The Winds of Love

I will start with two unrelated observations:

1. It is very windy outside (seriously).

2. My wife comments from time to time that I have never blogged about her.

Now I will craftily, yet subtly, intertwine these two ideas. Try to keep up.

It is a howling night out tonight, and my wife is gone to Bible Study. I am at home recuperating after a day of teaching. Because Courtney does not share my love for certain types of classical music, I am now blaring Nimrod from Elgar. She would be plugging her ears right now if she were here.

It is a cozy night for writing. Beautiful music is playing, soft lamp light fills the room, and the wind beats against this house. My memory takes me back to another windy occasion. (Here’s where I phenomenally connect point one and two).

Courtney and I are in Ottawa. We are dating and we are in love. It is spring. Before you get the idea that we are running hand in hand together in slow motion through daisy fields, let me fill you in on the scene. We are there with 15,000 other people to protest abortion. It is a very windy, rainy day, much like today.

I notice that Courtney does not like getting the bottom of her pants wet and furthermore she does not like to step on the wet hem of her pants either as we walk through the streets of Ottawa. I slowly get used to stopping every twenty steps to re-roll her wet pant legs so that she does not step on them. We join the protest on Parliament Hill and join the throngs as we begin to parade through the streets of downtown Ottawa. Courtney and I are walking hand in hand. We each have an umbrella, and Courtney is particularly proud of hers because it is full of polka dots. The umbrella is useless, we realize, as the wind turns the umbrella into something a newly neutered dog would wear around its neck.

We are about half way through the march. We are falling behind because of those wet pant legs of Courtneys’ and the need to roll them up. I notice with alarm that we are in front of a large group of people that are carrying a banner that stretches across the street. They are walking in perfect unison and their street-wide banner is perfectly straight. We are in the middle of the road and Courtney decides that it is time to roll up her pant legs once again. The banner is suddenly upon us. The banner then surrounds us. The middle banner people half to stop so that Courtney is not trampled, but the people who are holding the ends of the banner missed the memo saying that they are stopping for a girl who has to roll up her wet pant legs.

We make it back to Parliament Hill. We are being pelted by the driving rain, but that doesn’t really matter. We are not there for our enjoyment – we are simply there to remind our Government that we have not forgotten about those little babies in the womb who have no voice or no protection.

It is good to be there on that windy day. It is good to be there with Courtney and to know that she is the one for me. We like to laugh about her holding up the march and almost getting trampled by a giant banner.

Now as the wind blows, and as Adagio in G blasts through my speakers, I look forward to Courtney coming home and telling me about her day.

The end.

You're Still Eating?!"

Lunchtime in the classroom is always a spirited affair. After devotions, there is a scramble for the lunches and then a race to the microwave. Food is thrown in and nuked into oblivion. I won’t try to describe what goes on in that microwave. I wisely steer clear of the microwave and use the toaster where I usually have two slices of bread with jam (and sometimes tea too because as Maria Von Trapp sings: tea is a drink with jam and bread).

My students eat very quickly. Sometimes I feel like I am watching a group of boa constrictors unhinge their jaws and swallow huge animals whole. A student will have a giant Kaiser bun in their hands. In a flash the bun will be gone and a Kaiser bun shaped lump will slowly make its way down the student’s neck.

No need for utensils either – they are like speed bumps! How do the students eat their left over Sunday soup? The Tupperware container is brought close to the student’s face. A sucking ‘wet-vac’ sound ensues and in an instant the soup is vaporized. Pudding cups are no obstacle for my utensil-less students either. A couple jabs of a pen through the top of the pudding cup, a good squeeze at the bottom and a swipe of the tongue removes any traces of pudding.

Most of the lunches are not actually tasted. I’ve always wanted to carry out an experiment where I sneakily exchange the Kaiser bun for a hunk of Styrofoam. Would the student actually notice the switch? I doubt it.

