Yes, we are. Finally. And we are safe. Actually,
beyond safe. We are snug and secure and, possibly, just a wee bit inebriated in
our relief. Travelling has turned bags under eyes into hound dog replicas. I
keep telling myself that that is okay. I am getting older and it
shows. And that is just fine. Perhaps the R & R will soften the caverns but, really, I am alive, well, and happy.
Four days on the road; no snow but a threat of
flash flooding and tornadoes, and we are comfortably ensconced near
the most amazing beach I believe I have ever seen. And, it is a
three minute walk from our house! More than that, we sat in the sun by
our little pool in the backyard and celebrated the 8th birthday of these two
little fur-beings who bring nothing but laughter and love into our lives. It is
not as warm as I would like, but it doesn't matter. It does not get any
better. Happy birthday Ginger and Spice!
Texas has a whorehouse in it. Well, maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t. I truly have no idea. I’m sure there must be a chicken ranch or two, but I’m guessing they’re filled with poultry rather than scantily clad women being harassed by a religious zealot. Although, I’m not a hundred percent certain, which may be motivation enough to head stateside.
Why mess with Texas? That is where dear husband (DH) and I hooked up…well…sort of. We will celebrate thirty years together in March thanks to meeting in August of 1984 for a first reading of that risqué musical play and the crazy fun-filled performance that followed. In a city too large for my outport soul, I connected with like-minded people that fateful year. More importantly, I found my soul mate. Yep, soul mate. The fodder of romantic novels happens in real life, for there are no other words to succinctly explain our connection to one another.
Here we are three decades later, lucky enough to retire incredibly early and have choices. What to do? Canadians are snowbirds. It’s a long-standing tradition. For those of you not of this continent, snowbirds fly south, away from mounting snowbanks to the sandy shores of the southern states.
Don't we look like the perfect match?
The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, 1984
We have continued to quote from The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas. It will have no meaning to anyone except us, but “...and your cottage on Padre Island” is our favourite line—for over a quarter of a century! (We won’t mention that we recently watched ourselves in a beta version—if you don’t understand that, perhaps you got lost in your blog hopping and will now recognize that you have drifted into the ancient past—and found out that the actual line is “...and your fishing lodge on Padre Island.” It seems we even synchronize our mistakes.)
Faced with our first winter of freedom, we thought of our beginnings and decided to bring it full circle. Texas. We’ve only been to the imaginary stage version of the state, so this is an exciting adventure. As for the existence of a real life Chicken Ranch? Stay tuned. We’ll let you know what we find out.
The moon is ethereal, glowing upon the white pillows that
blanket my backyard. I stand in the window, comforted by the warmth of my home
and the joy of my small family. I am wrapped in the arms of the man I love. I
am content.
A precipitant gust, a swirl of snow and the yard becomes
a dreamscape. The past whispers on the wind. It will not be forgotten. We lived. Their voices haunt me as they
have since I was young. Remembered tales from childhood? Romantic melancholy? A
past life? It is within me, around me. There are things in this life that defy
explanation.
The Ouendat lived. They longed. They loved.
In Raven’s Path, Brandan "Raven" Murray yearns for accord between
nations without the stain of blood upon the ground. Isn’t that what we still
wish for in the world today? In the spirit of the season, I ask that you join
me in remembering the Ouendat of Huronia and their descendants. The land beyond my frosted panes belonged to them, yet they welcomed strangers and shared their bounty.
Let us continue that tradition.
The Huron Carol
Ehstehn yayau deh tsaun we yisus ahattonnia
O na wateh wado:kwi nonnwa 'ndasqua entai
ehnau sherskwa trivota nonnwa 'ndi yaun rashata
Iesus Ahattonnia, Ahattonnia, Iesus Ahattonnia.
Chretiens, prenez courage,
Jesus Sauveur est ne!
Du malin les ouvrages
A jamais sont ruines.
Quand il chante merveille,
A ces troublants appas
Ne pretez plus l'oreille:
Jesus est ne, Iesus Ahattonnia.
Oyez cette nouvelle,
Dont un ange est porteur!
Oyez! ames fideles,
Et dilatez vos coeurs.
La Vierge dans l'etable
Entoure de ses bras
L'Enfant-Dieu adorable.
Jesus est ne, Iesus Ahattonnia.
Let Christian men take heart today
The devil's rule is done;
Let no man heed the devil more,
For Jesus Christ is come
But hear ye all what angels sing:
How Mary Maid bore Jesus King.
Iesus Ahattonnia, Jesus is born, Iesus Ahattonnia.
Three chieftains saw before Noel
A star as bright as day,
"So fair a sign," the chieftains said,
"Shall lead us where it may."
For Jesu told the chieftains three:
"The star will bring you here to me."
Iesus Ahattonnia, Jesus is born, Iesus Ahattonnia.
The Huron Carol was written by Jesuit missionary Jean de Brébeuf in the 17th century. Originally written entirely in the language of the Ouendat, Heather Dale** does a nice job of including French and English. It is considered Canada’s first Christmas carol. **Please consider purchasing this music from Heather Dale if you loved it, as she is an independent artist.
