Another sad anniversary

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My post on Thursday talked about the 10th anniversary of my mom’s passing, and today marks the 18th anniversary of my father’s death. These three days are filled with a deep sadness, but I spend the days bringing back the funny memories we shared, and there were many.

I remember standing behind the podium in the church as I attempted to give his eulogy. My legs were shaking so much I thought I would topple over in front of the packed room. The words I had written had been penned through many tears, but I wanted to capture the boyish nature of my dad, so I talked about his love of dancing, his odd stance on the putting green, and the fact that he enjoyed being naked. On such a somber occasion, I could hear the giggles in the room as was encouraged to continue.

I told the story of coming home from high school to an empty living room. Both of our cars were in the driveway, but the main floor of the house was empty. As I neared the basement door, I could hear laughter coming from below. I dropped my backpack on the kitchen floor and followed the noise. What a mistake that was! When I reached the bottom of the stairs, my parents, and our neighbors, were clearly at the end of a game of strip ping-pong. Random pieces of clothing were scattered around the room, and four naked bodies flanked the ends of the table as they battled to win the game.

I was mortified. I thought I would be able to escape without being seen, but as I backed up onto the bottom stair, my father saw me and welcomed me home from school. Our neighbors, who until then had their backs to me, turned to say hello. The image is burned into my memory. But that was my dad. He loved life, and he loved to have fun.

I’m sure in the eighteen years he has been gone, he has managed to create a naked club of some sort. I miss you, dad. Gone, but never forgotten.

How quickly a decade goes by

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Every year, I write a post on this day to remember my mother. It is mind-boggling to come to the realization that she has been gone for ten years! An entire decade has gone by, and I still miss her every day.

She was a beautiful person inside and out, with a wicked sense of humor and an infectious laugh. I told this story at her celebration of life, and she would be mortified to know I am sharing it on my blog, but this is one of my favorite memories and I need to laugh today to honor her memory.

It was winter, and mom and I had taken our three dogs for a walk, one golden retriever and two small mutts. Our retriever, Brandy, was well-trained, and was usually off-leash. He was always very proud when we gave him the leash handles for the two smaller dogs and he became the dog walker.

Mom and I had walked ahead, and when we turned back to take charge of the smaller dogs, we noticed Misty’s leash had become wrapped around her legs and Brandy was proudly dragging her backwards along the icy road. Muffin lagged behind, seemingly unaware of her sister’s dilemma. I started to giggle, and mom was not far behind. By the time Brandy had dragged Misty to where we stood, we were doubled over in fits of laughter. Through my tears, I saw mom buckle her knees together under the pants of her velour track suit. I knew what was about to happen. The color of the inside seams of her pants began to darken as she peed her pants in the middle the road.

Thankfully, we were close to home. I took the dogs into the house, and mom snuck around to the back door that led to the basement. I knew she would find some dry clothes in the laundry basket, come upstairs, and think she had covered up her secret. When she got to the top of the stairs, she was met with the familiar sound of my laugh, as well as the laughter of everyone else in the house. The story was too funny not to share with our family, and soon she was laughing along with the rest of us.

I miss those moments. I miss her. You are always in my heart, muther muther.

Well pressed

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I have not been in this writing space for a while, and I’m always amused by the random things I see on social media that bring me back to this place of comfort. I saw a post on Facebook asking if ironing was still a thing, and I was immediately transported back to a time in my life when the iron and ironing board were a prominent fixture on Sunday mornings.

In September of 1998, I moved out of a familiar home, and a familiar town in Ontario, to move to Halifax, Nova Scotia and live with my best friend. I needed a change of scenery, but leaving behind my comfortable town and all the familiarity it afforded me was daunting. With the help of my parents, we stuffed a U-haul trailer full of my belongings and traveled the over 1,800 kilometers to the east coast of Canada.

The bustling city of Halifax was charming, very much like the small town I had just left, and it immediately made me feel at home. I got a job at a local bakery and was thrilled I could walk the two kilometers to work when the weather cooperated. Living in this utopia was the change I had needed.

Every Sunday morning, my friend Sandra would bring a pile of laundry into the living room, and iron the crap out of every piece of clothing she owned while watching CBS Sunday morning. It became a tradition that I grew to love, and to soon take full advantage of. While she focused on the television screen and absent-mindedly ironed her clothes, I would sneak my wrinkled wardrobe into the pile and watch as she meticulously ironed my clothes, not noticing they did not belong to her. After the third week, I knew she was aware of my devious plan, but the morning ritual continued and she happily ironed my clothes without a care in the world.

