Forget Me Not

It's another gorgeous, blue sky morning in my world, with a brisk breeze that has the flags outside my office window crackling on their poles.

The riot of spring bulbs that bloom here every year are just about done now and, as they fade, our attention is drawn to the tiny, blue blossoms of forget-me-not that grow between them.  

I love these little flowers. Every time I see them, they remind me of my grandpa.

Grandpa was a big man, with craggy features and silver hair.  Looking at his photos as an adult I realize he was quite handsome in a black and white movie "hard man" kind of way, but as a child he was just Grandpa; ever-present, eternal, and comforting.  

My grandfather was partial to soft cotton shirts in glen plaid, and carried a pocket watch, on a chain.  The thumb and forefinger of his right hand were stained mahogany brown from the hand rolled cigarettes he smoked, and he always smelled of tobacco, Vicks mentholatum, and the Scotch mints he carried in his pocket.  

Grandpa was a railroad man, working for a great many years as a conductor on the CPR trains that ran between Vancouver and Kamloops. Until he retired, he was often away from home.

When he was home, my grandfather was an enthusiastic gardener.  He had a large, very productive vegetable garden in the back yard of my dad's childhood home, with neatly planted rows nestled into dark, loamy soil running all the way to the back fence.  He practiced excellent culture there, turning the soil by hand each spring, carefully screening out any roots and weeds, and then augmenting it with a mixture of compost and manure.  The garden, in its turn, rewarded him with tremenduous yields.  I grew up eating Grandpa's vegetables.

My grandma's perennial flowers didn't fare so well under my grandpa's care.  His habit of turning every inch of soil every single year did not favour their longevity.  Grandma continued to plant perennials in the hope they would flower a second year, but with the exception of her roses - which Grandpa cherished like babies - they rarely survived the spring purge.

Annuals, especially if they were self seeding, were another matter entirely:  They loved the rich soil and carefully guarded growing conditions my grandpa's garden provided, and shot up in a riot of colour every single year. Among them were always forget-me-nots and pansies, who actually benefited from having their seeds spread throughout the garden when Grandpa sifted the soil.

So it was that every spring my grandfather would arrive at our door, packets of newspaper wrapped plants in hand.  He would bring me a clump of forget-me-nots, nestled in their newspaper with a good quantity of rich black soil still clinging to their roots. We would venture out into the front garden of my childhood home and carefully choose a spot to plant them. 

I remember the planting ritual very distinctly:  The clearing away of any weeds, the snick of the trowel taking the first bite of soil, the careful digging of a planting hole and loosening of the soil around it, and finally the placement of the plant.  I can still see my grandpa's hands in my mind's eye - broad, with strong fingers and squared fingernails, the black of the soil worked into cracks in his skin - as they gently patted the soil back into place and I remember him saying, every single year in exactly the same way, "I'm giving you forget-me-nots so you'll remember me when I'm gone."  

I'd never experienced the loss of a loved one so I had no understanding of what Grandpa meant by "when I'm gone," but I did have a very clear understanding of the great love behind this annual gift of flowers and planting.

My grandfather passed away in 1978 - a long time ago now - but every single spring this precious gift of memory is returned to me.  I see a forget-me-not and he is with me again, immediate and true.  

I cannot imagine a better gift than that.

Letting It Go

This is my husband.  He's 73 years old this year.  When he was 59, he suffered a massive heart attack and - unable to continue in his job - took a medical retirement.  

We were not in any way financially prepared for my guy's early retirement so, quite literally overnight, my husband went from being the primary wage earner in our household to being "chief cook and bottle washer," while I went out to work. 

Fortunately for both of us, my mother-in-law had provided her boy some solid cooking and housekeeping skills, and a stint in the navy had further refined them.  More importantly still, my fella took on his change of roles with a willing heart.

Not-so-fortunately, I found that I was less than willing to let "my jobs" go. I had very specific ideas about what constitutes a well kept house and a well managed kitchen. The house was never clean enough to meet my standards, I was annoyed by clutter that my guy didn't seem to see, and I was frustrated that he couldn't seem to adapt from cooking for hundreds as he had in the navy, to cooking for just the two of us.  

