One New Year’s resolution that people often make is to get more sleep. Medical research clearly shows that sleep helps with brain function and reduces the likelihood of that terrible disease that starts with “A.” Or it could be that January is so cold and dark, sleeping seems like the best thing to do. We can take our cue from bears: hibernate and dream of Spring.

But, as we age, sleep sometimes becomes difficult. Doctors know this and are quick to point it out. They help us create our bed-time routine: First, take your night-time pills, put on your wrinkle cream, and find your cozy socks. After that, brush your teeth and adjust your mouth guard. Then add your carpal tunnel wrist brace. Next hook up to your CPAP machine. Finally you are in bed. If you can’t fall asleep right away, get up and have a little brandy. Or go to a 24-hour drug store to purchase one of the sleep medications on the market with a cute name like sleep-ease. Ha

Lately the mattress industry has joined the conversation. Sleep County’s founder, Christine Magee, has competition. Have you noticed the underground rivalry between Casper and Endy? Ads in subway cars tell us that “Endy can be your new best friendy!” But Casper has puzzles for you to solve between stops. You can try one, below. If you can’t solve it, “sleep on it!” Then it will be “love at first night.”

Finding a place to nap in the afternoon is another consideration when we are old. If we’re at home, we can just settle into our favourite easy chair. (Ikea has one they call a “nap trap.”) But what if we are caught off guard, say in a restaurant after a big lunch? Can we just pay our bill and then slowly slide down in one of the booths, cover ourselves with our coat, and hope the waiter doesn’t notice? Or what about in a shopping mall? Chairs are often available, but they’re hard ones with arm rests and noisy children nearby. Difficult to grab a few winks there. As for park benches, too easy to slide off when they’re covered with ice in January.

BUT take heart because living in the city, I have discovered the answer! It’s a start-up company, the first in Canada, called Nap It Up! Sounds promising, doesn’t it? I decide that some research is in order. The location, hidden in a downtown mall, is a little tricky to find. After asking for directions from mall security, I walk down a back aisle past an LCBO, turn right and go to the far end, Ahead I can see the calming colours of soft mint beckoning me. My pace slows and I begin to relax.

Inside, I am greeted by friendly staff who invite me to take a look. The individual “rooms” are warm and welcoming. The beds have soft memory foam several inches deep, crisp sheets, thick pillows and furry blankets. The accessories include a bottle of water, a small safe for valuables, dim lighting. The entire area is infused with lavender and soft music. It’s all I can do to stay upright.

I resist, turn up the lights, and take a few pictures instead. I ask questions about price, which varies depending on the length of the nap. The cheapest nap is 25 minutes which doctors recommend, up to as long as 85 minutes. The service was designed for business people needing a short break in the afternoon. But it seems clear to me that we seniors are another needy group. We could all meet there every Wednesday, have a nap, and then go somewhere for coffee.

I thank the owners and head home to write about this great idea. On my way, I stop at the LCBO to buy a little brandy, just in case…

Sue

The parties are over, our friends and family have gone back to their regular lives, and the Christmas tree has been packed up, replaced by the leafless bougainvillea that usually blooms in the window. Here we sit, as sad as our naked plant, hiding under the comfy throw we got for Christmas…

NO! Let’s get out and Do something!

Living in the city, we have lots of choices. High Park has marvelous snowshoe trails winding through the woods. And sometimes a deer peeks out from behind the trees. But right now there is very little snow for such an adventure. City Hall has a large skating rink with wobbly skaters like me. But I haven’t tried my skates on in years and the leather is likely stiff from lack of use. There are several places to walk in the city, on sidewalks or paths, including cemeteries. Or maybe not. Maybe something a little cheerier. An indoor garden perhaps?

We decide to visit the Centennial Conservatory. We get into the car and Peter programs the address into our GPS. She is named Shirley because Shirley/Surely she will get us where we want to go. Well, Peter thinks so anyway. I am a little skeptical because Shirley is a woman of few words. Sometimes we get very close to a corner before Shirley tells us to turn.

After a few near misses, we arrive at our destination, a greenhouse in the middle of a brown field which is a park in the summer. We hurry through the biting winds into the entrance, and are greeted by the sweet fragrance of hyacinths, pots and pots of them. Around the corner are tell-tale signs of Christmas: poinsettias in varying hues of reds and pinks. A few lighted deer and some bright red amaryllis carry on the season.

