My angel drives a tractor

We’re just two weeks from Christmas, or as the retailers would like us to think, only 13 more shopping days! The house is decorated inside and out and the baking is mostly done (although around here Christmas cookies have a half-life of about 2 days). And as always happens this time of year, the angels are out and about with gay abandon.

Christmas music now being broadcast on the airwaves includes the ever-popular traditional classics like Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and Angels We Have Heard on High. Every country music star and wannabe has released a new angels-heavy Christmas album. And acting careers are being launched by the thousands as 5-year-old girls and boys make their stage debut wearing a cut-down sheet and a pair of tinfoil wings in the Christmas concert.

Yup, angels figured heavily in Christmas celebrations from the very beginning when they supposedly told Mary who the father was and then told Joseph that it wasn’t him (not an enviable job). Then they got to fly around and spread the news about the Christ child to all mankind. And speaking of spreads, more recently they are best known for those Philadelphia Cream Cheese commercials.

I have to admit it all seemed a bit of a stretch to me until this morning.

That’s when my angel arrived with her 4-wheel-drive tractor complete with a honkin’ huge snow blower to clear the foot of snow (okay, 30 centimetres for the metric purists) that Mother Nature dumped on us – more specifically, our ½ mile driveway – last night. Ten minutes later she was done and we were once again connected with the big, wide world out there.

Now that’s something I can really believe in!

The blizzard

Mother Nature is on a tear – from 20 below yesterday to blizzard conditions today.

Normally when these storms blow in from the East we just batten down the hatches, throw another log on the fire, and wait them out. But this time I had to go into town - to get snow tires installed!

Fortunately there was very little traffic on the road and I was able to keep up a pretty good pace. And by straddling the centre line I had lots of sliding room when I needed it, which I did once or twice.

No traffic meant I could also enjoy the somewhat surreal experience of driving in blizzard conditions. The horizon is lost as the grey sky, falling snow, and snow-covered fields merge in the distance. With no reference points, depth perception fails. Periodically a house or barn will appear, seemingly afloat in a sea of whiteness, or an oncoming vehicle will suddenly appear only to disappear again in the rear view mirror. It’s like driving into a blank canvas upon which some unseen hand is quickly sketching a montage of black and white images which just as quickly fade back into the white.

A couple of hours later I was back. The car was in the driveway, suitably shod with the latest in snow and ice conquering technology, and I was in the kitchen inhaling the smells of freshly baked carrot cake and licking the icing spoon. Let it snow.

Prorogue, Coalition, Harper, Dion, Leadership, Iggy, Duffy, G-G, Baird - I can't take it any more!

Every six months or thereabouts I get so entirely fed up with politics (a sham), politicians (liars), political pundits (the blind leading the deaf), and rabid partisans (rabid partisans) that I say a pox on all their houses and take a time out. I prorogue myself, you might say.

Well I've reached that point again where I’m just so sick of the madness that I’ve decided to ignore (at least as best I can) politics for a while. It might be for a week or it might be for a month, but one thing is for certain - when I start paying attention again the Conservatives will still be lying swindlers, the MSM will still be biased and only marginally competent, the Liberals will still be trying to figure out what the hell happened, and the rabid partisans will still be abusing each other with cheap shots and ad hominem personal attacks.

Actually, in a way it's kind of comforting because, just like missing an episode or two of Desperate Housewives, it really doesn’t matter. Within a couple of minutes you’re all caught up and know exactly what’s going on because it’s just more of the same outrageous behaviour by a dysfunctional group of self-absorbed idiots trying their damnedest to self destruct in prime time.

Now I just need something else to write about....

Jack Frost nipping....

Boots crunching on the snow... Trees cracking in protest... The far-off whine of a snowmobile crossing the lake... The mid-morning sun hanging low in the southern sky...Breath freezing on my beard... Squinting eyes blinded by the brightness of the fresh white snow... Fingertips numbing in winter gloves... The smell of wood smoke from the chimney... Chickadees calling in the silence... Frigid eyeglasses fogging up indoors.

Winter has now got us firmly in her grasp. This morning I awoke to a bright, crisp sunny day with the temperature hovering around -20°C. The high winds of yesterday had dissipated and the air was absolutely calm.

I took a shortcut to go and get the morning paper (yes, there’s a trail through there) and was reminded again just how spectacular a winter day in the country can be. A true feast for the senses and the kind of day that lifts the soul.

Procrastination is something best left until tomorrow

But eventually, in spite of my best efforts to delay, Christmas cards have to be sent.

And so with suitable prodding by the spousal unit (“Here are the cards and a pen; what are you waiting for?”), and the accompaniment of a very large tumbler of scotch, the process begins.

First you have to write the dreaded Christmas letter. That’s the letter in which you summarize a year’s worth of family news of absolutely no interest to anyone but yourself, and perhaps your mother, onto one double-sided page to be foisted off on the unsuspecting Christmas card recipient. The Christmas letter used to be the exclusive domain of immediate family back in the days when a stamp was cheaper than long-distance and Christmas was the only time folks found out what their grandkids had been up to for the past 12 months. But times change and the replacement of the trusty Underwood by word processing software means that it is now but an extra click or two to print 100 copies to send to EVERYONE. It also means the font can be reduced as necessary to ensure that the entire message still fits on the single page which will keep the envelope within size and weight limits for first-class postage. Just be aware that a 4-point font is totally illegible to anyone whose eyes have been on this earth for more than 4 decades.

