A stickler for tradition

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Last night I hunkered down in the backyard, shivering in front of our chiminea with a bag of marshmallows, a Hershey's Special Dark and some digestive biscuits. The Boy decided to burn some wood cuttings from building the shed and toss in two bags of paperwork that we had deemed worthy of the Burn It pile to boot. When he mentioned it as I took him a steaming hot tea in his travel mug, it struck me like a lightning bolt that I hadn't enjoyed a S'more this summer. That situation had to be rectified, and there was no better time than tonight or else I'd find myself toasting a marhsmallow over a stove element.

I waited until dark, then donned my (stoner) yard jacket and gardening shoes. Murphy came along with me, thinking mistakenly that he might get in on the feast. We huddled in front of the fire and I got started spearing marshamallows onto my stainless steel roasting stick, custom made just for me with a handle and everything. (Yes, I'm easily impressed.)

Last summer, at a rented house in Sarnia, I had the best time introducing S'mores to my 7-year-old niece and my 86-year-old Gran. It was a first for them both, and they weren't disappointed. Did I tell you I love traditions?

Real Christmas trees, my glazed pork roast for Thanksgiving, Easter Egg hunts, all these things have meaning to me. There are those out there who might raise an eyebrow and chastise me for supporting these traditions based on what they mean to society as a whole (big bunch of heathens that they are), but I feel compelled to keep them up because of what they mean to me. Anyone who wants to take issue with it can go pound salt, honestly.

I used to dress up in a Hallowe'en costume to answer the door to the little ones, and that's sort of gone by the wayside. I didn't lose interest, I just got tired.

Happy Hallowe'en!