Sassy Thoughts

Aging: Boldness and Courage

Fri, 20 Feb 2026 15:54:04 GMT

AGING: BOLDNESS AND COURAGE

“Helen Mirren, who turned 80 in 2025, rejects the term “aging gracefully,” preferring to describe her approach as "aging with fun, commitment, and unapologetic realism". She advocates for embracing the natural process of getting older as a "beautiful thing" rather than fighting it, encouraging others to live in the moment and accept physical changes.”

Aging is not for the faint of heart! It creeps up on you before you actually know it’s happening. It demands courage, boldness, wisdom, resilience, and realism. Add to that, growing older centers on the stories you carry and the memories you hold. For me, many of those lessons were learned from stories about my mother’s life, her choices, and the way she met hardship and joy. How Mom lived her life gave me my first understanding of what it means to live and to age with determination.

My mother Marjorie lived until 95. Mom’s married life was pretty much emblematic of her generation. A devout Catholic, she learned the hard way that the ‘Rhythm Method’ (the practice of choosing specific days for intimacy to avoid pregnancy) of birth control was not in the least dependable. Think five kids with the last, our youngest brother Doug, born when my mom was 40. She smoked Crave M cigarettes. Back then, you could send a kid to the local drugstore with a quarter and a note to the pharmacist to get your cigarettes. Unheard of in today’s world. Almost weekly, my mom made homemade bread which filled the house with a yeasty and comforting smell. And her doughnuts were the talk of the neighborhood. Deep-fried and laid out on brown paper to cool, she dipped them in sugar, and we ate them while they were still warm. It was one of Mom’s ways of showing us love: one delicious donut at a time!

My mom’s early life was less typical. Born in 1921 in Saskatchewan, she was a child of the Dust Bowl era. The middle child of six kids, she had a pleasing personality and was known as a hard worker. Perhaps that explains why, when she was just nine years old, she was sent to her Aunt Kate, where she helped in the Red and White store that Kate managed. Mom cried her eyes out for a year after she arrived because she missed home. Seven years later, she cried her eyes out when she was sent back home. My mom met those challenging years away from home with realism that helped to shape her resolve and solidified her perseverance. Her way of handling hardships and setbacks helped shape my understanding of how to approach life’s highs and lows.

Looking back, it’s hard not to appreciate Mom’s handling of her early life challenges. At a time when most children are living with their parents and siblings, she learned to adapt, work, and endure separation. The tears marked her sadness, but the fact that she endured it speaks to her strength and courage. As she aged, life asked more of her, not less. She met aging the only way she knew: steadily and cheerfully. Aging didn’t soften her resolve; it strengthened it.

My mother was lucky in many important ways. She was surrounded by her family and wonderful caregivers that went above and beyond the call of duty. In the last chapter of her life, she lived with my sister Gail and her partner Andrew. Helped by my other siblings, she was given something money can’t buy: a life that felt like hers. One special caregiver, Helen, understood that caring for another is more than schedules and medications. She would play one of Mom’s favourite songs, and the two would dance, smiling and giggling as they moved to the rhythm of the song. And God only knows why Mom had a parrot for a pet; a parrot that hated everyone but Mom. That bird squawked and tried to attack anyone who entered: except my mom. Strange as it may seem, that annoying parrot triggered my mom’s lifelong ability to tolerate difficult personalities. It seems to me that Mom’s life may have slowed, but it remained rich.

Hearing my mom’s stories showed me that tears do not mean fragility. Tears mark courage, determination, and boldness. Now, as I grow older, I begin to see these same qualities as the core to aging. Aging hasn’t softened me: it has required me to stand more firmly, speak more directly, and, like Mom, to keep moving forward with resolve.

“Do not go gentle into the night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

(Dylan Thomas)

For most of my life, I believe I have been considered outspoken. But with aging, I have honed that characteristic to a fine point. Not long ago, I was part of a conversation about “the state of the world.” All of us were well into our seventies. We lamented days gone by and talked about how chaotic and fractured everything seems and how our reality is disturbing and disconcerting. The group represented different points of view, and the talk moved rather awkwardly but cautiously into politics. Definitive statements were made as if all would agree. Boldness took over me! I spoke up, standing my ground without apology. I felt something in me shift. It would have been easy to try to smooth things over, but instead, I chose to be bold and stand my ground. I am older now and believe aging is not about retreating from the world.

It’s about resolve and courage in the face of opposition.

Aging, of course, isn’t just philosophical. It shows up in physical ways. Knees and hips need replacing, bodies that don’t bounce back the way they used to, medications and vitamins galore to swallow. And tragically for some, illnesses occur that can be life-threatening. There is no bravery in pretending otherwise. But boldness and courage still have a place here. They help in deciding to face head-on what lies ahead, to ask the right questions, and to endure treatment and recovery. Aging asks us to be realistic, accepting the challenges aging can present.

Aging isn’t always about changes to ones body but the evolving nature of our character. Inspired by my mother, I now feel that I am entering a period of my life where I am more determined to uphold my principles and stand up for the things that I believe.

Time won’t always be on your side. It’s the simple truth, and it’s no surprise. But now and then, like my mom, there is still time for a dance!!

“The years teach much which the days never know.”

(Ralph Waldo Emerson)

Inner City Hope

Fri, 09 Jan 2026 00:19:53 GMT

Inner City Hope

Inside One Inner City School and the People Who Refused to Look Away

Every morning, there are children who walk to an inner city elementary school in Edmonton Alberta carrying backpacks far heavier than books. Some of the weight is invisible: fear, hunger, worry. Burdens that no child should be forced to endure.

The daily journey to school is not the “stuff” of fairytales. These young students must step carefully over sleeping bodies-the smell of alcohol and human waste filling the air. They pass by unhoused men and women bundled up in rotting blankets as they huddle on concrete doorways. People shooting up drugs is a regular scene. Some of these people the kids know-some are even family members. Shocking? unthinkable? Not for many of these children. It is simply the reality of their childhood.

Inside the school walls, conversations are a chorus of languages and a mosaic of accents and cultures. Many have emigrated to Canada and English isn’t their first language. Some are Indigenous children. Some are housed in shelters or even live on their own. Most are trying to learn how to be heard, struggling with how to tell teachers they have a tummy ache or to confess they are afraid. Yet they are all determined to belong, to be noticed, to be loved and to have hope.

Far too many arrive hungry, their empty stomachs growling. Food insecurity is a reality. No breakfast nor lunch packed in cute little personalized lunchboxes. Kim, a dedicated teacher at the school told me there is a breakfast program the school calls “morning meal” that is available to all kids. It may be simple but it matters greatly-yogurt, bananas and sandwiches are given to any child who needs it. There is no formal lunch program, so when extra food is available, it is saved for students without lunch. Slim pickings by most standards.

During the school day, these children carry a heavy weight of uncertainty; they are not sure how to make sense of addition and subtraction, not sure what the teacher is saying, not sure where their next meal is coming from, not if the person greeting them at home is friend or foe. The uncertainty fuels their anxiety. The uncertainty robs them of joy. The uncertainty intensifies their fear.

Beyond this there are stories even more disturbing. Abuse. Neglect. Physical violence. These realities have taught some children to be on their guard and to always be on the defensive. These children are not “difficult.” They are hurt.

A number of the children arrive each day living in what we adults call “fight or flight”. Their antennae are on high alert. Teachers gently tell them how to breathe, how to name feelings and how to calm their bodies.

As if these challenges weren’t already overwhelming, the school faces a constant battle with head lice.

Despite these struggles, teachers and school administrators show up, day after day, ready to provide stability and predictability. They notice who hasn’t eaten or who is wearing the same clothes day after day. These teachers wear many hats. They are educators, counsellors and protectors.

Most classrooms in this school follow a “trauma informed approach”: soft lighting, minimal clutter, consistent routines and predictable schedules. For children whose lives are filled with trepidation, school becomes their dependable constant. The goal isn’t just academics-it’s helping children feel safe and strong enough to begin to heal.

Enter my friend Deb!

Deb, who is affectionately called Miss Deb, volunteers at this challenging school. Two to three times a week she shows up at the school and does what committed school volunteers do. She gives her time, her heart and her presence to children who need all three. Kim says this about Deb. “I can recall a moment this fall where a student was upset. I was trying to distract him and get him thinking positively so he would calm down. I asked him to tell me things that made him happy. He listed three things. One of them was Miss Deb.” That says it all.

But for Deb the stories she hears about the kids have keep her up at night, anxious and worrying. Could there be some tangible way to help? Deb knew the principal and staff had been working for a long time to secure the funding needed to build a new playground for the school. They managed to raise some of the money but were short by $35,000 to make the playground a reality. And for that reason, Deb sent out a heartfelt plea to community members to help fund the long needed play ground.

This could not be some ordinary playground. Because of the surrounding environment, it needed to be “ special”: fully enclosed and carefully designed to protect the kids from hazards, like discarded needles from drug use. This playground had to be designed to prevent it from being used as sleeping spaces for the homeless or individuals affected by addiction. What should be a simple place to play must also be a protected space where children can feel safe and simply just be children.

And then something special happened. Deb’s plea did not fall on deaf ears. Within minutes of Deb’s email being sent, the local community stepped up. The response was overwhelming. One donor, a well known Edmonton philanthropist, immediately responded and pledged the full $35,000! Others stepped up as well. And most recently a charitable foundation matched the $35,000 which will fund other critical school priorities. It was an astonishing level of generosity and a reminder of how much people care when they are asked.

As a former teacher and one who has spent years in public service in Edmonton, I have witnessed first hand how these serious struggles intersect - each intensifying emotional and physical strain. Poverty, homelessness, addiction and family violence are profoundly intensified by our already strained and outdated support systems.

Certainly, this local community response was remarkable. It’s proof of the power of a combination of compassion and generosity. This story exemplifies that help can be available when need is shared; it underscores the positive and critical impact of volunteerism. “Sometimes miracles are just good people with kind hearts”

But it also leaves us with a bigger and more disturbing question: What can we do as a society to address the deep challenges that at-risk children face? How can we break the cycle that has trapped them? How can we help them envision a brighter future?

A playground is a powerful beginning, but it cannot carry the weight.

We Are All Just Walking Each Other Home

Tue, 25 Nov 2025 18:56:39 GMT

We Are All Just Walking Each Other Home

A Note Before You Read

Before you read this post, I want to offer a small warning.

This piece isn’t my usual stroll down memory lane or a lighthearted SassyThoughts remembrance.

It enters an area that is heavier, darker, and far more unsettling than what I typically share.

It’s a story that has frightened me, and left its mark in ways I didn’t understand at the time.

It’s a story about murder!

If you prefer the gentler reflections, feel free to skip this one.

But if you choose to read on, just know you are following me into a memory that is chilling.

Death has always scared me.

That realization did not come gently. It arrived harshly! It scared me even before I fully understood it.

The fear of death was planted in me in grade two at St. Patrick’s Parochial School in Victoria, B.C. Sister Mary Doleena, my favourite teacher, told us that Jesus died on the cross to save our immortal souls. I remember the way sister said “died”. It seemed so final and I wanted it to go away. The idea of a man suffering, bleeding, nailed to a wooden cross filled me with dread. Even at seven, something in me resonated: death is real, and none of us can escape it.

Years later, when I was nine, I met a girl riding her bike with a printed scarf on her bald head. I told my mother I met a new friend but that she always wore a scarf tied tightly around her head. None of her hair was showing and I wondered why? My mother explained that she knew that my friend had cancer, a cruel disease that could take her life. Another snapshot on death.

But nothing-absolutely nothing-prepared me for what happened in September 1975.

The memory still comes hauntingly back, stirring feelings I thought I had long forgotten.

I was newly separated, living in a small slanted-floor house in Winnipeg with my one-year-old son, Noah, and my friend Jill. I was working in an Affirmative Action program called New Careers, which helped mostly indigenous adults (many from small communities and / or reserves in Manitoba) to find employment after receiving two years of job training.

Jill and her colleague Marilyn taught at an inner-city “alternative” school called Robertson House; it was stressful, challenging work. The school’s aim was to help kids whose challenges prevented them from success in a typical public school. Marilyn lived a few blocks away from us in an older two-story home with a veranda and creaking floors. She lived alone, but had a boyfriend named Mike who was a fellow teacher at the school where she taught. She was separated from her husband, who, as I recall, lived in Winnipeg.

Every school-day morning, Jill was picked up by Marilyn and the two of them made their way to Robertson House. They were not only coworkers, but also good friends.

One evening, the teaching staff from Robertson House met in my living room for their first meeting of the year. It seemed like it was a positive and productive meeting, and I came home just as the group was leaving. Marilyn was smiling as she slipped on her jacket. I had no idea it would be the last time I’d ever see her alive.

The next morning, as usual, Jill was waiting to catch a ride with Marilyn outside our front door. I had taken Noah to daycare and came back home to get ready for work. I was very surprised when Jill burst through the front door, shaking.

“Marilyn has not picked me up; I went by her house and the back door is ajar.” she said as she trembled. “Something there isn’t right,” she said. Her face was tense and her eyes were wide.

There was something in her voice, cold and fearful, that made my stomach heave. I said “We’ll go together and see what is happening.” I grabbed my green winter coat and the two of us flew out of the house. We ran the few blocks to Marilyn’s home, the early fall air stinging our cheeks. The neighborhood was so quiet. There was no wind, but we felt a chill in the air. When we reached Marilyn’s yard, her back door menacingly hung open.

Inside, the kitchen felt wrong. The kind of wrong that felt eerie. Her cat was licking at food on the counter, but the air was too still, too heavy.

We called her name. ‘Marilyn, Marilyn!” No response. We climbed the narrow stairs slowly. Me first, Jill behind, each step creaking loudly, like a warning. At the top of the landing, I looked into the master bedroom.

And the world stood still.

Marilyn was face down on the bed. Blood everywhere: splattered, pooled, smeared in a way that instantly told me something horrific had happened here. A metallic smell filled my nostrils. My body froze and then I shook with a terror I had never felt before. The grisly image before me was soon to be etched into my memory forever.

For a moment neither Jill nor I could breathe. Then instinct took over.

There was a rotary phone mounted on the stair landing. I heard myself shout, “Jill! Call 911!”

Jill’s hands were trembling. She fumbled as she attempted to dial. She was sobbing, unable to get a number to turn fully around the wheel.

“Give it to me!” I yelled, grabbing the phone from her.

When the operator answered, the words tore out of me: “We’re at our friend’s house. She’s face down on the bed. There’s blood everywhere!”

My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

I can still feel that moment: the cold air burning my lungs as panic washed over me. The knowledge that death wasn’t an idea anymore was real. It had a smell. It had a presence.

Totally panicked, Jill and I stumbled down the stairs, nearly tripping over each other, and we burst out the front door. I remember propping open the screen door, as if to allow air to cleanse the atmosphere. We ran all the way to the boulevard and stood there shaking, looking up and down the street as if the police could somehow save us just by arriving fast enough.

A young policeman arrived alone, and asked me directly “Is she dead?” “I don’t know, I didn’t check,” I said nervously. We waited on the lawn as the young officer entered the house and ascended the stairs. A few minutes later, he came back down, shaking. He took our names and our address, and told us to go home-despite the fact that this was now a crime scene, and we were the only witnesses.

Jill and I clung to each other as we made our way back to our house. Could the murderer be someone we knew? What if we were next? We climbed the steps up our porch and, terrified, we crept into our house. I rushed to the kitchen and grabbed the biggest knife I could find. Together, we moved from room to room, checking every corner, hoping that we found no one waiting for us. Luckily, no one was there, and we were free from danger.

The young officer from the crime scene gave our address to two detectives that then showed up at our house. We were put into their vehicle and taken down to Winnipeg’s downtown station, and put into a little windowless room for questioning. As we waited to be interviewed, next door we could hear the sobbing of Marilyn’s boyfriend Mike as he was questioned about Marilyn’s death. The details sickened him, and we could hear the sound of him vomiting through the walls.

In the days that followed, the truth of what happened to Marilyn emerged, and it was more terrifying than anything I could have imagined.

Marilyn and her ex-husband had taken in a troubled teenaged boy called Allen, as a kind of foster child. They wanted to help him find stability, structure, and hope-things his troubled life had never offered him. While living with Marilyn and her husband, Allen worked a paper route, but instead of delivering to his customers, he began stealing their subscription money. Marilyn discovered what he was doing and felt it her duty to “rat him out.” She did what any responsible adult would have done: she reported him.

The consequence for young Allen was swift. He was sent to a rough youth detention centre in Saskatchewan. The environment there was harsh and punishing. At fourteen, anger overtook him and he directed that anger at Marilyn.

A few years later, Allen escaped the detention centre, and he came straight back to Winnipeg. Not to find help. Not to start over. Maybe not even to seek vengeance. Maybe just to steal whatever he could? Regardless of the motivation, the end result was brutal.

In the early hours of that September morning, in the quiet of her home, he beat Marilyn to death with a hammer that belonged to her. Did she stumble upon him as he was stealing from her? We will never know. Regardless, the brutality of it is unconscionable. The combination of his tough youth and the kindness of the victim is almost too much to comprehend. Even now, the senselessness of it all sits heavy. Marilyn had opened her door to him, and he repaid her with a violent death.

Knowing this didn’t lessen the horror of what Jill and I found that morning. If anything, it deepened it.

The unpredictability of a human who is consumed by rage is overwhelming. Marilyn’s decision to report Allen to the authorities led to her tragic death.

Frightening memories are difficult to suppress. While this is an unusual experience for most people, I believe it’s worth sharing. Writing this particular blog entry has brought back a traumatic experience-one that is both a unique and terrifying-yet this is still an experience and a memory that I have lived through.

Is it cathartic? I hope so.

As we age, death creeps closer. It is not an illusion but is something inescapable. People say the runway gets shorter, and it does.

But Ram Dass said it best: “We are all just walking each other home!”

Some of us stumble. Some vanish suddenly. But the rest of us keep on walking, because in the end, that’s all any of us can do.

The Way We Were: A Boomer's Journey Through Changing Times

Mon, 20 Oct 2025 14:48:30 GMT

The Way We Were: A Boomer's Journey Through Changing Times

The Way We Were

Inspired by a piece called “We are the Bridge”

We baby boomers have lived through more change than perhaps any generation before us. Born into a world of black-and-white televisions and handwritten letters, I, like most “boomers,” oddly find myself checking facts on Google, ordering everything and anything online, and FaceTiming my grandchildren from the dock at our lake place, Alexander Point.

Most of us “boomers” are well past our 60s and have maneuvered technological change and societal upheaval. We have lived through a century of change - all condensed into one lifetime. We began in an age when milk was delivered to the door, phones were attached to walls, and families gathered around the evening news. Now we live in a world where our grandchildren carry the universe in their pockets and talk to digital assistants as if they were family.

I grew up in a Catholic family in Winnipeg, where the rhythm of life followed the church bells — Mass on Sundays, confession on Saturdays, and a firm belief that nuns had eyes in the back of their heads. Faith was as much about community as it was about doctrine; it shaped how we showed up for one another. Even now, I hold on to the parts that speak to compassion, social justice, and the quiet sense that we’re all meant to look out for each other.

