Memories of Mom

 

 

Though my mother is never far from my thoughts, it’s on the occasion of her birthday that my memories are most poignant.

My mother, Gladys Crowell, was born January 11, 1911 to Maritime farmers Frederick and Melissa.  She grew up with her sisters Laura, Mabel, Elvie, and younger sister Thelma, along with brothers Forest and Cecil, whom she idolized.  

Sitting with my mom on quiet evenings, as her crochet hook weaved intricate doilies, she often recounted the fun and mischief she and her siblings shared as children.  Forbidden to go to the frozen pond after dark, she and her brothers would climb out the dining room window, their blades slung over their shoulders, and head off to meet friends from the neighbouring farm.  Her handsome brother Forest entertained them with his graceful turns and manoeuvres. 

Watching televised skating competitions, a favourite pastime in later years, brought back memories of those cold wintry nights on the pond.  My mother often boasted that Forest skated as well as any professional.  Tragically, her brother died of diphtheria at the age of twenty-one.  A crushing loss for my mother.

I remember seeing a wedding photograph taken in the early thirties. A tall, broodingly handsome man with black wavy hair stood at my mother’s side. Demureness emanated from the tilt of her head, her chocolate eyes and dark lashes. It was the jaunty angle of the hat over her dark hair and the broad fox collar of her coat that suggested her sense of style and class. 

Within five years, she was the mother of three girls.  She often related the story to me. The baby had turned one year old the day her husband didn’t return home. Each time Mom rested her head on the pillow, she could hear the revving of a car engine.  Though there was only silence when she went to the door, the sound of the car returned when her head touched the pillow.  In her heart, she knew.  The next morning notification came of her husband’s fatal accident.

Years later, when Mom was visiting her sister she met my Aunt Elvie’s military boyfriend – a blond, blue-eyed MP.  Mom reminisced that she was surprised when the officer appeared at her own door one evening.  He claimed he had dropped by to see her little girls, as he was very fond of children.  He suggested that perhaps he could read to them. It wasn’t long before the widow and her children looked forward to his evening visits.  The girls danced to the tune of his fiddle music and crowded onto his lap while he read stories. 

Decades later, my aunt was still ribbing my mother about stealing her boyfriend. Their marriage produced two children before moving from Nova Scotia to Ontario where an unanticipated arrival joined the family – that would be me, number six.  Mom celebrated her forty-first birthday less than a month later and became a grandmother six months after that.

I remember waiting at a bus stop when a woman mistook me as a grandchild.  My mother corrected her, and saved further embarrassment to the woman by telling her she had a grandchild almost the same age.

Mom began working at the local hospital when I was around two years old.  In addition to her part-time job, caring for the family and household, she took in boarders – as many as three at a time.  With a congenial personality and sometimes-zany sense of humour, she added levity to many grim situations.

It was probably the year before she took sick that I met a young co-worker of my mother’s from the Red Cross. She wanted me to know that the girls at work thought my mother was special and everyone looked up to her.

 

A woman who took pride in everything she did. Spirited and popular, with an envious sense of style, and a zest for life despite life’s hardships. 

My mom.

Books Feed the Soul

Comfort books are like comfort foods. We crave them when we’re missing…something…not sure what. Like opening the fridge door and staring inside…every ten minutes.

That’s the way I felt last night standing in front of my bookcase. Nothing appealed to me. It felt kind of like the fridge door scenario. Then I spotted it. Hadn’t read the book for years. To be honest, I couldn’t remember the storyline. I did remember that it has remained a favourite in my mind. It’s true. Ask me about my favourite books and I usually mention Anne Tyler’s Back When We Were Grownups.

I sighed. Just a little sigh. If you’d been standing beside me you might not have heard it. It was a satisfied sigh. In keeping with the fridge door analogy, it was like spying that last piece of lemon meringue pie. Those little dewy beads on the meringue shimmering under the light of the tiny bulb. It was that let’s sit down and get all cozy and enjoy this kind of feeling.

I reached for the book and slid my hand around a bookmark that was gathering dust on the shelf. I groaned with delight after reading only the first few paragraphs. Almost as satisfying as a piece of pie, but not as fattening. Come to think of it, I was stuffing chewy cubes of old cheddar and crunchy rice crackers into my mouth at a staggering rate. Keep Calm and Go to the Gym…tomorrow.

I read the opening paragraphs again…and then again. Four times in all. Savouring them. When my husband joined me, I shared the beginning with him. The writing is wonderful, isn’t it, I asked. We know so much about this character in those few lines. At least, we think we know. My husband and I both agreed that it was a terrific lead-in to the book.

