Stories from South of Detroit

Christmas Cards Incomplete

It's been a much loved tradition for me to send out WAY TOO MANY Christmas cards. 

To get them all written, addressed and mailed by Canada Post's mid-December deadline, I need to get started in mid-November. 

That didn't happen this year. I had the cards and I had the stamps and I had my list, but November came and went, then December came and it was all I could do to get about 25 cards (about 1/2 of my list) done and sent. 

One of the reasons it takes me so long to get my cards done is because I do use the tradition of sending Christmas cards to include a typed letter inside many of them. Not the generic, one-size-fits-all "family brag-a-thon" that some people put in their cards, but a personal letter just for each recipient. It's a terrific opportunity to reach out and keep in touch with people who live far away or who I don't see anymore for whatever benign reason. It's a cathartic process for me that brings me lots of pleasure. I love writing!

I also love listening to Christmas music and drinking wine while doing my cards. As I write, I really do reflect and look back on what went on in my world throughout the year. Sometimes I surprise myself with what I remember.   

Several things got in the way last year, and I won't bore you by listing them. I made a feeble attempt to get the rest of my cards in the mail in time to arrive before New Year's Day, but that Failed with a Capital F. I finally came clean with myself and accepted that 2021 will go down in my personal history for something other than Year II of COVID: it will also be The Year I Didn't Get My Cards Done.

It's very likely that I'm overestimating the importance of not getting a card from me to anyone, but I feel like I've let myself  down.

I thought I had forgiven myself but I guess not quite. 

Oh well, there's always Lunar New Year and Valentine's Day.     

 

Christmas Cards Incomplete

It's been a much loved tradition for me to send out WAY TOO MANY Christmas cards.

To get them all written, addressed and mailed by Canada Post's mid-December deadline, I need to get started in mid-November. 

That didn't happen this year. I had the cards and I had the stamps and I had my list, but November came and went, then December came and it was all I could do to get about 25 cards (about 1/2 of my list) done and sent. 

One of the reasons it takes me so long to get my cards done is because I do use the tradition of sending Christmas cards to include a typed letter inside many of them. Not the generic, one-size-fits-all "family brag-a-thon" that some people put in their cards, but a personal letter just for each recipient. It's a terrific opportunity to reach out and keep in touch with people who live far away or who I don't see anymore for whatever benign reason. It's a cathartic process for me that brings me lots of pleasure. I love writing!

I also love listening to Christmas music and drinking wine while doing my cards. As I write, I really do reflect and look back on what went on in my world throughout the year. Sometimes I surprise myself with what I remember.   

Several things got in the way, and I won't bore you by listing them. I made a feeble attempt the rest of my cards in the mail in time to arrive before New Year's Day, but that Failed with a Capital F. I finally came clean with myself and accepted that 2021 will go down in history for something other than Year II of COVID: it will also be The Year I Didn't Get My Cards Done. I'm probably overestimating the importance what it means to anyone not getting a card from me, but I feel like I've let myself  down.

I thought I had forgiven myself but I guess not quite. 

Oh well, there's always Lunar New Year and Valentine's Day. My 2021 Christmas cards will keep until Christmas 2022.    

 

Reflections on 2021

Life in the Time of COVID. For the 2nd consecutive year. 

The pandemic has not affected me in as many ways as it has others. I've been working from home for 16 years, so I've got that down to a science. This year, however, with the advent of Zoom and Microsoft Teams, there was no way I could avoid them. I liken virtual conference calls to Madonna: everyone says they hate her, but she still sold millions and millions of records and sold out all her live performances. By the same token, everyone says they hate Zoom and Teams, but everyone insists on using them. It might be of some benefit in a working situation, but the concept of virtual cocktails and parties appeals to me about as much as sticking a pencil in my eye does. I think they got pretty old pretty fast for just about everyone else I know, too. 

It didn't take long to get used to carrying hand sanitizer and masks in my purse; but even after all this time, I still occasionally forget to don a face covering before entering an establishment. Aside from Shoppers Drug Mart, 7-11, FreshCo, Zehrs, Lovely Nails and Winners, I pretty much go nowhere. 

This summer, my music buddy Bobby D took me to a porch concert at his friend Scott's house. It was a beautiful summer day and it sure felt good to soak up the sun and some fine sax! We also went once to the Victoria Tavern to see our favourite band the Soul Minors. Spaced out seating and fewer people actually made for a more enjoyable and comfortable experience!  

