Burned skin and cigarettes

Last Sunday, I spent a lot of the day outdoors. It was very sunny, I spent the day bent over the garden, and in my bathing suit; I managed to burn my back from the sun. That tightness across my back, the smell of the dirt, the air and the sun on my skin transported me back to a time when I also burned my back in the sun.

When I was a wee girl, my family would rent a cottage in Kincardine - a small town on Georgian Bay, Lake Huron, Ontario. As the name implies, the town has Scottish roots. My mother's Scottish family would also vacation there when my mum was a wee girl. So, it was natural that she would want to return there. 

Mary Margaret Ross Nicoll on Bruce Beach, Kincardine - 1937

  

It was a sleepy town in the 1960s and had a beautiful beach. My brother and I would play on the sand, look for stuff in the creek that ran down to the lake and generally have a magical time. My mum, smelling like the sun lotion Bain de Soleil, would watch over us, feed us and generally try to keep us from running wild.

My skin was often burned. I don't remember putting on sun screen and it wasn't as if I was lying in the sun trying to get a tan. I used to insist on putting on a new bathing suit  if mine was too sandy, or too wet or it was uncomfortable ( I was 4 years old) against my burned skin. The cottage (where my dry bathing suits  were located) was perched on the top of the hill overlooking the beach. You had to walk up many wooden stairs, under a canopy of trees, to get from the beach to the cottage. When I would insist on putting on a dry bathing suit, my mother would ask Kevin (my brother) to help me find one. So, he would begrudgingly accompany me up the stairs and into the cottage to help me. Invariably  I would have trouble with the whole process because a wet body and a dry bathing suit are two incompatible objects. So, I would make Kevin help me get encased in a new suit. He was six and such a good boy when I think back - and I was such a little brat. 

We weren't rich. My dad had to work during the week to pay for the holiday. But, he would drive up on Friday nights for the weekend. Pulling his huge car (at least it seemed huge to me) into the parking space in front of the cottage was a time for celebration; he was always ready for fun and adventure. 

He was the one who made me walk down those wooden steps to the beach slowly -  so that I could  inhale the air tinged with cedar. He made me look at the sky through the leaves and watch for birds and down into the creek to see the minnows; to listen to the cicadas at night and try to hear the owls in the distance. And he told me to remember those smells and sights and feelings.   

In Kincardine there was a tradition (still is) of having bagpipers parade down the main street every Saturday night. So, we would always go into town to watch. Sometimes we would get dressed up and go to dinner at a restaurant. I can still feel the stiff cotton dress brushing against my (burnt) back as I wriggled into it. 

Bagpipers in Kincardine

 Now, this is in the 1960s - in Canada – so we are not talking about a fancy restaurant.  Nevertheless, it had menus, linen tablecloths and napkins and we were greeted and seated by a host. As we drove in to have dinner dad would remind us how to behave; we were NOT to disappoint him. We were to participate in the conversation, not squirm (even though my back was burned), place our napkin on our lap immediately upon being seated, look the waiter in the eye and clearly enunciate our order. We were to butter our (still warm) roll on the bread plate (not in our hand) ,sit up straight and not order the most expensive thing on the menu.  While this might seem hard for a four year old, you had to know my dad. These dinners were always fun - he would tell jokes and treat like us adults. It was so much fun. 

Smoking kills - don't forget

After dinner, he would sit and have a smoke at the table while we waited for the bill.  This was a time when ashtrays were everywhere and smoking was practically expected.  Sometimes, my dad would dissemble his cigarette pack, take out the foil lining, turn it so the white side would be on the outside and roll the paper into two long cylinders - so they looked like two cigarettes.  He'd then light them briefly so the ends were red. Then he would hand them to me and my brother so we could join him in a "smoke”.  

I think he liked to shock the patrons. I know I loved pretending with him. 

Times change. Ashtrays are not available in restaurants and behavior like my father's might find him at odds with Child Protective services. 

But, I was lucky to have a dad who understood that I could behave like an adult at 4, that I could commit to memory the smell of warm skin in a cool cedar forest, and that I could appreciate being part of an inside joke on the world. I was luckier still to be able to spend  summers with a family that adored each other. That family taught me how to love the family I created with my husband. Memories like those that get me through these tougher times in 2020. I hope that you can find solace in a sweet memory from your past, too.   

