The House on 65th

Three gold cylinders faced me as I walked through the oversized front door. The once-fashionable doorbell that faithfully rang since 1977. 

The coat closet to my left looked just as it did the day we left, New Years Eve, 1990. I spotted the same flower shaped brass knobs on the linen closet down the hallway. My bedroom door on my immediate left was the same dark brown door, but I wasn’t sure I could go in just yet. I wondered if the back of the door was still covered in old sticker glue.

A few more steps in and my mother’s bedroom door came into view. As my heartbeat sped up, the baby gave me small kick. I put my hand on my belly as my kids and nieces ran past me into the house. I didn’t know if I was ready to go back to the house on 65th, but it was too late to turn back. 

I stood a moment, looking into my mother’s room. Oh Mom, I remember you so clearly.

The smell of Craven M wafts into my room and creeps into my dream. It pulls at me gently, signaling that Mommy is awake. She is still there. I am in her giant queen-size bed. I made it through another night and she is still here. It is time to get up.

Mom’s door opens to face the top of the open, spiral staircase, which is to the right of the living room and kitchen. Mom calls it an ‘open concept’ which means that we can see eachother most of the time when we are on the main floor.

I glance down the stairs as I scurry past them, just in case there’s demon, or a ghost. My sister says someone died making our house. Never walk too close to the rails.

It’s not fully light out, and the hanging tiffany lamp is on, casting a soft rainbow glow. Mom is sitting on the orange and brown floral chesterfield that rests between the other side of the staircase and end of the kitchen cupboards. She sits there so often there’s a permanent dent in the couch. She got the chesterfield and matching rocking chair when she got married in 1963.

The TV is on. Mom’s watching a morning news show on Channel 2&7. She takes a sip of her coffee and places it back on the counter next to the orange phone. She looks tired. She was up most of the night, smoking, pacing, worrying. I stayed up too, to make sure she didn’t leave. 

The countertop with the phone is not really part of the kitchen. It has three cupboards above and three below. They are very full with stacks of paper, old letters, pens and books. I know if I open one of the top cupboards something will fall on my head. 

There are three drawers above each of the bottom cupboards; the kids junk drawers. Mine is last, on the far right. Just as I am the last child. My drawer is full of stickers, smelly erasers, doll shoes, school valentines, my beloved membership letter from the CUCUMBER Club (Children’s Underground Club from United Moose and Beaver for Enthusiastic Reporters), and my response from the Vatican when I wrote to Pope John Paul, asking him to let me be an alter server. I will clean up my drawer one day.

I sit down at the long table with two benches on either side. Mom slowly gets up and changes the channel to the Mighty Hercules. She is limping slightly as she moves around the kitchen. She brings me a bowl of Honey and Graham Quaker Oatmeal, sits back down and lights another cigarette.

“Hey P, come and see what they did to the main bathroom,” my sister said and waved me down the hall to my left. I walk over to see that the entire bathtub had been replaced with a much smaller one. Odd. “And did you see the staircase? It’s awful, they replaced it with a smaller one.” 

I walked down the hallway and faced the kitchen, my back to mom’s room. My three daughters ran around the sunken living room, marvelling at the sheer enormity of the bungalow I grew up in. 2500 square feet on each floor, with a walkout basement, certainly did feel large next to our 1800 square foot two-story.

The realtor looked up from her papers. “Well, it needs a new roof, and probably a new AC unit. It’s original to the house. Plus, there’s some renovations in the basement that would need fixing. The original sauna is still here,” she looked up at me and smiled. “Think you’d ever want to buy it back?”

I paused for a second, imagining the life my kids might have here. Was the basement still haunted? Would they feel closer to mom? Would I feel closer to mom? How would family movie night look? Would the dog enjoy the two-level yard?

“No,” I said quietly. “The part that I loved is gone.”

Goodbye, Mom.

The Rock in the Road

I was 19 years old when I set out for Ireland by myself.

Before cellphones, with no credit card, and very little idea of what lay ahead, I boarded an Air Canada flight to Dublin. I arrived with a backpack of Clif bars to keep me alive for a month, clothes for a week, a sleep-sack and a Frommer's Guidebook, 1995 edition. The only plan I had made was meeting my Grandmother's best friend's sister at the airport, and using her Dublin home as a home-base.

