Three Good Things Today

How can I write these when the day has barely started? I'll write in anticipation of three good things and probably many more will come my way as the day lengthens.
1. We are going to my old childhood family church this morning to hear my sister sing and to mark the fast approaching first anniversary of Ross' journey to the next step. Hopefully he will be with us in spirit as we do this.
2. We're going to a favorite spot in Stratford for lunch, one at which Ross particularly loved the salmon with his eggs et al. We'll toast his memory.
3. Later maybe we'll put together the bathroom cabinet we bought in Home Depot yesterday, mount it on the wall, and take down two old ones we have there. This is another small step in updating our bathroom.
I wish a good day to my readers, too--I'm off to the shower!

Skating in Canada, Eh?

To live in Canada and not skate is somewhat rare. From pond skaters to backyard hockey skaters, from Saturday night public skating to organized lessons in figure eights to getting goals, we are a nation of serious skaters. And if ice skating isn't enough, in summer we lace up the roller blades and go 'roller-bootin'. What is the attraction?

I believe there are three things. Human beings have that desire to go fast. We love to fly down hills on our bikes, to dive off the high board, to whoosh down the tallest slide, all for the thrill of sheer speed. And let's not even talk about what we do with our cars.

Secondly we love competition which is the end result of good learning. I mean, if you practice long enough, you'll get good at things and when you get good you like to prove your excellence, isn't that right? We all like to feel we have achieved things and often that centers around competition. Certainly figure skating is internationally a favorite to watch on tv for its beauty and grace but also our reverence for winners. And many of us remember 'Hockey Night in Canada', with that frosty voice of Foster Hewitt as he revved up--"He Shoots! He SCORES!!!"--bringing our living rooms alive with the thrill of the winner, a feeling which has only increased over the years.

For us Canadians, however, I wonder if our love of skating stems from our long winters. Even when we have little snow, we still have a lot of cold, short days and long, dark nights to pass between November and March. With our skates we can get out and embrace winter, steam up our glasses, warm up our toes, all the while having fun.

I've been skating since I was a little girl about 6 or so. I remember a Saturday night when I was allowed to go with my dad and brothers to public skating at the Ingersoll arena. Round and round I skated along the boards as I listened to the music and watched the boys dart in and out. I was one of the big kids! Suddenly I heard my name called over the all-powerful loudspeaker. It was like God was calling me to get off the ice. I looked up at the booth high above the seats and saw my Dad waving me off. Apparently he was afraid I'd get hurt with all the wild activity on the ice. Little did he know I was just preparing for my future of racing the boys around the school (and winning), of reveling in my role as the end of crack-the-whip when they couldn't shake me off, and of flying through the Fourteenstep with my brother, Ross, a fabulous figure skater.

These are some of the reasons I still go skating when I can although my feet don't obey like they used to. Yet when I step on the ice and stride away with long, sure sweeps, I am thankful for my muscle memory which links me to those feats of old. And I keep going.

The Pirate King

For some reason today my thoughts are on my brother, Ross, about whom I've written before. When you lose someone close, strangely you eventually move on and think your mourning is over, but I've come to learn that is not so. Every so often, when dusting the family picture (yesterday) or preparing to go skating (this morning) or seeing a 55 mph speed sign, I think of Ross.

Here he is many years ago with his first skating partner, Sherry. I loved this picture as it hung on our living room wall in my childhood home, and when Ross died I went looking for it so that I might have a copy. I scanned it in, enhanced the colour, cleaned it up a bit and Presto! (another Ross line) I have my memory chip.

Ross loved to go fast, driving, skating, talking, laughing--it was all fast. He once played that song "I can't drive 55!" for us on one of our trips, and ever after the line became part of our shared memories.

In one of our family musicals, The Sound of Music, Ross played Max and Presto! Change-0! became his hallmark from that show. I guess it was the gusto he showed in the role. And, of course, in Pirates of Penzance, he was the pirate king. His strong, athletic fighting, his sure singing of the song "I am the pirate King" made him really a king and he is still so in my heart.

A Super Suzuki Day

On Sunday hubby and I were invited to Guelph to see our niece's two children play in the Suzuki Christmas event at River Run Centre. Anxious to spend time with our niece's family (my brother Ross' daughter), we approached the concert as a cute preliminary and looked forward to starting our yearly Christmas celebration of concert events.

Upon arrival at the centre we quickly spotted Hugo who directed us to the seats the older two children were saving. We have not seen enough of these children to have them know us well, so this was a 'getting acquainted' visit for the first while. The two older ones, M. and I., showed us to our seats and we settled down to wait for the start while they jumped up and down, giggled and laughed happily, and just seemed to enjoy everything that was happening. Their father and mother came and sat near us and the concert began.

Various teachers of Suzuki trooped their various-sized charges on stage in a very orderly and disciplined fashion. The teachers played with their students and I was struck by the clarity of tone as the violins and cellos matched their teacher's tone. Suzuki is an interesting method of learning, to be sure. From older students who were quite comfortable performing for many audiences (as they told us), to the wee tiniest tykes with fake violin bows doing a rhythmic drill, the concert was well done. The children all knew their places and joyfully joined in at their times. Finally everyone was on stage, all one hundred and eighty of them, and they played Silent Night, a moving feast for ear and eye.

From the stage the children trooped to the large foyer where millions of cookies and plates of fresh fruit awaited and there most of them stopped, making it hard to get near the table to get a bite. We were not unhappy, though, as our waistlines don't need the sugar, but our willpower is often more like won't power! This way we weren't tempted to try for another bite.