  PS  - Despite my dad's "efforts", I never became a  real smoker...though I occasionally pretend. 

Elephantine Luck

Denis & Marilyn

Forty five years ago, my Uncle Denis gave me a jade elephant pendant on a gold chain. I adored my Uncle Denis and knew he was about the coolest person I would ever meet. It was 1970 and he was ultra-hip. He lived in Yorkville, a very bohemian part of Toronto, and he had a super mod girlfriend. My grandmother wasn't happy that her son was 'living together' with his girlfriend, but she accepted it. Why? Because Denis could get away with it; he was that cool.

Christmas presents from Denis were always extra special and unusual. I didn't know I wanted a jade elephant necklace until I opened the box from him - he had found me the perfect gift. And, I wore it just about every day for the next 40 years.  I remember a friend of mine found me in a crowded library because of that necklace; my hair and hands were hiding my face, but the necklace was clearly visible.

I had the belief that the elephant brought me luck. I  ALWAYS wore it when I traveled because I believed it kept me safe. Exam time? Never took it off. Childbirth? You bet I wore that necklace into the delivery room! Then, on our first trip to India, I learned of the elephant god, Lord Ganesha. He is one of the best known and loved Hindu gods - and is the Lord of good fortune! So, of course I felt an immediate connection.  His image was everywhere in India and I took lots of photos. Before we left, I purchased a small gold charm and began to wear Ganesh around my neck as well.

Lord Ganesha and the Jade Elephant with a broken trunk

Shortly after that trip to India, the jade elephant's trunk broke when I dropped the necklace on a marble floor.  I was really upset that the necklace was flawed, but I took comfort in the fact that Lord Ganesha's tusk is also broken - so somehow those two pendants would have a connection. There are a few interpretations as to why Ganesha's tusk is broken - but my favorite is where Ganesh breaks his own tusk in order to use it as a pen so that he could continue taking dictation from a guru.


 Over the years, friends and relatives have given me gifts of elephants. My mother especially loves to find elephant themed gifts for me. I adore then all. My house is full of elephants! You can't even get past the threshold without meeting the first one.

A few years ago, I gave the jade elephant necklace to my daughter, Emma because she was going through a rather difficult time. She was living in the Annex in Toronto, interestingly a hop, skip and a jump from Yorkville - from whence the necklace had come. It was hard for me to give up my lucky charm - I had worn it for such a long time and so far it had proven itself worthy of my faith. But, Emma is the woman I love the most in the whole world and I figured she needed it.

And, guess what? Even without my jade elephant, my personal talisman, I continued to live a charmed life. I was even able to fulfill my lifelong dream to ride an elephant in India! So, maybe it's not the necklace that holds the key - maybe it's just the belief.

Hospice Visit

Tonight I visited a friend who is dying. I suspected that her condition was incurable, but did not know for sure as she is an intensely private person. However, she recently moved from her apartment to a local Hospice facility.  That was my clue.

Our relationship began about 20 years ago - we worked together.   During our work-life together she was always outspoken, candid and tough minded. We got along well even if we didn't always see eye to eye. She did not mince words or suffer fools and talked smack about people all the time. In other words - my kind of work buddy.  After her retirement we continued to meet for lunch where we would inhale Italian food and gossip about people that we knew. She would love to tell long tales (although she'd often begin with "to make a long story short"). The best stories were the ones that started with "between you and me" as I knew these were particularly juicy - but not necessarily confidential. Interestingly, she loved to know details of others lives while maintaining a certain aloofness about her own. 

Her stories would often ramble off into other directions as she thought of other details or connections. But, she would always come back to the heart of the tale.

I entered her room tonight with trepidation. She didn't know that I was coming, and she didn't know that I had figured out that she was dying . So, I was hoping she wouldn't be angry with me for coming without an invitation.  But, there were others in the room, so it eased my entry. She was sitting in bed looking rather frail  -  but still cutting a rather imposing figure.  She was trying to eat some melted ice cream and told me that they hadn't served any Italian food to her yet. She was cogent... sometimes. She would use the wrong words for objects and repeated words and phrases that didn't fit the conversation. But, during her lucid moments we laughed and she was completely aware of what was happening.

