Dad

The gift of living near and visiting a sibling regularly is sharing the same core memories. It is common for us to find a thread of Mom woven throughout our conversations. We have a lot of "Mom" in us, she lived for 89 years and though it has been close to eight years since she died, thoughts and memories still feel fresh.

Dad, on the other hand, was young when we last had the dad we knew. His massive heart attack, days before his 58th birthday, was the end of Dad living his life. We had fewer years to collect Dad memories and it has been 42 years since that fateful day. 

So when a "Dad memory" arises, it touches a part of me that hasn't been touched for a while. It feels rather special.

When my son built a shed for me and I commented I couldn't wait to roll my tires into their seasonal storage spot and not have to stack them, it stopped him in his tracks for a minute. He quickly commented he'd build something for tire storage, since the walls of the aluminum shed wouldn't withstand the weight. He came up with this:

It was made completely out of leftover wood that was lying around. It cost nothing but his time. It was a very "Dad" thing of him to do. When I showed this shelving unit to my sister, she immediately commented, "This is Dad. This is something Dad would make." Yes. Yes, it was.

Cool little memory to store inside the shed along with the tires and other miscellanea.

Yesterday, I was commenting on my ability to hang a picture. Except when I looked at the back of the picture I wanted to hang, it was missing the picture wire. Two loops to string it into, but no wire. When I mentioned this to my sister, she perked up and said she had some.

She ran downstairs and came up with her picture wire storage container:

"Dad!" I exclaimed. That is Dad's, right? Yes. Yes it was. 

Dad used tobacco tins to store nuts, bolts, screws and many numbers of things in the garage. Seeing that tobacco tin was an immediate callback to my memory of Dad. No, rolling cigarettes is quite possibly the last thing he may want to be remembered by, but the tins. The resourcefulness of not letting anything go to waste. "That" was Dad.

I wistfully asked my sister if she minded leaving that tin to me in her will. Just a little thing. I loved the way I felt when suddenly I felt the memory of Dad wash through me. She said she could do one better. She ran downstairs and found its twin. Now we each have a little memory of Dad in our storage collections.

Dad. I love being reminded of you. Your essence. Your work ethic. Who you were. I love when a brand new, never-been-recently-recalled memory flashes through my mind. Most of all, I cherish having a sibling who shares that exact same memory of who you were and the ways which we still see you in your children and grandchildren.

Some Things Bear Repeating

In my valiant attempt to re-jig my finances to find new ways of living within my means, I have cancelled cable and in its place, our internet provider provided a free streaming service. 

A new found wealth of programs I have never accessed before has me watching more TV than ever before. I discovered a documentary section where I have invested many hours. Me, being a long time fan of Cher, found a few documentaries on her. 

I knew I had blogged about Cher after attending two of her concerts. Thus, I opened up my blog and typed "Cher" in the search bar. I lost track of time as I read every post I wrote that contained "Cher" within the context. When I found this one, I thought "this one bears repeating". Enough said.

Here are some thoughts from almost four years ago. The anniversary of the day Mom left this world was a few days ago, so these words feel like a timely message from beyond:

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 7, 2019

Filling the Void (Living Life Forward)

I found myself thinking of Mom this morning. "I miss missing her ..." I wrote. As I continued to let my fingers do the walking, I found an inner contentment which has filled the void that was created since Mom died.

While Mom was here, I wrote her a weekly letter. She phoned me in response to my letters. If I was not home, she would wonder where I was and if she had to wait too long before I responded there was a sense of urgency within her voice. She knew my routines and would concern herself when I wasn't where she expected me to be. My holidays would revolve around going out to see Mom. Our sister weekends would often involve going to Mom's.

Mom has been a strong guiding force within my life. I listened to myself repeat what she had said often over the course of my life as I lived it and I wistfully thought of the day when I would be quoting her after she was gone. I was pleased to recognize I appreciated who she was to me while she was here on earth.

After Mom died and the immediate needs of taking care of her house, estate and tying up all loose ends with the lawyer, accountant and our taxation department were done, there was a distinct void in my life that was once filled with "Mom".

The void created the space for me to feel all the feelings I had been tamping down with busyness. It was a time when tears appeared out of nowhere and everywhere all at the same time. It was a time of sadness but it was necessary.

Life doesn't stand still for anyone. The sun continues to rise each and every day, seasons pass, bills need to be paid and life goes on (and on and on). Life dragged me along as I dragged my heals through that first year. It didn't matter. The sun rose. The sun set. Life called out its demands. I had no choice but to move along with the flow.

Fast forward another year. I stopped bucking the idea of moving on. I started making a few plans. I dared to dream a little. I placed my dreams and my final financial gift from Mom into our home. Home renovations began, my thoughts were consumed with all aspects of that. Bit by bit, the void created by Mom's absence began to fill up.

I continue to think of Mom, what she may say or think, I quote what I remember from Mom's vast array of quotable quotes and smile when I think of some of our conversations. She continues to guide my thoughts, actions and motives. She is part of who I am. It is undeniable. Sometimes I must quiet my inner-Margaret but most of the time, I just smile when I get a flash of her expression or hear the scorn in her voice over some inane use of the English language.

The cracks of my life have been filled up with living my life forward. As I think of the past year, it is "full". Full of home renovations, family, plays, Glennon Doyle, Cher, Oprah, friends, getaways, gatherings and celebrations. It was a year which was filled with doing things that filled me up and filled the void left in Mom's absence.

It feels good to feel fulfilled again. I do miss missing Mom but it is more important to go with the flow of life and live it fully while one is able to do so. I still feel Mom's guiding force and I hear Dad within my thoughts too. Between the two of them, they gave me the tools, my siblings, a strong sense of who I am and who I aspire to be.

