Letting Go

It has to be done, whether I want to or not. And I have learned that, the more complicated one’s life, the greater the need.

So here, at the end of 2011, is why, and to whom and to what, I am saying goodbye:

1. A young woman in whom I was far too long and deeply invested, and re-invested, wanting to ignore a key feature that could never work for me or for us together. I loved her indisputably and dearly—she was, and is, so bright and pretty and funny—but we suffer a core, key, difference that I can never surpass. Mostly, lately, I seldom think about this loss, but today as I write this I feel sad, especially in the wake of Sarah’s death. We often grieve what we thought we could have; what we hoped for. And my grief is not exceptional.

2. A young woman I foisted onto Sarah…Sarah who appeased me and in whom I ought to have trusted. I have no feelings of loss in this woman, but am terribly sorry that I ever tried to change my daughter’s mind. I saw Sarah wrestle with so many egregiously painful truths in her final months, and I know, because she told me so, that ultimately the truth was more important to her than any enabling fiction. Still, I suffer on behalf of my girl, who knew all too well who had taken what from her, and why.

3. The fact that I am never going to be slim. I can and expect to lose weight, but slim is out of the question. Besides, mostly what that means now are face craters and globs of hanging cellulite. Still, I am sorry I waited so long.

4. Procrastination about finishing my novel. How many people have to die before I realize that deadlines are ever encroaching? Besides, I am eager to begin to write that book that Sarah asked me to; the one I have earned claim to.

5. My homophobia. I have been living with Mary for several years, and still I make jokes about my lesbian partner. While this might seem funny to some—even to Mary and me—there are wrong reasons why I do this (that have nothing to do with my family members…okay, my sister…who told me I was not to touch Mary in front of her or her adult children), and I had best get at the root of my fears and prejudices now...just as many of you have to.

6. Expecting blood from stones. In other words, really knowing I can’t always or even often or maybe ever make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

7. Pepsi, which is already a few weeks (okay, mostly) gone.

8. Potato chips...ditto.

9. My %$#(*&)%$#@ fear of flying. Curses on that PEI pilot, stewed as I know he was loop de looping over the Northumberland Strait, the patchwork quilted crops cutting out at odd (all) angles. Paris awaits, and I have Don Ives’ broken cookies and red balloons to consider.

10. Resentment against people I don’t care enough about in the first place. I love that line that Carrie Fisher quotes: “Resentment is like drinking poison and expecting the other person to die.” Really, though, have you ever noticed how much time we waste on people who mean next-to-nothing in our lives? Besides, I expect Sarah and her father to come from their place beyond this planet and get these ass***** once and for all—and if you think I’m kidding...guess again. (You can see I have to work on this one a little harder.) (Also: see #5.)

Anyway, maybe you are one of those rarely fortunate people who hasn’t anything or anyone of which or whom to let go. Sadly, this is not true for me. The one thing I have going for me, though, is that once I make up my mind, I am often successful...except for the pop and the chips part, which is why I gave them a head start.

My best wishes to you all (minus the few of you who read these entries for prurient reasons. To you few, as my friend Wilfred likes to say, “Piss on yaz all!”).

Happy New Year

Year End Liquidation

Okay, this right-handed typing is becoming more than irritating. Worse, I have switched from Children’s Chewable Tylenol to Children’s Liquid Tylenol. And now I know why they call it liquid. My brains are sloshing about like pea soup in a bread bowl, splashing left to right and right to left, then back again, taking my eyes with them so that the cats are streaming by in a blackgreywhitebrownspottedstriped blur.

As I lie here, my spongy thoughts are these:

I wish I could read my new Christmas present novels, but I am afraid. As it is, looking at these typed words is a challengechallengechallenge. Oopsy.

Taking a ship across the Atlantic instead of an airplane is probably not the good idea I thought it was.

Whee! I’m a clothesline!

Why are you all getting dizzy?

Vitameatavegamin

Would you care for a peanut butter and clam sandwich?

  +    

One foot on the floor; one foot on the bed. One foot on the floor...

Movies to avoid: Under the Volcano; The Days of Wine and Roses; The Hangover; Barfly; Vertigo; Animal House; Arthur; The Lost Weekend; Withnail & I; Arthur II: On the Rocks; Leaving Las Vegas; Sideways; Moby Dick; Arthur: The Remake

Genetics! Genetics! Genetics!

When I was 17, it was a very good year...

Are you unpopular?

We're on a carousel, a crazy carousel
And now we go around again we go around
And now we spin around, we're high above the ground
And down again around, and up again around
So high above the ground, we feel we've got to yell
We're on a carousel , a crazy carousel

“You’ve got to climb Mount Everest to reach The Valley of the Dolls. It’s a brutal climb to reach that peak. You stand there waiting for the rush of exhilaration. But it doesn’t come. You’re alone and the feeling of loneliness is overpowering.” And later, “Look. They drummed you right outta Hollywood! So ya come crawlin' back to Broadway. Well, Broadway doesn't go for booze and dope. Now you get outta my way, I got a guy waitin' for me.”

Do you poop out at parties?

Elwood P. Dowd: “Harvey and I sit in the bars...have a drink or two...play the jukebox. And soon the faces of all the other people…they turn toward mine and they smile. And they're saying, "We don't know your name, mister, but you're a very nice fella." Harvey and I warm ourselves in all these golden moments. We've entered as strangers - soon we have friends. And they come over...and they sit with us...and they drink with us...and they talk to us. They tell about the big terrible things they've done and the big wonderful things they'll do. Their hopes, and their regrets, and their loves, and their hates. All very large, because nobody ever brings anything small into a bar. And then I introduce them to Harvey...and he's bigger and grander than anything they offer me. And when they leave, they leave impressed. The same people seldom come back; but that's envy, my dear. There's a little bit of envy in the best of us.”

Do you really think that all that booze is going to make you straight?

But now the days grow short
I'm in the autumn of the year
And now I think of my life as vintage wine
from fine old kegs…
from the brim to the dregs

Holiday Fare

Every Christmas is the same and every one a little bit different.

Behind me on the treadmill stands a procession of gifts that we will be taking away with us to Ottawa. Downstairs, other gifts sit wrapped, ready to be delivered on Christmas Eve. Still others hide in the closet (oh oh...), waiting to be unleashed on Christmas morning.

From here on my cushioned chair I can hear Rita MacNeil and the Men of the Deeps singing out from the old Panasonic TV, and I wait for the song about Cape Breton, and think of my mother. I love the seasonal chorus, but I lament the dearth of Christmas classic movies, and wonder why I don't just up and buy them and keep them for this holiday occasion.

I hear Mary sneezing as she wipes away the dust and cat hair from five colourful little beds, beds they hardly ever use but that are theirs all the same. They must be tired holed up in the bedrooms, waiting for the grout to dry.

I wish I could get into the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea, or, better still, pour some wine. I almost never drink, but because I know that I am going to want more than my share of wine over the next four nights, I want some now. I'm funny that way.

Tomorrow, I have a lot of work to do around the house. I have to get the kitchen back in order, and dust away the chalky residue that has risen, and fallen, everywhere, coating everything. That is the nature of new tiles.

I have never had new tiles at Christmas before. Come to think of it, I have never had new tiles ever.

