I just came in from gardening, where I sometimes find myself, in the presence of my mother. For my fiftieth birthday, my mother gave me money to build garden. She remained an enthusiastic gardener into her late nineties. Though somewhat bewildered by my horticultural creation, she always remained supportive, just as she always tried to be supportive of me.
I live in a big old house that has remained big and old. Every year it seems to get a little bit bigger and a little bit older, and a little bit fuller. There is so much work to be done that I am trying to train myself to fully appreciate the house's many eccentricities and weaknesses, as well as my own. They bring so many surprises of joy. With difficulty I try to set aside the judgment of others, who have more conventional aspirations for the place and me.
It is here I learned to breath deeply, find peace, a sense of safety and belonging, in a community of other unique people on their singular adventures.
Last night, I drove my aging vehicle down the driveway, filled with so many this and thats from todays, future days and so many yesterdays. It will be some time, if ever, before I ramble up that driveway to a place I call home.
The last glimpse I see in the rear view mirror is that of the garden, with her wild appreciation of the summer past and a subdued anticipation of a winter rest ahead.
Tuesday 1 October 2019
Monday 9 October 2017
THANKSGIVING
sox, FRESH AIR, friends, GREEN, french fries, TIME, sunshine, yogurt, computer, C.B.C, market, YES, laughter, PEACE, books, walking sticks, snow, PURE WATER, birch trees, RED, GARNDCHILDREN, candy, treasures, ART, islands, snow people, swimming, books, singing, wine, SILENCE, telephones, fishcakes, DOGS, lupins, games, shore suppers, community halls, clean sheets, folk music, the elderly, tea, PHOTOGRAPHS, comfortable shoes, Frenchies, laughter, STRONG WOMEN, GENTLE MEN, tears, chips, vacations, math, diversity, Saint Anthony, glasses, hummingbirds, mountain ash, shampoo, BROWN, learning, babies, kindness, clouds, breezes, jigsaw puzzles, lucky stones, HAPPY MEMORIES, storms, scarves, lighthouses, brass door nobs, asparagus, modern dance, tides, hobbits, lilies of the valley, roast beef, NO, campfires, bicycles, carrots and peas, soap, soup, occasions, satisfaction, NIGHT SKY, subways, popcorn, afternoon naps, vitamin C, familiar wallpaper, bagpipes, hymns, apron collections, magnets, purple sand, FAIRIES, cedars, dishwashers, Monarch butterflies, canoes, camping, High Tide Festival, clean kitchen floor, snowshoes, marbles, NO DIRTY LAUNDRY, yodelling, bubble gum, family dinners, setting sun, oceans, others adventures, good news, SAFETY, self worth, rice pudding, POETRY, hills, calm water, clothes lines, surprises, kilts, documentaries, corn on the cob, the moon, details, hand knit sweaters, penicillin, wooden floors, a good sleep, pumpkins, ballet, bananas, old stories, understanding, line drawings, creativity, bubblegum, sea glass, sweetgrass, intrigue, acceptance, red hair, silk, sleeping child, full tummies, tartans, last rose, YELLOW, canteens, apples, FORGIVENESS, Peewee Herman, theology, foghorns, moss, words, The Oxbow, colour, friends of friends, Wednesdays, WHITE, circles, sunrise, ravens, robin eggs, mushrooms, outside games, CANADA, healthcare, bubbles, twinkling eyes, well earned wrinkles, cotton, chipmunks, ACCEPTANCE, ORANGE, comfortable shoes, warm baths, MUSIC, old friends, FAMILY, new ideas, chestnuts, country lanes, red maples, the flag, sleeping dogs, GRANDCHILDREN, singsongs, children's DRAWINGS, pride, walking sticks, magic, JOY, even sad gardens THANKSGIVING
Thursday 26 January 2017
Mark
Like an iceberg, Mark McIsaac
revealed so little of his depth to others. But he was no iceberg. Mark was so warm. Those who really knew him are so fortunate, and many give credit to Mark for much
goodness in their own lives.
