Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: 101 Lessons for a Good Life.

May 26, 2012May 5, 2015 / boo king / 8 Comments

#73 – Every child born to our family is wanted and loved.

I like lists. I find them quite useful. They keep me organized. Or at least they create the illusion of doing so. A nifty thing about lists is how they come chock-a-block with little goals. Each line item something to be accomplished. Been there. Done that. Now move on. And there’s nothing quite like the satisfaction of scratching something off the list. Personally, I like to draw a thick heavy line right through the achievement. Preferably in permanent ink. Finito.

There are daily lists. Like the “to do/call/email” list at work. Some are weekly. Grocery lists fall into this category. Others are annual. The family Christmas wish list reigns supreme. Some are fun. Like the list of things we need for our Annual Thanksgiving Bluegrass Party. Then there are sundry others. Everything from books to read, songs to download, places to see, people to meet, things to keep and things to chuck. All worthwhile and handy to have in your hip pocket.

One of the best lists I have ever compiled is the one that I am sharing with you today. It’s a list of some of the things that Ma taught me during the course of our lifetime together. These are things she said, did, led by example, or simply implied. There are 101 things on this list. There could have been one thousand or one million. Because she taught me so much and I am so very grateful. But I’ve narrowed the list down to 101. I like this number. It reminds me of the first year course numbers when I was in University. English 101. Pyschology 101. Anthropology 101 where I met my first true love. It’s a solid number with the implication that there is more to come. And who knows. Maybe there is.

The list isn’t in any particular order. It’s random. Like life. Some things are common sense. Others uncommon. Extraordinary. Some are peculiar. And contradictory. Some are funny. Others very sad. At times confusing. Often profound in simplicity. And full of classic cliches of the time. But also bright. And wise. Witty. Practical. Pragmatic. Confounding. Infuriating. Loving. Tender. Touching.

Cherished gifts each and every one. From Ma to me. To you. With love.

1. Two wrongs don’t make a right.
2. You can’t make someone love you.
3. Always wear clean underwear. Carry a pair in your purse just in case.
4. Tomorrow’s another day and this too shall pass.
5. The secret to baking a good cookie is to remove it from the oven just before it’s done and let it finish baking on the sheet.
6. Time heals all wounds.
7. You can’t take it with you when you go.
8. Bad breath is better than no breath at all.
9. Everybody needs love even those who are difficult like your father.
10. God is inside of me.
11. The secret to a good spaghetti sauce is to let it simmer all day.
12. Don’t complain. No one’s listening anyway.
13. Nobody’s perfect. They just wish they were.
14. Life is far too short.
15. Send your child to school in fresh clean clothes every day even if it means doing laundry every night.
16. Don’t go out in the sun without a big hat and long sleeves.
17. Walk whenever possible and always have a comfortable pair of shoes at the back door ready to go.
18. You don’t need make-up, except for lipstick. It brightens your face and makes you look pretty.
19. Keep a nice home and welcome everyone into it.
20. Always tell the truth. No one trusts liars.
21. Pay attention to how the dog reacts to your boyfriends. The dog is a good judge of character.
22. Splurge on a really nice dress for a special occasion. Treat yourself and don’t feel guilty. It’s important to feel good when you go out.

#23 – Don’t walk around the house with your shoes on. It’s rude.

23. Don’t walk around the house with your shoes on. It’s rude.
24. Always wash your face and put on night cream before going to bed. Repeat in the morning with day cream. Moisturizing is the key to beautiful skin all your life.
25. Pick up a “Ladies” magazine while you’re grocery shopping. It’s an inexpensive treat.
26. Not everyone belongs in a group.
27. Don’t throw Tupperware parties. No one will come.
28. Stay away from bad people. Especially men who are bad for you. You’ll get hurt every time.
29. Call if you need me. Anytime. Anywhere. I’ll be right there.
30. Babies like to be picked up when they cry.
31. Nothing beats flannel pajamas and nighties.

#32 – Take pictures of the flowers you are sent.

32. Take pictures of the cakes you bake, the flowers you are sent, the gifts you are given, the Christmas tree every year even if it looks the same, it’s different.
33. Support a third world child regardless of your financial situation.
34. Cry when you’re sad. Yell when you’re mad. Sit silently when you need to think. Laugh at the funny things.
35. Get up early. Put the kettle on first thing. Start your day with a cup of tea and piece of toast.
36. It’s okay to wear comfortable clothes around the house just as long as they’re freshly washed and ironed. Being comfortable isn’t the same thing as being a slob.
37. You can never give a child enough love. That’s not what spoils them.
38. Accept invitations to lunch or an afternoon shopping at the mall.
39. It’s okay to fall asleep on the couch while watching television.
40. Don’t worry about your age. There’s nothing you can do about it.
41. Always send Thank You cards.

