My sister gave me a box and a money order for Blacks - throw in all your pictures and have them transferred to a CD. It was the impetus I needed to get back to my blog. I had not been able to blog as all I wanted to do was talk about death - those who have left us, gone before us, out of reach. And realizing that it might be too difficult, too personal, for my dear readers, I have held off writing anything. But with this early birthday gift, I am able to approach it from a different angle. By going through all the pictures that were in the 'pictures from the DR drawer' looking for ones to include in the collection, it freed me to share what's going on with me.
I have a recurring nightmare, or at least I thought it was a nightmare, where I have hidden bodies all over my house and surrounding areas. I wake up in a sweat wondering if I have indeed murdered all these people. Now it seems to me that these bodies are those of my loved ones that I have hidden from view but are still alive in my heart, hidden from my conscious but alive in my subconscious. It was not a nightmare but a dream - a dream of those I have 'killed' one way or another. By killed I mean, allowed to 'pass to the other side'. It is now obvious to me that I felt guilty that I some how had a hand in their demise - by letting go and accepting that they were dead when my whole being cried out that I did not want that - I don't want them dead - my guilt surfaced in this dream/nightmare where I know I have hidden those loved bodies!
Going through the box, I held pictures of Mom and Dad, Christina and Felicity, Maura, Marie and Helen, Mary Rose and Finny. Each picture brought a particular memory of the person - good times, fun times, and it made me miss them even more. A picture of Dad with grandchildren on his knee - Mom with Spot and Pip - Christina with my daughters - Felicity at Christmas. I don't understand death but I accept it - not as a finality, but as a part of the chain of life. Yes, I do believe they are still with me - around me - part of me. I know I will be with them again in their changed state of existence - one I will share. It gives me comfort to know that I will also still be with my children and grandchildren and friends but in a different way - so don't cry for me Baltimore, Lansdale, West Chester, or Vancouver - I have always loved you and will forever.
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Monday, January 31, 2011
Happy Birthday Daughter
What blog would be complete without the telling of a birth story! Today is my third daugher's birthday! On my children's birthday, I always recount the day they were born - orally - but now I get to write it down and post it for everyone to enjoy!
When I was pregnant with this daugher, the first murmurs of the dangers of alcohol while pregnant emerged. Fine, whatever, no drinking - yes, I had had a little to drink before I knew I was pregnant but what can a couple of glasses of wine do? The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that those innocent glasses of wine could very well spell the destruction of my baby. I was always worried about the safety of my little fetuses and in this case, I became obsessed that I had done something wrong and had jeopardized his/her (well it turned out to be a 'her') well being. So I started an OCD campaign of prayer begging that everything would be okay. I promised that if the baby were okay, I would name her Monica after Augustine's mother as a testament to the power of perseverance and prayer as demonstrated by the salvation of her son. I drove not only myself crazy but everyone around me!
As the pregnancy progressed with boring regularity, I began to believe that those few glasses of wine had not rendered my unborn child a victim to Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and decided on another name - Margaret Mary. Then my cousin gave birth to a baby girl and promptly called her Margaret Mary. Understand the right of first dibs on a name - my cousin had taken this name and it was therefore, off the books!
In the Fall, while about seven months pregnant, I went with my sister to visit my cousins in California. My aunt had cancer and although the prognosis was good, we thought it might be a good idea to visit - just in case you know. We had a wonderful time reconnecting with our double first cousins and I remember my uncle providing me with a special stain to take back. I was into furniture refinishing at the time and was in the process of redoing the old oak dining room table I had salvaged from my parent's garage. The leaf was missing and it was in poor shape but I loved the Queen Anne curved legs of that table. I had admired a recently refinished end table at my aunt and uncle's place and when he told me that he had mixed up the stain himself, I was a goner. I took that stain back and lovingly applied it to the table thinking how appropriate - my father's sister's husband who was also my mother's brother had given me this stain which, when applied, seemed to link us geographically across the miles.
Mu aunt died on New Year's Eve that year. My daughter was born a month later. The day she was born, I had eaten three whistle dogs for lunch - they just seemed so good! I had also eaten a dinner of boiled corned beef and potatoes - one of my favourites! When my first labour pain came, I alerted everyone and went home to have a bath and shave my legs, wash my hair - plenty of time right? Suddenly those whistle dogs and corned beef mouthfuls did not sit so well - up they came and to this day, I cannot even think about eating corned beef. It went from a few mild pains to urgent in an hour, and I was hustled to St Joseph's hospital in real distress. My doctor at the time, Dr Joseph Madigan, was battling his own demons and I had been going to his replacement Dr Silang. He didn't make it in time and a tiny perfect little Asian doctor - Dr Degusi - attended the birth of little Monica. Dr Silang arrived after the fact to pat my hand and tell me everything was alright and beam at me with his gold capped teeth.
