Bless You!

There's a large pile of tissues on the side table. Either my cold from last weekend returned or perhaps it's allergies. Henry reaches for the pile and I slap his hand away and grab them myself, explaining, "Gross germs." (He will often kindly collect my dishes and trash when he takes his own to the kitchen, despite my protest.) He smirks, utters an unintelligible phrase in plattdeutsch, then translates: "Snotty nose."

When he quotes low German phrases from his upbringing, he usually interprets, but much of the meaning is lost in translation because the nuance and social references of colloquial terms don't readily transfer. Like trying to explain a joke when someone doesn't get it. It's just not the same.

When hearing a sneeze, we usually say "Gesundheit!" ("health to you"). Henry's mother would too, for the first two sneezes, but if there were a third, she'd respond with "Krankheit!" (meaning: illness, or "you are ill").

When we began dating, Henry would use some of his favorite family phrases, especially when we visited his siblings. I found it quite endearing, as it bespoke a tenderness of memory and history, but it also triggered a familial recollection of my father speaking similar phrases with our Mennonite relatives. We didn't regularly speak plattdeutsch at home as Henry did, but it still "felt like home" when I heard it from Henry.

It is a sweet convergence of past lives where love and laughter encircles and entwines our hearts with our ancestors. It also began knitting our two hearts together, more than I knew, until now. When I can feel a surge of love linked to dirty kleenex, I know I've found the real thing, and it tickles my nose, down to my toes. (Gesundheit!)

What familiar practice brings an endearing memory to your mind?

Tiles of Time

Gratitude is the birthplace of joy. 

~Brené Brown

Ten years ago, while house-hunting on Thanksgiving weekend, I toured the house that would become my home. Two disparate things captivated me: the panoramic mountain view and the unique ceramic tile in the master bedroom with its indigo-and-linen pattern adorning the fireplace.

As I wake today from a rare Sunday afternoon nap, the low sun casts a golden spotlight through the open window onto those eclectic tiles that remind me (then, and every day since) of a warm, joy-filled vacation through Cinque Terre, Italy.

Much has transpired in those ten years: birthdays, holiday celebrations, graduation, empty nest, road trips, reunions, weddings, dear visitors, grief and loss, sleepless nights, tears, prayers. I strive to tuck each one into the cedar chest of life memories. Major events coexist alongside the innocuous beauty of brief moments: a gentle word, lingering sunsets, breathtaking sky, small blooms, tender glances, echoes of song and laughter, surprises, campfires, a first-year raspberry, juicy watermelon and faithfulness. Each one, observed, becomes a good and perfect gift, no matter how tiny, squirrelled away in a precious nook or safe cranny of memory's trove.

Treasures and sadness, light and dark, joy and mourning; these are not opposites, but complementary. I do not despise one for the sake of the opposite. One cannot exist without the other, not until eternity. I seek to embrace both extremes and all the various in-betweens, since we mostly live the greater fraction of our lives in the un-sensational middle-ground of Average.

For all of these gifts, and the mosaic they make of my life, may I be truly grateful. Amen.

There, There

It was not natural to have come from there. Yes, write about it if I like or anything if I like but not there, there is no there there. ~Gertrude Stein

One winter’s night while scanning through old photos, I counted up all the places I’d lived. While I lived in the same home for my first 18 years, I moved eleven times as a university student, living wherever was available during each semester break or summer. I've lived in twelve different places since that time. A total of two dozen homes. My realtor says the average time one spends in any house is 2.5 years. Apparently, I am average.

What follows is a rough draft highlighting most of the places I've lived in Canada and a few snatched memories. Time for today does not allow me to flesh it out as I would like, or as Rainer Maria Rilke said, in Letters to a Young Poet, "...describe all these with loving, quiet, humble sincerity, and use, to express yourself, the things in your environment, the images from your dreams, and the objects of your memory. If your daily life seems poor, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to call forth its riches." I hope to call forth these riches in a future memoir. What follows here is "just the facts, ma'am."

After marriage in 1981, I moved to a small town where my husband lived on the border between Alberta and Saskatchewan.  He had located a "starter apartment" but within a year we moved to a newer, more spacious location. During our second year, a roomy bungalow owned by family friends came up for rent and this is where we will begin.

