METAPHORICALLY SPEAKING

I’m just a little concerned with the future.  I’m afraid 2019 is going to be a bit messy; it’s written on my front lawn.

You see, we have this huge front yard.  Massive, really.  Our house sits on a slight rise facing south and there’s nothing but a driveway and endless lawn between the deck door and Township Road 82.  In the summer it’s either grass to mow or what a savvy real estate agent would call a ‘water feature’.  In the winter it’s a huge expanse of pristine snow.  This scene from my front door is one of my most favorite in the world – all the space … the privacy … the freedom to inspect my morning garden in my pajamas.  The dog and I sit on the deck and survey our kingdom for hours in the summertime.

In the winter time this view is less mesmerizing.  In fact, it only really draws my attention for about the first week of the New Year.  At this time of the year my front yard becomes a gigantic metaphor, helping me to describe the coming year.

The comparisons are just too perfect.  The pristine snow showing how we all are afforded a fresh new start.  The wide expanse telling us that we have no boundaries.  The slate so clean that we are invited to make our own path wherever we see fit.  It’s pure metaphor heaven.

How can anyone take in such a wide field of possibilities and not be excited to step forth into the New Year?  How could you not believe you could climb any mountain, swim any sea, tackle any monster?  The potential for attainable achievements lies at our feet.  All we have to do is stamp our personal design onto that clean, white surface and the rest will take care of itself.

Except for this coming year.  2019 is looking a little worrisome.

It’s hard to describe the front yard this time around, but here goes … we had company for Christmas.  For a week there were four little boys and three dogs here.  A regular pastime was being pulled around the yard on a toboggan behind a quad while being chased by a trio of canine clowns.  There is hardly a square meter of snow that hasn’t been trampled within an inch of its life.  There are so many paths out there now a person is either going to get dizzy or lost if he tried to follow them.  My “no limits” metaphor has fallen apart.

But, if I’ve stood by the ‘clean slate’ prediction on other years, I guess I should explore what the front yard tea leaves are trying to tell me this time around.  Taking in the trampled snow, the great circles of tire tracks, the deer bones and hide hauled up to the house … not to mention all the yellow snow and other dog residue.  What do these things say about the future?

Will I spend 2019 as a dazed schizophrenic with a crappy attitude wandering in ever widening circles, continually confronted by carnage?  Or, should I choose the safe route and be a hermit, refusing to go outside for the whole year?

The thing is, I’m a ‘cup is half full’ kind of person.  I think I will choose not to focus on what the yard looks like, but on how it got that way. 

Those boys had great fun making those tracks.  No matter how many times they were spilled out of the toboggan, they just laughed and got back on.  The dogs had the best time ever running and playing; that deer carcass was a culinary delight in their eyes.  Two legged or four legged, they all played hard during the day and slept well at night – you can’t ask Life for a better arrangement than that.  As far as the yellow snow and the other ‘lawn ornaments’ go, we all know they’re a part of life.  We just need to watch out for them.

So, here’s to a messy year.  May we all come out of it, wise and happy and loved!  Happy 2019 everyone!

THE SEASON OF LIGHTS

There are a lot of things that I love about the Christmas season.  I love the visiting.  I love the music.  I love the decorations.  I love the concerts and caroling.  And there’s no denying I love the food; that fact is there for all the world to see. 

That’s the public side of my Christmas, though.  I also have a private one. 

Sometime after the tree is up, I get up extra early, pour myself a big old mug of coffee, and sit and bask in the peace and tranquility of the Christmas lights twinkling before me.  I don’t know when this private little tradition on mine began but I do know that my Christmas season isn’t complete without it.

I suppose this quiet time can best be described as a review of my year, or in the grander scheme of things, my life.  Memories of the trees of my childhood – the excitement, the temptations to sneak a peak, the worries of Santa knowing what I’d been up to all year – spill through my mind.  As an adult I shake my head at how these self-focused qualms let me miss the cleaning and baking and sewing and wrapping my mother did to give us all these memories we hold dear now.

Because, of course, being a mom who had to step into those shoes is my next memory.  The presents, the parties, the concert and pageant practices.  The never-enough-hours-in-the-day days.  The I-can’t-wait-till-the-kids-go-back-to-school feelings that hit when the first one said “I’m bored!”  Ah!  Those were the days!

It was all worth it though, because those very children went out into the world and now return with the most wonderful small people on the planet.  In just a few days this house will be full of noise and laughter  (and let’s be honest here, also tears, and stand-offs, and lectures about sharing).  The table will smell of playdough, there will be an ever-present danger of being crippled by Lego, and bedtime will be everyone’s favourite time of day.  Well all the adult’s anyway, but we wouldn’t trade the cousin together time for anything.

It’s this impending invasion that got me up for my Christmas quiet time this morning – it’s not likely to happen after they all get here.  Although there is always the possibility of some small wiggly person to snuggle with when they do arrive … but that’s a different kind of gift.

