It's Tradition...

I should have been wrapping; my bedroom is reduced to a path to the bed because of the accumulation of shopping bags. Instead, I ventured into the bowels of the house, also known as the crawl space. Twenty some years ago, we bought this lovely Cuban back split with six steps up, and six steps down from the main floor, and a crawl space. Twenty some years ago that same storage space did not seem to be a big deal, however now, it is a place which my knees wish to avoid at all cost, and my forehead still smarts from collisions with the duct work. I am pretty certain it moves when it sees me coming. 

A few years back, I decided to downsize the tree, thus reducing the number of ornaments needed and put everything else into boxes and bins in the crawl space. Today, in the spirit of the season, I thought that perhaps this wealth should now be distributed amongst my children. I took a poll of my new daughters and we all agreed that this was an excellent plan.

As I unpacked the decorations I thought about how much tradition is built into the trimming of a Christmas tree. Ornaments evoke certain times or places, or sometimes a special person, but all have memories attached. Thee tree can become a little collage of your life.

This glass and wire ornament is the oldest that I have and probably dates back to when my parents began their life together in 1938.

These ones are probably as old as I am or a bit older, but I remember them from my childhood.

The first manger scene that I remember was made of cardboard pieces. It was beautifully coloured and the figures were fitted into little tabs so that they would stand upright within the manger. When it inevitably wore out, it was replaced by these figurines which were always placed under the tree. Mary's nose is a bit worn and Joseph's staff is now missing and I can't seem to find another wise man, but assembling this little tableau was a very important tradition.

These are the stories of Christmas, the special and beloved books that were read once a year. The Shiniest Star is the oldest, and on a sentimental day, can still make me teary. I read them to my boys when they were small, and I still love them.

Some ornaments clearly mark special events in time, like the first Christmas of our marriage. I remember the excitement of having our own place to decorate and start our own traditions.

Then begins the years of handmade offerings made by precious little fingers. I am not sure who made this particular one, but despite the tragic loss of sight in one eye, Rudolph remains to commemorate the time when our children were small.

This ornament was cross-stitched by my sister. I keep it in the Simpsons box that she gave it to us in, and the gift tag remains in the lid. I lost my sister to cancer in 1990, so I love that I have this small tangible reminder of her.

I have a little forest of trees that I love to put out. They are warm and welcoming and can keep me company in winter months after the other ornaments have been put away. 

And the winter bears come out to sit on the Windsor bench. They will sit by the fireplace for the winter too. It is nice to have some things remain when all the twinkly stuff is put away, the rooms don't look quite so bare and empty.

I think there is a particular kind of madness that threatens at this time of year. It is a time that shines a brilliant spotlight, starkly delineating the haves from the have nots;  those present and those now absent. So many people go without; so many are unable to give; so many loved ones will not be at our gatherings this year. There is so much frenetic activity, often done with an air of desperation, to meet expectations that are often unrealistic. Not everyone has a spiritual connection with this holiday, or a family, religious or otherwise, to spend it with. 

So when I look at this photo, the only picture that I have of my siblings and I at Christmas, and I think back to the Christmas times of my childhood, I think that my parents set a good example for me to follow. Give what you can; appreciate what is received; include others; give to those who have less; enjoy being together and remember the best gift is love. 

Keep Calm and......

November is ending in my little part of Ontario, with gloomy skies and rain. This lends itself to overcast interior skies as well and an inclination to hibernate, or  perhaps a state of torpor; long periods of sleep broken by short periods of feeding on nuts. Right, that's for chipmunks. It takes a lot of little extra effort to face the day sometimes, especially as we are now heading into a season of what can be particular insanity. It is hard to remain balanced somewhere realistic between what is seen and advertised as necessary to enjoy the season, and what demonstrates a spirit of love and generosity to both those we love and those in need. I need a sign that says "Keep Calm and Christmas On".

I have decided that my British ancestry, those original "Keep Calm" folks, has become diluted over the generations because that calm gene seems to be missing. This slogan is of course, not ancient, harking back only as far as the second World War, and was to be used to raise the morale of the British public in time of war and specifically should Britain be invaded. It was one of three slogans being considered and was never printed for bulk distribution as a propaganda poster. A test print was found and in the last few years this slogan has become a universally known meme, apparently capturing something in the public's collective psyche.

