In the Kitchen with Lainey

A Birthday Cupcake Recipe

Hello.

Well, first you have to go to the grocery store and you have to hold hands. It’s a dangerous world out there and you all know that I am only four years old. And was it ever hot. Good thing I had my fan.

You don’t have to buy flour and chocolate blocks if you like the mixing kind of cake and Grammie does and I do too so we got that instead. Well, not really instead because that’s what we always get.

And we got flowers. Four kinds. For gramps’s birthday tomorrow. And I picked-did them all out with a balloon. They are so beautiful you wouldn’t believe it. I knew right away this is what I wanted to get because this is what I wanted to get for grammie’s birthday which we had at the hospital at a surprise party in April that mummy organized.

And grammie got a card for gramps but I’m making one in the morning before lunch and the museum because homemade cards are better which you would think grammie ought to know because I homemade her a mother’s day card and she said that this was the best card in the world ever.

So. The cupcakes. We boughted the things at the grocery store and went home and I got to do so much more than the last time we made them. For one example I got to put in the chocolate mix and the oil and the water. Grammie put in the eggs because she said you could get sammon—sammon—sammon oh I don’t know but it was something fishy and didn’t sound good.

And we bought me a new outfit and matching shoes – grammie has a thing about buying me shoes maybe because her feet are too big for most of them – but I can’t say what they’re like because it’s a surprise for the birthday and gramps reads this blog.

After we cook-did the cupcakes grammie and I each took two bowls that grammie put icing in and I choose-did the pink and the yellow and opened the bottles all by myself and stirred and stirred and the colours are so beautiful you wouldn’t believe it and in the morning we are going to ice the cupcakes. They are going to be so beautiful.

And all day I wore a special baseball hat that mummy use to wore at work and a beautiful ring that she told grammie to bring to Toronto and let me wear special. And grammie painted my nails blue. There were no sparklies like Julie gives me but grammie said that next time I am here she will have some for me. And we saw Jenny and I got a present from Mary Tea and we talked to Mike and Stephan on the porch and when I told grammie today that men living with men was disgusting grammie told me why I was wrong to say or even think that and then after I talked with Mike and Stephan I knew that grammie was right. It’s only about who you love and I love everybody.

Grammie reminded me that mummy was with me everywhere and so when I was in the kitchen making cupcakes I said, “Even here, grammie?” and grammie said, “Yes darling, even here,” and I said, “That means the cupcakes will be perfect.” And you know it’s true because the last time grammie made these special ones in the blue and green holders it was mummy’s birthday and I was here that time too and we ate them ALL. They were so beautiful.

Grammie says I am beautiful and that I look just like my mum and I know that’s true. Grammie says good looks run in our family and I said so do noses and grammie said that I have to credit my sources so it’s from a book that a man wrote about raising children but that’s all I know.

Anyway, we did other things today too but that’s the gist of it and mostly I wanted to tell you two things – how to make cupcakes in the kitchen with grammie and HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRAMPS! I love you one hundred googleblacks. And you are a girl who lives with a girl, and I love everybody.

Ashes to Ashes

Wrapped, and taped, and placed carefully in Sarah’s closet, Don’s ashes filled up the pink glass jar I bought for Sarah after her father died. I am not sure why she had them hidden away – I think a lot of people are superstitious about ashes, although I know, or I think I know, that Sarah was not among those who did.

In fact, after Don died, I went shopping with Sarah to find the perfect receptacle. We went to the Rideau Centre in Ottawa and headed for our favourite jewellery store, which at that time, I believe, was named Magpie.

Among all the pretty pieces, we found two silver lockets – one for Sarah and one for me – into which we later, tenderly, sprinkled some of Don’s ashes.

I went home and tucked mine in a dresser drawer, planning to wear the locket only on special family occasions.

Sarah went home and tucked hers in a jewellery box, planning to wear her necklace the next time she went somewhere special.

As it turns out, somewhere special for Sarah was a dance bar, which I found particularly funny given all the dancing anecdotes handed down in our family, and given her father’s Asperger’s fear of public display. (He and I used to engage in what we called ‘apartment dancing’ – but that’s as far as he would go. You should have seen him jiving in his Fruit of the Looms...very funny.)

Anyway, the day after Sarah’s outing, she called me early in the morning. She sounded shocked and amused and worried all at the same time.

I paraphrase:

“Are you okay?” I asked her.

“Mum,” she said, “You won’t believe this.”

“Try me,” I said.

“Well, I was out on the dance floor last night, and I had on the locket. Dad’s locket.”

“Honey, I know the one you mean.”

“Well, mum, I was dancing and I started seeing all of this stuff floating around me, like sparkly dust, flying all over the place, and I wondered what it was and I kept dancing and – Mum – it was Dad.”

“Dad?” I asked, knowing exactly what she meant.

“Mum, he was everywhere...”

“I tried for over twenty years to get your father on the dance floor and in one short night....”

I can’t remember now how long or often Sarah and I laughed over this, but it was a long time.

Tonight as I type this I am thinking, knowing, that I am going to transfer Sarah’s receptacle contents of her father into a tea tin (I have evidence of Don all over the house), and use this pink glass jar for Sarah’s remains. Her ashes will sit in my bedroom window, where I will see them everyday...in rain or in sunshine, the light reflecting...reminded of her sparkling personality, her energy, her life and her loss of life. Hiding things away doesn’t work for me, and only by facing them head on, making them a fabric of my everyday life, can I embrace what, and who, I need to.

I also remember the day our family commemorated Don...past the lighthouse, under the natural arbour, onto the Pelee Island shores of Lake Erie. We sat on a fallen log, my two sons and their partners; Sarah; Don’s son, and Mary and me...one by one, gently lifting a small palmful of ashes and carrying them to the lake.

The sun was setting, and the outline of a ship was faintly visible on the horizon. I remember a seagull fighting the wind that had picked up, his wings beating in the beautiful falling light, his streamlined body angled toward the whitecaps.

It was a memorable ceremony, quiet and lovely and reverential, just the way Don was. Just the way he would have wanted things to be...his ashes, Sarah’s ashes, in little glass receptacles about the house, reminding me, always, of what I had, what they lost, and what will never be again.

My locket – the one that holds Don’s ashes – sits in my dresser drawer. I have never worn it.

We Were Here

Produced and directed by David Weissman, We Were Here (2011) is a documentary that focuses on San Francisco and five individuals who survived the AIDS scourge, the pandemic bursting forth following a brief dormancy in the late 1970s.

HIV-positive artist, Daniel Goldstein; activists Paul Boneberg and Ed Wolf; nurse Eileen Glutzer and florist Guy Clark, by way of anecdotal history, dozens of sweet-faced photographs, and stirring news footage, guide us through the harrowing epic that was the AIDS crisis.

I cannot do justice to the many online websites and articles that describe or review the film...

http://wewereherefilm.com/

http://www.variety.com/review/VE1117944432/

http://www.screendaily.com/reviews/latest-reviews/we-were-here/5023666.article

http://www.hollywoodreporter.com/review/sundance-review-deeply-affecting-doc-81845

...but I can tell you how ashamed I am that I knew so little about a plague that, at its American peak, killed 15,000 San Franciscan residents alone, most of them young men.

In the early 1980s (albeit for one year only), my family and I were living in Cranbrook, British Columbia, a town located not all that far from the west coast of California. My chief memories of that time, apart from the personal, were the eruption of Mount St. Helens; Iraq’s invasion of Iran; John Lennon’s death from a gunshot wound; Anwar Sadat’s assassination; Natalie Wood’s death by drowning, and Prince Charles’ engagement and subsequent marriage to Diana Spencer.

