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
Saturday, 19 March 2016
Funerals, Nancy Reagan.
I have been to many, many funerals. My grandmother was the eldest of a family of seven and her father was one of eleven. As sure as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, a human being born into this world will someday leave it. Funerals are a part of living.
Funerals continue to hold importance in the Mackay clan. The family continues to spread throughout the country and beyond, from our early Canadian, deep roots, that took hold in the rich soil of Southwestern Ontario. The strong Presbyterian faith that was brought with them, as they left Scotland in the Highland Clearances, no longer dictates living in the way of the ancestors. Members of the huge extended family hold many differing understandings of an evolving universe; but, the equality of all people and respect for the preciousness of life pass from generation to generation, almost genetically.
We were all taught that we were no better, nor any worse in the sight of the Presbyterian god. (As a child I sometimes got sense that this was not completely true, because to be born Scotch gave a little extra something.)
Here in Nova Scotia, I find a respect for lives lived, that seems to be getting lost in large urban areas. Cars pull to the side as a funeral procession passes, the people of the communities continue to bring food from their homes for refreshment after a service and for the family and friends, and the empty space the living, now dead, took up is noted by all.
Most of the funerals, I have attended, both large and small, have really been celebrations of a life lived. Of course, sometimes, the crushing grief of a death makes this impossible; the death of a small child, a young mother or father, or an individual whose task in humanity is left tragically incomplete.
I watched Nancy Reagan's funeral. The hollowness of the occasion was hard to absorb. All was perfect. The ceremony she so meticulously planned was carried out exactly as she had planned.The flowers were beautiful, the coffin was impressive, the military pall bearers made no misstep. The speakers were honoured members of society, the day was glorious. The view from the room where the funeral was held, looked over the burial sight, where her husband waited and beyond to the rolling wild hills of California. The Anglican priest's white surplice was perfectly starched and ironed and the gold cross he carried shone
But where was the love? Where was the grace? Much was made of the of the completeness of the great binding love of Ronald and Nancy for each other. What was left unsaid by all except their daughter Patty, was there had never been room in the perfect circle for anyone else.
Ron Jr. and Patty sat in the front row, very attractive, very composed and seemingly detached from each other and the illustrious guests around them.
It seemed to me that there wasn't much love left behind, as Nancy set out on her eternal journey, with the man she she adored above others.
It was sad indeed.
Funerals continue to hold importance in the Mackay clan. The family continues to spread throughout the country and beyond, from our early Canadian, deep roots, that took hold in the rich soil of Southwestern Ontario. The strong Presbyterian faith that was brought with them, as they left Scotland in the Highland Clearances, no longer dictates living in the way of the ancestors. Members of the huge extended family hold many differing understandings of an evolving universe; but, the equality of all people and respect for the preciousness of life pass from generation to generation, almost genetically.
We were all taught that we were no better, nor any worse in the sight of the Presbyterian god. (As a child I sometimes got sense that this was not completely true, because to be born Scotch gave a little extra something.)
Here in Nova Scotia, I find a respect for lives lived, that seems to be getting lost in large urban areas. Cars pull to the side as a funeral procession passes, the people of the communities continue to bring food from their homes for refreshment after a service and for the family and friends, and the empty space the living, now dead, took up is noted by all.
Most of the funerals, I have attended, both large and small, have really been celebrations of a life lived. Of course, sometimes, the crushing grief of a death makes this impossible; the death of a small child, a young mother or father, or an individual whose task in humanity is left tragically incomplete.
I watched Nancy Reagan's funeral. The hollowness of the occasion was hard to absorb. All was perfect. The ceremony she so meticulously planned was carried out exactly as she had planned.The flowers were beautiful, the coffin was impressive, the military pall bearers made no misstep. The speakers were honoured members of society, the day was glorious. The view from the room where the funeral was held, looked over the burial sight, where her husband waited and beyond to the rolling wild hills of California. The Anglican priest's white surplice was perfectly starched and ironed and the gold cross he carried shone
But where was the love? Where was the grace? Much was made of the of the completeness of the great binding love of Ronald and Nancy for each other. What was left unsaid by all except their daughter Patty, was there had never been room in the perfect circle for anyone else.
Ron Jr. and Patty sat in the front row, very attractive, very composed and seemingly detached from each other and the illustrious guests around them.
It seemed to me that there wasn't much love left behind, as Nancy set out on her eternal journey, with the man she she adored above others.
It was sad indeed.
Friday, 19 February 2016
A Celebration of The Union Street Cafe and Sisters
Tonight I am going to a celebration of a little cafe, with a great big heart.
In the mists of time, The Apple Cafe, a welcoming place, on Union Street in Berwick, Nova Scotia became The Union Street Cafe. This was no doubt a good thing for Berwick, but an even better thing for the people of the Mountain. Here was a place in town to meet up with friends and soon to be friends, over a cup of tea and a fine pastry.
The place changed in a changeless way. The seasons were marked with fanciful decorations. Things from times past found places of prominence, where they were admired and opened doors to nostalgia.
In time a small platform, a really small platform, was built into the corner of the cafe. It was fun to find Don Osbourne or Cathy Arsenault and Kate Adams and their friends strumming and singing their music to fill the room. Those were the days.
Before long, as popularity grew, the inspiration was picked up and put into a pocket, to be let free in in Rice's Restaurant, a longtime Berwick establishment, that was closing its door, after serving the community well on Commercial Street. Here Union Street Cafe on Union Street, became Union Street Cafe on Commercial Street. Things changed and remained the same in new ways. Fine food, fine wines from the local abundance of the Valley and Sea, drew people from near and far. The friends and patrons left satisfied in body and spirit.
In time a large space, adjacent to the dining room was transformed into The Wick Pub. It didn't take long for music, with the accompaniment of beer wine and spirits, to fill the venue with merriment. Posters of the well known talent and local entertainers cover a wall.
For all this, I will raise a glass in celebration of good people, good food, good music bringing good times to so many.
But on a personal level I will be toasting a celebration of family. Jenny and Megan, following in the footsteps of their mother Anna and aunt Kate, along with their father, uncle, cousin, not to mention their husbands and children, have done a spectacular job creating place out of space. Now is the time to pass on the future of Union Street Cafe into new hands.
As I raise a glass tonight I will also be raising a glass to Sisters. To Anna and Kate. To Jenny and Megan and all sisters of enterprise, who join together to create new good things, through good times and bad, and who most importantly, when all is said and done, emerge Loving Sisters of the First Order.
