I came by.

I thought of you a lot, these past few days. In my mind’s eye, I felt your warmth, your smile, the eyes that conveyed so much, the love that emanated from your spirit. I thought about your toys, your eager welcome and your unconditional joy upon my arrival, each and every time.  You always knew I was coming; Mom knew how much you looked forward to it.  If caught by surprise, you ran to the back porch to pick up any available tribute: a bear; a penguin; a bunny...you name it, you had them all.  Each a spit-soaked tribute to your abiding love.  I liked that about you; joy personified, love expressed.

The years caught up to you, my noble friend.  The stiff joints, the pain of stairs, while taking their toll on you physically, never diminished your joy.  I think back to hot days, blazing sun and heat that you felt through to your bones, and the Chilly Willy pool that Mom filled so lovingly several times a day, your salvation in the dog days of summer.  You’d jump and frolic and spill out of the sides, embracing the cool water on your bones, soothing, fun.  I loved every single thing about you, ear nibbles included.

I remember your deep and totally encompassing joy in food; I recognized a kindred spirit immediately. You always knew when 2:00 had arrived, several hours in advance.  I laughingly called you a food ho, and you totally were.  Mom was so smart that she knew that the way to best introduce you to a stranger was to not make eye contact and then offer food.  I fondly remember a night when, with Mom’s heretofore ungiven permission, you were allowed to consume an entire bag of potato chips, just to secure the love of someone whom I loved.  Unheard of; joyously received.  Still have a hard time imagining that Mom was okay with that, but that’s how wonderful she was with you, and with me.  She is our gift.

When I heard that you had been taken so very far away, to be investigated and treated, I began to miss you already.  I hoped and prayed you would return.  I dedicated several practices to you and your warm and lovely spirit.  When the message came in, it was surreal.  Could this possibly be?  Could my dear little buddy have left this world too soon, without the possibility of shared goodbyes?  It was so.

Condolences sent, love and caring shared; days passed; healing occurred.  The day came when work called and I returned.  I was prepared; I had planned in advance, the healing commenced.  Opening the door, I entered, waiting for the offering and wagging of tail; it did not come.  I sensed the void yet anticipated  the best.  The quiet got to me; it broke through all barriers and brought reality crashing to the fore.  I crept down the stairs and I think I got about halfway down before the tears began to gently fall, slowly and meaningfully. You’re not here; you will never be here again.  By the time I got to the bottom, I was beside myself and in Mom’s arms, protective and caring. It will take much time to overcome this loss, I thought to myself. Things will never be the same, cannot be the same.  Gentle words ensued, loss shared and realized. 

And then, almost imperceptibly, I recognized your smell permeating the room.  I saw the tiny hairs covering every work surface in the studio; I felt your presence.  I felt you near and in my heart and knew then that you would always be so.  Connected and loving; I like that.  Now I sit on the immense sofa in the living room and make room for you, feel you, feel connected to you.  While I cannot touch you, I can feel you in my heart and that, my noble friend, is the best gift of all. 

With love and gratitude for my forever buddy, I dedicate this little piece to Raoul, kindred spirit, lover of those I love, fierce protector and friend.

Idling

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about the nature of awareness; of the processes involved in bringing something to our attention, collective or otherwise.  You’ve heard me say (more frequently than I’d care to admit) that often I live under a rock, plain and simple.  World events pass me by, despite random attempts of news hour diligence on my part; attempting to embrace my inner Peter Mansbridge;  feeling as though I really ought to...that type of thing.  You’re pointing out the obvious again, Mouse, our eyelids are becoming heavy.  Yah, whatever, I reply.  At least I try...well, sometimes.  I have to say I have recently become an ardent fan of CBC late night; soothing voices, interesting and oft quirky topics, people’s stories coming to light.  I like that.  I now realize that this is my preferred method of reacquainting myself with the world at large, as I duck my head furtively out from under my little bedrock.  It’s gentle, evocative and fills me with tremendous admiration for not only the people who tell their stories, but for those who are able to bring them forth in an interview in a manner compelling enough that, once having pulled into my little space in the concrete jungle in which I park, I often just sit and be, and listen to the end.  I also feel that way about really great rock and roll, but that’s another story and involves air guitars and me shrieking with joy in my car, oblivious to passersby who contemplate the placing of the 911 call.

