You like to eat

    Other kids have fancier houses

    They go to Disneyland

    They go camping with their dads

You like to eat

    Your mother puts you in dance lessons that Grandma pays for

    You love that for a long while - the costumes, the music, the flowing grace of your arms and growing strength in your legs

    One day you are told you'd be a good teacher and that is repeated throughout your school days until you are in university and finally decide it's not for you

You like to eat and bake cakes and pies with your friends

    Your dad wants to take your good grades, your wit, and your love of reading and turn you into the Great Canadian novelist

You like to eat

    You have children and you cook and bake and cook and bake and cook and bake and cook and bake   

You teach them, too. They all like to eat, a couple of them cook almost better than you

You work in a restaurant. You work in a bakery. 

    The kids leave home

    When it is just you and your husband left you ask each other: 

What would you like to eat?

Demise of a Department Store

I walk into the store and the scent of exotic perfume hits my nostrils. A well dressed woman asks if I would like to try some Obsession by Calvin Klein. I hold out my wrist and she sprays a little of the heady perfume on it. I rub my wrists together and then rub behind my ears. I hold my wrist up to my nose and inhale. Teenage dream realized, I move into the cosmetics section. I gaze at the rainbow of pastel-coloured bottles of Clinique skincare, wishing I could afford some. The back-lit glass shelving is gleaming and row upon row of cosmetics I had only seen in magazines stares back at me. I carry on to the women's clothing. Stylish pieces of high quality clothing dress the mannequins on display. Several mannequins have been dressed and accessorized to represent a family at the beach. There's even sand on the platform they stand on, and a blown up beach ball is held by the little mannequin boy. I have saved up for months to shop for a few items. I won't be buying anything at this place. It's too fancy for the likes of me, but I am enjoying the fantasy afforded by looking and dreaming. I ascend the escalator and head to the housewares for some more window shopping. I stroke the fluffy towels and silky sheets. China and glassware gleam expensively. I recognize a dishware pattern from Architectural Digest, copies of which I have pored over at my friend Molly's house. Furniture is set up invitingly in bedroom, living room, and dining room sets. Everything in the store is carefully placed and is part of a story. The salespeople are friendly and helpful but not intrusive. They pay much more attention to the nicely dressed women who are shopping than to me, for obvious reasons. I am on a high school band trip, and the store is Hudson's Bay Company in downtown Vancouver. 

Fast forward thirty-five years. My husband and I drive to the mall in the nearby, larger city in our valley to shop for the brand of bras and underwear I like. The Bay is the only place I can buy my underwear without shopping online, which I try not to do. I try to support my local businesses as much as I can. I walk into the store. The scent of perfume still hits my nostrils but no one offers to spray my wrists. I don't really mind that, since I don't wear perfume anymore. The main floor of The Bay now has more of a warehouse vibe than a department store vibe. There don't seem to be any stories to the merchandise anymore. Even the areas focused on one brand like Levi's or Anne Klein seem to be less organized and cared for. We go upstairs on the one escalator that is not broken down. The walls of the store need painting, the paint on the trim is chipped and scuffed. Ten thousand dollar sofas are on offer, but they seem very out of place in this current store, incongruous with their fading surroundings. We both wonder aloud how long The Bay can survive without a major reinventing of itself, but instead of making a better store, they put a mini Zellers inside it, which somehow makes the whole place feel like a Zellers - an HBC-owned budget department store that suffered its own demise years before, but still represents some brand of Canadian nostalgia.

When the Bay went public with their financial troubles we were not surprised. Ownership had transferred to a US based private equity firm in 2008. At least one retail expert thought The Bay leaving Canadian ownership was a leading cause of their downfall. Another said if The Bay had become a seller of Canadian only brands, including Indigenous products (a nod towards Reconciliation), the company could have created something really special. Instead, the store carried on with its failing model, and its collapse was only a matter of time. The fact that HBC is shutting down most of their operations during this interesting time in Canada/US relations is not lost on me. 

The other day, after we heard the news that Hudson's Bay was going to be closing most of their stores in Canada, we decided to go back to our nearby store to see if we could get any more sheets for the impossibly deep mattress we had recently bought. We'd had success there before. Ironically, we were greeted this time by a friendly saleswoman in the cosmetics section, although she didn't offer to spray my wrists with perfume. The store was a mess. Stuff was just piled on tables all over the place. Other areas were completely empty. There were no sheets our size, but I did find my brand of undies fifteen percent off, so I bought a pack there for old times' sake. Luckily, our local Canadian-owned store Mark's carries my brand now. 

I wonder what the mall that has been home to The Bay since 1990 will do without their huge anchor store. Maybe like the mall in our city, they will get a Trevor Linden Club16 gym or a grocery chain to take over the space. It really is the end of an era for Canada. I get it, though. Times change and just because a store has been around for 355 years there is no guarantee it will live forever. Some Indigenous people are happy to see The Bay die out. The Bay represents a lot of negative memories of the British colonial determination to dominate their lands and use their people for economic gain. Higher end department stores also seem to be going the way of the dinosaur. They require too much real estate for their current model. Mega stores like Walmart and Superstore which include grocery sections seem to fare much better in Canada. Costco, which includes furniture and appliances in their extensive list of items for sale on the floor, is another winner here. 

I, for one, like a quality department store. I was a loyal patron of our local Sears store before they also ended their presence in Canada's cities. They had great sales and good products. My Kenmore vacuum is still going strong after twenty years. I have to shop around a lot more now. 

I am lucky to own an original, iconic HBC wool striped blanket, the kind created in 1690 for trade with Indigenous peoples for beaver pelts, but I picked it up years ago for three bucks at a thrift shop. The last remaining HBC locations will be six stores in Ontario and Quebec. Perhaps, if the company can be bought back by Canadian investors, it will have a chance to work on becoming the kind of store which modern Canadians will buy into once again. 

Dance Crazy

Last weekend, the 2010 film Black Swan was on TV. I had never seen it, but I knew it was a psychological thriller/horror film. I have never enjoyed horror as a genre, but I have always loved ballet, so decided to give it a try. The real world has plenty enough horrors for this sensitive gal, and up until quite recently in my life, I had trouble separating fiction from reality when it came to watching anything really frightening or gory on a screen. I can now say, "It's just a movie" (with varying levels of success). I lasted through an hour of Black Swan. (I did say 'varying'). I searched up the synopsis, found out there was a lot of dancing at the end, turned the channel to something else, and then tuned back into the film for the last fifteen minutes. You may say 'wimp'. I say 'self care'. That whole scene with the broken glass tipped the scales for me.

The incredibly competitive nature of ballet, the toll on the mind and body, the sometimes boundary-crossing nature of the student/teacher relationship, and the shortness of the career of a prima ballerina were all aspects of the professional world of dance covered in the film. The two stars, Natalie Portman and Mila Kunis said they had no idea how competitive ballet was, and how rigorous the life of a dancer, until they were making the film. Natalie had danced until the age of thirteen, and still had a fairy-tale dream of it all, while Mila had no experience. They both worked with professional teachers and lived on carrots and some kind of lean protein until they were down from their already svelte figures to those of  professional ballet dancers, a loss of twenty pounds each. They both also said the film changed them and their careers forever. Natalie Portman won her first Oscar for her role in Black Swan, and Mila Kunis was taken seriously as a multi-faceted actor from then on.

Black Swan is meant to highlight the perils of perfectionism, as Natalie Portman's character demands nothing less of herself and descends (further) into madness. I couldn't help but think of real-life dancers like Evelyn Hart, the great former prima ballerina of the Royal Winnipeg Ballet. She battled anorexia nervosa throughout her career. She often reached perfection in her dancing, but at what cost I wonder. She also reportedly felt forced out of the RWB on account of her age. She is now teaching and encouraging young dancers. I hope she is a good mentor. 

My mom put me in ballet at age five or six for a year or two, then again at age ten until the fabulous new teacher who said I showed promise moved back to Winnipeg. I took it up again, along with jazz dance, at age sixteen and danced intensively for four years. If I had trained consistently, from age six, my skill would have been much higher, but I still enjoyed my time struggling and striving at the Question of Balance School of Dance. My teacher told us about how her career had been cut short after she was pressured to dance on an injured foot. She was determined not to ruin our bodies, too. We danced in a former schoolhouse with the old cloakroom acting as dressing room and a rural view of the river from the many windows of the main classroom. Our experience was a far cry from the set-in-New York City Black Swan. The other girls were kind and encouraging to me, and we had a lot of fun together. 

