I’m the only person browsing in a tiny shop filled with Christmas merriment. A perky woman, approaches me. By her eyes I can tell she’s smiling behind her mask.  

            “What can I help you with today?” she asks. 

            I am about to reply that I’m looking for stocking stuffers when another woman rushes into the store.  

            “Lou, guess what?” She bounces up and down on her toes. “I met Roger’s new girlfriend today.”

            The sparkle in Lou’s eyes disappear, so does the Christmas cheer, as if the lights went out and Scrooge shut down Christmas. “What does she look like?” she asks. “Is she blond, dark, tall, short?”

            “She’s luscious,” the woman says. “Sort of reddish blond with big brown eyes. Roger calls her his beautiful Gem.”

           “Well, Roger always says he likes a luscious woman,” Lou says. 

            I’m not sure what happened between Lou and Roger but it’s obvious that she likes him. 

            The woman and Lou gab on and on. Then the woman nudges her and says, “Shh, he’s coming.”

            In walks a tall man, by his grey hair he could be in his early sixties. The two women surround him. Lou raises her chin in a snippety kind of way. “Roger,” she says. 

            It’s none of my business but I examine ornaments, sniff soaps, run my hand over hats and scarves, as if I plan on buying them. What I’m really interested in is hearing about the luscious Gem. And if there’s any drama, I want to watch it unfold.

            “So, where’s your new girlfriend?” Lou asks. “Angie said she just met her.”

             “She’s right here.” Roger reaches into a leather bag. “Meet my beautiful Gem,” he says and pulls out a sweet, blond Cocker Spaniel puppy with the biggest brown eyes.

            And just like that it’s Christmas again.

The sun, the heat, The Beach Boys singing California Girls takes me back. Back to Bryan, Texas. Back to the summer between grade eight and nine. Every day Norma, Jackie and I sat on the concrete at Haswell pool in the sweltering sun, listening to The Beach Boys on someone’s transistor radio. It was all about surfers those days: surfer shirts and shoes, Bermuda shorts, going kooky over boys with surfer haircuts and wishing we lived in California. Every once in a while, we jumped off the diving board to cool off. But mostly we stayed on our towels.

It was also the summer of Wayne, Robert and Tommy – the boys we loved from afar. We talked about them for hours. Norma had more of a chance with Wayne than Jackie had with Robert, a snobby football player. I liked Tommy, who worked the night shift during the summer at the factory. The closest I got to him was to ask, “Milkshake with your chilli dog and fries?” when he showed up at The Buccaneer, where I worked part time. 

The following year, I graduated from Lamar Junior High. I also graduated from Haswell Pool to Cain Pool at Texas A&M University with Betty and Gloria. That summer, it wasn’t about grade nine boys. Betty and Gloria had their eyes on college guys. After all, in September we would be grade ten sophomores in Stephen F. Austin High School. But Betty and Gloria didn’t swoon over The Beach Boys or Robert, Wayne and Tommy. Nor did they go into the pool, didn’t want to get their bikinis and perfect hair wet – I had a two-piece swimsuit that my aunt helped me make. While they posed, I climbed to the high diving board and jumped off. They never invited me again. So, I returned to Haswell Pool with Norma and Jackie. Much more fun listening to the transistor radio, talking about soon-to-be high school boys, and dreaming about The Beach Boys and California. Those were the best days. The perfect days. The sweetest days of summer. 

