Santa Takes a Break



     This is such a thick, rich time of year. Everything is enhanced.   Christmas brings out the artist in almost everyone.
We decorate everything from doors 
We decorate everything from doors to stairwells to table tops. Shiny things drape the dull. Lights transform the ordinary into the extraordinary. And all endeavours bring a smile to someone.   The scene also is overflowing with animated music and song. The Nutcracker with dancing sugar plums or a snowman frolicking on a street corner is all believable. Music makes the season. As I write this, I am listening to Sarah Brightman sing “They said there’d be snow this Christmas, They said there’d be peace on earth” from Emerson, Lake and Palmer’s famous seasonal tune. On each December day, all kinds of musical gems play in the memory or on a disc.

And then there’s the multitude of holiday entertainments and videos. One of my favourite shows of the season is the Polar Express. For years I have enjoyed this Christmas vid. The singing porters who bring in mugs and mugs of cocoa for the pajama clad children on the mythical train always make me reach for my own hot, hot, hot cup a choc. And the scene of wolves running alongside the train as it flies through the wintry night is a marvellous bit of artistry that imitates real life. For at least once during Christmas, moonlight silhouettes trees against a forested background.     That’s when lunar brightness calls a person out into the silent night.     

The other day I walked a trail that follows the shore of Lake Superior. On my right was a rather calm lake. Small greenish waves curled onto the cobbles, causing the rattling sound of their clunks to echo off each other. On my left were rows and rows of skinny balsams, fatter spruces and towering pines. The steps I trod followed snow dints from four leggeds. As I hiked, I checked out the well defined prints - the sharp two clawed from a small coyote, the many toed bunch of four from a leaping squirrel and the scattering of big ovals from the hares. Even though it is easy to see amongst the trees this time of year I couldn’t spot any of the animals, but, like the wolves in the train scene, they might have been watching me.     

Besides animal magic, the Polar Express also evokes the romance of train travel. At one time, northern Ontario was linked by steamy engines with a long entourage of passenger cars. One 30-year-old map of Northern Ontario showed a line of railway stops with marvellous names. Ghost River, Minataree and Lynx are just three of the many from an era when trains provided a way out of or into the isolation of small communities. Building the rail beds must have been quite the trek over field and mountain as workers hammered away until a yonder star let them call it quits. But all that work was most appreciated. Not that many years ago there was a rail link from the Sault to Toronto, and all stops between. Coming home for the holidays meant packing sandwiches, cheese, cookies, apples and a thermos of hot tea into a cardboard box, boarding a chugging train and finding a seat next to a window, if you could. The world whirled by as you dreamt of that snowy white Christmas in your home town.     

The romance in Christmas is so important. It comes at a time when people often need their moods lifted. Darkness can breed loneliness. Nostalgia can become ponderous. Being the inventive species that we are, we then create. Art, with the resulting urges to dance, paint or sing, is a natural response. Our creations give us light; offer another perspective. The movement forward is a momentum that keeps one going, even if we are sometimes asking, “What child did this?”. This interactivity with art is a mystery. Look at what Dickens has done to Christmas. His word art has created a culture of honouring the ghosts of the future. That’s such an interesting concept. An entity that hasn’t yet existed forces a character to redefine his life. And then there are the countless versions of the red suited wonder that lands on rooftops and flies with Rudolph, a red nosed reindeer. But that’s ok. Like tracks in the snow, everyone has their own identity, their own version of Christmas delight. Some might even watch Polar Express and add a little extra whipped cream to their hot chocolate. Such an easy comfort and joy. Happy Christmas everyone and to all a good night.

How You Look At It


      How many times have you heard that expression? Usually it surfaces when people are trying to agree. Everyone ends up saying, “It all depends on how you look at it.”
     I think that our latest shot of winter was a joy. The first few inches of white that fluffed up our world and made everything soft again. The wetness on the pines, spruces and balsams released a sweetness into the air. There was more to see. Animals lost their sleuth as their tracks recorded every move. And each deep cold breath invigorated.

     But as December ties the knots on the gifts of this season, many folks start thinking about moving to more moderate climes. A migration begins and the flocks leave Canada. In fact we just heard about one who is making a five year commitment to another country. Mark Carney, the governor of the Bank of Canada is leaving us to become the governor of the Bank of England. That’s a huge loss for the BoC and what a gain for the BoE. Carney is one very talented Canadian. He was born in the Northwest Territories, spent his youth in Edmonton, and then went to university at Harvard. While there he was the back-up goalie for the hockey team. After Harvard he went on to Oxford and met his wife Diana. Carney’s trek to London looks like an amazing career move but I wonder if he will miss seeing the snow and the magical clarity of our northern winters. I do hope that he keeps some of his Canadian heritage close to his heart. May he always remember those freezing nights leaning on a hockey stick and watching steamy breath rise up to the stars.
     Of course heading outside to enjoy all this requires quite a bit of different attire than the jeans and runners of early autumn. Each cold season, as I haul out the lidded tote labelled “winter boots”, I peruse our accumulation of felt-lined, leather and rubber choices. But somehow I always end up with those old, made in Canada, boots that I just can’t seem to throw out.  Fashionable they aren’t; dependable they are.
     They are heavy clod hoppers. But they are the best, with wide rubber bottoms, high leather tops and original laces that are so long it takes at least a minute to string up each boot. Repeated layers of shoe goop cover up splits in the rubber but thick bumpy soles still look brand new. I’ve had these boots for almost 20 years and they have been faithful. They’ve carried me through knee high snowdrifts during games of pie tag on recess yard duty. They’ve gripped my wooden and sinew snowshoes over the ups and downs of bush trails. And they hold my balance as I pick my way along frozen, ice-covered, cobble beaches.     The approach of winter enhances the beauty of the night sky. Last Friday morning, as I looked at out over Lake Superior, I noticed a planet sparkling beside the full moon. A quick read of the mag, Sky News, let me know that it was Jupiter. The name corresponds to the idea of brilliance or celestial light. Mythology says that Jupiter himself had some unusual ideas. Once, when besieged Romans asked Jupiter for advice, he told them to throw bread over the wall at their attackers. This was to show the enemy that the Romans were doing well, not starving and not intimidated at all. Such a unique approach is certainly opposite to traditional warfare. But it goes along with Jupiter’s turn at sky dominance. On Sunday December 2 it was in direct opposition to the sun, rising at sunset and setting at sunrise.
On that day, at dawn, just as the sun was rising, an owl flew in and perched on a post near our house. Probably a Barred, the bird turned its feathery round head from side to side surveying the ground for mice or squirrel or bunny. The owl’s beautiful striped (or barred as its name implies) chest was easy to admire, even in the dim morning light. When we stepped outside it cared not; the only concern was for a tasty breakfast.  The bird visited for about half an hour before swooping to the ground beyond our sight. Whether it found a morsel or not, I do not know. However, but it did leave me with a thought.
Often it is not so much how we look, but more how we see.