#42 – Remember everyone’s birthday with a homemade cake.

42. Remember everyone’s birthday with a homemade cake and a nicely wrapped gift. At the very least give a special card.
43. Take care of your teeth. False teeth just aren’t the same as your own.
44. Invite people to stay for dinner. There’s always plenty.
45. Make the bed as soon as you get up.
46. Have supper together every night and make Sunday dinner extra special. Roast something. Have the entire family over.
47. Give people the benefit of the doubt and don’t hold grudges.
48. You don’t need a reason to give a gift or to send someone a note to let them know you’re thinking of them.
49. Try not to hurt someone’s feelings but apologize right away when you do.
50. Mind your manners. Always say please and thank you.
51. Wash your hands all day long but especially before touching food.
52. Bounce a baby on your lap and sing “doodley doodley doodley doo.”
53. Pick up litter when you see it. Stuff it in your pocket if there isn’t a garbage nearby and throw it out when you get home.
54. Never let your grey roots show. It makes you look old.
55. Baths are better than showers.
56. Always bring out the good china for company and on special occasions.
57. You’re never too old to start something new.
58. Nothing tastes quite as good as a sandwich made with lettuce freshly picked from the garden.
59. It’s okay to buy certain things for your home “on time.”
60. Write letters. Everyone loves getting them.
61. No one will love you like your mother. Especially a man.
62. Some people can be mean. That doesn’t make okay for you to be mean back.
63. Take all kinds of vitamins and supplements. They’re good for you.
64. People with thin lips are nags.
65. Pay your bills every month no matter how broke you are. Even if it’s just a little bit to everyone you owe.
66. It’s a sign of beauty if a girl looks like her father.
67. Get the dishes done right after you eat.
68. Eat lots of fruits and vegetables and enjoy dessert.
69. Learn to sew clothes, embroider tablecloths and knit scarves. Teach these to your daughters.
70. Learn to cook and bake, especially if you have children.
71. Read everything you can about being healthy and subscribe to Prevention Magazine.

#56 – Always bring out the good china for company and on special occasions.

72. Try to see the good in everyone.
73. Every child born to our family is wanted and loved.
74. Exercise every day. Walk. Do yoga. Ride an exercise bike.
75. Go back to school at sixty.
76. Don’t waste your time gossiping.
77. A health food store is a good place to shop.
78. The secret to a perfect pie crust is a secret. But here’s the recipe.
79. Be kind and decent to everyone no matter who they are.
80. Walk facing the traffic at all times.
81. Be nice.
82. Don’t go empty handed to someone’s house.
83. Pray for people whether they asked you to or not. Especially your children.
84. Don’t go blabbing family business to the neighbors.
85. You can do anything you want to if you put your mind to it.
86. You’re just as good as anyone.
87. Always make lemon pie from scratch. It’s worth it.
88. Forgive and forget. Sometimes it’s easier said than done though.
89. Celebrate the holidays with your family. Have big wonderful meals and lots of gifts under the tree.
90. You don’t have to get married to be married.
91. Potatoes are versatile.
92. No matter how afraid you are, get on the plane.
93. Respect your elders and those in authority, especially teachers and police officers. Their jobs are hard enough.
94. Don’t be a show off, braggart or know-it-all. No one likes people like that.
95. It’s important to have a room of your own to sew or paint or make things.
96. Always have Kleenex up your sleeve and a package of peppermint Chicklets in your purse.
97. Offer your seat on the bus to older people and pregnant women.
98. Italians are nice people.
99. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, especially to children.
100. You only get out of life what you put into it.
101. You’re never too old to play on a swing.

#101 – You’re never too old to play on a swing.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: I Never Can Say Goodbye.

May 19, 2012May 7, 2015 / boo king / 4 Comments

Ma enjoying her morning tea the summer before she died.

Goodbyes can be hard for me. Especially when I’m saying them to someone I love. Then they don’t feel very good at all. But within every goodbye is the welcoming possibility of the next hello. Saving grace.

Some goodbyes are more difficult than others. Some are temporary. Short lived. But others are permanent. Never another opportunity to bid someone a fond adieu. These are the most difficult. The heartbreakers. The sorrowful ones. And sadly unavoidable. Sooner or later, it happens to all of us.

