#363: Anniversaries: The Bitter and the Sweet

November 22.

Now there is a date to conjure with, especially for those of us who vividly recall the events of 50 years ago.

Such was power of the Kennedy mystique, that even out on the Canadian prairies we were shocked to learn of the news from Dallas.  It was a 9/11 moment for my generation. (And for the record, I was having lunch in a U of A classroom with my friend Alexis Dryburgh when another student burst through the door shouting “Kennedy’s been shot!"  It is a testimony to the significance of the pronouncement that I do not remember what I was wearing.)

But, powerful as this memory is, I would not likely have commented on the 50-year anniversary except that falls on a much happier occasion: my grandson Erik’s birthday.  Our busy little boy is one year old today.

We won’t be there to celebrate, nor do I think his parents are planning a birthday extravaganza.  The little guy had his big moment a few days ago when he and a group of year-old friends participated in an over-the-top shared 1st birthday experience—a cake smash. 

I had no idea what this entailed, but it is apparently the coming thing for 1^st birthdays.  The ingredients are simple: one or more babies clad for cake combat (diapers and not much else) and an iced cake (nothing too special because this cake is destined for a bad end).  The instructions are equally basic: put the babies on the floor with the cake and let the smashing to begin. 

That is the way a cake smash is supposed to unfold.  But there is no accounting for baby behaviour; at Erik’s event most of the birthday celebrants were not terribly interested in the cake, and the mothers, chagrined at this turn of events, had to demonstrate technique.

Curious Erik, however, apparently needed no such urging.  He was covered in cake in short order, to my daughter’s dismay. (Jenny says she felt somewhat embarrassed by his enthusiasm.  She had been a bit iffy about the cake smash from the get-go.  She didn’t even take photos.)

I thought about this shared birthday party on Wednesday when I went out with my ladies’ hiking group.  One of the members had very much enjoyed a 75^th birthday planned by her grandchildren.  “There were kid games and kid food!  It was a hoot”, she enthused.

I was 19 when Kennedy died so I have a significant birthday this coming January, and I can’t help but think Erik should be the party planner.  We would have a cake smash of course!  I can imagine the scene: Nancy and her age mates (I could invite my entire book group) attacking a supermarket sheet cake emblazoned with an appropriate message: 70 SUCKS!

Take that, symbolic representation of my aging mind and body!  SMASH! SMASH! SMASH!    

Aaaah, but could we do it?  Could we wantonly waste food and create a sticky mess that someone would have to clean up?  I don’t think so.  We are, after all, children of the 60’s.  We still hold on to Kennedy values.

What would Jackie do?

I rest my case.

#362: Adios Espana

Hola!

We are now home and up to our armpits in laundry, but I'm posting a few pictures and observations about our trip on my travel blog, The Reluctant Retiree Abroad. Here is the first entry.

#361: Travel Time

Being retired has nothing to do with feeling ready for a trip. It just means that you have more time to worry about what you are forgetting.

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#360: Training for Spain

Being retired and all, I supposedly have a ton of time to prepare for our upcoming trip.  And I have been doing a bit, both mentally and physically.  I want to know something about our destination and I would like to have a few basic Spanish phrases at the ready.   I also need to be fit enough for the hiking part of the holiday -- 12 days and 90+ kilometres in the Picos de Europa. It would be so embarrassing to be carried off the trail on a stretcher.

Reading about must-see Madrid, Bilbao and Granada is easy enough, but language acquisition at my age is a hard slog. When faced with a list of Rick Steeve's essential Spanish phrases, it is all too easy to plead neuron overload.  Desperate for a break, I heed the siren call of clean towels heaped on our bed.  Fold me, fold me, fold me they plead, and suddenly that seems like an excellent idea.

But hiking -- that is a different sort of training altogether.  Hiking is a no-excuses activity.

Ten kilometres into today's walk on the Bruce Trail (the closest thing we have to picos in southern Ontario) we discovered that we had miscalculated the distance.  Oops. We still had 5 more kilometres to go, 5 more kilometres of rocky trail, heat and mosquitoes.  But stopping was not an option.  We could either spend the night under a tree or trudge on.  Because the only way to finish a hike is to just finish.  It is that simple. Today's hiking-inspired life lesson: if you want to reach your destination, you need to keep going. And that is what we did.