While I was 'recovering' (five blissful days at those times) - Dr Madigan came one afternoon to see me. I just looked at him and he looked at me and we squeezed each other's hands. He nodded and bobbed, and smiling, backed out the door. I knew that some healing had taken place for him at that time. The special bond of doctor and patient had extended to a deeper more significant level and that he came to see me after the birth of my daughter, was an admission that while he had not exactly been there for me, we had been in together in his thoughts!
Monica was born with a full head of wild black hair. I sent a picture of her to my brother who was in the Canary Islands at the time (an intervention by my father), to let him know we had chosen him as godfather. He sent me back a card with $5 dollars in it saying 'congratulations, get her a hair cut'. Many were outraged when they heard, but I just laughed and thought 'oh that Greg'.
Monica cried for the first three months of her life - colic no doubt - but it never registered or bothered me. I was happy to carry her around all the time, cooing and murmuring into her little pink ear, as she wailed. One afternoon while I was trying to listen to Saturday Afternoon at the Met, our downstairs neighbour came up and pounded on the door. He was a policeman and slept irregular hours. When I opened the door to his bleary face and red-rimmed eyes, he said, 'Either shut that baby up or turn down the damn radio'. Monica stirred on my shoulder and stopped crying. It was over - whatever had caused her discomfort must have been scared away by my distraught neighbour! I still carried her around all the time but the difference was she was not crying, but cooing and smiling at the world around her. Happy birthday Monica.
When I was pregnant with this daugher, the first murmurs of the dangers of alcohol while pregnant emerged. Fine, whatever, no drinking - yes, I had had a little to drink before I knew I was pregnant but what can a couple of glasses of wine do? The more I thought about it, the more I became convinced that those innocent glasses of wine could very well spell the destruction of my baby. I was always worried about the safety of my little fetuses and in this case, I became obsessed that I had done something wrong and had jeopardized his/her (well it turned out to be a 'her') well being. So I started an OCD campaign of prayer begging that everything would be okay. I promised that if the baby were okay, I would name her Monica after Augustine's mother as a testament to the power of perseverance and prayer as demonstrated by the salvation of her son. I drove not only myself crazy but everyone around me!
As the pregnancy progressed with boring regularity, I began to believe that those few glasses of wine had not rendered my unborn child a victim to Fetal Alcohol Syndrome and decided on another name - Margaret Mary. Then my cousin gave birth to a baby girl and promptly called her Margaret Mary. Understand the right of first dibs on a name - my cousin had taken this name and it was therefore, off the books!
In the Fall, while about seven months pregnant, I went with my sister to visit my cousins in California. My aunt had cancer and although the prognosis was good, we thought it might be a good idea to visit - just in case you know. We had a wonderful time reconnecting with our double first cousins and I remember my uncle providing me with a special stain to take back. I was into furniture refinishing at the time and was in the process of redoing the old oak dining room table I had salvaged from my parent's garage. The leaf was missing and it was in poor shape but I loved the Queen Anne curved legs of that table. I had admired a recently refinished end table at my aunt and uncle's place and when he told me that he had mixed up the stain himself, I was a goner. I took that stain back and lovingly applied it to the table thinking how appropriate - my father's sister's husband who was also my mother's brother had given me this stain which, when applied, seemed to link us geographically across the miles.
Mu aunt died on New Year's Eve that year. My daughter was born a month later. The day she was born, I had eaten three whistle dogs for lunch - they just seemed so good! I had also eaten a dinner of boiled corned beef and potatoes - one of my favourites! When my first labour pain came, I alerted everyone and went home to have a bath and shave my legs, wash my hair - plenty of time right? Suddenly those whistle dogs and corned beef mouthfuls did not sit so well - up they came and to this day, I cannot even think about eating corned beef. It went from a few mild pains to urgent in an hour, and I was hustled to St Joseph's hospital in real distress. My doctor at the time, Dr Joseph Madigan, was battling his own demons and I had been going to his replacement Dr Silang. He didn't make it in time and a tiny perfect little Asian doctor - Dr Degusi - attended the birth of little Monica. Dr Silang arrived after the fact to pat my hand and tell me everything was alright and beam at me with his gold capped teeth.
While I was 'recovering' (five blissful days at those times) - Dr Madigan came one afternoon to see me. I just looked at him and he looked at me and we squeezed each other's hands. He nodded and bobbed, and smiling, backed out the door. I knew that some healing had taken place for him at that time. The special bond of doctor and patient had extended to a deeper more significant level and that he came to see me after the birth of my daughter, was an admission that while he had not exactly been there for me, we had been in together in his thoughts!
Monica was born with a full head of wild black hair. I sent a picture of her to my brother who was in the Canary Islands at the time (an intervention by my father), to let him know we had chosen him as godfather. He sent me back a card with $5 dollars in it saying 'congratulations, get her a hair cut'. Many were outraged when they heard, but I just laughed and thought 'oh that Greg'.
