Guard Duty

My husband and son and I have a long history of taking in shelter dogs. These animals, seven so far, become part of our hearts and souls. They are treated like full members of our family. Leaving them for extended periods of time, or putting them in a kennel when we go out of town, or farming them out, is not an option. Since I am home most, I am the primary connection to these animal companions, although my husband and son share equally in the walking and grooming of the animals. In the past we have had to deal with a couple of neighbours who treated their dogs with wanton cruelty, and so we got the local Humane Society and even the Sheriff's Department involved in one particularly traumatic case that took over 3 years to document and have justice prevail for the abused and suffering dog next door. The suffering the animals endured right in our street, right across from our own fence, the loneliness and pain, left a deep impact on my heart. I fought like a lioness for the haphazard creatures. Nothing infuriates me more than suffering caused innocent creatures at the hands of cruel, heartless men and women. We include our dogs and cat Tigger in all aspects of our lives and the bond and love with these animals over the years is priceless and often very moving. Loneliness is one of the worst sufferings heartless humans inflict on their dogs that are supposed to be their companions that deserve respect, proper shelter, food, clean water, exercise and love. I have seen dogs in our own street deprived of all those basics. When my parents moved to Arizona in the early 1990's, one of my younger sisters got a job in Georgia, so did her husband. My youngest sister was living with my parents off and on, as she was already battling bi- polar depression. Somehow, my mother and sister in Georgia thought it would be a good idea if my parents and youngest sister moved to Georgia as well. That proved a big mistake, it did only further my sister's manic depression once she was in Georgia, as she ended up taking her own life within 3 years of having moved there. But in the time before moving to Georgia, my mother spent a lot of time there visiting my other sister and her husband. My father was left behind, for weeks at a time, at the house in Arizona, which was very beautiful, but isolated, leaving my father very much alone. At the time, it felt wrong to me, and knowing what I know now about her motifs and contempt for her marriage, it only seems more despicable. I often think, you would not treat a dog the way she treated my father. He just put up with it, paid all the expenses, he was good enough for my mother for that. It seems monstrous to think how all those months she left him alone were only a prelude to how she would ultimately kick him out after 45 years of marriage and leave him to struggle with the tragedy of Alzheimer's on his own, while she kept the house, his money and belongings. He never said one bad word about her, and kept believing until his dying day, 7 years later in Oostende, Belgium, that she would take him back. She poisoned our hearts for him with superbly crafty emotional manipulation, something that left me nauseous and traumatized for many years. She hated him, told us so, and it was her deepest ambition to convince her children they should despise their father equally. I am not sure what made me think of my father, just sitting in that nice house in Arizona, while my mother was in Georgia. It was so easy to dupe him. She had made that into an art, and the same way she convinced my father he should move to Arizona for her, she convinced him to move to Georgia, with tragic results for him and my youngest sister. While my father was living with her in Arizona, it was like my mother had my father on guard duty. She would take off for Georgia and leave him alone, in case my youngest sister would need help. Those were lonely times for him. He was not invited to come along, because my mother was all too glad to get away from him any chance she had. She was all too glad too, to share her delight at being away from him with her children, which I always thought  was in bad taste. Meanwhile, our father sat alone, waiting, like a fool. Michael and I were on a very tight budget with a toddler son, all the way in Washington State, my brother was all the way in Texas with his wife and two small children, and my youngest sister was battling manic depression. It was a messed up and frustrating situation. It makes me sad to realize now, all those years later, how our mother manipulated him ,and her children, shamelessly. She caused him so much loneliness the last 18 years of his life. By the time I realized what she was doing, it was too late to let him know I finally understood, as he was already deep in the clutches of dementia and no longer remembered who I was. I think of him alone in Arizona, alone in Georgia after she kicked him into a cheap apartment, alone at two different retirement communities in Belgium, where he would die in the second one, an Alzheimer center in Oostende. His three sisters in Belgium are the women who gave him dignity in all the anguish he endured the last 7 years he lived there. It was like he was a soldier sent out to be on guard duty on a lonely outpost by the whim of his commander, my mother. Only he was never allowed to go on break, he was never released from his lonely post. Very much like the lonely dogs I fought so hard for.  They at least got a reprieve. My father was not so lucky. 

