TIME TO HOPE

The dishes in my dishwasher are clean. I plan to get them out and put them away—later. In the meantime, I am writing to stave off the boredom that comes from having too much time at home and too little to do. Emptying the dishwasher is not the only thing I plan to do later. It is just one of the small things. Tuesday was a great day for putting things off. On Tuesday I didn’t take the garbage out or deliver the recycling to the bin. I didn’t update my financial records or strip the bed. You might think I am procrastinating, but really, I am generating self-hope. It will be better to think about a long period of self-isolation if I know there will be enough things to do in the future. It’s far too painful to contemplate a future with too little to do. I’ve known people who practice behaviors that I think of as reverse hope. Reverse hope helps us dread the future by making ourselves miserable in the present. Many years ago a friend of mine started sleeping on an uncomfortable bed. She had a comfortable bed, but she would be giving it up in three weeks and she thought she’d better start getting used to the new one before she was forced to sleep in it. Later I met a woman who refused to get out of bed because she wanted to avoid a fall that might break a hip. “I don’t want to break a hip and be bed-ridden,” she said. In good times, hope allows us to look forward to the future. In the not-so-good times, hope allows us to think about the future and be okay in the present. At present I am looking forward to a future in which I will avoid doing certain things by keeping busy doing things I want to do. Come to think of it, I can do that right now. I may empty the dishwasher today, but I am definitely not going to tidy my underwear drawer. If I am to have all this unsolicited available time at home, I plan to avoid wasting it on things I would naturally want to avoid, like cleaning out my closets and kitchen cupboards. I’d rather write. It’s a hope thing.

GRANNY AT THE ZOO

“Granny, I need an adult to play red panda with me,” says Ben, age seven. It is late afternoon on a hot sunny vacation day. We are three generations, sharing a two-storey hotel room. Kids and Granny sleep on the lower floor. Parents sleep directly above. Ben’s parents, pleased to see Granny taking over, are headed for the shower. “Okay Ben, I say with more confidence than I feel. “What do I have to do?” “It’s easy,” says Ben. “I am a red panda in a zoo. You are giving tours.” Our hotel room is ideally arranged for this endeavor. The zoo is a top bunk that doubles as Ben’s bed. The staircase runs up alongside the bunks. Near the top of the stairs there’s a hole in the wall that affords climbers a good view of the bunk. Ben heads for his habitat. I head for the stairs, examining my credentials as I go. . I am suspecting that my knowledge and experience have not adequately prepared me for this job. On the plus side, I was once seven years old and I have presented myself to others as an animal. I was fairly convincing as a pig perhaps, or a dog, possibly a chicken and occasionally a turkey. My expertise came organically. These were the inhabitants in the farm yards of my youth and my knowledge of them was acquired without the enhancement of formal study. I knew where they slept and what they ate. I could have given an impromptu tour of a farm yard to impress any grandchild. As for the red panda, I’ve never been near one. How much do I know about the species? Absolutely nothing. In a desperate bid to buy myself some time, I kneel on the stairs and assemble a crowd of imaginary children, accompanied by imaginary parents. “Notice the panda’s red coat,” I declare, hoping that the red panda has been named descriptively. Later I will ask myself why I didn’t decline this job opportunity at the outset. But I know the answer. The parents needed a shower. With unwarranted optimism I summon my creative powers. Suddenly I remember that I am a tour guide with duties that extend beyond animal description. The safety of the animals and the visitors is my utmost concern. “Please keep your children well back from the fence,” I admonish the parents who have come to the zoo, pointing an accusing finger at one imaginary mother who has allowed a toddler to cross the line. “And don’t even consider feeding Red Panda,” I scold. “That peanut in your hand could choke this precious creature.” To reinforce the point, I pause in my speech and glare at the assembled crowd. “Tell them more,” says Ben. “Tell them about me.” Later I will ask myself why I didn’t volunteer to be the red panda and invite Ben to be the tour guide. Now, grasping at straws, I turn to the imaginary children, a question in my voice. “Can you tell me,” I say, “what is the difference between the red panda and other pandas?” I am hoping there is more than one kind of panda. Perhaps pandas are like bears. Maybe there are brown pandas and black pandas. The imaginary children have been silenced by my previous scolding. They wait for me to answer, and I wonder another thing. How long does it take for the average Canadian parent to have a shower? I keep that question to myself. Suddenly I remember that Ben and I are not alone. I seize the opportunity to extend my reach. “Are there any children not on this tour who can tell me about the different kinds of pandas?” As I say this, I am appealing directly to Ben’s five-year-old brother Evan. He has observed my performance in uncharacteristic silence, but now he comes to my rescue. “There are red pandas and giant pandas,” he tells me and the imaginary audience. “The giant pandas are bears. The red pandas are cats.” “Well done,” I enthuse. “What else can you tell us about the red panda?” “Granny,” says Ben, “Evan is not a human. He is a cloud leopard in the cage next to mine. I want you to tell them what I eat.” I want to tell them this also, and I would tell them, if I knew. Another inspiration hits me. “Hello red panda,’ I say cloyingly, keeping my hands well back from the cage. “You are certainly a hungry fellow. Tell these tourists what you are eating right now.” “Bamboo,” says my red panda. “They have planted it especially for me. Now tell them where I live.” Hmmm. Where does the red panda live? I’m pretty sure I won’t get away with asking Ben to tell the audience where he lives. So I check my mental library. I’ve never been to Africa Asia or Australia so they might be there. I’ve never heard mention of red pandas in south America, and I’m pretty sure there aren’t any in Edmonton. I decide to take a chance. “We find red pandas in Asia,” I say, “In China.” “Mostly in Nepal,” says the cloud leopard in the cage next to Ben. I think of Nepal, everything I know about Nepal. Isn’t that where Everest is? “Look for red pandas in the mountains,” I say, “on the upper slopes.” This seems to satisfy Ben. “Now tell them about me,” says Evan the cloud leopard. Unfortunately, I know as much about the cloud leopard as I knew about the red panda. Still I forge ahead. While I give the speech about the dangers of feeding the cloud leopard, and scold the imaginary parents for letting their children come too close to the cage, I reflect on how times have changed. When I was Seven I came home from school and turned on the television. There I learned about history and nature. The Flintstones taught me about life in the Stone Age and the Beverly Hillbillies educated me about life in Tennessee. Bugs Bunny taught me everything I needed to know about rabbits. Much of the time was spent watching commercials and preparing my Christmas list. In contrast, Ben and Evan know nothing about commercials because their parents don’t pay for cable television. Mommy downloads nature videos and podcasts. When Christmas comes near she says, “Granny, why don’t you get them a subscription to Kids Geographic?” This selective exposure has led to a limited education. They have taught me that the red-crested cardinal is a tanager not a cardinal, and the pine marten is a mammal while the purple martin is a bird. So far they’ve shown little interest in learning about Fred and Wilma Flintstone. And here is a problem. The parents are enjoying their shower. What is a granny to do? Suddenly I have a great idea. It is time to swallow my pride. “Evan,” I say, “Before I conduct the tour, I need a little education. Would you please tell me a few things about the cloud leopard?”