I was so happy to see that she was in a facility that was warm and inviting with a lot of artwork that I knew would please her. She has very elegant taste and furnished her apartment with objets d'art from her travels and books .... lots of books. She appreciates things like silk scarves, cashmere sweaters, leather gloves and old jewelry. We reminisced tonight about some especially fine soap she had purchased many years ago in Italy .

Tonight she was clothed in a hospital gown - but her nails were done a lovely soft shade of grey/brown. I had brought some very fragrant hand lotion and rubbed it into her graceful hands. She inhaled deeply; I knew she appreciated the scent, and I was happy I had thought to bring it.

As I left I leaned in for a big kiss on her cheek and told her I was ignoring her privacy issues and was going to tell people her new address. She didn't object.

Music Memory

I listen to Toronto's JAZZFM 91.1 every morning on the way to work. Heather Bambrick, the morning host, has a feature where she asks listeners and musicians if they have a 'music memory' they could share.

As I listened to today's installment, I was transported back 22 years to the sound of Bill singing to a restless, wee baby girl. Emma was a horrible sleeper and always had a hard time falling asleep on her own. I would usually start the process by breast- feeding her until she fell asleep in my arms. The minute I laid her down in her crib, she would wake up; Mummy's warm embrace was no longer there to comfort her. She would look at me with those soulful eyes wondering what on EARTH I was doing leaving her alone in her crib.

Enter Bill: man of boundless energy. He would lift her up and walk with her until she fell asleep - long after I had collapsed.

It was a strange period in our lives. Emma was our first baby -and she was a mummy's girl from the very beginning.  Bill sometimes felt unnecessary and, unfortunately, I did not help the situation. I think I managed to make him feel like a second class member of the family - Emma always came first.

However, Bill was often the only one that could get her to sleep and stay asleep. You see, Emma loved to walk. She was most content in her stroller and she would often take naps there - rain or shine, hot or freezing. We had purchased one of those 'pram' type strollers which was quite roomy and a bit imposing.

She loved to be in that safe, little compartment. She and Bill would go for long walks around the neighborhood. And, more often than not, she would fall asleep while cruising through Delaware Park.

On nights when the weather was bad and Emma wouldn't go to sleep, Bill would do 'laps' of our first floor. Slowly, he would increase the angle of her seat until she was in a horizontal position in the stroller. The dining room was right under our bedroom - and I would listen to the stroller wheels hit the wooden floors after rolling silently on the carpet. Bill would also sing to Emma to help the process and the monotony.  I understand that normal people sing lullabies to babies. Not Bill. He preferred leafing through his memory banks of jazz standards. The song that worked the best was "Good Bye Pork Pie Hat",  Mingus' elegy to Lester Young. It is, shall we say, a somber tune. Bill is a great musician but a lousy singer - however, this song, with its limited range was mastered by Bill.  Even with a floor separating us I could recognize those plaintive notes.

Today, whenever I hear that tune, I envision that stroller wearing wheel treads into the dining room carpet while a blissful Emma is lulled to sleep by her adoring father. And Bill, no longer superfluous to the baby raising process, has found that his love of jazz a very useful tool.

This I believe

I don't believe in a God in heaven. I believe 'God' lives in all of us and that if you want to feel closer to God you need only look inward. If you need strength you can find it within yourself - because it is there. You need to breathe and be silent and know yourself. Mostly, you need to understand that this life is fleeting.

I also believe that most people are basically good and I tend to see the glass half full. I guess I'm an optimist.

But, I'm not a Pollyanna by any means. A dear friend of mine recently asked me "if I knew me, would I be friends with myself?" My answer was "if I could stand the judgment".  I am horribly judgmental of others. But, I am much, much harder on myself. I don't spend a lot of time thinking about my feelings, but, like most women, I focus on my failings and frailties and never revel in my accomplishments.

However, one thing I'm really good at is knowing when things are good. And, I'm ever better at stopping to appreciate those times. Those are the times that I feel nearest to God. Those are the times that make me cry  - not because I'm sad but because I know how precious the moment is. Whatever that thing is that makes me stop and reminds me that life is sweet, that life is short and that we MUST be kind to one another... that's what I call God.

And that presence is there when I look at Bill and tell him I love him.

