Parade of Remembrance

“You’d better watch out, You’d better not pout, you’d better not cry, I’m telling you why” floated through the morning sky like some sort of sick joke.  Abby sang along in the back seat until I told her to please shut her mouth.  Catching my stern expression in the rear view mirror, she quickly obliged.  “Stupid ,fucking parade.” 

I have never enjoyed parades.  Sombre Remembrance Day parades in cold November rain, an obligatory event that I never dared to evade for fear of disappointing my Pop.  He would march alongside his aged comrades in full military uniform with an air of quiet dignity born of sacrifice.  The last time I was home for the occasion, I was startled to see his lonely silhouette on the parade square, head held erect and proud as the last post and chorus was carried by the bitter Newfoundland wind.

This year he was supposed to meet Prince Charles and Camilla on Remembrance Day, but at the palliative care unit, where they would visit the last of our living veterans, my Poppy among them.    I smiled at the memory of Poppy sheepishly admitting that he never cared for the Prince after the way he treated poor Diana.  He spoke of the monarchy in the same reverent tone he reserved for the cast of the Young and the Restless and the irony of it made me laugh at the time.  “Still”, he remarked, “Mauri would have loved it.  She would have bragged to all the girls.” 

The “girls” were pushing ninety now but they retained their raucous sense of humour and a sense of style reminiscent of a young Jackie Kennedy.  I remember, years ago, my grandmother telling me that age had turned her body into a traitor.  She said that some days she still felt like she was 40, maybe 35.  But certainly not 83.  I didn’t get it then, but I’m starting to now.  When did I become the grown up? 

Poppy wasn’t too disappointed when the visit was cancelled because of the H1N1 flu virus.  “Prince Charles is afraid he’ll catch the flu so he’s staying home out of it.  Never did think he had much of a spine, that one.”  Pop’s doctors wouldn’t permit him to attend the parade so he passed what would be his last Remembrance Day at the hospital.  I called a few minutes after 11 to read him the poem that my daughter Abby had written about him that had won the Legion’s Remembrance Day contest.   He asked if I had attended the service in Nova Scotia.  At the school, I told him, guilt agitating my conscious.

Agitated.  That’s what I felt now.  Agitated.  Like the agitator in a washing machine just churning and spinning  at a frenetic and frantic pace but going nowhere.  We were grid locked.  The cars around us boxing us in like Christmas presents not yet ready to be opened.  An ugly green vision in a red Santa Claus suit breezed past us muttering his hatred of the whos.   I understood exactly how he felt.  Abby did not dare to smile so she sat quietly in the back seat with her poem clutched tightly in her little hands.  She was nervous, I could tell.

My cell phone continued to buzz persistently in my pocket.  I chose to ignore the damned thing, remembering the expression about what to do if you had nothing nice to say.  We were going to be late.  The realization punched me in the gut.  “Is he almost here yet?” Abby asked tentatively.  “Soon baby, how long can it take.”  How long, indeed.  We’d already sat through at least  137 floats and about as many screeching high school bands and assorted groups of community do-gooders.  So it had to be almost over.  It just had to.

Watching my nine-year old daughter pretend not to enjoy the spectacle, I allowed my mind to wander back to my own childhood experiences with Santa Claus Parades.  I remembered with an ache the long, usually cold walk back to Nan and Pop’s house where my cousin and I would gather for hot chocolate.   It had been forever since I’d last seen any of them.  Nan would be disappointed to know the way we’d scattered like seeds across the country, taking root in places that would mean nothing to her.  I vowed to keep in touch better, knowing as I promised myself (or maybe my grandmother), that facebook would likely remain the only tie to bind us together.

Glancing back in the rear view mirror, I catch sight of my little girl mouthing the words to ``Santa Claus is Coming to Town`` in quiet dissonance.  Perhaps she`s too young to be here, I think to myself knowing it is too late to do anything about it now.  If we even get there, which we probably won`t, I fume.  Sensing me looking at her, Abby glances up and flashes me her crooked smile.  ``Pop-Pop knows we`re here, `Mommy.  Don`t worry.  He probably just wanted me to enjoy the parade first.``

As if on cue, I catch sight of the giant sleigh in the distance.  The crowd is excited, and seem to be willing him to move forward with their deafening cheers.  Tiny children scurry to the front of the parade like little mice scattering in search of cheese.  `Jesus Christ, it took him long enough, I mutter, but I`m smiling now, too.  It`s going to be alright.  We wave back at Santa as he rolls past us, his jolly laugh ringing in the morning sky.  Finally, we are free from the parade, and I have never felt so ecstatic to see the back of the jolly red elf. 

We drive toward our destination mostly in silence.  Once in awhile, Abby breaks it by recounting her favourite floats or trying to count up how many swear words I said during the 40-minute wait for Santa.  Some she`d never heard before, she boasts, and warns me that she hopes the big guy wasn`t listening when I called him a few choice words.  ``He can`t help it if he is fat, Mommy`` she admonishes, ``and you leave him cookies, too.``  She never knew a parade could be in the daytime, she tells me, and somebody should tell Halifax to have the parade of lights in the morning when everyone is awake and alert.  Newfoundland is more sensible, she remarks with the wisdom of one who knows just about everything because she is almost ten.

As I pull into the driveway, I glance at the clock wincing at the realization that we are at least 40 minutes late.  I clutch Abby`s hand in my own as we enter the formidable building.  Our arrival does not go unnoticed as I had hoped, and I am startled when the priest bellows his welcome.  You are worse than your grandmother, he scolds me, always having to make an entrance.  But his eyes are smiling and he meets us in the aisle of the church, taking my daughter by the hand and leading her to the altar.  I take my place beside my father who grips my hand tightly, fighting back his tears as he tells me how glad he is that we made it.

I take a deep breath as I watch the priest introduce my daughter to the congregation of mourners.  He describes how proud her Pop-Pop was of her and all of his great-grandchildren.  She is the only great-grandchild able to make it to the funeral mass, and I am proud that she will represent that part of his life.  

Poppy loved children and related to them through Wii games and treats, the two generations between them be damned with their opinions of junk food and too much time spent on video games.  Abby is old enough to carry his memory with her through life, I think with satisfaction.  As long as someone alive still remembers you, you are not really gone, my Poppy used to say when conversation would turn to death.  He will live on in our memories I realize as I hear Abigail begin her poem of remembrance:

Violets are blue, but Poppies are red. 

