Housebound and sick with the flu, I find myself sitting in front of the TV watching the most recent repatriation ceremony. I had previously seen short sound bites on the evening news but had never watched the entire ceremony. It’s not that I was indifferent to their sacrifice, but I struggled with a military force that had switched from historical peacekeeping to active fighting.
I’m a pacifist by nature. I’ve heard the Second World War stories my entire life. My parents, who endured life in occupied Italy, were quick to remind us children about making do without. I’ve heard the stories of the bombings, the near run ins with Nazi patrols, the partisan underground night time sabotage campaigns.
I’m thinking of all of this as the Canadian Forces plane gives up its heart breaking cargo of five coffins, each draped in a flag of the country these young people had given their lives for. It is unbearably cold at the airfield in Trenton, the snow is blowing and family members are huddled under tents.
You and I have debated the military mission many times. We don’t agree on the combat role. You were a full time soldier for two years before you entered the seminary. Even then you remained a reservist until they sent you to Rome to study Canon Law. You were a Captain in the Canadian Airborne Regiment of the Queen’s Own Rifles. Years after you left the military, the regiment was disbanded, after a difficult time in Somalia. In disgust, you packed your uniform and medals and mailed them to Ottawa. I listened to your account of the Somalia mission and I realized that the reporting we heard back home was not balanced.
Now as Parliament debates the torture issue, you’ve opened my eyes to the sad reality of war. Now as I watch the repatriation, in my fevered state, I am transported to that frigid tarmac and I am standing holding a blood red rose. The hearse stands before me and I am walking towards the coffin to place my flower. I turn to those beside me and I see your mother and your father. Your small boys take my hand and I realize it is your body in that coffin and I want to continue the debate.
Dulce et Decorum est Pro patria mori (..."It is sweet and honourable to die for one's country.")
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Christmas Eve
It’s the anticipation of the first snowfall that will blanket the city and dress it up for the holiday season.
It’s the anticipation of the gifts under the tree, each one full of possibilities until it’s opened.
It’s the anticipation of a phone call from the man who makes my heart sing. The man who can talk about hockey until the cows come home, but can’t bring himself to tell you what’s in his heart.
It’s the anticipation of the birthday that Christmas Day will bring. Another year, another shock of grey hair, another crop of wrinkles.
It’s the anticipation of the traditional food of Christmas; roasted chestnuts, panettone and torrone.
It’s the anticipation of a day of Peace for the world, a respite from the fighting and the dying, at least for this one day.
It’s the anticipation in the cold night, of a young mother-to-be huddled in a cave, waiting to give birth to the Saviour of the world.
It’s the anticipation of another Christmas Eve……
It’s the anticipation of the gifts under the tree, each one full of possibilities until it’s opened.
It’s the anticipation of a phone call from the man who makes my heart sing. The man who can talk about hockey until the cows come home, but can’t bring himself to tell you what’s in his heart.
It’s the anticipation of the birthday that Christmas Day will bring. Another year, another shock of grey hair, another crop of wrinkles.
It’s the anticipation of the traditional food of Christmas; roasted chestnuts, panettone and torrone.
It’s the anticipation of a day of Peace for the world, a respite from the fighting and the dying, at least for this one day.
It’s the anticipation in the cold night, of a young mother-to-be huddled in a cave, waiting to give birth to the Saviour of the world.
It’s the anticipation of another Christmas Eve……
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
The Christmas tree
My favourite trees are real ones, the ones that come with built in pine scent and sometimes an abandoned nest or two. As a child my dad would buy a small tree at the corner lot. We lived in two rooms of a house and the Christmas tree was placed on top of Mama’s sewing machine in our bedroom. The head of my bed was next to the sewing machine, which meant I literally slept below the boughs of the tree. In the evening I would sneak away to lie there looking up at the lit tree and dreaming of Christmas.
As a teenager we used to drive out to the country and cut down a tree. This was years before we settled for an artificial tree after picking pine needles out of the furniture for six months after Christmas. The cutting part took less than five minutes but the choosing of a perfectly symmetrical tree took hours. We’d walk deeper and deeper into the tree farm forgetting that the further we got from the car, the farther we’d have to drag that tree back. At the entrance to the tree farm, the owner would place our tree in the binding machine to close up the tree like an umbrella and off we’d go.