Monica cried for the first three months of her life - colic no doubt - but it never registered or bothered me. I was happy to carry her around all the time, cooing and murmuring into her little pink ear, as she wailed. One afternoon while I was trying to listen to Saturday Afternoon at the Met, our downstairs neighbour came up and pounded on the door. He was a policeman and slept irregular hours. When I opened the door to his bleary face and red-rimmed eyes, he said, 'Either shut that baby up or turn down the damn radio'. Monica stirred on my shoulder and stopped crying. It was over - whatever had caused her discomfort must have been scared away by my distraught neighbour! I still carried her around all the time but the difference was she was not crying, but cooing and smiling at the world around her. Happy birthday Monica.
Shooting Trains
You know that dead hour just before dinner is ready and you can all sit down to eat? The worst hour of the day because you can't go anywhere or do anything but just hang around waiting for everything to cook, bake, boil, rise, finish! If you do try and sneak out on an errand (leaving someone else to watch things), you find that time speeds up - even a little trip outside can result in burning, scorching, sticking. But if you stay on guard in the kitchen, then time slows down and you sit there watching the clock that doesn't seem to move, waiting for timers to go off!
Little Claire came up with a perfect activity for this 'hour'. We sit on the floor in the kitchen, she against the door to the basement, and me up against the little Wiggles table, and shoot her Thomas train engine back and forth to each other across the smooth laminate floor. Peals of laughter and much shouting - the time flies by.
At first we were content to just shoot the engine but then Claire decided to spice things up by having me send the train off a little plastic train bridge - much more difficult than it sounds. Getting it to her and in a straight line proved a challenge. If it derailed or failed to go far enough, she would jump up and get it using Sam's paws (her favourite teddy bear) and bring it to me throwing it down with a clatter and blaming Sam for being so rough. Then she wanted to include Annie and Clarabel (two box car trains) to the engine. I tried my best but without much luck. Claire was ever patient and would sigh and go back to just Thomas as the main event.
In recalling this, it reminded me of when I was young and would spend hours throwing a tennis ball against the school wall. Like Claire, I would want to increase the challenge - one hand, clap in front, clap in back, spin around and try and catch it before it fell. The inherent urge to see what I could do and still catch that ball.
What marvellous force resides in a child as she tries to see what she can accomplish - never willing to accept the status quo but always pushing to achieve more - go higher, faster, make it more difficult - delighting in mastering each new self-imposed level. While this drive has mercifully lessened over the years, I still delight in learning something new, trying a different way to do things, increasing the difficulty, and loving when I get it done! Never give up - never settle!
She has a little train table now so no more shooting engines across the floor. Now we make up stories about the trains as we move them around, me speaking in a terrible British accent as 'Lady' engine, and she, almost overcome with delight, answering me in her 'Thomas' voice. We have our favourite engines, Thomas for her, and James for me - although she is not particularly impressed with the James engine, she accepts without question, that it is 'Meme's favourite' (he's vain but lots of fun), and it has been added to our 'useful crew'. That's what love is all about.
Little Claire came up with a perfect activity for this 'hour'. We sit on the floor in the kitchen, she against the door to the basement, and me up against the little Wiggles table, and shoot her Thomas train engine back and forth to each other across the smooth laminate floor. Peals of laughter and much shouting - the time flies by.
At first we were content to just shoot the engine but then Claire decided to spice things up by having me send the train off a little plastic train bridge - much more difficult than it sounds. Getting it to her and in a straight line proved a challenge. If it derailed or failed to go far enough, she would jump up and get it using Sam's paws (her favourite teddy bear) and bring it to me throwing it down with a clatter and blaming Sam for being so rough. Then she wanted to include Annie and Clarabel (two box car trains) to the engine. I tried my best but without much luck. Claire was ever patient and would sigh and go back to just Thomas as the main event.
In recalling this, it reminded me of when I was young and would spend hours throwing a tennis ball against the school wall. Like Claire, I would want to increase the challenge - one hand, clap in front, clap in back, spin around and try and catch it before it fell. The inherent urge to see what I could do and still catch that ball.
What marvellous force resides in a child as she tries to see what she can accomplish - never willing to accept the status quo but always pushing to achieve more - go higher, faster, make it more difficult - delighting in mastering each new self-imposed level. While this drive has mercifully lessened over the years, I still delight in learning something new, trying a different way to do things, increasing the difficulty, and loving when I get it done! Never give up - never settle!
She has a little train table now so no more shooting engines across the floor. Now we make up stories about the trains as we move them around, me speaking in a terrible British accent as 'Lady' engine, and she, almost overcome with delight, answering me in her 'Thomas' voice. We have our favourite engines, Thomas for her, and James for me - although she is not particularly impressed with the James engine, she accepts without question, that it is 'Meme's favourite' (he's vain but lots of fun), and it has been added to our 'useful crew'. That's what love is all about.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Shock and Awe
My sister commented on my new picture - a heart cloud - and her comment motivated me to write about what is on my mind - and why my heart is in the clouds!. I don't for a minute think that heaven or whatever our next existence will be, is up there in the sky, amidst the clouds, no nothing like that. Heaven, or whatever is waiting for us, is right beside us. But I chose that picture because it symbolizes how my heart is in the clouds, with Ben. This is so hard and I am crying, but I know that I have not been true to my blog because I have not shared what is truly and always on my mind.
