Where are we Going?

Charlotte and I have a little game. She asks "Where we goween?" and I say "CRAZY!" and wave my arms around my head like a maniac and sometimes I add a little chase in for good measure. She shrieks as she runs away on her sturdy little legs, hair flying, giggles and shouts trailing her. She could play this game over and over and over, amused by the attention of my response to her query and the potential for a chase as only a child can be.


The game came about honestly enough, as one of Charlotte favorite questions is "Where we goween?". We don't actually have to be getting ready to head out the door for her to ask, she just wonders this aloud a few times a day. Perhaps she is destined to be a philosopher.


One day, when I was tired and feeling a bit frustrated she came up to me and asked in her sweet 2 1/2 year old's voice, eyes wide with love, trust and wonder, "Where we goween?" I looked at her and said with a sigh, "Crazy". She laughed her head off, thinking that my feeling sorry for myself was just a hoot and a half. Her laughter lightened my mood, her smile like helium, raising my spirits. So, when she asked again in a teasing tone, I said "CRAZY!" like a euphoric nutcase and waving my arms all about, I chased her around the living room, hooting all the way. Thus, a tradition was born.


Happily, Charlotte will never be aware of the melancholy that gave rise to her treasured game. All she will remember will be her kooky mommy, chasing her around the house, laughing along with her own squeals of delight. That is as it should be.

Grandma Gearey

When I was young my grandma moved "out west" with my uncle, aunt and their 4 children. I use the expression "out west" as everyone did back then. I had no idea where this place was, but it sounded romantic and dramatic. I imagined Little House on The Prairie and the old Westerns I had seen on television.


They actually moved to Calgary, I learned when I was older, but as a 10 year old, all I knew was "out west" and so, after they moved away, when grandma wrote to ask me what I might like for my birthday, I asked for a tumbleweed. I was secretly envious of my cousins, who had the opportunity to go "out west" and live with cowboys, and I thought a tumbleweed might bring me a sense of that adventure.


The first package that arrived from grandma came with a letter apologizing for not sending me a tumbleweed, as she had not come across one yet. I was shocked and saddened to learn that grandma was living in a normal looking city, not a town with wooden homes and boardwalks and a mercantile like the Olsen's.


Grandma sent me lots of packages over the years. Sweaters she knit, despite her arthritic fingers, lovely ceramic horses and unique stuffed animals (a few of which my daughters now have as I could not part with them). Grandma always sent me a silver dollar from the Stampede every year without fail. I never did get that tumbleweed but each package from "out west" came with a small gift and a letter and a whole lotta love.

Modern Party Planning

A while back my older sister turned 50 years old. My brother-in-law planned a surprise party for her and my mom, brother, sister-in-law and I travelled the 7 hour drive to the party to join my sister's friends and in-laws in the revelry. My sister was genuinely surprised and we all had a great time reminiscing and celebrating her life so far.

While I don't consider myself to be pushing 50, it will be the next birthday of significance, so my sister's party made me think ahead to the possibility, however remote, of my husband planning such a fete for me. While we share a large group of friends, there are a slew of friends that I am quite close to who he has never met. How would he know to contact them and invite them to celebrate my big 5-0?

Two days before I drove down the highway to my sister's party my husband and I attended the funeral of an acquaintance from church. Our little chapel was packed with family friends and acquaintances of the deceased. loving and honest words were shared about his life and his faith. His children talked about the dad they would miss and his ex-wife spoke of the man she had married and the friend she had always cherished. Attending funerals usually makes one think about ones own mortality. Funerals make me want to pre-plan my own service so that everything goes just-so. This time around, as I looked at all the people gathered together to say farewell to out acquaintance, I thought about the people I would want to attend my own funeral.
I have realized that my potential surprise birthday party and my inevitable funeral both pose the same dilemma - how will my husband know who and how to get the people I want at the event? How will all my different groups of friends find out about the celebration - of my ongoing life or of the end thereof? We're still too young to have a lot of friends who regularly check out the obituary pages and most of my friends are not listed in our address book.

