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!

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!

The Family Chain of Responsibility

When I say 'Responsibility' I mean there was no 'Authority'.  My parents hit upon a particularly brilliant (for them) idea where the older members of the family were assigned responsibility for the younger ones!  So, around the age of 8, I was made responsible for my second younger brother.  It might not have been so bad had not the luck of the draw linked me with a particularly troublesome. accident prone sibling. 

Since I was responsible for him, not only did I have to feed, bathe, change and look after him, I was also the 'go to person' if he got in trouble - and the trouble he got into surpassed all others in the family!  When the city decided to put up new telephone poles, he managed to fall head first down one of the post holes which was filled with water after a prolonged rainfall!  Miraculously (his Guardian Angel no doubt) a neighbour  saw what had happened, ran out and was able to grab his legs, but being very slight, she could only lie beside the hole holding him above the water!  Another neighbour, Mr Mitchell (big and strong) luckily came home in time to rescue both by hauling my brother out of the hole!

He managed to open the little window and crawl out onto the roof of the third floor girls' bedroom and proceed to throw all our clothes out on the lawn!  He got stuck in the 'quick sand' mud behind our school and was pulled out by the elderly caretaker Mr Cade, losing his socks, shoes, and boots in the process!

All of these transgressions were laid at my door!  Where was I when all of this happened!  Excuses were never accepted and I would dart hateful glances at my brother when we were BOTH punished for his crimes!  It is with a deep and abiding love that I now admit to having a special bond with this brother - the tie has never been broken!  Inspite of all I endured because of him, I see him and in my heart is a maternal connection that pulses strong and real - oh you naughty boy!

Another Shocking Tale

Here's a story that gave me nightmares for a long time!  As Sis told it (and verified by my great uncle Rufort), in the early 1930s, their aunt Mary was driving with four of their relatives in some sort of huge luxury convertible, up the steep incline near Grenadier Pond in High Park (Toronto).  Aunt Mary was only 4' 9" according to Sis.  The car (a standard) stalled!  Aunt Mary was unable to restart the car and due to her height (as this was an integral part of the story), she was not able to control it, and the car rolled inexorably back down RIGHT INTO Grenadier pond!  'Grenadier Pond has no bottom' my Aunt Sis would say in sepulchuric tones.  They all drowned with the exception of the aforementioned great uncle Rufort!    Trust me when I say, I will never skate on Grenadier Pond.

Even though I avoided Grenadier Pond, High Park has some wonderful memories for me.  My Dad would take us to see the poor old Buffaloes at the zoo there where we fed the beasts stale bread crusts.  We would also feed the swans until the time my younger brother was charged by an irate one - we were all too afraid after that.

Another favourite place in High Park (but this was much later) was Colborne Lodge.  The historical society has restored it to its former glory and I enjoyed many Sundays there going through the rooms and imagining myself as Elizabeth Bennett waiting for Mr Darcy.  My father in a surprising burst of generosity, bought me a limited edition lithograph of Colborne Lodge which I still have.  When I look at it, I remember those Sundays with my father.  Thanks Dad.

One of Sis's Best

On one occasion when my aunt was visiting, she talked about the time their father inherited $10,000.  Now this was in the 1920s so I am going to calculate that it was the equivalent of inheriting around a million dollars.  The story unfolds that Mr H blew the entire inheritance in ONE YEAR!  He bought my mother and aunt full length fur coats (they were around 13 and 15 at the time).  As he was afflicted with 'The Drink', the rest I gather went to entertaining his cronies at the local pub. 

Amazingly my aunt and mother did not seem particularly upset at this behaviour and shrugged it off with a sort of 'oh that Wascally Wabbit' and 'what can you expect from our Dad' attitude.  Hell, why didn't he buy them a house?   They rented their whole lives and I know from other stories that their life was one of hardship and penury.  My sister said simply, it was because he was an alcoholic and nothing ever make sense when one is trapped in this addiction.

From what I heard from my aunt and sometimes from my mother, it seems their mother  would often up and move when my grandfather went on one of his 'fishing trips' - and not tell him.  My mother, in a rare disclosure of her early life, recounted sitting on a window seat in one of their new places and seeing her father outside, she called out to him and that was how he found out where they were!

I am sure he was an abusive husband but for my mother, he was her touchstone and rock!  A fearful and timid child, she said she would listen at night for the sound of his lighter as he lit a cigarette and then she felt safe knowing he was there, awake, and able to protect her from the night demons that tormented her and made my mother an insomniac for most of her life.

And speaking of smoking in bed, this was a habit that my mother inherited - as did my father.  I can still remember the scorch marks on the hardwood floor of their bedroom from the cigarettes they dropped and left burning.  It is a miracle that we were not all roasted in our beds and a tribute to our Guardian Angels (and further proof of their existence) that we survived!

Aunt Sis - The Storyteller

I often joke with my cousin about being switched in the cabbage patch at birth.  She identified so strongly with my mother that she even used the same dish pattern (Pink Vista), while both of us agree that I am more like her mother.   Neither of us saw our mothers the same way and it is funny and enlightening to hear each other's side of the story.

My aunt's name was Mary but we all (as my mother did) called her Sis.  She was larger than life with a self confidence that shone forth - she could do anything - well, anything she chose to do.  An expert seamstress, a quick and talented cook, flower arranger, fashion consultant, and storyteller, she filled our house with her laugh, her perfume, and her conversation whenever she came to visit.

