Ida Linehan Young's Blog, page 2

A writer and a singer pass each other on the road: Me and Ed Sheeran

Today, EdSheeran and my mother taught me a lesson in looking back. As groundwork, I am attending awriting retreat in Clifden on the West Coast of Ireland. Funny thing is, Ididn’t come here to write, really, but instead maybe to find a story, orinspiration, or something that I didn’t know I needed. Day one, I’m gettingcloser.

So, whatdoes Ed Sheeran have to do with this? Well, after spending the morning with abunch of writers and reflecting on life, stories, etc. and thinking of mymother, I decided, since I had nothing to write in the afternoon, I’d challengemyself to a nice long walk.

I didn’tknow how it would go because I hadn’t been walking except for the off and onodd time that I’d go for 20 minutes or so, but nothing like the “go big or gohome” notion that I had in that moment. I packed my backpack with water and myroom key, a few tissues and set out to find Clifden Castle and the great lookout.

I startedon a hill, simply because I had to go left and left entailed hill. I did okay,took my time and made it to the top. My heart and lungs were in symphony withthe elements. Or perhaps that was my illusion, because in reality, there wouldhave to be a hurricane on for that to be true.

On a flatstretch I heard footsteps behind me and looked back. Having a writer brain, Ibelieved it was better to look a serial killer in the eye before you die andyou can somehow bring holy hell on him if you should die, or maybe said serialkiller might change his mind once they made a personal connection or eyecontact.

No, I don’talways think of serial killers when somebody walks behind me in a strange land,but moments before I had noted all the large gate posts had four standingstones on top – assuming it was for north, south, etc., but I came to a cottagethat had large round stones on top of the gate posts that didn’t fit with thepicture. To that, I thought maybe I’d ask somebody if they were out in theyard. But, like you never know, it could be a serial killer’s house so that gaveme pause. But there was a patio umbrella. Did serial killers have patioumbrellas? I was working up the courage to cross the road when in the nextstep, I saw vans in the back yard that gave serial killer vibes so I just kepton going intent on not making eye contact with anyone in the yard. I had justescaped the grip of a serial killer – yes my mind works like that.

So that setme up to think of serial killers when I spotted the man behind me. I turnedagain going forward and he was instantly beside me. “Good afternoon,” he said.“Beautiful day.”

Did serialkillers really start with that. I figured I give him a chance. I could alwaysuse the throat punch move if he had ill intentions. Saying that, I am obviouslyoverstating any bravado I might have should the situation really arise.

Anyway, theyoung man looked familiar. He had a red beard, and over his hat he waslistening to music on really expensive headphones. Serial killers didn’t pay alot for such things. “Beautiful day indeed,” I replied as I sized him up tryingto figure out where the familiar was coming from.

He hadlifted the earpiece from one side. “I’m going to the look out,” I said. Then Itried not to give away my regret for saying that because he could go there andlay in wait for me because serial killers were crafty like that.

“Good foryou,” he said. “Me too.” So, I realized he’d made an assessment of my abilitiesin his “good for you” tone that was off putting in a way if I were somebodywho’d be offended by such a thing. Maybe I could see it as encouragementinstead.

“Enjoy yourwalk,” I said. He nodded and left. Now I was able to get my bearings. As heleft I thought of Ed Sheeran. That was who I’d been speaking to. Ed Sheeran wason the road. Darn, I missed the opportunity to get a picture with him. But hedeserved his privacy, and it was kind of him to say hello to me on the road.And he didn’t really have a tone. That was on me.

As Icontinued, there were several places to get off the road, paths to take and Iwasn’t sure how far the “look out” was, so I followed Ed, who stayed in myperiphery for a long time. I took some snaps and continued in my plod towardthe lookout which, at every turn and hilltop I was expecting to see.

By and by,Ed was out of sight, and I stopped to take a drink rather than trying to catch him.There were times he didn’t travel too fast, I doubted he was lingering so Icould follow him, and he’d have to come back, after all. But, writer brain, hecould be luring me to my death.

I digress.I laid the backpack on the rock wall to get my water bottle. I looked over. Belowme was Clifden Castle. I would not have seen it if I didn’t stop. Ed wassending me a message about paying attention to what was around me and not beingso focused on the end point that I miss important stuff. Thanks, Ed, understood.

I took somepictures, admired the view, and packed away my water bottle. I decided to keepgoing. I didn’t want to go back yet as my heart and lungs were becomingacclimatized to the distance and had settled. It was truly a beautiful day. Then,I came to a fork in the road and there was no sign of a lookout sign.

I chose thecoastal route. Ed crossed my mind. Which way would he have gone? Too late now,he was out of sight. Maybe, I had escaped a serial killer with my chosen path. Curiositykicked in now that I didn’t have Ed distracting me. Several times I saw a turnand wanted to see what was on the other side. Scenery was unbelievable. I saw asign that told me to be cautious of the bull, which I figured was an allegoryfor life. That made me smile.

Then Ithought of my mother and how she would have loved to be here. I wore mittensshe had knit, a purposeful take to Ireland because it was a place she’d alwayswanted to go. What would she want me to know? A blackberry thorn grabbed mymitten and stopped me. I looked out over a castle, the gorgeous ocean, thescenery, everything was just awesome. My writer brain zinged again and thoughtof what I’d seen by looking back, and by just simply looking. Was she tellingme that while it was good to look forward, there was also something to belearned and brought into the present by looking back. The castle had beenthere, I would have missed it by going forward, focusing on nothing else but EdSheeran. But the castle would be there whether I’d seen it or not. That’s thething about things you don’t appreciate or regrets you have for things youhaven’t seen. They are there anyway, with or without you.

