Category: Rememberingfbe7326ff7

Cheryl, my friend.....

6/12/2014

The cold wind whipped my shawl as I left the warmth of the car. I hurried toward the Spitfire Arms pub, chased by a spring gust that felt like winter was holding it hostage. Chilly winds battered my clothing and I regretted packing away the winter garb. I was draped in a wool shawl but the weave was loosely woven and drafty so I clutched the wrap, twisting it tightly under my chin and headed across the road. Once again fashion overruled comfort and I chastised the decision to wear sandals. It might have been the middle of May but it felt more like the beginning of March; not the best day to introduce summer footwear.

It was vanity that made me dig around in the closet for a black sandal to match my purse. I wasn’t dressing up, but I’m old school and still pair the bag and shoes. All this mismatched stuff is unsettling, along with the new permission to wear white after Labour Day! The sandals had a nice height to the heel, adding a few inches to elongate and camouflage my widening body. I wanted to look my best on this momentous day.

Usually Sundays are for sleeping and here I was up and bathed in the early morn and out the door before noon, a testament to the eagerness for what lay ahead.   I was meeting a childhood friend that I hadn’t seen in 40 years, and today, along with lunch, we would serve one another a condensed version of our lives, filling in forty years’ worth of blanks.   I've thought about and waited for this moment for a long time but now that it was finally here I was nervous. Past conditioning doesn’t allow me to walk into a situation unprepared so I focused on the shoes to ground me. No matter what the day would hold, the shoes matched the purse and that glue would hold me together!

This reunion was down to fate; a happenstance that blows my mind. I truly believe the universe brought us together, how else could it be explained? Months ago, in a nostalgic mood, I wrote a blog about my school days and friends that made an impact on my life. Number one being Cheryl Benedict. I’ve thought of her a lot over the years, wondering where she might be and what she might be doing. Other classmates didn’t seem to know what happened to her, or they had incomplete information that didn’t pan out. It was a mystery, a puzzle with missing pieces that I longed to gather.

The trauma of my first marriage messed up a lot of memories and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d talked to Cheryl or the reason we drifted apart. My recollections are fuzzy, comparable to Swiss cheese, more holes than not. I’d left school in grade ten to marry and give birth, barely in that order, and was under the thumb of a very controlling, abusive man. Constantly trying to dodge bullets, it left little time to pursue friendships or outside interests.

In 2014, after trying without luck to find her by internet search, one weekend, I dusted off a few memories and wrote a story about my friend. On a Monday, I posted the blog and the next day I was floored to receive an email from Cheryl Benedict!   I couldn’t believe it! An old school chum living in the US saw the post on Facebook, followed the link to my blog, read it and forwarded it on. She wrote that she hadn’t gone by her maiden name for some time and coincidentally said she had been thinking of me that past weekend.   I think the universe was at work here! We messaged back and forth for a basic catch-up on Facebook and knew we would meet for a face to face in the near future.

Cheryl planned on a visit to Nova Scotia this summer but a family emergency prompted flying in from Calgary early to help with her mom’s medical affairs. We connected briefly at my shop and when she walked through the door, I recognized her instantly. She was exactly as I remembered; I could have picked her out of a lineup blindfolded. She was with her mother so there wasn’t much time to talk so we said we would connect later and then scheduled a meeting in the valley for the following Sunday afternoon.

It was interesting to note that our lives seem to be running a parallel marathon. With similar experiences under our belts it never felt like I was talking to a stranger, even though that is what we were. Four decades is a very long separation, but I was transported back to our childhood; she was the same girl I hung with all those years ago. Her facial expressions and hand gestures were so familiar it was difficult to believe that almost half a lifetime had passed. I always liked the way her fingers brushed away her hair, I don’t know why that stands out but it does. I’ve always noticed fingers and hands, I find them fascinating.

Cheryl is a symbol of all things good from a long line of past troubles. She sort of represents the calm before the storm. I need to revisit a part of my life that didn't have darkness associated with it. Remembering back, her friendship made me feel normal. My parents were always so paranoid that something would happen to me they kept me in a bubble. I wasn't allowed to hang out with kids my age, do the things they did like go swimming over by the bridge, or play inter-mural sports or travel on the bus to play basketball in other schools. I spent a lot of summers in bed or hanging in my room with nothing more than my over-active imagination to transport me past those walls. Mom always said she knew where I was but that kind of seclusion was unhealthy for social growth. There must have been something about Cheryl they liked and trusted because I was allowed to go to her house after school; and she came to mine; a rare permission.   We did do some sneaky things though, as all kids do, like buzzing around the harbour on a cute guys power boat. Dad would have had a stroke knowing I was out on the water without a life jacket and the swimming ability of a rock attached to a cement block. Quite frankly I was scared silly too not knowing what would be worse, my parents finding out or drowning!

Back in the day, Cheryl played the guitar. We both played but she was better at finger picking while I was more of a strummer.   We wrote a song together called Candy Cone Mountain, the title is all I remember and probably the lyrics were as sappy as the name, some foolish love thing for the boy crushes of the time.   We entered a talent contest once and probably sang “Killing Me Softly” a song we practiced regularly but I'm not 100% sure if that was the tune. We didn’t win the contest but the guts to get up on the stage in front of our peers, strumming guitars and belting out a tune for the entire town was impressive. Our combined voices were softer than a whisper, I wonder if the audience even heard us? We played at being detectives as well, that was my second dream, a backup in case the music thing didn’t pan out.   Apparently Cheryl carried on singing but I reserve my talents for the shower walls, they’re much more forgiving and don’t throw tomatoes.

So a couple of Sunday’s ago, we had lunch at a pub and four hours melted away like a Popsicle in summer.  It was difficult to part but my pups were home alone and there was an hour’s drive ahead of me. Cheryl had to prepare and freeze meals for her mom and then pack for the trip back to Calgary the following day. Cheryl is a tenured Psychology Professor at Calgary University.   I am so proud of her accomplishments and definitely not surprised at her success. I wish geography didn’t keep us apart; it would be wonderful to have the occasional girl’s night, talk about our pasts, our present and our dreams for the future but like she says, she’s only a plane ticket away.

We’ve experienced similar joys and weathered comparable trials. We’ve both reinvented ourselves several times through work and in our personal lives. For me, we are no different than those two younger versions of ourselves. I don’t think either of us is needy. We are independent self-reliant woman who can stand alone so I'm confident we will remain comfortably separated until our next encounter. But, knowing she is out there is comforting, hopefully she feels the same. I can see us ending our days together, feet up on a tropical island, laughing our big derrieres off while sipping something for circulation purposes....enjoying our time together until that final separation.......

Cheryl & Christine, together again!

I want to commemorate our reunion with a new rug design; a friendship rug called “Cheryl”. 36" x 21 1/2" Click this link to my New Designs page for the details on this pattern. http://www.encompassingdesigns.com/new-designs.html

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Remembrance Day 2013

11/12/2013

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Larry Willoughby Veinotte
Born 1908 Mahone Bay
Died and buried in Sicily 1943. One of 116,000 Canadian soldiers that never came back home.

I wasn't fortunate enough to know my grandfather, but genetically I am parts of him, and because of him I am alive.

Sadly, there have never been any hugs or bedtime stories, sitting cuddled on his lap in the old family rocking chair, no memories of my own to savor, just relayed accounts of his brief stay on this earth from the few who still remember him. War robbed me of those experiences and although it was necessary to free the world of a fascist regime, that doesn't mean it hurts any less.

My grandfather died when my father was only seven, leaving a boy without a significant male role model and I firmly believe it was the largest contributing factor of him growing up unhappy.  My father was a very sensitive man and somehow the loss left a cloud over his life; a hole that nothing could fill although he made a gallant effort to drown it in alcohol.    He cried over his father every time he drank and since I was a young girl, I knew how deeply effected he was by the loss, which continued to impact his life until he passed away.

War is indiscriminate, it doesn't just take soldiers. It can destroy families and rob what might have been.   I feel my father's life, and even my own, would have been a totally different story if my grandfather had been one of the lucky ones to come home. I believe I grieve for a man I never met because his loss took my father from this earth...from me prematurely.   I believe in my heart that my father would have been a happier man, one who could have been contented to live in his own skin.

