Carole-Ann Vance

Whenever you love someone whether it be your husband, wife, partner, your child or a dear friend, the ropes of fear immediately encircle your love.  I believe that it is true, that as soon as you love, you open the door wide to loss.

Never would I turn from the joy and magic of loving another, but the fear is there, of that, I have no doubt.

When this love is ripped from us suddenly by death, the grief topples our reality and shadows our logic.  There is no logic in loss.  There is only the heart-breaking wish to turn back time.

The short story, The Monkey’s Paw written by W.W Jacobs in 1902 is a frightening parable that teaches many lessons, but for me it illustrates how very far one would go to bring back those we love.  Jacob’s tale reaches into the darkness and offers a slender thread of hope to a grieving woman and we are left wondering…would I do the same?

The ancient mummified monkey’s paw carried the illicit promise of three wishes; however, the White family—the father, mother, and son— were warned, “that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow.”  Their first wish is made in jest, with no true longing for anything in particular, for as the father stated, “I don’t know what to wish for, and that’s a fact,” he said.  “It seems to me I’ve got all I want.”

The paw awakens in the father’s hand, twitching with its black promise, and their wish for money comes along in the wake of their son’s death the very next day from an accident at work. Careful what you wish for…as my father liked to preach, life is not fair.

The mother, consumed by grief, recalls in the dark hours of the night, that they still have two wishes left.  She can give life to her son again.  “Get it, she panted; “get it quickly, and wish—oh my boy, my boy!”  When her husband implores her that they must not, for their son had been mangled beyond recognition, she cries out only to “bring him back!”

In the middle of the night, when fear crawls along every nerve, the father makes the second charge to the monkey’s paw to “wish our boy alive again.”

They waited, these two once joined by a child between them, surrounded by the weight of silence in their home, both holding vastly opposing hopes lingering on their breath.

The footsteps that eventually crunch through the frost and the mist outside their home, filled the father with foreboding, for he knew that what they had called forth was no longer their boy.

With the first loud knock on the front door, the father scrambled for the monkey’s paw, just as the mother struggled to release the locks to welcome her son back home.  The father does what he must, he initiates the final wish, and when the mother wretched open the door, desperation almost choking her, there is only cold emptiness to fill her outstretched arms.

One minute your life is as it should be, the next you are knocked to the ground crippled by grief.

Tim Bosma, a 32 year old Ancaster, ON man was killed May 6, 2013 by men who answered his classified to sell his 2007 Dodge Ram pickup.  His life, a priceless value of love to his family and friends, sacrificed for a used truck.

Tim’s wife said “I am broken”, and I can only imagine the searing pain that has settled in her chest.

Wouldn’t all of us, if we had the opportunity, offer up wishes to the unknown, or hand over all our coins to Charon the ferryman in Greek mythology, so that we could cross the river to the land of the dead to rescue those we have lost?

I think I would, I know I would want to.

It’s why I write of impossible events, and snuggle into the creation of magic realism.  I want to be able to change the unchangeable.

The fact is, I don’t want to be the one left behind.  I don’t want to be the one bent and broken, drowning long after the tears have ceased to flow.

 A cold came to stay the week after Easter this year, and left the door wide open for my next visitor…ear infections. 

I have been lost in a fog every since this latest ailment settled in to stay 3 weeks and 3 days ago…not that I’m counting or anything. 

Trying to function with blocked, painful ears is bad enough, but oh how my writing has suffered.

I have attempted to motor valiantly on because I so wanted to submit work for my writing group this coming Wednesday.  I don’t want to see any openings posted for new members, just as I’m being shown the door!

Problem is, I have brain stall.  I can no longer deny my affliction.  The fact is, it has hampered the progress of my latest story in a big way.  There I was, my pen flying across the paper as I pushed my character Daphne up the stairs to confront her daughter Gabriella.  Daphne has just driven, with her husband Trey, all the way from Montreal, Quebec to Hamilton, Ontario.  Two conflicts are brewing at this point in my story:

1/. Daphne is ill and must tell her daughter that the prognosis is not a good one.

2/. The night before, Daphne and Trey had received an upsetting middle of the night/early morning phone call from Gabriella.  Their daughter had been hysterical, in tears, and almost incoherent.  The only statement they could understand was that their daughter had quit medical school.

Questions are surfacing nicely within the story:

What’s going on with Gabriella?  Why did she suddenly quit school?  What had upset her so, that she would up and walk away from her dream of becoming a doctor?

