Sam the Record Man, like Honest Ed, is a person who helped to bring about a new city of Toronto.
Unlike my cousins and many around me, I am not a musical aficionado. Music is a significant part of my life, but it is not my passion. Nevertheless, Sam Sniderman's store on Yonge St. was an important part of my teenage years.
Going to Sam the Record Mans was an event. We snooped through a warren of rooms, on many levels, connected by various stairs, in various directions and of various lengths. Each room was filled to capacity with vinyl records, mostly LP's. Cool dudes, and not so cool dudes stood by pillars with bulging sets of headphones. They checked out the intended purchase, before they put down the cash at the register. The coolest of all were the sales help, who obviously lived music
I guess I was a Folkie. My odd collection of records was of the Peter, Paul and Mary sort. Hootenanys were bright spots on my unimpressive social calendar.
I would trudge up to the third floor and flip through the records. The third floor at that time had folk music and jazz. Those who had not completely emerged from the Beatnik era, hung over these records in their solid blacks. The Greasers with their fancy hairdos rocked in another room downstairs.
Boxing Day was the big day. Despite the law that stores were to stay closed, Sam's was very much open. SALE.SALE.SALE. Ragged lines formed along the street. Sam stood by the front door welcoming everyone, as he did most days, the store was open. We were crushed by a mass of humanity, mostly young, from all parts of the city and beyond.
It was a sad day, when decades later, a cardboard Sam stood in his place.
The City Fire Marshals must have been aware of the doings and had a hard time sitting on their hands.
Toronto was very waspish in those days; Toronto the Good, Hogtown, City of Churches. Here a dinner of prime rib roast and Yorkshire pudding, at the Royal York Hotel, was the epitome of fine dine dining.
The city has changed. This is a good thing. It is now Toronto the Good, a different kind of good. Characters who lived in brash, new ways opened up doors, meant to stay closed, letting in freshness from all over the world to become a global happening. Sam was one of those characters who opened doors.
Thankyou Sam. Safe journey.
Tuesday, 25 September 2012
Friday, 31 August 2012
Under Appreciated Hammocks
The sea air has changed from a breeze to a wind, the sun is shining brightly, the splendid, fuchsia, hollyhocks have almost finished their summer extravaganza AND I am in a colourful, striped canvas hammock on the good, old front porch. I have my beloved computer in my lap. I couldn't ask for more at this moment.
Hammocks are highly under rated.
I have been going through bushels of old photographs, very old photographs, sorting out so much past. This is a nasty task; what to keep, what to burn, where to find more appreciative homes for the photos. In one picture my paternal grandmother languishes in a hammock set up by the massive stone Presbyterian walls of her family's farmhouse in southwestern Ontario. Her five grown sisters gather around her in their long, starched, white summer dresses.
There is no question of burning this picture of my grandmother, Junie. I am given a glimpse of an unhighlighted time in a family's story. Her father died when her youngest brother was a baby. Her oldest brother, John, kept the farm going well enough that all of the sisters were able to eventually finish high school in various Girls Schools, as country one room schools only went so far. They went on to graduate from Teachers College. This was quite an accomplishment for a family of very limited means, at the beginning of the last century.
My grandmother knew more than a little about hard work, but there she is lolling in a hammock. This is an addendum to "the idle hands are the playthings of the devil" theology that seemed to permeate family ethos. Perhaps this was a Sunday when hands had a day of rest.
I kept the picture of my grandmother, Ethel, smiling as she rests in a hammock at the cottage on Lake Simcoe. This picture would have been taken a few years later, probably the summer of 1909, as my mother in another picture, taken at the same time, in the same hammock is about two years old. This grandma was familiar with hammocks every summer day. Leisure was part of her routine
At our home in Markham, a canvas, green striped hammock stretched out between the apple tree and the pear tree. My cousins and I didn't do much lolling. The hammock was an active recreation. We would take turns winding up the hammock as far as it could wind. Cocoon style a cousin was inside. When let go, the hammock spun its contents round and round until it became untwisted giving the cocoon quite a thrill, leaving the cousin slightly dizzy.