It also didn't take long to get used to takeout as opposed to inside restaurant dining. We did venture out to restaurants a few times once restrictions were relaxed, and boy, did we love it! The Keg for our 40th wedding anniversary, La Rucola for Hubby's birthday, and a night to remember at Vito's Pizzeria in Walkerville with our good friend Ted, who was in town from Toronto on business.

Sadly, however, I have given up wearing dangly earrings. Just the thought of them getting all tangled up in the straps of my mask gives me the willies.

However, we may never stop doing takeout from our favourite fish and chips place, Pat & Hanks. They've got a system that runs like a fine tuned machine--the wait is never longer than 15 or 20 minutes. There's never been much atmosphere to miss by not "dining in" there. Plus, we don't have to dress up (I've often gone in there looking like a bag of dirt--but hey! With a mask covering half my face and sunglasses almost covering the rest, I'm good!)

I can count the times on one hand I did any home entertaining: 1) my mom's birthday in July; 2) my stepdaughter, son-in-law and grandson in November and 3) Christmas Day. That's it. 

My stepson Matt drove down by himself from Toronto a couple of times and stayed with us for one night each time. 

I haven't seen my granddaughter Madeleine or her mom, my darling daughter-in-law for more than 2 years. That hurts. 

From early January 2021 until today, it was a very busy and lucrative year for me work-wise. Sometimes TOO busy, but after a 6 month draught of any paying work in 2020, I just felt I could NOT turn down work. However, come September, I realized I had too many balls in the air and was forced to do just that.

It was an easy decision to hang up my smock for good at Hospice, where I've volunteered several times a week for five years; I'm needed more at home now. But that being said, it doesn't stop me from missing the fun, fellowship and the satisfaction that came from knowing I made a difference.    

One of the big bright spots of 2021 was my inaugural podcast with my friend Russell Drago. He conceived of the idea, produced it and paid for most of it, but we released it this month to warm and positive reviews from everyone who listened. It was a lot of work, but also a lot of fun, and now I have a new skill to add to my repertoire! 

Another bright spot was the deepening of my bond with my 16-yr-old niece Abby. She called me for help with an essay she was writing. We both love reading and movies so we've always got something to talk about. One day she just called out of the blue for no reason and we talked about life, love and the problems of the world for almost 2 hours. I can't describe the joy that brought me. 

This time of year is always a reflective one for me. Since the year 2001, January 1 marks the anniversary of my father's passing in January 2000. Over the past 22 years I have come to accept that my world will always be slightly empty without him; accepting it doesn't mean that I like it. Each January 1, I light a candle as soon as I get up in the morning and let it burn all day in his honour. A comforting private ritual for me. 

2021 was not kind to my beloved husband. I kept it to myself, but I had high hopes that the surgery he had in May would be the gateway to him feeling better. And while the surgery was a great success and no doubt saved his life, the feeling better part never materialized. When he's not feeling weak and dizzy and fatigued, he's in some kind of pain--arthritis or joints or leg cramps. It never ends. Nor, it seems, do the things that go wrong. Just when I think I one health problem has been resolved, another one crops up to take its place. But each time I entertain thoughts of throwing a pity party, I remind myself of how it must be for him. He never complains, so I don't either. It's my mission to make sure every day of his life is as pleasant and comfortable as possible.

I've had to call an ambulance twice--once in September; the second time was Monday of this week. I've spoken to more doctors about more things than I ever have before; I'm on a first-name basis with Adam, our Shoppers Drug Mart pharmacist. 

In regard to my own health, everyone gets their wakeup call sooner or later, and this year I got mine. After eating, smoking and drinking whatever and how much I please for the most part, the time has come to pay the piper. Thanks to high blood pressure, I've had to cut out coffee, take and record my blood pressure every day, seriously limit salt and blah blah blah. Boring. And serves me right! 

But through it all, my family and friends have stood by me, cheered me on, made me laugh and let me know I am loved. That's all that really matters, isn't it?

I'm never really sorry to see an old year end, but tonight, I can't help but hope that 2022 is brighter and kinder to us all. 

  

 

Reflections on 2021

Life in the Time of COVID. For the 2nd consecutive year. 

The pandemic has not affected me in as many ways as it has others. I've been working from home for 16 years, so I've got that down to a science. This year, however, with the advent of Zoom and Microsoft Teams, there was no way I could avoid them. I liken virtual conference calls to Madonna: everyone says they hate her, but she still sold millions and millions of records and sold out all her live performances. By the same token, everyone says they hate Zoom and Teams, but everyone insists on using them. It might be of some benefit in a working situation, but the concept of virtual cocktails and parties appeale to me about as much as sticking a pencil in my eye. 

