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Vox Hunt: My Loot

Show us your loot!

I swear we all agreed to a stockings-only-no-presents style Xmas this year.  I can't believe the number of presents that were opened this year.  Perhaps I'll add photos of the unwrapped gifts later.

Stocking Only?

Is That You Santie Claus?

It was the late 1960s in department store in Saint John, New Brunswick. I was 4 or 5, dressed up in my green velvet dress with a white lace collar, standing with my father at the end of a long line of rowdy kids and frazzled parents.  The line looped back on itself three or four times before reaching the platform where, one at a time, kids were escorted up to Santa's throne to sit on his lap, whisper their secret wishes and have their annual photo taken for the grandparents.

We were a little different than the other families in line.  Firstly, all of the other families were being herded by a mom - pretty ladies in their skirts and heels trying to juggle packages, bags, mittens, hats and kids.  Secondly, Dad was one of only four men in the line, the only one there as primary kid-wrangler.  Thirdly, other than the man we were all there to see, dad was the only person there with a beard, a big black beard and thick military-style black-rimmed glasses. Finally, while the adults in line kept taking sidelong glances at us, I stood quietly holding my father's hand  staring openly at their kids.

I'm an only child and it was absolutely fascinating to see other kids jacked up on sugar, squished all into a line and coping with the excitement and 30-minute wait to seeing Santa up close.

QotD: Is That You Santie Claus?

It was the late 1960s in department store in Saint John, New Brunswick. I was 4 or 5, dressed up in my green velvet dress with a white lace collar, standing with my father at the end of a long line of rowdy kids and frazzled parents.  The line looped back on itself three or four times before reaching the platform where, one at a time, kids were escorted up to Santa's throne to sit on his lap, whisper their secret wishes and have their annual photo taken for the grandparents.

Stink Weed & Dad

We were a little different than the other families in line.  Firstly, all of the other families were being herded by a mom - pretty ladies in their skirts and heels trying to juggle packages, bags, mittens, hats and kids.  Secondly, Dad was one of only four men in the line, the only one there as primary kid-wrangler.  Thirdly, other than the man we were all there to see, dad was the only person there with a beard, a big black beard and thick military-style black-rimmed glasses. Finally, while the adults in line kept taking sidelong glances at us, I stood quietly holding my father's hand  staring openly at their kids. 

I'm an only child and it was absolutely fascinating to see other kids jacked up on sugar, squished all into a line and coping with the excitement and 30-minute wait to seeing Santa up close. Kids were ducking back and forth under the ropes. Swinging from their mother's purses. Kicking each other. Screaming. Pulling off their winter clothes and dumping them in a piles all over the place. There were even a couple of kids crying. 

Near the front of the line there was one little girl in tears.  Her older brother, who was only eight or nine himself, was trying to reassure her. When it was his sister's turn to go up, she was still terrified and hanging white knuckled to her mother.  Her brother pushed in front of her, walked right up the stairs to Santa and just before he was about to sit down, he stopped.  He looked Santa square in the face, and then he reached out and tugged on Santa's beard.

There was a gasp from the line-up as the beard came completely off leaving a clean-shaven man, dressed as Santa, sitting on the throne looking a bewildered and foolish.

Dad

The boy turned around, and triumphantly waving Santa's beard in the air said "That's not Santa," he looked around and gestured to the back of the line, "That's Santa!" 

Everyone turned to look where he was pointing.  I looked up at the man holding my hand.  Dad looked nervous.

We rushed out of the store leaving a trail of kids yelling out their Christmas wishes and parents yelling out other things.

It was the late 1960s in department store in Saint John, New Brunswick. I was 4 or 5, dressed up in my green velvet dress with a white lace collar, standing with my father at the end of a long line of rowdy kids and frazzled parents.  The line looped back on itself three or four times before reaching the platform where, one at a time, kids were escorted up to Santa's throne to sit on his lap, whisper their secret wishes and have their annual photo taken for the grandparents.

