ONE YEAR LATER

A year ago today, September 19, 2012, a young spirit died and left this world a better place for having lived in it. 

Her name was Eileen Mabee.  She was only 35 years old.

I've often mused about what made Eileen so special.  Her buck-toothed grin stood out in my mind.  It sure was the first thing that I noticed about her as she strode forward to greet me and meet me for the very first time, three years ago at Scottsdale Farm in Georgetown.  The next thought was about the funky hat she was wearing.  One of the many in her rather limited wardrobe.  The other aspects of her rather atrocious attire were but a fleeting observation, as it was abundantly clear that Eileen didn’t fuss about what covered her outside and the dogs didn’t care.   Never a truer statement was made about the wardrobe making the man and Eileen’s made her. 

I came to realize that Eileen was truly a self-made woman and absolutely totally unaware of how she came to be.  She just was.  She was a bottomless well of giving and dog treats.  Never mind how the rent would get paid, and the aging vehicle kept running.  Dog treats were the order of the day and she always seemed to have an endless supply in the back of the well-used sky blue van, which, in the end, was the vehicle of her demise.

That first time I met her at Scottsdale, was my second hike with the Muttley Crew group.  It was a rather chilly, gloomy, late February Sunday morning.  As I drove there to meet Eileen and what turned out to be the only other member there, Alexia, with her two children and of course, pooch, Daisy, who fast developed a huge doggie-style crush on Sofie. Poor Sofie.  Every time she stopped, even for the briefest of moments, Daisy was right behind her, literally with her nose up Sofie’s butt.  It’s just a dog thing.  I had to smile when I witnessed Daisy’s obsession and remembered a story line from a TV show called Allie McBeal.  The show was about a law firm and how Allie (Calista Flockhart in real life) bent over and sniffed her friend’s butt.  She knew immediately that he, (now a lawyer), was her soul mate.  They were around 6 or7 years old at the time and the childhood crush endured well into their adulthood.  She must have had the nose of a hound.  Anyhoo off track again…

It turned out to be a good day for a trek in the forest, albeit treacherous.  The path we were on was well-worn and the deep ruts crusted with camouflaged ice, which became luge chutes for the unwary.  I had first-hand experience of riding a chute while attempting to climb up a rather steep part of the trail, when my feet lost the traction challenge.  Down I went, face first,  with a bone-cracking thump.  Very ungracefully I shot down the arduous ten feet or so I had managed to scale with the help of exposed tree roots and spindly brush.  Nothing was broken but my right elbow took the brunt of my memorable fall and still aches today on damp winter days. 

 Eileen would have walked all day but saw that the whoomph had been knocked out of me and asked if we wanted to start back.  Alexis’ kids had been flagging a bit and between that and the now-battered and bruised me, we did turn around and start making our way back to our starting point.  It was just as hard a slog back, as it had been getting there but the warmth of friendship and camaraderie made it all worth-while.

Eileen was at all the subsequent hikes that Sofie and I attended and she made a special effort to ensure that we were always able to go, even if we had been wait-listed.  As the owner and organizer of Muttley Crew she had pull and used it when it suited her.  I’m glad.  Sofie and I had some never-to-be-forgotten hikes and another winter one sticks in my memory.  I spent most of that one at the back of the pack, keeping company with Eileen’s mom, Diane.  I think we were the two most ‘mature’ members of the group on that hike.  Getting to know Diane that day and on a few other hikes, made me realize that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree and I figured out where Eileen got her strong sense of family from and love of dogs and treasured friendships and ….

                          

                                  

                                       Forever remembered.   

LIVE AND LET LIVE

Hmmm kinda reminds me of a movie I once saw.  Some hunky actor if I remember correctly….

Every day when I get up, I say thank you.  I just love going out into the living area and see the sunshine pouring in and feel so blessed that I found such a wonderful house to live in, and in such a beautiful neighbourhood, here in South Park.

I know that as much as I have yanked some chain about living here in Sandycove, the New Wild West, it is a great place to live and play and just be yourself.   My opinion, after a year’s worth of residence and experiences here in what is probably Ontario’s premier Adult Lifestyle Community, is that it is worth the drive to Innisfil, from whence you’ve come. There seems to be a lot of former residents from York Region here in SP (South Park), especially the more northern parts of it, including the Town Down Below.  It’s kinda like old home week but you’re just meeting for the first time.

