Mind Picking : Farewell 2015

New Year's Eve and I need to go in to work later, so that's a big change I wouldn't have anticipated at the beginning of the year; a change that's been a long time coming. A young coworker asked me, not long after I'd started at Chapters, why I'd decided to work again after so long out of the workplace, and specifically, why Chapters. I started some rote reply about being a book person and a people person, and then added what is likely the truthiest answer to the question: my dog died in the summer, and with one daughter nearly done University and the other in her last year of high school, I needed to get away from the loneliness of a home that's only going to get quieter over the next couple of years. That, more than anything, is the change this year has brought.

I really like the infographic that Goodreads made for "My Year in Books" this year and it tells the story of how much time I've had to fill:

So here are my top reads of the year:

Top Five Books Released in 2015

 Martin John

When a couple of customers at Chapters asked me what my favourite book of the year was, I replied Martin John hands down, but I also needed to caution that it's for a particular reader: one who could revel in the language and the imagination of its author without being turned off by the main character; a sex offender with OCD. This book is a marvel and I'd have given it the Giller Prize.

  Birdie

There's something really important in this book -- some clue about the missing and murdered Native women of Canada -- and I found the message to be as vital as the writing.

 Close to Hugh

This book was all about the writing and it ticked all of my boxes.

 A Brief History of Seven Killings

I was totally satisfied when this book won the Man Booker Prize: the variety of voices and the scope of the story (why has no one ever heard about the assassination attempt against Bob Marley?) blew me away.

 Daddy Lenin and Other Stories

I love Guy Vanderhaeghe's voice and this collection of short stories is likely as close as I'll ever get to knowing what it is to be a modern man. Happy to have seen it win the GG!

Top Ten Other Reads

 The Dorito Effect  andIs Gwyneth Paltrow Wrong About Everything?

These are two sciencey nonfictions that I really enjoyed reading, and especially in a year where I read so many baloney sciencey things on the internet. And, yes, they could have been included in the above category of top reads from 2015 releases, but I chose to keep them separate...for some reason that makes sense in my brain.

 Up Ghost River

Another important nonfiction book that I think every Canadian ought to read, in combination with:

 Monkey Beach

In addition to being a very interesting read in its own right, the combination of Monkey Beach, Up Ghost River, and Birdie truly seemed to show the way forward for the Native communities of Canada; a path that must put them at the center of their own healing.

 Martin Sloane

I loved this book: everything about the writing is the point of writing.

 Tracks

A fresh slant on history told in poetic language: this is totally my taste.

 A Constellation of Vital Phenomena

This book broke my heart: for the experience of those who suffered through the Chechen War and for the fact that I was ignorant of those experiences.

 Olive Kitteridge

This book also broke my heart: there is just so much truth and power at the core of these stories.

 Blackstrap Hawco

It seems I can't have a top reads list without at least one Newfie tale, and this one is a total epic.

 Undermajordomo Minor

I just love Patrick deWitt, and his quirky sense of humour had me smiling all the way through this book.

A look back at 2015:

One of the first things I did this year was to bring the kids to Medieval Times. It was a lot of fun for everyone, and for the first time in his life, Conor decided to try roast chicken...and he loved it:

Although a pic of Conor, I think I really captured Zach here...

And Ella was obviously crushing on our assigned knight -- all chestnut locks flowing out behind his noble head as he'd ride by to our frantic cheering -- and when he was throwing carnations to the crowd, Ella looked about to burst with desire for his attention. As I turned to say something to Ella beside me, a flower did, indeed, bounce off the side of my head and into her lap. Full points, oh knight, for making me look silly and pleasing a little girl!

As I noted at the time, we then went on a lovely trip to the Dominican Republic:

And in February, Dave and I attended the Gift Gala again, this time staying right downtown in a funky hotel:

And getting up-close and personal with Kelly Clarkson:

This birthday cake that Kennedy made for Aunt Rudy was a definite highlight:

As was getting to see Mallory on stage again (she was really the best part of the whole play):

We went to Niagara Falls (for no real reason) and the Maple Syrup Festival:

I took Ella (and Kennedy and Zach) to Stratford to see The Sound of Music in the spring --

And just us Thompsons went to see Hamlet in the fall (it was just all right...) For Mother's Day, Dave took me to Casino Rama to see Rob Thomas. It was so cool to see him in such a small venue, but it was also bizarre because I still think of him as a major star.

