Category: Deep(er) Stuff

This Isn’t About the Tree

Last year at this time, I discovered that our pre-lit tree no longer lived up to its name. I sat on the floor snipping strings of lights and unwinding the strands from faux branches.

The phone rang. I missed it as I had been sitting on the floor and am not as limber as I was once. It rang again almost immediately which set off alarm bells and I whispered “uh oh, that cannot be good” to myself. It was an unknown number with a very known number exchange.

“Is this Janice?” Reader, not many good things follow someone using my government name. This time was no exception. This time it was the news that my dad had been rushed to the hospital. We said our final good-byes only hours later.

This piece isn’t about his death.

It is now almost one year since that day and this week felt like a good time to get out the tree. I am very much a “done is better than perfect” type person and typically I hurry through the set up so we can just enjoy the soft glow of the Christmas lights a little bit sooner. Good enough suits me just fine.

This year, I slowly took each layer of tree out of the box and took my time fluffing and straightening the branches. I found some rogue light strands that I had missed last year (please see above reference to “good enough”). I tested the replacement lights before I strung them and even took them all off and started again because they just didn’t look right. In the quiet of this process I felt peace and calm.

This isn’t about the tree.

Traditions are part of the fabric of life. Making memories is kind of the point, isn’t it? I don’t want every November to be a sad reminder. So I am embracing bittersweet and resetting things. November will be for pausing and taking time to do things right, not rushed. I think from now on I will set the tree up on my own and take that time to think about my dad, his love of Christmas cake, mint Laura Secord chocolates, and his cover of Peggy Lee’s song “The Tree“. I will remember telling him there were less dramatic ways to get me to come visit. I will reflect on my gratitude that I could be at his bedside as the veil lifted and assure him that we would be okay, he could go.

I am certain he heard me then and I think he’d be happy to see this reset now.

That Reminds Me

It’s been one month since you left. The past thirty-one days have been the wildest buffet of feelings and memories. You have always been a part of the fabric of our lives, but it has been felt more keenly these four weeks.

Did you know that I often quote or refer to you to my class?

“As my dad always says, let’s do this just for kicks.”

“If my dad was here right now he’d tell you to pick up your feet.”

“You’ll never be a card shark like my dad if you don’t learn your addition facts.”

When I sing an instruction to them (they secretly love it, I’m sure), I think of you. Not every time, it is just part of who I am now, but I know it’s because of you.

I tell them they are my favourite grade fives and they always answer “we’re your’re only grade fives!” Just like you always told us we were your favourite ten-year-old, oldest child, youngest child, or any other descriptor.

For years I thought you just had songs for various things. Someone in the family asked, “who shoved all the Tupperware in the cupboard and just closed the door? They all fell on me!” You could be heard from a corner of the house singing, “Must be Janice, must be Janice.” I did not know until I was in my twenties that that was a cover of Raffi’s “Must be Santa”.

Did you know that one of your grandsons does this all the time as well? He’s always got a tune going, it’s more about whistling with him, but it reminds me of you. I can hear him from corners of the house and always know he’s home.

When my boys were little, I had so many songs individualized for them, but copyright laws prohibit me from sharing them online. I still do it now, with our puppy (he’s the fluffy boy I love a lot and Denver is his name-o).

When I taught kindergarten I’d often piggyback teaching themes onto known songs. That’s how we reviewed the seasons, and how to put on our winter clothes, and so many other skills. That is not a coincidence, I was taught that from you all along, even if the lessons were a bit sketchy. I clearly recall hearing you sing (midsummer):


The tree, the tree
Let's go and steal a tree
We'll string it up with stolen lights
Where no one else can see

It’s Christmas and that always reminds me of you. You’d set up a gift-wrapping station in the front room and we would bring you presents. Like a machine, you’d produce perfectly creased, cut, and folded packages. There was no item you could not expertly wrap. We all love the story of how you learned that skill: wrapping period products in the fifties-era drugstore. You were oblivious to the contents of the boxes and just went about your job. The whistle-loving grandson asked me to teach him to wrap and I had to tell him that I never learned as you always took care of that.

Friends and I were recently sharing what we have bought for Christmas and how to hide it from our kids. Of course I had to share the story of the year you bought a cassette case and hid it so well that we never found it.

when you died
your magic didn't vanish
it is carried by those who love you
like we swallowed the sun and every star.
we don't tell your story to make the world darker.
we tell your story to make the world brighter.
no one will see that light shine again
if we never get to let it out.