How will Daphne tell her only child that her mother is, in fact, terminally ill?

All interesting elements to cut, stir and blend with words that will hopefully push the reader faithfully along, page after page.

I got Daphne all the way to Hamilton, into Gabriella’s house, and up the stairs to find her daughter.  They need to talk, these two women of mine. 

But…Daphne is frozen at the door to Gabriella’s elegant office:

“Gabriella’s office door was ajar, and Daphne could hear the muted strains of Vivaldi floating effortlessly around the room.  Tapping on the door lightly to announce her presence, she pushed the door, opening it further into the room…”

And what happens next?

I have no idea.

My writer’s creative strength has weakened, and no matter how hard I have pushed, Daphne simply will not move from that door. 

I stared at the computer screen, I scribbled and doodled in my work book, finally I left it all behind, so I could mull it over in my head as I tossed and turned in bed waiting for sleep.  I truly do believe in the power of the subconscious, who hasn’t heard of the writer who solved a plot dilemma during sleep?

Bits and pieces of Daphne and Gabriella’s conversation began to drift through my mind.  I picked up interesting pieces here and there, moving slowly so as not to startle my hesitant thoughts, but suddenly, out of the blue, a rock was hurtled through the window of Gabriella’s office!  Glass shattered and splintered into the room, the women screamed!

Whoa, whoa!  Wait a minute here!  This does not work at all with my story!  Sure it does, says my befuddled mind as it raises the decibel on the screaming.

Really?  That’s all you can give me?  No heartfelt, character revealing conversations, just a rock randomly flung through a window?

I cleared the shattered glass away and tried again.  Nothing.  Nada. Zippo, in the plot moving forward bag.

I reluctantly turned away from my story before aliens started showing up on the landing behind Daphne.  I didn’t want to scare the poor woman to death, at least not yet.

I sighed loudly, hoping the activity would both open my blocked ears and awaken my imagination.   At this rate, I’m going to be in my eighties before I’m published. 

This ‘woe is me’ lament stirred a memory, and I went in search of my copy of  “…And Ladies of the Club” by Helen Hooven Santmyer.

I needed to re-read the author’s introduction on the cover flap:

“..And Ladies of the Club” is the product of fifty years of work by its remarkable author, 88-year-old Helen Hooven Santmyer, but it is a rare event in any publishing season…

Okay, I feel a little bit better.  There is no mandatory retirement for writers…I still have time.

Maybe I’ll bring cupcakes to my meeting this week.  It will, perhaps, distract from my lack of productivity.

Early to bed and early to rise

Makes a man healthy, wealthy and wise.

I realize that Benjamin Franklin lived by his words, and there is no doubt that he accomplished amazing feats during his lifetime.  He certainly set the bar high for all of us little minions to attempt to scramble over. He lived to work, for himself and for others, and continued daily in his attempts to improve himself until the day he died. I’m thinking he most certainly did not waste his time languishing comfortably in bed any time after sunrise. 

Ben, to be rather forward as I immediately move our relationship to a first name basis, was an early riser; an energy fueled go-getter, who probably woke the sun so he himself could get on with his day.   

To be forthright, I am not a morning person, never have been, never well be.  Admittedly, due to the need of a day  job to pay for my struggling writing career, oh and for all those annoying monthly bills that add up to everyday living, I have to put on a morning face.  I work very hard to slide into my cubicle at least close to the starting hour.  However, it’s not easy, and it’s not pretty, as I slide into my chair and slap on that computer that will be in my face for eight long hours. 

As a salesperson for well over thirty years, I am still trying to understand the corporate thought process that involves sales people starting work at eight in the morning.  Seriously, who in their right mind wants to talk to a salesperson at eight in the morning?….at any time really, but that’s another story regarding the ill feelings many have towards the poor, unappreciated sales person.  Sad really, cuz truthfully, once you get to know us you will grow to love us…or leave us…no, no love us….

But I digress…back to the morning talk…even sales people don’t want to talk to sales people at 8 AM in the morning.  I mean come on!…our coffee breath hasn’t even set in yet for God’s sake!

I think 10 am to 2pm is the proper, oh so polite time to conduct business.  I have put out quite a number of memos on the subject.  Nothing back as yet, but I’ll keep you posted. 