I have decided that the solution to my problem is quite simple. I will have to give my husband my Facebook password. In the event of my death, he can just go into my account and change my status to: "Claudine Dionne is dead. Please see Facebook page "Claudine's Funeral: Be there or be Square". Then, someone will have to call up all the friends in the address book, much like we did when each of our children were born...only, hopefully the news will be greeted with less joy and enthusiasm. Between Facebook, the phone calls and a nicely worded obit the church should be filled to the rafters. maybe the wake could be held somewhere with an alcohol license. I'd like for everyone to toast my life and sip away their sorrow until the wee hours. really, I'd like a sort of Irish wake, where people could feel free to laugh and have some fun for my sake.

My brother says I should just have a party now. He suggested I change my Facebook status to "Claudine Dionne is not dead yet. So let's party!" Maybe he has a point. So, what are you doing 2 Saturdays from now?

Play Pretend

Charotte calls out "Come pyay!" and I come, unable to resist her beautiful eyes, joyful smile, her loving 2 year old's heart. We play "Chase Me", we play Hide & Seek", we play with the little toy animals. Zoe usually asks me to come play Candy Land or Buckaroo or Play Doh. Faith is fond of Peek-a-Boo and when I pretend to throw her onto the couch or at her sisters.


What do I like to play? Is napping a game? Apparently it is at my house. Lay down on the couch for a rest and you've given an open invitation for wrestlemania. I like to play pretend. Pretend I am 50 pounds lighter, pretend I am well rested, pretend the house is larger and clean, pretend someone else will make dinner, pretend my babies will never grow into pre-teens, teens, young adults with families of their own and elderly parents who will eventually need their care. Parents who will not call out come play but rather, come help.

Help me out, help me up. Help.

Haiku

I am digging in the dirt
no, not dirt, its earth
the difference matters to Rose


The dirt falls from his fingers
plays a hollow tune
earth soon will cover the spot

Shuffle

"So", he asks, "what do you really want? What are your hopes for the future?"

I exhale slowly. Smoke clouding my face, eyes squinting, shielding, from the acrid sting. I am temporarily hidden from view, able to think, to evade. I come back.


"What I want", I reply, "is to no longer endure these banal conversations, your persistent and ineffectual efforts to invade the personal space of my mind.

I wish to taste no more the bland cuisine of the cafeteria. The poached fish, the grey meat, the soft, mutely colored vegetables and perhaps most offensive of all, the utterly flavorless coffee".

In my dreams I am transported far from the endless shuffle, shuffle, shuffle of slippers across the floors. My slippers. Everyone's slippers. No - not everyone - staff don't shuffle. Staff are superiorily silent. Floating through wards like fish through the ocean.
My fantasy takes me to colors that are real, sea green, apple green, olive green, burgundy, cherry red, salmon pink, lemon yellow, sky blue. No more, the washed out, no-color walls, the tired beiges, the faded greys that drain me of vibrancy as surely as the medications ebb away my will.
Unstable, you say. Too unstable to leave. To wear real clothes and shoes. To breathe fresh air, taste freedom. So, because you say unstable I remain stabled. Put away in my stall, safe and unsound. Slowly, slowly drowning in mediocrity, in obscurity. Until, inevitably, your persistence finally pays off and I lay down, defeated. Worn down to the nub, ground down by blandness and talk therapy.

Blooming

Judy Blum had her finger on the pulse of the early teen years, no question. I imagine that those books, so informative and fun are now for younger children given that they seem to grow up so darn fast these days. But, back in my time it was generally the 12 -15 year old group who benefited from Judy's wisdom.

It was thanks to Judy Bloom that I learned what a wet dream (nocturnal emission) is and about involuntary and poorly timed erections. (See Then Again, Maybe I Won't) By Judy's grace I gained some insight and compassion for teenage boys, who would otherwise have remained somewhat repulsive and incredibly irritating.

I must confess that Are You There God? It's Me Margaret while entertaining, was not at all helpful to me personally. It wasn't Judy's fault, I'm sure. I don't think I was a typical pre-teen or early teen. You see, where Margaret yearned for her period to start, where she longed to shop for a training bra, I felt only dread at the thought of the changes these things foretold. I knew it was inevitable...the knowledge that my period would eventually rear its bloody head weighed on me like a ton of sanitary pads and lingerie. Doomed. I felt doomed and cursed to follow in the footsteps of all women...women like my "well endowed" mother and older sister.

