Mr. Reid

Deb: My oldest friend in the world just lost her dad. I cried with her and worried for her as she drove home to see her Mom and her siblings during a fierce thunderstorm. She sounded controlled and resigned.

Then she wept and the sound killed me, cracking with the thunder, but so much smaller. 

Such is the stuff of Carol Ann Reid. I think it is fitting that she drove through a fierce thunderstorm.

Her Daddio, one George Reid, could appear to anyone like a fierce thunderstorm with his booming voice and his thick Scottish brogue. But he was really a soft Scottish toffee, a bold lover in love with the lovely Nan, with whom he was about to celebrate their 59th anniversary.

When I was a kid he was a daunting figure. Always kind and sweet, but with a boom of a voice that I laid in wait to hear lest I should act out. But it never came, this reprimand, however deserved. It came in the sound of the pipes, which he played with such skill and pride and passion that it breaks my heart that I did not realize the scope of it then. It was simply to me, a big big sound from a big big man. I would sit in awe with my best friend, his daughter Carol Ann at my side, listening to her Dad.

George.

He would play and we would listen. Then he would smile and we would melt in his love.

He lived to love, and boy did he hit the jackpot. Nan, his loving devoted wife, Carol Ann, first born and the heart of my heart, Heather, Kirk, Craig, and Wendy. How I would love to travel back there and live those innocent memories.

I am heartbroken for you all tonight. Each child, grandchild, and great-grandchild. George Reid has left us. And we are taking notice.

Barbara: I am so sorry for your loss, Deb, for your dear friend Carol Ann’s loss, for the loss borne by her entire family, and for the loss of another great man.

It’s funny this business of so many souls and so little time to know them all.

I often read those tributes in the paper to a stranger’s life lived––I don’t know why I read them exactly, I’m not morbid. But of course reading them leaves me with a profound sense of sorrow. It suddenly occurs to me that this (possibly morbid) urge comes from the unsettling sense of not knowing them. As if I ought to have known them. As if it was some mean hiccup in the fabric of the universe that prevented me from knowing them, and not a simple logistical reality.

It feels patently unfair that we can’t know them all. It feels not right somehow.

It must be that ancient tie we have to one another through our tribal roots. That long-ago ancestor deep within my soul wants to rear up and don the primitive mourning garb and ululate in unison with all of you. Another of our friends, of our tribe (and we are one tribe), has passed away.

Does Mourning Become Her ... Or Is She Just In The Way?

Barbara: One if the joys of blogging, certainly for us, is that we have a forum for our opinions. It’s liberating and exciting to get to be honest, to delve into the psyche. Even if we don’t always agree with each other, or you don’t agree with us, we absolutely agree with ourselves! 

But I find myself in a conundrum this week. I actually don’t know what to do, don’t know how I absolutely feel about it, and so can’t make up my mind. At first I couldn’t even blog about it—it felt too personal to describe this process. Funny, huh? The end result of any of my musings: okay to reveal; the process: too painful. Hmmm. Anyway, Deb encouraged me to write about it, feeling that if I was struggling, maybe other people would want to a) know and b) know they’re not alone if in similar shoes. So here I am, fodder for your advice, opinion, and personal experiences.

There is a funeral this week that I am struggling to decide whether I should or shouldn’t attend. Normally, this is easy territory for me. If there is a funeral significant to me, of course I try my utmost to go. Even funerals of people I don’t know … because the departed was someone important to one of my beloveds. But this week there was a funeral that was big––big in import, big in profile, big in devastation, big big in loss. I had no direct link to the deceased or the family, but my beloveds were deeply involved. And because of that I felt this loss deeply. I also felt compassionate love for the grieving family because of how well I “knew” them through the connection to my beloveds. So part of me thought I should be there, felt I would regret it if I didn’t pay homage. And the other part of me knew that this was a big enough funeral that I could actually be “in the way”. I wouldn’t be providing comfort to the family or friends (who don’t know me), and probably wouldn’t be able to provide comfort to my beloveds (who would be otherwise occupied). A mutual friend described this conundrum really well: we don’t want to be, or look like we are, “death groupies”.

And yet the energy still vibrates around this question, because a life is only lived once and begs to be remembered and celebrated. Is there such a thing as “in the way” at a funeral or memorial?

What would you do in my place? And why?

Deb: Barb, I will give my answer through your words. “I had no direct link to the deceased or the family, but my beloveds were deeply involved. And because of that I felt this loss deeply. I also felt compassionate love for the grieving family because of how well I “knew” them through the connection to my beloveds.”

