Something in the Wind

There is something in the wind
That stirs my soul and fills it
With deepest wonder.

On a bright spring day, the new
Green leaves burst forth from
The buds. The wind rocks them
To sleep with its gentle
Breath, warm,
With a hint of the south.

On a stormy summer night,
These leaves rustle and sway
With tempestuous winds,
That shriek hollow curses in the darkness,
Lashing tears of violence from great
Black thunder clouds
On panes of glass.

Then the still calm heat,
Relieved by a breath of fresh air
That stirs the trees
And the long blades of fresh green grass,
Sending ripples over still waters.

The waters that He walked upon,
Sun shadows dancing among the leaves
That He sat under,
His face uplifted and eyes closed,
Dancing light on His face.
The breeze plays with His dark hair,
Riffling it over His broad shoulders.

Now I sit on my stairs along,
With great maple trees
Before me at eye-level. The wind
Changes the shape of those trees -
The shape, the colour, the movement, the sound -
From day to day.

Like that moment
In an upper room,
When a great sound as of rushing wind was heard -
Like the voice in the still, small sound
Of the wind -
I listen.

It takes shape in the wind -
For my soul to hear. Wonder
Comes first, in the stillness -
In the beauty.
Then comes understanding.

There is a thin veil that separates us -
I cannot see Him for it.
The wind stirs my soul, not one corner
Is left untouched. The veil flutters and sways.
Once or twice,
It is blown nearly away. I wish to
Possess the beauty that lies behind it,
But, as when a bright light is flicked on,
I can't help but shut my eyes.
The stirring of the breeze or the wind
In my soul does not have the power
To tie back -
Or rip down -
That veil.

So I bide my time,
Filled with wonder by the wind.
It never fails to ignite
Hope, to fire up
Desire, to fill me
With awe and surrender.

One day I will walk past the veil -
With my eyes wide open. Until then,
I wonder at the something in the wind
That fills my soul with such deep longing.
And I wait -
For that something will never disappear.

Poverty

There is no shame in being poor.

When we empty ourselves of everything, we can then be filled by and with Him. I decided to move to London only two months ago. Things happened faster than I had ever thought possible. I was wanted for the job; it conveniently worked alongside my new-found plans of a Masters at Western University and my family moving to London. Decision made, papers signed, good-byes said. Then I was off.

London. I now find myself living with many luxuries that I have always lived without. Coming from a large family, a personal washroom is a big deal! In spite of having lived away from my childhood home for five years in a residence, I always shared a bathroom with other girls. This is the first luxury. I have never needed more than a single bed to sleep in. If I have ever slept in a double bed it was as a child, and then I shared it with one of my sisters. The room I am in now has two double beds. A second luxury. Which one to sleep in? I suddenly find myself making decisions that are necessary and practical, but a luxury in and of themselves. My own sitting area, fridge, flat-screen television, closet, mirrors, etc. Perhaps these things are every-day pleasures for most of mankind. I consider them luxuries. The hotel is paid for, and so is my food. Nice!

Am I enjoying this lifestyle? Why not. Yes, I'm working 44 hour weeks in a warehouse training centre preparing for store opening in a month. What time I have "to myself" is not always so or is few-and-far-between, but precious nonetheless. Am I thankful for all these details which are practically handed to me on a silver platter? Absolutely. And yet, it would be very easy to take much (if not all) of this for granted. Especially by the end of the two months.

My question: How does one live poverty when life is such as this? How do I get through the eye of the needle when life is made this easy?

I am not an authority on these things, but I think that I am not alone in asking these questions. One does not have to "believe" in order to come to the same conclusions as I have. But it is possible to live poverty when you have so much. With a little thought and effort on one's part, a plan can be developed.

1. Is it necessary to sleep in both beds? Choose one and use it the whole stay. That way linens do not need to be washed multiple times and pillows do not need to be plumped daily. 
2. Make the bed each morning. Yes, there is a housekeeping staff who are paid to do it for you, but one can always leave laziness at the door and foster responsibility and cleanliness with initiative.
3. Don't put suitcases or book bags on the beds. This damages the coverlets/comforters and makes more work for the housekeeping staff. Looking after our things (and those that don't belong to us) can also help the environment in the long run  - saving on soap and water in the process. 
4. Hang up clothing and fold laundry. Use a laundry bag rather than the four corners of the room. Put shoes in the closet when finished using them. Perhaps it takes the extra effort, but it promotes selflessness. A small mortification, no doubt, which has greater merit in the long run. Besides, your clothes last longer when treated properly. And the closets were not made merely for decoration.
5. Spend half the monetary food allowance. The company has offered to cover all food costs up to a certain sum. A very reasonable sum too, I might add. As a university student, I survived on a little more than half the amount I have been given. I suppose I could go to fancy restaurants every day for breakfast, lunch, and supper, while sipping on extra large coffees each morning. But I could also do groceries and buy food that is just as good, while using plastic forks and paper plates in my hotel room. I discovered that there is a sense of adventure in doing so as well. I don't deny buying my Starbucks coffee each morning - where would I be without it while working 12 hour shifts - but I certainly don't need an extra large. I've discovered that a small or medium will do just fine.  
6. Spend time with friends. I don't really know people in London, but I have discovered friends among the team I am working with. Wonderful people! I love my alone time, but poverty consists (at times) in sacrificing that most precious time and discovering new horizons with friends. So yes, I went to Cora's for breakfast this morning with one of them. I learned something about myself and my friend in doing so. 
7. Spend time with your Best Friend. That book on the desk may look very enticing and tempting; however, it will be just as wonderful and enticing (if not more so) after you have spent fifteen or twenty minutes with Him. Besides, that way you have invited Him to read it with you and enjoy the best parts together, discussing them within your soul. 

