I am Lucky!

Today I am lucky to have my young nephews with me. They came at 8 last night, headed right for the pool and swam/played/romped/hollered/laughed and used up about a hundred calories a minute while hubby and I sat and visited with their father.

These boys are special. Dan is blonde, 16, six-foot-a hundred, it seems, and a delight. When he leaves the group and heads downstairs he sings at the top of his lungs. Nice to have the sound reverberate in the house, I think. Adam has the widest grin ever and is not stingy with it. His good nature precedes him into a room. He laughs easily and smiles kindly. To love him is so easy. Noah is a card. His bright blue eyes twinkle as he tells me a tall tale, just itching for me to get the joke and giggle with him. And he loves to tease, to be the centre of attention, but not in an annoying way. These boys bubble over with joy and make me happy just to be around them.

Imagine a couple of years ago our delight when, at Simcoe Fair as we were searching for the family horses, seeing Dan running across the wide open field, hollering, "Uncle Ron, Aunt Elaine!" and, reaching us, hugging us both in his delight to see us. No sense of self-consciousness about him, just pure joy.

Or Adam, last summer when I stopped in to the summer camp at their farm, looking up from his group work, seeing it was me, and jumping up to tear over and give me a big hello hug, his eyes welcoming just as much as his "Hi, Aunt Elaine!" And all this from an 11-year-old in front of his peers!

And Noah at the sugar bush last year, seeing his two aunts get out of the car, running over to take care of us , tell us what to do, where to go, how to get food, what there was to see, what his parents and brothers were doing, and, oh, Mark is here, too, and we can get food for you free! I had to tell him I really expected to pay and the free food was only for his family because they were working there but his excitement, his willingness to share, his delight in everything around him lit up my heart and does again as I think of it.

As I write this they are off on a bike ride around the village, along with their buddy Carl from Quebec who is visiting for a while. Oops, they're back from the ride. Gotta go have fun with my nephews!

Positive Self Talk

What is that? Positive self talk? Remember when you looked in the mirror and moaned about your burgeoning belly? Or your red acne? Or your short neck? Well, those things are negative self talk and we are all really good at it. I have decided that the real goal of my life is to learn to live with who and what I am. Not only to live with me but to like the attributes that are me.

For instance, I have to be pleased when I look at my chubby arms or when I see my hands growing beautiful liver spots. And I am ecstatic when I consider the grooves in my shoulders caused by a lifetime of holding up my boobs, or the lovely red-coloured veins sprouting on my thighs. Oh, it all makes me so happy!

Really, you say? Well, of course I remember the skin that was, and the two-piece bathing suits, with fond affection, but I try to concentrate on the good things about growing older: the power to plan my days how I want them, the many decisions that are all mine, the time I can spend doing my beading, or writing songs, or playing the piano, or talking to my intimates, or going to the gym, or swimming laps in my pool, or biking/hiking/liking all I do. It's a great life and if my physical attributes do not look as good as 40 years ago, they all still work, allowing me to do what I want. For that I am profoundly grateful. In fact, I'm positively grateful!

How Do They Do It?

How do blended families make it work? The answer is lots of them don’t, I suppose, but last night I was struck once again with the ability of people to get along if they really want to. It was a wedding shower for my niece. Her mother was there and her mother’s sisters, her friends from childhood, her grandmother, none of whom I was surprised to see. And neither was I surprised to see the bride’s stepmother and stepsister in the thick of it helping out as usual. I love them all and I do love that they make it possible for us aunts to invite the whole wonderful crew to family events, but I don’t know how they do it.

One of my oldest friends’ former husband died a number of years ago. At the funeral there she was with their small son sitting with his present young twinky wife and doing all she could to ameliorate the situation. I mean, there was the new wife with a new baby and her 42-year-old husband was dead. Tough stuff, that. My friend sucked up her hurt and went to the aid of the competition. And at the reception following the event she was amazing, introducing us, Pete’s old friends, to his present wife and explaining all the wonderful stories that we all had shared. I learned a lot that day.

So I ask myself how they do it. I know why they do. They are generous enough to want their children to be happy and free of family friction. Understandable as that is, I still can’t help wondering what the inner feelings are. Does the second wife wonder if she is loved like the first one was? Does the first wife truly appreciate that someone else has been able to make her first husband happy? Do the children fully accept that their parents have moved on to other relationships, or are they still secretly hoping mom and dad will get back together?

Sometimes I think I know, but I really don’t. And the beautiful thing is, I never will.

What's in a picture?

First you have to look closely at this picture. Then take a tour with me.

This is my Mom. Uncharacteristically, she is so happy she's crying. Not uncharacteristic for her to be happy, but for her to be crying. She was a brave and forthright person who created her world to suit her and didn't spend time crying.

Look at the picture again. Mom is wearing a mink stole and showing off a lovely bracelet and earrings, all of which my Dad gave her for Christmas that year. Although used to wonderful gifts from my Dad, this Christmas he really hit the spot. And she cried. I don't think it was for the money Dad spent, although he really went overboard, but for the love and caring he put into choosing such thoughtful gifts for her. I know she felt the most special woman in the world. I cherish the memories of my parents together and their love for each other.

Another look at the picture and your eyes go to the china cabinet with antique family silver pieces inside and my grad pic from university on top, beside the silver chest. Today that china cabinet sits in my living room, filled with some of the same silver pieces and I have that picture back again, hanging on my wall. I also have my silver in a large silver chest in my dining room, just like Mom had. Funny how we emulate our parents.