So going back to awareness, just how do we to come to that state?  And how to we form the opinions that stem from that awareness?  For me, it’s almost visceral; a strong wave of emotion that typically situates itself in either my gut or my facial expressions.  I garner much information from how my body responds to certain situations.  Case in point, many years ago, I pulled into the Costco parking lot on an exceedingly windy day (those of you who have already heard this story several times, can now skip ahead, possibly missing one of my undoubted pearls of wisdom, but so be it).  The wind took my car door, leading it forcefully into the car next door (unlike Officer Boy Next Door, not much fun).  Expletive deleted.  I got out only to notice that there was a tiny little dent in door, made by me or not.  I thought “no, couldn’t be me, not possible”...convinced myself that I was indeed quite innocent.  Now I’ll tell you all something I don’t believe I’ve ever shared with anyone; I drove away, presuming myself completely guiltless.  I got about 100 feet before I started to feel very warm, stomach feeling quite sick, ridden with an emotion I quickly recognized as guilt (I’ve felt it before, I have to confess).  As I continued along the road, the feeling worsened to the point I thought I would throw up or cry or some such dramatic response.  By the time I got to the traffic light, about 1 full minute after pulling away, I knew that I had to turn back.  My physical responses told me in no uncertain terms that I would get no relief until I did.  Driving back to Costco, I’ve never felt so bad about myself and my actions and I worried that they may have already driven home, oblivious until they noticed the blemish.  This made me feel even sicker; in fact, I’ve rarely felt so overwhelmingly guilty in my entire life...well, maybe there was that one quintessential example of poor judgment when I...nope, that story won’t ever be shared.  Ended up sitting for 45 minutes in that parking lot, just waiting to tell them the bad news.  But you know what?  As soon as I turned around, I felt better.  By the time they came out and I alerted them to the mishap that had befallen their car, I felt positively energized.  Long story short, when my gut tells me something, I listen. 

Another instance occurred recently when my son and I were hosting a supper to thank everyone who had been so good to him as he moved to Montreal, and by association, his mother.   There are some tremendous people who now occupy a space in my son’s world and I truly hope that he appreciates every one of them.  As we sat around, sharing a meal, some wine, and easy conversation, someone said “a toast, we need a toast”.  One was made and then I was compelled; I’m his mother after all.  As soon as the words of gratitude for these amazing people issued from my lips, my eyes welled up; overcome by the awareness that incredible people occupy my emotional space (and not just in Mtl, I’d like to point out).  I didn’t even bother to hide the tears, not possible.  At which point, sainted firstborn turns to his lovely new boyfriend and says “told you, within an hour, she’d be crying”...bf smiled, and I believe I said something rude but there you have it.  Strong emotion = physical response of some kind, typically overwhelming, rendering me incapable of controlling it.  Just where are you going with this, FON?  We’re getting sleepy.  Just wait, it’s evolving as I write.

Back to awareness.  After visiting the fam in T-Dot, I took the train home, leaving in time so as to arrive for happy hour in Ottawa.  Train departs at 3:30 pm, Mouse is relishing the second in Follett’s Century Trilogy, and submerged in WW2.  At 4:20, train stops.  Mouse continues on with her read.  Few hours later, I’m starting to feel that we’ve been stopped for quite awhile.  Loudspeaker informs us infrequently that as details become available, they’ll share.  I continue.    As an aside, I realize that I love Churchill, foibles, weaknesses and all; he just captivates me.  This could quite possibly be because I see Gandalf in him and therefore another LOTR link to my little world. Eventually, we’re told that the train is stopped due to a Native blockade.  I think, hmmmmm....keep reading.  I text my bro and Auntie D, merely to inform them of my circumstance.  AD replies, asking if it’s the protest.  I reply “what protest”?  I continue reading.  I hear people on the train voicing their opinions as to how no one on this train could help, so why inconvenience everyone; that type of stuff.  I begin to feel sorry for those who are travelling with babies and small children.  I’d like to point out that I sat on that train, in that spot, for over nine hours.  In that time, Via Rail offered us one glass of water, not even the full bottle.  But I had my book and I was immersed in another time, another world.  Long story short, I left at 3:30 pm and arrived at 1:45 am.  The ever patient and, I suspect, long-suffering Juice waiting for me upon arrival.  I got in the car and I tell her about the barricade and she proceeds to tell me about Idle No More.  She is certain that I’ve heard of this...she is wrong, I am mystified.  She begins to painstakingly tell me about the Idle No More movement, Chief Spence, and just how long this has been going on.  My rock-like existence is ashamed, truth be told.  How could I have missed this, been so unaware?

Let me say that regardless of one’s state of newsworldliness, now 2000 people know exactly what this protest is; we have become aware.  And while I know that everyone has their own viewpoint and has their own unique (or not so) experience of the Native situation (including me, who once dated a Mohawk dental student for over three years), I can say this: we took their land, we cheated them of their reality and a method of living in the world that they understood, we took their children, we gave them substances that their systems cannot process, the government took away shipping subsidies so that many Northern people have the pleasure of paying $20 for a jug of milk and $16 for a jar of peanut butter, we left them with this.  And so I suppose my point is that, ultimately, whether you live under a rock or no, you will become aware...somehow, someway, it will happen; life will instill in you an awareness of circumstance, of meaning, not always through  a television set but sometimes via something so simple as a train track.