It is not necessary to take advantage of a situation just because you can. Nobody really cares how much or how often I use these things, but I can learn to be grateful and appreciate every gift if I use them well and for His glory. Perhaps this is how the rich and poor alike can be happy with whatever they have been given. Of course, plans look great when written in black ink on white paper. The real poverty comes from doing them. I have so many people to thank for giving me the words to be able to write this plan. And I will have more to thank when I work my way to the end of this journey - where one ends and the next begins. 

Postcard Collection - Who is Mr. William G Jeffrey?

There is something absolutely fascinating about discovering a postcard collection from 1907-1910. Something that thrills me to the tips of my fingers and toes - from top to bottom! I discovered them buried in my Mom's basement a few years ago and did the unthinkable - I took them out of the ancient "falling-apart" scrapbook they were in (the kind with black pages and cut out spaces for the corners to fit into). Now for my confession.

I threw the book out!!!

Horror of horrors!! A curator's nightmare!! I know this now, although I didn't then. My Mom was so upset when she found out. I thought I was doing her a favour, keeping the postcards compact, since they were falling out and everything. But I threw out what could have been an incredible clue, a part of history. Gone!

Although this appears nothing more than dramatic, it really is extremely dramatic and serious!! I threw out something very valuable to a historian. But that was before I was one. I recently studied Museum Provenance Research and learned the importance of the least important details. I can tell you, that the book I threw out was far from a "least important detail."

Anyway, this course and my budding passion for becoming a curator led me to pull out the little tin of postcards. A little tin, yes. A silver chocolate tin, to be exact. And it is jam packed with postcards! Over 100 lie hidden in its depths, all from the above-mentioned dates (1907-1910, for those who have already forgotten).

Each card has a story. The entire collection has a story. Each piece has a name and a date and a message and an address. A mine of information just waiting to be discovered!!! (And, yes, I think that sentence deserved numerous exclamation points because I am so very excited to be the one to look through them and at least attempt to unlock some of the secrets.)

So, to provide a snapshot of the wonders inside this chocolate tin, here are a few details and examples. 

Every card is addressed to a "Mr W G Jeffrey", who happens to be my maternal great-grandfather. Every date is between 1907-1910 (with the exception of a single hand-full of cards). There are different addresses on the backs of the cards, suggesting that this Mr W G Jeffrey moved around over these four years. The cards are penned by different people (almost all women), many as love letters by or in reference to his girlfriend/fiancée of the time (my maternal great-grandmother). 

With that snapshot in mind, I have so many questions. Why did my great-grandfather keep these postcards and stop after 1910? Is it possible there is another collection somewhere, or did these years have a certain significance in his life? The cards are not all unique - there are some duplicates. The backs are not all covered in messages, either. Some are blank - simply for collection purposes. A couple of the cards have a stamp on them, but no address or message. Could these have been cards he intended on sending, but decided to keep them in his collection? 

An interesting thing to note - one of the cards is very unique to this collection. It is dated 1955. Although it is addressed to Mr. William G Jeffrey, the message is addressed to a "Mama and Dad". It is signed by my grandfather, Joe. And it was one of the few sent from outside Ontario.

Why was this card kept in this collection? Perhaps it is a clue regarding my question about other collections. And why this card from my grandfather? I'm sure he sent many postcards, since I know he travelled quite a bit before getting married in the 1960s. 

In the meantime, I will begin deciphering the writing at the back and put them in order. I will try to recreate the stories during this time and learn about the man "Mr W G Jeffrey". Perhaps this will be a link to my great-grandfather, whom I never knew. He died when my Mom was less than five years old. She barely knew him either. This might connect a string to the past - an era that still breathed of peace and the Old World, all of which would change a mere five years later. And it is mine to discover!

Faith, Hope, and Love

"Within the darkness of Faith

Runs a current of Love,

Revealed to the eye by that bright ray of Hope."

Darkness of Faith. Isn't it true that at times we are required to be still and listen. To be still and wait. When there are no sounds, no whispers, no feelings. It is interesting how dependant we are on feelings, and yet Faith is so much more than that. I've learned that over the years. Times that require the most Faith can be the darkest times. And yet, the results are the most fruitful, I would think, because perseverance and patience show just how faithful a friend we really are. These dark times can prove our character, making us stronger at the same time. Faith requires us to act in the dark. Faith acts in the night, with the belief that the sun will break the darkness in the morning. It always rises again, even when the night is darkest. Faith is the belief that the rain will end and the flood will recede. Even if the entire earth is covered. Faith acts when the soul is empty and the dryness is at its worst - a drought that forces us to forget the gentle winds and beating rains, the quenching of thirst or the soothing of the cool air. Imagine what joy when the sun rises, the flood recedes, the drought ends - and all along we have had faith!

Current of Love. There are places on this earth where a river runs deep beneath the ground. A strong current that feeds the lakes and streams that mark blue lines across the map. There is a current that sustains the deep lakes that have no visible source. There is a current that feeds the ocean with fresh water turned to salt, or that changes the salt back into fresh water. Science can explain this better than me. There is a current of love that allows women to wait for their loved ones in battle. I watched "The Lost Valentine" last night - a woman waited at a train station for 66 years on each Valentine's Day, hoping that her husband (who went missing in action during WWII) would one day come back to her as he promised. She continued with her life, but always with the hope that maybe he was still alive somewhere. He wasn't, as the movie will tell (spoiler alert!), but her heart was not bled dry. A current of love kept her on her feet, helped her heal as she waited, helped her move forward when she knew, helped her continue living and waiting. For death is not the end. There is also a current of Love that spurs us forward during the Darkness of Faith. It is the reason why we continue moving forward. It keeps us on our feet, helps us heal as we wait, helps us move forward because we know that it does not end there. Love is not dead. Darkness is not the end. Love will remain in the end.