My parents rarely talked about their upbringing and my mother, almost never, so it was Sis who filled in the pieces for us.  Born and raised in Toronto, my mother's family lived on St Joseph street in a duplex that they all shared even after their marriages.   While it must have been difficult for the parents, we cousins all grew up in this extended family and developed bonds that have survived geographical separation (and even death).  We delighted in calling ourselves 'double cousins' since my mother's brother married my father's sister.   When the duplex was demolished to make room for a new seminary, the family split up and moved apart.  The repercussions were devastating on all of us especially for my mother who I believed suffered the most at being separated from her family.

Sis was the consummate storyteller and I could listen to her for hours as she recounted tale after tale about their (to me bizarre) upbringing, always punctuating her stories with her soft infectious chuckle.  I was acutely aware of my mother's unease when Sis went off on one of her trips down memory lane - I know that they did not share the same perspective on their early life.  But my hunger for this family history overcame my guilt at my mother's obvious discomfort.   I had a deep need to know more about our family history and was frustrated that I could never get my mother to talk.  I remember asking her about the day I was born and all she said was that it was the hottest day of August and that I was late - not quite what I was hoping to hear.  Now if I had asked Sis about each of her children's birth, I would have had every detail from the moment of conception to present day.

When my children were growing up, a family tradition I started was to tell them on their birthday all about the day they were born - from the first labour pain to the joyous moment of holding them in my arms.  Even as they grew older, I continued to recount their birth story on each and every birthday - sometimes to the discomfort of their spouses.  I want my children to know about their history.

I believe my love of storytelling is inherited from Aunt Sis - wherever it came from, I am thankful for this gift.  When I visit with my grandchildren, they demand to hear stories - about their parents, about their aunts and uncles, about their cousins, and even about me.  Most of the stories have been told so many times that now my grandchildren are able to fill in when I purposely pause - 'she was soaked from the top of her head to the bottom of her shoes!'  (A particularly favourite story about my daughter who jumped into the pond at James Garden one hot Sunday afternoon).

This blog is an effort to capture these stories and to give my family their history and in doing so, I will always be grateful to Aunt Sis - my first Storyteller!

Epiphany and My Sister's Death

The Epiphany was a feast I used to like.  In 1999 my younger sister died on this day and I have never felt the same about this feast since.  She had been ill with a bad cold and cough and one of my other sisters had suggested that we and one of my brothers should get together to celebrate the day with her and to ensure that she was recovering.  It had been snowing and the driving was awful as I left work.  After parking my car, I got out and started to walk towards her apartment building only to fall into a snow bank.  I laughed out loud at my clumsiness and got up and brushed myself off.  In the background I could hear a siren from an ambulance or fire truck but it did not register as anything other than an anonymous siren.

When I reached her apartment, I saw the door was open.  I entered and the scene that met my eyes is forever etched on my mind.  My brother was performing CPR on my sister.  He looked up at me with desperation in his eyes and I just sank to the floor.  My legs had turned to butter ( a phrase one of my brothers used to describe how he felt when he was charged by a dog).   He yelled at me to take care of Pip, the family dog that my sister had inherited after my mother's death.   Pip, never a good dog, was barking wildly and racing about the apartment.

The siren I had heard was the response team coming to my brother's 911 call.  They arrived shortly after I did and one of the emergency responders helped me up and put his forehead against mine and said 'if you want to be here, you must be strong and control yourself''.    His calm tone and firm manner calmed me down enough to grab Pip and place her in the bedroom.  The team worked on my sister while I just stood there helpless in horror.

My other sister arrived and I ran out to meet her before she entered the apartment.  I grabbed her and said 'if you want to be here you must be strong and control yourself'.   The rest is pretty much a blur.

The irony of her death on the Epiphany is not lost on me.  She was 'Queen of the Epiphany' celebrations and always made a 'Bean Cake' ensuring that one of my children would find the bean and be King or Queen for the day!  It was a family tradition for us to put a shoe out to be filled by the Magi as they passed by on their way to the stable in Bethlehem - and it was a tradition that I carried on with my own family.  I know it wasn't one of the Kings that took her on that particular day but my older sister who had died just three months earlier.  One of my younger sisters told me that she believed we are given a choice at the point of death - that we are allowed to choose if we will accept it.  I believe my older sister asked her if she wished to be with her again, and she said 'yes'.  Now I believe she thinks that perhaps she could have carried on but she has accepted her decision and is happy to be with all of us in a different way - part of the Circle of Women that have gone before us but are still with us in a very real and special way and always ready to help and support when called upon.

I miss her terribly but recognize that this is selfish.  She was my best friend and always, always there for me.  She traveled with me, accompanying me on my big 'turning 50' road trip out West where we met my daughter.  She traveled with me down to see our Aunt in St Louis when I decided it might be fun to hook up with our cousins there.  She never questioned these trips, just good-heartedly agreed to be my companion!

I wrote about the wind chimes I bought that brought the voices of my sisters back to me.  In the tinkling of those chimes, I hear their laughter and know they are ever with me.

My Sister

January 6 is the anniversary of my younger sister's death.  Not only was she my sister, she was my best friend (I've read this comment from others many times but for me it is so TRUE).  She did my roots for me, made pastries and desserts whenever I needed them (I never gave her credit - 'oh yes, isn't this pie marvelous - I used an old family recipe'), took road trips with me and I miss her every day. 

I had published a story about her but then decided it was too intimate and got up last night and deleted it.  I have many more stories about her that I will be sharing - like the time we both almost drowned when she made us laugh while we were swimming by commenting 'fun, eh bandit'.

She died just three months after our oldest sister.  I am convinvced our oldest sister took her to be with her again because she (as all of us) knew my younger sister just could not bear the loss and life as it had become.  Shortly after the deaths of my sisters, I went out to Vancouver to visit my daughter and I found a wind chime.  My sisters spoke to me through those chimes and when I hear them now, I know they are with me saying 'we love you!'.