If we’re lucky there may only be a few really big goodbyes in our lifetime. But along the journey there are many little ones. These are the fine hairline fractures of the heart. The tiny losses that are barely detected by our minds but somewhere deep inside our spirt, there is a knowing. And with each one, life changes. Maybe not in a gigantic shrieking way. But there is a shift. It’s the winds of changes, Dylan sang about. And things are never quite the same as they were. I think we record these moments in our soul. Some we bury deep. Others we record for posterity. Capture in black and white. Or record in living color. And play back. Again and again. But no matter how many times we practice we are never ever truly prepared for the last time.

We probably say goodbye to someone everyday. I know I do. In the morning my husband shouts up the stairs on his way out the door for work. “See ya later,” he calls. I’m in the bathroom readying myself for work, toothbrush in hand and I holler back, “have a good day!” He responds in kind, “you too!” I can hear the back door slam on his way out. Hello, where’s my kiss.

My youngest daughter does a similar thing as she leaves for school, or to meet with friends. “Bye Mom. Love you!” she sings. Her sweet voice, music to my ears. “Love you too dear!” I trill. I could be anywhere at this point. Applying mascara in front of the bathroom mirror. Throwing on a pair of skinny red jeans for work. Rummaging through my closet for a clean top to go with them. Gathering up the bag of goodies I need for work. I hear the door slam. I hear her say “hello” to her best friend. They giggle. They talk loud. They’re young.

At work there are numerous goodbyes. Business associates and colleagues come and go. I wish them well. “Have a good day!” “Enjoy your week!” “Your weekend!” Cheers and tootle-dos. And with each “so long, farewell, it’s been good to know you” there is always the promise of tomorrow. Another day to say hello.

Some goodbyes are rites of passage. Like when my son moved out of the house and in with his buddies. He was a young man by then. But that’s not what I saw as he moved his things out of his bedroom. I saw my little raisin-eyed boy who loved to rub his hands together with glee whenever his favorite team scored a goal. I saw the little boy who held my hand on the way to school his first day. I saw our entire life together flash before me as he closed the door. Just like they say happens when you die. I saw it all in an instant. Hello, can we press rewind.

A similar thing happened when my oldest daughter left to go to college. My son just moved across town. But my daughter moved across the Georgia Strait. In theory still close. But there was this inconvenient body of water between us, which meant we couldn’t just hop in the car and be there in ten minutes. This geographic situation introduced all the “special occasion” goodbyes. Her birthday and Thanksgiving weekend combo. Christmas vacation. The quick trip over for a winter weekend. Easter and maybe spring break if luck is on our side. The long weekend in May or Mother’s Day. Choose one. Canada Day and little sister’s birthday BBQ if time permits. Time. Never enough. But we’ve got memories by the truckload. And lots of hugs and kisses at the ferry terminal or the back door. “Love you dear.” “Love you too Mom.” Hello, can we have more special occasions.

By the time I had these rites of passage and special occasion goodbyes with my children, I was already well practiced with Ma and The Old Man. I remember the first one like it was yesterday. It was the hardest. Painful doesn’t even come close to describing it. When my son was three we moved to the Westcoast for the first time. My sister was (and still is) living in Victoria. The plan was to move in with her and start a new life. It was time to cut the apron strings. And stand on my own two feet. Embrace adulthood by moving three thousand miles from home. It was all very exciting.

The departure scene at the airport is imbedded in my memory. Forever. Leaving Ma was hard enough. But leaving with her grandson in tow was agonizing. She had helped raise him and he meant the world to her. We hugged. We cried. We waved goodbye. My son and I got on the plane. I wanted to jump on the next one back. I didn’t. But I did return a year later with a new husband. Hello, we’re home.

There would be more moves over the years and many goodbye hugs and kisses. All in preparation for the big one.

Ma died a year and a half after she had a massive heart attack. Until that fateful day she always seemed so young and energetic. She was one of those people whose age was indefinable. We all thought she’d live to one hundred, including Ma. Her heart attack was a shock to everyone, including Ma. In fact, once Ma was out of the hospital and recovering nicely, she immediately went into denial. “Oh I didn’t have a heart attack,” she’d say. “Oh but you did Ma,” we’d say. She never listened. And either way, she seemed in pretty good shape for someone who may, or may not, have lost over 70% of her heart muscle. Hello, who knows best.

The year and a half that Ma lived after her heart attack was a gift from God. Not just for her. But for me as well. Had she died instantly that day in early August, I’m not sure I would have fared as well as I did. This long goodbye. This period of grace from God was the time I needed to come to grips with my mother’s mortality. Despite her youthful appearance and vigorous disposition, she was in her eighties. She was elderly. And no one, not even Ma, get’s out of here alive. That year and a half was a sweet gentle loving time. I grew to appreciate the quiet moments. I learned to sit and be still. I learned to watch and witness. I grew a grateful heart. I learned to let go.

