The Cousins Project Continued

Deb: Some highlights from my summer project which I am enthralled with: The Cousin's Project.

Deb and Cousin Linda, farmer's fence, Bel Air beach circa 56

Wee Deb Walking

Mom and Deb, Quebec City, 1955

Deb, Linda, Pam and Scott, circa 1959

Mom, Dad and a gang of friends, 40's

Highchair Deb circa 1955

Dad and Deb in Quebec City circa 1955

Mom and her best friend Ruth, late forties. Mom on right with dark tan!

Wee Deb in the bouncy chair-circa 1954

Dad and I in Newfoundland in the 50's

Dad, Canadian Army reserves

The Cousins Project

Deb: Nostalgia has been burning bright in my heart these last weeks and so I decided to start something called The Cousins Project where I go through all of my Mum and Dad’s photo albums, scan old photos, and share them on Facebook. We are a very large family on both sides and I wanted to reach out to as many family and friends as I could. It is a very therapeutic project.

Me, Granny, Grampa, Mike Munro Pro Golfer and Linda.

I cannot tell you what joy I have found in it. I’ve placed the scanner on the table where Colin and I work and have vowed to leave it there until the project is done. Some days I scan forty pictures, some days one. I am putting no pressure on myself and I am putting them out there as the albums present themselves to me in random fashion. The idea came to me because whenever I am at Mum and Dad’s looking for a particular photo, they pour through the albums I have pulled down from the shelves as if seeing them for the first time. Most of the time the albums are up on shelves collecting dust.  So I had the idea to make them each a single manageable album featuring the greatest hits of their lives! That way they can keep the album on hand and pour over it every single day if they wish. It will feature the best of their lives, young and old, right up to present day. It will be filled with everything from old friends to grown grandchildren. And I know it will fill them with loving thoughts, every time they crack open the cover. I will slightly custom it for each of them to include their individual and shared favourite moments and friends.

Pammy's birthday with Pam with her lovely toothy smile, baby Jennifer, Linda, and a little girl I recognize so much but cannot place with a name. Anyone????

When I started pouring through the photos with their dated, labeled, white-serrated edges, I found myself enthralled with the images of loved ones that we have lost and the long ago shots of babies who now have children and grandchildren of their own. I knew I had to share them. The pictures themselves are not always the best quality and some of them are literally fading away, loaded into my computer just in time to save part of the faint image. Some are out of focus and have heads cut off, which has long been a particular talent of my Dad’s. But wow, the emotions they evoked.

Auntie Isabel dancing with Dad. I know it doesn't look like it, but they really liked each other! :-)
Dad's black eye courtesy of my giant baby noggin konking him in eye. 

I knew that others in the family would love to see these treasures and that’s when The Cousins Project was born. I put the photos on Facebook as I could think of no other way to reach all the cousins in a broad and timely manner. The only drawback I could see was that all my FB friends who are not in my family would have to endure the stream of pictures all summer long. But I was so happy to see that many of my FB friends seem to enjoy this glimpse into the past, even though it is not their past. Myself, I love to see old shots on people’s profiles and as it turns out, I am not the only one who loves this. So that happy fact has made me feel less guilty about bombarding FB with my past!  And the very best part is that the cousins are loving it. We are all walking down memory lane together, hand in virtual hand, seeing ourselves as babies, growing up together as friends united by family ties.

Uncle Don doting on newborn Mark. Lovely shot. 

So far I have only reached out to half of my family—the Munro clan. I have no one from the McGrath clan on Facebook, but I have reached out to cousins on that side and I am about to launch Cousins Phase Two.

There have been so many special moments in this project so far. Because the photos have been trapped in albums, I have never in my life seen the backs of them. These special little treasures have included wonderful notes on the backs of many of the photos, written from mother to mother, sister to sister, friend to friend. At the end of the project I will mail hard copies of any special shots to the cousins who want them.

I found that I really needed a project of the heart right now in my life. Something wonderful and out of the ordinary. I worried that it might be a melancholy venture, but as it turned out it was anything but. Scanning all the faces of those we lost too soon and those we lost in old age was not sad at all. The sadness has given way to a warm wash of memories. Sweet sweet memories that are growing and building with every photo remembered. And as each cousin adds a comment and a memory to the project, I am reminded of our oh so many shared experiences. And although we don’t see each other often, The Cousins Project is bringing us together in the present, as we remember fondly our past.