I used to lie in bed at night begging God to let me be a dancer. After four years I asked my dance teacher if she thought I had what it took to pursue a career in dance. She suggested a dance-adjacent career like arts journalism or administration. While discouraged, I auditioned for Simon Fraser University's dance program anyway. I remember the audition process being pretty standard if all the dance movies I had watched were anything to go on. I was fairly proud of myself for keeping up to the other dancers and giving it my best effort, even after overhearing a couple of boys backstage rating all of the girls' bodies - I was used to that, too, although it made me angry. I did not make it in to the main program. They sat a group of us down and said we should take a year of dance classes in the department, along with other general first year courses, and reapply the next year. I was crushed, and believed the writing was on the wall. I decided not to attend SFU and went to UBC instead to study English and Humanities with a view to becoming a teacher. All my life people had told me I would make a good teacher. Only my mother had really encouraged me to seek a life in the world of dance. If not for her I never would have tried.

I do think you have to be physically and mentally tough to embark on a career in dance. Black Swan is an extreme example of that world, but the competitiveness and the toll on the body are real. Young girls romanticize careers like ballet and modeling, but they can be brutal for women because they are such demanding and relentless ways of being. Something the current generations are good at is questioning and demanding answers for why the generations before them accepted certain attitudes. My generation grew up with hustle culture, 'no pain, no gain', diet culture, and body negativity, and I know the current generations are pushing back against these social norms. I hope that increasingly, dancers, models, and actors don't have to nearly kill themselves, or shove aside their ethics, for the sake of their craft.

 I still enjoy ripping it up on the dance floor. Once in a while, someone will come up to me and say, "I love watching you dance!" and that's such a good feeling. Some things we can do simply for the joy of it.  

'til next time, 

Rebecca

An Engaging Topic

My husband and I were living it up in Vancouver, celebrating our wedding anniversary. We had spent the night at a guest house after indulging in a grand meal at the sort of restaurant people like us only go to once in a blue moon, and decided, for nostalgic reasons, to go for brunch at Sophie's Cosmic Cafe, a Vancouver institution, before heading home. Sophie's is chock-a-block with vintage chachkies and brightly coloured walls, and serves old-school breakfasts. V ordered an egg and sausage platter, and I ordered the French toast. We drank coffee (my half decaf Americano was actually kind of awful, but I didn't complain because the food was so good) and tucked into our meals. 

Like many restaurants, Sophie's had music playing at a good volume through the speakers. I noticed as we ate, that the playlist was vintage, like the restaurant and its contents (and some of its patrons). I hummed along to the tunes while V and I enjoyed our brunch experience, my mom's voice in my head saying "No singing at the table" silenced. A song came on that I had loved as a kid, "Don't Bring me Down" by ELO (Electric Light Orchestra). I had finished my breakfast and was sipping my bad coffee, alternating with ice water, and started singing along quietly. Suddenly, I heard a voice in the booth behind me, also singing along quietly. We both noticed each other singing at the same time and turned around to see to whom the other voice belonged. The chorus came up and we sang to each other, just a little louder,  

                    Don't bring me down

                    No, no, no, no, no

                    Ooh-ooh-hoo

                    I'll tell you once more before I get off the floor

                    Don't bring me down

People near us started staring. We didn't care. We sang the whole song together. Songs you knew when you were young tend to stay locked in your brain forever. I remembered most of the lyrics, even singing 'Don't bring me down BRUCE' instead of 'groos' as it's supposed to be, because I had never learnt the original version of the line. When the song was over we shook hands and introduced ourselves. Turns out the man I was singing with was celebrating his seventieth birthday, and sharing brunch with some good friends who had flown in for the occasion from Winnipeg. We all chatted for a bit in a jovial manner befitting a birthday celebration, and the man thanked me for singing with him - said I had made his day. He invited us to his birthday party (I'm not sure he really meant it), but we said we had to be going home.  

The experience I had at Sophie's brought to the fore some thoughts I have had lately, about how people these days engage (or don't) with the world. I grew up in a boisterous family in a small town where we knew almost everyone. Most of my siblings will still talk to anyone, anywhere. I am a bit more reserved than some of my family, but in the right moment and mood I can have great interpersonal exchanges with strangers. People often talk about how unfriendly Vancouverites are, but I have found that you often get what you give. My experience at Sophie's is a perfect example. Sure, I don't do impromptu karaoke in restaurants on a regular basis, but I tend to have friendly exchanges with people more often than not if I begin the exchange by being open and friendly towards them. I have to say, this happens more often with people who are my age or older. The pre-cellphone generations are much more used to greeting each other and initiating conversation. I find, even in my own mid-sized home city, that young people rarely make eye contact with me if I am walking down the street. It's like they are trained not to. When I do get a greeting or a smile I am pleasantly surprised. I do not want to harp on the younger generations. It's not their fault. They are a product of the society they grew up in. But, I do want to encourage them to engage more outside of their social bubble. As you get older life can often get decidedly lonelier. We are more isolated than ever before. If you don't believe me, Google the subject. There are a thousand articles proving my claim and warning of the dangers prolonged social isolation can wreak on one's mental health. 

There is a passage in a book I am reading by Ann Cleeves, the great mystery novelist, that reads: 

"When Jen got home, the kids were holed up in their rooms again. They answered when she shouted up at them, but they didn't come down. There was evidence that they'd scavenged for food. She thought that prison wouldn't be any sort of deterrent for this generation, as long as they were allowed cell phones and internet access in their cells." 

Makes you think, doesn't it? God, I hope it does.

I also have to work on reaching out more. After going through burnout a few years ago, I isolated myself to a great degree, just to get some rest. I had been an incredibly social person who tended to attract similar friends. When I think back to my 30's and 40's I was rarely alone. Now I am alone a lot of the time. I don't generally mind because I have learned to like my own company and a quieter life than before, but I know I need companionship so I make the effort to engage when I am out and about. I greet people, especially elderly people, I make small talk with sales people and servers, and I compliment young parents on their cute children if they'll let me. While I hope I am brightening their day, I am the one who benefits most. And, if I can 'make someone's day' like the man in Sophie's Cosmic Cafe, then I get an extra-big boost of serotonin. Engaging is good for me, and I will argue that it is good for you, too. 

https://youtu.be/z9nkzaOPP6g?si=K2URmgx1QohGifRE

                   

'Til next time, 

Rebecca

Material Girl

Until my eldest sister moved out I shared a room with my brother. We were kids number five (him) and six (me) in the family. As we lay in our bunk beds we would play a little game. We called it, "What would you rather have?" The game went something like this: 

"What would you rather have? A million dollars or all the cars you wanted for the rest of your life?" My brother was really into cars.

or: 

"What would you rather have? A big house or a lifetime supply of chips and dip?" Or toys, or banana splits, or whatever highly desired, yet rarely enjoyed, item we could dream up.

We would then discuss our options and give reasons for both choices. I can't remember what conclusions either of us made, but I remember how seriously we took the game. I remember my brother saying his dream was to have a nice big house when he grew up, with a rec room with a big TV where all his friends and his kids' friends could gather, and he would supply them with all the chips and dip they desired. I was only ten and my dreams for the future were hazy, and not quite so specific. I just knew I wanted more than we had. We went to an independent Catholic school, the only 'private' school in our town, and many of our schoolmates came from middle to upper class families who wanted their children in a private school, Catholic or not. So, most of my classmates had much more in the way of material goods than I had. I remember getting into some light trouble lying in Show and Tell. I told the class my mom had brought me a rabbit from California. My mom found out about the lie when my Grade Two teacher phoned her and asked if I could bring the rabbit to school. "Why did you tell them that?" my mom asked. I told her I was sick of everyone else having fancy and exciting things to bring to Show and Tell. My mom had not yet been to California, let alone gifted me a rabbit. 

Even if ours was not a rich, or even middle class family, we were a creative and lively one, and we all had dreams. My dream when I was a kid was to, one Christmas, be given an Easy-Bake Oven. I thought anything I saw in Saturday morning cartoon ads as otherworldly, highly desirable, and mostly unattainable, but I pined for an Easy-Bake Oven against all odds for at least two years. I don't remember making Christmas lists, I just hoped if I wished hard enough, and circled it in the Sears Christmas Wish catalogue, I would get one. I never did get one, but my closest friend got one. When I finally got to play with it with her, we baked a cake from a mix that came with it, and I suppose that was kind of exciting. That was probably also when my dream for an Easy-Bake Oven ended. Life is like that sometimes. 

