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 Breadman’s Daughter: Countdown to Summer Vacation.

June 24, 2012 / boo king / Leave a comment

We loved to sit on our front porch in pedal pushers.

I like countdowns. Especially ones that lead up to a happy event or special occasion. Like Christmas. The birth of a child. A wedding. On New Year’s Eve I like to watch the ball drop in Times Square. All that glittery optimism and brilliant expectations for the year ahead. A fresh new start in ten New York seconds. Which could be 11 or 12 in the rest of the world given the speed with which a New York second passes. Regardless, it’s out with the old. In with the new. A reason to celebrate.

Even though it’s been decades since I was in school, one of my favorite countdowns still remains that to the start of summer vacation. There’s nothing else quite like it. For me, it even trumps counting the days until Christmas. Despite all the caroling and egg nog drinking. There’s no strings attached. Just easy breezy eagerness. And the joy of looking forward to lingering carefree days and laid-back leisure time.

Gretchen Rubin in her marvelous book “The Happiness Project” talks about the four stages of happiness, with the first one being anticipation. This notion really resonates with me. Because it goes hand in glove with countdowns. As I am counting down, I am also anticipating and picturing that some kind of wonderful about to take place. This in turn releases a bucketful of endorphins. And those make me grin like a five year old coveting an ice cream cone covered in sprinkles.

Little back story. The last month of school was both terrific and torturous. By June in Northwestern Ontario, summer had fully arrived. No longer lurking around the corner. It’s presence was fully felt. From the early morning dew to the humidity that blanketed everything long after the sun had set. The heat was relentless. Refusing to retreat. Even in the darkest hours under a cheddar colored moon. It was ever present. And after a long cold winter, we welcomed it with open windows and screens on our doors.

This time was torturous because no one wanted to be there. Not even the teachers. Everything you really needed to know was already behind you. If a teacher was bold enough to introduce something new, no one was listening. We were a clowder of cats. Completely disinterested. We may have seen her lips moving but we heard nothing. Attention spans were short. And the intake valve to our brains even shorter. There was no way anything education related was crossing the threshold to our brains. Being inside was unbearable. Being inside a classroom even worse. The sun was shining. The birds were singing. The flowers were blooming. We were all itching to get outdoors and be a part of it.

The fantastic part of that last month was the relaxed easy-going attitude of everyone. The teachers did their part. Classroom windows were flung open wide to allow summer in. The sweet smell of heat infused with intense humidity, the divine scent of freshly mowed lawns and ubiquitous odor of freshly tarred roads settled over our desks, the blackboard, the books, the collection of potted pea plants on the windowsill. It was a potent elixir that made us all positively giddy with happiness.

I like to see the world upside down and with a split.

In elementary school it was also the month of outdoor gym classes. Track and field events. Baseball games. Red white and blue hard rubber balls bounced and boinged off sun drenched brick walls. Hula hoops in neon colors sashayed around tiny waists. White chalk hopscotch art filled the sidewalks. Cartwheels. Headstands. Skipping ropes and Double Dutch. Play of all sorts was extended. And clothes were lessened. Bare legs and bare arms showing off the beginnings of suntans. Sandals and rubber flip flops. Pony tales and new summer haircuts.

In high school every opportunity to be outside was embraced. It was a time to start working on the tan. The goal was to be beach-ready when the final bell tolled. Lazy lunches and spare classes were spent languishing on the grass. P.E. classes were all about the outdoors. It was track and field season and whether you liked it or not you were out there. Running or dragging your butt around the track. Horse laughing with your friends. Good nature teasing. Disgusted by the sweating. Complaining at every turn. But secretly loving every moment.

Breakfast at one of the campsites on our Circle Route trip.

I don’t think Ma and The Old Man counted down the days until my school year ended. But they too welcomed the lazy hazy crazy days of summer. Relished the longer days and warm evenings. This meant more time for The Old Man to tend to his vegetable garden. Or umpire Little League games after supper. More time for Ma to pause and relax with a cup of tea. Go for walks or simply watch us kids play from our front porch stoop.

We weren’t big travelers. Especially going anywhere that required a plane, train or boat. But we did have an automobile. A Ford. This was all we needed to get away. The Old Man got two weeks off in the summer which was a big deal back then. During that time we’d often go camping or drive down to Duluth for a few days of shopping and sightseeing. One time we went as far as Minneapolis. And another time we drove and tented our way around Lake Superior. Doing the Circle Route was considered quite the adventure to our family. I’ll never forget the thrill of traveling the Soo Locks. Another favorite summer pastime was driving to Sibley Park, Boulevard Lake or Chippewa for a Sunday afternoon picnic and swim. Oh the picnics. How we loved those. Some planned and some spontaneous. On muggy evenings, Ma would pack up a basket of food and we would drive to Boulevard to cool down and have dinner. Who needed a pool or a summer cottage when one of the best places to swim and hang out was just twenty minutes from our house. We were blessed.

