Mother's Morning

By the time I get to it

My tea tastes of nothing

 

It started

As I swam back to 

Consciousness

In the hour before dawn

 

Discipling the dogs as I came downstairs

Starting a pot of coffee

Mixing spices for the chicken I’m roasting

At 6:30 in the morning

For the evening meal

 

Next, it’s shoes, cleats actually

Wet from yesterday’s game in the rain

 

‘Put them in the drier,’ I said sagely

Thirty minutes later my Sweeper

Or is it Centre Back

Exposes unglued souls

Panic ensues

 

There’s a game today

The nearest store is an hour away

My schedule is packed

 

She finds the gorilla glue

I turn to social media

Confident other soccer moms

Have cupboards full of cleats

In various sizes

As do I

 

Cleats are offered

The glue has stuck

And I think this child

Won’t become known

In the annals of soccer

As Shoeless Suki K

 

Work – some work must be done

On deadline

Before 9 this morning

 

After the kids leave for school

And return for

Forgotten things

I sit, copy and paste

Write a few abstracts

Distracted by the doctor directed

Reduction in coffee consumption

 

The dogs suddenly

Need to go out 

I can’t ignore the barking

At the door

I have less than 10 minutes

To deadline

 

They’re out, then in

I answer an email

Post to the website

Check social media 

Searching for replies 

To interview requests

I sent out before 7 am

 

Inappropriately early appeals

To parents

Of school-aged children

We are a cadre of early risers

Whether we want to be

Or not

 

9:05 the chicken is cooked

The dogs are pooped

I turn the ringer on the phone off

Close all the curtains

Lock the doors

And sit down to write

 

Taking a moment to

Reflect

Regroup

Relax

 

Listening

To the sound of running water

In the fish tank

The white noise overhead

From the heat pump

 

Too soon

The hour I carved

For creative preservation

Is over

 

There’s an email from a teacher

Homework hasn’t been handed in

The chicken needs to be dissected

Bones and skin for broth

Dogs need to be walked

again

 

I don’t want to think of what’s next

My jaw clenches as I review my schedule

 

I miss the early days of the pandemic

When all we had to do was stay home

Thankful for the exemption from the world

 

But right now

Now

I must remember

 

To eat

Brush my teeth

Wash my face

Apply deodorant

Leave the house

And drink my tea

The age of power

Composite photo from: CBC, Erin O'Toole/Creative Commons, Chris Young/The Canadian Press.

In Nova Scotia we’ve just gotten through our second election of the summer. The first was a provincial election called by a premier who hadn’t been voted into office by the citizenry but by his party when his predecessor retired. The second was a federal election called by a prime minister who hadn’t yet passed the halfway point of his most recent mandate.

 

I have always been interested in politics; at first personally and later, as a journalist, professionally. As a high school student, I volunteered for a federal campaign in Edmonton. As a university student I joined Mel Hertig’s short-lived National Party of Canada (a left of centre outfit not to be confused with several far-right nationalist parties that have also populated the Canadian political landscape). As a parent, I’ve always followed the parties that would benefit my family which, along with the necessary non-partisanship required for work, means I have no political affiliation or membership.

 

On Monday night, as my daughter and I waited for the numbers to roll in from across the country, we diverted our attention from the vote count by speculating on and then searching for the age of all the federal party leaders.

 

We started with Conservative leader Erin O’Toole. From my familiarity with his campaign webpage, I pegged him at 60. Sorry. He’s 48.

 

JT, also known as the best-looking head of state in the world, is 49. My daughter thought he was far younger than that—good hair will do that for a man.

 

Green party leader Annamie Paul, also 48. I had no estimate in mind for her—her hair and clothes don’t give anything away—but 48 fits.

 

And Jagmeet, Mr. Singh - leader of the NDP - despite the grey in his beard, it’s clear that this guy is too hip to be old. He’s hip in a way that doesn’t make my teenage daughters cringe. He’s so hip that he probably doesn’t use the word hip and he does use tik tok. He’s 42.

 

On the fringe of national politics there are the leaders of the Bloc Québécois Yves-François Blanchet, 56 and the People’s Party of Canada Maxime Bernier, 58. These guys look like they’re in their 50s but in a good way.

 

After this trip down the google rabbit hole I was left with one illuminating thought: I am in the age of power. I turned 48 last month, these people vying for the top job in the country are my peers.

 

I know I am getting older but when I was in my teens and my 20s, when I was first hepped up about politics, all the politicians seemed like old men. In this era, they are my contemporaries.

