tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4126640970922978992024-03-12T20:46:59.428-07:00the b in subtleyour own personal seanachaí. the writing's on the wall...nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.comBlogger81125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-7978096788495660502012-03-22T02:49:00.031-07:002012-06-06T06:29:09.586-07:00Both Sides NowLast week I came across a truly unique approach to art which I have coined "cumulus(t)". A recent exhibit has Dutch artist <a href="http://www.berndnaut.nl/works.htm" target="_blank">Berndnaut Smilde</a> create and suspend real clouds <em>indoors</em>. His installations are fleeting yet oh, so powerful! (Why I love that photography can capture such momentary perfection!) I've always had a hankering for clouds. Even the names of 'em: cumulonimbus, cirrus, altostratus. How musical. What whimsy! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.berndnaut.nl/images/cumuluskleinindex.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://www.berndnaut.nl/images/cumuluskleinindex.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Photo credit: Cassander Eeeftinck Schattenkerk of<br />
Berndnaut Smilde's breathtaking exhibit</em></div><br />
This week has seen sunshine and clouds in more ways than one. Par example: potty training (blue skies) and The Tempest (overcast with 99% chance of rain). Let's look more closely at these recent weather patterns...<br />
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First off, a shout-out to Elmo. Bless your furry, red head. Thanks for getting my Sonshine all excited about his potty. Indeed, he has become a 'potty animal'. We sing, we dance (well, I disco and he moves his arms and legs in a circular fashion while seated). I never knew how exciting pee and poop could be! (Yes, this is my life right now.) Ma <i>wee</i> laddie (no pun intended) has finally learned to "listen to his body". This past Sunday, he asked me no less than FIVE TIMES to go potty!!! *Trumpets blare somewhere offstage*<br />
<br />
He is enjoying some diaper-free time now on the weekends and evenings, though he hasn't yet mastered that undies are different and will not absorb his pee. Thinking we may need to backtrack slightly: maybe so he learns to ask to go potty while still donning diapers. He certainly has mastered asking while <em>not</em> wearing them. Can I say again, "me so proud!"?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZCwvEiI9t_dj8_2zykhNdfRkSRK6TmwSOAS2JK4-vSrHOIzIArMKARa0thUdwok_BpIxoSy4gWrF4v20WGkmw1njHAaTH4STU5IXkH15i1Sw-UfTZ04VRSlX1-3HxYn5lbEB7ZAFodsE/s1600/20111015_helmet.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZCwvEiI9t_dj8_2zykhNdfRkSRK6TmwSOAS2JK4-vSrHOIzIArMKARa0thUdwok_BpIxoSy4gWrF4v20WGkmw1njHAaTH4STU5IXkH15i1Sw-UfTZ04VRSlX1-3HxYn5lbEB7ZAFodsE/s320/20111015_helmet.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Achtung! Potty Training can be dangerous. Helmet recommended.</em></div><br />
As with every silver lining, though, a little rain must fall. (Curse you, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ayGkA-vxrMc" target="_blank">Ink Spots</a>!) In two months, he turns 3 and does not disappoint with respect to the temper tantrums that are rumoured to pepper this age and stage. Lately, at mommy's utterance of "no", the bottom lip juts out, the arms start flailing, the legs start kicking, the uvula starts um, uvulating. It's like looking at a tiny mirror of myself whenever someone says "Stephen Harper" to me. A mini-volcano-meets-tornado and man, can he erupt! <br />
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So this weekend, alongside the urination-defecation jubilation, I've slowly introduced this little gem of a technique known as a "timeout". Understatement of the year: it's not going over all that well. But after being punched in the head by tiny fists, kicked a number of times by flapping feet and slapped in the face by frustrated fingers, I felt it was time to maybe try something, say, a tad more proactive; what, in my book, is officially known as "nipping this in the bud". <br />
<br />
Reactions vary: auto-toffee-flavoured smile with side of neckwrap while singing, "I love you, mommy" as I still attempt to encourage a quiet, little "let's just sit for a second and ponder just how mommy feels when you beat her up." Alternatively: beet-red complexion followed by repeated slaps and kicks to my person. For now, the standard timeout approach (one minute per age of the child) is not even feasible. It's a pendulum swing: just by uttering "timeout" and calmly moving him to the stair for a sit can result in a) an immediate apology in order to get back (just as immediately) to playtime or b) The End of the World as we know it. So the "sit and dwell" part has yet to kick in, really (again, no pun intended). <br />
<br />
I am trying to encourage communication BEFORE the temper tantrum erupts. So if I sense he is becoming upset about something, I am often able to coax vocalization (with words and in English versus LindaBlairese). And, by jove, sometimes (just sometimes), it works! The pinnacle moment I will not soon forget is his grumpy face last weekend grumbling, "Hey you. Get offa my cloud." <br />
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I'm not sure I heard that right. I stutter, "Did you just say, um. '<em>Get offa my cloud'</em>?" <br />
<br />
"Yes, mommy. Get offa it!" <br />
<br />
I hide my face in a pillow to pretend I am crying a bit so he won't be offended by my incontrollable outburst of giggles. On Monday morning, I learn that my daycare has a mixed CD on which The Rolling Stones feature. Cool daycare (and apparently worth the <a href="http://thebinsubtle.blogspot.ca/2011/04/slaying-dragon-part-ii.html" target="_blank">lineup</a>)! <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdz3MM0Dxxo_vXdZGKp9wRS8Zu4FVlyOBWagmAsQefJvSvdTMBE03N_L8_idbBWYyzuL_hSX0ppbLswQWbdYpI7GEjvBe0r10J_WFCLF_T6x4OajRUTFKi_BYRVh3Pt6oNAcup-07Zz18/s1600/20120223_redbarn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img aea="true" border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdz3MM0Dxxo_vXdZGKp9wRS8Zu4FVlyOBWagmAsQefJvSvdTMBE03N_L8_idbBWYyzuL_hSX0ppbLswQWbdYpI7GEjvBe0r10J_WFCLF_T6x4OajRUTFKi_BYRVh3Pt6oNAcup-07Zz18/s320/20120223_redbarn.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>bows and flows of angel hair</em></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>So yeah, thank you, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u1DugrrAxIg" target="_blank">Elmo</a> for the potty party atmosphere. And thanks, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uh2UwmQ6cnY" target="_blank">Mick</a>, for making these dark days of tantrum clouds sparkle that silver edge so sweetly. And I am eternally grateful, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DAaT7uMc-B8&feature=related" target="_blank">Joni</a>, for you. <br />
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Win or Lose, looking at clouds from both sides is an excellent practice, a comfort to parents (and toddlers) everywhere and highly recommended.nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-33525860011087257732012-02-20T02:42:00.006-08:002012-03-04T12:39:34.096-08:00Dickens of a DayIt was the best of days. It was the worst of days.<br />
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No disrespect to ol' Charlie for whom the planet recently celebrated a bicentennial birthday. February 19th actually started off on a high note. It commenced as Dickens but became Brown. As in Charlie Brown. ('<em>Good grief' </em>is not the expletive I used, exactly.)<br />
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<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Honestly, the day began innocently enough, albeit a bit too early, when I awoke at the hour of my old friend and colleague, 4 o'clock. Down the stairs I tiptoe once again in the wee hours to clean my house, do laundry, and check emails. </div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Upon opening my <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mapleeye" target="_blank">flickr account</a>, I discover that <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/mapleeye/6898687995/in/set-72157629381368405/" target="_blank">a photograph of mine</a> I'd uploaded the previous day has been '<em>Explored</em>'. This may mean squat to non-flickrites, but every day, from the thousands - I'd even venture to say - <em>hundreds</em> of thousands of photographs uploaded onto the flickr site by its innumerable members, only 500 are chosen for '<a href="http://www.flickr.com/explore/interesting/2012/02/18/page18/" target="_blank">interestingness</a>' and are placed into the sacred echelons of flickr's main, public group called '<a href="http://www.flickr.com/explore/" target="_blank">Explore</a>'. And yesterday morning, my wintry photograph of a favourite, rural, tree-lined drive was chosen to be included. For one day, I witness the views of and comments on this photograph rocket as the Explore group is globally monitored. More than a tad exciting. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg-6VCLI1LqufojnRDdxWzqcfjcrw88hyphenhyphenOjfSRFWk0UIcR6GyYQWrzww5O18Wm1jDpir7gJ5_luGSiOAEhZhcq8ZiLEjIIXAW0HTXoXoq2nphrdeCMdlBQGpr-fkqkNY27zlAq85pteWM/s1600/20120218_welcome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgg-6VCLI1LqufojnRDdxWzqcfjcrw88hyphenhyphenOjfSRFWk0UIcR6GyYQWrzww5O18Wm1jDpir7gJ5_luGSiOAEhZhcq8ZiLEjIIXAW0HTXoXoq2nphrdeCMdlBQGpr-fkqkNY27zlAq85pteWM/s320/20120218_welcome.jpg" uda="true" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>welcome to my nightmare</em></div></div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">You see, no one can tell how one becomes an Explored Elite. There appears to be no one set of criteria. Flickrites can try their damndest and it may never happen and others may not give a damn or try at all, and suddenly, there it is: a photograph of theirs has been featured as one of the most interesting of that day (as determined by flickr staff. Somehow.) </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I am still dizzy from the heights of euphoric flickr states as I happily go about preparing The Sunday Roast. A few days before I'd invited two couples with their daughters and another friend to my home for the meal. As a single parent of a 2 year old, rarely do I get the chance to cook the way I long to, the way I <em>love</em> to and today is the day! As my toddler sleeps soundly upstairs for his midday nap, I dice pears, sautee leek, slice figs and arrange a beautiful piece of pork roast for my guests. A little white wine over the garlic, leek, shallots and pears; some melted creamed cinnamon honey over the pork and figs. A smidge of sea salt here, a pep of pepper there. Yum!</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8WN0lmGLGImWfTG4bRrAP_OrkGu8CnSxNWJBq3UZeWUUU3BoWzo4MHcf8DowIO72UNu3bsidxGL1vXkIZikPhojwzW6mUGtiCnszpa5dlSajCHpo8fB0SQjEc6WnJOJmt93wJrFVo9w/s1600/20120219_roast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhm8WN0lmGLGImWfTG4bRrAP_OrkGu8CnSxNWJBq3UZeWUUU3BoWzo4MHcf8DowIO72UNu3bsidxGL1vXkIZikPhojwzW6mUGtiCnszpa5dlSajCHpo8fB0SQjEc6WnJOJmt93wJrFVo9w/s320/20120219_roast.jpg" width="320" yda="true" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>a dream denied</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And here's where the grace and formality of Master Dickens is wrestled to the ground by the foibles and good-grieving of Master Brown. My guests arrive and help prepare the salad. I cook basmati rice and sautee a sauce of mushrooms, sugar snaps and mango in coconut milk and apple butter with curry, cardamom and cumin. Everything is going swimmingly. I pull out the pork at 6pm to check its progress. It is very nearly done and I place it back in the oven for another <em>fifteen minutes</em>. Palettable Paradise is <em>mere moments away</em>.</div><br />
<div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">When the oven malfunctions. Or rather, I make it malfunction. The self-cleaning mechanism turns on. I should have been able to cancel at the push of a button, yet no buttons push. I mouth the word, "no". At first, it emits from my mouth as a soft whisper, then a moan, increasing thereafter in volume and repetition as I envision the oven raising its temperature to 575 degrees and my roast becoming, as Thomas the Tank Engine would put it, '<em>cinders</em> <em>and ashes</em>'. Desperate now, I unplug the oven.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none; clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HoY1kxtuerRkKCU4hmKRrx82tbjVNodTWB3fu3uD3sUu-SA7bCM43WLHdH5tYnKi_bIg9XBauzSr60ZLrPQicxZDJ6oqAbd793gxz5sfcRNgWHxAPUc5qZyHA_szZosqyMSpBNflAps/s1600/20110102_range.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2HoY1kxtuerRkKCU4hmKRrx82tbjVNodTWB3fu3uD3sUu-SA7bCM43WLHdH5tYnKi_bIg9XBauzSr60ZLrPQicxZDJ6oqAbd793gxz5sfcRNgWHxAPUc5qZyHA_szZosqyMSpBNflAps/s320/20110102_range.jpg" width="213" yda="true" /></a></div><div align="center" style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><em>my arch nemesis</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">Every attempt to replug and hit cancel is taunted by the oven clock flashing at me like a pervert in a public park. I feel just like Charlie when Lucy whips away the football at the last moment. Whatever the mechanisms are that should allow my self-cleaning oven door to unlock and open take a holiday. My oven has kidnapped my pork roast and is unwilling to negotiate its release. Where is Denzel Washington when I need him? </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">My guests are more than gracious as we sit down to basmati rice with no main course. Jesus wept. And so did I. For the love of all that is holy, I ask myself, why does this oven fail me when it is a Sunday followed by a holiday Monday? There will be no rescuing the pork now until Tuesday. One small consolation: the light in the oven turned off when it malfunctioned so none of us need stare at the dinner we almost had.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">And here I sit, at 5 am, still shaking my head in disbelief. For a brief moment, I wonder about the two lovely wives of the couples invited, both of them pregnant (and likely starving for something more substantial than a side dish). Could it be I was envying their round bellies and wanting something of my own in the oven?</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyHckDf5HsEUYa4l3AgG89q5J1FKxvNUiYKRv1JnUnbnJfkOKflGPls91cZ0WV2wCyJp6CNaA6q33SE0BLkSPCcdsWdPtntp3Kg7wUOfjjWjWhV_JcnCempg1FjnpZx72QHpn0b6co8Tc/s1600/20120219_figs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyHckDf5HsEUYa4l3AgG89q5J1FKxvNUiYKRv1JnUnbnJfkOKflGPls91cZ0WV2wCyJp6CNaA6q33SE0BLkSPCcdsWdPtntp3Kg7wUOfjjWjWhV_JcnCempg1FjnpZx72QHpn0b6co8Tc/s320/20120219_figs.jpg" width="320" yda="true" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Fig me.</em></div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">No. It' just Murphy's Law disguised as Nancy's Law. I've said it before and I'll say it again: I am Lucille Ball reincarnated. A Mary Tyler Moore for the 21st century. When I recall 90% of the special events that have taken place in my life, there is always some unbelievable mishap thwarting my genuine efforts to be Charles Dickens and not end up Charlie Brown. I really should have my own sitcom. </div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">'Tis a far, far better thing I do to just not give a fig and go back to bed. That'll be five cents, please.</div>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-2368760435499645622012-01-08T08:47:00.000-08:002012-01-08T08:47:47.249-08:0052 WeeksThe very last night of last year, I fell asleep on my son's bed reading stories to him while he nodded off himself. It was 10:00 p.m. perhaps. 10:30 at the latest. And when I awoke, the clock read 12:05. I kissed his brow and wished him a happy 2012 and then crawled into my own bed and began to dream.<br />
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New Year's Eve has felt, for many years now, more than a tad anti-climactic after what is my favourite, festive Yuletide "hollyday" season. And it's been a couple of years at least since I even thought about anything concrete for a resolution never mind more than one. Life has felt too fast and too full and certainly, some days, too exhausting to worry about any such list.<br />
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This year began the same way for me. But one thing I have resolved for myself is to commit to a self-portrait photography project. I have started and failed at completing two 365-day self-portrait projects on <a href="http://www.flickr.com" target="_blank">flickr</a> (projects other flickr friends of mine were able to successfully complete). Inevitably single-parenting left me taking last-minute-of-the-day-in-front-of-the-bathroom-mirror shots just to get my submission in for the day. Plus, I was fairly bored with the subject matter: my tired, food-on-the-shirt, unwashed hair, bags-under-the-eyes single mommy face. My days were just too full for me to have the enthusiasm to commit, never mind the energy. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-IAcge85Bwu9ibhA0lXrv6sbKCkXBkwTHZDhwopkk2N09bZDQoqSyc-M2GgaYplmeCgMT9P0KVP9347qAKLBgaqb96ayoqYEp3fVNj_JK2ak9UjylzG9d5R_bl1eOrXuJiITYo1fFaiQ/s1600/20111225_xmaslove.jpg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-IAcge85Bwu9ibhA0lXrv6sbKCkXBkwTHZDhwopkk2N09bZDQoqSyc-M2GgaYplmeCgMT9P0KVP9347qAKLBgaqb96ayoqYEp3fVNj_JK2ak9UjylzG9d5R_bl1eOrXuJiITYo1fFaiQ/s320/20111225_xmaslove.jpg.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Curious as George...</em></div><br />
This year, I'm taking it easy on myself. Along with two other photography projects I plan, I will now attempt a 52-week self-portrait project. As a single mom, I think I can manage at least one photo once a week and have the energy to be a tad more creative than a daily late-night-shot-in-the-mirror before flopping into bed.<br />
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Already, I failed to take my first shot on New Year's weekend. Not a great start, so I've cheated and used a selfie I shot of Sonshine and I Christmas morning as my first submission for the project. It's a magical moment for us both and captures us reading one of my Christmas gifts to him: <em>Curious George in the Snow</em>. <br />
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To make up for the bad start, I felt the need to be more creative, make more of a statement with my second submission. I was thinking about this coming year and how I'd like to get back in touch with the other parts of myself that perhaps have been sorely neglected since becoming a single parent. My first thought was my femininity. For almost 3 years, I have been wearing jeans and cords and tshirts and fleece and stretchy yoga wear and keens or mukluks. Generally, I am almost always without makeup. Time is just a luxury for this kind of attention. Inevitably, the moments I take to glimpse myself in a mirror are brief (and for a reason). I shy away from them. Who wants to constantly witness food-splattered clothing or scratches on skin etched by tiny fingernails or tousled, bed-head hair? Not me!<br />
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Yesterday, while he napped. I put on a dress and heels for my second shoot for the project. And let me tell you, it felt great to be creative and feel pretty and to have a goal, an actual <em>statement</em> to make with the project: that aside from being a mommy 24/7, I'd like to get in touch with my feminine side, the woman I am, not just the mother. And to allow myself moments to rediscover those many other sides to myself that have been relinquished for some time now. Sides I am missing.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyD3mUj3-vWukHL80XCDEOG-Dg8_c7Px-4oaUF3w57YxCXVb711b2BWBAdOIaVnrPQHU-uwScOtD40-AnI22SVu0xtsylOCtC5K5YBAc6UF_DUrr63DqCr6psQFZYDUOtPKIyeDEnCDsY/s1600/20120107_woman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyD3mUj3-vWukHL80XCDEOG-Dg8_c7Px-4oaUF3w57YxCXVb711b2BWBAdOIaVnrPQHU-uwScOtD40-AnI22SVu0xtsylOCtC5K5YBAc6UF_DUrr63DqCr6psQFZYDUOtPKIyeDEnCDsY/s320/20120107_woman.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Best foot forward for 2012...</div><br />
The wheels are already turning for next week's shot, when my birthday happens. Wonder if I can pull it off!<br />
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My 52-week project goal is not only to share with the visitors to my stream Who I Am, but to present opportunties for <em>me</em> to discover more about myself and see just where this self-digging and exploration takes me. The main goal is to have fun with it. It's proven a chore in the past and I hope the once-a-week timeline will free up my energy and creativity. Perhaps this is a resolution in some small way: for me to tap more into my own artistic nature and set that free using my lens and my imagination. Not a bad first commitment as 2012 begins...<br />
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Happy New Year to all of you and hope it's a magical one!nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-40677669961901418212011-12-22T03:27:00.000-08:002011-12-26T20:31:30.021-08:00A Room of Her OwnEarly morning did not go well. Lately, each dawn wages a new battle. It's the 2-year-old toddler struggle-for-control blues. Mommy has to get to work or to an appointment and clothes that are offered first, then with choices displayed, after which are forced over the head or tugged onto flailing legs, are summarily removed and thrown onto the floor. There is wailing and gnashing of teeth (on both sides). There are hugs, pleadings, bribes. There are visits to the back deck to swear at the trees briefly so it is not directed at a wee one. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--fGof_QJxsU/TvMsb5OOeVI/AAAAAAAABC0/erQqsGc6lH0/s1600/20111220_peterrabbit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/--fGof_QJxsU/TvMsb5OOeVI/AAAAAAAABC0/erQqsGc6lH0/s320/20111220_peterrabbit.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>"Stop! SssshH! Crash!" The rhythm of our mornings lately.</em></div><br />
Yesterday morning in particular begins roughly as I must administer a nasal antibiotic spray up each nostril. As a single mother, this involves straddling him, pinning each arm down with a knee and trying to insert the spray end into the nostrils of a head swerving rapidly from right to left and not hate yourself because your little lad is crying and begging you to stop. I finally get the damn spray "bottle" in and it doesn't SPRAY! Why o WHY do manufacturers feel the need to change something that WORKS? This isn't a plain old bottle you can squeeze so it sprays the old fashioned way. No. It's got some g-d device you are supposed to easily 'click' to administer the antibiotic. I want to throttle the person who invented this. I manage to spray into the other nostril but one of them begins to bleed a little and he is saying, "I'm sowwy. I'm sowwy." As though he has done something he shouldn't have and he thinks I am punishing him. He just wants me to stop. It tortures me that he thinks this is punishment. I hug and hold him for the better part of a half hour and assure him over and over and over that he has done nothing wrong and we just want his nose to get all better. We move on...<br />
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I finally get him fed and dressed and as I pull out of the driveway it is now 9:32am. This morning, aside from it being my first day of vacation, I actually had <em>an appointment</em>. My <em>very first</em> portrait session which was to begin at 9am. I manage to pop off an email that I hope to be there by 9:30. Foiled again. I hit every red light on the way to the daycare. Buses which stop every five metres appear out of nowhere in front of me. I rush him into his room and give him big hugs and run down the hallway. My hair is the way it was when I awoke. I have no makeup on. I hit every red light on the way to the appointment. I had promised to bring a coffee and figure this is the least I can do since I am so behind now. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gGWoqfzOHtQ/TvMOpSC0M0I/AAAAAAAABBU/tpdpYQ10Oaw/s1600/20111221_carrie_book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-gGWoqfzOHtQ/TvMOpSC0M0I/AAAAAAAABBU/tpdpYQ10Oaw/s320/20111221_carrie_book.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Jubilant about Juliet</em></div><br />
