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

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

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

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

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

8 From Ma:

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

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

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

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

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

Ma and Daughter Number One smile for the camera.

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

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

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

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

4 From The Old Man:

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

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

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

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

The Old Man and his grandchildren pose for the camera.

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

1 from Both of Them:

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

We all wore paper crowns on New Years Eve.

My Own:

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

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: 101 Lessons for a Good Life.

May 26, 2012May 5, 2015 / boo king / 8 Comments

#73 – Every child born to our family is wanted and loved.

I like lists. I find them quite useful. They keep me organized. Or at least they create the illusion of doing so. A nifty thing about lists is how they come chock-a-block with little goals. Each line item something to be accomplished. Been there. Done that. Now move on. And there’s nothing quite like the satisfaction of scratching something off the list. Personally, I like to draw a thick heavy line right through the achievement. Preferably in permanent ink. Finito.

There are daily lists. Like the “to do/call/email” list at work. Some are weekly. Grocery lists fall into this category. Others are annual. The family Christmas wish list reigns supreme. Some are fun. Like the list of things we need for our Annual Thanksgiving Bluegrass Party. Then there are sundry others. Everything from books to read, songs to download, places to see, people to meet, things to keep and things to chuck. All worthwhile and handy to have in your hip pocket.

One of the best lists I have ever compiled is the one that I am sharing with you today. It’s a list of some of the things that Ma taught me during the course of our lifetime together. These are things she said, did, led by example, or simply implied. There are 101 things on this list. There could have been one thousand or one million. Because she taught me so much and I am so very grateful. But I’ve narrowed the list down to 101. I like this number. It reminds me of the first year course numbers when I was in University. English 101. Pyschology 101. Anthropology 101 where I met my first true love. It’s a solid number with the implication that there is more to come. And who knows. Maybe there is.

The list isn’t in any particular order. It’s random. Like life. Some things are common sense. Others uncommon. Extraordinary. Some are peculiar. And contradictory. Some are funny. Others very sad. At times confusing. Often profound in simplicity. And full of classic cliches of the time. But also bright. And wise. Witty. Practical. Pragmatic. Confounding. Infuriating. Loving. Tender. Touching.

Cherished gifts each and every one. From Ma to me. To you. With love.

1. Two wrongs don’t make a right.
2. You can’t make someone love you.
3. Always wear clean underwear. Carry a pair in your purse just in case.
4. Tomorrow’s another day and this too shall pass.
5. The secret to baking a good cookie is to remove it from the oven just before it’s done and let it finish baking on the sheet.
6. Time heals all wounds.
7. You can’t take it with you when you go.
8. Bad breath is better than no breath at all.
9. Everybody needs love even those who are difficult like your father.
10. God is inside of me.
11. The secret to a good spaghetti sauce is to let it simmer all day.
12. Don’t complain. No one’s listening anyway.
13. Nobody’s perfect. They just wish they were.
14. Life is far too short.
15. Send your child to school in fresh clean clothes every day even if it means doing laundry every night.
16. Don’t go out in the sun without a big hat and long sleeves.
17. Walk whenever possible and always have a comfortable pair of shoes at the back door ready to go.
18. You don’t need make-up, except for lipstick. It brightens your face and makes you look pretty.
19. Keep a nice home and welcome everyone into it.
20. Always tell the truth. No one trusts liars.
21. Pay attention to how the dog reacts to your boyfriends. The dog is a good judge of character.
22. Splurge on a really nice dress for a special occasion. Treat yourself and don’t feel guilty. It’s important to feel good when you go out.

#23 – Don’t walk around the house with your shoes on. It’s rude.

23. Don’t walk around the house with your shoes on. It’s rude.
24. Always wash your face and put on night cream before going to bed. Repeat in the morning with day cream. Moisturizing is the key to beautiful skin all your life.
25. Pick up a “Ladies” magazine while you’re grocery shopping. It’s an inexpensive treat.
26. Not everyone belongs in a group.
27. Don’t throw Tupperware parties. No one will come.
28. Stay away from bad people. Especially men who are bad for you. You’ll get hurt every time.
29. Call if you need me. Anytime. Anywhere. I’ll be right there.
30. Babies like to be picked up when they cry.
31. Nothing beats flannel pajamas and nighties.

#32 – Take pictures of the flowers you are sent.

32. Take pictures of the cakes you bake, the flowers you are sent, the gifts you are given, the Christmas tree every year even if it looks the same, it’s different.
33. Support a third world child regardless of your financial situation.
34. Cry when you’re sad. Yell when you’re mad. Sit silently when you need to think. Laugh at the funny things.
35. Get up early. Put the kettle on first thing. Start your day with a cup of tea and piece of toast.
36. It’s okay to wear comfortable clothes around the house just as long as they’re freshly washed and ironed. Being comfortable isn’t the same thing as being a slob.
37. You can never give a child enough love. That’s not what spoils them.
38. Accept invitations to lunch or an afternoon shopping at the mall.
39. It’s okay to fall asleep on the couch while watching television.
40. Don’t worry about your age. There’s nothing you can do about it.
41. Always send Thank You cards.

#42 – Remember everyone’s birthday with a homemade cake.

