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.
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.
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.
We recently got a puppy under a few conditions, one of which is that I would get up with him in the mornings and walk him. I am still not a morning person, but four months in…I’m not mad about it.
On one of these quiet mornings with just me and the pup, I decided to bake some cookies and listen to music. The night before I had fallen down a rabbit hole thanks to TikTok and fell asleep to the musical musings of Kenny Loggins.
If you think I was revisiting the 80s and the Top Gun version of Kenny, let me stop you right there. I was deep into the 70s Kenny of the duo Loggins and Messina and their hit, “Danny’s Song” and then “House at Pooh Corner” and then “A Love Song” because that’s how rabbit holes (and my brain) work. These were all recorded years before I was born, but my parents were big Anne Murray fans and she had covered several Loggins and Messina ballads back in the day, so this Canadian kid was in the know.
On this morning, “Danny’s Song” replayed based on my search history, and was followed by “Leader of the Band” which was a song I only vaguely recalled…until the chorus. When that chorus hit I found myself singing along word for word without error or thought.
The leader of the band is tired and his eyes are growing old But his blood runs through my instrument and his song is in my soul My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man I’m just a living legacy to the leader of the band
I was shocked. Who is Dan Fogelberg? How did I know that was the artist’s name? Where did this hidden knowledge come from? What else do I have locked away in my brain?
This must be what a sleeper agent feels like when their code word is finally spoken and they are activated.
I let the random playlist continue in order to test my spy hypothesis. There were a couple of false positives such as when I began singing along to “Operator, can you help me place this call” before Jim Croce (didn’t know I knew his name) began to sing the opening bars.
Recollections I never knew were sealed away in my mind interrupted this kitchen concert for an audience of one. I was time travelling while baking cookies and, unprompted, I could clearly picture our old console TV and how I’d change the channel with my feet (no clickers back then). I could feel the texture of high-low shag carpet in our living room and the burned spot from when my brother dropped a light fire log on it. Granted, the seventies were a wild decade of very questionable fashion and decor tastes, so it is also possible I repressed these memories. Really repressed them.
Another possibility is that I really am a seventies music fan, but don’t want to admit it. Many of those artists and songs would have been a background soundtrack to my life. My parents had an extensive vinyl collection back in the day and while they leaned more to Roger Whittaker, Anne Murray, and George Baker Selection, there must have been some of the others mixed in there.
And there’s another explanation. That puppy we recently brought home? His name is Denver. As in John Denver the folk singer of the seventies. An artist who is in my favourites playlist. And yes, I suggested his name.
But let’s not rule out the sleeper agent theory, because I didn’t name him Fogelberg, did I?
____________________________________________
Ever have a sleeper agent moment? I can’t be the only one. Let me know I’m not alone in this.
We have some big news around here an I am so excited to share it with you, dear reader.
As you may recall, I enjoy having a bigger-than-typical family. Our crew of four boys brings me joy and I am grateful for them all and the (mostly) delightful chaos they bring into our home. Some well-meaning friends have suggested we get a dog to add to the mix. Hilarious.
We are not getting a pet (beyond the beta fish that has miraculously survived longer than its three departed predecessors). There is no cat, hamster, or guinea pig on the horizon. We went in a different direction. Five of us were on board with this decision right from the start. It took some convincing, but eventually my husband saw the wisdom of procuring our new family member.
Please help me welcome, Big Bag of Chocolate.
So glad we captured this precious moment. The whole family helped with the selection.
Christmas – such a magical season.
Cozy winter nights are perfect for reading with loved ones.
I would have shared the blanket, but melting is a real concern.
Hobbies are more fun when you share them with family.
Almost forgot how to do a sling. Almost.
Always ready to ruin things with healthy options, my husband.
Happy holidays! May your season be chocolate-filled.
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.
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.
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.
For twelve years the house has been the battle ground for a war no one saw coming and no one wanted.
Good versus evil, dark versus light, brother pitted against brother. Wait, no, mother versus all the boys.
The invasion was slow and insideous at first. A few dinky cars here, a rogue block there. Then another son was born, and the arsenol grew. Legos entered the fray, more dinky cars. Soon action figures could be found strewn across the steps. It was no longer safe to traverse the basement, a talking toy could be triggered at the slightest movement.
This home was no longer the mother’s domain, the children had taken over.
As the offsprings’ numbers and independence grew, so did the snacks. The crumbs, sweet Moses, the crumbs! Entire muffins were decimated and left as a warning to future carbs. Beware, no bread product is safe from these kids. RUN WHILE YOU CAN.
Silly Putty in the furnace ducts, abandoned socks on coffee tables, Nerf bullets in the toilets, Star Wars figures in the nativity sets. The horror.
Not staged. Actual event.
