Stories from South of Detroit

And The Wind Cries Mary

We shared the same birthday--June 14--and a penchant for Barbie dolls.

And today, cancer robbed our family of my sister-in-law Mary.

Accomplishing more during her 68 years in this world than most people do in a lifetime, Mary was clearly and unmistakably a "doer", devoting decades of her life to being the most caring, attentive daughter, sister, mother and wife anyone could want.

She and her husband Roger made their home just a few doors down from Mary's parents. She was always there for them, proving the old adage that "a son is a son until he takes a wife; a daughter is a daughter for all of her life."

She met Roger when they both worked at Hiram Walker; after the birth of their daughter, Mary left Hiram Walker to become a full time mom. Twin daughters arrived a few years later, followed by a son.

Children were the light of her life. There was nothing she wouldn't do for her own four; but the many other children in Mary's life--my stepchildren, niece and grandchildren, to name a few--all benefitted from her kindness and generosity. My stepdaughter was the flower girl at Mary's wedding, and it was tradition for them to treat her to a full-fledged shopping spree every September for her birthday. She'd come home with an entire new school wardrobe and stories about what stores they went to, where they went for lunch and how much fun she had with her aunt and uncle. 

Mary made every Christmas magical for all the children in her life too. Even though she never even met my niece--who lives hundreds of miles away--there was always a beautifully wrapped present under the tree for her, chosen especially by Mary. Always age-appropriate and always cool. When the kids got older, there were always crisp bills nestled inside their cards--and lots of them.

We lived in Toronto for many years, but Mary kept in touch with me through delightful handwritten letters, chockful of news about what my nieces and nephew were up to, their growth and development milestones, and details about her latest projects. Mary always had so much going on.

As our parents aged, Mary took charge like only she could. Doing our mother-in-law's laundry faithfully each week after she entered a long-term care home, making sure her children visited regularly, and ensuring she didn't want for a thing. When our mother-in-law passed away, it was Mary who singlehandedly tackled the lengthy and laborious task of clearing out her tired and obsolete house and overseeing its complete renovation. With her excellent taste in décor and her insistence on "the best" of everything--flooring, fixtures, appliances--Mary transformed it into a cozy, comfortable, modern, inviting home.  She also meticulously managed our mother-in-law's estate, which was no small or easy feat.

Her talent for organization was superior. Each time one of her adult children moved or relocated to another city, Mary was there with boxes, bedsheets and her inimitable expertise and attention to detail.

She was a dedicated and delightful homemaker, a fabulous cook and made sure everyone she loved was as happy and comfortable as they could possibly be.

When she became a grandmother, Mary was also always there. Not for the occasional visit at her convenience; she shaped her life around caring for her little ones so their young moms and dads could leave for work every day with the peace of mind that comes from knowing their kids were with the next best person to themselves.

Mary put everyone in her family first, but she took good care of herself so she could always be ready for whatever they needed, whenever they needed it. She kept her youthful figure, her hair was always perfectly styled and she was always beautifully dressed.

She loved to laugh and was always able to see the humour in life. 

Although it sure won't seem much like Christmas this year, when I unwrap the Barbie and Ken Bridal Christmas ornament that Mary gave me years ago, I will hang it in a prominent place on my tree, and say a prayer of gratitude for her.

"..a broom is drearily sweeping up the broken pieces of yesterday's life; somewhere her children are weeping; somewhere her husband has no wife; and the wind cries Mary...."

Like the wind, Mary was a force to reckoned with. Mere words cannot describe how much she will be missed.         

Requiem for a Gentleman

The year was 1979 or 1980, I really can't be sure anymore. I had just moved back to Windsor after a year of running away from my problems. My 18-month marriage was over and my life was in shambles. I was broke, in debt, unemployed and feeling pretty ashamed of the mess I'd made of everything. Returning home and having to rely on my parents again at age 22 was my definition of Failure with a capital F.