How is it possible that apart from two phone calls – one from a friend to tell me that his ex-partner had died in Cape Breton from what was being hailed as ‘gay cancer’; another from my ex-husband, who asked me, nervously, whether or not I had heard of this new virus – I remained oblivious to a contagion that would ultimately rival the Bubonic Plague.

Initially, I wanted to cite Prince Edward Island, where I spent the second half of the seventies and the remainder of the eighties, as the reason I knew so little. After all, two television stations, one poorly written newspaper, and radio that was more religion than rock and roll (The Life of Brian was banned from local theatre screens) didn’t lend itself to a life of erudition.

But I also attended a highly-rated university (UPEI) during the 1980s, and I knew many well-read, intelligent individuals, among them my husband, Don.

So where was my head? What was I thinking about when all of those people were sick and dying? How is it that I did not have a more thorough understanding of a disease that was so ravaging, so cruel, and so final? How is it possible that I, who had so many gay friends, knew next to nothing about this disease that in its early days killed people in as little as one week? How could it be that the ongoing AIDS quilt seems more like a memory from the Guinness Book of World Records than a testament to so many lives lost?

I wonder what was in my head, and why I cannot keep what matters circulating in my brain. I wonder how much my (my my) self-focus is to blame.

I hope that today at least, by writing this down, I will never again find myself as remiss as I have been about the particulars and the broader scope of a disease that desolated individuals, families, communities and entire countries, having killed over a half-million Americans since its onset and persisting in a world where, currently, an estimated 30 million people live with HIV/AIDS, half of them women, and almost three million of them children.

http://www.avert.org/aids-statistics.htm

Our greatest pretences are built up not to hide the evil and the ugly in us, but our emptiness. The hardest thing to hide is something that is not there. Eric Hoffer, Passionate State of Mind, 1955

Mares Eat Oats

I have a friend named Marg who, because life has thrown her some unexpected curve balls, and because people can often prove mightily disappointing, tends to put more trust (maybe I mean faith...I’m not sure) in animals. And because this is so, Marg occasionally sends me an article, and more often an email, that speaks to the merits of the animal kingdom.

And because I tend toward a fondness for animals and a less-than-fondness for the people who abuse them, and also because I worked in ophthalmology for ten years and currently volunteer as an audio technician for the visually impaired, I offer up the following article for all the Margs of the world, and for all of those who read by sound or by Braille, who also know that when mankind invariably lets you down, animals, generally, won’t.


Seeing-eye sheep, goats guide blind horse
By Laura Zuckerman, Reuters

SALMON, Idaho – Michelle Feldstein was prepared to provide special accommodations for the blind horse she recently added to the flightless ducks, clawless cats and homeless llamas inhabiting her animal shelter in Montana.

But nothing could prepare her for the 40-legged, seeing-eye entourage that accompanied “Sissy,” a sightless, 15-year-old quarter horse.

“Sissy came with five goats and five sheep — and they take care of her,” said Feldstein, the force behind Deer Haven Ranch, a private rescue facility she runs with her husband, Al, on 300 acres north of Yellowstone National Park.

The seeing-eye sheep and guard goats are never far from the white mare, and they never lead her astray. They shepherd Sissy to food and water, and angle the horse into her stall amid blowing snows or driving rains.

“They round her up at feeding time and then move aside to make sure she gets to the hay,” Feldstein said. “They show her where the water is and stand between her and the fence to let her know the fence is there.”

Before their arrival in February at Deer Haven, a retirement home for creatures ranging from henpecked roosters to abused alpacas, prospects for Sissy and her guide team of 10 were grim.

The animals might have been marked for death had Feldstein not intervened when another rescue facility in western Montana folded this winter.

“I only take animals that others consider throwaways,” said Feldstein, 66, whose past professional careers have included race car driver and hospital administrator.

Feldstein and her husband, a retired editor of Mad Magazine, underwrite their rescue operation. It can cost as much as $50,000 a year for feed, veterinarian services, and winter-time heating of barns and water troughs for a total of 200 animals. The couple also run a guest house for humans whose profits are poured into the animal sanctuary.

Feldstein said she marvels at the blind mare and her barnyard attendants.

“There’s a magic involved in sheep, goats and a horse becoming best friends,” she said. “When you watch them, you have to wonder, why can’t people do that?”

Dining Out

Between films today, Mary and I decided to have supper at one of our favourite Toronto spots, the Queen Mother, where the portions, entrees and dessert, wait staff, and atmosphere are always just right. And there is no question that in the absence of Sarah, life needs to feel as close to just right as it can.

Go ahead and asked me how appalled I was, then, by the mother and one of two children who sat at the table beside us. Disgusted doesn’t even come close to how I was feeling. In fact, I was five inches away from butting in and admonishing mother and son when it occurred to me I would be doing the very thing of which I was accusing them: breaking boundaries.

In my defence, however, let me recreate the scene, albeit by way of paraphrasing.

Son, portly, thirteen going on sixty, pale blue golf shirt that matched his eye colour, metal braces glittering, speaking to mother: “You’re ordering chicken? Why do you do that? You eat the same thing every night.”

Mother, sun glinting off wedding band: [indecipherable]

Daughter, age eleven, also blue-eyed, gossamer lovely, sitting on the periphery, looking lost.

Son, insipidly: “I eat the same dull lunch five days a week, and then I come home to the same boring supper every night – chicken and broccoli. It seems it’s all you know how to make.”

Mother, to son: “Are you comfortable? Would you prefer sitting on this side? Do you have enough wall space [to lean into]?”

Son: “I’m all right. I guess.”

Daughter, looking through window, twirling her hair.

Son, sighing: “Where’s my dinner?”

Later, after their food arrives and mother is eating her chicken and rice, son puts down his noodle spoon, picks up a fork, and without a hint of “Mother, may I?” stabs a piece of mum’s chicken and shoves it into his pudgy mouth.

Mother, speaking to son: “How is your dinner?”

How is your dinner?

I could have got up and smacked the two of them into tomorrow, right through the bevelled Queen Street window out onto the street, two pear-shaped bowling pins rattling toward – and into – the lake.

Why, only today, mere hours before dinner, I heard from a reliable source that neo-Nazism is on the rise in this culture. [I have since checked current activity on the Internet, and am shocked.]

There was a time in my life when I might have guffawed at the notion, yet when I look around me and listen, when I see how many boundaries are being broken on every side of every familial fence, I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up tomorrow morning and find a string of porky, pith-helmeted soldiers goose-stepping by my window.

Say what you want about my parent’s and my generation. Think what you will of yes please and no thank you and chewing with your mouth closed and appreciating where that meal comes from and who paid for it.

And say what you will of adults who at least attempt to parent by finding some sort of balance between imperialism and obsequiousness – all of which is infinitely more hopeful than where we seem to be headed today: mothers and fathers too lazy or afraid to parent, their children too dulled, ruined by an insatiability fostered by parents who are too lazy and afraid...and so on.

The only thing that stopped me from hissing at mother and son as I walked out of the restaurant was a large framed portrait of the Queen Mother hanging high on an upper wall, her apple-shaped cheek in three-quarter pose reminiscent of my mother, whose gently admonishing words I could hear whispering in my ear, “Darling, do unto others....”

Well, yes, I suppose.

