Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Five Days.

February 10, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

E with his bass jamming at home.

In many ways I’m a creature of habit. Sometimes I wish it weren’t so. But at times it’s a blessing. I slipped as easily into this new routine as my favorite summer flip flops. Driving across town to the hospital that first night felt familiar. Like I had done it a hundred times already.

Truth was, I had. Flash back a decade. Same time of the year. Same weather. Same heavy feeling in my chest. Except a different vehicle. Different driver. This cross-town trip had been part of our daily evening routine those last few months of Ma’s life.

I hated that this was so easy to do.

E was still in the ER when I got there. It was a different wing with a large flatscreen TV and chairs set up in rows like it was movie night at the local community centre. The chairs were full of patients and their respective support groups. Beleaguered husbands and wives. Friends and lovers. Sundry others. Some of the patients were hooked up to IV’s on portable stands. The place was bustling with movement and activity. Even those with IV’s were shuffling around. They reminded me of the Walking Dead. Eyes wide open but with no particular destination. Just a scent embedded in their nostrils and an indestructible urge to follow it. E wasn’t one of those.

I found him in a hallway propped up on a gurney and hooked up to a couple of IVs. Fluids and antibiotics. These would be his primary sources of sustenance for the next five days.

He greeted me with his usual wide toothy grin and rascally blue eyes. He looked better than he had in days. It was a relief to see him smile. Maybe things were turning around, I thought. In a way they were. It was a subtle shift. But I could feel it the second I saw him. After more than two decades with this man I could read him like a cheap paperback novel. Smiles like that do not lie.

“I’m feeling much better,” he said as I leaned in to kiss him.

“You look a million times better,” I said. “What’s with the hallway?”

“Waiting for a room. I could be here all night.”

“I’m just glad you’re here being taken care of,” I said.

I stood next to his gurney while we visited. Moving aside for passing orderlies or nurses pushing stretchers through the narrow corridor. It was noisy and more like a Pub then a hospital. The season aside, there was something uncannily festive in the air. I kept my gloves on while we visited. Partly because I was chilly but mostly because I felt submerged in germs. People were coughing and hacking all around us. My imagination was running rampant. I couldn’t shake the fear that I’d catch some crazy incurable virus or ugly transmittable disease and land up in a gurney next to E. Although I couldn’t think of anything finer than lying next to him, one of us had to remain healthy.

I don’t know how long I stayed with E that first night. Time takes on a different dimension in situations like these. It stretches on endlessly. And it flies by in a second. I only know I left when we were both too tired to visit any longer. I kissed him goodbye and headed home.

This would be my afterwork routine for remainder of the week.

When I visited E the next evening he was in a private room. The lights were too bright. Glaring and jarring. It was like a science fiction movie. It hurt my eyes. Assaulted by fluorescent lighting. E was still hooked up to the IV and looked so small lying on a normal sized bed. I had grown used to seeing him in small cots and gurneys. To see him looking so frail and vulnerable took my breath away. He looked like a little old man. Just like his Old Man in fact, the year before he died at eighty-seven.

Where was my E? How had he gotten to this place so quickly? Was he really this feeble? Rail-thin and boney. His cheeks sunken and sporting shocking grey stubble. And his voice. It sounded just like his father’s. Not E’s. Who was this old man that had taken my love hostage?

I took a deep breath and forged on.

We chatted leisurely about his day as if we were in our own living room unwinding after work. He was full of praise and gratitude for the care he had been given by the nurses. All things considered he felt good. He jokingly referred to his portable IV stand as his dance partner. He sashayed her through the hallways, he laughed. Round and round in circles just to get some exercise. For a moment, I was jealous of a steel pole and a plastic bag full of saline water. E’s mouth was still in pain and his tongue was swollen. Yet things were improving. He ate green jello.

I kissed him on the cheek. Not the lips. I didn’t want to touch his mouth for fear it would hurt. It was difficult to imagine that my kiss would not bring pleasure to his lips.

I stepped out into the dark rainy night. Alone.

On Wednesday night everything changed. Originally, E had been scheduled to have a CAT scan after the surgeon gave him the results of the biopsy, which wasn’t supposed to have been for another week or so. But because he was already in the medical stream the doctor ordered the CAT Scan that day.

