 Where I'd Rather Be. Have you had a bout of Covid since March 2020? Or, were you one of the lucky ones, like me, who managed to avoid the virus? Have you followed all the recommended advice? Got your vaccinations (3-4 by now)? Have you wondered how you have successfully outsmarted those nasty germ particles drifting in the air as you worked your way through a crowded grocery store or at a concert or sporting venue?
Have you secretly become a bit smug about your super charged immune system? I went a bit further (in my mind) and amped up my daily intake of Zinc, Vitamin D and Vitamin C just for good measure. I avoided crowded indoor events. I became expert at using public toilets without ever allowing my hands to come in contact with any surface. (Even before Covid, I had this pretty much down to an art.) Allow me to regale you with how it’s done. You use your sleeve or a tissue or paper towel to open the doors, lock the doors, press any buttons or handles. If you must, you can use your hand to turn on the germ covered faucet, but since you are about to wash your hands - thoroughly - that’s OK. You cannot then turn that faucet off with your cleaned hands. More paper towel is required or anything that creates a barrier between your hand and that vile virus coated tap. OK, so now you are relieved, cleansed, and it’s time to depart this hellish haven of “other people’s contagion. Do NOT forget your mission. Do NOT touch that door knob on your way out. You will have saved a paper towel or a few sheets of tissue for your exit, but you don’t really want to take it with you in your pocket or purse, so it can be helpful if the trash can is close to the door whereby you can hold the door open with your foot while you gracefully employ one of your well-rehearsed ballet or yoga poses (one that elongates your body to emulate a horizon line between the door and the bin. If that bin has a lid, you have thought to leave it open before you make your exit. Extra points for you if you sink the rolled up potential germ wad like a carefully orchestrated free throw. Having conquered Public Toilet Germ Avoidance 101, you use many of the same techniques at shops, gas/petrol stations, bank machines and the biggie of all…airplanes. You have masked and wiped and sprayed and detoxed your personal space in economy or business and even first class if you’re lucky (I had one luxury experience between Hong Kong and Sydney at the height of the pandemic). You have hand sanitizer in your car and your purse and if you forget you just used it, and your tongue accidentally comes in contact with your foul tasting fingers one more time… As much as you hated wearing the mask, you did, but you started to loosen up a bit after the rules changed and it was no longer required in most settings. You teetered between thinking the masks were probably still not a bad idea and the wickedly free feeling that came with abandoning the suffocating incontinence Pad for the face you had been forced to don for the sake of your fellow man. (your safety was always secondary, right?) You even experimented with turning them into a fashionable accessory and bought some in fun prints or coordinating colours to match your outfit du jour. Those “designer” masks were hideously overpriced and even harder to wear for more than five minutes. Breathing beneath their thick fabric layers was akin to running out of oxygen 40 fathoms below. When you realized they had to be laundered after each use, you ditched that ridiculous plan and joined the masses in line at Costco to bulk buy disposable masks faster than an explosion of viral droplets in a sneeze at a super-spreader event. There was some hemming and hawing about the necessity of a fourth booster but you had reasons to believe it was the wise thing to do based on your age and current state of your immune system and your desire to start travelling again before you die, so you rolled up your sleeve and got in the ring for round four. By now, you are a genuine minority. There are fewer and fewer people you know who haven’t had at least one case of Covid and you know some people who have had it twice. You start to wonder if everyone is just careless or if you are just particularly cautious but you reassure yourself because you actually know some people who are even more responsible and vigilant than you are, so you could be doing more to safeguard yourself and others but you are at a stage now where you figure that even if you do get it, it won’t be too bad - mild symptoms, or at the very worst - a bad flu. You know you won’t die but then you think about those 15 years you smoked when you were young and wonder if your lungs aren’t as resilient as they could be so you cannot rule out that possibility entirely. You have grown so weary of it all. You almost wish you would just get it and have it over with. After all, you actually know people who have had it and now just shrug it off. In my case, my own father got it in a nursing home. His immune system must be that of a super human since he is compromised in every way possible. Heart disease. Diabetes. COPD. Dementia. His body is frail and his bloodstream is a cocktail of pharmaceuticals. He has had it twice and survived. It may be possible he is one of those people with a natural immunity - who knows? You start to live like it is over. Screw the mask-wearing (except when required), get out in the world more, generally stop worrying at all. That was me in the last few months. And, that is when it found me. After much retracing my footsteps just prior to testing positive, I narrowed it down to either the young man who sneezed at the table next to me in a Japanese restaurant, or the fact that I handled the bottle of soy sauce on the table that had clearly not been sanitized between patrons. Either way, it matters not. It got me. And it got me good. Despite my four vaccinations, I had what I can only describe as a pretty nasty flu that knocked me out for a solid five days, plus a lingering cough weeks later. So much for a mild case. My beloved Mick, who like me was a smug avoider until his recent flight back from Australia, has now spent the last five days recovering from a similar fate. This virus and all viruses have one goal - to find a host. Short of isolating completely or possessing a natural immunity, it is likely most people will eventually succumb. It has me rethinking my laissez faire attitude toward crowds and masking and distancing. The truth is, it’s not much fun and I don’t want to catch it again. As I get older, five days of misery seem like far too many. What I may have shrugged off as no big deal twenty years ago, is a big deal now at 64. So, please understand when I don’t shake your hand, or do the double kiss thing or turn down an invitation to a crowded indoor event. It’s not you, it’s me, because every day spent lying in bed with a fever, a box of tissues and an aching body is a day I have lost walking in the forest or paddling my canoe, or tending my garden or creating a new recipe, or sitting at my desk writing, or…….. You get the gist. As the saying goes, “When you have your health, you want everything and when you don’t, you only want one thing.” Indeed. #health #aging
6 Comments
 Tis the season of letting go here in the Northern Hemisphere. Having lived in the Southern Hemisphere on and off in recent years, I now know it would be smug of me to assume this applies to everyone in the world.
