Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: My Dog Sugar was a Good Judge of Boyfriends.

September 23, 2012 / boo king / Leave a comment

My dog Sugar.

I love dogs. I love cats and other animals too. But dogs in particular hold a noteworthy place in my heart. Long before there was Andy and Coco and Rusty there was Sugar and Tootsie and a few others I only know by old black and white photographs. It’s true dogs are our best friends. And sometimes a lonely girl’s little sister.

Little back story. When I was around five years old The Old Man brought a new puppy home to 204. There had been a few dogs before her but none like Sugar. When I look back on my childhood I have no memory that doesn’t include Sugar. It’s as if my life began with a sweet little ball of white fur and heart-melting chocolate eyes.

Ma and The Old Man posing with Sugar.

Sugar was completely white except for a tinge of black in her ears when The Old Man first brought her home. He was a huge animal lover but like me, dogs were his favorites. And Sugar was like another child to him. Ma’s heart was large and compassionate for all living creatures. She wasn’t one for rough and tumble play like me and The Old Man. But she loved Sugar dearly and considered her part of our family. Sugar was never discouraged from languishing on the couch or snuggling on the bed. Ma would often sit in quiet meditation, petting Sugar while she rested her head on her lap. They had a kinship. A rare affinity and understanding that seemed to surpass the human-animal connection.

Me and Sugar standing tall together.

Back then, a spade was called a spade. Naming a dog was simple. Rex, Lassie, Buddy, Sparky or Skip were all common no-nonsense monikers of the era. Color also influenced the name given to a dog. If it was black, then Blacky was an obvious choice. White dogs, on the other hand, were often named after white things. Like sugar. Our dog Sugar was full of surprises right from the start though. They say a leopard never changes his spots but sometimes a white dog grows some. By the time she was six months, Sugar was covered in them and her ears were jet black. But by then, it was too late to call her Spotty.

I’m not sure what breed Sugar was. We didn’t go much for pedigree back then. We just had pets. She was a mutt from a long line of mutts. But canine rumor has it that somewhere along her ancestral lineage a Cocker Spaniel and a Dalmatian got involved. That was good enough for us. Regardless, she was gorgeous, smart, funny, loving, affectionate, sweet tempered and an extremely good judge of boyfriends. Ma always said, if Sugar doesn’t like him, there’s something wrong with him. I should have listened to Ma. And Sugar.

A welcome visit from Sugar at bath time.

Sugar terrorized the Mailman. She wasn’t fond of anyone in a uniform but the Mailman in particular was a favorite target. Five days a week. The irony of this is that The Old Man wore a uniform to work every day, a fact that Sugar appeared to overlook. But the Mailman didn’t get off the hook so easily. Even Uncle Bud, Ma’s brother-in-law, wasn’t immune to her snarling, snapping and gnashing of teeth. Needless-to-say, his tenure as our Mailman was short-lived. We all knew why.

My lovely sister-in-law hanging out with Sugar.

Back then dogs ran free and roamed the streets like four-legged hoodlums with nothing but mischief and shenanigans on their minds. They were harmless and everyone knew their names. Ma would let Sugar out in the morning for her daily doggy-do, which also included scouting the neighborhood for feline riffraff and other nefarious varmints. She never went far and mostly stayed in our yard, which she protected like a Palace guard. Every passerby, whether friend or foe, was subject to her relentless barking. She held her ground. Literally. The entire length of our front yard. Doggedly determined to defend her turf no matter what. The truth was, the girl was all bark and no bite. The entire neighborhood knew this. This didn’t make it any less irksome. Not everyone appreciated her doggone single-minded attitude like I did. Sugar found herself in the dog house on more than one occasion. Relegated to the back yard where her inner beast was contained by a twenty foot tether.

Sugar photo bombs my son on the front steps.

Sugar was also a good sport and a very accommodating creature. She was a willing participant in my fun and games, including “dress-up.” I decked her out in old baby clothes, propped her up in my doll carriage and proudly strolled the neighborhood with my dog-baby. It was both comical and sad. Sugar became the little sister I never had but desperately longed for. I wanted to be like the C kids who lived across the street. Three kids all two years apart plus a fourth surprise bonus one to boot, a few years later. They were the lucky ones. I was envious of their sibling rivalry and fights over the toilet. Even my older siblings had each other. So Sugar became my surrogate sibling. My baby sister. She seemed to accept this role with patience, tolerance and an abundance of equanimity. Or perhaps it was mere self-preservation and acquiescence. Regardless of her motivation, she never struggled to free herself from the fancy frocks. Floppy sun bonnets. Nor the little pink socks. I like to think she understood my loneliness and aching need.

Sugar goes for a ride in my son’s wagon.

We shared a bed for almost twenty years. Unlike many dogs, who preferred the foot of the bed, Sugar spent her nights all nestled and tucked under the covers right next to me. We even shared a pillow. I loved to snuggle her little body next to mine. She was a living teddy bear. My Linus blanket. My comforter. My sweet furry lullaby.

In summer, Sugar had a house of her own. The Old Man built it for her and kept it in the backyard. Nothing fancy. A simple one room abode. But it did the trick when Sugar needed a place to rest and take shelter from the summer heat. In the winter she hunkered down indoors with the rest of us. Northwestern Ontario winters were brutal. A dog’s pee could freeze before it hit the snow. Sugar didn’t linger long outdoors between December and the end of March. She was a wise girl.

When Sugar was about a year old she had a litter of pups. We gave them away to the neighborhood families. It was a win-win situation. Everyone was happy. After experiencing motherhood she was spayed. She gained some weight so we had more of her to love. She was still gorgeous in my eyes.

The summer I turned 25 I was living in a small northern town in British Columbia with my first husband and young son. It was during that time that I got a call from Ma. It was the call I dreaded. It had been six months since I last saw Sugar. Christmas vacation. She was ancient and dog-tired by then. Arthritic and slow walking. Her velvety muzzle as white as her name. But her eyes were the same. She was still my Sugar girl. Sweet as that first day she became my little sister.

Sugar enjoys a pet on the head from my son.

I am grateful that I wasn’t there when Sugar died. I’m not sure I had the courage and inner strength to witness her last breath. But I do know intimately how painful it was for Ma and The Old Man to have her put down. What an odd expression. It was impossible for them to let her go. But let her go they did. She was twenty. Her hind end was paralyzed. She was no longer a threat to the Mailman. Her bark was gone.