And I have never shared Christmas Eve dinner with Mike and Stephan, but I am looking forward to the evening with great pleasure. Mike is making green lasagna, and undoubtedly I am going to eat too much of it and too much bread. Afterward, we will go to Eva and David's for dessert, and then to the downtown late-night Christmas concert.

Add to this that I have never had Christmas dinner with Sarah's other family, but I look forward to that, too [this never happened, in fact] -- especially because I do not have to cook (shame on me) and, if I am lucky, will not have to do a lot of dishes because I am a gracious and most dignified guest. (Ha!) Mind you, doing dishes can be a lot of fun, especially if I'm washing.

I think back now to Christmas Day in Ottawa, when Don was alive and the boys were at home, and how they, the boys, would push themselves away from that table faster than you could say, "I'm not doing dishes!" And they never did. (They left that to their sister and to me.) They did other things -- played Christmas music, ate cookies, cast shadow puppets on the kitchen walls. We laughed a lot, always, and I thought -- I hoped -- that Christmas Day would always be the same.

But that is not the way that real life is, at least not for the majority of people that I know, and certainly not for me.

For people I know, as for me (and as I said), every Christmas is the same and every one a little bit different. I think that's because the people that I know and admire tend to live life in harder ways...taking risks, loving broadly, stepping up or down accordingly, sometimes unwittingly, making room for letting go and urging in.

Whenever I have lonely moments at Christmas -- whenever I lament what might have been -- I think of all the Christmas cards and letters, the family and the friends, the dinners and the concerts, the gifts that sit waiting on the treadmill, the sweet lisping sounds of Rita MacNeil leading the harmony of Cape Breton voices (their esses held too long, their tees too hard), and I know that nothing, and that no one I have loved, is far behind me, and that through every change the steady sameness sweetly follows me.

Posted by Jennifer Coffey at 12:15 AM

Labels: Holiday Issue

[Archived] Tuesday, December 22

Lake Superior State University 2011 List of Banished Words

VIRAL

"Often used to describe the spreading of items on the Internet i.e. 'The video went viral.' It is overused. I have no objection to this word's use as a way to differentiate a (viral) illness from bacterial." Jim Cance, Plainwell, Mich.

"This linguistic disease of a term must be quarantined." Kuahmel Allah, Los Angeles, Calif.

"Events, photographs, written pieces and even occasional videos that attracted a great deal of attention once were simply highly publicized, repeated in news broadcasts, and talked about for a few days. Now, however, it is no longer enough to give such offerings their 15 minutes of fame, but they must be declared to 'go viral.' As a result, any mindless stunt or vapid bit of writing is sent by its creators whirling around the Internet and, once whirled, its creators declare it (trumpets here) 'viral!' Enough already! If anything is to be declared worthy enough to 'go viral,' clearly it should be the LSSU Banished Words list for 2011!" Lawrence Mickel, Coventry, Conn.

"I knew it was time when the 2010 list of banished words appeared in Time magazine's, 'That Viral Thing' column." Dave Schaefer, Glenview, Ill.

"I didn't mind much when 'viral' came to mean an under-handed tactic by advertising companies to make their ads look like pop culture. However, now anything that becomes popular on YouTube is suddenly 'viral.' I just don't get it." Kevin Wood, Wallacetown, Ont.

"Every time I see a viral video on CNN or am asked to 'Let's go viral with this' in another lame e-mail forwarded message, it makes me sick." Lian Schmidt, Bandon, Ore.

EPIC

More than one nominator says the use of 'epic' has become an epic annoyance.

"Cecil B. DeMille movies are epic. Internet fallouts and opinions delivered in caps-lock are not. 'Epic fail,' 'epic win', 'epic (noun)' -- it doesn't matter; it needs to be banished until people recognize that echoing trite, hyperbolic Internet phrases in an effort to look witty or intelligent actually achieves the opposite." Kim U., Des Moines, Iowa.

"Over-use of the word 'epic' has reached epic proportions. Tim Blaney, Snoqualmie, Wash.

"Anything that this word describes in popular over-usage is rarely ever 'epic' in the traditional sense of being heroic, majestic, or just plain awe-inspiring." Mel F., Dallas, Tex.

"Standards for using 'epic' are so low, even 'awesome' is embarrassed." Mike of Kettering, Ohio.

"I'm sure that when the history books are written or updated and stories have been passed through the generations, the epic powder on the slopes during your last ski trip or your participation in last night's epic flash mob will probably not be included. This may be the root of this epic problem, but it seems as if during the past two years, any idea that was not successful was considered an 'epic-fail.' This includes the PowerPoint presentation you tried to give during this morning's meeting, but couldn't because of technical problems. Also, the ice storm of 'epic proportions' that is blanketing the east coast this winter sure looks a lot like the storm that happened last winter." DV, Seattle, Wash.

FAIL

One nominator says, "what originally may have been a term for a stockbroker's default is now abused by today's youth as virtually any kind of 'failure.' Whether it is someone tripping, a car accident, a costumed character scaring the living daylights out a kid, or just a poor choice in fashion, these people drive me crazy thinking that anything that is a mistake is a 'fail.' They fail proper language!"

"Fail is not a noun. It is not an adjective. It is a verb. If this word is not banned, then this entire word banishment system is full of FAIL. (Now doesn't that just sound silly?)" Daniel of Carrollton, Georgia.

"When FAILblog.org went up, it was a funny way to view videos of unfortunate people in unfortunate situations. The word fail is now used by people, very often just to tease others, when they 'FAIL.' Any time you screw up in life -- a trip up the stairs, a bump into a wall, or a Freudian slip, you get that word thrown in your face." Tyler Lynch, Washington, Iowa.

"Mis-used. Over-used. Used with complete disregard to the 'epic' weight of the word. Silence obnoxious reality TV personalities and sullen, anti-establishment teenagers everywhere by banishing this word." Natalie of Burlington, Ont.

"It has taken over blogs, photo captions, 'status' comments. Anytime someone does something less than perfect, we have to read 'FAIL!' The word has failed us all." Aaron Yunker, Ishpeming, Mich.

WOW FACTOR

"This buzzword is served up with a heaping of cliché factor and a side order of irritation. But the lemmings from cable-TV cooking, whatever design and fashion shows keep dishing it out. I miss the old days when 'factor' was only on the math-and-science menu." Dan Muldoon, Omaha, Neb.

"Done-to-death phrase to point out something with a somewhat significantly appealing appearance." Ann Pepper, Knoxville, Tenn.

A-HA MOMENT

"All this means is a point at which you understand something or something becomes clearer. Why can't you just say that?" Audrey Mayo, Killeen, Tex.

BACK STORY

"This should be on the list of words that don't need to exist because a perfectly good word has been used for years. In this case, the word is 'history,' or, for those who must be weaned, 'story.'" Jeff Williams, Sherwood, Ariz.

BFF

"These chicks call each other BFF (Best Friends Forever) and it lasts about 10 minutes. Now there's BFFA (Best Friends For Awhile), which makes more sense." Kate Rabe Forgach, Ft. Collins, Colo.

MAN UP

"A stupid phrase when directed at men. Even more stupid when directed at a woman, as in 'Alexis, you need to man up and join that Pilates class!'" Sherry Edwards, Clarkston, Mich.