A few months after her heart attack my sister brought Ma out to the Westcoast for a visit. Because she had been doing so well, we thought this would be a good thing for her. She never did return home. Never saw The Old Man again. She pined for both. One minute she was doing really well and the next she was severely ill. Quite quickly we ran out of time to get her back home. She was stuck in Oz. Her last Christmas was spent in the hospital. We spent the best part of it there with her. It was a sad time. But it was wonderful too. Miraculous. Not because Ma’s heart was repaired. But because mine was transformed. Permanently. I would never take life for granted again.

Ma enjoying an intimate moment with her great granddaughter just days before she died.

In the days before her death my oldest daughter brought my granddaughter to visit Ma in the hospital. They couldn’t get their eyes off each other. There they were. The one leaving earth and the one who had just arrived in a profound intimate exchange. No words necessary. Just a meeting of the souls. Kindred spirits. Evermore linked.

Hello. I love you.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Where Would we be Without our Mothers.

May 12, 2012May 3, 2015 / boo king / 3 Comments

Ma and Daughter Number One wearing matching sweaters.

I miss Ma. Every day. Some days I pine for her in the deepest way. Especially at this time of year. I’d like to sit and have tea and cookies with her. Just one more time. Phone her up to chat. Long distance to wherever she is. There are days when I weep. Uncontrollably. It’s like a sad Candid Camera. When it’s least expected. Tears. I never know when they’ll erupt. Or why. I can look at the same picture of Ma a thousand times and all it does is evoke a smile. But every now and again I’ll see it through a different lens. And the tears fall. Like the loss just happened. Heart broken anew.

Ma was the perfect mother for me. She wasn’t perfect. And she’d be the first to point out her flaws. But only Ma could have given birth to me. Without she, there would be no me.

I had a good mother. And I gave birth to a good mother. I am doubly blessed. Twice heaven-sent. Daughter Number One (DNO) gave me a granddaughter and made me a “boo.” In our family this means grandmother. It was an endearing childhood nickname that we hauled out of antiquity. Ma was already Gran, Granny and Grandma. No other title seemed quite as fitting so we came up with the boo thing. And it just felt right.

I always knew I would be a mother. It wasn’t like I lied awake at night dreaming of the day when I would hold a child in my arms. It was just something I took for granted. Understood would happen. And I am so grateful that it did. I love being a mom. I love being a boo.

When Ma was a young girl, she did dream of being a mother one day. Having a family to call her own. By the time she was ten both her parents were gone, and for all intents and purposes, Ma and her four sisters were left orphaned. They were raised by their maternal grandmother. Ma loved her dearly. But she longed for a mother’s love. I get that. There’s nothing quite like it, especially when you’ve got a good one.

It was from that motherless child’s perspective that Ma’s desire grew. To one day be a mother herself. There was never any doubt in her mind. No second guessing. It was her magnificent obsession. Her four kids were everything to her. As were her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Quite simply, Ma loved kids. Not just her own. But everyones. That was where her heart was. And kids loved her. Drawn to her like Mother Earth. They may have come initially for her cookies. But came back for her kindness. And she had it in spades. Her heart was compassionate. Her understanding empathic. Who wouldn’t want to run into the arms of someone so emotionally gifted.

Ma holding me as we pose for the camera.

It was love at first sight for both Ma and me. I don’t remember of course, but on some level I think we do. Somewhere inside our spirit lives this first moment of meeting. Ma said I was born around noon. It was summer time. Possibly the living was easy. Ma was happy. From what I was told her water broke, she had me, missed lunch and that “I was the cutest baby.” As it just so happens, my three siblings were also the cutest babies. It’s nothing shy of a miracle how every mother has the cutest baby, or babies. I love how equitable the universe is on this subject. But equality aside, this was our moment for mutual admiration. My three older siblings all had their turn. Now this was mine.

Ma said I had dark brown eyes and tons of long black hair. I used to pull it and make myself cry. And then look at Ma like she was the culprit. Ma loved to tell this tale of my infantile masochism. It was her “cute baby” story. And I couldn’t get enough of it. Partly because it made us both laugh. But also because Ma always told it with an air of pride in my crowning glory. Like this was some extraordinary accomplishment on both our parts. And at such a young age.

Me and Daughter Number One posing for the camera.