In my opinion, these impending changes could only interfere with my life. Let Judy Bloom's Margaret and her band of giggling eager beavers embrace their womanhood. I had no time for that. I had games to play, races to run, laps to swim. Frankly, boobs would only get in the way of my activities. And, since no tampon had yet crossed the threshold of my home, I could see my summertime pool fun floating away on a box of Kotex.

Of course, eventually, those dreaded moments came to pass. I did need a bra. I waited as long as I possibly could, by my mother forced me to go into the lingerie section of The Bay, and there it happened. I had to get - and actually wear - a bra. Margaret would have been envious, I needed that stupid bra significantly earlier than my peers. Oh, yes, I hated it. And yes, the boobs got in the way...they still do, as a matter of fact. And while I occasionally resent their unwieldiness, I am grateful that they have fed my three beautiful daughters and I am thankful that though saggy, they are healthy and cancer free. My period was indeed a pain, both figuratively and literally, but tampons are indeed a great invention and my periods remind me of my reproductive health and made possible my three babies, so again, I am grateful.

For me, becoming a woman was not the exciting, fun filled adventure that some girls expect it to be and I didn't enjoy it at the time, but I sure am happy to be a woman now. I look forward to sharing the Judy Bloom books with my girls as they grow up. I'll encourage them not to try to rush the process...I want them to stay little girls for as long as possible!

Just a Thought

Considering the prices we pay for stuff here in Quebec and taking into account the Goods and Services Tax we pay on just about everything, one would expect to actually receive some service when making a purchase. But that has not often been my expeience.

Going into Reno Depot or a hardware store or even Home depot, which is supposed to be the most "shopper friendly" for supplies and information when I was repairing a toilet a few months ago was rather eye-opening. I pretty much had to learn on my own, since no one was around to help me find the supplies I needed - or even figure out what exactly it was that I needed. I would have appreciated some advice - a rarity for me - but there wasn't a soul around to ask.

I recently heard about the neighbor of a friend who did a complete renovation of their kitchen. After choosing just what they wanted they priced everything out in various stores. They ended up going to the Lowes in Plattsburg. They actually rented a truck and bought all their cabinets there and drove it all home after a weekend in the US. A couple of the cabinets were custom made and one didn't fit properly, so they called Lowes, who not only took back the cabinet and made a new one at no charge they actually paid for the gas there and back!

At Lowes this couple had initially gotten a 3D rendering of their kitchen in order to view their kitchen with different cabinet options and various configurations of the cabinets and appliances, so that they could really see what they would be getting. This didn't cost them a cent.

Apparently, the kitchen renovation cost them about $7000.00 ad $3000.00 of that was the granite counter tops. Now THAT is service.

Haiku

And darkness descends
into lapping water
sink beneath the waves



My flowers blooming
in the warmth of sunshine
this will fade away

Memories Of My Father

Regrets, I’ve had a few. We all have, haven’t we? Those moments when we feel a sickening slip of the gut and shortness of breath as we realize that we have said too much or said the complete wrong thing? Reacted too harshly, acted too soon? Or perhaps it was hours, days, years after the fact that we come to an abrupt halt and think “Oh no”. We pause as we walk down the street, read a novel, order dinner or put our child to bed and are overcome by the dawning realization of what we have done, said or left unfinished.

Sometimes we can make amends. Sometimes we can set it right. Sometimes we are simply left with the regret and the hope that we can somehow forget it or get passed it.

My parents separated when I was in grade three, I was about 8-9 years old. While there had been a great deal of fighting leading to the separation, the actual split seems to have been amicable enough. Without legal intervention my father paid a bit of alimony and he paid child support for my older sister and brother and me without hesitation or complaint. Dad took mom and me for groceries every Saturday morning, so I saw him weekly but we were not close. We never really talked much as I recall. I remember one year when disco was popular, dad gave me a K-Tel album for my birthday. “Disco Explosion”. I was quite disgusted, since it was pretty well known that I was a rock and roll girl. I didn’t do disco. Clearly, my father did now know me.