I have never fully let Sugar go.

I searched in vain for years. I stared into the eyes of every white dog I came across seeking some spark of recognition. It was never there. Until I met Andy. Sweet. Gentle. With Sugar girl eyes. It was love at first sight. I knew him. It was a double blessing too. For in those eyes I also saw Ma’s. And when he barked I heard The Old Man’s voice.

Now there’s my Sugar girl.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: 101 Things I Regret.

September 9, 2012May 4, 2015 / boo king / 11 Comments

My heart is full of regrets but it is also full of love.

When I was younger. “So much younger than today,” as the Beatles sang in Help, I boasted that I didn’t regret anything. “It’s pointless, a huge time-waster that accomplishes nothing,” I declared self-assuredly. “These are all the things that have made me who I am today. Or I did the very best I could with what I knew then,” my much younger self proclaimed with bold bravado. Like a war hero decorated in medals. I thought I had it all figured out back then. I was so wise. “But now these days are gone, I’m not so self assured. Now I find I’ve changed my mind,” and I’ve realized I do have regrets.

101 just for starters.

Regrets are different from mistakes. True, you can learn from them. Both inform and create the person you are thus far.

But for me there’s a big difference. Inherent in every mistake is another opportunity. To fix things. To do better next time. To get it right. There’s built in resolve. Doggedness. Determination. There’s the possibility of a second chance. Ultimately a happy ending if you play your cards right. A new and improved you may emerge.

None of this comes into play with regrets. These are the things you can’t fix. The one timers. There isn’t a second chance. No opportunity to do better next time. You can’t repair the damage. There’s a certain sadness to regret. Sorrow. Melancholy. Mournfulness. These are the residual feelings that linger and haunt. So final. Permanent. What’s done is done. The best you can do is learn something of value and move on. I don’t dwell. But I don’t brush regret under the rug either. I acknowledge and own. Take full responsibility. Grateful for the refiners fire. Pray for wisdom.

Now there are some things on this list that I may be able to scratch off one day. There’s still time to learn how to pickle, for example, even though I’ve missed my opportunity to learn this autumnal skill from Ma. I may even learn how to swim, but that means I have to muster the courage to put on a bathing suit. So for now they are on the list, amongst the items that I won’t ever be able to change, take back, do over, nor make go away.

Here’s the big kicker. I think it’s okay to have regrets. To feel remorse about something I did or said. Although I can’t change the past, my regrets act as a barometer and guide for the things I do now. The decisions I make. The path that I follow. They remind me that I am only human after all. They humble me. I seek grace. Forgiveness. Move forward with a far gentler hand and quieter step.

So here they are. In no particular order. Unedited. From my regretful heart to yours.

1. Hurting anyone, even if it was unintentional.
2. Complaining and whining rather than helping and changing.
3. Not respecting The Old Man’s right to choose what he put into his body. He was diabetic not an idiot.
4. Being impatient with my children when they were young and my parents when they were elderly.
5. Not saying yes more often.
6. Hurting or humiliating someone with unkind words, especially those most dear to me.
7. Taking dance lessons instead of piano lessons when I was given the choice.
8. Ever starting to dye my hair.
9. Squeezing pimples on my face when I was a teenager.
10. Taking my oldest daughter to see Purple Rain when she was six.
11. Giving up my teaching career. Summer’s off would be nice about now.
12. Sleeping with men who didn’t give a crap about me, even when I knew better.
13. Smoking, especially in front of my two oldest kids.
14. Gossiping about anyone.
15. Criticizing people just because it’s so easy.
16. Not appreciating my youth when I had it.
17. Not going to Europe after University.
18. Not saving or doing any financial planning.
19. Not practicing my guitar, my flute, my clarinet.
20. Criticizing The Old Man for eating too much sugar then over indulging myself.
21. Being rude.
22. Not mending fences with one of my brothers after Ma died.
23. Not being with my parents to hold their hands when they died, especially Ma.
24. Being a Groupie instead of the leader of the band.
25. Waiting 20 years to get a divorce.
26. Waiting 20 years to marry E.
27. Not taking my son to sporting events when he was a kid.
28. All the times the words “I’m sorry” got stuck in my throat.
29. Letting my ego and pride get in the way.
30. All the nights I lost sleep over things that didn’t matter.
31. All the times I was small and petty instead of large and magnanimous.
32. Holding grudges far too long.
33. For speaking before thinking.
34. Over thinking things that in the end were really quite simple.
35. All the opportunities I deliberately ignored.
36. Not doing what was right regardless of how uncomfortable it made me feel.
37. Not playing fair.
38. Not going to social events when I said I would.
39. Breaking promises, especially to my kids.
40. Not playing more games with my kids.
41. Not listening.
42. Being a smart aleck and thinking I was so clever and witty when I wasn’t.
43. Bragging and being boastful.
44. Not grabbing on harder to all the small beautiful things in life.
45. Going to bed angry and waking up angrier.
46. Living a timid life.
47. Let fear rule far too often.
48. Not letting go of resentment, especially towards my ex-husband.
49. The years spent watching useless television.
50. The time and energy spent thinking about Jennifer Aniston’s hair.
51. Not speaking up in defense of someone because I was afraid.
52. Not learning to swim.
53. Never having asked for a raise.
54. Raising my voice at my kids, especially when they were little.
55. Saying no to all the nice boys who asked me to dance in hopes that a bad boy would.
56. That I never learned how to make pickles from Ma.
57. The first time I got drunk on Ruby Rouge when I was sixteen.
58. All the money I spent at McDonald’s on those Quarter Pounder with Cheese meals.
59. Not spending enough time with my grand daughter.
60. Not taking Andy to another vet for a second opinion sooner.
61. Being selfish and self-centered.
62.Wanting my own way even when I knew it wasn’t good for me.
63. Blaming my bad moods on hormones.
64. Letting good people slip away from my life because I was too lazy to work at keeping them.
65. Not showing up more in the lives of the people I love.
66. All the excessive sun tanning I did before 40.
67. Not letting The Old Man teach me how to speak Finnish.
68. Not going to see Mumford and Sons at the Vogue.
69. Not taking better care of my feet.
70. Eating when I wasn’t hungry.
71. All the years I wore high heels with pointy toes to work.
72. Not getting Ma back home before she died.
73. Not spending more time with The Old Man when he was in “the home.”
74. The horrible fight I had with my ex-husband in front of our daughter when she was six.
75. Not saving for my kids college and university education.
76. Being ashamed and embarrassed by what The Old Man did for a living.
77. Not walking out of Eyes Wide Shut. A total waste of 159 minutes.
78. Not watching hockey on Saturday nights with The Old Man.
79. Not focusing on one thing and getting good at it.
80. Not paying attention in class, especially the last two years of high school.
81. All the years I didn’t even trying to see The Old Man’s point of view.
82. Pretending the panhandlers were invisible.
83. Not putting my hand up and asking why.
84. Trying out for things in high school that interested my friends instead of the things that interested me.
85. Holding back my smile in my wedding photos because I was self-conscious in front of the camera.
86. Losing it shamefully the Thursday before our wedding because the forecast called for more rain on our day.
87. Crying all those times when I was actually angry.
88. Not asking that guy if he was married before accepting his invitation to dinner.
89. Causing my children to worry about me.
90. Not taking better care of my knees and feet.
91. Interrupting.
92. Spending time cleaning my house when I could have been spending time with my kids.
93. Ever wearing horizontal stripes.
94. Ever wearing palazzo pants and platform shoes.
95. Eating liver.
96. Not resisting the fateful caramel that destroyed my fragile back molar permanently.
97. Every wearing barefoot running shoes on concrete sidewalks.
98. Not being a better mother to my oldest daughter when she was a teenager.
99. All the days I complained about the weather as if that could change things.
100. Not being involved in my kids’ schools and not attending any PAC meetings. Three kids and not even one.
101. Ever taking off the rose colored glasses.

