Embrace Winter

How we picture winter snow can be summed up in one word, quiet. The spring rain has ceased its patter, the summer birds are on holiday down south, and those rustling fall leaves are buried – all is reticent. When that blanket of snow covers the ground, the earth is tucked in for a long winters nap.

Most of us live and work in busy cities or suburbs, our schedules rush us from one planned activity to another, and much of our day is spent plugged into some type of electronic or motorized device. Our working world is in a constant state of humming, the computer hums, and the phone rings and the television is on. For real peace of mind, you need to venture out and escape that noise.

Snowfall is noiseless; the trees in their grandeur, heavily laden with snow stand still, regal and muted, even the cold crisp air is hushed. The sun bounces off of the stark white snow ready to lift your spirits. There is nothing controlling or interrupting your thoughts. Allow your mind to whisper to you.

Get the picture? Now get yourself in the picture.

Go for a snow hike, try some cross country skiing, or better yet, take up snowshoeing. This sport is easy to learn, relatively inexpensive and poses little risk of injury. Snowshoes are one of the oldest inventions of mankind and snowshoeing is really making a comeback with winter recreation. Although the original wooden frame snowshoes are still in use in large numbers, the more recent aluminum-frame Western designs are making the fit easier for everyone.

Snowshoeing allows you to venture off the beaten path, head out for the back country and tuck into those hard to reach places. The silence allows you to wonder as you wander, reducing stress as you trek on top of the snow. Your movements must be calm, graceful and light in order to reflect the conditions of the snow, which forces you to be more at one with things during the snow hike. Remember to pause, there is no rush.

Much like the pace of life, snow shoeing requires balance. To a large extent, the terrain locally is even and gentle. When you are faced with an uphill challenge, always remember the safest position is straight up. The tendency is to lean forward, which increases the chance of you falling on your face. The next instinct is to lean back, which can cause your feet to slide out from underneath you. Best advice is to straighten up, look ahead, plan for your optimum route and then go for it.

Take the kids, and be prepared, they will catch on to it before you do.

Some of the more popular areas locally for a day of snowshoeing include The Frink Centre, The Sandbanks, Vanderwater Park, and Presqu'ile Provincial Park. For more information and to find good snowshoeing areas near you, call the local parks and recreation centre, or go online at www.ontariotrails.on.ca and be sure to read the section on snowshoe smart tips.

Always play safe, be responsible.
Prepare yourself; enjoy the solitude, peace and quiet this winter.

Publiblished December 2009 Issue County and Quinte Living

The Magic is in the Music

'Claire Notes'

Photo courtesy Claire McNeilly copyright 2009

From the outside in, the stage was set for the annual school Christmas Concert. The auditorium was a stir of proud parents, grandparents and friends dressed for the season, excited as they came in from the first very timely snowfall of the winter. As the snow continued to fall lightly outside, the stage inside was aglow with the classic Christmas setting and the busy swirl of activity that accompanies those last few moments before curtain call.

And then the concert began. The night was a mix of Concert bands, Jazz bands, Dixie bands and multiple choirs celebrating with us their talents

As I sat and watched my daughter standing in the front row of the choir on stage, I was at such peace. With a big, confident smile, I tapped my foot to the beat, I moved my hands with the conductor, and my body swayed naturally as it remembered holding my daughter when she was still a small child. My breathing and my heart rate aligned in unison with the thrum of the music. Every bit of me wanted to dance. Such healing. I looked around and noticed that I was not alone in my desire to move with this music. Heads were bobbing, people were singing, and some were swaying along with me.

At one point in the evening, Silent Night had its turn. For me, thoughts of a Christmas visit to my grandmother’s house came back. During this particular visit, the family was sharing downstairs after supper as I snuck upstairs to play the old organ that lived in the spare bedroom. I sat at that organ until I had Silent Night memorized. I was about nine or ten and I was so proud of myself. I loved revisiting that memory. I loved that this choir brought that memory to me this night.

The effect music has on us is truly magnificent. And further, what a gift these talented children gave to us all. It was so uplifting.

To Mr. David Reed , head of the choir at Centennial Secondary School, to Mr. Blair Yarranton who conducted the bands, and to all of the students involved in making that night a success, my deepest appreciation.

A quick add to this post: I was reading Meditations on Joy by Sister Wendy Beckett - thank you Jamie for the set - and a page rang true to this post, calling to be published here;

" Nothing can guarantee us joy, or coerce its presence. But for many people, music is an occasion when joy is likely to choose to visit us."

One Day I Saw Ty Conn

(This is being recalled from a very young mind...)

