Thursday Morning

The other morning I had the privilege
of waking with the dawn
and experiencing the freshness of
a brand new day.
My feet were the first
to greet the grey cement
on that particular morning.
I was alive while the rest of the world
slept on –
not hearing the birds as they
woke the earth,
not seeing the baby blue sky
peeking through the sparse clouds,
not seeing me as I swung
like an innocent child
trying to touch
the infinite sky.

Santa Claus

Warning: This story not suitable for children under ten or adults who still believe. Read at your own risk.

At forty, I am still trying to deal with it . The horrific event that occurred when I was only seven. A child. Innocent. Trusting. Until that fateful day that forever changed my life.

It was Christmas, 1973. A wonderful Christmas. It was the year I heard Santa on our balcony. Oh, sure, I’d seen Rudolph’s nose plenty of times in years past. I’d even heard the Christmas elves shuffle into my room to make sure I was asleep before Santa came in. I’d seen the empty cookie plate on Christmas morning. There had been evidence of Santa in my life prior to this fateful holiday season. But that year was different.

I heard him.

I heard the reindeer land on our balcony. I heard him come through the door. I heard the presents being placed under our tree. I even heard him eating the shortbread we left for his snack. Oh, how I wanted to burst out into the hallway and see him. But I knew better.

Christmas morning dawned, and I emerged from my room. The tree looked especially magical that year. My Barbie airplane was spread out in full view - to think, I had heard him setting it up!

I decided to share my wonderful story with my mother. I told her every detail. I trembled with excitement. He was real, and I knew it!

That’s when my world collapsed. That’s when she told me. There was no Santa Claus.

As my mother recounts the story, I cried and cried and cried. I don’t remember. I must have blocked the memory. Post-traumatic stress syndrome, I think it’s called.

My poor mother. She was young. I was her first. How was she to know? There are no chapters in child-rearing books on dealing with the sensitive issue of Santa Claus. On the potentially damaging long-term results of Premature Santa Informant Victims. On how your child will react in adulthood to receiving such horrific news at a young age.

I was one of the lucky ones. I survived with my Santa beliefs intact. Oh, sure, it gets embarrassing sometimes. I had to work hard to triumph over adversity, over the overwhelming Santa-challenged forces that continued to attack me.

At the company lunchtable, when we all discuss how old we were when we “found out about Santa”, I proudly announce that I still believe. Once the laughter subsides and my naive coworkers realize I’m not just trying to be cute, these amateur pshychologists become eager to find out what caused my dimensia

I cry at movies where grown-ups actually get to see tangible evidence that Santa exists (oh, how I wish it were me).

My ex-husband accused me of “ruining” Christmas for him because I got too excited.

Yes, there are challenges for an adult Santa Believer.

But I’m strong enough to face them and stand proud.

At the Christmas parades, I stand with other little believers and cry with excitement when he arrives at the end.

I make no apologies.

I watch the mall Santa Claus with joy in my eyes every year (even though I know he is just a stand in - the real Santa is far too busy to leave the North Pole).

I still leave cookies out for him on Christmas Eve. I usually eat them before I got to bed, though. I know Santa needs to watch his weight.

And I know that, even though he hasn’t been by my house in a few years, he knows I still believe in magic and wonder and kindness and Santa Claus.

That’s all I need.

My mom was wrong. I don’t blame her. She fell for the party line about there being no Santa Claus. Not everyone is strong enough to resist.

But I’ll always believe.

Riddle and Rhyme

People
Are so like
Poems
They long to reveal their
Innermost feelings
But continue to hide
Behind an intricate mask
of Riddle and
Rhyme.

Daffodil

You stand, a small ray of sunshine
gallant statue in my garden
among many like you,
with nothing to do all day
but stand,
watch the world go by and
wonder
what the purpose of life is.
Why all the rush?
You want to cry out, tell the world to
stop,
take some time, like you.
A soft breeze blows
Ruffles your velvet petals
As a soft rain begins to fall,
settling like sparkling diamonds
in the depths of your yellow velvet.
Like me, your life is short,
numbered by days.
Days filled with sunshine
and rain.
Soon you begin to fade,
a sun fading into the horizon,
leaving us wondering.