The Upgrade

Dreams tend to run in patterns. My dreams are no exception. I have dreams that are just sheer fun, often involving exotic adventures, that can take place in the distant past or distant future. Those dreams are exhilarating and make me wake up energized and intrigued, hoping for a sequel. Other dreams are not so pleasant  and always involve trying to get in touch with my family, and failing. The only one I successfully connect with in those family dreams is my father, who always plays a protective role. He passed away in February of 2008, and in the dreams he appears as a kind spirit, trying desperately to help me make contact with my brother, sisters and mother. Last night, I had a dream I was traveling in Canada, trying again to make contact with my family. Now, in the past, I was always trying to call my family, by payphone, and I never had the change needed to make the call, and when I did, I could not find a payphone anywhere, and when I could, I was unable to get through. For years the pattern was the same. No one wanted to help me, and I would wander around looking for a kind stranger to help me make the call. What I realized this morning when I woke up, was that in the last year or so, in my dreams dealing with reconnecting to my family, I now carry a cellphone. So, my brain has made the adjustment to the updated technology. I initially thought that switch would enable me to make contact with my family easily in those troubled dreams. But that is not what is happening. The upgrade technologically did not change the dreams, I still cannot get through. I am in an area with no cellphone reception, or the battery is low, I cannot find the charger in my purse anywhere, cannot find anywhere to charge it. When the cellphone does work, I get no answer. The realization of this made me really excited. The new technology is obviously a renewed attempt to facilitate outreach and the ultimate goal of connecting, but the outcome of the dreams does not change. I have no idea of knowing if it ever will. But the phenomenon is fascinating to me. There is a bittersweet message there, that there is definitely hope in new technology, but it does not change the basic existential conundrum of the human condition. I personally enjoy the new technology very much. I love being able to e- mail messages to my friends in far away places, to be able to communicate with cousins in Belgium I have not seen over 30 years, to get to know my nieces in Belgium and Texas, one of whom I have never met, to share my stories world wide, to daily send messages to my son and husband, to share pictures, ideas. It is wonderful. I obviously long for that closure with a troubled family history, but the resistance and failure of the new technology to succeed in my dreams about my family is very telling. Some wounds of the soul and heart cannot be fixed like a car engine. In my dreams about the distant future, flying cars and magnetically guided trains are very capable of getting me to my exciting destinations, but these are just fun adventures. In the family dreams the technology is now updated in a very clever shift of my brain, but the trauma has not changed, so until it does, the technology in the dreams cannot oblige. Very sobering, and very intriguing. But I am sure as stubborn as I am, that I will keep trying. That does not make me sad. It makes me actually quite hopeful.

The Colour of Nag Champa

For as long as my husband and I have been together, the incense Nag Champa has been his favorite.
It has a strong woodsy scent, and also smells soft and powdery; over time I have come to associate its fragrance with relaxation and a sense of peace and well being. This morning was no exception. My son had the day off, and I lit some of the incense before breakfast, lounging in my pajamas, happy to have a day without schedule or demands. As the incense's smoke curled up luxuriously in its burner, and its pleasant smell wafted through the house, it felt like it had a colour that gently dusted our home , a soft lavender that made me smile. It is always interesting when our senses mix metaphors and this sensation of the incense painting the emotional well being of our home a pleasing lavender certainly got my attention. Lavender is one of my favorite soft colours and the incense playing this pleasing twist with my senses this morning was intriguing. Of course, this trick was completely voluntary, I realized, and it was fun to think so. It was me experiencing a very personal scent to me in a very personal way. Over the years, the Nag Champa incense had become associated with pleasing experiences, so adding some colour to it seemed very appropriate. The thought made me anticipate what colour the incense might take the next pleasant morning comes along. Having an artistic sense of humour was proving to be a nice detour, one I hope to continue experiencing. Just another way that proves to me, one more time, that alert and sober is not the boring way to go when your senses are awake. The morning turned into a warm, sunny day, the mystery of its fog blending into bright light, and the smell of the incense too, faded to blend into my clothes and hair. As the afternoon, too faded, so did the sun, and bright white clouds sped across the turquoise sky. I imagined the clouds smelling like fresh thickly whipped cream, and the azure sky tasting of mint. Any young child would be delighted at my musings. I am hoping some adults will be as well.The musings brought back a favorite memory of a Kindergarten art project I remember doing as a child in the small parochial school in Beveren, Belgium. It was to be a cloudy sky, and for the clouds we got to glue cotton balls on a blue sheet of paper. It was such sticky fun. The birds in the sky were little pieces of black string made to look like the birds were flying way up in the sky. Real clouds are not made of cotton balls, and birds flying way up in the sky are not made of pieces of black string, but the possibility of the whole thing was fascinating as a 5 year old  as I painstakingly tried to get the glue to stick to the cotton balls and the string and not my small fingers. And maybe, just maybe, that is why adults get bored with what they think reality is all about. They look at clouds and no longer see cotton balls, they rarely see anything at all. Better to smell incense and see the colour lavender is my conclusion.

