Family

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

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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: The Christmas Dance.

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Hugs after the dance.

I have many fond memories of Christmas.  The wonder years at 204 waiting for Santa’s arrival. Shaking the merrily wrapped boxes adorned with bright ribbons and bows.  Guessing the contents. Hoping and praying Santa brought the number one thing on my list.  Moody teenage walks through the evening snow pondering the true meaning of the season. Looking up to heaven for clues.  Breathing in the cold air and welcoming the white flakes on my ruddy cheeks. Celebrating the magical First Christmas for each of my three children. Planning and preparing, making lists, shopping, decorating, wrapping, hiding gifts, baking, cooking, roasting, mulling, eating, singing, laughing, welcoming and praying.  Joyous greetings.  And wistful farewells.  I love it all.  And recall with bitter sweetness.

There’s this little snapshot in my mind of one particular Christmas that always makes me happy and takes me back.  Not to 204. But to a snug cozy living room tucked away in my heart.  One filled with warmth and a whole lot of love.

It was a couple of weeks before Christmas.  A song came on the radio, a festive tune in three-quarter time.  A waltz.  Inspired by the music, E spontaneously scooped up M, who was two or three at the time and began to dance with her.  I watched as they twirled around the living room, E crooning to his little daughter, who was decked out in her holiday finest, a deep purple velvet dress with a white peter pan collar.   An angel.  Heaven sent.  Divine in every way.  M giggled with sheer delight as they swayed around the coffee table and sashayed past the tree laden with festive baubles and twinkly lights.  Her diaphanous white-blonde hair fell around her delicate face, her skin so blue-white you could almost see through it.  E was badly in need of a shave but on this wintery afternoon I found his two-day-old stubble somehow less objectionable.  Oddly endearing.  Downright gorgeous.

The Divine Miss M in purple velvet.

Around and around they danced.  It was glorious.  Took my breath away.  My heart and soul and every cell within filled with gratitude.  I never felt more alive.  Nor at peace.   Humbled by the awesome grace these simplest of occasions bring.  Clear out of the blue.  Unexpected.  Gifts from God.

Could this be what it’s all about?

As I sat on the sofa and witnessed this intimate father-daughter connection I remember wishing I could stop time and stretch the moment out forever.  Every once and awhile life presents a situation that is so picture perfect that it puts everything into perspective.

There it was.  The fullness of life dancing around the living room to a White Christmas.  Just for me.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: I am a Couch Potato.

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In front of my blue couch in my writing room.

I must confess.  I am a Couch Potato.  In my defense, I come by my CP status honestly.  Ma and The Old Man were also big CPs.  That was back in the day when this activity, or lack thereof, was considered an acceptable pastime.  Before there was an actual term for it.  Pre-guilt era.  Before I thought I should be making better use of my time.  By accomplishing stuff.  Getting things done.  Being a doer.  Not a layabout.  Back when it wasn’t synonymous with sloth.  Laziness.  Wasting time.  Or worse yet, my life.

There was a time when a potato was just a potato.  Mashed, baked or fried.  Served hot with vegetables and meat.  And a couch was just a couch.  A place to sit and put your feet up. Take it easy.  Stretch out.  Lie down.  Languish. Unwind and relax. Rest your weary bones.  Catch forty winks.  A little catnap.  Doze or fall into a deep sleep.

For the record, I like my potatoes mashed, baked or fried.  And I love couches for all the reasons I’ve just described.

Ma’s four kids on the maroon couch.

Little back story.  Ma loved couches long before I ever came into the picture.  We had more than a few during my life at 204.  But the first one had to have been my all-time favorite.  This seems to be the case with many “firsts” in life.  The benchmark for all that follows.  This particular first was a luxurious deep maroon embossed velvet, worthy of being called a “sofa.”  Comfy plush cushions with kid-sturdy wide arms and a head-resting back.  Designed for comfort and built to last.  It could accommodate a family of six easily.  Photographically perfect for portraits of children.  They just don’t make couches like that any more.

Ma asleep on the turquoise sectional.

