An Angel in the Rear View Mirror

Just trying to get some writing practice everyday! The route to where we pick up the dogs raw meat passes a homeless shelter. I am always inspired to write something after these trips.  This one could be a post script to my 7th story, “Whispered Encouragements”.

~

He walked out onto the road, his feet slipping on the greasy slush. He caught himself before he fell, but not before an explosion of frustration was expelled from his lungs. A few more careful steps and he was at the window of the car, tapping lightly to attract the attention of the occupants cocooned in its warmth. He pulled his lips back in an approximation of a smile, hoping to appeal to their pity.

The person inside scowled a warning, so Ron stepped back, letting the car race away, slush sputtering behind the tires. He remembered when he first got here at the homeless shelter and how easy it was to keep his spirits up, but now, with feet so cold he couldn't feel them, and raw chapped hands, it was harder to move his cold pinched face into a genuine smile.

A sudden rush of feelings followed him back to the sidewalk. Where was his mother now, why wasn't she whispering encouragements? Or maybe he couldn't hear her over the roar of continued misfortune. Thoughts of stepping onto the road in front of the next racing car consumed his brain. It would be so easy, and why not - no one would miss him and it would be a hell of a lot easier than what he had now. He took a few meaningful steps towards the road. The cars raced pass him, nobody even turning to see him. He felt invisible and insignificant.

Ron took a few steps back and started running, just as he lept from the curb the light changed and all the cars skidded to a stop. He was disappointed and relieved at the same time.

The window in the car closest to him rolled down and a hand reached out.
"Friend, come and take this." the man from inside the car intoned.
Ron stepped over and opened his hand. A twenty was dropped into his hand and Ron smiled at the man. 

"Hey, don't I know you? Aren't you Hazel's son." the man asked.

Ron cautiously answered, "Um, yes, I was, but she passed away a few years ago."

The man in the car turned away and started rummaging in his briefcase. "Oh, here it is. Take this and come and see me. I remember you visiting your mom at the long-term care facility almost everyday. You were well liked, and I think you would fit in with our staff. Promise me you'll come".

Ron looked down at the man, tears welling in his eyes and nodded his head.

The light changed and with a wave, car and driver disappeared in the distance. Ron looked at the card - "St. Vincent's Long Term Care" and embossed on the other side shone an angel.

~

WYL #4 Puff

I tried something different for this writing group story. I thought that writing in 3rd person would let me show you the story, rather than just telling it. I wanted to give the feeling of looking on and seeing the action. I hope it works for you.

I did use a liberal amount of artistic license. The basic events of the story are true, but I embellished some of the background just a bit. I was trying to convey the feeling instead of it being a factual bullet point telling.

I wasn’t sure I’d get through the reading of this at yesterday’s writing group without bursting into tears. Writing it, and even doing the 2nd and 3rd edits had tears pressed to the backs of my eyes, but you’ll see for yourself the joy and trauma that causes such an emotional response in me. For the record, I got through the story without needing a tissue.

~

Wonderful Gift

The little girl skipped around the back yard singing "I'm four, I'm four". Her blue chequered dress twirled as Laura spun in a circle. Every now and then she could see her mom's head peeking through the window to make she was still in the yard. Laura was hoping her mom was making a birthday cake for her, something piled high with puffy white icing and not coconut like last year.

The leaves on the trees that lined the yard were starting to turn a bright yellow, a sure sign that September was well underway, but the grass was still green and soft, a welcoming carpet for Laura to flop down on. The grass tickled the back of her legs so she jumped up to run some more, pretending she was riding the horse at the zoo. A voice called to her from the front yard.

"Daddy!". She ran to the front of the house and skidded to a stop when she saw he had a small wicker tackle box in his hands. Her mom was standing beside him with a wide smile on her face. He crouched down and carefully set the basket on the grass.

"Happy birthday! Come and see."

Laura walked over and knelt on the grass beside the tackle box. It started to move a bit and then a small white paw darted out of the hole in the top of the basket. The little girl's eyes widened in excitement as she fumbled with the latch. When she flipped the lid open there was a small orange and white kitten blinking up at her. She looked to her mother and then her father, both smiling and nodding their heads at her.

"Go ahead, it's yours." her mother gently affirmed. Laura carefully lifted the kitten out and cuddled it in her arms.

"Well, what should we call her?" her dad asked with a chuckle.

"Puff. Puff is the perfect name for her." Laura said with a large grin, her eyes sparkling with delight.

Laura loved the fluffy little kitten that grew into a beautiful cat. As the years passed Puff was a loyal companion. Being dressed in dolls clothes was not her favourite pastime, and the bonnets were the worst, but Puff cooperated, at least until she could sneak away. Curled up in the crook of Laura's legs at night she would scare away monsters and protect her from demons. Puff was an avid hunter and would often bring her catches home to drop them at Laura's feet. Injured birds with no hope of survival gave Laura the first lessons on life and death and taught her that life is fragile.

Sometimes Laura would put a harness and leash on the cat so that Puff could track down wounded birds in the overgrowth close to their home. Laura would try to nurse the birds back to health, but rarely succeeded. She loved all animals and tried to fill her life with them, even if it meant sick birds, fish caught in the creek, or frogs from the local pond.

Eight years later it was over in a split-second. Running across the street to see Laura off to school Puff didn't see the speeding car until it was too late. She died instantly while Laura looked on from the sidewalk at the front of the house. She started running towards the road, towards Puff, who was lying lifeless on the pavement, but the neighbour ran over and grabbed her, sparing Laura the image of the blood and gore of the critically injured animal.

For the next few months, alone in her bedroom, Laura could sometimes hear and often felt Puff still curled up in the crook of her legs. She'd open her eyes, hoping that the accident had just been a nightmare, but when she saw it was not so she closed her eyes again, a damp tissue grasped in her hand.

It seemed that the tears would never stop but they did. However, for the rest of her life Laura couldn't listen to  Peter, Paul and Mary's 'Puff the Magic Dragon' without glistening eyes and a choking feeling in her chest.
The simple birthday present of the kitten was a wonderful gift of love and joy, and yes, sadness.

~

WYL #2 My arrival and childhood

I’ve gone right back to the beginning of my life with this story. I needed a lot of help from my parents to fill in the gaps, but I think it gives a nice little recap of my beginnings. I hope you have a few laughs too!

~

Right on Time

I was the first of 4 children in our family which grew in fits and starts. Just after I turned 5 my sister Kirsten was born. Nine more years went by before my brother Olaf arrived, and soon after that Graham completed our family.

The best way to start the story of my birth is to state the unbelievable, the impossible, but what my mother, to this day, claims as fact - I was an immaculate conception. Sweethearts since the 9th grade, they got engaged before my father moved to Calgary to start his university education, leaving my mother in Medicine Hat to finish high school. Fate and exuberant young love had other plans. With a passion born of absence, my parents made love - but carefully, to preserve my mother's innocence. It seems that there was no distance that would foil the life forces which traversed unintended paths - paths which eventually intersected on my behalf. In an instant, two young lives were changed and a new one created.

After a hasty marriage, my parents set up house in Calgary, Alberta. They lived in a furnished apartment on the top floor of a house not too far from the university. They were poor. With $150 a month from money saved up from summer jobs, and financial help from my grandfather Turvey, they scrimped to make it through each month. During a particularly poor month they sold their mattress, a wedding gift, to pay for the rent.

After a few months of housekeeping practice, my parents were finally rewarded with my arrival. Punctual from my first breath, I arrived right on time, September 17, 1962. With no mother to turn to when the contractions started, my parents called Aunt Della and Uncle Paul who lived a few blocks away. Mom and Dad spent the day with them while I prepared for my debut. By 2:30pm it was clearly time to head to the hospital. My dad stayed with mom offering encouragement until she went to the delivery room - in those days father's weren't allowed to stay for the birth.

At 8:15pm Monday evening I was here. I never have been one for staying up late. With no epidural available, Mom had a gas mask with something to dull the pain, but the sensation of my birth was still felt. She says that it was a wondrous thing. I don't recall what I thought about it, but most likely I wasn't pleased at leaving my warm cocoon.

I was immature, not premature, as I had a slightly low birth weight (5lbs 10oz). Whoever said that birth weight is tied to adult weight has not met me, although I never grew beyond 5' 2" tall.