42. Remember everyone’s birthday with a homemade cake and a nicely wrapped gift. At the very least give a special card.
43. Take care of your teeth. False teeth just aren’t the same as your own.
44. Invite people to stay for dinner. There’s always plenty.
45. Make the bed as soon as you get up.
46. Have supper together every night and make Sunday dinner extra special. Roast something. Have the entire family over.
47. Give people the benefit of the doubt and don’t hold grudges.
48. You don’t need a reason to give a gift or to send someone a note to let them know you’re thinking of them.
49. Try not to hurt someone’s feelings but apologize right away when you do.
50. Mind your manners. Always say please and thank you.
51. Wash your hands all day long but especially before touching food.
52. Bounce a baby on your lap and sing “doodley doodley doodley doo.”
53. Pick up litter when you see it. Stuff it in your pocket if there isn’t a garbage nearby and throw it out when you get home.
54. Never let your grey roots show. It makes you look old.
55. Baths are better than showers.
56. Always bring out the good china for company and on special occasions.
57. You’re never too old to start something new.
58. Nothing tastes quite as good as a sandwich made with lettuce freshly picked from the garden.
59. It’s okay to buy certain things for your home “on time.”
60. Write letters. Everyone loves getting them.
61. No one will love you like your mother. Especially a man.
62. Some people can be mean. That doesn’t make okay for you to be mean back.
63. Take all kinds of vitamins and supplements. They’re good for you.
64. People with thin lips are nags.
65. Pay your bills every month no matter how broke you are. Even if it’s just a little bit to everyone you owe.
66. It’s a sign of beauty if a girl looks like her father.
67. Get the dishes done right after you eat.
68. Eat lots of fruits and vegetables and enjoy dessert.
69. Learn to sew clothes, embroider tablecloths and knit scarves. Teach these to your daughters.
70. Learn to cook and bake, especially if you have children.
71. Read everything you can about being healthy and subscribe to Prevention Magazine.

#56 – Always bring out the good china for company and on special occasions.

72. Try to see the good in everyone.
73. Every child born to our family is wanted and loved.
74. Exercise every day. Walk. Do yoga. Ride an exercise bike.
75. Go back to school at sixty.
76. Don’t waste your time gossiping.
77. A health food store is a good place to shop.
78. The secret to a perfect pie crust is a secret. But here’s the recipe.
79. Be kind and decent to everyone no matter who they are.
80. Walk facing the traffic at all times.
81. Be nice.
82. Don’t go empty handed to someone’s house.
83. Pray for people whether they asked you to or not. Especially your children.
84. Don’t go blabbing family business to the neighbors.
85. You can do anything you want to if you put your mind to it.
86. You’re just as good as anyone.
87. Always make lemon pie from scratch. It’s worth it.
88. Forgive and forget. Sometimes it’s easier said than done though.
89. Celebrate the holidays with your family. Have big wonderful meals and lots of gifts under the tree.
90. You don’t have to get married to be married.
91. Potatoes are versatile.
92. No matter how afraid you are, get on the plane.
93. Respect your elders and those in authority, especially teachers and police officers. Their jobs are hard enough.
94. Don’t be a show off, braggart or know-it-all. No one likes people like that.
95. It’s important to have a room of your own to sew or paint or make things.
96. Always have Kleenex up your sleeve and a package of peppermint Chicklets in your purse.
97. Offer your seat on the bus to older people and pregnant women.
98. Italians are nice people.
99. Don’t make promises you can’t keep, especially to children.
100. You only get out of life what you put into it.
101. You’re never too old to play on a swing.

#101 – You’re never too old to play on a swing.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: I Never Can Say Goodbye.

May 19, 2012May 7, 2015 / boo king / 4 Comments

Ma enjoying her morning tea the summer before she died.

Goodbyes can be hard for me. Especially when I’m saying them to someone I love. Then they don’t feel very good at all. But within every goodbye is the welcoming possibility of the next hello. Saving grace.

Some goodbyes are more difficult than others. Some are temporary. Short lived. But others are permanent. Never another opportunity to bid someone a fond adieu. These are the most difficult. The heartbreakers. The sorrowful ones. And sadly unavoidable. Sooner or later, it happens to all of us.

If we’re lucky there may only be a few really big goodbyes in our lifetime. But along the journey there are many little ones. These are the fine hairline fractures of the heart. The tiny losses that are barely detected by our minds but somewhere deep inside our spirt, there is a knowing. And with each one, life changes. Maybe not in a gigantic shrieking way. But there is a shift. It’s the winds of changes, Dylan sang about. And things are never quite the same as they were. I think we record these moments in our soul. Some we bury deep. Others we record for posterity. Capture in black and white. Or record in living color. And play back. Again and again. But no matter how many times we practice we are never ever truly prepared for the last time.

We probably say goodbye to someone everyday. I know I do. In the morning my husband shouts up the stairs on his way out the door for work. “See ya later,” he calls. I’m in the bathroom readying myself for work, toothbrush in hand and I holler back, “have a good day!” He responds in kind, “you too!” I can hear the back door slam on his way out. Hello, where’s my kiss.

My youngest daughter does a similar thing as she leaves for school, or to meet with friends. “Bye Mom. Love you!” she sings. Her sweet voice, music to my ears. “Love you too dear!” I trill. I could be anywhere at this point. Applying mascara in front of the bathroom mirror. Throwing on a pair of skinny red jeans for work. Rummaging through my closet for a clean top to go with them. Gathering up the bag of goodies I need for work. I hear the door slam. I hear her say “hello” to her best friend. They giggle. They talk loud. They’re young.

At work there are numerous goodbyes. Business associates and colleagues come and go. I wish them well. “Have a good day!” “Enjoy your week!” “Your weekend!” Cheers and tootle-dos. And with each “so long, farewell, it’s been good to know you” there is always the promise of tomorrow. Another day to say hello.

Some goodbyes are rites of passage. Like when my son moved out of the house and in with his buddies. He was a young man by then. But that’s not what I saw as he moved his things out of his bedroom. I saw my little raisin-eyed boy who loved to rub his hands together with glee whenever his favorite team scored a goal. I saw the little boy who held my hand on the way to school his first day. I saw our entire life together flash before me as he closed the door. Just like they say happens when you die. I saw it all in an instant. Hello, can we press rewind.

A similar thing happened when my oldest daughter left to go to college. My son just moved across town. But my daughter moved across the Georgia Strait. In theory still close. But there was this inconvenient body of water between us, which meant we couldn’t just hop in the car and be there in ten minutes. This geographic situation introduced all the “special occasion” goodbyes. Her birthday and Thanksgiving weekend combo. Christmas vacation. The quick trip over for a winter weekend. Easter and maybe spring break if luck is on our side. The long weekend in May or Mother’s Day. Choose one. Canada Day and little sister’s birthday BBQ if time permits. Time. Never enough. But we’ve got memories by the truckload. And lots of hugs and kisses at the ferry terminal or the back door. “Love you dear.” “Love you too Mom.” Hello, can we have more special occasions.

