COLOURING OUTSIDE THE LINES PART II - LESSONS

con't from Learning ...

But, then the really stupid news?  The day the insurance company declares my car totaled, is the day I must return the rental.  Are they kidding me???  Is a new car going to magically appear?  Especially during this historic period in time (world stoppage) where a new car has to be ordered months in advance and because of that, no one is giving up the car they have.  Seriously???  Turn in the rental?  I am a one-car family.  What kind of nonsense will insurance companies think of next?  And, what in the heck am I going to do?

                                     * * *

But I digress ... again ... 

Lady Luck is on my side and my local Toyota dealer has a slightly used end-of-lease Prius-C someone had turned in that very day. Comparable in mileage to my now-defunct slightly-higher-better-model, but, the car has no guts, no backup camera, no cruise control.  It was just a no-no, no-go kinda car.  

I keep in touch with the Product Specialist who handled my purchase of the Prius.  Wonders of wonders, one day, months later,  he tells me about an even-slightly newer one-up model Corolla, WITH almost everything my heart desires.  I could live without the remote start I love having, especially in winter.  Oh well, at least that's one thing I can have installed later, you know, like when I win the lottery. 

Great car, decent price and decent trade-in on the Prius.  Colour could have been different but then I wouldn’t blend in with my neighbours. 

 It does have quite a few bells and whistles the old one didn’t have, like dynamic cruise control, which is kind of neat.  And then there's the early warning system.  Quite cool and annoying at the same time.  Also, pretty bossy.  Apparently, when you colour outside the lines too many times, it tells you to...                                   

                              TAKE A BREAK

                     

... accompanied by the bell-like tinkle of a little ringadingdingie.

Funny as hell but as I mentioned, annoying.  The first time it comes on, I have to endure seeing it until I turn the car off.  The second time I make the supreme effort to figure out how to get rid of it.  Phew!!

                                     * * *

 How many ways are there to colour   outside the lines, you ask?  Let me   count the ways ... 

Picture this – a beautiful sunny, spring afternoon, someone has just mowed their lawn for the first time.  The scent floats past your open window, tickling your nose, while you’re out driving along those curvy little streets.

Then you see all the people walking on the side of the road ' cause there's no sidewalks out in the country.'   

                                                           

Country folk usually have at least one dog with them, most often, two or more and I wonder how much their food and vet bills are.

Sometimes the dogs are leashed, occasionally not, or on those really long leashes, which enable 4-leggeds to lunge at kamikaze squirrels, who watch disdainfully from the safe zone, just outside the leashes’ reach.  How those silly critters love to play chicken with passing cars and neighbourhood guard dogs. 

And what about those hands-free leashes, with the human's face stuck in their cell phone?   Just gotta love those ones.  The 4-legged may be getting their exercise but no attention.  They could eat a dead elephant before their person may notice.

Then, there are the people on bikes, pedaling like mad, who make great play-things for all the dogs who hid in the shrubbery.  When the time is exactly right, they race out of their hiding spots (so much fun!), barking with gusto, causing the cyclists to swerve all over the road using evasive maneuvers.  Sometimes though, they fall ass-over-tea kettle in the process.

  

 What really amazes me is the way they spring back to their feet in what seems like mere seconds, after they get their breath back.  Reminds me of a jack-in-the-box.  It must be all that healthy living!

And so, in order to circumvent mayhem, you must go over the lines to miss all the miscreants, which means sometimes you just have to colour outside the lines.  On a fine, bright spring afternoon, that little ringadingdingie may sound frequently.  And, I’m guessing when that happens one too many times, you just gotta take a break, whether you actually need one or not. 

                                      ***

 Sometimes I gotta wonder if   my car is smarter than I am?   I think we've all heard about   the amazing autonomous   vehicle (AV) (self-driving technology) which is in the works?   Kinda scary, to me, anyway.  What does this remind you of?  I see a toaster.  I wonder if I'll live long enough to see AVs as an every- day kinda thing, you know, like Corollas?  