The greenhouse has several visitors. Little children run around aimlessly, delighted to be free from snowsuits and boots. Parents follow along with their coffee, equally delighted to have found some winter indoor activity. An older adult sits on a bench in a corner, engrossed in a book. A couple smiles for a photographer, possibly practising for a wedding in their future.

The centre of the greenhouse is a tropical jungle with huge palm trees and birds of paradise. We see a tangerine tree, a reminder of sunny Florida where we sometimes escape to in winter. As we wander along, we spot a pond with large orange koi, some with white heads, some with spots, all of them swimming around contentedly. Occasionally they bob up to the surface with open mouths, hoping a visitor will throw a crumb of food their way.

In a room on the right we find ourselves in a desert surrounded by cacti – more varieties than we can count. They are spikey, fluffy, fuzzy, round, tall, flowery, succulent, even phallic. The greens range from jade to sage, to olive, even lime. The plants have ingenious names like “candelabra tree” or “felt bush,” and little signs for little kids, saying “Don’t touch! Painful!”

In the section on the left we come across more poinsettias, a whole field of them, bright and cheery. We notice some electric candles on poles, which suggest that an evening visit here might be fun. In the centre are a couple of red-bowed deer, created entirely with oak leaves. A sign informs us that the Christmas displays will change next week. It seems that Spring will come early to the greenhouse.

After an hour or two we have seen everything and our senses have had their fill. We head back to the car, hoping that Shirley can help us find our way home. But our spirits have been lifted and we are ready to face more of January. Maybe we’ll even help out our bougainvillea with a shot of fertilizer.

If you have an idea on how or where to beat the January blahs, post a comment.

Sue

The reds and greens of Christmas have turned to the gold and silver of that annual celebration – New Year’s Eve. Living in the city now, we have discovered that celebrating is more expensive and far busier than celebrating in the country. Many people our age just stay home, trying to stay awake until past 10:00, and working on their New Year’s resolutions. This year I’ve been thinking about abandoning the standard “eat less and exercise more” routine and trying out a new one: conquering Technology. I’m not sure I can do it; at the mere sound of this word I begin to hyperventilate.

Before we retired, my husband Peter and I were school administrators. Every working day people would ask us for help in solving problems. “How do I fix this?” “What plan will help me deal with that?” We knew the answers. We were In Charge. We walked the halls of our schools carrying our Blackberrys with Authority!

When we retired, we abandoned those menacing devices, planning for an uncomplicated life where we could go to the bathroom in peace. Instead we found a different scene entirely. Our Blackberrys are gone but in their place are ipads and smartphones. We were pretty good at sending emails, but now email is replaced by texting. We figured out facebook and now it’s instagram. We are confronted with learning a whole new language: algorithms, memes, cookies, search engines, hotspots, GIF’s, and on and on. And out trusty Webster’s dictionary – no help at all.

No longer can we make a simple phone call to order tickets for a show; we have to go online, remember which password to use, and hurry to fill out all the fields before our session times out. We are encouraged to do all our banking online, but heaven help us if we misplace a zero. In restaurants and even hospitals we are asked for our cellphone number so somebody can text us when our table or stretcher is ready.

We especially noticed this steep learning curve on Christmas Day. I had asked Peter to buy me a new Fitbit to replace one I had lost. I figured I had experience from my old model and would just plug the Fitbit into my laptop and download the app. But the cord didn’t fit anywhere and there was NO instruction booklet. I couldn’t even get started! Fortunately our techie kids arrived and explained that the cord was for charging the device and then the app could be downloaded through the magic of Bluetooth. I watched in awe as the smartphone and the Fitbit sat side by side on the couch, sharing data.

Next, we began our traditional Secret Santa gift exchange. The first few gifts were safe ones: beer and nuts, LED candles with only an on-off switch, toilet paper with Donald Trump’s face on each square. Then someone unwrapped a Google Nest. The giver explained to us that this device is like Alexa, the electronic know-it-all who sits on a coffee table and runs your house. After that, it was our turn to choose – either the Google Nest or a bagged gift that appeared to be a throw: a cozy blanket that we could nap under during those long cold January days. No installation app required. Well I don’t even have to tell you which one we reached for, do I?