They help us remember all our war dead. 

They sacrificed everything for you and for me,

They gave it their all so we could be free. 

My Pop is a proud veteran of WW11,

My family is glad that he made it through,

During the war he married my Scottish Nan,

She could tell he was a brave and strong man,

This Remembrance Day, Pop will meet a prince and say hello,

While on Flanders Field the Poppies still blow.

On Remembrance Day, I am willing to bet,

My Pop will lay a wreath so that we

never forget.

Parade of Remembrance

“You’d better watch out, You’d better not pout, you’d better not cry, I’m telling you why” floated through the morning sky like some sort of sick joke.  Abby sang along in the back seat until I told her to please shut her mouth.  Catching my stern expression in the rear view mirror, she quickly obliged.  “Stupid ,fucking parade.” 

I have never enjoyed parades.  Sombre Remembrance Day parades in cold November rain, an obligatory event that I never dared to evade for fear of disappointing my Pop.  He would march alongside his aged comrades in full military uniform with an air of quiet dignity born of sacrifice.  The last time I was home for the occasion, I was startled to see his lonely silhouette on the parade square, head held erect and proud as the last post and chorus was carried by the bitter Newfoundland wind.

This year he was supposed to meet Prince Charles and Camilla on Remembrance Day, but at the palliative care unit, where they would visit the last of our living veterans, my Poppy among them.    I smiled at the memory of Poppy sheepishly admitting that he never cared for the Prince after the way he treated poor Diana.  He spoke of the monarchy in the same reverent tone he reserved for the cast of the Young and the Restless and the irony of it made me laugh at the time.  “Still”, he remarked, “Mauri would have loved it.  She would have bragged to all the girls.” 

The “girls” were pushing ninety now but they retained their raucous sense of humour and a sense of style reminiscent of a young Jackie Kennedy.  I remember, years ago, my grandmother telling me that age had turned her body into a traitor.  She said that some days she still felt like she was 40, maybe 35.  But certainly not 83.  I didn’t get it then, but I’m starting to now.  When did I become the grown up? 

Poppy wasn’t too disappointed when the visit was cancelled because of the H1N1 flu virus.  “Prince Charles is afraid he’ll catch the flu so he’s staying home out of it.  Never did think he had much of a spine, that one.”  Pop’s doctors wouldn’t permit him to attend the parade so he passed what would be his last Remembrance Day at the hospital.  I called a few minutes after 11 to read him the poem that my daughter Abby had written about him that had won the Legion’s Remembrance Day contest.   He asked if I had attended the service in Nova Scotia.  At the school, I told him, guilt agitating my conscious.

Agitated.  That’s what I felt now.  Agitated.  Like the agitator in a washing machine just churning and spinning  at a frenetic and frantic pace but going nowhere.  We were grid locked.  The cars around us boxing us in like Christmas presents not yet ready to be opened.  An ugly green vision in a red Santa Claus suit breezed past us muttering his hatred of the whos.   I understood exactly how he felt.  Abby did not dare to smile so she sat quietly in the back seat with her poem clutched tightly in her little hands.  She was nervous, I could tell.

My cell phone continued to buzz persistently in my pocket.  I chose to ignore the damned thing, remembering the expression about what to do if you had nothing nice to say.  We were going to be late.  The realization punched me in the gut.  “Is he almost here yet?” Abby asked tentatively.  “Soon baby, how long can it take.”  How long, indeed.  We’d already sat through at least  137 floats and about as many screeching high school bands and assorted groups of community do-gooders.  So it had to be almost over.  It just had to.

Watching my nine-year old daughter pretend not to enjoy the spectacle, I allowed my mind to wander back to my own childhood experiences with Santa Claus Parades.  I remembered with an ache the long, usually cold walk back to Nan and Pop’s house where my cousin and I would gather for hot chocolate.   It had been forever since I’d last seen any of them.  Nan would be disappointed to know the way we’d scattered like seeds across the country, taking root in places that would mean nothing to her.  I vowed to keep in touch better, knowing as I promised myself (or maybe my grandmother), that facebook would likely remain the only tie to bind us together.

Glancing back in the rear view mirror, I catch sight of my little girl mouthing the words to ``Santa Claus is Coming to Town`` in quiet dissonance.  Perhaps she`s too young to be here, I think to myself knowing it is too late to do anything about it now.  If we even get there, which we probably won`t, I fume.  Sensing me looking at her, Abby glances up and flashes me her crooked smile.  ``Pop-Pop knows we`re here, `Mommy.  Don`t worry.  He probably just wanted me to enjoy the parade first.``

As if on cue, I catch sight of the giant sleigh in the distance.  The crowd is excited, and seem to be willing him to move forward with their deafening cheers.  Tiny children scurry to the front of the parade like little mice scattering in search of cheese.  `Jesus Christ, it took him long enough, I mutter, but I`m smiling now, too.  It`s going to be alright.  We wave back at Santa as he rolls past us, his jolly laugh ringing in the morning sky.  Finally, we are free from the parade, and I have never felt so ecstatic to see the back of the jolly red elf. 

We drive toward our destination mostly in silence.  Once in awhile, Abby breaks it by recounting her favourite floats or trying to count up how many swear words I said during the 40-minute wait for Santa.  Some she`d never heard before, she boasts, and warns me that she hopes the big guy wasn`t listening when I called him a few choice words.  ``He can`t help it if he is fat, Mommy`` she admonishes, ``and you leave him cookies, too.``  She never knew a parade could be in the daytime, she tells me, and somebody should tell Halifax to have the parade of lights in the morning when everyone is awake and alert.  Newfoundland is more sensible, she remarks with the wisdom of one who knows just about everything because she is almost ten.

As I pull into the driveway, I glance at the clock wincing at the realization that we are at least 40 minutes late.  I clutch Abby`s hand in my own as we enter the formidable building.  Our arrival does not go unnoticed as I had hoped, and I am startled when the priest bellows his welcome.  You are worse than your grandmother, he scolds me, always having to make an entrance.  But his eyes are smiling and he meets us in the aisle of the church, taking my daughter by the hand and leading her to the altar.  I take my place beside my father who grips my hand tightly, fighting back his tears as he tells me how glad he is that we made it.