I invite you to walk down memory lane with me, reliving these places for which there is no longer any there there. While I could not tell you all of these addresses which at one time were part of my intrinsic identity, these places shaped me. While greater shaping was done by the people in those homes and the activities around them than by the walls, I look back on most of these buildings with something akin to fondness. Not everything, but most. This is not the case for everyone, but it is the case for me.

53 Alberta Crescent, Lloydminster, Alberta

The best part of this home was that our friends Pamela and Murray lived right around the corner. Here Brent and I bought our first new car together and adopted our first dog, Munchkin, thanks to the influence of Keith and Diane who had already adopted the sibling, Muffin. Brent's dad planted the large garden in the back yard but, unfortunately, we were hit with severe watering restrictions that summer and about the only thing that survived were the potatoes.

The house had been owned by retirees and more retirees lived on either side, so they kept immaculate lawns, gardens, flowers and kept a close eye on things, if you know what I mean. I loved the tiger lilies in the large back yard and the weeping willow in the front, except in autumn when raking the leaves was an endless task. I cherish the memory of many suppers shared with family and friends, relaxing on the patio, going home for lunch, hosting young couples' Bible study, and enjoying the roomy basement with lots of storage and a cold cellar. I didn't care for the purple walls in the master bedroom, so that was the first change after we purchased the house in a private sale one year later.

We were young and the appeal of consumer goods led us into debt rather quickly. After about three years, the taxes, maintenance costs and high interest rates on our sizeable mortgage and car payments were becoming a heavy burden. We decided to downsize and rent for a while.

Marshall, Saskatchewan 
Six months from spring to fall of 1985. No landlord in Lloydminster wanted pets in their property, so after a long search, we found a 2-story townhouse in a tiny hamlet east of town. The thing I loved about this place was the endless prairie right outside the door. However, the stay was short, because the drive was long and the commute wore thin within a few months. Not to mention the persistent odor in the spare room which helped spur our departure.

5207 51 Street, Lloydminster, Alberta

One-half block away from the Provincial Building, where I worked for Alberta Social Services, this tiny house came available. We could go home for lunch again. Lots of yard for the dog, roomy parking area, small and dated but quaint. We lived here two months before Brent received a promotion and transfer to Calgary. We moved in January 1986.

4319 48 Street NE, Calgary, Alberta

In the '80s, many people walked away from their houses when the values plummeted and mortgages were higher than the value of the property. The provincial government was on the hook because they had ensured the mortgages. So they offered hundreds of these homes for rent, then later for sale at a reasonable amount. We rented for several years, then purchased, and later sold again at a significant profit. It was 1,500 square feet on two floors with a finished family room and storage space in the basement, a "chimney stack" house we called it, but a roomy, smart design. We said goodbye to Munchkin in this house but spent January 1986 to March 1992 here. On one visit, my dad built a shed in the back yard and evened up those front steps - heavy concrete stones which were all wobbly and awry when we moved in. Quite the labor intensive project.

By this time, Brent's parents were tiring of living in their motor home year round, so they used our place as home base during the six months when they were not in Arizona. In spring of 1992 when we were expecting Andrew, it was time to up-size our living space.

115 Rivervalley Drive SE, Calgary, Alberta

Location, location, location. This is what my realtor warned when I asked his opinion on this show home we'd fallen in love with. A new development in Riverbend with estate homes, but this one was a corner lot on a busy street. Again we followed our hearts instead of our heads and purchased the gorgeous property. The snow shovelling and traffic, the noise of nearby construction, as well as finishing the landscaping nearly finished us off, along with the lack of sleep as new parents. After two years, Brent accepted a job in the middle east, so we sold at a loss because the market was down again and took an apartment downtown until he had to report for duty in three months time. 

The Downtown Apartment: O'Neil Towers, 704 - 9 Street SW

It was a temporary arrangement. Top floor, only blocks from Brent's office and a stone's throw from the river pathways. But noisy with sirens, crowded parking, no in-suite laundry and so many people sharing the common spaces.

Odd thing was, once we started telling friends about our imminent overseas move, some warned us to reconsider, since the new job was with a middle eastern government, not a North American company. We re-worked the numbers and did more investigation which led us to see that it was not as financially viable or secure as we had first been led to believe. We also discovered my permanent residency would be compromised by a long overseas assignment and I would have to re-apply if I stayed away longer than six months. This prompted my decision to take on Canadian citizenship. In the meantime, circumstances improved greatly at Brent's current job, so we made the decision not to go overseas. He stayed with his current employer.

