps out of my reach and then four. I trot to catch it. I lunge - once, twice and then on the third time I get it. Relief - I would hate to lose this hat. I look over my shoulder. M strolls along watching my antics.

"Thanks for helping me get my hat."
"You looked like you had it under control."
"The wind kept blowing it out of my reach."
"Well, at first it looked like it was going to be easy."
"It still would've been nice to know you're my hero. And that you'd help me catch my hat."

M smiles and quits the conversation. We're walking the beach at Manzanita on our take two trip to Tillamook. This time in the sun and, without the rain, we can stop and explore.

Walking back, now into the wind, I keep my hat securely in my hand. Without mine to tease, the wind lifts off M's. He turns to chase it. What to do? Do I leave him to it or help to catch it?

I decide: "Let me help you." And I run to get in front of the hat so that, with the next gust of wind, it will blow against my legs. In a jiffy M snaps up his hat.

"See, that's how it's supposed to be done."
"I can tell you aren't happy I didn't help you get your hat."
I give him The Look. Say no more.

A fair number of sandy steps later, M pats my bum.
"Sorry, dear, next time I'll help you catch your hat."
That's more like it.

Wet and Windy Cannon Beach

Day Four at Cannon Beach: it is wet, the wind blows, the waves protest and lash the shore, the mist hovers low. We've had bright clear days to walk the beach and watch kites a plenty whipping in the wind. Today will not be one of those days, yet I am not irritable.

Writing has added a new dimension to my life. Wet weather is no longer discouraging; it provides opportunities. Today is a welcome opportunity to write.

After an inspiring morning excursion (see French Bric-a-Brac August 2010), M and I return to our room at the conference centre. The wind has picked up and the rain lashes horizontally across the courtyard. Perfect. We sip our chai lattés, M reads and I write. The tick tick of the keyboard harmonizes with the wind and rain. I am grateful for writing weather.

A blue sky would call us to a walk on the beach or the boulevard at Seaside. It would encourage us to explore the nature park and seek out stunning views of the Oregon coastline. Grey skies and lashing rain are the ideal creative combination and so I write.

French Bric-a-Brac

There is no morning seminar at the Cannon Beach conference. This wet and windy day is ours to enjoy. M and I head out for a drive to the Tillamook cheese factory. I point to a sign which reads, "Mo's". M takes the turn-off. That's one of the pleasures of a long-standing marriage ... when it works. You point, he understands and responds: no negotiation or explanation required.

We've found the restaurant on the beach where we apparently have to stop for clam chowder. Today's not the day but at least now we know where it is. And what a view it has of Haystack Rock. We're sure to be back.

We trundle on to Tillamook, spend time at the monolith cheese factory and drive a little further. We don't know why. On a wet day like this we don't need to know. We pull into The Blue Heron French Cheese Company. No-one said that this is a must-do in Tillamook but it sure is. This is my kind of store: nooks and crannies, tables scattered around the store in private corners or clustered together near the window. It has oodles of atmosphere: bric-a-brac of the French kind, and samples galore of brie cheese, jams, chutneys, dips and mustards - just dip a pretzel stick and savour.

I'm in French heaven.

I find us a secluded table near the window. M orders a toasted ham and cheese sandwich for us to share. As busy as the store is, we are alone in our spot. I feast my eyes on the bric-a-brac: the French style side tables, the baskets and statuettes. A caged planter catches my eye. That will work in our home. I give it closer inspection. Yes, I like it. I lift the price tag.

I think not. It will stay just where it is.

But what an inspiring spot. I'm refueled, ready to be sequestered in my room to write. What a writing-perfect day this is turning out to be.

My Wager Breakfast

I slice into the white of my over-easy eggs. Wait. "Where's the camera?" I ask M. He hands it over. "What now?" his look says. I want a picture of my won-the-wager breakfast.

I bet M that the name of the South African rugby captain is John Smit, not John Smith. M held fast that it was John Smith. I bet that if I was right, I could choose any breakfast I wanted when we stopped at Denny's on our drive to Cannon Beach (we usually go for cost effective options - just so you know). M lay down his side of the bet - I agreed.