I really didn’t have any pre-conceived ideas about what it would be like to live in a “retirement” community, so in I moved one beautiful sunshiny June day and discovered a whole brand new world.  After the first few months I had met pretty much everyone on my quiet street and nearly everyone is quite pleasant.  I think that most people, as they mature, relax about a lot of things that they used to get their knickers in a knot about in their younger days, you know, way back when they had the energy to get those bloomers blowing in the breeze about the slightest injustice, real or perceived. 

Lazing back in my comfy lounge chair, on my shady porch, I think back to the ‘olden’ days, and remember first becoming aware of protests, especially one in which a young man, a student, was killed at Berkeley University in the U.S.  His death torched never-to-be-forgotten riots, which lead to more deaths, injuries and general mayhem.  I wonder if Reagan was happy with the way he decided to deal with the situation.  I was 15.  Even at that young age, the death of someone pretty close to my age, for no good reason, had a huge impact on me.  I believe that those riots stirred the social activist in me and even to this day I am ready to fight for the underdog, the weak, the poor, the uneducated and the naïve ones, upon whom the greedy prey.  BUT and it is a BIG but, do not mistake my kindness and caring for weakness. 

The reasons for these historic passive protests are interesting and as varied as the generations which spawned them.  Segregation, free speech, the war in Vietnam, which provoked a unique protest by John Lennon and Yoko Ono, the Bed-in and most recently, down in the Big Smoke, in 2011, Occupy Toronto.                                        

 

Oh, and how the reasons seem to have gone from the glory of freedom of speech, ending unnecessary wars and abolishing segregation to the self-indulgence of avarice and differences of opinion.  I speak of Occupy Toronto (one of the cities protestors targeted), for the former.  The sole purpose of this sit-in?  Some don’t-have-anythings decided to speak up against the inequality of the have-it-alls, having it all.  Yep, staging a sit-in really is a way to make a difference in your economic situation.  I wonder how many of the protestors had jobs?  Oh, and had jobs which paid them while they were sitting-in?  Other than the ‘professional’ agitators, I mean.

The latter, which first started out as peaceable sit-ins and have since denigrated into never-ending riots, is the situation in Egypt.  Apparently, grievances are focused on legal and political issues, and interestingly enough, involves free speech and free elections.  Mostly though, from what I've read, hark back to that old stand-by, money - economic issues.  Most recently the riots seem to be centered about the ousted President, Hosni Mubarak - some people like that and some people don't.  Okay, let us riot some more.  We don't have jobs anyway, so riot it is.

I say live and let live.  Get along with your neighbours.  Stay out of their business and, hopefully, they’ll stay out of yours.  We, none of us, are perfect.  As I recall from my karate training days, perfection is a direction.  And, what does the bible say?  “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.”  I was not put here on this earth to judge and I do not expect to be judged, except by my Maker.  Again, to quote the good book, “Do not judge, or you too will be judged.”

There are many things I see here in South Park, SCA, which I could ‘judge’, should judging be part of my life’s job description, which it isn’t.  But they certainly are grist for the writer’s mill.  Most of the time, though, I forgo the grist in order to maintain civil relationships.  Some people just don’t seem to know when to keep their mouth’s shut though and mind their own business and I hear a lot from my neighbours and friends along my dog walking routes.

One of the most peculiar is the one I've heard from two or three residents, about an older woman who just sits on her porch, day after day, just rocking away, not goin' anywhere, in her rocking chair.  That, in itself, is not peculiar.  What is strange, according to Hoyle, is that she shouts nonsense at whoever happens to be around, then cackles hysterically, eerily reminiscent of a famous movie character.
 

It just amazes me what some people want to expend their energy on – especially at an age when most Sandycovers seem to just want to let it all hang out and use their time wisely - contemplating their navels or napping.  

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon aka Undercoversandycove-r - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

CONUNDRUM

If a rolling stone gathers no moss, how in the heck does my ceiling fan, which is always moving, gather dust?

THE SEA

                                       Great business world

                                  New Entrepreneur unleashed

                                      Watch out, here I come

The Paws that Refreshes

I feel like I’ve been going into withdrawal since I have not yet mastered the art of functioning 24 hours a day, without a modicum of sleep, even if that modicum is chock full of work dreams.  Hence, no creative writing or blog for far too long for me.