One year in CEGEP I was in a play so I left school fairly late in the evening, due to rehearsals, a few times a week. One evening, while waiting for my bus, a car pulled up and someone called to me from inside. It took me awhile to recognize my father’s girlfriend in the car. Dad was calling from the driver’s seat, what was I doing here so late? I explained and they said this was good luck and I should come for dinner. I made various lame excuses as to why this would not be a good time, maybe another night, and so on, but they would have none of it. Finally, I had to accept or be really very rude. So, into the car I climbed. I didn’t relish the thought of spending the end of a long day with my father who barely knew me and his girlfriend – who he had been having an affair with for years while with my mother and who I subsequently and I think understandably resented and disliked.

The evening passed uncomfortably for me, we discussed various things, my part in the play, my studies and their jobs. I feigned interest in the upcoming wedding of my father’s girlfriend’s eldest daughter, which backfired because my siblings and I subsequently received invitations to the wedding. Since this woman had no relationship with us at all it was pretty obvious that she had been coerced into inviting us because my acting excited for her was, I suppose, Oscar worthy.

A few weeks later my father surprised me by showing up at the performance of the play I was in. I was the first actor to appear on stage and when I stepped from the wings my father stood up and hooted and clapped. I wanted to crawl under a rock, I was so embarrassed. We spoke briefly after the play and I thanked him for coming, I really was quite touched that he had come, as he never attended anything I was in involved in elementary or high school. My father said that there remained an open invitation for me to call and go over for dinner or whatever anytime, but I never called.

My father died around 1989 when I was 21 or 22. At his funeral his co-workers and friends told me how funny he was and how much they enjoyed his company. I ended up hiding in the bathroom, crying. I was crying not because I would miss my father, but because I had never known him at all, and now I never would. I cried because he did try to reach out to me, eventually, but by that time I felt it was too late. I cried because I had always believed that it was my fathers job to get to know me, I never realized that I could step up and try to get to know him. In fact, he had been such a peripheral character in my life for so much of it, that I didn’t even have the urge to take that step, I didn’t think that I was missing out on anything.

The realizations I made following my father’s death changed the way I think about relationships and the fact that I did not make them sooner is probably my greatest regret.

Memories Of My Father

Regrets, I’ve had a few. We all have, haven’t we? Those moments when we feel a sickening slip of the gut and shortness of breath as we realize that we have said too much or said the complete wrong thing? Reacted too harshly, acted too soon? Or perhaps it was hours, days, years after the fact that we come to an abrupt halt and think “Oh no”. We pause as we walk down the street, read a novel, order dinner or put our child to bed and are overcome by the dawning realization of what we have done, said or left unfinished.

Sometimes we can make amends. Sometimes we can set it right. Sometimes we are simply left with the regret and the hope that we can somehow forget it or get passed it.

My parents separated when I was in grade three, I was about 8-9 years old. While there had been a great deal of fighting leading to the separation, the actual split seems to have been amicable enough. Without legal intervention my father paid a bit of alimony and he paid child support for my older sister and brother and me without hesitation or complaint. Dad took mom and me for groceries every Saturday morning, so I saw him weekly but we were not close. We never really talked much as I recall. I remember one year when disco was popular, dad gave me a K-Tel album for my birthday. “Disco Explosion”. I was quite disgusted, since it was pretty well known that I was a rock and roll girl. I didn’t do disco. Clearly, my father did now know me.

One year in CEGEP I was in a play so I left school fairly late in the evening, due to rehearsals, a few times a week. One evening, while waiting for my bus, a car pulled up and someone called to me from inside. It took me awhile to recognize my father’s girlfriend in the car. Dad was calling from the driver’s seat, what was I doing here so late? I explained and they said this was good luck and I should come for dinner. I made various lame excuses as to why this would not be a good time, maybe another night, and so on, but they would have none of it. Finally, I had to accept or be really very rude. So, into the car I climbed. I didn’t relish the thought of spending the end of a long day with my father who barely knew me and his girlfriend – who he had been having an affair with for years while with my mother and who I subsequently and I think understandably resented and disliked.

The evening passed uncomfortably for me, we discussed various things, my part in the play, my studies and their jobs. I feigned interest in the upcoming wedding of my father’s girlfriend’s eldest daughter, which backfired because my siblings and I subsequently received invitations to the wedding. Since this woman had no relationship with us at all it was pretty obvious that she had been coerced into inviting us because my acting excited for her was, I suppose, Oscar worthy.