Stink Weed & Dad

We were a little different than the other families in line.  Firstly, all of the other families were being herded by a mom - pretty ladies in their skirts and heels trying to juggle packages, bags, mittens, hats and kids.  Secondly, Dad was one of only four men in the line, the only one there as primary kid-wrangler.  Thirdly, other than the man we were all there to see, dad was the only person there with a beard, a big black beard and thick military-style black-rimmed glasses. Finally, while the adults in line kept taking sidelong glances at us, I stood quietly holding my father's hand  staring openly at their kids. 

I'm an only child and it was absolutely fascinating to see other kids jacked up on sugar, squished all into a line and coping with the excitement and 30-minute wait to seeing Santa up close. Kids were ducking back and forth under the ropes. Swinging from their mother's purses. Kicking each other. Screaming. Pulling off their winter clothes and dumping them in a piles all over the place. There were even a couple of kids crying. 

Near the front of the line there was one little girl in tears.  Her older brother, who was only eight or nine himself, was trying to reassure her. When it was his sister's turn to go up, she was still terrified and hanging white knuckled to her mother.  Her brother pushed in front of her, walked right up the stairs to Santa and just before he was about to sit down, he stopped.  He looked Santa square in the face, and then he reached out and tugged on Santa's beard.

There was a gasp from the line-up as the beard came completely off leaving a clean-shaven man, dressed as Santa, sitting on the throne looking a bewildered and foolish.

Dad

The boy turned around, and triumphantly waving Santa's beard in the air said "That's not Santa," he looked around and gestured to the back of the line, "That's Santa!" 

Everyone turned to look where he was pointing.  I looked up at the man holding my hand.  Dad looked nervous.

We rushed out of the store leaving a trail of kids yelling out their Christmas wishes and parents yelling out other things.

Taking the Shine Off My Tinsel

  Winter Solstice Festival of Lights Kensington Market
-- Originally uploaded by tysonwilliams.com

Last night was the Festival of Lights in Kensington Market.  It was the oddest solstice for us.  Perhaps the one that most embodied the Winter Solstice as the darkest day of the year.

Nothing really bad happen, just enough little stuff to take the shine off my tinsel.

Continue reading my solstice whine...  Or just skip it and tell me something lovely that happened in your day!

---

p.s. Tyson was kind enough to let me use the photo on the left from last night's procession.  The ribbons in the bottom centre of the photo are attached to my hat as I walk away drumming my little drum -- pra-rum-pa-pa-pum on my drum.

Winter Solstice Whine

  Winter Solstice Festival of Lights Kensington Market
-- Originally uploaded by tysonwilliams.com

Last night was the Festival of Lights in Kensington Market.  It was the oddest solstice for us.  Perhaps the one that most embodied the Winter Solstice as the darkest day of the year.

Nothing really bad happen, just enough little stuff to take the shine off my tinsel.

Continue reading my solstice whine...  Or just skip it and tell me something lovely that happened in your day!

---

p.s. Tyson was kind enough to let me use the photo on the left from last night's procession.  The ribbons in the bottom centre of the photo are
attached to my hat as I walk away drumming my little drum pra-rum-pa-pa-pum on my drum.

Happy Solstice!

Solstice Hats

Get out your Solstice hats, it's time to chase away the darkness!  We're meeting just south of Augusta & College in front of Oishi Kada between 5:30-5:45pm tonight.  Come with noise and light makers and join in the Festival of Lights.

Image Not Available

Car Show Collage

Have I told you about the lovely summer day when we went to the car show with the inlaws?

I walked through the field of classic cars shooting as many as possible while hearing my FIL tell me how great a classic car calendar would be.

A scheme was born - a customized classic car calendar poster just for him.  Perfect for his desk and perfect for xmas.

"What are you doing lex?!?" you might be thinking.  "You'll ruin the surprise if you post about it before Xmas"

If only this were true! But what you see above is the only evidence of an entire memory card filled with photos of lovingly restored and maintained classic cars from all angles.

