FINDING HOPE HAIKU IN THE TIME OF COVID

Reading with children Facetime is the next best thing When snuggling is out. Walking with Kathy To be outside where life is So spectacular. People delighted By an unexpected call I happened to make. Call from a cousin Who lives in Ontario Remembering me. Grateful for wellness And grocery delivery A home that I love. Making up stories Wednesdays are the send-out days Getting letters back. Balcony pansies Pandemic insensitive Blooming like crazy Media searching For good news to give us hope And give them hope too. Choosing not to clean Because I know there will be Time for it later. Choosing to clean now Because I know I will be Glad I did later. Thinking of places I’m glad not to be in now And those I still love. Sweet whiff of supper Slow cooking tantalizing While I watch Frasier Counting on science Admiring the leadership Of our officials Dreaming a future When this time will be the past That made us all wiser.

GRIEVING IN THE TIME OF COVID 19

The grief monster got me again this morning, caught me unaware and gave me the old one-two punch in the gut. “Get out!” I shouted. But I didn’t hear the words I’d said. The noise sounded more like a wolf howl to me, a wolf howl, or a moan of abject pain. Perhaps I should have expected it, the sudden appearance of this sleeping giant. A pessimist might have observed some warnings that a storm might be brewing underground. There had been, for example, a considerable reduction of crying over the past couple of months. But I am not a pessimist. This drying up might have been caused by the passage of time, time spent in the warm Mexican sand, the gradual thawing of chilly relationships, the sprouting of new healthy relationships, the shedding of some failed experiments, the formation of new habits, the revival of my storytelling hobby, new volunteer opportunities, better eating, long daily walks outdoors, daily internet contact with people I love. Even in a time of pandemic, any of these might have boosted my mental health. Or it might simply have been that the focus required to thrive during a COVID 19 pandemic can distract you from just about everything you are used to. So perhaps I can be forgiven for failing to expect the monster. It was just after 7:30 AM when the monster struck. I was sitting on the edge of my bed celebrating the sunshine snaking along the wall from the closet door to the place beside the mirror. I was thinking that my neighbour and I might get a hamburger and fries from a drive-through window today, the first restaurant food we’ve had in five weeks of obeying the call to “Stay Home!” The people on the radio were telling me about a star-studded concert that would be playing on all the TV networks all over the world. Among the other stars, John Legend would be singing. “Let’s go out on this song,” said the radio people. “John Legend: All Of Me.: What’s that they said? Let’s go out? I went out all right. In one brief second I went all the way back to the winter of 2014. It was Saturday morning, every Saturday morning. We were at the west End Seniors Association, David and I, attending dance classes sponsored by the Parkinson Association. We were seated, doing the warm-up exercises. The nurse, Sharleen Heavener was leading us. John Legend was singing All of Me. Beside David I was stretching. I was singing to the gentle rhythm. I was pretending that everything would be all right. John sang: The world is beating you down, I'm around through every mood. You're my downfall, you're my muse My worst distraction, my rhythm and blues I can't stop singing, it's ringing, in my head for you [Pre-Chorus:] My head's under water But I'm breathing fine You're crazy and I'm out of my mind [Chorus:] 'Cause all of me Loves all of you Love your curves and all your edges All your perfect imperfections Give your all to me I'll give my all to you You're my end and my beginning Even when I lose I'm winning David could still walk back then. He could still drive. We could still learn new dance steps together. But his voice had slowed, and his signature had changed so much that people started checking to confirm its authenticity. Somehow he had forgotten how to shift his weight gracefully from one foot to the other. It was plain to both of us that everything would definitely not be all right. Still, we concentrated on burying the future by making everything all right at that moment, the moment before she asked us to stand, the final seconds of sitting down. So what if the task of burying the future required an avalanche of pretending? We were up for it. We were listening to popular songs. It might be the end of the world as we knew it, but we were learning to dance.

GROCERIES

A pair of friendly strangers showed up at my door with a grocery order this morning. My groceries were already unpacked by 8:00 AM. Everything I had ordered was there. They brought an Easter lily, a beautiful hydrangea, Easter eggs, a huge pineapple, tiny mandarins, and grapes almost as big as the oranges. Did I forget to mention the rutabaga, onions, milk, cheese, yoghurt and a few other ordinary things? What a way to start the day! All I had to do was click some links on the computer and provide my credit card information. Nobody was more delighted than I when grocery stores started offering on-line shopping with delivery. It all happened just at the time when David was finding it increasingly difficult to buy food for us. We could have asked family and friends to help, but we didn’t have to. For the first time in my life I was able to take on the responsibility of ensuring that our cupboards would contain the things we wanted. It was a welcome consolation against the sadness of witnessing the relentless disabling progression of David’s illness. It may seem to us that ordering groceries for delivery is a recent innovation. But I can tell you that my mother was doing it years ago. We lived on a farm 9 miles from the village of Lougheed. Sometimes she would drive into town to shop. Other times she would notice that Dad was on his way to pick up a belt for the swather or a shovel for the cultivator. “Stop in at the grocery store,” she would command. “Phone it in,” he would reply. Mom was in no hurry. She’d pick a few peas, maybe roll out a piecrust. All the while she’d be making a mental list of the things she needed. By and by Mom would check the phone sheet (you didn’t need a whole book to list the numbers on the Lougheed exchange). She would dial the number of the store. “Hello,” she’d say. “Who’s this?” I never knew why it mattered, but it did. “Donald will be coming in to pick up an order,” she’d say. “Oh, he’s already been in? Is he still there? Well, he’ll be back soon. Do you have a pen there?” “Okay now. I need beans. Are there any on sale? Well why is the bigger can cheaper than two small cans. I don’t really need a big can. But oh well. And some lettuce. Your lettuce isn’t going brown, is it? I don’t want the ones with the brown leaves. Get me the freshest one you have. And what have you got for fruit? How ripe are those bananas?” Then a pause. “Oh really? You don’t say! Why I just saw her at the ACW tea last week. Was it the cancer? She didn’t look too well.” “Oh that’s good. Patricia was always her favourite so it’s good that she could make it home in time. Do you have any tomatoes? You want me to take Hot cross buns? You’ve still got those? Are you sure they’re still good?” Another pause. “Really? I thought there was a lot of money there. Where does it all go?” “Oh yes, I forgot that I put on Easter dinner and bought all the supplies for the ACW tea. No wonder you are out of money for my groceries. Tell Donald when he comes back that you need him to put more money in the account.” “Eh? What’s that? You told him? He said he didn’t have a cheque. Could you just give him the groceries anyway and send the bill. I’ll top up the account the next time I’m in town.” (This, in fact, was true. Mom and Dad always paid their bills.) Still, it was important that this oversight not be blamed on her. “I don’t know why he carries a couple of cheques in his wallet instead of taking a cheque book,” she would say in the voice of exasperation. I have friends who had never ordered groceries for delivery until we started staying home to keep ourselves safe from COVID 19. They marvel at how easily I make an order. “Oh,” I tell them modestly, “I’ve had a lot of experience with this."

