Snow boots on, snow boots off, mitten lost, mitten found, icy drive, snow falls, snow blows, too much coffee, have to pee, crammed between two car seats, fussy kids, one sleeps, one screams, look more snow, ticket line, customs fine, loose 9lbs or pay a fee, from luggage not from me, now seriously I really have to pee, feeling better, loose the sweater, another cup of black joe and finally bye-bye Toronto.  Walking terminal is great as gates read off Newark and LGA.  Feel elite, how sweet to be bound for sunny LA.  Airplane seat, kid on lap, hard to nap, hurts the back, son covered in sugar snacks, oh a movie, diet coke, six more hours, no joke, kids go to sleep, kids wake up, kids color, get me off this mother…oh we’re here, yeah yeah LA!  What a relief and just in time for New Year’s Eve.

Two men behind me on the plane relay to each other their New Year’s game.  They yap their traps about double D’s and can’t wait to go out to party.  Dogs.  I turn to check the breed, hmmmm rather small perhaps miniature trouser.  Or reverse those two, either way, they are very excited about LA.  One suggests they start with a priestly visit just to get it out of the way.  “Ha!” I laugh, oops out loud.  I cough, “Oh sorry, just need some air.” 

Air, oh air, what lovely air.  Palm trees sway here and there goes our parking bus.  Once in car we happily haul ourselves a little farther to fabulous Santa Barbara. 

Happy New Year!

Saturday I geared up in my many layers of poly-microfibers and stepped outside to realize a run was impossible.  Twice as much ice is not very nice.  I could not walk down the driveway.  I tried.  I made it three minutes down the road before returning to the house by march of the penguin.  Ugh.  I did a slurpee snowshoe on the back 40 instead.  There is a lot of back 40 around here, plenty to go around.  Sunday the roads were clear, but the sky loomed 6pm even at 8am and so I suited up figuring I had better get started because Nature woke up in another bad mood. 

I made it 40 minutes away from the house when the winds struck.  Snow, ice, rain, naturally we shall now have wind.  What about sun?  I have not seen it since we left California.  This was not the “Hi, how ya doin’?” breezes of the southern states.  It wasn’t even the icy sting of a rather bitchy Connecticut winter sea squall.  It was more like somebody up in those fat grey clouds was bored looking at grasses and melting snow and decided to play ping pong ball.  What better object to pick on than girl in blue fuzzy hat.  “LOOK!” They muse, “She’s trying to go that way, make her go THAT way!” 

I run along the side of the road.  I hear a snow plow.  I glance back.  No snow plow.  What is that noise….BAM!  Wind like a steel fist slams me in the back.  The “snow plow” just ran me over.  My pace doubles as I am carried away from my straight course.  I am pushed across the road.  I round a corner and take the jokers in the face.  Odd.  I am running, but I am not moving.  Does NASA train up here?  I yell at the wind.  The wind eats my words before my ears even get the chance to hear what profanities my mouth has said.  A few trees crack and fall down.  Yes, that’s right.  Trees are falling down!  In fact, I find out later that the 90kph winds even blew a tractor trailer rig over on the 400 and made a huge traffic mess.  Power is out.  That means heat is out!  Or if you are my husband, “WHAT? No hockey?!!”

I am just waiting for the light to come up.  I would say sun, but I do not think Canada imports much of it in the winter.  Once I can see, I will go for today’s run.  I wonder what I am going to get.  I hope Nature slept better last night.  I am going to go make her a nice breakfast and bring in the paper.

Waiting at a red light, she stares out the car window to the piles of dirt brown honey combed snow.  Rain streaks her window.  Across from Bayfield Mall, a ten foot neon moose illuminates the evening sky.  She checks her watch.  2pm.  Not evening yet.  A man in Caterpillar boots lugs a case of Molson to his vehicle.  She steps out of the car onto a drainage ditch.  A pile of cigarette butts and a plastic Barbie leg lay at her feet.  The rain hits her in the face and splatters off her borrowed brilliant blue Fishbowl vest.  The flashing blue sign of The Fishbowl Restaurant radiates back at her from across the crowded parking lot.  Teenagers extinguish half smoked butts into rust colored snow banks and enter the mall.

“I am so spoiled,” she signs.

“What?” asks her husband, “Could you repeat that into the microphone?”  He waves an air mic in-front of her face.

“I am so so spppppp-ecial,” she smirks, but the eye roll says otherwise.  They enter the mall.  Furry hoods come off folks and over sized snow-boots leave drippy muddy tracks across a taupe floor.  Cigarettes are replaced with wads of gum and gaunt faces talk and smack under flourescent lighting as they roam the mall.  Quietly they pass DollarRama, SkunkTrunk Electronics, and a rather vacant Japanese take out noodle shop.  Before they round the corner for the movie house she sees it staring back at her like a beacon of hope.  It is a cool glass of water on a sun soaked afternoon, it is a candle in a cave, an electric snow plow against a shovel, high speed access when you’ve been using dial up….it is a twenty foot by twenty foot wall poster of a man swinging a driver on a minty green golf course against a back drop of mountains and fresh blue sky.  “Home!” she cries and runs to the wall.  Stretching out her arms, she lays into it and hugs the illusion of domestic bliss that she has become accustomed to.