I remember the birth of my DNO like it was yesterday. I was two weeks overdue. And super-sized. Next to me, an elephant looked svelte. It was the beginning of October and Autumn was showing off as usual. I was hoping DNO would arrive a week early for Ma’s birthday. What a perfect gift this would have been. But that day came and went. Then I placed my hopes on my best friend’s birthday in the middle of September, but that too came and went. By the end of September, the doctor decided that if the baby didn’t arrive over the weekend, he would intervene. Monday came and still no baby. An induction was scheduled for 5:00pm that day. This was the last thing I wanted but by this time, I was compliant. Ready. I hadn’t seen my feet in months. I was swollen. And exhausted. It was time for the bun to come out of the oven.

Perhaps it was just a curious coincidence. Or maybe DNO was finally ready. Because not long after we arrived at the hospital, I felt the first pangs of labor. No need for inducement. This became my “cute baby” story for DNO. Just the suggestion was enough for her to take things into her own hands. Do things her way. This willfulness has never left her. It is one of the things I admire and love most about DNO. It has taken her to wonderful places that I have only imagined. It is the engine that drives her courage. Her strength. Her determination to live life to the fullest. It propels her towards big dreams.

My other “cute baby” story is how she came out smiling. She had a happy spirit right from the start. This too in part defines her. I looked into her beautiful dark brown eyes and it was love at first sight. And I knew. There would be no stopping a girl with a cheerful demeanor and a will of steel. Watch out world. Here she comes.

On some level the birth of my granddaughter was more profound than the birth of my three children. When you’re in labor you’re caught up in the fray. There’s no time for perspective. Reflection. Or introspection. That comes afterwards. But when your child is having a child, you are witness to the miraculous. And you know it. With every fiber of your being. Grandchild number one (GNO) came into my world one beautiful morning at the end of summer and made it a better place. All has been right ever since.

Daughter Number One holding Granddaughter Number One.

My daughter had been in labor for over two days. It was difficult to watch my child in pain. If I could, I would have taken it from her. It’s natural for a mother to want to take the bullet. Jump in front of the train. Walk without shoes. And this was one of those instances where I would have done anything for her. But this was her journey to travel. Her odyssey. Her miracle in the making. Her moment. My job was to wait. To comfort. And to love.

And wait we did. In the final hours before GNO’s arrival, my husband and I sat on the floor outside my daughter’s hospital room. From that vantage point, we listened while my daughter’s partner whispered words of encouragement and love. We listened as the medical folks led her through the final stages of childbirth. We listened as she became a mother. We listened as the doctor declared that a beautiful healthy baby girl was born. Those were the joyful words we were waiting to hear. Then it was time to meet our new granddaughter. I held her in my arms and she looked up at me with deep dark chocolate eyes. Just like Ma’s. And this is my “cute baby” story for her. I remind her often that she has her great grandmother’s black Italian eyes. And that their time together was brief. But they knew each other well.

Ma was a remarkable mother. My daughter is too.

Ma taught me everything she knew. How to bake a perfect ginger cookie. Sew a seam on a summer dress. Tend to an open wound. Mend a broken heart. She taught me how important it was to listen to your child. And to hear the words spoken. And those not. She taught me how to open my heart. And when to keep my mouth shut. She showed me how to make much of little. And to celebrate the birth of a child. For there is no greater gift.

My daughter is teaching me every day. I watch her with my granddaughter and my heart stops. She’s engaging. And smart. Full of all the right instincts. She knows how and when to discipline. She knows how to grow an infant into a little girl into a preteen and one day into a strong young woman. She knows how to entertain her daughter. And when to let her entertain herself. She’s funny. And fun. Kids are drawn to her. They see her great big heart. And welcoming arms. Who wouldn’t want to be embraced by those.

Yes, both Ma and DNO have taught me much. I like to think that I’m a better woman because of these two extraordinary ones.

A few weeks after this photo was taken my granddaughter was born. A few months later Ma was gone. They knew each other briefly but well.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Attic, Hunting for Treasure and the Letter from Jerry.

May 6, 2012 / boo king / Leave a comment

The box containing the letter from Jerry.

I love treasure hunts. And finding things I thought were lost forever. There’s nothing like cleaning out a closet and finding some long forgotten gem. An old photograph. A thinking-of-you card or note. A love letter from someone you once thought you couldn’t live without. A concert ticket. Recital program. A baby book with a lock of hair and a lost tooth.

Most homes have storage spaces where certain things are put away. For another day. Another year. Another time. Sometimes these things get lost in the deep dark recesses at the very back. And before you know it, forgotten. Like they never existed. We had a little attic in our home that contained such consigned to oblivion artifacts. It was there that my addiction to treasure hunting began.

Little back story. We lived on a street lined with wartime houses. They were all pretty much identical except for the size. Two, three and four bedroom wooden bungalows that looked like they were built more for hasty necessity than longevity. The big bad wolf could blow one over with a huff and a puff. Ours was a four bedroom model, with two of those bedrooms on the second floor where the ceilings were sloped and the walls hung low. My two older brothers occupied one of these rooms. The other was where Ma sewed and I played by her side.