"Another case of 'verbing' a noun and ending with a preposition that goes nowhere. Not only that, the phrase is insulting, especially when voiced by a female, who'd never think to say, 'Woman up!'" Aunt Shecky, East Greenbush, NY.

"Can a woman 'man-up,' or would she be expected to 'woman-up?'" Jay Leslie, Portland, Maine.

"Not just overused (a 2010 top word according to the Global Language Monitor) but bullying and sexist." Christopher K. Philippo, Glenmont, NY.

"We had to put up with 'lawyer up.' Now 'man up,' too? A chest-thumping cultural regression fit for frat boys stacking beer glasses." Craig Chalquist Ph.D., Walnut Creek, Calif.

REFUDIATE

"Adding this word to the English language simply because a part-time politician lacks a spell checker on her cell phone is an action that needs to be repudiated." Dale Humphreys, Muskegon, Mich.

Kuahmel Allah of Los Angeles, Calif. wants to banish what he called 'Sarah Palin-isms': "Let's 'refudiate' them on the double!"

MAMA GRIZZLIES

"Unless you are referring to a scientific study of Ursus arctos horribilis , this analogy of right-wing female politicians should rest in peace." Mark Carlson, Sault Ste. Marie, Mich.

THE AMERICAN PEOPLE

"These politicians in Congress say 'the American People' as part of what seems like every statement they make! I see that others have noticed it, too, as various websites abound, including an entry on Wikipedia." Paul M. Girouard, St. Louis, Mo.

"No one in Washington can pontificate for more than two sentences without using it. Beyond overuse, these people imply that 'the American people' want/expect/demand all the same things. They don't." Dick Hilker, Loveland, Colo.

"Aren't all Americans people? Every political speech refers to the 'American' people as if simply saying 'Americans' (or 'people') is not enough." Deb Faust, Sault Ste. Marie, Mich.

I'M JUST SAYIN'

"'A phrase used to defuse any ill feelings caused by a preceded remark,' according to the Urban Dictionary. Do we really need a qualifier at the end of every sentence? People feel uncomfortable with a comment that was made and then 'just sayin'' comes rolling off the tongue? It really doesn't change what was said, I'm just sayin'." Becky of Sault Ste. Marie, Mich.

"I'm just sayin'...'I'm not sayin'''…Actually, you ARE saying…A watered-down version of what I just said or intended to say….SAY what you are saying. DON'T SAY what you aren't saying." Julio Appling, Vancouver, Wash.

"Obviously you are saying it…you just said it!" Catherine Wilson, Granger, Ind.

"And we would never have known if you hadn't told us." Bob Forrest, Tempe, Ariz.

"When a 24-hour news network had the misguided notion to brand this phrase as a commentary segment called, 'Just sayin', I thought I was going to retch." Casey Conroy, Pleasant Hill, Calif.

FACEBOOK / GOOGLE

as verbs

"Facebook is a great, addicting website. Google is a great search engine. However, their use as verbs causes some deep problems. As bad as they are, the trend can only get worse, i.e. 'I'm going to Twitter a few people, then Yahoo the movie listings and maybe Amazon a book or two." Jordan of Waterloo, Ont.

LIVE LIFE TO THE FULLEST

"It's an absurdity followed by a redundancy. First, things are full or they're not; there is no fullest. Second, 'live life' is redundant. Finally, the expression is nauseatingly overused. What's wrong with enjoying life fully or completely? The phrase makes me gag. I'm surprised it hasn't appeared on the list before." Sylvia Hall, Williamsport, Penn.

Crosswords, Puzzles and Games

I came downstairs this morning to find Sneakers dealing what was apparently another round of cards in what was apparently a bridge game that was apparently interrupted by bouts of rose-snacking. I know this for a fact because just as I hit the bottom stair I heard Galoshes call, "You can't trump me!" and when I turned the corner I noted that Slippers was lying on her back and downing rose petals much the same way you or I would chow down on a bag of jujubes or heavily salted popcorn. Her lips were bright pink and her purring could be heard all the way across the street at the corner store (more on that another day).

I decided to sit there quietly for a few minutes, incognito as it were, as I had not yet before seen them all together like this over a card game. Other things, yes -- skiing, snow boarding, all the water sports, and of course the winter sled team, but never at a table in an attitude reminiscent of those awful velvet paintings. I don't know much about the trump games, either, and I have a hellish memory for cards that have already gone before my eyes in any given game. Mind you, after watching that bunch I'm not sure I figured out anything.

They seemed more preoccupied with social niceties than with actual learning. Sneakers, in fact, was dootied up in his silk bathrobe, reminding me a little of a portlier Orson Welles, and oh my god -- the cigar smoke! (And all this at eight o'clock in the morning. No doubt this was a holdover game.) He kept belching into his lapel, then grinning maliciously at Galoshes, who was himself quite a spectacle, his goggles draped around his neck like Howard Hughes and his back legs up on the table -- crossed. I don't typically think of Galoshes as arrogant, but I have to tell you, he cut quite a pose there at the dining room table.

"You can't trump me, I said!" he said, at which point Boots squished up his triangular face (and I can't even repeat who he reminded me of) and hurled an epithet or two toward his partner.

"Do you even know the rules of this game?" asked Boots (which were the exact words I had in my own head), at which moment Ralph interrupted, "Let's be adults about this, shall we, and get on with the game."

I could hear that he intended this as a command, too, not as a question.

Slippers rolled over beneath the arching baby's breath, practically cooing, and Galoshes yelled at her: "Haven't you any sense of decorum?" and Sneakers, who had by now gone into the kitchen and come back out again, carrying one of those bowls from the 1960s meant for chips and chip dip in which he had somehow concocted an Orange Bavarian Cream, shouted, "Heads up!" and I had no idea what he meant until I peeked through the rungs of the stair railing and saw a mittful of mandarin flying over the poker chips (do you need poker chips for trump games? I asked myself) landing in Galoshes' lap.

"Quit picking on me, all of you!" Galoshes yelled back, "and let's get on with the game."

Heavy smoke filled the air, and I coughed quietly into the sleeve of my nightgown and missed half of what Sneakers was saying -- something about synthesis, whereupon Boots roared, "For gawd's sakes -- are we going to have to sit through another dialectic diatribe from you? Thesis. Antithesis. Synthesis. Who bloody cares? I'd be happy if someone at this table knew how to play this game properly, and to hell with philosophy!"

Ralph interjected, "Speaking of philosophy, how do you feel about being written about? I had a look at one of the short stories which she claims is for the baby, but you know as well as I do that there are other venues and other babies and yeah, sure, it might be that this is all intended for a modest audience, but you know how those things go."

"I, for one, certainly do." Boots hissed spit as he spoke. "I have been the subject -- or should I say victim? -- of some of her other so-called work, and it's none too pleasant being depicted as an anal retentive bore."

"If the catheter fits," muttered Galoshes, and Slippers sat upright, several shiny petals falling from her tiny mouth. "I think you mean enema bag," she said, and Boots hissed again. "Whatever," he said. "Whose deal?"

I sat there, my arm going numb from leaning into the railing, wondering why they seemed so angry with me and why I hadn't shaved my legs in so long. Hadn't I done my best for them? Had I not taken them in off the streets when no one else wanted them? Wasn't I timely with food and water and treats? Hadn't they slept on my face for all these years?