My name was already picked out - Laura Ada. My maternal grandmother with the same name had passed away a few years before my birth, and since my paternal grandmother was named Ada, it was perfect. Sharing a name with both grandmothers, neither of whom I remember meeting, gives me a connection to them that I might not otherwise have.

Mom stayed in the hospital for 4 or 5 days, transforming from an innocent teenager and resting up, no, growing up, for her new life as a mother. For the first week my grandmother Ada stayed to help. On my mother's first day alone, the neighbour, Mrs. Peterson, took one look at her and offered to look after me so that mom could take a nap.  She gratefully handed me over, but instead of a nap, she tidied and cleaned the apartment.

The new little family: mom, dad, baby, and Perky, the pet budgie, was finally on its own. Not completely though. The Petersons from downstairs were good, kind people. Help from relatives, notably Uncle Clarence, Aunt Ruth and their 6 kids who often included us for Sunday dinner, as well as Uncle Paul and Aunt Della was appreciated.

Time was busy for my parents. With the dedication of a new father, my student dad studied hard. I was kept quiet and out of the way so I didn't disrupt his work. Mom took care of the apartment and me, often bundling me up into the buggy and setting me on the porch so that I could get some fresh air. I wonder if those early months of outdoor living influenced my love of nature. I spent much of my early childhood being quiet so as not to intrude on studying and to this day, I have a strong aversion to disturbing people or making noise.

By the time I was 2 months old my mother could no longer nurse so I was weaned onto 2% milk. Formula was just being developed at the time, and if available would have been too expensive. A few months later, when I could sit up, she'd take me downstairs to the neighbour's apartment so that I could play with a little girl my age that Mrs. Peterson babysat. I'm told that I was a happy baby but was sometimes troubled by colic.

I wasn't yet a year old when we made our first of many moves. Edmonton was our destination - dad was going into Med school.

~

WYL #1 Early Years

Today was my first day back to the writing group this year. Since the exercises were finished in December, we are are starting back at the beginning of our guide book. Today’s topic was our ancestors. I had a lot of help from my parents as I was unsure of many of the facts. In fact I had so much help from them that much information had to be left out – another story perhaps?.

~

Coming Together

It was the early 1800s and an influx of immigrants were populating Canada. They came from all over: Norway, Scotland, England and Ireland. As they moved west into the wilds of Canada a few settled in Lanark and Iroquois in Ontario, while the rest were interested in the wide open spaces of the Alberta prairies.  These hardy people were my ancestors and through a series of twists and turns, marriages and births, their DNA came together and I was born.

History books have recorded the lives of some of my ancestors. My paternal grandmother, Ada Murphy, traces her lineage back to Catherine Fetterly Harkness, who watched the 1813 battle of Chrysler Farm from the cellar. Her experience is recorded in the museum at Upper Canada Village, which sits next to the battle site. With a young woman's spirit of adventure, Ada left her home in Iroquois, Ontario to teach in Alberta.

Also on my father's side, my grandfather's family traces their roots to the 1500s but are more recently mentioned in documents about the 1612 Battle of Kringen in Norway where my ancestor Audon Skjenna participated in an important battle.

The background of my mother's ancestors though not documented in the history books, is no less notable. It is known that John Watt born in 1771 and his wife, Mary Inglis, emigrated from Scotland to Lanark in 1821. In 2014 I visited the homestead with my mother and found a small stone from the original foundation which now sits on my fireplace mantle. One hundred years before my visit, after years of battling the intractable land, John's descendents sold the farm in Lanark, freeing my great grandfather to migrate west to the Rossington district of Alberta. My maternal grandmother, Laura Ada Watt, left the farm for Edmonton to work in the big city. In 1939, she was a telephone operator on the Royal train that crossed Canada with King George and Queen Elizabeth.

The Turveys sailed to Canada from England two weeks before the Titanic, settling in rural Manitoba. Family lore has Great grandfather Turvey working at Sandringham with the Queens horses before becoming a farm labourer and railway worker in Canada. My maternal grandfather, William Hector Turvey, left home as a young man, eventually stopping in Edmonton where he met my grandmother. Working in Eatons as a window dresser gave him a taste for retail, so after my mother was born they moved to Medicine Hat, Alberta where he opened a furniture store. At the young age of 56 my grandmother passed away, leaving my mother, just 16 years old, motherless.

http://www.kringen1612.no/Slaget_i_Kringom_1612ENG.htm

It is said that the man who gave me my last name either crept up to the invading Scottish camp and killed the sentry dog, or rode a horse to distract the Scots from the ambush that was about to happen. For his bravery in the Battle of Kringen, the King of Norway granted him lands to augment the family farm.

Skjenna Farm (meaning place in the sun) is nestled in the Gundrandsdalen Valley of Norway with a mountain guarding its back. Several log buildings that were constructed in the 1600s still stand strong - they were built to last like the hardy Norwegians. The farm and family are mentioned in the Nobel prize winning 'Kristen Lavransdatter' books written by Sigrid Undset.
It was romance that moved my great grandfather Olaf from Norway in the early 1900s. His love was Mari, a milk maid.  Olaf's quest for adventure and a new life was amplified by his parent's disapproval of his wife, so the couple left the prosperous farm for North America, living in the U.S. for a time before ultimately settling in Buffalo, Alberta. The second Skjenna farm was homesteaded in 1913 and is still in the family. A hundred years later, in 2013, the extended family gathered for a huge celebration to mark the centennial.

Moving from a centuries old established farm to a tract of barren land in the desert of southern Alberta with only a sod hut for shelter was an act of devotion backed by hardiness and determination. Life was hard then. The area was sparsely populated and the town of Medicine Hat was a full 70 miles away. Crops and vegetable gardens would have been successful only by the grace of God - deep cold and wind in the winter, blistering heat and wind in the summer. Drought and insects plagued them. Water was precious.

My great grandfather visited Norway a few times during those hard years, but had made his home in Canada and didn't take over the Norwegian estate when his parents passed away. The farm was sold and is no longer owned by Skjennas. I was lucky enough to visit the farm, complete with its 500 year old buildings when I was a child.

The sod hut in Buffalo no longer stands, but Olaf and Mari's second house, a small 2 room home, is used as a storage shed. The third house, a two story with a couple of rooms on each floor, was dragged across the prairie by horses. Sheltered within its now frail walls is a trunk full of my great grandfather's diaries. Eight children blessed Olaf and Mari's home. Some were born while they lived in the U.S.; my grandfather, Art Skjenna, was born in Buffalo.

Childhood sweethearts from their high school days in Medicine Hat, my parents forged a bond that has lasted since 1962. Bringing together backgrounds from England, Scotland, Ireland and Norway, they had 4 children, including me.

My fore-bearers endured many hardships while creating a new life in Canada. I am grateful.

Whispered Encouragements–Story #7

I wrote this story in the summer, and after editing help from my Aunt Kristine it has ‘sat on the shelf’. Today seemed a good day to revisit it and get it posted. Having a proper editor was fantastic, however, since she lives so far away and has so much of her own life to be involved in, it was tricky at times. I felt a bit guilty with my demands!

~

Ron sat on the steps, feet firmly on the sidewalk, his thin body in its shabby clothes warmed by the sun. He felt cheerful, which might have confused a passers-by if they had cared to notice. Suddenly he stood up and grabbing the empty cup beside him, walked out onto the street where the cars were held hostage by the red light.

He approached each car, cup held out. Most kept their windows tightly rolled up and turned their heads from his gaze. He didn't let that bother him though; he knew what it was like to be in their shoes. Sometimes though, a window would be lowered and a bit of change dropped into his cup, often along with a smile and kind word. Either way, he kept his cheerful demeanour, smiling and whistling as he zigzagged between windows.

The cycle of sitting and walking among the cars repeated only twice before he had enough for a coffee. Back on the steps, his legs stretched out on the sidewalk in front of him, he chuckled, thinking of the years of fancy Starbucks concoctions. Now the simple pleasure of a black coffee was enough to satisfy him.

Ron remembered how his colleagues would rib him for his easy laugh and positive outlook. Looking skyward he thanked the heavens for the gift that kept his life bearable now. He hadn't expected it, but life had dealt him a series of blows. First, there was the economic downturn that lost him a well paying job.  Then, working behind the counter at McDonalds for minimum wage took its toll on his marriage. Her family didn't help the situation; too concerned with status and material possession's to be sympathetic, they blamed everything on him. The inevitable came and she divorced him, keeping the house. He moved into a cheap apartment. Not long after that, the job at McDonalds disappeared; high school kids on summer vacation would work for less.