MOVIES

David and I spent 47 years together. During that time we saw very few movies. We were not much harmed by this lack, but it did stunt our capacity to participate in conversations about movies and to enjoy watching the Academy Awards. We might have watched more movies had it not been for the combination of two factors: David was a loud whisperer and a quiet sleeper. Had he been a quiet whisperer and a loud sleeper the situation might have been entirely different. But then, if I had been a sighted person rather than a blind person, none of it would have mattered. Movie theatres were fewer, larger and more crowded back in 1972 when our dating life began. We would wait in line for tickets and wedge into seats among strangers sitting beside, in front and behind. Things would be fine in this cozy environment until David would notice something happening on the screen and determine that I needed to know it. Then he would whisper a description—sort of whisper--more like a mutter really. “They’re walking across a street. Really tall buildings on both sides.” It suited me fine, but our fellow watchers didn’t like it much. If you listened carefully, you could hear them grumbling. “Quieter,” I’d whisper. It was my best advice, but he didn’t like it much. “I can’t be quieter,” he’d mutter. “Try harder,” I’d whisper—well, maybe it was more of a yelling whisper. Nobody liked it much. Not David. Not the people around us. Still we soldiered along for a while, searching every theatre for the least inhabited space where David could mutter descriptions. If there was one point, one single event that changed our behavior, it was likely the evening when we bumbled obliviously into a German movie with English sub-titles. Five minutes later we were back in the lobby, beging for a refund. “Other customers don’t like it when I read the subtitles to Wendy,” David sanctimoniously explained to the reluctant teen-ager behind the cash register. With no manager on site, he cut his losses and refunded our ticket price. It seemed that many people might be better off if David and I watched TV movies at home. Fortunately, he was a good-natured guy. If he regretted exchanging the big screen for our 13-inch black and white he did not complain. We would find a comfortable position, quite often lying on the couch together. The movie would start. He would describe the action in a normal voice. All would be well. As the movie progressed I would find it easier to follow, being familiar with the characters and what they might do. There was not so much need for help from David. But every silver lining has its cloud. While I was following the plot, he was falling asleep, only I wouldn’t know it, his being a quiet sleeper and all. “Bang bang!” a gun would shoot. “Who got shot?” I’d demand to know. “Shot? I don’t know,” David would reply sleepily. “Why didn’t you wake me up?” This is how a tiny spark of lovers’ quarrel blows into a raging blaze. “If you loved me you’d stay awake,” I’d shout. Neither of us liked it much. We were happily married, perhaps because we learned to reduce the possibility of those bang bang moments. They seldom occurred if we limited our movie watching to movies we’d already seen. Take, for example, The Sound of Music, or It’s A Wonderful Life. Now that David is gone, I find to my great surprise that I am watching a lot of movies, as many as one a day, sometimes two in a row, occasionally three. The stars have aligned to make it possible. Shaw channel 49 shows nothing but movies, I have plenty of spare time, and things have changed more than you might imagine. There’s no longer much need to whisper to blind people in theatres. Many movies now come with description for the visually impaired. You can ask the ticket clerk for a little machine with earphones to hear the extra information. At home you can push a few buttons and if they have recorded description you can hear it on your TV along with the movie sounds. There are many movies which have not yet been described. These are annoying, but now there are options that don’t require the participation of a spouse. If you need to know who shot who when a gun bangs, you can always get the anser in a full plot outline from Wikipedia. You don’t build up much movie history watching one or two new movies per year. The films I watch these days, so old to others, are new to me. You might recognize some of the names: To Kill a Mockingbird, Steel Magnolias, The bells of St. Mary’s, In The Heat Of The Night, Casablanca, Funny Girl, the Judy Garland version of A star Is Born. With great relish I drop their names in conversations with friends, mentioning plot details with such vivid intensity that I might have heard them only yesterday. Those who haven’t seen these movies in four decades are left with the impression that I am a remarkable movie enthusiast with a fabulous memory. Of course, when you discuss movies with friends, the topic inevitably turns to modern movies, to recent and future academy awards. In this realm I am no wiser than I used to be. But reputation is everything. Having already established myself in their eyes as a movie expert, I find it convenient to sit back with great interest and ask for their opinions.

DELIGHTS

“The more you study delight, the more delight there is to study.” –Ross Gay I am always on the look-out for new books, so my ears perked up when a radio program mentioned The Book of delights by ross Gay. In fact, the whole program was about delights, from the book and other places too. I’d been reading a lot about grief lately—appreciating it and yet wanting to move on. It struck me that this might just be the book I needed. “You should search for that book,” I said to myself, knowing I probably wouldn’t find it. It was the middle of the night when I heard that program. The chances of my remembering to look for it by morning were very slim. I turned off the radio, turned my pillow to the cool side and let it go. But I did remember to search for it! Right after breakfast there was one unscheduled half hour to spare before I needed to leave the house for our weekly bridge game. Ignoring the inner call to check my bank statement and reconcile my finances, I went straight to the website of the Edmonton Public Library. To my surprise I found an on-line audio version of the Book of Delights. Usually, when a book is recommended on the radio, fifty people go to the Internet and put it on hold before I get there. But this particular link said: Available. So I clicked Download. What’s more, I was able to figure out how to download it on my iPhone on the fourth or fifth try. I’d already heard the preface and half the first chapter before it was time to leave. Face it! I was a bit delighted. Now the game of bridge is known for the grief it causes when the social benefits become less important than the joy of winning. Fortunately for me, our bridge club is not afflicted by this misalignment of priorities. There’s plenty of time for visiting, and an occasional additional advantage. You win more games if you can interest your opponents so thoroughly in your topic that they are distracted from the task of bidding to win. “I’m reading The Book of delights by Ross Gay,” I announced in the spirit of helpfulness for the readers at our table. There was wonder in my voice. My opponent Mary-Lou looked up from her cards. “Oh,” she said, “I hope it’s not stupid like that book about awesome.” “What do you mean by stupid?” I answered in surprise. Believe me, I was genuinely interested. I have heard interviews with the author, Neil Pasricha, and visited the 1000 Awesome Things website, but I didn’t read the book. “Just stupid,” she repeated, “Unimportant if you like. For example, turning your pillow over to the cold side. When I read I am looking for something more substancial than that.” Silence fell. I was prepared to engage her in a debate about the inherent value of positive emotions such as awe and delight. But her partner was waiting for her to bid. “Oh,” she cried, “is it my turn to bid? One club!” “One club?” cried her partner in dismay. They didn’t win that game. But then, as my partner and I observed, winning isn’t so important in a social group. It was an awesome morning. Delightful, really!

