The Little Cat

On Friday night after dinner, I sat in my kitchen and composed this piece... It wasn't meant to be posted, but it turns out, I hit the "publish" button instead of the "save", and so it appeared on my blog for a short time. When I realized my error, I took it down, but not before Emily had had a chance to read it!! Thank you, Emily, for your comment this morning-- I'm so glad you enjoyed hearing about Little Cat, and the baking. Here it is again, because I am so flattered that you asked.

***

This week, I finally found a few moments to myself, and sat down to take a look at the upcoming events on our family’s calendar.

It was more than a SLIGHT shock to my system, when I realized that Christmas is just about two weeks away.

AAAACCCCKKKKK!!

There’s still decorating to do!! Shopping to finish!!

And, BAKING TO START!!

So, I finally started: today was stollen day.

My family has our own special recipe for stollen bread... and I HAVE to say “bread” after I use the word stollen, because this is not exactly an authentic German stollen. It is a beautiful, light, fruit-riddled Christmas bread, that was undoubtedly inspired by German stollen. All throughout my childhood, my mother made it for us. And my grandmother made it for her… and my great-grandmother before her. I am so pleased and proud to carry on the tradition, and can’t even begin to tell you the immense waves of comfort that wash over me, when I smell the scent of a fresh slice, toasting in the oven, just waiting to be smothered in melted butter… People, to me, the smell of my family’s stollen bread means Christmas.

I haven’t always baked this bread for my own children… I confess, I relied on my mother to bake the yearly batches of stollen bread for our family, right up until about five years ago. I can time the date of my “stollen initiation” to the Christmas that Child Number Two was just one year old.

That Christmas, the last of our family’s Very Important Cats had fallen ill… and, according to the daily updates from “The Family Seat” in Stratford, it was going to be our beloved, elderly furry friend’s last struggle.

My father always referred to her as “The Little Cat”. The Little Cat had come to us as a tiny kitten, with her eyes barely open: painful evidence that she was far too young to be taken from her mother in the first place. But MY mother took one look at her in that pet store, and saw that she was suffering from mites and fleas and any other number of illnesses… and adopted the tiny little runty thing on the spot. Before long, The Little Cat had grown in all directions, and expanded to the size of a tabby-coloured football.

She had an absolutely delightful temperament, and was, for nearly two decades, my mother’s firm companion. They would sit together every afternoon, my mother and The Little Cat, each on their own chair at the kitchen table, “having tea”. Acutally, it was my MOTHER who was having tea and crackers-and-cheese, and The Little Cat was keeping her company. My mother would talk gently to her, and The Little Cat would “meow” her soft responses. Every now and then, she was given a tidbit of cheese… But, it was AFTER the “formal” tea that Little Cat would receive her treat. My mother would turn her back on the tea table, and Little Cat would reeeeeaaaach up (as soon as she was certain the coast was clear), delicately dip her paw into the tiny milk jug, then lick it clean. She was always discreet, always a “lady” about it, and rarely left any mess as evidence of her crime. When The Little Cat had had her fill, my mother would quietly sterilize the jug.

My father, of course, pretended to be above all of our cat “nonsense”. In spite of having grown up with cats himself, and having once entertained the idea of becoming a veterinarian, he loudly “disapproved” of his family’s cat-cuddling adoration. However, on more occasions than I care to mention here, I caught him talking to our cats and giving them loving pats on the head, when he thought no-one was looking. I understand from my mother that once we three kids left home, it was HIS lap that The Little Cat chose to settle down on, once the evening meal was over.

My parents have always been stiff-upper-lip kind of people. They are both intelligent, classy, generous to a fault, and compassionate. However, they have never been what I would call “overly-emotional”. They have both, in their own lives, weathered a few storms… But I think part of what got them through a lot of difficulties, was that they were able to somehow keep their feelings from spilling out into the open. They seemed to be able to achieve a kind of “distance” from whatever was troubling, and somehow managed to “rise above it”. Perhaps it was their medical training that helped to hone this skill. I’ve no doubt that they shared their feelings and leaned on one another, in times of great stress. However, they always appeared as Pillars of Strength for their children. Through the entire course of my childhood, I can never remember them ever wavering once—not even for a moment.

