I know that I tend to gripe about the cold. I can’t help it. Despite having lived my entire life in places where winter is the longest season, I just can’t get over it.
Friday was the first official day of Spring, and the forecast for next week? Expect January-like temperatures. The projected high for Tuesday is supposed to be a balmy -18 degrees Celsius. Yay. Can hardly wait.
I’ve been keeping my bedroom window open at night in the misguided belief that it’s NOT THAT COLD, and THE FRESH AIR WILL DO US GOOD. What I got for my troubles was a sore throat and a sinus cold. Yay, Again.
We had a good lot of snow this winter and last week most of it melted. Creating lovely, goopy, slimy mud pits everywhere. The street I live on in my idyllic little rural community are not paved. They are gravelled. But, I was happy that the snow was gone out of my driveway, and that at least I could see the gravel again. But, then, the local idiots decided that tearing up and down our side street and four-wheel driving through the muck in their Mazda hatch-back and sore-excuse for a sports-truck would be fun. They made a grand mess of the road and the boulevard.
Yet another sign that Spring has arrived. And, here’s another. . .
The husband took matters into his own hands and went after one of them. Talked to a dad of one of the boys and told him the police would be called next time it happened. Barricades went up the next day. Hope the two are related. The traffic has been a lot more sedate since, however.
Now things are frozen again. I guess we’ll see what happens when Spring decides to stick around.
I can’t wait for Spring to really arrive. I’m thinking it might be for real somewhere around Easter. Until then I’ve got Pinterest.
Days 125 & 126 – The weekend. It was lovely. Warm. Hot, really. My leg was feeling much better and I managed to do a bit of yard work. My grandkids came for a sleepover. We took them frogging. Didn’t catch a one, didn’t see nary a one, either. Because, like all little children, they’re much too noisy to catch frogs. Good thing for the frogs. But, we went out armed with buckets and twigs and cans and rubber boots and sloshed through the sodden fields and then over to the slough. They had a grand time. And so did Grandpa and me.
Sunday, I went to my brother and sister-in-law’s for supper. He made beer-butt chicken. Delicious! However, the dessert was to die for: vanilla bean ice-cream with fresh strawberries and blackberries with — get this — chocolate infused balsamic vinegar — drizzled on top. Seriously, it was amazing.
We have a sort of pergola over our front entrance and in winter snow gets get up there on the beams. It can be kind of treacherous walking underneath if the snow decides to follow gravity’s rule — more than once I’ve got a bunch of snow plopped on me. Generally, we try and knock it down, but Tim thought it would be ‘fun’ to let it be.
With the warmer temps the past few days the snow has been melting and it’s created these fascinating sculptures up there above our heads, so I decided to take a few pictures.
So, yesterday, I got up close and personal with my kitchen and bathroom floors. For the first time in over 10 years I got down on my hands and knees and scrubbed them.
Now, don’t go thinking I’m some kind of slovenly pig — I do wash my floors quite regularly — at least once a week, but I usually do it with a mop.
My husband owns this horrible pair of black-soled shoes that leaves awful scuff marks whenever he tromps through the house with them on. I’ve asked that he cease doing that, at least in those shoes, but, he’s a man and he forgets. So, I’m forever stooping down to scrub them away and cursing him while I’m at it.
Yesterday, I decided it was high time to wash the floors and I noticed that there were scuff marks all over the place. I would be stooping and cursing a lot, it seemed.
It would, I thought, be easier to just stay low to the floor. Out came the mop bucket, a good rag, one of those miracle sponge thingys and a scrub brush — and a towel for my knees, which I didn’t think of getting until I was nearly half-way done.
I enjoyed the exercise. Honestly. While I was down there scrubbing away and wiping off the scuff marks I had a great conversation with myself. I thought about the Christmas just past and how much I’d enjoyed myself, I envisioned my afternoon with friends and the movie we were going to see. I mumbled and muttered away to myself about all kinds of little, forgettable things. Yes, it took twice the amount of time it normally takes me to wash the floors, but, it was time well spent.
My floors are old. They’re pushing 30, I believe, and need replacing in the worst way. But, they’re going to have to last for a couple more years, at least. I took my time while scrubbing and wiped the baseboards down, I dug into corners and scrubbed grimy spots under the cupboards. I was horrified to discover just how much hair I’d lost — my god, it was everywhere!
While I was down there I thought about how much use these floors have seen: the years my son spent growing up here and the thousands of footsteps he’d taken upon them; the scrabble of our two dog’s nails upon them as we tossed balls or played catch-me! with them; the hushed footsteps of my husband and I as we traversed the cool linoleum on early mornings trying not to wake each other as we begin our days; the untold number of friends and family’s footsteps during visits and holidays; and now, the constant patter of my grandchildren’s small feet as they run and dash through the house whenever they’re over.
They are old floors, they are battle-scarred and worn, and as I washed and scrubbed and scoured I felt thankful that I had such wonderful floors.
Still, when I was done, when I stood up and slowly flexed my aching knees and stretched out my crooked back I took an appraising look at my handiwork and declared loudly that that was the last time I’d wash a floor on my hands and knees. Ever.
Oh, and lovely memories or not, those floors gotta go.
Day 1 — I spent the very first moments of this New Year with those I love the most — my husband, my grandkids and though they weren’t here, my son and and his wife. Landon called just after the midnight bells — or, in our case, the televised bells in Niagara Falls — rang. To me, that is happiness at its apex.
Aunt Michelle and Uncle Scott with Timmy, Ethan, Jackson, Grace and Hailey
Hailey and Gracie — it’s serious business this building of gingerbread houses!