Well. There we are, downtown. Not an ideal situation with a young toddler. We celebrated Andrew's second birthday and Christmas 1994 but received the hammer blow of my mother's terminal cancer diagnosis. I had a car collision coming into downtown which totalled the vehicle, then in a bizzare and frightening incident, I was physically assaulted in the elevator by a mentally-challenged man in the elevator. Though I only had minor bruises on my shins, I was done with downtown apartment living. Like a mother bear, I went on a rampage looking for a house and by the end of that month, after only four months, we moved again.

28 Templeby Crescent NE Calgary

Andrew called this place our "brown castle." It was a haven. Four bedrooms, fully developed bi-level with a family room and roomy kitchen, a big yard, a swing set, gardening space and a garage. We were close to our church where I was choir director and Andrew attended playschool. It was mercifully close to several of my dear friends who had children Andrew's age. Based on all that was happening, I was experiencing depression but did not know it at the time. However, my friend Anna taught me to garden, so I enjoyed several summers of glorious flowers, a yard for Andrew to play, a next door neighbor girl who babysat, a sense of true community amongst our neighbors and a reprieve from the crazy busy life of the city centre. I even tackled the heavy lifting of leveling those concrete block steps in front because they were uneven and wobbly. We replaced quite a few floor boards on the deck and repainted. I had another collision (not my fault) which totalled our second vehicle. We bought our first piano here and Andrew had his first croup (or asthma) attack, requiring an ambulance call and treatment by EMT but, thankfully, no hospitalization. In the fall, he enjoyed his first trick-or-treating experience. My mom and dad visited on her 80th birthday before the cancer had really taken hold. I would lose her a year later. It was precious time.

We moved north to Rainbow Lake the summer after she died. I have pictures somewhere but need to close this for today. We spent 4 1/2 years there, got our dog Tickles, then traded her for Bernadette, lived a lot of life, Andrew discovered video games (Legend of Zelda), developed a love for snow, learned to skate and play hockey, Brent became a supervisor, I had my gall bladder removed and depression officially diagnosed, some joy, some real pain, then returned to Calgary in 2001. Since the financial benefits of living in the remote north made it possible to get a larger home than we could have otherwise, we bought a big place in Riverbend only a two minute walk from the river. I thought I'd found the house I would live in until my death, but in 2008, Brent insisted on moving to Douglasdale. The mountain view convinced me. I've been here ever since.

It was close to my job, was near our church and offered better schooling options for Andrew. We became empty nesters here, I started and ended three jobs, buried Brent and Bernadette, took in a boarder, then married Henry. Life is more settled, we have both retired, we have no desire to move. This is home, and here, love resides.

It is a funny thing about addresses where you live. When you live there you know it so well that it is like an identity, a thing that is so much a thing that it could not ever be any other thing and then you live somewhere else and years later, the address that was so much an address that it was like your name and you said it as if it was not an address but something that was living and then years after you do not know what the address was and when you say it is not a name anymore but something you cannot remember. That is what makes your identity not a thing that exists but something you do or do not remember. ~Gertrude Stein

Quote source: Wikipedia

Christmas Traditions: Remembering the Past

2016: Rebecca's first Calgary Christmas, discovering Betty Lou's Library

It's my tradition to look through past memories during the quiet days after Christmas celebrations are over and before New Year's Eve/Day festivities begin. Wandering through my digital photo library today, I pieced together a chronological list of past Christmas locations and activities. Where digital records don't exist, printed photographs may, but this is not the day for locating them. If you celebrated with us and know which year and/or have photos, I'd welcome them! In the meantime, here is a brief not-quite-thorough summary of the last 59 Christmases.