Meanwhile, if you spy this mother and son in a restaurant near you, feel free to smack them in the back of the head for me. Hard. Just don’t tell my mother.

Quotable Quotes

I spent too much of my life believing that if I aspired to be good, if I worked toward an understanding of the truth, I was then in a position where I could manage outcomes.

But as I got older and worked more rigorously (age will, or ought to, do this) toward knowing and living what was true, I came to believe that one of two things would happen:

The truth would out, or, if it didn't, the outcome was not worth managing.

You can't make bad/stupid/cruel/naive/thoughtless/selfish [whatever] people over into good/smart/kind/perceptive/thoughtful/giving people, just as you can't make good people bad.

You cannot convince people who do not want to know the truth what is true. And you ought not to. Everyone comes to his own realizations, or doesn't, as he wishes and chooses.

Each of us hides behind whatever simplistic and complex faslehoods we need to hide behind, until we are able to come out from behind the clouds and bravely -- because courage is sometimes required -- seek out what is true.

I learned all of this the hard way.

The hard way was the only way any of this was worth knowing.

~

There is no god higher than truth. Mahatma Gandhi

The trouble about man is twofold. He cannot learn truths which are too complicated; he forgets truths which are too simple. Rebecca West

When I tell any truth, it is not for the sake of convincing those who do not know it, but for the sake of defending those that do. William Blake

Truth only reveals itself when one gives up all preconceived ideas. Shoseki

We do not err because truth is difficult to see. It is visible at a glance. We err because this is more comfortable. Alexander Solzhenitsyn


It is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth. Oscar Wilde

If you cannot find the truth right where you are, where else do you expect to find it? Dogen

Truth is tough. It will not break, like a bubble, at a touch, nay, you may kick it all about all day like a football, and it will be round and full at evening. Oliver Wendell Holmes, The Professor at the Breakfast Table

Truth, like gold, is to be obtained not by its growth, but by washing away from it all that is not gold. Leo Tolstoy

Truth is the breath of life to human society. It is the food of the immortal spirit. Yet a single word of it may kill a man as suddenly as a drop of prussic acid. Oliver Wendell Holmes

We swallow greedily any lie that flatters us, but we sip only little by little at a truth we find bitter. Denis Diderot

...Science and mathematics
Run parallel to reality, they symbolize it, they squint at it,
They never touch it: consider what an explosion
Would rock the bones of men into little white fragments and unsky the world
If any mind for a moment touch truth.

Robinson Jeffers, "The Silent Shepherds," The Beginning & the End

I tore myself away from the safe comfort of certainties through my love for truth - and truth rewarded me. Simone de Beauvoir

Man has always sacrificed truth to his vanity, comfort and advantage. He lives...by make-believe. W. Somerset Maugham, The Summing Up, 1938

Every truth passes through three stages before it is recognized. In the first, it is ridiculed, in the second it is opposed, in the third it is regarded as self-evident. Arthur Schopenhauer

And while it is also true that I have written this all out in Biblical-column style, I am neither a Christian nor a proselytizer. I have far too much to learn (and I am way too chubby) to be wearing white robes and sandals. But when it comes to knowing what is true, I think I am doing just fine.

Toronto Theatre: Act Two

The cats have been working on a five-person play, which would be so much easier if Slippers would stop scrapping with Jeeves, who has no idea that his presence here is disrupting, at least in Slippers’ jealous little head. Sibling rivalry. Some kids never get over it.

After Boots died, they were planning a rendition of the Three Little Pigs, given that the script requires only four characters. But there was great consternation over who was going to play the wolf. My natural inclination was to choose Sneakers because of his girth, but I had no say in the matter, and the rest of the day turned into flying fur.

Anyway, I’ve spotted a few scripts downstairs on the coffee table, and I know there are murmurs about the Stratford season. Oy. Such hopes they have.

Among their selections are

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (which is where I’d like to put Slippers)
Cat Ballou
Cats (seems a little obvious)
The Lion King (Sneakers’ stamp is all over this one)
Cat in the Hat (except someone put esses on the nouns...Cats in the Hats)
Catwoman (Slippers again)
Cat People (well, I used to be one of those)
The Cat from Outer Space (poor Jeeves)
Fritz the Cat (have they actually read this?)
That Darn Cat!
Pussy Galore (ay yai yai)

Actually, I was hoping for something a little more high calibre. And what a fall from Ulysses! Poor Sneakers.

There are so many fine playwrights whose works they could choose: Fugard; Wilde; Brecht; Strindberg; Albee; Williams; Pinter; Chekov; Wilder; Stoppard...where are the women?...Ferber; Sayers; Oates; Burnett; Hellman; Mitford; Gordimer; Bonner; Stein; Rinehart, and so on.

But no, they would rather latch onto the generic, the pedestrian, something that shrieks their name in the title. As if we wouldn’t know from their first breath onstage that they were cats! Why, everything about them screams feline – their whiskers; their pointy little ears; their spots and stripes; the bells on their collars; their short legs.

Still, what do I know? I haven’t been on a stage since I lived in Ottawa, and even then it was between acts. I shall leave them to their business and get back to you on the particulars, just as soon as I can plant the spy-cam in the living room.

Meow!

Lying About...

I had a few opinions when James Frey’s lies were exposed. I still have opinions.

I understand hyperbole. I use it all the time. Nothing, to me, is funnier than exaggeration. But a reader has to be in on the joke, not standing outside of it, perplexed. Hyperbole also separates a gentler teasing from sarcasm (the latter form manifesting as a type of criticism I knew too well as a child). But what James Frey did cannot fall under the categories of sarcasm or hyperbole.

I am also aware, and guilty, of hanging onto selective memories. I am still, after all these years and how many viewings, almost 100% sure that I saw, with my own googly movie-watching eyes, Norman Bates’s dead mother in colour. And no blood was more crimson than the blood that rained down from Marion Crane’s multiple-stab-wounded neck, flowing in cascading harmony alongside the knife screeching sounds of Hollywood’s special effects.

Ach!

But a lie is a lie is a lie, and I still wrestle with that – even when the lies are my own. (You should hear me talk on a telephone.)

What I have noticed, however, is that those who have the most tragic stories to tell, don’t tell them at all.

Rather than lie about how many days they have spent in a jail, they say nothing about the experience.

Rather than describe what those daily, weekly, yearly beatings were like, they change the subject.

Instead of telling tales about how their stepfather put their small hands on a searing stove element, scarring them for life, they remain silent.

Rather than relay details about their childhood migraines, their mother stepping over them as if they were a pile of dirty laundry, they keep quiet.

Instead of talking about the nights they slept under the front porch in the snow (and you can imagine why), they choose another topic of conversation.

Instead of describing what sex in the barn with their father felt like, they shut up completely.

These anecdotes don’t even touch on the people I knew whose parents committed suicide: hanging from an apple tree; hanging in the bathroom; hanging from a tree whose origins shall remain unknown (to me); hanging in an upstairs hallway; downing a bottle of vodka and pills.

And none of these stories, save two, are my own. They belong to my friends...none of whom has, thus far, written a book about any of their tragic experiences.

More than time with my family and friends, I have spent years tending bar patrons, patients and students. I think many of you would be shocked to hear even a little of what they have whispered to me. Stabbings, shootings, home abortions, slaughter in war, severe depression, self-mutilation, mental illness, ravaging disease...the heartsick catalogue of pain is endless.