I am at the other extreme however. I am a very slow eater. If ever I am eating with a group of people, it can be guaranteed that I will be the last one finished. My students are often astounded that I am still eating my toast at the end of the lunch recess, but then again, they would probably jam (get it?) the entire slice in their mouth and swallow. My slow eating can be blamed on the family dinner table when I was just a wee laddie.

There was always something exciting to talk about at the dinner table. My sister Becky filled us in on the latest adventure of one of her classmates. My other sister Ally made odd groaning noises and complained about the food. She would then take her knife and fork and dissect her food – anything with a hint of green had to be removed. Ranch dressing would then douse whatever was left. My brother Scott would tell us about why he was unjustly given another detention that day, and Derek would announce the type of bird he had spotted on the way home from school. I was the news correspondent of the group. I would usually watch the six o’clock news before dinner so I was always up to date about what was going on around Canada and the world. Dinner time was never rushed and we were never told to hurry up and eat (except for Ally).

Dinner time was a peaceful affair except for a certain calamity which struck from time to time. Spills. Mom and Dad are patient and loving people, but whenever we spilled something, everything went bezerk. Mom and Dad would spring into action. Mom would go for a cloth and Dad would starting giving a lecture. “That’s it! You’re all grounded... forever!” Mom would interrupt frantically by this point. “The CRACK!” came a half-demented yell. This was the worst-case scenario of a spill. The kool-aid would ooze its way down the table to where the table leaves joined together. The juice would then spill through the crack and onto the floor. We would watch with horror filled eyes as the kool-aid hit the crack and began dripping through to the floor. Dad would continue his tirade “Not only are you grounded, but... but you’re going to eat on the floor from now on!” Again Mom would interrupt as she began wiping. “This is going to be sticky for weeks!” she would bemoan. After the spill was cleaned up, everything would return back to normal and dinner would continue.

One evening we were eating and Dad was feeling pangs of thirst. There was only milk at the table, and Dad wanted juice. He slipped away from the table and began making a new pitcher of juice. We carried on with our dinner conversations. Ally had the floor and was finishing up her critique of the food. “...the beans are gross too. I don’t like the potatoes. The cauliflower is yucky.” Suddenly a weird gurgling sound punctuated the air and interrupted Ally’s grievances. We listened as we heard a spraying sound followed by a wolf howl from the kitchen. We turned around to see what was going on. Dad had made juice, but mistakenly took the jar of vinegar that was on the counter for water. He had created a new flavour – orange and vinegar juice and was the first and only person to try this concoction. The show wasn’t over though. In desperation to get the vinegar taste out of his mouth, Dad ripped open a roll of Fruitella and frantically fumbled with the wrapper. Fed up with the wrapper, he popped the Fruitella in his mouth – wrapper and all.

We were generally respectful children, but we didn’t stop laughing until the next morning.

Mom was a great cook, but dinner time was never really about the food on the table, but rather about who was sitting around the table. I guess this has never changed and is why I continue to plod my way through meals. Yes, I could probably eat my toast a lot faster (not in a matter of nanoseconds like my students mind you), but again – for me it’s not about the food on the table, but who’s there with you. I couldn’t ask for more interesting table companions than my students.

The Waffle Iron!

I was ecstatic to unwrap one of my Christmas presents this year to find a waffle maker. Being the Belgian waffle lover that I am, it was only natural that I should receive an iron of my own. As I lay in bed the night after receiving it, I pictured what it would be like to make my own waffles.

Picture the scene with me:

The perfectly mixed batter, which practically made itself, was poured into the waffle iron. Each little waffle square rejoiced as it was filled with such battery goodness. The lid is pressed down and gentle and re-assuring sizzling ensues. After an impossibly short time, the ready light comes on – it’s wondrous green light flooding the room. Somewhere the ethereal chorus of children fill the room as I lift the lid. A billowing cloud of delicious steam envelopes me as I peer inside. They are perfect waffle specimens! Golden and fluffy, the savoury waffles practically leap onto my awaiting plate. Cheers can be heard from the adjoining dining room as I bring in the platter of mouth watering, steaming, exquisite and delectable waffles into the throng of eager diners: “He’s done it again! For he’s the jolly good fellow, for he’s...”

