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Monday, August 24, 2015

My Mama Grows a Garden

With grape vines climbing a trellis

Morning glories where you might not expect.

Surprise pumpkins from her compost

Which she did before it was cool

A peony from the first house Brian and I owned

Gooseberries just like on the farm

Corn from seed her son brought from far away lands

squash

And poppies anywhere

the winds might blow

just like her lovely dill

tiny apples for juice all winter

My mama wears her gardening shoes

to water

her flowers

from the rain barrel

Now my brother and I gather flowers

for mama

in room 110.

 

Saturday, July 25, 2015

Room 101

This was dad's last breakfast at home before we took him to the hospital and never moved him home again. We poured our milk from the rose pitcher that I remember since forever and ever growing up on the farm. Our milk came home in ice cream pails from dad's cousin's dairy across the road. I knew my way around the milk room, and would release the lever on the big stainless steel reservoir and watch the rich white milk fill the pails, then carefully carry them home. Ice cream pails then were made of heavy plastic that lasted for many years, and the metal handles weren't at risk of breaking.

That rose patterned milk jug says something to me about endurance. About a time before the throwaway culture. About milk that comes from actual cows, about neighbours who never move, about the security and safety of my childhood.

My dad was a respected man in our farming community, and in surrounding areas. He was a smart, fair, kind, hardworking man. Our family life wasn't perfect, and there won't be an upcoming book entitled: "Bliss in Blumengard", but looking back, I'm astounded by how safe my childhood was. No worry for food, shelter, company. Always safe. So safe in fact, that we would be shocked in years to come to learn of incest and abuse in the very circle we called our own. My mother hadn't even known that those things were a possibility, that's how safe we were.

We were taught to treat people with respect, especially our elders. We never addressed our seniors by their first names, and we were expected not to behave in casual, familiar ways, not to ask for things that weren't offered, and always to seek to be helpful.

As dad aged, he held fiercely to his independence. Mom and dad stayed in their home, cut their own grass, worked their own garden, did their own housework, and went for daily walks. They remained true to their convictions of contributing to the community by dedicating twenty + years to volunteerism.

But life has its inevitable stages, and after dad's stroke in 2006, his memory slowly but surely continued to erode, even as he and mom continued to enjoy their independence. We kids offered more time and support, marvelling all the way at their resilience, positive attitude, and appreciation of our love for them. But eventually, dad's constant bladder infections, abdominal pain, and confusion led us to the hospital in January 2015 where he has resided ever since.

Long term care homes in our area are backed up one, to one and a half years and often times, people like my dad land up in hospital awaiting placement. It's not ideal, but its pretty okay-ish. The staff at Bethesda are awesome. Mom lives four blocks away and still drives at eight-nine. We kids quickly established a visiting schedule, and dad never spent a day without family by his side, helping him work out his confused thoughts, reassuring him, helping him to the washroom, shaving his face.

But we had been warned. Although they would not send dad home, they simply could not guarantee that he wouldn't be moved. And he did. Initially he had a lovely spot in front of a large window, with room for two or more of us to visit. Then he got moved to Room 101, cramped into what felt like a corner, with two other roommates. We were sad! We liked Room 110 for dad, with its window and its relative space, and its one roommate. But! we said- it's not Morris. It's not Vita. It's still four blocks from mom, and he is still safe, and we can still dedicate ourselves to him.

Room 101 became a gift to us. Cramped in with little privacy, we soon came to know dad's roomies. Big Guy to the west liked cheezies, and his gown was sometimes vaguely orange. His wife was devoted and spent every day with him. We fell in love with her as well. When the days came that his breathing shallowed and slowed, we felt his wife's loss keenly. At the funeral it was sweet to "see" him in his younger years, full of fun and energy for his grandchildren.

Even Bigger Guy to the south was initially kind of intimidating. His loss of space was more profound- having moved from a large private room into these relatively cramped quarters with two old men and their families he looked and sounded less than impressed. But "Tiny" as we came to know him, became so precious to us all. Tiny moved to the beat of his own drum, and as he like to say- he liked anything that was bad for him. So as we loved him more and more, we began to bring him gifts of Pepsi (his favourite- he scorned water), baking, and soup (another favourite).