February 3 will mark the 3 month anniversary of Ben's departure from this existence where he was with us, to a new existence where he is still with us but in such a different way. A simple follow up procedure, yes there was something not right, he was in pain and not well. 'Don't worry it's okay, he's strong, this is just a little set back and to be expected. Yes, I will call everyone - yes, I will let Matthew know - yes, I will invoke the prayer chain/circle - but don't worry, he's going to be fine.'
Update at midnight - it's going well. I'll just stay up to make sure - call me when the surgery is over. It might be long. Don't worry, I've got my book and I'll be up - just call me to let me know everything is okay. And then the phone call at 2:00 a.m.. "Mom, he died!". "But you told me the surgery was going well - how can this be?" "I just want him back!" Crying together on the phone - sobbing and wailing - no, no, no. Am I dreaming? Can this really be happening?
Out of bed, into the shower, pack up my bag, in the car, driving, stopping to call my sister. Son in law calling me to tell me to be careful and take it easy - pull over if you have to rest. Oh dear boy, I am on my way, "Don't worry about me - I am fine!"
Long long drive. Can't get there fast enough. Rushing into her house, taking her in my arms, crying together. Pain of her loss, my loss, our loss.
Ben, I could have spent more time with you. He knew and smiled at me - put his arms around me - was with me on my way back home when my car broke down. With me in the car as I waited on the side of the highway in the dark with horrible huge trucks screaming by. Laughing at the OPP cruiser with the lights flashing that pulled in behind me to wait for CAA. No judgements, just love love love.
I didn't go to the funeral but stayed with all the grandchildren while the parents attended. 'Ben, you know I would have gone if you wanted me to.' 'Stay here with all the kids - it's better this way.'
My brothers came - seeing them made my heart sing. Thank you. They never met Ben but he showed them what they had to do. My brother on the floor helping her pick out the best pictures for the slide show. My brother helping with the mass program, getting them printed and then picking up the programs. My brothers moving through the crowd, talking, shaking hands, talking to me, supporting me and the family.
My sister said you were going to be a Rock Star! I didn't question her vision and now I think of you playing Rock Band and Guitar Hero. Am I too shallow when I ask, have you met Jim Morrison?
Ah, Ben - your Meme should have done more and been better! Remember when I made up a sign for me? Waaa waa waa - arms circled and shaking myself. You laughed and imitated me. I was afraid of all your apparatus - your breathing tube - your stomach tube - I was always afraid something would come loose and fall out! You never asked for much and I did read you books and pick you up - but always, I was so afraid that I would do something wrong and you would be hurt!
Ben, remember the Ben doll I made for you when you had to go in to the hospital for your trachea reconstruction? Remember I dressed it in a little robe and slippers? It wasn't much and I should have done more, but now I cling to that gesture in the hope that it showed you how much I truly loved you!
Remember when you came to the Thanksgiving Feast we had at Michael and Tonya's? Remember how you played with the Black and Decker tool set that James gave Charlie? You loved it and I said 'now we know what to give Ben for Christmas!' But all we could give you for Christmas were donations in your honour because you had left us! Do you remember the flowers that Grace cut up and put in little glasses for everyone's place at the table? Do you remember Charlie running out with a dinosaur to give to Jack when he left?
Ben I know that yours will be the first hand that I will hold when I join everyone on the 'other side'. You will bring your Meme to you and I am in awe of your power and love!
February 3 will mark the 3 month anniversary of Ben's departure from this existence where he was with us, to a new existence where he is still with us but in such a different way. A simple follow up procedure, yes there was something not right, he was in pain and not well. 'Don't worry it's okay, he's strong, this is just a little set back and to be expected. Yes, I will call everyone - yes, I will let Matthew know - yes, I will invoke the prayer chain/circle - but don't worry, he's going to be fine.'
Update at midnight - it's going well. I'll just stay up to make sure - call me when the surgery is over. It might be long. Don't worry, I've got my book and I'll be up - just call me to let me know everything is okay. And then the phone call at 2:00 a.m.. "Mom, he died!". "But you told me the surgery was going well - how can this be?" "I just want him back!" Crying together on the phone - sobbing and wailing - no, no, no. Am I dreaming? Can this really be happening?
Out of bed, into the shower, pack up my bag, in the car, driving, stopping to call my sister. Son in law calling me to tell me to be careful and take it easy - pull over if you have to rest. Oh dear boy, I am on my way, "Don't worry about me - I am fine!"
Long long drive. Can't get there fast enough. Rushing into her house, taking her in my arms, crying together. Pain of her loss, my loss, our loss.
Ben, I could have spent more time with you. He knew and smiled at me - put his arms around me - was with me on my way back home when my car broke down. With me in the car as I waited on the side of the highway in the dark with horrible huge trucks screaming by. Laughing at the OPP cruiser with the lights flashing that pulled in behind me to wait for CAA. No judgements, just love love love.
I didn't go to the funeral but stayed with all the grandchildren while the parents attended. 'Ben, you know I would have gone if you wanted me to.' 'Stay here with all the kids - it's better this way.'
