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.