The fine art of leaf removal

The photo doesn't show  his breath,
 but I clearly saw it this morning

When I got to work this morning I noticed the truck from our new lawn service was in the driveway. I was puzzled since it's (a) only April; and (b) 34 degrees. What could they possibly be doing here?

Once I got into the office and took my first sip of coffee, I heard a particularly jarring sound. Was it a a tuk tuk, or perhaps a ski boat or maybe a rocket ship was launching? Since I wasn't in Thailand, by the lake or near Cape Canaveral, I deduced it was a leaf blower.

A couple of years ago, my pal Randy Strauss gave me one of  his leaf blowers (he had a few to spare).  He is a marvelous gardener and took pity on me and my tedious method of raking. As you know, Bill does not participate in any gardening chores so (happily) it all falls to me.

I picked a particularly lovely warm fall day to start the process. Randy had given me explicit instructions about the gas to oil ratio and how to start the machine. It involved priming, choking and then yanking on the cord. Then you had to allow the engine to warm up a bit. Having grown up on a farm and dealing with the idiosyncrasies of balers and tractors,  I took it all in stride.

I must have yanked on the start cord 40 times. Pulls number 20 through 30 were accompanied by some choice words that easily flowed from my lips. Pulls 30-40 mostly involved screaming some phrases that would curl Satan's hair. I can just imagine the neighbors as they had their breakfast :
"I used to love these quiet fall mornings ... until that crazy bitch down the street started working in her garden."

I was about to throw the leaf blower in the trash when I spied a neighbor in his driveway with whom I was slightly acquainted. I swallowed my pride and walked down the street with the blower. He looked at me quizzically and, without a word, started the blower -WITH ONE HAND!

That was humiliating.

Blower in hand, I  walked back down the street determined to get the job done. This was going to be fun!

As I started to blow the leaves out of the flower beds and onto the grass, I noticed that I was also blowing all the (expensive) wood mulch out of the garden and onto the grass. What the heck?! That wouldn't do. I was perplexed and stood there, mouth agape, trying to figure it out. PS - I didn't dare turn off the blower while I contemplated my dilemma. So, I maneuvered my way out of the garden bed and walked to the backyard to see if I could tackle the leaves in the yard.

I began to use the back and forth sweeping action that Randy had described and was seeing some progress. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw my neighbors new baby in their backyard. I could tell he was crying because his wee face was all scrunched up and red. I couldn't hear him ... because the damn leaf blower was so unbelievably loud.

I flipped the switch and turned the thing off.

Immediately, the baby's face relaxed.

I took the leaf blower back to the garage, grabbed my rake and happily began the tedious but quiet process of removing leaves.

Never used that leaf blower again.

CODA: 

Photo captured later this morning. The professionals
still haven't figured out a way to eliminate the rake!

My hat is off to Will!

Our son, Will came home for a few days during spring break. He was a little reluctant since none of his pals had the same week off and because he knew that I wanted him to help me purge some stuff out of the basement. Never one to mince words, he told us that he was basically lazy and really wasn't looking forward to helping!  He can be SUCH a little piss-pot (that was one of my dad's favorite descriptive words - originally I think it meant a 'drunk' but it morphed into meaning a 'little shit' in my dad's lexicon) but Will's joie de vivre is infectious and I love having him home.

One of the best things that happens when Will comes home is that the piano is played. He and Bill set up in the living room and play jazz together. The house fills with music and I can feel my entire body relax. Even as I'm washing up the dinner dishes, the sounds soothe me. I'm not sure if it's the music itself or the fact that it's those two guys playing the music together.

I go to bed much earlier than Will. His sleep schedule is like most other college kids - insane. Even though our rooms are fairly far apart, I can hear him laughing at things he reads on Reddit  - his news agency of choice - and other websites he frequents. His laughter, while not quite contagious, is very hearty and appreciative... and loud.  One night, too tired to get out of bed to tell him to keep the hilarity down, I texted him:

"Either close your door or try to be more miserable".

Will and I do talk seriously. However, we mostly banter with sarcasm and jokes. He loves to bait me - I pretend to have hurt feelings then I try to zing him right back.