As 2019 draws to a close, I hope you will welcome 2020 with some New Year’s resolutions that are achievable; resolutions that will give you comfort during the new year.

And I thank you, dear readers, for your response to my blog. In just over 6 months, more than 50 dedicated followers and many more occasional readers have figured out enough technology to join me on Tuesday mornings and share stories. My wish for all of us is this: a new year filled with the joy we find together in the little miracles of our lives, no matter where we are.

Sue

Christmas can be a risky time for people of a certain age, if you get my drift. So many things can go wrong.

For example, during December the daylight hours are the shortest of the year. We get dressed and undressed in the dark when it’s easy to mix up socks and underwear. We can’t find where we left our glasses either. No wonder we feel sad when we look in the mirror, only to discover that we have put our Christmas sweater on backwards.

Then we have to deal with the Christmas decorations. This is risky too. My husband, Peter, takes great pride in arranging our two deer in the front yard. The deer are brightly lit and one even nods his head. They’re a bit of nostalgia from our home in the country where Everybody had deer, often real ones, in their front yard. But in the city the deer need to be plugged in, and sometimes the snow is wet. Are the plugs grounded? Will our guests trip over the cords that go across the path to the front door?

Meanwhile I devote hours on my hands and knees winding strings of lights and garlands around the staircase banister. Afterwards I try to straighten up again so I can climb on a chair to put lights and garlands on the tree. It’s even more strenuous than exercise class. Then we both spend the entire holiday hoping that no lights will burn out while the guests are visiting.

Shopping for all those gifts can be a risky business. First, because the big malls are never on the subway, we have to drive there and then look for that elusive parking spot. People fight to the death for a good one, abandoning their Christmas spirit as they glare, honk and even nudge their bumpers towards us until we back off in fear. Once we are in a store we are overwhelmed by choice and underwhelmed by clerks. Finally, having emptied our wallets, we try to remember where we parked our car, so we can head home for a nap.

At Christmas time the weather can be a problem too. We wish for a white Christmas so that the kids can go tobogganing or build snowmen, but not too white because then we have to shovel it without having a hernia or heart attack. Then our guests have to drive in it and avoid skids and fender benders. And what if the snow falls all evening and the guests have to stay overnight? And one of them snores loudly?

And then there are the food risks. Peter and I are already 5 pounds heavier from holiday parties and restaurant visits, and we haven’t even had The Big Meal yet. Usually the Christmas feast begins with lots of delicious snacks that go well with wine. Then. when we are stuffed with appetizers, we get to eat stuffed turkey. After that, somebody brings out Aunt Irma’s shortbread and we lunge for the plate.

When dinner is finally over there is talk of going on a healthy walk around the block to admire the neighbours’ lights. Everybody agrees. What a good idea. Then a couple of the potential walkers quietly excuse themselves and slip into the den to watch TV. A few others head to the kitchen with dirty dishes which they load into the dishwasher as they catch up on gossip. The kids begin playing with their new toys. Soon the walkers have all morphed into sitters, players and talkers.

But, as we sit back with our last glass of wine, we realize that reviving traditions and re-connecting with friends and family are worth these small risks we take every year. Even non-Christians enjoy the spirit of caring and joy that surrounds this celebration.

On the eve of this special day, I wish you a Christmas with matching socks, no burnt-out lights, a few gentle snowflakes, gifts that are well-received, a dinner with at least one salad, an evening walk to admire your neighbourhood. And love.

Sue

As the final countdown for the Big Day approaches, folks everywhere have been carrying on with family traditions. Some of these may surprise you.

The first mention goes to a reader who does a lot of her preparations for Christmas – in October. Yes, you read that right – the month with the colourful leaves and sunny days. But that’s not the most amazing part. She actually writes her Christmas cards at her Summer Cottage! So now is this person overly energetic? No, she has a good excuse for being so eager: she and her husband go away, far away, where there is no post office and not even many gift stores, for the month of November. Imagine her delight when she arrives home in December and has Nothing To Do. And she doesn’t even gloat about it.