2016, Calgary: Rebecca's first Christmas in Calgary and her first white Christmas
2015, Calgary: first Christmas Eve/Day without Andrew (he came for New Years)
2014, Calgary: first Christmas with Henry and our sons; my first real tree
2013, Hawaii: scuba, snorkel and explore the Big Island with Andrew
2012, Calgary: facing a “new normal” as a widow
2011, Calgary: first Christmas with Brad and family in 17 years
2010, Calgary: actually shop Boxing Day sales
2009, Calgary: celebrate at home, ski Sunshine w/friends, then Mt. Baker w/Andrew and friends
2008, Calgary: celebrate at home, then ski Revelstoke with Andrew and friends
2007, Hawaii: multi-island cruise with family and in-laws, prep for January house move
2006, Calgary: host the in-laws after nephew’s wedding
2005, Calgary: recover from big theatrical production
2004, Calgary: to Valleyview with in-laws right after
2003, Calgary: Hueftle family visit
2002, Calgary: first Christmas after Dad Nickel passed
2001, Calgary: after Thanksgiving in Missouri
2000, Rainbow Lake: prep for January move to Calgary
1997, through 1999, Rainbow Lake: and elsewhere (no digital records)
1996, Rainbow Lake: first Christmas in the north after August move, first Christmas after Mom died.
1995, Calgary: only Christmas at Templeby Crescent after February move
1994, Calgary: in temporary downtown high rise apartment after October move
1993, Calgary: prep for house sale
1992, Calgary: with a brand new baby boy on Rivervalley Drive
1991, Calgary: last Christmas on 48 St NE, prep for move in March
1987, through 1990: Calgary, Nebraska, Missouri: no digital records
1986, Calgary: first Christmas on 48 St NE
1985, Lloydminster: in temporary rental; prep for January move to Calgary
1984, Lloydminster: prep for (temporary) March move to Marshall, SK
1983, Lloydminster: first Christmas on Alberta Crescent
1982, Lloydminster: first Christmas in second apartment
1981, Lloydminster, first Christmas living in Canada in first apartment
1980, Lloydminster: got engaged
1976, through 1979: Springfield or Omaha
1958, through 1975: traveling/singing with family
1957, Springfield: my first Christmas, four days old

Future Memory

Facebook often reminds us of memories, sometimes sweet, sometimes nostalgic, sometimes sad. It keeps us looking back.

But what if it could show us future memories?

No eye has seen, no ear has heard and no mind has imagined what God has prepared for those who love him. (1 Cor. 2:9)

When I hike, I like to occasionally stop and look at the view behind me, from where I've come. It's often a breathtaking perspective.

But I can't move forward that way.

God has told us he will walk with us and be our shepherd, guard and guide. He will never leave. He walks with us into the future because he's already been there. He has told us what is good. How do we lean into that?

And what does the LORD require of you? Do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with your God. (Micah 6:8)

 Now let's go make some future memories that will take our breath away.

Photo: front range of Rocky Mountains, looking west from Calgary near Hwy. 8, personal collection.

The Nose Knows

Walking out of church Saturday night, an acquaintance tossed a bag at us with something soft inside. Turns out it was a half dozen gooey caramel-cinnamon buns. This gentleman gives them away from time to time, sometimes to friends, sometimes to strangers, as a random act of kindness. Bless him! It sure put a smile on our faces! This is only the second time I've risked digestive disturbance by eating cinnamon rolls - something which contains wheat. Since I’m only “wheat sensitive” and not severely allergic or celiac, the reward is worth the risk.

“Why even risk it?” you may ask. Well, let me explain. It has to do with my nose.

Nothing makes me recall sweet memories of my dear departed mother more quickly and with greater fondness than the smell of fresh baked cinnamon buns. They were her specialty, be it sticky caramel upside down rolls or soft, plump regular cinnamon-raisin rolls with caramel cream frosting. Really, a risk worth taking.

Scientists and psychologists have discovered that of the five senses, memories are most closely linked to smell. In this Psychology Today article, the author cites behavioral studies showing how some smells can trigger vivid emotional memories and induce the feeling of being brought back in time.

The smell of cinnamon rolls catapults me into my childhood in Mom’s kitchen where she’d roll out the dough on the wooden butcher-block top of the portable dishwasher. She’d be bustling about, flour on her nose, her apron. Only occasionally would she let me help with any of the tasks: prep the oven, melt and spread the butter, scatter a good amount of soft brown sugar, evenly toss on handfuls of well-soaked/rinsed/drained raisins, sprinkle a generous (“But not too much!”) portion of ground cinnamon over the whole, carefully roll it up and pinch the edges together snugly, then evenly slice the individual rolls with a sharp knife and place them in orderly rows and columns, barely touching, on a baking sheet.

