Looking back...

Every January I reflect on the previous year and take stock of events, both life-altering and otherwise and decide how I fared personally. How did I cope? What could I have done differently? Could I have made things better? It sounds like a lot of second guessing doesn't it? This year, I used journals I'd written to assess my performance through the events that marked 2011. One thing is for certain, my routine has changed drastically. I'm no longer getting up at the crack of dawn, showering, having breakfast, taking my husband to the train and then heading to the seniors residence for my morning visit with my Mom. Those were precious times, as my journal entries reveal. 

"This morning her eyes were closed when I entered her room. The rustle of my jacket awakened her. I could tell it took her a second to recognize me. I helped her a little by giving her a cheery, "Hi Mom!". She reached for my hand and warmed my icy fingers in hers. "It's cold outside.", she observed. She asked why it was so cold and just as I was about to tell her there was less than a month before Christmas, her alarm clock heralded the early morning hour with "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas". We both smiled and I said, "It's nearly Christmas Mom." "Is it really?", she asked, so surprised. As though this was a first in our morning ritual." 

Reading through various journal entries lets me play a movie in my mind, frame by frame. How fortunate I was to have the time to spend with her. Although the journals I kept for Mom were pretty repetitive; telling her the day and date, what time I arrived, and what her first comments were, they weren't without purpose.

"Today is Monday, January 3, 2011. I arrived at 7:25 this morning. You were asleep until I fiddled with the lamp. The first thing you asked was what they had done to you. You thought you were in the hospital and had an operation. I told you that you are in a nursing home not a hospital. You said, "You mean I'm not sick???" I said, "Nope - just old." That seemed to make you feel better."

Then I would proceed to tell her the tasks I completed for her each morning.

"I put your teeth in and gave you a facecloth for your face, and put lotion on your knees and shoulder. I no sooner got that done when Bernice and Nadya came in to get you up. Great timing. You have fresh clothes to wear today too."

Followed by the weather report. 

"It's nice and warm outside - almost zero. Nice to have the break from the cold temperatures. Garnet has today off but is back to work tomorrow."

Everything I wrote was printed in large black letters so she could read it when I wasn't there; to reassure her that someone loved her and visited her everyday. Each entry ended the same way.

"You are living in a nursing home in Edmonton. You have a will that is fair to all and enough money to live forever. Don't worry - be happy. You are safe and I am near. I love you very much! Cathie"

Then I would draw a silly face at the bottom of the page. Everyday I'd draw different features, expressions or hair. These caricatures might catch her eye as the journal lay open on her desk and she could read and be comforted for a few moments. Occasionally, she might try to write something herself. In those pages, written in her scrawl I found, "Thank God for writers!".

Looking back is hard. In one of my Mom's old journals I found a post-it note that said, "Cath, get rid of these... looking back serves no purpose." But looking back now lets me see that I gave my Mom all the love I could muster. Albeit an impossible feat, I did my best to repay her for all she did for me. I truly honoured my Mother. All in all, that's not a bad report card.

I miss having a mother. I miss being a daughter. Some are never so blessed.

The rest is pixie dust...

Home for Christmas...

Christmas was a happy time for me when I was growing up even though my Mom's journals tell a different story. My Dad's excessive drinking did much to dampen the holiday spirit - though I don't recall much of that until I was much older. Lucky for me, Mom always seemed to honor the season, make Christmas fun and invite magic.

My first Christmas  memory is when I was four and asked Santa for a Chatty Cathy doll. My sister even took me to Toy Town where I sat on Santa's knee and told him exactly what I wanted. She cast some doubt on Santa's ability to deliver because he laughed with a 'HA-HA-HA' instead of a 'HO-HO-HO'. So imagine my delight and surprise when I awoke on Christmas morning and ran into the living room to see the Christmas tree shining its warm light on the glossy brown hair and freckled nose of my unwrapped heart's desire. "Oh boy! A Chatty Cathy!", was the alarm clock of exclamation that jarred the rest of the house awake. Over and over I pulled her string to hear her crackle, "I'm hungry" or, "I'm sleepy" or, "I love you". Santa had delivered and I believed in the magic.

