Food and love... food is love

Like many people in this part of the world, I have a complicated relationship with food.

Thankfully, it’s not the eating that’s the complicated part.. just the cooking.

It’s not really surprising when I think about it. My mother didn’t learn to cook until she got married (at 39) in an era when it was taken for granted that wives were homemakers and cooks. But she grew up in a house with a cook and a maid and so never needed or had an inclination to learn.

It must have been a shock to suddenly realize that she would have to plan and prepare meals, learn to shop and buy food in a Canadian grocery store where so many of the foods were unfamiliar. Like many housewives of the time, she relied on the only thing that seemed familiar: bad British cooking. My childhood was replete with overcooked meat and boiled canned vegetables. Italian food consisted of macaroni and cheese. Fresh fruits and vegetables were unknown to me.

I did however bask in the delicious glory of my mother’s baking. Where she learned this, I don’t know but it was something that obviously came naturally to her. Most of all I remember her bread. The heavy moist smell of yeast rose up from underneath a damp linen tea towel covering her great stoneware bowl on the kitchen counter. My mother’s energetic punching and kneading of the billowing sticky dough. Loaves upon loaves would come steaming from the oven… brown and earthy, white and soft. Slathered in butter, it was the stuff that golden childhood memories are made of.

She made flaky, buttery pastry which became pies filled with blueberries or chocolate cream or lemon meringue or spicy apples. Tall – albeit often ever so slightly lop-sided – layer cakes swathed in butter cream icing. Crunchy, savoury baked fruit crumbles sparkling with her beloved Barbadian brown sugar.

Meal-times however were increasingly a minefield of barbed comments and marital warfare between my parents. We rarely had company over for dinner and so, rather than finding a natural pleasure in sharing food with friends and family, it became a weapon – its value diluted by quick, cheap fixes.

Thankfully, I’ve never had any qualms about eating, somehow managing to sidestep that horrifying generational legacy of obsession with weight and dieting, the fear and guilt over food that women often impart to their daughters. Aside from a brief, humourless fling with margarine, I enjoy eating food that is prepared with whole, natural ingredients (including sugar, butter, and bacon!) in satisfying quantities.

The problem of course is that I don’t like to cook. It’s not that I’m a bad cook – people tell me I cook quite well. I just can’t be bothered. I know I’m not alone… actually that’s a big part of the problem. Cooking for one is no picnic (pardon the pun but it’s actually quite appropriate given that in the summer I often simply make a sandwich rather than prepare a meal). The idea of flipping through cookbooks to find something appealing, shopping for ingredients (because of course there isn’t much in Mother Hubbard’s cupboard), and preparing a meal to be eaten alone isn’t terribly interesting… and to do that seven days a week!? The lead-up to having friends over for a meal is fraught with anxiety (damn you Martha Stewart and your Food Network cabal!).

And so truth be told, despite the fact that I love eating good food; that I champion whole/slow food cooking; that I love watching good food being prepared; that I revile over-salted, nutritionally-poor, prepared food… I eat it all the time. There, I’ve said it. My freezer is usually filled with a variety of pre-packaged entrees and my fridge rarely contains more than condiments, a few beers or a half-empty bottle of wine, and restaurant left-overs.

Chris would be so disappointed – not surprised, but disappointed nonetheless. He loved to cook. He was fearless and intuitive in the kitchen, somehow everything was ready at the same time and the flavours all complimented but never overwhelmed. I was his willing sous-chef, happy to chop and slice, measure and de-bone at his side. Being in the kitchen with Chris was like dancing – he led and I followed. And so now I stand alone in my preposterously well-equipped kitchen with Chris’ beloved Henckels pots and pans, his Wüsthof knives, his gadgets and cutting boards.

I could force myself to cook – hoping that by simply following a routine, I would eventually slip into a practiced pleasure of creating delicious meals from simple ingredients. Probably a naïve proposition…

I could engage the services of a personal chef or food delivery service. Choosing from a menu of options and having nutritious, ready-to-eat meals at the door or in the fridge – expensive but convenient…

I could eat out at restaurants several nights a week, bridging interim nights with left-overs. No doubt the inventory of worthwhile venues and willing company would quickly be exhausted and the exercise become even more tedious than actually cooking…

I could trek to one of those meal outlet stores where they have ingredients already chopped and prepared – you simply have to assemble what you want and cook it at home. Perhaps a practical solution bridging pre-packaged and healthy meals…

I could keep eating rubbish while watching Big Night, Babette’s Feast, Eat Drink Man Woman, Julie & Julia, or any other foodie movie – closing my eyes and imagining the smells and flavours of real food.

Or I could go to Italy or France for a year and learn what it is to simply enjoy good food as a normal part of every day life – without all the fretting and sub-zero refrigeration.

"The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking you've got to have a 'What the hell?' attitude." ~ Julia Child
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Unexpected visitors

My mother used to tell the story of time her mother came to visit her. I wish I had paid more attention to the details of that story. As much as I peer into the thick darkness of that memory, I can’t remember when Mom said that Grannie Armstrong came to visit. But I do remember that it was after she had died.