By the time I had these rites of passage and special occasion goodbyes with my children, I was already well practiced with Ma and The Old Man. I remember the first one like it was yesterday. It was the hardest. Painful doesn’t even come close to describing it. When my son was three we moved to the Westcoast for the first time. My sister was (and still is) living in Victoria. The plan was to move in with her and start a new life. It was time to cut the apron strings. And stand on my own two feet. Embrace adulthood by moving three thousand miles from home. It was all very exciting.

The departure scene at the airport is imbedded in my memory. Forever. Leaving Ma was hard enough. But leaving with her grandson in tow was agonizing. She had helped raise him and he meant the world to her. We hugged. We cried. We waved goodbye. My son and I got on the plane. I wanted to jump on the next one back. I didn’t. But I did return a year later with a new husband. Hello, we’re home.

There would be more moves over the years and many goodbye hugs and kisses. All in preparation for the big one.

Ma died a year and a half after she had a massive heart attack. Until that fateful day she always seemed so young and energetic. She was one of those people whose age was indefinable. We all thought she’d live to one hundred, including Ma. Her heart attack was a shock to everyone, including Ma. In fact, once Ma was out of the hospital and recovering nicely, she immediately went into denial. “Oh I didn’t have a heart attack,” she’d say. “Oh but you did Ma,” we’d say. She never listened. And either way, she seemed in pretty good shape for someone who may, or may not, have lost over 70% of her heart muscle. Hello, who knows best.

The year and a half that Ma lived after her heart attack was a gift from God. Not just for her. But for me as well. Had she died instantly that day in early August, I’m not sure I would have fared as well as I did. This long goodbye. This period of grace from God was the time I needed to come to grips with my mother’s mortality. Despite her youthful appearance and vigorous disposition, she was in her eighties. She was elderly. And no one, not even Ma, get’s out of here alive. That year and a half was a sweet gentle loving time. I grew to appreciate the quiet moments. I learned to sit and be still. I learned to watch and witness. I grew a grateful heart. I learned to let go.

A few months after her heart attack my sister brought Ma out to the Westcoast for a visit. Because she had been doing so well, we thought this would be a good thing for her. She never did return home. Never saw The Old Man again. She pined for both. One minute she was doing really well and the next she was severely ill. Quite quickly we ran out of time to get her back home. She was stuck in Oz. Her last Christmas was spent in the hospital. We spent the best part of it there with her. It was a sad time. But it was wonderful too. Miraculous. Not because Ma’s heart was repaired. But because mine was transformed. Permanently. I would never take life for granted again.

Ma enjoying an intimate moment with her great granddaughter just days before she died.

In the days before her death my oldest daughter brought my granddaughter to visit Ma in the hospital. They couldn’t get their eyes off each other. There they were. The one leaving earth and the one who had just arrived in a profound intimate exchange. No words necessary. Just a meeting of the souls. Kindred spirits. Evermore linked.

Hello. I love you.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Insomnia and the Power of One.

March 11, 2012March 11, 2012 / boo king / 2 Comments

Ma loved all children but especially me.

I like to give. I also like to receive. But giving just feels so much better. You get that warm and fuzzy feeling. All gooey inside like a hot fudge sundae. And there’s this glow that appears all around your edges. Like the kind Angels wear and Beyonce sings about. You know what I’m talking about. The halo. There’s also music. Harps and lutes and chirpy birds. It’s marvelous. All this just from the simple act of giving.

Ma was a bigger giver. And The Old Man would give you the shirt off his back without hesitation. But I learned all about giving to people I didn’t know, and who lived in worlds far beyond our borders, from Ma.

Little back story. Many years ago, when I was a much younger version of myself, I was living with my two oldest kids in the Italian neighborhood of Toronto. It was a bleak period in my life. I was separated, raising two kids alone, had a low-paying job, not much of a social life, lonely, frightened and lacking in resources. I was also an insomniac. Still am. I spent endless nights ruminating over the state of my life. Looking under every imaginary rock to see what was lurking there. Leaving no stone unturned. It was torture. Self-inflicted torment. Oh the wretched scourge of it all. Woe was me.

Much of my time was spent worrying about money. There was never enough. I took the expression “robbing Peter to pay Paul” to all new heights. Gave it fresh and new meaning. I was equally inventive and creative with my money management. Plus, I was a master juggler of serious magnitude. My financial situation was in such delicate balance that I was a one-woman circus act. It would have been hilarious had it not been so pitiful. Or my life.

It was during one of these sleepless nights that I learned one of the most profound lessons on giving. Typically when I have insomnia I stay rooted to my bed like a beached whale on a California shore. I toss. I turn. I thrash. I flip pillows. Pound them. Beat them to a pulp. Then ultimately toss them on the floor. I kick my legs in and out of the covers. I roll my eyes inside my head until they hurt. I try to substitute my dark morbid thoughts for pleasant ones that involve sunshine and fields of daisies. Eventually I succumb. I never really know when or why. But eventually the Sandman pays me a visit and I slip fitfully into Dreamland. Or Nightmaresville.
But on this particular night long ago, something mystifying compelled me to get out of my bed and walk down two flights of stairs to our basement rumpus room. It had a television and was far enough away from my sleeping children not to disturb their peaceful and tranquil slumber. Oh how I envied them.

It was the hour of the wolf and I was fully expecting to see nothing but snow and static on the television. That suited me just fine. My head was spinning and my heart was howling with fear and bitterness. I was in no mood to be touched by anything broadcast in those murky unsettling hours before dawn. But I was. Deeply. So powerfully in fact, that what I saw would stay with me for the rest of my life.

I guess it was an infomercial. Although that seems far too trivial a description for what this was. There were no hawkers of magic mops and make-up. Nothing of that nature was going on. But it sold me none the less. It grabbed a hold of my heart and hasn’t let go since.