After spending a wonderful year in Halifax, I moved back to Ontario in September of 1999. We remained as close as we had always been, but in 2003, through a series of bizarre circumstances, my dear friend Sandra would be afflicted with necrotizing fasciitis (the flesh-eating disease), and I would never see her again.

Memories give us permission to access our past, to relive the moments that made us smile, even when something as simple as a question on social media gives us a full pass to those memories. I will always cherish those Sunday mornings, sipping my coffee, and smelling the overwhelming scent of freshly pressed cotton. I still miss her insane laugh (that almost made it onto a movie laugh track), and I love the fact that social media can bring a distant memory stampeding into the forefront of my brain. May Sandra forever rest in peace, and continue to wear the iconic crinkled skirts that disobeyed every law of her love of ironing!

The weekend of Winnie

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Nothing brings you back to the center of yourself like being stricken by a bug that renders you unable to willingly lift yourself from under the cover of the comfort of your favorite blanket. The smell of the blanket is familiar. Its warmth takes you away from your illness and transports you to a time when your mom was hovering over you, offering bowls of homemade chicken noodle soup, and your favorite popsicles. But being sick in your fifties is much different than being sick as a child.

After a lovely wedding weekend at the lodge at the end of September, I came home on Sunday afternoon, overflowing with the euphoria of witnessing a marriage that was meant to be. Everything about the weekend exuded love, and that is why I love my job. Was I exhausted? Yes. Was I thrilled to be a part of the incredible display of love? A bigger yes. And was putting in a crazy amount of hours in three days worth it? An overwhelming yes! The weekend went beyond any of my expectations.

But then it was Sunday afternoon, and when the adrenalin of the weekend had passed, and all the guests had vacated the lodge, I was left with only a faint glow of the two days that had transpired, and the fallout from the months that had led up to the happy nuptials. I was drained.

I arrived home that Sunday afternoon, curled myself into a fetal position under my favorite blanket, and gave myself permission to finally rest. That is when the fever took hold. I slept for nineteen of the twenty-four hours that passed while I was blissfully unaware of the time that ticked by. In my mind, I had drifted off in to a short nap. In my reality, my body had decided it was time to play catch up and I had slept my way through an entire calendar day.

Doing what you love to do is a choice. Knowing there are consequences to fulfilling those choices forces us to make a decision people make on a daily basis. But knowing your choices can change the trajectory of other people is a responsibility, and an honor. I was a part of a weekend that, in my mind, will always hold a special place in my heart. And Shamrock Winnie will be the memento of a weekend that will be forever etched in my heart.

Jen and Courtney, your love will forever be written in the stars. The weekend I spent with you and your family and friends will constantly redefine what it means to be truly in love, and to follow your heart, wherever it may lead. The sign you posted at the lodge aptly described the emotion of the weekend – Love is love.

Imposter syndrome

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I am ashamed of myself, in more ways than one. I have willingly neglected this blog for the past three months, and I have recently allowed myself to, once again, bathe in the toxic water known as Imposter Syndrome.

Having just finished the first draft of my sixth novel, I should be elated. I should be patting myself on the back for creating another unique story that has never been told. Instead, I am doubting my ability to write. I am second guessing my talent as a storyteller, and I am apprehensive about reading the rough draft for fear the words have no depth or emotion and hold nothing of value to the reader.

I am sure every author has hit this wall in their writing journey more than once. The fear of not finding an audience for the stories we construct is paralyzing. The thought that I have toiled to combine over ninety-four thousand words and beat them into submission only to have the story fall flat is agonizing.

But somewhere under the somber veil of the debilitating malady known as imposter syndrome lies a beacon of hope. A tiny speck of light looms in the distance, and that light beckons me to continue. Reading stories by other authors has always been a way for me to draw from their strengths so I can become a better writer. But, tonight, I am hedging my bets and reading one of my own books. Of the five stories I have created, it is the one I am most proud to say I have written.

As I turn the pages on my Kindle, I am reminded of the passion I felt drafting this story. I am reclaiming the confidence I felt in myself, and I am slowly letting the water out of the toxic bath and watching the Imposter Syndrome circle the drain before it disappears.