After Ma’s mania for all things maroon passed, we moved into her turquoise phase of the sixties.  With that came the modern turquoise sectional, which Ma kept covered in plastic for the first year we had it.  This served not only to preserve the pristine newness of the couch but it also appeared to have been a peculiar part of the decorating trend of that era.  There was a spate of plastic covered furniture across the cities and towns of North America.  According to black and white photographic evidence, it seemed to be all the rage.  Why else would so much plastic have appeared in so many family photos?  What else could have accounted for this phenomenon? It was as much a part of the domestic decorating landscape as pole lamps and shag rugs.

Cuddle time on the brown couch with the floral coverlet.

After the plastic covered couch, there was the brown nylon ditty of the seventies.  Equally modern in style, and although not split in two, it did have a matching chair.  The plastic was replaced with fitted slip covers and loose coverlets.  First there was the brown and orange floral patterned coverlet with the fringed edge.  This was draped over the couch like an oversized table cloth.  It was awkward and never stayed properly tucked.  Ma replaced this with a snug fitting gold slip cover that almost looked like it was tailor-made for the couch.  Except when it shrank and no longer covered the cushions fully.

One year, my sister gave Ma a cozy harvest gold mohair throw that was perfect for snuggling under in the evenings, especially during the long cold winter months.  It also looked marvelous draped over the back of the gold slip-covered couch, adding a tone on tone decorative embellishment.  Practicality aside, the slipcovers and coverlets provided a fresh look without having to splurge on an entirely new couch.  Ma loved to experiment and change things up but we were not a family who could afford such whimsy.  So in typical Ma fashion she used her creativity to fill the gaps where her pocketbook was lacking.

Sleepy time on the brown couch with the gold slip cover.

At some point in the eighties Ma went “colonial” with her decorating scheme.  This meant everything had a casual country feel.  Veneer coffee and end tables were replaced with ones made of maple or pine.  The couch to match was large and tweedy.  Warm and earthy in orange, rust and brown. By this time Ma had fully embraced her “orange” period.  The floors were covered in wall to wall orange carpets and the front picture window was ablaze with orange flowered drapes.  Until then she had been dabbling with hints of orange in the coverlets.  But the eighties brought a full-on immersion into this joyous and ebullient color.  It was in this palette that she would remain until her dying day.  She was after all, a fiery and passionate Italian woman.

My niece cuddles with the cat on the tweed couch.

Regardless of the style, color or era, the purpose of these couches was always the same.  We were a family of loungers and languishers. Loafers and lollers. Sprawlers and slouchers.  And there was no better place for such a pleasurable pastime than Ma’s couch.  Nothing more welcoming and enjoyable than stretching out under a warm homey blanket, with the television six feet away broadcasting your favorite comedy or tear jerker.  And in our family the odds were, you’d be dozing off within minutes of the opening theme song. It was just the way we were. There we would remain. Sometimes we’d snooze for a few minutes.  Other times it was a few hours.  There was just something about Ma’s couches that induced sleep.  Something so deliciously reassuring and safe that sent us all off to La La Land. It didn’t matter if they were maroon or plastic covered turquoise.  Gold slip covered or orange tweed.  They all had the same affect.
No matter how long we’d been away. No matter how far we had ventured from 204.  Regardless of our age.  Child and grand child alike.  We all gravitated towards the couch.  Called dibs when it came time for bed during visits and holidays.  Everyone wanted to camp out on Ma’s couch.

The Old Man resting on the tweed colonial.

Years ago when I set up my first writing room in our home, one of the “must-haves” was a couch.  I wanted a private place to curl up and dream, sip tea, read novels, play my guitar, chat with a friend or take a snooze.  A comfy spot that was away from the rest of the household.  I not only wanted a room of my own, but a couch as well.  A big chair just wouldn’t do.  It had to be a couch.  It wasn’t just a piece of furniture after all.

My sanctuary.  My safe haven.  My hideout.  My shelter in the storm.  Ma’s cradling arms.

