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Ginger

July 6, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

Today I’m welcoming a very special guest poster to my blog – my mom. She doesn’t have her own blog, though I keep telling her she should. She’s been writing and sending me things, including this, which made me cry so I’m sharing it with you, many of whom I know will relate.

***

Once in a lifetime everyone should have a pet like Ginger. We’d gone to see the breeder’s cocker spaniel pups. I needed a dog. I had a house with a yard for the first time since leaving home for university 10 years before. A decade without a dog was enough!

It was outside the city, a large green piece of property. While we were talking, a little parade of rollicking puppies approached. In one of those moments crystallized in time I can still see them, rusty balls of fluff and one black one like the mother, resembling little bear cubs. Very little. She told us to ignore them. They were an accident resulting from a chance encounter between her border collie and an Irish setter.

It was too late. Ginger, as she came to be known, sat on my foot and the rest is history. She was one of the rusty ones and she was the best dog I ever had. She caused all sorts of people to get dogs. Little did they realize how much time and love went into training her in that era before children. She was smart like her border collie ancestors, and loyal. She was a reward in herself for the time invested.

Ginger raised our children, sleeping at the foot of their cribs and beds, protecting them from unknown perils, and herding them to safety when they were awake. She came uncomplaining on the 3-hour ride each way to the cottage every weekend and chased the cows off the hill so the humans could have it for the weekend. She moved to BC with us, sitting beside my husband expectantly and no doubt anxiously while he drove, because I had taken her children and flown to the coast.

On the airplane the man sitting next to my daughter asked where we were going. She told him we were moving to Victoria and her dog was driving there with her Dad. Without missing a beat he said, “Is she a red dog? They are right down there! Your Dad waved! They just went behind that mountain.” I think he had been eavesdropping but I’ll bet to this day Robin believes that we flew right over Ginger and that she saw us. [Editors note: I do not. 😉 ]

It will be 39 years ago next spring since we got Ginger but recently a friend asked about her. Too much time has passed and Ginger is no longer with us. The day she left us I cried for hours. I wish it were now because now they allow people to stay with their pets so they are not frightened going into that unknown place. Robin wrote an award-winning story about losing her dog and made her entire class cry. I still have her ashes though and I think perhaps someday they had better be scattered with mine. She was my friend.

Also linking this up with Mama Kat. I’d planned to post this and then one of the prompts was “a post your mom would write if she wrote posts”. Just happened to have just the thing!

Filed Under: Guest posts · Tagged With: family, gratitude, love

For Want of a Quarter

June 29, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

She stood outside the gates to the fairground, her calm demeanor masking the excitement inside. Clutched tightly in her hand was a single quarter – the precious fee for a ride, a game or whatever treat seemed most worth the investment of her only coin.

When she got to the front of the line, she discovered it cost a quarter to get inside. She handed it over and, with it, her dream of an experience different from that of her everyday life as a young girl who worked on her family’s farm in the early 1900s.

***

I can assume she wandered the grounds taking in the sights and sounds, probably gazing wistfully at those who had the fare for something beyond the price of admission, but I don’t know. I don’t even know how the above scene played out – I’m just taking writer’s license – but I remember the day my grandmother told me this story.

It was a short conversation – simply recalling a memory. “I was so excited,” she said, “but it cost a quarter to get in and that was all I had so I didn’t get to do anything else.” She didn’t say any more – no complaints about the unfairness of it, no expression of disappointment. But to me, the mere fact of her sharing this story suggested all that and more.

I can’t remember what I said to her – some expression of comfort or sympathy, I’m sure – but I remember how I felt. Later that day I cried and cried over the thought of my Grandma as a young girl missing out on something she wanted so desperately. I have so many wonderful memories of her, and I remember her as a strong, independent woman, but for some reason this one is always a part of my thoughts of her, and it always, always brings me to tears.

I didn’t grow up in an abundance of wealth, but my sadness was not because I related to her story. I went to private school – an average kid from an average family – and many of my classmates were like me, whose parents saved or sacrificed to send them there. My parents managed this and other things like sports and travel opportunities during very tough times, and to this day I still don’t know how they did it.