The surgeon had been in to see E earlier in the evening. M arrived right after her last class. She was curled up comfortably on the little leather couch under the window, her grey flannel knapsack resting next to her feet. She was chatting quietly with her dad when I walked in the room. The lights were still blaring. There were no soft shadows cast. I took the chair under the hanging TV.

I had barely taken my seat when E broke the news.

“I don’t know how to say this,” he said. “So I’m just going to say it the way the doctor told me. I have cancer. It’s the early stages. The doctor said he can take care of it. He’ll get rid of it. Don’t worry.”

Don’t worry. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.

I wanted to throw up.

“That’s better news than it could have been,” I blurted. “And if you’re going to get cancer, this is the place to be. We have the best of everything here.”

I rattled on. Spewing the fragmented bits and pieces of information I had picked up from work. One of our clients at the Agency was the BC Cancer Foundation so I knew something about treatments and research. How advanced our Province was in this field. While the advertising crone spouted lines of optimistic copy from a recent campaign, all the wife wanted to do was ram her fist through the wall.
On the way home, M and I stopped into the little Mexican cafe up the road from our house and picked up beef burritos. We sat in front of the television and ate in silence. The room reeked of salsa, refried beans and fear.

On Thursday night my sister and her boyfriend came to visit. She had called E earlier to see if there was anything she could bring him. He wanted KFC. He wanted solid food. Anything but green jello and tomato soup. He craved something nasty. Junky. Greasy. Chicken licken good. She walked into the room with the illicit contraband concealed in a brown paper bag. You could smell it the second she got off the elevator. E’s eyes widened with delight. And gratitude. He opened the bag immediately and ravenously started in on the chicken. It hurt his mouth but he didn’t care. It was the first solid food he’d had in a week. Green jello doesn’t count.

It was good to see him eat something that didn’t require a straw. We were like proud parents feeding solids to an infant for the very first time. Grinning from ear to ear. It was a surreal visit. If not for E being hooked up to a monitor and IV, we could have been drinking tea and chatting around our kitchen table. The conversation ebbed and flowed. Intermittent at times. B regaled us with stories of his misbegotten youth. We laughed. We stared at the floor. We were silent. Then it was time to leave.

I kissed E on the cheek, whispered I love you and said goodnight. I didn’t look back.

I had Friday off but still had to get up early for a doctor’s appointment that I had booked weeks earlier. I was sitting in the clinic waiting room taking Instagram photos of my boots when my photographic musings were interrupted by a text. It was E. He was getting sprung from the joint. Hallelujah.

By the time I got to the hospital he was going through the check-out process with his nurse. It was the first time I’d seen him upright in five days. Without the IV stand, he looked like himself. E had returned.

E drove us home. The sun was shining for the first time in five days. It was a large blue sky. Just like the ones that hung over 204 when I was growing up.

Things were looking up.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Weekend from Hell.

February 3, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

E singing and playing his bass.

It was the weekend from hell. A topsy turvy terrifying roller coaster ride. One moment we could see sunlight and the possibility of rosy days. Only to be sucked into the uncertainty of the rabbit hole the next. In between we did our best to breathe. Keep our head above the icy waters that threatened to take us down. Mostly we tried to make sense of this unforeseen mess that we found ourselves in.

The surgeon, who had performed the biopsy, sent E home with a prescription for painkillers and antibiotics. In thirty years of practice, he’d never seen a reaction to a biopsy like this. Lucky E. One for the medical history books. I was a little surprised that the surgeon wasn’t more curious to find out why. Then I’m like a four-year old who asks ‘why’ about everything. Except for why me or why us. Life is a game of Russian Roulette at times. Shit happens to everyone. Good and bad. So why not me. Or us.

The painkillers did their job for short intervals, which gave him little pockets of relief throughout the weekend. E spent most of the time hunkered down in his Man Cave watching TV or dozing off on the couch. Deep regenerative sleep was elusive and interrupted by pain so severe it would have brought a lesser man to his knees. But E refused to buckle. Since his motorcycle accident at thirty, he lived with chronic pain in his hip and right leg. He still felt unsettling phantom pains from the big toe that was removed shortly after his bike was t-boned and ended up in a gutter fifty yards away. This pain was close to that.

During the interludes when the pain was tolerable we carried on with our regular weekend affairs. Errands and chores mostly. I was still doing most of the talking. Acting as his interpreter. Under any other circumstances I might have welcomed the quiet. Instead I missed his chattiness and running commentary on life.