In those days, Winnipeg felt both small and vast. The kind of place where most everyone in your neighborhood knew your last name and where you were on Friday nights. Summers meant escaping the city and heading to the many magnificent Manitoba lakes or where those of us without lake access went to the free admission community swimming pool. We learned to swim, meet with friends, ride bikes, play tag, and stretch the days long past sunset. It was a world without screens or schedules. Time felt good.

Then life accelerated. We watched Kennedy promise the moon and for Man actually get there. Women, including many of us, symbolically burned their bras and then stepped confidently into new careers and public life. We typed on manual typewriters, progressed to IBM Selectrics, and eventually learned to “click send.” The first time I used email, I remember thinking it felt unreal - a letter that didn’t need a stamp.

We’ve seen family life reinvented, gender roles rewritten, and communication transformed from handwritten letters to emoji-laden texts. We remember when a photo meant developing film and waiting days to see if it “turned out.” Now we can take a dozen shots before breakfast and (my personal favorite) delete the ones that don’t flatter.

Now, my grandchildren can find anything with a swipe of a finger, and they ask Siri questions we used to save for the Encyclopedia Britannica. When they show me how to work a new app or laugh that I “still type with two fingers,” I remind them that my generation invented the personal computer, the protest march, and the peace sign - we’re hardly “not with it.”

We watched Elvis shake his hips, Kennedy inspire a nation, Martin Luther King Jr. dream, the Beatles redefine music, and Neil Armstrong “Take one step for man, one giant leap for mankind.” We questioned authority, protested wars, fought for rights, and then, almost without noticing, became the authority.

And then, the impossible happened: our Dick Tracy dreams came true. We once giggled at that comic-strip detective talking into his wristwatch; now our Apple Watches tell us when to stand, remind us to breathe, and nudge us toward our daily steps. How were we to know that Maxwell Smart’s shoe phone was a precursor to today’s iPhone? Technology, once the stuff of fantasy, has become as ordinary as brushing our teeth.

What amazes me most is how the threads of then and now connect. At Alexander Point, our summer retreat, I watch my grandchildren leap off the dock, their laughter echoing across the water just as mine once did when leaping into the community pool. Different time, same joy. They may post their memories instantly; I write mine down and shape them into stories, but it’s the same impulse: to remember, to share, and to belong.

We baby boomers are the bridge between worlds - from the catechism to the cloud, from handwritten letters to video calls, from milkmen to meal kits. We carry the past in our bones and the future in our hands. And standing on that bridge, with a grandchild’s hand in mine and the summer wind off the lake “ruining” my hair, I can’t help but feel grateful to have lived through it all - the slow and the fast, the sacred and the digital, the then and the now.

We may not dance like we once did, but we still know all the words to the songs that shaped us. We may scroll slower than the younger generation, but we still want to know what’s happening in the world…and if we pause to reflect, as boomers tend to do, we realize how lucky we are to have witnessed humanity stretch, stumble, and soar.

Our phones, those sleek rectangles that never leave our sides, are more powerful than the computers that sent astronauts to the moon. We once shared one rotary phone in the kitchen, its long, twisted cord stretched around corners so we could whisper secrets. Now we carry the world in our pockets and see our grandchildren’s faces light up in real time, oceans away.

Then the Internet showed up! What a game changer! It linked the world in ways we could hardly have imagined, making libraries, classrooms, and newsrooms just a click away. It amplified voices that often went unheard and opened up a world of knowledge, opportunities, and connections. But along with these benefits came a lot of noise — misinformation, division, and a constant stream of opinions. We gained immediate access to a wealth of information, yet sometimes lost that essential quiet space needed for reflection. Despite its contradictions, the Internet has transformed how we communicate. It brought us closer together and broadened the horizons of what we could learn — as long as we choose wisely about what we pay attention to.

Worse still, the Internet gave cover to cruelty. The anonymity of the Internet seems to grant some people license to say things our generation would never have tolerated in public. We were taught to bite our tongues, to disagree without tearing someone down. Today, behind screens and usernames, too many speak without kindness or consequence. It’s a loss of civility that still startles me - how easily respect can evaporate when faces are hidden. It’s shocking to witness how quickly respect can vanish when people aren’t face-to-face.

Even shopping has transformed from an errand to an algorithm. I remember the thrill of department stores - the clatter of hangers and the excitement of the Sears’ Christmas catalogue arriving in the mail. Today, a few taps on Amazon, and a box appears at the door by morning. I still find it astonishing- and a little sad - that convenience has replaced conversation.

A. nd somewhere along the way, waiting disappeared. We used to line up at the bank on Fridays to cash our paychecks, and at McDonald’s to order a burger and fries that actually took a few minutes to cook. Now, we get restless if a website takes more than three seconds to load. Groceries arrive within hours; packages appear the next day. What once felt like luxury is now expected. We’ve become so accustomed to immediacy that patience, once a virtue, is now a shortcoming!

And along comes Artificial Intelligence— this strange, brilliant new frontier. It writes, paints, answers questions, even mimics voices. Part of me is amazed: after all, it’s just another step in our long dance with progress. But another part wonders what happens when machines begin to “think” faster than we do. Will curiosity fade when answers come too easily? Will we forget how to reflect, to wrestle with ideas, to linger in uncertainty - the very things that make us human? Will one of my protégés marry an AI creation?

Yet, through all of it, faith, family, technology, and time, one truth endures: connection. Whether through handwritten letters or instant messages, church basements or Zoom calls, it has always been about reaching out, holding on, staying close.

The Wi-Fi at Alexander Point is often spotty, but the sunsets never fail. I watch my grandchildren leap off the “bouncy thing”, their laughter carrying across the water. I remember jumping off the cracked concrete dock that my in-laws had at their cozy cottage at White Lake in Manitoba. My grandchildren post their memories instantly; I write mine down and shape them into stories. But it’s the same impulse— to remember, to share, to belong.

We baby boomers are the bridge between worlds - from catechism to cloud, from rotary dials to smartwatches, from handwritten notes to emojis. We carry the past in our bones and the future in our hands. And standing on that “bridge” with a grandchild standing beside me and the lake spread before us, I can’t help but feel grateful for the slowness that shaped us, and the speed that still surprises us.

Faith, Found and Misplaced

Mon, 12 May 2025 15:14:20 GMT

Faith, found and misplaced

My mother Marjorie ensured I grew up Catholic - deeply, thoroughly, unmistakably Catholic. The kind of Catholic that meant school uniforms, fish on Fridays, and Mass every Sunday whether you wanted to be there or not. But more than rituals and doctrine, what stayed with me - even now, when I’m no longer a practicing Catholic - is the former Pope Francis’s heartfelt call to justice, unity and looking out for the persecuted and forgotten. Those are still part of me, even if my church attendance record would suggest otherwise.

I went to an all girls Catholic school, and as I recall, it was in grade 11 that I first ran afoul of my faith. Sister Agatha (pseudonym) taught us religious studies that year and she gave us an assignment to present an aspect of faith to the class. Now I can’t claim that I was a regular reader of Time magazine. But somehow I came across that publication that posed the question “Is God Dead?” on its cover.

Perhaps I saw the cover of Time on a newspaper stand in the grocery store. Whatever! I somehow managed to notice the publication’s headline asking “Is God Dead?”. That sounded unabashedly provocative and at that stage of my life , I was steadfastly taking any opportunity to provoke. In light of that, I asked myself: “Why not give a talk that caused a bit of a stir? My topic was solidified: “Is God Dead?” I was naive not expect it to spark recrimination, not to mention bigger questions about change, meaning and permanence.

I spoke to the class confidently and with determination, as if I really understood the topic. Waxing poetic, I somehow managed to mention some well known Jesuit priests, the Berrigan brothers, Daniel and Phillip who were antiwar activists and who came to to be part of a Catholic movement know as liberation theologians. (There is much more the the Berrigan brothers’ story. If interested read “Disarmed and Dangerous:The Radical Life and Times of Daniel and Phillip Berrigan, Brothers in Religious Faith and Disobedience”)

To say the least, Sister Agatha did not think I was being clever. She was outraged. The next day she approached me in the hallway. Menacingly wagging her finger in my face, she declared I was in deep danger of losing my faith. She followed up with a phone call to my mother reiterating her concern. I was straying from the path. I might be forever lost.

My mother - actually to my surprise - rose to my defense and stood up for me. She told Sister Agatha that I was thinking, questioning and engaging. “Isn’t that what faith should be?” she pronounced. “If belief can’t survive a teenager asking questions, maybe the problem isn’t the teenager. WOW!!Thanks Mom.

That moment has stuck with me my whole life — not because of the challenging repercussions but because I learned what it is like to hold both tradition and curiosity in the same hand. To cherish where you came from, even as you dispute some parts of it.

And despite all my doubt, despite my distance from the Church, there is one Catholic habit I have never shaken: Praying to St. Anthony.

You may have heard of him? St. Anthony. He is the patron saint of lost things. You lose your keys, your wallet, a ring, an earring - you pray to St. Anthony. “Tony, Tony, look around, something’s lost and must be found.”

I have endless stories of how praying to St Anthony for lost objects has mysteriously recovered the misplaced. The most recent incident involves my husband who for three days could not find his passport. Searching everywhere, retracing his steps, Ross was stymied. He carries what I call a “murse” aka a man purse. Consumed with retrieving his passport, Ross called everywhere he could remember where he had been with his passport. Interspersed with that, he kept rechecking his murse - like about 4 times. At this point I intervened. Pray to St. Anthony I told him. And I insisted he promise to donate money to a charity of his choice. Failure to pay up results in St. Anthony striking you from his “list”. “ So I was thinking $25.00” Ross said. “No way,” I replied. “A passport is worth at least $200.” It was not long after this conversation that Ross took one last dive into his murse. He came to me with an Cheshire Cat on his face. The passport was found!

I have no logical explanation for this phenomena. But I have story after story where I swore I had looked everywhere, given up hope - and then, sometimes minutes or even months after that whispered prayer, the lost object was found. A necklace under a rug. A set of keys in a pocket I’d checked five times. A photo wedged between pages. Coincidence? Maybe. But I keep praying. And things keep showing up.

That’s faith, in a way I think. Or maybe it’s just hope expressed differently. Either way, I find it comforting.

So no, I don’t go to Mass every week. I don’t memorize encyclicals or make religious retreats. (Although I can, to this day, recite almost all of the Baltimore catechism-including listing the seven gifts of the Holy Ghost). But I do believe in social justice. I believe in community. I believe in standing up when someone tries to shut you down. I believe in mystery, and ritual, and that strange feeling when something lost is found again.

And I still reach out to St. Anthony when I’ve misplaced my car keys.

Some things, it seems, you never really lose.

A Burger Joint With A Story

Tue, 22 Apr 2025 13:32:41 GMT

Winnipeg: A Burger Joint With A Story

You can’t ever underestimate the influence of where and when you grew up. Childhood memories and experiences help shape our world view and create a blueprint for life. My childhood time in my hometown of Winnipeg Manitoba is certainly no exception! It is filled with positive nostalgia and yes, more than a few regrets. But this story is about fond moments and lasting impressions.

Nested in the heart of Canada’s prairies, Winnipeg has recently been called one of our country’s best kept secrets (Winnipeg: A Hidden Gem in the Heart of Canada). At its center lies The Forks, an historic meeting place at the confluence of the Red and Assiniboine rivers.

This vibrant area is alive with multiple family-friendly features from a children’s museum to funky boutiques and the Winnipeg Goldeyes baseball stadium. A focal feature of the Forks is the Canadian Museum for Human Rights.

Creator: JOSELC Copyright: JOSEL MEDIA

Created by an astonishing fundraising program lead by the very determined Gail Asper and a commitment from the federal government to designate it as a national museum it is notable as a national learning center. This architectural wonder is dedicated to highlighting human rights around the world. It serves as a metaphor for much of what Winnipeg is noted for: a commitment to the arts, social justice, multiculturalism and education.

Photo from CHVN Radio Written by Vanessa Friesen Monday, Oct 17 2022

One of the earliest pieces of the city’s public art is the iconic Golden Boy. Perched atop the dome of the provincial legislative building, and designed in 1918 by Georges Gardet, it is over 17 feet high. The bronze statue features a nude young man reaching northward with a torch in one hand a sheath of wheat in the other. It stands for goals for prosperity and entrepreneurship- characteristics of many of Winnipeg’s early people: Indigenous peoples, Ukrainians, French, Poles, Scots and many more.

It is the entrepreneurial spirit that was behind the impetus for Winnipeg’s enviable public art. A walk around this wonderful city confirms its dedication to urban art and celebration of the city’s history and accomplishments.

Winnipeg’s public arts installations were funded by outstanding and enviable fundraising from all segments of the city. This project was spearheaded by prominent local families and strong support from generous everyday citizens. The array of public art installations enrich Winnipeg’s urban landscape and reflect the community’s spirit and pride for cultural expression.

Internationally renowned Chinese artist Ai Wei Wei contributed the incredible piece “Forever Bicycles“ to the area surrounding the Canadian Museum for Human Rights.

Nic Kriellaars photo Mending is a 50-foot tall mural on the wall of Winnipeg Centre Vineyard Church. The subject looks down at us with love, sorrow and beauty as we enter the North End. -From Winnipeg Free Press january 4th, 2020

Adding to Winnipeg’s unique charm are its renowned burger joints. One of my favorites is the famed Salisbury House. Famous for their juicy burgers, called “Nips” a classic order at the “Sals” was a nip and chips. Open 24 hours, the food outlet’s advertising song “Under the Little Red Roof” regaling its famous duo is pure nostalgia for me. Here is their legendary jingle performed by a family friend as she remembers it.

CLICK ON THE TRIANGLE ICON BELOW TO PLAY THE JINGLE!

There are countless stories surrounding the “Sals” mostly involving late night, drunken visits after the pub. One friend of mine recalls a “Sals” incident.

‘Maria’s’ (pseudonym) Story:

“We went to the Salisbury House on Pembina Highway about two in the morning after the disco- we decided to have a nip and some fries and maybe some coffee to sober up lol

We decided it was a good idea at the time to stand up and go without paying, we called it “eat and bolt”!

Crazy times!!! I don’t know why we did it. I still owe them the money ha ha. My first and only time I’ve done that.��”

- - -

Tom’s (pseudonym) ‘Right of Passage’ Story:

Currently a well respected Winnipeg resident, Tom (pseudonym) fondly recalls an impactful “Sals moment.”

“I was living in Winnipeg, attending Kelvin high school, and I got my drivers license in mid March.

Every weekend I would go with some friends to dances at community clubs at River Heights, Crestwood, Saint James, Civic Center, and University of Manitoba Student Union building. After the dances, we would go to either the A&W or the Salisbury House on Pembina Highway. In those days the Salisbury house had carhops who would come out in the middle of winter and deliver your order on a tray which you put on the side the car’s window. After your drinks came to the car, you would roll the window up with the tray on it in order to keep the car warm. If you didn’t get the drinks in quickly enough, the mugs would become ice cold.

The first day my parents allowed me to drive their car without their supervision was on a Friday night. After the dance we attended, three friends and I went to the Salisbury house and had a big nip, a chocolate donut and a root beer.

The car was parked in one of the spots near the building where the food was prepared. As I pulled out to leave, the car next to me also pulled out and backed into the side of the door of my parents’ car. This caused quite a bit of damage. I then had to go home to explain to my parents how, on my first time with their car, I had been in a car accident in the Salisbury House parking lot…

…it didn’t happen again.”

- - -

Sassy’s Story:

My Salisbury House story leans in a little different direction. It was July of 1975. Unlike the frigid cold of Winnipeg winters, the summers are hot and humid. My home was old, built on a twenty five foot lot on an elm tree lined street. Needless to say, this two story “historic property” was long on character and short on HVAC! I was in my home and the heat was so stifling that I could not sleep. After tossing and turning until midnight, I decided to head to my air conditioned local Salisbury House that was conveniently located right around the corner.

I sat at the counter on one of the backless seats and ordered a soft drink. The server was friendly and we chatted about the weather and our favorite tv shows. I sat happily cool and enjoying my solitude until the server returned and interrupted my reverie. She placed a piece of the Sal’s signature flapper pie in front of me. “Compliments of the gentleman at the far end of the counter” she quipped. I took this as a compliment and so gave a smile and a quick wave to the guy. I enjoyed that delicious desert and left my seat and headed home.

Fast forward to midnight the very next night and again my house was sweltering. Once more I sought a reprieve from the oppressive heat and returned to the Salisbury House and found the very same counter seat and placed the identical order. The same woman served me and we took up a short conversation where we left off. And then: Guess what? She placed an entire flapper pie in front of me!!

Talk about one-upmanship: the server told me that that gentleman had been there the night before, and witnessed the single piece of pie the other guy had given me. Well, tonight this second gentleman decided to up the ante and sent over an entire pie!

I thanked him for his kindness and generosity and we had a good laugh before I left. Great memories at an iconic Winnipeg burger joint.

Winnipeg, a city rich in history and culture, is known for its public art, including the iconic Golden Boy and Ai Wei Wei’s “Forever Bicycles.” The city’s entrepreneurial spirit is evident in its vibrant arts scene and beloved burger joints, particularly Salisbury House, famous for its “Nips” and “Chips.” Salisbury House holds a special place in the hearts of many, including me. To this day, it serves as a nostalgic gathering place for late-night meals and cherished memories.

Mail Girl : A Broadway Story?

Mon, 08 Apr 2024 19:05:00 GMT

I like to say that I started my career on Broadway. In my imagination I played Maria in West Side Story in that 1960s musical hit or Barbara Streisand in Funny Girl. Never mind the fact that I have no singing voice or any substantive acting ability. I unequivocally fantasized reading glowing reviews and waving to adoring fans. I also dreamt of growing a bust that would fit a bra size bigger than double A!! But fantasies are just that: fantasies. They often shape desires and can help us deal with reality – pleasant or otherwise.

The real “Broadway” truth was much less glamorous. In the summer of 1967 I found myself embarking on a new adventure in the heart of Winnipeg, Manitoba. While I may have dreamt of gracing the stages of Broadway, my reality was far from the glamour of New York’s Broadway. Instead of “treading the boards”, I found my self working at an insurance company called Monarch Life located on a beautiful Elm lined street called Broadway Avenue. The experience, though not what I had envisioned, turned out to be an eye-opening one. It exposed me to the realities and complexities of gender norms and inequalities.

My excitement at being on salary, a stark contrast to my previous part-time jobs that paid a mere 80 cents an hour was palpable. Gone were the days of ill-fitting uniforms and split shifts, replaced by the thrill of wearing stylish clothes from my own wardrobe or borrowed from close friends. In the swinging sixties, mini skirts reigned supreme and I found myself embracing this new “professional” attire.

As a mail girl, work days were spent unloading bags of mail, sorting them into labeled slots and delivering them throughout the building on a push trolley – all the while in a skimpy mini skirt. It was a task that required well executed precision and skill, especially when retrieving documents from the bottom of the trolley. I created an innovative squatting maneuver that saved me from “over exposure”. In an attempt to make my job a bit more manageable I decided to wear culottes, a then fashionable item that combined the look of a skirt with the practicality of pants.

