Tag Archives: DPchallenge

Childhood revisited – The memory that won’t go away

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This is not the first memory I have from my childhood, but this is one that stands out in my mind and helped to define the relationship with my brother that would continue for years to come.

I still recall the most minor of details that day and I was all of five years old.  Oakville was a seemingly small city in 1974 and the streets were safe enough that my brother and I could walk ourselves to and from school without parental supervision.  The day was crisp, the sun filtered through the autumn leaves and reflected jagged pieces of warm light onto the lawns and sidewalks.  School had been fun that day and I was anxious to regale my brother with tales of arts and crafts and have him dispel the myth of why some kids eat paste.  He was nine – he would surely be more privy to that information than a mere five year old girl.

The two of us began our journey home, and as I skipped along beside him I expounded about my day.  I had become quite ensconced in my own story and somewhere along the way I realized he was not beside me any longer.  I slowed my pace and heard him behind me, fiddling with a wrapper on what I had assumed was a stashed piece of candy from my beloved Shoreline Variety Store.  The sound of the wrapper immediately piqued my attention and halted the story I had become so engrossed in telling.

oh henry

I turned to find him holding out a piece of candy and remember thinking how generous it was for him to share.  It was surely a treat that would have been frowned on by my parents, but that made it all the more intriguing.  I gladly took the candy, and as I began to bring the treasured morsel to my lips, he stood stoic, waiting for me to take the first bite.

As my teeth sank into the delicacy that my brother had so graciously shared, his laughter pierced my eardrums before the pungent flavor assaulted my taste-buds.  His gales of laughter floated through the autumn winds as I tried frantically to remove every shrapnel of excrement from my mouth.  My brother had fed me a piece of dog shit.

I don’t think even Forrest Gump would have outrun me on the way home that day.  I sprinted past the crossing guard and could barely see the sidewalk for the tears.  I could hear my brother panting behind me, trying to catch up to me before I was able to cross the threshold of our home and explain to my mother how my taste-buds had been violated by a heinous act of terrorism.  I’m sure my words were not nearly as eloquent as I would like to think they were, but she got the point, and he got the spanking.

This simple act of cruelty led to years of pranks and retribution, usually always at my expense.  Not so many years later, because I seemingly still adored him, emulated him and worshipped the ground he walked on, I was easily swayed into helping knock a beehive from the side of our garage with a hockey stick.  Forrest Gump, again, would have been proud of my speed and agility getting to the old station wagon.  Long story short, there was a lot of baking soda required that afternoon to cover all of the puncture wounds those bees left in my body.

Thankfully my days of naiveté are over and I am perpetually careful around my dear brother.  And he may not know this, unless he reads this post, but I am still plotting my revenge!!

Written in response to the Daily Post Challenge.

A Chance Encounter

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Today’s Daily Prompt was this – Open your nearest book to page 82. Take the third full sentence on the page, and work it into a post somehow. (I highlighted the sentence in question)

~

I loathe public transportation.  Every nuance of its existence offends me. The platforms are loud and over-crowded, the blended fragrances of the vast array of perfumes, cologne and foul body odors are noxious and people are overtly rude.  I don’t like crowds and I certainly don’t like feeling like a sheep being herded into a confined space.  I wish I had a car.

I purposely took a seat in the station far from the gathering crowd.  If I could begin my holiday with some personal space, I might have a fighting chance of surviving the journey without incident.  I buried my nose in the latest Oprah Book Club selection, The Poisonwood Bible, and tuned out the din of the increasing population of travelers.

I felt his stare before I actually looked up to take notice of him.  He was staring directly at me.  His eyes were so fixed on my face that he had seemingly forgotten to blink for about three minutes.  His face was worn, and it carried with it a lifetime of pain.  The deep-set lines in his forehead reminded me of the lines carved into a sand-blasted sign.  To say he had character would be a gross understatement.  But nothing about his gruff complexion made me uncomfortable.  There was a genuine sadness in his eyes and, for the first time in my life, I wanted to talk to a complete stranger.  I made the first move and closed the distance between us.

He was the one who spoke first, “You look like her.”

He blinked and a single tear traced through the jagged pattern of wrinkles on his cheeks.  The words he uttered almost came out in whispers.  He had lost his daughter, and every day he would come to the bus station just to catch a glimpse of someone who resembled her, to help him hang on to her memory.  We chatted about ourselves briefly and I became so intrigued by this man that I barely heard the metallic voice announcing the arrival of my bus.  I stood to gather my things, but I didn’t want to go.  I didn’t want to leave him.

I missed my bus that day.  My family was angry that I was late for the festivities, but when I explained what had happened, they were moved to tears, as was I.  The sweet man who stared at me in the bus station and I now have lunch together every Friday.  I now call him my friend.