I never met my mother’s mother. She died suddenly from a stroke, at the age of 70 – the year before I was born. When my mother got married and moved to Canada, she never saw my grandmother alive again. They were very close and I don’t think my mother ever got over the shock of that loss. She wrote of it in her diary. I hear the loneliness in her voice, thinking of being so far from ‘home’, trying to be a good wife in a strange, cold country.

My mother was not given to flights of fancy and, despite her struggle with depression, she did not experience hallucinations. She was a creative but also quite a practical person who worried that I was too “airy fairy”, as she often referred to my childhood day-dreaming. When my mother told the story of the night her dead mother visited her, I got goose bumps. Not because I was afraid but because I felt it to be so absolutely real and unarguably true.

My mother said that she awoke in the middle of the night, uncertain of the time. My father was working shift work that night and so she was alone. She described being suddenly wide awake, not struggling to shake off the cobwebby feeling one often has when roused from a deep sleep. Looking up she saw her mother sitting at the foot of the bed, hands folded in her lap. She smiled at my mother and my mother smiled back. They shared a long and loving gaze before my grandmother simply disappeared. My mother said she hadn’t been afraid and I could tell she was deeply comforted by the love and warmth of that singular experience.

I wasn’t able to be with my mother when she died and after she passed away I secretly hoped that I would receive a farewell of some kind from her. I had travelled to visit with her only weeks beforehand and she had rallied from a period of illness. Despite struggling with advanced Alzheimer’s she still knew me at our last visit. I spent hours with her each day, helping her eat, looking at pictures, telling stories. On our second-to-last day together, I remember telling her that I loved her and, being unable to reply in a full sentence, she pointed to me and mumbled “Love” with a smile. Perhaps that was her goodbye. I just wasn’t ready to hear it.

I desperately hoped for a visit from Chris after he died. His sudden and unexpected passing left a huge gash of emptiness inside of me and I thought that if I could see him once more and say goodbye, it might provide some comfort… some closure. Someone he knew had a dream about him soon after his death in which she saw him floating up in the sky with the energy of being free. In her dream he told her that it was so wonderful in the afterlife and that he was pain free and feeling vibrant again but that he was so sad to be away from his beloved Sandra.

I was jealous that she had heard his voice. Why hadn’t I heard from him!? All the irrational, insanity of that time left me questioning my own perceived openness to alternate realities, the depth of my love for Chris, etc, etc. So many painful, questioning nights laying in bed staring at the ceiling, hoping for a vision, a voice, anything that would signify communication from my beloved Chris… I often prayed to awaken from what I had begun to hope was a long nightmare. But the visit never came.

So it was a shock when I did get an unexpected, early morning visit back in January. I remember waking up very suddenly, my eyes literally snapping wide open, and my senses being very sharp as if the volume on my hearing had been turned up. Not more loudly but more crystal clear, the constant hum of life and my own busy mind suddenly quieted. Someone was in the room with me but I wasn’t afraid as I obviously would normally have been. I continued to lay on my side, not turning to look about but simply feeling this intense presence in the room.

No words were spoken. No voice was heard. No touch was felt. An overwhelming sense of comfort and calm filled the room and then, as suddenly as it had quieted, the hum reasserted itself and the visitor left. I don’t know if it was Chris or one of my parents. I don’t know if it was even someone I knew. I do know that I was left feeling more peaceful than I had in a long time.

I remember a couple of months after Chris died, a bitterly comical scenario played out in my imagination: Mom and Dad are hanging out in the afterlife (whatever form that may take) and in walks Chris. “What the hell are you doing here?! You’re supposed to be back there with Sandra! You promised to take care of our little girl!” cried my parents to Chris. He shuffled his feet in embarrassment, chewing his lip, and struggling to find something reasonable – or even witty – to say that would appease them. Nothing came to mind…

I hope they’ve forgiven him.
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When a stranger calls...

It was the telephone that woke me up, jangling insistently like a rude alarm clock.

I sat up, struggling to find my even keel in the middle-of-the-night darkness. My throat tightened as I hesitantly said hello. Phone calls in the middle of the night are never good news… or so I thought.

“May I please speak with Christopher Dixon?” asked the voice at the other end.
“May I ask who’s calling?” [at such an ungodly hour, asked the voice inside my head.]
“It’s the transplant unit. We have a donor kidney for Christopher.”

I breathed, listening to make sure I remembered that moment.

Chris was a very sound sleeper and I had to literally shake him awake, he hadn’t even heard the phone. “It’s the transplant unit, they have a kidney.” I said – quite calmly in retrospect – before I handed him the phone, making sure he was awake.

We were both wide awake now. I sat on the bed beside Chris and never took my eyes off his face as he answered and asked questions for a few minutes. When he hung up, we looked at each other, our eyes filled with hope, anxiety, nervousness, love.

Surprisingly, you’re not expected to run red lights when you get that call. “Take your time, don’t panic, bring a few things in a small overnight bag… we’ll see you when you get here.” And so we did just that. I packed socks, underwear, pyjama pants, razor, toothbrush/toothpaste, my list of people to call, and a roll of quarters that we had kept in the drawer for just this occasion.