Unfortunately, this innovative outfit choice led to a workplace conflict as the company deemed culottes as pants which were forbidden for women to wear according to company policy. As a result, I was sent home to change prompting me to question the fairness and equity of the policy and leading me to contemplate the concept of gender equality in the workplace.

In addition, I was asked to participate in a photo shoot for the company newsletter. The photo involved me and three other young women sitting on a diving board in two piece bathing suits. While initially flattered by the request, upon seeing the final product I began to question the purpose of such an image in a professional setting. Just what insurance product were they trying to sell? It served to further fuel my reflection on gender norms and inequalities.

My story of the “mail girl” at Monarch Life on Broadway Avenue in 1967 ,though a far cry from my Broadway dreams ,opened my eyes to the poignant reminder of the challenges faced by women in the workplace during that era. Through encounters with dress code policies and questionable photo shoot requests I began to challenge the status quo and question the fairness and equity of gender expectations. My experience provided me with the genesis of insights into the complexities of gender dynamics and the expectations placed upon women in professional settings. While my dreams of Broadway were put on hold, my journey as a mail girl offered valuable lessons in navigating the world of work as a young woman in the sixties.

It seems evident that since 1967 we have made significant advances in removing workplace gender imbalances. Today’s workplaces are generally more inclusive and diverse, with more opportunities for women to advance their careers. Women do hold important leadership positions and are increasingly represented in traditionally male dominated industries. Despite these advancements, there are still challenges and barriers that women face in the workforce: gender pay gap and lack of representation in top executive roles.

I am hopeful the days of the “mail girl” are bygone and gender issues are for the most left in the dust of decades past.

Halloween: A Lesson Learned

Wed, 25 Oct 2023 21:21:00 GMT

Strange what memories stay with you. A vivid one I remember is a Halloween night that was mixed with strong emotions and a lesson learned. It happened on the last night of October in Victoria British Columbia when I was seven years old. The late fall evening was warm, even by west coast standards. A gentle breeze rustled the fallen leaves on the ground . The moon shone brightly, casting an eerie glow over the streets as I prepared for my annual trick-or-treating adventure.

My mother, Marjorie, was what would now be called “old school”. Mom thought I was too young to go “Haloweening” on my own. So she enlisted two older neighbour kids, Bobby and Cindy, to accompany me. In the early evening the three of us eagerly donned our costumes and set out, anxious for the night ahead.

Cindy was dressed as a friendly witch with the requisite pointed black hat and a straw broom she ended up abandoning shortly after we started out. Bobby was fitted out as a fierce pirate with an ominous looking black patch over his left eye. And I was a fairy princess , resplendent in pink chiffon , a starched crinoline itching my thighs. Our treat bags were empty and we were keen to fill them with yummy goodies.

As we ventured from house to house, we were greeted with smiles and encouraging voices. The neighbors had gone all out, decorating their homes with spooky ghosts, carved pumpkins, and cobwebs. The air was filled with the scent of decomposing leaves and the sound of children’s laughter.

After hours of collecting treats, our bags were overflowing with candy. We were thrilled with our successful collection of booty and decided it was time to head home. Little did we know, our Halloween night was about to take an unexpected turn.

As we made our way down a dimly lit street, we encountered three teenage boys lurking in the shadows. The boys, mischievous and up to no good, approached us with sly grins on their faces. “Hey, kids,” one of the boys said, “let us just feel how heavy your bags are. We won’t take anything, we promise.”

Innocently, Bobby and Cindy handed over their bags to the boys. I was much less trusting and I had a gut feeling that something was not right. I clutched my bag tightly, refusing to give it up. Sensing my resistance, the boys quickly ran off into the night with my friends’ Halloween bags, laughing heartily as they went.

Cindy and Bobby were left stunned and disappointed, their once-filled treat bags now gone. Tears welled up in their eyes as they realized their hard-earned candy had been stolen. Although somewhat saddened by the turn of events, I felt a sense of relief that I had trusted my instincts. And I really wondered about my older friends’ lack of ability to assess a dangerous situation. Some might call my reaction hard hearted. I just thought I was smart!

The three of us made our way back home. Bobby and Cindy’s spirits were dampened by the unfortunate incident. My mother, waiting anxiously for our return, noticed the kids’ downcast expressions and immediately sensed that something was wrong. As we recounted the story, Mom listened attentively, her face filled with concern.

My mother was a devout Catholic and it seemed she believed that although Halloween had no real religious significance, it could be seen as a time for promoting sharing and kindness. She decided this was an opportunity to teach me a valuable lesson. Mom sat us all down on the burgundy chenille couch in our living room. Bobby and Cindy sat there looking dejected, staring at their feet. Mom said how terrible it was to have the two kids’ lose their treats to “bad boys”. To my dismay, she came up with an idea to help assuage the kid’s disappointment. She instructed me to share my treats with Cindy and Bobby.

My first reaction was to soundly protest Mom’s directive. I definitely hesitated, feeling a sense of inequity at being forced to share my haul. I thought it an injustice to be compelled to split my loot with two who were, to me, too trusting, certainly naive and plain stupid. However, as I stared into my friends’ eyes, it was hard to miss the disappointment and sadness they displayed.

Reluctantly, I began to divide my candy among the three of us. As I did so, I noticed the smiles slowly returning to Bobby and Cindy’s faces. I realized that even though my friends’ sacks had been stolen and I had to forfeit two thirds of my candy, my mother’s dictum made me feel that I was doing something good.

In that moment, I began to learn the importance of compassion and empathy. The notion that material possessions could be replaced, but that friendship and the act of sharing are far more valuable started to dawn on me.

Happy Halloween to everyone! May your night be filled with treats, laughter and valuable lessons that warm your heart. But a word of caution. Trust your instincts. And hang on tight to your treats!!

LOSS IS MADE ENDURABLE BY LOVE

Sat, 09 Jul 2022 16:25:00 GMT

It was 1982 on an unbearably cold January day in Edmonton when I first met a beautiful early 30s woman named Peggy. That day the wintery streets were slick with black ice and I was nervous navigating the winding road to my destination. The bottom of my used car hit the snow windrows left by the snowplough that had cleared the streets in the wee hours of the morning. Well before high tech navigation aids were available, I relied on a city map to find my way to the family sports club we had recently joined.

I dropped off Noah, my oldest son, at his new French immersion school. My almost two year old son, Matthew was well secured in his car seat in the back of my red Plymouth Cricket. I had bought the car in my hometown of Winnipeg from a family friend whose father owned a car dealership. To say that it was a lemon is giving it much more credit than it was due. I crossed my fingers that the two of us would arrive safely and on time.

The club had a babysitting service which meant I could brave the well below minus temperature and go for an outdoor run. I was scheduled to meet the new sports coordinator, Linda, who told me she would introduce me to some fellow runners. I was eager to get oriented to our new club and perhaps connect with a regular running group.

After a short but tearful goodbye to Matthew at the babysitting room, I headed to meet Linda. For some reason the gathering place for the running group was in the ladies locker room which was drab with tall metal lockers fitted with combination locks. The well worn carpet showed of understandable abuse from food spills and some toddlers’ missed opportunity to make it to the bathroom.

Linda arrived right on time for our 9:15 am appointment. She was a fit and wiry woman in her twenties and to me she seemed a well-suited fitness professional. New to her job, she was enthusiastic and greeted me with a wide smile and firm handshake. She filled me in on the makeup of the running group which she believed had been together for at least two years and varied from 5-6 women.

It seems that freezing January day was too daunting for most of the running crew. The usual meeting time was 9:30 but by 9:40 no one had appeared. Shortly after that one member arrived. Linda broke into a grin and welcomed her. And so I met Peggy!

Peggy was a fashionable runner. Her blonde locks fell beneath the Fila touque she had pulled down over her forehead. A black and and grey scarf was tied around her neck that was embossed with alternating upright and inverted capital Gs. A quilted ski jacket topped her black running pants and her runners were black with a white Nike emblem on the side. She wore bright white sunglasses with a logo that I did not recognize.

After brief introductions we headed out the front door of the building, turning left across the parking lot and up a steep hill behind the club. Peggy was a relaxed runner compared to my more antsy style. We chatted amiably and traded the usual getting to know you information. Born and raised in Edmonton, Peggy was married to Roger and had two young girls who were attending the same school as Noah. It was the first coincidence we shared. I told her the address of the new home my husband and I had just purchased. Peggy’s face took on a surprised expression. The house we bought was Peg’s family home and where she had fond memories of growing up. It was the second coincidence we had in common.

As January turned into February I began to meet the other runners in the group. Some had spent the past month in Hawaii and others had various different commitments. The gang knew each other well and routinely ended the run with coffee in the cafeteria. At the time I was not sure what they shared in common besides running. But I did know one thing. They all wore those white sunglasses. But that’s another story for another day.

Joining the running group was the beginning of many happy years and memories in Edmonton that involved Peggy. We were a tight group and we often had days when a birthday lunch stretched into late night shenanigans. We were young and almost always ready to party but were still able to rally the next day and share a “dusty” run.

Our running group had it’s moment of fame one gorgeous day in 1983 when fall was inching toward winter. It was the one day when for some reason, only three runners showed up. Peg and two others were jogging on one of our regular routes in the river valley. An Edmonton Journal photographer captured them on film. The beautiful picture “made the paper’. The rest of were choked that the one day we missed was the day the three became celebrities. It has been a bone of contention ever since!

Eleanor was one of the friends I met through running and we hit it off so well that we decided to host a joint party. We held it at my home and invited about 60 people. Those were the days before we hired caterers so Eleanor and I researched recipes, shopped for ingredients and prepared the dishes.

On the night of the party people were enjoying themselves, eating drinking and sharing the latest local rumours. It was well past midnight and the event was still going strong. I was in the kitchen sitting around the table laughing and sharing stories with Peg and a few others. Roger came in and signaled to Peggy that it was time to go home. Peg did not look like she was about to head out anytime soon. Roger sensed this and said “Peg we told the kids we would be home by midnight.” Our witty Peggy cocked her head, narrowed her eyes and retorted “So we lied to the kids!”

Peggy was a determined and focused person and nothing personifies it better than her decision to go back to university. Having her girls at a young age meant Peggy had not completed an undergraduate degree. At some point in the 1980s Peg went back to university and continued on to earn a law degree in 1989. She practiced real estate and estate law for many years and was known to have met clients in parking lots to sign papers that needed immediate attention. Peg could get things done no matter how inconvenient.

I cannot recall exactly what celebration we were commemorating when this next story took place. It may well have been Peggy’s birthday. Again there was a big gathering this time at Roger and Peg’s elegant home in a well-established Edmonton neighborhood. The next part of the tale is one that I am a little embarrassed to admit. I had the bright idea to hire a male stripper to surprise Peggy. And certainly it was a surprise. The “performer” was very thin and ill-dressed in not so clean clothes and he wore fingerless leather gloves. Accompanied by sketchy music from a boom box it was apparent he was not a graduate of the Fred Astair dance studio. The nervousness in the room was palpable. No one was quite sure where to look. Typically, Peggy rose to the occasion. She somehow kept eye contact with the “entertainer” and with her usual class and grace she managed to dissipate a very awkward situation. She applauded and that was the end of that!

Roger and Peg were childhood sweethearts who met and fell in love in high school. Their long marriage was admired by many and emulated by few. Meeting as teenagers when Peg was in Grade 10 they travelled together to Europe after Peggy graduated from high school. They married and raised two wonderful daughters together. It was their strong bond that supported their journey through Peg’s brave battle against cancer. The love they shared and the love of her family and friends helps to make our loss a little more bearable.

Peggy was a classy, elegant, composed and extremely well-liked woman. Her infectious smile and sly sense of humor were her trademarks, her unflappable demeanor her forte and her integrity her long suit. The memories Peg created will live on. We miss you my friend.

Family Matters: No Matter What

Sun, 21 Nov 2021 18:47:00 GMT

The story started earlier this year. It was a typical January day in Palm Desert, California. The sky was awash in sunshine and the Santa Ana winds were beginning to make their presence known. I was self congratulatory about completing my early morning online workout that emphasized balance and strength, and I was contemplating the agenda for the rest of the day. My iPhone rang on FaceTime video and I saw my sister, Margaret Ann’s picture appear. My two sisters (Margaret- Ann and Gail) and I are in regular contact so it was absolutely normal to hear from Margie. Little did I suspect that the ordinary was about to become the extraordinary! What my youngest sister shared with me changed our family forever. It is rooted in a family joke that morphed into a family gift.

Our Gillis family gatherings are generally raucous and accentuated by by generous portions of wine, Canadian beer and the freshest, crustiest bread we can find. The five of us have traded family folklore and try our best to outdo each other with who has the most colourful childhood stories. Often during these gatherings we share a standing joke. It goes like this: “We likely have a sibling somewhere in or around Italy!” There is laughter all around. We guess that in some quaint town there lives a sibling fathered by my dad during his time at the Battle of Ortona in Italy.

Here is the background to the longstanding joke that became a proven reality.

In 1939 my twenty one year old father, Alec Gillis, “rode the rails” to Alberta looking for work. When war was declared in Europe, long before he knew my mother, he enlisted in the Canadian army. Initially he was stationed in London where he served as an M P and a military dispatcher. We have a classic picture of him (on the left) in Trafalgar Square with his cousin, both proudly wearing Canadian army uniforms. The two are beaming their youthful smiles while holding out their hands feeding pigeons. We have lovingly imagined dad racing around London and environs on his motorcycle perhaps attending the local dances we have heard were part of that wartime scene. But for some reason as we understand it, Dad chose to volunteer to join the on the ground fighting.

AJ, as he was nicknamed, went on to serve in North Africa where he contracted malaria . That disease haunted him throughout his life and manifested in him awakening in the night to sweats and uncontrollable shaking. He then was ordered to Italy where he fought in what was probably the bloodiest of WWII battles: The Battle of Ortona. He was one of a very few brave Canadians who survived the December combat. Dad didn’t share much about that engagement nor for that matter did he share stories about any of his time overseas. He had his reasons.

So our conjecture about a possible sister or brother had no foundation in anything our father ever said. But if there where such a brother or sister he/she would be older than any of us and would likely live close to Ortona. Or so we thought!

My sister’s astonishing call to me came after a shared dinner in Toronto with my dad’s youngest brother, my favorite uncle, Jim, his wife Peggy and two of my cousins. The conversation began easily, trading pleasantries and reminiscing. Then the bombshell announcement! “You two have a half brother who lives in England.”

In the vast realm of genealogy, there are countless stories waiting to be discovered. For my family, at least 3 separate genealogy searches resulted in an extraordinary journey that ended in finding our long-lost brother whose fate was intertwined with a WWII Canadian soldier: my father.

It seems it all started with a confluence of simple curiosity and a drive to uncover familial roots.

As it turns out, my cousin, another distant cousin and my son Matthew entered their DNA into Ancestry.com. So did another fellow, named Peter, who is nicknamed Sam. When Sam turned 80, his daughter Sharon bought him the ancestry kit as a special a birthday gift and sent his information off for analysis. What he eventually discovered was my father and the five of us!

It didn’t take long for my siblings and I to try connect with our brother who had grown up unaware of his biological parentage. We began with a Zoom call with Sharon, Peter’s lovely blonde, adult daughter who is my new found niece. How strange it seemed to share all our stories with our niece who of course, had a British accent!

Through that call we learned that Sam was born in England in 1942. His mother was unwed and he was adopted by the midwife who delivered him. He never knew his natural father or mother and was always interested in his biological roots.

Coincidently, my two sons, Noah and Matthew and I, had planned a visit to London in late May just a few months after learning about Sam. Who would have dreamt that trip would be a perfect conduit to a family reunion that was nothing short of remarkable! We reached out to my new found brother through Sharon and asked if it might be possible to meet in person. We discovered that Sam, his wife Cynthia and Sharon all live close to Wolverhampton which is a short train ride from London. We got the go-ahead! We had a plan! Noah, Matthew and I were heading to Wolverhampton.

I cannot underestimate the tenacity of my siblings. This reunion did not disappoint. Think domino effect! As the time for the reunion drew closer I mentioned to Margaret Ann that she and Gail might want to join the adventure. After a brief hesitation, Margaret was on. Gail quickly followed suit. I promised them a room in the London hotel I had booked. Although we never knew the acronym FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out) it seems it is also a part of our family DNA. It didn’t take long for brothers, Hugh and Doug to put their hands up to come on board.

On a warm and sunny day in late May the seven of us took the early morning train to meet our brother Sam and his family. The Wolverhampton reunion was beyond incredible. Connecting with Sam and his family was emotional and filled with a sense of belonging that words cannot adequately describe. We shared our personal stories and told Sam what we had learned about AJ’s war experiences. We brought him Dad’s war medals which seemed extremely meaningful to him. It seemed natural that Dad’s son who was born in WWII should have his medals. It was an afternoon filled with joy and gratitude, and a sense of belonging that words cannot adequately describe.

In the vast realm of genealogy, there are countless stories of families uncovering hidden secrets and long-lost relatives. Our family experienced one such extraordinary journey, as we stumbled upon a brother we never knew existed. Through the wonders of modern technology we were able to connect the dots and reunite with our brother, who was the son of our father, born during his service in World War II for Canada. This unexpected revelation has brought immense joy, love, and a renewed sense of belonging to our family.

Since our reunion, our family has been on an incredible journey of building new bonds and creating cherished memories. We have embraced our newfound brother with open arms and he us. We are all eager to make up for the lost time.

Our family was astounded how much Sam resembles our dad. We didn’t need a DNA test to affirm that he is our brother. Dad and Sam had more than good looks in common. Both were electricians, both loved to dance, and both were involved in boxing.

Our story is a testament to the power of technology and the role it plays in connecting families across time and distance. Although there are other genealogical apps, it was Ancestry.com that provided us with the tools and resources to uncover a hidden chapter of our family’s history, bringing us closer together in ways we never thought possible.

Discovering a long-lost brother has been a life-altering experience for our family. It has taught us the importance of embracing our past, cherishing our present, and building a future together. We are grateful to have uncovered this remarkable story, reuniting us with a brother we never knew we had. Our journey continues, filled with love, laughter, and the shared bond of a family made whole once again.

Let me share a bit of levity connected to all of this. My younger brother Doug pointed out that I am no longer the oldest child in the family. He was smug in declaring he will always be the youngest. My response? Don’t count on it!

Once Were Children: Lament for Days Gone By

Fri, 01 Oct 2021 13:51:00 GMT

The wide meadow, alive with the sound of crickets, was just down from Carnarvon Street and across from Landsdowne Avenue in Victoria. As I remember, it was wild and awash with tall green grass, thick bushes and small trees that afforded plenty of possible hiding places. Landsdowne was a busy street and there was a rule in our household that dictated my younger bother Hugh and I were forbidden from crossing it. The same went for all of the children in our neighbourhood. We all knew there would be hell to pay if we were caught disobeying this order.

The sound of cars rushing down the avenue only served to reinforce our respect for our parents’ regulations. But then, as now, I knew the adage “Rules were made to be broken.” And that meadow had an allure that a nine-year old and her next door girlfriend found hard to resist. And so “the day we built the hideaway” story begins.