-Sara Rian

I miss you. I miss hearing “hey kiddo!” when I call. I miss your shoulder-shaking laugh. I miss stocking up on your favourites before you came for a visit.

I miss you, so I will keep sharing your stories.

Big Orange

“I can always spot you a mile away – your coat is a beacon.”

We were chatting in the schoolyard as usual, waiting for our children to exit for the day and hurry home for snacks.

“I should get one of those for outdoor learning time with my kindergarteners. I hate wearing those safety vests, especially over my winter coat. That looks so warm, too. Might need to invest in some new teacher gear.”

We both chuckled and then moved on to other small talk. The bell rang minutes later and our children rushed over to our waiting spot, bursting to ask if their friends could come over and if we’d carry their backpacks for them while they did the monkey bars one last time before the walk home. Eventually he went his way, and I went mine.

A few months later there was a knock on the door. When I opened it, there he was, the husband of my friend, smiling and holding out a brand-new neon orange fleece coat.

“I got this for you at work. I remembered how much you said you could use one for your job.”

I’ve received many thoughtful gifts in my life:

  • a copy of my favourite novel after I’d dropped the original in the tub
  • a necklace with all four of my boys’ names engraved on it.
  • my four children (most days)
  • a latte dropped off when I was housebound with four children under six who had the chicken pox
  • the chipmunk stuffy from my dad that was not what I’d asked for, but cherished

There are many others I could mention, but the best gift I’ve ever been given was the bright orange safety jacket.

I’ve bestowed the name Big Orange to this coat as it is indeed big and quite orange. It is a fantastic coat and by far the best piece of teacher clothing I have ever owned. It is roomy and has large pockets where I store bandaids, tissues, mittens, pens, and sometimes my sanity. Students exclaim over it, teachers envy it. The coat is essentially the Room of Requirement in clothing form.

Its functionality is second to none, but that is not why it is the best gift I’ve ever received. You see, the coat was really a message to me. I was valued enough that a casual comment I made was filed away and remembered. That coat told me that I was heard and seen by this friend, that I matter.

Best gift ever.

Currently accepting applications to be the heir to Big Orange upon my retirement

Share one of the best gifts you’ve ever received.

Word Choice

Have you ever chosen a word for the year? It can be an anchor, a goal, or a touch point of sorts. Last year I chose “joy” which turned out to be ironic, but also a challenge to find joy amidst the year-that-shall-not-be-named.

I didn’t enter 2021 with a specific word, but rather more of a mindset of positivity. Then as 2021 came tearing in like a hangry toddler looking for goldfish crackers, I concluded a general vibe wasn’t going to cut it.

Balance? Hope? Those were good options and definitely applicable, but they didn’t feel right. “Relax,” I told myself, “there’s no rule that you have to choose a word by a certain date, if at all. Be patient, you’ll land on the right one.”

Covid numbers started rising and it was clear school would not return soon to in-person learning. As a teacher and a parent that’s hard news. Not knowing how long this new lockdown would last or what it would entail caused a new wave of uncertainty. Be patient, there’s no point worrying about things you can’t control.

School reconvened online and I adjusted to teaching remotely. Our family found their “school” spots and we gradually got into a routine. However, technology lagged, links didn’t open as I’d planned, I got booted out of my own google meet (more than once), and I found myself frequently saying to my students, “thank you for your patience.”

On a rare trip to the grocery store someone accidently bumped into my cart as he navigated the arrows and people. “I’m so sorry!” he quickly apologized. “No need,” I replied, “It’s bound to happen.” The shopper ahead of me in line shrugged and nodded her agreement. And because I am the type of person who speaks to random people in stores I observed, “No point in getting upset, we just need to budget more time for these errands nowadays.” She whole-heartedly concurred and said, “We all need to have more patience.”

Patience. Waiting without getting riled up even if you’ve been waiting a long and tedious amount of time.

Haven’t the past ten months been tedious? They have certainly been cause to get riled up. And it often seems like we have been in an perpetual state of waiting.

Patience? Now? Come on. During this collective trauma? Patience when I literally and figuratively have 15 tabs open at once? Now, when we’re navigating a global pandemic and a Stay-At-Home order?

Sigh.

When I was in grade one our teacher let us bring in records to listen to during indoor lunches (yes, I’m old). One of my friends had an album with a singing snail and I can still recall the lyrics (no googling necessary):

Have patience
Have patience
Don’t be in such a hurry
When you get impatient, you only start to worry
Remember, remember
That God is patient, too
And think of all the times when others have to wait for you.