In the quiet of that early morning gloom I stared into the faces of sweet innocent children thousands of miles away who had nothing. And I was broken. And humbled. Saddened beyond description. I saw bellies swollen from hunger and thin tiny limbs covered in sores. Poverty. Sickness. Strife. Yet in the eyes of these beautiful ones I also saw my own two children. No different. They were children. Kids. Just like mine. Suddenly my first world problems were put into perspective. So I did what I often do in situations like this. I had a little chat with God.

It went something like this. “Okay, here’s the deal. I’m on my own and I’ve got these two kids and three cats to take care of. I can barely make ends meet. Just ask Peter and Paul. But I can’t deny what I just bore witness to. I need a few extra bucks every month to help one of these kids and their families. That’s all. A few extra bucks. Plus I need your help with my own kids too.”

That was the promise made. That has been the promise kept. On both our counts.

I also thought of Ma that night. And wondered if she had ever made the same deal. She had four kids and an alcoholic husband, who often in their early years together, spent his paycheck before it was earned. She was like the woman in the Bible who had little but gave much. Ma’s five or ten dollars sent off to this charity or given to that cause was like the millions given by the wealthy. She too supported a third world child. I remember the photographs she received of her foster children over the years. She never boasted. She just quietly and faithfully gave every month for years. They could count on her. She loved children so. No matter where they came from. She wanted to help. To do something to change the course of even one child’s life. Ma was a shining example of the power of one.

Flash forward. It’s years later and I’m living on the Westcoast. It’s the middle of the night. I can’t sleep. But I can’t stay in bed either. I have a room of my own now with a computer where I dream and make magical things happen. Life is different. I no longer ride it out. Instead I write it out. It’s raining as it so often does out here. I’m worried. There are wars. And rumors of wars. People are suffering. Everywhere. My heart aches and my head can’t make sense of any of it. I get up. I go to my computer and I write this poem.

A Mother’s Prayer for Peace

Dear God,

It’s the middle of the night,
And I cannot sleep.
The rain is pounding on the roof
And the wind is howling outside my window.
But I am safe and warm,
Comforted by my feather duvet.
My faithful dog curled up at my feet
And my husband breathing softly next to me
Our children safe in their beds
Surrendered to dreams,
Sweet sweet dreams.

Yet my heart is not at peace,
It is broken with sadness.
For out there
Somewhere in a world I do not know
In countries I’ve only seen on TV
Are other families
With mothers just like me,
Who but for your gentle grace
Live a different life.
One not privileged with
Warm safe beds to rest,
To sleep, to dream of tomorrow.

Their lives, every bit as precious as mine
Are torn apart and shattered –
By fear
And hate
And hunger
And disease
And disaster
And ignorance

WAR.

I pray for these loving mothers
And for their dear families
That they ALL
Each and every one
Have what I have
And know, truly know
What it’s like
To go to bed at night
And NOT be filled with fear
That their beautiful child,
Every bit as precious as mine,
Won’t be harmed
Or blown to piece
By the enemy lurking at the door.

God, I pray that all these mothers
Know at least one moment of peace.
And that that moment grows and grows
Like a wave across the world.

A graceful, gentle, loving wave of peace.

It begins with one moment
And grows from moment to moment.
It begins with one mother
And grows from mother to mother.
And it saves one child
And grows from child to child.

May we share this moment of peace
Mothers of the world.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

Amen.

In gratitude and love,
boo king

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Last of His Kind.

February 26, 2012June 21, 2015 / boo king / 4 Comments

Big Sis G with Tootsie on the left. Kids flocked to the Pied Piper of Bread.

I like to work. I like what I do from 9 to 5, Monday to Friday. And I also like what I do outside of that window of time. There are many things about work that I like. But the thing I like to do the most is to serve. I don’t mean serve in the way that a waiter or a clerk or a bell hop would do. I’m talking about something much more generic. Quite simply, I like to help people. To be of service to those around me. This covers a broad spectrum of possibilities because the brush is so wide, making the opportunities for work vast and limitless. There’s no end to what you can do, where you can do it, and who you can do it for. People need help everywhere. This is such an appealing notion. At the end of the day my job title or description is almost incidental. Because when you drill right down to the heart of the matter, what I actually do is help other people do what they do.

According to Bob Dylan we’ve all Gotta Serve Somebody. Whether it’s the devil or the Lord. Whether they call you Doctor or Chief. Inevitably there’s someone you’re going to serve. I not only accept this to be fact, but I embrace it. Arms wide open. It’s both humbling and gratifying. For me though, it’s always been the little “s” service. Not the big “S” classification. I’m not a doctor or a chief, an ambassador nor a heavyweight champion. I don’t eat caviar nor do I live in a mansion. I also don’t go off to battle, the mission field, lead a congregation, a classroom or a country. But every day I wake up and ask God, “How may I be of service today? How may I help those that I work for and with? How may I help those I love? How may I help a stranger?” That’s my doctrine. My personal credo. Mission statement. Plain and simple. Uncomplicated. How I work.

Little back story. My parents both worked hard. Ma, like most women of her generation stayed home and raised her family. Back then, women didn’t say things like “I work at home. I’m a stay-at-home mom. I’m a Domestic Diva.” They just did what they did. And for the most part, they never doubted that it was the right thing to do. At least not Ma. She was the first person to serve me. Something that she did pretty much all of her life. From my cradle to her grave. The thing was, Ma served everyone, not just me. Well into her seventies she seemed blessed with abundance of youthful energy. She was industrious and her hands were always occupied. Whether it was baking a pie, scrubbing a floor, nursing a wound, or wiping a snotty nose. Her marvelous hands had work to do. Purpose. When a guest walked through Ma’s door, she immediately stepped into action, ready and willing to serve. With ease and grace, she made you feel not only welcome, but important. She would serve you tea and cookies or cake or pie. And she would listen. Attentively. Kindly. Patiently. Small “s” service. Big worth.

