Find out here: http://bit.ly/1F9WR2E.
Find out here: http://bit.ly/1F9WR2E.
Don’t laugh at me but I like the Leafs. Yes, the Toronto Maple Leafs. My team hasn’t done well all year and definitely aren’t in the running for the Stanley Cup so I’m rooting for my next favourite team, the Calgary Flames. (Update: they lost last night.) My husband is a diehard Montreal Canadians fan and I’m not going there.
I went to Ryerson University in downtown Toronto. My second year, I lived in Cabbagetown, east of Yonge Street and about a 10 minute walk from class. Going to and fro I passed Maple Leaf Gardens, the large brick building that was the home of the Maple Leafs.
I didn’t favour one hockey team over another back then. The Maritimes don’t have an NHL team, so I never felt an affinity for one squad or another. But being in Toronto and having Maple Leaf Gardens nearby made me a Leafs fan. I used the see the players walking in and out from a game or practice. On cold winter nights that turned the outdoor light blue, joyous crowds would cram through the Gardens’ doors and hit the streets. I weaved my way through their happy (most of the time) braying and would hear their dissections of the winning goal.
Sometimes I saw players from the visiting team standing outside, like Wayne Gretzky and
Marty McSorley when they played for the L.A. Kings. They were getting ready to hop on the bus parked on Carlton Street. Headed home. Like me.
Those moments created a member of Leafs Nation. It wasn’t any specific hockey stat, player, or game. I actually haven’t seen them play other than on TV. But it doesn’t matter. I will never Leaf them. Although I’m crossing my fingers (and toes) they pick up their game next season.
I don’t have a first memory of my mother. She’s always been there: picking me up, carrying me, holding my hand and teaching me about life. For the past few months, I’ve been collecting my mother’s stories. Now I’m learning about her life.
You’d think that I’d already know a lot about my mother. Of course I do. She told my sisters and I many stories about growing up in northwestern Ontario on a farm. Her anecdotes are rich with detail and humour and tie her family stories to us, the next generation. My niece and nephew have even created heritage projects in school using their grandmother’s (my mother’s) memoirs about her dad, a Second World War veteran. But it’s different hearing family stories when you’re young compared to when you’re 40.
At the age I am now, I have different questions. They lead to different insights. I see the sadness behind some of the funny stories. I understand the context. I hear the love in her voice when she talks about her parents, remembering them through the lens of maturity.
My mother’s memoirs are not close to being being done. I’ve interviewed her up to when she met my father, a quirkier story than I realized. My mother’s story isn’t done either because she has so much more life to live. She continues to be there for my sisters and I. We’ll always be her babies, she always tells us, and there’s nothing she wouldn’t do for us.
Happy Mother’s Day to my mother and every other mother too.
Talk to me.
Tell me your tale in half an hour, I’ll turn it into a story she’ll keep forever.
$50 (Payment required via Interac e-transfer.)
For more information, contact LeaStorry@ourfamilylines.ca or 403-700-5435.
Nepal is on the other side of the world. It seems so far away. Yet it’s not. The earthquake that hit, and hit hard, is hitting Canada too. My sister visited the country a couple of years ago and I have several friends who have lived and travelled to Kathmandu. Through their stories I’ve heard about a country that smiles through its struggles. On Saturday the lives of Nepalis were changed by the churning jaws of Earth.
The earthquake brought damage, destruction, death. And waiting. Waiting to hear that loved ones are safe. Waiting to hear their voices or see their messages over e-mail or Facebook. My sister was lucky and only spent a few hours wondering about the fate of her friends. They weren’t hurt. But they’re not OK. Far from it:
“(Our) mothers’ houses are mostly cracked and about to collapse due to very old houses and made by stone and mud, we are all safe, thank you so much for your prayers. There is still a huge fear in our hearts due to frequent quakes happening time to time. It is very important your prayer at the moment. It’s been 2 nights since we are sleeping outside of the house with this disastrous earth quake.”
Birkha and Dhana
Some of us make new connections when we travel. We share stories and cultures and
interesting things about our lives. We invest time and energy getting to know these people. Back at home we trade the occasional status update or photo in order to keep the thread of our vacation memories from slipping away. But here is our chance to make our worlds collide again. It’s in the time of sheer pain and disaster that our global relationships pay off. We in Canada have the power to help. Will you?
