auld lang syne

Photo: moxieann

When I was a teenaged babysitter, I spent a New Year's eve or two reading the poetry of Robbie Burns. Blame it on an infatuation with all things Scottish.

Why no one has made a movie of the life of the Scots' bard, that I'm aware of, is indeed a mystery. Everything is there: romantic poet who toiled as a farmer -- but was probably better at cultivating women -- whose life was cut short at the age of 37. He fathered 15 children in his lifetime, nine with his wife. I imagine bad boy Colin Farrell, even though he's Irish, could play him.

2005 has not been an easy year, but it has not been a bad one. Here's raising a glass to what has been and what is to come!

Auld Lang Syne
By: Robert Burns

Chorus:
And for auld lang syne, my jo,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to mind?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' lang syne?

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp!
And surely I'll be mine!
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes
And pu'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot
Sin auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl'd i' the burn,
Frae mornin' sun till dine;
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin auld lang syne.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere!
And gie's a hand o' thine!
And we'll tak a right gude-willy waught,
For auld lang syne.

boxing day blues

I wasn't going to post anything, but I have the news on, and just heard that five more have been shot downtown early this evening, only an hour ago. One possibly dead at the scene, two in critical condition. Right at the corner of Gould and Yonge, across the street from Sam the Record Man and on Ryerson's doorstep.

The news shows the streets crowded with Boxing Day shoppers.

I'm back in Toronto, my home now, after spending Christmas Eve and day with my youngest brother's family in Buffalo, New York. Tomorrow, I'm heading for Michigan and the home of my other brother to spend a few days. I've been wrapped in warmth and love and the best of the holiday season, and it is sad to hear of another shooting, another death, on my newly adopted home turf.

So sad.

tinsel and light and love

Photo: David Dee

I'm missing my mother. We were closer than many mothers and daughters and I considered her my best friend.

This is our second Christmas without her, as she passed away a year ago in September, but I'm missing her at every turn this year. Last Christmas I was still in her house, finishing up its closing, so she was still there in many ways. This Christmas it's just memories.

Things I'm missing: dragging her Christmas tree up from the basement, the sparkle of lights on her tree, her girlish excitement about the whole season, watching George C. Scott as our favourite Scrooge, the endless supplies of fruitcake and eggnog . . .

A memory unleashed every time I hear or see: Nat King Cole or Johnny Mathis or the Carpenters sing a carol, the Nutcracker Ballet, choral singers in a church . . .

Traditions to carry on and traditions to begin anew.

Wish you were here, Mom.

ticket to travel

Photo: mioi.

Virtual travel is fun. When the weather gets too cold or dreary, or I'm just looking for a new horizon, I'll often hop over to the Trento Bike Pages.

Sunny Portugal, Icelandic hot springs, the Swiss Alps -- I can choose to be anywhere, riding a bike through the countryside, fighting local traffic, living on bread and cheese -- without the aching muscles and the days of inclement weather.

Come along! S'il vous plait!

cheshire chipmunks

I began my six-week school internship last Monday at a commuter daily. I like it. I'm doing copy editing and layout on the afternoon shift. Last night though, after my busiest evening so far, I had strange dreams.

In that fog of dreaming and being conscious of it, my mind jumped from one implausible scenario to another. One moment I was on an overpass and watched, knowingly, as a semi-truck ripped its top off inches from where I stood. But there was no danger; I laughed, and said to whomever I was with, I had a dream that was going to happen.

Next, I was in a jewellery shop and had received a red coupon. As a gift, I could have my pick of any of the wild animals running around on the floor. Not terribly wild, as in ferocious, but wild as in squirrels and rabbits and chipmunks. The tiny chipmunk was the craziest, darting and causing mischief, and for some reason I picked it. I knew it would escape. I wondered about setting it loose hundreds of miles from its home in a northern environment.

"We have to throw a towel on it to catch it," said the jewellery store proprietor. Which she did. The chipmunk was placed in some kind of bowl, and as I pondered what to do with it, I turned around and the chipmunk had made its escape.

Copy-editing dreams ...

eagle feathers

Sarnia Powwow circa 1994

Over the years my mother and I had attended several powwows on Manitoulin Island and in Sarnia. Last Saturday I attended, for the first time, the Pow Wow at the Canadian Aboriginal Festival held at the Rogers Centre in Toronto.

Stirring, moving, inspirational and impressive.

I am not aboriginal, though I may have had a great-great-grandmother who was of the Ojibwa tribe. It's one of those uncertainties lost in the uncertainties. My mother's mother always told me when I was very young that her grandmother was the daughter of an Ojibwa chieftain, an Indian princess.

This pleased me to no end, and being a child of nature myself, seemed fitting. It was only after a casual mention as an adult that my grandmother laughed and said she made up the princess designation. I was never sure if she made up the whole history too, but being of longstanding French-Canadian heritage, I believe it is likely that there was an Ojibwa grandmother at some time.

I cannot begin to address the complex issues involving our aboriginal Canadians. I only want to mention a couple of things that struck me anew.

A Ryerson journalism student, Matthew Chung, wrote a fine piece on homosexuality in aboriginal culture. The culture calls gay people "two-spirited", and traditionally they were accepted as someone having both male and female spirits. It's a human way to perceive the reality and a dignified way.

Traditional aboriginal beliefs do have a dignity about them. Another one concerns the eagle feather. The feathers in the powwow dancers' costumes are traditionally eagle feathers. Many are in fact eagle feathers.

If a person sees a feather on the ground that has fallen from a costume, they are not to touch it. Every eagle feather represents the spirit of a warrior. Only a warrior, today, a war veteran, can touch or retrieve the fallen warrior.

On Saturday, after the Grand Entry, when hundreds of dancers moved in winding circles, connecting to the earth and the steady beat of the drums, an eagle's feather was found to have fallen. Four veterans, dressed in traditional finery, danced in the four directions surrounding the feather, at the end retrieving it for its keeper.

Afterward, it is tradition for the eldest veteran to relay a war story. Choosing not to mar the celebration with sadness, this veteran told a story about an enemy soldier coming upon him and his men. Their eyes met, and this enemy soldier had the opportunity to kill them.

But, he did not.