We went to a Blue Jays game (long before we'd know it would become a winning year):

We drove to a 70s-themed birthday party with us all (including Granny and Grandpa) squeezed into the Dart with Dave at the wheel, dressed as Elvis, to the smiles. honks, and raised cell phone cameras of passing drivers:

And my biggest little girl turned 20, causing me to spend way too long making a little card to post on her facebook wall:

Of course, this was the year we lost our doggy:

 I said enough at the time about our trip down east to see my parents and our renting of the cottage that's now on the site of Dave's family's former cottage. And Mallory passed her driver's exam.

 

Dave turned 50 a couple of weeks ago and we threw a party for him at The Gator's Tail, where we and 40 or 50 of his closest friends and family enjoyed endless food and drinks and karaoke:

It's not Christmas until Daddy reads The Night Before Christmas:

Or until he models his favourite gifts:

And speaking of modelling, we found Mallory's prom dress yesterday!

So, overall, that's a year with more changes than usual. Losing Libby was devastating to all of us, but it doesn't make me want another dog right now. Working at Chapters has been a gratifying experience -- even if the insane hours over the holidays meant I didn't read anything for weeks -- and if they asked me to stay on permanently, I'd be delighted (and most especially because the hours would be much more casual than I've seen so far). It's a happy life and I'm grateful for it.

Broken Ground

“Who told men that women want them to be heroes?” Maude said. “Not their mothers.”

Broken Ground was recommended to me as an underrated classic of Canadian literature, and I have to admit that it meets that unhappy description. When you look at the book's cover and see that it has pictures of both WWI soldiers going “over the top” from the trenches and a farmer following a team of horses with a primitive plow, you might be tempted to say, “Oh, broken ground, that's kind of a heavy-handed metaphor, eh?”, but here's the thing: this dramatic irony is exactly what happened. The same young men who dug the trenches in Normandy and survived their forays into no man's land came back to the “reward” of free land that only needed to be cleared and settled; often the most stump- and rocked-filled, unprofitable and far-flung wastelands that the government was hoping to establish outposts in by the sweat of the veterans' brows. For King and Country and all that jazz. (My husband's great uncle Ivan lost an arm at Vimy Ridge but was granted a hundred acres of land in Saskatchewan upon his return that proved too poor to farm but adequate for cattle ranching – and the exhumation of long-buried dinosaur bones.)

In the book, we are introduced to the residents of Portuguese Creek: a small settlement on Vancouver Island ringed by giant cedars which provided ready cash employment with the lumber company and impossible-to-remove stumps in the new farmers' fields. The men, for the most part, are veterans of the Great War who choose never to speak about their experiences over there, and their wives are stiff-upper-lippers whose own mothers knew the niceties of metropolitan living and modern conveniences. When a stranger rides into town with scorched clothes and a muddy mare, events are set into motion that will change the community forever.

Broken Ground is told from many shifting points-of-view, and there was often not enough difference in the voices for me to keep the characters separate in my mind. There were also some needless time shifts that didn't really serve the story, but overall, I admire what author Jack Hodgins achieved here. The first section outlines the early daily life in Portuguese Creek. The second section is the war time experiences of one of the main characters. The third returns to Portuguese Creek to resume the action, and also includes flash-forwards to today when the last surviving settlers gather to watch a movie that has been made of their early days. I didn't really believe in Taylor's abiding devotion (or Nora's rejection of him), or see the necessity of Elizabeth's origin story, or understand Tanner's delinquency...but on the other hand, I was mesmerised by Corbett's court martial (and Matt's shifting memory of his role in it), I was charmed by the middle-of-the-night theft of the church, and the scenes of the forest fire (and especially the search for Elizabeth) had me on the edge of my seat – 

Burning limbs were rolling across the fields now, bouncing and leaping and turning and dropping all around us. Sparks were landing. Small flames ignited on the chicken coop. An apple tree hissed and exploded into furry grey smoke. The wind was so loud you couldn't tell if you were hearing it or not. It was nearly as dark as night. Every fence post was on fire, like candles marking out the borders of the fields. The cows were bawling, running back and forth not knowing where to go, tails high with runny manure flying behind them, trampling Mother's garden into a chopped-up terrible mess.