And out the window you see snow. That was our front room window at the side of the house. I remember lots of views out there, of the gravel laneway by which we little ones watched Daddy come and go, our noses barely able to clear the wooden sills, pressing little nose-circles in the steamy glass. In summer we could see the huge garden covering as much space as my whole large house lot today. I hated working in that garden and I don't like it much better now. Memories of happy times there still crowd into my mind, though, and I smile at the thought of Ross hanging on to Maudie's mane as she tore--and bore him!--around that garden. And I remember my 4-H garden which I grew there one year with kohl rabi, a new vegetable we didn't even know how to cook, and many other excellent plants. I think Mom was heartened to think this was one year she wouldn't have to work so hard doing a job she hated, too, as the garden was my 4-H project. We were very much alike.

Do you notice the window sill? It holds a model cow, a hint to the business that fed us, that shaped our lives, that set the daily timetable my whole growing-up life. My dad was a farmer and a self-made one at that. He came from nothing. Did whatever it took to gradually build a life on the farm for his ever-growing family--eventually there were 13 children--and it all settled around Holsteins. That cow on the window is an award from some competition or other. I remember the cow, just not the exact award.

Above the cow is a Christmas wreath. We put those wiry, prickly things up every year. They were special to us, signifying a season of family fun, visitors, toys and feasting. When I look at them now, in antique stores sometimes, I remember a time when we didn't have everything we wanted, when consumerism hadn't taught us all to want ever more and more, and when we were overjoyed with what little we got. Those ugly, hard wreaths in green and red meant fun to us and we loved the season signified by them.

So you see that one 'snap', as we called photos then, reallys says a lot to me. It takes me back to people and places, things and feelings far beyond what is actually in the picture. It holds love in its four corners. It reminds me of my roots and my happy childhood. Would that everyone could have that!

Hubby, The Author

When I met my future husband I had no idea of the talents he would come to show me. I was smitten--great word, that!--with his good looks, kind heart and intelligent wit. He was always smiling, always ready for the next joke, the next laugh, the next joyful bit in his life. And he shared with everyone. He still does.

What I was not prepared for was how smart he is, and how absolutely full of interesting ideas and new challenges to conquer. For example, in the late 80's he decided to write an Accounting text for Grade 10 students. Never mind that he had a full load at school, that he volunteered both at school and in the community, that he spent a lot of time with us, his family. He put himself on a regimen of getting up a couple of hours early every day and writing. With the revisions and changes needed in getting the book ready for the classroom, he maintained this schedule for 3 years until publication in 1990. And then he did it again! For a second book! Those two books took six years of hard work and keeping his eye on the prize. (In the picture above, you can see him smiling with Wiley representatives at the launching of his first book in Vancouver.)

All the while he was writing he was also on many school committees, leading the OSSTF negotiating team through talks with the school board, piloting skits for the kids or teachers to do in school shows or assemblies, watching and training the various student council treasurers--Oh, did I mention he studied for and obtained a second degree, in Accounting, all the while?--the list is endless. I don't even know all he was doing. And he loved it.

As if that wasn't enough, he began to create innovative and instructional materials for his students, to make learning fun, a great goal of his. The end result of that was a company called Peache House Press, through which we sell various Classroom Puzzlers (the current company name) all across Canada and the world.

He thinks big, my guy, and is now fleshing out new ideas for reaching students through virtual classroom visitors. The initial meetings on this are exciting and I have no doubt he will push through to make it happen. And I'll be with him, helping along the way, giving him my best ideas, which he gladly accepts--that is another of his great characteristics, his ability to easily entertain and implement others' ideas. Life is a joyous journey with my hubby, the author of exciting change in our world.

I need to write a song for him.

Today I write of my son, of his birth, his childhood, his life to date. We started out very close as I was tuned to his rhythm within me. I remember my first awareness of him as I lay in the bathtub relaxing after a long day of teaching. burlp, blip, burlp. What was that? "Ron," I frantically called to hubby and as he burst into the bathroom I told him. "I felt the baby! I felt it move!"

Fast forward to his birth night when I woke with a pain around 1:30 a.m. Soon another one. Wake Ron. Call doctor. Get to hospital. Kevin was delivered at 4:21 a.m. into the arms of his mother already hopelessly in love with him. As my bed was wheeled down the hall, New Dad came out of the waiting room to see his son. I watched our baby look right up at the excited and overwhelmed face of his daddy, as though he already knew there would be a special bond between them. Yes, I know, babies can't see at that age, but somehow Kevin sensed his link to his father, I am sure.

We both remember waking up in the mornings listening to his singing. He turned one that year when we both taught on the north shore of Lake Superior. Kevin was a happy child, singing us awake in the mornings, running joyfully to greet us when we came home at the end of the day, bouncing in his father's arms as they danced around the living room to music on the stereo. And when dad would stop, Kevin's little legs would kick against him speaking the words he couldn't yet say. He wanted more. Keep going, daddy. And off they would go again. He had a special trick he delighted in showing us. Standing with his back to the couch, he would lean over backwards till his back was on the couch. And he would laugh, so proud of himself for doing his favorite trick. And of course we laughed with him and clapped our delight in his accomplishment.

We've spent his whole life doing that but it hasn't been hard. He's been a great kid, not perfect, but through all his tricks and slips along the way, he never lost his personality. I remember telling him a few times, "I don't like you just now but I love you still." Somehow our parenting worked and we raised a caring, sensitive, joyful son who deeply feels for people, who easily gives to others, and who is sure of who he is. He is a pleasure to be around.

We are still close. I can tell him my heart and he holds it with gentle hands. He helps me be a better person when I see his generosity. I now stand at the sidelines like I did watching him play T-ball, cheering him on, watching him go. He talks to me about life and things that are important to both of us. I can use him as a sounding board because he will always tell me the truth. We have drawn a line beyond which we will not go as far as his marriage because that is how it should be. He now has another to confide in and to hold his heart and that is wonderful. I am so glad he has found what I have had all these years--a loving partner. But I am so thankful he still has a place for me. I need to write a song for him.

