July 22, 2008
I read recently that the difference between perseverance and obstinancy is that one often comes from a strong will and the other comes from a strong won’t.
As a young child my parents considered me to be obstinate and stubborn and often read me a story about an obstinate little girl. I never have considered myself in those terms, however, I will admit to being persistent and determined and perhaps just a little bit tenacious.
I believe those traits have helped me through a lot of difficult times in my life. They certainly helped me as a single mother raising five children.
And they held me in good stead while I was helping Larry with his brain injury difficulties and subsequent problems. They have helped me also as I sent out articles, and although rejection slips came my way, I persevered and have had, as a result, many articles published in magazines and newspapers.
And I suspect that these same traits will help me when I market ‘A Roller Coaster Ride With Brain Injury’ when it comes out sometime in the early Fall.
I displayed these traits at quite an early age, as a small tomboy, when my mother believed a girl should look like a girl and I disagreed. There were so many maple branches to swing from, trees to climb, hollow stumps to play in and fern fields for building forts. There were also field mice to catch, creeks to explore, bike rides to take, mountains to climb and chickens to chase.
But with my skirt tied between my legs was not how my mother envisioned her only daughter. Her words, ‘young ladies don’t swing from trees’, fell on my deaf ears. She tried, with extreme effort, to make a girly-girl out of me but I strongly rebelled against ruffles and lace. Being the only girl in a neighbourhood of boys, I could hardly become a member of this elite group wearing ruffles and lace. It would have guaranteed my banishment forever.
Although I was the only girl in the group, I was accepted because I could ride a bike as well as any of them, could keep up when they hiked and I caught as many field mice as the best of them. Admittedly, I did have a little trouble trying to put a worm on my hook. Shaking slimy creatures that looked as if they had escaped from an alien world onto the ground while trying to stick the hook into them without touching their wiggling bodies was more difficult than I imagined and invariably they fell off into the quick running current of the creek. Losing a worm like that was considered unforgiveable especially when the boys remembered the fact that I had not helped dig the wiggling and squirming creatures from the mud beneath the rocks.
From my adult perspective, I feel fortunate that I was allowed to be part of this group of boys and was probably privy to more adventures than the adverage little girl has before the hormones of the teenage years change the perspective on what is fun and considered worthwhile to be doing.
However, before that gradual change took place we hung out by the river with its deadly currents and whirlpools, where we were not allowed to go; raided corn fields, which would have given our parents heart attacks had they known; climbed the tower on top of the hill which gave us a heavenly view of the valley below, after having climbed over a barbed-wire fence; and had corn roasts with flames leaping high into the late summer skies. We played in the cold creek in the summer when none of us could swim, skated on the frozen lake in the winters sometimes hearing the ice crack behind us as the weather became warmer; and explored the countryside for miles around from morning until night. We climbed our local mountain following animal trails into the dense bush and trees and investigated deserted miners’ shacks. We walked up the logging road, which was forbidden by our parents as well as by the logging company, dodging massive logging trucks as they hurtled down the mountainside weighted down by newly logged trees. We had few rules and fewer that we followed. I had more freedom than I no doubt would have had if I had not been in the company of my brothers and the other boys. My parents considered I was well protected. While it was true that they looked after me, there was no one who looked after them as we pursued one crazy idea after another.
As we grew older and the years passed, cars took the place of bicycles. We were now able to travel further afield and could drive into the big city exploring unknown territory. During this time I vaguely became aware that a change had begun to take place in how the boys treated me. Most of them, with the exception of my brothers, began not to mind if I had trouble keeping up to them; they patiently waited for me. They no longer expected me to go on corn raids but I was always invited to the corn roasts and my hook was each and every time baited for me. They began to be quieter and calmer around me, self-consciously doing little favours for me. I was now a different entity and I was no longer quite one of them.
We also began to go to drive-in movies and eventually to house parties. Around this time, I was also beginning to realize that it was no longer as much fun to be a tomboy and I didn’t want to be ‘one of the boys’ anymore. My brothers were beginning to openly resent my inclusion in activities with ‘their’ friends.
It wasn’t long before I began to be invited on my own, on a ‘date’; it was no longer always the whole group and often my brothers were not included. They were not impressed with this new status quo.
Make-up, curls and shoes with heels suddenly became very attractive; gone was the ponytail, sneakers and my brothers’ jeans. I now made an effort to cover my freckles. What had I been thinking, I wondered? I could no longer imagine not wanting to look like a girl. Walking in a lady-like fashion took the place of running, fishing lost its appeal, sitting in a tree was a thing of the past and corn roasts were for kids.
“What happened to her?” I heard my parents whisper.
I spent hours locked in the bathroom standing before the mirror curling my hair, plucking my eyebrows, worrying about zits or just looking at this girl even I hardly knew.
My brothers no longer treated me as they had previously. “What’s taking you so long?” they would yell from the other side of the bathroom door. When I’d finally emerge, they’d glare and grumble. “It took you that long to look like this? You wasted your time.”
My brothers and parents no longer seemed to be as pleasant as they once had been; they criticized and complained; their intolerance grew and their patience wore thin. It was a time of disquiet in the household. I couldn’t understand how they could all have changed so drastically.
My hormones had kicked in and my metamorphosis as a girl had begun. My parents now yearned for their tomboy and my brothers wished for another brother; anyone other than someone who spent so much time in the bathroom.
I am sure that I will continue to be persistent and determined in my life. And since it hasn’t done me any harm in the past, I suspect it will work to my benefit in the future as well.
