Puzzled

We’ve not been puzzle doers to this point. Sure, Sam had one or two puzzles as a preschooler. Okay, one. A big puzzle of eight dinosaurs we did together rather often for a while there. Hey, turns out I have movie of that: Sam's first time finishing the dinosaur puzzle when he was three years old.

But that decidedly unchallenging (for me) activity clearly wasn’t enough to knock loose a long forgotten Angie truism: I love puzzles. So, too, it seems, does one Mr. Jeremy Ashe. This, I did not know until one Sunday afternoon in Langley, when we pulled a puzzle out from under a pile of other games in the living room cabinet at Grandma and Grandpa Ashe’s. It was the last full day of our summer vacation and we were looking for a little low-key fun to pass the time while Malcolm, Carolyn, Amanda and Marissa crossed the Rockies en route for Sunday dinner.

We clocked about four straight hours chatting around the coffee table, working against the clock to complete that teapot still life before the jeep pulled in the driveway. We turned that leisurely passtime into a competitive sport—“who’s king of the puzzle now?” And when we weren’t done by the time the company arrived, we beckoned them to pull up a cushion and lend a hand. I joked with Marissa, “Aren't you glad you came all this way for puzzle play?” But it was a nice introduction, building that sugar bowl and those lemon slices got us over the initial awkward small talk.

Then, during our Labour Day weekend at the Morley cottage, we found a puzzle in The Rustic of butterflies fluttering by in a mountain meadow. Nice way to pass a rainy afternoon (or two), though we made it only two-thirds of the way through and had to pack up in defeat. A completed puzzle is the triumph of order and beauty over chaos and fragmentation … but a partially completed puzzle is an enticing siren call that lures all my boatloads of productive intentions to smash on the treacherous shores of “one more piece, and then I’ll do the laundry.”

Which is why I was crazy to pick up a challenging 1000 piece puzzle a few months ago. We set it up on our coffee table, expecting to nail that baby together in a few sessions. It’s hard to tell from the photo, but that Napa Valley Wine Train painting is rather impressionistic. Is this part of the flower garden or somebody’s face? Hhhmm. It took some of the Christmas holidays (and a few record stints together), but we finally got’er done with Sam and Carter placing the last 4 pieces in triumph! That puzzle remained on the table top for longer than absolutely necessary… Nice, eh?

Then we speed-puzzled a 300-piecer that Sam got for Christmas (on Jeremy’s new puzzle mat). Took the three of us exactly an hour to slam this beauty together. It helped that the pieces were ginormous and the painting style relatively naïve, but we each had a job to do and we were flawless if frenzied in the execution: Sam worked on the paddlers, Jeremy worked from the sky down, and I sorted and passed pieces to keep the boys going. So much fun! Sam tapped in the final piece and we set the camera on timer to record the occasion.

Daddy missed his mark on the first try…

There we are. A puzzling family. So to speak...

Christmas Flashback 2005

'Tis the season of "do you remember?" as we recall the moments of Christmas past. That's had me searching through the video archives for snippets of Sam's first Christmas in this house, when he was two and a half. I wish I had hundreds more hours of clips like these!

Here are a few seconds of the boys tearing out of one of the boardrooms at the CRA, just before the kids' Christmas party began. I cut it short when they rounded the corner for the Parliamentary Affairs division ... The Hill staff do not brake for toddlers! This was the day Sam was introduced to Ben 10 action figures—an interest that endured for a few years, though it's faded now.

Next is a clip of Sam opening his present from "The Morley" in Paul & Siobhan's kitchen—his love of Star Wars toys having been born in that very house, where the classic ship and 1970s action figures have been (and continue to be!) Sam's happy distraction.

And, finally, we have the Christmas morning discovery of Batman in a tent—the gift from Santa. Jeremy had spent the wee hours repairing the Caped Crusader, whose snapped off leg wasn't apparent in the plastic packaging (he looked good as new). Sam's quirky humour is already apparent as he scootches out of the tent and out of the frame chanting, "ya... ya...ya!"

And here's lil' Sam asleep with his favourite new "guy"... one of many he'll collect in the coming years. The first of many Merry Christmases in Hudson House....

Bendy Santa

We've been enjoying a nice low-key Christmas vacation so far. Sam's played with his new toys and tucked into his new books wearing his new clothes and jams. We've played Rummoli together and are looking forward to Boggle games and starting the new puzzle. Sam and I are starting the Guardians of Ga'hoole trilogy tonight. Sam and Jeremy have been wrestling, playing XBox and Kinect games, and watching junior hockey — and they've also been to a Sens-Penguins game and played a some hockey themselves at the Annual Brennan Christmas Hockey Game. We've worked together on the master bedroom makeover, all three of us spending the day in our paint clothes on Boxing Day (watch for the Big Reveal post soon!).

We've had yummy Christmas dinner leftovers in three guises already, and we're working our way through the last of the chocolates, cookies, and egg nog. It's been a feast! We've seen Tron in 3D at the cinema and have dug out some favourites from the DVD collection — Lord of the Rings, Pirates of the Caribbean. There isn't enough fresh snow to head to Mooney's Bay for tobogganing, which is one of the last things on the vacation activity wish list ... but we've got our fingers crossed.