That Christmas that Little Cat was sick, I dressed my two little girls up in matching outfits, and my husband and I took them to have their photograph taken with Santa Claus. The local mall was crowded that night, and we were in the middle of a tremendously long lineup…

My cell phone rang, and when I saw that it was my parent’s phone number, I answered the call. When I heard my mother’s voice, I knew that the worst had happened.

“We took her to the vet,” she said, “and… and we decided it was best that she be put to sleep. We couldn’t let her suffer…”

And then, for the first time in my life, I heard my mother’s voice crack.

It was a terrible moment.

Once our very short conversation was over, I turned to my husband, and told him the news.

“I… I need to go Home.”

“We can’t go home. We're in a line up! The girlies want to see Santa!”

“Okay, right then, I’m going to take the kids, and go Home first thing tomorrow.”

“You can’t go tomorrow! We’re supposed to go to MY mother's place for dinner tomorrow!! What am I supposed to tell the folks???”

“Tell them… tell them that my mum’s best friend has just passed away, and that the kids and I need to be with her. You don’t need to tell them that her best friend was our Little Cat.”

The next day, my sister, who was heavily pregnant with her first child and extremely hormonal at the time, came north on the train to meet us. We met her at the station, and drove the rest of the way to Stratford together.

She squeezed into the front seat of my car, looked at me, and burst into tears:

“This is a Family Crisis, isn’t it?” she sobbed.

“Well, if it isn’t, I don’t want to see one,” I replied grimly.

My parents were in sore need of a visit that day, but we could tell that their minds were elsewhere, most of that morning. So, I decided to try and get them both “back on track” as quickly as possible. There was no sign of a Christmas tree in the house, and baking had yet to be started.

First, I announced that I would be going out to fetch a fresh tree, which we would then decorate. My father, ever the one to be In Control of things, began to dither about whether it wouldn’t just be BETTER to wait a bit, and perhaps drag out the old artificial tree they had in storage, closer to the day…

“Dad,” I said gently, “You can be an old phart about this if you want to, or you can come with me and help me choose. But you MAY NOT come with me, AND be a phart. Please, please put your coat on, and come.”

Once the tree was up, and the children and my sister were decorating it, I turned to my mother.

“Mum, we should bake the stollen,” I said, propelling her towards the kitchen. “Please, show me how.”

And so, we spent the rest of the afternoon together, carefully weighing all of the candied fruit and nuts, proofing yeast, mixing and kneading and pounding down dough… It takes quite a while to accomplish this bread, but once it’s out of the oven, and you are slathering the still-warm tops of the loaves with butter, then sprinkling them with drifts of sugar… Let me tell you, all of the effort becomes worth it. The slow-and-steady process, handed down through the generations of my family, was a tremendous comfort to all of us that day.

Tonight, my kitchen looks like a bit of a disaster area… There is a thick dusting of flour across all of the surfaces, and tiny squashed currants litter the floor… But my six loaves of stollen bread are puffing up into gigantic beauties over there, in the warmest corner of the counter, by the stove, and are nearly ready to be placed in the oven.

***

Late on Friday night, another beloved family pet passed away. I cuddled Cookie the guinea pig in my arms as she died, and later thought about how strange it was that I had been "thinking up" the Little Cat post in my head that afternoon, as I baked stollen bread.

It's been a difficult couple of days for the girlies and me. Lots of complicated questions asked, and many turbulent emotions to deal with. Death is never an easy thing, and this is a "first experience" for my children, and for me as a mother. It has been a hard lesson to learn, but it's an important one.

The wonderful experience of having pets, caring for them, and loving them, is something that every human should know. It enriches our lives so tremendously; it makes us better people. The joy that they bring us makes enduring the pain of having to say goodbye to them, when the time ultimately comes, worth it.

Because Silly is Seriously Under-rated...