WEDNESDAYS

It’s Wednesday. I like Wednesdays, always have. In school days and work days, Wednesday was the point of departure. A week that started out well was going better by Wednesday. In a week that started poorly, the arrival of Wednesday heralded the promise of hope for the weekend. Even in retirement, Wednesday has held a bit of magic. I think of Wednesday March 11 as the most recent normal day of my life. It contained a bit of everything: the happy routine of bridge club, the pleasure of lunch with a friend, the satisfaction of successfully shopping for a new purse, the excitement of packing for a couple of nights stay at my sister’s house, and the wonder of gently singing a dying woman into a deep and peaceful sleep. Today is Wednesday. It is almost 10:00 and I am still in my housecoat. Later today my son will drive by, roll down his car window and hand me an envelope while giving a cheery greeting and telling me he loves me. Who knew He’d start shouting those words in public? I will take a walk with my neighbour. Several weeks ago we decided to form a bubble around ourselves and protect each other from the possible dangers of spreading a virus through close physical contact with others. I will call one neighbour I haven’t spoken to in a month of isolation. I will talk to a relative who has tested positive for COVID 19. I will answer whoever phones me—possibly being rude if the call is a junk call. Being rude can be fun. I will join a storytellers’ meeting on Zoom. I will cook myself a balanced supper and eat it slowly while watching back-to-back episodes of Frasier. I will record a story on the iPhone and send it to friends, because I have decided that every Wednesday will be Story Wednesday until life gets back to normal. There are many things I will not do. I will not play bridge with my buddies, or dine at a restaurant, or enter a store, or pass through the door of a long-term care centre, or plan a trip. Even with all the things you cannot do, it is surprising how much you can get done on a Wednesday!

HALFWAY THROUGH

“Hope is the ‘Yes!’ to life.” –Ronna Jevne I’m halfway through the 22 hours of training you have to take if you want to be registered as a volunteer at Pilgrim’s Hospice. They provide services to people who are dying. So far we’ve covered the organization chart, policies and procedures, confidentiality, communication skills, family dynamics, and psychological issues. “Aren’t you bored?” my friends are asking. “We know how you hate policies and procedures. With your training and experience you could teach communication or family dynamics or psychological issues. Don’t you have better things to do with your time?” “Actually,” I reply with a half grin, “I love it.” They are surprised. I am twice as surprised. “What are you learning?” they want to know. I’d tell them, but the truth is, it’s too early to say. How do you really know what it is that you are learning until you have learned it? I’ve been wandering for a year now in the wasteland of widowhood and retirement. I’ve spent a considerable amount of time trying to figure out which way to go. In retirement I would have spent more time with my husband. In widowhood I would have returned to work. But what are you meant to do when you’ve been married for a long time and now you’re not? What are you to do when you’ve been working for a long time and now you’re not? Pondering the problem, I thought of setting a goal. But I’ve never been much of a goal-setter. As a compromise, I settled for a guiding principle I would try to follow: Just say “Yes!” My friend Jennifer invited me to join her at a singing event. I said “Yes!” We chose seats for no particular reason and later discovered that the singers in the row ahead were from Canmore. They told us that they sang together in a Threshold Choir. “What on earth is a Threshold Choir?” we asked. “We sing at the bedsides of people who are dying,” they replied. “It’s an international organization with a lot of local choirs. We love it. If you are interested, you should look on the Internet for the contact information for the Edmonton choir.” Each Threshold choir has a name. In Edmonton we have the Voices of Compassion Threshold Choir. The representative I contacted was both friendly and guarded. She told me the choir meets weekly to practice as a large group. They send people to the bedside in groups of three. There were questions she wanted me to answer. “Would you be comfortable at the bedside of a dying person?” “Yes,” I said. “I’ve been there a few times.” “Can you sing your own part in a trio without any music in front of you?” “Yes,” I said. “I have done that.” “Are you willing to take the volunteer training program at Pilgrim’s Hospice?” Hmmm! I might have said “Yes!” to that. I don’t exactly remember. If I did, I wasn’t being entirely honest. My real plan was to join the choir, then convince them that I didn’t need the training. The process of joining took longer than I expected. It is a small choir, formed only two years ago. They have learned a few things along the way. They have learned to be cautious about taking in new members. I had made the call in May, but it was already late in October when they invited me to a practice, and I was busier by then. I probably would have said “No,” had I not been so much in the habit of saying “Yes!” Now it’s January. After one whole year of wandering in the wasteland of retirement and widowhood I look back in wonder at how time could drag so much and pass so quickly. I had imagined learning to feel at home here. I don’t feel at home. I want to, because it looks like I’ll be here for a while, maybe even forever, learning how to survive, learning how to thrive. To survive means putting up with things you don’t love, like being alone much of the time, and not having a structure that pulls you out of bed on the days when you don’t feel like getting up. To thrive involves learning to recognize love when you feel it—learning the difference between doing things you don’t love and making sacrifices when you love something. It’s a distinction that’s hard for a grieving person to make. You spend a lot of time in an emotional fog. You become accustomed to feeling miserable while doing things you used to love I do love singing in a Threshold Choir. I love the music, challenging yet simple enough to allow all members to sing at a bedside in three-part harmony without the aid of a book. I love the way I feel after practice—warm and relaxed, the way you might feel after a long warm bath. I loved our Christmas party, when we drank a little wine and gave ourselves fully to the delight of singing rock songs at the top of our lungs until we were hoarse. I love the closeness of it—the way everyone cheers when I arrive at practice later than usual. These people, strangers to me such a short time ago, are cheering because I am there. I love it so much that I never did ask if I could skip the 22 hours of volunteer training at Pilgrim’s Hospice. I was pretty sure they’d say no because it wouldn’t much matter how smart or experienced I am. I would still have to go through the process. In 2020 you can’t just march into an institution and ask if they have any dying patients you can sing to. Somebody has to recognize an appropriate situation and invite you in. There are no hoops to jump if you are invited by a family member. But institutions won’t invite you or recommend you to families unless you have been cleared for entry by a criminal check and met their requirements for volunteer training. So I registered for the training, fully intending to sacrifice 22 hours to the boredom of sitting through presentations of familiar content. The joke’s on me. The content is just what I expected it to be and I am not bored. Here in the unfamiliar wasteland of retirement and widowhood, with more time than I need and emotions I’ve never before experienced, I never know what to expect.