In the mists of time, The Apple Cafe, a welcoming place, on Union Street in Berwick, Nova Scotia became The Union Street Cafe. This was no doubt a good thing for Berwick, but an even better thing for the people of the Mountain. Here was a place in town to meet up with friends and soon to be friends, over a cup of tea and a fine pastry.
The place changed in a changeless way. The seasons were marked with fanciful decorations. Things from times past found places of prominence, where they were admired and opened doors to nostalgia.
In time a small platform, a really small platform, was built into the corner of the cafe. It was fun to find Don Osbourne or Cathy Arsenault and Kate Adams and their friends strumming and singing their music to fill the room. Those were the days.
Before long, as popularity grew, the inspiration was picked up and put into a pocket, to be let free in in Rice's Restaurant, a longtime Berwick establishment, that was closing its door, after serving the community well on Commercial Street. Here Union Street Cafe on Union Street, became Union Street Cafe on Commercial Street. Things changed and remained the same in new ways. Fine food, fine wines from the local abundance of the Valley and Sea, drew people from near and far. The friends and patrons left satisfied in body and spirit.
In time a large space, adjacent to the dining room was transformed into The Wick Pub. It didn't take long for music, with the accompaniment of beer wine and spirits, to fill the venue with merriment. Posters of the well known talent and local entertainers cover a wall.
For all this, I will raise a glass in celebration of good people, good food, good music bringing good times to so many.
But on a personal level I will be toasting a celebration of family. Jenny and Megan, following in the footsteps of their mother Anna and aunt Kate, along with their father, uncle, cousin, not to mention their husbands and children, have done a spectacular job creating place out of space. Now is the time to pass on the future of Union Street Cafe into new hands.
As I raise a glass tonight I will also be raising a glass to Sisters. To Anna and Kate. To Jenny and Megan and all sisters of enterprise, who join together to create new good things, through good times and bad, and who most importantly, when all is said and done, emerge Loving Sisters of the First Order.
Thursday, 28 January 2016
I hate Name Tags
I hate name tags, probably as much as a steer, on the range, hates brands. For the most, part I live a name tag free life. They were part of another time, when for practical reasons, it was supposedly necessary to label the people who were floating through each other's lives, like ships in the night.
On the other hand, in this small community life, there is the time to get to know a name as as we get to know the person. Some names become an integrated part of everyday living.
I see from my daughters' photos, that sometimes they wear lanyards around their necks, attached to plastic pockets holding, no doubt, their names as well as the necessary business information of their being, as they navigate their way through business doings. Very practical, but try to imagine name-tagged guests at a wedding. Somehow it goes against the spirit of the celebration,
A family story I love is about an encounter, my favourite aunt had in her later years. She and my uncle were at a neighbour's cocktail party, an event that was not all that common in her life. At some point she became part of a conversation with an older gentleman, about her age. My aunt for me was an especially interesting woman, because she was always interested in what was going on around her. She was engaged in a long animated conversation, not always the hallmark of cocktail party chatter. In time, they parted and my aunt went off to find her somewhat shy husband. His eyes were sparkling with amusement. "What on earth were you talking about all that time ?", he wanted to know. My aunt said she was telling the tales of her childhood growing up in the house across the street that her grandfather had built and where she had raised her family and continued to live.
My uncle asked if she knew the name of the man with whom she had been talking. She replied she had no idea. My uncle was delighted to tell her, the man was none other than Marshall MacLuhan, the guru of communication theory, the medium is the message. My aunt laughed at the amusing serendipity of the encounter. If he had been wearing a name tag, it wouldn't have happened. She likely would have been uncomfortable with the conversation. My aunt and Marshall MacLuhan would have been the lesser for it.
If others want to join the name tagged, I have no objection, but I know I am not the only one who is uncomfortable with the practice. Some do not want a sticky piece of paper shoved on a favourite sweater, some do not like the aesthetics of it all and some think that it in some way diminishes a sense of privacy.
I perceive there are those who are affronted, when some individuals decline the fine offer to be labelled, along with the other labelees and valiantly try to make contact between name tag and the nameless.
Whatever the reason, just let the nameless be. Put down your pen and sticky paper. They know who they are and just like me, may hate name tags.
On the other hand, in this small community life, there is the time to get to know a name as as we get to know the person. Some names become an integrated part of everyday living.
I see from my daughters' photos, that sometimes they wear lanyards around their necks, attached to plastic pockets holding, no doubt, their names as well as the necessary business information of their being, as they navigate their way through business doings. Very practical, but try to imagine name-tagged guests at a wedding. Somehow it goes against the spirit of the celebration,
A family story I love is about an encounter, my favourite aunt had in her later years. She and my uncle were at a neighbour's cocktail party, an event that was not all that common in her life. At some point she became part of a conversation with an older gentleman, about her age. My aunt for me was an especially interesting woman, because she was always interested in what was going on around her. She was engaged in a long animated conversation, not always the hallmark of cocktail party chatter. In time, they parted and my aunt went off to find her somewhat shy husband. His eyes were sparkling with amusement. "What on earth were you talking about all that time ?", he wanted to know. My aunt said she was telling the tales of her childhood growing up in the house across the street that her grandfather had built and where she had raised her family and continued to live.
My uncle asked if she knew the name of the man with whom she had been talking. She replied she had no idea. My uncle was delighted to tell her, the man was none other than Marshall MacLuhan, the guru of communication theory, the medium is the message. My aunt laughed at the amusing serendipity of the encounter. If he had been wearing a name tag, it wouldn't have happened. She likely would have been uncomfortable with the conversation. My aunt and Marshall MacLuhan would have been the lesser for it.
If others want to join the name tagged, I have no objection, but I know I am not the only one who is uncomfortable with the practice. Some do not want a sticky piece of paper shoved on a favourite sweater, some do not like the aesthetics of it all and some think that it in some way diminishes a sense of privacy.
I perceive there are those who are affronted, when some individuals decline the fine offer to be labelled, along with the other labelees and valiantly try to make contact between name tag and the nameless.
Whatever the reason, just let the nameless be. Put down your pen and sticky paper. They know who they are and just like me, may hate name tags.
Sunday, 10 January 2016
Kitchen Renovations
I am about to start a kitchen renovation. Some may be surprised that I am taking on such a project. House renovations, aside from a coat of paint or two are just not my thing.