MOURNING AT A WRITERS CLUB

“They tell you to keep busy or even to move out of your house. But in my experience, remembering the past makes hoping for the future possible.” --Alan D. Wolfelt “When you are sorrowful look again into your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.” – Kahlil Gibran The Central Lions Seniors Association has a Tuesday morning writers club. We members write at home and read our writing together. My companions in this endeavour are an eclectic lot. They write about all sorts of interesting things: a mistress of Louis XV; the rise and fall of polio; attending a Rose Bowl game in Pasadena; the extraordinary dietary preferences of cats. With a few exceptions I usually write about one thing: my experience of reconciling with grief. I’d like to write about other things. Maybe someday I will. Those who write about grief and bereavement tell us our society is intolerant of grief, impatient for us mourners to move on. With this in mind I tend to approach the Tuesday musings with a cautious suspicion. This is the first time I’ve gathered with the same writers, week after week, month after month. I notice, in their passing comments, that the members worry about boring each other. I worry about that too. Can the day be far off when a weary listener will jump up screaming: “All right already! Get over it!” Alan Wolfelt is a renowned authority on grief. He differentiates between grieving and mourning. He says grieving is what you feel on the inside. Mourning is the outward expression of the grief. Mourning is the thing you do in order to reconcile with grief. Spoiler alert! He says the grieving may never stop and the mourning can go on for a long time. Sometimes I ask myself why, when I was looking for activity to fill my time, I chose to join a writers club rather than a grief support group. The people in a support group would have been sympathetic. They would have expected expressions of mourning. The leaders would have encouraged me to share my pain. So why choose a writers’ club? The answer is: I didn’t compare the two. I joined a writers club because I like to write for fun. I figured I wouldn’t need a support group if I was having enough fun. I didn’t have any topics in mind. I expected to make a few people laugh a little. How was I to know that my journey through grief would show up in almost everything I wrote, exposing my pain to a captive audience of unsuspecting strangers? Alan Wolfelt writes that mourners have six needs: acknowledge the reality of the death; embrace the pain of the loss; remember the person who died; develop a new self-identity; search for meaning; receive ongoing support from others. From my perspective, some of these needs take care of themselves. Others are more dependent on action from me. Some people have trouble acknowledging the reality of death. I’m having no difficulty with this. We spent several hours with David’s body after he stopped breathing. I’ve got the paperwork to prove it and his clothes are long gone. As for the pain, it does not wait for my embrace. It holds me in a hammer lock. After 47 years of closeness in David’s company, it’s quite an adjustment to accommodate the fact that other people don’t need to remember him as often as I do. I am working on that. Things get even more complicated when it comes to developing a new self-identity and finding meaning. That’s going to take a while. As for seeking ongoing support from others, that support can come in many forms. It might come in the company of close friends, or in a group united by a common thread. Grief support groups unite around the process of mourning. Is there any reason to take it elsewhere? Grief, I have found, is more persistent and more flexible than you might think. It is welcome in a support group, but it doesn’t need one so much if you can find other places to take it. It will tag along wherever you choose to go. Writers clubs unite around the process of writing. With little choice but to listen, the members of our writers club have graciously made room for my pain. It holds its own alongside the fascinating variety of topics others bring. Mourning is not a stable condition. The commitment to present writing to a group on a regular basis has helped me shape it in ways that offer some encouragement to me and possibly some entertainment value to us all. Grief doesn’t have to show up at a writers club naked and shivering. You can dress it up in stories. In recent weeks I have written about choirs, marshmallow parties and even Groundhog Day. Each story holds some quirky progress, the documentation of something getting better. Writing is a solitary activity. You explore topics of your own interest. You make your own meaning in your own words. A writers club gives you the added benefit of group support when you share that meaning in your own voice. It disappoints me some to discover that I have no choice about whether to grieve. I expected to be moving on by now. But I do have some choices about how to mourn. Mourning is not so bad if you can make it playful. Playfulness is welcome among writers. Perhaps that is the best defense against the possibility that some fellow writer will stand up and shout: “Enough already! Get over it!”