Life goes on. We carry bits and pieces of everyone we meet as we make our way along. I am grateful to have thoughts of Mom and Dad within me. It is my hope to live my life in a way that would please and honor them.

In Lieu of a Cigarette...

Further to my post yesterday, when I thought I should take up smoking to force me to be still outside and simply take a nature break, I savored my second cup of coffee outside this morning.

It was already hot, so I found a shady spot and let my legs spill out into the sunlight. A robin was chirping and encouraging me to come out and play. It was a very convincing song. I enjoyed every note. 

I sat still. I listened. I watched the birds (mostly sparrows, I think) disappear into our lawn. I spotted a bird using the bird house. I wondered what it must be like to be a bird. I have lived a lifetime of living pay cheque to pay cheque. How different is it to be a bird who lives from meal to meal, with seasonal nesting requirements and keeping safe from danger EVERY day of the year? 

I scanned the blue sky to find a jet stream in the distance. Where had that plane been? Where was it going? Who was on board? Were they travelling for business? Pleasure? A family emergency? So many stories within that little speck in the sky.

I was grateful for our maintained lawn. Several weeks of a disabled lawnmower helped me appreciate the much dreaded task of tending to a lawn during the spring growing season. The lawn needs a fresh cut again, but the dandelions have been tamed and we have a lawnmower that will tend to the task. Oh, how fortunate we are!

Mom's wind chime was still. I gazed at it, remembering times when I felt that chime speak to me on a windless day. I willed it to speak to me this morning but it didn't have anything to say.

Thoughts of Mom and Dad, of those who no longer walk on this earth and recent conversations I have listened to that spoke to the fact of how one lives on after they stop breathing. Without getting all spiritual or whimsical, there is an undeniable truth to those words. I feel Mom's essence within me all the time. I speak and I hear her words come out of my mouth. I hear Dad's wisdom chime in when it comes to that which he taught me or conversations we had. I think of those who are alive and well, and the way they live within me when they are out of sight. Chance encounters with strangers that make a lasting impression. 

I was sitting outside by myself. But I was not alone. 

Breathing in the moment without distraction was the best gift we can give ourselves. Take some time to deeply inhale today. Exhale and do your best to let go of the toxins within. It can't hurt and maybe, just maybe it will help just a bit.

20 seconds of "Morning Bliss"

A Life Lived Well

I am quietly reflecting on a Celebration of Life for my uncle. My dad's brother, a brother (I was told) who most resembled Dad's character and work ethic. A quiet mannered, unassuming kind of guy who was so much more than met the eye.

Dad came from a family of seven boys. The brothers have so many memories and stories that have been told and retold throughout the years. I have listened to them relive those memories and watched the years slip away. The essence of their youth filled the room, eyes twinkled and there was easy laughter among them.

Dad died young. Far too young. A massive heart attack took him from us shortly before his 58th birthday. His body survived but we lost every other part of him that fateful day forty years ago.

I love to hear people speak of Dad, listen to the stories and reminiscences from siblings, uncles, cousins and family friends. Everyone sees a little different piece of a person and I love gathering those memories from different perspectives and recreating Dad's story in my heart and mind.

As I watched the slideshow of my uncle's life, it was a kaleidoscope of memories that encapsulated his essence, his life and reflected his story. A farmer at heart, the farming pictures were plentiful and seasoned his story to perfection. Family photos from all ages and stages of life. He was a son, a brother, a husband, a dad, a grandfather, an uncle, a friend and a valuable member of the community. He worked hard, worked fast and ran even faster. 

As I watched the years unfold on my uncle's slideshow, I was drawn to the photos after he retired. A time when he could vacation a little, enjoy cabin life, fishing, vacations with his brothers, enjoying grandchildren, playing cards, living a simple life but living it well. 

These were the years Dad didn't live to enjoy. As I watched my uncle's story told in photographs I envisioned what Dad's life could have been. It the life I wish you could have lived, Dad. 

It was a life lived well. 

Shared History

It's hard to leave my weekend oasis but here I am. Monday morning with nowhere to go but home. Real life, cat hair, snow and responsibilities. Ahhh. There is no place like home.

I love the sister-time I have at my little weekend oasis. A group text among my siblings on Friday was the precursor to the weekend. A shared memory among four people. Siblings. Growing up with the same parents at different times. A shared history but not always shared memories.

My sister-time is seasoned with "remembering when". I have always loved listening to my sisters (who are nine and eleven years older than me) reminisce about their childhood on the farm, many of those memories included cousins, grandparents and a glimpse of who Mom and Dad were during that time. 

My brother and I moved off the farm to a large city a province away, after my youngest sister was married. We grew up with a dad who had a "9 to 5" (with all the overtime he could work) job that included weekends and vacation time. My sisters grew up with a dad who was a hard working farmer whose hours were long and holidays were a luxury rarely afforded. As Mom once said, "Why do you think we got married on the coldest day of the year?"

We knew two completely different sides of Dad. I believe we also knew two completely different sides of Mom. 

Sibling time is a time when we meld those memories together. It is a time when little memories tend to resurface. Even after all of time I've spent with my sister the past few years, I smile inside when I hear one or the other or both of us remark, "I didn't know that" in regards to a family memory.

I spent my childhood waiting to grow up. I assumed all children felt that way but I now wonder if my desire to grow up and move out like my sisters, was motivated by a wish to join the adult sisterhood. Mom planted many seeds that grew into the close relationship I have with my brother. Now that our ages span from 57 to 73, instead of 12 to 28 we are seeing life through a common lens of mature adult beings with shared memories and support.

The memory of Dad's massive heart attack was the common thread my brother wrote about on Friday. He was the one who was home with Mom when it happened. The rest of us were married and although I was geographically the closest, as my siblings recalled their memory of that day, I felt I was the most remote.