My students need to wait for me when an assignment didn’t load properly or my screen won’t share. My sons need to wait when I am still teaching, but they are done for the day and why can’t I answer their questions and requests RIGHT NOW? Or later when I am preparing lessons and focused on that instead of the story they are trying to tell me.

Being patient is hard work. The more I think about it, patience is an excellent choice for this year. We all need to have it and we all deserve to receive it, too.

I need to be patient with myself. That is particularly difficult when I feel like I have too much and too little time all at once. Or when I feel I am in a fog and can’t focus; or I feel overwhelmed by the unknown. It’s easy to feel like a failure when a reasonable goal isn’t met and the only reason is “welp, it’s Covid.” I will quiet the voice who berates me “What happened to reading more and cleaning out that closet?” I can be more understanding towards myself when I intended to be present with my family, but the latest presser got my attention instead.

I’m committing to demonstrating more patience this year. Yes, even towards my husband when he saunters into the kitchen and blows out my scented candle for NO REASON. I will be patient with students who turn in blank assignments or don’t log in all day. I will have patience for those who are trying to navigate these past, present, and future months as best they can, even if we don’t share the same point of view.

Patience isn’t all we need, but it’s a start. We are mourning the loss of how life used to be and a future that is uncertain.

Be patient with yourself, friend. You deserve it.

Me trying to wait without getting riled up.

Hot Sauce and Sneaky Tears

Did she notice the tears welling up in my eyes? I don’t think so, she was very focused on her job. But they were there and I was caught off guard and quickly composed myself. She carried on with her task, oblivious to the quiet sob I choked back. Or maybe she was being kind and ignored this burst of emotion – she probably sees it often in her role at the blood donation clinic.

As I reclined in the lounger and listened to the whirr of machines around me, I did some self-analysis. My emotions had snuck up on me and it was unsettling. It didn’t take long to think of another time I was ambushed by my feelings.

Covid-19 has caused me to become emotional many times, that’s not new or unexpected. When I drove by the local high school and the sign out front said “School Closed” I felt the tears rise with the realization that we would not being going back for a long time. My grief for the students was logical. Telling my children we wouldn’t be going to Disney like we’d planned was hard news to deliver and understandably sad. Finally seeing my parents after months of only phone calls had me sobbing as it was twinned with the knowledge it would be months before we could be together again. Those instances made sense.

Then there was the time, few weeks into the lockdown this past winter, when I was at the grocery store. Covid protocols were still being implemented and adapted. As much as I craved getting out of the house, I found it was upsetting to see the realities of our new situation: long lines, two metres distance, and masks. This trip was different, though. I was more relaxed and felt less like a scavenger scouring the shelves during a zombie apocalypse. But then I turned a corner and there it was: the bottle of hot sauce I needed to buy for the soup we were having for dinner. And along with that were the tears.

No, I’m not adverse to spicy foods. And no, it wasn’t out of my price range. The bottle in question was the exact same type that a student in my class brought along in his lunch bag. It was the topic of many lunchtime conversations with my classroom family. The hot sauce made me miss those kids in a way I hadn’t anticipated.

Grief is funny that way. It can sneak up on you when you least expect it. The smell of coffee brewing on a summer evening makes me miss my long-departed cousin. Wearing a cozy sweater brings with it the sadness of the loss of my sweet friend who definitely would have loved it. Jellybeans instantly and unfailingly connect me to memories of my grandpa who always had some in his pocket. And hot sauce was a tangible reminder that I would never teach that group of kids face-to-face again.

I have given blood before. I have been poked and prodded and had medical exams. Needles do not faze me, nor does blood. In fact, the kind nurse hadn’t stuck me yet when I felt the tears gather. All she had done was take my hand.

It was not about the hot sauce, or the needles, or the masks, or the two metres, or the lack of human touch. It was and is all of it. And we all carry it differently on a given day. Let’s be kind to each other and gentle on ourselves.

April Then and Now

Cliches are frequently used because despite being tired and worn, they ring true. I often do wake up on the wrong side of the bed.  I teach my students to read between the lines. Hindsight really is 20/20.

Hindsight, you fickle thing. Our current state of shelter-at-home has given a completely new lens with which to view our present circumstances as well as perspective on our past. If January me knew what was coming, she would not have gotten so upset about the mess in the basement or the piles of laundry needing to be folded. She would have spent her time hugging friends and buying stock in Lysol.