He carried his resume everywhere, peddling himself to high tech firms, hamburger joints, and everything in between, but no one wanted a man in his fifties. Eventually his savings were depleted, leaving him with no rent money and he found himself standing at the door of the homeless shelter, all his possessions carried in a small bag. Where else was there to go?

He didn't have any family to speak of: his parents passed away years ago, and he couldn't remember the last time he spoke to his brother. Long hours at work hadn't left much time for a social life; the few friends he did have were embarrassed by his situation and failed to return his calls. Standing there, hand on the doorknob, he felt more alone than he ever had.
Stepping over the threshold, Ron was warmly greeted by another man. 'Welcome, I'm Dave', and glancing down at Ron's bag he added, 'you'll soon feel right at home'.

Even though they had never met, their mutual disadvantage created an instant rapport. It didn't take long for him to feel at home there, it was so much better than the dingy room he had shared with a bunch of cockroaches. It was better than being alone too. He thought of his new friends: some were alcoholics, trapped in a life of dependency; others had some sort of mental illness, struggling in their own heads; the rest were just like him, with a bunch of bad luck behind them. With nowhere else to turn, they clutched at the companionship of each other, desperate to be accepted.

Now, sitting on the steps with his legs stretched out on the sidewalk, he smiled again. He had to admit it, he was happier now than he had ever been with the half million dollar house and a wife nagging him to make more money. His life was simple. 

Looking up at the traffic, he thought he saw a familiar face in a passing car - his hands shook enough to spill some coffee. She didn't turn her head, and he was glad. He could deceive himself into happiness, but not when it came to her. He tried to convince himself he didn't miss her, but he did; not the later years with all the nagging and fighting, but earlier, when they were in love and had everything. As his spirits started to drop he heard his mother' soft voice reminding him that every day is a gift. For a moment he was a small boy being held in his mother’s arms while she whispered encouragements in his ear.

He drank the last swig of his coffee and stood up, shaking his head to clear it. Memories of his past life started to fade again, and the singing of the birds in the tree next to him brought him back to the present. Standing on the sidewalk in front of the homeless shelter he smiled. A passer-by smiled back at him.

~

Green Christmas

It was a green Christmas this year, with temperatures above zero for the last few days. On Boxing day we had patches of sun, which were a real treat.

Usually on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day we watch the Sound of Music, so after supper (roast beef & yorkshire pudding), I cued up the PVR. I had recorded the movie a few weeks ago and was pleased with my foresight. No so fast Von Trapp… it seems a stage version had replaced the original movie so I was out of luck. I was a tiny bit peeved that Shaw would get their schedule so wrong. That will teach me to verify…

Christmas Day I woke up with a sore throat and stuffed nose - drat. It has been over 4 years since my last cold, but I figure since I've been eating so poorly lately my immune system isn't up to scratch. I soldiered on through our festivities, being careful not to get too close to anyone - do you know how difficult that is!

There were lots of kids this year - some Great nieces and nephews, and my brother's kids. A bunch of cute kids.

We spent the day with Carm's family, then rushed back home to let the dogs out, feed everyone, and rush back to the city to Mom & Dads - a typical busy Christmas Day. Spike came with us to M&D's which he enjoyed immensely - any chance to do a trick and earn a treat (turkey!) is pretty good fun in his mind. Add in all the attention he got from friends Kenda & Ann and he was in heaven. By the time bedtime came around though, he was ready to go home and telling us in no uncertain terms that it was time. The dog may indeed run our lives. (but he is so cute, how can I say no?).

I dragged my camera from place to place but only took a photo of our property to compare against last year.

Do you ever have moments when you wonder "is this it"? After the long story from the other day, this is a short something that tried to capture a moment.

~

"the mashed potatoes are good".

"yes, so is the roast. I don't remember one ever tasting so good."

His voice faded out as he bent his head back down. His fork went in and out of his mouth. She looked around the table; it was all dressed up for Christmas dinner, as if they were having company, but it was just the two of them, like always. She felt like she was caught in some endless loop of triviality; nothing important ever happened. Here she was, in her fifties, (she wondered how that happened), yet nothing had changed for decades. Even the decorations on the table hadn't changed in all those years.

I need some excitement, she thought to herself, pondering what form that might take. A few options popped into her mind: a move to a new locale; going back to school to learn some scintillating topic; her mind stalled. With the realization that there was nothing that appealed to her more than the life she was already living, she lifted her fork to her mouth. I'm the kind of person that doesn't need adventure, she told herself firmly.

"the Yorkshire pudding is the best it's ever been."
 

He raised his eyes to her and nodded, unaware that anything had just happened. Everyday life slipped back around her shoulders like a comforting blanket and she felt normal again.

~

Casa Musica–A Christmas Story (almost)

 

This story is a re-write of the first short story that I wrote. I tried developing the character a bit more and also fleshed it out (a lot more). At almost 2000 words, this is the longest anything that I’ve written to date. It could use more polishing (and I’ve done some this morning), but I wanted to post it today as it is slightly Christmasy (ever so slightly). I wrote it as a story about hope and the impact that we have on each other’s lives. I hope you enjoy it, and welcome any criticism you can throw at me!!!

~

The dingy fabric walls of his cubicle felt like they were closing in on him as he struggled to keep his mind on the endless pile of paperwork. Peter stared blankly at the paper in front of him, trying to comprehend what was written, but the words blurred in and out of focus. Hoping to find solace, at least for a moment, he looked up from his desk to the photographs pinned to the wall in front of him. None came.

The ringing of the phone penetrated the fog in his head. "Hello... oh, hi Mom… no, I'm fine. Don't worry." and hung up the phone with a heavy sigh before trying to get back to work.

A co-worker stuck his head through the doorway asking for the results of yesterday's drudgery. Peter handed him a packet and sighed at the sight of the receding back of his co-worker rushing away. He couldn't get the feeling out of his head that he was slowly turning invisible and at times wished that he was. He reached into the drawer beside him for a few cookies. The surge of sugar lifted his spirits for only a moment before dropping him back down into the fog that was threatening to engulf him.

Peter swept the crumbs into the garbage bin, his eyes briefly resting on the photos again. He hadn't answered his phone at home for days and wondered if it had been his mother trying to call, that would explain the unusual call at work. He shook his head and reached for the next pile of papers. Hunching over them, he tried to keep going, but all he could do was read the same paragraph over and over, comprehension failing him. The rest of the day dragged by, each moment seeming to last an eternity; he desperately wanted to curl into a ball under his desk and disappear from his office, no, disappear from life. No one came into his office to relieve the tedium of his dark thoughts and he wasn't sure if that was good or bad.

When he could stand it no more, he slipped out of the office, sure that no one would miss him. Hanging tightly to the overhead rail on the bus, he tried to make eye contact with a fellow traveller but when the woman turned away, his felt himself shrivel. Getting off the bus his feet felt encased in cement, and the all too familiar grey fog reached out to suffocate him as he trudged down the crumbling sidewalk to his apartment.

He set his keys down and leaned back against the closed door. He wanted to collapse on the spot, but conjured up the will to keep moving. One foot after the other, he moved through his apartment, first stopping to turn on the stereo with his favourite music. He waited for the music to uplift him. It didn't. He delusory tried singing along but it seemed like too much effort so he switched it off. And made up his mind.

Head down and shoulders slumped he walked into the bathroom and flipped on the light. Harsh light illuminated the stark room.  With his hands on both sides of the sink he studied himself in the mirror. I can't do this anymore, I just can't go on, he said to himself, and opened the medicine cabinet. Reaching inside he pulled out a bottle of pills and was surprised to see a book of matches fall from the shelf, he couldn't remember keeping matches there. When he picked them up to put them back, he saw they were from Casa Musica, the restaurant that was once his second home.

Peter stood stock still, looking from the pills to the matchbook.

"Yes. One last time then." he murmured to himself, setting the pills on the edge of the sink and stuffing the matchbook into his pocket.