Bright Ray of Hope. We hope for the sun to shine. We hope for the floods to recede. We hope for the drought to end. And it always does. We hope for the same in our soul. We hope to hear His voice. And if we listen in the darkness, if we bathe our heart in the current of Love, if we are patient and do not expect bright lights and fireworks, we will find what our heart desires most. His voice. His plans. His warmth. Our faith will be rewarded - both in this life and the next. We will find what we are looking for (even if we are not sure what that "something" is in the moment). Hope moves us forward. Without hope, what do we have in this life? Hope is the "anchor of the soul".

"We remember your work produced by faith, your labour prompted by love, and your endurance inspired by hope." For these we live; and the greatest of these is Love.

Silence

There is a silence in His heart unlike that of any other.

It is deeper than the great blue depths of the ocean;

Wider than the great expanses of the prairies,

Where the winds bend the dried grasses to the sun-baked earth;

Heavier than the humid summer air of a vast wetland forest,

With the gentle hum of a million insects and tree frogs

Shimmering in that deep darkness.

There is a silence that few can find

Unless they rest in the heart of God,

Far from the jungles of chaos

Caused by people, electric gadgets,

Flamboyant lights, and noise.

A silence that you can experience

Within the stone walls of a church,

Next to a flickering red candle.

A silence that you can experience

Deep in the woods,

Surrounded by pine and moss and ferns.

A silence that a young couple experienced

Next to a newborn Baby,

Wrapped in swaddling clothes and lying in a manger.

A silence that twelve men experienced

After He calmed the wind and the waves,

From within the small fisherman’s boat.

A silence so deep and so full

That there is just room for two:

Him and you.

The silence of God.

Why do I feel the need to cover God's eyes?

I’ve often wondered what God must think about the terrible suffering and indescribable loneliness that is everywhere on the earth. When I was about sixteen, I went to visit my grandparents in Toronto. While I was there, I visited the downtown core for the first time. Being a country girl, this was extraordinary! So many buildings close together and practically touching the sky. The number of people walking around was astounding! I had never seen so many people in one place before, except for that time when I visited New York City on a class trip the year before. All I remember from the streets of NYC was the necessity of watching the classmate in front of you, desperately trying to avoid getting jostled and carried away by the surging tide of humanity. In Toronto, there was just enough space between the living and moving bodies to take in your surroundings. I did that and was amazed.

On the streets of Toronto, I saw, for the first time, men sitting on street corners. They were literally surrounded by thousands upon thousands of indifferent faces every day. All those moving faces were blank and completely focused on where they had to go, the next deadline that was due, how long their lunch break was, or how much longer before heading home to who-knows-what. But those men sitting on the street corners were begging for change, playing guitars or saxophones in order to attract loose coins from a busy person’s pocket, or carrying placards that explained their need for food, money, or something to help them survive. No matter who they were or what they were doing to get their money, there was always something I noticed. A deeper plea emanated from their eyes, which held a piece of the person’s soul. Their plea was for someone to take notice. Yeah, they wanted money for something. But deep down, perhaps deeper than they realized, was a cry for one person out of the thousands to look them straight in the eyes, to nod their head, maybe to smile. Something to show that poor person (literally poor) that they were a somebody. Anything to make braving the elements for the purpose of survival worthwhile.

I read Mother Theresa’s book Loving Jesus once. It was sitting on my Mom’s side table and I picked it up. Couldn’t put it down after that! When reading it, I felt that same tug in my heart that I felt when I saw those men on the street corners of Toronto. Mother Theresa wrote of people sick with AIDS on the streets of Calcutta. Everyone knows the story of AIDS victims. This disease destroys a person. Utter pain from every possible spot on their body. A complete and total physical suffering. In India, these people are left to die on the streets as outcasts. First, they die from the loneliness of abandonment; then, the physical disease consumes their bodies.

One of the stories she recounts is of when she found such a man on the streets and brought him into her house. He was more dead than alive, completely covered in sores. Mother Theresa looked into this man’s eyes and told him: “I see Christ in you.” She then proceeded to bathe him with love, anoint his sores and bandage him with tenderness, lay him down in a corner of a room filled with other "Christs", and tuck him into bed like a mother’s child. Before she could leave, the man reached weakly for her arm and smiled a real smile back at her. He whispered to her: “Because you found Christ in me, I can find meaning in my suffering. Now I can find Christ in me!” He died that night, but with the knowledge that one small woman cared enough to take care of the least wanted person in society.

A couple years ago, I was walking downtown on my way to Mass. I passed a homeless man sitting beside the entrance to the church begging for spare change. I didn’t have any money to give, but I didn’t want to walk straight by him without acknowledging him. Besides, somehow I felt that it would be hypocritical of me to walk into a church without showing such a person that I do care. I simply looked into his eyes and nodded my head, smiling at him as I would any person trying to get my attention. I walked by him and into the church. After Mass, the same man was sitting by the entrance begging for money. But when he saw me, he called out to me. I admit this made me slightly apprehensive; however, I acknowledged that I heard him. Before I could assure him I didn’t have any money to give, he held out a paper for me.

“Here, miss” he said. “I wrote this. I thought you might like it.” The homeless stranger had written a poem, and he gave it to the person who noticed him.

Perhaps I flatter myself. Maybe he had gone to a printing office, photocopying two hundred pages of his poem. Perhaps he had handed them out to 199 people and I just happened to be the last person who passed him that day. Maybe every person walking into the church had smiled at him, maybe even shook his hand and told him to have a good day. I’ll never know. But I did smile.

Funny how those smiles can easily make someone’s day. Walking to the shopping mall on another busy afternoon, I passed the usual group of homeless smokers sitting on the sidewalk and begging for change. Grubby, some scrawny and unhealthy-looking, they all huddle in a group until people walk by. Then they all hold out their cups or one person will boldly walk up and ask for bus fare. I mentally prepared for this, walking by them without really paying attention. Besides, I was one of a crowd and nobody was making eye-contact. If I looked ahead, at the people driving by on the opposite side, at the business around me, anywhere but at this group of beggars, I would not be noticed by them.

