Author: Sue

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From Ordinary to Narrative

The Pickup

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There are few journeys as rife with drama and intrigue than school pick up. Yes, you have your Jason Bournes and the new Wolverine and Deadpool if you swing that way, but the school pick up hands – or claws, Hugh – down, has them beat. 

First in the long line of dramatics, is the school parking lot. Whoever designed apparently every school parking lot in existence, is still laughing. There are never enough spaces for the number of parents who consider it a banner day when the stars align and we manage successfully to play musical parking spaces except without the music or the fun.  

All of this amounts to me leaving 40 minutes early so I can sit in the eerie calm before the storm. I wait and ponder what excitement will come my way. I should cherish this time, ideally live it up. Bring a cold drink, maybe a few snacks, an eye shade, and a small pillow. Maybe bring out the nail polish and various accoutrements of self-indulgence. I should do this not to pamper myself but to fortify myself for the onslaught that awaits me every day at 3:40 like a twisted version of groundhog day. The nail polish probably won’t work, because there is a slight tremble to my hands as I wait expectantly. 

The weather is the second variable to consider. I’ve stood outside the school basking in the warm glow of the sun’s rays and marvelling at the beauty of nature. I’ve also sought non-existent shelter from wickedly cold winds and storms pelting me unforgivably. It seems to be a natural law that bad weather if coming will hit 10 minutes, give or take a few, before pick-up. Although I have no actual proof, my own empirical and impeccable, if I do say so myself, research suggests that this rule holds true from school to school and region to region. 

Then we have the unveiling of what six hours navigating the turbulent waters of elementary school could bring to four impressionable children prone to leading with the most dramatic version in their retelling. 

The youngest may be smiling from ear to ear or perhaps barely able to walk upright with the weight of the day bearing down on her tiny shoulders. The oldest will appear disappointed that it is I who picked them up despite the fact that I am always the one to pick them up. Or alternatively, she will say that I didn’t greet her enthusiastically enough. I usually get this wrong when I read the room, or in this case, the school grounds. The middle children will be a toss up. “How was the day?” I ask. “Bad. I hate it. I had a supply. My sandwich fell. My water bottle spilled. My carrots didn’t taste good. You forgot my fork. You put the wrong lunch in my lunchbox.” So in response to my inquisitive and perhaps naive question, I get a litany of my failings. On other sunnier days, I get a “good. Teacher took us outside to play. I won a lollipop from the teacher,. I got to be leader. We made pumpkins! There is a new seating plan”. That last one works in both the positive and negative column. Then I have to remember which child Maria is and if she is the nose picker or the pencil sharing child so that I may arrange my face accordingly. One child at some point as we wait for one or more of their siblings will say in an impassioned plea “can we go?!” This is before they have all been let out. When I mention how I should probably not leave the same sibling I came to collect at the school overnight, this child finds this an absolutely ridiculous consideration. 

Despite the children arriving in a staggered fashion, very quickly I am employing my ability to multi-task and multi-listen as everyone must talk at the same time. If I don’t focus on each child speaking, again my failure is brought to my attention. There are also days when the day has been too much and instead of rapid fire accounts of their days, there is nothing. No recognition that I haven’t seen them since the morning, and apparently they sat at a desk without any stimuli or thoughts for six hours. In this case, there is an uncomfortable silence and then we leave as if no one knows each other and I am left to fill in the day as it might have unfolded. I follow this now with my own rapid line of questioning that borders on badgering the witness. How was the day? Did you pass in your work? Did you play outside? Was there a supply? Were you able to ask the teacher your question? I begin to sound a little unbalanced. I’m too much. I get monosyllabic answers. No one will talk.  

It is almost guaranteed that by the time we reach the van, someone is crying, someone is fighting with at least one of their siblings or even themselves if no one else gives them cause, and on an unlucky day, someone might even walk into the side mirror in the overcrowded blessed parking lot. 

Now armed with what seems like more backpacks than children and loose hats, perhaps an unwieldy diorama, a paper crown, ever leaking water bottles if they found their way back, perhaps a gift made of napkins given by a friend – Maria? No, must be Josie, Maria’s medium would surely be Kleenex – we weave through the kiss n ride, a mile to the van. Without fail, before I can hit the unlock button someone has tried the van door four times and now we have messed it up. Wait, open, click. No, now. Stop. Eventually, with eye rolls and pleas, theirs, not mine, we stumble into the van. Someone steps on someone, someone hits someone with a backpack, no one is sorry and all are so, so hungry. Apparently, I didn’t pack enough for their lunches. It’s 3:43 and we will do this all again tomorrow. Maybe I’ll leave a little earlier to get a better parking spot.

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From Ordinary to Narrative

Bruuuuuce! An Awakening

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Bruuuuuuce! An Awakening 

Monday. The first day of the work week for most. Children are back at school.  A snap back to reality. Met by many upon the first eye flutter of the day with disappointment, perhaps an edge of anger, or maybe resignation. This Monday though was altogether different. This was the day after a Bruce Springsteen concert. 

It was not met with anger or resignation, exhaustion yes, but nothing as tedious as resignation. I had seen more. I had surpassed Mondays. 

Watching Bruce in concert – I hope it’s okay to call Bruce by his first name, akin to calling the sun a rock – was not like watching a concert at all. Sure there was a stage and ticket prices are bracing, but it was The Experience of Bruce. It was a frenzy, a transcendence, an awakening. It was dancing, it was laughter, it was crying with 20,000 or so of your closest, raucous friends for the duration. Now that’s an evening. And on a Sunday too! 

The “I laughed, I cried, I was reborn” cliche most certainly was evident here. 

As I entered the arena, once again I was surprised to see other people here. Yes, not living under a rock,  I know he has a few fans, but I am here to see him and how is he going to see my adoration and good will with all these others people in the way, waving their signs, their hands, and whatever other body part they feel so moved to shake? I am here, right behind the stage, transfixed by the mere thought that we are in the same enormous building. Bruce is in Canada! Me too! Same air. Does it smell more poetic?  Sure, I am  attending the experience with my equally devoted sisters and good friend, so they can stay, but all the others? I’m going to need a minute. 