WRITING THE CHRISTMAS LETTER: 2019

“If you use the bad parts to get to the good parts you’ve done something good.” Elton John In the last week before Christmas I agonized over the production of a Christmas letter, the kind you add a personal sentence to, and send out to everybody who writes to you, and everybody you expect to get something from, even some people you don’t get anything from and haven’t for years. Back in November, when I carefully contemplated what to write in such a letter, I had decided not to write at all. That plan held up very well until a week before Christmas when people began writing to me. David and I used to co-produce a Christmas letter back in the days when it could be signed with both our names. I’d make a start some time in November, asking David what he thought we ought to write. He’d mention a few things. I would keep at it, adding and deleting, until I deemed it ready for proof-reading. David would correct the typing and add a thought or two. “That’s fine,” he’d say. “It’s ready to send.” Without David in the physical world, I believed the writing of my 2019 Christmas letter would be a solitary pursuit. But then, things got complicated. It seemed I was dealing with two versions of myself. There was the me who had decided to write a Christmas letter, and a reluctant woman sitting at my computer, refusing to press the keys. “How hard can it be to write a Christmas letter?” I said to the reluctant woman. “All you have to do is tell people what you did this year. Start at the beginning. Here. I’ll show you.” Pushing her aside, I wrote a paragraph. “David died on January 10,” I wrote. “His last few days were difficult because we often couldn’t understand what he wanted to say. But he was determined to be understood. He insisted that I immediately put money for 2019 into his tax free savings account.” He didn’t say, “You will have the money after I die if you put it in while I’m still alive.” But we both knew what he meant. He meant: “Go do it right now.” I showed my paragraph to the reluctant woman. She was outraged. “You can’t start a Christmas letter that way,” she scolded. So I pushed Delete and started over. “We were all saddened by David’s death at the beginning of the year,” I wrote. The reluctant woman stayed my hand. “That’s not entirely true,” she said. The truth is, you weren’t that sad because you thought it was time. You’re a lot sadder now than you were then. One of your favourite memories happened right after he died. Remember how you sat with him, marvelling at how his twisted tortured body had suddenly relaxed, how you lingered with him, holding his hand in absolute peace. That doesn’t sound very sad to me.” “Should I take it out then?” I asked her. “Yes,” she said. “Should I add the part about being peaceful at the end?” The reluctant woman was—well—reluctant. “Maybe you should skip David altogether and do what other people do. Try describing your grandchildren.” I pressed Delete and started over. “All five grandchildren make a project of delighting their Granny. Carys is a gymnast with a fondness for unicorns and Lewis can charm you while climbing on top of a table at lightning speed. Ben has learned to read in two languages, Evan builds something with Lego every morning before he goes to school, and Clara spent most of last week pretending to be a baby lion.” After that, I couldn’t think of another thing to say. So I wandered around the house, pouring cups of coffee, setting them down on various tables and losing track of them before I’d finished. “Come back here and finish this letter,” nagged the woman who had previously been sitting at my computer. “And don’t push the Delete key. This stuff about your grandchildren has potential. It just needs a little fluffing up. Take a break from that topic and tell them about your travels.” Feeling a little bit encouraged I wrote that I’d made four trips to Guelph, one to spirit River, one to Jasper and one to Vancouver. I spiced it up with some stories of cruising in French Polynesia. I was conscientious about naming people who had been there for me during my travels. Then I got up, searched the house, and used the microwave to warm the coffee from some of the abandoned cups. “Be happy,” I said to myself. When I sat down again I deliberately wrote about happy things. I wrote that I was happy to be living in my apartment, happy to be walking in my neighbourhood, to be playing bridge and going to exercise classes and writing for fun with new friends at the Joy of Writing Club. I wrote that I had joined two choirs. I mentioned that I still facilitated hope groups, having not quite completely retired from my work in hope studies. All of this was true, and my confidence grew—until it didn’t. In its place there came a tsunami of grief that sent me running to my bed where I howled in abject misery. “What now?” I cried out to the reluctant woman. “Do I have to quit, after all the work I’ve done?” “I don’t know,” she said. “But don’t push the delete button.” Instead of continuing the letter, I went back to the computer and read an on-line article in Psychology Today. “You can’t outrun grief,” the author boldly declared. The reluctant woman considered this. “You are the living proof of that,” she said to me. “Perhaps you should grieve a while. Maybe you’ll be able to finish the letter tomorrow.” In our forty-five years of marriage David and I read hundreds of Christmas letters. Some were funny. One relative always drew her year in cartoons. Another used the language of a medieval castle. Some were informative—births, marriages and such. Others were boring. Enough said about that. But there was one letter that chilled us so thoroughly to the bone that we had to turn to each other for comfort. It was a devastating life summary, sent by Cousin Lila. It was cloaked in sadness and despair. Her husband and all his siblings had Alzheimer disease. She wrote details about each of them. She ended the litany by wishing all of us a Merry Christmas. “Lila is depressed,” I said to David. He said, “Everything in this letter is probably true, but I wouldn’t send it at Christmas time.” With this in mind, I turned back to the reluctant woman. “I’m not Cousin Lila,” I said, “and I’m not Susie Sunshine either. I want to write a Christmas letter. Who am I?” anyway?” “You’re a grumpy, weepy, unpredictable griever living a basically happy life,” she said. And so it was that I found myself back at the computer the following morning, cleaning up my writing and developing an opening paragraph something I hoped would tell a truth that could reasonably be followed by Merry Christmas wishes. “It will be a different sort of Christmas this year. No doubt each of us will miss David in our own way, though it has been some time since we had a Christmas that wasn’t influenced by the need to accommodate illness. I would say that grief in my case is less a gradual process of healing over time and more a situation where kamikaze attacks occur when you are doing well in the big picture. I’ve been concentrating on learning new things, having fun and paying it forward as a tribute to the small army of people who have been lighting up my life over the past few years.” The reluctant woman and I checked it over with a critical eye. It was a longish letter, a little too perky, a little too busy. But the time had come to add personal greetings and send it anyway. Out went the copies, one by one. After so much dilly-dallying, I had expected to be pleased. Instead, I found myself turning apologetically to the memory of David. “I’m sorry that letter seems so cheerful,” I said to him. “I failed to mention how broken-hearted I am. They should be told that every fiber of my being still wishes you were here. I wanted to tell them how utterly bereft I get when I think that all my future Christmas letters will be written without you. How could I have edited it all out?” But the memory of David was remarkably unperturbed. “We couldn’t have sent such a letter,” was his response. “It’s not in our nature. If we couldn’t have said something good, we wouldn’t have said anything at all. But I do think you could have mentioned the tax-free savings money we put in my name back in January. You’ve had that money in savings for a whole year now. That’s $5,500 plus interest you won’t have to pay taxes on. It is an accomplishment worth celebrating.” “Too late for this Christmas letter,” I said. “That story will have to be written elsewhere.”

