What We Leave Behind...

I'm not sure if it was the full moon, or a DQ Skor Blizzard at a late hour that caused a sleepless night recently. I'd had a busy day. I taught two classes at the bead shop and came home feeling the need to unwind with a catnap. After that brief repose Garnet and I took Zoe for a long walk. It was a beautiful evening and we decided to extend it with a stop at the Dairy Queen. Back home, I settled in to finish some jewelry repairs and craft a new necklace. At eleven o'clock I closed up shop, got ready for bed and read until sleep made nonsense of the storyline. Then it was lights out. 

But it seemed like turning off the light, turned my mind on. I opened my eyes and noticed the full moon grinning through the bedroom window; casting its hollow light in the room. I thought about the moon and all it's seen and wondered at its ready smile. I considered all I have to be thankful for and said a prayer of sorts, asking for blessings on those I love. I listened to my husband's steady breath punctuated by the occasional sighs and wiggles from the dog. I even tried some yoga breathing. Then my mind wandered to the events of the day, specifically to the classes I taught at the bead shop.

The morning class was new. It was a bead-weaving class called "The Daisy Drape". All the participants were seasoned 'stitchers' and after the first daisy they were well on their way. Conversation flowed and in no time they were linking their daisies stem to stem. The afternoon class was pearl-knotting. As much as I love knotting pearls I dread teaching the class. I always grapple with what I think the expectations of the participants will be and whether I will be able to teach the technique adequately. Pearl-knotting is challenging and seldom is the first effort a winning entry. The class was full.

We went through introductions. Then I shared some interesting facts about pearls, gave an overview of what they would be learning to do, had each of them lay out their pearls in the order they wanted them strung and unwind all six feet of silk cord they would use for knotting. I proceeded to go around to each one and demonstrate the technique. As always, I did this repeatedly. They were tentative at first, but I assured them we were just practicing. I showed them the importance of positioning the knot, giving it a pinch, then creating a tightrope for their pearls to dangle from while maintaining the tension, pushing and pulling until knot and pearl meet. They struggled. I walked them through the steps again. Then the first brave soul placed a knot. We cheered. Soon the rest followed. Not perfection by any means, but a good start. This was short-lived.

Everything that could go wrong in that class did. Missplaced knots marred paths to success and I had to discern the anatomy of each one and dissect it. Some of the pearls' holes were too small for the cord to pass through and I had to ream them out. Some pearls cracked under the pressure and the French wire unraveled. But with each obstacle came new learning; learning I couldn't possibly have shared with them in a three-hour workshop otherwise. They were better prepared 'knotters' because of it and each one proudly wore their imperfectly knotted strand of pearls home. 

I took home their gratitude for my patience, knowledge, and unfailing good humor. Many of them had been waiting months to take the class, were so excited to learn how and pleased they had a good instructor, especially since I knew my way around a tough knot. Their praise made me wonder why I wasted my energy dreading the class.

Under the spell of the moonlight I wondered something else - what we leave behind. Not only through life, but each moment. I thought of my novice pearl-knotters; the metaphor-for-life experience we shared and the impressions we left on each other. I thought of my parents and what they've left me. All the love, guidance, hope, tears and laughter. None tangible, but all of them gifts, precious gifts.

We all possess gifts. Like pearls, some occur naturally, others are cultivated. Whatever the case they are meant to be shared. This night of wakefulness beneath the moon's gaze revealed to me that we come into this world a bare soul and should leave this world, a soul bared. This is what we leave behind.

The rest is pixie dust...

Change...

No question, change is hard; inevitable and hard. It's also radical and subtle. As I age, change has become more the former than the latter. When I was younger, change was sometimes so subtle I barely noticed it. Or maybe I just wasn't paying attention. One thing is for certain, change is constant - in varying degrees. 

Perhaps the constancy of change becomes more evident when you have amassed a few years to look back on. Age gives you a bird's eye view of change and this old bird is amazed at what she's seen. If I swoop in on my childhood I see a life in a state of perpetual growth. Every second I was changing, although it didn't seem like that to me. Years seemed to grind by and I was sure I would never turn eighteen. So I jumped that gun and got married at sixteen instead. I had no concept of the permanence of this decision and like most young adults, I was very clever. At least this life-changing event seemed to speed things up a bit. 