My brothers came - seeing them made my heart sing. Thank you. They never met Ben but he showed them what they had to do. My brother on the floor helping her pick out the best pictures for the slide show. My brother helping with the mass program, getting them printed and then picking up the programs. My brothers moving through the crowd, talking, shaking hands, talking to me, supporting me and the family.
My sister said you were going to be a Rock Star! I didn't question her vision and now I think of you playing Rock Band and Guitar Hero. Am I too shallow when I ask, have you met Jim Morrison?
Ah, Ben - your Meme should have done more and been better! Remember when I made up a sign for me? Waaa waa waa - arms circled and shaking myself. You laughed and imitated me. I was afraid of all your apparatus - your breathing tube - your stomach tube - I was always afraid something would come loose and fall out! You never asked for much and I did read you books and pick you up - but always, I was so afraid that I would do something wrong and you would be hurt!
Ben, remember the Ben doll I made for you when you had to go in to the hospital for your trachea reconstruction? Remember I dressed it in a little robe and slippers? It wasn't much and I should have done more, but now I cling to that gesture in the hope that it showed you how much I truly loved you!
Remember when you came to the Thanksgiving Feast we had at Michael and Tonya's? Remember how you played with the Black and Decker tool set that James gave Charlie? You loved it and I said 'now we know what to give Ben for Christmas!' But all we could give you for Christmas were donations in your honour because you had left us! Do you remember the flowers that Grace cut up and put in little glasses for everyone's place at the table? Do you remember Charlie running out with a dinosaur to give to Jack when he left?
Ben I know that yours will be the first hand that I will hold when I join everyone on the 'other side'. You will bring your Meme to you and I am in awe of your power and love!
Saturday, January 22, 2011
The Sunroom
Off my parents' bedroom on Llewellyn was a tiny hall that led to a closet area on one side, and to a sunroom which was over our front porch. This room was unheated and in terrible condition, unused and served merely as storage area. One summer I had the brilliant idea of turning it into a bedroom! Tired and fed up with the third floor girls' dormitory, I coerced my younger sister into begging my parents to let us fix it up and use it for the summer. My mother, distracted with the every day needs of managing ten children, blew us off by saying if we cleaned it up, we could use it. The next week was Homeric in our resolve to change it into a viable living quarter.
We dragged everything out, cleaned it all up, washed and waxed the wooden floor, somehow managed to find two twin beds, and triumphantly displayed our work to my mother. She agreed we had kept our end of the bargain and let us use it as a bedroom! We were allowed to move to the sunroom for the summer.
Sleeping there, with the windows open (they were on all three sides, half way up and could be latched to the ceiling) and trees surrounding it, was an experience I will never forget. We woke to the sun shining in the windows, the breeze wafting over and around us - it was as if we were in a tree house shut off from everything and in our own little world!
Once summer was over and the cold weather came, our sunroom bedroom turned back into a storage area and my sister and I went back to the third floor. My recollection is we never used the sunroom as a bedroom again - it didn't matter - we had a dream and we made it happen!
We dragged everything out, cleaned it all up, washed and waxed the wooden floor, somehow managed to find two twin beds, and triumphantly displayed our work to my mother. She agreed we had kept our end of the bargain and let us use it as a bedroom! We were allowed to move to the sunroom for the summer.
Sleeping there, with the windows open (they were on all three sides, half way up and could be latched to the ceiling) and trees surrounding it, was an experience I will never forget. We woke to the sun shining in the windows, the breeze wafting over and around us - it was as if we were in a tree house shut off from everything and in our own little world!
Once summer was over and the cold weather came, our sunroom bedroom turned back into a storage area and my sister and I went back to the third floor. My recollection is we never used the sunroom as a bedroom again - it didn't matter - we had a dream and we made it happen!
The Women of Llewellyn
Please dear readers, understand that in my description of the Women of Llewellyn, I am describing them as I saw them at the age of six up to fourteen, with the brutal unfeeling eye of a young girl who did not have any patience or appreciation of their life or what they had endured!
Our next door neighbour was Kay Dallimore. She never raised her voice and always had a slight smile on her face. She was kind and loved my mother. I remember her hands with short blunt unpolished nails - the hands of a nurse. My mother wore nail polish all the time - like her, I paint my nails, and always when I do my nails, I remember my mother. Later in life, when she was unable to do her own nails, my sisters would put polish on them for her. I never did but when I would see one of my sisters carefully applying the polish, I would sigh and think how wonderful they were to do this for my mother. Perhaps one day my daughters will have to paint my nails - although I have told them repeatedly that when I am no longer able to go and get my roots done, or get myself to a salon for a mani/pedi, they have my permission to 'pull the plug'.
Mrs Dallimore had seven children - a small family by my standards. Her husband Larry, loud, brash and my tormentor! He would tease me about the church as he was not a Catholic - theirs was a 'mixed marriage'. He would make jokes about priests and cardinals and my head would spin with visions of him going straight to hell for his blasphemy. The Dallimore children became close friends of my younger siblings while I, being older, was of an age to be a babysitter!