Second place goes to a reader who has contrary thoughts like the rest of us, but she doesn’t keep them to herself.”Bah Humbug!” she says out loud, to “Hoopla! Pollution! Self-Indulgence! Murdered trees!” Then she goes on to confess that she does spend lots of time during the holidays catching up online or by phone with family and friends. Another reader shares the negative sentiment and can be heard all over her neighbourhood muttering “Bah Humbug” as she puts up her beautifully decorated tree. Somewhat conflicted, perhaps? Like the ten-year-old child who, in his heart, knows that no fat old man could possibly get down all those chimneys in one night. But the alternative view is too bleak to even contemplate.

Another reader responded to a post in person, with a message of Christmas giving and green living. She brought a hostess gift to a holiday dinner – mesh bags which I could take to the grocery store to gather my wayward brussels sprouts! Now She is an activist in action. And her action made me rethink all the wasteful wrapping that occurs at Christmas. Not only do we buy too many gifts, but then we go and wrap them in brand new paper and ribbons. I am seriously considering using newspapers and old string instead. I do have a handy supply of old string – from my husband Peter’s recently discarded mop.

One reader writes about a family tradition that is multicultural in the true Canadian way. She and her siblings gather ahead of time to Sicilian stuffed pastries. This is a family tradition passed on from her grandmother and her mother. She says that she and her sibs have a great time making them and sharing laughs. Food is often the centrepiece of traditions. Many other families gather to make and share perogies, Christmas cake and memories.

In Italian homes there are lots of traditional Christmas foods such as torrone, panettone, and especially, roasted chestnuts. Raw chestnuts are nicked with a knife so they won’t explode, and then roasted on an open fire, just like the song. If there is no open fire available, then an oven will do. They are best enjoyed with a glass of red wine. Delicious. But last Christmas, in our new home in the city, we had a disaster. Peter saw some good-looking chestnuts at his favourite Sunnyland produce store. He brought them home with great glee, carefully nicked each one, and them popped them in the oven. He opened the wine and waited. Alas – they were moldy!! His Sunnyland girlfriend had let him down. So far this year – no chestnuts have been purchased.

A British tradition that I bring to our holiday dinner table is Christmas Crackers. We always had these when I was little and I remember being delighted at the riddles, tiny toys, and silly hats inside. These days it’s hard to find the perfect crackers with everything inside -the standards and the prices seem to be a lot higher. So this year I am going out on a limb and making my own. I have gathered cardboard tubes from toilet paper rolls, and am filling them with little wind-up Santas. My plan is that we will race the Santas around the table. This is classy, don’t you think? I just hope they don’t get stuck in the mashed potatoes.

Sue

Yes she is – on Friday. Lucy usually arrives around 11:00 and stays till about 3:00. She gathers up the vacuum hose and starts int the bedrooms. From there, she moves on to the living room and dining room. Then she grabs the bucket of cleaning products and heads for the bathrooms. She finishes in the kitchen. By the time she leaves, everything shines and the whole house smells wonderful.

I Love Lucy. Our affair began back in the late ’80’s. I was working full-time as a high school administrator and my house was, as they say, getting away from me. I could barely keep up with the cooking and laundry, never mind what was behind the sofa or on the window sills. I fond Lucy through a recommendation from a friend. She showed up one day, almost tiny, with very little English. But boy could she work. She didn’t even stop for lunch!

I didn’t see Lucy often because I was at school when she was at my house. But quickly she became part of the family. She befriended the cat, and she learned what treasures not to touch in the kids’ bedrooms. Who knows what else she figured out from our garbage, our laundry, our wine bottles? There’s a lot of trust with somebody who knows your house so intimately.

Lucy stayed with me for several years, through a divorce and two moves. She was a rock. Then I met my new husband, Peter, and moved to the country. Despite Lucy’s loyalty, she could not drive all that way north to clean my new, big house. She was offered a cleaning day by Peter’s daughter, Andrea, who lives in the city, and she took it.

Meanwhile Peter and I decided that, since we were retired, we could do our own cleaning. And we did. Peter found an old string mop in the garage and started washing the floors; I did the bathrooms and kitchen. We took turns vacuuming. But it wasn’t high on our list of fun things to do. Really, what retired person can’t find something more exciting to do than clean?