Back to my friend Benjamin Franklin, he was, as stated, an early bird, and I commend him for that, but I still cannot get my thoughts around this disciplined mind set.  I’ve tried, and continue to work on it, but it hasn’t gotten easier with the passing years.

My poor children, and their cousin, bless their now adult souls, at a very young age had to experience the painful daily process of an unorganized non-morning gal such as myself, attempting to get them up, ready, and out the door on time for school.  Even I shake my head, as I think back to those hectic mornings.  

After all, let’s face it, school happened every morning (pretty well), from September through to the end of June.  Monday to Friday, excepting holidays, school started at the same time, very rarely changing, even yearly.  Same goes for the school bus, it too came at the same time every morning, barring snow storms, or any unexpected acts of God, its what others would deem a ‘set schedule’. 

So you would think that this would make life easier for me, knowing said schedule.  When you think of it, actually being  acquainted with what was going to happen day in, day out, should have been empowering

The fact is, that every single school morning rang about the same, give or take the level of stress…sometimes high, sometimes so very high, as all of us pushed to beat the clock.  We rummaged frantically for food in the fridge for lunches, we looked for lunch bags, knapsacks, and we reached under beds for school assignments, all the while desperately on the hunt for matching pants and tops. 

And every other minute, I would dash up to our large bathroom windows on the second floor, to scout for any sign of the school bus.  The windows overlooked the sprawling countryside and gave me a bird’s eye view just over the tops of the evergreens that stretched down our driveway.  From this vantage point, I could clearly see the side road, far up the hill, where the yellow bus would eventually make its appearance.  When it came in view, the bus always appeared to be carrying the dirt of the entire road along in its wake. 

The school bus driver, let’s call her Mrs. I Don’t Really Like My Job, must have had dreams of becoming an Indy car racer some day because her foot rarely eased off the gas pedal.   It seemed to frustrate her to no end that she was forced to stop her forward momentum, in order to pick up annoying children.  

Now back then we lived directly on, but slightly back from the Highway.  The house was situated right before the crest of a very steep hill, so if those kids were not parked out at the end of our long driveway, that bus did not stop, it did not even drop to a lower gear.  So, every morning, mixed in with the heady rush of disorganization, was the high-pitched squeal of my voice raised up to the very rafters, so all in attendance could hear my first warning: THE BUS IS COMING!  THE BUS IS COMING!

Oh, I can still hear the level of panic as it climbed the very walls of our little home.  Finally, with my face pressed tight to the window…in order to best estimate the distance between the school bus and our driveway…I would make the final call: THE BUS IS TURNING ON TO THE HIGHWAY!  RUNNNNNN!

In the aftermath, after every child was safely on their way to school, I would swear I would change my wicked, wicked ways, and that tomorrow, tomorrow would be different, would be better…I just knew it would.

But yep, you got it…the next morning, there I was at my regular post…the bathroom window patterned with my agitated breathing as I screamed like a banshee: THE BUS IS COMING!…and all hell would break loose yet again.

I guess it was a routine of sorts.

Well, at least the kids had amazing birthday parties, that’s gotta be worth something.

My dog Cooper Alexander has the right idea, he doesn’t wait for me to wake him up.  He pounces on top of me, no matter the early hour, and his 75+ pounds says: I gotta go, and I gotta go NOW.

At least I don’t have to make him lunches, and there’s no bus.

I never did like school buses.

I have a number of feats I want to accomplish during my lifetime.    I am constantly making lists, mapping out plans, but sometimes I become discouraged, especially when recently hit hard by a nasty virus that is running amuck through the office.  Obviously I have to become acclimatized to my new playground.

During such times, my words become lost or jumbled, and I feel my writing will never stretch and grow along with my expectations.   When these moments occur, I need reminders of endless possibilities and colours, and springtime is the best season for such delights.

I thought I would share some bursts of colour with you until I find my words once again. There is one picture…I’m sure you will know which one…that stands out from all the rest for me, and reigns as one of my favourites.

Welcome to the season of new beginnings!

And hey, if you happen upon some of my lost words out there, please send them on back to me; I appreciate any help I can get! 

Once in a very long while you stumble across an author that astounds you, and from that point on, you spend your days searching for those spare moments when you can sneak away and return to turning page after page.  You become obsessed, and want only to soak up every word, every turn of phrase, every character that jumps at you from each chapter.

You basically can’t keep your nose out of their books.