Tiny told us stories of growing up in residential school. He told us he wished he had a mom and dad who loved him. Tiny began to call our mom "Mudder", and she willingly adopted him, holding out a basin when he needed to vomit, bringing him homemade buns, and reading him "The Daily Bread". My teeny tiny little birdie of a mother, and this enormous man. Their relationship crossed so many of my mother's previously held boundaries and prejudices.

Tiny looked after my dad. When dad awoke in the night afraid and confused, Tiny would remind him of his family who loved him. Tiny would remind dad of his years of farming, and it settled dad to be drawn to something familiar and grounding. When dad would be convinced of his mobility when he had none, Tiny would ring for the nurse, as dad couldn't remember how to pull his own help cord. Sometimes it would be too late, and dad would be lying on the floor, having taken flight from his bed, forgetting that his legs were weak. Tiny would call out in the night until the staff would come. Tiny became our ambassador, always reporting dad's status when we came to sit with him. Tiny reported the quality of dad's night, the state of his confusion, and any perceived injustices that had occured in our absence.

And we cared for Tiny. He was so easy to love.

Then one day I got a text from Kathy: "Tiny has died." Growing increasingly sicker and short of breath, with no hope of ever going home, Tiny removed his oxygen mask and ceased to exist.

My brother and I drove straightaway to the hospital- Tiny was also ours. I couldn't bear to go the next day and see his empty space without at least showing up. Dad sensed the heaviness in room 101 and asked- "How do you expect me to sleep in a morgue?", so we wheeled dad to another room and tried to speak of more restful things, even as we imagined room 101 without Tiny in it.

I admit to resenting the patient who took up Tiny's bed, and I guarded myself against falling in love again. Tiny's presence and absence hung heavy in the room. I was happy for him to have gone in peace, but I felt sad for him and us as well. After Tiny's replacement was released, we asked if dad could move to that corner of the room.

Soon enough with dad in TIny's spot, dad's prior spot became Mr F's new home. His daughter was devoted and soon we were exchanging greetings and discussing books. I learned to worry about her, as she didn't have the five siblings that I do to help fill in the gaps. She learned to worry that her dad's hallucinations might be offensive to us, but we quickly reassured her that perceptions of mom and dad smoking cigars behind dad's curtain partition would help us pass the time!

Then another text from Kathy: "Dad is being moved to Vita. Today."

But Room 101! And Mr F! All the staff who have become familiar to dad!

We had been warned, that part is true. But after six months, we had been lulled into believing it couldn't happen to us.

When you are an elder in our culture, you have lost your place of significance in this world. We carry on stupidly glorifying youth, and shoving our ancestors wherever there's a tiny space.

My siblings went immediately into high gear, exploring options. Looking for ways to take dad home instead of moving him 35 minutes south, nearly at the US border.

Kathy and I headed over to our mom's house and suggested she sit down. Dad is fine, I insisted.

"He's going to Vita?" mom asked, joking, then the colour draining from her face as we confirmed.

When we suggested the alternative of moving dad home with lots of supports, our dear sweet brave mother wept. And wept.

So we packed up room 101. Took all the photos off the wall, folded up the calendar, and waited for the paramedics. When they arrived to transfer dad to the stretcher, I was already sad and mad at everyone so I made a fuss about the stretcher. Insisted she use the brakes when she wanted to simply brace it with her body. Not for my dad. Not today. Brakes.

"But that's not how we do it".

Brakes.

It was a tiny thing, but there was nothing I could do about Vita. I could at the very least insist that the stretcher's brakes be engaged before the transfer.

Bed 3 in Room 101 is likely refilled by now. It's not Tiny, and its not dad.

Dear old dad lives in Vita now, and my mom won't visit every day.

His room is large and there are no roommates. He is an hour away for me. An hour and a half for my brother and sister. And more than three hours for my other sister.

My mama in her brave resilient way insists that dad will be fine here. That he will be lovingly cared for. That we cannot maintain our schedule of daily visits with these distances.

And we will all learn to love Room 5. We will.

