Surf, Sand and Potatoes

The joys of dog collars

2010-01-03T15:25:00.006-05:00

While watching our new puppy terrorize the kids I came to a decision - too strong of a word you think, terrorize I mean, then you haven’t witnessed Gimli pull Lily down the hall by her leggings in an attempt to tear them off and eat them. Phone bill be damned, we were going to buy a training collar. About two hundred dollars lighter and flushed with the heady sensation of revenge...er, um, I mean relief, we returned home and placed the collar. Now, I’m not going to lie, I really enjoyed the first few zaps. Watching the little bast...er, um, a, bugger jump and stop raiding the recycling in the blink of and eye was way too rewarding.

A few days have passed and while far from perfect there has been a notable change in Gimli’s behaviour and I know this to be true because my throat is finally healing after three months straight of screaming 'no' and I can’t remember the last time Jen put him out on the deck - where he would immediately take a large dump - try to forget that bit before I serve you a hamburger cooked on said deck this coming summer. Given this wee and welcomed respite from puppy terror - complete with irrational fear of the future and general and pervasive and continual dread - a new and potentially disturbing idea has begun to ferment (disturbing only for folks without toddlers and puppies or memories of same). Developmentally Gimli and Lily are pretty darn close, and often on the wrong side of the family law. The collar worked on Gimli, so... The following pictorial will serve to provide you with an understanding of the perfect bliss the parental units inside 1 Cornerstone Drive are now experiencing. Illegal shmalegal I say. Who knew the almost perfect big boys could be improved upon? 2010 is going to be the best year ever!

Moon Shadows

2009-01-06T21:08:00.003-05:00

The things you forget, eh? Epiphanists like Wordsworth and many others have long espoused an interesting Christian philosophy; one where we are perfect and in the hands of God prior to birth. We are in the universal. We have perfect knowledge. At birth, we are ripped from the bosom of the eternal and thrust into this mortal and bizarre world. (We are coming back, those of us there in the before will be there also in the after – I love the Calvinists and there fixation on predestination). As children, Wordsworth and the rest would opine, we are closest to that perfect state. As we age we fall farther and farther from grace. We experiences snatches, or epiphanies, of universal knowing less as we age. These moments of epiphany, more likely in youth, are god-ly moments and provide glimpses of pure truth. An aware adult, reflecting on the loss of the likelihood for these epiphanies and aware of the experiences of youth gleans truth vicariously through observing children, or, and this is really a more modern variation, through living more child-like in the hopes of not losing connection from truth – falling from grace. Just a lovely and intuitive bit of mind trickery. Certainly an idea easily deranged by the, ‘Everything I learned, I learned in Kindergarten,’ hip-pocket self-help pseudo-psychiatrists - infantile charlatans really, sellers of snake oil. But as a basic human truth, this one is a hard one to refute by those of us sensitive to these kinds of things.

Tonight I rushed home from work, and dashed past family and out the door on my snowshoes – I have a lovely wife, understanding to the extreme. It was not an easy or comfortable transition. I left work frustrated by the typical mélange of millennial wage earner grief. Nothing like the trauma associated with watching a coworker eaten by a loom or broken after hours toiling in the field, just a lovely daily soul sucking torture in the times of enlightened management in a socialist country. Entry to the garage was barred by a pernicious prevailing wind that blows a nearly omnipresent drift in front of our garage door. Shovel. Shovel. Eventually I find myself stumbling towards the brilliant fire of the sky at sunset across the backyard on my snowshoes, mind a-buzz with work garbage, anger with weather and shovels, and a fair helping of guilt to have not seen the family all day and now to be walking away from them on said snowshoes. And I don’t have gaiters and snow has found its way inside my fancy pants, around my nifty long underwear and past my highly technical outdoorsy socks and is currently freezing my 40-year-old ankles.

This silliness continues pretty much unassailed by the beauty of the sky, the perfect-ness of the snow and magic of the movement for almost 3/4 of an hour; mind moving even faster then my feet and the snow whipping across the snow. Then, Moon Shadows. When did I forget that on crystal clear nights with nice big moons (not full tonight but big and bright none the same) you cast absolutely perfect shadows? There I was silhouetted, in my perfection, on the crisp clean canvas of the snow. It was like those awful TV movies, as we the viewer, from the bandaged actor perspective, wait for the world to be re-revealed as the bandages unravel before our eyes and off the camera lens. It was like seeing the world anew. The sky lit by moon and distant planet and suns, heavenly. Trees and farmers fences catching the light and dancing, waiting for the artists fingers to capture the obvious beauty. Snow crunching and heart singing I chase my moon shadow home. To warmth and love and riches beyond measure. Winter can mean cloister, and SAD. Or ya take snow and darkness at 5 pm and stolen moments and make health – physical and metaphysical if you are lucky.

We send love

B

New Years 2008 09

2009-01-01T09:36:00.004-05:00

Grand Celtic New Year tradition be damned. I could mumble sheepishly about the storm beginning and suspected difficulty with fire-starting. In fact, I had no intention of living up to last year’s New Years resolution of ushering in the coming year with a glorious old-world bon fire. The impending storm sealed the deal. Like most boys, I need a coconspirator to pursue in any seriousness a venture of such fine silliness. I still think that a monstrous bonfire roaring in the backyard is probably the most perfect way to celebrate the magical moment of transition from one year to the next. And it is magical – I know, I know, all of us who have spent way too much money, dressed to the nines, and built up expectations just to have them dashed at some pathetic New Year’s Eve celebration would question that assertion. There is undeniably, however, something powerful about the thirty-first of December. I think birthdays are too personal, inducing only selfish introspection at best. New Years, rapped in the universal, connecting us all, just has more gravitas, more guts, is more profound. And knowing how rare we modern humans feel anything it is just plain obvious – a fire, and a damned big one, harkening back time immemorial, just seems required – silly and juvenile, surely, none the less required.

