The Chambermaid.

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Recently a friend shared a post on LinkedIn about her first “career” job after she graduated from university. At the end of her enlightening and thoughtful post she posed these questions to her readers: “Where did you get your start? Any learnings that you carry forward from that experience?”

These questions sparked some reminiscing about the start of my career after I finished university with two degrees – one for each hand. And what I had learned. My friend had one job after graduating that started her career path.

I had three before my current career got off the ground. But it was the first one that I learned the most valuable and memorable lessons. To many it would not be considered a “career” job but to me it was the first step to where I am right now.

After I received my Bachelor of Education to teach English and History at the Secondary Level, I was offered a job at one of the local high schools where I did one of my practicums. It was a good opportunity that most brand-new teachers, fresh off the university lot, would have jumped at. The perfect launching pad for a lifelong career in teaching with a decent salary, summers off, Christmases off, Easter and Spring breaks off, benefits and a healthy pension.

But it wasn’t for me. At least not at that time in my life.

Instead of staying put and playing it safe in my hometown, where I was sheltered by my family and close to friends, I packed my bags, propped my son on my hip, adjusted my aviator sunglasses, and hopped on a plane and headed west. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t look back. Because I did. I even went back. But not after living a year in British Columbia, first in Victoria and then Prince George (where I got married but that’s a whole other story.)

My first job after graduating from university was as a Chambermaid at an old established hotel in downtown Victoria. I had the option of working in one of the nightclubs in the hotel but chose the reliable daytime hours of housekeeping, even though it was less pay, and tips were few and far between, because it allowed a more stable lifestyle for me and my son. Plus, I’ve never been much of a night person. Neither was my son.

I learned a lot working as a Chambermaid.

First and foremost, it’s hard back-breaking work that is under-valued, under-appreciated, under-paid, under-respected and under-tipped (as in “no tips”, at least way back then in the dark ages). I was left with a deep and abiding respect for all the hard-working people (mostly women) doing this thankless job tirelessly day after day. And with surprising cheerfulness, grace, and discretion. I learned that there is dignity in working hard and getting the job done, regardless of the position or pay.

The second thing I learned, which was more of an observation. Every room tells a story. The morning after. The remnants and residue from the night before were scattered around the room like breadcrumbs in the forest. These artifacts covered the gamut, the entire enchilada, the rainbow spectrum, from shitty diapers to shitty sheets. Loose change to loose talk. Broken glass to broken hearts. The walls held the whispers of conversations, the floors the burden of footsteps of every ilk, the bed the weight of humanity, often at its worst. The Chambermaids were the reconnaissance unit of housekeeping, the first to step foot into what was often unknown territory. The brave souls who cleaned up the mess. And restored order.

They made the room. They kept the secrets. Then they moved on to the next room, the next story. The seeds of my storytelling career were sowed here.

The third thing I learned, and this is by far the most important. To be grateful. Grateful to have a safe, comfortable place to stay when I’m in a foreign place, grateful that gracious people are there to make it comfortable, and most of all, grateful that I’ve never had to do that job again. Not that it’s beneath me, because it truly isn’t, but because I don’t think I was all that good at it. I never really mastered the fine art of hospital corners.

That gratitude has held fast for me all these decades later. I am eternally grateful for all the positions I’ve held over the years, especially in advertising, and to the companies I have worked for, including my current work. Every one of them helped put a roof over my family’s head and food on the table. They sparked my creativity and challenged me to always keep growing, learning, and improving my craft. Plus, so many friendships we forged and wonderful memories were made.

To all the Chambermaids across the globe, thank you, thank you, thank you.

What I Wouldn’t Give for a Solid Eight.

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I sleep like a baby. A newborn. On a good night, I get four hours sleep. On a not-so-good night it could be three, sometimes even two measly hours. I’m like one of those infants who make their parents regret not using birth control.

It’s been this way since I was pregnant with my youngest daughter. She’s now twenty-nine. Add nine months and you’ve got roughly thirty years of interrupted lousy sleep. And I’m really tired of it. Enough already.

I’ve tried all kinds of things in my quest for a solid eight. Everything from booze to baths.

I’ve practiced fastidious sleep hygiene. And nightly rituals. Body parts are always carefully washed and brushed. I’ve tested sundry things to eat. Or not eat. Or when to eat. Or what. I’ve tried exercising before bed. Lightly because the strenuous kind is too stimulating. And we don’t want that. I’ve tried relaxing nighttime yoga. This stresses me out when serenity can be so fleeting and fugacious. Bedtime meditations. These make me want to get out of bed. I’ve practiced mindfulness. I can’t get my mind off the fact that I’m wide awake. I’ve counted sheep. And all the other farm animals. It gets very noisy inside my head.

I’ve experimented with different bedtimes to find the optimum, the most perfect time, to hit the hay. I have considered a mattress made of hay. Is this not the ultimate in au naturel? And hey if it’s good enough for horses. They seem to have no problem sleeping. In the end, I’ve learned that it doesn’t matter when I go to bed. If I go to bed at ten o’clock, I wake up roughly four hours later. Same thing happens at nine or eleven.

Over the years, I’ve explored and re-explored various natural sleep aids and supplements. M&M, for example. Melatonin & Magnesium. I take this combo occasionally with a warm milk chaser. I do like to take a walk on the wild side sometimes. The thing is, Melatonin puts me to sleep in much the same way a shot of Writers Tears does but it fails to keep me in dreamland. I like Magnesium but too much and I’m up in the middle of the night letting loose and not in a fun way. I’ll skip the details and let you use your imagination.

I’ve detoxed the bedroom. All things digital and annoying have been removed. So, no television, iMac, iPad, iPhone, laptop, or anything that snores or cries out in the night. There are, however, a few items that I refuse to remove from the bedroom. Books. Reading in bed is my magnificent obsession, my glorious lifelong habit that I will not surrender, abstain, nor abandon. I admit. I’m a novel junkie. And I surrender all.