I start to wonder some more - it's now mid-2023, almost a quarter of the way into this 21st century.  Can we actually buy a self-driving vehicle?  Checking online I find lots of ads and decide to go to the biggest marketplace (in the world?) and sure enough find lots of ads for self-driving vehicles but so far have only seen books available for them but no actual cars.  Curious.  

 This ad is of particular interest   to me as it cost almost as much as a used car.  I wonder if the pages are gilded in gold-leaf?

The 2021-2026 World Outlook for Self-Driving Cars by Prof Philip M. Parker Ph.D. | Feb 13, 2020 Paperback $995.00 

90 days FREE Blamazon. Terms apply.  Ships to Canada 

Then I start thinking about how much this world has changed since I was a kid.  Back then, my very young world was filled with playing hide n' seek with the five french kids next door, what was for supper and watching the last episode of Pollyanna on The Wonderful World of Disney on TV (no VCRs back then).  I hide in the corner of the hall (I'd been sent to bed early because of some stunt I pulled that day).  I can’t remember anymore what I did back then but it must have been serious to invoke the wrath of Mom!

P.S.  I think my parents knew I was there, in the hallway ... trying to be invisible.  So much innocence.  I miss it - innocence.  Is there any such thing, anymore?  

Forest Gump said, “life is like a box of chocolates”,   

    

to which I add my 2₵, “and learning how to colour outside the lines.”

 

COLOURING OUTSIDE THE LINES - Learning

 

Last week, the bullet got bit and I got a new car.  Okay, a new-to-me new car. 

My saga begins about 6 months ago, in our biggest-in-the-region city,  Barrie, population 155,000.  That’s pretty big when the town you live in is 25,000 and believe me, the traffic reflects the pop. 

I love where I live now, finally settling here, in the Beach, 5 years ago.  I also decided it was a great time to retire.  Best decision I made in a long time.  And even better, I discovered that condo living suits me just fine.  I’m loving it!  Someone else gets to do the lawn mowing, weed whacking, spider and bug spraying and the like.  Also, especially here in our northern clime, plowing the parking spots, shovelling the sidewalks and putting down the ‘don’t-slip-and-break-your-hip-stuff during what I call the off-season. 

But I digress ... 

I used to live near Barrie and know it fairly well.  I attended a small business networking group there and came to know quite a few of the other  members; what their businesses were about and where they are located.  Plot twist; I actually met a long-lost cousin of mine at the very first meeting I ever went to.  Amazing what a small world it can be. 

                                   * * *

Having discovered my passion, with a passion― photography ―  my Nikon camera is usually on my hip, literally (I use a side-sling), when I’m out and about and especially when I go jaunting.  Well, it got very annoying when I turned it on and it would freeze every time.  I had to take the battery out, put it back in and turn it on again to get it to work.  BIG sigh.  Luckily, I bought the extended warranty.  The only wrinkle was that I had to bring it to Harry’s in Barrie, so they could send it out to have it fixed. 

I decided that I just could not be without a camera at all and managed to find a small point & shoot – not a Nikon, on my local(ish) marketplace group.  It was economical and available and best of all, the seller agreed to meet me at Harry’s.  

Everything went off flawlessly, despite the world-wide insanity at the time.  And then everything went to hell in a hand cart, and I wished that I could have a mulligan.                                            

I missed my turn onto the road home and decided rather than turning around, to just continue on, taking Mapleview, a major east-west corridor in Barrie and one that had been under construction when I moved, in 2012 to the Town just a little bit south.  It has been under construction ever since and it’s 2022 now.  Gotta wonder if it’ll ever be finished.  It’s starting to remind me of the 401. 

 It's the tail end of the Fall-back   time-change week, a cloudy,   dampish kind of day.  Bunched   up at the light near the Crappy   Tire on Mapleview, we were all waiting impatiently for a rather long red light to change.  The Honda SUV in front of me moved quickly and so did I, wanting out of ‘city’ traffic and to get home. 

All of sudden and not sure why even to this day, but all of a sudden, the SUV stopped dead and then rocked back and forth a few times.  I desperately stomped on the brakes to no avail on the slickish road.   Ooops!!  Bumped into the bumper (they’re well named) and heaved a big sigh. 

