For many, the advent of Christmas marks a season of anxiety and stress. Money is tight and fuses are short as extended families bicker about who goes where for Christmas, and what happens once they get there. Stores and online ad campaigns pull at your heart strings and play on your guilt to try to get you to loosen the purse strings and spill all your hard-earned cash into their coffers, so that you can have a faint glimmer of hope of living up to wildly unrealistic expectations. Even the most pious among us can get swept up in the superficiality and busy-ness of the season.

For me growing up, this intensity was seldom apparent. In fact, quite the contrary was true.


Stability and Peace

With virtually no extended family, my mom, Omi and I had few if any competing expectations. As far as gifts were concerned, modesty won out over both extremes of abundance and scarcity. And as Europeans, we would generally forego the traditional Canadian turkey dinner in favour of homemade German potato salad (kartoffelsalat) and wieners w crusty buns and Dijon style mustard, followed by Weinachtsstolle (German fruitcake) and Dominosteine, served on the evening of Dec 24, as soon as my mom got home from work. It was an exciting family gathering, but not a noisy one.


When I was little, my uncle formed part of the small group around the table for dinner. After he died, it was just the three of us for a few years. Later, as a teenager, I remember my mother’s friend, Horst, joining us for Christmas Eve.

Ironically, this annual holiday ritual represented one of the most stable seasons in my otherwise chaotic and unstable upbringing! Despite the schizophrenia, suicidal depression and clinical anxiety that wreaked general havoc my single parent, immigrant family life, Christmas Eve and the events leading up to it seemed like the glue of reliability that held us together year after year, and kept me — as the only child in the midst of this mayhem — sane.

The Reliable “Weinachtsbaum”

Come hell or high water, there was some form of real Christmas tree every year, with the same damned decorations, including the „Strohsterne“ that had been carefully preserved by my great-aunt in Germany and then my grandmother and my mother after her. There were the red balls packed neatly away in yellowing cardboard egg cartons, and there was the always-too-short string of yellow lights to emulate the real candles my grandmother‘s family‘s tree would have sported when the Tannenbaum was unveiled on Heilig Abend in their modest living room each year. (Oh how I longed for the multi-coloured lights and too much tacky tinsel that festooned the plastic trees of my Canadian school chums!)

Symbols of Stability

Unbeknownst to me at the time, that meagre tree, the gifts that surrounded it, and the simple supper of Wuersten with Senf, Kartfoffelsalat and Dominosteine that preceded the opening of said gifts each year provided a beacon of hope in my emotionally tumultuous childhood and adolescence. Where so much uncertainty prevailed, our family’s Christmas rituals represented the security so lacking in other areas of my life.

My family‘s Christmas Eve tradition is one I‘ve insisted on emulating each year into my adulthood, in spite (or perhaps because?) of the fact that my mother died 2 days before Christmas when I was 21, and my grandmother and mom‘s friend Horst are also no longer with us.

My 14-year-old twins lead even more scrambled lives than I did at their age (along with a competitive helping of insanity and chaos in the emotional states of the adults around them!), and my hope is that the predictability and structure of our Christmas Eve traditions — and in particular, the tree — provides them much-needed stability each year, as it did for me growing up.

What’s on My Tree

Our tree features a combination of old- and new-world tradition. The lights that serve as the base each year are not multi-coloured as I‘d pined for as a child, but the string of soft white mini lights that adorn the tree is sufficiently long so as not to leave giant gaps even those years when we splurge on a larger tree! And in lieu of tinsel, we usually include some form of sheer, golden ribbon poking out here and there. (Reusable, of course!) Next come the red balls in assorted hues and sizes. They are not the same ones my mother used (those have long since broken), but they reflect the overall feel of my childhood Christmas trees.

After the red balls, the homemade wooden stars, painted yellow, that my roommate and I bought on Roncesvalles in my mid-20s after eyeing them in a shop window for some time one year (the same year we stayed up until 4 a.m. baking gingerbread for a house that looked considerably more pathetic in the end than the photo accompanying the recipe on the cover of some Sally Homemaker style holiday magazine that had inspired this foolishness in us!)

And so our Christmas tree finds its way into our annual routine, predicable in both its appearance and content, offering up its cherished heirlooms to whomever in our little circle might appreciate or benefit from these varied traditions.

I hope it will do so for many years to come!