And beautiful baby Deb!!!
(adjective and exclamation marks courtesy of Barbara :) )

Barbara: As one of your friends who is also a FB friend, I can add my voice to the chorus of approval for having this access to your sweet old photos! I just LOVE seeing these. I can’t say why, given that they aren’t my family, but I just gravitate to these images, wanting to delve into that moment in a photo and then that one in another, maybe seeing a little deeper into your life by glimpsing your past.

I love old photos, but haven’t found this kind of commitment myself. Photos are still kind of willy-nilly throughout here. But this makes me really want to scan to keep them. And also to get my hands on old photos from my parents to add to my collection. I think it is a lovely idea for our kids and their kids too!

Mother's Day!

Deb: The red velvet cake and the Mums on my Mother's Day. My Mum and me, My sister in law and our niece and nephew, me and boy. A day to celebrate.  Send us your Mother's Day photos or sentiments. We would love to see/hear them! 

Family Celebration Reimagined

Barbara: When I was growing up, the big event celebrations—Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, birthdays—were all lovely, relatively low-key gatherings. We usually celebrated just the five of us (my parents and two younger sisters), with very rare visits from my grandparents or aunts, uncles, and cousins (who lived across the country). As that’s all I knew, that was fine by me: holidays were intimate affairs where food was a wonderful main feature. As my mom is an excellent cook, this tradition nurtured my own love of a delicious meal on a holiday.

I also remember with vivid detail the elaborate machinations when I was a child of the Easter Bunny or Santa Claus. Like one Easter morning when every person in my family was gathered in our den—and all of a sudden the crystalline tinkle of a bell rang out from the far-off living room! I scanned the den in disbelief and counted my mother and father and sisters. All were there and so not possibly responsible for the ringing bell—yes, at 8, I still totally believed, but part of me must have thought that an adult hand was involved in the holiday magic, otherwise why was I so earnestly scanning the room? But, with all persons accounted for, the ringing bell MUST have been the Easter Bunny! As an adult, and still amazed at this magical feat, I had to ask my father how this happened. Turns out he’d rigged a wire from one room to the other, hid it behind his back and tugged on it, ringing it to signal the arrival of the Bunny Himself. My dad knew I’d be on the lookout, so no convolution was too elaborate for him. How do I love this man. (PS, yes, a little part of my adult self was secretly disappointed when there was a logical explanation for this magical ringing *shrug*)

When Phil and I got married and started our own family, holidays meant holiday pilgrimages—either we would schlep the hundreds of kilometers to be with one parent or another, or they would schlep to us. Suddenly the little 5-person holiday tete-a-tete expanded to include an increasing amount of beloveds: our siblings married and had their own families and our parents remarried and brought their new mates into the fold. One unforgettable Christmas featured 3 sets of parents, including 2 exes, 3 siblings and their spouses, and our babies. It was crowded but wonderful!

Every year since then, we’ve tried, at the very least, to share the holidays with at least one other family, either one of our parents and their second spouses, or a sister or brother and their families. Holiday dinners are lively and noisy and packed.

And then there’s this year. This year, our younger daughter couldn’t get home for Easter (various extenuating circumstances). It’s one thing to not be able to celebrate a feast day with extended family, but to not have our own child at home? I mean, we all agreed to the situation going in. We understood it was all good and right and for the best (in fact, as a result of staying in Montreal, she was able to celebrate a rare Passover with my mom and her husband—a lucky result of the timing matching up for both celebrations). And the rest of the extended family had other Easter commitments. Thankfully, one sister and her husband and my niece and nephew were able to come over for Saturday dinner, and so we held an early and honourary Easter dinner, with several delicious courses of food and quite a bit of revelry (including a ribald game of Pictionary over dessert where certain adults—okay, Phil and I—had to keep reminding themselves—okay, ourselves—that the niece and nephew are still, you know, children!!)

Easter brunch. I'm on the phone with Michele!  

And then there were three. Easter Sunday was quiet: just Phil, Stefanie, and me. We ate a late brunch and did some chores and then ate a lovely dinner and watched some movies. Yes, it was quiet; yes, I missed my baby; yes, it was changed. For the first time, no noisy table, no elaborate Easter egg hunt, no complicated menu. But it was intimate and sweet. It was also incredibly easy. I think maybe because we accepted our new and changing situation, we made sure to make it, in its own unique way, special.