I take a deep breath as I watch the priest introduce my daughter to the congregation of mourners.  He describes how proud her Pop-Pop was of her and all of his great-grandchildren.  She is the only great-grandchild able to make it to the funeral mass, and I am proud that she will represent that part of his life.  

Poppy loved children and related to them through Wii games and treats, the two generations between them be damned with their opinions of junk food and too much time spent on video games.  Abby is old enough to carry his memory with her through life, I think with satisfaction.  As long as someone alive still remembers you, you are not really gone, my Poppy used to say when conversation would turn to death.  He will live on in our memories I realize as I hear Abigail begin her poem of remembrance:

Violets are blue, but Poppies are red. 

They help us remember all our war dead. 

They sacrificed everything for you and for me,

They gave it their all so we could be free. 

My Pop is a proud veteran of WW11,

My family is glad that he made it through,

During the war he married my Scottish Nan,

She could tell he was a brave and strong man,

This Remembrance Day, Pop will meet a prince and say hello,

While on Flanders Field the Poppies still blow.

On Remembrance Day, I am willing to bet,

My Pop will lay a wreath so that we

never forget.

Just Another Day in Paradise

Mrs.  McGrath, is he yours?”  “Well, that just depends on what he has done,” I respond warily.  I am not in the mood for this dance and I make it known.  “He hit a girl and threw her down the hill” the noon hour supervisor enunciates each syllable for emphasis.  “Oh dear”, I say out loud.  “Fuck”, I think,” not again.”  Before I can question the suspect, the victim appears on the scene, eyes wild and arms flailing. Jessie is a troubled girl with a propensity for drama and exaggeration.  I am further annoyed that he chose to hit her in particular, although not surprised.  Most of the kids in grade 5 would love to give her a smack.  

The crowd begins to gather around our informal courtroom.  “Blaze attacked me and threw me down the big hill; I have broken my arm in at least 5 places.”  She is wailing and sobbing intermittently, and I try to summon some degree of pity or at least the appearance of.  “Is this true, Blaze?” Head down, he nods softly.  That was easy, but this kid is honest to a fault.  He is intelligent and quick-witted and could think up a clever lie on the spot if he had a mind to.  I haven’t decided yet if he is truthful because it is right or if he has had enough experience in trouble to know that it will be considered a mitigating factor in his favour if his crime should reach the office door.
 

Just last week, I witnessed another teacher march up to him and demand that he admit if he had tripped another student on the stairs on purpose.  Her expression startled and confused at his forthright, “I did it.”  “Well, don’t do it again, then.  You get a strike for not respecting others.”  Catching my eye, she throws up her arms in “what do you do?” exasperation.  “What happened there”, I asked him as he walked past me, head down.  “I already ‘pologized.  It’s settled.”

``I didn’t do anything to him, and he tackled me and beat me up”  She is aware of the audience now and is building the tempo to a crescendo of gut wrenching sobs interspersed with gasps as if she is about  to draw her last breath.  I wonder if a Shakespearian play would offer her a more appropriate outlet.  MacBeth perhaps?   “What happened before he did that?” I inquire.  “Nothing”, she snaps back to life and to attention.  “I didn’t even talk to him at lunch”. 

She reminds me momentarily of my own daughter who would throw herself on the floor, kicking and screaming her desire to get her own way.  When I would walk into the other room, she would collect herself, march behind me, throw herself back down to the floor, and give a repeat performance.  Of course she was 2 years at the time.  

 I decide it is much cuter at two.  It is time to dispel the crowd of interested 5^th graders who are fortunately too young to have been recording it anywhere other than their memories.  They disperse reluctantly because this is ’’epic.”

“Blaze, why did you hit her if she didn’t do anything to you?”  I am losing patience now.  I see my afternoon of math center float out of reach.  To add insult to injury, I spent my lunch hour organizing them.  ”I was hired”, he states simply.   What could be more obvious?  “You were what... did you say?”

“I was hired by a kid in grade 3.  He needed a grade 5 and I needed some cash.”  What could be more perfect?  It`s like serendipity, I fume. “Well, I should get half the money”, Jessie howls, “I was the one who got beat up”.  “What did you do?”  Blaze demands, “You’re not even going to get suspended as long as you shut up.”  “Both of you.... be quiet!  We are taking this show to the office.”

 I collect the mafia boss of grade 3 and we make our way to the principal’s office.  I have to prevent Blaze and Al Capone from communicating to get their stories straight.  Grade 3 boy has no idea of Blaze’s history of singing like a canary in these situations, though, and I am confident that he will do so again.  He will not be worried about retribution from this young punk who looks to be about 60 pounds soaking wet. 

I brief the principal who tries not to react in front of the kids.  ``This is an unusual situation “, he says.  Indeed.  Our principal had just moved from a school in which a major infraction might look like not passing one’s homework in on time to our school where about a 1/4 of our population did not get themselves to school on time.  It was quite a culture shock for him, and I try to contain my amusement at his discomfiture.   I shift impatiently as the principal reviews the board discipline policy for “unusual” situations like this.  As phrases such as “disruption of operations” and “physical aggression and violence” are voiced like sharp verbal punches, Blaze and I both realize that we are talking a suspension.

“I want an in school,” Blaze cuts to the chase.  “When one is suspended, one does not have the privilege of deciding where,” he is admonished.  “Look, I got tons of work to catch up on, don’t I Ms. McGrath.  I haven’t done hardly anything in at least a week,” he adds for good measure.  The last suspension was in school the principal reminds him, and it didn’t seem to have much impact as we having this conversation right now.  Again.  “Please”, he sounds urgent now.  “My brothers will beat me up if they have to take care of me.” 

The stricken look is not contrived and I know he is sincere.  Unlike Jessie, he is not prone to exaggeration.  It is not necessary in his life.  His reality is dramatic enough.  The principal catches my eye and I nod almost imperceptibly.  Later, I will remind him that the police were called to Blaze’s house a few weeks ago to break up a fight between his teenaged brothers.  The younger of the two was hospitalized because his injuries were serious.  His crime was lowering the basketball net too low. 