My husband - poor guy - was depressed at not being able to return to the job he loved, and discouraged by my constant criticism.  He was bored with housework and, because retirement had come upon him so unexpectedly, lacked hobbies or interests to keep his mind occupied. His self-esteem took some very hard knocks.

I wish I could tell you that we sat down and discussed these problems like enlightened adults, but that's not what happened.  

I sweated the small stuff.  I wrote daily chore lists (in minute detail), planned detailed menus and left very specific cooking instructions, phoned home often, worried constantly, and generally drove us both crazy.

My fella responded with tantrums: Great, towering black rages that took the form of shouted abuse in very public places.  He never struck me, but his anger was so palpable that strangers often stepped between us, worried about impending violence.

Then I got sick, and stayed that way for quite some time.  The chores I'd been fussing about for so long were either done by my husband, or left undone altogether.

And the world didn't end!

I came to understand that just breathing in and out every day is a tremendous gift.  We both realized how very few of the things we worried about were actually essential to life itself, and we discovered that - even with all we'd been through - we still love each other deeply.

Things are better now:  I'm back at work and my husband is once again managing the home front.  We've established a daily routine that seems to be working for us.

We're not perfect by any means. I still obsess about things undone, and my guy is often still bored by domesticity.

The difference?  

I remember (most of the time) that the world won't end because dust bunnies hide under the bed, and I'm grateful for the chores that do get done. I thank my husband privately and praise him publicly for his hard work.

My change in attitude brought about its own set of surprises:  
My guy takes more pride in his role as householder and, as a result, pays more attention to detail. He's learning to cook for two instead of two hundred and two, and he's taken to romancing me with sweet, thoughtful gestures that bring joy to my heart and a smile to my face.

They can be lessons hard-learned, but it's funny how life often teaches us exactly the things we really need to know.

Let It Shine

Two weeks from now many of us will be putting our feet up and heaving a sigh of relief.  We'll be dining on leftovers from the big feast, enjoying the company of family and friends, and feeling grateful that all of the holiday hype is behind us.  

But is it?

Seems to me that no sooner has Christmas passed than we are inundated with advertising for 

weight loss and fitness programs 

(with the accompanying guilt inflicting messages about all those holiday treats we worked so hard to produce), 

credit counselling ads 

(to deal with the overspending encouraged by all that 

pre-Christmas marketing), 

and ads for tax preparation companies 

(because it's never to early to start worrying that the tax man cometh.)  

YUCK!

We'll read more than our fill of print and on line articles about New Year's resolutions.  

Some of us will even make a resolution or two, but most of us will just feel saddened by our lack of resolve.

No thank you.

I mean, seriously:  No. Thank you.

Let's take a good long look at where all this messaging originates:  

Marketing companies and advertising agencies have discovered that guilt sells.  If we are made to believe that we're less than what we should or could be, a market is created for products that promise to help us be better, be more, do more.  

If a need is perceived, they are certainly happy to fill it.

Don't get caught up in all that hype.  

You're wonderful just the way you are.  

You are enough and do enough 

- and even more than enough - 

all the time.  

Every single one of  you does at least twelve 

remarkable things every single day.  

They may not seem remarkable to you because you do them all the time, but to the family you love, the friends you support, the children you encourage, and the community you serve, they make a huge difference. 

If you weren't there, you'd be missed terribly.  

For the first time in many years, I'm making a resolution.  

It's a simple one.  

I'm going to embrace positive thinking.  

Instead of listening to all that negative messaging, I'm going to focus on doing the things I do well, and on enjoying those things while I do them.

I'm going to be grateful for my friends and loved ones 

and I'm going to encourage them too, by praising them for their positive actions and attributes.

It's simple, really.  

Happiness begins with me.  

I am enough.  

I'm going to let my little light shine.  

Hopefully it will brighten the days of those around me too.

Be The Good

image source:  The Blooming Homestead

You know how sometimes someone makes a passing remark in the course of a conversation and it just sticks with you?  That happened to me in the course of a conversation with my friend Jo last year.