I dedicate this very humble little piece to all those who fight for something better.

Goodnight, 2012

My little endeavour has now been taking its shape for two years now, which required my revisiting Decembers past and a consideration of existing reality.  Have to admit, 2012 was meant to be fierce in its Armageddon-like properties and circumstances and, while I initially thought the Mayans (and much of the 21^st century population) may have been misguided, I have considered and rethought this stance.  2012 was meant to be a year of extreme positivity, or so I presumed.  Every good thing was going to happen, that was a given.  I naively believed that everyone was wrong.  Well, THAT’s an optimistic way in which to begin your new year, Mouse!  Seriously, I thought my positive spin would ensure the most fabulous of years, but life somehow intervened, as it always does, and many hard truths were faced: accidents; serious illness; death; alienation; job loss; workplace trauma;  my proverbial whole nine yards.  Pass us the Kleenex, Mouse, we’re fading quickly.  And then, upon careful consideration, the sweet little nuggets of hope, joy, and strength presented themselves to me slowly, a tiny glimmer slowly becoming more insistent.  Here’s how it went down:

A car accident robbed me of my independence for many months.  Weight gain was probably the most direct consequence but you know what?  I can take care of that.  It may take me awhile (one or two words?  Who really cares if you’re following the flow?) but each one of you knows the fierce determination I have, once my ultimate decision has been made.  Am I grateful not to have permanent facial scars from being catapulted through the windshield?  You bet.

My beautiful sister-in-law lost two parents this year; a blow from which it is exceedingly difficult to come back.  And while I couldn’t be there to help in the more tangible ways, there was that one small bit of time during which we communed while packing up some of Nana and Zaida’s things, and she told me her stories.  A testament to lives well lived, a love fully realized, a legacy shared with two wonderful and fully evolved, compassionate and giving children.  And that gift I was able to share in; that she has welcomed me into her heart, despite the occasional digressions of the Force of Nature that shares blood ties with her husband; for that, I am very grateful.

Two people I know, both seasoned, bright and eminently qualified, found themselves in a situation of forced retirement.  Pretty easy to see how this could trigger a pity party of the grandest proportions but, again, they’ve found themselves embracing possibility (I LOVE that) and searching for a way in which to redefine themselves.  With one, I hope to be part of that process, hopefully finding a new little niche of my own.  What I really love is the desire to help people that comes from both experience and from a nurturing essence that runs deep.  From my own experience, the chance to reinvent yourself on your own terms is the most significant of gifts; nothing is more important than your freedom.  I know in my heart that they both will end up in good places, on their own terms, ready to face the next adventure with confidence.

And then there was the transplant.  It was up there with the toughest two weeks of my life, and I include drug-free childbirth with that.  With a spreadsheet created to track the six different meds, the initial fear of rejection, the missing of grad school work and the determined effort to keep up in the hands of the dulcet tones of Mom’s voice, multiple stresses on ever so many fronts, I think I aged several years.  Sainted firstborn (apparently you are all used to that particular appellation) submitted to the doting care of FON and survived to tell the tale.  And he never complained even once.  His sister and mother would not have fared so well.

I’m not going to go into the workplace stress.  Any of you who currently find themselves employed in the university environment understand this completely.  I playfully refer to it as the blood bath that pays my bills.

And so, what has 2012 seen fit to reward us with?  Many things, my friends.  Let me say that the three most important desires of my heart came to pass in this year.  With fervent hope, I put them in my manifest box a few years ago, focussed on them daily and then, six months or so ago, let them go.  Glinda has always taught me that manifesting something works very well, once you let go of the outcome.  To be honest, I got to the point where I thought that I could not control the outcome, that it was beyond me, and then I was able to let it go.  Truthfully, I wasn’t sure that it would happen but this is exactly what transpires when you let go.  What the heck happened, you ask?

I wished that my Anam Cara would live in a safe and secure home, surrounded by those who love her unconditionally; wish granted.

I wished that my relationship with my mother would be happy and loving.  On my birthday weekend, when we packed up her home and moved her to a seniors’ residence, her loneliness and night fears evaporated.  The past was forgiven, the compassion flourished and now I call her Ma. Wish granted.

I wished that my son’s sight would be healthy and improved.  When I got the call for the surgery, I moved mountains to bring him home.  The CBC aired a segment on October 29^th about two girls who had befriended each other in the Renal Transplant Unit and who had both received donor kidneys on that day.  They shared that enormous gift with my son; one family’s ultimate gift was shared with many others, teaching me the importance of promoting organ donation and of never saying never. I remind him to practice gratitude every single day.

