Christmas window displays in department stores seem to suspend time, stopping us in our determined shopping tracks and sending us into a revery of memory and a bit of nostalgic longing.  Simpson’s in Halifax, Eaton’s in Toronto, Ogilvie’s in Montreal, Woodward’s in Vancouver. Elves, toy maker’s shops, Santa and the missus checking lists, baking cookies, animals on Hans Brinker skates seeming to  glide on mirrored glass, one leg pinned to the ice, the other stretched out behind like a scarf in a stiff wind. All animated. Hammers gently up and gently down on a train car or a doll’s shoe,  a bunny pirouetting on a skate, defying the laws of physics in its languid speed or lack thereof , a woodsman in an eternal effort to chop down a Christmas tree with a tiny hatchet that always falls short of the tree trunk. A dozen alternating up-down-sideways and back movements, jerky and stiff – enchanting to kids and a lift to the hearts of adults.

And then there’s Mill Brothers in downtown Halifax,  the clothing and cosmetics store, not the singing group.

Our first Christmas season in Halifax lacked snow but was gripped with cold. I was walking home late one December night on the street side opposite to Mill Brothers store, and from a half block away, I saw the lights in the window and some small figures moving in the familiar slow manner of  old clockwork animations. I felt a lift and a brightening of my mood which has been less than sunny that first year home. A Christmas window display. I bounded across the street.

Some swear by instinct to save them from undue unpleasantness, but I lack that gene. If I had it, I would not have crossed that deserted street and trotted up the sidewalk to gaze in at the display. I would have kept on walking down the silent street, on to my home and its abundant creature comfort.

When I reached the window, I was buoyed  by the thought of a cheery little tableau. What I saw was a snowy scene of misery. There, in a little coffin, lay an almost dead Snow White, hands folded just below her heart which every seven or eight seconds would rise up briefly and fall back into her still body. Around her, seven distraught dwarfs silently grieved. Tiny fists were curled up close to their bright eyes as if to stop the teardrop crystals that had been glued to their cheeks. Snow White continued to lie in her chilly repose, her breast thumping out a weak swelling every three or four imagined breaths.  A few animals gazed on, bewildered and frozen.  It was horrible and sad.

I walked home pondering what kind of thinking compelled a merchant to say yes to that. Santa’s Workshop – no. Skating Bunnies – no. Victorian Family Decorating Christmas Tree – no. Dying Snow White – yes. Just the ticket.

When I reached the corner of my street, I cut across on a diagonal to save a second or two of time. As I stepped on a manhole cover, I looked down and read the embossed name on it. “Silent Night” it read. It was somehow sweet, and made up for the Mills Brothers Christmas Window, but I wondered how it came to be. “Silent Night” – a wish and a promise, I guess.

A wish and a promise, I guess. Before Christmas, I’m going to try to snap some pictures of the aforementioned scenes. Please write me if you have similar stories and/or pictures. It can’t just be Halifax, can it?

Driving’s tough. A lot of all-season radials are crying on off-ramps. Fools! Even the good drivers stay put -a sensible caution-wanting to avoid the panicked drivers and the silly little all-season radials.

Nevertheless,  it’s a Snow Day. Or, as a five year old friend says: you don’t gotta go day. In the distance, I hear the rumbling of thousands of little feet dancing a dance of freedom. Across the street, little plastic snow shovels are being wielded like weapons. The kids have beaten their snow-ploughshares into swords.

The snow’s lighter than confectioners’ sugar. It won’t stick for a snow man and it won’t keep still for snow angels. It has no balls. There are times when it seems to be sighing more than falling.

And it keeps coming. Our front yard could be the set for Beckett’s “Happy Days” except that the pile is snow -not dirt – and if I were to try to climb it I would plunge to the bottom instead of hanging desperately to its side and sorry for the run-on sentence, but I have no grammar check on this computer.

Other observations on Snow Day: snow suits are cuter, come in better colours, and are less constricting; if they are the same height, you cannot tell one child from another – even your across the street neighbours’ kids; it’s easier to shovel powdery snow 40 times – even all night long, if necessary – than to wake to two feet of slightly melting snow; it’s easier to get rid of  a two foot melting snow pile than the glacier it forms in a Halifax snap-freeze; the guy down the street with the only snowblower on the block a selfish dink; people look very different wearing Russian Red Army hats; plastic bags are not good snow boots; even Oprah Winfrey is interesting after 11 snow shovelling trips and a vodka martini; All- Season tires, in the wrong hands, are very stupid.

We can learn a lot on Snow Day. Except about that the guy down the street. We knew that.

I saw a picture of myself with JP Cormier in which I look about 75 years old. I think JP (whose birthday is the same day) was squeezing me so hard that every bit of loose flesh was pushed into my head and neck. I assure you that I’m only 57.