There are too many things to say about Mark. He was creative, gentle on the earth and gentle
with fellow human beings, from all walks of life. Perhaps, it can be summed up best with the
simple truth, Mark was a good man, a wise and caring human being.
Someone of such a profile, made such an impact on so many lives. He was seldom out of Harbourville. He spent his time with the bay, the woods and those who lived nearby, though he kept in touch with others farther away. Mark and Mary often walked the shore or roads and trails in the evening, in all seasons.
Years ago Mark and Harry Roberts dove into the frozen harbour at high tide, to free a little girl who was in a car seat, in a submerged car. They saved her life. He was not afraid to step in when people or animals were at risk. He put a stop to those who chose to set rubber and plastic on fire on the shore. He wanted to protect the citizens of Harbourville from the toxic smoke. Mark was definitely not the sort to pick fight, but in his quiet way calmed situations before they escalated.
Children loved Mark and he loved them right back. He was the picture of contentment when he held wee babies. Several children were his honorary grandchildren. Mark was one man who wasn't afraid to change dirty diapers.
For my grandchildren, he was part of the magic of summer, always ready to take them for swims in the creek, to create an obstacle course on the front lawn or to initiate any joyous havoc that entered his imagination or the imagination of his sidekick Martin. Many evenings ended with a "War of the Apples". It was foolishness to cross the bridge in downtown Harbourville without an ample supply of little hard apples to retaliate and save honour.
Two special little boys, Finn and Harrison, thought of "MaryMark's" as a second home. Mark mowed a path from their house by the harbour to the big old, yellow house by the creek. They were always welcome. Their mum always knew they were safe. The possibility of a creative enterprise and the aroma of deliciousness coming from Mary's oven were almost irresistible Before too long their mum would come along the path, and become part of the goodness.
Mark showed the boys how to look after chickens, plant and care for a garden and fearlessly climb, wherever a child could think of climbing. Inside he painted and drew with them, read stories, did puzzle or got up to some rumbling fun. Mark has a special place in Finn's and Harrison's childhood memories forever. We hope that Mark's loved great nephews, Mac and Jethro will absorb some of the fun and delight through the many stories of Mark he left behind for others to tell.
Happy memories fill another generation's hearts. When they were little and continuing into their adulthoods, Emma, Alex, Andre, Louise and many more neighbourhood children took part in the shenanigans. Just as there is a piece of Mark in them, Mark also took a piece of them with him. That's how it goes with love. His love helped them love themselves.
Someone of such a profile, made such an impact on so many lives. He was seldom out of Harbourville. He spent his time with the bay, the woods and those who lived nearby, though he kept in touch with others farther away. Mark and Mary often walked the shore or roads and trails in the evening, in all seasons.
Years ago Mark and Harry Roberts dove into the frozen harbour at high tide, to free a little girl who was in a car seat, in a submerged car. They saved her life. He was not afraid to step in when people or animals were at risk. He put a stop to those who chose to set rubber and plastic on fire on the shore. He wanted to protect the citizens of Harbourville from the toxic smoke. Mark was definitely not the sort to pick fight, but in his quiet way calmed situations before they escalated.
Children loved Mark and he loved them right back. He was the picture of contentment when he held wee babies. Several children were his honorary grandchildren. Mark was one man who wasn't afraid to change dirty diapers.
For my grandchildren, he was part of the magic of summer, always ready to take them for swims in the creek, to create an obstacle course on the front lawn or to initiate any joyous havoc that entered his imagination or the imagination of his sidekick Martin. Many evenings ended with a "War of the Apples". It was foolishness to cross the bridge in downtown Harbourville without an ample supply of little hard apples to retaliate and save honour.
