Sunday, January 8th, 2012-Dear Diary:

I’ve been thinking (and as you know it’s a rare occurrence and a dangerous process) the chances of me going to the Mayor’s Levee today are slim-to-nothing. That is to say, I’m not really interested in getting dolled up to head out in the cold to spend too many minutes looking for a parking space and too many more waiting in a lineup for a cup of coffee, a cookie and a goround with elected officials. It’s been a long time since I attended a levee, as you may remember. As a matter of fact, the last time I went to a municipal levee, I was paid to be there. Well, I say “paid,” but we all know by the time I got the cheque for my endeavours another New Year had passed. I, that last time, did try to capture the good side of everyone in the receiving line, in words and images, for the m i d – J a n u a r y issue of the other local paper. But, as you and I know, a small c o m m u n i t y means there are far too many people attending a front-page social event who want to chitchat, to everyone and anyone, about their life in the year passed and how they see the new year unfolding and how each newsworthy event related to them on a personal level. But I was paid to “get a story” and a picture or two. Without actually coming out and saying it, I was hired to get something on someone and to ask questions as dangerous as razor wire. As you well know, Dear Diary, I was never well-versed in the subtle nuances of political lassoing around what’s happened, what’s going on and what’s coming next, and it always seemed kind of mean to eat the shortbread, drink the port and then run ‘em through with a pencil. But, there was money involved.

However, Dear Diary, I did and I do get it. What isn’t as Canadian as a levee and, in a historic community like this, with plenty of heritage to put on display I say, “It’s the Picton arena, with drinkies, platters of treats, oodles of gossip and the gentle drone of a Zamboni in the background!” I know, I know, it makes good sense to get out of the house, especially in the winter (all 18, or so, days of it) when the out-of-doors work has slowed down a bit and the season is fraught with harsh weather, massive heating bills, frosty windows and seasonal affective disorder. I understand housebound folks look forward to getting out for a bit of this and that and some serious political chitchat. A levee is the perfect opportunity to grab the hand of a municipal councillor, shake it nearly out of its sleeve and ask, “How about those pot holes? What are you going to do about the Heritage Advisory Group thingy? You know that bunch who want to preserve stuff when all some of us wanted to do was clean up the neighbourhood.” Or wipe the cookie off and whisper to the Mayor, “So, have you heard any good windmill stories lately? Whatever happened about those cottages? Has that story been laid to rest? And, are we ever going to get high speed Internet service out my way? Is this the year someone is going to do something about our crumbling infrastructure and stop pretending shit in downtown business basements didn’t really happen? Isn’t that an infrastructure issue?” I get it. I get it.

Dear Diary, I reallyI do get it. And, I thought seriously about going to the levee, even wrote it on my calendar on the fridge next to the Mitt Romney magnet. And, I thought about it even more as I glanced at, and groaned quietly over, the ever-growing pile of stinky running shoes, bulky snow boots and mismatched mittens, scratchy scarves and bulky coats choking my front hall closet and the newel post at the foot of the stairs. I longed to get out to speak full sentences with a person or two who, maybe, wasn’t LOML, who promised to stick it out with me—for better or for worse, in winter and in spring ’til death us do part. But, alas, it was all about the money, Dear Diary. I admit, it’s about the money.

In the past, trays of treats laden with saturated fat and sugar and tumblers of imported sweet boozy concoctions were passed around in an overly warm historic home and everyone got the warm fuzzies and, in no time, intelligence abounded. Problems were heard, confessions spoken, more promises made and allegiances were pledged. Business was begun and done. I loved those levees where the past was present and the libations were liberating. It was all of that, Dear Diary. All of that and a paycheque.

theresa@wellingtontimes.ca