Wait, let me check them out. They seem ok. There are more white haired people than I remembered last time. Wait. I am more white haired than the last time. Oh. I am more tired than last time too. That’s unsettling. However, the importance of the white hair and the tired quickly fade and I am left breathless as I wait for the one and only Bruce and the E street Band. 

As I wait in my tiny Scotiabank seat sitting unnaturally close to the stranger beside me, I begin to ponder the first of many ponderings this night. Do these people love him as I do? Have they been gutted by his ability to acknowledge the human spirit in all its beauty and foibles and then been caressed and comforted by his ability to lift you up out of that same depth? Well, I suppose by the urgent pleas for song requests and unquestioning obedience to his return commands, I suppose they do. Let’s see your hands! Here they are! Get loud! Of course! Quiet now! You can hear a pin drop. Are you tired! NO! What do you need, our fearless leader? We are yours to command. Blind followers? Not on your life. You can’t appreciate songs like “Long Walk Home” and “I’ll see you in my dreams”and be blind followers. Do you know what that man can do with a harmonica? He can bring a crowd to their feet with one arched eyebrow.

The thing with this kind of fan devotion is based on reciprocity. No, I suppose he wouldn’t buy one of my t-shirts if I had any to sell for a dollar let alone $65, and okay fine he doesn’t know my name, but this relationship goes well past that. Our relationship I realize begrudgingly isn’t exceptional. He has that connection with each of us. This is extraordinary. Try getting a much smaller roomful of people together to discuss life, death, marriage, children, love, loss, anger, the economy and tell me how many times people are insulted, find someone overbearing, or interrupt. It’s a nightmare most times. Here, Bruce has each one of us wrapped around his talented guitar playing fingers and we love it. At the concert, we were sitting behind a man in a top bun, beside two brothers who have seen him “not much” they said, 20 times, in front of people I would say at least in their 70s, and one row down a teen and a young man about 20. If you looked around the arena, all you see is movement. Good  dancers, bad dancers, fists pumping, swaying, an occasionally ill timed gyration, toe tapping, head bobbing. Makes no difference. You can practically see the acceptance in this expression. And you can hear their love. Screaming, clapping, bursts of exclamations, feet dancing. Upon the start of “I will see you in my dreams” a woman behind us during a rare silence just said, “wow”.  I think this might have been at this point all she could utter. Rendered obvious. He is a performer who knows what we want and seems delighted we beg for more. His joy is devoured by the audience and that seems only to fuel him for the next gift of song. 

Looking around the arena, a vision of the Roman coliseum comes to mind. Less gore and the thrill of death I admit happily, but it is reminiscent in its intrigue. So many people focused on one event and the frenzy continues. Outside of live concerts, we have the ability to see so much unlike those in the colosseum in its heyday. Technology has allowed us great conveniences, but this real life experience can’t be streamed. “Road Diary”, the latest documentary of this tour, can be watched the next day when jonesing for the next hit of Bruce and it’s a fascinating reflection but not the real deal. 

When the lights come on at a bar, or so I remember, reality kicks in. Beer goggles clear just a little and the dark cloudy room reveals the slightly dishevelled and the glassy-eyed for what they are. You don’t have to go home but you can’t stay here is the general message. When the lights come on for Bruce, he’s now warmed up and we are on the edge primed for our next journey. What adventure awaits? Home? Why? We aren’t done here yet. I’m here now with all these people and that one man. Our leader. I suppose given the odds I am a stone’s throw away from someone whose political leaning contrasts sharply with mine, but waiting expectantly in this giant venue for this time you would never know there wasn’t just one shared mindset – the commonality. We have all known love, loss, sadness, mortality. We are for those moments, one. And Bruce knows. As real as the tiny seat  and, I imagine, the feel for him of his guitar  – swoon – the connection is almost tangible. You could attribute the glow to the lighting, but if connection had a colour it surely would be visible as this gentle glow.  

He is now pointing to sections of the audience. I nudge my sister’s arm in case she might miss his pointing. He’s pointing! He says show me you aren’t tired. Pointing again. As cued each section goes wild. Tired? Possessed more like it. Show me your hands! How high, sir? We are all in. 

Finally, he ends the night.  We are spent. But we only leave out of respect. If he participated in a Bruce-a-thon that evolved to him twiddling his thumbs, how long would that crowd have stayed enraptured? We might still be there. 

For those hours we knew each other. The man beside me, the white haired among us, the young dancing away. I got you. The man beside me asked my favourite Bruce song. His is “Trapped” by the way due to the drums. Mine is “The River” and given how depressing mine is we agreed I shared too much of my psyche right then in those tiny seats. But then by attending and appreciating, I guess we all did. Can’t really enjoy Bruce superficially. It’s bone deep. 

There is a silence amongst my sisters and I directly after the concert. Finding the train we board mere shells of the women we arrived. Drained. Spent. From giddy to exhausted. If you can imagine a rollercoaster big enough to fit us all, Bruce is in the front car with the band. They have a few cars given the band is so big. I’d say he is the designer and operator of the ride, but he’s right there with us. Then the fans are taken up and down and up and higher yet and plummeted. Not one of us is nauseous despite the emotional movement. Some sob in delight and sadness, some scream for both reasons as well. Never has there been a more exciting ride.

What did we like? What were we less familiar with? Did he play the same set in Montreal? We hear the same questions chorused throughout the train. The bond has not yet broken.

It’s taken me four days to articulate the experience. I owe this to the witnessing of a musical miracle. I am sure Bruce would have been very successful at all kinds of vocations, albeit his charisma may have been distracting, but we are witnessing a man and his calling. This man has honed his craft over decades. Simply and beautifully he said “it’s too late to stop now”. That’s the way it is with relationships. They leave a mark and a memory and they become a part of you. 