From Easy-Bake Ovens I moved on to dreaming about clothes and fancy bedroom sets. I remember a black velvet outfit in the Sears catalogue that I would quite literally dream about. I didn't get that either, but my mom was very understanding about clothes and took me shopping at the start of each school year, so I could have at least one outfit that was not a hand-me-down. I dreamed of a canopy bed - the Holly Hobby one - also in the Sears catalogue. One day when I was invited to another school friend's house her grandad said he had a surprise. He had bought her a complete white bedroom set from Sears, with matching linens, just like in the catalogue. I think I was too gobsmacked to be envious. I did, however, come home from her house once and began to list in great detail, all the Barbies and Barbie stuff she had. After about ten minutes of this, my mother rolled her eyes and asked me to please stop.  

When my granny died we inherited a lot of lovely stuff that she had owned. I remember well the day when the truck arrived. I came directly home from school to help my mom unpack the many boxes of crystal glasses, dishes, and furnishings. Needless to say, I was enthralled. What extra money my parents had they spent on paintings by local artists, books, and records, not pretty dishes and rose coloured sofas. I had been once to my Granny's home in Delta. It was very elegant, very colour-coordinated. I was proud that my family now had lots of pretty things in our old house.

In the Eighties, at the height of Yuppie-dom, I began to dream of a lifestyle such as I saw on TV and in the movies I went to. The clothes! The houses and apartments! The art and decor! The antiques! Let's face it, I loved stuff. I didn't exactly have the income of a Yuppie, but I was good at faking my appearance as one from my years of haunting thrift shops for vintage clothing. I was developing a great interest and passion for art and pledged to buy one piece of art per year. As a teen making my own money, I also spent it on clothes and makeup. The wall by my bed was a collage of fashion photos cut out of magazines. After I moved away from home to go to university, I had a lot less disposable income, but I continued to hunt for designer clothes in the many consignment stores in Vancouver.  After I got married and had small children, I had even less money to spend on myself, so my collecting was streamlined to whatever vintage dishes and objects I could find at garage sales and thrift stores. I would give myself a strict budget and only buy what I really liked. My desire to be a Yuppie was outstripped by real life.

Now that I am an empty nester, I have more disposable income than I have ever had, and can pretty much buy what I like, within reason. The thing is, I no longer want to accumulate stuff. I still buy a piece of art now and then, and I love to buy gifts for other people, but my desire for stuff seems to have mostly run its course. I want different things from life now, and they aren't material things. My dreams now run to seeing my children happy and having good relationships with them, and to being able to travel to visit family and friends. I care a great deal about my health and my husband's health, and our quality of life. I like to explore new places, even ones that are near home. I do buy books, yes, that is an indulgence that seems necessary to my happiness. And just a few weeks ago I bought a pretty vintage china teapot at the closing out sale of an antique store. I just could not resist. Old habits die hard, I guess.

Did my brother get his big house and his endless chips and dip? He got a sweet, mid-century house of modest proportions in Calgary. He has three great, grown-up kids and hosts many dinner parties. I don't know about the chips and dip, but last I looked in his fridge he had five kinds of fancy cheese. That must be the adult equivalent. 

Until next time, 

Rebecca

Where does Individuality End and Community Begin?

 As I get older and join the melting pot of somewhat invisible middle aged women, I think a lot about the concept of individuality. When I was younger I strived to stand out in the crowd. I dressed differently than most of my peers (I favoured a button down shirt and slim leather neck tie for example), and I listened to the alternative music of my generation. I didn't want anyone to put me in a box with a label. That would have been the end of the world in my view back then. Being the youngest of six may have had something to do with that. I was greeted at the beginning of the school year by teachers who said things like: "Not another Lamb kid", or  "are you as good at math as your brother, Stephen?" Ha. No. But pretty good at English Literature, for which I received an award in Grade 12. I had a great group of friends and got along with most people in my school, probably also a result of being the youngest of six widely varying personalities. 

My mother used to say, "Sometimes you just have to join the Human Race." I think she meant that sometimes we had to do things in a normal, accepted way. I struggled with that over the years. While considering myself somewhat of a rebel, I also wanted elderly ladies to like me, and I had a secret passion for ballet and all things Victorian/Edwardian. I was also desperate for my family to be proud of me. As the youngest I had received the teasing label by my siblings as 'spoiled baby' and I wanted to live that down. I worked hard in college and was accepted to all three of the big universities in British Columbia, my home province. I ended up going to the University of British Columbia, mainly because my parents had gone there and spoke so fondly of their time there, but also due to the fact that my sister and her husband lived in Vancouver and I could board with them. First Year mandatory housing at university was not a thing in the late 1980's and it was hard to get a place in the dorms. UBC was an eye-opening experience for me. My first day on campus I looked out on a sea of black leather jackets. The alternative uniform was Roots sweatpants, chunky wool sweaters, and wool socks with Birkenstock sandals. Both looks said 'money', and coming from a large, poor family, I fit neither. For the first time in my life I felt awkward in my individuality. A couple of professors complimented me on my look, but that was hardly satisfying to me. Clothing was not the only way I felt like a fish out of water at UBC. I was a small town girl, used to knowing everyone and feeling free to go everywhere. I felt lost. I did find a home in the arts lounge and began to make friends there through conversation with people with whom I shared classes, but I didn't socialize with them much outside of school. I was afraid to take the bus from my home in East Vancouver to meet them anywhere at night. Small town girl problems.

After I was done with post-secondary education, I got married. I soon joined the ranks of wife and mother and dressed a lot like other wives and moms: comfortably. Energy and money spent on expressions of individuality took a back seat to the daily grind of parenting, and I loved it. I felt free from trying to find my 'self'. I had a built-in purpose each and every day. Raising kids and being a team with my husband was the best part of my life so far. I made friends with other moms and felt a real sense of belonging.  As my kids grew older I was able to work and volunteer, and there also, I found my purpose as an individual outside my family. To my surprise, my purpose seemed to be about being part of, and giving my time and my heart to, a community, whether that be the local arts council or festival society, other families through providing day care at my home, or helping out at my church. Life was so, so busy, but it was good.

After twenty-eight years of raising children, suddenly, they were gone finding their own lives outside our family. Like so many other mothers I really struggled with finding my purpose beyond those twenty-eight years. My kids are, by and large, very independent people, so I suppose we did our job well enough. After all those years of living in the ultimate community (my family) I found myself having to, well, find my 'self'' once again. Over the past couple of years I have spent much time alone, most of it recovering from a head injury. While I enjoy my own company in general, I don't believe the solitary life is the life for me. Ironically, while spending so much of my youth trying to be an individual, what I really desire is community. Back then, I realize now, I was secure in my quest for individuality because I had a community.  

I think, as a human race, we all crave a sense of belonging, no matter how much we want to be known for our uniqueness. Finding community can be hard work and involve much trial and error, and there have been a few dead ends on my journey. I also spend my time going back and forth between the mountain resort where my husband works and lives most of the time, and our home (and my seasonal work) in a medium sized city an hour and a half's drive away, so committing to a community is a challenge. I am fortunate to have little pockets of community in my extended family, the friendships I have made in the various places I have lived over the years, and within the work environments I have been a part of. That being said, I am still looking for something bigger, wider, and more encompassing. Will I ever get it? That remains to be seen. In the meantime, I will continue to put my heart and time into my little pockets of community in hopes that one of them grows into something more full. 

Until next time, 

Rebecca

Swimming Lessons

My mother was a strong swimmer. She had been a lifeguard when she was a teenager and insisted all her children take swimming lessons, especially since we lived in a town with a lake at its center.

I was the youngest of her children and a disappointment when it came to swimming lessons. I never passed a single session because I could neither float nor swim on my back. But, I could swim well enough to enjoy the refreshing water in our local outdoor pools and lakes in summer, and not drown. The swimming instructors kept putting me in the next levels simply because I was too old to swim with the little kids.

When I was in Grade Five, our town built an indoor swimming pool with a gym, sauna, and hot tub. The Nelson and District Aquatic Center soon became a major hang out spot for my friends and I. Two of my friends even went on to win gold in the Provincial Synchronized Swimming championships. Alas, not I. My skills never extended past the basics, but I did learn to love swimming for swimming’s sake.

Grade Seven was an awkward and trying year for me. I retreated to the aquatic center regularly for some ‘swim therapy’. I had at last learnt by then to swim on my back and I backstroked my way up and down the swimming lanes, counting ceiling tiles as I went. I knew how many tiles meant it was time to turn over and watch for the edge of the pool. I would swim, forty, fifty lengths on a Saturday afternoon, alternating between the breaststroke and backstroke, not fast, just smoothly, achieving a zen-like headspace that made my twelve-year-old troubles melt like lifesavers on the tongue.