 

Getting my google on, I found out the truth about the old men I remembered from previous elections; of the prime ministers I remember-- Mulroney, Trudeau (the father), and Harper—all entered office in their mid to late 40s.

 

I am the age of power, I never guessed I’d get here so soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The year ahead

 

My personal new year, also known as my birthday, was indicative of what I expect for the year to come: joy and pain, birth and death, fear and relief.

 

8 a.m.

I started the day with a phone call from an old friend who now lives in New Zealand. We’ve been friends since High School – over 30 years – and although we don’t always keep in touch, we are there for each other when needed.

 

Next, I was treated to wonderful gifts from my children. From my oldest I got a replacement fountain pen that I had mourned the loss of for years. It wasn’t the item itself that meant so much to me – things are just things—but the knowledge that she knew me. It was a symbolic gift that indicated she knew my heart’s desire.

 

My youngest daughter spent hours over the summer creating a cornucopia of artistic gifts for me. Beautiful bookmarks, paperweights depicting my two favourite TV characters (Oscar the Grouch and Animal- who I consider a good representation of my personality), a wonderfully decorated pen/bookmark holder, and a painting of my favourite flowers; gladiolas.

10 a.m.

Fully caffeinated, my 16-year-old and I went out for a driving lesson. She’s had her beginner’s permit for just over a month, and I hate to say it, but I don’t think we’ve made much progress yet. Somehow it is hard to find the time to go for a drive- how did this COVID life become so busy?

 

I laugh nervously, she swears like a sailor, and the car bounces along the dirt road at a very sedate speed.

 

Today’s lesson is on the road next to my father’s house. For the past 20 odd years it has been called the Mountain Road, but when I was a kid, it was the Indian Road. I drove there when I was a child. My parents, 70s parents, gave my sister and I a car when I was about 7 years old. We drove it in the small field behind the house and up the Indian Road.

 

The car was a red ’71 Nova that, in its short lifetime, had required a great deal of body work and was a patchwork of body filler and jerry-rigged fixes. We took out the back seat to mark a stump in the field and our cousins stood on the floor in the back of the car hanging onto the front seat as we tore up the grass and tried to leave a trail of dust behind us on the road.

 

This driving lesson wasn’t that.

 

We drove to the end of the road, where we encountered a large machine working on the power plant, turned around and drove back. Nothing too strenuous. I didn’t even need to chew gum to ease the tension.

 

11:30 a.m.

While we had been celebrating the day with gifts, outside a story was breaking. The nearby landfill was on fire and toxic smoke was creating a mournful haze across the village. I drove out to the scene, or as close as I could get, without getting in the way, to get some photos and headed back to town heavy with worry that the fire would spread, that the toxic smoke would persist, that we would have to be evacuated.  (Thankfully the fire was contained, and the smoke dissipated in the early afternoon)

 

1:30 p.m.

When I got home, we ate cake but not before I got a call from my aunt who along with birthday wishes conveyed the news that the Colonel, father of cousins who I’ve always been very close to, was dying. And that another cousin from a different branch of the family was expecting her first grandchild to arrive within hours.

 

After the call I sent messages to my cousins and reflected on how grateful I was to have known the Colonel for these many years. I first met him when I was in my mid-teens – as I am now 48 and he is 96 – he must have been 62 at that time.

 

He was traveling to Alaska to see one of his sons, my much-loved cousin Charlie. He stopped into our house in Edmonton on the trek up North and impressed me with his vigour.

 

Years later, when I was an adult and visiting family in Massachusetts, I would see the Colonel from time to time. My children and I went out with him for lunch on his 91st birthday.

 

Over the years I have heard many fantastic stories about the Colonel. And I’ve been glad to claim him as family.

 

3:30 p.m.

Mid-afternoon I received messages from the Colonel’s sons that he had died. At 96, all agree he’d had a good run, but it’s difficult to lose a parent no matter the age. Two of my favourite people will no longer have a father, and despite their age, the loss is deeply felt.

 

Although we know we are lucky to be in our 40s, 50s and 60s with parents still dolling out advice- the loss of these touchstone souls is no less painful. For a time, it will be unbearable.

For me the hardest part of the news is not being there to share the grief of the people I love.

 

7 p.m.

Feeling like I needed a little comradery, I went to visit my neighbour and found her away from home. Her two adult daughters were visiting, and I stayed to chat with them for a few hours. It was the balm I needed to connect with these two wonderful young women. I enjoyed my time with them and went home feeling renewed.

 

My own children were both home when I returned and we resurrected the disco ball, connected the iPhone to the speakers and had a dance party to end the day.