New Years passed quietly in our house this year. Having just returned from the traditional Nova Scotia Christmas Journey and expecting the aforementioned big winter blow – wailing outside this January first morning – we elected to batten down the hatches. Following a great supper and a family movie, the adults watched their own movie and then the night wound down like numerous previous nights. At bed time while shutting-down the house, in the perfect quiet of your house at sleep, I found myself thinking of last year's Blog post about resolutions. Prompted by this unexpected chance remembrance and staring at the ceiling in our bedroom with Jen asleep on my shoulder the year just passed rolled by, documentary style, in my minds eye – I think it was Sir Richard Attenborough’s voice doing the narration.

How’d you do this year? I hope you look fondly back on ’08. Naïve I ain’t – so given that we all can’t have had a grand old time - I wish for you that you retain hope for the coming year. As mentioned in a previous post, we’ve had a mixed bag this year. If this was a ledger and I was balancing the books, in some weird life economic construct, I’m profitable beyond measure. Going bankrupt in the here and now, the more concrete world of money in and money out, but if the measure of life being led is not all related to cold hard numbers, then I’m pretty happy with this year. We are healthy, surrounded by loving and caring people, and have had a couple of great adventures. I did not get a big afro, I did not get fitter. And I didn’t freak out the neighbourhood with an uncontrollable fire in the back yard. I fell more deeply in love with my wife; I worked hard and marveled as my kids continued growing up just way too damn fast. I supported and was supported by family and friends. And I look forward to the coming year with hope a plenty. So for next year? Simple stuff really. Obvious stuff. Sentimental crap I guess. Be a good dad. Support Jen in everyway. Work hard. Make family proud. Oh, and to cycle from PEI to Kentville. No really. I am not going to issue another bold personal challenge to usher in 2010 with a fire. I am looking for a coconspirator if anyone out there is moved to start a new tradition. You know how to reach me if interested. Have a great ’09 and we send love.

Storm Days

2008-12-22T17:25:00.003-05:00

Gleeful and attentive the whole family stands leaning towards the radio in the kitchen. Small town radio stations serve their purpose. And their purpose during the morning bustle on most days in the homes peopled with combinations of toddlers, school age kids and harried parents is to provide a hum. White noise - competing with the clammer of Dads looking for gym gear, kids yelling, Moms gently marshaling all - sing song DJ’s voices and overproduced machined pop-crap adding to and miraculously softening the din. Given the state of todays music, very, very occasionally said radio station will play an actual song, written by someone with talent and sung with feeling and backed by honest to goodness musicianship. During those rare moments families may sing along, or even, and hopefully, dance. But mostly it’s noise emanating from the mini stereo, Bose under-counter, or oddly shaped ghetto blaster that does radio duty in the kitchen. On days, however, in winter, when winds blow and snow falls, then local radio stations have a far greater purpose. They announce school and work storm closures.

Not sure what transpired in your varied worlds today weather-wise but we awoke to a full on Maritime winter blow. Wind whipping the snow blindingly across the road in front of the house was a good sign. Now all hope in the house rested on the weather forecast at 7 AM. Yup, worsening weather throughout the day deepened wishes and finally and triumphantly the announcement - Storm Day for all. Admittedly, this meant little to two young boys already on Christmas Break, but to a Dad still required at work and a Mom hoping for adult company, well this was a heraldic moment of great joy. An interesting thing about jigs even if you have never been taught how to dance one, certain occurrences bring ability, and a jig you will dance. Storms are two-edged swords in this instance (of course we are excepting outright storms in any way truly dangerous, or heaven forbid, mortal) in that they may leave you home, then lift, leaving the day to be enjoyed out of doors, or settle in and continue to pummel, locking all inside. The shack wacky inducing variety beset us today.

Lest we forget that good fortune befell our home today, being locked in is never a good thing for the Nicholson family. We are at our best outside and later, kinder and happier with rosy cheeks, warm, wasted and resting under blankets. This is true, but what is also true is that we are adaptable. So today blocks were stacked and recitals given, books read, naps had and Potter marathons begun. What a great and unexpected way to begin the holiday season. Nothing to do, really, nothing. No where to go. No email, no phone calls, no work commitments, no rinks and piano lessons. Nothing to do but rest and keep moderately busy. I hope all of you had or will have just such a day. Our world is a very busy, very bustle inducing world. Wheels spin constantly and the whir is enough to blind us to what is really important. Cuddles at 2 PM. Towers that reach to the sky. Brothers and sisters that laugh till they can’t breathe. These things matter as much as whether or not GM is rescued or if the credit markets loosen. Or at least they should. And today, locked in watching the world turn white, safe and sound, they did.

Love B

Happy Holidays and an Update...really

2008-12-17T18:57:00.003-05:00

‘Goin’ down the road,’ now that’s a good movie and even better SCTV sketch. This classic movie, if you haven’t seen it -and it should be considered mandatory viewing as part of citizenship, is about two Caper Bretoner’s heading west to ‘Toranta’ to find work. Tragedy eventually ensues and much is learned about place and people in troubled times. Very soon my little family will be, ‘goin’ down the road,’ but in reverse and for far better reasons. Yet, and maybe it’s because we are again facing tough economic times, I find myself thinking about this seminal Canadian movie and the seemingly inherent pull of the road for Maritimers - the need to leave and the greater call to return home. In days we’ll be loading up our little Mazda with 2 adults, 3 kids, and enough stuff to clothe and entertain a small nation. Loaded to the gunnels, we’ll brave weather, cranky two year old out-bursts and fried food as we head home for Christmas spent with family.