And here’s a little paradoxical conundrum. I have absolutely no problem falling asleep. Staying asleep is the issue. When I wake up in the middle of the night, or during the hour of the wolf, the challenge is getting back to sleep. Sometimes I’m successful. Sometimes not. Regardless, reading helps. Typically, a page or two, maybe three, into the current book on the nightstand and it’s lights out. I’m dead to the world. Put me in front of the television set and I’m a goner. On movie nights, I tell my family, “It doesn’t matter to me what we watch. Pick something, anything. You all know I’m going to fall asleep before the opening sequence ends and the movie begins.” That is a fact. Of course, I’m wide awake as soon as the closing credits start to roll. But I did have the magnificent two-hour sleep. Just like a newborn.

Go Away, I Have a Headache.

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I started getting migraines when I was eleven years old. The first one was a horror show, which morphed into a terrifying recurring nightmare. Over and over. Year over year. Decade by decade. Ma used to say, it was my cross to bear. We all have them.

As a kid, I remember asking if I could pick another cross. This one sucked. Big time.

According to Cat Stevens, the first cut is the deepest. He was talking about love, but I think this applies to other “firsts” as well. They are always the most memorable. At least for me. They stand out, well, because of their firstness, their never happened before essence, not been done heretofore novelty, never been seen until now wonder or their brand-new experience amazement.

My migraine experience was kind of like that, only it was the worst first. Ever. It was the beginning of living with migraine dread, fear, and trepidation. A curse. When they first started, existing in this constant state of anxious anticipation and high alert was often worse than the migraine itself.

Picture this. It’s an unusually quiet, peaceful Saturday afternoon in the middle of April, in Nowheresville Northwestern Ontario. On a quiet street, lined with wartime houses and Manitoba Maples is my childhood home, affectionately referred to as 204 in all my stories. At the kitchen table sits my second oldest brother Del, aka Doob, the News Chronicle is spread out in front of him, he’s pouring over the sports section completely unaware that in mere seconds his kid sister is about to interrupt his serene, anxiety-free tranquility with mayhem and chaos. For the next few hours, she would literally turn it into a madhouse. Even crazier than anything either of them had ever experienced during one of The Old Man’s drunken benders.

She bursts into the kitchen screaming, “I’m blind! I’m blind!”

He looks up at her with an expression that is equal parts confusion and disbelief, and says, “What do you mean?”

“I can’t see! I can’t see!” she cries as she stabs at her eyes with her little eleven-year-old fists.

“You can’t see me?” he asks.

“Yes, I can see you. But not see you.”

“What does that mean?”

“You have a big black hole where your face is. And there’s really, bright flashing zigzag lines over my eye.”

“That’s crazy,” he says, as he gets up from the table and cautiously approaches her. “Close your eyes.”

“I tried that. It doesn’t help. It’s still there.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“I want Ma,” she cries. “I want Ma!”

“She’ll be home soon,” he lied. “Just calm down, for God’s sake.”

“I can’t, I can’t. I’m so scared. Am I dying?” she caterwauls, dropping dramatically to her knees.

At this point, they are both quivering like maple leaves at the onset of an October storm. Foreshadowing. Winter is coming.

“You’re not dying.”

“Now my hand is going numb. I can’t feel my hand. And my arm. I think I’m dying. Help me, help me!”

You’re not dying,” he repeats, attempting to reassure himself more than her. He has no idea if she is dying. She could be. What did he know. He wasn’t a doctor.

“God-oh-God, what is happening to me,” she whimpers pitifully.

“Ma will be home soon. She’ll know what to do,” he says dubiously. He had no idea when their mother would be home, much less what would happen once she got there.

But thankfully, he was right.

Within minutes Ma and The Old Man walked in the door toting bags of groceries. I wrapped my arms around her, sobbing hysterically, pleading with her to help, to make it go away. And within an hour, as if by some medical miracle, the mysterious numbness went away, the blindness and flashing zigzag lights cleared up completely and my sight was restored. And then, the pain started.

Pounding. Pulsating. Putrefying.

The pain was so bad I threw up. Non-stop for hours. I spent the rest of the day and night in bed and woke up the next morning pain-free but feeling “weird.” It would be years before I’d have a term for that weird disorienting feeling. Migraine hang-over.

No one knew what caused this random out-of-the-blue and inexplicable episode.

Ma said I was “bilious.” I was eleven. I had absolutely no idea what she was talking about. Apparently, this was something she experienced from time to time. She didn’t refer to it as a headache, much less a migraine. But from that day forward, I too suffered from this strange and painful affliction called bilious.

I relive that day every single time I get a migraine. Every time. Without exception.

With the first flash of light, I panic. Anxiety builds as my pulse races, my body shakes and my mind goes to all the dark places. I see Doob’s eyes fill with fear, his face turn to ashen snow, the overwhelm and helplessness pushing him to the precipice of passing right out. It was unfortunate timing on my part because, like me, he was highly sensitive, anxious, a worrier and of my two brothers, the least equipped to deal with something like this. We’ve never discussed it, but I often think I may have traumatized him for life.

The good news is I became my own medical researcher, which wasn’t easy back then in the prehistoric days without computers and this thing called Google. Very little was written about Migraines. Ma brought me to the doctor when I was thirteen. He was useless. Said it was my “nerves” and prescribed Valium. Valium. To a kid. It was crazy making.

Throughout high school, I mostly kept quiet about this baffling disorder. Everyone gets headaches. But not like this. I couldn’t explain them in a way that was fully comprehensible or that didn’t sound overly melodramatic, foolish or downright insane. If an “attack” came on while in school, I would struggle through the pain and disorienting symptoms until the day was over and I could find relief and refuge at 204. I battled this thing, this arch enemy that attacked out of the blue, in the middle of gym class, science lab, band practice, lunch break, or giggle fit.