It’s been said that the family that prays together stays together. That could very well be true. But I also think that the family that plays together stays together. At least that seemed to be the case for ours. Especially in the summertime. Everyone just seemed to get along better. A bit like the way we were around Christmas time. Only the rosy glow lingered. For two solid months our spirits were raised and uplifted. Happiness hovered in the clear blue skies over Lake Superior. Washed over us in Boulevard Lake. Splashed us from behind at Sibley. Shone over the Sleeping Giant with a big yellow smile. Echoed across Ouimet Canyon. Shouted from the top of Mount McKay. And giggled inside a tent pitched in the backyard at 204.

It’s June and summer beckons. Calls me back to that place. I count down.

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: Dog Poop and the Fine Art of Raking.

March 18, 2012March 24, 2012 / boo king / 4 Comments

The Old Man with his rake and white cowboy hat.

I like my garden. And I like to hang out in it. I like all the flowers and trees. The blueberry bushes, mauve lilacs and sundry shrubs with no names. The bird houses clinging to the Garry Oak trees are cute and folksy. But most importantly, they attract delightful birds into our little piece of the world and that fills me with glee. It’s spring and I’m itching to get out there and watch my husband do all the grunt work. I admire his talent for breathing new life into the places where unpleasant dead vegetation has amassed over the winter months. He seems to enjoy doing that. I see no reason to discourage him. I prefer to putter. Plant pretty things. Pansies. Petunias. Poppies. And flowers that start with other letters too. Like Geraniums and Marigolds.

There was a time when I was a great gardener. Or at least I worked hard at it. Did all the grunt work like my husband does now. When I was living in Toronto with my two older kids, my summer weekends were spent mowing lawns, trimming hedges, dead-heading flowers, staking tomato plants, plucking peppers, weeding and watering. I got my hands dirty and my knees bruised. It was back-busting, nail-breaking work. It involved blood, sweat and tears. But it was also glorious. And gratifying. Especially at the end of the day, when I sat in the tranquil shade of our grapevine canopy and admired my day’s travail.

We lived in a predominantly Italian neighborhood with a smattering of Greek, Portuguese and Jamaican folks. I rarely knew what anyone was talking about because I didn’t speak any of those languages. Ma was a second generation Italian and only knew how to count to ten, so consequently that was the extent of my Italian conversational skills. Not very engaging. We were the foreigners in Toronto’s Little Italy. The Mangacakes. But nonetheless, we felt at home there. Possibly because in their warm olive-complected faces, I saw Ma. But despite the language differences we were able to communicate, especially in the back gardens where our Italian neighbors and I spent much of our spare time during those steaming summer months. And I definitely understood good advice on growing tomatoes and peppers – the vegetables that grew in abundance and seemingly effortlessly in that climate. With their advice, even I grew them with ease.

I look back and marvel at the gardening language we employed. It consisted of hand gesturing, facial expression, demonstration and example. There weren’t a lot of words because there were so few we had in common. Yet we learned this universal language that crossed all cultures and parlance. It was as beautiful as the luscious red tomatoes and delectable green peppers we grew. Communication at it’s simplest. You point. You dig. You hoe. You stake. You pluck, pinch and prune. You scratch your head. You smile. You laugh. You say thank you.

Little back story. I come by my love of gardening honestly. The Old Man taught me all the basics. Back then we didn’t call it “gardening” though. Far too gentile and refined sounding for that time and place. It was yard work. Raking grass or leaves in the front yard. Digging up earth, planting rows of seeds, watering, weeding and harvesting in the backyard.

Over the years, The Old Man tinkered with the backyard, adding a row of Poplar trees along the fence line and a Weeping Willow, that eventually became a nuisance despite it’s beautiful forlorn hangdog branches. It’s labyrinth root system overtook the yard and sucked the life out of everything. There were a couple of evergreens here and there. But the piece de resistance, the shining glory of the backyard were the Manitoba Maples. Two beauties strategically planted about ten feet apart. Just wide enough to hang a red white and blue striped hammock. The swinging bed of afternoon daydreams and early evening siestas. The double swing for giggling grandkids. The humorous pratfall for anyone who dared to keep their guard down. The place to rest your weary soul after a hard day’s work.

