I learned something new yesterday. Deer sometimes sleep with legs outstretched and head bent back.
At first I noticed this doe in backyard, sleeping with her head held high and eyes closed. The next time I looked she was like this. So I started some google searches to find out if this is normal, and apparently it is.
My father, an educator, who encouraged life-long learning was frequently signing up for workshops and classes. He studied new computer programs, how to grow roses, wine-making, and many other subjects that grabbed his interest.
In my younger years I couldn’t understand why we had to see every dam and every museum that we encountered on trips. Now I understand! It wasn’t only for the increased knowledge, but for the experience of learning about different things—cultures, technology, inventions. Even in the final years of my father’s life he and I would travel to different countries and different provinces within Canada. For months before we set off he would do research. Years ago that research involved writing to the tourist bureaus in the area, and later he researched online.
Lifelong learning keeps a person humble, young and interesting.
Even a three year old seems to understand the important bond of sisters. From first greeting she was as gentle as a toddler can be in times of great excitement.
I started to consider the close bond my youngest two children have. They have been supportive of each other through childhood, teen years and adulthood. Through the early days of life in Canada when they had been dragged away from everything familiar to them; through the following years in an abusive home; through middle school and high school, raising themselves in a single-parent home; through physical distance with daily text messages and frequent phone calls.
It is my hope that Aletheia and Cleo will grow up emulating the beautiful example of love and support they witness between their mom and auntie.
Today is a quiet day. My granddaughter is still too sick to go to pre-school, her auntie is resting, dad is at work and mama is resting and waiting….
We played with a ball, read some books, sang about the Slippery Fish and told stories with art. Today it was about storm clouds above the castle with rain watering the fields.
It has been a stressful couple of days with contractions that come and go, a trip to the hospital, frustration of prodromal labour, and a cold being passed around. But today might be the day.
Last week I began planting a garden for my daughter. I have never seen so many ladybugs gathered in one area in my life! Each shovel full of dirt that was turned over revealed juicy fat worms and let loose another loveliness of ladybugs. The ladybugs were not in the dirt, but were hiding in the grass and beneath the dried leaves.
The neighbour told me that he doesn’t rake up the final layer of leaves in the fall in order to give the bugs a place to thrive.
After two days of driving, I have arrived at my daughter’s house in semi-rural Saskatchewan. This is me on the 8th repeat of “On top of spaghetti”. In order to learn the words and story of the song, my granddaughter requested to hear it 10 times. After a few repeats I could hear her whisper the occasional word, usually the last of each line.
I realize these are very special moments that I am privileged to have with my granddaughter. Soon enough she will grow up and no longer require or want to listen to me sing on repeat. There will be a day where she is too “mature” to want to wear her ballet tutu, or dance endlessly to Swan Lake or Romeo and Juliet.
For now I can enjoy watching her play with her bow and arrow set while pretending to be Robin Hood, and wake up early in the morning with “on top of spaghetti, all covered with cheese, I lost my poor meatball when somebody sneezed…” running over and over and over in my mind, on endless repeat.
Yesterday was move-in day. Once the piano was placed in its perfect spot (in my humble opinion) I could start setting up the rest of the house. The moving truck left before noon, my sister and brother-in-law spent a few hours helping with some of the heavy lifting, then I was alone.
I spent my first night in my new home, waking up to a quiet, dusty house. Out the front window I look east to watch the sun rise, and notice that every speck of dust and dirt is amplified in the light! For this time of year when it’s not yet hot the warmth of the sun is a blessing.
Then the loneliness hit. I have spent so much effort in the past several months reminding friends and some of my family that I prefer to do things alone, or at least I prefer to not have someone telling me how to live my life, set up my kitchen or place my furniture. Now I’m paying for it. No-one dares come by to check in or give suggestions.
I have always preferred to be alone, although not 100% of the time. I do love my family and close friends, and enjoy spending time with them but my saturation point is normally much sooner than others realize and I suppose I have perfected some strategies to guard against feeling overwhelmed with the chaos of sharing my life with others.
Over the past several decades I have seen these falls from the highway while driving past, usually in a hurry. Yesterday a friend and I took the time to climb through the park to a spot near the base of the falls.