Autumn has always had this melancholic affect on me - unlike any of the other seasons. The gung-ho quality of spring and all its pointy shoots and bulging buds is contrasted with downward spirals and decaying seed pods after a summer spent strutting their stuff in the the damaging rays of the sun and wind and rain. Like us, life has taken its toll. These days when I dare to look too closely at my aging face (mostly by accident) in a mirror, I am reminded that I am in the autumn of my life. Suddenly the word crepey no longer conjures images of bistro brunches on the Seine but rather thoughts of Dame Maggie Smith or the cost of chemical peels and if I am destined for one or the other. However, as I sit and observe the stunning glory of the changing leaves from my perch here at Kyeema North, I am in awe of the pure gold in this annual spectacle that nature provides. The show changes daily now - the Maples and Sumacs and Oaks all competing for attention. “I’m more brilliant!” “No, I’m more stunning!” “HA!, neither of you can hold a candle to me!” They need not compare or try too hard to attract my attention. The blend of colour, like a perfectly choreographed dance is beyond any individual performance. By the time the show ends, a magical thing occurs. The scene that existed all along behind the lush foliage is revealed. A clarity beyond the trunks and branches pierces through, gifting us with an entirely new view of the landscape and season to come. By letting go of their pretty russets and aubergine coats they now stand naked. Their bare bones exposed and vulnerable yet strong. The weathered and dried coverings they once wore rest beneath them now composting into a nourishing mulch. Just as the spring and summer have led to this moment, my own springs and summers have brought me to my autumn. A long slow fall is what I wish for now. A gentle drift toward winter. The need for feather fluffing and ruling the landscape are follies of the past now. Peace and contentment have arrived and taut skin has been usurped by some well-earned wisdom. Is this how the trees understand it? Have they taken to heart their deciduous nature? Have they learned a few things? Have the rotted out hollows in their trunks given homes to owls or squirrels? Have their roots reached out to neighbouring strangers and helped ground them? Have they donated their canopy to provide shade? Have they shared their nutty bounty with all creatures? Is their selflessness not an inspiration? Is it not entirely possible that these silent giants that surround us, the wise teachers this world needs? Can the Cedars by the shoreline that stretch and lean toward the sun and water speak to us of adapting to one’s conditions? Was it only a matter of time before the forces of nature would topple the lone Stewiacke tree? Was Shubie too far from help? After almost 300 years on it’s own, did that red oak succumb to Hurricane Fiona or a lack of a support system, or both? What lessons are we learning? In October, it will be time to plant bulbs. Daffodils. Tulips. Hyacinths. Next spring’s parade of beauties are but a nugget of potential now covered in their amber onion skin jackets. Like the chipmunks and squirrels that scamper about stashing their acorns and hickory and butternuts, I will dig my own little holes and bury my bulbs. For the critters, it is food storage that will get them through winter. For me, it is a different kind of food. It is the anticipation of the soul food that will emerge from these fall plantings come April and May, making the harshest of winter winds bearable. The simplicity of this nature that surrounds us has been a soothing and healing balm to me these past five years. Living somewhat isolated from people may seem unappealing to some, but, like the Cedars, we have adapted to this environment - rooted ourselves next to the forests and fresh water. It’s a calming bubble in a chaotic world. As Thanksgiving approaches, may you all fall into your own Kyeema North. Wherever that may be.  Can somebody tell me why I cannot get affordable kitchen appliances in fun colours. I don’t want stainless steel or white or black. I want Candy Apple Red or Powder Blue, or Turquoise or Sunny Yellow. Cars come in all shades of the rainbow - why not appliances?
I grew up in the 60’s and 70’s when avocado green or harvest gold were standard choices. One of my aunts had a really cool copper-coloured set of kitchen appliances. Now, before you go telling me there are companies that can do it - trust me, I have researched them all and I would need to mortgage my house to order from these places. (hello Northstar - I’m talkin to you!) Besides that, they charge an arm and a leg to custom colour these pieces, but inside is a very ordinary LG fridge or stove, so it’s not like you are getting the high end guts to match the skin. Am I all alone here folks? Surely there must be more of me out there. I have never been a beige gal. I find neutral shades boring. That’s right - bit of a yawn for me. When stainless steel first hit the ground running, I couldn’t afford to kit out my space with those. By the time they did become mainstream and affordable, I stopped wanting them. They had a cool edgy feel going for them with the mid-century modern crowd in the sixties and I had a great aunt back then that owned them. Whenever we visited their house I felt like I was in the Jetson’s kitchen. It was awesome. They also had an airstream trailer I wished my parents had owned. They were so ahead of the curve. I didn’t fare too badly for a brief period when my dad bought a VW Kombi and my mom painted big bold colourful daisies on the exterior to cover the rusty bits. Maybe that’s where I got my penchant for bold and groovy splashes of happy. I love the way it feels like a shot of sunshine when I walk into a space that just bloody screams. A space that gives you a gut punch. I can be cool with neutrals as long as the art and accessories are LOUD! I want to be aroused by the dramatic, not lulled to sleep with the mundane. Hence, my frustration with the lack of choice in the appliance section. I would buy a SMEG fridge in a heartbeat if it came in a size that held more than a six pack of beer and some leftover take-away. Seriously SMEG, we’re not all bachelors or single gals on a starvation diet. I need more storage space. I actually cook. If Canadian Tire can make giant tool boxes on wheels in fire engine red, why can’t LG or Kenmore make me an Indigo Blue French door icebox? If SMEG can make Pink kettles and Baby Blue toasters, why not a full size fridge in the same colour options? I do have the SMEG toaster in the pale blue and it is the one thing in my kitchen that makes me smile. The jewel on my island. It is a talking point. When my old neighbours used to pop over, we had a running joke where we would all turn and extend our arms skywards and then bow and chant…”ALL HAIL THE SMEG!” If a toaster can be that much fun, imagine what a Tangerine range might conjure up? We’d be dancing a conga line around the joint. As for that Candy Apple Red cooling device…I’m thinking nothing short of the Tango. Pass me a rose.  She must have overheard me. The plan was to dig her up and send her to a new home. After four annual performance reviews of 0/10, I had no choice. I had given this gal every opportunity to shine. I fed her. I watered her. I talked to her. The problem was, I wasn’t the only one interested in her. There were others who came to see her - sometimes in the night when she least expected visitors.