Jo has Multiple Sclerosis and is on social services disability assistance (welfare), which provides her the princely sum of $625/month on which to live.  The rent on her bachelor suite apartment (one room and a bathroom) costs her $540/month.  

Jo earns an additional small sum each month by vacuuming the hallways of the apartment building in which she lives, and by helping to clean apartments when they've been vacated.  It's physically exhausting work for someone with her challenges but she's very grateful to have it.

By most standards, Jo is poor.  She lives very carefully and has no room at all in her budget for luxuries.  Every scrap of food she consumes is carefully planned for and nothing in her fridge ever goes to waste.  She drinks water most of the time because coffee and tea are too expensive.  Her clothes are purchased at thrift stores or found in the free store in her building's laundry room.  She walks everywhere because she can't afford to take the bus.

And yet Jo still finds the means to help others she considers less fortunate.

All year 'round, my friend Jo collects bottles and tins.  She picks up returnable containers she finds by the road when she's out on her walks.  She retrieves containers from the trash bins in public spaces in her building, and from the recycling dumpster in the parking lot.  If it can be returned for a deposit, she'll pick it up.  When she has a garbage bag full, she walks to the recycling depot and turns the containers in for money.

I thought that Jo used the money from her bottle returns to help stretch her meagre budget, but I was wrong.  She puts that money aside and then, when the cold weather comes, she walks to WalMart and uses it to buy the single-use heat packs they sell in the sports department. These plastic packets contain two chemicals that, when combined, generate heat.  The user applies pressure to break the packet's inner capsule and then tucks the packet inside gloves or boots to provide a few hours' warmth on a cold day.  Jo distributes them to homeless people in our town when she's out on her walks.

Jo doesn't talk about her gift to the homeless.  I found out about it quite by chance, because it was raining and I had the opportunity to offer her a ride to WalMart.  When she explained about the warmers I asked her "But shouldn't you be using that money to help make ends meet yourself?"

Her reply?

"As long as I can help someone less fortunate than myself, I am never truly poor."

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Looking for ideas about how to make charitable gifts while on a budget?  Find them at A Word From Aunt B.

The sign in the title image was made by Marie, at Blooming Homestead.  You can find more images of the sign, together with information on how she made it at http://www.bloominghomestead.com/2012/09/pallet-wood-sign.html. Thanks, Marie, for letting me use the image.

The Super Hero Boots

My husband was born in 1939, near the beginning of the second world war, and grew up on a farm in Richmond, on BC's lower mainland, near the Fraser River.

Families in farming communities were better off than many during the war years.  Their farms provided them with food that city families couldn't access, but farm families were still challenged by rationing. Gasoline rations prevented them from traveling any distance, and there were limited supplies of everything from parts for repairing farm equipment to the shoes and clothing much needed by growing children. 

Despite the war time challenges his parents must have faced, my guy had a happy childhood.  He grew up with a pack of other farm kids, all in similar circumstances.  They ranged far and wide on their bicycles, fished in the river, built forts in the wooded areas at the edge of the peat bogs, and played together rough and tumble, like puppies.  

Except for one child.

Down the road there lived a little boy named Barry.  He was an only child, a surprise gift to his parents, a menopause baby who arrived almost thirty years into their marriage.  He was a tiny child, and developmentally delayed, but never was a boy more loved.  His parents cherished him, and the neighbourhood kids were very protective of him. 

 

Even back then, my husband was a great big guy - a boy's boy, bluff, loud, and popular with the other children -  and Barry idolized him.  He followed my guy everywhere, not really joining in the play but smiling from the side lines, and trailing along like a little shadow wherever the day might take him.  

Although the neighbourhood kids were protective of him, Barry endured a lot of bullying from other children at school.  His differences from the other kids became ever more apparent as he grew up - especially when Barry refused to relinquish gum boots.   

During the war years, pretty nearly every farm kid on the coast wore gum boots: black rubber boots with bright red soles.  They were often the only pair of footwear a child possessed.  They wore those boots from fall through early summer, rain or shine.  When it snowed, they wore their gum boots still, with layers of socks inside.  When the summer sun shone, they went barefoot. 