Unfortunately, this past year my dishwasher died. Before I had put this dishwasher in, I had written with a marker at the back of the space where the dishwasher was to go, DISHWASHER. CHRISTMAS GIFT 1998. So I guess it didn't owe me anything. I am saving euphemistic pennies for a new roof and thought a dishwasher was not as essential. My family thought otherwise.
My daughter lives in an area outside Halifax, that has a local community website. Lo and behold, she opened the site to find a working dishwasher, was going to be put out on the street nearby. She called to ask what I thought of the idea, which was not much.
Nevertheless she called the owner and learned only a small attachment piece, was missing.
In the stealth of night my daughter, her husband and small son set out to somehow force the big dishwasher into their small car. The strength of their next-door neighbour was required, as my daughter's older sister still every so often refers to her as spaghetti arms.
The strength of my neighbour was required to get the dishwasher from the small car to my kitchen. There it sat waiting. I finally gave up and on a second try I found the missing attachment at a hardware store.
The dishwasher is the moveable type that I push to the sink, plug in the cord and attach to the faucet. When all goes as planned I have clean dishes to put away. This isn't my first choice, but the dishes get washed, my kitchen is big and there is that extra surface space, whenever I am in the frenzy of creative cooking, which is not that frequent, or just plain cooking. There is also a place for my dirty dishes. I don't have a "dumb waiter ", a cupboard on pulleys going down into the cellar, as my great aunts did with their dirty dishes, when unexpected guests arrived at the door.
I have made peace with the dishwasher.
During the Christmas holidays my kitchen was sometimes filled to capacity with rambunctious little boys. They claimed the opening the dishwasher left. Much to their delight I found a box of stickers and some small stick on, coloured lights. Later I found an old kitchen cabinet door in the basement that my cousin reluctantly attached to the opening.
So I begin my kitchen renovation, on a scale perfectly suited for me. My little grandson and visiting children will soon have a tastefully decorated "snug away" place of their own, and if I am lucky I will be able to find a cart to roll in and out to hold kitchenware excess.
Thursday, 7 January 2016
I am not sorry to say goodbye to 2015
I am not sorry to say goodbye to 2015.
No year comes without joys and sorrows, surprises, disappointments. This year just broke my heart. The world seemed to whirl in incomprehensible ways.
Close friends died and my lifelong compatriot in adventure left so unexpectedly.
In a very small community each loss diminishes us all, and we seemed to lose so many. The Harbourville "originals" leave one by one taking untold stories and other perspectives of place with them.
Moses, my dog, who shared so many of my stories, wore out and died.
Happiness is a vapid and overused concept. We all know what it means, sort of. But the pursuit of happiness seems like such a hollow pursuit.
I would rather create space for joy, though joy just seems to burst in through sorrow, uninvited to help mend a broken heart and sprinkle living with the new and the familiar possibilities that make life liveable.
The universe sent sweet infants to waiting, loving arms. I watch all of them grow with the little ones, who came before them. Dark and light times wait ahead for all of them.
I am thankful for the joy they bring all of us, from the twinkling stars with their twinkling eyes, filling all darkness with light.
No year comes without joys and sorrows, surprises, disappointments. This year just broke my heart. The world seemed to whirl in incomprehensible ways.
Close friends died and my lifelong compatriot in adventure left so unexpectedly.
In a very small community each loss diminishes us all, and we seemed to lose so many. The Harbourville "originals" leave one by one taking untold stories and other perspectives of place with them.
Moses, my dog, who shared so many of my stories, wore out and died.
Happiness is a vapid and overused concept. We all know what it means, sort of. But the pursuit of happiness seems like such a hollow pursuit.
I would rather create space for joy, though joy just seems to burst in through sorrow, uninvited to help mend a broken heart and sprinkle living with the new and the familiar possibilities that make life liveable.
The universe sent sweet infants to waiting, loving arms. I watch all of them grow with the little ones, who came before them. Dark and light times wait ahead for all of them.
I am thankful for the joy they bring all of us, from the twinkling stars with their twinkling eyes, filling all darkness with light.
Sunday, 27 September 2015
The crows tumble
The sun is shining, the wind is strong enough to let me know the time of summer zephyrs has past for now, it is cold enough to cull through my loved winter socks to warmly decorate my feet, and the wood is stacked and ready for its final call to duty.
Good people fill my life. We gathered at a home, high on a cliff along the Fundy, last night, to celebrate birthdays. In reality we were celebrating friendship, indeed life. Each arrival was greeted with enthusiasm and introductions were hurled through air, often missing the mark, but nevertheless, confirming everyone was welcome.
Meat roasted on the large outdoor grill, the salads and other accompanying dishes gradually filled up one table and then took over another. Wine bottles gathered on another table with a motley assortment of glasses. Many remained uncorked, ready for another time.
As it got dark, it got colder. Car blankets draped the cold shoulders of the unprepared. Ever changing groups of people filled and refilled their plates. In time the weaker among us sought shelter inside the house with its heated floors. Hugs and laughter. Laughter and hugs. Friends of friends have become friends.
My cousin and his band clunked around their equipment in a corner for awhile, then the music began. Refugees from the sixties, moved their longtime moves. Mountain dancing has evolved its own unique style. The few younger participants, with mesmerising moves, let us know time had moved on, but that didn't seem to matter. The combinations of dancers was ever changing. The music was good and my cousin was happy.
This morning is a" back into bed morning". Sunday morning reverie is enhanced as I hear from my kids and grandkids that for the most part, all is well in their worlds.
I patiently, and a wee bit apprehensively, await the eclipse of the blood red moon and the highest tides in years, tonight
For now, I'll watch the crows tumbling through the sky, for the sheer love of it.
Good people fill my life. We gathered at a home, high on a cliff along the Fundy, last night, to celebrate birthdays. In reality we were celebrating friendship, indeed life. Each arrival was greeted with enthusiasm and introductions were hurled through air, often missing the mark, but nevertheless, confirming everyone was welcome.
Meat roasted on the large outdoor grill, the salads and other accompanying dishes gradually filled up one table and then took over another. Wine bottles gathered on another table with a motley assortment of glasses. Many remained uncorked, ready for another time.
As it got dark, it got colder. Car blankets draped the cold shoulders of the unprepared. Ever changing groups of people filled and refilled their plates. In time the weaker among us sought shelter inside the house with its heated floors. Hugs and laughter. Laughter and hugs. Friends of friends have become friends.
My cousin and his band clunked around their equipment in a corner for awhile, then the music began. Refugees from the sixties, moved their longtime moves. Mountain dancing has evolved its own unique style. The few younger participants, with mesmerising moves, let us know time had moved on, but that didn't seem to matter. The combinations of dancers was ever changing. The music was good and my cousin was happy.