At first I couldn’t understand her inability to produce. She looked healthy. She sprouted an abundance of leaves each spring. She seemed well-rooted. She had a prominent position in my beloved heart-shaped garden, in the middle, just below the V of the heart. There were others who would have killed for her spot. After the first year, I chalked it up to the fact that she had yet to establish herself and her weakness radiated an energy that said, “Go ahead, do what you will with me - sink your teeth into my tender buds - eat me.” And so they did. Every last one. They defrocked her like swarm of locusts clearing a farmer’s crop. I decided to keep her on for another season. A second chance to strut her stuff, come September. It was one of the reasons I invited her into my heart - her habit of blooming late in the summer when most other beauties have come and gone. Besides, she had come from good stock - all the way from my brother’s garden in Kelowna. She was a proven winner and I always find it meaningful to grow things that my loved ones have shared. It gives them credibility and a little story to tell. They have a past and come recommended. That, and the sentimentality attached to treasured specimens from our favourite people. Any gardener will tell you, their best plants generally come from other gardeners. They have already been taken care of and grown up until it came time to be divided or pruned. This was her heritage and she was carefully transported home in my suitcase that first year, dampened paper towels wrapped tenderly around her roots and placed in a plastic bag, a piece of twine knotted in a bow at her neck, a few leaves poking out the top of the bag so she could breathe. The second year was more disastrous than the first. By September, not only was she budless, but most of her leaves were stripped away as well. I was verklempt. She stood nearly naked, her scrawny trunk and branches raw with embarrassment at having let me down yet again. Her sad state gave her an air of profound vulnerability, so I told her I would give her another chance and proceeded to give her a few extra layers of fallen leaves - a warm blanket for the winter. She would need it. The spring of 2020 arrived and so did Sharon. That was her name. Shame on me for not mentioning it earlier. More accurately, Rose…of Sharon. I was alone here at Kyeema North that spring, so my propensity for talking to my plants became somewhat of a worry to those who knew me and loved me. Had I lost the plot? No, I had not and besides, I have had good luck talking to plants in the past and this girl needed all the help she could get. As I raked away the leafy winter blanket I coaxed her and caressed her leaves, so determined was I to see her succeed. By bloom time, like most of the world around her, she blamed the virus for everything. Flowering would be delayed by another year. Her excuse was a bit lame but who could fault her logic? Weren’t we all feeling a bit like hiding? The 2021 bloom season will forever remain a mystery. She may or may not have shown her true colours but I was not here to see it. From what I heard, she tried to hide behind the mass of weeds that took over my heart bed that year as we were separated by oceans and thousands of miles and this time we both blamed the virus. By the time we returned to Kyeema North, gardening season was over and Sharon was the last thing on my mind. I did notice her trying to slink from my sight amongst the ragged and spent Iris leaves each time I passed, hoping I would just forget about her dismal performance yet again, but I had her number. “You, my pretty, YOU have one more year,” I admonished her and hastily dumped a wheelbarrow full of leaves over her for one more cold snowy Eastern Ontario winter. If she didn’t wake up in the spring, I wasn’t going to care, nor would I try to revive her. We were all but finished. By June, I could see I was flogging a dead horse. I called my friend Peg and asked if she would be interested in adopting Sharon. I had dangled little mesh bags of stinky Irish Spring on her feeble branches to help her out but she clearly was not happy. I would dig her up in the fall and take her to her new home where she would be loved and safe from her predators. It was nearly a fait accompli until…. …today, as I strolled over to consider the chore ahead of me in the heart garden, (which overall had not performed well this year), my jaw dropped. There it was. ONE lone flower in full blossom. She was radiant in the morning sun, tiny crystal drops of dew resting on her pinky-mauve petals, her stamen standing proud and firm, begging me to notice. I swear I heard trumpets or a choir singing Hallelujah, or maybe it was just my heart growing three sizes like the Grinch on Christmas morning - whatever it was, it can only be described as pure unadulterated joy. Never has a blossom in my garden given me such a thrill. “My God, Sharon,” I said as I stooped to admire her perfection. “Finally. You’re here.” For a second I thought I saw her blush. How she had done it, I’ll never know. Perhaps in the moment some hungry doe or fawn was leaning in, the slightest breeze had caused the stink of the Irish Spring to drift up its nostrils, changing its mind. Or, she kept tight in the bud until the very last minute, disguising herself under a leaf - so determined to show me she could do it. And what had made me choose this day to look into the heart garden after weeks of ignoring it? Did she know I needed a bit of cheering up? I did. And it worked. The power of one flower and patience and a bit of serendipity. How about that?  Ina, Alf and Sarah Lever They say our family histories often die with our elders. With this in mind, I have become curious about my long dead biological maternal grandfather’s family. I never knew him. He died in an ammunition factory explosion in Welland, Ontario during WW2. It was a tragedy of immense proportions for my grandmother at the time. She had three little girls under 7 years of age…and he was the great love of her life.