After spending a few days in Dublin, I set out for the countryside. The buses were fantastic and allowed me to easily fly by the seat of my pants. I met a group of other young travelers a hostel in Belfast, Northern Ireland. Frank, from Holland, Naget, from the US, Florence, from France, and Sigma, from Germany. They had been traveling together for a few days and had set out a plan for the coming week. Why not?

Together we visited Bushmills, the Giant's Causeway, the Cliffs of Moher. Then came Carrick-a-Rede, a rope bridge. I lazily followed them onto a bus and read the Thorn Birds as we rode through the winding roads to the Info Centre. We all visited the loo and headed over to the bridge gate. I opened my pamphlet and thumbed through as we walked.

The bridge was built in 1755 to connect salmon fishermen to the rocky island of Carrick-a-Rede, Scottish-Gaelic for 'The Rock in the Road'. The road they reference was the migrating path of Atlantic salmon. This bridge removed the need to access the island by boat and allowed fishermen to catch up to 300 fish per day, right up until the 1960s. Interesting! The photos were very scenic, but... wait, did that say suspended above a 30 metre deep and 20 metre wide chasm? I looked up from the pamphlet as we approached the bridge. I ate my heart.

"I can't." I said to Frank, who was ahead of me at the back of the line. The other three clambered ahead, excitedly going one by one over the swaying rope bridge as the water below crashed against the island. I was as still as the giant rock that lay ahead.

"You can. I'll be right in front of you."

I felt like I'd fallen on my stomach at the playground. I couldn't catch my breath. I had never felt fear in that way before. I looked at my travel companions, halfway across the bridge, waving and calling to me. Island on the other side was the most majestic thing I'd ever seen. Crossing the bridge would be the hardest thing I'd ever done.

My head buzzed as thoughts galloped through, pulling me in each direction. I thought of my mother. If I died on the bridge, she wouldn't even know where I was. I hadn't talked to her in two nights. I thought of my dogs and how sweet their greeting would be when I arrived home. I thought of the many tourists who had made it across. Smiling and climbing the giant rock.

Frank's face became clear, trying to coax me onto the bridge. He was kind and patient, and yet I'd just met him. Could I trust him? He told me he was heading over the bridge. Was I going too? I would put all my trust in this one man to support me while I overcame the greatest fear I'd ever faced head on.

The first steps were slow and difficult. I could hear the waves crashing, Frank's calm voice coaching me forward, the cheers from the island from Florence, Sigma and Naget. As we moved across the 20 metres, I felt more confident. I listened closer to Frank's voice.

With each step, I felt my confidence surge. I was half way there. I suddenly knew that I could do this. Frank's voice faded and suddenly I realized that the voice that I was hearing was my own. You can do this, you can face this, you can cross the bridge.

We joined the others, and sat for a long time on the island, watching the wild sea crash. At first we talked, but slowly the talking became sighs and we each retreated to a contented quiet. I was thinking of the 400 years this island was used by people before us. It held many stories. It felt as though if we listened close enough, the grass would whisper their secrets, breathing their life back to us. Making us feel alite with new energy, as we each stood on the precipice of our own lives, about to unfold.

When we walked back over the bridge, I didn't feel the surge of fear. I took solace in the sound of the waves, no longer angrily crashing. Sigma called to me and Frank and took a photo as we crossed. He sent it to me a month later, with a note that said, “So you never forget how courageous you are.”

Carrick-a-Rede was closed during the Covid19 pandemic, and the National Trust of Ireland chose to do much needed restoration. We plan to take the kids to Ireland, part of their heritage, in a few years.

Though bridge they cross will not be exactly the same bridge I crossed, the island will have seen 30 more years, I hope they too will cross the bridge and hear the whispers as they go forth into their own lives.

 

Digging up Hatshepsut

In the tenth grade I entered the school Humanities program. It was a combined art history/social/english program for keeners. The program taught content that was not studied in the general streams, which I found intriguing. Though admittedly, the biggest draw was that at the end of the program the class went to Italy for 10 days in May.