Writing?  More writing than I know what to do with but I have to confess not the kind of writing I enjoy sharing with all of you.  Business writing, doncha know.  Dry as dirt financial data, projections.  The stuff nightmares are made of, especially for the mathematically challenged. 

I feel like someone turned on the tap for my ‘business brain’ and now it’s flooded.

Running here, running there, I’m learning the Greater Barrie area far quicker and better than I ever thought possible.  I don’t think I even need to use my GPS so much anymore but I do bring it with me and program it, just so I can hear Jill say, “turn left in 1 miles”, or my favourite, “in 300 feet make a U-turn”.  She keeps me company.

I’m so far behind in watching ‘my shows’, I’m not even sure that the Survivors have reached the island yet.   

Don’t touch the espresso-whatever-possessed-me-coloured furniture or the speckled brown kitchen transaction counter top.  If I can’t see fingerpaw smudges in the dust, I won’t feel compelled to clean.

Pinky (Tuscadero), the baby, feels so neglected ‘cause I’m not taking sofa siestas much anymore and she misses the knee curl. So much so, that she jumps up on my naked thighs when I’m using the throne and then digs in her freshly honed (on the back of the sofa, no less) needles, trying to keep her balance.  She really doesn’t understand the screech of agony I emit but startled, adds to the carnage by leaping off, her back claws digging in deep for better leverage, trying for the gold medal in long distance leaping.  It’s a good thing I love her.

 

Carpe Diem - seize the day…seize the moment, but bloody hell, don’t let the hood latch on your car seize.  Not only does it cost about $200.00 to fix but it costs an entire afternoon of homework time to get it fixed, ‘cause… the young man with the purple Mohawk, tats inked over every square inch of visible derma,  has just informed me that he drained all the oil out of my car (I was getting it changed), BEFORE he popped the hood latch.  Go figure but you won’t go far, ‘cause there’s not a drop of oil left in the car.

Meals?  You mean home-made, real meals?  Fuhgeddaboudit.  Add the good ole’ Lipton chicken noodle soup standby (ready in 5 minutes), to the sandwich you made for lunch but were too busy to eat and call it supper. 

One good thing about not having time to prepare proper meals, is, at least, that grocery shopping only has to be done when you’re totally out of convenience food (unless you have demanding family members staging a mutiny for better living conditions).  Of course, it would help to have the carefully crafted grocery list in your hand when you’re actually at the store but it’s still gracing the top right-hand corner of the fridge, affixed with the cheerful, yellow, smiley face magnet. 

 

Stopped in the middle of the ketchup aisle, I screw up my face in an effort to remember what in the hell I have on the damn list.  A concerned citizen stops to ask if I’m okay or should she have the “girl” call the paramedics.  I move on.

Oh and what about housework?  Make sure you have multiple sets of utensils and dinnerware.  And at least a double sink.  You can always buy one of those plastic sinks people buy when they go camping.  It’ll hold the overflow from the dishwasher until someone remembers to turn it on and the clean stuff will magically waft its way to its rightful place in the kitchen cupboards and drawers… I have some land in Florida you might want to check out…

Turn that accidental oops, dropping a recently replenished mega size plastic ‘glass’ of ice water on the ceramic tile, into the ideal opportunity to wash the kitchen floor, scrubbing especially hard in the places you recently started sticking to. 

All in all, it’s been three weeks of total intensity, with more weeks to go than I care to count.  One of the saving graces and probably the reason that I’m still slightly sane, is my daily walk with Sofie, The Wonder Dog, who waits for me with quiet anticipation.  I throw out the magic word “walkies” and start making my way toward the front door.  Then, as if drawn by a dark force, I sit down at my computer to finish ‘just one more sentence’.  Audibly sighing, or as I refer to it, giving me the dog version of a Jewish guilt trip, she lies down by the front door and patiently waits until my “one more sentence” is done. 

About twenty minutes later I’m instantly forgiven when I finally make it to the front door and open it.  Sofie leaps to her feet, feathery tail helicoptering at high velocity, then bounces down the walkway to the street, waiting for me to catch up.  I take a few deep breaths of the fresh spring evening and laugh at Sofie as she grins at me and woofs, “Hurry up!”  One of life’s simple pleasures to treasure and truly the paws which refreshes my weary sole. 