Through it all, I learned a lot about shame, secrets, loneliness, isolation, and bravery. I was embarrassed and ashamed that I had this disturbing thing wrong with me, that nobody else did, so I kept it a secret, just like The Old Man’s alcoholism. But I also learned how to be brave, to feel the fear and face it head-on, walk right through anxiety and challenge it – like the schoolyard bully it was – call its bluff. And I learned that shaking trembling legs would get me there. I did not fall.

That said, I cried a lot. Bargained with God. Tried to make a deal. I’ll take anything but this shit. Please and thank you.

The good news is, I developed coping skills that grew with age. The biggest thing was that I started to talk, to confide in people outside of my family, and most importantly to trust that it would be okay to do so. By sharing my story, my deepest fears, and darkest secrets I discovered that I wasn’t the only person who got these headaches. I wasn’t alone. There were other sufferers out there. It was a relief to unburden myself. For years I felt broken. Like damaged goods. Defective. Factory flawed. Not like anyone else. A freak of nature.

I learned there was a name for these mysterious headaches with their perplexing prodrome. I learned that those zigzag flashing lights I was seeing were an aura, the warning signal that a migraine was headed my way. I learned about triggers. Some the hard way. It took me years to figure out that red wine was one of them. I learned about the things that helped and brought some relief. Like quiet dark rooms and a comfy bed with a bucket close by to throw up in. I learned about nutrition, healthy eating, vitamins, and natural herbal remedies. By seventeen, I found yoga. It was a life changer. I learned poses that I could do at the first onset of the aura that would bring relief from the pain, but more importantly, the anxiety. I found solace in the wise words of spiritual leaders. I learned to meditate and control my breathing. I started running every morning and walking and biking instead of driving. I embraced the theory that movement is medicine and continue to take daily doses, rain or shine. I learned to grow my courage and compassion muscles. I learned to love my little warrior heart and to call upon it in the hour of the wolf or whenever I was overwhelmed by the enormity of life. I learned never to give up. I learned that life isn’t always fair, and that Ma was right.

We all have our cross to bear. Most days, I’ve learned to carry mine with grace. And choose not to be nailed to it.

The Pearl Ring.

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My Old Man was obsessed with lottery tickets. Every week he bought one (or more accurately, more than one, more like a fistful). He would rub his hands together and gleefully declare, “when my ship comes in, I’m gonna.” Do this thing or that, buy this thing or that, travel to this place or that.” Fill in the blank and he was gonna.

Problem was, his ship never came in.

When I was a young kid, I believed him. Completely. With every fiber of my being. I too would rub my hands together gleefully and declare, “Oh boy, can’t wait Dad!” This was prior to 1969 and the start of lotteries in Canada. So up until then, he was purchasing Irish Sweepstakes tickets. He never won. But I did.

My ship had come in.

In 1965, The Old Man bought an Irish Sweepstakes ticket for me, which I don’t think was even legal. But that didn’t stop him. The fact that I was a minor was a minor detail. I won 1400 pounds, which was about the same in Canadian dollars back then. So not a lot. But it was the jackpot for this starry-eyed girl and her Old Man.

The beauty part with this ship-coming-in-event was that he never expected, no wanted, any of that money to go to him. It was mine. I won it fair and square. He made that abundantly clear. I think there was a part of him that knew he was never going to win the Irish Sweepstakes. Just like he knew I was the one with the luck of the Irish. At least back then.

One of the first things I bought with my winnings was something for Ma. I wanted to give her something beautiful, something simple, a keepsake to remind her of my undying love for her. So, we did what winners do. We embarked on a meaningful retail experience. We took the bus downtown to Eaton’s where we headed directly to the jewellery department. It was there that we found the perfect item to celebrate, not only the sweepstakes win, but more importantly, our mother-daughter bond.

A pearl ring. Beautiful. Simple. Genuine. The stone of sincerity. And there was nothing in this world more sincere than my love for Ma. She was the mother of all pearls.

From that day forward, she wore it whenever she went out. Not being one for formal affairs or fancy gatherings, Ma would slip the ring on to go shopping, for walks, visits with family, church, to the park, to the bank, to Dominon, on the bus, in the car, on ferry boats, airplanes and just sitting on the front steps at 204. I loved seeing it on her finger. As the years weathered her beautiful hands, the ring graced her finger. Like her, it grew more divine and more brilliant with time.

The Old Man’s ship never did come in. Once Canada introduced lotteries, he went berserk. His weekly obsession was uncontrollable. The edge-of-the-seat anticipation, the rising excitement, the prized purchase, the held-breath waiting, the hair-raising announcements of winners, his momentary disappointment, the better-luck-next-time-keep-at-it-keep-trying pep talk, and ultimately, the one-day-your-ship-will-come-in mantra.

My Old Man gave up on all kinds of things in his lifetime. Himself mostly. But the one thing he never gave up on, never lost hope, never declared defeat, was that one day his ship would come in. He died waiting. Sad ending.

Flash forward 55 years to October 1, 2022. This is the day my daughter M got married to the love of her life. She was gorgeous in every way. Flawless. Dress, shoes, necklaces, hair, makeup, nails – all on point. Picture perfect. Truth is, she didn’t really need all the bridal finery because her genuine beauty radiated from within. That was apparent to everyone.

There was one accessory my daughter was wearing that day that few people would have noticed, and even fewer, who knew the backstory. But for the mother of the bride, it was the most precious treasure. The quintessential finishing touch. More exquisite than the Crown Jewels.

On M’s right pinky finger, looking every bit as magnificent as it did when first purchased, an entire lifetime ago, was her grandmother’s pearl ring.

Wedding Photos by Heather @ Tulle & Tweed Photography

Rescue Me. Coco’s Story.

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It’s no secret that I’m a dog lover. Always have been, always will be. I was born into a house of dog lovers. And other animals too – cats, birds, fish, gerbils. You name, we loved it. Domestic and wild.