Breathing deeply to gather his nerve, he sat in his car staring at the front door of the restaurant. The effort seemed too great. Finally, with a great heave of will power, he climbed out of the car and started walking to the restaurant. His limbs felt heavy with the burden of his depression, but Peter kept his eye on the door and kept moving until he was inside.

He stood for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the light, and didn't have to wait long for the waitress to see him.

"Welcome! We haven't seen you for a while. I'll sit you right here in the thick of things.", and she bustled away, the cheerful greeting leaving him feeling slightly out of balance.

He seated himself and started looking around. It was busy and there seemed to be something happening on the patio. He heard music and thought he could detect the sound of people singing. A slight smile caressed his lips as the waitress brought his meal. It was as good as he remembered causing him to wonder why he hadn't returned for so long.

Leaning back in his chair, he wiped the last of his meal from his lips. He had been watching the party on the patio through the window and thought he would take a peek through the door.

"Is this a private party?" he queried the red-haired woman who had just stepped past him.
She turned and looked at him with a cheerful smile. "No. Come on out, it's lots of fun".

His breath caught in his throat, it was the first friendly thing he'd heard in ages. He stepped through the door and turned toward the people in charge of the karaoke machine. Tentatively, he asked if he might have a go. The two men conferred and handed him a paper to write down his name and music choice.

He didn't even have to think about it, and wrote down "Come Sail Away" by Styx. It was like an anthem to him with its chorus of ‘carrying on’.

Standing by the wall waiting his turn he wondered if he was crazy for even trying. He'd always wanted to be a performer, it was his dream, but he'd never had the nerve. Tonight was different. He felt this was his last chance at life.

He stepped up to the mike and looked around. Everyone was turned away, talking and eating. As long as they don't laugh, I'll be okay, he thought to himself. As the first bars of the song rang out, he closed his eyes and sang, with all the feeling he could muster.

"I'm sailing away, set an open course for the virgin sea I've got to be free, free to face the life that's ahead of me On board, I'm the captain, so climb aboard We'll search for tomorrow on every shore And I'll try, oh Lord, I'll try to carry on"

As the last notes were sung, he opened his eyes, not expecting to see peoples faces smiling back at him. Putting the mike down, blinked his eyes a few time to make sure it was real - each smile seemed like a life preserver thrown to him just as he was about to go under. With a flicker of hope rising in his chest he choked back emotion he made his way to the door, and as he passed the red-haired woman she said she hoped he'd come back again, and that maybe next time they could talk. He smiled back at her and nodded his head, not trusting his voice. His steps seemed lighter as he walked to his car, a faint glimmer of a smile flirting with his lips.

With the door to his apartment safely closed behind him, he walking straight to the bathroom and picked up the pill bottle that was still sitting on the side of the sink - with shaking hands he put it back into the cabinet and turned back to the living room. As he sat down on the sofa he felt the matchbook in his pocket and stood back up to remove it; as he was putting the talisman down on the bookshelf, the sensuous curves of his guitar caught his eye.  He picked it up, savouring the feel of weight and warm wood in his hands and tentatively strummed a chord, he took a breath and let the music rise from within. "Do not forsake me, my love" he sang, tears streaming down his face as the renewal of life took hold. Holding the instrument close, a smile crept over his face - he was alive and was going to be okay. His fingers started moving more quickly over the strings, gaining confidence with each note.

Every day the guitar was embraced and he practiced and practiced until the music seemed a part of him.  The fog was at bay, replaced by a joyful hope for a new future.

Carefully packing the guitar into its case for his audition at the restaurant, he felt as ready as he'd ever been. Cradling the guitar in his arms, he slipped through the door into Casa Musica and waited for the owner to notice him. With excitement rising in his voice he offered to entertain her dinner guests - would she like to hear him play? His fingers shook as he clutched the familiar instrument to his chest and started strumming his offering. She nodded her head and flipped through her calendar. With the date settled, the combination of relief and excitement had him almost skipping to his car for the drive home.

Nervous anticipation nipped at his heels until the day finally arrived for him to make his debut.

Peter stuck his tongue out to catch a big snowflake and smiled at himself for being such an excited kid. He grabbed the guitar case from the back seat of his car and made his way to the front door of the restaurant, careful not to fall with his precious cargo. This was it. He was surprised that he felt right at home sitting on the stool with the mike in front of him and looked around at the people scattered throughout the restaurant. With a deep breath, he bent his head and started playing. He could feel his joy intertwine with the notes of each song that he sang. He was exhilarated. Each time the audience clapped he felt a thrill of excitement energize him. Part way through the first set the red-haired woman, who had invited him to sing karaoke so many months ago, passed by and he wondered if she remembered him.

He played song after song, barely stopping to take a sip of water. He didn't want the evening to end, and thought back to the night, so many months ago, when he wanted everything to end. He wanted to laugh out loud with joy.

During a short break the owner of Casa Musica passed by to tell him that he was a big hit, and that she hoped he'd do a regular performance. Jumping up to embrace her, he wondered if she knew that Casa Musica had given him his life back when he was at his darkest moment.

The red-haired woman sat at a table watching him play and remembered how grey and fragile he looked when she'd first seen him. It was quite a transformation, she thought to herself. As she left the restaurant she smiled at him, nodding her head in recognition. He was singing "Need a Little Christmas" and as the door was closing behind her, the words "Happy ever after" caught her ear and hung in the air like a promise.

~

WYL #33 A look back

Last weeks reading was a compilation of different stories. It was fun to write!

~
Looking Out

My mom looked at me suspiciously as I walked down the stairs.

"Where is your friend?" she demanded.

"What friend? There's no one here." I countered with a teenager's annoyance.

"We saw someone standing in the back patio door as we drove past, there was definitely someone there. Did you just change?"

"No. I was just having a nap."  This had been my first time staying alone at home while the rest of the family drove to the East coast and I didn't appreciate getting in trouble for something I hadn't done. I followed Mom upstairs with one of the suitcases. As she entered her room, she stopped abruptly when she saw the painting of her mother on the wall, and with a pale face turned to look at me.

"You look so much like your grandmother - do you think it was her at the window, looking out for you?".

I thought back to the last few weeks - lights had mysteriously been left on, curtains opened and then closed again. I thought that I'd heard something in the basement a few times and had stopped going down there. My grandmother had passed away years before I'd been born, but a close friend who was a psychic said that my grandmother had contacted her to let her know she'd be looking out for us all. Could it be? To this day my mom swears it is.

As I sit here writing this I wonder if it could have happened that way. I was named after my grandmother, so maybe there is a special connection. I know there have been incidents in my life where a helping hand has materialized just when I needed it. Maybe she is that voice deep inside me that doesn't let me give up? My own guardian angel.

~
Alphabet soup

She was serving alphabet soup, but I knew the bowl she handed to me was poisoned so tried to pass it back while the rest of the kids at the table pretended that nothing was happening. Suddenly we were all in the huge belly of an aircraft and I was fighting with someone who wanted to throw me out the cargo door. Just as I was about to go through the hatch my eyes popped open and I was in the velvet darkness of my bedroom.

I tried to make the dream stop re-winding itself in my head, but even with my eyes wide open it wouldn't stop. I couldn't understand why the lady across the street would want to poison me. After all, just a few weeks ago she had made me a special cake for being so helpful with cleaning up their basement.

I did eventually fall asleep that night when I was an innocent 7 years old, but there are times the memory still haunts me.

~
A Magical Marriage

The cup of sugar slowly melts to a dark amber liquid as it is shaken on the hot stove burner. Boiling water is carefully added when it is at the right hue of golden brown. It is left to bubble away on the stove until thickened into a thick, honey like consistency, and is then set aside to cool. I get started on assembling the rest of the ingredients. Butter, lots of butter, is whipped until it is a pale golden fluff, then heaps of sugar are beaten in and a bit of flour and milk is added to make a thick batter. Finally the cooled amber liquid is added, turning the cake into a delectable burnt sugar delight.

No cake is complete without icing, but no ordinary froth will do for this cake. Brown sugar, butter, and a bit of cream simmer on the stove until it is bubbling like the fumaroles around a volcano. At just the right moment the pot is whisked off the stove and the electric beaters immersed. For 5 minutes it is beaten, then just as it is about to harden, the brown sludge is quickly poured over the top and sides of the cake. Hurry! There isn't a moment to lose as the icing is quickly turning into a hard fudge shield. The crowning glory is not beautiful to the eye, but the first bite of sweet fudge and moist cake blurs the eyes to its shabby exterior. A sugar rush of staggering proportions intoxicates.