I always feel like a better part of humanity, however, to be included in the personal details of people’s lives. Never once have I doubted or questioned the veracity of these anecdotes, either. A person, if she listens and sees, knows what is true. (I feel so fortunate to have been raised by a mother who cared.)

So when I pick up a memoir and I read that a man has spent 87 days in jail and it turns out that this is a lie, I wonder why. Wasn’t there enough heartbreak in the addiction itself, and in its causes, to prevent having to cook up some gruesome tidbits about a sentence (oh...an accidental pun) that never occurred?

And then I wonder further – what is more important to a person: writing a book? Getting published? Having people pity you? Making money? Being famous? Falling victim to your own fiction?

I am not sure, as I am often not sure, where I am going with this. But I saw and listened to James Frey this week, and I felt for him. I believe he is sorry. I want to believe him when he says he will not lie again. I am happy for his successes. I envy his ability to work communally with other writers. I think he is a compelling and tragic individual with a hard past.

Yet no matter who he was or is (and who of us can ever really know, except maybe from the details a person tells us...), I will always wonder – as perhaps he will always wonder – the reasons, or the reason, that he lied.

This Week On TV

Television confounds me. Well, no, that’s not exactly accurate. People confound me, which in part explains the choices viewers, and networks, make when it comes to what, and who, are current on TV.

For example, does Kelly Ripa have any idea how much weight she carries and what harm she perpetuates when she not only sloughs off but snickers about, and therefore at, women who have been sexually assaulted? (Which only shows you how little I have come to expect from the old boy himself, Regis Philbin.)

http://www.guardian.co.uk/world/2011/may/16/dominique-strauss-khan-tristane-banon

Or when it doesn’t seem newsworthy to either Ripa or to her co-host that Arnold Schwarzenegger waited until his governorship was over before coming clean (if such a thing is possible for him) about his affair and subsequent love child? I wonder how Maria Shriver feels, knowing that his political position was more important to him than his family was.

http://ottawa.ctv.ca/servlet/an/local/CTVNews/20110518/mother-of-schwarzenegger-love-child-110518/20110518/?hub=OttawaHome

And I won’t even go into Regis’ and Ripa’s love affair with the misogynist motor-mouthed powermonger, Donald Trump.

http://www.abc.net.au/news/stories/2011/05/18/3219797.htm?section=entertainment

I then flicked the channel to The View, where the four co-hosts, who only yesterday were appalled by all of these sexual shenanigans, cheerfully welcomed as their guest host, Tyra Banks, who in my opinion ought to win the Ladies Against Women award as the person who, as originator and host of America’s Next Top Model, has single-handedly done more (and much, much less) for bulimia, bullying, and betrayal, setting our sex back some fifty+ years, her modelling show an appalling example for young girls and boys everywhere.

http://www.realityblurred.com/realitytv/archives/top_model_12/2009_May_15_paulina_criticizes_tyra


http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080323120053AAxloon


http://www.celebitchy.com/52731/janice_dickinson_says_tyra_banks_promises_lots_of_money_then_fires_people/

After this, I tuned into to a repeat of Oprah Winfrey’s two-part interview (which first aired yesterday and the day before) with James Frey, where the host, who in 2006 felt duped because of the lies Frey had previously told in and about his memoir, A Million Little Pieces – well, anyone who doesn’t know this story likely won’t be interested in any of this anyway –

http://www.oprah.com/oprahshow/Oprahs-Questions-for-James

and who, after careful reconsideration, has come back to Frey with an apology for what she labelled her lack of journalistic compassion.

http://www.baltimoresun.com/entertainment/arts/zap-james-frey-a-million-little-piece20110517,0,3928673.story

Truth be told, I noted that Oprah spoke of what people saw as her lack of compassion, but I will give her the benefit of my doubt because I watched the interview and she seemed sincere. I was not only moved but gobsmacked that I, who has more times than I care to confess, mocked her tribalistic, insider’s, “Uh huh, sistah”s, felt aligned with Oprah Winfrey, a woman who has irritated and enraged me almost as much as some of the men (see: Dr. Phil) she has widely promoted.

Anyway, before my compliment turns into a tortured repetitive tongue injury, I mostly just want to say that a person never knows what to expect from television – and from television’s women – these days. Just when I think I have figured out who’s figured what out, I find myself tied up in convoluted knots of despair and delight.

Finally, as time stands still for no man, or woman, I must be off. Ellen’s coming on in ten minutes, and I can’t wait to see what will happen. Maybe she’s going to leave her darling wife Portia for megalomaniac movie-mogul monster Mel Gibson, and really, wouldn’t that be something?

You Born Today

You born today fall under the sign of Taurus, the first Internet site I have come across listing your chief characteristics as stubborn, determined, pragmatic, sensible, longing for comfort.

That’s it? Only five?

What about singing voice? They forgot great singing voice. A master choir boy with deep rumblings of rhythm and blues, long guitar fingers longing to pick.

And hair that smells like hay. How did that happen, I wonder. Were you a reincarnation of my mum, lying under the Cape Breton cows drinking warm, unpasteurized milk?

And reverential. There was no child on earth more quietly in awe of a Christmas tree; year after year crawling out from bed, hours before anyone else awoke, sitting in your rocker admiring the blue lights you carefully plugged in.

And what about fire starter? How many pieces of paper, candles, and cigarette packages did you set aflame? How many years after I accused your sister of using my eyebrow pluckers, now charred at the ends, as a drug tool (which is laughable, given that the one time she tried smoking marijuana she threw up)...how many years later did it come to light (the other kind of light) that you had been using them to brighten up your personal life? Did this all begin with the Christmas tree? I wonder.

And what about tenacious in the face of personal injury: punctured head wounds, fraternal battle scars, car accidents, fevers exceeding 105, persistent mononucleosis, sea urchin impediments (or do I mean embediments?) – and only this past weekend, a near perforation from a drinking glass?

And love of animals: Lucky, Boots, Joe (who ate another box – all two layers – of chocolates this week. Do you think he watched Forrest Gump?), and Sophie and Galoshes.

And your passion for comedy and comics, half of whose names I can’t remember – Louis CK is one of them – comedy that you probably think about during your long, diligently-felt work hours.

And a talent for writing, which, I hope, is genetic, and not just on your father’s side.

And c...c...c...courage. Dad. Pablo. Sarah. Mary. Blue. Dad. Sarah. Sarah. Dad. And everyone connected to you, through them...through you.

And love of play, which is partly what makes you such a great father...Blue walking up your legs, the two of you looking like something out of a Harold Lloyd...born on April 20th...movie. I love that about you.

And that you love movies. Comedies and documentaries and contemporary and classics.

And that you love dancing and, if I might say it again, music – especially hip hop – about which I know nothing.

And that you are acerbically, wryly, generously, brutally, profoundly funny.

And that you love me. And make me laugh. And listen to me. And let me interrupt you, which I do...because I know it’s safe and, mostly, because your conversation is excited and exciting.

And that you forgive difficult situations, and people – including yourself.

And that, in spite of everything, you have hope.

Happy birthday, Noam David Ives born at approximately 2:25AM in Cranbrook, British Columbia, on May 17, 1981. (I was seven.) (That’s creepy.)

May this become a year of peace, happiness, and love, and may you find comfort in the wake of what has been so hard, and in the wake of those who have gone on before.

