A Great Lady

I usually try to avoid using first names on the Internet. I don't know why really. It seems, now that I think of it, silly to be afraid of naming the people in my life to protect their privacy. I wanted to pay tribute to my Grandmother today, so I decided to break my own rule. How can I tell the world how great she was, if I didn't share her name? I called her Grandma Bea.

Grandma Bea, can I have a cookie? Grandma Bea, will you tell me a story? Grandma Bea, will you teach me how to play? Grandma Bea, will you teach me to knit and sew and hook and garden and......? Yes. She always said yes. Grandma was a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse for many, many years. Her rural pupils met her during their first day of school in first grade, and she would continue to teach them every year, until they graduated from grade eight. Eight years with the same teacher. She became like a mother to many of them, I suppose. Evidence of this appeared long after the schoolhouse closed. Her 90th birthday party was as much a class reunion as it was a birthday celebration. Several of her students visited her at the nursing home where she lived for the last few years. How many of your teachers do you visit? Surely it was a testament to the enormous impact she had had on these children...now seniors themselves.

I don't remember Grandma teaching. I only remember Grandma at home. She lived in the house beside ours. I remember seeing her kneeling in her garden most summer days. She had the most glorious garden. Dahlia's as big as dinner plates, I often heard people say. She had Hollyhocks growing at the front of the house, an Iris bed, Gladiolas that always turned up at the local fair, and Black Eyed Susans lining the hillside. She tried to grow nearly every kind of rose that the horticulturists could hybrid. Maybe she liked the roses because they lasted longer. Their thorns protected them from the prying hands of three young grandchildren who loved nothing more than to present her with a lovely bouquet of flowers...often from her own garden. I never, ever heard her say a word about it. She would smile and hug us and say "Oh thank you!"

During the long winters, Grandma spent her time hooking rugs and wall hangings, darning socks, painting, writing and reading. She would sit in her green armchair, the table beside it overflowing with projects and books, and quietly work beneath the lamplight. She would be sitting there nearly every time we came over. Any day we were too ill to go to school, we would be whisked across the yard and take up a position on the living room couch. Grandma would pour glasses of Ginger Ale to flatten on the kitchen counter and dig out the saltines from their place in the cupboards. She would pull the chair over to the sink and stand on it to reach the horse liniment in the shelf over the window there. I remember her rubbing my neck with that horrid-smelling stuff and then wrapping an old sock around it to ease my swollen glands and tonsils. I'd sleep on the couch as she worked her fingers with a hook or needle, always creating or re-creating.

I remember climbing into her lap when I was a little girl. She would always drag her fingers through my hair and it would so relax me that I would close my eyes and, I'm sure on occasion I fell asleep. She would tell stories about Dad as a little boy, or about his sister Anne's shenanigans at church. She believed in stories, but she preferred the kind that were told rather than read. She held to the belief of strong family roots tightened by knowledge passed through the telling of stories. Knowing someone, is about knowing their stories. To truly know someone, you must listen not just to what they say, but to what other people say about them. To understand them, you have to hear about their adventures in the third person so that the stories are not slanted by modesty or boastfulness or hurt or humour. There is much truth in perception. Some argue, in fact, that perception is the truth.

Grandma was a great lady. I've heard that a lot in the last few days. My mom says that Grandma was the greatest lady that she ever knew. I have to agree. A couple of the nurses at the home said the same thing, the neighbour who visited yesterday said it, the preacher said it, and one of her students said it yesterday. "She was a great lady!" She was. She was the absolute best. She was my friend, my teacher, my confidante, my cheerleader, my playmate, my compass. She was my "soft place" in a world where so often I learned by bumping and bruising.

My grandma passed away on Thursday morning at 2:30 am. I was with her, holding her hand, reading her one of the stories she had written. The story was about a billy goat that came to the farm when she was a little girl. I like to think that when she passed, she was a young girl trying to coax a billy goat down from the roof of the shed with a handful of oats. I like to think that when she passed, she looked down and saw me there with her and knew how deeply she was loved by me. I had told her a million times during my life, but words sometimes just don't seem to be enough. How do you convey that kind of emotion with mere words? You don't, I suppose. I guess, it is something that can only be expressed through deeds rather than words. I suppose it is something that can only be felt. Like fingers running through your hair, as you sit in the comfort of your grandma's lap.

We Stayed

Well, my niece attended her second public speaking competition yesterday. My brother and sister-in-law were there and so was niece #2. They arrived early to get their little speaker registered. They managed to get seats near the front. My sister and her boyfriend met me there and they saved me a seat in their row near the back of the room.