Her husband laughs and takes his turn at an eye roll.  “Ahh, this is all part of my plan to move you up here sweetie.”  A woman dragging three kids in down parkas tromps by snapping at them to keep up.  They enter the ticket line.  The smell of butter popcorn and hairspray eats up the oxygen.  She feels dizzy.

It is still snowing.  I want to run a little speed work.  Well, where is Ms. Stone and her ice pick when you need her?  The roads are a couple of inches of ice with a blanket of slick uneven white stuff all over them.  I find an open stretch that is sure to be a Fatal Attraction.  Or, maybe it will be a Close call to a bruised hip.  Only one way to find out.  I bop my boxer sized mitts together.  OK Ivan, I must break you, too.  I run as fast as I can for five minutes down the road.  Like some looney tune winding up his legs before the actual escape, I move a relatively very small distance.  No traction.  No action.

I wish it would stop snowing.  Today it is going to rain on the snow.  Be careful what you wish for.

Serves me right for amping up the importance of tradition.  My brother-in-law reminded me of a little Christmas custom that requires a few drinks before hand.  No, not a solo Ave Maria karaoke, although perhaps more uncomfortable, I am of course referring to the barefoot dash around the house.  I rolled up my pants and stared at the three foot snow bank outside.  Wait, one more drink.  OK. We agreed the solid ice drive-way would be a challenge, “Go slow.”  Um, right.

It is not a big house, but on the backside the snow gobbled me up to my hips and my feet hurt!  OUCH! Not much of a race either, my brother-in-law, a Canadian post man, clearly has more snow experience than me.  He was gone, quickly, gone.  Just a flash really and  I was alone in the deep snow, screaming and laughing.  That laugh naturally meant, “&***-ing $***!”  A pile of white towels laid at the doorstep welcomed us back.  I wrapped up my tootsies and told them I was sorry.  There must have been a lot ice in the snow because we were both bleeding from frosty cuts.  Ah good fun, sorry also to the white towels.

Very invigorating for the feet.  I am thinking of opening a spa here in the snow globe and offering exotic arctic foot treatments.  I suppose I could easily put any other body part on the menu too.

On a different exposure note, to polish up the splendid turkey filled evening, seven grandchildren received cozy PJ’s from Gramma& Poppa.  Five of them, including both of mine, shed said fleecies and streaked the house in loopy-loops for twenty minutes.  Since my two are not potty-trained it was extra exciting.  Nothing like Russian Poo-let on Christmas Day.  Or as the wise-man said, “Ah, the Canadian Ballet!”

Wrap it up in sentiment or slap it with a bow, whatever surprise is buried beneath the tree it is time it took a back seat.  The festivities, the cookies, the lights, the decor, the parties and gift giving, the rushing and hoping for a perfectly wonderful holiday can invoke as much stress as merriment.  That does not even touch the  joy felt on the January credit card statement.  But it’s the most wonderful time of the year.  Why?  Christmas is a religious holiday. I relish this not only for my faith, but for tradition.  Every person has the power to pass onto their children and grandchildren something lasting.

We move through the entire year, sometimes our entire lives, looking for happiness.  We buy something that will make our lives better, we book a needed vacation to renew ourselves, we surround ourselves in our work, and maybe we keep searching….keep wanting….and waiting.  There is nothing wrong with the wanting.  Hope creates a better tomorrow, expectation can be derived from action, and after all, it is our lives.  We only get to do this once.  But once in a while, stop.

To me, Christmas provides the perfect opportunity to reflect and enjoy my blessings.  Our Christmas eve service ends with a candle lit singing of Silent Night.  I have never missed a Christmas eve staring into the bright glow of a little wax candle and the feeling of enormous love and comfort that it provides has never been missed on me.  My grossmutti would sing into her flame the lyrics in German with tears in her eyes.  My grandmother would close her eyes.  My mother would gaze from her candle to her five daughters and my father would place his arm around my mother’s back.  For one moment, Christmas was completely about the baby and the extraordinary gift he gave us.  And last night, my own three year old son, sat quietly holding his candle and humming along.  His bright blue eyes glowing while mine drip in tears.  For one moment, I do not have to hope for peace, I can enjoy it.

Merry Christmas

“Hello! Tundra here.  No wait, it’s me, Dre?  In here.  Let me remove my hat?  Now? Maybe loose the face mask and glasses?  Ahh, that’s better.  Hi!”  Baby it’s cold outside!  But here’s the thing, when you expect to freeze, you don’t.  You bury yourself in layers and you and your fuzzy mittens hit the snowy streets for your morning run and it is fun!!!!  I was a bit worried about getting lost.  Over oatmeal, I flipped the paper to read about a gal who could not find her white SUV in snowy conditions and unfortunately collapsed frozen 200 feet from her car.  That’s not good.  As I scoured the country landscape, I realized I was not going to have a lost problem.  I ran that way down the road until I found a stop sign and then I turned around and ran back.  A nice straight 2 hour run.