Last month we visited the Ouendat/Jesuit mission of Sainte-Marie among the Hurons, a carefully crafted recreation of a community that existed in
the 1600s. They hold an annual First
Light weekend, lighting over 5000 candles to illuminate this wonderful
village. Celebrating First Nations’ and French cultures, it is an evening
filled with music and food. From the evocative drumming in the smoke-filled
longhouses, to the toe-tapping French-Canadian folksongs in the granary, and
the mystical strings of the harp whispering in the church, it invites you to
step into another time.Chilled to the
bone, but warmed to the heart, we enjoyed the haunting images of days gone by.
Longhouse photo: Roadstories.ca
Much of my inspiration for Raven’s Path comes from this
nearby site. I visited as a small child and continue to go yearly. The moment I cross the threshold of the palisade, history wraps around me and drapes with the comfort of a blanket. Its call is inexplicable. Each time I enter a longhouse—plants hanging from rafters, animal pelts tossed casually on the side platforms, wood smoke acrid and familiar—I pause. Center hearths glow, flickering eerily over the bark walls, contentedly snapping out warmth. I listen with my heart, take heed of my soul and I can hear it. The
echoes of the past. Out of the ashes of the fires that burn, rise the people
caught in the crossfire of nations.
The Kobo is a great addition to my technology collection. I mean, how can you not appreciate being able to take a large diverse library with you when you travel? Next Issueprovides the same convenience, the sheer quantity of magazines at the press of a button somewhat thrilling.
Yet, I still love the feel of the real McCoy. There is nothing like opening a new book, the paper crisp beneath my fingers, the sense of anticipation as I turn each page. I can't imagine a world without hardcopy versions of my favourites lining my bookshelves. Sometimes I am passing by and have to stop to touch the spines, just connecting with them bringing me pleasure. (I must confess, I fondle books at retail stores too, relishing opening them up for an illicit peek, but let's just keep that between you and me.)
I am all for progress and change and certainly support the eBook trade. But, let's not forget our old friend, the book book. Pick one up once in a while, feel the comfort of its weight, and appreciate how it brings you, not just to a new place but back to a time when simple pleasures were, well, simple.
(Thank you friends on CompuServe for sharing this video: The Power of a Bookbook.)
Technology can be an
amazing tool or the source of absolute misery. Over the last few days, I have
cried a pox on computers. Gmail has refused to maintain integrity of
formatting. Word shifted the settings on a manuscript, but insists that it sits
at one-inch margins despite the fact that the ruler clearly shows it at twice
that width. Add to the list, an Internet connection that keeps playing hide and
seek. Yesterday, frustrated and ready to toss my laptop out into the cold
winter night, I took a break and watched the news.
Bombs, gunfire kill 81 at crowded mosque in Nigeria.
Wrongly convicted man released after twelve years. Over five thousand dead from
Ebola. Calm comes to troubled Ferguson while protests ignite around the
country.
I took a very long, very
deep breath. I live in a country where I can practice, or not, my religion
without fear, where medical care is a right of every citizen regardless of income, and where, should
I not agree with my government’s policies, I can stand freely and shout my
concerns and back that up with a vote. I never want for food on my table nor a
roof overhead. My home is filled with laughter and love and too many hugs to
count.
So, technology is
messing with me a bit. Let it. I’m off to take a walk with my two dogs, hand in
hand with my husband and, I’d put my money on it, there’ll be some hugging
going on when we get home.
Eight years ago, my inner fire was a small flicker—not
entirely extinguished, but it was not lighting the way as it once did. My
job was slowly eroding my soul. I didn’t know if I could hang in there; I worried that I had taken a wrong turn on my career path. The proverbial window
opened, and I was promoted and transferred to a new location.
A fresh start is an amazing thing. I was thrilled to be
there and discovered that, in embracing others, I was embraced. I spent the
next six years in a wonderful nurturing environment. We grew together, working
through each day, and any problems, with genuine affection and lots of
laughter. Fanned on a daily basis, my flame began to glow. A lightened
heart is capable of so much more than a heavy one. The joy of my working days
spilled into my home life and I began to write regularly.
It was with mixed emotions that I voluntarily bid farewell to
that part of my life. I have no regrets. I treasure spending time with my small
family and am loving the hours each day that I am now able to devote to writing. Things could not be sweeter. Still, I
said goodbye to some amazing people. Well, those folks visited last night. We shared
a little wine, plenty of stories, and so much laughter.
It seems goodbyes do
not have to be forever. Thank you, my friends. Once again, my flame burns a
little brighter.
Yes, we are. Finally. And we are safe. Actually,
beyond safe. We are snug and secure and, possibly, just a wee bit inebriated in
our relief. Travelling has turned bags under eyes into hound dog replicas. I
keep telling myself that that is okay. I am getting older and it
shows. And that is just fine. Perhaps the R & R will soften the caverns but, really, I am alive, well, and happy. 