MARSHMALLOWS

In the months following David’s death our son Lawrence would come over to watch TV in my livingroom. There I would occasionally come upon him, sitting in the chairs his father used to occupy, reaching down the sides to retrieve long lost treasures trapped in the upholstery between the arms and the cushions. “What are you finding?” I’d ask. I would be thinking of spare change and other things that escape from pockets. “Marshmallows,” he’d reply. And sure enough, he’d come up with a dusty dried-up miniature cylinder that must have been there for a while. “To the garbage,” I’d say. “In a minute,” he’d reply. “There are only minis here. I guess when Dad was eating the bigger ones they never fell down that far.” I’ve always been drawn to the sensuality of marshmallows. It’s not just the sweetness that compels me. I love their shape, their ends, flat enough to stand for themselves, and their round, rollable bodies. A marshmallow is a silent treat. Ten of them could roll off the counter and you’d still be able to hear a pin drop as they hit the floor. They are pliable yet resilient. They know what shape they are supposed to be, and somehow they manage to hold themselves and be pillow-soft at the same time. They are simultaneously smooth and rough. Heat them a bit and they’ll stick your fingers together, strong as Crazy Glue. Run warm water over your fingers and the marshmallow glue will disappear completely. From the perspective of physical properties, a marshmallow is a wondrous thing. As I began thinking about writing this piece, I was surprised to find that the only thing I really knew about marshmallows was how to eat them. How were they named? How were they made? Fortunately, Wikipedia was there to save the day. There is a plant, known as the mallow that grows in marshes and damp areas of Europe, Asia and North Africa. The mention of it brings to mind a lush green tree with puffy confections on all the branches. Miniatures would peak out from between the leaves, waiting to grow. But it wasn’t quite that simple. Showing characteristic leadership, the ancient Egyptians ground up the mallow roots, mixed them with other substances, whipped air into the sticky mixture and ate it for medicinal purposes. Much later the French figured out that you could fill a deep tray with corn starch, make holes in it, and pour in the melted marshmallow mixture. When the centre cooled and the starch hardened on the exterior, you could lift out the marshmallows which now had a soft elastic skin. Even later the process was refined to exclude the mallow plant. Modern marshmallows are made by heating corn syrup with sugar and mixing it with dissolved gelatin. The gooey mass is then fed through an extruder. It emerges as a long tube which is subsequently cut into pieces and coated in cornstarch. Lawrence has never cared much for family parties. Any excuse to miss one would do. So I was taken by surprise when he said we ought to have a party on January 10, the first anniversary of David’s death, all the more proof that grief changes people in ways you’d never predict. “We need to have marshmallows,” he said, “And Safeway white cake with thick icing.” It sounded like just the sort of party you’d have for our sweet-loving David—just the sort of party you’d have with him. He’d be there for sure, celebrating with family and inhaling the sugar. I could feel the incongruity of such an event, having David absent yet somehow present at the same time. I wondered whether pieces of his favourite cake would mysteriously vanish when we weren’t looking. Lawrence bought the cake on his own, but he and I did the marshmallow shopping together. It was a task he would not take lightly. I could see that he must have shopped for marshmallows with his dad. He lifted the bags from the shelf and inhaled their sweet aroma. Only the freshest, softest, fluffiest specimens would do. Each marshmallow had to stack independently, never sticking to its neighbours. You could assess this by gently caressing the packages. We came away with two large bags that met all his specifications. Like Lawrence, I am prone to sentimentality these days, drawn to things that can bring David to life—if only in the imagination. Marshmallows had a double meaning in our family. David was our personal marshmallow. If you asked him to account for an act of kindness or generosity, he’d grin and say: “I’m a marshmallow.” That was the only explanation you’d get. It was I who first assigned the label to him. I believe I was angry at the time. “You are a marshmallow,” I bellowed, pointing an accusing finger in his direction. Just what it was that caused the outburst I cannot now recall. No doubt he had raised my hackles by caving in sweetly on some point of order with the children. Did he allow somebody to have dessert when I had specifically warned that there would be no dessert until the dinner plate was cleaned? Did he permit someone to go swimming without having cleaned up the bedroom clutter? Whatever it was that he had done, I wanted him to know that I expected a firmer approach. But in choosing the name I had made a serious miscalculation. Calling him a marshmallow as a shaming device was about as effective as accusing skating ice of being smooth, or blaming diamonds for sparkling. It was a compliment. He loved marshmallows, and if he was one of them, then he had found his tribe. He was proud to be a member. If he could keep them around the house long enough for baking, David used miniature marshmallows to make Rice Krispies squares. He was so good at it that our daughter Ruth asked him to make a Rice Krispies cake for her wedding. In preparation He shopped for four nested wedding cake pans, 2 pounds of butter, 104 cups of cereal and 8 large bags of fragrant, soft, perfect miniature marshmallows. In the hot days of summer we were both happy that Ruth was getting married and sad that she would be moving away. David wanted to choose the perfect time for the making of the cake--to ensure the freshness and also leave spare time in case things didn’t go as well as expected. July evenings in Alberta tend to be warm, lit by a brilliant sun that sets some time around 10:00 and leaves a long soft twilight. They lure you outside for walking and barbecuing and gardening. But now and then you get a series of scorching days, followed by an evening where the sky bruises to black, the rain hammers everything and lightning flashes in all four directions to the undulating beat of continuous thunder. It was on such a night, with the windows wide open to let in the fresh cooling breeze, that we set about the task of constructing the huge cake that would send our daughter off to spend a new life in Ontario. With the tempest raging outside and me acting as baker’s helper, we measured and melted marshmallows into puffy sticky clouds. Then we mixed, marvelling at the way things change. It would never have occurred to us to use Rice Krispies squares as a wedding cake. But the cake we were constructing on this stormy night would boldly grace Ruth’s head table, adorned with a spray of removable flowers. It would be cut generously at the wedding, and served on the spot. The guests would snap it up and go back for seconds. Ruth would proudly say, “My dad made that cake!” And so it came to pass, that on January 10, 2020, with Ruth and her family living in Ontario, Lawrence, Mark and their loved-ones settled at my dining room table to gorge on over-sized slices of thickly-frosted cake and unlimited quantities of marshmallows. With me occupying the chair at the head where David would have sat, we indulged in marshmallow nostalgia. Lawrence and Mark recalled the Christmas morning when Mark’s wife Tracey gave them marshmallow guns—yes, guns that shoot marshmallows. Reverting to joyous childhood, they were pulling the triggers and firing marshmallows at one another. “Those marshmallows go to the garbage,” I said. As they retrieved the spent ammunition from dusty corners David said, “Are you just going to throw them out? Could you not eat them?” Eating Marshmallows was one of David’s favourite pastimes. He ate them in the evenings while watching TV. He also ate them when we camped. We tended to camp simply, in the bush where you find the mosquitos. We didn’t generally have running water, and we never had a good supply of running water hot enough to melt the sticky marshmallowness off our fingers. If we used mosquito repellant the marshmallows would take on the flavour. If we didn’t, then we had to scratch at the bites with sticky fingers. You could cut down on the stickiness by clapping a toasted marshmallow between two cookies and calling it a smore. But a smore was more fattening than a plain roasted marshmallow eaten on its own. I don’t suppose it had occurred to David that marrying a blind woman would relegate him to a life of roasting marshmallows for two. “Blind people don’t roast marshmallows,” I told him the first time he handed me a roasting stick. Just to prove it, I torched the first three I tried. “Blow them out when they catch fire,’ he said. “Blind people don’t see the flames until it’s too late,” I said. Sighing in resignation, David settled into a pattern. He would eat one marshmallow raw, roast one for me, then roast one for himself. Every so often he’d over-roast one that had been intended for himself, and if he could blow the flame out before it blackened, he’d hand it to me. I never minded a little bit of ash. You can know a lot about eating marshmallows, and still have more to learn. Sitting at my table, remembering his dad, Lawrence rolled a marshmallow in icing from the Safeway cake. “Icing on a marshmallow?” we exclaimed. “Did David do that?” “I don’t think so,” said Lawrence. “But it’s good. I think he would have liked it.”

THE MUSIC OF CHRISTMAS (Nursing Home Life, part 14)

