The Piano Recital

Certain events envelop you in the spirit of Christmas, and last night's piano recital was one.

It was a perfect wintry night, crunchy snow, and -23 degrees as we approached the white farm house (my piano teacher's home) with its wraparound verandah. Old and young entered, breath steaming, stamping their boots, to be warmly welcomed by our teacher and D, her mother, and the four wide-eyed little girls each one head taller than the other, taking in each person as they arrived.

Ushered through the kitchen warmed by an incredible stove that looked from another era, we deposited the goodies we'd made to contribute to the festivities on a huge, long kitchen table.

Their giant Christmas tree resided in front of the bay window, obliterating it with its lights and decorations. Kids abounded, all pressed and shiney, girls and boys in bright colours, all eager to listen or play the piano which sat in Christmas splendor for it too was dressed up in a swag topped with red ribbon. Moms, dads, siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles and in my case, a husband, found themselves spots in comfy chairs and sofas. The kids sat here and there on the floor making happy the huge grey barn cat which circulated amongst the many little bodies and hands reaching out to him. I'd met him earlier in the year, trying hard to squeeze by me at the door when I'd enter, but he's not allowed in until mid-November.

A colourful fruitpunch loaded with summer berries found its way to my hand, thanks to B's father. C, her brother, in his bright red shirt, black pants and suspenders also welcomed us. The show began. Our young teacher, B, looked like a Victorian beauty: her long hair pinned up to fall freely down her back to her waist, a pretty white blouse and vibrant full length skirt layered in reds swayed over her shiney black boots. She outlined the proceedings: she would draw a name, that student would play, then in turn s/he would take a lollipop, draw another name and so on. I felt nervous and wondered if the kids did too. No one looked it. B herself was the first to play. She made a few mistakes which she said were on purposed to relax the rest of us. It worked. And so the evening progressed, little voices announcing the next player, little players tackling their tunes, some shyly, some with great gusto, other with determination. Some with legs hanging over the edge of the piano bench, some with their toes barely touching the pedals and one (me) having to push the seat back to accommodate my height in this concert of Lilliputians. It was wonderful. We even learned a little anecdotal music history!

People beside me commented on the progress made by the students since last year. I was told I'd be amazed at my own progress by next year. I certainly hope they're right. It seemed my name would never be called but then it was. My cold hands shook; I was surprised at being so nervous. B introduced me as her first and only adult student. I hoped I wouldn't be her last. I also hoped no one had great expectations. I sat, caressed the keys and began. "Still, still, still" became shrill, shrill, shrill as my fingers found some wrong notes but I persevered. As luck would have it, the name I drew was my own so I had to play again. By this time, the nerves had dissapated and I aced it. The applause felt warmer for the second time.

The other students ranged from about 4 or 5 years old to 13 or 14, I guessed. Their diligence and hard work was evident. Little J, a very neat and self-possessed little boy, kept patting his shirt pocket where he'd amassed four lollipops, one for each of his performances. I couldn't keep my eyes from B's little sisters, four little stepping stones sitting almost at my feet. All were dressed in lovely Christmassy dresses with big sashes and bows, leotards and tidy little shoes, their hair as shiney as their bright eyes. They whispered amongst each other, pointed, laughed, petted the cat, gave each other little kisses and hugs, having a fine time. One could crawl up to Granny's lap from time to time for a better view. I had to step carefully through these delightful little girls to wend my way to the piano.

Before you knew it, our concert had come to an end. We trooped into the warm kitchen, working our way around the table laden with goodies then socialized in the large living room. I met a man who'd help create the Highlands golf course back in 1952. I didn't dare tell him that was the year I was born. He still golfs 4 times a week and his wife nodded knowingly when I told her I knew what it was like to be a golf widow. They were there supporting their lovely teenaged granddaughter who'd played one of her pieces by memory.

I also met B's grandmother whose mother had been a concert pianist. She herself, now in her 70's, did play as well but no longer. Gave away her piano, she said. I told her I'd learned that to master anything, one must devote at least 10,000 hours to it. At that rate, I told her, I'd be in my 80's. At that, she expressed regret she'd ever stopped playing. I hope I never do.

We left the farm embued with a wonderful sense of fellowship and warmth, happy and grateful for the open hands, hearts and minds we'd just spent time with. The Christmas spirit is truly alive and well and living in Kinburn. I look forward already to next year's recital.

Merry Christmas - 2008 - Happy New Year!

Christmas is a comin',

our snowshoes are on the rack.

We'll soon be wearing golf shoes,

& we ain't a lookin' back!

So when the temp hits 80, we will think of you with cheer!
We'll both sit back, some beer we'll crack.

...Hope you have a great New Year!