For reasons I cannot explain, I am deeply touched by a virtual stranger, a figurehead in name only. Of course I’ve heard stories about him but they are only words, tales spun of a man who died well before his time. I’ll never know the real person, the man who laughed and loved, made mistakes and cried. What I do know, his progeny aside, is the tangible proof of his existence that hangs on my upstairs wall in the form of a framed photograph; a small, frozen moment in time. Posed in the army uniform, he's dapper and handsome and I suppose I should be grateful for the portrait because there wouldn’t have been such a detailed likeness to treasure if not for the war....but it's not exactly a fair trade; taking away the real flesh and blood man to leave behind a mere facsimile.

For me, the most striking aspect of the photograph is his eyes.   They are my father's eyes and the same eyes that stare back at me in the mirror. I can’t find the words to describe exactly how I feel as I look at him, but there's a familiarity, a connection like a plug to an outlet. We simply belong, he and I, and if one can have a relationship with a piece of photographic paper, than we do. His portrait hangs in my upstairs hallway and those eyes greet me as I begin my day, seeming to speak to me as I emerge from my bedroom doorway.

Larry Willoughby Veinotte, born 1908, died in Sicily 1943, fighting in a war that took him from home and family, where he lies in a grave on foreign soil.  Out of work and without prospects, he signed up to fight as a means to support his family. A loving, selfless thing to do in depressed times with a wife and four children to clothe and feed.   He was older, in his mid-thirties, really too old to go to war but there are stories that he somehow put forth a good argument to enlist. Statistically they say the older you are in combat the higher the risk of mortality. Age brings out compassion for your fellow man, reluctance to pull the trigger when the enemy has a face. War is not a place for emotions, it's every man for himself amidst the violence, chaos, and confusion. A split second of hesitation can be the difference between life and death.

As the story goes, my grandfather died trying to save a buddy.   He crawled out of the trenches to drag a friend to safety, a friend from his hometown of  Mahone Bay. Unfortunately the soldier was already dead and my grandfather took a bullet in the process. He bled to death in a medic tent, but not before he wrote a letter to his wife, my grandmother. I’ve never seen the letter, only heard of its existence, and I don’t know if I would read it even if it hadn’t been lost many years ago. That would have been their private moment to own, not mine to intrude upon, but I do reflect on what words and thoughts one might relay if death is staring you in the face with only a few moments to say good bye to the ones you love.

So every year around this time I become melancholy and park myself on the sofa and watch war documentaries, searching the faces for a glimpse of familiarity. As more and more footage is released showing us what war was really like, you see what weaponry can do to flesh and bone, and with coloured footage, distinguish the mud from the blood.   I sit with tears in my eyes and horror in my heart unable to imagine what those soldiers felt at the front of any battle.

Every November the sadness overcomes me as I wonder what might have been.    So much time has passed it might seem irrelevant to some, but not every part of him is gone.  I’m here and I want to preach from my soap box that Larry Willoughby Veinotte mattered. He was loved. A brother; a husband; a father; a living, breathing person....and then was taken away. Our entire family is collateral damage of that war, we can't even begin to know what we missed from not having him in our lives.   I watched my father destroy himself because he wasn't strong enough to deal with, or stamp out the palpable sadness of his loss. It is so out of character for me to be a babbling fool, but this gets me, right in the heart.

And I'm angry, we haven't evolved or learned anything from past mistakes. War and conflict still exist and more fathers, husbands, sons and daughters are dying.  The fact that the human race can't get along upsets me and I resent war and the collateral damage that results from it.   Yesterday morning I looked out the window at the blue sky and shining sun and pondered going to the Cenotaph, to stand with the families of the fallen but I was too sad. I'll stay home and shed private tears and watch Remembrance Day from the sofa.   Lest We Forget? Personally I can't. If only I could......

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Broken vase, broken heart....

11/5/2013

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"Death ends a life, not a relationship" ..........Mitch Albom

Marjorie Eileen Veinotte

I went through a period in the 90’s when I collected a bit of Cranberry Glass. Nothing substantial, just a few select accent pieces. In case you didn't know, Cranberry Glass gets its colour from gold, and that makes it extra special and of course expensive.

1991 was the year that hubby and I tied the knot, a quick affair before he headed off to the Marblehead Ocean Race. We joke that he spent his honeymoon with a bunch of sweaty, flatulating men on board a 40 ft sailboat. I was probably the only one unhappy!   The vows out of the way, we planned to have a reception on his return, but life sometimes steers us off course.....

My mother had been suffering for years with painful veins in her legs and then she developed a clot that although wasn’t life threatening, it did cause her sleepless nights as she felt the blood pulsing against the blockage.   She was of the generation that never complained so the doctor didn’t realize the severity of her discomfort and the operation was pushed back several times due to schedule conflicts. Shortly after we married she finally went in for surgery.  She came home to convalesce and at that time sent my sister out to buy a piece of Cranberry glass for a wedding gift. I couldn't have been more delighted. It was a very large piece with a curvaceous body, perfect for floral arrangements or just a centerpiece to admire.

Sadly, mom contracted an infection and had to go back to the hospital for a second surgery, didn’t do so well and was taken back into the OR for a third time. Three surgeries in a short time frame taxed her body and she began hemorrhaging into her abdomen.   Out of the blue we received a call that our was dying and would not make it through the night.

When we arrived at her side she was barely coherent with a tube in her mouth so she couldn’t speak. We talked to her and her eyes were frantic as she tried to communicate with us. If only someone had told us to give her a pen and paper. If only we had thought of it...but that time is lost forever and we will never know what she was trying to say. I could tell she was afraid, who wouldn't be? It was a terrible time for her and for us. We watched our mother die when there had been no preparation, no chance to come to terms with losing her.

She lost consciousness shortly after we arrived and then we just waited by her side as her body shut down one organ at a time and finally her heart stopped beating. The nurse told us she had a very strong heart, beating fiercely until the end. We talked to her right until the end hoping she could hear and not feel alone. There are no words in the English language to describe the emotions of that terrible night.

I was numb from the shock. The thought hadn’t entered my head that she would die, then or ever. She was 58, that's only 3 years older than I am now. My mother was strong both physically and mentally her entire life and I'd always viewed her as a rock; invincible; infallible. She was the matriarch, the one you went to with problems, for support and advice and now she was gone. We were just starting to get to know one another as women, not as mother and daughter.   There was so much I didn’t know about her and she me.

I cried but it seemed forced, not the kind of grieving that wretches your stomach, steals appetite and the will to live. For several weeks my eyes leaked tears like a facet in need of a new washer but my pain only skimmed the surface. I sat on the sofa and cross stitched a Blue Willow scene and thought of her, remembering, analyzing feelings, and wondering when the numbness would peel away to allow for deeper feelings to emerge. But although the tears may not have been flowing like rivers, the sadness was profound, I barely smiled and dug deep for reasons to carry on.

The public viewing was difficult. There was a gaiety about it that I didn’t understand. I was sad, and I wanted everyone to feel the same way. Loosing my mother was a loss of grand proportions and I couldn't take it lightly. People in my family were saying things like, “It was for the best, she didn’t suffer,” and “She looks good.”   Rage brewed under the surface from their stupid words and I wanted to scream, she doesn’t look good, she looks dead!   Her body was bloated from the trauma of medications and dying; that cold shell laying there didn't look anything like her.

And her death wasn’t for the best, what kind of stupid thing was that to say. It wasn’t like she suffered through a long debilitating illness with crippling pain. Maybe death in that circumstance would be sweet relief and “all for the best” but she was alive and well less than a couple of days ago taken down by an infection. A senseless death really, ripped from us by a string of bad luck, a dirty instrument, something not sterilized properly? I could see and feel no blessed relief

Bitterness consumed me. I felt there wasn’t enough grief and respect in the room. Taking the cue from the lighthearted manner of family members, people were laughing and talking around her body and kids were loud and running and chasing one another. It felt more like a party than her funeral. I wanted to scream but I stood like a statue and barely spoke to anyone except my husband who held me up that awful day. All I could think was that she deserved better, there should have been tears, a show of respect. Except for my hubby and I welling up, there wasn’t a moist eye in the place, nor a hanky in hand.   I felt sick and ashamed to be a part of this strange family.