Just me and the snow plows, who definitely do not slow down so jump aside.  No seriously, move!  Oh and wave and don’t worry, they already think you are crazy.  But you’re not, well, not yet.

We will be spending Christmas this year north of Toronto.  I wished the running group happy holidays this morning out on the bluffs.  Rusty joked if we’d be stopping by Maine.  Um…noooooo, Canada will be cold enough.  I laugh now remembering a drive north to Canada through Maine.  Cold, grey, and nothing around.  A scraggy house here and a shed there.  Cold.  Who lives up here in northern Maine?  No one.  It is too cold.  Too miserable.  Brrrrrr.  And here comes the Canadian border….. a housing explosion.  Busy streets with boxy homes up and down leave us perplexed.  The difference?  Not the weather, but the fact that this is now prime southern real estate.  Oh perspective.  Oh Canada!

“Sleigh bells ring are you listening?  No wait, I think that’s the clanking, of bracelets behind your back and they didn’t come from Santa’s sack!”  Not following me?  How about, “I’m dreaming of an orange Christmas with every fake cheque I like to write.  May your days be filled out in rooms of white, and may all your cell bars be locked tight.”  No?  OK maybe, “Silent Senate Seat, Up for Sale, To whoever wants to pay, for-or-or their butt to sit, wher-ere Obama did.  Round it up-p to the highest bidd-er.  Aaa-a crook is born.”

Topping the naughty list just in time for charcoal wishes, we have got Bernard Madoff.  Tisk-tisk you made off with 50 Billion.  I am sure you’ll “rot” out at least 10 in the glamour slammer.  Next, check the cheese in your danish.  Is it the real McCoy or soy?  Don’t trust Stein Bagger to bag that sweetie for you.  The Danish IT executive just shipped out of LA back to Denmark to face charges of conspiracy and fraud.  Too bad they already threw the no-good-doer a very nice party.  And finally, Ho-Ho-Ho, I hope you will go where it definitely does not snow, it’s Mr. Rod Blagojevich who tried to sell Obama’s senate seat and now the governor still refuses to step down.  Hmmmm, Blagojevich, let go of it!

Bumpity-bump-bumpity-bump-bump…..

I work at being a positive person.  I remind myself of my blessings.  However, comfort and perceived hardships both blur the lines defining good fortune and some things divine may be taken for granted or simply ignored.  Holidays help trigger sentiment and stir up joy enough to revisit what we are thankful for.  Perhaps that is part of the merriment and good cheer.  By the end of this weekend, I was feeling particularly good about my life.

A Saturday run held under a rainbow over bluffs against a sunrise sky was not a bad foot to begin on.  My cousin was in town and I enjoyed showing him my family and took pride in their good behavior and sweet chatterings.  Sunday morning, we rode our bikes up Gibraltar viewing the fire damage, then along Camino Ceilo staring out at impossibly perfect views, and down Painted Cave back into town.  We ate out at ice cream twice, sampled fine fresh foods in the farmer’s market, walked amongst the Mission rose garden, and finished the weekend with a trolley ride viewing the holiday lights and kitch decor ablaze throughout town. 

As our trolley bell went ding, we sang along to radio Christmas carols and munched chocolate chip cookies.  My son sat “ho ho ho-ing” in my husband’s lap and my daughter squirmed and wiggled in mine.  I fluffed her hair and kissed her hot little cheek and in the glow of red and green, I thought how wonderful life is with my family.  We continued to meander through town and my daughter grew increasingly tired and less patient with the pageantry.  She twisted herself off my lap and planted down between my feet.  I held onto her or I thought I had and eventually pulled her back atop my lap.  At that time I noticed the wall at my feet was actually a plastic flap and she had kicked it open.  I did not notice when the diaper bag fell out the child size hole between my legs.  I only realized it was gone.

I felt sick.  Not for the heap of gortex packed with discard-ables lying tattered somewhere on a trail of holiday lights, but for what could have happened to my daughter.  Her puffy slick jacket to slip through my grasp all too easily….I wrapped my arms around her and squeezed until she protested.

I lay down last night and waited for the guilt to subside.  My husband drifted into sleep and the rain pattered heavily on our roof.  My teeth felt loose from my clenched jaw and I hid my face in my hands.  I tucked her in again.  I kissed her almost to the point of waking her and then I just stared, paced, kissed, and stared.  Eventually sleep came to me.

My neighbor lost her 21 year old son in an automobile accident this year.  A few short weeks ago a friend lost her 5 year old daughter to illness.  Today another friend attends the funeral of her friend who lost her battle to colon cancer.  She leaves behind two young sons.  I wonder if I am thankful enough.  How impatient and self centered I become.  How tired.  How fed up.  The job of caretaker is often overwhelming and I crave independence.  How sad I would be if this came true.

Last Christmas, I boarded a plane for Texas to visit my family.  My son yanked and cried at my leg and my daughter kicked in the baby bjorn strapped to my chest.  An older woman sensitive to my stress remarked, “God Bless you.”  To which I replied, “He already DID, now he has to help me!”  And he has been.

I have every resource that love can fill and I hope that it spills over into my children, two little angels kept by my side for only this short while.  How sweet a song it is if I choose to listen.