When I finally arrive, my friend <a href="http://carrieannesnyder.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Carrie</a> is gracious and forgiving. I almost burst into tears explaining the nasal spray, the morning. She remembers. Her youngest is now three and she has four beautiful kids. She remembers this stage of things. We move on to the Great Event as we down our coffees and chat. Beside me on her kitchen table sits an advanced reading copy of her latest short story collection, <em><a href="http://www.houseofanansi.com/The-Juliet-Stories-P1302.aspx" target="_blank">The Juliet Stories</a></em>, due to hit bookstores in March. I remove the lens cover as we chat about the excitement of this collection of stories, now a solid thing in her hands. She is jubilant. Capturing her hands at this moment is like trying to capture my toddler. The blur of motion as she handles her new 'baby' belies a thrilling ecstasy beneath Carrie's generally calm composure. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LLcGuBgq-wc/TvMQU3DbgyI/AAAAAAAABBg/e-2wuTIzqHw/s1600/20111221_carrie_008_rc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LLcGuBgq-wc/TvMQU3DbgyI/AAAAAAAABBg/e-2wuTIzqHw/s320/20111221_carrie_008_rc.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Writing haven off the kitchen...</em></div><br />
Carrie and I got into photography a bit more pronouncedly as a creative outlet close to the same time a couple of years ago. We have recently been discussing a joint (ad)venture involving our mutual facebook friends, of which we have 34. It is inpsired by <a href="http://www.etsy.com/blog/en/2011/are-you-really-my-friend/?utm_source=Facebook&utm_medium=Internal&utm_campaign=Editorial" target-?_blank?="">an etsy post I'd recently come across</a>. A few months back I described to Carrie the idea for a project of my own entitled "ipowr". The anagram stands for <em>Intriguing People of Waterloo Region</em> but also a play on how powerful photography can be and what the "eye" (the one behind the lens, the glass 'eye' of the camera) captures. Ipowr is a portraiture project I hope will encompass images captured and journalistic features on people who live in my area; people who are accomplishing and exploring intriguing things, both on a small scale and a big one. I'm starting <em>big</em> and have asked Carrie to be my first 'victim'. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-abSMVSoKcuw/TvMQ_xfROqI/AAAAAAAABB4/n37q-_DxPhw/s1600/20111221_carrie_038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-abSMVSoKcuw/TvMQ_xfROqI/AAAAAAAABB4/n37q-_DxPhw/s320/20111221_carrie_038.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Aunt Alice's Chair</em></div><br />
Recently, Carrie's beautiful, Victorian home has undergone a new facelift. The prospect of a brand new porch meant that, for a stay-at-home-mum of four who is also a writer, a new office space all her own could be factored in. I open the original door of bubbled glass. A small office takes up part of the original front porch in the house. As I step into the space, the first thing which greets me is the heated floor. I am thrilled for Carrie and what this wee haven means for her. The left wall of the office as I enter is a warm redbrick. The ceiling height is majestic and three gorgeous, marbled lamps reach down to hover over Carrie's head as she works at her mac. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8edQUlczAZk/TvMReENtmnI/AAAAAAAABCE/xZDmSE0JXjE/s1600/20111221_carrie_052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-8edQUlczAZk/TvMReENtmnI/AAAAAAAABCE/xZDmSE0JXjE/s320/20111221_carrie_052.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>'The Carrie Stories' Photo Shoot</em></div><br />
The photo I <em>want</em> to take, the photo I have imagined to kick off my new photography project will have to wait. This morning I'm here to capture the author in A Room of Her Own. And she owns the space as she enters it. I ask her a gazillion questions about her writing process, about her upcoming collection of short stories set in Nicaragua, about what inspires her and how the stories came to be. Carrie begins my photo session by grabbing her own camera and shooting some of me. I laugh. As the photographer, this is something I clearly was <em>not</em> expecting. My unkempt hair. Face sans makeup. Clothes thrown on from the floor of my bedroom that morning. But it's an act that puts us both more at ease as the shoot formally begins. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uA3_GY3WjLI/TvMSumTU0iI/AAAAAAAABCc/uOopboFu-NE/s1600/20111221_carrie_054.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-uA3_GY3WjLI/TvMSumTU0iI/AAAAAAAABCc/uOopboFu-NE/s320/20111221_carrie_054.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>(Not So) Still Life with Redhead</em></div><br />
We have a great session and I feel 100 times better than I did two hours before. Plus, I now know new things I didn't know about this friend of mine I've known on and off since we were in our 20s. She inspires me with her energy, her writing, her motherhood and her grace. I feel thankful to know her and that she's helping me to give birth to my own project just as her latest one is arriving in her own arms. Fitting as, outside of being a writer, mother of four and a triathlete, she is also a certified doula. I know this is all the tip of the iceberg called Carrie Snyder. Check out her <a href="http://carrieannesnyder.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">wonderful blog</a>. She'll hardly remain obscure for long, I warrant. You'll have to change the blog name, Carrie!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JVQ1Moo-Kmg/TvMTE8S5W4I/AAAAAAAABCo/5KEkq-eU0N0/s1600/20111221_carrie_055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rea="true" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-JVQ1Moo-Kmg/TvMTE8S5W4I/AAAAAAAABCo/5KEkq-eU0N0/s320/20111221_carrie_055.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Just as lovely in black and white</em></div><br />
And I await with bubbling anticipation our next shoot! Today is the first day of Winter and tomorrow's dawn will bring just that little bit more of sunlight into our days. Thanks, Carrie, for making the eve of the Darkest Night of the Year so bright for me!nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-64699406390761215342011-12-13T00:20:00.000-08:002012-11-05T07:03:23.212-08:00My WantHe turned 2 1/2 years old last month. This is the first Christmas he is 'aware' of someone called Santa. That he knows Rudolph is a reindeer with a red nose. I am teaching him as much as his little mind will comprehend about the Wintry Solstice (the hollyday his mum prefers). This time last year, we had a lot more snow in our old village than the light dusting that has fallen thus far where we now reside. I'm praying for a storm.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHW_HYBs3i9bW0XFPB9GEPrfVjO-hvCBJBO6vcnvuJmLulCEx5so9EPfZ2RxZasBR6SB2usCLHBd3sialIddpZBSjMlXrXyZUGKXOpQDkieRuzNtnVvfXBQdoYRiGTzy3eHk6QdS3jtjU/s1600/20110309_cedars.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHW_HYBs3i9bW0XFPB9GEPrfVjO-hvCBJBO6vcnvuJmLulCEx5so9EPfZ2RxZasBR6SB2usCLHBd3sialIddpZBSjMlXrXyZUGKXOpQDkieRuzNtnVvfXBQdoYRiGTzy3eHk6QdS3jtjU/s320/20110309_cedars.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<em>snow falling on cedars</em></div>
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This past weekend my parents took him while I went out into the country and came home with a scotch pine, wobbling my unwieldy load through the side door and plopping it inside the stand. It is still lopsided. I can't get it straight and haven't decorated it yet other than adding the lights he insisted should be on it. We will decorate it together next Saturday and I will make popcorn and string it and hope he doesn't decide to eat it off the tree. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSr6tQCke-cWPowABhBqkf0vl1tW_aDKvBjRZDa33mXfhejew8g6umNbIPKPaNJy9BTYRv2ADJj8iqOVq80Kucz6f96xSh0SgZBSYThdgnW055vrfYjnrHwkKM43LENKkCOuTA3EavB7o/s1600/2011202_bananasandhoney.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSr6tQCke-cWPowABhBqkf0vl1tW_aDKvBjRZDa33mXfhejew8g6umNbIPKPaNJy9BTYRv2ADJj8iqOVq80Kucz6f96xSh0SgZBSYThdgnW055vrfYjnrHwkKM43LENKkCOuTA3EavB7o/s320/2011202_bananasandhoney.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<em>December morning, bananas and honey</em></div>
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I am cherishing this Christmas. I imagine it is the simplest it might ever be. When I tried to explain to him about Christmas morning and getting a present, he studied me carefully. I asked him, "what would you like under the tree?" and held my breath. His first instinct was to shout the name of the daughter of close friends of ours. I try to explain to him that we can't put people under the tree as gifts (HA!) and what kind of <em>present</em> might he like.<br />
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He said, "My want...a <em>red</em> present!"<br />
He said, "Mommy get a <em>blue</em> present!"<br />
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"Perfect!" said I. <br />
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And that is how I feel. I think to myself, "you are my little blue present, sweet boy." The morning of the 22nd, which is when Solstice falls this year, he and I will open these colourful presents, whatever they are and I will leave a few more under the tree for Christmas morning. Undoubtedly he'll have a few more to open at his grandparents. <br />
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<em>handful of stars</em></div>
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But as I become increasingly disillusioned with how commercial this season becomes, I cherish this moment in my heart. I know in a couple of years a tinge of its complete innocence will be lost to him describing to me <em>exactly</em> what brand and what name of item he wants: "not the one with the..." this, "but the one with the..." that. I know he will still hold a lot of innocence for many years to come. I'm turning 45 next month and like to think (I hope) that I still do. <br />
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But this moment. <em>This</em> moment. <em>This </em>Christmas. <br />
This one I will always remember as perfect in its simplicity.<br />
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Some close friends will gather with us at our home the evening of the Solstice and I will fill paper bags with sand and stick tiny white candles upright in them, light them and line them up and down my driveway and along the porch to guide them to the wassail warming on my stove.<br />
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<em>tin tree</em></div>
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And hopefully I can instil in him the importance of giving back. To the community in which we live. To the earth. To thank our yule tree for coming into our house. When we burn the yule log from last year's tree. To the sun for warming our toes again as she stretches the days back towards Summer Solstice. To the cherished gift that is friendship and the reason his very first instinct was to shout my friends' daughters name as the perfect gift for him on Christmas morn. That is what "my want". <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigE7iun3cfgTCv_N8VWrDqDSYSiFW9URRJDkdg2dvqDd0-UIY82FYDqGiuXNjZkeFS0o3UemouytV0kVeviAnkwAOhee9mUT7m32ZKSWESeT7P-x1tB1WBOcr-vELkXoVPq1R9RiLgutQ/s1600/20111211_peace.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" oda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigE7iun3cfgTCv_N8VWrDqDSYSiFW9URRJDkdg2dvqDd0-UIY82FYDqGiuXNjZkeFS0o3UemouytV0kVeviAnkwAOhee9mUT7m32ZKSWESeT7P-x1tB1WBOcr-vELkXoVPq1R9RiLgutQ/s320/20111211_peace.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<em>peace on earth</em></div>
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Happy holly days, everyone!</div>
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xo</div>
<br />nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-18883418145926186792011-11-01T00:15:00.000-07:002011-11-07T12:13:19.668-08:00SafeIt's 2:45am. I can't sleep. One part longtime insomnia since giving birth. One part overemotional weekend. My body, my nerves are still attempting to unwind.<br />
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My son has been battling what I was told was an ear infection since Thanksgiving weekend. But it turned out to be a very serious viral illness. I could not figure out why the amoxicillin he had been put on was not eradicating high fevers at night. Two weeks ago he vomited at daycare. I took him to a walk-in clinic. He had already been on a high dose of amoxicillin for 5 days and I thought it had resolved the ear infection.<br />
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Again, he was put on amoxicillin and, by the following Wednesday, his body broke out in what was thought to be hives. I took him to an after-hours clinic: third time he'd seen a doctor in 2 weeks. I was told to lather him with aveeno natural colloidal oatmeal to help with the itching and give him some benadryl. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdC6blawOSgpeqdy2b0pnLDipzJjgzSM992pX1_T5s5yqwUDJJ1RXApno093NBfmmEoaAmymYpW6g6O95K9XHtw0ZBcVE8YDpQ2N5b8n5ckb6yLqwbSzB7m5lOejC-ebd-kCJ4tAdBdug/s1600/20110925_reflection.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdC6blawOSgpeqdy2b0pnLDipzJjgzSM992pX1_T5s5yqwUDJJ1RXApno093NBfmmEoaAmymYpW6g6O95K9XHtw0ZBcVE8YDpQ2N5b8n5ckb6yLqwbSzB7m5lOejC-ebd-kCJ4tAdBdug/s320/20110925_reflection.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>at my friends' cottage in September</em></div><div align="center"></div>Two days later, his body had changed dramatically and I took him to emergency. He was whisked in ahead of everyone else. The doctor wasn't quite sure what we were dealing with and asked us to stay for an hour. After the hour had passed, he said we were going to do bloodwork. After the bloodwork, he told me he'd asked the pediatrician on call to come see him. She diagnosed it and said, "it's not hives. He is not having an allergic reaction to a drug. He's fighting a bacterial infection. A mycoplasma."<br />
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He was admitted to hospital. They kept him in for two nights to rule out whether his symptoms were related to two other conditions that were lifethreatening. <br />
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</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I can't exactly describe how it feels to look a doctor in the eye as they tell you they have to rule out some lifethreatening conditions for your child other than to say its hell on wheels. Your heart, where it normally beats beneath your left breast, moves up into your throat so you can't breathe so easily and you forget about everything in your life. Nothing else matters but that your child is suffering and that he become healthy again.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh4_1neFOABlusKQjxf69VspYqlYHztF_BxMvtqurnzHTsdcpy2pVhc5kvEbcF1yj7vJeDir8M8MRSUJR8s_A938n1flBu63AVkO2mBMcmt52TOXoJkS0PI9kxtI5_GLuWntpPey8zjeE/s1600/20110925_sunroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh4_1neFOABlusKQjxf69VspYqlYHztF_BxMvtqurnzHTsdcpy2pVhc5kvEbcF1yj7vJeDir8M8MRSUJR8s_A938n1flBu63AVkO2mBMcmt52TOXoJkS0PI9kxtI5_GLuWntpPey8zjeE/s320/20110925_sunroom.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>lounging in the sonroom</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">He was put in isolation and visitors had to wear masks and gowns. Not because he was contagious but to protect and strengthen his own immune system. I didn't leave his side, of course. I didn't even shower or change my clothes. My hands just kept lathering him to help relieve the need to itch. He was not dozing off for more than an hour before he would awake again to scratch himself and cry out, "itchy! itchy!"</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">He has always had clear skin and how his body had transformed scared the shite out of me. His little feet and hands and face swelled up like tiny balloons. His entire body from his scalp down to his toes was covered in raised, red-purply welts with white centres which eventually changed and merged together in a blotchy pattern, not so raised anymore but with brown/bruised looking patches on his skin. He was fighting fighting fighting this mycoplasm and now I knew that this hadn't been a simple ear infection which is why the amoxicillin hadn't resolved it. He'd been fighting this thing for 3 weeks, really. And what a brave little man he was. What a stellar patient. Thanking the nurses and doctors in his sweet, little voice, "Sankyou!"</div><br />
On Sunday, they ruled out the two more lifethreatening conditions and we were released. Today was the first day he smiled in what felt like weeks. He played; he joked, even. On doctor's orders, he must stay home for the week to further strengthen his immune system as daycare can be riddled with germs. I am still coming down from the crazy emotional chaos I went through this weekend, watching him suffer and not knowing what it was exactly he was fighting and praying (yes agnostic-me) that it was not one of these other two syndromes. <br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSbyqQAsIQdYT0fMuUl7WxOJA01vizq_2zglsF55jIZ88M1Wza6iEqSpUEW3KjOHmWMR8u64cKjFoUOcjT-mpEg3IrAT573rE37SSw03pHpSQM0PFXNm-8V3-cQF35G-pYOTohmkHT8xs/s1600/20110925_espy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" ida="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSbyqQAsIQdYT0fMuUl7WxOJA01vizq_2zglsF55jIZ88M1Wza6iEqSpUEW3KjOHmWMR8u64cKjFoUOcjT-mpEg3IrAT573rE37SSw03pHpSQM0PFXNm-8V3-cQF35G-pYOTohmkHT8xs/s320/20110925_espy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Sonshine</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>The markings and itching have diminished considerably. He is returning to his happy, playful self. Children are so resilient and their inner strength amazes me. As quickly as he appears to be recovering, I think it's going to be a while for me. I'm nowhere near over what we went through yet. There was no Hallowe'en today. I didn't want him exposed to a gazillion kids with potential colds and flus ringing the doorbell after what he just went through. He was showered with treats without dressing up. This weekend had been scary enough for both of us already!<br />
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But I am thankful. I am so thankful. For the love and support of my family and friends. And for a smiling, happy, playful son today whose skin is clearing now. I know there are parents out there right now in hospitals dealing with worse nightmares. Where the kids actually have the nightmare conditions ruled out for my son. Or any kind of illness that is lifethreatening. Some of them likely don't even have hospitals to care for their kids. Free health care. Clean water never mind a hospital bed. My heart is with them this night. I only had a tiny, bitter taste (and it was blessedly brief) of what they are going through. <br />
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Sonshine is going to be just fine. And has begun to shine again from the inside. Leonard is singing, <em>Hallelujah</em>, as am I.<br />
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He is home. He is safe. <br />
Safe and sound.nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-35348997408705662462011-10-20T00:35:00.000-07:002011-10-20T17:46:44.258-07:00ClickA smirk forms as I compare this year's meagre blogging output of 9 to last year's whopping 43 posts. The total is directly proportionate to the growth, mobility and energy rate of my son (and the exhaustion factor of his mama).<br />
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I miss writing. And often, these days, the only time I can devote is the wee hours of morning. It's 2:59 right now. I'm awake because my son is finally sleeping. Last week it was ear infections, this week fever during the night, several nights in a row, and now, vomiting. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5JocIsXEFZrXkcnD-LOR9i2BUXrxOD4bI1HVNWSpRLTD7Dz-DQOnkXZcQE6xFAF2AOtARyb_9bsB7UQycSfoyzEkS4RxoSZPN2faxZfTh807g2FrkE3x_tKKVnOwX_cZldD6oRsiJnX4/s1600/20111008_hangin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5JocIsXEFZrXkcnD-LOR9i2BUXrxOD4bI1HVNWSpRLTD7Dz-DQOnkXZcQE6xFAF2AOtARyb_9bsB7UQycSfoyzEkS4RxoSZPN2faxZfTh807g2FrkE3x_tKKVnOwX_cZldD6oRsiJnX4/s320/20111008_hangin.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>chocolate cake cheeks</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I look back through my blog and want to kick myself. My posts have been so infrequent this year, that when I finally put my fingers to keys in the wee hours like this, I end up vomiting myself. On the page. My posts read like long, lazy, badly edited novellas. I need to hone the discipline required to keep it short and sweet and maybe the act of writing a blog post would not prove so overwhelming and demanding of my time! Haven't posted in a while but my blogging friends keep me inspired and I discovered <a href="http://bakerbabe.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">yet another new blog</a> to love this night. 'Bakerbabe'! What a great name and a lovely gal!<br />
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Lately, my precious spare time has gone towards exploits primarily photographic than literary. I belong to a club of photographers via <a href="http://www.flickr.com/" target="_blank">flickr</a> and finally met some of them for a drink and to partake in some night streetshooting. This involves approaching actual strangers and asking them if they'd let me shoot 'em. Camera, not gun. Ahem.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFSeKpP2zPYZhGJhOjQ-Gdt3LTSFCkjFjWC00StS4tC3ganWMtkBa1KcupPgIrLGv1OUlEsagzYs-OK9_hLglLrhCiftmrTVROzLiw_WKcr72NN0EFc7hl503W0LYx6VioQMuG8Gdvc0/s1600/20110927_uke.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgFSeKpP2zPYZhGJhOjQ-Gdt3LTSFCkjFjWC00StS4tC3ganWMtkBa1KcupPgIrLGv1OUlEsagzYs-OK9_hLglLrhCiftmrTVROzLiw_WKcr72NN0EFc7hl503W0LYx6VioQMuG8Gdvc0/s320/20110927_uke.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Streetshooting: Sacha with his uke</em></div><br />
What a wildly intimidating journey for me because I have <em>so very much</em> yet to learn and absorb (about my own camera never mind shooting strangers). The club has some very patient mentors, thankfully, and I took full advantage of some fancy equipment with my Canon. Turned out to be a really fun and informative night. I am so accustomed to shooting inanimate objects in the light I prefer. When it comes to animate, I feel most comfortable capturing my son. He's my easiest, handiest and most compelling subject! A gaggle of lovely, local girlfriends have promised to be my next victims so I can acquire more practice in shooting people. Maybe I can convince some male friends, too. Have yet to purchase some extra equipment (and get my shite together) before that can happen.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJoFXzT-rUxufCel-xM8Qn1xvtNFbSjQQyln7ZvE1_JE4IFc3-OPv1OS_whmAuX67LKSG1HDsa1KxBrmP73RCAZGg9jifuKWEhOhY1Aw7OWn9KN5Wd4Ly04B2jBFN7U01EICr2kZAC8E/s1600/20110927_iris.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghJoFXzT-rUxufCel-xM8Qn1xvtNFbSjQQyln7ZvE1_JE4IFc3-OPv1OS_whmAuX67LKSG1HDsa1KxBrmP73RCAZGg9jifuKWEhOhY1Aw7OWn9KN5Wd4Ly04B2jBFN7U01EICr2kZAC8E/s320/20110927_iris.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Streetshooting: the fun and funky John Q.</em></div><br />