Geraardsbergen

Geraardsbergen is a picturesque small town in East Flanders in what are called the Flemish Ardennes of my country of birth, Belgium. It was almost eery looking up pictures of the town on Google, the place looks beautiful. To me, however, the memory of Geraardsbergen evokes an unsettling emotional response. I was there only once, when I was 20, the summer before I started college at TCU in Fort Worth, Texas. My mother had a friend of her mother who lived in Geraardsbergen, a woman named Laura, for whom my mother got her middle name. By the time my father and mother and my siblings and I visited Laura's large brownstone on a shaded broad lane on the outskirts of town, she was already in her seventies. Laura and her husband Leon were financially very comfortable and had no children. Their house was very quiet, the kind of house where it feels no one ever comes over anymore. The only excitement for us was their barky Pekingese dog that never seemed to leave Laura's side. They had a large pool that at the time of our visit was still empty, but in the process of slowly being filled up, as Leon was an avid swimmer. Their yard also had a large walnut tree, and I remember my brother, sisters and I passing the boringly long visit by checking out the dusty shed by the tree and eating walnuts that had fallen to the ground. At the time, I was puzzled as to the reason for our visit. It was quite a drive from our house in Roeselare, to Geraardsbergen, just for a cup of tea and some cookies. But as I found out a couple of months later, apparently Laura and her husband were willing to help pay my expensive tuition for my college in Texas. There certainly was no lack of anxiety around the visit and the weeks after it. Apparently Laura's frugal husband had decided the whole idea was bogus and I never knew how things turned out, but I apparently almost missed my start at TCU that fall. It has remained a bizarre episode in my destiny, one of which I will never know but bits and pieces. The oppressive visit left an imprint on my memory and mind, a sort of ill defined nausea, at realizing how flimsy my future had been at that time. In the years following my family's implosion between 2000 and 2008, I have had ample taste of solitude and at times oppressive isolation. It seems odd, but it is certainly accurate, that the feeling of unsettling discomfort and disconnection on that hot afternoon of the visit to Geraardsbergen, is identical to the at times screaming silence I have had to battle and overcome trying to put the pieces of my heart and soul back together after the trauma of all my family tragedy and drama. It seems the sense of nausea that at times still overwhelms me is very much the sense of disquiet I experienced at Laura and Leon's ample villa all those years ago. A sense of foreboding mixed in with anxiety and excitement, being in that stiflingly quiet house and hearing conversations between my parents and their slightly uncomfortable hosts, that seemed artificially congenial and relaxed. What is really strange to me 38 years later, is that the experience of driving to Geraardsbergen and the formal, mysterious visit has stayed with me like the memory of an unsettling dream. Today the weather here is very much the way it was that afternoon, humid, warm, cloudy. And I am right back there, in the cool, high ceilinged nicely furnished house, with the large living room and its large bay window, overlooking a wide lane lined with oak trees. I am right there again in a place that seemed frozen in time, and that made an afternoon feel like an eternity to my 20 year old mind. My parents never clarified how things were evidently resolved, and the incident was never mentioned again. The experience is stored in the box with vague and ill defined memories, and will always continue to feel like looking intently at a painting that time has forever faded to familiar yet unsettling shadows.

Shalimar and the Postman

It was the day before my birthday, my un- birthday, as Winnie the Pooh would say. It was just another Thursday, quiet, warm. I was finishing lunch when the doorbell rang, startling our sleeping dog Yara, and she started barking loudly. I opened the door to a person I did not recognize and failed to see the post office truck parked across the street. The driver was not wearing a post office uniform shirt, so I thought he was a sales person, as he was holding a form and package. I told him I was not interested in buying anything. The look on the young man's face was utter dismay, as he manged to politely say " I am the postman!" I felt so embarrassed, and apologized. I should have told him the non- uniform shirt had me confused. Here I was a member of a black Baptist church since 1994, only to offend my new postman who I probably did not recognize from our church, I felt awful. I apologized again for my mistake and our barking dog, and signed for the package, that came from my French friend Catherine, who was one of my room mates in Austin, Texas, where we met in graduate school. The rectangular package looked intriguing. I started to unravel its many cautiously wrapped layers, to uncover a gorgeous package of perfume, "Shalimar", by Jacques Guerlain, their new version by Thierry Wasser, called "Souffle de Parfum". Wow, was all I kept saying out loud, tickled with the beautiful, elegant and thoughtful gift, as Catherine knows I love French perfume. Suddenly, my ordinary day had a touch of exotic glamour brought from across an ocean and a continent. It made me smile with gratitude and  pride. She is always such a thoughtful friend, having brought me so many moments of joy and dignity over the course of the last 31 years since we first met. Books, music, jewelry, perfume, scarves, blouses, adding a touch of elegance and exotic flair to my socially solitary existence so far away from my culture, language and birth country identity, making me feel a part of her generous, sensitive soul. With some special friends, it does not seem to matter how far they are away physically, or how long it has been since we last saw them, they are never far from our minds. Catherine is such a friend. She has always had this way of making me feel like I matter, and there is so much respect in her friendship. We met the semester before she graduated with a master's degree in business, and returned to France, where she got a job in Paris, but it was enough time for her to leave a lasting imprint on my heart and mind, in style, attitude, poise, dignity. Some friends you do not miss because they are a part of you. It is actually a wonderful feeling. I looked again at the beautifully packaged bottle of perfume, and decided to wait to open it until tomorrow, my actual birthday. I would wear the perfume for my birthday dinner with my husband and son and I knew it would make me feel as exotic and beautiful as the legendary princess Mumtah Mahal after whom Jacques Guerlain named his famous perfume "Shalimar" that I now get to wear and enjoy, sent to me from a world away for my 58th birthday by a most kind friend.     