Edging slowly and carefully into the inside lane, along with two vehicles in front of me, we made our way to the lane leading into the Honda dealership (handy for the one driving the car I nudged). 

 The three of us drivers got out to  confer - the minivan driver, a   man, who had been severely   jolted by the woman driving the SUV in front of me, Maren, and me.  It looked like my front end had taken the brunt of it, with the hood bunched up and the grill reminding me of a grinning, gap-toothed jack-o-lantern.                                                                                    

The woman, Maren, was shaken (but not stirred).  She had slammed into the guy in front of her pretty hard.  Her front end was smunched in and his back end didn’t look so good.  Maren’s back end, where I had barely tickled it, did not show any damage at all, maybe a scuff mark on the bumper and after a few minutes of getting things sorted out, the other two agreed that there was no reason for me to have to wait around.  I left promptly, just wanting to get back to what I consider my safe haven, especially during the past almost two years of government gaslighting.

Finally.  Home.  I sit down.  Hard, on the sofa.  The events of the afternoon start trickling their way through my grey matter.  HUGE sigh as the implication hits me - FIFTY years' worth of a perfect driving record wiped out in a few seconds, caused partly by me but more so by Maren, who, for some unknown-to-me reason had triggered the thruple.  I never did find out what happened.  No matter.  It was what it was.

 Next on the agenda was to   have my car fixed.  First,   though, was getting a rental   car locally.  One of the   things I learned about living   in The Beach is that there   is only one, count ‘em, one,   rental car place in the Bay   area and with the semi-annual event of time change week, getting a rental car, fast, is as rare as hen’s teeth.  

Chatting with the manager of the one-and-only car rental place, I had to ask why it took so long to get a rental.  He mentioned that the week following time changes are the busiest.  Wouldn’t ya know.  It has taken a week to get the rental, leave my car at the insurance company’s ‘preferred’ body shop, only to be told a week later that they, the insurance company, were totaling my car.  I was crushed.  I thought I’d be driving that car until I died.  

But, then the really stupid news?  The day the insurance company declares my car totaled, is the day I must return the rental.  Are they kidding me???  Is a new car going to magically appear?  Especially during this historic period in time (world stoppage) where a new car has to be ordered months in advance and because of that, no one is giving up the car they have.  Seriously???  Turn in the rental?  I am a one-car family.  What kind of nonsense will insurance companies think of next?  And, what in the heck am I going to do?

To be continued ...

TODAY

 

 

                                     Sun sand surf hot wind

Love in pale dry grains near shore

Young lust pure free, peace

YESTERDAY

My daughter was born about 47 years ago. Today, when I was walking by the credenza, where I keep a few framed photographs, one caught my eye - the very first image captured of my newborn baby girl.  It was taken right in the hospital by one of those professional portrait photography outfits, whose hungry  photographers lurked in the maternity ward halls, to snare unwary parents, especially first-timers.

But I digress...  

Why did it suddenly catch my interest, you ask?  Well, firstly because it’s black and white.  And secondly, because I started wondering how many people still keep framed photographs on display in their homes.   Then I started thinking about how much this world has changed during my lifetime.  And then I wonder what else is coming!

 My daughter arrived during ‘the transitional decade’ in the photography field, about three or four years too early, before colour became more common place and more importantly, economical for the average ‘Joe’ to afford.    

Now, modern technology, as I like to describe the world I currently live in, offers so much.  It’s quite bewildering and somehow, to me, somewhat incredible, yet not.  It also, I believe, could very well be the end of society as we know it.  

At least my daughter was born during the time that people actually still took ‘pictures’ and got them developed.  They would occasionally enlarge one or two of their favourites and have them framed, showing them off around their home, sometimes completely covering the top of that old, massive, heavy-as-hell stereo/TV cabinet combo.  

You know the kind I’m talking about – big, old black and white TV in the lower middle of the unit, sometimes concealed behind swanky sliding doors.  The record player would be in the top centre and sometimes, there would also be a built-in am/fm radio, usually on the right-hand side.  On the left side, there may be a handy bar area, with built-in compartments for a fancy, crystal decanter and matching highball glasses.