So there you have it. 101 things I regret. There are also many things I don’t regret. Opening my heart to love. Being vulnerable. Tender hearted. Having three beautiful kids. Marrying E. Having the courage to tell the stories of my life with as much raw honesty as possible in the hope that they will help at least one other person feel less alone.

And most importantly, I absolutely do not regret being The Breadman’s Daughter.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Anniversary.

September 2, 2012 / boo king / 2 Comments

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

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

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

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

The flight was booked. I was going.

The engagement announcement photo.

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

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

The beautiful Bride having her picture taken at 204.

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

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

The Bride with Ma and The Old Man.

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

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

The Wedding Album.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: 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: 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: Where Would we be Without our Mothers.

May 12, 2012May 3, 2015 / boo king / 3 Comments

Ma and Daughter Number One wearing matching sweaters.

I miss Ma. Every day. Some days I pine for her in the deepest way. Especially at this time of year. I’d like to sit and have tea and cookies with her. Just one more time. Phone her up to chat. Long distance to wherever she is. There are days when I weep. Uncontrollably. It’s like a sad Candid Camera. When it’s least expected. Tears. I never know when they’ll erupt. Or why. I can look at the same picture of Ma a thousand times and all it does is evoke a smile. But every now and again I’ll see it through a different lens. And the tears fall. Like the loss just happened. Heart broken anew.

Ma was the perfect mother for me. She wasn’t perfect. And she’d be the first to point out her flaws. But only Ma could have given birth to me. Without she, there would be no me.

I had a good mother. And I gave birth to a good mother. I am doubly blessed. Twice heaven-sent. Daughter Number One (DNO) gave me a granddaughter and made me a “boo.” In our family this means grandmother. It was an endearing childhood nickname that we hauled out of antiquity. Ma was already Gran, Granny and Grandma. No other title seemed quite as fitting so we came up with the boo thing. And it just felt right.

I always knew I would be a mother. It wasn’t like I lied awake at night dreaming of the day when I would hold a child in my arms. It was just something I took for granted. Understood would happen. And I am so grateful that it did. I love being a mom. I love being a boo.

When Ma was a young girl, she did dream of being a mother one day. Having a family to call her own. By the time she was ten both her parents were gone, and for all intents and purposes, Ma and her four sisters were left orphaned. They were raised by their maternal grandmother. Ma loved her dearly. But she longed for a mother’s love. I get that. There’s nothing quite like it, especially when you’ve got a good one.

It was from that motherless child’s perspective that Ma’s desire grew. To one day be a mother herself. There was never any doubt in her mind. No second guessing. It was her magnificent obsession. Her four kids were everything to her. As were her grandchildren and great grandchildren. Quite simply, Ma loved kids. Not just her own. But everyones. That was where her heart was. And kids loved her. Drawn to her like Mother Earth. They may have come initially for her cookies. But came back for her kindness. And she had it in spades. Her heart was compassionate. Her understanding empathic. Who wouldn’t want to run into the arms of someone so emotionally gifted.

Ma holding me as we pose for the camera.

It was love at first sight for both Ma and me. I don’t remember of course, but on some level I think we do. Somewhere inside our spirit lives this first moment of meeting. Ma said I was born around noon. It was summer time. Possibly the living was easy. Ma was happy. From what I was told her water broke, she had me, missed lunch and that “I was the cutest baby.” As it just so happens, my three siblings were also the cutest babies. It’s nothing shy of a miracle how every mother has the cutest baby, or babies. I love how equitable the universe is on this subject. But equality aside, this was our moment for mutual admiration. My three older siblings all had their turn. Now this was mine.

Ma said I had dark brown eyes and tons of long black hair. I used to pull it and make myself cry. And then look at Ma like she was the culprit. Ma loved to tell this tale of my infantile masochism. It was her “cute baby” story. And I couldn’t get enough of it. Partly because it made us both laugh. But also because Ma always told it with an air of pride in my crowning glory. Like this was some extraordinary accomplishment on both our parts. And at such a young age.

Me and Daughter Number One posing for the camera.

I remember the birth of my DNO like it was yesterday. I was two weeks overdue. And super-sized. Next to me, an elephant looked svelte. It was the beginning of October and Autumn was showing off as usual. I was hoping DNO would arrive a week early for Ma’s birthday. What a perfect gift this would have been. But that day came and went. Then I placed my hopes on my best friend’s birthday in the middle of September, but that too came and went. By the end of September, the doctor decided that if the baby didn’t arrive over the weekend, he would intervene. Monday came and still no baby. An induction was scheduled for 5:00pm that day. This was the last thing I wanted but by this time, I was compliant. Ready. I hadn’t seen my feet in months. I was swollen. And exhausted. It was time for the bun to come out of the oven.