I am glad to bear witness to his calling. Is it religious? Certainly spiritual. Is the entire event staged? Absolutely and we are delighted to buy into it. This man has done all this – the music, the band, the crowd. It’s his design. The evening opens up old wounds of reflection, love and hope – an intimate psychotherapy session for 

20, 000. It’s a big couch. That’s the Monday hangover. Instead of swearing never again will I dance too hard on a Sunday night, I stumble around the house trying to soothe my musically induced hangover by buying a Springsteen t-shirt. Hair of the dog and all that.  

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From Ordinary to Narrative

Grief Hereafter

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When my mom passed I knew profoundly that my life would never be the same. It wasn’t the painful acknowledgement of the mourning period, the morbid checklist of grieving duties to perform, or even the agonizing distribution of my mother’s possessions that made me acutely aware. It was plain and simple. It was loss. I knew that each moment from then on out would lose the potential of its happiness trajectory. This is not to say life can not again be happy. My children bring me happiness. My husband, my family, and the seemingly endless number of pets I have traipsing through the house bring me happiness. A good cup of coffee or tea paired with a baked good can bring an almost spiritual sense of peace and I’ve been known, at least to the dog, to do a fantastic rendition of Jimmy Rankin’s  “Haul Away the Whale” as I do the dishes with all the passion of a late night pub patron half in her cups. And for the last couple of years even these things were wrought with grief. None of these things remain untouched by the loss of my mother. She has reached from the beyond and left a mark by her sheer absence.

There have been moments in my life when I have felt like a grown up. You’d think more given my age and responsibilities, but actually adulthood for me has come in realisations. I remember my grandmother well into her 70s said there were days she felt 17, 22, 35. She was often surprised by her age. When she said this, I was nowhere near adulthood. Technically, I was close but not in understanding. She was always my grandmother as far as I knew. She always had grandmother curls and wore grandmother dresses and made spectacular grandmother bread. So when she spoke about going parking with her boyfriend and another couple – needless to say I almost fell off my chair! Did she say parking? In pairs?  Perhaps I should have known that for me was a moment of embracing adulthood. Understanding that life had gone on before me, that we would all change and grow up and hopefully old, and the loss of times past meant a maturity only brought on through the pain. 

As I’m sitting here writing almost two years past my mother’s death and over 20 for my grandmother’s, grief is ever present. It has shifted. It doesn’t paralyse or knock the wind out of me as much as it did. But I can feel it, intangible as it is. I feel it like I can feel the keys under my fingers and the fur of my dog as he shuffles over to check on me. It is very strong with my children, almost sitting next to me. A look, a Halloween costume, an eye roll from our oldest and I know my mom would want to be here. For it all. I feel the loss then in both happy and sad moments. The sad moments are made sadder and the happy ones are happy with a taste of poignancy. Before the loss, happiness was happiness. I suppose this is the innocence of youth. After loss, happiness has a weight to it. An awareness of loss, time, and the lack of control of many aspects of life. I can see why adults need more sleep. Weighty happiness and sadness, pound for pound, is exhausting. 

My mother was a wonderful mother as her mother was to her. It is the presence and ironically the absence of both these women in my life that have propelled me unwillingly  into adulthood. They have given me great insights, set tremendous examples, and demonstrated the unconditional love of being a mother. Their role, even now, is the same. It just carries with it a deeper and heavier understanding. 

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From Ordinary to Narrative

The Exit

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Despite its ominous title of “The Last Day” of school, this is a day of celebration. One more school year over. A shortened day. Light school activities, not even with the keenest ear can any book spine be heard opening. It’s a day of more social interactions and, one hopes, the enjoyment of bonds created. It’s a day to reflect on the events since September. For parents, they are left spinning after the exit from the house with all the excitement, anxiety, and thrill of these powerful minds trying to take it all in and at the same time not knowing what they are supposed to take in. 

At our house this morning, we had an early riser pouring her heart into last day teacher cards, a full crisis about what shirt to wear on a civies day, an eager heart halfway out the door and a drifter usually reluctant to leave, all in to present gifts to teachers. There was a water bottle that opened and poured all over the living room floor. Not for the first time. One of the dogs drank some and walked through the rest.  We fell out the door with cards, book bags containing only lunches, report cards to be returned, last minute dollar store gifts and homemade glue-gunned creations for reading buddies and anyone else who made an impact this year. We were late obviously and, dare I admit, not for the first time. Then too late – a theme – I realised I had a forgotten paper to pass in and the fretted-over creations were left on the dining room table. Back I went again to face the front desk for what wasn’t again the first time this year. I’d pat myself on the back for getting it all done as long as it doesn’t have to be done in a pretty way. The report cards I read this year would perhaps not be so positive if the front office wrote mine. This mom should make more of an effort to arrive at school in a timely manner with all appropriate tools to be ready to learn. In my defence, I don’t feel like it’s effort I am lacking given my sweaty brow by drop-off. Effectiveness may be more my issue. 

Why the last day has this much importance is odd. We had similar departures for school many, many times this year, just ask our neighbours. The forgotten item was different or there were tears because of a ripped paper or holey shoes, or a perceived bad hair day. Perhaps there were a few sibling squabbles that made punctuality a problem. There were days that the faces in the van were all crooked in angst or anger or perceived sibling slight. It happened so often it feels rehearsed by now. And the chaos of the departure and one hopes subsequent arrival at school is only the manifestation of all that went into actually getting these funny littles creatures into a building to learn. 

  The last day, if one gets a moment though, is a time to reflect on all the effort by children, parents and school staff. All those reactions and decisions both big and small that may have been appropriate or way off base have all lead here. This year was our first year back after being in virtual school during Covid. The fall was difficult for both our children and us. Firstly, with what felt like a leap of faith, we opened ourselves up and received all the illnesses like most people.  It seemed a virus reared its ugly head every other week – RSV, covid (again), Strep, flus, cold. Most had a name unlike previous years and came with high fevers, absences, worry, doctor’s visits. For the fall, certainly it felt like at least one child was always home and then they would switch places with a sibling. I am sure the couch has a worn spot for having a feverish little body sprawled on it. While the illnesses certainly had more urgency to them, the social learning curve was steep. For the first time in some cases our children had to learn to navigate the dangerous and possibly rewarding world of their peers. At dismissal, the day would spill out in a jumble. It was my job to decipher what it all meant, if action needed to be taken or just a listening ear. Advising children in relationships you haven’t actually witnessed is a tricky business. Asking children to tell you what happened leaving room for emotional perspective and understanding of others while holding their best interests at heart is no small feat. With lack of practice for all of us, the year felt like a marathon. 

