The Gift

It has been a long journey – three years since we lost Mom and nearly one year since we lost Dad.  I have l learned to be patient, to breathe, and to accept.  It was the final “acceptance”  that has been the most difficult. 

I have now, however:

- accepted that I am now the one who must take up the role of the family elder

- accepted that life carries on even when it changes

- accepted that things always work out of the best

- accepted that there is a season for everything

- accepted that I cannot always get what I want – but I tend to get what I need

- accepted that true friends are always there to support and guide

- accepted that it can be difficult to age and lose your friends

- accepted there is a difference between growing old and being old

- accepted that it is important to accept gifts – as much as to give gifts

The greatest gift Mom and Dad could give to my brother and I was to be raised in the culture of family they crafted for us.  Our culture is unique; We cry at the drop of a hat.  We can be so terribly sentimental and attached to things. We can be sad when meals are not shared with our children or partners.  We have faith in each other. We like to use good dishes.  We like to cook from scratch.  We like to quote Robbie Burns. We recognize celebrations and we celebrate – any occasion can become a celebration.  We value life.  We respect others.  We always say please and thank-you.  We like to make frugal purchases.  We love being outside with our hands in the dirt.  This is our culture.  This was our gift. 

TTFN

It’s been a pleasure working with you…

…said the voicemail from the lady at lawyer’s office.  The estate is closed.  It is all done. 

Wow – wow – wow.

You would think that after nearly a year that I wold be ready to draw a close to this – but the words hit me like a ton of bricks.  It was almost insulting to think that Mom and Dad had been reduced to those words… the “estate”.  Since the estate was closed, therefore, they were too?

I cannot understand why some things resonate with me in such a way.  It was a normal progression of which I was fully informed, not to mention the master behind.  It is like point A leads to point B and yes, of course, there you must follow.  Yet – there is an element of surprise that knocks the socks off you when you are least expecting.

To close an estate is a heck of a lot of blood, sweat, and mostly tears.  But it was a journey that I feel prepared me for the final destination more than had I not been able to take it.  It was a road that had never been travelled before.  Robert Frost sure did get it right in his poem, ‘Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening”. 

“Whose woods these are, I think I know.  His house is in the village, though.  I’m sure he won’t mind if I stop for a while to see his woods fill up with snow.”  (or something to that nature)  How ephemeral it must have all seemed then – as it does now.  What a temporal existence we live – to end with a phone message indicating it is all done. 

I look up from my computer screen to see an image of Mom and Dad smiling… those were happier times for them.  They were healthy – not a care about health issues or finances or death benefits.  They really had their eyes set on their own future.  I remember Mom often breaking into silent tears of her own to mourn the loss of her own mother – so, so many years before.  I thought how odd it was that one could feel such strong emotion nearly 50 years, then 55 years, then 60, and then some,  years after a loss.  I don’t look forward to that  – but what an honour it would be at the same time.  Bitter – sweet is the way I guess some would describe the feeling.

Several of my colleagues at work are going through the motions I once went through.  And although their pain is palpable, I am pleased to see the loyalty and dedication to their parents is as strong as mine was to my own parents.  It is heart-breaking and I feel the emotions all over again living through their own piece-by-piece loss.  A very wise friend of mine always said that, “the degree to which you grieve is a measure of the degree to which you have loved.”  I find comfort in that statement – knowing that the price I pay for the loss of my parents has great value measured in love … not money. 

Money, indeed, cannot buy happiness and I would exchange it all to have them back.  I know that if I actually could strike that deal I would feel horrible as I am confident they are in a better place now than when they were here.  It would be selfish of me to wish their return – - yet I dream. 

Tonight would be a good night to have them visit me in a dream.  I always take great comfort in their visits – although it has been a while since their last visit. 

Meanwhile, the dishes need doing, the floor needs vacuuming, and the family needs a Mom – in real time.  So, my friends at the lawyers office… I will bid you adieu and reply back, “It has been a pleasure working with you too.”

TTFN

(http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171621)

Thanks for the Chat, Dad

Stacey:  Dad, its been a long time since you and I chatted. 

Dad:  Well, officially.  I know I have met you in your dreams. 

Stacey:  I visited you and Mom the other day – and David asked if I wanted to be buried in the wall.  Honestly, Dad, I did not hesitate to agree – and thought Id sure like to be close to you and Mom.  I dont think Kevin wants that final end, though, so we have some thinking to do.