August 1, 2008
There are many positives about being the ‘fun grandparent’. I get to go to the zoo when the rain is pounding on the pavement, running off the tips of my bangs and dripping off the end of my nose. I also get to walk through the mud while it squishes between my toes when I am foolish enough to wear sandals on a rainy day. But I also get to hear the excitement in the voices of my grandchildren as we go from one animal area to another. In their excitement, they seem to be oblivious to the rain.
Being the ‘fun grandparent’ also entitles me to ride in the scrambler at Playland when a grandchild, although tall enough for the ride, still requires that an adult ride with him. Because I so obviously looked taken with this octopus-style ride, I believe the Playland attendants thought I would enjoy a longer and faster ride than was normally the case. Even after two rides on the scrambler and five on the log ride, as well as their many other experiences, it was with reluctance, on the part of the children, that we left the park.
Going to the beach with grandchildren is also a fun experience particularly when you give them a bath later and then realize how long it takes to get the sand out of the tub. But when someone complimented me on how well behaved my children were, I was filled with pride. They are my family.
Feeding the ducks at the lagoon and then taking a walk through the high grass in search of baby eagles in the gigantic eagle nest was an adventure, perhaps more for me than for them. Although ‘Tom Sawyer’ and his little friend, ‘Huckleberry Finn’ eagerly threw bird seed to the ducks, they complained somewhat about the walk and the heat. But a promise of ice cream and a run through the sprinkler moved their feet a little faster.
A visit to a haunted house at Hallowe’en wasn’t nearly as exciting as meeting a little girl around the bonfire later and roasting marshmallows together. Leaving the new friend was a sad experience. There have been several reminders over the months to go again.
Through the corn maze two children run, their fun grandmother not far behind. With corn growing higher than even myself, my grandson and granddaughter had a blast with a loud ‘boo’ as I ran past. Once out of the maze they roasted marshmallows and hotdogs and played on the playground equipment. They are eagerly anticipating another trip through the maze in the Fall in what they hope will become an annual event.
What is quickly becoming an annual event is the trip to the pumpkin patch where we ride on a tractor-drawn wagon filled with bales of hay. Choosing just the right pumpkin is a difficult task and not one to be taken lightly. Once the decision is made, we ride back and put our pumpkins in the car before visiting the animals in the barn. There are other things to see but by this time there is usually a general consensus to head back home.
Another day will be taken to carve the pumpkins just as an evening is set aside near Christmas to make gingerbread houses decorated to each child’s discerning taste. Sometimes this will include a sleep-over and a craft project and nearly always guarantees a mess.
But when you are the ‘fun grandpaparent’, you take the good with the bad. Who can complain about a little mess when you’re surrounded by happy, laughing children and have the joy of spending time with them?
I recently read an article on happiness and what makes us happy. The World Values Survey released by the University of Michigan’s Ronald Inglehart states that global happiness is on the rise in part due to democratization, economic growth and social tolerance. To me that sounds like a lot of academic mumble-jumble.
As one study said, ‘keeping up with the Joneses’ is not a recipe for contentment. Americans earning more than $10 million annually are only slightly happier than the average American.
Some researchers claim that people are born with a ’set-point’ for happiness. A California researcher says that 50% of happiness is due to genes, 40% to activities and 10% to life’s circumstances.
When babies are born, there are happy ones and cranky ones. After having five children and six grandchildren, I believe strongly that each one is born with a well established personality. I don’t think it has much to do with what their parents have in the way of material possessions, how much money the family earns or how many outfits the baby has as long as he/she is well-fed, warm and is given love.
I believe that if a person is comfortable and has all of their basic needs met, they will be content; especially if they appreciate their life as it is; and are grateful each day for the good things in their life. I think it’s important to focus on the positive instead of the negative and to do for others. By doing things for others, I believe you will feel better about yourself in the long run.
I think also if people are looking for a ‘deliriously’ happy feeling, they will be disappointed. It is my belief that contentment is happiness. I am happy with what I’ve got. I have never traveled to any extent and have no real desire to do so. I am far happier spending time with my family.
I have no huge desire either to have expensive furniture or a fancier house. If I had, I may be worried about my grandchildren ruining something and then they may not feel welcome and may no longer think of me as the ‘fun grandparent’.
I am also quite satisfied with the car I have where I don’t have to worry about what my grandchildren might do to suede or leather upholstery. And if I purchased expensive clothes, would I want to burp a baby? Or would I want to hug a child who has chocolate on his face when he runs happily to greet me? Would I enjoy life more if I spent half of it away from the most important people in the world to me?
I don’t think so. Happiness for me is being content, satisfied, and appreciative of what I have. I really couldn’t ask for much more than the wonderful family I have. The only thing more I pray for daily is that they stay healthy and safe.
August 8, 2008
Lily, my newest grandchild has made my son and daughter-in-law very aware of her existence in the short time she has been with us. She has decided very definitely that night is day so that must mean that day is night. Although she doesn’t cry and nor is she difficult, she does enjoy being talked and sung to even when her new mom and dad are very tired. A tired mom and dad are not her immediate concerns.
To make things somewhat easier, although my daughter-in-law will be off work for three months, my son has decided to take the full paternity leave to be with the baby also. I am pleased that he has decided to do this.
According to my research, only one in ten fathers in Canada take parental leave to be home with their babies – 11% in 2006 (with the exception of Quebec). (Interestingly enough, two out of my three sons, who have children, have opted to do this). More dads are now doing diaper duty.
As one father said, ‘It is an excellent way for fathers to bond with their children. It is an amazing experience for fathers – one that women have had for years – of watching first smiles, first roll-overs, first-time sitting up, crawling and walking; not to mention all the other firsts there are in a young child’s first year of life. It is not as exciting to hear it from someone else as it is to see it for yourself.’
This special bonding happens when you’re around for all the subtle changes that are missed when the baby is only seen in the evening when both the child and parent are tired from an already full and busy day.