Regardless of its current use or the historic intent, I found it interesting that the slogan was not just "Keep Calm".  Instead, it cleverly and possibly inadvertently, sets out the desired goal and how to achieve it; keep calm by carrying on with life in spite of danger and fear. Setting aside the current or historic use of the slogan, I was thinking that the "and" was the important word in the phrase. I don't think that calmness can be achieved or maintained passively; some action or activity is required. Everyday life is so busy and unpredictable that it is hard to remain anywhere even in the remote region of balanced. I sometimes wonder too, if it is not harder to handle the smaller annoyances and daily mental clutter of relatively normal life that just slowly and inexorably erode your peace of mind.

I realized that I have already put some strategies in place that work for me and that the variety of memes that have evolved is actually a reflection of the number of things that people do or use to maintain some personal sense of calm in their lives. I will not include "Keep Calm and Coffee On" in my list because, well,that is just a given.

Keep Calm ....and Walk On.
For me, this is almost a necessity; a physical change of environment that diverts my mind completely, giving the whirring a chance to settle down and demanding focus on what it around me. The wind reminds me to take a deep breath, and the beauty, no matter the season, commands my attention. My camera helps me see not just the vista but the minute, and marvel pushes worry aside if only for a time. And every once in a while, I bump into someone on the path, and that short, chance encounter adds something really meaningful to my day. So while meandering on the trail may not provide a lot of aerobic exercise for my heart, it provides emotional health for my heart. I am satisfied with that. 

....and Book On.
Stephen King said that "books are a uniquely portable magic"; a "timeout" guaranteed to carry you away for five minutes or an hour or so. And sometimes if I can't concentrate enough to follow the thread of a story, I can still look at a book or magazine for creative ideas or do a little research to identify something in my growing "what is that?" photo files. Another favorite diversion is to spend an hour looking for books at the local thrift stores. The search is fun and lifts the the spirit, the cost is small and the rewards are sometimes amazing. No down side ever, because there is always a treasure found for someone.I also read that it's not hoarding if it is books.

....and Create On.
There is something uniquely therapeutic in giving the analytical side of your brain a rest and using the other side to create something. It doesn't have to be something big, because sometimes we just don't have the time or energy for that, but maybe writing a few lines, colouring a page, taking a photo or rearranging a shelf so it is more pleasing. These few moments can nourish the soul and give expression to something from inside yourself, and solely for yourself, should you decide it.

....and Rest On.
Life can be relentless, and the times of stress, sorrow or pain, can vastly outnumber those times when things even seem ok, never mind happy. I have decided, slightly later in life, that if you want to keep up you have to allow time for rest; mental, emotional and physical. I also know that at times it seems like an impossibility. I was trying to keep up with teenage boys, working full time, was a wife, was caring for increasing ill and feeble parents and then buried my parents. An incredibly intense time when you just put your head down and deal with it the best you can. It is a bit blurry now in some ways, all compacted together, like when you take a trip and do so many things each day, that when you come home you can't remember what day you did those things on. I learned how vulnerable you can become when when body and mind are exhausted and you are trying to keep your emotions reined in. Grief and pain and fear will find an expression, if not emotionally, then physically. Over time, and mostly unintentionally, I have simplified my life; my schedule, my activities and my expectations. My life is quieter now, includes a smaller circle of people and a shorter list of activities, which now includes things like couch time with a book and a solitary walk. Times for rest.  Life is not different. I am different. 

Empty Nest

You know, I thought I was prepared. I knew it was coming, had indulged in a little weep, and set my face looking forward. Turns out I was fine until my son waved to me from the van containing his furniture. He knew I would be standing at the kitchen door waving, and he turned to wave back. It is one of those snapshots of an instant in time that will stay in your mind always. Then the flood waters rose.

It was one of those moments when you realize that a page in the book of life has turned in preparation for a new chapter. It is hard to explain to your sons sometimes, why it is that you are so emotional. I said that I wasn't unhappy, just sad, if that made sense. Son: Mom, I"ll still be close by. New daughter: Yes, totally. Bless.

The difference though, is that in this moment they are completely in the present and looking forward. For me, it is a kaleidoscope of millions of moments from the past.

 Holding children in your arms, carrying them in your body.

Watching your parents holding your babies.

Dr. Dentons and bedtimes and stories.

First days at school.

And suddenly here you are, in this moment; when this part of your work is finished, and your last chick leaves the nest, fully fledged, an adult (or reasonable facsimile of), and you just hope that you have been enough and done enough for them to be successful in this next step of their journey.  It is a big moment, a moment of mourning and joy, that is overwhelmingly emotional for a mother and may result in a few tears on the chest of said child. I think it is a deserved rite of passage to be allowed to a mother.

I just got a bit spoiled because my last child leaving home has been here a little longer than some. We passed beyond a mother to child relationship, into one between a mother and grown, mature son, who just happened to still live at home, and it gave me the added gift of time and proximity, the loss of which is acute. 