Suddenly, an older man called out from the crowd. “We just want a smile from you, miss!” He said it with a grandfather-like expression on his face, as if knowing perfectly well what had gone through my head. I looked up, caught off guard, and gave him a genuine smile before continuing on my way. He nodded his head and smiled back, then reached his cup out to the next person. Funny how these things happen. Just a smile!

But what about God’s eyes? In the beginning there was light and darkness, land and water, birds and fish, animals of all kinds with the same number of tiny colourful insects covering the space of the earth, and man. God rested on the seventh day, acknowledging that the world was good. If I were to sit back and rest on the seventh day of my week, what would I see? I walk down the street by my house and see homelessness, alcoholism and drug abuse, crowded buses full of people with their noses either in their cell phones or buried deep within their inner thoughts and problems. All very important, of course! I see emptiness and frustration. People are running late, others are running away. People are going to work long hours in an office, others are rushing home from those long hours to take care of ungrateful spouses and children with running noses, maybe even sitting in front of a television screen.

One day I was waiting for a bus in a station crowded with people. One girl and her boyfriend caught my attention. This girl was perhaps no more than seventeen. Both she and her boyfriend had their hair done up in a strange style that looked more like a mess than anything. But it is a style, and I won`t judge them. For some reason, I was drawn to the girl. Her boyfriend was speaking sharply; then ignored her completely. The girl was glancing skittishly around her, standing close to the young man. The girl’s arms were bare, but covered in scars and fresh scratches. I knew what that meant. I had a friend who cut her arms up. It would stop the pain that her soul caused her. When the girl sat down in the bus, I happened to look into her eyes. They were empty.

What if I walked down the halls of my university? I see posters that degrade human dignity at all stages of life; I hear stories of people who do not understand what life holds for them and cannot understand living any of it much longer; I watch as lonely soul after lonely soul walks past hundreds of people who do not see them. They say God is always with us. So that means He walks beside me down those halls. He sees them. He hears them. Does He cry?

Did Superman have a lot of friends? Maybe if he had a facebook page, he would have had millions of viewers “like” his page. Maybe he would even have over 1000 friends on that page. But a facebook friend is not really a friend. Not someone who will stand by you when you laugh and when you cry, who will study silently with you and help you get a good grade, then go out and laugh until both your sides hurt. I know people who are extremely excited to get 667 friends simply because it prevents them from having an unlucky number sitting on their page. But in reality, that is, once out of a virtual world, how many of those friends are close? How many of those people do you really get to invest time in and learn their stories? Friendship is about sharing, giving something of yourself to the other. It isn’t about numbers. I think we have forgotten that. 

But back to Superman, if he were to exist, what makes him super? Saving people from physical calamities only to return them to a lonely world is not very heroic, at least in my understanding. Although it may be important. I see heroism in men and women who invest their time in making friendships that last. Friendships that teach others how to love and be loved. Friendships that erode the loneliness of our culture. These people are supermen and superwomen.

I heard a story of a woman who was struggling with the embarrassment of having her young child fuss, and sometimes cry, throughout Mass. You know those buildings with high, arched stone ceilings that collect the echoes of the voices below and bounce them around against everyone’s ear drums? For some reason, babies love these buildings. They can shout and make funny sounds and listen to the magnificence of their voice. Their voices are suddenly powerful and interesting, which is fascinating to a child but traumatizing to a poor mother who suffers from the annoyed glances of people who do not understand children. It was just such a situation, where the child fussed more during Mass because he was sure everyone could hear him. An older lady saw this mother struggling. After Mass she handed the mother a note, smiled gently, then left the building. The mother didn’t get a chance to read the note until her child was strapped safely in the back car seat of her van.

Thank you for bringing your child with you today. He is the future.

I don’t know if these women ever met each other again. But that mother was proud of her child and no longer worried about what people thought. After all, her kid was just being a kid. At least one woman had understood.

The world needs more little deeds to be shown that bring love, joy and peace to everyone. Let the ripple effect take place. Touch all your friends with love, then they can touch all their friends, and so on. It will spread. One person at a time. In order for this to happen, despite feeling the need to cover God’s eyes from the lack of goodness in His creation, I think He has to be able to see in order to guide our world back to the good that it started out with (and which still exists).

Guest Blog

This week, I decided to skip posting my usual chapter from "A Box of Memories." Instead, I am very excited to direct people to a friend's blog: Of Kings and Cabbages. You can check out the link here: http://ofkingsandcabbages.wordpress.com/ The reason for this change in venue is because I was asked to be a guest blogger and my post was published there today. So I am very excited! It is called "Silence." (Here's the link, just in case you are interested in checking it out: http://ofkingsandcabbages.wordpress.com/2014/02/18/silence/)

So that is my post for the week. Thanks for checking in! :)

Public School - Memories of a School Girl

It was my first year in a public school. I had been homeschooled a couple years before this and had been in a Catholic elementary school before that. A public school meant no mentioning the name of God because all religions have to be welcomed and understood. A public school meant different cultures mixed and playing together without asking questions, although culture was often used as an excuse to get away with or do certain things. Rules were different in the public school, although I was too young to really care about the difference. At that age, I was a “goody-two-shoes” in school anyway; it didn’t matter whether I was in the Catholic system or the public system.  

     

I remember my teacher. He went by Mr. V. So I don’t remember what his name was. He was my favourite because he was tall and gave me piggybacks at recess. He also always had a newspaper in his hand, and would walk around with it rolled up in his hands, as if it were a weapon. But every kid loved him, at least in my grade. He was actually a supply teacher because the real grade 4 teacher was at home with a new baby. I think she finished the year with us, but I don’t remember her. She didn’t make any impression on me. Mr V. did.