While we've worked hard in our personal life to surround ourselves with influences that positively portray the fluidity of our people, the mainstream world around us apparently continues to wallow in a quagmire of clearly defined roles, rules and gender stereotypes.

The literature, activities and announcements on board harp on these stereotypes, and while no one was outright homophobic, it was generally assumed that everyone aboard was "normal", ie straight and aligned with the gender binary.

In the middle of our cruise, there was a game show, based on an actual TV game show, called "Love and Marriage", held in the theatre. It was here that Tats and I elected to challenge the somewhat stifling straight culture that surrounded us.

On a whim, Tats and I auditioned (if an impromptu queer interpretation of the required ultra-hetero Tarzan scene could be called an audition).... And the next thing we knew, we had won the audience over and found ourselves on stage as one of the three couples selected for the show!

Wedged in between two newlyweds and a husband and wife who had been together for over forty years, Tats and I representated "mid range" (over five years and under 20). We were also the only lesbian couple, and -- I suspect -- probably the only LGBTQ couple they've ever had on the ship's show. As a result largely of this latter fact, we found we gained considerable fame and notoriety; for the remainder of the cruise we kept getting "recognized" wherever we went. This consisted largely of people coming up to us with a big, friendly smile and telling us how much they had enjoyed our performance, and the occasional person yelling, “sing in Russian!“ across a room at Tats, because of a response I had given to one of the questions asked during the game show.

While it was a little disconcerting to be thrust into the public eye like that, it was in some ways a not altogether unfamiliar feeling. As a parent of monozygotic twins, I've become accustomed some level of notoriety (this was especially true when Alex and Simon were small and more easily recognizable as a “pair”).

Where words and photos sometimes fail, music steps into the gap! This post is a tribute to my teachers who introduced me, over a K-12 education, to some of the music that brings the the majestic landscapes and rich cultures of this magnificent country to life. In particular, it is an appreciation for the music of Stan Rogers, and East Coast music generally.

I recently returned from a road trip to NFLD.  ​With two teenagers in tow, I set out in our rental car from St Peter's Harbour, PEI, to St Anthony, on the north-western tip of the other island, primarily in hopes of seeing the whales.

​The journey there and back entailed 6 days of driving (big country we live in!!), and endless hours of music and podcasts. (On the latter, the boys and I enjoyed several episodes of Hidden Brain; I highly recommend for some thought-provoking discussion when on the road with teenagers.)

After being forced to listen to "Africa" by Toto for the 17th time in one day, I decided it was time expand our repertoire a little, and introduced the boys to Stan Rogers. They'd heard Barrett's Privateers before, but it was their first time with some of his other well-known numbers, and Northwest Passage soon became a favourite musical score to the rugged landscape that served as a backdrop while we whizzed along the Viking Trail in our rental vehicle.

I remember my Grade 13 music teacher insisting that we listen to Stan Rogers; he informed us that as Canadians, this was an artist whose work we should know.

My 18-year-old self had never been east of Quebec, and I was not particularly impressed, especially since my musical tastes at the time centred more around 80s rock genre and bands like Rush and Van Halen. My 45-year-old self, however, driving along the west coast of Newfoundland with the ocean on one side and mountainous terrain on the other, was considerably more appreciative.

After several hours of Stan Rogers on repeat, I downloaded some additional east coast favourites, and the boys soon replaced Africa and Northwest Passage with The Islander, which we had to listen to at full volume and sing along to at the top of our lungs ("Come on, Mom, sing!") multiple times a day.

While in NFLD, we went for supper one night at a restaurant with a live band and mummers. "I'se the Bye" was played and danced to, and I was taken back to my elementary school days, where Mr. Mec did his best to instill some Canadiana into us lowlifes through his commitment to a robust music program each year.  We sang this drinking song and others, too, and I quickly downloaded it for the next leg of our journey.

On that same album was What Shall we do with a Drunken Sailor, which I recalled from my junior Kindergarten days, where Ms. Burnell (sp?) played it for us on her autoharp, and we sang along with vigour, a bunch of 3- and 4-year-olds, blissfully ignorant that this east coast favourite was perhaps not super appropriate in its vocabulary or concepts for such young, impressionable minds.  The rhythm was catchy, Ms. B's enthusiasm was infectious, and our singing was loud and passionate (and probably a little off-key)!

Thus was crafted the foundation for my later appreciation of east coast drinking songs like The Night Pat Murphy Died and the afore-mentioned Islander, among others.