I’ve been to enough viewings to know that people deal with grief in all kinds of ways but I have never been to one where no one shed a tear. I stood apart from my family and watched in disbelief. I shed tears even now as I write this, our mom deserved a public display of emotion, if not by tears, by sad faces, eyes that tell a tale of grief even when the mouth dares to form a smile. This was no time for jokes and merriment. This was our collective time to say goodbye to our mother. I left hurting for her. I kept my feelings to myself because of my status of black sheep, a title I've been unfairly given because no one cares to know the real me, just judge who they think I am. I’ve been slammed my whole life because I’m a private person who minds her own business and doesn’t intrude on the lives of others. It’s not that I don’t care; I just have enough to deal with in my own life and don't have time to meddle in someone elses. If that makes me a black sheep, than I guess I’m baaaaaad to the core.

So I internalized my feelings and fixated on the wedding vase, the last gift my mother had given me. I clung to it like a life raft. I put it in the dining room on the buffet, a place to showcase its beauty. Next to my life, that vase was the most precious gift my mother had ever given me. The first and last testament of her love.

We were in the process of buying our first house when she passed away and now we were renovating one room at a time. I cleared out everything from the dining room except the table and buffet and although I should have packed up the vase or moved it into the living room, I wanted to see it while I worked. I can’t describe the attachment I felt to this pretty piece of glass but it comforted me, just knowing it was there.    So I left it on the buffet and started painting the room.

When I needed to move the buffet to access the wall behind it, I slightly lifted the one side to take the weight of the old steel casters so not to scratch the newly sanded floors when moving it out from the wall. I guess I lifted it a bit too high as the caster fell out of the bottom of the leg so when I sat it back down that leg dropped lower and the buffet tipped forward.  I watched in a slow motion horror as my beloved vase tipped over and crashed to the floor below, smashing into hundreds, possibly thousands of pieces.

I stared in disbelief with mouth agape.

And then a scream came, a loud mournful, guttural sound that escaped from the pit of my stomach and worked its way up into my throat. Then another scream followed, as agonizing as the first. And tears....a tsunami of tears, blinding me, splashing down my cheeks, soaking my shirt and floor. I kept screaming and screaming, insane with agony. It was as if my mother had just died but this time I was feeling every shard of pain, cutting at me as if I'd fallen on the broken glass on the floor.

Then I felt panicked, claustrophobic and started to run from room to room, pulling at my hair as I tried to escape the pain.   I ran up and down the stairs, screaming and wailing, thrashing about in a madness I haven't felt before or since.

At some point I collapsed to my knees and wept for what seemed like hours. All I could think was that my mother was dead, gone forever. Even though she had died months before, it was as if it just happened and the pain of it felt raw from the open wound.

As the tears subsided I felt totally drained. Too weak to stand, I literally crawled up the stairs on my hands and knees and managed to get into bed. I fell instantly asleep.

The broken Cranberry glass was later gathered and kept in a shoe box. I still have it after twenty two years. I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. I spent months searching for its twin unsuccessfully and will continue to look for the rest of my life. If I find one, I’ll place it on the buffet and pretend it was the original,   but so far it seems that vase was a one of a kind, just like my mom.   I couldn't even find a picture of a similar piece on the internet, nothing came close.

I often wondered why it happened. Even though it was stupid to leave such a fragile, precious object out during a renovation, how could fate be so cruel? If the moment had a silver lining it might be that the experience was cathartic, finally allowing me to deal with and process my mother’s passing.

My mom died on October 5th so I've been thinking about her a lot lately. This story reminded me that I've wanted to wire wrap a few of the larger broken pieces of Cranberry glass. I've ground down the edges to a smooth finish to wrap into a pendent so I can wear it close to my heart….the place where my dear mom now dwells......

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Handiwork of the past, the question is whose hands?

10/23/2013

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Every now and then when I'm digging around in the closet I rediscover this piece of handiwork and wonder all over again whose hands did the work. Was it my grandmother, great grandmother or another member from the family tree on my father's side? It's one of those mysteries that will never be solved as all parties are now gone, only this fine piece of handiwork exists to prove that someone, once alive, touched it and worked the stitches with loving hands.

I found this 17" x 17" square in the home where my grandmother grew up. I will assume it was to make up a 16" x 16" pillow when finished. Someone selected black velvet for the background and the needle point and sculpting is done in a very fine yarn. As you can see from the back photo some of the strips have been pulled out but when viewing it from the top side you would never know. I'm not much for this kind of craft so I will never sew a backing on to complete the pillow but I can't bring myself to throw it out. I've offered it to several people but it wasn't their cup of tea either so it remains folded in the closet as a reminder that I've followed in someone's creative footsteps.

The pattern was a purchased piece from a company called H.S. Milliken and was stamped pattern #51. I did a bit of searching on the internet and only found another similar pattern being sold on Etsy. The colour plan was stamped on the back so I assume it was a kit. Maybe I should adapt the pattern into a rug hooking pillow and do it up in my medium. The pillow can serve as a means to keep me grounded, after all, we are all just small fish taking a turn in the big pond of life. Someday I'll be a faded memory but maybe some of my handiwork will survive....a box will be discovered in an attic, opened, and a great grandchild will find one of my rugs, maybe unfinished and they will wonder who might have worked on it......what the story is......

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"Blue" memories, a good thing!

9/3/2013

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Look at the glee...nana was a rascal!

At the grocery store this weekend, I was reminded of a memory of my childhood. Blueberries are in season at the moment and the large boxes are available for baking and freezing. I’ve always loved the "blue" berry, a sweet burst of late summer wrapped in my favourite colour.

As a child I picked them in the wooded area behind our house and now at our current home, there’s an orchard over the hill bearing all kinds of apple and pear fruit trees and a twenty five foot row of bush blueberries that drip like grapes on a vine. Like potato chips, one is too many and a thousand is never enough, although this delicious, antioxidant is a far better dietary choice.

I love blueberry pie, (any pie really) and my mother and grandmother couldn't be topped with just the right amount of sugar and the perfect flaky crust. If I close my eyes I can see and smell the pie cooling on the the wood stove at grandma's house. The juices bursting with flavour, bubbled up around the crust to let you know what fruit awaited your fork. Nana would cut and let us eat the pie while it was still warm and the juices would ooze out and drown the bottom of the pie plate with sweet nectar.

Papa Olsen and two delicious blueberry pies!

Nana would slap those pies together in mere minutes, a lifetime of practice behind the skill. You might think my grandfather, Papa Olsen, was the target of this photograph but I'll bet I was immortalizing the delicious pies. I liked them better. Papa Olsen was a bit gruff and I was petrified of him. Don't know why because he never did anything directly to me but he was a no nonsense kind of fellow that didn't stand for any tomfoolery. As kids, I remember my mother telling stories about his strict, seemingly unfair rules of her childhood and maybe that was always in the back of my mind.  Nana on the other hand was always full of fun, all tales from my mother were relayed with smiles. Apparently she would allow her daughter's boyfriends to come a callin while papa was at work in the mines. As he came home the boyfriends would be hustled out the front door just before papa came through the back entrance.

The photo of Nana Olsen chasing me up the staircase with the broom is a precious memory frozen in time. Someone had given me an old camera and I snapped a bunch of pictures during that summer's visit and lucky for me or I wouldn't have any visual memories of the holidays in Springhill or pictures of my cousins. The photo below is Sharla, my idol, with hair down and tanned to perfection. Nana above, is chasing after me with the broom handle after I'd snuck up behind her and untied her apron probably a dozen or so times.

My Nana was a beautiful woman inside and out and full of the devil.  She loved to laugh, a deep throaty laugh; a genuine laugh. Her dark eyes sparkled as she chased me though the house as I frantically searched for cover to avoid the tickling of a lifetime and avoid being forced to squeal like a little piglet.

On the sly, she would press a nickel into my hand, put a finger over her lips and do a head gesture in the direction of the little store down the road. That was our little secret, and I'd secure a bag of penny candy to satisfy both of our sweet tooth's. We'd huddle in the living room, out of site to hand over the contraband. Not such a terrible thing for me, but Nana was a type II diabetic and was supposed to behave herself.

If asked to describe her in one word it would have been "fun". She cheated at cards and snapped gum, told tale tales to pull our legs and pinched our bottoms. She was lively and quick, chasing me through the house and up the stairs. Yup, she wasn’t a grandmother who spent all her time with the adults, she was full of fun and had us kids on the run!

My cousins all lived in Springhill but the sun rose and set on Sharla. After the much anticipated hug from Nana, all I wanted was to see Sharla and the ants in the pants started until the trek was made up the hill and down the glen.  I thought of nothing but her throughout the year, maybe even wrote a letter or two, I idolized the ground she walked on and lived for those two weeks vacation. I'm not sure how she felt about me but that didn't matter, I loved her enough for the both of us.