In a nutshell, my friend. Thank you for coming. I may have been occupied, but it will always mean the world to Colin and I that you came. You now share our friend. The only difference is you got to know him after he was gone. Xo

Edited to say: Barbara wrote her post before making her decision and Deb responded afterward. Barbara wrestled with this decision until the last moment, but absolutely does not regret going at all. And still wants to know your opinion … even if you disagree with her choice :)

A Marriage

Deb: Today is my 22nd wedding anniversary. As I have said in previous blog-posts, I have a happy wonderful marriage for which I feel truly blessed and grateful. But today, on the occasion of this anniversary, I am getting a first hand look into the heart and soul of another beautiful marriage. On our wedding day, I wonder how many of us really take it in when the phrase “for better or worse” is uttered? On that glorious day, none of us can really fathom that it is not always going to be better, like the eternally happy figures at the top of the cake.

Today I am celebrating my anniversary without my husband who is physically three thousand miles away, but emotionally tucked right into the heart of me. Right now I am sitting in the palliative care ward of Princess Margaret hospital in Toronto on this the second day of a loving vigil. I am here because of my darling friend Sheila and her wonderful husband Pete. Pete we are told, is in the last days of his life and the panic to grasp it is welling up in my already full heart.

Pete is in his bed sleeping, unable to communicate anymore, except occasionally with his eyes. He cannot move on his own or speak. And yet, his marriage is thriving.  I am watching Sheila sweetly talk to him as she wets the sponge that will moisten his lips. I see her cry rivers of tears, and seconds later laugh at a visitor’s funny story of Pete. She is loving him and clinging to him and watching him slip away from her. She is not grasping at him or begging him to stay, although I know she would like to.

She is simply honouring her love for him by working on their marriage. It is probably not the first time she has had to work on it. Heaven knows we all have to from time to time.

But today her marriage needs tending and she is tending it as bride, wife, and mother of his children.

Although she is powerless to stop this train in motion, she is loving him as if he were not going anywhere. She spends the day greeting their visitors and making them feel at ease, which is no easy feat during this heartbreaking drop-in. She has spent their marriage playing the consummate hostess, doing it with joy. These endless gatherings over the years would end I am sure with she and Pete clearing the dishes and talking over the night’s events. This one won’t. But you would never know it. Sheila is a dancer and although this is a dance she never wanted to perform, I have never seen her so graceful. With the grace of a prima ballerina she shifts effortlessly between repeating Pete’s condition to a newcomer, to comforting one of her beautiful daughters who has just broken down, and back to her husband’s side where she kisses and strokes him and reminds him that she is “right here, sweetheart”.

People kept asking me “how is she able to do it, how is she able to cope?” The answer is simple. She is tending to the “for worse” part as promised in their vows. The “better” has been their whole entire marriage. This is a “worse” no one should have to face. But she took her vows and she loves her Pete more now than she ever believed possible on that wedding day. And so, as hard as her task seems to those of us on the outside, I realized halfway through the day that it is actually an easy job for her. Easy to love him, easy to help him, easy to be his wife. Because that’s what she is for better or worse.

***Peter died tonight night within a half hour of the last visitor leaving. He was surrounded by his girls and he just quietly and gently slipped out of this world.

And every anniversary of our lives Colin and I will raise our glasses to Pete and Sheila,  filled with the precious reminder of what marriage is and should be.

Barbara: Deb, this homage to a marriage and to a deathbed vigil is absolutely heartbreaking and stunningly beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing their amazing story. I wish Sheila much love and strength and Peter everlasting peace.

The Night The Time Stood Still

Barbara: When Kathy wrote her beautiful post here about nature talking to us in times of stress, we shared a lot of interesting stories. I think I told you guys that one day I would share one of my favourite stories about my late father-in-law. I waited to share it because, well, yes because it’s so magical, but frankly, because it’s also a little too involved to summarize briefly. So here it goes:

Raymond

My father-in-law lived most of his professional life in France. He and Phil’s mom divorced early on and they made their lives on opposite sides of the big blue. Despite the challenges of being a child of divorce and not getting to see his beloved father an awful lot, Phil did enjoy a few nice perks, from the privilege of enjoying a Canadian life to the benefits of vacationing close to the Alps and getting to be a part-time ski bum.

But after we married and had children, Phil’s father realized that retirement wasn’t quite as sweet when you’re thousands of miles from your closest loved ones. He decided to move to Canada, and he chose a beautiful apartment not too far from our house. For nine months we enjoyed his company, his cooking, and his selfless babysitting. Stefanie was in her third year, Michele in her first. The relationship between our kids and their grandfather was very special. Stefanie and Raymond would spend hours together over tea and cake having sophisticated tea parties (Stefanie was always Chanel-going-on-25). Michele, too young to talk, would nonetheless spend long minutes staring deeply into his eyes. Raymond once looked up after one of these staring sessions and famously proclaimed that she was a genius (we tend to agree with him).