When we decided to move to the city last year, we figured we would have a smaller house with fewer rooms, and we would just carry on cleaning them. But then, one day I was babysitting our grand daughter Agnes at Andrea’s house and, lo and behold, there was Lucy! After we hugged, I blurted it out. Honestly I just couldn’t help myself! Did Lucy have a free day? Of course I was Not Even Thinking about stealing Andrea’s day back…

But, fortunately Lucy did have an extra day. One of her older clients was about to move into a retirement home. I was thrilled. I hadn’t even had to resort to subterfuge! We made our arrangements and I went home to tell Peter. He was hesitant at first but encouraged by Lucy’s history with me and with his daughter. Surely we both couldn’t be wrong.

Lucy arrived on the assigned day. Her English had improved considerably and she was able to speak up. The first thing she noticed was Peter’s old string mop. “What is that?” she said, horrified. “You don’t want me clean with THAT??? You need Good Mop. I buy you Good mop and bring next time.”

On her next visit, Lucy brought us a new, high-tech mop, with a gadget that spins the water out of the mop head. Peter was crestfallen. I heard him tell his buddies: “I’ve been told that My Mop is no longer Good Enough.” After sulking for a while, he began cutting off the strings and using them to tie up his tomato plants.

Things have settled down now; Peter and Lucy have developed a mutual respect. I even hear them talking once in a while. As I spend my free time writing Christmas cards, putting up decorations, and baking cookies, I feel blessed because, in all the hustle and bustle of the holiday season, I don’t have to worry about the cleaning. I know that Lucy will be here again next Friday, wielding her high-tech mop.

Sue

We should have known. There were tell-tale signs in stores as soon as the Hallowe’en costumes and pumpkin decorations were being put away. Boxes stuffed with green tinsel were hiding in corners. Jingle Bells could be heard over loudspeakers. Fake snow was appearing in store windows. Oh yes, something was up alright. But then we went away on vacation.

There, from our hotel in Ecuador, we began hearing news reports of real snow. The GTA was getting its first big storm and it was still early November. That would do it for sure. Shoppers would be on the march. Santas wold begin arriving at malls. Office parties would be announced. The Holiday Season would begin even earlier!

When we arrived back in the city after our adventure at the equator, we felt panic setting in. We were already far behind. Some of the other house owners on our street had put up Christmas lights. Our grand daughter Agnes, and her mom, had already been IN the Santa Claus parade. Our two-week collection of mail included catalogues full of gift ideas – for the athlete, for the fashion-savvy, for the gourmet chef, On Sale Now! How would we ever get all this done by December 25th?

And events were looming. We needed to plan our Christmas dinner with the family. We had to arrange our traditional visits to see the lights on city hall and the animated store windows with the tiny mice hiding under the beds. We had to find out about our annual lunches with book clubs and colleagues, concerts for belting out Christmas Carols, tacky gift exchanges with friends. And, most important, figure out a different, preferably red, outfit to wear to each.

And the cards. We need to get stated writing the cards. The post office has already announced the last date to send overseas mail if we want our nearest and dearest who live farthest to get our greetings in time. Then there is the small, but annoying, problem of my carpel tunnel syndrome, which makes it hard to write for long periods without my penmanship looking all wobbly and crooked. That’s how rumors start, you know. “Did you see the Iaboni card this year? Do you think Sue is losing it?” Maybe we should just forget the cards, and send letters of apology in January instead.

Oh, for heaven’s sake. Get a grip!We have three weeks to deal with this. Besides, lots of those catalogues have how-to articles to help. How to have the perfect wardrobe for the season. How to choose perfect gifts online. How to be the perfect host for all those cocktail parties we should be having, But wait a minute. As I realized at Thanksgiving, reading all those articles sets the bar even higher. Not helpful!

In fact, none of these frills really matter, not as much as remembering, celebrating, being with, those we love. That’s what the Christmas season is supposed to be about. That and – how am I ever going to think up enough material for three more December blog posts???

Perhaps you can help. Send in your favourite Christmas traditions, in the city or in the country, and I’ll share them with our readers. Don’t miss out! Do it today!! only joking….no rush.

Sue

Life on the Galapagos Islands is about as far away from life in the city as you can imagine.

Very few humans live there. Only about 4% of the islands is inhabited by our species. The rest is populated by birds, reptiles and sea animals, all secure and comfortable in their particular environments. They go about their daily lives sunbathing, foraging for food and raising offspring, oblivious to the few human visitors arriving with their fashion accessories: binoculars and cellphone cameras.