PATIO PARADISE (Nursing Home Life part 4)

A few years ago our daughter Ruth looked out over the floral profusion on our veranda and front yard and declared: “You people have a flower problem!” We laughed. She meant: “You have a ridiculous number of flowers out there.” I am happy to report that there is good news on this front. We still have the flower problem, only it’s smaller now. A flower problem, so it is said, occupies the space you give to it. On a magnificent June morning I step out on our Laurier House patio. The scent of flowers is positively intoxicating. Deep breaths now, deep breaths. What am I smelling this morning? Is it one of the two varieties of stocks, the alyssum, the bright yellow pansies kissed by the sun? It is probably not the heliotrope, whose fragrant best will emerge some time nearer to mid-day, and it’s not the roses which won’t be open for another day or two. It wouldn’t be the fuchsia or the begonia. They specialize in beauty rather than fragrance. Whichever it is, it smells fantastic! Small patios, I say to myself, have some advantages over large ones. The scents collect and support each other. Then they rush at you in joyous welcome when you step over the doorsill. It’s our second June at Laurier House, our first June with a patio. The two-bedroom suite we occupied last June did not have a patio. So we moved at the end of winter when this one became available. For people who have long been known for a flower problem, this is a definite improvement. Our living room opens to a cozy patch of concrete where I now pet my pansies and stroke my stocks. Tucked in the elbow between the front of the living room and the side of my protruding bedroom, our little patio peeks out through the spaces between the evergreens that shelter it from the bustle of the walk way and parking lot beyond. It’s cool enough to embrace a buffet breakfast on hot summer mornings; warm enough at mid-day to enjoy audio books on cooler days; shaded against the heat of the late afternoon. You can enjoy a glass of wine with friends there before supper. How, I wonder, did I ever get through last summer without this tiny refuge? Last summer this suite belonged to a married couple named Paul and May. I would have been fiercely jealous of them if I had known how a moment out there could transport me into the state of paradise. Unbeknownst to us, they were avid gardeners. Not limited to flowers, they had bonsai trees out there, and tomatoes Paul passed away last winter and his wife May moved out. Without Paul to care for, she no longer needed Laurier House. They left us not only a patio, but a supply of pots and fertilizer that gradually revealed themselves as the spring sun melted the snowbanks. They also left us a social bonus that we had not anticipated. To our surprise, the staff seem as excited about our patio as we are. If we happen to be out there when they come in on an errand, they join us and stop for a chat outside. If they don’t have a job to do, they might stop by anyway. First they admire our flowers. “Just look at that basket of yellow! Oh, what fabulous roses! Let me look at the tag so I can get one with those beautiful colours.” Then they reminisce about Paul and May. “Paul and May had this patio full of garden,” they say. “They had so many tomatoes.” Our hearts are warmed by the attachment they obviously feel. It’s like a promise that we too will be fondly recalled. If they come upon us having breakfast out there, or listening to an audio book, they smile with delight and linger a few moments to celebrate the day. Happiness in this place is a reciprocal process where all parties make contributions to the well-being of the others. I step out onto the patio a dozen times a day, sometimes for an hour with David, most of the time by myself for a moment of pleasure. Most of the days have been warm enough to allow David to spend some time out there too. “I wouldn’t be using this patio if you weren’t here,” he says to me, and he is right about that. He would not be able to move his wheelchair over the ramp and through the door. But we are a team, as we have been since the spring of 1972. Over the years our team member responsibilities have shifted depending on the circumstances. Of all the jobs I currently do, the act of guiding David over the ramps to have breakfast among the flowers is my definite favourite.

LAMBERT THE OCCASIONAL CAT (Nursing Home Life part 2)

David: Lambert came in when you opened the door. Me: Lambert! You shouldn’t be here! How did you get in? Lambert the Cat: It’s like David said. I walked in when you opened the door. Me: (following Lambert through the kitchenette) But I didn’t mean to let you in. I was only putting the breakfast tray out on the cart to be returned to the kitchen. Why didn’t you meow outside the door like you usually do? Lambert: Because that wasn’t working. When you heard me, you wouldn’t open the door. Now I’d like to stop for a chat, but I need to inspect your suite. Me: (following Lambert around the living room) You’re not supposed to be in here, you know. You are Helen’s cat. Lambert: Helen’s cat, you say? I beg to differ. I am a cat of the world. Me: (Following Lambert into my bedroom) Pardon me, but as far as I know, your food bowl is in Helen’s suite. Your water bowl is in Helen’s suite. Your litter box is in Helen’s suite. That, in my reckoning, makes you Helen’s cat. Lambert: Nice bedroom you have here. Looks like it’s also the computer room. Oh and here’s a keyboard. Do you play the piano? Me: (following Lambert into David’s bedroom) Yes, sometimes. But you really shouldn’t be here, you know. Lambert: (sniffing the laundry basket) I beg to differ. The brochure clearly states that small pets are permitted. This is a nice desk. Did you get that hospital bed here, or did you bring it when you came? Me: We brought all the furniture. And I think small pets are supposed to stay in the suites occupied by their owners. Lambert: (observing the bathroom) A narrow interpretation of the policy, I’d say. Now let’s go out to the living room for our post-inspection chat, shall we? Me: What if a nurse or a care attendant comes in and finds you here? Lambert: (rubbing against my legs) They shoo me out of places where I’m not wanted. But they’ll be fine with it after you tell them you are happy to have me here. This appears to be a comfortable and inviting suite. Would you like to pet me? Me: (bending down to pet) I just don’t know if this is a good idea. If I pet you, you’ll want to come back again. Lambert: (launching himself into a rocking chair) you are a good petter. I feel the quality of experience mingling with affection in your touch. Still, I sense a hesitation on your part. I’m wondering where all this reluctance is coming from. Do you, by any chance, have a history of contact with cats? Me: (sinking my fingers into his fur) Yes I have a history with cats. I grew up on a farm. Our barn was a great home for cats. They helped us keep the mice at bay. Every year they had kittens. I played with those cats all the time. But I was a kid then, and those were our cats. I was allowed to play with them. Lambert (purring) And is there more? Me: Well, yes. Mark had a cat named Kitty. Mark and Kitty lived in our house for years. It took a while for Kitty to get to know me, but he eventually recognized my better qualities. If I do say so myself, I am the kind of person who appeals to a discerning cat. Lambert: standing at the door) Of course you are, and I am a discerning cat. Now, shall I make you an offer? Me: An offer? Lambert: Yes, an offer. I’ll meow outside your door whenever I want you to open the door. I’ll permit you to pet me when I’m in your suite. You’ll let me out when I meow at the door. I’ll be your occasional cat. You’ll be my occasional person. Me: And what about Helen? Lambert: Oh don’t worry about that. Helen fusses a bit when I’m out. She worries that I might be a bother to others. She’d probably keep me in if she could. She can’t quite catch up to me with her wheelchair you know. But I always let her pet me when I come home. Did you know that petting an animal can help to lower your blood pressure?