To this day, the scent of cinnamon buns, or cinnamon in anything, will send me down that path and I remember my mom with fondness. “Unfortunately,” author Jordan Lewis says, “smells can also be potent triggers of negative emotions, particularly in individuals with posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD).”

If you find yourself “triggered” with an emotion, good or bad, stop to think about what your nose is taking in at that particular point in time. While my experience with cinnamon is sweet, someone else might have the opposite response. While parmesan cheese makes some people drool with anticipation, my husband thinks it smells like a baby bib soiled with burp up. Another example Lewis gives is about the smell of diesel. It was a trigger for one soldier’s buried memory of a trauma.

In addition to being the sense most closely linked to memory, smell is also highly emotive.  The perfume industry is built around this connection, with perfumers developing fragrances that seek to convey a vast array of emotions and feelings; from desire to power, vitality to relaxation. It is also important in your attraction to another person, sometimes leading you to choose your spouse.

While smell brings positive benefits, its absence can have the opposite effect. Fifth Sense, a charity for people affected by smell and taste disorders, addresses the psychological impact of smell loss. “Truly,” they say, “you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.” Losing one’s sense of smell can result in the loss of an important sentimental pathway to memories, a connection to the world around you, causing feelings of isolation and experiencing a ‘blunting’ of the emotions. “The loss of smell can affect one’s ability to form and maintain close personal relationships and can lead to depression.”

Other of our five senses can also trigger good and bad memories, but the one that most directly links to our memory center is the sense of smell. So, “be careful little nose, what you smell!” If a smell triggers a negative emotion – which is out of proportion to the present day incident – it may be triggering a suppressed memory of a trauma. Don’t hesitate to seek professional help, if needed, to make “sense” of it all.

What smells evoke memories for you?

A Walk Down Memory Lane

Tomorrow, the first Sunday of Advent, will be one year from the last time my husband and I were out with friends. Arnie was the last person from our social circle that Brent had a serious conversation with and laughed with. Five days later Brent was gone.

Tomorrow, I will be with these dear friends again - Arnie and Cheryl, Cindy, Ruth and Larry and their extended family, enjoying a lovely Christmas brunch at Heritage Park, just like one year ago. We all spent time this morning celebrating Arnie's birthday and then I took a drive to remember Brent.

Brent loved the Calgary Zoo. For Christmas one year, I purchased an annual pass for the family and he said it was the best gift he ever received. He went so often, even our son declined to go with him after a while. The zoo has just fully reopened after $50 million damage and devastation by Calgary's historic June flood. It was too late for me to go into the grounds, so I walked along the river south of St. George's Island as the sun was entering its golden hour, shining against the skylights on Destination Africa where the intelligent Western Lowland Gorillas live. Before they moved to this beautiful enclosure, Brent had a close encounter with the troop in their previous digs. He loved to stare down the patriarch of the pack, even thumping on the glass to get his attention (a behaviour that is now banned by the keepers). Brent got his attention, all right. The large male stood up and took a run at the glass, hitting it with his shoulder like a football linebacker with a loud crash that reverberated through the building. I could just picture him breaking through the glass and ... well, I try not to think about that.

I look left and see the sun glinting off the glass enclosed Conservatory that houses the botanical and butterfly gardens, a place we spent many happy moments watching the beautiful creatures flitter and thrill. No risk of attack here, although I did see one quiet man sitting so still, there were 3-4 butterflies who comfortably settled on his hat. He just beamed. Brent said he could never sit still long enough for that.

As I watched the sun slide down and the shadows rise up, I turned my eyes to the river and the broken ice floating like sheets of styrofoam in the eddies along the shore. The river runs fast here, making rapids due to submerged rocks. Ducks and Canada Geese dot the water and sky. The snow is slushy and I skip a few rocks across the calm section. Brent could make them skip 7-8 times.

He would have been so moved by the June flood, exploring the river and how its course has changed, commenting on the devastation and the altered channels and how many people were displaced, reading every news story and absorbing the documentaries of repairs and rebuild to Stampede, the Saddledome, downtown and the many residences. He may have even been on call with the emergency team for his company.

