St.Patrick's Parachute Pants

Hello and Happy St. Patrick's Day Blog Fans from, according to one of our water towers, Canada's Irish Capital!

This entry won't be a long as some of my other ones. After all, the pubs are now open and some of you have drinkin' to be gettin' on wit'! I will not be partakin' of the booze the colour of pond alge this year, but I am decked out in green and wanted to share a quick story wit'all of ye!

My little girl has loved to draw ever since she could hold a crayon properly. I am an extremely sentimental person and want to keep everything! So, you can imagine the chaos this can create in my mind if I need to clear some things out.(Because, let's be honest...no matter how cute or thought provoking or bizarre the drawing, test or card at hand, you can't keep everything!) School work, sheets brought home years ago from kindergarten covered in carefully draw alphabet letters and other such items are either recycled or made into new paper. Sorcha's drawings however, no matter how big or small, are put into scrap books. And I don't mean the fancy kind of scrap book. (Please I intend no offence to all the scrappers out there..."scrap booking" just isn't my thing.) No, I'm talking about the thin paged, pages that inevitably fall out and need to be taped back in, scrap book. The kind of scrap book I used to glue my many 100's of pictures of Michael J. Fox into. (I also had one filled with NKOTB pictures! Shhh! Don't tell!) But I digress...

Sorcha enjoys taking long walks down memory lane, in particular paths that lead to early childhood which being only 8 wasn't really that long ago, but when you're a child, 1 year can make a huge difference to who you are what you can do. A few days ago she chose the path marked "drawings" and proceeded to spend about an hour in the living room looking through a scrap book filled with drawings she had done when she was 5 and under. I had just stepped in the door after shopping on a Sunday at Walmart (ALWAYS a good time) when she asked "Mummy? Why did I draw a picture of a leprechaun parachuting?" Immediately I was on that memory lane with her and recalled in full colour the conversation I had with Sorcha at the time she'd drawn this picture for St. Patrick's day in kindergarten...




Sorcha: "Do you like my drawing?"

Me: "Yes, it's very nice. What is it exactly?"

Sorcha: "It's St. Patrick parachuting."

Me: "He's very high up...did he parachute from a space ship?"

Sorcha: "No, just a plane."

I think the drawing is wonderful. I particularly like Sorcha's bold attempt at the continents and how happy St.Patrick appears to be even though chances are he's going to burn to crisp upon entering the earth's atmosphere. However, I wanted to inject a slight amount of realism into her thinking and gently explained to Sorcha, at the time, that the only way for earth to look that way to a person was if they were in outer space. But I didn't have the heart to tell her that St. Patrick was not, in fact, a leprechaun and so did not dress like one, (well, not as far as I know anyway...I mean I never actually met the man. Perhaps this is exactly how he dressed! And when you get right down to it, I'm not even totally sure that this is how actual leprechauns dress.) and instead just complimented her on her very creative drawing which we then hung up along with her other St. Patrick's Day arts and crafts.

Sorcha sat on the stool waiting for an explanation as to why she, her 5 year old self, had thought to draw St. Pat up in Leprechaun finery. I told her the same story I just related to you and watched a look of confused bemusement cross her face. "Why would I do that?" she asked. "I guess you thought that's how St. Patrick dressed and I've no idea why you drew him parachuting." I said. And then she laughed. She laughed the laugh of someone who recalls with great joy and slight embarrassment the silly things they did in their youth.

May your St.Patty's beer be green, but not your face tomorrow mornin'.

Cheers and Cin!

Winter Wonderment

Hello to you Blog Fans.

It's been a while since I've posted something on this blog. (too busy being awesome!) But once again, the monthly Words on Water at Saltwater Sounds has brought forth from me a piece of writing I like enough to post online. The theme for this month was "Winter". Here in the Miramichi we've had very light winter. It's been cold sure, but we've had very little in the way of snow. The day before yesterday it was 8 degrees and raining! But tonight we are getting a lot of snow and it's my favourite kind of snowfall; soft and beautiful.

I give you...