My teenaged-self took the adult world by storm; I dropped out of high school, eloped, found full-time employment, cooked, cleaned, got pregnant. Big change. When the baby came, he soon became a toddler, I got a new job, and we moved fourteen times in three years. Busy change. Then the second baby came.  In the blink of an eye she too became a toddler, but by that time her brother was a full-fledged boy; going to school, making new friends, needing me less. Crazy change. By the time his sister was in school he was a pre-teen, writing a girl's name on his sneakers, testing boundaries, letting go of my hand. Sad change. Suddenly, my daughter turned twelve and left her brain on her pillow; cuddled less, challenged more. Hormonal change. Through all this, people came and went from my life, many were born and only a few died. Then my marriage ended and I found myself living alone without my children and the comforts of what I thought was home. This was transition. I was neither here nor there. I was dangling in mid-air from some invisible string; hoping for a soft landing if and when the string broke. Painful change. 

It was while I was hovering in that transitory state that I realized something about myself. I always looked forward to what came next instead of experiencing the present, and in doing so, wished my life away. I missed so much by hurrying things up. Transition gave me the gift of trying to live more consciously in the moment. I say 'trying' because I'm still working on it. Let's face it, I am a work in progress. I am change. 

This past year has brought radical change; my Mom's decline and eventual passing, my husband's career winding down and his retirement, the sale of our home and the purchase of a new one, and soon, the move from Edmonton to Sherwood Park. I was contemplating all this change in a quiet moment while writing a letter to my cousin. I looked around and thought how sad I will feel to see this home emptied of its contents in just two short weeks and how hard it will be to close the door for the last time. I caught myself actually wanting to slow things down; not just live in the moment, but relive moments. I stamped and sealed the envelope, put the halter on the dog, and went out to mail the letter and take a brisk head-clearing stroll. 

I dropped the letter in the mailbox and we headed south down our street toward the walking path. The house at the end of the block sold shortly after ours and the new neighbors were just moving in - the U Haul truck was still parked in the driveway. Zoe and I wandered in that direction thinking we might get a glimpse of the new neighbors. We weren't disappointed. Out from behind the truck came a fellow dressed in baggy grey sweatpants, his billowing muffin-top on display and his chest and shoulders abundantly tattooed. He was stuffing empty boxes behind the fence. It didn't seem the appropriate time to give a 'hey neighbor' greeting so we kept walking. The truck was blocking the sidewalk. We had to walk around it and into the street to continue on our charted course. As soon as we came around the truck a massive pit bull-like canine tethered to a piece of string lunged at us, snarling, growling and gnashing his great-white-shark jaws. I gasped and shouted a dirty brown expletive while Zoe wound herself around my legs several times. We didn't wait to see how long the string would hold or try to pet the nice doggy. We kept moving. 

From the safety of the other side of the fence I had an epiphany; some change is bad, some change is good. Sometimes change is for the best. So I'll start packing, consciously, one box at a time. 

Still standing...

Six Boxes...

They have been sitting in the garage for more than two years now. Two columns of three. Six boxes. They contain the last of my Mom's belongings. Things we moved from her home in the assisted living facility in Medicine Hat, to The Churchill residence in downtown Edmonton, to our garage. I've been ignoring them; pretending they aren't there. But we're moving and it doesn't make sense to move them again. So they've been looming; beckoning; almost reaching out like thirsty tendrils of a parched houseplant. They're begging for attention; for someone to go through their contents, touch the once cherished items, sort them; decide where they go. That someone is me.

Proximity seems to be what designates someone for certain roles or tasks. Sifting through my Mom's life wasn't something I signed up for at birth. It came from years of knowing her, loving her and caring for her. She trusted me. She entrusted this to me. She believed I would know what to do - what to give to whom. It was the emotional and physical proximity that made me the keeper of the boxes.