And through it all, we've been playing a little game with Bendy Santa. That's a small Gumby-like figurine that Paula from the English Department secretariat gave to Sam when he was just a year and a half old. Every year, he's taken it up to his room as soon as it emerged from the box of Christmas decorations. But this year, I hung it from the top of the Eiffel Tower clock near the fireplace just for fun. When it was spotted, I suggested we take turns moving Santa when no one else was looking. A short time later, Sam squirreled the entire tower, Santa and all, up to his room! And the game began.

Over the last 10 days or so, we've been taking turns "hiding" Bendy Santa in plain view when no one else was looking—he's been hung off the bathroom door handle, the kitchen ceiling fan, the dining room light and more. We don't seek him out ... we just come across him in our daily movements about the house—and then it's time to move him again. Anabel and Carter took a turn on Christmas, hanging Bendy Santa from the shelf above Huddie's food or wrapping his arms around the banister.

It all reminds me of Hide the Smurf, a game that Tracey and Jacquie played with Dad maybe 27 years ago. I don't know how long it lasted, and I can't remember if Janey or I ever played along with our younger sisters, but Hide the Smurf became part of our family story as surely as trips to Florida and summer camping and Sunday dinners. It's hard to determine how that happens—how a silly little game finds an enduring place in one's childhood memories, but it sometimes does. And when I spot Bendy Santa in a new location and Sam exclaims victoriously, "It took you so long to find him!," I wonder if maybe these small moments of fun will form as much as part of his happy holiday memories as anything else we've done.

Christmas Morning

"One of the most glorious messes in the world is the mess created in the living room on Christmas Day. Don't clean it up too quickly." — Andy Rooney

Christmas Eve

December 24, 8:30 p.m.

Last gifts have been wrapped and arranged under the tree.
Christmas cards have been hand-delivered on the street.
Home has been tidied for Christmas Day guests.

Turkey is thawing in a cold water sink.

Gingerbread house has been decked ... and then some!

Stocking has been hung by the chimney with care.

Final advent chocolate has been eaten.

Christmas tale has been read by Daddy.

New pj's were opened right after the bath.
The Grinch Who Stole Christmas realized he couldn't.

Grandparents have been wished a Merry Christmas Eve.

And Sam has just settled down for a long winter's nap...

Christmas Spirit

The most wonderful time of the year has been ... wonderful! It seemed especially important to me this year to be sure to practise all of our family traditions, to remind Sam as often as possible that Christmas is a time to be conscious of how lucky we are to be together, to be grateful for what we have, and to share our good fortune with others.

This year, I was able to tell Sam the real reason for the "Help Santa Toy Parade," which we've donated to every year, sometimes bringing a gift for the toy mountain float and sometimes dropping loonies and toonies into the boots of passing fireman (He's pictured here with a toonie headed for a boot!). Sam seemed especially pleased to know that we were helping to make Christmas morning brighter for families who cannot afford to place a Santa gift under the tree. We also shopped together for a gift for Stuart, an 8-year-old boy whose name I pulled from the Christmas Wish Cloud list at work. And we donated to the Food Bank through Carleton Heights, so that less fortunate families could be sure to enjoy a nice meal together.

Christmas tree decorating was lovely, too. First, we had our annual visit to Tracey's so that Sam can join the cousins in decorating their tree. Two weeks later, we hauled a strapping Norfolk Pine home from the market, laid out all the ornaments and recounted what things came from where as we (mostly Sam!) added them to the tree. Sipping egg nog and listening to carols, we agreed, as we always do, that this was the best tree yet. It's beautiful! We've also added a few nutcrackers to Sam's collection. He loves them, and can often be overheard lining them up for nutty adventures.

In the evenings since the tree went up, we've been reading Christmas stories together and watching classic Christmas movies. Sometimes Sam even reads to me while I make dinner—he read No Room at the Inn last night, while I made chicken quesadillas. "This is why we have an angel on the tree," he said. "It's part of the Christmas story." Right now, he's reading The Night Before Christmas to Jeremy. His stack of stories grows larger each year, and getting through them all before Christmas is part of the fun!

Jeremy and I squeezed into the back of the Carleton Heights gymnasium to watch Sam perform three songs during The Holiday Concert — "Catch a Falling Star," "This Little Light of Mine," and "Jouer au Hockey." While that was, of course, the highlight of the concert, the rest of the show wasn't too shabby either! We also saw the final performance of the Ottawa Little Theatre's Inspecting Carol, a farce about a small theatre company disastrously staging Dickens' classic. The ride home took us through the downtown core, which was alight with thousands of lights.

And we've enjoyed the company of friends, too: a big dinner party at the Morley in early December, an annual affair at the Yates' complete with a musical performance, a Cookie Exchange and party at Debbie's, and a Morley & dogs drop-in to give Sam his present and to bestow the traditional tins of delicious homemade chocolates and cookies.

That's not to say there's been no talk of presents, of course. We've enjoyed the whispered conversations, the secret wrapping, the discovery of just the right gift for one another. Sam's crawled right under the very boughs to inspect packages, wonder at their contents. (Always a cute sight.) But he talks as much about what he's giving as what he might be getting, and that makes me happy.

