Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Last of His Kind.

February 26, 2012June 21, 2015 / boo king / 4 Comments

Big Sis G with Tootsie on the left. Kids flocked to the Pied Piper of Bread.

I like to work. I like what I do from 9 to 5, Monday to Friday. And I also like what I do outside of that window of time. There are many things about work that I like. But the thing I like to do the most is to serve. I don’t mean serve in the way that a waiter or a clerk or a bell hop would do. I’m talking about something much more generic. Quite simply, I like to help people. To be of service to those around me. This covers a broad spectrum of possibilities because the brush is so wide, making the opportunities for work vast and limitless. There’s no end to what you can do, where you can do it, and who you can do it for. People need help everywhere. This is such an appealing notion. At the end of the day my job title or description is almost incidental. Because when you drill right down to the heart of the matter, what I actually do is help other people do what they do.

According to Bob Dylan we’ve all Gotta Serve Somebody. Whether it’s the devil or the Lord. Whether they call you Doctor or Chief. Inevitably there’s someone you’re going to serve. I not only accept this to be fact, but I embrace it. Arms wide open. It’s both humbling and gratifying. For me though, it’s always been the little “s” service. Not the big “S” classification. I’m not a doctor or a chief, an ambassador nor a heavyweight champion. I don’t eat caviar nor do I live in a mansion. I also don’t go off to battle, the mission field, lead a congregation, a classroom or a country. But every day I wake up and ask God, “How may I be of service today? How may I help those that I work for and with? How may I help those I love? How may I help a stranger?” That’s my doctrine. My personal credo. Mission statement. Plain and simple. Uncomplicated. How I work.

Little back story. My parents both worked hard. Ma, like most women of her generation stayed home and raised her family. Back then, women didn’t say things like “I work at home. I’m a stay-at-home mom. I’m a Domestic Diva.” They just did what they did. And for the most part, they never doubted that it was the right thing to do. At least not Ma. She was the first person to serve me. Something that she did pretty much all of her life. From my cradle to her grave. The thing was, Ma served everyone, not just me. Well into her seventies she seemed blessed with abundance of youthful energy. She was industrious and her hands were always occupied. Whether it was baking a pie, scrubbing a floor, nursing a wound, or wiping a snotty nose. Her marvelous hands had work to do. Purpose. When a guest walked through Ma’s door, she immediately stepped into action, ready and willing to serve. With ease and grace, she made you feel not only welcome, but important. She would serve you tea and cookies or cake or pie. And she would listen. Attentively. Kindly. Patiently. Small “s” service. Big worth.

The Old Man worked for the same company for the better part of his entire career. I use the term “career” loosely here. The Old Man had a job. His collar was blue. And his neck was red. His heart, both tender and angry. The Old Man worked for the Shaw Bread Company. To be precise, he was a Breadman. For most of his working life he delivered bread door to door. He had the same route, delivered to the same families, Monday to Friday. His route covered two distinct areas of our town. One was where the relatively affluent people lived, and the other was the Finnish business community, that included the famous Hoito Restaurant. Because the Old Man was a bonafide Finlander, one who was fluent in the language, and knew the difference between a sauna and a steam bath, it was natural for him to work this route.

The best time of year to be a Breadman was at Christmas. This was when The Old Man reaped the benefits of his good customer service. This was when he brought home the loot. Sundry gifts and tips from his happy and satisfied customers. Joy to the world. The week prior to Christmas, the Old Man came through the door each night bearing gifts. The fruits of his labors. Mostly cards with money. Or cartons of Players cigarettes, his preferred brand until he kicked the 30-year habit. Or chocolates, of assorted varieties. Some gifts were homemade. Like knitted scarves. Or socks. Sometimes he’d get a bottle of booze, which was frowned upon by Ma and her children. The Old Man was an alcoholic and a gift like this could be the kiss of death for our Christmas. Booze aside, one of my fondest memories, growing up is that of dumping out his sack full of goodies onto the living room rug and combing through it like a bloodhound on the scent of a murderer. We opened all the cards first. How much would the M or the P or the S family give? Ten bucks from the Ms! Yippee! What a grand expression of appreciation for his incomparable bread delivery service. His friendly disposition. His cornball jokes. His fresh bread and sticky sweet Persians.