I looked atthe hitch and realize we live a life of hitches. Mending them might be alooking back thing, a looking forward thing, but the hitch would have changedthe stitching no matter what way I looked. It was a beautiful hitch. Myfavourite colour had been pulled out. The hitch had happened, I could mend itif I wanted, and leave it as a reminder of that moment. Maybe I would. Twobeautiful memories of Mom and a gorgeous day. We often laughed at the scrapesshe got into of which this was definitely not one, but reminded me of thosemoments. That’s the thing about the little worries and disruptions, in therear-view mirror, they’re not that bad and are sometimes funny if you want themto be.

I had achat with a couple of ponies, a couple of donkeys, and then a lady and a dogmade their way toward me. I asked her about the lookout, the official one,because up to then everything I looked out over was stunning in an unofficialway. She confirmed I should have taken the other route and, though it was aloop, it would be long after dark when I got back if I had the energy to goaround. My mind did want to keep going, but reality said differently. I went tothe next turn and planned on going back. There was Ed, again. Making his waytoward me.

He stoppedand chatted. He’d been to Canada recently. I won’t give up his secrets because theyare his to disclose. We said our goodbye’s and off he went. He obviously didn’trecognize me (laugh really hard out loud). But, I let him go ahead a few stepsbefore I turned around and followed him to Abbyglen.

Before toolong, he was out of sight. I enjoyed the views on the way back. I thought ofMom. I saw things I didn’t notice in my going. That’s the thing aboutperspective. You go with what you go with at the time. I believe she walkedwith me. I felt her presence. I felt her peace. I felt a “letting go” of sorts.A past can’t be changed kind of thing where any regrets should be left, lessonsare all you can bring forward. I felt her kindness mirrored in me. I thankedher for being such a meaningful part of all that I am and all that I hope tobecome under her influence.

And then Edappeared again. Out of nowhere he passed me on the other side of the road. He’daccompanied me, being there when I needed him as a guide. He’d let me go as Iwalked back to Abbyglen. I could find the rest of my way alone. Thanks Ed.Thanks Mom. Message received.

Two hour walk, lots of pictures and inspiration. Writer brain engaged - maybe overactive. Writing is a cure for that.

Day two,what’s ya got?

 

 

 

Santa's Birds

Reuban sighed and smiled at Michelle. “Our firstwinter together and it’s quite the doozie,” he said.

“It sure is,” she chirped as she snuggled closer. “Youpicked a fine place for our nest, Reuban.”

Reuban stretched his head over the mat of dried twigsand grasses to peek at the barn below. The eave of Santa’s barn had been hisfamily’s home for years. This year, his father passed the role as official barnwren to Reuban. Then his parents and grandparents decided to holiday down south.They packed their bags and left a month before. Reuban happily picked a spotthree rafters from their homes and made plans. Michelle’s family inhabited thewoodshed in the distance. It had been a short courtship. He looked forward tospring and having chicks of their own. But his first duty as barn wren was to clearstray grains and seeds from the seams between the floorboards to keep thereindeer barn clean.

The barn was hardly busy at all, and this troubled him.He guessed it was the storm. The reindeer stomped about for the first few daysbut had been listless and quiet of late. Reuban overheard Santa say the hay wasburied in the granary under mounds of snow.

Reuban watched as Santa laid a fistful of oats in eachof the troughs. “Sorry, there’s not more,” he murmured as he patted andsmoothed his hand along the animals’ faces.

Reuban watched then turned to Michelle. “I’ll be rightback,” he said. He flew to Santa and pitched on his shoulder. “What about thenests? Could you use them?” Reuban said quickly. “Or I could fly to the granaryand bring hay.” He hopped from foot to foot eager to help Santa.

Santa gave a pensive smile. “Oh, Reuban, you’re alwayslooking out for us. We’ll save the nests for now. Though it’s a nice gestureand the reindeer would appreciate it, you’re too little to bring enough hay to dothem. Besides the storm is ferocious.” Santa didn’t have the usual jolly laughthat accompanied his words. “The storm has to let up soon. Now go back to yournest and stay warm. Here’s a few grains of oats for you and Michelle.”

“Oh, Santa, we shouldn’t.”

He nodded and held out his mitten with eight grains onit. Reuban was reluctant but Santa was insistent. The reindeer urged him toaccept the oats. Reuban brought them to Michelle, and they ate half and savedthe others.

By the ninth day the storm moved out. Reuban peeredout from the crack where the roof joined at the peak. The moon and northernlights flooded the white expanse in extraordinary colours. Even the trees wereburied and didn’t break the white canvas.

Santa and the elves were out at dawn and got busyshoveling. “We must hurry,” Santa said. “Christmas will be cancelled this yearif we don’t make good time.”

“What’s the matter?” Reuban asked when he pitched onSanta’s cap. The jolly old man wasn’t so jolly.

“I’m afraid the reindeer won’t be strong enough tomake the Christmas Eve flight. They need several days to gain their strengthonce we get to the hay.” Santa indicated all the snow they had to clear. “We’llbe days getting to it as it is.”

“What can I do, Santa?”

“Oh, my feathery friend, I’m afraid there is nothingfor you to do. We may just have to cancel Christmas. We have no choice.”

“But Santa, Christmas has never been cancelled. Whatabout all the little boys and girls?”

“My heart is breaking. But, with the reindeer magicalmost gone, they won’t be strong enough in time to make the journey. Why thelists haven’t even arrived for the elves to start packing the sleigh.” Santabowed his head and scooped snow from the mound.

“What about your magic?” Reuban asked.

“When the reindeer magic is weak, so is mine.” Santashook his head. “I’ve never had a storm last so long as to have to cancelChristmas. Until now, I suppose.”

“Santa, if you had the lists do you think you couldsave Christmas?” Reuban asked as a thought formed in his head.

Santa stroked his beard and gave a side long glancetoward the Northern Lights. His chin bobbed as if he were counting in the sky.Then he shook his head. “There is just no time. We’ll be days at this, and thendays before the reindeer are on the mend, and then days again before they cancollect the lists, and get them back here in time.”

“But if you had the lists?” Reuban said again, hisvoice urgent.