When I look back at a seemingly tough year, I think about these three incredible gifts; gifts that I believed might never transpire.  And, I don’t even count 18 months smoke-free in this mix.  2012 wasn’t so bad after all.  Tough but not insurmountable, like most things.

What this leads me to is 2013.  This is what I call the Gravy Year, as in “you want gravy with that”?  This will be the year that all the wonderful enhancements to life occur, that extra little sumthin-sumthin (my children cringe now, if they ever read this) and you can see that little dance that I do as the words issue from my mouth.  I wish you every good thing and gravy on top of it all, one ladle at a time.  With love and gratitude from me to you.

Red light, green light, whatever...

This may take me a while to compose.  Seriously, I had hoped, several years ago, that my dating tales would come to an end and that I would be happily ensconced in whatever new-found tradition that had come to me.  Totally false.  Not happening, put your big girl underpants on and suck it up.  Dicho y hecho.

This may have more of a feel of a Rick Mercer rant, but...too bad, deal with it.  Suffice to say, Venus does not, could never, and never will, understand Mars.  Mars = enigma, pure and simple.  That’s probably not going to change in my lifetime; I’m good with that now, sort of...maybe.  It also seems appropriate at this juncture to reiterate that I am not man-bashing.  I like men, some of them I totally get, some of them, I love.  Dr. Oink, you remain one of the few members of the species that I not only get, but admire for your candour, your unfailing understanding of male/female interactions (and, by consequence me, not an easy task at the best of times), not to mention that giggle; I think of it fondly still, after so many years.

At the risk of offending several well-meaning friends, I would like to state categorically:  I am not to blame. .. and I do recognize and appreciate your love and concern, that I have to say at the outset.  But, my philosophical standpoint remains unaltered:  I have the right.  To what exactly, you ask?  Here I go...be forewarned.

I believe the following statements/feelings/attitudes to be true, unabashedly true, take it to the bank true, as follows:

I believe that a woman should be able to go out on a date at what she deems to be a relatively nice venue, in venue-appropriate attire.  If this should constitute a lovely and tasteful dress that, perhaps, might be seen as alluring and (shudder) sexy in Beigeland, well then, so be it.  It is my right.  If your residence in Beigeland leads you to believe otherwise, then I should move.

I believe that No means No.  We’ve all see the campaign, read the ads...well, my female friends have and one particular friend is a champion of this particular right.  So, no in the restaurant = no in the cab.  Perhaps the vernacular confuses certain testosterone-laden members of the species but, face it, it’s an easy, one-syllable word that is typically fairly clear.  A woman in a dress shouldn’t have to doctor it up into a five-dollar word:  No = no = no.  Point final.   So, when she tells you that she doesn’t want to hold your hand across the table, you shouldn’t ask her “aren’t you having fun?  I’m having fun. Aren’t we having a good time?  I don’t bite, you know.”  Truth is several things.  1)  You probably do bite, if allowed.  2)  You’re probably not ever going to get that lucky.  3)  You should just piss off immediately.  For those members of the species who don’t get that, it means one , or more, of several things, such as:  1)  you’re not getting lucky and no amount of votive-candle lighting will change that;   2) you are probably never going to see the alluring creature sitting across from you ever again.  3)  It’s highly likely that she will share this with every one of her long-suffering friends and they may, be certain of it at some juncture, laugh at your expense.  Some of them may even write about it.  It’s the way of the world.  Don’t believe that alcohol consumption and your raging testosterone preclude your appropriate and respectful behaviour and that you can just put it all down to over-consumption.  Start the 12-step, idiot, and continue until you get the certificate to prove it.

I believe that a woman should be able to accept a supper invitation, show up in a manner that is sartorially appropriate, allow someone to buy her that supper, and not have someone attempt to ravage her as recompense and merely enjoy her company, her discourse, her whimsy, without hope of the down and dirty in a back seat, we aren’t, after all, in high school any longer.  And you wonder why we do not trust, cannot trust.  Your poor behaviour should not constitute a laying of blame on our wee shoulders. 

I believe that  a woman should be able to accept your words, actions, story as belying a modicum of truth; we like to think that we are understanding and accepting of your reality and history.  When you mess with our heads, we misunderstand and then, by consequence, form certain judgments.   Treat us as we treat you,  that could be a realistic starting point, a fair playing field, as it were.