We did finally tackle the basement together. It sounds awful (actually it was pretty horrible), but working with Will made it fun. Half way through the hilarity he drove to Dairy Queen  to reward us both with Chocolate milkshakes -- he knows my penchant for chocolate milkshakes! He willing took orders from me while I tried to determine what was garbage, what was for the donation pile and what we should keep. He even loaded up the van and made a quick trip to the Goodwill truck.

We took a break from the basement and the dust (we both have dust allergies and needed some Kleenex) to clean out his closet. We found all kinds of odd things -
including an old sheepskin/leather hat that my dad used to wear. Will didn't know that it  belonged to my dad. The interior of it says "proudly Canadian". Ha! I don't even know why I have the hat. PS - we also found one of my dad's shirts from the laundry - still in the plastic casing - dated 2002. Guess it's time to donate that one!

I suddenly remembered that my Uncle Tom had taken a picture of my dad on Christmas day -wearing said hat. Our family was staying at my Grandpa's farm house in Cobourg, Ontario. Circa 1972.

I rifled through some photo albums and found the photo  - thereby proving to Will that it was indeed the hat of Paul P. Martin!

Will liked the photo so much that he wanted to recreate the look.


















In the original, my dad is holding a shepherd's crook - the crook part is just out of view (PS - we lived on a sheep farm so it wasn't entirely insane) wearing  a very colorful housecoat of my mother's and a plaintive expression. He was pretending to be Joseph (as in Joseph's coat of many colors). I'm not sure what the poinsettia is all about.  I don't think our dog, Macushla had a clue either. Needless to say, my dad had an odd sense of humor.

As we didn't have the crook or poinsettia, Will substituted an old paddle and an aloe plant. It's not an exact replica - it is still distinctly "Will" but it has enough Pauly P. in it that my Aunt Janet recognized the recreated picture without seeing the original.

Anyway, Will wore the hat around the house the rest of the day.

So now Will is back at school, the house is quiet, the basement is tidy, and in just a week we will mark the 10th anniversary of my dad's death. My heart is heavy.

I think I'll wear that hat today.

Weighing my options

Since January, Bill and I have been having a 'weight loss' contest. The biggest hurdle for me was writing down my starting weight. I have NEVER told Bill how much I weighed... IN MY ENTIRE MARRIAGE. I can barely acknowledge it to myself. When I get on the scales at the doctor's office I pretend to be distracted with the art work so I can't make eye contact with the nurse (and thus to ownership of the number). You know how some people have to look away when their blood is drawn? That's me on the scale.

But, once I confessed to Bill and wrote the number on the chart, I felt strangely lighter - it was kind of cathartic. Plus, Bill can keep a secret, so I knew I was safe. We've been keeping track each week; weigh-in is on Wednesday morning. We have weekly winners and year to date winners (there are no prizes - just the privilege of lording it over the loser for the week).  So far he is winning the "year to date". But, we both have been see-sawing on the weekly number. One week he was a huge winner - but it was also the week he had his colonoscopy... so, that one really shouldn't have counted.  He gained most of that weight back on the next weigh in.

When I think about it, this "contest" is really just a system to keep track of our weekly weight - rather than tracking our stupendous progress.

Bill has also been obsessive about weighing our dinner portions. He has a lovely little scale and is quite accurate. Today he packed my lunch (leftover Indian food that he made the night before, Trader Joe rice (delicious), and baby asparagus. However, the portion size appeared to be designed for a construction worker not a sedentary office worker. Even though I questioned the amount when I took my seat at the lunch table, I managed to chow down and eat the whole thing.  It didn't click until much later... he heavy loaded my lunch because weigh in is tomorrow!

But, I may have the last laugh. He is at a function tonight and I'm on my own for dinner.

I think tonight it'll be water and celery.

Musings from the control tower

I am a control freak. I know a lot of people describe themselves this way, but I truly have a problem. Friends have tried to help me by explaining that everything is actually outside of my control and that what little control I have is merely an illusion. An interesting concept I have yet to embrace.

I think most control freaks also hate crowds precisely because it's impossible to control a mob. I also hate lines (can't control what's in front of you). And, I hate vacationing spots where other vacationers are vacationing - I prefer to maintain another illusion that I'm the only one enjoying the scenery.  Ludicrous, I know.

Busy airports make me nuts - there are lines and crowds and vacationers - an unfortunate combination for my control issues. My mother has gently suggested that I ask my doctor for tranquilizers when I travel in order to allay my stress levels.  What she fails to understand is that when you're tranquilized, you lose control even more.