​As we neared the end of our 6-day odyssey around a mere smidgeon of the east coast, and were on route back to PEI so that one of my kids could catch his plane from Charlottetown back to Toronto, we played a few of the original playlist favourites again... but not without periodic interspersals -- at my boys' insistence -- of their new favourites, too! 

I'll be forever grateful for the memories we made together on this trip, the three of us, and for the magnificent eastern Canadian landscapes that photos cannot really do justice, and which brought tears to my eyes on many occasions as we drove.  But most especially, I'm grateful for the music teachers I had, from Kindergarten to high school, who -- by their exposure of us to this music -- made this adventure so much more pleasurable for all three of us.
​
Thank you, Ms. Burnell, Mr. Mec and Mr. Van Zuylen!

If you’ve ever wondered about how lesbians do things, you’re in for a real treat: Today's post is about the lesbian lifestyle.

I've written about "the gay lifestyle" in the past, but this particular post is about a very specific aspect of lesbianism, namely, the struggles that two more masculine women face when managing stereotypically "female" situations.

In the past, when I reveal that my spouse is also a woman, I have more than once been asked "who's the man?"

I kid you not, this is not a one time question, and as I do not always know the questioners well enough to presume an "intimate" nature to their line of questioning, I can only assume they are asking more superficially, i.e. who takes on the classically "male" chores around the house.

When faced with important domestic tasks, it seems the answer is, "we're BOTH the man"!

This was clearly illustrated to me this past weekend, when I had to help my partner with an emergency hemming situation.

Now before you ask what could possibly constitute such an emergency, allow me to explain.

You see, my partner recently got hired as a first officer with a regional airline. As such, she was issued a standard uniform, and given a budget to customize said uniform to specs.

For example, pant leg length.

This next part is not so much about the lesbian lifestyle, but it is germane to the story, so bear with me while I set the context.

On Thursday, my partner took all three issued pairs of pants to be altered last week. On account of the long weekend, they were to be ready for pick up on Tuesday. Not a problem, since she was still awaiting her actual flight schedule, and assumed she was not working for the foreseeable future.

But on Friday, my partner got word that she was to report for duty first thing Monday morning for a two-day pairing with an overnight in Windsor! In other words, she needed an actual pair of uniform pants, with legs hemmed, before Tuesday.

And thus ensueth the "emergency hemming situation" referenced above.

My partner dashed over to the dry cleaner and demanded one pair of pants back immediately. ESL barriers (both hers and theirs) not withstanding, she soon returned with one slightly crumpled and of course still unhemmed pair of pants.

Now if we were in a nice, traditional (read "straight") relationship, the woman could simply hem the pants, and the man -- who does not know how to hem pants, but can fly airplanes -- could wear them to his pilot job, and all would be well with the world.

Alas, because we are lesbians, neither of us knows how to hem pants. So we would have been really screwed (and not in a good way), except that as everyone knows, all lesbians are good problem solvers and very creative.

My partner, determined not to report for her first official day of work in pinned up pants, began to google.

She soon came across that magical tool called "hem tape". Hem tape is a lovely little iron-on solution for those (like men and lesbians) who don't know how to sew. You simply cut the tape to the length you need, fold up the material you want to hem, and iron that sucker on high to bond the two parts together. Bingo, you got yourself a sweet little hem!

As soon as she mentioned it to me, I remembered I had used the stuff years ago (when I was married to a man but still did not know how to sew, because I was not a real woman even then, I was a lesbian, I just didn't know it yet) to "hem" a curtain.

Off we went to Walmart of all places (never again!!) and picked up a roll of the glorious substance.

And then it was off to "hem" the girl's pants.

Since the job still required the use of an iron (a borderline "female" task), it was going to be a two-lesbian job for sure.

And what a job it was! In my eagerness to help, I had forgotten the little detail about how a pants leg is actually a round loop, and a hell of a lot more complicated to hem (even with tape) than a straight edge curtain. Despite measuring with a ruler and trying our best not to iron out the pre-existing crease in the pants, we botched the job pretty good, and had to start over a few times.

Also we did it naked, but not because we are lesbians, but because it was super hot this weekend, and we don't have air conditioning in our apartment.

Despite a two-hour struggle to hem (with tape) one pair of pants, we managed to get the job done, and you can only tell if you look really close that one leg is slightly longer than the other.  Overall, though, she still looks pretty kick ass in her uniform, and went off to do two full days of flying and didn't crash the plane.

