Connecting the Dots

Time is an elusive thing. Slipping through our fingers like water, assuming we have a tomorrow ahead of us and the many hours we mark that don't make an impact in our bank of memories.

Thank goodness we do have dates of significance that mark our time in history. Births, deaths, anniversaries, special occasions and all the little things that make a solid mark in our history.

This morning's thoughts started out because I remember the date my cousin's daughter's birth. We lived in the same city, this was the first baby I knew in an up close and personal way and my sister's oldest son was born a few weeks later (I would have to double check the date).

Remembering this one date spurred the connecting tissue of part of my family's history. My sister had children every two years, except the one two-year-span which was filled by the birth of my oldest child. I remember the year of his birth, thus I can count backward and forward to fill in the blanks of my sister's family. I can fill in the years of my other sister's children using similar connections. 

The year 2005 was a year of significance within our family. Three major life and death events happened during this year. Remember the year and one can discern the months of each of these events.

The year 2012 was the beginning of a time of loss within Mom & Dad's families. Start at 2012 and the number patterns trigger the memories of other dates of significance.

Memories resurface by connecting the dots within one's life. One event can start a domino effect of one thing connecting to another. Oh-so-many conversations unfold as one topic triggers the next and the next and all those following. 

I spent several years in the company of a relative whose memories were diminishing. Long term memories were intact but the short term ones were losing ground. Writing notes, notes and more notes couldn't make a lasting impression. She asked questions. So many questions. 

The more time I spent with my aunt, the less I took the ability to remember for granted. The more questions she asked, the more I appreciated the need to connect the dots to trigger a memory.

This morning, I sat down and wrote three pages of dates, connections, extended connections, byproducts of one connection to another and had small family history recollection. Simply by connecting the dots.

The Ticker Tape of My Mind...

Thoughts are scrolling through my mind like a ticker tape at the bottom of the screen on a news channel. The highlight reel of the past few days would read something like this:

A perfectly fine Friday was spent meeting up with My Sister for lunch, at the halfway point between our two homes. We were accompanied by our aunt and her sister and a wonderful time was had by all. Roads were spring-like, the sky was clear and it was a great day for a road trip.

An unexpected invitation on Saturday took me out of the house and meeting up with my Middle Son, who then proceeded to take us on a country drive so we could go and check out the four, 1/4 sections of land Dad once farmed; passed along to Mom and is presently owned by all four of their children. 

It was another perfect day for a drive, the clouds parted and the sun shone through and smiled down on us as we walked on the soil that was handed down from Dad's dad, to Dad and his brother. The land has been sold to two great grandsons of Grandpa's. I could almost feel Dad smiling down upon us as we walked through all four fields. "I'll never wash these shoes again", was my acclamation after my son asked me how it felt to walk on the land my dad had once farmed.

Sunday was another day which was touched with perfection. Meeting up with a childhood friend for brunch (my son and I drove past her old farm yard, just down the road from where we lived) set the scene for a visit which lasted for hours. There is nothing quite like a friendship that transcends time. We've quite literally known each other "forever" and our conversation was that of someone you share a lifetime of history with.

It was a let down to come home at the end of that day and have the last few "plans of the weekend" be aborted without notice. Normally, I would relish in the unexpected gift of savoring the last few hours of such a memorable weekend by myself. But my contentment came to an unexpected halt after a brief conversation which took a turn I wasn't expecting.

Digging up the remnants of a life I once lived put a cloud over an otherwise perfect weekend. This is why I don't like digging up the skeletons of the past. I thought I had dealt with, resolved and come to terms with life as I knew it. The unfortunate truth is the "ripple" of a pebble cast decades ago still has the power to overturn my life raft without warning. 

Onto a fresh, new week. I don't have quite as many "hard things" to conquer this week. Simply opening my eyes each morning and trying to recreate what worked for me last week will be challenge enough.

