Fifty Plus One

A year ago today, when I turned 50, I knew that I was going to have a great and interesting year. And so I did. I've learned a lot, and survived some hard moments. After a bad turn several months ago, I believe that I'm actually starting to get a handle on things, again. My therapist thinks so, too. We can't both be wrong.

I've had a lovely day turning 51. A ton of Facebook messages, all lovely. Phone calls and flowers, and a trip to the nursery and an hour in my garden. A recovery meeting this evening. I am thankful, and grateful. Earlier today, a dear friend introduced me to a great piece of writing by William Stafford. Like so much of what I have focused on during my recovery and throughout this past year, in particular, it speaks to the importance of now. Of living in this perfect, made for me, moment. I love it.

You Reading This, Be Ready

Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?

When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life –

What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?

~ William Stafford ~

Happy Birthday

Mom, you would have turned 79 today. As has been the case for each of your birthdays this past nearly eleven years, it's been a bit of a rough week for me. I'm trying for a lighter touch today because, well to be quite frank, I've been on kind of a downer lately and it's getting pretty old. If you were here, you would be getting impatient with me and saying things like "enough already, snap out of it, move on." I'd be tempted to listen to you, but then my therapist would be irritated with me.

So for today at least, on your birthday, I'd like to catch you up on a few things I would tell you if you were here, things that I think would make you smile. If you were here, I think that you would laugh as I fill you in on things and sometimes you would say, "You silly arse." I loved it when you called us kids silly arses. Do you know that you almost always said it with a smile on your face?

Yes, I think that you would be quite surprised to learn what's been going on with me since you left. For example:

• I'm still not much of a cook, and I still have no interest in baking;
• I still haven't had a drink and it's been nearly 24 years (I helped myself to some of your medication a week after you died though, so I changed my "clean" date to May 11, 2000);
• I finished my PhD, but don't really give a shit about it because I think the main reason I did it was to make you proud of me, and I realized half-way into it that you were probably proud of me anyway. I finished it anyway, have a huge student loan.
• An interesting piece of that is that I defended my PhD thesis in the hospital one week after they removed my cancerous colon, which is kind of a hoot of a story to tell people;
• I have a garden now and it's quite lovely, but I still kill houseplants on a regular basis;
• I wear long johns all winter long, fancy ones with lace at the bottom (under my jeans and dress pants);
• Soul Mate started drinking black tea in your memory after you died, and now he is addicted to it. We don't just drink your favourite (Red Rose) anymore, in fact we buy loose tea now, at a cost of about $25 a pound. It would freak you out to know that we go through a pound about every two weeks.
• First Born has inherited yours and my voracious appetite for reading and collecting books. She still loves ribs for dinner more than anything, especially her Poppa's;
• Yoga Kid still reads mostly non-fiction. She is now a vegetarian, so she's not into anything we ever cook around here anymore, but eats a lot of quinoa (I know, you have no idea what that is, do you?);
• I now hate the colour forest green because I overdosed on it so so much in the 90s;
• I drive a Nissan Cube now, you would laugh at it and tell me it's funny looking (because it is) but I love it;
• My favourite thing in the world to do is sit by the ocean and think and drink tea or coffee, and I often think of you and how much I miss you, while I am there;
• We are no longer landlocked, but moved to an island so the ocean is only about a 7.5 minute drive away in my funny looking Cube;
• I still can't carry a tune or draw, but I am learning to knit a wicked slipper;
• I still miss you so much sometimes that I cry until my face is red and blotchy and snot drops drip onto my chest or into my ears if I am lying down;
• I eat crumpets with jam (in memory of you) even when I am trying not to eat wheat or flour;
• I sometimes amaze myself by not crying when I am thinking or writing about missing you. Like right now.

I'm going to keep trying to celebrate a "happy" birthday for you today, Mom. I know you would like that, for both of us. Before I go, I want to share a picture that your sweet nephew created and sent to Baby Sister and I. To be honest, it kind of creeped me out a bit at first, but I love the idea of it. That you are there, watching over me and all of your loved ones, from somewhere just beyond the ocean's horizon, is a comfort.

I love you, Mom.

Baby Sister, Mrs. Beasley, and Me

Happy birthday, Baby Sister. Everybody knows that as a leap year baby, you don't actually get a "real" birthday this year, but I hope that your pretend one is everything you want and deserve it to be.

I loved you months before you were born. At seven years old, I had no idea what a sister was or what you would become to me, but I knew that I wanted a girl baby to come out of our mother's stomach. Or wherever. I already had two older brothers, and they never wanted to play house with me. Or anything else, for that matter.

I remember being at a friend's home after school when I found out that you had arrived. As I recall, I called our neighbour Ena (she would eventually become your babysitter when Mom returned to work) and Ena happily exclaimed that I had a new sister, and that you were a leap year baby. I was ecstatic that you had come out a girl, but incredibly worried about you being a leap year baby. I thought she meant you were a leper. I had  recently learned about Jesus or somebody curing a colony of lepers, but I still really didn't like the sounds of it. I am sure somebody would have cleared that up for me right quickly.

My memories of your childhood are mostly fond, albeit a bit sketchy. I remember that you had a Mrs. Beasley doll that you loved, and that I sort of wanted one myself. You had a Fisher Price bus that our cousin Lisa cut her foot on, although I can't for the life of me recall how she would have done that. It was Fisher Price, after all. I don't know if there was even such a thing as a toy recall in 1968. I remember that at your christening party (always a big deal in our family) I overheard Nannie say to somebody, "Yes, she's a beautiful baby but they all start out that way. Why look at Dawn, she gets homelier every year." Which is kind of funny now, but I suppose it might have hurt like hell at the time.

I remember that when you graduated from a crib, that you hated to sleep in your own bed. To keep you out of their bed every night, Mom and Dad gave me their double bed and bought themselves a queen. You would crawl into my bed every night and I would curl myself around you, content and happy for the company. What I remember about loving you the most, was that you would always play house, or whatever else I wanted you to play. I was the mother, you were the baby. I once built you a crib out of a box and put you in it in my closet. You hollered blue bloody murder (now there is a "mom-ism for you). You didn't like the dark, and at two years old, you had probably already developed your unhealthy and extreme fear of clowns. I don't know why Mom threatened you with clowns and wooden spoons, but she wouldn't have if she realized how detrimental it was to your psyche, I am sure.

Watching the family movies that you and Bro-In-Law stitched together on DVD recently reminded me of how much of a little ham you were by the time you were six. You were an adorable little bugger with your freckly angelic face and your red hair, your exuberant smile. You loved the video camera (were they called that back then?) and it captured your personality perfectly. Seeing you on film dancing and playing with Wee Blonde Baby Cousin, I can only wonder that you loved having her to boss around as much as I had appreciated having you.

Seven  years difference spread like a huge gulf between us at various times over the years, and as with all families (yes, Baby Sister, all families) shit happens that is better left to therapy. But I don't ever recall not loving you with all of my heart. I love you still. Next year is a leap year. We will do it up right. Until then, happy birthday to you today. And watch out for the clown. Seriously, he's still going to get you.