Unfortunately my waffles did not quite live up to this blissful premonition.
After finding a recipe online, I scrounged the necessary ingredients together. I pulled out the whisk and started whisking. The recipe said to mix ingredients until the batter had a nice fluffy consistency. Here’s a tip – unless you’ve got arms like Popeye and the patience of a snail, leave the whisk in the drawer and go for the hand mixer.

When all the lumps were obliterated, I brought the bowl over to the waffle iron. I had pre-heated it and it was ready. Because I did not want flaming waffle batter streaming out of the waffle iron, I was very conservative with my pouring. Here’s a tip – just give ‘er!

Having poured in the batter, I closed the lid and clamped it down. The sizzling did not immediately start, as I had imagined, but the batter did start to sputter. I watched with growing alarm as the waffle batter began to ooze out of the sides. It was while I was watching the batter flow out of the waffle iron like molten lava that I noticed the sticker on the side of the waffle iron. In bold capital letters it read “DO NOT CLAMP DOWN WHILE BAKING”. I hurriedly undid the clamp and peaked inside. The waffle did not really resemble a waffle at this point, but rather a sad looking square pancake. Apparently you are not supposed to clamp it down so that the waffles can naturally rise. Here’s a tip – unless you are planning on mailing your waffles to a friend, DO NOT CLAMP DOWN WHILE BAKING.

Finally after what seemed like an eternity, the waffle looked ready. It was not golden and fluffy. Instead it looked like a flat tire. I grabbed the corner and pried it out of the iron. Here’s a tip – unless you like the look of the waffle design on your fingers, use a spatula to get your waffle out of the iron.

After running my waffled fingers under cold water (they almost looked more appetising than the actual waffle), I put some butter and syrup on my sad little waffle. I briefly considered getting the bike pump to inflate my waffle, but realized that that was just wishful thinking. I then reasoned that even though it looked like it had just been run over by a steam roller, the waffle might actually taste good. With renewed hope, I cut off a corner and put the large chunk of waffle in my mouth. Here’s a tip – unless you like the look of the waffle design on the roof of your mouth and tongue, I suggest that you let the waffle cool.
Although most of my taste buds had been singed off by this point, I still had enough left to tell me that the waffle was disgusting. It was like eating a leather belt (with a waffle design). Apparently I had overcooked it.

There was still a little blob of my pathetic batter left in the bowl. My pride needed some serious salvaging at this point of my waffle debacle. I grabbed the bowl and unceremoniously dumped the remaining batter into the iron. I closed the lid and did not clamp down the waffle iron. Sizzle, Sizzle, blah, blah, the rotten waffle was finally finished. I grabbed a spatula, pried it under a corner of the waffle and flung it onto the waiting plate. Though disillusioned and dispirited from my first attempt, I looked at the waffle, and was surprised to see that it was a lot puffier than the first waffle. ‘But will it taste better than my belt?’ I wondered. I sagely let the waffle cool down. I carefully cut off a piece and put it in my mouth. Hmmm. It was not amazing, but it wasn’t bad either. My mediocre waffle was a good starting point I decided. Here’s a tip – unless you like eating flattened waffles that could double as coasters, make enough batter for a second attempt.

The Move

Early on in my first year of teaching at Oxford Reformed Christian School, we went tree planting. We were listening to a man from the conservation authority who was talking about how to properly plant trees and where to plant what kinds in which spots. There were a couple of different species, and they came in all different sizes. Some were just slender shoots that could easily be planted with little digging. Others were quite large saplings that would involve some serious digging. When the conservationist told the students to go pick out some shovels and trees, I expected the students to all go for the little trees. I watched wide eyed as they all sprinted off towards the large saplings. Dirt flew everywhere; the pile of trees dwindled, and in no time a beautiful grove of trees and dogwoods emerged around the Stubbe pond. The trees were planted in an hour flat. The conservationist thought it would take half the day and was astounded as I was. It was then that I realized that the students from ORCS knew how to work and they knew how to work together.