Through the years there have been a number of writers that have captivated my imagination in such a way: Mary Stewart’s Crystal Cave, Tolkien and The Lord of the Rings, Diana Gabaldon’s The Outlander Series, and Joanne Harris and Chocolat to name but a few from my collection.  All of these writers produced characters that spoke to me in such a way, that in the end, I found it almost impossible to forget them.  Inadvertently I found myself quoting them, forgetting for a moment that they were the smoke and mirrors of the imagination and not close friends I chatted with recently.

This year I have fallen hard for George R. R. Martin and his Game of Thrones series.  Horses, knights, love and honour, oh these stories definitely had me right from the beginning!  Once the dragons made an appearance, and stretched their wings across the years of their absence, Martin became my magician of the literary world.

I am in awe, and admittedly oh so jealous, at the apparent ease with which he presents each of his many characters throughout every book in the series.  He brings the people of his kingdom to life as they walk across each page, and he makes me care for them almost immediately.  At times, his people do not stay for very long, your moment with them is brief, a mere chapter or less, and perhaps that strengthens your attachment, for in the end, you wish for more.

Here is an example of my first and only meeting with the old man Maester Cressen featured in Book two The Clash of Kings:

“You are too ill and too confused to be of use to me, old man.”  It sounded so like Lord Stannis’s voice, but it could not be, it could not be.  “Pylos will counsel me henceforth.  Already he works with the ravens, since you can no longer climb to the rookery.  I will not have you kill yourself in my service.”

Maester Cressen blinked.  Stannis, my lord, my sad sullen boy, son I never had, you must not do this, don’t you know how I have cared for you, lived for you, loved you despite all?  Yes, loved you, better than Robert even, or Renly, for you were the one unloved, the one who needed me most.  Yet all he said was, “As you command, my lord, but…but I am hungry.  Might not I have a place at your table?”  At your side, I belong at your side…

I felt the insults laid upon Cressen, I felt his hurt…all this within only a few pages of words magically composed and laid before me.

I continue to be impressed.

I must keep in mind that this craft of writing is an ongoing process, and as Michelangelo stated, “I am still learning.”

Check out Cooper…he too was totally engrossed in the angst of the first series!  It was the call of the direwolves that drew my puppy to the screen and there he stayed!

Can you see your dreams a head of you?  Can you reach your arms out, stretching them forward as you dip the tips of your fingers into the whirl of colours that these dreams create?

Visualization techniques have been around for centuries, harking back to ancient times.  Athletes continuously use this method to see the gold at the end of their journey.  Equestrian show jumpers, as an example, study and walk the course prior to mounting their horse, picturing as they walk towards each jump, where and when they will ask their horses to move and fly.

To visualize is to imagine what is possible, if you believe, and if you try.  Michelangelo explained it best when he said, “I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.”  Visualization puts your imagination to work, it enables you to see the angel when others see nothing but stone.

A Vision Board…a collection of pictures, quotes, fabric, basically a grouping of anything and everything that connects you to where you want to go, or who you want to be…is a tool that can direct your mind, your soul really, allowing it to evaluate, and eventually to believe in the path you have laid out.

Cary Grant, one of old Hollywood’s charismatic leading actors wrote in his biography that he “pretended to be somebody I wanted to be and I finally became that person.  Or he became me.  Or we met at some point.”  The Vision Board is a mantra for the eyes that plays repetitively in the back of your mind, until every layer of self opens and embraces the possibilities that lead to your new reality.

I already have a fair size vision board in my home office that holds not only my own dreams, but also those of my characters that are slowly emerging out of my work in process novels, but I felt that I needed a separate canvas that would present a deeper portrait of what I see for myself.  I spent time in preparation as I browsed through some of my favourite magazines in search of pictures and colours that drew me in.  The finding, the clipping and the sorting of pictures was soothing in itself and I ended up with a variety of themes piled on my table.

It wasn’t until I started laying one picture upon the other that the theme of colour married perfectly together showing clearly how my sub conscious was quietly asserting itself.  My completed canvas presented a story of muted pastel colours that spoke of gentle elegant moments that I craved.  I recognized the balcony, the books, and the whisper of silken fabric as if they were old friends, as if I had been there before, and perhaps I have.

Visualization is a magic I believe in.

Where are you going to let your visions take you?

I was sorry to see the faithful penny removed from the line up of our Canadian currency.  I always felt the penny, just like the sturdy red caboose that was, for me, the explanation mark of the travelling freight train, spoke of history and continuity, and now both mingle together in our past.