Two special little boys, Finn and Harrison, thought of "MaryMark's" as a second home. Mark mowed a path from their house by the harbour to the big old, yellow house by the creek. They were always welcome. Their mum always knew they were safe. The possibility of a creative enterprise and the aroma of deliciousness coming from Mary's oven were almost irresistible Before too long their mum would come along the path, and become part of the goodness.
Happy memories fill another generation's hearts. When they were little and continuing into their adulthoods, Emma, Alex, Andre, Louise and many more neighbourhood children took part in the shenanigans. Just as there is a piece of Mark in them, Mark also took a piece of them with him. That's how it goes with love. His love helped them love themselves.
It goes without saying, there was no one Mark loved more than Mary and Ayden.
Mary gave so much to Mark and Mark gave
every bit as much back to Mary. He told me days before he died, that his
biggest regret was not being able to be
around forever, to care for Mary. He did his best to prepare everything he could think
of, before he left. You don’t have to worry about Mary burning her arms as she
loads the fire, as she has some big, new, honking fireproof gloves that look like
they can take on any conflagration.
There is no father, who has loved a son, more than Mark loved Ayden. I am not sure he ever saw any fault in Ayden,
though I suspect there may be a fault or two somewhere in his past. Mark got to
live long enough to see his son become a fine man. He so much admired the skills and strength of character he takes with him as he goes out into the world and Mark knew a rich full life lay ahead for his son.
Ayden had some practice being adult, as he stood in for his father at social occasions, where his father would be too uncomfortable.
Ayden had some practice being adult, as he stood in for his father at social occasions, where his father would be too uncomfortable.
No life is without struggles and suffering.
Mark had more than his fair share . While dying, he was surprised to
discover how many people cared so much about him. He was constantly embraced and told how much he was loved and respected, by so many. He received wonderful letters that made him cry. He was a little embarrassed by it all and broke out his crooked smile, but, I think he eventually came to believe some of it.
Mark was sure of the love of his sisters and their
families. His sister, Connie, donated bone marrow, when he had leukaemia, some time ago. Both sisters came often, baring food and gifts, through his illness. He was so honoured by the loving role they both played, with their families these last months.
There were dark times in Mark’s life. In
his young life he had challenges that presented him with challenges throughout his life. He met these challenges with a brave, open heart, Mary always at his side. I have heard rumours, Mary is referred to by some in Mark's family, as Saint Mary.
There is so much to say about this good, wise, complicated man living a simple life.
Mark was an artist. His hyper realistic pen and ink drawings took root in the world around him. He was self taught, but the work was not amateur. Many cards with reproductions of his work have been sent out out into the world. I suspect his drawings and prints will continue to sell for a long time. He grew splendid vegetables and took care of the earth as best he could.
Mark was a fine human being, who left his family, his friends and community better.
Travelling mercies Mark.
There is so much to say about this good, wise, complicated man living a simple life.
Mark was an artist. His hyper realistic pen and ink drawings took root in the world around him. He was self taught, but the work was not amateur. Many cards with reproductions of his work have been sent out out into the world. I suspect his drawings and prints will continue to sell for a long time. He grew splendid vegetables and took care of the earth as best he could.
Mark was a fine human being, who left his family, his friends and community better.
Travelling mercies Mark.
Tuesday 24 May 2016
Precious Days March 23 to May 27
Every year, the days between March 23 and May 27 were precious ones. I was the youngest one of a particular branch of the extended family. All my cousins were older and cousins were an important part of my life.
I wasn't the youngest by a lot, but I certainly felt younger. I think I may have spent a lot of time in my own little world. I do remember spending inordinate time watching the tadpoles, that swam by the big rock at the lake, growing arms and legs; spying on the older boys building forts in the woods and smoking under the drooping willow tree by the water ; sitting at the edge of adult conversations absorbing something of their world.
My cousin Myra, or Myra Lea as she was known in the family, was only ten months older than me, but, that was an impressive ten months. She was a grade ahead in school and always seemed more aware of the ways of the world. She knew the mysteries of Elvis Presley and Pat Boone.