On the night after Ma died I sought refuge there.  The house had been full of people all day.  Our family had gathered to grieve and share memories.  We made frozen pizzas.  By seven o’clock that evening my head was pounding and my heart was aching.  I was raw.  Empty.  My soul was naked.  So I retreated.  Stole away from the chatter and tears to my safe place.  The couch in the little room of my own.  I crawled under the wool blanket and lay in the dark.  Everything was perfectly still.  My eyes were squeezed shut in pain. I listened to my heartbeat.  It was out of sync.

I wondered where Ma was.  I prayed that she was on an orange tweed couch sleeping peacefully under a mohair blanket.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: We are the Girl Warriors.

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The Girl Warrior on top of the wall at Hillcrest Park.

I’m a warrior.  It’s taken me decades to accept this notion.  But I now know it to be true.  How could I have been otherwise?  I was raised by one of the best warriors God ever created.  Ma, my Warrior Queen.  The courageous one.  The small package containing a fierce and valiant spirit.  My inspiration. Teacher.  Leader.  The one I will follow into the dark.

I have raised two glorious Girl Warriors.  They too inspire me.  Every day and in every way.  They stand tall.  And walk with their own swagger.  Speak their truth. They challenge. Question. Test.  They are noble.  I have a grand daughter who is a young Girl Warrior.  Already fiercely independent.  A mind of her own.  An adventurer off to see the world.  No holding her back. Then there’s my bonus Girl Warrior.  My daughter-in-law. The one who captured my son’s attention and the hearts of his entire family. Another small package containing a wondrous, magical, spunky soul.

These five extraordinary Girl Warriors have taught me much over the years. They’ve helped me unearth my Girl Warrior.  To not be afraid of her magical powers. To celebrate. Honor. Appreciate. And applaud.

There’s no age limit to being a Girl Warrior.  She doesn’t look a particular way.  She comes in all ages, sizes, shapes, colors. She’s out there.  And inside every girl who enters the world.  She’s the face of hope at the bottom of Pandora’s Box.

The 10 Steps to Becoming a Girl Warrior:

My first Girl Warrior fearlessly staring down the camera.

1. Be real.  Authentically you.  Be the girl you are when you’re alone in your room.  The girl who sings into the hairbrush.  Or dances like a wild one.  The girl who jumps on the bed with crazy abandon.  And cries in the mirror so bad the mascara runs like black rivers down her cheeks.  A girl who curses at the ceiling and vows to never speak again. The one who drops to her knees and prays that someone or something is listening. Be the girl who not only hears the music but makes the music.  The girl who doesn’t just march to the beat of her own drum but runs, leaps and flies. She’s the leader of the band.  Not the groupie.  Open the door to your room. Let the rest of the world see this strong Girl Warrior.

2. Stare down your fears.  Look them straight in the eyes.  Laugh at them.  Call their bluff.  Walk right through them.  Don’t go around.  Don’t avoid.  Face them head-on. Take a deep breath.  Or a hundred  breaths.  Make your move.  And keep moving.  Shaky legs, a racing heart, lump in the throat or dry mouth are just the silly antics of fear.  Not real.  Feel the fear and do it anyway.  Find your brave heart and take it into battle. Give yourself a hug. Then go out and kick some ass.

My second Girl Warrior standing tall in her grad dress and shades.

3. Get a kick out of life.  Have fun.  Find things that amuse and delight you.  Not just once and awhile.  But every day.  Don’t put it off for the weekend. For vacation. Or another time.  Hoot and holler right now.  Find your zippity doo dah.  Make a joyful sound. Cause a ruckus.  Bang on your drum all day.  Laugh your guts out.  Until you cry.  Embrace happiness.  Enjoy the people you’re with right this very second.  Let them see your playful radiant blithe heart.

4. Open your heart wide and let in the love.  Go where your heart leads you. And don’t run from its softness. Let it be tender.  Kind. Compassionate.  Gentle.  Extend your hand to another and grab on tight.  Then let go.  There in lies your strength.  Love again.  Then again.  And again.  You don’t have to get it right. Or perfect.  Just let love come naturally.  Accept that sometimes it will hurt.  Don’t let this frighten you. Don’t push it away.  Or turn your back.  Don’t give up on it. Most importantly, learn to recognize love when it comes your way.  It doesn’t always come gift wrapped. Your power to love is your secret weapon.

