Picking cherries at twilight

The main cherry bush

It's been a hot day today and things didn't go exactly as planned. I was tired, hot and grumpy when I decided to go and sit on the front step.  The temperature inside and outside were about equal and outside there might be a breeze.

I stepped out the door and the red Nanking cherries beside the step caught my eye. They aren't the large plump varieties that come from BC or Washington. They have a huge pit compared to the size of the fruit but I like their tart taste, and they grow in my front yard!  I got a bowl from the kitchen and proceeded to listen to the magpies natter before going to roost as I picked cherries.

They grow in clusters

We have two bushes in the front.  We assume the main one in the middle of the lawn was planted by a previous owner.  The one by the door is a volunteer, thanks no doubt, to the magpies and other feathered friends. Most of the cherries were ripe and slid easily from the branches into my hands. I dropped a fair number on the ground as I picked by the handful.  In about 20 minutes I had 3/4 of a bowl and there were lots left for the birds. I don't know whether the hares that hang out in the yard like cherries but there are plenty on the ground for them too.

This was before they boiled over

When you pick fruit you have to eat at least some of it. Because they are quite acidic, I ate as many as  I dared and then searched the internet for what to do with Nanking cherries. They are pretty soft and they don't keep well. Liqueur seems a popular choice as do jelly and syrup.  None of these products are high on my list. I have, however, been making kombucha since last February and I use a variety of juices for the secondary fermentation.  I can't exactly buy Ocean Spray cherry juice so why not make juice out of them and use it in the next batch of kombucha? (Kombucha, that's another post.)

I put the cherries in a large bowl and covered them with water so that the leaves and other bits would float to the top where I could skim them off.  After I washed them I put the cherries in a pot with about a cup of water.  One source said to mash them with a potato masher but she also said that it worked better when she got in there with her hands and squished the cherries. Right.  I'm not particularly bothered by the textures of the foods I eat but I hate getting my hands in slime.  I never liked finger painting as a kid and I can't imagine taking up pottery. At least squishing the cherries would be room temperature rather than slimy and cold.  In I went, only one hand though, and dutifully squished and squashed until I thought I had most of the cherries broken.  Next I boiled them and, of course, the minute I turned my back they boiled over leaving a sticky mess on the stove.

I guess if you want your juice or syrup or jelly to be picture perfect you strain it laboriously through a sieve lined with cheese cloth. Phooey on that noise.  I've got nothing against pulp so once the cherries had boiled for a while I poured them into a colander, took the potato masher to them and then finished the mashing process by pushing the pulp against the bottom and sides with a wooden spoon.  That left me with a little bit of pulp and the pits which I consigned to our new composting bag that will be picked up by the city for the first time on Monday.

I decided to take a stick blender to the resulting pulp and juice. We have a very fancy new blender contraption but I thought that if I had messed up and there was a pit somewhere in there I'd rather wreck an less expensive appliance. All went well in that part of the operation. The juice is now cooling on the counter and I'll put it in the fridge so it will be ready for the kombucha next Tuesday. I confess I did put some sugar in it.

In filling the bottle with juice I spilled some on the counter.  Rather than waste it I did a taste test and slurped at the puddle with a straw.  It tasted pretty good. I cleaned up most of the mess in the kitchen, including some cherry juice that managed to make its way onto the backsplash behind the sink.  All in all, it was an entertaining way to spend a couple of hours on a hot summer night and I'm looking forward to the next batch of kombucha so I can enjoy the results of the evening's work.  I'll let you know how it tastes.

I have singing

I first sang in a choir when I was 8 years old.  You had to be 8 in order to sing in the junior choir at church. I don't remember making a decision to sing in the choir. I just took it for granted.  

The choir leader's name was Mrs. Hurlburt.  She seemed to me to be at least 100 years old.  She had longish grey hair and when she sang she made a sound a little like a fog horn, but none of that mattered. I was excited to be singing in a choir. Through elementary school I continued to sing with the long-suffering Mrs. Hurlburt. We were kids: we got into mischief

In junior high I took vocal music in a school that had highly regarded music programs, both instrumental and vocal. Marilyn Perkins, the ‘real’ music vocal teacher didn’t teach the grade 7’s but we all knew who she was and without breaking stride, she responded with a curt nod and a hello, when we spoke to her in the halls.

