Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Good Faith and Libraries.

August 16, 2015 / boo king / Leave a comment

I recently finished reading All My Puny Sorrows by Miriam Toews. Like her other novels, it too was beautifully written and a brilliant read. After I finished the book, I said the same thing I always do, “Damn, I wish I had her talent for storytelling and way with words.” Miriam deserves every accolade ever bestowed upon her. And more.

I loved everything about this book, even the puzzling double ending. But it was a particular passage on page 267 that really resonated with me. Quite simply, it blew my mind.

Here it is:

“What had she said about libraries and civilization? Because you make a promise, she’d said. You promise to return the book. You promise to come back. What other institution operates in such good faith, Yo?”

I’d like to see more promises of “good faith” like this.

Good faith that we’ll do the right thing because it is right, and for no other reason. No matter how difficult. No matter how much we rail or protest or rage against the credo or moral code. No matter how uncomfortable it makes us. We can even criticize, complain and condemn. But after all that, in the end, when the rubber hits the road, we’ll listen to the small quiet voice of our higher self. The voice of reason, truth and common decency. Do the right thing. Keep our promise. We will return the book.

Good faith that when I fall back you will always be there to catch me. And I will do the same for you. We will keep our promise to each other. We will return the book.

Good faith in the ultimate goodness of humanity, that we’re more good than bad. That somewhere deep inside each and every one of us this knowing and wisdom exists. Good faith that evil is an abomination and an anomaly. Not the norm. We will keep our promise to preserve and cherish our humanness. We will return the book.

Good faith that we are, at our fundamental core, good well-meaning folks, living in good communities with good leaders, sending our kids to good schools with good teachers, worshipping freely in harbors of safety, regardless of our beliefs and definition of God. We will keep our promise to be kind and magnanimous and neighborly. We will return the book.

Good faith that when I reach out my hand and heart to yours, that you will reciprocate. And together we will return the book.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Snapshot of Mel at Four.

June 18, 2015 / boo king / Leave a comment

Melissa sat in the brown Rubbermaid laundry hamper hugging her knees. She was wearing her over-sized blue sweatshirt with the Dalmatians on the front and purple leggings. Her feet were bare and pale.

She had pulled the hamper out of the closet and placed it in front of the television in my bedroom. Her petite body was fully contained with only her head peering out of the top like a sprung jack-in-the-box.

I don’t know if it was something she saw on TV, something someone said perhaps. I don’t recall. But she turned to me and said, with the simple unvarnished directness of a four-year old, “I believe in God.” In that moment, I saw her ancient soul. The one that had been around since the beginning of time. The wise One.

And in that holy moment, for it truly was divine, I was envious of this sweet wide-eyed child of mine. Because at four, she was so resolute and confident in this elusive thing called faith.

And I was not.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Believe in Something Bigger than Yourself.

January 1, 2015April 3, 2016 / boo king / Leave a comment

Girl Warrior. Know that you are connected to every living thing in this marvelous Universe. That’s a huge and daunting thought. So take it in. Fully. Breathe life into it. Wrap your loving arms around this notion until it seeps into your DNA and fills every cell. Clog your pores with this concept.

Figure out your place in the grander scheme of things. The beautiful, elegant, ingenious, creative, intelligent and precisely perfect design that dwells deep inside your soul. And that of every single being and creature that ever was. And ever will be. Imagine that.

Honor this exquisite essence.

Whether you call it God or Gitchi Manitou, Divine Intelligence or Great Spirit, Energy or Electricity, Jesus or Jane, it matters not. What really matters is the knowledge that you are a part of it. You are an essential drop of water in the great big sea. A twinkle in the starry night. A slice of light in the infinite sky. Your presence is requested. Here and now. For eternity.

And you are never alone.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: How I Learned to Meditate.

March 24, 2014 / boo king / Leave a comment

I learned to meditate while Ma was dying. If she had died suddenly. Or in another place. At a different time. I’d probably have a different story to tell.