Important Days--Where Were You?

Of course no one in the class had ever heard of John Fitzgerald Kennedy. So much for my allusion in my grade ten English class to the day he was assassinated in Dallas, Texas, November 22, 1963. And in case you don't remember him either, he was the President of the United States at the time.

I told my students that my world was a different place in 1963. My sense of it as a safe place had not been shattered. Assassination was unthinkable, unheard of. I hadn't reached the age of cynical adulthood as I sat in my grade twelve French class and listened to our school principal, Fergie or Chrome Dome as we knew him (really Mr. Ferguson), announce over the P.A. system that Kennedy had been shot. Sue Fraser ran out of the classroom in tears. Several other students started to cry. Our teacher, Mr. MacGregor, tried to reassure us and then went on with conjugating irregular verbs. In a day when no one virtually left the classroom, students were out in the halls, crying, trying to get over the shock as they rushed by our open door to the washroom beyond. Finally Mr. MacGregor closed the door and went on but my mind was whirling with the news.

After class only one topic came up. On the bus home, only one topic. When we got off the bus at five o'clock Mom had the tv on and we began watching the saga unfold. By this time, Kennedy was close to death or had already died and we soaked up each new tidbit of information as it was announced. Here was death on a huge scale. Not that there were many people killed but that the method was so unheard of, and when Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald as he was being transferred by state troopers, the drama increased our disbelief to a record level. The picture of the funeral that everyone remembers is of little John-John saluting his father's casket as it rolled by on the caisson and into the history books. Jackie stood beside him, a strong but broken figure in black, her face hidden by the black veil. I wondered how she could do it.

Eventually our lives got back to normal, I graduated from high school, went to university, and in my first year at residence, the lights went out. The power was off everywhere. We gravitated to the stairwells as there were emergency lights there and most of us talked and laughed, finding the fun in yet another event. Others, however, got off by themselves and used the dim emergency lights to try to study for tests the next day. Talk about dedication! And there were even bodies huddled in the corner sleeping, like street people, as though afraid to be alone in the dark. Finally one of the girls came up the stairs and told us what she had heard from the battery-op radio in the basement that the guys were all gravitating toward. All the power was out on the whole Eastern seaboard from Canada down through the States! We were amazed. What could have done that? In the height of the U.S.-U.S.S.R. Cold War, anything could have happened. Did Kruschev hit the button? Was there an exploded nuclear bomb polluting the atmosphere? Did someone turn off Niagara Falls? We spent hours talking about the possibilities, finally heading for bed as sleep overtook us. In the morning life returned to normal. The excitement was over and we headed off to class, our exciting night receding into memory.

Move forward again in time and place to 1979 and our home in Southern Ontario. We have two lovely children now and are listening to the television warn us about bad weather, possibly tornados, stalking our area. Hubby and I take a trip outside in the stillness, putting away lawn chairs, picking up toys, putting the car in the garage and closing up the doors. I wonder if the tornados will hit us. Will they suck all the water out of the pool and dump it as rain? What will happen?

We head inside talking about safety measures. If we hear something, run to the basement and get into the fruit room. Six-year-old Beth is with us and I get her into her jammies but bring her back downstairs to sleep on the couch beside me as we watch television and listen to the wind outside. Periodically one of us goes out to check things, but we are safe so far. As the news comes through that several tornadoes have hit north of us, our worries shift to our 9-year-old son away at Camp Bimini about 45 minutes north of us. Is he okay? Who would know? I call my family home (close to Bimini) and talk to my brother. He knows nothing about Bimini but from the reports the storms hit further away. We are somewhat reassured but still would like to know for certain. Watching tv we get confirmation of the storm hits. Thankfully none of our family is affected. We hear of the force of the storm with barns and houses leveled, trees uprooted and strewn like toothpicks fallen from a box, the pictures unclear in the dark but showing the devastation nonetheless.

In the morning we survey our property. The water is still in the pool, the fledgeling trees still growing in their places and all is normal. We are lucky. I talk again to my brother who has news that Camp Bimini is fine. To hear the certainty is a great relief. We take the car and try to get close to some of the destruction but can't as barricades are keeping out the onlookers, and rightfully so. As the week goes on, though, we are able to tour Harley, county road 14, Oxford Centre--very badly hit, Hickson, and the other affected areas. The cleanup has begun even as people try to recover emotionally. A man from our area is dead after his van was picked up by the tornado, carried quite a distance, and dropped in a field. We pick up my parents, returning from Europe to Pearson airport in Toronto and Dad is enthralled with the scene as we near home. Grain fields are flattened and ruined, pastures are beginning to come back to normal and the corn, which had been totally flattened so I thought it would never come back to life, is rising in great semi-circles across the fields. Imagine the stalks curved in the middle like huge sickles as the strong roots hold and the corn, over several days, gradually rights itself.

As I think back on these events, I am struck by the resilience of people, like those corn stalks, in recovering from bad things. Hard as it may be we seem to be able to walk on, walk on, with hope in our hearts as the song says and we never walk alone. Think of the way that 911 brought people together, first in disbelief at the events, in stopping the terrorists on one plane, in rescue efforts at ground zero, and then in recovery. And, of course, everyone remembers where they were when they heard the news. We were in Prince Edward Island on a golf course when the planes hit the World Trade Center. Where were you?

And so I realize that bad things happen in every generation to everyone. They scare us, they sadden us, they level us to the ground but we seem to find the strength to go on. Think of the tsunami, and of the pictures of the aftermath of the bombs in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. Or of the Chernobyl leak. Or hurricane Katrina's assault on New Orleans. Yet people find a way to go on and face whatever.

And now? My problems seem insignificant. I think I'll shut up.