So I cracked the first box on the same day the garage door cracked me on the head. That was how the gong show of a walk with the dog ended. It was a walk where I fought a losing game of tug-o'-war with a rogue pair of underwear; was a blood meal for swarms of hungry mosquitoes; suffered a lack of integrity with the second poop bag, and struggled with the third bag as my dog shamelessly dragged her furry little bottom all over the grassy boulevard. Needless to say, after these events and the garage door assault, I was feeling more than a little off kilter and decided it was a good day to unleash the contents of the six boxes. 

The first few items freed from their cardboard confines were her bowling awards. She was an excellent bowler - even with macular degeneration. In one of her journals I found some of her higher scores documented; one-ninety-nine, two-forty. I decided to set these treasures aside for her Grandkids. They knew of their Granny's bowling prowess and even went to the lanes with her on occasion. She loved that. Then I found the ornate old box where she kept favorite pieces of costume jewelry. Inside I found the sparkly brooch I bought her that said, "I ❤ 2 Bowl". She wore that for luck. It also contained her initialed sterling silver compact - when I opened it, the pressed powder smell that was my Mom filled my nostrils. The next box yielded four more years of journals I didn't know were missing and numerous pads of lined paper, manuscripts, envelopes, Lifesavers, and ledgers. As I went through each box I tried to sort in piles where items should go, but by the time I got around to the sixth box, I had nothing that resembled any order. It was strewn about on the garage floor as though I'd thrown it there - proof I am my Mother's daughter. But the last box delivered the most unexpected treasures. 

Box six contained my Mom's purse, she'd been looking for it for a very long time and I'm sure she'd be relieved to know I found it. The wallet I bought her was inside but there were no dollar bills tucked into its folds, just two diaper pins attached to the lining of the purse. Blue diaper pins - the kind used when I was having babies. Sturdy, straight, industrial strength diaper pins; perfect for pearl-knotting, so just like Mom would do, I pinned them to my shirt for safekeeping. There were photos and books and balled up in a corner of the box was one of the T-shirts she got for submitting a photo, poem, or story to the Alberta Council on Aging (ACA) magazine. The caption on the shirt reads, "Not only wine and cheese get better with age.". Then, in the bottom of the same box was a notebook. Inside it were two letters she wrote in her own hand and never mailed. One was to Jenny, the mother of my grandchildren, the other one was to me and Garnet. It said; "Thanks for all the writing paper and books and time spent and the gum and all the small important things. You're just great! Whoever raised you did a wonderful job - you're so cheerful and helpful to this old Mother. I'm very lucky. Sure lucky to have a great son-in-law as well - how on earth did you manage that? Love to you both, Mom."

If proximity designated me the keeper of the boxes - then I'm the lucky one. All that's left is a little pressed powder.

And the rest is pixie dust...

Unencumbered...

My Mom offered her future son-in-law a warm welcome long before Oprah said it was the right thing to do. Maybe she knew what he could expect from the men in our family and tried to provide some balance. Or maybe she understood the psychology of not opposing her grown daughter's choice of a suitor. Whatever her reasoning, I'll never forget her for it. After all, Garnet certainly didn't have the smoothest of introductions when it came to meeting my brother, my son, or my Dad. 

When Garnet met my brother they sat across from each other in the living room. Ted leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and said in a big brotherly way, "So... Garnet, just what ARE your intentions toward my little sister?". If looks could kill, when I introduced him to my son, Garnet should have self-combusted. But worst of all, when he shook hands with my Dad for the first time, it was over the pistol laying in Dad's lap. This was likely staged after he noticed the extra plate Mom set at the dinner table and when she told him I was bringing Garnet for dinner he asked, "Do we have to feed the stray?". It's a miracle Garnet stuck around at all.

Mom and I were both glad that he weathered that storm. Not many Mothers can say they adored their son-in-law like my Mom did. They became good friends and talked at length about a variety of topics. Garnet enjoyed Mom's company and she his. I remember her saying that she felt so close to Garnet it was as if he was her own son. But what you see is what you get with Garnet. He's not one to hide behind a facade or put on airs. 