“If you have a lot of work to catch up on, I suppose an in-school makes sense,” the principal informs him.  Blazes’ relief is so palatable that it hurts to look at him.  We dismiss him at the office, and I watch him skip down the hall.  After speaking with the principal about our “next steps”, I prepare a work package for next day.  At five o’clock, bleary eyed and more than a little disheartened, I make my way to the car.  Home will feel good. 

I notice him then, playing in the ditch at the side of the school.  “What are you still doing here?” I demand.    “I missed the bus, and I didn’t think it was a good time to bother you”, he informs me, deadpan.  “Your family is probably wondering where you are”, I scold.  We both know they probably aren’t.  I feel somehow ashamed that I have nothing better to say.  “It’s cold, get in and I’ll drive you home,” I tell him softly. 

We drive to his house in comfortable silence.   As we get closer, I can feel both of our moods shifting.  I force myself to indicate at the end of his driveway, trying not to notice the dilapidated conditions he lives in.  “Thank you for the in-school suspension,” he says as he opens the door.  “No problem, anytime,” I tell him.  We laugh at our absurdity together. I watch him walk away, smiling as he takes imaginary shots at a basketball net now risen far too high over his ten-year old head. 

The forty minute drive home is not far enough today.  Not far enough to forget where I just dropped him off, and not far enough to allow me the emotional buffer I need to go back and do it all again tomorrow.  I wonder what would happen if I took him home to the comfort and safety of a real home.  He’s already a pretty amazing kid. I wonder who he could become if he had a fair chance.

At home, I go through my nightly routine with my own kids.  I do the dance of guitar lessons, kids complaining they don’t like salmon, bubble baths, and bedtime stories.   I am giving Ian his nightly “kissing hand” when he asks me if I had a good day with my “other kids.”  Pretty good, I lie.

Letter to Oscar the Dog

Dear Oscar,

As you might have sensed, I am experiencing a certain degree of frustration with your recent dog-like behaviour.  In fact, I am ready to kill you and mount you on my mantle where you will cause less damage.

I am afraid that if these annoying habits persist, I may have to start treating you like the dog you are.

First of all, I have a huge problem with the way you manipulate humans in our house.  This is evident in the way you trick us into letting you out to poop when you do not need to go!  Your urgent yapping at the door which once signalled a genuine biological need has become nothing more than disingenuous desire to chase neighbours down the road.  It’s over.  Further, we paid good money to train you to come back when called, so get with the damned program, dog!  The cheese treat was supposed to be a temporary measure to provide you with positive reinforcement for coming when called.  You know what come means so stop holding out for the cheese.  You’ve gained 20% of your body weight since we introduced cheese into your diet, and you are starting to look more like a pot-bellied pig than a toy poodle.  Also, stealing the cheese and running back out will result in your immediate imprisonment in the little cage we can refer to as your own personal prison.  Be grateful dog.  In some countries, we’d cut off your guilty little paw.

You need to improve on the way you show affection.  Humans do not like being licked on the face by a creature that also licks the bums of random animals.  I have seen you eat your own vomit, so keep your wet tongue to yourself in the future.  Dancing in circles around me when I get home from work is also getting old.  I used to think it meant you were excited to see me but now I realize that you are just self-centered and demanding. “Look at me!”  “Look at me!  If you don’t I will trip you and you will fall over the stairs to your doom.”  Then you will chase me down the stairs and lick me to death, probably.

Another thing we have to discuss is the garbage.  Otherwise known as your own personal buffet and shopping center rolled into one.  We feed you 60 dollar a bag organic dog food for a reason.  We do not enjoy trying to clean spaghetti off white fur any more than you enjoy eating the shampoo.  We were told that poodles are a smart breed but I question the intelligence of anyone who eats tin foil and kitty litter from the garbage.  Out of respect for your dignity, I won’t even get into the chocolate Easter bunny fiasco.  Just remember it felt better on the way in.  Oh, and while we’re on the subject of garbage. Humans place items in the garbage for a purpose.  We want to dispose of them.  We do not want to see the dirty tissue paper, diapers, etc... ever again.  Especially not in front of guests at dinnertime.   That will also land you in the crate in isolation.  Eating tissue that people sneezed into is a faux pas.   It’s just not done.  Do we understand each other?

The cats asked me to mention a few things as well.  They actually prefer to clean themselves.  Cookie said to tell you he’s superior to you with regards to personal hygiene and has never needed to be bathed by humans.  It’s beneath him and he does not want to be slurped on by you in the future.  That’s one of the reasons he scratches your eyes out, so it would be advisable to discontinue the practice.  Immediately.  They are not interested in playing fetch with you either.  Rolling your tennis ball to them and looking at them with your puppy dog eyes will not change their minds.  Can’t you read their unaffected stares of derision and contempt?

The last thing I want to make clear is the fact that I will let you know if I want to go for a walk.  The pressure campaign you wage daily must stop or our next walk will be to the SPCA.  I actually know where the leash is and I don’t appreciate you following me around with it.  I know you’d put it around my neck if you could.  But I am the human here, and I will let you know if we are going for a walk.  Putting on those booties or trying to get into your coat, while admittedly cute, will not move me.  When we go for a walk, I lead, you heel.  We’ve been through this at obedience school so apply it at home.  Or we’re going back to summer school with the Rottweiler’s and shepherds.   Just because I follow behind you and scoop your poop does not mean you are in charge of the situation.  You may have outwitted me on occasion, but I am still bigger than you.  Size matters, and you’re a toy breed.  Don’t forget it.

Sincerely,

Your best friend

Acrostic Poems

K   itty Kat of mine

A     lways loved

T      o the moon and back

H     eld close to my heart

E     nergetic  ball of fire

R     ainbows and flowers

I      nquisitive spirit

N     ighttime snuggler

E      xuberant daughter of mine

I     dealistic heart

A   dorable freckles

N   urturing son of mine

 J      oy of my life

A    ccepting of others

M   ommy’s  little man

E    xuding kindness

S     unshine in the rain

A    musing little girl

B    edazzling smile

I      mpish mischief

G    litter and sequins

A    rtisic talent

I     rreverant style

L    ovable daughter of mine.