Ina (my grandmother), was working as a waitress in Niagara Falls at The Refectory restaurant overlooking the Horseshoe Falls. Alf (my grandfather) was working as a Cabin Boy on the Maid of the Mist when they met and fell head over heels for one another. She was a petite thing with twinkling brown eyes and scrawny legs that made you wonder how they supported her upper body. This became far more evident in her later years when she might have been described as buxom. Alfred (Alf) was a tall broad shouldered hunk of a man that towered over Ina. I can imagine it was effortless for him to scoop her up in his arms and carry her over mud puddles and thresholds. His broad shoulders developed over his lifetime due to his love of swimming. An old newspaper clipping still remains describing his courageous swim across the Niagara River below the falls in the late 1930’s. He must have been confident and self-assured to attempt such a crossing against the notorious currents of that river. Clearly he had impressed one gal enough for her to say “I do.” Alf’s mother, Sarah (nee Graham) (my great grandmother) was born in England. She married a man named George Lever and after bearing two boys with him, she left him behind (for reasons unknown), and moved to Canada. She lived with her two sons, Alf and Grandville in Paris, Ontario for a few years before moving to St. Catharines. Considering this would have been shortly after the turn of the century, she must have had a good reason to leave. I can’t help but admire her bravery to start all over in a new country with two small children. If she had any money, it wasn’t much. She eventually moved to St. Catharines to become a housekeeper for an Italian widower and lived in a room in his home with her boys. It was never revealed but rumour had it, he eventually became her secret lover and she remained by his side until she died at 65 with bowel cancer. By then, she would have spent a lifetime mourning the loss of her eldest son Alf. She kept in touch with her three grandchildren and Ina despite the fact that Ina eventually remarried. Apparently, I have Gramma Lever’s heavy legs. I would have preferred Ina’s scrawny gams but I guess I drew the short straw. Ina’s new husband must have always known he was never really “the one”. Surely he saw how her eyes lit up whenever she spoke of Alf. I noticed. It was obvious. He also must have known he could never compete with her strapping Cabin Boy but he kept his mouth shut and worked hard and took care of three children he did not sire. She seemed grateful but always a little sad and their relationship seemed dutiful and unromantic. Perhaps she jumped at the first opportunity that came along after Alf died for the sake of her girls. Life would have been full of hardship otherwise. Ina and her new husband Lorne, bought a farm and acreage toward the end of Lundy’s Lane in Niagara Falls and while Lorne worked full time at the paper mill, Ina ran an 8 unit motel called The Homestead that Lorne built himself in his spare time. It was a typical 50’s style motel with a neon light on the lawn in front of the farmhouse that sat adjacent to the white-washed units. There was a red swing set on the lawn for the motel guest’s children and a single colourful fan-backed, mid-century painted metal chair beside the door of each unit. Red. Blue. Yellow, Orange. Green. You get the picture. Each unit had a kitchenette. As a wee lass, I used to love “helping” my grandmother on cleaning days. I was in charge of placing the paper mats on the shower floor and distributing the little mini bars of Ivory soap on the sink and shower shelf. During the busier summer season, they would sometimes rent out the three upstairs bedrooms in the farmhouse when they were “full”. Those three bedrooms shared a bath and a kitchen.The bathtub was turquoise and there was no shower.Three bluish fish plaques of varying sizes (purchased at a plaque party) hung on the wall above the tub. In those days, long before the internet, people would drive all the way along Lundy’s Lane from the falls until they found a “vacancy” sign. Theirs was the last accommodation before Black Horse Corners and pretty much the end of the line. High season cost $6.50 per night and low season was $5.50. (an increase from earlier years of $4.50 and $5.50). Once in awhile, a guest from some exotic foreign land would leave something behind and if it wasn’t claimed by the end of summer, they kept them. A pair of brightly coloured sandals all the way from India and a watch with Sleeping Beauty on the face and metal stretchy strap became mine. The shoes were far too small but I lied and said they were fine just so I could keep them and admire the dazzling colours. I wore the watch for years until I grew out of such fairy tales but I never forgot it. Ina hired a helper in high season to assist her in the cleaning. She had a full size pressing machine in the kitchen where the 100% white cotton sheets were starched and pressed and folded to a silky crisp finish. I can still see my sweet bespectacled grannie standing before that steaming hot machine, a polka-dot handkerchief wrapped around her head and the beads of sweat dripping from her brow and the end of her nose. There was no air conditioning and she kept a glass pitcher of cold sulphur smelling well water in the fridge. Even the foul taste and smell of that water was refreshing on a hot, humid July day. After a day of laundering and cleaning 8 units and 3 bedrooms, her day wasn’t over. Lorne expected a hot dinner on the table every night and she complied. I cannot help but wonder if Alf had lived, if her life might have been a bit easier. They took one holiday in all those years running that motel. They drove to California and toured around. Lorne never tired of telling everyone how amazing the redwoods and Knott’s Berry Farm were. (for years I thought he was saying Knoxberry) I noted Ina never seemed as enthused. She was likely so exhausted, she dozed through most of that journey. Until they retired and sold the place, it was their only adventure. Their years of toil granted them enough savings to spend their winters in Florida and the rest of the year in a house in St. Catharines. A better outcome than many, but they never flew anywhere, ever and those hot dinners landed on the table no matter where they lived. Ina grew old and dementia set in during her mid eighties. Toward the end of her life when she no longer recognized her family, my brother paid her a visit from the west. He did not know what to expect, but it may have been the best visitor Ina ever had in that final year. When Rick walked into the nursing home room, she turned to look at him and her tired eyes lit up as she cried out, “Alf!, you’ve come to see me.” My brother did bear some similarity to Alf in his younger years. How wonderful for her to finally see her long lost love after so many decades. I hope she is with Alf now. It may seem mean to anyone reading this that I have that wish for her but there are stories about Lorne that will remain untold for now. He did indeed step up to the plate when she needed him, but Alf is the man I think she truly loved and deserved. Alf and Ina. Navigating heaven together.  It has been a little over five years since my child asked me to change the contact information in my phone to Mac from her birth name. (and more recently - Caelum). At the time it seemed a strange request upon coming out to me that she was about to transition from a woman to a man, but it was an important symbolic gesture in his mind. We were laying down on my bed, both staring up at the ceiling when he delivered his news. He had called me earlier that day to say he needed to talk to me. The room was dimly lit and somehow our prone position, looking skyward was easier than say, a face to face conversation across a bowl of Cheerios on a sunny Saturday morning. We held hands.