My friends recall the magic too. They remember the ceiling skimming Christmas tree that Dad would bring home. He would trim the bark and set it standing straight and tall in the tree stand Grandpa had made years before. After it was sufficiently thawed, we adorned it with colorful lights, glossy balls, tinsel and these amazing glow-in-the-dark icicles that entertained us for hours on end. My friends and I would each grab an icicle, hold it up to a light bulb to charge it, then race into the bedroom and dive under the covers to giggle and watch them glow. The house was brimming with fun and there was an abundance of food, lots of visitors and that magic in the air.

Somewhere along the way I lost the magic. Maybe it started when my Dad spent three days in bed over Christmas with a self-inflicted flu. Or maybe I was simply ill-prepared as a young wife and working mother. All I know is, when the magic of the season became my responsibility I lost my way. My own emotional bankruptcy caused me to get caught up in filling the gaps beneath the tree without the means to do so. Christmas became an effort, another chore, an expense we simply couldn't afford. The season became a drudgery and I became a Grinch.

I remained this way until last year, the last Christmas I spent with my Mom. Last year I stopped fighting the season and just let it come. The impetus was not as simple as a change in mindset. It started with the promise of spending Christmas with someone very dear to me. But it wasn't the thought of spending it together that prompted the change. It was when the promise was broken and my hopes dashed that I realized the importance I placed on the season. If the magic wasn't still there, why did I care? It was time to stop ingesting my usual fare of three decker sauerkraut and toadstool sandwiches with arsenic sauce and feast on the season instead. 

So I listened to the music, even hummed and whistled along. I let the greetings of the season cross my lips. I decorated. I baked a little. I let it fill the air I breathed. I even read the passages in the bible that tell of the birth of Christ - the very reason we celebrate in the first place. I let the season in and the magic find me. It was the best Christmas I'd had in years. In hindsight, I'm so glad Mom and I shared the sweetness of the season one last time.

This year is my first Christmas without Mom. The memories of Christmas' past have come flooding back. How wondrous that my mind allows me to reconstruct the old house where I grew up and fill it full of happy memories; my parents busy making Christmas, my Grandpa keeping a watchful eye from the comfort of his chair, my siblings and I safe and warm under the same roof, the soft glow of the tree, Grandma's oak dining room table set - full of its leaves to gather us in. The sights, the sounds, the smells.  It makes me want to curl up to watch "It's a Wonderful Life" and fall in love with Jimmy Stewart all over again. I'm home for Christmas.

The rest is pixie dust...

Simple Threads...

My Mom was born to two loving parents. Their names were Edward and Annie. Their courtship was long because Edward was two years younger than Annie - quite scandalous for the time. So for four years they worked on a knitted afghan together. He wound the skeins of yarn while she knitted. It made them good friends and kept their hands appropriately occupied until they finally wed in August of 1905. 

Edward was tired of working in the coal mines so they came to Canada from England on the Empress of Ireland in the early 1900's. They had family in Indian Head, Saskatchewan but settled in Medicine Hat because of the warm chinook winds. They'd been blessed with two daughters before they left England, but the eldest, Irene, died. So only Agnes accompanied them on their voyage. Canada proved fertile ground and four strong boys followed before my Mom finally came along.

Grandma was forty when Mom was born and was growing weary of having kids underfoot by that time. So Grandpa built Mom a playhouse to keep her entertained and out from under her Mother's skirt. It was a little girl's dream. It had curtains on the windows, shingles on the roof, and two rocking chairs on either side of a little pot belly stove where Mom fried potatoes. Grandpa even erected a swing not far from the playhouse. This haven provided Mom with endless hours of occupation and enjoyment. Eventually, it became a great place to sneak a cigarette or two. Although Mom was usually a good girl she was known to push the boundaries a little. This didn't always sit well with Grandma. She was very much the proper English lady and had high expectations for her youngest daughter. Grandpa, on the other hand, never forgot what it was like to be a kid and often acted as the buffer between Mom and Grandma. This made a special bond between father and daughter.