Today she sometimes refers to herself as mini Martha Stewart. I have no trouble imagining her as mini mini Martha Stewart . Her hair always appeared freshly braided with their crisp colourful ribbons co-ordinating with her outfit. Their were never spots on her shirts nor untied laces on her running shoes. I myself was the epitome of messy in many interesting ways.
For the significant days between our birthdays, we were the same the same age. I could dream about moving from my little girl life into her far more sophisticated world.
Perspective sometimes changes much.
This year on May 27th my cousin turns seventy, yes seventy. I feel strongly that seventy is definitely not the new fifty. We both know something of the surprises that older age brings. From now on I may be on the better side of age.
Whatever, whatever, May 27th will remain a very important day of the year for me. I will be thinking good thoughts for her in her amazing aged house looking down on the fields of Upper New York State.
Happy 70th Birthday Myra Lea.
I wasn't the youngest by a lot, but I certainly felt younger. I think I may have spent a lot of time in my own little world. I do remember spending inordinate time watching the tadpoles, that swam by the big rock at the lake, growing arms and legs; spying on the older boys building forts in the woods and smoking under the drooping willow tree by the water ; sitting at the edge of adult conversations absorbing something of their world.
My cousin Myra, or Myra Lea as she was known in the family, was only ten months older than me, but, that was an impressive ten months. She was a grade ahead in school and always seemed more aware of the ways of the world. She knew the mysteries of Elvis Presley and Pat Boone.
Today she sometimes refers to herself as mini Martha Stewart. I have no trouble imagining her as mini mini Martha Stewart . Her hair always appeared freshly braided with their crisp colourful ribbons co-ordinating with her outfit. Their were never spots on her shirts nor untied laces on her running shoes. I myself was the epitome of messy in many interesting ways.
For the significant days between our birthdays, we were the same the same age. I could dream about moving from my little girl life into her far more sophisticated world.
Perspective sometimes changes much.
This year on May 27th my cousin turns seventy, yes seventy. I feel strongly that seventy is definitely not the new fifty. We both know something of the surprises that older age brings. From now on I may be on the better side of age.
Whatever, whatever, May 27th will remain a very important day of the year for me. I will be thinking good thoughts for her in her amazing aged house looking down on the fields of Upper New York State.
Happy 70th Birthday Myra Lea.
Friday 20 May 2016
To all those who loved the old Lake Simcoe
Remembering Lake Simcoe, I cry.
Myra, my mother, and her little sister Barbara, board the train, in Toronto, with their grand parents set towards happiness and freedom on the sandy cove of Lake Simcoe. The air fresh, the water pure.
Their parents meet them and all their summer baggage at the Craigevale Station. They had taken the longer journey by horse and buggy. They stayed overnight in Aurora.
All embrace each other, embracing summer.
Grandfather had bought the land, almost a concession, for the timber in the 1880's. The trees provided the British Navy, with mighty, tall, straight masts for ships, that ruled the Empire. Other trees provided the sounding boards for Heintzman pianos.
It turned out, that what he was really purchasing was fresh air, fresh food for his loved grandchildren away from the hot, dirty city.
In the simple cottages along the shore, his grandchildren and their grandchildren were able to breathe deeply, think deeply, create and be. This was an imaginative life beyond imagining.
Swimming, exploring, hiding, hoping, being. Summer.
My children met this world, that belonged to my cousins and me.
Bonfires on the beach, stargazing with the generations, oldies and newbies frolicking in the big waves, rowboats, canoes, card games, boardgames, corn roasts, popcorn among so many loved and loving.
I cry. The city eventually swallowed the magic of the place. Fairy circles were covered with interlocking brick. We were unable to protect this place from the power of money.
May other places escape this brutality of time. I continue to cry.
Myra, my mother, and her little sister Barbara, board the train, in Toronto, with their grand parents set towards happiness and freedom on the sandy cove of Lake Simcoe. The air fresh, the water pure.