We were out the door in 15 minutes flat. The taxi ride to the hospital was quiet. We held hands as we watched darkened houses rush by our windows.

The hospital was brightly lit but the hallways were empty as we quickly made our way up to the transplant unit.

Things happen pretty quickly once you get there. You’re assigned a room – always private, for fear of infection in immune-suppressed transplant patients. Blood is drawn for last-minute tests. X-rays are done to check for infections. Electrodes are mapped out across the body to monitor heart activity on an EKG machine.

In between tests, you sit and wait. Your mind racing. Your heart racing. The thumping isn’t loud enough to drown out the fears, the excitement, the what if’s. Transplants are not a miracle cure – they’re a therapy, an interim measure. They don’t last forever. The surgery – like any surgery – is risky. Chris and I had had all those conversations many times. So we sat and we waited, wondering which room along the hall sheltered the other anxious kidney recipient. I watched the sky turn indigo and then golden pink as the sun crept up to meet us at the horizon.

I called Chris’ parents to tell them that we were at the hospital, that there was a donor kidney for Chris, that I would call later when I had an update.

I remember the nurse coming in. “I’m sorry, but the kidney isn’t a close enough match.”

Eyes blinking. Empty silence. As suddenly as it began, it was over.

How to put into words that floor-falling-away feeling? The adrenaline and exhaustion suddenly colliding inside your head, your heart, your stomach which minutes before had been churning with anxious elation. Sitting in the patient lounge, our arms limply encircling each other, as the rising sun shot through the drapes and bled down the wall.

We quietly checked out and walked down the hall, leaving ‘our’ kidney to the next candidate on the list. The list really is life…

The rest of that day is a fog in my memory. I know that we both stayed home from work, sleeping a bit, eating a bit. I know I called Chris’ parents to break the news but I don’t remember calling them.

I’ve never had a miscarriage and I can’t pretend that it’s the same feeling but it’s the closest thing I can imagine – coming home empty-handed and empty-hearted instead of joyful. It was a very quiet day, a sad day.

We went for a walk and thought about the person who had died, their family who had consented to organ donation – who were they? We thought of the other people like us who had received long-awaited calls for lungs and heart and liver and corneas and kidneys. Were they in surgery or in recovery by now? Their families waiting anxiously for news of a successful surgery, preparing for the possibly bumpy road to full recovery.

We wondered when the next call might come.
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An unbroken bond

I just returned from a one-week whirlwind visit with several dear friends. The original timing of my vacation (aside from getting away from my wet basement) was arranged to coincide with the birthdays of two of these aforementioned dear friends who just happen to have been born one day apart. A gathering of the 'clan' was set into motion and a flurry of excited e-mails flew back and forth amongst this group of friends who met [--] years ago in university. We try to all get together at least once a year and, so far, I think we've done pretty well.

We've muddled through life's adventures, lending a shoulder or a hand whenever needed. We've shared a lot of tears but even more laughter. We've been to each others' weddings (but under some unspoken pact, never as bridesmaids - must be the dresses!). Helped each other move (thank god those days are over!) and consoled each other over broken hearts (remember 'I hate men parties'?). We're as different as any group of women could be but we argue and love without question. The bond is taken for granted but not the gratitude or the responsibility it holds.

So it seemed that fate brought us all together again this time, not just for birthday festivities as planned but for other unexpected life-changing events. One of our group received thrilling news of admission to a prestigious graduate program at an Ivy League university. We shared cheers and tears of joy and a bottle of champagne was ordered from the bar! Another of our group experienced the heavy-hearted loss of an elderly relative after a lengthy illness. We shared hugs and consolation and glasses were raised in honour of a passing soul.

And so life goes. Our weekend together was in many ways typical of our long-standing friendships - the celebrations, the losses, many a glass of wine, mugging for the camera, the comfortable mundane catching up on each others' lives late into the night, and the goodbye hugs before returning to our day-to-day adventures... each taking with us the strength of our friendship, topped up for another year.

Thanks for the memories girls, and for all those yet to come!

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The ghost of Christmas yet to come

Every once in awhile, you have those moments when you take a deep breath because you know you're about to go through an experience that will stop the world from spinning - if only for that singular moment - and then you exhale.

Sometimes those moments pass and, in retrospect, aren't as life-changing as you think they're going to be. Sometimes they leave you feeling quite differently than you had anticipated. Sometimes they're strange but you're not quite sure what to make of them and so you squirrel them away for future contemplation.

I had one of those moments just before New Year's when I walked through the cemetery to visit Chris' grave. I took a different route than usual and was walking towards his grave from behind when I suddenly saw that his headstone had finally been installed. My breath caught in my throat and my step wavered for a moment for I knew what I was about to see: my own name.

Despite having spent months e-mailing back and forth with the cemetery representative who very patiently indulged my micro-management of endless and minute aesthetic details like font sizes and 'white space' of the headstone that I had designed, I was about to look upon the real thing. The key facts, literally set in stone.