The young Girl Warrior has dressed for the part.

5. Find your tribe. Your pack.  Your posse. Your band of sisters and brothers.  Surround yourself with people you trust, respect and enjoy.  You don’t have to always agree. You don’t even have to always get along.  But these are the faithful ones. Loyal. Steadfast. And true.  The ones who will be there for you.  With you. By your side.  The ones who have your back.  And will hold your hair back while you barf.

6. Follow your passions.  Therein lies your love affair with life. Be curious.  Channel your inner Curious George.  Do things that you love to do.  Be enthusiastic. Keen. Overflowing with zeal, zest and gusto.  Embrace new ideas and ways of doing the things you already know. Be creative.  Imaginative. Take the magical mystery tour.  Expand. Grow. Cultivate. Hone. Set your heart on fire.  Grab a handful.  Then another.  And another.  Gush about the things you love. Take risks. Embrace the failures on the way to your successes.  Learn and get on with it.  Dive in with your whole heart.

The bonus Girl Warrior sits on top of the world.

7. Be generous. In every way.  With everything and everybody.  Don’t be stingy.  Don’t withhold. Don’t hang onto things.  Never covet. Give of what you have.  What you know.  Give a little.  Or give a lot.  But give.  And forgive.  For that is the ultimate gift.  To others.  To yourself.  Give it all away without hesitation.  And watch it all come back in miraculous ways.  Go out there and be someone’s blessing. You will be blessed in return.  It’s the way of the Girl Warrior.

8. Be honest. Speak up.  Speak out. Speak your truth. Express yourself.  Whatever that means to you.  However that looks.  Tell it like it is.  Or how you wish it was.  Be bold.  Audacious in your speech. Intrepid with your message. But don’t use your words to slaughter.  Use your words to empower.  Elucidate.  Illuminate. Exalt. Demystify. Take ownership of what comes out of your mouth. Make it good.

The original Girl Warrior. Our queen in her floppy hat and hot pink pants.

9. Defend and stand up for something. That’s what true Girl Warriors do.  Don’t stand on the sidelines.  Believe in something.  If you haven’t got a cause.  Find one. The mission is personal. And it’s critical.  Don’t worry if you’re the only one fighting for it.  That’s not the point. If it’s meaningful to you, then get behind it.  Breathe life into it in a way only you can.  While you’re standing up for something, avoid putting someone else down. No matter how much you disagree. Cheap shots are easy and beneath you.  Defend their right to have their own beliefs.  Don’t kick or trample on the weak. Reach out and extend a helping hand. Invite them to stand with you.

10. Dress the part. Every Girl Warrior should have a costume.  Something that is uniquely her.  At first blush, it might look just like someone else’s.  Don’t be fooled.  No two Girl Warriors wear their costumes in the same way. This is your personal power suit.  Put it on.  Strut your stuff.  Don’t apologize for the cut, color or condition.  Walk.  Run.  Skip to my Lou.  Black leather jacket.  Frilly blouse.  Skinny jeans.  Mini skirt.  Floor length gown.  A sundress blooming with flowers.  Floppy hat.  Or fascinator.  A pinstriped suit. Kick-ass boots. Red stiletto shoes. It’s not about fashion. It’s about expression. Wearing the inside out.  It’s about attitude. Character. Originality. You are a rare bird Girl Warrior.  Know this.  So put on your cape.  And fly.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Anniversary.

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The Bride and Groom in the back seat of the wedding car.

Thomas Wolfe once wrote that, “You can’t go home again.”  Part of me believes that is true.  Yet part of me thinks you can.  I just did.  It took ten years and a 50th wedding anniversary to make it happen.  But I did go home.  Not to 204.  Although I visited the place, stopped long enough to take one photograph.  Then left.

I hadn’t been back in ten years.  Two funerals and one wedding brought me there a decade ago.  I swore I’d never go back.  Without Ma and The Old Man and 204 there wasn’t much appeal.  Those ten years flew by so quickly.  Like a crimson maple leaf in the Northwestern Ontario autumn wind.  Here and then gone.