Yesterday I was at the Calgary library talking about my experiences teaching memoir writing workshops to participants from the Drop-In Centre, Alpha House and Women’s Centre. My presentation was one of five and part of the This Is My City Festival 2015.
I’m a volunteer with This is My City (TMC). TMC matches artists with people living at the margins of society and together we write, dance, sing and create art. I run memoir writing sessions and get to hear many different anecdotes from the homeless and those at risk of homelessness.
The festival is free and there are many things to see and hear and do this upcoming week. From art exhibits to found poetry to a photo walk, you’re invited to join us: http://bit.ly/1FN3j1R. It’s a great way to see, hear, read and listen about the people most of us have forgotten.
We’ve all had those days or weeks or months or years. When things are tough. When things aren’t going smoothly. When everything you do ends up on the proverbial floor. Today though, I’m finding humour in the unfunny. Turning the tables on the rough stuff and looking through the gloominess and into the sunshine.
During a particularly bad week, I went to Starbucks. At least here I get exactly what I want: a non-fat, half-sweet chai latte with a tart and tasty slice of lemon loaf on the side. The barista who took my order was an acquaintance. I don’t know anything about her except her name and she’s a student. We made some small talk as I hand over my loaded gift card to be swiped.
“It says zero,” she says.
Oh… My face heats up like the milk being steamed for my drink. I madly check all my pockets looking for change, for a piece of plastic, anything. Nope. Nothing. I took the wrong gift card. And I didn’t have any money or a debit or credit card on me.
“This is embarrassing,” I say to the barista as I step towards the door. “I’ll have to skip the drink today.”
“It’s already made so don’t worry about it.”
Isn’t that nice.
I grab my drink and go to put a lid on it. When I look down at the hot beverage it’s not what I ordered. It’s a caramel caffè macchiato..and I don’t drink coffee. However, I really can’t send a free latte back. Oh well. There’s whip cream on top…and I like that.
I’m missing a family member today. Thursday, our cat, died last week. I wrote about how I met her a few weeks ago but I hadn’t had a chance to post her story. Here is it now.
She’s orange and white. Yes, a female and that’s unusual for an orange cat. Her name is Thursday and she’s 19 years old. And yes, that’s old for a cat found on the street several years ago.
Thursday has a beige bump on her nose that’s a different colour then the rest of her pink nose. She wears a shiny gold collar that’s a bit bold for a senior. When I first met Thursday five years ago, she was just the guy who I was dating’s cat.
Back then, she was plump and her fur was shiny. She ran here and there and jumped up and down. In the summer, she hung out on the balcony and watched the birds. She never tried to leap into the air and catch any of them. She’s too dignified for that. She’s not too elegant to beg for cheese though. She gets a piece every morning and evening and chows down on it quickly and then looks for more.
Five years ago, she didn’t really have much to do with me. She would glare at me from her spot on her favourite chair and then close her eyes again. Blocking me from her world.
When I moved in with my boyfriend Thursday would move away from me whenever I sat next to her on the chesterfield. She didn’t like me being in her space. She especially didn’t like me sitting beside her dad. That space was reserved for her and not me.
Gradually as the months passed, she began to sit near me. Then next to me. Then on me. But only when her dad was not around. We spend many of our days together as I work from home a lot. She likes to supervise my writing and keeps me on deadline. Okay, her deadline. When it’s 6 p.m. she makes sure I know it’s time to give her treats and cheese.
Now she is having trouble springing onto the couch and is losing weight. Her fur no longer catches the light but is dull and coarse. When my husband and I sit on the couch Thursday wants cuddles from me. Even though her dad is right there. She loves me and I love her and I couldn’t imagine a day without her.
In my writing workshops, I talk about emotional writing and how to convey sentiment without using words like angry or happy. The best way to express feelings in writing is to actually describe what these emotions bring to you or your character’s face, body laanguage and voice.
Next, my participants do a writing exercise where we take an emotion word and write about the feeling without using the word. We write for 10 minutes and then share our stories. We then have to guess which emotion we each wrote about. Can you guess mine?
High up in my airplane, I can see the landing strip. But I can’t land. Every time I try to make it back to earth, the wind pushes me off course. Off to the side of the runway. I’ve tried three times to touch down.
One, two, three.
Sweat beads on my forehead. I’m getting hotter and hotter as the gusts use me as their toy. Their plaything to be thrown into the air and kept captive until they’re bored of me.
How am I going to put this plane back on the ground? Stupid wind. You’re going to be the death of me.