Hey get rhythm, when you get the blues
Come on get rhythm, when you get the blues
Get a rock 'n' roll feelin' in your bones
Put taps on your toes and get goin'
Get rhythm, when you get the blues

Johnny Cash

Local and Other News

For many years the TV has been talking to my family. Most people don't believe us until they come into our home (where, I am ashamed to say, the television is invariably on as background fodder). Anyway, today I decided to write about a little weekend episode when, as always, the television kept interrupting. If memory is to be relied upon, I have not changed the order of things, but ought to say that the first two comments are from a Prairies' news outlet, and the rest from CNN.

~

Houses built in our neighbourhood, circa 1900-1920, did not leave room for private parking. Therefore, a severe shortage of driveways leaves us shaking our heads as the streets fill up with larger and larger vehicles owned by people who are infiltrating one of the last affordable parts of the city.

The seven-day trend is a little bumpy. We have 11 in Cranbrook [BC, which, as coincidence would have it, was the place of Noam’s birth 30 years ago tomorrow]

It is one thing to fight SUVs (which I detest, for all kinds of reasons) for space, but the vehicles have grown to such magnificent proportions that a person wonders if the circus has come to town. For two weeks, for example, a massive RV has been parked across from the house. (I suspect foul play, given that the boat that does not belong to anyone in this district – trust me; if anyone could afford a boat, they wouldn’t be living on this street – is also parked in the one driveway on the block, also located directly across from the house).

What about the Queen’s historic visit to the Irish Republic?

There’s also an enormous Budget rental truck that has been lodged a few cars up for several days now. (The last time I saw a truck this size I called the cops and offered up a plate number. This was the same truck whose drivers pulled up a few months earlier and emptied the contents of the home three doors over. I recognized the unusual lights.) But I digress.

Well, you probably know that the shuttle in Denver launched into space [where else?] today.

Anyway, I am almost afraid to leave the house anymore for fear we will not find parking when we return. Such was the case Saturday night, for example, on returning home from a Tafelmusik concert and a strawberry-lemon smoothie at Second Cup. (I am nothing if not an emotional eater.)

Let’s talk about the sheer size of the space shuttle, which is longer than three school buses. Imagine the weight of 13 elephants...

My stomach was already churning as we made our way down the hill before turning onto our street, imagining the hour and a half we were going to need to find parking. Along we chugged, my eyes fluttering as I tried not to look at the vans and trucks and motorcycles cramming the road.

Drop-outs and drivers’ licences. Some say the two don’t mix real well.

As we neared our house, Mary said to me gleefully, “Look, there’s one up ahead, behind that transport! Let’s get it!” And vroom vroom went the little blue car, as Mary peeled around the corner and made a mad dash for the empty space. As she pulled in to park, a rather haughty “Ha! Ha!” escaped her lips.

Is it a good idea to restrict driving privileges for drop-outs? LZ, what’s your take on this?

“Oh oh,” I said, with a sharp intake of breath. “You shouldn’t do that. Getting cocky can be costly.”

Helping them see that school is the direction they want to go to. [These men are educators.]

Mary laughed.

There needs to be a better communication in place.

The car door wasn’t opened an inch when I heard the hissing sound. At first, I thought it was the overhead wires (history being known to repeat itself and all). But the sssssssss was coming from somewhere close to the ground. I looked down.

Pedro, LZ – great discussion. Important one, too, as well.

Mary laughed again, but this time more self-effacingly.

The Donald said he would have won as well. He says he could have lowered gas prices with a single call to Saudi Arabia.

We stood there in the pitch black of night, watching the tire quickly flatten. “See what I mean?” I said. “The minute a person gets smug, it all goes to hell.” I looked at the car, now tilted toward the sidewalk. “So much for the perfect parking spot,” I muttered. I grabbed Mary’s arm. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Even JK Rowling has sunned in the Seychelles Islands.

We laughed again.

Sunday Greetings

Everyone grieves differently. Everyone chooses the path s/he needs to take in order to move on. Although I was never able to go through all of Don’s belongings on the heels of his death (and some things never at all), Sarah’s possessions are being dispersed this weekend by, and among, three women Sarah has known for several years in Ottawa.

Naturally, and perhaps partly because we are hauntingly sentimental, two of Sarah’s closest friends are not able to attend. They, like me, find everything too soon, because this is what loss by way of death can feel like for some. Instead, Mary and I went through all of Sarah’s items first, and have set aside those things we know that Sarah would want these friends, and Lainey, to have.

There is something to be said for sentimentality; for hanging onto tangible memories that many would dispose of. Among the items Mary and I spirited tenderly away from Sarah’s closet were, for example, some of the greeting cards that she received over the years from her father, brothers, Mary and me. The cards are here beside me now, lying in a flower-painted bag.

As much as I freely write this blog, there are many things I keep impenetrably private – thoughts, occurrences, and memories – left for another (anonymous) blog, and stories and books. I also know that anyone can give, or save, a card and that, sometimes, the people closest to us don’t.

And as much as I am, where it counts, unfailingly private, I want to share snippets of verses and messages in a few of these greeting cards, hoping they will brighten your day just the way they brightened mine – just the way they, at one time, brightened Sarah’s.

~

For You, Sister...A Doll House For You to Color

Some Birthday Fun for a SPECIAL GIRL ...A Dollhouse with Stickers

Happy Easter, Daughter...to the one, and only, adorable you

A Tattoo?!! What’s Your MOTHER Going To Say?!!!

eeeeeeewwwwwwwwww When I said “Cut me a big one,” I meant a piece of cake!

Remember when you were a kid and wanted to grow up and become something special? You did.

Deep Thoughts: Many people never stop to realize that a tree is a living thing, not that different from a tall, leafy dog that has roots and is very quiet.

Clothes and courage have so much to do with each other.

To make your cat stop undesirable behaviour, squirt with a water pistol, firmly saying, “No.” Bad Habits.

If you’re not going to snort, why even laugh?

It just can’t be Christmas yet (sob!). I haven’t finished paying for last year!

It’s your birthday [retro picture of a little girl waving, sitting on a mule] Get off your ass and celebrate!

Girls kick ass! Happy Birthday to one kick-ass girl. Love, Mum & the shadowy figure who sustained you through your youth.

OOOH...HERE, SMELL THIS ONE.

Daisy, Bubbles and Elrod [a cow, a chicken and a pig] suspect that someone is slipping SUPER HORMONES into their feed.

Today you are all of the memories, people and places that have made you who you are. Today you are a million precious things and a hundred different reasons to smile and wish and dream about. Today all the people you know and love are thinking about you. Happy birthday. All my love, Mary

Get thee out of the way! Go raise a barn! Thy mother wears army bonnets! Step on it, Yoder! Place it up thy butter churn! AMISH ROAD RAGE

You’re turning 21 and entering adulthood? [picture of the Pope, his hands in the air] God help us all.

Inside this card her father wrote...Quod ab initio non valet, in tractu tempis non convalescit.

Her younger brother, age 19, wrote...21 eh? That makes you legal everywhere and for everything. You can even rent a car now. You have a wonderful birthday and many more. Lots of love

Her even younger brother, age 15, wrote...If you look at the pope’s ankles, in comparison they are much larger than the rest of his body which leads me to believe that he is wearing a girdle. In my mind that is false advertising. By the way happy birthday! P.S. We all know mom loves me more.