Deb: I think we are adaptable. Humans are adaptable. Barbara, your memories of family gatherings past are wonderful. We come to expect a certain vibe, don’t we? A certain number of people, a certain succession of events. We count on this to make our holidays the way we have remembered them. We need these things to remain the same. And then we have a surprising delight like you had yesterday and we realize that it can be delightful. We have adapted and found the joy in the new configuration. This is a lesson I have learned in spades over these last few years. The things that were norm are now the new norm. The things I did not think could ever change or would ever change ... have changed. And it is special. Each time it changes. Special and new. 

How We Celebrated International Women’s Day

Deb and Laurel

Barbara: Because we love and honour you women so much, of course we had to acknowledge this most important day: International Women’s Day. Yesterday morning, Deb was invited to speak at a breakfast hosted by Ontario MPP, Laurel Broten (a smashingly lovely, articulate, and sincere politician). I accompanied Deb—to my great delight. Because Deb is a damn good speaker. As you can imagine, she is charming and funny and insightful and compassionate.

She used this chance to speak from the heart about what being a woman means to her. She asked me if her speech was too long to publish to the blog—and I answered, as we often do, that people can read as much or as little as they choose. But I can’t imagine anyone choosing to skim it (although you can skim the (unexpected) parts about me ;) ); Deb’s speech is fantastic. Of course I am always aware of how amazing Deb is, but she still manages to surprise me and take it to a whole other level. She makes me so so proud. So here is Deb’s Women’s Day speech in all its unadulterated glory!

Deb: In honour of International Woman’s Day, I want to talk about the joy of the female presence in my life. I say “female presence” not only because of the women in my life, but because I am blessed to have in my family two men who are very much in touch with their feminine side. I am married to actor Colin Mochrie and we have one beautiful 21-year-old boy, Luke. Colin, for his part, cries like a girl during So You Think You Can Dance. It is sweet—and yes, I got his permission to share that. 

When we had a boy, we thought, “Okay, here we go, hockey, baseball, soccer. But the boy had other plans. Ballet, jazz, musicals, modern art. When he was around ten, he decided to add a game to family game nights. He called it: Luke Goes on a Date. I would play his “date” and my husband would be relegated to play bus driver, chauffeur, waiter, cab driver, and that ilk.  He had to reconcile himself to being a “special business extra” in our son’s dating life. So we would play the game and Luke would take his part very seriously, as would I (Oedipal implications aside).

At the end of playing our very first time, our son broke down in tears. We were shocked, especially Colin who felt that he had particularly excelled at the role of the valet guy. We asked the boy what was wrong. God bless him, through tears he said, “It’s just that, some day, some day it’s going to be real!”

One day when playing the date game, he stopped in his tracks as we fake-walked into a restaurant, “Mom what do I do about the door. Should I open the door for my date? Will she like it; will she be upset?” And I said, “Luke, here are the three stages of opening the door in a woman’s life. In her teens she will think it is sweet and romantic because she is all squishy about the prospect of love and romance. In her college years she will reel on you. ‘Why the hell are you opening the door for me for? Am I helpless, am I an idiot? Do I not know how the damn handle works?!’ In her middle years, she will be comfortable with her equal role to men and be grateful for the thoughtful gesture, secure in the fact that masculine and feminine have nothing to do with equality.” He soaked it all up like a sponge and, although he is only going on 22, he has had a great relationship with a beautiful young woman for three lovely years. I’d like to think I had something to do with that. Me and his cab-driving dad.

I am a lucky woman, my friends tell me, as my husband does all the cooking, grocery shopping, and laundry. I know what you’re thinking: What the hell do you do? I think my son said it best when asked to describe what his parents did for an essay at the age of 6. After listing Colin’s jobs for two long pages, he finished with: “Mommy lights the candles and pours the wine.” He was exaggerating a little, of course. I now use battery candles that are on timers, leaving me extra time to allow the wine to breath.