In the front yard there were flowers under the front windows. Marigolds and Geraniums mostly. These were the Old Man’s favorites. I suspect because they were both hardy and happy plants. Bright and cheerful all summer long and well into an Indian Summer. Feisty enough to make it to Thanksgiving (Canadian) and some years tenacious enough to hold out until Halloween. There was a wild rose growing between our yard and our neighbors. The scent of which I will yearn for until the day I die. But the centerpiece of the front yard was a beautiful lilac bush that bloomed in June. Ma would pick a bouquet for the kitchen table, the sweet romantic fragrance enveloping the entire room. On the boulevard grew another magnificent Manitoba Maple. Every house along Kenogami Avenue had one. They were a gift from the city to a weary wartime street. Green lush shadow casters in summer. A riot of autumn colors in September and October. Naked, flexible and courageous all winter long.

I’ve heard it said that it is our sense of smell that has the power to conjure up past memories and emotions. That appears to be true for me. The first hint of Spring in the air and I’m ten years old in the front yard with The Old Man. We’re raking. (It’s probably more accurate to say, he rakes and I watch and pick up things with mine. Just the same, I learned the fine art of collecting and disposing of winter debris. A lesson that would serve me well years later in my old Toronto neighborhood.) All the snow has finally melted. The grass is still soggy and mushy in spots. At first blush it looks dead and gone forever. Hopeless. The smell is a paradoxical brew of pure clear 100% Northwestern Ontario Spring air and fusty rancid months-old dog poop. Then after all the raking and observing is done, something supernatural occurs. God lifts the winter carpet to reveal the wondrous new green sprouts concealed beneath. And The Old Man and I stand there leaning on our rakes surveying the scene, and we’re hopeful. Optimistic. Expectant. Summer is coming. Soon the lilacs will bloom.

Eleven years ago, on St. Patrick’s Day, The Old Man, my father, the Breadman had dinner as usual at the old folks home, where he had spent his last year. Afterwards, he went for an early evening siesta. He closed his eyes and then held hands with Ma. He left quietly without any fanfare. No trumpet calls. No slapping spoons. No good-byes or family gathered by his bedside. When I got the news, my first thought was “just like The Old Man to leave town on St. Patrick’s Day.” And my second thought was “I love you and say hi to Ma. I’ll miss you both forever.”

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Every Girl Needs A Room Where She Can Dream

January 30, 2012May 9, 2015 / boo king / 1 Comment

The Dreamer.

I have a room of my own. Virginia Woolf would applaud this I’m sure. I’ve been blessed much of my adult life to have had such a space, a little sanctuary to call my own. In this room, I get to be me. Or at least the me, I imagine myself to be. I’m a self-proclaimed dreamer.

Little back story. Growing up I shared a bedroom with my older sister. Not only did we share a room but much of the time we shared the same bed. A double, which slept two rather comfortably. Sometimes we were strange bedfellows but mostly we were amiable, considering our 8-year age difference. The room we shared was downstairs next to our parents. My two older brothers occupied one of the two upstairs bedrooms. The other room was our “spare” which was cold in winter but a fun place to play, and hang out with Ma while she sewed. By the time my sister moved to the West Coast and my two older brothers were both married, I had moved upstairs to their old room. I finally had a room of my own. It was divine.

There were four things I especially liked about this room. The slanted ceilings, the small attic door next to the closet, the brick chimney next to the door, and the wooden vent on the floor that you could peer down and see into the living room. There was something enthralling about these four details that captured my imagination. I loved to poke around in the attic which was dark and musty and contained the usual things like Christmas ornaments, dance costumes, childhood artwork, old toys and a broken lamp or two. But what was most beguiling was the possibility that buried deep within all this family memorabilia and junk was some mis-placed and forgotten treasure. The vent was both scary and practical. Scary because there was the possibility (although slim) of falling through it and practical because I could drop little notes down to Ma while she was sitting on the couch watching Ed Sullivan. I don’t recall what these messages to Ma said but most likely they were requests for food or drink.

Ma always made our home look lovely. She didn’t have much to work with financially but what she lacked in cash, she made up for in imagination. She just had a knack for this sort of thing and like most women of her time took care of “the decorating.” I use this term loosely because no one spoke that way back then, at least not regular folks like Ma and The Old Man. Decorating meant Ma made things for the house – curtains, table cloths, pillows. She sewed and embroidered. The furniture and appliances were bought on time at Sears or Eaton’s. We weren’t poor but we were also a few miles from the middle of middle class. Everyone in our neighborhood was, so it didn’t really matter. At least not to me.