God knows what I had had to sacrifice in the wake of their dilemmas, and yet, clearly, they didn't seem to care. I tried not to feel hurt; to understand that here in the early morning they, at the very least, were spongy tired and likely hungover (fully aware as I was of Sneakers' penchant for brandy and Ralph's longstanding [and some would say kindred] relationship with Austrian beer).

The next thing I knew one of them had leaned over and had turned on the stereo and they were humming along to Carly Simon's song about the Carter family -- and then I found I missed her... mor-or-or-ore...than I'd ever have guessed -- and I peeked through the bars and saw Boots chucking Ralph under the chin and Sneakers handing a cigar to Galoshes. "She's not so bad," Boots said, and I thought, "Ah, there's synchronicity for you," and I looked again and saw that Slippers had lain back down under the roses and seemed to be counting the remaining petals.

The dog, apparently, slept through the whole thing.

<:^)

[Archived] Tuesday, December 22

Posted by Jennifer Coffey at 9:38 AM

Labels: Puzzles and Games

Gadgets

At the rate I am going I will be addicted to Children’s Chewable Tylenol by next Tuesday. Here, for now, is another archived entry. Ho ho ho!

I was downstairs mopping the floors about an hour ago, the television humming in the background along with the cats and the dog. (The cats were humming Christmas carols, but I'm not at all sure what that tune was issuing from the dog. The words belonged to How Much Is That Doggie In The Window? but whoa...talk about off key!) Anyway, as I continued to spruce up the floors with my new Swiffer mop (my mother is spinning in her grave), I began thinking how much the world has changed in my brief thirty-seven years. A quick scan of the Internet, in fact, tells me that during this—or any—holiday season you can, for anywhere from 10 to 50,000 dollars, pick up any number of the following items: multiple-style robot kits, cousins to the more specifically useful Roomba Vacuuming Robot (how does it know?); automatic golf tees (for those of you who can swing, but not low) (comin' for to carry me home); revitalized Etch A Sketches (my brother was given one of those, along with a Slinky, when he was four years old, and he used to let me play with these toys on the stairs with him); a bells and whistles Rubik's Cube (I couldn't figure out the old one, and I don't think any number of accouterments are going to help me); a gyroscopic wrist exerciser (burn, baby burn...disco fever!); a ropeless jump rope (huh?); a remote control middle finger (my kids would love this one...which reminds me of the time, after years of teasing them with this same gesture, my two older children hauled me off to a late-night karaoke bar in Ottawa where they performed a duet and, while singing, raised their middle fingers—along with everyone else in that bar—in my direction. I think I might have actually blushed); a staple-free stapler (which would alleviate me of I don't know how many septicemia scares); a digital voice recorder pen (does it speak or does it write?); a desktop light therapy box (which has to be better than any therapist I ever encountered) (or encountertransferenced); a digital picture frame; a light-up umbrella (which I can do on my own quite nicely, given the right meteorological conditions); a—get this—grill alert talking remote (it would have to be remote) meat thermometer. (I see before me a roast beef yelling from behind closed oven doors, "I'm done! I'm done!") (and when we get behind closed doors...); picture-taking binoculars (great for you condominium dwellers); a Giant Swiss Army Knife (85 tools with 100 functions, all for a mere $999.00. Geeze, I can do practically all the same things, and I charge way less than that); a touch free soap dispenser (perfect for the Howard Hugheseses in your life), and a wireless weather station. (Do you remember the Kate Bush Cloudbusting video she made with Donald Sutherland, who, by the way, is beginning to look more and more like my father?).

No no no no no. I'm with my mother on this one...or close enough to stop her shrieking from beyond the grave. My notion of gadgetry reaches its technological limit at squirting floor mops, and prior to these sorts of Dust Buster-style advances, includes nutcrackers (also know as psychotherapists); manual corkscrews; letter openers (not without my daughter); voice mail (now this is an advance); Phillip head screwdrivers; fluorescent fly swatters; toothpicks, quartz battery-operated watches; paper clips; four cylinder engines; pencil sharpeners; scissors; tire jacks; shower caps; watering cans; nightlights; glow-in-the-dark toothbrushes; bobbin threaders, and non-giant Swiss Army knives. I am perfectly content to continue going about things in an antiquated fashion, mopping the floors, the t.v. on in the background, the cats and dog humming in their sweet old-fashioned ways.

How much is that doggie in the window? (arf! arf!)
The one with the waggley tail...
How much is that doggie in the window? (arf! arf!)
I do hope that doggie's for sale.

<:^)

Monday, December 29

Posted by Jennifer Coffey at 6:05 PM

Labels: Home and Garden

Science & Nature

Bob, this one's for you:

I have never been much of a science student, which in my day meant Terry Mazeika trading my English skills for her expertise in biology in order for each of us to pass. While I struggled away with ions, protons, neutrons and electrons, Terry toiled with metaphor, allegory, bathos (which she thought meant drowning in sorrow), and, bathos's cousin, the mock heroic. I just realized I wrote the mock heroic, which is so insiderish—like when I lived in Port Credit and we used to say, "We're going to the Dixie Plaza." [Mind you, it was Bob who first pointed out this regional habit.]

Anyway, I have never been good at science, and had to ultimately drop out of both physics and chemistry. (The only thing I remember about either is the word oscillation, and that's because someone showed us oscillation in action.) I do recall more from my biology classes, however, like the day we were dissecting fish and how I opened mine up and began squealing, "My fish swallowed a pen! My fish swallowed a pen!" (At least a week went by before I realized that I had been set up.) My best friend Sandy cried, too, when we had to dissect frogs, and in fact she got up from our double desk and left the classroom for the rest of the period.

When I finished high school, despite having done well enough in most other subjects, I still felt stupid because I had been such a complete failure in the various areas of science. How fortunate for me, then, when I found out that George Brown College held night classes in astrology. This I was sure I could do, having devoted so much of my young life in the Seaway Restaurant matchmaking people of all ages and interests based on their signs. (I didn't know anything about sun signs in those early years, and now that I think about it, I have forgotten most of what I eventually did learn.) It didn't hurt, either (or at least not yet) that I had fallen for a Toronto astrologer (of whom mareseatoats later asked, "Mystic, or mistake?"), and what with the combined charts of his Leo/Cancer/Cancer and my Aries/Aries/Scorpio producing a bouncing Gemini/Pisces/Gemini ("Quadruplets!" I shouted), everything seemed in perfect alignment.

I shall leave that story for another day and instalment (there's only so much stomach-churning a person can abide in one afternoon), but I can say with certainty how buoyantly I left my shift at the knives and scissors counter at Eaton's Department Store and headed off twice a week for my class, dreaming of a life with my new boyfriend (who, unbeknownst to me, was producing all kinds of astrological babies all over town), the two of us living in a third floor walk-up in Cabbagetown (which was then merely Cabbagetown, and not the well-preserved heritage pocket it has since become).