If memory serves me correct she was slightly older than me and a year ahead in school. My December birth date held me back during the days when you had to be five before September to start the school year.    I was somewhere between her age and her younger sister Brenda.   I do remember, quite vividly, that Sharla was brilliant, scoring perfect report cards every year. No idol of mine was ever second rate!

Terry, her older brother was handsome and I may have had a little crush on him....well okay, I had a gynormous ole crush and got pretty quiet in his presence, communicating with a flushed face and down-turned head.   Cousins aside, we were virtually strangers except for those two weeks a year so a little crush was allowed. It wasn't as if he was going to kiss me or return my feelings.  He probably thought I was a gangly, wet behind the ears country bumpkin and barely tolerated me in as much as I thought he was handsome and cool.

I adored Sharla, and envied her with equal ferocity. Not only was she gorgeous, with a long braid down her backside, a direct contrast to my bowl cut, around the ears butcher, but even more importantly, she got to see Nana any day of the week. She had the luxury to just pop in after school to say hi to get one of those special hugs any time she wished.  What a lucky girl she was, she and her siblings. There were three, two brothers, Terry and Kirk and a sister Brenda. Luckiest darn kids in the world as far as I was concerned.

During the summer holidays Nana used to braid their hair because their mom, Sarah, left early for work. They'd pop in and she'd split the locks into three tails and weave them into this thick, perfect braid and I would sit and watch envying every single hair on their heads. What a memory for Bendra and Sharla to savour, the best Nana in the world fixing their hair, tugging it into the perfect braid. I remember how their heads rocked back and forth as Nana pulled each tail so it fit snug and tight into the braid. My eyes would have been as big as saucers....little green saucers, because my mother would never allow our hair to grow beyond stubble; apparently it was too much of a chore to maintain, making it a life long desire to grow locks down my back.

My Mom with her mom, Beatrice (Nana) Olsen.

Both sets of my grandparents lived in Springhill and every summer we loaded up the car and made the three hour trek to the other side of the province. The excitement was thicker than pea soup and I squirmed in the backseat, pestering my dad every couple of minutes with “are we there yet?” or "How much longer?" Hugs from Nana Olsen were awaiting me and I had to get there quickly to bask in the warmth of her soft matronly chest.  The smell of faded Avon talc and her soft, fleshy arms wrapped around me was the highlight of my summer. For the seconds the warm embrace lasted, I was the most important person in the world. I could have stayed in her arms forever, feeling loved and safe there. There are no words to describe the loving warmth of a grandparent, I won't even try.....I couldn't do it justice!

Springhill is famous for three things. One is Anne Murray, second is coal mining and the related historical disasters, and thirdly the blueberry.   They grew everywhere on the residual rocky glaciated landscape, and as the season peeked you saw a blanket of blue as far as the eyes could see.  They had a blueberry factory, not sure if it was right in Springhill or in the surrounding area, but a lot of the townsfolk worked there. The company hired scoopers and paid them by the flat to clear the fields.  The more you worked the more money you pocketed.  My hard working cousins scored well. The haul was somewhere between $75 and a $100, a lot of money back in those days, especially to someone only used to an allowance of .25 cents like me. I asked or begged to tag along to make some big money too, but that didn’t work out so much.

My eyes couldn't believe the bounty before me. The blue went on for miles and my eyes nearly popped out of my head as my stomach growled in anticipation of the feast.   I plunked my lazy butt at the beginning of a row and ate my way to the end, scooping the bare minimum to line the bottom of my pail. I don’t know where they all went but I managed to cram them in, filling my stomach and the esophagus all the way up to the back of my throat. Probably had about a hundred dollars worth of berries in there. I was wearing white pants that weren’t so brilliant after sitting on what I didn’t eat. And I don’t think I’ve ever pooped like that since.  There needs to be a new word invented to describe the clean-out I experienced.   It’s truly a wonder it didn’t come out of both ends, I should have been sick, maybe enough to put me off blueberries for life, but miraculously, I held them all in although bending over was out of the question and only a burp or two hinted that there was discontent brewing in the land of acids and enzymes.

I earned an humiliating $7.50, evidence that some berries made it into the flat. I was viewed with a few head shakes and I wasn’t invited to go back the next day. I probably embarrassed my hard working cousins who had vouched for me. Having never seen that kind of abundance I lost my mind, transforming into a two legged piggy with blue stained teeth and fingers, lagging far behind as the real pickers moved to further fields.   I’m sure the novelty would have worn off quickly and a second chance at the fields might have allowed some decent money in my pocket, but I don’t think they wanted me back to eat them out of house and home. For a little thing I had a healthy appetite, or maybe it would be best described as an unhealthy one.

Scooping the berries with a box like tool was slick. It had a handle and teeth along the bottom, like a comb pick. You push it along the bush just under the leaves and the berries, draw it upwards and they fall off into the scoop. Then you filled up a container that you carry with you and then dump that into something called a flat. Leaves, grubs and all else went into the scoop that got separated later at the factory.

I spent the little money I made at the candy store down the road, liquidating it all into sugar. Back in the day you could buy a ton of sweets for pennies. Twenty-five for a nickel kept a girl busy chewing for hours.    Those were the days of tar babies and licorice cigars, my favorites and they were twice the size of any candy today! I remember the counter behind glass, staring into the objects of my desire.   The colours of sugar are as splendid as the colours of wool!

So every time I see berries in a box at this time of year, I think of those days in with my cousins in the Springhill blueberry fields, eating my way to nirvana. Very happy pages in the book of my childhood.

A rake and a flat of scooped blueberries.

Blueberries are in abundance in Springhill. Any field was covered in blue and there for the taking. Nana would whip up a blueberry pie anytime a tin full arrived home and she’d cut it while still warm so the liquid would ooze out and pool in the bottom of the pie plate. A juice so sweet it could have been the nectar or the gods. Her crust was killer, and although I can make a crust equal to the memory, I dread having a full pie at my disposal, one piece being too many and a full plate not enough. I search for the perfect pie in restaurants but they always pale in comparison, except for The Gazebo Café in Mahone Bay, a close second and enough to do the job of rekindling the memory.    Well worth the stained teeth and high blood sugar scores.

And just a little rant....none of this microwave pie crap for me. Pasty put through a nuking is soggy and limp. A pie needs oven heating to gently warm the fruit and enhance the dough into a crunchy, mouth watering flake.   Restaurants ought to be ashamed to send out microwaved, wilted pie, but maybe today's folks don't know what a good old fashioned oven baked pie should taste like....I'm full of sadness for them.......

I recently connected with Sharla through Facebook and she popped by my shop one Sunday when I wasn’t there and left her card in the consignment shop next door. I hope to meet up again soon, maybe hash around the old days a bit and catch up on our current lives.

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Remembering Susan.......

4/18/2013

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"People do not die for us immediately, but remain bathed in a sort of aura of life which bears no relation to true immortality but through which they continue to occupy our thoughts in the same way as when they were alive. It is as though they were traveling abroad." --Marcel Proust

This is just a little something I threw together for Susan's memorial gathering. I'm not much for speeches and just couldn't send her off without a few words. The border represents pieces she's hooked; most are her designs and a few are mine.

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A book to remember...a memory to cherish!

4/13/2013

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As a small child, a book just like this one captured my heart. The classic stories were page turners, but more interestingly, the same book had captivated my father’s imagination as a boy and then lay tattered and dusty in my uncle’s attic, waiting to be rescued and loved once again.

All of five at the time, we were visiting my Uncle Howard who was really our great uncle but that was a mouthful so uncle he was; although I will say he was great in every sense of the word and by far my favourite relative.

On beautiful summer Sundays, my family would pile in the car and head to the old homestead on the outskirts of town. My uncle's property ran along the Great Ridge and overlooked Mahone Bay town center and mouth of the harbour. As a small child I stand on the crest of the hill and overlook the countryside feeling amazed at how very big the whole world was.

Visiting my uncle was like finding a time capsule and crawling inside. He lived with the bare minimum his entire life, by choice not necessity and very little had been added or updated since the house was built in the late 1780's  He didn't own a refrigerator let alone indoor plumbing which was an adventure in itself. You haven't experienced life until you've peeked down the holes of a three seater outhouse. Amazing stuff to a child who only knows the miracle of the one seated flusher. The drive home was always full of questions and I guess I obsessed over the workings of the outdoor toilet enough to leave a lasting memory although I don't recall the answers.