When it came to my room, Ma graciously handed over the decorating torch and without any strings attached either. I was given free rein to do whatever my heart desired. So I did. I plastered the walls with rock posters and my kitschy-coo personal art. The Old Man painted the chimney white which became the perfect blank canvas for my poetry, lyrics from folk musicians like Dylan and Leonard Cohen, pithy quotes by the pop psychologists of the day. “If you love something set it free. If it comes back, it yours. If it doesn’t, it never was.” I somehow found this to have deep meaning back then. It just baffles me now. Somehow we came into possession of an over-stuffed antique maroon velvet tub chair that had worn arms and smelled bad. We put this in the corner for me to curl up in and read. I had a desk that overlooked our driveway and stared directly into our neighbors upstairs window. Thankfully they kept their curtains closed allowing us both the privacy we needed and me with the added blessing of natural light. I also had a record player, and by then a fairly decent collection of LPs which I played continuously. Everything from The Beatles and the Rolling Stones to Dylan and Joan Baez. From Rock to Folk, Motown to Blue Eyed Soul. This music comprised the soundtrack of my life. It was the fire beneath my dreams and it fueled my creative passion.

It was in this little room at the top of a wartime house in the middle of small blue collar town where my dreaming wanderlust began. I read books and dreamed of becoming a novelist. I played rock music and dreamed of becoming a musician. I made my own clothes and dreamed of becoming a fashion designer. I scribbled poems on brick chimneys and dreamed of becoming a poet. I danced in my pajamas and dreamed of becoming a ballerina. I doodled on albums and dreamed of becoming an artist. I gazed out at the stars and dreamed of flying. I cuddled a dog named Sugar Miettinen and dreamed of becoming a mother. I had a typewriter and dreamed of using words to transform lives. I looked down at the street below and dreamed of a life outside of this room and wondered how I would get there.

And here I am. Thousands of miles and many years away. In this room, I write novels and blogs. Play my guitar and write songs. I sing to myself and dance like a wild woman. I gaze out the window at a sweet little pond and a garden full of Garry Oak trees, and I am in awe. Full of wide-eye wonder and gratitude. I’m eternally grateful to Ma and The Old Man for giving me that first room and for allowing me a place to plant the very seeds that my dreams were made of.

Here in this room, I am becoming the woman of my dreams.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Liberty Will Set You Free.

January 1, 2012March 18, 2012 / boo king / 2 Comments

Liberty will set you free.

I started writing letters to God about twenty years ago. At the time, I desperately needed to talk to someone and there wasn’t anyone in close proximity that I could tell this stuff to. I could have gone to a shrink I suppose, but I’m not sure I thought this was all that shrink-worthy at the time. In retrospect, it probably was. It was just private, intimate, inside your head kind of material that you can’t really share with anyone human, no matter how much you love them and they love you. So who do you turn to? I remembered from those years at Christ Lutheran that Pastor M said you could always talk to God and he would listen – even to the worst of the worst. Well that was me. I was a long-time renegade from organized religion by this point, and the mere thought of getting down on my knees and praying out-loud, or even silently, was painful. So I did what came naturally to me. I wrote.

Little back story. My first letters weren’t actually letters at all. And they weren’t written in a Plain Jane Hilroy notebook either. The first compilation of “prayers, petitions and pleas to God” were contained in a genuine bona fide journal. I can’t remember who gave it to me but I’m guessing it was my best friend B because we gave each other gifts like that. It is one of those cloth covered dealios with sweet little flowers in pink and periwinkle and many many many daunting blank pages to fill. The word “LIBERTY” is engraved in gold leaf front and back, along with the words “Hand Made in England”, also engraved in gold leaf.

All this gold leaf and English pedigree seemed to not only endow this chronicle of my early interior life with virtues I surely didn’t possess but with magical powers as well. And I have to say I still love the notion that by the mere act of writing in this supernatural diary I would be set free, just as all that gold leaf LIBERTY promised. If there was a theme, some common thread woven throughout this first flowery treatise, it was the need for freedom and the desire to hit the road Jack. And of course, I needed God’s help to achieve this. Really.

It is also filled with all kinds of “New Age” postulations, which looking back, make the older me both smile affectionately and cringe with horror. A bit like looking at prehistoric photos of myself in bell bottoms. What was I thinking? Here’s the thing. I’m not sure I was. Thinking that is, at least not clearly. But somewhere between the inside front cover inscription of “My Book of Gratitude, Love & Appreciation” and the last sentence “Thank you Father” some sense of clarity was achieved. Not a lot. But enough to begin this journey, to first get me the hell out of Dodge and then to begin having these daily conversations with God.

Dear God. It’s me.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Sometimes It Can Be Awkward.

December 30, 2011December 28, 2012 / boo king / Leave a comment

boo posing awkwardly in white communion dress with white bible in front of floral curtains.