But most especially, I was intrigued by the overall themes of memory and storytelling and how we agree collectively on history. When returning soldiers refuse to share their experiences, can future generations be blamed when they get their history from Hollywood movies (made, by the way, by Americans who entered WWI four years and thousands of deaths after we Canadians did)? When the movie premieres that was made about the early days of Portuguese Creek, Charlie marvels at how it centers on a person that he had thought peripheral to the community – and recognises that we all think of ourselves as the main characters in our own lives; as central figures in history itself.

I wondered what effect this movie would have upon future accounts of the War's survivors and the Fire of '22. Was this the “true” story we were witnessing in this world of popcorn and rustling candy wrappers? Would it become the true story, erasing from our memories the versions we'd heard a thousand times from those who'd been there and from those whose parents had been there? Had we been honoured and celebrated and immortalized by celluloid, or had something been stolen from us that we would never get back?

Overall, Broken Ground might suffer from some unsuccessful literary tricks, but the story is intriguing and important and the bones of it ought to be a part of every Canadian's education.

Tunesday : Grade Nine

Grade Nine

(Page, Steven / Robertson, Ed / Creeggan, Jim / Creeggan, Andy / Stewart, Tyler)

Performed by Barenaked Ladies

I found my locker and I found my classes
Lost my lunch and I broke my glasses,
That guy is huge! That girl is wailin'!
First day of school and I'm already failing.

[Chorus]

This is me in grade nine, baby, this is me in grade nine
This is me in grade nine, baby, this is me in grade nine

I've got a blue-and-red Adidas bag and a humongous binder,
I'm trying my best not to look like a minor niner.
I went out for the football team to prove that I'm a man;
I guess I shouldn't tell them that I like Duran Duran.

[Chorus]

Well, half my friends are crazy and the others are depressed
And none of them can help me study for my math test.
I got into the classroom and my knowledge was gone;
I guess I should've studied instead of watching Wrath Of Khan.

[Chorus]

They called me chicken legs, they called me four-eyes
They called me fatso, they called me buckwheat,
They called me Eddie

[Chorus]

I've got a red leather tie and pair of rugger pants,
I put them on and I went to the high school dance.
Dad said I had to be home by eleven,
Aw, man, I'm gonna miss Stairway to Heaven.

[Chorus]

I do realise that I have totally stalled at grade nine in these Tunesday reminiscences, so here's a final assortment of the tidbits I can remember. But as an aside to begin with, I'm stepping away from Beatles songs because: 1) I believe I've made the point that they were all we listened to at the time, and 2) This song is just too perfect. I remember when Dave and I first heard it we freaked out because it was exactly us at the same age, and just like I loved Bowling for Soup's 1985 because it just happened to memorialise my graduation year, Barenaked Ladies include here plenty of pop culture touchstones from my first year of high school (and yes, every dance, ever, ended with Stairway to Heaven).

I've said before that my older brother was a total juvenile delinquent, and after he flunked everything at the local high school during his first time through grade nine, it was decided that he and I would take the bus to the Catholic High School together (giving him a fresh start and keeping me away from the bad influences at the local school -- as if bad influences stopped at our town's borders). Going to Catholic school meant wearing uniforms, and I remember that when we drove into Toronto to get ours before the school year started, my Mum was shocked at the prices. Already annoyed that we had to drive so far to buy the clothes, Mum was in no mood to have input from us about what she should buy; not that there were many options. It was explained that it was mandatory to wear either the short-sleeved or long-sleeved white dress shirt (of which I was bought one of each) under either the maroon vest or cardigan every day (of which I was bought one of each; and I mean even in the hottest months, we were forced to wear knit sweaters at all times at school), and while Ken had only the grey trousers option, I got one pair of pants and one kilt. As a girl, I needed to wear uniform knee socks with my kilt, and we also needed gym uniforms. This all totalled way more than my Mum had ever spent on back-to-school shopping before, so there was no point complaining about having to rewear the same clothes over and over throughout the week (remember -- I was bought a total of two shirts and two sweaters and they wouldn't be washed for me until the weekend. And not that it really got dirty, but I don't think my kilt was ever washed.)