The Creative Bug

Surrounded by special totems in my very own computer room, I think of all the creative outlets I have tried since retiring from teaching. A collection of pottery pieces from mugs to candy dishes to a slipper replica complete with woolly fur around the top adorns the top of my credenza. On my wall hangs a framed photograph I took in Hilton Head when I chose the path 'less traveled by'. My electric piano and my file drawer of original compositions signify my music endeavours. My photo printer, X-Acto cutting board, and digital camera are the tools of my searches for the perfect image. And these are just the mementos in my office.

Through the rest of my house I have many more photos, embroidered table cloths, hand-made Christmas decorations, including a 20-piece Christmas village. A rebuilt antique frame holds my grandparents' wedding picture and hand-knitted mitts fill the hall bench. As a reminder of a great trip to Vancouver to visit my daughter, a hand-decorated plate hangs in my kitchen. A large box bottom, covered in wide wonderful ribbon, holds a table centerpiece made last Christmas from backyard holly, rose hips, cedar boughs and many bright bits collected over Christmases past, which all turned out so well, after Christmas I just let the arrangement dry in place.

Oh,the hydrangea! Beautiful bouquets of it, dried at various stages of its colours, are throughout the whole house. Huge white pointed ones are in the centerpiece I just mentioned, pinkish-gold ones fill vases in the dining room and family room, and greenish-white blooms light up the living room. For a variety of colours and shapes from one tree, you just can't beat hydrangea.

Outside in the back yard, that tree is starting to form its flowers for this year and I wait expectantly to see what they will be like. Beside it is the large flower box I designed and hubby and I built and close by, the two benches we made out of scrap lumber, figuring out what to do as we went along. As I gaze at the panorama of our home, I see the flower bed my son and I built many years ago, now filled in with lots of varieties of colour. I see the beds around the pool, mulched with river rock because I am not at all fond of weeding. And I see the Canadian flag flying high and proud, reminding me of the first of July party we had many years ago at hubby's suggestion, because raising the flag on Canada Day seemed a cool idea for a party.

And I feel good. I love the home we have made and wonder if that creative bug that lives here isn't an elemental thing which keeps us going, keeps us trying, keeps us living fulfilling lives. For me, there is no sense of pleasure or accomplishment that matches having made something with my own hands. I must keep the Raid in the cupboard and let our creative bugs fly free.

Great Shoes!

People Are Fun

People are fun. Yesterday I took a trip with my best buddy to Cambridge and Waterloo. We left about 9:30 in the morning and headed for the Southworks outlet mall in Cambridge just to check out the Corning Ware store as best buddy wanted to buy a travel casserole dish with cover. We no sooner parked than we saw Sale! signs plastered over the windows of a shoe store luring us in like honey does bears. Upon entering the store we started browsing but were interrupted by a saleslady asking what size our feet were. I wondered about this new approach to sales but gave her my size 7.
“Wonderful,” the clerk bubbled. “We have just put a whole bunch of amazing shoes, regularly $80 to $120 on sale for $20 a pair, but only the size 7 or smaller shoes.”
“I’m a size 8,” my friend said, “so that won’t help me.” And her face wore a look of disappointment. (My friend absolutely LOVES a bargain!)
“Not to worry” our lady said. “I’m an 8, too, but I was able to find sandals to fit me. Take a look.”
Eyes brightening, my friend joined me in the search for great shoes. There were hundreds of boxes to go through and we loved every one. Methodically I started at one end and my friend, the other, holding up things we thought the other might like, trying on possibilities, ooing and ahing over the wonderful selection. Periodically the saleslady came back with something else for my friend of the size 8 feet to try. It seems they had formed a bond based on shoe size. I was merely a size 7 and was left on my own. My friend got four different visitations from the bubbly sales lady.
Other people in the store came over to try their luck at the shoe bonanza and soon we were all helping each other and pointing out great shoes. One lady picked up a deep pink embroidered sandal in my pile and my friend immediately told her it was mine. Don’t touch my stuff, I thought! The same lady chatted away with us over many different try-ons but didn’t seem to be getting anything.
Finally we had made our selections and headed for the cash register, me with three wonderful pairs of sandals, and my buddy with two. The rest of our day was awesome but I can’t help thinking that first lady with her enthusiasm for a great shoe deal set us up for it. Thanks to you, happy sales lady!

Birthday Wishes

Two days ago was my 60th birthday. You might think that was a cause for second thoughts and wish-I-hads but not so. The celebrations started the day before with a car trip to Lake Huron with my best friend, to whom I've been married for 40 years. I think I might have mentioned him before. Ha Ha. We left about 9 in the morning and wound our way over back roads--paved, of course--to one little village after another. We discovered Seaforth's quaint main street and lovely sunken lawn bowling green, searching out where my brother lives at the moment. Our plan to surprise him was thwarted as he wasn't there but his girlfriend was pretty surprised to make our acquaintance. The neat thing was how we found her. We knew her name was Liz, that she had a store on the main street and that she lived above it. A couple of queries in stores and we knew exactly where to go. Joys of a small town!

Then we went on to Bayfield, renowned for its shady main street of shops set back from the road, overhung with lovely trees. Even the walks are not city sidewalks but are gravel paths wandering from one shop to another. And the soft lake breezes keep it pretty cool. There are many different shops there from eclectic clothing to china to antiques but our favourite is one which has lovely glass in it. The two floors are a trip to a glass art gallery with beautiful pieces at every turn. I particularly liked the human body ones done in different muted shades and stretched this way and that. Beautiful. (But I don't want them! Gone are my days of buying everything in sight. Now I just look and love but don't buy.)

We had packed a lunch which we took to the newly renovated park. Lovely to munch away on fresh ham and cheese sandwiches and lots of melon and blueberries. Yummy. Amd as we ate we could watch the action. There was a family playing catch on the ball diamond, a mom was helping her little one learn to use the slide, and the band shell was sitting waiting for its next concert.