 

10:15 p.m.

News of new life was delivered via Facebook. Two babies entered the circle that is my wide and expansive family. That makes four of us (one of my adult cousins also shares the day with me) with the same birthday. I sent messages to the proud parents welcoming their newborns to the August 26 birthday club and wished them the all the best. 

 

This day has been a rollercoaster. I’m taking some time to sit with it all: life, death, the year that was and the year ahead.

Scenes from the lockdown

Spring has truly arrived. Trees are unveiling their leaves; the first flowers are in bloom, and the sound of children playing outside echoes through this small village.

This is our second spring in lockdown and while that sounds very bad, an important qualification must be made, we in Nova Scotia have had a mostly covid free summer, fall and winter- with few restrictions. Unfortunately, our case numbers shot up like the early and unexpected daffodils in my flower bed at the end of April. Hence lockdown, again.

 

My lockdown experience looks a lot better than most, due to nice weather and a rural setting. I can walk beaches and ride my bike on wooded trails that practically start at my doorstep. And I live with my most favourite people as well as two very entertaining dogs.

 

It’s only been a couple of weeks, and even with all this goodness, I do feel a little lost. There’s less stopping and chatting with neighbours, no browsing for unnecessary foodstuffs during grocery shopping trips, and no planning for summer vacation.

 

A few scenes from this lockdown have stuck with me, vignettes of contactless life.

 

Last week I was riding my bike on the TransCanada Trail. The section of the trail near my house has long, telescopic views down a tree-lined path. You can’t not see someone coming towards you even when they are a quarter mile away.

 

During lockdown, there is a lot more use of the trail than there has ever been before, especially on sunny days. And everyone, when they meet another trail user moves to one side of the trail to allow for the most possible distance as proscribed by Covid-19 protocols.

 

I was on a bike, with my ducklings (children) riding in single file, as I had taught them, behind me. I could see a woman with a dog walking towards me and I did a shoulder check to make sure that my family was only taking up one side of the trail- leaving lots of space on the other side for the dog walker.

 

The closer I got to the woman and her dog the further apart the canine and human crept. When I less than 10 feet from the pair they were on opposites sides of the trail with a thick blue leash connecting them like an umbilical cord.

 

The woman stopped dead in her tracks and looked as if she had been turned into stone while the dog wandered to the extent his leash would allow.

 

I stopped my bike and waited for her to collect herself and her dog so I could pass. It took her a minute and she muttered a ‘sorry’ as she pulled her dog towards her.

 

I did pity her a bit—who hasn’t had that ‘deer in headlights’ moment. But I also felt a little annoyed. Reflecting on this moment today, I realized that I didn’t know this woman or this dog. That is unusual. This is a very small community and I know all the dogs- most by name. During the lockdown we are not supposed to travel outside of our home communities even if it is to visit parks and hike trails. People have been ticketed and given $2000 fines for such behaviour.

 

Maybe this dog walker had more to be nervous about other than the fact that she was taking up the entire trail.

 

This morning, just back from walking on another trail near home, the shoreline trail, I happened to see a small boy in the front window of his house. He was playing with a dinkie (that’s Nova Scotian for matchbox car) driving it along the window ledge, occasionally making it take wild leaps into the air.

 

The morning sun was warming up the room and I noticed the boy’s mother sitting a little out of the way with a baby in her arms. No place to go but home. Some sweetness in isolation. 

 

Yesterday was another large day, at least in the afternoon, as I was walking my dogs through the village, I passed a young girl bouncing on her trampoline, alone. Across the street, in the back yard of the neighbour’s house, another child was squealing with delight and running around as her grandparents, whom she is living with, sat in the evening sun.

 

Taken separately, these were wonderful scenes, but together, a little sad. These children live within tin can telephone distance away from each other but cannot play together. There is an invisible fence that divides them. I hope it will soon be dismantled.

Shot in the arm

I have never been congratulated for getting a shot --a needle, a jab, choose your colloquialism-- before and I’ve had many in my life. Shots for pain, shots for prevention, shots for pregnancy; I’ve had them all but never, prior to last week, have I ever gotten virtual high-fives for the effort. Nor have I ever before felt the need to tell the world about a shot in the arm. But this is, to use a worn-out cliche, an unprecedented era—the first global pandemic in the 21st century.

When talk began about a vaccine for COVID-19 I was skeptical. I didn’t think that the hoped-for timeline was feasible. How could a vaccine possibly be developed so quickly? I am still surprised by the speed of progress. I am rightfully amazed at what can be done when the whole world is mostly cooperating on the same project, which gives me hope for humanity and the ecosystems we impact.