Once a year, on Carm's birthday, the simple ingredients of sugar, butter and flour come together in a magical marriage to create this decadent dessert.

~

WYL #32 Perspectives of Life

Finally a happy topic! I could have gone on and on but decided to save the rest of the story for another time.

~

It was on July 15, 1994 at 7am; the sky was as blue as can be and there was a light breeze, it wasn't too hot.  I was at the top of the field leaning against my car and sipping a coffee while I listened to Nick, our builder, shout out last minute instructions to the shovel operator. I felt light headed with excitement.

The shovel finally raised its huge bucket into the air and then crashed into the earth, gouging a wide swath through the green grass. I could feel a burning  at the back of my eyes as emotion welled up inside me. It was really going to happen. After a lifetime of wanting to live in the country, it was actually going to happen. I gulped some air and tried to dry my eyes as Nick made his way up to the car. He smiled at me and leaned next to me to watch the progress.

As I watched the shovel sculpt a place in the earth for our home, I thought back to the last year. No, I thought back several years, to when I was a little girl visiting my Aunt's farm and wanting a farm of my own. How many blown out birthday candles, and shooting stars were called upon to make this dream come true?

I had constantly bombarded Carm with real estate listings for years. Sometimes I wore him down enough to go and look, but it didn't happen all the time. I was relentless though. One spring I came across a listing for 28 acres that partially flooded in the spring. I don't remember what sort of persuasion I used, but he finally agreed to go for a drive. We rolled to a stop on a little stone bridge that crowned a roaring creek - this was no babbling brook, this was a torrent of uncontrolled energy. A double check of the map confirmed that this was the property, and that the flooding was magnificent. We drove up to the corner and turned into the field to get a better look and as we got out of the car we looked at each other with the sudden realization that we had seen this land before. A few years earlier we had driven past and been enchanted by the green valley with the creek and river. A call to the real estate agent on the old sign confirmed that it had already been sold and as the years went by and we forgot all about that verdant valley. We looked around the property a bit more, but we both knew in our hearts that this was the one so we were soon speeding towards the real estate office.

When the agent told us there was already an offer on the property we were crest fallen. She explained the process to us and let us know that IF the current offer was turned down we had a few minutes to get our offer presented. I paced a hole in the carpet that night waiting for the phone to ring. Finally it did and when Carm nodded his head at me my heart leapt and our path through life took a big turn.

Compass headings were soon taken and the home design process started. Every detail was taken into account - I knew I wanted to live in the light with lots of south facing windows, so we made that axis the longest. There were views to the east so we didn't skimp on windows there either. Having a west facing window in the great room to scoop the last rays of sun meant that we'd have light all day there. Windows were shoehorned in where ever there was space. I must have walked through the 3D computer design thousands of times before I was happy with the alignment of each door and window. In my dreams I'd imagine every light switch and power outlet. I may have driven some people crazy with my obsession with room dimensions.

My excitement rose every time I looked at the plans - my house in the country was soon to be - the thought was almost enough to make me swoon. Soon we had a contractor hired and a real estate agent working on selling our house. It must have been the hottest day that summer when Carm almost got heat stroke mowing the acre lawn for what turned out to be the final showing. I was busy in the house vacuuming and washing floors - we had 3 dogs, 2 cats and 10 parrots whose existence we had to hide. When our real estate agent dropped by later in the day with an offer in her hands we were ecstatic. The race was on - 9 weeks till we had to be out of our Limoges home, and with 10 parrots, 2 cats, and 3 dogs we needed somewhere to move to. Nick had a challenge.

A few weeks later I was leaning against my car with tears in my eyes as I watched my dream materialize.

~

The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned. ~Maya Angelou

 

WYL #31 Who are you really

Have you ever given any thought as to who you really are? I don’t normally give it much thought, but in the past I struggled mightily at times. When depression puts me into a fog, or medication side effects dull my mind I have to remind myself that this is not who I am and that I am the same person underneath the side effects. It took me a long time to understand this, but when I did it became easier to accept my illness. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

On a better note – I’ve got happy tales for the next few topics!

~

My hand hovered over the pill bottle as I thought back to the last two days. Energy had flowed through my body as if I had been powered by a lightning strike and ideas swirled in my mind like Dorothy's house in the tornado. I had so much that I wanted to do - did I really want to put an end to it?

Getting back to normal, whatever that meant, would be the smart thing to do. I knew what usually followed an energy surge like this, and it wasn’t pretty. But maybe it will be different this time, I thought to my self, and besides which, this flash of vigour felt good - much better than the flat mood I was normally in, where beauty wasn’t found at every glance and the stars didn’t glow in the sky like so many diamonds. “One more day” I promised myself, the allure too much to resist, and I turned away from the bottle.

I lay in bed that night staring at the ceiling, plans for home renovations formulating in my head. From painting the bathrooms, new flooring in the bedroom, finishing a room in the basement, I mapped every step in my head until even the smallest detail was carefully planned (or so I thought). The dark sky was just barely tinged with light when I leapt out of bed to start.

Everywhere I turned there was mess and disorder - I couldn’t stand it. My thoughts were jumbled like an errant string of Christmas lights, ideas bright but out of order; my mind zipped around trying to create some order. Anything sitting out in plain view was likely to be stashed away in a box somewhere, unless it was a tidily ordered vignette that somehow pleased my eye. I dashed from one spot to another, disorganized and frantic. I knew I had let things go too far and headed to the cupboard where I had resisted normality so many days before. I knew the meds wouldn’t put an end to it, but would at least stop further escalation.

A few hours later the swirling in my head had slowed down a bit. For the next two weeks I kept up with the extra meds, and was flying along just above ground level and not soaring into the clouds with the Canada Geese that were passing by.

I was standing there, in Canadian Tire next to a pile of hockey equipment, I think they were gloves, when the crash happened. It was as if a hypnotist had snapped his fingers to suddenly end the spell and then dropped a truck load of cement onto me, coating my limbs with a heavy burden that made it hard to move. Suddenly the string of bright lights in my head became a tangle skein of wool carded into a mass of fuzz - thoughts came slowly and with difficulty.

We left the store and packed my new craft table into the backseat. I had to finish staining the furniture no matter how I felt. Dragging the table down to the basement, I almost tripped over the 12 gallons of paint at the bottom of the stairs. The sight of them overwhelmed me and I choked back tears of frustration - why couldn’t it have lasted? Just a few hours ago the same sight had caused an upwelling of excitement. Polar opposites. I didn’t know how long I’d be dragged down into this cavern of low energy and negative thinking and tried to delude myself that it wouldn’t be as long as the bright energy had lasted.

But who am I really? It is hard to remember at times, but I am not my mood, I am not bipolar, I merely have bipolar disorder. It is not who I am, although it does effect how I live my life. I have struggled and railed against defining myself by my illness, in the beginning it was hard not to. But life has taught me that I am still essentially myself. I laugh and I cry like everybody else. I am an animal lover; I am empathetic and cry for others; I value nature, the sun and the earth; I value honesty; I am a clown and jump out from behind corners; I am organized and precise; I follow rules; I like to think that I am funny.  I am me.

~

I’m not bipolar, I’ve just had a bipolar life foisted upon me. ~Daniel O'Malley, The Rook

WYL #30 Giving Advice

This was the hardest topic to write about. What advice would I give? What is the most helpful and meaningful? Should it be advice that I would give to my 12 year old self, and if it was, how detailed would I get? My mind swirled with ideas and false starts before settling on what I’ve written below.

~

It is often said that the best advice is to not give advice at all, but who can resist telling people how to live their lives. I'd like to say that I keep quiet, but alas, I don't always. Having lived through a diagnosis of bipolar disorder I find it difficult to not share some of what I have learned.

I don't know who said it, but one of my favourite quotes is "Control your thoughts or they will control you".  This is a powerful statement that reminds me that I control my own happiness. By learning how to change my thoughts from negative ones to positive ones I can change my feelings about the circumstances that shape my life.

As someone with a mood disorder I will concede that this is not an easy task and at times I forget to apply the techniques, but with practice it does become easier.