It was a sunny morning in early fall when the busy days of summer were a memory and the quiet days of autumn had set in when my friend Allison, and I decided to break free from parental control. During summer vacation the neighbourhood kids were active and we biked, played board games and had sidewalk competitions like hop scotch and jacks. Often we staged plays and concerts in our garages – the overhead doors served as perfect theatre curtains. Once we even gathered grass cuttings left behind from mowed lawns and to our parents’ dismay, we lined the garage floor with them. But this September day those ideas were far behind us and boredom had set in. Allison and I were searching for adventure and it took the form of defiance.

It started as a challenge. “I double dare you”, Allison shouted. “Let’s cross over Landsdown together . We can make a hideaway in the tall grass and bushes.”

We told our mothers we were preparing a picnic lunch to eat in the doll house that stood in Allison’s backyard. That playhouse was a collaborative work of art between Allison’s father and her uncle. Red painted plywood walls and a tarpaper roof gave the playhouse a realistic look and provided Allison a powerful place in the neighborhood children’s hierarchy.

Preparing for our daring afternoon we made our favorite sandwiches and poured orange Kool-aide in thermoses that we put in our tin lunch kits usually meant for school lunches. We spread smooth peanut butter and sweet raspberry jam on Weston’s soft white bread and topped off our menu with a desert of Dad’s oatmeal cookies.

Hopping on our two wheelers together we cycled down our street with our lunch boxes firmly secured in the plastic baskets attached to our bike’s handlebars. I am sure I held my breath as we waited for a break in traffic to cross to the forbidden field.

As we entered the meadow and dropped our bikes to the ground we spied some older boys from a neighboring street. It seemed we were not the first kids to come up with the idea of building a special hideaway away from adult eyes. These other kids were busy moving small twigs and rocks as they created a “house” in the wooded area. Allison and I exchanged knowing glances. We would create a mansion. The competition was on!!

We eagerly took on the task of gathering the building blocks for our hideout. We dragged various sized tree branches and assorted rocks to create three rooms with walls high enough to hide us if we ducked down low. We worked all through the day and and before we knew it the glow of twilight had set in.

Those were the “ancient” days when kids ran freely in the community and as a general rule were expected home as soon as the street lights came on. However that rule applied after eating dinner. Allison and I had unintentionally missed supper and we realized we would be in very hot water.

It was about then that we heard the shouts at the edge of the meadow. We listened to our names ringing out. “Kathy! Allison!” We first reacted by crouching down and ignoring the yells. But we quickly realized we had to face our fate. Sheepishly we picked up our bicycles and made our way to where our mothers were frantically calling out our names.

Along with the relative freedom I was given while growing up came the consequences of disobedience. My gentle mother was not at all reluctant to threaten and use “the wooden spoon!” This was just such a situation and my mother did not disappoint.

Much has been said about today’s children being over protected and missing out on carefree play. Words like “helicopter parents”, too much screen time and overindulgence are used to present the notion that present day kids are missing out on an untroubled childhood. It is generally accepted as a regrettable sign of the times. But I have a story that belies that notion.

A few weeks ago my three oldest grandsons and some friends spent days working on building a tree fort in the friends’ backyard. The lot backs onto a wooded ravine that is ideal for playing hide and seek and making a playhouse in the trees. Together the boys hauled in scraps of lumber and gathered wood branches to construct the fort. With hammer and nails they collaboratively used their creativity to construct the treehouse. They were excited to spend play time among the boughs of the tree.

Then something happened to upend the project.

As the kids were putting the finishing touches in their “home in the sky” there was a knock on the door of the house where they were building the fort. The mother of the boys’ friends, Natasha, went to her front door to answer. There stood a bylaw enforcement officer. Here is what Natasha texted after that encounter:

“I got a little visit from a peace officer today who said he had received a call (I think from one of the neighbours that back onto the ravine from the other side) complaining or reporting that a fort was being built on the ravine. My son had mentioned that someone had come out and talked to them the other day.. Anyway, apparently we are not allowed to build forts or even use any nails (even with dead pieces of wood that are on the ground) or even climb trees on city grounds…and he was threatening to give us a fine if we don’t have all the nails removed within a week. This is so disappointing. The kids have been working so hard and I love the creativity and teamwork they used to build what they did in the first place.”

So ok! What has become of us? The moment this younger generation has the opportunity to exercise independence they are thwarted by legislative interference. Our parents did not hover over us and we were accountable for our transgressions. But I am pretty confident that there were no bylaw restrictions on the field where Allison and I created our hideout.

I am proud that my grandsons and their friends felt secure in their opportunities to enjoy the wonderful possibilities of childhood. Hats off to their parents for supporting their sense of adventure and their inventiveness. Boo to the society that we have become. A society that creates fear of legal repercussions from possible outcomes of everyday enjoyment of public places. Perhaps there is room for common sense to interpret rules less harshly. Occasionally bending the rules may serve good purpose.

So this is what I am saying: I should rephrase the title of this blog My lament transgresses generational limitations. So here is my renamed blog:

Lament for Lost Childhood Freedom

Gifts from our Grandparents

Sat, 22 May 2021 21:59:00 GMT

My maternal grandmother was named Josephine but everyone called her Josie. To me, my siblings and my cousins she was called “Grannie McGurran”. She was vivacious and assertive especially by stereotypical grandmother standards.

My grandfather Daniel McGurran was a US citizen born in North Dakota. Hearing about a Canadian offer of free farmland and never one to pass up a good economic opportunity he uprooted and headed to one of Canada’s western prairie provinces, Saskatchewan, to homestead. There he met my grandmother, a girl born in the Canadian maritime province of Nova Scotia. Saskatchewan is known for its harsh winters and exceedingly short summers. Farming certainly worked there but it was not the easiest of enterprises. It took true grit and strong determination to make a “go” of cultivating and harvesting prairie crops.

Josie married my grandfather Daniel when she was fifteen years old and he was thirty four. Shortly after tying the knot my grandmother became pregnant. As Grannie went into labor, my grandpa raced to fetch the local doctor some many miles away. Who knows how it happened? Either the baby came fast or my grandfather and the doctor were delayed. Nonetheless baby John arrived and Grannie gave birth alone at the tender age of sixteen.

At some point Grannie and Grandpa ended up living in Vancouver, British Columbia. My grandfather worked as a carpenter there and they lived near Hastings Street which today is an address you would be best to avoid.

For a short while my mother, father and I lived with my grandparents on a street just off Hastings. We were an extended family because my aging great grandparents, Josie’s mom and dad, lived in the two bedrooms on the upper level of the house. Grannie took care of them, cooking their meals and carrying trays of food and drink up and down the narrow stairs to where they lived. They were ghostlike to me as I saw and heard them rarely. My favourite aunt, Marie, also shared our house. She worked as a secretary downtown and around 5:30 each weekday I would anxiously sit on the porch in anticipation of seeing her round the corner of our street after she descended the streetcar she took to and from work. As soon as I spied her I would give a great cry “Auntie Ree ( as I affectionately called her) is home!”

At the time the Hastings Street district was populated by working class people that currently would be deemed a diverse population. My memories of that neighbourhood are good ones filled with fondness. Our next door neighbour was an Italian woman and she regularly offered me delicacies like light donuts that I later learned are called fritelle. She passed them over the short picket fence between our front yards and enthusiastically offered them to me in her mother tongue. As she handed me the sweets she rapidly spoke in Italian. I smiled broadly and nodded as I pretended to understand.

Another sentimental memory of that Vancouver community was Grandfather taking me for walks down Hastings to a small grocery store where he would buy me an Eat-More bar and pay for chewing tobacco for himself. We joked that my Eat-More candybar was chewing tobacco for young kids.

My grandfather would also regale me with old guy tricks. He had dentures and delighted in letting them drop from his upper palate and enticed me to try to mimic him. Despite trying with all my might I could not dislodge my tiny baby teeth.

Not all my recollections of living in Vancouver are tender. My grandfather died while my parents and I were living in that cozy but crowded Vancouver house. I certainly recall going to church or perhaps it was prayers at the funeral home. Grandpa McGurran was in an open casket and although he looked peaceful I clearly remember desperately wanting to wake him up. I believe it was my very first inkling that life was not everlasting.

After my grandfather’s death my parents and I moved to Winnipeg where my father took a new job with the Otis elevator company. We lived in a young community called Windsor Park near to my mother’s brother, John, where his wife and their eight children, my first cousins lived. Grannie would often visit us from Vancouver and shared her time between the two families.

Josie was quite young when she became a grandmother and the nomenclature “Grannie” was ill suited to her. When she came to stay in Winnipeg all of us kids would pile into our Ford Fairlane and go to the airport to greet her. Beautifully dressed, she would most often arrive in a well tailored suit and matching high heels. Her short hair was jet black and her trademark was deep red lipstick that she could expertly apply even without using a mirror. As she began to age she “supplemented” her dark tinted coif with a black synthetic wig she bought at the Kresge store or what she called the five and dime. Whether intentional or not, Grandma placed that hair piece off kilter with the part well off center and to the right. It drew laughs from the family and we will remember her as vain with a twist!

I was definitely convinced that I was Grannie McGurran’s favourite grandchild. Despite the fact that she had twenty-one grandchildren it seemed to me that I received the most attention and affection from her. When I shared this belief with my siblings and cousins I was shocked to learn that each of them claimed favored grandchild status. Now I realize Grannie was adept at loving generously and equitably.

As Josie entered her late 80s it became necessary for her to move into a long term care facility in a suburb of Vancouver. “Auntie Ree” and two of my cousins lived close by and regularly checked up on her so she continued to feel family love and support. My husband and I visited her there while on a west coast trip. As we entered her tiny room we spied her fast asleep on the single bed with her head propped up on two pillows. We could not help but smile as we noticed what lay beside her on the white pillows. The black synthetic hairpiece she relied on to keep up appearances was but three inches from her sleeping head!! Perhaps she purposefully positioned it there for easy access at a moment’s notice!

The COVID pandemic has wrecked havoc with many of our most vulnerable. In particular, long term care homes have been disproportionately affected by COVID. Here in Canada my sister, Margaret Ann-Gillis, is the Canadian head of an international organization that advocates for seniors. When the pandemic hit she was one of the first to publicly voice the horrors of many long term care facilities pre and post COVID. In her role as the president of the International Longevity Centre Canada she brought focus to the need to radically address the sorry state of facilities for the aging. Several people in one room sharing bathrooms, staff shortages and bad working conditions are unacceptable examples of challenges facing care facilities. The latest issue concerns the fact that many residents in care have been fully vaccinated yet are denied the opportunity to eat and recreate together.

My understanding of aging is shaped by my family experience not the least of which is witnessing my grandmother attentively caring for her parents in her own home. I was not taught to distance my elders but rather to feel a part of an extended family. Grannie McGurran was a person to be reckoned with who was not afraid to speak her mind. It well may be that her tenacity inspired my sister Margaret-Ann to determinedly advocate for older people.

My nature is to push back on the unpleasant aspects of aging. However : Aging is a privilege! Celebrate longevity!

“Do not go gentle into that good night. Rage rage against the dying of the light.” Dylan Thomas

FRIENDSHIPS: NEW and OLD

Sat, 10 Apr 2021 18:39:00 GMT

“Friendship is the hardest thing in the world to explain. It is not something you learn in school. But if you haven’t learned the meaning of friendship, you really haven’t learned anything” – Mohammad Ali

Who can say how friendships are made? Sometimes they are forged through family connections. At other times they are a result of shared interests. Often they are a consequence of necessity. Once in awhile they are a result of pure happenstance.

Happenstance is my recollection of how I became friends with a young girl about two years older than I was. I was about nine years old and I lived in Victoria BC with my mom, dad, two brothers and two sisters. We lived on Carnarvon Street in an area called Saanich, close to Mount Tolmie and near to what was called the “Normal School”. I remember thinking that living close to anything named normal was likely good and probably was an omen for a positive future. It was years later that I came to understand that a normal school was a place to train to be a teacher!!

Our Victoria street was not paved with cement but rather was an asphalt covered surface. Devoid of sidewalks it did not deter me and my friends from running door to door or hopping on our (motor-less) scooters. We played tag on the green lawns that our fathers had created by seeding the soil and carefully watering it over a summer season. Between the front yard and the blackened street was a large ditch. The neighborhood dogs enjoyed scampering up and down those gutters and lapping up the runoff water that gathered there after a few days of rain.

On one warm spring day I was cruising around on my CCM red two wheeler bicycle. My bike had white fenders complete with a large silver bell my dad had attached to the handle bars. It was early morning and the street was unusually quiet, perhaps it was a Sunday when the neighbors were at church or cooking an early morning breakfast of bacon and eggs.

I was happily riding around even daring to go one block beyond the two block radius my mother had limited my cycling to. On the outskirts of my biking boundary another cyclist overtook me. She had a green three speed bike and applied her brakes as she came up beside me. She looked exotic, wearing colorful peddle pushers and a ruffled white top. Her head was covered by a large scarf tied around her head and fashioned in the back – gypsy style and not a hair fell lose. We met several times after that day and I looked forward to connecting with this striking older girl.

I remember enjoying shared times with this worldly new-found friend. She told me wonderful stories about how her parents let her eat all the chocolate and ice cream that she wanted and she really only went to school half days. I had never heard of the school she attended but it was close to the Royal Jubilee Hospital where my mother had my young sister, Margaret Anne. She said her teachers were called tutors.

One of her most memorable tales was one that I thought she had certainly fabricated. She asked me if I knew where babies come from. I confidently replied “Yes, from my mommy’s tummy!” My sidekick had a good laugh that I thought was rather rude. She proceeded to fill me in about the “birds and the bees.” I was shocked and for sure in disbelief. My dad and mom do what? Sounded more like a bathroom story than the truth about the facts of life.

I told my mother about my new friend but did not divulge the part about “Where babies come from”. But when I shared her name with my mom and that she wore this amazing head scarf my mother stopped short. It seemed Mom knew my new found pal. She said my new confidant was very sick and that she had been in the hospital several times. The headscarf was a way to hide how ill she was. I was too young and naive to understand the implications what my mother was saying. It was a happenstance friendship that began to teach me about the realities of life. Friendships are precious. Treasure every moment you share with your friends.

I just told you a sad story about one of my early friendships. I tell it not to bring you down but to set the stage for an appreciation for affection and strong connection.

Certainly these Covid times are trying, challenging and overwhelmingly frustrating. Often I find it difficult to discover some positiveness. One of the most constructive outcomes of this long lasting pandemic is the friendships it has forged and solidified. Whether new or old, my friendships during COVID are strong and cherished.

About four years ago through friends that I met in Palm Desert, I learned to play a card game called canasta. It is a game that was developed in Uruguay 1939 and it blends Bridge with gin rummy. The current version is more complicated that the original variety although some of my bridge playing friends would beg to differ! At any rate the game was fun in person when playing with “real” cards and I met many new people who have become my friends.

Covid brought all in person direct contact to a sudden and discouraging halt. Our real life communication was replaced by zoom calls, FaceTime and all manner of technological connection. To satisfy my canasta addiction I became reliant on an online site called Canasta Junction. Many of my Palm Desert card playing companions signed up the canasta app. Soon I was playing online at least three times a week. My desert pals often brought new people I had never met to our games. What an interesting outcome – meeting friends of friends through technology.

I have one long-standing Edmonton friend who is as equally addicted to Canasta Junction as I am – if not more! Like me, she competes against the computer and also plays with three of our Edmonton buddies every Wednesday. But what is unique about her is this. When my Palm Desert friends were looking for a fourth my Edmonton girlfriend stepped in. So for over a year now my pal has been playing with my Palm Desert group whom she has never met in person!! Through several sessions of online play per week, my Edmonton buddy has grown close to my desert chums.

With the help of Houseparty all the players are able to see each other and share conversation. People joke together and tease each other about the pace of play. We know each other’s family stories, each person’s aches and pains and what they are making for dinner. Recipes are exchanged and favorite series to binge on are shared. Connected through on line canasta. Who would have thought?

Houseparty has also been an important conduit to my long time Edmonton girl friends. We call ourselves “The Edmonton Girls” and towards the end of most days we connect online and touch base for about an hour. Not all of us are on all the time but for about six days a week we share Houseparty time. We rant about COVID realities and lament the old days. We analyze our Canadian politics and share anecdotes about our kids and grandchildren. We figure out the ills of the world and most assuredly we are all beyond brilliant. More importantly, this routine underscores how we value each other’s friendship and know we can count on each other.

It has been said that there are no friends like the old friends. Most certainly that is true and for me the pandemic has solidified those relationships. I also celebrate and cherish the new bonds the pandemic has created. “Friends are all we have to get us through life.” (Dean Koontz)

A WHOLE LOT OF GREY

Wed, 03 Mar 2021 19:51:00 GMT

“WE ALL SEE THE WORLD THROUGH THE PRISM WE LOOK AT IT THROUGH: BEHIND THE DIFFERENTLY SHADED GLASSES WE METAPHORICALLY WEAR”…PETER SANTENELLO

The late July night in Winnipeg was still and humid and the faint smell of summer flowers lingered from earlier in the 85F day. At eleven that night the darkened sky that had appeared just a few hours earlier, was beautiful at well past 10 pm. I was perched on the front porch seated on the multicoloured plastic patio chair that had permanent residence there throughout the summertime. I was thinking about the day that was coming to an end. The street before me was quiet, marked only by the hum of the odd passing car.

At 15 years old, I was thinking my own adolescent thoughts, unsure of what to anticipate and too naive to know what to appreciate. Certainly I was unaware that we could all possibly “see the world through the prism we look at it through: behind the differently shaded sunglasses we all metaphorically wear.” (Peter Santenello) Until that moment I had made the youthful assumption that things were exactly as they seemed to me: predictable, reliable and equitable. All I could see was what was in front of me. No grey areas!

Earlier in the day I had completed a split shift at Speakman’s IGA, the grocery store where I worked as a “checkout girl.” I was paid 80 cents an hour to correctly punch grocery prices into the till and handle the cash and checks that customers used to pay for their groceries. I dutifully memorized the weekly specials and had a reputation as a quick and efficient cashier. The “bag boy” stood at the end of my station putting vegetables, canned goods and other foodstuffs in brown paper bags stored in the shelves beneath the checkout stand. Two years my senior, the boy was paid $1 an hour, an inequitable work situation…

Chalk it up to late night rumination but on that porch-lit night a light bulb went off in my mind. Why should I, with the huge responsibility of handling cash and the requisite need to reconcile my till at the end of each shift make less money than my contemporary the teenage bag boy? The seeds of recognition of inequality were sown but so was the notion of what was the truth?

In our house in Winnipeg, there was a rite of passage that related to news and politics. As the eldest of the five children in the Gillis family, I was the first to experience this nightly custom. My mom, dad and whichever other adult was in the house at the time, would tune into the CBC tv late night news. Sundays were an even more special event when we would watch a provocative news magazine “This Hour Has Seven Days.” Over well steeped sugary tea and open-faced grilled cheese bread topped with bacon, we would rehash the program we had just watched. The broadcast was controversial in it’s format, with reporters often ambushing politicians and other noteworthy figures as they were going about their daily activities and posing them difficult and often embarrassing questions.

