For my 20th anniversary, Hubby presented me with my very own tub of Spackle. Bet you thought I made a typo and meant “sparkle” right?

Nope, I really meant “Spackle” which all do-it-yourselfers (DIY) knows is the queen of fillers for gouges, dents and small nails/screw holes left on the drywall after all the wallpaper is removed.

Spackle is great stuff because it goes on a distinctive pink and as it dries, it turns white. I got to wield a small spatula, gooping the pink stuff on the various parts of the wall, filling in the gouges and nail holes, smoothing it flat before it dried. This was great fun as there was none of the guesswork deciding whether the filler was dry enough to paint over. We only had to watch the bubblegum pink colour disappear to a mere white to know it was paint ready. Bet you’re asking yourself–hey, how did you become a do-it-yourselfer when you should be drinking champagne and celebrating?  To make a long story short, it was casting for a project—actually Hubby was casting for a project and I was merely making an observation.

We still had 1/2 can of paint and primer leftover from painting the bathroom. Our kitchen has a utility closet, closed off by a pocket door. Usually the door is open exposing the wall facing into the kitchen. Both kitchen and utility wall had the same wallpaper.  As I made my comment that I really detested that pattern on the utility room wall, Hubby was already checking it out. Hey, he says–this must be the leftover paper from the kitchen that they slapped on the wall because the other two walls are plain. Before you could say “spackle,” a strip of  wallpaper was lying on the floor.

Wow, I say. Should be easy to paint. . .right? Oops, wrong! As Hubby carefully checked things over, he discovered that if the rack holding the mops and brooms was removed AND the shelving above the washer and dryer dismantled, it should be easy to mostly roller-paint the walls with some brush work on the corners and ceiling lines. AND oh yes, if the washer and dryer could be moved forward a bit, we could paint as far down the back and side walls by the washer and dryer–that could be reached.

I like to think I’m a graceful, lithesome senior who can stretch effortlessly to 7 feet and yoga-fold my body into impossible shapes to paint those difficult places, corners and straight-ceiling lines. The truth of the matter is I’m short, a mere 5 feet and not as agile as my granddaughters, who can bend into a pretzel and do a somersault all at the same time. The real test was painting the primer or base coat. This was like a “test-run” and it was surprisingly easy. My ceiling lines were clean and straight except for the very slight wobble in the far corner which was a bit of a stretch for me, balanced precariously on the washer. The rollers were just the right size to roll as far down the back walls as I could reach and the paint brush did the side walls as far down as I could–the end result being that  the back and side walls looked completely painted where it was visible behind and beside the washer and dryer. The sight of a clean and bright white drywall was an incentive to paint the two coats of final colour as carefully as the primer.

So what should have been a 4-hour paint job stretched into a 2-day session. BUT, in the end, the utility room never looked brighter or cleaner. The only damage was the paint smear on the hip and butt of my shorts when I accidently backed into a wet wall, the paint splatters on my favourite old T-shirt, elbows and knees. I’m not sure how I got paint on my knees but I want you to know, the walls are beautiful!

AND before you asked what did Hubby do—well, he did all the needed prep work of dismantling shelving, moving the washer and dryer slightly, stripping off wallpaper and making things ready for me to goop, prime and paint. It was great team work. . .

On the actual  day of our 20th, Hubby took me out to a spectacular anniversary dinner at our favourite restaurant, complete with flowers, wine, chocolate dessert and a lot  of romance. . .Umm-mm, we still have 1/4 tin of paint and primer leftover, but we are definitely not looking for anymore painting projects just yet. . .

Over the years, I’ve found that it’s usually a series of little things that have a way of making you pause and savour; even pause and contemplate the oddities or action of that particular moment that captures your attention. If you’re receptive to noticing the little things, you may find that there are several occurrences during your busy day. My favourites are the little vignettes that springs up to make life interesting. And even if you find them annoying, hey, don’t sweat the small stuff—just let it go and remember to keep breathing without popping your blood pressure.