But our thoughts are our thoughts you might say. This is true, and because they are our thoughts we can take control of them. With hard work we can discipline ourselves to replace negative thinking with a positive outlook.

Let's say that I was brooding about something that happened earlier in the day and I was starting to feel depressed or anxious.  I have two choices: I can continue to replay the situation over and over in my head, castigating myself for poor behaviour; or, I can look at the situation objectively, identify what I would change, if appropriate make amends, and then move forward, satisfied with having learned something. Every time my thoughts stray back to the situation, (and they will), I can continue to beat myself up, or I can remind myself of what I have learned. If I do the latter, I have changed my thoughts and reduced anxiety.

I find it often it helps to have a mantra to trick my mind into replacing a persistent negative thought. I like Monty Python's "always look on the bright side of life". Mantra's can be a useful tool, although I will admit to forgetting to use them as often as I should. During a moment of conflict a mantra can be recalled to defuse an emotional response. The mantra that I like to use when having a disagreement with Carm is B52s lyrics "I'm having a vision, I'm having a vision of a kiss from your sweet lips". It's difficult for my emotions to escalate when I'm looping that through my head. Instead of feeling overwhelmed and on my way to depression, I have a bit of an inner laugh and can then continue the discussion with less angst. I have changed not only my thoughts but also my mood.

Visualization of a cherished place can also be helpful when negative thoughts threaten to overwhelm me. I contemplate one of my favourite places: the swing on my back deck and envision the trees around the deck, the far away vista, the smell of honey in the air, the feeling of the sun on my limbs and the gentle rocking of the swing. Setting the scene with sublime detail doesn’t leave room for injurious thinking.

Who hasn't had a conversation with someone and thought that they are saying hurtful things. When it happens to me it is time to re-evaluate my thinking. It is quite possible that the person didn't mean what they said; if they did, they may be reacting to their own insecurities, in which case I can concentrate on feeling compassion for them. I try to remember that no one is a perfect communicator and that we all have our own baggage influencing a conversation. By changing my focus from myself to them I have changed my thoughts.

Having bipolar disorder has made me aware of the slightest change in my mood which triggers me to evaluate my thinking. When I catch changes early I can work on changing my thoughts, which sometimes helps me to avoid a mood episode. My thoughts can make me unhappy with depression or anxiety, and with hard work I can change them to make me feel, if not happy, at least in control.

~

There is so much about my fate that I cannot control, but other things do fall under the jurisdiction. I can decide how I spend my time, whom I interact with, whom I share my body and life and money and energy with. I can select what I can read and eat and study. I can choose how I'm going to regard unfortunate circumstances in my life-whether I will see them as curses or opportunities. I can choose my words and the tone of voice in which I speak to others. And most of all, I can choose my thoughts. ~ Elizabeth Gilbert

 

People who ask our advice almost never take it. Yet we should never refuse to give it, upon request, for it often helps us to see our own way more clearly. ~Brendan Francis

WYL #29 Commandments

To date, this was the hardest essay or story to write. It required looking inwards and thinking about my past difficulties and countering that with my achievements - I’m not sure which were easier to recall. There were a plethora of quotes about being the best, so I am not alone.

Coming into this “course” at the end is sure a challenge! I look forward to when the group starts back at the beginning of the book which focuses more on reminiscing and not such intimate self examination!

~

I was about 40 years old when he said it. I remember sitting on the floor of my parents family room listening to the ebb and flow of conversation around me when my father pronounced that "It's not enough to do your best, you must be the best.".

I felt as if I'd been struck by lightening. Suddenly much of my life was made clear. I'll pause here to say that this was the first time I'd heard this pronouncement. I'd never been told by my parents that I wasn't good enough, and I would say that they'd never implied it in any way. Rather, I was born with this commandment deep in my DNA.

My brain was still reverberating with the revelation, when, later that night, I lay in bed and started re-examining my life with a different lens to see how this impossible idea might have impacted me. I thought about my daily struggle with being good enough and my occasional laments that I wasn't accomplished in anything.

Playing softball as a 10 year old is one of my earliest memories of failure - not only did I not have fun because of all the time on the bench,  my inability to throw a ball and horrible hand/eye coordination left me feeling that "I" wasn't good enough.

Learning to play the piano left me with the same feelings of insufficiency. Hour upon hour of lessons and practice didn't turn me into a virtuoso, so I quit. I would never be the best so it seemed better not to try than to feel the gut choking agony of my deficiency.

Later in life I was better able to deal with the feelings of failure, but was not immune to them. I desperately wanted to learn how to ride a horse, however, the lessons caused endless frustration and feelings of inadequacy. Riding didn't come naturally to me - no matter how hard I tried, I felt stiff and out of balance. Gradually I replaced riding with other horse activities that I could excel in.

As I grew older, I subconsciously selected hobbies that I could at least become proficient in. Often a new hobby would be started under the beam of hypo-mania - brain chemicals would assure me that I'll be fantastic at my newly chosen activity. Eventually a normal mood state would be reached and I'd look at my efforts with a much more critical eye, and then drop the new hobby.

The same pressure that caused such unhappiness, also created a drive and determination to succeed. Everyday things would be tackled with a **determination to get things done. It didn't matter how many iterations it took - the design of our home wasn't complete until it was perfect. Building a breeding program, for both parrots and horses, was done with the idea of creating superb offspring. We worked hard to acquire champion breeding stock, and to build an efficient infrastructure to support our goals.

Training my own service dog required a dedication to excellence in order to get him to the level for public access. On his first day of work Spike walked perfectly at my side as we entered the office tower and made our way to the elevators. He negotiated getting onto and off of the elevator with aplomb. For the rest of his career he made me proud with his willingness to his duty.

As we strode down the halls towards my office a few people stopped us in the hallway. Spike sat beside me, looking up expectantly for me to tell him that he could 'say hello'. When we made it to my office I crouched down and gave him a hug. He had done well.

From the moment of that impossible proclamation, I have tried to remind myself that it is okay to just enjoy doing things, to do my best, and that it isn't a contest, but to be honest, it is something I still struggle with now and again.

~

The best or nothing at all. ~Gottlieb Daimler

WYL #28 Preferences

I tried to keep this exercise a little more light hearted than my previous ones.

~

I suppose my aversion might have started at my third birthday. The cake was shaped like a girl and was covered in coconut. A photo shows me sitting, wearing a cute blue dress and smiling up at the camera, but that would have been before I'd had a bite of it. Of course I don't remember anything at all of that day, but I suspect that bits of the shredded coconut might have gotten caught in my teeth, and maybe I thought that the chewy, fibrous, texture ruined the cake.

The cake was probably 'Golden Glow Cake', a delectable recipe that has passed from my grandmother and is my mother's speciality. I love that cake, it wakes me up at night to sliver it on its platter until nothing is left. Unless there is coconut.

Birthdays are now celebrated with tall angel food cakes covered with cloud like fluffy white icing and fresh flowers tucked around the edge. No coconut. Whether it has shiny white icing or its brown outer layer is bare, the airy cake also wakes me up at night, calling to me from the kitchen to have just one tiny piece.  Except one piece will never quite do.

Maybe I just love cake. And hate coconut.

~

Calling me back to the house my mom insisted that I change into a dress. I hated dresses and couldn't see the point of wearing something so uncomfortable and restrictive. How could I ride my bike or scale a fence or get down on my knees to pet a puppy in a flouncy dress. Jeans. That was what I wanted to wear. They wouldn't impede me in any way. I could climb a tree or ride my imaginary horse wearing jeans. The shoes that had to be worn with dresses were also impractical and uncomfortable. Even as an adult, a pair of sturdy boots , cowboy boots even, or sneakers win out over teetering, tall, strappy high heels.

~

A jumble of small objects concealed the surface of the long table. All these things had to get put into the camper but the thought of just dumping them into the drawers and cupboards unfettered made me crazy and out of breath. Grabbing the car keys I headed to the dollar store - an organizers emporium. With a tape measure in one hand, and a list of measurements in the other, I stared at the long aisle of plastic bins, my mind whirling with possibilities. Soon my cart was overflowing with plastic treasures of all shapes and sizes.

Once home the shuffle started and presto, everything was neatly arranged in colour coded plastic bins, and pleasingly tucked  into the drawers and cupboards of the camper. I smiled, my inner chaos calmed.