Wager on, I googled 'John Smit South African rugby captain' and scored - breakfast! Still working on humility and competitiveness, I gloated to M that I recognised my last name by marriage better than he did his by birth, and now any breakfast was mine.

The way to my heart is through my stomach. I like food and I like to eat. I anticipated the breakfast with glee and now it is here. I snap the picture for prosperity: to remember the cherry tomatoes, red pepper, mushrooms, zucchini, fresh spinach, breakfast sausage and roasted potatoes, crowned with melted cheese and two over-easy eggs.

I savour my breakfast, pleased I won the bet. But come to think of it, if M had won the bet, I would've enjoyed that too.

Bike Hard

My chest burns, my muscles are tight. I breathe more heavily than John Smit after 80 minutes of hard rugby against the All Blacks - and this, at the first uphill, ten minutes into our bike ride at Seymour Demonstration Forest. Don't complain, I say to myself. You chose to do this instead of milling around at the PNE (similar to the Rand Show).

I surprised myself that I opted for a hard bike ride, to slough off sluggishness, over mini-donuts at the fair. In this moment of hard biking I try to convince myself that I made the right choice.

I catch up with M at the top of the hill. "Do you want to rest?" he asks. "Nah, I'll pedal slowly," is my sputtered reply. This is not the Steveston or Alouette River dykes, those nice pleasant introductory rides to summer. This bike ride calls for gear changes and less talking. Saddle soreness and stiffness are its rewards.

I know I'm going to regret my next words, the ones that say, "We should do this once a week until the rains come." M agrees. Neither of us is getting the type of exercise we should. Our plan to do Grouse Grind hasn't materialised this summer and we don't walk the seawall as often as we used to.

Our conversation stops. The next uphill is before us: the next huff and the next puff and the next 'I wish I hadn't just said that' thought. But each hill will get easier and each bike ride better than the one before - now just to follow through on it. We'll never compete in the Tour de France but I'll let you know how our Tour de Seymour goes.

You Live Like Italians

"You picnic every night," Mario hollers to us from the beach. "You know how to live." We smile and wave to acknowledge the compliment. We don't picnic every night and we do not know Mario very well. In fact, we don't even know that his name is Mario.

M and I like to picnic at the beach in West Vancouver during the summer. We keep it simple with a cooler box, a barbeque and burgers. There's no fanfare, no printed table cloth, silver cutlery or candles. We keep it simple and easily repeatable.

One such evening we set up our chairs in our usual spot. Except, there was Mario lounging on a bench in his next to nothing sleek Speedo. His bronzed gut hung over the slip of fabric that offered some degree of public decency. I groaned. He detracted from our view of the water. We really couldn't sit anywhere without seeing him offer his aging body to the sun.

Not too much longer after our first sighting of Mario, we were down at the same spot to picnic with another couple. We hoped to score a picnic table rather than eat off our laps. The tables were all taken including one occupied solely by Mario. He lay on the bench offering his unsightly nakedness to the sun gods. I was irritated - how long was he going to be there hogging a table and being an eyesore?

Mario opened his eyes from his sun daze and, seeing me set up our chairs, called, "Are you having a picnic?" I nodded. "Come, have the table. Me, I just enjoy the sun." His accent was thick with his Italian origins. Mollified, I smiled and thanked him.

And now tonight, this our third encounter of the Italian kind, he hollers to us from the beach. Next he wanders over and strikes up a conversation. "North Americans," he says, "they don't know how to live. Look at all the balconies." He points to the apartment buildings hugging the West Vancouver waterfront. "No umbrella, no chairs, no-one enjoys their balcony. They don't know how to live. But you, you live like Italians. You picnic, you enjoy life."

After Mario leaves, I look at our picnic. I see no Tuscan sun, no vineyard, cypress trees or wicker picnic basket. The only thing Italian about it is the soda I brought as our sun downer beverage. Yet Mario has seen something else - a picture from the old country and we're in that snapshot. We may need to start practising our Italian. Ciao!