If this eventually becomes a common practise with fathers sharing parental leave, perhaps we may start hearing children call ‘dad?’ as often as they call ‘mom?’
The initial adjustment to becoming parents to a newborn is much easier when it is shared and doesn’t fall on one parent only. When a new father becomes the primary caregiver of a new baby, it is often an eye opener regarding how much time is involved in caring for a small baby.
Almost half of fathers in Quebec take advantage of paternity leave; as well, many German, Swedish, Norwegian and Finnish fathers do also.
Why do fathers not take paternity leave if it is available?
There are often financial reasons, no interest in doing so, not emotionally motivated to do so, receive no support from superiors or colleagues or diverse assumptions and expectations between spouses relating to childcare and breadwinning responsibilities.
The desire to take parental leave and be part of their baby’s early upbringing was strong for both of my sons but they wouldn’t have been able to accomplish this if it hadn’t been financially feasible. In both their cases it was, and is, doable.
The greater involvement of fathers with their young children, when compared with fathers a generation ago, is evident when you see young children interact with their fathers; in many cases as freely as they do with their mothers. A generation or more ago, young children went usually first to the mother but now often will head to the father with a problem.
August 24, 2008
We have just returned from our annual extended family vacation to Gabriola Island. The ‘jewel of the gulf islands’, as Gabriola is known, was ‘home’ to my mother in her teenage years. As the vacation spot for my two brothers and myself in our growing up years, I continued the tradition when my own children were young, often extending the invitation to their friends. The island continues to hold our fascination and several of my children continue to come with their families. One of my sons, daughter-in-law and their child consistently make the yearly trip along with my mother, myself, two other grandchildren and often my daughter.
The beach outside of the cabin where we stay is sandstone with many little pools that entertain the children as they explore the marine life and learn about the sea’s living creatures. We can sit on the grass beside the cabin and watch them on the beach with few worries. And when they wish to go for a walk further along the beach, it is as interesting for the adults as it is for the children. We always explore other areas of the island as well and would never come for a visit without checking out the available real estate listings, often kicking ourselves that we hadn’t taken the risk and purchased previously. However, now with the escalating ferry costs, perhaps our procrastination was wise indeed. And a trip to Gabriola Island is never complete without trips to Drumbeg Park, Malaspina Galleries, Lighthouse Point, Silva Bay and the Farmer’s Market on Saturday morning.
Even at fourteen years old, my eldest grandson still feels the island is the best place to go for a holiday. Although he doesn’t spend his time on the beach in the same way he did previously, he now shows the younger children the ‘habitat’ areas he has loved from a very young boy. But mostly, I think, it’s about traditions; the yearly tradition of playing in the water with his Uncle - the chase and catch; playing games in the evenings; dinners together; our yearly drive around the island with my mother giving the history of her life there and about the island in general; our yearly look-see at real estate as well as our yearly trips to each of the places he has been going to since he was three years old. This year he told my mother that he will probably bring his children to Gabriola also. That is what traditions are all about; it’s what binds and holds families together.
In our family we have many traditions. Every Christmas Eve we have a German dinner - sit down - with the whole family followed by gift opening which is always held at my house. Christmas Day festivites change from year to year depending on the ever-changing circumstances of each of the family members as they grow and change. The Easter Egg hunt is another annual tradition. The Easter Bunny leaves a note saying which room each child’s eggs are hidden so that all of the children get an equal amount of goodies. There is a tradition for all the birthdays through the year also - every three to four weeks. And each year new traditions begin. We have started the annual ‘corn maze’ tradition; the trip to the pumpkin patch tradition; Playland; the Vancouver Zoo visit; gingerbread house decorating at Christmas and pumpkin carving at Hallowe’en.
Traditions are often old customs and beliefs that have been handed down through families but new traditions can be incorporated into the family at any time. Traditions sometimes change as families grow and change.
When I was a child, one of our Christmas traditions was to take a trip into the ‘big city’ a few weeks before Christmas to see all the lights and decorations, visit the department toy stores, visit Santa and have dinner in a restaurant. Because we lived in the ‘boonies’ this was a very special tradition that we looked forward to each year. We also always had a very special German dinner for Christmas Eve. Another tradition that was very exciting was, when my brothers and I still believed in Santa, we had to hide in the bedroom while Santa brought all our gifts. As we hid, giggling and happily anticipating what we were going to get, we heard the bells of Santa’s reindeer, heard his heavy footsteps on the front porch and our mother greeting this magical bearded man. Santa always sounded so cheerful when he responded in a booming voice. We could hear the rustling and noises coming from the living room and shortly after we’d hear Santa’s farewell as his voice drifted off into the night air and the sleigh bells gradually faded into the distance. Always celebrating Christmas on Christmas Eve, we were told that Santa had to start somewhere so he started at our house. It made us feel very special. Decorating the tree as a family was always another tradition. After the tree was decorated, we’d gather around the piano and sing Christmas music while my mother played the piano and my father played either the mandolin, violin, accordion or mouth organ. These Christmas traditions have left me with many happy memories.
Christmas with my own family has been somewhat different and has changed over the years. My ex-husband did not care for a Christmas Eve celebration; insisting on Christmas morning instead. Because we didn’t live in the ‘boonies’, doing what we did as children would not be nearly as exciting for my children as it was for us. I did take them to visit Santa each year and we drove around looking at Christmas lights and decorations. If other Christmas functions were available, we went to those as well. The Christmas Eve celebration became a ‘one gift opener’ with no special dinner because my ex-husband enjoyed having company over for the evening.
