Her hair used to be long and brown, then silver, and then white. Her glasses never changed in the 19 years I knew her. The lenses perhaps, but the round, owlish frames were an unvarying reminder that she would be a constant in a life that was wrought with change. Her gaze never faltered when looking at me with the love that only a grandmother could share with her grandchild.
She was someone that I trusted completely. When I was with her, I got that feeling inside me, like a six-year old after bouncing up and down in the big balloon castle for those precious three and a half minutes – like I had just climbed to the moon and floated back down.
She relaxed me. Speaking with her let my mind explore places and times I’d never seen before. Those conversations encouraged me to speak freely about the things I would have normally kept to myself.
She exasperated me with her unwavering strength and conviction about who she was in the world, and her place. She had a purpose in her life and she followed her path without hesitation.
She bossed me around. Not because she felt that she needed to be dominating, but because it’s simply what grandmothers do. She bossed me around since I was old enough to speak, and she always told me that it was only for my best interests that I kept my fingers out of my food, brushed my hair and teeth, and always wore clean underwear (because you never know when you’re going to get hit by a bus and you’ll want to have clean underpants for that glorious occasion).
Her voice was like sandpaper, with a hint of butter underneath. You knew that she used to have a gorgeous voice, tarnished now with the cruel reminder that she was no longer the woman she once was. Her height had diminished with her age, towering in her twenties at a little over six feet; at the age of 84, she was a feeble five feet, nine inches.
She was the most stubborn woman I had ever had the blessing of knowing. It made me realize that genetics are truly phenomenal, and that my mother and I have both inherited more from her than we ever thought possible. It aggravated her more than anyone else that she could no longer do the things she had routinely done for the last 80 years.
It broke my mother’s heart the day she had to go into the nursing home – cursing and swearing that she didn’t need to be there, that she could take care of herself, and everyone else, like she had always done. After the first week, she had become everyone’s favourite, like we knew she would.
Sunday’s at Nan’s house turned into weekly trips to the hospital-esque home. Homemade birthday cakes, lovingly crafted by Nan’s experienced hands, were replaced with cards signed hastily by my mother, and I watched as Nan drifted further and further into her own solitude.
After four years, Nan was no longer the person I had idolized as a child, but someone whom I cared for as an adult. The only thing that remained was the frame – the foundation of a house long abandoned, crumbling at the seams.
When she died on that cold, winter’s day, my mother, sister and I held each onto each other and remembered her for who she was when she was strong of body and mind.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
St. Lawrence
The smell of holy water has replaced the smell of orange juice that the cafeteria lady used to hand out to chubby, impatient hands. Pews line the building, row on row like consecrated soldiers, their cushioned seats barely imprinted. A vast difference from the well worn grooves in the desks and chairs that had seen a thousand bottoms over five decades.
The sounds of children’s laughter have been replaced by the thunderous boom of a century old pipe organ, dedicatedly and delicately moved piece-by-piece over the two-mile journey from the old church into the new one.
The windows that caught endless daydreams of playing outside are now stained with the scenes from the bible that the children used to learn from schoolbooks.
The outside remains the same – updated, but the same. New vinyl siding had replaced the cracked, chipping paint. A tower has been added and a large, modern-looking cross placed where the name of the school once proudly stood. A modern cross for a modern church – out with the old, in with the new.
The gymnasium sticks out from the side of the church like a tumor – old, decrepit, unloved. Rarely used and kept on as the parish hall, it’s the lone reminder that this brand new church has not always been a church, but a place of learning where generations upon generations attended.
Brides, flushed with excitement, will be reminded with each step down the pristine red carpeted aisle that they once roamed through this building with a very different purpose – a bathroom break, going to music class or heading to the gym.
Everything has happened between these four walls – the celebrations of life, of death, of new beginnings. Teachers have nurtured young minds, children have learned, been disciplined, have laughed and cried. There isn’t an emotion that hasn’t been experienced within the walls of St. Lawrence.
So, instead of sending their children to school, parents now put on their Sunday best and they all make the journey to St. Lawrence Anglican Parish for service. Or in the case of a former student and future bride, she will walk down the aisle, excited about the future memories she will make with her husband, while her childhood memories echo off the walls that surround her.