I’ve written about the day my dog Andy died and how painful it was, especially for my daughter and me. But also, for our next-door neighbour, who unwittingly became the hero of the night. For which I am eternally grateful. Although Andy’s death was a sad story and broke my heart, the death of his partner Coco, seven years later, is one that I still cry over. Like this morning.

I was out walking my sweet sleepy Schneagle Simon and started thinking about my walks with little Coco, especially the precious ones towards the end of her life. This in turn got me thinking about her final days. Coco was one of those stoic characters. No matter how much pain she was in, she would soldier on.

Nothing stopped her. She was a tenacious stubborn bitch. In my mind, I always imagined she had a whiskey, chain-smoking voice like Marge Simpson’s twin sisters Patty and Selma. And that she was always snarling fuck you or fuck off under her breath. I loved her for that. We spoke the same language.

Her stoic nature was no more apparent than when she was pregnant with her litter of five. Despite her growing girth, she walked with me every morning right up to the day before she gave birth. (Rhyme, not intended.) The final stretch of our early morning walks included a steep hill, which on the best of days, utterly exhausted me. It had to have exhausted Coco too, given that her belly was full and almost dragging on the ground. But she just kept givin’ er. Head up, tail high, eyes alert, one ear up and forward and one bent, her little rear-end swaying from side to side.

But she would not quit. I always admired that about her. Wished I had more of that in me.

We rescued Coco when she was around two years old, maybe older. No one seemed to know for sure. She was a barn dog, one of many – twenty or so Jack Russell Terriers – at the stables. She was one of the two Mama dogs, used for breeding, who roamed the grounds freely, not kept in the outdoor pen like the others. She had this swagger, and fuck-you attitude that I really respected. I used to see her around on Saturday mornings. While my daughter took riding lessons, I kept one eye on my kid and one on Coco. She was adorable, feisty, fiercely independent and sassy as hell.

But life on the farm wasn’t good for Coco, despite her freedom to roam the property and chew on horse nails and other barnyard delicacies. Somehow, she had a run-in with a gang of escapee JRTs and was severely pulverized. Shit-kicking doesn’t begin to describe it. One on one, she could have taken any of those male furballs down, but this pack was too much, even for the toughest of broads.

She was removed from the scene by the mom of one the other riders after she found her at the entrance gate covered in blood and one ear mangled.

Their family couldn’t keep her because they already had two dogs. But we could. Coco was my kind of girl and I just had to have her as part of our family. For the next five years she was Andy’s cussing companion, and then she spent another seven years keeping Rusty in line. There was no messing with Coco.

Towards the end of her life, she was almost deaf and blind which made walking her a dream. Once a reactive dog, ready to go at it with anything on four legs, she grew into the most chill laid-back chick on the block. Our daily walks became stress-free, quiet, focused, pleasant and peaceful.

On her last week, she stopped eating including all her favorite things that we tempted her with. On her last day and night, she slept peacefully on the mat in our downstairs bathroom. We held vigil throughout the night. The next morning Eric took her to the Vet where she took her journey over the Rainbow Bridge. He was devastated. Shattered. And vowed never to do that again. It felt like murder. Completely irrational, we know. But that’s how it felt. Don’t judge. And please, no platitudes about putting an end to her suffering. We get that. We aren’t selfish morons. Just brokenhearted dog lovers.

It was completely different with Andy. I was with him when he died on the floor next to my bed. I got to stroke his back as he took his last breath. I got to walk him one last time. To the foot of the Rainbow Bridge. No bright lights. No needles. Just him and me. I got to whisper soothing, tenderhearted, loving things to him. I got tell him it was okay. Everything was going to be okay. I was with him. I loved him. Always would.

This morning, as I was walking Simon and weeping in the dark, I wished the same for Coco. I wished that I had laid next to her on that little mat on our bathroom floor, with her sweet head cradled on my chest, while I gently stroked her back. I wished I could have held her and whispered, “It’s okay, girl. You can let go, sweetheart. Your job is done now. You rescued me.”

And of course, she would have looked up at me one last time, and in that raspy, whiskey-voice of hers, told me to “fuck off.”

Complicated Love. Complicated Grief.

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It’s been twenty-one years since Ma and The Old Man checked out of Hotel Earth. They died five weeks apart in the dead of winter. Like many things in their life together, Ma took the lead.

Ma died in the middle of the night in an antiseptic hospital room in Victoria. Although it was wonderful to have her close during her final year, it was also heartbreaking knowing that she wanted to go home to 204 and The Old Man. Made even more painful by the knowledge, the plain ugly truth, that the odds were slim to none that it would happen. She was alone, medicated into eternal slumber. The last lethal dose clung to her tongue like a leech as her gaping mouth grasped for her final breath and taste of being human in this manifestation.

Five weeks later and two thousand miles east, The Old Man died in the evening of Saint Patrick’s Day in a human warehouse for seniors, an old folks home, in a room he shared with another old man. My Old Man spent the last year of his life accusing this other old man of stealing his shoes. He died shortly after enjoying his last supper, dozed off unassumingly, and kept on dozing into eternity. I hope he met Ma there. At least that has been my prayer for the last twenty-one years. It brings me comfort, especially on my dark days during the interminable hour of the wolf.

My grief for Ma followed the classic seven stages. But it actually began eighteen months prior to her death when she suffered a heart attack so severe it was a miracle she survived at all, much less a year and half. Of course this is a testament to the feisty will and sheer grit of this formidable little woman. My grief was a slow and steady letting go, of releasing, of holding vigil, of saying goodbyes with kisses on the cheek, of laughter and tears, games of I spy. In the wee hours of the morning, when I received the news that she was gone, my initial reaction was one of shock and disbelief. Crazy, I know. We all knew this day, or night, was coming. And that it was soon upon us. But the heart often rejects what the head knows. To say I was in a severe state of denial is putting it mildly. Part of me sincerely believed that she would linger in this semi-life state forever, or for as long as I needed her to do so, until I was good and ready to follow her into the dark.