But in my defense, my husband LOVES to cook. It is his hobby and his joy. And he does the shopping because he does the cooking. He does it alone because he says, and I quote, “You just slow me down.” And he does laundry because—given the vastness of my wardrobe—I need only do laundry twice a year, during summer and winter solstice. My husband on the other hand has enough socks and underwear to last exactly two weeks. That is the way he likes it—and who am I to argue if a few of my items get cleaned in the mix. I am just that kind of collaborating partner.

And believe me, I do plenty. Believe you me. I know it sounds like I doth protest too much and I admit that my list would sound lame if I spouted it off, but I do what every other woman I know does, I keep our family afloat; I keep all the cogs greased and turning; I keep all the balls in the air. Okay I know that sounds like I am generalizing because I have no real list, but it’s not. All I know is, I never sit down. You are going to have to trust me on that.

So, branching out from the TESTROGEN in my house (just invented that word), I am surrounded by a wealth of wonderful women. I have tons of dear friends, some that I have had from the age of five whose relationships I still cultivate. But I have also come to friendships later in life that surprised the heck out of me. One such relationship is my guest here today. My wonderful and charming friend and writing partner, Barbara Radecki. We have collaborated on TV scripts, movies, and the project closest to our hearts: our blog, The Middle Ages. When I met Barbara in 2001 doing a film together I was instantly struck by her charm, gentle manner, energy and haunting beauty. But I had no interest in pursuing a friendship with her—and not because she was a shade taller than me (6 inches) and a tad prettier (waayyyy prettier). You know how it is when the friend roster is packed to capacity and you barely have enough time for the friends you currently have? Well, that was the case here. 

Barbara and I had started shooting a film called Expecting on the unfortunate start date of 9/11 and the day after, Barb went to her local mall to get some school stuff for her girls. The short story is that as she sat in the parking lot chatting with her husband on the phone who was in Windsor on business and she suddenly found herself the target of an attempted carjacking. Suddenly she was kicking and screaming as she fought off her aggressor, a man wearing a scarf around his face demanding the car. She kicked his ass from here to there. The next day I asked her how she did it? Wasn’t she scared? How could she kick and scream and win? She simply said, “After 9/11, I was not going to be a victim.” And I thought, “DAMN, gotta make room for this one in my life. Gotta. That girl is the whole package and I need this special gal in my life!”

I think woman are stupendous creatures and not just the stuff of the online poems and platitudes that I get in my inbox every day. Now, make no mistake, I am not casting aspersions at the Irma Bombeckian bombardment. On the contrary, I love Irma. She was one of the great broads. But I will warn you. If you send me one of these, I tell you in advance that I will not be forwarding them to 5 fabulous women I know and sitting by the computer to see if I get five back. Apparently getting five back in the yard stick by which my worth as a fabulous woman is measured. My reasons are this: I am secure enough at this stage of my life to know that I am fabulous and insecure enough to sit waiting all day, staring at my inbox, obsessing over how many I am getting back or not.

Because of our blog, The Middle Ages, I am now lucky enough to also be warmly surrounded by women from all over world. These women come in the form of teenagers and grandmothers, and everything in between, with every point of view imaginable. My world of woman is branching out thanks to our blog. Oh, and if you are thinking of joining the party, keep in mind that typing “blogspot” is imperative after “The Middle Ages”, unless of course you are interested in medieval forms of torture and tales of scurvy and the plague.

Because of all my women, young and old, far and wide, family and friend, with their voices secure in my heart and in my everyday life, I really don’t need the little daily reminders of what women are. I know what women are, as I have seen the stuff of which they are made every day throughout my life.

The women in my life are the people who drop off coolers of food to my 85-year-old parents to lessen their load. They arrive at my doorstep when they know I need a face-to-face and can’t ask. They sit at deathbeds ushering a fellow human out of this life when others can’t take it. They plant gardens and send flowers. They keep the family traditions going year after year. They emphasize the beauty in this world when it is threatened by the bad. They keep their relationship conversations going in good times and bad and refuse to be silent and let issues slide. They stand up for other women. They do not paint all men with a single brush. They judge each human as a human first. And yes platitudes abound as we laugh till we pee while we eat chocolate and watch An Affair to Remember. Thank God there are plenty of those good times. But when times are bad, these women are the people I turn around and see in front of me. They are the one’s asking, “What can I do?”