As an enduring student of yoga, I made countless attempts over the years to learn the nebulous art of meditation. But I just didn’t get it. Stilling my mind was impossible. Sitting cross-legged for anything longer than a minute or two just about killed me. Om aside, staying focused on ‘nothing’ was a ridiculous premise at best. Stopping the endless chatter inside my mind was frustrating. All of it made me uncomfortable. Pain, pain, pain. That was my mantra.

I also tried meditating while in the corpse pose. This just put me to sleep. Within minutes I was dead to the world. A gaping mouthed drooling transcendental disaster.

Ma used to say that God works in mysterious ways. I didn’t get that either. I’ve always expected God to be more direct. Obvious. Straightforward. Shoot from the hip. Strike with a bolt of lightening. Flood the earth. And part the seas. Regardless of their color.

Who knows. Maybe Ma and I were talking about different Gods. Despite all those Sunday mornings sitting side-by-side in the ass-numbing wooden pews of Christ Lutheran Church. Hers was an enigmatic deity filled with paradoxes, parables and puzzles. And with an inexplicable and absolutely unfathomable approach to running things. Mine was simple. He/She spoke my language. Read my letters. Understood the complexities and subtle nuances of the word fuck. And why it was part of my daily vernacular.

Then Ma had a heart attack.

I thanked God for not striking her dead instantly. Which He/She most certainly could have, especially if He/She was in a particularly angry mood on the morning of Ma’s heart attack. Remember all that scary shit from the Old Testament?

Instead we got another 18 months to enjoy Ma’s presence on Earth. And what a gift that time was.

Most of the last six months of her life was spent in a hospital, on the West Coast. She came for a visit a few months after the heart attack and never left. By this time The Old Man was living, and I use this term loosely, in a dreary Senior’s home back in Northwestern Ontario. They died 5 weeks apart, and 3 thousand miles away from each other. They hooked up in heaven though. At least that’s what I believe. That notion brought me comfort then. It brings me comfort now. Then, I’ve always liked stories with happy endings.

We held vigil by Ma’s bedside.

At times there were enough of us to form a small crowd. We clustered around Ma’s frail sheet-draped declining body. Her little flock of fragile birds. Still hungry to be fed. We took turns holding her hand. We laughed. Cried. Prayed. Told stories. I’m guessing there was nothing unusual about our good-bye time with Ma. We weren’t the first family to experience this. But this was our first time. Our first rodeo.

My heart was fractured. Armor chinked. Equilibrium faltered as the earth beneath my feet shook. I was standing on a fault line with nowhere to go. With my lifelong safety net lying in a bed dying.

This was also a time of transformation.

My favorite time with Ma was when it was just the two of us. Not just because it was precious mother-daughter time, which was slipping rapidly and elusively away. But because it brought me peace. In the midst of family chaos and emotional gut-wrenching wringer days, this quiet alone time with Ma became a place to escape. A safe haven. A sanctuary. It was the sheltered harbor where I moored my heart and allowed my spirit to rest. Next to hers.

It was in this quiet place that I learned about God and his mysterious ways. It was during these soft murmuring twilight hours that I learned to meditate. Ma taught me everything I needed to know about the stuff that mattered in life. This was no different.

Hours would pass. Time had no meaning. I sat next to her bed in the clinically designed hospital chair, with the hard vinyl seat and wooden arms. The type fashioned for short visits and good posture. Neither of which applied in this situation. But it didn’t matter.

Very little was said during these visits. Words were no longer necessary.

I watched Ma sleep. The gentle rise and fall of her breath against her flannel nightgown. The stillness of her body. Her peaceful repose. It soothed me. Ma had always been able to comfort me when I was hurt. Nothing had changed in that regard.

I slipped effortlessly into rhythm with Ma’s breathing. Inhaled. Exhaled. I closed my eyes. I let the world drift away. There was no dying. There was no living. There was just being. Ma. Me. God.

And with the ease of a soaring eagle, I was meditating.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Interview.

February 12, 2014February 12, 2014 / boo king / Leave a comment

This is an interview I did with the lovely Karen Elgersma, host of the TV show Go Island about my new book We Are The Girl Warriors. I was terrified. I had to practice Step 2 in the book: Stare Down Your Fears.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Tick Tock.