Falsehoods diminish your cause; accept it and modify your behaviour.  Don’t refer to your third marriage as a blip on the radar...not really much of anything.  Twice divorced = possibly misunderstood; thrice divorced = hard to get along with.  It would also be advantageous to mention that it is advisable not to make your date cry on the second date, it displays poor sensitivity skills on your part.  Nor should you cry when your date tells you that you have a nice smile...it questions emotional stability.  Just a thought.

I believe that a woman is readily capable of understanding nuances of behaviour and picks up certain cues from you, which speak to ulterior motives.  For example, when she tells you that she refuses to be considered what, in polite circles, would be a “booty call”...best realize that she gets you plain and simple and that you should cut your losses and run with your proverbial tail  between your legs.  If you think she doesn’t get you in this regard, you are sadly mistaken and you will probably find that, at some point in the very near future, she will call you on just that.  We didn’t fall from the trees yesterday, after all.

I believe that men and women come to this particular forum with very different skill sets, desires and expectations.  I liken it to a horse auction:  check the teeth, check the footpads, consider the sale.  Men sell their financial  and intellectual success and women sell their physical appearance and youth.  There are many who may argue the validity of this, but I suggest they try online dating for a couple of years and then come back to me to argue the point.  It’s unequal, unfair, un-many things, but it remains truth.

And so, what do I hope to attain with this whole diatribe?  A modicum of understanding perhaps, a levelling of the playing field?  Not sure.  We aren’t equal, as much as we like to think we are.  I’m not completely certain that that particular utopia exists but this, I do know.  We continue to live in faith and hope and go back into the arena to do battle.  Someone once told me that marriage is the triumph of hope over experience...I think it’s more likely human relationships and our desire to be connected to one another, to forego the status quo, to move toward that all-satisfying and encompassing green light, to forge ahead into the abyss with blissful abandon.

A Family Plot

There are times in your life when friendship transcends boundaries and enters the realm of family.  It can happen with the sharp profundity of a major life incident or it can assimilate itself almost imperceptibly...many possibilities.  I am most fortunate to have such relationships in my life, and even more fortunate to be able to recognize them in advance, absorb and process them, assimilate them.  It doesn’t always happen so readily, and sometimes I need the brick up the side of the head to be aware of them.  However...to fully describe this feeling and what it means to me, I needs must return to the place of my birth. 

Having decided that my sainted firstborn (really...still?) couldn’t adequately celebrate his 23^rd birthday without the presence of some family member, and being a rather sentimental girl, I decide that driving to Montreal for the second time in two months is a rather wonderful idea.  After all, can one successfully celebrate one’s birth in the absence of one’s raison d’etre?  Not possible.  Bodycon and I decide to venture forth and forge ahead.  It should be noted that, after a four hour drive and the irritation of an uncompromising bodycon (not of Officer Boy Next Door fame...I do own several, after all), a quick change at the side of the highway was necessary and then the voyage continued in a more satisfactory manner.  As per appointed rendez-vous times, I pull up on rue Norbert at the very same time as 1) Yolanda has seen fit to leave aside the day’s toils; and 2) Juice pulls up to do the same.  Group hugs ensue to the dulcet tones of Pink Floyd, life is just that good, once again.  Another  successful wine-soaked evening  at Yolanda’s ensues...sigh of satisfaction.  The Mouse is just that content.  I would like to point out at this juncture that the utter contentment results not from a male presence but rather from the profound sense of security, of happiness of a shared presence, all that. 

Shoot to the morning after.  I must share all of my former life; a walk along the memory lane that is Mount Royal is essential.  Many things happened to me on that mountain and several of you who will read this will be transported back to an easier time, more carefree, less inhibited.  Juice and I don our collective spandex and venture forth, to revisit the running paths of our youth, oblivious to the Pandora’s Box that is about to be opened, unwittingly.  We walk, we talk.  We admire the abilities of the young and fruitful as they sprint steadily uphill, casually breathing without any sense of labour, just doing it.  We like that.  It speaks to us of days past (passed, no pun intended) when we joined the ranks, barely noticing the efforts of our labours...we persevere, up and up, until we reach Beaver Lake, drained and under construction, but the scene of unshared experiences that have been relayed only in memory.  I fondly recall my mother recounting her youth, spent cross country skiing, skating and horseback riding across this beautiful urban wonder.  I think of the family tradition that is here...an idea germinates, becoming more and more insistent.  My aunt and uncle, among many others, are buried here in this beautiful space.  I have long heard that my grandmother and her family are here, too.  “I want to find my Nanny” is all I say, and my Anam Cara agrees in a heartbeat.  My cousin tried but was not able to locate her.  I am determined.  Off we trek , in search of god knows what.  We walk, and we walk, we follow signs for the Administrative Office...they go on for what seems like miles.  Finally, we are there.