Perhaps it was just a curious coincidence. Or maybe DNO was finally ready. Because not long after we arrived at the hospital, I felt the first pangs of labor. No need for inducement. This became my “cute baby” story for DNO. Just the suggestion was enough for her to take things into her own hands. Do things her way. This willfulness has never left her. It is one of the things I admire and love most about DNO. It has taken her to wonderful places that I have only imagined. It is the engine that drives her courage. Her strength. Her determination to live life to the fullest. It propels her towards big dreams.

My other “cute baby” story is how she came out smiling. She had a happy spirit right from the start. This too in part defines her. I looked into her beautiful dark brown eyes and it was love at first sight. And I knew. There would be no stopping a girl with a cheerful demeanor and a will of steel. Watch out world. Here she comes.

On some level the birth of my granddaughter was more profound than the birth of my three children. When you’re in labor you’re caught up in the fray. There’s no time for perspective. Reflection. Or introspection. That comes afterwards. But when your child is having a child, you are witness to the miraculous. And you know it. With every fiber of your being. Grandchild number one (GNO) came into my world one beautiful morning at the end of summer and made it a better place. All has been right ever since.

Daughter Number One holding Granddaughter Number One.

My daughter had been in labor for over two days. It was difficult to watch my child in pain. If I could, I would have taken it from her. It’s natural for a mother to want to take the bullet. Jump in front of the train. Walk without shoes. And this was one of those instances where I would have done anything for her. But this was her journey to travel. Her odyssey. Her miracle in the making. Her moment. My job was to wait. To comfort. And to love.

And wait we did. In the final hours before GNO’s arrival, my husband and I sat on the floor outside my daughter’s hospital room. From that vantage point, we listened while my daughter’s partner whispered words of encouragement and love. We listened as the medical folks led her through the final stages of childbirth. We listened as she became a mother. We listened as the doctor declared that a beautiful healthy baby girl was born. Those were the joyful words we were waiting to hear. Then it was time to meet our new granddaughter. I held her in my arms and she looked up at me with deep dark chocolate eyes. Just like Ma’s. And this is my “cute baby” story for her. I remind her often that she has her great grandmother’s black Italian eyes. And that their time together was brief. But they knew each other well.

Ma was a remarkable mother. My daughter is too.

Ma taught me everything she knew. How to bake a perfect ginger cookie. Sew a seam on a summer dress. Tend to an open wound. Mend a broken heart. She taught me how important it was to listen to your child. And to hear the words spoken. And those not. She taught me how to open my heart. And when to keep my mouth shut. She showed me how to make much of little. And to celebrate the birth of a child. For there is no greater gift.

My daughter is teaching me every day. I watch her with my granddaughter and my heart stops. She’s engaging. And smart. Full of all the right instincts. She knows how and when to discipline. She knows how to grow an infant into a little girl into a preteen and one day into a strong young woman. She knows how to entertain her daughter. And when to let her entertain herself. She’s funny. And fun. Kids are drawn to her. They see her great big heart. And welcoming arms. Who wouldn’t want to be embraced by those.

Yes, both Ma and DNO have taught me much. I like to think that I’m a better woman because of these two extraordinary ones.

A few weeks after this photo was taken my granddaughter was born. A few months later Ma was gone. They knew each other briefly but well.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Attic, Hunting for Treasure and the Letter from Jerry.

May 6, 2012 / boo king / Leave a comment

The box containing the letter from Jerry.

I love treasure hunts. And finding things I thought were lost forever. There’s nothing like cleaning out a closet and finding some long forgotten gem. An old photograph. A thinking-of-you card or note. A love letter from someone you once thought you couldn’t live without. A concert ticket. Recital program. A baby book with a lock of hair and a lost tooth.

Most homes have storage spaces where certain things are put away. For another day. Another year. Another time. Sometimes these things get lost in the deep dark recesses at the very back. And before you know it, forgotten. Like they never existed. We had a little attic in our home that contained such consigned to oblivion artifacts. It was there that my addiction to treasure hunting began.

Little back story. We lived on a street lined with wartime houses. They were all pretty much identical except for the size. Two, three and four bedroom wooden bungalows that looked like they were built more for hasty necessity than longevity. The big bad wolf could blow one over with a huff and a puff. Ours was a four bedroom model, with two of those bedrooms on the second floor where the ceilings were sloped and the walls hung low. My two older brothers occupied one of these rooms. The other was where Ma sewed and I played by her side.

In “the boys room” there was a little door about three feet tall. It looked like something that belonged on a child’s play house. It’s Lilliputian size made it all the more alluring. Irresistible. Tempting. And I was drawn to it like a bee to honey. A moth to light. In my young impressionable mind it was the door to a whole other world. Not necessarily like the one in The Chronicles of Narnia. But equally fascinating and compelling to a small girl with a big imagination. Truth was, on the other side of the door was just our attic. And not like the kind you see in the movies either. It wasn’t some dusty expansive space on the top floor of an old mansion filled with cobwebs and spooky pirate chests that groaned when opened. It didn’t contain the magical world of Narnia with all its Turkish delight, White Witch and the great lion king Aslan. But it was filled with family treasures. And its own flavor of magic. At times it could be scary. And sometimes with a little inspiration, it could be downright spine-tingling. But it was always fun to explore.

It was dark, dry and dusty smelling with extreme temperatures. In the summer it was like the fires of hell. You’d break into a sweat after two minutes. In winter, it was colder than the Arctic. You could see your breath if you could see at all. It was pitch dark so you had to leave the door open and carry a flashlight. The floors were uneven and creaked with ever move you made. Slivers in stocking feet were commonplace. There was also the odd nail that popped up out of nowhere. The outer wall was lined with pink fiberglass insulation. And slanted so that the entire space formed a perfect right-angle triangle. It was cramped and claustrophobic, which made moving around a challenge. Even for a small person. You had to hunch over or crawl on all fours. But to me, it was the perfect size and shape.