It’s an extraordinary and difficult concept to try and grasp: one’s own mortality. I can’t. Despite having experienced the loss of so many loved ones in recent years, I still can’t really wrap my head around the idea of my own death. I guess that’s a good sign! Obviously it will happen some day. Hopefully I’ll be ready for it – or unaware of it happening. Who knows…

And so there I was. My name cut into the shimmering black granite below Chris’. Waiting patiently, without time, beyond time…

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Turning the page...

As I've mentioned previously, I've been thinking about my writing and this blog and my journal and my journey, and I had a bit of a revelation that's helped me to make a decision.

Last week I finished reading one of the several books I had on the go: The Alchemy of Loss. (It was on my Christmas list but didn't make it under the tree, I guess Santa thought it was a bit grim!) Now before you get all worried because you think I'm reading too many 'widow' books, read on...

This remarkable book was written by a young Canadian woman, Abigail Carter, whose husband Arron died at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. She wrote her story as a way to recover, a way through the fog of her widowhood, a remembrance for her young children who will have very faint memories of their father by the time they're old enough to understand what their mother struggled through… As she wryly notes, she wrote the book that she had hoped to find when she was struggling through the early years of her loss.

What especially struck me about Abigail’s story was the raw honesty of her writing. She talks candidly about her ever-changing roller coaster of emotions, ranging from crushing love to raging frustration with her children; gratefulness and anger at her parents; disappointment and eagerness in her eventual albeit tentative re-entry into the dating world; disillusionment and gratitude with her husband’s company legal representative; and so on across the cast of many people who helped her along her journey.

I couldn’t help but wonder what they all thought when reading passages about themselves in this book. Whether Abigail told all these people what she had written or gave them a preview before the book was published is unknown; she does thank many of them in her introduction. But I was impressed by her unflinching honesty. She told her own story – in all its pain and rage and love and helplessness and appreciation and humour and oddness. It was her way forward and she knew that the people who meant most to her would stick by her, for better or for worse.

When I began this blog, I thought it would be a communal place where Chris’ loved ones could bring their stories and we could share our memories and our sadness. But in the end that wasn't really what it was about… it was about me and my journey. Because I knew that many of Chris’ friends and family were reading this blog, I kept many things to myself (or to my counsellor!). But in recent months, I’ve found myself feeling constrained in my writing by the knowledge of who many of my readers are. I didn’t want to upset people or worry them but I’ve grown frustrated by that self-imposed embargo.

I considered abandoning this blog and perhaps beginning another one – anonymously, without notice - where I could express my pain and joy without judgement or fear of causing worry among loved ones. Or I could simply continue self-editing and use my journal – and my counsellor – to breathe… or both… or neither…

But then I read Abigail’s story and I realized that I was tired of worrying about what everyone else thought and that I just wanted to tell my truth. So dear readers, loved ones and strangers, you may read a different shade of me now. You may read things that are upsetting or worrisome. You may also read things that are amusing and deeply personal. If you know me, you'll recognize me - if you don't, you'll get to know me.

Fear not, I’m not falling into a dark pit of despair. Like everyone, I have dark days and light nights interspersed with humdrum errands and busy appointments. You mustn’t fuss and fret. I wouldn’t have thought it possible a year and a half ago but look how far I’ve travelled. I’m making up the roadmap as I go along so let me stretch my legs - I couldn’t have come this far without you.
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Doggie dreams

I had an odd dream the other night.

I was in a large sunny living room looking out the window when I saw Chris walking towards the building. Beside him was a medium-sized, brown and black dog - sort of a Heinz 57.

In my dream, I knew that Chris was dead so I was elated and overjoyed to see him alive. I rushed to the door but when I opened it, only the dog was there, coming towards me.

I closed the door and went back to the window where, once again, I saw Chris and the dog. Once again, I rushed to the door but again I saw only the dog.

A third time and the same sights appeared to me. Then I woke up.

Anyone who knew Chris and I knew that we longed to adopt a dog. Chris firmly wanted to wait until we had a house and I was - and still am - torn over bringing a new animal into Sprockets' quiet, sunset years. Chris used to tease me that if someone were pushing a baby stroller and walking a dog, I would push the stroller out of the way to coo over the dog. It's an easy way to my heart!

When I read Marley & Me several years ago, I wept my way through the last chapters like a baby. All the while Chris sat rubbing my legs and handing me tissues, gently suggesting that perhaps I should put the book aside since I was taking it so hard. "I c-c-ca-can't stop." I blubbered and then the dam really burst as I closed the book.

I should have known better when I went to see the movie. Obviously I knew I would cry (you'd have to have a heart of stone not to!). But sitting there in the dark watching the heart-breaking ending unleashed a torrent of emotions and memories. All those corny Hollywood images of family-time and crazy doggie antics just made Chris' absence all the more painful. He never did get a dog of his own - our own - a dog to make us a family. And watching Owen Wilson say goodbye to Marley at the clinic just reminded me of saying goodbye to Chris at the hospital.

God I was a mess! I just couldn't stop crying - really sobbing, long after most people had pocketed their tissues and left the theatre. I think Chris' mom and grandma were a bit freaked out, not sure what was going on or what to do. Of course I finally got myself together after hiccuping out all these feelings and memories.