May 28, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

The clock on the wall keeps ticking.

Start. Stop. Slow down. Speed up. Wait. Proceed with caution. The traffic signs of the Big C trip. We’re forced to walk when all we really want to do is run. For our lives. Things take time. There’s a process. Procedures to follow. We get it. But we’re also scared out of our minds. The Big C clock is ticking. And we don’t know if we’re running out of time. The meticulous orderly pace is excruciating. Never fast enough. At least not for me.

When we returned from our weekend getaway, things moved swiftly at first. We arrived home late Monday night and by Wednesday afternoon we had the results of the PET scan. The cancer was localized. Just below the tongue. Our greatest fears, that E was riddled with cancer from head to toe, were banished. We were grateful and did the happy dance. High fives all around. Big sighs of relief could be felt from coast to coast.

Three weeks later E met with the Surgeon, who examined his mouth and discussed his role in the upcoming surgery. Because this would be a 2-surgeon job, eight days later E met with the Plastic Surgeon. At this point, it was exactly one month since receiving the results of the PET scan. To a cancer patient and his family this is an eternity. With each passing day I grew more anxious. My mind went to its dark place, that cavernous dwelling filled with irrational horrors. All the ‘what ifs’ were examined. I snooped under every rock and coaxed all the scary monsters out. My thoughts Teased and taunted. It was crazy-making at its finest.

I think E was scared too. In between surgeon appointments he was baptized. This was something he had been contemplating for a few years but he became obsessed with the notion after the diagnosis. He wanted to come right with God. Get things sorted out between the two of them. The surgeons could heal his body but only God could repair his brokeness. This would be his first step towards spiritual healing. Truth is, it was more of a first dunk then a step. I can only describe it as a full backwards drop into the watery depths, John the Baptist style. E emerged gasping for air. Regenerated. Renewed. Reborn.

The triad of Divine Es – elation, euphoria and exaltation – wouldn’t last long.

The meeting with the Plastic Surgeon brought E to his knees. Shaken. Shattered. Scared out of his wits. Later that evening, he described the procedure. He shuttered and shook his head as relayed the gruesome details. I thought I was going to throw up. The surgery wasn’t going to be pretty. Lot’s of cutting skin and veins here, and moving them there, and then there, and there. Visions of Roger Ebert danced through my head. Enough said.

The day after the meeting with the Plastic Surgeon, E’s Mama died. He got the news at 7:00pm on the Thursday and was on a plane to Nova Scotia the next morning at 8:00. He spent a week with his family and friends, buried his mother and was back on the Westcoast by Good Friday. The next evening his band performed at a Bluegrass Fundraising event.

It was the last time he would sing.

E’s surgery was booked for May 6, which seemed like light years away. Everything was moving in slow motion. To us, the medical world was dragging its collective feet. Our anxiety eclipsed their tempo. We felt like lab rats scurrying through a maze of white coats and mysterious technology. Humming machines. Little cogs caught in the big wheel. Dancing on peanut butter. Plenty of action but really going nowhere.

E was diagnosed the first week of December, met with the Radiation Oncologist the end of January, had the PET scan in the middle of February, met with Surgeons in the middle of March and would have the operation on May 6. When someone you love gets the Big C diagnosis you just want the “evil” extricated from their body. We all wanted it out. Like Lady Macbeth, I cried, “Out, damned spot. Out. I say!”

Yes, I’ll admit, a bit dramatic. But still.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Best Laid Plans and How To Blog. Or Not.

December 30, 2012December 31, 2012 / boo king / 12 Comments

A year ago I started a blog. I didn’t have a hot clue what to write about. It was just something I felt inspired to do. The goal was to write two posts a week. Maybe more, if the muse struck with high pitched frequency. Kind of the opposite of lightening. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Really, how hard could it be?

Bloody hard. I’m not one to make excuses, especially when it comes to myself. But it turns out writing one post a week was a challenge. Two, damned near impossible. And more than that, well forget about it. What I didn’t realize a year ago was that I actually had a bit of a life beyond the iMac and the things that go on inside my head. So I reset my sails, pared down my goal and determined that one post per week would do. Not only would this do, it would be an enormous accomplishment.