Alas, we do not have the ability to truly view our alternatives and their consequences in the moment, but we can learn from them. Our mistakes, disappointments, failures, successes, joys, and triumphs all shape us.

Today’s post is penned by a guest writer, my friend, Charmaine. We all have our “then and now” moments and I’m grateful she has allowed me to share hers.

_____________________________________

“April 1992 included the wedding day I remember in vivid detail. I give it the place of honour and respect it deserves because it changed the trajectory of my life.  Now that date has a new importance. While It still reflects change, it also mirrors growth and healing. April 2020 me is okay. More than okay.

The 1992 version of me could never have imagined the Covid-19 reflections of the 2020 me. Then again, none of us were prepared then or even a few months ago for our current daily lives.

Now some people I love are on the front lines, at risk every day to help and support our communities. Others are at home, minimizing risk. Some of the people I love are out and about with little concern for risk while some live in almost constant fear of this unpredictable virus. People I love are dealing with significant health concerns unrelated to Covid-19, while others are battling anxiety, depression, and loneliness as a result of it. Many of the people I love are healthy and thriving – well, most days.

Hey, 1992 Me, did you know that in twenty-eight years people I love will include educators doing a crash course on distance learning? Not likely. People I love are students doing what they can (sometimes) to keep up. They are pastors shepherding their communities and law enforcement officers keeping us safe. People I love are essential workers doing their under-appreciated jobs. They are engineers developing new technologies to assist in crises and scientists researching and recording Covid-19 data. And there are skeptics in my circle, too.

1992 Me could not have predicted that people I love are now struggling to provide services and keep businesses afloat due to a pandemic. Some are unemployed and under financial strain while others are unfazed by current economics. I care and weep for those who are grieving loved ones they could not say goodbye to in meaningful ways. We reach painful milestones of past losses without the presence of friends and family.  People I love are displaced due to border closures and immigration bans.

People I love are living fretfully and in tension with the restrictions imposed on their lives, waiting anxiously for a return to normal. Some live chaotically with more responsibilities than before. Some live in resentment and defiance of current restrictions and legislation. People that I love are also living calmly in spite of restrictions and promoting peace.

Some believe these are the end times. Conversely others believe that the future will be a better normal than the past. How do I respond to these polarizing and painful perspectives? I don’t need to convince anyone of my version of truth. I don’t need to have all the answers about science, eschatology, human behaviour, politics or grief. People wouldn’t listen if I did.

Instead I choose to live gratefully for every day I am given; for people I love whose life experiences are different from mine, who challenge my perspective and check my privilege; for God’s grace to cover my mistakes, His abundance to provide for my needs, His presence to give me peace, His blessings to give me joy, His promises to give me hope. I choose to be kind and generous, humble and forgiving, faithful to my Creator and to those entrusted to me.

We are lonely, at times. We are scared, at times. But we are not alone.

I am grateful for all these people that I love. Thank you for influencing my life and shaping me into this 2020 version.”
_________________
A note from Charmaine:
Jan is an unsung hero of mine who I met teaching Bible stories to 2&3-year-olds. She was the voice of intrigue behind the puppets. I was the arm of comfort to the kids afraid of them. Okay, that sounds worse than it really was, but I think she would say “just go with it”. Please don’t blame her. Another spring day while I navigated my squad to hockey games, she enlisted her’s and mulched my flower gardens. In exchange for pizza that was more than 30 mins late. She drew the shortest straw that day.
There are lots of things we don’t know about each other, but they probably aren’t important anyhow. Mostly we share a virtual friendship, as old school as virtual can be. Messenger and email are just fine for us. I rarely process my thoughts on paper, and if I do they are awkwardly penned and endlessly critiqued. She creates delightful works of art that bring healing to my soul and normalcy to my life. Even now, during her own reflections of loss, she graciously offered to turn my left aligned bullet points into her signature style. She transformed them into another gift and drew the short straw once again.

Those Shoes

“I can try on these ones, right? That’s fine, but not those shoes.”

Correct. Not those ones.

Those ones belonged to her and now they belong to me. They are the best pair I own. Not because they are a certain brand or cost more than others, although they are a very good pair of shoes.

Those shoes were meant for someone else. Someone kind and wise and good who didn’t get a chance to wear them.

The owner of those shoes knew how to make you feel like the smartest person in the room. She listened with focused attention and compassion. There was no judgement, but she could challenge your thinking and loved you even if you didn’t see eye to eye.