Mastering portraiture intrigues me - not the stiff, boring, posed kind, but a far more journalistic snapshot of real people and their real lives. As scary as this latest adventure proved for me, it was also highly eye-opening and rewarding. And it markedly improved my comfort level approaching strangers to snap some photos at a recent birthday party for a friend's daughter. More and more, it's as though my camera is becoming a kind of spare limb extending from my body — something I use to reach out, touch, to embrace everything around me. I am 'owning' it, finally.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUoN6luCO7X0uRfnk6RRKr3a2zNTl2Z9aQiensL-5OVrsbGnIomfyZFYLlFhsYoJgGaZrKKOV9UXjJXogsjk4_uoxHWoM5nf-FmcyhIuHPVKvFrjw3oEBVEy5bpwl1mpL1RAc9E43JZ9A/s1600/20111008_bday63.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" rda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUoN6luCO7X0uRfnk6RRKr3a2zNTl2Z9aQiensL-5OVrsbGnIomfyZFYLlFhsYoJgGaZrKKOV9UXjJXogsjk4_uoxHWoM5nf-FmcyhIuHPVKvFrjw3oEBVEy5bpwl1mpL1RAc9E43JZ9A/s320/20111008_bday63.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><em>Strangers no more: shot two hours after meeting this lovely family.</em></div><div align="center"><br />
</div>And as I experiment and explore, it's not only the shutter that clicks, but my relationship to the world around me, new people I meet, Nature. Life. Life can whiz by you. So it's been really great learning to freeze frame some of its more precious moments. And discover people I would not otherwise have had the pleasure of meeting. If there is a belief that a camera can capture someone's soul, then I embrace that thought. When a portrait lacks 'soul', it's just not as captivating, in my opinion.<br />
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Connecting, clicking, with other souls on this planet is really the point of all this, right?<br />
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Yes, Life flies by much too quickly so here's to longevity! And to moments of brevity and levity, too. So much is worth the capturing via words and lens.<br />
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I hope to do it justice.nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-3070710309459400712011-09-08T08:30:00.000-07:002011-09-09T03:23:41.163-07:00Ketchup (Part Deux)Hello. Hello, Autumn. Damn! Have I missed the hell outta you! This summer absolutely flew by and I had <em>so much</em> to write about but neither the time nor energy by end of day to do it. Even the lovely five-week chunk off with my Sunshine (where we swam in Georgian Bay waters and Huron Lake waters and lazed around with sand in our toes and all our clothes, our hair and mommy played far too much with her camera) did not afford me a blogging moment. All for the best, really. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0jBp4HcICtxY7m7B66Ro_e6Wf_O3EU33i9TWrpXmR6Fi6ts901PhzG6GJMHen-9Gvc9MPDWkgz4LlbKpakZFliO_0KlR4pPp3Op2_fEklKCYcbueZlWuBq4sJnxehTXV4moHTV5z-YE/s1600/20110726_log.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjH0jBp4HcICtxY7m7B66Ro_e6Wf_O3EU33i9TWrpXmR6Fi6ts901PhzG6GJMHen-9Gvc9MPDWkgz4LlbKpakZFliO_0KlR4pPp3Op2_fEklKCYcbueZlWuBq4sJnxehTXV4moHTV5z-YE/s320/20110726_log.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><em>Georgian Bay palette</em></div><br />
I meant to write about the crazy-ass construction ripping up the very street we live on where skid steers and steamrollers practically park on our front lawn each night. My son thinks, of course, this is some private party I've arranged to happen daily for him so when we descend the stairs each morning, he gets to watch diggers at play out the front window as though it's some big screen television.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjku9jLW_fR_wxr62BevTVu8hp1Q4vIAAsCd5D6aUDFMDIaoaIs3_xv0xr6DNZ3brUSKvhSltsBhtYF8eC40_6nXRGjfbCs4NjAtBDGk6MTesoNpq_I7i2BO68h9ymgxxM6d5P9m901t6w/s1600/20110630_backhoe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjku9jLW_fR_wxr62BevTVu8hp1Q4vIAAsCd5D6aUDFMDIaoaIs3_xv0xr6DNZ3brUSKvhSltsBhtYF8eC40_6nXRGjfbCs4NjAtBDGk6MTesoNpq_I7i2BO68h9ymgxxM6d5P9m901t6w/s320/20110630_backhoe.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>morning ritual</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>We don't gots a black box, but he doesn't seem to be missing out on much (nor do I). We have busy enough days and plenty to do versus sitting on a couch zoned in (or rather, 'out') glued to some boob tube. The construction has been pretty major and shakes the whole house so it was good to get away during our time off together. Although, one advantage is that perhaps I may be the only woman on my street who knows every g-d name of each piece of machinery. Last week, strolling him home, some dude walking past us attempted a little male bonding by saying to him, "Howja like that backhoe?" I couldn't help but correct him. "That's actually a track excavator." He seemed slightly offended as he shirked past me. "Get your mighty machines right, dufus," said I, with a smirk (though admittedly not aloud).<br />
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And then, of course, another special someone died: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jack_Layton" target="_blank">Jack Layton</a>. Far too young. His death affected me more than I could have imagined. He was 'my guy' when I lived in Toronto-Danforth. I voted for him so many times, I've lost count. I'd see him round my old neighbourhood riding his bike. He was green before it became the thing to be. I adored that man. Actually shook his hand and chatted with him one night at some fundraiser years ago at the El Mocombo or some place. What a class act, a gentleman, a passionate soul, a good man. Rex Murphy <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/thenational/indepthanalysis/rexmurphy/story/2011/08/23/thenational-rexmurphy-082211.html" target="_blank">summed it up</a> pretty well.(Thanks, Rex. Take <i>that</i>, Christie Blatchford! You small-minded, jealous, two-bit hack. Why not get a soul next time you're out shopping and maybe take Rob Ford with you? See if there's a two-for-one deal.) <br />
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Er. Ahem. *insert Buddha-inspired smile of peace and composure here*<br />
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Last week, Sunshine started full-time at a new daycare. The transition proved only slightly painful—nothing like the first time he attended last March, thankfully. Where he spends his days now there is a lot of outdoor, shaded greenspace, a big sandbox, slides, stuff that looks like granite but is spongy and soft to run on, flowers outdoors to water. Even tomatoes to watch grow!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN85XKC_zEYo8T0Mg-hG39Jz1Qzce031E-gxZsftpm2y6kYaHjp_yTYvoTPwqvq69AFw8oaJjcEqjZXFG_0yDOryzY-36_2h14KzxHQJL4f5_KFQBg3R-wVXwHY0tisaG_pQ5-1cyEf5o/s200/20110620-_ready1.jpg" width="133" /> <img border="0" height="200" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3OG8jt3pEWd0c0rFUQiDp_6elqkRJu1BWSLd2eCkKhtCTeZUpu39SUJ8VzHwOXAUW5qYO6htvYe23v4y3Z7OIt87QEud4Nn-e00ytd2f03zjQbCX7XE6XxllFeJmCzOX0oAFjiMgXslo/s200/20110620-_ready2.jpg" width="133" /> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>bunny for comfort, lion for courage, doggy backpack for protection</em></div><br />
You might remember <a href="http://thebinsubtle.blogspot.com/2011/04/slaying-dragon-part-ii.html" target="_blank">my post of last April</a> in which I relayed my all-night vigil to land him a spot in this special place. All the parents who froze their arses off that night finally gathered again weekend before last at a barbecue. We hardly recognized each other out of our parkas and scarves but we had a fabulously fun reunion. I am thrilled he is finally at the place I wished for and will stay put there until gradeschool - this one's walkable and bikeable to and from home and work. So mommy bought herself a fancy new set-o-wheels and a trailer for me babby. No more carrides until wintrytime! YAY!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibHNYQZeWxE06E2mxod3TwJK7SQTNzYrDMwf16yWu0c5UTW2ZgoYcIzCVlXXooIqfTL-WXcteEeODU53bzgDaI5KVkozArge-5BJtT_tvEDXUqIwCRHam7kAdoXIczcWsOfCAbYBYXjgE/s1600/20110808_basket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" nba="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibHNYQZeWxE06E2mxod3TwJK7SQTNzYrDMwf16yWu0c5UTW2ZgoYcIzCVlXXooIqfTL-WXcteEeODU53bzgDaI5KVkozArge-5BJtT_tvEDXUqIwCRHam7kAdoXIczcWsOfCAbYBYXjgE/s320/20110808_basket.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center" class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>bicycle built for two</em></div><br />
I hope everyone's summer was beautiful. It used to be that Autumn was my favourite season. There seems a tug-o-war going on in my heart between Fall and Winter for first place. For now, Autumn, you is it. I await the equinox, the cooler nights, the layering of clothes, the changing of leaves, the smell of woodsmoke with baited breath...<br />
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And the celebration of our very first year in This Old House, come mid-October. Wow. Did <em>that</em> fly by! He'll be 2 1/2 in November. If only I could wind my clock back a year or two when Daylight Savings Time hits. *sigh*nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-20145688994007804922011-06-25T14:39:00.000-07:002012-11-05T07:27:57.673-08:00Compañero!<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">'Kay. So I promised not to write a novel again when I blogged. But then somebody extra special died. I learned something new today. I learned the debut episode of Columbo was directed by a 25 year old Steven Spielberg. I'm in my 40s and I never knew this before. Neato.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Columbo.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As a kid, it was clear I wanted to be an actor. I was the nerdy cousin who inflicted my grandiose ideas of entertainment upon my twin and other extended family members and friends to put on some form of cabaret or play during family get-togethers and I was quite the bossy little director. I'm sure I had a vision each time I made them learn lines I'd made up and waltzed them around the concrete basement so they'd learn their blocking correctly. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7nKqO7RiALKvp7HUYYF5ghfQ7jvr4bN_valq9GtXecUDvFX-2x4JZ9ZxfZCCqThMz9VORtyhl73rZnj7dsHYvxebGuSeTj61kMqTuO5a_xIwUl2rPUHS-JOWihJN46PTzhB1BEp3LAm4/s1600/falk.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" i="i" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7nKqO7RiALKvp7HUYYF5ghfQ7jvr4bN_valq9GtXecUDvFX-2x4JZ9ZxfZCCqThMz9VORtyhl73rZnj7dsHYvxebGuSeTj61kMqTuO5a_xIwUl2rPUHS-JOWihJN46PTzhB1BEp3LAm4/s1600/falk.jpg" true="true" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>Falk called Columbo an "assbackwards Sherlock Holmes"</em></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Growing up, I watched Columbo. I was a little obsessed with character acting and I remember being impressed that "that guy could do that with his one eye". I thought it was part of his character schtick. I didn't realize he really <em>had</em> a glass eye. Because of his stature, I remember thinking he was Irish when I was a little girl. He had that glint in his eye. Both eyes. (And not because one was glass.) He'd lost his eye due to cancer at the age of three.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000393/" target="_blank">Peter Falk</a>.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What was not to love? He was that sweet mixture of self-deprecating humour and humility married with a distinct aura of wisdom wafting off the shoulders of his shabby trenchcoat. He <em>was</em> Columbo. But he was also an incredibly versatile and talented actor.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was growing up videos were unheard of. The only way you'd hope to see some of your favourite films was to try to catch them on television. Every year, my siblings and I would scour the new seasonal copy of the TV Guide for when our favourite movies were going to run. At Christmastime, we knew what to expect and mark 'em down on our calendars: It's a Wonderful Life, the original A Christmas Carol in black and white with Alistair Sims; we'd highlight in the guide when White Christmas was on and The Year Without a Santa Claus. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But the rest of the year, we had to pour over that guide with a fine tooth comb for stuff that would run maybe once and on some obscure date. Classics like: Twelve Angry Men, To Kill A Mockingbird, Duck Soup (really anything Marx Brothers), The Quiet Man, Mrs. Miniver, How Green Was My Valley, What's Up, Doc?, Murder on the Orient Express and It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Falk played the taxi driver in that last one - this was pre-Columbo days. What an ensemble cast with the great comedic brilliance of: Spencer Tracy, Milton Berle, Buddy Hackett, Edie Adams, Ethel Merman, Phil Silvers and my personal fav from the film, Jonathon Winters. But no matter how brief the appearance, even in an ensemble production, Falk would shine. That aura, again. </span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I read that, as an actor, he was always late. This makes me love him more somehow. HA!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When interviewed on the role of Columbo, Falk said, "I'm a Virgo Jew, and that means I have an obsessive thoroughness. It's not enough to get most of the details, it's necessary to get them all. I've been accused of perfectionism. When Lew Wasserman (head of Universal Studios) said that Falk is a perfectionist, I don't know whether it was out of affection or because he felt I was a monumental pain in the ass." A Virgo. No wonder I loved him. A fellow Earth sign. And he was about as down-to-Earth as you get.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I think of him in another role I loved of his: the grandfather in <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0093779/" target="_blank">The Princess Bride</a>. One of his lines was so Falkian, I'd wonder if he adlibbed it except that William Goldman wrote the damn thing. I love that Goldman, who wrote screenplays for films like The Marathon Man, All the Presidents Men, Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and A Bridge Too Far also wrote The Princess Bride. He authored the book first, then penned the screenplay. In that film, the grandfather (Falk) tells his grandson, "when I was your age, TV was called books". Amen. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Falk's character also explains that everytime Westley tells Buttercup, "as you wish", what he's really saying is, "I love you."</span><br />
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<em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The film that made me want to join the circus <br />and become a Trapeze Swinger</span></em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I was 22, I fell in love with a film directed by <a href="http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0000694/" target="_blank">Wim Wenders</a> called <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0093191/" target="_blank">Wings of Desire</a>. I remember seeing it during its first run at the local indie cinema - the only places those days you could catch foreign films. I remember being so stunned by that film, I sat in silence while all the final credits rose slowly upwards on the screen until the projector actually turned off before I was able to move and leave the theatre.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I tried to order the soundtrack and it took me 3 years to finally find a copy I could purchase. The original score was penned by an amazing musician named Jurgen Knieper. A crush inevitably developed on Nick Cave.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">That film gripped my heart in so many ways and I kept returning to see it. I must have seen it maybe 10 more times over the next few years, grabbing any chance I could when it ran again. And every time, there was something new that I had missed before. There just was so much depth to that film. So many layers. And it held more meaning for me once I fell in love for the first time finally myself. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One of my favourite aspcts about the film is that Falk plays himself. He's Falk in Berlin doing Columbo but you get the real sense that this really IS him playing himself. And you totally believe that he can see the angel Damiel, played brilliantly by Bruno Ganz. Maybe it's the glass eye that makes you believe it. For me it was one of the special qualities of that film - how the children can still see the angels. So it's no surprise that an adult like Peter Falk can, too, with his childlike spirit and amazing insight. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When my son was born and, especially the first few months, when I would hold him and nurse him, or lie him down to change his diaper, he would look up at me and then up, further up - he would look past me, he would gaze at the ceiling and sometimes he would giggle and smile. I swear to God, a few times he pointed. Now I'm not religious at all, but I'm a spiritual girl. And when he'd do this, sometimes the hair rose on my neck. I wrote a <a href="http://lenstrel.blogspot.com/2011/01/nightangel.html" target="_blank">short piece</a> on my photography blog as a kind of nod to this. When asked about death, Peter apparently once said, "it is just a gateway." I can believe in that. Damiel is mortal now so I hope Cassiel is showing him the same kinda ropes. Welcoming him to that other side with a warm "Compañero!" I like to picture that.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><br />
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<em>To smoke, drink coffee. And when you do it together, it's fantastic!</em></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Today I read that Peter suffered Alzheimer's when he died. Apparently he had trouble remembering who Columbo was. It sucks to read that. He was so brilliant at playing an absent-minded detective. Of course, that was just acting - not just for the role, but the character himself. Columbo was only pretending to be absent minded while he was solving the crimes and figuring out the criminals he pursued. One thing for sure, whatever he suffered with dementia, we will be slow to forget his legacy.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">To this day, Wings of Desire remains my very favourite film.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The scene where Falk describes to Damiel what living a mortal existence is like may have been scripted but you get the sense that Falk is 100% behind the scripted words. That Falk knew Life should be lived just like that. </span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Qo3F-0keq8" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Every little thing appreciated.</span></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">"Just one more thing..." We're heading out to the video store right now as I finish typing and I'll cross my fingers Wings of Desire is there. I haven't seen it in years, but tonight, after I put him to bed, I yearn to crawl under the covers and turn the lights out and extend my own hand for a shake. And as I watch, I'm going to whisper, "I can't see you, but I know you're here...I wish you were here. I wish you could talk to me. Cause, I'm a friend." I hope he hears me. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The same day Falk died, New York became the largest state in the United States to legalize gay marriage. Little steps. A small gain after this huge loss. Maybe a gift to the betterment of humankind from the other side.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">A wink from a glass eye that could see beyond the gateway.</span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">As you wish, Lieutenant. As you wish.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">In a final scene of Wings, a motorcyclis is killed and an angel bends over him to recite this poem as he moves from Life into his next existence.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Appropriately, named The Song of Childhood, <a href="http://www.wim-wenders.com/movies/movies_spec/wingsofdesire/wod-song-of-childhood.htm" target="_blank">here it is</a>. For you, Peter.</span>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-37625487536883032992011-06-19T18:12:00.000-07:002011-06-19T19:28:30.964-07:00Ketchup<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"></span><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Yes, actually, I am still recovering from the Harper majority win, why do you ask?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">When I last posted, I was going to follow up my political plea with a post called <i>The Hangover</i> or <i>The Morning After The Night Before</i>. Unfortunately for the next reign of Harper there <i>is</i> no morning-after pill. I am still floored. What galls me is that violent riots shook Vancouver the other night when the Canucks lost the Stanley cup but people DIDN'T take to the streets after Harper WON! The riots post the Bruins win left a bad taste in everyone's mouth across the Nation. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I don't mean to imply I encourage such a disgustng display of sorelosered-ness, but if it had happened after the Harper win, I might have understood a bit more what inflamed the rioting. I don't understand those nimrods in Vancouver who left the rest of their city and country flabbergasted and ashamed. When you witness around the world what people actually riot for, when it's <i>legit</i> - the right to vote, to overthrow a dictatorship, stuff like that - what happened in BC makes you just shake your head. Pathetic.</span><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWj-rfNAnFPoQFh1zAknOXQ5arj76jrxW7HOZOTzvnajlxZjfH-Yh9jMpDvwJdrZN-_tlKt6_TVfubVoSIfjk5zHpi31DhjAlph1GA-U6yAnb-t76gy2en9mfCedh6_K0ol_NlEX9Qsg/s1600/Koosh_Canoe.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="214" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhkWj-rfNAnFPoQFh1zAknOXQ5arj76jrxW7HOZOTzvnajlxZjfH-Yh9jMpDvwJdrZN-_tlKt6_TVfubVoSIfjk5zHpi31DhjAlph1GA-U6yAnb-t76gy2en9mfCedh6_K0ol_NlEX9Qsg/s320/Koosh_Canoe.gif" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><em><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My girl</span></em></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">The thing is, I really was going to write a response to the Harper win, but my dog died two days after he was voted in. She was 14 years old and I first got her when she was about 9 or 10 weeks old. I can't write about her right now. But I do plan to write a memorial post dedicated just to her. Her loss kind of knocked the wind out of my sails for a bit and I didn't care much about Harper anymore (the ire over his majority win is rearing its ugly head once again, though, to be sure. It's like a zombie that will not stay underground.)</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97KhlGB1_sB9prW-SvOMmG3h_MWAFc_mUghlEPlMhe-jsWdbkl9-5pGGLyFQluudP2VBCZhKPJ9Cqk5grlZdlepd9Sq3P9-nXxUpa1HxxkabDhyz5i8bAQmGRnCQIRKYoSwO95xIcz2Q/s1600/20110604_cheesygrin.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg97KhlGB1_sB9prW-SvOMmG3h_MWAFc_mUghlEPlMhe-jsWdbkl9-5pGGLyFQluudP2VBCZhKPJ9Cqk5grlZdlepd9Sq3P9-nXxUpa1HxxkabDhyz5i8bAQmGRnCQIRKYoSwO95xIcz2Q/s320/20110604_cheesygrin.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>say cheeeeeeeeeeese</em></span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Also, since I last posted, my <i>baby</i> turned two years old. Jesus. So yeah. I've yet to write about all I feel about that. Since the last post there's been a death, a birthday, a wedding and a baptism. It's like I've been cast in a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mike_Newell_(director)" target="_blank">Mike Newell</a> film. I guess it's true what they say: when one door closes, another always opens. If a door ever closed on Harper, though, I hope it just stays shut. No welcome back mat rolled out for him again, <i>please</i>, Cosmos, I beg you.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">So that's the current plan: I'll be playing some 'ketchup' for the next few weeks and will endeavour to post briefer, more concise, blog-sized, edible posts more often rather than being absent for months at a time and then trying to catch up by writing a novel. I've lots to say...but I'm going to have to work backwards a bit to catchup and then I'll just move forward at a better, more regular pace from there.</span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQjNS3WqiHxxXSeT0eSO0rMookFX7aar-62gScQtBLVVQlnZ1g3vGQLx0rzj1LQ04EZ9yt83IGEU4f5Fq3illd948z3RAdNTtRyZOwU203VSZrz-kbfncjeoXHRnaFHupdVfCktalbeY/s1600/20110513_maplesyrup.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="213" i$="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRQjNS3WqiHxxXSeT0eSO0rMookFX7aar-62gScQtBLVVQlnZ1g3vGQLx0rzj1LQ04EZ9yt83IGEU4f5Fq3illd948z3RAdNTtRyZOwU203VSZrz-kbfncjeoXHRnaFHupdVfCktalbeY/s320/20110513_maplesyrup.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><em>fresh maple syrup</em></span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Thanks, again, for your patience. And the condolences I know you send to me. For the Harper win. For my doggy loss. The weather has been matching the mood of these events pretty well over May - it was both wet and cold. But now the sun seems finally to have located where I live. I think he just got lost for a while there. With solstice approaching this week, I really do want to believe that summer is finally here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">We could all use a little Vitamin D right now. It's time.</span>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-7826856930228816082011-04-28T19:38:00.000-07:002011-05-03T08:07:35.004-07:00Slaying the Dragon (Part II)<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>(...continued from </em><a href="http://thebinsubtle.blogspot.com/2011/04/slaying-dragon.html" target="_blank"><em>Part I</em></a><em>)</em><br />