Then there were the academic challenges. Teachers were a little scary in many cases. Some endeared themselves early on and they have the most ardent supporters in my children. Others needed to be understood. When the teacher said the class needed to behave and happened to glance at you, was she actually saying you were misbehaving or was it the guy that put a hole in the ceiling with the ball? There was much to learn and with giving up the reins to the school, it  was indeed difficult. We asked our children after making our best decisions to keep them safe, to build skills up and build them fast. Fortunately, the teachers were exactly what we needed – understanding, approachable, and hard working. Despite the ever increasing demands on teachers, these individuals could make or break our return to school. The teachers were paying attention and we are very appreciative. I just hope a child’s scrawled note and small box of chocolates is understood to mean the heartfelt thank you and appreciation their contribution has meant to our well-being. 

So as I sit here contemplating what the last day means and wondering how many minutes into the vacation someone will fight, I guess it is an important day. As my daughter said “what’s the big deal? It will just start all over again in September”. It’s true. Lunches, new teachers, classroom shifts. Oh no. The angst. I can’t think about that now. And maybe that’s the point. Today is the day to celebrate all that was accomplished. It may seem small to the outside observer. You saw me late to school, but you probably don’t know what we faced just getting there. School is now paused. We regroup and let the significance of being 5, 7, 12 , whatever age, settle and go again. The children have grown since September in many ways and will face the grade differently again. It is one of life’s bigger moments, even if common. I suspect our exits next year will be much the same in tone. But we will exit and that in itself is fairly new for us. 

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From Ordinary to Narrative

Sunshine Trigger

Ontario weather has some serious mood swings. The winter brings a cold that out of self defense and some sort of avoidance of cognitive dissonance we embrace with our skis, and parkas, and balaclavas. Then as we wait for the weeks and months to pass as we make snowmen with the kids and drink hot chocolates and marshmallows with gusto, we start to get a bit antsy. We say things like “it’s cold but at least the sun is shining. I can handle cold but it’s just so grey. I love a cozy night all tucked in from the cold”. Way down deep, below the layers of thermal and outerwear, we know it’s a sham. For those sashaying in Canada Goose Jackets and living it up in new aerodynamic catgut-less snowshoes, whenever the sun deigns to peek behind a cloud, we’re all over it. “Look! See! The sun will shine again. Winter is, in fact, not coming”. Shovels are stored away, snowblowers go blissfully silent and the suburban man makes his first appearance on the grass. It’s a big moment. First sunny Saturday morning said man can be found mowing and weeding and whipper snippering with abandon. Snow days are forgotten. The frigid winds that literally took one’s breath away as it was breathed in warm lungs are a dim memory to this magnificent heat of a post winter day. People are smiling. Neighbours practically hold hands and skip to the nearest gardening centre with eager smiles and shaking with not cold, but the thrill of being alive after another Ontario winter. 

Parents arrive for pick up looking like they just left beachside. Flips flops, sunglasses, even a daring spaghetti strap or two appear where before existed a shivering mass of tuques, snowmobile mittens and layer upon layer of down, cotton and some scientifically manufactured wick away magic. The parents look like they were just awakened from hibernation. Stumbling into the sunshine that is only dim in memory. A collective reawakening. Ahh yes, I remember this sensation. Warmth. Ease. Vitamin D! Where parents once stood like cattle in a snowstorm braced against the elements, they are now turned towards this unfamiliar heat source soaking in whatever goodness it has turned on humanity. Frostbite? Raw dry lips? Stinging eye-watering bitter wind? Nope, never heard of them. 

And then there is the moment when we have turned again, for we are a difficult species to please. While some seem to consider the sun as their life source, many now start to wonder why beads of sweat have started to appear on their brow despite the fact that they are now wearing three pieces of dental floss and a doily in their attempt to stay cool? Are my feet getting a little warm in my closed toe shoes?  This happens until one can practically feel the age spots appear. They begin to imagine the summer inspired closeup selfies of them and their appearance to an old boot as they start to question their basking in these new found rays. “The children!” someone  screams! They aren’t wearing protective clothing! The shade from their hats brim doesn’t quite cover their feet! They need sunscreen! Buckets! Bring the buckets! They can’t be out in this in their new skin! That pale one – cover her!” And so it goes for an Ontario summer.

The transition happens fast. We never see it coming. Did we have Spring? Yes, last Tuesday someone faintly suggests. I think I saw a tulip. Then the sun came. And it stays. It stays so long like that guest that is eyeballing the pullout in your living room. Rushing from the cold has been replaced by languid movements. We don’t want to waste movements or overexert ourselves in the heat. Suburban man still mows the lawn but earlier now to avoid the heat. We now seek shelter not from an angry wind and a temperature that perplexes even the most winter loving Canadians among us. It’s a heat that pushes and presses, making enemies of waistbands and socks. People search for the comfort of AC wherever it can be found. Picnics? Has the meadow got AC? 

And yet people walk around conservatively saying jaunty phrases like “it’s a beautiful day! Can you believe this sunshine?” Denial. All of them coping with the residual angst of winter. If I was too cold and then could not wait for anything resembling warmth, then I must be happy. I will bask dammit. And bask I will. Beautiful day, eh?

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From Ordinary to Narrative

Trappings

Recently I have had reason to begin questioning possessions. I don’t own great wealth nor am I in need of anything in particular. Of course, if I ever found those button fly Levis from so long ago I may be tempted. I have not taken a vow of poverty after all. 

