Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter. What Were You Thinking?

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

E before he quit smoking.

I’m not a mind reader. I don’t have X-ray vision. No telepathic abilities that I’m aware of. I’m definitely not a clairvoyant and the last time I checked I don’t have ESP. But on occasion I do have an acute sixth sense. Like Spider Man. Sometimes I just know something’s up.

Such was the case the night we went to visit a gravely ill friend at the hospital.

After two decades together I thought E and I shared everything. Our thoughts. Feelings. Fears. But I learned that with this cancer thing, that wasn’t true. Fact is, no one really knows for sure what’s going on inside another person’s head. Nor do we know the things kept tucked away in timorous hearts. Our interior worlds are ours alone. We share what we share. Give what we give. Reveal only what’s comfortable or safe. We’re transparent at times. But more often than not, opaque. The proverbial window into a person’s soul is often dirty. Foggy. Obscured. Dark and scary.

We rode up the hospital elevator to the seventh floor in easy silence. Each in our own private world. Elevators have this affect on us. I watched attentively as the red digital numbers over the doors changed. Floor by floor. Thankfully no one else joined us on our ride upward. I wasn’t in the mood for company. A fleeting thought of our sick friend crossed my mind. Followed by an unsettling twitch of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I took a gulp of air and let it out with flapping lips. I sounded like a horse snorting.

Just before the doors swung open, I glanced over at E. There was something about his expression that concerned me. Did it bother him to be back in a hospital? Was he looking down the road to the day he’d have to return? Was he afraid?

The doors opened. We stepped out into the bright glaring lights of the corridor. A startling contrast from the dimly lit elevator car with its hypnotic hum. The steel box that confined and contained our emotions.

Boom. Reality hit. Raw. Intense. Chilly. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“How do you feel?” I blurted out.

“I’m fine,” he auto-responded.

“No, how do you really feel?” I persisted.

“I’m tired,” he exhaled fully, releasing weeks of held emotions. “And depressed. I don’t know if I’m tired because I’m depressed. Or depressed because I’m so tired.”

“I understand,” I said.

Finally some truth. A place to start.

For the first time in a month, E fully understood that he wasn’t alone. He had me. No matter what. Although the cancer was inside his body, the journey was ours. We were in this together. The good. The bad. And the ugly. We were a shameless spaghetti western. Clint Eastwood, this movie belonged to us.

The next day I sat down at my computer and wrote this poem.

The Truth About This Thing Called Cancer

Yesterday when we got off the elevator at the 7th floor

And we were heading towards room 721

To visit our friend who was back in the hospital

Having a blood transfusion

In preparation for surgery the next day

His third in nine months.
His body was covered in scars

From years of cuts and mends

Repairs and retribution

A missing foot

An ulcer on the other

Now in peril.
But this isn’t about him.
I asked you how you were feeling

Really feeling

No fake bullshit

No more keeping secrets.

I’m a big girl

I can hear the word cancer

The Big C

Without wanting to dive

Into the river of terror.
I’m your love

And you are mine

We’ll do this together.
So you confessed.
You said that even though

You laugh and joke

Put on your happy face

There are times that you feel tired

And depressed.
You sleep

Because you are tired

Which makes you depressed

So you sleep

To make the depression

Go away.

You can’t tell

The cause

From the effect.
I told you that I understood.
But the truth is

I only understand

Half of the equation.

I don’t know cancer

But I know depression

And the desire to sleep it away.
I know love

And the power it wields

The healing it contains

For both of us
I told you right from the start

That all I ever wanted

Was for you to

Tell me the truth.
And that goes for this thing too.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: My Best Friend Forever.

February 11, 2013September 21, 2013 / boo king / 2 Comments

B at Boulevard Lake posing in bellbottoms.

I have a best friend. Ma always told me that if I had one really good friend in life, then I was truly blessed. She was right. And I do. I was reminded of this on Saturday when a little package arrived just for me.

Little back story. We met when we were both sixteen. My recollections of our first meeting are hazy, veiled in layers of years. I think we were introduced at a party. Why not? We were teenage girls. That initial contact put us into each other’s orb for life.