The Old Man worked for the same company for the better part of his entire career. I use the term “career” loosely here. The Old Man had a job. His collar was blue. And his neck was red. His heart, both tender and angry. The Old Man worked for the Shaw Bread Company. To be precise, he was a Breadman. For most of his working life he delivered bread door to door. He had the same route, delivered to the same families, Monday to Friday. His route covered two distinct areas of our town. One was where the relatively affluent people lived, and the other was the Finnish business community, that included the famous Hoito Restaurant. Because the Old Man was a bonafide Finlander, one who was fluent in the language, and knew the difference between a sauna and a steam bath, it was natural for him to work this route.

The best time of year to be a Breadman was at Christmas. This was when The Old Man reaped the benefits of his good customer service. This was when he brought home the loot. Sundry gifts and tips from his happy and satisfied customers. Joy to the world. The week prior to Christmas, the Old Man came through the door each night bearing gifts. The fruits of his labors. Mostly cards with money. Or cartons of Players cigarettes, his preferred brand until he kicked the 30-year habit. Or chocolates, of assorted varieties. Some gifts were homemade. Like knitted scarves. Or socks. Sometimes he’d get a bottle of booze, which was frowned upon by Ma and her children. The Old Man was an alcoholic and a gift like this could be the kiss of death for our Christmas. Booze aside, one of my fondest memories, growing up is that of dumping out his sack full of goodies onto the living room rug and combing through it like a bloodhound on the scent of a murderer. We opened all the cards first. How much would the M or the P or the S family give? Ten bucks from the Ms! Yippee! What a grand expression of appreciation for his incomparable bread delivery service. His friendly disposition. His cornball jokes. His fresh bread and sticky sweet Persians.

In the summer The Old Man had an extra route that serviced the surrounding lakes, where the lucky folks had summer camps. Sometimes he would take me with him on these deliveries. I also have many fond memories of these afternoon trips. The roads were hilly and curvy, poorly surfaced and narrow. Yet The Old Man could drive these roads with his eyes closed. I remember the thrill of flying down hills like we were on the roller coaster at the circus. Airborne half the time. My stomach full of butterflies and tickles. “Do it again! Do it again!” I cried as we as we approached the next hill. And the next. And the next. Yes the Old Man knew how to make a bread truck soar.

Before there were bread trucks with doors that swung open wide, that smelled of yeast, sugar and sweat, there were bread wagons. Horse-drawn relics. The Old Man drove one of these up until around 1960. His horse’s name was Tootsie. Toots. She was brown and hard working. I don’t actually remember her as a real living creature. I see photos of me next to the wagon but I don’t recall the time, the experience. My Old Man was the last Breadman to use a horse-drawn wagon. There was an article about him in the local paper years later that said he was the “last of his kind.” They got that right.

There’s just something about a man who drives a wagon full of fresh baked bread and doughy treats, pulled by a horse named Tootsie, that draws people in. He was like the Pied Piper. Kids couldn’t get enough him and his wares. And his appearance in the neighborhood was quite possibly the highlight of some exhausted housewife’s day. Possibly they flirted. At the very least they exchanged pleasantries. It was nice.

I must confess I had mixed feelings about The Old Man’s occupation. On the one hand I was grateful that he worked every day and provided for his family. However meager it may have been at times. But there were many occasions when I was ashamed or embarrassed. Especially when someone asked me what my father did, and in particular if the person asking had a father who wore a silk suit to work, and not a blue twill uniform that smelled of bread dust and sweat. Then, I didn’t want to admit that I was the Breadman’s daughter. I wanted him to own the company, not deliver the bread door to door. But in the safety of my own neighborhood, where everyone’s dad had a crappy job I didn’t care. In fact, I loved that he had a job that attracted people like bees to honey. But outside of Kenogami Avenue, things were different. And the older I got, the more painfully aware I grew of the differences between the neighborhoods. The white vs the blue.

Even now, years later and thousands of miles away, when someone with a white collar demeanor innocently asks me what it was that my father did for a living, a part of me hesitates. Cringes. Blushes with embarrassment. Be it ever so brief, it’s there. The automatic response to a memory imbedded in my DNA.

What did my father do? He served. The Shaw Bread Company. His loyal customers. A brown mare named Tootsie. He did it all with good humor. Silly jokes. Kindness and generosity. And according to the article about him, he did it quite well. The most important thing I learned about working, my father taught me on those sunny summer afternoons when we barreled down the hills on our way to the lake. Or on cold winter nights when we tore open white envelopes addressed with cheerful Merry Christmas greetings and chocolate boxes wrapped in green tissue paper. Not by his words. But by his actions. Yes, this is what the last of his kind taught me. To serve.

And I am The Breadman’s daughter.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Regrets, Do-overs and the Night My Dog Died.

January 21, 2012September 8, 2015 / boo king / 6 Comments

Andy hated having to wear the dreaded “cone.”

I have regrets. Probably more than I care to admit, or face. I’m not one of those people who boldly declare, “I regret nothing.” I don’t necessarily wallow in them like a drunk on the bar stool, but they do exist and suffice to say, are now part of my DNA. I don’t judge but I do acknowledge.

One of my biggest regrets, and the author of my sadness, is that I wasn’t with my mother when she died. I was there a few hours beforehand but not at the moment she left. That was over a decade ago and I pined for a do-over, an opportunity to hold her hand, say one last good-bye and bear witness to her presence and her passing. And until last September I thought this was just the wishful thinking of a heartbroken daughter. But in a peculiar and unexpected way I got my do-over.

Little back story: On those rare occasions when Ma went to her Dark Place she would refer to herself as a dog. “I feel like a dog,” she’d say. Ma wasn’t one to feel sorry for herself, but we all go there at times and she was no exception. Although I heard her sorrowful dog Mantra and even took it to heart at times, I also dismissed it as crazy-talk, and never really gave it much energy nor validation.

Then I fell in love. At first sight. With Andy. He was a dog. Really. Literally. A long haired Jack Russell. Not since the dog of my childhood, Sugar Miettinen, had I loved a creature so. He was heavenly. Divine. A wonder. And I loved him. We got him the year after Ma died. We responded to an ad in our little neighborhood weekly that said something like “male Jack Russell, 12 weeks old, last one of the litter.” By the time my husband, daughter and I arrived at the farm where he had spent his first weeks of life, we had him named and our hearts were spilling over with dreams. On the way home, I happily joked that it wouldn’t have mattered how much he cost, because I knew the minute I laid eyes on him, he was coming home with me.

