Just Thinking

Hi to All,


Now that it's March Break, our time is pretty much our own.

If you have the opportunity, pick up the book "When We were Young". It's a collection of Canadian Stories selected and introduced by Stuart McLean. I enjoyed his introduction just as much as any of the stories. He writes about how these stories bring back memories from his own childhood. I thought his thoughts were appropriate, given our writing about our own memories.

As well, I have just finished reading, for the second time, "The Year of Pleasures", by Elizabeth Berg. You may recognize that name as the author of "Escaping into the Open: The Art of Writing True". In "The Year of Pleasures", Betta must learn how to continue to live after her husband's death. She writes about urgency, perspctive and reflection. To quote:

"John (her husband) and I had often talked about how focused our culture was on distraction, about how ill suited we were to staying with things, following them through in a respectful and thorough way. There was a great discomfort with quiet, with stillness, at the same time that there was acknowledgement of how valuable these things could be. I once read an essay about a woman who spent an entire day simply looking at what she had, really seeing all the things she'd put in her house. I was as guilty as anyone else of buying books I never read, of rushing through days without ever looking up, of taking for granted things for which I should give thanks every day. Who appreciated their good health until they lost it? Who said grace? Who read to their children before bed without one eye on the clock, despairing of all they had to do before they themselves could sleep? Who engaged cashiers in grocery stores in conversations? Everyone seemed in a blind hurry, and there was no relief in sight. Technology rushed us ever forward, and simple civility - a certain kindness and care - got sacrificed."(p.58)
Finally, as I review my own writing, I have obviously focused on my own family. I owe so much to my parents,(bless their souls). I value my in-laws, to whom I am a daughter, even though their son and I are divorced. And of course I love my beagles, and my own darlings, their spouses and my grandchildren. Look at all the material they provided for me to write about!
Enjoy the Break!

Gwenda
 
(This post was previously posted on Sunday March 14th, 2010, but has been moved for the convenience of the reader)

Families!

Families -
My children, my darlings - I always wonder,
When they leave home – will they know what to do?
Will they remember all I've taught them, all the important stuff? For example:
To always wipe off the cutting board, never leave a pot in the sink, hang up the dish cloth over the tap, don’t leave it in a smelly ball.
They may joke – "Mom says …"
So they grow up, they move out,
And then they come back!
But, I like my solitude. I don’t miss child rearing and caring and running after and definite meal times and planning and worrying about nutrition and health and doctors.
Long gone are piano lessons, recorder Tuesdays, soccer games, spending Saturday in the car, driving, driving, driving.
I like my dogs. We have an understanding. They eat and sleep, and love me unconditionally.
My kids love me unconditionally, as well – I think. But they roll their eyes – listen – agree – see that I’m right – and then go ahead and do whatever they were going to do in the first place.
They still argue. I still play peacekeeper. I praise my son-in-law and daughter-in-law for surviving my kids.
I love my grandchildren. They love me. We colour and play race cars. I run after them, take them to swimming, and watch them skate, bike, trike and play soccer.
Families – I may rant, I may rave, but - they are my children. The door is always open!

WORDS!

Words-

     -English words,

     -French words,

All around us –

Roll them around on your tongue!

Play with them!

Try them out –

     Do they fit?

         Do they work?

             Do they make you smile?

                Do they make you happy?

Oh – the joy of words!

      -French words,

      -English words,

Words.

Farmers' Market

Farmers’ Market #1

Saturday morning,
People meandering and
Shopping and talking.

Farmers' Market #2

Early Saturday
Morning, crisp air, hot coffee
Stimulate my senses.

Dear Producers

Dear Producers of « Take This House and sell It »,

I love your show! I know you must hear that all the time, but I don’t know any other words to use to express my enjoyment of your program.

I am not a TV viewer by nature. I came upon your show purely by accident. After an incredibly exhausting and stressful day at work, I came home and collapsed on the sofa (a hand-me-down I know you would detest). No one was home to monopolize the TV with their Wii games. I had just enough energy to reach for the remote. Was it sheer chance or was it fate that the TV turned on to W and there you were. I was amazed.