Their parents meet them and all their summer baggage at the Craigevale Station. They had taken the longer journey by horse and buggy. They stayed overnight in Aurora.
All embrace each other, embracing summer.
Grandfather had bought the land, almost a concession, for the timber in the 1880's. The trees provided the British Navy, with mighty, tall, straight masts for ships, that ruled the Empire. Other trees provided the sounding boards for Heintzman pianos.
It turned out, that what he was really purchasing was fresh air, fresh food for his loved grandchildren away from the hot, dirty city.
In the simple cottages along the shore, his grandchildren and their grandchildren were able to breathe deeply, think deeply, create and be. This was an imaginative life beyond imagining.
Swimming, exploring, hiding, hoping, being. Summer.
My children met this world, that belonged to my cousins and me.
Bonfires on the beach, stargazing with the generations, oldies and newbies frolicking in the big waves, rowboats, canoes, card games, boardgames, corn roasts, popcorn among so many loved and loving.
I cry. The city eventually swallowed the magic of the place. Fairy circles were covered with interlocking brick. We were unable to protect this place from the power of money.
May other places escape this brutality of time. I continue to cry.
Wednesday 6 April 2016
Sorry
I'm sorry I didn't get to this earlier, but the inspiration just hadn't arrived.
A sweet little boy in my life, is being indoctrinated, like all little Canadian boys and girls, with the importance of saying sorry. I know many will find it hard to believe he isn't perfect, but when it comes to perfection in little boys and girls, I think naughtiness is a prime ingredient.
He has quite a selection of sorries. There is the sorry with the the twinkling eyes, that means he isn't the least bit sorry; there is the sorry that comes quickly to lessen the repercussions of some dastardly deed and there is the sorry that comes from his very being when he has broken a favourite christmas ornament, and knows the sadness that will bring. There are many, many more. Just spend some time with some five-year- olds for an afternoon and you will be exposed to most of the sorries on the spectrum.
Yesterday, I was half listening to something on the radio in the background, as I was lost in busyness. The panelists were discussing some worldwide phenomena, that had been given appropriate names for the country in which they had occurred, Angus for Scotland, Hans for Germany, Priya for India and Vinnie for Canada. The Canadians found Vinnie an odd choice, none of them ever having met a Vinnie, and thought perhaps Doug would be better. Some one else on the panel suggested Sorry might be a better reflection for the country.
There seems to bean outbreak of Canadian sorry jokes.
The reality is sorry is a word that slips easily and often into everyday conversation. I get to the grocery cart before someone behind me and automatically say sorry. A man backs up his shiny red truck into a lady's blue Toyota. They both jump out of their cars saying" I'm sorry".
To many, so much sorriness is ludicrous, essentially, because it is. But, and it is a big but, sorry sure beats an automatic fuck off.
Sorry is linguistic balm that soothes human interactions and promotes civility. There is a something almost magical about it all. Sorry recognizes the presence of others. Sorry, but it seems to work for us. We may seem a little wimpy, but still hurrah for us.
Sorry I have to go. The dog needs out.
A sweet little boy in my life, is being indoctrinated, like all little Canadian boys and girls, with the importance of saying sorry. I know many will find it hard to believe he isn't perfect, but when it comes to perfection in little boys and girls, I think naughtiness is a prime ingredient.
He has quite a selection of sorries. There is the sorry with the the twinkling eyes, that means he isn't the least bit sorry; there is the sorry that comes quickly to lessen the repercussions of some dastardly deed and there is the sorry that comes from his very being when he has broken a favourite christmas ornament, and knows the sadness that will bring. There are many, many more. Just spend some time with some five-year- olds for an afternoon and you will be exposed to most of the sorries on the spectrum.