One of the great tragedies of my young life happened as I actively participated in hammock fun. My cousin Myra was wrapped up as tight as could be. I let go. She spun happily until she spun out onto the ground. Unfortunately she landed on tree roots and broke her collarbone. Unfortunately for me, I was held somehow responsible. My mother felt compelled to present her with a gift each day as she lay resplendent, recuperating outside in a lawn chair. The hammock was taken down.To be honest, I felt sorry for my little self with such wounded, tender feelings.
Last summer my younger daughter with her watermelon belly tried to rest in the very same hammock in which I now lie. Her young nieces constantly urged her on to more rambunctious endeavours.
This summer her baby boy wasn't really in to gentle swinging. He had his own swing. The little girls took over the hammock with a passion. Boy can that hammock swing. We had to go into town to buy an egg timer to accurately define each child's hammock time. I dreaded the accident in waiting, but it never came. A box and a half of bandaids were used up during their visit but none of them were hammock related.
My daughters and I had odd moments in the hammock, usually as the sun was setting.
My oldest cousin and I gave a huge handmade hammock with all the accessories to my daughter and her husband as a wedding gift. It would be fun to know what memories will swing into family lore from that hammock.
Hammocks are an essential part of summer.
Hammocks are highly under rated.
I have been going through bushels of old photographs, very old photographs, sorting out so much past. This is a nasty task; what to keep, what to burn, where to find more appreciative homes for the photos. In one picture my paternal grandmother languishes in a hammock set up by the massive stone Presbyterian walls of her family's farmhouse in southwestern Ontario. Her five grown sisters gather around her in their long, starched, white summer dresses.
There is no question of burning this picture of my grandmother, Junie. I am given a glimpse of an unhighlighted time in a family's story. Her father died when her youngest brother was a baby. Her oldest brother, John, kept the farm going well enough that all of the sisters were able to eventually finish high school in various Girls Schools, as country one room schools only went so far. They went on to graduate from Teachers College. This was quite an accomplishment for a family of very limited means, at the beginning of the last century.
My grandmother knew more than a little about hard work, but there she is lolling in a hammock. This is an addendum to "the idle hands are the playthings of the devil" theology that seemed to permeate family ethos. Perhaps this was a Sunday when hands had a day of rest.
I kept the picture of my grandmother, Ethel, smiling as she rests in a hammock at the cottage on Lake Simcoe. This picture would have been taken a few years later, probably the summer of 1909, as my mother in another picture, taken at the same time, in the same hammock is about two years old. This grandma was familiar with hammocks every summer day. Leisure was part of her routine
At our home in Markham, a canvas, green striped hammock stretched out between the apple tree and the pear tree. My cousins and I didn't do much lolling. The hammock was an active recreation. We would take turns winding up the hammock as far as it could wind. Cocoon style a cousin was inside. When let go, the hammock spun its contents round and round until it became untwisted giving the cocoon quite a thrill, leaving the cousin slightly dizzy.
One of the great tragedies of my young life happened as I actively participated in hammock fun. My cousin Myra was wrapped up as tight as could be. I let go. She spun happily until she spun out onto the ground. Unfortunately she landed on tree roots and broke her collarbone. Unfortunately for me, I was held somehow responsible. My mother felt compelled to present her with a gift each day as she lay resplendent, recuperating outside in a lawn chair. The hammock was taken down.To be honest, I felt sorry for my little self with such wounded, tender feelings.
Last summer my younger daughter with her watermelon belly tried to rest in the very same hammock in which I now lie. Her young nieces constantly urged her on to more rambunctious endeavours.
This summer her baby boy wasn't really in to gentle swinging. He had his own swing. The little girls took over the hammock with a passion. Boy can that hammock swing. We had to go into town to buy an egg timer to accurately define each child's hammock time. I dreaded the accident in waiting, but it never came. A box and a half of bandaids were used up during their visit but none of them were hammock related.
My daughters and I had odd moments in the hammock, usually as the sun was setting.
My oldest cousin and I gave a huge handmade hammock with all the accessories to my daughter and her husband as a wedding gift. It would be fun to know what memories will swing into family lore from that hammock.
Hammocks are an essential part of summer.
Friday, 24 August 2012
Sleeper Inners and Getter Uppers
It is a difficult life being a sleeper inner in a world of getter uppers.
For the most part my friends are getter uppers. By the time I enter consciousness, my compatriots, scattered hither and yon, have taken significant bites out of the day. Dogs have been walked, tea leisurely savoured, clothes washed, The Globe and Mail consumed, muffins baked. It goes on and on.