Dad:  Well, dont think about it too much, Stacey, you have too much living to do to think about dying. 

Stacey:  I know, Dad.  I guess Im speaking to you today as the one-year anniversary is approaching.  Usually, we plan your garden at this time.  

Dad:  Have you planted yours yet?

Stacey:  No – but there is sure a healthy base of compost.  I cannot believe how much my family produces. 

Dad:  Remember the compost pile we had on the farm?  Your mother hated it and loved it at the same time. 

Stacey:  I do remember – I was always careful to avoid going near it.  Funny how now I really quite enjoy mucking about in it.. thinking what great tomatoes it will produce. 

Dad:  Are you going to grow popcorn?  (grin)

Stacey: No.  I was too heart-broken when I was a kid – we waited one day too long and the racoons got all of it. 

Dad:  Yes – and there were sure a lot of puffy racoons that night, eh Stace?

Stacey:  Dad, I sold the condo.  Your estate is almost wrapped up.  You and Mom have been good to all of us.  I am grateful that you were such a good money manager.  Although, I know Mom called you cheap!  Its funny to think there is no more apartment 1001 to go to.  I always went there to talk to you and Mom.  I dont have that place anymore.  It seems odd, but this blog is where I can meet you.  I think others may think me strange – but my words become clear and I feel comforted thinking you may be guiding my writing.  

Dad:  Stacey, you can write to me anytime you like.  I have always wanted to write, as you know, and I think I am finally doing what I always wanted to do through you.  Do you think that is possible?

Stacey:  Dont know, Dad.  But it sure is nice thinking you can still speak through me. 

Dad: Stacey, I think you are rambling now – so maybe it is time to call it a night. Brandy?  

Stacey:  No, I never did acquire a taste for that stuff, Dad.  But Ill pour one for you – and watch to see that it disappears in front of my eyes (grin) 

Dad:  TTFN, Stace.

Stacey:  TTFN, Dad.  Thanks for the chat. 

Apartment 1001 re-visited

Looking out onto Kempenfelt Bay, you would never know anything had changed.  The waters were calm.  No Serendipity – the local tourist paddle-boat – yet, but other than that it looked just the same as it did a year ago. 

I turned to my oldest son, Ben, and took a deep breath.  It was time to leave apartment 1001.

They say your life flashes before you just before you leave this earth – snippits of my life with my family flashed before me as I walked through the patio to the dining room where we were always so careful that Dad did not lose his footing while climbing over the step to return to his pink chair after enjoying the night air.  It was a ritual almost – Mom would cling onto his belt buckle (as if she could hold him should he fall) and I would hold on to his walker to secure it from moving forward un-expectantly. 

I walked past where the dining-room table was – where so many meals were served.  Here too, was the place where toasts were made to life, anniversaries, birthdays, births… even commemorations of deaths.  But I heard joy in the voices in my head – I remember the good times, the laughter, and the oh, so delicious food Mom had so lovingly prepared. 

I walked past where Dads pink chair had once been – where David climbed onto the walker in front of Dad so that he could be so much better positioned to hop on Poppas lap and give him a hug.  The pink chair was the focus – the inhabitant (my Dad) was always the centre of attention.  Was he warm enough?  Was he hungry?  Was he able to hear the conversation? Did he tune us out to read? 

I walked past the couch – where we had danced.  I watched my daughter, Katya, twirl and spin and laugh.  I heard David giggle with delight as Nana ordered a steak and baked potato from his make-believe restaurant.  I knew she hoped that his culinary interest would continue and be her own little legacy. I saw Katya standing there, dressed in Nanas black lace dress – hand-made so many years ago.  No one but Katya could fit into that waist line anymore… but three generations had worn that dress – and Katya was the last of the lineage…

I walked down the hallway to peer into Moms room as Dad had so many times before.  Was Paula there?  Was she asleep?  Was she ironing or sewing?  The room was empty – and full all at the same time.  I thought if I looked quickly I could see her smiling at me as she was waking up from a quick afternoon rest… rarely did that happen, but it always seemed to comfort me that she could rest.

I walked down the hall to Dads room – the room where it had all ended — I expected to see him there.  But, alas, neither bed, nor Poppa were to be seen.  Ben heard me and came to see if I was okay – my 6 foot son put his arm around me and we both stood there knowing how happy Nana and Poppa would be that he grew up to be such a fine, young man.  You done good, kid, I heard my Dad say.  And with that, my son Ben and I turned around and left.  Buenos noches, Poppa – hasta manana – TTFN.  Sleep well. I love you both! 