The day that I had the epiphany, that ‘ah ha!’ moment after reading Eric Weiner’s article in The New York Times, I got to thinking about when this whole thing began. Not the world beginning, that big bang thing or whatever it was that started what is commonly known as life. I’m talking about something far more personal. I’m talking about my life with God – and when that all began.

I wish I could say it started in the womb and that I had these primordial memories of being in heaven and sitting on God’s lap, but it didn’t. Or if it did I don’t remember so that doesn’t count. The best I can recall is that this ‘relationship’ (and I use the term loosely, at least in this context) began in elementary school.

Little back story. Until this juncture I don’t recall being from a terribly religious family. We celebrated Christmas (with presents under the tree and a turkey with cranberry sauce) and Easter (with ham and scalloped potatoes, new shoes and an awkward photo op.) But we also celebrated Thanksgiving (with mashed potatoes, turkey with cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie instead of presents), and Birthdays (no turkey, no cranberry sauce, no pumpkin pie but a galaxy of presents for the special one of the hour.) So throughout the year there were many celebrations and it was hard to tell which ones, if any, had religious affiliations. It was confusing at best, given the abundance of delicious food and divine presents attached to every one of these celebrations that took place at 204.

Anyway, my best guess is ‘it’ all began sometime in early elementary school when I hooked up with S and T and we became the three Musketeers, a nickname coined by T’s father, who was the manager of the local movie theater. It could have been worse. We could have ended up the Three Stooges.

They both went to church, as did many of my other classmates. I did not. This made me feel bad. Inferior. Flawed. Unworthy of God’s favor, whatever that meant. To not feel bad, or worse yet, to not be a blemished cursed sinner I approached my parents with the notion that we go to church. At least this is what I recall. I probably didn’t. It was most likely their idea, but this is my take. Besides, I’m too old to have clear memories, and that was a long long time ago. But we’re talking about God and He/She forgives the forgetter.

Of my parents, oddly enough, it was The Old Man who had the closest connection to what would be considered organized religion. He was a Finlander and there was some sort of ancestral connection to Lutheranism. Ma may have been Anglican as a child but that affiliation was long gone and best forgotten. Her connection to religion was unorganized, I suppose. So off we went to Christ Lutheran Church.

Thus began my indoctrination into the Christian faith.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Letters to God.

November 20, 2011December 24, 2012 / boo king / 1 Comment

The thing about God is. No one knows for sure. Really.

I read this article in The New York Times by Eric Weiner called Americans: Undecided About God. Weiner so eloquently writes that the national conversation about God “has been co-opted by the True Believers, on the one hand, and Angry Atheists on the other.” He asks, “what about the rest of us?” Weiner calls these folks the Nones. Nones doesn’t do it for me. I think of myself as an Other. Don’t ask me why. It’s just kind of the way I am. But regardless of the moniker – Nones or Others – I agree with Weiner, we haven’t been a part of this conversation. We’ve been this tight-lipped group who shied away from any discussion, even remotely religious, like sheep about to be sheared and left standing naked in the field. Awkward. Embarrassing. Uncomfortable. Skin-crawly. To say Weiner’s article resonated with me is an understatement. It got me thinking. Then it inspired me. And then I felt like having a conversation about None Other than God.

Little back story. For the past twenty years I’ve been writing these letters to God. Some people, far more intellectual or spiritual, or hip to this pursuit than I, call this “Journaling.” I call it writing letters in spiral bound Hilroy notebooks. Nothing terribly fancy. But organized. And to prove that these are letters, not emails or memos, or blogs to the Big Guy in the Sky, they all begin “Dear God” and end “Love, Me.” In my world that constitutes the basics of Letter Writing 101.

I write one almost every day. Except on the weekends. I do other things. Like grocery shopping. Errand running. Movie watching. I relax and generally do everything I can to break the Monday to Friday routine. Basically I laze around and waste time. Even God rested on the seventh day.

Box of Letters to God

After reading the New York Times article it occurred to me that after twenty years of writing almost daily to God, I must have something to say about the topic. I’m an “Other.” Typically when it comes to religion I keep my opinions to myself. Unless in the company of other “Others.” Then I might say something provocative like “no one really knows for sure do they?” Even that comment is plagued with doubt. Ends in a question mark, implying uncertainty. Not a definitive, confident period.

This blog is about all things God – big and little g. It’s about wonder. And awe. And marvel. About where we came from and where we’re ultimately going. Not only in the big cosmic sense but in the small personal close to your heart way too. All are welcome here – Others and everyone else. Just open your heart. And bring your head.

My Thing About God