We might have met sooner, had we grown up in the same neighborhood. The world is small in a small town but even smaller when you’re a little kid. Now when I look back, there were many opportunities for us to have met before that night. The Old Man delivered bread to their house. Our neighborhoods weren’t that far apart. We were both Finlanders. But back then, I never wandered too far away from 204.

We had been going to the same high school for two years before the party and yet we had never crossed paths. We were in different academic programs and travelled in different circles. I was a band nerd and had trouble making eye contact. She was one of the admin girls and painfully shy.

But once we were introduced that all changed. Wham! She’s in my universe and we’re bumping into each other everywhere. Hallways. Gymnasium. Cafeteria. Washrooms. Schoolyard.

We had a lot in common.

Soon we were walking home from school together. Sometimes we would stop at the corner before heading on our separate ways. These conversations that so absorbed us; it was impossible to let go. Other times she would come to my house for tea and the fresh-baked cookies Ma always had waiting for us. Our discussions were large and deep for two teenage girls.

B and pregnant Boo on the shores of Lake Superior.

We explored everything. No topic was off limits. We wondered and pondered. Probed and mused. Drilled down deep to places most young girls that age would never have contemplated. The subject matter wasn’t always full of profundity however, nor was it terribly serious. We were sixteen after all. We talked about boys a lot. She had a steady boyfriend. I did not. At times I lived vicariously through her romance. It was fun. And safer.

We were tender and sensitive. Lovely and sweet. Gentle and kind. Creative and imaginative. We both liked to write and sew and do crafty things. We combed through teenage magazines and picked out fashions we loved. One of our favorite haunts was the fabric department at Eaton’s. She was a brilliant sewer. I was accomplished enough but nowhere near as gifted as her. She could have been a fashion designer. That’s how good she was.

We were poets and Philosopher Princesses. Our hearts were broken often. Not just from love gone wrong. But from all the pain, suffering and heartache we saw in the world. Everything touched our young fragile spirits. We were emotional risk takers, willing to go out on a limb. Fall. Break. And when we did, we helped each heal.

We laughed our faces off. And cried until we were exhausted. We ranted. And raved. We sang along to our favorite records. And danced like wild girls in my small upstairs bedroom.

She taught me yoga and the power of meditation. Macrame and how to make the perfect square knot. The fine art of stringing colorful beads into gorgeous necklaces. She gave me a slip from her mom’s African violet and taught me how to grow my first plant.

We hung out at local dives and smoked cigarettes and drank coffee until we were shaking from nerves rattled by too much caffeine and nicotine. We wrestled with our own mortality. Danced with our inner demons. Contemplated what it was like on the other side of this life. We were complex young women. We were simple teenage girls.

B with my son having a tea party.

We shared dreams. Held secrets. An unbreakable bond. Sisters of the soul. Best friends. We got each other. Really dug one another. Like we were cut from the same cloth. We were sisters from different mothers.

We marvel that this friendship of ours has endured decades. We’ve gone from Teen Girl Warriors to Wise Crone Goddesses. We can be apart for years, barely keep in touch, and reconnect in a heart beat. We’ve been through first loves, marriages and separations. We’ve had children and watched them grow into beautiful adults. We’ve lost loves and discovered new ones in unexpected places. We’ve said goodbye to parents and stood at gravesides. We’ve been through a lot together and apart. Yet one truth remains. I’ve always known that no matter what, she had my back. And I had hers.

Last week, she posted a note on my Facebook timeline.

“Did I receive the pkg?”

“I got a notification but didn’t know who it was from. I was going to pick it up on Saturday,” I posted in response.

I love surprises. On Saturday afternoon while E and I were running errands we stopped into the local grocery store, where the post office is tucked away in one corner. I picked up the parcel, which was light and rattle-free. Its weight and silence only added to its delicious mystery. E picked up a couple of pints of ice cream that were on sale and headed to the checkout. While he was waiting in line, I went outside.

B’s original design vintage sundress inspired chef’s apron.

Suddenly I was sixteen again. I couldn’t wait to get home. Standing next to the row of grocery carts, I thought to myself, I’ll just take the tape off. But once the tape was removed, I couldn’t stop. It was like Pandora’s Box. Too tempting. Before E was through the checkout I had one end of the brown wrapper removed and was opening the box.