Raymond was only 67 when he died suddenly from an asthma attack. We’d been waiting for him to come over for dinner and he never showed. Phil found him in his apartment, no sign of a struggle or pain, just random, comfortable signs of activity—him in his favourite chair, TV on to the news, a sketch pad nearby, and, most tellingly, his asthma inhaler balanced in his open hand. It was a devastating loss that is its own story of grief and mourning and recovery. But the memories he gave us were bright and shining and positive.

A few people received “signs”—Phil’s brother, half a world away and tinkering, oblivious, on his motorcycle, was swarmed by Raymond’s favourite bird––but for Phil it was all sadly necessary “business”: emptying his father's apartment, closing his accounts, tidying up loose ends.

And then, a few months after his death, something happened that we still talk about in amazed wonder. It was the middle of the night and we were all sound asleep when suddenly we heard a terrible crash. Phil and I flew out of bed—we were three floors above the main floor and higher up than Stefanie who slept on the second floor (this was one of those super-narrow semi-detacheds that you find in crowded urban neighbourhoods)––so you can imagine the speed and caution that we channeled going down those stairs (a big stick may have been wielded).

When we got to the ground floor, everything was still and quiet. Completely normal.

Yes, THE clock

And then we found a clock that Raymond had left us after he died lying prone on the floor. This clock is a large, beautiful copy of a classic Maltese clock. But it is a treasure in its own right: ornately carved, hand-painted, beautifully detailed. Somehow that night, apropos of nothing we could find, it had leapt from its hook (which was still firmly in place), unlatched its battery door, dispelled its battery, re-closed and re-latched the door, landed on the floor (several feet down) without splintering or chipping its wood or paint, and lay in one perfect piece with its time frozen.

Phil looked at the clock, then looked at me, pale and shaken. “The time,” he said, “look at the time.” I did, but still didn’t understand. Then it hit me—this was the eve of Michele’s first birthday. And the time that was frozen on the clock? It was the exact moment she had been born the year before.

Deb: I have heard this story before, but not as beautifully fleshed out as this. Barb, what a moment in your family history. I remember when we were just getting to know Phil on our first family ski trip together, he told this story of his Dad with all the pain and warm memories spilling out. I remember thinking how profound our parents’ deaths are for the rest of our lives, and how precious the memories for Phil. I will always think of Phil’s dad as supplying us with our first window into Phil’s soul. May he rest in peace. 

Deb and Barb Have A Three-Way

Deb and Barb Have A Three-Way With Kathy

We met her as My Kateness, our very first follower. We were delighted to discover her own wonderful blog, Stubblejumpin’ Gal (formerly Life on Golden Grain Farm), even as we got to know her better through her funny, insightful, and endearing comments over here. Welcome, Kathy, to our latest 3-way!

Kathy: I knew only one thing: it was a sign.

The house was closely surrounded by trees, and although the wind swayed their highest leaves, in our tiny yard the air was calm. So it was a shock when, as I stood washing dishes in front of the kitchen window, the top half of a young poplar tree snapped off and leapt toward me.

Could the forest be irked? The day before, I’d brutally pruned back the wild raspberry bushes along the narrow path between house and garden. It was the only explanation I could come up with.

My mother was 63 years old and, aside from the all-day “morning” sickness that lasted right up until she went into labour on the day of my birth, had hardly been sick a day in her life. Lately she’d found her bra too tight and, when undoing the clasps provided no relief, had gone to see her family doctor. He’d found a growth on her kidney; surgery and follow-up treatment would resolve the issue and the prognosis was good, he said. I’d received that news, gone out for my usual walk around the farm and found myself weeping. Why? I wondered. Mom would be okay. She had an MRI scheduled, but didn’t seem worried. When the tree snapped in half, I didn’t connect it to her.

The following afternoon here in Saskatchewan it was mild and sunny. I had been over to our neighbour’s country greenhouse, loading up trays full of leafy green nurslings for my flowerbeds, visualizing the beautiful blooms that would grace our yard over the summer months. I’d been smiling all day. When the phone rang, it was my dad with Mom’s test results.

“It’s terminal cancer,” he said immediately, bluntly. “There’s nothing they can do for her. She could last three months; she could live for a year.”

“Fuck off!” I said; then hopefully, though it would have been the most despicable humour ever, “You’re not joking, are you.”

“No. Can you handle it?”

“I’ll have to. I’ll call back later.”

I hung up the phone and dropped to my knees on the carpet, arms across my belly. Not wanting to scare my young son in the next room, I made my way outside where, again, my legs went out from under me. On the grass, I rocked back and forth, groaned; but nothing could alleviate the intensity of this unbearable news. I stood and, tears running down my face, headed for the trees as if some comfort might be found there. Now I knew what they had been trying to prepare me for.