My grief for Ma was like my love. Plain and simple. Abiding. Uncomplicated.

My grief for The Old Man was the polar opposite. It was like my love for him. Complicated. Messy. A broiling brew of unhealthy emotions. They encompassed a gamut of the usual suspects — hatred, pity, indifference, frustration, embarrassment, anger, disappointment, sadness, sorrow, shame, confusion, bitterness.

But inside all that chaos and cacophony of consciousness, there was this other big thing. Love.

I loved him. And trust me, he was a hard man to love. Not always, but a lot of the time. Especially as he aged into being the proverbial grumpy old man. And as I age into the grumpy old woman, I have a different perspective towards him — as a man, a husband, a father. I’ve also acquired a deeper understanding of him and my complicated love. One of us has grown and evolved over the past twenty-one years. And since he’s dead, it’s safe to assume it’s me.

I’ve written a lot about The Old Man since March 17, 2001. I’ve explored his alcoholism and its devastating affects on our family; his love/hate relationship with his job as a Breadman; his love of sports, in particular baseball; his unfulfilled dreams of being a drummer or an umpire; his uncanny talent for playing the spoons; his volunteerism; his kindness towards the elderly spinster Jennie; his love of animals and birds; his obsession with shoes or kicks as he called them; his superb fashion sense; his capacity to laugh or cry at the drop of a hat; his faith in God; his ability to speak Finnish fluently; his hatred of his father and his devotion to his mother; his cursing and swearing at everything from wrestlers on TV to teenagers in souped up cars speeding past 204; his compulsion to purchase lottery tickets and chase get-rich-quick schemes; his love of a good joke, in particular those found in Reader’s Digest; his love of gardening and raking leaves; his depression, sadness and melancholy; his undying love for Ma, his fiery Italian girl.

It was through the telling of all these family stories, and our life at 204, that I processed all the emotions, all the things I felt towards him. At first I thought it was very simple. After all he was difficult, a nuisance, a pain in the ass, frightening and ill tempered, bigoted at times, a loser. His words and actions were unforgivable. I was rid of him. No missing this guy. I no longer had to wrestle with the polarization of my contradictory feelings. Hating him and wishing him dead every time he came home drunk, ranting and raving incoherently. And loving the good side of him — the kind, sensitive, shy, tender, generous, smart, funny, compassionate, caring and devoted guy. All the good things revealed in so many expressions of love over the years. The way he cradled our dead parakeet Petey in his hands and wept. Or the two-week, first-light ritual of spitting on my warts because he read somewhere that the first spittle of the day would get rid of them (and it did.) His extraordinary patience while teaching me to drive. His pride in his intelligent daughter after the annual meet-the-teacher nights. The way he hugged me when my heart was broken. And the wonder in his face as he held my son for the first time. How he ran selflessly to the aid of anyone in need. His inability to say no to me.

As the years have passed I have come to understand the full depth and breadth of this man. Yes, he possessed a dark side. He carried a backpack full of demons that haunted him all the days of his life. Demons so frightening that he self-medicated with booze and sugar. Depression so deep he hid himself away in shame and sorrow. In many ways he was typical of his generation. He didn’t talk about his feelings. No one knew about depression or anxiety back then. You didn’t go into therapy, at least not in our small northern town. That would be like admitting you were crazy or unhinged and needed to be institutionalized. It was a lock-the-door-and-throw-away-the-key mentality. No one wanted that. We chalked it all up to his drinking. It was the source of all our family woes, and our deepest darkest secret. What happened at 204, stayed at 204.

Eventually The Old Man did quit drinking. But by then it was too late. He became a dry drunk. Defiant. Obstinate. Hostile. Belligerent. Cranky all the time. Because the truth was, he still felt like shit. And there was nothing to silence the fear, pain and anguish. No crutches. Nothing to soften the edge. Reality bit him hard and it pissed him off. And in addition to his emotional pain, he suffered from a host of physical ailments. By the time he died, both of his legs had been amputated at the knees, as a direct result of diabetes and his unwillingness — or inability — to adhere to dietary rules.

This was where my complicated journey of grief began.

The thing about complicated grief is that it takes way longer to process. There were so many intricate and tangled feelings towards him that I needed to sort out. Thoroughly and exhaustively. And until I did, I was stuck. There was no moving on.

Writing, and the telling of our story, not only revealed the truth about him, but also about me.

Through this process, my compassion muscle grew and grew. Story by story, the layers were peeled away and the lens became clearer, sharper, more in focus. I began to see him for who he really was. Not just a grumpy old jerk. Or a pathetic excuse for a man. But a human being who struggled. Just like me. A human being who was broken. Just like me. A human being who tried to be courageous. Just like me. A human being who was overwhelmed by the world. Just like me. A human being who went to work every day at a job he didn’t always love. Just like me. A human being who was afraid to take risks. Just like me. A human being who was impatient. Just like me. A human being filled with self-doubt and self-loathing. Just like me. A human being who didn’t truly understand his worth. Just like me. A human being with weaknesses and addictions. Just like me. A human being who tried his best. Just like me. A human being who loved his family unconditionally but didn’t know how to express it in a way that was meaningful. Just like me. A human being who thought God had forsaken him. Just like me. A human being who was too sensitive for the world. Just like me.

Now, twenty-one years later, my grief for him is plain and simple. Just like my grief for Ma. It never really goes away. I’ve learned it’s never truly done and dusted. It washes over me in sweet gentle waves. Always unexpected but welcome. I weep for him now, in the same way that I do for Ma. Tears that are healing and restorative.

There is nothing left. But my love for him.

Pet Lessons.