I've been thinking about that dream. It's easy to fill it with symbolism and meaning from beyond the veil. Chris is bringing a dog into my life, telling me to get one; reassuring me that I could do it on my own; reminding me that he's no longer alive but that he will always be looking out for me; I'm looking for something outside of myself to bring my life new meaning; I'm ready to open new doors but perhaps not ready for what I might find there; and so on and so on... The interpretations are as endlessly varied as my moods and one's perspectives. Just like life I guess.

I hope that Chris is happily playing in sunny, wide-open field with his beloved Sasha along with Pippen and Stella and Arbus and Charlie and all the puppies in heaven.

Chris' beloved Sasha

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You're sixteen, you're beautiful, and you're mine.

Belated Happy Sweet 16th Birthday to my
furry four-legged baby girl Sprockets!!

I hope I look this great at 80 !

Thank you for your crazy singular devoted love over the past 15 years - here's to the next 3... 4... 5... or more years together.

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With this ring...

I recently read The Pilot's Wife - not sure why I hadn't read it earlier but whatever. The plot (for those who haven't read it this is not considered spoiler info) centres on a woman who's husband - the Pilot - dies in a dramatic plane crash, along with all the other people on board, and the secrets she discovers about him after his death.

Oddly, the widowhood angle didn't really send up any major warning flags for me before I started reading the book - I just thought it looked like an interesting story. D'OH!! But it was OK - I didn't get all freaked out and ricochet off on some wild emotional roller coaster (hmm, maybe that is weird...). Her reactions and emotions in the aftermath of her husband's death were startlingly real and very well portrayed. I think I read somewhere that the author, Anita Shreve, did do quite a bit of research into grief responses, etc. when writing the book. (Ultimately, I was disappointed by the book - the plot was quite predictable and contrived, it left me bored.)

Anyhow, one scene that struck me was when Kathryn throws her wedding ring into the ocean where her husband's plane crashed. Without getting into plot spoilers, it was interesting to ponder her reasons for doing so. In the book she thinks to herself: To be relieved of love is to give up a terrible burden.

When my mom and dad each died, I buried their wedding rings with their ashes. I didn't really have any interest in keeping their wedding rings for myself (sentimental reasons or whatever) and I have no children to pass them onto so it didn't seem to make sense. I supose I could have had them melted down along with some other pieces and made into something else but I didn't.

I didn't keep Chris' wedding ring either. I had the funeral home place it in the urn with his ashes along with his boyhood dog Sasha's collar tag that he kept on his keychain. (He forgot his keys at home when we went to Barbados and I swear he fretted every day worrying that he had lost Sasha's tag.) I don't know what I would have done with Chris' ring had I kept it - I felt that it belonged with him, it was part of who he was... and it was a part of me that would always be with him. It was sweetly inscribed S loves C.

A friend of mine kept her husband's wedding ring after he died and she wears it on a chain around her neck but she still wears her own. Another widow I know wears her wedding ring on her right hand now. I still wear mine on my 'wedding' finger. I know that some think that it's time for me to stop wearing it but I don't really care. In my heart I still feel married. I'm still in love with Chris. I'm not ready to stop wearing it. Besides, it's a beautiful one-of-a-kind ring that I really like.

Perhaps love is a terrible burden in some ways. Remember the scene from Love Actually when Liam Neeson gently pries into his step-son's worries and laughs upon discovering that the young boy is love: "...I thought it would be something worse." To which Sam replies "Worse than the total agony of being in love?"

I don't feel pain or sadness when I look at my wedding ring. It reminds me that I was once so fortunate to love and be loved - C loves S.
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"Night is the blotting paper for many sorrows."

It's when I'm lying in bed, after I've put aside my book and turned off the light, after I've nestled into a comfy, warm place under my duvet, after I've let go the busy thoughts of the day just ended and the day to come...

That's the time when I feel Chris' absence most - the time of day when we would talk quietly of our day, of little adventures and grand plans, of trivial disagreements and stubborn holdouts, making up stories to fall asleep by; the time when we would snuggle together and kiss, have tickle fights, make love, and drift into deep dream-filled slumber nestled against each other.

That's the time when the ice-water shock of Chris' death hits me afresh once again; when the horror film video in my mind plays out the memories of the moments of his passing from alive to dead. It still shocks me, lying there in the darkness - remembering, re-living his re-dying. It awes me, to try and grasp the enormity yet the utter minuteness of his heartbeat, his pulse, his breath suddenly stilled - forever - beneath my fingers. And he was gone. So ridiculous, so unreal, and so agonizingly painful.

Like vertigo, I sometimes feel myself being pulled inexorably down into the dark vortex of that morning's memories where Chris is still so close to being alive - where he was living only moments earlier - and the possibility of his recovery still seems real. But that is a painful, futile path that only leads to the past where Chris lives but where I cannot. It's a place I have to pull myself back from, as enticing as it may be.

And so the moment passes and the tears dry on my pillow, and I fall asleep and dream of tomorrow.
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All I want for Christmas...