One of the things we managed to squeeze in was Christmas shopping for his sweet 94-year old Mama in Nova Scotia. Every year he gets her the same thing. A sweater and pajamas from Walmart. E is a bit of a curmudgeon when it comes to shopping. But Christmas shopping takes this crankiness to new heights. The fact that he does it at all is a bigger miracle than the Immaculate Conception. We combed through the selection of sweaters and PJs to find this year gift, then made a swift exit. The pain was returning and his tongue was again thickening. Visions of baby’s fists were dancing in my head.

Back home, E noticed that the rear license plate on the truck had been stolen while we were shopping. E called the Cops to report the theft while I did a rant on the nerviness of the thieving creeps. How could they pull off something like this in broad daylight? In a crowded parking lot full of Walmart shoppers no less.

Drinking was unbearable. Eating impossible. The pain “was like I’ve bitten down on my tongue real hard and can’t let go,” E said.

Imagine a cruel relentless Vice Grip.

By Sunday afternoon there was no improvement. Painkillers were painfully useless. A fiendish joke. We had no idea what the antibiotics were supposed to be doing. Apparently nothing. E agreed to another visit to the ER. Before we could do that I had to get new license plates for the truck.

Things went from bad to worse. While E rested on the couch, M and I drove across town in her car to an insurance provider that was open on Sundays. This should have been a straightforward no-brainer transaction. Wrong. As the insurance guy was filling out the form for the replacement plates he noticed that E’s name was on the registration of the truck. It’s my truck but E’s name was included as a formality.

“I’m sorry Ma’am, but I can’t finish this transaction without your husband being here,” said the soft spoken insurance guy.

“Whadayamean?” asked the impatient cranky wife of a suffering man.

“His name is on the registration and he has to be here in order for me to give you new plates,” said the soft spoken insurance guy.

“Are you kidding me? He’s really sick. I need my truck to drive him to the hospital,” said the increasingly impatient cranky wife of a long suffering man.

“I’m sorry Ma’am, but there’s nothing I can do,” said the completely-powerless-to-do-anything insurance guy.

M and I stormed out. Mumbling under our breath. Christmas Carols were wafting through the outdoor shopping centre where the insurance provider was located. It was an irritatingly cheerful and festive juxtaposition to our dispirited foul moods.

Back home, I conveyed our frustrating story and lack of success at obtaining the license plates to E. He was furious and raring for a good squabble. And if not for his inability to speak coherently he would have been all over that. To end things on a peaceful note, we went to a different insurance provider to get the plates. Happy ending to that part of the story.

By the time we got back home, it was early evening. We decided to have dinner and then go to the ER. M and I devoured our meal while E forced a few tablespoons of mashed potatoes past his raw cheeks, over his swollen tongue and down his throat. It was excruciating to watch. I can’t even imagine how it felt.

We never did go to the ER that night. E wanted to see his own doctor in the morning. He may not have been able to swallow. Nor speak clearly. But he was still capable of making decisions that concerned his body. We went that.

When I left for work the next morning he was sleeping peacefully. The plan was for M to drive him to the doctors. As I was driving up the long and winding country road that leads to the Agency, I was finally able to achieve some clarity.

This thought hit me like a ten pound hammer. E had barely eaten nor drank anything since Wednesday night. How long could someone last before their organs started to shut down?

The second I got to my desk I phoned M.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: You Could Die Waiting.

January 26, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / 4 Comments

Boo looking up at E at the top of the garden.

I have a big patience muscle. I haven’t always. But the older I get the bigger it grows. It was tested fully those tedious grey hours that we sat waiting for a doctor in the ER. Each minute that passed felt like an hour. I became the irritating kid on a road trip asking, “Are we there yet?” Only my question that night was, “Is he here yet?”

M pulled out her Anthropology textbook and passed the time reading, listening to music and texting her best friend A. Teenagers bring their cellphones to bed with them so they are there for each other 24 / 7. This wasn’t unusual. It’s a fascinating cultural phenomenon that is completely foreign to me, being that I’m as old as dirt after all. I don’t judge. It works for them. I on the other hand, frustrate my daughter by my reckless lack of interest in my iPhone. I use it primarily to take photographs, videos and record sounds. I am also an Instagram addict. But mostly the thing is either tethered to my iMac or lost in the bottom of my purse under wads of used Kleenex and other female essentials and paraphernalia.