Whenever I can, I try to do a daily power walk. This is usually a 5 kilometer fast-walk that takes me through neighbouring streets, the Village and Bowker Creek Park. Sometimes I head in another direction that takes me along a scenic water view, million dollars estates with its lavish landscaping, the Marina with all its sail boats and yachts docked neatly side-by-side and a golf course that’s divided by a busy street. I find that when I walk, I can see things that are easily missed when I’m driving my car. Today I witnessed the mini-drama of a Dad teaching his 4 year old daughter to ride her bike. “Pump your legs, Carly. You have to keep moving your legs so your bike can keep moving too,” he encouraged. As his daughter got into the rhythm of biking, he casually let go of his hand steadying the bike. A moment of shocked silence and a happy shriek of, “Daddy, I’m biking all by myself!” For a parent, this would be a definite landmark, but for a casual passer-by, this is one of those little things that reflects one of Life’s  happy moments.

I love stopping at different coffee-bars because each place has its own unique quality of coffee beans. And of course, each place has its own unique assortment of home-made pastries that goes with a good cuppa. I decided to pause at the Marina, the half-way point of my scenic water route. With my coffee in hand plus a warm sausage wrapped in flaky pastry, I sat at a small outdoor patio table, enjoying the warm sun and watching the dockside activity. At the next table, a young child of about three years, sat between her grandparents. The couple were enjoying their coffees and sharing a plate of French fries with the toddler. Their obvious joy and delight of having their granddaughter for a brief period was evident on the couple’s faces. Grandpa picked up a French fry, dipped it into the small dish of ketchup, popped it into his mouth and chewed with gusto. The tot’s eyes grew wide with wonder. Grandma passed a small piece of French fry to her granddaughter who carefully imitated her Grandpa by dipping it into the small dish of ketchup and popping it into her mouth, chewing with enthusiasm and apparent delight. Grandma was about to pass another French fry to her granddaughter, but a seagull waiting greedily for his moment, grabbed the French fry with his beak and triumphantly flew away. Seeing both her grandparents laughing at the antic of the seagull, the little girl laughed too. This was such a delightful family scene for it was impossible not to smile at the toddler’s introduction to French fries and scavenging seagulls.

My homeward route took me past the Scented Gardens. This is one of my favourite places to pause for each  season brought scented flowers and fragrant shrubs for the enjoyment of people with low-vision and/or no vision. For those with vision, the colours, combined with the scents, creates a pleasant interlude. Whoever planned the garden made sure the scents were mere whispers, not cloying; it tantalized as its faint perfumes drifted by.  It remembers a time past when people actually sat and enjoyed a beautiful garden.

Life’s simple pleasures are often little things that are taken for granted, unnoticed,  yet there for anyone to enjoy.

One of Victoria’s quaint annual customs is the “Flower Count”,  held in early March, usually two weeks before Spring officially arrives. The idea is to have volunteers and anyone with time on their hands, counting each bloom that pops out of the ground and officially entering it as part of the flower count. Those of us who abhor such boastings are pessimistic enough to feel the same bloom was probably counted five times by other volunteers.

Victoria was often the first to send their daffodils and tulips eastward. These blooms proved that Victoria had the mildest climate in all of Canada as well as the mildest winters. We seldom saw snow that lasted more than a day. We do have a lot of rain which is where the term “liquid sunshine” and “galoshes weather” comes into play.

But braggarts eventually do get their come-uppance. I remember one March, just as the flower-count got officially underway, the first snow-flakes began their lazy dance to the ground. Within a few hours, the bare pavements were covered in snow and the first signs of panic hit the City. Volunteers scurried frantically to make sure each flower had been counted and registered, including every daffodil bloom on the farms.  The snow kept falling and people began their slow migration home. Buses ran late; taxis were rarely seen empty; cars slowly and cautiously inched along the snow-covered roads. Victoria drivers are not good at driving in snow, even if it was newly fallen. The next morning, there was exactly 1-1/2″ of snow on the ground that had frozen over during the night. Victoria drivers are even worst driving on ice. There were three times as many “regulars” waiting at the bus-stops. By the end of the day, the snow/ice had melted and a light rain washed away whatever snow remained.