I worked the maximum allowable hours for a 15 year old and saved every dime for the trip. Working as a page at the Calgary Public Library I earned $4.25 per hour. I had saved enough to pay the deposit in January, but I realized I would still be short for the final payment in April. It took me weeks to build up the nerve to ask my father for a loan. He said that since neither of my older sisters went, he wouldn’t do this for me.

Having nowhere else to turn, I reluctantly asked Aunt Joan. Single, childless and well-paid - if anyone could lend me the money, it would be her. She agreed to repayment with no interest within the calendar year. I paid the 50% deposit.

In March, we started reading our Canadian literature novel. I had enjoyed every novel we dug into – from Tess of the D’Urbervilles to Ethan Frome. I also adored my Humanities English teacher. He was like Robin Williams in Dead Poet's Society. Every class he inspired me, as he waved his arms and got excited about words and images, reading us passages aloud in his thick, Irish accent. He had even more enthusiasm as he introduced us to Child of the Morning, historical fiction by Alberta author Pauline Gedge. 

Child of the Morning told the largely unknown story of Hatshepsut, Egypt's second confirmed female Pharaoh. Written a year before my birth, the story chronicles Hatshepsut's reign, from age 15 to her death. She is the Pharaoh that was nearly written out of history by her successor, her stepson and nephew, Thutmose III. I was hungry for more.

I spent my work breaks searching. I was a young archaeologist on a dig through mounds of literature. The more I found, the more I searched. I spent hours pouring over dusty books, inhaling the smell of old texts, drinking in the facts, uncovering theories.

Hatshepsut was thought to be a regent for her stepson (nephew) Thutmose III, right up until the 1930’s, when an expedition near Thebes found a pottery jar, found in burial chambers, referred to Hatshepsut as pharaoh – not just a queen. Thutmose III tried desperately to erase his stepmother/aunt after her death.

Her images were removed, her accomplishments were no longer hers, her name was scratched out. No one could help her.

But still, so many questions remained. Was Gedge’s book accurate? What was her life like? What happened after her death? Did she want to accept the role she was born into? What was it like being back-stabbed by family?

When the final payment was due in April, I phoned Aunt Joan to ask for a cheque. After leaving three messages, she finally answered the phone. Her voice was aloof and cold. She said she never actually agreed to lend me the money, but she would if she could come on the trip as a nurse.

I asked my father again if he would loan me the money. He refused. I asked my English teacher if there was any way at all that they could accommodate her. Of course, it was beyond too late. I couldn’t even get part of the deposit back.

I was duped. Tricked. Lied to. I was never going to make it to Italy. No one could help me.

Last week, I texted my family a link to a new discovery in Egypt from Archaeology Network News. It’s nothing new – they expect these texts from me. My teenage daughter was sitting in the kitchen and yelled, “Mom, when are you going to stop trying to dig up Hatshepsut?”

She was 15 when she took power. Who really was she?

I was 15 when I found her. Who really was I?

"Never."

2011

October 1st. Mom wanted to smoke. I spent the morning getting the nurses to lift her into a wheel-bed. Her shattered hip, riddled with cancer, made this one venture to the garden an all-day event. I pushed her into the serene courtyard, under the canopy. Though the leaves were already turning, the sun was bright and warm. I unhooked her oxygen and helped her light the cigarette. She choked. She tried a second drag. She coughed, gasped and sputtered. Her collapsing lungs could no longer tolerate the habit that caused them to fail. She handed me the cigarette and said she'd try tomorrow. Then she threw up. 

She had no pleasure.

The nurses changed her clothes, wiped her up. The lift placed her back in her bed. I flipped through channels while she settled herself again. 700 marchers arrested crossing the Brooklyn Bridge. We are the 99%! The nurse turned up her oxygen. 

October 2nd. I arrived with Violet. I noticed Mom did not ask for a cigarette. We turned on the TV and Violet snuggled in the bed beside Mom's frail body. I turned to Treehouse, and they watched Dora the Explorer intently while Mom brushed Violet's curly hair, one of her favourite things to do. Suddenly Mom yelled, "Go help her! She lost the monkey, she lost the monkey!" I turned off the TV and tried to comfort her. Violet looked up at me, but said nothing, her four year old eyes full of confusion. When the doctor came I asked him what changed. I asked how much time. 