This is my 54th post. Bravo for me.

Little back story. I had read an article online in The New York Times by Eric Weiner called “Americans: Undecided About God.” This article intrigued me because the premise was something I thought a lot about. God was on my mind. Here, there and everywhere. Just a little insight into my interior world. I thought it would be interesting to engage in an online conversation with other folks of a similar ilk. I thought there had to be millions of people out there who would love to do this. And most importantly, participate via my blog. Looking back, I don’t know if I was incredibly naive or full of hubris. Or just a pompous ass. I’ll leave that for you to decide. Keep it to yourself though. My ego is fragile after a year of this.

Long blog short. This didn’t happen. None of it. You know what they say about best laid plans. I don’t either. But I think it had something to do with mice and men. And things not always turning out the way you expected.

As it turns out, this confounding cliche proved to be true for my blog about God. It’s painful to be reduced to a literary cliche, I might add. Thank you very much Mr. Steinbeck.

Not that God isn’t a hot topic. He/She most certainly is. It’s just that very few people wanted to read my blather on this theme week after week. Good God jumping Jehoshaphat. Truth is, I didn’t even want to talk about it. I only thought I did. I thought I had tons of things to say, given the amount of time I spent pondering. Contemplating. Meditating. Ruminating. Praying to and mulling over God. Turns out I didn’t.

I had about three posts-worth.

The thing is, I didn’t deliberately change course with the blog. It just happened. It took another three posts to realize that I was telling these stories about my life growing up at 204. As it turns out very few were interested in that either. So on that level my little foray into blogging was a colossal failure.

Either I have an extraordinary talent for picking lousy topics to write about. Or very few people care what I have to say about those topics. Or I just write poorly about the topics that interest people, and therefore, refuse to engage. Thus, the lights go dim on computers worldwide whenever one of my posts is broadcast. Regardless, my naive, hubristic, pompous dreams of blogging to the masses was possibly just a tad grandiose. Do you think? Don’t answer that question. Remember the fragile ego. May the echo of cracking ice on a frozen country pond haunt you eternally if you dare.

Fortunately, I’ve learned to not let those kinds of failures stand in the way of having a good time. And that’s exactly what this past year has been. The time of my life. I wouldn’t trade it for a wiener on a stick.

It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Except for childbirth. Truth is, this blog was a bit like giving birth. In this past year, I gave birth to a new me. The authentic me. 100% genuine. Bona fide and real. Most importantly, it gave life to the storyteller me. And it set me free.

Before Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter came to life, I never in a million years would have considered revealing the things I did. The thought was enough to make me shudder and hang my head in shame. Oh shame. How vindictive, rancorous, spiteful, venomous, cruel and unkind you are. You are the schoolyard bully. The coward. Tormentor and thug.

But through God’s grace, and one blog post a week, you are gone. I, and those who shared this journey, have been liberated. Telling these stories about my life growing up with Ma and The Old Man at 204 didn’t cause my heart to stop, my world to implode as I had so feared all my life. No. In fact, the exact opposite was true. My heart beat stronger and fiercer. My world exploded with love and kindness, compassion and empathy, joy and appreciation.

Although I didn’t intend to go down this path, I am so grateful I did. Along the way, I discovered my parents, Ma and The Old Man. I got to tell their story with all of its complexities. Their complicated love for each other. Their unconditional love for me, my siblings and their grand children. The lessons that love taught me. Somehow through the rush of time and the dailiness of life, I’d forgotten that. Or dismissed it as being trivial. Or worse yet, not true. But this past year helped me to realize and remember all the love that lived at 204. In all its shades, muted and glorious orange, the highlights and the dark shadows, the frostiness and the humidity, the large blue skies overhead and the beige sand beneath. The home in our hearts and the heart in our home.

On one of our many walks together, Ma said, “I’d love to write my life story but I don’t know how. And who would read it anyway?” This notion, this gut-wrenching, heartfelt cry touched me. Far deeper than I realized at the time. It took years, and much practice as a writer and storyteller, to bring her story to life. A simple tale about an ordinary woman, who in many ways, lived an extraordinary life.