During those wee hours of December 6, I amused myself by watching the monitor behind E. It was hypnotic. And almost as compelling as watching C-SPAN. The endless minutes ticked by. I spotted a miniature box of Kleenex on a shelf beneath the monitor and handed it to E to wipe his mouth. He had the small bowl the nurse had given him resting on his chest to collect the steady flow of drool. It’s funny the things that capture your imagination at times like these. The bowl appeared to be made of the same material as take-out holders for drinks at fast food joints. I wondered if it was sturdy enough to hold all that liquid pouring from E’s mouth. Would it turn to mush and melt all over him? That’s all we needed on a night such as this.

Fatigue and weariness became intimate bedfellows, wreaking havoc with my emotions, which were fragile at best. My body felt burdensome and heavy. At one point I laid my head on the edge of E’s cot and closed my eyes. I prayed for just five minutes of sleep. Just five lousy minutes. Oh God, let me escape. Get away from this insidious nightmare that held us captive.

With sleep turning it’s back on me like a jilted lover, I got up and tiptoed over to the nurse’s station.

“Do you think the doctor will be here soon?” I asked politely.

“Give it fifteen more minutes,” Nurse One replied patiently.

“My daughter has an exam in the morning and I have to work,” I said. Not that it really mattered. I just felt compelled to say this out loud.

“It shouldn’t be too much longer,” she assured.

“Okay,” I said, as I slunk quietly back to my chair next to E.

I was overcome by the 3Ds. Defeated. Deflated. Depressed.

Then just like Nurse One promised, fifteen minutes later a lanky older man appeared suddenly out of no where. The doctor had arrived. Hallelujah.

One of the other nurses emerged from behind their station to consult with him. We were less than ten feet away so we could hear everything. She gave him a quick rundown on the patients waiting for his attention. There was the old lady in the wheel chair, the drunk guy sleeping on the gurney, and there was mouth guy. Everyone was identified by their condition. It was fast and efficient.

The doctor attended to E first. Perhaps because he was one of the few who were conscious at that moment, or maybe my earlier query on when the doctor would arrive made me a squeaky wheel, or perhaps it was just our proximity to the nurse’s station. It didn’t matter to me why E was the first to be treated. I was simply grateful.

I filled the doctor in on the events that had transpired in the previous twelve hours — from the secret biopsy in the afternoon to the episode in the bathroom earlier that night. A blow by blow account of E’s symptoms. E interjected with the odd garbled comment. No one really knew what he was saying. The doctor scolded him for keeping secrets this big.

Then he asked E to open his mouth.

I peered over the doctor’s shoulder and got my first glimpse of what was causing all the grief. E’s tongue was the size of a two-year old’s fist.

“Whoa,” I blurted. “Holy crap.”

The doctor sat down in my chair and crossed his long legs in a relaxed easy manner. I stood across from him with M by my side. We hung on his every word like he was our lifeline to hope and salvation. He’d prescribe pain killers and call the surgeon who conducted the biopsy. He teasingly proposed that M and I go home and get some rest. E was in good hands and would be able to sleep once the medication kicked in.

Truthfully, M and I were relieved to be sent home. The doctor was right. E was in good hands. There was nothing more for us to do that night.

M drove the truck home while I sunk into the passenger seat, thankful to be driven. The rain had stopped but the streets were slick and wet. We discussed the events of the evening. We were both a little shell-shocked. M had been quiet and said very little during our vigil in the ER. But in the shelter of our Ford Ranger she was able to share some of her feelings with me.

“I didn’t appreciate the nurse referring to Dad as mouth guy,” she said.

“I know,” I said.

“They shouldn’t talk like that in front of people’s families,” she said.

I understood my daughter’s hurt feelings. But I also understood that this was just the everyday language of the ER. The nurse’s comments were not intended to cause harm. In fact, just the opposite was true. They were merely the parlance of dispatching critical information with as much speed and economy as possible.

But I was too tired for explanations. And she was too tired to care.

Silence filled the truck. M and I were consumed with our own private thoughts. As we were floating across town in a semi-dream state, I remember this horrible feeling of dread pass through my body. Like thick black tar. I flashed back to a year earlier. To the week in September when our sweet little Jack Russell, Andy suffered a heart attack and died with me by his side. E was in Nova Scotia burying his father, while M and I were thousands of miles away on the West coast.