I won’t bore you overly with a long essay about the year that is passing into night as I type. It’s been a big year. A monster of a global economic crisis and an American Election of no smaller import than one that may have just changed the world I offer up as evidence for, ‘the big year’ designation. Lots to talk about in our small personal world as well – as equally a big a year, using of course the accepted calculus of self-centered myopia. I should have updated this blog way back in April with a heartwarming tale of another road trip – this one to Boston. You should have already read about all of us traveling via borrowed van to Boston to watch Jennifer run the Boston Marathon. Well watch is kind of a sticking point, because we, in fact, didn’t get to watch her – long story involving overcrowded public transport and over crowded father brains. But, run she did, and amazingly well. I remain my gorgeous wife’s biggest fan. She won this year’s PEI marathon by running sub 3 hours if conquering Boston wasn’t enough for one year.

Our three kids continue to grow and dazzle. JT, nine now if you can believe it, is blazing through grade 4 French immersion, with only an occasional stumble around neatness, forgetfulness and organization – wonder who we can blame for that combo of traits. Otherwise he is well liked, and respected, and found by his teacher to be talented student. A true renaissance man he keeps very busy with hockey and piano and just recently purchased a guitar with his own money. Already he is playing cords and learning songs – truly remarkable. Matt is as strong a student as his big brother, and the consummate charmer. He actually can come home tired because of the demands of his being so well liked, as he deals with near constant demands for his time among his classmates. I detect his teacher may have actually fallen in love with him, which will surprise none of you. His brother is his hero and following in JT’s footsteps Matt is playing hockey and taking piano lessons. Lily is our ball of fire. What a force of nature. Already exhibiting her brother’s wonderful sense of humour, she is independent and single-minded. ‘Princess Lily,’ typically prevails in all matters at present. She’s just too damn cute for her own good. She’s my rink buddy every Saturday morning while Jennifer typically gets a run in and I cherish those moments.

Mom and Dad have settled into life in their new house in Kentville and travel over often to stay with us. Ang and Loc remain, for now, in Vietnam and we use Skype to video chat with them as often as we can. Jen’s Mom and Dad moved back to Halifax this year after many years in Sydney. It is nice to have them closer and renewed reason to visit my favorite city in the world. We will see both sets of grandparents and the Dill’s new abode in the coming days as we split Christmas between the families as per usual. We all can’t wait.

Sadness comes in all lives and this year Dad’s brother Shelby died after a battle with cancer and my maternal grandmother Hannah died. Hannah was my last living grandparent and she was special. She had been my roommate for a short time after university and I will always remember my time spent with her in her Sydney Mines’ apartment overlooking the Brown St. ball field. And very recently our second dog, Willow, got very sick, unexpectedly, and died as well. She was such a great little dog. Perfect really. But life soldiers on. And for every moment of forehead rubbing as I contemplate how to pay the next oil bill or prepare to head away again for extra Northern work, for every one of those stress filled moments there are ten of pure joy. Through hard work and the love and support of family, the bills all seem to get paid and only a fool would become so rapped up in the tiny day-to-day struggles that they miss living the life they’ve been blessed with. And I am blessed. Jennifer is the best person I know, a wonderful mother, devoted and caring friend, loving sister and daughter – drop dead beautiful to boot. My kids are perfect – I know many of us say it – but I mean it, perfect, lights of my light. Our extended families thoughtful and generous, we couldn’t ask for better. We all have close friends that brighten our days and enhance our lives. As we get ready to head off on our Christmas 08 excursion we wish you health and happiness in the coming year. Drop back for a trip report and who knows I may even keep this damn thing active all year in 09.

Love

B

It's been awhile...

2008-02-11T18:29:00.000-05:00

http://video.google.ca/videoplay?docid=-4232683658391398953

Never tried this before - so I thought I'd give it a try - uploading video that is. A hard fought loss tonight, 7-3, but the kids didn't seem to notice and the parents cheered as loud as ever. As usual, watching hockey turns out to be a great way to end the day or start the evening. JT gets better every time out, and if he ever truly gets 'this' he'll be a menace. Already a pretty big guy for his age, he carries himself even larger and when focused on and going for the puck he can wreak his fair share of destruction. He remains content to take it easy and is, to term it positively, a calming influence on his team. He'll shock his Dad someday and move his feet as fast as he does while running laps of the house for no other reason then he likes to run laps of his house.

Lily continues to make us giggle and shake our heads. She is something special. Now, if only we could get her to talk. We haven't truly begun to worry about her - she is just so well adjusted, so smart and freakishly cute - still, we will all breathe easier as soon as words start to tumble from that perfect little mouth. Matt is reading up a storm and skating great. He still loves school and is proving to be a caring and intuitive big brother. He and Lily just have this very special little relationship that Jen and I hope will survive the travails of growing up.

Jennifer continues apace to be flying in Boston in April. Jen and Allie braved a typical (for this winter anyway) Saturday in February and busted out a sixteen miler (for all of us sane humans, that translates into two hours and ten minutes on a cold and blustery day). I am continually impressed by my wife's running ability. What an engine. Without a doubt she has potential to be a world class runner. And the ease with which she integrates her running into her crazily busy life is breathtaking. She cares for us all, and still manages to kick the butts of folks half her age - she is my hero.