The Graduation Picture.

 
It is a quiet Sunday afternoon, cloudy, warm, very pleasant really for a mid May Sunday afternoon.
Michael is outside transferring the young sunflower plants from our green house into the soil off to the deck. He came up with the idea last summer, and decided to repeat it, as it is really fun to have the tall sunflowers right off the deck where we eat so much on summer nights. Nicholas is working on an essay for his creative writing class, and as my feet are tired from working all  day cleaning house until midnight yesterday, I am writing after our big Sunday brunch. I keep thinking of the emotional surprise I got when I saw a picture on Facebook of my 57 year old brother Bart in graduation gowns at SMU on Saturday, apparently getting a second master's degree in anthropology. I only saw it because his 23 year old daughter, Grace, whom I have never met but am friends with on Facebook, posted several pictures she took of her Dad. It was so strange to see a close shot of his face after not having seen him in person in 17 years. He was not quite 40 the last time I saw him at Ludwina's funeral in Georgia in April of 1998. The picture I was looking at now showed him thin, with a slight smile that spoke more of sadness than the joy one would associate with such an impressive graduation. It brought to mind my father's face the last 10 years of his life, a face that smiled readily, but always with hesitation, burdened by a heavy financial responsibility and a bitter marriage, and the worry about Ludwina's bi - polar illness. It was really like looking into the face of a stranger, and feeling an unsettling familiarity as I recognized the features and the shadow and presence of my father. I sent a friend request to Bart last year, which he ignored. I sent a congratulatory comment to the picture my niece so proudly was displaying of her father, which made her happy. It remains odd to have only one sibling left in this huge country and not to have any contact with him, by his choice. Perhaps when I meet his daughter finally when I go back to Texas ,and see his son who is now 28 and whom I last saw when he was 11, and meet his ex - wife again, whom I last saw at Goedele's wedding in 1990, Bart will finally agree to meet perhaps for the last time in this earthly realm. It's lead heavy stuff I prefer not to think of on most days. The humming birds by the window where I write keep whirring by, mini super jets of bright colours. It is so peaceful here. Our dog Yara is snoring at my feet, just waiting for us to take a break and take her for a walk. Next Friday is my 58th Birthday. How did that happen? We will go to Red Lobster for dinner, and the next day my friend Brenda will take me out to lunch. It is my biggest hope that if Nicholas marries in the future, he marries into a gregarious, boisterous clan. Families can be a pain in the rear, I know, but to live without a larger clan is something you never really get used to. There are no weddings, baptisms, anniversaries, funerals to go to, because you have no relatives, or maybe you do, but they no longer care for you, or live on the other side of the planet. It is an odd sensation, like a missing limb, you know it is there, but you can no longer see or touch it. Michael is a loner, very independent socially, and that helps in many ways, because it shows me the advantage of being self reliant in all matters. Shouldered by his independent spirit, I have become very strong and have gained a lot of insight into the mechanics of inner freedom. It has sharpened my resolve and determination. There is an edge to the spirit in this country that is hard boiled that I continue to find difficult to deal with. There is also a kindness that can be found if you dig deep enough, and my tenacity has dug deep and hard enough to find it, in myself, in my husband, in my friends here and in Texas. A kindness that comes from the need for self reliance in a country that shows little mercy for vulnerability and sentiment. I have seen that kindness in Michael, in Diane, in Brenda, all fiercely independent people who know the price of that independence if you push it too far. My own relentless determination to belong sometimes softens the hard edge of their instinct to survive, to move on, one foot in front of the other, no matter the cost to the heart and soul. It is that hardness that can leave me nauseous, or angry, or very much alone. It is also the crucible that made me determined to create my tapestries on my own, to write and publish a 300 page memoir at 57 and to accept myself with all the flaws and broken parts, focusing on what strengths and talents I possess. Michael is listening to Linda Ronstadt, one of my sister Goedele's favorite singers. So odd to hear the singer and realize Goedele has been dead now already 10 years. Life is a complete mystery, as far as I can tell. Some live to be a hundred, some die young like she did at 44, or Ludwina who was 35. I guess the idea is to live life, and not try too much to control the future, it often turns out differently anyway. I was impressed by an interview with B.B. King, the king of the blues, who died this week in Las Vegas at age 89. He was good at playing and singing the blues, and he did it with all his heart, all over the world, well into his eighties. I think if you find something you enjoy and find you are good at it, do it with all your heart for as long as you can. I am finding that out a little late in life, but grateful that I am given that chance. I am happy when I work on my tapestries, and when I write, and I enjoy sharing both, which is an added bonus, especially when it turns out other people enjoy it too. I am finding that it is giving me great inner peace, and that is certainly a gift to my heart and soul at this junction of this journey called life. 