Yesterday, I was half listening to something on the radio in the background, as I was lost in busyness. The panelists were discussing some worldwide phenomena, that had been given appropriate names for the country in which they had occurred, Angus for Scotland, Hans for Germany, Priya for India and Vinnie for Canada. The Canadians found Vinnie an odd choice, none of them ever having met a Vinnie, and thought perhaps Doug would be better. Some one else on the panel suggested Sorry might be a better reflection for the country.
There seems to bean outbreak of Canadian sorry jokes.
The reality is sorry is a word that slips easily and often into everyday conversation. I get to the grocery cart before someone behind me and automatically say sorry. A man backs up his shiny red truck into a lady's blue Toyota. They both jump out of their cars saying" I'm sorry".
To many, so much sorriness is ludicrous, essentially, because it is. But, and it is a big but, sorry sure beats an automatic fuck off.
Sorry is linguistic balm that soothes human interactions and promotes civility. There is a something almost magical about it all. Sorry recognizes the presence of others. Sorry, but it seems to work for us. We may seem a little wimpy, but still hurrah for us.
Sorry I have to go. The dog needs out.
Monday 21 March 2016
Edging Towards Old Age
I am about to nudge up against my three score and and ten years, an accumulation of years that somehow officially declare my arrival in old age.
I have never worried much about aging. One year follows another. But as the time arrives, it suggests that the time has come to take time to reflect on it.
My reflection in any mirror tells a story. The silver threads are definitely there among the gold. My face has a fullness, that I see in the photographs of the face of my paternal grandmother. I don't worry about wrinkles, as long as I earn the smile wrinkles, I have cherished in so many of the older women I love.
My mother lived exactly one hundred and a half years. Many were challenging years, but I am sure she would say the challenging years were also happy years. She loved being a grandma.
As the years tallied up, even my mother questioned the soundness of of her lifelong appreciation for fresh air, organic food and plenty of exercise that had served her living so well. Her extended lifespan had separated her from her generation of family and friends. She was not pleased. A compatriot told her she had to wait for her invitation to join them. She was only slightly amused.
Time is priceless at all times through life. Perhaps it is only as we get older we understand the value. I have also noticed in some of the very old I have loved, time seems to slow down. A day is too long to hold so much loneliness.
So it is time for me to set aside things over which I have no control, and focus on things I can do something about. Life is challenging and life is good.
I am most thankful that I am a grandma. One of my biggest regrets is that my young Toronto granddaughters have not been able to share in my everyday life and I in theirs. My impish little grandson is not so far away
I hope I can fill my time well and celebrate life, even if I have to celebrate with some from a distance.
After all love, laughter, companionship should have no boundaries
I have never worried much about aging. One year follows another. But as the time arrives, it suggests that the time has come to take time to reflect on it.
My reflection in any mirror tells a story. The silver threads are definitely there among the gold. My face has a fullness, that I see in the photographs of the face of my paternal grandmother. I don't worry about wrinkles, as long as I earn the smile wrinkles, I have cherished in so many of the older women I love.
My mother lived exactly one hundred and a half years. Many were challenging years, but I am sure she would say the challenging years were also happy years. She loved being a grandma.
As the years tallied up, even my mother questioned the soundness of of her lifelong appreciation for fresh air, organic food and plenty of exercise that had served her living so well. Her extended lifespan had separated her from her generation of family and friends. She was not pleased. A compatriot told her she had to wait for her invitation to join them. She was only slightly amused.
Time is priceless at all times through life. Perhaps it is only as we get older we understand the value. I have also noticed in some of the very old I have loved, time seems to slow down. A day is too long to hold so much loneliness.
So it is time for me to set aside things over which I have no control, and focus on things I can do something about. Life is challenging and life is good.
I am most thankful that I am a grandma. One of my biggest regrets is that my young Toronto granddaughters have not been able to share in my everyday life and I in theirs. My impish little grandson is not so far away
I hope I can fill my time well and celebrate life, even if I have to celebrate with some from a distance.
After all love, laughter, companionship should have no boundaries
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