Despite being a lesbian!

In my beloved partner, a highly articulate intellectual with a flair for putting things off in the most creative manner, I am able to observe and reflect on the nature of procrastination.

Recently hired as a First Officer by a local airline, my darling has been thrown into an intense period of necessary mental and logistical preparations. In the forefront is the need to review and familiarize herself with hundreds of pages of Standard Operation Procedures (or "SOPs", as these necessary but somewhat dry bits of information are referred to by people in the industry).

I knew we were in trouble when, ten days prior to the start of ground school, I observed my beloved voraciously reading not the SOPs, but rather, various online bulletin boards dealing with which airline is best to work for, how to study said SOPs and what supplementary resources on Amazon are helpful when starting a new ground school class. 

Tats is very effective, you see, at convincing herself and those around her that in order to study well, she must first take the time necessary to prepare for the preparation of preparing her notes for review. I was almost convinced myself the first few times I saw her engage in this sort of behaviour. 

Seven years of co-habitation with this creature has taught me to be a better bullshit detector.

Things culminated in a new level of crazy this weekend when -- in an attempt to escape her thick cloud of impending new job anxiety -- I retreated under a blanket on the couch, noise-canceling headphones applied to my head, and Mozart's clarinet concerto flowing melodiously into my ears.  Halfway through the first movement, I heard a sort of crunching sound emanating from somewhere outside the concerto.

So much for noise canceling!

I attempted to ignore the distraction and focus on the clarinet... alas, by the time we were a short way into the Adagio, I tore off my not-so-noise-canceling headphones to see what the infernal racket was coming from my beloved's desk nearby.

The answer unveiled a new stage of procrastination: Tats had printed out all three million pages of her new airline's SOPs on our ancient and slowly dying printer, supplementing the barely-legible pale ink with quite possibly the tiniest font size she could find ("cute, little SOPS are comforting", she explained when I raised my eyebrows quizzically), and was rhythmically cutting the pages into quarters to make little booklets to study in chunks.

Apparently unperturbed that -- a week before ground school -- she was still physically manipulating the SOPs rather than committing them to memory, her greatest concern at this point was how she could effectively and attractively bind her mini SOP booklet.

​I decided to make some tea.  It seemed the only possible way forward.

Several hours later, those of you who fly commercially will be relieved to know that this airline's newest pilot is now an eighth of the way through her cute little SOP booklet, and is taking only periodic breaks to consult aviation forums regarding working conditions for the competitor, and is even looking up some actual aviation terms and definitions.

Blue skies ahead!

Lucky me, I got to return to the warm, hospitable island of Cuba within 365 days of my last adventure there!  This time, we brought Tats and Rick, so the flavour was a little different than my visit with just Alex and Simon, but as a result, we were able to take some photos (Tats brought her old phone).

It had been a busy few months at work and at home, and I was desperately ready for a vacation, so I was very excited to spy the snow-free, fertile ground and beach-lined ocean below as we descended beneath the clouds on arrival!

Also, I must say that while I generally enjoy exploring new places, there is something kind of special about returning to a familiar spot.  I could tell that the boys were as excited as I was to settle in, grab a bite at the buffet, and head to the beach for a swim in what we already knew to be a warm, delightful stretch of ocean on a spectacular beach.  It was fun, too, to introduce Rick and Tats, who had not yet been to Cuba, and had never visited a resort, to the whole lay of the land and watch their enjoyment of this break from the regular routine back home.

Something New

This year, we elected to take up a few of the outings on offer at the resort, which we had not done last year. One afternoon, for example, we all went snorkeling off a catamaran at some nearby coral, surrounded by about a dozen other small boats of fellow snorkelers from different resorts.

An entrepreneurial type out in the water had his own catamaran set up, along with several bottles of fish food and an underwater camera with which -- for a (negotiable) fee -- he would take photos of your group underwater, and arrange to have them delivered on DVD to your hotel later that night by a "sister" of his.  We went for it, wanting to capture this special moment.  (Neither Rick nor Tats had snorkeled before, and for the boys, it was only the second time.)

I was very impressed with the systems they had in place for this sort of thing.  True to his word, the photographer's colleague was at our hotel to meet us in the lobby at 7:15 that evening.  (She was scouring the lobby, looking for familiar faces, since she had never met us, and the only photos she had were of us wet and in our swim suits!) 