Mother In Law

Deb: Very few monikers have conjured up more derogatory jokes. The mere mention of mother-in-law has, through the ages, struck fear into the hearts of both men and women. Not me. I love my Mother-in-Law. Have since day one. I loved my Father-in-Law from the get-go as well. Very sadly we lost him a few years back and we all still miss him so much. My mother and father in law were such a beautiful team, very much in love and very much in sync. It breaks my heart to see her on her own, but she is a strong woman surrounded by great friends and family.

I was just in Vancouver where she lives for the CBC and decided to go out a day early to spend time with her. We had dinner together with my sister-in-law and then I invited Mum to join us for the festivities the next day at the CBC 75th Anniversary/Culture Days. It was a chilly day, but down she came to stand outside and be a part of the event. She says she was there for me, but it turns out that she was really there to see Johnny Reid who was opening the day's events. He was charming and fantastic. She loves him. Partly because he’s talented and partly because he’s Glaswegian.

Sheila McCarthy from Little Mosque on the Prairie, Ron James from The Ron James Show,
and Deb's lovely Mum-in-law

My wrangler had her stand in a strategic spot to be sure not to miss him. He came by and said hello, and she told him she was from Glasgow too. Her reward was a wee chat and a kiss. As a result, I do not have to give her a birthday gift for the rest of her life!

It was so nice, having her there. She just fit in seamlessly. Some people would feel awkward from both ends of the spectrum, but I loved it and so did she. She is charming and easy with people and it was fun for her to get a peek inside this wild world of live TV. Everyone was so kind and friendly to her. Her only disappointment was not meeting George Stroumboulopoulos. I promised her, but every time he was free I was busy. So maybe I do owe her more gifts after all.

A friend recently told me that she finds it so funny that I call my in-laws Mum and Dad. I don’t know, maybe it’s old fashioned now, not done. It’s not for everyone, I know that. My husband worked with my Dad and knew him as a peer before we got together so I get that it was awkward for him to change and I never expected it of him. He adores my parents and that’s enough for me. But this was something that was important for me. The second we said our “I do’s” I went up to them and planted a Mum and Dad on them! I think they were secretly very pleased.

When I was growing up, both of my parents referred to their respective spouse’s parents as “Mum and Dad”, although technically my paternal Grandma was referred to by all as “Ma”. I always hoped that when I married someone, I would find in-laws that I loved enough to honour them with that title.  And I did. Lucky me.

Barbara: It’s funny the whole parent-in-law stereotype—the one where we don’t get along with each other. I guess it comes from that old saying: “You don’t pick your family.” And maybe you don’t get along because there’s so much “political” stuff in families and maybe it’s because you’re just not a good fit with each other.

I am lucky enough, like you, Deb, to have a mother-in-law that I love (and, too, a father-in-law when he was still alive). But I think we love each other for the same reasons as you: there is a will to work on a good rapport, a genuine mutual respect, and a healthy dose of lovely get-togethers like the one you describe here.

You are an amazing daughter-in-law, Deb. I know your “Mum” appreciates that beyond words. 

Christmas Photo Families

Deb: When I was growing up my parents always sent Christmas cards. Most people did. It was the thing to do. They had their list of the usual suspects and an extra box waiting nearby in case some lesser friend or neighbour sent an unexpected card. Receiving an unexpected card would send my Mom into a frenzy. The second the surprise card was out of its envelope, my mom was––with split-second timing––signing, addressing, and running to the mailbox to do the Christmas card payback.

We do the same thing now. The little box of cards waiting for their chance to say to someone, “Hey, we didn’t really forget you and it’s not that we don’t like you, it’s just that you weren’t on the list”. After someone sends a surprise card they are on the list forever. They may never send us a card again, but from our end, they have joined the Christmas Card Club.

This year, as every year, we have to update the list to accommodate death, divorce, and relocation. It is an ugly reminder as the year comes to an end of all the changes that have occurred in the past year. But we do it dutifully and we send. We are senders of Christmas Cards, a tradition that is quickly going the way of the 8-track. I know that we should be “e-ing” our cards, but I just can’t break the tradition. I know how much I love getting cards in the mail ... the actual mail. I think it shows that someone cared and made an effort. And for no other reason, it is keeping an old and lovely tradition alive. Hell, we kill enough trees with other stuff.