Flying Home

I am afraid of flying.  I spent the duration of the flight carefully studying the movements of the flight attendants.  I try to reassure myself prior to take-off that this flight is all in a day’s work for them, just another day at the office.  The casual gestures, the Christmas banter of the pilot over the intercom, and the lack of a seat belt sign, eventually convince me that I may actually land in Newfoundland in one piece.  Or perhaps I owed my new found sense of well-being to the ativan I washed down with a glass of wine. 

Winter landings in St. John’s are never pleasant when you turn around at Signal Hill.  The plane shakes and rolls, the turbulence diminishing my appreciation of the beauty of St. John’s Harbour and the city lights.  I gaze out the tiny window, squinting to recognize the familiar landmark. 

When I was a little girl, my Poppy would take us up the winding hill on Sunday afternoons.  Cotton Candy ice creams in hand, we would walk the trails barely registering the history lessons Poppy tried to impress on us.  “This is the site of the first wireless transmission over the transatlantic, received by Marconi...”  "Cool, but how far do you think I can throw this rock, and when can we go to the stadium. “ We were more interested in quizzing him about the ghosts we had heard of who had slipped through the ice on the nearby ponds and been sucked into the bottomless pit of the Atlantic Ocean.  Staring out at the frigid Atlantic below, I tried to will any fragment of memory to my consciousness.  Nothing but flurries in the sky and more than a few regrets.


“Abby, look out the window.  That’s Signal Hill.  I used to go there with Poppy all the time”, I whisper to my 9 year old daughter.  I don’t tell her that when I outgrew these childhood visits, her father and I would go there to park as teenagers.  It was where he gave me the first diamonds I ever owned.  Sparkly diamond earrings that I hid from my mother for months because I knew she would disapprove as my father couldn’t have afforded them, and a boy doesn’t give you diamonds for nothing.  Absently, I finger the princess cut solitaire on my left hand wondering whatever happened to them.

Poppy had approved of my future husband right from the start.  They shared the bond of diabetes although they handled the burden of the disease quite differently.  Poppy only ever admitted to having a touch of the diabetes and staunchly refused to take any steps to counteract the side effects, whereas my husband went on to become a diabetes educator.  Nanny was forever scolding Pop that alcohol would drive up his blood sugars.   Jimmy would test Pop’s sugars for him, and give him a top-up of insulin so that Pop could enjoy a nip of drambuie or beer and clamato juice if it was before 5.   From these normal blood sugars and a nagging wife disproved, a beautiful friendship was born.

When I was seventeen, my grandfather invited Jimmy to visit their home in Chapel Arm with me for the weekend for the first time.  The fact that he would allow Jimmy to stay there when we weren’t married was a testament to how much he thought of my then- boyfriend.  “He’s a good catch, Jan.  I hope you don’t screw it up.”  Poppy spent the weekend fixated on how to feed his diabetic visitor to our great amusement.” What can you have for breakfast?” he demanded in his gruff Newfoundland dialect.   “I can eat everything”, Jimmy had responded, “ French toast, bacon, eggs, cereal, pancakes, oatmeal, fruit.  Anything is fine.”  The next morning we awoke to a feast of all the aforementioned foods and then some.  We ate until our sides ached.  As we were clearing the dishes, I overheard Pop telling my grandmother,” Jesus Mauri, now I know how that boy caught the diabetes.  He don’t eat enough.”

Four years later, it was Nan and Pop visiting us in Nova Scotia to celebrate our wedding.  We could hear Nanny moving downstairs, her footsteps restless and persistent.  I listen to the hushed argument taking place in the room below me with growing trepidation.   Crawling out of bed, I call to my Dad to check on Nan and Pop.  We discover her on the bathroom floor, my grandfather standing over her, looking lost.  Mauri can’t get up, he states the obvious.  Nan tells us that she has stomach pain and that her arms hurt.  Dad and Poppy guide her back to bed, telling her that a rest will do her good.  Jimmy insists on checking her pulse which is thready and weak.  “ We’re calling an ambulance”, he announces with an air of authority I didn’t know he possessed.  The next moments flash before me in a blur.  Dad and Poppy insisting that she has an upset stomach and there is no need to call an ambulance.  Jimmy ,dialling 911 anyway, his voice steady and calm as he tells the operator that my grandmother is in cardiac arrest. 

What?  Surreal silence surrounds me and it is a relief when it is broken by the blare of the sirens racing toward us.  The attendants take over the role of squabbling children, arguing over whether there is time to get to Halifax or should they go to the Dartmouth General which is closer.  “This is touch and go”, the younger one tells me.  “Tell all the family to meet us at the Dartmouth General.”

 

In stunned disbelief, we endure the longest 30 minutes in history huddled together in the hospital room.  I can’t meet my grandfather’s eyes because I know if I see his pain, it will spread to me like an infectious disease.  If I start to cry, I remember thinking, I may never stop so I tune out my grandfathers tears and try not to listen to him say that he can’t imagine a life without his Mauri.  I stare at the ER doors and l sense, even before I see them, sliding apart.  The doctor meets our expectant eyes.  He is smiling so I exhale.

Three days later, she is crediting my husband with saving her life.  “The rest of them would have put me back to bed and left me to die” she tells the nurses for what must be the 137^th time.  Nanny enjoyed seven years of excellent health and travel after that scare until cancer intruded her body like a slow-moving thief, stealing away her dignity and then her life.  “Put on your seat belt, Mommy,”  Abby breaks my quiet reverie, “We’re about to land.  I hope it’s really bumpy.”  Bracing myself for what lies ahead, I tighten and buckle the belt. 

I busied myself with adjusting Abby’s seatbelt, trying to suppress my bubbling annoyance that her father had sent Abby in his place.


Poppy and Nanny would have expected him to come, and I was tired of fielding questions about why he wouldn’t be at Pop’s funeral.  When did he become so over-worked and indispensible that he didn’t have time to attend the funeral of our family patriarch? Poppy passing so close on the heels of Nanny six months earlier had deflated all of us as surely as helium balloons that had been bought too early for a birthday party.  Maybe it was just too much to absorb, too depressing to go through the rituals again so soon after Nan.  Too soon.  Poppy would have expected her to steal his thunder in such a way, I thought to myself as the plane thumped to a stop on the runway.  Just as I resented his absence, I acknowledged a stab of jealousy that my husband could opt out of this the same way one might decide to skip Christmas and go on a cruise.  He just knows I can handle it, I tell myself again, If I told him I needed him here, he would have come.  But I didn’t.