I still enjoy a dip in the lake or pool these days, but I achieve my zen-like desired state through running. Again, not fast, but smoothly gaining ground with my rhythmic plodding. I often look back on my lane swimming days with fondness and empathy for my twelve year old self. I didn’t recognize those days as therapy at the time, but I now know how to name and describe the mental and physical health benefits of exercise.

 As the little fish Dory from the Disney film, Finding Nemo says, “Just keep swimming!” whether you take that literally or metaphorically.

'til next time, 

Rebecca

Let's Talk about TV

I am the youngest of six children. My mother was, no doubt, a little weary by the time I came along. I remember that even though our family's TV received only two channels, CBC and CTV, I watched quite a bit of both channels. When I was small, nearly every morning I was not in school I spent on the living room sofa being gently entertained by Mr. Dressup, The Friendly Giant, and Sesame Street. Halfway through Sesame Street, one of our metal TV trays would be set up and my mother would deliver me lunch, usually a grilled cheese sandwich with a side of ketchup. Sometimes a bowl of soup, too. Lunch would be followed by quiet time on my bed with a book. I presume I was sent outside to play after that, because I remember being outside a lot, too. On school days I would often watch Happy Days with my elder siblings. Sunday evenings we all watched The Magical World of Disney and The Beachcombers. The Irish Rovers also, but I can't remember which night they were on.

 In the days before home video a movie might be shown on TV about three years after its release, and always with commercials. On the commercial breaks my mom would call out, "Okay, go get your pyjamas on!" and we would race to be back before the movie or TV show resumed. On the next break she would say, "Go brush your teeth and wash your face!" In summer, she would add "Go wash your feet!". The stakes were high during Primetime, especially with only one bathroom in the house. Every show not a rerun was like a live performance. None of your 'pauses' and 'plays' of today's streaming services and PVRs. My parents were big fans of The Smothers Brothers and Wayne and Shuster, but the humour often flew over my head. I tried so hard to get the jokes, and laughed along as if I did. We weren't allowed to watch soap operas in our house, but when I was sick and nothing was on, I was allowed to watch Coronation Street. It bored me to tears. I'm sure my mom knew it would, and that I would eventually turn it off and read. I remember her often reading while we watched TV, but like most moms she could keep an eye on everything even when she was reading. She was super critical of advertising and marketing. She would argue out loud against the claims of toothpaste and cigarette commercials, trying to detox our sponge-like little minds from the poisons of capitalism. I can still hear her voice even now when I encounter a commercial which makes elaborate claims over a product's efficacy or promotes the 'luxury lifestyle'.

I slept over at my friend Antonia's house nearly every Friday night when we were preteens. Her family had cable and thus Saturday morning cartoons. Wonderfriends and Scooby-Doo were my favourites. As I transitioned into the teenage years and started babysitting I took advantage of the bounty of Cable TV. Once the kids were in bed and my homework done, I sat glued to Knight Rider, Magnum PI, Rockford Files, and the 'must see TV' of NBC: The Cosby Show (I know, I know), Family Ties, and Fresh Prince of Belair were among my favourites. Some time when I was in high school reruns of those three sitcoms made their way over to CTV. When I didn't have extra-curricular activities after school, or planned hangouts with my friends, I would come home, make a big bowl of popcorn and unwind in front of our little black and white portable.

As VHS's became common my friends and I discovered Monty Python and movie nights which involved a trip to the video store and the choosing of one to three films to rent for the evening (but this is a post about television, not movies, so I will stick to that topic). My newly acquired brother-in-law introduced my family to some great British comedy shows on video, too, like Blackadder and Mr. Bean. As I developed academically I became interested in news stories. I followed Terry Fox and Rick Hansen, Election nights, and the Calgary Olympics, feeling a part of something great in my own country. Growing up in a small town nowhere near a big city, TV for me was a link to the big possibilities of life. I became a devotee of music shows like VideoHits and Good Rockin' Tonight 'with Terry David Mulligan' (That rolls off the tongue, doesn't it?), and the National Ballet's performances filmed for CBC.

When I was in college and still living at home, CBC borrowed a mystery series from the BBC called Inspector Morse. My parents soon became hooked on it. Up until that point my experience with murder mysteries was limited to plays like Agatha Christie's The Mousetrap, which I absolutely loved, and some exposure to Sherlock Holmes stories. Inspector Morse was something new and different, each episode one and a half hours of puzzle solving poised against a backdrop of beautiful English countryside and the hallowed halls of Oxford University, accompanied by a gorgeous classical music soundtrack. Needless to say, I joined my parents for most episodes of the show and I have been a fan of the murder mystery genre ever since, although, in my opinion, Inspector Morse has not really stood the test of time. 

When I moved out, got married and had children of my own, watching TV was the main activity my brain-dead self engaged in once the kids were in bed. I loved shows chock-a-block with quirky characters and clever, snappy dialogue like Northern Exposure and Gilmore Girls. Period Dramas such as Jane Austen adaptations were also high on my list. As the kids got older we watched TV as a family, but please don't ask me for a detailed list of what we watched. That part of my life is a blur. America's Funniest Home Videos and Saturday Night Live were in there somewhere. My eldest horse-crazy daughter and I watched Heartland for a couple of seasons. We also rented a lot of movies and borrowed videos from our local library.

In the modern world of streaming services we have way too much choice of shows to watch on our televisions. My household has basic cable, Netflix, and Amazon Prime with Acorn added on. I could spend twenty-four hours per day watching TV and still not even put a tiny dent in all that is on offer - a far cry from my two-channel childhood. I probably still watch a bit too much TV, but honestly, I find it as I have always found it: relaxing and often transporting. When my husband is home he enjoys watching sports and 'surviving in the wilderness' shows like Mountain Men and Alone, which is generally when I read a book. He also likes mysteries a lot, so we watch those together when we can. Our neutral ground on days when we are tired, or when the weather is bad, is HGTV and the like. Boring, yet satisfying, predictable yet somehow addictive, renovation and house-hunting shows are the ultimate 'Veg TV'. (So are Hallmark movies, but that's a topic for another day.) 

I have always read a lot - my mother was a champion of reading - but I was, and always will be, like many of my Generation X, a TV kid, even if I never once set eyes on Captain Kangaroo.

The Jimmy Type

When I was eight years old I had a great friend named Jimmy. Jimmy lived around the corner and his grandparents lived across the alley from me. Jimmy's grandparents had a swimming pool in their backyard and I was sometimes invited to swim in it with Jimmy and any of his cousins who happened to be around. One hot summer day, Jimmy and I were playing beside the pool. His four year old cousin was with us, but she was in the pool. Suddenly, she started flailing her arms and couldn't get her head above the water. She must have moved to the deeper part of the pool which was four feet deep. I stood rooted to the ground, like a deer in the headlights. I could see Jimmy's cousin was drowning, but I couldn't seem to act. Jimmy jumped into the water straight away and saved her. I have never forgotten how impressed I was with Jimmy. I also could not understand my own behavior.

The fact is, the world is full of people like Jimmy who jump in with both feet during a crisis, and thank God they do. This week in British Columbia, during historic rainfall and the subsequent flooding of countless farms and homes, landslides, and washouts of important transportation corridors, we have so many examples of people acting immediately in response to the catastrophe around them: first responders, pilots, health care professionals, police officers, truck drivers, and members of the general public who have the 'right stuff' and know innately how to make themselves useful right off the bat. My hat goes off to all of them. They are worth their weight in gold in a crisis.

Of course, when I had children my reactive reflexes developed and I saved my own kids from some near misses and trucked them off to the emergency room when needed. Something primal takes over one's natural tendencies when one is responsible for tiny humans. Still, in the face of large scale disasters I am still somewhat slow to fully respond. My mind seems to employ a slow processor when it comes to this type of crisis. If someone else (like my husband, a Jimmy type) directs me I can act - sometimes I'm even effectual - but left to my own devices, I'm afraid I lack the necessary DNA to take charge. I was once the passenger in a terrifying car accident from which I walked away miraculously unharmed. My response to the shock? I went home and fell asleep on the couch. I'm much better at crises for which concentrated thought processes are involved, like if one of my children is going through a hard time and needs advice, or a friend needs a listening ear and a measured response. That sort of thing.

We all have different gifts, although we can be pretty hard on ourselves when we find our particular gifts not terribly useful at a given time, myself included. I want to be helpful to my flood-damaged neighbours. It just might take me some time to figure out what that help will look like. (I've also been trapped between mudslides for a week and a half, and my role during this stage has been one of keeping myself calm and lending moral support to those around me.) 

In the meantime, my appreciation for all you Jimmy types out there is currently at an all-time high. Keep on jumping in with both feet. You are so needed. 

