Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Baker’s Dozen – 13 Virtues from my Parents.

July 29, 2012February 13, 2014 / boo king / Leave a comment

Ma and The Old Man pose in front of his birthday cake.

Ma and The Old Man taught me much during our lifetime together. Some things were practical and intentional. Like cooking and cleaning up after myself. Brushing my teeth before bed. The simple day-to-day things parents teach their children to help them grow up big and strong. Others things involved character building. Like doing the right thing just because it was right not because I particularly felt like it. Saying please and thank you. Expressing gratitude not bad attitude. Then there were the big things. Ten commandment big. Don’t cause harm to any living creature. Don’t lie. Cheat. Steal, and that includes someone else’s spouse. Respect your elders, especially your parents. Then there were the things they taught me without even knowing it. The ‘by example’ things. The stuff kids pick up on. Learn through osmosis. By watching. Listening. Witnessing.

While all this learning was going on — the day to day, the big and the by example — thirteen virtues stood out. A perfect Baker’s Dozen. These are what I would like to share with you.

8 From Ma:

LOVE: One of the big ones. The biggest. For Ma it came unconditionally. You didn’t have to do anything special to earn her love. If you were one of hers, you just had it. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for one of her own. Including lay down her life. Thankfully she was never put into this position. What a blessing to be loved so dearly. What more could a child need than to wake up every morning feeling cherished. In the end, Ma was grateful that her life followed its natural course. Although she hated to leave us all, she wouldn’t have had it any other way. One day we will all follow her into the Light. Her love was such a blessing to our entire family. I still feel it now. And I am grateful.

Ma and her grandson taking a moment to look at Polaroids.

WISDOM: Ma was a simple woman in many ways. Unpretentious. Unassuming. She never graduated from high school and had very little formal education. Although at age sixty she went back to night school and studied art. We were all so proud of her accomplishment. Her wonderful paintings are amongst my greatest treasures. Education aside, Ma was a wise and enlightened woman. She possessed profound insights. Introspective by nature, she was always interested in the “why” of life. This led her to places of deep spiritual and philosophical understanding and acuity. She was a good listener. A skill lacking in the best of us. I am eternally grateful for her counsel and sought it at every turn. She was involved in every big decision I made. It is my prayer that my children feel the same way about me. That when they turn to me for advice or simply a compassionate ear that I bring Ma’s kind of wisdom.

KINDNESS: Ma possessed this virtue in spades. In abundance. Good measure. Pressed down. Shaken. Running over. Her heart was tender. Not just for those she loved. But everyone she encountered on her journey through life. Children, in particular touched her heart. She never met a kid she didn’t like. Her kindness was even extended to the naughty ones. Her heart was open and large towards the elderly, the downtrodden, the forgotten ones and those considered unlovable. She was kind to animals. They all knew a kindred spirit. I am kind too. Ma taught me well.

GENTLENESS: Ma touched everything with a gentle hand. Her touch was soft. Warm. Benevolent. She caused no harm. Never spanked her children. Nor scolded. Shy by nature, her voice was quiet yet reassuring. She was a Whisperer. Even in the kitchen, nothing was forced. Food was prepared in a sweet and easy style. I will always miss her beautiful long-fingered veiny hands that caressed her world with loving kindness.

Ma and Daughter Number One smile for the camera.

PATIENCE: Ma was well practiced in this virtue. Four children and an alcoholic husband could be taxing at times. Being patient with children came easy for her. She understood kids innately. And consequently they were drawn to her like bees to honey. She was like Jesus in that she wanted the little children to come to her. Never too busy for a child. No little one shooed away. Her patience wasn’t only extended to the very young. She successfully shepherded four teenagers into adulthood. That took monumental skill and patience by the bucketful. Being patient with The Old Man was her biggest trial. He was her Achilles heel. I can only say she did her best to extend the same grace to him as she did the children in her life. Nobody’s perfect. Patience hasn’t always been one of my strengths. Just ask my two older kids. I’ll be working on this one for the rest of my life. As I said, nobody’s perfect.