I got the buzz to start playing guitar again. And I thought I might like to play acoustically so that I could also annoy the family. The problem was twofold, I hated my acoustic guitar and family finances are such that with one income and three kids, one does not go out and buy another guitar. But one can barter two very good guitars for one very good guitar and come away only $29.00 cheaper. And that is what I did. I bid a fond farewell to my electric and good riddance to my acoustic and I am now the proud owner of a lovely new acoustic - called the Big-Baby - kids love that. I am loving it even more and not just because of the weird name. Jen is so tolerant, as I play almost constantly now, strolling around the kitchen strumming away while she prepares supper. I'm having a blast and the kids even think it's cool. So if I haven't been updating the blog regularly you now have my excuse - I have been pursuing another creative muse.

Well that is it for now. We really miss you all and cannot wait to see all of you again soon - either here in PEI or in your neck of the woods. We send love.

B

New Years

2008-01-02T08:00:00.000-05:00

Resolutions;
The season of renewal, of rebirth, or of regret, guilt, of seasonal affected crumbling or jaw setting perseverance, the New Year season is upon us. As long as humans have been on the planet in northern climes this time has brought celebration and introspection. There is a renewal of an ancient celtic New Year tradition, the Hogmanay. Some have translated this to be, ‘Old Year’s Night.’ Hogmanay died out for the most part around the time of the reformation, originating in pagan celt times and heretical given the puritanical zeal of that age. I love the idea of Hogmanay as it is practiced now in Scotland and on such a large scale. Fire and loud revelry greet the New Year and then the night remains very social, with ‘First Footing,’ a lovely tradition of visiting your neighbours. You pop by, bearing a small gift and are rewarded with a whiskey and hospitality. If a tall, dark and handsome stranger crosses your threshold, then luck awaits in the coming year. The fire is thought to represent the light of knowledge and it is to burn large and brightly into the New Year symbolically bringing the old years lessons into the the new but also firing away last year. How very wonderful. A night to reflect on the fact that we are one year closer to wisdom, that mistakes can be burned away, and that community and celebration are an essential part of being human.

Hogmanay was not practiced this year in the Nicholson household. Three young children and a couple of tuckered parents kept revelry to a minimum and, though we’ve been here three years, we still feel a little isolated from community in PEI. No likelihood of neighbours popping in at ten after twelve laden with tupperware and smiles. I guess this leads naturally to another New Year’s tradition, the making of lists, of resolutions. What did Mark Twain say about resolutions? Something about good intentions quickly being used as paving stones on the way to hell - old curmudgeon - lets ignore him and soldier on.

1. To start, next year we shall celebrate in the finest of Hogmanay tradition - I’ll bring the camera to capture the priceless, startled faces of the neighbours who probably still aren’t quite sure of our names. Can’t you see them peeking out from their blinds at the monstrous bonfire in our backyard - and then the whispered, “holy smokes, Myrtle, it looks like those folks from away are heading for the front door, for the love of mike put on your house coat.’

Lets call the next few the ubiquitous resolutions:

2. To be kinder.

3. To be thinner.

4. To be fitter.

There, now back to more likely resolutions:

5. I resolve to grow out my bald spot - and then get a perm. Every dad should do this and I’ve been waiting for JT to get old enough to be able to really experience this to the fullest - I mean, to really be embarrassed. It is what Dad’s do.

6. I resolve to see my wife finish the Boston Marathon prior to turning 40. She’s my hero and inspiration.

7. I resolve to learn how to play and sing at least two Glen Hansard songs - if you haven’t seen the movie, Once, then do so - it is grand.
And while I know that ten seems to be the cherry number for lists, including New Year’s Resolutions, I’ve always been a rebel - stop laughing - so:

8. I resolve to cherish my family and be true to myself, no arsing around.

Well that’s it. Hope all of you have a wonderful 2008. We send love.

B

Tripping Christmas Style

2007-12-31T13:57:00.001-05:00

The fleece is warm enough...(sung to the tune of a christmas classic)
We’re back - just beat yet another blast from this very strange winter, strange in that in this time so focused on the reality of human impact on weather and after a number of near non winter winters we’re getting buried in snow. And snow now falls outside, lots of snow and we’re cozy inside awash in and warmed, imbued by what are already becoming treasured memories of the trip just ended. We are always proud of our children, but never more so then we see their beauty reflected back at us in the loving faces of family. We sit, admittedly, a little out of breath, truly enjoying the safe confinement afforded a lovely winter storm. No pull of a visit or a trip to the store to drag us out from a cuddly and introspective day as we drink in both being home and also look fondly back at our time celebrating the holidays with family.

Now sure, there are moments, moments, for example, when you pack five people with skates and winter gear - two of them girls with the attendant requirement of fashion and function into a too small compact station wagon in preparation for one of the three multi hour legs of your particular christmas journey, moments when this seems not such a rational plan. In the end, even the travel turns out to be fun, with lasting memories for the parents and hopefully the kids. They are children of children of car travelers and it is in their genes. The kids travel beautifully. There are other moments when you dig a rumpled shirt out of a duffle bag, when you wait for a bathroom, when folks long passed being used to living together become re-accustomed to the closeness, there are moments when this just does not seem a rational choice. Those moments pass quickly and then you laugh and feel real love, real connection to family and to place and it seems the most rational of choices, it seems a necessity.