It was odd, locking the door for the last time.  I did not cry.  They were not there.  I did not feel compelled to open the door quickly to check to see if I could sneak a peek.  Bill and Paula had definitely left the building. 

And so it was that today was our last glimpse of what was once a very happy household.  It was now my turn to provide that stability, comfort, and sense of belonging in my  own home.  I always said to my parents that my home had been wherever they were – now it is with my family and I.  Apartment 1001 is now us.. my husband, three children, and I. 

Are you literate?

This was the question I challenged my English class with – and it without a doubt more of a challenge to answer than any of them really understand. 

Literacy happens when one can fully function in the context of his or her own environment.  What may mean literacy to a student sitting in a fully resourced family may mean something completely different to a student who is in his late 50s, having been recently laid off, injured, and diagnosed with a serious illness – oh, and is responsible to provide for his family.

I am touched by the number of students I teach who are able to function – daily – on an empty stomach, a monthly allowance that cuts so close to the bone there is barely enough money to scrape by.  So many of them suffer from what I am convinced is stress-related illnesses. 

The Ontario curriculum has outlined expectations that students need to meet so that they can be declared literate.  My question remains, how can one dictate what literacy is to the general public – a one size fits all kind of mandate?  Does everyone really need to know how to write a paragraph?  Does everyone really need to know the rules of possession?  I remember years ago when I did not see the sense of teaching students how to write using cursive writing – when computers were much more efficient.  A vice-principal of mine saw a different angle – in that all students should learn cursive writing – computers may not be handy.  Today, I begin to understand Alvin Toffler who suggested that English and math should not be taught in isolation.  Topics that need to be introduced to students include things like adolescence and current events – citizenship.  I am not sure – but I think to be fully meaningful – education should be sensitive to the context of the student.  If the student functions fully in his or her own environment  – then they are literate. 

For the student who is fighting cancer – he should know all about the health care system and treatment options that are open to him – not how to paragraph.

For the student who struggles with depression – she should know all about the treatments that are available – not just in Ontario, but around the world – not how to paragraph.

For the student who is about to be a Dad – he should know what kinds of responsibilities he is about to take on – how to manage money, cook, parent – not how to paragraph.

Not that paragraphing is wrong – it is simply a symbol of things that are expected and mandated in education that may not fit the bill for everyone in terms of meeting their literacy needs. 

I don’t know – but I certainly do question – and in education I think that makes me literate. 

Mother and Daughter

Demdaco – design for the home – created a series of keepsakes that were modern and fun.  Under the name, Willow Tree, there was a keepsake that I found attracted my attention.  It was called, Mother and Daughter. 

I bought it to give to my Mom.  I was so excited that I found something that was so touching – and I knew that Mom would treasure it as she was far more sentimental – at that time – than I was.  Indeed, it was received well.  And it was displayed along side her Royal Dalton figurines.  Honestly, we both knew that there was no price matching between the two – but the Willow collection was affordable and it was very touching and sentimental.

I could not bring this particular keepsake home.   One of Dads caregivers collects Willows and so she was thrilled to take it.  Had I brought it home it would have been wrong – it had been a gift that was given and accepted by Mom.  There had been words exchanged of appreciation and admiration - maybe even a few tears.  The keepsake would not do well to be given back.

Yet – when cleaning out Moms home today – I found the tag for the Willow and quickly put it in my back pocket.  This was something that would be okay to bring home .. did I really need a reminder?  No.  But the caption on the tag read, Protect and cherish, give wings to fly.  And that is what my Mom gave to me. 

I have been so blessed in my life to have had a Mom that always put me first.  She protected me and cherished me – she gave me wings to fly.  I could always brag to her about the things I was doing and she would celebrate them along with me – never judge my arrogance.  She supported my wing growth.

My mother was indeed a very special lady. She wore pearls.  She wore diamond earrings. She was beautiful both on the inside and out.  She taught me the real value of life – and it was not the pearls or diamonds – it was relationship.  She taught me how to be a Mother.  Not a Mom – but – a Mother. 

If I am to be only half the Mother… my children would be lucky. 

And so that tag will sit as a reminder to me of a time when I was able to thank my Mother and a time when she accepted my thanks…. and gave me wings to fly.

Thanks, Mom.  I will never forget you.  And I will always be grateful that I was your Daughter.   