When my father would begin telling a story from his childhood, he would begin with “When I was a little girl…” which would cause an uproar of high pitched objections from my sisters and myself. He would simply smile and continue on, as he now had our complete attention.

I started this post at the beginning of November of this year when thoughts of my father return annually on the anniversary of his birthday. This story, however, is not about my father…

When I was a little girl, I lived in a small house on Pine Street with my father, mother and three sisters. Ours was a busy, full house. Lisa was the oldest, very beautiful and very bossy. Pam was next, also very beautiful and we envied her fashion sense. I was the third in the line of my sisters, a middle child that cried a lot, made funny faces and was very comfortable at the centre of attention. My little sister, Joanne, enjoyed the status of being the baby in the family. She was adorable and quiet and she was my main playmate. Next door housed our friend Jennifer, her mother, father and her little sister. Joanne, Jennifer and I were like the three musketeers on the block.

One day, a moving van pulled up to the house next to Jennifer’s and we were told that a new family was moving in – moreover, that there was a girl our age to play with. We were so excited for another friend to even out the numbers, to play on the swings in our small backyard, and to join in the sandbox fun. The moving truck came and went but the house remained still and empty for a painfully long day or two.

We waited…

Finally, there was some activity; finally we saw the girl! She was beautiful, she wore pretty clothes, and she had gorgeous, long wavy hair. I came to know her as Loris J Conn. Her new house was much larger than ours, her backyard was very large also, and she had a huge black dog that kept us away from that backyard. I was now very curious about this house, it was all a novelty. I should have envied Loris J for all that she had, but I did not; her house was always quiet, a sad quiet. I never saw her father. On occasion I saw her mother, but only inside of her house (I was rarely inside that house) and only for very brief moments. My memory always has her mother dressed in a fancy, oversized moo moo. I saw Loris J’s brother, her adoptive brother Ty, only once. I remember that day well.

Joanne, Jennifer and I were playing in the front yard. There were toys everywhere, mostly belonging to Jennifer. I was walking up and down the driveway mesmerized by a Fisher Price Corn Popper that I was much too old for, but I did not care. I walked and watched the different coloured balls as they took turns popping. Loris J joined in our play and then announced that Ty was coming for a visit. Play stopped as us girls became interested in the idea of a boy, a brother. We had questions.

Loris J noticed our ignorance concerning a brother, and with the authority she had earned, she explained what it was like to have one. We were fascinated. We learned that brothers were loud, tended to get into more trouble than their sister counterparts, and they were prone to peeing in their pants. I think I made a sour face when she said that last bit because she went into detail to support her claim. This was to be the first time I can recall hearing the word penis. I was both disgusted and curious. She smiled when she realized how little I knew about boys. She even demonstrated how much easier it was for girls to hold their pee. After that discussion, I was so glad to be a girl. It all sounded rather awful.

Ty showed up shortly thereafter, driven to the house by people we did not know. A procession of rather serious faces led Ty into the house without so much as glancing our way. I stood between Joanne and Jennifer, and we watched in awe as this boy, head down, a book between bookends, walked into that house. Loris J cheerfully excused herself and ran after them; we were not permitted to visit. Ty came and went that same day. I would never see him again.

Within a short time of that day, my family moved into a much larger house right around the corner on Bleecker Avenue. Jennifer’s family moved across town. Loris J and I went to different schools. That was that.

Twenty years later, I am perusing the books in the non-fiction section of the library when one title catches my eye, Who Killed Ty Conn. Written by Linden MacIntyre and co-authored by Theresa Burke, this book would explain in detail why this boy walked with his head down. A tragic story of abandonment, abuse and a boy whose wish it was to have a family. A story of poor judgment by the Ontario Child Protection Services, a story of the entitlements that come with position and money in our society and a story that reminds us that human attachment is essential to each and every one of us in our desire, our strong need to be loved.

The Fun Theory

I started my run at lunch today a little slower than usual; it is getting colder out there. I told myself I needed a strategy to get moving. I searched through my IPOD for the selection of songs that have proven to make me run faster. Mentally, I knew I needed more. What to do?

At the beginning of my run, I saw someone I have known since I was seventeen. I stopped to have a quick chat. It was really fun talking to her and she lifted my spirits; I ran a little faster after that. Ah ha! An idea…Normally when I run I acknowledge most everyone I pass. Today I was going to do more than that. I decided I would surprise people. I would go that little extra.

“Beautiful day for a walk” I said to a small group of ladies. “Yes, it is” and they smiled.