“Yes, it is possible. It would save us a week or more.But I don’t see a way.” Santa went back to shoveling.

Reuban flew to the barn and to Michelle. “I have tosave Christmas,” he said.

“What?”

He repeated his words with surety.

“What’s wrong with Christmas?”

Reuban told Michelle the predicament.

“How can you save it?”

“I’m going to get the Christmas lists of all the boysand girls who are expecting presents this year.” Reuban eyes were big andbright. “I’ll bring them back for Santa and the elves. By then the reindeerwill be strong enough to fly.”

“Oh, Reuban. I can’t let you go alone. If you go, I’llgo.” Before Reuban could protest, Michelle said, “You’re not asking and I’m notlet you go alone.”

Reuban nodded. They flew to Donner who was dozing inhis pound. Reuban cleared his throat and Donner opened his eyes. Reubanexplained what he wanted to do.

Donner’s weakness came through in his voice as he explainedhow the reindeer flew around the world and collected names of children who wereon the Naughty and the Nice List for Santa.

“There are a few strands of magic left in my hair. Theshiniest ones still have magic. That will help you. Take them.” Donnerindicated three sparkly hairs near his ears.

“But if we take them, then you won’t get well.” Reubansaid as he shook his head.

“I would do that to save Christmas,” Donner said.

“Why don’t you take one or two from each of us,”Blitzen said from the next stall.

Reuban gazed at the others, and they all nodded andsnorted, including Donner. Reuban and Michelle collected some magic hair fromeach of the reindeer. Michelle helped tuck the strands beneath the feathers of Rueban’swings and he did the same for her.

Reuban flapped his wings and zipped toward the loft.“Careful,” Donner called. “That little bit of magic for us is more powerful foryou.”

Reuban floated toward them. “I see through the woodwithout a window,” he said in wonderment. “There are maps in my mind.”

“Mine, too.” Michelle said.

“I don’t know how long reindeer magic will last onbirds,” Donner said. “This was never tried before. Be careful.”

“We will,” they said in unison.

“Now, I guess we better tell Santa,” Reuban said. Thereindeer urged them to eat a few oats from the corner of the feeder beforewishing them luck. They believed they’d be well when Reuban and Michellereturned. Reuban told them about the shoveling progress outside and assured thereindeer that they would be on the mend real soon.

Santa was worried about the pair and gave them furtherinstructions on what he needed and about the deadline for saving Christmas.Santa and the elves needed four days at minimum to get the sleigh ready withpresents wrapped and sorted. With all the snow, they were already off toy duty,though the storm had allowed them to get enough toy making done for this year.

The wrens were going to save Christmas. The two littlebirds leapt from Santa’s shoulder and headed south. They flew for a whole daywithout getting tired and met the sun somewhere over Canada.

They stopped to eat and rest at a barn. The animalswere friendly, so Reuban and Michelle told them what they were doing. Birdsgathered in the rafters and asked if they could help.

A map appeared in Reuban’s mind. He cracked off a hairand tucked it into the wings of one bird and sent it west, then another andsent it east with the understanding they would all meet back at the barn oncethey had accomplished their task. This barn would be the last stop beforeReuban and Michelle went back to the North Pole.

After the rest, the pair’s wings were stronger as theycontinued south. Birds flocked to them to give them assistance and Reuban andMichelle sent them out in all directions. Though they were depleting the magichair, Reuban believed it would serve them better. Their wings were getting stronger,and they’d save one magic hair each for the return. They were delighted thateveryone wanted to be part of their mission to save Christmas.

Their families heard of their escapades and came tohelp. They accompanied Reuban and Michelle to the South Pole and on the return.They stopped on wires, roofs, and fences, and collected names of children.These were added to a list that stayed dry and hidden beneath Reuban’s wing.Other birds returned to them from faraway places and added names. Some hadheard of Reuban and Michelle and helped the birds who were helping them. Themagic of sharing and caring multiplied. There were millions of birds everywheretaking names for Santa.

The barn in Canada was the last stop before the longflight into darkness to the North Pole. Animals gathered and watched as the birdsexchanged names and Reuban wrote the last little girl named Elizabeth on thelist.

“Wait,” came a voice of a sparrow just flying in. “Ididn’t know if I’d make it in time. I have names.”

Reuban and Michelle eyed one another. “How many daysto Christmas,” Reuban asked the gathering.

“Five days,” said the cow.

“Do you think we’ve missed anyone?” Michelle asked.

“Maybe we should wait until morning,” Reuban said.“That way we’ll be certain not to leave anyone out. We can’t just saveChristmas for some; we have to save it for all.”

During the night, several owls arrived. They hadtransferred names from others when it came upon dark. “We’re so glad to catchyou.”

By morning, Reuban and Michelle felt a sense ofurgency. The animals wished them luck and the pair flew north, drew by someenchantment they couldn’t explain.

As they neared the barn, they saw reindeer prancinghigh above the rooftops. Reuban suddenly grew tired, and his wings wouldn’tanswer the call to fly. He’d lost his magic hair.  He began to move closer to the treetops abovethe crusty snow. Michelle saw Reuban struggle. She shouted for the reindeer,but they were frolicking and couldn’t hear her.

She guided Reuban to the nearest snow mound andimmediately flew off to the barn. Before long, help arrived, and Reuban hoppedon Donner’s back. The reindeer brought him to Santa while the others caperedaround them.

“Reuban! Michelle! You made it,” Santa said as heplaced the birds on his mittens. Reuban lifted his wing and the list unfoldedand rolled out onto the path.

One of the elves gathered it up and ran toward theshop. Reuban tilted sideways and Santa cupped him in his palm. “That was aheavy load for one small bird.” Santa’s jolly laugh made Reuban smile.

“Did we save Christmas?” Reuban asked.

“You sure did,” Santa said. “As you spread thereindeer magic throughout the land, the reindeer recovered. Much quicker than Iexpected. Seems like your sharing and selflessness was what we all needed.”