Winter Wonderment (which I dedicate to my Sorcha)

When I was a little girl, the most exciting event that could take place in my life, aside from days like Christmas and my birthday, was a snowfall. I grew up on the rainy west coast in Victoria and a snowfall, even if it was only a few cm, was a big deal. If it fell on a school day, waiting for recess was agony! The snow could be gone by 10:15 if it was suddenly sunny or rainy! What if we didn’t get a chance to play in it? Usually the snow was there for first recess, but by lunch time recess, usually due to melting and 100 kids making snow balls and snow men during first break, lunch time snow play was a desperate undertaking of rolling a snow ball from patch of white to patch of white over churned up muddy green, giving our snowmen a very hairy appearance or getting a snowball in the face a muddy experience. If our magical snowfall fell on the weekend or during holidays, my brother and I would spend hours in the yard building, running, piling, sliding, freezing and waiting for my Dad to offer to pull us around the yard in the almost pristine sled.

Some years, we would only get one snow fall or we wouldn’t get any at all. Some years, the snow lasted for a couple weeks and the novelty of the snow would actually wear off and we would want again for the comfort of our green.

As a teenager and in my early 20’s I got my fill of snow. I lived in Ottawa and in the winter there was no shortage of it. Much like a lot of Miramichi winters, the snow would last for what seemed like forever. Having to wear clunky boots, scratchy hats and bulky coats is never a strong desire for a teenager. I was never one for really caring about what I looked like in my warm finery, but in early high school my brother said that one of my hoods made me look like ET and I became quite self conscious about my winter gear for years. During this time in my life participating in outdoor winter fun was never something that brought me joy. I didn’t really like skiing, skating on the Rideau Canal was a bumpy affair that left me sore and sledding always made me miserable because I was extremely good at getting snow up my sleeves. Spring brought a sort of freedom; I could stop looking like an alien and feel more like the awkward teenager that I liked only slightly more and I could stop making excuses for why I didn’t want to participate in anything wintery.

My husband and I moved from Ottawa to the west coast after we married and rain or snow, dreary grey or bright white made no real difference in our lives. Rain in the winter was the norm, and snow was never a treat. It was just weather. However, when our daughter was born, we started to feel the tingle of magic wonder that a snow fall can bring. We pictured ourselves bundling up our wee one and teaching her how to make a snowball, or a snow fort, showing her how to make the perfect stereo typical snow man and sharing in the beauty of a soft snowfall at night.

Sorcha’s first experience with snow occurred when she was 17months old. We’d had a fairly heavy snow fall and I’d been stuck inside for a couple days because I didn’t have tractor tires on her stroller. However, once it melted off the sidewalks, I took Sorcha up to hill to a community park. Once out of her stroller, she stared around her at the whiteness mixed with green. Without hesitating she bent down and put her mitted hands in and immediately put one hand in her mouth. Being the wonderful mother I am, I didn’t scold her, but quickly took a picture of her first taste of cold white snow; she wasn’t impressed. I let her run around in it until she found a broken bottle under a tree and we went on home. Soon the snow was gone and it brought a quick close to Sorcha’s first experience with snow.

Shorty after Christmas of 2003, when Sorcha was just 2, we got about a foot and half of snow in a couple days; a huge deal for southern coastal BC. In a freshly purchased pair of used purple snow pants, Sorcha took her first walk falling snow. She laughed as the snow flakes tickled her lashes and marveled at the different pattern every snow flake seemed to be. The snow was barely covering the grass at this point so no attempt at a snow man was made, but Sean rolled a couple snowballs for her and Sorcha had great fun throwing them at me. The next day the snow was deeper, but joy and the novelty of snow were quickly replaced with dismay and frustration as Sorcha struggled to wade through the wet, heavy snow that came up over her wee knees. Tears signaled the end of fun thus ending Sorcha’s second experience with snow.