As it begins to cool down, I think about one Christmas break when we toured the zoo with our dear friends, Vern and Janet and their family, bundled up against the cold, being swarmed by ducks as we buy seed to scatter for them. Knowing how curious Brent would have been to see the damage and repairs inside the zoo, I'll have to go visit soon, in his honour, and I think it will be easy to imagine him walking ahead of me as he often did - anxious to get to the next enclosure - always a faster walker than I ("Can't you walk a little faster?"), talking constantly about this change and that, and which animal is next and why aren't more of them in their enclosures where we can see them? His excitement extended to every city we visited in our travels. If there was a zoo, it was on our agenda to see it while we were there.

I return to the car and take St. George's drive around the zoo island and, of course, must drive the short distance north to Peter's Drive In. How many times did we go for burgers and milkshakes at this famous joint? Even when I didn't care for the food, the drive and his delight at the taste of the popular drive through food was enough to make the trip worth taking. It was an event in itself some days and we frequently combined the zoo and Peter's when we entertained out of town visitors.

I ordered a plain burger and a double marshmallow shake. Brent would order grape! I head east on Highway 1 to the new ring road, Stoney Trail, knowing if Brent were here, he would insist we have to drive the newly opened section and I would gladly go along for the ride. We did love our road trips, exploring the city and the mountains. In fact, he would have taken this drive the first day it opened. He was so looking forward to having this road completed and would again have been delighted. It reminds me of when we lived in Riverbend and the city finally built an overpass at the intersection of 18th Street and Glenmore Trail. For the entire time it was being built and for almost a year afterward, he would exclaim frequently, "This is just the best thing they could have ever done, building this overpass. Have I told you how much I love that they built this?!" Of course he had (how many times?!) and it became a regular joke between us.

He loved any improvements to the city roadways that removed barriers and stop lights. He hated stopping at stop signs and red lights. He was always about getting where he was going as fast as he possibly could. I asked him once, as he expressed disgust at having to stop at a red light, "Do you expect you should be able to go through life without ever having a red light?" He paused, and then with a twinkle in his eye and a laugh, said, "Yes!'

He would have been delighted to know the lights were all green for me as I finished my maiden voyage around the SE leg of the ring road and exited for home. A sweet road trip, remembering what delighted him.

But lest you think it was always happy, I must say that some of his delight and joking was tempered by my response. If you're married, or hope to be, can I share one thing I've learned that might help you avoid making the same mistake I did? It's really easy, after 31 years with the same person, to lose interest in the things that delight your spouse because they aren't really your "cup of tea". I have been witness to wives who actually mock their husbands for some of their hobbies simply because they don't share the same interests. And vice versa.

As I have been reflecting today, I realize the times that Brent was happiest were the times he was out and about, seeing the animals in the zoo, exploring new roads and places in our city. He had an adventurer's heart, and though his interests and mine were often very different, it took so little for me to encourage him by going along. This is a gift we can give our spouses: our willing presence and participation with them in what feeds their soul and delights them. I didn't always go with Brent but I readily encouraged him to take visitors. Nothing delighted him more than to do that except when I would join him - he always thanked me for coming and would say, "Now wasn't that worth it?" It always was.

Oh, how I wish now I had gone every time he asked!

On the July long weekend in 2012, we went camping. This is my favourite thing to do. Brent? Not so much. He preferred the comforts of home and would have owned a full sized motor home if he'd had his druthers. But I was fine with the little 17' trailer we had, small and cosy. We met up with friends, although we were in different campgrounds. The weather was drizzly and overcast.

Brent loved looking for grizzly bears in their known hangout spots, but the rain really put a damper on things, including our hiking, "bear hunting" and beloved campfire time. At the end of the weekend, he said, "I really wasn't enjoying myself and the weather made things miserable. I just wanted to pack up and go home. But when I see how being in the mountains feeds your soul, I decided to stay, because I wanted you to have that experience." I was deeply touched. That is loving sacrifice, setting aside his own preferences so that I could enjoy my happy place.

Another happy place for Brent was at the Flames game. He taught me to love hockey. He loved having season tickets and his bucket list included "Seeing an NHL game in every arena in the league." He visited 17 out of 30. Four of them were on our last vacation. I even gave up going to see a Broadway show so we could all go to game 7 of round 2 of the playoffs for the New York Rangers in Madison Square Gardens. This is a big deal and it was the experience of a lifetime. I'm glad I didn't insist on my own way that day. It was the last hockey game we saw together.

How did stress and depression crowd out all that fun? These are the dark memories where I dare not dwell.

