The Call

I am someone who really rather detests the telephone. If there is any way I can avoid being around one,  I do.  Yes, I've had a cell phone since 1999, but mostly for emergencies, and I just got into texting within the last year. A very select few people have my cell number. Anyone can call our home phone as we have a listed, searchable number, but if someone actually answers it, be surprised - be very surprised. Those who know Julie and me well know that we rarely answer our telephone.

My wife uses a phone for her living as a service advisor in the automotive world. She has to take calls all day long to book appointments, arrange for parts to be on site, hear complaints and sad stories. She is no bigger fan than I am when the phone rings at home. "Are you going to answer that, Cate?" "No." And the call goes to voicemail.

We have the same experiences that anyone in the general public has with telemarketers, surveys and robo-calls. We have caller ID so that, of course if it's a sibling or child we answer or call right back. We are not anti-social (at least not completely yet!), but if you can e-mail or message us via social media, we are guaranteed to respond in a more timely manner.

There are other exceptions of course. I have chatty days now and then, when hearing that certain person's actual voice is a delight, and conversation, not mere small talk, flows back and forth effortlessly. Those calls, whether initiated by me or the other party, fill my spirit when I'm low. A good laugh shared is irreplaceable, as are words of genuine empathy. A short newsy update is not amiss when the other party is not a Facebooker or e-mailer. But what can one offer by way of response if the caller seems only to want advice that they would never take, or for me to somehow affirm their belief that they have been grievously wronged by their spouse/child/boss or some corporate entity? You can only say, "I am so sorry that happened to you" so many times.

All this said, I was reminded recently by my dear Anne McMahon, my cousin Kevin's wife, of a call we would both dearly love to make or receive. With the Christmas season upon us, and warmest memories of how our late parents loved and celebrated the December festivities, she commented that she would so love to pick up the phone and call them. A catch came into my throat on reading it. How I would so love to hear Dad's or Mom's voice over the phone again! Dad, after many years of being on call at the clinic would pick up with a "Smith speaking", and Mom would follow her cheery "Hello?" with "What are you doing right now?" and be genuinely interested. Anne says it is almost automatic when she dials from Quebec to her brother in Truro to dial 1-902-893 . . . and almost call her folks' number to this day. When I moved back to Colonial Avenue almost 15 years ago, I actually asked Bell Aliant to keep the Smith phone number that they had had since the 1960s, and so, when I phone home, I am phoning HOME.

To all who are missing some certain loved ones, whether at this time of year or anytime, just imagine the flood of emotions and sheer joy if we could pick up the phone and hear those voices again! That is the call I would answer with no hesitation.

Having it all . . .

Just let me smell the fir and pine, cinnamon and vanilla within the warmth of our home. Let me walk outside in the brisk air, and hear the crunch of snow or sere leaves beneath my booted feet. Let the wan light of December sun play over the rooftops and bare trees outside my window while the playlist on my iPod encompasses everything from “Ave Maria” to “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer”.

But stop, please stop barking about having been saluted with “Happy Holidays” or “Season’s Greetings” instead of “Merry Christmas”, and declaring that those words mean taking sides in what some people have called (thanks, Fox News and Bill O’Reilly!) the “war on Christmas”.

There is no such thing. No amount of Grinchiness, no reminders that a nativity scene was not permitted in a school or government building, no inclusion of other seasonal observances can ever diminish Christmas in the hearts, minds and yes, pocketbooks (that’s another story!) of the masses in the western world.

It is not easy to impress on some people how embracing diversity does not mean turning their backs on their long-held religious views. You are not forsaking your beliefs by investigating, becoming educated or sharing in the rituals of another faith or creed. True, many of us in my peer group, growing up in Nova Scotia, did not see a menorah or Star of David in our neighbours’ homes, or know of Kwanzaa or Yule, other than with its references to a yule log cake. Still, how could knowing and learning about customs and traditions of others do anything but enrich us?

 

What makes people pit their beliefs against and focus such righteous outrage on others where Christmas is concerned? Kindness and compassion stand at the root of ancient and modern belief systems alike. Go to mass, have eight nights of lights, feast and frolic with abandon, be with those you love, give more or your time and less from the superficial “spend, spend, spend” mentality. Sing! Rejoice! Sit quietly. Observe or don’t.

That is having it all.

Here we go again!

This iPad thing is really catching on with me. At first I didn’t know if it was something that would be useful, but now I can hardly put it down. I think about all of the struggles of committing ideas to paper when you don’t happen to have paper or  a notebook with you. Oh yes, like most writers I have scribbled my thoughts on napkins, placemats even probably receipts. I  have written them down with lipstick, pencil crayon and sharpie marker, then relegated them to the bottom of my handbag where they live forever in obscurity until I clean it out.

 So how is the iPad any different you might ask? I simply take it everywhere with me now. It’s got a great camera -- I can get pictures and post them on the spot.  My ideas flow out of me and onto this little magic screen effortlessly. And this piece? You may wonder why it sounds so conversational. It’s because I’m using the voice recognition, speech to text feature in my word processor, Cloud On.