 My middle grandchild, her nose out of joint,  asked me why there were so many pictures of her older sister on display and hardly any of her.  I told her to ask her mother about the coming of the digital age.  

With the availability of affordable computers, cell phones and digital cameras, our world has changed, and not necessarily for the better.  Oh sure, cell phones come in handy, especially when you slide off the road during a blizzard but it’s only really helpful if you know where you are.  That’s where a GPS comes in handy, although, these days I think ‘smart’ cell phones have a ‘find me’ feature.  

"I fear the day technology will surpass our human interaction. The world will have a generation of idiots.’  Albert Einstein

My cell phone, is a little ‘flip’ phone which I get teased about, a lot.  The only thing smart about it, is the person using it.

My newest GPS (I only buy GARMIN), gives me verbal directions to wherever it is I’m going and it also has a small field at the bottom, which tells me where I’m at – bonus!  I frequently don’t know where I am when I’m out jaunting, even with this great feature, because I forget that it’s there.  In a way I think I liked it better back in the ‘olden days’.   I used to get so mis-directed that not only did I not know where I was but I didn’t even know the direction in which I was travelling.  Somehow, being so totally lost was an adventure and, eventually, I always made it home. 

Luckily, if I do slide off the road and don’t know where I am, my GPS has a ‘WHERE AM I?’ feature.  This not only tells you your elevation but also and more importantly, it gives you your coordinates in longitude and latitude degrees, which pinpoints your location precisely.  Useful to have, so emergency services can find you.  

That particular feature came in handy a few years ago when I slid into very deep, water- filled tractor tire tracks, cut into a muddy road, used mostly by farm tractors, in the back of the beyond, around Glen Huron.  That experience taught me to never go off-roading (not intentional believe me) during a rainy, spring season.  I was in those muddy ruts up to my hubcaps (nowadays called wheel covers) and even my friend, a homegrown farm girl, who drove tractors from the time she could reach the pedals, couldn’t chivvy us out.  The tow-truck operator used the coordinates to find us and was able to tow us out from about 100 feet (about 30 meters) from where we were stuck.  There was no way in hell he was going to drive his freshly washed, immaculate, glistening, white tow truck through the muck to get any closer.  That’s one adventure I will always remember.  I have not been back to that road since. 

                   

I also have a digital camera, which is slowly, but surely, being challenged by smart phones, which have a built-in camera and some even take high quality images. Even my little flip phone has a camera but I can tell you that downloading the photos and sending them is quite complicated and it makes my head hurt trying to figure it out, so I rarely use it for shooting.    

The days of having to pay for developing are dead and gone.  Now we have free software, which enables us to edit (fix) our images, and then transmit them immediately to all our friends and family.  Talk about instant gratification.  It makes me very happy, being an enthusiastic amateur photographer and rarely go anywhere without my camera at my side.  I have discarded hundreds if not thousands of images, which just aren’t very good.  Back in the ‘olden days’ I had rolls of film developed, good and bad pictures alike and paid a pricey buck for the service, only to throw out half the photographs.   

 

And then, of course, there is the world of selfies, which is another story all itself!!

 

Nowadays, if anyone has a question, the resounding response is, “Google It!”, and I do, for any number of topics.  Over the weekend for instance, I was able to fix my toilet seat and feel very proud of myself for being able to do so, after I ‘Googled It’ to figure out how.

I have a weird kind of soft-close seat I’ve never had the pleasure of adjusting before.  It was pretty simple, once I knew how.  I’ve also printed out the instructions to keep for the next time I think I’m going to toboggan off the porcelain.

So many inventions, so little time, especially when you’re in your 60s.  But along with all those inventions, comes change, big change.  Good, bad or … Stay tuned.

"It has become appallingly obvious that our technology has exceeded our humanity."  Albert Einstein

P.S.  Einstein died on April 18, 1955.  

© 2022 Phyllis Mahon aka Undercover Confidential

Jacquie’s Christmas Miracle - A New Beginning

con't from COMING HOME ...

Soon, the warmth of the kitchen and stuffed with good food, starts us yawning.  We suddenly realize how late it is and troop up the stairs, towards bed.  Clyde’s room awaits him, as if he’s never been away.