 

The Line

No one around me sees it.
I cannot touch it, and my dreams erase it.
Quiet,soft and straight, it divides us.


Can you see me, I wonder as I pray at night?
Do you think of me, like I think of you?

The line is there, I see it all the time.
I take great care not to step across,
when I do at night while I sleep
the nausea quickly pulls me back
by the morning's warming light.

Do you have to take care too,
not to step across, does it leave you
sorrowful and dazed?
I hear you leave, fading shapes, brittle on the breeze.

The line dividing us into two worlds,
the realm of breath, and the realm of sky
the heartbeat of time keeping us apart.

No one around me knows about the line.
Its chalk outline never fades in the rain or heat,
as I hear the four of you stepping softly to its edge.

Father, mother, sister, sister
holding hands in dance of mime,
words no longer voiced, you step without shadows
as I watch and remember your place erased in space and time.

A music box with a rusted spring, the memory of you
reaches me through strained eyes,
a tune no one hears but me, as I dance by the line
that keeps us strangers who once were strong and one. 

Trudi Ralston.
May 15th, 2015.
 

Ghost Rider

The rain was coming down steadily, but fortunately, not too hard. I adjusted the side mirrors and the overhead mirror, the way Brenda's husband Jim reminded me to do years ago when I expressed nervousness at driving my red Buick we got so I could take Nicholas to school. Driving has always been stressful for me, I never really got completely comfortable with it, and the one car I did feel totally relaxed in, our silver 2004 Buick, was totaled in a crash 3 weeks ago. That added to a renewal of anxiety as I now drive our white 1999 Buick, while Michael drives the red Buick which is a 1997 and at times a bit more unpredictable mechanically. The anxiety I struggle with, which keeps me from driving on the freeway, or at night, or in snow and ice, I know impacts my son and that at times makes me sad. The legacy left me by distracted parents, especially my mother, who was a stay at home mother, and had plenty of time to pay attention to her four children's needs, considering we had a full time nanny who was also a house keeper and assistant cook and chauffeur. But her daughters were competition for her addiction for attention, especially from the many lovers she took. She was so good at ignoring our social needs, and it all looked so good, since we were well fed and adequately dressed. My social isolation led to anxiety about driving, which was seen as an embarrassment, so it was swept under the rug, and as a result I did not drive until I was 22. In graduate school, I did not drive at all, since Austin had a great free bus service for the huge population of 50,000 students, and that worked out fine. When I married Michael in 1986, and we graduated in 1987, I did not drive until 1996, when Nicholas started Kindergarten. I have been driving ever since, always because I wanted to be able to take my son to school and to his friends' houses. The recent car collision rattled my nerves, and I still struggle with the jitters on rainy, dark days. Today was one of those days, and on the way back from dropping Nicholas off at the college, it felt like my mother's ghost was riding in the back seat, it was both a creepy and oppressive feeling. My struggles with feeling truly self confident about driving was now leaving an imprint on my son who prefers not to drive for now. With my husband's flexible work schedule and me not working outside of the home, we have manged very well to accommodate his hesitation. But I feel frustrated that my mother's neglect that left me with this permanent struggle is now having an impact on my son. Parents who damage and bruise their children's self esteem are so selfish and heartless, because those bruises one way or another show in the next generation. I talk to my son about my frustration about this, and I fight bravely against my fears, because I drive every day, and have spent anywhere from two to three hours a day driving back and forth for my son for the last 18 years. This summer my son graduates from college and he says he is looking forward to getting a job, while working on his creative writing portfolio, and driving himself. Our love for each other will see us through this, I know, but it sure would have been easier for my son, husband and myself had I had a mother who cared about her oldest daughter's welfare at least as much as the guys she was cheating on my father with. She was so distracted, worrying about her figure, her hair and nails , her expensive shoes and Dior handbags and designer clothes, that she did not notice or care that she was dressing me in cheap clothes and shoes,and never cared about a cute haircut or make up for me. That all made me feel very insecure around the well dressed girls at my high school and since she was never interested in making sure we had friends, my isolation made me shy and as a result scared about driving a car. The car part is with me every day, and I will be 58 next week. My mother said " I love you " all the time. I think she thought if she said it enough she would believe it almost as much as we did. I am no longer angry at her, she died 7 years ago, and I forgave her in a long letter she never answered. But I cannot deny that I have to deal with the sadness her carelessness left me. I always have to deal with the challenge of swallowing the anxiety and the fear, and most heartbreaking of all, the realization that my insecurity about driving now is something my son has to overcome. Everyone thought my mother was a beautiful woman, not least of all her, but the picture she left my son and I with is really quite ugly. It really is like John Lennon said : " You can't hide when you are crippled inside." Eventually you will have to step into the light, even if that light hits you in the afterlife.   