~

We stood shoulder to shoulder, working together to get the pile of laundry folded while it was still warm. Carm picked up a towel and started folding, looking over at me, he grinned. I choked back an admonishment and closed my eyes for a moment - when I opened them the sloppy towel teetered at the top of the pile. Unable to resist any longer, I grabbed the towel to try to show him (yet again), how to neatly fold it, and he laughed at me, knowing that I would not be able to stand imperfection.

I remember climbing out of my crib to show my dad how to properly fold my diaper, so I guess the aversion for untidy folding goes back to when I was a baby!

~

WYL #27 Happiness

Last weeks topic was happiness. While I have had so many happy memories, not to mention having had an overall happy life, these few hours stand out. I’ll let the story tell the rest.

~

A piece of straw stuck into my neck as I tried to get comfortable. The bed was hard and unyielding, but I'd done my best to make a cosy nest, and since the weather had taken a turn for the worse I was bundled up to my ears. This was my third night on watch and I was hoping it would be my last. I'd already checked Dora's milk umpteen times that day and was certain I'd seen a slight change. I lay there watching her as I tried to read my book; she seemed restless, like she was trying to get comfortable, stirring the butterflies in my already churning stomach. Throwing back the blankets, I got out of bed to check her milk yet again, but there was nothing obvious. I stood close to her, feeling her pendulous abdomen for signs of life - a heavy sigh escaped her and I felt myself relax a bit. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, I saw it was 9:30pm and almost time for lights out, so I made a final dash to the house.

Stepping back into the barn I was relived to see Dora still standing - I hadn't missed anything. After wrapping her tail "just in case", I flipped off the lights and made my way to the bed. I lay there watching her, struggling to force down the feelings of excitement that nearly overcame me - I wouldn't get any sleep at all if I got too wound up, but I'd been anticipating this event for much of my life. Just as I started to doze off I heard a quiet rustle as she lied down in the deep straw. My eyes flew open as I tried to discern if she was just asleep or if the moment was finally upon us. She lay there grunting for a moment and then laid her head down in the straw. My heart pounding, I slipped out of bed and crouched beside her, sliding my hand carefully down her haunch. As I sat there in the dim light I heard a soft whoosh - her water had broken. This was it. I put aside my excitement and got ready for action.

Quietly making my way over to the pile of supplies, I put on a waist pouch filled with the essentials and used the intercom to call back to the house. I crept back to sit behind Dora and she lifted her head giving me a soft, welcoming nicker.  With her tail pulled to the side, I could see a balloon of silvery grey material starting to protrude and a foot soon appeared, still wrapped in its slippery wrapping. I carefully slid my hand inside her to check for the other foot. It was right where it was supposed to be - good - no need to call in the vet yet. A few more pushes and I could see a nose. On the next push the rest of the head appeared. She rested for a moment and then with a great heave, he was here.

I looked over my shoulders and saw Carm standing there - the sparkle of tears in both of our eyes reflected the wonder of what had just happened. 

I quickly broke open the sac and cleared his nose so he could take his first breath - right in my lap - I gulped back the rise of emotion and got back to work. Listening to his soft, rhythmic breaths I pulled the amniotic sac back and started rubbing him dry. A gnawing question burned in my mind - colt or filly - so I slipped my hand underneath him and discerned that it was a boy. I felt a flash of disappointment - I had been hoping for a filly - but the feeling quickly passed. Dora rested on her straw bed, gaining the strength to expel the last of the pregnancy.  After a few minutes, she struggled to her feet and the afterbirth slipped from her body. I sighed with relief - all had gone well.

She turned to us, me on the floor with her new foal on my lap, and helped me dry him off.  Once that was done, I started the first phase of imprinting him,  a lengthy procedure to ready him for a life with humans. I started by touching him everywhere, until he was relaxed with each touch. Then, I gently moved his head and legs continuing until there was no resistance. I finished by rubbing a crinkly plastic bag over his body and around his legs and head. After the last plastic bag was ruffled over his head, I clambered to my feet to give the mare and foal a chance to bond.

Caught in the spell of the miracle of life, Carm and I held hands while watching the foal scramble to take his important first steps. We held our breath each time he tottered on his unsteady legs and groaned when he crashed back to the floor. It was impossible to hold back and soon we were cushioning his falls and helping him to balance against us. He soon got the hang of it and started searching for his first milk. Dora nudged him into place, nickering encouragement as he searched her belly for the nectar of life. As he suckled, I could feel her pleasure at having completed such a grand feat.

Once he had figured out his feet, and gotten his fill of milk, I went back to the house to change, but didn't linger there. Back at the barn, where all my hopes and dreams lie in a pile of straw, I sat down beside the sleeping foal, caressing his soft fur, marvelling in the perfect form.  I got up and wrapped my arms around Dora's neck, burying my face in her plush fur, and thanked her for the gift.  I'm not ashamed to say that I shed a few tears. 

For as long as I could remember I had the dream of breeding Norwegian Fjord horses. It was a fantasy that I never believed would be possible, one that I was sure would require the funding of 649. Then I met Pat Wolfe and sat in the sleigh behind his two geldings with their butter coloured haunches and fancy black stripe. My eye could not get enough of them, and moved me to increase my efforts to make my dream come true. Two years later, after searching high and low for Canadian breeders, I had my mare, Dora. The first step of my dream had come true. And with that exquisite, wobbly legged colt, I was well on my way to living the life that I had desired.

~

WYL #26 Change

This is last weeks writing project – re-written. The version that I read to the group was… well… boring. This might not be much better! Sometimes it is hard not to do technical writing! I wasn’t a technical writer by trade, but did my fair share of it anyway…

~

No matter how many times I stood there cranking the dial through the few TV stations we had,  none of them had anything good on. It always came down to the same choices: Bewitched, the Brady Bunch, or the Beverly Hillbillies. When 6pm rolled around there was only news which was both boring and scary. Now, with a remote in hand, I sit in my chair and flip through hundreds of specialty stations devoted to food, home building, sports, news, documentaries - the list is endless. And still there never seems to be anything on.

When I was young I had a radio that was the size of a deck of cards, with a long antenna that telescoped out. There were a few years that I carried that box of transistors with me all the time. Out of its crackly speakers would spew forth the pop music of the 70s. A few memories are indelibly written in my brain, cued by the first few bars a song first heard on that little radio.

In one of these memories I was sitting with some friends in my tent listening to the radio - Magic by Pilot was playing. Just hearing the first few lines of  "Ho, ho, ho It's magic, you know" transports me back as if I were in a time machine. If I close my eyes I can smell the mustiness of the canvas tent, and feel the hot, heavy air that was trapped inside.

Another time travel moment is spurred by 'Uncle Albert' - then, I am whisked to the street leading from our house, up to Portage Avenue in Winnipeg. I can picture the uneven cement sidewalk (don't step on a crack or you'll break your mothers back) with the giant Elms arching overhead, and my friends talking and singing along. While I loved the that little transistor radio, I was at the mercy of the radio station, unable to cue my own songs.

Then, for Christmas in 1974, I got a boom box - a large boxy radio/cassette player. (for those that don't know, a cassette is a bit of plastic covering two reels with delicate tape spooled between them which is sometimes eaten by the player for lunch). I loved being able to play my own tapes whenever I wanted - the first two I got: a mix of 70s hits, and 10cc, an alternate rock group, were soon worn out from over-play. I still know the words to all of the songs off by heart!  The player was usually plugged into the wall, but could be untethered if I had a constant supply of expensive batteries. I'm pretty sure that my parents had ulterior motives for this gift as it kept me tucked away in my bedroom and not subjecting them to the noise of modern music!

By the 2000s technology had advanced to an mp3 player that fit in the palm of my hand. It could be carried where ever I wanted (it even went all the way to NZ), and stored enough music for several days of non-stop listening. The technology may have changed, but my dancing around the room, singing out loud hasn't!

Back in grade school, I peeked at the back of my scribbler to get the answer for one of my times tables. I just couldn't memorize the numbers, they all jumbled in my head, or worse yet caused a complete blank out. When I got to high school we started using basic calculators and then the Texas Instrument scientific calculator made its debut. The technology may have improved, but I still don't know my times tables!