In the summer The Old Man had an extra route that serviced the surrounding lakes, where the lucky folks had summer camps. Sometimes he would take me with him on these deliveries. I also have many fond memories of these afternoon trips. The roads were hilly and curvy, poorly surfaced and narrow. Yet The Old Man could drive these roads with his eyes closed. I remember the thrill of flying down hills like we were on the roller coaster at the circus. Airborne half the time. My stomach full of butterflies and tickles. “Do it again! Do it again!” I cried as we as we approached the next hill. And the next. And the next. Yes the Old Man knew how to make a bread truck soar.

Before there were bread trucks with doors that swung open wide, that smelled of yeast, sugar and sweat, there were bread wagons. Horse-drawn relics. The Old Man drove one of these up until around 1960. His horse’s name was Tootsie. Toots. She was brown and hard working. I don’t actually remember her as a real living creature. I see photos of me next to the wagon but I don’t recall the time, the experience. My Old Man was the last Breadman to use a horse-drawn wagon. There was an article about him in the local paper years later that said he was the “last of his kind.” They got that right.

There’s just something about a man who drives a wagon full of fresh baked bread and doughy treats, pulled by a horse named Tootsie, that draws people in. He was like the Pied Piper. Kids couldn’t get enough him and his wares. And his appearance in the neighborhood was quite possibly the highlight of some exhausted housewife’s day. Possibly they flirted. At the very least they exchanged pleasantries. It was nice.

I must confess I had mixed feelings about The Old Man’s occupation. On the one hand I was grateful that he worked every day and provided for his family. However meager it may have been at times. But there were many occasions when I was ashamed or embarrassed. Especially when someone asked me what my father did, and in particular if the person asking had a father who wore a silk suit to work, and not a blue twill uniform that smelled of bread dust and sweat. Then, I didn’t want to admit that I was the Breadman’s daughter. I wanted him to own the company, not deliver the bread door to door. But in the safety of my own neighborhood, where everyone’s dad had a crappy job I didn’t care. In fact, I loved that he had a job that attracted people like bees to honey. But outside of Kenogami Avenue, things were different. And the older I got, the more painfully aware I grew of the differences between the neighborhoods. The white vs the blue.

Even now, years later and thousands of miles away, when someone with a white collar demeanor innocently asks me what it was that my father did for a living, a part of me hesitates. Cringes. Blushes with embarrassment. Be it ever so brief, it’s there. The automatic response to a memory imbedded in my DNA.

What did my father do? He served. The Shaw Bread Company. His loyal customers. A brown mare named Tootsie. He did it all with good humor. Silly jokes. Kindness and generosity. And according to the article about him, he did it quite well. The most important thing I learned about working, my father taught me on those sunny summer afternoons when we barreled down the hills on our way to the lake. Or on cold winter nights when we tore open white envelopes addressed with cheerful Merry Christmas greetings and chocolate boxes wrapped in green tissue paper. Not by his words. But by his actions. Yes, this is what the last of his kind taught me. To serve.

And I am The Breadman’s daughter.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Life is a Beach.

February 19, 2012February 20, 2012 / boo king / 2 Comments

Ma always on the lookout at Sibley Park.

I can’t swim. But I do like the water – to an extent. If my body were a map, my breast bone would be the dividing line. Like the equator. That’s the border between fear and faith. It’s the big divide where comfort zone meets terror. But I do love the beach and pretty much everything about it.

Little back story. I came by my fear of the water honestly. Ma passed it onto me along with a fear of driving, dark streets at night, wild animals and dirty underwear. I’m not sure of the origin of Ma’s fears. Certainly not her own mother, since she died when Ma was three. Regardless, Ma was not a big fan of aqueous immersions.

The way Ma expressed this fear was both lamentable and exasperating. It went something like this. It’s a beautiful sunny day. We’re at a beach. One of three – Chippewa Park, Boulevard Lake or Sibley Park. Each had noteworthy characteristics that I loved. Chippewa had an amusement park of sorts (merry-go-round) and a zoo (polar bears in dirty cement pits) and a long shallow seductive shore. Boulevard was in town, easy to get to by bus, had a great concession booth and comfortable grassy shoreline. Sibley was an hours drive from town, was situated on the Sleeping Giant (which in itself was irresistible enough), had a hot sandy beach and freezing cold water (which made me giggle and shiver upon initial entry.)