Christmas has changed again in the last number of years. Christmas still includes visits with Santa, Christmas light and other excursions, now with grandchildren. I have reinstated the special German dinner on Christmas Eve with rolladen, red cabbage, German potato salad, garlic sausage and more (which my ex-husband now attends) and we enjoy the whole family gift opening. Santa comes to each family’s house on Christmas morning. There is always a turkey dinner on Christmas Day with whoever in the family can make it and we have recently started a new tradition of going to a restaurant for New Years Day dinner.
Birthday dinners are whole family celebrations for those from one to eighty-eight (my mother’s most recent birthday). I have tried to instigate the tradition of taking each grandchild out for dinner or lunch on their own to celebrate their birthday as a more individual treat - perhaps when it’s not so busy I will finally be able to do this.
We also have the tradition of celebrating - as a whole family - all graduations, baby showers, new jobs, bridal showers and engagements. With the two engagement parties we have recently had, we decided to have a money tree and each person clipped an envelope onto the tree. I’m sure in both cases it helped somewhat towards alleviating some of the costs of the wedding.
And with the birth of new babies, the tradition has been - with the last three - that I have been invited into the delivery room to witness the birth of a new grandchild. I hope this tradition continues.
August 29th
Are our memories always accurate? If you ask your sister or brother about an incident in your lives as children, will they remember it as you have? Likely not. We all have memories, good and bad, old and new.
For seniors, their memories are very much a part of the person they are; they are their entertainment while they remember past experiences and are part of the stories they tell. Memories for children also have an important place in their lives; they form the basis of their characters.
Some of us remember things with humour, even if the original happening was not funny; others remember a story more negatively or positively than others. Often another person will have no memory of a situation because to them it was not as important as you had felt it to be. What we remember and how we remember can tell a lot about the person we are.
When I write a story about my memories, my brothers will sometimes accuse me of ‘making it up’. Although my two brothers and I are within three years, we often remember our childhood in very different ways.
The memory of when my brother and I joined the 4-H Lamb Club is an example of this. We joined the club, younger than most of the other members but with a clear understanding of ‘Making the Best Better’ for our club, community, country and world. We knew the motto backwards and forwards and chanted it at 4-H gatherings along with everyone else. But our lambs were what really held our attention.
Excitement at the prospect of caring for these fluffy little creatures consumed us as we curried and brushed, fed and watered, and cleaned up after them. My white-faced lamb, I felt, was the most beautiful in the world although admittedly my brother’s black-faced lamb was a close second.
My maternal instincts were already full-blown at my tender age as I shed tears when tails were docked and ears tagged. I was even dubious about shearing - what would a careless shear do to my poor little lamb?
At the annual Fall Fair during judging competitions, I was always at one end of the row while my brother was most often at the opposite end. Judging of lambs is based on eye appeal initially but they must also have good ‘muscling’. The loin and rump should make up one-third of the lamb’s total body length; as well they should also have well-muscled legs. My lamb appeared to be the fairest of them all judging by the amount of ribbons he received. At ten years of age, I hadn’t quite realized that he was being judged for his….I shudder even now as I write this…., but… his ‘meat value’. Had I known this juicy fact, I proably would not have been so happy with his continuous winning streak.
The Pacific National Exhibition held in Vancouver each year was the judging event that all 4-H’ers eagerly looked forward to and I was going to be able to take my lamb. However, my brother was not going and although it was ‘guaranteed’ to be a fun affair, I was of mixed feelings becuse I would be going on my own.
Staying in dormitories, we ate our meals in a cafeteria and mixed with youngsters from other communities. But I was the youngest, the quietest and without a doubt the loneliness. My lamb, however, continued to win ribbons for the four days that I managed to stay before my feelings of homesickness could no longer be ignored.
Unfortunately, coming home early from this special event was slightly embarrassing and caused me to be less enamored of the entire process. All I wanted from that point on was to stay out of the limelight and take care of my lamb.
Now that’s my story but my brother saw our lamb club days through a different pair of eyes.
He had been happy to be the owner of a black-faced lamb thinking it to be better looking than the run-of-the-mill white-faced one I had chosen to love. His, he believed, was a member of the elite, being fewer in number.
Not having a maternal instinct, he enjoyed everything involving the grooming and caring of the lambs. Tail-docking time was an adventure to him, as was the ear tagging. And making a halter from a length of rope was another wonderful and useful thing to learn.
He had decided that the 4-H Lamb Club was the place to be and was determined to follow the 4-H Motto to:
Pleadge his head to clearer thinking; his heart to greater loyalty; his hands to larger service and his health to better living.
He does remember that at judging competitions he was continually at the opposite end of the row from me. He also remembers feeling sorry for me but in his memory he was the one who received all the ribbons for his lamb because he had the nicest looking lamb.
Although he doesn’t remember that my little white-faced lamb won all of the ribbons, he should appreciate the fact that it wouldn’t have been his lamb that was the first one on someone’s dinner table.
He does remember, correctly so, that I was a bit of a baby when it came to my participation in the PNE and he is very definite that he would not have been.
But to this day he remains steadfastly loyal to his little black-faced lamb - the second most beautiful lamb there was, and the one that came second to mine.
August 31st
I am fortunate to have so many happy memories of my childhood. My brothers and I played together with the animals on my parents’ hobby farm, swung from vine maple trees, explored the ten acres our home sat on, made forts in the fern fields, caught mice in the pastures, made up games, picked cascarra bark to sell, swam in Kanaka Creek and skated on the frozen lake in the winter. We roamed the countryside and followed the meandering creek wherever it took us. When we walked up the logging road on Blue Mountain, we often branched off following animal trails, sometimes finding old miners’ shacks and rusting prospectors’ equipment. We rode our bikes and exploring wherever our adventures took us, didn’t realize how lucky we were to be living in a time when it was safe to do that. We were able to enjoy the nature that was around us; to see beauty that few young children would now see unless accompanied by parents that are most often too busy to take the time to enjoy such adventures with them.