After one of these family late night sessions I decided to broach the subject of my position concerning the the wage differential between males and females where I worked. I really thought that I could count on complete support from my family – after all my father belonged to the Elevator Constuctors’ Union – so I expected some sort of shared sense of egalitarianism. Wrong!!

My father argued in this way: I was just 15 years old and legally not supposed to be in the paid workforce (I had “fibbed about my age”). The bag boy was bigger and stronger, assets that to Dad were prerequisite for bagging groceries. Well OK that certainly saw the situation from different eyes. And what my dad was saying could well be true. So who was right? Whose interpretation was correct? I certainly was convinced I was accurate and I am pretty sure my father felt the same. Black and white. A whole lot of grey!

I was inspired to write this blog while listening to Disturb”s rendition of “Sounds Of Silence”. It is version of the Simon and Garfunkle original that I found particularly stirring. The provocative lyrics penned in the 1960’s have resonance for all time. We need to speak and listen to each other. We need to disturb the sound of silence.

There are a myriad of renditions of “Sounds of Silence,” which mirrors the many ways people interpret the world around them. I have included two versions of this classic and meaningful song. Listen to both. Same lyrics. Different musical interpretation. Many ways to understand our personal reality.

“Facing” the Post Pandemic

Wed, 03 Feb 2021 20:11:00 GMT

To say that I am anxious to get past the pandemic is an understatement tantamount to calling the Beatles a good band or declaring that when the internet came a few things changed. Nonetheless, I can hardly wait to take off my jeans and tee shirt, don a party dress and host a 100 person party to celebrate the end of Covid restrictions. I will be over the moon when I can hug every one of my guests – young, old or in between.

The coronavirus pandemic has created a new reality that most of us could never have foreseen. Many pundits have weighed in with pronouncements and forecasts for life after this seemingly unending epidemic. One expert, Karen Koenen, is a Harvard professor whose specialty is psychiatric epidemiology. I don’t know about you but I had no idea there was such a career designation. But it seems to me that anyone who has the words psychiatry and epidemiology in their job description would be qualified to make post pandemic predictions.

Koenen has some post pandemic forecasts that are unnerving and perhaps even distressing. One concern she has is about how the current coming-of-age generation will transition to adulthood. “While it is likely that the upcoming coming-of-age generation will bear long-term impacts, it’s less clear what those might be. If mask wearing endures, they may not remember a time when not wearing one was acceptable”. Add that to physical distancing measures that have created reliance on social media and you have a generation who are developing a trained reluctance to physically connect. Who knows about the possible repercussions? Will it mean a whole new way to come of age? Worse yet, will there be no way to bridge from childhood to adulthood to help our children to find their place in the world?

Anyone who has been following my blog will recognize a consistency of “literary process”. My writings often begin with a particular reminiscence that I hope is positive and hopeful. I googled literary devices and I learned that “flashback” is a bone fide writing technique. If I ask myself why I am drawn to the use of remembrance as a opener I would answer that the past seems safe and reliable – a place of refuge. Very different from these unsettled and unpredictable times.

This time my remembrance is from 2 years ago and involves a school assignment my second oldest grandson, Finn, completed. It concerned writing about his favorite yearly holiday. He shared this with me when he wrote it and he gave he permission to use it in my blog.

My own 5 wonderful grandchildren will be in the coming of age cohort that Koenen talks about. The past year has impacted every age group but I agree with Koenen that my grandkids will understand the world in a substantively different way than those from my “boomer” generation. On an optimistic note I hope Finn and his cohorts will remember the pre-Covid maskless days and the freedom that entailed.

Back in the fall and early winter of 1974 when my oldest son Noah was a newborn he had a regular “fussy time” between 5 and 7. To soothe him I would put him in the car bed (now banned for safety reasons!) and drive around the barren perimeter highway in Winnipeg where we lived. The car we rode in was a 1969 Plymouth Valiant that had push button gears. It was mostly painted a dull green except for the driver side door that was at least one shade off the rest of the body. As we circled the city the radio was permanently dialled to the daily CBC (national government radio station) evening interview program called “As It Happens”. It was the start of my long time reliance on many CBC radio shows including “This Country in the Morning” hosted by the late Peter Zosky that fed my hunger for news and editorial opinion.

Thanks to Sirius radio I can now listen to CBC in my little white sports car while I am in driving around Palm Desert where I spend the winters. One program I heard this January called “Tapestry” presented a feature on Riva Lehere. The host, Mary Haynes said this: “As a portrait artist, Riva Lehrer says faces are her whole life . She’s also someone with spina bifida – and that means people give all kinds of unwelcome attention to her body. When that happens, her face has always been her ally. With our faces necessarily hidden under masks – she is navigating a new way of connecting with the world.” (CBC Tapestry program with Mary Haynes)

Haynes noted that Riva depends on faces to inspire her artistry and that her own face is “something of a lifeline when out among strangers. She relies on it to send signals to the world.” This talented portrait artist has been fascinated and inspired by faces. With mask wearing as one of the important ways to combat the coronavirus Lehrer’s lifeline has been severed. The result she says is: “face hunger”.

So how can Riva Lehrer deal with this seemingly negative side of Covid restrictions? Not surprisingly her answer is rooted in creativity. She is excited by the design variety of the masks many people wear. “Each mask to me is like you are playing a game of Clue and you look and you think this person has chosen this mask because it expresses some essential thing about who they are.” I am looking forward to her “masked” portraits.

Certainly postulations about what we will experience in the post pandemic world involve many more obvious and perhaps less apparent ideas than the ones I have put forward. Will we ever go back to the office? Will our big downtown buildings remain empty and lifeless ? Will online buying overshadow in person shopping? Will businesses built on digital dominate those that are not? Will remote work create new commercial hubs in the suburbs? The future will tell.

Riva Lehrer has found an inventive way to deal with a masked society that stifled her creativity. I have faith that my grandson Finn and his cohorts will find their own and original approach to their coming-of-age. I am counting on us all having smiling faces when we finally reach the post pandemic.

Taking on “The System”

Sat, 30 Jan 2021 20:48:00 GMT

I was twelve when I first remember “taking on the system”. It was a wintery evening like most other January nights in Winnipeg. Temperatures were well below what any human being should be expected to withstand. A sea of snow covered our yard and my two younger brothers were arguing over whose turn it was to shovel our driveway, punctuating their points with a few not so well placed jabs to each other’s shoulders. Rough housing is what Dad called it, saying it with a certain amount of pride. I was smug in the confidence that the shovelling debate excluded me because at the time in my family, my gender kept me out of contention for such a chore. I believe I had just finished doing the dishes (mismatched melmac plates that came “for free” inside boxes of laundry detergent). I was layering myself into bulky ski pants, thick sweaters, a pair of mismatched mittens and a white “fun fur” hat I bought on sale downtown at The Bay. I was on my way to our local branch of the library, a six block walk.

I was heading to pick up something to read to fill the restless moments when my father took to hogging the television as he watched some of his favourite programs like the Canadian variety show: The Juliette Show. We had only one TV which was pretty much par for the course at the time and it stood at the head of the living like some revered idol. So all in all, it was a seemingly routine night in a reasonably conventional family. Not the kind of night you could have predicted would initiate me into the world of social action.

Reading was a fundamental part of my childhood and teenaged life. I cut my teeth on “Ann of Green Gables” and “Gone With the Wind”. The library was the main source for my reading material. I enjoyed my trips there because the building was usually filled with kids my age, ostensibly there to look up stuff in the Junior Britannica in order to complete homework assignments. This January night was no different and I remember being in a happy mood despite the nasty weather.

I spent about a half hour perusing the young reader section of the library, a category reserved for readers 10-13 years. Not finding anything to my liking, I ventured into the teenage section and several books there piqued my attention. I settled on one called “Hawaii” by James Michner. The jacket summary promised me an opportunity to experience the life of Malama a woman who survived hardship, heartbreak and other tribulations on a beautiful Pacific island. I plucked the book from the shelf and headed toward the circulation desk.

It was there I encountered Mrs. Blackmore, the assistant librarian, a woman short in stature and long on procedures and regulations. She accepted the book from me with something approximating disinterest and moved to withdraw the card that was tucked inside the paper pocket glued to the inside page. Here is where the trouble began but not where it ended!

Unbeknownst to me, the book was classified OTR (Older Teenage Reader). One look at my outfit alone clued Mrs. Blackmore into the fact that I was a far cry from the 17-18 year old that I would have to be to “legally” withdraw the book. When she asked me my age (probably the required procedure outlined in the librarian assistant’s handbook) it crossed my mind that it could be a question crucial to my obtaining the novel. I wanted to at least qualify for the early teenage section so I raised my head and shoulders in a puffed-up kind of way and said in a not so loud voice “13 last November!” Whether she believed me or not was irrelevant because what I needed to be was at least 17. She denied me the book.

Dejected, I headed home in the dark. As I walked up the newly cleared driveway I noticed a 1959 Ford Fairlane that was not so expertly parked behind my dad’s 1958 two-tone blue model. This meant that either my Uncle John or his wife, Aunt Bea, or both were visiting. They were the parents of my eight first cousins who lived about a mile away.

I came through the side entrance, the one we called the back door to find my mother and aunt ensconced at our brown arborite kitchen table. It didn’t take me a minute to blurt out my angry reaction to the unjust library incident. I doubt that I expected much of a helpful response from the two women, after all, what interest would they have in a 12 year old’s grievance?But to my amazement they seemed more than concerned. They shared my exasperation and sense of unfairness.

I joined them at the table and helped myself to the homemade biscuits that sat in a small wicker basket. My mom wanted to phone the librarian on my behalf and explain that I was a mostly sensible grade 8 student. After all, she and my dad were scrimping and saving to send me to an all girls’ Catholic school so I would be the product of a superior education. To my mom’s way of thinking that gave me a definite edge. She would tell the library powers that be that I had her permission to read the book and that should be the end of it. The idea appealed to me. I saw it as expedient and it required no effort on my part.

Auntie Bea had another idea. Why didn’t I write to city council about the discrimination? She pointed out that the library’s policy not only discriminated against young readers but was also a form of censorship which she personally found reprehensible. I thought “reprehensible” was a nifty word and stored it away for future use. Aunt Bea felt the library policy would never change if the people in charge were not made aware of the problem. My mother suggested that I might first alert the “head guy” of the library but Aunt Bea was convinced that I should bypass the bureaucracy (another great word) and work with the politicians. She explained there was a greater likelihood my concern would be addressed if I sought the help of elected officials because they mostly liked to help their constituents. Besides, my Uncle John was an alderman and would ensure that my letter received some attention.

To say that I got caught up in the fever of the moment is to say that William F. Buckley was somewhat conservative. I composed what to me, and as it turns out to the head librarian, was a scathing letter denouncing the library policy and it’s discrimination against younger readers. My uncle reported that the letter was read aloud at the council meeting and it was tabled. Unsure of just what tabled meant I nonetheless considered my protest a success. For the next three days I basked in the glory of triumph.

On the fourth day I was still high on the sweet taste of victory. I made my way back to the library fully convinced that I could withdraw the exciting novel. I gingerly entered the teenage section and found the publication. Feeling powerful and self assured I marched to the circulation desk and presented the book and my library card. I recognized the head librarian, Mrs Cantor, and offered her an amiable smile. What I got in return was a scowl and a very stiff, very loud and very public reprimand,

I guess Mrs. Cantor missed the positive spirit in which my complaint was offered. Instead of seeing my letter as constructive criticism of the system, she took my critique extremely personally. She was more than prepared to defend not only her position but also make it unlikely I would ever want to step foot into “her” library any time soon. Obviously my letter had more repercussions than I could have anticipated. The head librarian’s thunderous reproach left me shaking in my mukluks and reassessing the virtues of single handed political protest.

All these years later I believe my adolescent foray into challenging injustice set the stage for my future concern for inequity. It is not lost on me that of the options my mother and aunt offered me, I chose what some would call the rebellious route. Recognition that power differentials exist and that they support injustice has remained with me to this day. Those who know me best will acknowledge a feisty side to me and a penchant for arguing for the disenfranchised. And I am comfortable with that.

A few days ago I was walking with a friend on an unusually cold desert morning. We rarely run out of good conversation and that day was no different. We talked about having strong positions on issues and differing world views. At some point my walking partner shared a saying that her husband often uses. It has resonance for me and puts some levity to my inclination to having unbending points of view.

“I am often wrong but never in doubt!”

Transistor Radio

Fri, 18 Dec 2020 01:12:00 GMT

I woke up early on November 16 and swiftly made my way to our shared family bathroom. A quick bath before the others awoke and started banging on the bathroom door, I back combed my hair and slipped on my school uniform. Our house was small so it did not take long to reach the kitchen where I would eat my bowl of cereal and a piece of buttered toast.

And there it was. My prayers had been answered. The most perfect transistor radio ever sat on the oval kitchen table.

Not from my parents. Not from my grandmother!

It was Uncle Jim who elevated me from rocket radio owner to transistor radio heir!!

Cheers to my Uncle Jim. The best uncle in the whole wide world.

A brown arborite table trimmed in “silver” sat at the end of my bedroom on Autumnwood Drive right beside the chipped veneer dresser. That table came as an added “bonus” when my mother bought a new dinette suite from a local discount furniture store. The eldest child of five, my siblings will tell you I managed to achieve favored status in the family. This included having my own room while the rest of the kids had to share and it also involved inheriting the miniature kitchen table for my exclusive use.

M1155 : A WWII Canadian Soldier’s Story

Sun, 08 Nov 2020 20:55:00 GMT

Life for my father, Alexander Joseph Gillis, was not a walk in the park but it was a wonderful gift. His frequently reiterated family stories, which he told to his 5 children on Sunday afternoons amid melodic riffs from a long playing record, helped create my understanding of dad’s world. The way he proudly told it, his family was a hard working group who were “directly” descended from Scotland’s Bonnie Prince Charlie. I never saw him wear a kilt but I do remember him (maybe too often) raising a glass and saying Slainte – Scottish for “cheers”!

My father or AJ as his closest friends called him, was a child born in World War I and a man developed during World War II. Born in February of 1918 in Nova Scotia, Canada he had three sisters and two brothers who shared a home on the family farm on the banks of the fish rich Margaree River in Cape Breton. The Gillis name is a common one in the area and particularly in SW Margaree. Many of the male Gillises shared first names. This made for a challenge when hearing local gossip. Just what Gillis was being talked about? The answer was a three part name. The first was your grandfather’s name followed by your father’s first name and ended with your own given name. Take my brother Hugh for example. His grandfather was Hugh, his dad was Sandy (Alexander) and his own first name was Hugh. When we visited my father’s birthplace my brother was introduced as Hughie Sandy Hughie leaving no doubt as to his lineage!

My dad attended high school and according to his military records he left school at 15 after completing grade 10. At the time the job opportunities for young men in Cape Breton were mainly restricted to coal mining, farming and laboring. My father was rather vague about his early work history but he alluded to working on the family farm, and driving trucks. Unquestionably in 1939 when dad was was 21 years old there was uncertainty in the world and instability in the Nova Scotia job market. In that year as war was declared AJ decided to ride the rails to look for work. He ended up in Canmore Alberta.

I am uncertain how long Dad spent in the Canmore region but he did find work with Imperial Oil for $30 a week! On December 13, 1939 he enlisted in the Canadian army and sailed to Europe on the SS Duchess of York in September 1940. My dad must have shared some of this story with me when I was a young girl because somehow I committed his regimental number to memory. M- eleven – fifty five is how he pronounced it. I had the occasion about five years ago to speak with a distinguished and high ranking veteran of that last world war and told him my father’s number. Without hesitation he said “That number tells me exactly where he signed up. Canmore” he declared.

AJ’s first deployment was to North Africa. That campaign lasted from June 10, 1940 to May 13, 1943. The offensive was a “struggle for control of the Suez Canal and access to oil from the Middle East and raw materials from Asia.” It seems dad was there for much of the operation and while engaging in combat he managed to contract malaria, a disease that was to recur intermittently during the remainder of his life.

Before the North African operation ended Dad was transferred to the Italian campaign. There he fought in one of the war’s toughest battles – The Battle of Ortona. Canadian troops were deployed to the little Italian town and engaged in hand to hand combat with German soldiers. The Canadian War Museum in Ottawa has an excellent and explicit exhibit that brings to life the reality of the rubble covered streets and hidden land mines that the brave Canadians encountered as they dodged machine gun fire and maneuvered between booby trapped houses. The sounds and smells the exhibit mimicked are a poignant lesson in the realties of military action.

On VE Day my dad was in a military hospital in England recovering from an injury he had sustained. He told the story of hearing the news of the victory in his hospital bed. The fellow soldier next to him had serious leg wounds and could not walk. AJ’s trauma resulted in an arm encased at right angles leaving only one workable limb. With his single good arm he managed to hoist his “roommate” into a wheel chair and pushed him out to the local raucous celebrations.

One final anecdote that my father told me and my brothers and sisters went like this. “Kids, I was promoted 13 times and demoted 14!” It made us laugh. I guess that was his way of protecting us from facing the harsh realities of war.

Father never boasted about his medals and awards. What our family did discover through Canadian military records after his death was that dad was “mentioned in dispatches”. This is a highly regarded recognition from the King for “gallantry and distinguished service.” Well done dad!

These were about the only stories my siblings and I ever managed to rip from AJ’s memory. When we asked more explicit questions like “Did you have to kill anyone, daddy?” we were met with elusive answers. My sense is that the deeply hurtful aftermath of combat and his fatherly protective sense kept him from voicing his personal emotional damage.

Now my dad was no saint. In fact, far from it. He had his demons that I suspect arose in part from those 7 years in military service. And to assuage those demons he would often self medicate with alcohol. So in that way, life was no walk in the park.

On the other hand, my father raised us with an incredible reverence for music, poetry and sense of duty and community. He considered himself lucky to have survived the war and to have seen his children grow and live safely and productively. So in that way his life was a wonderful gift.

On this November 11, 2020, amid all the unbelievable challenges we have recently shared across the world – let us remember the brave men and women who served in our terrible wars. Let us salute the courageous people who have given up years of their lives for country and for humankind.

And to:

My dad

M Eleven 55

Slainte!!

See Everything As You Go

Mon, 07 Sep 2020 22:56:00 GMT

Inspiration is always magical – waving it’s wand to conjure up creativity and imagination. People can be inspired by any number of things: nature, other people, self sacrificing acts – to name a few.

Perhaps more than ever, the Covid 19 pandemic challenges our innovation. The current social restrictions have the propensity to engender negativity and even lethargy. What can we do to combat the seduction to apathy?

For me, books often give me inspiration, pique my imagination, promote learning and lift my spirits. “Winter Counts” by David Heska Wanbli is an excellent example of one such novel. Cleverly written, Heska Wanbli tells a captivating story that combines character driven crime fiction with lessons about Native American culture, the Lakota in South Dakota. Hear the rhyme?