She was the organizer of book clubs and prayer journals and pushed us to self-reflect. She valued friendships, relationships, and sincere dialogue.

She was my friend.

She would often arrive early to life group at our home and we would steal a few minutes to unload the frustrations of dealing with our loved ones. We talked about parenting and screen time policies and balancing the demands of family and work life. And she asked good questions about faith and God. It was a time I enjoyed and now I cherish.

Those shoes belonged to someone who was quick to tell you what she admired about you, who freely handed out hugs and arm squeezes. She loved cozy sweaters, chocolate, tea, and wine.  Oh, and camping, but I can overlook that.

She is gone, but not entirely.

See, those shoes belonged to someone with vast circles of friends. With her passing those circles have expanded and connected to create a web of relationships. When her girls get together I learn about her crazy summer adventures, her time as a new mom, and how she has impacted so many lives. Her legacy lives on in every telling of those memories.

Those shoes were bought by someone I wish I had had more time with.

So no, son, you can try on any of the shoes in my closet. Have fun, tease me about my fashion choices, hobble around in high heels, but leave those shoes.

Those shoes are special.

 

Kindness Gift Shop

I was not on board at first.

I didn’t say that out loud, I kept that to myself. But I was less than enthusiastic. It was tough to get my head around the logistics and the point of the whole thing.

However, it wasn’t my vision and I wasn’t about to squash someone else’s big idea. So I got on board, albeit reluctantly.

The “it” was a gift shop for students to purchase items for someone they love. They paid for the gift using a Kindness Ticket they had earned by doing something nice for others. The store would be stocked with gently used items from staff and community.

We had close to 500 students. That’s a lot of items to collect. A lot of kindness tickets to distribute, a lot gifts to wrap which requires a lot of manpower.

Not my vision, not my idea to squash.

So I asked friends for donations and scoured our home for items that might be suitable. And it started to come together. A former office was converted into a shop and the gifts began to pour in.

Another concern I had was over how the students would feel about choosing a second-hand item instead of something new. Many of our kids live close to the poverty line and I was worried about their dignity. Again, I trusted those who were leading the project and kept my doubts to myself. I started catching my students doing things for others and handed out our Kindness Tickets.

Remember the manpower issue? Not an issue. Retired teachers and university volunteers along with community members manned the store and it was up and running. Any doubt I had that this might not work were swept away when my first student was invited to go shopping. The pride in earning a ticket was overshadowed by the absolute joy they had upon their return to our classroom with a carefully wrapped gift in hand.

Some students announced what they had bought and who it was for while others decided to keep it a secret. The care and thought that went into each purchase was staggering. The supportive excitement they had for each other’s selections was unexpected. They even scouted out possible gifts for their friends to select: “I saw a purse that would be perfect for your grandma!”

The Kindness Gift Shop was a success.

The next year it was decided to do it again. Would we have enough items a second year? Would the novelty have worn off? Would people be willing to volunteer again.

Yes. Donations rolled in. My own parents contributed rolls of wrapping paper along with gift items. The timing of their downsizing move to a condo was ideal. I brought a trunk full of supplies from a town two hours away because I matter to my family and so my school matters to them.

We are a few years in now and this November when I announced to my class that the Kindness Gift Shop would be happening it was met unanimously with cheers followed quickly by outbursts of their plans.

“Last year I got a gift for my mom so this year I’m getting something for my baby sister.”

“I’m getting something for my grandma this year!”

“I can’t wait to get something for pops. I don’t have any money, but he deserves something special.”

New and returning volunteers signed up to help. Wrapping supplies were restocked and new Kindness Tickets were distributed.

As the week of the shop opening approached one student asked me if everyone had earned their ticket yet. I explained that while we have a kind group, a few still needed to be recognized. That’s when my heart grew three sizes.

“Has Josh* received one yet? Because I saw him helping Amina with her math and he deserves one.”

“What about Ryan? He always lets us use his smelly markers.”

“Asia needs her ticket because she invites anyone to join her games at break.”

“I notice that Daniel always looks out for Chris and they have become really good friends.”

“Can we tell you about kids from other classes that have been kind?”

This went on for ten minutes or more. They stopped asking if their classmates had gotten their tickets and just kept sharing all the positive things they noticed about each other. Kids who sometimes went under the radar heard how they were seen by their peers and they sat a bit taller. Students would nod and murmur their agreement about the kind attributes others mentioned. This was a turning point in our classroom community and for me. It’s nice to be noticed by your teacher, but it’s powerful to be recognized by your classmates.