In grade 8 I switched churches so I could sing in Miss Perkins’ church choir as well as in her school choir. My father, who was on the board of the church I had attended since I was born, was none too pleased but he didn’t stop me. As a result of the church switch I got to sing in the senior choir Thursday nights and Sunday mornings. That meant I was singing 5 days a week. The way the timetable worked at school we didn’t get music every day. Days without music class dragged.

Of course there were kids in the class who were way better than I was. A lot of them played the piano, which never really interested me, and some of them were adding singing lessons to their activities outside school. By grade 9 these kids were trying out for and getting into The Young Canadians, the group of singing dancing youth who took part in the Calgary Stampede grand stand shows. The idea of auditioning for anything scared the liver out of me and I knew I couldn’t dance so Young Canadians were out. The idea of singing lessons did appeal to me and I wanted Miss Perkins’ approval and attention. Many students were in awe of her.

My dad taught high school math and my mum stayed home with me. They didn’t have a lot of money and I thought singing lessons might be a hard sell so I got resourceful. I lied to my parents saying that Miss Perkins suggested I take singing lessons. Miss Perkins didn’t do anything of the kind but the lie worked and I studied voice for a number of years.

I got involved with musicals in high school and then in the community. I was with people who were interesting and who accepted me. I was hooked. My bewildered dad borrowed money against his insurance policy to send me to The Banff School of Fine Arts where I eased into stagecraft. After I graduated from university with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in Drama, I went to work in the theatre department at Banff School of Fine Arts and spent 3 years there. 

The first year I didn’t sing in any choirs and by the second year I missed it. I was used to Miss Perkins and the way she did things. I borrowed money from my great aunt to buy a car so I could come to Calgary Thursday after work, attend choir practice, and drive back for work on Friday morning. After work on Friday I drove to Calgary, stayed with my parents on Saturday, sang in church Sunday morning and drove back to Banff Sunday afternoon for work Monday morning.

When I left Banff to return to university I continued to sing in the church choir. I met my husband through the church choir and for many years we have sung together there. I have friends in the choir whom I have known since we were teens. We sang together as young adults, when some married and started families, as their children moved out and established homes of their own, and now as they entertain us with stories of their grandchildren’s exploits. Many of us came to Scarboro because of Marilyn Perkins and, although she died almost 15 years ago, her voice creeps into our heads with instructions when we sing a piece we often rehearsed with her.

When I retired from teaching I went back to taking voice lessons, this time with Elaine Case, the daughter of my original voice teacher. I enjoy the lessons and I realize that my true enjoyment comes from singing with others. 

At the end of June this year our church choir joined with another and we travelled to Ottawa to be part of a 600 voice Unisong choir that celebrated Canada Day at the Shaw Centre and at the National Arts Centre. There were choirs from Yukon, Nunavut, Labrador, Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, Ontario, Manitoba, Alberta, British Columbia, and one choir from North Carolina in the USA. Singing in a group that size is incredible. On the one hand there are so many singers that if I make a mistake no one is likely to notice. On the other hand if not enough people get it right you end up with musical mush.

“Music of the Land” by Kathleen Allen presented a particular challenge. It required us to sing in English, French and Inuktitut and features throat singers and Inuit drummers and dancers from Labrador and Nunavut. I didn’t get all the French or the Inuktitut right but the thrill of being part of that piece made every hair on my arms stand up. Many of us choked up at points as we sang and then regained control and sang even more fervently. It’s impossible to describe the emotional high of being a Canadian singer, and making music with others from all across the country. Unisong has posted this performance on YouTube so have a listen if you care to.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcHLC7v5g_U&feature=share

Singing has given me so many gifts. It has given me companionship, laughter and it has taken me to  Saskatoon,  Vernon, New York City, Ottawa and Powell River. It fills my head with song. I seldom listen to music because If I’m awake, not concentrating too hard or listening to an audio book, I’m singing in my head. Sometimes I sing bits of songs over and over and sometimes I sing through whole pieces. Often I hum or whistle. The music is there whether I’m happy or sad and I have gotten myself through tough cycling days and hikes by singing inside my head. Singing has comforted me when I have been afraid and when someone I have loved has died. I simply can’t imagine what my life would be like if I did not sing.