The sounds of children’s laughter have been replaced by the thunderous boom of a century old pipe organ, dedicatedly and delicately moved piece-by-piece over the two-mile journey from the old church into the new one.
The windows that caught endless daydreams of playing outside are now stained with the scenes from the bible that the children used to learn from schoolbooks.
The outside remains the same – updated, but the same. New vinyl siding had replaced the cracked, chipping paint. A tower has been added and a large, modern-looking cross placed where the name of the school once proudly stood. A modern cross for a modern church – out with the old, in with the new.
The gymnasium sticks out from the side of the church like a tumor – old, decrepit, unloved. Rarely used and kept on as the parish hall, it’s the lone reminder that this brand new church has not always been a church, but a place of learning where generations upon generations attended.
Brides, flushed with excitement, will be reminded with each step down the pristine red carpeted aisle that they once roamed through this building with a very different purpose – a bathroom break, going to music class or heading to the gym.
Everything has happened between these four walls – the celebrations of life, of death, of new beginnings. Teachers have nurtured young minds, children have learned, been disciplined, have laughed and cried. There isn’t an emotion that hasn’t been experienced within the walls of St. Lawrence.
So, instead of sending their children to school, parents now put on their Sunday best and they all make the journey to St. Lawrence Anglican Parish for service. Or in the case of a former student and future bride, she will walk down the aisle, excited about the future memories she will make with her husband, while her childhood memories echo off the walls that surround her.
Neverland is never far away
I can feel the evergreen needles prickling my skin as I take that first leap off of the ledge of my property and plunge the half-meter into the woods behind my house. The path is hidden through the trees, and only us children know how to find the secret door. The branches hardly move as I land deftly on my feet, my body’s memory of a thousand leaps guiding me forward. I stand still, willing my excitement to run further into the woods away, willing myself to stay still for a moment to enjoy my surroundings, as I always have done since discovering my secret garden.
Green hats, rust carpet, and brown bodies. The sky is hidden through the blanket of evergreen trees, so only the luckiest sunbeams are allowed through to shine onto the forest floor. Discarded pine needles, their use long gone, lay dormant. Like a blur, a red squirrel zaps by, camouflaged by the dead needles on the ground.
The tinkling of the nearby brook makes me unconsciously do the pee-pee dance while I try and listen for my friends. The squirrels twitter in the trees, and I can hear the faint whoosh as they take flight. Robins, blue jays and chickadees all sing to one another dozens of meters above me. I feel like Snow White.
Damp leaves fill my nostrils and the smell of the turpentine makes my eyes water. I know I will be covered in it before the day is out.
I’m seven years old and I don’t have a care in the world – other than finding my friends down by the creek and playing in the centuries-old forest that I call home.
Green hats, rust carpet, and brown bodies. The sky is hidden through the blanket of evergreen trees, so only the luckiest sunbeams are allowed through to shine onto the forest floor. Discarded pine needles, their use long gone, lay dormant. Like a blur, a red squirrel zaps by, camouflaged by the dead needles on the ground.
The tinkling of the nearby brook makes me unconsciously do the pee-pee dance while I try and listen for my friends. The squirrels twitter in the trees, and I can hear the faint whoosh as they take flight. Robins, blue jays and chickadees all sing to one another dozens of meters above me. I feel like Snow White.
Damp leaves fill my nostrils and the smell of the turpentine makes my eyes water. I know I will be covered in it before the day is out.
I’m seven years old and I don’t have a care in the world – other than finding my friends down by the creek and playing in the centuries-old forest that I call home.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Maternal Instincts
Some people are maternal creatures by nature. They feel joy and pleasure knowing there is a legacy in their arms, perhaps wondering what their part is in the greater scheme of things. They enjoy changing diapers, feel significant when they can soothe a tummy ache or dry a tear from a chubby, pouting face.
Others run away screaming from children as if they were the carriers of the bubonic plague. The very idea that a small child is dependent entirely upon them frightens them more than being stuck in an abandoned mansion with Freddy Krueger or Jason from Friday the 13th. They would take a machete any day over diapers, grabbing hands and tears.