After being away for months, I walk into Coffee Shop and order a coffee and cookie. The front, usually busy with the coming and going of people, is desolate, the tables covered with bags for pickup and delivery. I don’t recognize the staff. No one says my name or hello. It’s cold and unfriendly, almost clinical. Someone takes my order then directs me to the exit at the back where I used to sit. I manoeuver around the tables with chairs piled on top. It’s a ghost town, dark and quiet. No music. No voices. No laughter. We who sat at the back didn’t mingle or know each other. Yet we were Coffee Shop friends. We showed up every day at the same time between eight-thirty and nine, sat in the same seats, and ordered the same thing day after day. As I make my way to the door, I can’t help but wonder what happened to them during Covid? Frank and Wife: Are they having coffee at home, him reading the newspaper while Wife watches movies on her iPad? Does Frank rise every morning and dress in his expensive high fashion? Is his black hair styled, or has it turned grey? It would be a shame if he became dishevelled, all those beautiful clothes going to waste. Is Muffin Man still eating the top of the muffins, leaving the rest? Does he pick them up from Coffee Shop or buy them by the dozen from the grocery store? Then there’s Hat Guy. Does he walk around his house or condo, coffee in hand, hat on, talking to the furniture? Telling his silly jokes. I can’t forget Mafia Man: is he hanging out in the lobby of his condo mask on, making women giggle like schoolgirls? Did Job Hunter find a job or give up and stopped scrolling through his phone? And Laptop Goddess, I bet she’s on Zoom meetings with a suit jacket on top and pyjama pants on the bottom, laptop, phone, and iPad going at the same time. What about Chatty Lady, with no travel, what’s she talking about? Does Dating Woman put on her purple dress when she goes on dating sites? Maybe she has a torrid online romance. Or met someone and is with him, at least until Covid-19 is over. Dating Couple, is she dressed perfectly at nine in the morning? Or is she hanging out in her housecoat? Does he listen while she gabs to him over the phone? What about the random people who brought drama and conversation to Coffee Shop, disrupting our routine and the quiet? Where are my Coffee Shop friends? Even though I only had a good morning nod relationship with them, I miss them. I miss Coffee Shop. These days I sit at my desk with my coffee, put on music, pretend I’m in Coffee Shop and write my morning pages.  

I watched Hold the Sunset, a British series on BritBox. The plot revolves around two widowed, retired neighbours, Phil (John Cleese) and Edith (Alison Steadman). They plan to marry, sell their houses and start a new life together. Their goals are hindered when Edith’s 49-year-old son moves back into his mother’s home after walking out on his wife and their two teenage children. He wants his comic books and youth back. He even hires their past housekeeper, who is also a senior. Then there’s the return of Edith’s dubious boyfriend from the ‘60s. Watching this show and other British dramas and comedies: Gold Digger, Flesh and Blood, Hope Gap, Mum, and Boomers made me realize the British are not afraid to make movies and television series about seniors. The problems they face with aging, starting over, and their insecurities. 

Then there’s the American version of movies and television shows. I’m thinking of two in particular where wealthy seniors have cushy lives helped by exercise, hair dye, cosmetics, and Botox. Don’t get me wrong, I like to watch them. Nor do I want to take away the fantasy of having a perfect body while being romanced by an older gorgeous Don Johnson from women. But, from the reviews I read, some women left the cinema depressed after watching Book Club. Because they didn’t look like the characters or have the glamourous life portrayed in the movie. 

It seems most American shows do not represent the average senior who is starting over after the death of a spouse. Nor do they deal with the pain when a spouse leaves. Or the memories that pop up out of the blue. They don’t deal with loneliness or the need for companionship in the later years. When they do, they make it look easy to resolve. I could be wrong. Maybe seniors prefer to watch glossy fabrications. Not me. I opt for the more down-to-earth British dramas and comedies that show the problems, fun and resilience of the Boomer generation. I relate to them and sympathize with the characters. Or laugh and say, “Hey, that’s me. That’s us!”

A friend’s photo of her fruitcake brings back memories of my mother-in-law and I baking Christmas cakes from a recipe handed down to her from her mother-in-law. The first week of October we would grind the fruit and soak the mush in wine and rum. It sat in a jar on the kitchen counter until the end of November. At which time we made the cakes under the guidance of her mother-in-law’s spirit who looked over us, making sure we followed the instructions. Once they finished baking, my mother-in-law poked holes on top of the cakes, poured wine over them and sealed them. Christmas week we iced them with marzipan and royal icing. 

During the week of cake baking, my mother-in-law would invite my younger son, who couldn’t keep a secret, over for a visit-just the two of them. While I walked him over to her house, I would warn, “do not tell Nana what we are giving her and Poppa for Christmas.” But my mother-in-law was very persuasive with cookies and milk, and he spilled the beans. It worked every time. It was all part of the excitement and fun of Christmas. 

My mother-in-law died in 1996. I didn’t make Christmas cakes that year and placed one less plate setting at Christmas dinner. It changed again when my mother died in 1997 and there was another empty spot at the table. The first Christmas dinner on Christmas Eve without my mother, and my mother-in-law was a comedy out of Christmas movie. It started with my stepfather criticizing the shirt I gave him. He didn’t think the material good enough quality, not for him. The colour might run in the wash. “Who washes in cold water?” he said. “Never heard of it.”