As this story unfolds, we are now at the beach. I’m in my bathing suit, Ma’s in her capris and The Old Man is jauntily attired in slacks and a short sleeved cotton shirt. Usually I have at least one friend with me. Most often it is D from across the street. She’s one of five C-kids and I am a devotee of this wonderful crazy mixed up dysfunctional family. We’re all appropriately attired, a blanket is laid out on the sand, towels and flip flops are tossed carelessly about and delicious snacks that Ma has packed are set out carefully on the blanket. (If we’re at Sibley Park a picnic lunch will also be included in the day’s fare.) D and I head down to the water and everything is copacetic. Except it isn’t. Already I feel Ma’s tension. It permeates from her body like a noxious over-powering perfume. Just as our toes touch the water’s edge I hear her calling. “Not too deep now!” she cries. “No further than your knees.” Knees? Are you kidding? So I call back, “Ma, you can’t swim in knee-deep water!” “Okay, then no deeper than your waist,” she replies. Waist? Really? So D and I wade out to where waist meets water. And Ma hollers, “Far enough!” Are you kidding? Apparently not.

Compliantly, D and I find our little piece of liquid splendor somewhere between knee deep and waist high. And we frolic. And splash. And squeal. We dog paddle. And float on our backs. We blow bubbles with our faces under water. The entire time, Ma’s worried anxious eyes are upon us. I can feel her held breath. Her pounding heart. But she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t have to. Except when she thinks we’ve strayed too deep. Or for that one millisecond when she loses sight. We’ve drifted behind the fat kid floating in the ten-foot tractor tube. And we’re gone. Ma calls my name. I can hear the edge of hysteria in her voice. I emerge from behind the tractor tube boy. Safe. I wave reassuringly. And all is well.

As a result of all that fretful smothering by the shore, I never really learned how to swim. I spent much of my time reassuring Ma that I was indeed alive and still breathing. But also, another thing happened. I grew fearful too. Maybe it was dangerous. After all, we heard those tragic stories of kids who drowned, leaving in their wake broken-hearted devastated parents. Not just in lakes either. But in creeks. And bathtubs. Mud puddles even. Water was a heinous loathsome devourer of little children.

Of course, deep inside the well of Ma’s fear of water was just the plain and simple fear of loss itself. Her losses were so great. And they came so early. I don’t blame her for wanting to hang on and protect those who were most dear to her. To somehow hold safe, the small. And the fragile. The vulnerable. Prevent them from walking into the deep. And never return.

I don’t recall Ma ever going into the water. Even her bath water was shallow. I do have one lovely ancient black and white photo of her in a lake. It looks like she is up to her neck but apparently as the family story goes, that was all trickery. The water was no deeper than her waist. Still the end result was one beautiful photo. Of one beautiful, frightened courageous woman.

All this fear and anxiety aside, I still have only the fondest memories of summers growing up. Despite her fears, she faithfully took me and my friends to the beach. And through the years, I learned that there are many things to do by the water’s edge that are equally entertaining as swimming. Adventures to be sought. Imagination to be awakened. Treasures to be hunted. Oh the natural beauty of polished pieces of glass. The Noxzema blue bits were my favorites. Broken shells and hunks of gnarly driftwood. Exotic micro creatures hiding under rocks. Sand castles and suburban homes. Catching miniature fish in yellow plastic pails. The tickle of hot sand as it sifts through your toes. The music of waves rushing to shore. The sounds of laughter and glee. The smell of Coppertone. And hot dogs. French fries and onion rings. And the glorious sun high in the large blue sky roasting our skin and filling our hearts with warmth. And the promise of forever. These were the gifts that Ma provided. This was the trade-off.

Magic. And mystery. And wonder. All this in place of the butterfly kick and the front crawl. But I have learned to swim in other ways. I know the fine art of survival. And the dance of intent. The call of the courageous. I know when to hold up my head and squint into the sunlight.

I wrote a song called Sibley Park. It was inspired by my summers spent there with Ma. Here are the lyrics. It’s in the key of C. Like much of my life.