      

                                     *© 2013      Sofie, The Wonder Dog

  © 2015 Phyllis Mahon aka Undercover Sandycove-r - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

HOOP JUMPING IS AN ART FORM

It never ceases to amaze me how we can totally give ourselves heart attacks over nothing much.  And it seems that we really only start to do that to ourselves as we hit the mid-50s range.  Does dry mouth and thumping heart sound familiar when you think you’ve lost your car keys and now, how will you get home?  How many times have you turned your purse upside down looking for your car keys?  Doesn’t matter that you’re in a public place, i.e. drug store, supermarket or the doctor’s office. Your entire life is laid bare in the 10 seconds or so that it takes to shake everything out, only to find that dam key chain looped over your ring finger. 
 
And what about tearing our cupboards apart and all of our drawers, looking for a dumb receipt so that we can take a $1.98 something back to Wal-Mart?  This takes about 3 – 4 hours.  Do the math and figure out how much that just cost you per hour.  Oh, and let’s keep in mind what  gasoline costs these days - about $1.30 per litre (roughly $5.00 a gallon) - so even just the drive to Wal-Mart is probly gonna cost you more than the something you’re returning.  Oh, and what about ‘that call’ you’ve been waiting for – just seeing their name show up on call display is enough to feel a double-time flutter.

It really freaks me out to recognize these things that I do these days and I’m really scared about the Wal-Mart receipt thing, ‘cause when I start doing that, I figure that I’m just about ready for that retirement home that someone’s going stick me in when they figure I’m ‘passed it’.

But, sigh, I’m off topic already and I haven’t even really started.  The reason for the title of this piece, HOOP JUMPING IS AN ART FORM, actually refers to an e-mail I got from Pearl, the coordinator of a business program to which I’m applying.  This is so I can learn how to be a business woman in the proper way, unlike the Delusional Moron, whom I’m not even sure graduated from high school, and conducts his business the same way he grew up, which is by the seat of his pants. This course is supposed to teach me how not to be like him.  Since I’m in my right mind (I can hear you sniggering, people), I figure I’ll have a huge head-start on not only opening my own business but having it grow and sustain me well into my golden years, unlike the Delusional Moron, who took a viable business and ran it into the ground in just over 3 short years.

In some ways I empathize and sympathize with the boy he had been and the deprivation he experienced, growing up with his single mother, someone I refer to as The Supreme Narcissist.   I remember a conversation she had with me a couple of years ago when she said, “I’m the best mother a son could have.”

“Why?” I ask.  I thought she would say something like, ‘Oh, because I was there every day when he got home from school’, or ‘I made sure he had a decent roof over his head and food on the table’.  But no, she said, “I took him to Australia when he was only nine years old.” 

My jaw hit the desk with a hollow sounding thump, and I scrutinize her heavily made up face, and can see that she is serious.  Her clown-like lips are pursed into a brilliant scarlet bow and the penciled-in eyebrows are halfway up her forehead, and perilously close to her thin hairline. Over-processed black hair, improbable on her almost 80 year old head, with parrot-green eye shadow caked in her wrinkled eyelids, together with the star burst design capillary potato nose complete the picture and provide a great example of ‘Rode hard and put away wet.’  But I digress…

So, although I feel that the Delusional Moron surely did me a dis-service by laying me off because he just couldn’t get it together, I do understand why he is the way he is, which is why I am literally writing my way to another chapter in my almost 60 years of life.   

In order to qualify for the program I’m applying to, I have to complete an 18 page Guide for Business Development.  Essentially, it’s a mini Business Plan and I believe, at some point going through this program, it actually transmogrifies into a genuine Business Plan, which you can take to the bank, if you need to, for a loan.  My hoop jumping lessons are about to begin!

HOOP #1 - First, you need to be referred to the program by an (un)employment expert, ‘cause there are a bunch of documents you need to provide.   

HOOP #2 - The expert needs to forward the information you’ve given her/him to the Business program coordinator and he/she needs to approve you.  