Part of the fun of going into the attic was the fear. Nothing filled my heart with terror quite like the scary shadows cast by the flashlight. Ricocheting sinisterly off the fiberglass walls in the ghostly enclave within the upstairs bedroom. Littered with the artifacts of our family’s personal narrative. Dusty cardboard boxes filled with worn out clothes. Old baby doll carriages with broken wheels. Tangled webs of Christmas lights. Battered suitcases with broken locks. The canvas tent and metal poles. Old hard cover books. Stacks of dog-eared Popular Mechanics and Readers Digest. Family Circle magazines with all the recipes clipped out. Shoe boxes filled with old negatives of photographs taken on the Six-20 Brownie Junior. A bulky Scrapbook containing a lock from a first hair cut, and pages of birthday cards and other childhood memorabilia taped carefully into place. Dance Costumes stored in a McNulty’s dress box. Old dolls with missing eyelashes and hair cut short by an amateur hairdresser. Dime store Dishes with chips and cracks. Bundles of metal clothes hangers. And sundry bits and bobbles that The Old Man and Ma kept for reasons known only to them. Treasures each and every one. Freshly discovered foray after foray into the enchanted land.

I experience this same awe and wonder every time I re-discover the letter from Jerry.

Over twenty years ago, when I was working in a Toronto advertising agency as a Copywriter, I was partnered with an Art Director named Jerry. We got to know each other quite well over the course of the year that we worked together. Professional lives quite often blur into the personal in these circumstances. We seek the universal thread that binds. Common ground. Connectivity. I think it makes us better workers. And our work better.

It was during one of our many creative sessions that Jerry and I somehow got onto the topic of mail. I had mentioned how much I loved opening the mailbox to discover a surprise card or a letter. But this rarely happened, I explained. All I ever got was bills and junk mail, I complained. I longed for the good old pen pal days, I declared. Sigh.

My self-esteem was at an all-time low when Jerry and I had this discussion. My marriage had fallen apart. I felt ugly. And not only unloved but unloveable. Jerry listened. I had no idea how well until a few days later.

It was a night like a hundred other nights. I came home from work exhausted. Rushed to get dinner started before my kids tore one another apart. Fury induced by hunger and low blood sugar. All three of us. Once dinner was underway I hung up my coat, kicked off my boots and went to the mailbox. It contained the usual things. Bills, bills and more bills. Junk mail from companies wanting me to buy their goods or services. Disappointing all of it. But in amongst the undesirable mail was a white business sized envelope addressed to me in cyan colored ink. The kind used in fountain pens. Or fine writing instruments as they were commonly referred to back then. We all owned at least one. In fact, I was given one when I departed from this agency. And still have it as a keepsake and a reminder of another time, another place.

Just the sight of that cyan blue fountain ink made my heart beat faster. I didn’t recognize the handwriting. But something told me it was going to be good. No matter what. In that instant before opening the envelope there was optimism. And hope. Elation. My hands were shaking as I carefully removed the folded lined sheet of paper. It looked like a page removed from a student’s notebook. Six by nine inches. Blue horizontal lines with two red vertical ones forming the margins.

It began “Dearest Bonney.” You could tell that the writer had corrected the spelling of my name because the dot over the misspelling was still there. I hadn’t spelled my name with an ‘ie’ since grade eight. But this only added to the sweetness of the salutation. The letter went on to say, “This may only happen once so really enjoy it. But it’s happening because you are truly the kind of person who deserves to come home and find a letter from someone….” The rest is between me and Jerry. It was (and still is) the best letter I have ever received in my entire life. I hold it amongst my dearest possessions.

Jerry and I weren’t lovers. There was no office romance. No secret affair. We were just “Buds.” Colleagues. Friends. But he gave me a gift like no other.

That was well over twenty years ago. I have not only moved across the country, but have lived in several different houses since I got here. Yet the letter has moved everywhere with me. I packed it away when we left for the Westcoast.

But there’s a peculiar thing about this letter. It keeps being found. Over and over and over. It’s the Groundhog Day letter. I pack it away. Forget about it. And then a few years later I discover it. All new and fresh again. Like that night twenty years ago. Like the treasures in our attic. Every time I pack it away it’s in a different container, in a different spot. This isn’t intentional. It’s usually as a result of some sort of house cleaning. Or purging of the past. And with that goes the consolidation of those things being chucked and those things being kept. The letter from Jerry is always in the “keeper” pile. I love the serendipitous nature of discovering the letter. The random accidental earthing of this jewel every few years.

It happened again last Saturday. I was on the hunt for more family photographs and bits and pieces of our history when I found it. Tucked away in a box inside a basket at the top of one of the closets in my office. It’s an awkward spot. Things that are stored there, are left there. Kind of like Las Vegas. But last weekend I was on a mission. And the great treasure hunter in me had re-surfaced. I had to find something good. And I did.

In the box along with Jerry’s letter there was an assortment of random things. One of the most peculiar items was a placemat I made in elementary school for Christmas. It looked like it was made from a white sheet. It was adorned with two red bells, several food stains and “Merry Christmas” in my handwriting. There was also a letter from my parent’s lawyer regarding their estate, a slide rule from high school, a golf ball, a Sarah McLachlan Surfacing CD cover, a photocopy of an American Express card cut into four pieces, a 19-year old candy rose and a combination lock.

There were a lot of other things too. But once again I separated the wheat from the chaff. All the stuff I described, along with the letter from Jerry, has now been placed into another box and stored away. For the next time. When I need to be reminded that I am someone who deserves to come home from work and find a treasure in the mailbox. Love in cyan blue fountain ink.

Footnote: I have no idea where Jerry is today. I don’t even remember his last name. But I will never forget him and his wonderful thoughtful gift.

The beginning of the letter from Jerry.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Second and Last Kiss and the Smell of Old Spice.

May 3, 2012June 19, 2016 / boo king / 2 Comments

Ma + The Old Man sitting on the stone wall.

The Old Man and his beautiful Italian Sweetheart.

The second kiss. Does anyone even remember? We don’t write love songs about the Numero Duo. No passionate odes. Or lyrical poems. Tragic melodramas. Nothing much comes to mind. No backward glances. No second chances. Or even a second thought. Nada.

Ma gave me my first kiss. And The Old Man gave me the second. The order and circumstances of these inceptive parental kisses most likely set the tone for our future relationships. The Old Man would always be second best in my life. The first kiss trumps everything after all.