Your generosity was overwhelming, your hospitality inspiring. For those special people we missed over the holiday season, we indeed missed you and pine for a future communion. Thanks, simply, and just, thanks. I did, however, come away pondering two very deep and intriguing questions: why don’t we eat turkey every stinking day; and most importantly, what exactly is ‘Open Season’ for Blooms and Bushes - I mean really, does anyone remember the last time they drove by and didn’t see that damn, ‘Closed for the Season,’ sign out?
Love, all of us

...oh the weather outside...isn't that bad

2007-12-19T18:48:00.000-05:00

We head out today for Nova Scotia. We can't wait. In the next few minutes I'll head into the garage, having moved the van out in the yard, door agape, and clean and then pack the Mazda wagon in the relative comfort of the heated garage. I treat the whole exercise like that childhood game, 'Bucking Bronco.' Just keep packing and stuffing in the hope that the car doesn't snap, buck, and dump everything out in anger. We shall see how it goes. Did I mention I miss the old van?

And winter travel is the absolute best: in door clothes, party clothes, workout clothes, outdoor clothes, skates, and maybe this year snowshoes, all need to find their way into a compact car. Given the impending frustration of today, Jennifer gave leave for me to scamper about in the backyard last night while she prepared supper. A lovely woman. So on went the snowshoes and off I went with camera in hand. I really had a great time. Crunching along with the occasional stop as the fancy hit for a quick snap of the sky, or my feet. Just so much fun.

It appears this may be a banner year for outdoor winter pursuits like snowshoeing, pond skating, cross country skiing and the like. We have certainly had the earliest true arrival of winter in many years. And its great. Now, certainly, it needs to end and spring needs to, well, spring in early March, but for now all the snow and the bundling is wonderful, strangely recalling so many great childhood memories of 'big' winters past.

I've got the camera and I'm warning you I'll be using it at every turn. So expect your mug to be plastered all over pictures chronicling the Nicholson Christmas trip to Nova Scotia 07. And do you see the chins, I mean how blessed am I, three whole chins. Does anyone want one for Christmas. Merry Christmas all, and hoefully we see most of you soon.

Love
b

From the update desk...

2007-12-14T18:26:00.000-05:00

The Van
The van has officially been shuffled out of the rotation. It now occupies prime real-estate in our heated garage and the family sprints out to the recommissioned Mazda wagon encased in ice provided by what is turning out to be a true Old-time East Coast winter. Lots of fun. The obvious question, springing to your minds is, why, oh why would you not park the dead van outside and move the Mazda back into its rightful place of familial vehicular prominence – all warm and cozy? The damn door won’t close. It’s stuck open; on the van that is. So unless I want to truly destroy all potential of the van seeing the road again in the future – inside it will reside and cold will backsides be for the foreseeable future. Currently, waiting on my guy to get back to me after he talks to his guy, that knows a guy who may or not be some kind of old Dodge van door magician. I shan’t hold my breath. -16 today, the old beauty almost got driven to the woods and left. I’ll give it to Monday and then will not be held accountable for any drastic deeds.

Hockey
One cannot overstate how hockey crazy is the Fair Isle. Impossible. While barely keeping myself awake, and in my addled state trying to decide if my confusion was as a result of having JT on the ice at 6 AM or was it the first signs of hypothermia associated with a core body temperature dropping below 30 Celsius, I was amazed to hear parents near me actually complaining of the lack of ice time the kids were getting. For Novice house league. They’re nuts. In a typical week JT is on the ice four times in three days – and twice a ‘fun’ road game has been added. In house league; novice house league. The kids are getting more then enough time. All families not bank-rolling their future on the one in a zillion chance that their kid will need an agent and make millions - building mom and pop a new house and leaving them a bow rapped car in the driveway - for all of the rest of us, two days would meet the bill. I’m not complaining, and that’s my point, the kids are treated like gold and you could not get a more supportive environment for them to sharpen their skills, including an excess of ice time – ice time that would never be available in Halifax for house league and if so would come in the form of costly skills camps. But more, I am completely and utterly baffled by the mere thought, threat really, of standing in cold rinks more often then I do now. This morning started at 5:30 and tomorrow begins at 6:00 followed by a road trip game that starts at 13:30; Sunday skills camp at 17:45 and a practice at 16:40 on Monday. This is just to give you a taste; again no complaints – just illustration of the completeness of our immersion in Island hockey life. JT continues to love hockey, never once complaining when I wake him or when he’s rushed to finish homework after an evening game and is progressing remarkably fast for a kid who until late last winter never had a puck on his stick.

Used Clothing
We continue to stop by Value Village periodically and have a look-see. As luck would have it, a new funky retro clothing store called, ‘The Green Man,’ has opened recently in downtown Charlottetown. A grand total of $50 dollars later and I have a lovely new suit and Jennifer has a party dress that is nearly as gorgeous as she. Hopefully the holidays will afford the requisite opportunity for us to sport our new vintage duds in your presence; oohs and ahhs, and ‘wow, you two look great,’ s will surely be appropriate. And too the shoppers in our associated families – keep a close eye on the Value Villages, the Frenchies, and hipster vintage clothing stores in your respective towns and let us know if you see anything of interest. Think cool, lovely old suits and funky dresses.

The kiddles
Lily is a tich off, having a hard time this winter kicking completely whatever viral or bacterial bug has affixed itself to her wee passages. Still a ball of fire, and still the light of all lives that peer upon her perfect and round face and become entranced by her mysterious, bright and ever playful eyes, just not completely herself. She spends the bad times attached permanently to her Mom’s side and the good times destroying gleefully whatever room into which she has chased her brothers. JT we chatted about earlier, but I must add that for the last several days if not weeks he has exemplified near 8 year old perfection. A wonderful big brother, a dutiful student and real gamer as he struggles to catch up to his much earlier inducted hockey mates, he impresses both Jennifer and I more everyday. And Matt, ah Matt; well tonight, to site a recent example, we finally got through to the Santa Hotline. Matt after being passed the phone announced to Santa that he would like three things: an electronic carnivore, a phone, and…pause worthy of a stand-up veteran…and his two front teeth (that one caused even Santa to laugh out loud). This is just one of many recent humorous murmurings that spurt weirdly from that sweet and seemingly too young face.