There were few rules when I was a child. We left in the morning, promised to be careful and to be home by dinnertime. If we weren’t home by dinnertime, that’s when the rules came crashing down upon our heads. This happened seldom. Our sense of timing was almost as accurate as our sense of direction.
Our lives were not filled with a lot of ‘have-to’s’. Our ‘have-to’s’ consisted of doing our chores, our homework, keeping our rooms tidy and minding our manners. They did not consist of having every evening filled with soccer, baseball, karate or anything else. Our lives were not filled with a lot of structured time. We had a few music lessons and some swimming lessons. Period. Our every minute was not mapped from morning until night. We sat over dinner talking and sometimes giggling. Actually ‘not giggling at the dinner table’ was a big rule. I still don’t see the logic of that particular rule but there were few, as I said, so I won’t make an issue of it.
Family talk was always part of everyday life. We learned about our parents’ lives before we were born (was there really such a time?) and about our grandparents’ lives; we reminisced about past happy days with family and excursions taken in those early days of our childhood. We knew about family because there was time to talk about it. Dinners were not gulped down because one of us had a practice to go to.
My parents occasionally played ’scrub’ with our friends and us and sometimes came to the creek with us; we picked berries and fruit together and we laughed often.
No doubt part of the reason for this idyllic lifestyle is that we lived in the ‘boonies’. We were not close to organized sports teams and school was ten miles away. Did we feel that we were missing out on anything? Perhaps we might have if there had not been other children in the area to play with.
But we improvised and were creative. At one point I attempted to organize a ‘club’. I was the President and the Secretary because no one else wanted to be the Secretary. We had no need of a Treasurer unless someone was overdue in returning their ‘library’ book but few were interested in my small ‘library’ anyway. I tried to organize a play. This failed miserably. I appeared to be the only one interested in a play. Any limited interest in the ‘Club’ slowly petered out and eventually it disbanded, much to my disappointment.
I later came up with the idea of having a Carnival when I was about 10 or 11 years old. Making posters saying ‘Come One, Come All, Come to the Kiddies Carnival’, I attached them to telephone poles in the neighbourhood to advertise the event. I wrapped old, small toys for the ‘fishing well’ game; had balloons blown up which people could break with darts; sold ice cream cones, slices of watermelon and Kool Aid. I also sold old toys that my brothers and I no longer wanted.
I raised the money to purchase ice cream, watermelon and Kool Aid originally by selling huckleberry branches (with the betties still attached - they couldn’t be much fresher than that). I also bought a box of chocolates a couple of times and sold raffle tickets for them. I was fortunate that I didn’t get busted for not having a business license but most of the neighbours seemed to be pretty good sports about my entrepreneurial spirit. I heard no complaints about my ‘money making’ techniques.
The Carnival was a huge success as not only the kids in the neighbourhood came but also many of their parents. My mother served the adults refreshments. I made enough from the Carnival to pay for the lumber so my grandfather could build a playhouse. (I rather suspect, however, that the money hardly covered the cost of it).
I still look back on the Carnival as a very exciting day in my childhood.
Reading what I had written to one of my brothers to see how his memory coincided with mine, he could not remember that we chased mice. When I mentioned building forts in the fern fields, he added that we had also used the ferns as swords. That was not in my memory bank. My brother also said ‘we’ did not get sent away from the table for giggling; apparently I was the only one who giggled at the table. He remembered my, in his words, ’silly club’ but he does not remember my wonderful Carnival. I’m surprised that he doesn’t remember because he did receive slices of watermelon for his participation.
When I asked my other brother what he remembered, he recalled most of the things I asked him about. Although when I mentioned my club, he referred to it as the ‘dumb club’. Obviously the club was not high on anyone’s list but mine. He also vaguely remembered the Carnival but added that I always had so many ideas and events on the go. He didn’t have to mention, although he did, that many of my ideas were not always successful.
September 3/08
As we go through life, we suffer many losses, whether we are children or adults. Although what a young child might consider a ’loss’ may not be perceived in the same light as the parent of that child will.
As the mother of five, four of which were boys, I was almost a stranger to ‘tidy’. I had always appreciated and enjoyed ‘tidy’, unfortunately my four sons did not feel the same way I did. They equated ‘tidy’ with ‘loss’.
The loss of a treasure equaled, in their eyes, the absence of a dear friend on vacation, or worse, because that treasure was gone forever. In their eyes, I became an Ogre, belching fire, as I tossed and sorted.
In any small boy’s room, as most parents know, there is a discrepancy in definition - garbage versus treasures. Every discovery and every possession is a veritable mine of treasures to a young boy’s eye.
To a mother’s eye, these treasures often mean something quite different entirely. I once discovered a dehydrated frog lovingly tucked away.l I shall probably never know whether it was already in this state when it was so carefully placed there or whether nature stepped in later. For this lack of knowledge I am eternally thankful since a certain degree of ignorance no doubt, helped me retain my sanity during my sojourn as the mother of five children.
Among other ‘treasured’ collectibles was chewing gum covered in lint, orange peelings, chocolate bar wrappers, broken crayons, hockey cards, prized broken toys, old game score sheets, special ‘collector’ rocks, reams of old art work, crumpled posters that couldn’t possible be parted with, and many an ‘only’ sock, always lacking its mate.
The toy box was usually the receptacle for the above collectibles but was also home to pajama tops or bottoms, (never the whole set), or one shoe or mitten. There seemed to be an unwritten law at our house against two of anything ever being in the same place at the same time. And I could always be sure that the second one would turn up when the need for it had passed, been thrown out, or been outgrown.