The wonders you can do in only 48 hours. The colours you use. The furniture and window treatments. And your sense of humour! “What’s a hope chest,” you say? “well, it’s ugly and it’s going!” No sentimentality there. “Why is there dog hair and sports equipment scattered all through the house? You (single Mom) deserve better than this. No wonder the house isn’t selling!”

Now, I plan my day around your show. My kids know there’s no use telling me they have an emergency. I don’t answer the phone. Lesson plans and assignments can wait. I need to see what problems you will encounter tonight and how you will solve them. And you make me laugh.

So, when are you coming to Halifax? Put my little townhouse at the top of your decorating disaster list. I own a tiny 1300 sq. ft condo filled with paint colours I know will make you cringe. I know my kitchen table is too big and my livingroom is cramped. I know I have far too much memorabilia gathering dust. I need your help!

Not only do I not have a backsplash in my tiny kitchen, the walls are papered in tiny pink and blue flowers. Why, you ask? Because, it was there when I bought the place. I have a 1980’s dusty rose coloured curtain valance in my living room crying for help. My tiny house contains all the elements you love to hate and take such pleasure in correcting. Once you see my home, you will think you are in heaven, it is so awful.

My home desperately needs help. It needs a team effort with leaders like only you to save it. You are the best there is. I know you can bring a breath of fresh air into my humble abode. I anxiously await your reply and arrival date.

Sincerely,

Gwenda Thompson Willows

Memoir - Sunday Morning Piano

You can tell yourself you’re ready all you want, but you really aren’t. That inevitable phone call still took me by surprise. The only home I could really remember, now empty of family, had finally sold. My sister called to say we had two weeks to empty it. Two weeks to empty a house of 50 years of love and memories? It felt like a family death, even though my parents were alive, simply old.

I made arrangements for my flight home. I would stay in my childhood home for a week, cleaning and packing and sorting – which memories to keep and which to let go. “You can’t miss my house,” I remember telling my school friends. “It’s the green one, with the tiny front step, right on the bend of the highway.” And there it was, same as always, lacking only my Mom watching for me from the front window.

Bypassing the solid oak front door stripped and refinished by my Dad, I entered the kitchen by the back door. Everyone used the back door. Only door-to-door salesmen rang the ancient twist doorbell at the front. I could easily have been just getting home from school. Same orange curtains; same bits of clutter on the table. Decades ago, my oldest sister melted a spot on the arborite table while she was ironing and my Mom had repaired it with white paint. Years ago. But there it was. And there was the same porcelain side sink where my Dad had washed up every evening after work.

I wandered into the dining room with its fancy tin ceiling and Dad’s piano. Mine now. Sunday mornings, I would wake to the sound of the hymns he loved to play. Ghosts of company dinners and family gatherings were waiting for me. Just how much Christmas pudding with extra sauce had my cousin and I shared at this table?

The Christmas tree always had a habit of falling over, so Dad had finally screwed a hook into the ceiling to prevent further disasters. There it was, still in the living room. The new owners were bound to wonder. Our set of Special Edition World Book Encyclopedias was still there in the bookcase. Any projects that my brother and I had to do, we were confident those encyclopedias would provide the necessary information.

Caressing the smooth cherry wood banister, I climbed my steep childhood stairs to the tiny bedrooms and the attic. I was never allowed in the attic, but how could I resist unlatching a tiny elf size door to see what might be discovered on the other side? Mom would tell me not to be so nosy and to get out quick before I fell through the floor boards into the kitchen below. Now, looking around, I could feel only grief. The childhood curiosity was gone. I knew I would discover trinkets and treasures with histories older than myself. But these stories would remain untold. They would remain with my parents who were no longer able to tell them. I only had one week to sort and pack my own, shed my tears, and say my final good-byes.
 

Free to Good Home

Youngest child from family of six. Female.

House broken – evident by amount of time spent in bathroom.

Good appetite, but fussy eater. Has a fondness for Subway coldcut footlongs. Will eat vegetables when hidden by dip. Does manage to keep food on plate and milk in glass.

Knows a number of manners, but only displays for guests and mother’s friends.

Likewise, recognizes several commands, but usually tilts head while pondering meaning. Often chooses to ignore, or purposefully misunderstand. Example: Empty the dishwasher, clean your room.