...is you.
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Lest we forget

I never used to cry at Remembrance Day ceremonies.

But now, I see my parents reflected in the craggy faces of an ever-dwindling number of elderly WWII veterans who proudly pin on their medals and don their faded armed forces caps on November 11th each year.

Part of the Greatest Generation, they and their contemporaries grew up during the hardship of the Great Depression and then, as young adults, they flocked to conscription offices across the Commonwealth to join up. Their reasons were as varied as they were: to serve King and Country; to find adventure; to escape the boredom of rural farm life; to prove themselves; to see something of the world; and so on and so on.

My dad joined the Alouette Squadron of the Royal Canadian Air Force and shipped off to England from historic Pier 21 in Halifax. He served in the UK and in North Africa and, yes, he found adventure along the way, he saw something of the world, he was awarded several medals, he served King and Country, and he learned to enjoy a good cigar.

My mom joined the Barbados Volunteer Force and, after a whirlwind week in New York City where they joined up with other units, set sail for England on the Queen Mary with Glen Miller and his orchestra. She served in the Royal Corps of Signals at various locations throughout England and, yes, she found adventure along the way, saw something of the world, and locked her Sergeant Major in the washroom on VE Day to go out and celebrate.

....

Soon there will be no more WWII veterans – most are in their mid to late 80’s if not older. For many years, it was difficult for me to identify with ageing seniors until I realized that – like me – they too had been young once, they had loved and laughed, danced and had fun adventures with friends. Suddenly I understood that their youth had not been lived in a stiff, black & white world – that was just the lens through which we saw them.

In turn, our children and grandchildren will probably not see us as we see ourselves until they’re grown adults with children of their own. That is the way of the world. When we’re young we’re busy finding adventure; escaping the boredom of rural life; proving ourselves; seeing something of the world; etc.

But hopefully we can take a little time to listen to stories of adventure and hardship, to look at photos of faraway cities and battlefields, to learn the difficult lessons from past discriminations and hatred, and respect those who have – and continue – to risk their lives for any number of various reasons.

Lest we forget.

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Til death do us part...

Two years ago today, that's what Chris and I promised each other.

It's hard to celebrate - especially if people don't want to bring it up or forget what day it is... I guess they just don't know what to say. "Happy Anniversary" does seem somewhat incongruous given the circumstances. But it was such a beautiful day and the memories are full of love and I guess that's what it's all about. I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat!

Happy Anniversary Chris - wishing you sunshine on the other side of the rainbow. All my love, your Кошенька

Happy birth day

Today is Chris' birthday. I'm not sure what to do, it seems wrong not to mark the occasion somehow. It's a very special day for me, for his family, for his friends because that was the day he came into the world - on his way towards coming into our lives.

We're all changed in some way because of having Chris in our lives. Just as we are by having each other in our lives. We may not know how much but each tie makes a difference... in how we look at the world, in how we think about the events that transpire around us, in how we treat each other. And in turn we affect others - even those we may not know by name.

In that spirit, a group of us including Chris' family and some close friends will once again be walking in memory of Chris in the Kidney Foundation's annual organ donation awareness campaign on Sunday, September 21.

Last year the walk took place on our first wedding anniversary and our team of 16 (including 2 dogs) raised over $4000 towards this important cause. The weather was perfect and we had a great time, met some really nice people, and enjoyed a BBQ as well!

In honour of Chris' birthday, consider organ donation and - most importantly - talk with your family about your wishes. Many people do not realize that their family's decision will be the final one regardless of what is indicated on their donor card or driver's license.

Please consider making a donation to team Carpe Diem Chris in memory of him and the incredible gift of life that organ donation can offer to the thousands of families still waiting.

Sígur Ros and ghosts at the foss

The whirlwind is beginning to wind down - hard to believe that we will be heading home to London tomorrow. We've had more adventures since my last post and miraculously, the weather although overcast (as is common) has been co-operative and we've managed not to get drenched except while standing near foss (waterfalls). The food continues to be delicious and my pants continue to get tighter!

We had another great road trip out to the "Golden Circle" consisting of Þingvellir (gotta love language-specific keyboards!), Geysir, and Gullfoss. Þingvellar is not only the birthplace of the oldest democratic parliament in the world - 1000 year anniversary was held in 1930 - but it is also the place where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates are tearing apart at the rate of 2cm per year. Amazing geography/topography as well as a beautiful vista - reminded me of Northern Ontario, somewhat Group of Sevenish. When you think of how old all this history is and that people congregated here over a THOUSAND years ago to elect representatives...

We drove on to Geysir - after which all geysers are named - and met Icelandic capitalism face-to-face. This was probably the most commercial site we have visited so far but compared to North America it was very low-key and tasteful! We bought some souvenirs while the rain poured and when it let up we went out to watch Strokkur spout. Geysir is dormant but the smaller Strokkur is still impressive to watch simmer and blow.