 As we taxied toward the terminal, I wondered if my husband remembered his first visit to Pop’s home in Chapel Arm. The old-fashioned bungalow, perched like a bird’s nest upon a rugged cliff overlooking the Atlantic, was where I passed my happiest childhood days.  Through stinging tears, I lead my daughter down the narrow aisle of the plane, on our way to pay a last visit to the place dearest to my heart.  

Secret Keepers

Childhood secret keepers

Friends out of necessity

Not choice

She wants to:

Dance with me

Play with

Follow me

Where I go

So

I’ll be the doctor

The teacher

The leader

The coach

She will follow me.

Childhood secret keepers

Growing up and apart
No Choice

She wants to:

run from me

laugh at me

be like me

no more

So

She’ll be

The trouble maker

The rebel

The party girl

The rogue

We will search for her

Childhood secret keepers

Sisters by blood

 and by choice

I want to:

Shake her
Teach her

Protect her

Lead her to

Home

Will she follow me?

Child Behavior Checklist

Child Behavior Checklist

Childs full Name-

His name is Ian. Behind your labels is a little boy named Ian. He was named after his grandfather who never had a boy of his own. Dad brought a baseball glove and bat to the hospital when his first grandson, his namesake, was born. Ian. A Scottish name in honor of his maternal great-grandmother. “A no-nonsense name that you can’t mess around with”, she’d declared with satisfaction when I introduced her to my boy. Ian. Easy to print with only three letters which he appreciates more than I’d wish. Katherine and Abigail are smart and they’re better printers than me, so it’s o.k. that they have long names, he tells me. Ian.

Child’s Gender: Boy

I’m sure that’s challenging for you as this particular variety of child tends to be rather rambunctious. He loves snakes and snails and puppy dog tails, but his spirit of adventure works for him at home. Ian climbs trees, thinks he’s a real ninja, and can do a mean back flip from the couch. It helps him practice for competitive gymnastics. He’s fearless there, too. I know he wants to stand up while he is working. He tells me that you do the same thing sometimes. He doesn’t understand why everyone has to sit criss cross applesauce all the time when there are much more comfortable ways to sit. To learn. I don’t even scold him anymore for all the marks you give him for stretching, scratching and not sitting cross legged with his hands folded neatly in his lap. I know he forgets to switch his indoor and outdoor shoes, and I realize that we’ve gone through six milk cards so far this year. I know he forgets to bring in his homework folder in the morning but he never fails to kiss his mom and wish her the Best Morning Ever! Did you know that?

Please list the sports, hobbies, and organizations your child participates in.

Hockey. He’s quite the player. Too bad we frown on competition at schools now. I’ve never seen the child more motivated as when there’s actually something he cares about on the line. Watching him racing through the drills with skill and confidence almost makes one forget that he is incapable of following multi-step directions. Well, at school, anyway. Where it counts.

Figure Skating- Spinning, jumping, speeding fast. He excels at that. He didn’t want to join at first. It’s for girls, he’d whined. His father convinced him it would improve his hockey skills. He lied and told him that’s how Sidney Crosby started. We put black slip covers over the white figure skates to lessen his humiliation over wearing girl skates . His sisters take lessons, too, but they lack the competitive edge and the desire to push their physical limits that is innate to Ian. The ice is the only place he feels superior to Katherine and Abby. It is a pleasure to watch his practiced precision as he skates in fluid motions, his body writing smooth letters across the icy surface.

Please list any chores your child has.

That’s easy. Ian is my most helpful, considerate child. Always has been, in fact. Ian thinks of others first. When he was a small baby, he would remove his pacifier from his tiny mouth and try to put it in my own. Giving comfort. That’s Ian. He sets the table while his sisters hide in the t.v room and he sticks around to chat while I wash up the dishes. Ian wants to please. When the girls do something wrong, they want to know what trouble they are in, what privilege they have lost. Ian only wants to know how to make it better, how to erase the hurt. All the things he does to help us, well, he never calls them chores. Homework is his chore.

Performance in Academic subjects.

Ian struggles in language arts sometimes. He is improving upon his understanding of reading comprehension strategies, though. You think he doesn’t like to read, but that’s not entirely true. You wish he’d read across a wider selection of genres. But, you see, Ian has begun to make some important connections in his reading. He has made the connection between reading and writing, and he predicts that you will make him fill out that goddamned writing log every single time he reads. That’s why he writes down “Brady, Brady” every time. He knows how to print it very well and it fits on the little line you have prescribed. He infers that it will be easy to make a personal connection to this text although he questions why he always has to make one. Sometimes I just like the book and I don’t know why, Mommy. Is that o.k.? Next steps for Ian will include determining importance.

What concerns you most about your child.

Where to start? I am concerned that Ian doesn’t want to go to school anymore. I am concerned that Ian does not have authentic learning opportunities that engage and inspire him. Ian questions why he has to stay in at recess everyday when his friends go out to play. You tell him he had to get his work finished by recess. Why, he asks me? Nothing else happened after recess, he could have finished it then. What do you do with all his work, anyway he wonders? Do you put all the papers in the recycling bin? He never sees them again, so he’s not sure. It’s like a mystery, he says. Where do all the papers go? And when will you ever learn?
Last week, Ian won a young readers contest in the newspaper. His sisters sure were pissed that he won. The girls had their neatly printed entries done the first night they heard of the contest which called for students to write about their favorite book. Ian barely got his in, just under the wire. The prize of free tickets to the Mooseheads game finally enticed him to get writing. I sent it to school with him this morning so you could show it to the class. It is in his homework folder pressed between the unhappy faced note outlining his most recent infractions, and the work you sent home because Ian wasn’t focused in class. We worked on it last night, by the way, after hockey practice and my Masters course, so he might be a little tired today.
You say his is finally starting to make some gains. I am concerned about what he is losing along the way, like his self-confidence and his individuality. You feel like you’ve started to reach him, to break through, you say. I know you’ve broken his spirit the way one breaks an untamed stallion. You say you are so excited because this psycho-educational testing is going to tell us so much about Ian. I am most concerned that there won’t be an abundance of support to accompany the labels you are hoping to affix. To Ian.