When E and I got married last year my brother and sister-in-law flew out for the occasion.  We were sitting around our kitchen table one evening eating pizza and killing ourselves laughing over the silly things that only siblings find amusing.  It was then that my brother extended the invitation to attend their 50th anniversary the following summer.  At the time I said, “Yeah, that would be nice.  We’ll do that.”  But secretly I thought, “Not on your life.”  It wasn’t because I didn’t want to celebrate this milestone with them because I most definitely did.  I just didn’t want to do it there.  Over the course of the year I considered the possibility of flying 3,000 miles to spend a week in the West End, not smack dab in the old neighborhood but pretty darn close.  As quickly as the thought entered my mind I dismissed it.  Shrugged it off like a nasty mosquito.  Of which they have many in that neck of the woods.  But as the date drew closer, somehow my heart changed. I thought of what this would mean to my brother and his family.  It wasn’t just an invitation to a party. It was an invitation to come home and spend time with someone who shared an unbreakable bond and love for Ma like I did.

The flight was booked.  I was going.

The engagement announcement photo.

Little back story.  There isn’t much of their wedding day that I remember.  It’s all very sketchy.  Impressionistic.  Fuzzy around the edges.  I was too young to have captured any of it permanently in the camera of my mind.  So I am reliant on the story the black and white photographs and a yellowed newspaper clipping convey.

At 11:30 in the morning on Saturday, August 18,1962 my big brother’s life was transformed.  It was at that hour that he became a husband to the most beautiful girl in the room.  Two small town kids who met and fell in love.  Soul mates. Best friends.  Keepers of true love.  There for each other through the hills and valleys of life.  A blessing to everyone who loves them.  They are the dear ones.

The beautiful Bride having her picture taken at 204.

The day began with sunshine, sweet anticipation, butterflies in the stomach, hair appointments, intimate moments with family at home.  Captured on film for eternity.  These personal snapshots were followed by formal professional photos at Pouncy’s Studio. The costs for this photographic session, $52.10.  And the album full of exquisite 8×10 black and white photos, $76.87.  Enjoying the experience of leafing through the perfectly preserved book of romantic sweet memories.  Priceless.  An homage to the enduring MasterCard commercials that I love.

Vows were exchanged at St. Elizabeth’s Roman Catholic Church.

The Bride with Ma and The Old Man.

Commitments made.  Promises kept.  The first kiss as husband and wife.  Confetti rained from the sky in adoration. The gorgeous bride in her white organza gown and radiant smile.  Cascade of red roses.  Crystals and pearls.  The tall dark and handsome groom in black tux and eyes only for the girl he loved, the woman who would be his love forever and always.  His dream come true. Her love at first sight.

The day’s ceremonies were followed by rejoicing and merrymaking where everyone danced into the night.  Cake was cut, bouquet thrown and off they went for the time of their life.  And what a wonderful life it has been.  Fifty years later and still in love.  Still dedicated to each other and an inspiration to all who cherish them.  They have shown us what a good marriage looks like.

The Wedding Album.

The anniversary celebration was joyous.  Lovely.  Memorable.  Golden. My niece orchestrated every detail.  From the delicious food, that she so lovingly prepared for days on end, to the colorful balloons, streamers and photo display to honor her parents.  Everything was letter perfect.  I can’t think of a better way for a child to pay tribute to the ones who love her so dearly.  What a gift.  Again priceless.

One of the highlights of the party.  Watching my big brother waltz with his best man. What was supposed to have been a reenactment of the first dance with his bride turned into a comical, zany and poignant moment caught on video by yours truly. Another priceless moment.

As I look back on those ten days spent with my brother and his family I am grateful for the time we had together.  I am grateful I made the decision to be a part of their celebration, to be a part of the happy memories.  I am grateful that I have a big brother who was man enough to weep when I surprised him at his doorstep.  He had no idea I was coming.  It reminded me that I need to show up more often.  Especially in the lives of those I love.  Until that moment in his driveway, when we embraced and he cried tears of joy, I think I had forgotten just how much I loved him.  There we were.  Ma’s kids.  Her first and last born.  Together.

My big brother with my niece and his pride and joy.

