Thursday, December 31, 2009: On the 30th Anniversary of My 16th Birthday

It would be hard to beat Santa's gift to me last year which was my Moog Little Phatty Stage II. However in keeping with the 30th Anniversary of my 16th Birthday I have myself a brand new Electric Mandolin. Picking it up and playing it was transporting. It sounds truly sweet, and for when I am in a Nash the Slash sort of mood my Digitech Synth Wah pedal and Digitech DigiDelay do the trick.

My new sweet little Electric Mandolin

Friday, December 25, 2009: The Quiet Christmas

In 1973 my Father became the pastor in the remote town of Windfield Alberta. The church was located on what was in the 1960’s the Pentecostal Holiness Church’s Western conference Bible School. It was part of a large property in the middle of no where, surrounded by trees, forest, and farms and only accessible by red-dirt roads that turned to a quagmire during summer rain storms. I was familiar with the place due to the many trips to the annual summer Camp Meetings. These were huge gatherings where fire and brimstone was preached and the miraculous happened under the roof of the hanger-like tabernacle. Although leaving my friends and school in BC was difficult the idea of having that entire property to myself was more than appealing.

Winter came much earlier than I was used to in British Columbia. The first snow fall was on Halloween. Snow was always a rare thing on the West Coast so I was quite pleased with the prospect of a white Christmas. I was not disappointed. The amount of snow that came down was unbelievable. Each morning leading up to the Christmas holidays was one of getting up to complete darkness, eating toast and having a tea before bundling up like one of the Apollo Astronauts and leaving the airlock to the frozen surface of the outdoors to wait for the yellow school bus. If the temperature fell below -40 degrees then and only then was school cancelled, but what the perceivable difference between –38 and –40 is I can’t say… It would be so cold that the air would sparkle as the sun came up. The last day of school was one of those weird half-days, ruined in part by some organized “fun” that I was glad to see end. I remember my Parents picking me up and driving back along to our house which was still under preparation for the big day. I was very excited because I knew that Dad had said we were going to get a tree that night.

I was 9 so I was beginning to have some doubts about Santa, but there still remained some strange magical feel to Christmas. That magic was even greater there. The woods around the property where spooky enough in the summer, but in there was another quality to them for me that December. The brightness of the moon reflecting on the snow and the ice, the silence of the place, and that feeling the area seemed to have. In the summer I’d kitted myself up in old surplus military belts and packs, dawned a metal helmet and gone off to fight the imaginary Imperial Japanese Army in the jungles of Burma. With winter the comic-book Japanese charging me with fixed bayonets shouting “iiieeeeeeee’ faded and the woods seemed to be full of Tolkien-like Elves and watchful aliens standing around warbling saucers.

That Friday night my Dad and I set off to get a tree. I had expected to climb in the car and drive to some makeshift “X-mas tree” lot that would spring up in parking lots and at gas stations around Chilliwack. Instead my Dad had me get bundled up and bring my sled. Off we went together to find a tree. The prospect of heading into the spooky woods at night wasn’t so bad with my Father there. I wasn’t afraid of any mystical creatures or aliens with him along. Even the more real threats like bears didn’t scare me since my Brother George had shot a bear that had been intent on eating him, and as Dad was certainly bigger and stronger than George I was certain he could kill it with his bare hands. So there was absolutely nothing to fear.

I remember walking a direction I had never explored on my own, a direction away from what I called “Burma”. We crossed a huge field, went through a wooded area and came out into a less densely wooded patch that might have been cleared ten years earlier and now was made up mostly of young pines. Here we stopped for a moment to look up at the stars. My Father always marveled at them.

“Look at the sky” he’d say and always follow it with a whistle.

His faith was intertwined with things like the night sky. He would look at it and talk to me about how many stars there must be. How many planets must circle them?

We walked around among the pines until we found one that looked just about right for the living room. Dad got his little hatchet out of my sled and took it down, talking to it as he did.

“You’re going to stay in our house for a little while Mr. Tree”.

The tree was laid upon my sled and off we went Dad pulling it when I had grown tired. I remember how beautiful the walk back was; the silver of the moonlight on the frozen surface of the snow, and how we saw a big white owl. I remember the crunch crunch of our boots as we stomped along.

We returned triumphantly to the smell of Mom baking her outstanding and unbeaten short-bread cookies and after shaking all the snow and ice off our tree we set it up in the living room. The box of ornaments which we used as long as I recall was brought up from the basement and the decoration began. Decorating a tree was never as much fun with out my Sister Anne, but I did my best under the circumstances. Once the tree was up, and Mom came in to watch the placing of the star on the top the gifts were put under it. These boxes had been arriving over the last week and most had come from Ontario. There was a growing pile of them marked “To Lorne” from “Uncle” or “Auntie”. I inspected them, looking for the tell-tale signs of the much wanted “toys” and the unwanted and loathed “clothes”. I would then pile them accordingly. The possible toys on the bottom to be opened last.

I of course wasn’t the only one waiting for the big day. My G.I. Joe was as well. I had received him the previous year, and although I forget his name now, I do remember him clearly. He was one of the early 12 inch tall 1970’s G.I. Joes, no longer officially a “soldier” but a member of “The Adventure Team”. He was the blond “Air Adventure” featuring “life-like” hair and a beard although he predated “Kung-Fu Grip”. Joe had been alone since we’d arrived in Alberta. Over the course of the year he had lost much of his kit, including most sadly, his boots. Those were hard times for Joe. He was stranded, alone in the harsh artic conditions of Northern Russia. The Soviets had downed his jet and were at that moment searching for him. He had to hang in though. Using his survival training he constructed an ice fortress and using a make-shift radio comprised of a spool of thread and some bits of plastic he called for help… Help was on its way but not until December 25th! He had to hold on until then… armed with only a tiny plastic Luger that came with a detachable stock and rifle extension for the barrel and with feet wrapped in make-shift survival boots made of toilet paper, he held the Reds at bay. The cold war indeed!

Christmas Eve after my parents had gone to bed I crept downstairs. My Father was an expert in covert Christmas present distribution and I was disappointed not to find anything new under the tree. I remember looking out across our front yard towards the Church, secretly hoping to see something magical; maybe Santa, or an Angel or at least a UFO. Then I went back upstairs to my room and fell asleep.

The next morning I was not disappointed. I had asked for three things, a second G.I. Joe, a 6 wheel ATV for him, and the G.I. Joe Command Center. I was thrilled to find that with the ATV came another G.I. Joe, and with the Command Center came two more Joes! Now Air Adventure Joe had some reinforcements and plenty of kit; uniforms and best of all several rifles including some M-16s. More than enough gear to keep the expansion of the Soviet Union well out of our back yard.

My Mother always called that Christmas “The Quiet Christmas” because she hadn’t enjoyed the solitude and distance from her Grandchildren. I however consider that year one of the most amazing Christmas of all. No matter how meager or difficult any Christmas has been since, no matter how far away from home or how lonely I have been during this time of year, the memory of that Christmas has held me through. Even if my circumstances prevented me from celebrating Christmas at all, that Christmas would more than make up for it.

Merry Christmas!

Tuesday, December 22, 2009: Nanny Thomson's Short Bread

One of the things I discovered in 2005 while going through the boxes of stuff I had stored was a scrap of paper in my Mom's handwriting. It featured the recipe for shortbread that my Father's Scotish Mom had imparted to her. I have decided to share it with you all so that when I visit in the future you won't serve me sub-standard shortbread...

Sorry it's not in Metric (could THAT be why it tastes better?)

Nanny Thomson's Short Bread

Bake at 325 F until edges pale golden NOT brown