We enter and see a bank of desks, computers and very busy people.  I wait patiently in line, as a good little Canadian, Anam Cara firmly in tow.  We approach the desk.  I bravely step forward and simply say, I want to find my grandmother.  You have to know, that I have heard many stories over the decades about family, about position, about status.  My thoughts have been well formed, without foundation, for a lifetime.  I relay statistics, the admin person types...I wait.  It’s a long story and somewhat sad...no, very sad.  Suffice to say, she found her, but only because I gave her maiden name, divorced in a time when that meant certain social/economic/financial suicide, I found my Nanny.  She was not buried in the family plot that I envisioned, but in a larger, less dignified resting place, with many others who had somehow found themselves leaving this world with very little.  The tears began to slowly trickle...I remembered the great lady who played cards until we were sleepy, the quintessential Habs fan who watched every game, the special person who cared for us when my parents went away...all of it.  “There’s something else I should tell you...no, maybe I shouldn’t”, she says.  At this point I didn’t think it could get any worse and I told her to fill her boots, I was prepared to hear anything.  To say that I wasn’t prepared for what she told me would be a gross understatement.  “We sent a letter to all the families (at which point, the tears began in earnest and I told her “they’re all dead now”), they are planning to bulldoze the land, leaving the remains intact, but resell it”.  It was at that point that I became hysterical...my Anam Cara’s arm reaching around me, silently and with great strength.  “If you can find her, you can have her plaque”.  Hmmmmm...  It’s not graverobbing, I ask?  Assuredly not, she replies.  I won’t get arrested (and therefore miss sainted firstborn’s bday supper)?  Not a problem, go right ahead, as she passes me a Kleenex.  She gives us approximate coordinates.  Good luck.  Well, then.

We leave the office and you have to picture this.  An Italian funeral is starting:  one hearse, several limos, many very well clad (black, natch) people who are completely calm and milling about.  Juice and I walk out, both resplendent in spandex), I am completely dissolving into hysteria, Juice is quietly taking charge, managing me, soothing.  The funeral party looks up, quite distressed, I am blithering, balling up my Kleenex and sobbing about the injustice of the world, and my Anam Cara just guides gently, with utter compassion, leading me.  She knows where we are headed, she finds my path.  We arrive at a huge field; several home-made wooden crosses attest to the fact that someone, at some level, cared. 

It was at this point that my life entered what I like to refer to as a Coen-brothers surreal state.  It coulda made a movie, trust me on this.  The field.  It looks like a barren field, except for the crosses.  We have to start from 1977 and dig ahead, and I do mean dig.  In this sad little forgotten place, the plaques are overrun with grass and weeds.  So, looking upon them, initially, you see nothing.  We get down on our hands and knees, searching.  We manage to find 1977, only five years to go.  The problem is, because of the overgrowth, you have to dig every 1.5 feet and clear away growth to determine whether or not there is actually a plaque.  I have a problem with that word, and you’ll see why.  We dig.  We scrape away weeds and then sod, hoping for a name that we recognize.  She does two rows; I do two rows (this takes well over an hour).  I am just about ready to throw in the towel when...one more, something compels me on.  One more.  I scrape, I blow the dirt off...I see Elsie.  My eyes fill yet anew; I brush, I sweep.  Her name appears and her dates.  I found her, I shriek.  And then the hard part starts. 

When I started to dig and scrape, I actually prayed that no devout Roman Catholic family would decide to pay their respects to their deceased loved ones at this exact moment.  I mean spandex and grave digging probably don’t appear that respectful to, let’s say, some members of the European community who might, let’s say, visit their dear departed weekly, or anything.  Juice knelt down by me, digging, clearing.  We need some type of lever, she says, we can’t do this alone.  My accidented back is starting to shriek in pain, her prosthetic hip does the same.  What losers.  When off to the side, we notice a sweet little grave, neglected for many years but at least showing traces of love and respect.  There is a small, brittle statue, long since fallen into disarray, some weatherworn plastic flowers with the handmade wooden cross, and a bent little wrought-iron fence.  I’m sure they’d want to offer any assistance they could and I’ll take flowers to them to honour them, but truth is, we need that fence.  Up it came.  Two of us, bent over the plaque, me digging with the fence, Juice pulling away the grass and dirt.  Deeper we go, to no avail.  I’d like to point out that the word “plaque” connotes certain images in my mind.  I suppose I was seeing a bronze metal tribute, thin and easily removed.  So wrong.  “Plaque” in the 1980s, as with the Victorian era, I’m sure, means at least 1 foot thick, weighing several hundred pounds.  We continued, nails chipped and broken, spandex encrusted with dirt, musculature screaming in protest.  You know what I love the most about this?  My Anam Cara didn’t stop, she kept up with me until I finally said we cannot continue.  A quiet presence, fiercely strong, equally committed, there for me in the most significant of ways.