I’ve cycled through a number of other pursuits, each of which was foremost in my life for a time. When I was training for long distance runs I used to get irritated by people who asked me if I was a runner or a jogger. My response was,  “A runner is someone who runs no matter how fast or how slowly. I’m a runner.” Similarly, a singer is one who sings regardless of how loudly or softly, beautifully or scratchily. By that definition I owe a debt to Mrs. Hurlburt and her foghorn voice. She may not have sung beautifully but she sang enthusiastically and she made it possible for me to sing in my first choir.

A couple of concerts ago One Accord, another choir to which I belong, sang “I Have Had Singing.” This is the story of the piece taken from a program by Steven Sametz. http://stevensametz.com/composer/works/info/i-have-had-singing/

Program Notes

I Have Had Singing paraphrases lines taken from Ronald Blythe’s Akenfield, Portrait of an English Village.  In the 1960’s, Blythe traveled to the north of England interviewing farmers, plowmen, blacksmiths — people whose stories dated back to the early 20th century.  One subject, given the name Fred Mitchell in the book, was an 80-year old horseman who told his story of working a bleak, unfertile land in a life filled with little joy. In the midst of his story, he stopped and said, “But there was always singing; the boys in the field, the chapels were full of singing. I have had pleasure enough; I have had singing.”
I Have Had Singing was written for the Berkshire Choral Festival, a summer amateur music festival. I Have Had Singing speaks to amateur and professional musicians alike about the simple love of singing and the lasting joy it can bring.

Text

The singing.
There was so much singing then
And this was my pleasure, too.
We all sang, the boys in the field,
The chapels were full of singing.
Here I lie:
I have had pleasure enough;
I have had singing.



I can’t say that I have had pleasure enough because I hope there are many more years of singing pleasure ahead but I can wholeheartedly say along with Fred Mitchell, I have had singing and my life has been richer for it. It’s not expensive and it doesn’t take a lot of equipment. Although I don’t, I can sing anywhere. While there are things I love more there is nothing I have loved longer. Whatever else happens in my life from this point on I, too, can say I have had singing.


Have a listen to ‘I Have Had Singing.’



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=71WS7sS2nDw

The path from rain jackets to former students

The collection

I have four rain jackets.  Why does anyone need four rain jackets? Well, no one does. I bought the first one to replace a Goretex jacket that didn't breathe anymore so I ended up cold and damp inside it. When we were headed for the Chilkoot Pass four years ago I was lucky enough to get a green waterproof breathable on sale.

The third one I bought in Gros Morne National Park in Newfoundland.  It was the same kind of jacket the park staff wore and I thought it would be a very practical souvenir. It's quite heavy and it's black with yellow trim. I don't wear it much because it is often too hot for what I need. This one was not on sale and I keep it partly because I paid so much for it I'd feel guilty giving it away.

The fourth one I bought recently on a trip of the West Coast. Some of my friends laugh at my habit for constantly making lists. For this trip, I made a list of what I wanted to take with me including the clothes I needed to pack and the ones I intended to put in the car for easy access on the road.  Often I lay the car clothes out near the back door the night before. This time I didn't but rain jacket number 2 was on my list. The morning I left we were both in a hurry and Richard helped me by carrying stuff to the car so I could load it in. On my last trip into the house I grabbed my messenger bag and headed back out to the car.  Richard followed with his water bottle and asked if I was through in the house. I said I was, forgetting completely about the list or taking any kind of jacket.

As I passed Banff it began to pour and I realized I had no jacket. I could probably do without one although I might get a little wet. I'm not sugar. I won't melt. As the rain continued I became anxious about not having a jacket. I hardly go anywhere without at least a wind shell. I don't like being cold and I think being cold with a wind cutting through my clothing is more than just a physical discomfort. When I'm wearing a jacket that cuts the wind I somehow feel safer.  I stopped at the visitors' centre in Lake Louise and beside it is a sports store. I went in just to have a look. I really would feel a lot better if I had a rain jacket. I looked through the racks and most of the jackets were way more than I wanted to spend. There was one rack of sale jackets and on that rack was one jacket in an orangish colour. I didn't particularly care for the colour and the jacket was too big; nevertheless, it was the least expensive jacket in the store and I bought it. As I continued driving and the wipers cleared rain from the windshield, I felt much more comfortable knowing I now had a rain jacket even if it didn't go with any of my other clothes.