Saying Goodbye to Mom

When I was a young child my biggest fear was that my mother would die. I had an overly active imagination and sometimes thoughts of the possibility that she would leave me forever would make me cry. I remember at least one occasion in which my mom came to my bedside to calm my fears and let me know how silly I was for entertaining such thoughts. In my defense, I didn't invite this particular fear to take up residence, it simply came unbidden. 

On October 20th, my mother did die. I was 52 and she was 83. Her dying had become less of a fear and more of a sad inevitability. She had lived with vascular dementia for four years, and had grown increasingly fragile over the past year. Early in October she had taken a fall and broken her hip. She underwent surgery, which was successful, but after a couple of weeks of being in hospital, a blood clot developed in her lung. A day later her caregiver sent word that Mom was dying. My husband and I rushed to be with my sister at Mom's bedside. My eldest sister came the next day. Mom was never left alone those last three days of her life. We sang to her, her grandsons called and sang to her over the phone, and in Mom's last moments, we sang the hymn of St. Francis, 'Make me a Channel of your Peace' with our brother leading over the phone from Calgary. I sang with tears streaming down my face and snot dripping from my nose as I held her face in my hands. And then she was gone. I cannot describe it aptly. She was just...gone. 

My mother was the sunshine in our family home. She radiated kindness and calm and burned brightly with intelligence. There was nothing saccharine about her. She loved a good story and a groan-worthy pun. She loved her six children to the best of her ability and as equally as she could, even though I tease my brother Steve that he was her favourite. She loved having company and made everyone feel welcome in our home. We often had extra people at the table for Christmas dinner. She loved Clint Eastwood. We even had a poster of The Outlaw Josey Wales hanging on the door of our bathroom. She stayed up very, very late reading. She read War and Peace every year (I haven't read it once). Mom loved to go out for cheesecake, but the rule was we had to hike up and down the steep hills of town for an hour and a half to earn a slice.

Mom was also the sunshine for a lot of people in the community we lived in. At the funeral reception many people said to me: "If it weren't for your mother I never would have..." My hometown newspaper printed a cover story about her contributions as an historian and supporter of artists. She would have been honoured. Her work was incredibly important to her. I felt so proud to be her daughter. 

This morning, a week after we returned home, I was hit with a wave of grief. I recalled how, during an hour on Mom's last day when we were alone together in her palliative care room, I had talked to her about the walks we used to take together. I thanked her for teaching me to love art and literature. I sang her 'You are My Sunshine'. 

Mom, you have left me, but that's okay. Your sunshine will always be with me. I know that now.

Sears: The End of an Era

Recently, my coworkers and I were discussing the impact of the demise of Sears Canada when one of them said, "That means no more Wish Book, I guess." A sudden rush of memories hit me. Sears was not only the place where I had, for the past several years, purchased my socks and underwear, it was the stuff of childhood dreams as well. How my brother and I pored over those Christmas Wish Book catalogues, marking the things we wanted and discussing them in detail! Kids all over the country did the same with their own treasured copies of that Wish Book every year. The Wish Book was tradition with a capital T. From the gaudy fruit cakes to the plush monogrammed bath robes, the annual Holiday Barbie to the wood burning kits, gift ideas pored forth from the pages and filled our young heads with 'visions of sugarplums' throughout the dark days of November and December.

If I remember correctly Sears came out with a new catalogue every season. Or maybe there were only two per year plus the Wish Book. Whatever the case, while the Spring and Summer catalogues were not nearly as fun as the Wish Book I still went through them page by page (We only had two television channels at our house). I longed for a white canopy bed with Holly Hobby bedspread and accessories until I was in my teens. Many nights I lay awake wishing hard for the sudden appearance in my closet of a certain black velveteen outfit complete with trousers, button up vest, jacket and skirt. How smart I would look at school, I thought. I replaced all my parents' mismatched living room furniture with turquoise French Provincial sofas and Lazy-boy recliners - in my imagination, at least. The Sears catalogue represented a lifestyle quite foreign to me, where parents bought their children huge Barbie houses and Bugs Bunny bedroom curtains. The minimal exposure I had to daytime soap operas convinced me their characters shopped at Sears. Their living rooms were always perfectly clean, serene and decorated like in the catalogues.

Sears, in my hometown, and many towns like it, was not a brick and mortar store. It was a small counter, if memory serves, at the local Greyhound bus depot, where mail orders were given and picked up after a long awaited phone call. The only other department-type store in our town at the time was Woolworth's, so Sears offered many things we could not shop for in person. My parents ordered their trusty Kenmore appliances with excellent extended warranties from Sears. My older sisters were always ordering new clothes from the latest Sears catalogue, and often, due to them not fitting properly, sending them back. I suppose one could say the Sears catalogue and other catalogues like them were the precursor to today's online shopping, which is ironic since online shopping is being blamed for the demise of Sears. The entire retail landscape is going through a major shift, and I do not think we can blame only one thing for that major shift. Sure, online shopping is often a great source for a better value - my daughter's Otter Box for her iphone purchased recently for half the price of the one available at our local Best Buy, for example. I think globalization, saturated retail markets (and their by-product - discount outlets such as Winners and HomeSense), and brand loyalty are also factors. Here's an example: I like Jockey underwear. They are 100% cotton, well made, and oh, so comfortable. With our city's brick and mortar Sears closing I know of no other place in my city that sells them. I will have a good look in the possible shops, but if I cannot find my Jockeys, I know I will look online. I know my size, my preferred style and price, so purchasing would be easy. Would I buy shoes or other clothing online? Rarely, if never. I have to try them on, and if possible I like to support my local businesses.

I am sad Sears Canada is closing. I shopped there often. They had great sales, good products, and friendly staff. Unfortunately, despite their monumental efforts at rebranding and revamping, they cannot carry on. Like Eatons they are going the way of the dinosaur, taking their beloved Wish Book with them.  I am sorry for their thousands of employees across the country. Where will they go? Sears hired many older people and now their pensions are evaporating along with everything else. The world does not feel like a very merciful place today. Progress, as usual, leaves many casualties in its wake.

For more information on the history of Sears Canada, have a look at this article, which, by the way, I read after I wrote this post.

The last Canadian Sears Wish Book - the end of an era

Where the Heart is

This past eight months my life, and the lives of my husband and youngest daughter, has turned a full 360, then a 180, managed a few cartwheels and even a couple of back handsprings. The changes have mainly been good, and now we are adding a new home to the mix. We take possession June 23rd, and we are counting the days while we box up our belongings. I am an anxious home buyer. The regulations for borrowing money were tightened by the Federal government last fall and the number of documents required has been a bit staggering, but what can you do? You sigh and go back to the bank one more time; they are getting to know us there. I know I won't quite relax until we are actually moving in because I have been swinging from fear of the ball dropping and everything falling apart to elation at each little victory along the way. I felt elation once again this week when I realized we'd done it: we had managed to find a place we liked a lot in an extremely competitive market, for a price we could afford - as well as make a decision in about an hour, which is what had to happen - no small feat and with many thanks to our real estate agent. I also credit my husband for keeping me from completely freaking out at times. He keeps telling me to 'trust the process', which honestly can be difficult for someone who likes her ducks in a neat, disciplined row, doing what they're told.

The other morning, I woke up too early. I could not go back to sleep - always so much to think about, and try not to stress out about, these days - so I got up by six. I went through my usual morning routine - a giant mug of coffee, some reading, some perusing of Facebook. I came across a post by the son of a childhood neighbour of mine, announcing the passing of his dad. Now, I knew this news was coming. Matt had cancer and was in the late stages of his disease, but 'where there is life, there is hope,' right? Death, on the other hand, is final and never comes without some level of shock. I quickly wrote a first reaction comment. I then posted a simple message of love for Matt and for his whole family on my own wall. I sent a message to Matt's sister, Molly, my friend since we were ten when her family moved into the house next door to ours, and to a mutual childhood friend. I wanted to keep writing messages, but I made myself turn off my phone and do some necessary tasks such as prepare supper for my daughter and me since I would be working a later shift that day. I had planned to spend some time writing as well, but now I was unsure I could accomplish anything. The news of Matt's death hit me like a cold wave. I had not seen Matt in a long time. We had not been in contact until last year sometime when he sent me a friend request on Facebook. I was honoured by that gesture because Molly had written to me some time before and told me about her brother's devastating diagnosis. To be included in his circle of love and friendship humbled me because I was not sure I deserved to part of it. I kept an active eye on his page and watched for signs of changes in his condition. What struck me the most was the ongoing, outpouring of affection from his friends, his son and his family. Molly regularly posted about her frequent visits to our hometown to spend time with him and with other family members, as much time as humanly possible. Through her posts I learned more about Matt and his unbridled enthusiasm for life. I learned he had grown up from the quiet, unassuming boy I had known as my vivacious friend's sweet little brother into a shining beacon of light in the lives of his many friends and acquaintances. His life, though shortened by cancer, was lived to the fullest and with a generous heart wide open to the world. How many of us can claim a similar value on this planet?