My intuition had been telling me for a few years that this might have been coming, but until the words land on your heart, it all seems kind of blurry and unsure. Prior to this announcement I had already learned and accepted other less concerning proclamations. “Mom, I’m lesbian,” followed a year or so later with “Mom, I’m pansexual.” Being the typical heterosexual, cisgender, well past middle-age mom I was, and am, I had to ask what the latter meant, but have since been on a rapid learning curve about everything LBGTQ+ and consider myself far more educated than the average woman my age now. Short of having a rainbow tattooed on my forehead, I am a fierce advocate for queer folks worldwide. Sometimes I can even make jokes about it with my better half. As in, “Oh what would you know, you boring old cisgender fart?” Five years ago, I didn’t even know we were cisgender. I recently told my 82 year old mother she was cisgender. That was fun. Followed by, “See mom, you learn something new everyday.” It was shortly after I finally told her that her granddaughter was now her grandson. It went far better than I imagined it would, although it may take her awhile to get the pronouns right. I assured her it will get easier over time. Caelum and I had decided to hold off on telling her until his appearance became more obviously masculine and, hopefully, after my father’s dementia became so severe that he wouldn’t notice. We wouldn’t have to wait too long. It wasn’t a shame thing as much as we both truly believed he would not be able to handle the news. That, and the fact that neither of us could bear the possible rejection or negative reaction we might get. His old school attitudes and beliefs were already legendary and his potential verbal barbs upon hearing this family news, would have broken both our hearts into a million tiny pieces. I always knew my mother would be gracious and kind, but we worried if we told her, she would feel compelled to tell her husband of 60 plus years as wives often do. So we held off and it worked. He wouldn’t know if his grandchild was a boy or a girl or a cat these days, so we can rest easy. We’ll never have to hear mean or nasty words spewing from his lips. In fact, now we barely understand any words that he mumbles. For us, it’s almost like there is a bright side to Alzheimers. I have been seriously contemplating writing a book about my side of Caelum’s transgender journey, because, contrary to “supportive parent positivity”, there is one, and I feel voiceless. As much as he has done the courageous and difficult part (and continues on that path), I too, have had my share of ups and downs and I don’t see many honest accounts of the parents of transgender children in print. There seems to be two versions. The fully supportive and loving parents or the completely non-supportive parents who disown their own children. In many ways, as a supportive parent, it has meant I have had to buck up and take the pain. Yes, I said pain. The transgender journey is a family journey in so many ways and the path to full acceptance is littered with voices and opinions and tears. It is as though supportive parents haven’t got a soft place to fall outside of support groups and often these are unavailable in rural areas and small communities. I’m pretty sure that if you surveyed any parent and asked them if they were happy and joyful when their child told them they were planning to change genders, the answer would be no. One thing all parents have in common though, is their inherent desire for their children to be happy. Although changing genders may indeed lead to their children being happier, generally speaking, the road to becoming the new gender isn’t exactly paved in yellow bricks. There are more twists and turns and bumps in that road than even Dorothy and her clicking red heels would want to navigate. Most parents wouldn’t wish this upon their kid, even if it’s the one they like the least. In my case, having an only child meant I had no fall back kid. If this kid is bullied or depressed or shunned there wouldn’t even be a helpful sibling who had his back ( which BTW, seems to be common…and oh so wonderful). After 5 years, I have had time to research and evaluate and come to terms with the impact this has had and continues to have on Caelum, our family and friends and what it truly means to love unconditionally. I used to wonder if unconditional love was actually possible. Turns out, I have discovered, it is.  So I woke up this morning and did my usual things. Cut up some fresh fruit…cantaloupe today, since it is in season here in Ontario. Ground the coffee beans (I hate that sound, but the coffee is just so much better this way). I don’t always make the coffee. Mick and I share that task. Depends who gets on their feet first generally. We talk a bit, but not too much - not before the caffeine kicks in and then we both check our messages and social media feeds and check out what Heather Hiscox is wearing on the CBC morning news - we always have an opinion - yes, I said “we”. It may seem out of character for my totally unfashionable guy (he thinks Pierre Cardin is still in vogue) to have anything at all to say about the colour or style of her outfit du jour, but he is full of surprises, isn’t he? (and when the hell is she coming back from summer vacation?)