This was reaffirmed this week during “the move”. Our school was housed in a church for the past years. With the new school completed, it was time to move. I came to school on Wednesday and was told that our portable was going to be moved first thing the next morning. The pressure was on! I have twenty seven students, which means twenty-seven desks, and twenty-seven sets of various textbooks. There was also a fridge, piano, shelves and all of my books, desks and cabinets.

I gave the word to start packing shortly before lunch. The students swung into action without any prompting. Boxes appeared, and the students formulated themselves into groups. Different parts of the classroom were tackled and packed.

After lunch, the excitement was palpable, and the students were raring to get the job finished. Each student had a box and was responsible for packing their books and binders. Once packed up, all the students grabbed their box and desk and brought them to the waiting transport trailer. Within no time, the classroom was completely empty, and cleaned out. Once again, I watched all the action with wide eyed wonderment.

Thursday was another big moving day. This time the whole school was in on the action. The high school students helped the younger kids and hauled out the pianos and heavy furniture. Even the smallest of the students carried things out to the trailers.

Not once did I hear a teacher say “Get going!” or “Help out!” While packing up the staff room, I had students of all ages coming in asking if I needed help or if I could find something for them to do. It was great! I had a couple of my trusty sidekicks from grade 7/8 helping me out the whole day which made for a fun day.

By four o’clock on Thursday, the bulk of the school had been packed ahead of schedule, thanks to the amazing effort of the school body.

We will be moving into a new building shortly, but I hope we never lose the school spirit and strong collective work ethic that propelled us through “the move”.

The Adrenaline Junkie

To avoid thousands of questions throughout the school day, I write down the schedule for the morning or afternoon on the left hand column of the chalkboard. Recently I came into the room to find that someone had added a third subject to the morning’s agenda: bungee jumping. I can just imagine how long that permission slip would be.

The student’s are aware of my fear of heights and my general distaste of anything that raises my adrenaline, which is why they chose bungee jumping as the subject to cap off the morning. I took a survey of the students of who would go bungee jumping if they had the chance, and most enthusiastically raised their hands. I wonder if that enthusiasm would wane once they were perched on the ledge preceding the plunge.

Like I said, I don’t like heights. I’ve never been on a roller-coaster, and in all likelihood, never will. When just a small child, I was once forced on a terrifying log ride (thanks Dad). My heart has never been the same. I prefer to read on the beach as opposed to be dragged around the lake on an inflatable ring by some kind of maniacal boater who’s only goal is to turn you into a piece of driftwood.

I don’t like living life on the edge, though that was not always the case. I did go through a very brief spell of recklessness as an adrenaline junkie.

I was quite young – maybe grade two or three. It was the summer holidays and we kids lived on our bikes. My brothers, neighbour kids, and I all had very unique bikes. Some had banana seats, some had flags on the back, some had a couple of gears, some had handlebar brakes, and some even had a light. My bike was nothing special, but it was perfect for my size. My memory is still a little blurry from that summer (as you will soon realize why), but it was a lavender and white bike with white rubber handlebars. The pedals could not sit idle when coasting like those fancy mountain bikes – the faster your bike went the faster the pedals would spin. When going at top speeds, my little legs and slam n’ jam high-tops would be a blur. To stop, you simply stomped your feet in the opposite direction, which stopped the pedals and wheels, and sent your bike into a cool skid.

Our house was at the bottom of hill. Few cars ever came down the country road, and so we spent our days owning it – up and down we would cruise. One of our favourite things to do on the hill was to go flying down as fast as you could, jump our ditch at the bottom, ride between the telephone pole and a large Austrian pine and then do a big skid on the gravel driveway. I would usually slow down a little before hitting the shallow ditch so as to stay in control, but as the summer flew by and confidence grew, I began to keep those little legs whirling as I ramped the ditch and past the telephone pole.