The competition started at noon. Again, there were competitions in each of the divisions -- primary, junior, intermediate and senior. There were about six or seven children in each category except the senior category which featured only two speakers. The "show" started with the primary division. All but two of the speakers were reciting stories from books they had read. We found out later that the kids in the primary competition could memorize a book OR write and deliver their own speech. Every one of the books memorized by the contestants was written by children's author Robert Munsch.

My niece placed third. Second place went to a little girl who memorized and delivered a French version of Robert Munsch's book, "Up, Up, Down." First place went to a lively speaker who delivered a horror story about school. I think she said it was called the Teacher from the Black Lagoon. I looked it up on the Internet. It's a book written by Mike Thaler. Within just a few seconds, I was hooked. I realize now that I probably wouldn't enjoy the book nearly as much as I enjoyed listening to this little girl tell the story. She was awesome. She deserved first prize. Even my niece said to me, "Yeah, she was good." It's much easier losing to someone so deserving. My niece was quite gracious about it.

After the primary competition was over, my brother and his family left. As he walked past us where we sat in the back he turned and said, "Are you staying?" I said, "Sure. What the heck else are we going to do on a Sunday? This is like the closest thing I get to a night out." My sister and her boyfriend agreed. We stayed.

The junior competition was a wash. Too dramatic, too boring, too broad a topic (not enough depth) or too much detail, these kids tanked. Peer pressure, Guinness Book of World Records, Endangered Species (at least 4 of them), Fears & Phobias, Traditions and Camping Trips. All written and delivered by kids aged 9-12. How could they wow us? After all, we had just sat through a series of Robert Munsch stories. They didn't have a chance. My sister's boyfriend thought that the primary speakers blew away the junior division. (He gloated somewhat when the judges admitted to having a difficult time judging the elementary speakers...he insisted it was because they were all below average.) Fears & Phobias took first, Traditions (making maple syrup) took second place, and another little girl took third but I can't for the life of me remember the topic of her speech.

The trophies and cheques were handed out and most of the contestants and their families left the building. We stayed. I realized that we were the only adults in the room who were still there and not related to any of the speakers or members of that branch of the Canadian Legion. Hmmm.

The intermediate division was an interesting competition. Body image, Bullying, Auditioning, The Teenage Brain, My Hero is my Grandfather, Terry Fox and Beauty were the topics. All of the speakers in this category were young ladies. Third place went to Auditioning who ended her speech by singing part of a song from the Sound of Music -- different. Second place went to a girl who compared bullying to rain in a well-sustained, 5-minute metaphor -- also different. First place went to the girl discussing Beauty. She was great. Her speech was colourful, humorous, and endearing. She deserved the win. I'm sure she'll go very far in the next few competitions.

Nobody left the building, because there were only two speakers left. The competition coordinator was afraid to give us a break and risk having the last two speakers "talk to themselves." We would have stayed.

The first speaker talked about the New Madrid fault line and the earthquake it caused in 1811. (My sister and her boyfriend were quite interested, but that's to be expected. They are currently reading Apocalypse 2012 and are quite fascinated by all manner of theories regarding the end of the earth.) The second speaker talked about the human heart. She used clever wordplay to dress up the topic and she delivered the speech with energy and enthusiasm. She won.

All in all, it was worth spending three hours on a cold winter day inside listening to children talk about things they find interesting and important. So maybe somebody wrote down our license plates when we drove away after the competition. So what! We came, we sat, we listened.

We stayed.

Public Speaking

On this past Sunday afternoon, the kids and I went to see a public speaking competition for students in grades 2-8. A local branch of the Canadian Legion sponsors a few competitions each year -- public speaking, essays and poetry. This past Sunday was one of those contests.

The local schools have students in each class prepare and deliver a speech. The speeches must be between 2.5 and 5 minutes in length; if they exceed 5 minutes, the children are automatically disqualified from the competition. Each class selects a "winner" who then attends this local contest as the class representative. My niece was there as the contestant from MGES - Grade 4. Her speech was about global warming and its effects on our planet.

Right before she began her turn, I tapped my son and said - "If you think you're going to laugh, look at the floor." Just the night before, when she was practicing her speech, my son distracted her and made her laugh. My brother sent him out of the room. Now, as she stood at the front of the room, I suddenly worried that I had made a mistake attending with the kids. What if we made her laugh? What if we made her nervous? What if...what if...what if.... The only thing that was really clear was that there was no turning back. Leaving moments before she started her speech would surely be more off-putting than sitting and listening. We stayed.