The mother’s cries of “THIS IS NOT A PRESCHOOL” and “WHY ARE THERE MARBLES IN THE FRYING PAN?” were met with silence or half-hearted attempts to tidy. She raised the stakes and threatened “if it’s on the floor it’s out the door” but everyone knew she wouldn’t follow through.
Also real
“I just want one clear space for my coffee cup,” the mother whisper-cried as she tossed “art” into the recycling bin. “Everything has a home! Let’s keep our things in their home and please stop using my scarves to build forts” she sing-songed manically while gathering up granola bar wrappers from the underneath the couch.
Why?
And then it happened.
Was it just a happy little accident, that years of stepping over Lego minefields seemed to solve itself? Perhaps.
Her weapon? Bobby pins.
Did she leave them in her pockets on purpose? Was it her plan all along that the pins would end up going through the wash? Did she know that this oversight would result in bobby pins ending up in bedsheets, hoodie pockets, and bath towels for the family to disover with great annoyance? Was her subconcious exacting retribution? And now that the family has discovered how frustrating it was to have a house overrun with tiny and pokey objects left haphazardly in her wake, would she be more careful?
We took you for granted, I see that now. All those years you sat by, quietly supporting us. You welcomed our friends and family with no questions asked.
Stoic.
Solid.
Slightly greasy in some spots.
Oh, Curb Couch, you’ve come to mean so much to us. And it wasn’t until now, as we set you outside for pick-up that I recognize your true value.
You, our faux-sueded wonder.
Majestic two-person sofa.
As with all things, your season has come to an end. You can no longer take a jump like you used to. Despite my many Pinterest-inspired cleaning attempts, that black Sharpie isn’t going to come off. Nor will the half-eaten red lollipop I recently discovered behind your cushions. So to the curb you must go, old friend.
Not many pieces of furniture receive a custom-made photo essay farewell tribute. But not all are worthy enough to be called the Curb Couch.
Gone, But Not Forgotten: a Tribute in Photos Taken on My Phone
Passive aggression is tiring. Thank goodness for Curb Couch.
Curb Couch has the best lighting for a selfie with a reluctant participant (please see above).
Was I worried that we would look less than classy with living room furniture sitting by our driveway? I don’t think Curb Couch is going to change our neighbours’ opinions of us me that much. They’ve seen me strolling to the park in my pajamas or shuffling slowly by looking for a signal when our wifi is out. There’s little I can do to surprise them at this point.
We’d left good old scuff-armed sofa out for 24-hours and it was still there. As was I.
Say what you like, our house has become quite the hot spot. Curb Couch is an ideal perch for heckling with friends.
No shoes on the couch, boys. We are Canadian after all.
Curb Couch at Sunset
But wait! Our time is not over. We have been gifted with another two weeks of our mystery-stained, but surprisingly comfortable, chesterfield. How? Our youngest child informed the garbage collectors that “nope, it’s staying” when they stopped to collect it. Never trust a five-year-old sitting on a curb couch. THEY ARE NOT RELIABLE.
And now, sweet Curb Couch is being held in furniture purgatory in our garage.
Will we be moving it back outside to bask in the sunshine reflecting off the worn armrests? Only time (and lack of calls by our neighbours to by-law complaint) will tell.
Come on by.
Sit a bit.
I’ve got mediocre snacks and a great view.
We’re the house with couch sitting by the curb. Intermittently.
“Cleanliness is next to godliness” – ancient proverb
“Out of clutter, find simplicity” – Albert Einstein
“Clutter is nothing more than postponed decisions” – Barbara Hemphill
Oh, yes. I agree – clutter is the worst. Once upon a time I was organized. Everything had a place. What a sweet, sweet time that was. Counters were clear, laundry was folded and put away, recycling was taken out, and if something wasn’t needed then off to donation box it went. The floors were clear and end tables held only lamps and maybe a coffee cup (okay, definitely a coffee cup).
Glorious days, my friends. Glorious, tidy, streamlined days.
Then we had kids and our house became inhabited by these little people and all their little people things. But I was determined to keep our home clutter-free. We bought storage containers and decorative baskets. There was a Car Basket and a Book Basket and a shelf for puzzles. For a little while this worked, but eventually the grown-ups were outnumbered and the children were expected to take on some of the cleaning responsibility, and things changed.
“Clean” became “clean-ish”. Tidy meant that stuff wasn’t laying around on the main floor, but only a brave soul would venture into other regions of the house. And closing the basement door was all that was necessary for it to be deemed “put-away”.
Standards were lowered. But not forever and not completely. The anti-clutter side of me comes out every now and then. The family knows it’s coming when I start saying things like, “this is not preschool!” and “EVERYTHING HAS A HOME PUT THINGS IN THEIR HOME”. This generally results in me being offered some “quiet time” and Bearded Husband quietly ushers the children from the home amidst whispers of “she’ll be fine, everything will be okay, just get in the van boys.”