I can write Ma. I can tell your story. Does it matter who reads it? I think not.

As for The Old Man, had I not written this blog I may never have realized just how much I miss him. Orneriness and all. He had always been such a thorn in my side. Not any more. Extraction is complete. Wound healed. Only love remains. I am proud and honored to be The Breadman’s Daughter.

Although there weren’t any grand discussions about God in my blog, the presence and influence of the divine was the underlying melody throughout. God was present in every grace note. Not only in the process of telling the story. But in the stories themselves. It was there. In the space between the notes. The reading between the lines.

As for those grander God discussions, I learned that in the end, I’m ill-equipped to have those. I’ll leave that to Eric Weiner or Wayne Dyer, Louise Hay or David Javerbaum, even. I could never write something so sublime and witty as The Last Testament. Not in a million blog years.

What next? More storytelling. I think I’m better at that than blogging. I’ve joined Cowbird, the online community for storytellers, so all five of you can find me there. I do have a few more Daughter stories to share with you. You’ll find those here and on Cowbird.

If the blog survives, it’s my plan to take it in a completely different direction. At least I think I will. As you know, I’m easily sidetracked. And we all know what happens to best laid plans.

One parting thought, watch out for mice.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: I Saw God in Church.

November 25, 2012November 25, 2012 / boo king / 2 Comments

Dressed in head-to-toe Communion white and looking so pious with bible in hand.

I’m a sporadic churchgoer these days. There were times throughout my life when I was a faithful attendee. The Old Man, Ma and I used to go every Sunday. I was baptized and took communion. I read Bible verses and some chapters. But never the entire thing. Not enough grey matter between the ears to keep track of everyone and everything. Especially all the goings-on in the Old testament. So many begats and battles. Bloodshed and betrayals. Miracles and meyhem. Famines and bad things happening to firstborns. So complicated and confusing.

But the New Testament is a whole other story. While it contains its share of death, denial and despair, there is also hope and love and kindness and compassion. Sacrifice and forgiveness. Yes indeed, the New Book is chock-a-block full of precious and useful life lessons regardless of your faith or personal beliefs. Who could deny that loving one another is the ultimate purpose of all humans no matter where on earth they call home.

My favorite stories are the ones about Jesus, in particular, the Nativity and the night he was born. I also really enjoy a good old fashioned Christmas pageant. Especially ones enacted by earnest five year-olds. I never grow tired of such performances.

When I turned eighteen, and for the twenty odd years that followed, I went in hot pursuit of God. My spiritual excavations took me far and wide on my interior journey. I looked under every rock. Behind every locked door. Inside a plethora of books and passages. I sought the holy, the evolved, the gurus, the teachers, mentors, ministers, the religious, the spiritual, the wise, the dedicated, the sacred, the masters, saints and the venerated. It was an incredible journey of wonder and awe. It both grounded me and threw me off balance. It gave me confidence and brought me to my knees. I was exalted. And humbled. But mostly grateful.

The family gathered after the Communion for Sunday dinner. The Old Man and I had already changed into more comfortable clothes for this photo. Ma in her apron over her Sunday dress.

At that journey’s end, I found myself in a little church in the countryside. It was a familiar place. It felt like coming home. It reminded me of the little Lutheran Church where The Old Man, Ma and I shared a pew. It wasn’t perfect. It didn’t satisfy all of my spiritual needs. Nor did it fill my hunger completely, nor answer my endless questions. But it was a place to dwell, to sit quietly and learn. To witness and rub shoulders with fellow seekers on this bumpy, often terrifying, road.

It was there that this happened.

I saw God in church. It wasn’t at all what I expected it would be. It was such a quiet whisper of a moment. Manifested in a simple expression of love between an elderly husband and his fragile wife. I don’t think either of them noticed that something so incredibly extraordinary was taking place. But I did. The providential witness.

The congregation was about to sing another hymn. Everyone was seated and looking to the Music Team Leader for direction. He asked us all to stand and sing our praises. Obediently, all the adults in the church stood, except for one.

Ma and The Old Man on the steps of 204. One of the last photos together.