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Since the second week of March, there visited upon us, back-to-back, non-stop illness in one form or another. I think it began when I stayed out all night in the cold to grab him a spot in a highly popular local daycare. I'd heard the stories that people "lined up the night before" and I was thinking this meant perhaps 10pm or midnight. Registration wouldn't open until 8am but when did I end up lining up? 5pm the night before. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">That's right. Twelve, perhaps fifteen crazy-ass parents lined up in the cold outside a daycare for 15 hours until those blessed doors opened for 8am registration. My parents took him for me and, unlike most of the other parents in line, I had no partner to "switch off" with. My body was cozy. Yes, it was early February, and I had donned every layer in my closet, but my feet were freezing! I begged everyone to let me keep my spot while I raced home and put on my cross-country ski boots. They were gracious enough to allow it. Hell, it actually became a really neat, bonding time with some funky people. There was a guitar, a ukelele. Everyone sang, told jokes. Someone had set up a tent. A couple of guys brought a propane heater. And when one of the spouses showed up close to midnight with a bottle of bourbon or scotch, we were suddenly figures in some <a href="http://www.tomwaits.com" target="_blank">Tom Waits</a> song because by that hour, let me assure you, none of us cared we were all swigging from it like Depression-era, train-hopping hobos. </span><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>Singing the Sheep Dip Blues</em></span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Of course, come 8am when other dazed, sleepy parents trickled in who had not heard about the night-before-lineup-rumour-that-turned-out-to-be-true, the sudden realization that perhaps waltzing into a daycare to sign your child up with the reek of bourbon breath was perhaps not the best first impression to make dawned on all of us, but by then it was too damn late (or early) and we were too exhausted and frozen to care. We were only too happy to be herded like sheep into the warmth of the actual building where we could begin to defrost, our hands shaking as we filled out the necessary paperwork, faint smiles playing around our frozen lips, proud of our sacrificial selves in the knowledge we had secured our bairn with a spot the next autumn. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">A bonus: the knowledge that for the next few years, we as parents could walk our wee ones into the daycare pointing at the ground, saying, "See this slab of concrete? Your mother lay on that all night in the WINTER so that you could come here..."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Okay. Okay. I refuse, as long as I possibly can, to play the guilt trip card, but it's fun to dream and giggle over it now. I actually met some amazing people that night and thought, "Wow. These are the parents of the kids my child will be hanging with over the next few years. Cool." </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The downside, of course, was the sinusitis that ensued. I quickly passed that on to my wee boy. And that, combined with the emotional stress of parting ways (me to work, him to daycare full days), brought on pneumonia for him. This was followed almost immediately by full-blown ear infections in both ears for me (loss of balance and hearing in my right ear for close to two weeks), followed by a bout of pink eye for him and then the nastiest gastro bug working its way through our region hit us both with all its might.</span><br />
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</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;"><em>You give me fever</em></span></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">He vomited Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday. I took him to emerg the Thursday and Saturday in between neverending loads of puke-piled laundry. My tummy waited until Monday to begin vomiting. I lost 8lbs in one week. And having already lost about 15lbs over the winter carrying him on my back in his carrier while we walked around town, I dipped well below my weight before I got pregnant. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">For close to two months, not one week went by that one or both of us did not end up in emergency at the local hospital and/or our family doctor's office when we could get in: Sinusitis, Pneumonia, Otitis Media, Conjunctivitis, Gastrointitis. Somebody-save-us-nowitis. Bang, bang, bang, bang. By all accounts, our bodies were rejecting this huge transition in our lives and screaming, "We're not ready yet for this! We don't think either of you are ready!" </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">I spent almost as much time at home or in medical buildings as I did at the office and just as I'd returned, too. The other parents of wee ones on staff gave slight sympathetic nods and chuckles, recalling their own germ-induced onslaughts, I suppose. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">Since last I posted, my wish was to turn my focus solely onto him for a spell during this massive transition back to work and into fulltime daycare, though it quickly became obvious I would have no other choice regardless. We have been going through extreme emotional and physical change (he is growing like a weed and I'm withering away to nothing). This blog o' mine remained sorely neglected. I wish to thank those of you who've visited, commented, discovered, read and stuck around. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">In two weeks, he will, unbelievably, turn two years old and he is now, thankfully, thriving in his new environment. Got a note the other day from the daycare to say how proud they are of him that two days in a row when he saw another child crying, he went over and hugged him. He has moved from consolee to consoler already. I fought back tears reading that note, but the tears won, let me tell you. And even though I feel this kind of caring and compassion is just in his nature, I'm going to take full credit while I can. We've been, for the most part, on our own since he was born. Family and friends have their own busy lives going on, understandably. Such is Life. And we are surviving. Better than surviving. And, when in dire need, kind souls dropped soup to us, baked loaves, tucked chocolate and sympathy inside our screen door. We are blessed where we live.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">The Dragon of Germ-ridden Daycare has been slain now, I hope. At any rate, I'm lowering my sword, dropping my shield and slowly raising my visor.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">We are finally surfacing into health again, resuming happiness, and opening our minds and hearts to a Spring that has yet to really show herself. We call to Her now. Come, come to us! We need you. We're ready.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small;">We're ready now.</span>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-14758125892508535942011-04-28T02:09:00.000-07:002012-11-05T07:34:09.132-08:00Slaying the Dragon (Part I)<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I recently wrote <a href="http://carrieannesnyder.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">one of my writer friends</a> that I felt my blog had become this withering, old grandmother of mine in some distant, remote long-term care facility I rarely visited anymore. Of course, both sets of grandparents are long gone for me. But I've been really missing blogging and feeling guilt over its constant neglected state. Life has felt more harried and health issues have been munching up the last few months, dining on each spare moment I might have had without even a belch.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Starting in January, we were allowed occasional visits to my son's new, upcoming daycare as long as I remained with him. I would take him and stand apart to observe how he played and explored his new environment. With each visit he seemed to grow more comfortable with the place and the number of other little people, the concepts of sharing, waiting a turn. Our initial visits were brief: perhaps an hour, no more than two, each time. I could sense that, though he was fine to go off and play without the interaction he was used to from me at home, there was a subtle "checking in" every so often. He would get lost in play but a glance would be thrown my way to ensure I was near and accessible.</span></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Driven crazy by daycare</span></i></div><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I thought he was adjusting admirably. My mistake was the February visits became much more frequent such that he became used to my presence there with him. There I was, patting myself on the back like a fool counting her eggs, believing the transition to fulltime was flowing as smoothly as possible. By the first day I returned to work fulltime (March 1), he was in shock that I would not be spending the 8 hours with him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">I began to measure his growing acceptance of this fact by where/when he'd begin to cry during the dropoff stage. At the beginning, he'd wail when I put him in the car on our driveway in the mornings. Slowly, I could get him in the seat tearless, but when we parked outside the daycare, he'd burst. Eventually I could park and he'd wait until he was inside the actual doors. Then a few mornings, we made it as far as down the hallway before the act of removing his coat in front of his cubby brought on Niagara Falls. On other rare occasions, I could get him all the way into the actual room before the waterworks.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">What put my heart through the ringer most mornings was the fact that, in the face of his howling sobs and upstretched arms and the cries of "Maaammmmmmmmaaaaaaa", I had read in the literature that you, as the parent, are encouraged to keep a 'happy countenance' as you drop your child off so that she/he doesn't sense any worry on YOUR part about leaving her/him there for the day. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Now, I am a trained actor. In addition to four years of university training and various subsequent workshops and seminars, I've had a good amount of theatre and film experience. I further auditioned for the Royal National Theatre's Summer Programme in London, England, a programme which auditions in five cities in the States and two cities in Canada for a mere 30 spots each summer, and I got in and garnered some incredible training in <em>that</em> programme.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But I can say without hesitation that doing a tapdance with a big smile on my face while choking back my own tears and burying the deeply ingrained desire to grab hold of my reaching Sonshine and run out of that daycare with him every morning in some mad embrace, wild and happy once again, to the freedom and luxury of time we've had for close to two years was the most demanding acting job I've ever had. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My friend, Karl, tried to console me with "in a few weeks, you'll show up and he'll be totally indifferent to your presence and not want to leave what he's doing there and that will hurt even more." Damn you, Karl, for being spot on.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">But just as I began to feel all sorry for myself that he was maybe no longer missing me or yearning for me the way every cell in my body was for him while I sat back at my desk, the onslought of germ warfare began. Perhaps this was Mother Nature's cruel joke, "You want more time together again? Okay, bring on The Sick!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Arial;">(Continued in <a href="http://thebinsubtle.blogspot.com/2011/04/slaying-dragon-part-ii.html">Part II</a>...)</span>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-41668654763966022812011-01-16T18:17:00.000-08:002012-11-05T07:35:48.515-08:00genesisThe end of one year has come and gone and what a year! Last year's word for the year for us was "Move" and that is what we did: my Sonshine rolled over, reached out, began to crawl, stood up, toppled over, and eventually began to walk and then toddle. Now he is on the verge of running his little heart out as I chase him around the kitchen every night, something he loves.<br />
<br />
And, of course, we had our own epic "Move": from my rural home of the past decade to a new, old farmhouse (only slightly younger than the old, older one) in an urban setting this time. <br />
<br />
Yes, last year was definitely the year for moving. And this year, I am moving on ~ onward, ho!<br />
<br />
This year, I've chosen my Word of the Year to be "breathe/breath": as in take a breather, step back and breathe, stop and smell the flowers, take a breath before speaking (integral for me because I tend to blurt out my emotions without thinking or taking time to formulate what I'll say or recognize how my words might affect the listener(s)). I want to focus on getting back into yoga again and more regularly. After the harriedness and chaos of last year's monumental changes, my focus this year will be to close my eyes, take a deep breath, relax and trust myself, my instincts with each step forward. <br />
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I have also made this particular word choice for the year to focus on finding my breath deep within and by that I mean discovering my voice in my writing and further, in the storytelling I do via my photography, something I equally wish to kindle as a growing project on the side of the work I do to pay the mortgage. I continue to play with various photography projects on my current flickr photostream. This year it is my fervent hope to really let my creativity spark and see how high and hot its flame can grow. Like Gordo sings it, I'm trying to get into things more happy than blue. Hope you'll join me as my journey continues...<br />
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To that end, I have begun a new photography blog: <a href="http://www.lenstrel.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Lenstrel</a>. The title is one I've coined based on the definition of a minstrel: a traveling entertainer who recites poetry and sings folk songs. With my photography blog, I intend each photo to be its own poem in a way, and I will include music that inspires or complements the photos I share, along with a short, creative writing blurb at times (at other times I will let the photo tell its own story). <br />
<br />
I turned another year older last Friday and this particular year I feel like I have been reborn in more ways than one! So 'breath' is definitely an apropos word for this new year as I feel I am taking my first real breath after a long period of stress and upheaval. I look forward now to the new year that stretches out before me and feel excitement (and some nervous anticipation) about all the changes it promises. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BEybItJlO3TkdFWXwPthbIOowrEuOH2MTV8HGEY6qAYV60X0moZjSU4-hQHMm_nIApEXKePhQVCJHVtSmdS9hSjtQkZNaKNQstlYubKTQB2HYs8uReMgowY26Vst6BeBl21SlglpKO8/s1600/20110116_awake.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7BEybItJlO3TkdFWXwPthbIOowrEuOH2MTV8HGEY6qAYV60X0moZjSU4-hQHMm_nIApEXKePhQVCJHVtSmdS9hSjtQkZNaKNQstlYubKTQB2HYs8uReMgowY26Vst6BeBl21SlglpKO8/s320/20110116_awake.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><em>locks curling with (nervous) excitement</em></div><br />
One impending change will be my return to work after almost two years off to give birth and raise my Sonshine. So I am cherishing these days we have left together but I know he will thrive in a busier learning environment than I have been able to provide alone with him. His mind is a sponge right now and absorbs every little thing. He will love the busy routine of the days ahead. And the plan is to have atleast 6 weeks off (paid!) each summer as he is growing so this will not be the end of our free time together, thankfully. We hope to travel, camp and I intend to delve more than spare time into my writing and photography once the days grow warmer.<br />
<br />
I want to wish everyone out there one magical 2011.<br />
<br />
And remember to BREATHE! :)<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 85%;">Music: Gordon Lightfoot, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcOxhH8N3Bo" target="_blank">Minstrel of the Dawn</a></span></i>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-90787302425913591372010-12-20T20:54:00.000-08:002011-07-01T07:44:56.391-07:00eclipseJust a brief note: a lunar eclipse on the Winter Solstice is occuring tonight (or, rather, early tomorrow morning for those in EST). The partial eclipse, as though a bite has been taken out of the moon, should be visible at 1:33am EST with the total eclipse beginning at 2:41am EST and lasting 72 minutes, according to <a href="http://science.nasa.gov/science-news/science-at-nasa/2010/17dec_solsticeeclipse/">NASA</a>.<br />
<br />
What can I say? You already know how I feel about <a href="http://thebinsubtle.blogspot.com/2007/10/what-little-starlight-can-do.html" target="_blank">stargazing</a>. It's what inspired the commencement of this very blog! So you can just imagine how I feel about <i>moon</i>gazing.<br />
<br />
Tonight I am missing the pitch-black of the backyard of my previous homestead. But I will stand at the bottom of my driveway or on my back deck and try to peer through the city's light pollution to catch a glimpse of anything I can despite the current cloud cover above.<br />
The last time there was a lunar eclipse on the Winter Solstice was on December 21, 1638. That's right. Three hundred and seventy-two years ago. The next time it will happen, most of us won't be alive. It will be December 21, 2094. So. I'm thinking you really shouldn't miss out on this event tonight if you can witness it. <br />
<br />
Normally, the Winter Solstice is also called The Darkest Night of the Year. Only this year, it will just so happen to be that bit darker with the moon turning an amber colour behind the shadows tonight.<br />
<br />
My son and I wish you all a beautiful Birth of the Sun tomorrow as the earth tilts towards the Summer Solstice and the days begin to stretch and grow brighter. And we hope that all your days grow brighter in 2011!<br />
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<i><span style="font-size: 85%;">Music: Bonnie Tyler, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcOxhH8N3Bo" target="_blank">A Total Eclipse of the Heart</a></span></i>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-6836423337918171302010-12-07T20:10:00.000-08:002010-12-13T19:45:15.200-08:00The Ninth LifeMy cat died tonight. He was 17. He had been mine for 16 1/2 years.<br />
<br />
The way it happened was all of a sudden. He'd always been in good health. I guess that's usually the best way to go, they say.<br />
<br />
I was playing with my son this evening in our front room and I heard my cat fall. I called out to him even though I know he has been deaf the last couple of years. At first I thought he was upstairs but when I discovered him, he was lying at the bottom of the stairs having what looked like an epileptic fit. All four limbs were flailing in different directions and his head was spasming like he was being electrocuted by some invisible cable. My first instinct, of course, was to pick him up and that's just what I did. He continued to flail and make biting movements with his mouth, jerk and spasm in my arms. I wrapped him in a blanket and held him until his body started to slow its movements. His head finally calmed, he started frothing at the mouth a bit and his tongue stuck out involuntarily. But the staccato of spasms gradually ceased until he lay still in my arms, something he has rarely voluntarily done in all the years I've had him. <br />
<br />
I called the local animal hospital which, ironically (or not), was the same place I held my golden retriever when he died 16 years ago now. In fact, I ended up tonight in the same room with my cat when he was given his final injection. I felt as though my old dog was waiting there on the other side, my claddagh ring in his mouth, ready to guide this cat to my other kitty who passed away three years ago in June of 2007. They were both very close. Only about a year apart in age. <br />
<br />
Life is so strange. We recently moved back to this area and ended up mere blocks away from where I first found this little abandoned, feral kitten. Actually, my twin sister found him. (Thank you, thank you, thank you, sis!) She had been visiting the duplex where I lived and we were painting my bedroom when she spied him outside the second story window. I called the Humane Society to see if anyone had reported missing a tabby kitten. I already had one cat and hadn't planned to have another, but they got along like a house on fire so I kept him.<br />
<br />
My head is so full tonight of all the memories I have of him. My heart is full of them. Even in his dotage, he was so patient that I introduced a baby (of all things!) into the last year or so of his life. He was never declawed and had plenty of opportunity (and reason, likely) to protect himself from tail being pulled or ears being tweaked. But he would just strut patiently away from my son as though nothing had happened. <br />
<br />
What comes to mind the most are the nights I would talk to him those months following the end of my marriage in January of 2007, especially once my first cat died the following May. He was my sole companion out there in our remote, rural farmhouse. I felt so thankful for his company and his love and affection. It was a lonesome time and a pretty damn emotional year or two that followed. <br />
<br />
I think people who've never had a pet sometimes can't fully comprehend how much they become members of your family. How they are sometimes like your "children" (especially when you don't have any children). And my two cats and my dog were very much that for me for many years when I needed little ones to mother and love in that way. <br />
<br />
I realized tonight, in conversation with my brother-in-law, that my cat who died today was only born a couple of blocks from here. Maybe he'd sensed that he had come full circle. That he was "home" again. Maybe he felt it was time.<br />
<br />