Santa smoothed a finger across Reuban’s feathers and inspectedhis wings. The tips glittered like the reindeer hair. “Your wings have magicnow. Seems like it only lasts a little while because you shared it so widely.Likely you spread the magic to all the birds. I’ll have lots of help from nowon as Christmas gets closer.”

“What do you mean?” Reuban asked after Santa gave hima drink of water.

“Looks like you, Reuban, and you, Michelle, are thefirst of Santa’s birds. If I’m right, every year I’ll depend on birds to bringme the names of children who have been good. The reindeer can get their restfor the big night and the birds can check on the boys and girls.”

“So, we can do it again next year?” Reuban asked, hisenergy perking at the thought.

“If you want. It will sure make old Santa’s lifeeasier.” Reuban and Michelle nodded eagerly. “Now, I’ll lay you in your nestfor a much-needed rest. Then, I’m afraid I have to get busy.”

“Thank you, Santa.”

“No, thank you Reuban. You saved Christmas.”

When Memories Come in Orange, Green, and Red.

This is a TANG morning; I can taste it and smell itand feel it and think it back from memory. I'm also thinking about home-madebread toast. The bread made from scratch, dough cracking, wholesome warmkitcheny, bread-bakingy scent that reminds me it is something that I haven'thad in about 20 years. Now with these thoughts I'm also wishing there was acure for Celiac too, even for a day, because I'd be lined up by Mary Browns fora center breast and taters, or maybe three or four. But, I digress.

Remember that delicious cocktail of chemicals andsugar that tasted like orange juice when mixed with the right amount of water. Idon’t mean when times were poorer than most and you were trying to spare it andhad to water it down, but when you could get the full effect of three cups ofwater to one package. Then, that was times three because there were two other envelopesin the Tang bag.

When I watch the Tropicana and Minute Madecommercials and see all the oranges jammed inside each bottle, I wonder wasthere ever even an orange considered for Tang beyond the artificial flavour. Nowat the time we knew very little about oranges, being only fortunate enough to geta half an orange for Christmas. But that little was enough to know I reallyliked the taste, artificial or real.

Freshie was also another less popular treat, notbecause of the taste, but because you had to add your own sugar. So, althoughthe tiny chemically filled pack of Freshie cost much less, the sugar needed athome was a deciding factor. And if you didn't add the 8 cups of sugar to the 2-pintjug, it was awful. Like really awful. Green Freshie was my favourite, I neverknew if it was because of the lime per se because we had never seen, let aloneeaten a lime. Freshie, no matter the flavour, was also something that neededgreat care in the mixing, because one bit of the contents would stay on yourfingers for days if you were unlucky enough to touch the powder, especiallywith wet or damp hands. It also made a great colorant for home grown playdoughwhich, for some reason, I can't remember how to make.

In the summer especially, we’d get the green (alime would be insulted to call it lime) Freshie and fill the jug from the wellhouse. Mom would be baking raisin buns, the name stuck even though they couldbe with or without the raisins, and when they were pulled out of the oven, I’dput aside a few and pour a cap of watery icing sugar on a couple, and streelthem to the top of the hill behind the house. There in the tall grass with thebees minding their own business but keeping us on edge, we’d break out theplastic glasses and fill them to the brim with the cold green liquid and picnicon the warm buns and cool lime taste. A breeze in the trees and sure it wasparadise. It was essentially, a summertime ade.

At Christmas, Nanny would have the Purity Syrup,and on occasion there may have been a bottle at the house. That was hands downmy favourite because I knew what a raspberry was, had picked them numeroustimes on the ridge where Dad had cut wood, and they were my favourite berry.You could never duplicate or replace Purity Syrup for the taste. Delicious.Though there wasn’t one raspberry harmed in its making. Hello artificialflavour.

However, getting back to the Tang, not only did ittaste great, cold with hot toast dipped in and an oil slick skim of butterforming on the top, it could also clean the inside of your kettle. So, with allthe talk of cleanses these days, I bet you that the TANG did the trick. Now I supposeI'll have a slice of warmed cardboard (non-artificial but the look and feel andtaste would make you believe it) with a hint of butter and a drop of water formy breakfast and dream of a cure of Celiac. If I think hard enough about it, itwill happen. But there are worse things than Celiac to torment a person, I canwait.

 

Cowboys and Indians - Dare I Write It?

Once upon a time, in a land not far away, in a time not so long ago, a bunch of kids got together to play outside. Regularly. So regularly, it was daily. Numbers predicated on the weather conditions. Yes, that was a reality.   

When we were young,we played Cowboys and Indians, or Cops and Robbers, in the spruce nap (or woods, or thicketfor the non-nap-understanders) on the hill behind the house. When I say"we", it was the collective "we" of the young crowd in thecommunity, forty, fifty, or sixty youngsters from toddlers to teens, girls and boys, loosein the woods just behind our family’s back fence for hours on end, summer mostly, but often in winter.

We were alwaysworried about a counting equality so we would do half and half of whoever waspresent and the choice of the leader of the day determined if you were the goodguy cowboy or cop, or the bad guy Indian or robber. You had no say unless you were the leader, but everybody got their turn at some point.

Living in St. Mary's Bay, we had no idea what the word Indian meant, nor cowboy for that matter though we did have horses around which was definitely a condition of employment for a cowboy. But I digress. I guess the early TVshows influenced the idea of the worth of the cowboy or the Indian and whereequality factored into that.

Television, for themost part, made us believe that an Indian was the bad guy just because he was born an Indian. Though, when we wore the hat or proverbial feathers of Indians onthe trail, I don’t recall feeling like a bad guy and believed we had a side to protect,and we wanted to win as a team. Unlike the westerns, sometimes, as Indians wedid win. It was really a game of tag - you were caught, herded, and congregated and the lastone standing made the team a winner.

We also got theidea of the cowboy being the good guys from the same westerns. But the ordinarycowboy was rarely the hero. It was the sheriff, or the lawmen, or the army,that came in and saved the day and sometimes were even fighting against cowboysnot just the Indians.