Encourage the things that make your spouse smile. It costs you nothing to be generous. Set aside your agenda for just a short time to engage with theirs. Not that you have to spend every waking moment together, or always do the same things. Their hobbies don't have to be yours, but the one-flesh union is strengthened by supporting each other's interests. Of course, there is a balance to strike, and each of us must attune ourselves to how much time we indulge ourselves vs. how much time with share with others. It is a loving thing we do when we take an interest in what fascinates them and in the process, our lives are expanded. You expect your spouse to take an interest in what interests you, don't you? The paint colour or the current day's challenge of your career, or what cute/frustrating thing the children did or the success you've had in your workout or diet or the latest, greatest shopping bargain you found or artistic/craft item you've completed?

Or in my case, it was sharing with Brent the memorable experience of seeing grizzly bear #64 with her twins one year and her triplets the next. Or the eight moose, the two grizzlies and the black bear we saw with my nephew Tommy and Amy. Or wolf in our yard in Rainbow Lake. Or the anniversary night at Mt. Engadine Lodge where the moose came to graze in the meadow at twilight. Or the walk through the zoo when we laughed over the heads of the three young Gowing girls we were babysitting for the weekend as they asked curious questions about the elephants mating. So many memories, so many stories to tell and re-tell and so many laughs we shared.

I will cherish every memory of Brent at the zoo and on the road. The ones where we laughed the most are the ones where I was a willing, supportive participant in helping him find his happy place. I think I can maybe hear him chortling now, as he recalls these memories from heaven and discusses God's design choices on all those big animals at the Calgary Zoo.

A Quiet Morning Memory

It’s a peaceful morning. The grown up girl snuggles down into the soft comfort of goose down and memory foam for a few more minutes. Rises to fly through the morning prep routine. It’s a crazy morning. Horns honking, tempers flare. The guy drives his mustang as if he’s in a rally race. On the urban freeway. In rush hour. The grown up girl smiles, remembers slower days.


Smudged pink shorts, pudgy fingers and freckled nose hunch down to turn the roly-poly into a ball with a touch. It rolls easily around her cupped hand until she gently lets it down into the gravel and waits to make sure it uncoils and crawls before she moves on.

She leans over the railing across the urban ravine. Latté waves dance and foam as the creek swirls its way westward. How does the water run down that way when the road beside it runs up? Why is there a forest where the creek bows to enter the shadows?

“Could I float on my wooden boat, let go the string from the road shore, hang onto the nail mast and float safely round the corner into that place where no houses are?”

She’s pulled by the faint buzz of the drifting yellow jacket. Follows it to the corner beside the wooded lot. Four trees stand guard, tall creaking shadows cover the unexposed. Overgrown remnants of an abandoned shack lay piled at the back like dirty clothes. A deer slow grazes the thick grass. Darts away as she steps into the dappled shadow. Nothing else moves but the breeze.

The school bell buzzes. She’s late again.

Forty-five years later, the grown up girl is on time to work. She didn’t eat breakfast but she did roll the dog over for a tummy rub, water her flowers and photograph the interplay of light between the granite and the heavens. It’s a peaceful morning.

Glazed Eyes and Glazed Donuts

When I walk into any Krispy Kreme, taste the free sample and see their donut-making system, I am eight years old again. They make their donuts exactly like the donut factory in my home town.

It is 1965. We go to church whenever the doors open. Sunday morning. Sunday evening. Wednesday night prayer meeting. Sunday lunch is pot roast so tender it falls apart under my fork. It is always my favorite meal. We ride borrowed bikes to the creek and float boats, wade up to our knees and look for crawdads. We chase fireflies after dark and capture them in glass quart jars.

Wednesday night we always take the same way home from church, down College Street on Route 66, past Dairy Queen. It is 1965, well before DQ Brazier was introduced in our town. All this DQ sells is ice cream and Mister Misty. We don’t stop every week. It is a special treat and it is still a mystery to me what makes one week a drive by and another week a stop for a Dilly Bar, ice cream sandwich or chocolate dipped cone.

But some nights. Ah, that special, magical night when we stop next door at the donut factory. My father and one or two of the older boys go inside. The front retail room is no larger than 12x12 feet, with a rounded glass front display case containing donuts. The fresh baked smell of sweetness is mesmerizing. Dad orders a dozen glazed.