Now if only I could apply that philosophy to every aspect of my training for Spain.....

#359: ¿Habla Usted Espagnol?

So here I am with a hundred things to do before we leave for Spain. Make that ciento.  Where shall I begin?  Oh. I'll think I'll clean the bathroom. And the bedroom.  I can't stand a messy bedroom.

I feel like my 19-year-old self during exam week. Must clean my room. I simply can't study in an untidy space!

It appears that 50 years of growing-up haven't made a dent. Now I have all the time in the world but I still have a talent for procrastination.

At this rate I had better concentrate on one useful phrase: yo non hablo Espagnol.  I think I am going to need it.

#358: Jubilation

In preparation for our upcoming trip, I have learned a new word in Spanish, and it is one I will not likely forget:  jubilado. 

I love it. It means retiree.  

In Spain, superannuates must have way more fun than ho-hum Canadiense pensioners.

We'll see.  I intend to enjoy testing this theory!

#357: Mid-Summer Matters

In Canada the first Monday in August is a holiday, a day off with no other purpose than to provide the citizenry with a well-timed long weekend.  (It has different names in different cities and provinces. This year, I even heard it referred to as Holiday X, which seems entirely appropriate considering its pragmatic origins.)

Whatever we call it,  the August Long Weekend is summer's midpoint, the day on which we look wistfully back at summer gone, and hopefully forward to more simple summer pleasures which, in my case, include more outdoor rambles, more al fresco meals overlooking our back yard, and more ice cream consumed at the Boathouse by the lazy, ironically named Speed River.

I also need to spend August honouring the promise made in my last travel blog post: to do some real preparation for our September trip to Spain.  Learn a bit of Spanish, read about Bilbao, Madrid and Granada, and some do training hikes in readiness for village to village walking in the Picos de Europa.

But regardless of  how I spend the rest of the summer, it will be hard to top the pleasures of July when we had a wonderful visit with our Canadian family. My Toronto daughter Keri and her husband Ben frequently joined up with the folks from Saskatoon (Jenny, Patrick, 8 month old Erik, and Patrick's niece Lennea) who were with us for two sunny, fun-filled weeks.

Don't get me wrong -- it was fantastic to have the whole gang together.  My adult children and their partners are fabulous company; 17-year old Lennea is a delight.  They are all welcome to return at any time, and they don't even need to bring the baby.  Honest.

But I would be lying if I didn't confess that during this recent visit, it was Erik who was the star of the show.  At the risk of sounding like a gushing grandma, it really was enormous fun getting to know this little person. We were captivated by his repertoire of baby-behaviours.  

Besides, he is completely, adorably cute.  

Not for the first time, it occurred to me that all that cuteness is an evolutionary strategy designed to ensure that babies survive infancy.  When they protest at bath time with howls and tears that can only mean YOU ARE NOT MY MOTHER YOU ARE DOING THIS ALL WRONG I'LL NEVER FORGET THIS TERRIBLE EXPERIENCE EVEN WHEN I AM AN OLD MAN we think twice about throwing them out the bathroom window. They are so very sweet.

Erik's adorableness also saved him from falling down the stairs, getting stuck under a chair, and scalding his little hands with a cup of hot coffee.  He is so delightful that we just couldn't tear our eyes away. Look at him!  What will he do next?  Will he head for the little brown teddy (a "heritage" toy unearthed from the basement), or crawl over to Keri's handbag with all its zippers and clasps. (No contest.  Erik loves anything with moving parts.)  Bruce and I experienced one AAAAAAW moment after another as we played with him, feasting on his adorableness all the while directing his attention away from interesting wires, knobs and pointy corners.

Now it August, and they have all gone home. It grieved me to put away the brown teddy and other toys, and to return the borrowed high chair.  Teaching myself Spanish for Travellers will not be nearly as much fun as showing Erik how to place the coloured rings on a Rock-a-Stack.

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It's OK.  I will enjoy the last of the summer.  But I need a new knitting project, another Erik-sized garment that I can work on while committing useful Spanish to memory.  Gotta keep that baby-buzz going.