EMPATHY: Ma’s compassionate heart wept for the world. She intuitively knew what people were feeling. Felt their pain. Embraced another’s sorrow. She was the shoulder to cry on. Her heart broke at the sight of any suffering. Whether it was within our family circle. Or brought to her over the garden fence or through the television set. Witnessing suffering on a colossal scale moved her to take action. She donated to many charitable causes and supported a third world child all the days of her life. She inspired me to do the same.

COURAGE: Ma was timid, shy and meek by nature. Yet she was also a warrior. A little spitfire at times. Full of true grit. Especially when it came to protecting her kids. She wouldn’t let anything or anyone cause us harm. She was also courageous in the face of any adversity. From the cradle to the grave. Whatever the strife, she faced the challenge head-on with bravery and grace. She also never complained about being sick. She could be stoic to a fault at times. We saw this intimately when she had her heart attack. At first, she denied even having one. She never ever gave up. Ma taught me to fight the good fight right until the bitter end. Like Dido said, there will be no white flags above our door.

THOUGHTFULNESS: Ma was considerate in her every thought, word and deed. Not only in the small gestures. Coming to the aid of the elderly. Helping someone up who has fallen. Figuratively and literally. She was quick to send thank you notes, get well wishes and thinking of you cards. My mailbox was always a wellspring for delightful little surprises. She never forgot a birthday. Cards were sent. Cakes baked. Gifts given. She welcomed everyone into our home regardless of who they were. There was always room at the table. If she saw something in a store that she thought you’d like, she picked it up. There were many just because gifts. She had others on her mind. I miss dearly those cards and notes inscribed with her small meticulous handwriting. Trips to the mailbox aren’t as much fun anymore.

4 From The Old Man:

HUMOR: The Old Man loved a good laugh. A silly joke. A funny yarn with a good punch line. He was always quick with one to tell. A faithful reader of The Reader’s Digest, this was the source of much of his material. He also loved a good comedy on television. Red Skelton could bring him to tears. He laughed loud. Heartily. Easily. Right from the belly. I do the same. I loved this about The Old Man. It is also what I look for in friends and lovers. I’m a sucker for a man who can make me laugh. He will always tickle my fancy. Laughter. One of God’s greatest gifts to humans. Thank you.

The Old Man and his grandson enjoyed a good game of crib.

GENEROSITY: The Old Man was one of those guys who would give you the shirt off his back. Unlike Ma, who was quick to give to charitable causes, he didn’t part so easily with his money. Not that he had much to part with. He happily gave his pay cheque to Ma every two weeks. She was the manager of our family finances. But he gave other things. If he had something you needed or wanted he rarely said no. As a teenager I appreciated this virtue the most. Especially when it came to handing over the keys to his car. That was a big deal back then. The Old Man supported his family. No matter what. Roof over our heads. Food on the table. I always felt that as long as The Old Man was on this earth I would never be destitute. I’d always have a place to go. A safe haven where I would be taken care of. I am so grateful to have had that. E and I have created the same for our children. We also go through a lot of shirts.

WORK ETHIC: The Old Man loved and hated his job. Regardless of how he felt on any given day, he got up at 5am and did it. He showed up. For some thirty odd years. He never actually said, “Take this job and shove it,” but I suspect there were many days that he felt this way. Possibly he had bigger dreams than he had ambition. In his defense, he was from a generation of folks who raised families and did whatever it took to do so. No complaints. No whining. No woulda-coulda-shoulda. Just hard work. If he had regret over his professional path, he kept it to himself. I understand. I’ve done the same. I show up.

The Old Man and his grandchildren pose for the camera.

SERVICE: The Old Man did what he could to be of service to his country, his family, his community, his employer, his church. He was in the army. He volunteered in sport. Umpiring Little League games was his delight. He helped out at the church. Did yard work and painted one of his elderly customer’s home on a regular basis. Old Jenny was dear to him. Although she paid him a small fee I suspect he would have done it for free. He was honored with an award for Service to his Community. He taught me what an honor it is to serve. People need help everywhere.