The following winter we got more snow then we’d had in years and it lasted for over a month. We had moved to a different place by then and the complex offered a huge park area for playing and running around in. Once again bundled up in her purple snow pants, Sorcha and I went out for fun in the snow. She was a bit taller, a bit stronger then the year before so the slog through the snow was more enjoyable. It was a lovely day for being outside and together, Sorcha and I built her first snowman. He didn’t have a hat or scarf as it was a communal yard and more then likely they would have been stolen from the poor guy within the hour so we settled on creating a snowman with a half classical whimsy about him. As we were building him near a tree that had shed everything for winter, sticks were easy to find and we used them for arms, a smiling mouth, nose and sticky up hair. For the eyes and buttons we collected pieces of bark from the gardens under the windows that hadn’t been covered with snow yet. When we were finished, we stood back and assessed our creation with satisfaction. Both of us were hot from the rolling and packing of snow, our long hair was coming out from under our hats and our hands were starting to go numb due to snow soaked mitts; but we were pleased. Sorcha beamed at her first snowman and I was happy to have shared another first with her. We stumbled back inside and right after we stripped off our wet snow gear, we went to the living room window to see if we had a good view our new winter friend. The view from our 4th floor window was perfect; there he stood, under a tree, leaning slightly back and smiling right up at us.

One morning, a few days after we’d built our snowman, I went to the window to see how our snow friend was fairing. He was still there, arms spread wide, big happy grin smiling up at me. As I sat there sipping my coffee, I saw a guy cutting through the yard most likely taking a short cut to get to a walking trail beyond the property. And from our window, I watched in absolute horror, as this person made a B-Line for our handsome snowman, walked over him and crushed him to the ground. I was shocked and angry! Why would he do that? Did he think he was a big man because he wrecked this happy creation? Had he been attacked by a snowman as child and now all snowman in his path were the enemy? It wasn’t as if there was no space to walk around it. He had clearly done it on purpose! Now you may be thinking “What’s the big deal? It’s just a snowman.” But to me, he was so much more then that. I’d found my childhood joy in snow again and created something special with my daughter who had discovered her joy for snow by creating this iconic winter being. My first thoughts after the initial shock had worn off were “How am I going to tell Sorcha? How will she take this?” I was guessing the news would not be welcome news because this was a girl whom the day before had had a near meltdown when she couldn’t get her socks on right.

I heard Sorcha getting up, and quickly got her ready for the day, keeping away from the window as to not bring the thought of anything snow related to her mind and went to have a shower. When I was finishing up in the bathroom, I heard “Oh no…” from the living room; Sorcha had seen the carnage. She ran to the bathroom and said “Mummy? I think someone wrecked our snowman.” Bracing myself for the onslaught of weepy tears I sighed and said “Yes, sweetie…a man walked over him…I’m sorry…I didn’t want to tell you because I thought you’d be upset”. But she didn’t get upset, my 3 year old daughter took the news with the ease of someone much older and said “Oh, that’s ok Mummy. We can build a new one. Don’t be upset.” I was so proud of her. I had imagined hours of comforting talks, hours explaining that sometimes people do mean things without thinking or caring about how it will make others feel, but instead, she put it out of her head, moved on and left me in a haze of wonder. She and I didn’t make a new on that year, but I think her father and her did. (A bit off any possible path to keep the new one from harm.) I picked up the pieces of bark that we’d used to help create his face and put then in bag for possible future use. They are still in that bag, all these years later, in a drawer of an end table in our living room. Every time I look at those pieces of wood I’m reminded that people don’t always behave how you’d expect them to and that cold winter memories are usually very warming and that sometimes, with Sorcha’s help, a bit of snow can still be an exciting event in my life.

For John

Recently on the CBC, a DJ was talking about the loss of a musician; a young musician. He was saying that sometimes there are no words, no rhymes to put loss into words.

And he's right.

The call came late Sunday morning on December 9th 2001. It was a dark, rainy day. The dampness of a long Vancouver winter was already upon us. Sean and I were tired and cranky. Our newborn girl, just 7 weeks old had had a rough night so we'd all had a rough night.

I was sitting on the arm of a chair in our living room, holding Sorcha and trying to decide whether or not she really needed to be fed when the phone rang. Sean got it; it was his Dad. I don't remember the exact words Sean said out loud. I just remember the horrible cold feeling of disbelief; of feeling like someone was trying to pull my stomach out my back; of knowing that our family had forever changed in the end of a heartbeat.

While the world outside our tiny space stopped being real, the baby in my arms because very real and very hungry. Through my tears, my shock and while listening to Sean struggle with the news I sat down to feed our wee girl. While she ate I cried, asked questions, received fragmented answers and waited for Sean to be finished on the phone and tell me everything I didn't want to be true.