I know this because I get up early to feed my impatient dog. Before I crawl back into bed, I can hear the familiar buzz of a world awake, both literally and figuratively.
In a small fishing village, five o'clock isn't that early. It is the tides that tell the time. For the many farmers that load down my family tree, the day's schedule was guided by the needs of the animals, the demands of the land and the control of the weather.
Why should this matter to me ? I don't know, but it does.
I put much of the responsibility on the long gone shoulders of Calvin and John Knox that shaped the Protestant Work Ethic with the strong power of social pressure.
It is a decree of my grandfather, long gone before I was born, that has taken root in my psyche. "Five to seven victory, five after seven defeat." I can't seem to rid myself of the concept.
I am a nine o'clock kind of gal. I go for a leisurely morning awakening,unfortunately lightly coated with strong, flavourful sense of guilt.
Thankfully, nightwear and daywear, these days is almost indistinguishable from each other. I can almost convince myself, that the early riser at my door doesn't necessarily guess my morning secret.
For the most part my friends are getter uppers. By the time I enter consciousness, my compatriots, scattered hither and yon, have taken significant bites out of the day. Dogs have been walked, tea leisurely savoured, clothes washed, The Globe and Mail consumed, muffins baked. It goes on and on.
I know this because I get up early to feed my impatient dog. Before I crawl back into bed, I can hear the familiar buzz of a world awake, both literally and figuratively.
In a small fishing village, five o'clock isn't that early. It is the tides that tell the time. For the many farmers that load down my family tree, the day's schedule was guided by the needs of the animals, the demands of the land and the control of the weather.
Why should this matter to me ? I don't know, but it does.
I put much of the responsibility on the long gone shoulders of Calvin and John Knox that shaped the Protestant Work Ethic with the strong power of social pressure.
It is a decree of my grandfather, long gone before I was born, that has taken root in my psyche. "Five to seven victory, five after seven defeat." I can't seem to rid myself of the concept.
I am a nine o'clock kind of gal. I go for a leisurely morning awakening,unfortunately lightly coated with strong, flavourful sense of guilt.
Thankfully, nightwear and daywear, these days is almost indistinguishable from each other. I can almost convince myself, that the early riser at my door doesn't necessarily guess my morning secret.
Friday, 17 August 2012
A Challenging Year
The End of Summer is nigh. The trees have lost their robust green. Some are even tinged with Autumn's yellows.
For me this is the end of the year. September brings a new season with a new pace. Some summer dreams are folded up for another time. The happy times recorded, wait on full cameras. The world drifts in lazy quiet.
This has not been a gentle year and I am tired.
In several weeks we will celebrate the first birthday of my grandson. He is a bright spark of humanity, with a gentleness that helps calm the world. His entry into the world was not a gentle one. For the first few weeks, he did not thrive and his mummy was in and out of the hospital with unrelated health issues for three months. I thoroughly enjoyed being a presence in his early days and now delight in his healthy pudginess. My daughter will return to work soon from maternity leave. His father is a wonderfully engaged parent. However the worry beads got a good workout.
My sweet, old rabbit hound died before our life could return to normal. She was an eccentric bundle of joy and I miss her daily. She died Thanksgiving weekend.
I never find Christmas an easy season. There are happy times, but it also comes loaded with grand expectations and memories of not so happy times. Last Christmas was spent at my daughter's house. Her little girls were spending their first Christmas apart with their daddy and his large family merriment.
On their return, we did our best to fill the house floor to ceiling with fun. We had fun, but it was a tough Christmas.
I love my house in winter. The fire burns and the living room glows. This past winter did not offer many chances to enjoy such warmth. My cousin, who lives nearby, went into the hospital for a relatively simple operation, and was caught in a grand struggle between life and death. Long ago warnings of blood poisoning in my mother's stories, became a reality. A once healthy man became a frail image of his former self. His friends rallied, his family rallied, indeed the whole community rallied until in fact he rallied. We finally were able to take a deep breath as he became able to return to his former life.
Spring brought with it fresh air and bright sunny days.
Unfortunately, all was not well in this small kingdom. For reasons beyond my understanding, we had a mini outbreak of unkindness. Words were spoken that could not be taken back, actions sometimes spoke even louder than the words. Good people acted in nasty ways.