I always thought that at this somewhat advanced age, I would feel wise and confident in myself and abilities. Well...still waiting, and not at all assured that this will happen. I guess every generation feels like the world is changing too quickly and in ways that they don't understand. I am glad that I have wise and loving children that help me interpret our changing world and its technology. Who knew that you would need lessons to use a phone, write a letter or watch a movie without messing up the devices now used for these things. 

So now my sons have sailed the mine-filled seas of relationships and are settled and happy.  I can dry my tears, although chances are there will be more, and look not at the ones who have left, but at the ones who now will fill my nest in a different way; beloved new daughters and grandchildren.

And I guess maybe I don't have to know a lot of things, I just have to be here and love them. 

Looking for Balance

As November progresses, the brilliant colours of earlier weeks are now faded and on the ground. Bright hours have been replaced by days on end of lowering skies. It is dismal outside and I feel dismal inside. I struggle to find an emotional equilibrium, feeling just a moment away from the scales of my inner balance tipping. It doesn't seem to take much; a photo, a memory, a song or a word. 

In the spring we look forward with anticipation of light, shoots in the ground and buds on the trees, forgetting the cold and the dark. In the autumn I think we are more aware of the duality of the seasons. We are leaving a time of fullness and colour, light and plenty, to enter a time of death and cold and darkness. As I walk I am aware of the contrasts.

The trees now naked show the beauty of their form.

However the destruction by time, disease and weather is also revealed.

The floor of the wetland can now be seen through the dying reeds revealing turtle and muskrat paths, and white-throated sparrows feeding beneath the boardwalk.

It also reveals skeletons of trees lost to the wetland.

But other dead trees provide food and habitat and the opportunity for sightings such as this pileated woodpecker; exciting on a gloomy day.

Seasonal waterfowl are gone, but mallard duck remain and entertain.

Canada geese fly in formation preparing for migration, but also rest in unusual places like the roof of this factory by the canal.

Even the open canopy does not reveal a bright sky,

but below is exposed a glorious fall of bittersweet.

This extraordinary support system is revealed,

as well as the damage done by river and season.

The view at the dam is stark, yet beautiful; calm and serene, yet active and turbulent. A perfect duality.

The river manages to be both at the same time, but I can't seem to manage this. I feel a deep joy observing my grandson sleeping, and an equally deep sorrow as my brother succumbs to dementia. My heart is full to see my sons happy with the wonderful daughters they have brought into my life, but I feel an equal terror for their future when I watch the news. An eternal see-saw of emotion. The Japanese have a more balanced view and the phrase for this is, Mono no aware. It is an eighteenth century philosophy which accepts beauty in the awareness of the transience of things, but having a gentle kind of sadness at their passing. I am not there yet.

I read an interesting post on Facebook about having an anchor spot. What they described was a place in nature somewhere, where you went daily and just spent time being quiet. I realized that I had established several places like this already. While a slightly broader interpretation of the post, one anchor spot I have is my porch which is surrounded by the habitat that I have created there. I sit and watch the birds and animals and plants and it is peaceful. The path is another spot. While the locations may vary, I focus entirely on my environment and take in its details, and breathe. I also have an indoor spot, the couch. This may sound odd, but this elderly couch was my mom's, and it is comforting to sit on it. From there I can watch my yard and its inhabitants through the window. There is also in this room, a beautiful side table that was my grandma's and a loveseat that I made using chairs that were my great grandmother's. 

I guess it is a place of the present and the past, as well as warmth and safety. I realized too, that I have anchor moments;  like when I lay my head against the heart of one of my sons, when I hear my husband's voice, when my daughter holds my grandson or when another daughter gives me a hug. Anchor points; moments, places and people, where I can recover balance, even if it is short-lived, it is long enough to take a breath.

We Will Remember

My mom was born in 1917 in New Glasgow, Nova Scotia. Her father, Pte. Patrick Downey, was overseas. He never came home.

These are my grandparents Elma and Patrick Downey, and my aunt Marguerite. It is the only photo that my mother had of her parents, and I was an adult before I saw it. The war that took Patrick's life, also left his wife destitute and unable to care for her daughters. The temporary solution of parting with them to the care of someone else, ultimately became a permanent break in the family causing a fissure so deep, that my mother and aunt rarely spoke of it and never knew their extended family. After my mother died, I began to look into her family tree. This is what I now know about my grandfather Patrick.