It was just the two of us that week. Taking care of Andy. Watching him slip away. Overwhelmed by sadness. Paralyzed by grief.

This felt just like that.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Wait This is an Emergency.

January 19, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

Boo and The Bass Man share a moment.

The ER is a dreary place. Even more so at 2:00am. It was quiet. Eerily so. I don’t know what I was expecting. A scene from the television show perhaps. Blood, guts and gore spilling from victims of violent Chicago crimes. A young George Clooney flashing that seductive smile my way as he shouted a litany of incomprehensible medical terms at the actors pretending to be medical professionals. There wasn’t any of that.

We spoke in hushed voices and politely waited our turn at the admittance window. Victims of our own personal trauma unfolding. No blood, just drowning in fear. There was a surreality to the scene. A bit like a lucid dream. We could have been waiting to buy a ticket at a Greyhound station. Abysmal. Everyone looked forlorn. Like we were all buying tickets to the worst place in the country. Fill in the blank. We all know the place.

I remember feeling tired. Deep into my bones. I wasn’t up for this. Whatever this was.

Our fellow sojourners that night were all equally fatigued and battle-worn. There was the middle-aged woman holding her side. She couldn’t conceal her pain. It was written all over her face. Her son sat next to us on the bank of stiff chairs attached to the wall, secured to prevent theft I suppose. You never know in a joint like this at 2:00am. She gave her details to the nurse behind the wicket. I listened attentively to the conversation, as though this were my mother. Hung onto every word like it was my business. I’m a hopeless eavesdropper. I can’t help myself. It’s all fodder for stories. You never know when or where this little scene, this bit of dialogue, these crestfallen characters will show up in my next story. I’m always on the job.

On the other side of us was a drunk in a wheel chair. He had “attendants” who were some sort of hybrid of a cop/EMT/ambulance driver. It was hard to tell. There were two of them. Burly but soft-spoken. They were taking a kid gloves approach with this guy but at the same time you could tell they weren’t to be messed with. The drunk guy was paranoid. The nurse needed to take his temperature but he refused to let anyone touch him. He told everyone to ‘fuck off.’ I wanted to oblige but we needed to get E admitted.

At one point the drunk pulled a disappearing act while the attendants were discussing his situation with the nurse. He vanished like Houdini through the hospital green doors right behind their backs. There was a tattle tale, or two, in our paltry group. When the attendants realized their charge was MIA, sly index fingers were pointed in the direction of the door. Not a word uttered. Just poker faces and sleight of hand as we easily gave up one of our own. I learned that waiting room bonds are easily forged and just as easily broken. The attendants swiftly retrieved their drunk guy. He managed to spit a few more ‘fuck offs’ before they wheeled him away. I don’t know where he ended up. There’s always one rowdy in the crowd. He was a good distraction though so in a kooky way I’m grateful he was there.

It was finally our turn at the wicket. I did all the talking because by this time E was incapable of doing anything but drool. Questions were answered, temperature taken, plastic identity bracelet attached to his left wrist, and then our weary little band of three followed the footprints to “room” 15, the vast repository for the suddenly stricken. E stretched out on the narrow bed while M and I grabbed chairs and positioned them on either side. Enclosed in white curtains on three sides, we were directly in front of the nurses’ station and had a panoramic view of the entire room.

The place was full but it too was uncannily quiet. Occasionally someone moaned or coughed. At one point the person next to us started to snore. I found this comforting. There was a scruffy bedraggled guy, who looked like he had spent one too many nights on the street, sleeping peacefully on a gurney in the open space next to the nurses. An elderly woman was slumped in a wheelchair. There were two little kids playing with another wheelchair nearby. It was as if they had been scooped from a playground and transported to this place for my amusement. It made me smile.

There wasn’t a doctor in sight.

E was hooked up to a machine that monitored his vitals. I watched it carefully for clues. If the top number goes up, is that good or bad? Why is the smaller number changing constantly? What’s going on inside of E’s body?

A lovely, kind nurse came and took E’s temperature and checked his blood pressure. She made the usual cheerful chitchat that people in the profession of caring for others do so well. Calming. Reassuring. Soothing.

Everything was going to be okay.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Demon in the Dark.

January 7, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / 9 Comments

The Bass Man and Boo in our garden.

On Thursday, December 6 at 1:00am my world was rocked. Not by my teenage daughter playing her music too loud. Nor by the sound of a car stereo blasting its way past our quiet house. No, this was far more sinister. And threatening.