All Things Great and Small

So many things in our daily lives make a difference. The little kindnesses our friends show can add so much hope, so much joy and over time they are small jewels that we gather in the treasure chest of our heart. To some people giving comes easy, it flows from their hearts like fresh water and seems effortless like the air they breathe. My friend Brenda is such a person. I have known her for 17 years, and with the start of spring cleaning, I cannot help but notice all the mementos my house has that are testimony to her caring friendship. There is a small troll doll going back to a costume prize at a Halloween party, there is the wall clock in the kitchen, the matching wall candles, a Tinkerbell blanket, a baby blanket with baby chicks that always reminds me now of our sweet dog Laffie who passed away 4 years ago, as she loved sleeping on it. There are the pictures of Brenda and I holding the beautiful cake she had made for my 50th Birthday, there are little baskets in my bedroom, kitchen towels, scarves, socks, hats, hairpins and a nice black poncho I wear to church on cold winter days. There are wind chimes, and the strawberry plants in the green house that give us sweet fruit each year, there is the lavender coloured Azalea bush. All daily items, but together they add up to a friend with whom I can share the daily ups and downs of life. She is the sister I still get to have even though both my younger sisters died many years ago. She is the friend I can go shopping with for clothes, or gifts, or go out to lunch with. She always remembers me on Mother's Day with a bright, heart shaped balloon, she is there to talk to about everything and anything. We can laugh together, and grief together, understand and share together. She is family in the best possible way. She is a friend like that to all her neighbours and family, tirelessly helping any way she can with everyone around her, even when she herself is tired and not feeling good. Her warmth and energy are contagious, no matter what she is dealing with, she always stays upbeat and positive, and the few times she does get discouraged or mad, her sense of humour always wins in the end. I have a cute little jar that she gave me that says : " Everyone should have a friend like you." I often think how in my heart it is much more that everyone should have a friend like her. Brenda makes me feel connected, grounded, real. She is so easy to talk to, tackles problems head on and is rarely discouraged by life's challenges. She willingly shares her time, care, food, laughter, talent with everyone in her world. I am glad she is my friend. My world is a little warmer, a little happier because of her friendship and I hope that my friendship in turn over the years has warmed her world and her heart as well. Home is where the heart is, and my heart feels a little closer to home, even though my home of birth is on the other side of the world, because of Brenda's always welcoming heart, as welcoming as the cute butterfly decoration she added to the beautiful strawberry plant she gave me with my balloon for this Mother's Day. The butterfly will join the adorable three little china kittens she surprised my kitchen window sill with when we came back from a trip to Nevada one year, just to make me feel welcome home. I smile each time I look at these kittens as I will smile each time I look at my new pretty butterfly hovering happily over my strawberry plant.    

The Challenge

I often dream about my family, my father , my sisters, my mother and brother. The dreams are always very tense and complex, often involving complicated plots, and elaborate sets, in large houses, or big train stations where I try to board in time to get home. Last night was no exception, except this time, the dream took place in ancient times. Perhaps brought on by my son talking about his visit to the Seattle Art Museum yesterday, as he shared his impressions on the Egyptian, Mesopotamian and Greek exhibits. The dream took me to immediate action. I was a prisoner waiting to fight in a stadium owned by a very large man who seemed to be a Hun. My mother and sisters were prisoners too, but he made them slaves in his extensive harem. He decided he did not like my defiant attitude, so, I was destined to die in a fight to the death with a mean looking dude. Great, I thought, but I am going to get out of here. The fight was not scheduled for several days, and that gave me a chance to make friends with a guy who took an interest in my situation, and offered to disguise himself as a woman and take my place. He was my height, skin tone and hair colour, and build, so it could work. The plan was to give me a chance to intimidate my opponents by the time it was actually my turn to go out there and fight, and I remember feeling very confident I could do that, an emotion perhaps instilled in my dream by my actually being a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. The guy who became my fast friend in the dream also gave me a tiny, very sharp knife that fit in the palm of my hand and taught me how it razorsharply cut a throat very quickly and invisibly while giving a throat blow with a closed fist. He said he had used the technique successfully several times, but he was afraid he was running out of time. He said he could help me escape when the time was right, to which I readily agreed, thinking we would be able to return and save my sisters and mother, but that plan would also take careful thinking and planning. I manged to survive my first fight after my friend switched places back with me. So, our plan was working, and that gave me hope. I woke up at that point in the dream, but was able to get back to it once I fell asleep again. I spoke to my mother and sisters about the escape plan, but they wanted to stay in the harem, they liked their new clothes and the good food. They promised to not betray me, but the whole thing made me nervous. My friend decided it was too dangerous to delay, so we both got out through a tunnel he had found in one of the outer walls when he had followed a guard on night duty. A horse was waiting for us, and we rode away fast and hard, as we heard the horn blow for escaped prisoners. I woke up with a jolt, like someone had dropped me from above back into my bed. I have always had very vivid dreams, but this one really got my attention, because it was very fast paced and exciting and because it was set in a different era. Most of my dreams were set in current times. I told my husband and son about the dream,and they cracked up,shaking their heads. My son said : " That mama, even in her dreams she is a firecracker and fighting her way out." I was proud they thought I was a fighter, I guess I have had to be to, which suits me just fine.