 

Wednesday, July 15, 2015

Winnipeg Folk Festival 2015

Sometimes Life and the gifts it gives are almost too good to set words to.

Folk fest with my darling girls.

My sweet Jane and I had the awesome adventure volunteering backstage on La Cuisine, pink crew. What a bunch! Friendly and upbeat and hardworking. We may have spent many hours grilling in the thirty+ degree heat, and I would do it again in a heartbeat.

Seriously cold beer after four hours of the hot grill helped to take the edge off.

As did a trip to the ice cold outdoor shower, as fully clothed as thirty degrees calls for. Soak it all. Hair, dress, body.

We also got to celebrate sweet Arianna's birthday at the festival!

Just twenty-one years ago, I laboured that first baby girl while Brian and I hung out at Folk Fest 1994.

I was That Mom who hung out with the girls and their people and laughed way too loud and talked way too much.

They were so gracious. (and fun to be with).

Jane and I got to eat all the yummy food backstage.

(and wash hour upon hour of plates- FF is a disposable free zone)

Dang, we ate well.

 

 

 

And now for the interview portion of this blog post:

So Joyce, what did you really like about FF 2015?

Joyce (Gushing): "OOOOhhhhh I just Loved All of the Everythings!"

Like- the artists, perhaps?

Joyce: "Well, honestly what I do at Folk Fest is wander around watching people and philosophizing, I do my shifts in La Cuisine, I stand under the hose shower until I am gasping for breath, I wander through Handmade Village and vow (For the zillionth time) to be in it NEXT YEAR, I hang out with my daughters and their people, and then- sometimes the music stops me cold! This year, I was swept away by Matt Anderson. He blew me away. I texted Brian straightaway to check him out on the tubulars, and Brian agreed, so -- that means it was real!"

And were there things in Handmade village this year that made you weak in the knees?

Joyce: "I was a huge fan of the bunwarmers, legwarmers, and wearable blankets made from recycled sweaters, but honestly in a billion degrees celsius, I could barely stand to touch them. Also there was a woman selling things made of felted wool- very original, creative, lovely. But again- wool! in the weather! There weren't any bags to speak of, which made me wonder-- hmmmmm. bags. Are bags a thing? I could make bags!"

So am I hearing you say that next year might be the year for Re-Joyce at the Handmade Village?

Joyce: "You are hearing my heart on fire. Or at least on warm. Or re-warm. I guess time will tell. Plus there's the screening process- you know, being deemed cool enough by the Folkie who's who to play with the in crowd. Handmade village is on my bucket list, so pretty soon I will have to at least try to follow through on that. Do you think I'm snappy enough?"

Please don't make this interview unneccarily awkward.

Joyce: "Sorry. I'm currently in therapy. Sorry. But seriously- am I good enough?"

Um, let's refocus, shall we? Did you run into Gloria and Holly this year at the FF?

Joyce: "Now you're just being cheeky. You know this. I run into Gloria and Holly every single year about 14 billion times, and I don't ever run into the other trillion people I know are also at festival. I'm actually glad you asked though because this year Gloria and I came up with a brilliant idea for icepack undies to sell at next year's fest. We're pretty sure they'll be a big seller. Also she's now my BFF because I see her every year at FF, and at least twice during the year at various thrift shops. She's the one who convinced me to buy an orange velveteen coat at the thrift last winter, so she's pretty much a lifer in my life forever now."

And how was the weather?

Joyce: "It was smoking, smoking hot with humidity of 157%. So hot. All I ever wore were my lightest in the world clothes. Most of my clothes stayed in the suitcase in the million degree hot tent. Even at night when it typically cools off, I stayed in my strappy sundresses. So hot. Did I mention hot? It was hot. So hot. It was so Not Winter and it was my favorite."

Did you feel fat at the FF this year?

Joyce: "Do you ever listen to anything I say? HOT. I said I was smoking HOT. Besides- therapy. Gosh, it would be so nice if you would just listen once in a while. Maybe you should consider therapy."

Well. Would you look at the time! So real quick like before we wrap up here forever and I never call you ever again because you clearly have issues, what was your actually most favoritest ever festivally thing?