Loves to play – Wii, computer solitaire.

Heads turn when taken for a walk, shopping, or to the mall.

Attracted to other similar children via Facebook.

Sleep patterns vary. Often stays up all night to complete school assignments.

Mother would like to keep, but child is becoming increasingly independent and needs new stimuli and surroundings.

If no takers, will send to university.

Are You Sitting Down?

“ Hi, Mom, How are you?”

Well, this was odd, I thought, as I answered my daughter with, “ I’m fine, thanks.”

“What are you doing?” she asked. Honestly? - I was trying to figure out why she was calling. Why was she calling, anyway? She lived at home, so she knew how I was and could guess at what I had been doing, until I was interrupted by the phone.

“Where are you?” I asked, still confused.

“At Ryan’s”

“OK, what are you doing?”

“Just watching TV.”

Why had I turned inquisitor, asking the questions, when it was my daughter who had initiated the phone conversation? “Are Ryan’s parents home?”

“Oh yeah, his Mom and I just made cookies.”

“Did you want me to come and get you?” What was the purpose of this phone call, anyway?

“No, I just wanted to talk.” Well, I was confused. Why did she want to talk over the phone? We had lots of other opportunities to talk.

“Ryan said I should call.” What was going on? Why would my eighteen year old’s high school sweetheart suddenly suggest we needed to converse? I didn’t like the nervousness I was beginning to feel. “OK, so why did he think you should call?”

“He said I should just get it over with and tell you.”

“Tell me what?” I decided I’d better be sitting to continue this conversation.

“We’ve told Ryan’s parents and they’re concerned about how you’re going to react.”

“Well, I can’t react until you tell me exactly what’s going on, now can I?” Was my voice going to betray my fears?

“Are you sitting down?”

“Yes.” Oh boy. This was going to be bad. I’m going to be a grandma and my daughter’s not going to university. My stomach was knotting up.

“Promise me you won’t yell and be cross.” It was all I could do to not reply. Angry – never. Yell – maybe. Holler – for sure, if you don’t just spit it out! This is what was going through my mind. Calm, calm, stay calm, just breathe.

“OK. Here goes.” My daughter pauses. I wait. “I had a bit of an accident … with your van. Yesterday. There’s no marks.”

I smile into the phone. Relief. “That’s it? Just a car ding? You’re OK? Nothing more?” I think I’m babbling.

“You’re not angry?” My beautiful daughter obviously thought I would hit the roof.

“My dear. As long as you are OK, everything else is secondary.” I meant that. “Cars are easy to fix.”

Creative Non-fiction: January

They’re gone. She smiled and waved a tired, last good-bye. Finally, she had the house to herself. Finally. A week with family. A week of preparation, visiting, anxiety and tears. Now it was over. The house was quiet.

She thought she would make herself a cup of tea. Not that she really wanted one, but it was always a good way to occupy her hands while she organized her thoughts and her to-do list. She could tidy the kitchen while the kettle boiled. Cover the casserole and put it in the fridge. Wrap up the ham and tuck it in beside. Oh – the squares – quite a variety. What would she do with all this food? People were so kind. Her fridge was full.

Maybe she should leave the kitchen for now and straighten the family room. Looks like the grandkids rolled up all the sleeping bags and returned the pillows to the sofas. It had been nice – the company. The cousins enjoyed one another’s’ company. They didn’t get together often. And she had been comforted by their quiet night time breathing and snoring, when she herself couldn’t settle.

She wondered if the kettle had boiled yet. Maybe, she should start a load of laundry. The laundry would be less now. Leave it for later. She paused by the coffee table. Pictures – her son had been looking through the albums and had made a slide show. He insisted on calling it a celebration. She and her children had sat up late choosing pictures, sharing memories, laughing and crying. Before he left, he told her he would make everyone a CD. Something to help them remember.

How could she forget? All those events could have happened yesterday. She felt no different today than she did in those old snaps. She was always surprised to see an image of her mother looking back at her from the mirror.

Was she hungry? Maybe she needed something sweet with her tea, to perk her up. Or maybe she should just sit down. Forget the tea and cookies. It was too much. So she sat, in the rocker and the cat hopped up on her lap. She thought, it’s you and me now, Boots. But, I’m not who you’re looking for though, am I? This was her husband’s rocking chair and Boots was really his cat. He would tap his fingers and Boots would chase them. She would have to do it now.