  It’s an Apple design and it’s nearly flawless! I simply speak into the iPad and the words magically appear on the screen where I can go back later and edit, add punctuation, change sentence length etc. What a convenient application! And how perfect for those who don’t actually keyboard well. Let’s face it; there are days when I’m just too lazy to type! This may revolutionize my world. Thanks for the great birthday present, Julie!

Virginia Woolf had a point . . .

"A woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction."  I would even go so far as to say she might have stopped her sentence after the word "write", as I have long enjoyed writing memoirs, reviews, journals, critiques and more. In her time, Ms. Woolf and her contemporaries would have had precious little in the way of money or a room of their own, as these were privileges reserved for men alone. Today, women as writers enjoy equal advantages in areas of income and independence, thanks to those foremothers who fought to open the doors. And so I have both. Money, yes. Not vast fortunes, but enough. And a wonderful room . . .

In my lifetime, this room has had life as an office before. My dear friend Lizzy's father, the late Robert W. Healy was a surgeon here in Kentville for many years, and as a small child I passed through this room with its door to the back yard and gardens, mindful of and awed by the large oil portraits on the wall, the entire wall of bookshelves filled with books far beyond the scope of his medical texts, and the large mahogany desk and tufted leather chair. 

When my family moved into this home in 1967, the room had several purposes -- Dad's huge oak office desk was here, piled with all of the paperwork for the multitude of endeavours he had on the go (school board, town council, property developments) as well as all of his veterinary medical books and journals filling the bookcases, along with volumes of fiction, poetry, natural wonders and reference books. Very soon, a television and a long sofa were installed, so my six foot four Dad could grab a quick power nap before going back to work after lunch, or for evening office hours. Of course we all used it to pass through on our way outside, but it was very much his refuge and quiet place. From the huge picture window, he could survey the back yard, his roses and vegetable garden and watch sunsets with satisfaction. It was Dad's den.

After he died in 1983, my mother took over the den, having it repainted and papered, and buying new comfortable furniture more to her own taste. She took down his photos and framed degrees, replacing them with watercolour paintings and more feminine botanical prints. A desk was not a priority for her, but more comfortable chairs and a larger TV were. Why sit in a big open dining room when it's just you and your youngest son? The den became Alice's "nest" and she and Tony probably ate most of their dinners in there until he left for university. Here she did her daily crosswords, watched her soaps and had her tea. Grandchildren played on the floor with Grandma's toys, and I dropped in many days after work with my little one, often being asked to stay for supper.  

When she was so ill with cancer in 1999, this room became her bedroom and day room, with morphine drips and visitors, nurses and flowers. We were mere days from securing a hospital bed to be moved in here when her condition became grave enough to require transfer to Valley Regional. She left this room and never returned home.

And so, the den it remained. Reconfigured, redecorated, rearranged; still, it felt like Mom's place. Over the years after Quin moved out, we used it less and less. We're not big TV watchers and what little we do watch seems to be in our bedroom on the bigger screen set. With its door to the arbour and patio beyond, the room became more of a glorified hallway than a place to land and stay. 
 
From our veranda, cafés with free wifi, the backyard, to the kitchen island, I have done my writing everywhere. Feeling very much the homeless scribbler, about a year ago I embarked on the search for a desk. I didn't want anything bulky or heavy, just a simple surface, preferably real wood, on which to plunk my MacBook and write. I found the perfect piece of furniture with a multitude of possibilities that very day when Julie and I set out to look. Leon's. Good old Leon's. Seems it can be ordered from Amazon, too and several other stores. 

The beauty of it is that it can all fold up into a skinny console table or one leaf can fold out which is perfect for my applications. As shown in the image, both leaves fold out make a great square table for extra dining guests or what have you! Mine is somewhat darker in colour and the crisscrossed legs of the base have a sort of Asian sensibility which you know speaks to me! 

Because there are no drawers, I am forced to store things which might otherwise clutter my desktop in nice lidded boxes which I find for a song at Winners/Homesense and this makes the organizer in me deliriously happy. I change the accessories on the back of the desk as my mood demands . . . currently I have an antique green Remington manual typewriter here.

 Also a small stack of old hardback books with pretty bindings and a scarred painted alarm clock c.1927 with the hands stopped at 7:15. The typewriter and alarm clock were two of my gifts from colleague who quipped that now I would have all the time I wanted to write when I retired. She thrifted these vintage items and probably has no idea that similar ones are listed on Etsy and eBay for upwards of $250 and $70, respectively. I love them and their aged patina. One of my favorite Buddha busts sits on an upended vase for a pedestal.

My 2013 wall calendar for above my work spot is John Lennon's Imagine, with one of his whimsical sketches for each month, and I have to say my next purchase will be a corkboard for some of my favorite collectibles including the holographic Jerry Garcia stamp from Tanzania given to me my beloved audiophile and dear friend, Darrin Michael Harvey.  Once a Deadhead . . .

Yes, there's a couch with tons of comfy cushions and a thick woolly blanket for naps. Bookshelves have been purged some over time, leaving a modest selection of my very favorites and collected travel mementos. TV? Sure, for when the grandkids come and our conversation gets too boring. Music? Not always, but I move my Bose iPod dock from room to room as needed.

My room. From its window I can look out over the snowy landscape today and see black-capped chickadees at the feeder and the sun in the wan winter light slowly sinking. I have a room of my own.