I wrote...It’s a bloody good thing I’m an atheist, otherwise I’d run shrieking into the night just thinking about the truth behind the message in this card. And what’s the worst thing of all, you ask? Well, darling, if you’re 21 – then I’m 43! I think I’m the one who should be getting the cards, not just for having you, but for looking so gosh darned good at my age. Happy birthday, my only girl. Love, Mum

Deep Thoughts: The memories of my family outings are still a source of strength to me. I remember we’d all pile into the car – I forget what kind it was – and drive and drive. I’m not sure where we’d go, but I think there were some trees there. The smell of something was strong in the air as we played whatever sport we played. I remember a bigger, older guy we called “Dad.” We’d eat some stuff, or not, and then I think we went home. I guess some things never leave you.

~

And it’s true. Some things never do.

Revolution

Don used to say – and it bears repeating – that the world persistently revolves around its nuttiest member/s. He would repeat, “Look at any family, office, tribe, culture, whatever...and you will inevitably see that everyone is spinning around its most vulgar individual...the trouble-maker; the attention seeker; the cruel, crazy villain who is not content until s/he’s caused enormous trouble.”

Don also used to say – and this also bears repeating – that these extremists can always spot the most vulnerable among its numbers: the sweetest; the most popular; the most innocent; the kindest-hearted.

And Don was right.

It doesn’t seem to matter how fast or far a person runs, there is no getting away from these cretins.

Which takes me to a sympathy card Mary and I received last week from a person we have met, at best, a handful of times (each meeting incidental); someone with whom we have had no in-depth conversation, have never worked with, have never confided in and, truth be told, in whom we have shown no (other than polite) interest.

Anyway, the sympathy card arrived at our door, and this woman – who keeps hounding us, and our family, by way of email and Facebook – wrote the sort of tribute and lament fit for either Shakespeare (who is several-centuries dead) or for a long-lost family member.

I might have been semi-okay with this had there been no previous history of peripheral bad behaviour (much of it reported, I’ll admit – but reported by many allegedly reliable sources), but two things caught my attention:

This woman has a habit of echoing polysyllabic words, and phrases, she has only recently taken in, which would be irritating were it not so transparent, and – here comes the absurdly creepy part – at the end of her sympathetic message over the loss of my daughter, she finished with a cryptic quote from a Simon & Garfunkel song in which she, albeit with their help, insinuates that something about Mary and me, and about the people we know – people my daughter knew – are liars and jesters, incapable of hearing or understanding the truth.

Mary always says, “Don’t bother with these people. They’re off-balance. They’re cruel. Don’t give them ammunition.” And Mary’s right.

But honestly, when I’m standing in the middle of the desert and a nomad offers me an exploding cigar and I say, “No thank you,” and s/he offers it again, and I say, “No thank you” and s/he offers it again (you can see where this is going...which is nowhere), I don’t think I am the one offering ammunition. I think s/he is.

Mostly my point in this is that there is often someone who, on the heels of a miscarriage, divorce or death, will try and ram some vitriolic dynamite down your throat, at which point a person has to stand back and say one of the following:

~I think you’re crazy.
~Do that again and I will sue you.
~You need help.
~Battering gay people is a hate crime.

But I have to tell you, I find it all rather gob-smackingly incredulous that anyone – knowing what my daughter means to Mary and me and to her family and friends; knowing what we meant to her – would have the rancour, the antipathy, the mordacity, the venom to take it upon herself to send a card – a sympathy card – in which she makes clear her intention to cause Sarah’s mother and her mother’s partner – and really, who knows why? – pain.

It seems to me that Don also missed the mark. He forgot to say that what nasty people do not know is that the rest of us do not revolve around them; instead, we read their card once, keep it for posterity (and evidence of harassment), and thank God that for every hundred thousand people there is only one, if even that many, who would stoop to such a thing.

In the clearing stands a boxer,
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that laid him down
And cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame,
"I am leaving, I am leaving."
But the fighter still remains...

Paul Simon

Circumnavigation

*Blogger seems to have lost all or some of their entries from yesterday, so I am reposting this for whomever.

His name was David, and we dated briefly many years ago in New Brunswick. He was a Gemini, an entrepreneur, and something of an antiques collector. We had a lot of midnight fun raiding empty county houses, carrying our flashlights and lanterns, picking up dusty hymnals and sewing baskets.

At one point, he and I talked about opening a restaurant together. And he used to tell me I should write. “Even,” he said, “if you have to start with Harlequins.”

Anyway, as I said, we dated for a while, but he seemed to lose interest when he knew I liked him a lot. That was the way it was in the 70s – maybe even the way it is now.

I remember a day trip to New River Beach – a group of us started out in St. Andrews, where his family had migrated from the States years earlier...I met his mother, white-haired and gracious – but I could tell as David and I walked along the shore that I was not the girl of his dreams.

Some months later I moved back to Toronto, having fallen hard for someone else who, as luck would have it, fell forward into someone else’s arms. I was devastated.

At that time David was working on the oil lines up near Baffin Island, but when he got my trying-to-be-funny-but-clearly-tragic-letter, he hopped on a bush plane that took him to Calgary that took him on a plane to Toronto, where he stayed for several days...treating me to movies, lovely dinners, and lingering walks where he tried, successfully, to make me laugh.

I am not sure what compels me tonight to write about him. I don’t even know what I was doing when his name popped into my head.

Maybe I was thinking of all the unhappy couples I keep seeing and talking about. Perhaps I was remembering that old cliché about how heterosexual men and women (which I was back then) can’t be, simply, friends.

But he was my friend. He travelled a long distance at the drop of a bush plane to comfort me – without ulterior motive or sentimental guilt or any of the things that, in my imagination, compelled men to follow women planted 1400 kilometres away.

In the end, I married the man who had fallen forward into someone else’s arms. And even though everyone, including me, knew the marriage was a mistake, David was happy for me. I can see myself now as if it were yesterday, standing in the dark in the pay phone booth in the Annex, pouring all my coins into the money slot, and David saying, softly, “If you’re sure this is what you want then everything is possible.”

While wedded bliss was not to last, I have never forgotten my friend and how he rescued me. And I’ve never forgotten how a walk on New River Beach was not the end of things, but rather a beginning.

Early Mourning Poetry

I Am With You Still

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

Attributed to Mary Frye

Premonition

‘Twas a year ago and the moon was bright

(Oh, I remember so well, so well);

I walked with my love in a sea of light,

And voice of my sweet was a silver bell.

And sudden the moon grew strangely dull,

And sudden my love had taken wing;

I looked on the face of a grinning skull,

I stained to my heart a ghastly thing.

‘Twas but fantasy, for my love lay still,

In my arms, with her tender eyes aglow,

And she wondered why my lips were chill,

Why I was silent and kissed her so.

A year has gone and the moon is bright,

A gibbous moon like a ghost of woe;

I sit by a new-made grave to-night,

And my heart is broken – it’s strange, you know.

Robert Service

She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways

She dwelt among the untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love.

A violet by a mossy stone

Half-hidden from the eye,

Fair, as a star, when only one

Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceased to be;

But she is in her grave, and, oh!

The difference to me.

William Wordsworth

Condolence

They hurried here, as soon as you had died,

Their faces damp with haste and sympathy,

And pressed my hand in theirs, and smoothed my knee,

And clicked their tongues, and watched me, mournful-eyed.

Gently they told me of that Other Side -

How, even then, you waited there for me,

And what ecstatic meeting ours would be.

Moved by the lovely tale, they broke, and cried.

And when I smiled, they told me I was brave,

And they rejoiced that I was comforted,

And left to tell of all the help they gave.

But I had smiled to think how you, the dead,

So curiously preoccupied and grave,

Would laugh, could you have heard the things they said.