John, Sean's cousin, was gone. He'd been found in the alley outside his apartment in Toronto. Had he jumped? No, they didn't think so. It looked as though he'd been thrown. Why? Why? Why?

So many questions...so much confusion...Why did this happen? What are they going to do? What are we going to do?

Two days later, Sorcha and I went to my parents place in Victoria and Sean went to Ottawa for young John. He'd been asked to help carry John's casket to his grave site; help carry John on his last journey which unfortunately was the start of a long tortured path for his family.

John's case was too quickly determined a suicide when it was obvious from the evidence that it was wasn't. John's death was highly suspect, even to the casual observer, but the minds of those in power could not be changed. John's parents who are not people to just back down refused to accepted this hastily made decision and for 8 years they have fought tooth and nail to have the case reopened and have the ruling of John's death as suicide overturned.

But now we come to where the loss of words becomes a reality. How do you put into words the tragic death of a kind, happy man who loved his family deeply, who really cared for people and who truly believed with all his heart that his Papa was Santa Claus? How do you write down the frustration, the anger, the torment brought on by people who didn't to their jobs to bring about justice for John. But most of all, how do you even begin to describe in words the abyss of loss that his parents and sister feel? You can't; not in any words that come close anyway. John would have been 30 this year. The anniversary of his death brings about deep grief for all of us who knew him, but I can't imagine trying to put into words the thoughts and feelings his parents and sister must have on his birthday. There are no words of comfort to say to those who held John on the day he was born when he is now no longer here to hold.

We won't forget John and we will fight for him until the the words we've used to do so will finally mean something to someone. Until the words that have been said out loud are no longer lost on anyone.

Below is a link to a website John's family has set up for information about John, his case and the publicity his case has received. Please take the time to go to this site and see if there is any support you can offer.

http://www.aquestionoftrust.com/?p=5This

The Fall of Coffee

Tuesday, I think...I started to write Saturday...yes, Tuesday, Sept. 22/2009

8:44AM

I'm sitting at my computer willingly eating breakfast, and while stomach is happy for this unexpected early intake of food, my head is none too pleased...Today, I'm quitting coffee...

I love coffee...love it...it fills me with a sense of well being, comfort and...another word similar to those 2 concepts I've laid out. But lately, I've been thinking that perhaps it's time to make a change. I spend A LOT of money on coffee, and cream and sugar. And let's face it people I'm addicted to coffee. This is starting to make me uncomfortable. Plus, I'm pretty sure all the cream and sugar I put in my morning cup of love goes straight to my backside. So, this morning I thought "Well, I like tea, and I can drink tea with milk. Tea has the caffeine buzz that makes me feel so fine so why not give it a go."

Sigh...not so much...I felt like I had gut rot after the first 2 sips. Usually tea agrees with me, but not today so...I decided to go big or go home; cutting out caffeine entirely. And for your reading displeasure, I will be popping onto the entry throughout the day to record the process of "The Fall of Coffee". (a good name considering it is the first day of Fall)

So, it is now

8:54AM

I feel like I haven't slept, like my eyes are just sort of floating in their sockets, my head is heavy, but hey...I ate breakfast this morning because I really wanted to!! Coffee usually tells me..."Nah...you're good. We can do without food until at least 11:00." Ok, it's now time to pack up and head to work...where many varieties of caffeinated products abound and where there is a Tim's down the road! NO!!! I can do this!!

9:39 AM

I am at work…my head is reeling…the florescent lights are killing me eyes and I’m hungry again! I need coffee!! I’m trying to remember why I’m doing this…

9:47AM

Is it really so bad to have one vice????

9:48AM

Good gravy...I could fall asleep in my chair...I'll go sweep. You know sweep? With a broom? I wasn't saying sleep in baby talk...just want to be clear.

10:10AM

Help me!!!

10:21AM

Well...I could try to cut out the sugar...This is sad...I've been up for 4 hours, only 4 hours and I feel like I've deprived myself of this dark nectar of the Gods for days.

10:28AM

It's over...I can't take it...I actually have heartburn from NOT having coffee...bring it on!!