I woke up to the disturbing sight of E in the hallway holding his head in his hands like a pumpkin leftover from Halloween. He must have switched on the light because I could see him so vividly heading towards our darkened bedroom. Like a zombie, one of the characters from The Walking Dead. He was stumbling and mumbling. I had been sleeping and had no idea what time it was, nor did I comprehend the scene that was unfolding.

Startled, dazed and confused I leapt from our bed. E stopped and did a 180, then shuffled off into the bathroom. I followed. I stood in the doorway and watched as he draped his face over the toilet bowl. His mouth agape.

“What’s wrong?” I cried. “What’s happening?”

E sounded like he had a mouth full of marbles. Saliva was pouring like clear corn syrup from his open mouth. A steady viscous stream of treacle. He continued to hold onto his head like it was a bowling ball. Burdensome, heavy and tiring. One false move and it could slip from his hands. Shatter everything.

Terror-struck, I asked again what was wrong.

This is what I heard:

“Biopsy. Cancer.”

This is the frenzied conversation that followed:

“Cancer! No-no-no! What do you mean? What do we do?”

“Call 811.”

“811? What is that?”

“The nurse.”

“I’m calling a nurse?”

“Yeah.”

So I called the nurses hotline. I was still dazed and confused. Still hadn’t registered what was happening. Everything was haywire. A living nightmare. A million thoughts were exploding in my mind all at once. I went from zero to the deepest darkest scariest place in no time flat. I lost it briefly. And then jumped into action. It was the only thing I knew how to do well. Act.

In our retro 40’s home, we have a little alcove in the hall where the phone is hung. It is directly across from the doorway to the bathroom so I had a clear vantage point to E’s agony. It was gut-wrenching to witness my love, my brawny man, so vulnerable and in such pain. Heartbreaking to see his beautiful blue eyes gripped with anxiety and distress.

I began to have this two-way conversation with E and the lovely (and calm) nurse on the other end of the phone. Her voice was soothing. Comforting. Reassuring.

I still didn’t understand fully what was going on at this point. I just knew it was bad. In every sense of the word. I explained to the nurse, as best I could, the symptoms that E was presenting. I’ve never been adept at understanding people who don’t speak English very well. I’m embarrassed to admit that accents are my Achilles Heel of communication. The mumbo jumbo dripping from E’s mouth was way beyond that. Nothing made sense. Partly because I was in a state of shock and what he was saying was simply unbelievable. Mystifying. Inconceivable. And partly because E was incapable of talking. It was like his mouth was full of bad food or dirty socks. Every word labored. Garbled. Distorted.

If it hadn’t been so terrifying, it would have been quite comical. We were participants in a game of charades where I had to “guess the symptoms.” I managed to figure out that he was experiencing severe pain in his mouth. His tongue was swollen. He couldn’t swallow. Saliva was pouring by the bucket full into his cupped hands. But he had no trouble breathing. The silver lining in the black cloud hanging over his head.

The nurse listened patiently and then offered two options. Either call an ambulance to take E to the hospital. Or drive him there. Since it was E’s life I gave him the choice.

Within minutes E, our daughter M and I were on our way to the hospital. I drove while E sat next to me in the front of the truck. M sat in the bumper seat in the back of the cab, her University textbooks in one hand, cell phone in the other.

The nerve-wracking journey across town was long, dark and eerily quiet. We hit every red light, which only exacerbated my frustration and fear. It seemed to take forever to get there.

As I drove I took E’s hand and held it tight. I didn’t want to ever let it go. Tears began to flow. Then anger.

We had a brief conversation that went something like this:

“Why didn’t you tell me you were having a biopsy?”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

“Worry me? Look how well that worked out for you.”

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

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

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

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

This is my 54th post. Bravo for me.

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

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

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

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

I had about three posts-worth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One parting thought, watch out for mice.

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

August 1, 2012 / boo king / Leave a comment

Long piano fingers so elegant and lovely.

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

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

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

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

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

Hands that could cook up a storm.

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

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

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

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

Hands that gripped life and love and held on tight.

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

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

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

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

Breathing in his love.

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

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

My beautiful Daisy Girls.

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

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

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

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

Our hearts were full of music and light.

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

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

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

My precious three.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Love Bird cake made with passion by Corina.

