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.