It took an act of will to fully appreciate a wonderful world that usually, continuously seeps in.
.... and then my grandchildren arrived.
I cannot claim that an exuberant six year old and and her no less exuberant four year old sister brought about a peaceable kingdom. I do know that an egg timer measured hammock time, little baby cousin could not have got more love and attention and the nearby beaches of the shore absorbed so much energy and offered endless adventures and fascinations.
Water gun fights, trips to swim in a freshwater lake, late night sparklers, a living room filling challenging puzzle, creations involving puddles of glue and unwashable paint, endless watermelon, a fort in the bushes, dress up clothes, dolls from another time. The squeals of joy and the not so joyous squeals.
I became very aware of the wisdom of young women and men holding the reins of parenthood.
The house is quiet now, just old Moe and me. Maybe just a little too quiet. Good byes are not easy.
However, there is time to rest, and as I rest gradually kneed everything into a loaf of memory, for future baking.
For me this is the end of the year. September brings a new season with a new pace. Some summer dreams are folded up for another time. The happy times recorded, wait on full cameras. The world drifts in lazy quiet.
This has not been a gentle year and I am tired.
In several weeks we will celebrate the first birthday of my grandson. He is a bright spark of humanity, with a gentleness that helps calm the world. His entry into the world was not a gentle one. For the first few weeks, he did not thrive and his mummy was in and out of the hospital with unrelated health issues for three months. I thoroughly enjoyed being a presence in his early days and now delight in his healthy pudginess. My daughter will return to work soon from maternity leave. His father is a wonderfully engaged parent. However the worry beads got a good workout.
My sweet, old rabbit hound died before our life could return to normal. She was an eccentric bundle of joy and I miss her daily. She died Thanksgiving weekend.
I never find Christmas an easy season. There are happy times, but it also comes loaded with grand expectations and memories of not so happy times. Last Christmas was spent at my daughter's house. Her little girls were spending their first Christmas apart with their daddy and his large family merriment.
On their return, we did our best to fill the house floor to ceiling with fun. We had fun, but it was a tough Christmas.
I love my house in winter. The fire burns and the living room glows. This past winter did not offer many chances to enjoy such warmth. My cousin, who lives nearby, went into the hospital for a relatively simple operation, and was caught in a grand struggle between life and death. Long ago warnings of blood poisoning in my mother's stories, became a reality. A once healthy man became a frail image of his former self. His friends rallied, his family rallied, indeed the whole community rallied until in fact he rallied. We finally were able to take a deep breath as he became able to return to his former life.
Spring brought with it fresh air and bright sunny days.
Unfortunately, all was not well in this small kingdom. For reasons beyond my understanding, we had a mini outbreak of unkindness. Words were spoken that could not be taken back, actions sometimes spoke even louder than the words. Good people acted in nasty ways.
It took an act of will to fully appreciate a wonderful world that usually, continuously seeps in.
.... and then my grandchildren arrived.
I cannot claim that an exuberant six year old and and her no less exuberant four year old sister brought about a peaceable kingdom. I do know that an egg timer measured hammock time, little baby cousin could not have got more love and attention and the nearby beaches of the shore absorbed so much energy and offered endless adventures and fascinations.
Water gun fights, trips to swim in a freshwater lake, late night sparklers, a living room filling challenging puzzle, creations involving puddles of glue and unwashable paint, endless watermelon, a fort in the bushes, dress up clothes, dolls from another time. The squeals of joy and the not so joyous squeals.
I became very aware of the wisdom of young women and men holding the reins of parenthood.
The house is quiet now, just old Moe and me. Maybe just a little too quiet. Good byes are not easy.
However, there is time to rest, and as I rest gradually kneed everything into a loaf of memory, for future baking.
Monday, 18 June 2012
Only in Nova Scotia, I Say
I was on my way home from Halifax, accompanied by my daughter and little grandson. My daughter wanted some fresh sea air. Her husband would join his family on the weekend.
It was late in the afternoon, as we pulled off the highway. I needed to pick up some groceries at The Atlantic Superstore in Windsor. We were a little weary. Nevertheless, we did well for the shopping challenged, picking up the required items. The groceries were paid for and then we pushed the cart through to the Nova Scotia Liquor Board store to pick up some cider.