You can tell from this photo that Mom adored her Dad. Aside from his occupation as a wheel-checker for the CPR, he was an inventor of sorts and revitalized discards by turning them into useful objects. Mom pushed apple-box-baby-doll-buggies with pride. I still have the sock-darning-tool he made out of scrap tin and an old doorknob. I doubt he ever imagined it would become an ornament or conversation piece one day. Grandpa was also an avid gardener and spent early springtime in the greenhouse he built preparing bedding plants. He grew all manner of vegetables that were enjoyed year round and dressed the old house up with beautiful flowers around the perimeter. He loved pansies, snapdragons and sweet peas the best. A ring of Marigolds around the garden kept the potato bugs at bay. After the daily maintenance was done he would sit back in his lawn chair, roll a cigarette and watch the garden grow.

Grandma and Grandpa enjoyed fifty years of marriage before she died in December 1955. My cousin Jim was born two days after her passing. He and I are the only two grandchildren who never made her acquaintance. Grandpa died when I was only six. But he had a hand in who I am today. I still remember creeping into his bedroom for a humbug candy he kept in the crinkly bag under his pillow. During Winter, he watched The Friendly Giant and Chez Helene with me as I teetered back and forth in one of the rocking chairs from Mom's old playhouse. Then in Spring, after teaching me the alphabet and how to count with every push of the swing, he sat back in his lawn chair, rolled a cigarette and watched me and the garden grow.

The courtship afghan Grandma and Grandpa made belongs to me now. I look at it and marvel at how their hands worked together to create something so beautiful. I like to think they wove their love into this precious artifact and conceived their children beneath its folds. These simple threads were just the beginning.

The rest is pixie dust...

Missed...

My parents had three children. Mom always said, "Two to fight and one to break it up." But it didn't really work out that way. We were too far apart. My brother was born twelve years before me and my sister was five years my senior. Mom got one of us in school and had another. In essence we were all like only children and living in a remote area with only our cousins as neighbors didn't help. We barely knew each other. 

My sister and I shared a bedroom. For much of our cohabitation I recall the room being divided by a line of masking tape and her side had the door. Even her drawers had masking tape locks and when they started to lose their grip and curl in on themselves I was instantly blamed for being the nosy little sister. I was nothing but a nuisance. But there were times when she was a good sister. 

I remember being awakened on a warm summer's evening by the patter of rain on the roof. The rest of the house was asleep and my sister took me out for a walk in the rain. We didn't need our coats and I felt the rain on my skin; warm, insistent, cleansing, and reveled in the smell of the earth having a bath. It's a memory I'll always cherish. She was also there when I brought my first newborn home from the hospital. She spent time with me, helped around the house, treated me like a contemporary, loved me like a sister.

I longed for her approval. I guess that's normal for a younger sister. She was beautiful, funny, intelligent, talented, popular, all the things I wasn't, or didn't think I was. I did things and made decisions based on what she did or what I thought she would do. She cast a long shadow and I lived within it. Then, when I was thirty, she vanished.

Even though her influence wasn't always positive, I was lost. I didn't know how to be just me. For the first time in my life what she thought didn't matter. I didn't have to dress like her anymore, or try to think or act like her. It was a whole new world for me and I blossomed. Finally, I asked myself what I felt and acted on it. I thought about her. I even missed her. I wondered what would make her disappear like that. 

Nearly ten years later I was walking in downtown Calgary and noticed what I thought was a familiar figure coming toward me. It was like watching a mirage take shape. As I got closer I realized my eyes weren't playing tricks on me, it was my sister. She was impeccably dressed and walked with her usual confident stride. As we approached one another she said, "Hello Cathie" and I responded, "Hello Fay" and we just kept on walking, like two ships passing. That's the last time I saw her.

I often thought how hard it must've been for my parents to lose a daughter the way they lost my sister. Mom always wondered when she heard on the news about a woman's body found in a Calgary dumpster, if it was Fay. I can't imagine that kind of pain. I know Mom missed her. When I was caring for her there were times when dementia made her think I was my sister. I didn't bother correcting her. If it gave her some comfort to finally see her long lost daughter, who was I to take that away from her. I loved my Mom too much.