I have written a couple of posts, now, about the seriously amazing childhood that my brother, sister and I enjoyed.

But, as I was reminded the other day by a certain commenter who bore witness to a couple of years of our teenage-hood, my siblings and I made damn sure that our youth was actually FAR from serious.

Truth be told, most of our early-years were spent in an atmosphere that seemed like an extended episode of Fawlty Towers. So, under those curcumstances, what's a kid (or three kids, to be exact) to do?

Make our own fun, that's what.

And, more often than not, we used music to do it, which nearly drove our long-suffering parents bat-sh*t-crazy.

The fact that my darling younger brother was a musical protigee certainly gave OUR side a "leg-up". His was (and still is) a miraculous talent. Within the first year of his musical training, he by far surpassed his deeply frustrated older sister's abilities. Before long, when we were simultaniously hammering out our daily practising on the two pianos that graced our house, I would suddenly stop playing my piece, only to discover that he had been mocking me by playing an "oom-pah, oom-pah" kind of accompaniment below my melody the entire time, rather than concentrating on his own work. It used to make me want to bang my head against a wall, when I would discover that he could play the most intricate, complicated pieces flawlessly, with an open Archie Comic Book firmly parked on the music stand in front of him. I, on the other hand, found even the simplest sight-reading exercise to be a journey to the bowels of hell...

Thankfully, though, he and I found a common ground. And that common ground was our shared sense of humour. As a rule, my brother and I laugh a great deal when we are together. And, most importantly, we laugh at all the same things. And the fact that our fun annoyed our extremely classy parents was a MAJOR bonus, at the time.

When we were very young kids, we were absolutely mesmerised by the High Silliness of The Muppet Show, and it wasn't long before we headed for the baby grand, to try out a few of the musical numbers we had seen, ourselves. The goofier, the better. My brother, the master accompanist, would work out a flourishy little arrangement, and I would "put on" the most authentic impersonation I could possibly muster, and we'd go to it, flat-out and full-volume, for HOURS. My most vivid recollection from that time is a group of songs from country and western singer, Roger Miller, who almost always punctuated his hilarious verses with strange mouth sounds that were just too damn funny to be considered true musical improvisation. My brother and I were not satisfied until we had perfected every one. Our repertoire included such classics as "Do-Wacka-Do", "Can't Rollerskate in a Buffalo Herd", "My Uncle Used to Love Me, but She Died", and the ultimate tongue-twister, "Summertime".

As our "abilities" developed, so, too, did the selection of music we chose to butcher (I mean, MASTER). We unearthed an ancient libretto of Gilbert and Sullivan, and thought we had struck GOLD. Before long, we had the fastest-running "Modern Major General" in the business, as well as some delightfully rude improvisations of a few other tunes...

But it was when we discovered The Marx Brothers that my brother truly came into his own. He went from being a part of a comedy team, to being a stellar solo act.

Very few people today know what extraordinary musicians The Marx Brothers actually were. And, contrary to popular belief, it wasn't just Harpo (who played the harp, of course, as well as many other instruments) or Groucho (who remains famous to this day for his timeless rendition of "Lydia the Tattooed Lady", among other classics).

Chico Marx was the brother by whom we were most mesmerized. Because Chico could play the piano. Not only that, he could play the piano with more flare and pizazz than anyone else we had ever seen in our lives. He didn't have to sing, or make up enormous flamboyant gestures to coax a laugh out of people. His flawless performances literally left us gobsmacked by their complexity, but thoroughly delighted by the close-ups on his elaborate fingering-tricks and embellishments. From the start, my brother was determined to learn to play like Chico-- and before too long, he actually COULD... right down to the little "shotgun"-type move that he liked to use to finish up each long, musical phrase.

And, I became his ardent admirer-- the one who sat on the piano bench beside him as he played, grinning till my face hurt, my appreciation for his humour knowing no bounds.

Naturally, it wasn't long before this sort of thing began creeping into his everyday practising, as well... as my friendly commenter of a few days back reminded me. But, in actual fact, it WASN'T Victor Borge that my darling brother was channeling that day... it was the brilliant Chico, through-and-through. It may have nearly driven our mother to madness, but it simply delighted ME.