The woman showed us the collection of images on her device, we gave her $20, and within seconds she had the photos transferred to a CD-ROM and thrust into our hot little hands.

Horse-Back Riding

Another afternoon, a fellow came by the beach chairs and asked if anyone might be interested in horse-back riding.  On offer for a small fee was a pick up in the lobby of our hotel with a 1950s car, followed by a 45-minute ride along the beach closer to town.  Tats and I took him up on it.

We rode with a French couple who had brought their camera (it was quite rainy, so Tats had left hers back at the resort with Rick and the boys), and they promised to send photos, but at the time of writing, we've not yet received an email.

Jeep Safari

One of the full-day outings offered by the tour operators on-site is a so-called "Jeep Safari" in which up to four people travel by Jeep through Matanzas and around the country side, visiting a coffee plantation and various other sites.  Snorkeling, lunch and a swim in the caves is included.

Tats and the boys were eager, so off they went!

It was nice to have some downtime back at the ranch while the "youngsters" sought additional adventures! (In addition to finishing a great book I was reading, Rick and I also availed ourselves of the free kayaking and did a little spin in a double ocean kayak before lunch.)

Dolphins, Camels and Pelicans

Closer to home, we wandered next door to see the Dolphins.  There also seemed to be two camels which were grazing in a field between our resort and the Delfinario.  I wanted to pet one, but Tats advised against it!  The pelicans were, as always, eager to participate in the fish-eating part of the dolphin show.

​Havana

In addition to having a home base at a Varadero resort, we also  visited Havana again, staying in the same, central apt I had booked for myself and the boys last year, through Air BnB.

While a seaside resort has its own merits, I feel like traveling to a place like Cuba, and not availing oneself of the rich opportunities for at least a little authentic cultural immersion, constitutes a real tourist crime!  Part of the inherent value of travel is expanding ones cultural horizons, and a city like Havana is the perfect place to step outside ones comfort zone  a bit and learn something new.

​Like last year, we booked a one-way transfer on a big, comfy bus through a tour operator at the resort in Varadero, but this time we spent a little more time in Old Havana on our arrival, Simon and I scoping our possibilities for lunch while Alex joined Tats and Rick at the Museo de la Revolucion.​

Once we had found a decent lunch spot, Simon and I  wandered over to Parque Central, and pulled out a deck of cards I had brought with me.  Playing cards on a park bench turned out to be a sure-fire way to avoid tourist harassment; people seemed to assume that anyone comfortable enough to just sit around playing cards in the park must be a local!

Simon and I played for a bit, and mused about what it would be like to live in Havana for several months.  (We both agreed that while it was an interesting city, a Cuban lifestyle might be more readily enjoyed in the countryside rather than this noisy, busy and somewhat stinky metropolis.)

We soon wandered back from the museum to pick up the others and head over to our appointed lunch spot, which turned out to be a tremendously delicious choice with tasty dishes, including the drinks, and -- despite its location in tourist central -- not outrageous in price.

Rick had picked up an excellent map of the city, so after lunch, we easily navigated the route to our host's house on foot to check in.

It was really nice to see some familiar faces so far from home, and I was happy to introduce Rick and Tats to Irena and her son (and later, her dad).

The old metal, spiral staircase was as rickety as ever, and the view from the rooftop as awesome as I remembered it -- literally, you could just stand there day or night and take in the scenes from the street below.  (Which we did, the next morning.  Caught the local "Tim Horton's" lineup at the lady's house across the street -- she must make some awesome coffee!  But were too slow with the camera to capture the red car that pulled up out front, and the two guys that got out, walked around to the back door, and hauled out a giant pig carcass!!!  In fact we were so mesmerized with the proceedings that we did not even get photographic evidence of "phase two", when a third guy came out of the building with a giant platter, and the first two guys, having presumably unloaded their raw pork into the house/shop, returned, unlocked the trunk and proceeded to unload intestines, liver and other delicacies onto the large plate!!!  As Rick's guidebook said, "In Cuba, expect the unexpected.)

Once we had checked in with our hosts, we decided to check out the city a bit.  I had made dinner reservations at nearby La Guarida (Amazing spot, super yummy food and incredible architecture; highly recommend, though it's not cheap!), and we wanted to get to the Chess Club beforehand and also do some geo-caching if possible.