I am very glad I was home when it happened. That I could hold him during the scariest moment of his life. He didn't know he was having a stroke. He didn't know what was happening. The vet explained that one pupil was dilated and the other wasn't. That he had lost function on one side of his body. She said we could wait a day to see how he does, but that he might have other seizures and, having witnessed him go through one today, there was no way in hell I wanted to risk him suffering that again. They left me alone with him for a few minutes and then returned and I held him while they gave him the shot to put him to sleep. They warned me if there is a struggle, as often happens, they would stop the injection and perhaps try another spot. I nodded. They asked me to hold onto the top of his body. I held him very gently. His little paws were crossed over my fingers and I cradled his tiny head in my right hand. He didn't move a muscle while they injected him and they both gasped quietly and said, "Wow, he is so sweet." Even in death, he was a gentleman. So patient and calm. That's how I knew he was telling me it was the right decision. He was ready to go. <br />
<br />
Still, it rips your heart open. This is it for me. I know down the road I plan to get a puppy for my son, a companion of his own. Maybe when he's around 7 or 8 years old. But this guy is the last cat I will ever have. The two cats I had, I just can't imagine finding two better than them. I've always been a dog person and I guess I got lucky twice. My luck just isn't always THAT good. Murphy's Law tends to rule the day.<br />
<br />
But I have to tell you. This morning. Uncanny. He must have known this would be his last day. When I came downstairs he was lying on the ottoman and turned to look at me. And he looked so beautiful curled up there, I grabbed my camera and took some shots of him.<br />
<br />
Now, anyone who's ever photographed animals will tell you it's almost impossible to get a clear, focused shot. They turn their head in one or their tail twitches in another or they start to jump off the couch. They usually end up a complete blur. But he just sat there and let me take some lovely shots of him and then he looked me right in the eye, straight into the lens. Like he knew. Maybe he was saying goodbye and wanted me to have some proper keepsakes of him.<br />
<br />
I didn't know they would be the last shots I would take of him. I want to share them with you. Here he is: Setanta. <br />
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</div>For weeks now I've been complaining to anyone within earshot that there has not been enough snow to my liking and finally today the skies opened up and the white stuff came down. For good this time. To stay. On the drive home from the vet clinic they were falling as big and heavily as my tears. It's as if he made sure this would happen today. A goodbye gift to comfort me. A balm to my grief. To be blanketed in this way. Pristine, white snow covering everything. A clean slate. A new beginning. A final, perfect farewell. <br />
<br />
Goodbye, my furry little guy. Thank you for being such a great cat! Thanks for being so g-d chatty. I loved that you were so talkative, especially when I was otherwise surrounded by silence a good part of the time (even during my marriage). I cherish the years we had on our very own out there on the farm. Just you and me. Thanks for making the good times over the years greater and the hard times easier. <br />
<br />
And thanks for being so lovely and patient with my wee Sonshine. I know you were happy for me that I finally had a human baby to mother. <br />
<br />
I know Brandy and Zosia are with you now and you're playing and all four limbs are working okay where you are and you can see good as new and you can hear just perfectly, again. <br />
<br />
I hope, wherever you are now, you hear this: <br />
I love you and I will miss you. Lots.<br />
<br />
xonancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-15176186971364933162010-12-05T20:48:00.000-08:002010-12-13T19:57:34.003-08:00The Stronger SexTonight the streets are nearly empty as I stroll him through the shortcut behind the nearby funeral home. We just miss the green light because my feet refuse to do more than shuffle today. This is the time of month I feel so damned sorry for myself, moreso for the little man who wonders why his mama is just not up to par for a few days each month. My cycle began on Friday, the 12th anniversary of the due date of my first pregnancy. I try to imagine having a 12 year old running around me right now. Wow. That would be kinda neato.<br />
<br />
The thought inspires a brief smile and peek far above to glimpse twinkling stars and think on my lost babies. Not really lost to me since I hold them close within my heart still. He kicks his legs along with the rhythm of the wheels as they hit the sidewalk cracks. We're on our way to return a late film rental. I was not sure I'd venture out tonight. It's minus 6 celcius and we are completely bundled though Mama cannot walk at her usual fast pace tonight. A pause as I bite my lip against the searing pain of the cramp and accompanying clot which nearly cripple me and we resume the stroll again. Today proved vastly difficult to get out of bed. I think back to before I had him when I would down some tylenol 3s with a glass of water and lie supine in bed with hot water bottle pressed against my insides on these days. Just knock myself out entirely against the pain of it. <br />
<br />
No longer can I afford such luxury when it hits. And because I am nursing, no meds either. The entire weekend I move as though under water and he looks at me curiously. What's wrong, Mama? Why aren't you laughing, tickling and giving me spacerocket rides on your feet to swing me above your tummy? Not today, angel. In a few days... <br />
<br />
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We get home and I bathe him to warm his toes and fingers. He smiles up at me while I read him bedtime stories and cuddle him for his bottlefeed. He does not fight sleep tonight. Perhaps he can sense that I need the break and for this, I am thankful. <br />
<br />
Downstairs I begin to tidy. From above my desk, my great-grandmother eyes me, a baby in her lap. She was a teacher who eventually went blind. She had birthed 10 or 11 children, the last 3 during her blindness. My own grandmother, the aforementioned baby, raised a large brood of her own children in Depression-era Ireland. The sink fills as I glance over at the photo of my mother at 17. I consider my own life and how easy I have it. So this line is the core from which I gather my own strength to get through the sorry-ass "hardship" I endure once a month? On the other side of the world, women do almost all the labour while the men sit under trees, drink beer and watch them haul water on their heads, firewood on their backs, children at their hips.<br />
<br />
A calendar hangs near the sink and I realize tomorrow is December 6th. Twenty-one years have passed since the massacre at <a href="http://www.polymtl.ca/carrefour/en/article.php?no=3305" target="_blank">École Polytechnique</a> in Montreal, where a gunman separated the men from the women in an engineering class and shot only the women. Only the women. Because he had applied to the programme himself and was turned down. Because he wondered why women should be allowed to enter a predominantly male programme and he could not? The men in the classroom were asked to leave and they all left. They were young and this man had a gun. A rifle. They had to have heard the shots from outside the classroom, down the hallway as they exited. I wonder how they feel about what happened. I wonder what it is they suffer at having survived the ordeal. Do they suffer? Knowing it was their gender that saved them? I wonder more about the women who were lost. The disbelief, the realization as the first woman is shot that this is it. Their whole lives ahead of them and this bastard is gunning them down.<br />
<br />
Tears hit the dishwater and I ask myself just what the fuck do I have to complain about? Cramps? I am alive. I breathe. I have lived through my 30s, am experiencing my 40s. I have known the Joy of loving one Great Love in my life. I have had the pleasure of much laughter and other loves and lovers since. The incomparable ecstasy of carrying a child in my womb. Of giving birth. I have been blessed with motherhood. I work a job I enjoy with good pay and great benefits. I own a beautiful home in which to raise my son. These women had yet to live such wondrous moments in their lives.<br />
<br />
I will never forget the day they were killed. That I was the same age as some of them at the time. I recall trying to imagine back then, at 22, having my own life end in such a tragic and hateful way. But I couldn't imagine it. I still cannot at 43.<br />
<br />
This guy may have murdered these women, but he was so wrong. We are not the weaker sex. Not only can we do the same work as men do, but no one can destroy our ability to do so even by paying us less, never mind killing us. We can do anything. We are women. We will still defeat any sexist agenda. We will outlive it, even if we are dead. Our names will be read aloud and people will remember us. Young women capable of anything. We are women.<br />
<br />
We will not take a rifle and execute others. Such acts are of pure cowardice. We are stronger than that. We can survive even the death rained upon us. We are women. <br />
<br />
We can knit and we can do engineering. We can bake pies and calculate Pi algorithms. We can change diapers and policies. We can run classrooms and countries. We can give birth and we can choose not to. We are women. We have the right and the smarts.<br />
<br />
I drain the sink. Inside my lower back, two imaginary clenched fists twist its muscles along with my ovaries. But I clean these rooms before I hit the hay. I whisper a small prayer of thanks for having that privilege. For being born a girl. For being the woman I am in the country to which I was born. I am lucky. I am strong. I am woman. Hear me roar, even as I yawn and climb the stairs slowly. <br />
<br />
And before I ascend to bath and bed myself, I sit here at this computer and write. And I speak aloud the names of the 14 women whose lives were taken that day in 1989. I light a candle and gather strength from their wisdom, their smiles and all they accomplished in their young lives before they were taken so untimely and tragically from their families, their loves. From us all.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCUBMwrPdXKFmCW3zW5ABQHAXEOFr5_I3EVH6eBP16YxeXtrznWGpPsHF1OS0qzhyphenhyphen4ItXS4JbOAWns0gGx439f5xQF5LABlmtEokC_EhTWTDF2wc0nq6Ah-zz56n05-w9H2fVqVEUTs-I/s1600/14_women.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCUBMwrPdXKFmCW3zW5ABQHAXEOFr5_I3EVH6eBP16YxeXtrznWGpPsHF1OS0qzhyphenhyphen4ItXS4JbOAWns0gGx439f5xQF5LABlmtEokC_EhTWTDF2wc0nq6Ah-zz56n05-w9H2fVqVEUTs-I/s320/14_women.jpg" width="202" /></a></div><br />
Anne-Marie Edward, 21<br />
Anne-Marie Lemay, 27<br />
Annie St-Arneault, 23<br />
Annie Turcotte, 21<br />
Barbara Daigneault, 22<br />
Barbara Maria Klueznick, 31<br />
Geneviève Bergeron, 21<br />
Hélène Colgan, 23<br />
Maud Haviernick, 29<br />
Maryse Laganière, 25<br />
Maryse Leclair, 23<br />
Nathalie Croteau, 23<br />
Sonia Pelletier, 28<br />
Michele Richard, 21<br />
<br />
---------<br />
Apparently the link I'd included with some bio information is not working properly so I am copying and pasting the bios I found here:<br />
<br />
<b>Who They Were</b><br />
<br />
Anne-Marie Edward, 21, was a first year student in chemical engineering. She loved outdoor sports like skiing, diving and riding and was always surrounded with friends.<br />
<br />
Anne-Marie Lemay, 27, was a fourth year student in mechanical engineering.<br />
<br />
Annie St-Arneault, 23, was a mechanical engineering student from La Tuque, Que., a Laurentian pulp and paper town in the upper St-Maurice river valley. She lived in a small apartment in Montreal. Her friends considered her a fine student. She was killed as she sat listening to a presentation in her last class before graduation. She had a job interview with Alcan Aluminium scheduled for the following day. She had talked about eventually getting married to the man who had been her boyfriend since she was a teenager.<br />
<br />
Annie Turcotte, 21, was in her first year student in engineering materials. She lived with her brother in a small apartment near the university. She was described as gentle and athletic - she was a diver and a swimmer. She went into engineering so she could one day help improve the environment.<br />
<br />
Barbara Daigneault, 22, was to graduate at the end of the year. She was a teaching assistant for her father Pierre Daigneault, a mechanical engineering professor with the city's other French-language engineering school at the University of Quebec at Montreal.<br />
<br />
Barbara Maria Klueznick, 31, was a first-year nursing student. She arrived in Montreal from Poland with her husband in 1987.<br />
<br />
Geneviève Bergeron, 21, was a second year scholarship student in civil engineering who could easily have become a musician instead of an engineer. Her friends and family described her as a happy person. On the last day of her life, Genevieve had gone to the school to work on a project with her friends. She played the clarinet and sang in a professional choir. In her spare time she played basketball and swam.<br />
<br />
Hélène Colgan, 23, was in her final year of mechanical engineering and planned to take her Master’s degree. She had three job offers and was leaning towards accepting one from a company based near Toronto.<br />
<br />
Maud Haviernick, 29, was a second year student in engineering materials, a branch of metallurgy, and a graduate in environmental design from the University of Quebec at Montreal.<br />
<br />
Maryse Laganière, 25, was the only non-student killed. She worked in the budget department of the Ecole Polytechnique. She had recently married.<br />
<br />
Maryse Leclair, 23, in fourth-year metallurgy, had a year to go before graduation and was one of the top students in the school. She acted in plays in junior college. She was the first victim whose name was known and she was found by her father, Montreal police Lieut. Pierre Leclair.<br />
<br />
Nathalie Croteau, 23, was in her final year of mechanical engineering and planned to take a two-week vacation in Cancun, Mexico, with Hélène Colgan at the end of the month.<br />
<br />
Sonia Pelletier, 28, was the head of her class and the pride of St-Ulric, Que., her remote birthplace in the Gaspe peninsula. She had five sisters and two brothers. She was to graduate the next day in mechanical engineering and had a job interview lined up for the following week. She was awarded a degree posthumously.<br />
<br />
Michele Richard, 21, of Montreal, was in second-year engineering materials. She was presenting a paper with Haviernick when she was killed.<br />
-----------<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 85%;">Music: Annie Lennox, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=drGx7JkFSp4" target="_blank">Sisters are Doin' It for Themselves</a></span></i>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-83274800469404771982010-11-25T23:21:00.000-08:002010-11-27T22:06:44.948-08:00ListenThe third night in our new home, I hear the police siren. Or an ambulance. Fire truck, maybe. Though, I think I can differentiate. That it took three days surprises me. <br />
<br />
Two weeks pass before the patter of mouse in the walls conjures a smirk. Guess if you move from one farmhouse to another, even if it's from a rural to an urban setting, there's no escaping the little creatures. Particularly not as the trees strip themselves bare. We all seek warmth once that happens.<br />
<br />
Admittedly, I haven't heard him since. <br />
<br />
Tonight is the first night I miss my old farmhouse. Not because of the mouse that kept me company there on and off. Nor because I wish I were back there. I love where we now reside. It's 'cause rain is falling as I lie in bed and type this. My son snores softly in the next room, oblivious to the storm stirring outside. Water droplets hit the roof as hard as they can, but see, <em>this</em> roof isn't made of tin. I sigh.<br />
<br />
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The wind howls like an injured wolf. In their frames, my bubbled glass rattles. Three or four days ago it was 13 degrees celcius here. A balmy day for late November and highly unusual. Moreso because Vancouver, which generally prides itself as the warmer climate, has been inundated with snow the past week. Mother Nature flipped her eggtimer upside down and reversed the status quo for the moment. <br />
<br />
Is that my recycling bouncing all over the front porch? I'm afraid to check in case I get clocked by a can of <a href="http://www.guinness.com" target="_blank">Guinness</a>. My uncle would have said there are worse ways to die than that, even if it's empty of black gold. My eyes jump to the ceiling as the roof moans. I tell myself hurricanes don't happen in the winter. Of course, in the winter, what happens are <em>snowsqualls</em>. And <em>that</em> is what the weather calls for tonight. That old witch's got one wicked courier service and she's delivering right on time. <br />
<br />
One sound I never heard lying in my former abode is car wheels splashing through rain puddles as they pass. Hail showers against the glass, as though some giant is wandering through the streets and hurling tiny pebbles at the second-story windows of homes. <br />
<br />
I think about Dorothy. At least I have some red footwear if the house is lifted up into the eye of some tornado. I've traded my rural wellies for something a tad more civilized. Still, I wonder where we'd land?<br />
<br />
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The tin roof I mourn. Crickets, too. But one sound erases any regret I may feel (and I don't feel much at all about having left my rural habitat). It's one I haven't heard for a decade: the train whistle. My new home is close enough to tracks that when that whistle blows, its haunting notes reach through the panes and caress my cheek, wipe any tears away, touch my lips. Close my lids. <br />
<br />
I am lulled to sleep as the train rolls through town and its wheels meet the small space that divides each separate rail. <em>Cli-clack. Cli-clack. Cli-clack. </em><br />
<br />
My grandfather on my father's side drove trains all around Ireland. The love of them is in my blood, I guess. Passed down through the genes. Trains are the sound of home to me. As though it's my heart the engineer opens and shovels coal into, stoking the flames higher. Despite hail, sleet, snowsquall, mice, we are safe. We are cozy. We are <em>home</em> now. Finally, my body surrenders to slumber.<br />
<br />
"<i>Goodnight</i>," whisper the train wheels as they kiss the steel. <br />
<br />
"<i>Sleep tight, sleep tight, sleep tight. So long...</i>"<br />
<br />
Goodnight.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 85%;">Music: Gordon Lightfoot, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yzo6Otpgj-E" target="_blank">Canadian Railroad Trilogy</a></span></i>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-6780236940450195982010-11-21T02:23:00.000-08:002010-12-01T17:42:01.013-08:00Savage Breast<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">A friend of mine constantly astounds me by posting music I fall in love with immediately. This morning, for instance, I learn that snow is falling in Vancouver and I open facebook and this person has posted, once again, <a href="http://www.myspace.com/messagetobears" target="_blank">an amazing band</a> I've never heard. I give the song a listen and am flooded with feeling. <em>Feelings</em>. I cry and I can't tell you if it's from sorrow or joy. But likely it's both. For me, they tend to emote simultaneously. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div>And moments like that are few and far between these days. I mean, Life <em>is</em> busy, but in my heart I know they're few and far between because I try not to go there anymore these days. To open that part of myself and let those feelings flood me the way they do. The way they are doing right now.<br />
<br />
Just, occasionally, I cannot help it if I listen to some song. It only takes one little song sometimes. Music has such <em>power</em>.<br />
<br />
The day after we moved, I bought my son a wooden xylophone. For his first birthday, I bought him a little drum. I want to surround him with instruments as he's growing so that if he's in any way inclined, maybe he will take a real interest in it. He already shows great interest. One of the playlists I created months ago is simply called <i>Spring</i>. Either the songs have something to do with that season or they evoke the season for me. The first song in the playlist is by an amazing artist called <a href="http://www.sufjan.com/" target="_blank">Sufjan Stevens</a>. It's got a long title: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4b0fdETmRng" target="_blank">Concerning the UFO Landing Near Highland, Illinois.</a><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDtWXykWEd9LV770iYIKnkzq-YB_yw29-BQwFnylmj6VV5ZyIjb_IFJJjPR4urBq4iRDJ6wtSCmRglstGzuxCWWpl6_H0AqlKw1-GL8q-hwBGuSF-y_UbhIz-aLTFcE1vISMyf7EBBAoc/s1600/illinoise.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDtWXykWEd9LV770iYIKnkzq-YB_yw29-BQwFnylmj6VV5ZyIjb_IFJJjPR4urBq4iRDJ6wtSCmRglstGzuxCWWpl6_H0AqlKw1-GL8q-hwBGuSF-y_UbhIz-aLTFcE1vISMyf7EBBAoc/s320/illinoise.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>wings of desire</em></div><br />
Well, just about every time I start that playlist and Sufjan's song begins, my son beams the widest smile imaginable. Suddenly he stops whatever he is doing. He looks at me and bares all of his teeth and he has at least 12 pearly whites now. Unbelievable. What he does then is he bends his knees a little and he starts to bob up and down and after he bobs up and down for a bit, he begins to sway his head from side to side like he's a jazz musician. Sometimes, swear to God, he closes his eyes. He REALLY gets into it. He dances through the whole song like he's in a trance.<br />
<br />
This particular tune never lets me down. He rarely fusses in the car, but when he does begin to feel a bit restless I switch to this playlist and as soon as that piano begins, his lips unfurl and his eyes twinkle and his feet begin flopping around. It's almost as though he gives me a little wink when I turn my head to look at him. He understands that when I put this song on, what I'm saying is, "I love you more than the moon. More than the smell of cedar, the crackle of woodfires. More than an ocean full of water." He totally gets that. And so he beams at me. As if to say, "I love ya right back, mama." An unusual connection exists between the songs of this particular artist and this baby boy of mine for some reason. Has existed from <a href="http://thebinsubtle.blogspot.com/2008/09/cryin-in-bathroom.html" target="_blank">the very beginning</a>. Maybe his fetal hearing attuned itself that first morning my iPod played and he fell in love with the music, too. I especially love that <i>this</i> is the song that has caught my son's heart. "<em>In the spirit of three stars</em>," sings Sufjan. And my own heart catches in my throat. I think of the three stars out there, my three little babies I've lost. One in '98. One in 2003. And my son's twin. His <em>twin</em>. Two years ago October. I have always thought of them as stars. My son's siblings shining up there in the sky watching over him. "<em>Incarnation</em>," sings Sufjan, "<em>three stars, delivering signs and dusting from their eyes</em>."<br />
<br />
What is it about music, hey? Why do I carry this crazed gene that just can't get enough of it? Especially when I <em>took</em> music lessons. As a young girl, I <em>laboured</em> through them. Not once were they easy for me! Still to this day, I have trouble reading music. I couldn't tell you which note was what if someone played one for me. But maybe <em>that's</em> why I can't get enough of it. It is something I covet. I turn green with envy when I hear a band play amazing music. I wish I had their incredible talent. Often, when I hear a song I fall in love with, I do wish I were getting up on stage and singing that song, fretting that guitar. I know I'm not alone there, though I don't sing in the shower. I sing a lot to my son, however. For some crazy reason, he loves when I sing to him. (Thank Gawwwd because most of the time I suck at it. But his face lights up when I sing to him. Maybe he's tone deaf.)<br />
<br />