And there it was. Wrapped in green tissue, sealed with gold stickers, and inscribed with five precious words, “made with love for Bonney.” An original design by B. Vintage sundress inspired chef’s apron. Meticulously crafted with attention to every detail. Sweet whimsical buttons in yellow red and blue set on tiny pink flowers. Wonder-filled.

There isn’t a word for the delight I felt at that moment.

Once home, and in the privacy of my sacred writing space, I held up this beloved gift to take in its full magnificence. It was like I was holding B in my arms. Love was radiating from every thread.

Tucked in the pocket of the apron was her “go to” dessert. Plum Clafoutis. I will make this my “go to” dessert too.

Her final instruction to me on the pink post-it note included in the package, read simply. “Enjoy!”

And I will. Oh yes I will.

Footnote: Last summer when I was back East for my brother’s wedding anniversary B and I had a glorious visit. It was brief, just one afternoon but long enough to reconnect. She took me out to see her beautiful garden. Everything she touches blooms and blossoms abundantly. One flower in particular captured my attention. The Brown Eyed Susan. In the package, with the apron, was an envelope with one last note from B. It was filled with Brown Eyed Susan seeds from her garden. “Scatter them in spring and let nature take its course,” she wrote.

Yes, my dear friend.

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

July 22, 2012 / boo king / Leave a comment

We couldn’t stop looking at him and he at us.

The older I get the better I get at keeping secrets. I now understand how sacred secret keeping is. What a privilege it is to have someone trust you so dearly with a confidence. Even if they have shared their secret with someone else, it matters not. This is your secret to keep. Held safe for as long as required. It could be for a day, a week, a year. A lifetime. Some secrets I will take to the grave with me.

I’m from a family of secret keepers. So perhaps this gives me a bit of an edge over those who are not so well practiced. The biggest secret our family kept concerned The Old Man’s drinking. Not just his alcoholism. But his recurring rampages that terrorized our family. We were like visitors to Vegas. What happened in 204 stayed in 204. This family secret, that I held close for over twenty years, was one of two that shaped the landscape of my youth. I looked out at the world, not with wide-eyed wonder, but with fear. For the flip side of keeping secrets is disclosure. I didn’t want anyone to know about The Old Man. Not even my best friend.

Some secrets are held in fear. Others in shame. This was at the heart of the second family secret.

Little back story. When I was twenty-four I wanted to go to Europe. I hadn’t travelled much. Nor ventured far when I did. Little trips with my family mostly. Circle Route around Lake Superior. Trips to Duluth, Minnesota. Once as far as Minneapolis. One quick secret disastrous trip to Toronto with my first love. A cross country car ride to Victoria which included stops in Winnipeg, Regina and Calgary. That was it. My wayfaring adventures by age twenty-four.

We converted Ma’s sewing room into a nursery for a few years.

Many of my friends had already been to Europe. Backpacking globe-trotters. Nomads and gypsies. Sophisticated and worldly. I had been to Duluth. I was green with envy and itching to gallivant. This became the hot topic of conversation between my new boyfriend and I. We made plans. Beginning with acquiring passports. We did all the appropriate paperwork and mailed off our applications to Ottawa. This was a long time ago so the details of the process are a bit sketchy. But to the best of my recollection, this is what we did. Then we waited. And waited. It took weeks to hear anything.

Everything went smoothly for my boyfriend, who was far less new after weeks of waiting for passports. His knapsack was packed and he was good to go. But this was not the case for me.

I never got my passport. Instead, I got a letter from the government of Canada informing me that I did not exist. ‘Don’t exist’ I cried. ‘How is that possible? I’m here aren’t I? Look at me. I’m right here.’ This occurred while I was living on the West Coast, the first time round. I thought perhaps this mix-up had something to do with geography. That I wasn’t actually nonexistent, just misplaced.

Determined to prove that I did indeed exist, I decided to go to the fountainhead. Take it to the two people who were there right from the beginning. The source of my genesis. No, not God and Jesus. That would come later. Ma and The Old Man. But before doing so, I mentioned this misbegotten madness to my sister, who was also living on the West Coast. I showed her the letter. ‘Look at this,’ I uttered incredulously. She read the letter. Looked me straight in the eyes and said, ‘I have to tell you something.’