TheTalisman

I received, to my delight, a notification from WordPress last week that this blog is now one year old.  I was shocked, not just because Ive been writing (on and off) for one year now – but to consider the context of my life one year ago and how much things have changed.

This time last year, I was sitting at the dining room table (which is now at my home) with my niece (who just purchased her own home), my Dad (who inspired this blog and has now been gone for nearly one year), eating dinner with Dads two nannies (one of whom is now in the Philippines and the other working for another client).  The condo where all this took place will be occupied by two new owners within less than a month. 

Wow.  The pace of these changes almost seems frenetic. 

In spite of the changes – there is so much that remains constant and I guess this is where I take stock and count my blessings.  I am still a wife and mother of three – I am blessed with a wonderful family.   We moved through these changes together.  We kept living, we kept growing, we kept talking, we challenged each other – and looked towards the future. 

There is truly stock in appreciating the journey – no matter how tough it may seem at the time there are so many lessons and growth spurts that can happen along the way.  Unless one pauses to reflect – to celebrate anniversaries – the journey may be lost. 

Thanks, WordPress, for that little anniversary icon you posted.  It makes a difference.  I consider your icon my Talisman that marks my journey. 

Lifes Montage…

A daughter barely avoiding an ice storm to depart to Cuba for two weeks.

A mother sighs with relief.

A son facing an employer to launch a grievance about a colleague.

An employee who moves his skills to a higher level.

A condominium now sits empty – which once housed a home and a family.

Ready for a new family to enjoy a spectacular view.

A boy with three new shirts – new style – new trend.  Feeling pretty good.  One is pink.

A mom promises to buy more….

A student with two months to live – looking to get his English credit to finalize his grade 12.

A teacher struggles with a challenge of offering a life-altering and enriching education. 

A conversation between friends – whose concerns nearly tear them apart from one another.

A teacher who listens to mediate and moves them one step beyond the conflict.

A grieving colleague who feels neglected by staff – who immerse themselves in work.

A teacher who feels guilt – struggles to apologize.

A team of experts who offer advice to a team of experts who picked up the pieces from the first team.

A team that attempts to move forward professionally.

A proud student finally finds his footing to balance alcohol, family, and school.

A teacher who offers congratulations – and a hug.

A home that is stuffed with two homes worth of furniture.

A colleague who wants to help.

A team develops a curriculum for single parents.

A parent who needs support.

A student who attends classes in spite of illness.

A teacher who contracts that very same cold.

A husband who stands by his family.

A wife who appreciates him silently – words need to be spoken.

A week whose end seemed to never come.

A close.  It is Friday.  A sigh.  A post.  A reflection.

A montage.

 

Katarina Alexandra

She burst into this world on March 22, 1996.  My husband and I struggled with names for her.  Here was this angelic little girl whose spirit pounded at you from first glance.  We knew she was a gift from God – and had to be named for her gentle, yet strong character.  Her name needed to be as unique as her character was destined to be.  Yes – strong.  It needed to respect my Russian heritage as well since Ben, her brother, was representing the other sides of the family and my Moms heritage was left un-represented.

A student of mine had just previously written a speech about the sudden death of the Russian figure skater Sergei Grinkov – died of a heart attack on the ice.  His partner both on the ice and in life, was named eKatarina Gordeeva.  (Check out this fantastic website:  http://www.gordeeva.com/english.shtml).  Her strengthand courage became iconic.  She was beautiful, intelligent, a true athlete, and humanitarian.  What name, then, could be more a propos!  We named our daughter Katarina (Katya) Alexandra. It was a name befitting of greatness.

There was a snowstorm when I went into labour and I was worried that I wouldn’t make it to the hospital on time.  It was, admittedly my own fault.  Katya wanted to be born – I went into labour – while I was finishing up my last batch of report cards.  Can you imagine having a baby and THEN writing reports? I couldn’t.  And so – it went like this:  type, type, type – grooooooan.  Type, type, type – grooooooan.  Until the contractions were 1 minute apart.  Katya could not WAIT to enter the world. And she entered the world with vigour.

And it has been that way ever since.  From skating – to piano – to gymnastics – to singing – to cross-country running – to karate – to wresting – to rugby… you name it – she is in it.  I joke that I registered Katya for ballet (and she was so very cute leading her group in the final performance of  – Oh, Bear ) and ended up in wresting.  (I guess there are some transferrable skills?)  She does not enter any sport gently – it is always with vigour.