In short, it's been a wonderful month, and the long (and long-awaited) Christmas vacation together is just getting underway. Merry Christmas!

Christmas Magic

The Christmas Magic is different in Hudson House this year. Santa Claus—so tangible, so present for our little boy—has sublimated into a beautiful idea, a symbol of the joy of giving and receiving, of reaching out in the spirit of love and generosity to all the children of the world. He’s real in our hearts; but he’s not “real” real. Not this year.

I’d hoped to enjoy one more season of writing to Santa, of waiting in giddy anticipation for his, the last, float in the annual parade. One more night of watching Rudolph’s progress on Norad, of setting out milk and cookies, of straining hard for the sounds of sleigh bells. One more magical morning of discovering the special gift, the stocking full of just the right treats, the signs everywhere that Santa had been in our very house—The fireplace ornaments all asunder! Cookies gone! Reindeer paw marks in the snow!

But Sam showed niggling signs of doubt last year (and even the year before), raising all the tough questions about the logistics. I told plausible stories about department store Santa helpers and the like, but the fall back was always the same: it’s Christmas Magic. And that worked for a time. I read an article by a child psychologist just today who says that “Younger children engage in magical thinking: Santa can see children being bad or good; Santa can slide down all those chimneys because, well, he’s magic! At about age seven, however, children begin to be able to distinguish fantasy from reality. They are becoming concrete thinkers, more concerned with right and wrong, with what’s true and what’s a lie.”

Sam’s been flexing that concrete thinking brain for a while now. He often wanders into the kitchen and drops a subject on the table like a stone. A few weeks ago, he asked “So … cannibalism?” My goodness. I had no idea how the concept came across his radar, but he wanted some straight answers. We’ve had lots of talks about the world, about human history, about nature and more. He trusts me when I say there are things he doesn’t need to know yet … but he also trusts that what I do choose to tell him is true. And magic isn’t true. Not “true” true.

In late summer, Sam and I planned an afternoon together at Papanack Zoo. On the way out, he told me stories about the goings on in the Child Care Centre. He mentioned a magician who performed at a special event, noting that it was the same magician who comes every year. “I used to think that the magic was real,” he said. “But now I know it’s a trick. That’s why they call it a ‘magic trick’! And, anyways, it’s still lots of fun to wonder how they do it and to see all the kids who are still amazed and don’t know it’s a trick…” There was my opening.

As we toured the zoo, I turned the idea over and over in my mind. Do I talk about Christmas Magic now, on this bright sunny summer day? Or do I wait until winter and let the conversation take its course when Santa comes up? I decided it would be easier to hear now, when the spirit of the season wasn’t already building. So we sat down at a picnic table in the shade. I reminded Sam of his earlier remarks about how a magic show is still wonderful fun, even if the magic is an illusion. And then we talked about other kinds of magic. “There’s Disney Magic, too — right? The smallest kids at Chip ‘n Dale’s campfire don’t realize that those are giant costumes; but even though you do, it’s still fun to dance with those chipmunks and pose for photos.” Sam agreed and we talked about other ways that the shows, the rides, the decorations, and more all added up to a magical experience … without any real magic.

“There’s also Christmas Magic,” I ventured, trying to keep the sentimental tears out of my voice. “Can you think of some of the things that make Christmas Magic?” Sam didn’t hesitate. He didn’t speak in a questioning tone. It was a statement of fact: “Santa.” I nodded, explaining that thousands of years ago there was a Saint Nick—the patron saint of children and bringer of gifts—and that his story caught the imagination of many and became part of the modern Christmas story. That grown-ups keep the legend of Santa alive as part of the Christmas Magic … until their children are old enough to fully grasp the true meaning of Christmas and so become part of the magic themselves. "It's not a trick," I explained. "It's love."

Seeing the mommy-tears in my eyes, Sam came around the picnic table and climbed up on to my lap for a hug. "I don't feel sad," he said, "but I think I might cry a little." No doubt he saw that this conversation was harder on me than it was on him: he takes his growing up for granted, but it still has the capacity to take my breath away. And so we sat together wordlessly for a while on that warm summer day, watching the zebras, each of us thinking about how different the world seems now.

The Straight and Narrow

There's no denying it — it's comforting to know that Sam is a Rules Follower through and through. "Strait is the gate and narrow is the way which leadeth unto life," said Matthew, and if there was ever a kid who lived his life on the straight and narrow, it's Sam. As far as we can tell, his moral compass has never led him to consider breaking a rule or even fudging a guideline. That puts his parents in an enviable position, I know.

But where will it leave his friends, I wonder? And when will Sam realize that those who live in the grey scale won't always appreciate his black & white perspective? Especially when he acts on it by taking a stand against them.

Well I remember learning those harsh lessons myself through my school years. When I was in grade 2, I tattled to the yard duty teacher about a few grade 8 boys who were smoking in the back corner. She named her informant and — during the very next recess — I was threatened (held up dangling against the brick wall) to mind my own business. Wasn't school yard smoking everybody's business? It's against The Rules. (In my upset, I wished ill will towards that duty teacher and she was struck and killed by a car right in front of the school later that month. For a while, I was terrified of my unearthly powers.)