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One of the hardest things for a pet owner to do is to say goodbye. This is something I know intimately. I’ve had to say the final farewell a few times over the years. It’s heartbreaking. Gut wrenching. Agonizing. But also, it is inevitable. And it’s the inevitability that’s the hardest part. It’s the looming specter that haunts our relationship. From adorable new arrival to grey-muzzled senior.

Impossible to let go.

But I do. I must. It’s part of our life together. The closing of the circle. This final honoring of the brief time we shared here on earth, during a particular season in the history of my life, and an integral part of the telling of our full family story. The different stages are marked by the pets that occupied our home, and most importantly, our hearts. For the large part dogs, but there have been a menagerie over the years. Cats, birds, gerbils, fish, hamsters, and all the wild creatures that I’ve loved from afar.

But dogs are my spirit animals. I relate best to them.

Dogs have taught me so much over the years. Unconditional love being the predominant theme but there are all the other virtues as well. Loyalty, faithfulness, devotion, dependability, trustworthiness, dedication, good humor, playfulness, compassion, empathy, forgiveness, perseverance, appreciation, gratitude, being of service, and doggone doggedness.

The most important lesson I learned from a lifetime of loving dogs has been to live in the moment. It’s been a hard lesson and I’m still not entirely certain that I have mastered it. If you’re going to love a creature with a life expectancy between ten and twenty years it’s best to come to terms with the fleeting nature of the relationship. One minute you’re cradling a playful pup with enormous soulful eyes and the next your resting your head beside a tired elder who is on the cusp of drifting away into the great hereafter. It’s that fast. A blink of your eye. A wag of his tail.

Every time I’ve brought a new puppy home I effortlessly slip into those rosy early stages of falling helplessly and hopelessly, head over heels in love. Denial is my default state of mind in the blissful beginning. It’s so easy to tell myself that it will always be like this. Forever best friends. We’ll spend our entire lives together. It’s easy because in the beginning, the end seems so far away.

But even then, deep down I know the truth. We won’t. It won’t last. In some ways, it’s the absolute worst kind of love affair. But it’s also the best. The purest. That’s why I continue to pursue it.

Somewhere in the middle years of your dog’s life you start to see the signs. The little “tells” that their puppy years are long gone. So are their hyper teens and the energetic robust years. Their pace is slowing a bit on your daily walks, their jump is a little closer to the ground, they don’t retrieve the ball as quickly, their back may even take on an arthritic sway. There are lots of little signs that things are starting to change. That’s when I’m sucker-punched with my first dose of reality. My puppy is on his way to being a senior. There is no time to squander. No more basking in the sea of denial. Every second with them must be savored. Cherished. Breathed in and held.

I must live in the moment.

This is the big life lesson each and every dog has whispered in my ear. Be here in “the now.” Appreciate this time. Stay focused. Remain in the present. This is all that truly matters. All we have. All any of us have, truthfully.

Don’t wander off. Don’t head on down the road of sadness before it’s time. Stay put. Stay, girl. Stay.

Embrace Your Inner Weirdo.

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Go beyond your IQ Girl Warrior and embrace your IW. Your Inner Weirdo is the most glorious and incomparable thing about you. The best. The thing that makes you uniquely you. Beautifully unorthodox. Boldly unconventional. Brilliantly rare. And yes, sometimes even odd.

Oddly extraordinary. Oddly surprising. Oddly awe-inspiring. And most importantly, oddly original. There’s no one else like you in the whole wide world. Wow to that girl.

Let your gorgeous IW out of the box. Set her free.

But first, you must break through the barriers of fear, insecurity and doubt. None of these are real. They merely dwell in the dark side of your big imagination and are fabricated to keep you small and contained. Posers, Phonies and Pretenders. Kick them aside, step right through and march on. Then put your imagination, and all the gifts your IW brings to the table, to better use.

Your IW will bring a fresh perspective to the way you interact and interface with all the people, places and things in your cosmos. Everything changes when you emancipate your IW. New insights. Deeper understanding. Increased clarity. Profound appreciation. Greater gratitude.

More love. More laughter. More joy. More silliness. More spontaneity. More creativity.

More of all the things. From the ridiculous to the sublime. Your IW has a knack for bringing out “the more.” The everyday is transformed, the common is inspired, the ordinary becomes extraordinary. Your IW has the power to open your eyes so wide that the world around you is suddenly and profoundly illuminated, hopeful, promising and acutely reassuring.

Girl Warrior, you have not only found your place on Earth, you have found your people. Let that settle in for a moment. These are your courageous and crazy-sweet tribe of weirdos who have opened their arms and hearts with acceptance, unconditional love and grace. And remember, they may be weirdos but they are your weirdos.

Wow and wow to that girl.

Girl Warrior Boo + Clarinet - Weirdo copy

Once a weirdo. Always a weirdo.

https://girlwarriorproductions.com/

Rumbling with Disappointment.

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Girl Warrior Productions - Novel by Boo King Summer in a Red Mustang with Cookies

This week I’ve been listening to Brene Brown’s book Rising Strong in the little red Ford Escape to and from work. Risking criticism for excessive use of alliteration, Brene Brown is a brave beautiful brilliant writer. And her book is bringing me to my knees. I am face down in the arena Brene. Get the book and you’ll understand the reference.

The book is making me think. And more importantly it is making me feel. Lots of feels. More feels than I can process in the twenty-minute drive to work. So I’m doing it here, in my safe space, and I’m sharing it with you, which doesn’t feel safe at all. Wearing my vulnerability on my sleeve, risking emotional exposure and shame is scary. I’m feeling the fear and doing it anyway.

One of the biggest feelings that Rising Strong has brought me face-to-face with this week is that of disappointment. Raw, unvarnished, unrestrained and intense, really fucking big disappointment. It sucks. I’ve been rumbling with this feeling all week but in truth, it’s been lurking in every single landscape of my life for years. I just couldn’t properly identify it until now. The hardest part is how personal it is. I can’t blame or point the finger at any other person, place or thing. It’s pointing directly at me. I am the bullseye. Me. Me. Me.