There was one thing about this morning though that was completely out of the ordinary and I’m not talking about getting Wordle in two guesses or Quordle under six. Oh no folks, I’m talking about some different numbers. I had over 1.000 notifications on a photo I posted on Facebook yesterday on my Zinnia Flowers Community page. (not a big number for some but a huge one for me) WTF? Likes, loves, wows and comments from people (mostly women) from all over the world - fellow Zinnia lovers. My new tribe was digging my photo of a floral arrangement I made for my mother. It was mostly Zinnias with a few other stems of this and that thrown in for contrast - well, you can see for yourself above. White Snapdragons in the centre with a few sprigs of Lavender to give it some scent and some Salvia. I will admit, I thought it turned out quite pretty but this wasn’t my first rodeo if you know what I mean. Having made many floral arrangements over the years, it felt as though I had hit the motherlode with this one. Staging my flowers is something I love to do as well, and this strategic spot in front of the the mirror in the guest bedroom worked a treat. One woman said she “loved everything about this photo”. Another said, “Breathtaking!”. One gal said, “wish I lived closer”. Not sure what she meant by that. Did she think I might make her one too? Or was she planning to snatch it from me as I was packing it into the back of the car? In any case, it was beyond flattering to hear all the compliments. I am still trying to thank each person for their comments. Is this what famous people do? It must take them hours, days and weeks sometimes to personally thank their fans. I suppose they get their publicity staff to take care of that. I have had the occasional author respond to my comments on Instagram or Meta and it does impress me when it happens. Both Elizabeth Gilbert and Glennon Doyle have replied to my comments. I like to believe they were genuine but even if they just respond to a handful each day to create fan loyalty, all I can say is - it works. I digress. Back to my Zinnia tribe. The happiest, sunniest, posy-positive flower lovers you’ve ever met. Scrolling through the daily posts is like going on a joy-ride in a 1965 Flower Power Kombi and everyone is high…on life. The ultimate flower porn. I can’t stop looking some days. I don’t even remember now how I came across the group. I probably mentioned the word Zinnia one day in a post of my own and before I knew it Zuckerberg turned my algorithm dial to F for Floral faster than an FTD delivery truck on Mother’s Day. This group is so cheerful, inviting and inclusive they didn’t even ask me to prove I grew Zinnias, liked Zinnias or if I was a robot. Makes me wonder if there are any imposters amongst their 56K members. Sneaky sunflower fans looking to switch things up or Dodgy Daisy pickers hankering for some brighter colours. I did have one gal ask me what the other flowers in my arrangement were besides Zinnias as though she was giving me a passive aggressive jab pointing out I had veered away from 100 per cent Zinnia loyalty. Or, maybe she just doesn’t recognize Snapdragons or has Zero tolerance for intruders. I’ll never know. One comment made me a bit sad. She said, “I hope my daughter makes one of these for me.” “Awwww,” I cried to myself, then immediately wanted to make her feel better or loved or somehow track down her daughter and suggest it might be time to pay some attention to mommy dearest, but instead I thanked her and said maybe she could share my post with her and plant the seed.(Zinnia seed of course.) Hope it worked. My Zinnia obsession is fairly new. I planted them for the first time in 2018. I had read that they were deer resistant. That is resistant, not deer proof. In June this year, for the first time, I did have a bit of trouble with the deer biting off the buds on my Big Benary’s Giant plants. I had hoped I wouldn’t have to erect deer netting around my Zinnia Boats but after a few attacks from Bambi’s mom and dad, I caved and fenced them in - a buzz kill for them, but my Giant Zinnias are finally blooming now after their long recovery period. It is one of the things I love about them - they are so resilient. Fighters. Bite their head off and they come back sporting several more. And don’t get me started on the colours! Picture the Batman fight scenes. Instead of POW! BAM! SMACK!, these babies punch colours - PINK! ORANGE! YELLOW! RED! Their vibrant hues make loud statements and the colour combos are many and varied. They were originally grown in the southwest and Mexico and Central America where they were not well-loved, considered garish and loud by the Aztecs. A German master botanist named Johann Zinn (hence the name) brought seeds back to Europe in the early 1700’s and they were embraced…and why not? These flowers are easy to grow, make great cut flowers and can take the heat. If you want to attract bees and butterflies, these things are da bomb! The only drawback can be powdery mildew if they get too wet for too long. But even then, the flowers continue to blossom. They don’t let a bit of mould stop them from shining. I wish now I would have planted some in Australia - the perfect climate for them as long as the rains don’t hang around too long. Maybe some of my peeps down under can try some and let me know how it goes or grows. (Lyn, Leigh, Lexie, Lori…I’m talkin to you!). In the meantime, I am having my 15 minutes of fame, Andy. Well, me… and my Zinnias.  I can fill your heart with more love and more joy than age or time could ever destroy… Lyric from More Love, by The Miracles- Yup, that’s what they give me. Thank you Smokey Robinson for the sound track that matches my emotions each time I wander past my sunflowers or zinnias or my ripening Sweet 100’s. My dawn and dusk inspection ritual is like my own private treasure hunt - an art gallery of live paintings that change on the daily. My Monet moments. My more joy. My maternal grandfather was an avid gardener who lived well into his nineties. He often wondered aloud why “god hadn’t taken him yet”. I know why. He kept being lured to live another season. Another harvest. It was where he found peace in his day. Where he went to reconcile his life, his joys and possibly even his demons. Did he talk to his Dahlias? Did he ask them for advice? For forgiveness? Was his garden the one place he found joy? As I get older, I find myself talking to my plants. I am certain I brought a new Spruce tree back to life this past spring by coaxing it with my voice. It was not looking hopeful early on. Winter had been harsh and it was planted late the previous autumn. Thinking it had not had time to firmly establish, I hovered over him every few days, gently cheering him on. There appeared to be some life left in him, so, I encouraged him. “C’mon little guy, you can do it - here, have some more water.” In all honesty, I did not expect him to make it. His needles were dropping, his bones becoming more visible with each visit. He stood alone, a circle of rocks fencing him in - protection against the ride-on mower. As spring was coming to an end and summer fast approaching, I decided it might be time to uproot what was left of his dying carcass and make the mowing easier. But then, a miracle occurred. Shovel in hand, I headed out toward him, feeling sad about the task I was about to perform and that is when I had to rub my eyes, lean