Wednesdays With Gladys

Mitch Albom had a great idea when he chose to spend one afternoon a week with an elderly friend.My goal is too follow the pattern and take advantage of a source of wisdom and information that will not always be available. Gladys looks down the tunnel toward death almost very day. She is in her 96th year and she is ever mindful of the next passage . She buried her husband almost forty years ago. She has buried her five beloved sisters and two brothers and her parents of course. For the last year she has resided in the Dr. Snow nursing home and has been thankful for the care and comfort they provide. She has by all accounts more visitors than any other resident. She will quickly tell you she has more than fifty descendants and they are a wonderful close and caring family. But by times Gladys is lonely and fretful. This is a woman who has always been surrounded by family. During wartime when husbands were overseas the six sisters moved from house to house to be there for one another.Gladys is the last one standing, or sitting and finds herself waiting with some fear and trepidation. All that being said she still remains one of the most entertaining and captivating people you could possibly spend a couple of hours with. She has amazing recall for detail and can summon up a memory with superb clarity. Yesterday she dug out her 1944 diary to answer one of my questions.As she searched her memory bank for events of that year I held the small book. Several times she would get me to check a date while recalling something. " Check January 12th. Margaret went to the hospital. Betty and Ray were married. Then she would flesh out that day as if it were yesterday or last week. Over and over she would say a date, unravel her thoughts and I would find the exact details on the page. Impressive and astounding to a journal keeper and writer like myself.Stories pour out of this woman and all one needs to do is gently open the tap. Gladys has a death book;a book where one can find the date people died. She has Rosemary Clooney, Adolph Hitler, my son , my mother, her sisters, my Great Uncle Wilfred. She has the book organized in alphabetical order.To some this might seem macabre or weird but I see it as a gift of one woman's attention to the value of remembering, of recording and realizing passages of birth and death define us all. I can only hope I have many Wednesdays with Gladys and am sorry I waited so long .

Not Just a House

It is gone! In May 2004 my friend Barb made the same announcement regarding my childhood home at 619 Regent St.It had been torn down and she unceremoniously, although not without compassion, told me as we stood in the crowded gym at the MCS reunion. I was heartbroken about the disappearance of a house I drove by every time I went to Fredericton. A few years before I had persuaded Burton to stop so I could ask the young man washing his car in the backyard if I could walk through my childhood home which was now student housing. I took my good old time and walked through, filing each room carefully in my memory. I had the same experience a week ago in a different house of my childhood .I have watched for over twenty five years as my Great Aunt Alice's house stood empty and defenseless to the attack of the elements. I longed to walk though the back door again but of course what I was really longing for was my Aunt Alice greeting me , serving me gingersnaps and ginger ale. I longed to see my Great Uncle Wilfred resting on his cot in the dining room or calling up to us from the open trap door in the pantry. I longed to unpack my little suitcase in the bedroom above the kitchen and sleep for the nights of my visit in the bedroom that in my imagination was the room Anne came to her first night at Green Gables. I longed to walk into the parlor on Boxing day and find my sweet Aunt Alice still trimming her Christmas tree. I wanted to stand by the kitchen window looking toward the orchard and the beautiful stretch of river beyond as I dried dishes.I longed to watch Wilfred limp in with an armload of wood filling the wood box then sitting at the kitchen table, his unbending leg stretched out as he poured his tea into his saucer before sipping it.Their great nephew on Wilfred's side allowed me to accompany him a few days ago so I could enter this house which looms so large and meaningful in my childhood memories. I am heartbroken and tears stream down my cheeks as I write this. It is gone! another Barb just told me with a phone call and again not without compassion.Both houses have already made their way into my writing and two of my works in progress that I keep going back and forth to these fall days of 2018 have my Aunt Alice's house front and center. Perhaps someday the house will be really gone for me but I somehow doubt it. Because the house which now is smoldering rubble waiting to be covered with dirt and gone, will never be gone as long as my memories remain. A framed picture sits on top of my desk and I can still see Alice coming out the door onto the veranda, her full apron covering her house dress . She calls Wilfred in to supper and a little girl follows her inside.

About Time

One of my favorite movies is "About Time". I have watched this movie many many times.Spending time with the story, the characters , the wisdom of that movie always fills my heart and drains my tear ducts. Last night was no exception. The time travelling main character and his father can go back to previous days , previous experiences , mistakes , and have a do over. They can also go back and truly appreciate the day that passed in a blur or in the throes of stress, worry or frustration. The most moving scene in the movie is when the father and son break the rules and go all the way back to a day when the boy was a child. The father and son walk along a path toward the ocean's edge and throw rocks, wade knee deep in the water and sit together on the shore. The days that matter I used to call them. There are so many days I would revisit to fix, to change, to alter the course. But just as the character learns changing the past drastically changes the present and the future and of course is not in our control. But reclaiming a single day would be so nice. Memories, journals, photographs can give us a glimpse of those treasured days. For me it is a day in January, New Years day actually. I have a toddler on a sled I'm pulling down a snowy wood road. My six year old son, my five year old nephew and my nine year old daughter zig zag along the trail in and out of the woods and deep snow, the noon sun strong in the blue sky above. We are taking a picnic lunch to my husband and my thirteen year old son who are working in the woods. We stopped just a ways away from where that six year old boy as a man has now built his beautiful home . We lay out the picnic. We sit on a log, eat sandwiches, drink hot chocolate. When New Years day 2019 comes it will be twenty seven years from that sunny afternoon. So many days and years have passed but the treasure of that day remains and can not be taken from us.It is all 'about time'