One Christmas stands out as the year the Christmas tree and I bonded. My Dad didn’t believe in the store bought metal tree stands, he used a combination of an old bucket, some carefully wedged brick pieces and sand. That year the Christmas tree was placed in the corner of the living room as usual. One night as I sat in the living room, my dad came in to put water in the bucket. He left the room to go to the kitchen and I sat watching the television. All of a sudden, out of the corner of my eye, I caught the movement of the tree as it began to fall over. In that split second, I had a vision of the glass ornaments my mother so gingerly brought from Italy in a steamer trunk, making contact with the hardwood floor and I leapt up and grabbed the tree in a hug. I started to scream and my family came from various parts of the house to stand and stare at the sight. Then they started laughing and I must admit I was probably quite a sight. That’s when Dad declared, “I must have forgotten to put the brick pieces in the bucket”. When they pried the tree from my arms I looked down and saw that some of the pine needles had become imbedded in my arms and I was now bleeding. That’s the closest a Christmas tree and I have ever been.
A few years ago, in mid December, I was watching the television and channel surfing as is my habit when I came across a news segment on a Christmas tree. This was no ordinary tree; it was tall and appeared to be indoors, carefully lit to showcase the most amazing decorations I had ever seen. The tree was decorated from top to bottom with porcelain angels and cherubs beautifully hand crafted in 18th century Naples and culminated with a stunning “presepio” at the base of the tree. Where was this tree? I strained to listen to the commentator and hoped he’d tell me where this tree was, but the segment ended without the information and the vision of that tree was soon relegated to memory.
The day after Christmas that year, I headed to New York City with Koji and Brian for my first visit to the Big Apple, the Mecca of theatre aficionados. With theatre tickets, city maps and subway card in hand we descended on Manhattan. Every Yellow cab and New York accent made us feel like we were in a movie. It seemed almost ordinary the night we passed Mira Sorvino and Quentin Tarantino out for a stroll in the upper West side.
The week flew by with theatre productions, gallery visits and trips to numerous museums. On our next to last day we hiked to the Upper East Side to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The museum is so large that we decided to split up and meet later at the gift shop. The galleries in the museum, especially the replica Frank Lloyd Wright designed cottage and the Tiffany glass, were absolutely breathtaking. I got to the gift store before the others and started to wander around the gifts and books. All of a sudden I came across a book that stopped me cold. A book titled “The Angel Tree” lay before me. When I turned over the book with trembling hands there was the tree. I quickly opened the book in hopes of discovering where the tree was. Imagine my shock when I read “The annual installation of the Christmas tree at The Metropolitan Museum of art, New York, is an event cherished by visitors and scholars alike” The tree was here! But where? I ran to the nearest store clerk and asked about the tree. She pulled out a museum floor plan guide and highlighted a gallery in a far corner of the museum. I paced the floor waiting for Koji and Brian to arrive and they found me breathless with excitement. We headed off in our quest to view the tree. Finally we found the gallery and in the centre of the room, the tree standing majestically, the beautiful pieces of art on it lit by spotlights.
A small group of people circled the tree gazing in wonder and I joined them. After a week of New York City cacophony this silent moment in the gallery with that tree, felt like a solemn benediction. This was my Christmas miracle. Not gifts, or carols or parades, but the baby child nestled in the pine branches of what had now become, my Christmas tree.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Earl Grey Tea
“Hi Nad, do you want to go out for a coffee?”
It had been a year since I’d heard from you or heard that phrase. In hindsight, it’s funny you always referred to going out for coffee, when we in fact would end up drinking tea.
Tea had been foreign to me until I met you. We were coffee drinking Italians. The only tea we knew was camomile tea, which was dispensed for medicinal purposes for everything from menstrual cramps to pneumonia.
You were Japanese and tea was a constant in your home. I can still remember your late mother gracefully preparing a pot of tea in your family home. You introduced me to tea and I soon discovered that I liked tea, if it was strong and sweet and laced with milk, the way I liked my coffee. I like the aroma of tea and perhaps the romance of tea, the way royalty was always depicted drinking tea. I tried to imagine the Queen with a mug of coffee and the picture just didn’t look right.