We boarded our temporary home – 15 passengers with 7 crew and a naturalist guide – on the Samba, a small boat adapted for human survival in a natural world. It didn’t take us long to fit in with life at sea. Our body clocks responded, although reluctantly at first, to the daylight hours of 6:00 am to 6:00 pm. We were often climbing into kayaks at first light and into our beds soon after dark. We exchanged our usual pastimes for new ones: snorkeling, exploring lava landscapes, watching seals as they swam nearby. There was no internet to distract us.

Our food, plentiful and delicious, came from our surroundings: shrimp, tuna, octopus, scorpion fish from the ocean; papayas, melons, pineapple, potatoes from local orchards and fields. The chef performed marvelous feats in his tiny kitchen, using leftovers and local spices, creating native dishes such as ceviche, naranja mousse, and tres leches cake. Plantain chips satisfied our yearning for junk food. There was no Loblaws anywhere in sight.

Space on the boat was tight. Food was stored inside our dinning room benches, our suitcases went under beds.We washed our bodies in tiny bathroom showers and our clothes in tiny bathroom sinks. We hung our underwear out to dry on the top deck in the wind, and quickly became friends as we learned to recognize who wore what brand. Our cabins were small, mostly outfitted with bunks, and shelves for clothes. There were no master suites on board.

But our daily lives were filled with miracles. We walked across volcanic lava fields where the hopeful heads of tiny flowers peeked out. We sat beside sea lions napping, snoring, rolling over and scratching themselves with their fins. We cheered along as male iguanas head-butted over territory. We side-stepped flightless cormorants searching for perfect twigs to build perfect nests. We swam and snorkeled with fur seals and sharks. We witnessed a huge male tortoise as he struggled to climb on top of his chosen female partner on the side of a dirt path. There were no Hollywood producers making R-rated movies on the scene.

Every so often on the boat our guide would yell out: “Dolphins, dolphins, dolphins!” and we would rush to the bow with our cameras. Other times he would summon us to a “feeding frenzy!” Underwater predators had driven large schools of sardines to the ocean surface which looked like boiling water as the gulls and other birds swooped down to feast. There was no media coverage of the events.

On the seventh day on board the Samba we stayed up until 9:00 pm toasting our trip and reliving our experiences. The next morning we awoke to the sights and sounds of a city – Puerto Ayora on the island of Santa Cruz. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there were people everywhere. We hastily re-adjusted. We moved into a hotel with walk-in showers, flat-screen TV’s, and king beds. We ate meals in restaurants and bought gifts in souvenir shops.

It was all quite unnerving. Standing on flat land in the familiarity of city living, our sea legs kept us swaying and we felt a strong pull back towards the serenity, the solitude, and the wonder of life that had surrounded our little boat in the Galapagos Islands.

Sue

Our guest bedroom is a mess. Did the grandkids visit recently and dump all the lego on the floor? Did Minou, the neighbours’ friendly cat, sneak in and leave furballs and other evidence behind? Did a tree fall during the strong winds last week and break the bedroom window, letting leaves and rain in? NO! to all three.

We are Packing For A Trip. Not even a long trip mind you; just a couple of weeks. How can I be in such a frenzy? One reason is that our house in the country had three extra bedrooms so we could easily spread out the mess; but this house has just one extra bedroom that we can spare as Packing Central. Somehow we have to manage.

I remember my first trip where packing was an issue. I was going to Paris, by myself. I had the distinct impression that, since I was going to a city known for fashion, I needed to keep up. I bought the biggest suitcase I could find (with, unfortunately, the smallest wheels). I filled it up with any chic outfits I had, several pairs of 6-inch heels, scarves, matching jewellery, and so on, hoping to fit in with the crowds of fashionable people and maybe even be noticed if I happened to run into Christian Louboutin.

I arrived in Paris on Bastille Day which, as it happens, is a national holiday – with NO taxi service. I had to lug my enormous suitcase on to the bus, down into the subway, and then transfer onto another line. It was tough going, but I only fell once – into somebody’s lap. I got as close to my hotel as public transit would take me, but I still had to walk several blocks on cracked sidewalks, and then cross a main street through the middle of the parade. And I wasn’t even wearing French colours!