Married over 50 years. Raised their family, passed the farm on to one son, grandchildren to celebrate and spoil. Now what? She had celebrated her husband’s life today. She hadn’t wept. She had been pleased that so many from the community had come to pay their respects. She was also exhausted, tired and alone. What would she do without him tomorrow? She had repeatedly said that the last 50 years had passed like “the blink of an eye.” If that were true, why did just contemplating tomorrow, feel like an endless eternity?

In memory of Bud Willows, Dec. 25, 1926 - Jan.1, 2010.

A Dog's Life

I think my dogs understand
life far better than I do.
They live in the moment.
They love those who love them.
They value their naps
And exercise every day.

I watch them now, snoring on the couch
while I reflect on my day.
Teaching
Parenting
Studenting (this should be a word).
It may be dark out,
But my day is far from over.
Even when I do crawl into bed
and set my alarm,
my mind does not settle.
I picture and plan for tomorrow.

Then, when I finally give in and begin to dream,
my dogs appear.
One at my foot,
One at my side.
Faithful,
Comforting,
Content.

General Pardon for Offenses

Oh, sweet memories of Amnesty Day! The sweet feeling of reprieve. Bold smiles, not because we were guilty, which we were, but because we beat the system. We were avid readers and we were proud of it! We would read – and read – and read, only to realize too late, that once again our books were overdue. Would we return a book unfinished just to minimize the fine? Never! We would say to heck with the fine – the book must be read to the very end!
We couldn’t renew on-line, if we were running out of time. This was life before computers. There wasn’t a $10.00 fine limit before borrowing privileges were revoked. No. That overdue book fine would just grow and grow and grow. We could return the book and pay more than the book was worth new. Or, we could wait for Amnesty Day. The day all lost and overdue books would make their way home to their library, without penalty, or loss of cash. Amnesty Day was always a busy day at the library. Lots of happy, sometimes sheepish, faces entering and then leaving, looking like a huge weight had been lifted from their shoulders.
We readers had been given a second chance. We would try again. We would reform. We left that library burdened with novels, not fines. We promised to read and return on time. But we knew, the addicts that we were, if we should fall off the wagon again, we could always hold out for Amnesty Day.

Just Thinking

Hi to All,
Now that it's March Break, our time is pretty much our own.
If you have the opportunity, pick up the book "When We were Young". It's a collection of Canadian Stories selected and introduced by Stuart McLean. I enjoyed his introduction just as much as any of the stories. He writes about how these stories bring back memories from his own childhood. I thought his thoughts were appropriate, given our writing about our own memories.

As well, I have just finished reading, for the second time, "The Year of Pleasures", by Elizabeth Berg. You may recognize that name as the author of "Escaping into the Open: The Art of Writing True". In "The Year of Pleasures", Betta must learn how to continue to live after her husband's death. She writes about urgency, perspctive and reflection. To quote:
"John (her husband) and I had often talked about how focused our culture was on distraction, about how ill suited we were to staying with things, following them through in a respectful and thorough way. There was a great discomfort with quiet, with stillness, at the same time that there was acknowledgement of how valuable these things could be. I once read an essay about a woman who spent an entire day simply looking at what she had, really seeing all the things she'd put in her house. I was as guilty as anyone else of buying books I never read, of rushing through days without ever looking up, of taking for granted things for which I should give thanks every day. Who appreciated their good health until they lost it? Who said grace? Who read to their children before bed without one eye on the clock, despairing of all they had to do before they themselves could sleep? Who engaged cashiers in grocery stores in conversations? Everyone seemed in a blind hurry, and there was no relief in sight. Technology rushed us ever forward, and simple civility - a certain kindness and care - got sacrificed."(p.58)

Finally, as I review my own writing, I have obviously focused on my own family. I owe so much to my parents,(bless their souls). I value my in-laws, to whom I am a daughter, even though their son and I are divorced. And of course I love my beagles, and my own darlings, their spouses and my grandchildren. Look at all the material they provided for me to write about!

Enjoy the Break!
Gwenda