My daughter shoved the cart to the car and and unloaded the groceries into the back. The baby slept in his Bjorn strapped to her chest. I went into the garden centre to buy a few stakes for my tomatoes that were not thriving in the sea breezes.
Into the car we got and headed westward. Before long we were looking out over the beautiful bay.
Early supper. Early to bed.
The next evening, as we made supper together, we decided to have a Strongbow. The box of cider was nowhere to be found, not in the kitchen, not in the laundry room, not in the car.
It gradually dawned on my daughter, the box did not make it into the car from the cart in the grocery parking lot. Oh well, it had been I nice thought.
My daughter did not give up as easily. She picked up the phone and called the NSLC in Windsor.
"Oh, are you the lady who was carrying a baby? Someone found the box in the cart yesterday and brought it into the store. We'll put your name on the box. You can pick it up later."
Sure enough the box was waiting for her at the store with a note on it, when she stopped to pick it up as they returned to the city, at the end of the weekend.
Only in Nova Scotia, I say.
It was late in the afternoon, as we pulled off the highway. I needed to pick up some groceries at The Atlantic Superstore in Windsor. We were a little weary. Nevertheless, we did well for the shopping challenged, picking up the required items. The groceries were paid for and then we pushed the cart through to the Nova Scotia Liquor Board store to pick up some cider.
My daughter shoved the cart to the car and and unloaded the groceries into the back. The baby slept in his Bjorn strapped to her chest. I went into the garden centre to buy a few stakes for my tomatoes that were not thriving in the sea breezes.
Into the car we got and headed westward. Before long we were looking out over the beautiful bay.
Early supper. Early to bed.
The next evening, as we made supper together, we decided to have a Strongbow. The box of cider was nowhere to be found, not in the kitchen, not in the laundry room, not in the car.
It gradually dawned on my daughter, the box did not make it into the car from the cart in the grocery parking lot. Oh well, it had been I nice thought.
My daughter did not give up as easily. She picked up the phone and called the NSLC in Windsor.
"Oh, are you the lady who was carrying a baby? Someone found the box in the cart yesterday and brought it into the store. We'll put your name on the box. You can pick it up later."
Sure enough the box was waiting for her at the store with a note on it, when she stopped to pick it up as they returned to the city, at the end of the weekend.
Only in Nova Scotia, I say.
Monday, 21 May 2012
What's with Billions and Millions
I was just beginning to grasp the concept of a Million, when Billion replaced Million as the number of the time.
Once when my children were small, one of them asked me if I could count to a thousand. I told them I could, but that I never had. They didn't believe I possessed such a skill. And so I began. We were trapped in the car on our way back from the cottage. And so I droned on....... 134......283.....299...... 307.......... on and on and on and on. At some point they conceded that they believed that I did indeed possess such a skill. By that time, I had invested so much time into the effort, I wanted to complete the task. The car was filled with some mighty irritated occupants. ......842...... 875.......899. My intention was not to be irritating, though I was, I wanted to discover how big One Thousand really is. We don't really deal with a Thousand THINGS in everyday life, though the the number flies through a day so easily.
I can remember when the concept of One Hundred ruled. There were those Hundred bottles of beer forever on the wall. What were they doing there anyway ? How were they attached to the wall ?
Before One Hundred there was Ten. The now politically incorrect Ten Little Indians, as well as the Ten in the Bed with the Little One.
I guess Two was the jumping point of numeracy in my life. Two said there was more than One.
One just is. But sometimes One is too many.
Zero is the giant conundrum. This concept continues to fuel Doctorates in Mathematics, Science, Philosophy and Theology.
I don't want to go into the Negative.
For now I just want to stick to a Million and a Billion.
At some primary school somewhere children collected and brought together One Million bottle tops. This made for an impressive display. Being the sceptic that I am, I regretfully question the authenticity of this reality. It is hard not to imagine of all those little hands, One hand sneaking out One favourite bottle cap or adding just One more to the to the humongous pile. How many times did they count them ? Who was the Counter in Chief ?
I have decided to try to give up worrying about a Billion.
Although, what confuses me the most is there are two sorts of Billion. There is One Thousand Million and One Million Million, both Billions. Apparently One is British and the other is American. Perhaps some fine Scholar of Etymology should focus in on this discrepancy, as a pathway to Doctoratedum. Perhaps someone already has. This must be important to some people.
