Thanksgiving 2021

 

 

Two years ago, my children—aged 11 and 14-- made Thanksgiving dinner, alone at home. They connected with me via video chat to show me the abundance laid out on the table.

 

I was in the hospital an hour away with yet another bowel obstruction, facing the prospect of surgery.  

 

The first thing on my list to give thanks for this year, is that I am home with my children. Surgery wasn’t necessary two years ago, and unlike any run of good luck I have ever experienced in my life, I have not been admitted to hospital for an obstruction since Thanksgiving 2019.

 

I am thankful for my children, their wonderful talents, teachings and love.

 

Thankful for their friends who give me a few more people in the world to love.

 

Thankful for my father and stepmother and for living nearby so we can visit each other often.

 

That I have so many memories of all my grandparents and some of my great-grandparents and that I knew many of them in my adult life, not just as a child.

 

Thankful for my neighbours who keep an eye out for me as I keep an eye out for them.

 

For my friends who don’t care when I drop by.

 

Dogs that make me laugh numerous times every day.

 

For the man that showed me pictures of his dogs as we waited in line this week.

 

The dog trainer who has taught me so much—and the dog groomer who has similarly taught me so many things-- with patience.

 

London Writers’ Salon – that brought me a global writing community.

 

People in my community that say hi, smile and know my name.

 

My job feels impactful and has a purpose for the community.

 

Being part of the arts community in this rural area.

 

Working with others to bring good things to our community—arts, child care, Truth and Reconciliation, the fight against racism, etc.

 

The ever-changing beauty and calm of the beach.

 

When things break, I have the money to fix them.

 

My backyard which holds wonders.

 

That beauty is everywhere.

 

My house is warm and is heated by a southern exposure on sunny days.

 

That people appreciate my work- professional and volunteer.

 

When Hannah laughs at a poem I wrote.

 

The parents and community members that have helped me over the years to make my children’s lives better.

 

The local library: books, books, books—and the time to read them.

 

Going to the grocery store takes me a very long time because I have so many people to talk to.

 

Wonderful fall weather.

 

Cats that catch mice in this old house.

 

Sunset, sunrise and cotton candy skies.

 

Darker evenings so I can see the stars and put my Halloween lights on.

 

That apples have grown so well this year.

 

The things I take for granted most of the time in this place: power, water, food, housing, freedom, good governance, and police I trust.

 

Everyone in this house is vaccinated.

 

Repairs are starting on the house.

 

That when one bathroom is out of order—we have a second that works.

 

I successfully grew gladioli this year.

 

That we have pet fish again- I missed the sound of the fish tank.

 

The internet which makes my work possible and lets me stay in touch with friends and acquaintances around the world.

 

I have a big bed where my kids and I snuggle and have evening chats.

 

Dance parties with my girls.

 

The silence of a Sunday morning.

 

Days when I can take a break from being online.

 

The art in my house; that which was created here and reproductions of the masters.

 

I am thankful for all these things and more and I hope anyone who reads this list will make one of their own and add to it every day of the year.

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.