HOOPS #3, 4, 5 & 6 - You have to attend an info meeting, which is also when you are introduced to the Guide for Business Development for the first time.  Then three more 3-hour sessions, where you learn more about the program and how to fill out your mammoth Guide.   No, it’s not like you are given any answers.  You may ask questions in a general sense but you have to come up with acceptable responses, based on doing your homework.  This is especially true in the Market Research section, where you are expected to convince all governing bodies (and there are a few in the queue), that not only do you have a solid business idea but are able to prove that there’s enough demand for your type of business to keep you in business. You even have to talk to 5 business owners who are considered to be competitors, to get their take on how well/not so good/could be better they are doing.  You also have to be able to come up with a decent amount of seed money, which has to be a combo of cash and equity.  And no, you are not allowed to use the equity in your house; the rational being that if your business does go belly up, they don’t want to see you living in a cardboard box under a bridge ‘cause the bank took your house.     

HOOP #7 - Around the beginning of March, with bated breath, I submit my Guide for the first time.  It didn’t take Pearl long to get back to me, which, when I saw that it was her calling, had one of “those” heart attack (figuratively) moments.  We have a long discussion about the Market Research I have done and Pearl tells me I have to do it again, this time with competitors who have businesses which mirror my own more closely.  Sigh.  So, I start that part all over again, having a telephone conference with one woman, which lasted over 2 hours.   We hit if off and are slated to meet in person soon.   The others I meet face-to-face, one of whom is based in Orillia.  Oh well, it was a nice day for a drive and Sofie, The Wonder Dog, was able to come with me.  We had a delightful morning with Marjorie and her baby, one year old Barnabas.  Marjorie has had her home-based business for a number of years and we have an interesting chat about challenges, relationships and the joys of being your own boss.  It was worth the drive to Orillia, especially so when Barnabas gives me a sweet baby kiss.  The coffee was terrific too.

It takes me just about a week to meet with everyone, gathering their input and conveying it to the Guide in a cohesive manner, which would pass Pearl’s muster.  Another few restless nights and then, wonder of wonders, Pearl’s e-mail arrives in my in-box to say that my Guide has been accepted.  Yippee!

HOOP #8 - Now there are 3 more forms which need to be completed and we have to meet again so I could sign stuff, etc.  Then I wait for the appropriate government official to approve my Program Coordinator’s recommendation, which will take at least 2-4 weeks.   

HOOP #9 - I have keep on job hunting right up to the start of the program.

Based on what other program graduates have told me, there is still more HOOP jumping to come.  I can’t wait.  I’m getting so good at it, that I consider it an art form, you know, similar to training in karate or another Martial Art and when this program helps me to become a Successful Business Owner, I should be at least a little bit slimmer from all the exercise.  

P.S.  UPDATE:  Hoop jumping has paid off.  It’s official.  I have been accepted into the business program and will be starting soon.  I’m looking forward to using my ‘business brain’ again.  I think it’s been in cold storage for too long.

 

© 2015 Phyllis Mahon aka Undercoversandycove-r - “ALL IMAGES AS COPYRIGHTED BY PHYLLIS MAHON ARE PROTECTED AND REGISTERED … IT’S UNLAWFUL TO REPOST, COPY OR PUBLISH IMAGES FROM THIS WEBSITE.”

BEACH DAY

Gray strands cover sky

Restless ocean waves foamy

Crabs run into hole

HAIKU - SPRING

                                                                SPRING
                                

Bananas go brown

Sun comes in window brightly

Breakfast cereal

STUFF GOING ON

Not much time these days to catch up on my writing.  I do have a new story in the works and have managed to write one whole paragraph.  Whoppee!!!

Until I have time to stop the merry-go-round, I thought I throw out some snippets and let you all know that I am still alive, so don't be looking to peel me out of a snowbank I may have fallen into walking Sofie The Wonder Dog.




 
UPDATE ON ‘SNOWED’  - Since I got no response from The Dragon Lady about my concerns regarding the non-clearing of my driveway, I decided to take it to court and have filed an Application for Hearing with the Landlord & Tenant Board.  SCA has been served with the paperwork and the hearing date is in March.  I’ll let y’all know how it turns out.  Strangely enough (but in a good way) my driveway has been cleared in a much more timely manner since SCA was served.  Coincidence?  Or maybe The Dragon Lady realizes that I’m not one of those ‘little old ladies’ who will just go away?  I actually served the Notice of Hearing on The Dragon Lady herself and now I know what someone who just sucked on a nice, juicy, fresh lemon looks like.
 

