Mom’s Computer

Note:  Today’s post is written in my (Stacey’s) voice

t’s the calm before the storm.

I am at home with my family.  Kevin is out picking up a few random things we need for the visitation tonight.  Ben and Katya are still sleeping as they have both been burning the candle at both ends between writing final exams, working their jobs, helping out around the house, caring for me (for which I am so grateful), and grieving the loss of their Poppa.  David is up wearing his house-coat (because I am wearing mine) watching television.

I just finished downloading recent photos of Dad – and Mom (who passed away November 2010) off Mom’s computer.  I was so relieved that Kevin was able to open it as the computer had been locked.  It is most likely the battery was dead – but to me – memories were as good as erased.

Mom’s computer was full of recent images.  There were photos of birthday parties, dinner parties, special events… ordinary days.  And in each photo, Dad was smiling.  And in each photo, Mom was smiling.

Mom’s computer was the testimony to how much a part of our lives Dad was.  He was inside our house, outside our house, apart from the house, singing, laughing, eating, celebrating.

Mom’s computer unlocked history.  Family Christmases, Malloff reunions… oh my goodness.

More recently, Mom’s computer unlocked a world that only Dad and his care-givers knew.  There were no images of his “girls” getting him ready for bed – pouring the brandy, changing into pyjamas, putting on is slippers, preparing his “whistle” so that he could whistle for help in the middle of the night if help was needed, wishing him a ta-ta-for-now, and turning off the light.  But there were photos of Dad well rested, well dressed, and content.

There were no images of his “girls” getting him up in the morning – putting on his slippers, his house-coat, walking beside him as he used the walker through every step, giving him a shower, helping him shave, get his teeth ready, putting on clothes, preparing his “shakes”, sausages, eggs, pills, coffee.  But there were photos of Dad smiling and healthy and clean and content.

There were no images of his “girls” playing cribbage with him (and wondering who was going to skunk whom), reading the newspaper with him, playing cards with him, doing the crossword with him, going to walks with him, talking him to the pool and doing physiotherapy with him, talking with him about God, Mom, and family.  There were no images of him guiding the girls through their relationships, finances, education, and celebrations.  But there were photos of Dad smiling – knowing that he was respected as a person for his wisdom – knowing he had been a Dad when there was no Dad around for the girls.

Sometimes what is not seen is what is more important than what is seen.

Mom’s computer asked me to read between the lines to understand how happily Dad lived with Mom and then, how much happiness the girls brought to Dad through their care and stories.  Dad was not allowed to be sad – he did not want to be sad. He always told me when we talked about Mom, “Think of the happy times”.  He told me the girls helped him live through Mom’s death because they were always happy.

Mom’s computer revealed smiles – happy times.

A picture tells a thousand stories – if you read between the lines.

Thank-you for all you have given to my family and I, girls.  On behalf of Dad, I would like to thank Diane, Tessie, Adrienne, Heather, Mely, Abby, Ana, and Dorothee and all the other wonderful ladies (and Rou) who gave Dad quality of life.  God bless you all.  I am forever in your debt.

That’s My Sign

My daughter and I are still negotiating whether the “voice” in High Flight will be mine or hers.  I guess the bottom line is that maybe we don’t need to really decide.  Maybe the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree and it wouldn’t matter whose voice was posted anyhow?

I do know one thing for certain.  There has been change.

My bed is empty – but my family continues to walk into my bedroom and observe the empty bed.  I want to reach out to tell them that I am there in their hearts – to give them a sign- don’t bother looking somewhere physical – but my voice is not of this world.

Before I passed away, my daughter and I talked about what signal I would use to indicate to her that I was still around.  On Friday nights, to give relief to the Dancing Nannies, my daughter would sleep over at my house and take care of me.  We would, as she said, “Party” – which meant playing Connect 4 with David and telling stories and listening to music with Stacey. It became a tradition that every Friday – we’d call Floyd and Frances (with an “e”).  We’d call at “cocktail” hour.  This was key because we’d all pour a rum and coke – so two in British Columbia and three in Barrie… one for Stacey, one for me, and one for Paula. Then – we’d all toast together on SKYPE.  As time passed, naturally Stacey’s and my drink disappeared – but Paula’s did not. We would half expect Paula to drink it – we waited and waited for the fluid to change – but it did not.  In the end, we decided we were crazy and we’d split the drink and toast to Mom.