During the trip I saw no fashion designers, and I wore about half the clothes I had brought. Besides, I had no room to pack anything new, even if I wanted to buy something in the fashion capital of the world. How dumb was that? At the end of the trip I vowed never to bring as many clothes ever again on any trip. And I have been pretty good about it.

Yet still I stand here in the guest room trying to make decisions. Which of these 12 tops go best with which pants? Do I even need Any dressy outfits if we are going to be on a little boat in the middle of nowhere? And what jacket do I wear to the airport if it’s winter in the city, but we are going to a place near the equator?

Meanwhile Peter’s side of the room is mostly empty, except for a few things I have put there; things he might forget – like a hat, a water bottle, and pyjamas. His duffle bag sits empty on the bed, waiting for him to grab some stuff the night before and shove it in. Matching? What is that? I can only hope that the “stuff” he chooses doesn’t have too many food stains or unfortunately-situated holes.

One last hurdle we face when we are packing for a trip at our advanced age – our health! On this particular trip there are no hospitals, no doctors, not even any drug stores, anywhere nearby. So we have to load up on all our medications. And think about other emergencies that might occur. What if we get a cold? What if that annoying tooth decides to act up? What if we develop a gastro-intestinal infection that turns into a blockage and requires emergency surgery? Oh for heavens sake, woman! Pack your bag and get going!

I’ll only be 0ff-line for two weeks. Unless that blockage gets serious…

Sue

Evil characters will soon be lurking all over our city, frightening homeowners with weapons and menacing smiles. Are we afraid? Yes we are. We are afraid of running out of candy.

Hallowe’en was not a big deal when we lived in the country, at the end of a dead-end street. We had visits from 3 or 4 spooky characters at the most. By 7:00 pm we were able to start feasting on the leftover candy. But last year, in the city, we gave out treats to over 90 fairies, spidermen, witches, fire fighters and ghosts. This went on till well past 8:30 pm and, even worse, we hardly had any candy left for ourselves! It just wasn’t fair!

Our neigbours in the city take this event seriously. Homes have been spruced up with cobwebs, ghosts hanging from trees, and front lawn cemeteries. We have joined in the festivities by planting a few skulls along our pathway to the front door. One family outdoes us all with his motion-activated witch sitting in a rocking chair, cackling and threatening trick-or-treaters who dare to approach his front door. Obviously he wants to keep all his candy for himself.

Hallowe’en is a big event for our grandchildren too . They have been working on their costumes since the summer. Agnes, who starred a while back in “The Music Man,” fell in love with her role as a prairie girl and is all set with her long skirt, floppy hat and big shopping basket, handy for collecting treats. Ben, age 3, is in love with the Paw Patrol pups and has signed on as Chase. When it comes to finding candy, Chase is on the case! Gavin has opted for a ninja outfit complete with a plastic sword in his right hand. In case of danger, he has his favourite stuffie, Mocha, clutched tightly in his other arm.

We began our celebrations on Saturday when Gavin and Ben joined us for Pumpkinfest on Bloor Street. Everybody gathered at one location to snack on popcorn and hot chocolate, and pick up bags for trick-or-treating. Then kids were invited to collect candy for several blocks along the main street where merchants had hung out welcoming pumpkin signs. We visited real estate offices, banks, nail salons, pubs, travel agents, even a fashionable women’s lingerie store where Gavin peeked in and ducked out again quickly, asking his dad, “Can we really go in THERE?”

On Sunday we had lunch with my adult “kids” and spent some time reminiscing about their favourite costumes when they were growing up. I was a stay-at-home mom and actually sewed their outfits. One of my son James’ proudest moments was at age 2 when he wanted to dress up in a furry black outfit, as our dog, Snoopy. When we headed out the door to collect candy, he immediately dropped down to his knees. I realized that he planned to crawl on all fours around the neighbourhood, wagging his butt/tail as he went. It was going to be a long night.

This year, the only thing we have left to do is buy the candy. Sadly, the grandkids caught us sneaking into their loot bags on Saturday, so we didn’t get a chance to share. Now we have to head to COSTCO for a large supply of our favourite chocolate bars. We plan to buy at least 100. You can’t be too careful.

Sue