Nan's Shoes

The shoes arrived by post shortly after two o'clock. I remember distinctly because Pop's favourite show, The Young and the Restless (or the rest of us as he was fond of quipping), had just ended. He was cutting raisin molasses bread into slices that were too thick in my estimation.  Before I could help him my grandmother breezed into the kitchen, her steps light and quick. "Ken, what are you doing? Sure you're hacking up that loaf!" she scolded, her Scottish accent thought softened over the years, was still distinctive.

The sound of her rich voice brought me a sense of serenity and comfort long before I could begin to imagine what it meant to miss it. Today it is her voice that I could conjure up more clearly than any image of her in my mind. If I had a mind to, which I don't, because it still hurts too much.

"Jesus Mauri!" he roared back at her, "I'm just cutting little Jani's bread. That bakery makes bread too soft when it's fresh." "All fresh bread is soft. That's what fresh bread is supposed to be" she retorted haughtily. "Well, you can't cut through this bread because you're after ruining my good bread knife cutting up God knows what!" he thundered now. I winced at the " Mauri" as he'd called her that for the 67 years they'd been married although he knew perfectly well that her name was "Mairi". As far as I was concerned, he was massacring a strong and lovely Scottish name. Besides, he'd placed the Jesus in front of it so often my own children thought that "Jesusmary" was her rightful name.

As they bantered back and forth, I moved in to save the battered looking bread. Poppy always made sure he had a loaf ready for me whenever I visited chapel Arm. He would serve it to me and to Nan with a cup of steaming hot tea while we watched his favourite soap when I was a little girl, too young to watch that stuff on TV. Twenty years later, he was still watching Victor Newman, while dipping tiny pieces of my favourite treat into lukewarm tea and feeding it to my baby girl. "Poppy!" I'd admonish him, but weakly, as Kate was my third baby, and I'd given up hope of changing his mind or his ways. "That's all you ate" he'd insist, "And it didn't hurt you any. Sure, that's why you like it today." I'd put up with the gassy baby later, I decided, because it was worth the joy it gave them both in the moment. "Diddly, diddly, diddly, doo, doodly, doodly, diddly, do" he sang to her as he bounced he on his bony knee. Poppy loved babies, but only when they grew enough to have control of their tiny necks and mouths so that he could alternately bounce and feed them. Babies, of course, loved him right back.

The doorbell snapped me to attention, as it was a novelty in Chapel Arm to hear a doorbell. Most people just walked right in and chances are, you'd be related to them in some way or another. The doorbell signalled a real guest or some kind of action like a car broken down. I looked to the door with anticipation. "Jesus Mauri, it's a parcel. We got a parcel. It must be a mistake. You'd better hurry up, Mauri, " he said as though he expected the postman to disappear into thin air at any moment. When she didn't rise quickly enough from her chair, he hobbled to the door himself, his gait unsteady and hard for me to watch. "It's a parcel from Sears Canada", he announced. "Well, Jesus Mauri, what in the name of God are you after ordering now?" "Nothing", she snapped, "Don't concern yourself." With that, Poppy slid the knife he was still holding gently through the packing tape, opening the small package. I looked up with mild curiosity as he held up the stylish brown suede pumps in the air. "By the Lord Jesus, I can't believe you're after buying another pair of shoes. And they're twenty nine- ninety nine!" "Plus tax", he added for extra emphasis. "Well, so what?" Nanny retorted, defiance blazing in her aquamarine eyes. "So the doctor said you only got three months left, so you won't have a chance to wear 'em out. It's a waste of good shoes!" he declared more to himself than to us. Ì`m still walking around so I still have a use for shoes, Nanny fought back, and if I don`t wear them out, then Jan can have them. She always loved my shoes`.

As they argued in the circular and comical manner that was characteristic of their 67-year relationship, my mind drifted to Nan’s shoe closet.....

A huge deep porch with a door off the back.  It was supposed to be a pantry but Nan had more use for shoes than canned goods so it became a room of her own. For her shoes. All sorts of them in size 6. There were 2 inch black stilettos because Nan was 5`nothing without them. Fashion first, comfort second, she`d laugh when she put them on. Red, shiny pumps she rocked with a fiery dress that didn`t look like something a grandmother would wear. sling backs in every hue, clogs that she wore in summertime when she went to the cottage. Sandals that slid on my feet with rhinestones that I thought were diamonds. Highland dancing shoes all the way from Scotland , artifacts from a life she refused to discuss. High, black leather boots that Poppy said she`d barely had time to take off at the hospital before my father was born one winter night in 1951. He walked the streets while he waited in his own faded and worn work boots. They didn`t make it into Nan`s closet. The flip flops were my favourites. Or maybe the dainty pumps she had dyed to match her clothes. She`d always had them forever. They were never new no matter what my Poppy said. Of course she needed them. A lady does not wear blue shoes with a green dress. No sneakers. She wasn`t that kind of woman. Brown leather boots she wore with her fur coat and hat. Politically incorrect. Soft and chic. My grandmother and her shoes. I knew I`d never wear them except playing in her closet. Just too hard to fill.

Parent-Teacher Night

The gentle vibration of my cell phone notified me of my grandfather’s death. At a most inconvenient time. I could feel its taunting buzz against my skin, daring me to answer during parent-teacher. I pressed silence with as much force as one can exert using a blackberry, missing the days when I could actually slam down a receiver.

Poppy had slipped into unconsciousness two days earlier while decorating a Christmas tree, my father at his bedside. He told Dad that it wasn`t like Christmas without his Mauri. He had hoped not to make it to the holidays, but it didn`t look like it would pan out for him. He didn`t like to think of Mauri alone on Christmas. They hadn`t spent one apart in the 67 years they`d been married before cancer had stolen her the previous spring. Dad played Pop`s favourite Christmas carols on his guitar, and reminisced about Christmases past until Poppy fell asleep for the last time, the family Christmas tree star clutched in his frail hands.

I had spent the past two days and nights debating when to make the trip back home to Chapel Arm, Newfoundland. I suspected it would be my last. Maybe that was why I hesitated to book my flight. Maybe I could will him to be o.k. by refusing to take any action suggesting the contrary. Or maybe I was just afraid to miss parent teacher interviews. At any rate, it seemed like I had too much on my plate to deal with a death that day.