Fortunately for me, I had a friend or two still living here. Kathy was my emotional rescue. She brought booze and food over to my lonely little bachelor apartment. She helped me get a job. She listened to all my tales of woe and did her damndest to convince me that things were going to be okay.

Most important of all, she invited me in to her full, fun, rich life.

One night, even though I had nothing to wear and no money, she loaned me a sweater and insisted on taking me to London Street, the newest happening downtown bar. There, I  met her good friend Guy and his younger brother Bobby. They were both so good looking, so funny and such good dancers. I had such a blast that I actually completely forgot about all my troubles.

And so began a brief but magical time, when every night there was somewhere to go or something to do with a bunch of loving, caring people who believed I was smart, funny and beautiful. And when I was with them, I believed it too.

I adored Guy--as everyone who knew him did. But there was something special about Bobby. He'd obviously inherited the Bulley intelligence, ascerbic wit and good looks, but he seemed unaware of all that. There was a humility about him and an aura of empathy shone from within him. He could always be depended on for the ride home, for his jacket when it got cold, or to say "your money's no good here, Sweetheart".

As I said, this idyllic time did not last long. We lost Guy in 1987. I will never forget the call that came to my Toronto office from Kathy, telling me he was dying in hospital but didn't want anyone to see him, so not to come. By then, I had long lost track of Bobby and never saw him again.

Today, Bobby's obituary appears in the Windsor Star. It says he died "suddenly".     

When I read that he'd been tending bar at the Riverside Sportsmen's Club, I try to recall if I actually had seen him the last time I was there--but that the years had rendered us both unrecognizable to each other.

Bobby was only in my life for a little while. But I know my memories of him will last for the rest of mine.

Godspeed and rest in peace to a true gentleman. 

 

 

        

My Semi-Charmed Kind of Life

I know my title is the name of a '90's one-or-two-hit-wonder song. But why mess with perfection?

July 14, 2019 will mark our five year-anniversary of "moving back home" to Windsor, after 35 years in Toronto.  

Move-in day at The Cute Little House on July 14, 2014 went smoothly and without incident. I was so happy that we'd hired professional movers. We paid them a pretty penny, but it was worth every one of them. 

Seems like it took no time at all to settle in, establish routines and connections. It helps when you were both born and raised here, but all the same, I don't think either my husband nor I had any idea what our new life was really going to be like.

Our first year here, we were still making decorating and furniture decisions, but that didn't stop me from throwing Thanksgiving for 21 at The Cute Little House. My kitchen here is twice the size of my Toronto one, has a dishwasher and also a table and three chairs. And with no furniture in the living room, I could put all 5 leaves in my dining room table and seat almost everyone! I've always loved home entertaining; I just love it a whole lot more now.

I will always remember why and how we came to live here. My husband's parents bought The Cute Little House sometime in the '50's; the family lived there until both brothers had moved out, married and their father passed away. Thelmy, my dear, departed mother-in-law lived here on her own until 2005.  Throughout those years, most of the times we visited Windsor for birthdays, holidays and family stuff, we stayed in Thelmy's spare bedroom. We always marvelled at how still and quiet it was at night here. After our noisy urban street in Toronto, it felt like pure heaven. I always had some of my  "best sleeps" here.

Thelmy passed away in 2008.

Fast forward to July 15 or 16, 2014--a day or two after we'd moved back for good. I discovered a shiny dime on the front sidewalk. It hadn't been there the day before. I just somehow knew it was a little sign from Thelmy that she was happy for us...and her cute little house.

I cherish this house with all my heart and soul. Every day here feels like a beginning. No matter what's on the agenda--housework, shopping, errands, cooking, writing, socializing, entertaining--I look forward to it with love and gratitude.