This morning is a" back into bed morning". Sunday morning reverie is enhanced as I hear from my kids and grandkids that for the most part, all is well in their worlds.
I patiently, and a wee bit apprehensively, await the eclipse of the blood red moon and the highest tides in years, tonight
For now, I'll watch the crows tumbling through the sky, for the sheer love of it.
Saturday, 13 June 2015
Karen, An individual who will not be forgotten.
Karen asked me several times to write her eulogy. Unfortunately, I live too far away to be at her Memorial Service. I will be there in spirit. Here is some of the material I would have included.
Here goes it Karen.
1. There has never been, nor will there ever be another just like her.
2. I don't know anyone who embraced motherhood with more enthusiasm.
3. Karen loved being pregnant.
4. With husband Bill she produced four, unique, talented human beings in five years. ( Ok, there was one set of twins. )
5. Her children, were always at the hub of the neighbourhood.
6. Karen's mother, with a voice that was seldom restrained, was a frequent fixture on Karen's front lawn.
7. Karen loved family and it was lucky she did. She was part of an active brood of siblings.
8. Karen loved all kids, especially the children she spent so much time with at a school/hospital for multi-handicapped children.
9. I don't think there was a kid who didn't love Karen.
10. I don't think there was a child she couldn't bring a smile to the face.
11. I don't think there is a limit to the number of babies, Karen wanted to have. The family would NOT have been of the Dugger mode.
!2. Karen's strength didn't lie in organization and housework skills.
13. There is nobody I would rather have on my team for a grand celebration.
14. Karen was a strong supporter of The Royal Family. One year to her surprise she found herself a member of The Monarchist League of Canada.
15. The membership came with a fine pair of white gloves.
16. She loved pushing her children throughout the neighbourhood in their fine British perambulator.
17. For many years it remained empty and disconsolate on her front porch.
!8. I don't know whether she loved The Canadian National Exhibition or Christmas the best.
19. At one point, she insisted she wanted her ashes spread on The Ex grounds.
20. Some christmas ornaments stayed up from one Christmas to another.
21. The neighbourhood Christmas Carol Party was legend.
22. One year Rudolph the Reindeer arrived with treats for the kids. I don't think Emily ever got over it.
23. Karen filled her children's lives with music.
24. Music remains an important part of their lives.
25. Karen liked teaching Sunday School.
26. She was a little under confident of her theology, but her class made mighty fine crafts.
27. She was a favourite.
28. For much of her life the YMCA Camp Pinecrest was the centre of her universe.
29. She was very adept at all camp activities.
30. One memorable time she chose to impress a young gentleman friend, that she was impervious to the ravages of poison ivy. She rubbed the leaves all over herself. Unfortunately, her immunity was limited. For some time her life was very uncomfortable.
31. To the delight of many, Bill's hands broke out shortly after in a poison ivy like rash.
32. Karen was a proud graduate of Lawrence Park Collegiate.
33. She wore her LPCI blazer for many, many, many years after graduation.
34. Karen was very pleased when her vocational aptitude tests suggested she would make a fine carousel operator.
35. There was never a house with more stray socks than Karen's.
36. Karen was a member in good standing of The Kashe Lake Literary Society. This had nothing to do with books, but was a yearly gathering of neighbourhood friends at our President, Joyce's cottage.
37. The centre of interest was good food, some wine and much merriment.
38. The last meeting was held was held in Harbourville N.S., some years ago.
39. Throughout Karen's life there were more than a few significant challenges.
40. Karen met her challenges with courage and humour.
41. Years ago, Karen was diagnosed with a very rare form of Pancreatic Cancer. She lived a long, rich time after the diagnoses, with much medical intervention.
42. Thankfully, Karen enjoyed almost all things medical.
43. Karen loved dogs. Bandit was a favourite.
45. When my father was dieing, Karen brought her kids home from her cottage for several days so my kids would have kids to play with.
46. Karen was up for almost anything. She kept a container of ladybugs and a praying mantis in her frig, a surprise for my mother, an organic gardener, on Mother's Day. Unfortunately, her kids opened the lid and her frig was filled with hundreds of ladybugs.
47. When I was out and my invalid father did not answer the phone. Not having a key, she sent her smallest boy through the milk door to check on him.
48.She was a great sports fan. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgoooooooooooooooooes.
49. Most years her kids were in the Santa Clause Parade, an event that meant getting up very, very early.
50. Her young daughter invited the teachers to lunch. In a flurry of faux tidying, her friends helped fill the small room by the back door, from floor to ceiling with stray things, then closed the door. Allison brought the teachers to the back door.
51. Karen loved toys. It wasn't long after the twins were out of diapers, she began putting things away for grandchildren.
52. Karen became a grandma after I left the neighbourhood. I hope she was fully appreciated by her grandchildren.
53. Thanks Karen for leaving so many wonderful memories.
Travelling Mercies.
Here goes it Karen.
1. There has never been, nor will there ever be another just like her.
2. I don't know anyone who embraced motherhood with more enthusiasm.
3. Karen loved being pregnant.
4. With husband Bill she produced four, unique, talented human beings in five years. ( Ok, there was one set of twins. )
5. Her children, were always at the hub of the neighbourhood.
6. Karen's mother, with a voice that was seldom restrained, was a frequent fixture on Karen's front lawn.
7. Karen loved family and it was lucky she did. She was part of an active brood of siblings.
8. Karen loved all kids, especially the children she spent so much time with at a school/hospital for multi-handicapped children.
9. I don't think there was a kid who didn't love Karen.
10. I don't think there was a child she couldn't bring a smile to the face.
11. I don't think there is a limit to the number of babies, Karen wanted to have. The family would NOT have been of the Dugger mode.
!2. Karen's strength didn't lie in organization and housework skills.
13. There is nobody I would rather have on my team for a grand celebration.
14. Karen was a strong supporter of The Royal Family. One year to her surprise she found herself a member of The Monarchist League of Canada.
15. The membership came with a fine pair of white gloves.
16. She loved pushing her children throughout the neighbourhood in their fine British perambulator.
17. For many years it remained empty and disconsolate on her front porch.
!8. I don't know whether she loved The Canadian National Exhibition or Christmas the best.