He is the same man today that he was when we first met; an elegant, respectful, honest, gentle man, with a quick wit and keen mind. When we first started dating he told me I'd never meet anyone else like him and he was right. Knowing and loving him has made me a better person. He looks for the good and has the fortitude to tell you what you need to hear. He's my sounding board, my cheerleader, my partner, my defender, my friend. When I sing, he claps. He is true to his name - he is a gem. 

I'm not the only one who thinks so. Garnet retired this week after thirty-five years with one company. He had many great opportunities and worked with countless people over the span of his career. As many that could, gathered together at his retirement celebration to congratulate him and wish him well. Tributes to him mentioned his integrity, his consistency, his fairness, and his values. Some mentioned how glad they were he took a chance on hiring them, others said they still look for the "golden nugget of opportunity" he coached them to seek out. He was credited with an uncanny ability to get the job done, give sound advice and mentor with ease. I was not surprised by what I heard. I was overwhelmed with pride in what he had accomplished and honored to share my life with this remarkable man. 

I thought of my Mom and how much she would have enjoyed seeing him celebrated. I felt sad that she wasn't there to share the moment and applaud his achievement. She would've wanted to stand up and shout, "That's my boy!" even though he wasn't. I know she would be happy for us - for this new chapter in our life together. Sometimes I feel like she stepped out of the way so we could move forward - no longer encumbered with her care. She was selfless that way. Maybe, since she lives on in my heart, she felt my admiration for this cherished man and gave a rousing cheer. Just maybe...

And the rest is pixie dust...

Connections...

My Mom and I had a unique way of communicating. Sometimes it was with just a look or glance, other times it was through a language we shared and understood. She might say something to me like, "Cath, go fetch me the whose-its beside the dooferdinkus on the whatchamacallit." and I knew exactly what she was talking about. We had a connection. We liked the same things. Mom and I had many likes in common, such as; seeing the first buds of Spring; smelling honeysuckle and Russian Olives in bloom; letting the sun warm our bones; reading a good book; sharing a belly laugh; making a difference. 

Mom made a difference in whatever she did. She put her heart into everything from gardening to making dinner. When I was a kid and dinner was ready she would open the kitchen window and holler, "Kooey-yooey-yoo-hooooo!" and I'd come running. She didn't call my name for hours to no avail. The din of "Kooey-yooey-yoo-hooooo" rang for blocks. It was my dinner bell. 

The Contraception Bell

I have a bell. It's a replica of a school bell. I call it "The Contraception Bell". That's because I live on a greenbelt where lazy summer days beckon young teens to nestle in a cool place on the grass for a little afternoon delight. Sometimes right outside my yard! When this occurs I put "The Contraception Bell" to use by opening my patio door and giving it a good workout. "CLANG-CLANG, CLANG-CLANG, CLANG-CLANG." This usually makes them stop for a brief moment before returning to their nubile ways. "CLANG-CLANG, CLANG-CLANG, CLANG-CLANG", I sound the bell again. Now they sit up, looking for the source of the clatter. When none is evident they return to their business. Undeterred, I ring the bell again, "CLANG-CLANG, CLANG-CLANG, CLANG-CLANG". This time they get up, refasten themselves, brush grass off their clothes, straighten their hair and wander off hand in hand. The third time is the charm. I have made a difference and momentarily thwarted the possibility of an unwanted teen pregnancy. We've made a connection and they understand the unspoken language of the bell. 

Contraception is not the only language the bell speaks. I've recently discovered that it is also adept at calling Emma when her Dad is at the door to pick her up and she's playing at a neighbor's house. With the familiar "CLANG-CLANG, CLANG-CLANG, CLANG-CLANG" she sprints home on winged feet. This is my version of Mom's "Kooey-yooey-yoo-hooooo". It's a very useful bell. 

I won't have much need for it anymore. We've sold our home and are moving to a new community  where there's no greenbelt temptation and Emma will be going elsewhere after school next year. I will miss her. We have a connection. We made a difference to each other. Endings bring new beginnings, so the bell will gather dust and lose its lustre; unless... I give it to a little girl with wings on her feet. 