But as much if not even more, I cherish the land this Cute Little House stands on. We are just far away enough from our neighbours to have privacy, but not so far away that we don't know all of them by name and speak regularly. Thirteen sky-high cedars line the end of a portion of our backyard;  several other large, very mature, leafy trees populate the rest of the property. A privet hedge along the north wall offers seclusion in the summer when its in full bloom; in the winter months, not so much. In Toronto, we had a postage stamp-sized front lawn and a not bigger backyard that we couldn't access without going down the stairs, out the front door and walking around to the back of the house.

I spend a lot more time outside than ever before, even in the winter. I can walk almost anywhere I want to go, strolls around the neighbourhood are part of my daily routine and more often than not, during my travels I end up talking to people and petting dogs. 

June has always been one of my favourite months, but it's gone up in rank since moving here. The first weekend in June is when Yard Sale Season officially begins. Even though I should be having a yard sale and not attending them, my resolve always disintegrates before July.

June is a festive month because it's my birth month! Lucky me, my birthday usually lasts for weeks--weeks of lunches, dinners, movies, nice things arriving in the mail and other delights.

It is a semi-charmed kind of life, and I love it.     

  

More Than That Mitchell

He was here before we were, this very clean and fluffy feral boy with the telltale nicked ear (that told us someone had trapped him, had him neutered and released him again).

He wasn't just some stray old Tom who showed up when he felt like it or was hungry. He was more than that.

We named him Mitchell, which soon became shortened to Mitchy.

Mitchy made our property his own, and rarely ever left. With few exceptions over the years, the furthest he'd roam was through the fence to the skids and stacks of stuff in the factory parking lot behind the cedars that line our backyard. Unlike our other ferals Monkey and Blacky, we'd never see Mitchy cross the street or venture beyond the end of our sidewalk or driveway. 

In the warm weather, he could always be found napping in our garden, guarding the sump pump pipe in anticipation of a whoosh of water, or languishing in the warm rays of sun on our driveway.

In the winter, he'd go in his "hobo hut" underneath the trailer parked on our property, or lay on some of the loose straw piled between the bales around it to form a barrier from the biting wind and cold.  Or he'd hang on our front porch, looking to all the world like he totally belonged there.

No matter when or for what reason I left the house, he'd come running to me from wherever he was, anxious to talk to me and to be petted while he purred and purred and purred. He was a lover, not a fighter; no scars ever marred his sweet face or pink nose. And no matter how muddy or mucky it got, he kept his white fur meticulously clean.

Last year in February, we noticed him favouring his left front paw. At first it was just a slight limping, but then I discovered an angry, festering sore just above his dew claw. Soon he was hobbling around on three legs while holding the injured one off the ground. It was heartbreaking and neither I nor Hubby could stand to see him suffer. Several phone calls to our understanding vet helped us cope. She agreed that it was highly unlikely we could ever trap him and even if we could, it was be extremely traumatic for him (and maybe even dangerous for them) to be examined She encouraged us and reassured us that he would likely heal on his own. And yet, even though he must have been in incredible pain, one day we saw him playfully batting around the cap from a caulking gun (that he been left behind by our roofers) with his good front paw. He found a way to do everything he usually did, including stalking and chasing birds that I suspect he never had any intention of capturing. It took almost 3 months, but little by little, he got the full use of his paw back.

When we'd return home and it was close to supper time, he'd be waiting in the driveway or on the porch for us. When I'd go outside to check the food supply, by the time I'd gone in to get more and opened the door again, he'd be waiting on his haunches at the door. 

Everyone who knew us knew Mitchy. When we'd be gone from home overnight, my mom would come and feed our ferals until we returned. 

If I had to predict which one of our ferals would disappear for good, I would have bet on Blacky, who was born on our property but we were unsuccessful in myriad attempts to trap and take him in to be neutered. Or Monkey, who like Mitchy was also here long before we were,  but who can often be seen jumping scaling fences, crossing the street or roaming way far away.   

I would never have bet on Mitchy. Because he wasn't just a feral cat. He was so much more than that. 

     

 

Memories of Mary

A lovely lady I have known most of my life left the world yesterday.

Her name was Mary and she was 89 years old.