The second rain jacket, the one I was going to take, didn't really go with many of my clothes either. I bought  it to replace a favourite waterproof breathable I wore for years. When the zipper broke and I had it replaced. Eventually the jacket no longer shed water no matter how carefully I washed it or what kind of water repellent treatment I applied to it. Rain jacket number 2  is my go-to, everyday jacket when the sky is grey and brooding and it looks like I might get wet on my way from A to B. It was also on sale and is bright fuchsia.  My turquoise and grey messenger bag absolutely clashes with it.

I guess I care more than I like to admit about whether the colours I wear go together. If I'm around home or in the shop it really doesn't matter but as I grow older I'm more conscious of looking like the weird old ladies I used to stay away from when I was a kid.  They wore too much make-up and the oddest collection of colours. I wondered if they were blind or crazy. It didn't enter my head that perhaps they were beyond worrying about what other people thought of them.

I'm also reminded of a former student who was on the autistic spectrum.  She, too, had a less than conventional colour sense. Her backpack was covered with small stuffed-animal keychains and she talked to herself or did calculations on her paper after she was finished her writing. She told me doing the math problems helped her to feel calmer. The rest of the class pretty much avoided her until one day I read out one of her pieces.

She was in an English Language Arts course for students whose plans did not include university. She seemed to like writing and had a keen eye for detail. It was a small class and when I finished reading one of the boys turned to her and asked, "Did you write that?" She nodded. He looked at her wide-eyed and asked, "What are you doing in this class?" She didn't answer but a slight smile traced her lips. The other kids chimed in. "That was really good." "That was cool." "I loved the part about the cat chasing the ball of wool."

I don't think her life changed as a result of that piece but the attitude of the other kids did.  She still sat off by herself and did math problems. When she talked to herself under her breath the other kids gave her no more than a cursory glance. Sometimes during discussions one of the others would ask her for her opinion and when she spoke they listened.

I taught thousands of students and have forgotten many of them even as they have forgotten me. Occasionally something like the number of rain jackets I own will trigger a memory and I send out good wishes to those students wherever they are.

Sometimes it all falls into place

It's very easy for me to sit back and gripe about things that don't go my way so  I thought I'd relate a series of events that slipped smoothly into place.

My father-in-law is 89 years old and has dementia.  He is a lovely man who retains his quirky sense of humour even as more and more of his cognitive abilities fail him. He's been living in a retirement home that provides activities set up for people who are independent.  The staff  have provided support above and beyond what we could reasonably expect from them and now Bill needs a place where he can receive higher levels of care.

As is the way with these things, his name was added to a list.  We selected a first and a second choice residences and then we waited. We got a phone call a few weeks later from a place that wasn't on our list.  When we went to see it none of us really took to the place.  It was far from where we live and the main recreation and dining area was below grade. It did have large windows with window wells that let in quite a bit of light. The bedroom was small.  There wasn't much of a view and the numbering system in the elevator disturbed Bill; nevertheless we thought we'd better take it and once we were "in the system" a move to one of the places on our list would be easier.

Since Richard was working I arranged to go with Bill for the intake interview and to help him sign the necessary papers. For no apparent reason I was apprehensive about the visit. Bill is very pleasant company and I had most of the information I needed to help him with the paperwork.

The day before the appointment to sign the papers we got a call from our second-choice spot saying a room was available. This is a brand new residence and Bill would be among the first to move in.  Richard cancelled the meeting to sign papers and we booked a tour of the new facility. Tours are on set days at set times.  We hastily cancelled and rescheduled some appointments which still left us with a time crunch. Richard was working the morning and had a dental appointment at noon but he had the afternoon free.  We had a plan in place should Richard's dental appointment run long. Part way through the morning Richard got a call asking him to please reschedule his dental appointment. Perfect!

