Lemon meringue pie
Chokecherry jelly
Saskatoon pie
Shelling green fresh peas
Aroma of baking bread
Making cookies at Christmas
Homemade salad dressing
Memories of mom on her birthday
“I love you every day. And now I will miss you every day.”
~ Mitch Albom, For One More Day
The tea kettle whistles
bacon sizzles and spits
potatoes boil over and hiss
soup bubbles in a whisper
The bread smells done
coffee beckons and I obey
Butter is browning and
hurry up it smells burnt
Oven calls out ‘I’m hot’
Kitchen timer jangles
Mom or a sister joins in to
remind me to stir the soup
From great distance to my
kitchen, family memories sit
on my counter, rest in a tea cup,
as though we never left home.
“The kitchen is a sacred space.”
~ Marc Forgione, chef
Mothering continues
as long as child and mom
share this earth.
Nor should it be any different.
For if taken from me,
a vast hole in my heart
would not easily mend.
Should any mom go missing,
another often fills the gap
with the same love and learning.
Their name may not be ‘mom’
but their heart is called ‘mom.
And with all the growing
from birth into toddlers years,
pre-teens,
adolescence,
young adulthood and onward
child~parent blossoms through
joys and sorrows;
health or sickness.
For each mom who grows
alongside her child,
another mom will be born
in another day or time
to learn the ways of being.
“Motherhood is hard enough without judgement
from others who don’t know the whole story.”
~ Sarah Addison Allen, First Frost
 |
| February 22, 1916 - December 16,1971 |
Striding out with purpose ~ bareheaded, my toque left behind, winter jacket open to the breeze, gloves dropped carelessly in my shopping bag. I avoided silty puddles blessed by sun and slushy shivering ice patches in shade.
Carrying my mom’s memory with me,
I felt the strength of life and limb
in the joy of being in the sun.
“Unable are the loved to die, for love is immortality.”
~ Emily Dickinson
A four year old on a scooter
~ wheels with coloured lights
A one year old in a stroller
~ great grandma at the helm.
Mom and dad holding hands
with grandpa at their side
A stop to ride the swings
~ and slide the slide
Clear sky, no wind, setting sun
~ walkin’ off a delicious meal and the energy of children.
“Being a family means you are part of something very wonderful.
It means you will love and be loved for the rest of your life.”
~ Lisa Weedn, designer and artist
Moving
The house wasn’t the same to her anymore. Nothing really had changed. At least not that much. Clarisse still had the same old comfortable furniture. His hoodie still hung on the hook by the front door. She had told him not to forget it, but was glad that he did. She shook her head, trying to rid herself of the strange feeling. Walking into her kitchen she ran her hands over counters free of toast crumbs and spilled milk. The dining room was hers now. Just a low vase of pink and mauve sweet peas graced the polished wood. Starting to smile, she rubbed her hands together. “I’m going upstairs……to the bathroom.” It was clean! No wet towels on the floor, smushed tube of toothpaste….in the garbage. She straightened the colour coded towels on the wicker rack next to the sink. The mirror, free of streaks and splashes, showed each of her well deserved wrinkles in clarity. Stepping out in the hall, she peered into his room. The bed was made! No sign of teenage years. The closet was empty……almost. A deflated football, old sneakers (Phew!!). Picking them up between two fingers, holding them far away she put them in an empty trash basket. “That comes downstairs with me.”
She opened her bedroom door….wide. Her room was always neat as pin, but as long as she lived with family, or had guests, she kept it closed. “Hmmmm. Maybe, I’ll get a pet….may have to keep the door closed then; but we’ll seec” She stood still and inhaled the silence of her house. The house wasn’t the same to her anymore and she would miss the disarray. She would miss her son, his clumping down the stairs, slamming the door on the way out, leaving the refrigerator door open, playing the horrendous noise that he called music, always on his phone or tablet. “Sorry Mom!” echoed. She took his hoodie off the hook, held it to her nose and breathed deeply. Then coughed and took it to the washing machine. “He’ll be back. He’s only 500 miles away at university.”
“If you want to become full, let yourself be empty.”
~ Lao Tzu
**Random first line from writingexercises.co.uk
Early this morning ~ thinking of mom
and this life changing date ~ for mom
~ and the rest of the family!
She carried me for nine months
in the safety of her womb ~
as she had with each of my siblings.
I thought of the back pain, the cramping,
and all that would be left undone
while this first of the many tasks
a woman does for each of her children
cannot wait ~ and so I smile and say ~
Thank you for this birth day so long ago.