One hazy August afternoon, we were hanging out at the top of the hill. We saw Dad pull in the driveway with his brown Chevette. He got out of the car and waved to us. “Let’s go say hi!” someone yelled. We all aimed our bikes towards the bottom of the hill and pushed off. Dad was watching at the bottom as we started cruising down the hill like a formation of F-16s. I wanted to impress Dad with my incredible riding, so I pumped my bendy straw like legs all the harder. The first few bikes hit the ditch and went flying through the narrow opening between the pine and the pole. My bike was a little behind the pack by the time it got to the bottom. The last bikes then hit the ditch and went through the gap.

My turn. I piled on the coal as I went into the ditch. I had never hit the ditch that fast before, and my fifty pound body was thrown off balance. My bike lurched out of the ditch at a dizzying speed. I managed to stay on the bike, but to my horror, realized that I was off course. I was right in line with the telephone pole. I sailed through the air and only my hands stayed in contact with the handlebars. Everyone gasped as if they were watching Evil Kenevil jump a row of buses.

If it had been target practice it would have been impressive. It was a direct hit – a perfect bullseye. My bike slammed into the pole and stopped. My body did not stop. As I flew over the handlebars, I reflected on the brevity of life. Then everything went black for a few minutes.

Thankfully Dad was right there to help me up, tell me who I was and what happened, and to assure me that I hadn’t knocked out the hydro to the entire Niagara Region.

I learned something important that hot, humid summer day: hurtling over your handlebars into a telephone pole is not enjoyable.

The next day I turned to a book instead of joining the gang. Biking had lost some of its lustre. And so began a boring life devoid of thrill seeking and adrenaline.

Bungee jumping? Nah... I prefer to read about it.

Writing: A Labour of Love

My students are in the middle of writing research papers. They are all making great progress as they try to produce a major piece of writing. I have been reminded throughout their writing struggles and development of my own writing progression.

Someone once said about writing: “You don't have to be great to get started, but you have to get started to be great.” My first serious start at writing was in my first tumultuous year at University, and it was definitely not a great start.

The class was on the Middle Ages in Europe. The professor was about to retire (I think he lived through the Middle Ages in fact) and was going through the motions until he would escape down to Florida. If I had to choose a word to describe the lectures, it would be ‘wearisome’. I love History, but this professor was extinguishing that love the same way a spot of flatulence would derail a first date.

When I signed up for the course, I expected exciting lectures on the bubonic plague, battles, knights, the inquisition and great architecture. Instead we learned about other things – things that were boring, things that would not stick in my mind, and things that caused me to be attacked by sleepiness during every lecture.

A large part of the course mark was based on the end of term paper. This was a large research paper on a book that the professor had chosen. I’m sure that you can guess what kind of a book this professor chose. It was not the type of book that kept you up till three in the morning because you just could not put it down. It was the opposite. Just looking at the front cover drove me into hibernation. If I ever become an insomniac, this book will be put on my night table.

The book was about a fine fellow named Bishop Rimbert and about how he wrote an even more exciting book on Anscar. What? Never hear of him? What a surprise! I tried reading the book, but it was tough. It was like walking through deep, thick mud where the earth is trying to suck you down, step by step. Panic began to swell as the realization dawned on me that I would have to write something about this book – preferably something intelligent.

I started writing. Every word was a struggle. I felt like I was chipping each word off of a giant rock with a dull pickax. How was I supposed to write 2000 words on Bishop Rimbert? As the hours passed, the word count slowly rose – it was like a never ending PBS telethon (We need just 20 more callers!) For those who have done a lot of writing, you know that writing can be an extreme struggle at times – especially when you are dealing with subject matter which makes counting fluffies in the carpet more exciting.