Oh well, I think it best for me to leave the Billion Thing behind, maybe even the Million Thing too. Biblical scholars tell us in the bible Forty means many. That is why there are so many Forties.
I prefer to look forward to lying on the grass, drinking up the beauty of the night sky, this summer without attaching those infinite numbers to the magnificence.
My self has a finite capacity to understand it all.
Once when my children were small, one of them asked me if I could count to a thousand. I told them I could, but that I never had. They didn't believe I possessed such a skill. And so I began. We were trapped in the car on our way back from the cottage. And so I droned on....... 134......283.....299...... 307.......... on and on and on and on. At some point they conceded that they believed that I did indeed possess such a skill. By that time, I had invested so much time into the effort, I wanted to complete the task. The car was filled with some mighty irritated occupants. ......842...... 875.......899. My intention was not to be irritating, though I was, I wanted to discover how big One Thousand really is. We don't really deal with a Thousand THINGS in everyday life, though the the number flies through a day so easily.
I can remember when the concept of One Hundred ruled. There were those Hundred bottles of beer forever on the wall. What were they doing there anyway ? How were they attached to the wall ?
Before One Hundred there was Ten. The now politically incorrect Ten Little Indians, as well as the Ten in the Bed with the Little One.
I guess Two was the jumping point of numeracy in my life. Two said there was more than One.
One just is. But sometimes One is too many.
Zero is the giant conundrum. This concept continues to fuel Doctorates in Mathematics, Science, Philosophy and Theology.
I don't want to go into the Negative.
For now I just want to stick to a Million and a Billion.
At some primary school somewhere children collected and brought together One Million bottle tops. This made for an impressive display. Being the sceptic that I am, I regretfully question the authenticity of this reality. It is hard not to imagine of all those little hands, One hand sneaking out One favourite bottle cap or adding just One more to the to the humongous pile. How many times did they count them ? Who was the Counter in Chief ?
I have decided to try to give up worrying about a Billion.
Although, what confuses me the most is there are two sorts of Billion. There is One Thousand Million and One Million Million, both Billions. Apparently One is British and the other is American. Perhaps some fine Scholar of Etymology should focus in on this discrepancy, as a pathway to Doctoratedum. Perhaps someone already has. This must be important to some people.
Oh well, I think it best for me to leave the Billion Thing behind, maybe even the Million Thing too. Biblical scholars tell us in the bible Forty means many. That is why there are so many Forties.
I prefer to look forward to lying on the grass, drinking up the beauty of the night sky, this summer without attaching those infinite numbers to the magnificence.
My self has a finite capacity to understand it all.
Friday, 11 May 2012
My Mother Myra 1907-2008
Myra, this Mother's Day is for you.
Except for those flowery cards you wanted so badly, you made Mother's Day easy. I would stand for a long time in the card shops, going through card after card trying to find the perfect card. Humorous wouldn't do. It wasn't your style. I could not bare to put my name to the sentimental fantasies you and your compatriots loved so much. I remember you and my aunts swooning over the words on cards that belonged on bygone cards in bygone times. I inevitably purchased a beautiful wordless card, in which I wrote "Happy Mother's Day, I love you." Communication is between two people. We each had poetry in our hearts. The deep rhythms were the same but the words flowed from different times and different experiences.
However, buying a gift for you was always a joy. The only request, I remember you ever making was to go to the Mackay farm, to go for a walk in the bush to gather wild leeks. I often go for those wonderful walks, as I drift through the quiet of soft nights. I am growing wild leeks in my wild garden. There are not enough coming up yet, to pull up and eat one. There are times ahead. Each spring they rise, brings strong memories of you. What fun we had feeding them to the uninitiated.
The first present I really bought for you, was a set of coloured facecloths, I bought at Tim Clarke's store on Main Street in Markham. Those were the days when a little girl could walk down street with her little purse of coins to make a purchase, by herself, at a very young age. I was thrilled with my purchase. You were thrilled with your present. As I remember, when I was able to cross the road and venture further along the street, I bought collections of bright coloured sponges at Sinclairs, Five and Dime. All I know is that there was never a shortage of fresh sponges, under the sink.