Living with Americans

I just returned from a visit to San Diego. I live just outside of Toronto now, but spent three years in San Diego in the mid nineties.

When I left Canada, I didn't see myself coming back. Ontario's economy had been decimated by years of NDP rule, and federally, taxes were increasing, big government was back, Quebec was threatening to separate. I didn't see myself ever getting ahead in Ontario. In Canada. I loved my country, but wasn't sure anymore that it was a place I could grow. Achieve.

Aside from the obvious climate and lifestyle changes, I didn’t expect life would be that different culturally in California from what I had experienced growing up in Canada. I’ve lived next to Americans in border cities all my life, and they didn’t seem much different than me.

Now that I’ve lived there, however, I know better.

Life is faster in the US - so much happens so quickly and intensely. I had priceless experiences during my time there. Some changed the way I see the world, others were entertaining - and none would have happened had I stayed in Canada.

I’ve experienced the ravages of El Nino, floods, massive brush fires, two earthquakes and mud slides. I’ve golfed with Presidents and dined with NFL Hall of Fame quarterbacks. I’ve seen foot-long lizards perched in front of my refrigerator and glimpsed bald eagles in the wild, perched on trees, regal and beautiful in their freedom.

I’ve played beach volleyball by the Pacific Ocean and watched American FA -18s and stealth bombers fly patterns over my apartment. I’ve watched dolphins play in their natural habitat off the coast of La Jolla and have hopped a plane to San Francisco on a Friday to see that night’s showing of Phantom of the Opera. I’ve driven alone across 32 states and seen first hand their individual beauty. I’ve lived the fast paced life of an American, and have grown stronger through surviving it.

Americans not only experience life on a more frenzied level than Canadians, they are also far less reserved.

Americans strike up conversations with strangers everywhere - in grocery lines, bank lines, on planes, in airports, at the gym, at the park. Sometimes I found this outwardly friendly behaviour refreshing. Other times, my Canadian reserve kicked in and I wished they would give me my space - just for a while!

Americans make friendships more quickly, but many of these friendships exist on a more shallow level. In Canada, it takes longer to form a friendship – but, once formed, the relationship is deeper.

If you make social plans with a Californian, you can expect those plans to be tentative. Your companion may call or show up as scheduled, but if something else comes up, their plans will likely change, and you may not even be informed that you are no longer a part of them.

Driving on American interstates, at least in California, is insane. Speeds, in spite of radar checks, run the equivalent of 140 km/ph in the middle lane. If you are driving 110 km/ph, you’re in the slow lane. Leaving space between you and the car in front of you is futile. Someone always cuts in. You learn to drive defensively, and to drive by the seat of your pants. And you learn, if you want to live, to keep your temper in tow when you drive. Angry motorists with guns in their cars are no myth.

Americans say “hey” alot instead of “hi”. They say “sawry” instead of “sorry” and “uh” instead of “eh”. When they attempt to mimic the quintessential Canadian “eh”, it sounds pitifully forced and rather humourous (note: spelled with a “u”)

If you think holidays are commercial in Canada, you haven’t seen anything. Imagine flashing, twinkling white lights everywhere – orange for Halloween, pastels for Easter, red and white for Valentine’s Day, multiple colours for Christmas. Chasing lights that spell seasonal words on external house walls. Some homes are tastefully decorated, but the majority are fine examples of hideous commercialism. Some Americans decorate for every conceivable holiday – even for Valentine’s Day.

Americans like guns. Most are intent on defending their right to bear arms, arguing that it is the only way to ensure personal freedom and safety, not realizing that people in societies where guns are not so readily available also manage to maintain their freedom. With fewer guns available, their need to protect themselves against the guns of others would diminish. But they don’t see that. They don’t see that this right, instituted 250 years ago, was intended to protect a new country against its enemies during vastly different times, not to kill over 80,000 of its own citizens annually. They don’t see that by enabling private citizens to own personal firearms and assault weapons, they are helping to destroy their own people, rather than protecting them and their freedom. Americans do not understand that a free society can survive without arming private citizens with weapons. They don’t see that it is as much about attitude as it is about gun control.