What I have been able to do, which I think is rather astute if not exactly Scientific American material, is produce analyses of sun signs based on their relationship to words (i.e., in other words, the best and worst of how people write). I don't want to reveal here the full results of my hard work, as I am sure one day I will win great accolades for my current work-in-progress, Behind Every Great Wordsmith Is A Sun Sign Just Waiting To Leap Out, (or my alternate working title, When Your Solar Plexus Vexes), but I can give you a little taste so as to whet your zodiacal appetite, as it were (and is). Here are some of my findings. (I offer up the zenith and nadir of each):

Aries: dogmatic/passionate
Taurus: imperious/judicious
Cancer: prurient/energetic
Gemini: ponderous/humorous
Leo: vain/vibrant
Virgo: disparaging/innocent
Libra: acerbic/benevolent
Scorpio: stinging/sweet
Sagittarius: callous/joyful
Capricorn: cruel/loving
Aquarius: bombastic/witty
Pisces: covetous/intelligent

Anyway, the subject of astrology came up last night, and I was taken back (in my head) to a time in Prince Edward Island when a day or so before my twenty-fifth birthday I had to have a laparoscopy. How surprised was I, then, to come home from day surgery and discover that my husband had arranged a special birthday party for me. At least twenty people were crammed into the tiny living room of our thin-walled turquoise house out on the old Cottontown Road, and apart from the bubbling abdominal gas, I sat almost comfortably in my chair, having a splendid time. Someone —I think my boss's daughter, who was likely the only person there who could afford one—gave me a pink-flowered Keepsake Azalea (which I wasn't able to keep very long, given my, as you would have expected, botanical challenges), and Michael M. sat in the corner in his grey and burgundy Velcro shirt and khaki pants, being especially funny, and funnier, as he drank down his bottle of Jack Daniels.

About mid-way through the party I went to the bathroom. As I sat on the toilet, I thought I ought to look down and make sure nothing untoward was coming from me, given that I had just had surgery in my tender bits area. How shocked was I to discover great swirls of steam rising from the toilet bowl? I stood up, hanging on to the wall to regain my balance, terrified. I came out into the living room, and asked an acquaintance named Crystal (whose last name —no lie—was Cross, as in Criss Cross) if she would come into the kitchen for a little minute. (I thought it easier to break the news and therefore remain calm in the presence of someone I did not know well.) I told her I had a medical emergency, and I asked her if she could spirit me over the bridge to the old Charlottetown Hospital. We conspired briefly and, telling everyone we were off on a cigarette run, we dashed as fast as her 1962 Mustang would take us.

Fortunately the waiting room was not busy, and I was whisked in fairly quickly because I had just had that laparoscopy. The doctor had me hop up on the gurney, and he asked me what my trouble seemed to be. I told him, as calmly as I could, "Spontaneous combustion." He said, "What?" I said again, "Spontaneous combustion." "How do you think that is possible?" he asked. "Doctor, I do read," I said. "I might not have a scientific mind, but I know what steam coming from my vagina means. Furthermore, I have two young children, and it is my birthday, and if you want me to live to see another one—if you want my children to know their mother—I think you ought to get on this right away."

"I'll tell you what," he said. "There's a woman down the hall who believes that whenever there's a full moon, as there is tonight, she grows hair on her chest and her feet, and becomes a werewolf. We are just now waiting for an ambulance to come and take her off to Unit Nine. If you would like to go with her, I will make arrangements. If, on the other hand, you would like to go home and enjoy your birthday, you have (here he looked at his watch. A person never forgets these things) ten seconds to leave my hospital. Before you make your decision, I would like to fill you in on one small detail: when warm urine hits a cold toilet bowl—and tonight is a chilly enough night after all—it produces steam."

Who knew?

I left.

The only memories I have about the rest of the night are that Crystal and I bought cigarettes on the way back home; I told no one about the incident for at least a dozen years, and, later that night, when Paul offered Michael a peanut butter and clam sandwich, Michael projectile vomited across the entire living room and all over my Keepsake Azalea.

I'm just burning doin' the neutron dance
I'm just burning doin' the neutron dance

<:^)

[Archived] Thursday, August 13

Posted by Jennifer Coffey at 11:41 PM

Labels: Personals

Coffey Talk

My arm is still out of commission. Ironically, this is the first (older) entry I happened upon:

I was speaking with a young woman – by young I mean late twenties, early thirties – on Thursday when she happened to mention something about small talk and her mother. This woman said to me that she doesn’t understand why her mother wishes they could talk more often on the phone.

I asked this young woman what the matter would be in giving her mum a little of what she wants, and the reply I got was, “Small talk! All she wants to do is talk small talk.”

It hit me at that moment that my daughter and I had spoken no fewer than six times by phone yesterday. I admit that this might be some kind of record and that typically my daughter and I speak maybe four or five times per week, but yesterday we were discussing the earthquake and tornado and their occurrence in the midst of the G-8 and G-20 Summits, and exchanging ideas about paint colours in her new home.

I expressed to this young woman that in fact Sarah and I had spoken several times that very day, and she asked me why. I said something like, “Well, we live in different cities, which likely accounts for some of the calls, and my daughter has a daughter, which accounts for some more.” I met with warm but puzzled stares.

So for the rest of the evening, I thought about this notion of small talk, aware that I am as guilty of it as anyone. I asked myself how much was too much; what constitutes small talk, and was I bordering on the symbiotic? Here’s what I ultimately decided:

Small talk only works after the big talk has been done. In other words, if you have unresolved issues, small talk is likely going to feel extremely uncomfortable. Small talk, then, is what comes when two people feel safe with one another and when they care deeply enough to want to know all the ins and outs of that person’s day.

I love when my daughter tells me, for example, that she is making spaghetti sauce for dinner. I picture her standing at her kitchen counter, admiring the flowers she just planted in her garden, answering her small daughter’s questions. I want to know about paint colours – what she likes, why she is choosing those colours, what they mean to her. I love her sweet and funny stories about work and friendship and baseball, and I want to hear what makes her angry or afraid. And I am pretty sure she loves the same things about me.

I can’t even imagine her ever criticizing me for small talk, instead saying, “Ah Mum, it’s that thing about less being more.” And she would be right. I don’t know what I’d do without our chitchat; without our comparisons of who should be the next American Idol, or why Stephen Harper insisted on holding the G-20 Summit in this city whose people he seems to loathe. (Aha!) I can’t imagine what I would do without all the commentary we seem to conjure up in a day, or worse, what it would be like if the only things we talked about were what many people here consider “important.”

Not to agree, ever, with Stephen Harper, but it’s a little to do with that thing I have said about Toronto; about the intellectual snobbery in this city where people have no idea what it means to know everyone on your street and to have friends of all ages and to never find a discussion about weather boring. No. It’s the small things that make life rich; that keep me interested and invested; that make me feel important enough. And I can tell you this: when I am no longer on the planet it is that very small talk that my daughter is going to miss about me most, and about our lives together.

Posted by Jennifer Coffey at 12:22 AM

Saturday, June 26

Labels: Humour, Personals

Christmas Wish List

People say, “It’ the same thing every year,” but if you look closely, you will see that it’s not the same at all.

Here, then, is a re-issue, with one notable change, and exchange:

I stood over their letters this morning, having come down early for tea, and found myself laughing and crying over how reflective their words are of the deepest parts of their natures. And for once they all did as I asked, which in this household is tantamount to a small miracle. In case any of you is, or are, interested, I reproduce their wish lists for you now.