My sister’s omens of death came via birds. After Mom’s diagnosis, a robin persistently pecked at her kitchen window for several days as if trying to get into the house. When our uncle went into the hospital several days before his death, a white dove—something she’d never seen around here before— flew past her windshield when she was on her way to visit him.

Has Nature ever spoken to you?

Deb: Kate, I felt your devastation in my gut as I read this. It’s those moments in life that we are sure will kill us, but don’t. What they do however is weave their way into the fabric of our soul and protect us and remind us to prepare for the next gut-wrenching moment life will dole out. For those of us who have lived long enough, we know this to be all too true. But we survive, don’t we?

Nature has spoken to me in this fashion only once, but it has stayed with me like a comforting friend all my life.

My Auntie Isabel was only 52 when she died of breast cancer. Her doctor misdiagnosed her, telling her that because the lump in her breast was painful, it was not cancer.

Her four grown children struggle with this still, knowing she might have lived otherwise. I loved my aunt very much. She was my Mom’s only sister in a family of six kids and we grew up very close to her family, geographically and emotionally. We lived down the street from one another, went to the same schools, spent all holidays together. Basically her four children grew up to feel like siblings rather than cousins and we are lovingly close to this day.

My Auntie Isabel was one of the great lovers of life. Nothing was too small to miss her loving attention. One of her great passions was birds, and in particular cardinals with their fiery red coats and curious demeanor. She always had her binoculars on the back window ledge and lived for sightings. I was never much of a birdwatcher at all. Took them for granted.  My Auntie Isabel died when I was 21. That winter, I noticed my first cardinal. Mainly because it seemed to take up residence outside my window. Even if I moved toward the window, it remained unflappable. The bird would sit, staring at me and me at it, then fly off after it had enjoyed my company to its satisfaction. There was nothing subtle about this cardinal stalking and I knew in my heart right away that it was Auntie Isabel visiting me. At that point, so soon after her death, I needed it to be true. And it was painful. Every time I saw the cardinal it would break my heart a little. 

Since then, wherever I have lived, I have become a cardinal magnet. I am lousy with cardinals. I could have a cardinal habitat and charge admission. We had two young lovers nesting in our cedars this past spring and it was glorious. I cannot begin to tell you the joy these little birds bring me. Over the years my pain has turned to joy when I see them. I don’t need a sighting to prompt my memories of her, but their visits sure give me hope that I will see her again some day.

Barbara: Wow, these stories are killer. Kate, you brought me to tears. Deb, you brought me to beautiful memories of my own. Like being surrounded by birds after Phil’s father died suddenly and unexpectedly.

My father-in-law was a retired architect for whom any surface was ripe for sketching. A little black bird was one of his signatures. Seeing birds after he died gave all of us comfort, however brief.

One of the most memorable stories like this that I’ve ever heard––although it didn’t happen to me––was told to me by an acquaintance at a funeral while we both mourned the death of one of our best friends. Our friend had just died of cervical cancer … she was only 39. We were all devastated, as you can imagine. She had been beyond beautiful. And brave and gentle and wise. It didn’t seem possible that she was gone.

As we exchanged stories of our friend’s life, the woman I was speaking with suddenly became quiet and introspective. When she spoke again, it was to describe an incredible experience––an experience she could barely understand––that she’d just had. Before she found out that our friend had died, she’d been walking with her husband through the remote woods where they live. They got caught in a bit of a snow squall and were trying to make their way back home. They rounded a bend where the woods opened up to a clearing. Just then the sun broke through the clouds. Up ahead in the clearing on a small swell of a hill were some letters carved into the snow surrounded by hearts. As the couple drew nearer, they saw that the letters spelled out the name of our friend. At first they smiled, remembering their own friend with this same name––and then it hit them: who would have spent time in a snow squall carving a name into a hill when one’s only thought would normally be to get home as soon as possible? And how recently could the name have been carved if it wasn’t yet obscured with snow from the storm? And who was the mysterious name-carver if they hadn’t seen a soul in the woods? And then it struck them how odd it was that this snow-graffiti would be the exact same (moderately unusual) name as their dear sick friend. They raced home through the woods … and found out our beloved friend had died.

I didn’t get a nature call-out from this dear friend, but I did receive what I consider another little sign. My friend’s ex-husband gave me a piece of her jewelry as a keepsake inside a small cloth bag on which he’d penned my initials. The letters BR soon melted into … a heart.

On another day, I’ll tell you the story of another of the mysterious gifts my father-in-law left us after he died…

Kathy Johnson lives in the Saskatchewan countryside, freelances from her home office as an editor in the subjects of architecture, dance, film and theatre, and has replaced her life-long letter-writing habit with a personal blog, Stubblejumpin' Gal, at http://goldengrainfarm.blogspot.com.