MAKING MEMORIES

On Mother’s Day weekend in the future Feasting in cozy cafes and restaurants of rich renoun Will I fail to recall the day I spent beneath an umbrella in a song-bird serenade As the vegetable seeds pierced the surface with their tiny stems and the dandelions grew a foot or more in a single moment? Will I neglect to remember the frosty marguerite in my hand, The fresh blueberries and left-over pizza served with a cheery “there you go, Mother!” My feet cooling in a shallow pool with sand on the bottom for the beach effect? Will I disremember the rosy lips of Baby Carys exploring the pool’s rounded edge As her eyes peered into the sandy water and her hand sought the thrill of a possibly forbidden dip? Will my mind fail to review that tender moment, when after slurping a long and luxurious drink, Bentley launched 88 solid German Shepherd pounds into the cool pool, Ignoring entreaties to come quick for the capture of the mouse who surveyed the scene from beneath the mountain ash? Will I forget the Mother’s Day weekend of 2016? It’s possible, I suppose. For any thing is possible. But I doubt it!

POTHOLES ON THE ROAD TO SELF IMPROVEMENT

“When you see a good person, think of becoming like her/him. When you see someone not so good, reflect on your own weak points.” –Confucius Not long ago we celebrated our fortieth wedding anniversary. It is a notable accomplishment, I would say, to live with a person for forty years and still find that person interesting. But that is how it is, even though he changed a bit, and there were times when he missed the opportunities for self-improvement I so generously presented to him. Take, for example, the modern addiction to electronic games. I was unaltered by it. I was above it. So you can understand how I might have been just a little jealous when hours and hours of time we might have spent reading side by side were transferred to his total engagement of punching keys and flicking fingers. It set me to longing for the olden days when we used to sit in front of the 13-inch portable TV watching WKRP in Cincinnati. Sometimes I would wander into the office where, he said, he was going to update the bank records. But I was on to his deceptions. Bank records don’t cheer and boo you over the computer speakers. I would sit beside him, muttering to myself. “You have wronged me, wronged me,” I would say. Just try to talk to a person playing an electronic game! Just try to get him out of the house for an important visit! “Just a minute,” he would say. “I am almost done.” But any fool could see that he wasn’t. Denial is a common side-effect of addiction. How I wished that he were more like me, more focused, immune to such frivolous addictions. Never a quitter, I tried to change him. I shamed him. I made fun of him. I read more books in an effort to be more interesting than the game of Hearts on the computer. And when all of that failed, I recalled an old saying from my Granny’s stock of wisdom: “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” It was, I convinced myself, a challenge of self-improvement. I was not perfect. I could afford to improve myself a little. I downloaded a card game on my computer and played it for an hour. The game was hard for a blind person to play, not only difficult, but downright boring. So I didn’t copy it over to the new computer we bought five years later. In fact, I didn’t ever play it again after that first day. But in the background, a small and sinister voice whispered to me. “The rest of the world,” it hissed in a threatening tone, “is addicted to electronic games. What is wrong with you?” The road to self-improvement, like so many other roads, is confounded by potholes. Ten years passed, maybe thirteen. We were close, my love and I, yet different. I noticed that he was spending less time playing games on the computer. This would have been good news, except that the extra time was now spent playing games on the iPad with occasional breaks to play on the computer. I was still reading my books. By and by, I acquired an iPhone. I used it for email, and phoning, and even to read books. It is a handy little device. He said—a little unfairly I thought—that I was addicted to the iPhone. But what would he know. He may be a senior manager in a large corporation, but he is not a psychologist. Being a psychologist, I performed a trick of self-evaluation just to prove that I was not addicted. I tested myself to see if I was jealous of the iPad game time. Concluding that I was, I knew the iPhone had not truly caught me in a nefarious web. Just to double prove it, I invested $5.00 to download an audio game. Then I set out to play it. The game is called The Night Jar. Here’s how it works. You put on the earphone and the game tells you are trapped in a ship from which you must escape. Dark matter drips on you. Monsters noisily eat your former shipmates as you pass. You have to find your footing and head for escape doors. You search and you search. You fall a lot. You start over many times. I confess that I wasn’t very good at finding the doors. It wasn’t long until I grew tired of creeping past dark matter. There was good news though. I was a winner even though I never got off the ship. Once again I had proved that I was immune to electronic games addiction. Then came Christmas, season and nostalgia, season of wishes. You have time to remember things at Christmas. I remembered that I had often harboured a secret wish that somebody would give me a game for Christmas. In sixty-one Christmases it has hardly ever happened. It occurred to me that, as a special gift, I could get my own game and prove myself right about electronic games yet again. It would only be $5.00, but then, the last $5.00 was wasted. I decided not to bother, then changed my mind. This time I would look for a free game. Why waste money proving yourself right? I chose a game called Audio Archery. Never having, for one moment, been interested in shooting arrows, I knew I wouldn’t like it. I told my friend Jim about the game, and he said the very idea of a blind person shooting arrows from an electronic bow made him quiver. Still, the energy of downloading it would have been wasted if I did not try. When you play Audio archery, audio targets fly across the path between your left earphone and your right earphone. When the target reaches the centre, you fire your arrow by raising your finger off the screen. If you lift your finger at the right instant, you get a bull’s eye. In order to reach the end of the game, you need a lot of bull’s eyes. You have no control over the targets. They come at you one after the other in rapid succession, 70 in all if you hit enough of them, fewer if you don’t hit enough of them. There’s no way to stop the targets once they start. You have to keep hitting them. You really have to!!! The faster they come, the faster your heart races. It’s a matter of skill, a beautiful dance of concentration. In a perfect world, you would demonstrate perfect concentration. But this is not a perfect world. All too often, your concentration will be broken, jolted by somebody who speaks to you, or expects you to leave the house just when you are almost getting the highest score you ever got. Sometimes your concentration will be so complete, so perfect, that it will not be jolted by such a person until all the targets have crossed your range. Sometimes, between games, I would hear a small voice whispering. “You are addicted,” it would hiss. It was wrong. I knew it was wrong and I could prove it. Just to prove it, I downloaded a game called Seven words. It’s a thinker’s game, the kind of game that improves your vocabulary and enhances your reading. In future, when I have more time, I will demonstrate that my reading has been enhanced. Sometimes I take a break from Seven Words to shoot a few hundred arrows. And even though I still haven’t managed to reach Level 10 in Audio Archery, I feel the adrenalin rush that heralds the approach of true self-improvement. This is how Olympians feel! Things do change when you work hard enough, when you wait long enough. A week has passed since Christmas. I notice a man standing patiently waiting for me when we have a dinner engagement, or a plan to walk the dog. We have a lot in common. Forty years of marriage have drawn us closer.