There were others who had more, of course, and I was aware of that. But never once have I felt like I missed out on anything. I have nothing that stands out to me as something I wish I could have done, if only we could have afforded it. So when I listened to my Grandma’s story it was with the heart of someone who had never felt that sadness.

That event, which had happened nearly 90 years before, affected her. It stuck with her. Perhaps in some way it changed who she was. It influenced her values and her sense of how a certain experience can make – or not make – a memory.

It has changed who I am as well, I think. It’s made me more aware of how precious childhood experiences are. It’s not about the money, it’s about the memories. And I know this because of the story of my Grandma missing one of hers for want of a quarter.

My Grandma and her horse, Chubby

***

This post is in response to an Indie Ink Writer’s Challenge prompt from Katri: “A story from the point of view of someone who’s never been sad.” This could probably be a really great fiction piece, but this is the story that came to mind, and the one I wanted to tell.

I challenged Flaming Nyx with “You have the power to change ONE person’s life for the better. Who do you choose and how would you do it?” Her response is here.

And speaking of Indie Ink, I’m so excited that one of my posts is featured there today. Please come and visit!

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: family, love

Hello, Inspiration – Father’s Day

June 19, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

I haven’t posted in a couple of days. Confession: I feel like I’m slipping. A rough few days and I feel like the swirl is coming back, so I’m just trying to hold it off.

I’m going to save my planned inspiration post until I can feel it again and express it properly. In the meantime, some thoughts on Father’s Day.

I know some people don’t have dads – my parents have both lost theirs. I know some dads aren’t perfect. I know some moms out there are doing it on their own for one reason or another.

It sounds silly, but this blogospheric community has made me really realize how hard Father’s Day can be for some people.

I’m blessed in the dad department – both with my own dad and the wonderful dad my husband is.

This might seem like a downer, but I’m actually inspired by those of you who don’t or can’t rejoice in Father’s Day. You’ve shared stories of bad relationships with your fathers. You’ve commented that you don’t have a relationship with your father at all.

Some of you have lost your fathers. Some fathers have lost their children.

Some of you have amazing and wonderful dads but just don’t get to see them as often as you’d like.

Whatever your situation, your strength and honesty inspire me.

I feel lucky to know others who do whatever you need to do on Father’s Day – celebrate it, ignore it, rail against it, or take the time to remember your dad and hold him in your heart.

So to all of you who have lived with the hard stuff, and to all the fathers and father figures out there who spread love and joy and caring, I wish you a Happy Father’s Day, whatever that looks like to you.

Filed Under: Hello, Inspiration · Tagged With: admissions, family, gratitude, love, perspective

Hanging Up His Skates

June 15, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

Practices. Hockey camps. Games in chilly arenas. Concession stands. The whiff of a sweaty dressing room. The dampness of gear set out to dry.

I grew up in a hockey family.

My brother played, my dad coached, and the rest of us went to countless games.

When I was 10 we boarded a hockey player who played for the local WHL team and I spent a lot of time running up and down bleachers and buying orange pop at hockey rinks.

But hockey to me is mostly about my dad.

He has played for longer than I can remember – longer than I’ve been alive. It’s something I always remember him doing, and so much a part of who he is.

Growing up, I looked forward to his annual trip to a hockey tournament because he always brought t-shirts back for us. They were huge, and we wore them as nightgowns for years, not caring that they bore logos of teams and sponsors we knew nothing about.

When he got injured I was old enough to know it was worrisome even if I didn’t really understand what had happened.

As an adult, I understand more just how much hockey is in him.

I’ve heard his broken nose anecdote countless times. I’ve listened to stories of teams and players long retired who defined the game before it became about money. I’ve smiled at his reflections of playing before helmets were the norm.

Combine Ron MacLean with Don Cherry and you’d get my dad – knowledgeable and well-spoken about hockey, but passionate and not afraid to say what he thinks. The game is such a part of him – his opinions and priorities – that I’ve learned when not to comment, even when he delayed surgery for prostate cancer so it didn’t interfere with his hockey season.