Dear Santa Claws,
Mostly I have been a good girl. Except for the incident with the marbles I can't think of a single bad thing I did all year. Here's what I want. Help me get it please. I want a Brat doll and an Easy Bake Oven and a pink glitter bracelet and a box of Smarties. You can pick any Brat doll you want but the Smarties can't have any blue ones because I don't like them. They make my lips blue and the last time I ate them someone thought I needed a defibrillator and that wasn't very much fun at all. Only just now my chest fur is growing back in. Besides the bracelet please can I have something shiny? It can be anything. Some cutlery, a small saxophone, a medallion, a Swiss army knife, a hubcap, or a razor blade. I don't care. Also I want a copy of Constance Heaven's The Fires of Glenlochy because it's the only one I haven't read. Thank you Santa and please come again next year. Love, Slippers

Santa Clause I was asked to write a letter to you for what I want for chrismass but I can't think of what I want except a culligan water cooler and a milk thermus and maybe my very own bag of lays wavy potato chips or some smart pop popcorn and if you can't come that's okay because I can mostly get all this if I wait by the couch long enough. Your friend Ralph

Dear Santa -- This year I would like to buy school supplies for twenty children; three goats, one pig, and four chickens; seven soccer balls for kids who never had a chance to play soccer; medical aid for five families; enough books to fill a village library, and one night when no one had to be afraid. Oh yes, Santa. Please make it snow. Gratefully yours, Galoshes.

Mr. Claus,
It has been inappropriately brought to my immediate attention that I must succumb to the tedious task of assigning items to a fraudulent list yet again. Far be it from me to argue with anyone who is going to use my response -- or lack of it -- as leverage against what is suddenly "no longer affordable." Although this Conrad Black-mail might work with white middle-aged Fascista femmes it seldom works on me...unless, of course, there is mention of a crisp Cuban cigar or an ample jar of sweet and smoky port or a block of barrel-aged cheddar or a generous handful of pimentoed olives...or perhaps, I suppose, and quite easily the most important of all -- a spanking new grey-and-burgundy silk smoking jacket. Otherwise, Mr. Claus, piss off and leave the big boys to fend for themselves.
Sincerely yours,
Sneakers

Christmas List

1. Ralph Lauren zebra patterned cotton sheets, queen, 600 thread count
2. Mountain Co-op high powered dual action stainless steel binoculars
3. Season One: Hey Paula!
4. Old Spice Aftershave, extra scent
5. Celine Dion Sings Steamy Shower Classics
6. Four rechargeable Panasonic 9-volt batteries
7. Three cans Beatrice Real Whip Cream, chilled
8. Ten cans St. John Sea Salt Sardines
9. Playboy's Playmate Pets Extravaganza
10. Ten Little Pussies and How They Grew, first edition

Jeeves (Ho Ho Ho)

I hope there is a Santa Claus (because I know there is a Vaginia), and that he will read these letters and, except for that very last item, will try his level best to accommodate them.

<:^)

Imprints

The tree is waiting in the stand; a beautiful balsam, about six and a half feet tall...taller than my sons and my father, and taller, physically, than Don. We will leave it two days, its branches relaxing naturally as it adapts to the unnatural heat of the house and thrives, so green and full—how long before we, so selfish perhaps to want a real tree, will watch its needles wilt and die.

When the children were children, they helped decorate the tree. I am sure they tired of my ponderous routine—tape-deck carols sung mostly by people thirty or more years dead; cupsful of scorching hot chocolate; mum making ‘practical suggestions.’ (I wasn’t permitted to help decorate in my father’s house, and I had too few Christmases with mum, and therefore was never sure enough how tradition/s should be set.)

But it’s that time of year. Trees, decorations, succulent meat, mulled wine, shining stars, and chocolate.

Speaking of chocolate, yesterday one of my wonderful former students sent me the most glorious basket of chocolate I have ever laid eyes on—all the way from Brazil: toffee, pretzels, cookies, biscuits, coffee—it’s unbelievable. I cried for ten minutes straight, for Sarah and for this benevolent young woman who not only understands, but who always made me feel valuable as a teacher, a writer and as a human being.

Today, a friend of mine sent out a Facebook message, grateful for her annual Christmas card ritual—she licked something like 103 envelopes—I don’t even know 103 people—and right now on television Ringo Starr is crying in memory of George Harrison who offered, on his death bed, to accompany Ringo to Boston to the bedside of Starr’s daughter, who was suffering from a brain tumour.

I had a son with a brain tumour, and I have some idea what that means on behalf of one’s child. But (Mary and Sarah and) I have never been welcome in his home at Christmas, or at any other time of year, and as time goes by dominoes will fall into place, while others right themselves.

Sarah, who loved decorating so much, will not be here this year, either. “I am coming to Toronto next Christmas, Mum,” she said, with that look of fierce determination. She was also fond of the Beatles, as was I, and along with her youngest brother bought me many Fab Four CDs. More than anything she cherished gift-giving and planning surprises, and I am so, so sorry that I am not able to do either for her this year.

If I were one of my students, right about now I would be asking me about the absence of thoughtful transitions in this entry. But this entry is only (only? that’s funny) about impressions, and for once I am freed from the burden of over-thinking. Besides, my arm is compromised, and writing is not such a good idea today.

Mary has just this minute called from the grocery aisle. She said she phoned because it seemed to be what everyone was doing. I laughed, and then she sang, loudly, “I just called to say I love you....” Jesus. It wasn’t enough for her to sing one line, either. She felt compelled to go on. Funny woman. (Weird woman.) (Weird in a good way, though.) (That’s what I tell people, anyway.)

So these are my traditions. Mary. Noam when he is able. Noam when he is unable. Have Gun Will Travel, is all I mean. Lainey, never yet on the day, but we are adaptable. “Gramps, when I come to Toronto, will there be presents?” Blue, vicariously, plus in the park and over at the coffee shop. “Gammie...” Delicious food. A lovely tree. Friends. MCC on Christmas Eve. (Don’t bother to come rob us, either. We have attack dogs.) Movies, including documentaries. Email. Zach/Joanne/Sheila, and like that. Cards (but not 103. To be fair, I know well-loved and loving people who don’t send any cards, but this friend is from Newfoundland, which explains about 67 of those messages, along with the sentiment.) Music. Memories. Don. And Sarah. Always Sarah, who, like our noble Christmas tree, will live a life too short, but light up every corner of our world, gloriously.

Sarah, who always laughed whenever I quoted EB White’s, “I pine for you, I balsam.”

On the Other Hand…

I have never written an entry like this, using only my right hand. Pity for me, too, because I am left-handed, which is where the problem began and begins, culminating in a rotator cuff injury combined with a history of bartending/ophthalmic/chalkboard bursitis.

Tonight, I want to see if I can write and (ultimately—if it proves necessary—right) a right-handed entry. Otherwise it could be days before I page-purge.

Anyway, while I waited on the leatherette seat in Eaton’s Centre this afternoon, my shopping bags too heavy to carry without assistance, I spent my time watching the passers-by, trying to determine the various types of shoppers.

Here, then, is what I saw:

 

Gawkers and gapers

Screamers and talkers

Wall-huggers, bee-liners,

Downtrodden walkers

Models and laggers

Knee-bending picture-takers

Smilers and tag-teamers

Loungers and Quakers

Wheelers and dealers

Gum-chewing gadabouts

Blackberry-/cell-phoners

Lost in their whereabouts

Eaters and drinkers,

Pushers and shovers

Hand holders, toters

Sistas and bruthas

You take my point. Although I should clarify that by wheelers I include chairs, skateboards and fancy kids’ sneakers. As for pushers, I’ll let you be the judge.