Our daughter was nine at the time. Years before, we had promised her that when we bought a house we would get her a puppy. We were diehard renters and had cats because for some reason they were more “landlord-friendly,” which is, among other things, a testimony to the intelligence and cunning of the feline persuasion. When Ma and The Old Man died, I inherited a small amount of money, enough for a down payment on our home. A month after we moved in, so did Andy.

He took over the house and our hearts. He was brilliant that way. I expected him to be around for at least twenty years like Sugar Miettinen and Dee Dee, the country and western cat. Both lived extraordinary wonderful lives. I used to brag that my pets lived long. I had this naive notion that my love was the secret sauce, the reason for their inexplicable longevity. I was wrong.

At the beginning of September, while my husband was on the East Cost, thousands of miles away burying his father, Andy got sick. At first I thought he had “the bloat.” This was something I discovered on the internet after hours of research the night I noticed his stomach was swollen and he was having trouble breathing. It was serious but not necessarily life threatening. It was, however, enough to scare the bejesus out of my daughter and myself. We wrapped a blanket around him and piled into my sister’s car. I called her because I couldn’t think straight, much less drive. My brain was consumed by “the bloat.” By now it was well after ten o’clock so our only recourse was to take him to an emergency Vet clinic across town. The Vet examined him, then took X-rays. And then he delivered the news that Andy did not have “the bloat” but in fact, he had congestive heart failure. His little heart was surrounded by water. Mine was surrounded by pain. The Vet, who was very nice, but due to all the surrounding circumstances, and him being the bearer of bad news, I took an instant dislike for him. Basically he gave us two options: he could euthanize him right then or we could take him home and Andy would continue to have “episodes” and eventually he would have one final heart attack and die. Needless to say, the floodgates opened and neither my daughter nor I could control the tears. Not that we wanted to anyway.

I learned a couple of things about myself and my daughter in those moments after hearing Andy’s death sentence. We don’t take bad news well, perhaps we don’t take it at all. We’re full of hope, even when it’s clearly hopeless. And we’re either incredibly optimistic people or we live in chasm of denial. Regardless, just like that day nine years earlier when I knew I wasn’t leaving the farm without him, I scooped Andy up in my arms and brought him home. I had no game plan. I had no idea what I was doing. I only knew that he had been sick a total of 24 hours and I couldn’t let this be the end.

Andy lasted a week. My daughter and I tried everything we could to save him starting with a second opinion. Two days later we took him to our own Vet and she offered us the hope we so desperately sought. She gave us medication and prescribed a heart healthy dog food. But by this point, Andy wasn’t interested in food and getting the pills down his throat was next to impossible. It was tantamount to wrestling an alligator.

Thursday, September 8 was Ma’s birthday. It was also the day Andy died.

All that day, at the back of my mind I thought “this is the day.” Ma died from congestive heart failure. So did Andy. Not all that unusual I suppose, perhaps a little coincidental at best, except for this. One of the reasons I knew I would never leave the farm without Andy was because of his eyes. They were dark and sweet like the finest rich chocolate. When I looked into those dark sweet eyes I saw my mother’s eyes looking back at me. There was an ancient connection. I knew him. I shared this “knowing” with my husband and daughter. I’m not sure they really understood but they never ever, not even once in nine years, denied my conviction that in some cosmic kooky way my mother was with me through Andy. I always called him my “healing dog,” the one who helped ease the pain of relentless grief, and recover from the rawness of loss.

On the night Andy died I got my do-over. I was sitting in my office waiting for my bedtime cup of milk to heat in the microwave. It takes 220 seconds to do so. I heard the sound of a dog’s toes tapping along the wooden floors of the hallway leading to my office. I assumed it was our other dog Coco, who we had rescued a few years earlier from a life not worth living, coming to visit me. Andy hadn’t been able to make the climb up the stairs for a few days so I was surprised to see him walk through the door to where I was sitting in the dark. I greeted him, gave him a gentle pat behind the ear, told him how lovely it was to see him. He laid down on the floor facing me. I thought this was some sign from God that he was having a miraculous recovery and that he was healed. Hallelujah. Before the microwave could beep, Andy got up and headed towards our bedroom. Instinctively I followed him. He got next to the bed and started to heave and gag. I knelt down with him, massaged his throat to help him breathe – we had been doing this all week during his episodes – and told him it would be okay. Everything would be all right little buddy. He let out two deep grunts, stiffened and collapsed.

That was it. I got my do-over. What a privilege to have been with him in his final moments, to have been the last one to touch him. What a gift that he chose me.

I didn’t really have a game plan for how I was going to care for Andy after we left the Vet’s but I did start to think about what I would do should he die at home with just my daughter and I alone to manage on our own. I was terrified. I also knew I wanted him buried in our garden, the place where he chased sticks, laid under the Garry Oak trees, drank from the pond, sat with my husband and watched the fish, the place where he barked incessantly at every passer-by, where he stood on the rocks keeping guard over his family, the place where he pooped. That’s where I wanted him to be. Close. Forever near. I knew I couldn’t dig a hole, at least not one that Andy would be placed in. But I knew someone who could. While my daughter held vigil, I threw on my jacket and went next door to our neighbor, who is young enough to be my son, strong from years of working as a garden designer, and who on that night, brought truth to the meaning of “good neighbor.”

In the quiet darkness, on September 8th, Christian dug a hole, and while doing so we talked in hushed tones about our mother’s deaths, about our connection to the earth, the trees and plants we both salvaged from their gardens, and most importantly, how connected we were to them. Something beyond words happened that night. Something far greater than the death of my beloved pet. I learned about the unwavering kindness of human beings, and their generosity and willingness to help with things that are often incomprehensibly difficult.