The new refrigerator

After 14 years, our fridge quit on us. I was initially bummed because of the unexpected expense, but now that the shiny new brushed aluminum fridge is in place I am very happy with the new robot looking appliance. It was quite the event, getting the old fridge out, and getting the new fridge in our  front door. Fourteen years ago, my husband ended up taking off the entire door frame. So, since the measurements of the new fridge were the same, off came the door and door frame again. It took two and a half hours of using a hammer and power bar, and the result was that it made our house look like it was in the process of being built. It was a weird feeling. I told my husband and son I felt like we were living in a Lego house, because you could look right into our house. I felt like I wouldn't have been surprised if a giant hand came down and removed the roof next, poking around in our stuff with a giant size thumb, and grabbing our furniture that was minuscule in their huge fingers. While my husband was busy banging at the door frame, I got busy cleaning out the old fridge and cleaning off all the stickers and removing all the pictures of our family and friends. As the fridge was already empty on the inside, the empty look of the outside of the white fridge suddenly made me sad. I felt like I was not just undressing our fridge, but our life story of the last almost 15 years. It was like a small funeral for the fridge and how loyally it had tolerated all the pictures and stickers, it had become an intimate expression of our loves and likes,and now I was stripping it naked, and I felt sad. I have so precious few family that stripping the few pictures of the few people in my world felt painful. I was relieved to see a new fridge take its place, all shiny and modern looking and I found myself cautiously putting a few very carefully selected pictures on this new electronic member of our small family. I put my son's childhood giraffe back on top of the new fridge, it just looked like the giraffe had to stay. I decided no more stickers, I had gone overkill on the other fridge. The new fridge looks elegantly spare, quite the victory for an enthusiastic house over stuffer like myself. Once the new fridge was installed, then it was a matter of cleaning up all the mess from the old fridge, and restocking the brand new one while my husband and son got busy rehanging the front door and putting the door frame back together, which took fortunately less time than taking them off.  It felt good to fill up the new fridge, like stocking a food closet, instead of a dresser or clothes closet. The sadness about undressing the old fridge faded, but I will remember my strong emotional reaction to the event. It was another reminder of the implacable passage of time. It was a reminder to use that time wisely, lovingly, joyfully. For as sure as that fridge started purring when it first was plugged into our kitchen 14 years ago, and then spurted to a gasping halt, shuddering to a permanent stop, just as sure my heart that started beating 58 years ago, will one day falter, sputter and stop. For good, and like the fridge, I will be undressed, dismantled and taken away to a final resting place, and all that made me will be removed, the story of my life folded and closed. Something to think about. Everyday is a gift. A new chance. The new fridge reminds me that I am given that chance with each new day. I am very grateful for that. I can still add new pictures to my story and I can still treasure the old pictures and the old stories with a warm, beating heart as I continue my life with my husband ,our son and our friends.      