“Mostly Christmas makes me feel” –Linnea Good Earlier on the blog I made a short list of songs I love to wallow by. But now that Christmas is coming, there are so many more songs. And what better time can there be for wallowing in sadness, nostalgia, joy and completely inexplicable reactions? It’s a musical bonanza, two of my best Christmas weeping songs presented consecutively on a single album, Winter Song by Sarah McLachlan. How magically transforming it is to lubricate the tear ducts with Sarah’s version of Joni Mitchell’s River, in preparation for the heart-breaking torrent of McLachlan’s own Winter Song! I could be tapping my toes to Brenda Lee’s Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree. In fact, I do tap my toes when it comes on the radio, but when I want to play Christmas music, I Hear myself asking Siri to play Winter Song. It’s not nostalgia that draws me in, it’s the connection to feelings of sadness and loss, the self-indulgent tug toward a moment of melancholy against a backdrop of comfort and joy. . If, like me, you are a closet whiner,sad songs are the perfect outlet for expression. Fortunately, Christmas offers a wide selection of choices with something to meet every emotional need. For example, there’s Silent Night, the song that still holds the record as my biggest crying song. The whole thing started some time in my thirties. I don’t know how. I don’t know why. But every Christmas, I’d be at a concert or a church service and we’d start singing Silent Night. Before we got to sleeping in heavenly peace the beauty of the thing would overwhelm me. The rest of the singers would have to finish singing without me. I’d be sniffling, wiping tears, my throat stretched tighter than a drum. No more singing from me. No particular sadness in it. Here was nostalgia at its most pervasive. Each year that song would start, and I’d remember how I cried last year. The memory would set my glands to drizzling. The first cure for the problem came to me quite accidentally the year I volunteered to play the piano at the late church service on Christmas Eve. The stage was set for the worst of my crying. Near the end of the service the congregation would begin to sing Silent Night. They would pick up the tall candles they had been given when they entered the church. The lights would go down and the first candle would be lit. Then each person would light their candle from the candle of the person next to them. The beauty of the thing would overwhelm me. Normally I’d be a wet rag by the time all the candles were lit and the third verse was sung. But this time I was the musician and everyone was counting on me. The burden of responsibility calmed my nerves. It was a Christmas miracle! All the beauty and no tears from me. I played in heavenly peace. It worked, and I had high hopes for singing that song in the future. But it only worked when I played the piano for other singers. If I didn’t play, I still cried. Then came the second cure. It was the year when another pianist volunteered to play the late service. Members of my family were visiting that night. I packed my purse with Kleenex and invited them to join David and me. Each of us picked up a candle as we entered the church. Then, near the end of the service, Carla played the first notes of Silent Night. As the peaceful music began, my father, summoning the louder voice of a man who has forgotten his hearing aid, turned his candle toward my sister. “Where is your candle?” he boomed. “I don’t know,” she whispered. All was still calm at that point. “Where’s your candle?” he boomed more loudly, thinking perhaps she had not heard him. “I don’t know,’ she shouted back. We’d made it to Holy infant so tender and mild. Then began a scurrying search of the floor for the missing candle. By now we were at the second Silent night, Holy night. Quick as a flash, while shepherds quaked at the sight, I handed my candle to my father to give to my sister. “This is an extra one,” I shouted, hoping only to have to say it once, particularly because it was a lie. I wanted—no, needed—him to be quiet. At that point, all thoughts of crying had left me. I felt like a teen-ager, the way you do when you want to pretend that these people are weird strangers who just happened to cross your path. But my father is a conscientious man. That evening he was bent on making sure that everyone was included. “Where’s your candle?” he asked, glancing at my now empty hand. We had made it to the third Silent Night. At this point, my thoughts turned from utter embarrassment to sympathy for my poor David, the long-suffering man who had, in all innocence, married into this family. His only possible escape could come with a messy expensive divorce, and I just didn’t think he was up to it. I started breathing deeply, lest I should develop a penchant for fainting. I shook my head vehemently at David, who was offering to hand me his candle. “You keep it,” I whispered as loudly as I could. I didn’t trust myself to hold a fire in my trembling hand. Things settled down a bit then. My father stopped worrying about my candle. All was calm, until we got to the end of the song. We blew out our candles and then sat down. There was a snap! There was a soft cry of surprise. There was no point trying to pretend the noise wasn’t caused by my family. It was my sister, jumping up to retrieve the two halves of an unburned candle upon which she had just sat. Apparently it had been on her chair all along. Mercifully the service promised to end. The piano struck the first chords of Joy To The World. Beside me stood David, whom I now noticed, was taking deep breaths in a vain attempt to suppress fits of laughter. Of course the laughing attack spread to me, and then to others nearby, the way a wildfire might spread if you weren’t careful with a candle. Since then I have become philosophical and more than a little curious about the strange relationship between emotions and songs. Christmases come and Christmases go. Each holiday season brings its songs and its feelings. This year I’m choosing Sarah McLachlan for the melancholy effect. That said, I expect to hear Joy To The World, which will likely cause me to break out in a broad smile. And when I’m asked to sing Silent Night, I’ll do my best not to laugh. But I might not succeed in that.

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?

THE FLOWER PROBLEM

Picture a balcony bearing ten pots of flowers. Find impatiens, geranium, Martha Washington, evening scented stocks, pansies, heliotrope, roses, begonia, petunias, alyssum, ornamental grass and a few adornments that didn’t come with names. Picture all of this in mid May in a province known for occasional snow in June, and there you see it—evidence of a FLOWER PROBLEM. Warning: don’t bother organizing an intervention to get my attention. Don’t assemble a delegation of caring family supported by flower problem treatment professionals! I know about the problem. I know that only I can beat it. Some day I’ll beat it. I swear I will! It was daughter Ruth who first named the illness. She had failed to notice the introduction of the lily patch and a few hanging pots to the already flowered house on 67th Street. She had celebrated the planters and peonies at the house on 89th Street. But when the number of front yard pots exceeded twenty, she felt she had to say something. “You, Mother,” she announced, “have a flower problem.” How could I deny it? Time I used to spend with the kids on the soccer field was now spent trimming the coleus. Television watching time was pre-empted smelling the roses. But how could I quit, or even cut back? What would our friends say? How could I explain it to any of the neighbours who passed our house on walks just to see the profusion Then, out of the blue, an opportunity presented itself. We were moving to an apartment. It would be difficult to have a flower problem on an apartment balcony. Where would I store the potting soil? How would I deal with the mess of water and fallen leaves? Who would haul away the debris? We moved in late August. “No flowers,” I said to my surprised family. “The flowers stay with the house.” Just to show how serious I was, I only took a few empty pots, and a few plant stands, and one pail of potting soil. And I only bought one chrysanthemum when the need arose to warm the autumn chill. Perhaps if I had been a little more vigilant at the first signs of spring, things might have turned out differently. But it seemed right to thank Mark for bringing the first pansy pot in early April, an affirmation that winter was truly gone. And would it not have been impolite not to rejoice when Grace brought my favourite yellow pansies and removed the remains of last year’s chrysanthemum? And how could I have rejected the rose bush in full bloom that Mark presented as a gift for early Mother’s Day, or the free pot of geranium and petunias that came free from Superstore with a grocery order over $250.00? Would it have been right not to support our church by purchasing $100.00 worth of summer joy from the annual plant sale? After all, the house did not sell as we had planned. And there sat the remaining plants stands, lonely on the veranda. Had they, after so many years of faithful service, not earned a position of honour outside our new livingroom window? “I like to look out the window at all those flowers,” said David. Next door to us stands a high rise with suites that look directly on to our balcony. “These people probably think I have a flower problem,” I said to David, as I stowed the last of the potting soil. “Don’t worry,” said he. “The neighbours have always loved our flowers.. If I were to be truly honest and not simply hopeful, I suppose I would have to admit that I may never be cured. The root of the flower problem, it is now obvious, lies in the act of enablement. Yes, there is an enabler living under my very own roof? How can you expect to cure yourself of a problem like that with an enabler in the family?

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!