It’s not easy to change or try new things. We are creatures of habit and seek comfort in the predictable. I’m grateful for those who took a risk and thought big. I’m grateful to work with educators who take chances and make a difference. I’m grateful to be part of a community who seeks to care for students they might never meet.

When someone thinks big, support them.

And maybe tell your doubts to just pipe down.

Crayon Time Travel

I have been inside schools my entire life. First as a student and then for the past two decades as a teacher. That is a lot of hallways, classrooms, and offices. And smells. Oh, the smells. Wet shoes, basketballs, the glue we are no longer allowed to use due to “health concerns”, paint, and crayons.

close up of crayons
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The crayons.

Any time I smell that sweet tang of a fresh box of crayons I flashback to my elementary school. Not my high school or the first school I taught in. Always and forever that smell reminds me of a very specific time and place. I went there for eight years, but the memory is always of grade three and me wearing a green t-shirt. An oddly specific yet at the same time unimportant memory.

Memories are funny that way.

Just like an 80s sitcom that decided to phone it in and do a flashback episode, I can be instantly transported to the past by just a smell. Maybe it’s my superpower, who’s to say? I have yet to unleash its full potential, that’s for sure, and it is definitely competing with my other power of disposing of secret snack wrappers. But it is real and I feel like it is getting stronger with time, much like the cracking sound my knees make BUT WE AREN’T TALKING ABOUT THAT TODAY.

Every spring when the peonies and lilacs come out I find myself riding my old blue ten-speed bike with a bouquet of freshly-cut flowers for my teacher. They are wrapped in a wet paper towel and I clutch them tightly with one hand while navigating the short ride to school with my other. I can still see them atop Miss Zondervan’s desk in a green vase.

Walking into a home that has coffee brewing is a direct pipeline to my Aunt Steffie’s kitchen on a Sunday morning. Our families alternated homes for post-church “coffee” (it’s a Dutch thing) and one whiff of that sweet elixir being made and I can see the machine in the corner of her kitchen while she places sweets on a plate as if I am standing there today.

Winter brings early evenings, Christmas lights, and cozy fires. I might be in the van or taking a walk when the distinct scent of crackling fire from a nearby home is in the air, and bam! I am in our maroon Oldsmobile 88  on a winter night heading to my Uncle Jake’s house for a Christmas party. The kids all hung out in his basement with the massive console TV and ate chips in freedom from the adults laughing it up in the living room. Those were the nights that if you stayed out of sight long enough your parents forgot you were there and you could stay up extra late with the big kids.

Did you ever have a pair of mittens that fit great when you first got them, but soon the thumb hole on one didn’t line up and you were forced to wear them with your one thumb cramping from being held at a weird angle? That’s not just me, be honest. If I smell a wet wool mitten, I can feel my left thumb tingle with the memory of a pair of mauve mitts from 1980-something. Stacey in my class had the same pair and we often mixed them up when they were drying on the heather in the hallway. But we could always figure out which pair was mine because FAULTY THUMB HOLE.

I could write a whole series of posts on memories conjured up by simple smells:

Jiffy Pop = Mrs. St. Pierre’s house on a Friday night.

Black licorice = the jellybeans my grandpa kept in his shirt pocket.

A freshly-lit candle = my childhood kitchen.

Newly-applied nail polish – getting my nails painted gold by my big sister.

Freshly-scooped pumpkin guts = roasting seeds in kindergarten with Mrs. Laurence.

Just-opened bag of chips = playing games with my cousins at Auntie Ina’s house.

Tim Hortons chocolate dip doughnut = getting ready for a family road trip by picking up a party pack.

These memories seem to all be chunked into my early years. I’m not sure about its significance or if there is any rhyme or reason. But it happens more and more and I’m not complaining.

These are simple memories, not the trips we took or the long-coveted gifts I received. They are every day events. The common factor is that they are all connected to family and friends. Sharing those day-to-day moments with people who mattered are what I keep conjuring.

Sometimes I worry that time is going by too quickly and we haven’t done enough or been enough for our kids. But we eat dinner together, play card games (even though they cheat at Old Maid), brew tea and pop popcorn. Maybe we’re depositing into their olfactory memories and one day the smell of freshly-baked brownies will cause them to pause and call their mom. Or text. I’ll take it.

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May the smell of clean laundry bring back the time you had no dry underwear and since we didn’t have a dryer we were forced to improvise.