Once your letter of exciting news, brilliant witticisms, and the requisite out-of-focus family snapshot taken during the summer vacation at the lake is ready to go you have to select the correct card to stick it in. As when crossing a minefield, one must tread very carefully in this regard. There are 3 distinct types of Christmas card out there – religious, secular and humorous, to be sent to religious, secular and odd friends. And you should never – NEVER – mix them up. A Christmas card with Vixen in a thong doing a pole dance while being cheered on by Rudolph and a bunch of drunken elves should never be sent to the Pastor, for example. It’s not that your Pastor is this dour person with no sense of humour; it’s just that humorous religious cards are simply not to be had. Which is a bit odd, really, as one would think 3 dudes showing up on camels, carrying something called Myrrh and calling themselves Maggie would have all sorts of comedic possibilities. But alas religion and humour remain mutually exclusive, so it’s angels and ginormous stars and baby Jesuses in mangers with biblical quotes for the religious sect. Everyone else gets a laugh, a cartoon of Santa in a compromising position, and a Happy Holidays greeting.

So you’re done, right? Just throw them in the mail and you can go back to watching Charlie Brown’s Christmas or Vixen doing her pole dance ... wow it's amazing what you can find on cable these days ... er, sorry, lost focus there for a moment. Yeah. Mail. Well not quite, because now the game of Christmas chicken begins. Everyone has people on their Christmas card list who they don’t really want to send a card to, and who they suspect feel the same way towards them. But you don’t want to be the first to break with tradition so you delay sending them a card until (if) one from them arrives in your mailbox. When it does, you quickly toss a reply card in the outgoing mail as if you intended to all along. And because Canada Post can take anywhere from 2 days to 2 weeks to deliver, they will never know with certainty that the cards didn’t simply cross in the mail, thus extending for at least one more year the period during which folks you don’t really care about that much still feel an obligation to send you a Christmas card or else suffer the humiliation of being first to break the chain.

By the way, this is similar to the technique to be used when a card arrives from your Aunt Mabel who you hadn’t heard from for 12 years and assumed was dead but was really just chillin’ with some trucker in a trailer park in Tennessee and has now decided it’s time to renew family acquaintances in the hope that someone has a spare room. On second thought, in that case it’s probably best to let Aunt Mabel think you’re the dead one. But you get the point, which is always keep a few extra cards around for the last minute panic mailing that’s sure to occur right up to the big day itself. Besides they'll still be good next year.

Yup, sending out the Christmas cards is one of those traditions that help us celebrate this most joyous occasion. I wouldn’t miss it for anything, but why can’t it wait until tomorrow?

If my grandmother had wheels, she'd be a tractor

No I have no idea what it means either, but that’s what Gilles Duceppe just said when asked about supporting a Conservative budget in January.

The coalition is dead. It was a good try, but it failed. It hurts to be beaten by a bully and a coward, but now it’s time to move on. After the G-G’s decision today, there’s no way the coalition will be asked to form a government if Harper & Co. get turfed on a confidence vote on the budget. Parliament will be disbanded and it will be every party for itself in a new election campaign.

So the progressive parties on the left better start dealing with that reality right now because they only have about 8 weeks to come up with an electable alternative to present to the Canadian people – or they roll over on the budget. And the longer the Liberals, NDP and Bloc persist with their coalition fantasy, the less time they will have to mount an aggressive, winning campaign and counter the flood of lies and propaganda about to be unleashed on the Canadian public by the Cons.

“I refuse to tip-toe through life only to arrive safely at death”

That anonymous quote got me thinking again about the latest Ontario government initiatives to coddle its citizenry, protecting us from ourselves, and furthermore protecting us from ever having to take any real responsibility for our actions. (Previously blogged on here, here, and here.)

Nanny-state legislation, most often initiated as a political knee-jerk reaction to an unfortunate death or injury, seems particularly problematic in Ontario. And without a major backlash, its relentless progression will eventually turn us all into a society of zombies. As we move from one protective bubble to the next, we will live our lives totally unexposed and to some extent oblivious to the real world around us with all its excitement, beauty, and, it must be said, dangers. Unable to conceive of taking any personal risk, we will become solely focused on immunizing ourselves from life so we can survive forever, without fear and without pain. Ironically, in order to live longer we become the walking dead ourselves.

I’m certainly no Edmund Hillary when it comes to living on the edge, but I’ve had my moments (many of which I'm proud to say would now be against one or more laws) and I simply can’t imagine being 100 years old and only having a white bread life to look back on. As the old joke goes, the doctor says if you give up drinking, smoking and wild women you’ll live to be 100. To which the patient replied, why would I want to? Exactly!

Any life worth living is inherently risky. Sure, some of us pushed it too far and, paraphrasing James Dean, lived fast, died young and left a beautiful corpse. Other friends, colleagues and family members didn’t make it this far due to countless other factors beyond their or anyone else’s control. But most of us make it through just fine, in spite of it all. And facing those risks, feeling that excitement, winning... and losing, even those near-death experiences define who we are. They are the underpinnings of our character, the same human character that brought innovation and progress to the western world at an unprecedented rate over the past few generations. It’s the same human character that gives us our heroes, in war and in peacetime; the same human character that lets us dig deep to find that irresistible force needed when faced with one of life’s immovable objects; and the same human character that every society needs in order to survive and that we, as humans, need to truly live.

Losing a loved one before their time hurts, and it’s understandable that those suffering such a loss will cry out for more rules, more limits, more controls so that no one else will ever have to feel their pain. But personal pain is not a good forge for public policy, and we should expect our politicians to be wise enough to realise that.