Life today is far too serious... By in large, people are too "plugged-in" and well-informed about any number of things. We have endless worries; many of which we are powerless to do anything about.

The humour that I see on television today, particularly the stuff that I see on abysmal channels like "Family" and "Teletoon", seem to utilize offensive sarcasm and rudeness, rather than light-hearted silliness, in an attempt to make people laugh these days. And I confess that I find it far too sad to be funny.

To me, there's nothing like Silly. Give me the Our Gang series... "The Little Rascals". Give me Harpo, Chico and Groucho interrupting the overture of "Il Trovatore" with an impromptu rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ballgame". Give me "The Muppet Show".

Or, just give me my darling younger brother. Because he delights me and makes me laugh more than all the rest of them, put together.

Some of you may have noticed that I've added a little feature to the top of my side-bar, over there... Every day or so, I am going to post a selection from my music collection for you all to enjoy... a little "in-flight music", to accompany the post! And starting in December, my Christmas gift to you all will be a "musical advent calendar"-- a different Christmas Carol every day. I hope you all enjoy it, and I look forward to hearing your feedback!

Cooking for comfort...

Ever since we bought and brought home that enormous bunch of gladiolas from the Stratford Farmer's Market last weekend, I have been gazing at it and thinking about my little Great-Auntie. Or, should I say, my Mighty Great-Auntie.

She was a formidable, if very tiny woman, and lived an extraordinary, long life. She was born on our family farm, and died on the farm she acquired by marriage, which was literally "just down the road" from her birthplace. In an age when farm girls weren't expected to grow up and accomplish more than making a suitable marriage and raising a family, my Auntie set off right after completing grade-school to train as a registered nurse. In those days, nursing was taught in hospitals, and she was accepted to train at one of the best teaching hospitals in the country. It was there that she met a woman who became her best friend, and who also turned out to be my maternal grandmother. We will all be forever grateful to Auntie, as she "chose" my grandmother from their graduating class (Grandma having won the Gold Medal for excellence in her field), and together they set up the area's first tiny little "cottage-hospital" in Auntie's home-town, along with a female-physician (another great rarity of the time). They made an incredible team.

On the day that my grandmother arrived to begin her new nursing job, Auntie sent her younger brother to meet the woman who would eventually become his wife, at the local train station. When the striking young Scottish girl stepped off the train, my grandfather suffered an attack of acute shyness, and apparently hid behind the nearest lamp post... They eventually found one another, however, in more ways than one, and famously (in our family lore, anyway) eloped on April Fool's Day.

My grandparents raised a rollicking brood of four children. It turned out that my little Auntie, however, was not able to have a family. Instead of feeling downhearted and bitter about the cards life had dealt her and her husband, Auntie instead chose to "adopt" her nieces and nephew as her "nearly-own-children". She hosted them all for long visits at her farm, and loved and cared for them all just as much as she would have, had they been borne of her. She had THAT big of a heart.

I think that was part of what made her such an extraordinary nurse, as well. She knew instinctively what would make people feel better... and I'm talking about remedies that went far beyond the medicinal. She knew how important it was to care for the WHOLE person. For example, she would gently wash and brush peoples' hair, or shape and buff their fingernails till they shone. She knew just how to talk to people and befriend them, and could make them forget that she was "nursing" them. More than once, when she was quite elderly and she and I were sitting next to one another having a chat, I would suddenly discover that my wrist was in her hand, and she was sub-consciously taking my pulse. Caring for others was so completely ingrained in her... Even during her final years, when she was hospitalized following some surgery, the young nurses on duty would remark in amazement that Auntie would "make her rounds" of the patients on her floor in the evenings (most of them were people she knew from the community). She would wish each one a good-night, and make sure they all had enough warm blankets.

She was a warm, loving person. I will never forget her.