It didn't take long to get used to carrying hand sanitizer and masks in my purse; but even after all this time, I still occasionally forget to don a face covering before entering an establishment. Aside from Shoppers Drug Mart, 7-11, FreshCo, Zehrs, Lovely Nails and Winners, I pretty much go nowhere. 

It also didn't take long to get used to takeout as opposed to inside restaurant dining. We did venture out to restaurants a few times, and boy, did we love it! The Keg for our 40th wedding anniversary, La Rucola for Hubby's birthday, and a night to remember at Vito's Pizzeria in Walkerville with our good friend Ted. That being said, we may never stop doing takeout from our favourite fish and chips place, Pat & Hanks. They've got a system that runs like a fine tuned machine, and the wait is never longer than 15 or 20 minutes. There's never been much atmosphere to miss by not "dining in" there. Plus, we don't have to dress up (I've often gone in there looking like a bag of dirt--but hey! With a mask covering half my face and sunglasses almost covering the rest, I'm good! 

I can count the times on one hand I did any home entertaining: 1) my mom's birthday in July; 2) my stepdaughter, son-in-law and grandson in November and 3) Christmas Day. That's it. 

My stepson Matt drove down by himself from Toronto a couple of times and stayed with us for one night each time. 

I haven't seen my granddaughter Madeleine or her mom, my darling daughter-in-law for more than 2 years. That hurts. 

From early January 2021 until today, it was a very busy and lucrative year for me work-wise. Sometimes TOO busy, but after a 6 month draught of any paying work in 2020, I just felt I could NOT turn down work. However, come September, I was forced to do just that.  

One of the big bright spots of 2021 was my inaugural podcast with my friend Russell Drago. He conceived of the idea, produced it and paid for most of it, but we released it this month to warm and positive reviews from everyone who listened. It was a lot of work, but also a lot of fun, and now I have a new skill to add to my repertoire! 

Another bright spot was the deepening of my bond with my 16-yr-old niece Abby. She called me for help with an essay she was writing. We both love reading and movies so we've always go something to talk about. One day she just called out of the blue for no reason and we talked about life, love and the problems of the world for almost 2 hours. I can't describe the joy that brought me. 

This time of year is always a reflective one for me. Since the year 2000, January 1 marks the anniversary of my father's passing. Over the past 22 years I have come to accept that my world will always be slightly empty without him; accepting it doesn't mean that I like it. Each January 1, I light a candle as soon as I get up in the morning and let it burn all day in his honour. A comforting private ritual for me. 

2021 was not kind to my beloved husband. I kept it to myself, but I had high hopes that the surgery he had in May would be the gateway to him feeling better. And while the surgery was a great success and no doubt saved his life, the feeling better part never materialized. When he's not feeling weak and dizzy and fatigued, he's in some kind of pain--arthritis or joint paint or leg cramps. It never ends. Nor, it seems, do the things that go wrong. Just when I think I one health problem has been solved, another one takes its place. Each time I start thinking of throwing a pity party, I remind myself of how it must be for him. He never complains, so I don't either. It's my mission to make sure every day of his life is as pleasant and comfortable as possible.

I've had to call an ambulance twice--once in September; the second time was Monday of this week. I've spoken to more doctors about more things than I ever have before; I'm on a first-name basis with Adam, our Shoppers Drug Mart pharmacist. 

In regard to my own health, everyone gets their wakeup call sooner or later, and this year I got mine. After eating, smoking and drinking whatever and how much I please for the most part, the time has come to pay the piper. Thanks to high blood pressure, I've had to cut out coffee, take and record my blood pressure every day, seriously limit salt and blah blah blah.

But through it all, my family and friends have stood by me, cheered me on, made me laugh and let me know I am loved. In the end, that's really all that matters, isn't it?

I'm never really sorry to see the old year end, but this year I can't help but hope that 2022 is brighter and kinder to us all. 

  

 

"Snap out of it" is not an option

Today is Bell Let's Talk Day. #BellLetsTalk

Now more than ever, it's important to talk about mental health.

Thanks to initiatives like Bell Let's Talk Day, mental illness has begun to emerge from the shadows of shame and secrecy. But the stigma still exists. Many stay silent out of fear. Fear of judgement, embarrassment, not being believed, being told to "buck up", "get over it" or "snap out of it. 

Since the advent of  COVID, suicide, drug overdoses and calls to help lines have all increased significantly. 

It takes guts to talk about mental illness. In a society that values resilience, productivity, independence and self-sufficiency, it's hard to admit when you just aren't able to cope.

As a person blessed with good mental health, I tend to take it for granted...almost like breathing. When I count my blessings, "good mental health" doesn't ever seem to make the list--although good physical health often does. I am always grateful to be able to see, hear, smell, taste, feel, walk and talk.     