 

That being said, I’ll admit I was in no rush to get vaccinated. I wouldn’t have wanted to be the first person in line to get a newly minted vaccine. And this statement may surprise people who know me; I have always had a scientific bent and my existence is directly attributable to the wonders of modern medicine. I have always trusted medicine—it has gotten me to this point in life whereas without it, I would have only had mere moments on this earth.

 

I admit my reluctance because it is important to know, that even people who have every reason to fully commit to the medical narrative; people like me who have studied biology, have a familiarity with medicine and owe my life to scientific advances—even we have doubts.

 

I couldn’t say exactly what that doubt was—it mostly revolved around the efficacy of the dose but there was a halo of concern about long term side effects. It’s understandable that people have concerns and doubts. Information, even legitimate information, is a moving target. One day a vaccine is good for this age group and the next day not—or that is how it appears. Plus, there is just too much information—it’s hard for anyone to sort through it all and come to an unquestioning understanding of an evolving situation.

 

If there is one thing I have done throughout my life it is trust in medicine. Part of that trust has been predicated on the many excellent health care providers I have had over the years; Dr. Anita Foley of Guysborough and Dr. Sutthep at Sukhumvit Hospital, Bangkok to name the first two that come to mind—as both had a hand in keeping me alive.

 

Three months ago, when many of my friends and relations in the United States were getting vaccinated, I told them I was in no rush. The pandemic wasn’t doing much damage in Nova Scotia. Next to New Zealand, we were the safest place in the world to ride out this global health crisis. But that dramatically changed in the past three weeks.

 

The infection rate in Nova Scotia has skyrocketed and exposure sites have begun to pop up in my neck of the woods.

 

As soon as I was eligible for a vaccine, I tried to book an appointment, even though the first type of vaccine that was available to me was one that had the most conflicting press coverage about possible side effects and preferred age ranges- AstraZeneca. With cases steadily and rapidly rising, that information seemed far less relevant than the fact that covid was on our doorstep and potentially embedded in every in-person interaction.

 

But booking an appointment, while easy to navigate online, wasn’t easy to access—an hour’s drive to the closest appointment was what was on offer in the first week I was eligible for the shot. I decided to wait until I could get a vaccine in my community rather than travel and risk exposure in other, more populous areas.

 

My local pharmacist had seen my social media comment about my online booking experience and assured me that shots for us over-40s would soon be available at her store, less than a five-minute walk from my house. Living in rural Nova Scotia, that’s pretty much like getting an old-fashioned doctor’s house call.

 

Last Friday, I got a message. I had just returned home from getting my new puppy his second set of vaccinations which included a shot for coronavirus. For all those people that think the world is making up coronavirus –take a look at your dog’s vaccination card – the canines in this area have been getting a coronavirus shot for years. To be clear and not start some new conspiracy thread, the puppy version is different than the human one.

 

The message from the pharmacist said: Want to come around 11?

Yes, yes, I do.

 

I did not know what version of vaccine I was being offered and it didn’t matter—despite all the confusing news reports, I knew, to paraphrase our Prime Minister, that the first vaccine your offered is the best vaccine.

 

I’ve never been so excited for a shot in my life. There was hope in that needle. Hope that when my child goes to university in a few years she won’t be facing pandemic protocols and she’ll get to have the full freshman experience. There’s hope that my parents will be able to get back to the activities they enjoy and take care of their chronic health issues without worrying that they will catch a deadly virus when they visit the doctor’s office or go to the hospital for tests.  There’s hope for travel; reunions with friends and family. There’s hope that once we get past this pandemic, we’ll have learned enough about working on one world-wide problem that we can find global solutions to the greatest threat of all-climate change.

 

Once home with that shot of hope in my arm, I took a picture to mark the day—with my dog—two coronavirus vaccine recipients. We just need a few more billion people to take the same photo.

Lockdown 2.0

 

It’s setting day – the most wonderful and sometimes terrible day of the year. The boats will head out and launch pots into the sea and lift them tomorrow to find what waits.

 

I never feel so proud as when I see my cousin out on the water, knowing that this is what my family has been doing along this coast for over 200 years. That connection to the land and the sea is what I missed when I lived away for so many years.

 

It’s good to have lived in a place long enough that you know the daffodils are early this year, to know that the catch is more abundant than usual, and that a hillside once clear cut has regenerated over the past 25 years; it’s good to live in a place long enough to see babies grow into men and women.