A few weeks later my father surprised me by showing up at the performance of the play I was in. I was the first actor to appear on stage and when I stepped from the wings my father stood up and hooted and clapped. I wanted to crawl under a rock, I was so embarrassed. We spoke briefly after the play and I thanked him for coming, I really was quite touched that he had come, as he never attended anything I was in involved in elementary or high school. My father said that there remained an open invitation for me to call and go over for dinner or whatever anytime, but I never called.

My father died around 1989 when I was 21 or 22. At his funeral his co-workers and friends told me how funny he was and how much they enjoyed his company. I ended up hiding in the bathroom, crying. I was crying not because I would miss my father, but because I had never known him at all, and now I never would. I cried because he did try to reach out to me, eventually, but by that time I felt it was too late. I cried because I had always believed that it was my fathers job to get to know me, I never realized that I could step up and try to get to know him. In fact, he had been such a peripheral character in my life for so much of it, that I didn’t even have the urge to take that step, I didn’t think that I was missing out on anything.

The realizations I made following my father’s death changed the way I think about relationships and the fact that I did not make them sooner is probably my greatest regret.

Wanderer

I don't recall what Nocona smelled like when we first met. He was such a tiny little thing, a little off-white colored baby, so small that the woman who found him had thought initially that he was a mouse. She would have liked to have kept him, but her husband said no, they already had a dog and had no need of a cat.

I had been working at the Veterinary Clinic for about 6 months when the woman called and I had recently decided that I wanted a kitten. I come from a long line of dog people and had always been one myself, so it had taken me a while to warm up to felines and discover that they are not all the standoffish demanding meanies that they are made out to be.

I told the woman that I was interested and would come by to have a look at the kitten that night, which was a Friday, but that I would not take the kitten until Monday morning, so that I could bring it directly to the clinic for a check up. I didn't mention that I figured the poor little thing was probably infested with fleas, having likely been born to a homeless cat.

Of course, the minute I saw his little baby blue eyed face I could not put him down, never mind leave him behind for 2 days. It was love at first sight. He was the sweetest, tiniest kitten I have ever seen, eventually, we figured that he was about 3 weeks old when he was found. His little beige on cream markings showed him to be a tabby. The woman never saw any other cats or kittens in her yard, so I had no idea what his birth family was like, but I was determined to be the best adoptive mother I could be. Obviously, he went home with me that night...fleas - and there were a LOT of them - and all.

That was the start of our love affair. My life changed in many of the ways life changes when you have a child. I hated to leave for work in the morning and I worried all day about how he was and what he was doing. I could not not home fast enough each night. We played hide and seek (seriously, we did, he both hid and sought) and a game I called the Under The Blankie Game, in which I would wiggle my fingers under a blanket and he would stalk and attack. I had so many little scratches on my hands that people thought I had been in some kind of accident. It was worth it to entertain my little guy.

He was always so clean, grooming himself to a T and even keeping his own nails short. Even when I first brought him home he managed to get in and out of the littler box, which was higher than he stood.

It is hard to believe that that was 17 years ago. We've been through a lot together, my handsome Nocona and I. We adopted a sister for him 16 years ago and then another little sister entered the picture years after that. He weathered the need to share me with another man when I married and then he withstood the trials and tribulations of two little girls with surprising grace and patience.

He had never been sick, but I did have to have the tip of his tail amputated after he somehow got it through the protective grate of the oscillating fan. That was probably almost as traumatic for me as it was for him.

So, 17 years have passed and I still remember and can feel the weight of him in the palm of my had, I remember the shape of his little baby eyes, but I don't remember any particular scent.

Now, however there is a scent. Not a nice one. About 2 weeks ago I realized that he has gotten even thinner, he is really just fur and bone. I know he is drinking his water, but I can;t tell if he is drinking more or less than he used to, and I am not sure how much he is eating. Is the weight loss due to the normal age-related loss of smell? Or is there a disease eating away at him? He has seemed a little "away" for several months but I figured that a little dementia is not too big a problem as long as he is still happy. He has not seemed to be in any pain, but now there is this smell, not a good, not a healthy smell. And last night he cried out periodically, from different areas of the house. He has never been a "talker" so this is unusual for him. Is he in pain, or is he confused from dementia? What if he is in pain?