Generally speaking,John Wayne was rarely a plain old cowboy in any of the 9 million westerns thathe starred in. But he was always the hero, only being killed once that I recalland that was by plain old bad guy cowboys and not the dreaded bad Indians. Sometimesin the John Wayne movies there even got to be good Indians. Imagine. But, that sentimentdidn’t always shine through, nor was it as emblazoned on our minds.

When we played copsand robbers, the robbers always stole the play money from the bank. That’s howit repetitively started. The fortified structure made from pared sticks and wasdouble dutying as a bank and a jail stood out more than the regular boughstructures for the town dotting the trails along the hill. So as a robber, we knew we were bad,we did something wrong. We entered where we shouldn’t have, took the monopolymoney that wasn't ours, and went to jail for it if we were caught. As the cops,we were the good guys and were defending the property of somebody else. It wasclear - good and bad. Even in the picking, the cops seemed to always have thestronger team.

Cowboys and Indianswasn't so clear. We were bad just because we were Indians in the eyes of the cowboys. We didn't rob the bank. We just existed. So when we were the Indians being chased for the sake of being chased wedidn't feel like we were bad. But we ran. Some of us enjoyed the power of beingthe cowboy more than the subservience of the Indian but some wanted to be theIndian and tried harder to win. Not that it would change the course of history,but maybe it would.

Once the log jailhouse slash bank was constructed, our young minds gravitated to the nuance of Cops and Robbers - good and bad. It was easier to understand. 

I'm sure there issome lesson that I should learn from it. Maybe a person is not bad just becauseof who they are, or where they come from. I don’t know, that sounds too simpleto be true. 

Maybe we just have to run the trail in the woods behind the housewhile being chased by a passel of (toy) gun-toting cowboy wanna be's tounderstand that concept with a slathering of a misconstruedness of who we areand how the cowboy rose to become mightier.

Or maybe we justhave to be kind. Nothing else. Let’s try that. No woods running required.

 

Our People

 I strolledthrough the graveyard in North Harbour, a place I often like to visit,especially on my way to what we call “Graveyard Mass.” This is commonly heldoutdoors in the cemetery in celebration of the ones gone before us.

On thisparticular hot July evening full of biting bees, about seventy-five people ofall ages gathered for the Mass. As with all things, everyone was invited to the community hall afterwards for a cupof tea and a chat. This is all part of the coming together as a peopleconnected by common roots and the people we come from.

We comefrom people who worked hard, who fished, who tilled the soil, who built uponthe land, who hunted, who cut wood, who picked berries, who raised animals, andwho stayed. Our people saw more hungry month’s of March than prosperous years.They had no room for dreams for themselves. They lived meagerly, they saw poortimes, they made do, they cared, they shared, and they looked out for oneanother. Our people endured.

We comefrom people who bore famine and diseases of poverty, people who experienceloss, tragedy, still births, and young deaths. Our people went to war and cameback less than whole but went on. Our people kept the place alive throughhardship piled on hardship. Our people suffered.

We comefrom people who started again; who began to dream; who gathered and who spreadout, who left and who stayed and who returned; who hoped for better for theiroffspring, who believed in place, in family, and in love. Our people sang, theydanced, they played music, they played cards, they drank, they smoked, theyworshipped as a community. Our people recovered.

We comefrom people who were crooked and jovial, straightforward and honest, kind andwelcoming, sincere and heartfelt, sarcastic and funny, people who didn’t holdback but didn’t hold grudges. Our people picked others up and didn’t walk overthem. Our people had big families, who spread out and spread out again. We camefrom people who planted foundational seeds of something greater knowing they’dnever see the crop thrive but did it anyway because somebody belonged to themwould. Our people instilled.

We comefrom people who trudged, and eked, and toiled. Our people knit, and sewed, andhammered, and nailed. They created, at first because they had to, then becausethey wanted to. Our people sacrificed with gratitude, gave with humbleness, dividedwith integrity, and lived with pride and happiness for the generations they created.Our people lasted.

Our people createdpeople who went on to be community builders and leaders all over the world. Thekind of leaders that were trailblazers, entrepreneurs, teachers, professors, clerics,nurses, doctors, tradespeople, secretaries, presidents, CEOs, care givers, soldiers,administrators, seamen, captains, fisher people, and the list goes on. The kind of people that otherpeople wanted on their teams, in their companies, at their sides. Our people builtgood people.

Our peoplecreated people they would be proud of. People who returned to honour them andpay respects to their endurance, their fortitude, their suffering, theirfoundation, and their community. We pay tribute to that North Harbour gene andto being home, be it ever so humble, be it ever so powerful. 

We come from people who loved andwe are people who love because of them.

 

 

A hungry Celiac's Adventure in England and Scotland - Journal Day 1

Day 1 Heathrow Airport England to Inverness, Scotland.

How it wassupposed to go:

6:35 land

Collectbags

8:35 catchtrain to terminal 5 and end up in Inverness at suppertime.

Hold mybeer. How it went:

6:35 land –the only thing that matched

Waited forluggage for one hour then spoke to a nice gentleman about how I was going toget my luggage that was still in Toronto.

Leftterminal 2 via train shuttle to catch train at terminal 5

Delay oftrain coming into terminal 5 – it was delayed at terminal 2. All around thecircle.

Left terminal5, stopped at terminal 2 and then at Paddington Station where I had to get off.

FromPaddington Station I had to go to Kings Cross Station. Got directions for thetrain, went to the platform and got on. Unfortunately, it was going in the wrongdirection, so I had to get off, cross over the top and wait on the other side.That was the train wasteland because I was the only one there. Went in theright direction and got off at Kings Cross. Found the Northern Line like myticket said after going down three levels over one big old escalator, found outit wasn’t the right place and had to go up the other side on a big oleescalator.