The Old Man and his grandson sharing a moment together.

Ma and The Old Man weren’t legally married. There was nothing shocking about this revelation. I had suspected as much for years. But it was a bit unsettling to hear those words said out loud for the first time. This subject was taboo in our family. Strictly off limits. In truth, I was the only one not in on the secret. The evidence was there of course. For starters, Ma and The Old Man never celebrated their anniversary. Yet she went by Mrs. M. And she wore a wedding ring. This was good enough for me. When I was really young I didn’t understand such things. When I was old enough to know, I didn’t want to. By the time I figured it out, I didn’t care. By then, I was actually in on the secret. But no one knew that I knew what they knew.

Once the proverbial cat was let out of the bag I called Ma. There was no going back. The silence was broken. The Boogeyman was released and he wasn’t all that scary. I felt free. I wanted to liberate Ma as well. The call went something like this.

‘Ma, a strange thing happened when I tried to get my passport.’

‘What’s that dear?’

‘I got this letter from the government saying I don’t exist.’

‘That’s impossible.’

‘G told me everything Ma.’

Silence followed. By a pregnant pause. By more silence.

‘Ma why didn’t you just put The Old Man’s name on my birth certificate?’

‘I didn’t know I could.’

A common law marriage and an illegitimate child. More secrets that consumed my parents. Filled them with shame. Followed by years of silence. Humiliation. Heads hung low. I look back on their situation and my heart breaks for them.

By the time I was old enough to get married things were so different. Common law marriages. People living together. Shacking up. It was happening all around me and no one cared. Hippy chicks were having babies and wearing daisies in their hair. Feminism had arrived. Gloria Steinem and Betty Friedan were inspiring young women everywhere. Myself included. There was nothing illegitimate about any of it. More options and choices. No judgement. Different strokes for different folks, as Sly and The Family Stone sang.

What a burden my parents carried in their hearts all those years. In the end, it was a relief to have the truth spoken. Confession is good for the soul they say. This held true for my parents, especially Ma.

I can’t think of anything more soul destroying than living in shame. The joy that it robs. The dignity that it steals. The humiliation it perpetrates. The things we teach our children without even knowing. Nor intending. Passed down from one generation to the next, along with Grandma’s handmade quilt. I understand the shame Ma felt. Intimately. I too carry this pain in my heart. Sometimes I don’t even know why. It’s like the elusive butterfly. Impossible to grasp.

My passport awaits. I just have to fill out the forms.

After the birth of my son I experienced a fleeting moment of shame. I thought I was beyond reproach, yet this stung. He was only hours old and he filled my spirit with such wonder. A Nurses Aid, who was old enough to be my mother, entered our room to check on us. I was engaged in a gripping one-sided conversation with my son. As she was adjusting my blankets and plumping my pillow, she referred to me as Mrs. M. I immediately corrected her and explained that I wasn’t Mrs. M. That was my mother. Then as carelessly as she tossed a crumpled Kleenex into the wastebasket, she responded with, ‘That’s what we call girls like you dear.’ She wasn’t being malicious. Nor did she intend to hurt me. Just stating the facts. Telling the truth. Yet there I was. Drowning in a puddle of shame. Maybe we hadn’t come a long way Baby.

But the hand of God touched me that day. The hurt didn’t linger. Thankfully. Besides, I had a beautiful brown-eyed boy to love and protect. I had to toughen up.

I still don’t have a passport. I haven’t been consumed by wanderlust these past thirty years so it hasn’t really mattered. Acquiring one fell off the to do list years ago. My life has been full and adventurous despite traveling abroad. Yet a part of me often wonders if I’m stuck. Fearful that if I apply for my passport I’ll be told I still don’t exist. At least not as me. The girl with the unpronounceable Finnish last name. I have an official Birth Certificate containing Ma’s first husband’s surname. I look at it and think, ‘Who is this person?’ Not me. I look at the ancient tattered Registration of Birth that the Old Man altered and think, ‘Who is this person?’ Me. Not sure how he did it. But somehow he removed the official legal surname and typed in his. It always looked right to me. You see what you want to see I guess. I never wanted to be anything but the Breadman’s daughter.

And with God’s grace I am. Always will be. Passport or not.

My Thing About God