Of course there were breakfasts in bed. Being too small to boil the kettle, your tea was made with hot tap water, your shredded wheat biscuit was softened in the same hot tap water. I am sure the tray was covered with a linen table mat and a tiny bouquet of johnny-jump-ups and blue forget-me nots from the lawn. Really presentation is everything, isn't it?
There were so many years that followed.
One year, I bought you a small burlap bag of hibernating lady bugs and a regal praying mantis - good aphid control for your organic garden. I stored them in my neighbour Karen's fridge. Of course the inevitable happened. Her children opened the bag and we spent an afternoon searching for them in an overloaded fridge.
Another year I bought you a fancy plastic system to house your Niagara Red Wigglers. The reality is it wasn't as good as the old wooden worm box. I still have the worms' descendents.
There were the pretties - rose bushes, handkerchhiefs, nighties and blouses; the edibles- Jordan Almonds, cherry filled chocolates, hoarhound and perhaps a fresh salmon steak or two from Healy's.
But the greatest gift I gave to you was a gift no one can really give. Children belong to the universe. When I became a mother, you became a grandmother. There wasn't anything in your life that gave you more pleasure than being grandma. You were an outstanding grandmother.
I am now a grandma, so I know the dimensions of such love. Two little girls and now a bouncing baby boy are your great grandchildren. Somehow I know you know all about them.
I don't miss you. One hundred years were so many years to live. You went happily. Thankfully you left so much of yourself behind for us.
Except for those flowery cards you wanted so badly, you made Mother's Day easy. I would stand for a long time in the card shops, going through card after card trying to find the perfect card. Humorous wouldn't do. It wasn't your style. I could not bare to put my name to the sentimental fantasies you and your compatriots loved so much. I remember you and my aunts swooning over the words on cards that belonged on bygone cards in bygone times. I inevitably purchased a beautiful wordless card, in which I wrote "Happy Mother's Day, I love you." Communication is between two people. We each had poetry in our hearts. The deep rhythms were the same but the words flowed from different times and different experiences.
However, buying a gift for you was always a joy. The only request, I remember you ever making was to go to the Mackay farm, to go for a walk in the bush to gather wild leeks. I often go for those wonderful walks, as I drift through the quiet of soft nights. I am growing wild leeks in my wild garden. There are not enough coming up yet, to pull up and eat one. There are times ahead. Each spring they rise, brings strong memories of you. What fun we had feeding them to the uninitiated.
The first present I really bought for you, was a set of coloured facecloths, I bought at Tim Clarke's store on Main Street in Markham. Those were the days when a little girl could walk down street with her little purse of coins to make a purchase, by herself, at a very young age. I was thrilled with my purchase. You were thrilled with your present. As I remember, when I was able to cross the road and venture further along the street, I bought collections of bright coloured sponges at Sinclairs, Five and Dime. All I know is that there was never a shortage of fresh sponges, under the sink.
Of course there were breakfasts in bed. Being too small to boil the kettle, your tea was made with hot tap water, your shredded wheat biscuit was softened in the same hot tap water. I am sure the tray was covered with a linen table mat and a tiny bouquet of johnny-jump-ups and blue forget-me nots from the lawn. Really presentation is everything, isn't it?
There were so many years that followed.
One year, I bought you a small burlap bag of hibernating lady bugs and a regal praying mantis - good aphid control for your organic garden. I stored them in my neighbour Karen's fridge. Of course the inevitable happened. Her children opened the bag and we spent an afternoon searching for them in an overloaded fridge.
Another year I bought you a fancy plastic system to house your Niagara Red Wigglers. The reality is it wasn't as good as the old wooden worm box. I still have the worms' descendents.
There were the pretties - rose bushes, handkerchhiefs, nighties and blouses; the edibles- Jordan Almonds, cherry filled chocolates, hoarhound and perhaps a fresh salmon steak or two from Healy's.
But the greatest gift I gave to you was a gift no one can really give. Children belong to the universe. When I became a mother, you became a grandmother. There wasn't anything in your life that gave you more pleasure than being grandma. You were an outstanding grandmother.
I am now a grandma, so I know the dimensions of such love. Two little girls and now a bouncing baby boy are your great grandchildren. Somehow I know you know all about them.
I don't miss you. One hundred years were so many years to live. You went happily. Thankfully you left so much of yourself behind for us.
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