A few years later, in grade 7, I didn't hesitate to name the offenders who basically threw a ticker tape parade in our classroom when the teacher was called away to the office. I didn't care what those dumb boys thought of me, but it never crossed my mind that Tobi Boland (crush) would brand me a snitch and avoid speaking to me for what felt like 300 years. Even my girlfriends rolled their eyes at me. I ratted out boys. I remember thinking, "What is wrong with you people? We're good. They're bad. Why should we all get in trouble?"

So far, Sam is negotiating minor league family politics. He tells on his cousins, yes — but for whatever reason no one has called him on it. Maybe because they've grown up alongside the boy who played cop to their robbers. Check this out... (May 2005 - 25 months)

It's kind of handy, to be honest, to know that the boys won't get up to any trouble without a full report from my hall monitor of a son. He double checks in person (not trusting a mere shout out from the kitchen) that yes, they can watch four pre-approved song parodies on YouTube. If a fifth one is loaded, down comes Sam. "Is it alright if...?" He's like walking, talking Parental Controls. It's awesome. And when there is a squabble, Sam can usually be counted on to provide an impartial play-by-play. "No, Carter didn't mean it: totally an accident. Anabel is over-reacting." We can count on Sam. He's a "good kid."

But one day someone his age is going to complain and the others will nod in agreement because he's been refusing to push boundaries and test limits and partake of the thrill of getting away with something he shouldn't be doing. And then what will he do? Will he redraw his lines to protect his friendships? Or will he alienate himself and wait out his peers? I worry only because I remember "Square Ger," the boy who wouldn't stop tattling. He played alone at recess.

Me? I didn't do the things most of my friends did as they moved through their teens—never snuck out the window in a toga, drank out of my parents' liquour cabinet, pretended I was at a sleepover at so-and-so's when I was actually at a toga party. Drunk. But I stopped telling on the people who were. If there was no clear and present danger, it wasn't my beeswax. And somehow that worked for me. I was a good girl, but not a Goody Two Shoes. It's a fine line.

Sam hasn't had to walk it yet. I hope he's as strong as he seems to be when that day comes.

Doing Privacy

“Can you please give me some privacy?” is a rather new request of Sam’s. When he’s getting changed for school while watching morning cartoons (in our room!), he’d like me to busy myself elsewhere. When I’m washing my face or putting on make-up in the washroom, he dances in the hallway asking if he can interrupt me rather than using the facilities while I’m in there. Even the much-loved towel hug after baths has fallen out of favour in recent months. I have to knock before entering so he can cover up.

Normal, I suppose.

But I was stunned last week to hear Sam shut Carter out of his room near bedtime. Cousin sleepovers had long meant a joint tub, clothes strewn in all directions, followed by a naked scamper up the stairs for pj’s or fresh undies to sleep in. Or, as pictured here, a towel-wrapped game of hide and seek in the cubby. Well, maybe that was just the once….when they were 2.

Nevertheless, this was obviously something that had been discussed. Skipping the tub that night, the boys headed straight to the bedroom for pj’s. At the top of the stairs, Sam whirled around on Carter and said, “Remember? We’re doing privacy now. So you stay here while I get changed and then I’ll come out and wait for you to change.” Doing privacy? “Oh ya,” Carter replied, recalling some agreement I was not privy to. When he cracked the door open for a progress report a few minutes later, Sam called out frantically, “Don’t come in! I’m completely naked!”

Is that it then? No more completely naked? Because I don’t want the wild abandon of childhood to be over already. Running buck naked through the sprinkler, sharing a sloshy tub with Carter, changing for bed in fits of giggles. Not that Sam’s suddenly ashamed, but this different awareness of his nakedness seems too much like the fall from innocence. Like he’s edging away from the free and open expression of himself and towards a more adult consciousness that is, by comparison, inhibited and concealed. Private. It was hard to imagine back when we were bathing and swaddling him on the kitchen counter in the Lisgar apartment, but our boy is developing a private life.

And that newly closed door between us makes me a little sad.

SS 2009

As a P.S. to the last post, here are a few photo highlights from SENSational Sunday 2009....

SENSational Sunday

Now that we've done it twice, SENSational Sunday has become a family tradition — or at least that's what Sam would have you believe. He's a seasoned pro at the concourse games, he and Sparty Cat are tight, and he rubs shoulders with pro hockey players. He and Brian Elliott shared a personal convo after this photo was shot. They didn't get as far as discussing Elliott's shut-out of the Bruins last weeked (31 saves), mind you. It went sort of like this: "Good season!" "Thanks, Buddy!" Nice.. :)

We didn't bring skates this year, as the boys are a little rusty ... and Jeremy is in B.C. visiting Grandma Ashe, so the highlights were all on the concourse. The two played on many an inflatable game—Twin Peaks (rock climbing), The Equalizer (tug-o-war), ??? (giant slide). They also measured their slapshot speed (Carter: 45 mph, Sam: 22 mph), had a go at the strong man's High Striker, braved the Tippy Ladders, had their caricatures drawn, and got Sparty's autograph, all the while eating their weight in chocolate. Who doesn't love SENSational Sunday?

Last year, we lined up to meet Bobby and Dennis Hull (there was no Sens players line-ups, as the H1N1 virus scare was at its peak), but the boys were not to be coaxed into lining up to meet Phil Esposito this year (Who?). Sorry, Phil, but there's a tie-breaker to be played on The Equalizer... (Carter broke it, then Sam conquered the mountain. It's all good.)