Little back story. The Old Man was an emotional guy. He laughed easily and heartily. Flew off the handle at the drop of a hat. Tears welled in his eyes when he watched something sad on TV. He cried like a baby when our birds, Petie 1 and Petie 2, died. But as emotional as he was, I don’t remember him being comfortable expressing his love. Yet oddly enough I always felt loved by him. That was the paradox of The Old Man. Emotional yet stoic. Loving but unable to show it. The stoicism was in his DNA. He was a Finlander and they aren’t known for their overt expressions of love. They aren’t huggy people. Like the Italians. Like Ma.

Part of the way The Old Man was had to do with his generation. Back then, men were different than they are today. Real men not only didn’t eat quiche. They didn’t seek help. There was no Burning Man. There were no public displays of affection either. It embarrassed everybody. Husband. Wife. And especially the kids. Even the pets hid in self-conscious mortification. All that mushy stuff went on behind closed doors. If it went on at all. Most kids, myself included, preferred to think that it didn’t. I was perfectly content in the belief that I was plucked from the cabbage patch. Then carried in a pink flannel blanket by a stork and placed into Ma’s waiting arms. Some myths are worth perpetuating.

The Old Man used to kiss Ma lightly on the lips before going to work every morning. Perhaps “kiss” is a bit of an exaggeration. It was more like a little peck. A light brush. An accidental skim of the lips. I don’t even recall them holding hands. But he did put his arm around her for pictures. I don’t think he was just putting it on for the camera. I look at the old photographs and I see a man showing the world that the Italian beauty next to him was his girl. Sometimes he’d come up from behind while she was busy cooking and give her a little peck on the cheek. She’d pretend to be annoyed and send him on his way but secretly I think she loved the attention. Loved that he loved her.

Saying I love you didn’t come easily back then either. Another embarrassing thing that sent everyone running for cover. Saying it was awkward. Uncomfortable. And often blush inducing. It was especially difficult if you were even the least bit shy, which our family was. It was written in all the greeting cards of course. At the end of the rhyming couplet. Love and X’s and O’s. Hallmark took care of everything. But it was rarely openly and easily said. It was just understood. A given. Taken for granted. Families loved each. Parents loved one another. Parents loved their kids. And kids loved them back. There was never any doubt in my mind that I was loved, whether the words were spoken or not.

When I was in my late teens I fell in love for the first time. I found myself expressing that love to this young man. It came naturally. Like breathing. Nothing much came of this callow relationship. It fizzled pretty quickly. My young teenage heart was crushed. There would never be another quite like him. But every cloud has its silver lining. And mine was three little words. I love you. Suddenly I was liberated. It was the beginning of my Flower Power chapter. The Age of Aquarius was just dawning on me. And I was determined to openly and freely tell people that I loved them. I wanted to introduce the phrase into my daily conversation. It no longer needed to be pulled out of the mothballs for special occasions. Like the good dishes for Christmas dinner.

Saying I love you to Ma was a piece of cake. It wasn’t long before our good-bye kisses included an I love you. Off I went to school with an I love you tucked inside my heart. Ma stayed home with hers held equally close. But saying I love you to The Old Man wasn’t quite as easy. But I did say it eventually. Not every day like with Ma. But I said it and I’m grateful I did. The truth is, he needed to hear it. Craved it. Like sugar. And I needed to say it to him. The last time I told him I loved him was when I went home to bury Ma. By then The Old Man was living in an old folks home. I visited him every day during that week. He had grown frail and was wheelchair bound. His hearing was pretty much gone. It was the night before my return to the Westcoast. He was in the common sitting room. The gathering place. It was eerily quiet. Surreal. The only conversation was the one coming from the television set. When my niece and I opened the steel double doors to the room, we were greeted by a group of elderly folks sitting in wheelchairs. They were all just sitting there facing the door. Like it was a stage and they were the audience waiting for the show to begin. Expectant. Eager. Earnest. But there was also something else that I saw in their faces. Hope. Maybe tonight was their night. Tonight there would be a visitor just for them. Someone from their past who loved them.

But on this particular night, the visitor was for The Old Man. He wasn’t part of the audience watching the door. He was by the television set, his head slumped on his chest, his eyes closed. I touched his shoulder, which was thin and bony under his flannel shirt. He came to life. We had a short visit. It was a shouting match actually. Because he refused to wear his hearing aid, having a private conversation was impossible. So we yelled at each other for an hour. Some things never change.

When it was time to leave I bent down and shouted in his ear. Not just because he couldn’t hear, but because I knew it was my last chance to say it to him. Loud and clear. For eternity. For the whole world to hear. I LOVE YOU DAD. Then I gave a kiss on the cheek to the one who gave me my second. He told me he loved me too. By this time all the old folks had turned their wheelchairs around and were no longer watching the door. All eyes were on us. After I shouted my love to The Old Man, the entire room let out a collective “Awwwww.” Not applause exactly. But close.

The Old Man smelled different than Ma. She was all sweet tea, peppermint Chicklets and Second Debut. His scent was inconsistent. Right after work he smelled of bakery dust and sweat. He’d head to the bathroom to wash it off and emerge smelling of Ivory soap and Brylcreem. On special occasions, or on Sundays, he simply smelled fresh and clean. Old Spice. And everything nice. But on that last kiss good-bye he smelled peculiar. Off. Tinny. Sour. The smell of death around the corner. All the more reason to shout I love you.

I’ve thought about that last scene with my father many times over the years. And how hungry everyone in that sitting room was for some expression of love. And how it took their breath away when they heard the words “I love you” shouted with such wild abandon. Such a sublime and wondrous thing to hear.

I love you. And you. And you. And you.

me & dad in winter

Me and The Old Man

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Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: The First and Last Kiss and the Smell of Second Debut.

April 29, 2012 / boo king / Leave a comment

Always safe in Ma's arms.

I love kisses. All kinds. The sweet little girl smooches. The best friend kiss and tell. The back seat make-out medley. The peck on the cheek. The gentle ones blown across the room. The long kiss goodbye. And the one that makes it all better.

There’s also nothing like the first kiss. The first first. Or the first with someone new. The first kiss lights our hearts on fire. And stays with us a lifetime. We never forget it. We may forget the name. But never the kiss.