By now Iwas wandering aimlessly in the bowels of London city streets where people weretelling me go up them stairs, take three rights and you are there. I did thatbut wherever there was, I wasn’t in it. I just want to say that “them” stairswere not like your average 12 step stair program, nope. They were like Dalai Lamaof steps with quotes on the right where you want to quit kind of step. Then I’dget to the top and somebody would send me back down again. As I approached theDalai Lama steps for the third time, I had a sudden sense of defeat mixed withfrustration and a dash of self-pity and I had the urge to shed a tear. But Isaid to myself, “that’s enough of that nonsense, look at where you are.” Isucked it up and went down the 200-foot escalator once more, sure that what Iwas looking for was down there.

I stoppedthis young girl who was looking at the train app. I asked her if I was in theright place to get the train to Inverness and this dude came to a halt andbacked up. “Lady, the trains are not down here. You are looking for the ones onthe ground.” What I didn’t know was put to me plainly and I followed hisdirections up and out past the Dali Lama to freedom and sunshine.

This iswhere this couple sent me up the side of a two-storey building (literally, thestone steps were on the side). Up there, the girl pointed to where I needed to be,and it wasn’t up them steps.

Finally,after almost two hours, I burst through the doors of the Kings Crossing TrainStation and into chaos. I made my way to the information booth and the gentlemanthere told me to come back up in 15 minutes and he’d have news for me. It wasmadness there, trains cancelled, delay, and people gathered watching the schedule.I went back up when the time was up and he told me the train wasn’t posted yetbut I could go to platform 2. I did. So did about five hundred others. Imanaged to get a seat by this time ahead of many of the people. The track wasbroke on the main line and everything had to be routed around it or through itusing one line but taking turns. We were going toward it. Luggage was piled upall around, people were on the floor, standing by the walls, children, adults,seniors, just blocked. People were angry about not getting seats, not gettingsomething to eat, etc. It was bad.

I thinkthere must have been a Murphy fellow who designed that train because everythingthat could go wrong (except for a head on collision but I digress) did gowrong. We stopped on the track for about 90 minutes as one train went throughthe bad spot, another came toward us, through it and then we were able to go.When we finally got through, another slower train with more stops got ahead ofus and we’d have to stop and wait to be able to pass the station. Finally, thatone went in a different direction but the railway put on another one toalleviate the mess of people waiting on the lines. She, too, made more stopsthan ours did so the trip to Edinburg was delayed in the end by 2.5 hours. Bythis time, all the trains going to Inverness from Edinburg were cancelled. Iwas in another pickle. There was another train that would bring me to a stationan hour away that still had a non-cancelled connection to Inverness. By 10 pm,I walked in through the doors of my hotel five hours later than planned.

I hadplanned to sit in first class with lots of room, keep to myself, do somewriting, but what I had planned didn’t come to fulfillment.

Whathappened instead was me really looking at the countryside. The burst of yellowcanola patches slivering and patching the land, the gorgeous green grass withthat fresh look of spring, the darker corn rows popping through the soil, thecleanliness of everything, and the list goes on.

The man whohelped me through the process of having my luggage sent to me thanked me forbeing nice. Imagine how easy it was to just be nice. I had a chat with twowoman who were so positive about the trip even though they were delayed. Theylaughed and carried on and made everyone’s mood lighter. There was this lady inthe wheelchair who shouted, I’ll see you all later and she meant it though mostlyeveryone never saw the sky over her before. The crowd of workers who keptcoming out of the dining car handing out chips, Pepsi, water, beer, sandwiches,cookies, etc. and cleaning up afterwards. They kept apologizing and keepingeveryone well informed of what was happening. The hum of chatter and peeks atconversations between strangers that was a pleasant accompaniment to alleviatingthe stress of the day and passing the time. The old man who got on at the wrongstation and the tired travelers who volunteered to give up their seats. Thelovely man and wife who chatted me through the last few hours on the way to Invernessand promised to do a drive by wave at Moniack Mhor sometime this week. Andfinally, when I got to the hotel, I had the most wonderful room. There’s even amural of a Newfoundland beach (well it could be kind of thing, but may not be)on the shower wall to make me feel at home. And to top it off, I asked if thekitchen was still open and the chef spoke up behind me and asked me what Iwanted. (PS I had no food on the train except for two small bags of chips andsome candy tots a woman left me when she was getting off). I said a sandwich wouldbe lovely if they had gluten free bread. When I got a chicken salad sandwich, salad,chips, dip and a ginger ale delivered to my room not fifteen minutes later. Andthere were many more positive things from the day. Instead of being sad, mad,and frustrated, I went with questions, opening my eyes, and that feeling I hadwhen I was down for just that minute, I can recreate that for a character in abook to come.

I don’twant to plan a regret; that's no fun for anyone. I want to live an adventure. Day 1 in England/Scotland,you weren’t so bad. I had sense enough to bring a change of clothes in my carryon and I’ll be just fine until my bags catch up with me. I have all week towrite. Lucky me. Hold my ginger ale. I'm allergic to beer.

 

Happy Mothers Day

Mothers Day was the invention of a card company ora flower company or a telephone company to make money. A business decision anda good one. Now it’s even expanded beyond the 24-hour celebration to be aweekend thing that starts sometime on Friday really and expands to midnight onSunday so that other companies can take advantage of the Mothers Day free forall spending spree. Even the weeks leading up to it are a frenzy of Mothers Dayspending activities as we try to show our love for mothers with “things”.

However, to a large percentage of the world’s population,we know that Mothers Day is every single day from the time we set our heartupon that little human until our death. Even then I think we carry on in adifferent way.

Being a mother starts with loving too fiercely andtoo tightly but all with the best intentions of loving someone through life,and then slowly letting the other person become their own and then letting go.But never fully letting go with our heart or our love, no matter what. That’smotherhood. That can’t be just a one-day thing, or a one weekend thing. Mothersknow this. But we’ll take a special day, make the companies rich, accept thegifts, just to ease the minds of our loved ones.