In “the boys room” there was a little door about three feet tall. It looked like something that belonged on a child’s play house. It’s Lilliputian size made it all the more alluring. Irresistible. Tempting. And I was drawn to it like a bee to honey. A moth to light. In my young impressionable mind it was the door to a whole other world. Not necessarily like the one in The Chronicles of Narnia. But equally fascinating and compelling to a small girl with a big imagination. Truth was, on the other side of the door was just our attic. And not like the kind you see in the movies either. It wasn’t some dusty expansive space on the top floor of an old mansion filled with cobwebs and spooky pirate chests that groaned when opened. It didn’t contain the magical world of Narnia with all its Turkish delight, White Witch and the great lion king Aslan. But it was filled with family treasures. And its own flavor of magic. At times it could be scary. And sometimes with a little inspiration, it could be downright spine-tingling. But it was always fun to explore.

It was dark, dry and dusty smelling with extreme temperatures. In the summer it was like the fires of hell. You’d break into a sweat after two minutes. In winter, it was colder than the Arctic. You could see your breath if you could see at all. It was pitch dark so you had to leave the door open and carry a flashlight. The floors were uneven and creaked with ever move you made. Slivers in stocking feet were commonplace. There was also the odd nail that popped up out of nowhere. The outer wall was lined with pink fiberglass insulation. And slanted so that the entire space formed a perfect right-angle triangle. It was cramped and claustrophobic, which made moving around a challenge. Even for a small person. You had to hunch over or crawl on all fours. But to me, it was the perfect size and shape.

Part of the fun of going into the attic was the fear. Nothing filled my heart with terror quite like the scary shadows cast by the flashlight. Ricocheting sinisterly off the fiberglass walls in the ghostly enclave within the upstairs bedroom. Littered with the artifacts of our family’s personal narrative. Dusty cardboard boxes filled with worn out clothes. Old baby doll carriages with broken wheels. Tangled webs of Christmas lights. Battered suitcases with broken locks. The canvas tent and metal poles. Old hard cover books. Stacks of dog-eared Popular Mechanics and Readers Digest. Family Circle magazines with all the recipes clipped out. Shoe boxes filled with old negatives of photographs taken on the Six-20 Brownie Junior. A bulky Scrapbook containing a lock from a first hair cut, and pages of birthday cards and other childhood memorabilia taped carefully into place. Dance Costumes stored in a McNulty’s dress box. Old dolls with missing eyelashes and hair cut short by an amateur hairdresser. Dime store Dishes with chips and cracks. Bundles of metal clothes hangers. And sundry bits and bobbles that The Old Man and Ma kept for reasons known only to them. Treasures each and every one. Freshly discovered foray after foray into the enchanted land.

I experience this same awe and wonder every time I re-discover the letter from Jerry.

Over twenty years ago, when I was working in a Toronto advertising agency as a Copywriter, I was partnered with an Art Director named Jerry. We got to know each other quite well over the course of the year that we worked together. Professional lives quite often blur into the personal in these circumstances. We seek the universal thread that binds. Common ground. Connectivity. I think it makes us better workers. And our work better.

It was during one of our many creative sessions that Jerry and I somehow got onto the topic of mail. I had mentioned how much I loved opening the mailbox to discover a surprise card or a letter. But this rarely happened, I explained. All I ever got was bills and junk mail, I complained. I longed for the good old pen pal days, I declared. Sigh.

My self-esteem was at an all-time low when Jerry and I had this discussion. My marriage had fallen apart. I felt ugly. And not only unloved but unloveable. Jerry listened. I had no idea how well until a few days later.

It was a night like a hundred other nights. I came home from work exhausted. Rushed to get dinner started before my kids tore one another apart. Fury induced by hunger and low blood sugar. All three of us. Once dinner was underway I hung up my coat, kicked off my boots and went to the mailbox. It contained the usual things. Bills, bills and more bills. Junk mail from companies wanting me to buy their goods or services. Disappointing all of it. But in amongst the undesirable mail was a white business sized envelope addressed to me in cyan colored ink. The kind used in fountain pens. Or fine writing instruments as they were commonly referred to back then. We all owned at least one. In fact, I was given one when I departed from this agency. And still have it as a keepsake and a reminder of another time, another place.