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

Then the really big miracle happened.

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

No wedding is complete without a trombone solo.

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

We made beautiful music together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Our honored guests. They were with us in spirit.

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

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

Ma with my big brothers and sister.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ma in the woods with my two big brothers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My two blond blue eyed loves.

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

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

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

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

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Take Me Out to the Ballgame.

April 22, 2012May 1, 2015 / boo king / 2 Comments

Hitting one out of the park.

I can feel it. Spring is definitely in the air. But even better, summer is just around the corner. And with that notion comes all the paraphernalia of summer. Lighter brighter sweeter clothes made from cotton and other carefree fabrics. Red toenails and colorful rubber flip flops. The summer toys are brought out of the basement, back shed or garage. Things with wheels and pedals. Things designed for the water and hot sandy beaches. Games that are synonymous with sunshiny days and long warm evenings are played. Racquets, bats and balls of all description. This is the season when my favorite sport is played. Baseball.

Let’s make something perfectly clear right up front. I am not the athletic type. Sporty Spice I am not. I don’t gravitate towards playing team sports of any sort. I’m a loner when it comes to anything even remotely athletic. Running. Walking. Yoga. Skip to my Lou. That’s about as close as I get to being an athlete. But there’s just something about baseball that I like. And I think it has something to do with The Old Man.

Little back story. I never thought of The Old Man as terribly athletic either. Despite what the black and white photos of his younger self reveal. I only recall a man with a round girth and skinny white bowed legs. But he did love sports. In particular, hockey and baseball. Back in the day, when homes had one television set, Saturday nights were Hockey Night in Canada, and nothing but. You could always count on him to be sitting front row and centre, glued to the television set for the two solid hours the game was televised on the CBC. A bag of Old Dutch potato chips, sour cream and onion dip, and a large bottle of Pepsi at his side. It was loud. Raucous. And grating on the nerves. Ma would often busy herself in the kitchen. Some Saturday nights I would take refuge in the bedroom I shared with my older sister, if she happened to be out for the evening. Otherwise, I would sit in the living room in the cozy chair next to the fake fireplace and read. It was like Ma and I were held captive for those two hours. Prisoners of Hockey Night in Canada. But in a strange way, I think I actually wanted to be close to The Old Man on Saturday Nights. Figure out a way to share his passion and excitement for the game. Or maybe I just wanted some chips and dip and a tall glass of Pepsi.

Four things came out of those Saturday night sessions with The Old Man. A lifelong craving for junk food. A preference for Pepsi over Coke. An ability to block out ambient noise. And a love for reading, especially fiction.

On Saturday nights, while lost in a book, I learned to filter all those shrill sounds, the extraneous racket and cacophony blaring from the television set. I retreated to the world of make-believe and fiction. I became a mental escape artist. A cerebral Houdini. This ability has served me well over the years. It has been particularly helpful when working in open-concept environments where you can hear everything and everyone. Including the pin drop. But when necessary, I can press the mute button. And hear nothing except the sounds within. I’m grateful for this gift, compliments of The Old Man and Hockey Night in Canada. To this day, I hear the Theme Song and my mind goes to another place. I switch off.

Baseball on the other hand, is a different game all together. There is just something about the understated elegance of this sport that appeals to me. Whereas the hockey nights were filled with shouting, cursing and bellowing at the television set, watching baseball was much more civilized. Baseball wasn’t intrusive and never monopolized an entire night. There was no such thing as Saturday Night Baseball, at least not back then. Plus, during baseball season I could go outside and play with the neighborhood kids while The Old Man watched the game. I wasn’t trapped inside a small wartime house in the dead of winter with nowhere to run.

Another redeeming quality of baseball was that there were no theme songs that involved a full-on brass section. No trumpets blaring. Drums pounding. Chests beaten. The only baseball song I knew was Take me Out To the Ballgame. That charming little ditty was universally loved, and whistled, for its sheer unpretentious and innocent hokey corniness. That’s what I loved about it. Then and now.

Music and civility aside, there are a few other reasons I preferred baseball over hockey. First of all, it was warm when you played. You didn’t have to wear tons of clothing and balance yourself on lace-up boots with blades. A spontaneous street game could start right in front of your house, at any time on any given day. It was uncomplicated with straightforward rules. All you needed was a ball and a bat. If you had a glove. That was a bonus but not necessary to play the game. And everyone was welcome. Including girls. Today girls play all kinds of team sports. But that wasn’t the case back then.