Never a dull moment. Most importantly we hit the road very soon to do some much needed catching up with many of you. We cannot wait. Talk soon and love form us to you.

b

The life cycle of man

2007-12-08T18:37:00.000-05:00

Life is about constant failure. Living is constantly dusting yourself off, ignoring the obvious - you'll fail again - and smashing headlong into the world. Further to this profundity is the other side of this rather obvious coin, to not try again is not truly possible. Everyday I fail as a father - raise my voice when a gentle hand was required, let slip an aberration in behavior that earlier had been identified as a trigger for consequence. As a husband, distracted and un-hearing when connection was so honestly sought after, I most wretchedly and repeatedly fail. Nearing 40 I am beginning to see a pattern. My abilities as a human - son, brother, friend, father and husband - seem to peak and inevitably ebb in correlation with my fitness, my connection to a bicycle.

Now this could be accepted as sad, as a sign of a significant lack of character. Or, and hopefully, there is something about a bicycle, at least for me, that is beyond the obvious, wheels and gears, a means of childhood transportation. For me there is something about the shear simplicity of wheels spinning, pedal circle driven, tracing a path over our circular world. The renewal so evident in nature so poetically embodied in a series of simple turnings, wheels, gears, pedals. What started for me as a way to induce adrenal gland squeezing - that adrenaline fed dichotomous connection and detachment from a daily life - with age and even possibly wisdom, has become more.

I no longer get suited up like some modern day gladiator and then launch man and bicycle down near vertical slopes or off manmade ramps. Whether rolling through a gorgeous stand of hardwoods on gentle trails on my faithful old mountain bike or more recently enjoying the speed and and distance possible on the road, the cycling serves a much higher purpose. For me, there seems to be a connection found, a clarity gained, that makes living of life simpler. Weird. And then I stop.

Ain't life grand. Find an elixir that has only benefits and then misplace it on a regular basis. That's what I do with cycling. A cold, a busy time, the change of seasons, these all seem to so easily derail my cycling. To the detriment of all that I am responsible for and to. But we all fail. And some get back up. I get up because of the support of my beautiful life partner and our wonderful kids. Jennifer just says simply, go. She may have been home single-parenting for 10 hours and exhausted; half way into preparing a supper one-handed, Lily on her hip, at the same time directing JT's homework and redirecting Matt's boundless energy, but she simply says, go. No malice, no tone tinged with anger or resentment, just a simple loving push to get out the door and pedal.

Given that kind of support I find myself making better choices. I never feel trapped by my family. The freedom to drop all and ride creates the atmosphere where I chose to sneak in rides to reduce time away from Jen and the kids. I'm cycle commuting this year. Jen authorized the buying of bike, bag and clothes and I started out like gang busters. Recently I failed...again...and have spent the last two to three weeks driving my car to work. Oh, with good reason, a bout of some malingering virus, early winter, but not good enough. Today I commuted to and from work. A whole stolen hour of cycling. -10 C with snow down, sure, but it was perfect. I'm back baby. The wheel turns and I'm back on top. With support like this you just have to try again. I can see our coat of arms forming in my head, a griffin riding a bicycle with some dead language framing - "We who get up."

Van-verted

2007-12-03T21:55:00.000-05:00

It seems like an eternity ago, but I did at one time consider myself a car guy; loved the wheeled beasts in facts. I’m sure in my high school locker, beside pictures of Eddie Van Halen, Steve Stevens and other ‘80’s big-haired guitar gods, nestled nicely between destroyed and collaged Honda motorcycle brochures, there were pictures of American muscle cars, Porsche 911’s and Lotus Esprit Turbos. The weird thing is I don’t even remember when it all just stopped mattering to me. But it did. If I had an aversion to the idea of the mini-van it was based more on the stereotypical owner, than any man-ly creed evidenced in a bellowed, “I would die before owning that underpowered, ill-handling snot-rag box on wheels.” Any residual car-guy-ed-ness and the corresponding van-dular distaste were washed aside by the arrival of child number three.

Bringing Lily home from hospital it became painfully clear that no extraordinary ability with packing and spatial relationships was going to allow me to overcome this interesting challenge. It was the tightest of tight fits with all children under 7 and still in booster, child and infant seats. Not only annoying, a kind of almost fun challenge, it turned out to cause physical injury. The grandparents were incapable of the contortions required and both Jennifer and I suffered injuries in the first few weeks with three car seats. We had settled into life in microscopic hell when I got a call from Mom and Dad. Would we take a used van given a very complicated chain of events orchestrated by Dad and a friend that involved somewhere between 6 and 6 separate steps? A quick tour around the interwebby and many phone calls later and I was off on a bus to become the unwilling beneficiary of a new to me Plymouth Voyager.

Jennifer immediately fell in love with our free van. My love was stunted by the cancer barely visible to the casual observer but there forming under the sliding door and around the wheel wells, the engine miss bespeaking a cylinder going down, and a maddening and terrifying clunk in the front end. It was obvious that our family was ready for the space. Like a couple returning from a high school reunion, we exhaled and settled, breathing a sigh of expansive relief. (You see the couple was wearing clothes that were too tight, pining for a life past, for youth lost; and returning home they popped open buttons, unzipped strained zippers and relaxed, realizing that the comfort of their present adult life was good enough and that there could be no going back).