Today, Child Number Three and I have been baking. It came to me last night that if we baked a special treat TOGETHER today, we could turn it into a gift for the teachers at the nursery school, for when she returns tomorrow. Hopefully, this scheme will help Wee Three feel happy about going back, and proud to be giving a gift she made "herself". As an occasional helper at the school, I know just how hard those wonderful teachers work every day to create a stimulating and nurturing environment for all their little pupils... I'm certain that some of these oatmeal-chocolate-chip cookies will give them the nourishment, not to mention the energy-boost they need to get through the last day of the week!!

This is a recipe from my Great Auntie's collection. She taught it to my mother, who taught it to me. They are so delicious, you can just FEEL her love and comfort when you eat them!!

Oatmeal Chocolate Chip Cookies

1 c of butter or margarine (**I use Becel's olive oil margarine. It's healthy, and bakes beautifully)
1 c of brown sugar
2 c of oatmeal (**be sure to use "quick oats", and not "instant")
1 c of flour
a pinch of salt
a slurp of vanilla
1 tsp of baking soda, dissolved in 1 tbsp of hot water
As many chocolate chips as you like

Cream together all the ingredients, mixing well. Spoon up the batter 1 tablespoon at a time, and roll into little balls. Place on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper.

** Now, here is the key to making them crunchy!**

Dip a fork into a little, shallow dish of milk, to coat the tines. then press each cookie dough ball down a little bit. Re-dip the fork in the milk before you press down each cookie dough ball.

Bake for about 7-9 minutes in a 350 degree oven. Watch them carefully, because they burn easily!

Cool for a few minutes on the cookie sheet, then remove to a wire rack to cool completely.

YUMMY with a big, BIG glass of milk...

Happiness is... The Farmer's Market.

Gladiolas

These are the flowers that I bought by the dozen at the Stratford Farmer's Market yesterday morning. I say "by the dozen", because I originally intended to buy ONLY A DOZEN of them.

Sometimes, I have to "plan ahead" to curb my enthusiasm... Otherwise, things get more than a LITTLE BIT out of hand. Usually, this sort of planning involves food items. Most often, chocolate food items.

But on Saturday morning, it was gladiolas. Because there's a fine line with these enormous, spectacular blooms. Too few makes you look as though you skimped on the bouquet. And too many makes your house look as though you might be hosting a funeral sometime soon.

My love of gladiolas came from my great-aunt, who was one of the finest and most diligent gardeners I have ever encountered. She lived alone on her enormous farm long after her husband passed away, and although her fields were rented out, she continued to cultivate her flower gardens and mammoth vegetable patch until she was well into her eighties. She was tiny, my little Auntie, but she was Mighty.

A few years ago, I telephoned her at the farm, and was dismayed when she answered my call sounding more than slightly out-of-breath. I immediately inquired if she was all right, and whether she was feeling faint or tight-in-the-chest.

"Goodness, no, dear," she replied with a laugh, "I just ran in from the garden when I heard the phone-- I've been out there for an hour digging trenches for five or ten more rows of gladiola bulbs!!"

She was sharp as a tack until the day she died at the age of 102, and I think of her bright, cheery spirit every time I see a vibrant, colourful bouquet of "glads", as she used to call them.

But, back to the Market on Saturday...

The girlies and I wandered through the maze of enormous plastic buckets, which were crammed full of gladiola stems, in every colour of the rainbow. There were so many varieties to choose from, but eventually, we carefully selected twelve to take home in a bunch.

We approached the wooden desk, where a tall, thin farmer stood. He greeted my children with a wide, warm smile.

"Leetle girls!!" he said delightedly, in beautiful, Dutch-accented English. "Leetle girls who love FLOWERS!"

"Come," he beckoned to them, "Come and pick some more for YOURSELVES!"

And he allowed my girlies to pick out MORE gladiolas for their very own selves. Then, he carefully packaged the three bunches up in newspaper to make them easier to carry. It was quite a comical sight, seeing as Child Number Three was nearly as tall as the package she was determined to hang onto... with a grin on her face so big, you'd think her round, pink cheeks would split.