My Mum had started working outside the house (as the recreation director at the old folks home next door to us) the summer before grade nine, so she would be gone as we were getting ready for school, and making our way to the bus stop was our own responsibility. I don't know why the stop was so far from our house when the country kids we picked up along the way were all able to wait at the end of their own driveways, but we were the first stop on the driver's route and it was a 3 or 4 block walk for us. None of the other kids from our neighbourhood went to the Catholic school, so it was just me and Ken there at the bus stop, and since we were the first stop, we'd be on the bus the longest -- in the winter, it would be dark when we were picked up and dark again when we were dropped off, and it made for a long and exhausting school day. Everyone loved our bus driver, Ron -- who was a long-haired hippie-dude; think Otto from the Simpsons with a bushy beard and Lennon glasses -- and even though it was against the rules, he let kids smoke at the back of the bus so long as no one else complained (and even though it wasn't pleasant for us non-smokers to sit in a smoke-filled bus, those were tough guys back there, including Ken, and who was going to complain?) The good part of the ride was that Cora was on my route, and having this time with my best friend every day wasn't a bad thing. Only once did we miss the bus, and for whatever reason, Ken decided that it would be smart to hitch-hike us to Newmarket. It was a Dad-type who picked us up and ended up driving us right to the school doors, and he explained that he only stopped for us because he thought I looked really vulnerable in my kilt and kneesocks and he begged Ken to never put me in that position again. That was, unsurprisingly, my only hitch-hiking experience.

The school itself, Sacred Heart, was essentially a giant portable, but it looked like a normal school with hallways and lockers and classrooms. The permanent school was being built all during this year, but we would be gone to Alberta before its grand opening the next fall. I remember the fact that it was a temporary building more than the details of what it looked like; like I know there was a proper gymnasium because I remember having phys-ed in one, but can't recall if that was a finished part of the new building that we had access to, or whether the gym was also part of the portable structure. I do remember that this was the first year that we had to change into uniforms at gym time, and there was a special humiliation to changing in front of a group of girls (and especially because I only owned two dingy-looking bras and faded, saggy underwear that I hoped no one was noticing; I know I wasn't noticing what anyone else had on as I concentrated on changing as quickly and discreetly as possible). I remember that at one point, the gym teacher said that we would be doing a swimming unit and that we needed a signed permission form in order to participate. She told us that attendance was mandatory and that there would be no excuses for not getting the slips signed: there would be lessons provided at all skill levels and she specifically said that having your period was no excuse for not attending; that could be "dealt with". I had many reasons for not wanting to participate: I couldn't swim well; I had a deep dread of actually getting naked in front of the other girls; and most practically, I didn't even own a bathing suit. As I wrote before, I suffered many humiliations from not having the proper athletic equipment, and as I also said then, I couldn't bear the stress of asking my mother to buy me what I needed; it was better to just sit out. So when I showed the permission slip to my Mum and told her I'd rather not participate, she winked at me and said "us girls" understand why I can't go swimming "at that time of the month", and that misunderstanding was fine with me -- I handed in the notice of non-participation to my annoyed gym teacher and was the only girl to sit out the unit which I was told was "a total blast". No regrets.

While on the topic of forms, I'll add here that there was a requirement for high school students to do 40 hours of community volunteering, and everyone was supposed to have 10 hours/year logged on a special form. (When my girls went through high school, it was still 40 hours total but they didn't require the yearly log; you could do it all in one year if you liked; you could do it all in your final year.) As the end of grade nine approached and I hadn't done any volunteering, I showed the log to my Mum and asked if maybe I could come do some work with her at the old folks home like I had the summer before. I don't know if she misunderstood me or if she had been waiting for an opportunity to stick it to the man (for the overpriced uniforms?), but she said that since I had done that volunteering on my own time already, she would treat it as though it had happened during the school year, and she filled out the form with dozens of phony volunteer hours. My Mum isn't anti-community involvement, so that  probably was a misunderstanding, but since I found the old folks home hot and smelly and uncomfortable, I had no regrets there either.

I had more grade nine tidbits left over than I realised, so this is going to be a two-parter and I'll leave the rest for next week. Thinking ahead to the rest of high school, no other year has so many stories, so that just reinforces why I have always suffered from magical thinking: Naturally, the first year of high school is going to be seminal for everyone, but to have Barenaked Ladies sing about that year and set it in the exact same time period that I lived it (and then to have Bowling for Soup specifically make my grad year an important one) has always made me feel special. And I've always taken that where I can get it.

This is me in grade nine, baby, this is me in grade nine!

The Grownup

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Tunesday : Happy Christmas (War is Over)

Happy Christmas (War is Over)

(Lennon/Ono) Performed by John Lennon and Yoko Ono

So, this is Christmas

And what have you done?