1 from Both of Them:

PUNCTUALITY: Some people might not consider this a virtue. But I do. I don’t think either of my parents were ever late for anything. They were either right on time or early. Like many from their generation lateness was akin to rudeness. It was also considered thoughtless and arrogant. They respected the time of others and appreciated that no one likes to be kept waiting. Nor should they. Lateness required two things. A good reason. And an apology. I love that they were both so courteous in this way.

We all wore paper crowns on New Years Eve.

My Own:

GRATITUDE: I will forever be grateful to both my parents for their Baker’s Dozen, these 13 Virtues. My heart is filled with gratitude every day for the life that God has blessed me with. Starting with the ultimate gift of my parents. Ma and The Old Man.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: What Happens in 204 Stays in 204 and the Fine Art of Secret Keeping.

July 22, 2012 / boo king / Leave a comment

We couldn’t stop looking at him and he at us.

The older I get the better I get at keeping secrets. I now understand how sacred secret keeping is. What a privilege it is to have someone trust you so dearly with a confidence. Even if they have shared their secret with someone else, it matters not. This is your secret to keep. Held safe for as long as required. It could be for a day, a week, a year. A lifetime. Some secrets I will take to the grave with me.

I’m from a family of secret keepers. So perhaps this gives me a bit of an edge over those who are not so well practiced. The biggest secret our family kept concerned The Old Man’s drinking. Not just his alcoholism. But his recurring rampages that terrorized our family. We were like visitors to Vegas. What happened in 204 stayed in 204. This family secret, that I held close for over twenty years, was one of two that shaped the landscape of my youth. I looked out at the world, not with wide-eyed wonder, but with fear. For the flip side of keeping secrets is disclosure. I didn’t want anyone to know about The Old Man. Not even my best friend.

Some secrets are held in fear. Others in shame. This was at the heart of the second family secret.

Little back story. When I was twenty-four I wanted to go to Europe. I hadn’t travelled much. Nor ventured far when I did. Little trips with my family mostly. Circle Route around Lake Superior. Trips to Duluth, Minnesota. Once as far as Minneapolis. One quick secret disastrous trip to Toronto with my first love. A cross country car ride to Victoria which included stops in Winnipeg, Regina and Calgary. That was it. My wayfaring adventures by age twenty-four.

We converted Ma’s sewing room into a nursery for a few years.

Many of my friends had already been to Europe. Backpacking globe-trotters. Nomads and gypsies. Sophisticated and worldly. I had been to Duluth. I was green with envy and itching to gallivant. This became the hot topic of conversation between my new boyfriend and I. We made plans. Beginning with acquiring passports. We did all the appropriate paperwork and mailed off our applications to Ottawa. This was a long time ago so the details of the process are a bit sketchy. But to the best of my recollection, this is what we did. Then we waited. And waited. It took weeks to hear anything.

Everything went smoothly for my boyfriend, who was far less new after weeks of waiting for passports. His knapsack was packed and he was good to go. But this was not the case for me.

I never got my passport. Instead, I got a letter from the government of Canada informing me that I did not exist. ‘Don’t exist’ I cried. ‘How is that possible? I’m here aren’t I? Look at me. I’m right here.’ This occurred while I was living on the West Coast, the first time round. I thought perhaps this mix-up had something to do with geography. That I wasn’t actually nonexistent, just misplaced.

Determined to prove that I did indeed exist, I decided to go to the fountainhead. Take it to the two people who were there right from the beginning. The source of my genesis. No, not God and Jesus. That would come later. Ma and The Old Man. But before doing so, I mentioned this misbegotten madness to my sister, who was also living on the West Coast. I showed her the letter. ‘Look at this,’ I uttered incredulously. She read the letter. Looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘I have to tell you something.’

The Old Man and his grandson sharing a moment together.

Ma and The Old Man weren’t legally married. There was nothing shocking about this revelation. I had suspected as much for years. But it was a bit unsettling to hear those words said out loud for the first time. This subject was taboo in our family. Strictly off limits. In truth, I was the only one not in on the secret. The evidence was there of course. For starters, Ma and The Old Man never celebrated their anniversary. Yet she went by Mrs. M. And she wore a wedding ring. This was good enough for me. When I was really young I didn’t understand such things. When I was old enough to know, I didn’t want to. By the time I figured it out, I didn’t care. By then, I was actually in on the secret. But no one knew that I knew what they knew.