Sibley Park © by boo king

We went to Sibley Park
And we swam in the coldest part
We took pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus

The sand was beige and hot
And my suit was full of polka dots
We took pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus

We ate Oh Henry bars
And you dove off my freckled arms
We took pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus

Our moms sat in the shade
As we swam and they drank lemonade
They took pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus

Gus barked and chased a stick
As he raced and he did dog tricks
We took pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus

I went to Sibley Park
Where we swam in the coldest part
I kept pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus

I wonder where you are
You recall the way we were before
When we took pictures of the three of us
Just you and me and Gus.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: The Old Man and the Musical Spoons.

February 10, 2012February 18, 2012 / boo king / 3 Comments

The organ that played itself and the God forsaken spoons.

I love music. I have my favorite genres. Like Rock. Or British Rock. Or Indie Rock. Or Alternate Rock. But mostly I just like music that is done well, regardless of the flavor. On the other hand, nothing can redeem music done badly. Watching the outtakes of American Idol is case in point. Enough said.

I’m not sure when my love affair with music began. Maybe it’s in my DNA. Maybe I was born with it. Maybe it’s Maybelline.

Little back story. The Old Man played the spoons. His musical “performances” were at times idiosyncratic. Often they were comical. Sometimes just downright annoying. But always surprising. You never knew when he was going to pull out his instrument, aka eating utensil, and start slapping and pummeling his knee. Stomping his foot. Giving it the old Hee Haw. The thing is, playing the spoons isn’t just about the spoons. The knee, thigh and foot are equal and integral elements that compose this unorthodox and curious instrument. Because in fact, the spoon is connected to the thigh bone and the thigh bone is connected to knee bone and the knee bone somehow gets involved with the foot stomping bone. And music is born. Quirky. Zany. Spirited. Lively toe tapping foot stomping lunacy. As a very young child I remember being delighted by his unorthodox talent, his gift for making music from two spoons lifted from Ma’s cutlery drawer. The very ones that were mundanely used to transfer Snap Crackle and Pop from my morning bowl of cereal to my eager mouth. I applauded his unpredictable and spontaneous “performances.” When I grew older, and my musical tastes became more sophisticated, more particular, these spoon “performances” just seemed silly. But that didn’t deter The Old Man. He continued throughout his lifetime to pull out his instrument whenever it struck his musical fancy. Although at the time I didn’t see this as a redeeming attribute, I now admire his abandon. His throw caution to the wind attitude. His oblivious nature.

Possibly, at the heart of The Old Man’s spoon playing was a desire to play a far more conventional instrument. The drums. In fact, he actually confessed this to me once. But then he also said he wanted to be a professional Umpire, so who knows the breadth of his daydreams and depths of his disappointments. Certainly not me. But he was one of those people who liked to tap on things, if this is any indication of his percussive propensity. Pencils on desk tops. Nails into boards. Boots on the doorstep. Spoons on the side of coffee cups. But this is as far as it got. There were no drum kits in the basement. There weren’t even sticks.

But The Old Man and his musical influences may well have been the genesis for my musical avocation. Or perhaps it began with the cardboard piano I practiced on the year I took lessons. Maybe it was all Ma’s record playing on the Hi-Fi with its snazzy wooden cabinet. Or the guitar that sat in the corner behind the chair. Perhaps it was the Hammond Organ that practically played itself. Who can say for sure. I only know that it came. And it hit me pretty hard. But not quite hard enough to make it a career. A vocation. Just enough for an avocation. A little hobby. Musical backdrop to my life.

My musical education goes something like this. I took one year of piano lessons while in grade school. But we didn’t own a piano and cardboard could only take you so far. Too quiet. In grade five I tried out for the choir. I didn’t make the cut. My voice was too quiet. In grade seven our class was given recorders. They were light and plastic. And at times as unpleasant sounding as spoons. In high school I finally got to study music for real. In today’s vernacular I would have been considered a “band geek.” That word didn’t exist back then. Thankfully. We were spared that humiliating, yet somehow fashionably trendy, moniker. Perplexing paradox.

I was assigned a clarinet. I wanted to play flute. Oh well. I grew to love the clarinet despite the challenges with reeds and spit. And I loved playing in an orchestra. Not that we did gigs or concerts or anything even remotely cool. But we did play in class every day, at our weekly all-school assemblies, and we travelled to Wawa and Duluth to perform at other high schools. We also learned to play and march. This is no small feat. Especially for someone like me, who is challenged to walk and chew gum at the same time.