Spring Cleaning

The weekend weather turned out beautiful, sunny, cool in the mornings with a crisp breeze, and warm but not yet hot in the afternoon. Perfect for working in the garden, and for opening all the windows wide and start spring cleaning. Michael got busy filling our window boxes for our bedroom and patio and deck with petunias and Morning Glory. He prepared a window box by the green house steps for Sweet Peas. Our green house looks so busy now, with the sunflower seedlings growing strong, so soon we will be able to transplant them into the garden behind and in front of the green house. The scent of fresh soil filled the air and smelled so invigorating, so full of promise. I cleaned the bathroom thoroughly, and finished polishing the big mirror in there. I cracked up, seeing my reflection in that mirror so squeaky clean made me startle at the fact that I was definitely in my fifties from what I saw. Yet, I rarely felt older than about 27. Kind of fun, however illusory, as long as the energy and optimism is there. A few grey hairs and sneaky wrinkles can be covered up. As I got busy dusting and washing down my dresser shelf in our bedroom, going down memory lane with each picture frame I cleaned and each precious item recalling a happy moment or time, I thought of growing up and helping our nanny Julienne clean our big house that was stuffed to the gills with expensive furniture, family heirlooms of silver and 19th century crystal, expensive art and carpets. But what I treasure now of those memories are what I learned from Julienne, when she would share memories of her own hard knocks childhood and her life now as our house keeper. She was also often our chauffeur picking us up from school , our cook, babysitter and friend. She was married to a man who worked as a janitor at the local plant where my father was CEO in charge of over 1500 people. Her house was a small row house in a working class neighbourhood, very much like my neighbourhood now. I remember spending the night at her small, but cozy house many times, hanging out with her two daughters who were already old enough to wear make- up, which was very exiting to be part of as an 8 yr.old. My house, like Julienne's, is devoid of fancy furniture, and expensive silver and crystal, or carpets and art. A lot of our furniture was made by my husband Michael, and the art decorating our walls is done by my son and me. I have learned to appreciate work done by one's own hands, be it a garden, a piece of furniture, or art. I taught myself to do small tapestries, in honour of both my parent's family traditions, where my mother came form a family of artists who painted, and my father came from a family where the women were skilled seamstresses. I have done 9 tapestries so far, and really enjoy drawing onto the fabric from a photograph, and then choosing the colour of my own interpretation. The writing grew out of the therapy sessions I had for two years after the tragic deaths of my two younger sisters and the total disintegration of my parents' marriage and their subsequent deaths on opposite sides of the globe in 2008. I grew up in luxury and now live modestly, but the lessons I have learned about integrity and commitment and true love and devotion were worth all the loss financially and socially. I am a different person, and  I am very grateful for that. My friend Brenda reminds me of Julienne in many ways. She is 5 years younger than me, but has always felt like my big sister, a big sister watching out for me. We met in 1998, when both our sons were in  Kindergarten together and became friends. She is so real, so warm and caring, and feels like family after all these years. She is always there for us, and has rescued us many times when we got stranded somewhere in the past when one of our used cars would break down. When Nicholas and I were in a collision last week, she was the person I called to come pick us up and she dropped everything and was there 10 minutes later. I love her big heart, that is always there to listen, to encourage and laugh. Like Julienne, she is a friend for all seasons, always optimistic, always a ready smile and an encouraging word. Springcleaning could be a bore, but with the memory of Julienne then and Brenda now, adding a bit of sparkle is actually fun.

At the theatre

A recent car collision that left my son and I shaken and bruised but basically unharmed, combined with our 14 year old fridge dying the day after the accident and an Emergency Room visit also the next day because my heart was stressed to the max and came about as close to a heart attack as I care to ever experience, made me think of how illusory our defenses are. We like to think we have our ducks in a row, that we have a firm grip on our reality and circumstances. The fact of the matter is that things can go chaotic in just a matter of minutes. The whole thing made me think of theatre. When we watch a play, we get drawn into the circumstances of the characters and the narrative, and as the play evolves before our eyes, we get a feel that we are a part of what is happening , that all this feels very real. Our emotional involvement confirms that. We laugh, get scared, worry, and sometimes even cry at the challenges the characters on the stage have to deal with. We forget about the lights, the orchestra below the stage, the costumes and make up, the fact that every word spoken by the characters come from well written and well rehearsed lines of a script. We are not even shaken by the intermission, and the curtain coming down for that. We go out into the lobby, hurry to the bathroom, quickly sip a free drink, chat a bit with our companions, and then anxiously find our seats back to wait with bated breath for the second part of the performance. As I was looking around my house this morning, I found myself in a bit of a theatre ambiance mood. The kind of mood that must exist before the play is ready to be performed, and bits of costume and make -up and script are cluttered evidence of things not being ready. Cacophonic sounds of orchestra rehearsal notes mixing in with actors pacing up and down, light and sound engineers getting in the way of the play's director, cleaning crews getting the auditorium ready. I felt like my life was just a rehearsal and I could not ever quite get things coordinated enough to pull off a smooth play of whatever part of my life was being performed by me and my husband and son at that particular moment in the theatre of life. Some people come across so organized, everything seems to just come together beautifully, so you can just enjoy the show of their life on display and go, bravo, that was really nice, and then, they just seem to go smoothly again into the next play, without any evidence of rehearsal and its accompanying challenges, frustration and chaos. I thought of royalty, of actors and how they seem on the surface of things to always be prepared, poised, in control. Of course, every tabloid out there will tell you that just isn't so. But I still get a sneaky feeling that for the more ordinary folk like myself, getting our act to look smooth is just quite difficult. I cannot even convince myself most days, let alone anyone else, I am sure of that. The whole thing seemed at the same time humorous and sad. I will continue to try to look like I got my part down just so in this play of life, and maybe , just maybe, one of these days I will get it all right, and someone will say, damn, you played your part really well. In the meantime, I will try very hard not to trip too much as the cluttered suitcases I brought to this play of life seem to scatter all over my best intentions and deeds.