I was just a child when I met her for the first time. She, her husband and family moved in to the house next door to ours on Edward Avenue. 

Since hearing of her passing, so many memories of Mary have flooded my heart and mind:

Her brilliant blue eyes 

Her high pitched, soothing, singsong voice and her proper British accent 

Her green thumb. Multicoloured snapdragons and roses in the front, vegetables in the back.

A true Brit, Mary made traditional Christmas cake...the kind you soak in booze, wrap and store in your cold cellar. One year, the family dog Snoopy--a loopy, overly large pure black Lab--got into the cold cellar and polished off at least two of the giant, heavy concoctions. Then proceeded puke them all back up for days. We thought she would never stop. All Mary could say, over and over was, "Poor, poor Snoop!" And she genuinely meant it. 

One hot summer day, Mary came knocking at our front door to see if we knew where Jean--mother of 2 year old Julie--was. She wanted to know because she found Julie on her front lawn, crying and clad in nothing but a diaper. "I suspect she's filled her pants!" Mary whispered. 

Her lovely figure and stylish way of dressing.

How she welcomed her parents over from England for lengthy visits. I especially loved her mother!

If Mary lost her temper, I never witnessed it. Ever.

The way she called her kids in for dinner. "Philip and Richard! Diane and Debbie!" in that sweet singsong voice.

The way she always left GREAT food behind for me when I occasionally babysat the youngest Humphries children.

Her dark tan in the summer, shown off in one of her many tank tops and pairs of short shorts. 

Her beautiful laugh.

Her love of the symphony. Long after we'd moved away from Edward and both Mary's and my mom's husbands were gone, they reconnected and enjoyed dinner and Mary's seasons tickets for many years. My mom loved that so much.

How I cried when I learned that Mary had been diagnosed with a disease that would eventually rob her of all her independence, memories and mobility.

A woman of class, style and dignity. With a pure heart and a beautiful soul. 

Fluttering to touch the sun and kiss the sky 

Mary with her Angel Wings

Hovering in the roses

While the bluebird sings

Godspeed Lovely Mary. This butterfly is free.  

 

 

  

 

Farewell to the Master

This handsome fella came into my life some twenty-or-so years ago. Bob Douglas lived in a sweet little house on Regent Road in Toronto with his sweet little Bichon named Duster. I don't recall the first time I met him, but I sure recall the first time I went to that sweet little house. It kind of broke my heart that even though he'd been long divorced, the decor in his Regent Road abode still bore all the traces of a "woman's touch". A dusty pink floral bathroom with flowers and lace. A fully equipped kitchen. And a beautiful backyard.

Back then, Hubby and I were part of a delightful group of people who really embraced camaraderie, longterm friendship...and golf. Everyone loved golf and one of the highlights of each season was The Masters tournament that Bob and Roger McFarlin organized...complete with cash prizes, Green Jackets and an after party that began on the 19th hole and continued in the backyard or basement of Regent Road until the wee hours.

I was a much better cook than I was a golfer, so one night over a bunch of beers, Bob, Roger, Hubby and me hatched at plan where I'd "cater" The Masters. Together we planned a menu and I borrowed chafing and serving dishes from work. Early in the morning of The Masters, Hubby drove me to Regent Road. The guys left for the tournament and I got cooking up a storm, with little Duster at my heels...until about 4 p.m., when she plopped on top of the couch to look out the living room window for her "Daddy".

Soon the 30-or-so hungry, thirsty golfers returned, full of tales about what had transpired on the course. The party was a huge success; an especially vivid memory was Bob, Roger, Hubby and me downing hefty shots for our "Drambuie Debrief" after everyone else had gone home.

My "catering" became part and parcel of The Masters tradition for several years, until Bob found love again. Then his partner took the reigns.

Our friendship still revolved around golf, but when Bob and his partner sold the house on Regent Road and moved to Mississauga, there were many grand gatherings there, too. His partner was a terrific cook, and often, just the four of us would share a meal together at their home or meet up at a local pub.