I am forever grateful to Christian. He knows this. The following evening he contacted me to see how I was. He shared something with me, something so profound it took my breath away. As grateful as I was to have had him participate – however unintentional on his part – in this sacred ritual, he too was grateful. It touched him deeply. All that day he told me he “felt so alive.” Is this what true, unselfish acts of kindness do for us? Even in the face of death, in the middle of the night, in the shroud of darkness, if we reach out, feel our connectedness, we get a glimpse of the Divine.

And then, we know for sure that we are alive.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Everything Scares Me.

January 16, 2012May 7, 2015 / boo king / 3 Comments

I was even too afraid to smile in my Kindergarten photo.

I have fears. I have always been afraid. Everything scares me. Anxiety has haunted me from the beginning, probably even in the womb. Perhaps there is deeper meaning to that first cry. I have no conscious memory of not being anxious about something. In fact, fear and anxiety have been such an indelible part of my life I suspect on some level I’ve grown comfortable with this diabolic duo of emotional destruction.

I’m an ordinary woman who has always longed to live an extraordinary life. And in some ways I do. I look back with wide-eyed wonder at the life I have led, the people who have surrounded me, travelled this journey with me. I’ve come a long way baby! From the little girl trembling and weeping on her mother’s knee because she didn’t want to go to kindergarten without her to a fully evolved woman with accomplishments, skills, adroitness, and stuff under my belt. I’ve had the privilege to have met and worked with sublimely talented people, who have shared their gifts with me and enriched my life, both professionally and personally. I’ve fallen in love, married and had children, who have sat on my knee and wept. What an honor to be their mother and to have dried their tears. Yet through it all I have been afraid. Some days just getting out of bed is an act of courage.

It’s a miracle that I’ve done anything with my life. I don’t recall what got me off my mother’s knee and into that kindergarten classroom. I don’t know what she said or did. But I do know it required faith and trust. The flip side of the coin. The antithesis of the diabolical duo. Faith that someone or something was out there watching over me. Trust in my mother, that she wouldn’t lead me astray nor send me somewhere that would cause me harm. I was her dear one.

I tried a slew of things to overcome this underlying malaise that colored my days including reading copious pop psychology books. In turn I became a perennial student of self-help, a physician to my subconscious wounds and minister to my spiritual being. Some of these books were helpful, downright inspired, especially those written by Dr. Wayne Dyer. I think I’ve read everything he’s written from Your Erroneous Zones to the one I’m reading right now, Change Your Thoughts – Change Your Life.

In addition to books, I took fitness classes, practiced yoga, tried meditation, attempted creative visualization, ran my butt off, rode my bike everywhere, hopped on an elliptical machine every morning for a year, and I walked and walked and walked. I still run five mornings a week, practice yoga every morning prior to the run and I walk almost every day.

All of this mental and physical activity has helped. But nothing has helped more than the time I spend in quiet solitude writing my letters to God. Sometimes it feels a bit like we’re pen pals, albeit a tad one-sided. And other times it feels like unrequited love. No cards. No flowers. No love letters in return. But bit by bit, day by day I’m learning to trust in the process of life. I’m slowly letting go and letting God. And I tell myself that I was Ma’s dear one. And I like to think that I am God’s dear one too. Only good can come from a relationship like that. Nothing to fear.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Walk Talk And Listen.

January 9, 2012February 18, 2012 / boo king / 2 Comments

Ma and Me on the town in our snazzy slacks.

I love to walk. Alone. Or with dogs. Sometimes with people. But mostly I like to walk alone (which sounds like the title of a good country song but that’s another story.)

I didn’t always.

A little back story. I have a long history of walking, which began with my mother. She too loved to walk. She didn’t drive so in order to get around and maintain her independence, she walked or took public transit, which in our town meant the bus. When my father wasn’t working, he drove her to and fro, mostly to the grocery store and the plaza, which eventually flourished and grew into a mall. Progress. But I digress.

I loved walking with my mother. And talking. Ma wasn’t a big talker, but she was an excellent listener. This gift alone made her an extraordinary conversationalist. She was quite simply, transcendent in this talent. With Ma, there was never any competition for airtime, cutting off mid-sentence, interrupted chains of thought, one-up-man-ship, running rings around, nor upstaging in quick wit and repartee. She was a delighted, polite and interested listener. I liked that. I could pour my heart out and bare my soul endlessly and still she listened, with kindness, patience and love. She offered her opinion when asked, her advice when needed, her consolation and comfort unconditionally. I liked that too.

I think over the years Ma and I must have traversed thousands of miles and covered an infinite array of topics while doing so. Everything from soup to nuts (literally). We solved all of the world’s problems, or at least had a few good recommendations. We walked off pain, sorrow, anxiety, fear, and a few extra pounds. We laughed. We gabbed. We gossiped. We wept. We commiserated. We stopped. We started. We looked back. We looked forward. We thought we could walk forever. At least I did.

Although Ma is no longer with me physically on our walks, she is with me none the less. I have conversations with her in my head. I still seek her advice. I still hear her laughter. I smell her face cream, subtle and clean. I ask her about God. Is there anything I need to know Ma?

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Growing The Compassion Muscle.

January 7, 2012February 18, 2012 / boo king / 1 Comment

Me and The Old Man

At the start of every new year, I resolve. I gave up resolving out-loud years ago, but I resolve none the less. This year is no exception.

Like a lot of people, I’ve resolved to lose – weight, toxic relationship, bad habits, double chin, muffin top. And to gain – more knowledge, more money, more fun, more wisdom, more sleep. This year I thought I’d try something new. I have resolved to grow. Not a garden full of tomatoes nor my bank account nor my hair. The focus will be on one very specific muscle, which really isn’t a muscle at all, but I like to think of it that way. Compassion. It’s right next to the heart muscle. Not really. But for argument’s sake, let’s say it is. Anyway, I want to grow this in a big way. I want it to be so large I’ll have to give it a name and buy it a wardrobe.

I wish I had resolved to do this sooner. About ten years sooner, while my father was still alive. Or probably further back than that so it could have actually had some affect on our relationship.