We were impressed with the place right away.  It has lots of windows; the numbering in the elevator made sense and Bill had the chance to actually choose a room. As we walked into the building Bill mused that he would like a room on the top floor. On the fourth floor there were two rooms with views of the mountains. In one room the bed would face away from the mountains and in the other it would face toward them.  Bill chose the one where he could lie in bed and see the mountains. The appointment to sign the papers was set for a day Richard wasn't working.

Even though the new place is a long way from our home, we can take a route on the freeway that has no stop lights which is less stressful than a more direct stop-and-go route.  The move went smoothly and we even found a good home for the window AC unit that Bill no longer needs. Change is never easy especially in the confusion caused by dementia but Bill has already made friends and is adapting to a new routine. Occasionally things just fall into place and that, in my books, is cause for celebration.

Opening the Marilyn Perkins - Memorial Hall

I was privileged to be able to make some remarks at the opening of the Marilyn Perkins - Memorial Hall in Scarboro United Church this past weekend.  Some of you who read this blog were there so feel free to skip it. Others, I know, wanted to be there but weren't able to. I thought you folks might be interested in what I said. It was a great evening and the hall was filled to capacity with people who knew Marilyn over the years or who came to celebrate the official opening of this wonderful new space. There were people in wheel chairs and with walkers, people who were in their 90's, people who came from out of town to pay their respects and celebrate the legacy of their former teacher. There were children and young people who are completely at home in the hall although they never met Marilyn. Sorry I don't have any photos of the actual event.  I inadvertently left my phone at home.

Good evening and once again, welcome. Since Marilyn’s death I’ve been the keeper of many of her personal papers and I’m pleased say that her papers now have a permanent home in the library here at Scarboro United Church. In organizing this material the word that surfaced most often in my mind was ‘giving.’ The stories of what and how Marilyn gave are legion. Some of you knew Marilyn longer and better than I did and I hope you will tell many Marilyn stories during tonight’s celebration. As is the way with stories someone has to go first.

Marilyn was my teacher, my mentor, my choir director, my vocal coach, and my friend. Before I retired I taught high school. I had some time during the school day to prepare lessons and mark papers and I looked forward to those periods of quiet. I was less than gracious if someone asked me to give up a prep. Marilyn, on the other hand, regularly filled her preps by working with individual students on vocal technique, repertoire, and interpretation. I don’t know how many people over the years benefited from this generosity but I know I did.

Marilyn was a great problem-solver and if she saw a need she stepped in to fill it. While she taught at Viscount Bennett there was a need for teachers to drive football players to games. Marilyn got her chauffeur’s license, drove the the bus and managed to recruit some of the football players to sing in the mixed chorus.

Tyrone Patterson, now a well-known Canadian conductor and the artistic director Opera Lyra in Ottawa for years, was one of Marilyn’s football recruits. He mused that he was probably one of the few young men who went to university with both a football and music scholarship in his pocket. He also noted that when he first conducted a choir it was much harder than he anticipated. As a student he watched Marilyn conduct and Marilyn, of course, made it look easy.

When one of her students desperately wanted to learn to play the piano Marilyn somehow arranged for the family to have access to a piano. When another student was about to get kicked out of school for being late and absent so often Marilyn phoned her in the mornings to make sure she was up. A number of people say it was only because Marilyn cared that they finished high school.

Those of us who had Marilyn as a conductor retain a persistent voice in our heads. “My tempo!” “ Now don’t get mad.” “Put the consonants ahead of the beat.” As we rehearse pieces we did first with Marilyn we remember her words, dynamics and phrasing. Most of the time that’s a good thing. Once when we were practicing a piece with Liz some of us insisted that the version we were singing had the wrong words. I don’t remember if Liz rolled her eyes or not but, during a break, she managed to dig up the copies with the ‘right’ words. We used that version even though the piano part was quite a bit harder.

Marilyn was a great supporter of the arts. While still quite young she worked as a coach accompanist in the Voice Opera department at the Banff School of Fine Arts. Marilyn conducted productions by the Calgary Theatre Singers where many singers got their first taste of being on stage in front of an audience. She directed many high school musicals. Years later, people with grey hair fondly remember rehearsals and performances of musicals such as The Fantastics, Bye Bye Birdie and Little Mary Sunshine. Marilyn also supported the arts by commissioning paintings and sculptures, attending performances and donating time and money.