Dorothy Parker

Transition

I was deeply moved yesterday watching Chaz Bono on Oprah, and listening to girlfriend Jenny Elia, who has been at his side for years. I thought, too, of all of the relationships that I have observed, the miserable couples who stay together for God knows what reasons, living in loveless relationships and letting their bleak lives go by.

The world is certainly progressing in ways that I could not have imagined twenty years ago. As unevolved as many of us are, what a remarkable culture this is when a person born in/to the wrong body can not only transition but is able to maintain a real relationship with a long-term partner—before and after the surgery.

I remember gay friends I had in the seventies and beyond, people derided and battered and mocked, and I think how stunning they must—or would— find these changes. While gay and trans bashing is clearly not a thing of the past, children are growing up in a world where people of all stripes and desires are not only accepted but barely blinked at as they walk by.

I remember my mother, years ago, home from a weekend conference, telling me a story about a woman in their group who had, surreptitiously, given my mother roses. My mum said to me, “If only this woman were able to feel good about herself, to like herself.” And I marvelled at my mother for not having to accept anything but the fact that people ought to love who they love and be who, and what, they are.

Perhaps it’s a gene or a blessing of nurture, but I am grateful that I know right from wrong; that I understand what love is and what love means; that Don and I raised children to love people who were kind and generous and who, while not always successful (who of us is?), understood in their hearts the difference between inclusive and exclusive behaviours, even when they weren't always able to get it exactly right.

I hope Chaz continues to thrive and to live in a world of acceptance; that the world, in fact, will stop blinking altogether, and that my children’s children won’t quite understand that once there was a difference between the LGBT and Q.

Mementos

I am back at home with Sarah’s cat, Jeeves, pressed into the side of my leg, the two of us propped up in bed, the birds singing on the balcony in the haze of the early afternoon sun, while one of Don’s and my favourite movies, The More the Merrier, hums in the background.

I am sitting here in quiet reverence, in memory of my daughter and of the day that was set aside to honour her.

And I am remembering the moments and features and the people of the past few days that will live in me forever.

Mary, standing in Crystal and Sean’s kitchen with family – our family – and Toronto friends, a circle of love and kindness...so many car rentals, room rentals, airplane tickets, purchased by some of the people who knew and loved Sarah in Toronto...and all the memories this brings: backyard barbeques; swimming at Lake Simcoe; bingo with Jeff and with Susan; midnights on the front porch; baby showers and birthday parties; day trips and night trips; dining in; dining out; holiday visits and fun -- the list feels endless.

Sarah’s brother Noam; his beautiful photographic tribute; his overwhelming love; his courage and compassion and help through all of these months; his leaning into the corner of Crystal’s house, talking to Brad and Donne; the snippets I caught of him as I glanced through various windows, Noam engaged in play with Lainey and any number of happy children. His holding my hand, just the way his father always did.

Lainey, removing her socks to show us her beautifully painted toenails, a vivid red, her mother’s favourite colour of polish.

Sean pouring wine (oh the wine...) the night before, all of us laughing too, too hard over so many of Sarah’s shenanigans. Handcuffed to the wall?? And all of their friends the next morning, “So, I hear you’ve got the flu...”

The pictures and the posters.

The earrings.

Sarah’s wonderful coworkers, all of them coming over directly to me, hugging me, telling me how much they loved Sarah; how alike we were; how much she did for people, meant to people, cared for people; how much she was valued; how deeply she will be missed.

The email from those who could not come, and why. And how much they loved her. And why.

The cards and the presents.

The invitations.

Joanne and her sweet homemade fruit basket.

Steph’s naughty poking.

Sitting around the dining room table with Mary T and Marg, Mike and Stephan, Noam and Donne and Scott, Stephan bringing me lemon meringue pie.

Cousins Kathy and Andrea, warm and kind and generous, and Penny, kneeling beside Mary and talking at length with her, offering her help.

Lynn – a woman who met Sarah mere months before Sarah got sick, but who seemed to have known her for years – sobbing in the bathroom.

The people who, despite their intention to feel uncomfortable with homosexuals, weren’t – or at least didn’t let on that they were. And I tell you, they were smart not to be rude or unkind, because no one loved Mary more, respected her more, trusted her more, confided in her more, would have killed for her more than Sarah.

Dan.

Breakfast the following day with family and friends – our friends and Sarah’s – and the Mother’s Day tribute to me, in memory of who Sarah was and what I have lost, and gained. And “Church bellth, Mummy – church bellth!”

Hiding (although not truly hidden) seven-layer squares on Mackenzie’s pillow.

And Lesley’s tears.

And Crystal’s hat.

And Lainey's dandelions. And her tenderhearted, meaningful card.

Driving home on a bucolic, heaven-like day, along highway 2. Mary crying after we got here because there was no Sarah to call to say that we have arrived home safely.

And all of Sarah’s treasures. And her love. And all of the people who loved her.

In all things reverence.

In all things hope.

In all things love.

In all things, Sarah.

A Picture Speaks a Thousand Words

Sarah was ten, and I had just bought a sweet white-framed picture filled with pink flowers for her room, which we had recently painted raspberry and white. I loved Sarah’s bedroom...super high ceilings, crown moulding, cozy size, a tall window with an upper box frame, a walk-in closet with multiple shelves...and so did she. In fact, the entire apartment, built in 1872, was phenomenal.

As I have said elsewhere, I grew up in numerous homes with several families and non-families, and Don and I, as hypervigilant adults who had had little real parenting, had rules: honesty, courtesy, consistency, kindness, consequences.

It isn’t as if most children wouldn’t have been tempted by the tip jar that, into my thirties, was larger and fuller than ever before. I had talked with Don about simply locking the money away, but Don said, “No. We don’t live in a bank. They [being the two impetuous Sagittarians] will learn.”

But they were not learning at a rate that felt affordable, and one summer’s day while I was vacuuming, I glanced over at my dresser and noticed a profound absence of ten dollar bills. I was furious.

I stormed into Sarah’s bedroom, the veins in my head popping at a dangerous rate. She was sitting on her bed playing, but when she saw the look on my face she stopped, pulling herself back toward her pillows like a wounded puppy.

Smart girl.

Stupid mother.

I made a move toward her and suddenly remembered my violent stepmother.

I stood, momentarily frozen, looking for the first thing I could hit, smash, destroy...more furious than I had been in my entire 32 years. I felt utterly betrayed and unloved, bereft of perspective.

I saw the picture hanging on Sarah’s wall. I whipped it down from its hook and thrust it as hard as I could toward the radiator, where it shattered into a hundred pieces. The air felt immediately still, the sun shining in through Sarah’s rose-embossed curtains, glass sparkling at my feet.

Sarah did not move.

I turned and walked out of her room, my heart pounding in my ears, my face flushed with fury and shame.

Sarah did learn. About three years later she came to see me at the laundromat (where I spent 40% of my winters) and we talked. I told her why I felt that, occasionally, she took money. I did not feel or express anger. I was not disappointed or worried. I knew that Sarah would, with Don’s and my guidance, figure it out; find a way to feel better about herself and her choices. I reassured her that one day she would stop. And one day she did – that day.

I learned, too. I never again lost my temper with Sarah in a violent way. We were not a hitting family to begin with, but there are copious ways to damage our children without ever laying an angry hand on them.

As long as I live, I will never forget that dear little picture: the splintered wood, the shards of glass splayed across the floor, the tiny pink flowers, irreparably torn – the sweet little surprise I had abruptly and viciously taken from my daughter.