When I had my own family, it was my turn to indulge in a special part of the Christmas card world that always eluded our family when I was growing up. The photo card! Love the photo cards! When I was a kid I would always look on with envy at people who sent the photo cards. By what Christmas miracle did they pull that together? The family seated around the fireplace all buffed and polished, decked out in their red and green finery, sporting festive smiles. I would stare and stare at the picture, scrutinizing each family member and thinking how I wanted to be in a photo card just once. Because I imagined, it wasn’t just the photo itself that was wonderful. It was the day surrounding it. I would envision them finishing the photo, then gathering around the buffet table for brunch still dressed in their red and green, eating perfect food and looking all the world like the definitive Christmas family.

We never did the photo thing in our family and I don’t know why. It might be because every time a camera rears its lens in my mother’s direction, she screeches, “For Godssake, don’t get me in the picture!” Despite her camera shy demeanor, I did think to myself, “Gee, my brother and I aren’t too horrible to look at, what about us?” Clearly I was deceiving myself. For example, 1966 was a particularly ugly Christmas for me and my brother, so if by some chance that happened to be the year my parents considered making a photo card, our awkward skinny, bad hair, pimply presentation nixed it!

But since then, with the aid of photo retouching and superior acne cream, I have picked up the photo card tradition. We don’t do it every year but we do it once in a while. This year was not an ugly year per say, but it was an ugly hair year for me. I was growing my hair out from very short back to a bob. The photo day in question was NOT a good hair day. Under most circumstances I would have forgone the photo for this year. But ... new puppy trumped my hair and we did the photo. So ...

 From our Family to Yours

 Pee’s on Earth,

 Love, Colin, Deb Luke, Fanny and the Bairn

Barbara: Oh, my beautiful Deb—first of all, I think you look GORGEOUS in your Christmas photo, “bad” hair and all. And I know you know this already, but I LOVE these photos, period. So frickin’ cute I could stare at them all day. Luuuuuuke! And puuuuuuppies!!!

That said, I am a notoriously bad letter and card writer/sender (1. Ask my grandparents, and 2. See this post from June). So Christmas cards, sadly, are not on my list. BUT I love love love getting them (my selfish side on display for all of you).

Luckily, my husband has taken it upon himself to make sure we have a yearly festive photo that he will email out with good wishes. We haven’t done ours yet this year (he’s been crazy-busy), but I hope we can finagle something on time for the BIG DAY.

Beauty is, for the sake of playing fair, I can include a fave here. Stefanie has wanted us to do a really cheesy pose for ages now––which we may yet do––something in the vein of fifties sweater-sets and far-off gazes. But then one man’s cheesy is another man’s super-classy, so it might be tricky…

We will be blogging next week, but I still want to add to today’s cardly sentiments:

Christmas Card 2005

Our family wishes you all the best

Happy Holidays and Much Love and Joy

Barbara, Philippe, Stefanie, Michele, and Chaplin

I Think My Dishes Are Committing Suicide

Barbara: Maybe it’s the weird energy Deb noted the other day. Maybe it’s the sad state of my kitchen cupboards that we’ve been meaning to renovate for 13 years and have yet to do. But lately our dishes have shown an unusual propensity for jumping out of fingers, from dishwashers, and off tables. And dying. Smashing to the floor and lying there, just pieces of their former selves. Dead. Morte. Tot. Finito.

Twenty-two years ago, we got a lovely set of “casual dining” dishes from my mother as a wedding present. The dishes have done their duty, without question. But I always assumed they were in it for the long haul. You know, serving us lunch and everyday dinners until we were old and shriveled.

Over the years, we even augmented the original set to accommodate our bigger dinner parties and holiday brunches. We didn’t exactly coddle the dishes, but we certainly respected them. Loved them even. They have meaning, after all. Not just the wedding-gift-from-my-mom part, but the fact that they are older than our children and have offered up countless family meals and survived endless childhood shenanigans.

But I ignored all the warning signs. The chip here, the hairline fracture there. I brushed those off as normal wear-and-tear. If only I’d known they were a cry for help! Because now the mass suicide, the lemming-jump so to speak, seems to have begun and will not abate. Every few days, another crash can be heard echoing through our house, another cry of despair, another dish gone from this earth—or at least from this kitchen.