The average American knows almost nothing about Canada. When I told one American I was from Toronto, he asked if I had ever seen a Polar Bear. In jest, I told him I had. He asked if it was dangerous. I said no, that we carry packs of seal meat and, if the bears appear to be aggressive, we throw seal meat. That eliminates the danger.

He believed me.

American’s don’t care about our culture.

Don’t get me wrong - it’s not that they have no respect for it. They just don’t think about it, don’t pay attention to it – don’t know about it.

As one American put it, “What culture?”

Many of them barely know we exist – and the majority certainly has no desire nor intent to assimilate our culture. It’s almost funny to see the extent to which we protect our culture from a non-existent enemy. There must be more constructive ways to strengthen our national culture and communicate that culture to others.

Some of the richest people I met in the US were also the most uncultured and classless. Americans don’t seem to realize that true class isn’t about money. They don’t respect the beauty of the English language, the proper and careful use of the language. They don’t see the importance of manners and civility, of holding back once in awhile, of silent power. Of manners. A few of my American friends actually laughed at my tendency to say please and thank you so often.

We’re not perfect in Canada, but we are miles ahead of our American neighbours – hopefully we won’t let that gentle and thoughtful aspect of our culture slip as we raise new generations of children.

When you emigrate to America, you go to become American. Immigrants don’t go there to change American laws and cultures to suit theirs. They would never allow it. I never felt it was my right to change their culture to fit mine. The United States, as a whole, maintains a steadfast spirit of independence of which immigrants and minorities are a key component. As a foreign resident in the US, I would never have been expected to forfeit my past, my history, my roots, my pride in my heritage. I displayed my individuality freely - as part of a larger unit.

Americans are patriots. Whether they love or hate their country, their feelings are passionate, their pride is great. Even those who rock the boat, who perform questionable acts in order to challenge their government, believe they are acting for the good of their country.

When I saw the daily FA-18 flyovers at my home by Miramar Naval Air Station, I felt something tremendous. Pride in a country that isn’t even mine, safety in the superiority of its military might, fear that this protection might actually be necessary, excitement in the sheer beauty of those planes. I’ve never felt that in Canada, nor would I expect to. It wouldn’t seem right. But it seems right in the US, a country that fought for its independence. They didn’t negotiate it. They won it through sheer will and determination. I believe that gives them something Canadians will never have - nor ever want.

When I met President George Bush, I was in awe. I am not in awe often. It didn’t hit right away. It was later, while the President, his Secret Service agents and me were in a corner of the conference room, hidden behind a barrier, watching an introduction video highlighting his life, waiting for his moment to hit the stage. We made small talk about my boyfriend. He asked what his intentions were. We laughed. I thought, just like a grandfather!

At that moment, the screen showed a lone man, standing in front of millions, one hand raised, one hand on the Bible, being sworn in as President of the United States of America.

I realized that man was standing next to me, asking about my boyfriend’s intentions. My knees became weak. That would not have happened with a Canadian Prime Minister

Why not? I don’t have the answer.

It’s different.

It’s America.

When my work visa expired, I was ready to come home. It’s funny that my identity as a Canadian, nonexistent when I left, formed while I lived in San Diego.

I discovered that I like saying “eh”. It’s very British.

I don’t like guns, and I never will. I like having class in spite of not having money. I like being somewhat reserved. I like judging a person by their soul, not their skin colour. I like wearing a poppy in November, and I am proud of my British roots and my country’s ties to the monarchy. And even though our Canadian tendency toward debate drives me insane, I prefer the peaceful, reserved culture I was born into to the violent, revolutionary culture of the United States

I like living in a city that knowledgeable Americans call the Switzerland of the North, and love the European flavour and culture of Canada and the subtlety of a somewhat European population.

I’m grateful for a healthcare system that, though imperfect, assures me that I will never be denied healthcare or bankrupted by my need for it.

Canadians need to become more nationalistic. I wish every Canadian could feel the pride I feel when I say I am Canadian. I wish every Canadian could know how we are perceived by the world, know what a proud reputation we have internationally – and know how much that reputation and lifestyle depend upon their continuing contribution to it.