(This column is a story I have written and told many times. I’m repeating it because for me Christmas without it would not be Christmas.)

—

                                    O Night Divine!

Fresh fallen snow protested beneath the crush of my gumboots breaking trail down the unplowed lane. Dry, sharp squeaks, not unlike the cries of cheap chalk cruelly scraped against too clean a blackboard.

Skuur-eek, skuur-eek.

The boots ignored the sounds. They moved on, ribbed rubber bottoms and laced high leather tops creating a meandering wake in the ankle-deep snow. To each side of the trail, drifted snow leaned tiredly against the backsides of the bungalows, dropped there to rest by an impatient Christmas Eve blizzard.

Faint strains of music joined the squeaking as I approached our back fence. I stopped to hear the music more clearly, now identifiable as singing voices escaping through an open window. I shuffled forward and listened to the notes float out crisply and clearly, then mingle with smoke rising from the chimneys.

Notes and smoke rose together into an icy midnight sky illuminated by frost crystals set shimmering by thousands of stars, and the frosty moon.

I held my breath to hear better and determined that the music was the Christmas carol O Holy Night, and that the notes came from the window in my grandmother’s room. It was open to the cold because most people smoked cigarettes back then, and at gatherings cracked a window to clear the air.

They sang the first verse, and when they reached the sixth line, the other voices ceased and one voice carried on alone:

“Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angel voices! O Niiii . . .iiight Diii…vine! . . . .”

That’s the part where the notes rise higher and higher until the singer reaches an awesome note.

The solo voice belonged to my grandmother, Louise LaFrance, and she hit that high note while sitting on the edge of the bed that was her prison. She was crippled with limb-twisting rheumatoid arthritis and suffered searing pain and the humiliation of being bedridden, a humiliation that included needing a bedpan to relieve herself and having her son-in-law lift her into the bathtub.

Each time she hit the high notes at the words ‘O Night Divine,’ a shiver danced on my spine.

When she finished singing O Holy Night, the other voices started up again, this time with Silent Night and other favourite carols. I went into the house and found Christmas Eve celebrants – my mom, dad and some neighbours – crowded into the 10-foot by 10-foot bedroom that was my grandmother’s world. They sang long into the night, mostly in French because the neighbours were the Gauthiers who seldom spoke English to my grandmother and mother.

The crippling arthritis had attacked my grandmother not long after my birth sixteen years before. It advanced quickly, twisting her fingers like pretzels, then deforming her ankles and knees.

She took up smoking to ease the pain. Late into the night I would hear her stir, then listen for the scrape of a wooden match against the side of a box of Redbird matches. Then the acrid odour of sulphur drifted into my room, followed by the sweetness of smoke from a Sweet Caporal.

Sometimes I would get up and go to her door and see the red tip of the cigarette glow brightly as she inhaled and I would go in and we would talk in the smoky darkness. Mostly the talk was about growing up and sorting through the conflicts between a teenager and his parents.

After the singing ended that night, my mother served tourtière, which I slathered with mustard. Then we gathered at the tree and opened our gifts.

I have long forgotten what I got that Christmas, and it doesn’t matter. My real gift came many years later, and was an understanding of how that frail and twisted body came to produce such powerful and sweet notes.

My gift was the realization that those high notes were not solely the products of the lungs. They were driven by something stronger than flesh – an unbreakable spirit.

They came from strength far beyond anything that a mere body can produce. They came from the will to overcome.

                                                #

It’s enough to drive a person to drink – if you can find anything to drink.

Ontario’s liquor board is the latest to announce that “supply chain issues” may result in some shortages this Christmas season.

Supply chain issues should get the Phrase of the Year Award. It is being used for shortages of everything from auto parts to toilet paper.

Toilet paper you can do without. There’s Kleenex, paper napkins, even leaves, if necessary. Anything reasonably soft can be a substitute.

Auto parts are a different story. If there are “supply chain issues” with auto parts, cars and trucks don’t run. In fact, some cars and trucks don’t get built. 

Evidence of that is found in scantily-stocked new vehicle lots. Some folks report having to compromise on the colours and options of vehicles they planned to buy.

Parts are a problem, as I have discovered. 

I bought a new Toyota SUV at the beginning of July. I ordered it with a trailer hitch, bug screen and roof rack crossbars. 

The bug screen and crossbars came in a month or two after I got the car. The hitch arrived sometime in early fall as I was getting itchy about pulling my boat out of the water.

The trailer hitch wiring harness still has not arrived, almost six months after buying the car. Any towing I do is without lights. I’m told that is legal during the day, but I’m not sure about that.