When cleaning my sons’ rooms, I found it necessary to follow some very basic and simple rules: never, never, never do it while they are around. On one occasion, I didn’t follow this necessary rule and after hours of wading and sorting, dicovered that ninety-nine percent of these ‘treasures’ had found their way back to their original place. Those tearful pleas, “But you can’t throw this out, it’s still good,” were difficult to ignore. The fact that its wheels were missing was of no consequence; it was a valued possession in the eyes of its owner.
And this one was the toughest of all. After I had sorted the ‘extra special drawings’ from the ‘ordinary drawings’, they gathered up the reject pile and said, “But Mom, I drew these for you.” I probably don’t have to say what happened to those drawings. Yes! They were taped to the hallway wall, the fridge and the kitchen walls. I drew a line at the entrance, however.
The second most important rule to follow was to never spread the job over two days. ‘Attack when unsuspecting’, was my motto. While they were still wondering what was happening, the task was complete. If this rule wasn’t strictly adhered to, all that would be accomplished was that the room would be rearranged but relatively intact.
I was always disappointed that after hours of working my way through the jungle, the response was not, “Heh Mom, thanks” as I might possibly have expected but instead was, “Heh Mom, what did you do this for?” or “Heh Mom, you threw out all the good stuff!”
I will, however, pass on a heartwarming thought. You have my word, as the voice of experience, that the room always reverted back to its original condition in less than a week, (whether I followed the rules or not). However, a particularly enthusiastic child could do it in less time than that.
What’s the heartwarming part, you ask? I always had artwork taped to my hallway and kitchen walls so painting was never a requirement. And, it was taped to my walls and not yours.
September 8/08
Lost treasures are minor losses but to a child they can be huge. But a bigger loss for everyone, no less so fo the children, was the day my father died. He played a large part in their lives for the short time they knew him. Considering the strengths he possessed and the love he had to give, my children lost more than just his physical presence.
One of my children, three years old at the time, followed him everywhere. He loved his Papa unreservedly and when told that his grandfather had gone to Heaven, he tearfully asked, “But why did Papa leave me? I thought he loved me.”
I learned much from my wise father and had he lived, he would have been an excellent role model for my children. He died when his sixth grandchild (my fourth child) was two months old.
He was a gentle man but he inspired and motivated all who knew and loved him. Standing only 5′8″, he was taller than most. He knew instinctively what is required to be a great parent, a loving husband and a good friend. Although he was a quiet man, his actions and deeds spoke louder than any words could ever be spoken.
He was a family man and we were the lucky recipients of his love. With the valuable lessons he taught us, hopefully we will be better people than we might otherwise have been. He taught me, by actions and words, the importance of having inner strength. “I can’t” were not words that were part of his vocabulary.
Nothing was more indicative of this than when he was involved in a very serious accident. While crossing the street my father was struck by a speeding car and thrown fifty feet. After surgery, he gradually became aware of the presence of his family gathered around his bed. He smiled at each of us as if to say, “Don’t worry, I’ll be okay.” The smile may have been recognizable but my father was not. Such was his strength! This was only the beginning of his display of vast inner resources for he had a difficult road ahead of him.
He spent a full year in the hospital stoically enduring many surgeries, including eight bone grafts. Not once did I hear him complain about the injustice of his situation. His attitude was that he couldn’t change what had happened and he wasn’t going to make everyone else’s life miserable because of it. Not once when I visited him was there not a cheerful smile upon his face. From this I learned not to take myself too seriously.
During the many conversations we had while my father was in the hospital, I heard the love he felt for his family woven into every sentence. With this, he taught me the value of family and the power of love.
My father went home in a wheelchair. Determined to be productive, he started a coffee wagon business out of his home. With this, he taught me that giving up is never an option.
Determinedly building his strength, he graducated to crutches and then a cane and before long, he was able to walk on his own. With this grand achievement, he taught me that wishing for something won’t make it happen; you have to work for it.
My father always looked at his cup as being half full and was happy for what he had. He accepted what could not be changed and worked on what could be.
Unfortunately, this was not the end of my father’s need to rely on his inner strength. A few years after his accident, cancer struck him a terrible blow. Discovering cancer of the colon, he was operated on immediately. He was undaunted. Then ten days later, he was operated on for cancer of the lung; he still remained optimisted. Ten months after that, he developed cancer of the lymph nodes. My father died less than a year after his first cancer was discovered.
With the lessons I learned from my father and the strengths he bestowed upon me, he passed on something more important than money could ever be. I hope that I will be able to pass on some of these lessons and strengths to my children and grandchildren and that they will become a living legacy; a gift from my father for generations to come.
September 27/08
Grandchild #7 is due in about two weeks. Her mom feels, at least hopes, she will be here earlier - another new baby for us to love. It is amazing how the heart stretches to welcome each new person into our lives.
Continuing with what is becoming a family tradition, we went on our second annual hike through a corn maze. With me was grandchild #3, daughter of son #1; grandchild #4, son of my only daughter and grandson #5, son of son #3 and soon to be a big brother to grandchild #7.
The weather was summer-warm. I soon regretted wearing a sweater and of encouraging the children to bring jackets which ‘guess-who’ had to carry along with their drinks. With my arms full, it was difficult to take pictures of our ‘fun’ occasion.
While we wandered between stalks of 12 foot high corn, grandchild #5, his hand firmly held in mine and with eyes wide said, “Nana, I spy with my little eye - corn!”