As the years pass, life and circumstances have a way of changing. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worst.

When Bob and his partner went their separate ways, his beautiful blue eyes lost a bit of their twinkle. A bit of the spring disappeared from his step.

But no matter what personal struggles he was experiencing, Bob never let anyone see anything other than his contagious, loving smile. Not only was he a master of sustaining and nurturing friendships, he was also a master of keeping his troubles to himself.

Also a master of identifying and appreciating the humour in anything, I suspect that none of us ever really knew the details or the depths of his pain.     

We started noticing little things that weren't quite right, like shaking hands and slower speech. We also noticed sometimes that he didn't seem like the Bob we had come to know and love. 

Then he shared that he'd been diagnosed with a progressive neurological disease--one that would eventually rob him of his mobility, motor skills and everything else that most of us take for granted. 

But Bob never let his rob him of his dignity. He took it all in stride, never losing his sense of humour or his positive attitude. 

When he moved into an assisted living facility, his spirits were still bright. He kept in touch and could still make jokes about being reckless with his powerized wheelchair.

When he could no longer type his own emails, he dictated lengthy, upbeat and still so funny missives to his daughter, who sent them on to us.

Last winter he came down with the flu, which was a giant setback for his overall health. In spite of a valiant effort, Bob never really fully bounced back.

Yesterday, he succumbed to the insipid, cruel disease.

As heartbroken and bereft as I am, I am also happy. He is finally free.

I have no doubt that there are golf courses in heaven, and my handsome, funny friend is already out there on the links in a foursome with Harold, Peter and Randy. The sun warms their skin as they anticipate their first sip of ice cold beer on the 19th hole.

Fore, my friend!   

 

The Ribbon in the Sky: A Father's Day Story

This is not a coincidence

via karendipity.typepad.com

Girls Never Outgrow Their Dad: Part 1

"Girls Never Outgrow Their Dad".  How true.

My dad has been gone for 18 and a half years...taken from me way too soon. He died after he'd just turned 61...only 1 year old than me...and younger than my husband is today.

Over the years, I've often shared some of my most special and poignant memories of my father with you; on Father's Day it just seems fitting to revisit some of the favourites and maybe share a few new ones.

My father was only 19 years old when I was born. He had his whole life mapped out...having been drafted by the Detroit Tigers as a southpaw pitcher. His biggest dream was poised to come true.  Throughout most of my mom's pregnancy, he was in Lakeland Florida at spring training. By the time I was born, he'd already thrown out his back, resulting in a permanent injury that permanently destroyed his dream.

For many aspiring 19-year-old athletes, that would have been more than enough reason to give up and become bitter.

But not my dad.

He took an office job at my great-grandfather's business--William Egleston Customs Brokerage Ltd.,  and--according to my mom, anyway--said the day I was born was one of the happiest days of his life.

It couldn't have been easy for my mom and dad. By the time I was 4 months old, Mom was expecting again. By the time I was three, I had a baby brother, a brand new baby sister and we'd moved to a cute little bungalow on the last block of Edward Street, just below Tranby Avenue. That was my world for the first 14 years of my life.

Fathers dressed in suits or uniforms and went to work every day; mothers cleaned house, did laundry, ironed and folded it while watching As the World Turns, The Guiding Light and The Secret Storm. No matter what the weather, we walked to Prince Charles Public School with bologna sandwiches in paper bags for lunch, or played outside from after breakfast until lunch, from after lunch until supper, and then from after supper until the streetlights came on.

Depending on the season, on weekends there were barbecues, bonfires, leaf raking, lawn cutting, fireworks, pool parties or flooding backyards for skating rinks. There were also wild strawberries to pick, crayfish and frogs to catch or hikes deep into Schiller's Bush, where maybe one might spot The Black Lady or Tony Mel lurking in the bushes.