I do know, care about and love people who have experienced mental illness or who live with it, day in and day out. 

For many years I have written about mental health and have been employed by organizations that work hard to help people overcome or manage mental health challenges. I have learned a lot about anxiety, depression, suicide, bi-polar disorder, schizophrenia and stigma.

I've learned I still have a lot to learn.

One lesson has been to respect depression. Clinical depression is complex and complicated. A clinically depressed person CANNOT "snap out of it" through sheer will or determination. As one friend said to me not long ago, "Believe me, if I could snap out of it, I would! I don't WANT to feel this way."

If someone loses a loved one, has been diagnosed with a serious illness or injury, is in constant emotional or physical pain or trapped in an abusive or other unhealthy, undesirable situation, it's not at all uncommon for that person to become depressed. I believe that depression caused by these factors is more easily understood by others. 

But if depression is a manifestation of mental illness, people can't "see". A person suffering from mental illness does not have a cast on their arm or any other obvious physical signs that they are unwell.

Part of my lesson learned was that advice--no matter how genuine and good natured--are not welcome. There's an etiquette involved when engaging with a person suffering from mental illness--and it takes a page from the book of golf etiquette: don't offer advice or suggestions unless asked. And even then, I now know I can expect to be told why my genuine and good natured advice won't help. 

Bottom line: Mental illness is not easy. 

That's why it's so important that we feel comfortable talking about it--whether we are experiencing it ourselves or want to help someone else.

All humans need to feel they are heard. The more we talk, the better chance we have of being heard. 

This year, Bell Let's Talk says "Every action counts". Please join the conversation on social media and help raise funds for mental health initiatives.

Because "snap out of it" is not an option.    

   

 

 

 

 

 

   

 

 

 

How many toxic bosses will it take?

When I began my first fulltime job back in 1976, it became obvious on my very first day that my new boss was toxic. They didn't use that word for bad bosses back then, but this woman's behaviour sure checked all the boxes. She yelled and screamed at me, called me stupid, hit me and threw something at me. All before lunch. 

Because I was young, inexperienced and afraid, I put up with it for almost two years. When I finally ripped up my time card into a million pieces, tossed them into the air and walked out for good, I swore I'd never work for someone like that ever again. 

Easier said than done. 

In my decades of employment, I've had more good bosses than bad--but sadly, my first toxic boss was not my last. 

This week, after a scathing independent review of her conduct as Governor General of Canada, former astronaut Julie Payette resigned.

This seems to have come as no surprise to anyone, not even Payette herself. During her short three-year tenure as GG, it became known that she left both her previous positions with the Montreal Science Centre and the Canadian Olympic Committee amid allegations of mistreating colleagues and subordinates. 

According to credible news sources, it appears the Prime Minister's Office did not consult Payette's former employers during the hiring process. Given the reluctance of all employers to give negative references out of fear of legal recrimination, it's not clear that even proper due diligence would have raised red flags--or if this knowledge would have prevented Payette's appointment as Governor General.

Multiple sources have told CBC News they were stunned by Trudeau's decision. 

"A number of us were blown away when she got appointed," said a former board member at the Canada Lands Company (CLC), the self-financing Crown corporation that owns and operates the Montreal Science Centre. Payette was vice president of CLC and chief operating officer of the Montreal Science Centre from 2013 to 2016.

It's hard to understand why toxic behaviour is not only tolerated--but celebrated--in today's workplaces. Television shows like Hell's Kitchen come to mind, where hothead, verbally abusive celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay just keeps on keepin' on. His cookbooks sell millions. His restaurants are always booked.

And yet, he's a giant asshole. Talented? Yes. But kind? Considerate? Fair? Approachable? Understanding? A big fat no to all five.

I don't care what anyone says about it all being an act. I'd bet a paycheque it's not.

The toxic boss has coloured many a comedic book, television or movie plot (The Devil Wears Prada, we're looking at you), but as anyone who has really toiled in a toxic workplace will attest, it's demoralizing, discouraging, debilitating and highly stressful. Funny? Not in the least.   

It's bad enough in the private sector, where toxic workplaces have existed for centuries.

And it's nothing new in the not-for-profit, political or public sectors either. True stories abound: after the CEO of a Canadian mental health charity was removed by the Board of Directors for fostering a toxic workplace, this individual then went on to contaminate a symphony and several other charitable organizations at the CEO level. For all I know, they're wreaking havoc on some poor, unfortunate employees somewhere.