Matt's exit from this world brought into sharp focus the important things in life. Material victories like buying a new home or vehicle are well and good. Often we need those things to progress, to be safe and comfortable in life, but by themselves they can never be enough to satisfy the needs of our hearts and souls. Perhaps something to temper their shiny glow is also well and good. We need constant reminders of the more important values of human connection, of spiritual connection, and of the work we need to do daily to keep on building the world around us into a more beautiful, joyful, and kind place to inhabit. As writer Anne Lamott says, "We are all just walking each other home."

Rest well, Matthew, and thank you for making this world a better place. This song has been playing in my head since you left us.

Neighbourhood Games

I was reading a post by one of my very favourite blogger friends, Lucille over at Useful or Beautiful, when I was struck with an idea for a little post of my own. She was writing about all the shoes she wore when she was a child growing up in England. She mentioned a pair of fabric party shoes that became worn out in one wearing due to the energetic nature of the party games: Squeak Piggy Squeak, Blind Man's Bluff, Oranges and Lemons, Musical Chairs and Musical Statues. I am old enough, and Anglified enough, to be familiar with a couple of the games she mentions playing in childhood. I am not going to write about my girlhood shoes, which, besides one pair of super-trendy white canvas Nike runners with the blue swoosh and my first pair of platform sandals, were unremarkable. I am going to write about the games we played in my neighbourhood because, friends, those were some very good times.

My neighbourhood on Silica Street was a lot like many other neighbourhoods in the world at that time in the century, I am sure; it was full of families. On a good night we could have fifteen kids playing outside after supper. The only reason to stay inside on a non-rainy night was a case of the flu or too much homework. The other kids we played with on those nights did not have to be necessarily approved of/interviewed by our parents. We did not even have to like each other all that much. The games we played demanded numbers to be successful and fun, and numbers we could provide simply by showing up. The sheer joy and enthusiasm we had for the games was generally enough to carry us through any personal conflicts with other kids.

In summer we played Hide and Seek or Sardines. In Hide and Seek, boundaries for hiding were agreed upon and one person who was 'it' counted to fifty before beginning to seek for the rest of us. The boundaries included anywhere within our block, including the alley. In Sardines, only one person hid somewhere within the boundaries and everyone else separated to look for them after counting to fifty. The hiding spot had to be large enough to accommodate each 'finder' who would join the 'hider' once he/she was found. We would be packed into the hiding space like sardines in a can, trying not to make any noise whatsoever, and the last person to find the 'hider' was 'it'. We also played a game called War, which involved painting a chalk circle on the street and planning various manouvers to take over portions of the circle. When fewer of us were available to play we relied upon Four Square, Hop Scotch and various skipping games. On summer days we played in the shady public wooded area on the north side of our street. We built treeforts which were taken down by the city only to be rebuilt by us at the first opportunity. During the fall we collected glossy brown horse chestnuts from the same wooded area and kept them in paper bags. Someone among us convinced her dad to drill holes in her chestnuts so she could make a necklace, but other than that, chestnuts were greatly averse to being made into things. We often threw them at each other instead, used them for made-up games, or when some of us were really bad, we threw them at passing cars from up in the canopy of the trees that overhung the street.

In winter, when the snow fell fast and deep the city closed Cedar Street, which was so steep drivers had to put their cars in the lowest gear to make the descent. Then, word would spread quickly and we would all jump into our snowsuits, boots, mittens and touques, grab our Crazy Carpets and go. Cedar Street was long and if we did not bail off our Crazy Carpets after the first long block we would have to climb up an extra-long way. By the end of the night, discarded, snow encrusted mittens and touques littered the sides of the street while we, red cheeked, hot and sweaty, climbed up the hill to race back down once more before we were called in by our parents to get ready for bed. When we got older we went further afield for tobogganing. Queen Elizabeth Park and Trafalgar Junior High had grassy slopes on which to sail down into the sports fields. The golf course way up at the top of town provided perfect tubing - people, including my elder teenaged siblings, drove up there with inner tubes and made wide tracks on the rolling slopes that seemed to go on for miles in the moonlight.

While my own children enjoyed playing outside daily with other children when they were small and we lived in a small resort community with other like-minded families, it took a little while before they found children to play with in our own neighbourhood in the town we currently live in. While we did see children riding bikes around our neighbourhood and were heartened when we saw groups playing road hockey or basketball in the park up the street, we could not help but wonder why our neighbourhood was not teeming with kids playing games of all sorts outside together. My children, however, played outside our house all the time and soon attracted a few others from the neighbourhood to play road hockey, ride around on bikes and skateboards, and play various games as well. Now that my children are grown, I still wonder, when I am out and about why I do not see more children out playing - school and organized sports are not the only places to learn social skills and fair play. A few years ago our neighbourhood school built a hill in the center of the fields and also more recently installed brand new playground equipment thanks to a large donation from NHL hockey players Henrik and Daniel Sedin. The Sedin twins have set up a fund to encourage families in small communities to play and exercise more. The hill and equipment both get a fair bit of use from young neighbourhood families, which is encouraging. Various movements, such as Bring Back Play, encouraging healthy, unscheduled play for kids are happening in Canada as well. We forty-somethings know what our nation's kids are missing in modern life and are trying to reinstate some kind of desire in families to get outside and play on a regular basis.

A friend of my sister's recently posted a photo on Facebook of their high school senior band enjoying a summer picnic at someone's lakeshore property some time around 1980. The photo included about twenty students. Not one teenager in the group lacked the appearance of great health and physical fitness. In fact, they looked like a bunch of young movie stars or professional athletes by today's standards. Unlike the kids of today, they had no Starbucks White Chocolate Mochas, Tim Horton's Ice Capps or Monster Energy Drinks to pile on empty calories back then. A sedentary lifestyle was unusual for a teenager and engaging in some risk-taking behaviours like cliff-jumping was the norm - at least where I grew up. Parents are fed so much fear these days about what 'could' happen to our children we are afraid to let them out of our sight. I am not saying it is easy for me to let my thirteen year old waif of a daughter walk downtown by herself, or ride her bike to the swimming pool alone. I have been fed the same fears for her safety, but I make myself let her go because she is learning to trust her instincts, to discover her own boundaries and get some exercise in the process. As a forty-something mom who values the outdoorsy, independent childhood of my own generation and the good seeds it sowed for a healthy adulthood, mentally, emotionally and physically, I owe her that much.

This is not my sister's band class. It is the cast of Freaks and Geeks, a
show my kids and I have watched and enjoyed. It is set in the 1980's and honestly
represents high school at that time, and to some extent modern times, with uncanny accuracy. 

Clean and Be Thankful

I cleaned my oven this morning, and the job was done with a parade of cleaning products including vinegar and baking soda, SOS pads, dish soap, Mr. Clean and a lot of elbow grease. I knew it would be much simpler to spray on some Easy-Off, leave it to do its magic and then simply wipe off the grime, but the last time I did so I was sick and swooning from the toxic fumes for days. That stuff is nasty.

I do not enjoy cleaning my oven, to say the least, but this morning while I scrubbed a couple of months' worth of baked-on cooking I got to thinking. (Who are we kidding here? The last time I cleaned my oven Mark Zuckerberg was trying to get into a fraternity.) Music played in the background to keep me company but my thoughts ran free - when I was not singing along to the Mamma Mia soundtrack at the top of my voice, that is, something I am only allowed to do when no one else except my youngest is home. She sings with me of course, being a Musical Theatre kid.

Two of my three living-away children were able to come home for Thanksgiving this past weekend. The third had to work and celebrated the holiday with a dinner cooked by his roommates. The rest of us enjoyed all the comfort and cheer of being together at home. We cooked and baked together, sang (ABBA was strictly forbidden) and were silly together. And while we cooked and baked the oven smoked. In fact, every time I basted the six and a half pound chicken the fire alarm went off.

Anyway, while I was cleaning the oven I was telling myself I had better not complain about the task because, as much as I detest that particular chore, I was lucky. Lucky enough to have an oven in the first place. Lucky enough to have a beautiful, plump, organic chicken carefully raised by some farming friends to cook in said oven. Lucky enough to share that chicken with a loving family, even if one of us had to be absent. Lucky to have enjoyed the delicious leftovers in front of the TV with my youngest after her siblings left to go back to their respective post-secondary institutions and her dad worked late. Lucky to have a gainfully employed husband. Lucky to have children who desire to further their educations and make something of themselves. Lucky to live in a democratic country which, while not without its problems, remains a relatively safe and reasonable place to raise a family and build a future.