Like why is there more than one hole? Surely two people didn't sit together at one time, let alone three? Must have been crowded and stinky, or did different people, one at a time sit at a hole until the pile got too high and then moved to the next? Or were the holes of a particular size to fit the different bottoms, small, medium and large? And where was the toilet paper? And why was there always a catalog or magazines with missing pages?   Why all the flies? We never visited my Uncle in the winter and I couldn't imagine sitting out there as the cold wind howled through the large cracks in the walls. The small building was also tilting precariously backwards like a leaning tower of pee..sa. Sorry......

The house was wired but only for lighting and a wood stove heated the place and cooked his meals, even during the humid part of summer.  He would fire up the stove and fry us a hotdog and heat a can of beans for dinner and I thought it was the greatest place ever.   I would sit on his lap in his rocking chair and if I close my eyes I can still smell the smokiness of his shirt and hear his laugh. There was a cold cellar where he kept beer for my dad and milk for us, chilled as cold our fridge. All the comforts one could need and adventure to boot.

What a treasure trove for an imaginative kid like me. I wasted little time asking permission to head up the stairs to wonderland so that I could rummage around in the bootee left from my father’s childhood and even my uncle's as this was his family home. Out of financial necessity, my grandmother had accepted board with my uncle after our grandfather, his brother, had been killed in the war in 1943.  She raised four small children in this crowded, one and a half story Cape, with no convenience, no insulation and no running water or bathroom facility.

My father and his three siblings shared the larger bedroom in the upstairs, which also doubled as their play area.   I remember listening to stories of pee freezing in the chamber pots and cuddling together stave off hypothermia in the middle of winter. This room was a link to my father’s past, where everything remained as it was abandoned. I was a fledgling archeologist, uncovering the mysteries of the past and unearthing childhood treasures of another time.  The attic was peppered with metal toys, old dolls, shabby teddy bears, skates, baseball bats, balls, sleds and last but not least hundreds of old books and magazines. Cartons of them lined the eve walls, used as insulation against the cold winter winds, untouched since the day they were packed away. I rummaged excitedly through those musty boxes intent on what I might discover.

Chicken Little on of my all time favourites!!

There it lay, sandwiched between a math text and a book on etiquette, a very special book indeed, one that would become my constant companion. Sadly, I can't recall it’s title, but it was hard bound and covered with a blue material. The pages were filled with popular children’s stories of that time which aren't politically correct for today. To name a few, The Three Little Pigs, The Little Red Hen, Chicken Little, The Story of Little Black Sambo, and my all time favorite, The Tale of Peter Rabbit. With only minimal assistance I was able to read the simple wording while my eyes drank in the wonderment of the brightly coloured artwork that adorned each page. At night, while I was supposed to be sleeping, I would read and reread each story, either huddled under the covers with a flashlight or by squinting with the aid of the moonlight streaming through the bedroom window. Before long, I was able to recite each story by heart, never tiring of revisiting each tale and the surprises they held. While I slept, my precious book rested with me, hidden under my pillow with my picture of George (story from a previous blog) to ensure that they would both be the first things to greet me in the morning.

Through constant handling the pages were dog eared or torn, and my older sibling ripped off the front cover in one of her tirades, leaving the book in a sad state of repair.   It was old and worn but still held the wonderment and magic to enchant me.  I can't remember what fate it might have succumbed to but it probably got thrown in the garbage as its condition worsened. I dragged it around like a tattered old security blanket so it was probably weaned off me with a quick chuck in the bin. Unfortunately, mother is gone now, and with her the answer to my question, but the wonderful memories of reading those fanciful stories will always be with me.

A few years ago, I searched for a copy of this children's tome in every antique book store I came across and spent many hours on the internet trying to track it down.   The search was difficult when I couldn't offer the actual name of the book, only the stories between the covers. And then, one night my search landed a result on Little Black Sambo. Someone on EBay was selling a close representative of my beloved book!   It was slightly larger in size and it was covered in a green cloth instead of blue with a picture of kittens on the cover, but inside, the artwork was the same, the stories were the same, except for the addition of The Kittens Who lost their Mittens but let me tell you, I wasn't quibbling over an extra story. I bought the book on the spot and haunted the post office until it arrived.

Once the book was in my hot little hands, it was obvious it was a different printing than the one I had but everything else was the same including the inside cover artwork. You can't imagine how I felt, rediscovering such an emotionally significant part of my past. I was gleeful, just like that first time when I discovered it in my uncle's attic. . I went to bed early and curled up with my precious book and read it from cover to cover, out loud to my pups. wishing I'd had it to read to Shane when he was a boy....ah...maybe grand children someday....

The stories were still inside my head and the words so familiar! I welled up a few times as the memories flooded to the surface. I remember crying as Little Black Sambo said "Oh, please Mr. Tiger, don't eat me up", and then screeching and clapping as the tigers chased one another around the tree until they turned into a big pool of melted butter for their pancakes.

I screamed for Peter rabbit to run as Mr MacGregor chased him down, and I so feared the little Gingerbread boy wouldn't make it back home...calling hurry, hurry, hurry home.   They sure don't write em like they used too.......

The Story of Little Black Sambo

The Gingerbread Boy

The artwork inside the front and back covers.

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Perms, horses and memory lane.........

3/24/2013

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Damn I was cute...somewhere between 4 and 5.

Sunday is a personal day. Rug hooking doesn’t need to be thought of, worked on or looked at unless I make it so. I don’t just own a business, I operate a passion and I can’t turn it off like the light switch as I lock the door to head home. Rug hooking is as much a part of my life as breathing, eating and sleeping. But there does have to be time to decompress from the 10-12 hour days and that’s where Sunday comes in. It’s a time to catch up on much needed sleep, possibly do a bit of cleaning and hang with the pups. No pressure to be anywhere at a specific time and I usually just lounge in my pajamas.

But now it seems I'm in the habit of writing and I was more interested to turn the computer on than boil eggs for breakfast. Writing before food…..hmmmm…there seems to be a definite shifting of my interests. I’m really enjoying these sessions with the keyboard, flexing my mental muscles, and watchingg words grow on the screen. If I’m not writing I’m thinking about things to write about. I worried at first that I would run out of things to say but everyday provides inspiration and if there’s ever a slack, I can fill it with a bit of ranting. If I didn’t rant occasionally, I’d explode!

I don’t know if it’s the onset of spring and the change it represents, but I’ve been very nostalgic lately. Maybe it’s the result of rummaging through old photographs again this morning and that one I posted a few days ago of me with my first guitar. Maybe it was all that talk about the building we renovated and thinking about that first kiss. Or maybe it’s because I found a couple of old friends on Facebook, from my old neighbourhood, but whatever the reason I’ve been digging around in my memories, unearthing more of the special people from the past.

When I think back to school days, two girls stand out. One was Debra Spidle and the other was Cheryl Benedict. There was a boy named George I had a secret, ginormous crush on but that’s one that doesn’t need revisiting and I’m sure he and his wife would appreciate being left alone.

I've known Debra since grade primary and had her up on a pedestal for her artistic talents. I'm sure she wasn't aware but I studied the way she drew. Her talent was so natural and if the teacher called her to the board to draw a tree, it came out the piece of chalk  so fluidedly and with such character that my jaw would drop. (That might be the reason for my big chin, taking all those beatings on the desk!)   Then I would memorize and practice drawing her tree until I could do it too.   I learned to hone my drawing skill through mimicking her. Deb didn't realize she was blazing my trail but she was instrumental in expanding my drawing ability.

Deb being such a gifted artist it was only natural for her to become a graphic designer with a successful business before gallivanting off, or maybe that would be galloping off, for love and horses in Colorado. I see her every now and then when she visits Mahone Bay and she hasn't changed a bit, still the same smile, and soft spoken charm.

But, I haven’t heard of Cheryl for many years. We were pretty tight for a bit, playing guitar and writing songs. We played detectives and conjuered up mysteries to solve, it was always fun hanging out and stretching our imaginations to new heights. I seriously don’t remember the last time we spoke or if she moved away…I just know the friendship fizzled out.   There are patches of my memory that have been lost so things are a bit confusing. I left school in Grade 10 to marry (that’s a whole other story) and lost touch with all my peers. I don’t know what I expect from exploring the past, so I'll just have to wait and see what shakes out.