GOOD-BYE ED

The passing of our friend and neighbour, Ed Pawlovich, was one of the things that made us sad this summer. We knew Ed by reputation even before we met him. Eleven years ago, on the day when we first viewed our current house and wondered whether to buy it, the owner took us out on the front veranda and pointed to Ed’s house. “Ed and Sharon live there,” she said. “They are wonderful neighbours.” We were soon to learn that she was absolutely right. Sharon and Ed made us welcome in the neighbourhood. Ed was a social guy. He worked hard, but he loved to take a break and come over for an hour of what he called ‘porch time’. This involved sitting on the steps of our veranda, petting our dogs, and chatting to us about anything and everything. He never failed to be gracious to us. Even though his flowers were beautiful, he would announce that our flowers were putting his to shame. His snow shovelling was always done before the flakes hit the ground, but if we were shovelling first, he would notice that and say he’d better get to it. . When he saw us building a crooked fence, he came right over to help us straighten it. Ed was a protector of the neighbourhood. He carried a bag on his walks and picked up garbage every day. He made friends with people who lived in the bush and because of that, he could assure us that they were doing no harm. If he noticed that things were getting out of hand, he would be the first to call the City. Ed had interesting things to talk about. Some might have called him a gossip, but people loved to talk with him and to hear what he had to say. He introduced himself to workmen as soon as they entered the neighbourhood. Because of this, he always knew what they were doing. If somebody was building a new house, Ed found out how long they thought it would take. If they were digging sewer lines under the river, then Ed was there for a tour. On our veranda, he would tell us about walking through the underground pipes. He told us stories about growing up in Riverdale. He knew how to find fresh asparagus in the bush. He never told us where it was, but he brought us some to eat when it was at its very best. Ed had a tool for everything. He taught us how to burn off weeds with a torch. He helped us lift ceramic tiles with an ice scraper and scrape off the grouting with an old brick. He had long tools for reaching treetops and short tools for tiny spaces. Once, when our electronic keyboard went silent and no tool would awaken it, he invented long skinny pliers to fix it. We and Ed travelled in different social circles, had different interests. He attended the Big Valley Jamboree. He hated politics and public meetings. He never cared for what he called ‘long-haired music’, the background softness I liked to play at parties. He wouldn’t have thanked you for tickets to the theatre. But Ed was our buddy, pure and simple. One of my favourite Ed memories was made near the end of his life, on his last day of porch time. He was sick. He was exhausted. He was grumbling. I wanted to cheer him a bit, so I smiled at him and called him a curmudgeon. This was a new word for him. After he got home, he sent Sharon out to ask me to repeat it and give her the definition. When we went to his house for ‘kitchen time’ he wanted me to sayit again and he rolled it round and round on his tongue like a shiny new treasure. These days, when we walk in the park, people stop to give us their condolences. They tell us how much they will miss Ed. They know we will be lonely without him. We are lonely, but he has left us all with some really great memories.

VOICES IN THE MIRROR

There are mirrors all over my house—in the bathrooms, in the bedrooms, in the hall. These mirrors do their work for others, reflecting back the image that can be altered, disdained, admired. My personal mirror is the mirror of the ear. It has many voices. Some I like better than others. Sometimes I ask them questions. “Tell me the truth now,” I will say, fishing, perhaps, for compliments, “do I look fat in these pants?” Sometimes I will check for the signs that will most surely give me away as a blind person the moment I walk out the door. “Are there any spots on this blouse?” Sometimes the commentary on my reflection comes to me unbidden, but welcome in a perverse way. “Oh Mother, your roots need rescuing.” How else would I know when it was time for the chemicals? They say blondes have more fun. Nobody tells you anything about the fun ratio for blondes with telltale roots. In the most perplexing of all events, the voices of my reflection fight with each other. One will say, “You can wear this top with those pants.” Then another will chime, “No she can’t dad. Those don’t go at all.” Who, I wonder, decides how colours blend? Looking good, I have concluded, is a matter of taste. How often is my appearance the reflection of someone else’s taste? If yours is the mirror of the ear, then you trust somebody first. On the best days, your trust is rewarded with back up from sources who have nothing to gain or lose. Sometimes somebody who loves me will help me pick out a new dress, and then I’ll wear that dress to work, and even before I get there a stranger will say to me, “That dress looks so good on you. So bright and cheery.” That’s what happened with this dress that I bought in Texas, on a day when I wasn’t actually shopping for anything, which is why I wear it on occasions when I need to look good. That’s why I like it so much. Somehow, it just seems to suit me.

SONG FOR DAVID

YOU’RE MY BEST FRIEND My favourite song by The Once from Newfoundland. Enough said. It speaks for itself.

THE BLAME GAME

If David hadn’t asked me about my day, then I wouldn’t have mentioned the potholes I had encountered on the street. If I hadn’t mentioned the potholes to David, he wouldn’t have advised me not to walk on that street. If he hadn’t advised me not to walk on that street, then I might not have chosen to ignore that advice. If I hadn’t ignored that advice, then I wouldn’t have stepped in the pothole while rushing home the very next day. And I wouldn’t have been thrown forward. And I wouldn’t have broken the bones in my foot. And I wouldn’t be wearing this aircast. And I wouldn’t be spending my days with my feet up instead of walking. And I wouldn’t be spending my hard-earned money on taxis. And I wouldn’t be feeling so sorry for myself. But here I am, in the merry month of may, sitting in a chair and propping my foot and sleeping in an aircast and taking pain pills and riding in taxis and feeling sorry for myself. And who is to blame for all this suffering? It’s and open and shut case. I blame David.