in for a closer look and take notice of the emerging flush of soft pale green needles sprouting from the tips of his branches. “You’re ALIVE!”, I shouted to the sky and the startled Blue Jays perched in the ancient apple tree nearby. “You did it! You pulled through!” More joy. And then there is the anticipation. Talk about foreplay. The tiny emerging buds. The days and sometimes weeks of swelling before the explosive orgy of blooms that take your breath away like that first true love on repeat every growing season. More joy. As addicted to love as I may have been in my younger years, I have a new vice in my later life. Give me a seed or a sapling and I’ll plant that baby in some nutrient rich soil and watch it grow with all the enthusiasm of a pent up opium addict in a field of poppies. The satisfaction of watching something become stronger and healthier and more beautiful over time is as rewarding as motherhood… without the backtalk. More joy. In recent decades the emphasis on one’s purpose in life has been the focus of nearly every self-help bestseller ever published. I have surely read my fair share of them, from Tolle to the Tao Te Ching and I can assure you that if you are still grappling with your own quest for purpose and meaning in your life, try creating or observing life in nature. Immerse yourself. It always gives back - be it food for other living things or the simple act of being beautiful - a subject for painters or photographers or poets. Even as I write this piece, I sense inspiration has departed, so I just took a walk, past the woods, down to the dock to check on my stump full of life. The nasturtiums are blooming, the frogs are resting on the lily pads and turtles are sunning themselves on our fallen Elm and tiny schools of fish are darting in and out of the shade of underwater grasses and and other-worldly looking organic matter. A flock of geese made a noisy landing while I watered a fern hanging in a tree. It has been recovering all spring and summer under the shade of an old Cedar from a long winter spent indoors, not unlike most Canadians desperate for fresh air and sunshine. It seems to be liking the lake water I have been administering these last few weeks. Several new tender green fronds have appeared as I had hoped. More joy. A few deep breaths of the gentle breeze drifting off the bay and I am refreshed and ready to compose again. It is easy to forget the world living here at Kyeema North. It made life during the pandemic far easier for me than for many people. I was not stuck indoors or worried about spreading it or catching it by simply going to work each day. I embraced my natural instinct toward introversion and counted my lucky stars. The only concerts I attended were cricket choruses and songbird symphonies with the occasional bellowing band of Trumpeter Swans passing by. In the winter months I grew Arugula on my window sills and waited for spring when I could start all over again - another season of growing and watching and waiting for the greatest show on earth. More joy. Oddly enough, writing about the joy of nature and gardening gives me a sense of purpose. I was not one of those people who knew from the get-go what they wanted to devote their life to like a doctor or a musician or a nun (definitely not that last one), but I have always liked writing and it was usually a component of any job I ever had. I wrote press releases, marketing copy, design proposals, you name it, I could write it, but it never engaged me like this does. Perhaps the lack of deadlines and the freedom of subject matter gives me the creative jolt I crave. Combine that with contemplating what I might write while I am tending to my gardens or strolling through the forest and suddenly it seems like a purpose. Can my words and my experience nudge another soul? Inspire a depressed mind? Plant a hopeful seed for the broken-hearted? Does my writing offer a free service, in service? All I can say is if it does… More Joy. https://www.google.com/search?client=firefox-b-d&q=more+love+smokey+robinson  You know, I consider myself to be a very open-minded gal. Over the years, I have tried many unconventional natural healing techniques and ideas that many people have never heard of or considered. I actually would prefer to use things found in nature to treat minor ailments if I can. I once used an organic poultice recipe (eggplant and apple cider vinegar mush) on a skin cancer lesion on the back of Mick’s hand and it worked a treat. After 6 weeks of daily applications it fell off and was completely healed. (turns out he could have had it burned off by his Doctor and wrapped the whole thing up in a much shorter time period). However, this morning a “treatment” came through my social media feed that made me laugh until I cried. I nearly spit out my coconut oil that I was “pulling” through my teeth. (kidding). “Did you Know?” it began. Did you know that putting a piece of onion in your ear overnight can keep your ears healthy and prevent and treat ear infections? Quick! Hand me that red onion and a knife…I need to stuff a chunk of that in my ear! Nothing like the smell of freshly sliced onion on your pillow. And now, when my Mick leans in for a neck nuzzle, he can wallow in the “eau de Allium” sure to send him over the moon and the two of us straight into the boudoir for a romp.Ya think? Mick does suffer from ringing in the ears a bit. Is this the answer? Something tells me we won’t ever know. The only place my red onions are headed is into a salad at lunchtime or on top of a pizza this weekend. Geezus! What’s next? Garlic cloves up your nostrils to clear your sinuses? I am embarrassed to admit, I did try that Coconut Oil pulling thing about 5 years ago when it was an internet craze. I lasted about a week before the potential benefits no longer outweighed the ghastly gagging and I never knew what to do with the pre-swished oil since spitting it in the sink was not recommended. I spit it into a glass and put it in the fridge like they suggested and that only led to more distress not knowing where to pour a whole glass of cloudy regurgitated Coconut Oil. In the garden? In the toilet? Or God forgive, Mick should gulp it down thinking it was something tasty I had left for him to drink one afternoon. I am all for taking the natural route but c’mon people, where do we draw the line? And, how long do we really want to live? Was chatting with a woman yesterday who lost her husband last year. She told me he had survived a quadruple bypass a decade earlier, several minor illnesses after that and still made it to 87. Not a bad run, I thought, and had never drank a drop of apple cider vinegar or swished oil through his teeth or stuffed an onion in his ear. Was it so terrible that he departed prior to 90? If you’re in good health, the nineties are surely a rocking decade to keep on keeping on, but for the average Joe, probably will be mostly spent struggling with failing eyesight, hearing loss, eroding enamel, achy joints, memory loss…all those fun things we missed out on earlier in life. Sounds like “golden” years to me. Maybe, on the cusp of 65, I am heading into ornery territory. If not ornery, then certainly suspect of anything that promises miracles or quick fixes. Think I’ll stick with a drop of Chanel behind my ear. Maybe that will distract Mick from the ringing in his. 😉  I took a walk in the woods and came out taller than the trees.