I think Mom would be pleased - and the rest is pixie dust...

Firsts...

When you lose someone very dear to you, you go through a series of firsts in the year following their departure. So far, I've experienced the first Mother's Day, the first Birthday, and the first Father's Day.

My Dad has been gone for eight years; it was my first motherless Father's Day. This might seem a little strange, but that's grief for you. It's full of surprises. I thought about my Mom and the man she chose as her husband and father of her children. Theirs was not an easy relationship. Mom had a charmed upbringing and Dad was a complicated man. Maybe it all started when he was just a boy. 

He was the middle child of seven with four sisters and two brothers. He wasn't the best student; more familiar with the strap than he was with academics but he was an avid reader. He would settle in the hay loft with a good book for hours. That's probably why he was so well-versed with his Mother's use of the bull whip. Eventually, the camel's last straw made him take the axe to that instrument of dread and give it a proper burial. I can't say I blame him. He didn't have things easy.  

They were dirt poor and his Dad liked the drink. My Grandmother was a strong Norwegian woman who was not the victim of spousal abuse, she was the perpetrator. From what I gathered, my Grandfather was a mild-mannered fellow and the two of them were like oil and water. Eventually, they parted company. Grandma longed for the mountains of British Columbia so much like her Nordic homeland. Grandpa took up residence in a hotel in Medicine Hat where he was employed with the City. This was a defining moment in my Dad's life. 

He was just fourteen when he watched the dust settle in tire tracks as his sisters, brothers and Mother drove off, leaving him on his own with enough raw potatoes to last two weeks. His elder brother Harry was old enough to drive. His youngest brother Norman was too young to leave behind. His sisters were helpmates to their Mother. My Dad was expendable. I can't imagine how he felt; lonely and discarded I suppose. A survivor by nature, he soon tired of the menu, made his way to town and got himself a job. 

Dad did everything, from honey-wagon duty, to running horses between seller and buyer.  He wasn't afraid of hard work and learned quickly. He had a brief stint in the Army but was honorably discharged due to a recurring stomach ailment. He and my Mom fell in love while working at the Crystal Dairy. I plugged my ears when she told me how they steamed things up in the ice cream room. But like Wills and Kate they took a break. Mom just wasn't sure he was the one. Dad knew what he wanted and had my maternal Grandmother as his ally. On September 26, 1945 they were married in St Barnabas Anglican Church. Mom looked beautiful; Dad handsome. But it wasn't picture perfect. 

Like his father before him Dad also found the drink. Coins jingling in his pocket turned to liquid. Dreams faded away. They never moved into the home they built. Dad said Mom wanted to move home with her folks; Mom said Dad sold the house out from under her. Whatever the truth was, they moved into her childhood home with her parents shortly before my brother was born in December 1946. They lost a baby girl before my sister arrived safely in November 1951. When my Mom's Mother died in 1955 my Dad was hospitalized for an extended period and had to undergo shock treatments for depression. Then I came along in May 1958, heralded by my Dad singing, "I've Got the Whole World in My Hands...". Through it all the world kept spinning on its axis and my Mom put one foot in front of the other. But it wasn't without cost. 

She became embittered; Dad, overbearing and solitary. When he died in 2003, Mom never cried. She acknowledged that he had been a good provider but it took a while to forgive him for the past. All that is separate from me. I remember being loved by both my parents. Dad was my protector and go-to-guy. Mom was my confidante and ally. I like to think they shared a friendship, maybe even an understanding on some level. What child wouldn't hope that of their parents.

Mom & Dad 1998

I love this picture of Mom and Dad together, sitting in their lawn chairs on the grass, sharing a moment. I see the connection in their eyes. I see love there. I see my parents - perfect in their imperfection. 

And the rest is pixie dust...

LOL...