The hitches and wiring harnesses used by many vehicle manufacturers come from Curt Manufacturing in the U.S. I could have got one from them months ago but Toyota would have nulled my vehicle warranty because the Curt hitch and wiring harness would not have Toyota labelling and was not put on by Toyota.

I continue to wait, one of millions of victims of “supply chain issues.”

A trailer wiring shortage is minor compared to shortages of medical gear. Face masks, shields and other protective equipment are still in short supply in many places.

The pandemic has been blamed for continuing shortages. The most accepted story is that when the pandemic hit, factories shut down or reduced production because so many workers were ill or locked down.

Shipping companies then reduced their schedules because there were fewer goods to ship. This proved to be a poor decision because people around the world began working from home and buying home-office goods like printers, office chairs, video consoles.

Others with more time at home ordered renovating products such as paint and lumber. More cooking was done at home so there was a surge in demand for kitchen goods.

The spikes in demand created shortages. Prices of things that we could get increased.

That’s the commonly told story. There’s more to it than that.

To begin with, the pandemic began at a time of lean inventories. Goods were not overly abundant because companies had decided that reducing spending on building inventory increased profits. 

Secondly, a major part of the problem is that we rely too much on China for things we need. Canadian imports from China are estimated to be $75 to $80 billion a year. A Canadian company might make a terrific computer you want but cannot finish building it without a chip from China. 

We need to depend on ourselves more and use our own resources and people to make the things we need. Our federal government should think about that when negotiating trade agreements.

Meanwhile, shortages are not expected to end soon. Predictions are that there will be “supply chain issues” well into 2022, perhaps even longer.

We all will witness shortages this Christmas season, and not just at the liquor store. Several talent agencies have been reporting shortages of Santas for Christmas parties and shopping mall appearances.

Missing Santas are just one part of our nationwide worker shortage. A Canadian Federation of Independent Business (CFIB) study has found that more than one-half of small businesses do not have the staff required to run their stores.

Statistics Canada data shows more than one million job openings in September, 200,000 in the accommodation and food sectors and 131,000 in health care and social assistance services.

We’re all scanning the dark clouds of COVID-19 for a silver lining – a silvery puff to float us above the anguish of this nightmare disease and the madness it has brought.

I’ve found mine. It’s called ‘hitting mung.’ Sounds crazy but no crazier than the craziness devouring our world.

Mung are beans that Taoists used as a natural medicine. They would fill a sock with mung and use it as a club to beat tendons and muscles in their legs and arms. They believed this helped to repair injured parts and strengthen others.

South Koreans have given hitting mung a different twist. To them it is a slang expression meaning to reach a state of total blankness. Zoning out completely and rising above the mad world of COVID.

The Japanese also have been studying the art of zoning out and promote sitting in a forest as good medicine. They call it shinrin-yoku, which means taking in the forest atmosphere or forest bathing.

Hitting mung has become so popular in South Korea that there are places where you pay to sit and do nothing. You pay to sit on a chair or blanket and stare over a pond. Or into a forest, or a campfire. No talking, no music, no cellphones, no noise, period. Just staring.

If the weather turns nasty, hitting mung can be achieved in a movie theatre. ‘Flight,’ a film simulating a 40-minute airplane ride through the clouds is available in theatres across the country. It is advertised as a chance to “take a brief rest through the fluffy clouds.”

A ticket to sit and pretend you are flying through the clouds costs roughly $10 Canadian.

‘Flight’ is a sequel to ‘Fire Mung,’ which is 31 minutes of footage of a flaming campfire.

Hitting mung sounded like a great escape, so I took it up seriously. I am known to be a bit frugal, however, so I’m not paying for my hitting mung sessions. I simply walk into the woods behind our place, sit, stare and do nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The forest is the best place to hit your mung. I thought about staring into a campfire, or out onto the lake, but decided that would just bring back bad memories of last summer’s wildfires, and the recent floods out West.

Trees make it easier to blank out your bad thoughts and anxieties because they are totally open-minded and relaxed. They live together happily, not discriminating because of species, size or colour.

The mighty oaks don’t look down on their weak and pulpy poplar neighbours. The gorgeous green balsams don’t snigger at the tamaracks turning yellow just before Christmas when people are paying big bucks for evergreens.

Trees are well rooted so they don’t run about hysterically like we humans. Sure, they may sway and moan when things get really windy but overall, they are calm and quiet creatures. 

They remind me of mothers. They are nurturers, providing shelter and food to insects, birds and small animals. They don’t get the respect they deserve sometimes but they don’t complain.