SILLINESS

“It's okay to be absurd, ridiculous, and downright irrational at times; silliness is sweet syrup that helps us swallow the bitter pills of life.” –Richelle E. Goodrich I wish I had been given a penny every time a therapist or therapy client implied to me that silliness is a harmful defence mechanism. Or maybe I don’t wish that. Pennies are heavy, and my back would surely have been injured hauling them around. As for me, well, I love silliness. The sadder I am, the more I seem to love it. I used to wonder if the process of maturing would change all this. Maybe, I speculated, maybe when I grow up, I’ll be sad when I am sad, angry when I am angry, frustrated when I am frustrated. But the other day, as I laughed hysterically, while snaking forward with less grace than a bull in a china shop, in the Air Canada lineup at the Buenos aries airport, giggling out of control as David and I tried to inch ahead at the right angle, in the right moment, sporting multiple disabilities, dragging a walker and two heavy suitcases on wheels, without toppling any post-holders or entangling our belongings in the line ropes, I couldn’t help but notice how so many of the people around us, any of whom might have stepped forward to help, had fallen victim to the contagion of ridiculously misplaced laughter. I suppose any of those immobilized strangers would have taken a walker, or a suitcase, or the arm of a blind person if I had found the words to explain our situation and request their assistance, which, I believe, is what a mature, responsible person would do. But somehow, the thought never occurred to me. Instead, I started the silliness. Perhaps, at my age, I need not worry about the possibility of growing out of it.

A BRIEF LESSON IN THE HISTORY OF TECHNOLOGY

Ben: Granny, would you tell me one more story about the olden days. Granny: All right Ben. The year was 2012 and the time was mid-November. Ben: Wow! How old was I?? Granny: You weren’t born yet. Ben: Prehistoric! Granny: Yes, well, you were going to be born in another six weeks or so. Ben: How did you know I was going to be born? Granny: Let’s not get into that right now. Back to the story. It was mid-November, and Granny was thinking of getting an iPhone. Ben: Mona, you mean? Granny: Yes, well, Mona. I was thinking of getting an iPhone. I didn’t know her name would be Mona. Just like we didn’t know your name would be Ben. Ben: Why didn’t you call her Ben? Granny: Because she talks to me in a woman’s voice. Did you ever hear of a woman named Ben? Ben: I guess not. Get back to the story, Granny. You mean you didn’t have an iPhone? Granny: No, not then. Ben: Then, how did you read the newspaper in the bathroom? Granny: Well, I didn’t. I had to sit at the computer to listen to the newspaper. Ben: And how did you do your email at the bus stop? Granny: Well, I didn’t. I had to wait for my email until I got to work. Ben: And how did you download music from iTunes? Granny: I didn’t. Ben: And how did you get podcasts of CBC radio programs to listen to while you waited in the doctor’s office? Granny: I didn’t. Ben: And how did you get Kindle books? Granny: I didn’t. Ben: And what kind of stopwatch did you use when you timed Grandad’s speech therapy practice? Granny: I didn’t have a stopwatch. Ben: And how did you borrow audio books from the Edmonton Public Library? Granny: On CD. Ben: Oh my! How primitive! If Mommy phoned you on a weekend, and it had just snowed, how did you show her the snow? Granny: I didn’t. Ben: What kind of pocket calendar did you have? Granny: I didn’t have a pocket calendar. I kept the calendar on my computer. Ben: Where did you keep the pictures and videos of me? Granny: I didn’t have any pictures of you. You weren’t born yet, remember? Ben: Oh yes. But wait a minute. The year was 2012. It was so long ago, so long ago that I wasn’t even born yet. You couldn’t read the newspaper in the bathroom. You couldn’t Facetime us to show us pictures of the snow in Edmonton. You didn’t have a stopwatch. You only did your email at a desk. And, just imagine! You couldn’t even make a phone call! Granny: What are you talking about? Of course I could make a phone call? Ben: Oh boy. I don’t think I’ll ever really understand history.

GONE

“Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone” --Joni Mitchell I awoke with the robins, flexed my ankle a bit, flexed it again to relieve the stiffness in my foot, and then the truth began to sink in. it was gone. That hulking, gray, plastic-and-Velcro-and-felt monstrosity with the airbags you pump up with a space-age rubber football-shaped balloon that has inflation/deflation tubes on either end was gone from my bed. It was gone from my foot. It hadn’t gone far. It was, after all, standing meekly beside the bed, waiting for to brace me for the trip to the bathroom. So it wasn’t really gone if you insist on seeing the big picture of gone, but in the little picture it was gone. And with it went a tiny sliver of my personal gloom. With that huge airboot standing on the floor, there was room in the bed under the blankets to flex my ankle. With a bit of that gloom out of the way, there was room for a little hope. “Gone from the bed today, gone to the storage closet for used aircasts in a month or so,” said the hope. “And what about me,” whined the gloom. “Will I even be missed?”

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.

WET FLOOR!!!!

Want to hear something spectacular? Well then, go down into an underground station of the LRT in Edmonton. Make sure to be in a station with concrete walls and a high ceiling that echoes like the Swiss Alps. Wait for a quieter moment. Then pull out a white cane, take a few quick steps forward and propel a WET FLOOR sign into space. (Note: I suspect you don’t have to look for a station that has a wet floor. Pretty much any station will do.) Wait for the sign to clatter back on the ceramic floor, hit it a second time if it lands in a straight path just in front of you, and you’ve got a hubbub worthy to remove the ear buds and turn the head of even the most obtuse teen-ager. Is it just my imagination, or are WET FLOOR signs more popular these days? Admittedly, my memory isn’t what it used to be. I check three times to make sure I turned the oven on, four times to be sure I turned it off. Still, you’d think that a person with the capacity to spontaneously recall half the lyrics to half the songs on the pop charts of 1966 would not have forgotten the WET FLOOR signs from the good old days of her youth. Surely she would have noticed them if they had been as popular as smokers in Ladies’ washrooms. Or is it just that, in these smoke-free times, a lot of things have become more clear? Anyway, until somebody proves me wrong, I am going to stick with the theory that there are more WET FLOOR signs than there used to be. I’d say they border on the ubiquitous. You find them in places both private and public—taking up 90% of the available floor space in the washrooms at Tim Horton’s, cluttering the vast expanse in the tiled lobby of the dentist’s office, not to mention the place where I encounter most of them—centred boldly in the narrow pathways that lead from the street to the trains of the LRT. Why, just last week—on a single trip to work--I took out four of them—sent them flying, spinning end over end, clattering on their sides, sliding like hockey players on their way to the boards. . Each encounter in its turn was surprising, noisy, a moment of high drama. Four encounters in the early morning rush of sleepy commuters. A record to be sure, and still I’ll never know how many possible others I missed. There is a difference between being noticed and being stared at. I am not, and have never been, the kind of woman who likes to be stared at. Give me a joke, and I’ll try to make you laugh. Give me a stage with a mic and I’ll tell you a story, might even sing you a song. But send me out to work on a sleepy commuter morning, and I would prefer to be unnoticed or at least to imagine that I am unnoticed. I would prefer to have digital WET FLOOR signs flashing high on the walls rather than littering the floors in the most obvious paths of travel. I would prefer to be able to see these blasted items of clutter and not hit them at all. At the very least, I would choose to have WET FLOOR signs present only when floors are wet, rather than hanging about for hours on floors that probably dried yesterday. But if I can’t have any of these things, then please endow me with the delusion that the WET FLOOR sign launching event is one of the funniest entertainments of the day, if not for the startled on-lookers, then at least for me. Let me hear the applause when a perfect hit is made! Let me bow in humble gratitude for the twisted fate that presented the opportunity to entertain! It’s not such a big stretch of the imagination, is it?