Sparks fired and mis-fired in my brain as memory of the story flashed through my mind. Not a flash really, not like fireworks. It was more the flickering of a birthday candle. I turned to the last page and read it but still I couldn’t quite remember the bits that happened from the first page to the last.

Once my husband joined me, I put the book aside. We talked, enjoying our time together in the coziness of the family room. Appreciating it even more knowing that it was bitter cold and windy outside. Not that I’d been out recently but I had been on Facebook and that’s as good as watching the weather forecast on TV. Better sometimes. My husband attested to the outdoor temperature and so did Lexus. Normally not one to like the heat, our dog cozied up to the front of the fireplace. Something about seeing her there always makes me want to take a picture. And I have, many times. Most of them have Tiki in them. Our black Persian passed away in April. She loved the sheepskin rug in front of the fire. That’s where she died. Then I took up the rug and put it away. It was too much of a reminder each time I was in the room. Missing her.

Marv and I decided it was time to bring the rug out again. Perhaps Lex would like to use it. She occasionally stretched out on the sheepskin over the years – when Tiki was in a charitable mood and willing to share.

I never did return to my book last night. Sometimes mere nibbles satisfy our cravings.

Solitary Writer Retreat

For an all-consuming writing experience, I pack up and leave home.

Here’s the why of it for all those who have asked aloud and especially for those who wonder without asking.

Yes, I do have an office at home. No, I don’t have small children underfoot. My house is relatively quiet. My husband is (mostly) considerate of my writing space – both figuratively and literally. So why do I have to run away to accomplish great chunks of writing?
 

Stimulation. New sights and sounds awaken the senses and clear the cobwebs of my mind. Nature is never distracting. People on the other hand are a different story so I prefer a tranquil
setting.

No routine. This is the most important for me. By choice, I camp out in the room where I’ll be writing. Usually a large room with a view. Sleeping bag and pillow on the couch. Because I’ve eliminated the bedtime ritual, not to mention the bed, I usually nap anywhere from thirty minutes to never longer than five hours. Then I’m back at the computer. Rhythm and thought process intact.

No distractions. I’m not listening for the washer or dryer to quit, planning meals, running to the grocery store, unloading the dishwasher, vacuuming the dog hair off the furniture, or even watching my favourite evening TV programmes – especially those true crime shows.

No interruptions. I’m thinking of Sorry to bother you but… Or the dog whining to go out. The dog whining for a treat. The dog whining for her supper. Tiki, my kitty, passed away in April. Being without her after eighteen years is terrible but she was the biggest distraction. Hated to see my office door closed. She’d screech until I opened it and even when she was in the office, she insisted that the door be left open. She’d hop on and off my lap or my desk every few minutes. It’s easy to be sidetracked by a cuddle. See my post Cuddles, Coos, and Other Writerly Distractions.

No guilt. That’s a biggie. Turning down a friend’s lunch invitation, or chance to meet for coffee, or visit with relatives. Letting a phone call go to voicemail. It’s tough. I do feel guilty for begging off when I’m working an assignment but it’s screamingly frustrating working in fits and starts – at least for me. It’s a problem for all people who work from a home office. Especially writers. After all, many – too many – don’t consider it work. When I’m on a writing getaway, everyone respects my need for solitude.

My retreats are more than bouncing from the couch to the computer. I wander outside for fresh air, exercise at least an hour each day, drink plenty of water, and always eat at regular intervals – even with my irregular hours.

I pack healthy snacks and meals. Carrots and hummus, hard-boiled eggs, English muffins and cereal, yogurt and granola, pre-mixed green salads and prepared dinners. I spend little time in the kitchen and require only a microwave and a coffee-maker.

My focus is my writing project. The only conversations I have are with my characters. Nothing interrupts my thought process. It consumes me.

So far I’ve enjoyed two or three retreats courtesy of friends who live along the St. Clair River.
It’s amazing what I can achieve in the three or four days that I’m housesitting.

I return home feeling accomplished and refreshed. And energized. Yes, my energy level definitely increases with these mini getaways. It’s the excitement of the several thousand additional words to the manuscript and the exhilaration of creativity.

Love my retreats!

A Dream or A Past Life Memory?

My dream was so real it was like I was actually there. But of course that was impossible. I wasn’t born yet. According to the experts, this may have been a past life memory emerging. My detailed account of this dream appears in ‘A River Runs by it’, an anthology honouring the 100^th birthday of Sarnia.

Twilight Imagery

On the sidewalk next to a wooden crate is a partly eaten hunk of bread − the crust untouched.  I snatch it up.  In one smooth motion, it’s swept into the pocket of my dress. 