19. At one point, she insisted she wanted her ashes spread on The Ex grounds.
20. Some christmas ornaments stayed up from one Christmas to another.
21. The neighbourhood Christmas Carol Party was legend.
22. One year Rudolph the Reindeer arrived with treats for the kids. I don't think Emily ever got over it.
23. Karen filled her children's lives with music.
24. Music remains an important part of their lives.
25. Karen liked teaching Sunday School.
26. She was a little under confident of her theology, but her class made mighty fine crafts.
27. She was a favourite.
28. For much of her life the YMCA Camp Pinecrest was the centre of her universe.
29. She was very adept at all camp activities.
30. One memorable time she chose to impress a young gentleman friend, that she was impervious to the ravages of poison ivy. She rubbed the leaves all over herself. Unfortunately, her immunity was limited. For some time her life was very uncomfortable.
31. To the delight of many, Bill's hands broke out shortly after in a poison ivy like rash.
32. Karen was a proud graduate of Lawrence Park Collegiate.
33. She wore her LPCI blazer for many, many, many years after graduation.
34. Karen was very pleased when her vocational aptitude tests suggested she would make a fine carousel operator.
35. There was never a house with more stray socks than Karen's.
36. Karen was a member in good standing of The Kashe Lake Literary Society. This had nothing to do with books, but was a yearly gathering of neighbourhood friends at our President, Joyce's cottage.
37. The centre of interest was good food, some wine and much merriment.
38. The last meeting was held was held in Harbourville N.S., some years ago.
39. Throughout Karen's life there were more than a few significant challenges.
40. Karen met her challenges with courage and humour.
41. Years ago, Karen was diagnosed with a very rare form of Pancreatic Cancer. She lived a long, rich time after the diagnoses, with much medical intervention.
42. Thankfully, Karen enjoyed almost all things medical.
43. Karen loved dogs. Bandit was a favourite.
45. When my father was dieing, Karen brought her kids home from her cottage for several days so my kids would have kids to play with.
46. Karen was up for almost anything. She kept a container of ladybugs and a praying mantis in her frig, a surprise for my mother, an organic gardener, on Mother's Day. Unfortunately, her kids opened the lid and her frig was filled with hundreds of ladybugs.
47. When I was out and my invalid father did not answer the phone. Not having a key, she sent her smallest boy through the milk door to check on him.
48.She was a great sports fan. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgoooooooooooooooooes.
49. Most years her kids were in the Santa Clause Parade, an event that meant getting up very, very early.
50. Her young daughter invited the teachers to lunch. In a flurry of faux tidying, her friends helped fill the small room by the back door, from floor to ceiling with stray things, then closed the door. Allison brought the teachers to the back door.
51. Karen loved toys. It wasn't long after the twins were out of diapers, she began putting things away for grandchildren.
52. Karen became a grandma after I left the neighbourhood. I hope she was fully appreciated by her grandchildren.
53. Thanks Karen for leaving so many wonderful memories.
Travelling Mercies.
Tuesday, 2 June 2015
First Nations Truth and Reconciliation Report
June 2, 2015 am
It is a time to listen and absorb. The story belongs to all Canadians, and all of us are a part of the story. But, now is the time to listen to the voices of the First Nations people whose lives and living remain bound in ways, that were not theirs and not of their choosing.
Silence was demanded of them. Right now. the least we can do is listen with open hearts. In time, we may be able to find the paths through listening and striving to understand, that can lead us to reconciliation.
The truth is hard to hear. Imagine how much the truth is to bare.
It is a time to listen and absorb. The story belongs to all Canadians, and all of us are a part of the story. But, now is the time to listen to the voices of the First Nations people whose lives and living remain bound in ways, that were not theirs and not of their choosing.
Silence was demanded of them. Right now. the least we can do is listen with open hearts. In time, we may be able to find the paths through listening and striving to understand, that can lead us to reconciliation.
The truth is hard to hear. Imagine how much the truth is to bare.
Tuesday, 5 May 2015
Grandma's Rx. Visit to Faraway Grandkids
Somewhere in the mists of time, in the childhood literature of Dick and Jane and The Golden Books, a vision of a Visit from Grandma took form.
Mother dries her hands on her gingham apron as she opens the front door to welcome Grandmother. Grandmother emerges from the taxi, in her best suit with her arms filled with wrapped presents for everyone. The taxi driver carries her leather suitcase. Perhaps there will be a new hand knit sweater for little Susie.
Within moments Grandmother is in the kitchen, wearing an apron over her housedress. Her sensible shoes shine. A perfectly baked apple pie is being lifted from the oven. Father will soon be home from the office carrying the newspaper and his brown briefcase.
I have left the mists of the Bay of Fundy, to find myself, a grandma, visiting in the heart of a very large city. Not surprisingly, the scene has changed a bit.
I do not own a dress, let alone a house dress. I left my Frenchy 's collection of aprons, behind in the attic. I am bearing gifts, with some specially bagged presents for a little birthday girl.
This visit from grandma is stripped of preciousness. The little birthday girl lies languidly on the living room couch, disturbed by intermittent coughing spells. She takes up residence in her mother's room, as I takeover her lower bunk in the room she shares with her sister. My life is inundated with Monster High dolls and unidentified tiny objects.
The Birthday Party with friends is postponed, but the family party takes place. Decorations are limited to May Day flowers and a few party pretties. The "cake mix" cake has been imaginatively decorated by the birthday girl. A grand celebration is had by all.
But the unseen viruses and bacteria begin to expand their territory. The sickee becomes sicker. As her body conquers the invaders, her sister's health begins to wane. This is not a happy situation. Little people like older people are not at their best when sick.
Mummy reluctantly sets off to work. Grandma strives to bring comfort, support and a little fun to the sickees, sometimes with success, sometimes not. Weary momma arrives to a home without a sweet smelling pie baking in the oven, but a credit card waits by the door to take care of supper.
This may sound like a sad story, but it is not. I get to be a real grandma to my faraway grand daughters and get a chance to know them on their own territory, in ways not as possible on summer vacations and Christmas visits. For a short time, I get to be a real grandma. The impossible happens and I find myself loving them even more.
Mother dries her hands on her gingham apron as she opens the front door to welcome Grandmother. Grandmother emerges from the taxi, in her best suit with her arms filled with wrapped presents for everyone. The taxi driver carries her leather suitcase. Perhaps there will be a new hand knit sweater for little Susie.
Within moments Grandmother is in the kitchen, wearing an apron over her housedress. Her sensible shoes shine. A perfectly baked apple pie is being lifted from the oven. Father will soon be home from the office carrying the newspaper and his brown briefcase.