Aside from the friendly neighborhood scrub ball, I played on our school’s all-girl softball team. I didn’t have to try out to make the team. We all got in. It was part of the grade eight P.E. curriculum. Most of us weren’t very good. But we enjoyed ourselves just the same. We played against the other grade eight teams in our town. And lost most of our games. But that wasn’t the point. What mattered was, we got to play. There were some girls on the team who actually knew what they were doing. And I recall we had a pretty good pitcher. They admired them from afar.

I performed badly under pressure. If I even caught a sniff that the opposing pitcher could actually throw the ball I was a goner. And if it turned out they could throw like a boy I was dead in the water. Struck out. One, two, three. I was okay in the outfield though. It was pretty quiet and safe. Not a lot of action but it offered an interesting outlying perspective. Mostly I chewed gum and spat. It was fun being a Tomboy. And at the end, win or lose, it was glorious to be out there with the other girls playing this beautiful inclusive game.

The Old Man receiving his Bicentennial Medal for community dedication and service.

The Old Man shared his love of the game with me. And it didn’t even necessitate consuming junk food. For years, he had been deeply involved with Little League in our town. In fact, he was one of the guys who got it started. In 1984, in celebration of the Ontario Bicentennial Year, the Minister of Northern Affairs Leo Bernier awarded my father, along with 42 other folks from our town, a medal for Exemplary Community Dedication and Service. The medal was given to me after he died. I never realized at the time, the significance of his contribution to the game in our little town. I never thought of him as the kind of guy who had a positive and worthwhile impact on the lives of others. At least not to this degree. He was The Old Man for God’s sake. A medal? But now as I look at it, hanging from the red, blue and yellow ribbon, I am proud. Very proud Dad.

I have fond memories of going to the ball field with The Old Man. He used to Umpire the games. I’d sit in the weather-beaten wood bleachers and watch. Girls had come just far enough to be able to play ball at school and on the street, but not in the Little League. There weren’t many fans or spectators. Back then parents didn’t go to watch their kids’ games. The boys would walk or ride their bikes to the field and play. And when the game was over they took their gloves and went home. It was so poetically simple.

I watched as The Old Man leaned in behind the batter at home plate. Proudly wearing his Ump’s mask and black vest. To me, he looked just like the real thing. A pro. This was a whole other side to him that we rarely saw. He was confident. Tough. Spirited. And oddly athletic. This experience was nothing like the Saturday Night in Hockey nights. It was the complete opposite. I was fully engaged in the game. Lost in the warm sunny evenings. The smell of dusty canvas base bags and chalk powder. Green grass and young boys covered in dirt stains and glowing sweat. Snap. Crackle. Pop. Wood on leather. Cheers and shouts. You’re safe. You’re out. Strike. Ball. Batter up. Batter out. Loss. Or victory. Always good sportsmanship. Handshakes all around. Better luck next time Buddy.

The last game I remember going to with The Old Man was during the summer between grade eight and high school. Everything changed after that. He continued to umpire games for years afterwards. In fact, the same year that he received the Bicentennial Medal, my first marriage ended. Badly. I was a hot mess. And that’s putting it politely. We separated in April and by May I had packed up my two kids and travelled a thousand miles to that little wartime house in the west end of town. Ma and The Old Man welcomed us with open arms, unconditional love and above all no judgement.

It was the start of Little League Season when we arrived. My son, who loves sports just like his grandfather, embraced the idea of playing. The Old Man got him onto a team, and what could have been the worst of all possible summers, was made enjoyable by his participation in this sport.

All decked out in his green and white uniform and ready to play.

I don’t remember a whole lot about that summer. Some memories are better left unearthed. But I do recall going to watch one of my son’s games and thinking how marvelous he was. How he looked like the real thing in his little green and white uniform. A pro. Just like his grandfather. Then I remember how grateful I was to The Old Man for taking him under his wing. And for putting some fun into a young boy’s summer. I was also grateful that The Old Man got to do something with my son that he was never able to do with me. Umpire one of his games.

Footnote: My son told me today that he remembered two things about that baseball summer with his Grandpa. He hit a home run out of the park. And his grandpa called him safe at home when he was obviously out. I love that The Old Man couldn’t be impartial when it came to his Grandson. I think he was that way when it came to me as well.

My Thing About God