Like other talented writers, Heska Wanbli weaves fiction with fact and provides an insider’s cultural perspective on US Indian residential life. At once funny and sad this gritty novel portrays life on and off the “Rez”. The major character, Virgil, is a vigilante who takes on a search for a member of his tribe who is trafficking heroin. Accompanied by his ex- girlfriend Marie, Virgil drives his old Pinto the long distance from the reserve to Denver Colorado in hopes of finding the trafficker.

Virgil narrates the novel and through his voice we learn about the people who most influenced him. I was struck by a phrase he attributed to his mother. “See everything as you go.” Virgil interpreted his mother’s words. “I think she meant I needed to be aware of the world as it really existed, not the way I wanted it to be.” Those words resonated for me and I thought about how they might apply to living in this pandemic. Our current world is not what we want it to be. Our challenge is how do we live in the world as it now exists? Perhaps the answer lies in imagination.

On the journey to Denver, Virgil and Marie stop at an art installation called Carhenge. Think Stonehenge only with cars. This real life unique installation is a “replica of Stonehenge made out of 38 junked automobiles.” Created by Jim Reinders, the quirky piece was a memorial to his dad. It has engendered considerable controversy about what can be considered art. Whether you appreciate or reject this composition the fact that it has stimulated discussion is a positive.

Reading “Winter Counts” helped remove me from Covid anxiety. It encouraged me to “take a look as I go” and create the time to see the world as it is in its entirety – not just through Covid eyes. We are not well equipped to handle what we cannot see.

Just as Carhenge has sparked vibrant discussion, seeing the world as we go can inspire us and create meaningful conversation. Imagination and creativity can open our minds to what may seem impossible. As counterintuitive as it might seem, seeing the world as we go can fuel unique ideas that can positively change our world experience.

Einstein famously stated: “Imagination is more important than knowledge. For knowledge is limited to all we know and understand, while imagination embraces the entire world, and all there ever will be to know and understand.”

Cheers to imagination and innovation. They are fundamental to fruitful lives and are the foundation of passion. Let’s passionately challenge ourselves to defeat Covid with artistic, business and scientific inventiveness.

School Days, School Days: Brand New Covid Rule Days

Fri, 28 Aug 2020 17:40:00 GMT

I confess I am (in some ways) a Facebook “lurker” or what some might call a FB voyeur. According to one online source the “official” Facebook lurker is “one who spends time on Facebook, but avoids making his/her presence known with comments, likes, or status updates.” This same internet search site claimed that “a true lurker blatantly mocks the regular Facebook users for posting information on the ubiquitous site, but acts as if he/she is never, well… lurking there.” I certainly do not disparage any of the people I follow on Facebook so I tried to come up with a term that better describes me. How about – I am a serial spectator?

Some of the FB posts I most enjoy are those that say “share if you know what this is”. They include images of everything from a rotary phone to pinball machines to LPs. Inevitably, I can recall the displayed images with pleasing nostalgia.

One post I came across recently reminded me of getting ready for a new school year. It was an image of school book covers made from brown paper. For sure, making those covers was a back to school ritual for me. I recall carefully cutting the stiff paper and scotch taping the corners to form a tight protective cover. My book covers were especially cost effective – made from brown paper grocery bags with the Safeway logo carefully turned inward so it was not visible.

Canada’s September long weekend is officially called Labour Day weekend but is colloquially referred to as the “September long”. Traditionally that weekend marks the end of summer and the return to a new school year. Early September weather in Winnipeg, where I attended school, is temperate and the countless elm trees lining the streets begin to showcase their vibrant fall colours. It is a lovely time to start school.

Winnipeg is the picturesque capital city of Manitoba and until recently it has been a well kept Canadian secret. A headline in a July 2020 article in the Edmonton Journal read: “Hang Your Hat on the Peg – Manitoba’s Capital Generates Buzz Well Beyond Portage and Main”. The report outlines the plethora of Winnipeg’s tourist sites including it’s world class zoo, the Canadian Human Rights Museum, the exchange district and the historic Forks area which marks the confluence of the Red and Assiniboine rivers.

I travelled the long distance from home to my all girls school on a city bus. The journey took over an hour each way with one transfer. Deadly cold in the freezing winter months, the trip was warm and pleasant in early September. The view from the windows of the two buses I rode was always awash with a tinge of emerging yellow and rich orange tones. It is a colourful and sentimental memory.

A uniform was required attire at my school and believe me the nuns who taught us were vigilant about checking whether we complied with the regulations. But on the first day of school we were granted a “pardon” from the standard dress. So like my friends who attended public school, I eagerly shopped for a first day of class outfit. It is just another fond memory of a back to school tradition.

Like most kids who return to school after summer holidays a highlight for me was reconnecting with classmates I had not seen since June. Excited screams, huge hugs and broad smiles were de rigueur as we entered our new classroom. The class sizes were big, usually over 30 students. The desks were in straight lines that were barely three feet apart making it easy to pass notes. We raced each other to get seats close to our friends. Close contact was welcomed and taken for granted.

Some things never change. After this “September Long” the kids in Alberta will restart school. The russet autumn leaves will be peeking through as usual and those who will attend in class and perhaps those online will be planning their first day of school outfits.

But somethings do change. And theses days, the Covid pandemic is the change agent. Back to school routine as my grandchildren and I last knew it will be vastly different next week.

Procedures for return to school in Canada differ from province to province and even from city to city within each province. Here in Alberta parents have a choice between online and in classroom learning. For those choosing the in class route, the emphasis is on hand washing and working hard at social distancing. Kids in grade 4 and up are required to wear masks in most Alberta cities. But according to the Calgary Herald the City of Calgary has mandated a tougher mask rule. “Calgary’s public and Catholic school districts are requiring K-12 students to wear masks to school this September, expanding upon provincial guidance that mandates only Grades 4-12.” The new rules are hardly customary procedure and are anything but routine!

As a former elementary school teacher I am well aware of the social niceties of young children. Sharing ideas and special toys are an integral part of kids’ everyday interactions. The social distancing and mask wearing is a challenge for adults. Double that for our youngest people. Kids have learned that sharing is caring!

Having said that, I have faith in children’s adaptability especially when being well taught and given the opportunity for practice and repetition. Whenever my grandchildren enter a house they automatically remove their shoes. This is a learned, encouraged and rewarded behaviour. The same can said for teaching children new school routines.

The published summary of Alberta’s school reentry information addresses shared items and says school staff should “create a ‘no sharing policy’ – all students should have their own supplies.” The inability to share deeply saddens me. However, some solace might be that there will be fewer disputes over what “is mine”. For that, teachers may rejoice!

Obviously online classes represent a significant departure from conventional education. Last week I was listening to a radio broadcast that was canvassing children about how Covid had impacted their time off from school and the nature of their planned return. One eleven year old girl called in and said she and her siblings cultivated a garden and had learned a great deal about plants and vegetables. She also said that although she would prefer to attend in person classes, she lived with an elderly grandmother and felt it safer to school at home. She lamented about how remote learning will keep her from in person contact with her classmates. But I was struck by her attitude. It was not resentful but rather loving: one positive outcome from Covid’s new reality.

This province has created many other reentry practices including encouraging teachers to get tested, protocols for quarantining if someone in the school tests positive, school bus etiquette, mental health outreach and and daily self screening questionnaires to name a few. New golden rules!

Regularly attending school is important, be it in the classroom or in the kitchen. Many experts favour in-person schooling but unquestionably there are circumstances that insist on in-home schooling. Administrators, teachers, students and parents face serious challenges in dealing with Covid schooling. Like so much in life, the possible outcomes of this new school year are blurry and not guaranteed. The 2020 school year seems far more uncertain than past terms.

This pandemic has created havoc with much of what previously, we have taken for granted. The first day of school is no exception. The mask wearing in-school kids will miss the smiles on the faces of their fellow students. Both the virtual learners and those in class regrettably will be denied hugs and high fives.

Beginning a new school year is about connections. Connecting with new and old friends, connecting with teachers and connecting with new knowledge. Whether physically in school or virtually accessing teachers, the usual connections associated with the first day back come with Covid regulations that will challenge our relied upon assumptions. The rules they are a’changing!

For readers who have or know of children returning to school whether physically or virtually, I invite you to email any stories you could share once the kids have settled in. I would love to hear and perhaps, with your permission, write their stories.

sassygrieve@me.com

Compliance Fatigue??

Sat, 01 Aug 2020 17:43:00 GMT

“We have had enough! We need this to be over.” Sound at all familiar? Like many others I am confessing to compliance fatigue. I call it the point at which many of the precautionary measures to prevent COVID-19 spread are starting to feel too much to sustain. It is the psychological place we reach where mental health supersedes the need to combat physical illness. CTV news reported the following “If you have found you’re no longer disinfecting your hands as often or becoming more lenient toward unnecessary trips outside, you’re not alone. The unintentional phenomenon is ‘caution fatigue’ . Dangerous? Yes! Surprising? No!

I began writing this blog four months ago just after the Corona pandemic insisted Canadians return home and self isolate and most of the rest of the world began to shut down. Complying with the two week isolation mandated by our Canadian government, my husband and I busied ourselves with ordering groceries online, resurrecting decades old recipes, playing cribbage during happy hour, researching how to make home made face masks and thoroughly sanitizing every grocery item and delivery box that entered our home. We stayed away from family and friends while looking forward to renewed socialization after our two week isolation would end. Turns out that the assumption of a light at the end of the quarantine tunnel was wishful thinking. The pandemic continued to wreck havoc with our daily routines.

The Covid crisis has painfully demonstrated the challenges of handling a global dilemma with implications that kept emerging week after week. At first we were told not to wear masks as they were not helpful in resisting the disease. As more research came to light there was a 180 on masks. In the first weeks of the Covid lockdown we were given to understand that seniors were the most vulnerable to Covid. Younger people were almost immune. That is now contradicted by the number of cases sustained by the under 40 crowd. There was a claim that the virus did not spread as easily in heat so there was a belief that the hot summer would stem the spread. Yet in Arizona where the temperature reached into the +110F , the virus numbers increased. Hard to know how to comply when the compliance directives keep changing.

Now into this fourth month of dealing with the global pandemic many countries, including Canada, have opened up business activity. Canadians are ok’d to socialize within our cohort bubble and most provinces are moving to reopening schools. These are major initiatives that seem to promise a move to what looks and acts like normalcy.

Other social norms have been abandoned with some innovative replacements. Shaking hands has evolved into elbow bumps, bowing and “nameste” gestures. So far none of these seem to have taken hold as generally accepted etiquette. Lockdown weary people may still be hopeful that traditional handshake greetings and air kisses will make a comeback.

Ask almost any parent about the most difficult social change brought on by the pandemic and you would likely hear “homeschooling.” And if you don’t think there was compliance fatigue with being both teacher and parent then you would be sadly mistaken. The promise of school safely reopening will certainly help alleviate exhaustion a with pandemic compliancy. Hands up if you agree!

The pandemic has replaced in person communication and large social gatherings with online meetings. Houseparty, Zoom and FaceTime are now commonplace modes of interaction. So in some way we have been “saved by the screen.” Nonetheless, I am beginning to grow weary with the digital world.

The longer the pandemic situation lasts the more likely we are to feel frustrated with the restrictions the crisis has created. Several articles have suggested ways to combat our tedium. Everything from meditation, reading and exercise seem to be the most touted. All worth a try!

Creativity never stops even during pandemics. Perhaps one remedy for compliance fatigue could lie in innovation. An American high school principal, Doctor Quentin Lee, is a terrific example of Covid inventiveness. In preparation for the imminent return to school this educator created a video that spoofed MC Hammer’s hot “Don’t Touch This”.

Click on the YouTube site below to view Lee’s broadcast.!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oeAN8Xxz0q4

Thoughts from North of the U.S./ “us” Border

Tue, 28 Jul 2020 17:35:00 GMT

The covid pandemic has presented a myriad of daunting challenges. Of course, the paramount issue is health and all it’s accompanying concerns. This 2020 epidemic has far-reaching and serious repercussions: economic, political and social to name a few. One offshoot of the Covid crisis that is top of mind for me is the closing of the border between the U.S.A and Canada.

My first introduction to the U.S. came by way of a celebrated American tv children’s program called Howdy Doodey. Hosted by Buffalo Bob Smith, the acclaimed show featured a puppet named… you guessed it …Howdy Doody! Bob introduced every program with a question to his live and tv audience with “What time is it?’” I can remember adding my voice to the collective response “It’s Howdy Doody time!” Watching from my black and white tv in Canada I knew the broadcast was initiated in the U.S. But at the time, our border was so friendly that I am not sure I recognized any differences between the two countries. Watching the program began a long standing positive connection between myself and my American neighbours.

Winnipeg Manitoba where I grew up, is 60 miles from the U.S. border and 210 miles (about a three and a half hour drive) from Fargo North Dakota. During my first year of university the Canadian dollar was worth $1.35 US. As a cash strapped student I was always looking for bargains so the fact of a 35% discount on any purchases was alluring. Ever economically frugal, I enlisted a girlfriend to share the gas expenses and drive to the booming city of Fargo. So trusting was our countries’ relationship the only identification needed to enter the U.S. was a Canadian driver’s license. This expedition created a regular routine of U.S. travel that has recently included a yearly visit to NYC with good friends to not only go on a spending spree but to visit museums and see fantastic Broadway shows. Such a lovely tradition.

I love Canada and am extremely proud to be a Canadian. But I confess to a strong dislike for the Canadian sub-zero winters. Like many of our compatriots my husband and I have become “snowbirds ” spending much of the winter in Palm Desert. Who would not enjoy the temperate weather in the region and the opportunity to never buy or wear snow boots again? I have always felt comfortable in the desert and have met so many Americans that I call good friends. We seem to share similar approaches to life and enjoy trading “true life adventure” stories. It has seemed to me that we are kissing cousins.

The U.S. Canadian border is the world’s longest undefended boundary. It is protected by agreement not by force. That says a great deal about the respect and comradarie between the two nations. I guess you could say the current closure is the new “ protection”. The real fear generated by the Corona virus has challenged the border agreement. But if history is any indication of the future then I am confident the open border will be restored. I can hardly wait!

So if today Bob Smith would query: What time is it? I would reply: It is time to work together to reopen the U.S. – Canadian border safely!

Stories

Sun, 12 Jul 2020 17:53:00 GMT

We live storied lives and our stories are a powerful way to help us understand our world, inspire us and create solid connections with each other. Whether it is a parable from Aesop’s fables or a lyric laden country western song, storytelling is universal. Stories transport us from the mundane to the extraordinary and often allow us to walk in someone else’s shoes. Stories assist us in making sense of what can seem an illogical world. Certainly, telling our stories during this current pandemic could provide a vital connection to each other and perhaps strike a collective nerve. And if we are lucky enough they could help us escape to another reality.

Who does not have “that” friend who can be relied on to tell a great anecdote remembered from the past or maybe embellished from the present. With the current concern about “fake news” I can understand some reluctance to rely on the veracity of a personal narrative. But the reality is that stories whether factually accurate events or aggrandized versions of authenticity, are an opportunity to recognize reflections of ourselves and learn about each other.

It seems I have become a blog writer and the truth is – it was the result of happenstance. First of all, when covid hit I really would have been hard pressed to define the word blog let alone have a clue about how to create one. In fact, my grandson Ryder was working on a school project that required him to write a blog. I made the deduction that it was an assignment to write a paragraph or two about some particular topic. Over the years I have taught grade six, grade three and adults preparing to write their GED. I understood the importance of creative writing and was pleased that respect for writing and telling stories was enjoying a renewed respect. My blogs are basically personal stories often rooted in the past with links to today.

My recollection of starting this blog was a chance text with one of my American friends just about the time we became aware of the Covid threat. My husband and I were in Palm Desert on Sunday March 15. We were looking forward to a yearly birthday celebration on St Patrick’s Day with our friend – intentionality and appropriately named Patrick. We were happily anticipating his annual birthday celebration when Covid issues were emerging. Canadians are for the most part compliant with government directives. Our Canadian national “motto” is “Peace, order and good government.” So when our Prime Minister summoned us home due to Covid concerns- the good government piece kicked in so… home we went.

The day after we arrived back in our home town I was connecting with one of south of the border friends. We were musing about the Covid threat and jokingly shared how we might write a blog about the whole situation. My friend texted this as her possible initial blog:

“I can start the blog by saying, when I watch TV and see how people actually leave the house, hug their friends and family- just do normal things…I can’t believe that we are living like this. It is very lonely.”

There are countless media stories that highlight how the Covid pandemic has created a new reality. From uplifting stories about neighbours helping neighbours to young children setting up lemonade stands to raise money to provide face masks to health providers, the narratives capture differing responses.

In keeping with the story theme I want to offer a sequel to the story I told about my friend Deb and her husband that I previously recounted. Here is the recap.

Deb’s husband Craig was scheduled to return to Edmonton from Switzerland where he is currently working. He planned to stay for three weeks, the first two of which required self isolation. At the last minute Craig heard that the Swiss government could require him to isolate upon his return to Lausanne. So the staff at Craig’s office who are accustomed to organizing international travel booked Deb’s flight scheduled for last Sunday departing in the early morning.

The evening before her departure, Deb attempted to print her boarding pass but was denied. Thinking that this was a minor inconvenience resulting from Covid restrictions she was not overly concerned. Soon she would learn differently!

On her departure day Deb arose at 3:15 am and determined not to miss her daily running regime, completed a 45 minute run on the treadmill. In Alberta, early mornings in July burst through the darkness around 5 -5:30 am. Deb drove the 35 minute airport run with the sun shining – such a promising day.

The Edmonton airport was deadly quiet that day and Deb was happy to see there was no line up at the check in desk . Despite her required face protection, my friend approached the Air Canada agent with an undetectable smile. She handed the agent her passport and began to load the heavy suitcases she had packed. The representative keyed in Deb’s travel information. Although the agent was masked, Deb could see her furrowed brow. A warning sign had appeared on the Air Canada computer: Entry Denied!

The story of why this happened is not entirely clear. Certainly Air Canada was not aware of why a Canadian was denied entry to Switzerland. Should she have needed a visa, was this a new Covid issue that sprung up overnight? The Swiss travel site indicated that Canadians were free to enter Swiss territory.

The Air Canada agent valiantly retried entering Deb’s travel details. Encountering no success she called her supervisor but to no avail. Deb retrieved her bags and drove back home.

On her drive back to Edmonton Deb gave me a call. She knew Craig would feel let down. But always one to be ready with a laugh, Deb quipped “ My kids will be most disappointed!’

Originally I had intended this blog to be a tale about travel during Covid. For some reason the theme song from a Western tv show aired between 1957 and 1963 came to mind. The lyrics of the chorus were “Paladin Paladin – Where do you roam? – Paladin Paladin – far far from home.” This old song may not be a profound story but what could be it’s takeaway? Here is my thought:

During this unusual year we may all feel “far far from home.” But I am confident our stories will keep us connected, humanize us and help us find commonality.

“So powerful is our impulse to detect story patterns that we see them even when they are not there.”

So click in the music video below. Sometimes our stories just have to be hokey !!!

Hockey Night in Covid! Eh! And Thanks!