Tomorrow will be here sooner than we know!

* * *

Sun shining through the window early the next day, awakens me and Bill.  With all the excitement last night, we forgot to pull the shade down.  Oh, well, there’s a lot to do today.  I’m so thrilled that Clyde is home and I think of all the fun we’ll have decorating the tree.

Running to Clyde’s room, I jump on his bed, waking him up, provoking a threat of retaliation, “I’ll get you for that, pipsqueak . . . see if I don’t!” 

“Lazy bones, lazy bones, get up, get up!  We have the biggest Christmas tree in Toronto to decorate.”  Swinging his arm in front of his bleary eyes, he makes out the time on his wrist watch.  Then, making good on his threat, he bounces me onto the floor.  Landing with a thump, I shriek, jump to my feet, and pull him off the bed.  “So there, Mr. Pilot Man. . . gotcha back!”

The smell of strong coffee percolating throughout the house draws us downstairs and we pile into the fragrant kitchen.  I love the smell of perked coffee in the morning.  It’s the best smell in the world. 

Breakfast is leisurely; bacon and eggs and french toast fill our bellies.  The coffee pot is quickly emptied.  Father keeps busy preparing his famous concoction of ground coffee, salt and a few choice pieces of eggshell, which he had asked mother to keep aside from breakfast.  He rinses the shells, places all the ingredients into the perforated grey metal basket, in a precise order and fills up the pot with fresh, cold water.  Pure ambrosia!  

Mother does the dinner dishes, left in the sink from last night.  The rest of us chatter away at the table, our heads propped on fisted hands, listening and laughing. 

After placing the last clean dish in the drain board, Mother sits down at the table.  Father pours her a cup of fresh perked coffee.  Wrapping her hands around the warmth of the cup, Mother gratefully inhales the scent of the aromatic brew. 

Pushing back our chairs, Bill and I get up, grab tea towels and start drying the dishes.  We put them away, as Clyde clears the table.  After filling up the sink with the breakfast dishes, he grabs the broom and begins to sweep the floor.  As Mother starts to get up from the table to wash the new batch of dishes, Bill says, “Sit down, Mother, you’ve done enough.  It’s our turn now.” Mother sighs with good-natured exasperation and does as she’s told. 

After clearing up, we go to the foyer and stare at the tree.  Looking at its size, Bill suggests, “Let’s leave it here.  There’s lots of room for it.” 

“But we always put it in the living room” I insist.

“Well, it doesn’t have to be in the same place every single year”, Clyde argues. 

Pushing my lower lip out, “No, it has to be the living room!”

  

Sighing, Clyde and Bill lug the tree into the living room and try to stand it up.  As expected, the ceiling is too low.  “See, told you we should leave it in the foyer.  There’s plenty of room there.  The ceiling goes up two stories.  Now we hafta lug it back.”  Bill starts dragging the tree back to the foyer.  In protest, I yell, “It’s got to be in the bay window, in the living room.  Let’s fix it.  We’ll make it fit!”   In the end, tradition wins out.

Clyde and I tramp out to the back yard shed and rummage through Father’s sparse tool bench.  “Ah ha”, I crow, pulling a rusty buck saw from the bottom of a heap and we run back to the house.

Clyde mans the saw, which lurches and twangs through the tough trunk.  The screeching, as it draws back and forth through the wood, makes my teeth hurt and I flee to the peace and quiet of my room.  Clyde yells up the stairs, "Chicken", and makes loud clucking noises.  I venture out to the top of the stairs and watch as he flaps around the living room, hands tucked into armpits, elbows pumping and knees bobbing and I start laughing.  My mother swats Clyde with a damp tea towel and his tomfoolery comes to an end - the squealing starts again.  I hastily scoot back into my bedroom to escape the ghastly noise.  

Soon Bill calls up the stairs to me, “Jacquie, the Christmas tree is up now.  It’s safe to come out.”  A lovely sight greets me when I walk downstairs.  What must be the most beautiful Christmas tree in all of Toronto, fills our bay window and barely clears the ceiling.  Fresh pine fragrance fills the room and drifts into the hall.  Grandma’s hand-embroidered tree skirt spreads over the wooden stand; a colourful field of red, green and white.  Though it may not be the tallest Christmas tree in the world anymore, it is the most beautiful.