Their house was the mirror image of ours but somehow seemed to be better. They were not as 'poor' as we were so there was always a tinge of jealousy when I thought of them. They had a little record player that I would use when I babysat - 45s as they were called - and I would play records over and over.
Across the street was Kay Egerton - I cannot recall how many children they had but I know that they were even poorer than we were. Her husband was Lou and I picked up my mother's negative opinion of him - the unspoken message was that he did not measure up. Kay Egerton was fiercely loyal to him and I admired that she never ever complained about him. They sold their house and moved to Georgetown. We went to visit them once - they had purchased a farm house and it had flies! I was obsessed with the flies and couldn't get out of there fast enough! How shallow I was........
Peg Newton also lived across the street. She was a 'war bride' and had met and married Bev Newton in England during the war. She was ontologically scarred by the deprivation she had experienced during the war in Britain. She would carefully check over each and every shopping receipt against what they had bought - although I didn't appreciate it at the time, I later came to understand how wise she was. I recall her saving butter wrappings and using them to grease pans - a tip I later used! She had a huge scar on her neck from a burst gland - things children notice and fixate on!
Then there was Mrs Hill. I always thought of their family as being 'hillbillys'. Where this came from, I have no explanation. She had long grey hair and it seemed that there was always some crisis in their household - either with the husband or the children - Keith, Roy, and Irene - there may have been another brother but I cannot recall his name.
There were the Harrisons - the husband was Wilf (I thought the name weird until I realized my own father's middle name was Wilfrid) but I do not recall her name. She had long red hair which I heard my mother curtly and dismissively mention being due to her husband liking long hair - harrumph! Two boys - Bobby and Gary - Gary a bully - and Bobby, sweet and gentle. Gary tormented me and my younger sister and one day, fed up with his constant attacks on us and feeling all righteous, I punched him and miraculously managed to connect with his nose giving him a glorious nose bleed. His mother came over to complain to my mother, and although she went through the motions of saying how awful it was that her daughter had been so violent, I knew she applauded my bravado when she smiled at me after Mrs Harrison had left.
At the end of our street, on Islington Avenue, was Mrs Mitchell. I thought of her as Marmy from Little Women and saw her daughter Heather as the embodiment of Beth from same story. I do not recall her ever saying a word but she exuded a calm and spiritual manner that greatly impressed me.
These women embodied the spirit of their time. They cared and nurtured their children and served not only their families, but one another. I know that every woman on that street would drop whatever they were doing to come to the aid of each other. Over the years, their kindness and support helped my mother through a very difficult time. It was with sorrow and a huge sense of loss, that my mother left our home on Llewellyn when the area was rezoned to extend Islington Avenue.
While I had few regrets at moving, I know that I am so lucky to have experienced the community that was Llewellyn
Our next door neighbour was Kay Dallimore. She never raised her voice and always had a slight smile on her face. She was kind and loved my mother. I remember her hands with short blunt unpolished nails - the hands of a nurse. My mother wore nail polish all the time - like her, I paint my nails, and always when I do my nails, I remember my mother. Later in life, when she was unable to do her own nails, my sisters would put polish on them for her. I never did but when I would see one of my sisters carefully applying the polish, I would sigh and think how wonderful they were to do this for my mother. Perhaps one day my daughters will have to paint my nails - although I have told them repeatedly that when I am no longer able to go and get my roots done, or get myself to a salon for a mani/pedi, they have my permission to 'pull the plug'.
Mrs Dallimore had seven children - a small family by my standards. Her husband Larry, loud, brash and my tormentor! He would tease me about the church as he was not a Catholic - theirs was a 'mixed marriage'. He would make jokes about priests and cardinals and my head would spin with visions of him going straight to hell for his blasphemy. The Dallimore children became close friends of my younger siblings while I, being older, was of an age to be a babysitter!
Their house was the mirror image of ours but somehow seemed to be better. They were not as 'poor' as we were so there was always a tinge of jealousy when I thought of them. They had a little record player that I would use when I babysat - 45s as they were called - and I would play records over and over.
Across the street was Kay Egerton - I cannot recall how many children they had but I know that they were even poorer than we were. Her husband was Lou and I picked up my mother's negative opinion of him - the unspoken message was that he did not measure up. Kay Egerton was fiercely loyal to him and I admired that she never ever complained about him. They sold their house and moved to Georgetown. We went to visit them once - they had purchased a farm house and it had flies! I was obsessed with the flies and couldn't get out of there fast enough! How shallow I was........
Peg Newton also lived across the street. She was a 'war bride' and had met and married Bev Newton in England during the war. She was ontologically scarred by the deprivation she had experienced during the war in Britain. She would carefully check over each and every shopping receipt against what they had bought - although I didn't appreciate it at the time, I later came to understand how wise she was. I recall her saving butter wrappings and using them to grease pans - a tip I later used! She had a huge scar on her neck from a burst gland - things children notice and fixate on!