The other night, I put him to bed and descend the stairs to tidy up and emitting from the second floor is this endless giggling. I can hear him chatting to his bear. You oughta see this bear. A very dear friend gifted him with it and it's bigger than him. Every night he wraps his arms around this bear and snuggles with it. And the other night, the two of them would not shut up. Constant squeals of delight and low mumblings. Then silence. I guess, the two of them must have decided it was time to sleep. They stop whispering and drift off to slumberland. It's not all that strange to talk to bears is my point.<br />
<br />
It's Saturday night. 2:00 am. Okay, okay. <em>Sunday morning</em>. I just finished trying to catch up on the third season of <a href="http://www.amctv.com/originals/madmen/" target="_blank">Mad Men</a>. And I wanted to write something. I wanted to write an email. But I can't. I just can't. It's harder for me than reading music. A gazillion times harder than finding Middle C. (For me.)<br />
<br />
So I sit here writing this because it's all I've got. Right now. It's the only thing I can communicate with at 2:00am. On a Saturday night. Early on a Sunday morning. I hope someone out there can hear me. <br />
<br />
Here's what I want to convey. It's a message.<br />
<br />
The song I heard today made me smile and cry. As I listened the image I got was of a bear running through the forest. It's hungry. Not a black bear. The coat is brown. It's a grizzly. But it's not full grown yet. It's a grizzly because it's out West somewhere. Somewhere still pristine. As pristine as you can get. And its paws hit this stream and suddenly it stops. It tilts its head. Its nostrils widen. The small, beady eyes try to focus as best they can. There's a message coming through. In the form of a song. It flies through the forest. Through the wind in the leaves of the trees. Over the mountains. The bear listens and the pump in its heart opens and shuts, opens and shuts as it ingests each note. Its ears perk. The notes shoot into its blood and sinew and get sucked into its ventricles like heroin.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOkcgwHQKksqieuNm1b_Fh0CtXOBHFvk6eTU6I48BWSUh6aVQpm2IMw55yvYq42Cg2ZEZaJTM6PLkx_Uhyphenhyphen8FcU4IC8tK01j4axwL9eCp88_yPhehRxSX81Y8NOSBlXugb303UDbbt6ETs/s1600/grizzly_birch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOkcgwHQKksqieuNm1b_Fh0CtXOBHFvk6eTU6I48BWSUh6aVQpm2IMw55yvYq42Cg2ZEZaJTM6PLkx_Uhyphenhyphen8FcU4IC8tK01j4axwL9eCp88_yPhehRxSX81Y8NOSBlXugb303UDbbt6ETs/s320/grizzly_birch.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br />
In my mind's eye, I can see through the shaggy coat for a moment to the pomegranate red of the heart in his chest beating wildly and a camera zooms to the slow motion drops of water sliding off the bear's hide then begins to speed through the trees and, just as suddenly, takes another slow-mo circuitous path around a second bear halted with head tilted. The tongue has stopped lolling. The mouth shuts in concentration. The camera again races off in a maze of tree trunks to a third set of black button eyes, ears straining, nostrils flaring. Then up, up, up through the trees, flying backwards through the leaves and fir and cones, the camera pulls above the tree line and from this great height one can see tiny, red, glowing hearts burning in savage breasts as every bear stops to listen. They beat simultaneously, dotted like campfires all over the mountains. Each bear frozen in its path, yearning to decipher the message.<br />
<br />
Someone is pretending to forget...<br />
<br />
<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6KyETtLCO9g" target="_blank">Listen...</a><br />
<br />
Oh, and on <i>that </i>note. <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WFf4Dk3Hi_w" target="_blank">Here's another song</a>. It's not for the grizzly. But I send it out West, over the Rockies, through the forests and down Main St. where I know for a fact that <a href="http://thebinsubtle.blogspot.com/2009/03/snowflake.html" target="_blank">flakes</a> can fall big as your fist. Plummeting much more slowly than the heart of a bear or anyone's.<br />
<br />
Mine, for instance.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 85%;">Music: Message to Bears, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fhlJ_DaYcR8" target="_blank">Found You and You're Safe</a></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-size: 85%;">This post dedicated to Ciara over at <a href="http://milk-moon.blogspot.com/" target="_blank">Milkmoon</a></span></i>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-19067667502605808352010-11-18T23:15:00.000-08:002010-11-19T18:04:44.614-08:00VisionquestWhen I enter the recovery room, I know instinctively the hysterical howling from the back corner is his. A nurse attempts to soothe him as I rush over. The first thing I notice is the blood seeping from his right nostril. They tell me to remove my coat, to sit in the rocker. I reach for him and he opens his eyes slightly, tiny slits to check that I'm finally here. His little hand reaches up to the tiny bump of skin just beneath my chin. It's a spot his fingers constantly seek and caress. In the dark of early morning, the bump assures him the person holding him is his mama. I fumble at the clasp of my bra. He is crying so hard, his mouth has trouble focusing on the nipple. It closes and then opens in complaint again before trying to suck. Another howl interrupts my attempt at nursing. He will not be consoled so easily. Not after this. This betrayal. <br />
<br />
The sobs do not let up for a good half hour. 40 minutes. He weeps uncontrollably. "How could I let them take him away?" his sobs shout. "How could I let them stick him with needles?" they demand. They accuse me in no uncertain terms. "How could I let them put him under? And how could I not be there when he woke up from surgery?" <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPX4tqTXTjj2KIXy8ZLhWuXh6SAnj4X49MFs2U0bcc8YaE4vunWKol96oZh1U8Tc_RprD6O77OGwYXnsMZ95j1ty5VrVlwf9Yk1-igcNFV9e3JeV_ld1nIzQhyftjss4hUtyquWQFxu7Q/s1600/20101028_crust.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPX4tqTXTjj2KIXy8ZLhWuXh6SAnj4X49MFs2U0bcc8YaE4vunWKol96oZh1U8Tc_RprD6O77OGwYXnsMZ95j1ty5VrVlwf9Yk1-igcNFV9e3JeV_ld1nIzQhyftjss4hUtyquWQFxu7Q/s320/20101028_crust.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Daily annoyance.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>I rock, rock, rock the damn rocker like I'm riding a bucking bronco. Finally, he begins to calm. This is the day I've been dreading forever. It's not his fault. Entirely my decision that he has undergone surgery. His blocked tear duct was supposed to mend itself by the time he turned a year old. The doctors showed me how to push the creamy goop out of his eye, in the hopes of healing without surgery. But at 18 months, he still awoke with the lid crusted closed, puss weeping out of the duct all day. His little hands perpetually rubbing it such that his eyelid became raw and red. I decided to pursue the alternative option: minor surgery.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0iLHIRhVWea0bUnFqYpylTu7osIW2gISAzD-EAxwLDjAcaDu4GjtRWO4GlAW93khJ1ZedIkNPnN2D9LAW7qznDjyZ_9yA_JnjDu-QvZJjAJ7xZcLRTGfnKvoOCR3wGCGLpIguvDuY9AQ/s1600/20101117_presurgery.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0iLHIRhVWea0bUnFqYpylTu7osIW2gISAzD-EAxwLDjAcaDu4GjtRWO4GlAW93khJ1ZedIkNPnN2D9LAW7qznDjyZ_9yA_JnjDu-QvZJjAJ7xZcLRTGfnKvoOCR3wGCGLpIguvDuY9AQ/s320/20101117_presurgery.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Before surgery...</em></div><br />
I know it was the right decision, but no one described to me the feeling of watching them walk him away from me to the operating room on his own, oblivious of what lies ahead. Strangers taking him. No one told me how the seconds would feel like hours sitting there in the waiting room. No one told me how fear increases exponentially along with the terrors of one's imagination: what if they give him too much anaesthetic? Would he die? Could they accidentally blind him? Stupid, irrational fears flying through his mama's head while he is unconscious. I almost cannot breathe sitting there alone drinking cold coffee. Not caring that the sandwich I packed is now stale, tasteless. Who can eat? Why did I do this to him? I am a cruel, thoughtless mommy to make him go in there alone so young and have them strap him down. Stick him with needles. Maybe we should have waited...<br />
<br />
This moment, I can honestly say, is perhaps the first time since before he was born I have felt so acutely the absence of a spouse. I accept I'm a single parent. I don't think about it much. Generally, I don't have <em>time</em> to dwell on it. I just handle it. There's no self-pity involved or anything. It was my decision to pursue motherhood on my own. I'm a strong person. I'm his <em>rock</em>. But this moment. Sitting here in the waiting room. I am a puddle. Powerless. Vulnerable. How I long for a hand to hold mine at this moment, to reassure me. To comfort me. To share the burden of missing him, worrying over him. I'm a wreck. A total fucking <em>mess</em>, sitting here. What have I done to my poor little boy making such a huge decision on his behalf?<br />
<br />
His hysteria when I arrive in recovery only exacerbates my guilt.<br />
<br />
After an hour we are transferred to another recovery room and I lie back on the hospital bed as he clings to me, his sobs starting to slow, to quieten. Gradually they become softer, more infrequent, as exhaustion and stress surrender to slumber. He curls his body as close to mine as he possibly can and the catches in breath finally morph to tiny, purring snores. We lie there for another hour before I gently remove the hospital's striped pajamas and dress him for the stroll home.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-pgGDWId8_5t4NEs2TALaxxLeORA9mRoICgfTtFQTx33NR2MfqkFpRSzsdYl-NmjNBtIp_OxqJqfTgR4rhXQ-w-zY2rOrLGJ27_3DEp1vaztwM4n2ksVc9fD3imzxgLUnC2ef7Bwx_ok/s1600/20101117_postop.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-pgGDWId8_5t4NEs2TALaxxLeORA9mRoICgfTtFQTx33NR2MfqkFpRSzsdYl-NmjNBtIp_OxqJqfTgR4rhXQ-w-zY2rOrLGJ27_3DEp1vaztwM4n2ksVc9fD3imzxgLUnC2ef7Bwx_ok/s320/20101117_postop.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><em>Post surgery. Finally asleep.</em></div><br />
His nose continues to bleed, a normal symptom of this particular surgery. He is drowsy walking around the kitchen. Still unstable, like a drunken sailor, weaving around the legs of the table. But he is smiling and giggling, giddy to be home again. <br />
<br />
This is the first time his right eye has been clear since he was born. I note that his eyelashes are shorter on that lid. They have not had the chance to spread and grow as long and lush as those on the left eyelid. Perhaps now they'll have their chance to bloom. <br />
<br />
Tonight I let him fall asleep in my bed, intent on assuring him I won't abandon him anytime soon again.<br />
<br />
The next morning he wakes. His right nostril is crusted with blood, but his right eye is clear and his little fingers touch it momentarily in surprise. He realizes he does not need to finger the crust from his lashes. He opens both eyes no problem. He can see. All the stress of the previous day is worth it somehow.<br />
<br />
I look deep into his irises, smile and say, "hi." He repeats it back to me. This is the first time ever he says "hi" back. It is as though he is acknowledging that this is the first moment he feels fully <em>present</em>. He can see out of <i>both </i>eyes. He is invincible. "Hi," he whispers shyly, smiling up at me. As if to say, "I see you now. You're my mama. Hi!"<br />
<br />
My throat catches. "Gimme a kiss," I say. He throws his arms round my neck and touches his forehead to my lips. The blood from his nostril marks my breast. It's territorial. <br />
<br />
"You are mine," it says. <br />
"Don't leave me again, Mama," it says. <br />
It says, "I forgive you." <br />
"You made the right decision." <br />
"Thank you," it says. <br />
<br />
My lips form those two words, too, as they kiss the top of his pate.<br />
<br />
"Thank you," they whisper.<br />
<br />
Thank you, thank you, thank you.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Wkkp-jowf5khoEpqBUCTCDxj7AeAUqpt9mAuT7noDw_dvtLOOXyjAb547XS8PNszuQduOZI3VTA7tqey5PeXCHqptvS-iuMPbXWfilhsnTLB62aWwd2tM1jBRQW5nRQ8x3O86pdFHhM/s1600/20101116_giggles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" ox="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Wkkp-jowf5khoEpqBUCTCDxj7AeAUqpt9mAuT7noDw_dvtLOOXyjAb547XS8PNszuQduOZI3VTA7tqey5PeXCHqptvS-iuMPbXWfilhsnTLB62aWwd2tM1jBRQW5nRQ8x3O86pdFHhM/s320/20101116_giggles.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Clean pair of eyes.</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><i><span style="font-size: 85%;">Music: David Gray, <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsngp1Bm-YI&playnext=1&list=PL366D0B2EEB548054&index=20" target="_blank">A Clean Pair of Eyes</a></span></i>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com14tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-23161178037299021652010-11-11T21:31:00.000-08:002010-11-11T22:55:19.573-08:00RemembranceThe other night was the first baby-free night out I'd had in maybe five months or more. A friend and I caught <a href="http://www.royalwood.ca/" target="_blank">Royal Wood</a>, in a much more intimate venue this time, right around the corner from where I now reside. Walkable, in fact, though I had to drive my car so that I could drop off and pick up my son at my parents' place.<br />
<br />
I managed to walk part of the way. The night was crisp with nary a wisp o' wind so it felt a lot warmer than is usual for November. And let's just say my body temperature increased considerably once inside as not only Mr. Wood was clad in his trademark suit, but three other gentleman graced the stage similarly ensembled. Yum yum yum.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rC3CjPs-dsw6yFH4jdh8_ZowF1V-Tnroum_I4pubVSHca5P01a5Bjb6bQTOUtFmteBAfYtTu5-BIxpyxbmV9kEGYzhHDCTunOdlZHOzNUjTA8fwKuqBnoe91IzPcThmJmpa7Mda1upE/s1600/201009_royal.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rC3CjPs-dsw6yFH4jdh8_ZowF1V-Tnroum_I4pubVSHca5P01a5Bjb6bQTOUtFmteBAfYtTu5-BIxpyxbmV9kEGYzhHDCTunOdlZHOzNUjTA8fwKuqBnoe91IzPcThmJmpa7Mda1upE/s320/201009_royal.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Majestic</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Now I am not the kind of gal who generally goes for a man in a suit. Honest. The kind of men who have won my heart have been, let's just say, a tad more casually clad. And that's an understatement. But there is a certain era of fashion I am enamoured with and it stretches from the 1930s through the 1940s. When women wore garters and men wore suspenders. There was just so much <em>support</em> back then, garment-wise. Maybe <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0034583/" target="_blank">Casablanca</a> is too damn hard for me to watch without my heart bleeding all over the damn place, but when a man dresses in that way, in such a way that evokes that era and makes you think of the past, of history, of a more romantic time. Well, that just makes my knees weak. He wouldn't even have to sing as beautifully as Royal does, so the fact that Mr. Wood has such dulcet tones. Well. You get the picture. It's enough to make a girl swoon. And I just don't get the chance to swoon very often of late. So I grab 'em when I can get 'em.<br />
<br />
Part of the fun of the night, besides the exceptionally fine company I kept, was the fact that I became rebellious. And by that I mean, I brought my new Canon Rebel 2Ti with me and snapped away. It's one of a few fancy-ass gadgets I have purchased since moving. Once again, I'm having a lot of fun with photography, a near-perfect (though not quite) method of prolonging the memory of a moment. I'd missed a few months there due to the breakdown of an old camera I'd been using. It wasn't even my camera but one that my sister had graciously leant to me. Thankfully the Camera Gods have since smiled candidly upon me.<br />
<br />
And thankfully the venue was so cozy that I was able to get up close and personal for some shots. In all honesty, I was thankful to have the distraction of the camera in my hands, the distraction of my friend and our chatter. Because sometimes the lyrics Royal sings are, as my ol' pal <em><a hfer="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/E._E._Cummings" href="http://www.blogger.com/" target="_blank">e.e.</a></em> would describe, words "<em>i cannot touch because they are too near</em>."<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYb8e2ZrlVIREpcerw8ftHhjQ59NILvCe3wbn5V3CvtcF86GYOnJSUUn1BNXTBvC3PyAevM7-y6Cfe_mJydnpEhTs4bLaatlUveHAX4m56leKwAU29RZhTH3RKPU9YdLwMMa7lfl-OPgk/s1600/20101109_wood4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYb8e2ZrlVIREpcerw8ftHhjQ59NILvCe3wbn5V3CvtcF86GYOnJSUUn1BNXTBvC3PyAevM7-y6Cfe_mJydnpEhTs4bLaatlUveHAX4m56leKwAU29RZhTH3RKPU9YdLwMMa7lfl-OPgk/s320/20101109_wood4.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Arousing not only the suspicion of the neighbours</em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>And a few times, I admit, I weakened, along with my knees. And I listened a little too attentively to what he was singing (and I'm sure the G&T I was drinking didn't help matters), but the tears started flowing and I had to excuse myself to powder my nose. <br />
<br />
See, remembrance isn't always joyful. It isn't always fun or funny. It's sometimes like the quick jab of an extremely sharp dagger. Right under the breastbone. In and out like lightning sometimes. Other times it ain't so quick. It can linger and haunt. It can feel like surgeon's hands exposing parts of your insides during some kind of intense, 8-hour operation while you are definitely <em>not</em> under. It can be, sometimes. Excruciating. In its clarity. And thoroughness.<br />
<br />
Thankfully Royal's voice is soothing. Compassionate. Humble. And maybe these qualities are what is also evoking certain memories for you of Some Other. Whatever. My point is, remembering isn't always pleasant or painless. And sometimes, really, it's not supposed to be. Sometimes, compared to the kind of pain suffered by those who fought wars long before we lived, remembering is the very least we can do. Literally.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL_MlTKSLQwHlSBZ4DU4qxiaUUF47xGmyPmIw8MReQ1qYgy8yAAvssJzQAdB0T63nYw0GNN7g845MR-fiPHBkBBKGv33_vkLA4xqn2u0LgnpB4kV6_s74anYbl3tsEMLlhNBZNGmThyphenhyphenLk/s1600/20101111_wreaths1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL_MlTKSLQwHlSBZ4DU4qxiaUUF47xGmyPmIw8MReQ1qYgy8yAAvssJzQAdB0T63nYw0GNN7g845MR-fiPHBkBBKGv33_vkLA4xqn2u0LgnpB4kV6_s74anYbl3tsEMLlhNBZNGmThyphenhyphenLk/s320/20101111_wreaths1.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>This morning at the cenotaph</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>After the concert, driving across town to get my baby boy, I turned on the radio. The <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/" target="_blank">CBC</a> was repeating a broadcast of Stuart Mclean's most recent <a href="http://podcast.cbc.ca/mp3/vinylcafe_20101106_38946.mp3" target="_blank">Remembrance Day episode</a> of <a href="http://www.cbc.ca/vinylcafe/" target="_blank">The Vinyl Cafe</a>. It was close to midnight so I only caught the last bit of it. He was reading from a story written by a CBC listener. A young man named Chris Erwin. About Chris' trip to France with his family. How he had miraculously been able to locate the proper reed with which to play his bagpipes at the memorial at Vimy Ridge. And then, as Stuart finished reading this incredibly moving story, he introduced its author, Chris, who was waiting in the wings and had begun to warm up his bagpipes which he then slowly proceeded to play. The lament he played was <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqY79y-SCbA" target="_blank">The Flowers of the Forest</a> which is the song that is apparently always played once wreaths are laid on every Remembrance Day. <br />
<br />
I had just turned the corner near my parents' home and I had to pull the car over because my vision had blurred with tears. When I wiped my lashes, what I made out in the mist and cold of the night were three words lit up in the parking lot of the school beside which I'd parked.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDfpOopfhyoJd_DekULJbWzCf3o9zmI6lY8ei6lKi2dvie602ursIcCbHFkBogb9X9elczROyie2ULlC9y1jMCSbFs4jCeZNY5xBq6x9Z2LV9cLpOMUwQhhQPs6BXVyLHnG101i-PePw/s1600/201009_lest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTDfpOopfhyoJd_DekULJbWzCf3o9zmI6lY8ei6lKi2dvie602ursIcCbHFkBogb9X9elczROyie2ULlC9y1jMCSbFs4jCeZNY5xBq6x9Z2LV9cLpOMUwQhhQPs6BXVyLHnG101i-PePw/s320/201009_lest.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Indeed</em>.</div><br />
My heart flooded with memories. Some of people I'd met. People I'd known, now gone. People I'd loved, not in the least forgotten. People who were absolute strangers to me who had moved me in some way or other. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhouxVjui-jOpPp2J2Qtj2fXQ1nT5QnVF9kBaM3Fsv1EmUDRJgKGukNSVhClFv0pGK99sjod6Wwd35zgmup-BJssrRyTkHTxtVfLpF-YRM_aJjQEX3HS4jMiXR-mFr4m7-Z22UB6Q-u6c/s1600/201009_dead.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="212" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhouxVjui-jOpPp2J2Qtj2fXQ1nT5QnVF9kBaM3Fsv1EmUDRJgKGukNSVhClFv0pGK99sjod6Wwd35zgmup-BJssrRyTkHTxtVfLpF-YRM_aJjQEX3HS4jMiXR-mFr4m7-Z22UB6Q-u6c/s320/201009_dead.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
I began to think about war. The World Wars were not so far removed from me. My grandparents and parents had lived through each of them. Had survived them. I thought about my parents' era. The 30s. The 40s. Maybe the reason that time seems so romantic is not because of films like Casablanca. Rather, films like Casablanca exist because what is romantic from that time is that everyone KNEW life was PRECIOUS. That any day could be your last one. Literally. No one living then needed that spelled out for them. So people squeezed in every emotion they could into the seconds they breathed, the steps they danced, the food they chewed and swallowed. The scripts they wrote. The celluloid they shot. The love they made. Each action was savoured and cherished.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">When the bagpipes ended, I thought about that scene in Jeunet's <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0034583/" target="_blank">A Very Long Engagement</a>. It is the moment Mathilde is hoisted and carried on shoulders through the long, waving ocean of grass that had been such a desolate, barren scene of battle not so long before. I remembered sitting in the dark of the cinema when that scene begins and how it quite simply took my breath away. It is the absolute balm of that grass. The vibrancy, the verdancy of its new life. The <em>hope</em> of it. You cannot fathom that this green and peaceful place had been that same small patch of land where so many lives had been lost. </div><br />
<div align="center"></div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DrKrHi21E3tTAs795xBL-iGhYr5-Ue3QyB_lcXeOWgPpuRiQ_qfu0lrebcfWzDWv_JG3VzwajWlgExRjzcVkOiMrywT_U3w00x0hwniI7JBqHJvaQ_SzVmUSleRh85RYODrkEvZz1co/s1600/20101111_grass.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DrKrHi21E3tTAs795xBL-iGhYr5-Ue3QyB_lcXeOWgPpuRiQ_qfu0lrebcfWzDWv_JG3VzwajWlgExRjzcVkOiMrywT_U3w00x0hwniI7JBqHJvaQ_SzVmUSleRh85RYODrkEvZz1co/s320/20101111_grass.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><em>Regrowth of soil. Of spirit.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>And I thought, whatever wounds we carry, war- and otherwise, may we all know such peace in our hearts. May we all stand in long grass and remember what was sacrificed in order to wade through it. To feel its blades caress our thighs. And not the barbs of wire it once sprouted.<br />
<br />