Back to “my sign”.  The first night I was with Paula – crazy Stacey and the Dancing Nannies poured a glass of wine for me – and waited for it to disappear.  Eventually the wine became Stacey’s responsibility and it did in fact disappear. The wine is not my sign.

My family was together tonight – gathered to eat at my house.  There was peace.  There was friendship.   There was respect.  All I had ever asked of my children was for harmony – for them to “get along”.  They were laughing, telling stories, listening to Anne Murray (although not everyone cared for Anne Murray!) .. Snowbird.  It was beautiful.  I believe they did this for me – and I am honoured.

Tomorrow – I know will be a big day for my family as they prepare for the “visitation”.  I will be with them.  My sign will be the peace they feel within themselves for a job well done.

That’s my sign.

Cheers!

Finding my Purpose

I made it through the night.

My daughter slept at my feet and my nannies took turns helping with my meds. I have no pain.

I wish this kind of exit from this world for others.

My birth seemed to be more difficult.  I was so small that no one expected me to live.  My aunt put me in a shoe-box and put me in the oven to keep warm.  Imagine.  Over ninety years now I’ve been down off the shelf and living – really living.

My last few years have forced me to be so much more contemplative.  I have listened and hope that I have helped to make people happy.

My daughter and I used to have a lot of sleep-overs in the latter years.  She and David or she and Katya, or she and Ben would come and have a “party” with me on a Friday night.  That would give my nannies a chance for  a REAL week-end.  Stacey and I would talk about our new situation without Paula.  We talked about my purpose.  I needed to know my purpose in life.  Why was I the one who stayed?  I was always the one who was ill – not Paula. I think I concluded that Paula had done enough.  She was tired.  She nursed her whole life and especially me during the last few years.  She needed a rest.

My purpose – I concluded was to make people happy. I hope that I’ve succeeded.  My daughter seems to think I  have.  I have always been so appreciative of the help that people have given to me in my “golden” years.  Without the help of my care-givers I would not have been able to maintain my dignity.  I hope they know how much I have appreciated them.  I tried to tell them.  I tried to help bring families together – to offer what words of wisdom I could and I tried to bring people dignity.  Always forgive.

And smile.

It is time to rest.  I’ll write more today to let you know my progress … and hopefully to make you smile.

Cheers.

Friends

My father always said that when you die, if you can count the number of good friends on one hand, you were one of the lucky ones.

Throughout my life, I have been blessed with family and friends.  I don’t think there was a single week-end on the farm when friends didn’t drop by for a visit.  Of course the Triple – B (bonfire, body-builder, and billy burgers) probably helped influence that drop-in visit, but nonetheless – they came. I’ll have to include the pool on that list – but it wasn’t part of the Triple-B! (wink)

It seems that the older one gets, the less visitors one has.  I guess it’s difficult to understand me sometimes as it isn’t as easy to articulate as it once was for me.  I was known for my songs, bagpipes (which were instantly produced by plugging your nose, tilting your head backwards, and striking your throat with the side of your hand while humming a tune), and my jokes.  But these days, I prefer to sit and listen.  My new role suits me just fine – you know, “wise old owl sat in an oak, the more he heard the less he spoke…”?

Anyhow, a very good friend of mine, Martin Langmuir, came to visit me yesterday.  It was one of his routine visits to me. Martin and I met over 30 years ago at Air Cadets.  He was a young then too. There was something about Martin that allowed he and I to develop a very close relationship.  He was tall and skinny and I, well, I was a member of SAC (short-ass-club). Martin and I would train our cadets every Thursday night and once the kids all went home, I’d teach Martin the protocols associated with enjoyed a beverage in the Officer’s Club.  It’s not so easy to develop the ability to place one’s foot up on the brass rail effectively.

I guess another reason Martin and I were able to become such good friends too is that Paula welcomed him into the family almost instantly.  He, of course, liked good food.  And the rest, as they say, is history.