Once the proverbial cat was let out of the bag I called Ma. There was no going back. The silence was broken. The Boogeyman was released and he wasn’t all that scary. I felt free. I wanted to liberate Ma as well. The call went something like this.

‘Ma, a strange thing happened when I tried to get my passport.’

‘What’s that dear?’

‘I got this letter from the government saying I don’t exist.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘G told me everything Ma.’

Silence followed. By a pregnant pause. By more silence.

‘Ma why didn’t you just put The Old Man’s name on my birth certificate?’

‘I didn’t know I could.’

A common law marriage and an illegitimate child. More secrets that consumed my parents. Filled them with shame. Followed by years of silence. Humiliation. Heads hung low. I look back on their situation and my heart breaks for them.

By the time I was old enough to get married things were so different. Common law marriages. People living together. Shacking up. It was happening all around me and no one cared. Hippy chicks were having babies and wearing daisies in their hair. Feminism had arrived. Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan were inspiring young women everywhere. Myself included. There was nothing illegitimate about any of it. More options and choices. No judgement. Different strokes for different folks, as Sly and The Family Stone sang.

What a burden my parents carried in their hearts all those years. In the end, it was a relief to have the truth spoken. Confession is good for the soul they say. This held true for my parents, especially Ma.

I can’t think of anything more soul destroying than living in shame. The joy that it robs. The dignity that it steals. The humiliation it perpetrates. The things we teach our children without even knowing. Nor intending. Passed down from one generation to the next, along with Grandma’s handmade quilt. I understand the shame Ma felt. Intimately. I too carry this pain in my heart. Sometimes I don’t even know why. It’s like the elusive butterfly. Impossible to grasp.

My passport awaits. I just have to fill out the forms.

After the birth of my son I experienced a fleeting moment of shame. I thought I was beyond reproach, yet this stung. He was only hours old and he filled my spirit with such wonder. A Nurses Aid, who was old enough to be my mother, entered our room to check on us. I was engaged in a gripping one-sided conversation with my son. As she was adjusting my blankets and plumping my pillow, she referred to me as Mrs. M. I immediately corrected her and explained that I wasn’t Mrs. M. That was my mother. Then as carelessly as she tossed a crumpled Kleenex into the wastebasket, she responded with, ‘That’s what we call girls like you dear.’ She wasn’t being malicious. Nor did she intend to hurt me. Just stating the facts. Telling the truth. Yet there I was. Drowning in a puddle of shame. Maybe we hadn’t come a long way Baby.

But the hand of God touched me that day. The hurt didn’t linger. Thankfully. Besides, I had a beautiful brown-eyed boy to love and protect. I had to toughen up.

I still don’t have a passport. I haven’t been consumed by wanderlust these past thirty years so it hasn’t really mattered. Acquiring one fell off the to do list years ago. My life has been full and adventurous despite traveling abroad. Yet a part of me often wonders if I’m stuck. Fearful that if I apply for my passport I’ll be told I still don’t exist. At least not as me. The girl with the unpronounceable Finnish last name. I have an official Birth Certificate containing Ma’s first husband’s surname. I look at it and think, ‘Who is this person?’ Not me. I look at the ancient tattered Registration of Birth that the Old Man altered and think, ‘Who is this person?’ Me. Not sure how he did it. But somehow he removed the official legal surname and typed in his. It always looked right to me. You see what you want to see I guess. I never wanted to be anything but the Breadman’s daughter.

And with God’s grace I am. Always will be. Passport or not.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Day the Rain Stopped or a Brief Course in Miracles.

July 15, 2012July 17, 2012 / boo king / 4 Comments

Breathing in his love.

Last summer I did something I never thought I ever do. Again. I got married. E and I had a long courtship. Almost twenty years. We weren’t avoiding getting married. Nor were we opposed to it. We even discussed it on many occasions. In fact, E proposed very early in our relationship. He even bought me a diamond ring. Albeit from a pawn shop. But still. Romantic with a quirky twist. Just like us.