Yesterday, I flew home from Florida with Bill. Typically, I opt for the aisle seat (more control issues). As I sat down, I spied a couple of people who had taken the seat behind me and to my left.  These two were going to be the key to my happiness since their conversation would be the one I was most likely to overhear. They were clearly fighting with each other - I know that 'slow burn' look.  Their state of distress, however was my good fortune: if they weren't on speaking terms I wouldn't be bothered by their inane drivel (PS: I'm judgmental, too). Unfortunately, a chatty Canadian who was also on the same cruise as the unhappy couple sat down in the third unoccupied aisle seat. Thus, began a long and tedious conversation which I had the misfortune of overhearing ( and passing judgment upon) during takeoff and the slow ascent.

Luckily I had remembered my iPad. Earlier this year my son, Will had downloaded a bunch of albums for precisely this type of situation. I fished around for my earphones in my huge carry-on (which I call a "purse"), plugged in and tuned out. My first selection: Miles Davis - Birth of the Cool.

To me, this is an almost perfect album. The only thing I would've left off was the last track: "Darn that dream". It has vocals and stupid lyrics. Since I was trying to drown out the chatter of my fellow travelers, listening to this song just made me mad. So, I switched to an equally incredible album:  Herbie Hancock - Maiden Voyage.


Just as "Dolphin Dance" began, the airline attendant came around with my gin and tonic; I paid her with my Southwest coupon, raised my glass to my sleeping husband (the perfect traveling companion) and slipped into a 15 minute blissful nap.

I had successfully manipulated my surroundings to create the illusion of tranquility.

 Just what my mother wanted for me.

Mentorship Moments

Madeleine Albright is famous for saying that there is a special place in hell for women who don't help other women. I'm guessing she's referring to women helping other women in the business world - and that if a woman "makes it" she has an obligation to help other women achieve success. That makes sense. I agree with her since historically it has been so hard for a woman to compete. It's gradually becoming easier, but there are still some very real boundaries in the business world.

I think Madeleine was on the right track, and she spoke from her heart and probably from experience. However, I think she got derailed. I believe that if you have achieved any measure of success, or can impart some knowledge to someone who needs it,  you have an obligation to help - not just to someone with whom you share the same sex.

This lesson was brought home to me most recently by a chef at a Buffalo country club. He was chosen to speak at our 2nd annual TEDx talks.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with TED, please take the time to visit TED  and browse through the topics. TED (which stands for Technology, Entertainment, Design) started out as a conference where experts were brought in to do chats of 18 minutes that were designed to change people's way of thinking. Its mission was to spread ideas. Now that conference has morphed into mini sessions at  local levels. Recently, Buffalo hosted its own conference and James Roberts, the aforementioned chef was chosen to speak about mentorship. When we first met James, Bill and I were struck by his passion for food and his general affability. He was more than happy to share kitchen tricks and recipe ingredients even with amateurs like us. Check out a short video about his work here.

I know that some people are born to be teachers. But mentorship is so much more; not only do you have to have the knowledge and be able to impart it, you have to be a role model and you have to be able to recognize the give and take in mentorship - for, as in any relationship, a mentor will inevitably gain something from the mentee.

One of the perqs of being married to Bill is that his love of teaching has helped me to grow. He is happiest when he is in front of students (whether formally at UB, informally with pals, or just with his family). He can expound on WWII military aircraft, the ingredients of garam masala, what happened at Stalingrad, whether Brian Mormon was the most valuable player for the Buffalo Bills, the changes in Giant Steps, the flying buttresses of Notre Dame... you get the point.  His eidetic memory allows him to converse on a host of subjects and this ability has allowed him to have a series of mini-mentorships with many people - for he has figured out that you can learn from others ALL THE TIME.  He, in fact, had manufactured his very own personal TEDx before it was even invented. 

Once, when I picked Bill up from the airport, he was so excited to tell me what he learned from his seat mate that the usual 'how are the kids' dialogue was forgotten.  He immediately launched into the composition and virtues of concrete because he had spent that last 90 minutes with an expert.