Three and a half (noisy) hours later, we called it a day. The whole thing is put on free of charge by the United Way and the Senators as a thank you to the GoC's Leadership givers to the campaign. So long as we continue to support Sam's school, we'll get invited back for an afternoon of treating Scotiabank Place like our personal playground. The boys are already making plans for next year. Skates (and Jeremy!) included.

On His Own

This weekend, Sam suited up in his warm clothes, snapped on his bike helmet, and headed off to play at the park around the corner. By himself. Okay, not entirely by himself—he was with Carter, James and Charlie. But he wasn’t with me. Or his daddy. “Will there by any grown-ups there?” he asked, in a voice that struck such a fine balance between enthusiasm and trepidation that I wasn’t sure what he wanted to hear. “Soon, yes. We’ll come over with the dogs in a bit, but you can head there on your own first.”

(Gulp) And there he goes. Photo snapped by Daddy.

We’ve been working towards this tiny nudge from the nest for the whole summer. He’s been able to leave the park ahead of us, rounding the corner out of sight (and delighting in arriving home alone, his bike already stowed in the garage before we’re even on the street). He’s been told over and over how to cross Lexington right from the end of our street rather than on the bend near the park. To look both ways. To commit to crossing once he’s started into the road. Cars cutting through the neighbourhood sometimes take that corner too fast. Way too fast.

But, it’s time. He’s 7 and a ½ .

Last May, during his annual check-up with Dr. Munro, Sam was quizzed about his freedoms. “Do you walk your dog?” Yes, says Sam. “On your own?” Well, sometimes I get a head start and go a few driveways down the street before my mom or dad comes. “Do you ride a bike?” Yes, says Sam. “Around the block?” Well, no. I can go a few driveways up or down the street. At which point my trusted doctor turns to me and says, “He’s growing up, Mom. Doesn’t have to be watched every minute of every day.”

Ouch. Did she suspect me of being a “helicopter mom,” hovering overhead to protect my precious one & only from real and imaginary dangers? Failing to teach him the street smarts he’ll need to be a capable, responsible, trustworthy kid? Acting as a buffer between him and the cruel, cruel world so he never develops the inner resiliance he’ll need to get back up when life knocks him down? In short, did she think I was raising a Mama’s Boy? Yeesh.

Now Sam hasn’t exactly been clamouring for more autonomy, for the right to stretch his own wings and fly his bike around the block without us. He seems happy with the middle ground. He braved Walt Disney’s Space Mountain last January, and then he happily rode out of the park on his Daddy’s shoulders. He doesn’t panic when he loses sight of me in a busy mall, but then he also doesn’t object when I take his hand in the busier parking lot. He’s growing up fast, but he’s still comfortable with being treated as though maybe he isn’t.

Which is why, perhaps, he was heading back to the house on his own when Janey and I rounded the corner towards the park with Anabel and the dogs this weekend. “Wow! That took forever! I was just making sure you were still coming” he called out. It had been 15 minutes. He seemed happy to have had the chance to go on ahead of us, but happy nonetheless to spot us coming. Not a Mama's Boy. Just a little kid getting used to the idea of taking responsibility for himself. It'll take us a while to get used to it, too ... the notion of our own "Peep" out in the big, wide world of the local playground.

Needles

So the day after I post The Black Squiggle, a story that ties Sam tightly to me through shared delusions of terror, he strides into the house and proves he's no son of mine. "Look at this!" he happily mumbles, pointing at his face where a twisted smile is playing over his puffed-up top lip. I've been home with a nasty cold, so I spent a dazed moment or two thinking that maybe Sam was showing off the damaging results of his first school-yard brawl ("but you should see the other guy..").

Then I remembered that he's just back from the dentist. We'd called Dr. Archibald after his accident at swimming lessons last week—he'd smashed his mouth on the tiled edge of the pool during a game and spit out (to his horror) a wedge from the back of his brand new front tooth. "You needed to have it repaired, eh?" I asked, aiming for nonchalance. But my knees went a little weak when I followed up with, "Did you get a freezing needle?" Even as I write that, I feel faint.

My mother can attest to the teams—literally, teams—of medical and dental professionals who have had to hold me down when someone so much as cast a suspicious glance towards a syringe. And my little boy just had one poked right into the front of his face. "Ya," he answered breezily, distracted by the satisfying image of his distorted lip in the mirror. "But she put some cream on it first, so it was no big deal." Sure, that numbing cream is very nice, but to this day I have to close my eyes before the needle looms into view or there's a good chance I'll punch someone. How can my child fail to grasp the horror of that cold metallic instrument stabbing its way through his gums? I mean, seriously, Sam goes zero-to-hysteria in five seconds flat at the sight of a pinprick's worth of his own blood. So where does he get the dentist needle bravado?

Must be an Ashe thing.

The Black Squiggle

The "black squiggle" has been hard on your heels for a while now, Sam. It wakes up at dusk and lays in wait for you somewhere on the dim staircases that lead from the family room, past the kitchen, and up to your bedroom. Never one to show itself when grown-ups are about, the black squiggle bides its time, knowing that sooner or later you’ll come up from goodnight kisses or come down for a glass of water. Alone. And then the chase is on.