I can no longer turn a blind eye to the rampant platericide. I must accept the fact that my dishes are unhappy for some inexplicable reason and have made the choice one dare not name. I must finally face the awful truth that I live in a dish-functional household.

What shall I do?!

Deb: Buy new ones! I think your dishes are telling you that they are “bone china tired” and that they have “served” their purpose.

Do not despair, Barb. They have served you well and have been hearty and faithful china. They have been exemplary place settings! An idea might be to make something wonderful, lasting, and meaningful out of the chips and have it be art, which would be a fine tribute to your amazing artist Mum who gave you the china in the first place. In fact, your Mum might be totally into creating something fitting out of the dishes for you. Something that would always remind you of homemade meals and family gatherings of yore.

But make no mistake, your dishes are asking you, begging you, to change place settings. Maybe you have not been listening, and as a result, they had to resort to drastic measures. It is hard I know. I would not have seen the signs either. But they have resorted to “place setting suicide” to tell you how they feel. They have gone to pieces over loving you and yours. Let them rest in pieces. 

Our Little Boy, Frisker

Deb: Frisker, our dog, is sick. He is 12 years old. He is a Cairn terrier. He is a soulful creature not given to frivolous things. He exposes his belly for a scratch to anyone who comes through the door. He lives for the sweet touch of the human, the scratchy love of an adoring creature. But he is a serious pup who seems more concerned with our investments than our attention to him. He is not like his sister, nor is he like any other pup I have known. He loves to frolic with our daily game of “gimme it”, but then he wants to settle down to a good think about our fiscal responsibility and his place in it. In essence, Frisker cannot be defined. He is still blessedly, thankfully, with us, and hanging in for all he’s worth. 

So I have decided to grant him a living funeral in this blog. It worked for Tom Sawyer and it will work for Frisker Mochrie. And even though he can’t read, I will know that I have done it and I will be able to look into his liquid, hot chocolate eyes and he will be able to see that respects have been paid. For that is what he would want. The proper speeches, protocol being adhered to, and all the trimmings that accompany it. 

He is a traditional pup, respectful of his position, but with a love that knows no bounds. Despite his accountant demeanor, Frisker is a people pup. I am sure many of you have them or have seen them. I know that Barb has a people pup in her Chaplin whom I love so very much. But this is for our Frisker, our boy’s first pup, a pup who turned our boy into a dog lover. As our boy was leaving for camp this summer, he said his goodbyes to Frisker, spending so much time with him, not knowing if he would see his dog again. And neither did we. We still don’t. 

But what I need to tell you is that our Frisker is kind and relenting, smart and wily, gentle and giving. He is a toddler of a dog one second and then all at once serious and wry. Our girl pup, Fanny, whom we equally adore for her own traits is a dog of ancient instinct who will walk the walk before she eats, circle and circle before she lays down, and grab one of her stuffed squirrels in her mouth and, with a snap of her head, break its neck. Frisker on the other hand treats the stuffies like his babies. He carries them around and protects them with his paw. Anyone who comes to our door is treated to a stuffed animal delivered personally by our Frisker. He will run to the basket and push his way through it until he finds just the right gift for the particular person at the door. We have laughed watching him push toy after toy out of his way until he finds just the right one. 

We love them both so much because they are them and because they are different. But this blog is for Frisker, fighting for his life as we fight with him. We are so filled with the whole of Frisker right now. Every breath is special and every move is the first and last move. Someone said to me yesterday, “That is why I cannot have another pet, I just can’t take the loss”. I understand that, totally. However my point of view is that I would not trade one second of pain for the many, many years of joy that we have had with our Frisky-boy. So please, pray for him or think of him because he is our boy. Our boy’s first boy. He sleeps in our bed. He is our family and we are losing him. 

Barbara: Weeping as I read this, Deb. How many times would Frisker come to me with one of his specially chosen stuffies, make his serious business known, pet my leg with his paw, and lay down at our feet while we worked in your kitchen? He is truly a beloved soul. 

It is partly thanks to Deb and her pups that we even have our Chaplin. I was never a dog person––or didn’t think I was—and Deb introduced me to the sweet pleasure of that unique relationship. I wish we didn’t have to lose them, but I wouldn’t trade one moment with these little loves either. 

You know Frisker is in my thoughts, Deb. But so are you.