That’s when the magic happens.
Jackets are hung up on their hooks. Bedding is folded and placed on the correct shelves. Receipts are thrown out and library books are gathered for return. The craft area gets purged and all the art supplies fit in their decorative bins. When the house is tidied, I feel calm and smiley. It’s a great feeling.
And then the family returns and this happens.
(These photograph have in no way been altered or staged)
EVERYTHING HAS A HOME
PUT THE THINGS IN THEIR HOME
One day I will miss the clutter and chaos that a house full of kids brings, it’s true. But I wouldn’t mind being able to close a closet door all the way. Just once.
When I was little I was afraid that my sister turned into a vampire at night. I was scared of what might be under my bed. I feared a tornado would rip through my window and that would be the end of all of us.
Then I was afraid that my big sister was going lose her leg to cancer. I walked in on hushed conversations, saw my parents cry quietly when they thought we weren’t looking. Mysterious phone calls that seemed to last forever. Friends and family taking care of the rest of us kids while my parents went to appointment after appointment.
We were sheltered from much of the fear and worry that my mom and dad carried. They were honest with us about what was happening, but protected us as much as possible. How they did that when one of the worst things imaginable is happening, I couldn’t fathom. They leaned on their family, friends, and faith to see them through.
They were courageous.
There is more to that story, but it is theirs to tell.
What I remember is the courage. The strength. The bravery. The faith.
I see it more now as an adult, this courage. Facing things that are frightening. The more I experience and listen and observe, I see that courage has many faces.
Courage is asking for help when you feel like you are drowning. It is answering honestly when asked how you are doing. Courage is making yourself vulnerable. It’s admitting, “I don’t have all the answers.”
Courage is bringing a gift for your friend’s newborn when you are struggling with infertility. Or deciding to opt out of a celebration because it is more than you can handle.
Courage is confronting a friend who has hurt you, or apologizing when you are the one at fault. It takes bravery to have those conversations that risk a friendship because the relationship is worth it.
Courage is putting on a brave face, or not. It is knowing what you can handle and honouring your limits.
It is courageous to let go of control when all you want to do is grab on with every fibre of your being lest the unthinkable happens.
For me, I trust in God. I cannot do this alone. I cannot be the mom, friend, teacher, or partner that I need to be without Him. I have fears, but I do not worry, because God is bigger than my fears. I find my courage in knowing that I am not on my own on this journey. And He has brought people into my life that give me strength and encouragement.
May your sorrows be few, but when you face struggles, may you be courageous.
___________
Dedicated to one of the strongest, bravest, kindest and most courageous people I know.
“Let me see your hands,” she said as she held out her own to me. As she cradled my twelve-year-old hands in hers, my cousin went on to tell me how they looked like my grandmother’s. She gently stroked my fingers and described how kind and gentle my grandma was, how she spoke with her hands flying, the quiet presence she maintained in a loud and rowdy clan.
Grandma was the matriarch of a family of eleven. She had her share of losses and heartbreak, but anytime someone shares a memory of her, it is always one of admiration and fondness.
Hands.
I’ve been thinking about hands a lot lately. As I clip our boys’ fingernails, I see how much they’re changing. When I type out a new post my own hands catch my eye and I notice the freckle on my left ring finger and how it is slowly fading as I age.
Holding my mom’s hands during church and examining her rings, her fingernails, all the spots and imperfections. She hated her the age spots, but I carefully traced them and memorized the uniqueness that was hers. I can close my eyes now and picture how her hands looked and felt to five-year-old me.
Hands.
Adolescent me spent Tuesday nights watching “Growing Pains” and “Who’s The Boss” while carefully painting my fingernails. I took meticulous care of each one. Filing, buffing, and pushing back cuticles. These were my glory years – before the endless handwashing, dishwashing, laundry, and scrubbing that came with adulthood. I believe my last manicure was just before our wedding. My nail maintenance is mostly done at stoplights these days. My hands reflect who I am.
You have your grandma’s hands.
Tell me I have tiny fingers. Say that they look like little sausages. Tease me for being a hand-talker. That’s okay. I have my grandma’s hands and I will always be proud of that.
Hands are for helping.
Lend a hand, please.
Did you wash your hands? With soap? Let me see.
Hold my hand, it’s a busy street.
Recently I held my hands up to my oldest’s and noted that mine are not much bigger. Those tiny fingers that curled around my pinkie as I cuddled my newborn are now becoming little man hands. Soon he will have outgrown me.
So I will quietly slip my hand into his and hope he holds it, just a little longer. Because I’m not quite ready to let go. I want him to memorize my hands, trace my emerging age spots, know who I am.
Tough Bananas 