Then there was Mrs Hill. I always thought of their family as being 'hillbillys'. Where this came from, I have no explanation. She had long grey hair and it seemed that there was always some crisis in their household - either with the husband or the children - Keith, Roy, and Irene - there may have been another brother but I cannot recall his name.
There were the Harrisons - the husband was Wilf (I thought the name weird until I realized my own father's middle name was Wilfrid) but I do not recall her name. She had long red hair which I heard my mother curtly and dismissively mention being due to her husband liking long hair - harrumph! Two boys - Bobby and Gary - Gary a bully - and Bobby, sweet and gentle. Gary tormented me and my younger sister and one day, fed up with his constant attacks on us and feeling all righteous, I punched him and miraculously managed to connect with his nose giving him a glorious nose bleed. His mother came over to complain to my mother, and although she went through the motions of saying how awful it was that her daughter had been so violent, I knew she applauded my bravado when she smiled at me after Mrs Harrison had left.
At the end of our street, on Islington Avenue, was Mrs Mitchell. I thought of her as Marmy from Little Women and saw her daughter Heather as the embodiment of Beth from same story. I do not recall her ever saying a word but she exuded a calm and spiritual manner that greatly impressed me.
These women embodied the spirit of their time. They cared and nurtured their children and served not only their families, but one another. I know that every woman on that street would drop whatever they were doing to come to the aid of each other. Over the years, their kindness and support helped my mother through a very difficult time. It was with sorrow and a huge sense of loss, that my mother left our home on Llewellyn when the area was rezoned to extend Islington Avenue.
While I had few regrets at moving, I know that I am so lucky to have experienced the community that was Llewellyn
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Where Do Babies Come From?
A little discourse on the the birds and the bees. One of my younger sisters thought babies came from Martin's Dry Cleaners because my parents had stopped there to pick up some dry cleaning on their way home from the hospital with a new baby. It was perfectly logical at the time and I wished I could have provided her with a better answer - but talking about where all these babies came from was not a subject with which anyone was comfortable least of all, me.
I recall the horrible day I was taunted by a neighbourhood boy (Jimmy Paul) who said 'your mother is having another baby' and me, hotly denying it until I went home to ask her if she were indeed 'having another baby!'. She laughed and said 'yes' and I was mortified for the both of us! My mother wore loose fitting dresses and I was never aware of how she looked, so pregnancies did not register on me.
This same boy's parents (the Pauls) helped out when my mother went to the hospital for the birth. We went to their place for lunch and had the most wonderful delicacy imaginable - Kraft Dinner! I had never tasted anything so good - my mother always made her own macaroni and cheese - and when we tasted this packaged combo, neither I, nor my younger brothers and sisters, could imagine why my mother would bother making her own when this obviously superior alternative was available!
When we moved to Llewellyn, my third youngest brother was brought in a wicker laundry basket as he was so small. He had been born prematurely and weighed only 5 lbs at birth! He attained a respectable weight and height as the years passed, but I know my mother always thought he was 'delicate'. She changed her mind later on when this same brother got into a whole heap load of trouble and was almost expelled from school. He is now a PhD and teaches at a college in St Paul Minnesota - go figure!
My two youngest brothers are only 11 months apart - 'Irish Twins' is the term - and were treated as 'twins'. We would celebrate their birthdays together, twice, and I have fond memories of caring for these two little ones. By caring, I mean I would feed them (one for you - two for me) spoonfuls of baby fruit (apricots were my - I mean their - favourite), bathe them, and tie them up to the maple tree on the lawn when I had to look after them.
My second youngest brother was a 'pistol' - that's the only way to describe him. Around three years of age, he drove his little pedal car all the way up to Dundas Street and was brought back home by the police. My mother peered out of the front window of our house and asked 'Why is there a police car out front? Where's Mark!' With a scientific bent, he would conduct experiments like throwing water on hot light bulbs to see if they would burst - they did. He set fire to cotton balls soaked in rubbing alcohol from the medicine cabinet - such an inquisitive mind! He devised a plan to obtain much needed cash by taking coins from the milk bottles that the neighbours left out and purchased dinky cars for himself and his little brother - who could fault such a noble gesture - certainly not me although the neighbours were not as impressed.
My youngest brother, at three months of age, became ill. My mother just knew there was something wrong and trusting her instincts, called the doctor. In those days, family practitioners actually made house calls. Dr McKenna (of the warm hands and kind face) arrived to check out the baby. Stethoscope out, visually checking my brother, we all waited with baited breath. He shook his head and said he wasn't sure but he did not want to take any chances so he took our baby brother to the hospital. The next morning he called my mother to say our little brother had made it through the night! Made it through the night? My mother and we older siblings, could not grasp the import of his words. Sure he had been a little off, but made it through the night? It turned out that he had a staph infection that had seeped into his chest cavity. They had to put a 'drain' in to remove the infection from his chest - he still has the scar!
After that my little brother was treated like royalty by my parents - well, actually just my mother. She would carry him around even when he weighed almost as much as she did - she would piggyback him up the stairs for his nap. Fair dues to him, he did not become spoiled or demanding but had such a sweet and affable nature that everyone loved him.