As always, the old cars provided a visual feast for the eyes.  It was fun to watch Rick's recognition of automobiles he had been young enough to own/drive or recognize from his youth in the US.  And Tats scoured the streets for old Russian models her family had owned before they left the Soviet Union (she was able to locate both i the 48 hours we spent in Havana!)

Capablanca Chess Club

Finally we arrived at the chess club.  Rick, an accomplished player in his own right, was invited to sit down to a round of speed chess.  

Unfortunately, having only played online for the past several years, the combination of having to use actual chess pieces and the pressure of five people watching and scrutinizing the game proved too much for Rick, and he was creamed in under five minutes.

As I suspected he would, he stewed about the opening move for the rest of the evening, and announced the next day that he could easily beat the guy if they played again.  Needless to say, it was a threat that did not have the opportunity to come to fruition during our short sojourn in the city.

Matanzas

Last year the boys and I had stopped to snorkel between Matanzas and Varadero, and this year, I wanted to actually see the city of Matanzas.  So, rather than driving directly back to the resort, we had our Havana hosts arrange a ride for us to Matanzas, where I had prearranged a tour of the city with a local journalism student through Air BnB's new "experiences" feature.  (She, in turn, arranged a ride back to the resort for us from there.)

The city of Matanzas has a different vibe from Havana.  The buildings are not as tall, and -- as we learned from our guide -- the city is set out according to a master plan that allows each property and equal amount of sunlight.

A wide variety of colonial and other influences contribute to the city's eclectic architectural style.  And, like elsewhere in Cuba, both old cars and a love for the poet Jose Marti abound.

Since we were feeling somewhat over-stimulated, and were eager, after our adventures off the resort, to get back to the relative calm of the all-inclusive, beachfront oasis and process the many happenings of the past 24 hours, we asked our guide to shorten her intended 3-hour tour to a more manageable 2-hour session. 

​We were grateful that she was able to do this without sacrificing the climb to the top of the city, which afforded us a view of Matanzas out to the ocean that would have been breathtaking on a less overcast day.

Uncaptured

As always, some of the best memories were not the ones necessarily captured on film.  Playing cards with the kids in the lobby each night after dinner, for example, while listening to live Cuban jazz.  Or sitting down on the beach sharing mate w/ some Argentinian girls we happened across while walking past the resort two down from ours!

Or, my personal favourite, the escapades from the morning in Havana when we sent Tats and Rick off to the Hotel Nacional for a tour of the mafia suites and artefacts from the Cuban Missile Crisis, and the boys and I took our local pesos and hopped on the guagua (Cuban Spanish for public bus) and headed out for a little adventure of our own -- They had the camera, so we have only our memories!

While Rick and Tats took in the historical tour succeeded by a drink on the hotel terrace, Simon, Alex and I made our way up Av 23 (La Rampa) on the P9, as suggested by the gal who made us breakfast at our Air BnB. At 40 centavos (moneda nacional) per person, it was a steal!

After a short visit to the very old , very broken down and very small Jalisco park (a pre-revolution theme park, super fun for the age 4-7 crowd, so long as you don't mind somewhat sketchy, possibly broken, old mini roller coasters and merry-go-round style rides!!) , we made our way over to the Necropolis.  The boys commented on the similarity to the one we had visited in Recoleta, in Buenos Aires, a few years earlier.

But the most fun of all came when we hopped back on the bus afterwards and made our way to Coppelia, determined (now that we had local currency) to finally eat at the REAL ice cream cathedral, with the people, rather than off to the side, at the over-priced, underwhelming tourist trough! 

Having bypassed the guards, we were not disappointed when we landed at a table in one of the upstairs salons, and enjoyed a little people watching along with our dirt-cheap ensaladas de bola, before heading back by "coco cab" to the neighbourhood of our AirBnB to meet Rick and Tats for pizza at a nearby stand.

With an election this year, and rumours of a combined currency on the horizon, Cuba continues to evolve at a rapid (by Cuban standards) pace.

​Happily for us, during this visit, we were still able to enjoy the visual and experiential time-warp afforded by the old cars and still-somewhat-limited digital infrastructure. Like last time, I enjoyed the opportunities this encouraged for strengthening personal connections with the people I love most, and for forging new ones with the people whose country we were guests in.  I also relished the time to read voraciously (I started and finished Everybody's Son, as well as several longer magazine articles while away, and the kids polished off two thick books each). 