So Thomas Wolfe, I agree that I can never go home again.  At least not to the home that was once such a big part of my life, that shaped and informed the person I am today.  I can’t walk through the front door of 204 and say, “Hi Ma.  Hey Dad.”  Breathe in the scent of Ma’s ginger cookies fresh out of the oven, Sunday’s roast dinner, coffee brewing on the stove.  Kiss them on the cheek before I walk out the door.  Look back and wave goodbye.

But I can go home to remember.  To celebrate.  To honor.  To love.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: How to Throw a Party.

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Beautiful birthday cards saved through the decades.

I just celebrated a birthday.  Truth is, I didn’t actually celebrate.  More like ignored. I’ve been doing my best to ignore birthdays for years.  Decades even.  It all started with a Eureka moment. The proverbial light went on so I could clearly see this one pivotal fact.  The road ahead wasn’t as long as it once was.  This was both a frightening and motivating experience.

Either way it changed my perspective on birthdays. I determined that these annual milestones needn’t be marked with illuminated melting candles that no longer fit on a nine-inch round layer cake.  No matter how delicious and tempting the icing may be.  Furthermore, my ability to blow out that many candles in one go has long expired.  It’s mortifying.  I’ve lost all my candle-blowing gusto. I am no longer full of wind.  I suppose that could be viewed as a good thing.  Even Martha Stewart would agree.

Parties are out of the question. Especially ones involving a surprise. The risk of heart failure from shocks of this nature has increased exponentially with each passing year.  Who needs that?  Shindigs of any sort are frowned upon. And make for an upside down happy face.  So does any other kind of hoopla or fandango.  A simple card or birthday greeting from my family and loved ones is all that I will ever need.  Just another day thank you very much.  I’m grateful for them all.

It wasn’t always this way of course.

My first birthday cake. Big sister G shares the moment.

Little back story.  A long long time ago and far far away in another galaxy I looked forward to this annual celebration. Waited with bated breath.  And bubbly anticipation.  I counted the days with irrepressible eagerness and unbridled enthusiasm.  This other galaxy existed in a small Northwestern Ontario town on a street lined with wartime houses and Manitoba Maple trees.  In one of these little wooden dwellings, number 204, Ma made party plans.

Birthday parties were simple affairs back then. At least compared to the extravaganzas of today.  There were no bouncy castles.  No rented movie theaters, ice rinks nor gyms with walls to climb. Nothing laser — tag, bowling or otherwise.  No party rooms at MacDonald’s or Wendy’s.  No zip-line adventures.  Nor any combination of these things.

The birthday parties of my wonder years were held in the home.  Or in the yard, if you were a summer birthday child like I was.  I’m not sure if this is true or not, but I don’t recall it ever raining on my birthday.  Even now I am hard-pressed to come up with a birthday that wasn’t warm and sunny.  I either have selective weather memory or the sun has always shone for me on this day. I am indeed blessed this way.

Invitations were either purchased at Kresge’s five and dime or made by hand.  Before I learned to read and write Ma filled out the invitations for me.  After grade two I painstakingly did this on my own.   It was a labor of love.  Every kid on the block got one hand delivered at least two weeks before the big occasion.  No one was left out.  Not even those I didn’t care for much.  Usually this was a boy.  My parties were all-inclusive until I was around 8 years old.  From age 8 to 12 there was a no-boys allowed policy in effect. During this brief window of time I believed boys weren’t necessary to have a good time.  Before and after that single-gender period boys were a big part of the social scene.  And have remained so ever since.

Posing in my party dress for my 3rd birthday.

My upcoming birthday party was the talk of the neighborhood for those two weeks.  Chatter abound.  I was one of the lucky ones in that no one else had a birthday around mine.  There was no one else to steal my thunder.  Rob my moment of glory.  My day in the sunshine.   For this one day each year I was the girl of the hour.  Or two.  Which was precisely how long these birthday celebrations lasted.

