A bride came through the lobby of the hotel last night, among travellers sharing nightcaps next to high ceilinged windows in the lounge. A cranberry and green wreath lit up the hearth with white lights over a fire roaring maniacally on slate rocks. A hockey game on the flat screen over the bar.



She led her husband by the hand and the two of them sat in the middle of the room in two overstuffed chairs, eating french fries. It was almost midnight. All heads turned, she smiled for her audience, and then they sank into their own private newlywed world. We all in the room, shared that moment in her life, wondering about their appetite for each other, if they had the honeymoon suite, and where were her guests?

Gord checked his yellow hockey stick and we sat for a hasty breakfast. JC, our Project Manager told us the intrigue about the apartments where we’ll be staying in Niagara-on-the-Lake. These are actor’s lodging -- those who work summer stock for The Shaw Festival. JC has worked in theatre for years, he knows all the gossip, and he says one of the apartments is haunted! The omelette was rectangular and the day outside was wet and dreary. We remembered our last departure for Italy, it was almost to the day, a year ago. Today, Christmas seemed to permeate; I liked the sight of red and silver ornaments, even the familiar pa-rum-pa-pum-pum. I watched them both, JC and Gord, as they unloaded their carry ons and jackets at security, as they took off their shoes and walked through the beeper gate. There were others waiting for a last glimpse of their loved ones before the trip, but this time, Gord didn’t look back.



A tense and frustrating week on hold until the Saturday morning board meeting in Niagara-on-the-lake, and then: All Systems Go! Back on track, and rev it up to speed. It was more than I could take, gracefully, as I didn’t get my exercise. We had to pack Gord up for the trip, and do those many prepatory things in a hurry-up way. I snapped at Nancy and lay awake thinking about how I could be better, how undeserving of my impatience she was, and how could I just Let it Go . . . .(in a future life I’ll be a diplomat) In the end, we forgot the camera.



I come up short under this kind of stress, because I just hold on. So now I’m thinking: process. I’ve got to find a process to help me walk through the emotional soup I end up swimming around in when the heat is turned up. Breathe. Take a walk. Let it go. The question is still: where can we put the prints collection to the best advantage? How can I tell Nancy she is just short of extraordinary?