We just fit in that decrepit van. And this family has always been a sucker for the quirky, for the under dog, for the less then perfect or beautiful. The van fit us as well. We’ve had just such a great year in that van. Innumerable trips to the beach, traveling to visit family, the poor old thing managed pretty well, at it’s pinnacle serving as the support vehicle for team Nicholson during Jennifer’s magical first marathon in October. We took a wreck and lovingly wrecked it; the floor usually obscured, a-wash in toys, sloughed off hoodies and toddler thrown food.

Alas, the van appears to be dying. Little things like that cylinder finally dying and leaking coming from every gasket are complicated by seemingly less important but in fact critical things like being trapped by a frustratingly finicky sliding door. Sometimes it freezes open and others it locks you in. Quirky has passed and damned annoying is front and center. It becomes harder as a father, husband and provider to, in good conscience, strap everyone in to a vehicle so very close to combusting it’s final hydrocarbons. It is time to consider replacing the free van with something far less free but far more reliable and appealing. The day will come in the not so distant future when we will be forced to hoodwink a financial institution and purchase a new van. And we’ll be all hyped on the smell, the cool features and the absence of worry, excepting the ubiquitous fear of financial ruin. That new van induced joy will be diminished by a subtler but real and powerful sense of loss for that crappy Plymouth. Isn’t it wonderful how even the most humble of objects can be a part of such rich lives and infuse our memories with such colour and character? Maybe I’ll make a planter out of it in the backyard.

Value Village Pilgrimage

2007-12-01T18:29:00.000-05:00

We needed sour creme and whole wheat shells for fahitas and there seemed to be a wee break in the weather, so we went for it. We loaded the van, our lovely old van that everyone now has to enter through the front passenger door, with two reluctant older brothers and a very compliant little sister and off we went. But not just for a quick trip to the grocery store for a few supper items, oh no, we also had in mind a pilgrimage to the land of recycled clothes, the temple of rich folk sloughed accouterment.

I've never been a clothes horse, never overly concerned with my outward appearance, especially from a clothing point of view. Now admittedly I spent a good deal of my formative years in 501 jeans, with OP t-shirts and Chuck Taylor shoes. But, as an adult I worked in an uniform and out of that I wore what was practical or comfortable. My nice clothes were bought for me by my wife or admittedly and embarrassingly by my mother. Poor Jennifer, poor, poor Jennifer; forced into a life of relationship crime, sneaking clothing items into our house and relying on shopping excursions with her Mom or my Mom for the big pieces of her wardrobe. I don't remember when we discovered used clothing stores exactly, but a life changing experience it was.

Well at least for me. Maybe it was turning 39, or I just decided to dress a little less casually at work; heck, maybe it was that I became convinced that if I ever wore another pair of used khakis to work with a golf shirt I'd shoot myself, or more likely go to the nearest bell tower and get comfortable. Or maybe I didn't fall as far from the genetic fashion tree as I had originally thought. I come from good shopping stock. My maternal grandmother, my Mom and evidenced in perfect refinement in my sister, we are a family that can shop. Both of my grandfathers were snazzy dressers, both coal miners, that while not at work and out of the house were rarely seen without a coat and a hat. And I recently realized that if you go regularly enough to Value Village, and remain really picky you can pick-up just beautiful suits, blazers, shoes, ties and shirts. So now, most days of the week I go to work in a suit. And to further this new haberdashery-ic pursuit we make regular trips to VV, even more regular then usual.

I itch the second I walk into the store and a small part of me sees it as evidence that I've failed as a provider, but you can't fight facts. Jennifer and I have increased our wardrobes in fun and dressy ways over the last month at about a tenth of the retail price. It's good for the pocket book, it's good for the environment and it's fun. All hail Value Village and bless the fools that dump the entire contents of their closets on a regular basis. To that guy with a 34 inch waist and 44R jacket, and a love for 3 button suits - hey isn't that Italian thing your wearing so last season - time to donate.

Talk soon.

B

toothless in cornwall

2007-11-27T21:59:00.001-05:00

The weirdest thing is happening in our house. Profound sadness is twisted up with overwhelming pride and wonder on almost a daily basis. Jennifer and I, I think, understand the concept of growing-up. We have been witness to this miraculous process for eight years. But, at least for me, it seems only recently to have become so obvious. Maybe the change is in us. We've been married for 11 years now, and we are very good at 'us.' With Jennifer home and my reasonable stability at work, maybe we've stopped spinning enough to be more aware. As I look back much of our early life seems a blur - tons of vocational upheaval, some medical scares and near constant scramble to survive - now, to be honest, by survive I mean given an affluent North American standard - not roll sod for shelter, get first crop in the barn or starve, survive. I feel secure in our home and our life together and maybe that has allowed for this change. Heck, maybe it's a very common mid-life stock taking, a kind of expected self and life reflective phase. Not sure, but what I do know is that everyday we see in our kids a pace of change that is breath-taking.