- Henry David Thoreau - There was a house we used to pass by on our neighbourhood walks when we lived in Granville. It made me feel sad. Tragedy and loneliness hung heavy over it and around it like a thick rain cloud. It stood on stumps. The only thing beneath the house was a standard rubbish bin and a 50’s style kitchen chair, the once shiny chrome finish, rusted now, the grey vinyl seat worn, sunken with wear and time. The house was painted white but the years had weathered the siding leaving it dirty and dull. The windows were bare; not a blind or old cafe curtain to block the sun or provide privacy. With the windows open to the prying eyes of people like me passing by, you could see there was little in the way of furniture inside. A vintage dresser (duchess as they are oft referred to in Australia), could be seen through one of the bedroom windows, the surface empty and the mirror reflecting the barren walls. A chain-link fence surrounded the rectangular corner lot, containing the melancholy it oozed like a cemetery houses the dead. The grass that was mostly weeds was the only nod to landscaping. There wasn’t a single tree or shrub or garden bed. The lawn got mowed infrequently, but at least it did happen from time to time. A galvanized tin shed at the back of the lot must have housed the Victor (Aussie speak for lawnmower). Although there was room for a car, there was no evidence that one existed - the overgrown tracks leading to the entrance unused in decades. There was no air conditioner, so on the many hot and steamy Queensland days and nights, the windows were opened wide. There were no fly screens. Mick and I would often play a little game trying to guess what kind of person lived in such a house and why. My guess was always a version of the same theme. An older man in his 70’s or 80’s, a widower, depressed and alone. He had decided many years ago after losing the love of his life to cancer days after they married, that he would never allow himself to be happy again. He got rid of nearly everything inside the house (that they had just built and moved into), never planted a tree or a flower, and spent every evening sitting in the dark waiting for life to pass him by until the day he died and could be with her again. Any joy he had imagined for his life dissipated when she died leaving him alone at 27. Mick wasn’t so stuck on the same theme, as he had actually seen the old man sitting alone under the house from time to time. He never engaged passersby or responded to a wave. He did think my intuition had some merit though. I would sometimes wonder aloud if I should drop off a casserole or a banana loaf on his unpainted wooden steps leading to his door. Would it cheer him up? Or, would he be annoyed? If I trespassed onto his property, would I end up with a butt full of buckshot? Mick reckoned he might be a miserable old sod with a disdain for people and especially someone trying to force kindness upon him. Maybe he was content to wallow in his misery. Best leave well enough alone. I couldn’t shake the idea that this person was desperately sad. It is entirely possible that I was projecting my own idea of sadness onto this unknown homeowner. I would surely be suicidal if I lived like that. Not a single living thing outside my back stoop. Not a pot of pansies or a climbing vine or some fresh basil to snip. Not a faithful hound or an indifferent feline or a hanging bird feeder. Not a wee spot of shade to sit and drink a glass of cold lemonade, ice cubes clinking with each long cool sip. Nothing but the walls around me, the relentless Queensland sun baking the tin roof all day and the mossies flying in those open windows at night, driving me to the brink of insanity with their high pitched buzzing near my ear just as I was about to fall asleep. This wasn’t a home. It was a prison cell. A life without life. There has been much research in recent years about the secret life of trees and how they communicate in a fascinating complex underground relationship to one another. In his book - The Hidden Life of Trees: What They Feel, How They Communicate, by Peter Wohlleben we learn that there is a sophisticated social, almost intelligent communal interconnectedness taking place underground in the root systems of forests. The trees are dependent on one another to survive and thrive. I have not personally done any scientific research on the human connection to trees but I can assure you I know intuitively that I feel a profound need to be near trees and plants. Forest “bathing” may be a new concept but it certainly isn’t new to me. A walk in the woods is as therapeutic for me now as it was when I was a child (before I knew it was providing therapy…or a bath). Maybe a few trees nearby could have made a difference to that lonely man and his apparent life without life. His isolated house propped up on dead stumps left him ungrounded and disconnected from any living thing. Hell, in times of frequent drought, even his weedy lawn would have been parched and brown - a reflection of its caretaker. There was nothing to feed him. Nothing to embrace him. He lived barricaded from nature - separate from the the energetic life force that may just have been what he needed to get off that rusty chair and out of that sombre dwelling from time to time. It seems unlikely his life or his surroundings will change any time soon. The happiest day of his life may end up being the day he himself returns to the earth. He may find his purpose was never about living, but rather about dying and becoming an energy source for a new life. For his sake, I hope that’s true. #lifeforce #connection #trees |
DEBunked.I see nature as a metaphor for life. Please join me on this journey down the garden path as I explore life through story - a shovel in one hand and a camera in the other. Archives
May 2023
|
RSS Feed