In the 1950's, people once again began to see new clothing and shoes. Farm boys accustomed to gum boots or bare feet suddenly had access to canvas high top running shoes, and wore leather dress shoes to church on Sunday. 

But Barry loved his gum boots and would wear no other foot wear.  

And, because of his gum boots, the bullying increased.  

My fella was often kept after school for engaging in fisticuffs in Barry's defense.

After a particularly difficult month at school, Barry fell sick and his parents kept him at home for quite some time.  My guy and his sister went to visit Barry and found him reluctant to return to school.  He had no understanding about why kids were being mean to him but he certainly knew that they were being unkind.  He didn't want to go back where the mean boys were.

My husband and his sister hatched a plan:  

They asked Barry's mom if they could borrow his gum boots, brought them home, and headed for the barn.  They opened all the cans of paint in their dad's workshop until they found a tin of red paint and another of yellow, and they painted lightning bolts on the sides of Barry's boots.

My fella's dad was not best pleased to find out the kids had been in his workshop without permission, but Barry was delighted with his embellished boots.  They were super hero boots that gave him special powers.  

Like all super heroes, Barry must keep his special powers secret but if the kids at school were being mean to him he could close his eyes and imagine that he was flying away to a secret hideout.  He could use his super powers to steal their voices, making them so quiet that no matter what they said he wouldn't hear them.  

The bullying continued.

My husband continued to be kept after school for defending Barry with his fists.

But Barry?

Barry was no longer afraid to go to school.

------

This has been a long story and I do thank you for reading to the end.  I hope you'll hang on just a little longer, because there's an epilogue:

Barry got a paper route as a teenager, and loved his job.  

His parents passed away when he was in his 20's, but they had appointed a trustee to watch over their boy.  

The farm was sold, except for a half acre and the house.  

Barry lived on in his childhood home, and the revenue from the sale of the farm helped to provide for his care.  

Barry continued on with his paper route, proud of his job and secure in the belief that he was doing something useful.

We returned to the neighbourhood for a visit in the early 1980's and came across Barry one day, delivering papers.  He was wearing a light blue leisure suit and a brand new pair of gum boots.

My fella stopped the car and asked him "Do you remember me?"

Barry's face lit up in a huge smile.  

"Look!," he exclaimed, "I have new boots...but they're not as nice as my super hero ones."
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This post is linked to Gallery of Favorites hosted by Premeditated Leftovers and The 21st Century Housewife.

Hope Is The Thing

Hope is the thing with feathers 

That perches in the soul, 

And sings the tune without the words, 

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard; 

And sore must be the storm 
That could abash the little bird 

That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land, 
And on the strangest sea; 
Yet, never, in extremity, 

It asked a crumb of me.

-Emily Dickinson

Hurricane Sandy has blown her way across the northeastern seaboard of the U.S. and is now carrying diminishing winds and a burden of snow into Canada’s eastern provinces.  She was a big girl, and an angry one, and has touched literally millions of lives. 

Whether in her path or not, we watched, transfixed, as she tantrumed her way along coasts and through cities. 

She frightened the dickens out of us.

Because the storm was so huge, and because it moved through such densely populated areas, it will be some time before a full accounting of the damage can be done.  For now, it’s enough for us to know that, in her travels through the Caribbean and through the US, she took more than 60 lives and destroyed billions of dollars worth of public and private property. 

My heart goes out to those affected, as, I’m sure, does yours.

I’m not saying anything new here, I know. 

Why, then, am I writing this?

Because when a disaster of this magnitude occurs, we become so overwhelmed by events that it’s easy to forget that there is always an element of hope. 

We humans are remarkable creatures.  We’ve survived and prospered in a large part due to the way we respond to disasters like this, for not only do we strive to rebuild but, in rebuilding, we almost always strive to make things better than they were.

Please don’t think that I’m minimizing the impact of this event:  I know it’s been catastrophic, and that millions of people are affected.  I know that things are looking awfully bleak for some of those people right now.  I know that it will take a long time and a Herculean effort to clean up the mess and begin putting things right. 

But it will happen.

When an event like this occurs, we discover our compassion for our fellow man, our determination to go on, and our optimism that things can be made better.