“Good to see you out on the trail.” I commented to the mayor and his friend. “Keep running.” He encouraged with a smile.

“You win!” to those runners heading in the opposite direction – they laughed.

I passed a group sitting at a picnic table, and they surprised me by talking first. Someone asked about my running “What are you training for?” I answered “Life”.

In between these moments with fellow trail lovers, when I was running along the trail alone, I made a point to crunch every fall leaf I could. Before I knew it, I looked up and my run was complete. More so, I was smiling – that was so fun!

This all got me to thinking about The Fun Theory. Volkswagen has come up with this great little gem and the aim is to offer people ‘fun’ incentives to do the right thing. For example, commuters tend to take the escalator when arriving and leaving the metro, so Volkswagen turned the stairs into a giant piano with each step playing a different note. The use of the stairs went up 66%. That is fantastic! Check it out...

http://www.thefuntheory.com/piano-staircase

And have fun - right now!

The Missing Piece to the Puzzle Found and Lost Again

I am beginning to abhor his e-mail, and now the phone when the call is made in transit from one place to another – neither leading to me. His voice is often laboured from the walking and his attention is anything but undivided. This cheats me.

Once during an awkward call our voices, our breath, just lingered on the phone. He had called me at work which he knew limited me in my reactions, prevented me from being open and honest, prevented me from telling him to go fuck himself. He could feel my impatience; he began speaking rapidly to fill the void, to fill the silence, to suppress the frustration in me. He described where he was – I did not care – it was not here.

“I’m staring at a parking lot full of water” he said, which suggested to me that he must go now as he had arrived at his destination. I said nothing. After a brief pause, he attempted to fill the void again, he wanted to talk about anything, nothing - he just wanted to avoid the reality of this situation.

“There is a puzzle piece just floating around in this big puddle.”

“Ah ha!” I said “that is the missing piece to the puzzle.” in a mocking Sherlock Holmes kind of way.

“Ya?” he questioned, excited by my new tone.

“Ya.” I replied and instructed “Pick it up.”

“No. It is all grimy and grey.” He said.

“Hmmm." I am disappointed, "That is why it is always missing – when they find it, no one picks it up.”

Kim Echlin - The Disappeared

This post digresses back to the Writersfest which I attended in Kingston, Ontario in September of this year. Kim Echlin was an author there that caught my attention. It was during an On Stage event called ‘Women Without Borders’ where I heard Kim read from The Disappeared which was, at that time, long listed for the Giller. It was announced on October 6 of this year that Kim Echlin’s book made the shortlist for the 2009 Giller Prize.

The Disappeared is the current book that graces the top of the pile beside my bed each night. It is a love story between a young Canadian girl, Anne, and her slightly older Cambodian lover, Serey set during the Cambodian genocide under The Pol Pot Regime. They met in a café in Old Montreal, had an immediate and intense love affair and moved in together. However, as soon as the Cambodian borders opened, Serey was compelled to seek out his family there. He returns to Cambodia promising to be in touch as soon as possible. Many years go by and many letters have been written by Anne, but she hears nothing from Serey. Eventually she travels to Cambodia in search of her long lost love.

The language in this book is romantic, contains beautiful phrases and seamlessly flows from English to French, from Latin to Khmer. The chapters in this book are confined and epigrammatic in nature which perfectly parallels the settings described such as crowded bars, small bedrooms and inside rickshaws. It is told using both narrative and poetic writing.

I have read some mixed reviews about this book. The Quill and Quire’s Steven W. Beattie does begin admirably with “Great love stories are inseparable from tragedy.” Unfortunately, he notes that “the language is merely clichéd…it employs overheated metaphor to communicate ineffable desire”

But for the most part the book is receiving positive reviews like the one printed in The National Post by playwright and editor Frank Moher who says “The Disappeared is an expert novel, which manages to penetrate to the aching core of the Cambodian tragedy.”

All in all, I think this is a fantastic piece of love told through historical fiction, and Kim Echlin is definitely a Canadian author to watch for and certainly read.

Al Purdy A-Frame Project

"So we built a house, my wife and I

our house at a backwater puddle of a lake

near Ameliasburg, Ont."

Al Purdy In Search of Owen Roblin

Al Purdy is arguably one of the most important Canadian poets of our time. Al was born in Wooler, Ontario in 1918, raised in Trenton, and educated at Albert College in Belleville. At a young age, he headed west for B.C. and this was to be just the beginning of a lifetime of much travelling throughout Canada which is reflected in his writing. Many of his poems read like entries in a diary and the history that is told within is immeasurable. Al and wife Eurithe built the Purdy A-Frame house in Ameliasburgh, Ontario which would serve as a meeting place for hundreds of writers over many years. The whole edifice, Al observed, ‘bent a little in the wind and dreamt of the trees it came from.’