I will not include the photo here. Or anywhere.

Thanks again.

What I can do is recollect the past year. My calendar – a tiny nutshell of dates and events – is a handy tool in remembering some things, but most of the day-to-day is lost to time bled away.

So, the year looked (sort of) like this:

a few good tours with Cindy and Raylene – fun, work, fun work;

a solo show at the Carleton which I was grateful to sell out, despite the no-show of every Facebook friend who accepted my invitation – an invitation so carelessly extended via mass-email gets the response it deserves;

a show in Kitchener with Cindy and the great Gwen Swick;

a solo show at C’est What in Toronto for an audience of 14 people, 12 of them friends;

another songwriting camp at the Road to Stanfest – four days of a sharp red pencil and JP Cormier, Dave Carroll and Clary Croft working on, in and around some really good songs and some really bad songs;

a trip to London and Paris with my partner and help-meet – very,very good;

three days and one show in Forget, Saskatchewan, home of Ananda Art House, Inn of the Seven Sister, The Happy Nun, St. Ambrose Apiary, all created and run by beloved friends Shannon and Don Shakotko with the help of Hank and Gyda Nickles – go there and see how to live and create something bigger than yourself;

a quick few days in New York to see the lights.

In and around these events there was plenty of company, dear friends, lots of family, illness and hope, sadness to varying degrees and seized times of joy.

Oh, and baby-sitting of babies, child-caring of children and dog-sitting of dogs. Everyone needs a willing spinster aunt, even if  they do like a martini once or twice a day.

I do have hopes for next year. I hope to return to a great love: beekeeping.  I hope my hair continues to turn white. I hope I get some work. Above all, I hope my family stays well and has happiness.

That last one, I hope for you, too, and to all those you love.

I seldom listen to commercial radio, but now I can’t avoid it. There’s something outside the window that sounds like Harry Chapin’s “Cat’s In The Cradle”, but it’s a techno-pop arrangement. The singer sounds like he has an electric razor tucked in his cheek. I feel my blood pressure rise with the relentless bass line. I never liked that song, but now I hate it. If, in fact, it is that song. It just may be a techno-pop side write.

Then comes the sparkly-spark-spark, perky-perk-perk announcer –  the “on air personality”. It sounds like she’s just caught the bouquet at a wedding. She takes calls from people who call in to win contests. They sound like they’ve won the 16 million dollar lottery jackpot, when actually they’ve just won tickets to a chicken wing eating contest where they will get a free T-shirt. It sounds very exciting on the radio, though.

But, at one point I heard a jingle. An actual jingle, like the one’s we used to hear on the radio years ago. You know – “it’s so easy when you use Lestoil!” or “Cameo….refreshingly different!” I was hit with a wave of nostalgia. Images of teenage girls in mini-skirts walking in pairs, each with a small transistor radio – in a leather case – pressed to their respective ears. This was 1965, I’m guessing. Almost every young teenage girl had one.

I had one, but did not walk around with it pressed to my ear. I don’t think my mother allowed it. Instead, I took it to bed and plugged in the flimsy wire earphone. There was only one – a single “ear bud”. It’s looked like a tiny ivory coloured cross between an acorn and a pear. It had a small hole at the end from which the hit parade…well…paraded.

As did the jingles. Car dealerships, restaurants, furniture. Heating and plumbing companies, electricians, barber shops. Drive-ins (both food places and movies). Seems like any local merchant with the cash could go into a radio station and order up a jingle. Local musicians came in to write, to play and to sing.

Now, that ‘s my idea of an ideal gig. Y0u get to write, play and sing, but it’s not necessary to wear make-up and  dress clothes.

Enough of that. The painter departed with his paint and his radio, and I am left with “Cameo….refreshingly different” looping in my head.  If you are old enough to remember this jingle , I apologize for putting it in yours.

House looks great, by the way.

I was away for three weeks, and upon return I developed a cold. That is, I came down with “The Cold” as we say here in Nova Scotia. Here, there is only one cold that has been split and re-split into thousand of shards and we share them, passing them amongst each other ad infinitum. I think The Cold I have now is the same one I had in 1962 and kept me from having to go to several piano lessons which I had been taking under the tutelage of Sister Thomas Marie and her happy gang of  whacking…er…knitting needles.

I believe that even talking about “The Cold” has power enough to lower immune systems and lay one open to The Cold taking up residence. Even on the telephone. Please don’t call me to say: She’s got The Cold…I had The Cold last week…have you had The Cold…did you manage to avoid The Cold, etc. Please! Remember that the telephone is a tricky, mysterious transmitter! Bear in mind that I could well be germophonic, or worse viralinguistal.