Self-preservation is my utmost priority.  Each day my thoughts are of survival – finding food and safe shelter for the night.  Nearly invisible, I slip into hiding places and scavenge for necessities − which are few.  

My shadowed obscurity shields me like a cloak of armour as I dodge the dockworkers at the busy wharf along Front Street.  Instinctively street savvy, I have the ability to blend in and stay out of harm’s way. 

I am eight years old.  I am a street urchin.  This is the only life I know, or rather, the only one I remember.  Though it is a solitary existence without family or friends, loneliness does not affect me. 

Farther north and away from the warehouses, people are picnicking on a grassy expanse of a park-like area next to the Town Hall.  Mostly women and children.  The activity captures my interest.  Knowing I don’t belong here, I keep my distance and study the scene from where I stand on the sidewalk. 

Sensing that someone is watching me, I turn my head slightly to the right.  A girl stands on the grassy section near the sidewalk.  She wears a fussy dress.  A wide, pink satin ribbon rides slightly above her chubby middle.  A plump child with strawberry coloured hair, fat cheeks, and a pouting mouth.  A pink complexion fights for exposure amongst the freckles. 

To her I am not invisible; I am a curiosity.  She stares.  My face is smudged with dirt, my hair tangled, and my dress grimy.  Without a petticoat, it hangs in folds around my skeletal frame.

She remains on the grassy section for the same reason, I think, that I stay on the sidewalk.  We each have a clear awareness of where we belong.

It’s strange how, as though from a distance, I can see myself standing there.  Behind me is Christina Street, though normally I do not venture onto the other street.  If I turn, I will see horses and wagons travelling the roadway.  I can hear them.  But the horses and wagons do not interest me. 

It is windy.  I hold a newspaper in both hands, reluctant to put it down because it will blow all around.  I look for a refuse bin, finally spotting one outside the open door of the Town Hall. 

A man with a large mustache drooping past the corners of his mouth, and wearing a waistcoat and bomburg hat appears in the doorway.  He observes the activities outside for a few minutes.  When he leaves to go back inside the building, I scurry across the lawn to dispose of the paper. 

Not until then do I realize that the bin is not for refuse.  It is a holding bin for the papers and books from the Town Hall.  It flashes through my mind that they are preparing to move or are doing a renovation of some type.  Regardless, they need to move things out of the building.

I secure the newspaper in the corner of the concrete entrance and hurry back to the sidewalk.  The river beyond the lush green open space is now churning fitfully.  I see whitecaps.  The sky is dark with rain clouds. 

I watch as one woman shakes a red plaid blanket and folds it into a neat square.  The picnickers are packing up.  They carry their wicker baskets over their arms as they prepare to leave.  The women wear broad-brimmed picture hats.  Their dresses, a snug fit around minute waists and smooth over rounded hips, stretch beyond their calves, though they do not reach their ankles. 

As one woman bows her head, I can see a dip in the brow of her hat where delicate ivory-coloured lace rests in folds inches thick.  A blue bird is nestled into the lace. 

There’s dampness in the air.  The cool wind chills my bare arms.  The storm is coming quickly.  Turning away from the pretty dresses and unusual hats, I hurry back to the south end of Front Street. 

The dockworkers, some wearing dark coloured sweaters, are shouting as they hand off small crates one to the other.  They appear anxious to finish unloading before the inevitable downpour.  I skitter past them.  Already the sidewalk is spattered with the heavy drops.

The texture of the sidewalk fascinates me – pebbles of varying size encased in concrete.  On summer nights, I sleep with the uneven, cold surface against my cheek.  I trail my fingers over the round smooth tops of the brown and grey stones and then onto the roughness surrounding them.  The familiar touch and smell is comforting.

On this night, I seek shelter from the weather.  Waiting for the right moment, when no one sees, I pull open one of two large faded green wooden doors, badly splintered at top and bottom.  Portions of wood−the size of my arm−missing here and there. 

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness.  The large warehouse is mostly vacant except for a few skids and crates.  Crates that stand higher than me.  I believe them to be empty but imagine them filled with root vegetables. 

The damp smell of the black earth floor fills my airways.  Creeping forward, I notice a small pile of loosely woven gunnysacks along the wall in the outer corner of an empty wooden crate.  I’m excited.  I cannot believe my luck.  These sacks will be my bed.  Perhaps tonight I will keep warm and dry.

*****

The sound of the alarm clock rouses me.  I reach across the bed and shut it off.  Lying beneath the covers, I revisit the vivid details of my dream. 