            

I loved him. In class, he always talked about important things at the beginning, but by the end of the day we were all playing games in order to learn our multiplication tables or our spelling words. Number and letter games are fun when you are in grade 4. Actually, I loved Mr. V. so much that I worked especially hard at memorizing my multiplication tables, just so I could impress him.

           

In my room at home, there was a section of the carpet that had been torn near the door. Underneath, there was a square tile pattern that I remember well because it helped me memorize those tables. I could step forward one square if I got one right, but I had to step back if I got one wrong. I imagined the squares going all the way down the hallway and up to the far wall in my room. I would start on the squares by my door and move forward or backward accordingly. I rarely went into the hall after the first few tries. Always forward. I was pleased with that, and so was Mr. V.

           

At recess, there was a young boy that I had a lot of fun teasing. His name was Hassan. I don’t know why, but we would tease each other a lot at recess. Then he would chase me around the playground. It happened every recess. We would start teasing each other; he would get mad; and he would chase me around, while I screamed and laughed hysterically. But secretly, I remember being afraid that if he actually caught me he’d beat me up. When he started getting closer, I would run to Mr. V. and hide behind him. Mr. V. would wave his newspaper at Hassan. Then Mr. V. would give me a piggy back. Was I a bully to do this? I know that it wasn’t my intent to bully at the time. It was all in good fun. In class, Hassan and I got along; on the recesses when Mr. V. stayed inside the school, Hassan and I stayed on opposite sides of the playground.

           

I got in trouble once, although I cannot remember what I did. All I remember is the humiliation of standing against the wall and the fear that Mom would worry when I didn’t get home on time. You see, my sister and I would walk home from school together through the subdivisions behind our house and along a slightly isolated path (relatively speaking, compared to the rest of the neighbourhood). It was always a little scary walking to and from school alone. Usually friends walked home with us.

            

But one day, I was in trouble and had to stand with my face to the wall until all the kids had left the playground. Then I could go home. I wasn’t the only one doing this. There were a couple other kids. But I was scared out of my mind. When the lady said I could go, I ran as fast as I could to get home. I ended up getting home at the same time as my sister, who had been walking very slowly with her little backpack hanging low down her back. Mom never knew that I had been in trouble. At least I think that is the case.

            

I had many friends. One girl in particular, who lived just a few houses away from mine, was someone I really admired. She was taller than me and the most popular girl in our grade. She was funny and had lots of friends. She was cool. One day she showed me a ring that one of our friends had given to her. It was really pretty and looked like real diamonds (although I think it was made of plastic). That day at recess, these two girls had a huge fight in the playground and swore they would never speak to each other again. Our friend demanded her ring back.

            

After recess, my popular friend came to me and told me to keep the ring in my bag for awhile. Just after I slipped it in my bag, the owner of that ring came up to us with a teacher behind her, again demanding the ring. I was terrified and didn’t know what to do. I stood quietly behind the two girls, who were loudly fighting again, and listened. When the teacher discovered that both girls were saying they did not have the ring, she turned to me and asked me if I had it. I have never been able to lie, especially when it is obvious I would be in the wrong to do so. I didn’t answer; I just reached into my bag. The teacher took the ring and none of the girls got it. But I suffered from this little honest action. My popular friend gave me a glare I have not forgotten, as it cut me to the quick. She grabbed her bag and coat and left the school. The teacher called after her, but she didn’t turn back once. She left the property and didn’t come back to school for a few days. It was many weeks before she actually started talking to me again. Funny how I remember this!

           

There was a boy in grade 6 who always went to the far end of the soccer field and would sit by himself, holding his head in his hands. I liked to watch him because he was a big kid who was not afraid to be alone. I loved being alone. Also, he was always in my favourite spot: a small copse of trees with a large rock in the middle, next to the fence at the back of the soccer field. My friends and I used to always go there to talk. But near the middle of the year, this boy always took our spot, and I stood at a distance watching him. Wondering what was going on.

           

One day, he stopped coming to school. He was not on the rock at the back of the playground, holding his head in his hands. Inside the school, everything was quiet and sad. There were teachers crying in the hallways. Someone mentioned “funeral,” “peaceful” and “surrounded by his family.” School then went on as usual, with all the kids going back to their lessons or games. But I remember. It was my first brush with death, and that sort of thing is not easily forgotten. At least, not for me!

          

Other memories cry loud and strong in the back of my mind. Memories from that one year in a public school. In my French class, we learned the names of sandwich ingredients. Basically, what could possible go inside of a subway sandwich? Now say it in French. I had the brilliant idea that I would go home and make the tallest sandwich in the world. I would eat the whole thing, and it would be delicious! I told my friend Heather. She was very excited, and decided to go home and do the same thing. That night, Mom said I could make my own snack. Perfect! I opened the fridge, anticipation and excitement at an all-time high. What would I put into my sandwich? The picture of all those deli meats and cheeses and bread slices and sauces was still clear in my mind, making my mouth water.

            

It was a full minute of staring in the fridge before I actually reached for anything. I suddenly had the realization that it would not be as easy as the picture had suggested. There were only two kinds of deli meats in the fridge: chicken and ham. There was only one kind of cheese: cheddar. There were several sauces: ketchup, mustard, relish, salad dressings and vinaigrettes, BBQ sauces, and so on. But I only liked ketchup. There were many vegetables: peppers, onions, tomatoes, lettuce, and so on. But those were not appealing either. Besides, they were a little more wilted than the ones in the picture had been.

            

I slowly closed the fridge and assessed what I had. A slightly squished hamburger bun, a bottle of ketchup, two packages of deli meat, and a block of cheddar cheese. Maybe I could add some butter? My mile-high sandwich turned out to be a regular sized lunch. It didn’t taste the way I had imagined it would, either. But it was an experience that got stored away in the files of my memory.