I can tell from the speed of your scamper, from the echo of your pounding feet on the hardwood as you round the corner and break for the second staircase that the squiggle is on the loose. More often than not, you let out a little yelp before you burst into the light of your room or ours, eyes wide with fright and your breath coming in ragged gasps. "It caught right up to me!" you exclaim, casting a wary backwards glance into the shadows. But it can't be seen head on. The squiggle is detected only in the peripheral vision. Only on the run.

This week, the squiggle took shape as a black dog. Not a large dog, but a menacing one nonetheless. You awoke to find it standing stock still in your cubby door corner, panting quietly, its eyes fixed on yours. Later you’ll tell me it took 20 minutes to screw up the courage to flee the room for the safety of our bed. When I ask why you didn’t call out for us, you answer slowly and softly: "Because if I move a muscle, if I make a sound … something will happen."

And my heart breaks for you as my own night terrors leap to mind. The impossibly large spider scrabbling its way down the wall towards my bed. The kidnapper drilling holes through the bedroom door to spy on me. I, too, was a petrified seven year old pinned down to my bed, unable to draw a full breath. So when you ask me to go make sure there isn’t a black dog next to your bed, I do—although I know it won’t make a difference to suggest that it's just a trick of the eye, or a figment of your imagination. He’ll be back. "Yes, he’s not here now," you concede, "But can I still sleep with you?"

The following night, you toss and turn anxiously, willing yourself to fall asleep in your own bedroom, the new haunt of a terrifying black dog. After kisses & cuddles, and stories and more stories, and cups of water, and yes-the-night-light and no-the-night-light, you call out in frustration, "I’m trying so hard to sleep that I can hear time passing!" Turns out your wristwatch is hiding behind your books. Tic, tic, tic…

Half an hour later, I catch the sound of you stifling sobs. You can’t sleep. Not in this bed. Yes, yes of course you can crawl in with me. It’s only 9:30, so I feign sleep for a little while, listening as you begin to relax. Your breathing comes easier, your body lets go of the tension generated by your wild imagination. You find my hand resting on the pillow between us and gently slide yours into my grasp, so as not to wake me.

Then very carefully, you wiggle closer and closer still, so that your forehead is touching the back of our clasped hands. Just before you fall asleep, you press a long, tender kiss onto my hand. Loving, grateful, happy—that kiss thanks me for believing in the squiggle, for knowing that a dog that isn’t there is also a dog that is there, and for soothing that all away.

I love you, too, Sam.

Grandpa Ashe

Last week, Sam received a card from Grandpa Ashe that read “Just thinking of you and hopin’ you’re coming soon!” The handwritten note inside read,

Dear Sam,

Just a note to tell you I think of you often and wonder how you are doing in school and how much you’ve grown. A small gift [$10] for you and a little about my life. I’ve lived a long time. 84 years.

Love you very much, Sam.
Grandpa Ashe

***
This is a transcript of the letter tucked inside.


Frank William Ashe
Born March 29, 1926

I was born in Edmonton, Alberta and lived on the very northern outskirts of the city. No electricity – no running water – we did have a telephone though. My mother passed away when I was 18 months old. I had 3 older sisters – Mabel (Midget), Thelma (Bonnie) and Ruth (Rufus). Ruth was 7 years older than me and basically raised me along with the neighbour ladies – who were very kind. My oldest sister passed away when I was about 6. I don’t remember too much about her. Bonnie was working and so left Ruth to look after me (I was spoiled).

Living on the edge of the city there was lots of open spaces and I loved to wander. One day a man found me about two miles from home. He didn’t recognize me but he recognized my dog Spot (a wired haired terrier) and so took me home. Spot was my constant companion. When I started school he came with me (school was about 1 mile away) and then he would go home until recess then he would come back and all the kids would play with him – also at lunch time and afternoon recess, when the weather permitted. Then every day Spot was there to go home with me. One day he didn’t show up. I couldn’t figure out why. When I got home he was lying dead on the front lawn. I was heartbroken.

I had a cat as well – Tommy. A beautiful silver grey. He would climb up on my knee when I was getting ready for bed and purr and purr and lick my face. I also had rabbits and pigeons – lots of pets. We had chickens, too – and when I would go through the chicken yard to go to the toilet (outdoors) the old rooster would come and fight with me. I would kick him and send him flying and he would come right back for more. Lots of fun, hey!

When I was twelve, we moved to a farm 60 miles away from Edmonton, with my dad, Bonnie, Art her husband, and two small children. Ruth was married by then and stayed in Edmonton. It was living in the country. Lots of room, hunting and fishing. When I was on the farm I got the saddle horse to go get the work horses – bareback. Just a rope on neck – saddle horses weren’t wild. He headed for a fence. Only way to stop – arms round the neck and swing down in front!

My first day at school I was very nervous and shy. There were 8 grades in one classroom, about 23 kids in all. I was in grade 8. It didn’t take long though and I and the other kids got together and had fun. Only one teacher, a lady. I can’t remember her name. She was nice. There were 2 other grade 8 students besides me. I passed into grade 9 and the second world war broke out that fall. I passed grade 9 and that was the end of my schooling. I would have had to stay in a town twelve miles away and my Dad couldn’t afford to send me.