The ring was lovely. Oodles of women would have considered it so. But it wasn’t me. It was too much. Really. Over the top. And then some. Picture this. Two rings, one a gold band with a mid-sized solitaire in a towering prong setting and the other a chevron of smaller flashy diamonds. The two are then locked together like a Gordian knot to create one glittery bauble. Symbolic perhaps of a man and woman embracing eternity. Or just plain complicated.

My beautiful Daisy Girls.

I wore the ring for several years but it never felt right. I really did try. I hoped against hope that it would grow on me. That one day I would look down at my hand and not cringe. Then something happened that changed everything. On my way to work I lost the solitaire. I made the horrifying discovery while in the washroom freshening up for the start of my day. Where my priceless diamond once sat, there was now this cavernous hole. I sat on the toilette and bawled like a baby. It was pitiful. Although I didn’t fancy the ring I dearly loved the man who gave it to me. Seeing the empty cavity felt like a piece of my heart had just been wrenched.

This all took place in January. Not a great start to the year.

My son walked me to the top of the hill to meet my love.

Then something miraculous happened. It began with a heaping basket full of clean clothes that were in dire straits. Desperately needing to be put away. I had been ignoring this growing mountain of laundered shame for several weeks. Concealed behind closed doors, more like dirty laundry than clean, it was easy to ignore. Of all the domestic chores, putting away laundry has always been my least favorite. But this situation had grown grim. I could not add another stitch to the stack. I had reached critical mass. The tipping point. Clean out of room. Try not to judge. We all have our weaknesses. This happens to be mine. I do plan to fix this undesirable character flaw. Right after I grow more love, wisdom, patience, kindness, the ability to forgive the unforgivable, read the bible from Genesis to Revelations, understand E=mc2, perfect a B major chord, cook perfect brown rice, and lose ten pounds. Then I plan to work on that laundry thing.

Our hearts were full of music and light.

It took about an hour to put everything away. Once complete, I was brimming with pride at my accomplishment. ‘I’ll even return the basket to the laundry room,’ I thought while patting myself heartily on the back. Yes, I was full of pride but very little energy by this point. The trek down the three flights of stairs to the laundry room was daunting. Because I had lost the vim from vigor, I kind of dragged the basket behind me as I descended the steps. It did this little bounce on the steps above. Boing. Boing. Boing. After the third or fourth boing something small and sparkly caught the corner of my eye. I stopped. Grabbed the basket. Plopped down on the step and literally could not believe my eyes. There it was. The diamond. It had been in the basket all along. I hadn’t lost it on the way to work as I had believed. Instead I must have knocked it off while grabbing something to wear from the closet. This was a bonafide miracle in my books. And to everyone I have told this story. What were the odds of finding a teensy-weensy diamond at the bottom of a blue plastic laundry basket? About the same as finding a needle in a hay stack.

The peculiar thing, or divine, depending on your particular perspective on the far-fetched. It was like this little diamond wanted to be discovered. I say this because it wasn’t just lying inertly at the bottom of the basket. It was literally bouncing up and down. Flying through the air like one of the Wallendas. Shouting “look at me look at me look at me!”

E and I decided it was too risky to have the diamond put back into the prongs of the protruding pawnshop ring. We would start fresh. Begin anew. So I designed my own ring and had it handmade by a jewelry artist named Willy. A simple bezel setting with the diamond nestled safely into the gold band. No extra frills or gewgaws. Just the single lost gem. It was me.

My precious three.

When E and I decided to exchange vows last year he asked if I wanted a new ring for the occasion. ‘Absolutely not’ I declared. On the day of our wedding I removed it for a few hours so that E could place it back on my finger. For eternity. I will wear it to the grave.