After finishing our lunch we did the rest of the shops and then headed for Goderich to their unique museum. From the selection of toilets through the years to the real-life steam engine around which the museum had been built, the display was excellent. I so like seeing things displayed how they might have been used. The Victorian home was one such display with its parlor filled with furniture and fittings of the day. That kind of museum makes history much more relevant to me.

We continued our journey up the Blue Water Highway towards Kincardine but had to take a detour around some road construction. This took us off the main road and added some miles to our journey but we were happy to get a close-up of the huge windmills constructed for hydro-electric purposes and the farms not normally part of the trip.

Once back on the highway we watched for the turn-off to the lake road and found it after a few mistakes. Of course the mistakes were the best part as we got to drive by many lovely cottage properties, new and old, and to soak up that relaxed cottage life. Finally we reached Kincardine and got reacquainted with hubby's old house where he lived as a boy, the 'new' school built after the fire he remembers running from in the old school, the movie theatre where he saw so many Saturday afternoon matinees--it's still running!--and the main street with its welcoming flower baskets and variety of shops. We decided not to stay for the traditional Saturday night pipe band parade as we have done this a few times already. It was time to turn the car south and head for home.

We made for Stratford and had a superb Chinese buffet, well worth waiting for. Then it was off again for the last hour home over lovely empty paved back roads, through the greens and golds of an Ontario farm summer, all the while talking and planning as we always do when we're in the car. It was a great day.

And, yet, my birthday celebration wasn't over. On Sunday morning hubby gave me two very thoughtful gift certificates: one, a membership to the local gym, and the other, a trip to a relaxation spa nearby. Some people might think the gym membership was a bit of a slap in the face but hubby listens to me and knows that I really want to shape up this 60-year-old body of mine. Gotta love that boy!

As the actual day progressed many phone calls came in wishing me well and I had a lovely time. Son and daughter-in-law came for barbecued chicken and a swim. A great day. But I haven't mentioned the most interesting part of the day. In the morning my son sat with us and we brain-stormed ideas for revitalizing our Classroom Puzzlers business. I was very excited by the ideas we came up with and even more blown away by the fact that on my 60th birthday, we were still going strong. Great stuff!

And so, you think, the birthday is over. Not so much. Monday, the doorbell rang and we opened it to a little girl standing on our step with a card. When I looked at the car, there was my very good friend who had brought her granddaughter. What a pair of sweeties!

Finally, hubby was waved down at the end of our street by people we know who gave him a card for me. It was looking a little the worse for its trip to me. These folks had found it on the road, obviously run over, opened it, seen my first name and the first name of my friend who had written it, and figured out the card was for me. Small town living at its best!

My birthday is over for another year but what a great time it was. I am reminded of people who care about me, from those closest to mere acquaintances. Life is great. Here's to another sixty, just like the first.

Hello, how are you?

These are the words I say many times a day as I go about my life. From fitness to groceries, getting mail to biking the 'route', cruising the back roads to getting the car fixed I meet many people and that is a huge plus. Some of the folks I've encountered in the last week will give you the idea.
We decided to cruise some of the back roads of our township to get digital photos for hubby to use in his current project. Lucky for us we saw an Amish buggy approaching and decided to try and get a picture, not of them,(we know they don't like that) but of the horse and buggy. We got out of our car and as the buggy approached we could see a young man, maybe 35-40 and a young boy riding with him. As he came up to us, he stopped at my hubby's wave. "We're doing some pictures for the township and wonder if we could get one of your horse and buggy?" hubby ventured.
"You're not taking a picture of me!" the man countered and we hastened to explain we just wanted the horse and buggy. We talked a bit with him and I thought he was okay with the idea as long as I didn't get him in the picture. Suddenly he said, "Well, I'll be going now," shook the reins in his hand and clucked the horse to a trot. I looked at my camera, which I hadn't even turned on yet, and realized I had no time. I stood for a moment watching the buggy bump away from me, thought of my options--I had none!--and dropped my camera to my side without even turning it on. Okay, well I guess we're not getting that picture.
We pushed on to another spot we had in mind to take a shot of an historical octagonal house now under the care of the historical society. I got a couple of angles and headed back to the car. Meanwhile another car approached hubby and wanted to know what we were doing there? Hubby explained as I got back in and I thought we'd be off in a sec. Not so. As soon as the lady heard that hubby was working on a project for the township and mentioned the mayor, she began to spout all her problems with the council, who did what, who said what, what her beefs were, ad nauseum. Hubby, sweet man that he is, told her that his project was not political at all and tried to steer her away from her diatribe. No such luck. I could see she wasn't going to quit until she got all her anger out. I thought of reaching over and turning on the ignition but couldn't bring myself to do it. Eventually hubby did just that. As we were driving away, I said, "Well, I guess you don't want her on your volunteer committee!" and we had some words to say about glass half empty people.
Now just when you think this is going to be really negative, I'll tell you about this morning. We went to the gym, me for the first time, and started exercising. Deb the trainer was quite nice and I felt really comfortable with her. Imagine how sweet it was for me to learn she is a word person, too! I felt that Deb was very good at putting me at ease, getting to the heart of things I needed to do, without actually pointing out my physical deficiencies. Quite a feat, when you think about it! While there I met friends I've known for 30 years and my comfort level went up again. I chuckled along at Helen's jokes, and was delighted when Chris shouted across at me that he got his wife an appointment at the migraine clinic which I had suggested because of her terrible problem. He was so excited to tell me that I felt happy that I had been able to help. The sad thing is the appointment is not for 9 months!
I also met a girl there who told me my husband had taught her and we chatted a bit. Of course she had loved him as a teacher--no surprise--so that was fun. After an hour and a half I was done and hopped on my bike to ride home. The muscles seemed a little stiff but nothing too tough to handle.
When I got home we decided to bike the six miles to the garage to pick up our car. We loaded up the water bottles, strapped on the helmets and headed out. We took it easy in the heat and stopped often under shady trees to take a swig of ice water. In half an hour we were sliding off the bikes and propping the kick stands. Jim stood outside the old-fashioned garage telling us that a simple tire rotation solved the problem which we thought was going to cost five or six hundred dollars. As hubby went in to settle the bill I talked on with Jim. His eyes never actually settle on you so that you might think he isn't interested in you at all. This is totally wrong. He is a Lion who quietly (not roaring) goes about the community doing good things. He is a good guy. We'll be back to him again, for sure.
We hopped in the car, jacked up the air conditioning and headed for home, bikes hanging out of the trunk. We were home in ten minutes, car in the garage, ready to face the rest of the day. And it was still only 10:30 a.m.
So. In case you haven't got the message, "I'm fine!"