So now a year after our fight, we’re sitting at the Coffee Mill and I’m playing with an Earl Grey tea bag. Once I place this bag in the cup and pour the hot water we will have come full circle. My heart will be whole again and I will have my best friend back. There is so much I want to tell you, but it can wait. For now I want to savour this cup of tea, Earl Grey tea, strong and sweet and laced with milk.
It had been a year since I’d heard from you or heard that phrase. In hindsight, it’s funny you always referred to going out for coffee, when we in fact would end up drinking tea.
Tea had been foreign to me until I met you. We were coffee drinking Italians. The only tea we knew was camomile tea, which was dispensed for medicinal purposes for everything from menstrual cramps to pneumonia.
You were Japanese and tea was a constant in your home. I can still remember your late mother gracefully preparing a pot of tea in your family home. You introduced me to tea and I soon discovered that I liked tea, if it was strong and sweet and laced with milk, the way I liked my coffee. I like the aroma of tea and perhaps the romance of tea, the way royalty was always depicted drinking tea. I tried to imagine the Queen with a mug of coffee and the picture just didn’t look right.
So now a year after our fight, we’re sitting at the Coffee Mill and I’m playing with an Earl Grey tea bag. Once I place this bag in the cup and pour the hot water we will have come full circle. My heart will be whole again and I will have my best friend back. There is so much I want to tell you, but it can wait. For now I want to savour this cup of tea, Earl Grey tea, strong and sweet and laced with milk.
The Phone on the Wall
The phone hangs in the dining room on the wall, so there is no privacy. It’s the only phone we have in the house so there is no way to take it somewhere, so you can have a private conversation. If the phone rings during dinner, you have a built in audience to your every word.
It’s been a year since our fight and a day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about you. You, who had been my best friend. You, who have now missed a year of comings and goings in my life. If we even get back together, how will I remember all you have missed.
Let’s face it, it was a stupid fight. You knew I was afraid to drive on the highway, yet somehow you tricked me into it. Linda sat there in the car with us not knowing what to say to make it better. I just wanted you out of my car. I was so mad at you. Later that night as I lay in bed, I would relive the evening and think of how stupid we could sometimes be.
I was out the next day when you came by to drop off the envelope. When I opened the letter, the $10 you owed me fell out. The letter was short and to the point. You took responsibility for pushing all the wrong buttons the night before and apologized. But then you went too far. You said that maybe we needed a break from each other. The words started to run together and I realized I was crying. This was nuts, a break from each other? We were joined at the hip. Such close friends that we finished each others sentences. No one knew me like you did. Our friends never understood the bond, assuming we were secretly dating.
Once my girlfriends found out about the fight, the battle lines were drawn. It was them versus us, the boys versus the girls.
A year later, almost to the day, the wall phone rang after dinner. My sister Anna answered it and started excitedly talking to the caller. She described her high school classes and teachers and I got up to leave the room to offer her some privacy. I didn’t take two steps before she handed me the phone. “It’s for you, it’s Koji”, she said and I stopped in my tracks. I really didn’t have any time to think so I took the phone and quietly said, “hello?” “Hi Nad, do you want to go out for a coffee?” a phrase he’d repeated countless times during our friendship. “Yes”, I answered breathlessly, not quite believing it had come to an end. “I’ll pick you up in 15 minutes”, he said and hung up the phone. I stood there dumbfounded staring at the phone in my hand. Then I turned to my family and announced, “I’m going out for coffee with Koji”.
He was late, but then again, had I really expected anything different. He finally pulled up in front of the house, driving his father’s car. I’d missed the Rambler station wagon almost as much as I’d missed Koji. For that past year, I’d looked for it in all our favourite haunts and was always happy to see it. The plaid interior was classic and the fact that it had no radio meant there was never a distraction to our endless conversations.
I don’t remember much about the night except that we went to our favourite coffee shop “The Coffee Mill” in Yorkville. I remember that I talked incessantly about what had transpired that year, needing for him to be caught up on my life.