A word to the wise: most organizations that enable toxic workplaces to thrive go to great lengths to justify keeping bad bosses. They get results. They make money. Somehow, that makes it okay if they treat people terribly.

Two of the most toxic bosses I ever worked for did not interview me personally or make the final hiring decision. In hindsight, I think this was strategic. It was well known by others in the organization that these bosses were bad. But by the time I figured it out, it was too late. I'd already quit my former job and started my new one. The thought of starting yet another job search and having to tell everyone that I was looking AGAIN--so soon--filled me with shame and dread. But if I'd met either of these bad bosses even for ten minutes, I'd have run from the interview room and never looked back. 

Trust me, now matter how badly you want or need a job, working for a toxic boss is just not worth it. It's not easy to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and find other work. At first, it seems easier to tell yourself that you'll change, you'll do better, you'll figure out how not to make them so mad. Trust me, you won't. Get out as soon as you can.

How many toxic bosses will it take before businesses finally get it? An eternally unanswered question.     

 

 

 

Reflections on Life During COVID

Little did I know that when January 2020 dawned, life would be so different come March. Up until then, COVID had been in the news for months; it had already ravaged Italy and was well on its way to ravaging New York City.

I started writing "COVID Chronicles" on Facebook, posting about the sights, sounds and situations that were emerging: long lineups outside stores, poor behaviour (cutting in lines, arguing to the point of fisticuffs with other human beings, masks discarded in parking lots and sidestreets all over town, etc.)

And then the judging started. Seems everyone and their mother was a COVID protocol expert, someone who knew more and better than I did. I stopped posting "COVID Chronicles" because I just couldn't stand the preaching and prosletising.

When the first lockdown in Windsor happened in early March, I was just about due for a hair cut and colour, as well as a gel nail manicure and regular pedicure. The salons and shops shut down. I watched a YouTube video on how to remove gel nails at home. It made it look so EASY! But suffice to say, the next YouTube video I thought I night need to look up was how to amputate your hands at home. I made such mess of my nails I wasn't sure they would ever recover. 

While several of my friends took the plunge and let their locks go grey during the lockdown, I discovered that this was not an option for me. My grey was not coming in in any sort of uniform pattern; it came in in random clumps here and there, reminding me of a Blue Merle collie. But hey, where was I going anyway?  Nowhere. Who was I seeing? No one, save for my Hubby, mom, sister, stepdaughter and two friends--all of whom have seen me in various stages of not-ready-for-primetime. 

This self-proclaimed Luddite was dragged kicking and screaming into COVID-inspired technology. First, the dreaded ZOOM call. Who in their right mind (and who isn't already a t.v. star) would want ANYONE to see them in shitty lighting through a shitty t.v. camera? Not me, thank you very much. I was able to get by not being on camera for a couple of work-related calls, and the Hallowe'en Zoom with my granddaughter was fine. But in general, I still don't understand why a good old fashioned regular phone call now just doesn't seem to cut it. 

And then, one night in Shoppers Drug Mart when I'd just gone in to pick up a prescription for Hubby, I decided I needed to buy a card. I picked up the prescription and picked out a card, and then saw that the lineup for the one solitary human cashier was more than 40 people long. The two "self checkouts" that had recently replaced two human cashier stations were empty. Hubby was waiting in the car, and it was dark and cold outside. So I did something I swore I would never do: I used a self checkout. It wasn't that difficult and it was sure better than waiting in line for God knows how long. 

Fortunately for me, FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) has never been my issue. So I didn't feel the need to find creative ways to socialize, party or bend " the rules". Yes, "the rules" seem complicated and ever-changing and inconsistent, but you know what? I got really sick, really fast of people making up their own rules and then claiming to be responsible and aware. As far as I know, the basic "rules" have not changed: don't gather in groups larger than 10 indoors, wear masks at all times, physical distance by at least 2 metres, use hand sanitizer or wash your hands religiously, don't  travel, don't intermingle households unless you live alone.

It has not been hard for me personally to follow "the rules" and trust me, I'm not a rule-follower by nature. But the ones making up their own rules bug me the most. If you're going to bend or break a "rule", for God's sake, go ahead and do it, but then just shut up. Don't try and justify to me why it's OK for YOU to do something different than what's recommended for everyone else.

As 2021 dawns, there is real hope because a vaccine is now being rolled out across the land. 

Until "herd immunity" kicks in, I hope humankind will just stick it out a little longer.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Auld Lang Syne

Murray Snelgrove, who I had known since public school, was taken from the world over the Christmas holidays. Word is he had a heart attack. 

Even though Murray looked healthy and fit, his heart bore many heavy burdens over the years, and I guess he just wore it right out.