For Ross--Picture

This is the picture I have been attempting to put in the For Ross blog. So far, this is the best I can do. Not sure if it is me or the software but I blog along.

Summer Time, Summer Time, Summer Time

So yesterday was a blistering hot day and we have more to come over the weekend and into Monday. I hate hearing a forecast like that. My body likes cool. My mind likes cool. Everything about me likes cool.
On a hot day when I see the heat broiling up from the pavement and feel the still, wet heaviness of the humid air, sometimes I get so frustrated I want to jump out of my life. I want to leave Southern Ontario's green fields and blue skies and head for somewhere--anywhere--that is cool. I remember one unusually hot September when we had to have the air on for yet another day and I felt like crying. To suffer through the humidity in July or even August I could understand, but in September? Enough already!
Last summer I spent a good part of my days in the basement cutting out and sewing together the 5,224 pieces for a king-size quilt for our bed. I know that seems a crazy time of year to be working on a quilt but the basement was cool and I could forget about the baking days outside. Well, except when I came up for meals and to go swimming in our pool. Then, I was glad it was warm with the refreshing water flowing over my body and revitalizing me. I spent part of every day swimmimg lengths and just enjoying the freeing coolness of the water washing over me.
As I write this hubby is outside vacuuming our pool, getting it all ready for tomorrow's small family pool party.
And that brings me to the things I like about the summer. I like wearing fewer clothes, sandals, bare feet, ripping off my top in my office when the heat is momentarily too much (hot flashes, you know), and I like going places and drinking in the beauty of Ontario's farmlands, her trees, her lakes, her sunny blue skies, her sunsets over Lake Huron. I like jumping in the car without having to think about all those extras of winter--extra mitts, hat, emergency winter survival kit, blanket, boots--no matter where we are going. I like the relaxation of it, which here in Ontario, we particularly need. I like the evenings that are warm enough to sit out and watch the stars, as long as we have put on some insect spray. I like the fire pit at my son's house where we sit around the fire and 'watch the evening tire' as John Denver put it, eating a little, drinking a little, maybe singing a few songs. I love the singing. In fact, now that I really look at it, summer is pretty cool!

Oh, How We Heal!

Hubby and I were having supper with my sister-in-law and her daughter the other day and found they are recovering quite nicely from their winter from hell. (They, along with my nephew, cared for my brother from January till April as he slipped from this life. For Ross ) I couldn't keep from watching Donna as she smiled and her face lit up. That funny little grin, when she teased my hubby as in the old days, was back and was a delight to see. Ross would be so glad.

We were all able to talk about other things, an improvement since most of our time together has been talking out our pain while trying to make sense of what we had collectively endured. Isn't it wonderful that we can move on? And I feel so blessed that I can move on without feeling it is a slight to Ross' memory. He so wanted us all to be happy and that is part of it, but the biggest thing is that in myself I have this sense of self-preservation that allows me to find a way to go on whenever something bad happens.

When my mother died after three and a half harrowing weeks in and out of hospitals, we could have blamed ourselves for not doing or saying the right things at the right times. But my mother's own example taught me to do my best and then go on. And that's what I did. Even today, I know that if I had the chance, I would fight both her and the medical people to do things differently but I do not blame myself. How could my siblings and I tell our intelligent, totally in control mother what to do? And I take solace in knowing that she made her own brave choices in the end, just as she did her whole life. And so I let her go and think happy thoughts of the woman who shaped me more than anyone in my life.

But back to my sister-in-law. Three months after her husband's death, she is going to go back to work part-time, she is sorting through the tangibles of my brother's life and doling them out where she can, and she is thinking new plans as she tries to make a new life. I so admire her. Her raw courage is amazing as she picks up the gauntlet, yet again, and struggles to fight for happiness. She deserves it.

Help! My computer has fallen and it can't get up!

Ach du lieber! My machine is down. When I try to turn it on it gets stuck on the black DOS screen saying that there is a non-system disk and I have to remove it to boot up. Well, there is no disk in any of the drives. So much for computer messages being accurate. After saying a few words--no, not prayers!--I tried restarting a few times. Nothing. Still the same message. And my computer guru son is away on a holiday. Bummer.

So what to do? Yesterday I must admit I was at a loss. I had forgotten how much time I spend at my computer. I couldn't check my email, write my blog, cruise my E-Bay, do my banking, play Mahjong or any of the other important and fulfilling things I do at my computer on a daily basis. Instead I pulled out our humongous fridge and stove and cleaned out underneath them. Yuk! What a rotten job. I was surprised how short a time the job took, though, and soon I was wondering what to do with myself again.