My father was the kind of man who was quiet most of the time, but he had a silly side and quite the wicked sense of humour. He was also known for piling us all into his Plymouth station wagon to go to the drive-in, Dairy Queen, Peerless or A&W.

We had a deluxe kiddy swimming pool and swingset in our large backyard, along with a barbecue and patio (that Dad installed himself) with a picnic table (that Dad built and painted green) in our backyard, beautiful shrubs, flowering plants, a jack-o-lantern and the best candy to give out on Hallowe'en, colourful, twinkling Christmas lights and all the other things that made a house a home.

When Dad wasn't working at the office, he was working around the house. He and Mom painted and decorated our bedrooms just the way we wanted them; we got to pick the paint colours and bedspreds. Later we got to pick out our own carpeting. Dad also panelled the walls of our basement and divided the space so there was a bar area (he built an awesome NHL-themed bar and decorated the walls above the wainscotting with record album covers and old '45's) , a t.v. area, laundry room, workshop and a playroom with lots of shelves for our myriad games and toys. Later, when I decided I was an artist, he cleared out the major portion of his workshop to make a permanent home for my easel and a drawing table long and wide enough to hold all my giant sketch pads, art supplies and writing materials. He hooked up an old speaker to the console stereo in our living room, so I could play records or listen to the radio while "creating". 

Dad called Mom every day on his lunch hour. He also made a special point to talk to us each of us and ask us what we were doing. He often brought awesome things home for us--drawing paper and Paper Mate markers for me, paper clips, erasers or baseball cards for my brother, a gleaming new wood ruler or a roll of shiny new pennies or my sister to hoard in her piggy bank.  

When my great-grandfather died, changes at William Egleston Customs Brokerage Ltd. caused Dad to quit. He had never really liked his job, but he had a young family to support and it paid the bills. But when they fired his mother--a divorcee living on her own--it was the last straw.  

While Dad looked for new employment and took courses to augment his high school education, Mom took a part-time job as a cashier at N&D Eastown supermarket. On the nights she worked, Dad was in charge of making dinner, making sure all three of us had our baths and were read the latest chapter of Black Beauty, Tom Sawyer or Huckleberry Finn.

The correspondence courses he was taking were to obtain his real estate license; later he took more courses to become a Certified Property Manager. In the meantime, he and a friend brilliantly conceived Avant Garb--a "by appointment only" bespoke suit store in one of downtown Windsor's most prestigious locations--Equity Chambers on Chatham Street. Situated just above Ye Olde Steakhouse, Avant Garb was, for a little while, one of the most prestigious places in Windsor to buy top quality designer menswear. Later, it became Lou Myles Custom Menswear.

The clothing venture was cool and fun, but it couldn't support Dad's family of five and his unemployed mother. Dad was eventually hired by Bill Docherty at Pruefer Management, where there was also a good job for Grammy as it happened. 

The summer I turned 13, there was also a job for me. While Mom was a bit concerned whether I was old enough to be working, Dad knew I was mature enough and responsible enough to do a great job. I was stationed in one of the fabulously decorated, furnished model townhomes on Roseville Garden Drive. My job was to walk prospective buyers through each room and hand them a colourful brochure (that Dad has designed himself) listing selling features, prices and mortgage options. In later years, I typed and answered phones in the Community Centre and the high-rise apartment office. 

With Dad doing really well at Pruefer and Mom working full time at Union Gas; they decided we'd outgrown our little bungalow on Edward Street. They embarked on building the home of their dreams on Orchard Grove, a small crescent on the north side of Wyandotte across from Glidden Dairy Bar.  

Moving to Orchard Grove marked the end of one era...and the beginning of a brand new chapter for our family.

     

 

Summer, Windsor Style

British Columbia has the Rockies, Alberta has Banff, Quebec has the Walled City, Nova Scotia has Peggy's Cove and Newfoundland has its rainbow painted houses, craggy cliffs and mighty Atlantic shoreline. Our land of lakes and snow has beauty from sea to shining sea, but where I live has a magic all its own.