The grand finale of our day - and what felt like a grand finale before our trip winds down - was our visit to Gullfoss, Iceland's best known and possibly most impressive foss. It is very wide and roars as it tumbles over two sets of rocky outcropping. Ridiculously, there is a narrow well-traversed path along side the foss with only a low rope dividing the no-go zones from the path. We walked right up onto the rocky outcropping over the falls - slippery, wet, NO BARRIERS - stunning views, soaked with mist, rainbow!! Incredible experience - all FREE!

But the real gift was awaiting me on the far side of the falls where David pointed out a single white swan resting on the rocky shoreline. Suddenly all the overwhelming emotions of this trip came pouring out and I stood there sobbing in the thunder and mist of this beautiful wild place, missing Chris more than I had at any other point during this trip. He brought us to this place and showed us things that we would never otherwise have seen or thought of visiting. I watched that swan resting by the water and told Chris how much I loved him and thanked him for giving us this singular breath-taking moment.

Our trip home was a quiet one - I think we were all lost in our own thoughts and memories and emotions. Dinner was another decadent gourmet feast at a hidden gem in the resort area of Laugarvatn: reindeer pate (tastes like Christmas according to Mark!), smoked trout, fresh pan-fried trout, grilled lamb, and of course decadent chocolate mousse for dessert!

Oh I forgot to mention - at the outset of our day we dropped by the Sundlaugin studio where Sígur Ros recorded their first four albums and David played the piano there!!!!

A few sight-seeing spots to still hit and some shopping before tomorrow´s departure. :-(

Bless bless (bye bye)! See you soon.
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Fairy godmother

This year I've seen a bumper crop of babies in my circle of friends, acquaintances, and family. It's practically raining babies!

After a dry spell of several years when most of my friends seemed to have completed their childbearing - either by choice or Mother Nature's whim - suddenly I'm up to my chinny-chin-chin in baby announcements. The first was a late arrival in the first week of January and since then a new one has arrived every few months like clockwork (one more to come!). I feel like Mary Poppins!

I never really considered myself the maternal sort. Never really had the urge or desire to have a baby (much to my dear mom's ever-lasting disappointment). Not sure why, the longing just never really kicked in. Oh, I had a brief phase when I thought how nice it would be but that was a passing fancy. I used to joke that knowing my luck, it would be my kid who would be the axe murder - best not to tempt fate!

Don't get me wrong, I love children - as did Chris. We were both very concerned about child welfare issues and the importance of protecting and nurturing growing minds and bodies - encouraging little spirits to find their wings and soar, no matter what their dreams. We knew early on that we would not have children but that we could support and encourage the children in our lives.

I guess I’ve grown into my nurturing skills as I’ve gotten older. Maybe I tried too hard not to be maternal when I was younger, tried too hard to be different, thought that being a feminist meant not being maternal, who knows… But now I enjoy cuddling squirming babies and making them laugh, playing silly games and listening to adventurous plans of eight-year olds. I get to be a kid again! But I’m also not afraid to be strict and lay down rules. There’s a reason we’re the grown-ups – too bad more of us don’t act that way more often.

This past year has been one of heart-wrenching loss, sorrow, and grief but it also been one of spiritual renewal and deep gratitude for the circle of loving support that has surrounded me on this journey. I see the love and support that Chris gave his friends, family, and students reflected every day in the faces of those I love.

I’m one of the luckiest people I know! I try to honour that by “paying it forward” to my fairy godchildren. I hope I can help them find their wings.

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Goodnight Tigger

Many of you may have heard about Randy Pausch, a professor at Carnegie Mellon University who became famous for his "Last Lecture" entitled Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams.

Pausch was diagnosed in September 2007 with terminal pancreatic cancer. Shortly thereafter, he was invited to give a "Last Lecture" at Carnegie Mellon. The school has a long tradition of such lectures where professors are invited to give a theoretical last lecture about the BIG ISSUES that are most important to them, the wisdom they would like to impart, the lessons they would like to leave their students and colleagues. Pausch's lecture really was his last and it was funny, touching, and deeply personal and it soon became a monster hit thanks to YouTube. Ultimately, the lecture was a love letter to his children but we can all learn something from his words.

How Randy Pausch chose to live his life after his diagnosis is inspirational... not in a big flashy way - although he did get to do some really cool stuff - but in many, many small memorable ways. He resigned his teaching position and, despite the growing number of requests for interviews and TV appearances, he and his wife Jai focussed their energies on living each and every day thereafter to its absolute fullest. He spent much of his time with her and their three young children. They may have been creating memories but I bet that they were really just soaking up the minutiae of each day - knowing how few of them might remain. They seized the day.

Professor Pausch enjoyed many academic and professional achievements and inspired many of his students and colleagues to find the joyful creativity in their lives. His "Last Lecture" may not be ground-breaking academic theory but in many ways it's even more important because of its simplicity: live life fully, find joy and passion, remember the wonderful evocative smell of crayons, figure out how to climb over the brick walls in your life, choose Tigger instead of Eyore (watch the video - it'll all make sense).

Randy Pausch died at home, aged 47, on July 25 in the loving company of his wife Jai and their three children.


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365 days

365 days... how can they have passed so quickly?
how can they have passed so slowly?