She was great. She hit her points, she didn't stumble. Her voice was clear and crisp and we could easily hear her at the back of the room. It was hard, I think, for her to wrap her mouth around terms like carbon dioxide and photosynthesis, but she managed. It was clear that her Dad (my brother) helped her write the speech. I mean, in comparison to the other children it was clear. After all, other kids in her category spoke about camping trips, pet ponies, and sleepovers. I'm thinking he helped choose the topic.

She won. She now carries on to "regional" finals. She will speak again on Sunday afternoon. I think we'll go and cheer her on.

Reminds me about a statistic I heard at a work function suggesting that public speaking is our most common fear. Seems most people worry more about public speaking than flying, or insects, or even snakes. It causes people to experience sweating, rapid heartbeat, dizziness, and even fainting.

I wonder if, as kids, we appreciate public speaking because it fulfills our need for attention. Perhaps only after years of socialization do we dread that same attention because of our realization that it also brings the risk of rejection and embarrassment.

I wonder if my niece will ever grow out of public speaking?

Hopefully not before Sunday.

Letting Go

I visited my Grandma on Saturday. Earlier in the week I learned that she wasn't doing well -- she hasn't been eating. I had been warned of her decline. In fact, the last time I visited Grandma, she hadn't spent more than a few minutes awake and had no words for me at all. I had prepared myself for a difficult visit. I was worried because it had been five weeks since I last saw her.

My sister, our nieces, my kids and I went up to her room for a visit before lunch. The kids engaged in lively conversation (as kids often do) but Grandma was difficult to rouse and our attempts to engage her in conversation failed. Her eyes were red and runny so I ran a cloth under warm water and then dabbed at her eyes and face. In exchange, she gave me one word..."Wonderful," she said. Her teeth weren't in. Her recent weight loss has affected the fit of her dentures and she was a little difficult to understand, but I recognized the word as it left her mouth.

After about half an hour, my sister took the kids to the library and I waited with Grandma until the smell of lunch filled the corridor. I wheeled Grandma down to the dining room and pushed the chair in front of her place at the table. "I'd like to stay and help Grandma with lunch," I explained to the staff. "I think that's a wonderful idea," they smiled back. I grabbed a feeding stool from under the counter and placed it between Grandma and another diner while "the girls" served lunch to the expectant diners. "Pastrami on Rye or Cheese Cannelloni?" someone asked. I tried to envision pureed Pastrami on Rye. "I think maybe it'll be easier to feed her the Cannelloni," she suggested after some thought. I agreed.

A plate of pureed food arrived moments later -- pasta, tossed salad, coleslaw and something that looked a lot like green relish. I began by raising a fork full of pasta to Grandma's mouth. It burned her mouth and she winced. "Sorry Grandma. Here, take some milk to cool your mouth down." I lifted the cup of milk to her mouth and she took some sips. I followed it with some coleslaw. Better. I mixed a little of the pasta with some salad to bring the temperature down. It worked. She ate quite a few bites, but the effort was clearly taking its toll. She held her head in her hands to keep it raised up off of her chest.

At one moment, about half an hour into the meal, she looked at me and smiled. Not a small smile but the other kind; the type that fills a face...that fills a room. I began to cry. I lowered my head, both ashamed and confused by my tears. I sat with my forehead on the arm of her wheelchair, a fork full of cold pasta suspended in the air between us, trying to choke back my tears so that I could finish feeding Grandma her meal. Pressing my eyes closed against the tears, I could only play back the image of Grandma holding her head while I fed her the lunch. Not three months ago I had enjoyed lunch with her, and she fed herself most of her meal. We chatted between bites, we joked about her dinner companions and we gushed over dessert. Images of Grandma eating and Grandma feeding flashed in and out of my mind as a critical heart made exaggerated comparisons. I raised my head just high enough to quietly excuse myself from the table and I left the room to gather myself.

I managed to pull it together and made my way back to the dining room. Dessert was ice cream and Grandma ate every bite. She could barely lift her head to take the coffee though I made several attempts. "More," I thought I heard her say. "More or no more Grandma?" I asked. She shook her head oh so slightly. I made a few last attempts to give her coffee, but any sips she did take slid down the side of her mouth. She was done eating. When all was said and done, she had eaten perhaps a total of 3/4 cups of food.

We returned to her room and waited by the window for "the girls" to return and help her get back into her recliner. I patted her hand as I watched the door for someone to come and then...it happened. I felt her hand on top of mine, patting and stroking my hand. I felt the hot prickle of tears rise again in my eyes. This time, instead of fighting it, I just put my head on her shoulder and wept. I wanted her to reach up and run her fingers through my hair like she used to when I was a little girl, but it didn't happen. Instead, I put my arms around her shoulder and ran my fingers through her hair as I felt her head relax against my shoulder. "I love you so much Grandma," I said through my tears. We sat like that until my sister came back a few minutes later.