I Love November

My heart is full. I feel like the little girl in a commercial for something that was on TV a few years ago who recites all the things she loves in her life.This is an exercise we all should participate in every day. Today for me the list seems long. I could possibly write a matching list for worries, disappointments, imperfections and failures but I refuse to concentrate on those lists . I just heard a piece on CBC about the passing of William Goldman. I may have missed some of the details but he wrote Princess Bride and I zeroed in on the facts about the making of that movie. I love the movie Princess Bride. I love the memories of watching it with my kids and their attachment to it. I love the memory of one line of dialogue in particular that my daughter misquoted.I love Mandy Patinkin. I love that my granddaughters loved the movie as we watched it together this summer.I love Mondays and time in my office. I love the anticipation of beginning the edits on my next book. I love the privilege I have of finding judges for our upcoming WFNB Writing Competition. I love giving writers a chance to submit their work find their confidence and make their way. It all starts with a story worth telling . Yesterday I went to hear Douglas Gibson. He was so personable, so warm and witty and so knowledgeable about so much of Canada's literary past.He told wonderful little stories about Alice Munro, W.O. Mitchell, Alistair MacLeod just to name a few. And he told sweet stories about himself.I love that before that I got to attend the morning service at the Long Reach United Church. This quaint little church sits on a hill overlooking the beautiful Saint John River and holds a special place in my heart. Looking out the window at the stunning view and gazing at the gorgeous woodwork and lovely embossed ceiling while the church filled with song prayer and fellowship filled my heart. I watched as Tony and Tracey stood with their precious little boy to have him baptized and welcomed into the family of relatives and neighbors filling the pews. I love all that means , all the ties to past , present and future. I felt honored to have been there and witness the water dripping on little Jack's head.I love where I am in my life , my story and how all the pieces connect.I love a snow cover that makes me feel the tug of winter, of sparkling lights, rum and eggnog, of Christmas.I love that my nephew is tackling the cleaning and organizing of our basement. I could write an entire blog about our basement but I prefer to stay away from it physically, emotionally and psychologically.I love possibility, goals and steps forward.

Always Missing Them

I was fired up to write this entry after listening to the news this morning but mellowed a bit when in my news feed I read a post from a friend. Today that friend writes that fourteen years ago they lost a huge part of their lives when they lost their son.On the news report the reporter said " even after 25 years they still miss their daughter" This is a family who faced the disappearance of their daughter, the finding of what they are told are her remains and the horror of knowing she had been murdered. And the reporter says even after 25 years they still miss her. Statements like that really piss me off. I want to scream and ask every parent if their child no matter what age they are are still a part of their lives and their thoughts. So why do people assume that after years pass you will not miss them.Cut off an arm and you will miss it forever. I know people realize this but why are statements dismissing that loss so casually made. Shortly after Zac died I saw a newspaper photograph of a mother who lost her son at the Kent State University shootings which was over thirty years ago at the time. I was overcome by the sorrow on her face. I put that photo on my bulletin board . It told me two things; a mother can survive and go on,and a mother's sorrow never ends.That is all I've got to say this morning!

Closing Time

" You can't stay here."I began this entry over a week ago. After a wonderful retreat which took me away from this continent, across the ocean and to a lovely villa in Italy I had just arrived back home hours before. With so much to process, a tired and weary body and brain I woke up with a line from the song Closing Time. Right away my thoughts went to two beautiful women no longer with us. Later that day I would gather with others to celebrate the life of Irene McWhirter. Irene lived her 91 years with grace, elegance and humor. She always presented herself at her very best. She and Mom were good friends and shared many good times together. Now they have both left us.It was their time to go.Yesterday I told my daughter about a man who just died in our community. I said he was young,72. She commented. " We are calling 72 young now?" I quickly said yes. Funny how the view of young and old changes as one ages.So many viewpoints change as we change. I have now traveled to Europe and see the possibilities for future travel being wide open to me. I have with my own eyes seen the beautiful landscape of Italy, stood before ancient architecture, history and renowned paintings and statues. I stood within arms length of Michelangelo's David.I spent a week in the cradle of the Renaissance. Each day brought its own special gifts and then the week wound down. In a rainstorm we left our villa in the middle of the night and drove to the airport. My wonderful Italy experience came to a close and I came home.I had a dream last night that I was taken back to 1986. In my dream I quickly assessed the fact that Zac would be almost eight, Meg was four and Chapin was one. I let the dream take me back to those days and woke up so disappointed that while awake I can only get a brief memory of those days. They passed so quickly." You can't stay here." This day , November 8.,2018 will unfold and be gone. It will be just one tiny fraction of the life I will live. Closing time will come as it has come for Mom and Irene. My past days are only available in memory and sometimes in dreams.So it behooves us all to be here while we are here. Live to your best self, dream the dreams, eat the cake, travel to Italy, love the people in your life in every single stage and in all things be thankful!Stand in front of the beauty you see every day and marvel at the gift you have been given.