Mon, 06 Jul 2020 17:02:00 GMT

Every year, rain or shine, on July 1, Canada commemorates the anniversary of Canadian Confederation when three separate colonies of the Province of Canada united to become the Dominion of Canada. Canada Day, often called Canada’s birthday, is traditionally celebrated with parades, fireworks, barbecues and fairs. Sadly, this year, the Covid pandemic restrictions halted all such large public gatherings. My husband and I celebrated alone at our summer lake home, eating barbecued hamburgers and McCains french fries. Since we were not enjoying our usually active Canada Day, I decided to reflect on some distinctive Canadian characteristics.

For many Canadians, there are a multitude of uniquely Canadian symbols, sayings, and pastimes of which many of us are staunchly proud. Some underscore our culture, others celebrate our inventions, a few emphasize our accents, others are just plain silly and one is a revered and an almost sacred institution. Let me share a few examples that stand out for me.

Our monetary system is something that distinguishes us from many other countries. In 1987, we gave up our dollar bill (ostensibly to save money) and traded it for a gold coloured coin emblazoned with a solitary loon. Never ones to be subtle with our terminology, the national coin quickly became commonly called “the loonie”. I guess the cost savings were substantial enough that almost 10 years later (god forbid we make a hasty decision!) the toonie was born. The first cousin to the loonie, the toonie features a polar bear and replaced the few two dollar bills still in existence at the time. It seems it was too difficult to come up with a catchy name that captured the polar bear emblem. So toonie it was. After all, it is a two dollar coin and perhaps more importantly it rhymes with loonie!

On the lighter side of things, there are some distinctly “Canuck” idioms that most of the world would need to have interpreted. Here are a few of our more quirky ones:

Canuck – a Canadian citizen
Two-four (or two-fer) – a case of 24 beer
Kerfuffle- a big commotion caused by an argument
Double Double – a coffee available only at Tim Hortons (a Canadian Starbucks) so important that it is made available to our troops in Afghanistan

As far as I am concerned there is no distinguishable Canadian accent but my American friends beg to differ. Apparently I, and countless other Canadians, pronounce the word “about” with something that sounds akin to “aboot”. Ok, I will reluctantly concede this. However, there is one word that is undeniably etched in my vocabulary. I have no idea how this interjection became part of our national expression but I have to agree with the google search that says it is “used to indicate that you don’t understand something, can’t believe something is true or if you want the person to respond.” I am sure you understand-EH!

Another stereotype attributed to Canadians is our predisposition to politeness. Thank you and again let me say thank you to all who have observed this national characteristic whether correct or inaccurate. I know first hand that Canadians are capable of rudeness but would likely ask to be forgiven for it. Sorry, sorry!

Although we may beg forgiveness even when likely not required, we do not apologize for our Canadian inventions – some that might surprise you. Many are sports related like basketball, lacrosse, 5 Pin bowling and the hockey goalie mask. Ask any Canadian about the origin of ice hockey , you will be told with confidence that Canada is its birthplace. It most certainly has become our national sport.

Growing up in Canada, almost any Canadian, male or female from my era is assured of understanding this phrase and it’s accompanying musical introduction: Hockey Night in Canada! This regular Saturday night Canadian sports broadcast was either greeted with delight (mostly by males) or disdain (mostly by females). The teenage guys I knew were interested enough in the opposite sex to ask for a Saturday evening date. But it could never begin until after Foster Hewitt, the commentator, bid goodnight to the fans. In Winnipeg, where I lived, that was most often a late start. There is only so much time a girl can spend under that plastic hair dryer bonnet!!

My family and I have several connections with the hockey world which includes a hockey franchise owner and cousins and friends who have played in the NHL. A recent story can help illustrate how challenging playing hockey can be during the Covid crisis. A former NHL er (who shall go un-named but was the last person to play without a helmet!) has been working in a Scandinavian country as a general manager and coach. Away from his family for at least the last four months, our friend was scheduled to come home for 3 weeks, knowing he had to commit to 2 weeks self-isolation. Two days ago he was on the phone to his wife as he stood at a Swiss train station, ready to get to the airport. Another call interrupted their conversation. Here is what my girlfriend texted about the call he received:

“This is our life… I have a blog for you Kathy. Craig got a call from the team president as he is waiting for his train to Geneva. He tells Craig that he’s heard that now anyone arriving from out of the country will have to quarantine for 10 days- meaning it would be too tight for Craig to come home… as he is telling me this, we hear his train leave the station …Without Craig!!”
My friend is now heading to Switzerland next week to see her husband who says it is considered “essential travel!”
Gotta love Covid – EH?

Now I grant you that Hockey Night in Canada has long since (pre-Covid) morphed from the traditional single-game broadcast on Saturdays to multiple games being aired throughout each week. Add the fact that the original six team league currently boasts 31 teams, and only seven are in Canada, one could say that Hockey Night in Canada may have lost relevance. However, I believe the significance of the popular weekly broadcasts has not been abandoned, evidenced by the NHL’ s current and valiant attempt to complete playoff games that lead to the Stanley Cup. The logistics involved boggle the mind. Testing, quarantining, organizing accommodation are just a few. But one thing I can say with confidence: the long-standing Canadian love affair with hockey will continue through this pandemic. “He shoots he scores” will be heard for years to come.

Here’s to Hockey Night(s) in Covid! And thanks for reading. Sorry if I may have offended!!

This Has Gone On Far Too Long

Sat, 06 Jun 2020 20:16:00 GMT

The last Sunday morning in May 2020 started with what for me, has become a weekend household tradition. As per usual, after rousing my husband Ross at about 7am, my thoughtful partner ambled downstairs to make us two steaming cups of cappuccino. We then tuned into the Sunday morning tv news shows in an ongoing effort to keep us up to date on current affairs. Often these programs initiate family “social discourse” with which either of us may feel strongly aligned or misaligned with the points of view voiced by various “experts”. As you may have guessed, it is not unusual that occasionally we have differences of opinion. Gotta love marriage!

During this corona virus lockdown, our weekend tradition has taken on even more significance. Many would agree that the current times are something we could never have anticipated in our lifetime. This Sunday’s broadcasts did not fail to underscore that reality. We watched horrific images of the murder of George Floyd and peaceful protests turned violent by hired thugs. We both expressed our concern for our extremely unsettled world. A moment of common ground .

A special guest interviewed on one of this Sunday’s shows used the phrase “continuity of purpose”. Truthfully, I cannot recall the program that I was watching, nor the context in which the phrase was used. But the words piqued my interest. Now anyone who knows me will attest to the fact that I rely on Google to confirm any claims and/or to research word meanings or to uncover anything else that requires verification. So I used Google to see if I could discover the meaning of continuity of purpose. This day, my online search left me more than dissatisfied. The definition of continuity was clear. Ditto the meaning for purpose. But the phrase continuity of purpose left me puzzled.

So I decided to interpret the phrase for myself within the context of our overpoweringly distressing times. For me it meant a coalescence of a commitment to action that reaches across entrenched ideological, religious and political lines. The issue of racism is complex and conversations about it can be a difficult. Perhaps one place to start talking is to acknowledge common ground. I looked to two differing religious sayings that might illustrate a call to a mutual understanding of humanity. The Christian Golden Rule “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” and the Buddhist “When you have a choice between being right or being kind- choose being kind” are the two phrases that to me illustrate a common will to act with tolerance.

My reaction to the disturbing video of the killing of George Floyd first turned to the personal. I have two beautiful bi-racial grand nieces who are growing up in the southern US. They and their white single parent mother have experienced first hand the oppressiveness of racial disparity. I asked my niece to tell me about her reality. Here is some of what she said:

“ I have a unique perspective being a white woman in America with mixed race children. I am a privileged white woman and the mother of black children. I have two very different identities. ….. When I am alone I get all the benefits of being white in America. Of course not every person is racist but when I am with my children, the racists are eager to display their hate. The dirty looks and slick remarks are easy to spot after years of mothering black children. I can’t protect my babies from all the hate and hurt that racism will bring to their lives. I can only educate them to protect themselves as best they can. This includes warning them of the prominence of racism in the police department. I have told them not to gather in large crowds with other black kids.” Heartbreaking and unacceptable.

What good could possibly come from all our painful world circumstances? How could these crises create some collective commitment to action? There is no denying that many of us have ideologies that are often at odds with each other. That is true within the family and the within the broader world. However, I am convinced that the racial discrimination before us can in fact bring us together and set us in a path to much needed change. Now is the time for a broad inclusive community coalition and a commitment to tolerance and a willingness and courage to honestly look at our own entrenched ideologies. Now is the moment for unity and targeted positive action.

I have chosen to write this blog and truthfully it has been emotionally challenging. I have read and reread these paragraphs numerous times. I struggled to find the right words to express my feelings and to begin in some concrete way to to take a stand against discrimination. I decided to begin with refusing to be silent. This has gone on far too long.

Silver Linings

Thu, 21 May 2020 16:10:00 GMT

Last Sunday was a perfect Alberta day in May. The trees were finally budding and the grass was confidently approaching a rich green color. Not a cloud in the sky, it seemed the day was promising a cheery atmosphere that defied the challenging pandemic restrictions.

I was cruising around Edmonton in what I consider my hot little sports car, listening to a interesting radio interview. The on air program featured a Canadian philosopher, Charles Taylor. The journalist reported that Taylor was in his late 80s, a professor emeritus at McGill University and was widely known for his writing about the common good and an adherence to being “hopelessly optimistic.”

“Hopelessly optimistic” in the midst of an unprecedented pandemic? “How does that play out?”, I asked myself. Likely Taylor had a more heady way of describing a philosophy of optimism but I looked at the phrase literally . I began searching for examples that might exemplify positive takeaways during this current challenging time. Where are the silver linings?

Here is what I came up with.

Dogs, dogs, dogs! Many people I know, including my oldest son’s family, have recently welcomed “Covid dogs” into their homes. No, these are not dogs that have contracted Coronavirus, but rather they are puppies who found new homes during the epidemic. I personally know of seven families who have new canine babies in their lives. All shapes, sizes and breeds, my own grand dog is a beautiful crimson colored King Charles Cavalier Spaniel with a perfect white snout and almond shaped eyes. Ruby is 10 weeks old and has become a positive addition to our extended household. My three Edmonton grandchildren are enthralled with their little “sister” and (so far) are happy to care for her. Learning to take responsibility for another is a wonderful skill that will hopefully serve them well in the years to come.

Prior to the onset of the pandemic, my internet activity was limited to google searches, FaceTime calls with my Calgary grandchildren and occasionally lurking on Facebook and Instagram. The mandated weeks of isolation underscored the need to engage with people in new ways. Zoom, Houseparty and Marco Polo became the go to apps. In the earliest weeks of quarantine I was introduced to canasta online. Playing almost daily, with girlfriends from both sides of the border, the game provided me with the opportunity to meet new friends with names like Boca Babe and Cookie and stay connected to old.

Another group of longtime Edmonton friends touch base daily at a scheduled cocktail party. Sharing an hour or so each day has become something to look forward to. Not unlike meeting in person, we often vie for the “microphone”, excitedly talking over each other while trying to make a point. Enjoying a shared time and often a good laugh the Houseparty event is a highlight of my day.

During the pandemic, I have been on FaceTime listening to my two oldest grandchildren doing their home reading. How wonderful to spend time with these two special boys – one on one. My oldest grandchild, 10 year old Ryder, also shared one of his writing projects with me. The assignment involved choosing a picture and describing the situation and surroundings.
A proud grandmother -I am sharing his story and the picture he described.

My youngest sister Margaret Anne is the president of an organization devoted to promoting longevity (The Canadian International Longevity Center) – highlighting and dispelling the many negative myths surrounding aging. A strong advocate for seniors’ rights, Margaret has been interviewed on radio and tv numerous times in the last few months. She and others have particularly alerted us to the wretched conditions in many long term care facilities. Certainly, many of the deaths related to the virus have been in these assisted living homes. While this reality is extremely disturbing, the recent elevated focus on this issue is essential and will hopefully amount to improved policies and practises. Silver lining ??

On the theme of looking for positivity when it comes to the pandemic and seniors, I share two stories you may have seen on recent news broadcasts. One hundred year old British man, Tom Moore, headed a fundraising campaign to support his health care system. Moore tramped circles around his backyard and reportedly raised more than $55million CAD for the cause. His videoed walk went viral, with thousands of viewers and hundreds of donations.

A Canadian centenarian woman, Joy Saunders, provides a second story of senior tenacity. Inspired by the spunky Brit,Tom, Joy , a 102 year old retired Canadian nurse, walked .8 kilometres 102 times! She is walking to raise money for the Victorian Order of Nurses – the organization that was her former employer. Moore and Saunders exemplify tough resilience and determination. Admirable role models! Commendable seniors ! Hopelessly optimistic!

So, the human spirit prevails. The need to connect, help others and find ways to push through adversity are alive and well. The examples I highlighted of that spirit are clearly silver linings to our current cloudy reality.

When Mother’s Day is Easter

Sun, 10 May 2020 17:56:00 GMT

This time four years ago my mother, 96 year old Marjorie Elizabeth, was living in the loving home of my sister and brother in-law in Ottawa, Canada. Dealing with dementia, Mom nonetheless had a good quality of life sharing her days with an amazing caregiver Helen, and her beloved pet parrot Mandela, whom she often called Rembrandt! Go figure. Mom was an amateur artist, focusing on landscapes and florals, so perhaps the Rembrandt connection. She loved that noisy bird even though her pet tolerated no one but his owner, squawking and swooping when others entered “his” room. My mother was so well supported by my siblings, her caregivers, friends and Rembrandt, that it seemed to me she would live forever.

The day before Mother’s Day that year I was in our lake home in Kelowna British Columbia. I received a call from my Ottawa family. “Mom is deteriorating. Get here fast.” My first reaction was denial. My mother had made it this far. Surely we we would share her 100 birthday just as we had celebrated her 90th with music, dancing and plenty of good food. As reality sunk in, I prepared for the trip. Gathering some clothes and packing up other essentials, I headed to our capital city. That was Mother’s Day 2016.

Ottawa is a beautiful city boasting wide canals, luscious parks and elegant parliament buildings. When I landed that day in May, the sun was shining and the trees were in bud. The charming scenery helped ease my anxiety as I approached my sister’s Rockcliff home. The house was particularly quiet. My siblings, usually exuberant and boisterous, were restrained- talking to me in whispered greetings.

Mom’s room was as hushed as the rest of the household. Her usual duvet covered bed was replaced by a narrow hospital gurney. Helen was in the midst of sponge bathing my mom’s abnormally thin body. A familiar image, a crucifix, hung over her bed attesting to her life long devotion to Catholicism.

Mom was dozing when I entered and Helen gently aroused her. She looked up- seemingly a little startled. As Mom gazed my way, a smile began. “Hi Kath”, she murmured with a big smile. “ Happy Easter!”

This might seem a sad remembrance of my mother Marjorie. Truthfully though, my mom’s beaming welcome to me will be an enduring memory. Easter is a time of renewal, and celebrates resurrection. It symbolizes a Catholic’s belief in life after death. So Mom, here’s to you. I love celebrating special days with you. Happy Easter!

I Yam What I Yam : Unless I’m a Sweet Potato

Wed, 06 May 2020 13:55:00 GMT

If you are old enough to remember the muscular cartoon character Popeye the Sailor Man you are likely to recognize the phrase “I Yam what I Yam”. And, your memory might also include Popeye’s “significant other”, Olive Oyl. Created around the 1920s, the two cartoon characters were emblematic of male and female societal roles predominant at the time. Both representations of these personalities were awash with what today would be deemed restrictive stereotypes. Tough guy Popeye was for the most part, a one dimensional personality. Olive’s interaction with Popeye often included these pleas to the spinach eating bruiser: “Oh, dear! Help Popeye!”. Nonetheless, what is evident is the limiting and clear distinction of societal gender roles that reflected the norms of the era and informed gender generalizations that held fast for decades.

Although I was there for part of and subscribed to the 1970’s women’s movement, I have to confess to abiding by some distinct gender specific tasks. Among these responsibilities were grocery shopping and meal preparation. In our household, I am the designated cook and grocery shopper. To be totally honest, prior to the covid crisis, my husband and I spent many of our mealtimes in local restaurants. With the covid restrictions, in home dining became mandatory. The need to stock our shelves took on new importance.

For what seems no good reason and despite a definite lack of experience, the job of marketing during this restrictive time fell to my husband, Ross. Little did we realize how ill equipped he was for this new found duty. The necessity for very specific lists quickly became self evident. What I took for common knowledge was an assumption quickly dispelled by actuality.

Ross’s first foray to our local supermarket gave us a glimpse of the challenges ahead. Gloved and masked, he ventured into the shopping realm. He felt self confident . Armed with a list and a pen, he carefully stroked off each item that he put in his cart. Several ”consultative” phone calls and in what seemed like an eternity, he returned with the goods. Truth be told, with the exception of a few questionable purchases, the result was not all that bad.

Other shopping outings presented their own hurdles. On an early excursion, Ross reported he wandered aimlessly throughout the shop. It was a great mystery as to where merchandize was located. He wished for an app that could point him in the right direction. Perhaps a possible future business opportunity! In addition, there were challenges around product knowledge. He questioned whether there was a difference between angel hair pasta and spaghettini and yams and sweet potatoes. And “WTF is fennel ?”, he asked himself, not having a clue what it was or what it looked like. Another item on our list was “good” olive oil. “How can I tell what is the best?” he asked. “Buy the most expensive “, I replied. From then on I texted him our grocery list complete with photographs.

Several friends have reported similar stories as they encountered their own versions of role reversals. One of my good girlfriends shared this funny story. While making egg salad she realized she needed a touch of green onion so asked her husband to pick up the ingredient. More than willing to get out of the house, her husband drove eagerly to the food store. He was so proud of himself as he returned with six bunches of onions. Surprised by the over amount of onions he purchased, she queried why he bought so many. He proudly announced: “They were 99 cents a bunch. So cheap.” He saw what to his mind was a bargain. He decided to grab all he could. Covid thrift!!

Cooking in quarantine has also created changes in who does what in some households. Take this current normal for one twosome I know. Although the husband of the duo has not taken on marketing responsibilities, he has become the go to chef in their family. Utilizing one of the “boxed” meals that arrive to your home with all the ingredients for a healthy meal, this “culinary artist” serves up terrific dinners. My friend, his wife, says he dons a “chef’s jacket and has a pen in hand to mark off times etc. It is quite hilarious.”

Ross suggested the topic of this blog and was the source of many of the stories I have included. I struggled with how to write a punchy conclusion so, I shared my original wrap up with him for comments. Here is our collaborative effort:

I am not suggesting all heterosexual households have divided shopping and meal preparation responsibilities along traditional gender lines. But for those that do, some changes are evident in the last 8 weeks. Whether from boredom or necessity, there are males who took on shopping jobs resulting in amusing outcomes. I wonder whether the yam will have to continue to fear for its identity.