Because of my dad’s love of hockey I grew up with it as part of my life. Now I have a little boy who’s growing up in that same hockey family.

When Connor was younger, we timed visits around Grandpa’s hockey practices and family dinners around Flames games. When we watched games on TV, Grandpa made sure Connor knew who to cheer for. (If you’re part of this family you’re a Flames fan, and that’s that.)

My dad got older, as dads do, but he didn’t give up the game. A few years ago my mom got him a new hockey bag as a gift – a fancy one, with wheels and lots of space for gear. He got good use out of it, carting it over and over from the house to his car and to the rink and back again, complaining, at times, about “old guys” who were a little too slow for a guy who just wanted to get out there and chase the puck.

But no longer. After almost 70 years my dad has hung up his skates. Admitting to the emotion of it, he posted on Facebook: “I just cleaned out my wheeled hockey equipment bag for the last time… It’s been a great sport.”

The bag has now gone to my brother, who carries his own flame of passion for the game.

He might not play anymore, but my dad’s involvement with hockey isn’t over. There’s a new generation coming along – someone who has the right jersey and just needs to learn how to skate. Luckily we have someone who would love to teach him.

Filed Under: Love letters · Tagged With: family, love, my wish for you

Affection in Cashmere

June 14, 2011 by Farewell Stranger ·

“Let’s go out for your birthday!” they said.

It was January. My birthday was in December, but when you have a birthday four days before Christmas you get used to celebrating at odd times. And I’m always up for a night out with these girls.

***

It started with a prenatal yoga class. Across the room, the beginning of a bond formed with another mom-to-be with a due date close to mine. We had a lot of the same pregnancy side effects. We were both having boys. She was energetic and outgoing – and SO excited about having a baby – it was hard not to notice her.

A couple of months later at a baby group, I sat in the circle on the floor with my 6-week-old son and there she was. Same dark hair. Same expressive face. But this time she had a little bundle in her arms and he looked just like her.

A self-described princess, she had planted herself firmly on the throne of motherhood and there she has stayed. Thank goodness, because she’s a supermom type, a made-to-be-a-mom type – and one of the most generous and supportive people I have ever met – who, many times, has filled up my mom kit with diversions and strategies when I’ve run out.

At the baby group we connected across the room again, over the chatter of other new mothers and new-baby squeals. She mentioned the yoga class moms had formed a moms’ group and she invited me along.

I happily accepted, not knowing I had taken a step towards something that was going to save my sanity.

There were eight of us who met regularly. Rotating from house to house to share hosting duties, that core group had visits every week during our year of maternity leave.

Four of us spent some extra time together. We’re all runners, so we ran together a couple of times a week in addition to our play dates. Up and down trails, around lakes, we talked endlessly. They became the kind of friends every new mother – every person – should have.

They were with me throughout Connor’s fussy period, when I thought I was going to go nuts. They commiserated with me when I told stories of how much my child didn’t sleep – and how much he did scream – at night. Sometimes, when I thought I couldn’t take it any more, one of them would swoop in and take him from me so I could get a break from the bouncing and the screaming inside my head.

I confessed some of my struggle, before I knew what it was. “I want to throw him out the window,” I admitted one day, sobbing over the phone because I just didn’t know what to do anymore.

Eventually, when I knew more about what was going on and was getting some help, I told them about my struggle with postpartum depression. They were accepting and supportive, as I knew they would be, and have been right there with me ever since.

***

On that night – the birthday celebration turned girls’ night out – they gave me a gift. A cashmere shawl in dusty rose pink. Beautiful and soft. I loved it.

But sometimes a shawl isn’t just a shawl.

“For when you need a hug,” they told me and in that sentiment expressed so much. We know you are struggling. We want to help. We are here for you.

And they are, always. In my heart, as cherished friends that were brought into my life for a reason and never, for a single day, taken for granted.

Somehow that shawl has made its way into my purse. I wore it somewhere, I guess, and then took it off and put it in my bag. And there it has stayed, as a reminder of affection offered when needed and accepted with love and gratitude.