It brought to mind some of the other ‘truths and gems’ that come from the lips of young children. One day while down at the beach with grandchild #2 when he was about four years old, a lady asked if I had other children. “Oh, he’s my grandson,” I told her. Said grandson turned to me, shock on his face at my apparent lie. “Nana, I’m not your grand-son; I’m my mom’s son.”
When grandchild #3 was five years old, on one of her weekly visits for dinner with us, she insisted on helping me fold the laundry and prepare dinner. Impressed, I asked, “Do you vacuum and clean windows too?”
Turning her big brown eyes in my direction, she said, “Nana, I’m not Cinderella.”
This same granddaughter, full of wit, on another occasion was giving us a list of what she wanted for Christmas. The items on the list were becoming increasingly expensive. Finally her grandfather said, “Oh wait, I think you’ll have to ask Santa for that.”
Smiling with a charm that was difficult to ignore, she said, “I just did.”
Encouraging this same granddaughter to eat her dinner one evening, I told her that she could lick the pans of the cakes we had finished making and then have a piece of the cake for dessert.
“Are you trying to fill my stomach up with junk food, Nana?”
How does a grandmother answer that? With a laugh, of course.
One day while walking on the beach with grandchild #4, a lady stopped to comment on the feather he had found. Looking at me she said, “Perhaps your mother will come up with an idea of what you can do with your feather.”
The child said nothing until we had continued on our walk. “I don’t think you look like my mother,” he said. “She has a different colour of coat than you have.”
Another time this same grandchild asked what I was going to do with some china that was in a box. “Maybe I’ll take it to an antique shop,” I told him.
“Maybe my mom can have it.”
“I don’t think it’s the kind of thing your mother likes,” I answered.
“Yeah,” he replied sadly. “She doesn’t like our house to look nice.”
When he was about four years old, he asked me if killer sharks eat humans.
“I don’t know,” I replied. “What do you think?”
“I think they only bite them because I don’t think humans taste very good.”
On our way home from our walk through the corn maze, this same grandson asked, “Do you wish your skin was a darker colour, Nana?”
“Like yours?” I asked this child who turns golden brown at the mere hint of a ray of sunshine. “I don’t mind the colour of my skin,” I answered.
“Do you like your freckles?” he asked.
“I like my freckles okay. I’m used to them by now,” I said.
This wise young child decided not to discuss further the issue of my freckles. And I was wise enough not to ask him what he thought of them.
October 13/08
I took my three year old grandson (grandson #5) out for a ‘big boy’ lunch to a Japanese restaurant three days ago. Liking it better than McDonalds, he ate almost all of the teriyaki chicken and vegetables and most of the Meso soup. He also likes Chinese good. He’s my kind of lunch date. It was a good day for a little boy who is almost a ‘big brother’.
Today he became a ‘big brother’ complete with ‘I’m a big brother’ t-shirt. His little sister was born on Thanksgiving Day. What a perfect day to celebrate the birth of a new baby. I was fortunate to again have the opportunity to be in the delivery room. It was a more difficult labour than her first experience because of the position of the baby’s head but she handled it very well, with no medication. When her pains were almost back-to-back, the doctor suggested that if she could get up and walk around that it would help the baby’s head move into the correct position. Had he ever been in labour, I think he would have realized how unlikely it was that that suggestion would be followed up on. She did, however, manage to sit up on the edge of the bed - this was difficult enough. He was correct though in the fact that the baby’s head would move because shortly after, she was ready to deliver.
Grandchild #7 was born at 10:50 a.m. weighing 8 lbs. 9 1/2 ounces, over a pound more than her big brother had been. After a little cry to announce her arrival, she nestled against her mother as if she had just spent her previous nine months in that position. My daughter-in-law’s support team of my son, her mother and I felt very emotional as she held her daughter close to her breast and told her how beautiful she was and that she was worth every pain she’d had. It’s amazing that a mother can love her new baby so instantaneously that she feels as if her heart will burst wide open.
In spite of the longer, more difficult labour, my daughter-in-law was up having a shower less than an hour after the baby was born. My daughters-in-law have done very well in the childbirth department.
This day was a very emotional one for me. Later in the evening my daughter was taken by ambulance to the hospital. She had another episode of her recurring problem. There is still no definitive answer as to the reason for them. Although for the first time, the doctor at the emergency word mentioned MS. This time, along with the tingling, her hands, arms, neck and lips became numb and she was very nauseous. I brought my grandson home with me while she went to the hospital.
October 25/08
Today was our annual trip to the pumpkin patch. Unfortunately, grandchild #4 was sick and wasn’t able to go so I was only accompanied by grandchild #3 and #5. The weather was crisp but sunny. On arrival we headed to the barn for a look-see at all the animals, real and otherwise. The singing, guitar-picking pig is always a popular attraction.
From there we went to the petting zoo which was mainly baby goats. Most were hugged generously by grandchild #5. After a wash of not only hands but face too for the ‘hugger’, we got some lunch and an ice cream cone. And then it was onto the hayride for a trip to the pumpkin patch.
The big decision! Tall and thin; short and fat - easier made by them than by me. After much deliberation, we each finally had our pumpkin. Then perching on a bale of hay, holding tightly to small hands and large pumpkins. the tractor wheezed its way back to the car. A happy ending to another annual tradition.
November 19, 2008
An Update - My daughter is still waiting for results from tests taken after her last experience.
November 20/08
Expectations, according to the dictionary, are the probability of a thing happening.
Hundreds of years ago, expectations were to hopefully live to the ripe old age of thirty years; the realization that many babies would not see one year old; that one’s belly would more often growl with hunger than sigh with contentment; that children would have rickets and most people would go to their grave without a full set of their own teeth.