The people who sat next to me were far more interesting, but that story is better left (-handed?) for another day. Or as Paul used to say when his hockey team won, “Right arm!” (And people wonder why I left left left him.)

Anyway, as I used to hear over and over when I was a child, “Never let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.”

The Elephant in the Room

Hills like white elephants

Elephants and grandchildren never forget.

I have a memory like an elephant. In fact, elephants often consult me.

Well, the big elephant in the whole system is the baby boomer generation that marches through like a herd of elephants. And we begin to retire in 2008.

For shame, doc. Hunting rabbits with an elephant gun. Why don't you shoot yourself an elephant?

Nature’s great masterpiece, an elephant; the only harmless great thing.

One morning I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How he got into my pajamas I'll never know.

Shallows where a lamb could wade and depths where an elephant would drown.

I get an urge, like a pregnant elephant, to go away and give birth to a book.

Women are like elephants. I like to look at 'em, but I wouldn't want to own one.

The elephants were being slaughtered in masses. Some were even killed in the vicinity of big tourist hotels.

My roommate got a pet elephant. Then it got lost. It's in the apartment somewhere.

Love will draw an elephant through a key-hole.

Helmet was joined to helmet, and spear to spear, and jewels, baggage, and elephants without number went with them, and you would have said it was a host that none could understand.

God is really only another artist. He invented the giraffe, the elephant, and the cat. He has no real style. He just keeps on trying other things.

Pointless...like giving caviar to an elephant.

Prince, a precept I'd leave for you/coined in Eden, existing yet/skirt the parlor, and shun the zoo/women and elephants never forget.

We already live a very long time for mammals, getting three times as many heartbeats as a mouse or elephant. It never seems enough though, does it?

[Alas, it never does.]

A special thanks, in no particular order, to Noel Coward, Dorothy Parker, Richard Leakey, Pablo Picasso, Samuel Richardson, William Faulkner, WC Fields, Stephen Fry, Bugs Bunny, Ernest Hemingway, Andy Rooney, David Brin, Stephen Wright, Lindsey Graham, Matthew Henry and Groucho Marx.

And special love to the elephant in the room.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost 

A Manual for Mourners and the People Who Love Them

Bereaving: From Middle English bereven, from Old English berēafian (“to bereave, deprive of, take away, seize, rob, despoil”) and Old English berēofan (“to bereave, deprive, rob of”); both equivalent to be- +‎ reave. Cognate with Dutch beroven (“to rob, deprive, bereave”), German berauben (“to deprive, rob, bereave”), Danish berove (“to deprive of”), Norwegian berove (“to deprive”), Swedish berova (“to rob”).

I found myself somewhat irritated a few days ago, wasting my psychological time over someone who isn’t even a friend. Typically I wouldn’t give her a second thought, but when I know too well how calculatedly indifferent she is to the loss of Sarah, and to our loss of Sarah, I find I can easily lose my emotional equilibrium.

So I went to the Internet in search of people who have had similar experiences following the death of a loved one, momentarily forgetting the many truly compassionate friends I am remarkably fortunate to have.

Searching online, I was saddened to find threads from several individuals—people who seem loving and forgiving—who have lost family members and friends to death, and who, dumbfounded by the degree of cruel abandonment, are reeling in the aftermath of their losses.

So I said to myself, Jennifer, you keep a blog: why not write an entry about bereavement: what people in mourning need and what people who love them can do to help.

I am not an expert by any means but, like most of us in middle-age, I have lost people I love. And if you were to come to me and ask me what you, as someone in mourning, could do to be helped, or what you could do to help someone you love, here is what I would tell you:

Empathize Imagine you are out skating on a frozen lake and someone you love has just fallen through the ice. What would you expect of them? Would you expect that they would be able to shout out; ask for help; get out of the water without assistance; walk away unscathed; tell you all that they need; continue their everyday conversations with you?

And what would you expect from yourself? That you would merely stand over them silently, not hurrying to find blankets, warm clothing, or assistance; a little bit puffed up, lofty in your position above them, knowing that they are depending on you for their life?

Put your hypothetical self in their situation, and figure it out if you have to. But don’t just hover there, doing nothing.

Be intuitive When you are grieving, don’t let everyone tell you, “It’s you.” Some people behave very badly toward people who are in mourning, often jealous that the attention they once received from you is going elsewhere. While it is true that a grieving person is going to be heightened from time to time, don’t discount that the same is true for some of the people around you.

Like Attracts Like Stick with the people who, although they may talk tough, treat you well. Avoid their opposites. Small-minded people are never solutions for big problems.

Bereavement groups are not for everyone Nothing against the volunteers and social workers (and all those) who run them, but I know more than one person who has been sorely disappointed by a bereavement group. (If you need an example of how these groups might, or might not, work, rent Rabbit Hole. And always remember the credo: They teach best what they most need to learn.) Moreover, if it is your nature and tendency to behave as a caregiver, you might find yourself deflecting, turning away from your own emotional turmoil as you spend all of your time trying to help others, instead of seeking help for yourself.

Arm yourself Be prepared to let some people go, and be happy that you can. If a person is not willing to or capable of lending an ear or a hand, say a quiet, inward good-bye and move on.

Be equally prepared to accept new people into your life, and be extremely happy that you can. I have been shocked and beyond moved by the people who have come into, and back into, my life since Sarah has died. I could not have got through these past months without them.

Ask If, after a few months you find you are still stuck, seek professional, one-on-one help. Nothing mitigates so well as finding, and hanging onto, perspective.

Think Every time you want to drown yourself in a river of self-pity, remember that you at least are alive, and that as someone still living you do have resources.

Make Alternative Plans Christmas is fast approaching, and I have been dreading the absence of my daughter. So we are making new plans: Christmas dinner in a different (for us) setting, and a few days experiencing some new kind of fun. There will still be holiday cards and a tree and the Christmas Eve service and one or two parties (traditions are necessary to good health and sharing), but we need to find fresh ways of viewing, enjoying, and remembering the world.

Keep Moving This has been the biggest challenge for me, as I struggle to make my way down the stairs, through the house, out the door and on into civilization. Obligations and plans help me, as does warm weather (some days), but overall I need to find strategies that will help pull me away from this room.

Mind What You Eat The worse I eat, the worse I feel; the worse I feel, the worse I eat; the worse I eat, the worse I feel. I have deleted soda pop and potato chips from my diet, along with white foods and most breads Monday through Friday. I drink more water and enjoy added fruit and vegetables.

Be Kind To Yourself Read books; watch movies and favourite television programs; travel when you can; enjoy a glass of wine; listen to beautiful music.

Reacquaint Yourself with your Loved One Periods of detachment are healthy and to be expected, but I have found great solace in looking at old photos, wearing certain items of clothing, reading our favourite poems and writing about Sarah. I love having her as close to me as I can. Rather than making life more painful, Sarah’s presence is profoundly reassuring.

Don’t Forget to Laugh And don’t feel guilty when you do.