CATANALYSIS

Therapist: Good morning Kitty. What shall we talk about today? Kitty: I had another conversation with that dog named Pirate. Therapist: Tell me more. Kitty: So Pirate licks the bowl after I’ve eaten my dinner and then he says, “Hey Kitty! I hear you and your people are moving out of our house.” “Yep,” I say. “I hear they’ve decided to leave this little suite for a place with three spacious bedrooms.” “Yep.” “With a double garage so they won’t have to scrape and sweep their cars before work next winter,” “Yep.” “And I hear that instead of that tiny little bathroom with no counter, there will be two-and-a-half baths, with a new high efficiency hot water heater and furnace.” “Yep.” “And they say it has a spacious family kitchen with almost-new appliances and a friendly big living room.” “Yep.” “And a whole basement for your litter box, and your very own yard to play in.” “Yep.” “And now it will be just the three of you in Mark and Tracey’s bed without having to make room for me.” “Yep.” “And you won’t have me around to lick your bowl after every meal.” “Yep.” Then he gets that hang-dog look and he says, “Oh Kitty. I’m so sorry. You must be absolutely devastated.” Therapist: And how do you feel when Pirate says such a thing to you? Kitty: Tell me! What sense can there be in a world where the innermost feline experience can be distilled down in a few short woofs?

REHAB THEN, HOPE WORK NOW

These days I am reflecting a lot on the differences between what I knew then, and what I know now, what I did then and what I do now. This week it will be 36 years since I got my first real professional job—a position at the CNIB, providing services to people with very low vision, mostly seniors. I was 23 years old, looking forward to a lifetime of infinite possibility. The seniors I met were inspired by me, and that was good, but they also pitied me—many of them in unguarded tearful sympathy. “You are so young,” they would cry in tremendous distress. “It is so sad.” I was immediately defensive. I did not want their pity or their tears. I wanted to give them accessible alarm clocks and library books on tape. I wanted to offer them white canes to ease their travel and magnifiers to aid their cooking. In short, I wanted them to stop grieving their losses and get on with the business of planning productive futures for themselves. Though many of them welcomed me and the great services I came to deliver, emotionally, it was difficult for me to reach them with anything more personal than professional detachment. Except for shared humour, an asset that worked wonders for me even at that early stage in my development, I wanted to set a boundary that said, “I am not you. Don’t pity me. I am young. I am doing fine. I am planning a great future. Leave me out of your sadness.” Years passed and I moved on to other employers, other educations, other life stages. Now, 36 years later, I am seeing people of that same population, seniors with low and deteriorating vision. Things are the same, and also different. The CNIB still delivers accessible alarm clocks, audio library books, white canes and magnifiers. More people are being served, and the population is older, largely because people are, in general older and healthier than they used to be. I am now a Registered Psychologist who has been hired because of my long experience in counselling for depression with people in all sorts of difficult situations. Others deliver the clocks and canes and such to my clients. My job is to deliver the emotional well-being that will inspire people to be the best that they can be. Something else is different too—and that is my point of view. A man has come to my office. He’s a young man by my current standards, only 77 years old. He’s had audio books for quite a while now. He was twice prescribed antidepressants—something that would never have happened to such an ordinary man 36 years ago. He stopped taking them both times. “They didn’t help,” he said. I start asking him about other medications he is taking—something I would never have done 36 years ago. He tells me about some, giving me the reasons why he got them. To show that I understand how he feels, I tell him I am almost 60 now, coping with ailments one at a time, quite often looking back with longing to the days when I could simply jump out of bed first thing in the morning without first causing to call a meeting of my body parts to ask who wants to move first. He starts to laugh. He tells me how frustrated he is with his television. He can’t operate it. He can’t see the menu on the screen. When I say that I too am furious that we can no longer get a television that a blind person can use, he perks up and tells me he wants to smash it. I get this. He has learned, as I have learned, that one wrong move on the remote will disable the TV and you won’t be able to use it until a sighted person comes along. He has learned how easy it is to make that one wrong move. We are different in TV watching, I not having much time for it. But I am well aware that in only a moment I also will be 77 years old, no longer employed, a woman with plenty of time to watch a TV I may not be able to use because I can’t access the information about channel and volume changes. Together we talk about the kind of message we need to deliver to TV manufacturers. We envision TV-throwing events where we will go together. He is laughing again. I am noticing that seniors don’t pity me any more. They see that I am almost 60 and have somehow wended my way through life’s challenges. Instead of talking about the magnifiers they need, we talk first about the times in their lives when they were faced with unwelcome changes. We talk about what they did in those instances. We wonder if they have changed much since then, if they still intend to be resilient, to be forward-looking, to take what comes to them and move on. They will hear and internalize this kind of talk from me because they can see me counting the years of my own future. Now that we are standing on the same ground, it’s hope talk pure and simple. “This is the kind of person you proved yourself to be. In the face of this unwelcome change, what kind of person do you hope to be?”