This year’s tree is exceptionally pretty; the multi coloured lights glowing in its branches, my assortment of angels scattered so I can see at least one from wherever I choose to sit, the breakable heirloom balls at the top where they’re safe, the plastic touchables down where little ones can examine them without nasty consequences, and the newest addition – a flock of silver birds perched down where the kids can all choose one to call their own.  There are even a few strands of tinsel to tie this tree to my childhood.

And as much as I love the light that the tree gives off, four years ago I added a couple of laser lights that are designed to decorate outside.  While they do spray red and green dots of light across the front of the house, it’s the dots that shine through the windows and twinkle on the walls and ceilings inside that make me happy, reminders of the first Christmas we had them when the Australian grandchildren were here to celebrate with us too.  That is the Christmas that every other Christmas will be forever measured against.

Over the years my sacred Christmas tree time has been shared with tiny a newborn niece while her mother tried to sleep.  It has been spent texting with a dear friend suffering a terrible tragedy.  And it’s been a place I have spent numb, dark and desolate with my own despair.  And yet, with the constant presence of a Christmas tree; its lights shining in the darkness, there’s always been comfort and reassurance to be had, and faith that the future has better things in store.

Which brings me inevitably to other promises of light – the Christian promise of the Christ child.  And the pagan promise that the days would soon begin to lengthen out again.  It’s no accident that they all happen at the same time of the year.

 

 

BEAUTY AND THE BEAST

As anyone who lives in Saskatchewan knows, we have some of the most spectacular weather phenomena known to man.  Even our license plates proclaim it – “Land of the Living Skies”.  There’s a never ending variety of wind, rain, sun, clouds, thunder and lightning, heat waves and cold snaps.  If Saskatchewanites had a family motto it might well be “Bring It On!”

We can handle anything Mother Nature can throw at us. 

In fact, we revel in it.

This sense of bravado is rooted in all the mighty and majestic storms we have weathered over the years.  We can handle blizzards – there’s something about being shut in while the wind howls and the storm rages that makes a house seem extra safe and warm. 

A few years ago we were awe struck at how even the ‘flat’ prairies can have massive overland flooding if it pours for 24 hours straight.

A couple weeks at 40 below zero?  Been there, done that.

A couple weeks at nearly 40 above?  Same.

Tornados to topple buildings and toss trampolines around?  Yep.

Hail storms where the ice strips paint and siding off houses, breaks windows, and wrecks vehicles.  You bet.

My Facebook memories this morning showed me that 2 years ago my grandsons, dressed in full winter gear, sat atop a four foot snow bank, but 3 years ago the dog and I took a walk on a warm afternoon – no snow, light jacket, barbeque for supper, but both on December 8.  Such is the land we live in.

For sure Mother Nature can play hard ball, but this past week she upped her game.  She soft-gloved it.  You might say she gave us a Trojan Horse, and while we were ooohing and ahhing about her magnificence she laughed and punched out our lights.  Literally, in December, there we were, sitting cold, in the dark.

The treat she began with was several days of fog and no wind.  If you live somewhere that has never seen hoar frost I can’t describe its beauty.  I’ve tried, but words just don’t do it justice.  The fog crystallizes on every surface it touches – grasses, trees, buildings, fences – dazzling white diamond-like crystals making the whole world look like an exquisitely decorated wedding cake.  The longer the foggy conditions last, the thicker the frost grows.  By last weekend it was probably two inches thick; everyone went out and took pictures before the sun melted it off.  That’s what usually happens; the sun melts it off.

Instead, Mother Nature left it – seeing as so many people were enjoying her handiwork.  And the power lines sagged.  And the power poles leaned and began to bend.  And the Sask Power workers prayed for sunshine.

At 8:30 on Tuesday morning the power stuttered a couple times and then shut off.  Breakfast was over, lunch was sandwiches, supper was barbeque.  Afternoon project was setting up the generator to run a couple heaters, a lamp, and to charge our cell phones.  We spent the evening wrapped in blankets, planning Wednesday’s trip for more fuel if need be, but 13 hours after it went off our power was restored.

Wednesday’s outage wasn’t as long and we were lucky – we had just finished a nice warm supper.

Thursday’s happened in the morning while I was at work on my computer.  By that time I was pretty much over the thrill of ‘roughing it’, and I had stuff to do!  We are so crippled with no electricity!

It’s Saturday now, the sun has been shining, and the weight on the lines has been lessened, thank goodness.  We are beginning to trust that this fun experience is behind us, and that maybe we won’t have to reset every clock in the house yet again (isn’t it crazy how it’s the little things that get to you?).  We also appreciate that for those 13 hours while we huddled in our cozy blankets constantly checking our phones for updates, the work force of Sask Power was out in the cold and dark getting us back online – can’t say thank you enough!

And to Mother Nature – that was a good one!  Very clever of you.  Giving us the breathtakingly beautiful scenery of hoar frost, and while we were blown away with the splendor, you pulled the plug on us just to remind us who’s the boss. 

You gave us Beauty, who turned out to be the Beast.