A couple summers ago, my husband and I sent Katya with her Grandma to visit her aunt in Belgium.  They travelled all over Europe.  As they travelled, Grandmas health declined.  Katya made sure she came home safe and sound – my little girl… She travelled with vigour and cared with vigour.

She is now enrolled in a program at school which takes students to a completely different academic, social, and personal level.  Global Perspectives is a challenging program seeing students study together on global issues and travel together to Cuba and Germany.  She tackles the challenges this program presents – eats them up and spits them out for breakfast – you might say.  She works with everyone in the class – no matter who.  In her eyes, everyone deserves a chance to be her friend.

I remember a time when our family was visiting a friend in Washington.  We stayed at a hotel.  Washington was much more multi-cultural than Barrie – and so – there, for the first time, Katya met a person whose skin was darker than hers.  My little white-haired blonde girl was opposite to the doorman in every way in terms of appearance.  He was tall and very dark – she, little and very white.  It made no difference to her.  He had been very good to our family during our stay at the hotel.  When we left – Katya was disappointed that he was not there.  She asked where he was to the ladies at the front desk and informed them that she would like to say good-bye.  They grinned, called him off his break, and he appeared at the front desk rather confused.  Katya rushed over to him and hugged him.  He was so touched by her that he cried.  To this day – Katya reaches out to those who others may overlook – with vigour.

From Graca Machel – Nelson Mandela’s wife for whom Katya had the opportunity to draw and give a picture, to Silken Laumann, to the random child on the street – Katya meets them all.  And they are all equal in her eyes.  Katya brought a girl home once, that she did not even know. But the girl was sad and was alone.  It turned out that she was having troubles at home.  She brought this girl home to our home so that she would be safe… After tears, much loving-listening, and a few phone calls to her Dad – the girl was returned to her family.  There was never a doubt in Katya’s mind that she would help this girl. It didn’t matter that this girl was a complete stranger – she was in need.

Katya’s birthday slipped by this year without pomp and ceremony.  She went to a wrestling tournament in Haggersville and so was not home. I bought a dozen roses to mark the occasion.  We celebrated with a small gathering and had cake and pizza when she came home.  It was a humble celebration for a young lady whose life is lived out loud.

My daughter is far from quiet.  She is far from the ballet dancer I had anticipated as a young mother.  She is far from the shy and timid child that I was when I was young.  She is far from being a follower – - Thank God.

I count my blessings when it comes to having Katya as a daughter.  She is everything a mother would hope for:  caring, thoughtful, strong, independent.  She is a force with which this world will need to recon.

And so – although late – I wish my little girl a very happy birthday.  May you continue to live life to the fullest with both grace and passion – as only you know how.  I love you, Katarina.

( Now, if you would only do something about cleaning up your room… grin )

Mom and Dad were finally layed to rest…

Since I remember, Mom had her nursing graduation photo above her bed and Dad had his pilot’s grad. photo above his.  They indicated who slept where – on which side of the bed.  They were icons.  Everyone who saw the photos commented on what a handsome couple they were.  “Your Mom was  a real looker” they’d say – and, “wow – what a mischievous smile your Dad had.” 

Any comment that was repeated in their company would be met with a blush and a grin.  “Oh”, Mom would say bashfully.  “I don’t know what happened to that gal”.  Dad would say, “yeah, cocky young pilot with the world at my feet.”

Those photos were as much Mom and Dad as Mom and Dad were.  They were the first things to come off the wall when they moved and the first to go back on the wall when they arrived.  They were legend. 

Tonight – the stager came to the condominium.  She was wonderful, kind, and sensitive. She kept watching me to see how I was reacting to the suggestions she made – but she missed my reaction – gut -wrench – when she took Mom and Dad’s photos off the wall.  They had been watching vigil over Dad as he passed and they had been watching vigil over the empty place as prospective buyers passed through.  What the stager knew had to happen, happened.  I knew it – and she knew it.  There was just too much Bill and Paula in that room. It took someone else to “do the deed”, but I knew it had to be done. 

I left apartment 1001 tonight knowing that things had changed.  Mom and Dad were no longer there – they never had been in the material things – always there in spirit in my heart. 

Yes – things were different – I was more peaceful.  Now, that’s not to say a few tears were shed as I entered into yet another stage into adulthood (finally).  But, it felt good. 

And I think they finally felt free to leave apartment 1001.  Finally, they were “off the wall”.