She had no time.

October 4th. I started my maternity leave. I balanced my visits with the obstetrician with dropping kids off at kindergarten and preschool, and visiting mom every moment I could. When I arrived in the mornings after kindergarten drop off, mom was always asleep. Little Violet liked to play in the kids area of the hospice. This moment was all to myself. I turned on the TV. 15,000 marchers in Lower Manhattan. We are teachers! We are the mothers! We are the nurses! We are the workers! We are the poor! We are the 99%!

The social worker came to ask if mom's affairs were in order. I explained that her lease was up in the summer, her few belongings were in storage. Her financials were in order; she had only one bank account, with no more than a thousand dollars in it. She inherited from her great-aunt the year before. It was the largest her bank account had ever been. 

She had no wealth.

October 10th. Before shift change, the nurse checked mom's vitals. She checked them again. Mom's breathing was changing. She suggested that we have the six  grandchildren in to say goodbyes. The last words she ever said were to the girls. I watched their brave little faces tell Grammy they love her. She strained to tell them she loved them, too. 

She had no strength.

October 12th. I dropped the kids off at a friend's house and went to the hospice. The doctor came in and checked her vitals. She had only hours. My husband, sisters and their husbands arrived. Mom's best friend asked if she could come for support. The seven of us waited, taking turns going to the garden for air. I flipped through the newspaper. Canadians were banding together. They would join the marchers on Saturday. They were rallying in major cities. They were making their signs. We are the 99%!  

She wouldn't make it to Saturday.

October 13th. At 12:08am, I held her hand and watched as the final air blew through her cracked lips. A friend she had made in hospice was lingering outside the door. He asked permission to say a traditional Indigenous prayer over her. The on-duty nurse came in and joined us. Nine of us held hands as Charlie spoke in his native tongue, then translated to English. Creator, please greet her. Bring her back home while she waits for those she loves. We cried together as we sent her away, out of the body that betrayed her. Out of a life that worked against her, that took her possessions and afforded her few worldly comforts.

They told stories about her. Her friend remembered the first time they met at school, as their children entered grade two. The nurse liked to sit with her and talk about the Food Network. Charlie would talk about Winnipeg with her. They loved her smile. Her easy laugh. Her loyal friendship. 

She was not alone.

The nurse said, "This room is so full of love. Most people in here don't have this kind of send off." 

October 15th. My sisters and I met at Ricky's to plan mom's funeral. One of Mom's favourite haunts, and right near the funeral home. While I waited for my sisters to arrive, I glanced at the TV. The subtitles read, '950 cities in 82 countries.... global occupy rallies.... representing the 99%....' Thousands of people gathered. We are the 99%! 

She had everything.

Big Wheels and Dirt Hills

The story can change, but the place stays the same. The place is where my mind goes to feel home. The place I lived from age 3-14, in a suburban Calgary neighbourhood where we would see deer running across the street and often have skunks nesting under the porch. When it’s a good dream, it's less of a dream, and more of a memory. But the place is always the same.

The view from my doorstep is all uphill. From the over-sized threshold with the giant metal door, I can see up nine or 10 homes to my good friend’s house at the top of the hill. Sean is two years older than me, but only one grade ahead because I’m a February baby and I am younger than everyone else in my grade. We lie to people that we are cousins, because we don’t want to be teased for our friendship.

To my left is a small, bean shaped garden. There is a tiny tree planted beside the garden, that was the exact height of myself when we moved in. It was there when we moved from Ontario in August 1980, as was the little garden. It was the following spring that I discovered one of my favourite scents in the world – lilacs. I can smell them as I slam the door and walk ahead, passing the carport that most bungalows of the late 1970s had, and grab my Big Wheel.

Once I’m at the end of my driveway, I can see the road going right, but I don’t care too much about that road, since I have no friends living there. It’s all older kids, like my babysitter Peter. He’s the coolest guy ever, long hair and a trench coat. He trick-or-treats every year, and mom gives him handfuls of candy and thinks he’s just a lovely young man. I think he’s pretty cool looking.