Poppy had been suffering from a “touch of the bone cancer”`for quite some time. I remember vividly the day he called me up to deliver the bad news. Poppy usually didn`t call himself. Nanny would telephone, and he would interrupt and make his comments from across the room. “Ask Jan when she`s coming to see us again” or “`tell Jan that Victor is dead again on Young and The Restless”. Then one day, it was his voice on the other end telling me that the doctors said he has a touch of bone cancer. This time it was my grandmother interjecting in the background.

“Ken, you got the same thing as I have. Stop complaining. As soon as I get something, you go and get it, too. It`s like you want attention.”

“`The same thing you have, do I. Last time I checked, you don`t have a prostate. That`s where mine started”, he confided to me.

“Well, my cancer is worse than yours. The doctors are giving me the chemotherapy for mine.”

“`Jesus Mauri! Everything is a competition with you. You even have to die first, for Christ sakes! For your information, they told me not to even bother with the chemotherapy. I`m fucked.”  He was triumphant.

“`Stop swearing Ken. Jan doesn`t want to listen to that kind of talk.”


That conversation was a year ago, and we had all settled back into our daily routines, forgetting about the dark shadow of cancer that threatened to cover the sun. Besides, Poppy`s stoic attitude along with the fact that he could chop a cord of wood and beat my six year old at wii bowling before 7 a.m. convinced me that the old man was invincible. He told me one day that he ate so much healthy fish that he couldn`t understand how he could have caught the cancer. He told me that he saw a program on CBC that said that omega 3 fatty acids found in fish could protect you. I told him that was fish like salmon, not the salt and deep fried cod with chips he ate daily. Well, it`s too late to worry about it now, he reasoned sipping on drambuie, his preferred nightcap.

Indestructible, unflappable, invincible. He`d survived 4 years as a mine sweeper during WII. He`d survived almost seventy years of my grandmother. All reasons why my vibrating phone sent shocks through my body as if in the wake of a sudden and inexplicable tragedy rather than the death of a sick, old man. The phone was still pulsing in my pocket like an electronic grim reaper. If I flipped it open, perhaps my ring tone would be amazing grace or some such song that signalled death. What the fuck, I remember thinking, am I supposed to do now.

In the absence of a suitable answer, I carried on with my conference, ignoring the offending phone and the fact that my dad needed me. I would like to pretend that I wanted to avoid the inevitable announcement. It would sound better to say that I was too distraught to even face the news. In reality, it was a bizarre adherence to social nicieties and a sense of professional duty that prevented me from taking the call. I felt an uncontrollable desire to maintain my sense of decorum and to avoid unpleasantness at all costs.

What would I even say. Excuse me, Mr. And Mrs. Smith, my grandfather is in hospital, dying a brutal death, writhing in pain. In fact, I`m sure this call means he`s dead. My father is like his own father. He doesn`t call to chit chat. Why, when my grandmother died at 3:00 a.m., my father refused to wake me until 6:00 when he knew I take my morning jog. So, if he`s calling in the middle of your parent-teacher conference, then something is very, very wrong. Like my grandfather is dead. Excuse me, please, I think I am going to throw up. Or maybe bawl my eyes out. Perhaps I will scream, or throw something, or do something equally inappropriate and disturbing. I`m really not sure what I might do. Except it just isn`t done. Not at our Elementary School, anyway. Such a shame!

So I carried on, patiently explaining why little Ronnie got a 3 instead of a 4 in Health. Yes, I know you are both college educated. I do not think his grade 5 health score will adversely affect him in the future. You see, this term we are learning about human sexuality and reproduction. I`m afraid some of those outcomes do not provide much opportunity for students to exceed expectations. But I`m sure he`ll be really good at it and I bet you are too. Being college educated and all.

Arching my back impatiently. Waiting for it to be over. Remembering when Nan and I had teased Poppy that if he didn`t take better care of his diabetes, he`d become impotent. “At my age, I`d rather have a nice piece of...salt fish”`, he`d retorted. Laughing hysterically together until tears rolled down our cheeks. Now I am biting down on my cheek to prevent the tears from flowing. Please go away, I think. Do you have any other questions, I say. Ronnie is practically a genius, they explain. He should have enrichment opportunities in health. Those assignment that he didn`t pass in were too easy for him to bother with. He`s bored, they lament. I`m pissed, I lament ,but silently.

I suggest that boy genius might be interested in doing a science fair project on a topic related to health and nutrition. They seem appeased for the moment and are shaking my hand, thanking me for meeting with them. I`m sure you have plenty to do this time of year yourself, Mr. Smith says, nodding at the Christmas tree glowing brightly at the back of the room. ``Nothing more important than this``, I smile back. `Merry Christmas`` As they walk out the door, I relent and press talk.

Christmas Morning Magic

Christmas Morning Magic

First there is the sneeze
Most certainly faked.
Snuggling beneath the covers,
I deny the inevitable.

Next comes a series of exaggerated yawns
Alternating with the clearing of a tiny throat,
Too small for what is beginning to sound
like emphysema

“Ian, are you awake? It’s already 4:32,
It’s time”
“Jimmy, are you awake?” I echo,
“They’ve begun”

Pillow firmly overhead
This is not happening.
`Jesus, it`s only 4:33.
Assembly went til 2:00.

Now a series of bed squeaks,
quiet giggles,
whispered plans.

A brief pause.

Then the expected little feet climbing,
creaking down from the top bunk.
A flurry of negotiations                                                                                                              and contingency plans.

“You go first”,
“You`re the cutest”`
“Let the dog into her room”`
Amateur!
“She`ll know we did and
She`ll be mad”`
“`Just go to the bathroom
Flush at least twice”`

Do you hear them? I complain
Do you hear them? He responds

Bonding, waiting, anticipating
Giving us a reason to celebrate, to believe again,
To get up at 4:34.

Flush, Flush!
Baby footsteps
whirling down the hall
waiting for some magic.

``Kids``, I yell, ``it`s 4:35.
What are you thinking
It`s Christmas!
You`re wasting half the morning.``

The magic begins

Breathlessly leaping into my arms,
Racing down the stairs
Digging into presents
like starving gulls.

We play Thomas the Train in a darkness
That was defeated by the lights of our tree
And the spirit of childhood