Writing in many ways is like child birth (members of the opposite sex don’t seem to appreciate or understand this analogy for some odd reason – especially considering they are the ones that go through it!). The writer labours to get the paper from his brain to the computer screen. It is an intense struggle – there are tears and extreme pain (albeit mental). Then – the moment of joy – the paper is delivered out of the printer! The proud student carefully and proudly picks up the paper and cradles her in his arms.

The paper was finally done (delivered). There was just one final thing that had to be done. I needed a title for the cover page. This often overlooked element of the paper is critical. The title gives the reader the first impression of what the paper will be like. Because my paper needed a little help, I knew this paper would need a real zinger for a title. I needed something that was equal parts salacious, tantalising, mysterious, insightful, profound, and original.

I came up with the stunning title “Bishop Rimbert”.

I handed my baby, I mean the paper, to the professor at the beginning of class the next week. He glanced at it and put it on the growing pile of papers. He didn’t seem exactly bowled over by my title.

Three weeks later, the professor announced that he and his teaching assistants (his personal minions) had marked all of the papers and that after class they would be handed out. I had trouble paying attention to the lecture because of the anticipation of getting my first paper back (and because counting the few remaining hairs on his head proved to be more exciting).

The lecture finally ended – much in the same way a tortoise finishes a race. He announced that the teaching assistants would be handing out the essays. He gave out the instructions: “People with the last names that start with A-H stand at the back entrance to receive your papers. Those with the last names I-R stand by the podium and S-Z to middle aisle.”

I went to the middle aisle and waited for the TA to start calling out names. The tall TA, who bore a striking resemblance to Ichabod Crane, began reading the names as eager hands reached for their papers. My hand began to twitch with excitement in anticipation of seeing my first paper graded. They would start piling on the scholarships after reading this paper. The names began “Esther Sallsworth, Jonathan Seer, Veerpal Singh.” Then something strange happened. He called out “Bishop Rimbert.”

Silence.

He repeated himself louder.

“Bishop Rimbert!”

Awkward Silence.

The beleaguered TA cleared his throat in frustration – obviously annoyed at these first year students.

“I guess Bishop Rimbert is not here!” We, the pesky first year students who surrounded him, looked at each other with confusion. We were all thinking the same thing: “Was this guy serious?” We had all written a paper on Bishop Rimbert, and he had probably just spent the last three weekends marking them.

It was when he was putting Bishop Rimbert’s paper to the side when a thought came to me. Wasn’t ‘Bishop Rimbert’ my brilliant title? Maybe he had read that off instead of my name which was located in the corner.

I cleared my throat. I was very timid in those days, but I managed to get his attention.

“Is there a name in the bottom corner of that paper?” I said meekly.

The TA looked at the paper. A strange look came over his face. We all watched in silence as his face went from light pink to a dark crimson. It was like watching a Tahitian sunset.

We then heard him start to mutter to himself. “Stupid! So stupid! Of course his name is not Bishop Rimbert! Stupid!”

“Greg Slingerland” he finally sputtered. I stepped forward uneasily – my face was almost as purple as his. I was embarrassed for him, and embarrassed at how bad my title was. I knew then, that there was little hope for my paper.

I snatched the paper from his hands and bolted for the door. As I walked through the door, I could still hear him muttering “Stupid!”

The paper was a disaster, but it was a good learning experience. I learned that I should do exactly the opposite with everything for my next paper.

I still have my ‘Bishop Rimbert’ paper. In fact I’ve kept all of my University papers (aka babies). Every time I am in need of a good laugh/cry I turn back to my first year papers. My first essays were not great, but looking back, they were great starts and great tries. I am enjoying (and a little envious) seeing my students take that first leap into the wild world of writing.