First and foremost, Murray was a singer/songwriter/musician. At a high school reunion at Sandy's circa 2012, I joined Murray and another friend on stage. We sang "Signed Sealed Delivered" and "A Horse With No Name." He was sometimes able to support himself from his music, but he also had to do other things to stay solvent. I remember him telling me not long ago that he was an Uber driver. 

As well as being supremely talented, Murray really did have a heart like a hotel. He was separated from his wife when he learned she was diagnosed with a life-altering disease. Murray moved back in with her so he could take care of her. He got a lot of grief but no support from his wife's family. And yet, he kept his spirits up and happily accepted my offer of mailing him Hospice literature about caregiving.

I don't know much about it, but I believe that Murray struggled with addiction throughout his life. My sense is that most of the time he was able to live sober, but once in a while he'd have a little slipup. 

Murray was blessed with the gift of aging well. As the years went by, he actually became MORE handsome every time I saw him. 

Since his wife's illness, Murray kept a pretty low profile. I don't even remember the last time I saw him or spoke with him. However, I do have many happy memories seeing him sing and play around town: The Dominion House, the Windsor Yacht Club. When Murray took the stage, it wasn't long before his rapt audiences were singing along with him, or dancing a conga around the establishment. His enthusiasm and excitement were just contagious.

One of his most recent YouTube posts was a song he wrote called "Gettin' Out". "No looking back, no regrets", he sang. I listened when I heard the news; it was hard to see and hear.  

I chose the title of this tribute because Murray did an outstanding rendition of the Dan Fogelberg song that has become part of the holiday mainstream. Whenever I hear that song, I am reminded of Murray singing it. Let's drink a cup of kindness yet and raise a glass to auld lang syne...and our fallen friend. 

  

Poplars, Pepsi and Perry Mason

For me, there was just nothing better than escaping to Momsy and Pop's house on Parkway Drive.

I loved spending time with my maternal grandparents. The first thing I'd do after Mom drove away was go to the fridge and take inventory, to see if all my favourites were on hand: a "barbecue" chicken from the grocery store, Brunschweiger pate spread, Cheez Whiz, and lots of cans of Pepsi. Check. In the freezer: fudgesicles and Aunt Jemima waffles. Check. In the cupboards: Rye bread, Vegetable Thins crackers and Fritos. Check.

Then, on to Momsy's bedroom, where the twin beds draped in their pale pink chenille spreads awaited. I would peek under my bedspread to make sure my favourite sheets--the bright pink, yellow and chartruese flowered ones--and the pink blanket with the satin trim were there. Check. A quick scan of Momsy's dresser to see if she had acquired any new bottles of perfume or lipsticks since my last visit. After a squirt from one of the glass atomizers on the doily and a glance in the mirror, it was off to the bathroom to check for cartoon bandaids and Pepsodent in the medicine cabinet, and to finger and smell the navy, bright green and turquoise shower curtain. Then a pass by the den to gaze at the moonlight sea scape painting over the brown nylon couch, and on to Momsy's navy, turquoise and apple green covered swivel rocker in the living room..if she wasn't already sitting in it, that is. If she was, I'd happily take my place in Pop's chair, since he was still at work at International Tool & Die just up Malden Road.

About 4:30, just when The Edge of Night would be coming on t.v., I'd run to the pantry and hide, because Pop would be home soon. The minute I heard his white Ford with the red vinyl seats pull into the driveway, I'd wait to jump out and "surprise" him the minute he walked in the side door.

Dinner might have been Momsy's delicious meatloaf, pork chops in cream of mushroom soup, mashed or scalloped potatoes, Green Giant frozen mixed vegetables, and her yummy homemade coleslaw (with chopped Macintosh apples). And there was always, always dessert: jello with whipped cream out of a can, vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce or Dare Chocolate Chip or Fudgee-O cookies.

After dinner Pop and I would go out into the backyard, sit on the plaid porch swing and talk while Momsy did the dishes inside. There was a pink clay bird bath (that they'd brought with them when they moved from Academy Drive) beneath the giant poplar trees. Swinging on that swing with Pop while the fan-shaped poplar leaves made a comforting rustling sound was one of my very favourite things. Pop would name the birds that came to splash around in the bath. Then I'd ask him to sing "Waltzing Matilda". He never said no. When dusk arrived, and with it the mosquitoes, we'd go inside.