Then there are the many, many ways Marilyn enriched the life of this church and helped with social services programs in Calgary. I haven’t even touched on Marilyn’s membership in the Order of Canada. There are many people here tonight who can tell those stories. As we celebrate the opening of this beautiful space I hope you will share your own stories of Marilyn or take a moment to listen to the stories of who she was and the many ways her kindness and generosity enriched people’s lives. I think Marilyn would be very pleased with this hall and the opportunities it offers to this congregation and the wider Calgary community. Enjoy the space, the experience of being here on this special evening, and, if I got a story wrong, feel free to tell the correct version.

Sewing machines and shave horses

Grandma's Bernina

A couple of weeks ago I bought a new sewing machine. I make no bones about my dislike of sewing and I've spent my life avoiding it. I can sew and suffered through the aprons, pot holders, skirts and blouses in Home Ec. When I was in theatre school we had to do a stint in the costume shop and I didn't like that any better. I do remember sewing a dust cover for the sound board and I didn't hate that quite as much.

Shave horse

In the shop the other day I made a shave horse to hold work while I use spoke shaves and the draw knife. The first time I used it the hinge pulled out taking a couple of chunks of wood with it.  I looked at the broken horse and thought, "Well, that didn't really work, did it?" and immediately started planning how I could fix the damage.  I took the hinge off the broken pieces and glued and clamped them back in place.  Then I hit the internet to see what other solutions there were for holding the ramp to the bench. As I worked it struck me how different my reaction is when I try to sew something and it doesn't turn out the first time. I get cross and have been known to fling the offending project across the room.  I don't recall having thrown any woodworking project across the room although I've been plenty frustrated at times. So what's the difference?

When I'm working with wood I'm willing to put up with all sorts of set-backs. I don't enjoy them but I usually keep at the problem until I find a solution.  Sometimes I take a break of a few minutes; sometimes it requires a few hours or even a few days away before I can come back and solve the problem. Sometimes I simply abandon the project and move on to something else. I like the whole process of woodworking and I'm willing to put up with a lot because I do.

Sewing is different.  My tolerance for frustration is very low and I give up easily. I had a sewing machine willed to me by my grandmother. I kept Grandma's machine for 45 years and I used it whenever I couldn't avoid sewing. It was the best sewing machine she could buy at the time and it was built like a tank. The first impediment to using it was hoisting the behemoth onto the table. It was never really good at handling heavy fabric and most of what I want to sew falls into that category. I began to wonder if the machine were easier to use would I dislike sewing less.  It was getting harder to find the eye of the needle and newer machines will do that for you. After thinking about it for a few days I decided to try to find a home for the old machine.  It was in good working order. I donated it to a charity and heard that someone was very pleased to get it. Then I headed for a sewing machine store.

The New Machine

A lot of the machines were pretty intimidating and very expensive. I know how expensive good tools are but I just wanted a basic machine. When I spoke to the sales person she asked how much I wanted to spend.  I told her and she asked me if I could stretch the budget by almost 2/3 more. I told her no, that I hated sewing and I wasn't prepared to spend much more than the figure I gave her. She told me if I spent the extra I'd never have to buy another machine.  I guess she could tell from the look on my face that I had no intention of ever buying another sewing machine - period!

She showed me a very basic model.  It does 14 different stitches which is about 12 more than I will likely use. It is easy to thread and, while I won't say the idea of sewing delights me now, I am looking forward to having the results of sewing.  I went  a little over budget and I'm satisfied with that decision.

One of my curmudgeonly complaints is about the pathetic little pockets they put in women's jeans. In my world, pockets are meant to hold things and I mean substantial things, not just a single key or coin. The first thing I did with the new machine was to extend the pockets in one of my pairs of jeans. I get a little smile of satisfaction every time I put my keys in my pocket and I haven't worn either of my other pairs now that I have 'decent' pockets' in one pair. Other projects have required my time lately and as soon as this current one is done, the sewing machine will come out and I will fix the pockets on the other two pairs of jeans.