After he finished complaining about his gift, him and my father-in-law argued over centimeters and inches on the measuring tape. Over the years, when their spouses were around, they tolerated each other. Without their wives, there was no stopping them. It was war-all about the better man. The only thing to do: take them to the one place where they would behave. I rushed everyone to put on their coats and out of the house. “For the Christmas carols,” I said when my stepfather and father-in-law joined forces and fussed about having to sit an hour in church before midnight mass. 

The next year I escaped to my father’s house in British Columbia and spent Christmas with my family. On the flight back, I realized Christmas of past years was over. The numbers at the dinner table were dwindling. My sons were growing up. Time to adapt, make changes and fresh memories. There have been many Christmases since those days and I have fond memories of them. But the ones of baking with my mother-in-law will always have a special place in my heart. 

For most people, January 1st is a time of reflection and resolutions. For me, it’s Labour Day. I set new goals and think back on past months. This year it’s been different. Sold and bought a house in the first two weeks of January, followed by months of packing and moving in the prime of Covid-19 to a town of six thousand people. But even with the constraints of the pandemic, it has been a wonderful summer. I walked miles twice a day, every day investigating my new surroundings. And I became a porch lady. I read, drank coffee, ate watermelon, mangoes and cherries while observing the daily buzz on our street. The cars, the bus, the remote control cars racing by followed by a group of boys-controls in their hands, the skateboarders, the basketball players. Packs of electric teenager girls on bicycles, giggling and yakking and, ‘oh my God, he said that.’ An overweight man on a child’s bike carrying groceries home, the people walking by and the friendliest neighbours-always a wave, a hello, a chat. They introduce their dogs: Justin, Randolph, Lily, Carmen, and Roscoe who is the keeper of the street as long as his leash lets him, then he does the perfect back flip into reality. All on a backdrop of blue sky, sunshine and leaves rustling in the lake breeze. Now it’s September, trees are turning orange and red. The days are getting cooler, the street quieter, my porch days shorter. It’s time to return to my desk, to write, to finish what I started, and set goals. 

Because of social distancing, I’m not in Coffee Shop. I’m in my writing room, looking out my window to the empty street, thinking about matchmakers. I once thought of myself as a matchmaker. The first time in the early seventies in the Windjammer in Wasaga Beach, I tried fixing up my friend with the guy sitting at the table next to ours. I saw them as a couple – both short, cute, the same colour brown hair cut in the same shag style with bangs. In fact, they could have been identical twins. She took one look at him and shook her head. I was disappointed. The second time I told a guy who asked me on a date about a friend of mine. She went out with him for a while, then realized what I knew about him; he liked to party too much. I assumed she did too. I was wrong. The night I met the person who would become my hubby, I suggested to the man who asked me to dance that the friend I was with might be a better dance partner for him. They ended up dating for two months until she realized she was lesbian. Or she lied to him. I’m not sure since she disappeared out of my life. Probably made a vow never to speak to me again. Then I tried to fix up someone with one of my hubby’s friends. After that disaster, I gave up. But contemplating Matchmakers makes me wonder if there is still such a thing. The Hallmark channel feels there is since I watched two movies last night about Matchmakers. As my research tells me, they are an alternative to online dating. Years ago I worked with a woman in her forties who talked about a mediator, a go-between negotiating with a man she was dating. I thought it strange. But it makes sense now. Perhaps she used a Matchmaker. They meet clients, interview potential matches, and give dating advice. They also perform background checks, administer personality tests, and build psychological profiles of their clients. The cost? $5,000.00 to $10,000.00. Makes me wish I hadn’t given up matchmaking. I might have gotten better at it. But, in a way Matchmakers are a lot like writers: always on the job, always have eyes and ears peeled to their surroundings. And they know how to ask questions. The difference is, Matchmakers are not afraid to approach people to ask if they are single. Something I am not comfortable with. But here’s my question about Matchmakers. What happens if they fall in love with the person they matched their client with? What happens if the client falls in love with the matchmaker? It happened in both movies. Since they were Hallmark movies, it wasn’t a problem. Turns out the clients bumped into the men of their dreams and fell in love – just like that. Everyone hugged and kissed. Even the dogs they adopted cheered. Hubby says I shouldn’t trust anything on a television channel with a W on it. Is he right? Is a television channel with a W on it all about romance and no logic?