And the flower count continued.  That year was one of the best totals ever. . . .

My enormous Webster dictionary defines a hug as “to put the arms around and hold closely; to embrace tightly and affectionately.” That was the first of Webster’s four definitions. It all sounds very clinical and seems like a detailed scientific observation. My version? To be up close and personal,  sharing a very warm embrace in the arms of someone you care about and love.

Hugs are personal. It takes a special person to break down my barriers and venture into my private space. As you may have guessed, I’m not a spontaneously huggy person, especially when the Holiday Season rolls around and the hugger-muggers are in their full, sneaky mode. The hugger-muggers’ version of a hug is more of a boozy grab-and-squash rather than a nice, warm embrace that says “I’ve missed you–welcome back.”

I’ve ranked hugs in 5 categories, from the bottom of the list to the top. Number 5 is the boozy grab-and-squash. Now that I’m older and less agile, I thought I was safe from these but when the alcohol fuels the brain and clouds the vision, anyone under the age of 99 is fair game. I’m older and wiser now so I avoid these socials like the plague since that’s where the known grabbers hang out.

Number 4 is a grabber with finesse. He/she will be charming and chatty, when suddenly he/she will declare, “You’re so cute I just want to hug you to bits,” and before you can say, “I know my martial arts,”–you’re grabbed and squashed, but unlike #5, you’ll have a 2-second warning.

Number 3 is a puzzler. He/she will appear shy and quiet so that you feel obligated to chat with them. After all, who hasn’t been to a social function where the only person you know is somewhere in the crowd or making a late entrance and you’re grateful to have someone chatting with you. Sometimes, I find real gems as that particular person would have a fantastic background by being current in political events, music, arts and books besides being a veritable who’s-who of people in the crowd. On parting, he/she gently holds your hands and lightly air-hugs. In case you’re unfamiliar, this is like an air-kiss except it’s a hug that makes no contact, but is almost a hug.

Number 2 is a hugger by nature. He is like everyone’s “big brother.”  He will give you the same exuberant hug he gives his football buddies, his golfing buddies, his college buddies and anyone else he works and plays closely with. I’ve only encountered this in two of my male friend,, but I think it’s a compliment that they feel comfortable knowing that I will return their hug with an enthusiastic sisterly one. As for any consequences, my real big brother and these two taught me my defensive moves. . . .

Number 1 is the cream-de-la-crème of all hugs. This one is the up-close and personal hug that is caring and gentle and says “I love you” even if you’ve only been away for an hour. My Hubby gives the best hugs and he passes it on to my Mom and I. All his love is contained in his hugs and he doesn’t have to say a word because we know. Anyone who knows a #1 hugger is really, really fortunate–these huggers are rare and are definite keepers. They are caring and loving.

Scientists have done extensive research on hugs and have concluded that hugs help lower elevated blood pressures. Just think, eating dark chocolates lowers the blood pressure and now hugs do too. I may be as round as a jelly doughnut, but my blood pressure is great. . . and so is my Hubby’s.

It’s been a strange month. I knew Christmas was coming in another few weeks but that was a few weeks away. Lots of time to shop, bake, clean,–all the myriad stuff one needs to do when guests and family would pop in over the Holidays. So here I am, as ready as can be–the baked goods have been mostly devoured by us, after all, test-tasting is a very serious job. But now I’m confident that my chocolate pecan thumbprint cookies, shortbreads,  lemon loaf, cherry bombs,  petite ham quiches,  mince tarts and butter tarts are ready for my visitors. The only problem is to find the time to do more baking. . .

In the meantime. I would like to wish each and everyone of my faithful Readers a very Merry Christmas and all the very best that this Holiday Season brings.  May 2016 be a very Happy, Healthy,  Creative and Prosperous year for all of you. Best of all, may the Christmas Sprite inspire the creative juices to flow through the New Year and beyond.

MERRY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!