A number of months ago, I had to go through my mother’s things after she passed. Heartbreaking, heart wrenching do not do the experience justice. There were articles of clothing that were so painfully my mom that the very touch of the cloth gave me the feeling I might actually shatter in two. It was only clothing – cotton, polyester, a nice blend and it all had me bent double, sobbing. Not innocuous at all. Brutal. A detailed neckline, a flattering stitch, an embellishment knocked me off my feet and left me swamped in deep grief. I could feel my mom’s presence in it all but I could find no comfort in it, just loss. And yet there I was, separating, piling, dismantling all the pieces of a life in cotton and polyester. 

My sisters and I, like many others, have begun to contemplate our own mortality and very practically what will happen to all of our belongings. Children, sure, there’s a plan. Pets, of course, but what about all of the hoodies? The jeans we don’t fit? The embarrassing underwear? I have half heartedly joked that I will try to take all my belongings with me when I go. Apparently, I’ll go out grandly. Of course, then we realise the absence of the stuff would be brutal too. Can’t seem to win in death at all. 

It isn’t just the clothing that can gut punch. Trinkets kept for reasons unknown and then found by loved ones after belie their seemingly harmless appearance. Something on the kitchen window sill, a craft from a grandchild, something from your grandmother. Rich only in heady emotional weight. Stumbled over. So much a part of that person’s life and environment that it only takes on the heft after they are gone. It becomes charged with something much more than what it was. It is this shift that grabs you as if caught in a snare, stops you cold and delivers a fresh grief seemingly out of nowhere. So incredibly painful. Death of a loved one and its grief are filled with such painful poignancy each time a new purse complete with the tags or a tattered well-worn sweater is discovered. Just things, things without heart, still paradoxically alive and pulsing with meaning. 

A few days ago, I  bought a black shirt. There was nothing to distinguish it  from any other black shirt I have owned over the years. My mom had a black except hers had brilliant and flattering flounces and a form hugging shape. Somehow they are both categorized as black shirts but similarities stop there. My mom knew the type of shirt I would have chosen each and every time and we would have laughed at this as she encouraged me to find something between hers and mine. Perhaps a “soft grey?” she might suggest to wean me off the dark colour palatte knowing full well her eye for colour and style skipped me genetically. Still, seven months after her death she still is still somehow connected to a shirt she will never see. Got me again. Damn poignancy. 

When someone you love dies, there is much support. It is the months and years following that can be anguish. It is after the shock and the slow dawning of realization that life, no matter how good,  will never  be that good again. This may be what ages us. It’s the stuff. It’s the lack of stuff.  I guess it isn’t the stuff at all. 

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From Ordinary to Narrative

Detour

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A wise woman once told me the only way through grief is straight through. While this is no doubt true, a new distraction surely isn’t cheating. Four months into the grieving process, I sought just this. I won’t say it was altogether clear to my disordered mind but it was happening all the same. My initial attempts at distraction consisted of partaking in obsessive late night depressive gorging and almost regretfully forgoing the gluttony of alcoholic oblivion. My email seemed bombarded with lonely ladies from China and Eastern Europe vying for my attention. Although feeling like quite the catch I decided to forgo these generous advances. Exercise was a possibility although a foreign idea as of late. I found it difficult to muster more than a shuffle with my heavy heart. Certainly calls with loved ones helped. Frenetic cleaning of closets and storage areas helped briefly but all were riddled with emotional traps. 

Then possibly because it was ridiculous, inconvenient and chaotic I came to the brilliant conclusion that what this grief stricken mind needed was to adopt a furry dependent to absorb into an already busy four-child, three-pet house. My husband, needless to say, did not feel the same way. His grief sought order. A much more reasonable approach. Nights of discussions and heartfelt pleas – on both sides – ended in my husband ever willingly but against his better judgement saying yes. Enter stage right – the object of my obsession, ahem, attention, became a 12 week old Newfoundland and Labrador puppy. While not exactly tiny, I’m not sure if he understood the weighty emotions he was going to carry on those furry and ever growing shoulders. 

Before passing judgement please be aware that in no way did I believe a puppy and all of its demands and needs was a cure for all that ailed me, but I reasoned in the long dark hours of the night that it seemed appropriate to add some joy where so much had been extinguished. And yes, getting a large breed was probably necessary to carry the emotional burden waiting to greet it. I have no regrets at all about adding another creature who wakes me up and competes for my attention. I would recommend a puppy to most anyone who understands the work involved. I would not, however, recommend getting a new puppy the same week one discovers they and their entire family have COVID. This was the reality for us.

We had a very happy ride to pick up a gangly and carsick puppy and about 26 hours of lively debate to discuss enthusiastically as children do, what its name would be. I am raising staunch supporters in various name camps. At an oddly advanced time of ownership, his name was Puppy with no resolution in sight when we had our first positive Covid test. That was about the time Puppy peed on the floor. 

For the next two weeks, IT came for us all. Some had fevers, the throw-ups, sore throats, runny noses or some combination of them all. The only thing it did not bring was sleep it seemed. Then there was the worry. As a parent I have scoured the information about COVID and yes, most was reassuring but there is always a sliver of doubt which makes just enough room between the cracks of certainty for all manner of monster to creep.  Through it all Puppy went outside approximately every 7.5 minutes being potty trained, ate a myriad of kleenex – both fresh from the many boxes available to him and those containing hazardous waste, – bit fingers and toes of the unwell and discovered one of the greatest joys of being a puppy – the cats. 

Mostly I stumbled sleep-deprived around the house during this time holding buckets, dispensing meds, reassuring sad, sick children, replenishing empty kleenex boxes both from Puppy and tiny sore noses, all the while attending to Puppy who although perplexed by his new surroundings was quite willing to fall into a puppy slumber beside a little child who felt terrible about most things except the fact her fingers were entwined in puppy fur. 

I suppose that is the problem with both grief and distraction. It isn’t orderly. It isn’t linear. It takes you places you can’t foresee. As a mother I dodged COVID as long as I possibly could and it came for us anyway. Also as a mother I sought distraction and I certainly achieved it just not how I envisioned. The grief, of course, remains. But alongside it are small but not inconsequential moments of joy. That I didn’t see coming either. 