Father brings up boxes from the basement, containing our Christmas decorations.  Some have been collected over generations and handed down by family members, others given by treasured friends.  I open the boxes and unpack the beautiful ornaments.  There are glass balls, glittering with gold and silver, crystal bells, miniature soldier boys gleaming red, gold and black; hand crocheted stars in blue, green, yellow, violet, indigo, orange and red – a rainbow of colours.  Each piece finds a special place on the branches.  Dozens of Santa heads add a jolly touch with his red-cheeked, smiling face.

Exquisite sterling silver candle holders are gently clamped to the branches.  Each holder, which reminds me of a fluted sea shell, shimmers gently.  The white and red candles are held steady by prongs.  “Make sure you set the candles straight”,  Mother cautions.  "The wax has to drip into the holder, not onto the rug. And, remember to blow out the candles when you leave the room.” 

In the kitchen, Mother and Bill make pot after pot of popcorn, setting our mouths watering.  Munching the still-warm kernels, we wait for the morsels to cool enough to string on strong white thread.   Clyde and I create extra-long garlands, which he winds ‘round and ‘round the tree.  Next, my personal favourite – red and white stripped candy canes.  Mother buys pounds of them at the neighbourhood candy shop.  Replenishment is usually required three or four times before Christmas day, as they seem to mysteriously disappear.  Sticking one in the corner of my mouth, hook end in, I set to work putting the remaining ornaments in place.

 The second-to-last task is the careful placement of hundreds of silvery tinsel icicles. Clyde hands me the boxes and, as he leaves the room, says, “Jacquie, you’re the only one with the patience to hang these properly.  Call us when you’re finished . . . going for coffee.

Time passes as I carefully position the shiny strands, one-piece-at-a-time.  I step back and view my work, shifting a glass ball here, a glittering spiral there, to better catch the light.

I call out, “Everyone come in the living room, please.  It’s time to place the angel.”  I unpack the very last ornament with reverence.  The room is hushed as I carefully lift the beautiful white angel out of her protective wooden box. 

I hand the angel to Clyde.  He carries a well-worn Chippendale armchair over to the base of the tree, cautiously steps onto it, leans over and reaches up.  The angel’s base slides over the top most branch.  He must stretch to straighten her out and smooth her feathery wings. 

How elegant she is!  Ivory coloured satin flows from her porcelain shoulders and gold thread peeks through lace.  Her luminous face glows in the lamp light.  Delicate hands hold a dove; a symbol of peace at this, the end WWII.   

After the candles are lit, we all gather round.  Standing in a semi-circle, we link our hands and admire our wonderful tree.  Flickering candles light up the face of our angel. 

We lower our heads and remember, in silence, those many brave men and women who will never come home again.  We pray for the families they leave behind. We are thankful that our brave men are safe, and home for Christmas.  Truly my Christmas miracle.

I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones. 

                                - Albert Einstein                                     

Jacquie’s Christmas Miracle - Coming Home

I know not with what weapons World War III will be 

fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.    Albert Einstein

Shadows play hide and seek in the bare tree branches, as the long reach of a frigid mid-December evening creeps up on dinner hour. 

Where is Father?  He’s usually home for supper by now. 

Frozen rain tip-taps on the window pane and I can hear my mother muttering to herself in the kitchen, as pans rattle and pots bang.  Strangely, the pitter-patter of the sleet seems to keep rhythm with the clatter coming from the kitchen.

I can tell Mother’s quite worried about Father.  He’s almost as punctual as the 5:20 that clamors past our house every day, except Sundays and Christmas Day. That coal-fed locomotive belches clouds of white steam and shakes the pictures right off the wall sometimes. 

She doesn’t want to worry me, the daughter she still refers to as “The Child.”  I am Jacqueline Alicia Byrnes, newly married 19 year-old woman.   Mother tries to disguise her concern by making extra food for dinner.  I wonder what she’ll make tonight?   Tinned peas, sliding around the crinkle-cut carrots?  Mother tries, but she really isn’t a very good cook.  But then, as Father always says, he didn’t marry her for her cooking.  Father likes to say this with an exaggerated wink, as he makes smacking noises with his lips.  I was in my teens before I figured out what Father meant by that, after overhearing one of my suitors debating with his pals about who was more stacked – my mother or Betty Grable.