The Gingerbread House

Sugar can be quite a dangerous substance to any school aged child. Parents don’t think of the poor beleaguered teacher when they pack their child’s lunch full of sugary snacks. As a teacher myself, I treat sugar with care, the same way the bomb squad treats a suspicious package. If ever there is a class party or anything that involves pop and candy, it is saved until the end of the day. This is a win/lose scenario. The teacher wins because the students leave after they have consumed the sugar, but the bus driver and parent lose as they have to deal with the sugar rush and impending sugar crash. I have experienced the power of sugar personally and have gained a healthy respect for its power. Here is my sugar saga...

My 10 year old brain could simply not comprehend what was sitting on the table in our house. It was a Gingerbread Mansion, and it was beautiful. This confectionary castle was from my uncle’s bakery and he had brought it for the family Christmas. The many roofs of this mansion were shingled with Skittles, M&M’s and Smarties. Jujubes of all colours formed the landscaping. Chocolate squares served as windows. Hershey Kisses served as chimney tops. Chocolate pretzels were turned into fencing. Peppermint paddies were the stepping stones leading up to the Kit-Kat front door. The best part of all though, the pièce de résistance if you will, was the large blobs of white icing that were used to hold everything together.

I don’t know how long I stood gazing upon this house – when a ten year old is in such close proximity to so much sugar, time become irrelevant. All that stood between me and this edible edifice was a thin layer of clear plastic wrapping. It was time for dinner, and I was bodily dragged away from the gingerbread house and from the large pool of drool that had somehow collected at my feet.

My heart was just not into the dinner though. The turkey seemed bland and tasteless (maybe if it had been stuffed with marshmallows it would of have been tastier). I picked my way through the meal and thought of the gingerbread house sitting upstairs all by itself. I used this time to think of what part of the gingerbread house I would eat first. Should I start slow or dive right in? Should I start with the roof, or with the fence? Should I bother with the candies or go right for the frosting? At what point should I start devouring the walls?

Finally dinner was coming to an end. The adults were all leaning back in their chairs, patting their bellies, and some were even loosening their belts. I knew they were done for the night – they would not be taking part in the gingerbread massacre. I looked around the table and spotted some plates that had barely been touched –these belonged to my adversaries. They had wisely chosen to skip the ‘filler’ and wait for the real feast. Coincidentally, they were all around my age. Their eyes darted around the table as well – they were sizing up the competition.

After dinner was over, we all settled in the family room in the basement. The presents were brought down, some hors de oeuvres (not going to fall for that trick) and finally the gingerbread house. It was even more beautiful than I remembered.

While the adults helped themselves to some pathetic little puff pastries, the kids positioned themselves around the gingerbread house. The hunt was afoot.

One of the adults finally had a good idea. “Well, why don’t we let the kids pick at the gingerbread house?” One of the other adults responded “Oh yeah – I almost forgot about the gingerbread house!”

Forgot?! How could you forget about this Taj Mahal of sugary greatness?
One of the adults carefully made their way into the ‘ring of fire’ of candy crazed cousins in order to take the cellophane wrapping off the gingerbread house. It was like watching the launching of the Titanic.

After what seemed like an eternity, the wrapping was clear. This was our signal to attack. I’m not sure if the adult got out of the way in time or not, but the cousins pounced on the house. I decided that using my hands would only slow me down, so I decided to just gnaw on the chimney. After some initial hissing and scratching the cousins all found a piece or corner to devour. This gigantic house was being mown down the same way a cloud of locusts devours a crop, or a flock of buzzards to a carcass.

The feeding frenzy eventually eased up as stomachs were filled to capacity with jujubes, icing and great chunks of gingerbread. I tore off a wall and retreated to a corner of the room to rest and nibble.

The Christmas party was ramped up further by sugar-filled cousins who proceeded to imitate ping pong balls in a cyclone. As time passed by though, the sugar comas’ hit and many of the gingerbread gorgers fell into very deep sleeps. I too could feel the effects from eating an entire Victorian chimney, front porch, and half a roof. I had conditioned myself however and was able to withstand the power of the sugar crash.