Just the sight of that cyan blue fountain ink made my heart beat faster. I didn’t recognize the handwriting. But something told me it was going to be good. No matter what. In that instant before opening the envelope there was optimism. And hope. Elation. My hands were shaking as I carefully removed the folded lined sheet of paper. It looked like a page removed from a student’s notebook. Six by nine inches. Blue horizontal lines with two red vertical ones forming the margins.

It began “Dearest Bonney.” You could tell that the writer had corrected the spelling of my name because the dot over the misspelling was still there. I hadn’t spelled my name with an ‘ie’ since grade eight. But this only added to the sweetness of the salutation. The letter went on to say, “This may only happen once so really enjoy it. But it’s happening because you are truly the kind of person who deserves to come home and find a letter from someone….” The rest is between me and Jerry. It was (and still is) the best letter I have ever received in my entire life. I hold it amongst my dearest possessions.

Jerry and I weren’t lovers. There was no office romance. No secret affair. We were just “Buds.” Colleagues. Friends. But he gave me a gift like no other.

That was well over twenty years ago. I have not only moved across the country, but have lived in several different houses since I got here. Yet the letter has moved everywhere with me. I packed it away when we left for the Westcoast.

But there’s a peculiar thing about this letter. It keeps being found. Over and over and over. It’s the Groundhog Day letter. I pack it away. Forget about it. And then a few years later I discover it. All new and fresh again. Like that night twenty years ago. Like the treasures in our attic. Every time I pack it away it’s in a different container, in a different spot. This isn’t intentional. It’s usually as a result of some sort of house cleaning. Or purging of the past. And with that goes the consolidation of those things being chucked and those things being kept. The letter from Jerry is always in the “keeper” pile. I love the serendipitous nature of discovering the letter. The random accidental earthing of this jewel every few years.

It happened again last Saturday. I was on the hunt for more family photographs and bits and pieces of our history when I found it. Tucked away in a box inside a basket at the top of one of the closets in my office. It’s an awkward spot. Things that are stored there, are left there. Kind of like Las Vegas. But last weekend I was on a mission. And the great treasure hunter in me had re-surfaced. I had to find something good. And I did.

In the box along with Jerry’s letter there was an assortment of random things. One of the most peculiar items was a placemat I made in elementary school for Christmas. It looked like it was made from a white sheet. It was adorned with two red bells, several food stains and “Merry Christmas” in my handwriting. There was also a letter from my parent’s lawyer regarding their estate, a slide rule from high school, a golf ball, a Sarah McLachlan Surfacing CD cover, a photocopy of an American Express card cut into four pieces, a 19-year old candy rose and a combination lock.

There were a lot of other things too. But once again I separated the wheat from the chaff. All the stuff I described, along with the letter from Jerry, has now been placed into another box and stored away. For the next time. When I need to be reminded that I am someone who deserves to come home from work and find a treasure in the mailbox. Love in cyan blue fountain ink.

Footnote: I have no idea where Jerry is today. I don’t even remember his last name. But I will never forget him and his wonderful thoughtful gift.

The beginning of the letter from Jerry.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Second and Last Kiss and the Smell of Old Spice.

May 3, 2012June 19, 2016 / boo king / 2 Comments

Ma + The Old Man sitting on the stone wall.

The Old Man and his beautiful Italian Sweetheart.

The second kiss. Does anyone even remember? We don’t write love songs about the Numero Duo. No passionate odes. Or lyrical poems. Tragic melodramas. Nothing much comes to mind. No backward glances. No second chances. Or even a second thought. Nada.

Ma gave me my first kiss. And The Old Man gave me the second. The order and circumstances of these inceptive parental kisses most likely set the tone for our future relationships. The Old Man would always be second best in my life. The first kiss trumps everything after all.

Little back story. The Old Man was an emotional guy. He laughed easily and heartily. Flew off the handle at the drop of a hat. Tears welled in his eyes when he watched something sad on TV. He cried like a baby when our birds, Petie 1 and Petie 2, died. But as emotional as he was, I don’t remember him being comfortable expressing his love. Yet oddly enough I always felt loved by him. That was the paradox of The Old Man. Emotional yet stoic. Loving but unable to show it. The stoicism was in his DNA. He was a Finlander and they aren’t known for their overt expressions of love. They aren’t huggy people. Like the Italians. Like Ma.

Part of the way The Old Man was had to do with his generation. Back then, men were different than they are today. Real men not only didn’t eat quiche. They didn’t seek help. There was no Burning Man. There were no public displays of affection either. It embarrassed everybody. Husband. Wife. And especially the kids. Even the pets hid in self-conscious mortification. All that mushy stuff went on behind closed doors. If it went on at all. Most kids, myself included, preferred to think that it didn’t. I was perfectly content in the belief that I was plucked from the cabbage patch. Then carried in a pink flannel blanket by a stork and placed into Ma’s waiting arms. Some myths are worth perpetuating.