I have left the mists of the Bay of Fundy, to find myself, a grandma, visiting in the heart of a very large city. Not surprisingly, the scene has changed a bit.
I do not own a dress, let alone a house dress. I left my Frenchy 's collection of aprons, behind in the attic. I am bearing gifts, with some specially bagged presents for a little birthday girl.
This visit from grandma is stripped of preciousness. The little birthday girl lies languidly on the living room couch, disturbed by intermittent coughing spells. She takes up residence in her mother's room, as I takeover her lower bunk in the room she shares with her sister. My life is inundated with Monster High dolls and unidentified tiny objects.
The Birthday Party with friends is postponed, but the family party takes place. Decorations are limited to May Day flowers and a few party pretties. The "cake mix" cake has been imaginatively decorated by the birthday girl. A grand celebration is had by all.
But the unseen viruses and bacteria begin to expand their territory. The sickee becomes sicker. As her body conquers the invaders, her sister's health begins to wane. This is not a happy situation. Little people like older people are not at their best when sick.
Mummy reluctantly sets off to work. Grandma strives to bring comfort, support and a little fun to the sickees, sometimes with success, sometimes not. Weary momma arrives to a home without a sweet smelling pie baking in the oven, but a credit card waits by the door to take care of supper.
This may sound like a sad story, but it is not. I get to be a real grandma to my faraway grand daughters and get a chance to know them on their own territory, in ways not as possible on summer vacations and Christmas visits. For a short time, I get to be a real grandma. The impossible happens and I find myself loving them even more.
Friday, 6 March 2015
She was so much more than her wonderful laugh. Jeannie
Jeannie 1947-2015
Harbourville, Nova Scotia
1. Jeannie loved lists.
- she liked keeping track of things with lists
- she liked reading lists about everything from
"healthiest foods" to "naughtiest royals"to "favourite baby names 1947"
- the side of her fridge always had a list of what I
owed her or what I had borrowed. This was a
good thing that simplified my life.
- the side of her fridge always had a list of what I
owed her or what I had borrowed. This was a
good thing that simplified my life.
2. Jean was well read and well informed.
- she read and absorbed the world's doings
from a broad spectrum of sources
- her opinions took interesting paths across
the landscape of ideas
- most opinions she held, she held strongly
- she enjoyed pith
3. Jeannie was organized
- she didn't think she was organized but
she was
- she always knew where her drill bits were
- come on, I was the perfect foil to her organizational
skills
4. Jeannie loved asparagus and hated brussel sprouts
- she was daring when tasting new foods
- she was a good cook who loved to cook the fresh foods
from the sea and the valley
- I considered some of her creations, potions
- she committed herself to learn so much about nutrition
- she could ignore the rules of good eating when it suited her
- she was a light drinker but knew how to celebrate on the very
odd occasion
- I was concerned I might encounter highly disliked childhood brewers yeast in her food
Thankfully I didn't.
- my mother ignited her interest in healthy eating
5. She could get royally pissed off and didn't hesitate to let the
world know if she saw unfairness
- if you crossed one of her lines her response was not subtle
- she did not back down easily if she knew she was right
- some topics were off limits her children, her dogs, money, etc
6. Jeannie was very private
- to some it seemed she poured herself out into the world
- she kept many of her beliefs and feelings to herself alone
- she had a great interest in religion but kept most of her
conclusions to herself
- she hated dogma of any sort
- she could be one of the most irreverent people I know
- throughout childhood she was a regular attender of Sunday
School at the local United Church
7. Jeannie could be wonderfully bad
- she took delight in raising a little hell, throughout her life
- she did't put much energy into setting a good example
- what others thought of her didn't matter and also
mattered a lot
- with age she was mastering a skill of swearing
8. Jeannie was not as confident as she appeared
- if she was judged unfairly, it hurt her to the quick
- mad sometimes covered sad.
9. Jeannie loved with a great big heart
- her children were at the centre of her loving universe
................ until her grandchildren came along
- her heart had to grow a few sizes
- there was always great love for her many dogs, who
were an integral part of her life
- the real love for her friends though often publicly displayed,
was really glimpsed in subtle ways
10. Jeannie's favourite colour was not a constant
11. Jeannie hated pretension.
12. Early in her life, Jeannie shopped at Holt Renfrews,
but much preferred shopping and wearing her
clothes from Frenchies
- her favourite outfit was flannelette pyjama bottoms and a sweat shirt
- she could dress like she owned the world and like she didn't
have a penny to her name. she was comfortable in both
- she hated most of the clothes her mother picked out for her
- she wore a great big, old raccoon coat in high school and
usually took up two seats on the streetcar (always giving up
her seat to the elderly, infirm and pregnant as was required in the day)
13. Jeannie hated Friday the Thirteenth. Obviously with just cause
14. Jeannie was not a idealogue. She voted all parties, even though Allisons
by tradition, were always to vote conservative
- she once had a great big NDP sign on her lawn
- she worked on Pierre Trudeau's first exciting campaign
- she would have done almost anything to get Harper out
of office
- her forthrightness and spontaneous honesty would have made her
a disasterous politician, but you have to admit it would have been fun to watch
- she took part in an anti Bush march in Halifax
- she always voted and her vote was informed
15. Jeannie could make great big life decisions in a short time. some good, some notso
16. Jeannie blossomed in her life in Harbourville
- the earliest years here were perhaps the happiest of her life
- in time life lost some of its spark
- she felt trapped by the snow in winter
- she wanted to live nearer a hospital
- she spent too much time in her car
- she planned to move into a house beside her son in the near future
- she wanted to spend more time with her grandson
- she excelled as a grandma
- she was in almost daily contact by Skype with her grandson in
in Vancouver. He recognized her
17. Jeannie travelled often throughout her life
- her last big trip was to Newfoundland with a good friend
- most of her future travelling would have been to visit her grandson
in Vancouver
18. Jeannie was not that interested in sports but
- downhill skied for many years
- was a strong swimmer
- seriously practised yoga
- tried all sorts of exercise and exercise machines
- walked her dogs alone and with others
- she enjoyed charity walks
- she played on a school basketball team
19. Jeannie was very interested in keeping well and respected
both traditional and non traditional medicine
- her cupboards held many potions (my term )
- she had great respect and appreciation for her "body people"
(her daughter's term)
20. Jeannie was usually up for an adventure
- she loved "mystery tours"
- Wharf Rat Rally, strawberry suppers, chicken barbecues, fairs,
flower shows, Oaklawn Farm etc. etc. etc.