On our final morning in Cuba, we by-passed the 8:00 a.m. milk run and elected instead to enjoy a leisurely breakfast and one last walk on the beach, before hopping into a local car to take us -- for the price of 9 CUCs, some batteries, a baseball cap, a few t-shirts, some children's books and some other odds and ends -- to the airport at a more reasonable 10:30 a.m. arrival for our 12:25 p.m. departure back to Toronto.

I feel very lucky to have had the opportunity to visit this amazing place once again, and am grateful for having packed so much excitement, relaxation and learning into such a short length of time.

Parenting monozygotic twins allows one a glimpse inside a uniquely intimate relationship between two visually "identical" people.

When the boys came from their dad's yesterday wearing the same shirt, I thought I'd take a nice photo. (They rarely dress alike, so when they do, the "twins effect" is quite jarring!)

As one of them said to me later, when I had expressed my frustration that they refuse to post pose nicely for a photo, "but we had so much fun, right mom?" Ahhh, twins... such a blessing!

Simon and I had the most amazing encounter this past weekend.

Having decided -- after a recent "Spooky Lagoon Tour" -- to conduct his history fair research on the Island community's history, and having successfully convinced his school partner to join him in this quest, Simon approached me for some support.  It wasn't a hard sell; I've always been a fan of the Toronto Islands, and finding out more seemed closer to  fun than "homework"!

Tumbling down one rabbit hole after another on the Internet, I finally stumbled across the Island History Project (tihp) online, and contacted someone with my plea for a "primary source", preferably an interview with an islander, for my son and his school partner.

I was soon exchanging emails and phone calls with a fellow who had lived on the island in the 40s, and who was now living in the US, but still in touch with his old community.  He was willing to set Simon and his friend up, and shared our contact info with two gentlemen who still lived on the island, one of whom was none other than Jimmy Jones, the guy whose stories had sparked Simon's interest in the first place!

Not long afterwards, we arranged to meet the two elderly islanders at one of their homes on a Sunday afternoon.  In the end, Simon's school friend couldn't make it, so Simon left him to do some book research, and he and I set out alone on the gloomy November weekend to purchase our ferry tickets and visit the large park that tourists usually reserve for sunny, summer day trips.

 We said good-bye to the city, and boarded the ferry bound for Ward's Island, armed with 6 scones and a jar of jam from one of our favourite bakeries.

Peter and Jimmy proved to be spry in both body and spirit, and we spent a delightful afternoon together, listening to stories that covered considerably more territory than the few questions Simon and his partner originally had in mind.... Simon jotted down what he could, and I listened intently. 

We learned that Centre Island's park-like Avenue of the Islands was once a bustling main street of a real town, complete with restaurants, several grocers, a pharmacy and all manner of other businesses, a fact I later confirmed in more detail by further intrigued googling at home!  And while there is a lot written about the "wealthy" families who built summer homes on the island, both men confirmed that all sorts of people lived on, worked on and visited the islands, and further, that when the houses started to be demolished (the City claimed it needed the space for a large public park -- despite the copious amount of parkland already available and in use on the site), it was not the wealthy families who lost their homes first... if at all. (The exclusive yacht club, for example, was never touched -- it stands and is used to this day!)

They told us stories of how the city had started their demolition derby with the town on Centre first, coring out the community's backbone, so to speak, before moving westward and then eastward towards Wards Island, where both Jimmy and Peter presently lived.  It was a sobering moment when both men recalled the impact on many families of being evicted from their homes, or of the threat of having their homes demolished.  The fight was a long, hard one, and one not without a few casualties.

On a more upbeat note, Jimmy also told us that many of the homes still standing on that part of the island had been built from materials that came in a pre-fab kit, ordered directly out of the Eaton's catalogue - he remembered a time when both Eaton's and Simpson's had several deliveries a day from the city to the islands.  (A house could go up in a weekend, added Peter, noting that it helped if you had several friends and a little beer.)

He recalled with fondness the rich and vibrant communities that had existed all along the island, including many details from the amusement park and Baseball diamond on Hanlan's Point, where Babe Ruth had hit his first professional home run, and where the busy airport I now fly out of stands (much to many islanders' chagrin).  Jimmy's dad had been a clown at the amusement park; his mother had sold tickets at the ticket booth -- that's how the family arrived there in the first place, and Jimmy has lived there ever since. (85 years, as he told us, and Simon did the math to make sure!)