I've been angry with my sister sometimes. It would've been nice to have a sister when my Mom was failing; someone to lend a hand, spell me off a bit, share the watchdog duties. But it likely wouldn't have been as ideal as my imagination depicts and the woman I've become can't live within anyone's shadow now. I have my own. I've come a long way. 

Recently I went to court to have my sister declared dead, only after a lengthy, empty-handed search to find her. It was something I had to do in order to distribute my Mom's estate. Even though it was necessary, it left me feeling unsettled and without closure, even a little dirty. All the judge did was rub his furrowed brow, ask me a few questions and grant the judgement. In my mind I heard the officious tap of an imagined gavel declare, "Bang, bang... she's dead." 

The rest is pixie dust...

Baker's Secret...

Mom had four big brothers, Eddy, Walter, Tom and John. Before the war, Mom's brothers worked a farm outside town and Mom left her school career after grade eleven to cook and clean for the boys. She could barely open a can and housework wasn't really her strong suit. Her own Mother lost her Mum when she was just seven years old and learned the fine art of homemaking at a very young age, so Grandma didn't provide much tutelage for my Mom. She thought her daughter would be cooking and cleaning soon enough. So this was quite a jump-in-with-both-feet venture for a fun-loving girl, especially with four hungry brothers to feed.

But this feet-first indoctrination paid off. Although she never thought so, Mom became an excellent cook and prepared wonderful meals for her family. Most often, if she wasn't outside in the yard, or hunched over her trusty old Pfaff sewing away, she was in the kitchen whistling a happy tune or singing a nonsense song while she cooked something up. Sometimes she would sing about the ingredients in a recipe, or it might be something about the cat or dog, or maybe even one of us. Mom enjoyed her own accompaniment. Once in a while she would even belt out a tune on her harmonica with the dog singing soprano or sit down at the piano and play a rendition of "The Happy Farmer'. Mom's cheer became an ingredient in everything she did and her family benefited.

There was nothing like coming home from school to the smell of warm cookies, hot cinnamon buns, or fresh baked bread. I loved hot breadsticks dipped in butter as an after-school snack. Pies were Mom's specialty; apple, peach, raisin, pumpkin, blueberry, saskatoon, black currant and my personal favorite, rhubarb custard. She made the finest, flakiest, melt-in-your-mouth pastry I've ever tasted. I can remember my brother eating a whole raisin pie in one sitting. Her eldest grandson loved her bran muffins so much he renamed them "Gran Muffins". Then there were the main courses like, cabbage rolls, sauerkraut and spare ribs, beef streudles, left-over turkey stirfry, skillet burgers, sweet and sour spare ribs, macaroni and cheese with homemade croutons, roast beef and yorkshire pudding, just to name a few. The roaster she used made the most perfectly seasoned gravy ever. Her grandkids even called it 'Granny's Special Sauce'. 

I inherited her roasting pan and enamel-coated cast-iron dutch oven when she moved from her home into assisted- living. I thought I had it made. Finally I had the magic bullet I needed to become a wiz in the kitchen. Sadly, neither the roaster nor the dutch oven were willing to reveal any of their secrets. Even the few recipes I had of Mom's didn't end up tasting as good as they did when she prepared them. I finally gave up on the roaster, but the scarred old dutch oven makes a decent chili, a hearty beef stew, and a savory ginger carrot soup. I guess nothing tasting like 'what Mom used to make' makes remembering it that much better. Maybe it was Mom's special brand of cheer that made everything she prepared so delicious. If that was her secret there's really no replicating it. I don't have a piano and I can't play the harmonica. I guess I can try whistling a happy tune or singing a silly song about the furkids and see what happens.

The rest is pixie dust...

A Leap...