On the eve of my 100th birthday

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Written for the Daily Post Challenge: You have the chance to write one last post on your blog before you stop blogging forever.

Last blog entry – March 27th,  2069 – the eve of my 100th birthday

I am a smoldering pot of emotion.  This blogging journey, and all of you, my fellow writers, have taught me a great deal about myself.  I was apprehensive beginning what I thought would be a whim, but what truly turned into a collection of moments that, once they were added together, defined me.  From the rare glimpses into my humor to the things that truly touched my heart, I have bared my soul through pontificating on these random polysyllabic profundities.

Many suns have set as I assumed the position at my keyboard, unaware that the day had passed and the night had now enveloped the walls of my widow’s peak to which I have become accustomed to writing behind.  The wind has frolicked through the leaves and tickled them on its way.  Those same leaves have fallen to allow for the snow to blanket the branches, season after season, and I was none the wiser.  Months, even years passed as my mind was lost in thoughts of future tales to tell.

And now, in what may be my eleventh hour, I am overcome with grief as I say goodbye to what has possibly been one of few true friends that genuinely understood me.  This blog has been the one confidant that I was able to tell my deepest secrets.  It let me rant when I needed to release my anger, it laughed at my humor and embraced me when I wrote about things that absolutely broke my heart.  It has nursed me through the passing of loved ones and helped me welcome the next generations into our family.  And now, as I sit alone on my last night on this earth, it is this blog that is my only companion, for it sees me as I truly am.  I want my family to remember me full of life and not a feeble, bed-ridden old woman, barely able to type.

There is a slight chill in the air and I feel the darkness seeping into the corners of my eyes.  I shall hit ‘publish’ one last time so my last words will enter the blogosphere as I enter the light.  My words will be there to greet you one last time as those who have passed before me await my arrival to join them in that place beyond our world.  Thank you for joining me on what was a very long, but extremely fulfilling journey.

Be the change – a journey of self-discovery

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Today’s Daily Prompt was intriguing.  The question was posed –

What change, big or small, would you like your blog to make in the world?

It was a query that got my mind spinning.  I’d never really taken the time to think of my blog on a global scale, and that thought is extremely daunting.  Although my blog has reached readers on many continents (and I truly thank you all for following), it would be egotistical of me to think that my words could have any affect in the grand scheme of this ever evolving planet.

When I write, I am ensconced in a tiny living room, in a small town, in a very rural part of Ontario.   If the wind blows in the wrong direction, I lose power.  I’m sure if I sneezed with any velocity, I would be writing this in the darkness until the laptop battery ceased to exist and my creative world would be relegated to using the voice recorder on my iPhone to track my meandering thoughts.

Blogging for me has turned into a journey of self-discovery.  It may not make a change in this world, but it has definitely made a change in my world.  It has awakened a part of me that was hidden.  It has revealed a piece of my soul that was cowering from the possible reality that what I wrote may be of interest to no-one but myself.  But I forged ahead, because what I was writing was allowing me to truly be myself and giving me permission to uncover all of the things that I really wanted to say.

By following my passion, I evoked a change in myself.  I awakened my opinions, and within that awakening, I granted myself the indulgence to hold value in the things that were my truths.  I chose to not only put those words on a page, but to share them with whomever happened to stop by to read my thoughts.  Judgement aside, I wrote because I wanted to write.  I wanted to be the change in my world and discover how much of myself I was willing to share.  Even now, writing these words, I am overcome with emotion.  Tears fall as silent cries for the freedom I have given my words.

Perhaps by making that change in my world, I will, in turn, make a positive change on a grander scale.  Words can make me laugh, and words can make me cry.  And somewhere in the middle of those emotions is the true meaning of the language of writing.  Maybe the change I would like my blog to make on this world is to simply communicate to others to follow their passions, embrace their dreams.  Only you can know what will truly make you happy, and only you can be the change in your world.

Weekly writing challenge – A picture is worth 1000 words

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It seemed perfectly innocent.  They were freshly bathed, well dressed, almost too well dressed for a Tuesday morning had I thought about it, and they both presented themselves with an intelligence far beyond their years.  Their mother seemed embarrassed when they both ran to me, each clutching one of my hands in their tiny grips.  Neither of them seemed afraid, nor did they show much emotion at all, and for a moment we just stood, unmoving, holding hands as if this were a natural occurrence.

Perplexed and without knowing how to react, I looked to their mother for some guidance.  Although trying to maintain her poise, she seemed distant and somewhat aloof.  When she finally regained her composure, she smoothed her dress, approached the three of us and complimented me on my suit.  The children remained reticent as the idle banter of adults hovered like cartoon balloons above their heads, but their grips never wavered.