And, even though he will list out those that provided valuable mentorship to him, he would strenuously object to being called a mentor himself.  I would have to disagree - for he has been a true mentor to me. We have a wonderful relationship that is based on love, but it is also rooted in a give and take of learning and growing. Bill has shown by example that you can learn things from everyone that you encounter, that you should never stop inquiring and that you have the ability to create your own personal TEDx experiences every day. That's a lesson that I will never forget and that I feel an obligation to pass on. 

Canadian Thanksgiving

My friends and family in Canada are celebrating Thanksgiving tonight. Living in the northeast, it seems a more appropriate time to celebrate the harvest since it is actually harvest time. Perhaps I should start a rebellion and petition to move Thanksgiving in the US from November (where it competes with Christmas shopping) to October. How hard would it be to get something like that accomplished?  How does one go about doing this? I wouldn't know where to start. Perhaps a grassroots movement in my favorite rust belt city? I think almost everyone I know in Buffalo has at least one Canadian relative or, at the very least, enjoys visiting Toronto every so often. Spacing out the turkey/mashed potato/pie intake might be prudent, too.  



Thanksgiving in Canada is really the best holiday because it is all inclusive. There are no religious obligations, no ethnic overtones, no political agendas - it's a holiday for everyone. The whole Pilgrim/Indian sit down never happened - so there's not guilt either.  Canadians didn't co-opt the idea of Thanksgiving from their southern neighbors, either. One of the first Thanksgiving in Canada occurred when Martin Frobisher, a famous explorer studied by all Canadian students, was searching for a northern route to the Pacific Ocean (good GOD that must have been frigid). Somewhere on Baffin Island  he gave thanks, not for food, but for his mere survival during his expedition. That was in the late 1500s.  

 

Today, Canadians are merely required to eat, drink, assemble family and friends and say a big thank you. Some may also be lucky enough to have water nearby to have a celebratory paddle.

As I examine my ever increasing girth, I'm thinking I should say 'no thank-you' more than I should say 'thank-you'. However, we all understand that Thanksgiving is about being thankful for all our gifts - not just the plentiful harvest (although I understand the apple harvest will be scant this year). Taking time to be thankful is always a good idea and, unless you're in the enviable habit of saying 'grace' at each meal, or your prayers each night,  it's something that we just don't do enough.

Listening to my co-worker list the heart-rending issues with her extended family this morning, I was once again thankful for the incredible luck I have had with my family, our kids and my husband. Our troubles are few and minor in comparison to others.

So, even though I did not eat a feast tonight (although Bill did whip up another tasty meal), I am thankful for my friends, my co-workers, my family and my many blessings. Even though it isn't Thanksgiving stateside, I hope you are in a position to give thanks, too. 



Healing Hands

Ahhhh... a massage. Even the word is calming. Maaaaaaassaahhhhhhhhhhhge. It's a beautiful thing.

Last weekend I used a gift card for a massage to alleviate the ache in my head, neck and sinuses. I was lucky enough to get gift cards from Bill for Christmas. And, then I was lucky enough to have a wonderful therapist lay hands on me at Spa 400 in Williamsville.

I explained to Gina that I've been suffering from sinus headaches and that if I get up too quickly I suffer from vertigo. So, she spent the next 1/2 hour kneading my head, scalp and neck.  That’s THIRTY whole minutes where the entire focus was my head. Then she spent the next 20 minutes on the rest of my body. As a special treat, she spent the last 10 minutes on my scalp. She did all this with an oil base lotion infused with eucalyptus. I left in a state of bliss.

It’s Gina’s theory that if everyone started and ended each day with a massage there would be no war.

I believe her.

Bill hates getting massages. He is uncomfortable with the whole process. Only once did he ever agree to a massage. We were in Chiang Mai, Thailand and we found this small establishment that specialized in ‘couples’ massage. It wasn’t some kind of weird sex trade thing. Believe me, I was skeptical.  It was completely legitimate. No oils were used and we were completely clothed during the whole procedure. 

We both lay on straw mats on the ground - surprisingly comfortable. Then, two small Thai women worked on me and two tinier Thai women worked on Bill. And when I say 'worked on' ...it was work. The Thai massage is more of a give and take. The masseuse puts you into what I would describe as yoga-like poses and then proceeds to stretch and pound you. She will also walk on you and press her feet into your muscles.