21. Jeannie LOVED her dogs
- she owned many throughout her life
- they were true companions
- they were all real characters. Some more than others
- for example, Casey pulled a bottle of wine from the counter,
drank it and got royally drunk.
22. Jeannie was generous with her time and money
- spent time with a Little Sister
- volunteered at the local school
- almost learned to bake squares for local events
- donated generously to practical causes both at home and overseas
23. Jeannie enjoyed art
- volunteered at the Art Gallery of Ontario
- always included galleries in her outings
- knew the lingo but didn't use it
- was not a collector, but enjoyed good art around her
- enjoyed making things, but the experience far outweighed the product
- could come up with hilarus impromptu critiques of some work that caught her eye
24. Jeannie loved music
- was in the St. Clement's Choir but was surprised to find herself in The Kings Chorale
- some of the happiest moments were spent singing with the Kings Chorale
- her tastes were eclectic
- Ricky Nelson was her heart throb
- had tickets to the symphony
- was the first adult I knew who kept up with music videos in the 1970's
26. Jeannie loved children
- she opened up so many windows for the multi handicapped children
she taught for many years at a hospital school
- her expectations for all children were the same
27. Jeannie had many happy memories of camping in Algonquin Park
- she claimed she was a nature girl
- her skills in canoeing, camp craft, camp songs, nature lore and "politically
incorrect Indian stories"began at camp
28. Jeannie had a delicious sense of humour
- she was seldom shocked but it did happen
- her wit was quick
- she often laughed at herself, being well aware of her strengths and weaknesses
- she filled lives with her wonderful laugh
29. Jeannie was definitely one of a kind
* may be continued "for there is no end".
the landscape of ideas
- most opinions she held, she held strongly
- she enjoyed pith
3. Jeannie was organized
- she didn't think she was organized but
she was
- she always knew where her drill bits were
- come on, I was the perfect foil to her organizational
skills
4. Jeannie loved asparagus and hated brussel sprouts
- she was daring when tasting new foods
- she was a good cook who loved to cook the fresh foods
from the sea and the valley
- I considered some of her creations, potions
- she committed herself to learn so much about nutrition
- she could ignore the rules of good eating when it suited her
- she was a light drinker but knew how to celebrate on the very
odd occasion
- I was concerned I might encounter highly disliked childhood brewers yeast in her food
Thankfully I didn't.
- my mother ignited her interest in healthy eating
5. She could get royally pissed off and didn't hesitate to let the
world know if she saw unfairness
- if you crossed one of her lines her response was not subtle
- she did not back down easily if she knew she was right
- some topics were off limits her children, her dogs, money, etc
6. Jeannie was very private
- to some it seemed she poured herself out into the world
- she kept many of her beliefs and feelings to herself alone
- she had a great interest in religion but kept most of her
conclusions to herself
- she hated dogma of any sort
- she could be one of the most irreverent people I know
- throughout childhood she was a regular attender of Sunday
School at the local United Church
7. Jeannie could be wonderfully bad
- she took delight in raising a little hell, throughout her life
- she did't put much energy into setting a good example
- what others thought of her didn't matter and also
mattered a lot
- with age she was mastering a skill of swearing
8. Jeannie was not as confident as she appeared
- if she was judged unfairly, it hurt her to the quick
- mad sometimes covered sad.
9. Jeannie loved with a great big heart
- her children were at the centre of her loving universe
................ until her grandchildren came along
- her heart had to grow a few sizes
- there was always great love for her many dogs, who
were an integral part of her life
- the real love for her friends though often publicly displayed,
was really glimpsed in subtle ways
10. Jeannie's favourite colour was not a constant
11. Jeannie hated pretension.
12. Early in her life, Jeannie shopped at Holt Renfrews,
but much preferred shopping and wearing her
clothes from Frenchies
- her favourite outfit was flannelette pyjama bottoms and a sweat shirt
- she could dress like she owned the world and like she didn't
have a penny to her name. she was comfortable in both
- she hated most of the clothes her mother picked out for her
- she wore a great big, old raccoon coat in high school and
usually took up two seats on the streetcar (always giving up
her seat to the elderly, infirm and pregnant as was required in the day)
13. Jeannie hated Friday the Thirteenth. Obviously with just cause
14. Jeannie was not a idealogue. She voted all parties, even though Allisons
by tradition, were always to vote conservative
- she once had a great big NDP sign on her lawn
- she worked on Pierre Trudeau's first exciting campaign
- she would have done almost anything to get Harper out
of office
- her forthrightness and spontaneous honesty would have made her
a disasterous politician, but you have to admit it would have been fun to watch
- she took part in an anti Bush march in Halifax
- she always voted and her vote was informed
15. Jeannie could make great big life decisions in a short time. some good, some notso
16. Jeannie blossomed in her life in Harbourville
- the earliest years here were perhaps the happiest of her life
- in time life lost some of its spark
- she felt trapped by the snow in winter
- she wanted to live nearer a hospital
- she spent too much time in her car
- she planned to move into a house beside her son in the near future
- she wanted to spend more time with her grandson
- she excelled as a grandma
- she was in almost daily contact by Skype with her grandson in
in Vancouver. He recognized her
17. Jeannie travelled often throughout her life
- her last big trip was to Newfoundland with a good friend
- most of her future travelling would have been to visit her grandson
in Vancouver
18. Jeannie was not that interested in sports but
- downhill skied for many years
- was a strong swimmer
- seriously practised yoga
- tried all sorts of exercise and exercise machines
- walked her dogs alone and with others
- she enjoyed charity walks
- she played on a school basketball team
19. Jeannie was very interested in keeping well and respected
both traditional and non traditional medicine
- her cupboards held many potions (my term )
- she had great respect and appreciation for her "body people"
(her daughter's term)
20. Jeannie was usually up for an adventure
- she loved "mystery tours"
- Wharf Rat Rally, strawberry suppers, chicken barbecues, fairs,
flower shows, Oaklawn Farm etc. etc. etc.
21. Jeannie LOVED her dogs
- she owned many throughout her life
- they were true companions
- they were all real characters. Some more than others
- for example, Casey pulled a bottle of wine from the counter,
drank it and got royally drunk.