Lately, I’ve been doing a bit of  catchup with Deb on FB. From her home in Greeley, Colorado she is living the dream on a ranch with beautiful curly haired horses, a daughter and husband.   A life with horses used to be one of my dreams as well, and I spent most of my youth begging for one but had to settle for drawing them instead. My mother was wise, she saw the lack of care I gave the cat, an indication that a horse would have been a tangled mess and a bag of bones and one more thing for her to attend too so, paper ones stood a better chance of survival.    There was a boy in school that would pay five cents or a dime for my equestrian artwork. I found out much later he had a crush on me; the reason he so readily handed over his canteen money.

As an adult I took English riding lessons for five years with various instructors and even prepared a stable's worth of equipment for when I had my own horse. Before we bought the house we are in now, my only question was, does the zoning allow a horse?   All I needed was the barn, saddle and of course the animal and we were ready to go. But I ended up injuring my back gardening and that put a bullet through my dreams. A horse needs to be ridden and cared for and is a lifelong commitment. It just didn’t seem fair and it would have been a lot of work just to keep them as lawn ornaments. So my dream shifted and I opted to fill it with the love of dogs. You can’t ride them but they’re easy care and fit in the bed and the car much better.

But if things had been different I know I would have been a natural; there’s something about the smell of a barn that make me feel at home. I so love the combined fragrance of the horse, the barnyard, the hay and even the poop. To me the package was sweet, like perfume, a smell that worked more endorphins that Ralph Lauren’s Polo. When I was a young filly, a little dab of that sweet aroma behind my ears might have attracted me a real honest to goodness cowboy! Yee ha! Like a saddle, it would have been an easy life to slide into, it just wasn’t meant to be.

I'm very happy with the way my life has panned out, with so many blessings and the freedom to pursue the dream of owning and operating a business I'm passionate about. Someone said, if you find something you enjoy doing you will never work a day in your life. And although I am getting older it's not aging that's driving my curiousity of the past. I firmly believe this ole gal is like fine wine…..improving with age. I wouldn’t want to go back and start over for all the tea in china.   Besides there are skeletons in my closet that are better left unrattled. Not anything bad, but I could have had a better start in the first quarter. I went to the school of hard knocks but I graduated a better person than if I would have entertained a more idyllic life. Sometimes I think a life education can trump a formal one, opening your eyes and developing a skillset that’s instinctual.   I wouldn’t change a thing in my past or rewrite it to smoothen the edges. I am what I am through experience and I think I’m pretty together because of it, not in spite of it.

I was born in December so I'm either a big 2 or a small 3.

I found this photograph this morning. Look at that pudgy little flaxen haired cutey. Those rosy cheeks and button nose. I was adorable even if I say so myself.   Definitely a daddy's girl. He and I have some sort of hair thing going on, him on the Lyle Lovett side and I'm fresh from a home perm. I won’t show you the pictures from after the first shampoo cause I had a fro so big and frizzy I had to turn sideways to pass through a doorway. It was one of those good intentions that went horribly wrong and was borderline child abuse as mother tried to force a comb through the rat’s nest on top of my head. And really, it couldn’t have been a picnic for her either, with all the bawling and screaming she was doing……

By nature, my hair is as straight as a board and I guess the perfect little girl had to have curly hair and dimples, the latter of which I had plenty of, some big enough to store a snack in, so it was only the hair that needed altering.  Seriously, I wonder if that is why my mother tortured me with perms, trying to Shirley Templize me, to fit some ideal of the perfect girl child. Who knows but I think I recall other classmates getting the occasional frizzy fro, it might have been the thing to do back then but really, there is no acceptable circumstance where your hair should enter the room before you do.

And the smell.......my god it lasted for weeks.   A sickening pungent odor, too big for a little girl to live under. The pillowcase reeked and every shampoo reactivated the stench. I'm sure you could smell me before you saw me, like a little blond skunk. Maybe it was a way for mom to keep track of me in the yard.....go to the door and sniff, yup she's somewhere close.  It had to be toxic, all those chemicals seeping into my scalp.... it could explain a lot.....

Well, I guess I better get back to some household duties. I’m quickly reaching the state of mismatched socks again. I just might have to go out and buy a few more dozen pairs to extend the time between washings. I don’t seem to have much of a filter, but I promise to draw the line on my lack of clean underwear. I’ve mentioned before that I’m not a slave to domestic chores, I do the necessary and save going the extra mile for the things I love. No one will ever identify me with a spotless house on a consistent basis; I do it only when forced too. There are just too many things to do that give me pleasure than having to worry if my house is clean enough to eat off the floor. Actually, you’ve more apt to find something to eat off my floors!

So I think I should warn you.  Never come to my home unannounced and expect to get in. If I don’t come to the door it's because I'm hiding upstairs, stifling the dogs and swallowing a lump of humiliation, praying that you don’t press your face up against the window to see the horror I’m wallowing in. I can write about it and have a good laugh, but my pride would kick in and if I let you in, I’d have to kill you.

But, and there’s always a but…when I decide to have people over I rev into the white tornado and clean this place until it sparkles, polishing silver, eradicating the dust bunnies and cobwebs, vacuuming and washing every surface. I’ve even gone so far as to scrub the bottoms of my copper pots so you can see your reflection if the need should arise. I guarantee you’ll leave my home convinced I’m a liar, maybe even nominate me for housekeeper of the year!  So be warned….call ahead and give me at least five hours notice before dropping by so we can all keep our dignity.......

Deb Michael

Reading about Boots & Saddles Theraputic Riding Center is what resurfaced memories of my love of horses.

Deb writes:   Combining my two interests—working with horses and volunteering time with people of special needs—was not something I planned, but, rather, was inspired by the need for a Therapeutic Riding program in Greeley

Their mission statement : Promoting independence through equine assisted activities for the purpose of contributing positively to the cognitive, physical, and social well being of children and adults with disabilities.

I think this is a fantastic program!  If you would like to read more, click the link below, and maybe give them a Like on Facebook to help spread the word of this worthy cause.

http://www.bootsandsaddlestrc.org/

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What came first, the toy or the toy poodle?

3/2/2013

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I’m not sure what’s happening with this darn weather. I specifically put in a request for no more snow, but here’s March coming in like a lion although I'm the one doing the growling...grrrr. We hookers, we like wool,! We want lambs bringing in March!

So Thursday I missed work due to my injured knee and then Friday I was storm stayed. By the way, thank-you all for your kind words, they were very uplifting.   The song “Momma Said There’d Be Days Like This” played in my head all day long.  My leg is much better today after two days of rest. In all the snow yesterday I wasn't about to risk aggravating it by shoveling my way to the road.

So yesterday, I sat nursing a very nice cup of java wondering what I should write about. Usually I'm inspired by something that happens at work and have my database of pictures and patterns to draw from. Being home, I 'm forced to jabber on about other stuff, maybe continue the theme from the day before yesterday about the willow infatuation. I actually had another epiphany I'd like to share.

I was chatting with hubby about recessed memories and triggers that evoke emotional responses and he shared an interesting story. Apparently his daughter, just shy of two years, got quite a surprise when daddy left for an ocean yacht delivery, clean shaven and smooth to return with a black growth that scared the training pants off her. She wouldn't go to him until he shaved it off. To this day she doesn’t like men with beards and it’s a make or break deal when accepting a date.    And when she married, Hubby liked to tease her about marrying a guy that not only had a bare face but he was bald as well, as far away from facial hair as she could get.  I can relate to that experience. A red headed boy, who apparently had a crush on me but didn’t clue in that maybe spitting in my hair wasn’t the best way to get my attention, put me off dating ginger haired men later in life.

Then I jokenly said to hubby. I wonder what happened in my past to attract me to poodles? Not one or two, but oodles of poodles. I currently have four but secretly desire more. I have visions of at least a half dozen playing in the yard and walking by my side. At risk of becoming the crazy dog lady I might have to restrain myself, but if an opportunity presented itself I don’t know if I would have the strength to walk away. A shelter poodle would be snatched up in a heart beat, and I’m sort of hankering for one of the party poodles of mixed colours. For those of you that don’t know, before the party poodle came into vogue, pups with mixed colouring would be disposed of because there wasn't a market for them. But now they fetch higher prices than solid coloured ones.  Paris Hilton or some other larger than life legend of their own mind must have expressed interest and made them a hot commodity. My hubby likes a quote by Jon Stewart, “Man marvels at the beauty of nature, and then tries to fix it”.