Cheers,
W & D!

Peace, Hope, Love and Joy to All

Merry Christmas, reader. Joyeux noël! Dollycat aka Miss Marmalade awoke us at 7:30 am (she allowed us an extra hour of sleep since it's Christmas), the prezzies from those whom love us have been opened, and exclaimed upon. The first mandarin orange eaten! As we hot-tubbed, the blue jays, finches, chickadees and woodpeckers entertained us, bobbing amongst the leafless trees, chattering amongst themselves, and swooping down on our feeders for their christmas breakfast. The snow sparkles like crystal diamonds in the sun. Before we head off to spend the day with our family, I reflect on the spirit of this particular day, and the key messages of peace, hope, love and joy.

I am blessed to live in a peaceful place, amongst peaceful people even as our own and others are engaged in battle elsewhere. If only the world could be at peace. I will try to remember "peace" when I am faced with personal conflict.

I hope for us all, that we in Canada and elsewhere in the world, will find a way to live in harmony. I hope we can control ourselves to keep our world pristine and safe for those who follow in our footsteps. I hope for those who have no hope. I will continue to hope.

I love and am grateful for my country, my life, my family and friends. I love my surroundings, the bounty Nature daily bestows upon us all. I appreciate the small things in life: the pale pink bloom of an over-wintering geranium, the unveiling of the moon by wispy clouds, the susurring of the wind in the pines, the warmth of the fireplace. But most of all, I'm grateful for the love that comes my way, that I can pass on to others for it is limitless.

I try to find joy in every day, for mine is a joyful existence. Regaling you with my dog walking snippets and poems allows me to share with you the joy a dog epitomizes, the joy of friendship and caring, and the joy of writing which allows me to reflect on all that is wonderful around me. The utter joy of taking a breath of crisp winter air as snow creaks underfoot. May you too find joy in your life, your friends, your surroundings.

Our Baby's First Christmas

January 1970 saw me reluctantly drop out of high school, just turned 18. Pregnant, I'd traded shame in my hometown for anonymity in Ottawa. Not one to give up easily, my sweetheart pursued me. To our elders, our differences (he French Catholic, me English Protestant) and our youth were marks against us. But our naivité, love and his insistence we marry, soon saw us newlyweds. Our beautiful little girl arrived safely soon after.

Anxious to support us, this new husband and father found a job to assure his little family's survival: washing floors at night for the aptly yet whimsically named Star-Lite Building Cleaners. His co-workers were draft dodgers and transients. The work and $1.65/hour wage meant high employee turnover. Having lasted the longest, he was soon named foreman.

Alone nights with our baby, I couldn't sleep hearing every creak as the aged foundations of our Crichton Street house shifted and settled. Spookily, the wind found every nook and cranny to make moan and whistle. Yet one snowy night I thought I heard..it couldn't be! Faintly at first, then ever louder, the rhythmic "chinga, chinga, chinga" of bells!

Like the man in the poem, "away to the window I flew like a flash." I had not a shutter but I "threw up the sash." There, gliding down the street was a sleigh, empty but for the driver. Bundled up against the cold and the snow, he sat tall on his bench, his mittened hands slapped reins on horses - HORSES! - harnessed with bells. Chinga! Chinga! Chinga! Chinga! They pranced by below my window, their frosty noses streaming steam in the frozen air. It was magic. So unexpected, so out of place, such a wonder! Their hooves puffed fluffs of snow as I watched the sleigh swing gently 'round the corner. Fainter now...chinga, chinga...heads high, they danced proudly across St. Patrick Street Bridge and out of sight. Through a veil of snowflakes, the corner light illuminated my silent street, empty but for the trace of runners.

With my nightie billowing and my full weight on the sash, I slammed shut the window. Chin cupped in hand, I squeezed my eyes shut and knowing there were stars out there somewhere whispered a childhood chant: "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight. I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight."

My husband, the youngest in a family of 14, and I the fifth of seven didn't talk of how much we missed our families. Nor did we mention the season's festivities we'd be missing. Travel to our hometown by bus or train on his salary was out of the question. When the radio played songs like "I'll be home for Christmas", we changed stations. Wearing happy faces and determined to make the best of our first Christmas as a family, we found joy in our baby's fascination with the sights, sounds and smells of the season.

Just before Christmas one bright wintery morning, my love awakened me with an enthusiastic bearhug, a tender sweet kiss and the best Christmas present ever. "We're going HOME for Christmas!" Star-Lite's manager, Mr. Baldwin, had generously offered us the company station wagon to get home.

Wherever you are today, Mr. Baldwin, God bless you. Wishes do come true and Christmas angels aren't only little decorations perched on top of fir trees; they're everyday people like you and me.