You see, in August around walking-pneumonia-time, my laptop also started exhibiting signs of over-exertion.  It was packed to the gills with photos and I couldn't make it do anything.  Junkii walked in, saw me pulling out my hair in frustration and had the brilliant idea to copy all my photos to CDs.  My friend Junkii is brilliant!

I filled 5 CDs with no mishaps.  My drive died on the sixth CD but it didn't matter.  The previous 5 had written smoothly and been double-checked.   My photos were safe.  With the photos archived and cleaned off my laptop, it laptop performed like it had been lovingly restored and maintained.  Life, work and schemes progressed.

Until yesterday when I started work on the calendar.  I was ready to start inserting photos and I looked on my laptop... no photos.  I looked on my archival hard drive... no photos.  I looked on the networked photo drive... no photos. I had a little melt down. (okay, big melt down).  Gerry titled his head and said "didn't you write those onto a CD", and after he repeated it 4 times, I actually listened.  AHA!!!! My man is brilliant!! Now where are those CDs?

This morning I found them - wooo hooo!  The calendar project is back on track.  I find the one labeled "Car Show". I insert the CD and find, to my horror, it's blank.  I check the next one, and the next one... and all 5 CDs are blank.  "Would you like to format this CD" blank.

This is not my happy face.

Anyone know how to read photos from a blank CD?  Please?

Image Not Available

Have I told you about the lovely summer day when we went to the car show with the inlaws?

I walked through the field of classic cars shooting as many as possible while hearing my FIL tell me how great a classic car calendar would be.

A scheme was born - a customized classic car calendar poster just for him.  Perfect for his desk and perfect for xmas.

"What are you doing lex?!?" you might be thinking.  "You'll ruin the surprise if you post about it before Xmas"

If only this were true! But what you see on the left is the only evidence of an entire memory card filled with photos of lovingly restored and maintained classic cars from all angles.

In The Kitchen: For All That Ails You

Wondering where I've been for the last week and a half?  Pissed that we missed your holiday soiree? Really don't care what's been going on but hoping I'll get to the point soon?

Okay, here's the scoop.  We've been sick - feverish, stuck in bed, horking up a lung, getting behind in work, weak as kittens - sick.    It started a week ago Monday, when Gerry came home.  He crawled in bed and stayed there until Thursday.  While he lounged in bed, I spent the early part of the week locked in the office with boxes of receipts celebrating Taxmas. As I delivered everything to our accountant and started clearing my desk, I noticed a little sniffle.  I was doomed.

Today, I'm finally able to raise my head unaided and posted the miracle cure over on In The Kitchen.  It's my friend Diane's recipe for Rum Toddy.  Diane is a chef and the Food & Beverage Manager at Saint John's Imperial Theatre. She's knows what's what when it comes to rum.

If you've never tried a Rum Toddy, it is the nectar of the gods and the cure for all that ails you!  It certainly cured me.

Technorati tags: in the kitchen, rum toddy, recipes, food and drink, imperial theatre, diane, gerry

In The Kitchen: Cures What Ails You

Rum Toddy!

Wondering where I've been for the last week and a half?  Pissed that we missed your holiday soiree? Really don't care what's been going on but hoping I'll get to the point soon?

Okay, here's the scoop.  We've been sick - feverish, stuck in bed, horking up a lung, getting behind in work, weak as kittens - sick.    It started a week ago Monday, when Gerry came home.  He crawled in bed and stayed there until Thursday.  While he lounged in bed, I spent the early part of the week locked in the office with boxes of receipts celebrating Taxmas. As I delivered everything to our accountant and started clearing my desk, I noticed a little sniffle.  I was doomed.

Today, I'm finally able to raise my head unaided and posted the miracle cure over on In The Kitchen.  It's my friend Diane's recipe for Rum Toddy.  Diane is a chef and the Food & Beverage Manager at Saint John's Imperial Theatre. She's knows what's what when it comes to rum.

If you've never tried a Rum Toddy, it is the nectar of the gods and the cure for all that ails you!  It certainly cured me.