Of all the breeds out there, I often wondered why I landed on the poodle. The only drawback is the need to be groomed once a month.   I’m not willing, or have the time to do it myself and quite frankly my groomer earns every penny and should get more. Hopefully he never retires as he's top notch, with over 30 years experience doing poodle clips.   I say it’s money well spent; the money saved from not indulging in cigarettes, bingo, booze and any other habits I don’t have. I would rather get rid of my TV cable than my groomer!

So as I was chatting with hubby a picture flashed in my brain, the aforementioned epiphany, and I see very clearly the poodle from my formative years. Once again, I’m a wee thing, marveling over this magical poodle that turned pink or blue depending on the weather.    It held my fascination for a long time, checking it every morning while forcing down hot oatmeal.    I think it turned pink for fine days and blue for stormy ones but it’s so far back my memory may be serving something I didn’t order. But I remember distinctly that the base colour was white. Hmmmmmmmm; and there's the rub!

Now I love all my babies, each one has a very different personality, each one is sweet and gentle, and loves the bones off me but….and there’s always a but…the white ones have always owned a larger percentage of my heart. Louis, the one who passed away, shared a close bond with me like an accident with crazy glue, and although I never thought I could love another dog half as much, Henri has wormed his way into my heart even more.   In the past, I wondered if the colour had anything to do with it, but dismissed the notion...surely it came down to personality, but maybe now I'm not so sure. Maybe I'm drawn to them by my subconscious mind.

I certainly love the red, apricot and now the black; they are like a graduated swatch, from light to
dark. I love their colours but…and there’s that but again, the white ones give me the urge to squeeze the poop out of them, in a loving way of course, I just can't hug them enough, and bury my nose in the top of their heads and sniff their wonderful smell.   So what came first, the love or the poodle? Maybe the envelope was always there waiting for white paper to be stuffed into it.

If not for Janet Delo, a fellow rug hooker, I may have missed the opportunity to discover poodles...although I believe it was destined to happen at some point.  Brian, her husband, ordered an Ott-Lite from my shop for his wife for Christmas and I was going to the city for supplies so I offered to  meet up with him in front of Staples to hand deliver it.  I did my shopping and was waiting for him to arrive when the phone rang that he was running late. I didn't want to hang around Staples, or sit in the car with the motor running so I spied Pets Unlimited and said I would be in there, come find me.

Well, I’m looking at all the puppies when I see this little face looking at me from behind the glass.   My heart had been severely broken three years earlier when my Shepherd passed away and I swore I would never have another dog. I’m loyal like that…when I love something that much, I feel guilty loving again. But there was this sweet little face saying "pick me, pick me" and I felt a flutter in my chest. The friend with me said, "go on, get her!" I phoned my hubby to get his input and all he said was, “Is she in the car already?” I said no, but I wondered what I would do with a puppy? My Max, the Shepherd, had come to me at 18 months, trained and ready to roll. I was in virgin territory and didn't know one end of a puppy from another!

So Brian shows up and the two of them pummel me with advice, telling me to go for it. Brian thought my hesitation might be monetary and even offered to lend me money to purchase her. That wasn't my problem, I knew the moment I saw her she would be mine....I was just working out a plan in my head how my life would be with a little one in tow. I asked to hold her and was told that wouldn't be possible. Apparently fanatics come into the store and asked to hold puppies with the Parvo virus on their hands, purposely hoping to kill them. That was a bit of a shocker and quite frankly I really didn't understand.   Apparently, I would have to buy her to hold her so fair enough, where do I pay? So, the next thing I know we're heading home with a puppy.

One look at her and all I could think was “what a honey” so Honey she was. and we got along like a house on fire right from the start. There were a few pees on the floor until I got used to her needs but she proved to be smart and easily trained.   The trouble started when I told people I'd bought a puppy from the pet store. I swear I was ignorant of puppy mills but apparently that's no excuse.  At a pet supply shop when asked where I got my new puppy and I innocently said a store, the shit hit the fan. I was told, not so nicely and in a loud voice, that my little girl would be dead in three months so I’d better get her vet checked. In my defense I replied, "I thought I was saving a puppy and giving it a good home" but apparently not...instead I was just torturing the mother to produce another brood to be sold for profit, the likes of me having no care about the mother's caged and abused existence. At that very moment I was worse than the dirt on my shoes. Interesting....while I was being slammed I was handing over several hundred dollars to pay for a bed, bowl, toys and a collar for my new bundle.  A strange way to treat a paying customer.  I would have walked out but at the time there wasn't any other place close by to purchase items for animals and my baby needed supplies! So I took the verbal assault, paid her for abusing me and left with my wares.

I was upset to say the least. When I expressed concerns to my vet, he told me that he has seen a lot of fine animals come from pet stores. That there had been a nasty ring of mills in the past but a lot of them had been cleaned up or closed. He thought the chances of me getting one of the sickly puppies was slim as she seemed to check out beautifully and in nine years my little darling girl has never been to the vet for any problems, other than the normal spaying. After I did a bit of research on the internet about puppy mills, I changed the error of my ways and sought out breeders for my next poodles, although it was interesting that every one of them came with some health issues.....doing the right thing doesn’t always mean trouble free.

Poodles are a bit high maintenance and probably the reason they aren’t as popular as other breeds. The first thing you have to do is find a good groomer. At first I didn’t have them shaped like traditional poodles. I denied their heritage as a hunting/retriever dog, that went into the water after game. Poodles are fabulous swimmers. and their fancy clips were purposed to keep  specific organs warm. But I wasn't overly keen on that pouffy look so I opted for the Teddy bear cut, just a basic all over clip.    Gradually I gravitated toward the trimmed faces, paws and tails. Well actually it was more of an well engineered slip on my groomer’s part. Every now and then I would go to pick them up and he’d say ooops…I forgot you didn’t want that…I’d look at the dog, there was nothing I could do so I'd shrug and take them home. Then it would grow on me so I’d say okay, permission to do it again. Then a few more grooms would pass and there would be another slip. So now they are faced shaved, feet trimmed and tails pouffed and I love it! I've made Bob swear not to poodlize them further and he’s promised. He got what he wanted and can stop with the so called ‘accidental clips’. I'll never be into the bouffant, showdog look, no time to maintain it and truthfully I don’t find it attractive. It’s bad enough I have to spend time blow-drying and primping myself, a dog should be a dog and not have to spend any more time being fussed over than necessary.

So I’ve been on a journey of discovery and find it fascinating. I spent a while on the internet looking for those weather poodles. I’m not sure but I have the sense that it might be an Avon product. I remember the well-coiffed, perfumed representative coming to the house at least once a month peddling her bag of wares. It seems like something the Avon company would have manufactured, either that or Watkins’s.   If anyone out there remembers the origin of these poodles please let me know as I am more than curious. I wouldn't mind finding one to have as a keepsake.

I'm 99% sure the picture is identical to the one from my childhood.  This guy even looks like my Henri....it's uncanny! Once the groomer started clipping their faces I asked him to give Henri a French whisker, how did I even know about that? And Henri sits in that very pose at times, very proud with his head back.   Now I'm beginning to think that I married my father too....hubby is slim like my dad always was. And apparently my dish fetish was a repressed memory. I'm beginning to wonder if I've had any original ideas as an adult!?

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Lois Sweeney Remembered

2/7/2013

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Lois Lyle Sweeny

April 23, 1928 – August 7, 2007

Lois graduated from Acadia University and married her soul mate, Robert Sweeny in 1949. She was an avid rug hooker and was a member of the Rug Hooking Guild of Nova Scotia.

Lois’s specialty was oriental style hooked rugs. She preferred the finer cuts and had a keen eye for detail when shading the delicate motifs she so loved.

I was so happy to have been able to visit with Lois before she passed away. My husband had a slight table saw accident requiring stitches so we went to emergency where I was surprised to find Lois. Although I could tell she was struggling she was still delightful and forever positive. She said she hadn't been hooking in some time and missed it. I showed her the rug I was whipping and she enjoyed the whimsy of it. When Bob entered the room I was impressed by the way he smiled at her and the look of softness on her face and the love in her voice when she called him “dear”. Truly, a love couple.

The word that best described Lois would be 'lady'. She was petite and feminine to a fault but don't let appearances fool you, she was handy and resourceful, getting down and dirty with renovating or using a scroll saw to cut out wafer thin wood ornaments.