There is one kiss, however, that I don’t remember. And the truth is, it was my very first kiss. Long before the kisses with romantic undertones. The original one that trumps all others. And most of us were blessed with a kiss such as this. For me, it came from Ma in the minutes after I was born.

Little back story. I don’t remember anything about me before the age of five. It’s like my life began when I started school. I’m not sure what it is about going to school that awakens us from childhood amnesia, nor why we start remembering things. My first recollection is that of being a Mama’s girl. No doubt about it. I was a clingy fearful child. And I never wanted Ma to be out of my sight. This must have made life difficult for her. Having me literally clinging to her skirt like a three-toed sloth. But anxieties often have curious origins and I’m convinced that at the root of my childhood malaise was Ma’s age.

She would have been considered “older” when she had me. By today’s standards, she would have been a spring chicken. But back then she was noticeably older than most of my friends’ mothers. At least that’s how it seemed to me. Ma had already been married once before and had three kids by the time I came along. That alone, put her in the same category as Methuselah in my books. I worried about her not being around to raise me. I remember calculating how old I’d be if she died at fifty, which seemed unfathomably ancient at the time. How would I survive without her? The Old Man was capable enough but he was no Ma. And he was The Old Man after all. If my calculations were right, there was a strong possibility that he would outlive her. He was four years her junior and a man. With that kind of logic, along with dog-years mathematics, I figured biologically he was at least 28 years younger than Ma. Of course, my worries were for not. Nothing happened to Ma nor The Old Man. But the fear of losing Ma was real to me just the same. On the other hand, I also had the same fear of losing my dog Sugar. I used to do a similar calculation with her life expectancy. The mammoth question in my minuscule mind was always, “would she live long enough to survive my childhood and teenage years?” I wanted Sugar to live forever. Or at least as long as a horse, an elephant or ideally a tortoise. It didn’t seem fair that dogs didn’t get this same shot at longevity. I needed her around until I graduated from high school, at the very least. She was my surrogate sibling and my love for her defied description. True to her name, she gave me lots of sugar. She not only survived my high school years, but she lived a year beyond my graduation from University. I will always remember her sweet doggy kisses.

I look back and remember those clingy years with equal doses of horror and astonishment. It’s Friday night. Ma and The Old Man are getting dressed to go out to a movie. I’m like a distressed dog, who senses when it’s owners are leaving the house, and most likely without them. I could smell abandonment in their every move. It didn’t matter that it would only be for an hour or two. It didn’t matter that my older sister was there with me. There wasn’t a treat or bribe in the world that could convince me that things would be okay if Ma walked out the door without me. All that mattered was that I was being left behind. What if Ma never came back? What would happen then? So I did what every tiresome clingy kid does. I bawled my eyes out. I was too young to intellectually know how manipulative I was being. I only knew that if I cried loud enough. Begged and pleaded hard enough. Flailed and foamed at the mouth. Ma would come to her senses and not go. This worked like a charm every time. Ma, of course would comfort me. And we’d settle in for the night. I’d snuggle in her arms and she’d stroke my hair and kiss my forehead. Things were as they should be.

Starting kindergarten was equally traumatic. The first week was torturous. For both Ma and me. I recall sitting on her lap and refusing to join the other kids. Soaking her short-sleeved sweater in tears and snot. My arms wrapped around her neck like a noose. The more she tried to pull away, the harder my strangle-hold on her grew. Eventually, she was able to coax me into staying in the classroom without her. My fears dissipated. It wasn’t long before Ma was able to kiss me on the cheek and send me on my merry way. I actually grew to love going to school, to be independent for a few hours, and be with my friends. It was also, the beginning of my love and admiration for teachers. Mrs. O. soon became someone I could trust. Maybe not love like Ma. But pretty close.

That was the beginning of our daily kisses. Every school day morning Ma would escort me to the front door. Most days she would be all dressed and ready for her day. In fall and winter she mainly wore slacks and coordinating tops. And in the warmer months the tops were worn with pedal pushers or capris. No make-up, just a splash of lipstick once and awhile. This was the practical attire of a woman who spent her days cleaning the house, washing clothes in a ringer washing machine and hanging them on the line to dry, cooking meals, and baking goodies.

During the winter, Ma would help me with my outerwear. Snow jacket and pants. Lined rubber boots. Hat and scarf wrapped around my neck like a woolen neck ring. I was a northern Giraffe Girl. In the spring and early summer she would make sure my shoes were done up properly, and if it was chilly or raining my sweater or raincoat was properly fastened. Once I was thoroughly wrapped, buttoned or buckled, I would look up at Ma expectantly. She would then lean down and give me a kiss on the cheek. She smelled divine. A combination of sweet tea and Second Debut. Her skin was as soft as velvet. Her lips warm and tender. Her love deep and sincere. This was all I needed to venture forth with confidence. Her kiss was the secret sauce. On with my day I went. Much to look forward to. And then at four o’clock I would return to the smell of freshly baked peanut butter cookies or chocolate brownies. It was pure magic.

Stealing a kiss on the cheek from my sweet baby boy.

This sacred ritual of daily kisses carried on right through high school and university. Even as a young woman with a child of my own, Ma would escort me to the door where we would exchange kisses. By the time I was in my second year of university I was a mother. Ma looked after my son while I attended classes. She would carry him to the door on her hip. I would kiss his sweet round face. And then kiss Ma on the cheek. I was now the kisser. Some mornings she was still in her flannel nighty when she walked me to the door. By then I was taller than her. She was so diminutive. I had to lean down to kiss her. Breathe in the Second Debut. The faint hint of peanut butter and home made strawberry jam on her lips. My son on her hip, smelling in need of a diaper change. That would come after the kisses were delivered. Confidently I stepped out the door. Back pack full of books. Head down, deep in concentration. So much to look forward to. So much to learn.

When I moved away from home, the kisses grew scarcer. But sweeter. Time and distance had their way. Daily rituals were disrupted. But never forgotten. Visits home were greeted with kisses of delight and joy. Departures met with ones that lingered. Imprinting the place where lips met cheeks. Love and memories imbedded for life.

There were also all the special occasion and celebratory kisses. Birthdays. Christmas. Mother’s Day. Graduation. Weddings. The birth of my children. Then there were the comforting kisses. The skinned knee. The bruised shin. The broken heart. The end of things. The losses. And the best of all, the everyday kisses. Little love plants here and there and everywhere. For no reason in particular. Just little reminders that no matter how old, or where you are in life, love can be captured in an instant. And seized in a kiss.