At the top of the list of disappointments – Summer in a Red Mustang with Cookies, a novel by boo king.

This is particularly grim because it was a story I was born to tell. The first draft was written back in the Toronto days when my oldest daughter was a wee one. For three or four years during her afternoon naps, I cranked out the first draft to three novels. Back then, naively, I thought writing a novel was just in the telling, which is what draft one is all about. I was not interested in going back in and doing the really hard work of editing and re-writing and re-writing and re-writing until I got it right. I just wanted to tell the stories and express myself creatively. And then move on. Kind of like my feelings. Move on from any of them that make me the least bit uncomfortable. True story.

Those three novels didn’t get past draft one. Eventually after twelve years, a modest career in Advertising as a copywriter, and one life-altering separation, I moved away from Toronto. I left with my two older kids, three cats, about a thousand bucks in cash that I made at a garage sale, overdrawn on my overdraft, no husband, no partner in crime, no job prospects, no security, no nothing, and headed west to Victoria looking for a brighter future and my happily ever after.

I got that. Well, sort of. I got a job in a small boutique design firm, found an apartment in the top floor of a house owned by a newlywed couple, met a man who didn’t fit, met another man who I fell in love with, got pregnant, declared bankruptcy, moved a few times, changed jobs, but kept working and working and working. Not as a writer but as a Production Manager/Producer. The writing stopped when I left Toronto. And it was killing me.

Since childhood, writing has always been my thing. The painfully shy girl’s voice, the saving grace, the outlet, means of expression, the avenue and channel for all my feelings, thoughts and emotions. I learned to read and then I started to write. Not doing it, felt wrong. I was ill at ease for years. Not right in my skin. I didn’t feel like me.

At the direction, and wise counsel of my best friend, who simply would not tolerate my whining about not writing, I began as she advised: one word at a time. Best advice ever and just one of the many reasons why I love her and why we’re lifelong friends.

Of the three first drafts I had written in Toronto, one of the stories haunted me, demanding that I pay attention and do something with it. I blushed with secret embarrassment reading the earnest and unbridled words of a much younger me, and then I immediately went to work flushing out the story. New characters emerged, old ones fell away but the main character, Jo survived and then magic happened. A completely new story was born around Jo. The “Summer” novel bore very little resemblance to the original first draft but that first draft was the impetus that lit the fire.

Because I was working full time, had three kids and little free time, I mapped out my daily writing time before the rest of the family got up. For almost four years I got up at 4:00 am and wrote before I did anything else. It was that important to me. At first, one word at a time, then one sentence and then one paragraph, page, chapter, entire novel. This time, I wrote, and re-wrote, and re-wrote, and re-wrote again and again and again. I was a ruthless, unsentimental and detached editor of my own work, a skill I had learned as a copywriter in Toronto. Then in February and March of 2001, within five weeks of each other, both my parents died. The novel was getting close to completion but not nearly ready for anyone other than me to read it.

I worked through my grief by writing. I became obsessed with completing the novel, with creating something that Ma and The Old Man would have been proud of. I stepped up my writing to include evenings and weekends. It was my passion, my magnificent obsession, my channel for dealing with sorrow and loss, and a tribute to my parents. It was a fictionalized version of our story. And in that frame of mind, I was determined to publish it. No one was going to stand in my way. No one.

By then, wrongly or rightly, I believed I wouldn’t be able to cope with, nor bear, any form of rejection or further loss. I also believed I didn’t have the strength, courage or wherewithal to jump through the hoops necessary to acquire a traditional publisher. The mere thought of receiving rejection letters was beyond endurable. I just could not do it. At least the story I told myself.

I decided to publish the novel myself. By this time I was a seasoned Production Manager and I knew how to pull a creative team together to get it done. To put it in perspective, in Canada self-publishing was in its infancy, so was blogging and social media, and there were very few Indie producers and artists. Nothing like it is today.

Fragile complicated emotions aside, the thought of undertaking a project of this scope intrigued and excited me. I hooked up with Trafford Publishing who handled all the publishing and legal stuff, hired my own talented crew of design and production professionals, proofreaders and beta readers, and solicited the feedback and candor of my best friend and editorial sounding board. Shortly before Christmas 2001, the book was published. With the exception of my children, it was my greatest accomplishment.

Seventeen years later, it is my greatest disappointment. It is at the very top of a long list of huge commercial failures – the novel, the book for girl warriors, the speaking engagements, the storytelling, the website, the girl warrior productions, the interviews, the t-shirts, the blogging, the poetry writing, the songwriting, the social media, the recordings and the guided meditations. Personal and professional flops each and every one. It’s exhausting just thinking about it. But Summer in a Red Mustang with Cookies hurts the most. The palpable pain of that disappointment is the worst, the fucking worst.

I didn’t have the courage and I wasn’t brave. Worse yet, I didn’t even try. And because I was unwilling to risk rejection by a traditional publisher, this funny heartbreaking little story, this homage to my parents, siblings, friends, neighbors and the redneck northwestern Ontario town where I grew up never took flight, never found its wings, and worst of all, never found its readers. And that’s all on me.

But it’s also on me that I acknowledge and accept that I feel this disappointment. It’s real and it’s okay, or it will be. It’s also on me that I am completely vulnerable, curious and have my heart wide open to all ‘the feels’ that will come. It’s also on me to keep rumbling with these feelings and to Rise Strong. And most importantly, it’s also on me to continue writing and storytelling no matter what.

Get Rising Strong here:

https://amzn.to/2w7FGTi

Learn more about Brene Brown here:

https://brenebrown.com/

 

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Interview with Girl Warrior Emily Braden.