Bonnie and Art decided they didn’t like farming and so moved back to Edmonton. Left my Dad and I. I became chief cook and bottle washer. Could I ever make a good beef barley soup. The two neighbour boys loved it and came to our place every time I made it to have a bowl and play cards. I was 14 now.

When I was 16 I decided to move back to Edmonton and get a job. I lived with Ruth and her husband. I got a job training as an aeroplane mechanic. I sure liked that. Then when I was 17 ½ I decided to join the army and was in the navy for 2 years when the war ended. I loved the ocean — waves as far as you could see. The bigger the waves got the better I liked it. Once we almost hit a big BIG iceberg. Exciting! [On the phone that night, Grandpa told Sam that he was on watch when they passed alongside the iceberg and you could have reached out and struck a match on it].

So back to Edmonton. I trained to be a printer (an obsolete job now). That was a good trade. When I was 20 I got married (END OF STORY). After 15 years, my wife and I split up and were divorced. A few years later I married your Gramma. 46 years ago (NICE). And now I’m old and very tired. I had a good life though I’m sure happy I got to know Jehovah.

Love,
Grampa Ashe

***
Grandpa Ashe passed away today, September 27, 2010. We will all miss him.

Sam used his gift money to frame the first photo in this summer visit series. It sits up on his captain’s bed headboard.

The Cottage

For the fourth year in a row, we headed to Paul and Siobhan’s cottage north of Hunstville on the Labour Day long weekend to celebrate the last gasp of summer holidays with some of our best friends. While Camp Hideaway — or, Morley North — seems relatively new to me and Jeremy, Sam can’t remember a summer that didn’t include a blissful stint in this idyllic acreage. (Remember this? And this?)

Sam and Carter (and Hudson) leapt from the car before it even came to a full stop and didn’t look back: the beach, the boats, the marsh, the tree fort, the toys, the woods, the bunk beds, the fire pit, the smores, the ATV rides, the frog catching and fish almost-catching...what’s not to love?

Like a living growth chart, the cottage property makes Sam’s leaps in ability and independence clearly evident each year. This time, he and Carter ran into the water and swam strongly out to Splash Island for some jumping/flipping water action … by themselves. We were on the beach of course, but no longer “within arm’s reach.” They’re swimmers. They're fine. Which is not to say that no one needed a lil’ towel snuggle with a sensibly bundled Mommy after the fun (the air was somewhat cooler than the water!).

Each morning, the boys tucked away massive breakfasts, grabbed their cowboy hats and sped off in search of fun while we grown-ups spent the days relaxing—chatting over daiquiris, playing cards, or flopped out reading. Sam, Carter and Mason (and sometimes Chloe-bug, Hannah and Cassie) played long games of tag, wrestling, and “spy,” hunkering down in the Rustic when the rains came and then scrambling back to the tree fort when the skies cleared. We cocked an ear from time to time, to make sure we could hear everyone, but otherwise we left them to their own adventures.

Adam apparently taught them how to chop wood (I didn’t ask any questions), and Paul took them out for a few boat rides around the lake (our first at sunset) and he and Jeremy took them for a nice long spell of fishing (in a light rain). Sam caught a wee one—the only catch of the day—and Jeremy caught an accidental mini-movie of the moment when he went to snap a photo. That night, Paul ATV’d the kids one by one around the site at dusk, following our communal (and yummy) pulled pork dinner. We could hear Sam’s excited commentary around the full loop, and the look of happiness on his face as they zipped past our line of picnic tables was priceless.


Then we all piled down to the lake for the traditional Labour Day Weekend campfire and fireworks show. No kidding around here: we do it up big. The kids perch up on the big rock and watch as volley after volley is sent up from a boat in the bay (the men ducking as the spent cardboard canisters hail down around them!). After the last whiz-bang-pop, we shuffle the sleepy boys off to the cabin.

Summer’s last hurrah. It comes up way too fast.

Them Apples

There is a giant apple tree just outside our kitchen window (there's one out the kitchen window of every mother's dream house, isn’t there? With a swing and a tree house?) The arborist, whom we practically have on retainer, estimates that the big ol’ girl is about 110, 115 years old. She’s seen a few things in her lifetime. Like the farmer’s sons go off to WWI and the like. After all, Courtland Park has been a neighbourhood for just 65 years. And we Arnold/Ashes have been here for just five … barely a wink in her long, long life.

Which is why it’s hard to complain about the apples. The dozens upon dozens (upon dozens) of apples that drop onto the playground pea gravel each summer and fall, like punishing rain. We looked into takin’er down a while back, what with the rotted core branch and the leafy encroachment onto the roof and the worry about root damage to the foundation. And the apples. But, no — no! — the arborist implored. We can save her. She can be pruned back, her rotted branches cut out (and apple trees have tap roots, dontcha know … no worries about the house). So save her we did.

But not from massive shock. The dead branch, growing from the centre of the trunk itself, was nearly two feet across, and the rest of the pruning was extensive. Mama tree’s defences were tripped, her will to procreate slammed into overdrive. She hailed down endless mini-apples last summer. Gnarled and bug-infested apples that required hours of stooping labour to scoop up and take to the curb in bag after bag of yard waste. If we procrastinated, then plagues of ants and wasps gathered to feast on the fermenting mush trampled underfoot by Sam and friends.