I remember when I was a girl and would be out walking with my mother. As we strolled down the hills of Nelson with the timeless view of the lake below and the streets lined with trees in full flame of fall colour against a blue, blue sky my mother would invariably say, "Aren't we lucky to live in such a beautiful place?" I would generally agree. I also remember when I would whine about being hard-done-by or some such teenage complaint she would invariably say, "Just be grateful." Well, with the news the way it is these days, Mom, I can honestly say I am both lucky and grateful to be where I am and with whom, enjoying the benefits of your healthy and wholesome upbringing filled with books and walks, love and talks.

My oven looks a lot better now. I baked some apple muffins after lunch and my youngest is enjoying two as an after school snack. The fire alarm remained silent throughout.

This Billy Joel song cheered me up the other day when I heard it after a particularly bad news day in the media. The video even features a smoking oven.
 We Didn't Start the Fire

A Writer's Daughter

My dad and me - taken in 1970 by Reg Feuz

Five years ago this month I started my Letters to the World blog. I barely knew what a blog was, except that my dad had started one and it was like a diary available to read for whomever could find it on the internet. I started it as a way to become more disciplined in my writing, and as a way to kick off my forties with something resembling creative productivity. I remember those first few posts. They were relatively brief, generally humourous, or trying to be, and a little bit earnest. As I sent them out into cyberspace with the click of a few keys on the keyboard, my heart fluttered, my stomach lurched, and I could not rest until someone responded to them in some way. The person I most wanted to hear from was my dad.

My dad would never say anything negative about my blog posts, but if he was silent about a particular post I would wonder how I had failed. I could not help it for in writing I believe he was my litmus test. If he wrote a response it was short, to the point, and always encouraging. Even if I received no other reaction from any other person I would be satisfied, and I believe a large part of my blog was written to him.

I remember when I was in college and struggling with an essay. After wrestling with my opening paragraph for a couple of hours at my bedroom desk I would go downstairs in search of some fresh point of view. My dad, usually reading in the living room if he was not doing dishes or writing in his basement den, would look up at me inquisitively as I sat down and exhaled a tell-tale sigh. I would talk about my current struggle, but instead of tackling it head on and in an obvious way, my dad would start to tell me a story, seemingly unrelated to my problem at hand. My dad had a lot of stories to tell, about his childhood living in different provinces across Canada during the Second World War, about his family's experiences on Lasqueti Island after the war, about his work as a surveyor for a BC Hydro project in his early twenties. Sometimes his stories grew tentacles and I would begin to absorb them rather than truly listen to them, but he would always circle back to the beginning and I would marvel at his ability to do so. After the story I would excuse myself and go back to my essay to find that the ideas and the words now flowed easily. I could not at the time figure out how he managed to help me clear my mind and set it going in the right direction, but I think I might know now. Through telling me an unrelated story he was not only giving my brain a break from the task at hand, but also helping me to think like a writer who was passionate about what I had to say on a particular subject, always keeping the different aspects of the essay in play until the end. I cannot say that my essays were all brilliant, but at least I would get through them and be somewhat satisfied with the results - all a student can hope for much of the time.

My dad had been a land surveyor and a school teacher, but as the youngest in the family I only remember him as a writer. He loved teaching but gave it up to write full time when I was five years old. By living with him I learned what it takes and what it means to be a writer. For Dad, technique was important of course but what was behind it mattered more - "The spirit of the thing" he liked to say. The spirit of the thing was what I believe he was hammering home to me through his storytelling when I was in college. High grades did not seem to impress him much. My being satisfied with what I had produced conceptually was much more important to him. I will admit I was puzzled by his approach, for back then I planned to be a career academic and viewed grades as a marker of my progress toward my goal. Perhaps he knew better and was pushing me on to a life beyond the analysis of other people's writing. In any case I am forever grateful to him. He challenged his children to think hard, to reason, and to never in any case, sell out on our gifts and talents. He was sometimes hard to live with, like many creative, passionate people uninterested in compromises, but I loved him immensely. In June of this year I went to visit him and we had a beautiful time together. He was very ill but we were able to talk and laugh a bit in the old way, and at times we were silent together. The morning I left we embraced tearfully and I told him I hoped it would not be too long before I could come and visit him again.

My dad died peacefully on the morning of August 26th, between nursing shifts and before the daily round of visits from my mother and other family members, at the hospital where he spent his last nine days on this earth. The news of his death did not come as a shock because I had been expecting it for some time, but nothing can completely prepare one for the loss of a parent, especially one who played such an important role in one's life and made such an impact. A large number of people, family and friends old and new, gathered last week to celebrate my dad's life. Plenty of laughter, some tears, and plenty of talking and visiting filled the few short days we had together. At times I imagined I could hear my dad's deep voice joining in the conversation with his usual gusto, telling a story from when he was young and healthy and full of vitality. I like to think of him as young again now that he is free from the encumbrance of illness and pain. I will continue to write with him in mind and hope that he is looking down on me as I type this, and as I adjust to my new reality without his strong physical presence in my life.

I will miss my dad's quick emailed responses to my posts, those little live connections with him that I have cherished over the past five years. He never held back from giving me the thumbs up if he thought I deserved it. I know I can carry on writing without his responses because he succeeded in setting me on the right track in my writing. I know when I have 'the spirit of the thing' because I can feel it in my gut.

Thank you, Dad. For everything you gave me, but mostly for your love - the true spirit of the thing.

Reading Material

Although I never actually heard my parents say, "You are what you read", I do think they believe that to be true in most cases. My mom read virtually every book we children brought into the house just to be sure of what we were putting into our heads. A book brought home often disappeared during the night and was replaced on the bedside table before we woke up in the morning. Mom would usually tell us what she thought of the book, too, especially if she didn't like it.

When I was in grade seven I made bi-weekly trips to the local library and soon became fascinated with stories about troubled young girls lacking parental support. I distinctly remember one about an overweight girl who ran away from her miserable family, and somehow got trapped on an island where she had to survive by killing and eating raccoons and such. The experience changed her, of course, and she lost a great deal of weight, which seemed to solve all her problems. While against censorship in general, my mom finally appealed to me to stop bringing home such depressing novels. I suppose they were dragging her down.

I spent many hours as a pre-teen brushing my mom's long, dark brown hair while she read to me. We made our way through several Noel Streatfield novels (my favourite), the Little House on the Prairie series and The Von Trappe family stories. When I was bored I merely had to say, "Mom, I need a book to read, and she would lead me to the floor-to-ceiling book shelves which lined the entire length of the front hall : "Here's a good one," or " You'd love the Anne books," or "How about The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe?" Mom took volume after volume off the shelf, and having read each of the books herself gave me a concise librarian's description of it. After dismissing most of the books with "Nah," I finally made my choice. My literary education then continued as I lay on the couch calling out for the meaning of this word or that, as most of the books I read were written before I was born.

Another memory lives in my mind like a short film. One afternoon I was sitting in the living room reading a magazine. My father was in the chair opposite, also reading. I soon became bored and began rifling through the rack beside my chair. Lo and behold I discovered an unfamiliar magazine: an edition of True Confessions. I picked it up and started reading a story about a young woman who goes off with a married man to a cabin in the woods...you can guess the rest. I think my fascination stemmed largely from my surprise that such smut could even get through the doors of our house, and here it was found lying cover to cover with National Geographic World and a Sharon, Lois and Bram songbook. As I soaked up the explicit descriptions of events in the story, as only a ten year old can do, I began to feel a distinct, steady sensation like a laser beam crossing the room. I looked up to meet my dad's over-the-glasses gaze which, having been a teacher and parent for many years, was a look he had perfected. He lowered his eyes slowly down to the title of my chosen literature, and then up again at me. "Don't you have anything better to read?" he asked quietly, but oh, so effectively in his deep, sonorous voice. Without a single noise from my lips, I replaced True Confessions in the rack and took up a copy of National Geographic World. "That's better," he said with the trace of a smile. The next time I went to choose a magazine, True Confessions was gone. I never saw it or its kind in the house again.

After I moved out my parents turned my bedroom into a study/library and transferred all the books into it from the front hall. The study has a lovely view of the back garden where the cherry tree of my childhood bloomed until it rotted and had to be taken down. On a recent visit I had forgotten to bring a book, and asked to borrow one. My mom brought me a thick novel - a one volume edition of Robertson Davies' Salterton Trilogy. I settled down into the pullout couch for the night and began my transport into the wickedly funny world of Kingston, Ontario's intellectual society of the 1950's... Mom let me take the book home to finish.