I am a member of the first group. I love children. To me, I was created in this world to be a mother, regardless if it's natural or adoptive. I love all children and anxiously anticipate the day when I can experience it with my own. While I experience the frustrations, the fatigue and the exasperation when a child won't stop crying, when they hurt and I can't fix it, I know that it will be worth it in the end.
There is difficulty when two people who are very close are divided by this significant difference. I coo when I see a baby, my friend Sarah looks at them like they are made of fragile glass that will crack if they are jostled too quickly. While she thinks they are absolutely adorable, and while she enjoys looking at them, the very thought of having a child in her arms causes her to shake, her eyes darting from left to right looking for the nearest exit.
Sarah and I conducted an 'experiment' last week. I wanted to see if any 'maternal instincts' would surface in Sarah during the uncomfortable experience of holding my infant niece, Rebecca. For background information, Rebecca is the most adorable, gorgeous, well-behaved child I have ever had the pleasure of being with, so I knew that she would be the perfect “beginner-baby” for Sarah. For an hour leading up to the fateful moment, she was a wreck. She kept asking questions and she nervously laughed. It was clear she wasn't comfortable with this idea, but she would do it for this assignment.
We had a nice little visit with my niece. Sarah was cautiously watching me handling Rebecca like she was made of stainless steel and unbreakable. It was definitely making her uncomfortable as her eyes grew wide and an occasional grunt would escape her lips when I flipped Rebecca upside down to elicit a peal of laughter.
I was calculating the perfect time to shove the child unsuspectingly into her arms. The moment came when she had to be changed - Sarah was lulled into a sense of security as she watched me handle the baby for over an hour without hinting at the fact that she'd have to hold her. Perhaps she thought I had changed my mind. After she was powdered, changed and cuddled, I picked her up, looked at Sarah, and said, "Ok Sarah, take the baby".
"WHAT?! No, no, no. That's ok! Shouldn’t we be downstairs, like, on the couch where I can’t drop her?" she stammered, hands up, walking backwards. I was certain her survival instincts were kicking into overdrive.
"Well you're going to have to because I'm letting go of her!" I faked, shoving the wriggling, smiling baby into her arms.
"Oh god, Oh god, Oh god," I could hear her mutter as she awkwardly tried to hold Rebecca.
After a few moments of showing her the proper way of holding a child, with my hands protectively nearby, ready to grab Rebecca should Sarah not be able to handle her, she went and threw a wrench into the situation.
"Ok, now you stand over there and watch me hold her by myself missy!" she exclaimed, nodding to the furthest point in the room. I knew I had to do it; it was part of the experiment. I was hoping, however, that she would forget.
I walked over, put my back against the wall and watched, convinced I wouldn't have a problem with my best friend holding my niece.
My palms started to sweat. There was this uncomfortable sensation spreading in my chest - like a fire had started and was blooming out over my skin, moving it's way down my arms and legs. My stomach started to get butterflies and my mind flipped me an image of Rebecca lunging for Sarah's earrings (like she usually does to others), and Sarah letting go.
I thought I was having a heart attack.
It seemed like an hour. It was only two minutes. After those agonizing 120 seconds ended and I took Rebecca back into my arms, I looked at Sarah. She seemed slightly uncomfortable, but not to the point that she wanted to stop holding her. She almost seemed disappointed that she had to give her back.
"That wasn't so bad!" she said, almost to herself. Maybe she was having a revelation.
I had Rebecca back in my arms, and I was happy. That's all that mattered. I never wanted to let her go again. I was uncomfortable about my discomfort in that situation. I should have been fine, and I should have trusted Sarah to be safe with Rebecca. It made me ashamed that I didn’t have enough faith in my best friend to hold a baby for two minutes. I was having my own internal revelation.
Rebecca looked up at me, drool rolling off her wide, grinning face and then looked over to Sarah, the same mile-wide smile for her. She was none the wiser that both Sarah and I had experienced something that neither of us was expecting.
Sarah and I walked out of my brother's house, both feeling a little more different than we had when we walked in, whether for better or for worse, we weren't entirely sure.
Others run away screaming from children as if they were the carriers of the bubonic plague. The very idea that a small child is dependent entirely upon them frightens them more than being stuck in an abandoned mansion with Freddy Krueger or Jason from Friday the 13th. They would take a machete any day over diapers, grabbing hands and tears.
