Daylight savings time

The sadness has been very present the last 5 days. More present than usual. Often the first thing that greets me when I wake up. There at work, at home, at church, with people who knew Ken, with people who know me, with people who know neither one of us.

Usually it's just under the surface, and I can still do what I need to do. Today at work I managed to get stuff done, but the nausea and preoccupation were there, just keeping me at the edge. At lunch I decided to go for a drive. The tears started in the car. I found myself driving to a friend's house, needing to be loved up close. Called her from my car. She was at work. Just hearing her voice was reassuring.

Made it back to work, and actually got a few things done. Catching up with a colleague about some students I haven't seen for a while, I glanced at the clock and saw that my work day was over. Wow, that was fast!

Out the door, into my car, that's when I realized I had glanced at the one clock in the building that didn't get changed last weekend. The thought of walking back into the building didn't even cross my mind. I found my car making its way to the church.

Alone in the prayer room, with a candle burning, I stared, ached, cried, and soaked in the peace of the place and the prayers that had come before me, the prayers that I know are all around. I closed my eyes and slept.

As I blew out the candle, the smoke went in many directions. A reminder that God is with us at all times, in all places. These words are part of the Children's Worship that I lead on Sunday mornings. A beautiful and powerful image.

An unexpected gift. A gift of time, of stillness, of the peace of God.

Salt water surrounds it

This was my seat-mate on last week's flight to my favorite (and only) Arctic workplace. The portapotty not only offers relief for those who drank too much coffee before the 3 1/2 hour flight, it also serves as a handy spot to park your sandwich and newspaper. The blue thing is the shower curtain you can ?wrap around yourself? for privacy should you feel the need to eliminate waste in the presence of all your new best friends.












And, should your packing skills lack focus, and you packed the bag of Halls in your suitcase, and should you find yourself wanting something soothing to prevent 3 1/2 hours of coughing, you can conveniently reach into the baggage compartment to pull things out of your suitcase.






The view through the plane window can be quite spectacular. At this time of year, with fog being a predominant weather feature, it can also look a lot like this. It can look a lot like this until moments before landing. I was thinking Monday's landing would be one of these
white
white
white
white
THUD
sorts of landings, until I looked out my window to suddenly see this:


What a lovely sight.

We had spectacular views of the Belchers all the way down. It was

My lovely mother

From whence cometh the sharp, sarcastic sense of humor known to affect many of the clan I call my family? This, unlike other profound questions, is very easy to answer. From my dear mother. And my dear mother got it straight from HER dear mother.

Grandma was 82 years old when I was born. She was the perfect grandma, in my books. We didn't go for adventures, didn't have sleepovers, didn't do the things that my young grandma-friends do with their grandbabies these days. She sat in her rocking chair facing her living room window and waited for us to visit. (Remember, these are my perceptions!) She knit mittens and crocheted pot holders. She made Kool-Aid for us. The ice cream had icicles in the pail. She had a candy bowl. All we had to do was ask. Joyce and I would huddle together to gather the strength to ask, and finally one of us would go, wait for a pause in the adult conversation, and squeak out the Low German words requesting the candies.

We played with the wooden spools, and drew pictures on the backs of old calendars. I picked out little bits of Grandma's chenille bedspread. I liked to sit on the treadle of her sewing machine. I loved the gingerbread clock that was in her bedroom.

My mom, the youngest of Grandma's four girls, is now 80 years old. She's the best. If I could grow up to be even a little like her, I would be quite satisfied.

Our family may inherit our nutty genes from my dad's side, but I learned to be nutty (even with appropriate levels of seritonin!) from my mother.















While age may make some people crusty and set in their ways, my mother (and dad - he'll get his own post some time) just seems to get sweeter and sweeter, while still definitely retaining her sense of fun.

Lucky kids, to have this lovely lady for a grandma.

Lucky me, to have her for a mom.

A River Runs Through it

I love Winnipeg.

Really.

I have left it, lived elsewhere, and it only confirms that this is the place for me.

Do I sound defensive? Well, if you have a problem with me sounding defensive, go get some counselling. It's my city and I'll defend it if I want to.

We are lucky to have not one, but two rivers winding their way through our lovely city. At least once a year, I manage to go for a paddle down one or the other. Only once have I taken an involuntary swim. It was very windy and I was trying to turn my kayak. I happened to be bobbing just when the Paddlewheel Queen, full of passengers, cruised by. I did my best to look casual and relaxed while simultaneously thinking:

• where is my paddle?
• Is it a long-term health risk to be doused in the water of the Red River?
• Where is my water bottle?
• How did that shore entry thing work again?!
• Must not lose water bottle.
• Will I ever be clean again?