CHAIN LETTER

The other day I got a chain letter. It was a different sort of chain letter, not the familiar kind that you send on without making changes, propelled to send it on by the threat of bad luck to the first chain-breaker. This chain letter changed with every sending. In fact, it was a bit of a tangled chain. It tangled on its weaving journey, shuttling back and forth across the country, traveling across the world and coming back. Its order was tangled too, email being what it is, always showing us the last letter first, previous correspondence chained below. And the topic was a bit tangled, though the theme was clearly hope, hope that became more entangled with love as it traversed the generation gap and returned by a slightly different route. I was intrigued to find myself both at the end of the chain and in the middle. So I untangled it. On March 31, Easter Sunday, Mark rogers from Waterloo Ontario wrote a piece on hope to his colleagues at Habitat for Humanity. This is what he wrote. “I thought I would send out my weekly rant today in order to wish you and those you love a very Happy Easter! Regardless of your religious persuasion, I think just about anyone can appreciate the message and themes of the Easter story, namely: suffering, sacrifice, resurrection, new life. Each year, millions of people around the world rally to celebrate this message because it has such profound significance for everyone of us. For at its core, it’s a story of hope and new beginnings. And who us could live without a sense of hope, or survive this journey of life without second chances? In his best-selling book, Man’s Search for Meaning, former Holocaust survivor, Viktor Frankl, chronicles his experiences as a concentration camp prisoner which led him to discover the importance of finding meaning in all forms of existence, even the most sordid ones, and thus a reason to continue living. In a heart-wrenching manner, Frankl describes the essential difference that characterizes those that survived these unfathomable circumstances from those that did not. His answer: HOPE! Without a sense hope humans by nature surrender to their circumstances, believing that their present conditions will remain the same no matter what effort is exerted to change them. And yet, with a sense of hope, regardless of how granular that hope may be, individuals can overcome almost unimaginable situations and triumph in the end. As Martin Luther King, Jr. once stated, “We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.” Building Homes, Building Hope! I want you to stop today and truly reflect on that tag line, because it’s more than just our organizational banner. It’s who we are in the world. It’s what we represent to people around the globe. It’s our mission, our meaning, and our message! Far more than simply building shelters for families in need of affordable housing, we offer them a sense of hope, enrichment, optimism, and new beginnings. And when people sense they have even “a chance” for a better life, it’s astonishing what they will do with it! Just ask any of our Habitat partner families! Frankly, I cannot think of a better organization, a better mission, or a better message to be associated with on this Easter Sunday! Building Homes, Building Hope! It may very well be the best message you could share with someone this Easter!” On April 2, a colleague on Vancouver Island responded to that email with a note of her own, sent back to Waterloo. She wrote: “Good morning, Mark. I just wanted to send you a very personal note about your rant this morning. Nine years ago today, my first husband lost his battle with cancer. He had been diagnosed with terminal cancer about two and a half years prior. Things progressed very quickly for us, as he found out that he had cancer in September 2001 and, within about another month, found out that he was terminally ill and had basically no hope of survival. Your message was especially poignant for me today as I remembered that he had meetings with Wendy Edey of the University of Alberta’s Hope Studies Central regarding his situation and how he found hope, even in the midst of his seemingly hopeless situation. We also met with Wendy together once and discussed how we were both able to find hope even in the very grim situation that we found ourselves in (our sons were 10 and 12 at the time of diagnosis). I remember that we just cried and cried and cried. He thinking about the end of his earthly life and missing all the significant events in our sons’ lives and me trying to figure out how I could possibly go on without him and raise our boys on my own. With some thought-provoking questions from Wendy, he admitted that he felt confident and hopeful that his family would be okay and would carry on after his passing and I admitted that, even though I thought it would take a very long time, that I felt hopeful that the boys and I would continue to live our lives and would eventually be able to find comfort in happy memories instead of always being surrounded by the rawness of our grief. This is getting a bit long, so I will wrap it up! In a nutshell, I truly believe that Habitat for Humanity can provide a beacon of hope for families, even when they feel that their situation is utterly hopeless.” Later on April 2, Mark distributed that note to some Habitat colleagues. One of them was Mary in Edmonton, who read it with interest, recognizing my name, knowing that our daughters are friends. . And so, even later on April 2, Mary passed the email along to Kate in south Africa. On April 3, Kate sent the email to Ruth in Guelph Ontario, just a short drive from Waterloo. On April 5, Ruth sent the email to her mother in Edmonton. “Somebody wrote about you,” she said when she sent it. And along that tangled chain, my words of hope work, spoken at a time of great suffering and remembered for 12 years, came back to me.

WHAT DO TAX AUDITORS NEED?

In one of those twists of probability that surely can only happen to a hope speaker, I found myself standing before a hotel ballroom filled with tax auditors—yes, tax auditors hearing a speech from THE HOPE LADY. A slight diversion from the usual assortment of social workers and patients with chronic disease. In this business you never know what might be around the corner. Now I would be less than honest if I claimed a long history of respect for the tax auditing profession. Some of my most colourful not-heard-from-the-mouth-of-THE-HOPE-LADY language I keep in reserve for the every-so-often days when they send me the letters demanding that I prove I am still blind and therefore entitled to the full amount of the disability exemption. . More of that language is saved for the days when they write for proof that we actually gave all that money we claimed to have given to charity. But the lady who arranged the speech and shaped the topic made the case with eloquence. “Tax auditors need hope too,” she said. And when I thought about how it must feel to be the people it’s okay to hate, even in our tolerance-striving society, it seemed that she was probably right.

JOY TRIGGERS

The study of psychology has given us a lot of talk about triggers—triggers of negative emotions that is. Triggers are memories that produce emotions. We have trauma triggers that cause people to relive terrible events, anger triggers that bring a history of events to boil together at the surface. But we also have joy triggers. Why is it that we so rarely speak of joy triggers? Joy triggers do what anger triggers and trauma triggers do. They focus attention. They change the mood. But unlike anger and trauma triggers, they change it in a good way. I have a few joy triggers. I am always grateful to myself on those occasions when I am smart enough to remember that I have them, those times when I call them up for the pleasure of having them. One is a memory made recently, this year in fact. David had been attending a conference in Virginia. He had been gone a week. I planned to join him for a vacation in Washington DC. The trip began badly. My flight was leaving late—so late that my connection in Chicago would most certainly be missed. “Settle down,” I said to my beating heart as we languished on the runway going nowhere. Then the pilot finally got the go-ahead. He took to the windy skies and raced the wind. Instead of being hours late, we arrived in Chicago only one hour late. There was a little bit of hope. My connecting flight was also late. But Chicago is a very big airport and I am a blind person. “I’m going to miss my connection,” I said to the United Airlines agent who came to help me. “Maybe not Honey,” she said. She crackled her radio. Here began an incredible journey. We sprinted the length of moving sidewalks. We boarded buses. We pushed through crowds. We vaulted up escalators. We rush through a gate. We sped down a tunnel. We greeted a steward. And then we arrived. I sat in a middle seat near the rear and the crew closed the door. I don’t think I felt joy then, only relief. The joy came sometime around midnight at Ben’s on U street. David and I sat touching fingertips across a table and shouting at one another over the din. Obama-eating-there pictures festooned the walls. It’s the memory of how it felt to be there in that moment of French fries and rock-and-roll that starts the joy flowing. A second joy trigger for me is much older. I was pregnant for the second time. The first time had unfolded as a series of joyless events that involved blood, nausea, hospitals, waiting rooms, tests and never produced a baby. The second time began like the first, with nausea and waiting rooms. Then one sunny Tuesday afternoon Dr. Boulton produced an electronic stethoscope and placed it where the baby ought to be. A moment later I could hear a train chugged, chug, chug chug. I almost expected to hear a whistle. I did hear a whistle. The doctor had whistled. “That’s your baby’s heartbeat,” he said. “This baby has a heartbeat. Things are much better this time.” Thus I was introduced to the baby of unknown gender who would soon be lovingly referred to as “Mark.” That was 1979. this 9s 2012. And still it takes only a second’s recall to bring back the joy.