I got into my beads, finished off a peyote bracelet--it's gorgeous!--and laid out a necklace with some of the cheaper beads I have. I quite like it but am thinking about it for a day. Often I do that just to make sure I really like the design before I string it. Oh and I made up a watch kit yesterday, although I think I'll take it apart and do it again with different wire. The kit wire is just too stiff. I don't like it at all and the beads are kind of cheap. Live and learn. The wonderful thing is that I can redo it and only be out a piece of beading wire.

Much as I love beading, though, I can't do it all day. I think I love my computer more, especially when I do my blog. There is something refreshing about putting my thoughts in black and white, massaging the words, and letting the 'just right' phrase pop into place. Words are quite lovely as is the feeling of accomplishment when I finish a piece which makes me particularly proud. For Ross is that kind of piece.

And so, my first order of the day is to open up my computer and see if I can find any obvious hardware errors. I suspect the problem was set off by my Windows updates because I kept getting the prompt to restart my computer to let the updates take effect and when I did, it never came back on. Coincidence? Maybe, but I have to wonder if Microsoft might have something to do with my current plight. Whatever, I think it is time for me to let hubby have his computer back again and for me to troubleshoot. If you never hear from Beader Girl again.........

I'm a Morning Person!

Yes, I am. When I wake and feel the cool morning breeze blowing softly across the bed, when I hear the robins cheeping out their greeting, or even the mourning doves cooing their throaty songs, when I see the sunlight dancing through the crack in the curtains and flooding in through my open bedroom door, then I know it is time to rise yet again and help myself to another wonderful day.

Are they all wonderful, you might ask. Well, not all but enough that I can get through the others. I learned a long time ago that mostly the kind of day I have is up to me. Driving to school for yet another effort at taming the Grade 10 boys I was teaching that year, I had my own epiphany. I could think of all the bad things that might happen, of Jim's surly glances just barely held in check when I encouraged him to actually write in his journal. Or of Mike's odor which annoyed everyone within a few feet of him. And I could replay for the twentieth time that nasty scene with Dave as I once again forced him to sit down, actually stay in the desk, open his notebook and work on the assignment. None of these things set me up for a great day. I started to think of what I had at home--a wonderful husband, two intelligent and healthy children, a lovely home, everything I needed. I decided I was lucky to have my job. There were lots of people in the world who would gladly trade places with me and I would do better to concentrate on the superb parts of my life.

As I began to think in this way, using positive self talk as I now know Tony Robbins calls it, I began to feel better. A kind of peace stole over me bringing with it a feeling of power. I could do the tough things, the hard things, the things that drew on all my skills as a teacher and a person. I could do these things because I was strong. I had a loving family at home to anchor me as I went into the world and to be the reason that I worked so hard to be successful. Together my hubby and I were building our fantastic future and the present was a happy stepping stone.

Amazingly I have never forgotten that epiphany. Now, when things are tough, when bad things come as they inevitably do, I still try to count my blessings. I think of all the warm moments of my life, of the many people who are important to me and who love me, and I think of all the happy moments each day that fill my heart with glee. Yes, glee! And though the nest of the mourning dove we watched hatch her eggs is empty, my heart is brimming with happy moments, hours, days and years. As John Denver said, when the sun comes up, I got cakes on the griddle.

Blogging With My Daughter

I have been reading my daughter's blog. I am learning new things about her all the time and I thought I knew her pretty well. What a wonderful window into people's hearts is this 'new' thing called blogs. Of course people have been writing their thoughts and publishing them in letters for years, but the web enables all of us to publish in a completely new way and to a potentially huge audience. We don't have to submit manuscripts and brace for the inevitable rejection letter. We can just type away and hit the publish button. Talk about instant gratification!

But back to my daughter. In spite of being our 'world traveler' she has retained things from home, such as her desire to greet people on her walks as she did growing up in our small village. Walking Hellos And I feel her mortification at being tongue-tied during an encounter with a one-armed sales clerk. Mortification I know how much she adores her cat and wish I had been more accepting of pets when our children were little. Cat Bed Extraordinaire And all of these things help me to understand the person she is today. What a wonderful opportunity for a parent!

The absolute best thing about my daughter's blog is that it is yet another thing we share. When we are separated by most of a continent, ways to connect are so much more important. We know what the other is doing and thinking. I can see her knitting projects and she can see my beaded wonders. The magic of digital cameras makes it easy to create a close-up into our lives, and webcams and microphones make computer connection a whole new way to keep close. Yes, I love my techie stuff. But I love my daughter more!