Music Soothes the Soul

Tue, 28 Apr 2020 14:05:00 GMT

As my family can attest, I have far from perfect pitch and as the old saying goes: “I have more luck carrying a bucket then carrying a tune.” My grandchildren respectfully listen to my off tune lullabies in hopeful anticipation that I will end the serenade sooner than later. Perhaps in spite of or even because of this handicap, music has become a central part of my life. Whether puttering in the kitchen, reading a favorite novel or playing canasta on-line, music is in the background of most of my daily activities.

And so it seems with coping during this pandemic. If the newscasts are any measure of the rest of the world’s reliance on the soothing tones of new and old melodies then millions of people are similarly using this “survival” technique. Music may be said to be the mainstay of dealing with many of life’s challenges. And this pandemic is no different.

Here are some stories that highlight how music can “soothe the soul.”

My father grew up in the Canadian Atlantic province of Nova Scotia, a picturesque area known for its hospitality and abundance of skilled musicians. Like me, dad would not be called a crooner but his love for music was well known to his friends and family. In our household, Monday nights were reserved for Don Messer’s Jubilee, a musical variety show produced in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Whether it was Marg Osborne or Charlie Chamberlain (the program’s featured performers) belting out well known favourites, dad tapped his foot and mouthed the lyrics to familiar Celtic strains. On Sunday afternoons our living room was filled with the sounds of maritime musical favourites played by such well known musicians as the Rankin Family and Rita MacNeil. If my father had his way he would have nominated these performers for sainthood.

Last week, my dad’s beloved Nova Scotia was dealt an added blow during the pandemic. In a small, close knit county, a madman “committed multiple shootings and set fires at 16 locations , killing twenty-two people and injuring three others.” There is no way to soften this horrific tragedy. But the virtual vigil conducted on April 24 was alive with musical tributes to those who needlessly lost their lives or sustained serious injury. As one local citizen said, “There is a proud tradition in this part of the world. Sometimes, when there are no words, we turn to song.”

Similarly, I am truly amazed by the clips of frontline workers who mix their duties with a “dollop” of song. Some of these heroes sing as a choir at the end of their shifts, sending inspiring messages. Others, like Doctor Elvis, a resident at the orthopaedic department at the Mayo clinic, have been posting videos that are going viral. His renditions , including an inspiring “Lean on Me “ are stirring and touching, serving as musical medication to us all.

While struggling through this crisis is far from easy, knowing there is some solace through music is calming. Whether the music is rooted in family tradition, the result of connection to personal experience, or just love of a cherished genre, music can soothe the soul.

What Do Young Kids Make of All of This?

Thu, 23 Apr 2020 19:49:00 GMT

There is not much doubt that the corona virus pandemic has far reaching implications for today and for the days to come. The whole world has been forced to adjust to new norms and different ways of interacting. When making connections with my adult friends, the topic of conversation inevitably begins and ends with how we are coping with self isolation. But what are our young children thinking and feeling during this changed time?

On a day last spring, I recall the sound of my grandchildren’s laughter echoing through the spring afternoon . School was finished for the day and our crescent was alive with the sounds of some of my grand kids and several of their young buddies enjoying the sunshine and its accompanying warmth. The screeching of bicycles tires, the swooshing of skateboard wheels and the slapping noise of hockey pucks into nets set up on newly dried driveways, created a clamour that signalled spring’s arrival. Kids rode side by side and gave each other high fives to recognize physical accomplishments. The giggles rang out, mingled with a smattering of loud shouts of encouragement and challenges to match each others’ adept performances.

That is a tender remembrance of what many of us have taken for granted – everyday carefree activities that hopefully we can recreate in times to come. It represents a time that we eagerly hope to return to as soon as we are safely able. And it exemplifies an easygoing childhood, free from the pressures of an adult world.

In some ways, my grandchildren seem not to have adjusted their childhood play. Yesterday, my husband and and I were finishing one of our walking routines. As we entered our street we could hear familiar laughter coming from our son and daughter-in-law’s front yard. On their porch, my three grandsons could barely look up as we called to them from a safe distance. So engrossed were they in their family project- tie dying tee shirts – that our attempts to chat fell on deaf ears. I couldn’t help but smile as I remembered when tie dying in 1970s was the fashion. I never expected the practice to resurface as a result of the virus.

What is glaringly different for these young people is the sharing of good times with their friends and family. The older boys, ages 10 and 8, seem to understand the need to social distance and are careful to maintain a safe six feet from others. Our 6 year old little guy tries his best but is exuberant and needs to be reminded that he cannot come close to share his exciting stories. He must be missing this once taken for granted connection.

In the Palm Desert area, my youngest grandchildren are creating their own special response to self isolation. My four year old grandson’s project involves he and dad setting up an aquarium with exotic fish, including to my grandson’s delight, a shark! He and my son visited the pet store that allowed one set of patrons in at a time. How odd it must seem to him to adhere to these restrictive guidelines. As much as he will enjoy his fish friends, I am sure he would love to run and jump with his usual playmates.

And his sister, my only granddaughter, had one of her little girl dreams come true. Her mother, owner of a local jewelry store, fearlessly managed to pierce her daughter’s ears. I viewed a video that recorded the event. What a brave little girl, barely flinching when the piercing instrument made its mark on her tiny earlobes. Yes, she could share her experience remotely but I can only imagine what more delight could have been hers if she could show off her new earrings in person!

These stories involve young children. The kids have found ways to have fun despite the imposed limitations. But missing is the opportunity to share their delightful time in person with others. What must they be thinking deep down?

Hair Raising Times

Sun, 19 Apr 2020 19:44:00 GMT

“The colour of your hair can determine your fate in the end” said the actress Helen Hayes. Perhaps a little overstated, the statement underscores there is no denying our self isolation has prompted many of us to tackle self administered aesthetic “procedures” in order to manage our looks. The beauty challenges for me are myriad and daunting. From dealing with outgrown gel nails, to attempting to handle serious pedicure issues to covering grey root growth, to tackling hair trimming – the reality of the stay at home order as it influences our appearance is taxing.

At first, I welcomed the freedom from outsourcing some of my personal grooming. Like many of us, I embraced wearing no makeup, letting my hair grow “au naturel“ and allowing my bangs to obscure my vision. All that would have worked well had I been able to avoid confronting the dreaded mirror in my bath area. The image I saw was not the vision I embraced. Intervention was essential. Given the age in which we find ourselves, digital reliance seemed the answer.

The plan was to get instruction from the experts. My capable nail professional, who happens to own a business producing and distributing nail products and training nail techs, created a YouTube video outlining a safe and effective way to deal with growing out gel manicures. Armed with a nail file and her explicit instructions, I have managed to slowly get my nails back to their typically short state.

As it turns out, the internet is “awash” with support for outlining how to “self colour” hair. Several of my friends talked about their experience with dying their own locks. Sending me pictures of their finished product, the women who have/had blonde hair described the outcomes as comparable to hay-like and greenish hues. Dark haired women reported “hot roots” – roots that are much warmer than the base colour. Still, better than the alternative.

My husband has the the genetic luck to have thick, curly, silver hair. Frustrated by the length and “puffiness” of his coif and abiding by the stay at home directive which disallows salon visits, he was brave enough to ask me to play stylist. Connecting on FaceTime with my long time friend and hairdresser and armed with online bought scissors and borrowed thinning shears, we set up to tackle the task. Taking direction from my online instructor was wonderful. Her patient, step by step instructions helped give me confidence as I snipped away. Although far from salon perfect, the result was satisfactory and my spouse of forty years and I are still married!!!

This serious and scary pandemic has many downsides – fear of the unknown, disruption of comfortable routines and isolation to name a few. These are Hair Raising Times. But from them comes some very tangible positives : We are learning that self reliance combined with strategic collaboration and courage to try new things is the current reality. These newfound skills will help us in the normal that lies ahead.

ema

The Fabric of the Community

Wed, 15 Apr 2020 13:29:00 GMT

Waking up in Edmonton this Easter Monday, we were greeted by brilliant sunshine, snow covered lawns and temperatures of -11C. The below normal weather conditions seem to mimic the abnormal lives we are currently living.

The pandemic has halted many of the activities we all took for granted. Instead of gathering for family Easter dinner, many of us connected with our families through virtual communication. The Easter bunny altered his routine and made major adjustments, including leaving his bunny trail outside in the snow.

There is one thing that the pandemic and the record low temperatures managed not to alter: Community Spirit!

Take the enterprising initiative of a young Sherwood Park woman who has been sewing protective masks, initially to share with people close to her. Starting with a self designed pattern, this creative woman joined forces with her friend to continuously perfect the protective coverings. “What started as simply making masks for family and friends has bloomed into a wonderful opportunity to help frontline employees and basically any individual who wants to take that extra precaution to help stop the spread. The term ‘I protect you, you protect me’ has never had so much meaning and has become our mantra for the promotion of wearing a face mask”.

Yesterday, the two volunteers delivered masks to University of Alberta nurses who want the masks for their personal use outside of the hospital. Requests for their product are increasing daily but along with that comes a new challenge. “Elastic has become the new toilet paper”. And appropriate fabric is at a premium. “Tightly woven cotton is best (e.g. quilting fabric/plain poplin). White, cream or black thread would also be great”.

These community minded women are asking for help. If you are in Edmonton and the region, contact me and I will let you know how to get these needed materials to these two volunteers.

Please support the endeavors of these volunteers. They are : The Fabric of Our Community !!!

Nurse Jackie

Mon, 13 Apr 2020 12:44:00 GMT

I have a very brave niece. Her name is Jackie – or as her family and friends have affectionately dubbed her- Nurse Jackie. Now just to be clear, although our Nurse Jackie shares some of the characteristics of the tv health care worker- hard working, compassionate and caring- she most assuredly has none of the character’s negative, life altering addictions.

Jackie is a young single mother raising two girls aged 17 and 12. A determined young woman, my niece worked full time as she put herself through the countless courses she needed to earn her RN degree.

Like thousands of people around the world, Jackie is a health care worker, currently nursing in one of the southern US states. She specializes in wound care which says to me she is anything but squeamish and she is most definitely steady handed. She is no stranger to dealing with infection.

Balancing life, work and parenting is difficult in the best of times. During this pandemic Jackie is emblematic of the challenges facing front line caregivers. Although not working directly with Covid-19 patients, the hospital she goes to five days a week, handles pandemic patients. Jackie is witness to the realities of the commitment to risking personal safety in attending to acute covid victims.

As the news programs have been highlighting, frontline health workers are in constant need of gloves, masks and protective clothing. Nurse Jackie told me she seconds that requirement . She spoke about a particular part of the protective gear that I had not thought of: HATS !
“Surgical caps, bonnets, nursing hats etc. have long been in use in the medical field. They are often used in surgery to prevent the spread of infection, and like most PPE , these supplies have become scarce. Medical professionals have been resorting to making/ bringing their own”. So after working her weekly shifts , Jackie found online patterns and has been spending her weekends sewing the much needed protection headgear. So much for free time.

Thank you Nurse Jackie and all your cohorts.

And, wherever you are: Support , appreciate and protect our healthcare heroes.

Born to be Alive

Wed, 08 Apr 2020 23:25:00 GMT

One of my good friends took the time to email a wonderfully stirring dance video: Born To Be Alive. Do yourselves an uplifting favor and take several minutes to view this delightfully elevating broadcast. The lyrics and melody went a long way to cheer me and the choreography of decades worth of fabulous dancers illustrating their skills was amazing.

Another buddy shared an excerpt of Fred Astair’s warm up golf drill. With an enviable golf swing, Astair tapped through his golf practice routine. Not missing a dance step or a golf ball, Fred consistently drove each shot long and straight. These clips exemplify exceptional talent and creativity. Both of them put an appreciative smile on my face during this most trying time.

Closer to home, I am aware of local illustrations of creativity spawned by the coronavirus pandemic. One Edmonton friend designed a virtual art class that she has scheduled to share with her grandchildren. With a great deal of thought and effort, she planned a class that combined a fun art experience with scientific learning. The project involves egg cartons, paint, tissue, felts and pipe cleaners. My girlfriend drew a wonderful prototype to help inspire the kids. The end result will be an Easter bouquet to share with mom. Along with the craft, the children will learn a small lesson in botany- stamens and ovaries -male and female. My pal and I also gained new “scientific” knowledge from her experience. Or as she said, “Seems flowers are bisexual!”

I heard of another inspiring example of inventiveness. One energetic woman has organized an exercise routine for her young grandchildren. A homemade obstacle course including hopscotch, balancing exercises and ball throws are all part of her idea. The kids are engaged and excited to work through grandma’s adventure playground.

Perhaps most inspiring is the initiative of an eleven year old boy who built a lego robot that solves a Rubik cube. Using his father’s email, he connected with an expert in the field. The online advisor was dumbfounded when he discovered his pupil was only eleven years old. Understandably, proud grandparents posted their grandson’s finished product on Instagram. Bravo!

This pandemic has so many downsides. It is challenging to find some heartening solace. I began this post with the title Born to be Alive. I will end with Tap into Creativity!

Technology Rules

Sun, 05 Apr 2020 16:45:00 GMT

I have a confession to make. Not the kind that involves a confessional where your kneel, make the sign of the cross and disclose a litany of venial and/or mortal sins to the priest seated behind the mesh screen. No, mine is more of an admission – an acknowledgement that I am a technological infant. As far as tech goes, I am in grade one. During this pandemic I am acutely aware that I need a graduate degree.

When it comes to research, I harken back to the days of the Dewey decimal system. Rummaging through card catalogues housed in libraries, I managed to research topics for my university classes. Since I never learned to type (for some reason I chose Latin and physics!), I wrote essays in longhand – painstakingly making use of the cursive writing most of us learned in grade three.

As I aged so too did technology. First came the fax system, allowing for what then seemed like instantaneous connection. Reams of documents surged over the fax system that kept us linked to friends, family and colleagues.

In what seems like in an instant the internet emerged and so began the opportunity for on the spot research to answer a myriad of questions. Google became our new best friend as we were able to validate any claims from intellectuals in our midst. Now, during this coronavirus pandemic, the reality of my tech “expertise” has become evident.

Take for instance my attempt to start a blog without really understanding the meaning of the word! Thanks to a young woman who was a good friend of my daughter in-law, I managed to get up and running in the blog world. That being said, I struggled with the blog site. I panicked when I was unable to access my drafts , and nervously managed to contact an online expert for help. With his assistance I was about to access my draft posts when we lost our link.

The need for tech savvy is increasing as the weeks of the self isolation mount. Until recently, FaceTime was my sole visual communication tool. The pandemic has rocketed me into the world of Zoom and Houseparty.
This pervasive epidemic has forced me to get educated in what in past days were mere meaningless apps. I have a new appreciation for the meaning of the word “domain“.

So, searching for some positive outcome while struggling with this ongoing health crisis I say this: Technology Rules

Whatcha Gonna Do?

Tue, 31 Mar 2020 18:52:00 GMT

I spent much of the earlier part of my adult life adjusting to new environments, making moves from city to city about once every four years as my husband’s job required. We transferred to several Canadian urban areas, two in the west and one in the more eastern part of our country. Each relocation involved uprooting children who were not always willing or enthusiastic participants in what we assured them would be an amazing adventure. For each in the family, every transfer meant leaving friends behind and adjusting to new realities- different school systems, diverse community cultures and changed business roles.

Trying to balance new lifestyles has its pros and cons. Fear of change and the unknown are probably the most challenging parts of starting a new life in a different city. Anxiety about how the kids will do in their new schools, how all of us will make friends and where to find the best bagels in town are just a few.

On the other hand, changing environments necessitates determination mixed with the willingness to take chances. One of my first attempts to adapt to living in a new town turned out to be a tried and true method for subsequent moves. We joined a family “health” club that offered diverse activities, workout classes, running groups, childcare, racquetball and tennis to name a few. This forum to socialize meant we met a plethora of people many of whom we have maintained relationships over countless years.

So those early adjustments to new circumstances have given me some insight into handling our current reality during the coronavirus pandemic.
Foremost among these is : SOCIALIZATION!

All those friends I connected with over those years and recently as well, are crucial to getting through these arduous times. Our technological world lends itself to maintaining connections to family and friends. From Houseparty, to FaceTime to Zoom, to online shared card games, we are staying linked.

Like having to move in order to make a living, dealing with coronavirus insists on connecting. And we are in this whether we like it or not. Or, as what one of the many “sisters” I have met over the years often says when you are situations beyond your control:

WATCH GONNA DO?

S.P.O.I.L.E.D

Sat, 28 Mar 2020 13:42:00 GMT

By all measures I am a fully qualified, supported by date of birth, baby boomer. As I enter the twelfth day of self isolation during this coronavirus virus pandemic I seem to be given to nostalgia about my growing up years.

As far as I can recall, my mother was a typical, 1950s dedicated homemaker. Following complicated Vogue sewing patterns, she stitched clothes for our family, including the gold colored wool coat I wore the winter of my grade eight year and the pink satin and organza “prom” dress I donned for my grade ten school dance. Mom worked on that gown with steadfast determination and made the endless hours (that I did not appreciate) seem effortless. I recall admiring myself in the mirror of our family shared bathroom, hoping I resembled a model from Seventeen magazine. That being said, my mother often expressed herself in tried and true adages. If one of her five kids complained that our regular Sunday night roast beef dinner was a tough chew, she would quip “Tougher if you didn’t have it”. If I whined after one of my younger sisters borrowed my matching cardigan set and returned it stained Mom would dismiss my objection with “Don’t cry over spilled milk”.

One of Mom’s favourite sayings comes to mind as I deal with self isolation. Over the years, I have become very privileged and this quarantine has brought me back to stark reality. I jokingly tell my girlfriends that I have forgotten how to do daily housework. As I sort laundry, stack the dishwasher and scour old recipes Mom’s adaged voice has resonance. If she could see me now she would shake her head and loudly spell out:

S. P .O. I. L. E. D!!!

So, to use a proverb to describe what I am learning from self isolation:

HEALTH IS WEALTH!

Do Your Part ! Stay Apart!

Tue, 24 Mar 2020 16:56:00 GMT

Yesterday, in what has become the new normal, I awoke and began my day – attempting to create some kind of a reasonable morning routine. Gingerly hop out of bed: Check . Brew some English breakfast tea: Check. Pull on my favorite lulus: Check . Jump on the stationary bike: Check.

While vigorously (well maybe more like dispiritedly ) peddling the bike I tuned into the morning tv shows. Kelly and Ryan were especially perky in the early hours- all smiles as they remotely broadcast from their respective kitchens. Both these congenial hosts made very credible attempts to cheer up the audience – sending hopeful, albeit cliched , messages.

About half way through my 30 minute workout I heard the familiar music intro to The View. Whoopi and the gang were reporting from various distant venues. Looking uncharacteristically disheveled, Joy Bear opened with “Restfulness is exhausting.” Joy’s comedic routine was laced with serious messages particularly about physical distancing. Apropos of this Sara, one of the cohosts, wore a tee shirt emblazoned with these words “Do your Part Stay Apart”.

And so, for now, we must physically stay apart. But, like the hosts on the morning tv shows, let’s also maintain our sense of humor. Let’s keep the laughter. Here is to being together again soon.

Looking from the inside out

Sun, 22 Mar 2020 18:02:00 GMT

readying for a walk in the crisp air