Exercise, write, eat well, socialize and looking forward are on today's menu of events. Onward. It is the only right direction to take.

Country Roads

A friend and I set out on a loosely structured adventure yesterday. As she laid out her suggestions, I quietly panicked inside. These were new roads for me. New roads scare me.

Then I realized that these were well travelled, paved highways and the chances of losing a wheel in a pothole or sliding off of a gravel road into a slough were minimal. My anxiety quickly passed and I started to anticipate what we may see along our travels.

The very best thing about our mini adventure was the lack of expectations, our mutual appreciation of the birds (oh! the birds!!) we spotted along the way, the view of the rolling hills as we travelled down this new, country road and simply the wide open space before us.

There is something very therapeutic about placing some distance between where-you-are and where-you-live. Worries take a back seat,  your heart takes on the beat of the rhythm of your day and you feel a sense of peace seep into your bones.

We both have roots that are based on growing up on a farm. That is quite possibly where the similarity of our stories start and end. She lived her whole life on a farm. I moved off our farm and into a booming metropolis at the ripe old age of nine. It amazes me what an impact of those first nine years have made in me.

When we walked into a deserted small town restaurant, it smelled like my childhood. Oh, the anticipation of those rare restaurant meals. Meals! Ha!! As if I ever ate anything but French fries as a child!! But it still felt very good and very right.

We (I) accidentally drove past the first point-of-interest on our Country Road Adventure. I didn't understand that the name of the game was that our destinations would take a small amount of seeking out. I expected signs on the highway to direct us to the inconsequential items on our itinerary. I would be wrong. And so would begin the most interesting part of our day. Seeking out and finding these points of interest within small town Saskatchewan.

Our first successful find was a pedestrian bridge. We were welcomed by a most friendly dog that acted like she had known us for forever. 

She escorted us up and down the bridge, walking right beside us as if to guide us along our way safely. I would love to know her story. I wanted to believe that she was a modern version of The Littlest Hobo - a homeless dog that spread goodwill and kindness (and acts of heroism) wherever she went. 

We were headed out of town when we spotted tourist signs for the pedestrian bridge that we thought that we had already found. So we followed where the signs told us to go and found an empty parking lot which led us to the locked gate which prevented us from going any further down that particular path. 

The bridge that we had originally intended to find was barricaded and there was no friendly ambassador to walk us safely to the other side. So we simply stood still and listened. The birds were in their glory in this sanctuary. The water, the trees, the quiet, the stillness ... it was absolutely heavenly. This bridge invited us to stay still and savor the moment. Our adventure was all about going with the flow of the day and this time the flow reminded us to be still. We listened.

The last destination on our flexible agenda was in the ghost town where two of my mom's sisters were born and where my great aunt had once lived. It was a place where some of my family's roots originated and it was called "Family Tree Forest and Gardens". This ... was the destination that I had been anticipating the most.

My friend and I are 'all about' honoring, remembering and documenting our family's stories and preserving our little bit of history within this great big world. I loved everything about what this place stood for. 

We circled the town without any luck. Luckily we found one lone soul sitting on her front stoop and asked for directions. We found our way and this is what we found:

It was beautiful. They took a piece of pasture land and turned it into a 'Family Tree Forest'. Their creation has been (at least) ten years in the making and each tree has been planted by hand. A small excerpt from their website is: "Trees put down deep roots, they are majestic, they bend and sway when the winds blow, but they stand firm against adversity. They are strong, and yet bend when they need to."

I knew when we found this place I would feel like I had 'come home again'. Sadly, life's true blessings and unexpected pleasures rarely come where you expect to find them. The property felt abandoned and the one lone man who we spotted seemed to avert our attention when we tried to approach him. We looked at each other and said, "There is a story here ..." (just not the one that we expected to find).

We made one last pit stop before we turned the car back in the direction of home and shared that much coveted order of French fries (something we both remember from our childhood).