Categories
From Ordinary to Narrative

Loss

A few weeks ago I walked straight into the edge of a door. I hit it squarely and the impact of it bounced me back and onto the floor collapsed in a heap and stunned. I could feel the swelling immediately upon staggering back to a standing position. This was the least painful thing I had done that week. My mother had just died. 

Like walking into a door, the news of my mother’s passing blindsided me. I suppose it shouldn’t have in some ways. People die and die unexpectedly and my mother has had a very tough last 15 months. And yet this news hit me far worse than any mere door to the forehead. I fell down then too. Unfathomable. This could not be true. And yet it was. And while I got up and walked down the hall to find my husband I could not believe I was about to tell him something that I could not believe myself. And then I started to throw up and did not stop for hours. My body was in agony reflective of my heart.

I ached for myself, my father, my children, my sisters, my aunts and uncles and my mom’s friends. And I ached for my mom. There was a selfishness there for me. I wanted more of my mom. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to say important things and have the luxury of saying unimportant things. I just wanted more. Not uncommon I know. I wanted more for my children. I wanted their relationship with my mom to continue. How can that be broken? They are so young and even if they can’t understand it, they feel it. The first loss. A big one.

I could call my mom and tell her anything about my children, her grandchildren, and she would light up. She would console. She would advise. She would reassure. She would find the humour and importance in it all.  My children and I have lost that. Without warning and no preparation. In a sense I  don’t think we can recover from that. 

There is more than sadness. There is rage. I’m angry for my mom. She was robbed. She struggled for over a year to be healthy again. She had hopes and dreams to be reunited with family under the strain of daring to live in a pandemic. We talked about seeing each other in the summer. No, the fall. Surely, Christmas. My eight year old daughter, sobbing many times, said she was afraid she would never see my parents again. I promised myself I would always be honest with my children but I told her, “Of course we would.”  We just needed to be patient and keep calling and writing letters. We will see them on whatever next important date hadn’t yet passed. And while I said these words I shared the same fears my daughter did and yet there wasn’t anything we could do. We waited. We called. We facetimed. We cried. And despite these fears we had hope. Hope to see each other again. What a reunion it would be. And then my daughter realized her mother didn’t know everything and couldn’t promise to protect her from this pain. 

Helplessly trying to help my mom we called for long chats. We called many times a day for just minutes or marathon calls. We cajoled and encouraged. We disagreed and cried for sad evenings after. We tried our best to carry on with school and groceries and work all the while knowing there was a real fear that my daughter had been right. We wouldn’t see each other again. 

The rage comes and goes. I have been plenty angry in my life but until now I could not say truthfully that I had known blind rage. One night I went from beaten down crying to another feeling altogether. I felt it wash over me just as someone might have suddenly poured a bucket of water over me. Blind rage. Named appropriately. I couldn’t see but only felt out of body and out of control. The feeling lasted mere seconds and then was gone. I was left crying again, but it was there and it was real. 

Prior to being hurt in a car accident my mom was an avid hiker, a forceful personality and a ferocious mother. She loved her family fiercely. While my mother’s death won’t show up on COVID statistics, she like most of us were isolated and scared and remained that way for an unbearable time. Her accident and the following pain was too much for her body to withstand. After so long fighting through surgeries and disappointment and loneliness, my mother should have had more time. Not more time battling medical issues, but more time seeing who she wanted to see, hiking those beautiful Cape Breton trails, regaling her grandchildren with stories from her childhood, sharing a laugh with her own children she gave up so much for, and making retirement plans with my devoted father. Instead she died.  And it is this that I can not grasp.

Categories
Nostalgia (Pre-pandemic posts)

Road Trip

gray concrete road
Photo by Maizal Najmi on Pexels.com

It is said that you should travel before life’s responsibilities weigh you down. Perhaps right after high school or university when a sense of adventure thrills you or before you settle down with kids or even more likely when you retire. No one has said one should actively pursue travel with young children. No sane people. Flying in the face of this common sense my husband and I recently took a long road trip with our three young children – almost 4, 2.5 and 10 months. Yes, on purpose. And we were at the time of planning and still are, as far as I am aware, sane.  I will not sit here in my post travel haze and exclaim about the ease and convenience of travel with young children. There were moments halfway between here and our destination that were absolutely ridiculous and I wondered if perhaps we could just stop and live in Drummondville or Cornwall or any other location that meant we could all get out of the van, permanently. The great foot smelling incident of 2016 best illustrates this. Many hours into day two, our two year old began to sob that he wanted his four year old sister to smell his feet. She staunchly refused and broke his heart. Nevertheless, not only did we make our destination and return home, but we enjoyed it. Despite its inherent challenges the trip was rewarding in its educational value for our children and, I suppose, ourselves.   

Our destination of choice was Cape Breton, about 22 hours east of our home in Ontario. Every year we travel home. To be clear I live in Ontario but my home is and will always be Cape Breton. And not in a Mike Duffy kind of way, but in my heart sings when my feet touch Cape Breton soil. As such I travel home every summer to visit with my parents and soak in as much of home as I can. This means time with my parents and other relatives, scenery, fresh air, and an occasional baked good or two. Okay a few more but we are among friends, so who is counting. As the years have gone by, travel has posed a few more challenges. It is no longer my sister and I jumping in the car on a whim with our dogs and snack foods or the biggest planning decision being what to take in my carryon for the plane. Now we need to get home with three young children in tow. The planning. The effort. The worry. The decisions. Can it be done? Well, actually yes, and what a time. 

Cape Breton has made the news quite a bit lately. Coined the Trump Bump, many tourists were introduced to CB as a travel destination as an escape from a possible Trump led United States. Shiver. I too see it as a different kind of escape but fleeing Donald bad hair and all, is also a good reason to go. Cape Breton known for its scenery, seafood and friendly folk captures the hearts of many. Until recently I hadn’t considered how scenery might appeal to the very young. In Ontario, I live in the suburbs. I have adjusted well to living in close quarters to my neighbours in a cookie cutter house. I am down to only an occasional whimper. Once I did turn into the wrong driveway, but who hasn’t? In my acclimation to this kind of lifestyle I forgot that my children are used to this. They have a small plot of land in which they can play ball, traffic to be careful of, and sometimes people who might say hello as we walk by. The suburbs are convenient, neat, and absolutely fine. Cape Breton is, in fact, the antithesis of this. An almost 24 hour drive away is not convenient. It’s characteristically rugged coastlines and similar people carved from the sea and winds are never neat. And as for fine, well it’s dramatic, and poignant, and all-consuming in its unique qualities, but it is never just fine.    