When he dropped me off at home that night, he kissed me and hugged me. He made me promise that we’d never fight again. Friends since we were 15 years old, we’ve never fought again.
It’s been a year since our fight and a day doesn’t go by that I don’t think about you. You, who had been my best friend. You, who have now missed a year of comings and goings in my life. If we even get back together, how will I remember all you have missed.
Let’s face it, it was a stupid fight. You knew I was afraid to drive on the highway, yet somehow you tricked me into it. Linda sat there in the car with us not knowing what to say to make it better. I just wanted you out of my car. I was so mad at you. Later that night as I lay in bed, I would relive the evening and think of how stupid we could sometimes be.
I was out the next day when you came by to drop off the envelope. When I opened the letter, the $10 you owed me fell out. The letter was short and to the point. You took responsibility for pushing all the wrong buttons the night before and apologized. But then you went too far. You said that maybe we needed a break from each other. The words started to run together and I realized I was crying. This was nuts, a break from each other? We were joined at the hip. Such close friends that we finished each others sentences. No one knew me like you did. Our friends never understood the bond, assuming we were secretly dating.
Once my girlfriends found out about the fight, the battle lines were drawn. It was them versus us, the boys versus the girls.
A year later, almost to the day, the wall phone rang after dinner. My sister Anna answered it and started excitedly talking to the caller. She described her high school classes and teachers and I got up to leave the room to offer her some privacy. I didn’t take two steps before she handed me the phone. “It’s for you, it’s Koji”, she said and I stopped in my tracks. I really didn’t have any time to think so I took the phone and quietly said, “hello?” “Hi Nad, do you want to go out for a coffee?” a phrase he’d repeated countless times during our friendship. “Yes”, I answered breathlessly, not quite believing it had come to an end. “I’ll pick you up in 15 minutes”, he said and hung up the phone. I stood there dumbfounded staring at the phone in my hand. Then I turned to my family and announced, “I’m going out for coffee with Koji”.
He was late, but then again, had I really expected anything different. He finally pulled up in front of the house, driving his father’s car. I’d missed the Rambler station wagon almost as much as I’d missed Koji. For that past year, I’d looked for it in all our favourite haunts and was always happy to see it. The plaid interior was classic and the fact that it had no radio meant there was never a distraction to our endless conversations.
I don’t remember much about the night except that we went to our favourite coffee shop “The Coffee Mill” in Yorkville. I remember that I talked incessantly about what had transpired that year, needing for him to be caught up on my life.
When he dropped me off at home that night, he kissed me and hugged me. He made me promise that we’d never fight again. Friends since we were 15 years old, we’ve never fought again.
The Genie in the Bottle
I don’t want to let the genie out of the bottle. God knows I’ve spent decades ensuring he didn’t get out.
But one night it happens. Somewhere between John’s awkward hello kiss, his gentle blue eyes and the Caesar salad, I pull the cork out. No, I don’t just pull it out; I fling that cork clear across the room, ensuring the bottle can’t be stopped up again.
The genie and I are old friends and he has waited patiently for so long to be let out. Now he’s going to savour this victory. He sees the look of sheer panic on my face and smiles a knowing smile. It’s getting really warm in the room, is it the Zinfandel, a hot flash or is it the genie?
Suddenly I’m back in the 9th grade, when a crush had me following a boy named Peter around like a puppy. Yet this is different, or maybe I’m different, it’s hard to tell which. Unlike then, I’m not feeling like I’m about to be sick to my stomach. This feels comfortable, warm and utterly terrifying.
Six hours fly by. I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath the whole time. Then as I drive home, alone with my thoughts, the genie sits triumphantly on the dashboard of my car with his Cheshire grin. As I close my eyes I hear him whisper, “Come on, you know the drill. Your wish is my command!”
But one night it happens. Somewhere between John’s awkward hello kiss, his gentle blue eyes and the Caesar salad, I pull the cork out. No, I don’t just pull it out; I fling that cork clear across the room, ensuring the bottle can’t be stopped up again.