Both Jimmy and his neighbour (and our host) Peter were engaging and lively story-tellers, who had a remarkable number of details crammed into their heads.  One got the feeling that there was probably no question about the island's history that either one or the other couldn't answer... and we asked many.

Simon, fairly quiet during our visit other than the questions on this list, seemed greatly affected by his interaction with the two men; he chattered with me afterwards about his impressions, and seemed quite pleased at having met Jimmy in person, recognizing the asset of such a meeting to both his school project and his personal development as a Torontonian.

Taking our leave from our host and his guest, we headed back to the ferry docks, Simon and I, and I reflected on how fortunate newer islanders are to have access to such a lively wealth of information about their beloved home's past still living in their midst.  Those lucky enough to have not lost their homes in the dramatic city seizure of the 60s and 70s now live in community with an eclectic mix with fellow "old islanders" and newer converts, islanders "by chance" in some cases thanks to the now-35-year wait list/lottery.

The island has certainly changed over the past hundred years, both geographically and politically, and to be able to learn the island lore from someone who has been through the bulk of those changes in-person is truly a treasure!

As we boarded the ferry back to the city, I gave Simon a little squeeze. 

​Although I'll probably never realise my own dream of living on this particular island, I'm grateful for our fairly regular day trips here, and in particular, I feel a tremendous amount of gratitude for the opportunity to sit in on this unique aspect of my son's history fair project research.  I sure learned a lot.

By the way, if you're keen to learn more about how the Island was formed, geographically speaking, check out this 2012 article from Blog TO!

After this past summer's flooding of the Toronto Islands, it was a real pleasure to be able to participate in a "spooky lagoon tour" this fall, and expand my already nerd-like knowledge of island lore... "Murder at the Lighthouse" was originally set up by two of Toronto's water taxi companies in an attempt to recoup some of the losses from this summer's negatively impacted business (the taxis typically ferry private parties between the city's harbourfront and the islands, but the latter were closed to the public for most of the season this year).

The tour begins with a little history lesson on the mainland, in a tent erected to house a television set that shows some old footage from the island and the Toronto harborfront. The existing narration is accompanied by a local actor, who tries to excite the small group about the haunted lighthouse we will soon visit on Hanlan's Point.

The photo of Billy Bishop City Ctr airport -- one I regularly fly out of -- covered in pre-wartime houses is alone worth the price of admission!

Then it's onto the boat for the 12 of us (a few warm blankets are scattered on the seats for those who forgot to dress in layers on this cool October night), and an audio tour begins, narrated by none other than 85-year-island-resident, Jimmy Jones (the Unofficial Mayor of Toronto Island).

What a treasure to hear Jones recount tales of the Trillium ferry, and share his own personal memories of Hurricane Hazel and the vibrant communities that once flourished all along the Toronto Islands! (And as an added bonus, the accompanying music is classical, rather than the all-too-ubiquitous pop.)

Soon, we leave the city behind, and make our way down the dark lagoon towards Canada's second oldest lighthouse, and Toronto’s most famous ghost, J.P. Radelmüller.

An apparently drunken ghost from the past greets us at a little dock island-side, and invites our group off the boat and into the island... if we dare!

While we follow the eerie light of her lantern towards the old Lighthouse, the previous small tour group departs, leaving us stranded with this shady character at the Lighthouse.

After an engaging recount of the main theory behind Rademueler's unsolved murder so many years ago (he was a bootlegger, and it is thought that some thirsty soldiers from Fort York wanted more than their share one night in 1815), we're taken to see where what's thought to be the Lighthouse keeper's bones were found and re buried some years later. Another ghost (the murder victim himself?) appears out of the shadows, and chases us back to the dock, where another water taxi is just arriving with the next group.

The ghost retreats into the darkness, our island host bids us an intoxicated farewell as she greets her next group, and we slide onto the small boat for the journey back down the lagoon and across the harbour to the city.

Although some might find the tour a little "hokey" (and certainly not super scary), as a Torontonian and an island history buff, I must say I thoroughly enjoyed it. I thought the content was well thought out and the transitions were perfectly timed; I just found the whole thing really endearing!

My only suggestion for improvement might be to include some narration on the ride home, about this summer's flooding, perhaps, and about what the island has come to mean for Torontonians, as a transition back to the present. That being said, when I shared my closing idea with the kids, they pointed out that it was already information overload, and that some people might prefer to just cuddle up on their blanket and enjoy the boat ride back in silence, as they reflect on and process what they've heard.