Afterwards we went to our niece's lovely little corner house and had a wonderful time with the four children, all of whom took turns telling us little things and inviting us into their lives. E. hanging from the exercise bar in the doorway, couldn't believe that I was his great aunt, saying, "That can't be right!" as I explained how his grandfather and I were brother and sister just like him and his sisters. G. sat on my knee as we chatted after supper and I delighted in holding a little one--she is five. I. is sure of her own way in this world and watching her smile was delightful. She asked me to make her some earrings once she gets her ears pierced and I took that as an affirmation of my own self-made ones. But my biggest surprise came on leaving, when M. whispered to me that she had put something in my purse for me to open on the way home.

As we drove down the 401 we had lots to think about. Hubby fondly remembered E. taking him to see his bedroom where he sleeps on the top bunk. Up he climbed and asked hubby to climb up, too, which he did all the while hoping that the bed would hold him. I told hubby of the older two girls playing a duet on the piano and we marveled at how happy and unselfconscious these children are. Then we remembered the gift in my purse and I rumaged around to find a lovely little handmade card from M. She was thanking me for the necklaces which I had made for each of them, but her 'voice' was so joyful and true that the card was a treasure. That she had done this on her own made it all the more special. Thank you, M.

This was a joyful Sunday afternoon and evening for both of us. We look forward to our extended family Christmas where we will know these children much better and they will know us. Would that every Sunday could be filled with such family fun.

The Paper Got It Right!

Linked you will see the newspaper article about the Heroes in the Home event last Wednesday. The link leaves out the picture so I have put in my scanned newspaper copy with apologies for the poor quality.
I have also written about Ross quite often over the past few months so check my archives if you want to learn about this great guy.

Heroes in the Home (2)

Today I give you part of the program from Heroes in the Home held on Wednesday of this week.
This is page 3 of the program listing the recipients of the various awards. Notice Donna and Tracy in the Community Caregiver Awards and Wayne's name mentioned in the letter excerpt at the bottom of the page. Finally go to Heroes in the Home for the story.

Heroes in the Home

On Wednesday I witnessed a wonderful thing. Well, two or three wonderful things, to be exact. I was at a Heroes in the Home awards ceremony, the first I’d ever attended, watching as wonderful people had their nomination letters read while they received a handshake and a gift from CCAC-Oxford. For the uninitiated, CCAC represents Community Care Access Centre, a blanket organization that oversees homecare and many other health oriented issues. My brother, Wayne, is Board Chair at this time, having spent many years working quietly to improve healthcare in the county.

I knew that my sister-in-law and her daughter were each going to receive a Community Caregiver Award and wanted to be there. Of course these awards attest to their care of my brother, Ross, through the months he lay dying at home. I have already described their love and devotion to every detail as humbling to watch, so that watching them be honored was my next step in the process of being there for Ross’ family. As I watched Tracy mount the platform and work to keep control of her emotions my wet eyes told of my thoughts of her care for her stepfather, how calm she was, how careful to move him just exactly right, how thoughtful she was in finding ways to make his days better and how she leaned over his hospital-type bed, both arms around his head, stroking his hair, brushing away imaginary and real things as though she could brush away the illness that was inside his head, robbing him of life. She became my hero forever.

Next Donna mounted the small dais, stood calmly, small and quiet, her enigmatic smile belying the huge heart beating inside her. She has lost two husbands now, yet still forges on. Throughout Ross’ illness, I was amazed at Donna’s ability to put her own problems aside, to reduce her own medication so that she would be awake if Ross needed her in the night. She arranged first of all to have a contraption attached to their bed so that he could still pull himself up and get out of bed. She rented a stair elevator so that he could still get upstairs to sit in their living room. When those were no longer viable, she turned their bedroom into a lovely haven for Ross. His TV was high in the corner so he could watch it whenever he wanted. She brought in pictures of his many exploits figure skating, flying, having family fun. Everywhere I looked there was something positive to remind us all of Ross, larger than life. For him, she held back her tears. She was exhausted but still she nursed him lovingly and with true dedication.

As she stood on the stage I could see this was a strain for her but she bravely stood, shook the hand of the presenter, collected her award, and with great dignity took her seat again. Such a small person carrying so large a load. Another hero.

Of course I have only mentioned two of the twenty-three heroes in the home who were honored. The stories of each were just as moving, just as full of love. From the caregiver of a happy little girl with two leg braces and no speech to the virtually blind old woman caring for her ill husband in their home, the stories were amazing. People really do rise up and take the burdens they are given.

Finally, after all the awards on the program, there was one final one. This was a special plaque presented to the person who had initiated these awards six years ago, my brother Wayne. He was surprised as his name was called. He moved to the stage and quietly smiled his pleasure as the presenter told of Wayne’s contributions in warm words, words that he had to cut short as he became too emotional to carry on. Wayne has made his mark with people.

After the event pictures were taken of the recipients and then of those of our family who were there to honour Donna and Tracy, and Wayne. Reporters took Donna and Tracy into a corner and interviewed them for about 15 minutes, during which I had a chance to personally thank the wonderful speaker, Eleanor L. Wood. Her message was about positive thinking and she delivered it with great humour and meaningful anecdotes. As I drove away my heart was saddened again at losing Ross but gladdened by all the love I had witnessed the past two hours. People really do rise up to shoulder the burdens thrust upon them and thus become Heroes in the Home.

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!

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.

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.