I thanked him profusely, and offered to pay for the extra flowers. But the gentleman would have none of it, and simply said, "I like to see people HAPPY."

Glads make people happy.

I knew that.

The sounds of summer...

To me, there is no sweeter sound of summer than the shaky, shimmering trill of a cicada. I remember the everlasting holidays of my childhood, heavy and sticky with southwestern Ontario humidity... lying on my back in the soft grass of my parent's front lawn, staring up into the branches of the huge old maple tree... and listening to the cicadas as they bantered their "song" back and forth.

This is one bug that the Goddess welcomes into her garden, year after year. Because the song of the cicada is what MAKES summertime. It beckons to the little girls and me, and reminds us to Slow Down. Relax. Look up. And, Enjoy...

... but joy cometh in the morning

For as long as I can remember, all of the trials, tribulations, worries and conundrums that I have ever encountered, be they my own or brought to me by the people I love, have been mulled over at great length over endless cups of tea.

I have no doubt that this habit developed in me because of my family's fiercely English background. Hell, as soon as we opened our eyes in the house that I grew up in, SOMEONE always appeared next to us, offering us a steaming mug. Upon re-entering the house after being away, whether we had just come from the corner store or half way around the globe, the kettle was plugged in even before the lights were turned on. Tea was paramount, it was the elixir of life of my childhood.

When I left home to attend one of the largest and most notoriously "unfriendly" universities in the country, I quickly learned to make friends by sharing tea with other students. We quaffed enormous quantities of the stuff, and tried all kinds of different varieties... It got us through the pressure-cooker of stress produced by essay deadlines and exams, and brought us together to share our challenges. Often, my friends and I were just too exhausted to even SPEAK... the simple act of walking into one another's rooms unannounced, bearing two extra-large teacups, was the Ultimate Gesture, and the wide-eyed, terrified STARE brought on by writer's block said far more than words could ever articulate.

My long-time (long-suffering) room-mate gave me my Big Red Teapot on the occasion of my twenty-first birthday. This teapot has been with me for nearly twenty years, now, carefully carried from apartment after apartment, and then house after house. It is sitting and steeping a pot of Bewley's Irish Breakfast right now, on my kitchen counter. That sight is the ultimate symbol of comfort to me. Some people may find it in their mother's eyes, but I find heaven in that little whiff of steam that escapes the Big Red Teapot's spout, when I'm just about ready to pour.

My friends and family and I have sat around my teapot and discussed just about everything you can imagine. I have planned weddings and baby showers and anniversary parties... I've nursed everything from the flu to post-partum depression to cancer... I've discussed many heartaches, wept over losses and break-ups, miscarriages and deaths. All around this big red piece of porcelain.

Last night, the teapot and I worked overtime. I was up half the night, worried and heart-sick with news I had just received by telephone. Immediately after hanging up the phone, it was my teapot I turned to for comfort. It took many, many cups of (decaf!!) tea, but in the wee hours, I was finally able to wrestle my own emotional reaction into submission, and concede that the news I received is truly "for the best". After a long night, I can look in the mirror and honestly say that I am still a happy person, and I can handle whatever the future throws my way.

Even though everyone else in the house was fast asleep last night, I wasn't alone. In truth, I never WILL be alone. So long as The Big Red Teapot is working with me...

"A handbag?"

Yesterday, I wrote about my daughters, pacifiers, and a particular purple-and-pink flowered purse.

Today, I write about "A handbag".

Yesterday afternoon, Canada's foremost actor quietly passed away at Stratford General Hospital. He was a great man who lived a long, miraculous life: he had "good innings", as my father would say.

William Hutt was one of my heroes. Not only was he a spectacular actor, he was a spectacular person. He was a perfectionist, and as an actor, he was nothing short of perfection.

I remember vividly the first time I ever laid eyes on the man. This is largely because he was dressed as a woman at the time. I was six years old, and my father took me to see Mr. Hutt play Lady Bracknell in the Stratford Festival's "The Importance of Being Earnest", which was staged at the Avon Theatre. As Lady Bracknell, Mr. Hutt was the essence of ferocious dignity and upper-class snobbery. He carried himself with such incredible poise, that when my father laughingly informed me that Lady Bracknell was actually a "lord", I was bowled over. Hell, he looked just like my Granny.