            

There are other memories from that year. I remember secretly listening to the Spice Girls with some friends one late summer night. My parents had forbidden us from doing that. I remember because of the guilt. Interesting! I remember our neighbour’s grand-daughter, who was not old enough to talk a lot, but young enough to still have that sense of wonder in absolutely everything. I used to wonder how her mother could have so much patience! Little Julia only said, “What’s that?” to absolutely everything she passed in her stroller. I remember the little park in the center of the court too. We would run there and play in the sandbox, on the swings, or in the little fort beneath the slide structure. It was a log cabin, and we would gather grass seeds and tall weeds and hang them in the rafters all the time, pretending we lived in the Little House on the Prairies. I also remember bouncing a basketball around and around the block, driving all the neighbours crazy as I talked to myself, making up stories, bouncing the ball to the sound of my voice. They must have thought I was crazy!

I remember that one little apple tree, perfect for climbing, in our block. It was a favourite place for me and my brothers and sisters, as we could climb high and hide among the leaves, pelting crab apples at people walking by, or laughing at the neighbours who could not see us but suspected we were there. Once, a lady came out and screamed at us, ordering us out of the tree and back home. We went because it sounded like she would kill us. Within minutes, our Dad was telling the lady off for being rude and denying children the right to climb the only tree in the neighbourhood. At least by doing that, we were not getting into trouble. Of course, we smiled sweetly at the lady and proceeded to climb back up to our nests.

As you can see, the public school didn’t really change me. I doubt it really made an impact for better or worse. But the memories definitely did! Memories tend to add to the person you were, are, and will become. Memories from the public school filled a file in my brain; a memory file. It’s still there, and (barring Alzheimer's) it always will be.

Do You Remember?

     A childhood friend of mine got married in June. Our parents met and became friends when I was three years old, and she was two. From then on, our parents remained excellent friends, and this girl and I saw each other very frequently. Growing up, we were best friends and practically inseparable. As teenagers, this friendship went a little to the wayside, and eventually her family moved to another country for a few years. Now the family is back and our parents are in contact again, but she stayed behind and has begun to build a family of her own.

            I didn’t go to her wedding. Life was busy on my end and money would have become a significant issue. But I thought a lot about our childhood. We did absolutely everything together, and I came up with many significant memories that I am sure she also holds dear today.

            Our families would get together frequently for dinners and such, but each time the two of us somehow thought that a sleepover was the only real way we could have the most fun together. She grew up in Quebec, which meant we had to cross the bridge from Ontario in order to get to her house. It felt at times like another world. She had a huge in-ground pool. I loved pools as a kid, especially the huge ones. This one had a diving board, and we would swim for hours and do all sorts of pre-Olympic tricks off the board. But every time, at the end of the visit when our parents were beginning to say their goodbyes, my friend and I would run into a corner of her property and put our heads and hearts into praying that our parents would agree to a sleepover.

            Both of us grew up with the knowledge that prayer is important, that God always hears our prayers, even if He does not always answer them the way we want Him to. My friend and I were convinced that if we prayed, God would convince our parents. However, we somehow knew that we needed to put forth some sort of an effort on our part in order to get exactly what we were hoping for. Both of us knew the “weak spots” of our parents. We knew exactly how to ask and when the perfect opportunity was.

We almost always had our sleepovers.

            I remember one year both our families went to a family camp. The campground was located on a forest in front of a lake or some sort of river front. We had to walk through another campground in order to get to the actual beach. We were fairly young. Maybe ten or eleven. One night our dads took all of the kids to the beach after dinner and we stayed there until dark, swimming and playing in the water to our hearts’ content. On the way back, we all piled into the trunks of the two vans and swung our legs over the edge as they slowly drove us home. I think we were singing all sorts of “Sound of Music” songs. Julie Andrews was our favourite.

            Or what about that crazy adventure that our dads planned to scare us all out of our wits. All in good fun of course. I don’t remember why exactly they did it. All I remember is they took us into the woods after dark. They used flashlights and were talking to themselves about all sorts of creepy things. I vaguely remember them stopping nervously when twigs snapped somewhere nearby.

            There was an abandoned cabin close to the waterfront. It was unlocked. I have no idea why we never noticed this before. But inside there was a lot of storage covered in huge white sheets, and the building itself was very old. It was like something out of a movie. All of a sudden, something underneath one of the sheets in the corner moved. All of us screamed and ran out. Now that I think of it, I have no idea if our dads were laughing or screaming, but they ran out behind us anyways. Do you remember?

            We kept walking through the woods as if nothing happened. I just remember being terrified but extremely curious. We came across another cabin, much smaller and more dilapidated than the first. (Did you ever wonder why these cabins were there?) It had graffiti all over it. Our dads told us a story about a little girl who was kidnapped and hidden in this cabin. The graffiti was her warning to any other children passing by; the broken windows and overturned furniture were from her many attempts to escape. I think at one point your dad disappeared, only to reappear and try to freak us out later on. Both of them were laughing. Somehow, I think the whole thing was a joke. 

            We were probably seven or eight years old, maybe nine, when our families went to another camp. It was basically a farm with smaller cabins. There was a swimming pool behind the main house. That’s where Richard lived. He was so nice, and he always played games with us. I think his job was to take care of the property, because I only remember him cutting the grass with his lawn mower.

This of course is an important detail. You see, my friend and I loved sugar. What kid doesn’t? After one of Richard’s stories, he took a box of sugar cubes out of his room and gave us one each. I had never seen a sugar cube before, and it was so good I just had to have another one. Were you with me that day when we decided to sneak one or two from his room? I just remember looking out the window and seeing him on his lawnmower. We were safe. We snuck into his room and found the box in his top dresser drawer. With a handful of sugar cubes each, we were all set. We fled from the scene. Of course, neither of us thought about the obvious evidence left behind…two or three rows of sugar cubes gone from the box is surely noticeable. He never said anything to us though, although he never offered us more sugar.