11:03AM

Coffee is brewing...Coffee: 1...Cindy: 0...I'm quite disturbed that not having a coffee has a horrible effect on my brain, but I'll never get any work done if I don't have some! So...sorry had to yawn...I'll carry on with this vice for now...maybe cut out a sugar or 2 and not worry about my backside. I exercise, that should help the ol' rear view, but if I don't get any coffee, I'll sleep more, do less and tell me,what good will that do anyone!!! I NEED COFFEE!!

11:16AM

Ahhh.....coffee...but it's weird without sugar...But my head isn't reeling quite as much and I'll be able to function now. Moderation is the key. I'm trying not to feel like a failure...I mean I went less then 5 waking hours without coffee...that shouldn't have been difficult, but it was.

12:44PM

I’ve had 2 cups of coffee (one with 2 creams and no sugar and one with 3 milks and 1 sugar) and I’ve got to tell you…I feel super! I can’t believe how clear my head feels, how awake I am, how horribly addicted I am to coffee!

Sigh…

I will not dwell on this for too long. Quitting anything cold turkey is ludicrous. I enjoy coffee! I believe that you could say that I don't just love coffee, I'm IN love with coffee, it makes me happy, I makes me warm, it relaxes me…and stains my teeth…But it’s my comfort drink! (even more then WINE!) In conclusion it would appear my "Fall of Coffee" turned rabidly into "Fall off the Coffee Wagon."

Cheers!


Until next time,
enjoy, like I do, at least one
Cin

Environmentally Sound

Hey there Blog Fanatics

We had an amazing Words on Water last night down at the OL' Saltwater Sounds. Miramichi born and now Fredericton based Carla Gunn read to us from her debut novel AMPHIBIAN. It's about an intelligent and articulate 9 year old boy named Phin who is dealing with his anxieties about the damage being done by humans to the environment. I'm looking forward to reading it. And I mean that...I bought the book and will read it soon. I too feel anxious about the environment, I feel as though any effor made by me to keep things a little greener will go un noticed, but really, every little bit helps and doing something is better then doing nothing. Excuse me while I climb off my soap box...

And as we always have with Words on Water, we had a theme and rightly so the theme was "Environment". I wrote a story of sorts about my Recycling Woes. Enjoy!

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Recycling Ramblings


I like green and I like being green but a certain Frog was right when he said it wasn’t easy...

I try my best to recycle…I sort my cardboard from my paper and rinse out my soup cans too; sometimes scrubbing extra hard to rid the tin of food and sticky hues.

They sit patiently in my kitchen closet in a bag or in boxes until they overflow to the floor. I load these into my car where I burn fossil fuels to take them to their temporary home among the hopefully correctly recycled items.

The big blue recycling bins are around the town. I usually take them to one in the collage parking lot. Perhaps they feel smarter as they lie and wait to become anew? Perhaps they wonder if they will become new paper that will be used to write beautiful prose or breakthrough scientific research.

But what about plastics you say? What about milk jugs, and pill bottles? What about strawberry clam shell containers that can slice your fingers open while trying to retrieve a sweet piece of forced into ripeness red fruit? What of these oil based homes for food and drink?

Well… I recycle some…of...them, but this is where the green turns to blue. For in my fair town, a frustration is growing…well with me anyway…I’m not sure how other people feel when they flip the lid of yogurt container knowing that they’ve bought something they can’t recycle here, but for me the pain goes deep!

1 and 2! Oh you’ll do! Come with me! But 6,5,4 and 3…stay where you are! You’re not recyclable in this town you see!!

It’s not a thing I can control…I understand recycling is costly…and to recycle all numbers means more computer numbers in the budget…

But it causes me such woe to throw away the margarine tub (a 5) and recycle the lid. It hurts to buy the coffee that comes in the easy to grip container (a 6) knowing that it will be separated from its top in the end.

So, I keep them…I keep them all…the margarine bowls and yogurt containers, the coffee tubs and mushroom restrainers, the apple sauce cups and so, so, so many containers…and yell WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH ALL OF YOU???

There’s only so many crafts you can use them for, only so many dried foods that you can store, only so many buttons and beads around and rocks and shiny trinkets abound. I fill them up, I give them away, I store them store them and still they stay.

I try to buy things that do not come in plastic containers I can’t recycle. Mushrooms in bulk and tomatoes too…no wait I can recycle tomato containers...they are a 2. Buying bulk beans is great, except the bag has to go, in with the garbage…woe upon woe.