In all, we spent about six weeks in Cape Breton. While it’s true I was in no hurry to leap back into our van and head west, we stayed because we were having a wonderful time. Every day held something new. And as we travelled around the island meeting new people and seeing new sights, the children were sponges. They soaked up everything the island had to offer. The accents. The hiking. The food. The kindness of strangers. The space! My goodness, the space! No lines. No crowds. Space. Good space too. Beach space. Early in the trip we visited a few beaches. The children frolicked and threw rocks and our 10 month old sampled sand and small stones from each as if they were fine wines. We started to challenge ourselves in our vacation mode with a self-serving goal. How many beaches could we visit on this trip? We set our goal at eight. In total we visited 12 beaches. All lovely and all different. From Port Morien, a 20 minute drive away with a child friendly sandbar a mile long to beautiful beaches in Iona, an hour and a half away. We saw lighthouses, cranes, sailboats, fishing boats, kayaks, freighters, cruise ships, scenery that can cause a two year old boy who mostly lives for cars and tormenting his sister to comment on its loveliness. Regardless of our destination, the same two year old asked where the beach was every time we stopped the car.  His skyrocketing vocabulary was obvious as he talked about the ginormous lighthouse he had seen. My father as he is known to do, can see the poignancy of life clearly and remarked that we had what is considered real ‘moments’ many times. One such memorable moment was when we drove to the beach with a full breakfast prepared by my mom and the kids dined as the sun gleamed off the water and our water-focused happy lab swam serenely in the background. It was nothing short of magnificent and it wasn’t yet 8:00 am. Who knew what else the day might hold. I would drive the 22 hours again for this one moment.  

As we walked along a trail in Westmount called Peters Field, we heard the loud blare of a ship’s horn. Froze the children in their tracks. Of course, they wanted to know what it was so we looked across the water and there was a massive cruise ship docked. We went down to the water to get a better look and boy, did we ever. The cruise ship sailed out of port directly in front of us. We waved to the passengers on board. Our son looked pretty small standing on a rock watching the ship, but his eyes were as big as saucers. We can’t replicate this moment. The summer was filled with this kind thing.  

I almost don’t dare to share this bit, but I’m hoping my father will forgive me. It’s not a secret that Cape Breton Island has a falling population. This does not speak well about the economy, but somewhat facetiously my father simply states that that means there is more for him. More space, more grandeur. As we sat on Grass Cove Beach in Iona, my mother looked down the beach with a disappointed look on her face and said that it was getting crowded. There were after all two other families down the beach. We could just about distinguish their silhouettes from each other.  By Cape Breton beach standards, barely enough breathing space. We moved further down the beach. 

The atmosphere of Cape Breton is a relaxed one. Cape Bretoners love their children. And apparently mine too. Nowhere have children been smiled at more or admired simply because of their happy youth. Walking along the lengthy boardwalk in downtown Sydney one sunny day with the three kids was one of the warmest environments that had nothing to do with the weather. People were genuinely happy to see children playing outside and being children. I always know when we are home because the kids get their hair tousled by kind strangers who pronounce them “some cute” and gorgeous. I have to agree. We got this welcome everywhere we went. 

Traveling this distance by car means it is not restful. Unless simultaneous napping is happening and you are driving like the wind to cover ground, someone needs something. A book, a toy, a treat, a drink, someone to smell their feet. You get the idea. We went against the grain and decided to go sans DVD player. We travelled without one so many years ago so surely we can amuse ourselves. So we sang till our voices were hoarse, passed around new toys from a well-stocked tickle trunk of goodies, dug into an enormous food stash, told stories we had forgotten about. While the driver drove, the passenger in the front worked hard. We planned on seven hours of driving a day which meant we would need about 12 hours to reach our destination. We had long and numerous rest stops. While this road trip humdrum might wear on a road weary traveller, everything delighted the kids. Every Timmy’s stop was an adventure. Every new washroom with automatic doors was thrilling. Every park we found was Disneyland. Suddenly our little ones were asking about Fredericton or Drummondville as if they had been travellers for many long years. For children on a solid routine at home, they were happy to step out and try something new.  

There was a real danger to our kids growing gills when we home. There wasn’t a fish and chips dish safe from their little hands. Sure the food was delicious, but the location didn’t hurt either. Our tastebuds appreciated the scenery. In Glace Bay we introduced the children to the idea that trucks can make fries. The Glace Bay Fry Truck for 70 years has been making amazing fries. Ordering fries from a truck was fascinating for our kids as was eating them while we looked at the fishing boats docked and inspected lobster traps on the wharf. The fish and chips served at the  Mull Café and Deli in Mabou were also delightful and just got better as we picnicked with them at the gazebo in Mabou overlooking the water. Rather spontaneously we stopped at a restaurant in Louisdale on our way to Isle Madame and from their take out menu picked up yes, more fish and chips. We feasted next to the lighthouse at Lennox Passage and as if on cue a fishing boat and then a sailboat passed us as we gazed at the water and played on the shore. To round out our diets we became frequent visitors to the Tasty Treat in Sydney and just about any other establishment that served dessert. Our children now understand what makes a truly delicious banana split. Life skills. Picnicking never lost its appeal but became commonplace. We celebrated our oldest daughter’s fourth birthday at the Mira Wildlife Park. The kids patted a moose for goodness sakes. I will tell you honestly that it was misting and threatening a downpour throughout the party, but it couldn’t dampen the fun one bit. We walked through the trails spotting wildlife and then picnicked in the open field and then visited the petting zoo. We got completely drenched on this last part, but it merely added to the adventure. 