A tragedy united our family in a way we had never been before. There is a date in our history that marks the time, place and circumstances each of us were experiencing at the time. That day was forty years ago. Since that time, we have only grown closer.

It is a gift to share a history with those we can connect and reconnect with over the course of a lifetime. Is it a wonder why I share a very close friendship with a childhood friend I've known since I have had a memory? A sister-in-law who "adopted" me when my own sisters lived at a distance and were relatively unknown to me at the time? Many of my closest friends are friends who are "missing a sister" and we've forged a sister connection.

I believe the human condition craves and needs connection. We are fortunate when that connection is forged within family. Shared history is a good foundation to build on and we can forge those connections outside the family unit. 

We all have a story we tell. It is a gift to share our stories with each other.

The Easy Life

 I woke up this morning, made my bed and a cup of coffee. I opened a few blinds to check on the weather and here I am.

Life is very simple out here at my little weekend oasis. A place where I can shed all my labels and the only one that sticks is "sister". I am still all the other things but here? I feel light and easy.

Monday to Friday is committed. Where would I be without those commitments? Broke, for sure. I do appreciate the structure long time employment offers. As I vacuumed the relentless cat hair at home yesterday morning, I didn't feel so appreciative. Thank goodness it was Friday.

I have been working hard within that little home office of mine. Yesterday, I answered and dealt with the calls that came in. I went through my morning routine and checked everything that needed to be checked. Then? I coasted.

I haven't coasted for a good, long time and it felt pretty good. I was guiltily sitting in front of the TV watching Grey's Anatomy in the middle of the afternoon when my daughter walked in and sat down. She needed to talk more than I realized at the time. I'm so glad I wasn't sitting in my office when she approached me. She deserved my full attention.

Then I received a deep and thought provoking text from my brother. It was a group text and I am the only one of four siblings who doesn't have an Iphone, so I rarely take part in the conversation. But it was a comfort to hear the identifying notification sounds of my brother and two sisters conversing back and forth as they offered their perspective on a pivotal day (40 years ago) in our lives. One day, four different vantage points. 

My day hit a crescendo by four forces of life coming together at the same time. The sibling conversation as a backdrop to my daughter doing her taxes for the first time, with the request for guidance and reassurance along the way; packing up for my weekend getaway; and my need to be somewhere at 4:00.

This little dynamic was punctuated with my Second Son's travel updates as he made his way to Mexico. 

The stories within the stories. The same story as told by different people, at different ages/stages and locations as the main event was unfolding. It was a comfort, as I replayed the afternoon in the aftermath of my day, once I arrived safely at my weekend oasis destination.

Oh, to be at home with thoughts of family, siblings and the ease of the day set before me with little or no distraction. It is a good life out here at my little oasis.

I'm so glad I'm already here ... this is my favorite place to wake up on a weekend.

Math Nerd

 It is a very good feeling to wake up early on a Saturday morning. What is most surprising to me is that I would actually opt to continue working today if I didn't have other plans. 

My work week ended on a good note (two uninterrupted work days resulted in two days tending math puzzles and spreadsheets which are my idea of fun). I actually have the desire to open my office door and carry on with my little math projects this morning (how does one define "nerd"?).

I tackled hard things within my home office setting this week and tamed the demons I knew were waiting for me bright and early Monday morning. There is nothing like slaying dragons to boost your adrenaline and enhance one's confidence level.

Oh, how those untamed dragons can deplete us. To run and hide from them takes an onerous amount of energy. To armor up, plan one's defense and take forward action? Exhilarating!

Numbers and me go back to my humble beginnings. I can picture Dad sitting at the kitchen table 'figgering' on paper and with his trusty little Arithma calculator ...

What I wouldn't give, to sit across that very kitchen table and talk with Dad again. "Whatcha figgerin', Dad?"

I feel a little less nerdy and a little more connected to myself and my genealogy when I remember Dad and his business sense. When I went through Mom's papers after she died, I found oh-so-many of Dad's calculations. His writing. His numbers. His thoroughness (I have the ledgers where he accounted for every penny spent, down to the cost of screws, for his farming deductions). I couldn't keep everything but I kept some.

I liked math in school. It made sense. Once you knew the basics and added layers of information onto that, it was relatively simple stuff. Black and white. Balance to zero. Checks and balances. Something I am always looking for within this little life of mine when I feel like I am on shaky ground.

If I hadn't gotten married and had a child as soon as I left home, I most likely would have chosen to pursue an education in accounting. What happened instead, is I became a bank teller and my career fell into my lap in the way it was intended.

Accounting and accountants without the personal touch of customer contact, face-to-face encounters and getting to know the story behind the numbers is not me. I didn't know this when I was 18 years old and entering the world of banking. I was shy and awkward. Customer contact was a skill I had to learn along the way.

My Grade Two teacher's comment in our school year book said simply, "Shy, except when she reads." Who knew this would translate into "Socially awkward, except when she works with numbers.", in my adulthood?

In my unwritten book "Defending My Life", I will defend my career path as the perfect fit for me. A mix of numbers and face-to-face interaction with customers taught me everything I needed to know. It was the foundation on which the rest of my working life was built.

A life of numbers without the personal touch isn't for me. Yes, you could lock me in a room with an Excel spreadsheet program and math puzzles to solve and I would be happy. But at the end of the day, I need my people.

No regrets. 

When you look back on your life, can you find the basis on which you built your "today"? Can you find solace in the choices made, which brought you to where you are? 

Even when the road is uncertain and one hits a few dead ends along the way, every detour has brought us to where we are right now. May you find comfort in knowing you are exactly where you are meant to be. Even when where you are isn't where you want to stay.