Hey, hey! Did you know you can buy peanut butter in bulk and honey and jam and and and…the container you put them in is a 5! A 5! They’ll still in be in landfill long after I’m alive.

I want be gree even if, from time to time, trying to do so makes the air around me blue and my face a bit red. I can’t change the world, but I want to make my place in it a little cleaner. Recycling, composting and buying smarter...these things help me sleep a little better.

But I will always swim in the guilt of freezie wrappers and chip bags, plastic housing that cheese comes in and the waxy paper on band aids. And although I wince when these and other such items are tossed in the trash I feel a bit of the blue fade when our family of 3 creates less then one bag of garbage per week because of trying to be green.

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I also wrote a song, based on my story, but I only read the story. Below is the song so pick a tune, any tune and sing along with...

The Being Green Blues


I do my part to recycle
Separate the best I can
Paper goes in that box
Cardboard in that bin
Shopping bags and tin cans
A recycling we will go
But when it comes to plastics
My heart is filled with woe

Flip over your containers
A triangle lays in wait
To reveal a tiny number
The master of its fate
Now in the town where I live
This number can bring on pain
When I discover my apple cup
Can’t be recycled again

Chorus

1 and 2 you can come with me
Because of your recyclability
6,5,4,3 what can I say
You’ll live in my basement
To be reused someday.

Now recycling is expensive
It takes a lot of green
Not being green hurts my soul
A pain that’s felt not seen
The plastics I can’t recycle
Become homes for other things
Rocks, beads, rice, beans
Necklaces and rings

We recycle all that we can
We even compost too
Making so little garbage
The gray can’s a wee bit blue
Recycling even a little
Can keep your conscience clean
Don’t listen when the Frog says
It ain’t easy being green

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And that, as they says folks, is all.

I hope you're all having a lovely summer and remember

Being Green isn't a

Cin

This One's for my Dad

Hello to all you Blog fans

Once again, wanting to participate in Words on Water was just the inspiration I needed to do some more writing (see beginning of previous to post if you've no idea what I'm talking about). As the last WOW was very close to Father's Day and to the start of summer, last months theme was "Father and/or Summer". Here is what I wrote for my Dad.

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My Dad joined the Navy when he was 17. His parents put him on a train in Alberta and send him packing to Cornwallis, NS. After training, he was posted to the Naval base in Victoria, BC. He met my Mum when he was 21 and they married within months of meeting. By the time they'd been married for 4 years, they had 2 kids; me and my brother Scott.

My Dad was away at sea for a great deal of the first 14 years of my life. Sometimes it was only be for a few days. For a few months he would be away during the week and home on weekends. For one year though when I was in early elementary school, he was on shore leave and was home with us in the evenings while my Mum was at work. But at least once every couple years, my Dad would have to go away for up to 4 months at a time. I remember many a tear filled dawn when my Dad would come into my room to say goodbye. The hugs were never long enough, the tears came even though I tried to hold them in and saying I love you over and over never seemed to the exact way of telling him how much I would miss him. But it's what I did and he did it too.

This of course was a day in age where the wonder of email and cheap long distance did not exist. We would be lucky if we talked to my Dad once when he was away. However, my Dad always did what he could to let us know we were in his thoughts while we were apart. His specialty was notes. When I would get up in the morning after he'd left, I would always find a note written in ink crayon on the bathroom mirror. Lovely words like "I love you and will miss you. Take care of yourselves." would hover above a carefully drawn desert scene (my Dad loves to draw camels and palms trees). If possible we would preserve the note on the mirror for the entire time he was away.

The bathroom note was just the beginning. In every cupboard, and closet, in drawers, in our cloths, mixed in with our toys, in the pantry and even with the cat food, we would find notes. "Pet Rocky for me." "Thinking of you!" "Mmmm Cookies!" But best of all, my Dad would leave notes in places he knew we likely wouldn't go to for months. One year he went away in August and was due back sometime in November. Near Halloween, while rummaging under the stairs for decorations we found a note on our pumpkin lamp,"Happy Halloween! See you soon!".