I recently crocheted myself a messenger bag.  It's very comfortable; it holds a lot of stuff and it stretches.  I didn't think that would bother me but I've lost a couple of pens out of the holes in the crocheted fabric and it really would look nicer if it retained its shape a bit better.  I'm not looking forward to making the liner although I am looking forward to having a lined bag. I have a fleece jacket with sleeves that are too long. I've been rolling them up for a year and I'd rather have them the right length. I have a pair of pants to turn up and I'll enjoy not having to roll them up too.

I don't see myself actually making clothes or looking forward to sewing but now that I have a machine that is more user friendly I have a smidgen more motivation to get the jobs done. I will thoroughly enjoy having big pockets in my jeans, a bag that doesn't sag,  pants I don't trip on and a jacket that fits my arms.  Who knows, as I do more sewing I might get better at it and hate it less. I'm not holding my breath though.

A Final Farewell

It’s a grey day here. April. The snow is falling in soft flakes that leave the pavement wet and the grass green. I’m at loose ends. I don’t know how to respond, don’t even know if this is my story to tell but, I am a small part of it and as I often have, I’m using writing as a way to make sense and make peace.

My dad’s only brother, the last of four siblings, will die in a little over an hour. I know this because he has requested and been granted medical assistance in death. My cousins tell me that he has very little quality of life left and that he is ready for whatever is next whether that be an afterlife or a nothingness.

There should be some way to mark this. In Canada these particular circumstances are new to us. My cousins tell me there will be a celebration of my uncle’s life before he is given the injections that will end it. This appeals to me because it brings a touch of familiarity to the situation. I know about celebrations of life. My mind moves to my father’s memorial service so many years ago. The minister used an image of morning sun reflecting off the belly of a rising airplane. I think of an airport terminal, a goodbye when a loved one is heading out on a new adventure. It is not our turn to travel and we wait until the plane moves away from the gate and rumbles onto the taxi way out of sight before we turn away from the window to walk back into our lives without the traveller. We are sad because he is leaving us but we are at peace because he is firm in his resolve and is ready to go.

I know of no rituals specific to this from of death so I make my own. I am alone in the house, Richard is at work and has left a note of support and comfort at my place at the table. I have put on clothes that give me comfort, sweat pants and a favourite grey plaid cotton shirt, wool socks. I have made myself a cup of tea. It is earl grey and it is strong. I remember many cups of tea with my mother. If she had had the choice to end her life sooner I know she would have taken it. She said to me rather crankily at one point, “I wonder how much longer this will take.” I could only give the answer that she so often gave me, “I don’t know, Mum, I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.”

I have promised to light at candle at the appointed time and as I collect the candle, the one we lit at Richard’s mother’s memorial service, I remember a cross made from oak by my great uncle. I’m not thinking specifically of Christian ritual this morning but the cross ties together our three generations. For the first time when I take the cross out of its base, I examine the mortise and tenon and notice a knife line on the tenon cheeks, evidence of my great uncle’s workmanship. I remember my father telling me that Art, my great uncle, made a number of these crosses to give to chaplains. He made the cross removable so the chaplain could take the cross off the base and put it in his suit jacket pocket. I always thought the cross too big and bulky for that.

I look around for a place to put the candle and the cross and decide on the small table under the window in the living room where I can look out at the snow and the greening world. I go to the kitchen and retrieve a box of wooden matches from the metal container that stayed always on the second shelf in my mother’s kitchen. I wonder why I don’t just use the barbecue lighter but that seems wrong somehow. When I take out my phone for a photo of the cross, the candle and the matches, a message appears on the screen ‘camera failed.’ I try several more times and the same message appears. This has never happened before and the timing is curious. I have other cameras but have come to depend on the phone to always be there, available and easy to use. I choose not to spend the next half hour searching the internet for fixes for the camera.

I check the clock . Time moves slowly now and I think of all of my cousins, children of the four Hood siblings. I wonder where they are and what memories they recall as the last of a generation passes from this earth. I imagine a hospital room my uncle in a bed with his children around him. In my mind’s eye there are tears in the room but in my mind’s ear there is laughter. May it be so.