We climbed to the top of a hill in the rugged park behind our house. Joined on the walk by our family, friends and beloved minister. My sister, two daughters, grand daughter and daughter-in-law were my “daisy girls.” E’s brother was his best man and his band of brothers were his groomsmen. My son, who stood in for The Old Man, walked me up the rocky slope to give me away. We paused along the path to take a picture together. My son holding the camera at arms length as we languished in this precious moment together. In the distance, the sweet dulcet sound of V’s violin and A’s guitar drifted over us like a cloud of honey. An Irish waltz. Maire Dhall. Romantic. Lovely. When we reached the top my heart stopped. I was overwhelmed by the magnificent view. My Daisy Girls, V and A with their instruments, the minister, the groomsmen, our family and friends, our kids’ friends. They were all there creating this wondrous circle of love. And E. Beautiful E. Handsome as ever.

If all that wasn’t miracle enough. There was still another.

Love notes were hung from the trees for everyone to pluck.

Because this was a DIY wedding we kept things close to home and very informal. Vows were exchanged on the Cairn overlooking the Garry Oak meadow behind our home. The reception was held in our garden. While planning this intimate family affair, I envisioned a beautiful hot and sunny summer day. Just like those of my childhood and youth. But this was the West Coast.

Although it has taken a few decades, I’ve learned that you don’t always get what you want. Sometimes you get what you need, at least according to one of my favorite Rolling Stones songs. It had been raining miserably for the weeks leading up to the day of our wedding. To say I was coming unglued was an understatement. The weather forecast was bleak. It was unnerving to say the least. The prospect of an outdoor wedding where everyone and everything was rain-soaked was disheartening. It was a fiasco in the making. Or so I thought. I was completely irrational by this point. Luckily E and his brother weren’t. They presented me with a contingency plan, that even to my hysterical overwrought bride-to-be brain, made sense. They rented big tents for the big day. My grand daughter and I went to the local dollar store and bought a ton of cheap plastic umbrellas. At least our guests would be undercover. Not perfect. Or perhaps it was.

The Love Bird cake made with passion by Corina.

On the morning of our wedding I awoke to the familiar sound of pounding rain. It no longer mattered. This was our big day. We were doing this thing. Rain or shine. My Daisy Girls and I got our hair done in the morning. It was still raining. On the way back to the house we picked up our daisy bouquets from the florist and the mixed flowers for the tables. It was still raining. Meanwhile my sister-in-law J and dear friend P prepared the platters of food. Tents were erected. Tables were set and flowers arranged. Love notes were hung on the trees. I was still raining. By two our wedding party began to dress for the occasion. Our youngest daughter’s BFF did my make-up. The photographer arrived and began shooting. The 3-tier Love Birds wedding cake was delivered with care. The minister arrived. He said a lovely prayer with E and I.

Then the really big miracle happened.

Some time during the flurry of activity and hoo-ha of getting ourselves pretty for our guests and the camera, the rain stopped. The sky opened. The sun broke between the clouds. There it remained. While we did the wedding walk up the hill and exchanged vows. It held vigil while E and I kissed each other and embraced our family and friends.

No wedding is complete without a trombone solo.

The rain was held at bay long enough for photos to be taken and our guests to make their way back to the sanctuary prepared for them in our garden. By six it was sprinkling. So what, I thought. C’est la vie. We were all safe and happy under shelter. We celebrated. We ate. We were merry. We made music. My grand daughter played the trombone just for us. E and I performed the wedding song I wrote. It was a glorious occasion. Perfect.

We made beautiful music together.

Everyone there to bear witness that afternoon remarked on how it was like the sky opened up just for us. It was miraculous they all proclaimed. Even the most cynical in the group were inspired.

E and I both prayed for a hot sunny day for our wedding. As we all know, prayers aren’t always answered in the way we expect. Sometimes the answer is far better and more wonderful than we could have ever imagined. We got exactly what we needed that day. We wouldn’t have traded it for the world. A miracle. Heaven sent. God’s grace shining down upon us. What better way to begin a marriage?

Verse:
I’m the strength in your most fragile moment
I’m the whisper in the dead of night
I’m the hand that heaven sent you
And I’m here to bring you light.

Chorus:
I’m your love so dear and ancient
   I’m your hope so near and present
   Not forgotten nor forsaken
   Cause for you my life is given.