If you don't live here, chances are you just don't see it. Our downtown is struggling, our Casino is closed due to a labour strike, and in the past six months we've endured floods, a small earthquake and a tornado.

But when summer comes to Windsor, it brings wonder with it.

Where else is the southernmost tip of Canada just a drive or ferry ride away?

All manner of precious wildlife flocks here--bald eagles, Monarch butterflies, snowy owls, scarlet necked grosbeaks, deer, adorable bunnies, foxes, swans, and so many more.

Windsor's waterfront spans the entire city and beyond--miles and miles of lush gardens, parks, beaches, marinas, the iconic Peace Fountain, Ambassador Bridge, Detroit skyline, Belle Isle and this magnificent gem: Peche Island.

Welcome to the land of summer festivals celebrating Canada Day, the Blues, the corn harvest, international cuisine, art, lavender, wine and just about anything else you can think of!

True, there may well be more beautiful places in this magnificent country of ours...but Summer, Windsor Style has a distinct and endearing charm that makes me so happy to live here!            

May 27 Musings from the Memory Motel

 

One year ago today, I got a call from my friend Ric in London, telling me in the most horrified and incredulous voice that our friend Kirk had taken his own life.

I had just seen him on Sunday of the week before. It was the long weekend in Ontario and he'd driven down from London to visit family. I was so honoured and happy when he said he'd stop by to see me and my Hubby before he left the city for home. We left the time of our visit flexible; and I reassured him that if he ran out of time and couldn't make it over here for a visit, we'd completely understand. 

He arrived on our doorstep about 9 a.m. on a cloudy Sunday morning--looking so handsome, as usual, with his hypnotizingly light blue eyes, impeccable grooming and comfortably-but-stylishly dressed. He cut a handsome (a word I use a lot when describing him) figure as he slipped off his shoes in my landing. I told him he didn't have to bother, but he wouldn't dream of wearing "outside shoes" inside.

Hubby, Kirk and I sat at our kitchen table, drinking coffee with Bailey's and having one of our always-intelligent conversations about all matters of life.

He stayed for about two hours, and I revelled in every minute of having him all to myself.

He said he'd have loved to stay longer, but he still had to visit our friend Bob before getting on  his way.

Kirk had also come bearing his customary (and customized) gifts: always two or three bottles of expensive wine. This time, there was also a large Ziploc freezer bag of "edibles" and another large Ziplac freezer bag of" "smokeables". It was such a huge and generous supply that I insisted on paying him.

And of course he refused to take one cent.

He hugged me long and hard before he left. At that moment in time, I had no idea that he was hugging me goodbye. Forever. Only he knew that. I was still buoyed by his visit and the new memories we'de made. 

In the hindsight that always comes, I now remember our last encounter differently.

I now feel that he was subdued and serious, but he could be that way sometimes. I didn't sense that anything was amiss with him. 

He had come to say goodbye.

Often, when I remember Kirk, I remember that. That last hug he gave was the best hug he'd ever given me because it has been the longest by a mile. I would have never let him go if I'd known then what I know now.

It's hard not to be sad about him, but I try my damndest to remind myself that I was blessed to  "have loved" him at all.  

A carful of us made the drive to London for his visitation. I wore the premium quality vintage Rolling Stones tie-dye t-shirt with the flaming "lips" on the front. Not only had the family requested that we wear Rolling Stones or other concert tees, but many of us were the proud recipients of a concert tee that Kirk had gifted us from his prime collection. I've cared for my Rolling Stones tee with a passion that doesn't extend to any of my other tee shirts. "The Kirk one" has only been hand washed once or twice  (yes, you read that right, hand washed) in Woolite . It has never seen the inside of a dryer, because it gets laid flat to dry and is then carefully hung on a special hanger.    

And there he was in his coffin, wearing a Rolling Stones tee beneath his leather jacket. I have never been able to touch a corpse, no matter how strongly and deeply I loved the soul that used to abide within.