I Can Only Imagine

I recently listened to a podcast where the well worn phrase "I can't imagine" (what someone else is going through) was brought into focus and dissected. Of course we can imagine. If we are saying the words, we ARE trying to imagine. As I listened to the discussion, I immediately thought of the words "I understand" (what another person is going through) and how in people's desire not to assume what another person is enduring, could easily utter the words "I can't imagine" with the best of intentions.

When I hear of news that touches me deeply, it is most likely because it has touched a familiar chord and brings up my personal memories of a time when I was touched by a similar fate. I have been feeling deeply and remembering a time when I faced a similar situation a lot lately.

The loss of a parent is unique to each and every one of us. The relationship we have or didn't have with them; the arsenal of memories, good, bad or indifferent; the longing for what we had or wished we had ... the list is endless. Though we cannot assume what the one who has suffered a recent loss is enduring, if we have a parent (and we all do), we can try to imagine what it may feel like if we were to walk in those shoes.

I could fill a notebook with my own personal thoughts, reflections, lessons learned and significant memories to my experience but I want to silence my words. I simply want to listen. To hear what another is feeling as they walk into uncharted territory.

My story isn't important. I have walked a parallel path. I can empathize. I can listen. But I can only imagine what another is going through.

When I say "my thoughts are with you", I mean it with every fiber of my being. 

I can only imagine...

Back to 1978

I couldn't shred history without taking a sneak peek at a few statistics that interest me. 

The year I was about to shred was 1978 - the year I married and had my first child. So I stopped and pulled out a few documents:

Dad's rate of pay - $6.30 per hour

Christmas bonus - $50.00

Interest rate on a 2 year Guaranteed Investment Certificate - 10.25%

Electricity, water, telephone bill - $39.08

Heating bill - $26.13

Long distance rate - $0.46 per minute (after 6 p.m.)

Hmmm ... let's compare that to 2021 statistics I have on hand:

Minimum wage - $11.45/hr (note: a full time wage of $21.16 = annual salary of $44,012.80, which is considered the lowest end of the middle class tax bracket in Canada)

Christmas bonus - a $50 bonus beats $0.00 every time

2 year GIC (at the same institution) - 0.50%

2021 - monthly bills based on my equalized payment amounts:

Electricity - $114.00

Water - $90.00

Heat - $80.00

Telephone - $25.00

Long distance rate - $0.05 per minute any time of day

 

Dad's net pay biweekly cheque was $480.00 ($1,040 monthly)

Monthly bills totaled $75.00 (7% of his monthly wage)

His Christmas bonus was almost 5% of his monthly wage

A $1,500 investment earned $153.75 (at today's rate of interest you would earn $7.50)

Interesting math, no matter what way you spin it. How do your finances stand up to this 1978 comparison? 

Life was simpler back in 1978, or so it would seem by today's standards. We can't go back in time but it's interesting to take a peek every now and again.

The Writing on the Wall

There is something mystical about the way I feel each and every time I walk into my little home-away-from-home.

The house has been furnished with the excess from my home. It seems each piece of furniture comes with a story and a bit of history. The kitchen table was Mom's; Dad made the bench we use at the table; Dad reinforced one kitchen stool, while the second stool was Mom's; a bed that was once my brother's; the rocking chair Mom gave me prior to the birth of my youngest child; a dresser my sister refinished and donated when we moved to our new city with little besides the clothes on our back; a kitchen that is largely comprised of what was divvied up among us after Mom died; the stories go on and on. There is a large piece of history woven into the essence of the house. 

My son has sold his home and is storing some of his belongings within our joint investment which has added another dimension to our shared space. 

The only thing that has been out-sourced in the picture below are the kitchen chairs which fit into our home full of misfit furniture which has somehow come together in a wonderfully cohesive home.

Then there is the house itself, which seemed to call out and touch us in a up close and personal way  ...

 ... could it be as literal as the writing on the wall?

P.S. The flash on my camera wouldn't work when I snapped this picture, adding a dimness which enhances the writing on the wall, while still capturing the essence of the house which has been furnished with history. I kept the picture because it said what I wanted it to say. 

Hard Working Hands

“Silent thoughts hold precious moments that last forever. Probably the most ambitious person that ever lived.” 

♫ These hands raised a family, these hands built a home. These hands won the heart of my loved one and with hers they were never alone. If these hands filled their task then what more could one ask. Take a look at these hard working hands ♫

~ “These Hands” sung by Hank Snow – a special tribute to my dad, from my mom

This is a quote from Mom's family's book of memories. Mom asked me to add this to the book as it was going off to press.

Hard working hands were the words that came to mind as I sat down with my coffee to start my day off with a few words.

After two days of deck cleaning, scrubbing, scraping and sanding the current state of my hands cannot be captured by a cell phone camera alone. I didn't even realize how dirty my nail beds were until I glanced down at them this morning. 

I may not be the ambitious person who ever lived but I have been much more ambitious lately, if that counts for anything.

A before/after photo of one of our decks while the cleaning process is in progress

(this is a much better picture than one of my "hard working hands")

Guess What I Did

I thought the post I was about to write felt familiar to my fingertips. I started writing, then searched my blog. Yes. Here it is again. 

Life goes around and back and then comes back again. Here is the original post:

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 2020

Echos of Conversations from Yesteryear

Whenever Mom came for a visit, we always lingered over our morning toast and coffee. It was a ritual that was as predictable as the sun coming up in the morning.

On more than one occasion, after I had left the kitchen and returned again, Mom asked, "Guess what I did while you were gone?" She had an expression that dared me to guess correctly so I played the game.