Verse:
I’m the truth in your last reckless comment
I’m the hunger in the soul of man
I’m the word the writer lent you
And I’m here to keep a plan.

Chorus (repeat twice):
I’m your love so dear and ancient
   I’m your hope so near and present
   Not forgotten nor forsaken
   Cause for you my life is given.

Our honored guests. They were with us in spirit.

Diaries of The Beadman’s Daughter: Life Before Me and You and That Other Guy.

July 7, 2012July 21, 2012 / boo king / 2 Comments

Ma with my big brothers and sister.

Sometimes I find it hard to imagine that my parents had a life before me. I’m also certain that it’s hard for my children to imagine me having a life before them. On some level I guess I didn’t. Not like this anyway. It’s like my life is divided into two. Life before kids. And life after. Each child changed me. Made me more. Expanded my capacity to love. Larger and richer. Deeper and unconditionally.

Before I met E I had pretty much given up on the notion of ever finding love. Much less a husband. And having another child was seemingly impossible. Yet both of those things happened. Proof that miracles do happen. Even if they were just the bland run-of-the-mill types. Not your water into wine. Or parting of the seas. Raising the dead. But these events were every bit as miraculous to me. This was also the case for Ma.

Little back story. Before Ma met The Old Man she had been married. Plus she had three kids. She met her first husband just before WW2. The details of this period in Ma’s life are sketchy at best. All I know is that he was in the air force, flew off to war and evidently came back long enough to conceive children. In the span of five years, all in one week in April, Ma had three kids. Then after the war ended he “shacked up” with some woman in Manitouwadge or Wawa, and there he remained until the day he died. He abandoned Ma and her children and never reappeared in their lives. In return, Ma rarely spoke of him and my siblings did not preserve any memories of the father they never knew. He was like “He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named” in the Harry Potter books.

The Old Man behind the wheel of the Woods Meat truck.

Ma met The Old Man when she was working the 7pm to 3am shift at a restaurant called Porky’s on St Paul Street. He was working as a deliveryman for Woods Meat Market at the time. He used to go in there after midnight for coffee. Given the hour he frequented the joint, I’m assuming it was where he went after the bar closed. He may have originally gone there for coffee but it was Ma who kept him coming back. Ma never said much about their first encounter except that he was incredibly handsome and had beautiful blue eyes. She also said it was love at first sight.

My parents were from a generation of folks who didn’t discuss their romance. Nor did they engage in public displays of affection. At the most, there was hand holding, quick pecks on the lips when saying goodbye, and occasional awkward hugs. For photos The Old Man would place his arm around the back of Ma’s waist. That was it.

Ma in the woods with my two big brothers.

Due to this lack of romantic mythology I have fabricated my own version of their budding courtship. It goes something like this. Two incredibly shy people. One with blond hair and blue eyes. The other a raven haired dark-eyed beauty. One Finlander. One Italian. Fire and ice. Yin and yang. He sits at the counter after midnight and orders a cup of coffee. Cream and sugar. Then he orders another. She bustles around serving coffee and late-night sobering-up food to the other patrons scattered like lost sheep in the ratty Naugahyde booths. He stays until three when the place closes. He can’t get his eyes off her. She steels glances his way. Bolstered by a few too many drinks from the local watering hole, he’s able to find the courage to say hello. By morning that false confidence would evaporate. But for those few fleeting hours after midnight his shyness, especially around women, was held at bay. She’s exhausted from raising three kids and working nights. His sweet flirtations revitalize her though and put the youthful bounce back into her step. She blushes and says hello back. Their conversation is endearing in its bashful clumsiness. It doesn’t come easy. Still they persist. Night after night. This goes on for days, weeks, months perhaps. Then the shy blond blue eyed Finlander musters the courage to ask out the Italian beauty. After one date she knows he’s trouble but it’s too late. She’s madly in love. The sparks fly. Then there’s me. And life begins.