“Even though we have a body which can thrive and be used
for beautiful things, it is the changeless soul which connects.”
~ Donna Goddard, Waldmeer
I seldom have meaningful conversations with two year olds. Tonight was no different. There was discussion about colours, numbers, listening to sing-song-y songs, cutting up apples, getting more orange juice, mom and dad encouraging her to eat her supper and so on and so forth. I don’t really remember what issue brought a burst of laughter from mom, dad and great-grandmother (better known as grandma). I mean real genuine laughter. All I know is that I looked sternly at said two year old and said in my best ‘great grandmotherly voice’: “I’m serious!” Without missing a beat, her best two year old little voice said: “I’m serious too!” We just all broke up ~ well, not all of us ~ Miss Two Year Old continued playing.
“The fundamental job of a toddler is to rule the universe.”
~ Lawrence Kutner
Scattered memories
clustered and frozen in time
nourish me when
I miss my mom.
“Masterpieces are made when a broken person
makes something with their scattered pieces.”
~ Lidia Longoria, Hey Humanity
In memory and with thanks to my mom, Marion
February 22, 1916 ~ December 16, 1971
The Canada Suicide Prevention Service
1.888.456.4566
Crisis Suicide Helpline in Saskatchewan
306.525.5333
But…….I was encouraged to revisit that stubborn opinion.
I am willing to change a lot of things about food ~ different proteins, brown rice instead of white rice, different flavours and spicing. Bread is not one I am willing to do without. Bread is not just food. It is the very sustenance of life ~ especially mine. Or am I being selfish. I have baked bread for many many years. I have eaten bread many more years. My mom’s, a good friend of my mom’s, aunts, women in my hometown. So giving up bread was not an option.
More oatmeal - one of the dietary recommendations. I like oatmeal. I make porridge with the granola I make. Can’t doctor it with extra deliciousness. You know, butter, honey or maple syrup ~ or brown sugar ~ and a generous dosing of cream. But that’s ok ~ I make very tasty granola.
I asked myself ~ and Google ~ is there a No Knead Oatmeal bread? Yay!!! There were several recipes. So there you have it ~ my first No Knead Oatmeal bread with my blueberry jam and only a thin, thin, scraping of butter. Delicious and yum....just tone down how much I enjoy. (A few vegetables on the side for an extra bit of healthiness.)
“All sorrows are less with bread.”
~ Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
 |
| May 2008 |
Look carefully at
the little basket in the very centre…..
It’s a hummingbirds nest ~
about the size of a tea cup!!
Two tiny beaks reach up, one higher than the other ~ waiting for mom to come home with lunch.
“the daily hummingbird assaults existence with improbability.”
Ursula K. Le Guin, “No Time to Spare: Thinking About What Matters”
Review, Revision, Edit and Update
"Who has something at stake here?" This quote from the book Writing Tools by Roy Peter Clark. Like Joanie, I haven't felt my stories really merited such consideration until this morning. My stories - too simple, not sensational. However looking in more depth, Joanie had a lot at stake - belief in the importance of her story and her family. To put it down in her words was difficult for her, but brought up the reality of her past and her own story.
As far as any copy editing, my updates were wording, spelling and the addition of detail to Joanie's jump from 'forgetting about him' to accepting his (Andrew's) marriage proposal.
Threads
Joanie really didn’t want to speak up. Talking with her mother, Martha Digby, she quietly suggested that she may have a story to tell. “Mom, I’m not that attuned to the Estate, you know. Although you do work there, I’m too involved raising the children and my library career. I did pay attention while they wrote their stories. They so often don’t think I am paying attention. But you always tell me what they've been doing when over at the estate. They are always so excited to see Elizabeth. She is so good to them.” Joanie hesitated, took a sip of her tea. “What do you think, mom?”
Martha poured herself another cup of tea. “Well, dear. You’ve always said that everyone has a story and that each person’s story is important. This is a chance to tell your own story, even if it’s a tiny piece of it.”
“All right then, mom. I’ll do it. It will be refreshing to do something besides working on the computer.” Joanie stood and took their lunch things to the sink. “I’ll get right to work.”
“I have to go now anyway, dear. James and I have plans with Elizabeth and Samuel. Just a short ride into town to the one restaurant that’s still open.”