I wander through the sitting room into the kitchen and ask my mother if everything’s okay.  She looks right at me, but I get the feeling she doesn’t really see me, as she mutters, “Hmm, I wonder if I have enough eggs to make a chocolate cake?”  Oh, hey, maybe she’s making an extra special goodie tonight instead of a vegetable.

Edging out of the kitchen, I settle on the window seat in the living room, cozy blanket wrapped around my shoulders.  My breath fogs up the leaded, glass pane in front of me.   Freezing rain beats a staccato tattoo on the bay windows, which surround me on all sides.  I peer through the blackness.  The street light in front of the house refracts into thousands of broken multi-coloured spears.  I’m getting anxious about Father.  It’s almost 6:00. Father is always home by 5:45. 

I’m startled out of a daydream when the front door bangs open and father stomps into the foyer, causing the lacy window curtains to fly in the breeze. 

“Gosh dang it,” he grumbles under his breath.  Slush from his galoshes spreads a pool of dirty water across the gleaming rose-tinted marble floor.   Hearing the door smack against the wainscoting, mother runs into the hall.   

“Dear . . . we were so worried!” 

Father glares in her direction, then snaps, “Darn fools! Two young numskulls carrying a huge Christmas tree, stopped traffic in all directions at St. Clair and Vaughan Road. . . never seen anything like it.  The tree was easily fifteen feet long . . . sagged in the middle. . . took me ages to get through the intersection.” 

Mother lets out a relieved whoosh, happy at his arrival.  She fusses over him, and helps him out of his damp overcoat.  She blocks his black Homburg, with its snazzy red and blue feather on the side, so that it’ll dry in its proper shape.

Father swats the air, “Stop your dithering, Mother.  Jacqueline, run and fetch my slippers, please.”  

Lickety split, I run into the sitting room, snatching up his red plaid slippers from the hearth, where Mother has them warming by the crackling fire.  Running back to the foyer, I nearly slip in the puddle Father has made.  Swinging my arms, I manage to keep my balance, and place his slippers on the floor.  He steps into them, exclaiming, “Ah, that’s better.  Thank you.  My feet are freezing.”   

Mother hangs up Father’s overcoat.  Taking his red cardigan off the hook on the back of the closet door, she holds it up while he shrugs into it.  As he fastens the buttons, he sighs with pleasure at its warmth. 

Mother pats him on the shoulder.  “You sit by the fire, dear, while I finish getting dinner ready.”  She mops up the foyer floor with a rag and then heads back to the kitchen. 

Father shuffles into the sitting room and, with a soft grunt, settles into the hunter green velvet wing chair.  He pulls the chain on the Tiffany table lamp and opens The Toronto Telegram with a whispery snap.  Sinking lower in the chair, Father elevates his slipper-shod feet onto the ottoman, bringing them closer to the flickering fire.  I’m glad that Father is safely home.  

I go up to the room that I share with my husband, Bill, who should be home from work very soon.  I want to bring my diary up-to-date.  I am so very behind in my daily observations.

I’m preoccupied with my thoughts, when I hear the front door bang open again.  Who can that be?  Taking the stairs down, two at a time, I almost collide with Mother on the bottom landing.   We grab onto each other, trying to steady ourselves and manage to stay on our feet.  Father hurries into the hall from the sitting room to see what’s going on.

Open-mouthed, we stare at the largest Christmas tree we have ever seen, as it inches its way into the foyer, bushy end first.  My husband, Bill, is trying to hoist and pull at the same time and can barely hang on, as someone at the other end pushes really hard, with loud grunts emanating from the porch.  Bill’s khaki Air Force pants are tucked into black winter galoshes, which slip-slide on the marble floor.   

Recently mustered out of the Air Force ground crew, after serving three years servicing fighter planes, Bill now works, on and off, for the Toronto Island Airport, keeping much smaller planes operational. 