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Trying to Get Through
By Hothouse Flowers

Spend a long time on my own last night
I think I spent a little bit over the top
It's just something in a bottle
Made me feel right
And I think that's why I couldn't stop

The man beside me
Had the warmest look of understanding in his eyes
As I went on about the laws the barriers and things
That came upon me and my kind
I'm just trying to get through

We have words but sometimes words say too much
But they don't say enough
The boy meets the girl
Sometimes they sail smoothly
And sometimes it's rough

I remember like a little child
Kicking against a stone wall
That I built myself
I won't give in now
I won't feel guilty
I'll just rise up
I'll have to be myself
I'm just trying to get through
I'm just trying to get through

So help me
I'm trying to get through
Can't you see I'm trying to get through
Help me through

So listen people what I tell you now
Life is hard but it's worth keeping on
Listen people what I can tell you straight
It's not too late to try and get through
I'm just trying to get through...
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Every day can be Canada Day

Today is a very special day for Canadians around the world. It's Canada Day (Dominion Day for the traditionalists in the crowd) a day when we celebrate and recognize our beautiful land, our colourful history, our vibrant cultural crazy quilt of immigrants and native peoples.

Our maple leaf flag flies proudly from every balcony, car window, and flagpole this week like it rarely does any other time of year. Bright red maple leaves will be tattooed, painted, sprayed, sewn, and carved in every imaginable material from cakes to sidewalks to cheeks (and other body parts!).

On Parliament Hill in Ottawa and all across the country, families and friends will gather in backyards and outdoor parks to listen to music, watch parades, and - of course - oooh and aaah over tonight's fireworks.

Chris and I were both proud Canadians - we sang along to the national anthem; we loved all those hackneyed Canadian symbols like mounties on horseback, rugged mountain vistas, maple syrup, and the McKenzie brothers. We were proud of what we knew Canada could be at its best: its public healthcare system, its vast and beautiful environment, its openness to diversity, its peaceful social democracy.

Despite many challenges and difficulties, the fragile promise held in shining moments throughout our shared memory reveals a lot about who we can be: Terry Fox and his Marathon of Hope, Expo '67 in our Centennial Year, the federal government's recent apology to the Aboriginal peoples of Canada. There are many, many moments - both small and large - that speak to who we are as a people and what kind of land and country we can to leave to our children. It's up to us to become the change we want to see.

So go out and celebrate Canada Day every day: eat delicious Indian food, visit a mosque, care for a Japanese bonsai, learn to speak Spanish, play the bagpipes, give up your seat for an elderly war vet, knit an Icelandic sweater, teach English to a new immigrant, see a blind woman, offer a hand up to a teen down on their luck, donate blood, learn to canoe, teach your children to say "excuse me" and "thank you", join an African drumming circle, shovel your neighbour's walk, speak up against prejudice and intolerance, and oooh and aaah over the fireworks in your life - whenever and wherever they occur.
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Love is a mix tape

Anyone who came of age during the 80's or 90's has no doubt been the creator and/or the recipient of a mix tape. I certainly was, I even have memories of taping songs from the radio onto my funky white plastic portable cassette recorder/player (it was the late 70's, cut me some slack).

Mix tapes heralded the beginning of individuals creating, in effect, soundtracks for their own lives... self-publishing before the world of YouTube existed. The mix tape was the first step towards what we now take for granted in the modern world of 'pick & choose' MP3 music.

Most of you will remember the popular movie High Fidelity, based on Nick Hornby's book of the same title - a classic tribute to music and love and mix tapes. There was even a Friends episode in which Chandler gives Monica a mix tape for Valentine's Day - sufficed to say that despite his good intentions the evening did not end well.

Chris made me several CD compilations over the years. The first he titled Here's Hopin' and gave to me the summer we started going out - apparently he was smitten and wasn't afraid to let me know! Others included one for Valentine's Day entitled Better Than Flowers (hmmm) and a blues-themed one I received for a birthday entitled Don't Nobody Know My Troubles but God. He also made compilations for family and friends - sharing music was his way of telling them he loved them.

A while back a fellow librarian, knowing of Chris' death, recommended a book entitled Love is a Mix Tape by music journalist and life-long creator of mix tapes Rob Sheffield. The autobiographical book recounts his time in Charlottesville, Virginia during the 1990's where he fell head over heels in love with fellow mix tape aficionado Renée Crist "a hell-raising Appalachian punk-rock girl". Not quite six years after their wedding, Renée died very suddenly from a pulmonary embolism at the age of 31.

In many ways this book is Sheffield's tribute to Renée but it's also the story of his slow and sometimes painful musical journey back into the world of light and laughter. It's been described as the happiest, sad story you'll ever read. This is a funny and well-written story - I smiled and laughed throughout this book. Of course I cried as well - how could I not?

I think Chris would have enjoyed the story of Rob and Renée - he would have recognized wry similarities in the 'opposites attract' stories. (Although I'm sure he would have taken issue with some of the musical selections or the way they were put together. Like most music junkies, he was very opinionated about how to put together a great compilation - how the songs worked together was just as important as the songs themselves!)

If you enjoy a good mix tape, you'll enjoy this book. It will bring a smile to your face.
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