I wasn't able to come up with the answer so she would give me a clue: "You can't see it". As I said, I'm pretty certain we had this conversation before. Even at that, I didn't come up with the correct answer.

She would straighten up in her chair (even more, because her back was always straight and her posture was excellent) and wore the expression of a cat who just ate a canary and reply, "I emptied the crumb tray in your toaster". That tray was always full because Mom may have been the only person who emptied it.

Now? Whenever I empty the toaster's crumb tray, I hear Mom's voice: "Guess what I did while you were gone?"

And in a moment, Mom is right beside me, smiling over my shoulder again.

I love those little memories. They find me when I least expect them.

Here is this morning's picture:

Full circle. Thoughts, patterns, life events, history repeating itself. I'm not talking about toast crumbs any more. Life. 

My youngest has decided to change their name. Yesterday, I pulled out their birth certificate which was a required part of the process. Some missing information, which was news to them, on their original birth certificate unknowingly aligned with their decision to also change their middle name.

A few days ago, we had a brief text conversation about the spelling of their new/old middle name (they have chosen to revert back to the middle name I had originally chosen when they were born) and the question was how to spell it. 

"Would it be "Jordan" or "Jordon" or some other spelling?"

"I believe originally I spelled it Jordan. It is a nod to my dad if you spell it with an 'o'."

The decision to go back to their original middle name. The decision to acknowledge a version of my dad's name with the revised spelling came long before the missing information on their birth certificate aligning with the lack of support which has led to the decision to change their middle name.

Interesting.

On another note, we noticed "Mother's Place of Birth" on the birth certificate. It is the name of the town where I have just purchased a new house I hope to call home when I retire. 

Full circle. Going back to the beginning with a fresh new perspective and starting all over again.

Funny what thoughts can come of emptying the toaster crumbs. I hear Mom's voice, "Guess what I did ..." How I wish I could sit down with some coffee and rye toast and ask her the same question after the quick decision to invest in a potential home to retire in. "Mom ... guess what I did!"

The Things that "Stick"

My mind has been all over the map this morning as I rewind the tape of the weekend past, conversations and trains of thought that have led me to this post.

The small act of making myself a cup of coffee with as few wasted steps as possible led me down the garden path of the maze of memories interwoven into my being. 

I read the book "Cheaper by the Dozen" as a child. I remember the father character of the book being an efficiency expert and how the story wove his efficiency into the tale. It is one of those things that has stuck with me over the years. I recognize the part of me that became "efficient" after reading this book.

Oh, what an amazing world we live in when one can simply google "cheaper by the dozen book efficiency expert" to correlate what one thinks they remember, to Wikipedia - which in fact confirms my memory is not just a made up story in my mind. It is in fact, a fact.

I love when life gives me the opportunity to remember something I thought I forgot.

My aunt asks many questions that provide me with various opportunities to remember little things. "Do you remember living on the farm? Do you remember your dad farming? Do you remember ..." 

To keep myself entertained during our somewhat repetitive conversations, I find myself digging a little digger to refine and explain my answers. I have fond memories of taking supper out to the field during harvest. I remember the picnic basket Mom packed up, the feeling in the air, the memory of food tasting so much better because it came from that picnic basket. Then my memories took me to the time Dad showed us (I don't remember who I was with but I know there was someone with me) how to chaff the wheat, then chew on the kernels of wheat, to see if they were ready to harvest. We were at the bottom of the hill on our farm, by the grain bins. The memory is so vivid, I can almost remember the sky that day...

I spent the past weekend at "The Cute House" we have recently adopted. The house is furnished with history. The kitchen table with a history that goes back as far as my memories; a bench Dad made; an old stool Dad reinforced; the picnic basket (see above) currently holds various household hardware; my brother's old twin bed; not to mention the multitude of items I inherited from Mom's kitchen. Even the items from my home which have been donated to the Cute House have a story, because I don't need them due to what has been replaced from Mom's belongings (crystal wine glasses in my city home verses the dollar-store wine glasses which preceded them).

Memories. To have them. To hold onto them. To be able to retrieve them from the recesses of your mind or be triggered to recall them. Precious. The human brain is a miracle like no other. It is a precious commodity we tend to take for granted when it functions as expected.

The kitchen table on the far right side of this photo resides in my cozy little "home away from home" (that is me in the box, along with Mama Cat, which dates the picture back to the early 1960's)

The oh-so-special picnic basket, along with the potato salad Mom taught me how to make

It is amazing. The little things that "stick" as time goes on. I am grateful beyond words for the memories I have. So many good feelings are triggered. A history I am happy to recall.

It is sad to realize how many people are triggered by less than idyllic remembrances. The things that "stick" are not necessarily all good things. 

I am so very grateful the things that have stuck with me over the course of my life are predominantly warm and fuzzy. 

Hello

Hello. It's me. I was wondering if after all this time I'd like to sit down and write again ...

Yes. I do believe I do. I feel more "me" than I have felt in a very long time. I think I'm finally ready to let my fingertips do the talking and see if I can hear the deepness of my thoughts that haven't had the opportunity to find their way to my consciousness.

As I have been walking through my morning, I keep hearing Mom's voice in my thoughts. I miss being a daughter. The last year of Mom's life, I believe I went to see her as often as I did so I could be mothered, hear what she had to say and just lean in and take in all I could.

Mom knew me better than I knew myself. She knew I had to close my daycare. She was wary when I switched my vocation from child care to senior care. She knew ...

A wise friend of mine once wrote about the contrasts between caring for the young who are becoming more independent with each step forward verses caring for those who are on the opposite end of the spectrum and becoming more dependent as time progresses. 

While children may sap one's energy physically, there is a mental fatigue that comes with investing one's time solely with their senior counterparts. 