HOPING, COPING AND MOPING WITH CHANGE

A change is coming up for me. It will happen on December 31. It’s not a change I wanted, but it’s coming anyway. Managing that change will take some focus, some thought, some flexibility. Is that a good way to start thinking it through? No, let me try again. A change has already begun for me. It’s the change that happens when you begin to plan for a change on a specified date, take for example, December 31. Managing my life during the change is taking some focus, some thought, some flexibility. So here I am, doing the three things I tend to do in the face of looming change: hoping, coping and moping. Hoping, coping and moping. Even as I write these three words I suspect I have put them in the wrong order. Of course it’s only natural for somebody who calls herself THE HOPE LADY to put hoping first. And, to be fair, I am hoping, quite a bit actually. Hope, as I often say in keynote speeches, is a positive and healthy experience. It permits us to consider the future and simultaneously be okay in the present. I am luckier than the average person. I have, at the front of my consciousness, at the tips of my fingers, engrained in my repertoire of habitual thoughts, a fascinating and varied collection of hope-fostering tools and strategies. I have a history that constantly reminds me of something my good friend Christy Simpson once said to me: “When you do hope work, it works on you.” So why am I thinking I have the three words in the wrong order? Well, it’s a matter of time allocation, I guess. The truth is, I seem to be spending a lot of my time coping. Coping, as I have often said in keynote speeches, is the process of taking each day as it comes and doing the things that need to be done in response to the things that are happening. It requires energy and creativity. It often involves deliberate activity. It is focused firmly in the present. Its rewards are twofold. On one hand, coping gets you through each day so you can start the next. On the other, it earns you a lot of praise. Everybody loves a good coper. You hear: “I am just amazed by how well you cope!” With feedback like that, it’s small wonder we tend to spend so much time coping. So I’m giving a lot of energy to coping, which is why I think it ought to go first. But then, yesterday, I started to wonder, if I really didn’t want this change, why shouldn’t moping get the chance to go first? Moping, as I have often said in keynotes speeches, is the expression of a natural constellation of emotions, sadness, frustration, annoyance. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. Yet it’s the process most feared by the world’s best copers. They fear that if they let it show, nobody will like them. They fear that if they let it take hold, they won’t be able to make it stop. To be quite honest, I have been doing quite a bit of moping—mostly in secret. Moping in secret, I have often said in keynote speeches, is a waste of good moping. Moping is a process with a purpose. It was invented to give the best copers a bit of relief from the unceasing pressure of having to cope all the time. Moping, in its best form, is a message to others that you need to be comforted, or helped, or simply allowed time and space to get your act together. Moping, I have often said, knowing that copers won’t mope forever, is something you ought to do more of. Yesterday I decided to take a little of my own advice. I vowed to start moping more, to mope better. “I’m tired of all this coping,” I told my friends. “I am tired of being responsible, of being professional. I am tired of being a hero. I am going to be a victim.” My friends were very quiet. I could see they were thinking. Finally one of them said with great compassion, “I expect this change will be very difficult for you.” Now there’s nothing that makes victimhood more difficult than heartfelt expressions of great compassion. Nonetheless, I was determined to mope, and I would not be moved. “No it won’t be difficult for me to be a victim,” I shot back in my best victim fashion. “I’ve had more than enough of looking after others. I’m going to be hurt and helpless. People can look after me for a change.” My friends were quiet again. They were thinking again. They’re a bit like me. They don’t like to lose an argument. One of them said, “You’ll have to develop some new skills. Take the diva stamp, for example. (The diva stamp is something I do with my foot when I’m planning to go ahead with something and I won’t be dissuaded. Just doing it gives me power, resolve, hope.) You’ll have to find something to replace the diva stamp,” they said. “You always smile right after the diva stamp. Good victims don’t smile.” I was quiet. I was thinking. This was exactly the time when I needed to use the diva stamp, to show them I meant business. But what if they were right? What if the diva stamp was always a precursor to smiling? Tears would be the thing I needed, tears pouring down my face. I concentrated on tear production. I focused on it. I waited for the tears to fall, fall in public, fall the way they fell in the days after I first got the news of the change. Unfortunately, I’ve never been any good at producing tears on request. A sad song will bring them down in 1.5 seconds, but you are not always in reaching distance of a good stereo. I was not in reaching distance of a stereo with the right sad song playing on it. Still, a voice echoed in my head, advice from A TED Talk, or a conference speaker, or a book I read some time. “Be the change you want to see.” I approached my failure with renewed resolve. I would do it. I would be a victim. “I have to go now,” said one of my friends. This was my chance. “Okay,” I cried in my best, almost-in-tears voice. “Okay, just go. Just go and leave me here in my sorrow. Just put other commitment above your loyalty to me. Yes, you’ve go. Just go!” My friends were trying to be quiet. They’re a compassionate lot, after all. But they couldn’t be quiet. They were giggling. There’s nothing more difficult than being a victim when your best and most compassionate friends are giggling. So I gave up the task of trying to find the proper order for hoping coping and moping. I didn’t really have time for it anyway. I had to plan a keynote speech. Still, when I get the time, I am hoping to become a better victim, a more effective moper. Apparently it isn’t as easy as it’s made out to be. It will take some focus, some dedication, some learning. I am kind of looking forward to it. Learning new things always gives me hope.

REMEMBERING PETER LOUGHEED

Peter Lougheed died last week. Though many people remember him for many things, in recent years it has not been possible for me to hear his name without recalling the summer I helped to make him Premier. It was the summer of 1971 and I was 17 years old. Voters in our riding, Sedgewick-Coronation, had voted Social Credit for as long as they could remember, and they weren’t about to change their votes for some upstart lawyer from Calgary. Our local town was called Lougheed, named after Peter’s grandfather, and my folks thought it was time for a change. My dad looked around the village of Lougheed for a candidate to run for the Progressive Conservatives. Finding one, he and a few others put the wheels in motion. Mom was designated as full time volunteer at the election office. I was designated as cook and bottle washer. We were farmers. Summer was the time when there were men to cook for. Early that summer peter Lougheed announced that he would be kicking off his campaign in Lougheed. My family was over the moon. “Write a song,” commanded my parents. “We’ll have a parade.” So I wrote a song, to the tune of Has Anybody Seen My Gal. My song said, Herb Losness For The Lougheed Team. “Call up Gail,” commanded my parents. Gail was my best friend in high school. She was going to be a nurse. I was going to be a social worker. Her home town was Hardisty. Peter Lougheed’s grandmother was a Hardisty before she married a Lougheed. Gail and I were about as geeky as two teen-agers could be. Geeky was what they wanted. Both of us loved old-fashioned music. Our moms were handy with the sewing machines. Soon we were outfitted in Conservative colours, orange hot pants and blue tights. I got out the old accordion. Gail and I climbed onto parade floats singing Herb Losness For The Lougheed Team. For fillers, we sang a Johnny Cash song about the disintegration of a musical group with conflicting political leanings. Late August found us standing in a crowd of thousands on the parking lot of the Northern Alberta Jubilee Auditorium. Other constituencies had sent singers for their own songs. I pumped up the accordion and we shouted ours over the din. Then we all went inside, far too many of us for the fire regulations, to cheer wildly at anything and everything Peter Lougheed said. It was election fever at the pitch. Election day arrived. The people of Sedgewick-Coronation voted Social Credit. The rest of Alberta voted for Peter and the Conservatives have reigned ever since. Later that year, I turned 18 and earned the right to vote. So far, that is my only experience working actively on a political campaign. For Gail and me—both of us volunteer church pianists in later life, it’s a memory that never fails to bring a good laugh. And though you might wonder about the ethics of enlisting help from campaigners too young to vote, I don’t think I felt abused. Just amused, and involved.

THE BIRTH OF TELEVISION

Sixty years ago TODAY CBC began broadcasting television in Canada. You can hear about the early days at THE BIRTH OF TELEVISION. The future was uncertain. Here’s what the politicians and executives said: It’s a big country we have. It will be very costly. We have to broad cast in two languages. People living near the border are already getting American TV and might not want Canadian content. But they started. They broadcast 3 hours each evening in Toronto and Montreal. When they were ready to contemplate new locations, they considered Ottawa, given that it was our centre of politics. “But don’t worry,” said one comentator. “we won’t be broadcasting the proceedings of Parliament.” The audience laughed. Today this little broken promise is just one more proof that we’ve never been that good at predicting the future.