On the day before my birthday Ma baked my favorite cake.  Confetti Angel Food.  Smothered and swirled in pale pink butter icing.  Licking the spoon and scraping the bowl clean of every morsel of sweet goodness was almost as wonderful as the cake itself.  These special once-a-year cakes were colorfully happy.  Festive.  And most importantly yummy.  Nummy.  Lip-smacking scrumptilicious.  Mmmmm.  Goodness aside, the other phenomenal thing about these cakes was the hidden treasures baked within.  Little silver trinkets and copper pennies carefully wrapped in waxed paper and strategically placed throughout the cake so that every guest received one.  No one walked away without a prize.  We all felt like a million bucks discovering one of these.  Oh the fun we had opening our baked gems.  Winners all.  Hip hip hurray!  Enough to make pirates green with envy over our bountiful haul.

On the morning of my birthday, Ma got everything ready.  She baked a batch of my favorite cookies.  Shortbread.  In the centre of each she carefully placed a red Maraschino cherry.  Baking these traditional Christmas cookies off-season was just another way Ma expressed how dear I was to her.  Imagine the depth and breadth of her love.  One that knew no limits.  So great that she was willing to violate custom, even go behind Santa’s back to bake these precious buttery rich jewels.  I was thrilled.  While the cookies were baking, Ma boiled up a pot of eggs for sandwiches.  And not just any old egg sandwiches.  These were fancy.  The Old Man would bring home special loaves of bread that were cut lengthwise instead of in slices.  Ma would then spread her delectable egg filling across the lengths, place a convoy of dill pickles at one end and then roll them up into perfect cylinders.  She would place these eggy tubes in the fridge to chill and set until the party began.  Then she’d pull them out, slice them into perfect circular wheels, and arrange them beautifully on one of her best china platters.  They were exquisite.  Divine. Out of this world.

Best friends posing with our favorite dollies.

Everyone dressed up for birthday parties.  Only our best dresses and hair ribbons would do.  New shoes and fresh white ankle socks.  The boys in the crowd looked quite snazzy too.  About an hour before my guests were scheduled to arrive Ma helped me get ready.  Scrubbed from head toe.  Hair curled and brushed to one side.  Pretty party dress.  Twirl and spin the crinoline.

Group shot. My friend Poo attends with a broken leg.

At the precise hour indicated on the invitations my guests arrived, each carrying a beautifully wrapped gift with a card taped to the top.  Ma greeted everyone amiably, collected their gifts, and set them aside on the coffee table for later.  Once everyone was gathered, the games began.  Drop the clothes peg in the milk bottle.  Pin the tale on the donkey. Musical chairs.  Simon says. Bingo!  Such fun!  We giggled and cheered.  We clapped and chuckled.  Then it was time to open the presents.  One by one.  Oohs and ahhs.  Always a thank you after each one.  Ma saved all their precious birthday cards.  I still have the first decade’s worth taped inside the pages of the old Scrapbook Ma made for me. Tattered and torn.  Kittens and yarn.

Parties were now in full color during the no boys period.

Then the piece de resistance.  The moment we were all waiting for.  The cake!  Candles lit.  Chorus of the Birthday song sung. Top of the lungs loud.  Out of tune and off-key.  Terrible and terrific.  Candles were blown out in one single breath bringing a year of good luck to the birthday girl.  Ma cut the cake perfectly, ensuring that each guest received the same amount along with their baked surprise.

Two hours passed and it was time for Ma and I to say goodbye to our guests.  But not before photos were taken.  Out to the front lawn we marched.  There we posed before Ma’s Kodak Brownie.  Group shots.  Singles.  Pairs of friends.  Squinting into the sunshine.  Shy smiles.  And big grins.

It was the perfect day.  Ma really knew how to throw a great party.  Everyone agreed.

Thank you Ma for a lifetime of birthday cakes.  I miss them dearly.

The Scrapbook Ma made for me. Kittens and yarn.

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

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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.

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

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

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

8 From Ma:

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

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

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

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

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

Ma and Daughter Number One smile for the camera.

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

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

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

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

4 From The Old Man:

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

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

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

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

The Old Man and his grandchildren pose for the camera.

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

1 from Both of Them:

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

We all wore paper crowns on New Years Eve.

My Own:

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

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

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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.

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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?

Fragile Moment – Wedding Song by boo king © 2011

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.