Pop would get ready for bed, since he got up so early in the morning. I would get into my pyjamas and join Momsy in the living room for a cup of black tea. Momsy loved her television shows and I loved watching with her. Peyton Place came on too late (and was too "mature") for me to be allowed to watch at home, but when I was at Momsy's I could stay up as late as she did and watch whatever she watched, even the 11 o'clock news from Channel 4 in Detroit. And we always had Fritos and Pepsi while watching Perry Mason.  When we did finally climb into those twin beds with their freshly laundered and ironed cotton sheets, we'd talk in the dark for a bit as the poplar leaves gently flapped outside the open window.

It was still night time when Pop's alarm went off. Still snuggled in bed, I'd hear Pop shaving in the bathroom. Momsy got up, donned her quilted housecoat and slippers and padded into the kitchen to make Pop's breakfast and pack his lunch. After he left, she came back to bed until I woke up. 

Breakfast was my choice: waffles with Imperial Margarine and syrup or soft boiled eggs with rye toast "soldiers". I had my own egg cup, fancy juice glass and silver "egg spoon".   After breakfast, I'd get dressed and help Momsy with whatever she was doing...hanging out laundry, cleaning, dusting or vacuuming. But my favourite was ironing. She'd set up the ironing board in the living room with the can of spray starch and the Pepsi bottle filled with water and a hole poked in its cap. She insisted on doing Pop's shirts herself, but anything else was fair game for me. We'd have mid-morning black tea or if it was really hot, we'd split a can of Pepsi--in a tall glass with lots and lots and lots of ice. Lunch was "chicky", which is what I called the "barbecue" chicken. I loved the way Momsy arranged a chicky leg, a wing, and a big slice of white meat on a plate with gherkin pickles, celery sticks and a handful of Vegetable Thins on the side. Heaven! Sometimes there were Twinkies or those fantastic Hostess chocolate cupcakes with the white curlicue across the fudge icing on top. I was allowed to have a package of two to myself...something that never happened at home, since there were two other mouths to feed besides mine.

After lunch, the soap operas began: Search for Tomorrow, As the World Turns, The Guiding Light, General Hospital, The Secret Storm and The Edge of Night. Momsy never missed them so she could always fill me in on what I'd missed or explain what I didn't understand. She talked back to the characters too. "Oh, you fool!" or "She never learns, that one!" "She's got a face like a pan of worms!" Sometimes while the soaps were on Mariette, the girl from across the street, would knock at the front door. Sometimes I'd walk with her to nearby Maurice Belanger Park, but most of the time it was just so much more fun to be with Momsy. She'd let me try on her clothes, wear her jewellery, root through her closets. And the way she and Pop went on about my artwork, you'd think I was Rembrandt. 

Every night on Channel 50 at 10 o'clock, it was Perry Mason. Momsy talked back to them too, especially to DA Hamilton Berger. She hated him! And every time Paul Drake came on screen, she'd exclaim how terribly handsome and smart and funny he was and how Perry would never solve any of his cases without him.

My stays might have been just a weekend, an entire March break, or even longer during summer vacation. But they were never long enough for me. Momsy and Pop eventually left Parkway Drive and moved to a mobile home in McGregor, where I continued to visit them and love every minute, every time. 

Momsy died of a stroke when I was 14 years old and I couldn't cry. I wanted to, so badly, because crying when someone died was proof of how much you loved them. But no tears came. Until one night awhile later, as I laid in bed and remembered the sound of the gently flapping poplars, the taste of Pepsi and the Perry Mason theme song.    

Journey's End for My Beloved Friend

We met at a bar. But it wasn't just any bar, it was Joe Mercury's on the corner of Dundas West and Bloor in the Big Smoke. "Joe's" was "within stumbling distance" of our home on Humberside. Hubby and I met up there almost every night after work. I walked to Karaoke every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night for many, many years. 

It was at Karaoke that I met Sara Weiser and Micheal Kostenuk. These two were a package deal; you rarely saw one without the other. On Karaoke nights Pina, Steve or whoever was tending bar would tuck the two same barstools--close to the stage--away for them.

They both sang, and they both sang well. Sara had a tendency for Bonnie Raitt songs but she could pretty well sing anything well in that deep, throaty voice of hers. We often chatted at the bar and cheered each other on before and after we got up to sing. Soon, Sara, Micheal and a few of our other friends formed a travelling Karaoke posse--we went to Sweet Daddy Siki's shows wherever he was hosting--in an east end dive or a west end dive that was a hop, skip and a jump from Joe's. We also frequented other spots in the Junction and Bloor West Village. If they were doing Karaoke and we knew about it, we were there!