MEN ARE FROM MARS

Twenty years have passed since John Gray published his landmark book Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. I have been thinking of late about how this book started a revolution in the way that men and women are encouraged to help each other deal with problems. There were probably others before it, but Gray’s book was the first one that got my attention because it spoke to both genders in languages that made sense to them. What’s more, it was focused on the idea of using these differences to build relationships. I have been telling my colleagues lately how the world of getting help for men has changed. I feel it strongly when I go to conferences. In fact, I’ve been to three this year that featured programs that speak directly to men in an attention-gripping way. It used to be that such speakers spoke to women. It’s a refreshing change, given the number of men who come to counselling certain that they will be blamed for everything and cast as villains. But now I’m off track. Back to John Gray’s book. Men, said Gray, tend to face problems by retreating into caves and paying attention to things other than the problem. This, he says, is a natural reaction to stress. Women, by contrast, want to talk things over right away and they become even more stressed when the opportunity is not available. I’ve never cared much for the idea of gender stereotyping, so when I first saw Gray’s book I was suspicious. But I have to hand it to him. Here was a man who could explain men to women and save thousands of relationships in the doing. It was a step toward a change in the helping professions that took several years to get a grip. But these days I see at conferences that there is a different kind of help for couples, a help that works better because it is more appreciative of gender differences in the way we naturally handle stress. That gives me a lot of hope.

THE HOMEY SWEATER

Some things last longer than you expect them to. So it is with the wear-it-around-home sweater I call my homey sweater. My homey sweater doesn’t look like a sweater that wood last. Woven from some mysteriously stretchy yarn in a pattern resembling the popcorn stitch, you’d think its fuzzy edges would catch, pull and disintegrate to strings and balls. Believing I might only have it for a short time, I wore it sparingly when first it came to me. I met that sweater in September 2005, a bright, breezy September like this one. Early mornings arrived with a chill. In all other ways, that September was different from all others before and since. On the nights when I was able I drowsed brokenly on the cot in Mom’s hospital suite. Palliative Care was marked on the door sign. Every few minutes Mom would cry out and I would speak softly to her, stretching out the time, ramping down the tension, knowing it was too soon for the next painkiller. I’d read to her, tell her stories, sing songs, make promises. If she could be calmed she would rest again. I would doze again. Mornings dawning that September brought brilliant sunshine, chilly breezes. I’d lie a few moments of quiet, waiting for something to happen. When the hospital lights went down and the halls began to stir I would collect my weary self, grab a sweater from the end of Mom’s bed, and step out onto the patio. Closing the door behind me, I’d make phone calls, to Dad, to David, to my kids, to my sisters, to my brother. “A restless night,” I’d say. “We’re okay. See you later on.” Snug in Mom’s sweater, I’d hover in the ever-increasing swirls of autumn leaves, wondering how long it would be, how many more mornings I’d be here, how many mornings Mom would be here. The air was crisp, not the air of summer. Months ago I had wondered this. “We are talking in terms of weeks,” a doctor had said, back in early July. Back then, with work in its summer slowness, I easily developed the patterns of spending time. Work could wait, other things could wait. Now, with September pushing forward, promising October soon behind, people were looking for commitment from me. “I don’t know if I can be there,” I would say. “I might be there. You’ll need to have a back-up plan in case I can’t.” There was a back-up plan for a weeklong course I would have taught to health care staff from Manitoba. There was a back-up plan for a speech at the Canadian Palliative Care Association on September 28, and a good thing too, because that was a day when I could not make it. “Use the time you have,” I said to myself. “Stay here for the time you have.” The day when I would have been speaking on hope in palliative care was the day when we at last gathered up the things that had been brought to Mom’s room over the past few weeks. There were magazines and slippers, Tupperware containers, flower vases, bags of candy, packages of cinnamon buns, the accordion I had played to comfort her, assorted articles of clothing. We carried it all to the car. My arms were full. I wore Mom’s sweater out the front door, the efficient way to transport it. After so many hours spent inside, I haven’t been back in that room or on that patio since. Mom’s sweater was a white sweater, looking quite new at the time when first I began to wear it, not so old even now, though seven years ought to have dimmed the memory of how it felt to shrug in and out of it during that distant September. It’s the kind of sweater you wear, and wash, and wear, and wash and wear again. It’s light on your arms, warm in the cold, , a warm sweater that breathes, the right arm length, the right waist length. It is a comfortable sweater. I could see why she bought it, why she took it with her to the hospital. It seemed fragile when I took it home. “I’ll keep it for a while,” I said. “It won’t last long. It will be stained. It will snag. It will go to balls.” At first I wore it sparingly, not wanting to face the time when it, like Mom, would move beyond my reach. But that homey sweater has staying power. It travels about the house, perching on newel posts, hanging on the backs of chairs, resting on the back door bench, even hanging in the closet occasionally. Still reasonably clean, still reasonably free from snags and balls, it has lasted much longer than I ever expected. That sweater never minds being shrugged off wherever I leave it. It waits for a chill. “Put me on,” it beckons. “I will warm you. Use the time we have.” It’s my homey sweater.

STUNG!!!

I’ve been stung!!! The first sting occurred on Wednesday, early evening. I was walking up the veranda steps when—Pow!!!! Something got me in the heel, just above my sandal strap. A less truthful person would report my having said, “Oh my, that hurts.” The second sting happened about an hour later, as I walked, barefoot, (the sandal strap was bothering my swollen ankle) across that same veranda. That one hit the bottom of the unstung foot. Was it a wasp? No, It was a rose briar, attached to a clump of rose leaves. The tireless wind had plucked them from the nearby rose bush. Even a less truthful person wouldn’t credibly be able to report that I said, “Oh my, that hurts.” The third sting struck on Thursday, on the arm just above my watch strap. That one was definitely a wasp. Shamelessly, he headed off to join his house mates, who had taken up residence in the safe haven under the broad front steps. “I’ve been stung!!” I wailed at Mark. And then, to add emphasis, “I’ve been stung twice!” Mark has a proven track record in wasp warriorship. Was it only last weekend that he sprayed a line of killler foam into a wasp home in the siding behind his deck? Buoyed by my confidence in him as the potential solver of large problems, Mark rose to hero status. A less truthful person would report that he cried, “I’ll save you Mother!” That’s how bravely he acted. Striking up a pose that Superman would have envied, he pounded a foot on the veranda’s bottom stetp. The results were immediate. Out flew a colony of wasps, heading straight for Pirate the dog, the innocent by-stander. “Help Pirate,” shouted Mark. Pirate and I have been stung! Surprisingly, since Pirate—though not much for profanity-- has not been known as the silent type, didn’t say a word, he just ran in desperate circles until he was at last captured by Mark, who extracted a tormentor that had accidentally become entangled in the long hair between his eyes. When the excitement had died down, and the killer foam had been sprayed, and all that remained was the hum of the colony now trapped, suffocating in a formerly safe residence, I went inside to remove the watch from my swelling arm. Pirate followed me in and caught an airborn wasp. He chewed it into little pieces and swallowed every one. Mark went home to check the deck for wasps. Just one mor eexample to prove that each of us has our own way of responding when we’ve been stung.