The indisputable smells, sights, and sounds of an era a half century before my birth refuse to fade upon waking.  The smell of the St. Clair River lingers, as does the feel of the damp cool breeze on my bare arms.  It is so real that a part of me is still there.  The young street urchin − still on the streets of Port Sarnia. 

There is a puzzling sense that I have been inside this dream before.  The moonlight has guided my hurried steps down the deserted street and past the warehouses.  The explicit image and the feeling of danger flash through my mind.  There must have been other dreams like this one over the years.  How many dreams over how many years, I cannot be sure. 

My mind remains centred on the keen recognition of things unknown in my lifetime.  The memories hold fast.  For weeks, the dream intrudes at unexpected moments.  Not solely images, but feelings and thoughts.  Not about my dream, but within my dream.  These visions that refuse to diminish disturb me.

It was an intriguing dream that set off many ‘what if’s’ for an inquisitive writer. 

Is the newspaper I am holding in the dream significant?  Can I even read?  I have no insight of what I was doing with the paper.  Is it possible that I hawked newspapers and needed to dispose of the last one?  As yet, I have not found the answer.

It seemed strange that words not normally in my vocabulary would come out in a dream: petticoats, refuse bins, waistcoats, homburgs, and even gunnysacks.  I had gone back in time.  From the appearance of the clothing, I guess it to be the early 1900’s. 

Finally, I power on the laptop and make a record of the distinct details still embedded in my mind. 

During online research, I delight in seeing the women’s costumes sketched as I remember them in my dream.  I even find a hat with a bird.  Apparently, the well-to-do sometimes wore real stuffed birds on their hats!  In my dream, I am very taken with this image.

My attention turns to the men’s fashions.  Namely, those of the man who appeared in the doorway of the Town Hall.  In my online search, I cannot find the bomburg hat.  However, I do find a homburg hat.  It looks identical to the one from my dream.  Is the name of the fashion headwear a child’s mistake?  I deliberately use the word bomburg in the re-telling of my dream as that name is definitely the way the child thought of it.

My fascination of this phenomenon continues over the weeks and months to follow.  I research historic pictures of the Sarnia waterfront.  None of the pictures is exactly as I remember.  There are a couple of pictures of the waterfront, however, that produce a chilling effect. 

Friends listened to the strange dream, wondering, I’m sure, if it is even possible to dream in such detail.  Interesting, they said − if they said anything at all.  Some suggested it may have been a past life regression. 

It remains a mystery.         

 Twilight Imagery appeared in the anthology A River Runs by it, published by Sydenham Press 2013.

                                                                                         

Depression - The Way I See It

It was a short text. Robin Williams died. Like everyone hearing the news for the first time, I was shocked. It wasn’t until hours later that I felt the profound sadness. The ache of losing someone. It was puzzling. I mean, he was an entertainer, an actor. Not someone I knew personally. And yet, I felt as if I knew him. I’m struggling with words, unsure how to describe why I felt this closeness to a television and screen personality.

The eyes are a window to the soul. How clichéd can I get? But to me, Robin Williams communicated with his eyes. They were filled with compassion …and pain. Understanding. Empathy. I don’t care what role he played, his eyes were the most discerning feature. They spoke volumes.

I am sad for his family and his fans and the entertainment industry, but my heart wrenching sorrow is for the man himself. It is often said that suicide is a coward’s way out. I don’t believe that. I believe it takes incredible strength and courage to end a life…especially your own. The pain and suffering must be excruciating. To be ill with depression while in the public spotlight must impose tremendous anguish. A never ending struggle.

I’ve also heard that it’s a selfish act. Again, I must disagree. The person who ends his own life is probably thinking they are doing everyone a favour by getting out of the picture. The world would be better off without them.

I don’t pretend to be an expert. I usually research before I write, but today I’m just writing from my heart. I’m spouting my views, the way I imagine it might be.

People – may I say creative people especially – have tremendous highs and lows. An actor immerses himself in so many different roles and if he’s a good actor – and Robin Williams was the best – he becomes the person he portrays. Even if the character is wholesome and good, it’s a brain drain for the actor. It’s all consuming. Combine that with the struggle to cope with the disease Depression and it must be overwhelming. Frightening. Terrifying. Painful.

I know how sadness and hopelessness and helplessness feels. And then there’s clinical depression. I can only imagine how that must feel.

And so perhaps the sadness and grief that grips my heart is for all the people incapacitated by depression.

If you suffer from depression and have not sought help, please do. Your life depends on it.

     ROBIN WILLIAMS 

 

July 21,1951 – August 11, 2014

 

Rest In Peace