Part of the climb was steep and slippery with loose gravel, and water seeping through the forest floor and over the path. Children, dogs, parents, grandparents; some came prepared with hiking shoes and others (like us) had no clue!
We were all awed by the sight, sounds and smells of the waterfall and forest and it felt like we were all together for one purpose. Strangers greeting each other, telling their stories, encouraging each other and lending a hand or arm when the path became almost impossible to climb up or down.
Following the hike we soaked in the hot springs, walked around the town, and enjoyed a delicious dinner and several hours dancing to live music. It was one of those unexpectedly perfect days!
Taking a break from sorting and packing, I am sitting in my lazy-boy chair and looking past another stack of boxes, out the window. The cloudy, grey sky past the green leaves of the rhododendrons, and the cedar branches is typical here throughout the fall, winter and spring.
Am I sad to be leaving? Not anymore. These last two weeks are quickly filling up with coffee dates and meal invitations from friends and colleagues who want to say farewell. Those meetings leave me more exhausted than the hours of cleaning and packing, but I will soon be off the island and able to rest.
I feel like I am already stepping into my next chapter, ready to readjust to living closer to family. In my own way I have been saying farewell to my surroundings. Yesterday I went for a walk in a park that I had not yet visited. It was where my friend’s ashes were sprinkled in the fall.
I will miss some of my friends. I’ll miss the world-class music scene, but that is so much less important to me now than it was in the past. Attending concerts causees much increased anxiety and I would rather watch them online. Distance is no longer such a hindrance to good connections.
This morning as I was searching for a particular photo in my embarrassingly large collection, I was struck by how many photos I had taken early in the lockdown of 2020 of little things. Simple moments. Observations that I had made when life had suddenly slowed down.
Life got busy again…far too busy for me to cope.
I am looking forward to the move in a few weeks and resettling in my new home, and living life while paying attention to the moments.
This photo is of my maternal Grandfather, Uncle and Great-Grandfather. Obviously, this is not a photo that I took (most in this blog are my own photos). This photo was taken in approximately 1935 at Steffen-Colmer studio in Vancouver. My great-grandfather was a police officer in Scotland, then immigrated to Canada and was a well-known inspector with the North-West Mounted Police. He was made famous helping solve the case of the “Beryl G”. It is a fascinating story, and one that we heard rumours of as children, but our family history was seldom talked about.
Two years ago I bought myself a subscription to Ancestry.ca as Christmas present. Lately, now that I’m retired again and not failing at it as badly this time, I find that doing some research into my roots is a fun and engaging activity. One of my close friends has been on Ancestry much longer than I have, and we found out that his 9th great-grandmother is my mother’s 8th great-grandmother.
This past week I came across a very interesting fact about my father’s family. Dad seldom talked about his family roots, except to say that he wanted to know more about the Irish roots (his father came from Ireland). But he never talked about his mother’s family from Sweden.
It turns out my father’s maternal grand-mother, Anna died in Essondale, BC. I had never heard of that town and being quite curious, I looked it up. Essondale opened in 1913. It was BC’s psychiatric hospital. Originally Essondale (later the name was changed to Riverview) was where the long-term mentally unstable male patients were sent. In 1930 a ward was opened for women. Anna died in 1956 at the age of 83, having given birth to 7 children in Sweden, and one more in Manitoba. Beyond that, I know very little.
I do know that my great-grandfather died in 1943 in Alberta. Their 8 children lived and died in many different provinces and states. No one seemed to live near other family members except the eldest son who lived near my grandmother. I also know that my grandmother wanted only one child. After my aunt died at the age of 4, they decided to have another child — my father. I know that I never saw any outward sign of affection between my grandparents, or from my father toward his children (or anyone besides my mother). Some things in my life are making a bit more sense even if I am filling in many blanks with my imagination.
Researching the family has been very interesting. If what I have found is correct, I have an ancestor (13th great grandmother) who was burnt at the stake in Scotland, accused of being a witch. King James VI who ordered the burning was the great-grandson of one of my other ancestors through a different line. This King James IV’s daughter was an illegitimate princess, child of his mistress. So many stories!
Reflections 