Little back story. As far back as I can remember I had this love-hate relationship with my Old Man. That’s what my siblings and I called him, not to his face of course. Actually we referred to him as “The” Old Man. He didn’t even warrant a personal pronoun. Looking back, that disrespectful name-calling makes me sad. I guess my compassion muscle is already starting to grow. In our defense, referring to your father as your Old Man was pretty common back then, even amongst offspring who revered their fathers.

There were reasons for my love-hate relationship with The Old Man. First and foremost, he was an alcoholic. And it wasn’t pretty. He wasn’t the life of the party, the fun guy when he drank. He was mean and miserable and terrorized my timid mother and her four kids. I being the youngest, and his only biological child had no memory of a father who didn’t drink. Not that it’s any consolation, but my siblings had a few good years without an alcoholic in their midst prior to my parents meeting and falling in love. Okay, that’s the hate part – the ‘I wish he’d drop dead’ silent prayers.

The love part goes like this. The Old Man was a sweet, shy, funny, give you the shirt off your back guy – when he was sober. That father took me with him when he delivered bread, went to my parent-teacher nights, took me to baseball games that he umpired, brought home pastries from the bakery, bought me my first teddy bear when I was sick (that I still have), took us for Sunday drives in the country, on trips to Duluth, taught me to drive, hugged me when my heart was broken, yelled at drivers who sped down our street for fear one would hit me, spit on my warts every morning because he’d heard this was a cure, took me to church, loved me unconditionally, thought I was beautiful. And so much more.

My father’s alcoholism got in the way of things. It especially interfered with my ability to love him like a daughter. As I grew older, so did my resentment and impatience. Even long after he had found sobriety, my detachment and lack of interest in my father’s thoughts or feelings was ever-present and my inability to forgive was paramount. As he became elderly, he also grew cantankerous and ornery, demanding of my mother. This was just fodder for the chasm that lay between us. Even as his hands shook and his gate faltered, his hearing went and his eyes clouded over, as he developed Diabetes, Parkinson’s and Petit Mal Seizures I was unmoved, detached and lacking in compassion. None of this touched my heart, or if it did, I wasn’t about to tell him. I was over it, past all that. Emotionally bankrupt.

Of course, I’m not over it. And probably never will be. I also have regrets. I wish I had spent more time with him that last year of his life. I wish I hadn’t scolded him for sneaking cookies and cake, threatening that it would send him into a diabetic coma. I wish I had listened better to his stories at the dinner table. I wish I hadn’t looked away, called him an asshole under my breath. I wish I had told him I loved him more often. I wish I had said ‘thank you.’

My father died of a broken heart five weeks after my mother. I had this crazy thought in my head when my sister-in-law called to tell me the news. I was relieved. Not because my prayer for him to drop dead had finally been answered but because I took comfort in the thought that perhaps he was with my mother. For the five weeks prior to his death, I worried about her being all alone “out there” and now she wasn’t.

A few months after he died my sister-in-law sent me a small box of his stuff. There wasn’t much in it – his wallet, watch, ring, a few photos, a Finnish Bible and a Song Book that belonged to his mother and some newspaper clippings which included his obituary and an article on his days driving a horse-drawn bread wagon, the last of his kind.

In his wallet was a photograph taken by my mother of The Old Man and I when I was about three months old. It was tattered, torn and cracked, barely recognizable. I didn’t know it existed. He had carried it with him my entire life. I love that photo. My heart expands when I look at it. As does my compassion muscle.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: Wisdom Doesn’t Come Easy.

January 3, 2012June 26, 2012 / boo king / 2 Comments

Ma loved the shade her summer hats provided.

When my mother died two things happened. First, I lost one of the people who were most dear and precious to me. And second, she didn’t leave me with any words of wisdom regarding the “meaning of life and why we’re here.” She didn’t uncover any big secret during her life and impart that to me on her deathbed. No, instead Ma, my daughter M and I played “I Spy with My Little Eye” on what would be the eve of her departure to God knows where. We laughed at the grey wall. I never knew it was her last night. I thought there was still time for her to cough up some tidbit that would help me understand what this thing we call life is all about.

I realize unearthing the meaning of life is a huge topic and probably an impossible burden to have placed on my sweet Ma, especially at the end of her life when she was so terribly ill but in my defense, she was a wise woman and I just assumed she would say something that I could hang onto for the rest of my life. Put an end to all this seeking and just sail on through without any effort or care until we hooked up in the great Hereafter. I mean it’s only fair. She was my mother for God’s sake. She was supposed part with something really great, incredibly profound and comforting that would explain my purpose for being here.

Ten years later, I still grieve for Ma. Not the way I did initially but I think of her daily and every now and again I am overcome with sadness and I cry. These sudden spurts of emotion are random and always unexpected. I can pass a photo of her every day for months and not think too much about it and then one day out of the blue I’ll see the photo in a completely different way, as if for the first time, and I start to cry. Like a baby. Inconsolable sobbing. Snot-faced and red-eyed ugly. It isn’t just a photo that can reduce me to tears either. Anything can trigger it: an elderly woman with veiny hands and long piano fingers examines a mango in the grocery store; a baby in the park with dark chocolate eyes glances my way; a dog barks in the dead of night; a piece of pie in the fridge looks cold; a fallen leaf forlorn; a rock; a bird; a plane, a hat. Anything can set me off really. There’s no rhyme. And there certainly is no reason.

Why does this happen? What is it about this random, seemingly unconnected stuff that reminds me of Ma and touches my heart so deeply. Maybe because it isn’t so random after all. And it is connected. All of it. To Ma. To me. To you. To God.

As it turns out, I did learn something profound through that whole journey of Ma getting ill and ultimately dying. This probably shouldn’t have been the epic revelation it was but I can be a little dim sometimes. Anyway, here’s the thing: it wasn’t Ma’s job to tell me the meaning of life, nor answer the big question of why we’re here. That wasn’t her responsibility. It’s mine. This is all part of my quest, my journey. Her’s was entirely something else. Between her and God. None of my business. And maybe she did know something and wouldn’t tell me because by doing so she would have robbed me of the chance to figure this out on my own. What greater gift. Ma was wise.

My Thing About God