Friday Lamentation

August: a month when I should be kicking back my heels, sipping a gin and tonic with Jean in the sun, my keys forgotten on the table, with nowhere to go but right here.

However, August is not a quiet month for me on the work front. I have deadlines and busyness. My writing is squeezed in here and there. This summer even my evenings have been busy. So much so, that I have not renewed my deep breathing and relaxation yoga classes. I have to free up time somewhere.

But all is not lost. Summer has not been abandoned, I remind myself. We did picnic with friends at the beach on Tuesday night. And didn't Morrie and Em join us for lemonade sundowners at Whytecliffe Park on Monday to watch the sunset? And wasn't that as a result of the picnic we enjoyed together Sunday afternoon at that same park?

So what's up with you, I scold myself. Why the niggling frustration that summer is slipping by? Why this lamenting? I have no clear concise answer.

I look at my desk, the unfinished tasks, the intrusive deadline I wasn't expecting, the change to my day I didn't want, and the things I want to do but can't get to just yet. Buck up! I scold myself again. The sooner you get through all of this, the sooner you can get outside and enjoy summer!

And so, I do. I publish my lament on the web and pick up the next item on the 'to do' list of life.

Tea and Scones

I take a break from writing. Breakfast hasn't happened this Saturday morning. M encouraged me to write while he washes the windows. Write or wash windows? I certainly got the better option. After a late night and the substantial wedding reception dinner the evening before, breakfast hasn't been high on our agenda. But now it is brunch-time: time for tea and scones.

I warm four raisin scones in the microwave, slice them in two, spread raspberry jam and dab on a dollop of the real stuff - English double Devon cream. It's my British heritage that has me longing for scones and cream. I'm proud of my home-baked scones. I'm not much of a baker and so I am particularly tickled that I have pulled this off. M's ready to take a tea break too. Amid a bucket of water, a vacuum cleaner and cleaning materials, we take our seats, bite into a scone and indulge.

Tea and scones, so English - my Grandmother James used to bake scones for tea and there were many times my mother baked scones on the weekend as a treat: England in Africa. I remember a trip to London, where M and I hunted high and low for tea and scones. Eventually, we found a coffee shop and tea room in Greenwich that served scones with strawberry jam and clotted cream.

"Mmm, these are good. Make them again," M commends. Yes, I think I will. I'll bring a little taste of England to Lonsdale with the tradition of serving hot scones, a berry jam and clotted cream with our tea.

To Write: More

The editor did call and apologise for his oversight and mistake (see Brooks Reads, Brenda Fumes July 2010) and the writing course material (see The Craft June 2010) arrived in the mail yesterday. So, all is on track again in my writing world; more than on track actually.

With the enclosure of the small balcony off our bedroom, I now have a dedicated writing room: a room to call my own in Virginia Woolf tradition. My desk sits at the window with a view of the North Shore Mountains and the grubby roof-top next door. I have the white citadel of Queen Mary School (see Queen Mary School July 2009) to inspire me and the shabby balconies of neighbouring apartments to give me a window on humanity. Look up and I see the open sky, look down and I see the back alley with its activity of Lonsdalites passing through. Look to the left and I spy the water, the West End, Stanley Park and the dumps of yellow sulphur at the docks.

But more than the view and the activity on the other side of the window, it's the room itself, as incomplete as it is, that calls out the writer in me. Off-cuts of carpet cover the floor, M's tools are stored in a corner and a plastic storage box fills the wall on the other side of the small room. I'm realising that my caramel-coloured wicker chair is a little low for the desk but it works for now. I set a candle on the desk and lit it to commemorate crafting this, my first vignette in the writing room of our apartment. I hoped it would lend some atmosphere to the room, yet, the flame flickers half-heartedly and struggles to breathe above the pooling hot wax. I dislodge the wax and the flame burns brighter.

I'm not waiting for this room to be perfect to enjoy it. Besides which, to reduce the craft to its simplest modern-day form: I require a desk, a chair and a computerised writing implement. I have all three in this little room of mine. Now: to write more.