When I first opened Encompassing Designs in one small room of our house, Lois was the first customer to walk through the door. I had been looking out of the window and saw a car screech to a halt right in the road, traffic behind her following suit to avoid rear ending her car. The words “Rug Hooking” splashed across the sign on the front lawn had grabbed her attention like a bee to a flower.  She was so very pleased for me, wishing me all the best. It was people like Lois who spread my name around the community so that other rug hookers found their way to my door.

Until her passing Lois was a constant in my rug hooking life. She would pop into the shop to say hi and we'd meet at hook-ins around the province, which she would sometimes host to the delight of those invited. To heck with the hooking, we were there for the food! Bone China tinkled as we sipped a very civilized cup of tea or coffee. Crustless sandwiches, quiche and all manor of tastefully prepared nibbles were always served, and last but not least, her legendary sweets capped off the afternoon. To sum it all up.....before Martha, there was Lois!

All those who knew Lois will remember her passion for baking and those delightful gingersnaps we all drooled over.   One was too many and a thousand was never enough!  Thin as paper, crispy and loaded with melt in your mouth goodness, every bite was a slice of heaven. The recipe follows.

This beautiful poem was part of her service.
It was the first time I'd heard it...so beautiful...

Native Prayer

Let us not cling to mourning,
Do not stand on my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sunlight opened grain,
I am the gentle Autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight,
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand on my grave and cry.
I am not there, I did not die.

Author Unknown

Lois Sweeny’s Ginger Snaps

½ cup butter
½ cup Fleishmann’s Corn Oil Margarine
½ cup Brown Sugar
2 tsp Ginger
1 cup molasses
Mix above ingredients together and heat on the stove till hot. Remove from heat and cool 20 minutes or so. Add 1 tsp soda – dissolve by stirring well.

Add 3 cups sifted all purpose flour.

Place bowl in fridge till cool enough to handle, then make rolls. Chill again. Slice, place rounds on greased cookie sheet. Press down with side of hand and wrist until thin.   Place sheet in oven of 350*. Turn oven down immediately to 250*. Set timer for 12 – 15 minutes. Remove from oven and use spatula to remove cookies at once.

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Lest We Forget!

11/11/2012

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Larry Willoughby Veinotte
Born 1908 Mahone Bay - Died and buried in Sicily 1943
One of 116,000 Canadian soldiers that never came back home.

I’m not a star gazer for the rich and famous but I do know someone that most call a hero who I would like to tell you about on this day of Remembrance.  The person is my grandfather. I wasn't fortunate enough to know him, but genetically I am parts of him, and because of him I am alive.  There have never been any hugs or bedtime stories or sitting cuddled on his lap in the old family rocking chair, because war robbed me of those experiences. Although the war was necessary to free the world of a fascist regime, that doesn't mean it hurts any less. My grandfather died when my father was only seven, leaving a boy without a significant male role model and I firmly believe it was the largest contributing factor of my father growing up unhappy. The loss clouded the rest of his life with discontent, leaving a huge hole that nothing would ever fill.   War doesn't just take soldiers, it destroys families and robs the potential of what might have been.

This time of year brings reflection and sadness.   In some ways, I think everyone is touched by war but memories of WWI and II are fading quickly as history is pushed back even farther, and the veterans are passing on. For reasons I cannot explain, I am deeply touched by a virtual stranger, a figurehead in name only, my grandfather. Of course I’ve heard stories about him but they are only words, tales spun of a martyred man who died well before his time. I’ll never know the real person, the man who laughed and loved, made mistakes and cried. What I do know, the only tangible truth of his existence besides his progeny, hangs on my upstairs wall in the form of a photograph; a small, frozen moment of his life. Posed in his army uniform, he's dapper and handsome and I suppose I should be grateful for the portrait because there wouldn’t have been such a detailed likeness to treasure if not for the war....but it's not exactly a fair trade; taking away the real flesh and blood man to leave behind a mere facsimile.

For me, the most striking aspect of the photograph is his eyes. They look at me, though me and beyond. It is neither eerie nor comforting and I can’t find the words to describe exactly how I feel as I look at him, but there's a familiarity, a connection like a plug to an outlet. We simply belong, he and I, and if one can have a relationship with a piece of photographic paper, than we do. His portrait hangs in my upstairs hallway and those eyes greet me as I begin my day, seeming to speak to me as I emerge from my bedroom doorway.  Larry Willoughby Veinotte, born 1908, died in Sicily 1943, fighting in a war that took him from home and family, where he lies in a grave on foreign soil.

Out of work and without prospects, he signed up to fight as a means to support his family. A loving, selfless thing to do in depressed times with a wife and four children to clothe and feed.   He was older, in his mid-thirties, really too old to enlist but there are stories that he somehow lied to enlist. Statistically they say the older you are in combat the higher the risk of mortality. Age brings out compassion for your fellow man, a split second to stop and think, hesitation to pull the trigger when the enemy has a face. War is not a place for emotions, its every man for himself amidst the violence, chaos, and confusion.  War is hell, no two ways about it and as civilians, we can’t begin to understand the suffering of those who perished or those who live on with the memories of their dying comrades etched on their brains, the fear that burned inside them, the flashbacks and night sweats and sadness in their gut that eats their spirit from the inside out. I see the tears flow from aging eyes during televised memorial services. They are reliving the horror and the sadness, the loss of friends. The men of war made the ultimate sacrifice whether they died or came back to their loved ones. Surviving didn't mean total freedom as war stole their innocence and their youth and plagued them with horrific memories. We should never forget that their pain allowed others to exist in countries where you can awaken to the sound of bird’s singing instead of mortar fire and the mournful sounds of mother’s who lost their sons.

As the story goes, my grandfather died trying to save a buddy.   He crawled out of his fox hole to drag a friend to safety, a friend from his own hometown of  Mahone Bay. Unfortunately the soldier was already dead and my grandfather took a bullet in the process. He bled to death in a medic tent, but not before he wrote a letter to his wife, my grandmother. I’ve never seen the letter, only heard of its existence, and I don’t know if I would read it even if it hadn’t been lost many years ago. That would have been their private moment to own, not mine to intrude upon, but I do reflect on what words and thoughts one might relay if death was staring you in the face with only a few moments to say good bye to the ones you love.

So every year around this time I become melancholy and park myself on the sofa and watch war documentaries, searching the faces for a chanced glimpse of familiarity. As more and more footage is released and the world today allows for more graphic accounts of what war was really like, you see what weaponry can do to flesh and bone, and with black and white film being enhanced with colour, you are able to distinguish the mud from the blood.   I sit with tears in my eyes and horror in my heart unable to imagine what those men felt at the front of any battle.

Every November I put my grandfather’s picture in the window of my shop and a small note about his sacrifice, to breathe life into his fading memory for the people in town that might still know of his story and to educate those who don't. So much time has passed it might seem irrelevant to some, but not every part of him is gone.  I’m here and I want to preach from my soap box that Larry Willoughby Veinotte mattered. He was loved; a brother; a husband; a father; a living, breathing person....and then was taken away. Our entire family is collateral damage of that war, we can't even begin to know what we missed from not having him in our lives.   I watched my father destroy himself because he wasn't strong enough to stamp out the palpable sadness of his loss. So for me, it is difficult to celebrate this day of remembrance.   Lest We Forget? Personally I can't. If only I could.

Once again I return home from the Cenotaph under a cloak of sadness.  As the names of the fallen were called out and the wreaths accumulated at the base of the monument, I had tears in my eyes, hiding behind dark glasses so no one would see. It is so out of character for me to be that emotional but this gets me, right there in the heart. We haven't evolved or learned anything from past mistakes, war still exists and more fathers, husbands, sons and daughters are dying.  The fact that the human race can't get along angers me and I resent war and the collateral damage that results from it, but I guess that's my cross to bear.

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Cheryl, my friend.....

Remembrance Day 2013

Broken vase, broken heart....

"Death ends a life, not a relationship" ..........Mitch Albom

Handiwork of the past, the question is whose hands?

"Blue" memories, a good thing!

Remembering Susan.......

A book to remember...a memory to cherish!

Perms, horses and memory lane.........

What came first, the toy or the toy poodle?

Lois Sweeney Remembered

Lest We Forget!

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"Death ends a life, not a relationship" ..........Mitch Albom

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