My initiation into real computing power started in 1981 when I started working. First there was a mainframe computer that took up the floor of an office tower. We used dumb terminals and punch cards (google it!) to send commands.  I remember reading a 1981 Popular Science article that said someday the whole of the Encyclopedia Britannica would be stored in a hard drive the size of a grapefruit - it was absurd! Impossible! In fact, by 2014 it can be stored on something the size of a thumbnail! I get chills just thinking about it.

By the mid 80s, the first PCs made their way to the tops of our desks. Even though they had not much more computing power than a modern toaster, they helped us make huge strides in productivity.

The advent of the internet put information beyond our wildest dreams at our fingertips. My first search was for Alex, an African Grey Parrot being trained to identify objects with words. There he was, right on my screen - I was hooked. In the beginning searches didn't always turn up many hits, but it was exciting to see the encyclopedia of information grow - by the 2000s you were sure to find anything you were looking for (and some things you weren't). The internet is part of my everyday life: finding new recipes, looking up technical manuals, learning about new things - I'd go into serious withdrawal with it.

Summer skies are not the only places to find clouds - the world of the internet has them too. Imagine a data store available to anyone with internet access and you have a cloud. Applications like Goggle calendar make it possible for me to share calendar entries between my own computer and tablet. Even more amazing I can share them with Carm and even my parents, or anyone else for that matter. Before the cloud I would chafe with impatience about managing file versions across devices. I liked to edit documents on my laptop and my tablet, and keeping the versions sorted was a headache. Enter the cloud. I no longer had to manage versions - the cloud did it for me. Thrilling!

Computers weren't the only technology to proliferate during those years. Digital cameras first made a tentative arrival in 2001, with initial quality being not so great. After a few years of improvements, my film cameras were shoved into the basement, and a digital one was slung around my neck. Taking scads of photos, and being able to grab the best ones to include on my website was a boon - newborn foals soon cavorted in cyberspace.

I think I must have been born a gadgeteer as nothing makes me happier than a new piece of technology! I entered my 50s with technology for listening to music, taking pictures, searching the internet, and writing documents (this!). It is unusual for me to go a full day without my fingers on a keyboard. I am addicted!

~

Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.

~Arthur C. Clarke

WYL #25 Generation to Generation

This was much longer when I first finished it, but once I started reading it outloud I realized that it was far too long to read at the writing group. Someday I’ll use the extra detail about my trip to Jordan to write a story just about that. The other stuff will be used somewhere down the line. This was a fun story to write!

~

It was 1974 and my family, along with my grandfather, were on our way from where we had been living in England to Norway, with a few sightseeing stops along the way.

As we neared our first destination, small cars zipped around our pumpkin coloured station wagon, impatient with our seemingly slow transit as we moved through the busy city streets. Dad eventually found our hotel in the labyrinth of roads that make up old Paris and we rushed to check in so that we could explore the city on foot.

First stop - the Eiffel tower. The criss-cross of iron decorating the skyline with its imposing elegance was magnificent to us prairie bumpkins. We made our way up to the viewing platform, an aerie in the heavens with a multi dimensional map of Paris unfolded below it. We gawked and gawked, enchanted with the view. Once back on earth, my Grandfather started looking for a souvenir shop: the Eiffel tower in all her glory must be remembered! Not far from the foot of the tower was a little stand with replicas from the size of my pinkie to ones well over a foot tall. Perhaps thinking his eyesight might fail someday, Grandpa bought the biggest of the lot, a towering statue sure to dominate any shelf.

Back at the hotel room, the ribbing started. Oh, how my Dad teased Grandpa about his treasured souvenir. He talked of the hole Grandpa would have to make in the shelf back home to make room for the lofty structure. It was when Grandpa started trying to pack it in his suitcase that we all fell on the floor in fits of giddy laughter. He might have to cut a hole in his suitcase too!

Fifteen years later, in 1989, I was watching the world pass beneath me from 30,000ft. My Dad was beside me and we were on our way to Jordan. Dad was teaching a course there for a few days and I was lucky enough to accompany him.

As soon as we settled into our hotel we headed out with a street map in hand. The street scene was not North American - donkey's pulling small carts, and camels with large bundles were led by Arab men in flowing white robes.  Small shops brimming with colourful goods lined the roads and narrow alleys. The tall, narrow spires of minarets punctuated the skyline, amplifiers for other-worldly chanting could be heard no matter where we were, reminded us of our exotic location. It was all so wonderful and we wanted to capture it forever - a simple memento would not suffice. A camel blanket, horse blanket, woven camel hair bridle and reins, leather stools to be stuffed when we got home, painted wooden dolls and traditional tribal jewellery all made their way back to the hotel room.

One of the Indiana Jones movies was re-lived when we took a trip to Petra. Perched atop old horses, we made our way down the narrow canyon that leads to the treasury. As we squeezed our way between the cliff walls, I wondered, if, after so much anticipation, seeing the actual treasury would be a let down. It wasn't. The rose pink facade glowed as if lit from a sun within. Camels and their men stood about the square with the dust of two thousand years at their feet. My breath caught in my throat and a few tears pricked at my eyes.  It was spectacular. A trinket would never capture the experience, but we got a few anyway.

Our trip was over all too quickly and it was time to pack up to go home. Eying our piles of souvenirs we started laughing - how were we going to fit this excess into our already straining bags! We each stuffed, and squeezed, mashed and wedged, and finally resorted to brute force to pack away our treasures We looked at each other and memories of that evening in Paris made us laugh so hard that tears rolled off our faces. We were both just like Grandpa.

~

WYL #24 Golden Years

The poster sized calendar hung prominently on my drab office wall, black X's blocking off all but the remaining working days. On my computer a 'days to go' message flashed every morning. No one needed to ask if I was looking forward to retirement.

I did feel some angst about leaving - this had been my life for almost 30 years, so much of myself was wrapped up in the computer systems and data in them. My core beliefs about managing data were mirrored in the work that I had done and there was no one that cared as passionately about the job than me. In some ways it felt like I was leaving a loved one. On the other hand, I couldn't leave soon enough. Thirty years of struggling to get people to do the right thing had taken its toll. It was time.

It was the day after Christmas and you could have fired a cannon down the halls. I wasn't keen on a public tearful goodbye and had chosen the day carefully. That morning I ran around from place to place getting sign offs and handing in equipment. Each stop felt surreal - I didn't believe it was finally happening, surely someone was going to jump out to say it was all a joke. Finally, a quiet lunch with my boss and I was out of there, carrying the last of my possessions in a box. Walking down the hallway to the elevator, my feelings swung between euphoria and a sadness at seeing that part of my life end. I'd been there for almost 30 years and overall it had been good. At the end of the hall I turned around to look back, thinking that if I never saw those drab beige walls again I would be happy.

The pleasures of a life not dictated by frustrated clients and broken software weren't long in coming. Waking up when I woke up was nirvana. No more 5am alarm clock to brashly start my day. Drab beige walls were replaced by windows bright with winter sun. Snow storms were enjoyed from the comfort of my sofa, with a hot beverage in hand, and a fire roaring in the fireplace, and not on icy roads in rush hour traffic. I wasn't frazzled.

Like a road untravelled, the future lay before me. I could do anything I wanted or nothing at all. I did both.  I had started a blog the month before retiring and this was one of my new daily activities. It was hard work at first, and a good substitute to all those hours at the office. I may have retired from my job, but I was still addicted to my computer, only now I was doing what I wanted!

Summer arrived with new pleasures. We had purchased our camper a few years earlier, but now it no longer sat lonely in the laneway week after week, instead we dragged it around from place to place, enjoying new scenery, enjoying our freedom.

As the months wore on I started to feel a need for a new goal, something that would engage my mind and imagination. Crafts aren't my thing (although I wish they were) and camping can only take up so much time. I have my blog, but it is limited in scope. My new hobby became improving our health and fitness. I spent hours on the internet looking for vegan recipes, and even more time at the kitchen chopping board.

Now and again I look back with regret at dreams that had to be given up, ones that would have come to fruition in my retirement years, but I only allow myself a few moments of reflection, before turning my thoughts back to what might be, instead of what can no longer be. The possibilities are endless.

~

We too can begin a new life, one that brings satisfaction and enrichment, whether this is by singing, dancing, running through the waves, walking barefoot on the grass or making love under the stars. Perhaps your dreams are greater than this, or perhaps more conservative, but whatever they are, Beltane is a wonderful time for expressing who you truly are. ~ Carole Carlton