We invited the arborist back this spring: “Can we remove the fruiting spears and prevent the apples from growing?” No. Not yet. The stress, the trauma — it’s all been too much for the tree. Let her try again this year to make an orchard of our back yard. And she did. Oh my, how she did. This year, we counted. 2,300. Two thousand, three hundred and some odd apples fell in the side yard. I personally stooped for 1,250 in just one day (shortly after returning from a three-week holiday to find the ground carpeted with the rotting, earwig-infested fruit).

While I picked up more than my fair share, “apple picking,” as we call it, is mostly Sam’s chore. For every 100 apples he tosses into the silver trash can or yard bag, he receives one coupon (worth about a buck) towards his next toy purchase. As the summer turned to fall, the chore became less onerous and Sam became more creative. Recently, he kicked the scattered apples into a pile near the swing and invented this game.

No complaints at this point. And maybe the fruiting spears will come off next year. Mind you, Sam’s new tree house is screwed into the four remaining large branches—the perfect platform area that was created by the massive pruning. So what do you suppose the arborist will say about Mama Apple Tree’s stress next year? (Oh well, there’s always “Waaa-cha!”)

A Tree House

A tree house, a free house,

A secret you and me house,

A high up in the leafy branches

Cozy as can be house.

A street house, a neat house,

Be sure and wipe your feet house

Is not my kind of house at all -

Let's go live in a tree house.

Shel Silverstein, Where the Sidewalk Ends, 1974

Kite Flying

And some summer days are for hanging out in the park ...

The few times Sam's tried kite flying in the past, the wind had played peek-a-boo and the anemic take-offs and listless crashes had not been that impressive. "What's so great about a kite?" he wondered. Then, on a breezy Canada Day morning, Sam took his large pterodactyl kite—a gift from Lori and Greg—out for a test flight. Success! The bird worked perfectly (even drew a crowd for a while!), and Sam had a blast flying him.

I love this little video. I'd taken so many photos of the Sam getting the kite up and figuring out the wing flapping manouevre that he began to ignore the camera—so I could catch a little of his unaffected conversation, even though he'd asked me to make a movie.

Sam at 7. Flying a kite in the neighbourhood park with his mom, his dad, and his dog. And the wind.

East meets West

Thomas Hardy once wrote that "east is east, and west is west, and never the twain shall meet." Sam had other ideas. Knowing that he'd be flying from coast to coast during this holiday, he scooped a flat red rock from the Big Red Mud of the Minas Basin on the Atlantic side and squirrelled it away for throwing into the Pacific ocean at White Rock a few days later. Which he did. East, meet West.

The pan-Canadian trip was smooth sailing, from the early morning ride to the airport in Halifax to the late aft (evening for us) ride home from the airport in Abbotsford. Sam couldn't be a better traveller, and he was excited enough upon arrival that he was ready to get the visiting going right away. So happy were we all to see each other that we walked out to the car in animated conversation and didn't realize until we got there that we hadn't stuck around for the luggage!

We spent the next eight days enjoying Grandma & Grandpa's company. Now something of a tradition, Sam and Grandma spent an afternoon co-creating a new watercolour masterpiece—a mountain scene, complete with lakes, trees and a train cutting through the valley. Sam takes the painting very seriously and gets a kick out of sharing this talent with Grandma. He was delighted with the gift of a new set of paints and paper.

Sam's new talent, however, was unveiled for Grandpa, who sat most of the way through the Where's the Dragon? story thinking Sam had the book memorized. The look of astonishment at learning that Sam was reading it to him was priceless. Sam would read another three or four books to Grandpa and Grandma that week. He loves a good story and really likes sharing books with his family (and I learned this afternoon that he volunteers to read to the kids in Child Care, too).

Sam played chess and cards, watched the Jays games (sort of) with the boys, helped the girls chop veggies for dinner, and rolled thousands of times up and down the living room on a yoga ball (nutty kid). We enjoyed a lovely early afternoon at White Rock, strolling the waterfront, exploring the beach, watching sandcastle artists, and enjoying some delicious ice cream. We topped off a great day with a massive order of Greek delivery—opa! And we all went out for dinner a few days later at a fave local spot, La Masia, which serves authentic Portuguese fare. Very, very good. Best lamb Sam's ever had, he reports.

On the last full day of our stay, Uncle Malcolm drove (all the way!) out from Edmonton with Carolyn, Amanda and Marissa to enjoy an afternoon visit and a Sunday dinner, Ashe-style. Roast beef with all the fixin's, including Yorkshire pudding, Grandpa Ashe's famous gravy and "The Green Stuff" (jello-cream cheese-pineapple dessert, served with the main course. Dessert was peach cobbler! :) Sam loved meeting two new cousins for the first time and (as always), he enjoyed a good tussle with The Claw.

We spent the later evenings and early mornings through the week playing in the hotel pool and goofing around in the room. The week flew by, but on the very last morning Sam declared that he missed his house and he missed his dog and he wanted to go home. Excellent timing. Our coast-to-coast family vacation was over....