I am a member of the first group. I love children. To me, I was created in this world to be a mother, regardless if it's natural or adoptive. I love all children and anxiously anticipate the day when I can experience it with my own. While I experience the frustrations, the fatigue and the exasperation when a child won't stop crying, when they hurt and I can't fix it, I know that it will be worth it in the end.
There is difficulty when two people who are very close are divided by this significant difference. I coo when I see a baby, my friend Sarah looks at them like they are made of fragile glass that will crack if they are jostled too quickly. While she thinks they are absolutely adorable, and while she enjoys looking at them, the very thought of having a child in her arms causes her to shake, her eyes darting from left to right looking for the nearest exit.
Sarah and I conducted an 'experiment' last week. I wanted to see if any 'maternal instincts' would surface in Sarah during the uncomfortable experience of holding my infant niece, Rebecca. For background information, Rebecca is the most adorable, gorgeous, well-behaved child I have ever had the pleasure of being with, so I knew that she would be the perfect “beginner-baby” for Sarah. For an hour leading up to the fateful moment, she was a wreck. She kept asking questions and she nervously laughed. It was clear she wasn't comfortable with this idea, but she would do it for this assignment.
We had a nice little visit with my niece. Sarah was cautiously watching me handling Rebecca like she was made of stainless steel and unbreakable. It was definitely making her uncomfortable as her eyes grew wide and an occasional grunt would escape her lips when I flipped Rebecca upside down to elicit a peal of laughter.
I was calculating the perfect time to shove the child unsuspectingly into her arms. The moment came when she had to be changed - Sarah was lulled into a sense of security as she watched me handle the baby for over an hour without hinting at the fact that she'd have to hold her. Perhaps she thought I had changed my mind. After she was powdered, changed and cuddled, I picked her up, looked at Sarah, and said, "Ok Sarah, take the baby".
"WHAT?! No, no, no. That's ok! Shouldn’t we be downstairs, like, on the couch where I can’t drop her?" she stammered, hands up, walking backwards. I was certain her survival instincts were kicking into overdrive.
"Well you're going to have to because I'm letting go of her!" I faked, shoving the wriggling, smiling baby into her arms.
"Oh god, Oh god, Oh god," I could hear her mutter as she awkwardly tried to hold Rebecca.
After a few moments of showing her the proper way of holding a child, with my hands protectively nearby, ready to grab Rebecca should Sarah not be able to handle her, she went and threw a wrench into the situation.
"Ok, now you stand over there and watch me hold her by myself missy!" she exclaimed, nodding to the furthest point in the room. I knew I had to do it; it was part of the experiment. I was hoping, however, that she would forget.
I walked over, put my back against the wall and watched, convinced I wouldn't have a problem with my best friend holding my niece.
My palms started to sweat. There was this uncomfortable sensation spreading in my chest - like a fire had started and was blooming out over my skin, moving it's way down my arms and legs. My stomach started to get butterflies and my mind flipped me an image of Rebecca lunging for Sarah's earrings (like she usually does to others), and Sarah letting go.
I thought I was having a heart attack.
It seemed like an hour. It was only two minutes. After those agonizing 120 seconds ended and I took Rebecca back into my arms, I looked at Sarah. She seemed slightly uncomfortable, but not to the point that she wanted to stop holding her. She almost seemed disappointed that she had to give her back.
"That wasn't so bad!" she said, almost to herself. Maybe she was having a revelation.
I had Rebecca back in my arms, and I was happy. That's all that mattered. I never wanted to let her go again. I was uncomfortable about my discomfort in that situation. I should have been fine, and I should have trusted Sarah to be safe with Rebecca. It made me ashamed that I didn’t have enough faith in my best friend to hold a baby for two minutes. I was having my own internal revelation.
Rebecca looked up at me, drool rolling off her wide, grinning face and then looked over to Sarah, the same mile-wide smile for her. She was none the wiser that both Sarah and I had experienced something that neither of us was expecting.
Sarah and I walked out of my brother's house, both feeling a little more different than we had when we walked in, whether for better or for worse, we weren't entirely sure.
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