It was late and the adults decided to call it a night. They picked up their comatose children who littered the floor and headed out into the wintery night. Before going upstairs to bed, I gave the gingerbread house one last look. The gingerbread house was now just a heap of broken walls, but stilled managed to make my head swim. I headed upstairs and somehow found my bed. Sleep came quickly as did an amazing dream about living in an actual gingerbread house.

I’m not sure what time it was exactly but it was early when I woke up. The gingerbread house was calling me. Like some kind of zombie, I stumbled down to the gingerbread wreckage from the night before. I sat down beside the rubble and began eating. After I had eaten a couple of walls and another chimney I had to stop. My mind was urging me on, but my stomach had other ideas. I began to feel a strange gurgling feeling deep within as if a geyser was about to blow.

I’ll spare you the details, but needless to say, I spent the rest of the day recuperating from my gingerbread house overdose. A year later, my Uncle brought another beautiful Victorian gingerbread mansion to our house. Instead of sending me into a state of ecstasy, shivers ran up and down my spine. That ol’ familiar gurgling erupted again and I decided to retreat to the dinner table. Better stick with the turkey this year...

Hitting the Slopes

December is here, which means that the cold hand of winter is upon us. Winter is not all bad though, in fact, I have many fond memories of this frigid time of year. I recently shared this family memory with the class...

We were at a ski resort in Collingwood some years back with the family. I had spent the afternoon with a book in front of a nice comfy and cozy fireplace. I drank voluminous amounts of hot chocolate. Dad, Scott and Derek had spent the afternoon at the ski slope. For me the decision to go skiing or stay back in the condo was a no-brainer.

By the end of the afternoon, we headed out to the ski slope to pick up Dad, Derek and Scott. I had never been skiing before and knew that it would not be my thing. I had an intense fear of heights, and just the sight of the ski lift gave me the heebie-jeebies.

We met the guys at the bottom of the hill. They were pretty tuckered out from a day of skiing and were ready to go back to the nice cozy condo. Scott was not ready to go just yet. “Let me go just one more time!” he said. “Wait here and watch!” he exclaimed as he skied away towards the lift.

Scott finally reached the top of the hill. Scott waved from the top and made sure we were all watching – he wanted to impress us with this run. Little did he know, but I was already impressed with the fact that he went on the ski lift. In my mind that was quite an accomplishment.

There were a handful of other skiers that were gracefully swerving back and forth down the hill. It all seemed very peaceful and cozy – the snow covered pines, the swishing of the skis, and the wildlife that watched from the sides of the hill (the wildlife part may not be true).

The beauty of the moment was shattered by a demented scream from the top of the hill. I looked around expecting to see Howard Dean, but realized that it was Scott who let out that battle cry. He launched himself down the hill with all of his strength. The deer and arctic hares fled for the safety of the woods. Mothers covered the eyes and ears of their young ones.

Scott was in perfect form for the first twenty feet. His head was down, his feet were a shoulder length apart, and his body was in the tuck style position. After about thirty feet, Scott was like a speeding bullet.

He then hit a gentle rise which caused us all to hold our breath and grit our teeth. Scott was having trouble staying in his crouched down position. He was fighting gravity and inertia and was losing!

He was going so fast by this point that his cheeks were flapping in the wind and a vapour trail appeared in his path. I waited for the sonic boom.

Scott was nearing the bottom and was losing more than his fight against gravity. His ski poles, gloves and hat were deep-sixed as his body became more and more erratic.

Scott knew that he would not be able to come to a nice graceful swooshing stop like the other skiers. He decided he would have to use his head. Literally. Specifically his face. White powder flew everywhere as his body slid towards us. When the ‘smoke’ settled, we found Scott in a heap. Remarkably he did not have any broken bones. He picked himself up (and everything that got sucked off in his final descent) and beamed at us. “Awesome, eh! Greg – you’ve got to try skiing some time! I’ll even teach you!” he said. I looked at the trail he had blazed straight down the hill and looked down to his smouldering skis. “I think I’ll take my chances by the fireplace.” I said.