My Dad also wrote letters. When he had to go on course in Halifax, the letters would arrive in regular envelopes on regular paper. But when he was away at sea, the letters would be written on mint green self adhesive paper (paper the exact shade of green as his uniform shirts at the time) and stamped from faraway places like Hawaii, Fiji or Thailand. One time he sent me a letter from New Zealand. In it he'd drawn me a picture of a cute, wooly sheep. "There are more sheep then people in New Zealand," he wrote "and this one is for you." He also never failed to tell me how much he missed me and loved me and how proud he was of me for all that I did.

My Dad coming home from a long trip was always a day of high excitement and not just because he was finally home, but because it usually meant we got out of school early and got PRESENTS! I wasn't greedy or expected a lot of gifts, but it was so exciting to get wondrous gifts from far off lands; a jade bracelet from Hong Kong, a hand painted fan from Japan, a real boom-a-rang from Australia. One time he brought home an electrocuted Gecko that he'd found in a toaster in Malaysia.

When I was 14 my Dad was transferred to Ottawa and the long trips to sea stopped for 4 years. Except for a monthly trip to Victoria, my Dad was home with us during our rough high school years and it was wonderful. We moved back to Victoria the summer I finished high school and the trips back to sea began again; but not for too much longer. In 1995, after nearly 30 years in the Navy, my Dad retired. I asked him not too long ago if he missed it or thought that he was missed and he said, "Leaving any job is like pulling your finger out of a bucket of water." He meant very simply that there is always someone to replace you.

I feel however, that this is just my Dad's enormous modesty talking. My Dad was highly respected in the Navy and excelled in every position he held. He sailed on 5 Canadian Destroyers during his time and moved quickly up the ranks. The final position he held was that of Coxswain on the HMCS Winnipeg of which he was part of her first crew. One summer when I was about 9 or 10 he sailed on a number of smaller ships called Mine Sweepers. The Mine Sweepers he sailed on that summer were all named after Canadian Rivers. One of the ships was called "The Miramichi". For some reason, my Dad gave me the badge from his uniform that said Miramichi on it. I hung it up in my room on my cork board and I remember feeling very proud that I could say the name properly. I still have the badge. It's on our fridge. The day my husband and I decided we would be moving to the lovely town of Miramichi, I fished it out of a bag of memories to show our daughter the name of her soon to be new hometown. I find warm happiness and perhaps a bit of "meant to be" in that fact that I've carried with me for well over half my life the name of the other coastal city that would bring me great joy.

When my Dad was in the Navy the engine rooms of the older ships were hell; hot, loud and hard on the body. The ships themselves were highly poisonous as they were filled with asbestos. Many men my Dad sailed with died soon after retirement at the age the 55 of cancer or other health problems caused by years of working on the ships. My Dad liked to tease us by saying "Be nice to me...I only have - years to live". It was darkly funny, but it scared me because it seemed to be true. However, in June of this year my Dad turned 60. His lungs are clear, his heart is good, his arteries clean and he is currently working at his 3rd job since retirement. I never take my Dad still being here for granted. I know I've been blessed to have a father who has taught me to be proud of who I am, to find happiness in all my accomplishments and to be brave. He gave me my smile, my sense of humour and my strong work ethic. He instilled in me the love music, taught me how to laugh at myself and told me to never walk with my head down because everyone is equal. He sometimes says that he wishes he could have been there for me more, but I never felt neglected or unloved. I say a prayer of thanks everyday that he is still here, and now, instead of joking that his time is almost up, we joke that he's well past his expiry date.

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Until next time,
enjoy a life of
Cin

Fragmented Memories of My Gramma's Garden

Howdy Hey Blog Fans!

My place of employment hosts a monthly event called "Words on Water". Every month there is a theme, a featured guest and a then it's open mic to whomever is there. Based on said theme people are able to use this happy venue as a place to recite a poem, sing a song, maybe do a little acting, or tell a story. In May the theme was "Gardening and/or Flowers". I wrote, and read, about my Gramma.

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My Gramma's garden was a place of beauty and oddities.
A place of nourishment and eccentricities.
A place of wonder and silence
A place of memory and warm aromas.

My Grandparent's home sat in the middle of her paradise.

As you approached the driveway you drove past the "spooky forest" which was fronted by rock gardens filled with many types of creepers and heather.