Next twist in my life - a few weeks ago, I finally made contact with The Boss, aka The Delusional Moron.  I had to drive to Markham (Steeles & Woodbine) to find him but there he was, larger than life, in the office, with his new live-in girlfriend, Sing, who, I came to find out, has been given my job.  Nice, huh?  So, all these months stringing me along by telling me he wants me back, all for naught.  Another life lesson learned, ladies – never   wait for a man, no matter for what.   

I just spent six months waiting to be called back to work and now the woman who’s sleeping with The Delusional Moron has my job.  He really should know better than to mix business with pleasure, since the previous persona of the business was owned by his then-common-law wife, aka my BFF.  After their relationship imploded, so did business decisions and my relationship with her - sorry about the pause, folks. 

There’s a commercial on TV which starts off with a ringing doorbell.  Every time Sofie hears it, she emerges from her ‘cave’ barking, in guard mode.  I actually have to go to the door and open it, to prove to her that there’s no one there.  She barks all the way, then goes outside, still woofing at her fiercest, finally figures out that she’s been duped, has a pee and darts back in, like the hounds from hell are on her heels. 

So, where was I?  Oh yes, the BFF and The Delusional Moron.  She stayed working for him for about four or five months after their personal relationship swirled down the porcelain throne and I have to say, that was not a good situation for anyone.  The business was suffering and so was I, caught in the middle of these feuding foes. Needless to say, my BFF is no longer my BFF, mostly because I made the mature decision to stay working for her soon-to-be former common-law husband.  She didn’t like that.  Oh well.  Such is life. 

Anyhoo, that brings me to writing  the next chapter in my life and becoming my own boss by starting up my own business.  At least then I know for sure  that The Boss is not delusional, although some of my family and friends might debate that.  I’m enrolling in a program which is going to teach me how to be a Entrepreneurial Sole Proprietor.  The application process is intense, with a very tight deadline for submission.  

So, if you don’t hear from me for a while, all the above is why.  Say goodnight, Gracie.

WEATHER GONE WACKY!

                                               

*

Methinks that Mother Nature sure must be pissed off at something this winter.

Sunday, January 20, 2013, 3:00 a.m. – house is still and quiet but through my open bedroom window, I can hear the wind wailing around the corners, reminding me of a long-drawn out E note on an alto sax in a bad jazz riff.  A rumble reaches my ears and I think, “Is that... thunder?”   Can’t be, it’s January.  We're supposed to have snow in January, not thunderstorms.

Deciding I was having a weird dream, I turn my back to the window and do some deep breathing - in through the nose, out through the mouth.  Restarting the music CD I had fallen asleep to some hours earlier, I focus on that instead of the noisy maelstrom outside, in what is normally a pool of peace.

Starting to relax again and on the verge of sleep, bass drum rolls rumble lazily through my window.  Again?  Thunder?  Is that really thunder?  Incredulous and exasperated, I fling the covers aside and jump out of bed to close the window.  I’m tired of being woken up by Mother Nature’s cacophony of bad music and of course, want to keep the rain out.  I fast-crank the window shut, shivering all the while.  Too bad I don’t have someone I can shove out the side of the bed and ask nicely (demand) that he close the window before we get soaked.  Well, there are good things and not-so-good-things about sleeping alone.  This is one of the not-so-good-things.

Rushing around to my side of the bed (Sofie, The Wonder Dog occupies the window side), I quickly crawl back in, quietly cursing the now-freezing sheets.  I guess most people keep the heat at a ‘normal’ level but since I like to sleep with the window open, I don’t see how that makes much sense in my house.  So, at night, the programmable thermostat is set to drop to brrrrrrrrrr(ish) 63° f (17° c).  The cats are glad that I set the gas fireplace remote to ‘Auto’ and it comes on when the living room temp drops to 68° f (20° c).  At least then, they won’t freeze to death (with their fur coats hmmmm).

Yanking the covers up around my ears and trying to tuck them around me as snugly as a cocoon, I dislodge one of the braver felines who seems to share my love of frigid. She mutters something rude and then settles down again, as I clutch the quilt up around my neck, to keep a cold draft out.  Pinky pushes herself down into the ‘v’ of my bent knees and starts kneading.  Her purr is much more soothing than the raucous chorus still reverberating outside.  Of course, her sharp little nails piecing the blanket aren’t.  I give the quilt a yank and she kinda goes flying a bit.  She runs out of my bedroom in a snit and I start my deep breathing again.
  