We ended our adventure by travelling down those gravel roads that I feared the most to stop in and visit my Middle Son and his girlfriend at their farm. That ... was quite likely the highlight of the trip for me. 

My own son is working hard to put down his own roots. His roots don't go deep yet but they are weathering the adversity of these challenging times. They are becoming stronger and bending without breaking. 

My children are branches of me and my history. My heart swells when I feel my son's connection to land, history and establishing  his own independent 'roots'. 

Small town Saskatchewan has changed since I was a child. The land that our ancestors cleared by hand is now being farmed by big corporations. Abandoned family farms are scattered among the country side. The wind of change is (and has been) in the air for quite some time. 

Yet, there are still pioneers among us. People planting trees one-by-one. Young couples are forging out of the city and building their homes in the countryside. 

All is not lost. Not yet. 

As we drove down those country roads, they took me 'home' again. Back to a place where I belong. My roots are firmly entrenched within the family that I was born into. I am so very fortunate to have collected memories, stories and history that tie me to this land. It may be a tenuous bond, but it is a bond none-the-less.

Immerse yourself in your own family's history once in a while. Travel down roads that take you to places you visited as a child. Revisit your past every once in a while. Don't forget where you have come from. Put down deep roots. They will help you stand firm against adversity.

Travel down your own country road...

The Memory Book

My Youngest & I have turned a job into a rather enjoyable experience.

We have cleared out the top shelf of his closet, some of the clutter in his room and a file of miscellaneous paperwork and turned all of it into a Memory Book of his elementary school years.

I included him in the project right from the onset, as I asked him go through class pictures and write down the names of his classmates for future reference. This is something that we should have done the day that he brought them home from school because I see that I am not the only one who cannot retain long term memories.

As he took on the task of labelling school photos, I started collecting his journals from over the years. Soon he was leafing through the journals as they provided several clues for his memory lapses.

Rummaging through the clutter of the past can be fun. It provides a person with a road map down memory lane. One memory leads to another. The next thing we knew, we were going through photo albums to connect the dots of the past and create a more vivid picture.

Then we remembered the various letters, notes, journals and other memorabilia that we have scattered about the house. As we collected and reread those it spurred on a whole new conversation.

We talked, we laughed and we reminisced. We bantered back and forth and talked about the good old days.

I couldn't help but think of the memories that we have created these past few days as we put together this book of his life-so-far. I will never look at that book without reflecting on the lazy, hazy days of his summer holidays when we had the time to work on this. Together.

Each and every time I create a physical, tangible memory that will outlast me, a part of me fast forwards to the time when one of the people in the memory will no longer be around.

As a parent, I assume I will be the first to leave this earth. When I work on these little projects, I feel like I'm leaving a part of me behind and it is just a way of keeping memories alive forever ...

But yesterday I felt uneasy. Just because I am oldest, it doesn't guarantee that I will outlive my children. What if I was the one left behind with nothing but my memories? I glanced at the Memory Book and it tugged at my heart strings. It is full. But it is not complete ...

As we wound up the day, My Youngest made some comment about the way we were looking back on his life and talking like two old souls. "And I'm only 14 ..."

We packed it up and left a small accumulation of memorabilia to deal with another day. I shook my head and wondered why I felt the need to complete what we had started that day because 'there is always tomorrow ...'

We take tomorrow for granted. Making memories today is the only guarantee we have. I'm grateful for opportunities to reflect and remember all that I have. Today. Because we never know what tomorrow will bring.

An Accidental Day

There is nothing I like better than a spur of the moment day. Yesterday, looking at a grid map of Our Province was the catalyst for a most excellent afternoon.

My Middle Son commented that he had recently driven down the highway to my childhood farm. I immediately tried to pinpoint where I had once lived. I wistfully commented that we should go for a Sunday drive out there before the weather turns on us. He replied "What about now?" I answered "Sure!"

It was that easy.

Conversation was easy. As we turned onto the minor highway that would take us back home, I got quiet as I tried to orientate myself and grasp the few memories I have left from that piece of the highway.