As I mentioned, I don’t talk as much as I used to and I get awfully tired quickly.  Last night, Martin came and shared a glass of wine with me.  He chatted and I simply listened.  I don’t think we need words as this moment.  Funny how a simple memory of the times when he and “Cathy” summered in the cabin in our woods can flood my mind with thoughts.  I wish I could say what I wanted to say to Martin, but it’s just too difficult to express memories into words when they are so emotional.  Martin and Cathy took such good care of that cabin-in-the-woods.  It’s still there, by the way.. a little worn out, but the memories seem to spill out of it.  If only those walls could talk, boy they’d have some stories to tell.

If I could say what I wanted to say to Martin it would be to say how thankful I am to have had such a great friend for such a very long time.  He has seen me through some very good times and is supporting me through some not so good times.

Martin’s weekly visit is something I look forward to – it is something I get ready for both physically and mentally.  I want to be “there” for him, my friend.

Last night Martin reminded me of the “obstacle course” that we built in the back 40 for the air cadets.  There was a well, rope course, stump-jumping kind of thing, and more but I don’t recall the challenges at this point.  The cadets would be required to camp (survival training) for the week-end in this same location.  They were, for the most part, pretty good.  It is kind of funny that their survival training was simply how my family and I “lived” in the woods while our house was being built. Martin and I had a lot of fun teasing the boys and scaring them at night by making scratching noises on the tents.  We pretended we were bears… I think some of them still believe there were bears that they had to hide away from during survival training to this day!

Only Martin and I can share all the memories that belong to us.  The hard part about losing a friend is that you have no one to share those memories with.  They become exclusively yours, and, although still very precious, because you can’t share them with someone, they don’t come to life as much.  I wish for my friend Martin to know that I have always appreciated his friendship and the memories that we carry together.

To you, Martin, I raise my glass and say, “The dew may kiss the butterfly, a man may kiss his wife good-bye, the sparkling wine may kiss the glass, and you my friend… farewell”.  (Not really farewell yet -but Martin, I know you always got a kick out of this one!  Martin, my good friend, thank-you.  Long may your “lum reak”  (chimney smoke)!

A Father’s WIsh

I still remember my own Dad.  It has been over 20 years, maybe closer to 30, since he passed away.  Funny how one never really becomes accustomed to being fatherless.

My Dad, George Hunt Duff, was a hard worker – but in his old age he worked hard at play too.  He was a WWI vet, farmer, owner of the New Lowell General Store, postmaster, and general good guy. He would sing, “Oh froggy went a courtin’ he did ride, uh-huh…” to Stacey when she was young and she’d ask him to sing it over and over again.  One year, we got Stacey a tape recorder for her birthday (imagine -at one time that was considered to be quite the technology!) and she recorded my Dad telling jokes, singing songs, and recounting stories.  I think she might still have that tape.  Funny to hear his voice so many years after he has been gone.

My Dad was an entertainer and a traveler.  How loved to go to England when he was in his late 70s. I used to think that was so old!  He’d explore and visit friends – all on his own.

My Dad gave me a good life – we didn’t always get along as most kids will fight with their parents and I was no exception.  I was blessed, however, to have had the opportunity to get to know my dad as an adult.  Our relationship became one of mutual respect.  He was proud of me for where I had arrived in life and I was proud of him – well, simply because he was my Dad.  My mom passed away much earlier on – we never knew what happened to her but she just lost the ability to walk.  My Dad did everything he could for her – but medicine was so much different then.

He lived in his own home in New Lowell and shared it with a family who he knew were struggling at that time.  He was very generous.  I guess it was more of a symbiotic relationship as that family – who needed his generosity and kindness were also giving my Dad the gift of his own independence and ability to live (and die) in his own home.

The matriarch of that family called me one morning to say that she had been by my Dad’s side when he experienced a heart-attack and died.  He knew he was going and just asked her to stay with him.  What a way to go – in your own home, surrounded by friends, and quickly.

Yes, I still think of my Dad and how he taught me the value of family and to always look at the bright side of life.

So – 30 years later, Dad, I wish you, “Happy Father’s Day”!

May all of you who read this blog – have the opportunity to meet your parents as adults.

Cheers!