As I warm up a bit and my body stops shivering, I begin to relax and my mind goes back to growing up in Montreal.  It was a wonderful place back then – oh, about 50 or so years ago. Winter was my favourite season.  So many funny and wonderful memories flit into my tired mind. 
 
You know people here in Ontario bitch every time it snows – the near north (my new home town), south of 7 (Highway), The Town down under...  Every time it snows, the city, especially the south of 7 area, goes into panic mode and the city stalls.  You’re lucky if you can get to work in 2 or 3 hours and you only live 20 miles (30 km) away.  Oh and then getting home…But then, that's Toronto.  The MINUTE one white, fluffy, flake touches the ground in that city, traffic grinds to a halt and doesn't ever seem to get back to normal until June.
 
One time I remember the then-mayor of the GTA (Greater Toronto Area) calling out the military ‘cause Toronto got slapped with a lousy 3 feet (1 metre) of snow.  I still laugh when I remember good ol' Mel doing what he did.  The then-mayor delighted the rest of the country by drafting Canadian soldiers to wage war on snow drifts and free buried bus shelters.  Boy, it’s a good thing he was mayor in Toronto and not Montreal.  A smile curves my lips as I remember Mel’s Folly that January 4, 1999.
  
As I slip back to my childhood, a memory which always makes me laugh now, comes to mind - we are living on Walkley Avenue, in NDG.  It has been snowing for what seems like days and days.  My mom is so worried about my dad getting home from work safely and then, not being able to find a place to park.  My two sisters and I decide to brave the elements and dig out a parking spot on the street for him.  There was a space almost right in front of our row house and we bravely troop out into the swirling snow and gusting wind to wage war and liberate a parking spot. 
 
The three of us shovel furiously but it seems like we’re not making much of a dent in the drift that was taller than all of us.  The crap shoved up by the plow was almost more than we could move.  My mother keeps a close eye on us from the living room window, our baby sister clutching at her house dress to keep her balance, merrily waving away.  Boy, she was lucky that she was too little to hold a shovel. 

                                                   (Me & The Baby Sister)

Finally, finally, we got a space cleared that was just big enough for my father to get the car into.  Wearily, we start back to the house, no energy left to even lift our feet clear of the snow-clogged walkway.  We fall into the tiny foyer and start stripping off our Michelin-man type snowsuits and then the 4 or 5 layers we were wearing underneath.  To this day I wonder how we were able to bend any of our joints, dressed as we were.

Just as we were almost out of our snowsuits, we could hear our mother gasp and then start pounding on the window, where she was still standing, watching out for dad.  As one, we ran into the living room, asking what was wrong.  My mom turns around and yells that some S.O.B. (didn’t know what that meant for years), was parking in Daddy’s spot.  Not on your life, we yell.  Re-energized by the injustice of some schmuck stealing our hard-won parking spot, we pull up our snowsuits, throw on our boots and run back outside, brandishing our shovels. 

The S.O.B. has already made it about halfway to his house and was carefully ignoring the three shrieking banshees behind him.  O.K.  He wants to play dirty, we can play dirtier.  Up we stomp to the top of the five foot drift, which covers most of the sidewalk.  Standing shoulder-to-shoulder, we start kicking the snow bank we had just finished shoveling up, back down against the driver’s side, all the while yelling at the S.O.B. to come and move his car.  He stops walking and turns to see what we were doing.  Encouraged, we jump off the snow bank and run to the passenger side and start shoveling the plow crap up against that side of the car.  He realizes that we’re shoveling him in, and runs back.  We give a mighty cheer as he moves his car, all the while mouthing obscenities at the three sweet innocents.  We heave tired sighs, as we realize that now we have to shovel out the space again but at least it wasn’t as bad as the first time.

Another grumble intrudes on this childhood victory and I slide into memories of The Storm

of ’69…    

   

   Left to right – Me the 2^nd child, the third youngest, the oldest & the shortest, The Baby Sister)

*Image courtesy of by Vlado/FreeDigitalPhotos.net