There is a joyfulness in children I often described as "heaven on earth" moments when I had my daycare. In equal comparison, there is an inner child within my more senior friends who light up like a Christmas tree when reminiscing and talking about the good old days. 

One of my favorite things was watching children at play while they had no idea I was watching. The fly-on-the-wall moments. Innocence. Imagination. Their unique ways of taking in the moments. The moments wonder. Listening to children using good manners without an adult prompting them. The moments were precious and plentiful. One just had to stop and take notice of them when they happened.

One of my favorite things while spending time with my senior companions is when they get lost in the retelling of the stories of their past. Their eyes glisten and shine. Their posture changes. There is an energy from within that lights them up and rolls back the years. They have so much wisdom to share. So many stories. There is a history within them begging to be told.

There is a space between the day-to-day repetitive nature of child and senior caring and those moments of joy that is hard. It was those times when I ran out to Mom's to escape the increasing pressure of of maintaining my equilibrium. I needed to place some distance my day-to-day life and drive off to spend time with my lifeline. My mom.

I have missed running out to see Mom. I have missed being "daughtered". I have a supportive group of friends and family that would keep me standing throughout any storm. But I have missed distancing my day-to-day life from a place where I can go to recharge and rejuvenate myself.

I believe I have finally found my way back "home". Again.

I haven't felt this certain about the next right step for quite some time. I have not felt the yearning desire to leave this oasis I call home to go anywhere for a very, very long time. 

Something has changed.

This little gem is a weekend getaway for now. A potential place to call home when I retire. 

I haven't looked forward in anticipation for longer than I can remember. I lost my dream gene. Every little piece of the puzzle has fit together in a way to make this new dream possible. I have felt Mom and Dad's nod of approval every step of the way.

When I was a nine year old child, I vividly remember sobbing uncontrollably when we drove off our farm in the hills in Saskatchewan to head off to our new lives in Edmonton. I vowed to myself, "I'm going to grow up, become a teacher and move back to our home town". 

I didn't become a teacher but I do believe my inner child is completely satisfied with the reality of moving to small town Saskatchewan. Not the same small town I dreamed of as a child. But close. So very close.

One Day ... But Not Today

There will come a day when replacing my car is smarter than repairing it. Thankfully it is not today.

My car simply didn't start when I turned the ignition five days prior to the day it died. When it happened initially, I gave it a few more tries, panicked slightly as I wondered if that was my last "start", but when it started easily the next time (and the next nine start-ups) I began to wonder if I had imagined the one time it didn't start.

Long story short, it wasn't my imagination. My car died last night.

As I sat and waited for the tow truck to arrive, I mentally tallied how much I have saved and how much more I have to go before I can shop for my next car. I berated myself for believing I was in a relatively good financial position after paying down last years bills to zero. I started to believe I had jinxed my luck.

Then the tow truck driver arrived and had a few tricks up his sleeve.

When the car didn't start by boosting the battery and a little more troubleshooting, he said he had one more thing to try before he gave up. He slid under the car, tapped the starter, told me when to start the ignition and the car came back to life.

He suggested I keep the car running until I arrived at my final destination because the starter struggled a little before it started. So my car spent the night at my friendly neighborhood mechanic's parking lot and a new starter has been ordered. I should be up and running by later this afternoon.

A new starter verses a new-to-me car? The starter wins. I can coast for a little while longer.

Of all the times and places for my car to abandon me, I could not be more grateful to be stranded in the grocery pick-up parking stall, fifteen minutes from home. I quickly assessed my situation. My grocery supply had just been replenished, a long weekend (with an extra day added to it) was on the horizon and I had no where to go. I was dreaming of five days of being stranded at home and I was not disappointed.

Granted, shopping for a different car would have added a dimension to the isolation which would not be ideal. But hey, I was still grateful I hadn't been stranded an hour and a half out of the city, in a spot with no cell service (I know this, because I tried to make a phone call), with my aunt on the day my car first died.

Do I feel like I have a battalion of guardian angels watching over me? You bet I do. Of all the times and places for the car to quit, this was one of the best options. I was on my way home so I had fulfilled my obligations for the day (and just one day shy of getting through the week). The car died on a Wednesday which allowed one business day for my garage to get me back on the road again before the long weekend.

As much as I long for isolation, I am grateful for the knowledge I can go anywhere I need to go by having a fully functional car in the garage.

I am feeling incredibly lucky this morning. My only challenge is in attempting to squeeze both a new car starter AND house insurance out of one month's wages. It's worth a try. 

When I first started visiting my aunt on a regular basis, I remember the sensation of feeling my uncle (her husband) and my dad's presence surrounding us. It was strong and I could almost reach out and touch it. Initially, it felt like a warm hug but as time went by, it felt a little more like someone walking along side me as I made my way through the days. Over time, that feeling diminished and I thought of it less and less. Last night, before I left my aunt's, I looked up at a picture of her and my uncle and my heart skipped a beat as I remembered how palpable I felt his presence over the course of time. I silently acknowledged his presence and wistfully thought of the years I have walked this walk with my aunt. I thought of the idea of all my "heavenly angels" for a fraction of a second.

I snapped back into the real world and as I headed home, I had every reason to feel stranded and alone, but I didn't. In reality, it is because I had a cell phone and all the numbers I needed to make my way back home. It was less of a problem and more of a slight inconvenience. But the feeling I had as I glanced up at the picture of my uncle was still within my subconscious thoughts. My state of well being was more than the convenience of cell service.

One day, my car will not start again for me. It is not today. I am grateful for my handy dandy mechanic at the end of the block, the funds to keep it running, cell service to call for assistance as needed and if there is an angel or three watching over me and keeping life only mildly inconvenient instead of major catastrophies, I am eternally grateful.