I collect pennies and look for them where they lay, dropped forgotten to the ground; their colour calls of age, the thin dark tone turning with time and the elements to the antique patina I love.  I think of those who handled each penny before me, and am amazed at the size of the older pieces from the early 1900’s.  Back then, when you had a handful of pennies jingling in your pocket, you must have felt buoyed by wealth as you strutted into the penny candy store.

The penny sparks my imagination and I will miss them amongst the other coins gathering at the bottom of my purse.

Say good-bye to the penny, and say good-bye to that bow to lady luck:

Find a penny pick it up…then all day you’ll have good luck.

Find a penny, leave it be…and bad luck will come to thee.

Did you know that the rhyme in the original Mother Goose actually read as follows:

See a pin and pick it up,

All the day you’ll have good luck.

See a pin and let it lay,

Bad luck you’ll have all day.

Apparently, needles and pins were very expensive during the middle ages and their value, like the penny, deserved a teaching rhyme.

And what about all our favourite idioms: cost a pretty penny, pretty as a penny, penny for your thoughts, just to list off a few.  Will we now turn the phrase and claim, “why you’re as new as a nickel” or “you’re quite a quarter aren’t you?”  How about, “she’s as dizzy as a dime”?  Doesn’t quite roll off the tongue does it?   I suppose like anything, change takes time…pardon the pun!

I experienced a day recently, which was loaded with headache inducing stress, and I couldn’t seem to find the reserve to handle the changes that were swirling and bumping, rather aggressively, into my life.  I wanted to stop this move forward even though it was necessary.  I wanted to run, but at the same time, I wanted to stop and hide while the waves flowed over and around me leaving me still and anchored.

So I did the only thing I could do…I took to my bed.  I would have made a lovely spoiled Victorian woman, preferably a rich Victorian woman, for I fear the working class had very little time to take to their beds on a whim.

I gathered up my books, my soft well-worn throw, and my dog, and I went to bed.  And, I’ll say this very quietly due to its shock value…it wasn’t yet noon!  I speak the truth.

In hindsight, I consider my actions to be the very height of avoidance, but on that day, I truly felt it was my only recourse.

I climbed into my bed, squished my pillows around me and hunkered down deep under the covers.  The curtains remained open, just slightly, in order that I might watch the snow falling.  I listened to the heavy silence of my home as it pressed down upon me seeming to whisper: get up, get going!

I’m afraid I have a tendency to find life rather overwhelming at times, my sensitivity gauge always seeming to be set on high, the sensation being akin to having your nerves stripped bare of all protection, their ends open and raw to the elements.  I don’t enjoy being in this state, I really don’t.

There are ways to cope, I am told.  Be careful not to self medicate, I am admonished.  So I chase after the natural sedative of sleep, and it rarely fails me, however it is a rather time appropriate aid, if you catch my drift; such behaviour in the work environment would most definitely be frowned upon.  The honeycomb structure of cubeville that fills the offices of today, hold some privacy, however sleeping rarely seems to escape notice.

On this particular day, I was at home, my office days being on hold for the time being.  The clock was just slipping into the afternoon, my nose was stuffed up from, yes you guessed it…crying, my books were hugging me tight, and I was all set to stay bedridden for the day.  But, as fate would have it, and let’s face it, fate always pushes its snub little nose into everything; the ringing of the phone interrupted my full-blown misery.

As I am also genetically programmed to never ignore a ringing phone, no matter the time of day (also crying babies, dogs, kittens etc, etc), I, of course, answered the phone.

“Hello,” I snuffled.

“What’s the matter?” responded my eldest son.

“Nuffing.”

“Are you…in bed?”

I felt silence was the best response, as sobbing would just be, well…awkward, to say the least.

“You can’t stay in bed all day.”

“Ssshhhhh!” I hissed, the sound reminiscent of Gollum’s voice track from The Lord of the Rings.  “Don’t let other people hear you!”

He continued talking to me, not always waiting for my blanket layered responses.

“You do have options,” he said.  “You have choices, you have some control over what you can, or will do in this situation.”

I started feeling hot under all the covers, the books and dog adding to the weight, and I began to feel, just that little, tiny bit silly.

There is wisdom and caring in youth, sometimes it’s a good idea to listen.

I believe Erma Bombeck spoke truthfully when she stated, “Worry is like a rocking chair; it gives you something to do but never gets you anywhere.”  And yet, I keep doing it.