My musical education continued into University. Technically afterwards. A few years after I got my Degrees, in fields unrelated to music, I went back. I studied first year flute and theory. My teacher was the principal flutist for the symphony and she was a virtuoso. At least to me. She did what I wanted to do. She possessed the courage and ability that I lacked. That also made her divine. And the truth was, teaching me put the virtue in her virtuosity. She taught me well. I went from being undisciplined and lazy to a dedicated student who applied herself. I learned how to dig in. Knuckle down. Dive in. At least for one year.

The year of the flute was pretty much the end of my “formal” education in music. But there was one more instrument. The guitar. I’ve owned a few over the years. I’ve also had my share of teachers. I’ve learned a chord or two from each of them. Now I have a collection that I can play, for the most part with ease. With the exception of the dreaded B chord. It appears that I lack the genetic B-code, which provides other guitarists the manual dexterity to contort and stretch their fingers with strength and confidence. I have learned, however, that there are many many great songs that do not contain B chords. I play those.

I love this instrument. Everything about it. The way it looks. How it feels next to my body. I heard Randy Bachman once say (and I’m paraphrasing here) that it’s such a great instrument because you can wrap your arms around it. I like that about it too. You can hug it. No matter how badly I play, it still embraces me.

About twenty years ago I was given the guitar I now play, by the two men I love the most in the world. My son and my husband. I love this guitar almost as much as I love them. My Daion. Over the past twenty years I have played it a lot. But there have been periods, quiet patches, where I just left it leaning in the corner untouched. Someone once advised me to never leave a guitar in its case. To always keep it out in the open where it can be around people – preferably its owner. According to this folklore, this musical mythology, the guitar absorbs the vibes and energy of the people around it. And as a result it plays better. Some would say this is crazy talk. Cuckoo. Cockamamie. Perhaps. But we’re also talking about an instrument that likes to be held and hugged.

A lot of the time I play badly. But that doesn’t deter me. I guess I learned that from The Old Man and his God forsaken spoon music. For the most part I play alone in my room, except for the half hour a week spent with my teacher. Lately we’ve been working on my original tunes. About a year ago I got this notion that maybe I could write a song. I’ve written a thing or two in my life but never music. Random melodies would meander through my mind. Vaguely familiar yet unknown. Like foreigners who show up on your doorstep claiming to be your long lost cousin Vilho from Finland. They weren’t on my playlist. Nor my iPod. They were just tucked away inside my head waiting to be released. Now one by one they are coming out. Like high school clarinet players marching to their own funky beat.

In my room, behind closed doors, I throw caution to the wind. I play my Daion and I sing. With utter abandon. Oblivious of the judgement of those within hearing range. I’m silly. Embarrassing even. I am my father’s daughter. I’m The Old Lady with her God forsaken guitar.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: The Fine Art of Courage and Sunflowers.

February 6, 2012June 14, 2015 / boo king / Leave a comment

Ma’s Sunflower painting wide and open.

I love sunflowers. They are such a cheerful good natured flower. If they were people they would be the kind with the wide open faces and big toothy grins. You know the sort. The ones who always see the sunny side of things. The good. The optimistic. The hopeful.

Little back story: My love affair with this blithe bloom actually began as a seed. As much as I loved the flowers, it was nothing compared to my love for the seeds. Not the healthy versions that you buy in health food stores or in the bulk food section at the grocery store. I’m talking about the ones you buy in the chip aisle or at your neighborhood corner store, the depository for all things so good tasting yet so bad for you. I’m talking the super salty variety in their shell. The ones that you suck, crack open, chew, swallow, wash down with soda. One bag of Giants and your mouth is begging for mercy. This is my idea of the perfect sunflower seed.

One summer The Old Man and I planted sunflowers all around the perimeter of our back yard. They grew tall. And confident. And winsome. They were magnificent. I loved them. The Old Man Loved them. Ma loved them. The birds especially loved them. Everyone was happier that summer. Sunflowers have a knack for bringing out the best in all. Perhaps that explains their popularity.