Another year over

And a new one just begun

And so this is Christmas

I hope you have fun

The near and the dear one

The old and the young

A very merry Christmas

And a happy New Year

Lets hope it's a good one

Without any fear

And so this is Christmas

For weak and for strong

For rich and the poor ones

The road is so long

And so happy Christmas

For black and for white

For yellow and red ones

Let's stop all the fight

A very merry Christmas

And a happy New Year

Let's hope it's a good one

Without any fear

And so this is Christmas

And what have we done

Another year over

And a new one just begun

And so happy Christmas

We hope you have fun

The near and the dear one

The old and the young

A very merry Christmas

And a happy New Year

Let's hope it's a good one

Without any fear

War is over

If you want it

War is over

Now

Well, I know I've already told this story somewhere, but since these Tunesdays have been appearing in pretty much chronological order, and since I am stalled in my grade nine year in the timeline, here once again is a story of Christmas 1981.

Earlier that fall, my Mum had taken me for a car ride -- there might even have been ice cream involved -- to break it to me that our family would be moving to Alberta the following summer. This was a big promotion for my Dad (who would no longer need to make the long and stress-filled commute into Toronto every day), it would give my juvenile delinquent older brother a fresh start, and of the most surprise to me, eventually making it out to Alberta had been my parents' big ambition all along (like so many of their Maritimer friends in the '70s and '80s). Dad had wanted the move so badly that when Canada Packers continued to block his requests for a transfer, Dad actually ended up quitting the company and taking an offer from Burns Meats in Red Deer. In the end, Canada Packers gave Dad everything he wanted in order to keep him -- and that meant a move to Lethbridge to become General Manager of the beef plants there.

I know I lost it when Mum told me all this -- it felt so unfair; like a punishment; like I was paying for the sins of my brother; the ambitions of my father. I had never lost the feeling of being an outsider after landing in Stouffville in the middle of grade three, and now that I was in high school, I couldn't imagine starting over again. I had remembered a girl whose parents moved right before her grade twelve year and that girl was allowed to live with her friend's family in order to graduate with her lifelong classmates, so I proposed that to my Mum: go without me, I'll join you after high school. Naturally, she was aghast, offended, and lost whatever sympathy she had had for me. I know I cried and cried, and when I told my best friend Cora about it, we cried together, too.

As Christmas approached, I was at Cora's one day and her Dad motioned for me to follow him. He handed me an armful of electric candles, and as we went from room to room placing them in the windows, he explained to me the Irish tradition of keeping candles burning in the windows in order to alert travellers to the offer of a warm place to sleep. He related that tradition to the Christmas story of Mary and Joseph, and when we placed and turned on the last candle, Cora's Dad said, "I consider you a member of this family, and as such, from now on it will be your job to place and light these candles every year." I was taken aback and blurted out, "But didn't Cora tell you? We're moving to Alberta next year. This will be my last Christmas here." Cora's Dad's eyes filled with tears and he said, "Cora didn't tell me that, but know this: Every year I will light a special candle just for you so that you will know that you always have a warm place to sleep in this house." And we cried together, too.

I think of that every time I see electric candles and they always bring a tear to my eye.

*****

I remember another story from this same Christmas, so I'm going to add it, too.

When we lived in Stouffville, my Mum's older sister, Judi, and her family lived four hours away in Ottawa. We got together every now and then but it was always a bit of an ordeal: they had money, we didn't, and apparently that mattered a lot to everyone. Aunt Judi's house was big, filled with antiques, and had rooms that kids weren't allowed to enter. They were also cheap in strange ways -- buying their clothes from the Goodwill and drinking powdered milk -- but my Uncle Dennis drove an Austin Healey in the summer, a Mercedes in the winter, and hosted boozy parties around the swimming pool. Their kids were the mirror of us -- boy, girl, boy, born in the same order within a year or so of us -- but they were also spoiled in the sense that they knew their parents had money that didn't trickle down to them. Lolo's Mum was a nurse with my Aunt Judi and she was always put off by the fact that my aunt volunteered every year to work over Christmas for the overtime, despite having small children: money seemed to matter more to them than family; it was always about appearances and Dennis loved to tease my Dad about his old car and my Mum about her second-hand furniture. Get the picture?