I’m heading up the hill to Sean’s house. I’m passing by Jenny and Kevin today, because we have a plan to go Big Wheeling in the dirt hills. We aren’t sure if we’re allowed, but we’re not asking. The dirt hills are only a few streets over. I never ride my Big Wheel up the hill to his house because it’s too steep. That makes it perfect for ripping down with no feet on the pedals and using the brake to make a skid-stop! I’m so glad I got the boy’s Big Wheel and not the girl’s Powder Puff. I’m convinced the Big Wheel goes faster.

Our street is almost all bungalows or split levels with lots of brick and brown and dark yellow siding. There’s a park at the top of the hill on the opposite side of the street as Sean’s house, so we tell his mom we’re going exploring and head toward that park, and we’re off to the dirt hills.

The dirt hills were preparation for the new homes and a large Latter Day Saint’s church that would be built over the coming 2-4 years, but for now, it was dirt overflow, perfect for kids to do what kids do best. And on this day, we see that some bigger kids have beat us to the punch. There’s one mound left for us. Sean goes first and can’t make it up. Then I try. We decide that we will need to carry our Big Wheels up the hill and ride down.

Fully aware that kids are laughing at us from their fancy mountain bikes, we have a tremendous fun and can’t stop giggling. We head back when the street lights come on. Sean and I swear to never tell our parents where we were, and I hop on my trusty plastic ride and race down the hill to a perfect skid-stop. I’m covered in dirt, chilled to the bone, and completely happy as I smell the lilacs on my way in the house.

Of course, the way dreams are, these events usually happen in a slow, surreal way. But the feeling is always the same. This is home, this is the feeling of joy, of breathing in crisp air, and careless, effortless play. Of trusting that I’ll be safe no matter what, because my comrade and I are boundless, fearless, and by god, we have a Big Wheel for an escape if necessary.

I miss this place more with age, probably because the person I loved most was part of it and is now gone. I visited the house with a realtor when I was pregnant with my fourth child. The lilac bush is still there. The tiny tree is enormous and takes up most of the yard. It’s grown well.

The big 4-0

So it would seem that I have just days left in my 30s. Heading into 'midlife'... a time defined by extra-marital affairs, sports cars, botox and a renewed love of tanning. I find this both alarming and bewildering - what happened to four decades? How did these years slip past me like that? I just got married last week, didn't I? It doesn't seem that long ago I was getting Strawberry Shortcake dolls for my birthday from a gaggle of girlfriends, or took my mom to see Titanic in the theatre (she totally loved it). It doesn't seem possible, but still, here I am.

Around my birthday, I always flash back to my best and worst birthdays. You would not believe my worst birthdays, but I will say that 16 was pretty awful. And one of the best was 21 - I got front row seats for U2 from my sister. Bono sweat on me. Well, almost. It was near me, anyway.

But alas, the years from 30-40 have been the most memorable. I became a mother, the most crazy wonderful thing I've ever experienced. And I watched my mother die a slow and horrifying death. I said goodbye to all my living grandparents, my aunt within the two years before my mother died, and had my third child days after. But obstacles, stress and fear also lead to growth, and I have learned a few things along the way.

First of all, stop taking yourself so seriously. Not everyone is looking at you. Not everyone cares what size your jeans are or if you have a bad haircut. Further, the people who matter won't ever care. There was a time when I was loathe to wear a swimsuit in public. Never again. It's my body, not yours. It has done amazing things - look at these three humans I grew and fed! You don't have to have had babies to have a remarkable body - everything your body does is amazing. Love it, respect it. Respect yourself.

Second, raise your voice. No one else will raise it for you. If you are concerned about your health and well-being, someone else's health and well-being, or just feel like something is 'right', say so. The flipside of that is, do your homework, be open-minded and work to find solutions wherever you can. Also call bull-shit when you need to.

Third, status is for the unhappy. Ever noticed that friend that is always so worried about getting the promotion, excelling at work, having amazing, top-notch kids? Ever noticed how happy they are? As I look around I realize that status doesn't mean anything at all. Most people don't know what my status is, and the people that matter don't care. My husband drives his first car - a hail-battered Honda Civic. He is often the brunt of the joke. Is he cheap? Not really, he just doesn't care. His car is safe, it runs well and is reliable. It costs him next to nothing. What makes you happy isn't things, or status. It's people and experiences.