Ma wasn’t a gardener. She left that to The Old Man and me. Ma was an artist. I didn’t really appreciate her artistic abilities until she turned sixty. Not that Ma suddenly became Picasso or even Grandma Moses on her sixtieth birthday, and then we all took note. It’s more that Ma’s creative talents weren’t so clearly defined, at least not to me. An “Artist” by my limited definition, was someone, most likely bohemian in nature, who had abstract paintings in uptown galleries, SoHo cafes, coffee table books or at the very least was someone like the quirky art teacher in my high school. Not my mother. But her domestic talent was always present, manifested in everything she touched. From the one-of-a-kind clothes she sewed for me to her scrumptious baking and homemade pasta and bread. Everything she made with her expressive hands was a work of art. A masterpiece.

At sixty Ma went back to high school. At night. To study art. Oil and charcoal. I can only imagine the bravery it took to embark on such an endeavor. What a personal challenge it must have been. But also what an adventure. What a magnificent obsession she must have had. I say this because she was so painfully shy and timid. Her voice, at times was barely audible. You had to really listen to Ma when she spoke or you would miss all the good stuff. The wisdom. The gems. The humor.

Off she went. Courage mustered. Heart full. Audacity emblazoned. Once a week she headed out to my old school where she studied fine art. Drawing and painting. Life and landscape. People and places. Her imagination was set free. She was firing on all cylinders and having the time of her life. She was in bliss. Cloud Nine. Heaven. And yes, it was oh so fine.

Ma’s life as an artist could have started much earlier than age sixty. Raising a family, time commitments, financial struggles, shyness and fear aside, there was something far more sinister holding Ma back. She told me a story once that both broke my heart and made me angry. When she was a young girl in grade school she drew a picture. I think it was of a cat. Proud of her drawing, she showed it to her teacher. Instead of praise and encouragement she was met with accusation and shame. The teacher accused her of tracing the cat, berated her, saying that she couldn’t possibly have drawn it so accurately without having cheated. Needless to say, this crushed Ma. Her spirit. Her talent. From that moment onward she kept her artistic dreams a secret. Locked away inside her precious little-girl heart for decades.

I have no idea what the catalyst was for her change of heart, for the unearthing of her secret desire. I don’t know what made her push the fear and shame aside in favor of following her dream. It seems that one day she just did it, as if out of the clear blue. She had a notion and acted on it. And I’m so glad she did.

Ma had many many joyful years of painting. In particular, she liked to paint flowers. I remember towards the end of her life, when she was in her late seventies, I asked her to paint me some sunflowers. By then, she had pretty much abandoned her easel, canvases and paints. She simply stopped. Almost as quickly as she started. For no apparent reason. Another notion perhaps. Again I had no understanding of why. It was all a mystery to me. The enigma of Ma. The request for the sunflower painting was my vain attempt to coax her back into doing the one thing in life that brought her such joy, that had nothing to do with raising kids or managing a home, taking care of The Old Man. It was just Ma’s. Uniquely hers. I also really wanted a painting of sunflowers for my living room wall. But she kept putting it off. Said she’d “get round to it one of these days.” Then I dropped the subject. She was getting old. Then she had the heart attack. And everything changed.

After Ma’s funeral, on a cold February night in a small town in Northwestern Ontario my siblings and I visited the home where we all grew up. This would be the last time I would ever step inside this place. It was cold outside but even colder inside. It struck me that without Ma, there was no warmth. This was now just a small wartime house in the west end of nowhere. I visited each room for one last time, collecting little mementoes and treasures that once belonged to Ma. My siblings did the same.

Upstairs in the room that was once occupied by my older brothers, then by me, and was one of the places where Ma liked to paint, I found the most resplendent keepsake of all. The sunflower painting. There it was. Waiting for me. Even after she had moved on, she was still giving me gifts. Suddenly the room grew warmer. My heart was light. My face open and wide. My grin big and toothy.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Not a Dream House But a House to Dream In.

February 4, 2012February 18, 2012 / boo king / 6 Comments

The little white house around the corner.

I own a home. Truthfully, I own it with my husband and the bank. For the most part I don’t think about the bank partnership, except for when it comes time to renew our mortgage. I had dreamed of owning a place on the West Coast long before it became a reality. You might say that the day we were handed the keys to the front door was a dream come true.