There’s a tiered system to motherhood, as well. Igot to the grandmother level a few years ago and boy am I learning lots. Now Iget to love somebody through loving somebody through life. Its like a favouritecake with icing all the time.

No matter what tier of motherhood I’m in, I’m stillpart of the village where one mother can rightly have the expectation foranother mother or mother by proxy to help her love fiercely when she thinks shecan’t love enough – to enfold her when she stumbles, to enfold her entirefamily, and to love them all through circling, and comforting, and guiding andagain always with the best intentions.

Being human, sometimes mothers stray the coursebecause it is long and hard and sometimes unforgiving. It’s a journey that sheundertakes with fear but always with love to do the best she can. Sometimesthat means letting go early and letting the village love.

A mother knows there is no right way to be amother. There is only the right love.

For those who are just starting the journey, youhave a village. Take advantage of the village, they’ll do right by you. You arenot alone. You are not on a path that nobody has trod before. You are a mom!You have a village of moms to accompany you even when you might think its justyou. Reach out early. Most importantly, trust yourself.

Not everyone chooses this path. Not everyone wantsthis path. Not everyone is up for the challenge of this motherhood path. Noteveryone has the same opportunities or ways to get on this path or may havebeen on the traditional path for mere minutes. So, be kind with your words notonly this weekend but every single day.

Motherhood is about doing the best you can evenwhen love is all you have. Sometimes it is loving downward, upward, andsideways all the same time. Sometimes it’s through strands and tethers of hopeand worry. That is what makes a mother a MOTHER.

I’m going to join the Mothers’ Day weekendbandwagon and say “Happy Mothers’ Day” especially to the ones I love the deepestand those who call me Mom, and my whole family of Moms who made me an Auntieand great-Auntie (or mothers by proxy).

This year, I’m going to try to be a better villageas my own mother did before me.

Quenched

Alianor felt his budding presence before she awakened. The winter solstice she’d longed for was here. It was the only time of the year that the sun’s powerful rays breached the cavern, freeing Fendrel before cascading to her.

He’d be entirely unentombed from his marble casing before she’d be fully exposed. His potent fingers were already caressing her and stoking her passion as her own limbs awaited freedom to roam his chiseled body.

“Hello, my love,” he whispered, his lips teasing her emergence, along her cheek and eyelids before returning to capture her mouth. Her sigh was soft as the stone finally released her and her eyes were freed to gaze upon his handsomeness. Alianor gained full movement and threw her arms around Fendrel.

Fendrel scooped her up and stood her on the cloak spread in the light. He peeled her dress from her shoulders while his mouth ravaged the exposed ivory skin. Warmth and pleasure that had laid dormant for a year, now blossomed beneath his skilled touch.

“I wish we had more time,” she murmured as heat exploded within her and she arched toward him.

He drew in a ragged breath as her hands explored him. “We’ll make time.”

“That’s not possible,” she said. “We’ll be in darkness before too long.”

“Don't let thoughts of what we don’t have ruin this moment,” he said as his lips gently suckled her skin, sending shivers through her, seeding a heated ache in her loins. She squirmed and pressed her body into his kiss as he pushed the dress from her hips. The soft rustle foretold her nakedness.

Slowly, Alianor knelt beside him. She pressed herself to him, inviting, begging and tantalizing. Her skin tingled as it scratched against the hair on his chest before she crushed cat-like into his embrace, scorching skin fusing them as one. He kneaded his hands along her bare flank and grabbed her closer.

Their muted moans mingled with the soft breeze that wafted through the chamber. The light waned as they lay satiated in each other’s arms. 

A tear escaped as she felt the pull of him toward the marble pedestal. “You must get dressed,” she cried.

“No, I want to spend every moment with you,” he said as he hugged her. “Walk with me so your eyes can be the last thing I gaze upon.”

She did as he commanded, holding his hand until he was settled. As darkness seized Fendrel’s body and the marble encapsulated him, she held her lips to his as they went cold. She looked down at his nakedness and blushed.

Her own pull began. She wept as she crossed the chamber with the shadows. She paused before stepping into her dress, she grabbed the rich velvet and hastily clutched it to her breasts. She stood on the pedestal and thought of another year without Fendrel.

Emboldened, mere seconds before entombment she released her dress, smiled, and puckered her lips. Her last thought was of Fendrel finding her naked on the next winter solstice and hoping the marble would capture the twinkle in her eye.

 

The View From Dick Aylward’s Bench

One evening I went for a walk on the Trailway which is the name given to the former railroad bed, one stretch runs along the shore of Conception Bay near my home. I stopped for a moment to rest on a bench a few kilometers from my starting point. My eyes were drawn to a plaque on the bench’s wooden back. This particular seat was dedicated to Dick Aylward, a man who many years before, often sat in this very spot and gazed at the ocean.

Being curious, I wondered what did Dick Aylward see. So, I sat myself down on the bench to find out. I had just walked about two kilometers and hadn’t really “seen” anything. I waited for a few seconds, focused, and then took in my surroundings.

The sun, at my 10 o’clock view, was covered by a white hazy gauze which reminded me of the fleshy cod fish fillets on the lit boards of the trimming line. The distortion was perfect enough to keep the shine at bay allowing me to be mesmerized by the yellow orb.

Next, I noticed a golden Christmas tree on the water. I was sitting at the star while the branches spread out in even form to the base somewhere on the other side of Conception Bay. I watched the bright blue waves flutter within my shiny Christmas tree giving it an appearance of being alive. This Christmas tree was my own and I’m sure everyone on the trail had one but, like me before I sat, may have failed to see it.