~~~~~
My story seems so small to me. But it is my story and, as mother reminded me, I do believe that everyone’s story is important. In short, most of my growing up was here in this half of the duplex mother purchased when I was about Ben’s age. I took the bus to school until I was old enough to drive, Then mother let me take the car to school. I loved school, loved learning, but mostly I wanted to be like the school librarian, Mrs. Sanders. She knew all the books and all the students. She seemed to know absolutely everything. When I reached high school, I had forgotten my wish to be like Mrs. Sanders until I heard some of the other girls talking about their applications to universities or colleges. It wasn’t until we had a paper to write about ‘Aspirations of Adulthood’. I thought it was a rather dull title but I wrote about that childhood wish and got a fairly good grade. My 'Aspiration'? Becoming a librarian.
I had been off the Island once with my mom when we took a train trip from Victoria all the way to Niagara Falls the year I graduated from high school. It was my graduation present and a very expensive one. But mom told me ‘I'm so proud of you! Graduating with honours. Your old mom barely made it through high school.’ She was beaming. The train trip was an experience I’ll always remember. We took a trip that showed me a Canada that I had only read about in history books, travel books or seen on television. Mountains much bigger and grander than anything on the Island, prairies covered in wheat fields and fields of grains I didn’t even know existed. I turned to my mother on one of our days “Mom, I want to go to a university off island.” Poor dear, she was horrified. “But, Joanie. You can go to the University of Victoria and you don’t even have to leave home. You’d be so far away. You do mean in Vancouver?”
“No, mom. Somewhere farther away. I don’t know. Calgary, Edmonton or maybe the University of New Brunswick.” Mom started to cry, “You don’t mean all the way across Canada. I’d never see you. You’d never come home!” I remember laughing and hugging her. “Of course I'll come home! Maybe I'll choose Calgary or Edmonton.”
Going that far away was a real first for me. It was exciting and scary, fulfilling and well…..scary. I was incredibly homesick. There was so much more than just learning about becoming a librarian. When university life got too overwhelming I resorted to reading a good book. Alberta’s winter was much different than Vancouver Island’s winter. I learned how to snowshoe and ski. Hiking had been one of my favourite pastimes growing up, the Alberta hiking trails took me out under the big skies. Even though I missed the ocean, I will always remember the night one winter when it was particularly cold and clear. That night I saw the northern lights. What a spectacular display. It was on that night that I met my future husband, Andrew Richardson. Handsome, blonde, eyes as blue as the Alberta skies and a year ahead of me and working toward his Master’s of Education. A shy girl, I had never dated in high school or even my first years out on my own. It was not love at first sight. As a matter of fact , I really didn’t like him at all. Yes, he was handsome, but so full of himself! Over the next year, he kept talking to me about the silliest inconsequential things. I kept being polite, but just not interested. One day, I finally gave up and said “Andrew, what do you want? I’ve been polite, I’ve ignored you, and still you won’t go away. Now I’ll just be blunt. ‘Go Away.” He just laughed, turned and said. ‘I’ll be back’ mimicking a silly Arnold Schwartzenager voice. I went back to my books and forgot all about him.
He stayed away for a month, but began sending me roses every day.. First it was just one, then two until it reached a dozen. Despite my best effort, with that first rose, I remembered every detail about him - his smile, the way a little curl always brushed his forehead... so many things. We met for coffee and then dinner. It was at one of our most romantic dinners that he proposed. As soon as I got home that evening, I called mom. She was so happy for us and at the same time crying. Happy because she loved Andrew and welcomed him into the family. Upset because our careers would be in Alberta. Our fledgling careers and married life began in a tiny town. Me, in a small foothills library and museum; Andrew, in the highschool. We were so very happy. Family had not been in our plans right away, but Ben came along a bit early. He and Abby were both born in Alberta. We moved back to the Island to be closer to my mother now that we had children. My dad had left us when I was a child and we had lost contact with him. Andrew’s family lived on the mainland, but came to Victoria often for vacations. Life had been good for many years. On our days off, we took the children hiking, into Victoria to the sights in that city, to Vancouver to the Science Center and gave them something I hadn’t had until that train trip: a strong sense that the world is a big, exciting place.
And then this pandemic struck. Andrew had taken a lucrative job teaching off island. Because we would miss each other and our little family so very much, we had made plans for trips with the children to visit each other. Restrictions that were imposed changed all of those plans. Our visits are now all screen time. As the vaccines are now reaching us, we are making plans. Andrew will be returning to the Island as soon as possible. My story is intertwined with Andrew’s and with our children. Until he is home, my story will seem a little threadbare.
~~~~~
Joanie wiped a tear away. She folded her story gently and whispered “Andrew, I miss you.”
“Invisible threads are the strongest ties.”
~ Friedrich Nietzsche