The list of people who travelled to the A-frame includes Margaret Atwood, Earle Birney, George Bowering, Lynn Crosbie, Dennis Lee, Steven Heighton, Patrick Lane, Lorna Crozier, Margaret Laurence, Jack McClelland, John Newlove, Anna Porter, Elizabeth Smart, Michael Ondaatje and the list goes on and on.

A foundation has been developed to save the A-Frame for the purposes of developing a retreat for Canadian writers. The Writer - In- Residence program was designed by David Helwig, Steven Heighton, Karen Solie and Rob Budde.

This coming Saturday, October 17, 2009 from 10am - 1pm there will be a fundraising auction at the Al Purdy library in Ameliasburgh with the proceeds going to the A- Frame Trust Project. As Jean Baird noted in her announcement about the event “The auction will include small items, sentimental trinkets and household items /furnishings from the A-Frame as used/purchased by Al, Eurithe Purdy and the many literary visitors to the cottage. There are some volumes of old books and magazines that will be included in the auction.”

At this close of summer, beginning of fall, come join us in a one-of-a-kind fundraiser. It promises to leave you Naked With Summer in Your Mouth.

The Al Purdy Library, Ameliasburgh, County Rd #19 in the village of Ameliasburgh. Continue through village to STOP SIGN and turn immediately left on Whitney Rd.

Autumn’s Splendour

Running the waterfront trail along the bay in Belleville, I stopped briefly to take in the view. My eyes were drawn to the new colours emerging on the leaves of the large oak trees, which then drew my gaze to the sun and the reflection it created off of the harbor, which finally drew my gaze to the Bay Bridge, that conduit that connects Quinte to The County. Many boats were out on The Bay this day taking advantage of these last few days of summer. This reminded me that fall, my favourite time of year, is here.

Many years ago, I moved out to British Columbia where I lived on the coast for 14 years. It is a beautiful part of our country, the ocean is awe-inspiring, the mountains are overwhelming and the people are generously friendly. All that was missing for me was the seasons. Typically, it felt like spring all year round. When planning a visit ‘home’ to Ontario, I generally booked a flight at the end of summer so I could catch some of the brilliant fall weather.

During one of my visits home, I met for lunch with an art teacher of mine that I had managed to keep in touch with over the years. He asked me what I missed about Ontario and I told him fall. I missed the beautiful change in colour that Ontario experiences, the cool crisp air and walking in the countryside crunching fall leaves under foot. Shortly after my return to B.C., I received a package in the mail from this teacher. It was full of colourful dry fall leaves which I immediately took outside, dispersed on the ground and proceeded to step on one-by-one enjoying that familiar missed crunching sound.

A few years ago, I returned to make Ontario my home again. Each year since my return, during the end of summer and beginning of fall, my excitement returns and is stronger than ever. My appreciation for fall is deeper. The feeling is similar to the stomach rolling excitement you have as a child on those few days just before the new school year begins.
Fall is full of comfort for me. It is that gorgeous time of year when I leave a pot of homemade soup simmering on the stove, pull on my favourite wool sweater and ready myself for an afternoon hike, excitedly anticipating the colourful changing scenery. Upon stepping out, I breathe deep enjoying the crisp feel to the air known only to this time of year; that sweet smell of rain still trapped within the leaves on the ground. Time appears to slow as I enjoy an afternoon walk, taking in nature busying itself with winter preparations; nuts are littering the ground, squirrels are building a cache of supplies, trees are changing their foliage to rich orange, copper, gold and glowing shades of rust. Autumn’s splendour.

Returning home, I enjoy my well deserved harvest supper. Afterwards, I help myself to a hot cup of cider, grab my book and settle in by the fire for a night of cozy reading. My Great Aunt Emma used to request I read to her when her eyes began to fail. Each time I visited her school books from her days at the Plainfield single room school house would be out. One of the books stood out as special, worn and well used; it was the Ontario Readers Second Book in which she would request I turn to the poem September by Helen Hunt Jackson. Although she could recite this poem word for word all these many years later, she enjoyed hearing it aloud. I would start with the first line “The golden rod is yellow”, and she would join in for the rest. This stanza was most treasured;

By all these lovely tokens
September days are here,
With summer's best of weather,
And autumn's best of cheer.

Take comfort in this fall.

Janet Jarrell

Article published in County and Quinte Living