I tried to achieve a meditative state during the poses but it was impossible because of Bill’s gyrations, snorts and laughter. He said it tickled and that he couldn't stand anyone touching him ("ahhh .... dear! That's what a massage is!"). He just could not take it and suffered through the whole experience.  His two ladies found the whole thing hilarious; they whispered non stop to each other in Thai and giggled behind their hands. What was supposed to be a ‘sensuous’ experience turned into a laugh riot.

That very same night, we went to a Thai cultural center where women in traditional garb danced the fingernail dance or Fawn Leb. They have REALLY long nails. And, they click them a lot. It's all ABOUT the hands.   

Bill swore he saw the woman who massaged him up on the dance floor. 

The fine art of writing a thank you note - dedicated to Danielle

You know how much you love to get a package in the mail? Even when you've ordered it for yourself? Well, I love getting thank you notes 100 million times more. It's a gift all wrapped up with kind words.

The art of writing a thank you note is not a difficult one to master. Sincerity is key - so is promptness. Mention the gift/the dinner/the outing/the thing for which you are expressing thanks (hereafter "it"). Tell the recipient of the note why you liked "it" or how much you would love for "it" to happen again or how much you'll use "it". Then add a line about your relationship and why it is special. Finally, close with something genuine.

Don't use graph paper or lined paper or something ripped from a memo pad. Get yourself some stationery or a pre-printed thank you card. I guarantee that when the card arrives all mixed up with circulars and bills and political requests for contributions your letter will be the first one ripped opened. The tactile experience of examining the envelope, looking at the return address and slipping the card from its envelope is just too delicious.  A simple pleasure. You will create a smile and a warm spot in the heart of the recipient.

Sure, sending an email is okay to acknowledge a gift or a favor.  I use email all the time to express my appreciation (I'm a sucker for a hoops and yoyo e-card).  I think most people under 40 generally rely on email for most correspondence. But, there are some stalwart younger souls out there who still believe in the old fashioned pen to paper method of expressing gratitude. Maybe we have their mums to thank? Or maybe they just know...

Oh! The bonus is that the post office needs our help. :)

Try it out soon..especially on someone who would least expect it.

A love letter to Emma

Early on in our dating life together, Bill and I discussed having children. True, we weren't 'betrothed' but we both avowed that having a family had to be part of the marriage deal. Although I was uncertain about whether I was actually maternal, I knew that Bill would make a great father. He loved to teach - and he was so passionate about so many things that I knew he couldn't help but share his joie de vivre with the next generation of Savinos.

I was right.

I am thankful for so many things that Bill has brought into my life but, the best part of our life, bar none, is the fact that we were able to have two terrific kids. We were lucky that we agreed on parenting tactics and values. We rarely disagreed about issues with the kids - and we are fortunate that we didn't have to deal with any huge problems.

My pregnancy with Emma, our first born, was touch and go. I think that that fragility and uncertainty made me appreciate her even more when she was eventually ripped from my gut. The first year of Emma's life I took a leave of absence from law school and stayed at home full time. That was probably the best year of my life.  She was a dream baby. In fact, her name, Emma, came to me in a dream when I was pregnant with her.

Emma was not a popular name 22 years ago - it was pre "Friends" and it was kind of old fashioned. Her name is actually an acronym (E for Elizabeth - my name; MM for Mary Margaret - my mother's name; and A for Antionette - Bill's mother's name). The acronym part is what I dreamt about. I woke up with a start and announced to Bill that the baby was going to be named Emma. He loved it even though we didn't know if she was female. (PS: Don't you love what your brain can do when you're asleep?!)


Twenty-two years later, my love for her is only outweighed by my respect for her. She is such a great daughter and an even better sister to Will!  I have no doubt that whatever she sets her mind to do, she will accomplish. And she'll do it with flair! She is so smart and organized and beautiful and determined and caring and frugal and unspoiled and genuine.  She and her father often butt heads - I think it's because they share so many characteristics.  




She's in her final semester at the University of Toronto. The world is open to her and I can't wait to see what she will do. It's such an exciting time of life for her and I know she is stressing about all the choices that are ahead of her.

It's funny how a little more than 22 years ago I was just fine with life and the people in it. And now, I don't know how I ever lived without her.

Our own wee Emma! We love you so much!!!