Soon Sara and Micheal were also part of our "dinner party posse" as well. On numerous Friday nights or special occasions, Sara and Micheal sat around our dining room table, eating, drinking, laughing and sometimes arguing about politics or current events. Most of our posse was comprised of teachers; we'd all met and befriended each other at Joe's. We were all fairly left-leaning, but that didn't mean "debates" couldn't sprout up! Sara and Micheal were such a lovely, lively addition to any gathering.

Sometime in the early 2000's, Sara and Micheal announced that they'd sold their home at Bloor and Ossington and acquired a huge slice of heaven in Digby, Nova Scotia. Their property was massive, backing right onto the bay. It was there that Sara learned to drive so she'd be able to get around on her own. She also took up gardening with unbridled passion! Her gardens were nothing short of legendary. It was backbreaking work, often involving lugging giant slabs of stone and wood and wheelbarrows around, but Sara's devotion to beauty and perfection was tireless. 

Sara then decided to "take up" quilting. After meticulous research and outfitting herself with a home studio, Sara began crafting and creating the most exquisite quilts I've ever seen. I fell in love with a "Jane Austen" quilt that Sara had posted on social media. I wrote about Sara and her quilts in Bread 'n Molasses magazine. My memory is a bit fuzzy, but I think we ended up auctioning the Jane Austen quilt online, with proceeds going to charity. I made sure I outbid everyone and then gifted my mom with that quilt. When my niece Abby was five or six years old, I commissioned a quilt for her that would match her newly decorated bedroom. Just about every child who has come into my life over the past two decades has received one of Sara's handmade patchwork perfections.

The enduringly charming pink and black "Art Deco" quilt (backed with the softest, palest petal pink polka dot flannel) is part of our living room décor. Some people buy throws at Homesense or Winners. Mine is a Sara Weiser handcrafted original. A couple of years ago, Sara donated one of her quilts to the Hospice Residential Home here in Windsor where I volunteer.

Sara Weiser made beautiful things.  

We always enjoyed each other's company when we both lived in Toronto, but it was after she moved away that our friendship deepened. A former CBC librarian, Sara was not only erudite and incredibly well informed; she also had a rapier-like wit and wrote as eloquently as any acclaimed author. I delighted in receiving one of her long, newsy email missives, reading it over and over and then savouring the writing of my response.

I think one of the reasons for the depth of my bond with Sara is that we both found it so easy to be real and candid when writing each other. She was always upfront and straight with me about her health issues. I accepted whatever she wanted to share and never pressed her for more details. She always knew I was only an email away, and she made sure time and time again that I was well aware of how much she valued our connection.

Sara often made solo trips to Toronto from Digby to visit her mom and dad. After Mr. Weiser died, Sara took her mother on river cruise adventures and continued to visit her regularly. On one of those visits, Sara and her mom hosted the Friday Night dinner posse. They served Indian food and it was spectacular. That night, I learned that Sara's mom Ann was downsizing; her antique Queen Anne dining room table and her complete set of white Havilland French china was for sale. I bought it all! I also began writing to Ann regularly and emailing photos of all my fancy dinner party table settings.  

Sara and I had so many things in common--a love of and passion for food, cooking, entertaining, writing, music, flowers, animals, wine, art and books. There were never any dull moments or pregnant pauses!

We also worked hard at our friendships and relationships; we both knew and appreciated that about each other. 

Sara and Micheal moved back to Ontario several years ago. Thousands of miles closer than Nova Scotia, but still too far away.

In October 2018 I found myself in their hometown for Elton John's farewell concert tour. I was there long enough to enjoy a quality visit with Sara and Micheal at their downtown loft.

Sara was in the last stages of recovery from her major cancer surgery. She'd lost a lot of weight but she still looked good!

At that point it seemed like she was still destined to have many more years on Earth. She was able to enjoy life for a bit longer, but the blasted Big C was always lurking in the background or foreground. She took her treatments with strength, courage and determination, and never moaned or complained about it to me. Ever.

A couple of months ago Sara confided her decision to stop all treatment. The chemo was making her feel sicker, and her doctors confirmed that it wasn't going to do her much more good anyway. It was not going to save her life. The cancer could not be stopped from ravaging her body and mind. She described how she was getting her "affairs in order." She didn't say so, but we both knew she didn't have much time. 

This past Thursday, Micheal posted on social media that Sara had been admitted to Hospice. She had a view of a magnolia tree and a bird feeder from her window. 

But she was weak and wishing to go.  

Last night Sara's wish was granted. She is now strong, pain-free, probably trying to figure out where they keep the wine and how to plant the most heavenly of gardens. 

I know there are many who share my sense of loss and sadness. But as empty and sad as I feel, I am also grateful and relieved that this leg of Sara's journey has ended.   

  

  

        

   

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.