Rebirth

Today is my youngest son's twenty second birthday. It is no wonder when I sat down with an empty page, pen in one hand and coffee in the other this morning, that my pen started to ramble on birth and rebirth. My thoughts took me down memory lane as I thought of the birth of each of my sons and how I was reborn each time.

My firstborn son was born in August. By January, I was separated from my husband and the need to become a self-supporting parent of one was my guiding light. Do not pass go, do not collect $200. Thankfully we had my parent's home and support to weather the storm. I not only found one job, but two. In short order, due to a subsidized mortgage offering, I was able to qualify to purchase a townhouse for us to move into.

1978 My First Time Reborn - Baby. Divorce. Start a job. Buy a house.

My second son was born in September. By December, I left my on-again-off-again marriage for the third and final time. Dad died three days later. His funeral was back "home"- where our family originated and my first home. One off hand comment to the effect of "You should move back 'home'..." was all I needed to set the wheels in motion. That is exactly what we did.

1987 My Second Rebirth - Baby. Divorce. Find a new job. Move to a new province. Create new life.

My third and final child was born in June. By December, I had applied for a year's leave of absence from my employer to test the waters to see if I could open a daycare from my home. I did exactly that and I've never looked back.

1998 My Third Time Reborn - Baby. Leave job. Strike out on my own. Work from home. Become a full-time parent for the third and final time.

The birth of each of my children changed my life, changed me and redirected me towards a better path. My children were an average of ten years apart in age so perhaps my life was in need of a major change at each of these pivotal decades.

It often feels easiest to just keep doing what we are doing and not shake up our world too much, too often. Once every ten years or so worked for me. In fact, as I wrote those words I quietly wondered if I reinvented myself ten years after my youngest child was born. And I did.

My youngest son's father and I broke up late spring. The life I had imagined myself living evaporated into thin air. I was lost. I spent the summer painting and maintaining our home. When winter set in, I started down the road to collecting family memories and binding them together in the form of a book. The following spring, the first book of a series of two was almost complete.

2008 An Unexpected Rebirth - Separation. Ambition. Motivation. Finding myself and my place within our extended family. The birth of two books of Family Memories.

The last decade's transition was less about birth and more focused on loss. Mom's last year was life changing. In September, the wheels were set in motion to create a life where I could be exactly where I wanted to be. Mom's health situation was diagnosed in February. She focused on her continued independence and did not want us to worry. To be able to go out to Mom's on a whim, in good times and in bad was exactly where I wanted and needed to be. She died in September. It was my final year of being a daughter. It is a year I will never regret.

2017 Focus on Being a Daughter - A diagnosis. Moving through. Being there. Loss. Moving on.

I'm in between major decade transitions at the moment. I sense another transition is in the air. I am reminding myself to focus on the moment. Moving through the challenges. Being there. In the midst of the seriousness, our home is going through its own transitions and re-inventing its purpose which is a delightful diversion to all that is going on in the world around us.

Focus on the moment. Be grateful for what "is". Be there. Be motivated. Keep reinventing yourself as the world moves on. One forward step in front of another.

It is truly no wonder they call the birthing process "labor". It is a labor of love but well worth the effort.

Synchronicity

I am working my way through "It's Never Too Late to Begin Again" by Julia Cameron. 

Julia instructs her readers to divide their current age by twelve. In my case, since that answer is five, my first assignment is to go back and recall memories, smells, feelings and all I know about my first five years.

Lucky for me, what I lacked in actual memories, I was able to find in pictures.

Mom and me

I love the look on Mom's face in this picture. I am amused by the ashtray and cigarette at her side. This was the norm back then. Nothing unusual there. Except perhaps the fact that Mom is wearing plaid pants with a striped top. Now that one makes me sit and wonder what inspired her choice in attire that day. Maybe that was the norm too?

Dad and me

I'm a little older here. Once again, I love how Dad is looking at me. Obviously I was placed in the crook of his arm for picture taking purposes only (who would read a paper with a baby in their arms?). I find it comforting that Dad is reading a paper here. Dad sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper is how I think of Dad when I think of him relaxing. 

My Sisters and me

I have been told my sisters were pretty excited to have a new baby in the house and I was adored as a child. Mom saved a card of congratulations from my uncle saying "Congratulations to the 2 sisters too - I hear they're pretty happy people." I have few sister-memories from this age and stage of my life but I have a feeling the closeness I feel to them stems from their attachment to me from day one. Apparently plaid and stripes were the norm back then - check our my sister's attire above.

Momma Cat and me

I don't really remember Momma Cat (I think that was her name) but this picture encapsulates the way I still feel when I'm wrapped up in the moment of being a content cat parent. Cats, boxes, cushions and kids. This has been a common theme throughout my life and that of my own children. The expressions on Mom and Dad's faces in the previous photos have been transferred to me - this time I'm the proud "parent".

Sorting through these pictures, putting them in chronological order and scouring the pictures for long forgotten details segued into my first "Artist Date".

I love the way the music of the 1960's makes me feel. In a word? Happy. As far back as my memory goes, there was a record player in our living room. Remnants of my sisters' teen years were the 45 rpm records of the hits from the 1960's remained when I grew into my teens. This music must have been the soundtrack to my youngest years. I remember nothing but the feeling. Happiness.

Yesterday, I played 1960 music in the background while I finally took on the task of sorting through pictures, memorabilia, newspaper clippings, wedding/funeral cards and all that Mom deemed important enough to save. 

I started a photo album of the first five years of my life while music from the '60's played. I let thoughts, feelings, memories and a sense of wonder wash in, around and through me. 

What started out as a quiet little task to assemble memories of "0 to 5 years", became a walk down memory lane.

It is the closest I've felt to Mom in a very long time.