We didn’t get the plaque up, we left without recompense.  But, as she pointed out to me, we left having honoured her memory with the best effort we could muster.  And as I walked away, I thought how lucky am I, how lucky my grandmother, that this tribute to her, however minimal, was an effort given so lovingly, so willingly, from one of the most important people in my life.   This we shared.  For that, and for her presence in my life, I am continually and unreservedly grateful.

As an addendum, and just to show you what a blessed woman I am, Third Child, upon hearing this story once my emotions were once more in check, offered to come up the following week with his mother in tow, bringing a dolly and pick axe and bring that sucker home for me until such time that I could bring it home myself.  I can't even begin to express just how incredible it is for me to have this child in my life, from another mother but every bit as dear to me.  For your ongoing presence and love in my life, I am blessed, sweet Kev.

I dedicate this little piece to not only to my Nanny and to my Anam Cara, each holding a special and dear place in my heart, but to those long forgotten whose memories, for whatever reason, we cherish.

Six degrees of gratitude

Driving home the other day, I thought to myself, where is my muse; she’s been damned elusive these past weeks, somewhat akin to the proverbial Pimpernel.  To say I have been rather nonprolific would be an understatement, kind of walking through my world in a post-accident haze...and, unfortunately, it’s not purple.  At any rate, instead of beating myself up, which is, from time to time, my wont, I allowed her to return to me on her own terms.  Rather flexible young Mouse, you say.  Perhaps.  I didn’t have much choice, really.  She is feline in her ability to come and go as she pleases and I respect her sufficiently that I do not press.  In some things, I am reason personified, just doesn’t happen frequently.

Tribal members will appreciate that I was grateful in the extreme for the mere soft-tissue injuries I sustained, true story this.  No facial lacerations to heal, no body cast to impede my drive home, or to Muskoka with fam, and Les Iles; to name a few, no eye patch in evidence, you get the picture.  For this, I am truly pleased.  But it’s the less tangible of injuries that I find trying to the extreme.  Who knew cervical spine trauma resulted in brain fog, loss of memory, tingling, imbalance...not me, that’s for sure.  Let’s face it, menopausal women don’t need extra doses of anything resembling brain fog (google it, guys, and feel our pain).  This all bugs the heck out of me, point finale.  To this end, I am sent for spinal xrays to determine what exactly is going on.

I enter the facility, having found parking very close by, and having had sufficient change to ensure no resulting ticket; first degree – check.  I buy a coffee, having arisen too early to do anything but drag my sorry bum to the car, where I am informed tips are not allowed by hospital policy (for the record, I did try to leave one); second degree – check.  I walk into Diagnostic Imaging, eye the lineup of patients all the way down the horizon and into tomorrow, pull a number, walk away in the fog that has become my little home away from home, when my little reverie is persistently broken by “64....64....64”.  The gods of medical records forced me to look at my ticket – 64!  I expressed my disbelief at the wonder of efficiency and my personal good luck, she smiled and told me they do their very best;  wherein I told her she was succeeding magnificently.  Do I end up at the end of the horizon previously described?  Nope, straight through those doors, where two people are waiting; third degree – check. 

I slip into my bi-layer Johnny shirts.  And just how attractive are they, you ask?  Oh, exceedingly, I reply...just needed socks and Birks to complete the look.  One of the women sitting there was one of those beautiful Maritimers who talk with anyone and everyone.  Huge smile on her face, laughing, just making the whole drab place a much happier place to be, one woman by herself; fourth degree – check.  We started chatting, mostly about how utterly charming we looked and how we hoped that we’d run into many people that we know, mostly single men, you get the picture.  We laughed.  She coughed.  She told me that she was a lifelong smoker and I told her that I totally got it, joked with my brother how I plan to take it up again when I hit 65, how I quit for over 20 years and started on girls’ and getaway weekends to indulge in the occasional cigar, only to revert back into a pack a day cigar smoking kinda gal, but that I’ve been smoke free for almost one year.  I was about to share my brother’s advice of “consider the next one you smoke will be the one that kills you”, but didn’t for some reason, and instead asked if she still smoked.  Two months smoke free, she said.  And then, she coughed at the same time they called her name for the xrays.  The last glimpse I had of this warm, beautiful and teeming with life woman was her turning to me and offering these six little words:  I hope I quit in time.  As these words passed her lips, their profundity hit me like a slap in the face, they took my breath away and they filled my eyes.  How detached we are from a stranger’s reality, how unknowing of the anxiety, fear and fierce hope that others carry with them in their hearts; how welcome is the simple fact of bravery, personified in the hearts and sensibilities of simple people, with simple lives.  To carry on.