In the distance at my 1 o’clock a small white object stood out against the darkening backdrop. For me it was a speck of ice but I’m sure from somewhere over around Bacon Cove or Brigus it was a sizeable iceberg. A tiny white shark fin caught my eye as a sailboat bobbed around mid-Bay. When I took my eye off it, it was hard to find again until it swung full sail into my view and grabbed the sun. Otherwise, it was no more than a pencil mark on a rippley blue canvas. A streak across the water drew my attention and I followed a speed boat in and out of my golden tree. As it departed the left side of the branches, I saw a lonesome gull flying low on the water in my near vision and just off shore. I would have missed it if it wasn’t for the speed boat dissecting my tree. Two more gulls slowly rose from the landwash, glided, and hung on the breeze not ten feet in front of me.

The sea gently caressed and polished the large beach rocks to a spit-shine as the gulls pitched and silently waited for something palatable to come by.

I followed the horizon of the north side of the bay but after four or five attempts to find the tip of Baie de Verde I was unable to determine if Ireland would be visible between the cup cake that sits at the end of Bell Island and the headland of Conception Bay. The land folded into the Bay until it was hard to tell what must be shifting water and what must be solid ground.

Closer to land on my side of the Bay two large chunks of ice took up station close to Bell Island. I had seen them off Topsail a few days prior. They were big then and didn’t seem to have lost any of their size. Roofs of houses gleamed in the sun from the top of Bell Island and I thought it must have been a good day on clothes over there. A red flag waved over by Kelly’s Island seizing my attention as another sailboat with bolder taste revealed itself to me.

It was a feast for the famished on Dick Aylward’s bench. To think I would have missed it all if I hadn’t taken a moment to sit down. I didn’t have a camera and I don’t have the skill to capture the vista, but I could see why Dick Aylward chose this place or maybe it chose him. I got up to head back and I thanked Dick Aylward for being fortuitous enough to find this spot and mark it for people like me who hadn’t taken the time to enjoy what Mother Nature has going on. So much going on, it’s no wonder she gets confused. For the last few years since my first revelation there, I have sat with Dick Aylward and contemplated what was going on around me. The ever-changing experience has always been worth my time. 

I hope you find your own Dick Aylward's bench and pause long enough for it to make a difference. 

 

Happy Halloween

Happy Halloween means something different now, at least to me. When we were young, today would have been so exciting, arguably the most exciting day of the year. Halloween night was all about the treats. This was simply because we weren't accustomed to such luxury, other than mostly at Christmas and Easter. Even then, the treats would be limited in the house to the budget of that year, but not on Halloween. Halloween was the epitome of working hard and being rewarded generously.

Today there are houses and yards done up to the nines, and masks and costumes that cost a week’s salary or more. But then, there was no such a thing. Any haunting was natural… And there was haunting…

I would never be able to tell you a costume that I wore because there was no such thing. We got a little more creative as teenagers but as youngsters, we’d change coats or something as if that would fool the treat giver. The traditional fare of Halloween was some sort of plastic face mask with big eye holes and two tiny nostrils and a slit for the mouth that Mom would have purchased at the shop. It would be fastened by a tiny elastic string and two staples. If one of us broke that we were screwed and would have to put them away until Halloween night. But they did break in the days leading up to Halloween when we’d try them on and look at ourselves in the mirror or just practice for the big night. So often we’d have it stapled on one side and a hole drove in the other with the top of the scissors and the elastic tied on. Then to really cement it, there’d be a big nob of tape over that.

 

The front was painted with some sort of character (probably in lead paint), but not a character that we would recognize out of anything other than a book - they didn't have Mr. Dressup or Sesame Street ones, it was always a white ghost, a green witch, a beige mummy, a wolf, or Dracula himself in various shades of black and grey. From time to time we could get a girl face or boy face in a kaleidoscope of bright colours with worms or spiders on them, but mostly it was the standard Halloween print.

 

On nights when it was really cold, little hailstones would get through the eye holes and sting us, we’d blink our way down the road. But it wasn't a night that you'd turn back. No siree. We walked the length of North Harbour - Carmel's to Ben Bonia's - in order to get every candy and visit every house. The pillowcase or plastic bag would be full, and every single item treasured.

 

It was one night. If we were sick, somebody took an extra bag, but it wasn't often that anyone was sick. The leg would have to be severed or something to keep any of us from going out. Households generally knew who was there and who needed spares for a sick one at home. It was like a knowing although we never really understood how everyone knew.

There was no such thing as a Halloween Party or fancy costumes costing a fortune or week-long celebrations either. Even in school, there was little decoration, but a scattered ghost story would be read. It was grade six before I touched a real pumpkin in class.

 

Paper pumpkins, scribbled with orange and black Crayola’s, or the most genuine thing if we were lucky enough to have a package of construction paper, graced the glass on any of the road-facing windows and doors at our house. I believe it was the same for any place that had children. One year, I remember us using the orange and black construction paper to cut out the words "Happy Halloween" and “Trick or Treat” in block letters. We taped them on the cupboard doors and wall. We added in a few paper bats and spiders for good measure. Mom was very proud of them and allowed us to hang them any time in October.

 

Waiting for dark was the hardest when Halloween fell on a weekend. I miss the days of skipping down the dirt road with a bag full of candy weighing heavily on my arm and sleet pelting and tinging off the plastic mask and sometimes mixing with the brow sweat in my eyes. Hot breath steaming the inside of the plastic mixing with the cold air and making everything hazy and ghostly. We were all there as a family until we were teenagers and could go out with friends.

 

The anticipation of spilling the contents on the living room floor, rosy, red cheeks and eyes as big as saucers looking at the bounty. Picking the first delicious treat was a ritual in itself, seeming to take hours but. in fact. only a few seconds. Mine was always the chewy orange and brown candy corn so I don't know why it was a decision in the first place. But it wasn’t about the decision, it was the delight in delaying the best night ever. We traded with each other to make the most out of what we had.

 

Ah, the good old days, when school lunches were Halloween treats for as long as they lasted.

 

I wish you an eye of newt, hobgoblin scary, best tasting witches brew candy, wolf howling, pre-walking dead kind of Halloween of days of old. At least for those from my girlhood generation who remember them. I’m happy to recall those simpler times.