The Old Man used to kiss Ma lightly on the lips before going to work every morning. Perhaps “kiss” is a bit of an exaggeration. It was more like a little peck. A light brush. An accidental skim of the lips. I don’t even recall them holding hands. But he did put his arm around her for pictures. I don’t think he was just putting it on for the camera. I look at the old photographs and I see a man showing the world that the Italian beauty next to him was his girl. Sometimes he’d come up from behind while she was busy cooking and give her a little peck on the cheek. She’d pretend to be annoyed and send him on his way but secretly I think she loved the attention. Loved that he loved her.

Saying I love you didn’t come easily back then either. Another embarrassing thing that sent everyone running for cover. Saying it was awkward. Uncomfortable. And often blush inducing. It was especially difficult if you were even the least bit shy, which our family was. It was written in all the greeting cards of course. At the end of the rhyming couplet. Love and X’s and O’s. Hallmark took care of everything. But it was rarely openly and easily said. It was just understood. A given. Taken for granted. Families loved each. Parents loved one another. Parents loved their kids. And kids loved them back. There was never any doubt in my mind that I was loved, whether the words were spoken or not.

When I was in my late teens I fell in love for the first time. I found myself expressing that love to this young man. It came naturally. Like breathing. Nothing much came of this callow relationship. It fizzled pretty quickly. My young teenage heart was crushed. There would never be another quite like him. But every cloud has its silver lining. And mine was three little words. I love you. Suddenly I was liberated. It was the beginning of my Flower Power chapter. The Age of Aquarius was just dawning on me. And I was determined to openly and freely tell people that I loved them. I wanted to introduce the phrase into my daily conversation. It no longer needed to be pulled out of the mothballs for special occasions. Like the good dishes for Christmas dinner.

Saying I love you to Ma was a piece of cake. It wasn’t long before our good-bye kisses included an I love you. Off I went to school with an I love you tucked inside my heart. Ma stayed home with hers held equally close. But saying I love you to The Old Man wasn’t quite as easy. But I did say it eventually. Not every day like with Ma. But I said it and I’m grateful I did. The truth is, he needed to hear it. Craved it. Like sugar. And I needed to say it to him. The last time I told him I loved him was when I went home to bury Ma. By then The Old Man was living in an old folks home. I visited him every day during that week. He had grown frail and was wheelchair bound. His hearing was pretty much gone. It was the night before my return to the Westcoast. He was in the common sitting room. The gathering place. It was eerily quiet. Surreal. The only conversation was the one coming from the television set. When my niece and I opened the steel double doors to the room, we were greeted by a group of elderly folks sitting in wheelchairs. They were all just sitting there facing the door. Like it was a stage and they were the audience waiting for the show to begin. Expectant. Eager. Earnest. But there was also something else that I saw in their faces. Hope. Maybe tonight was their night. Tonight there would be a visitor just for them. Someone from their past who loved them.

But on this particular night, the visitor was for The Old Man. He wasn’t part of the audience watching the door. He was by the television set, his head slumped on his chest, his eyes closed. I touched his shoulder, which was thin and bony under his flannel shirt. He came to life. We had a short visit. It was a shouting match actually. Because he refused to wear his hearing aid, having a private conversation was impossible. So we yelled at each other for an hour. Some things never change.

When it was time to leave I bent down and shouted in his ear. Not just because he couldn’t hear, but because I knew it was my last chance to say it to him. Loud and clear. For eternity. For the whole world to hear. I LOVE YOU DAD. Then I gave a kiss on the cheek to the one who gave me my second. He told me he loved me too. By this time all the old folks had turned their wheelchairs around and were no longer watching the door. All eyes were on us. After I shouted my love to The Old Man, the entire room let out a collective “Awwwww.” Not applause exactly. But close.

The Old Man smelled different than Ma. She was all sweet tea, peppermint Chicklets and Second Debut. His scent was inconsistent. Right after work he smelled of bakery dust and sweat. He’d head to the bathroom to wash it off and emerge smelling of Ivory soap and Brylcreem. On special occasions, or on Sundays, he simply smelled fresh and clean. Old Spice. And everything nice. But on that last kiss good-bye he smelled peculiar. Off. Tinny. Sour. The smell of death around the corner. All the more reason to shout I love you.

I’ve thought about that last scene with my father many times over the years. And how hungry everyone in that sitting room was for some expression of love. And how it took their breath away when they heard the words “I love you” shouted with such wild abandon. Such a sublime and wondrous thing to hear.

I love you. And you. And you. And you.