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Emily Braden.jpg

Today we raise our fists high and put our hands together in celebration of our Feature Girl Warrior, powerhouse singer Emily Braden, the big, bad beauty from Boise. Winner of New York City’s prestigious “Best of the Best” Jazzmobile Vocal Competition, Braden’s signature sound is an effortless blend of jazz and soul. Her debut album Soul Walk is composed of high-energy originals and “flipped-out” jazz standards. Braden has performed at notable NYC venues such as the Blue Note Jazz Club (Late Night Groove Series), Birdland Jazz Club, le poisson rouge, BAMCafe and as well as on international festival circuits. East coast residencies include Richard Bona’s Club Bonafide and Minton’s Playhouse in Harlem, the original home of bebop.  Braden has traveled to Burkina Faso, West Africa as part of the US Embassy’s Arts Envoy program.  She recently made her debut as a featured vocalist with Post Modern Jukebox. Her vocal versatility has earned her a place as a front woman with The Sketchy Orkestra, the Matt Parker Trio and Oliver Swain’s Big Machine. Her own group Double Bass, Double Voice released their debut album in the US and Japan in February 2017. See Braden live and she’ll make you a believer. This girl is smokin’, smokin’ hot.

What makes you a Girl Warrior? 

I’d say continually putting myself “out there” and actively designing my life qualifies me a Girl Warrior. My belief that all people (that would include all self-identified women and, hey now, that would have to include me!) are worthy of being seen, heard and loved motivates me to trust and follow my own vision. I want to live a big life. That, and my ability to see an opportunity for growth in everything, everywhere, all the time.

You have a big bold brilliant career. Was music always “it” for you?

I am first and foremost a music lover. I’ve been a singin’ fool ever since I can remember but I didn’t necessarily see it as my career path early on. I would sing along with, imitate and study the greats for the sheer joy of it. It was out of that practice that I developed a voice. It wasn’t until high school when I went for a solo and felt a beautiful force and energy come through me – it was powerful. In that moment I realized that I not only had a voice but also had something to say.

From Boise to Manhattan … how’d that come about? 

Boise, ID to Gresham, OR to Victoria, BC to Harlem USA.  I’ve recently begun to embrace my unconventional beginnings as a jazz singer. I used to wish my story made more sense – that I had grown up in a place where jazz, soul and gospel flowed like water, or that my hometown had a little more musical “clout.”  The truth is that my grandmother introduced me to some incredible music early on and I fell in love with it. I grabbed a hold, so to speak, and have since followed music wherever it has led me.  I had great mentors in both Oregon and British Columbia. I packed two suitcases and moved to New York City in 2009 because I knew I needed to be immersed in the music I loved in order to begin to reach the level of artistry to which I still aspire.

You’ve sung in some amazing places in the world. If you could go back to one of those places to do it all again, where would it be? Why? 



My wanderlust runs deep. I’m crossing my fingers that my dream of having a great career effortlessly marries my desire to see the world. So far, so good. I’m currently in Bangkok for a month of music at a jazz club here and I already want to come back! I came over two weeks early to travel on my own in Thailand, Cambodia and Vietnam. There are so many places I have yet to see that I’m not sure I’d prioritize a trip back to anywhere over seeing someplace new. I loved Burkina Faso in West Africa, though I see myself visiting its musical neighbors, Mali and Ivory Coast, before returning. I also adored Cuba. I am bilingual and sing in Spanish as well so South America is also at the top of my list.

What has been your biggest challenge? 

It’s cliché but I have to constantly fight against my own self-doubt and work to expand my understanding of what self-love really looks like. There is an undercurrent of negative self-beliefs that I am forever examining and pushing back against – the belief that I am not good enough, talented enough, that I am an imposter or somehow unworthy of the incredible things that I have been able to experience. What a buzz kill, really. There are also the very real challenges of being a woman in the music industry and a fat one at that. I rely on friends and fellow women artists for support and have also found strength in the body-positive, fat-positive and queer communities.

What obstacles have you overcome and walls have you broken down? 

Moving to NYC within my twenties with no money and building a music career from the ground up!  Being fat has shown me walls and barriers invisible to many. It could be seen as an obstacle but I choose to embrace my embodiment. It is one small part of who I am. If my size and shape hinders me from getting an opportunity, that opportunity was superficial and wasn’t for me – just on principle.

What would you say to your younger Girl Warrior?

Can I just hang out with her and shower her with buckets and buckets of validation? I would tell her that there is space in this world for her and for everything that she has to say and just – to go for it.

What would you say to future Girl Warriors looking for inspiration?  

I would do my best to communicate the idea that they are already in possession of everything they need to find joy and live the life of their dreams. That can be a tough one though – how much time do we have together?

Who is/are your Girl Warrior hero(s) and why? 

I have role models and certainly look up to the vocal goddesses that have inspired the masses but I’m not so big on the idea of the “hero/ (s)hero.” I am in awe and fall into a kind of love with most people I meet.

What’s next? 

I am working on a new album and it’s been a long time coming. Hopefully a month alone with a piano in a hotel room in Bangkok will result in the completion of some of these song ideas that have been floating around.

Where do you see yourself in 5 years? 

I have no idea and I feel great about that! One of most important things I’ve learned as an artist is to do the work and detach from the outcome. I say, “yes” to things even if (or especially if) they scare me.  I show up for opportunities and follow through. I create music.  What comes from that is not really for me to say.  At the same time, I am an avid daydreamer and carry within me an elaborate vision of what I want things to look like and how I want it to “feel.”  I do my best to nurture that and give it my focus. In five years, I’d like to be making music with a killing band in beautiful clubs, theaters and music festivals around the room.  And if I let myself be completely honest, I’d like to be playing Madison Square Garden.

 If a song were written about your life, what would it be called?

Maybe “Songbody.”

You can learn more about Emily @ www.emilybraden.com

Preview Soul Walk on iTunes @ https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/soul-walk/id336528400

Follow Emily on Facebook @ https://www.facebook.com/emilybraden/ and Instagram @ https://www.instagram.com/songbody/