 My family moved to the country when I was nine. My friend and I continued to see each other, although not as frequently, since we lived further apart. But her family always came to our house and slept over on Canada Day. In our backyard, we put up tents and the girls would sleep in one, the boys in another. Our goal was to stay up all night. I was desperate to see the sun rise and be able to boast that I had stayed awake all night. This remained our ambition at all our sleepovers.

We worked out shifts. Two at a time had to stay awake for an hour while the others slept, only to be up an hour in turn. This worked for a couple hours, but eventually we were all asleep when the dawn arrived. Except once. We were in the screened-in-porch behind my house. We had managed to stay awake until about 5am, playing Indian poker and all sorts of silly games. We were safe outside because our parents couldn’t hear us. In the house, we would always be told to keep our voices down, which made staying awake harder. At least that night, we only annoyed the neighbours, not our parents.

But at the end of that night, I remember the sky turning pink. I think you had fallen asleep. Actually the others had too. For some reason I think I was the only one awake. It was a surreal moment. I saw a beautiful blue heron fly over the property and settle in the neighbour’s backyard. There was a gentle mist over the field, the trees were barely moving; everything was still. I heard the first bird wake up and give its little trill. Then I fell asleep for a couple hours. But I had made it to the dawn. I was pleased.

I lived on a three acre property; big according to my standards, but not as big as the neighbouring 76 acre property. Still, there were two acres of forest that were mine. I call it mine because I made it mine. I knew the property like the back of my hand. There were trails and a small hut my dad had built at the back. There was a tree fort in the front. A true tree fort; the kind that requires a ladder to get into; that is built with four walls and a roof; that has a floor you can stand on without falling through; that is in a tree. It was our very own tree fort. My siblings and I loved it. The woods had something comforting and soothing about it that every kid dreams of, that most kids read about, that few kids have. But I had it.

We both loved Anne of Green Gables, my friend and I. Anne had named all the places she loved: Lover’s Lane, the Lake of Shining Waters, the Haunted Wood. My friend and I decided one day to name things in my forest. There was an arch made from a fallen tree, with moss growing all over its ancient trunk. It looked like a fairy arch. It sounded like one too, with all the chickadees flocking about it and making their little music. (Do you remember?) I think we called it Chickadee Arch. We weren’t very original.

Or the sand bridge. It was right in the middle of the trail. It had originally been a major dent, which became a swamp most times of the year, and was only passable during the summer or if you owned a pair of rubber boots. My dad built the bridge with wheelbarrows of sand, piles of old rocks from a garden that we rebuilt, damaged books and magazines that were not worth keeping, and all sorts of odds and ends (all environmentally friendly, of course). Each week, my dad, one of my brothers, or myself would cut the grass throughout the one acre of forest-free land we had. This took a couple of hours each Saturday. The other kids had to rake up the grass clippings, and fill up the wheelbarrow. Each week, the sand bridge took shape, as grass pile after grass pile filled in the spaces. Then we covered it with sand and had our bridge. I think my friend and I were the ones who named it “the sand bridge.” Perhaps so we could remember the name. Again, not very original. But there it was all the same. The swamp was still there, but the bridge made it passable.

We had a secret garden. My mom called it that. It was literally secret in the summer because big trees arching over the opening made it difficult to see from the house. Inside, it was basically a sand pit surrounded by a garden that took care of itself. It was full of tiger lilies and poplar trees, surrounded by the forest. One of the trails in the woods led into it; another came from the actual lawn, but was hidden from view. As kids, we played in the sand with toy dump trucks and tractors. The sand hole was deep, and we would bury each other to the waist. We did that a lot until someone lost a boot and we had to get dad to help us find it. As we grew older, it remained “the secret garden;” the hole remained untouched, surrounded by plastic trucks and pails; but it was our sanctuary, and a secret one. I would go there and listen to the wind. When my friend was with me, we would listen to the wind together, sharing our secrets with nobody to hear us.

My friend is married now, but I know she remembers. I was going to tell her all about these memories I had found in a side folder in my brain, but I think it is easier to write it down and have her come across it in print one day. She has a similar side folder somewhere. I’m sure she takes it out once and awhile and looks it over, as I do. Both of us loved stories, and I think we both still do. What better way to be part of a story of friendship; two lives making way for each other, remembering, even when life takes us elsewhere.

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Silver Bracelet

         I was best friends with a girl once. We used to do everything together, although now we have gone our separate ways. She gave me this silver bracelet. I never wore it, as it was not quite my style. But I treasured it for all it represents. It is round, and I thought our friendship would be like that: never-ending. It has my favourite Scripture verse inscribed in it: who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies. We both loved that verse. It characterized everything we lived for: purity, simplicity, innocence, and womanhood. It still does today, only we went our separate ways.

            But we used to do everything together. I was the adventuresome one. Whenever she came over to my house for a sleepover, we were always bored. It’s no fun exploring things you already know inside out. Which I did. I explored things that were new and, which goes without saying, unexplored.

            She lived on a farm. You know, lots of land, fields with hay bales, a barn with a rope to swing from hay loft to hay loft, lots of cats (which they called barn animals), a chicken coop…all sorts of exciting things. And of course, they had a four wheeler in the summer and a ski-doo in the winter; and they had a corn field right across the street. Lots to explore!

            We were kids. And we were the oldest kids in our families. She had six younger brothers and sisters, I had seven. So when we got together at her place, chores were interesting. We would pull weeds out of a huge garden, fill bowl after bowl with green beans, find eggs hidden at the bottom of warm chicken nests, and then disappear in miles of acreage.

            Her dad hunted deer. I wasn’t particularly interested in finding out more details than that; however, there were these curious hunting shacks built high up in the trees with very tempting ladders leaning precariously against the trunks of the trees beneath them. Of course, I decided we had to climb them, although she said we were not allowed. But we were miles away from their house (still on their property of course), and there was no way we would be caught, especially once we were inside. From that vantage point, we could see everything, but nobody could see us. I think that was the point.