Building ginger bread houses with Aunt Michelle and Uncle Scott
Our youngest grandson, Ethan, at his concert
The church where Ethan decided the people needed to be inside
Getting a little close
Dickens Village
Dickens Village — night shot
The Larson Family Christmas tree, 2012 edition
Christmas dinner is ready
Ready, set, go!
Landon giving Timmy a shove down the hill
Grampa built a toboggan hill off the deck!
Snow, snow and more snow
Snow on spruce
A very chilly Christmas morning
lights and snow
frosty leaves
Santa came!
So, here it is December 28th. Christmas came and went in a flurry of activity. It was one of the happiest Christmases I’ve enjoyed. Everyone was relaxed and into the spirit — Tim and I have days of down-time following ‘the big day’ and that has been a wonderful bonus.
I really don’t have too much to say about Christmas itself, other than what I’ve stated above — it seems the older I get the less important gifts have become — it’s more about spending time with people you love and taking the gift of those times away with you. Don’t get me wrong, gifts do still play a part, but I worry less about how much I’m buying and concentrate more on how happy what I’m giving will make the recipient. So, if it’s one or two meaningful things as compared to a truckload of stuff that will be forgotten the moment it’s opened, that’s the way I’ve gone.
One of my favorite memories of these holidays will be the night the kids came over for our Griswold Family Christmas night. We watched Nat’l Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation (a tradition) put out snack and finger food and just sat around eating and laughing and watching the kids (who really didn’t sit still for much of the movie). Ethan decided that the Dickens’ Village display in the kitchen was far more interesting than the Griswold’s and their problems.
I found him rearranging everything and driving his flourescent green and purple HotWheels cars through the tiny plastic-cobblestone streets. It was delightful. He gave me a big smile when I asked him what he was doing and said: “This needs go here, Gramma” as he picked up some tiny people and shoved them into the entrance of the church. When he was finished there were lamp posts dangling off the edge of the shelf and groups of little porcelain people huddled together as if in fear of some unseen, monstrous danger, but everything was intact. He toddled off to the next thing to catch his attention — a candy cane — which I am still wiping traces of off various surfaces around my house.
All in all, this Christmas break has been just the break I needed.
Wishing all a season of joy and happiness for the coming New Year.
Here’s a collection of pictures from our winter so far. It’s been a true winter this year — it began early and it ain’t lettin’ up for nothin’! Hope you enjoy them.
Field on an overcast day
Grandkids at the William’s family annual Christmas light up
Tim took these shots of cedar wax-wings stopping in for a break
Any perch will do
High-wire act
The make the most beautiful, soft chirring sound as they sit in the branches
A flicker that collided with a window — he was okay and flew away unharmed
Like Joni sang: “It’s comin’ on Christmas; they’re choppin’ down trees. . .”
The 2011 Larson Family Christmas tree
We went out this morning to cut down the Larson family Christmas tree. Gunlor Pines has been providing us with our tree for over 20 years. And so it was with hot chocolate, blankets and many layers of winter clothes that we headed off kind of early this morning with visions of the perfect tree leading us on.
Alas, we got to Gunlor only to find out it was closed. And then, double alas, we found out it had been sold! My daughter-in-law managed to contact the former owners who kindly told her that the place was closed on Sundays, but we could call and make an appointment for the next weekend. (Saturday only.) While we were there another vehicle pulled up — that made 3 of us wanting trees. So, Jenn contacted the new owners, but they weren’t interested in coming to open up.
I’m thinking their little tree farm venture isn’t going to last too long. Ah, but I digress.
The kids did an internet search and found out there is another tree farm about 2 hours south of Edmonton. They considered going, but it was getting late. Tim and I had tickets for the Vinyl Cafe Christmas show, so there was no way we could go. We had sadly accepted the reality that there would be no freshly cut nine-footer this year. (In truth, I wasn’t all that sad. And while I’m talking truth I have to admit that I’d much rather have a multi-coloured pre-lit artificial tree that is only about 7 ft tall. It would make my life much easier.)
And so it has been decided that next weekend it’s Gunlor on Saturday, or the new place on Sunday. Whichever it is I probably won’t be going. We’ve got family coming for the weekend so I’ve got cooking and entertaining to take care of. However it plays out come next weekend we’ll have our tree. I’ll play Joni Mitchell while we bring it in the house and then I’ll put on It’s a Wonderful Life while I shred my fingertips as I string the lights.
Though I wish I had a fake tree I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I do love the smell of a real tree, and, that once it’s up and decorated it truly is a special thing and something that helps get me in the Christmas spirit. It takes me back to trees past and all the memories hung upon countless branches.
Every year I go to the fancy greenhouses and take in all the beautiful Christmas displays with the designer trees in all their fashionable colours. There are blue trees, copper trees, pink trees, red trees and silver trees. Black trees, gold trees, sparkly trees. And, yes, even green trees. Besides all the colours there are different shapes and sizes. Two-footers through to 12 foot giants. Fat, full branched ones and skinny, one-sided trees. Trees that will fit in corners and trees that hang upside down. (I don’t like the upside down trees, they look so odd!)
I always aspire to change my tree decorating habits; I envisage a glittering masterpiece of red and gold, feathers and velvet streamers. Something worthy of gracing the pages of Martha Stewart Living or House & Home. But, in the end I turn away from those glimmering decorations and turn to my boxes of treasured ornaments, the ones I’ve spent my lifetime collecting. They’re what really makes me smile. And as I hang each shiny bauble, each hand-crafted paper ornament that my son made, or each ornament collected on holiday I’m reminded that our tree is history of us.
When my grandkids come over I love to point out this one or that one and tell them a little story about how it came to be. I’ve started adding the ones they make now and try not to think to far ahead into the future when perhaps I’ll be adding ornaments from great-grandchildren.
In the end, I suppose, it doesn’t matter whether the tree is real or fake. What matters is what you make of it.
All That Matters 