Time does not heal all wounds, and, as far as I have ever been able to tell, there are not reasons for everything. But good friends help. Know who they are and get rid of, immediately, anyone who makes you feel bad about yourself and even worse about what, and who, you have lost. Don’t waste time on the wrong people. Instead, move forward toward the people, and toward the types of people, who genuinely care

In Memory of My Mother

Some people wonder why, and how, I can love my mum the way I do, knowing her predilection toward addictive substances. In fact, sometimes I wonder myself, knowing how horrified I am by parents who watch their children’s lives go by in a blur.

But my mother wasn’t like that.

My mother was a tender-hearted romantic who placed magic beans under my pillow on Friday nights; blew bubbles with me from our third-storey apartment window; read Elizabeth Barrett Browning poems to me when I was five years old, and scotch-taped my hair so that I could have kiss curls.

My mother was a generous woman whose skirts sailed out behind her when she walked. Her culinary skills—homemade oatmeal-molasses bread; radishes cut into the shapes of roses; baked stuffed pork chops; Dutch potato salad; German chocolate cake; Orange Bavarian Cream; crispy bacon; cookies carved into hearts—called me to the table as quickly as her cheerful Cape Breton voice. “Come heeere, deeear.”

My mother was a caregiver whose heart broke whenever she saw anyone in need. When I was thirteen, I had to give over my bed for several months on behalf of a young woman whose Roman Catholic family were unaware that their Nova Scotia daughter was about to give birth up in Ontario—this sort of quiet munificence ordinary in our household.

My mother was a scholar and an educator, spending innumerable late-night hours reading (politics and biography her favourite, followed closely by fiction that had been written in and about foreign lands); insisting I stay up later on Saturdays to watch movies she thought were valuable and relevant (Moby Dick; The Children’s Hour; Splendour in the Grass; Great Expectations; Hud; The Bells of St. Mary’s; The Browning Version...); engaging in radio debates (arguing in the kitchen with Pierre Berton and Charles Templeton in ways that made me laugh out loud). Indeed, my mother was the first Canadian woman to work in a university insectory without having previously obtained a degree.

My mother was industrious, often working two jobs; tending to the church library; scrubbing the walls and hallways of our apartment building to earn extra money; growing prizewinning roses along the thirty-foot fence; vacuuming; dusting; starching, sprinkling and ironing; polishing windows, glass-topped tables and hardwood floors.

My mother was a fashionista, locally famous not only for the cut of her own cloth, but because I was the best-dressed child in my school—cuffed, hemmed, collared, belted, hatted; gloriously shoed and coated—the envy of the grade seven girls who wished that they, too, had a one-inch heel on their winter boots.

Years earlier, too, I spent every sober Saturday in the barber’s chair, my hair cut to precision. And there was no shortage of bath bubbles, sweetly scented soaps, barrettes, pretty gloves, hair ribbons and smocking—everything a young girl needs to feel fit and alive.

Indeed, my mother lavished me with soft dolls, hardcover books, handmade blankets, lipstick-stained cheeks, glass-beaded bracelets...all those things she thought would help me feel safe.

My mother was comical, passionate, devoted, energetic, and soothing, always reminding me, by example, to try and be the same. She nurtured me, rocked me, held me, hugged me and kissed me, instructed me, laughed with me, delighted in me, loved me.

At other times, however, my mother was sad: depleted, worried, endlessly (sometimes painfully) charitable; completely intolerant of her own shortcomings. It was then that she drank, one drink begetting another and another, and eventually another, with little hope of ceasing.

In due course, my mother died by her own hand, devastated by irretrievable guilt and shame; remorse shattering her, overwhelming her even more profoundly, more unremittingly, than the alcohol and pills she used to snuff out her life.

And yet, as I sit here in the long, long wake of her death, what I remember most about her was how she exemplified mother, and how, despite all that she was unable to complete, she left me with a richly vivid, indelible picture of what it meant, what it means, to be utterly, perfectly loved.

Oh, Christmas Tree!

I’m never entirely sure about the ethics of this, but I picked up what seemed to me invaluable information for anyone who is planning on having a Christmas tree this (or any) year.

Gardening expert Owen Reeves was on a television show last week, describing the various types of holiday (in the Christmas culture) trees and which ones are best suited to what. I don’t know about you, but this sort of blueprint information tends to excite me.

While I think I might have known to shake the tree before bringing it into the house, I did not know that a tree should be set in the stand into fresh water and left upright for two days before decorating. This way the tree can thaw and properly hydrate, and the branches have time to separate, which means your decorations will better lend themselves to it. (Or do I mean that the other way around?)

Ensure, too, that the fresh cut is 1-2”, and feel free to add preservatives (the kind you get from the florist, although I always find that an Aspirin a day or some Seven-up does wonders).

Nordman Firs are the longest-lasting and densest tree, hanging on, poor dears, for about six weeks indoors. The Nordman is an ideal tree for anyone having multiple Christmases (people with large families; sentimentalists; over-eaters; bigamists, depending on where you do the bulk of your entertaining) or longstanding guests, or for those of you who will be away for awhile but want your tree to be full and lovely upon your return.

Fraser Firs are native to the mountains of the eastern United States and are closely related to Balsams. (“I pine for you, I balsam.” EB White) They are best for large or heavy ornaments because of the generous space between their branches. They last up to four weeks.

Balsam Firs are popular in the Maritimes, where they are sold alongside free cases of Schooner beer (okay, that’s not true), probably because they are the most affordable. (Have you ever worked your way through a Maritime winter?) They are the most fragrant tree and, of the firs, have the softest needles. (I wonder now, as I type, if that’s the variety of tree Bruce Mc_____ stole, fully decorated, from the front yard of the Charlottetown YMCA back in the late 1980s.)

Scotch Pines are more traditional. They are extremely fragrant (think Pine-Sol), give me a two-day headache (allergy), have sharp needles, and last less long than any of the trees listed. Still, many people love them, and they are readily accessible.

*Note: beware sharp needles. Not to break patient/technician/all-the-responsibility-no-authority assistant confidentiality, but I know three people who suffered severe eye damage on account of Christmas tree needles.

Potted Trees last up to one week. Make sure you have a ground-hole prepared prior to purchasing, so the tree is assured of a long/er life. I have entertained thoughts of a potted tree, but figure as long as there are children and grandchildren about, a bigger tree is indicated. More, I don’t know how we would find room for the 1,479 ornaments and our ethereal but not so tiny white angel.

Artificial Trees (notice I am going out on a limb here, branching bravely into the area of proper nouns/categories) should have metal hinges and a high tip count for maximum quality, although I might have learned more had all that water I’ve been drinking lately not hurriedly urged me out of the room and away from earshot of the television.

So there you have it...everything I stol-know about Christmas trees. I leave you now with a few bars from a fitting carol, Germany’s own, O Tannenbaum.

 

Thank you…

 

Sexy Sadie

P.E.I. age three

Kissing her Ma good-bye pre-shift

Exploding with happiness

The Carter farm

Bathing Beauty

We laughed all the way to the fish & chips store

 

Sarah turns 12

At Michael’s on Canada Day

North Rustico

At school

On the P.E.I. ferry

Hamming it up at home on Gilmour

 

Our house on Gilmour, the boys a little bit tipsy

Making my birthday cake

Christmas in Toronto

Pensive in Hull

Remembrance Day with Mum

 

Back yard in Toronto with her mums

Two best girls

The same two girls, each with sunglasses

The two girls left behind

And her wonderful Dad, who’s with her

 

...for making yesterday doable