 

This is where half my heart is today, the other is in reflection on our recent re-entry into lockdown. This province has done amazingly well; we’ve all been bragging about the safety of these shores throughout the last year. And that message took root. People from all over the country decided that Nova Scotia would be the best place to weather the storm of the pandemic and bought up almost every piece of property they could find—pushing housing prices through the roof- relatively speaking.

 

The pandemic has in some ways been extremely good for Nova Scotia – it’s increased our population and is bringing in new blood -- families and professionals -- to our small villages and towns. Because people, rightfully so, want to get away from crowed streets and townhouses with postage stamp yards. People want the wide-open spaces where the virus is unlikely to find them. Where you can still ramble outside without seeing another potentially infected soul. That place is here, right here in the remote, often overlooked, eastern tip of this province.

 

But the remoteness of this place is a mirage, driving to the city for the weekend or the day is not unheard of now. It’s not the once in a blue moon event it used to be when I was a child. Forty-five years ago, I don’t remember ever going to the city of Halifax for fun—we went for hospital stays at the IWK Children’s Hospital and doctors’ visits—never for shopping and museum visits as I do with my own children.  

 

If we were still as remote as we were back then, the province-wide shut down would make little sense—but these days –anyone from any part of the province could be anywhere. And are. There’s shopping; you can’t buy much in this small village and have to go to a bigger area to buy most things beyond groceries. There’re sports; many youths in rural communities belong to teams that are based in other areas of the province and travel beyond the confines of home base for tournaments. And there’s family; not very many people live in the small rural areas where they started off—they come home from the city to visit, attend weddings and funerals. We are a province where ‘home community’ casts a wide geographic net.

 

Hence lockdown; everywhere.

 

My experience of lockdown last year, and currently, has been very good. And I feel guilty about that. I was looking forward to having the kids home again all the time. I like to see them more but I have to admit the main reason I wanted them home was so I could do this; write.

 

Strange to say, but with the kids at home I will get more alone time, shut up in my office. We recently got a new puppy, and his presence has changed our lives more than the pandemic.

 

We now get up at 6 a.m. -- not easy for two teens—to answer his cries. I had to move my workstation from my office upstairs to the open area of the living room where the puppy spends his days. And walks are more frequent, no matter the weather.

 

We split our days of doggy duty but with the kids in school- that meant I had the full school day looking after the little fluff ball. Hard to concentration on writing while keeping a watchful eye on the pup.

 

With the kids at home, I get to move back to my office and sequester myself in this space with my “working” sign on the door.  It feels a bit like heaven to have this time back.

 

And I don’t have to run to the store for every little thing anymore. I am back to a once-a-week shop. The kids can’t ask me to go and pick up this or that—they have to be patient and write it on the grocery list. They have to make do with what is in the cupboard. That cuts down on lots of lost time in the day that had been stolen by ‘quick’ trips to the store. It’s also probably healthier as I can’t make a run to the store for ice cream, chips or cookies when the craving strikes.

 

Now, once again, I can only work from home. No driving to events or to meet people for interviews. This also frees up a lot of time.

 

And it is spring; the weather has been good—so good I think we are going to have to start mowing the grass soon. Some people already have. The early spring means we can still visit the grandparents –outside and are not stuck in the house with nothing to do.

 

For me, I can guiltily say, the third wave lockdown, is a welcome break. The beginning of the first lockdown was the least stressed I have been in ages—I felt better than I had in years.

 

But for many people this will be a challenge. Regular health care is disrupted—they’ve stopped regular blood collection in this area due to all the COVID-19 testing they have to do. Elective surgery will be pushed back again. And many workplaces have closed-leaving employees jobless for the time being.

 

Families with young children are hit especially hard. Parents have to run homeschool again and deal with kids who would rather be out seeing friends and doing all their regular activities. But most of all, child care—whose going to take care of these children if the parents are still working? That is still a circle that can’t be squared. It can’t be the grandparents which is the typical fall-back position. So who? Nobody but you—so there goes work, there goes money. Lockdown is extremely tough for parents of young children.

 

I know how difficult and necessary it is to work as a parent with young children and that is why I feel so guilty for welcoming this lockdown as a respite from the world. I know this is a crushing situation for them.

 

And that leads me back to setting day. In this neck of the woods lots of fishermen have young families—so now when both parents are needed at home as much as possible—they’re operating one-short. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time for fishing families. But like everything else, these parents will make it work but with difficulty and stress.

 

I am ready for the third wave. I have noise cancelling headphones, pay coming in, and freedom to roam the woods and beaches. I wish all could be so lucky.