Conditions gradually improved. People lived longer; babies had a better chance of living and fewer new mothers died during child birth. The cause of rickets was discovered and the expectation was to grow up without the bowed legs of deprivation. Many of today’s seniors may not die with their own teeth but with education and preventative measures, the expectation of young people is that they will.
More recently the dream was to have a small plot of land and a modest home. If they were also able to have a car, they considered themselves the lucky ones. They worked long hours and if no catastrophe befell them, they managed a week vacation in the summertime. Their children did not have music lessons and likely ran barefoot in the summer because winter shoes were expensive. People lived in fear that if the father, usually the primary wage earner, fell ill or died, the family would become destitute. People had less; wanted less and were satisfied with less because they had few expectations that there could be more.
Today our expectations are higher. We expect that we will have fancy, big houses; the best of futniture and two relatively new cars. Our children will likely have designer clothes; more than they will ever wear and none they will ever wear out. They will have more toys than they even know they own and the latest and greatest of everything. They will have lessons in everything but no time for family. The work day is shorter but the time to relax less. The feeling of gratitude for what life has given us no longer exists.
We expect higher wages and faraway and exotic vacations - going camping is no longer considered an enjoyable vacation. Family time is valued less and adult time is valued more. We have fewer children because we do not have time for more and large families are expensive. We expect to send our children to university. Our expectations are to be successful so we work towards promotions and the next rung in our chosen field.
With our new expectations, we have lost close family connections; the joy of spending fun time with a child; spending a rainy afternoon reading a book or having a relaxing meal with family without the necessity of rushing to a game, a meeting or a lesson. There’s been a swing of the pendulum. We are more self-centered - we are the ‘me’ generation. What will our expectations next bring us?
For the children - living more by the day than adults do - the immediate expectation is Christmas. The next thing on our list is the decorating of gingerbread houses.
April 3, 2009
A Major Change For My Mother
Since my mother’s stay in the hospital last June, she has never fully regained her health and, in fact since Christmas, has been steadily deteriorating. It became a concern, not only for myself but also for my son and daughter-in-law who lived upstairs from her. As she required more and more help, it became necessary to make the decision to put her on an assisted living list. Contacting Fraser Health, she was assessed and we went on a tour of a couple of places.
She was not happy about the necessity for such a move even though she had begun to realize the necessity for it also. But in spite of her continuing difficulties, she hoped that a call would not come for a couple of years even though we knew she would require more care long before that. Since Christmas she spent more than a week with us because of her arthritis flare-up. But because we have stairs up to the bedrooms, we had to push and pull her up them. And once we got her there, it was too difficult for her to go up and down again, even with help. Then she was here for almost three weeks because she had fluid on her lungs. She became quite difficult during that time (no doubt because of her health issues) and at one point I told her I was going to take her to the hospital. When she started to feel better though, she wanted to go home because she was bored. My place is not set up for her with the problems she has and nor is there room for all the stuff that she felt was necessary. The assisted living accommodation became the only possible alternative.
The call came three months after she went on the list. I started to help her downsize but it was not an easy task. She had kept things from the 1920’s and the 1930’s; her 1,400 square foot basement suite was stuffed to the rafters. She was not initially prepared to give up many of her possessions. But since she was going into a studio apartment, she reluctantly realized that she was going to have to rethink what she could take.
We began with the closets. Clothes that she had once worn, size 16 and 18, no longer fit her now size 8 body frame. But rather than looking at the size, she insisted on trying on everything. In some of the outfits that she insisted she wanted to keep regardless of the size, she looked like a bag lady. Considering the fact that she had more clothes than she would ever need or wear, it was not necessary for her to wear ones that were four sizes too big for her. “It’s my favourite,” became her constant reply when I pointed out that I hadn’t seen her wear it for years. Or, “I want to keep it for sentimental reasons.”
“You don’t have enough room for this many sentimental reasons,” I told her. She angrily told my son that I was making her get rid of all of her favourite things. She had clothes tucked away that she had forgotten about; clothes that still had price tags on them and two fur coats in her closet and three in a cedar chest. She wanted to keep them all.
“I think I’ll wear this fur wrap down to dinner,” she told me when we found the wrap crammed into a plastic bag with its matching fur pillbox hat.
“It isn’t a country club,” I reminded her. And to further back up my argument, I told her that people hate people who wear fur coats. She reluctantly agreed to give up three of them.
And that was just her clothes. Then there were her collections - dog ornaments - probably close to one hundred, postcards, stamps, spoons, dog calendars going back many, many years, albums of pictures of nobody’s dogs, records, albums of pictures of castles, a roomful of geneology binders, all filled with ancestors, shelves and shelves of books, an abundance of vases (not really a collection, just a bunch), and tons and tons of ‘other stuff’.
It was a very slow and painful process for both herself and me. In spite of the fact that everything just wasn’t going to fit - it was a fight. She snapped, yelled and demanded and in general made my life miserable. To say she was not a happy person is an understatement. I could understand her feelings of loss. “But what are your options,” I asked her. I couldn’t think of any others and nor could she.
On the day of her big move, my brother, son, partner and myself did the moving while two daughters-in-laws took her for lunch so we could get things moved in without her making things more difficult for us. After the move, I made her bed, put the things in the kitchen and bathroom and we all went out for dinner, later dropping her off at her new home. For the next three days I unpacked the many, many boxes into her new home.
But the happy ending to this story is that she finds her new place very ‘cozy’. She likes it and feels relieved that she no longer has to cook meals, do any housework or even make her own bed. She has commented several times on how well they look after the residents. She enjoys the company of women her own age and will be able to take advantage of all of the recreation that is offered, once she gets settled in. She has decided this was probably a good move and seems to have come to terms with the loss of her ’stuff’. She said to me when we went for lunch today, “I don’t know why I thought I needed it all.”