He went through a stage where he would talk about his dreams ad nauseum. I would stagger down to the kitchen in the morning to see him sitting there with my parents recounting his latest dream. If my mother could have given him a 'coat of many colours' she would have - he was the 'Joseph' of the family. This is the brother who is now a contemplative monk in Vermont. I never felt the least bit guilty for the way I treated any of my brothers when they were growing up. I feel I added to their character and have no remorse for trying to ditch them whenever I could!
After the birth of my youngest brother, my mother had a series of miscarriages - we did not know what they were at the time, and it is only in piecing together the events later in life, that we understood what had happened. Our neighbour, Mrs Dallimore (a former nurse) came over one time when my mother experienced one of these 'events' and assessing my mother's condition, called an ambulance. She saved her life but all I remember was 10 little tear stained faces pressed against the window watching the ambulance take our mother away - the flashing lights were pretty cool though!
I recall the horrible day I was taunted by a neighbourhood boy (Jimmy Paul) who said 'your mother is having another baby' and me, hotly denying it until I went home to ask her if she were indeed 'having another baby!'. She laughed and said 'yes' and I was mortified for the both of us! My mother wore loose fitting dresses and I was never aware of how she looked, so pregnancies did not register on me.
This same boy's parents (the Pauls) helped out when my mother went to the hospital for the birth. We went to their place for lunch and had the most wonderful delicacy imaginable - Kraft Dinner! I had never tasted anything so good - my mother always made her own macaroni and cheese - and when we tasted this packaged combo, neither I, nor my younger brothers and sisters, could imagine why my mother would bother making her own when this obviously superior alternative was available!
When we moved to Llewellyn, my third youngest brother was brought in a wicker laundry basket as he was so small. He had been born prematurely and weighed only 5 lbs at birth! He attained a respectable weight and height as the years passed, but I know my mother always thought he was 'delicate'. She changed her mind later on when this same brother got into a whole heap load of trouble and was almost expelled from school. He is now a PhD and teaches at a college in St Paul Minnesota - go figure!
My two youngest brothers are only 11 months apart - 'Irish Twins' is the term - and were treated as 'twins'. We would celebrate their birthdays together, twice, and I have fond memories of caring for these two little ones. By caring, I mean I would feed them (one for you - two for me) spoonfuls of baby fruit (apricots were my - I mean their - favourite), bathe them, and tie them up to the maple tree on the lawn when I had to look after them.
My second youngest brother was a 'pistol' - that's the only way to describe him. Around three years of age, he drove his little pedal car all the way up to Dundas Street and was brought back home by the police. My mother peered out of the front window of our house and asked 'Why is there a police car out front? Where's Mark!' With a scientific bent, he would conduct experiments like throwing water on hot light bulbs to see if they would burst - they did. He set fire to cotton balls soaked in rubbing alcohol from the medicine cabinet - such an inquisitive mind! He devised a plan to obtain much needed cash by taking coins from the milk bottles that the neighbours left out and purchased dinky cars for himself and his little brother - who could fault such a noble gesture - certainly not me although the neighbours were not as impressed.
My youngest brother, at three months of age, became ill. My mother just knew there was something wrong and trusting her instincts, called the doctor. In those days, family practitioners actually made house calls. Dr McKenna (of the warm hands and kind face) arrived to check out the baby. Stethoscope out, visually checking my brother, we all waited with baited breath. He shook his head and said he wasn't sure but he did not want to take any chances so he took our baby brother to the hospital. The next morning he called my mother to say our little brother had made it through the night! Made it through the night? My mother and we older siblings, could not grasp the import of his words. Sure he had been a little off, but made it through the night? It turned out that he had a staph infection that had seeped into his chest cavity. They had to put a 'drain' in to remove the infection from his chest - he still has the scar!
After that my little brother was treated like royalty by my parents - well, actually just my mother. She would carry him around even when he weighed almost as much as she did - she would piggyback him up the stairs for his nap. Fair dues to him, he did not become spoiled or demanding but had such a sweet and affable nature that everyone loved him.
He went through a stage where he would talk about his dreams ad nauseum. I would stagger down to the kitchen in the morning to see him sitting there with my parents recounting his latest dream. If my mother could have given him a 'coat of many colours' she would have - he was the 'Joseph' of the family. This is the brother who is now a contemplative monk in Vermont. I never felt the least bit guilty for the way I treated any of my brothers when they were growing up. I feel I added to their character and have no remorse for trying to ditch them whenever I could!
After the birth of my youngest brother, my mother had a series of miscarriages - we did not know what they were at the time, and it is only in piecing together the events later in life, that we understood what had happened. Our neighbour, Mrs Dallimore (a former nurse) came over one time when my mother experienced one of these 'events' and assessing my mother's condition, called an ambulance. She saved her life but all I remember was 10 little tear stained faces pressed against the window watching the ambulance take our mother away - the flashing lights were pretty cool though!
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