As per usual, the first thing I did when I woke up this morning was open the living room blinds in the hope of spotting a rabbit. I haven't had many rabbit sightings lately but the evidence of their presence is everywhere. Rabbit tracks galore and the need to replenish their food every other day. 

This morning? A rabbit was sitting on the street, facing our window as if it was sitting and waiting for me. I gazed at this lone, still rabbit for a good half hour before something got its attention and it stood on all fours, stretched upwards, looked towards our living room window one last time and hopped down the street. 

Part of this week's assignment was to be mindful of synchronicities as they happen - being at the right place at the right time, thinking of someone and they call and other little ways of calling your attention to the minute details of life and considering how they are connected.

I was looking back on my 2019 calendar and was reminded of a childhood friend I wanted to invite for lunch. I turned the calendar pages a few times and the friend I had just been thinking of called me. We are having lunch together today.

I knew without a doubt I wanted to spend the early morning hours in "Mom's room" yesterday as I planned to concentrate on my "It's Never Too Late..." assignment. The moment I sat still in the room, I was enveloped with a sense of peace and stillness.

Be still and know ...

I sat still with Mom's box of memorabilia, photos and breathed in the day. I spent the day in the room I dubbed "Mom's room" from the very first time she stayed with us. I immersed myself in childhood thoughts, memories, music and felt a warm embrace and the sense of feeling

 "Everything's going to be okay".

Then I woke up to a rabbit gazing towards our living room window this morning. A rabbit who was in no hurry to move on. A rabbit who seemed to be exactly where it was meant to be.

Synchronicity? I like to think so. It feels good ...

Someone's Watching Over Me

I found this when I searched the words "someone's watching over you" as I wrote my previous post:



As I navigate my days, I am quietly comforted by the feeling of an unseen presence which surrounds me, akin to the rabbit tracks in our front yard. Just because you don't see something doesn't mean it's there.

I feel Mom's presence in, around and through me most poignantly.

I am almost always driving when I feel Dad by my side.

When we gather as a family, I find myself hoping Mom & Dad could be watching over the occasion.

I remember the palpable feeling of a presence all around me when I gathered together Dad's family's memories and locked myself in a room with them.

I felt a warm presence when we gathered the family together in the aftermath of the completion of the aforementioned book.

When I think of those who have passed through my life and beyond their physical presence here on earth I wistfully wonder if their presence remains close and touches the lives they were a part of.

When I feel this way, think these thoughts and wonder about all I can't see, I get the distinct feeling I am not alone. Someone's watching over me ...

Question Period - 1996

I have just returned home from a weekend with my siblings and reflections of our visit are echoing within my thoughts this morning.

I am blessed to be part of a family who make me feel whole, accepted and loved. They seem to like me just the way I am. The feeling is wholeheartedly reciprocated towards each and every one of my siblings.

Mom was brought into our conversation often. We watched a home video my brother crafted 23 years ago as a gift to Mom. He titled the video "Question Period (1996)". It was a video which featured all four of Mom's children. My brother came up with a list of questions. We pondered and answered to the best of our ability. It was fun to be a part of the gift our brother was creating.

The video was from a time when Mom was in perfect health. Yet we said all the important things.

My brother wound up the video in a way which we unintentially recreated when we gathered to say our final farewell to Mom 21 years later. The images and words were touching but meant ever so much more with the passage of time and the loss of Mom.

All that was left after the credits rolled was the feeling that Mom heard all of these things when it mattered.

When Mom died, I was consoled by the knowledge that I had said all I had to say. I said it when I thought it. In the present. In writing. In cards and letters. I had said everything I wanted to tell her.

It saddens me when I think that Dad never received the same gift. It is my hope that he knew how we felt. But there is nothing quite like hearing the words said aloud. I wasn't very vocal in those days. I'm glad I found my voice.

Using your voice to spread kindness is one of the best gifts one can give. Write what you can't say, say what you can't write ... but say something. Give the gift of letting someone know how you feel now. One never knows what tomorrow will bring.

Best Vacation Ever

I woke up in paradise today. I don't know how they get any work done around here. I find myself simply wandering around and gazing out the windows ...

From the birds who were flitting about in the tree outside the bedroom window ... to the dogs who were resting on the deck ... to the cats who seemed to be the first to sense movement within the house (thus, "breakfast time"!) ... to the simplicity of the blue sky, water and nature all around.

This is the most peaceful I can remember feeling.

Not only does this feel like a piece of heaven right here on earth, but there is something rather serene about knowing there is nothing expected of me other than feeding the pets and ensuring they have water. Their mere presence is payback and then some.

I feel "Mom" so strongly within me right now ...

Mom would love it here. My son has put his blood, sweat and tears into this property and has created a home. This land spoke to him from the time he acquired it, looked onto the horizon and started dreaming of all it could be.

Nothing has come easy. My son cleared and cleaned up the land one step at a time. Clearing the debris and excess; building the white fence that marks this place with his own unique signature; shingling the buildings; excavating his basement; and literally starting from the bottom, up ... he has created "this".

Mom enjoyed the process while my son documented the work involved every step of the way. She came to visit her last trip home. She got to enjoy the process of the evolution and see how far it had come. And it has come so much further.

Two years. Mom has been gone for two years (less a few days). I think of our last visit here and where things were at, at the time. The building blocks were all in place. Step by step, bit by bit, this place has become so much more than it has been.

My son had a calling to call this place "home". I can feel it in every sense of the word. This is THE most home-away-from-home place I have ever been in my life. I feel grounded. I feel safe. I feel enveloped in all things familiar to me. I sense the piece of Dad within my son that helped build this. I feel Mom's appreciation of all that has become.

This is literally the best vacation. Ever.