            We discovered a burr bush on our way to one of these shacks. We took as many as our hands could carry and brought them up into the shack and stuck them to the sackcloth curtains. You see, her brothers were chasing us, and they were using their dog to track us. His name was Rocky. A big black dog, who loved to run alongside the four wheeler, with his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. He was a good watchdog, and also good at hunting. So we knew the dog would find us. We figured the burrs would come in handy for keeping the boys away from our hideout. At least while supplies lasted.

            But the boys never came. After all, we had the four wheeler, so they would have needed to walk. I suppose it was farther than we had thought.

            That corn field across the street offered another amusing adventure. For some reason, the boys were chasing us again. I think we found this very amusing. We never chased them back though, even if they caught us. That usually would have taken all the fun out of our day. So we made them chase us. The corn was higher than our heads. Big yellow stalks. I discovered strange looking beetles living in those long pointy leaves; their yellow, red and black shells shining out from their dried out homes. But we were running so fast that all we cared about was keeping our mouths closed, despite the laughter that was hindering our speed. Then when we were deep in the field, we would sit and listen.

            We had walkie-talkies. This was our way of keeping the boys from giving up. Otherwise they would get bored and go find something else to do. We were in the middle of the field with our walkie-talkies, coaxing the boys closer to our hideout. Every once in a while, Rocky would bound through the field and find us, then run back to the boys who were much further away. They eventually found us.

            I’ve been back in a corn field since then, although in a different place. It has a completely different charm. I suppose being with my best friend, chased by her brothers, discovered by her dog, and surrounded by beetles has a special charm that cannot be replayed in any other time or setting.

            My best friend had a pool. I loved swimming in those days, probably because growing up I didn’t have a pool. Just a little-kid-pool that was about one foot deep. Deep enough for a baby to drown in, but not deep enough for a grown kid to play in. Her pool was above-ground, which in my understanding meant “the rich people’s pool.” Not to say we were poor. We just didn’t have a pool. But I was a kid. And my best friend did.

            I remember one hot summer day. I don’t remember how hot, just that both of us were dying to go swimming. But the pool was green. So green that you could not see your hand in front of your face when under the water. So green that you couldn’t see the boaters swimming until they bit your foot that was under you. But it didn’t matter. We were hot.

            We had goggles, and we decided we would try and catch each other under the water. We had so much fun that we laughed until water ended up in our lungs. Green water. But that didn’t matter.

            One early spring we were across the road in her hay field. Huge bales of hay all rolled up in awkward places. The snow was melting. The field was filled with these hay bales, dirty piles of snow, huge slushy puddles, and ski-doo tracks. Her ski-doo was always out in winter. I was over again one night. We were bored. I think the ski-doo had gone around and around and around that field until we knew we had visited every nook and cranny.

            Her brother had a cool idea. We attached skis to the back of the ski-doo. We were no longer bored. He went first. I don’t remember what happened. He probably fell into the puddles and lost a boot. All I remember is that he went back to the house. He was wet. But I really wanted to try. Since my friend had to drive the ski-doo, I got to try the skis. I remember being scared out of my life. Soaked and terrified that I would hit one of the bales of hay coming around the corners of the field, but laughing like crazy.

            None of us got sick with pneumonia. We may have got a cold, but every kid has a cold in the spring. Even adults get them, but rarely because of skiing through puddles of ice and snow behind a ski-doo. So I don’t think our parents connected the cold to the puddles. But we never did the same activity again. I suppose this is good, because now I have one more special memory, unique from all the rest.

            Now my friend and I have gone our separate ways. She still is the oldest kid in her family, so am I. But we aren’t kids anymore. I don’t know if she remembers my name. I remember hers. I remember so many things. And I still have a silver bracelet in my box of memories.

A Box of Memories

How I wish I could just write and write. Stories, essays, poems … fiction, non-fiction … words on a page. My mind is so full but without words to put on paper. My story has no language as of yet. To unlock the mysteries of my memory, there needs to be a special key. I cannot find it, although at times an idea will slip through the cracks or the key hole. Once on paper, the feverish state of a silent but desperate mind is again at war with itself.

Find the key!

Memories that go with each name. Of these I have many. This key turns loose the contents of another box of memories, but they are still locked in my mind. Each person has a story. Each name a chapter. I could write about high school choirs, Jason Mraz music, forgotten picnics, Russian history class, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, the night we borrowed a generator, and a million sleepovers. I could invest time in chapters about arguments with siblings, marketing projects, marriage, and a retreat.

But I can’t!

A moment of silence before the clamour begins. If my mind was like a deck of cards, I could pick one memory from the top, while the rest wait their turn in the pile. In this way, my life would unravel.

The ace of hearts would be the story of my birth; the king of hearts would continue the tale of my childhood.

The ace of diamonds would recall my teenage years, with the king sharing my soul-searching moments. Perhaps the queen would recount the adventures of my sweet sixteenth birthday party and the following year.

I’m in the ace of spade tales right now. I know the direction my life is heading in and have set my feet firmly on the path. I believe the king and queen will tell of my professional career, while the jack of spades will tell of the places I will see and perhaps live.

The ace of clubs will recount my retired life, if retirement is possible and within reach. Or perhaps it will begin a narrative of a life cut short. A short life means as much eternity as a long life. What matters is how the life is lived.

Ten to two in all the suits hold the memories of people. Faces, names, events, lives changed for better or worse. Some of these cards are already full. Each card has its own deck. For the moment, the pile in the middle of my mind looks so perfect and neat…and silent!

Suddenly, a fan is turned on and the cards of life begin their chaotic spinning in my mind. Never stopping, they careen and bounce wildly off the walls that bind them in.

I must be daring and reach in…