I can do this. I can write.

See you tomorrow

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A beautiful couple, who had been married for seventy-three years, recently left this earth a mere sixteen hours apart. For any of you who have seen, or read, The Notebook, this story may seem like a fairy tale, but it is real. It is devastatingly sad, but it is the purest form of true love I could ever write about.

Jack and Sylvia were an integral part of my life. In my early twenties, I was in a relationship with one of their sons, and their love for their family was the thing I cherished the most about them. I can still picture the dining room in their home where we would gather for Sunday roast dinners, and Gran would be fussing about the little details to make sure everything made its way to the table before we all sat down to eat. It was sometimes chaotic, but it was always pure bliss.

They were the epitome of the devotion they had for their life partner. In the many photos I have seen, their hands were always intertwined, and they were gazing at each other with true affection, and after seventy-three years, the look in their eyes never changed. Their love was magic.

When Gran left on March 14th, Grandpa was overheard saying, “Goodnight Gran, I’ll see you in the morning”. And true to his word, he followed his lover into the afterlife, not wanting to spend a moment on this earth without her. No romance novel, nor no epic movie, could ever capture the sentiment or the overwhelming emotion he conveyed in that moment after she left him.

As I write this blog post, I know they are holding hands in a realm we can only dream of. They will soon be passing out cards for their next game of bridge, and arguing about their bids and hoping they will take the maximum number of tricks.

I can simply say, I was blessed to have had them in my life. They touched so many lives, and I am thankful my life was one of those lives. I am sad they will no longer be in our world, but I am forever grateful they will be a part of my past, and a big part of my future as I move forward holding onto the lessons they taught me. May we find each other again in the afterlife, and may our dining room table be as filled with as much life when we see each other again as it was when we were blessed to spend time together in this physical realm.

My Bridge Day

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Yesterday marked the ninth anniversary of my mom’s passing and like I have done for the last eight years on March 7th, I woke up at exactly 7:02 am. That is the time I received the phone call and was made aware of her death back in 2014.

The first time it happened, I thought it was an unlikely chance occurrence, but it has happened every year since she left us, and when I wake up at 7:02 am each year on March 7th, I replay the phone call over in my head. Her departure was unexpected at that time, and I can still feel every emotion I felt in that moment. I remember what I was wearing. I can recall the dryness in my mouth, the uncontrollable tremble in my lips, and I think of how difficult it was to sit up in my bed and swing my legs over the edge to bring myself to a seated position.

Today is what I call my ‘bridge day’ because tomorrow will mark the seventeenth anniversary of losing my dad in 2006. After his prolonged illness and subsequent health decline, his passing was much more of a blessing than the sudden shock of losing my mother, but the loss of a loved one is never easy to process, regardless of how they leave our world. These early days in March not only remind me of how much I have lost, but these days encourage me to continue to be the person my family and friends always wanted me to be.

I willingly forge ahead with each new day, thoughtfully holding on to the lessons I have learned from, not only my parents but, all the important people in my life who have left this earth before I could mentally prepare for their absence.

I have seen this bridge in my dreams. Many times, this stone structure has entered my subconscious and pulled me onto the apex of its design. As much as I wish to see the faces of my loved ones and feel the warmth of their embraces, in my dreams, I stand alone at the peak of this stone wall. I know the spirits of those who have left my world are with me. I am so thankful, and although I cannot see them or hear their voices, I can feel their energy surrounding me, keeping me safe, and sending me implied messages and signs that they will always be with me.

While life goes on around us

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February 8th, 2023, is the day a dear friend of mine took his own life, and it is a day I will never forget. Those in his intimate circle knew about his struggles, but the rest of us were utterly shocked and gutted by the news. I have been spending the last two days selfishly wondering why I was so oblivious to his pain.

My heart aches for his wife, his immediate family and friends, and the rest of the people in his life who were fortunate enough to have been touched by his charismatic personality. He was the essence of joy. He infected the world with his wit and charm, as well as his brutal honesty. His generosity knew no boundaries, and he was always the guy who would be the first person to give you the shirt off his back if you needed it.

Robbie O was the friend we always wanted, and in our hearts, we knew we always needed. He was effervescent. He was quirky. He was one of a kind. The number of pictures taken of him flipping the bird make me want to do that in every future picture that will be taken of me.