For Ross

Today is the day I invite my feelings to the surface and try to write of my brother who died April 9, 2006. To do this is so hard that I have put it off for three months, to the day, all the while knowing I needed to write out my tribute to him, both for me and for him. So here goes.
So many memories--riding bikes, scraping knees, walking two miles to school over gravel roads, through wind, sun and snow, swinging high on the huge big kids’ swing, tossing the ball over the school in Annie-I-over (so much an oral tradition I don’t really know how to spell it correctly), sinking in the snow banks and chinking the little log cabin replica with leafy chunks to keep the wind out–all memories of my childhood and all with the certain safety of having my brother, Ross, there.
And again, as we grew older, early morning skating sessions at the arena to pass my first figures test, rides to Burlington to watch him practice endlessly and tirelessly to reach that next hurdle, sharing his car as he drove us to school while he went to work at the bank, going to Fort Erie, Guelph, Banff, many, many places to watch him and his partner compete in ever higher skating competitions. All of it fun, all of it so much a secure and happy part of my growing up. My big brother was always there for me.
He taught me to drive. Of course driving for him was pure ecstasy and he wanted me to share the thrill. In his ‘57 Chevy we reached the world. No place was too far, no goal too hard. For Ross, as for Birney’s David, ‘mountains were made to see over.’ He learned to fly both literally and figuratively. Money was always tight but he found a way to pay for the lessons and for the flying hours required. It was the way he lived his life. Whenever he had an idea he went about finding the way to make it happen, seldom set back by anything. The word indomitable was his mantra and his nature.
When he got the word that his brain held a tumor, he told me that young though he was, he had no regrets. He had lived a great life, done so many thrilling things that if he were to die tomorrow, it was enough. Yet the words were drowned by his actions once again. He fought like he had never fought before. He attacked the problem, he learned all he could about his blastoma, he blasted at it with foods, with traditional and alternative medicine, he agreed to do chemo and radiation, and he won for over a year and half, even though he had been given only three to six months to live.
When the cancer came back and he was told there was no hope, still he fought. He expected to beat it as he had so many other obstacles his whole life. His concern was for his family and for his many friends. He comforted me the day that, upon visiting, I realized in my gut that he was dying. His tears which I only saw that one time were for how sad I was. He couldn’t bear to see me cry.
And so when I visited from then on, I tried so hard to be brave, to be funny, to sing, to laugh, to tell him stories of my kids and my hubby, anything to keep from thinking about the monster that was stalking all of us. I could not think of my life without my big brother to share ideas with, to laugh with, to get excited with, to just be with.
When he finally died after weeks of lying immobile and unable to speak, with only his eyes showing he was with us, I was relieved that he was released from that still prison, but I put off thinking about the fact that I would never see him again. And I am still putting it off. I have a picture of the two of us on my desk as I write this–we are posing with our arms around each other but he is giving the V for victory sign over my head. And we are laughing. Always laughing. That is the way I will remember him, one arm so firm and strong a support and the other creating humor in every situation. And when I listen in my head I can still hear his full-throated joyful laugh. May it ever be with me.

Biking in the Country

This morning hubby and I helmeted up and hopped on our bikes for a half hour countryside tour. The breeze riffled through my hair, still wet from the shower, as we slogged up the first long, slow hill. I have solved the problem of vehicles passing too close to me by taking more of the lane until I hear the car close behind me. Then I pull over to give myself--and them--more room.

One day several years ago we were riding single file on the pavement edge of a road with no shoulder. There was no place to pull off without going down into a deep ditch. We had ridden this route many times before but this day I could hear a big truck getting closer and closer. I was a couple of inches from the pavement edge, gripping my handlebars tightly, anxious for him to be past. And there he was, right beside me. I mean RIGHT BESIDE ME! That green Seven-Up truck didn't pull out of the lane at all but passed within a few inches of me. I felt the roar of the tires and the pull of the wind. My hands tightened and my muscles locked as my heart leapt out of my chest. In no more than a second he was by and I realized just how close he had come to me. I stopped. Hubby did, too. We pulled the bikes off the road to let our breathing calm down. We felt the vindictiveness of that driver because there was no one else on the road. He could have pulled over to the other lane but he didn't. And that was in the days before helmets. When I think what could have been, I am still angry at that driver but really ready to practise safety both as a rider and as a driver.

And so whenever I'm riding I remember and make the cars and trucks pull out to pass me. This morning's ride was no exception. Luckily, most of our trek is on 'the road(s) less traveled by' so we can just enjoy the wonderful fresh air and exhilarating childlike whoosh as we race down a hill. I saw a penny, shiny on the road, but I was too fast to pick it up. It's there, shining coppery bright, for someone else to see and snatch.

As we rode back into the village we stopped and hubby picked up a newspaper for us to take to the back porch. We sat with our water and our paper and I thought how lucky we are to have what we have but most of all to be able to ride the days out joyfully and with good health.

Papers of Life

Life has its passages and its papers and, though I spent a lot of my life thinking I was very unique, life has taught me how similar I am to everyone else. Look at my 'Certificate' from my wonderful helicopter ride. They didn't even put my name on it! If I want it personalized, I have to fill it in.

Everyone has a birth certificate of one kind or another. My original I received in a packet of things my mother had sorted out to give me. The tiny four-line entry of my newspaper birth announcement was there as well, yellowed and brittle. Both things were special to me as they took me back to the time of my bursting into the world. Surely the stars must have jumped and the world clock must have missed a beat on that amazing day? Why is there is no mention of such a cataclysm in the history books on my special day?

Since then I have collected many official papers. I still have my Grade Eight report card filled in by the hand of my special teacher. What it doesn't mention is the day he was teaching our class the Science lesson, talking about insects fertilizing eggs, and I stuck up my hand. "My Dad puts fertilizer on the field but I don't understand how insects can fertilize eggs." Mr. Smith glowed red and proceeded to explain what was meant by his terminology. His red face became mine as I realized I had stepped in a big one and the class laughed. I took some teasing on the playground at lunch, you can be sure!

My Marriage Certificate reminds me of a hot day in June, my groom literally dripping at the front of the church, me laughing the whole day, and my mom kissing me goodbye as we left on our honeymoon. Well, we didn't get away quite that easily as my brothers blocked the laneway with a tractor and wagon so that we couldn't get on the road. We sat in the sweltering car, windows rolled up and started to kiss each other in front of the masses outside our haven. When the windows started to steam, the wagon was cleared and we were on our way, Mr. and Mrs. at last.

And there are the mountains of photo albums neatly organized and holding our treasures for the last forty years. Many people in there are gone now but the memories still linger when we thumb our way through. I am planning to have those books to fondle in my old age when I can't get around anymore. Each time I look for a specific picture I am slowed to a crawl as I rediscover the memories of our lives so far. The pictures of our boy and our girl growing up mark out our lives and, like the height measurements penciled on the doorway in the basement, are things to be treasured more and more as time passes.

And so I think that I am not totally individual. Everyone has these mementos and everyone has their papers of life. Of course today many of our things are plastic cards in our wallets but still we all have them. We are born, we go to school, we play sports, we win trophies and awards--we step one life step to another, moving down a similar path to a sure end. So I guess I'm not unique. And yet, and yet...................