She asked if I would like a coffee, so we walked a few blocks, sharing idle conversation, the children never losing their hold on my hands.  There were no introductions made, so my comments were relegated to generalities.  She was referred to as ‘little girl’ and he was called ‘strapping lad’.  They seemed content with these monikers and never once did they volunteer their birth names.

When the little girl finally spoke, her voice was so hushed it was almost impossible to hear over the din of the crowd.  “My dad died.  You look like him.”   My heart seemed to quiver in my chest and I felt it break into a thousand shards.  I wanted to let go of the boy’s hand and hug her.  I wanted to tell her everything would be okay, but his grip remained firm so all I could do was squeeze her hand and give her a wink.

I had been so distracted by the children that I hadn’t noticed the row of houses instead of the coffee shops I had anticipated.  The children had stopped in front of a brick facade and, with their stoned expressions, they turned to face their mother.  The camera recorded that moment before I had a chance to react.

With their grips remaining firm, the children guided me up the stairs towards the house.  The mother had managed to beat me to the door and fumbled to get the key into the lock.  The hinges on the door vehemently disagreed with being opened and argued every inch of the way.  Once inside the house, the children released their grip on my hands and stood together, an immovable fortress blocking the way back to the door.

As my eyes adjusted to the lack of daylight, the row of pictures in the foyer began to materialize.  Each photo, almost an exact replica of what I suspected the picture would look like that was just taken outside.  Although the little girl and the strapping lad were in different colored apparel, the photo would have been an exact replica.  My heart rate increased.  When the strapping lad finally spoke, my blood turned to ice.  “Welcome home, daddy.”

As the words ‘I’m not your daddy’ tumbled from my lips, I felt a dull crack at the base of my skull.  It would be the last thing I ever felt.

Children left unattended will be given an espresso and a puppy (Weekly writing challenge)

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The sign is distinct, yet tactful.  A similar sign adorns the pillars in the dining room of the family resort at which I am employed and is a subtle reminder to parents that they are responsible for their children’s behaviour or the consequences could be dire.  To my knowledge, we have never given away a puppy or offered a child a libation of the purest caffeine, but the impending threat is still felt within those walls.

The idiom “children should be seen and not heard” was a popular string of words when I was rapidly growing through my childhood.  Back in those days, and I may be slightly showing my age, we respected our parents wishes.  We didn’t put our elbows on the table during meals, we didn’t talk with our mouths full and we wouldn’t even entertain the idea of leaving the family dinner table without being excused.  Sadly, (or not, depending on how you look at it) I would have never been a candidate for the espresso or the free puppy.

I write this post with mixed emotions.

Kids learn by doing.  Experience incorporates more of a lesson than words can ever teach.  If they never have the opportunity to encounter culture and fine dining, they may never learn to be cultured or understand how to act in a situation that is far removed from the “norm”.   But parents need to know when the child is ready for that learning curve.  Kids need worldly experience, however those learning moments must be punctuated by behavioural corrections, if necessary. Tackling that battle at too young an age will only frustrate the child, as well as the surrounding crowd.  When they are at an age that they don’t fully comprehend what is expected of them, they are bound to lash out. Therein lies the rub.

Adults that wish to experience exquisite meals enhanced by vintage wines and ambiance don’t aspire to have that savoir-faire tarnished by young diners that have not had the opportunity to learn the etiquette required to frequent such an establishment.  I would not ever deny a child an opportunity to learn from such a dining experience, but perhaps there is a happy medium.

The same can be said for any cultural undertaking.  Although children need exposure to all of life’s mysteries, there needs to be a divide between the right time and the right place.  And maybe more importantly, the right attitude towards that broadening experience.  Yes, children need to learn, but not at the expense of others attempting to allow themselves that rare moment that they are able to steal precious seconds of escape from their day-to-day reality.

Give children the benefit of cultural awareness, but also of situational awareness.  They may not be able to define the lesson they are learning, but it will serve them well into their adult lives.  Take them to a fine dining restaurant.  Take them to the museum.  But take them when it is more appropriate for younger people to frequent those particular venues while they are still in the learning stages of their development.  They will still gain the much required knowledge to take forward into their teen and adult years, but they will still show the respect and allow the freedom for adults to thrive in an atmosphere that is designed for a crowd that is over a certain age.

Let the children learn in rich and vivid detail, but also let them learn the boundaries and obstacles that are held within the confines of the rules of etiquette.   There is a lesson is everything we do – and maybe dining with a toddler at Nobu at 7:00 pm is not the lesson that the pre-schooler needs to learn at that particular moment of their developmental stage.   Respect for children’s knowledge is accepted and encouraged.  Respect for an adult’s sanctuary is priceless.