I have no memory of Ma’s first kiss. But because I’ve given three children their first one, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt what the exchange was like. She gazed down at me with wonder and awe. And I peered through a veil of newborn fog into her warm chocolate eyes. I knew instinctively that I was loved. Would always be loved. Unconditionally. Uncontrollably. Unequivocally. I was hers. And she was mine.

The last time I kissed Ma, I didn’t know it was the last time. A good thing I suppose. Had I known, I would have been a clingy five-year old with my arms wrapped around her neck. Unable to let go. But I will remember that last kiss all the days of my life. It will linger on my lips for eternity. That, and the smell of Second Debut.

Diaries of the Breadman’s Daughter: There’s Nothing Like the Smell of Coffee in the Morning.

March 25, 2012March 27, 2012 / boo king / 6 Comments

Ma and boo in PJs enjoying a morning moment.

I’m a morning person. I get up early while my family remains nestled all snug in their warm comfy beds. This does not mean they are sleepyheads. Or lazybones. It’s just that I’m a particularly early riser. For it is only at this time that the house is quiet and still. Like the Herman’s Hermits song proclaims, “there’s a kind of hush.” Just the way I like it.

When I’m in full-blown writing mode I get up, I make a cup of hot tea and head for my room. But it wasn’t always so. The room was there but I wasn’t. I was in another room with a bed and a warm body next to mine. That was, and is, nice. But for a writer, and a creative spirit, it’s not enough. I made excuses for why I wasn’t in my very special room doing creative things. You know the kind. Family commitments. Full time job. Busy life full of distractions and diversions. Pets to walk. Cakes to bake. But excuses aside, the truth was it made me sad. Glum. Blah. Whiny even. Then I had this eureka moment about 15 years ago. The switch was flipped and the light went on. I had this notion that if I got up an hour or two earlier I could go into my room and do stuff. At the time, I wasn’t sure what that would be exactly. But as it turns out I had a novel to write. Some poems. A ton more letters to God. And a few song lyrics. Then some music to go with those. I learned that much can be accomplished in the wee hours before 6:00am.

The truth is, it wasn’t all that difficult for me to get up that early in the morning. Pre-dawn rising is part of my family heritage. If geneticists were to look inside our DNA, I’m certain they would find some little atypical first-light wrinkle in one of our chromosomes.

Little back story. Because the Old Man was a Breadman, his workday began early. Crack of dawn. He had to get to the bakery, load his truck and be on the road delivering the bread and other baked goodies by 7:00am. This was back in the day, when it was essential to deliver the ultimate in freshness door to door. Warm and ready.

Ma always got up with The Old Man. While he was getting ready for work, she was busy in the kitchen. A fresh pot of coffee was perking in the dinted aluminum Percolator with the black handle and glass knob on top. Once the water-coffee mixture began to bubble up into the knob, Ma would turn down the heat and let it settle and simmer on low. While the coffee was brewing, the well-oiled cast iron frying pan was in full-on action. Four strips of bacon fried to a medium crisp. Two eggs. Sunny side up with a fringe of brown crunch. Two slices of white Wholesome bread toasted to golden perfection, then buttered. The table was set for one. Next to The Old Man’s plate was a jar of Kraft strawberry jam or orange marmalade, a bottle of homogenized milk, a bowl of white sugar, and glass shakers of salt and pepper. These were the scrumptious aromas of morning for the thirty-plus years that The Old Man worked for the bakery. This was the first heavenly scent of dawn and waking up.

Sometimes I would get up before The Old Man left for work and join him at the table. But mostly I got up afterwards and had breakfast alone with Ma. I loved my morning time with her. I was never really that hungry in the morning but I ate anyway. Mostly to appease Ma, so she wouldn’t worry or fret that I was malnourished or starving to death. Ever since I was a youngster I drank coffee. The Old Man was a Finlander so coffee was a huge part of his personal culture. Next to Vodka, coffee was the Finn’s beverage of choice. The coffee of my wonder years was nothing like it is today. We’re not talking Starbucks super strength here. Back then, coffee was akin to dish water. And we were blissfully ignorant of any harm it may have caused a child. I enjoyed my daily morning coffee until I hit my early twenties when I quit cold turkey. As it turned out, it wasn’t so good for my sensitive nervous system, causing my body to shake rattle and roll after one or two sips. Tea, in particular herbal or decaf, then became my beverage of choice for decades. It’s only been recently that I have started to enjoy one cup of coffee in the morning. All things wonderful. Ma and I were also Tea Grannies and loved our Orange Pekoe and Earl Grey. Especially with fresh-baked cookies. Simply divine.

For the most part, Ma and I had toast and jam for breakfast. We kept it sweet and simple. White bread. Lots of butter slathered on first, then a big dollop of jam. Sometimes we’d add peanut butter. Sometimes we didn’t add anything. Just butter. It all depended on whether we were in a sweet or savory mood. My morning coffee was really more milk and sugar than it was coffee. And it was delicious. Sweet. And creamy. I drank it down quickly in big gulps. Sometimes I slurped it from my spoon like soup. But mostly I poured it back. “Ahhhhh. That was sooooo good Ma,” I’d exclaim.

I enjoyed this quiet breakfast time with Ma. We drew together, both in our flannel nighties, and talked about things. The kinds of conversations mothers have with their little girls. Precious. Intimate. Confidential. I shared all my secrets with her. I knew she was the one person in the entire world that I could trust completely with my tender young heart. I told her funny stories. She laughed. I relayed the nightmare that woke me up in the middle of the night. She comforted. I confessed my unrequited love. She consoled. I cried over my broken heart. She caressed. I confided my dreams for the future. She encouraged. I hurt her feelings. She forgave.

On special occasions or holidays, when the family gathers, I still like to get up early, even though I don’t write during vacation time. Our entire family comes together at Christmas and I’m usually the first one up. I like to putter around in the kitchen and put the coffee on. And that’s when it happens. The fresh brewed aroma takes me back. To a little kitchen table with its cheerful homespun tablecloth. It’s set for two. It’s cold and dark and wintry outside. But it’s warm and bright and safe inside. Ma pours me a cup. Life is good.

My Thing About God