After seeing him and paying my respects to his family, I wanted fresh air. My friend Bob and I sat on a sun-dappled little patio outside the venue on a hard wooden bench, drinking cold Tim Horton's coffee and baring our souls, far removed in our own little world. We went through the motions of attending the after-gathering of friends at a nearby pub. There were six or seven tables of people, all with Kirk stories to tell. 

It struck me that this large group comprised all kinds of friendships. There was a significant contingent of high school buddies--who had kept in touch all along or re-established friendships later in life. There were people like me, who had only known of Kirk in high school, but didn't get to know him until after the Proud to Be From Riverside Ontario (PTBFRO) Facebook group united us about 8 years ago. And so many others I didn't know at all. 

Thanks to PTBFRO, I discovered Kirk's savage wit, genius vocabulary and inimitable way with words. He could make a pun or wordplay out of anything. We also shared a deep passion for cooking, wine, home entertaining and cats.

And of course, there was always the music.

One night Kirk posted: "Karen, how come we were never friends in high school?" My answer was instantaneous, "Oh Kirk, we didn't travel in the same circles. You were part of The Cool Crowd and I most definitely was NOT." I admitted to him that I'd always secretly thought he was incredibly aloof and stuck up in the halls of Riverside High, where he was a couple of grades ahead of me.

But through our online conversations, I learned that he was just shy back in the day. Not being a shy person myself, it took me a few decades to factor in shyness to how one behaves socially.

The novelty of our friendship kept reinventing itself. 

I was there for him sometimes when life got him down. He knew he could trust me to confide in, and he did confide. His honesty and openness amazed me and endeared him to me all the more.

It was such a great honour to have his trust and affection. 

Along with our shared supreme love of cats and food photography--which we shamelessly posted pictures of regularly--there was, of course the music. New music, old music, music that crossed multiple genres. We often posted YouTube songs for each other. Such innocent fun!  

A few weeks after his death, I was outside on a warm, beautiful summer day. I looked up to the sky and asked, "Where are you Kirk?" I had foolishly been "looking for signs" from him since the visitation. Many others were receiving them and describing them, but not me.

I didn't even know what to look for. When I lost my Dad in 2000, experience proved that rainbows and cardinals were signs from him. A shiny dime I found on our sidewalk the day after we'd moved in to The Cute Little House (one that had most definitely NOT been there the day before; I knew because I'd travelled that sidewalk countless times, making sure our movers had access to the front and side doors) was a sign from Thelmy, my dear departed mother-in-law and original Cute Little House occupant.   

But the day the first sign came, I knew right away. "Kisses in the Sky", those narrow dual strokes of white jet exhaust that criss-cross each other. That's what Kirk called them. 

Shortly after that, a big blue dragonfly landed on my pansy basket and stayed there, not moving, for hours. Another sign.

Now it's summer again, which will always remind me of Kirk. I don't think there's anyone who loved the sun, the sand and the ocean more than he did.

Rest in peace my Captain.   

 

Tracy's Magic Peanut Brittle

There's no doubt about it. My friend Tracy makes magic peanut brittle. 

Not only does it melt in your mouth. It's the absolute perfect combination of the ingredients of her carefully guarded recipe. 

I've been the blessed recipient of copious glassine bags and beribboned tins of MPB over the years. 

When some of it actually lasts long enough to make it out of The Cute Little House, it's usually to the Hospice Residential Home. I place it in a big, pretty bowl, set it on the island counter and happily watch as it disappears throughout my shift. It's official: you can't be in a bad mood after eating just one piece of MPB. 

Last night one of my favourite residents Ida and Rachel (her Sad Beautiful Daughter) were having a rough go.

Since it had already been determined that Ida adored peanut brittle, I placed a large Ziploc bag of MPB on her dinner tray.

When you see smiles like that after a harrowing ordeal, you know there's magic involved.