We will be going to the vet this week, if I can, I'll wait until Saturday, so I can leave the kids at home with their daddy, I have a terrible feeling that I will be coming home alone. Unlike that night 17 years ago when I brought home a fuzzy little bundle I never expected to love so very, very much.



Nocona had significant kidney disease and was euthanized in May 2009. He will never be forgotten and can never be replaced.

Thank You, Jessica

Much is said about Facebook, both positive and negative. There will always be a number of people who raise alarms about privacy issues and I have many real-life friends who I can’t “friend” on Facebook because they are paranoid about somebody, somewhere or anybody, anywhere getting a peep into their oh-so private lives.

Me? As long as you don’t see me naked or use images of my kids I don’t care what information you collect about me. As long as you can’t identity-theft me, I’m fine with your targeted advertisements. Although, I must say that I am somewhat miffed that the ads targeted to me seem to be for weight loss and wrinkle reduction products. Hmm…something to think about I guess. Personally, I think that Facebook is great. It is both practical and fun. And it allowed me to right a wrong from my youth.

I was not a nice kid from grades 3-5. I had my reasons I suppose, but that is another long story best saved for another day. Suffice it to say that I beat up everyone in my grade and higher who looked at me sideways or didn’t show me the proper respect. I defended the smaller and weaker, but took on anyone else. The one exception to my benevolence was Jessica Zeeman.

My childhood memory is very poor but I remember Jessica as being tall with long wavy brown hair and, I think, glasses. I have a feeling Jessica had few, if any, fans in our elementary school and I wish desperately that I had been the kind of kid that would reach out and befriend her. But, I wasn’t and I didn’t. I didn’t beat her up, there would have been no challenge or prize in that, in fact, I think I went to her house once because I heard that her family was rich and I wanted to check it out. But I was not nice to her and I do vividly recall one day at school, we were all lined up outside waiting to go back in and Jessica was directly in front of me and I spit in her hair. She didn’t know I had done it and I have no idea how long it took for her to find out about the spit or how she discovered it. But this incident has stayed with me for years. What a nasty thing to do, why did I do this? I have no other recollections of Jessica; I don’t think we went to the same high school.

About a year ago I got a “friend” request from a Jessica Green. She didn’t look at all familiar, but she was already friends with a number of my elementary and high school acquaintances, so I figured this was just one of those cases where someone remembered me much better than I remembered them and I accepted the request. It was months and months before I found out, though another “friend”, that Jessica Green was Jessica Zeeman. I was truly surprised. Why would she want to “friend” me on Facebook? Why would she want to “friend” ANY of us – none of us were nice to her in school, I don’t remember anyone ever sticking up for Jessica.

I had wanted for years to be able to apologize to Jessica for my behavior. My mean-spiritedness towards her had weighed on my heart for so long. I think, in some way, she represented anyone and everyone I may have hurt as I tried to deal with my own difficult situation growing up.
So now I had the opportunity, but how to go about it? After some thought, I sent Jessica a private message, telling her that I have few memories of my youth but that I do remember being mean to her, and I apologized. I told her that having been her “friend” on Facebook for several months I can see that she has clearly risen above school-time taunts to become a kind and thoughtful woman as well as a great mom.

Jessica replied graciously, thanking me for the apology and saying that she honestly does not have memories of any particular unkindness from me. She said that she was teased and bullied a lot as a kid. She said she learned tolerance, compassion and understanding from her experiences. She said that it is nice to have me as a friend after all these years.

Wow. Well, that certainly took a longstanding load off my chest and made me feel free. Who was it who said “you can’t go home again”? Well, that may be true, Mr. Wolfe, but I did go back, didn’t I? I did, I went back, and made good something from my youth that was bad. I don’t know if my apology meant all that much to Jessica, I don’t know if one simple and heartfelt “I’m sorry” can make up for years of bullying and meanness from groups of children. But I do know that Jessica’s forgiveness meant an awful lot to me. If my memory of my unkindness to her was symbolic of the various unkindnesses of my childhood, then her forgiveness is symbolic of a fresh start for me. Thank you, Jessica. And thanks Facebook.


Claudine Dionne
January 27, 2010