We went to Ottawa for Christmas when I was twelve (this was the year that my cousin Shelly told our Uncle Mike that I thought he was hot and wanted to make out with him, which was such a shocking lie that I couldn't even dignify it with a protest in case I sounded like I was "protesting too much"; a story told in more detail elsewhere) and that Christmas morning was a revelation to me. My cousins were grasping and whiney, and although everything they got was worth way more than anything we got, each of them were jealous and complained that we got the better gifts. Trevor got a huge pile (I remember a wood-burning craft kit, a KISS 8-track, an electronic tabletop bowling game) but he lost it when he saw that Ken got one of those new handheld football games --

The youngest, Wade, also had a large pile (of which I don't remember the specifics), but he so wanted my only large gift -- a giant stuffed Curious George -- that he immediately grabbed it away from me, which my Aunt Judi cautioned me to "understand". I had to let Wade (probably 9?) drag my main present around for the next couple of days and watch his tantrum as it was finally taken from him before we left for home. Fun kid.

All of this is basically background for the Christmas of 1981, when my Aunt Judi and her family came to our house for our last Stouffville Christmas. On Christmas morning, my brothers and I watched as our cousins got their usual large piles of gifts, and in the chaos of voices and flying wrapping paper and squeals and groans, I was stung to discover that I didn't get very much at all. Remember: I was severely depressed about the upcoming move, my friend's father had shown me more warmth and understanding than my own parents over the upheaval, I'm watching my cousins compare and complain about their stacks of gifts, and I don't feel very loved at all. I also remembered how awful it had been to witness my cousins' tantrums the last time we were together at Christmas, and not wanting to embarrass my mother, I stuffed down my disappointment and smiled at everyone who looked at me.

Eventually my Mum came over and asked if I had had a good Christmas and I lied and said yes and thanks for everything and she looked around me, frowned, and asked what I had gotten. I showed her the things from extended family and then what she and Dad had given me (I don't even remember what, but like a shirt and a pack of markers or something) and she started pawing through the paper and bows and, reaching under a couch, pulled out my actual gifts -- a deluxe Scrabble game and a Snoopy wristwatch. They were exactly the perfect presents, I'm sure I started crying (because typing this out is making me cry now), and my mother started defensively laughing at the idea that I could have thought I had been basically neglected at Christmastime. And, of course, the cousins complained that my stuff was better than theirs.

*****

In the end, I'm glad I remembered to add the second story: My parents were married so young and had so little money in those early years that I can't really blame them for having the ambition to reach for more. It can't have been easy for them to spend time with people like Judi and Dennis, and while leaving Stouffville was very very hard for me, it was good for them and they had a duty to follow their own happiness.

I got a Christmas card from my Aunt Judi this year -- I send cards out every year to all the old aunties but rarely get any back -- and as I was opening it, I said to Kennedy that notes from Judi could be a little sad at Christmas. I'm afraid to say that Kennedy was so appalled by the following that she giggled and "Oh-my-God"ed throughout as I read it to her:

I don't know whether you knew, but we will probably not be going South this Winter. Health issues (not terminal) make it difficult to get health insurance. If the weather becomes too crazy and health allows, we may have to try to get to Myrtle Beach for March. Who knows. 

On our children front, Shelly's condition never improves much but she is coping. Kendra is in second year University in Environmental Studies and Dawson is surviving (ADHD and Other Issues). He is in Grade 9 (General). As you may know, Trevor is divorced from Mary Ellen and now has a new son Daniel with his Philippino girlfriend. Unfortunately, Trev has not been in contact with us for the most part in three years. It is very sad. Wade, Kim, and the 2 kids are doing great in Delta, BC.

Hope you guys have a great Holiday Season and you get to visit with Family.

                                                                                                       Love, Dennis and Judi

I share this to point out what everyone knows but few people really know: the pursuit of money doesn't lead to happiness -- even when you get it -- and money is never ever the point at Christmas. My cousins were ruined even as little kids, and other than Wade who is "doing great" (and who lives about as far away from his parents as possible within Canada; last I heard, Trevor lived in the Northwest Territories), they seem ruined still. I cannot imagine what impelled Judi to write such a woe-filled message, and have to wonder how many cards she sent out with this same news (what Kennedy mostly laughed over were the parenthetical asides -- pointing out their health issues are not terminal, that Dawson is in a (General) program, that Trevor's girlfriend is Philippino -- what's up with that?). My own mother has never bothered with sending out Christmas cards, but if she did, she would have much happy family news to share -- we all turned out okay, and we all have kids that we're proud of -- and even though my parents choose not to live near us, I have developed an understanding for their need to pursue their own happiness to where it has led them.

Happy Christmas.