The common sense and mothering aspects of trees is seen occasionally in human populations. One example is the calm and caring approach taken toward the pandemic by women. 

During the early days of COVID-19 women leaders like New Zealand’s Jacinda Ardern, Germany’s Angela Merkel, Finland’s Sanna Marin, and Taiwan’s Tsai Ing-wen certainly outperformed macho male poster boys Donald Trump, Vladimir Putin, Boris Johnson and Brazil’s Jair Bolsonaro.

Meanwhile, hitting mung is believed to be good for your body as well as your mind. Research indicates that chemicals released by forest plants boost human immune systems.

Family and friends don’t understand my enthusiasm for hitting mung. They can’t fathom how just staring and doing nothing for 45 minutes or an hour is healthy.

So, I don’t tell anyone when I go into the forest to hit my mung. I just sneak away quietly, perhaps carrying an axe, chainsaw or anything that makes it look like I am going out to work. 

I know that if I told them what I was really going to do, someone would suggest that time spent hitting mung could be spent more beneficially hitting the woodpile. Or the snow shovel.

                                                  #

There’s another pandemic infecting Canadians, and millions of others around the world. It’s a pandemic-within-the-pandemic and medical experts say it will continue long after Covid-19 is brought under control.

Mental disturbances are increasing at an alarming rate. They are disrupting our daily lives with more violent crime, more domestic disputes, more divorces, and increasing rates of emergency medical calls.

Fatal opioid overdoses here in Ontario have increased 60 per cent since the Covid pandemic began. U.S. drug-related deaths are up roughly 30 per cent, hitting 100,000 between April 2020 and April 2021.

A poll conducted for the Ontario Shores Centre for Mental Health Sciences showed 69 per cent of Canadians believe our country is suffering a mental health pandemic. Twenty-eight per cent believe their own mental health has deteriorated.

 

The World Health Organization (WHO) says that fear, lost income, isolation and bereavement resulting from Covid are triggering mental health conditions, and exacerbating existing ones. These are causing people to lose sleep, have increased anxiety and increase alcohol and drug use.

That is supported by a study in Lancet, a respected medical journal, estimating that cases of depression rose by 53 million globally in 2020 as a result of the pandemic. Cases of anxiety rose by 76 million.

Women seem to be more affected than men. Of the additional 53 million cases of depression and 76 million cases of anxiety, two-thirds were in women. 

A British survey found women were spending roughly 50 per cent more time on housework and nearly twice as much time on child care as men. Millions of girls and young women in poorer countries have dropped out of school during the Covid pandemic.

A growing anxiety is developing over fears that pre-Covid “normal” never will return. One survey shows that 81 per cent, or four of five Canadians, think that the Covid pandemic has changed life forever.

With all this straining us mentally, we now have yet another Covid variant that might make life even more worrisome. The variant was discovered in South Africa and not much is known about it yet, except it has been named Omicron, is thought to be highly transmissible and has caused alarms on the stock markets, plus travel restrictions.

Travel restrictions usually are a barn door closed too late and that is the case here. Two Ontario cases were discovered on the weekend and more possible cases are being investigated.

We can expect Covid to be around much longer, producing new strains that frighten us. We can gain some control with masks, distancing and other restrictions, but this pandemic will not subside until more of the world gets vaccinated. 

Half the countries in Africa, source of the latest threatening variant, have less than two per cent of their populations vaccinated. One concern is growing vaccine hesitancy, especially among young African adults. 

Many poorer countries have not secured needed quantities of vaccine because vaccine manufacturers give priority to the wealthy countries who stepped up first with big bucks. 

We who have so much of everything must work harder at getting the vaccine to those who have so little of anything.

As for that second pandemic – let’s all get a grip on ourselves and hold onto what remains of our civility. I mean screaming at and threatening medical personnel, protesting in the streets, harassment of researchers?

If Covid is causing you to scream, try screaming into a pillow instead of someone’s face. 

Generations before us went through times as difficult as these without completely losing their heads.

The biggest threat from the mental health pandemic is what it can do to our futures. A breakdown of mental health requires huge amounts of attention, plus huge amounts of money, to set straight.

“We believe this is just the beginning and even greater pressure to support the mental health of the communities we serve is right around the corner,” Karim Mamdani, President and CEO of Ontario Shores, said recently.

He added: “This should serve as a warning for policy and decision-makers that the demands for mental health services will continue to increase at an alarming rate as we continue living through the COVID-19 pandemic and long after it is over.” 

                                                #