The pinnacle of the performance, which I shall never forget, came when Lady Bracknell reacted to being told that the young man who wished to marry her daughter was abandoned as a baby, and found in a railway station, tucked into a large handbag. "A handbag?" responds the incredulous great lady... But, unlike most actors portraying Lady Bracknell, the line was not shouted or screeched, accompanied by wild clutching of the throat... Mr. Hutt, in his wisdom, lowered his voice till it was just barely audible. He quietly uttered the words, emanating the pure essence of self-control, and pinned "Earnest" with a piercing glare. The understatement was nothing short of brilliant: he immediately brought the entire house down.

In my memory, all of Mr. Hutt's performances were like that. There was absolutely no ham-acting. Every role he played, be it high comedy or devastating tragedy, came across as believable, as human, as "truth". He could do anything, and it seems to me, he DID do everything... with such grace.

I cannot imagine Stratford without Mr. Hutt. It seems impossible to me. He has always been there, living in his beautiful house by the bridge, and treading The Boards of the three great stages. For so many years, he was one of the people who made the theatre what it was.

His is one of the voices I hear in my head, whenever I think of "home".

Goodbye, Bill. I'll miss you terribly.

"Alas, poor world, what treasure hast thou lost!"

--Venus and Adonis

With heartfelt thanks, and in loving, respectful memory...

Good-night, sweet prince,

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.

William Ian deWitt Hutt 1920-2007

It's Monday Morning...

It's Monday morning... but my heart is lightened by the fact that it's the First Day of Wimbledon.

In the house where I grew up, this particular Monday morning every year is treated like the Second Coming of Christmas... When I was a child, my father would sneak off to the cable store, and return bearing the Almighty Cable Package. We did not have extensive cable hook-ups back then: my parents believed that 99% of what could be found on The Boob Tube was crap, and the 1% actually worth watching (PBS and TVO) were covered in the basic cable that we already had.

However, Wimbledon was worth it. By that, I mean, my father believed that it was WORTH paying for the extensive cable package JUST for The Fortnight, so that he would be able to receive the British feed of the match coverage. If there is anything that we BOTH still detest to this day, it is the American channels "doing" Wimbledon. I have vivid memories of old Bud Collins, sitting on his tuffet, yammering endlessly about useless statistics and "heart-wrenching" stories... ESPECIALLY the ones pertaining to his own country's players, no matter how irrelevant the information may have been. It Filled Air Time. And now there is also John McEnroe, detested by my father and myself both on AND off the court, for his complete inability to keep his fat mouth shut. WHY is it that he and his pals feel it necessary to CONTINUE YAPPING long after the play has started??!

The British feed, back then, was nearly silent. All that we were able to hear, besides the occasional repetition of the score, was the murmur of the crowd, and the satisfying "thock!" of a well-hit tennis ball. It allowed viewers to have their OWN thoughts about the match, and heightened the suspense considerably. Of course, those were ALSO the days before all the players started grunting and groaning on the courts, too...

But I digress.

Once the Almighty Cable was hooked up, it was time for my father to set the then "high-tech" VCR. My dad worked many long days and nights in his medical practice, and was seldom around to actually watch the matches live, so he recorded them. Re-runs were strictly forbidden: only the pre-recorded live play that HE had recorded would suffice (if you understand what I'm getting at). The trick was, we his family had to stay SILENT about the day's scores, until he had had the chance to watch the matches himself. The rest of the family was as glued to the tv set as schedules would allow every day, and we would be nearly BURSTING with exciting information by the time he returned home. It was excruciatingly difficult to keep our mouths shut, so as not to spoil his Personal Wimbledon Experience.