I stay outside. There may have been others beside me. Steve or Paul, my closest brothers in age, perhaps Momma is nearby but I don’t notice. I am alone in my wonder at this amazing factory as if Willy Wonka himself is giving me a tour. I press my nose against the glass and blinder my eyes with my hands from the glare of the streetlight.

Looking back through the large, high-ceilinged room, I spy an odd machine in the middle of the concrete floor. It has strange dough hooks and a large stainless steel bowl big enough to bathe in. It looks very much like a giant KitchenAid mixer. Sometimes I see a baker in white pants, shirt, black belt and paper hat add ingredients and start those strange hooks moving. Sometimes the batch is ready and he lifts the hooks out of the vat and moves the dough to a stainless steel funnel-like dispenser that squeezes perfect dough circles onto trays in orderly rows of 4 or 5. They rise, and when ready, the trays are transferred to a conveyor belt and the magic begins.

The conveyor moves slowly along the west wall and the dough circles slide down a short ramp into their first bath of hot oil. The forward motion keeps them moving slowly like swimmers in an Iron Man, liquid bubbling all around. After about three feet or 10 seconds, slender rotating prongs lift the donuts, gently flipping them 180 degrees onto their backside into the next bath of oil, revealing a perfectly tanned belly.

They bump and bob slightly and keep on moving. After another 10 second float trip, more rotating prongs lift the uniformly browned batch up and over onto a mesh conveyor belt which turns continuously like tracks on a tank. The entire belt makes a 90 degree turn to the east right in front of the window and my salivating mouth, as it heads for the jackpot: a waterfall of glaze.

I stand directly in line with the glaze dispenser, dream of lying my body down on the conveyor belt, face up, mouth open, going under that curtain of sticky sweetness head first to drink my fill. I shake my head and watch spellbound as each donut emerges, perfectly coated, glistening with glaze.

The conveyor curves sharply south now, away from my front window vantage point to begin a climb up, up, up a long ramp. As the warm, plump donuts rise slowly to the heavens, a large-blade fan spins quickly overhead, drying the glaze to a crackled translucent layer. It's like they are finishing a ride at Disneyland. Perhaps they are smiling. I know I am. Sometimes, if we are very fortunate with our timing, the clerk will go into the factory and fill the Dad’s order directly off the rising ramp with the warm, fresh donuts.

Today the Springfield Donut Factory is long gone from College Street. Only my memories and DQ managed to survive. The building is still there but the plate glass windows are bricked up and Farr’s Westside Automotive has moved in. Still, at the first bite of a glazed donut, I am eight years old on a Wednesday night after prayer meeting, face pressed against the glass, eyes glazed with delight, giving warm, mouth-watering, sticky-sweet thanks.

She Loves

I've never seen her in bed like this. Not in illness. Only in sleep.

This is not my mother! Grief intrudes, denies reality. This is an old woman. I recognize her from the nursing home. Every room there, the beds contain this woman. But this is Momma’s bed, in her own home, and there she lies.

For the first time ever. Old.

Ah, but then she opens those watery blue eyes and her flicker of joyful recognition mirrors mine. The agape of my life. My first sense, in utero, of “unconditional.” The lifelong living declaration of devotion.

Before her time, cancer etches the abyss of pain across her furrowed brow. She fights well. She strains for the finish. She keeps faith.

Gaunt, jaundiced; the distended torso--a juxtaposition of the womb’s purpose to nurture and release--now gathers and retains toxic fluid.

Hospice women do God’s work: come and go, quiet, reverent, bathe, assess, support. I watch in a blur and learn, lend my heart.

It is only right that the only daughter sit here hand in hand with Momma during her dying days. I treasure each of the slow motion moments; wheel together down the sidewalk, swing on the porch, share a favorite frozen yogurt after an unpalatable supper. She’s weary, she endures for me but prays to go back and rest. We lay side by side, discuss disappointments and delights. I chisel her dignity into my memory, then while she sleeps I scavenge bookshops for self-help books on surviving the death of love.

Her decline is more rapid than the time it formerly took her to fill a table with refreshments for unexpected visitors. Her last mothering words, as she rests in the recliner, raises her hands toward heaven: “Just give it all to Jesus.”

We said goodbye on Mother’s Day, May 12, 1996. Rest in the Father’s arms, dear one.