Peace to you all.<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 85%;">Music: Royal Wood: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TTqkVLT9E3s" target="_blank">Thinking About</a></span></i>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-88338151929014465422010-11-06T19:58:00.000-07:002010-11-19T18:34:07.619-08:00All Hallows EveLife has been crazy but a good crazy. A better crazy than the preceding months which had stress piled on top of the crazy. Though there are days. There are days. The other day he was teething again. Pretty sure it was a molar this time because he wailed and wailed almost non-stop, almost all day. There was no consoling him. Every little thing irked him. Every little thing set him off. As a devoted parent, you do your very utmost to soothe, to comfort - you try everything: bottle, boob, tickling, cookie, boob again, sippy cup this time? This book? That elephant? This wooden xylophone? Hug. Hug. Hug. Hug. Kiss. Kiss. Wail. Wail. Let's go for a stroll!!!!<br />
<br />
You want to cry right along with them when there is nothing that consoles them. But you can't. Maybe you do once they're asleep. Maybe late at night. Maybe you feel so knackered and unsure of yourself, so tired and sad about feeling you failed that day to make him smile, to stop the tears. Maybe you send an e-mail you shouldn't. One you feel sorry 'bout. A weak moment you hope can be forgiven...<br />
<br />
Sometimes being a single parent on the challenging days makes you question if you are always doing the right thing, if you are making the right decisions, the best ones. There is no second parent to assure you so you just cross your fingers and hope you're doing your best. Late at night, maybe doubt slips in. Fear. Exhaustion. Worry. Grief. Loneliness. In my heart, I know that no day is bad enough I could EVER regret my decision to pursue motherhood. I would never trade this in for anything. Truly, I gladly take the hard days right along with the easy ones. I feel like a heel because I know no matter how hard my hard days are, others on the planet are experiencing REAL hardship elsewhere. What do I have to complain about at the end of the day? Absolutely nothing. I am blessed. So very blessed.<br />
<br />
Thankfully the next day dawns and he is giggling when he first awakens. You whisper little prayers of thanks to gods you don't even believe in but maybe should. What a relief to see him so happy again, his usual self!<br />
<br />
This week we get in the car and drive to buy a pumpkin out near where we used to live and I carve it (my first one since a little kid myself) and we dress up in costumes expecting hordes and hordes of trick-or-treaters. Only 12 kids actually brave the snow (yes, it snowed) and make the rounds and we have so much leftover candy, it's ridonculous. But what a treat to have kids come to our front door all decked out! To be in a <em>neighbourhood</em>! I hadn't had hallowe'en trick-or-treaters in a decade when I lived rurally. We had a lot of fun and our first trick-or-treaters were very special cousins to my Sonshine. <br />
<br />
November 1st begins the Celtic New Year. The Festival of Samhain. And so we begin a new year in a new home all our own. Let's hope the next year brings less tears, much less stress, lots more laughter and joy! <br />
<br />
Happy New Year, everyone! Enjoy the haunted pics below...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyLm_PD2ucU7-lCjMrQWafrRuU6CCKaK7CQRHwpkONSR81PfK2sDSjSrZgDwRfO8h6tUSPj4pawu-bbiaDdtMBC2-EStsBrp86WLaFqwDnO55HaiRMEoXluIXKtnZ2FgjTp7Natn8VHSw/s1600/Halloween_2010_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyLm_PD2ucU7-lCjMrQWafrRuU6CCKaK7CQRHwpkONSR81PfK2sDSjSrZgDwRfO8h6tUSPj4pawu-bbiaDdtMBC2-EStsBrp86WLaFqwDnO55HaiRMEoXluIXKtnZ2FgjTp7Natn8VHSw/s320/Halloween_2010_01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>hitting pumpkin jackpot</em></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em></em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1zW3HRgqmWcBrq5FsV9d4AxkZHV-iyUIF_fMTI1PxVI32p5FwkaqYLYYJGbDv6R5a7LCNKbrobW7tHByX7djzAVUJMXlxgScwJHqtBHHWtSaGxZKU2Y3_8qe-hhFLckovsODqa45c5yo/s1600/Halloween_2010_02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1zW3HRgqmWcBrq5FsV9d4AxkZHV-iyUIF_fMTI1PxVI32p5FwkaqYLYYJGbDv6R5a7LCNKbrobW7tHByX7djzAVUJMXlxgScwJHqtBHHWtSaGxZKU2Y3_8qe-hhFLckovsODqa45c5yo/s320/Halloween_2010_02.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><em>dollar fitty for prime punkin </em></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLXs_iTMuT9be8vqE68xoXjVwjv8ZbImuL6a8pok1GxPL6dFKvgQnmMlyyPDRD3Tq2EaIrOv3nyk3fvnPwelF8eIiVV857Bn5f5FgJCni75z_P7KMRi58GiWglh4KFZJQNvWAb9I8bx1c/s1600/Halloween_2010_04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLXs_iTMuT9be8vqE68xoXjVwjv8ZbImuL6a8pok1GxPL6dFKvgQnmMlyyPDRD3Tq2EaIrOv3nyk3fvnPwelF8eIiVV857Bn5f5FgJCni75z_P7KMRi58GiWglh4KFZJQNvWAb9I8bx1c/s320/Halloween_2010_04.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div align="center"><em>don't be scared, come watch mommy carve the pumpkin!</em><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_XC3K8il799JiALo_VoHuTLRAimJcnX1V2Dy7K7B7d_HbMnm7d95kyB_zDV7MLtjKOw256yenwQZ6bZePmfH2BhCUGmtFEltgDNSdtuLL2fs8SlZYRkZ9f4XGsIGvkHNXEDDnd3kB2gI/s1600/Halloween_2010_03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_XC3K8il799JiALo_VoHuTLRAimJcnX1V2Dy7K7B7d_HbMnm7d95kyB_zDV7MLtjKOw256yenwQZ6bZePmfH2BhCUGmtFEltgDNSdtuLL2fs8SlZYRkZ9f4XGsIGvkHNXEDDnd3kB2gI/s320/Halloween_2010_03.jpg" width="320" /></a><br />
<em>oops. mommy broke the knife. merde.</em></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylOYXM5z0jTETj25E95k-IXk4f2bIpVfbgUHAsRxEIyEuiee5-hw-i0P5Xw8Gt9or1M-ZsK-7f_aTJNwskgbNmc-IvLoZkmPnh-xIqqhJtK7TdA9sVqssQjUzXbpW5w0cPYjdN-epNEc/s1600/Halloween_2010_07.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhylOYXM5z0jTETj25E95k-IXk4f2bIpVfbgUHAsRxEIyEuiee5-hw-i0P5Xw8Gt9or1M-ZsK-7f_aTJNwskgbNmc-IvLoZkmPnh-xIqqhJtK7TdA9sVqssQjUzXbpW5w0cPYjdN-epNEc/s320/Halloween_2010_07.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>hey! she has teeth, just like me!</em></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDCeKa3Jn5Q3pm-GdASvkgYQuRrd1gbUmvdjasmSHFYz5gHhvmpV6ivGK2n8SSKdp557a4-balIDd9576Ly8XF8tmtpoSrNohwkkxCmkx4_r50rmB0gMKMb4l_borKyUSg8YNd9zaXYDI/s1600/Halloween_2010_08.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDCeKa3Jn5Q3pm-GdASvkgYQuRrd1gbUmvdjasmSHFYz5gHhvmpV6ivGK2n8SSKdp557a4-balIDd9576Ly8XF8tmtpoSrNohwkkxCmkx4_r50rmB0gMKMb4l_borKyUSg8YNd9zaXYDI/s320/Halloween_2010_08.jpg" width="213" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>hmmm. let's see. could I possibly be cuter? uh. nope.</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdbMeNTuGmJeUqJ6a8pqOZPnrdditosgFK-WAFGYhFjuGS5BRuCm4xhnnijXJcMfA3Esgpx4niPLMOVeDmUwb2LnS3cqUEO2V5qROQrDdnLq_r8BBwWoWF_3NiEPOT5c1TeR2nDP7MYVo/s1600/Halloween_2010_09.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdbMeNTuGmJeUqJ6a8pqOZPnrdditosgFK-WAFGYhFjuGS5BRuCm4xhnnijXJcMfA3Esgpx4niPLMOVeDmUwb2LnS3cqUEO2V5qROQrDdnLq_r8BBwWoWF_3NiEPOT5c1TeR2nDP7MYVo/s320/Halloween_2010_09.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>mama, stop chasing me round the island!</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFdY4mBL6ju6dQOkLkSlP1vR2qqgp2xuu17_TgGW_gwkt_8t05-0jnU1iAMtuPmYKrHsKjjOudX77rtGdbP1vdoSAba-eyBBn0CNVJ_HErHRbTRs1bnmy1ERWV97e9mt2b3lWlPMK8l0/s1600/Halloween_2010_13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPFdY4mBL6ju6dQOkLkSlP1vR2qqgp2xuu17_TgGW_gwkt_8t05-0jnU1iAMtuPmYKrHsKjjOudX77rtGdbP1vdoSAba-eyBBn0CNVJ_HErHRbTRs1bnmy1ERWV97e9mt2b3lWlPMK8l0/s320/Halloween_2010_13.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>grownup treats for the parents</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsUj8haOttwJjRfLjXehVBXsefGs7O1tO2r8b1JWYPmnJq2cjU0bGCCNMWAGGyAvIPrBNb9PMA-oThMy1kJIaHgFy37ydaKZO3KvG1Z9om4xUw9YZb2bymVM3gNfuYMH-4FVlQ2Xztto/s1600/Halloween_2010_12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQsUj8haOttwJjRfLjXehVBXsefGs7O1tO2r8b1JWYPmnJq2cjU0bGCCNMWAGGyAvIPrBNb9PMA-oThMy1kJIaHgFy37ydaKZO3KvG1Z9om4xUw9YZb2bymVM3gNfuYMH-4FVlQ2Xztto/s320/Halloween_2010_12.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>a little kitten familiar for his witchy mama</em></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCuJHvQB9WTs6nq4hwrx3TinjnYogx94xKJgxikhNI-zpbLay7eqYTxBw3FLVIPE2raXzhrws_FqaSspYSECf2p_L2WV9fVV5zExLmLTzCZy7T1e4GesYatbOUJWG-CqHHD0RuqyLP68E/s1600/Halloween_2010_22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCuJHvQB9WTs6nq4hwrx3TinjnYogx94xKJgxikhNI-zpbLay7eqYTxBw3FLVIPE2raXzhrws_FqaSspYSECf2p_L2WV9fVV5zExLmLTzCZy7T1e4GesYatbOUJWG-CqHHD0RuqyLP68E/s320/Halloween_2010_22.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>these should last until Easter. 2012.</em></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0bRQIumgrZIfotzo6pIHbkckycJNd3dCVKw3krFTE_MuB_NIzkqonlDtvTNL_p6Ooj73vkKp6R-yNUfZ1NtyanykjjaqIyQ7hGiAeGT4i89lwxZKRyUfi_bsSpU2yGPnBBSOzhg0PCU/s1600/Halloween_2010_20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE0bRQIumgrZIfotzo6pIHbkckycJNd3dCVKw3krFTE_MuB_NIzkqonlDtvTNL_p6Ooj73vkKp6R-yNUfZ1NtyanykjjaqIyQ7hGiAeGT4i89lwxZKRyUfi_bsSpU2yGPnBBSOzhg0PCU/s320/Halloween_2010_20.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>glow best in the dark...</em></div>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-31950874477884889362010-10-17T21:11:00.000-07:002010-10-17T22:35:07.047-07:00The Parting GlassThe last two weeks before The Big Move, the days were cloud-cover grey but each evening, the clouds would break as the sun was setting and we witnessed some truly spectacular sunsets over the back field from our deck. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_EXNhufwVVI7FTpy2tOS8GbEc_K5t98rzsxbPAiCrWl8mbav1EF8NWuxdi802HDy2tlJ2ogLcss6WnhaxiNVik4Ff78vCBt4KS4MoXLJ2jWG1xYWNT5Ax86qsP6y8BrO3EuaVBbR-ReU/s1600/2010_rosesky02_oct7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_EXNhufwVVI7FTpy2tOS8GbEc_K5t98rzsxbPAiCrWl8mbav1EF8NWuxdi802HDy2tlJ2ogLcss6WnhaxiNVik4Ff78vCBt4KS4MoXLJ2jWG1xYWNT5Ax86qsP6y8BrO3EuaVBbR-ReU/s320/2010_rosesky02_oct7.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Sunset Boulevard</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;">I felt as though this place was bidding us adieu in the most picturesque way possible somehow. The sky, the weather. The moon and the pines. The stalks of the cattle corn. A slow, lingering, rosy kiss of farewell each evening. One evening in particular, the sky was streaked a pink haze. Breathtaking. It reminded me a little of the Aurora Borealis if you could see them during the day time. Fingers of columnar colour. Reaching out.</div><div style="border-bottom: medium none; border-left: medium none; border-right: medium none; border-top: medium none;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixN5tp1DZDzIa49duTcJvc1gDlWSLxFj9r-daJj4Lg2ii0a9Q1sOlp1TZYDmsiC8YGnm_SrlIZGyRe5Xq513J3GlNPwrpEzoOiXanUdluGVBrvxCpbaJvkzTmFxdAHv1XNLGukRlv51tk/s1600/2010_rosesky01_oct7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixN5tp1DZDzIa49duTcJvc1gDlWSLxFj9r-daJj4Lg2ii0a9Q1sOlp1TZYDmsiC8YGnm_SrlIZGyRe5Xq513J3GlNPwrpEzoOiXanUdluGVBrvxCpbaJvkzTmFxdAHv1XNLGukRlv51tk/s320/2010_rosesky01_oct7.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Aurora at dusk?</em></div><br />
The last month I have slept an average of maybe two or three hours a night. As my son settled down to slumber, the packing would begin each evening. It is a surreal undertaking to pack one's life into little brown boxes. To leave a place that is deep in your heart. It's the second time I've had to bid goodbye to a love of mine this year. I don't recommend cramming two goodbyes like that into one year. Hard on the heart, actually. <br />
<br />
But with all I had going on, I hardly had time to grieve the loss of this home. The leaving it. I think the grieving will come at some point. To be honest, I am writing this on my third evening in my new home and I have not begun grieving yet. I feel too fucking happy. HA! Admittedly, I had some teary moments my final day as I drove away. But this home I've moved into has welcomed us with a very warm embrace. Every piece of furniture I own somehow fits perfectly into each room as though the rooms were made for them, were simply awaiting them to fill that space just so.<br />
<br />
Through the exhaustion of the past four months of selling my farmhouse, the exhaustion of the last home-focused year really, I am still able to feel euphoric as I sit in this, my new home. My new, <i>old </i>home. I love its every inch. Its wide staircase. Its hardwood floors. Its views are not of cornfields or sunsets, but I still have a golden maple to enjoy. The views from each window are actually quite beautiful. <br />
<br />
I have absolutely no regrets, I realize, as I sit and type this. The first evening I sat in my home as my sonshine snuggled in his new room, I poured myself a wee glass to toast our offical arrival. <br />
<br />
And, I thought to myself, this home is already such a happy home for us. It carries no sad memories. It offers only a future of joyful ones. I realize, as much as I adored my foot-deep windowsills, the sun shines much more brightly through windows not so deep. (Vitamin D is an important ingredient for Joy.)<br />
<br />
With each box I unpack the last couple of days, I discover that every item has its place where it belongs. And now we have ours! It is perfect in so many ways and I wonder at myself that it took me so long to move towards this Joy, this choice of leaving my last home. <br />
<br />
'Kay. I miss my Yeats' poetry. Will have to inscribe a brief verse on the wall of my new kitchen. Which poem? Hmmmmmm...<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZllrhqjwzZJMjc_FRE8ND4RFg06eK0KWTG-NuFLcjrAD5OI4JIRttwUe5rFt8YutvwI105YPZjGnje6VPfNbZ1l3tv1WWGXIvI6PIp363hjOBSRZqhWHoe_RontMX_v9pRWbdBjcru_0/s1600/2010_gourds_oct10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZllrhqjwzZJMjc_FRE8ND4RFg06eK0KWTG-NuFLcjrAD5OI4JIRttwUe5rFt8YutvwI105YPZjGnje6VPfNbZ1l3tv1WWGXIvI6PIp363hjOBSRZqhWHoe_RontMX_v9pRWbdBjcru_0/s320/2010_gourds_oct10.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>A Truly Canadian Thanksgiving: </em></div><div style="text-align: center;"><em>Gourdon Lightfoot, Gourdie Howe and Glenn Gourd</em></div><br />
Thanksgiving was last weekend and I was crazy enough to host my sister and her hubby and her two boys out at my farm for one last special occasion. I cooked my final turkey in the stove with some homemade, curried couscous stuffing. My family thought I was insane to even attempt this the week of our move. Much of our stuff was already in boxes. But I'd kept dishes and cutlery out and the timing worked out perfectly as a friend of mine from California suddenly ended up in the area with her main squeeze so it was a truly special day to properly bid the kitchen in which I've cooked 10 years' worth of meals a fond farewell. An additional pleasure to force myself to take a break from all the packing and chaos and just enjoy the company of my twin, her family and our dear friend and her mate. <br />
<br />
And thanks was given. Is still given. I have so very much to feel thankful for and the help of many hands to feel grateful towards who reached out to aid me during this entire process. My son and I are so very blessed by the love of family and friends. And the love of this new home. I feel its love as I sit here and type this. We are no longer remote and adrift. We have found our proper place finally!<br />
<br />
And so I raise a glass to all of you who visit these pages and have stuck around while I've been lost in Cyberia. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and I know any sad memories I had of my old farmhouse will diminish in time and be replaced by fond memories only. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuNsQj6kwxGVA_gXCgmkhY3dBFENRt-jQJalj3qGtf3gssAklvOQgH2KiEvGkfm5DJpBYNI7aimuFxM78ibLs3nOZp53Hdf1pnq1alGXDciKDiZ_rtkC0RccSPCNyHhDhdwZlTWDrE6Lg/s1600/2010_glass_oct17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" ex="true" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuNsQj6kwxGVA_gXCgmkhY3dBFENRt-jQJalj3qGtf3gssAklvOQgH2KiEvGkfm5DJpBYNI7aimuFxM78ibLs3nOZp53Hdf1pnq1alGXDciKDiZ_rtkC0RccSPCNyHhDhdwZlTWDrE6Lg/s320/2010_glass_oct17.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><em>Pre-Slumber Amber</em></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Here is a wee Scottish ditty I first heard Stephen Fearing perform many moons ago. I love this version by the Wailin Jennys. <br />
<br />
A toast...<br />
<i>Goodnight and Joy Be With You All...</i><br />
<br />
--------<br />
<i>Of all the money e'er I had,<br />
I spent it in good company.<br />
And all the harm I've ever done,<br />
Alas! it was to none but me.<br />
And all I've done for want of wit<br />
To mem'ry now I can't recall<br />
So fill to me the parting glass<br />
Good night and joy be with you all<br />
<br />
Oh, all the comrades e'er I had,<br />
They're sorry for my going away,<br />
And all the sweethearts e'er I had,<br />
They'd wish me one more day to stay,<br />
But since it falls unto my lot,<br />
That I should rise and you should not,<br />
I gently rise and softly call,<br />
Good night and joy be with you all.<br />
<br />
If I had money enough to spend,<br />
And leisure time to sit awhile,<br />
There is a fair maid in this town,<br />
That sorely has my heart beguiled.<br />
Her rosy cheeks and ruby lips,<br />
I own she has my heart in thrall,<br />
Then fill to me the parting glass,<br />
Good night and joy be with you all.</i><br />
---------<br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-size: 85%;">Music: <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D9CfmqohZ2Q" target="_blank">The Parting Glass, Cover by The Wailin' Jennys</a></span></i>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-53695437072787036302010-09-29T23:42:00.000-07:002010-10-05T10:26:06.489-07:00Walking ThroughI’m writing this late at night. It’s almost midnight. I’ve been writing with the theme of moving house and emotions about home, the home I’ve made here the last decade, the home I have been seeking for myself and my son, the home we’ve now found and will be moving into in just over two weeks.<br />
<br />
Today comprised the first of two walk-throughs of my new property I negotiated in my offer. It’s standard to request two walk-throughs of the property you’re purchasing outside of the actual home inspection. <br />
<br />
It had been pretty much one month since the week I purchased our new home and over the last few weeks, whenever I was in the area, I would drive by with my son secured in the back seat and begin a narrative for him. About how this would soon be his neighbourhood. How he would begin to know these trees. These sidewalks. That’s the school you’ll go to, I would say. This is how close we are to mommy’s work. And there…that pretty place…is gonna be home.<br />
<br />
I’ve only been in the house twice. The first time I saw it August 26 and the date of the home inspection, September 1st. It was funny walking in today because I’d forgotten just exactly what the rooms looked like. And today felt like the home was beginning to transition itself to welcome me. I felt its own change. The current owners had emptied it of a lot of clutter and such in preparation for their own upcoming move. And I began to feel a slight shift as I walked through the door. Where the home began to acknowledge me and my son. As a new but legitimate presence within the walls. It felt really great. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtxJugLqx8q99NCqlbm8KmsxQE5mAhVo-IUJna44LdPyzg_-2xMV_HZEKuJD0choRt1lrdCRD8vCut7inM52MJBPdjat2SNRQoxbjJb0J3TeTcgapw6zo2asylflLnIIk7i9xCeYwN0Wk/s1600/staircase1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" px="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtxJugLqx8q99NCqlbm8KmsxQE5mAhVo-IUJna44LdPyzg_-2xMV_HZEKuJD0choRt1lrdCRD8vCut7inM52MJBPdjat2SNRQoxbjJb0J3TeTcgapw6zo2asylflLnIIk7i9xCeYwN0Wk/s320/staircase1.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><div align="center"><em>going walkabout</em></div><br />
Two things happened that made this day <em>moving</em> versus <em>about</em> moving. <br />
<br />
As I was finished the walk-through, during which one of the current owners, the mother, was present with her two children, I knocked on the front door to let her know that we were done (myself, my real estate agent and my contractor) and I told her I just wanted to thank her again and how excited we were to be moving into this lovely home. I also wanted to wish her and her family a safe trip out West. <br />
<br />
Her eyes welled up as I said all this. And I gave her a hug and whispered to her that if she were ever back in Ontario that, of course, she would always be welcome to drop in and visit. It’s so odd that the emotions she was going through about leaving never really occurred to me and they should have before now. They’ve lived in that house for 12 years. I’ve been so caught up in my own feelings about how I’ll miss the home I’ve lived in for 10 years but to see her become so emotional when I was wishing her a safe journey really made it hit home that, of course, it’s just as emotional a journey for her to be moving on with her family, the house her children were born to and grew all their years in. It was nice to have an opportunity to hug her and to feel her hugging back. It’s weird to feel that I would have really loved this woman as a neighbour of mine. But that she won’t be that for me. I’m taking her place in the neighbourhood. Her spot, anyhow. I can tell just how much she will be missed by those surrounding her. I hope to make up somehow for the loss it will clearly be to that street she now lives on.<br />
<br />
After the walk-through, I took my son to the local Chapters to play while I followed him around the kids section with my latté. I was thinking about this couple and their two kids moving to B.C. and I was forgetting how late it was becoming. I had to interrupt my son’s playtime after 20 minutes and get over to the grocery store before heading home. We picked up some food and headed out to the rural backroads. <br />
<br />
As I was driving home, though, I passed an elderly man walking at a brisk pace at the side of the road. I wasn’t exactly sure, but something felt wrong when I passed him. For one thing, I felt like I was almost going to hit him and I noticed something else. He wasn’t wearing a rainjacket. It had been coming down in sheets on and off all day and I thought to myself this wasn’t someone just having an after-dinner hike. I went through the lights and pulled over. All around me were farm fields and I was trying to see him in my rearview mirror. I called 911 and was eventually put through to the local police department. I explained that I wasn’t even sure it was an emergency but that I’d passed an elderly gentleman on the side of the road and that he could have been out for an evening hike, but I had just had a strange vibe when I passed him that that wasn’t the case. I explained that he didn’t seem dressed appropriately for the weather. While I was on the phone with the woman taking the call, he came into view at the lights and I saw him turn then to head towards one of the small towns. <br />
<br />
I explained to the call attendant he had come into view and that I had my son with me in the car and it was getting late. She said they would send a vehicle and if I left that would not be a problem. When I hung up, I continued to watch him in my rearview mirror move up the road. I turned around and then turned right at the lights to follow him. <br />
<br />
It became clear very quickly that he was disoriented. He was now walking ON the road. I pulled up slowly behind him and he turned and thought I was offering him a ride. I lowered the window only slightly and I asked him if he was alright. He said he was and the first thing he said was, “do you have a smoke?” I didn’t, of course. But I lowered the window a tad more and slid out the orange juice I had bought at the starbucks and hadn’t opened yet. He asked me if I’d drive him to the next small town. To the church there. I told him I was sorry I couldn’t give him a ride, but that I’d called for help for him. I didn’t want to say, “I’ve called the cops.” I honestly didn’t know how he’d react to that. He was very polite. He had a long sweater on and his corduroy pants were soaked from the rain. I wanted to invite him to sit in my car, but I couldn’t do that. Especially not with my son in the back seat. I felt unsure. So I sat with my car off to the side of the road waiting for the police car to show up. He kept coming to my window and asking me for a cigarette. I gave him one of my son’s mozzarella sticks. He was clearly homeless but he never once asked me for money. I was afraid he was going to be hit by a car so I stayed there with him. He paced back and forth in front of my car and then he’d come talk to me at my driver window. I asked him his name and he said, “Dave”. I asked him if he had family and he replied, ‘Back in Australia.” He looked in his late 60s. I had no idea how long he’d been walking and how far, where he’d been walking from. I asked him where he was trying to get and he said he had friends “up North”. <br />