A large hedge bordered the right side of the their driveway; a hedge that was once home to many animals, including raccoons that more then once climbed through my Gramma's window and slept at the end of her bed.

At the end of hedge was a gate and beyond the gate was a large compost. Scraps from the potent "pig bucket" that she kept under the sink in the kitchen were carted out daily to this pile. Once nature had taken its course, the compost matter was used to fertilize her beautiful gardens.

My Gramma grew vegetables of all kinds and loved to steam them lightly and eat them right out the pot, dripping with butter, while watching a beloved nature show on PBS in her utility room.

She had a greenhouse that always smelled of musty earth and housed her many varieties of tomato plants. I always feared to go in there and especially into the little potting shed that was at the back of the greenhouse. It was too warm, the air too close and a cozy home for spiders.

She grew squash and beans, sweet peas and raspberries, broad beans and lettuce. On a summer day when she wasn't fishing we would often find her lounging on a lawn bed, shelling peas while watching "One Life to Live" or "General Hospital" on her 13" black and white TV. She had a great long cord for it that extended the length of her garden so that she could gasp in horror at all the loud kissing while she relaxed and worked near a patch of sunny flowers.

Her little house was surrounded by her flower gardens.

Flowers in window boxes.
Flowers in gardens below her dining room window, below the living room window, below the bedroom windows.
Flowers in hanging baskets from every corner of her house or hanging from the low branches of her apple tree.
Flowers in pots on her brick paths, in her driveway or under trees. Often they were not in pots at all, but in large barnacles she had collected while beach combing.

My Gramma being a person of the sea as well as of the earth made her fishing experiences part of her garden. Behind a fence covered with honey sweet nasturtiums, she had a table she and my Grandfather used for gutting fish. Often I would trek slowly along the garden stones to the table, not wanting to step in the mud and poke fish eyes or marvel at the fish eggs of a salmon.

She had a smoke house in the garden and used it often. The smell of smoking salmon and nasturtiums, fresh turned earth and fish heads is not one that is easily forgotten.

Near the end of my Gramma's life her garden took on an even more eccentric quality. When she hadn't the strength to plant all the types of beautiful and vibrant flowers that she loved, she decorated the ones she had. She would spray paint the teazle blue, yellow, orange or red and sprinkle them with sparkles, often while they were still in the garden. Her sunflowers which had deep red orange leaves and bright yellow centres wore happy smiles which she'd drawn on with a permanent marker.

A real treasure of her garden was Randolf. About 10 years before my Gramma passed away, she found a piece of driftwood while out fishing that bore a resemblance to the neck and head of a reindeer. For 11 months of the year Randolph stood watch in the garden. He would become part of it sometimes becoming wrapped in vines, or showered with petals, soaked with rain for days on end and on rare occasion, be covered with snow. But in December Randolf was brought into the living room and lovingly decorated as "The Christmas Tree". My Gramma would find twisted branches of evergreens and display them behind is head like antlers. These would be covered in many lights. And as he was a reindeer named Randolf, he had on light, a red one, on his nose. The best part of Randolf was that weathering of the marvelous piece of driftwood caused a split at in the "facial area" that looked like a smile. My Gramma would stare at him with great pride and grin and ask me "Doesn't he look happy?"

When kneeling in the garden became too difficult for her, my father made my Gramma sturdy raised garden beds so that she could continue to grow the veggies she so loved. He made them out of thick beams which he bound together with railway spikes. I remember thinking that the only way these beautiful garden beds would ever come apart were if they were bulldozed down...which is what ended up happening in the end.

When my Gramma passed away 8 years ago, a year after my Grandfather had died, my mother and her siblings sold the house and the land. The house, which was 70 years old at least, and in need of rewiring and re-piping was torn down. The "spooky forest" where my brother and I had played and scared ourselves was pulled down. And all of my Gramma's beautiful, wondrous, eccentric and beloved gardens were dug up and replaced by 2 houses.

There are more memories for me of this special place then I can ever write down. I feel great sorrow for what was lost, and even more sadness for the families who now live with the ghost of the beauty created by a woman who not only loved to garden, but needed to. But I mostly feel happiness and great fortune that I was once witness to a most beautiful place.

Until next time,
Find Happiness in Cin