According to his attestation form, Patrick was born at the end of the century in Brigus, NFLD. At this time Newfoundland was a Dominion, a self-governing state of the British Empire, and not a member of Confederation. He was married and a coal miner in March of 1916, and was attached to the 193rd Nova Scotia Highlanders and assigned the regimental number of 901442. The medical section of the form told me that my grandfather was 5'6", weighed 145 lbs., had a fair complexion, blue eyes and brown hair when he enlisted.

This postcard was mailed to my mom's aunt in June of 1916 from Camp Aldershot where four battalions of the Nova Scotia Highlander Brigade and the Royal School of Artillery were being trained in preparation for trench warfare overseas, at a time when casualty tolls were reaching unfathomable levels. All the Highlander troops wore a Balmoral Cap with feathers. Lady Borden, wife of the Premier of Canada, awarded regimental colours to each Battalion, and the 193rd's royal blue was displayed as a blue feather on their cap.

Sir Robert Borden, the Premier of Canada, visited Aldershot on Aug.9th to see the troops. September 26th brought orders to prepare for departure and all leaves were cancelled,meaning many final farewells were never able to be said.

The nominal roll of the 193rd showed that the battalion embarked on Oct. 12, 1916 in Halifax aboard the HMT Olympic, White Star's ocean liner turned troopship, and older sister of the Titanic. I read statistics that showed that this particular voyage transported the highest number of troops, almost 6,000, of the entire war. The troops disembarked in Liverpool on the 18th of October and immediately traveled to Witley Camp in Surrey Hills.

When a call came for the immediate draft of 800 troops, the Nova Scotia Highland Brigade was disbanded and its members spread to other battalions. Patrick was sent for active duty on the front with the 42nd Battalion in the immediate shadow of The Battle of the Somme which had incurred unprecedented loss of life. While Patrick stares life on the front in the face, his salary of $1.10/day with a Separation Allowance of $25.00/mo. was forwarded to his wife and children to survive on. 

Patrick's war records show some things about his war experience, like when he received a gun shot wound to the face. I know he was sent to the 35 General Hospital in Calais. I also know he was evacuated to the 2nd West General Hospital in Manchester, England and recuperated at the Military Convalescent Hospital in Woodcote Park, Epsom. 

I know from reading the War Diaries of the 42nd Bn. that Patrick fought as part of the 3rd Canadian Division CEF, in the 7th Canadian Brigade. In the 7th Brigade he fought alongside the Royal Canadian Regiment, the Princess Patricia Canadian Light Infantry, the 49th Bn, Canadian Infantry (Edmonton), the 7th Canadian Machine Gun Company and the 7th Canadian Trench Mortar Battery. Patrick fought at Hill 154 and Vimy Ridge and he was at Passchendaele. It was a life of time spent away from the front training, and time at the front in mud and wire and terror while making sometimes only yards of progress forward.

These excerpts from the pages of the war diaries are for Sept. 29, 1918 and describe Patrick's last hours. It was the battle for the Canal du Nord and the war was only months from ending. The troops had encountered a belt of wire that they had not been found in reconnaissance. They became completely vulnerable and in a moment paid the ultimate price, Patrick among them.

Patrick is buried in Drummond Cemetery, Raillencourt, France. I will probably never stand at his grave but I was able to obtain a photo of his stone and a copy of his page from the Book of Remembrance in Ottawa. 

I am also grateful to have his Victory Medal engraved with his regimental number, name and battalion. A tangible reminder of my grandfather, but ironic because he never saw or touched it.

I have thought of my grandfather and the Great War in many contexts, probably most often in terms of loss. His personal loss was of course final and complete, but the ultimate scope was so wide. My grandmother not only her husband but her daughters; my mother, her parents and extended family. There are no stories and memories. My mother never heard his voice. There was, for my brothers and I, a lifetime of silence. 

This Remembrance Day however, my thoughts focused on the concept of  service which is integral to my grandfather's story. Patrick enlisted to serve his Queen and country. He died serving them. I have been wondering if "service" is becoming a lost virtue. Most families are a generation or two removed from family members who may have served our country, so the feeling of duty or giving service to our country is becoming diluted and less important. But even more, I feel like society as a whole is becoming less focused on serving in any context, and more on being served, in the sense of it being not only an expectation but a right. There seems to be a pervasive lack of respect for, and being shown to, those who serve us in large and small ways daily. Should we not be grateful for and to them? Should we not have a spirit of service to those we love or could help, whether in ways significant or less so? I guess too, it occurs to me that not only is this a disturbing trend as a society at large, but it also raises the possibility that the service that my grandfather has given may be diminished because it will not be seen as valuable, and respected. I hope this will never be true.

Thank you for your service Grandfather. I will remember.