<br />
As I sat there, it occurred to me the cops were taking their time and I called 911 again and got on the line with the same woman who took my first call. I explained to her that I was unwilling to leave this man because he was walking onto the road and it was not safe. And also that I had a 16 month old who needed his diaper changed and could she upgrade the request for help. The diaper, I knew, was okay and could wait, but I wanted to put pressure on her because I felt they were not making this guy a priority for the night. And I understand that there are true life/death emergencies out there that need urgent response. But I was truly afraid this guy was going to get killed by a car. He was not really navigating the road safely. Cars kept whizzing by us and a few of them felt the need to honk at him as they passed. <br />
<br />
As I waited, a truck slowed down on the other side of the road and backed up a bit and asked me if everything was okay. I explained what was happening. This guy offered to let Dave sit in his truck to wait for the cops. I felt relieved about that because it had begun to drizzle again and I felt badly I hadn’t been willing to open my doors to him. So we both waited. Dave got into the truck with this guy and two cruisers finally showed up after another half hour of waiting in the dusk and then, the dark. I got out and explained that he’d been very polite. That he was clearly disoriented in terms of not realizing he was walking on the road. He did not appear drunk. He had not asked for cash. He wanted to get to the church in the next small town. When I left, Dave had gotten out of the truck and the cops were talking to him. <br />
<br />
I drove away and I am still wondering what has happened with him. Where did they take him for the night? Was it just going to be one night’s solution and he’d be back on the road again tomorrow?<br />
<br />
What was difficult was that, while we were all waiting for the cops to show up, the guy in the truck said he could drive him to the small town himself to the Church. I felt concerned about two things. I didn’t know who the guy was who’d pulled over and even though I wanted to trust that he would help this man and I felt sure he was sincere, a small part of me felt that I wasn’t entirely sure Dave would be safe. I didn’t like feeling that because I’m sure this guy was truly sincere and had stopped to help. The second thing that concerned me was that Dave was not dressed for the weather and he was talking of “going up North” and he had been walking on and off the road even while he paced in front of my car, he kept going onto the road. I didn’t feel he was safe in terms of his ability to judge what he was doing. <br />
<br />
The guy in the truck said he’d maybe take him home for a meal. My heart nearly broke when he said that. What I thought most when I drove away was that if I’d been a man, a man who didn’t have a 16 month old in my back seat, I probably would have risked offering this guy a ride. I might have even risked taking him home and cooking him something myself. I would have taken him to a store first to buy him a whole pack of smokes. I might have put him up for the night. I might have tried calling his friends if he’d remembered their number. I might have even driven him as far North as I could get him safely to meet up with them. I might have done all these things but I didn’t even feel quite safe enough to roll my window down further than the width it would allow me to slide a measly bottle of orange juice out to him. One measly stick of cheese. I felt helpless. I felt frustrated knowing that my gender, my situation, prevented me from being of more help to this man. More the kind of help he was actually seeking. I’m sure the last thing he wanted was to be taken away in a cop car. It was kind of the last thing I wanted for this man myself, but I truly didn’t know what else to do and felt powerless. No. Not powerless. That’s wrong. I was in the power position. Rather, I felt, I had to put my own safety above his. That’s the way of the world, isn’t it? I wouldn’t let him get dry sitting in my car with me and my son. I could only do what I could do. I wouldn’t give him a ride. I wouldn’t take him home for a meal or a warm bed to sleep in even though I have a guest room with a bed that is rarely ever used by anyone.<br />
<br />
I know I needn’t have ever stopped in the first place and sure, I’m glad I did. But I have no idea if I helped or hindered this man tonight.<br />
<br />
What I do know though, is, he was homeless and trying to find his friends. Trying to find maybe what “home” meant for him being as far from his real home as he was.<br />
<br />
It really put things into perspective for me. Lately I’ve felt so stressed with all the stuff on my plate in terms of prepping for this upcoming move. Just what the fuck do I have to be stressed about really? I have a home. A roof over my head. A damn nice tin roof. And I am moving to another lovely home very soon. And this man was walking around the backroads in the rain just wanting a cigarette. I couldn’t even give him that small request. Such a simple one. A small one. <br />
<br />
I know that this man was either suffering from some sort of dementia or mental illness in the way he kept walking onto the road and forgetting that he’d already asked me for a cigarette that I didn’t have. I know I did the “right” thing. But I wish I could have done a million different things a million different ways than what happened tonight. <br />
<br />
I didn’t know this day would end this way. The owner’s raw emotion over leaving her home and this man trying to find a home or just anywhere out of the cold where he could sit and have a cigarette. I am lying in bed typing this and I feel so damn blessed. And I don’t even know why or how I get to deserve the luck that I have in my life. I don’t feel I’ve earned it. At all.<br />
<br />
But, I guess. I guess I <i>hope </i>to. Someday…nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-77065602748706551612010-08-25T21:25:00.000-07:002012-11-05T07:42:50.476-08:00LeavingI’m writing this late at night. It’s almost midnight. I’ve been writing with the theme of moving house and emotions about home, the home I’ve made here the last decade, the home I have been seeking for myself and my son, the home we’ve now found and will be moving into in just over two weeks.<br />
<br />
Today comprised the first of two walk-throughs of my new property I negotiated in my offer. It’s standard to request two walk-throughs of the property you’re purchasing outside of the actual home inspection. <br />
<br />
It had been pretty much one month since the week I purchased our new home and over the last few weeks, whenever I was in the area, I would drive by with my son secured in the back seat and begin a narrative for him. About how this would soon be his neighbourhood. How he would begin to know these trees. These sidewalks. That’s the school you’ll go to, I would say. This is how close we are to mommy’s work. And there…that pretty place…is gonna be home.<br />
<br />
I’ve only been in the house twice. The first time I saw it August 26 and the date of the home inspection, September 1st. It was funny walking in today because I’d forgotten just exactly what the rooms looked like. And today felt like the home was beginning to transition itself to welcome me. I felt its own change. The current owners had emptied it of a lot of clutter and such in preparation for their own upcoming move. And I began to feel a slight shift as I walked through the door. Where the home began to acknowledge me and my son. As a new but legitimate presence within the walls. It felt really great. <br />
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<em>going walkabout</em></div>
<br />
Two things happened that made this day <em>moving</em> versus <em>about</em> moving. <br />
<br />
As I was finished the walk-through, during which one of the current owners, the mother, was present with her two children, I knocked on the front door to let her know that we were done (myself, my real estate agent and my contractor) and I told her I just wanted to thank her again and how excited we were to be moving into this lovely home. I also wanted to wish her and her family a safe trip out West. <br />
<br />
Her eyes welled up as I said all this. And I gave her a hug and whispered to her that if she were ever back in Ontario that, of course, she would always be welcome to drop in and visit. It’s so odd that the emotions she was going through about leaving never really occurred to me and they should have before now. They’ve lived in that house for 12 years. I’ve been so caught up in my own feelings about how I’ll miss the home I’ve lived in for 10 years but to see her become so emotional when I was wishing her a safe journey really made it hit home that, of course, it’s just as emotional a journey for her to be moving on with her family, the house her children were born to and grew all their years in. It was nice to have an opportunity to hug her and to feel her hugging back. It’s weird to feel that I would have really loved this woman as a neighbour of mine. But that she won’t be that for me. I’m taking her place in the neighbourhood. Her spot, anyhow. I can tell just how much she will be missed by those surrounding her. I hope to make up somehow for the loss it will clearly be to that street she now lives on.<br />
<br />
After the walk-through, I took my son to the local Chapters to play while I followed him around the kids section with my latté. I was thinking about this couple and their two kids moving to B.C. and I was forgetting how late it was becoming. I had to interrupt my son’s playtime after 20 minutes and get over to the grocery store before heading home. We picked up some food and headed out to the rural backroads. <br />
<br />
As I was driving home, though, I passed an elderly man walking at a brisk pace at the side of the road. I wasn’t exactly sure, but something felt wrong when I passed him. For one thing, I felt like I was almost going to hit him and I noticed something else. He wasn’t wearing a rainjacket. It had been coming down in sheets on and off all day and I thought to myself this wasn’t someone just having an after-dinner hike. I went through the lights and pulled over. All around me were farm fields and I was trying to see him in my rearview mirror. I called 911 and was eventually put through to the local police department. I explained that I wasn’t even sure it was an emergency but that I’d passed an elderly gentleman on the side of the road and that he could have been out for an evening hike, but I had just had a strange vibe when I passed him that that wasn’t the case. I explained that he didn’t seem dressed appropriately for the weather. While I was on the phone with the woman taking the call, he came into view at the lights and I saw him turn then to head towards one of the small towns. <br />
<br />
I explained to the call attendant he had come into view and that I had my son with me in the car and it was getting late. She said they would send a vehicle and if I left that would not be a problem. When I hung up, I continued to watch him in my rearview mirror move up the road. I turned around and then turned right at the lights to follow him. <br />
<br />
It became clear very quickly that he was disoriented. He was now walking ON the road. I pulled up slowly behind him and he turned and thought I was offering him a ride. I lowered the window only slightly and I asked him if he was alright. He said he was and the first thing he said was, “do you have a smoke?” I didn’t, of course. But I lowered the window a tad more and slid out the orange juice I had bought at the starbucks and hadn’t opened yet. He asked me if I’d drive him to the next small town. To the church there. I told him I was sorry I couldn’t give him a ride, but that I’d called for help for him. I didn’t want to say, “I’ve called the cops.” I honestly didn’t know how he’d react to that. He was very polite. He had a long sweater on and his corduroy pants were soaked from the rain. I wanted to invite him to sit in my car, but I couldn’t do that. Especially not with my son in the back seat. I felt unsure. So I sat with my car off to the side of the road waiting for the police car to show up. He kept coming to my window and asking me for a cigarette. I gave him one of my son’s mozzarella sticks. He was clearly homeless but he never once asked me for money. I was afraid he was going to be hit by a car so I stayed there with him. He paced back and forth in front of my car and then he’d come talk to me at my driver window. I asked him his name and he said, “Dave”. I asked him if he had family and he replied, ‘Back in Australia.” He looked in his late 60s. I had no idea how long he’d been walking and how far, where he’d been walking from. I asked him where he was trying to get and he said he had friends “up North”. <br />
<br />
As I sat there, it occurred to me the cops were taking their time and I called 911 again and got on the line with the same woman who took my first call. I explained to her that I was unwilling to leave this man because he was walking onto the road and it was not safe. And also that I had a 16 month old who needed his diaper changed and could she upgrade the request for help. The diaper, I knew, was okay and could wait, but I wanted to put pressure on her because I felt they were not making this guy a priority for the night. And I understand that there are true life/death emergencies out there that need urgent response. But I was truly afraid this guy was going to get killed by a car. He was not really navigating the road safely. Cars kept whizzing by us and a few of them felt the need to honk at him as they passed. <br />
<br />
As I waited, a truck slowed down on the other side of the road and backed up a bit and asked me if everything was okay. I explained what was happening. This guy offered to let Dave sit in his truck to wait for the cops. I felt relieved about that because it had begun to drizzle again and I felt badly I hadn’t been willing to open my doors to him. So we both waited. Dave got into the truck with this guy and two cruisers finally showed up after another half hour of waiting in the dusk and then, the dark. I got out and explained that he’d been very polite. That he was clearly disoriented in terms of not realizing he was walking on the road. He did not appear drunk. He had not asked for cash. He wanted to get to the church in the next small town. When I left, Dave had gotten out of the truck and the cops were talking to him. <br />
<br />
I drove away and I am still wondering what has happened with him. Where did they take him for the night? Was it just going to be one night’s solution and he’d be back on the road again tomorrow?<br />
<br />
What was difficult was that, while we were all waiting for the cops to show up, the guy in the truck said he could drive him to the small town himself to the Church. I felt concerned about two things. I didn’t know who the guy was who’d pulled over and even though I wanted to trust that he would help this man and I felt sure he was sincere, a small part of me felt that I wasn’t entirely sure Dave would be safe. I didn’t like feeling that because I’m sure this guy was truly sincere and had stopped to help. The second thing that concerned me was that Dave was not dressed for the weather and he was talking of “going up North” and he had been walking on and off the road even while he paced in front of my car, he kept going onto the road. I didn’t feel he was safe in terms of his ability to judge what he was doing. <br />
<br />
The guy in the truck said he’d maybe take him home for a meal. My heart nearly broke when he said that. What I thought most when I drove away was that if I’d been a man, a man who didn’t have a 16 month old in my back seat, I probably would have risked offering this guy a ride. I might have even risked taking him home and cooking him something myself. I would have taken him to a store first to buy him a whole pack of smokes. I might have put him up for the night. I might have tried calling his friends if he’d remembered their number. I might have even driven him as far North as I could get him safely to meet up with them. I might have done all these things but I didn’t even feel quite safe enough to roll my window down further than the width it would allow me to slide a measly bottle of orange juice out to him. One measly stick of cheese. I felt helpless. I felt frustrated knowing that my gender, my situation, prevented me from being of more help to this man. More the kind of help he was actually seeking. I’m sure the last thing he wanted was to be taken away in a cop car. It was kind of the last thing I wanted for this man myself, but I truly didn’t know what else to do and felt powerless. No. Not powerless. That’s wrong. I was in the power position. Rather, I felt, I had to put my own safety above his. That’s the way of the world, isn’t it? I wouldn’t let him get dry sitting in my car with me and my son. I could only do what I could do. I wouldn’t give him a ride. I wouldn’t take him home for a meal or a warm bed to sleep in even though I have a guest room with a bed that is rarely ever used by anyone.<br />
<br />
I know I needn’t have ever stopped in the first place and sure, I’m glad I did. But I have no idea if I helped or hindered this man tonight.<br />
<br />
What I do know though, is, he was homeless and trying to find his friends. Trying to find maybe what “home” meant for him being as far from his real home as he was.<br />
<br />
It really put things into perspective for me. Lately I’ve felt so stressed with all the stuff on my plate in terms of prepping for this upcoming move. Just what the fuck do I have to be stressed about really? I have a home. A roof over my head. A damn nice tin roof. And I am moving to another lovely home very soon. And this man was walking around the backroads in the rain just wanting a cigarette. I couldn’t even give him that small request. Such a simple one. A small one. <br />
<br />
I know that this man was either suffering from some sort of dementia or mental illness in the way he kept walking onto the road and forgetting that he’d already asked me for a cigarette that I didn’t have. I know I did the “right” thing. But I wish I could have done a million different things a million different ways than what happened tonight. <br />
<br />
I didn’t know this day would end this way. The owner’s raw emotion over leaving her home and this man trying to find a home or just anywhere out of the cold where he could sit and have a cigarette. I am lying in bed typing this and I feel so damn blessed. And I don’t even know why or how I get to deserve the luck that I have in my life. I don’t feel I’ve earned it. At all.<br />
<br />
But, I guess. I guess I <i>hope </i>to. Someday…nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-412664097092297899.post-75771196172710980322010-08-14T02:29:00.000-07:002010-08-14T07:42:43.454-07:00Goodnight stars. Goodnight air.The peak nights of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Perseids" target="_blank">Perseids</a> meteor shower were last night (August 12) and tonight (August 13). <br />
<br />
I live on a somewhat busy road. Well, busy in the Spring/Summer. Not so busy in the Autumn/Winter. But my home is set back from the road and tonight, as I pull my muskoka chair onto the grass and lean back to gaze upwards, there is no sound but crickets to keep me company. <br />
<br />
My son turned 15 months old today. He slumbers upstairs inside the house while I witness shards of light whiz across the sky. So many stars, their tails streaking and then fading, streaking and fading. <br />
<br />
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I am making wishes again tonight. I have no idea if any of them will come true. A part of me feels like giving up. Nothing has gone as I'd hoped or imagined this summer. I have not sold my home. I have had two offers which did not get past the negotiations/bidding stage. Two offers I've made myself on homes have fallen through (the first, my decision to back away due to a poor inspection result; the second because my offer, which was conditional on the sale of my home, was bumped by a firm offer without conditions). <br />
<br />
I don't know exactly what the cosmos is trying to say to me with all that has happened. All that hasn't happened. My footing falters and I'm unsure as to my next steps. Feeling a little lost, as though we are going around in some ceaseless, circular path of getting nowhere. An endless orbit like these stars flying through the sky. Definitely as burnt out as these falling stars. I feel exhaustion and a touch of sorrow mixed together. Confusion. Anxiety. Do we give up trying to leave? Should we just stay? What's best to do? Mostly I just feel...tired. Tired of keeping the entire house spotless with an ever-growing, increasingly active and endlessly curious 15-month old. Tired of adjusting his routine constnatly, disrupting his naptimes, abandoning his regular schedule by rushing out of our home so that strangers can walk through and tell us why they don't love it like we do. My heart feels inordinately heavy tonight.<br />
<br />
One positive sign is that, right now, during the slowest month in the year for real estate activity, interest in my home has not waned. There have only been two or three days in the past month when I did not have at least one showing booked. Some days two or three requests. Hopefully one of these times someone will walk in and just fall in love with this place at first sight, like I did ten years ago. We are waiting for that one person. We wait and wait and wait. When, oh when, will they come?<br />
<br />
I sigh and try to focus once again up past my pines. Far above I can make out a murky whiteness that appears to be a cloud in the sky, but is actually the galaxy to which this planet and all these shooting stars belong. It is the Milky Way (or what I like to refer to as "the way du lait"). <br />
<br />
It is after 2 am and I have counted 7 stars now. My eyelids sink slowly down and then I nod, blink and try to open them wider so as not to miss anymore. There goes 8! And right behind it, number 9, whose tail takes the longest to fade into the indigo. <br />
<br />
It is as though this vast, silent universe is finally speaking to us all this night. It whispers; its laughter shoots across the inky velvet. Words of love flying from its mouth. Calling out to us. <br />
<br />
The shooting stars zip by so quickly, if you blink you will miss them.<br />
They are faster than the wink of an eye. <br />
They are the night sky winking back at us.<br />
<br />
I learned a long time ago that winks can convey so very much.<br />
<br />
I wonder what these stars are telling me tonight? <br />
I long to understand, but am too knackered to decipher.<br />
Gathering my blankets and pillows, I close the back door and ascend the staircase.<br />
<br />
I kiss my own wee star asleep in his crib. <br />
"Heavens, help us!" I whisper to the stars outside.<br />
They blink and blink.<br />
They twinkle and they wink.<br />
<br />
-------<br />
<i>Goodnight room.<br />
Goodnight moon.<br />
Goodnight cow jumping over the moon.<br />
Goodnight light and the red balloon.<br />
Goodnight bears. Goodnight chairs.<br />
Goodnight kittens and goodnight mittens.<br />
Goodnight clocks and goodnight socks.<br />
Goodnight little house and goodnight mouse.</i><br />
<i>Goodnight comb. Goodnight brush.<br />
Goodnight nobody. Goodnight mush.<br />
And goodnight to the quiet, old lady whispering, "hush". <br />
Goodnight stars. <br />
Goodnight air.<br />
Goodnight noises everywhere.<br />
-------<br />
Margaret Wise Brown</i>nancyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11413772615235003332noreply@blogger.com7