I wanted to say so many things to her during those minutes, but nothing that hinted of a good-bye; I didn't want her to think I had given up on her though it felt as though I had done just that. I was ashamed of the way I was feeling.

The thing is, I believe we don't mourn the loss of people exactly; what we mourn is the loss of what those people brought into our lives. It may have been support, love, laughter, camaraderie, compassion, solidarity, or friendship. When people we love grow old, we lose those things long before we lose those people. I think that's why I felt the way I did. I recognized in those hours, that my Grandmother was disappearing. I realized that there would be fewer moments of recognition and fewer moments of sharing. Our visits together would be short and shallow and few.

Grieving our losses is self-indulgent and it's necessary and it's a process. Grieving the anticipation of a loss, is greedy and selfish and perhaps that's why I felt ashamed. I should have focused on my grandmother's needs, but instead I let myself wallow. Next time, I'll do it differently. I'll wallow after my visits instead of during them.

Letting go of my Grandmother will be, I know, an incredible challenge for me. Letting go a little at a time might be the only way that I'm going to be able to climb that mountain.

Crazy Hair

I don't just have bad hair days, I have "crazy hair."

During my entire childhood, my hair was short and straight and thin and boring. Most people thought I was a boy (though I'll be the first to admit that I acted like one). I remember my mother wrapping my head in a kerchief in the spring so that the black flies wouldn't tear my scalp apart. My hair was hardly an obstacle for hungry northern black flies. It also helped distinguish me as a little girl which saved everyone a little embarrassment -- at least until it was warm enough for sundresses.

As a young girl, I kept growing my hair until I could no longer be mistaken as a boy. When I entered high school, I had long, straight hair down to the middle of my back. By the end of my first year, I cut myself some bangs to "change it up" a little, but I was growing bored of my hair. I wanted something more contemporary. I wanted a hair style.

I remember going to my mother's hairdresser one Saturday morning. I took in a picture of a model with long, layered hair (think Jennifer Aniston...though she hadn't been discovered yet). The hairdresser started layering my hair and that's when it happened...all hell broke loose. Seems there were curls hiding in there somewhere. Having been weighted down by my long hair, they suddenly sprung to life when the weight was lifted by the sharpened shears of the hairdresser. Oh, she was so happy. "Look at the curls! Look at the curls!" Not curly enough, evidently, because she came at me brandishing a curling iron and didn't finish styling me until my head was covered in tiny tight curls.

I was absolutely devastated. In fact I cried. I remember saying that it looked like an old lady's hairstyle. (In remembering this event, I also recall that both the hairdresser and my mother had similar styles which makes my comment both rude and accurate at once. Sorry mom, but when I was 16, anyone older than 25 was OLD.)

My mother and sister and I were supposed to go to town shopping afterwards, but I flatly refused to leave the car. I stayed slumped down in the backseat because I was afraid of being seen (I was also 16 at the time and my ego was as fragile as puff pastry.) I went home and washed it and tried to blow-dry it flat, but it just looked stupid to me. With classes on Monday, right around the corner, I knew I had to keep trying. I ended up washing it again and then blow drying it while I hung my head upside down and pouted. Minutes later - shazam - I had crazy hair. "I can live with this," I thought. The style was kind of "rocker chick," and it was the era of the big hair band, so the world righted itself on its axis and began to turn again.

Not ten years later, I cut it all off. I found my crazy hair too labour-intensive for a busy schedule that revolved around the needs of two young children. I wanted something to wash, run my fingers through and be done with. A little hair product and I'm out the door. I found it so easy to take care of and a little more professional looking, so I kept the short hair for many years. When I left my job last June, I stopped making trips to the hair stylist. Eight months later, I now find myself back at "crazy hair."

I'm trying to decide whether to cut it all off again, tame it down with a trim, or just allow it to grow its wild self out. I don't feel as attached to my hair as I once did. By that I mean, I don't think I'd cry if I got a bad haircut. I might ask for my money back, but I'd still smile and want to make sure that the hairdresser wasn't upset because I wasn't pleased with his/her work. These days I worry more about the colour than I worry about the style. Style doesn't seem nearly important when I see silver strands amongst my curls. I think hats not haircuts.

Every time I think of my crazy hair, I think of the same thing. People who have curly hair usually say they would like straight hair AND people who have straight hair usually say they would like curly hair. In fact, some people pay big bucks for their own version of crazy hair. I guess I shouldn't complain.

Sorry for rambling. I'm going to log off now. Maybe head over to e-bay to look for some ceramic straighteners, or maybe a barrette. A fedora? No. Make that www.l'oreal... :)