Seeing Cape Breton through the eyes of my children has reminded me what makes Cape Breton, well Cape Breton.  The land, sure. People, absolutely. Food, indeed. There is something intangible that won’t make a tourist brochure. It did, however, find its way to our children. I am convinced they were enriched by their trip home. That’s why it was hard to leave. That and the food.  

I have limited advice to offer as a parent, but I do know this – many things worthwhile for raising thoughtful, enthusiastic and happy children often times isn’t easy. Car trips include tears, frequent pee stops, and hurt feelings. They also include lots of laughs, bonding and educational experiences like no other. Our trip to Cape Breton was amazing for the experiences it offered there and in the getting there. We will do it again, smelly feet and all.  

Categories
From Ordinary to Narrative

Wrong turn at Albuquerque, or somewhere north of there

 

There was a Canada Day that I spent cleaning porta potties. No, I wasn’t doing community service hours for a transgression but it was part of a summer job. And I was happy to have it.  Cleaning the evidence of a day thoroughly enjoyed by all in drink, food and apparently nervous digestive systems,  I must admit I can stomach that much better than the current discussions of Canada Day today. I think there was actually less shit there than I can smell drifting from the national newspapers and offices in Ottawa. 

We are living in a sad time, no doubt. New discoveries that aren’t actually very new to those who have more than glanced at the history books, targeted evil acts of violence, all seem to be battling for top headlines in a world shrouded by a pandemic and all the death and devastation and discord that breeds. It is not a race in which one cheers. It is not a competition in which one wants to wave a flag. I will, though, wave a flag for Canada and all those people fighting the good fight. 

What is it we actually stand for? Is there nowhere in the history books of a win? Did anyone prior to our morally elitist selves ever utter an honest and respectful word? It may be true people did not have the vocabulary approved by those  who stand guard over a moving and irrational verbal target. Has no one looked up the word anachronism? It exists and is playing havoc with not perhaps our minds but definitely our heartstrings. Surely, all who came before us even though they did not know the terms “our truths” and “our authentic selves” but surely someone back there in the abyss we gleefully tarnish has done a good deed or dare I suggest even two? Someone who might even have been ….privileged? I whispered the last word. 

Issues have become commodities. Bought and sold, backed by advertisers, and susceptible to trends. Once an issue, especially a tragic and emotional one, becomes politicized it is no longer about the individuals involved. Or their families or loved ones. It is now taken over and used. Out of respect for the lives lost, we must guard against this. Regardless of who is doing the take over. 

I do hope our descendents are kinder to us then we have been to those who have graced the earth before us. Will they tear down our statues? There seems no one above reproach. Will the new statues stand as tall and as long and as proud before they too are toppled over by people blatantly committing acts of vandalism in the name of reconciliation? I can call violent acts all kinds of things but this does not change what it is – violence. 

Democracy may in fact do itself in. We are listening so closely to those we fear, we have forgotten to listen to our past, our goals as a nation, our economists, our teachers, our parents. Let’s examine the history with skill and expertise that do not tweet well. Let the examination be thorough and thought out. It won’t make a cute instagram page. I doubt a Khardasian even the really hungry looking ones will adopt it as a project. Then let’s add to it. Let’s explore what we may have missed in a celebration of one aspect. Then we get a fuller picture to explain ourselves. History is not finished with us. We must do it justice. 

During this odd past year, the teachers play the anthem for their students attempting to learn from home. It is a time of silence and children are expected to stand. My children have learned that cameras off and even cameras on but the ability to flee means very little attention is played to the various versions on what to them is merely a long and slightly dull song. The anthem on tv for hockey games holds their attention much better. After all, there are two teams, playing by some clear rules and the ambition is clear – glory for the team.  Nearby I try to instill in our five year old  the importance of standing for the country’s anthem. This is no small feat. Get up. We must stand for honesty, truth, progress, justness, and no you can’t go play with your hockey cards. This is a lot for a child. It shouldn’t be too much for the rest of us. 

Apologies and shame do nothing for anyone. Paying respects and education are needed. A clear standard of right and wrong are needed in a country floundering. Knee jerk responses to be on the right side are phony at best and dangerous and destructive  at worst.

Lobbyists, special interests should not be trendy.  Racism, ageism, sexism, in fact all the “isms” are alive and well. I am surprised when celebrities continue to “break their silence” and their story is devoured and served to the masses as the holy grail. I would be stunned to hear of someone who has not experienced or witnessed at least one of the “isms”. Things clearly need to change, but the swinging of the pendulum needs to be guided. Politicians apologizing, military personnel taking cover, and the reflexive responses toting the party line are painful to watch. 

Powerful words like genocide and predator are thrown around as we did with confetti when we didn’t know confetti was akin to avian murder. Words have meaning and are powerful and yet we let Twitter voice the concern of …who? Who exactly is the voice of twitter? Major news networks often have a segment to see what twitter is saying? Ron MacLean left shaking in his boots, or maybe hockey skates, is more than familiar with this. He saw his friend Don go the same way. People lolling about in the comfort of their lairs, attacked him professionally and personally in what I must say was a deranged take on a humorous aside. These comments are validated by simply offering twitter remarks as gospel. Now, I don’t know Ron Maclean and despite my two references to hockey – can’t help this during play-offs – and while he could be all kinds of backwards, I can recognize a witch hunt (all due respect meant of course) when I see one. 

The bottom line is we are a mess. Not everything will fit into the paradigms someone has drawn for us. There will be aspects, blatant unjustness, situations needing both a salve to old wounds and a better path forward, but hearing the cry for cancelling Canada Day is blasphemous. The flag, used and abused as it is, is a symbol. Not a symbol of past wrongs, nor a symbol of shame, not a symbol for any one particular group, but for all. If we cancel our past, the only flag we will fly is the white flag of surrender. To berate and batter Canada by cancelling this day of celebration leaves us moorless and open to attack. Those who have fought before us did not fight for our surrender. Canada is still despite the better attempts of many leaders and special interest groups a good place fought for by brave people. It is a place still worthy of fighting for.  Who except the self-professed morally righteous tweeting from the dark basements under cover could say the same?