I am back to work this week, so keep your fingers crossed for me, for apparently, sleeping will be out of the question…at least the first week or two!

**My thanks to The Graphics Fairy for the picture of my Victorian woman http://graphicsfairy.blogspot.ca/ **

Way, way back, long before some insightful baker dreamt up cupcakes that wore crinoline, there was an awful, terrible event called Valentine’s Day in public school.

Shudder

Back then the little darlings of the preteen set, even the pre-preteen set, did not have to give every good little girl or good little boy, in their assigned classroom, a Valentine card.  Why you ask?  They simply did not have to.  It was the way of the world at that time.

It was, for those who liked to be cruel, a free day of torture.

I know… I know… not all children think in those terms, but truthfully, take it from one that barely crawled out of that era with an ounce of strength left in my core; it was a day of pain.

You see, in the days that played before Valentine’s Day, we were set to work by the teachers with our cache of colourful construction paper, glue, sparkles, frilly hearts of all shapes and sizes, and our quest was to fashion our own little envelope, a mailbox of sorts.  And on that fluffy day of hearts we were to carefully place, our envelope, on the corner of our desk, signalling to all that we were open for business.  The business of receiving Valentine cards that is.

Let the pain begin! called the heralds.

He is richest who is content with the least…Socrates

But alas, I did not know of Socrates at that point in my life, instead, after diligently delivering all my own cards, I sat patiently waiting, hoping and praying, that I would receive some cards, any cards…please God…one card.

If there was a random free thought that seeped out of all that worry, it simmered in the juices of more worry, that perhaps, just perhaps, some of my Valentines, which I had carefully scripted for others, would not be welcomed!

It was like drowning in sugar candy misery.

I hope that I made cards for all in my class.  I honestly don’t remember.  I hope I did.

I was so relieved when my boys were little that the policy had changed in the schools.  A class list was sent home every year in plenty of time for Valentine’s Day, with each and every student’s name carefully noted.

Disaster averted, gentle feelings protected.

Everyone is afraid of not being loved, and when you wait for that card on Valentine’s Day, it can feel like you are waiting for proof that you are loved.  I do not take this as a lack of confidence; I believe that instead it shows the true weight of need.

I lift my perfectly fluffed, icing sculptured cupcake to all, in the hopes that your Heart day was a good one…cuz, I have faith in both… cupcakes and love.

The winter storm pushes me inside today.  I seek the warmth of the fire and the curl of my toes around the softness of home.

I love the gentle silence of the snowflakes filling the air, the crunch of the cold underneath my boots…oh wait, that’s me ripping through the pages of the calendar, frantically counting how many days til spring!

Today, in Mississauga, ON there is a lot of snow!!  Yes, yes, I can hear you family as you call out from Kingston and the Ottawa area!…you probably have more snow than we have seen here in a very long while, but seriously this is a mega dump, more than we have seen for a very long while!

We are weak.  Okay, I’m weak.  It’s February and I’m ready for the spring, it’s true.

There are some that enjoy the snow, and at the beginning I do, truthfully, but let’s face it, there’s a lot to be said for the spring…for one it precedes summer!

There are many who wax poetically about the winter months and I do attempt to share their enthusiasm.  Here, with Robert Frost’s poem Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, I enjoy the sense of solitude he portrays and “the sweep of easy wind and downy flake”:

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there’s some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

However, I shiver at the thought of the “frozen lake” and while wishing again for the comforts of home, I also feel the ache of loneliness that lingers for a while after I read the last lines.  If you hold any sadness, I believe it is winter’s wind that will remind you of your loss.

Therefore, I shall lean towards Henry Wadsworth Longfellow as he calls up the magic of summer:

That beautiful season the Summer!
Filled was the air with a dreamy and magical light;
and the landscape
Lay as if new created in all the freshness of childhood.

I believe there is wonder in all four of our seasons in Canada; however, summer’s night does indeed hold a sense and smell of endless possibilities.  I think bits and pieces of childhood holds tight to the summer wind and that is what makes us laugh as the sun warms our faces.

Anton Chekhov holds the truth when he stated, “people don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy.”  He has a lovely point there, and this is a quote I will add to my favourites, however the driveway has filled up with snow again and I’m beginning to hate our new yellow shovel.

Here’s to those who enjoy the snow on their face, and to those who dream of summer flowers!