And I will never forget what I learned: that rage has nowhere to go but outward, that money is essentially worthless, and that good parenting leaves no room for crazy, reactionary behaviour.

It’s what we show (what children see), not tell (not what they hear), that has everlasting meaning and worth.

A picture speaks a thousand words.

Comfort Food

I am trying to decide which of my recipes (cough cough) Sarah would like best. I just said to a friend of mine, “I could serve up horse manure and Sarah would say, ‘Mum, that’s the best shit I ever ate.’”

I was a bad mother in those ways. When I should have been setting an example (or a table), I was off buying cheesies and chocolate bars and Pepsi. Between us, Sarah and I could ingest more junk food than anyone in the free world. (Don always said that junk food was the best remedy for the flu, but we took that to mean for everything.)

If you asked me to name, off the top of my head, our ten favourite foods, I would have to list (in no particular order)

~fish sticks & mashed potatoes

~macaroni and cheese

~pizza

~fish and chips

~fountain pop (Pepsi)

~potato chips & dip

~chocolate bars

~toast

~takeout cheeseburgers (“Otherwise,” said Sarah, “I don’t like red meat.”)

~turkey bacon

You can see the problem here. And the pattern.

So here I am trying to come up with a dessert that she especially loved, and although I have narrowed it down to squares, I have not yet decided which type: brownies; seven-layer; lemon; raspberry; cocoanut; cupcakes...oh wait. They’re not square.

Actually, squares remind me of PEI and of a baby shower we were invited to back in the late seventies. Sarah helped me push the baby carriage all the way up Kensington Road, maybe three or four miles, and it was a hot day.

We arrived to find tables laden with more kinds of sandwiches and desserts than we had ever seen, our eyes bulging with anticipation. I remember Sarah at one point feeding the family pug oatmeal cookies. I also remember her asking me, “Mummy – what’s that smell?”

That smell was the euphemistically named boiled tea, a standard Maritime concoction. Bring a gallon or so of water to a rolling boil, toss in nine or ten teabags, and keep the tea at a high simmer for the rest of the day. The taste is reminiscent of burnt charcoal (which might seem redundant to all but those of you have sampled either) and yet there is something elusively appealing about it.

We made our way into the living room, chairs overflowing with women of all ages and babies of all types, walls crammed with family photos, our plates heaping with egg salad and tuna and Gherkins and cheese blocks and jellied salads and Cole slaw and raw vegetables and dips and olives (Sarah loved olives, even when she was small) and crackers...trying to mete it all out and leave room for dessert.

That afternoon after most of the guests had departed, Muriel (the mother of my friend and host of the shower) and her daughter (my friend) sat Sarah and I down at the table, the baby asleep in the bedroom.

“Pull up your chairs,” she commanded, “and make room for some tea.”

We stayed well into the evening, the PEI sun setting on three women and a little girl, the four of us picking at squares and drinking our tea, as we settled down for card games and a night filled with fun.

I have no idea what people will make for Sarah’s farewell party. I am sure there will be a sampling of sorts similar to the shower offerings from so long ago. No matter, I think I’ll make squares – in memory of a happy day – a thousand thousand happy days – from not so long ago, and drown my sorrows in something stronger than tea.

May the sun set as benevolently on those of who have known love the way I have; the way we did. And may you always remember how lucky you are to be loved.

Stored away in some brain cell is the image of a long-departed aunt you haven't thought of in 30 years. Stored away in another cell is the image of a pink pony stitched on your first set of baby pajamas. All it takes to get that aunt mounted on the back of that pony is to eat a hunk of meatloaf immediately before going to bed. ~ Robert Brault

Runaway

Sarah’s fourth home, right after the motel (if you don’t count the seven room changes we had to make over the nine months we lived on the dairy farm) was out on the old Cottontown Road in Southport, which I keep misstating as South Park. (Mind you, if you had lived there with us, you would understand the mistake as a natural one.)

Together, the four of us shared a house no bigger than your grandparent’s garage, and although Sarah had a bedroom, there was room for only a twin bed and nothing more.

I have many memories from our days in this house: spontaneous combustion (I should really be calling this near-spontaneous combustion); roller skating lessons (one skate, one key, Michael MacLean teaching me on the short, bumpy driveway); an angry couple who lived separately, she in their postage-stamp house, he in a regulation-size school bus in the driveway; another minuscule house we watched burn to the ground – set by the fire department – across the street (fifteen feet away) from us, making room for one lot, one horse, and Sarah’s first pony-playing adventures; my first and only wringer washer and the hours of fun Sarah and I had cleaning clothes; the couple who kept rabbits in big cages in their front yard; wild dogs that ran in packs after dark and ate the rabbits; the man up the street who melted down long-playing records and drank them...and so on.

For all of its shortened length and impossibly tiny houses, the old Cottontown Road made room for an abundance of small children. (They had to be small, or else they wouldn’t have fit.)

One summer morning, as I stood at the little sink scrubbing yesterday’s dishes (I worked two streets and one field over, 6 ½ days per week, waitressing at the aptly-named Barn), I happened to spy in the reflection of the wee hanging mirror, my tip jar, overturned on the table, its lid on the floor. All of the money was missing.

I set down my scrubber and went out into the street, the baby asleep in the bedroom he shared with his parents, and three-year-old Sarah off on her Hot Wheels playing outside with all of her friends. I looked up, I looked down, I looked under the horse – no sign of my child.

I began asking questions, noticing at the same time that all the little kids had extra dirty faces – Creamsicle and Fudgsicle stains, liquorice lips, potato chip crumbs dusting their lower lips. I was suspicious.

But where was Sarah?

I waited, I fretted, I waited, I fretted, and just as I was about to ask the neighbour who had a phone if I could use it to call the police, two breathless teenagers came running down the road.

“You're Sarah Coffey’s mum, right?”

My heart was banging out of my chest.

“That’s right,” I said. “Do you know where she is?”

“She’s over at the school.”

“Taking classes?”

“Appar—appar—appar...she’s run away.”

“She’s what? Run away from what? How did she get to the school?” The sweat ran down from my armpits.

“On her Hot Wheels. The principal put out an announcement and we said we thought we knew you and he said could we come get you so that you could come and get Sarah. She tried to pay us not to.”

“She tried to pay you with what? To do what?”

“Yeah, but the principal said it was wrong.”

“Just let me get the baby,” I said.

It isn’t every day a three-year-old takes all of her mother’s tip money, gives most of it away to the neighbourhood kids, then runs away to a school. But it also isn’t everyday when, after your three-year-old runs away, she reappears – in school – wearing an oversized nightgown, a pair of her mother’s pantyhose, and her own very good patent leather shoes, standing in the hallway holding a large paper bag containing one apple, one can opener, and her mother’s inscribed childhood Bible (in which this same mother once hid stolen chocolate chip cookies, leaving stains over Jesus’ eyes).

I don’t much remember the aftermath of this escapade, except to say that I expect I put Sarah’s Hot Wheels up on blocks for the day and made her help me sweep up the driveway. As it turned out, though, this was the last little-girl attempt that my daughter made at running away. As for the tip jar, however...that one proved more of a challenge.

I'm a-walkin' in the rain
Tears are fallin' and I feel the pain
Wishin' you were here by me
To end this misery
And I wonder
I wa-wa-wa-wa-wonder
Why
Why-why-why-why-why she ran away
And I wonder where she will stay
My little runaway, run-run-run-run-runaway...


Del Shannon