My number was called.  I entered with a heavy heart.  The technician was a warm hearted woman, the kind who calls everyone “hun” or “dear”....I know that bothers some and, occasionally, I understand why.  But it was not this day (to quote my very dear Aragorn).  She poked, she arranged, she was precise in the extreme.  At one point, sensing that perhaps I was tiring of this whole exercise, she tells me, you must be tired, I promise it will be over soon.  I looked at her and said, no, I’m not tired, I am profoundly grateful to you; you took me immediately; you are caring for me with the utmost precision and I can’t tell you how grateful I am to be a Canadian in this health care system we have.  She wasn’t expecting that, let me tell you.  She smiled and said she understood.  Fifth degree – check.

As I walked to my car, I was filled with an inexplicable joy.  How wonderful to merely have fog and imbalance, while a veritable weather report of gratitude looms on the horizon.  Driving home in the sunshine, sunroof down, Pink Floyd blaring, I thought to myself, how wonderful is this life, how fortunate am I to have met this one little hopeful woman, who singlehandedly offered the return of my muse to me on a platter...for me to savour, lest I forget, to carry her story with mine and share it with you.  Sixth degree – check.

I dedicate this little piece to the little stranger from the Rock; with my fervent prayer that you did indeed quit in time.

Drinking it all in

There are those of you who may feel that they understand this piece well before I eventually get to my point; perhaps, I reply.

We all have things that call to us; we don’t consciously choose such things, they are there, ever present, unexplained.  But we get them; they can represent driving forces in our lives without our ever having truly understood their meaning; forces of our nature, if you’ll excuse my pun. My own sweet daughter believes chocolate to be a food group in and of itself and, believe me, I seem to be surrounded by others who feel pretty close to the same way.  Me?  Well, my very close friends will readily tell you the same thing about me: bread and potatoes.  I’m a carb kinda girl and always have been.  Tribal members will freely admit that their meal slot in our carefully-planned rotation on girls’ weekends will always include, for the benefit of Mouse, potatoes of some kind (I mean, truthfully, have you ever met a potato dish that you didn’t like?  Honestly?) and bread.  They patiently concoct various items for my benefit (as well as that of the greater whole) for which I am absolutely appreciative, like totally or, as my kids would say, totes.  I love them for that.

Now I enter my own personal Amazon, twisting and turning to arrive finally at my point.  Bear with me.  Tribal Executive have all heard me say that my time here is coming to an end; can’t seem to find it in me to stay much longer.  Sainted firstborn is off to my hometown (very, very fortunate boy) and the little one approaches the light at the end of her own tunnel, all leading the Mouse to her own personal crossroads.  Permit me to go all Clash-y on you: should I stay or should I go?  And, yes, the indecision is killing me...well, not really, but the game plan forms as we speak.

I think this is one of the reasons that Les Iles (god, not that again, you plead) spoke to me as it did.  My belief system doesn’t include the concept of coincidence; everything happens for a reason.  Hence, my journey necessarily took me there last summer to fall in love.  It was inevitable really and here’s why:  I miss my hometown and its culture tremendously (beige was never my fave colour) and I adore the ocean, always have.  There I experienced the poetry of Nature in all her glory, shared it with beautiful, bronze-faced Quebecois, and a wondrous little Catalan, who savoured every line, every stanza with me.  It was an example of the perfect marriage of worlds of sentiment.  But it was the water that was most compelling.

We’re falling deeper and deeper down the well, Mouse, get to it.  Okay, shoot to yesterday.  I went to one of three of my most favourite places here; the Salt Marsh Trail (google it, if you don’t live close by, it’s amazing, truly).  The sun was brilliant, gentle breezes caressed us, glorious birdsong, you name it.  The water called; the Mouse answered. Down a rocky crag, shoes flung carelessly, splashing; revelling.  Beckoning to my most wonderful friend to join me, the sight was intoxicating.  She waded in, lost in a shell-collecting reverie, we wandered, we smiled.  A while later, I looked up, eyes dazzled by the cloudless blue sky, and told her how happy I was that she was my friend.  She looked at me solemnly, agreed, and told me that we both are rejuvenated by power of the water and that I would miss it terribly, if I went away.  And that tiny little statement changed me irrevocably;  she’s completely bang on; like totes.  I never could live out my life anywhere in which the water and I couldn’t co-exist harmoniously.  A muse would be lost; a connection severed; a life diminished. 

And so, I learned the greatest of lessons yesterday; never say never.  Drink in what speaks to you, savour it, and be at peace and flexible with your dreams; they may change but will take you where you most need to be.