Joyce: "Being there with my girls. They were so happy to be at FF, I was so happy to be happy with them. Every little boiled up in the sun baby I saw breastfeeding in the sweltering sun, I thanked my precious girls for growing up and turning out ok-ish in spite of me and their dad. ( I also thanked them for no longer breastfeeding. It looked hot.) Every little whining toddler child reminded me of the joy of having survived the past, and the ecstacy of my little angel daughters (they never whined or cried or pooped) being the sorts of grownups who also love FF. I loved working the kitchen with Jane, and I loved celebrating Arianna's birthday with her fab friends.

I also loved wearing shoes or not wearing shoes, not brushing my hair for four days, living and eating and sleeping outdoors. I loved wandering about, and I loved sitting still. I loved the hot coffee (thank you Green Bean!) and the cold beer, the cold water, and the cold mystery punch. I loved running into festival friends and Niverville friends. I loved being on pink crew. I loved that at the very end of four smoking hot days, a huge storm rolled in hard.

We got PELTED! I may have laughed really really loud and really long and I'd do it again even if you shushed me.

Nothing more perfect than driving home in an epic storm, and the sky looking like straight up magic.

So, my favorite, you ask? Yes. I say. It was- it was all my favourite.

My most Festivally Fun Favourite, Folk Fest 2015.

 

Wednesday, July 01, 2015

July 1, 2015

It's my first day of holidays!

The daisies are blooming.

Hiawatha's tires are full of air and she's ready to hit the road.

The deck will be hosting less of this

And more of this.

My hollyhocks are budding.

My application to volunteer at Winnipeg Folk Fest is approved.

A trip to Flin Flon to pick up my daughter is being planned.

And.

The bangs are growing out.

It's going to be an epic summer, y'all.

And it all begins this afternoon at the Osborne Street Festival.

 

Monday, June 22, 2015

Abs and Flabs

There's a reason that I look more

than

.

It might be related to my urge to cry and break for DQ when push-ups and runs are the torture de jour at my local "Box". (I think that's what actual fit people call crossfit gyms).

I said push-ups.

And running.

Coaches just let that roll off their tongue as though it were entirely doable.

Trust me when I tell you, they weren't in my phys ed class, circa 1984. Cruel Mrs Harem Pants and Slouchy Socks is still weeping over her wasted years trying to teach me a damn thing. She used to escort us down into the bowels of the high school to an underground track that smelled of spiders and mold and watch us run endless laps in semi-darkness while in the grip of nutrient deprived anorexia. (how could she know.) I hated her for her generous belly and stretchy pants and whip cracking attitude of domination. Standing there while I slowly killed myself on that soggy track.

Yech.

For all her efforts, I never really executed a run worthy of the wind pant.

More of a...

And I can't do bloody push-ups to save my life. Sure, I modify by pushing off a bar several miles up from horizontal and still- I choke out twelve or four at a time.

Coach (who crushes rodents between her thighs on her lunch breaks) commands that we produce thirty push ups in proper form, and that each time the body insists on a rest longer than two seconds in duration, you've earned yourself another 400 meter run. In any case, we all start with a 400 meter run (and not towards home).

I want to quit. I want to talk and whine and cry about my huge tatas that hurt like the devil because my stupid 47 year old uterus still wants to play house and pretend to keep making babies and feeding them all from the bounty that is bosom. And that's just the North end. Further South, I fear that the entire Poise company will be inadequate for the floodgates of unending fluids that my body will squeeze out (an attempt to lighten its load? Throw something overboard?) I silently curse all male runners for not having a single precious clue. I refuse to make eye contact with anyone. They are all the enemy because they will all finish before me while I stumble about in my aching, dampened state.

First try- twelve lousy pushups. Second- thirteen. Which leaves me to run another 400 meters before the last five ruddy pushups.

And I don't even mean pushups.

I mean pushups for people who can't do pushups.

-sigh-

Did I mention that I pay for this?! I do, and I love it (mostly) and I always go back. However. That does NOT mean I'm not frightened and ugly.

That, folks.

And trust me when I say they forgot to mention the 2-3 bras, the protective products,and the suppressed tears.

But still-

There's way, way more to heading to the gym than perfect abs.

Way more.