In my attempt to distract myself from the emotions I am trying to deal with, I have been mindlessly scrolling through my social media pages to read tributes from other friends and see pictures of him I had not ever seen. Although I still cannot wrap my head around what happened, I am comforted by the abundance of thoughtful messages being shared in his memory, and the feeling that we are all trying to collectively figure out how to process this great loss.

While the generic buzz of social media is filled with pictures of food and Tik Tok videos, and life goes on around us, I see the innocuous posts about everyday life and I want to shout into the void. I want to scream into those obscured realities. I want to reach through computer screens and make the world aware of what is actually happening, and what the world will be missing in the absence of our dear friend.

I want people to realize what a great detriment we are all suffering through while we are still trying to accept our loss. We should all stand taller knowing he was in our corner. We should all puff our chests being able to say we knew him. And we should all hold every memory of Robbie O tight to our hearts while life goes on around us.

Soup’s On – Part 3

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Wow, if this blog and I were friends in real life, I would have understandably been given the cold shoulder for not holding up my end of the bargain in our shared communication. It has been over two months since I paid any attention to this cherished space and given myself permission to get lost in its warm embrace. I could blame a myriad number of outside circumstances, but the only thing I have to blame is myself.

It is so easy to become so consumed by life that we let our simple pleasures fall to the wayside. Between work, drafting novels, and spending time volunteering for our local food bank, I lost sight of the things that truly bring me back to myself. Creating things in my kitchen, especially soup, is the easiest way for me to feel grounded again. But, until today, I have regarded my kitchen with indifference. It had become just another room in my house, and I had forgotten how much of my heart beats within its four walls.

Not only does creating something from scratch remind me of my dad’s reckless abandon in the kitchen, making soup sparks a different part of my creativity, and sharing those soups with my family brings me great joy. Like my writing journey, I never know what the voices in my head will tell me to do, but almost every soup is something exciting and new. No two soups, even if I make the same thing again and again, are ever the same because I don’t follow a recipe. That is true freedom.

My writer’s brain has been blocked this week, but taking the time to put my skills back to work in my kitchen has dislodged the obstacle that was quelling my creative writing. There is a reason my characters like to cook, and that reason has reminded me to get back to basics and start from a familiar place to allow myself the freedom to put my trust back in the voices in my head. They are not controlling my brain, they are merely shining a light in a direction I had not anticipated.

Two soups are now being slow-cooked into submission in my kitchen, and the neurons of my writing brain have lifted their noses to deeply inhale the aroma of motivation. Everyone is familiar with the adage ‘stop and smell the roses’, but in my case it is ‘stop and smell the soup’. Just that brief moment of taking the time to allow the familiar smells to permeate my senses has opened a new door into the book I will soon finish writing.

When we were children, my mom’s way of letting us know dinner was ready was to yell ‘soup’s on’. Well, the soup is on in more than one way in my house. The crockpots may be filled with delicious ingredients, but my brain is now filled with a profusion of ideas to get this book finished. Soup’s on, indeed!

The cat came back

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Although the title of this post is borrowed from a song, it has a significantly different meaning for me. A few months ago, I stepped outside of my comfort zone and sent my five books to a local address that belongs to the cottage of a Canadian film director with the hope my books would find their way into his hands. Sadly, I came home from work yesterday to find the same box I had sent had been returned to me undelivered. The cat came back, it just couldn’t stay away. It was sitting on the porch the very next day.

Although the ‘next day’ actually totaled a few months, the sentiment is still appropriate. As I ponder the misfortune of not having been successful in reaching this Canadian director, I have no choice but to put my faith in the adage ‘cats have nine lives’. This thwarted attempt to introduce myself was the end of life number one, but I still have eight more to go!

My writing journey has been a roller coaster, and as much as I detest the thought of being strapped into an uncovered train travelling at warp speed, I have embraced the ride. I have done my best to swallow the contents of my stomach before my fellow passengers become victims of being drenched in the gastrointestinal spray of my failed attempts, and I have given myself the courage to embrace the opportunity that lingers in those remaining eight lives.

The cat may have come back, but that emboldened feline is ready for the next battle. I will survive. I will not go gently into that good night. I will not go down without a fight. And one day, I hope the cat that came back will be battling the MGM lion to see who has the loudest roar.