Then we came to (what used to be) the country store at the top of a big hill. The landmark that told me that we had arrived.

The next right was the road to where Dad's oldest brother had lived ... further along to the left is where my cousin and wife have made a home ... just beyond where we turned to drive to our family farm is where my childhood friend (that had recently joined me on an Alaskan Cruise) had grown up.

We were almost there. To the left is where another childhood friend had lived ... and then we turned into our approach. I was home.

The house is gone and the playhouse has almost completely fallen over. There are a few buildings left from when we lived there but for the most part, all that is left is the memories.

We lived in a spot where we were surrounded by rolling hills. We climbed The Big Hill and appreciated the view.

My Son looked into my past and saw what it could be. I looked into the same horizon and remembered what was.

Memories. The place where Mom & Dad started out and raised a family. Home.

We drove down the trail that led to where Dad's brother once lived. This is the same farm where my grandparents lived. It is the place that Dad's brothers fondly recall as 'home'.

We managed to cross paths with my cousin and chatted for a bit. We drove up the road and visited with another cousin for a while.

It was so easy. It felt so right. I'm so grateful that My Son appreciates these roots and his family. It not only felt like I belonged in this scenario ... but My Son felt like another important piece to the puzzle. He gets it.

Roots. Family. History.

Embrace your past, cherish your family, appreciate your history and make your own way.

History

I have started to read the book "The Postmistress" by Sarah Blake. I'm slowly wading through the pages but the words at the end of Chapter 4 stopped me in my tracks:

"... But here - she sighed - out there and upstairs, there was nothing of hers. She felt for the first time in her life the danger of other people's things - how they might erase her if she weren't careful ..."

I closed the book and wandered through our home. A home filled with permanence, history and a story unto itself.

I don't crave material 'stuff'. Sure, I like to have things that are serviceable for my needs. I buy what we need (and want). I replace that which is broken (and can't be fixed). Our home doesn't look neglected. But when I wander through our home, I can find a little piece of history in every room.

Our kitchen is furnished with a table and chair set that my parents bought before I was born. The table has been refurbished and the chairs have been reupholstered several times. But the original table and chairs are still standing and completely serviceable to this day. Our kitchen also houses a bench that my dad made.

Mom sent many of her belongings along with us as we tried to 'fill a moving van' with enough to start a new life when we moved out here 22 1/2 years ago. She started us off on our new beginning with not only the table and chairs, but a myriad of many other furnishings which are not only serviceable, but hold a memory or a story.

Many of the belongings in our home are old and refurbished. Mom sanded down and refinished a wooden mirror frame; a dresser and a book shelf that we had, before we moved into the house we live in right now. I painted a dresser that my aunt and uncle donated to us when our belongings were scarce.

Pictures of my family and a picture of our farm adorn the china cabinet.

It is the memories, the people and the history of our family that I cherish. Crystal and bone china hold little significance to me. That which is useful, serviceable and holds a piece of history are much finer gifts to hold onto.

As I read the last lines of Chapter 4 of "The Postmistress", something inside of me awoke to the knowledge that I am rich beyond words. I am surrounded by history. Not only in the belongings that a find strewn throughout our home ... but in the memories ... and in the family that I find myself drawn to, more and more each day.

It is my goal to encapsulate a piece of our family's history between the covers of a book. It has been a gift to wander through the country side and collect these most special trinkets of information which each family member holds within.

It is time to organize these memories and put them together so that I can share that gift with the rest of the family.

Shared history and finding a little piece of myself within a family member that I didn't even know brings me such a sense of 'belonging'. I have never felt more grounded than I do right now.

The material belongings that surround me can be taken away. The memories? This feeling inside of me? They are here to stay.

I am building a life on the person that I have become. So much of who I am, is based on 'history'. I am beyond grateful that my history has given me wings to fly. I know that I am blessed.