Little back story. Both my husband and I had owned homes in previous lifetimes, with our former mates. When I was five months pregnant with my oldest daughter, my ex-husband and I bought a house. It was brand spanking new and nestled smack dab in the middle of a cul-de-sac in an equally new suburb within walking distance of the house where I grew up. I use the term “suburb” loosely here because I’m talking about a town, not some sprawling city. There really weren’t suburbs, just neighborhoods added to neighborhoods added to more neighborhoods until some were almost on their way out of town, like this one happened to be. And to be honest it didn’t take much to be within walking distance of anywhere in my hometown. For two very good reasons. Firstly, it was considered small – not rural small but definitely on the shy side of a real bonafide city – so walking anywhere was within distance. Secondly, I have always had a love affair with walking, and can go the distance, at least within reason. A trek across the country would be considered unreasonable in most people’s books, although some have ventured forth. But that is not my idea of a good time so it won’t be happening any time soon.

That ever so brief foray into home ownership was embarked upon more for practical reason than anything else. Nothing dreamy. More nightmarish. I was pregnant, full of baby hormones and hellbent on having a proper home in which to bring my new offspring. We had been renting a small apartment (by anyone’s measurements) that was barely big enough for the family we already had. This consisted of my ex-husband, my son and an intelligent black Persian cat named Isadora, who used to pee in the toilet, which is more than I could say about my son at the time. In his defense, he was young and I’m still prone to exaggerate the length of his potty training stage. In my defense, I think for most young parents this chapter in childhood development feels like an eternity. But I digress. What’s important here, is that in my mind it was essential that we find a bigger abode. Back then home ownership was still within everyone’s grasp. So we saved four months worth of my wages, slapped down a downpayment and moved in. A year later we moved to Toronto. End of back story.

Up until 10 years ago my current husband and I were renters. (This is beginning to sound like I’ve had a string of husbands and habitations. I haven’t. Just for the record.) The thing about renting is it costs a lot, sometimes more than a monthly mortgage payment. And a roof over your head aside, it does nothing for your bottom line. We never had enough left over at the end of each month to save for a downstroke on a house. Not that we lived beyond our means, but we did use up every bit of what was left after we paid the rent. Then Ma died and five weeks later the Old Man followed her into the Great Hereafter. And then a year later a miracle happened. With a small inheritance in hand we marched to the bank and proudly declared “one mortgage please.” It didn’t go down exactly that way, but you get the picture.

Once the mortgage amount was determined, we then knew the price range of the house we could actually purchase. We met with a Real Estate Agent on a Friday night, chose a selection of places within our price range, and mapped out a plan for the following Sunday to “view houses.” Imagine that. We were now people who viewed houses. How exciting.

The next day something very serendipitous happened. We were on our way to the grocery store when we noticed a “For Sale” sign on a house just around the corner from where we lived. It was a cute little white house, a forty’s postwar ranch style thingamajig. There was something familiar about it that spoke to me. Close proximity to where we lived aside, until I saw that “For Sale” sign I hadn’t even noticed it before. Not sure why. Perhaps because it was so unassuming and modest that it just blended in. We called our Real Estate Agent and asked her to add a house to the list for “viewing” the next day.

The little white house around the corner was the first house we saw. I walked through the front door and I was home. There it was. No need to look any further. After 25 years I had come home. It was sweet. And simple. And dear. Unpretentious and humble. Full of natural light. Round corners and wooden floors. Families had lived there. Loved there. Prayed over evening meals and sick children, dying dogs, birds that flew the nest. It reminded me of the house I grew up in with Ma, The Old Man and my three siblings. It spoke to me. This was the house I wanted to buy. We looked at a half-dozen other places that day but it was all just a formality, the new homebuyer jig to appease the Real Estate Agent and her desire to have done her due diligence. We respected that. But at the end of the day I declared, “Let’s put in an offer on the first house we saw, the little white house around the corner. I liked that house.”

This little house that I live in and own with my husband and the bank wasn’t my dream home. Far from it. This little house was not the picture I tore out of magazines and kept in scrapbooks, nor pointed at while walking with Ma, nor envied while visiting others with homes in the style that I fancied, nor was it the centerpiece of my domicile daydreams. No, this little white house around the corner was not my dream home. But it was something far better. It was my home to dream in. And after ten years, I know without a doubt that it is more than I could have ever imagined.

My Thing About God