The photo above, while not an actual photo of one of my childhood bookshelves, greatly resembles it. 

Things I Wrote as a Kid

Recently, I discovered a CBC Radio show called Grown Ups Read Things They Wrote as Kids. I heard  the show for the first time a couple of weeks ago when, on a Saturday evening I was driving the ten minutes to the village where my husband works in order to pick him up. I left the radio on as I waited for him in the back parking lot of the hotel and laughed until the tears were rolling down my cheeks. I listened to the show again this past weekend and then, I had an idea. I have a lot of writing I did as a teenager and I thought perhaps I would share some of it. Of course, my idea of posting things I wrote as a kid won't have the same impact as if I were to read them out loud in front of a live audience like they do on the radio show, but my hope is that they will provide at least a little entertainment to the reader.

What I noticed about the people on the radio show was their laughter at their younger selves who wrote about fantasies of glory or teen angst or harboured resentment against the perceived unjust actions of their parents. Most of what they were reading out loud to the audience was never meant to be read by anyone else, and at the time of writing it they had been most serious. I think it is important to both laugh at our younger selves and also to honour them. When I read my diaries I laugh a lot but the feelings of the time do come back with the memories. I, like most teenagers felt intense joy, pain, confusion, and all the other more subtle emotions in between. Growing up was an often baffling experience. As I read the diaries I began at aged fifteen I realize I cared about five main things: my family, my friends, food, boys and dance, but not necessarily in that order.

Myself at 15, taken in the school courtyard

June 19th, 1985 
Hi. I did o.k. on my Math final. Tomorrow I have English. I'm not looking forward to it. I have nothing except Summer after 10:45 tomorrow. I can't wait. I don't believe it's finally here. I'm growing my nails, so far it's working. I'm glad! Toni and Val and I 'supposedly' studied today. Val is very 'trendy'. I have a nice tan! In John's letter yesterday, He called me 'Miss Popular.' I guess I'm liked by a lot of people but I wouldn't say 'Miss Popular' - sort of bitchy sounding. Mark lent me a tape of assorted artists from England. Here's some of the Weird names: Vice Squad, The Vibrators, Angelic Upstarts, Attila the Stockbroker, The Dead Kennedys, Hollywood Brats, Abrasive Wheels, English Dogs, U.K. Subs, Adicts,Cockney Rejects, Instant Agony, Major Accident, Pressure. WIERD!!! Anyways, now I'm listening to Limahl and then Don Henley. Well I should go and sleep! 
Bye, Rebecca (doodle of a heart)

June 20th, 1985
I had an English final. It was pretty easy. All my exams are finished. Summer is here and next year I'll be in Grade 11. Wierd!! Today, Toni, Tanja, Colin, and I went to my house and ate, to Toni's and ate. Tanja went home and me, Toni, Colin and Jen went to Colin's and ate. Then me and Jen sat outside her house and talked about Scott. I keep thinking he'll come here (Scott was a boy I met from another city). I miss him. I saw a Good Play on TV. John's birthday is on Sunday. (John was another boy I met at a youth function).
Love, Rebecca (doodle of a heart)

June 23rd, 1985
Well, today I went to a Youth Group picnic. It was fun but I got thrown in the lake and I also don't like organized activities like games. After the picnic I went to Sam our leader's house and she did a survey on my personality. I'm an ENFP - Extrovert (outgoing); Intuitive (go on hunches); Feeling (sensitive); Perceptive. It was a good evening. My knee really hurts right now so I have ice on it. I was talking to Sam and I said I sleep all bundled up sort of guarding myself. She asked me if I had a secret to guard. I said yes and I won't even tell you! Maybe someday but right now I'm just learning to trust a diary in the house of my family, o.k.? (I wish I could remember now what that secret was) I thought about John since it's his birthday today. My survey said I would go well with a mate who was stable or a mate with his head in the clouds and sort of scientific. John and Scott!!! Well I gotta go. 
Love, Reb (heart doodle)

Stay tuned for next week's entry in which I describe my knee surgery performed by a very handsome surgeon. If anyone out there would also like to post things they wrote as kids I would love to read them. I had to look up 'Limahl' because I couldn't for the life of me remember anything about them. Thankfully, Google delivered: Synth heavy 80's tune by Limahl I'm happy to report that my taste in music improved over the next few years.

Cheers,
Rebecca

L.M. Montgomery - a First Love in Literature

In my early years as a dedicated reader of novels, when it came to authors, I tended toward serial monogomy. Noel Streatfield, the author of Ballet Shoes, The Painted Garden, White Boots, and several others was my first real love as a reader, but when the time came for me to move on from her delightful books for children I was at a bit of a loss.

Every time I would talk about needing something to read my family would suggest Anne of Green Gables. "You'll love it," my sisters insisted, and because they insisted I resisted. I finally gave in when I was fifteen - my sisters had all moved out by then - and tentatively began the book that would change my life. I was not prepared to enjoy it, but by the first chapter I was hooked and would remain an Anne fan for life. And not just an Anne fan, but a fan of the writing of her creator Lucy Maud Montgomery. I would spend the next several years scouring second hand book stores for copies of her many books, building up my collection which I read over and over until Jane Austen became my new obsession in my mid-twenties. I credit L.M. Montgomery for helping me greatly through my teen years, for giving me another world to inhabit in my imagination, adding much light to the very real world I lived in every day.

I did not identify with the character of Anne as much as with the general tone, humour and background wisdom of the books themselves. Anne, with her red-haired temper, her heedless ways and her enormous scholarly discipline was not a mirror image of myself, but I did admire her goodness, her loyalty and her literary gifts. I was encouraged by her strength of character and desired to emulate at least some of what she represented. The first few times I read the books I read them for the plot alone. L.M. Montgomery is known for her descriptive passages of the land she loved so well, but I will admit I skipped over many of them to find out what happened next to the people in the books. A good book has that quality, even when you read it for the second or third time and know what ultimately happens, you still want to have the satisfaction of finding out, again, exactly how it happens. By the time I was in my early twenties I still read the books once a year, but by then I was revelling in the descriptions which painted such a beautiful picture of the land, sea and sky of Prince Edward Island and other Maritime provinces. The Blue Castle is set in Muskoka, Ontario and I still read it every few years for its pictures painted so masterfully in words by the author who had moved to Ontario after her marriage.

My mother often said that she liked Montgomery's Emily books even better than the sunny Anne ones. She felt the Emily books were deeper and more reflective of the author's own life as a burgeoning writer. I read the three Emily books immediately after I had read the eight Anne novels, and I could see what my mother meant. I imagined that a lot of authors identified with them, especially those who had known they were writers from a young age. The road to authorship is not easy for the character of Emily; the literary colours in the novels are in various shades of light and darkness, intimating the depth of emotion lived in real life by Montgomery. The happy ending is there, but it is hard won.

When I get into something, I really get into it, so when L.M. Montgomery's journals were published I read them. Her selected journals filled five large volumes and I expected them to reflect the light and happy endings of her novels. What I discovered was that Montgomery's life was a complex blend of light and dark, of longing for the freedom of an intuitive and highly spiritual artist while 'keeping up appearances' in Canadian WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant) society of the early part of the twentieth century. I read them during a particularly hard time in my own young life, which perhaps was not fair to either myself or to Montgomery whom I admired so much. Her journals sent me spiralling downwards into a blue funk. I was disappointed in her for some of her choices in life and in love (as disappointed as I was in myself at that time for some of my own choices), and I had a hard time reconciling the author of my favourite books with the author of journals which suggested so much personal disappointment and emotional trauma.

I think, after giving it another twenty-odd years, I might read the journals again. I will probably read them with a more open mind and with much more compassion and empathy this time. In 2008 Montgomery's family came out with an admission that Lucy Maud suffered from depression and had, in the end, taken her own life. Her family revealed the truth in hopes that it would help to remove the stigma surrounding mental illness in our society. And while that news about her death made me sad beyond words, I have a bookshelf full of proof that inside Lucy Maud Montgomery's often troubled heart and mind was also a mystical land of humour, insight, love, and joy of the greatest kind which she shared with her readers through her writing, a refuge for her and for all of those who feel deeply and attempt to live sensitively on this earth.

A mature L.M. Montgomery

For those of you who read the end of my previous post I have an update: My dad was able to go home from the hospital yesterday. Such good news for him and for all my family! Many thanks for your kind wishes and prayers.