We survived a renovation and love living with the results. The house has been updated and modernized with new light fixtures, hardwood floors and a new stairway. The bathrooms and kitchen have granite counters and all the rooms look fresh with a new coat of paint. The only thing left on the wish list is a new front door. Cleaning is a breeze and storage has been vamped up so that we even look more organized. 
Remembrance Day is particularly poignant when you work in the school system here in Canada. Children of all ages and in all grades tackle specific projects and assignments for weeks in advance of the special day. Their work culminates in imaginative and creative presentations, dramas, posters, artwork, and chorals on November 11. It makes your heart glad to see students as young as 6 and all the way up to the graduating class of Grade 12 immersing themselves enthusiastically in holding onto the memories of sacrifice and bravery of soldiers in all the wars past and present. 
At the school, ceremonies are held in the company of old warriors and young soldiers in uniforms bearing medals. It tugs at your heart strings when you watch them salute in honour of those who have fallen. It is truly remarkable to witness the respect given by the young who are largely untouched by the strife and mayhem of war. 
My wish has finally been granted. My fairy godmother has arrived at last and waved her magic wand in front of my pumpkin. Now, every second week, I close my eyes, make a wish on a bright star in the night sky and, hey presto! the next day my pumpkin of a house is sparkling clean.
After 33 years of maid-free marriage we have finally taken the plunge. Two angels come every second Thursday and transform our house from dismal to delightful in a few short hours. They get into corners and crevices where I would never think of going. When I am the cleaner, some of corners that I do see, I measure in terms of "will someone else see that?", "is it worth my energy?" or "will it really matter so much if I leave it for another week?" My specialty is cutting corners, whilst my fairy godmothers appear to head in for the tackle and spruce them up.
You know that Fall is well and truly here, and the freezing hands of Winter cold on its tail by the time Halloween comes round. This year we have foregone the gutting of a giant pumpkin in favour of a lightweight styrofoam look-a-like that lights up at the flick of a switch - safer, cleaner, and far less energy draining. The black cat - all arched back and fangs, the huge black spider dangling down, and the scary wreath deck the porch in anticipation of bunches of munchkins trailing pillow cases and garbage bags for all their goodies. 
As soon as the sun sets, the weird, wonderful and wackily dressed, trot up to front doors in the neighbourhood with a chorus of "Trick or Treat". Of course, never expecting anything other than handfuls of candy plopped into ever growing sacks. Little ladybugs, bees, princesses and Elmo's eyes grow wide if you challenge with "Trick". On the other hand, vampires, soldiers and zombies eyes roll up in the teenage signal for the bored "whatever". In all cases, loot bags are thrust forward anyway and all beat a hasty retreat once the prize is in their possession. Be sure to give the teenagers a nice load of chocolate or candy - the more satisfied they are, the less likely you will wake up to eggs drooling down the brickwork and toilet paper wrapped creatively around your trees.
This year, we bought two boxes of chocolate bars well ahead of time. Big mistake! It was far too easy to sneak a bar every time you walk past the offending enticement. The pounds were settling in on the hips before I asked husband (he of much greater discipline and willpower) to hide the loot far enough away that the "Eat me, eat me" voices could not be heard. Still had a hard time resisting, and spent some fruitless nights tiptoeing around with a torch peering under couches, opening drawers, lifting pillows and crawling under beds. Felt like the Pink Panther!
A conversation that hardly ever comes up in genteel or regular conversations, however, is the topic of extraneous hair. No-one tells us at 21 that at 51 or 61, the invisible down fleetingly seen in occasional sunlight when you're young, turns into black, wiry tensile cable visible from three yards (to all those under 40, with their pristine vision). We stand, bespectacled and squinting, in front of mirrors that magnify, painstakingly plucking the offending wire from our chins and upper lips. As hormones dwindle, we become frequent flyers at the local beauty parlor, where we willingly and desparately undergo the torturous delights of facial waxing, leg waxing and that other waxing in the nether regions - although most of us oldies usually forego that pleasure unless we are off on the annual vacation, where we can anonymously and inconspicuously don the ubiquitous full piece bathing suit, which hopefully rides low enough so that no eye popping may occur from the younger set. 
And woe betide that you should have daughters - at least they're honest and actually tell you that you have black hairs sprouting and curling from your chin. Three growing close together allows you to contemplate braiding as a statement, but convention usually dictates otherwise. Not to speak of the humiliation as she tells you to go get the tweezers and then proceeds to pull away, all the while lecturing about "you shouldn't have let it go this far! But what is one to do? Even with glasses the little beggers are hard to see.
The aha moment swept me up with excitement - off to the electrolysis lady - who is sure to wave her magic wand and rid me of my problem forever. Oh, the shock and terror when I finally lay down for my 30 minutes of 'problem solved'. No fairy godmother waving her magic wand for me! She might as well have been dressed in leathers and carried a whip - does anyone know the pain of having a needle jabbed through seven layers of epidermis, down the hair follicle to the root, and at the end of which experience the hair-raising jolt as electricity buzzes the poor hair in such a manner so that it jumps right out of its skin. The worst part - some of those little hairs have no intention of budging, so dominatrix lady zaps you a few more times for good measure. Now that is one hair follicle - imagine another hundred of the little soldiers! 
For a garden that is far less than half an acre, we sure do attract a lot of wildlife. Squirrels and chipmunks have set up apartments in the tree trunks. We have blue jays, cardinals, juncos and chickadees who empty our bird feeders daily. There are a few pigeons, and a duo of wood doves who had a pair of beautiful babies this last spring. We have skunks who wander by, and bunnies who hop in for a munch every evening. They all love the watering hole, the feeders and the fresh food we leave out for their dining pleasure. 
By far our biggest residents are the two raccoons who have built their home in our pergola, well camouflaged by a flourishing wisteria. These nocturnal animals swish down like firemen on poles in the evening, and waddle off to try their luck dining at our local restaurant. Unlike the chipmunk who shoots up the vertical iron pole on which the feeding station hangs and successfully gobbles up seed, these lumbering creatures are destined to fail. Pretty persistent though - they try acrobatics from the tree branches, only for gravity to kick in and head them tumbling to the ground. Then they try climbing the 2 cm diameter pole, hanging on with fingernails locked - to no avail - they just can't make it to the feeder. In the end, defeated and still hungry they climb the fence to, hopefully, greener pastures. They must do ok, because they return to their perch to forage another day. 