I’m certain that during my vacation I had brilliant ideas and many original, creative thoughts. Regrettably, I’ve forgotten all. Memory, always a fickle rascal, now seems to view me with blantant disregard. I often suffer the silent treatment. The Cold robs me of the strength to argue.

Back in a day or two with thoughts on travel. ‘Til then, stay well. Don’t answer the phone.

It’s a singular joy to arrive home to a sparkling house, fresh floweres, a nice Pino Noir, a tasty little snack and fresh sheets on one’s own bed. Even better is to rise, have familiar coffee, find two New York Times crosswords (saved from the Saturday papers), and then discover that the basement landing had been cleared of all bottles and cans that awaited recycling. Best, to go to the basement to notice it’s been tidied, cleaned and organized. How good and satisfying, and for all this I’m grateful.

To me, this was a happy tour. Going into it, none of us knew how it might be  -  how we would travel together, how the work would be divided and completed, if we would get along. Turns out we travelled well together, we did our respective jobs with no question or fuss, we got along splendidly. There were many, many laughs and even some great meals, considering all the traveling we did through remote areas. Sometimes good coffee was beyond easy access, but it made arrival at a Starbucks-like establishment an great occasion.

My compatriots, Raylene, Cindy and Clarence, were easy travel companions and colleagues. The shows went pretty well, every one in its own way. With one or two exceptions, accommodations were comfortable. One place was a bit dodgy, but the welcome was warm.

One place was not so dodgy but the welcome was cool,  and the coffee – supplied by the roaster one block away – cost $3.30 per cup. As Clarence and I were leaving our breakfast table, Cindy had come to the dining room to grab a coffee to take to her room. We chatted a bit, and she decided might as well take two coffees, thereby saving a trip downstairs. Cups in hand, she politely asked how much she owed. The response was “$6.30″ “Pardon me?” said Cindy, and the young woman re-calculated. “Oh, I’m sorry – I made a mistake” she said. “It’s $6.60″.  It seemed that every “Could I…? Would it be possible…? Are there any…? Could you please…?”  was met with a half-smile and a sorry little “No” accompanied by a pathetic head-tilt that seemed to suggest an tacit understanding of the disappointment the requester would experience. However, the promise of hand-milled soap was kept and there was a Saltine-sized wafer of it in each room. I would have traded it for a private bathroom, I can assure you. The lasting upside, though, was the re-telling of the story which was revived regularly. We would often answer requests with a sorry little “No” and tilt our heads in sympathy.

However, one good thing about that particular brief stay is that my dear friends, Stephen and Lorne, showed up unexpectedly and arranged a nice little after-show snack and beverage. How they did it, I’m not sure. I expect money passed hands. I’m absolutely certain no violence occurred.

There were many other running jokes and routines, but they fall into the “had to be there” category. Will I include them here? Well, I must say “No” and tilt my head in sympathy.

The weather was unseasonably warm and fine. The clear days allowed us to see the breathtaking beauty of Southern Alberta, and BC. The foothills of the Rockies are soul lifting, and especially beautiful this time of year, with a skiff of snow and golden grass poking through it. I think it was Geronimo who said that horses made the land more beautiful and he was right. Whenever horses were visible from the van, a little stir of excitement lifted the whole experience a bit, as if there had been a sudden burst of extra beauty erupting for our additional pleasure. The Foothills, the Rockies, the Cascades, the Arbutus and Redwoods of the coast, the plane-flat fields leading to North Saskatchewan – they made the long drives pleasurable.

The folks at all the venues were beyond welcoming. Food, hot and cold drinks – some providing hot meals. No complaints. And the audiences were responsive and enthusiastic.

I would be hard pressed to recall a better group experience, although traveling with John Reischman ranks high not only for his musicianship, but also his uncanny ability to sniff out great food and lead us to it.

We parted last night and returned to our respective homes. All happy to be back, I suspect. I know I’m happy to be here, but will look forward with joyful anticipation to the time when we can do it again.

Hope no one tilts their head, smiles a little and says “No”.

It is: in hotels, slip the remote control into a ziplock bag to avoid the bugs left behind by previous guests.

Very good tip. Thank you, Clarence Deveau.

I think this is Day 10, not Day 9. Some confusion on my part, owing to my numbers phobia.

In many of these community arts centres, volunteers figure prominently in making the shows happen. They’re cheerful, enthusiastic, helpful. They sell CDs, make food appear in dressing rooms, attend to your comfort- they are the lifeblood of the venues.

Bragg Creek is outstanding…in fact, all of our Alberta dates have been smooth and welcoming. There must be something about the expansiveness that allows a relaxation of spirit. It’s palpable.

Off to Edmonton today, for our second to last show. That would be -and here it is again- the penultimate.

Oh, must mention that the food had been exceptional on this trip. A very pleasant and nourishing thing for the tired and roadworn.

More tomorrow.