Mom was lucky. When she moved into extended care her sense of humor and quick wit got her a seat at a lively table at mealtimes. Her tablemates were Betty and Claude. Betty is about my age and suffers from arthritis. Claude is in his mid-seventies and has Lou Gehrig's disease. In spite of their infirmities they loved to laugh, often at their own or even each others expense. This was right up Mom's alley, what with her penchant for shadenfreude. The three of them developed a close bond. Betty kept an eye on Mom for me and let me know if her appetite was off or if she was behaving strangely. Claude is a gallant, Texas-born gentleman and was like Mom's knight in shining armor. Sometimes they would just sit and hold hands. These three were an unlikely set of musketeers. 

Mom's 90th with Betty & Claude

I was welcomed into their tight-knit group every morning at breakfast. While I helped Mom with her favorite meal, I served coffee, tea, and juice to the residents who were wheeled into the dining room. I cleaned up spills, picked up dropped pills and gave the weather report with a generous helping of good cheer. I too, became a fixture of sorts. This daily ritual went on for two years until Mom's passing. As I packed up Mom's belongings, I chose some mementos for both Betty and Claude. Betty got Mom's little table and the bingo clock she'd won and had hung on her wall. I gave Claude Mom's beloved birds. She had three, a robin, a chickadee and a blackbird. When you squeeze them they sing their own unique birdsong. Then, I just stopped going. The last contact I had with Claude and Betty were the birthday cards I sent them in April. I didn't call or drop in for a visit. Nothing. 

I felt I had my reasons, due in part to the events leading up to Mom's death. But that matter had been addressed and with the memorial service at the facility looming I was considering paying Mom's old tablemates a long overdue visit. Claude must've been thinking of me at the same time because just days before the service he left three voice mail messages on my phone that went something like this;

Hello Cathie, this is Claude.
I hope you're doing okay.
I'd love to hear from you. 
I don't remember my phone number but maybe you have it written down somewhere. 
Brian has set up my phone to do everything automatically. 
Anyway, we love you and miss you.
It's Claude. 

(Robin chirping)
Hello Cathie, it's Claude again.
Do you recognize your Mom's bird?
I just love them.
Anyway, Brian wrote my number down and put it up high.
I can't read it from here.
I'm trying to position myself so I can see it but my mobility's not very good. 
(lots of struggling)
Grrrrr... I'm getting so frustrated. 
I'll call you back. 

Hello Cathie, it's Claude.
I knocked the number down with my 'schtick'. 
My phone number is.......
I hope you'll call sometime. 
I love you.
It's Claude. 

While I sat listening to Claude's messages I had the best laugh/cry I'd had in a long time. It was time I visited. I called Claude and promised him I'd come see him after the memorial service. He was thrilled. 

I awoke feeling anxious on the morning of the service. I wondered if I was ready to pull the bandaid off the wound. But I'd made a promise to Claude and I couldn't go back on my word. So I forged ahead with my plans. The minute I walked in the door of the lodge, Mom's favorite aide came running out to greet me. She hugged and kissed me like we were sisters. Maja is a delightful young woman from Croatia who gave Mom so much love. It was wonderful to see her. There could have been no better greeting. We embraced again before parting, I signed myself in and made my way down the hall to the makeshift chapel.

There was an altar at the front of the room and several rows of folding chairs facing it. The lighting in the room was appropriately dim giving it a feeling of quiet reverence. Family members of other residents were gathering. Then Betty wheeled herself up beside me. It was so good to see her. We hugged and started chatting about her hair - it was longer and permed. I asked if she was getting out as much - was Friday still Bingo-day - was she still 'Bingo Betty' - did she still have horseshoes up her butt - and how were her skin lesions. We nattered like old girlfriends. Then the minister officiating, Ruth Groves, greeted us and expressed her condolences over our collective loss. People like Ruth fascinate me because I've met so few like her who give the impression of walking in God's light. Ruth offered each of us God's blessing like a healing salve and a candle was lit for each name read. The service was both uplifting and comforting. Then, retracing old footsteps, I got on the elevator, pressed two for the floor, remembered the secret door code, and walked Mom's old hallway to Claude's room. 