My Mom and I were a lot alike; both of us extroverted introverts who sat on the fence between the two opposites. For me, depending on the day, six out of ten toes tend to dangle on the introverted side. This uniqueness has enabled both of us to live a solitary existence inside our own heads with relative ease. We have also shared similar comfort in most social settings. I was blessed to inherit these traits from my Mom; but best of all, she bestowed on me her love of laughter.

Lately, laughter doesn't come as easily as it once did. I've been especially concerned about my sense of humor.  It seems intimidated by grief, or at the very least, is giving grief its due and laying low. In the relationship between humor and grief, I wonder if humor is the introvert. Maybe it sits on the same fence I do; occasionally dangling a toe over the edge. Whatever the case may be, I've been missing my funny bone and have considered that my Mom may have taken it with her.

Mom and I laughed a lot together; crazy, gut-busting, roll-on-the-floor laughter. Like the time my sister took Mom and I with her to the car wash. We sat in the car while Fay took hold of the washer-wand and plugged tokens in the machine. Her grip must have been tentative because the sudden pressure of the water caused the wand to fly out of her hand and become a writhing, spraying, menace. It thumped the car and Fay repeatedly; spewing warm, soapy water everywhere. Fay's hair hung in long wet strands; her eyes were almost squeezed shut and she was blowing water out of her mouth like a diver coming up for air. With arms flailing blindly in front of her, she tried her best to catch the wand and protect herself at the same time; to no avail. Mom and I watched in disbelief at first. Surely this couldn't be happening to Fay; she was always in control. We thought of trying to rescue her, but the comedy of the situation overcame us. So we let the event play itself out and laughed until we cried. At Fay's expense of course. 

Mom called that 'shadenfreude', or laughing at the misfortune of others. It's not a past-time that wins friends and influences people, but it can be the source of much comedic relief. The success of some television programs depends on it. Usually, Mom laughed at herself best. She loved to re-tell funny events that happened to her to a captive audience. Like the time Dad took her to the grocery store to pick up some provisions. They were at the checkout and the cashier looked at my Dad and said, "So, you're an alcoholic!" To which my Dad replied unabashedly, "Why yes I am!". You could have knocked Mom over with a feather. For years she'd been trying to get my Dad to admit he had a drinking problem and it took a stranger to do it. Unfortunately, this breakthrough was short-lived. When he turned around to face Mom she noticed he had on his favorite cap that said, "I'm an ELK-aholic!". Her friends loved that story and she got years of mirthful mileage from it.

Her family also benefited from her sense of humor. My son Tim remembers with fondness the time he and his sister visited Granny at the assisted living facility in Medicine Hat. They'd had a great time together and when their visit came to an end, she walked them to the elevator. Just as the door was closing and Mom was waving goodbye, Tim said, "Keep it freaky Granny!" Mom suddenly crumpled and fell to the floor. Alarmed and fearing the worst, Tim pressed the open door button and rushed to his Granny's aid. She was fine. For some reason Tim's comment tickled her funny bone and she collapsed in a fit of silent laughter. I miss her eyes-squeezed-shut silent laughter. I miss that twinkle in her eye and the hint of a smile at the corner of her mouth. I miss the way she saw the world. I miss my funny bone. 

Emma & Zoe

Maybe it's not gone completely. At three twenty-five every weekday a school bus stops across the street from my house and an energetic, bright-eyed, brown-haired, Irish-Italian, eight-year-old girl named Emma jumps off. She's all mine for an hour and a half until her Dad comes to pick her up. We greet each other with a smile, pick up the mail, walk up the steps to the house and open the door to a bouncing, happy dog. Sometimes Emma hangs up her backpack and coat and sometimes she doesn't. Always, she washes her hands and the dog waits on the rug by the door until Emma gets her a cookie. Then she skips into the kitchen and plunks herself down at the counter for her own snack. We talk about her day; whether or not she has homework; who said what to her on the playground. Then with a twinkle in her eye and a smile at the corner of her mouth she says, "Cathie, what's the difference between roast beef and pea soup?" I say, "I don't know Emma, what is the difference between roast beef and pea soup?" She looks at me with a jagged grin and replies, "Anybody can roast beef...".

And the rest is pixie dust...