While Ma was working the night shift at Porky’s my oldest brother was at home with my other brother and sister. This was the little family that existed long before I was even a twinkle in The Old Man’s eye. By the time I was born my brothers were well on their way to adolescence. My sister was old enough to take me for walks down the street in my carriage and dress me up like one of her dolls. Because I don’t remember anything before the age of five my first impressions of my siblings is that they were quasi-adults. Big people. I knew they weren’t old like The Old Man and Ma but they weren’t kids either. Definitely not playmates. It was a peculiar psychological head space. On the one hand I understood that these big people were my brothers and sister. Yet on the other, I felt very much like an only child and longed for siblings that were closer in age. In my childhood fantasies I often pretended that they were.

A hair curling night. They sure knew how to have a good time back then.

Despite the age difference I loved them all dearly. I idolized my ‘big’ brothers. They were both handsome, kind and patient with their baby sister. They called me Babe. I also loved that they were so different from The Old Man. They weren’t alcoholics for one thing. And they were the defenders of Ma, my sister and I. They were our heroes. Not cape wearing or white horse riding. But on those dark nights when The Old Man came home reeking of alcohol and ranting about some past injustice brought upon his late mother at the hands of his old man, they were brave lionhearted men.

They were also boys of that era. I loved that about them too. They had slicked-back Brylcreemed hair and drove a mauve colored Harley. They smoked roll-your-own Export A cigarettes and had do-it-yourself tattoos. Our neighborhood was full of guys just like them. Most of them hung out at 204. But this was all exterior stuff. The way teenagers looked back then. Fashion and fads. Ma always said she had good boys. She was right. Good boys who grew into sterling men. Married their soul mates and big loves. Raised wonderful families and led good lives. Decent. Ma taught them well.

Me and my big sister on the front porch in winter.

The relationship between my sister and I was akin to oil and water. We didn’t mix well but we did love each other despite our innumerable differences. Genetics may have had a hand in this. Just who we were. But mostly I think we were both products of our own times. We were imprinted by the decades that informed us most. The indelible impression. She was a good girl from the fifties. Defined by maintaining a high morale code and preserving one’s virginity until marriage vows were exchanged. I am a product of the sixties and seventies. Peace. Love. And understanding. Complicated and perplexing. And yes, there was living in sin. Nothing was being saved for marriage.

Enough said. My sister and I were different. We loved each. We fought like two female cats in heat. Ma had to physically stand between us on more than one occasion. We always made up and made nice. Because in the end we were both good girls. Just with different points of view. Not wrong. Not bad. Just different. As adult women we have come to terms with all of that. The oil and the water was given a good shake. It has emulsified. Ma taught us well.

My parents’ relationship was plagued with challenges right from the start. Legally she was still married to the man in Manitouwadge or Wawa. She was raising three kids on her own, money was scarce and at times her world was a dark and frightening place. The Old Man was four years younger, immature by all accounts, mourning the recent loss of his mother, and ill-tempered when drunk. Not the best formula for starting a new life. Yet somehow they made this thing work. It wasn’t perfect. But it wasn’t too shabby either. More proof that miracles do happen.

My two blond blue eyed loves.

Flash forward to 1992. History repeats itself on the West Coast. I was a single mother of two. Working at a little graphic design company owned by an old friend from back in the days at 204. He was the first big heartbreak love of my best friend, the person who introduced me to my ex-husband and my boss. My mantra back then was “you’ve just gotta love a guy like that.”

On a rainy Saturday afternoon in March of ’92 I met a blond blue eyed alcoholic at a rundown country bar my sister dragged me to because I needed a little fun in my otherwise dull life. It was there that I fell head over heels for one of the jammers on stage. He played upright bass in a bluegrass band. There was just something about the way he played that thing that made my toes curl. After his bit on stage we danced. And we’ve been dancing ever since.

I dove in with my eyes wide open. I’d seen this movie before. I knew how it played out having witnessed it up-close and personal my entire life. There we were. Just like Ma and The Old Man. Yet not. We’ve written our own story. Everyone does. This was our shot. Sacrifices were made and compromises struck. A beautiful blond blue eyed child was born bearing an uncanny resemblance to both her Dad and The Old Man.

The heart expands. Love grows. And life begins. Again.

My Thing About God