The genie and I are old friends and he has waited patiently for so long to be let out. Now he’s going to savour this victory. He sees the look of sheer panic on my face and smiles a knowing smile. It’s getting really warm in the room, is it the Zinfandel, a hot flash or is it the genie?
Suddenly I’m back in the 9th grade, when a crush had me following a boy named Peter around like a puppy. Yet this is different, or maybe I’m different, it’s hard to tell which. Unlike then, I’m not feeling like I’m about to be sick to my stomach. This feels comfortable, warm and utterly terrifying.
Six hours fly by. I feel as if I’ve been holding my breath the whole time. Then as I drive home, alone with my thoughts, the genie sits triumphantly on the dashboard of my car with his Cheshire grin. As I close my eyes I hear him whisper, “Come on, you know the drill. Your wish is my command!”
Friday, November 20, 2009
Italian Halloween
When I was a little girl, Halloween was a special time. The opportunity to dress up and roam the neighbourhood to secure more candy than you ever saw at one time was irresistible.
But Halloween was also a strange time for me because I was the child of Italian immigrants and there’s no such thing as Halloween in Italy.
The first issue was the costume. Well what was the sense in spending money on something that couldn’t be worn in public except for that one night? My sensible mother solved the problem by deciding I would dress up as a housewife. Or at least a caricature of a housewife. She’d put a scarf on my head, an apron around my waist and to ensure that people understood I was dressed as an adult, she’d apply her lipstick to my childish lips. My mother wore Electric Red lipstick in those days and I can remember it would take days for the colour to wash off.
There is, of course, a candy protocol for Halloween. Children expect to receive candies, chocolate or perhaps exotic items like candy apples which children on TV always seemed to get. No one told the Italians in my neighbourhood about the candy protocol, so they invented their own. You got peanuts in the shell, walnuts, Italian cookies, loose popcorn and sometimes pennies. My dad loved the Italian candy protocol and he usually ate most of what I brought home, but I think he should have worked for it like I did.
Italians also didn’t understand the concept of giving the candies at the door. With Italians you were required to parade into their kitchen while various relatives sat around loudly talking, drinking wine and laughing, until you wondered what you were auditioning for.
My biggest regret at Halloween though was the pillowcase, or for me, that lack of one. There was no way my mother was going to allow one of her pillowcases to be paraded around the neighbourhood gathering treats. Inevitably I’d be given a paper shopping bag and sent out into the night. Every year I’d dread those last 15 minutes when the rain would finally soak through my bag and spill the contents onto the sidewalk. I’d pick up what I could, place it in my apron and scurry home.
I think someone really needed to explain Halloween to the Italians.
But Halloween was also a strange time for me because I was the child of Italian immigrants and there’s no such thing as Halloween in Italy.
The first issue was the costume. Well what was the sense in spending money on something that couldn’t be worn in public except for that one night? My sensible mother solved the problem by deciding I would dress up as a housewife. Or at least a caricature of a housewife. She’d put a scarf on my head, an apron around my waist and to ensure that people understood I was dressed as an adult, she’d apply her lipstick to my childish lips. My mother wore Electric Red lipstick in those days and I can remember it would take days for the colour to wash off.
There is, of course, a candy protocol for Halloween. Children expect to receive candies, chocolate or perhaps exotic items like candy apples which children on TV always seemed to get. No one told the Italians in my neighbourhood about the candy protocol, so they invented their own. You got peanuts in the shell, walnuts, Italian cookies, loose popcorn and sometimes pennies. My dad loved the Italian candy protocol and he usually ate most of what I brought home, but I think he should have worked for it like I did.
Italians also didn’t understand the concept of giving the candies at the door. With Italians you were required to parade into their kitchen while various relatives sat around loudly talking, drinking wine and laughing, until you wondered what you were auditioning for.
My biggest regret at Halloween though was the pillowcase, or for me, that lack of one. There was no way my mother was going to allow one of her pillowcases to be paraded around the neighbourhood gathering treats. Inevitably I’d be given a paper shopping bag and sent out into the night. Every year I’d dread those last 15 minutes when the rain would finally soak through my bag and spill the contents onto the sidewalk. I’d pick up what I could, place it in my apron and scurry home.
I think someone really needed to explain Halloween to the Italians.
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