Who, I wonder, is on the veranda, at the other end of the tree?  Whoever it is, is very quiet, aside from the grunting noises, at least compared to Bill, who’s yelling directions, “No, the other way, you idiot . . .  pull back just a little... stuck on the door knob.”

Finally, the tree moves.  Mother and I stand on our tip toes, trying to catch a glimpse of the mystery man but all we can see is a blue-

gray Air Force service cap and the occasional flash of high, black boots, gleaming with polish, slush sliding off.  Father is quiet; apparently dumbfounded by the shenanigans.   Evergreen branches screech and snap, sending needles flying, as the tree is finally dragged through the doorway.

Bill braces the bottom part of the tree, as the mystery man pushes it up into a standing position.  Reaching high, in through the branches, Bill grabs the trunk and keeps the tree steady.  The mystery man steps into view.  Mother and I shriek and run to the man, throwing our arms around him, hugging him so hard, he shouts, “Have mercy!”

Father, uncharacteristically quiet, suddenly strides forward, grabs the man’s hand and says, “Welcome home, Son.” 

It’s my brother, Clyde.  Tears of joy splash down mother’s face and mine.  First my husband, Bill, made it home safely from the war and, now Clyde, a Group Captain, on leave from the Air Force.   

Just as things begin to settle down, mother and I stare at each other, come to the same realization, at exactly the same time and we start to giggle.   Father gives us a puzzled look. His eyes dart between the Christmas tree and the two young men dripping in the foyer and the giant Christmas tree.  His flabbergasted expression tells me he also realizes who the two “numskulls” are!

Grabbing Bill and Clyde in a hug, Father’s shoulders start to shake.  I wonder if he’s hiding tears.  Apparently not, for a moment later, roars of laughter burst out and echoes from the marble foyer throughout the house. 

Slowly the laughter fades; our stomachs ache; emotions still so close to the surface.   The hilarity settles.   Mother and I glance at each other, lips twitch, I giggle and the merriment starts all over again. 

Wiping her face with her apron, Mother says, “You boys must be cold and wet!  Take off your overcoats and hang them up.  I’ll put on the kettle.” 

Clyde takes the tree from Bill and props it in a corner of the foyer.  In the process, he knocks askew Great Uncle Harold’s portrait.  Uncle Harold’s frowning countenance seems even more severe given the mishap, but we pay little heed.

Gravitating to the warmth of the kitchen, redolent with the good smells of roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, we settle around the life-scarred oak table.  Mother fills up the kettle, places it on the stove and it soon whistles merrily.  She spoons fragrant tea leaves into a cheery yellow teapot.   When she adds the boiling water, sweet-smelling vapor rushes into the air. 

Pouring tea into Clyde’s cup, Mother asks him, “How did you manage to get home for Christmas, Clyde?  In your last letter, in November, you thought you wouldn’t get home until spring?”

Clyde’s baritone voice sounds tired as he replies, “My commanding officer has been asked to put a unit together, which will act as consultants on a new fighter plane design.  He requested that I head up the team and I’m here to start the selection process for personnel.  Among others, we need men who know airplanes inside and out, for ground crew.  I thought of Bill right away.”   

Mother and I exchange hopeful looks.  Steady employment has been scarce since Bill mustered out. 

Mother bustles around the kitchen, lifting pot lids and tasting the food, then announces, “Dinner’s ready.”

I jump to my feet and begin setting the table.   Mother dishes out supper and ravenously, we all tuck in.  

Over dinner, Bill and Clyde swap military tales. Some make us laugh, some are sad.  Occasionally, Father shares a story from the war he served in – WWI.  Father’s stories reveal a side I haven’t seen before.  Mother and I sit quietly at the table, sandwiched between our men, content to listen.  They relive good times and bad, sometimes falling silent.  They remember the men who served alongside them, some who have never returned.  Friendships, forged under the fire of war, will last forever. 

Soon, the warmth of the kitchen and stuffed with good food, starts us yawning.  We suddenly realize how late it is and troop up the stairs, towards bed.  Clyde’s room awaits him, as if he’s never been away.

Tomorrow will be here sooner than we know!