The above picture was taken just a week ago. Needless to say, when my friend in the bow asked me to curb the impulses (how did she know?!) to stand up in the stern of the canoe, I thought it might be best to heed her wisdom.

We paddled upstream, and found a nice warm sunny spot to enjoy a cold refreshing drink. (We split the third one.)

We paddled under this railway bridge. Wondered how they got it to swivel, and how long it's been in its present position. Laughed about how this middle section would make the perfect retreat for an introvert. No worries about people dropping by. Sights and sounds of the city within easy reach.

We paddled under this big old tree and stopped to float there so we could properly enjoy the fall colors and the leaves drifting down.

In a while, we'll be skiing, strolling, or skating down this same river (carefully avoiding the icky soft spots where our "treated" sewer is returned to nature.)

The good, bad, ugly, and beautiful. It's all right here in Winnipeg.

And I love it.

Tears

Any of you who have gone through the process of losing a loved one will know that this is not straight-forward, there's no guidebook, at times life will go on, and at other times life seems to stand still and your whole body aches with the injustice of it all.

I have cried almost every day since June 27th. Sometimes for a long time, sometimes for a few seconds. I've cried at work, at home, at the hospital, while driving, walking, at church, pretty much anywhere and everywhere. I've cried with family, friends, co-workers, neighbors, people who were all of the above to Ken. There's also been a lot of joy, laughter, remembering, stories, looking at pictures, staring blankly into space, and wondering how on earth this can be.

Stuart McLean is one of my favorite people in the media world. I love his quirkiness, his spirit of discovery, his delight in people, the way he speaks, how he relishes letters from listeners, and of course the stories. I love how he pauses when he gets to a part where we are all laughing in anticipation. I love it when I just happen to be driving somewhere on SAturday morning between 10 and 11.

It happened today. And today happened to be Arthur awards day. This is so classic Stuart. One of the awards today went to a couple of guys who started playing chess when they were stationed in Burma in 1944. On the days they weren't flying, they played chess. They are still playing chess. Stuart got them both on the phone. One guy is 90, the other 86. One lives in Manitoba, the other in Ontario. They last played chess this last Sunday, at their airmen's reunion.

Both these men had an easy way about them, talking, laughing, remembering pranks they played on each other and their many games of chess. Sunday's game winner got ribbed by the loser.

I drove, smiled, laughed out loud, and then started to cry. 60 years of chess and friendship is something worth celebrating. I cry for my brother who won't have that chance. I cry for his wife who won't be throwing a 60th wedding anniversary party. I cry for his kids who won't sit with him 20 years from now and laugh about childhood memories. I cry for his friends who don't have that casual everyday contact that makes great friendships.

We celebrate what we had. Who Ken was. Who he is, and will continue to be in our hearts. We cry for the memories that could have been, but were intercepted by cancer.

Tears. Often unbidden, sometimes unwelcome, always another step to healing.

I miss you, Ken.

Cousins part 2

Every summer, I host cousin camp for all the girl cousins. Why not the boys, you ask? Well, there are only a few boys, and they turn pretty green at the prospect of a sleepover with a whole pile of girls. So this is how I ended up with the above group of lovely girls, ages 5 to 15, for an afternoon of old-fashioned party games, pizza dinner, late-night glow bowling, and then a little bit of sleep.

Besides cultivating my own relationships with each of the girls, I love to see them together as cousins. One of the things Grace (see cousin post) and I talked about last week was how much she missed having the big extended family around while she was growing up. You see, Grace moved away after her uncle died in a farming accident. He and her dad operated a dairy farm together. After the uncle died, Grace´s dad left farming to take a job in Saskatchewan.

So she grew up with only occasional contact with all of us cousins, and thankfully, has been able to reconnect now that we´re all grown up. (Sort of.)

So me and the girls have our camp every summer, except for last year when I was not able to be upright for more than a few minutes at a time. One of their favorite games is a clothing relay. There are two piles of clothes, and they take turns grabbing something and putting it on. It all has to get layered, and the end results look something like the top picture. Once again, technology defeats me, and I cannot seem to get the picture to appear below...........

Herès to great memories, cousins, and lots of love.