He stood with confident ease. Thin and stoop shouldered. Yet strong. In conviction and constitution. She made a feeble attempt to rise. Her heart was willing. A formidable match for his on any given Sunday. But her tired, frail body was uncooperative.

Without skipping a beat, he reached for her arm and gently helped her to her feet. There they stood. Side by side. Singing with hearts wide open with love and devotion. As it had always been. Now and forever.

The tenderness of this ordinary, natural and unassuming gesture touched me in ways that were more profound than any sermon or hymn or prayer. I was overwhelmed by the presence of God. Just two rows up.

There it was. In a flash. An instant. Grace. Sweet, kind, patient, loving and humanly divine.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: My Mother’s Hands.

August 1, 2012 / boo king / Leave a comment

Long piano fingers so elegant and lovely.

I miss Ma. Sharing cups of tea. Or lingering conversations on a quiet summer evening. Laughing until we cried. Long walks through the neighborhood. Enjoying the pleasure of each others company. Mother and daughter stuff. All such lovely things that I cherish and hold dear. But of all those things, it is her hands that I pine for. Reach out and wish that they were resting next to mine. Hand in hand. Beautiful. Comforting. Tender. Reassuring.

Her touch was my first. My touch was one of her last.

Her fingers were long, thin and graceful. Pulsing with veins. Like indigo rivers across translucent terrain. We used to call them piano fingers because they could easily span an octave of keys. She never played an instrument. Except the music of her heart.

Her hands were hard working. Dependable and strong. They understood the connection between soap, water and a scrub brush. A dish rag and a scouring pad. Intimately. Thoroughly. Hardwood, tile, linoleum and wall to wall. Down on all fours. Scoured and cleaned. Washed and wiped. Polished and shined. Gleaming with pride.

Ma loved clean laundry. Before washing machines were automatic, she filled her wringer washer daily. Pulled her family’s clothes, piece by piece, through the hard rubber rollers. Filled her wicker basket then meticulously hung the day’s laundry on the line to dry. Wooden pegs and twisted wire. Summer or winter. Spring or autumn. The sparkling laundry fluttered and flew and often froze. Board stiff long johns and flannelette nighties. Her magical hands orchestrated it all with ease. Held it close and let it go.

Hands that could cook up a storm.

Her hands were a sight to behold in the kitchen. She cooked and baked. Stirred and tossed. Kneaded and coaxed. Folded and cut. Meals were prepared with tenderness. Cookies were baked with love. Cakes were dressed and adorned for every occasion. Table was set. Dinner was served. Dishes washed and carefully put away. Countertops glistened. The floor was swept. The refrigerator hummed with contentment. Such power in those hands.

A paint brush found its place to dwell. Between her thumb and pointer finger. Strokes and splashes across the canvas. Dabs and feather light lines. Details drawn. Smudges and smears. Oil on canvas. Flowers and trees. Fruit in bowls. The Sleeping Giant. Artistic. Expressive. Imaginative wondrous hands.

Her hands held books and magazines. On topics diverse and sundry. Her hands were eager to learn. To grasp the meaning of life. To find the truth. To seek wisdom. To scratch her head when none of it made sense.

Fabric was transformed in her hands. Curtains from calico. Tablecloths from cheerful colorful cotton. Dresses from wool or the softest silk. Jumpers from baby wale corduroy. Skirts that twirled and flared. Slacks that zipped or buttoned. Shirts were crisp or casual. A surprise dress at the end of a school day. A new wardrobe to start the year. Machine sewn. Hand stitched. Embroidered edges. Guide me home.

Hands that gripped life and love and held on tight.

The exquisite hands that caressed my newborn head. Supported me while I learned to walk. Clasped my hand on my first walk to school. Tended to my scraped knees. Wiped the tears from my eyes when my heart was torn and broken. Touched my shoulder with the language of love. Embraced. Hugged. Carried. Stroked. Hands that gripped and held on tight. To love. To life.

Young hands. Mother’s hands. Old hands. Grandma’s hands. May they reach down from heaven and touch this daughter’s heart tonight.

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.

My Thing About God