22. Jeannie was generous with her time and money
- spent time with a Little Sister
- volunteered at the local school
- almost learned to bake squares for local events
- donated generously to practical causes both at home and overseas
23. Jeannie enjoyed art
- volunteered at the Art Gallery of Ontario
- always included galleries in her outings
- knew the lingo but didn't use it
- was not a collector, but enjoyed good art around her
- enjoyed making things, but the experience far outweighed the product
- could come up with hilarus impromptu critiques of some work that caught her eye
24. Jeannie loved music
- was in the St. Clement's Choir but was surprised to find herself in The Kings Chorale
- some of the happiest moments were spent singing with the Kings Chorale
- her tastes were eclectic
- Ricky Nelson was her heart throb
- had tickets to the symphony
- was the first adult I knew who kept up with music videos in the 1970's
26. Jeannie loved children
- she opened up so many windows for the multi handicapped children
she taught for many years at a hospital school
- her expectations for all children were the same
27. Jeannie had many happy memories of camping in Algonquin Park
- she claimed she was a nature girl
- her skills in canoeing, camp craft, camp songs, nature lore and "politically
incorrect Indian stories"began at camp
28. Jeannie had a delicious sense of humour
- she was seldom shocked but it did happen
- her wit was quick
- she often laughed at herself, being well aware of her strengths and weaknesses
- she filled lives with her wonderful laugh
29. Jeannie was definitely one of a kind
* may be continued "for there is no end".
Friday, 30 January 2015
The Day after the Storm
I love big, ferocious snow storms, and I live in just the right place to encounter them. My old farmhouse on a cliff, overlooking the Bay of Fundy, is just the place to be. It has been weathering storms for over a hundred years and will likely weather a few more. I look forward to the new tunes my old house will play, when it becomes a wind instrument.
For the most part, things are generally easy to get storm ready. Flashlights have fresh batteries, tub is filled with water, tea bags are out on the counter and the radio is all set to go, on CBC. Enough wood sits by the wood stove and the cupboards are full.
When it appears a storm is really on the way, I set out for town to pick up a few last things. The town in the valley is unusually busy. My friends and neighbours are the sort that will always want to be well prepared.
My mission is often a trip to pick up milk and dog food. I hate canned milk in my tea. By the look of the liquor store parking lot, many have other priorities. Although toilet paper is always on preparation lists, the crush in the grocery store generally centres around the potato chips.
In town all is abuzz. Here comes the storm. Here comes the storm.
I drive up the Oxbow, on the North Mountain and set off down toward the shore. In the distance, the sky is slowly filling with the foreboding, but beautiful, dark, grey clouds. The sea isn't unusually wild. My old dog, Moses, is now calm when storms are approaching. In his younger days, he would usually get restless, many hours or even days, before a big weather event. Now, I think he looks forward to some good, one on one time, on the couch with me
One of my traits, that I am most comfortable with, is that I am a patient waiter. In a long line, in the bank, I can space out and be one with the universe, as a teller kindly peruses a customer's pictures of a relative's recent wedding. However, when a big storm is on the way, I get a little antsy. "Let the grand show begin."
The holly bush taps on the living room window to let me know it is time to take my seat. I plunk down on the couch, to watch the fire in the wood stove rise with the wind. Before long the sea is roaring and crashing, the windows rattle, the outer door thunks, the barn door slams ( This is not a good thing.), and Moses snores. I am enclosed in a no person band.
When the lights flicker and the frig begins to make odd noises, it is time to light some candles. Candlelight never fails to add a special hush to the music.
In time, I rouse the dog and send him out into what is becoming a blizzard. I let his snowy self in and
we climb the stairs, and plop ourselves down on the woollen blanket laden bed. I crawl under the covers and go to sleep listening to the dulcet tones of the weatherman waxing eloquent about cold and warm fronts, possible sea surges and now the ever elusive vortexes. The house continues humming a lullaby.
In the morning we waken to the sounds of a snow muffled world. I slide into the reality of the post storm world. The driveway is filled with high drifts, some dishes need washing and my usual morning warm bath is an impossibility.
The sea still roars but there are the mundane tasks to attend to.
The electricity eventually returns and a more normal routine begins.
But what was that I just heard on the radio. "A significant snow storm will be arriving tomorrow."
For the most part, things are generally easy to get storm ready. Flashlights have fresh batteries, tub is filled with water, tea bags are out on the counter and the radio is all set to go, on CBC. Enough wood sits by the wood stove and the cupboards are full.
When it appears a storm is really on the way, I set out for town to pick up a few last things. The town in the valley is unusually busy. My friends and neighbours are the sort that will always want to be well prepared.
My mission is often a trip to pick up milk and dog food. I hate canned milk in my tea. By the look of the liquor store parking lot, many have other priorities. Although toilet paper is always on preparation lists, the crush in the grocery store generally centres around the potato chips.
In town all is abuzz. Here comes the storm. Here comes the storm.
I drive up the Oxbow, on the North Mountain and set off down toward the shore. In the distance, the sky is slowly filling with the foreboding, but beautiful, dark, grey clouds. The sea isn't unusually wild. My old dog, Moses, is now calm when storms are approaching. In his younger days, he would usually get restless, many hours or even days, before a big weather event. Now, I think he looks forward to some good, one on one time, on the couch with me
One of my traits, that I am most comfortable with, is that I am a patient waiter. In a long line, in the bank, I can space out and be one with the universe, as a teller kindly peruses a customer's pictures of a relative's recent wedding. However, when a big storm is on the way, I get a little antsy. "Let the grand show begin."
The holly bush taps on the living room window to let me know it is time to take my seat. I plunk down on the couch, to watch the fire in the wood stove rise with the wind. Before long the sea is roaring and crashing, the windows rattle, the outer door thunks, the barn door slams ( This is not a good thing.), and Moses snores. I am enclosed in a no person band.
When the lights flicker and the frig begins to make odd noises, it is time to light some candles. Candlelight never fails to add a special hush to the music.
In time, I rouse the dog and send him out into what is becoming a blizzard. I let his snowy self in and
we climb the stairs, and plop ourselves down on the woollen blanket laden bed. I crawl under the covers and go to sleep listening to the dulcet tones of the weatherman waxing eloquent about cold and warm fronts, possible sea surges and now the ever elusive vortexes. The house continues humming a lullaby.
In the morning we waken to the sounds of a snow muffled world. I slide into the reality of the post storm world. The driveway is filled with high drifts, some dishes need washing and my usual morning warm bath is an impossibility.
The sea still roars but there are the mundane tasks to attend to.
The electricity eventually returns and a more normal routine begins.
But what was that I just heard on the radio. "A significant snow storm will be arriving tomorrow."
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