The last one is, live in the moment. It's so easy to constantly be looking ahead, planning the next year, or two, or ten... I've spent so much time waiting for the right time, for everything to align. First to get out of grade school, then out of university, find a good job, then to get married, to get pregnant, to pay off the house, the car. It's so easy to forget to enjoy that moment, and truly live. Planning is great, as long as it goes hand in hand with living.

Forty isn't the worst. It comes with some knowledge, more openness to fail, and a certain sense of freedom. I have a feeling the next 40 will be even more interesting. Stay tuned.

Great Expectations

Yesterday, the doorbell rang. It was the teenager next door, delivering a letter that was sent to the wrong address. I saw it was from a friend, and immediately thought it must be a late Christmas card. I felt that little bit of excitement, that you know is something that's not a bill, like a Christmas card (or a delivery from ThinkGeek). I hadn't had a Christmas card from her in years. I felt slightly bewildered as I opened two sheets of paper... where is the card? Wait, what? My eyes scanned the words as I flipped the page and suddenly realized...I opened a four-page PFO (please f-off) letter that indicated she thought I held some kind of grudge toward her, didn't want to hang out with her, and ended with a statement about her ending the friendship and providing her with closure.

Stunned, I read it again. Then one more time. Then I called my husband. I read it to him. He laughed. He thought I was joking. Nope.

Once I got over the sheer 'is this really happening' of the situation, I started to process the information. It must have deeply mattered to this friend that I hadn't hung out with her in a few years (which was cited in the letter). It seemed that every time we were trying to set up a coffee date, something didn't work. And it was usually on my end. The past decade, in addition to my professional life, I've had three kids, been in the true sandwich generation, caring for small children and aging/dying parent. Then I lost my mom, had my third child a few weeks later, and have been balancing my kids, my job, my professional volunteer obligations since then. I can literally fill an entire month, from morning to bedtime, with those things and have no time for myself whatsoever. Easily. Let alone hanging out with friends. Especially not hanging out with friends without at least one kid in tow... that rarely happens.

It's fair to say that as life evolves, friendship changes. Especially when it spans a critical time of change, from teenage to adulthood to mid-life. The problem, I think, is when the expectations of that friendship haven't changed. I no longer have the flexibility I did in university. I have small humans that depend on me 24/7. Until my mother recently passed away, I had a full-grown adult riddled with cancer relying on me too.

My reasons behind not hanging out with her were not ill-spirited or intentional. No grudge, no avoidance, no pushing away. It may sound trite, but I really just don't have a lot of free time. Especially between the hours of 7am and 9pm. Most of my work, writing or time to myself is done after they go to bed, not exactly 'let's go for coffee' time.

Now, you might read this and say, that sounds like excuses, and I'm sure unless you lived a day with me, that would be valid. And in fact, I rarely see any of my friends unless we have shared things to do, which usually involve kids. Since almost none of my friends are friends with eachother, visiting each friend is an individual thing. And since I work from home part-time without regular childcare, I reserve my limited babysitters for work-related needs.

It also means that the vast majority of my communication takes place on the phone, on Facebook, in a text, or in an email - where I can sneak 30 min of time. It doesn't mean I don't think of them, or wish I had more time to visit. But when I have some time, I try to communicate. And this seems to be understood by most of my friends...especially the ones who are in the same boat as me. It also makes face-to-face time more meaningful, when it does happen.

Friendship morphs and changes as life evolves, just like in a marriage. The ones that endure have the ability to change and adapt, while still adding value, be it seeing eachother daily in class or seeing eachother once a year at a Coffee and Play place.

In this instance, I feel bad that a conversation between us didn't take place. Perhaps I could have let her know it's not personal, and that relationships don't always need to be physical to matter. Perhaps it just wasn't what she needed from the relationship. Perhaps, from her perspective, the medium is the message. Whatever the case, we had very differing expectations about what friendship looks like.

Going forward, I'll make sure I let my friends know that they matter, and what I'll be able to give back at this point in my life. Expectation Management. Lesson learned.