It seems overnight that JT can do complicated math and read in both french and english. I can already see in him the strong big brother that will be such a large presence in our house and in the lives of his parents and siblings. Lily is without a doubt the most active of all of our children at that age. Just so full of life - moxie, if this was a different generation; not talking but absolutely communicating clearly. And Matt, that sweet monkey, he is the catalyst to this realization. Apparently he was supposed to stay cute little five year old Matt forever. So caring, so funny and did I mention cute. The voice, the mannerisms, the heavy footfalls and constant pratfalls that seemed eternal, a constant in our house - a defining part of our full and wonderful lives. And overnight and all of a sudden he's growing up and changing. Realization of this amplifies the changes now more evident in his brother and sister. The little bugger lost his first tooth. And its killing me. I'm a little terrified. I know they are young, but for the first time I can feel that eventual loss. They are growing up and away from us. It's like I'm finally truly getting that one day they'll be out of the house and building their own lives. Admittedly I haven't been dealing well with this over the last day or so - but I decide and declare today, to strap in and hold on and get ready for this very disconcerting but wild ride. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Love you all,

B

Hockey, Hockey, Hockey!

2007-11-23T17:45:00.000-05:00

I can't really skate backwards. Now given that I'm from Eastern Canada and a boy this is a fairly silly thing. Something beyond the pale. If I was from Georgia, I'd be one hell of a skater. But, alas, I'm not. And I come from good stock - Dad was a wonderful skater, and a talented high-school hockey player; Mom, also a good skater and a provincial champion curler - not hockey, but ice related. Even worse, I married and continue to associate with a figure skater. I take full responsibility for the fact that our two boys have had a limited interest in hockey. I'm not an avid hockey watcher; don't live and die based on whether the Leaf's win or not and have only played sporadically throughout adulthood. And none of this mattered until we moved to PEI. A valley kid that played baseball and basketball could hide easily in a cosmopolitan metropolis like Halifax. Stop laughing. A little mountain biking, a pretense to surfing, and viola, the fact that I didn't play three nights a week and talk hockey constantly was easily covered. PEI, is a different story. I stick out here, like a sore thumb. And now that JT is in school, so does he; or more to the point, did he - because this year, at the age of eight, he started Novice Hockey, with kids that have been skating and playing hockey with Brad Richard's young cousins since the age of three - four latest. To a kid they all skate better then me - let alone poor JT - just starting and already four to five years behind. Here's the thing, he could care less. He tries hard every practice and loves every game. The kids are just young enough that they have yet to realize that there are some kids that will play in the NHL and some that will watch. Even the ones that score four goals a game seem genuinely happy for themselves and unaware of the 'pylons' they so easily skated around on the way to glory. The parent-coaches are dolls that truly support all of the kids and at this point we couldn't be happier to have him in hockey. Even when it starts at 5:20 AM for power skating on a Friday morning. So think of us tomorrow, a Saturday, that will start at 6 AM, on the ice for practice at 7, game at 1:30 followed by the Santa Parade at 5PM. But don't feel bad. We are all actually really enjoying this. Heck I might even try to find an old fart's league.

Love from us to all.

...of pink-eye, antibiotics and wordless communication

2007-11-15T09:53:00.000-05:00

“Are you concerned that she isn’t talking yet?”
“No. Is she obviously intelligent and happy? Does she have any deformity in her mouth or with her tongue? Is she vocal? Does she get her point across?”
“Alright already – no, no – it’s just the boys keep coming back telling me what Evelyn is saying.”
“Don’t make it a competition now.”
“I don’t, it’s just…”
“I know it’s time for her to start talking.”
And from her position in the kitchen at her booster seat covered in Yogurt comes, as if on queue, a bellowed, “Unh!” Lily would apparently like a sip of her Mom’s wine. She gets chocolate milk instead, but given the monstrous grin, the hug of the sippy cup, and the joyful babbling, I think a reasonable compromise from her perspective. And she is so obviously as smart as her disturbingly smart brothers, JT with his savant like ability with spelling and reading, his seeming ease with school and Matt’s near genius like math abilities and pure love of learning. She understands everything, engages in very serious humour and is as busy and independent as any 16 month old ever to grace the planet. The boys just spoke so early, I get it, it’s a little unnerving she isn’t speaking 100 miles/hour yet. All will be well, and the little monkey will speak. I’m sure someday, in the not too distant future, one of you lovely people will remind me of the day I wished for the floodgate to open.
Jen has both JT and Lily home today with pink-eye. Actually Lily, the little trooper, is battling a nasty cold, bacterial overgrowth in her ears AND pink-eye. And through all of this she motors on, wrecking the house one room at a time, repeatedly causing the rest of us to laugh and fall back in love with her. You have to see her dance. And have her run into your arms for a hug, or see,’cheesy face.’ Did I mention recently that we are truly blessed? Well if not – consider this public acknowledgment.
Prepare yourselves, because the season of horde like decent upon your homes by the attacking Nicholson’s is nigh. We’re coming. And we can’t wait. See you all soon.

Love

b

...the calm before

2007-11-03T18:00:00.000-04:00

Checked and double checked the yard and house; secured that troublesome drain-pipe with a startling new and white bracket; now I suppose we sit and wait. We had a good day here. After a busy week we all awoke to a seemingly busy Saturday. But Saturday's are different. Somehow, being together and on our own terms lessens the stress and quadruples the potential fun. So off to the rink for JT and art class for Matt. We're new to the whole Rink family reality. So far, so good. No yelling at refs, or parents complaining about ice time, just 8 and 9 years old zooming around and chanting, 'go Lightning, go!" After returning from the rink, we headed downtown to pick up Matt - running some errands in the interim. We stopped by Canadian Tire and picked up a bit of road hockey gear; stick's for all and a really cool net. The whole family was able to get out and enjoy the pre storm weather. The kids were great. A little pizza and a movie and we'll snuggle down, lock-up and hope for the best. Don't get blown away and remember we love and miss you all.

Us