It’s true that it will cost years of effort and billions of dollars to put things right, but that effort also means years of meaningful employment for a great many people.  Those dollars, spent to repair and replace what the storm has damaged, will be paid in wages to workers in affected communities.  Those workers in their turn will spend their wages, and those wages spent may become the breath of life sorely needed by a choking economy.

Because we learn from events like this, engineers and scientists will be studying Sandy and the destruction she left behind her.  The new buildings, roads, and public structures that arise in the hurricane's path may well be stronger and of better design than the ones they are replacing. 

One day, folks will look back at the hurricane, and at the rebuilding time that came after it, and point with pride to their achievements.

It will happen. 

I’m holding on to the hope that thought provides. 

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This post is linked to Gallery of Favorites hosted by Premeditated Leftovers and The 21st Century Housewife.

Merry Hallowthanksmas?

Image Source

Does anyone besides me feel like we're rushing the seasons these days?

I was seeing Christmas posts on Pinterest and on Facebook in July.  

August found me drowning in pumpkin..  Not just recipes either:  Heck! There was pumpkin everything on line, in magazines, and on those "how to" shows on TV.

Now that pumpkin time has actually arrived, food and craft blogs, Pinterest, and Facebook are awash with Christmas posts.  Christmas magazines fill the racks at the newsstands.  Papers are publishing articles on planning for the holidays.

I get it.  Really, I do.  

If you're going to make stuff yourself, you have to allow enough time to do the work, and that means planning ahead.

But Costco was selling Christmas ornaments in July, and the Sears Christmas Wish Book arrived at our door in August.  

Winners had Hallowe'en stuff in August but now that I might actually want some of it, 
there's not a Hallowe'en item in sight.  
(They do have some cute New Year's Eve items if you're looking for them.  ;)

Really??  

Aren't we missing something with all this looking ahead?

In July and August, I was enjoying summer.  

You remember summer, don't you?  That season of warm weather, breezy clothing, and picnics that everyone was busy writing about last March?

In September I enjoyed watching yellow school buses drive by after a couple of months' absence. (July's back-to-school posts were but a distant memory.)  I made the most of the harvest, and spent some time preparing for Thanksgiving.

Canadian Thanksgiving falls on the second Monday in October - six weeks earlier than American Thanksgiving.  Thanksgiving posts written by forward-planning American bloggers started appearing in numbers around mid-September.  

For once I was enjoying seasonal posts during the actual season when I might use them!

Rejoicing was heard at my house.  

Now I'm thinking about Hallowe'en (wondering whether I should bake some Tim-Burton-inspired cupcakes and considering whether it's appropriate to wear some sort of Hallowe'en costume to work on the 31st) even while reading about Christmas decorations and festive recipes on line.

My point?

It's great to plan ahead - smart from both a time management point of view and in terms of budgeting for big events - but this unending stream of months-early holiday information and promotion can suck the joy out of things.

A little anticipation is a good thing, but too much is just...well...too much.

We all understand that when kids hear about Christmas from August 'til December, when they are subjected for months to marketing hype about Christmas toys, Christmas lights, Christmas food, and Christmas movies, Christmas day itself can seem anticlimactic.  

I find that sad.  

How on earth can any one day live up to the months of build up, promotion, and expectation we build around holidays, on line, in the media, and in our stores?  

It can't.  

Even for us grown ups.

So...

By all means, look forward to the next big thing.  Have fun reading about it and being inspired by all the creative thinking out there.  Enjoy the shopping trips and the planning, 
and the food, and the sparkly stuff.  

Just don't forget to take time out from all that looking ahead to enjoy the good stuff that's happening now.  

Right this minute.  

Take a walk and look around you.  Feel the autumn air.  Enjoy the scenery. 

Look up from your Christmas magazines for long enough to appreciate how excited the kids are about trick or treating.

Don't miss the fun.  

It's right here.  Right now.

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Image information: 

Cartoon by Jim Hunt, and used with his kind permission.  Jim has a website, Jim Hunt Illustration, on which he shares more of his wonderful work.  Stop by and check it out.

Thanks to my friend Heath Rosier for bringing Jim's work to my attention.