Even now, the "vcr-ing of Wimbledon" tradition continues, even though my father has retired, as he still likes the convenience of being able to catch up on his viewing when HE feels like it, rather than having a schedule dictated to him. In actual fact, I sometimes suspect that he also enjoys the exquisite strain this tradition puts the rest of the family under. Because WOE BETIDE the person who lets loose with a result, before he has had the personal delight of viewing the match himself. Whenever I phone home during The Fortnight, he always rushes to answer my call, and the FIRST thing out of his mouth is “FOR GOD’S SAKE, DON’T TELL ME WHO WON!!!” So, then I have to come up with all kinds of other crap to talk about until he’s gotten around to seeing that day’s matches. Heaven help me if he’s behind a full day or two…

Several years ago, I was home for a visit during the weekend of the Wimbledon finals. At lunch that day, I let slip that Agassi had won the show. Poor Dad nearly had a stroke, he was so agitated. It wasn’t just the fact that he has always disliked Andre Agassi (I don’t know why, I always thought he was a gentleman, and kind of cute), but the fact that his daughter would betray him and deny him the ultimate pleasure of WATCHING WITHOUT KNOWING THE RESULT made him nearly come unglued. What he DIDN’T know was that I was fibbing, and so later that night, after he grudgingly sat through the videotape with me, he was even MORE apoplectic to discover he’d been had…

I am always welcome in my parents' house, but I don't tend to visit during Wimbledon anymore... It's a little stressful.

This week is the final week of school in our house. This is the week of Kindergarten Graduations, Grade Five Festivities and endless end-of-year parties in general. Because of this, I am actually considering pushing past my "childhood trauma" and doing a little Wimbledon video-taping myself this week, seeing as most of my mornings will find me otherwise engaged, volunteering at academic shin-diggery.

So if anybody else out there loves tennis as much as I do... FOR GOD'S SAKE, DON'T TELL ME WHO WON!!

Psyche!!

For My Dad.

My father is an extraordinary human being.

But it is extremely difficult for me to try and convey the enormous sense of affection, admiration and gratitude I feel towards the man, because first and foremost, my father is a reserved and very proper English Gentleman. He's not a "touchy-feely" kind of guy. Talking about emotions like "love" makes him slightly uncomfortable. Heck, having "Happy Birthday" sung to him makes the man blush, and tiny beads of perspiration break out on his forehead.

However, all my life, I have firmly believed that my Dad and I are truly "cut from the same cloth". We have a connection, an understanding. I have never in my life, ever, been unsure about the enormous love and devotion my father feels for me. It has never needed to be said. The innumerable things he has done for me, and with me, speak far louder than any words ever could.

And although I will be giving my dad a nice little present (one of those high-tech gadgets from the hardware store that pops dandelions right out of the lawn without necessitating that you actually get down on bended knee and PULL... He's going to LOVE it), and a Father's Day card when I meet him for brunch tomorrow morning...

I know that the best way to convey to my dad how much I love him is to continue to try my very best to live by his example, and to pass on all that I have learned from him to my own three daughters.

You're still doing a great job, Dad. Thank-you.

Things My Parents Taught Me...

• When dining out with your spouse, share one entree.
• Don't be a Wet Blanket.
• Have cats and hamsters, but not at the same time.
• Don't slam doors.
• Take a pair of crummy shoes to wear in case it rains.
• A proper good-bye to guests includes standing on the doorstep and waving.
• Ride a bicycle.
• Keep in touch with relatives, even if you can't stand them.
• Write thank-you notes.
• Don't go to Mexico.
• Feed stray animals and people.
• Support Public Radio.
• Always take a group photo, and don't forget to remove the lens cap.
• Use the vcr, and bleep through the commercials.
• Learn to love opera.
• Carry a small handbag.
• Always know where your glasses are.
• Play the piano, and watch your fingering.
• Keep a bag of bread crusts in the freezer for duck-feeding.
• Pack a tennis ball and a frisbee.
• A capon is just a big chicken.
• Feed birds, foil squirrels.
• Bring your loved ones a cup of tea in bed.
• Put the spare key back when you've finished with it.
• Don't park in the handicap spot, but if you have to, don't forget to limp.