Claude was once a world renowned cellist. The walls of his room tell a story. There are beautiful oil and water color paintings, a photograph of him as a dashing young man taken in Copenhagen standing in front of a billboard with his name on it in big bold letters, a framed letter to him from the greatest cellist of all time, Pablo Casals, as well as a photograph of himself with Senor Casals sitting on a sofa enjoying an animated conversation and many other precious artifacts. Claude and I greeted each other with a tearful hug, held hands and took a stroll through his wall of fame. It was so good to see him. I don't know why I waited so long, maybe my heart needed to heal enough to take that leap.

The rest is pixie dust...

September Bride...

My parents were married on September 26, 1945 and although they always acknowledged the date somehow, I only remember going out for dinner once as a family to celebrate their fortieth anniversary. Mom wore a dress and jacket she had sewn and Dad wore his Sunday-go-to-Meetin' clothes which consisted of his cowboy boots, fresh shirt and pants, his bolero tie and horse-hide vest. The others in attendance were, Dad's sister Judy, my sister and her son, my two kids, their father and me. I can still see us trying to pose for photos out on the lawn after dinner. Dad had his fill at the Beefeater and shared what he thought about going out for dinner and 'paying those prices' when he could have as good, if not better, meal at home. I think that was intended as a compliment to my Mother's cooking but her glare and deaf ears were also part of her evening ensemble. My kids were getting tired, Aunt Judy might have been a few sheets to the wind and I was trying in vane not to be outshone by my sister. The photo was never frame-worthy but it's still a precious memory. Their fiftieth anniversary was a bit better.

I was going through a divorce and quite wrapped up in my own life when my Mom asked me if I would go to City Bakery to pick up a cake she'd ordered. I cheerfully complied. Imagine my surprise when the baker showed me this large sheet cake that said, "Happy Fiftieth Anniversary Ethel and Ted". I had forgotten all about their anniversary, never mind that it was a milestone. I asked Mom why she needed such a large cake and she replied, "For the open house tomorrow at one." She had invited friends to come to the house and celebrate the occasion and hadn't told me. At least I didn't remember her telling me. So I called my brother in Calgary and told him that it would be a great if he and his wife could attend. I was able to get the day off work so I could play hostess. It was a beautiful day. The sun shone bright and warm as the leaves cascaded lazily from the trees to the lawn below like confetti. We took pictures again. Mom and Dad with the bridesmaids, Sybil and Anne. Mom and Dad with Doreen and Hazel. Mom and Dad with my brother and me. Dad unsmiling, Mom smiling enough for both of them. At least forty people came and went. Mom had prepared finger sandwiches and borrowed the big coffee urn from the church. Everyone had a piece of the cake. Dad sat glowering in the kitchen, Mom was lit up like a Christmas tree visiting with all her friends. It was a wonderful event and I was so glad that my brother and I were able to attend. When I asked Mom why she hadn't let me know she was planning it she told me that she figured I had enough going on. That was my Mom, always thinking of the other guy. 

On this date one year ago, I asked my Mom about her wedding day. This was all she could tell me. "It was sunny - we got married in St Barnabas church - we had an open house after the ceremony - we went to Lethbridge on the train for our honeymoon." She could only remember the high points, the details were lost. It made me wish I'd asked sooner or asked her to write it down when her memory could still be trusted. But I didn't, so all I have are the photos now, which are precious enough. My parents made a handsome couple; Dad with his movie star good looks and Mom with her tall willowy frame and million dollar smile. Two of her four brothers were groomsmen. John, on the left was the youngest and Walt, on the right was the second oldest. Mom's favorite brother, Tom had been killed in the war just eleven months before the wedding. I can only imagine the hole in her heart that his loss made that day. I don't know where her eldest brother Ed was. Mom always said he was a bit aloof. Mom's attendants were Sybil Taylor on the right and Annie Nikiel on the left. Sybil and Walt had dated at one time. Mom and Sybil became dear friends. Annie and Mom were neighbors growing up and friends all their lives. Annie was the last bridesmaid standing until this year. She passed away just three weeks after Mom. 

These two people, my parents - made a life together. They stood up, put up and shut up to make it work. They lived to celebrate fifty-seven years together. 

The rest is pixie dust...